Little trips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.