Food for thought

                                             Not all those who wander are lost. J.R.R Tolkien

Southsea, Portsmouth. Another trip to the sea side

The skies are bright again but the mind knows no relief. I am bleary eyed, ridden with insomnia and a doubtful mind; I look for a quick out from the mundaneness. Sometimes, escapism brings a great joy, calmness and clarity of mind. Introspection, I call it.  As I have said many times in this blog, ocean and beaches is my favourite spot when riddled with the various obscurities of life. The beauty of the ocean, its greatness, the sound of waves lashing against the rocks calms me, uplifts me, inspires me, awes me and definitely humbles me. 

With the rays of sun slowly teasing my senses and my heart fluttering at the prospect of yet another new discovery I step out hopeful and head towards Southsea beach in the water front city of Portsmouth.  The sea comes in many tantalizing forms as I discovered. Here there is no sand but the beach is made of many  different types of stones, scattered and littered. I gingerly walk on them collecting some which catch my attention. They are pink, jade, sea green and some with a bit of sea weed on them. Aaah…the joys of finding something new out! Life would be so much more interesting if each day was different than the last. 

 In the horizon, somewhere where the sky meets the sea line, I see piers. There are two piers, I am told. The south parade pier and the Clarence Pier; the sites are now amusement centers. But to me from this distance the sight looks like a picture perfect postcard evoking great wonderment. 

People come and go. Some are running, some are cycling, and many are flying kites. It lends an added charm to this already wonderful tapestry. As for me, I am once again lost in my bubble. I am at the safe place where the sea and its waves is my biggest comfort. Once again, the sea has succeeded in wrapping me around its safe arms. I feel uplifted, a tiny smile plays on my lips and the former frown lines are disappearing. The sea whispers to me to march on with head held high and that everything will be alright. 

 

The dark clouds which were hovering around me are long gone and I am at a beautiful, happy place. 

Just me, my thoughts and of course the ever calming sea.

Thought of the day

                                             My name is Bond. Vagabond.

London

London. 

A city always on the move. 

A bustling, bubbling cauldron of many cultures, much to the chagrin of certain tram ladies. 

A city characterised by the spiffy hum of several relentless minds. 

The time is morning rush hour. Between sips of strong coffee and stretching; I stand waiting patiently to get my daily tube ticket. The sun was certainly out but the mist in the air was audaciously challenging it to shine brighter. Suddenly, there is a chorus of deafening booms. Westminster, the Houses of Parliament and the Big Ben lets out a screeching alarm reminding us to rise and shine, to shake off the last signs of snooze. I take the ticket; the helpful ticket-teller gives me necessary directions about which line to take. I am alert…at least for the moment. There are so many lines—Victoria, Jubilee, Metropolitan etc, so many changes and so less time to process it all. 

I somnambulate and find myself amidst busy silhouettes jostling their way in a mélange of stylish suits, polished shoes and boots. With newspaper tucked on one side, a suitcase in one hand and the-all-important coffee on the other, they are an epitome of style. As the tube chugs in, everyone experiences a collective sense of alertness. Ready, steady and go. From somewhere a sharp voice reminds us to--MIND THE GAP. 

Minding the gap, in less than ten seconds, I am in. Hurray. In the closed somewhat intimate space of the tube, everyone seems to be in some unconscious synchronized choreography, darting the headlines on their I-phones, rhythmically moving their head to the I-pod, reading the free newspaper Metro, skimming through their Kindle. I take out my own, try to get lost in the pages of my e-book. I think I look nonchalant; I hope I have blended in. Soon it is time to step out. Step out I did; only to get enveloped in a streak of grey. Grey skies were at it again! The streets were getting wet with the slow pitter-patter of raindrops. But thank God, I had the accessory dearest to every Londoner—the quintessential umbrella. Snooty yet a savior.  I unwrap it, smoothen my skirt, tighten the jacket and march forward. I look London, I feel London. 

Walking down the Queen’s memorial walk near Green Park, crisp autumn air kisses my face. The park is full of men and women dressed in stylish leggings and the shortest shorts running despite the nip in the air. Welcome to another slice of London life.  I reach the famous Buckingham Palace after crossing the War memorial and find myself surrounded by ebullient tourists hopping around feverishly, snapping pictures, hoping to get a glimpse of the Queen or Kate Middleton. Suddenly, it all goes silent. It’s time to change the guards; I am told.  The air is filled with guards’ bands and military music; new set of guards come out to take over the duties from old ones. With their red jackets and huge bearskins; they are an eye-catching sight. All of us look around, laugh and smile at each other; the differences of race, colour, and language are kept aside.

