A hawk filled walk near Hawksworth and Horsforth

Not having a job has its perks. After returning from finishing the Camino de Santiago this Autumn in Northern Spain, I have rediscovered the immensely satisfying feeling of adventuring on one's very doorstep. The experiences in Spain and afterwards in Morocco were exhilarating, eye opening and occasionally quite profound and propelled me to travel more in my native country upon return.

That is an interesting and refreshing effect that travel can have; the changed perspective when back in familiar territory, the desire to keep the freshness, alertness and positivity of travel with you like carrying an ember from a warming fire to a needed new wigwam.

So with this imported angle from the Camino and Al-Andalus, Christina and I set off amongst a familiar terrain of red-brick houses, pebble dashed tower blocks and inner-city green spaces. We zig-zagged past student houses and the cities tarmac arteries towards the old village of Horsforth. Popping into some beech woods, we stopped for some nuts and fruit on the ridge of what seemed to be an old quarry. The impressive scar was being re-populated by silver birches and brambles. Circling the periphery on the tyre marked mud-ways and then jutting down past the shed-sized rocks; the detritus of A.R.Briggs' quarrying, Christina remarked that the place had an eerie edge to it. Perhaps it was the absence of people in what was a once busy site, maybe the treeless land felt unnatural to be in after the woods.

We continued past the burnt out skeleton of a building, through a 6 foot piece of pipe, onwards past some fly-tipping (which I have never understood, the recycling centre is 5 minutes drive away on Kirkstall Road). We exited the woods near the ring road; its monotonous roar disrupting after the trees had successfully blotted out most noise.

Following the road towards Hawksworth woods, I noticed a scattering of white feathers ahead of us on the grass between road and pathway. Nudging my ambling partner, forewarning the potential presence of a recently nabbed avian, our eyes followed the trail of plumage into the beech hedge on our right hand side. In a moment of elongated confusion, surprise and shock, we locked eyes with a predator. The Sparrowhawks amber eyes burned up at us from the non-existent cover of the sparse hedgerow. Part-comedy, part tragedy; a single white feather protruding from its beak betrayed the hawks innocence. Had it have been filmed, a fitting voice over for this airborne hunter would have been a mumbled, alarmed "Oh! Erm. Bugger, you've caught me". We were caught in each others stare for maybe 2 seconds, but it is now forever etched into my brain. A closer encounter with a wild bird of prey will be a long time coming, if at all.

It flapped frantically, awkwardly reversing out of the hedge into the wasteland on the other side, carrying the white dove in its talons. Feeling slightly guilty for disturbing its mealtime, but elated at the same time at having this extremely close up encounter in such an urban setting, we walked on  underneath a red Kites gaze. Back to well deserved cups of tea and reminiscence of the mysterious encounter with a surprised Sparrowhawk. There is wild all around.

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

Reflecting on life without travel but with knowledge

Its been a long time since I have posted anything on this now seemingly decrepit blog, the journey I was busy typing up at one point is now a memory of ups, downs and reverberations that have seemingly rippled through the past few months, with changes in living circumstances, mindset and relationship status taking place.

The incense that burns slowly on top of a borrowed record player is a brief olfactory escape from the grey sky that blankets this corner of Leeds and does nothing much to enhance the higgledy piggledy roofs or to brighten the bin-filled alleyway that this rented room looks down onto.

Although the scenario may seem somewhat desolate, with paperwork regarding council tax benefits and ideal freezer temperature's strewn around this work surface that hasn't seen much work at all, a time of change is ahead, internally and externally. Feeling less cloudy headed by spending more time sober and running again for the first time in years is a definite boost.

One thing about getting 'older' is that not only do you find out what you like and can actively pursue it, but you realise that opportunities are there to be had, or in some cases to be lost. I find myself waking up after a heavy night involving some form of intoxication, feeling as if I have wasted my time and that there could have been productive things to be done instead. Being pro-active is something that I think most people struggle with from time to time, and although I still haven't found any way to solve this, I do feel more ready for everyday life, having faced challenges that not everyone would normally go through in the past year.

Reading is something that helps me stay in a frame of mind to actually do things, in a way it's a form of escapism from the problems of day to day life, but at the same time it's almost as if it is a change from the dreary routine and offers a different perspective on real life by immersing in something fictional or otherworldly altogether.

