Travel Biography - Week 118.

A Flashback to 1962.

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

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

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

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

At Henley-on-Thames.

The jovial spirit At Henley.

Tudor House and Shops at Oxford.

Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.

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

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

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

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

William Shakespeare's Birthplace.

YHA Llangollen.

River Dee, Llangollen.

The hostel and playpark, Llangollen.

And so, in 1998...

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

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

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

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

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

Castell Dinas Bran is seen through the fog.

The ruins of Castell Dina Bran.

Ruins of Castell Dinas Bran

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bathhouse Hypocausts, Chester

My own Mosaic, Roman Museum, Chester.

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

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

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

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

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

Tender Mercy and Goodness of God - a Testimony

William Shakespeare is famed for his writings of theatre plays, for example, Macbeth, The Merchant of Venice and many others. This is a fact which is accepted by the vast majority of the population. But on one BBC television programme, The One Show, a general discussion forum where diverse topics are covered in every region of the UK, the presenters focused on the opinion of several academics who deny that Shakespeare was the writer of these plays. They even attempted the use archaeology within the writer's home town of Stratford-Upon-Avon to add proof that their opinions were correct.

William Shakespeare

Personally, I didn't buy any of those academic opinions. The reason is rather straightforward. William's father, John Shakespeare, was a glove maker. In other words, what we would call a factory worker today, working class, blue-collar. How could his son have developed such a literacy talent?

According to these academics, he couldn't have done. Plays such as Macbeth, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Winters Tale and Romeo and Juliet were, to them, all written by some other person whose parents were a lot more cleverer. And a few very unconvincing bits of relics were found in the archaeological pits to substantiate the opinion of the skeptical academics.

On a somewhat different story but based on the same principle, according to a Daily Mail newspaper report, two female contestants on the University Challenge BBC2 quiz were mocked and severely criticized by mostly male viewers using the Facebook page on the Internet. Having not watched the programme myself, I cannot tell whether the two academic women were on the same team or whether they were even on the same programme. But that is not the point. Rather the point being that they were both harassed on the Internet for being snobby, intelligent and too full of self-confidence, according to their critics. Reflections of inferior complex or lack of self-esteem?

But to be fair, the Reader's Comments which appeared under the main article mostly defended the harassed females. Only a small minority upheld the critic's messages posted online, and they were red-arrowed with disapproval.

And then, looking back, I also recall the murder of Stephen Lawrence one evening at a South London suburb. Lawrence was black, and going by his images, he had that look of intelligence and promising of a good education. The images proved correct. He was studying to be an architect. Then, while waiting for a bus at a stop on the evening of 22nd April 1993, five white English men first threw verbal abuse, then they crossed the road to stab him to death. A clearly racist murder. Personally, I'm not fully convinced that colour alone was the one and only motive. Rather, the victim oozed high intelligence, and the five white men having sensed this all felt their self confidence were under threat. Really, there was no real difference between this case and those of the two females on University Challenge where motives were concerned, the only difference was that one case led to a serious crime, the other two were not considered to be criminal victims.

My own belief that the secondary reason for the Stephen Lawrence murder might have been motivated by a sense of inferior complex, seem to be endorsed by the case of one of the killers, Gary Dobson, who was jailed for five years in July 2010 for drug dealing. The other four, I think, were either jobless or held manual occupations, a good indication of low level of education or low academic abilities. So the very thought of a well educated black man was anathema to them.

But where is the connection between this information and the title of this article? Well, I hope to demonstrate how good and merciful God has been to me over the years, despite the prejudices I had to go through, and to show that what God has done for me he can do for you, if only you will diligently search and ask for his wisdom.

The pinnacle of God's mercy: The Crucifixion

If you read my Blogger profile, you will see that I don't give my nature of occupation. That is because I am a Domestic Window Cleaner, who goes about dressed in casuals, as my profile pic indicates, and not of an elderly gentleman dressed in a suit, wears glasses and sport thinning hair! Among those who know me well, they may think, So what? You love writing, keep up the good work. And yes, I have actually received such encouragement! This shows the value of true friendship.

But others may think: A window Cleaner? How can such a person know anything, let alone writing these articles? Unreasonable? Not what I know of.

And my answer: I allowed the Lord Jesus Christ to work in my life.

Here I begin by stating that at school I received the annual report which stated, Frank tries hard; Standard below average. This was an indication that my poor performance at the classroom desk was not my fault, therefore the report I handed personally to my parents did not merit any form of punishment.

And that applied to every subject, including the subject of General Science, with which at the end of the 2nd academic year, I've literally received 100/100 marks on the exam papers and became the talk of the school.

But I remained in the slowest learning class, in which I was constantly teased by one annoying pupil who was one grade above me: Who is in the dunce's class for science?

After leaving school in 1968 with no qualifications to show, my working life has always been manual. Nothing wrong with that in itself, but I feel that it's a crying shame that here in England, the general mentality is that if one had failed at school, nobody expects or even desires for him to work himself upwards. A manual worker not only stays a manual worker (again, nothing wrong in that) but any thought of self-improvement of his mental capabilities seem to be frowned upon. Could this be because it poses a threat?

Here are a couple of classic examples. The first example being back in 1992, the elders of Ascot Baptist Church, where I attend to this day, gave me an opportunity to give a talk on what Heaven might be like, based on the description found in Revelation chapters 21 and 22. Now at the front row sat Keith, a "devout Englishman" who always condescended on my Italian origins. His sense of national superiority was not unique. I have came across this sort of thing many, many times - among my clientele and fellow church members alike.

