You get the picture.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Chill
Today Simon and I were walking back from town across the bridge when a breath of freezing air descended. The sky turned that colour of grey that heralds snow, and it began to sleet. All this happened in the space of 30 seconds, like it does on those weather maps. Shoulders hunched we hurried on, and half-way up the long hill to the house we stopped and looked as a wall of snowflakes swept down the street and turned all to a whiteout.
There's now several inches of snow lying like sugar on every surface; cars turned to soft white mounds, trees drooping with heaped powder and slender icicles. I watched two squirrels bounding through the deep snow on the lawn across to the bird table, ascend opposite sides of it and chomp into the seed I'd laid there. A moment later one of them went flying off the platform and landed in the snow, kicked superbly by the other. A tussle ensued with first one then the other being booted from the food shelf. A victor emerged and the other went off to tackle the squirrel-proof peanut holder.
It's now nearly midnight and minus 10 outside, according to the car's temperature reading. Could be a white Christmas at this rate.
There's now several inches of snow lying like sugar on every surface; cars turned to soft white mounds, trees drooping with heaped powder and slender icicles. I watched two squirrels bounding through the deep snow on the lawn across to the bird table, ascend opposite sides of it and chomp into the seed I'd laid there. A moment later one of them went flying off the platform and landed in the snow, kicked superbly by the other. A tussle ensued with first one then the other being booted from the food shelf. A victor emerged and the other went off to tackle the squirrel-proof peanut holder.
It's now nearly midnight and minus 10 outside, according to the car's temperature reading. Could be a white Christmas at this rate.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Glimpsing Asia
In retrospect watching Blade Runner a few days before visiting Hong Kong was probably unwise, given the immersion with which I watch movies. I only had 24 hours there, half of which I slept through, and so only ten more than I spent on the film, but it was enough to get a glimpse.
An inadvertent speciality of mine when travelling is making my way through the rush hours of major cities using public transport. It looked simple on the map. I hadn't allowed for the millions of other people.
Leaving my luggage with the surly operators of Hong Kong airport's Left Luggage facility I trailed my little wheeled cabin bag to the airport express train and thence to the high-pressure circulatory system that is the Hong Kong MTR, or subway system. It was New York all over again; millions of purposeful commuters pouring in arterial streams through a labyrinth of tunnels, platforms and trains. Most of the signage was in Chinese with English subtitles except the ticket machines and some of the overview maps, which were just in Chinese.
I bumbled along, having slept only fitfully in 36 hours, tight-lipped lest the words "does anybody here speak English ?" slip out, finding my way somehow to North Point from which my hotel was - to quote the website - an easy five minute walk. Riding up innumerable escalators I came to a choice of six different street exits, none of which suggested my hotel's address. No matter; it would surely be obvious.
An hour later, in a back-lane street market selling live fish, very recently deceased chickens, interesting dried herbs, long-dead and dessicated cephalopods and packets of steaming rice wrapped in large green leaves I asked a woman street vendor about the road I sought. A shrug and a vague wave down an even narrower alley. I was now in Ankh-Morpork and wishing my luggage had legs. Each little street spilled on to another little market, or occasionally back to one of the thundering main roads clogged with buses, trams, taxis, people, bikes, cars and hand-carts, the floors of skyscraper canyons overhung with electric tram lines, bamboo scaffolding, clothes on drying racks hanging from apartment windows, giant neon advertising signs, and thousands of air-conditioning units. I wasn't in Kansas any more and all the signs were in Chinese.
Wandering in ever-widening circles from the MTR station I had several adventures and did eventually stumble upon the hotel, a fine modern luxurious hotel - thanks to my travel agents for recommending it. There probably is a way to get there from the MTR in five minutes but I - I took the road less travelled by, and that made all the difference.
A shower, a sleep and a change of clothes before setting out again into the city streets.
An inadvertent speciality of mine when travelling is making my way through the rush hours of major cities using public transport. It looked simple on the map. I hadn't allowed for the millions of other people.