This summer, Christina and I will be going on an adventure that has been a long time coming, ever since our long meandering talks around the Christmas period and our strolls out on Ilkley moor, where strange rock carvings and even more mesmerising frozen waterfalls tickled the moist moss below. Back to the paradise that is Southern Spain, to show somebody who will truly appreciate the rugged beauty, sustainable lifestyle and ultimate freedom that I now associate with this part of the world. Then on to Italy, where hopefully we will avoid places like Campania, where the powerful underworld runs everything and see some of the beautiful countryside surrounding Christina's sisters dilapidated abode, which we will be (skilfully) renovating, with her artists touch, which can be seen on The Opposite Wall.   

Then onto new pastures, in the form of Bulgaria, which, according to the HelpX website has an influx of alternative thinkers and radicals surviving there, in what can only be described as fluctuating and unsure times for a lot of people. Why this is, I don't know, perhaps cheap land, or reverting back to the old ways, which I assume are still practised to a certain extent in this part of Eastern Europe. Either way, I am curious to see how this part of the world is, after visiting and thoroughly enjoying Serbia in 2011.

Although as always, all plans are subject to drastic change, this is a basic layout for the period between June and September, after which studying will be a concern of mine again, after a couple of years studying life, and how to go about wanting to learn, which is the main priority.

I will keep posting general thoughts, possible new music, some political ramblings and other crunchy little bulbs of goodness over the next few weeks.

Take it nicely.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #16

..My relationship with my hosts had gotten stronger as you would expect, and I felt quite at home with their company although I may not have agreed with everything they believe in, we can find common ground. One thing I had been enjoying immensely was the food, Inge seemed to spend the majority of her time around the kitchen, possibly due to her bad back, and conjures up some magnificent dishes, all with home grown or local organic produce; rabbit stews, chicken soups, spelt wheat loaves and various other items have been laid before me on the table in huge quantities, with 3rd servings being commonplace.

Amongst some of my regular tasks, which included opening and feeding the chickens and geese, moving the sheep and their pen and feeding the rabbits, during the first week I replanted some suffering onions and helped install a drip-irrigation system, collected firewood higher up the mountain, with the Junta's (council) strimming and cutting of the roadside aiding us, planted and irrigated three rows of potatoes, Alpujarran style, with the water cascading or trickling down through small channels, using stones to change its path when necessary.

I also cleared a patch of notoriously tough Spanish brambles, cleaned the swimming pool, which was a very tedious and tiring task, and planted various sunflowers here, there and everywhere. Both the physical aspect and the psychological aspect combined to be a draining experience, with the supremely bright moon coming out when my thoughts wandered to existential matters; globalisation, homesickness and how to light the stove without any matches.

The first week provided a good introduction to life at Semilla Besada, and it continued much the same, only with me having spend the majority of the next week with Bruno, the quiet, rough, knowledgeable Belgian who had spent the past 20 years there in Andalucia, since arriving at the tender age of 16 with no money and no Spanish. He was a builder by trade but seemed to be adept in many areas, be it killing animals, drinking copious amounts or other common Alpujarran pastimes. Bastian had told me brief snippets of his life outside of his temporary building work at La Chaparra and he seemed to have personal complications but he is a pleasure to work with, I have never seen anyone with such a passion for cement and spirit levels.

We had also been on two stone collecting missions further up the mountain, for building the steps and to be used as the drainage system around the bunker/larder we were building. At the natural mine, there were some lovely stones, huge chunks of marble, small rose quartz pebbles and perfectly flat stones stones, which Bruno exclaimed were perfect for building. The second time we were there, 3 golden eagles, presumably 1 female and 2 young, glided overhead, curious as to what we were doing on their part of the mountain. They flew swiftly over us and into the mist that shrouded the Rio Lanjaron barranco.

My first weekend off was a welcome break and to lie in till 9 seemed like heaven, something else that I didn't want to take for granted upon my return to England, along with a raised appreciation of wine, good food and sustainability. What occurred to me whilst wandering through the foothills, with my worn down adidas' aiding my Spanish adventure again and getting consequently filled with bits of the various prickly bushes that are so abundant on the Alpujarran slopes, is that Christopher McCandless' notion that 'happiness is only really when shared' applied to my scenario perfectly at points in my trip. Naturally, I wasn't as isolated as McCandless, not even nearly so, but compared to my home life, still a gigantic turnaround. Instead of walking through woods that I know like the back of my hand with my girlfriend or my friends, I found myself traversing steep valleys by myself, with a stick in my hand in care I should have another encounter with a hostile canine, and stopping once in a while for some water and to take in the ever-changing views.

