Gitano guitar

Listening to Camarón de la Isla's Leyenda del Tiempo, the legendary and game-changing Flamenco album from 1979 transports me instantaneously back to an extremely hot day in the start of July this summer. On the extreme outskirts of Barcelona, having passed less and less tourist infiltrated barrios' on the train out from the Arc del Triomf metro station, we walked a mile or two down a dirt road back in the direction of the city centre, heading towards a petrol station, whose vague whereabouts I had managed to acquire via hitchwiki.org (an highly useful digital tool for hitch-hikers) .

Standing in the 40 degree heat, wearing a tee-shirt on my head and trying to thumb a lift South with the occasional traffic that passed through the rippling expanse of car park, I felt a tad ridiculous. Ridicule however, quickly turned to frustration and general disparagement. Sprinting over to the sole lorry parked up, the signs were promising, he was heading direction Tarragona, he could understand my pigeon Spanish but he only had space for one. We weren't desperate enough to split up so that lift never came to fruition.

Some time later, Juan in his van turned up, shades on, aircon blasting and moved his electrical goods into the back, making space for us up front. The feeling of moving after standing so still never fails to lift the spirits, and not having to extend our arms was a nice change as well. The music was just as encapsulating as the fact we had gotten the lift, it was competing against and winning the air conditioning for best vibrations in the small cabin. Juan fitted seamlessly into the imagery of the Flamenco conjured up, albeit with a modern twist. The rawness and energy of this mystical Spanish folk music made him speak up. The journey could have been a quiet one, Juan was perhaps not a man of many words, but he spoke with an apparent love of Camarón and his music. A love I was only later to discover resonated throughout almost the whole of Spain.

Was this Spain itself projected through the tinny speakers? Cigarette smoke wobbled from side to side in the cabin as Juan told us of the Gypsy's early demise through alcohol and drug addiction. Tragic, passionate, fiery and shrouded in mystery, I was in a semi-trance and only snapped out of it to make sure we exited at the right time in order to stay on track for Almeria, which is incidentally the birthplace of collaborator and fellow Gitano, Tomatito. As a parting gift, Juan offered us a CD, a copied disc in a rough plastic cover. I carried this gift throughout our 2 month hitch-hiking, volunteering and exploration adventure, managing to keep it safe and intact.

I played it when we arrived back in the UK, expecting a red and yellow wave of mystery and power to wash over me, instead I was greeted by terrible modern Spanish pop music with Euroclub beats blended together in some horrible musical comparison to Spain's current crisis. Perhaps Juan wanted to musically show us what Spain meant to him through Camarón de la Isla but also project the change that has occurred to his country to us when we arrived home. 

Camerón de la Isla - La Leyenda del Tiempo

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #13

...On my way back to the centre, I passed the graveyard which John had recommended I take a look at, but it was shut for lunch and then the Alhambra with plenty of tourists flocking around the entrance. My slightly vague memories came back to me after I strolled down the tree lined path, flanked by tiny streams on either side which leads from Plaza Nueva straight up to the Alhambra Palace.

Upon arrival in the Plaza, I spotted John and asked him how he was, he said that it was particularly bad for a Sunday and he had only collected a few 'centimos', later he announced it as his worst Sunday ever in Granada. While I was sitting with this English street artist, Rafa, his old landlord came by, shuffling in his tartan slippers, and asked if I wanted to come to his casita for a beer, to which I obliged and said I'd be there 'a las ocho'.

Before I went to Rafa's though I wandered around Granada a bit more, encountering lots of street musicians and other performers up and down the busy 'calles'; a didgeridoo player, a swing band that used props and looked like there were possibly cave-dwellers or van-livers and acoustic guitars strumming to the people paseo-ing in the plaza.

I returned to my room, then headed up through the tiny graffiti'd alleyways to Rafael's. I knocked and entered, and there he was, his house consisting of four tiny rooms, including the central living room. He showed me around his decorated little house and then set forth cooking me a 'tortilla francesa' and proceeded to put yoghurt's, fruit, biscuits and beer in front of me, which I could hardly turn down.

I ate and we had some small conversation, with him repeating questions and me repeating pigeon Spanish answers. I thanked him for his hospitality and then escaped into the night, promising to visit him if I'm ever back in Granada.

That evening John was on an ultra cheap diet, consisting of garlic, tomato and olive oil on white bread. To show him some gratitude for hooking me up with a room, I bought us some cerveza's and we sipped a few before exchanging emails and heading to our separate night time abodes.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #10

..I devoured the old Dutch couples sandwiches and was even offered hot tea (at a picnic?!) after which we were on our way again. We had exited the foothills of the Northern Pyrenees and were now in a more arid, hilly climate, where I spotted a multitude of vultures drifting upwards on the warm air upsurge caused by a small cluster of hills.