Time to move on; I walk along the St. James’ Palace catching in the local sights. On the streets, I can hear a myriad of faces of different races lending the city a beautiful, vibrant charm. Perhaps, it’s this variety which makes London a global hotspot. I find myself near St. Paul’s Cathedral, an ornate structure built between 1675 and 1710, a centre for arts, spiritualism, learning and public debate. The cathedral which was in news in 2011 for the anti-capitalism protests is said to attract people of all faith. Its legacy cannot be contained in the narrow borders of religion and perhaps is another testimony of the city’s multicultural fabric . 

I still don’t know who is a true Londoner, but I am mesmerized by the variety the city offers, where each different culture comes together, integrate and become something greater.

As I step into the tube; I feel my cheeks flushed. 

I think I am in love and hope it’s an affair to remember.

Thought for the day

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking. Spanish Poet, Antonio Machado

A walk to remember--Bakewell

Ever fancy about getting out of the hustle-bustle of London on a weekend, get acquainted with nature and connected with yourself? Then head towards Bakewell in Derbyshire, a quaint little town known for its tantalizing walks, cycling lanes and mouth watering pudding. Nestled on the River Wye it is a small market town in the Dale district of Derbyshire meant equally for adrenalin junkies like bikers and cyclists as well as poets, lovers, painters, bird-watchers, artists and of course the true vagabonds.

As the sun rose on a lazy Saturday morning we headed towards Sheffield on an early London-Sheffield cross country train. There are no direct buses or trains from London towards Bakewell so it is advisable to start early. Two hours later we reached Sheffield interchange and from here took a bus towards this popular weekend destination. It takes about an hour to reach Bakewell from Sheffield and the rapidly changing skyline is welcoming enough—undulating valleys, beautiful foliage, old houses turned into little delis, shops and pubs, eye-catching meadows and greenery in various hues teasing your eyes and senses. The bus stopped near River Wye and as soon as you step out, you get a feeling of walking into a picturesque postcard.

The town is steeped in history; legend has it that town was probably founded in the Anglo Saxon times. The Bakewell Parish Church, a popular attraction and Grade 1 listed building is said to be found in 920 with a cross which goes back to 9th century, a proof for its heritage status. The popular Bakewell market was established in 1254 while five-arched bridge over the River Wye was constructed in the 13th century. With so history around, it is hard not to fall in love with this town.

Bakewell is known as one of the best walking destination in Northern England and it’s an honor not wasted. Walk on the banks of river Wye dotted with russet autumn leaves and aquatic birds happily crackling away on its water or through its many delis and shops selling vintage goods. Don’t forget the melancholy church; the all saint’s parish church; sitting atop a hillside is a breath taking site. The church is a treasure trove of many little wonders; two crosses which goes back to the Anglo Saxon time, wooden shields, pre-Raphaelite windows, sanctuary and altar. The beauty of the church is such that even the biggest atheist will feel a little connected to the creator after venturing inside.

It’s but natural that your stomach starts growling after giving your limbs so much of exercise; and this is the place for all food lovers’ especially sweet connoisseurs. Bakewell is the birthplace of the famous Bakewell pudding. There are many little bakeries all claiming to be the origin of the Bakewell pudding; ditch the need to find out the truth because all of them are equally good bringing happiness to your taste buds. While you are here don’t forget to sneak inside the famous Rutland arms hotel where Jane Austen penned her legendary work Pride and Prejudice. Maybe the writer inside you can come alive.

Bakewell is meant for everyone, walk, cycle, or simply do nothing. It is an ideal place to get re-charged and connect with yourself.

Hoping in the Hope Valley

So life has taken another sharp twist and I am amidst new people in a new country taking baby steps to understand its different culture. Change is good and when you are in a different place its even better (not all hunky dory but yeah good). So far I am loving it. The better half and me are slowly settling in Sheffield and just getting over the end of a long, much looked for Bank holiday weekend. So as the weekend approached we decided to give "settling in" a break and just go out footloose and fancy as true vagabonds.