Leaving my luggage with the surly operators of Hong Kong airport's Left Luggage facility I trailed my little wheeled cabin bag to the airport express train and thence to the high-pressure circulatory system that is the Hong Kong MTR, or subway system. It was New York all over again; millions of purposeful commuters pouring in arterial streams through a labyrinth of tunnels, platforms and trains. Most of the signage was in Chinese with English subtitles except the ticket machines and some of the overview maps, which were just in Chinese.
I bumbled along, having slept only fitfully in 36 hours, tight-lipped lest the words "does anybody here speak English ?" slip out, finding my way somehow to North Point from which my hotel was - to quote the website - an easy five minute walk. Riding up innumerable escalators I came to a choice of six different street exits, none of which suggested my hotel's address. No matter; it would surely be obvious.
An hour later, in a back-lane street market selling live fish, very recently deceased chickens, interesting dried herbs, long-dead and dessicated cephalopods and packets of steaming rice wrapped in large green leaves I asked a woman street vendor about the road I sought. A shrug and a vague wave down an even narrower alley. I was now in Ankh-Morpork and wishing my luggage had legs. Each little street spilled on to another little market, or occasionally back to one of the thundering main roads clogged with buses, trams, taxis, people, bikes, cars and hand-carts, the floors of skyscraper canyons overhung with electric tram lines, bamboo scaffolding, clothes on drying racks hanging from apartment windows, giant neon advertising signs, and thousands of air-conditioning units. I wasn't in Kansas any more and all the signs were in Chinese.
Wandering in ever-widening circles from the MTR station I had several adventures and did eventually stumble upon the hotel, a fine modern luxurious hotel - thanks to my travel agents for recommending it. There probably is a way to get there from the MTR in five minutes but I - I took the road less travelled by, and that made all the difference.
A shower, a sleep and a change of clothes before setting out again into the city streets.
Monday, October 5, 2009
there and back again
Just back from a weekend road trip with Brother Martyn taking in some of the beautiful Otago hinterland. We've been half-way to Mt Cook and over a mountain pass through snow and stunning landscapes where Lord of the Rings was filmed.
Photos when I've got them off the camera, I promise. Meanwhile I've caught a cold and enjoyed a day coughing my way around the steep Dunedin streets.
Photos when I've got them off the camera, I promise. Meanwhile I've caught a cold and enjoyed a day coughing my way around the steep Dunedin streets.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Hotel California
The theory was that a night's sleep in a hotel near the airport mid-way between the UK and New Zealand would alleviate the jet-lag effect of a 26-hour journey.
The evidence is positive; it's only taken me a couple of days to adjust to being eleven hours ahead of myself and, yes, the Los Angeles Airport Hilton is very nice thank you.
Well, I say that. The entrance is grandiose, the facade impressive in that smoked glass monolith kind of way, and the corridors are spacious and richly furnished with art and faux-antique couches. The actual rooms seem to have been an after-thought, squeezed around the edges of the magnificent approaches.
I had my fill of American TV, lost my battle with the telephone system, had a fine breakfast and a comfortable day resting in the public spaces and even took a walk. 'Walk ?' asked the concierge when I asked where might be a good place for this activity. 'Well..er.. there's a park about 10 blocks, you could get a taxi.' Was there anywhere I could walk from the Hotel ?
Following his directions I walked alone along tired boulevards lined with old parked cars. I walked for five blocks past hotels, private houses, rest homes, industrial parks and vacant lots in the humid Los Angeles sunshine. Every few minutes a planeload of people passed over me, ruffling my hair and landing moments later at LAX just across the way. I had the sidewalks entirely to myself.
It's worth saying too that travelling through this American port, which I've done several times now, was smooth and relatively stress-free. The staff were relaxed and friendly, a marked contrast to a few years ago when many of the staff were clearly on a hair-trigger.