It is these views of the tiny white-washed splashes on the surprisingly green gradients of the Sierra de Lujar and the Sierra de la Contraviesa that make me yearn for companionship. A view shared is a view to be enjoyed, to remember together, to be silent in astonishment or to loudly express ones joy at such imposing chunks of earth.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #15

(Sorry for the lack of posts recently, I will get back on track with them)

..Then we ate, a feast of spaghetti and sauce, more than enough for 4 people, which we washed down with some celebratory glasses of wine. I told them bits and bobs about myself over the food and was I would be cracking almonds that afternoon, as a gentle introduction to work on this conspiracy-theory fuelled, remote sustainable dwelling.

After said almonds were cracked, I was shown around the main lower garden, a maze of fenced-off vegetable patches, olive terraces and various animal pens, including the geese and chicken runs, the large rabbit cage, containing 20 or more black and white (edible) fluffballs, and the 2 sheep in their enclosure at the bottom of the garden. All these were joined together with little paths leading here and there, with the platform that David (the man who lived here previously and the one whom we lived with) had done some form of martial arts/meditation on, at the heart of the garden, surrounded by fruit trees and pleasant smelling bushes.

My hosts seemed nice enough, the semi-typical alternative type that this part of Spain seems to attract in abundance, possibly due, in part, to Chris Stewart's 'Driving over Lemons'. Over the next few days, I was to learn that my reading on conspiracy theories and occultism was nothing compared to what they believed and practised for the most part. Personally, I like to keep an air of skeptisism about such matter and, although it is clear to me that the world is becoming something uninhabitable due to various powers in place, I find it hard to believe in fables such as the lost city of Atlantic or the pyramids being constructed by 'aliens', although it certainly makes for interesting and dynamic conversation. On a more down to earth note, before our evening meal of cheeses, hams and bread, I fed the rabbits with a mixture of plants and weeds collected from around the garden, doing 2 jobs in one.

I had been at Semilla Besada almost two weeks and it had gone incredibly fast, it seemed like only a day or two ago since I was in Granada with John. I'd settled in reasonably well and had definitely been putting my hours in; Monday to Friday, working from 9ish til 2 then working 3ish til 7-8. However I had been sleeping well in the caravan that I called home. I lit the stove every night then read till the heat had peaked in my box of delights, then I crawl into my sleeping bag, comfortable and warm, only to wake up shivering every morning. The temperature sure did drop at night and when the clouds descend.

For 3 days it rained quite significantly on and off and we even witnessed some snow; in April this must be a rare occurance, but to wake up and see the immense Sierra de Lujár iced with the snow, the radio antenna its cherry on top, or the frozen grass crystals around Paco's sprinkler made waking up in a fridge slightly more bearable.

The first week here on the mountain had been peculiar affair, settling in, getting into a semi-routine again after the sporadicity of hitch-hiking and being around people permanently as opposed to lots of solitary pondering en route. My spirits were admittedly undulating as the dats wore on, moments of bliss and peacefulness followed lonely cold nights, I believe a partial reason for this could be due to my desire keep on travelling, keep on moving, but I found myself static, having small urges to flee but also wanting to take my time, extend my budget as much as possible and absorb all there is. But I had only been there 11 days, I told myself, its to easy to see how people say 'the road is addictive', it may well be, but it is also severely exhausting, so in that way, a temporary home is welcome...

New reservoir, old cloud

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 #12

Prickly pears & Moorish settlements

After passing multiple hippy vans at the top of the hill, behind the white church, I was in cave territory, 'Las Cuevas'. It was a strange area with lots of litter strewn all over the place, but also nicely kept (illegal) caves. I walked around on the little pathways, hither and thither and was starting to head back down to the centre, when I passed some abandoned cave-dwellings and suddenly heard loud barking out of nowhere behind me, then a large appeared, snarling and barking aggressively, before I knew it, it had gone for me. I instinctively turned my back on it and stumbled into the cacti behind me. Then it was gone and I ascended the mountain in a state of shock, stopping at a painted van to rinse the small wound with some water. I hobbled back down the Albaizin area to tell John what had happened.