As the sun rose on a lazy Saturday we were bustling to get out of the door and see what the countryside of England, a country rich in culture has to offer us. No plans, no maps, no nothing..just an idea, a curious mind and a strong spirit (not the liquid kind :P) to guide us. From Sheffield we reached Hope Valley in Derby shire aboard the Sheffield-Manchester Piccadilly train. As the the train slowly left Sheffield, the skyline changed rapidly to huge trees, beautiful foliage, undulating valleys and green in every hue, tantalizing and teasing our eyes. I keep repeating this and once again I plead guilty--nature is truly humbling.

As we got down the Hope valley station; it felt like time travel to a bygone era. It was a scene befitting a painting...eye-catching meadows, old cottage houses rearing sheep, cascading mountains, watch dogs et all. The weather at this time of the year is perfect. It is warm enough to give your legs a good exercise and cool enough to do all that in a light jacket.

The quaint little valley is dotted with ancient churches, castles, small delis and not-so-big pubs and is a haven for adrenalin junkies like bikers, pony trekkers and rock climbers and even artists, photographers, painters, bird-watchers. Considered as one of the best walking countryside in the UK, it lies between the grit-stone moors of the dark peak and limestone outcrops of the White peak. The whole belt is an amalgamation of different valleys, moors and other ruins.

As we were taking in the lovely sights; we decided to make out first stop. Churches have always been a major interest to me, I don't know what it is about them--the serenity and divinity which wafts out from the place, the architecture or just some energy which attracts me towards them. We stopped at the church of saint Peter, a beautiful church standing majestically just on the outskirts of the Hope hamlet. Its an old roman fort structure said to be built in 1858. Built of wood and sandstone; its regal and breathtaking. Towards the right of the Parish church is a graveyard giving the whole place a very melancholy feel.

At this point we realized that with half of the day gone it is time to have at least an inkling of a plan, we decided to give cycling (mind you the leisure kind) a hand. But each shop we went told us we need to go to Bamford easily two miles from Hope to get one; and that's when we hopped into a bus. Now, there is something truly different between people from city and those from countryside; they are in many ways more hospitable and thus pleasant. We got into a bus and asked the driver that we need to get down at Bamford and if knows any cycle rentals in that area. He was quick to answer in negative, but before we knew it we were going through the narrow lane and by lanes of Bamford because our man was searching for a cycle rental shop for us. He got us down right in front of our biggest need of the day. Needless to say, it left us pleasantly overwhelmed. Once we got our bikes, we mounted and took a second tour covering Bamford, Hope before fixing our mind on Castleton.

As we biked the lovely breeze slowly kissed our faces making sure we are never too tired to give it up thus pushing us to trudge along the billowing roads of the valley. A quick lunch comprising chips and cheese omelet in a countryside British pub we reached Castleton; a haven for travelers of all kind; as the name suggests Castleton is dominated by castles like the Norman castle, the Peak cavern, Peveril castle, the Castleton village etc.

We headed towards the famous Peak cavern; a collection of caves where an entire village sustained some 180 years back. Popularly known as the Devil's arse it is one of the biggest attraction here. It was owned by the Duchy of Lancaster. The entrance to the caves is jaw dropping beautiful; it looks like an immense cleft on a humungous rock sitting in sharp contrast to a quaint stream flowing nearby. As you go under the cleft you enter a wide, impressive entrance of the caves. Families engaged in rope making used to live here. And even today you can see a house or two; not bigger than your own double bed there. As a testimony to the thriving rope making industry of the yore, the cave managers still give you lessons and tours on how they did it.

Beyond the entrance a narrow passage leads to a chamber known the Bell-House. Continuing on along the path you reach a chamber called the Great Cave which is about 60m high and contains a passage in its roof which emerges near Peveril Castle. Interestingly, outsiders used to believe that devil stays inside this cave and since the gurgling stream would make some noise; it was said that the devil was passing gas. See what all the simple act of flatulence can do.

But for the sake of royalty the name was changed to Peak's Cavern sometime in the 1900s as the queen was supposed to visit the place. Now the queen cannot say arse so a much polite (albeit a little too straight for my twisted mind) so the cave was rechristened as Peak's Cavern.

We came out of Devil's arse totally thrilled and not just because no one exercised this natural right inside the dingy caves :) and I could not stop wondering how many such mysteries and beauties our Mother earth is abundant with. Unfortunately, we were told it was too late (4:30PM) to go to the other castles and caverns. And my only grouse was at the ticking clock.

But then it only gives me a reason to go back. And I can't wait to hop in that train once more to get ready to be teased once again by the lovely countryside of Hope district.