The evidence is positive; it's only taken me a couple of days to adjust to being eleven hours ahead of myself and, yes, the Los Angeles Airport Hilton is very nice thank you.
Well, I say that. The entrance is grandiose, the facade impressive in that smoked glass monolith kind of way, and the corridors are spacious and richly furnished with art and faux-antique couches. The actual rooms seem to have been an after-thought, squeezed around the edges of the magnificent approaches.
I had my fill of American TV, lost my battle with the telephone system, had a fine breakfast and a comfortable day resting in the public spaces and even took a walk. 'Walk ?' asked the concierge when I asked where might be a good place for this activity. 'Well..er.. there's a park about 10 blocks, you could get a taxi.' Was there anywhere I could walk from the Hotel ?
Following his directions I walked alone along tired boulevards lined with old parked cars. I walked for five blocks past hotels, private houses, rest homes, industrial parks and vacant lots in the humid Los Angeles sunshine. Every few minutes a planeload of people passed over me, ruffling my hair and landing moments later at LAX just across the way. I had the sidewalks entirely to myself.
It's worth saying too that travelling through this American port, which I've done several times now, was smooth and relatively stress-free. The staff were relaxed and friendly, a marked contrast to a few years ago when many of the staff were clearly on a hair-trigger.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Fab
Last week the kids and I climbed the Scott Monument in Edinburgh. It's Thunderbird Three in stone, towering over Princes Street and only dwarfed at Christmas when the Winter Gardens ferris wheel goes up next to it. Four levels are accessed by spiral stone steps barely one person wide. In the windy crow's nest you see over the jumbled rooftops to the sea, the mountains. You can probably see seven counties, though these days they're called Regions or Authorities as in a soviet novel.
Below us were the excavated remains of Princes Street. The whole mile or so has been dug back to the soil to make room for Edinburgh's new tram system. It promises to give a character and elegance to this grand parade that really hasn't been there for decades.
Yesterday I walked the length of it, through swirling dust and raucous road drills, after a meeting about a Government contract to assist with education workshops. It's a nice little job to add to my modest portfolio, and I remembered my Auckland education job with fondness once again. The downside of self-employment is the endless self-promotion, but perhaps that's good for my soul.
The claustrophobic and vertiginous climb was worth it for the view.
Below us were the excavated remains of Princes Street. The whole mile or so has been dug back to the soil to make room for Edinburgh's new tram system. It promises to give a character and elegance to this grand parade that really hasn't been there for decades.
Yesterday I walked the length of it, through swirling dust and raucous road drills, after a meeting about a Government contract to assist with education workshops. It's a nice little job to add to my modest portfolio, and I remembered my Auckland education job with fondness once again. The downside of self-employment is the endless self-promotion, but perhaps that's good for my soul.
The claustrophobic and vertiginous climb was worth it for the view.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
You can't teach a chicken old jokes
We live on the edge of town, the magnificent southern uplands rolling away from just behind our house. Bonnington Road narrows from a broad avenue of fine Edwardian houses to a country lane winding deep into the Manor Valley. Skylarks overhead, rounded fields ploughed over centuries; cows, horses, sheep, occasional grand farmhouses, a ring of heather-patched hills and, of course, free-range chickens.
Simon and I have taken to cycling out here, taking the level road along Bonnington, puffing slightly up over the cattle grid mid-way, sometimes doing the full circle and mounting an assault on the Sware hill. A long near-vertical pushing a bike.
Yesterday we stopped, as usual, to view the free-range chicken farm where eggs can be bought from the honesty box at the end of the farm driveway. These chooks truly free range, radiating out from their giant shed across two fields, bobbing and scratching like so many clockwork toys. The artists and creatives amongst them can be seen in the farther fields, around the edges and less frequented rises and hollows. Around the corner, a ragged brigade had even escaped the fields, striding down the road, finding tasty morsels in the long grass. A troupe of wandering minstrels in their shreds and patches, they scattered noisily to the shelter of the verges as we cycled by.