Hermoet and Ria weren't quite as glad as I was to see these magnificent birds but exclaimed none the less. After a relatively peaceful and uneventful drive, we reached the last services before Burgos, where our paths parted ways.

It was a warm, humid afternoon, and I quickly gathered my belongings and sought the exit, where I was in clear view of any cars approaching, with a completely empty car park at my thumbing disposal. Only 3 cars had passed before a white BMW sports car wound down its window, revealing Ysia, a sunglass wearing, short business man, returning to Madrid after doing some form of audio translating work near Burgos.

I clambered into the low car and off we sped, with air con blasting and Homer Simpson directing us from Ysia's iPhone. It was my first lift in Spain and it couldn't have gone any better, we talked at length about many subjects, mainly in Spanish, with my confidence building as the car surged on towards the capital.

Luckily he also spoke English quite well, so if I was lost for words, he would help me out and vice versa. We drove through desert-like terrain, until the road squeezed between two mountains, where snow still lay, and there was Madrid, its few skyscrapers pointing the way to the centre with many kilometres of suburbs sprawled out below them.

Even though Ysia was a Madrileno, he confessed to not even barely knowing the city, such was its vastness. Consequently we drove around the ring road fruitlessly looking for a service station. He had already taken me all this way and was now headed in the opposite direction to his house, so I jumped out at the next petrol station I saw, without a clue where I was in relation to Madrid or to where I wanted to be.

I flew my sign for Andalucia half heartedly, knowing it was more than a long shot. This is where I met the kind young man who gave me the money for the metro...

So the gig with Erick was interesting to put it one way, it turned out to be some slightly overly happy Christian R&B soul cover gig, which would explain Ericks kindness earlier in the day. But I had a place to be, with some new people and some overpriced drinks, while they played covers of Wonderwall with a Christian twist.






All the religiousness was admittedly a bit much for me, with every other lyric being 'Believe', so I believed I would leave after the gig and turn down an offer to sleep on a band-members couch. And out into the busy night I burst, the streets being even more crowded than in the daylight. I walked past the plethora of prostitutes and the hoards of homeless, toward the train station, Atocha, where I thought I might be able to get a few hours sleep before getting the train as early as possible.


Atocha was shut though, Madrid's homeless problem means that it would become their hotel had it have been open through the night. And it was indeed a homeless person who came over and started talking to me, some fellow from Portugal, who was drunk. I was in a strange mood, so I went along with it, he said he'd take me to the bus station, but it was he wanted a ticket, which I wasn't prepared to do. I told my name was Raul for no reason, then left him and got directions to the bus station, a good 25 minutes walk from the train station.

I was hoping it might be open so I could sleep a bit, but most of the homeless people had the same idea, however it didn't open til 5. I found this out from David, a long haired chef from Granada, who was waiting to get the metro to the airport and fly to Seoul, where was going to be living for a year.

As we had 3 hours to pass, me and David had a great conversation, delving into everything, including travel (he had lived all over the world, including various places in London), drugs and how strange a place Madrid is. He shared his hashish and we had a very pleasant if not slightly chilly time.

Come 5 o clock, we exchanged emails and entered the bus station along with the majority of Madrids unemployed and homeless. I gave in to the beggars again and gave some guys nearly 4 Euros, most of which he plunged immediately into a Bandit. I ate churros, avoided a horrible little pervert in the toilets and got the hell out of Madrid for only 16 Euros...

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #8

..When I popped my head out of the dripping tent, the sun was just coming up over the trees, but it wasn't going to dry my tent any time soon, so I packed up and headed back to the roundabout. It is definitely a strange feeling; waking up and within 10 minutes standing at the side of the road trying to mentally coax people into stopping for you.

45 minutes passed quickly with the rush hour traffic zooming on by, white van men peering, other trying to pretend I don't exist. Cristophe was the person who stopped for me and took me for 20 minutes down the road to a large industrial estate with a lot of traffic passing through; it appeared to be a sublime spot, however and hour and a half of nothing but the cold wind chilling me proved otherwise.

I went to the petrol station to eat and had chosen a lovely breakfast when I realised I didn't know or couldn't remember my pin number. Things were going from bad to worse and my rumbling stomach wasn't helping matters, so polished off the emergency chocolate and headed back to my hitching spot. Suddenly a car stopped and out stepped Benoit, a friendly police officer who lived in Valenciennes but was going to work in Paris for 4 days. He was extremely kind-hearted and eager to talk, just what I needed after quite a miserable 12 or so hours.

