A Journeyman's Log

New Toys

2012-01-30T21:08:00.000Z

A former colleague used to say, "Make it fun to get it done." The obverse is when a necessary task becomes fun. So it was when the website of OC International-UK needed a bit of fast forwarding to replace out of date information and a good, but dated, appearance.
Since the 1960s encounters with computers gave me a lot of fun during the hard work and this was just the same.
GIMP is open-source software for graphics; a new style OC logo was made with it.
TextWrangler is a great, free text editor for changing HTML code, even working to files on a remote HTML and FTP sites.
Tracking down some truly free clipart took a while and recasting some of the text proved a minor part of the job.
Then along came Microsoft Internet Explorer. The original site used cascading style sheets, one file for IE, another for the rest of the world. In my learn-as-you-go style this became apparent only when finally loading up Windows XP and IE on my Mac.
Now, the site seems to work for Safari, IE, Opera, Chrome and Omniweb. Great fun - until the next review or a total replacement on something else.

Time Travel

2012-01-30T20:45:00.002Z

At work I used to read an Australian magazine, Kategoria, and was disappointed when it ceased being published. It was a thoughtful, thought provoking set of articles about contemporary life and the Christian faith.

One particular issue focussed on The Family, causing me sufficient disquiet that I worked to get the Feba world talking about family issues, promoting a biblical view within the disparate cultures across that world.

It had some success, with - as usual - many ideas that flew like lead balloons.

Great joy today when I found out that all 31 editions of Kategoria are available on the web site of The Gospel Coalition as PDF files to download. And that means less space on my hard drive, but more on the shelf in my overcrowded study.
Nice to see you again!

Surprise in Horsham

2011-12-31T17:54:00.011Z

Yesterday, 30 December 2011, Marian and I drove to Horsham in Surrey, just 20 miles to the north of our home. Our purpose was to buy a small colander in the excellent cooking supplies store there. We failed in that, but that's OK, it was interesting to see current trends in middle-class culinary practice as dining habits change: more implements for Japanese food; collapsible colanders for a bijou kitchen; expensive French casseroles for single meals.
We needed gluten-free food for lunch, so bypassed the Italian eating places and found (again) a cheery, cramped cafe run by local Christian churches. It has a bookstore, too. While we ate - an excellent vegetable soup for her and a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich for me - we spotted from the window a little cul-de-sac called Causeway. Along both sides of the street and some beautiful buildings of varying ages, one of which was home to the author, Hammond Innes, in the early 1920s. See my tumblr.com blog for some pictures.

Time Travel

2011-12-20T21:38:00.004Z

Intrigued by the intractable tensions in the Middle East, I determined to read Jerusalem - The Biography by Simon Sebag Montefiore. This evening I finished it.
It's a big book, spanning the city's history from the time of King David (circa 1000 BC) to this decade. Apart from my constantly getting lost with the names, family relationships and various empires, what hit me hardest was the constant slaughter of people through most of the generations covered by the book.
That took my mind to the Old Testament:
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels.” Psalm 122:6-7, written by King David.
How many generations of Jews have prayed that prayer, or Christians eyeing prophetic writings about the nation and that city? Did they pray in vain?

Just a few days before Christmas, when Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus, it may be well to join that ancient prayer and trust that one day the Prince of Peace will reign supreme and Jerusalem know prolonged peace.

Identity Confused

2011-11-24T16:09:00.001Z

On November 6th our first grandchild was born in Cambridge. My wife is now Gran and I am Grandad. In my far off childhood my mother's mother was Gran and my father's father was Grandad. So these new titles are fine.
My Grandad was a quiet and authoritative figure to me. He used to sit in the kitchen saying very little. He had a full head of hair and a white moustache, which I think was tinged yellow from smoking. The sad fact is I never felt close to him or that he was much interested in me.
Perhaps it's the way families work, but my mother's parents seemed to be more loving. My Grampie was a shorter, smiling man who had words to build up. I hope my granddaughter remembers me as the smiling, talking one -- not that her other grandfather is anything like my own was.
The journey from the South Coast to Cambridge will become more familiar in coming years. It's mainly motorway: A27, A23/M23, M25, M11 with the glorious Dartford Tunnel going north under the Thames and the high-flying bridge coming south.
Sending a message to my wife and sons opens up the identity question. Should I be Tony, Dad or Grandad? I enjoy all three, so had better get used to the multiple identity.

Close to home

2011-11-24T11:31:00.000Z

Sometimes the nicest things happen close to home, not on long journeys.

At 7.00 AM today, this was the view from an upper window in our house.

Itaipu Dam

2011-10-31T22:02:00.004Z

In the 1970s Brazil and Paraguay set up a new entity to build a huge dam, then run the hydroelectricity plant it holds. The partnership is celebrated in the name - Itaipu Binacional, seen here in the first vehicle park visitors go to on their tour.

The most spectacular part is the overflow, which opens up when the huge artificial lake is too high. Giant doors that weigh as much as a jumbo jet are opened to let the water run down an enormous concrete channel into the river below.

The whitish pipes to the right are 10 metre diameter channels for the water to drop 100 metres to huge turbines beneath the level of the river. Paraguay gets 90% of its electricity from this generator, Brazil 30%.

There are three sections to the dam:
1. An earth and rock piece, seen here from inside the coach as we drove down from the top of this section to river level below.
2. The concrete working section with the huge tubes, turbines, switching matrixes and high voltage feeder cables to nearby pylons.
3. The overflow section, also concrete, which deals with any over-high level in the dam.
I found it pretty amazing, in the ambition of its first conception, to the construction and now the invaluable contribution to green energy for the region.

Foz Means Mouth

2011-10-31T21:39:00.001Z

My last post was from Iguassu in Brazil, with the spelling varying from time to time even within the town itself. Since the settlement developed around the Iguassu Falls, it's tempting to think that Foz is Portuguese for Falls, but no it means Mouth. A tour guide put things right by explaining that Falls are the cataratas in Portuguese.

Whatever they are called and spelled, the falls are truly awe inspiring. Just prove I was there... I am the one in the red, wet T-shirt. The bridge is built out over the first level to which the mighty river descends. Below it is another drop to the new, lowest level of the river. More pictures when I can get them processed.

There's an awful lot of coffee in Brazil

2011-10-20T23:38:00.002+01:00

This afternoon I was thinking how many times I have attended meetings and conferences inside big rooms in a hotel or conference centre, most of which look and sound the same. Since arriving here two days ago I had not set foot outside the nice hotel where our group is staying. So, today I took a walk around a big block around 5.15 PM. It was still hot, probably in the upper 70s Fahrenheit, and humid. This town, Iguazu, is quite hilly in this quarter which is filled with various car shops--dealers, menders, washers, alarm-fitters. A friend who lived here for 17 years told me that the roads are such that shock absorbers, springs and electrics are all shaken to failure, so that's why the repair shops are here.

Just outside our meeting room is excellent coffee several times per day, each supply desperately needed for weary travellers trying to make sense of multi-cultural conversations as we probe the future for this mission. What I find really odd, having travelled through multiple time zones many times, is that the 11-hour flight from London to Sao Paulo required only a three hour adjustment to the wrist watch. Usually that length flight needs a draining 8 hours. And the coffee is not so good, either.

Little trips

2011-09-07T22:07:00.001+01:00

Since Lisbon, our journeys have been in the U.K. - the longest to Newcastle Upon Tyne, where our oldest son was ordained into the Church of England. It's a region unfamiliar to me and proved to be as beautiful and interesting as any other. Then Cambridge where our youngest son has moved for his work. Buying a house these days is a major challenge for first-time buyers, but he and his wife have managed it. The only other journeys have been up and down a ladder as I painted the eaves of our home. In October comes a major trip to Brazil for the mission for whom I volunteer. Excellent!

A Sabbath Day's Journeys

2011-05-01T20:51:00.001+01:00

Today's Sunday, so not the Sabbath. We live in the age of grace not law, so the old restrictions on journeys on Saturday don't apply - unfortunately. The weather here has been so summery through most of April and today, 1st May, that it's great to be outdoors. Today, I started with a semi-jog around the local golf course (3 miles), walked to and back from a local church (1.5 miles), then walked from Truleigh Hill to Devil's Dyke along the South Downs Way - and back - 6 miles. It's no wonder I feel just a tad jaded this evening.
Yet, it's time to rejoice again. Two years ago my darling wife was so ill we wondered if we'd ever even picnic on the South Downs, let alone walk so far. Today, she did it. And that's not the first time either. What a lady!

Ystad

2011-04-13T20:27:00.004+01:00

It's confession time: I am a fan of Wallander - Inspector Kurt Wallander of the Ystad police in Sweden. BBC3 or BBC4 carried Swedish TV adaptations of Henning Mankell's detective novels, then English versions of other stories emerged starring Kenneth Branagh. The Swedish actor, Krister Henriksson, was the first Marian and I saw in the role, so he's the benchmark. We think the others don't make it. But, then, isn't that often true of the first recording one hears of a piece of music?
One reason I like Wallander is that he is getting older, touching 60 in later stories, his life has been unpredictable and disappointing in some areas, in his failed marriage, for example. Yet he's passionate in his pursuit of criminals and a just response to their deeds.
Since last Autumn I have read the first six novels - in English translation, as my Swedish is as accomplished as my "insert language name of your choice here." What a little islander these British Isles have brought forth.
Dark deeds, Swedish land- and seascapes, in light airy Summer or freezing wind-swept Winter, and a frail, flawed detective who always resolves the mystery. Excellent!