Further on one was not so lucky; surprised by one of the infrequent cars it was food for crows, a bloody sight.
What a way to go though, for a chicken.
Simon and I have taken to cycling out here, taking the level road along Bonnington, puffing slightly up over the cattle grid mid-way, sometimes doing the full circle and mounting an assault on the Sware hill. A long near-vertical pushing a bike.
Yesterday we stopped, as usual, to view the free-range chicken farm where eggs can be bought from the honesty box at the end of the farm driveway. These chooks truly free range, radiating out from their giant shed across two fields, bobbing and scratching like so many clockwork toys. The artists and creatives amongst them can be seen in the farther fields, around the edges and less frequented rises and hollows. Around the corner, a ragged brigade had even escaped the fields, striding down the road, finding tasty morsels in the long grass. A troupe of wandering minstrels in their shreds and patches, they scattered noisily to the shelter of the verges as we cycled by.
Further on one was not so lucky; surprised by one of the infrequent cars it was food for crows, a bloody sight.
What a way to go though, for a chicken.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
My, How You've Grown
Bringing the significant changes of the past four years back to old haunts sets the challenge of reinvention. Good old T S Eliot described it in Journey Of The Magi:
"We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,"
The discomfort is in the shifted expectations I have of myself, work, other people. Before we left New Zealand I read some books about repatriation in which a common theme was one of finding a new space to occupy in an old familiar place. Don't get me wrong; it's an exciting and natural process, a confirmation of growth over stagnation, but the four-year gap has had a jarring effect on re-entry. I consciously resist the temptation to say 'my, how you've grown' to friends' children and former students who have doubled in height during our absence, though it is said to me in subtle ways.
My shifted space includes new and interesting friends, changed expectations of old friendships, more enjoyment of the countryside, daily cooking and baking, grappling with procrastination born of autonomy, a stripping back of material things. I wouldn't have predicted some of these.
"We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,"
The discomfort is in the shifted expectations I have of myself, work, other people. Before we left New Zealand I read some books about repatriation in which a common theme was one of finding a new space to occupy in an old familiar place. Don't get me wrong; it's an exciting and natural process, a confirmation of growth over stagnation, but the four-year gap has had a jarring effect on re-entry. I consciously resist the temptation to say 'my, how you've grown' to friends' children and former students who have doubled in height during our absence, though it is said to me in subtle ways.
My shifted space includes new and interesting friends, changed expectations of old friendships, more enjoyment of the countryside, daily cooking and baking, grappling with procrastination born of autonomy, a stripping back of material things. I wouldn't have predicted some of these.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
the last day of winter
Officially that is; St David's day tomorrow celebrates leeks and daffs but there's only the early green shoots of crocus bulbs in the garden at the moment. It helps to have these symbolic landmarks. I noticed the passing of the three-month line at the beginning of Feb (3 months since we arrived back in Peebles) and a shift of gear for us all. Those first 100 days of anything are a trial run, I find, a time to bed in new things. We've dropped below the 'welcome back' radar now and are part of the wider landscape (can you keep up with these metaphors ?). Habits and routines are revealing themselves, new connections and patterns.
Meanwhile the media continues to apply its blowtorch to our understanding of the economy and how much is true is anybody's guess. Bankers are the new witches, taking over temporarily from old Nazis and those with an unhealthy interest in children, and old-school socialists are cashing in on the interview circuits, sagely nodding and saying they told us it would all end in tears. Chocolate is the industry to be in just now, apparently.
A report came out last week condemning the myopic and monolithic education system that has grown out of the 'basics and testing' reforms of the Thatcher years, so more 'I told you so' quotes from former voices in the wilderness (including mine, if anyone was listening !). Apparently we shouldn't have thrown out all that dance and drama and sport and social studies.
At the start of the next hundred days comes my fitness regime, and it's going well so far. Check out http://hundredpushups.com/ to see my project for the six weeks of Lent. Anyone care to join me ?