He informed me, to my relief, that there was no Rabies in the area, however I went back to my little room and rinsed it out further to be on the safe side. John had made a few euros that day so we headed to his 'local', a small bar 15 minutes walk away in downtown Granada. As he had mentioned, it was nothing special, but they knew him and the tapas were extremely good, which I can vouch for, as, between us we had a decent sized bowl of chips, meat and sauce to accompany out beverages of choice. The second tapas was skewered marinated meat with some bread. Especially good for John with his small budget and love for drinking, it was a 2 for 1 offer too good to turn down.

We watched the end of a Real Madrid thrashing and headed back to the casa, where we consumed a few more beers and talked late into the night, during which he mentioned his sustainable community project in Northern Spain, which sounds promising and he obviously knows alot about such matters, having connections in various such establishments.

After not being able to resist the combination of alcohol and cigarettes, I woke up with a sore head and throat, so I pepped myself up a bit by getting my first shower for nearly a week. Although the shower was a complicated old Spanish device, I figured it out and washed in the tiny little shower cubicle, with walls that were caving in on me, but, it was lovely feeling to be in warm clean water again.

The previous day, John had explained a walk that he sometimes took people on, 5-6 hours including a picnic, so I set off using my hazy memory of his rough directions as a guide. Past the ancient little pueblo of Sacramonte, where the original Gitanos or Gypsy's lived, past ferocious dogs behind ragged wire fences, mountain bikers and plenty of prickly pear cacti; until I arrived at the crossing over the small river and started to climb on the small dirt tracks from past paseo's and mountain bikers alike. It was lovely to walk alone again in the mountains, even though I was only 25 minutes from the city centre, the smells and noises all came flooding back and I found myself almost instinctively making noises to warn off wild boars.

After passing an inhabited cave almost 45 minutes up the mountain, I began to search for a suitable picnic location, but I decided I wanted a view to accompany to my sandwich and glow in the dark fruit juice, so i carried on clambering up through the scrub, past giant ants and noisy bee's until I reached a plateau of extremely red soil, where there were lots of mountain bike trails and more signs of life than before. I followed the main path round and was confronted by a picnic area with hundreds of Granadino's milling around in the shade of the pine trees. the noise was overwhelming after the tranquillity of my ascent and I sought solitude further down the hill, where I ate and drank, looking out over part of the city, towards my next destination; the spa-town of Lanjaron, the pueblo I went to school in, what an experience to be back there...would anyone recognise me? Probably not, although I half expected to see some familiar faces, or if not, at least places from a past life.

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #11

 

..By that time it was 7 a.m. and I couldn't keep my eyes open, so I dozed off multiple times on the coach, while an elfish looking woman read about esoteric astrology next to me. As we neared Granada it started to rain, which I found peculiar, but it didn't last long and after 20 minutes I had reached Granada bus station safe and sound. I checked for a bus to Lanjaron, the small village in the Alpujarras, which was my next destination. There were several buses a day and for less than 5 Euros, but I decided to ring my HelpX hosts first.

I did this in an internet cafe, but only after I had wolfed down a 'bocadillo del calle' and some fruit. I sent a message to Sam and talked to Cowie breifly on the estranged internet, then rang Bastian & Inge, my prospective volunteer placement. The muffled voice on the end of the line told me to come on Monday as they had some stuff to sort out over the weekend. This wasn't what I was expecting to hear but decided to make the most of the situation and stay in Granada for the weekend.

I walked the few kilometres from the bus station to the centre of the city, with my back starting to hurt due to my heavy rucksack. I wandered around the tiny cobbled streets of the Albaizin, half searching for some hostels which I had scribbled down at the internet cafe. I didn't have much luck and ended up in Plaza Nueva, a bustling square right in the heart of the city, with the high court and one end and the start of the Moroccan-influenced Albaizin at the other, where the smells of incense, cooked meat, tobacco and rubbish drifted together seamlessly.

There were numerous people in and around the square, foreign tourists, Spanish tourists and locals, but I stumbled upon John, the English artist who was sketching the square on a large sheet of brown paper in order to collect some change from passers by. I sat on my bag and talked for a while with him, mentioning that I was looking for a place to stay for 2 nights, after which he suggested I try his landlord, as he could possibly give me a room for 10 Euro a night. So off I went to meet Rafael, the 78 year old, who'd lived his whole life in the centre of Granada, in his tiny 'casita' above the rooms which he rented out.

He was partially deaf and slightly senile, so communication was slow to say the least and when he described how the shower worked, I was lost completely. But I paid the 20 Euro and got my room, which was very basic but as John had said; a true taste of Andalucian architecture and living. After a week of tents and motorway services I was definitely looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed.