Counting some blessings

2011-03-20T22:29:00.004Z

Going home - but where is home? It used to be where my guitar was, then became where my wife and family are. Now the boys have left home, so it's where my wife is. But both of us long to go back "home" from time to time. Back to where our earliest memories lie, back to Wales.
I was born in Cardiff and left there only to go deeper into Wales to university in Swansea. After that I have never lived in Wales, only in England, with a few happy years in Seychelles.
What does "home" mean? Wales is where our parents came from; 75% of them, anyway. Where our grandparents came from; 66% this time. For some reason we choose Wales as home because our own early days were spent there. The accents are familiar. We can pronounce most of the place names. Wales is where we feel refreshed, re-rooted in our lives, strengthened in the faith we were taught there.
They used to say that teachers and water were Wales' biggest exports. The three days we just spent in mid-Wales were rain free, unusually. Although trees were still winter bare, sheep were lambing, gorse bushes thrust out new yellow blossoms, daffodils celebrated spring and the sunshine was delicious.

Bookish Journeys

2011-03-09T17:05:00.001Z

On my trip to Portugal I read Never Let Me Go, a novel by Japanese-born British author Kazuo Ishiguro. It was shortlisted for the 2005 Booker Prize and has been made into a film released here recently. From the very beginning Ishiguro uses simple language employed by the narrator to unfold a dark and depressing view of what might happen if science, medical technology and our endless pursuit of enduring physical life leave far behind questions of morality, or - even more seriously - what it means to be human.
The link above will take you to a Wikipedia article, if you want an overview of the book and don't intend to read it for yourself.
Maybe it's my age, but the news so often has real stories of how people are appallingly treated by others: think of the continuing drug-gang killings in Mexico or the slaying of Pakistani politicians daring to speak out for the rights of those affected by that nation's blasphemy law.
Whenever a nation, gang, religion or individual denies dignity and respect to other human beings, they are not far from the novel - meaning the book and the news.

Have A Laugh

2011-02-27T22:04:00.000Z

I have an iPhone app that joins photographs together to make a panoramic view. I loved the surreal effect it had on one end of my living room at home.

Sunday Loss Of Routines

2011-02-27T21:19:00.001Z

This morning we drove to a different part of Lisbon to meet with a small local church. Three of our group went, taken by a Brazilian gentleman who's been here months rather than years and who is a leader there. It was a lovely day, blue skies and wind; the beaches were full.
Soon we turned inland and parked in a street lined with multi-storey apartment blocks like many areas we passed through. Then into a small shop, used by the church for their Sunday services.
Apart from it all being in Portuguese, with only a few words of the songs guessable, it all felt very familiar. The people sang heartily and a preacher then got up and did a great job of engaging his audience with his study. Question, quips, participation of various kinds - all made it feel like a well-taught, committed group. There were 3 or 4 babes in arms, the younger children were in what would normally be the kitchen doing their stuff, differing age teenagers stayed for the teaching and the adults were younger rather than older, though all seemed to be parents.
One test of the health of a church is the quality and duration of conversations before and after services; this was a healthy church by that criterion. We visited a seminary on the way back, finally sitting down to lunch at around 2.25 PM.
Later in the afternoon, I walked along the coast away from the extensive surfing beach we see from the hotel. It was very different - rocky, black, grey and sharp edged. Definitely not relaxing, so I made my way back to the pavement along the very busy coast road.
There is a set of traffic lights on this road that seem to randomly stop the traffic. There is no pedestrian crossing and the lights are for one way only. I was intrigued enough to photograph this. Just a few yards further on was the warning sign for drivers of speed reduction lights. Local drivers are enthusiastic with the right-hand pedal, so someone somewhere thinks it's fun to stop all the traffic for 10 seconds or so.

On the way back I spotted a tree whose shape seems familiar. It grows on its own on the sparse soil above the dark, sharp rocks. My memory is that I saw trees like this in Kenya, a long time ago, but there many more of them and with Kenya's beautiful greenery surrounding them.

For a Sunday, this was nothing like being at home - except the nap after lunch.

A Quest For Food

2011-02-27T09:35:00.002Z

Saturday evening, a long day's work done in a small committee room; outside - a fresh breeze, dying light, traffic jams as the beaches empty. Three cars edge along the coast from Carcavelos towards Lisbon. We pass through Belem, home to the Maritime Museum in a former monastery and the brutal linear rectangularity of the modern art museum.

Finally, at a quayside two cars release us to uncoil and stretch, the third turns up later having gone to another restaurant of the same name. A further wait and the whole group is together.
Outside the restaurant is a 3 metre high copper vat used in brewing; this used to be a brewery, but inside has been converted into a light, open dining area. The lights are the biggest I have ever seen indoors, the photo rather hides that each of the globes is about a metre diameter.

Before our meals arrive there is plenty of fresh bread, and - Portuguese style - we dip it in olive oil - delicious.

To match the copper vat outside my meal is served in a copper coated container. It carries a traditional dish of flaked cod in a mesh of tiny fried potato chips, with egg and coriander. It is absolutely delicious.

Several of our party are Brazilian Christians; I must ask them one day how they manage to smile so much and to love life as they obviously do.

Last Museum

2011-02-24T20:47:00.001Z

Tomorrow we start work - the other 5 people coming for OC matters (see the link to OC's website on this page.) Knowing that our base is in a hotel nearer the beach than the ABLA Guest House, I decided to go into Lisbon once again. At the railway station I looked through the city guide for tourists and was astounded at how many museums this city has. The choice was fairly easy: the museum nearest the railway terminus Cais do Sodres. It also was in the older district that had so many charms.
The Chiado Museum was exhibiting the work of Columbano, a Portuguese painter of renown in his day. His portraits have muted colours, obscured backgrounds that bring out face and hands of his sitters. Later, in the earlier 20th Century he painted facial expressions that spoke of inner turmoil, disdain, conflict or uncertainty. It was very interesting, despite the overall colourlessness.
The museum itself is worth the visit. Housed in a multi-storey former monastery, the entrance hall has high, beautiful arched-brick ceilings; the stairway and walkways to the exhibition areas float through this vast space, giving a closer view of those arches.
After lunch there, I walked further up the hill into squares I visited on Tuesday, but then down narrow streets that swooped down then up the next hill. Some houses were showing off fresh laundry to the sun, garments hanging on clothes lines fixed to the street wall; others were tiled from street level to eaves, goodness knows how old those tiles, but the graffiti was very new.
This was a goldmine for photographers. My camera is bulging with new pictures, but they'll have to wait until I get home - the cable I need is there. Look out for them next month.

A City On A Hill Cannot Be Hid

2011-02-23T19:03:00.003Z

Each time I have a city break it turns out to be a walking holiday. This morning I decided to visit the beach at Carcavelos, about 10 minutes due south of here. It is February, yet many surfers were out in their wet suits, others were jogging on the sandy beach or along the concrete promenade below the main coast road. It was around 17 degrees Celcius and I was sweltering under a hot sun. The locals of my generation were wrapped up against the Spring chill. They will probably feel comfortable when Summer comes, I would melt.
Along the coast to the west, in profile, was a fortress-like building on a promontory; I like buildings with towers so decided to take a closer look. It is a military base doubling as the local lighthouse, red lanterns clearly visible close up. And no one is allowed inside.
Next back towards town and the railway station; a repeat ride to Cais do Sodres, then a walk up the hill through the old city. Imagine 4 to 5 storey buildings built into the hillside. The rear of them is only 1 or 2 storeys high. The street going up hill is carried by a bridge over the road to the rear, spanning over to the next 5 storey group. And so on. I was amazed at the civil engineering skill to densely populate such a steep incline.

At the top it was time to sit in a little square for refreshments, near a church building now fallen into disrepair and housing a museum of South American antiquities. Alongside is a century-old vertical road lift to take you down to the Av. da Liberdade, mentioned yesterday. My pictures of that are in my camera and inaccessible till I get home. But I have this photo from my phone to prove just how hilly this part of Lisbon is.

In Lisbon They Do Big

2011-02-22T21:37:00.001Z

The walk from the plane to immigration yesterday felt very much like being imprisoned in a long twisted high corridor with all sight of external things shut off by patterned glass and drawn curtains. It wasn't a good first impression, but it was big - as were all the public spaces I saw in the airport.
Then on the metro, the tunnels are really huge compared with London or Paris systems. Perhaps the rock was softer and cheaper to tunnel, but I can imagine the very diameter of the tunnels could have been reduced along with the spend. David Cameron would have been calling for the small society.
Another "big" is in the public buildings and memorials, some of which reminded me of Soviet grandiosity and emptiness. Railway lines into a capital often show the seamier side and some of the big items along the coast were run down, needed some paint or grass taken off the roof or graffiti scrubbed away.
In the city the Avenida da Liberdade is a triple carriageway down the hill towards the coast. That was lovely to walk along, even when the mosaic pavements were uneven underfoot. I had to turn south and a bit west to get to the railway terminus. All of a sudden the area changed to narrow streets, steep hills, old trams and unexpected open squares - so beautiful. Here are some photos:

I Had A Ticket To Ride

2011-02-22T21:09:00.003Z

So, today I learned a) how to buy a train ticket, b) how to ride the train, c) how to buy a metro ticket, d) how to change lines on the Lisbon metro, e) how to ask directions. The last item was the most frequent because f) I didn't learn how to read the Lisbon tourist map. As they say in Welsh, I was just twp.
The ABLA guest house is in Carcavelos, west along the coast from Lisbon. The train rides along the coastline to Cais do Sodres, where a metro line also terminates. Then it's a ride north to find the Gulbenkian Museum and Gallery of Modern Art.
The Museum is a gem, not huge, but housing exquisite items from ancient Egypt to pre-revolutionary France. How amazing to see the delicate carvings from 3,000 years ago or more. In the collection of Roman medallions, again beautifully carved, was ample proof that Hollywood blockbusters like Ben Hur got the soldiers' armour right - fabulous miniature images of long dead soldiers, notable ladies and emperors.
Then it was Islamic art, a leap forward in time and a move into intricate pottery, glasswork, carpets, wall hangings, tiles - few of which represented anything human or animal. One Persian carpet, as big as our living room at home, had a flawless design in numerous colours, all of which presumably were held in the minds of the weavers - no computer aided design here.
The Chinese section was mostly 17th Century. What fresh looking colours on the pottery! - enamels in reality, but reds, greens, yellows and differing shades of blue, so detailed and still striking; a different league from European ceramics.
In the European section, once the artefacts had moved from Christian themes - embossed Bible covers, paintings of the flight to Egypt or Mary and the Christ child, wooden figures of Mary and John at the foot of the cross - the focus on French opulence and Dutch still life seemed too focussed on transience and human vanity.
Art and great buildings usually come from someone or some group accreting enormous wealth off the backs of poorer people. It was the French section that nauseatingly glorified the wealth holders, the other sections were - to a degree - more modest. So, thumbs up to ancient Egypt, the Graeco-Roman period, Islamic art and Chinese pottery.
For this privately acquired collection the items really are a wonder; my head ached at being pummelled by so much beauty.