He enquired as to whether I was hungry or thirsty,  to which I honestly replied that I was both, upon hearing this he offered me 2 slices de pommes and a can of drink. Bliss! Although I was hesitant to accept, he would have it no other way. We managed to hold a decent and varied conversation for the 300 km to Paris, where he dropped me at a huge service station. I grabbed some waste cardboard and scribbled a sign for Bordeaux as Benoit had suggested. I positioned myself at the exit and sure enough, the size of the services led to me acquiring a lift within 3-4 minutes.

A small German lady wandered over and said she could take me as far as Saints, a small place 75 km  north of Bordeaux. Naturally I obliged, and before long Angela and I were negotiating the Parisian ring road and consequently the French countryside past Tours, a beautiful white, pointy city, past Poitiers and over numerous large rivers, the names of which escape me. Angela was kind enough to let me try and sleep in the back of her van but I could only manage a paltry 25 minutes before I was back to ogling at the wondrous countryside.

After some confusion as to where Angela was headed and where I wanted to go, I got out at a small service station somewhere north of Bordeaux. As I waved Angela off, I heard a familiar accent drift over the parking lot. Two lads got out of a car and we exchanged pleasantries, they were from Leeds Uni and were doing the organised charity hitch hike to Morocco, coincidentally they had arrived at exactly the same time in the same services. I splashed out on some more overpriced long life plastic food and hadn't even finished the squidgy baguette before they shouted me over..

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #7

..Backtracking to my arrival in Calais, after an uneventful crossing in mostly mist and then arriving in the port to be greeted by beaming sun on the beach. I stepped off the ferry feeling about hitching down towards Bordeaux and after some minor deliberation, found what seemed to be 'the' hitching spot, judging by numerous scrawled messages on the back of the nearest lamppost.

I had what I though were some good signs to get me out of the port area, but even though the traffic was thick, both with truckers, holiday-makers and locals, not a single soul made a small gesture of kindness until a couple of hours later. Even then, the young French man who had picked me up only took me 5 minutes down the motorway, as he was going elsewhere thought I might be able to hitch from the hard shoulder.

He stopped the car in the divide between the junctions, with traffic passing at 70 miles an hour on either side. I manoeuvred myself onto the side of the highway heading back around past Calais, spotting a sign for Rennes and getting my hopes up. Naturally nobody stopped, as was to be expected, so I drudged for a mile or so on the hard shoulder and reached a roundabout on the outskirts of Calais which looked quite promising, however yet again it was proving to be nigh on impossible.

I left the roundabout and trekked down the side of the highway for another 2 miles approximately, with truckers beeping and policemen staring. Eventually I ended up in the dead centre of Calais and was losing faith in escaping this town by nightfall. I checked at the train station for a ticket to Bordeaux, but left as soon as I found out it was above 130 Euros.

After eating the majority of my emergency chocolate, and as I walked through the desolated, run-down industrial part of town, I felt an extreme sense of loneliness, the one you only experience abroad in an unfamiliar environment. I decided I would have to return to my hitching spot, after walking a huge circle of around 10 miles, but my luck was still running low. The sun was going down slowly and it seemed probable that I would be sleeping under the flyover or in my tent, which was still wet from the Dover dew.

Just as I was about to throw in the proverbial towel, a kind-hearted lady called Veronique puller over and I hopped in without waiting to hear where she was headed, I simply wanted to get out of that place. She was, in actual fact, headed to a city called Valenciennes, alot more Easterly than I would have liked but hitchers can't be choosers sometimes.

In my broken French we managed some reasonable conversation, she was a very normal lady, a teacher in Calais and hadn't picked up a hitcher before as I understood. I was very grateful for the ride and got that lovely feeling of movement after being stationary for quite some time. To have the miles flying by so quickly in moderate heat and comfort is something I won't take for granted again, that is for sure.

Once again it was hard to communicate a good place to part ways and I ended up at a tiny service station somewhere near Valenciennes and a small town called Orchies. After an hour or so my initial enthusiasm wore off, as it does when you get a ride but are stuck because of said ride. The sun set spectacularly over the small truck stop and it got cold quickly. I ate some nuts and raisins for a bit of a morale boost. That didn't last long though and like the flow of traffic my chances of getting out of the petrol station were dwindling.

It was probably getting on for 10 o'clock by this point and my luck shifted, a lady who spoke very good English said she could take me a little bit further down the road, only as far Orchies, but I jumped at the opportunity. She probably only gave me a lift out of pity, which is understandable, I probably looked quite a state by this point.