It was still early in the day so I headed back to Plaza Nueva and talked to John for a bit longer, who was an interesting guy, choosing to live in a way most people wouldn't; selling his sketches occasionally and getting change irregularly off tourists in order to pay his rent, which he said was as much as he could afford at any one time and Rafa was ok with that, mostly just wanting someone to look after the place downstairs and turf out and unruly residents. He had lots of stuff going on, working on various projects around Europe, both artistically and personally.

John recommended I take a walk up to the viewing point or Mirador, up through the Albaizin to the top of the hill. It sounded great so I headed up through the tiny streets, still taking in all the sights and smells and being so relieved to not have my backpack I was practically sprinting through the alleys.

Spain is covered in graffiti, from head to toe and Granada was no exception, with anti-everything graffiti on every corner, very much a refreshment from the British name tagging scallywag scrawls. I reached the viewing point and pondered over the lovely landscape for a few minutes, and as breathtaking as it was, I wanted to explore the caves which lay further down to the left...

Hitch hiking and various other pastimes #9

..They had managed to get a ride with a business man heading South, at first it seemed as if he was willing to go the 100km out of his was to take us to Toulouse, however we eventually found out it must have been a lost in translation affair, as he was headed towards Biarritz. Lauren was a peculiarly interesting guy who sold bus seats internationally and spoke 4 languages including Basque. The two lads from Yorkshire were lovely chaps, and it was a delight to have a bit of company.

We were dropped off with some haste in a small petrol station on the outskirts of Bordeaux, where we flew signs for Toulouse and Spain to no avail. We did however receive half a dozen tuna sandwiches and some bottles of water from a car full of young sportsmen. Strange positive experiences like this happen often when travelling, whether this is because you see more places and are therefore statistically more likely to find them or whether the positive nature of your travels attracts positive actions of others, I do not know.

After 5 or 6 hours, I willing to try get a few hours sleep round the back of the petrol station but we decided to stick it out for a bit longer. A Romanian coach pulled in and having nothing to lose, we gave it a shot but the person we thought was in charge said no.

In a peculiar turn of events though, an old guy asked us where we were going etc in Spanish and I told him as best I could, he then went to ask the driver for us again, and this time he accepted. One of my new found companions had his doubts about boarding the coach at that time of night, but I figured it couldn't be any worse than spending the night there, so we stuffed our backpacks in the trailer and followed the co-driver onto the packed coach.

I squeezed myself in next to an old Romanian guy who smelled just like the land I assumed he worked on. Soil and onions.

We got dropped off about 10km from Bayonne, in a moderately large service station with some quite exquisite seating areas amongst the tall pine trees and sandy ground under foot. We gathered out belongings and decided it was we camp out for the night and try hitch in the morning. By the time we had set up the tent and nestled down in our respective sleeping bags it was past 3 o clock and setting the alarm for half 6 was always a bit ambitious. We slept in in till around 8.

I awoke to yet another misty morning, unable to see the service station on the opposite side of the road, but we were in good spirits, despite the fact that we all knew getting a ride with all 3 of us was highly unlikely. After an hour or so trying the sign for Spain near the exit, they decided to go try on the forecourt, whereas I stuck out the sign technique for a bit longer.

It wasn't long though till I returned to the petrol station, feeling slightly glum about being so close to Spain but not being able to get there. At one point I was considering trying to walk to the coast and follow it down as far as I could, but I was eventually glad that I didn't make that rash decision, as only 15 minutes later I was cruising down the motorway in the back of a Dutch Lexus with Hermoet and Maria, who were on their way to an apartment in the Algarve.

Luckily James and Tom didn't hesitate in telling me to take the ride, for which I was very grateful. My Dutch came in handy when asking them for a lift as they didn't speak much English and probably wouldn't have taken me otherwise.

They were a typical older Dutch couple, very neat, precise and by-the-book, but we held some good conversations, as much as you can between a young hitch hiker and an elderly couple on a comfortably arranged holiday. They must have warmed to me however, because instead of dropping me off at the border as I had asked, they were willing to take me another 200km into the North of Spain, near to Burgos, where I was going to try head directly South, direction Madrid.

To them, I may have represented a substitute child or grandchild, as they treated me with parental kindness from the start, possibly due to me speaking their language. They had prepared alot of food, all neat and in it's own special place in the hamper..I have found the Dutch people love their organisation on both a small and larger scale, an inherent trait of a country where you live shoulder to shoulder. Biscuits, krentebollen, juice drinks were all passed to my back seat on the journey.