Lisbon

2011-02-21T22:49:00.002Z

A first - I am in Lisbon, Portugal. Flying out from London Gatwick on Easyjet was fine, though their policy of "free-fight for seats" reveals interesting aspects of human nature, especially mine.
The promised taxi driver was waiting, my suitcase was in good order, so we drove out to where I am staying for three nights. It's 10 degrees warmer here than in southern England, positively Spring-like.
A little stroll down a gentle incline took me to the Riviera Centre, a little mall adjoining a big hotel. It was football night on the several big screen TVs around, including the one where I ate.
For the first time in my life I was charged for the food by its weight - each 100gm added about €1.50 to the bill. So, not knowing what the buffet was, I had lamb, blood sausage, flaked tuna fish, octopus, frites, french fries, corn and some black beans. It wasn't a conscious choice, colour was the decider and identification was by taste.

Just down from the mall was an open square, pretty full with parked cars and every cafe was hosting soccer fans. No one noticed I was wearing a rugby shirt.

Sequel

2011-02-21T22:28:00.001Z

A lot happened in those few days after my iPhone 3G was nearly saved. It turned out that the tiny connector I'd damaged was the one driving the earpiece in the phone, so I could make calls only if I used headphones. Not much use.
Then, providentially, my good wife dropped the phone and it finally expired; it is now an ex-iPhone; it has shuffled off its mortal coil or connector; it is deceased.
For a couple of days I hummed and hawed about what phone to get. Tesco had the best deals on iPhones, but no stock either on their internet store or local ones. Also, iPhones are very expensive. So, I began to explore the HTC range, only to discover they were in short supply, too. I said to God that whatever one turned up first I would take as his input to the decision process.
Tesco in Littlehampton has a new phone store; the lady there promised to phone me back if they got new stock. Two hours after the promise came the news that they had just received two iPhones, would I like one? Yes, of course.
I dashed over after lunch, collected the new phone and went to meet my good wife who was going to look after our great-nephew for the afternoon. But she wasn't where I thought we'd agreed to meet; nor at the little lad's home; nor at our home. So I called her mobile which was answered by her sister who was with Marian in an ambulance going to A&E in Worthing. Good wife had a spell of extremely low blood pressure and ended up staying overnight for various tests.
So, the good Lord actually gave me a phone I could use without further learning just when I needed it - at A&E for the evening.
Next day, nothing sinister was discovered and good wife came home. Sighs of relief all round.

The longest journey

2010-12-13T20:51:00.000Z

My iPhone is over 2 years old and its battery was enfeebled by age. Looking at new contracts to upgrade to the very desirable iPhone 4 made my eyes water a bit, so I decided to attempt to replace the battery with a new one.
The ifixit site has exceedingly well-illustrated manuals for free and a UK-based supplier sent a battery for a modest £9.99. A couple of spudgers swelled the total by a couple of quid and the whole kit arrived in the mail, albeit delayed by the snows.
This evening, with great trepidation, I began the journey from the outside of the enfeebled iPhone to its heart, finding the instructions very easy to see, but the tiny screws far less easy - 2.3 millimetre philips 000. After an hour, pride filled by breast as I snapped the case back together and put in the two remaining screws. Nothing missing, nothing left over.
Then amazement as the phone booted up and worked fine. Amazement because there were two possibilities at one juncture - lift a plastic lock or slide out a delicate cable. I thought the former, but it was the latter. My plastic spudger damaged the cable "socket", one of the smallest connectors I've ever seen. But the cable did slide back in. This far there is no consequence to that damaged socket - thank the Lord!
This journey called for millimetres only to measure its length, but joy is full that my iPhone lives, hopefully for a couple of years before the eye-watering upgrade.

Plans, what plans?

2010-12-07T21:45:00.003Z

My oldest and youngest sons and I planned to have a day's walking last Sunday, one travelling down from London to Amberley, the other already headed for his in-laws' home in Coldwaltham for the weekend.
Then came the snow, then the rain, turning our proposed route down the Arun Valley into a champion bog-snorkelling venue. So, the walk was off.
Instead eldest son arrived as planned and we came home to Worthing for a leisurely lunch and a walk along the promenade. That, at least, was paved and flat and non-hazardous.
His wife was due down late afternoon so she, youngest's wife and mine could join us for an evening meal in Houghton. The Bridge Inn there is a small, welcoming, warm, family-run pub serving great food. Except, the train she caught was abruptly terminated at Three Bridges due to a lack of a driver. The next train was an hour later. Instead she got to Haywards Heath, as the three of us already in Worthing did, by car. Then pell mell to Houghton to await youngest and his wife.
What a great meal! Lots of laughter, amazing solutions to most of the world's problems, until the two London-based couples took the mid-evening train back to Victoria together.
So, all plans seemed to be modified as the day went on, but the desired outcome was fully achieved - a family meal.

Ain't Going Nowhere, No How, No Way

2010-12-07T21:06:00.000Z

Snow, December, Worthing, south coast of England, a little enclave sheltered from the harsher weather on the northern side of the Downs. Except this year this town was suddenly under 10-12 inches of snow. Most came down through the night, down straight enough to form vertical edges on roofs, garden furniture and even telephone lines. Then came a night and day of rain that washed all of it away. Now the temperatures are very low and frost makes things white again.

Not a time for travelling, as many have found across the U.K. and Europe. So, no way do I travel far these days.

Backward Progress

2010-09-16T10:57:00.000+01:00

I have an iPhone 3G. Apple offered an upgrade to their version 4 operating system and I took it. Regret followed immediately when the phone slowed down so much passing snails were smirking. Today I discovered how to downgrade to the last of the version 3 systems and speed has returned, leaving amazement among snails all over Worthing.

A step backwards brings progress. Vive IT!

Great design

2010-09-14T15:39:00.000+01:00

My church has a new web site. There's a link to it on the right of this page. Take a look, I think it's really good.

Slow Reader

2010-09-14T10:38:00.000+01:00

I bought Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder on 8th May, 1999. I finished reading it a few days ago in September, 2010. Like so many other books, I bought this one to read on a trip for Feba, that time as I flew out of Heathrow to Nairobi and on to Seychelles. On the way home I visited Kampala, Uganda. Well, the book then went on the shelf and stayed there on and off as I accumulated others on different trips.

This particular literary journey to the end of Sophie's World began with a visit to Francis Schaeffer's Escape from Reason in the hope of understanding how British culture has so wholeheartedly turned away from Christian faith. His brief review of the history of philosophy made me want more, so I turned to Sophie. I only wish I was as bright as this fictional young lady, just 14 years old but able to absorb with great ease and rapidity all her mysterious philosophy teacher gives her.

Marvellous App

2010-09-06T15:09:00.002+01:00

In one of the many emails I get from helpful (sometimes) groups and lists, DropPic was mentioned as a quick way of reducing the size of a digital image for use on a web site. Even the little camera I most often carry makes a picture of about 1MB. DropPic reduces to around 20KB, much faster to load from this log, for example. DropPic is for the Mac, so Windows users will have to find another solution. (Whenever I move back into the dark side my blood pressure rises.)

Pulborough, West Sussex

2010-09-06T15:03:00.000+01:00

Sunday afternoon, Marian had a convincing cough but wanted to get some fresh air. So, we drove over to Pulborough, stopped in the car park near the library and walked south across to Pulborough Brooks. The path crosses the River Chilt just where it joins the Arun. The whole flat plain reminds of the area between Rumney, where I lived in my teen years, and the River Severn.
The Brooks has the RSPB reserve; that afternoon there were hundreds of Canada Geese. A helicopter passed overheard, disturbed the geese who flew around making a marvellous racket before settling down again.
Now September's here, so are autumnal signs, like these berries -- possibly of the viburnum opulus -- beautiful against both green and redding leaves.

Anne Rice

2010-08-10T19:09:00.002+01:00

I was kind of disappointed to read that Anne Rice has given up on formal, churchy Christianity. Her reasons are typically liberal and I don't agree with all she says, however, I do share her despair at the un-Christlike hatred she quotes as one reason. My view is that neither liberals nor "haters of sinners" have got it.

Jesus loved sinners, being accused by the religious establishment of his day of being a friend of sinners. On the other hand, Jesus did not single out any particular sin as being smaller or bigger than any other; all sin is against God and will be judged by Jesus one day. Everyone, everywhere has fallen short of the standard set by God. And that's why I can't swallow modern redefinitions of sin and morality; God decides right and wrong not me.

Churches are made up of all kinds of people in all kinds of spiritual condition, so it's no wonder that any one of us might feel it's a beneficial thing to give up on church when we have bad experiences, either of sin within the church or of judgementalism that does not reflect the gracious Saviour we claim to love.

I talked about Ephesians 3:10 to a group of folk this week and emphasised that despite its failings and our bad experiences, the church belongs to Jesus Christ and God's manifold wisdom is still revealed through the her. Giving up on God's work is too easy an option.