I exited at a roundabout just off the main road and bode her farewell and thanks, then flew a sign for the A1/A2 towards Paris. It was late though and it was doubtful I would get a ride. I decided to set up my tent just off the roundabout, thankful to have some relatively flat ground after Dover's incredible slant. It was cold and damp which made for another uncomfortable nights sleep, where once again I probably only got 3 hours or so.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #5

..I tried the roundabout and the carriageway into Maidstone, predictably to no avail. I thought things might take a turn for the better at my next spot of choice, at the top of the road going out of Maidstone towards the large roundabout. I had a good sign, which was written on a discarded wine box whilst munching my selection of nuts, seeds and raisins, and what I thought was a decent spot. My insticts were wrong though and I seemed to get more blank stares in this spot than anywhere else.

I gave up and wandered into the meadow behind me, where I explored an abandoned house before heading back to the roundabout. Cursing after a half full energy drink emptied its remaining contents onto my shoe and trouser leg, I had had enough. I started the arduous slog in what was a very warm day, towards Maidstone centre. A passing cyclist remarked that it was a 2 or so mile walk. And a very unpleasant one at that.

I was headed towards Maidstone East railway station, where I was determined to catch a train to the coast. After some deliberation, I purchased the ticket to Dover for £17. Looking back I would have liked to have asked for directions to a nearby service station but at the time I was just desperate to make it to the fabled white cliffs. The train changed at Ashford International and then passed through Folkestone with some lovely views of the 3 and 4 storey coastal houses and glimpses of the cliffs that were to come, accompanying my reading of Patrick Leigh fermor as he crusied down the Rhine amidst castles. Upon arrival in Dover Priory, I headed towards the town centre and a supermarket to gather some supplies. A pear, a nectarine, 1 baguette, some biscuits and a tub of chicken spread contributed towards distilling my hunger.

Another 25 minute walk took me to the ferry terminal and just before I got there, I spotted a fellow hitch-hiker. An instant bond formed even though I had no sign or otherwise to suggest I was thumbing...A scouser. He had no money for the ferry, the poor guy had been there since half 10 this morning. By this time it was half past 5. I bode him good luck and we parted ways. When I arrived at the travel-service centre I was dog tired and sat down to rest and eat my homemade sandwich.

I had noticed that the majority of people I have met on my 2 day journey down to Kent have asked me if I am meeting friends over in Spain and are generally shocked when they recieve a negative response to their query. Could it be that a childhood filled with moving from house to house, from country to country, making friends and then abruptly ending the friendship has made me more of a solitary soul than others? I think this is very possible, although I do not seek solice, on the contrary I very much enjoy others' company. Having said that, I met a young lad from Dover who had just purchased a one-way ticket to Calais, for the next departure and got talking to him. I couldn't help but overhear his conversation with a friend of his who had turned up and had tried to persuade him to stay in Dover and asking about what was up with him, how come he was leaving.

I later found out that he had the notion that there was nothing here for him in Dover and he had packed some Lucozade, a suit and 300 quid and was headed to France to try get a job. He was a kind-hearted young chap, perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I felt for him and commiserated with his circumstances. It was good to see somebody throwing caution to the wind and trying something new. Even though he might be a bit naive, I hope he will manage and I offered him the advice to try head to Italy as he spoke the language to a certain degree.

He thanked me for my advice and we exclaimed that we may meet in Calais the following day. Him and the Warwick charity-hitchers left to board the 18.30 crossing, leaving me alone once again. I asked the lady behind the desk whether I had to purchase a ticket now and whether the services were open through the night. her response was no to both, so I headed out to find a suitable place to pitch my tent, climbing up past the flyover to the top of the spectacular cliffs as the sun was setting rapidly behind Dover Castle, lighting the clouds with a fiery orange glow. I took a few pictures and continued my search..

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #4

Sean was a small, gingery truck-driver who had also travelled a fair when he was younger and was eager to tell me the in's and out's of trucking. It appeared as if my lack of success in the truck-parks could very well be the dreaded insurance and the fact that the lorries are on the road 8+ hours a day makes the insurance iffy to start with...adding more people to the equation skews it even more.

Feeling on top of the world after finally getting out of the ghastly South Mimms services, I invested in an overpriced tuna sandwich and wolfed it down in the sun at Thurrock services. I walked past and greeted a Scottish guy who was hitching somewhere up north, but his reaction seemed semi-agitated so I left him to it, wandered further down the exit road and stood on the middle divider.