I'm on week 1.
Meanwhile the media continues to apply its blowtorch to our understanding of the economy and how much is true is anybody's guess. Bankers are the new witches, taking over temporarily from old Nazis and those with an unhealthy interest in children, and old-school socialists are cashing in on the interview circuits, sagely nodding and saying they told us it would all end in tears. Chocolate is the industry to be in just now, apparently.
A report came out last week condemning the myopic and monolithic education system that has grown out of the 'basics and testing' reforms of the Thatcher years, so more 'I told you so' quotes from former voices in the wilderness (including mine, if anyone was listening !). Apparently we shouldn't have thrown out all that dance and drama and sport and social studies.
At the start of the next hundred days comes my fitness regime, and it's going well so far. Check out http://hundredpushups.com/ to see my project for the six weeks of Lent. Anyone care to join me ?
I'm on week 1.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
let us build a tent
We met with an architect yesterday, chatting over our plans and ideas, walking over the site of The Build. He asked if I'd heard of a book called A Pattern Language. This was enough to commend him to me, and I did feel we were talking the same language about what we want in the house. There was also a sense of relief about sharing responsibility for this huge undertaking. Remind me of this six weeks into the build process...
For some I've talked with the undertaking of travelling half-way round the world twice and rebuilding a life in each place seems a much bigger project than overseeing a house-build and I guess it's about confidence and familiarity. Somehow the relocation seemed like a no-brainer to me, maybe because I'd done it once already when I was young and invincible and it seemed to go without a hitch. The hitches revealed themselves later and I've spent those years unravelling them.
I put together an online scrapbook of pictures that express aspects of what I want in the house. It's here:
Click on the slideshow to see it on Picasa
For some I've talked with the undertaking of travelling half-way round the world twice and rebuilding a life in each place seems a much bigger project than overseeing a house-build and I guess it's about confidence and familiarity. Somehow the relocation seemed like a no-brainer to me, maybe because I'd done it once already when I was young and invincible and it seemed to go without a hitch. The hitches revealed themselves later and I've spent those years unravelling them.
I put together an online scrapbook of pictures that express aspects of what I want in the house. It's here:
Click on the slideshow to see it on Picasa
Friday, February 6, 2009
Wedding Cake snow
Snow Odyssey
Squirrel verandah
auditioning for Mr Tumnus
winter blossom
Pix of today's snowfall !
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Black Ice
I'm aiming to walk up the hill by our house every day. This morning the road up was thick with grit and salt ploughed into ruts by cars and farm machines, then frozen over in the sub-zero night. I picked my way up the hill, slipping a couple of times on the frictionless black ice and doing one of those Tintin flailings; a windmill of arms and legs that doesn't quite hit the ground nor spill a drop of tea. More photos of course and a dose of dazzling sunshine glancing off the white fields.
I didn't get the job, just a rejection letter. The certainty of it is a whole lot better than the waiting, though, and I'm over it already. Not sure what's next, but something will turn up. I was reading an article this morning about the 11:11 phenomenon, and while the actual numeral 11 thing doesn't work for me I get the principle of seemingly recurrent trivial events pointing to some underlying direction or 'prompting' or 'flow'. Not sure if there's my own personal Morpheus out there hinting obsurely at the matrix, but I enjoy the idea. It's a call to tune in to the subtleties, the ebb and flow.
I didn't get the job, just a rejection letter. The certainty of it is a whole lot better than the waiting, though, and I'm over it already. Not sure what's next, but something will turn up. I was reading an article this morning about the 11:11 phenomenon, and while the actual numeral 11 thing doesn't work for me I get the principle of seemingly recurrent trivial events pointing to some underlying direction or 'prompting' or 'flow'. Not sure if there's my own personal Morpheus out there hinting obsurely at the matrix, but I enjoy the idea. It's a call to tune in to the subtleties, the ebb and flow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