And that raises the question - what is the church?

The Hazards of Walking

2010-06-09T10:06:00.002+01:00

  Walking is claimed to be the safest way of exercising, with little collateral damage to the body. Last Saturday Marian had some ladies here at home for a breakfast together and I thought it wisest to go for a long walk. Walking east along the A27 past Lambleys Lane I took a path north that climbs the hill with Sompting Church on the right, then Sompting Abbots School.

First hazard
  The path had been blocked off at its northern end, no one had walked it for ages and stinging nettles had conquered the territory. That discovery came as I clambered through, moving nettles with my feet before every step. My thin cotton walking trousers are permeable to nettle stings.

Second hazard
  The path opens up into a large, south facing field, following what used to the dividing hedge between two. On the breast of the hill I saw numerous cattle, walking east. Fine, I thought, I will cross their path behind them. They decided to reverse direction. Fine, until they stopped, straddling my path.
  They turned out to be curious, year-old heifers and bull calves. So curious they pressed towards me until I took refuge behind a broken signpost surrounded by old wire fence. Still they pressed. Eventually I noticed a more diffident heifer and shouted until she started to move away, the rest following like a flock of - well - young heifers and bulls.

Third hazard
The path goes due east, then turns north again over the brow of the hill. The farm has seen much investment in the past couple of years, especially on the fencing.
In the field behind the fence was some flowering clover and buttercups, pretty enough to photograph. My camera does not have a great telephoto lends, so I crouched and leaned towards the fence, framing the picture carefully. Wham! The top wire of the fence was electrified. My forehead touched it, I sprang back after a loud sound in my head and a degree of pain. The only damage was to my camera that stored the photos in internal memory, neglecting the memory card in it.

The rest of the walk was great and hazard free, along the valley where Marian and I have seen many deer, up to Cissbury Ring and back down alongside Worthing Golf Course.

A Great Day Out

2010-06-07T20:16:00.049+01:00

Marian and I went to the Big Church Day Out at Wiston House on Sunday, 30th May 2010, our first time at such a big Christian music event. Last year's event was not so well organised, apparently, but this was well done - from traffic flow and parking arrangements, to food supplies, facilities for thousands of people, plus an interesting programme.

The Goring family used to live at Wiston House; the vast estate is still farmed by them and a forbear planted trees at nearby Chanctonbury Ring, atop the South Downs - the chalk hills lying just to the south. The main stage and b-stage lay north of the house, nearly far enough to avoid interference with gentler performances near a tea tent and in Wiston Church, right next to the house.

My first stop was to hear Bosh on the b-stage. Their message was clear and the music convincing. Turn the sound off, though, and I doubt I could distinguish them from hundreds of similar guitar-waving, stage-hopping bands. Maybe that's a good thing; why should Christians stand out on the basis of just appearance? Wouldn't that be legalistic?

On the hill slope down to the main stage people settled for nearly 7 hours of music by British, American and Australian groups. "It's going to be loud," a friend warned. Not as loud as a Kings of Leon concert, it turned out, but why was the bass drum amplified to sternum-splitting levels when that part of a drummer's kit does so little for the overall sound?

One lady took to vigorous worship in flag waving, but not as energetically as the wind keeping numerous flags at stiff atttention through the day. Others were absorbed in the worship songs, swaying, lifting up arms and faces, oblivious to wind, sky and cloud.

For Marian and me the tea tent was important, being the age we are. But a heavily pregnant Lou Fellingham demonstrated that advanced expectancy need not inhibit good breath control when singing. Stuart Pendrel sang a lot in Italian, a language he learned to help his operatic career, his fine baritone expressive and beautiful. The Kings Chamber Orchestra played in the church after Stuart sang. What fun to hear such a varied programme in such a small space! No need for amplification at that distance. The players moved to different stations in the church for some pieces, a truly surround sound.

For me the most moving aspect was being with such a large number of Christians in one place. Sharing in worship with a crowd evokes words of heaven, thrones and innumerable multitudes in musical adoration, totally focused on God. And no amplified bass drum, I bet, or solitary policeman pondering how well the crowd behaved.
Sorry about the formatting on this post. Having a few problems with pictures.

How interesting...

2010-03-07T14:56:00.003Z

I happened across this web site earlier today - Atheist Anne Rice’s Surprising Discovery - which relates to my last post about her book. I don't know much about its host site, but this article made an interesting read for me.

Called Out of Darkness

2010-03-01T20:54:00.004Z

Over Christmas I read Called Out of Darkness by Anne Rice, which turned out to be a very interesting story of a famous and wealthy writer, brought up in the Roman Catholic Church, who lost her faith, yet "…after thirty-eight years as an atheist, she turned back to Christ, not in blind faith but in a profound transcendental surrender made with open eyes to an all-knowing God…" So says the dust jacket.

With so many prominent people in the U.K. who are former Catholics and now determinedly antagonistic to Christian faith, this was an unusual and moving story.

Jolly Good Chap

2010-03-01T20:47:00.005Z

The more I read or see of the Archbishop of York the more I like him and his views. If you have 15 minutes read his City of Peace Lecture to Newcastle City Council on 3 February, 2010. Well worth the time.

Friday Night Buzz

2010-02-19T22:40:00.002Z

Marian and I have just returned from a meal at a Spanish restaurant opposite Westminster Cathedral. The food was excellent, the young woman who served was very helpful and friendly and the place was packed with people enjoying the end of the work week. In terms of noise levels, I got a sore throat talking to my son who was sitting next to me. No way could we converse across the table. Under the din some music strove to be heard. A great evening.

St Paul's

2010-02-19T18:03:00.007Z

Yes, we made it. So did hundreds of others. Little realising that the cathedral was such a popular tourist spot, we arrived at the end of a long queue to pay the entrance fee. An excellent audio guide added £4, but was worth every penny. And it is a really remarkable building. The guide gives historical background to the debates about the building and its decorations, with the Reformation much closer then than now. Church leaders wanted plain, not anything that reminded of Rome and Romishness. Over the years much has been added to bring colour; my favourite is the mosaics of broken coloured glass in the ceiling high over the Quire-three shallow domes showing creation's phases. In places it's clear how the politics of European struggles and then imperial affairs dominated public perceptions; the famous are interred with a singular lack of humility, apart from Christopher Wren, the cathedral's designer, who lies under a simple slab with a nearby wall plaque inscribed in Latin chosen by his son to explain who lies there. Horatio Nelson's tomb was designed for a cardinal who fell out with his monarch, the cardinal's hat being replaced by a coronet to transform the tomb from ecclesiastical to military. Another change in practice was that of commemorating ordinary soldiers who fell in battle, rather than their magnificent leaders. This was a 20th Century change, probably after the magnificent buffoons in charge caused so many deaths by misunderstanding how warfare needed to accommodate new weaponry during World War I. Beyond the high altar is a chapel commemorating the US fighters who died in the second World War. Instead of huge stonework a glass case displays a book inscribed with the names of the fallen; yesterday dozens of Wilsons were listed. A page is turned each day. My wife had major heart problems last year; this year she is so much better that she ventured to climb up to the whispering gallery, then up to the stone gallery and finally up to the golden gallery, 528 steps and 85 metres above the cathedral floor. For me, I enjoyed the misty views over London, but as much the sight of centuries old brickwork that forms the inner dome high above the intersection of nave and transept below.

London in February

2010-02-17T19:59:00.003Z

For a few days Marian and I are staying in Central London at our son's and daughter-in-law's flat. It's really close to Victoria railway station, next to which is a bus stand, so we can get around easily at no cost using our bus passes. Old age has at least one compensation.

We had hoped to visit St. Paul's cathedral today, Ash Wednesday; its web site informed us it is closed to visitors as many Anglicans will be going on this special day to start Lent properly. Being true non-conformists we decided not to go and be ashed, or whatever the technical term is. I have memories of C of E schoolboys having a daub of grey ash on their foreheads decades back. So, we plan to go tomorrow.

It's odd that visitors to our wonderful country visit more of the tourist spots than many Brits. I guess we locals take too much for granted. Not only Brit locals, either; when we lived in Seychelles my daily walk home was beautified by a view down the mountainside over the reefs and inner islands on the east coast of Mahe. I asked a Seychellois colleague one day if he thought it beautiful. "Not really," he replied, "I am just used to it." To me it was, and still is, the most beautiful sight I had seen. While London is not in the same league for beauty, its history is evident on every side. Tomorrow we'll see a bit more.

Penguin Cafe Orchestra

2009-07-15T20:19:00.003+01:00

It was a couple of years ago I first heard the Penguin Cafe Orchestra on 6 Radio, the BBC's radio channel on digital radio (DAB) where you can hear modern music with some meaning. The track played was The Sound Of Someone You Love Going Away And It Doesn't Matter. The music fitted my mood that evening and the title made me laugh. Eventually, this summer I was given their album Penguin Cafe Orchestra. The first track is so happy it made me dance. I love happy music.

Some good choices

2009-07-15T08:51:00.002+01:00

Last weekend our local Blockbusters had an offer of four DVDs for four nights for £10. Marian and I had already decided that we would choose one each for our weekend chill out, so we chose Slumdog Millionaire, The Secret Life of Bees, Changeling and The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas. For once we enjoyed each film; often we feel thoroughly downhearted at the depressing plot or lack of hope or redemption in recent stories. Not that these were particularly hope filled. Both Slumdog and Bees were more optimistic and fanciful than hopeful. Changeling and The Boy raised interesting questions - the first in a long series of US navel gazing about internal corruption and the second about the consequences to oneself of one's own choices for evil. If you only want a superficial, unrealistically happy film that skirts real questions of life and morality, choose Mamma Mia. Or a thousand others. Meanwhile, I'd recommend these four.