There were hoards of vehicles heading past, both lorries and cars, and once again I was in top spirits. Peculiar thoughts and passing comments are a source of constant amusement whilst trying to win a ride, but I find my prejudices still surfacing, presuming certain people will most certainly not give me a ride and raising my hopes when a 'suitable candidate' drives past. It seemed a lot of truckers were willing to take me, however they were also going the wrong way unfortunately. A young guy in a Mercedes saloon drove past me on the other side of the road and asked me where I was headed, however he was going direction Milton Keynes. Not long after that he drove past again on my side of the road and said the best he could do was to pick me up in an hour and a half, after he'd been to his office. He explained his eagerness to help me out; he himself had hitch hiked throughout Canada a couple of years ago..

A definite link between all the generous souls who have picked me up is their previous travel experience and consequently their love of travel. It would seem the openness of voyaging and the new experiences it brings, makes individuals more aware, responsive and willing to help, perhaps having experienced the generosity and hospitality of other aids this cause. Either way I was very grateful to all those who gave me a seat in what is usually a private space.

After the young guy sped off with my thanks having been said, not 2 minutes later, an older gentleman in a red Mercedes, a real luxury car, pulled over and said he was going to Maidstone via the M20. I obliged, he popped the trunk and I slid down and into a lovely interior of leather and polished wood. The incredibly reclined seat in which I found myself instantly seemed to soothe any pain I might have from carrying my backpack. Phillip, my chauffeur as it were, was delivering said car to Maidstone, he then proceeded to tell me that often when he has delivered a car and needs to get to his next destination, he becomes a hitch hiker himself, albeit a slightly more professional, business-like one. Using the special registration plate which was secured in the window, people recognised him as a professional driver and extend their generosity his way.

It was an absolute please to sit in this beautiful modern piece of German engineering, hearing it tick through the automatic gearbox and listening to Phillip's tales of his days working as a photographer on a cruise ship all over the world and how different hitch-hiking is in Africa (Botswana to be specific). It seems a friend of his managed to pay off a mini-bus purely by picking up passengers on his way to work for 2 years.

Phillip was following his sat-nav and before we knew it, we had arrived at the junction where the M20 towards Dover turned East whereas Phil was headed into Maidstone itself. Had I have known this at the time I would have asked to join him. He hastily dropped me at the side of the dual carriageway and I walked back up towards the M20 on ramp, sign in hand and feeling optimistic. However upon arrival at said junction it was quite clear that it was a terrible thumbing spot, being on a bend with no place to pull over and vehicles travelling over 50mph. After a scramble uphill to get to this spot, I stuck it out for a short while before throwing in the towel and searching for a better spot.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #1

Monday 19th March 2012

Got up early after my last night of comfort and security at home. Said goodbye to my parents and took my mums homemade bag, which will hopefully come in handy at some point.
Took a steady walk up to Woolley Edge services, passing primary school children and their fussy parents. An elderly man who was making the most of the deceptively cold days sunshine by cleaning his car-boot wished me well and I felt uplifted and positive about the journey I was starting.

After scoping out various spots and asking some truck-drivers, I stood right at the very bottom close to the motorway on-ramp. On the back of a nearby lamp-post I saw previous hitchers who had left their mark with various dates, names and symbols. It was at this point that Dave stopped for me, in a small white van and said he could take me to Derby, which I gladly accepted, having spent 2 or so hours at that place. Dave was a project manager for some form of sewage operation, but was retiring in May, after which he had a cruise to San Francisco and Alaska booked. He was a nice chap and well travelled. Was told that the 'Dover' sign nearly put him off. Luckily not.

Dave dropped me just outside of Derby, at what I think were called Trowell services and having said what he did, I was going to change my sign to London, but before I even had the chance to salvage some more cardboard, a small grey corsa had stopped opposite me. Once inside the small vehicle, I'd like to say I got talking to Alison (or Alexandra in Spanish apparently) from Little Hampton (between Brighton and Plymouth) but I think I hardly muttered a word. The quirky revenue and customs lady talked non-stop about ex-boyfriends, travels, formula 1 racing and other topics until we reached Toddington services, just before the M25.

It was lovely weather still, although slightly and I was enjoying my first taste of proper solo travels. I had been trying 3 different points at the services but to no avail. Enquiring throughout the truck-stop also proved fruitless. After an hour, possibly slightly longer, a polite young chap picked me up. His names escapes me...Mark or Paul. He said he had picked me up after seeing me stood there for a while. He was, like Alison, going home after seeing his mother over the weekend. He told me he was a contractor for security at various events, gigs etc. and was a knowledgeable guy with some good views. He had travelled through Europe in a camper van and had camped at service stations in France without a problem, which is promising. After some confusion with directions, maps and sat-navs, he realised he was headed the wrong way and dropped me off at the first services, those being the South Mimms services.

