Shambala mandala

Festivals are a big deal in the UK. You cannot really say you have had a summer unless you have roughed it with a pair of wellies and some camping gear in some green field in the countryside for the weekend and come back disheveled and needing a scrub down. Shambala was a cacophony of glitter, secret gardens, swamp creatures, pyrotechnic dragons and glowing tulips. You could go for a communal yoga session or charlston class in the morning, head for a permaculture gathering or art workshop in the afternoon, watch a movie or a band or go on fun-fair rides in the evening. I came across fire-spitting horses, shaman rituals, gypsy caravans, friendly Polish faeries, cowboys and indians, glow-in-the-dark earthworm costumes, burning effigies and unicorns. The odd disgusting campsite did however spoil the mood (British festival goers are notorious for leaving everything behind at festivals, these organisers had some scruples however and had a recycling scheme in place, but still could not motivate everyone to clean after themselves), a seeming normality for first-world folk to throw things away after one weekend-use. Nothing like this atrocity though. Mental note: NEVER go to Reading Festival. EVER.

And the rivers run through it

My oh my, how time does fly. Some many places have been seen and so little time to share them. A while back I was able to visit Scotland for a wee while, overlapping with a long overdue reunion with friends that I met while walking the Camino de Santiago a few years back. A weekend wash-out in true Scottish style, we attempted to climb Glencoe but the winds were too fierce up at the top, so we ended up doing a shorter walk through woodlands and inbetween soft winding rivers. A fellow mountaineer pointed out dwarf trees that grow in patchy mosaics in high altitudes. These mini birches find it hard to grow against the wind and cold of these bleak windswept mountains, and I found the idea of stunted trees in such a wet climate somewhat fascinating.

I was lucky enough to spot Loch Ness, stare at snow-spattered mountain tops and moss over every surface. Old abandoned castles draped in ivy, and quiet plains with not a soul walking on them. I came across a soft-spoken man, with even softer-spoken eyes who told me about the living architecture he had just built out of willow. It turns out he was a MacDougall son, whose estate I was wandering on. He was worried the willow would rot from all the rain they had been given, and can be found just behind Dunollie Castle, on land his family clan has owned for over a thousand years. It overlooks Oban, a sleepy seaside town, where days were quiet and nights even quieter. A brisk walk west of the town, you can catch a ferry across to Kerrera, an island also owned by the Macdougalls, and walk to see Gylen castle. Stop off at Kerrera Tea Garden just by the castle for some soup to warm up if you ever walk there, you will most likely need to dry off at some point. 

You walk alone, past grazing pastures and wonder what residents do on such a lonely island. It was lambing season, and all you could see were little white shadows following their mothers. A women who offered me a lift said that they were coming up to 9 months and would be taken from their mothers soon. I was relieved I would not be around to hear their mothers wail for them to come back to them. In Scotland's harsh yet beautiful vistas lay its sadness. Such a beautiful landscape changed irrevocably to feed man's hunger, coming across no native wildlife, only animals to eat.

Canterbury tales

An hour train ride from London you come upon a town in Kent where most of it is a World Heritage site. Yes indeed. Canterbury has one of the oldest monuments to Christianity in the UK, built from stone imported from Normandy, and has stood on the site for over 1,400 years. The Mother Church of the Anglican faith and seat of the Archbishop of Canterbury (cute teddy bears of him can be found around the town if you fancy). Services are held at the Cathedral three or more times a day. We would know since we felicitously came to visit when a sermon was about to start = not having to pay the £9.50 entry fee. We went on Mother's Day and watched a lovely sermon where children handed out daffodil bouquets to everyone that attended. Those same bouquets were left in the hands of statues dedicated to Kent's King and Queen Ethelbert and Bertha, the sexy-as-hell-sounding couple that established the English-speaking Christian civilization that the British Empire became.

Did you know the equestrian word "canter" comes from Canterbury? After the murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in the cathedral, pilgrims from all parts of Christendom came to visit his shrine. Many pilgrims on horseback who were nearing the city late at night would increase the horse's speed from a trot to the faster "Canterbury trot", but not as fast as a gallop. To "canter" became the shortened expression. It was a secret thrill to stumble upon a pilgrimage sign in front of the cathedral after so many years since doing the camino to Santiago. You can walk to Rome from here! Or walk from Rome to here!

The mind abuzz with walking the Via Francincigena, visiting the Beany House of Art and Knowledge with its miniature doll houses and textile art, tea breaks in cafes to warm up, coming across green and grey graveyards, ancient abbeys, wooden emblems and stained glass windows, this walkable town's slow pace and steeped Roman, Norman and medieval history is a well worth experiencing. Just avoid the Three Tuns if you are feeling peckish - worst pub food we've had to date, and that says alot!

What I learnt from the camino

As I go through all my travel photographs, some images crop up to remind me about journeys and their lessons..

The pilgrimage in pictures - part 3

 

The pilgrimage in pictures - part 2