Ghengis Khan

2009-07-02T21:22:00.007+01:00

Years back I bought a history of Ghengis Khan in Bangalore airport. The style is a mix of travelogue and history revealed, as the author travels around Mongolia in the late 20th Century. Coincidentally, shortly after her birthday, Marian and I saw a film set in Mongolia about the camel who cried. Note I used the personal relative pronoun there; that's because the first-time mother camel didn't bond with her baby. The family's efforts to ensure the little camel is fed and mothered properly are the core of the story. As parents, we both felt the tension and the hopes of the nomadic family, who cared for these and other camels on the steppe. If you can track down a DVD, it's a great film--somebody's film school project, too. Back to the book. One new word I learned from it was debouch, which is what a river does when it broadens out on a wide plane entry to a sea or lake. The author also likened the effects of a Mongolian ice storm to a carapace, the shell of a tortoise. Such a covering denies food to the otherwise hardy horses bred there, and leads to early death. As to Ghengis Khan, we are still exploring pre-Khan history.

Coupland

2009-06-30T22:08:00.002+01:00

One of Marian's birthday books is Douglas Coupland's Life After God. At first Coupland's style in this book--the first of his I've read--amused me. I laughed out loud at his character's description of human history, basically 5,000 years spoiling the planet. Then I found the rest rather depressing and hopeless. Too many expectations laid at the door of relationships, too much early-life hopelessness and all lived out in the knowledge that God doesn't exist and humans don't need God anyway. Ultimately there is a glimmer of hope, in an enigmatic kind of open-ended, what is that about, kind of manner. For Marian and me, having spent April this year dealing with her dangerous heart condition, its treatment and the physical and emotional consequences, knowing God is there in all the turmoil has kept us sane and, almost above all, hopeful. I'd say there is God After Life.

No one died!

2009-06-30T22:04:00.003+01:00

My birthday present this year from the family was a barbeque. My youngest son delivered it last Saturday, and later Marian, Rachel, Stephen and I had our first meal out on our parched parcel of grass. This was my first at lighting a charcoal BBQ, first at cooking sausages and burgers without mixing up ordinary, gluten-free and low-calorie items. In the end, no one died and all survivors has a jolly nice time.

Still Learning

2009-06-28T22:30:00.002+01:00

Travels are mainly over, so no interesting journeys to write about. But, learning continues, for example I learned last week that soaking comfrey in water produces an excellent feed for tomato plants. I rediscovered that Sherlock Holmes used heroin, at least he did in The Hound of the Baskervilles, which I read this month. Therein was the lovely word darkling, as in the darkling sky. These days we would use darkening, but Conan Doyle's choice has a nicer sound.

Got my number

2009-03-28T17:36:00.002Z

Some kind soul drove into the front of our car this last week. Like all minor incidents it's more of a nuisance than anything else. For the first time I had to buy new number plates. The shop had to follow government regulations for such things, of course, so I needed to prove first that I was legitimately buying the plates and second that I am me. The first trip was not successful in that I took an old V5 form, not the new one. About five years ago I just stuck the new V5 form in a file and didn't destroy the old. A V5 is the certificate of registration for a car in UK and names the registered owner and keeper. I did take my driver's licence and passport, the former being sufficient for the second proof. All this regulation is, presumably, to minimise illegal activity by a minority in this country. For the rest of us it's just another layer of rules and regulations that crop up after kind souls do the damage.

A Familiar Circuit

2009-03-25T08:26:00.002Z

My home is close to the South Downs; just to the north of us are two golf courses, one privately owned and the other formerly run by the town council and now in private hands. When the weather is good and it's light I love jogging around the second one, up a path on its western side, across its northern boundary and then home on another path that emerges by some water works, leads to a huge recreation ground, then back to the A27 and west to home. This morning it was raining a little at dawn; as I emerged the clouds were breaking up and the low light made newly wet brickwork glow; forsythia intensified the light, contrasting with the sky's greyness. Spring flowers must be designed to be visible to the insects they need. On the northern edge of the course I have to pause, for breath and to enjoy the calm, clean, fresh day. God's grace is like the rain and light, cleaning and freshening me up for the day.

Is rugby war?

2009-03-22T21:02:00.003Z

Yesterday was odd; Marian was at a colleague's wedding and the final three matches of the Six Nations Rugby Championship were showing on BBC1 in succession from 1.30 to around 7.00 p.m. Yielding to temptation like that was easy, especially as the final game was Wales v Ireland. Wales needed to win by 13+ points to win the championship, while Ireland needed a straight win for the championship and the grand slam, which they'd last achieved 61 years ago. At half time Wales was 6 points ahead and Ireland needed the talking to they must have got, because the second half was a high tension game. Finally, in the dying minutes a penalty kick by Wales could have given them a one point lead, denying Ireland glory. The ball fell short and Ireland got the championship and grand slam. What a finish! Hopping channels before the wedding guest returned led me to ITV4's documentary on D-Day in 1944, which made me wonder whether the battered rugby champs were vicarious warriors for the six nations. We have had generations of relative peace in Europe, at least between nations. Today in Sydney airport two motor cycle gangs clashed, leaving one man dead. Aggression is deep in human nature, so thank the Lord if rugby has a safety valve effect. For me, though I am Welsh, I was able to cheer Ireland's victory; just as well, as I have an Irish daughter-in-law.

Is That You?

2009-03-22T20:57:00.002Z

Fiddling with my MacBook is fun. Found an app called Photobooth that surprised me with this shot of me at home listening to Brahms on iTunes--using headphones--and fiddling. Watch out, 21st Century!

I Still Miss NEO

2009-03-20T08:49:00.002Z

On leaving paid work I decided to move into the world of Apple and leave the frustrations of Windows and PCs behind, but I still miss one program that is fantastically helpful. It only works with Outlook and it's the Nelson Email Organizer, or NEO. At heart NEO is a set of instantly updated indexes of email messages; in reality it speeds the retrieval of any email instantly. And that's what I miss. Apple's Mail email client is good and has many strengths, but I still struggle to find that email I know I had from old Jones... The trouble is Outlook is such a greedy space gobbler I am glad to have left it behind, with its proprietary file structures and arrogant remoteness from other worthy email clients with whom it refuses to speak nicely. But NEO...

Really!

2009-03-07T08:45:00.004Z

Just had an email from a web-site that holds thousands of sermons, the vast majority of which I have never listened to, nor will I imagine. There's a little graphic from a church in South Carolina, called Faith Free Presbyterian Church, a name that is crying out for a clarifying hyphen to eliminate the ambiguity. Or, are they just being honest?

A Discovery

2009-03-05T08:21:00.005Z

Since retiring from Feba my only journey has been to Derbyshire for a holiday with my wife, Marian, last November (2008). We noticed how beauty, hills and proximity to wealth in cities made the proportion of 4x4s higher than in other places. Steep hills and a wintery imagination made Imagine this in the snow! a holiday catch phrase. The snow in February justified these beasts' existence, though. A different journey this morning: Exploring the word outwith. Grace Community Church, my home church, will welcome a new pastor in April. He's Scottish and has lived in France for 15 years, giving him challenges to begin to think again in English and get used to southern English ways. Erwin used outwith in one sermon at GCC. Another GCC member, also a Scot, used outwith since, whetting my curiosity. A Google search reveals this to be a word in current use in Scotland, even in a government web site about home schooling--children being educated outwith school, as it reads. Outwith means beyond or outside, just like the older meaning of without. In the Victorian hymn There Is a Green Hill Far Away Without a City Wall, the hill is outside the city wall, as later editions of the hymn have it, not a plot subject to possible enclosure. It's good to be on the journey still.

End of a long journey

2008-11-01T06:25:00.003Z

Last evening my former company had an evening to celebrate my retirement. Since summer 2007 I have worked half time with them, having reached pensionable age then. Val and Jacqui organised it all, inviting former colleagues and current staff. We had a great time. My boss, John, is leaving one month later so we celebrated his time, too. That fact allowed him to steal a response I would have loved to make--that he hardly recognised the nice chap the speakers were talking about. Despite my memory now bringing back fine detail from the distant past and failing to match that for more recent events, I didn't remember some of the incidents recalled by others. Regrettably, I do remember times when I was arrogant and boorish. Thirty five years with one company is a long time, unusual in Britain these days where it is better to have multiple entries in one's CV. The long spell hides that I have, in fact, held many different positions with a variety of responsibilities. For 27 years they required international travel, explaining the title of this blog and my rather feeble attempts to write about some of the journeys. Now the frequency of travel will diminish, but the free bus pass will enable local travel in these days of green concerns. For me, the 35 years have gone by very quickly and left me with a brilliant set of memories of people, places and experiences. My colleagues gave me a 500GB computer hard disk to use as a back up facility for a new laptop just purchased. Converting good memories into computer files is impossible; if it were, 500GB would barely contain them all.

West Sussex Again

2008-10-16T08:22:00.002+01:00

The weather forecast for Dallas was for rain. On Sunday there were wisps of cloud around in contrast with the perfect blue dome the previous Wednesday. I can't rate Dallas/Fort Worth airport very highly; my pre-flight wait was pretty boring. After arriving in good time at Detroit our plane had to wait twenty minutes for someone to find the illuminated wands a ground staff person uses to guide the plane to the gate. Then there was no one to drive the air bridge from which we deplaned. All in all not very impressive. Unusually, the rail journey to Worthing was fast because the train had a fault, making it 19 minutes late out of Gatwick, so the slow stops along the coast were cut out so it could get back into step with the planned timetable. Is this a boring post? Not as boring as modern international travel; airport taxes on this journey from London to Dallas were higher than the cost of the ticket itself. And we all know why that is. Who is winning what war, I ask? Outside our home are a fir, an oak, a silver birch and a sycamore (E&OE). The gutters are deep in rich brown leaves. Autumn is here.