Having spent a good three hours there, I had met some students from Hong-Kong studying at Warwick University, doing a charity hitch-hike to Croatia, a true hobo who was as polite as you like, he went to sleep round the back of the services with his dog. I didn't know his name yet but his demeanour was quite amazing, I was very happy to have met a true roads-person. I decided to try seek him out later, see what stories he had and if he was willing to share them. I gave in to hunger after nibbling chocolaty things all day, and, this being a motorway services, had to settle for overpriced fast-food. However there was another surprise in store, albeit minor. The friendly Eastern European lady at KFC (where I have vowed never to eat again after an encounter with an eye-opening book) gave me free chips with my burger and departed to the greasy backroom after telling me that good people get good things. I thanked her and devoured the small greasy package, while noting how strange it is to see 3 uniformed police officers eating chicken and playing on their iPhones. Peculiar indeed.

Crazy times!

Hello to everybody who reads my blog, and sorry for not posting anything, this is the first time I have been near a computer in about a week.

I have been keeping a journal, but I am also behind with that, its been a whirlwind the last few days and a bit of a blur to be honest, with not much sleep, about 1500 miles covered and only about 50 pounds been spent.

I will try to type up my travel journal on here when I am settled at my first volunteering placement, where I am headed tomorrow...

Cut Loose

One of my friends said to me earlier how 'lucky' I was to be going away travelling through Europe come next month. This led me to think about what it means when people mention that somebody is 'lucky' for travelling.

First of all it depends on what your definition of lucky is... When I think of luck, it brings to mind random events of a positive nature, for instance if you are walking down the street, feeling thirsty and have no money and out of the blue you find a £2 coin on the floor. That surely is luck.

If you want to delve further into what luck consists of; some would probably say luck to a certain extent is karmic, what goes around comes around etc. In that case good deeds lead to positive events occurring in your life. However, I made a conscious decision to go travelling a few months ago, so luck doesn't play a part in the initial process. Its purely drive to do something, just like you get the drive to go for a walk, or to play football, go skateboarding etc.

It could be said that me being able to travel is luck, I was born in a westernized country in reasonable wealth, compared to other parts of the world. I have had a good upbringing, education and home life, this allows me to have a sense of freedom, to a certain extent. I can apply for a passport and travel with relative freedom in most parts of the world. So in that way I do consider myself 'lucky'.

In many ways, if you know me, you'll probably agree that I am for the most part a pretty average 21 year old; steady relationship, family of four etc etc. However that is precisely one of the reasons for my wanting to travel into the (somewhat) unknown, I don't want to be an average 21 year old. Its not for reasons some might think, I don't aim to become famous or have people write about my adventures or what-not. Its just that normal life is for me considerately boring. Yes, its enjoyable at times, but for the most part I'm BORED. That might sound cruel or inconsiderate to friends and family, but I assure you it isn't the people that make me bored, although they do exist, no doubt about it. Its the daily routines of numbing mindless shit that I feel myself dragged into on a regular basis. When I detect these routines that make up my 'comfortable' existance, they make me feel the need to escape.

Sitting here now after just ordering, collecting and eating a take-away pizza, I almost feel ashamed. I know these are merely trivialities in the larger scheme of things, but it still makes me think that I should really be 'living' instead of sat here staring at this stupid laptop telling people about why I want to go. Why don't you go then for crying out loud? Well yeah if only it was that simple...If I had the self-confidence and knowledge to be able to set out of my house with no destination in mind and no money as back-up then I'd already be gone. Sadly, even a small budget is necessary for my travels. However if you know where to look, you will find people who have survived for years on a budget of absolutely nothing. Imagine that. Impossible right? Apparently not.

Its hard to imagine breaking such routines for a lot people, and most of the time it can take a life-changing event for anyone to do so, however it doesn't have to be like that. You know when you go somewhere new or do something you've never done before (be it legal or illegal) and you get that buzz which makes you feel 'alive' to use the cliche term...well thats because you're outside of your comfort zone, it makes you feel that way. Obviously not everyone is the same and this doesn't count for each and every person but for me that feeling once every fortnight isn't enough. I need to feel constantly 'alive', otherwise what is the point? For some people this buzz probably comes if they earn/win/steal or otherwise come by sizeable amounts of money. To me this is irrelevant. You really don't need money to be happy. Do you want to die rich or do you want to be able to tell people you travelled around the world using nothing but your intuition and other peoples good will.

As you may or may not know, when I leave for souther Spain, I will be attempting to hitch-hike, wild camp wherever possible, and use resources such as couchsurfing.org. It has been said many a time, that these means to an end improve peoples faith in humanity. There are good people out there, not just rapists and wierdo's as the news would have you think.