After the talk was over and as such, the service as well, Keith went around literally bragging that he had not heard a single thing I was saying at the front. Instead, he said he was deliberately diverting his thoughts away by indulging in some other subject, most likely in his case, football and particularly England's hopes in the next World Cup contest.

The second example took place in 1997 and it was in a very much the same environment, giving a talk about my travels, and bringing up the idea on why in California in particular, there seem to be an obsession with alien life from other planets. Toys, ornaments and inflatable models and balloons of these life forms were on sale just at about every second shop along the street. I then theorised that there might be a connection between this obsession with alien life forms and end-times Biblical prophecy. The issue here was not whether I was right in this matter or not, but rather one man in the congregation, also with the name Frank, suddenly standing up and declared aloud for all to hear, that he too had seen these model life forms on sale where he was, and my description of them was spot on. He then declared that my possible interpretation was worth thinking about.

Afterwards, I asked him why he stood up and made such a public announcement.
He replied that during the talk, he overheard a couple of people sitting behind him mutter words to the effect,
What does he know about the Bible or prophecy? He's just a window cleaner!

And oh yes, I have just remembered another incident which took place in 1989, which I think is worth recording here. It concerned something which occurred at Bracknell Baptist Church. What the incident itself was, I can't recall, but one of the elders asked me to write a report on it, because of my involvement.

When I presented my written work to him, he plainly asked me who wrote it. It took some convincing that I was the author. Meaning: The standard of the written document was above my standing for me to be the author.

God's mercy. In 1 Corinthians 1:18-31 Paul the Apostle specifically states that God chooses the foolish in this world to confound the wise. On similar lines, James instructs not to pay higher honour to the rich man on the expense of the poor man dressed in rags (James 2).

I became a true believer early in 1973. I am convinced that there has been a change in my I.Q. at this turning point in my life. I was immediately interested in the Bible and what it had to say on everything.

I went to a Christian bookshop next to St. Paul's Cathedral in London to stock up books which will help me understand the Bible better. But in the Bible itself, particularly in the Old Testament, I noticed that God was referring to Jerusalem more than any other city in the ancient world. I also noticed that Jerusalem was the place Jesus Christ was crucified, then he rose again near the city, and the first Church began in Jerusalem. I also noticed that this same city played a major role in future prophecy, namely, that Christ is to reign from there in the future.

So in 1976 I decided to visit the place for myself, to see it first hand. I went as a sole backpacker. The details are recorded in one of my former blogs, Jerusalem, City of Peace which was published here on Sunday 13th February, 2011.

Visiting Israel in 1976 was a wonderful experience which added strength to my faith. Then in October 1992, a friend and I had a massive row one weekday morning while I was at his home. The worst thing about it was that I knew that I was in the wrong. So I started window cleaning at a nearby street feeling very dejected. It was at this low point when I had what could be called a vision. I was to go to Jerusalem to pray for the city.

But was this from God? First, the vision came suddenly, quite unexpectingly. Then up to this time I always made enough to live on reasonably well, but I was never able to save up for a proper holiday. From that very week onwards, I found myself saving up quite steadily, allowing me the ability to pay for the entire holiday plus all the other expenses without any difficulty. Then I took off from Gatwick Airport early August, 1993.

What I found amazing was that it should have been my friend who should have received the vision, not me. He was in the right, I was in the wrong. But while I was in Jerusalem, I felt God speaking to me about why the Islamic Dome of the Rock stood where the Temple once was. Alongside this, I watched the crowd of Jewish people celebrate the start of their Sabbath. It was such a thrilling experience. I just felt the pulsating presence of God in the enclosure, which fronts the Western Wall. These Jews were God's ancient people. Their presence in Jerusalem showed me how faithful God was to his people. And if God was so faithful to the Jews, how much more will he be to us? Also I found myself sharing my faith in Jesus at the hostel I was staying at, after being asked by one backpacker why I was in Israel. By the time I had finished talking, I found myself the centre of attention among the other backpackers.

Damascus Gate, Jerusalem

Reading the Bible and books to help me understand the Bible also not only helped in my faith, but by reading both books and the newspaper, I slowly learned how other authors composed their articles, so when it comes to writing myself, I can use some of their techniques. But on top of this, I felt that God himself was teaching things direct to me without human intercession. That means I had answers in my thoughts concerning things I was asking especially in the book of the prophet Daniel, which contains visions the prophet had about the bigger picture of God's revelation to mankind.

This was because for a long time I had a desire to know what is the bigger picture was about. In other words, how did it all begin, why we are here, how would it all end, and why will it end in the way the Bible says. And why does Jerusalem play such a large role, and my visits to this city made such a massive impact on my life, especially on the spiritual.

But on the day-to-day practical side, when things are up, I can thank and praise God for. But when thing become trying, God is there I can trust, and run to. I have suffered some trying moments in my life, and a close friend of mine, who already knew much of what I went through, exclaimed,
I am surprised you have not committed suicide! I would have done!

He got distracted before I could explain that I know of the sovereignity of God in my life and with a degree of peace in my heart, I can ride over all things. God is not only my Saviour, he is my Rock, my Strength and Shelter.
Although this has not happen so far in my life, but it could: Suppose I was to lose everything I had, would I still trust in him? Would I still be thanking him for eternal life and for all the goodness, I have received from him? I hope I will be able, then again, it would not be of my own effort, but the infilling of the Holy Spirit in my life.

And this is the key to everything. I'm writing here to all true believers in Christ who is reading this. Be filled with the Holy Spirit and let the love of Christ flow in you richly.
May God bless you richly.