Target not reached

2008-10-12T03:07:00.002+01:00

I never made it to the Target store. While in transit from the hotel to the meeting place the van crossed the bridge over the seemingly impossible junction. There is a pedestrian walk way over the bridge, so it is theoretically possible to go to Target on foot. Instead I was taken to the Apple computer store in Plano, where I bought some software for the Apple computer I plan to buy soon. While fully appreciating the discipline necessary to run a company's IT, I get fed up with Microsoft's bloated software and storage needs. Currently my Outlook 2007 at home takes a couple of minutes to open up its files and nearly as long to shift an email from one file to another. Don't ask why I do that; I know my cyber-life could be simpler. With an Apple it may be complicated, but it will look nice. Apple has great visual impact; by my keyboard is the business card of Todd, the young man who helped me earlier. It is clean and classy. Unlike the floor of the eating place this evening, which is strewn with empty peanut shells. See my earlier post. While we waited for an empty table, pigeons and some black birds waited for any peanuts that might come their way. As the sun went down, hundreds of birds started gathering on the high voltage electricity cables on the far side of the highway, beyond which lies Target. It looked like it could turn into a Hitchcock event if those HT birds decided to really get more peanuts. My steak was delicious.

As a walker in Texas

2008-10-09T10:54:00.002+01:00

Walking is a minority activity here. Yesterday I saw only four other walkers. One was not really walking, just standing in the middle of a road turning, dressed as Father Christmas alongside a resurrected Elvis in white cat suit. They were jiggling sign boards around in the hope drivers would turn in to see the pre-Christmas sale of apartments, standing back a quarter mile from the main road. Most of the time I used side walks (pavements in UK, but here the pavement is the roadway--important to know that) but sometimes they just ended either side of some green space. At junctions with bigger roads there are pedestrian signals with a time span favourable to quick reactors and the nimble of foot. At access points to parking lots I have found drivers invariably courteous, holding well back so I could walk on. I did see one man leaning over to peer at me as he turned right ahead of me. So, are the drivers holding back for my safety or theirs? Solitary walker, huh? What do I make of him?

Texas and Large

2008-10-09T10:35:00.004+01:00

Texans' reputation (in British humour) is that everything in Texas is bigger than anywhere else. I walked down for supper to Logan's Roadhouse, the nearest one to the hotel. It was fine, with crackly floors. Each table has a galvanized bucket of unshelled peanuts where Brits might expect bread. Emptied shells are dropped on the floor. I saw no spittoons. As a Brit, I find the portions huge and there are no other vegetables than potato. I had potato soup to start, nice with cheese and bacon. Then thin slices of beef on Texan toast, which was really just white bread toast, next to a heap of mashed potato cradling thick brown gravy in a dip. Not a solitary veg; nothing green, orange, red or yellow. Except in the mini dessert of cheesecake, served in a miniature galvanised bucket, the kid brother of the peanut holder. Apart from dessert the portions are huge, no wonder so many people there were overweight. A South African Feba colleague once joked that when beef is on the BBQ his vegetables are pork. In India I learned: After lunch rest a while, after dinner walk a mile. Which I did, stalking out the Target store for the weekend.

Dallas

2008-10-09T01:21:00.004+01:00

Until now my knowledge of Dallas was mediated through the TV series. Actually I am staying in Lewisville at the excellent Residence Inn, a first for me at this chain of hotels. The landscape here is quite flat with a gentle climb to the north. Wendy's, Red Lobster, TGFI and other eating houses are here, giving a strange sense of deja vu but with a Texan accent. As yet I've not heard anything as broad as one Continential Airlines cabin crew member who doubled the number of syllables in "trash" as she collected the "tray-ash" before we landed in Newark. Most of the few people I've talked to are not Texans. Today I got to the local Barnes & Noble bookstore. Discovery no. 1--the coffee they serve is actually Starbucks. Even so, the range of books, CDs and DVDs in this store far surpasses anything local to my home. The challenge before I go home is to find a walking route from Residence Inn to the Target store. Today the highest point I reached on my way back was the intersection of two highways, the bypass crossing the interstate by bridge. Target is in the opposite diagonal from my vantage point. The bridge appears to have no side walk.
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May Be In Mombasa

2007-12-08T21:10:00.000Z

In 1971 my first extended time outside UK was in Kenya's capital, Nairobi, for 5 months before I returned home to get married. July can be cold at 5,000 feet elevation, so my memories include woodsmoke, jacaranda and the dark silvery song of a nocturnal bird. Bathing one night in the concrete floored bathroom I met a moth with a wingspan of 6-8 inches and curiosity to match. I don't think my light was shining that brightly.

In May 2007 all I saw of Nairobi was the airport en route to Mombasa, down on the coast. Actually my group was staying north of Mombasa in an ocean-side hotel drenched with seasonal rain. The wind was quite high, the Indian Ocean breakers roaring constantly as they hit the reef edge. My room had mosquito nets, thank goodness, as Mombasa is close to the equator. Surprisingly, the lizards were nearly as bold as the moth.

One afternoon a tribe of monkeys moved across the compound atop the palms. I was amazed to see one leap several metres, landing on a much lower palm branch on his next tree. Clever or stupid? Reckless or finely judged? He made it, so it's your call.

Old Mombasa was fascinating, even on a rainy late afternoon after a visit to Baraka FM, a station serving both the Christian and Muslim communities in the name of Jesus Christ. From their offices there's a great view over the shipping lanes.

Did the Journeys Stop?

2007-12-08T20:00:00.000Z

No. I'm still travelling both for work and for pleasure. It's just that this blog is neglected. I repent and promise myself again to get to writing. Taking up from April, the next big journey after the walk round Arundel was to Singapore for my work. Despite the horribly long air journey, I enjoy Singapore. The warm, damp air reminds me of Seychelles, where wife and I spent our earliest married years. We took our firstborn at 9-weeks old and our second son was born there. After the air, that similarities end. Singapore has a reputation for being a controlled society. The end result is a clean, crowded, safe-feeling, prosperous, and--yes--regulated society. A Swedish colleague and I walked from our hotel into town to eat. The traffic flowed, drivers obeyed traffic signals. The pavements were crowded with young people looking healthy, well off and enjoying themselves. We heard that the Christian church in Singapore is thriving. I'm glad that the prosperity is being moderated by spiritual growth. Materialism, like a nuclear reactor, needs moderating with other, spiritual influences to avoid melt down. Local TV was fun. In Thailand once I saw a cooking programme on preparing rats. My stomach turned when I saw a dozen tails hanging over the side of the wok. In Singapore I was caught up with a TV soap whose daily tensions grew in the fertile soil of loves gained and lost, flirtations with dishonesty and manipulation, a son watching his father regret infidelity and longing for his parents to be reconciled. I was sorry to leave.

Arundel is in the top ten

2007-04-02T16:38:00.000+01:00

This last week has brought some Spring-like weather to West Sussex. Sunday last, wife and I drove into Central London to visit oldest son and his wife. We walked though St James Park, with hundreds of others, and enjoyed the sunshine and keen wind. It turns out they had visited Arundel two weeks earlier to walk along the river and through the Duke's estate, as wife and I reported in our last posting. Saturday night wife and I were at the Black Rabbit with two American friends, with whom we'd just seen Amazing Grace, the film celebrating William Wilberforce's struggle to outlaw slavery. For wife it was the third meal at the Black Rabbit that week! Multiple dining medal to be struck and passed over, no doubt.

Success on Sunday

2007-01-10T21:57:00.000Z

Wife and I walked just over 5 miles Sunday afternoon, guided by the GPS. We started at Arundel, West Sussex, parking the car on the road to the Black Rabbit pub, then walking alongside the river Arun to it. The path was pretty muddy. Then on the paved road to South Stoke, beyond which we breasted one hill, then on down to the river bank again. The Duke of Norfolk's estate is walled, but The Monarch's Way traverses it from Arundel itself to the gate in the wall where we joined it. The GPS was tracking us quite well, but overlaying the track on a digital map at home showed us walking along the middle of the river just before the climb to the top of the estate. We're good, but not that good. It was a windy, overcast day, but that section of the South Downs is lovely. We promised ourselves a visit in summer. Light was failing now, but it was an easy walk downhill to Swanbourne Lake. The water fowl were grumbling about things and across the valley some teenage boys competed to be loudest. We needed the compass once, again in woodland; the torch several times as we came down off the Downs; the printed map pretty often. GPS handhelds seem to be fine in open areas but get far less precise in our kind of territory.

Christmas Toy & Lost In The Wood

2006-12-30T05:00:00.000Z

A couple of gifts for Christmas this year were a hand-held GPS device and a digital map of the South Downs. On Thursday this week, wife, oldest son, youngest son and their wives trusted me to take them on a walk on the edge of the Downs, starting 10 minutes from our home. Starting after lunch on a day overcast with winter cloud we left the car park and the GPS guided us along the planned route--until I missed a left turn. This new toy guided us back to the route after a scrabble through the woods. So far, so good. On the return part of our walk we had to pass through another wood. After a stiff ascent into it we were faced with a four-way junction and less light, even though most trees were bare of leaves. Not quite trusting this new intrument, we decided on a path that proved to be the wrong one. Unlike at the previous correction, we seemed to go deeper and deeper into the wood and get less and less help from the GPS. Our planned route is the blue line and our actual track is the red one. As light faded totally we headed due south towards the major road we could hear. Then youngest son and I hoofed it along this road back to the car park, leaving the rest of the party to find their way to the nearest hostelry, where we joined them later. Resolved: a) to take a traditional compass on future walks; b) to take a torch; c) to learn how to use aforementioned GPS; d) to avoid woodland paths after dark.