The cliche terms referring to 'living like its your last day' and such are used that often that you forget to take heed of what they actually mean. Inside these over-referenced quotes is a genuine meaning. If your life was to be taken away, would you be happy with what you've achieved? Does earning and extra £1 an hour matter? If it makes you happy I suppose you could say it does. But if thats the case I don't know why you've just read this.

So don't be lucky, just get outside of your comfort zone. If you don't like it, at least you've tried. If you do, then don't go back to your normal life, do something radical.

To skateboard or not to skateboard...

Sorry for the lack of blog posts lately, I seem to have lacked enough motivation to just crack on and write some stuff that hardly anybody will read. Oh wait it kind of makes sense now, after saying that.

Anyway...

I have the a predicament, although to call it a predicament sounds negative, however I am happy with either choice, I simply can't decide.

I have been skateboarding for nearly 7 years now and still love it as much as I first did.. Last time I was away for a month I took my board but it lay untouched under my WWOOFer bed in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.

This time I will be hitchhiking longer distances, through France and Spain and then possibly through Italy, Slovenia, Croatia...

I have had various opinions from my friends on this matter, obviously biased depending on whether they skate or not. Some say I have to take it, missing out on a great park to skate or hooking up with the locals (skateboarders around the world have a tendency to help other skateboarders, its a group that you are instantly welcomed into). Others say it should stay at home, hitch-hiking and travelling in general is for me an escape from everyday life, and my skateboard is very much a part of my routine.

There is also the fact that I will be volunteering in the more mountainous regions in Spain, such as the Sierra Nevada and Picos de Europe. In these locations I can almost guarantee there will be minimal skateboarding activity/locations.

Alongside these factors is the awkwardness factor of carrying it all that way to not set foot on it, with it merely taking up space and weighing me down. However, if I find myself 15 miles from a town, on a flat road, it could be invaluable...but then again there is the fact that I [i]will[/i] have a 45l backpack on, which means my movement will be severely limited.

If I had to say whether I am swayed more toward bringing it or leaving it to gather dust at home, I would have to say the negatives seem to outway the positives at the moment.

“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” Lao Tzu

I have spent almost a full day on Digihitch, gathering inspiration to get and just do the deed, start the ball rolling, browsing the forum and reading the various stories from different ends of the 'subcultural movement'. Add to that a soundtrack of Lynryd Skynyrd and you have one 21 year old who is dying for a real adventure.
I think there is so much bad in the world, and if you stay in one place too long, it is easy to get way too caught up in everything, little everyday things that don't matter one single bit in relation to your existence. Sure, some things are necessary, that is a given. But most people never seem to step even a tiny bit outside of their comfort zone. I myself am also guilty of this and have been for most of my life, however I am trying to change this every day...Varying my routines where possible and planning ahead in my spare time.
Every time I drive anywhere locally nowadays I find myself pining for an opportunity to break away from my standard journey, I long for a lonely hitch-hiker that I can pick up and help out, to make my day just a little bit more exciting.
And that is just the start..I want to be that lonely hitch-hiker. I want to leave everything here behind, pack a bag, survive how I can, camping where I want, eating when I'm hungry, working if I need some money or somewhere to stay. Sometimes I doubt this though and that makes me feel peculiar...having lived such a normal existence for the past 8 years, makes me wonder whether I will cope.
Apart from a month excursion to volunteer and a month long Interrail trip with my partner, I have lived like most UK teenagers. However in the back of my mind the whole time has been the dream of getting away from everything.
Who knows, after being 'away', it is possible to return to 'normality'. But that is for after the adventures, if they should end. Best not to think about the finish line before even starting, especially if you don't want there to be a finish line.
Over the past few years, it seems hypocritical to say the most of my inspiration has come from the 'media', but it is true. Although 'On the road' and 'Into the wild' are probably the cliché young freespirit inspirations, then so be it. But what a beautiful cliché, to be no only care-free, but also car-free, money-free,worry-free. Not without company though, as a certain Christopher McCandless noted ; 'Happiness is only real when shared'.
I could transfer a quote from possibly every page of On the road, but that would not do it justice, because its that special feeling when you know that someone is persuing something that is possibly unattainable, yet there will always be people searching...

"I love you and I love these people. But there is something I have got to find, and it isn't here. Where it is exactly, I don't know myself." Anne Lee Waldo

Travel Plans

I set this blog up initially so I could write stuff from my travels, maybe I won't be writing them straight onto the world wide web, but hopefully they'll be getting on here eventually...
Personally I find reading travel blogs alot more interesting than the ones of people who sit at home and do day-to-day update of their lives.