As if this wasn't enough, they insisted we stop somewhere for a picnic, and naturally I obliged. I returned from the toilet at the services in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Northern Spain and found a veritable feast laid out on the marble seating area, picnic blanket and all...

Synchronicities and abandoned houses

The past day and a half have proved to be very interesting and some great stuff has come out of it.

It started with a delve into the waters of what I have been reading up on previously, that is all things connected with and associated to the esoteric, the occult, possible spiritualism, psychonautics etc.

These areas are of particular interest to me as of late and although due to not being qualified or having much indepth knowledge I find it difficult to add to such discussions and debates, I spend a lot of time reading posts and articles on these matters. One of these websites I found whilst doing some research into the life (and tragic death) of Rik Clay, is 2012rising.com.

Perhaps quite a substantial amount of people will scoff when faced with websites such as this, containing predictions, revelations and other various insights into possible 'catastrophic events in 2012' linked to the Mayan calender, 'supernatural and spiritual phenomena' and 'metaphysical matters or conspiracy topics'. But although sometimes you do have to view the counter arguments to form a valid and accurate opinion, you cannot simply deny its existence. These matters play out daily around the world and many people hold a large amount of trust in them. To simply deny them is outrageous and anybody who consider themselves to be a human that cares about where Earth is headed to, should at least read them if nothing else.

After browsing 2012rising.com, I discovered a recent article written by the founder about a visit to an author and all round esoteric-researcher in the south of Spain. This is where I began to wonder whether I had stumbled upon this website by accident or was there something bigger playing a part in guiding me towards a predetermined goal? The coincidences could be described as merely that, however it is interesting that I too have spent time volunteering and living less than 10km away from where this author is based (in the Alpujarras, south of Granada). In scientific terms, these seemingly unrelated events that come together as coincidents, could be described as Synchronicities; "the experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance and that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner."

On the flipside, this is renowned for being a location where 'eccentric' ex-pats choose to settle down. Take it as you wish. I wrote a brief message to Bruce Fenton, creator of the website, pointing out these 'coincidences' and asking for his views and opinions. He is yet to get back to me, but I remain hopefull, he obviously knows his stuff and is also based in England.

On a related but slightly different note, after a talk with one of my friends concerning his previous sleep-walking and one of his friends' interest in lucid dreaming, I have decided to make a conscious effort to record my dreams. A dream-journal if you want. Dreams are a perculiar phenomenon and I have been fascinated by them since a young age and having a (slightly scary) reccurring dream. As I have been struggling to remember my dreams over the past few weeks, I figured this dream-journal could act as an aid to recall dreams, as it has been documented that keeping such a journal invokes feelings that dreams are important and therefore they become easier to recall in more detail.

I read on digihitch.com that one person kept a dream-journal as well as a regular travel journal, and found himself referring back to the dream journal more frequently that his 'real-life' journal, simply because, even though he was travelling, his dreams were often more interesting to read back through. The subconscious is a powerful thing.

On a more down-to-earth level, I went on a 4 hour walk yesterday, towards Emley Moor. However, on arrival in West Bretton the rain began, so I turned back toward home. This turn of events led me to find some slightly perculiar items...Walking back through some woods, I found a film cannister containing directions to a 'crystale' written in wannabe medieval English, then a bit further on I found a gold necklace hanging on a fence post, with what looked like a monocle attached to it. Whether these events had anything to do with the role of Synchronicity, I don't know, if anyone comes up with a link please let me know.

After these events, I continued on my way, looking forward to getting my feet up and having a cuppa, when I stumbled upon an abandoned house. Now, being a keen, albeit not too good photographer, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to check out a semi-collapsed, stinky, burnt building in the drizzling rain, by myself. I enjoyed the eerie exploration round the house and surrounding out-houses, half expecting to see some form of person squatting or drugged up or whatever, but this house is quite out of the way, and I saw no such thing. The closest I got to that was a squirrel carcass and a spider bigger than my thumb.

If your interested you can see some of my pictures from this mini-exploration on my Flickr. What I was contemplating after this solo walk, was how interesting it was to walk around a place that you thought you knew quite well, when in reality I had barely touched on anything in that area at all. Walking, especially if you are by yourself, gives you a much more intimate feel of everything you come into contact with, if only everybody could experience life a little slower, a little bit less rushed, I think the world would be a better place for it.

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.

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.