Greater Noida, India

2006-12-04T21:20:00.000Z

I hadn't heard of Noida before hearing that I'd be staying there for a week in November. The overnight from London to Delhi was enough to let me sleep most of the way from the airport to Noida's YMCA, so it was a surprise to wake up on arriving at a new, empty facility--both the city and the Y, as it's affectionately known. Greater Noida has a five-year plan to fulfil the dream of a former chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, a woman whose village home was Noida. The greater city rises from a dusty plain of sandy soil, is linked to Delhi by a fine highway, is growing, but has acres of empty plots and dozens of empty high-rise buildings. Crossing the road was hazardous, not for the volume of traffic, but for the locals' habit of using both sides of the dual carriageway as single carriage roads; there are rules for roundabouts (circles), I expect, but it was hard to predict how any one vehicle would move round the large roundabout that lay between the Y, the pizza house and the Internet cafe. Lorry drivers apart, most did attempt to steer round pedestrians, though some motor cyclists thought it fun to buzz the feckless, just like WWII fighter pilots or modern-day Israeli jets over Beirut. The Internet cafe was three floors up and provided an hour's access to the world for Rupees15, US$0.30 or £0.17. The pizza house was bright, loud, hot and sold good value, piping hot food. At the end of this stretch of road, to the right, lies a village of labourers; no electricity that we could see, but the road was lit to highest standards with high-pressure sodium lamps. Just before 10 PM, walking back along this road I tried (and failed) to compute and compare the nightly cost of lighting the road with the daily hire of the truck-load of labourers returning to their temporary village. Their main fuel is the hand-crafted, pizza-shaped cowpats neatly laid in lines to dry. The air left one smelling of the smoke; the street lights shone on, oblivious to emptiness or global warming.

Still Alive

2006-11-04T19:27:00.000Z

What a year! Busy isn't the word. I hope to write some more very soon! See you.

Jersey, Channel Island

2005-10-11T05:10:00.000+01:00

Wife and I took a week's summer holiday in Jersey. Airports are about work and long-haul journeys, for me. So being at London Gatwick with a hop, skip and jump across the English Channel to Jersey felt less joyful than it could have. Wind-blown, tiny-drop, hugely-drenching rain celebrated our arrival. The next morning was just windy. Our hotel on the southwest corner of the island, Corbière Point, is surrounded by gorse-strewn coarse grass, all that can survive the winter gales. A white lighthouse sits on pinkish granite, pummelled clean by the waves. Nearby are several concrete structures, squatting on the rock, a reminder of nervous Nazis in World War II, who were well prepared to resist invasion by British troops, but who--in the end--were beaten by food shortages. Wife was here in her teens; then, she hired a bike to explore the island. This time, a little less energetically but still on cycles, we twice reached the north coast, gradually climbing the gently rising plateau before swooping down to the beach. That left one challenge, the climb back to the plateau high point, before the ride back to a daily five-course dinner. For some reason, clothing seemed to shrink a little and the cycle tyres looked flatter by day four. My father's father ran away to sea at 16. One summer my dad's brother-in-law showed me grandad's log book, signed by each ship's master who hired him. In my teens, I longed to be at sea, but my short sight would have meant engineering, the stink of hot oil in confined spaces, not the romance of navigation and the wheelhouse. This probably explains why I loved the two hours we spent at St Helier watching, without a shred of envy, little craft coming and going while a tug nosed a coaster from the harbour wall, pointing it to the seaward channel and its next port of call. Victorian hymns were all about the perils of the sea as an analogy of life: Will you anchor hold in the storms of life? That afternoon and all in our little Jersey break were peaceful, refreshing reminders of my hero's words, "Peace, be still."

Waiting & Patience

2005-08-12T16:45:00.000+01:00

Some other blogs appear to be static for years, so my self-inflicted bad feelings are eased a little. After my last radiotherapy treatment on 11 July my brain numbness grew but has now subsided to near normal levels--it's time to write again. Prostate cancer is such that scans won't be accurate enough to check changes; it's down to the Prostate Specific Antigen Test (PSA). When blood levels of PSA rise, cancer is one of several possible explanations. Now my cancer has been treated, the PSA levels should fall. One doctor suggested a gap of several weeks before the next PSA measurement to let the body to normalise after the radiation. This means? That I won't know until mid-October whether the treatment has helped and the cure held out as one prospect will materialise. I never felt ill before all this started and I feel well now. Since Christmas 2004 I have not taken my regular exercise, so I feel sluggish--but I'm working on it. Today it was wonderful to walk and trot the perimeter of a local golf course. Late summer mornings can be cool, clear and clean. At 6:30 AM only a few maintenance staff are out preparing the course for the day's players. But I did come across a local couple exercising their dogs and shared a few seconds exchanging delight at this wonderful place and moment. "We are blessed," said the gentleman. Blessed at such beauty, at freedom to be out and about and the joy of being alive. I think even their two immaculately-behaved dogs agreed.

The end in sight

2005-07-01T04:55:00.000+01:00

Earlier on, I said I might tell how I reacted to the news I have cancer. Here goes. First, there was numbness and relief because the oncologist tacked the word "cure" to the sentence in which he advised radiotherapy. Second, joy. A good friend was in the same hospital because of severe breathlessness. Half a generation older than me, he has had heart bypass surgery, survived an aortic aneurysm and prostate cancer. He was the first to learn my diagnosis and he cheerily told his experience of the same diagnosis, treatment and the end of that particular problem. As my wife drove us home, I felt a brief swell of tears. My father died at 49 years from cancer. Already my life is extended way beyond his years; my experiences have been broader than his. So, I thought, if I were to die in the foreseeable future, that sense of privilege will remain. Then came a review of priorities in life. When the pressure is on, it's relationships that matter. My priorities had not reflected that. Other things seemed more important - status, income and other paraphenalia of life that dazzles most of us. Most important is what comes after all this? If I do die, then what? My few brain cells have worked on that before. I am convinced above all else that God is, God loves and God wants to relate to people. My life's work has been to promote this understanding. Jesus Christ is my hero and my master; the Bible has shown me what God is up to in his universe and what is coming eventually. So, this bold type message of my mortality has made this understanding more real, more important, more precious. If the X-rays fail, if this tumour spreads and I die, I know where I'm going. Meantime, my family, my friends, my work colleagues are all more precious than ever before. Their love surprises and supports me.

Tired of travel

2005-07-01T04:15:00.000+01:00

So, here I am with six weeks of the seven nearly done. Tomorrow, Friday, is the last for this week. Then, six more trips to the far side of Brighton; six more greetings for the team of radiologists; six more goodbyes. And the rest? Rest, I think. Yes, sleep and being able to get up in the morning feeling refreshed. Maybe my brain will hurry up, the right words come out first time. "Follow what your body tells you," they said. In contrast with the worst possibilities detailed in the cancer centre's introductory green pamphlet, it's only creeping tiredness that marks this out as my course of radiotherapy. And I'm grateful. Other people I've seen have told their stories of fatigue, discomfort, hourly awakenings through endless nights. I'm grateful. Yesterday was my birthday. Faced with a couple of business sessions over the weekend, I took a day off to conserve some energy. In Brighton I bought a couple of pairs of shoes that fit my broad feet. Bought some CDs: Emma Johnson for my wife, Jimi Hendrix and Radio Tarifa for me. For family reasons there's a huge hole in my knowledge of popular music in the 1970s and 80s. Only Hendrix's bouffant hair was familiar before I listened to the first CD. By evening, the summer warmth and light breeze granted the wife and me dinner alfresco in the walled garden of a Sussex pub a few miles from where youngest son and new daughter-in-law married a month before. A great evening and a refreshing day of energy conservation.

The repeat journeys

2005-06-03T06:07:00.000+01:00

Week two of this seven-week routine of daily radiotherapy. Between my home and the centre there's just a little green space, then multiple villages, now bloated to become a connurbation. Brighton and Hove have separate railway stations, but now are one recently-appointed city. This week the schools are empty, children and teachers enjoying a break after the Spring Bank Holiday, which used to be the gently wandering Whitsun break, until the rigours of modernisation nailed it to the last-Monday-in-May slot. That means traffic is light and I get to the centre early. Given the chance the crew irradiate me early and send me off into the early summer morning with a bit more time for the work awaiting me at the office. The X-ray machine is massive. I lie on a hard table, head and feet on half-stocks to keep them steady. Using gentle green lasers that delineate the cross-point around which this massive device rotates, the team adjust, poke, stroke and ensure my three tatoos line up with the laser lines. Then a series of numbers relating to where the table is, I guess. They work to a tolerance of 5mm. For a brain tumour it would be 1mm. "Everything's OK!" Out they go, closing a wooden gate across the entrance corridor. Then a short series of whistling alarms, a brief tense silence, and a medium-strength buzz as the X-rays flow out of the machine's head and into my body. Twelve seconds, as measured by my pulse; a second twelve into the right side of the pelvis. The machine rotates until the head is over my stomach. Twelve more into my front. More rotation. Then a couple of twelves into my left side. Silence. Then one of the team returns, switches on the lights and moves the hard, healing table into open space, so I can get up, dress myself and get out. No sensation at all, but clenching muscles as the buzzes begin. No side effects, yet. Just a daily prayer that this machine will do its job, be owned by God and used to heal. Five more weeks to go.

A Journey to be Repeated

2005-04-29T04:30:00.000+01:00

My home is 13.5 miles from the far side of Brighton (21 km), where the regional cancer centre perches on a hill near the cliffs. On Tuesday morning the journey took about 50 minutes by car. One special traffic jam added about 10 minutes. It will be interesting to see what the average journey time becomes during the seven weeks of daily travel over there when I have radiotherapy for my prostate cancer.