So the basic plan was to get a lift down to Spain with a guy who contacted me via Helpx.net, however I had to let him know today that I've had to give it a miss, partly due to him not being easily contactable (this is a journey to Spain we're talking about, not just down the road..) and because I would like to try and push through another 3-4 weeks torture...I mean, work, in order to have a decent bank balance when I set off.

It was hard to turn that lift down, it seemed like it was going to be the spark that set the adventure motor running, but sometimes good things come to those who wait. It will also make it a bit easier for me and my girlfriend, who is planning on joining me mid-July, wherever I am.

So the plan is still to get to Spain by mid-March, now its just a case of figuring out how. I have had romantic visions of me getting a ferry to Amsterdam and hitch-hiking down, counting on the good hearts of other and good fortune of myself to make it to my destination. But in reality, I don't speak much French at all and it could take alot of time and patience. One day I will do it, I promise.

I really do not want to fly, although it is without a doubt the easiest and cheapest option, it seems like a complete cop-out, there is only a few miles of water between England and mainland Europe, only a fool would skip out all the good bits inbetween. So I'm still undecided on that one, but, however I end up getting there, I should hopefully end up in Andalucia, Spain. A place that holds a special place in my heart, after spending 6-7 months living in 2 remote mountain houses in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Since that time spent galavanting through the wild mountains, seeing hundreds of vultures circle up on vertical air currents, watching snakes slither into dry-stone walls, I have longed to be back there.

In 2009 I spent a month volunteering at a lovely little cortijo about an hour away from where we used to live. This was a fantastic time and I met many amazing people, however a month was just not enough and my longing to travel has no subsided since then. As I never fancied the prospect of university, coupled with the fact that I picked what I now see as the wrong options at college, travelling has become my major concern. Who knows, I might go to university someday in the future, but for now, while the world is still a reasonably normal place and I am lucky enough to have a European passport allowing me to travel almost completely freely, I feel it is my duty to see and feel as much of life as possible.

The cliche that travelling in 'infectious' is overused to put it lightly, but all cliche's are formed from truths and it is the uncertainty in this case that one craves, not knowing who you will be volunteering with, or where you will be tomorrow. For some people this is not even an option, they thought of having to pitch a tent somewhere in an unknown country to them is terrifying. But that surely is living. More so than 'living for the weekend'. Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-party by any means, but theres partying and theres being a drunken lout just because you've got nothing better to spend your money on.

So after having my fill of Andalucia and all it has to offer, there is a possibility to head to Portugal, a place I have never been, to stay with and English couple I met whilst volunteering 3 years ago. Another location on my agenda is Asturias, Northen Spain. A place compared more to Scotland than anywhere else, its beauty is in its rugged-ness. A place where bears still wander the barranco's. I found a HelpX host who is renovating an old hamlet with a group of volunteers. They forage for food and sleep under the stars, in what sounds to me like a mini-paradise. I like to think they haven't got back in touch yet because there is no internet connection, although we will have to wait and see...

Getting behind

As I knew I would, I've got very far behind on my blog, this is partly due to my lazyness and partly because I got a job working nights in a warehouse in order to fund some travels this summer.

I have been working there for just over a month I reckon now but have had to have nearly two weeks off because of back and stomach problems, was told that I wasnt eligible for statutory sick pay, but I believe I should be after over 10 days off.

The plan is to save as much as possible, however this will not mean I will have a lot of money for my travels, as about £2000 looks like the limit I will reach. I have joined www.helpx.net and have wrote to two hosts, one in Asturias, northern Spain and one in Andalucia. Both look spectacular, and as I have visited these regions before I know of their natural beauty, albeit it in different ways.

I am trying to convince a Swedish friend to meet me in Amsterdam sometime between February and the end of March, then to try and hitchhike down to one of these two locations. I have also written to a 'travel companion' request on helpx, from a guy driving down to Spain/Portugal in a VW camper, which would make for a grand experience.

Having been contemplating life and whilst being ill and sleep deprived, I have come to the conclusion that it is not satisfactory to merely spend my days slaving away in an awful warehouse full of criminals and other such peoples, and although I count myself lucky to have acquired a job, it is not the life for me. 2 weeks in a place such as that, taught me that I must get away and live a more fulfilled life. It seems peculiar that from one nights wage in the warehouse, even though it is almost half of what the other employees recieve (I am working through an agency), I should be able to live a comfortable week in the wild regions of Spain. This is mainly because of the arrangement of working for food and lodging, but to me working on a mountain simply does not seem like work, for the beauty of the place and the fulfilment of the tasks, lead the mind away from the fact it is an exchange of labour.

I shall try to update on a more regular basis from now on.