Last summer, routine blood tests showed something might be amiss in the nether regions; after an endoscopy, an ultrasound scan and a six needle biopsy, the surgeon concluded I needed treatment. His diary had space in a week or so and he advised radical surgery. The cancer specialist in the next room was a bit more hopeful and advised further blood tests to see just how fast the little varmint was growing. Two days before Christmas, he revealed that the speed was too high to ignore. Treatment began the same day. The tablets were OK, but the monthly injections were through a needle big enough to convey a smallish camel.

The trip this week was for a CT scan, to reveal the exact state of play; have those injections done anything, apart from scar me for life? The oncologist, radiologist and head of physics now plan where to shoot the X-radiation that, we all hope, will shrivel the little tumour to nothingness. A CT scan involves lying on a mobile table jerking slice by slice through a rotating X-ray machine, just as the grocery store cut bacon when I was a kid. Instead of a pile of meat slices, this one gives a sectioned three-dimensional view of my insides.

From mid-May to mid-July, that weekday drive through Brighton will wear me out as much as the few minutes of radiation and the consequent fatigue as my system deals with the dead cells. Travel I like; this—who knows?

Anyway, I'll keep this blog up-to-date as things move on. If I pluck up enough courage, I'll share how I've reacted emotionally to this bold type notice of my mortality.

Colombo & Tsunami

2005-04-17T01:55:00.000+01:00

I like the little I know of Sri Lanka. Colombo seems more spacious and cleaner than other South Asian cities. It's less crowded, and being near the sea helps. Last Thursday afternoon, I was shocked to travel just two or three miles south of Colombo along the Galle Road to spot evidence of the tsunami's destruction. Colombo itself shows no signs, in fact I expected none, because it is so far in the lee of Sri Lanka, well in the shadow zone. On previous visits I stayed at a hotel on Galle Road, 400 metres from the beach, the railway line running between the hotel and the sea. A couple of miles further on we began to see shells of houses or piles of rubble just beyond that line. The minibus turned right off Galle Road, bumping closer to the sea between single storey dwellings. Then left onto a dirt track parallel to the shore, leading to the local harbour. On our right, fishermen and their families occupy a strip of land 100 metres across. A few days before the Chinese prime minister was here to inaugurate a project to restore this little harbour and a dozen others like it round the southern coast, so this village had been tidied up--as far as any devastation can be tidied up. It was late afternoon on a public holiday--New Year's Day in Sri Lanka and southern India--but the men couldn't work if they wanted to. A small group came over and explained how the waves came in, sweeping away houses, boats, nets, despite a substantial breakwater 800 metres from shore. Two families live in shacks next to the rubble of their homes, protecting their plots even though the government has banned rebuilding within 100 metres of the sea. That takes in all the land these and neighbouring families live on. "We have filled in the forms to get money for nets and boats," says one man, "but we have had no money at all." Only two children give full smiles as they stand with their mother for a photograph; the adults and older children have an air of sombre resignation--forms but no money. Further down the coast it's worse, we know. One train carried hundreds down this line to be drowned. Today, deep grey clouds hover above an inland storm; the blackest of crows squabble in the coconut trees; the sea sparkles. On the way to this sad place, we saw a motor scooter and autorickshaw collide; on our way back, an errant pick-up truck brought mayhem to traffic returning to the city. Normal service has been resumed.

Small Journey, Big Consequences

2005-04-15T04:53:00.000+01:00

My mother is 90 years old and quite frail in health. Since she was widowed she's lived alone, keeping her independence, preferring a private lifestyle in her apartment. A couple of weeks ago she moved into a nursing home one mile from where she's lived for 37 years. The journey was short but the emotional impact was huge. One way Mum has kept herself going is a strict routine through the day; at precise times she would get up, move to the kitchen to make a drink, or prepare lunch. It was an effort lately, but it retained her independence and structured her days. Now the nurses decide the routines and the shape of the day. For a little while Mum found the loss of control difficult; she worried about her medication and whether it would appear at the right time. Because the nurses check her in her room through the day, her privacy was eroded. That, too, was hard for her. It was so good, some days after her arrival, to hear that she feels safer at night now. Instead of the lonely hours in her own place, she has staff a few seconds away if she needs help. I'm so grateful for this good outcome of one of the shortest journeys this blog is likely to describe.

Clapping The Losers In

2005-04-06T22:14:00.000+01:00

To me, rugby football seems less of a waste of time than soccer. Being Welsh, and with Wales looking on course for a grand slam victory in this year's Six Nations Tournament, I was glad to watch the Wales-Ireland final on satellite TV in Maputo, Mozambique. March 19^th, 2005. With four colleagues I went to a bar with four TV sets, two for the rugby, two for some soccer.

Around one table were half a dozen British expatriates; two wore rugby shirts, one Wales, the other England, the rest of the blokes neutral. Mr England Shirt was probably mourning his nation's performance. Anyway, Ireland did well, but Wales gained an early lead and final victory. As my compatriots consumed buckets of lager, my group rather anaemically stuck to lemonade, not that we were quieter or less enthused by the game than they.

At school, I was tall, very short sighted and destined to play second row forward. This is when your head gets squashed between first row buttocks in the scrums and your shoulders ache from pushing hard to get possession of the ball. Once that was over, I used to run around the field unable to see the ball, let alone work out what to do if it ever came my way. The school seemed convinced we had imbibed the rules of rugby football with our mothers' milk, such was the lack of instruction. One winter Thursday afternoon, the Religious Education master showed an un-Christianly cruel streak when he asked if I was enjoying the afternoon walk around the field. May he rest in perpetual soccer.

When the school team played, it was customary for the winning side to line up and clap the losers in. “Magnanimous in victory, gracious in defeat,” thundered the headmaster at one assembly when we rejoiced too enthusiastically about a 60 point lead by our first fifteen.

Wales clapped Ireland in. It warmed my heart to think that old fashioned courtesies still exist. And this memory was triggered off the other morning when I read in the Bible—in Proverbs chapter 24—Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when he stumbles, do not let your heart rejoice, or the LORD will see and disapprove and turn his wrath away from him.

I'm still wondering how the good Lord saw the Wales-Ireland match. And I confess to rejoicing, just a bit. My daughter-in-law is Irish.

One Small Journey

2005-04-06T07:35:00.000+01:00

The South Downs are a range of chalk hills running roughly east to west along England's south coast. My town lies between the Downs and the English Channel and my home is less than a mile from the Downs, in the northern part of town.

Last Sunday, Marian and I walked to Cissbury Ring, a hilltop iron-age fort. The climb starts on a bridleway (that's a path where horse riders have ancient rights to travel) between two golf courses, one privately owned and the other open for all comers to play. Since the advent of mountain bikes, cyclists also ride the bridleways, pumping their way up in low gear, faces red, flying down at speed, exhilarated at the rush of air and the tyre-scattered, crackling stones beneath.

We walked up, slowly, stopping to examine the familiar views across the valleys, tracing out the pathway over there that would take us back home. In early April, the first flowers grace the hedgerows; light, bright colours against the dark twigs where leaf buds begin to swell. This year the sheep must be in a different valley, but Cissbury Ring will give them grazing this month, according to the notice pinned on a gate.

Further up into the Downs farmers have ploughed lower lying fields; the white chalk gives the brown soil a cake-like look, as if dusted with caster sugar. The winter bareness is still apparent, but in a few weeks leaves will appear to fill out empty space. We are surprised by the volume and variety of bird song.

Next to the path down the hill, half a mile before Waterworks Cottages, someone has placed a triangular, rough hewn stone inscribed like a headstone with

15TH APRIL Of Carefree Days, Of Picnics, Horses, Walks, Birds.... ALWAYS REMEMBERED

No name, no year. Just good memories of journeys taken together. Like Marian's and mine that day.

Surreal

2005-03-28T20:58:00.000+01:00

In my circles surreal is getting overused. I used to be fascinated by Salvador Dali's paintings; that mix of the credible and utterly absurd--melting watches, crutches, eggs--nearly as bad as a recent dream where I watched two blind surgeons do open heart surgery on a baby, using a meat cleaver. Where on earth did that come from? I woke up in a sweat at the thought of it. The flight from Johannesburg to London is similarly dreamlike. Inside a plane things are static, only food trolleys shuttle and the queues for the loo shuffle. Way below, a moonlight shadow skims the spine of Africa at 500 mph. Afternoon tea in the ebbing warmth of South Africa's late summer; breakfast over France before landing in dense fog at Heathrow. Surreal. Easter Monday is a British public holiday. The rail system has been Dali-ised. The train from Gatwick airport to my home always leaves from platform 5; the electronic signs all through the station confirm it, yet the train snakes into platform 3 unannounced, leaving me and a colleague to pick another route home. Four hours taken to travel 65 miles from Heathrow to home, compare that with the 2000 miles flown by the Virgin Atlantic airbus in the same time--surreal.

Starting Out

2005-03-26T12:43:00.000Z

My surname "Ford" makes the job of finding a related domain name difficult. Even in setting up this blog, my natural username, TonyFord, has already been taken. In my local newspaper some years ago, the sports page had a headline Tony Ford Is Unique -- except his name was and is not. He was a local soccer hero; I will never be. Why the title A Journeyman's Log? Because I travel a lot for my job. My home is in southern England; I am typing this first blog entry while in Johannesburg on my way back home from Maputo in Mozambique. I feel uniquely privileged in having been able to travel to Asia, Africa, various parts of Europe and a few destinations in the USA, but that's not unique either. A journeyman was one who had a trade, having fulfilled an apprenticeship to an older, skilled man, who passed on his skills to the next generation. The journeyman was taken on by the day, not for him the luxury of a long-term contract, employment rights and some stability--benefits I have had with my employer for 30+ years. In countries I visit, many are like the old journeyman, like the line of men opposite my company's office in Maputo waiting for a day's work helping lay the permanent road surface atop the current red dirt. Literally my work life is a series of journeys. On this blog I'll share some of my experiences, as well as some relating to my home town and my journey through life.