Abono and a bit of Bono

"I'm not afraid of anything in this world.
There's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't allready heard.
I'm just tryin' to find a decent melody,
A song that I can sing, in my own company."

Lyrics courtesy of U2, listening to one of their later albums (the only one I know)one afternoon before catching the several trains to my English Classes south of Madrid.

I am a full working resident of Madrid now and all the signs are there. I have a season travel card called an Abono which lets me use the Metro, the busses and Cercanias which are local trains that connect the capital with the suburbs. The Abono is essential to the equipment of an English teacher as apparently the focus seems not so much on how many classes you have but where they are and how long it will take you to get there. The considered rule is if it takes longer than the class to get there then howabout nooooooooooooo. TEFLers should invest in a B1 for classes a little further away but worth it if 'block hours' or intensives. What ever those are I'm not sure I have coz I have to travel 30 mins south of the city from Atocha for 3 hrs of class Mon-Thurs which would be worth it would it not be for the following: They keep on changing my classrooms, sometimes I don't have one at all, sometimes I'm locked out of the area I'm supposed to be teaching in and I don't have any facilities at my disposable. I'm lucky if I can use the whiteboard baisicly. Which whilst nigling at first has now served to well and truly piss me off. Options are being considered.

The other sign that I am part of the urban system is that I have taken up the habit of going for Curry nights with the girls. It is one of the highlights of the week as somehow 5 mins after our international group has got together, our conversations decend into something that you might generally watch on Sex and the City - it's hilarious and I love hearing all the stories brought to the Indian table. Best place for random cuisine and an immense scene - Lavapies, Madrid. Go there, it's cool. The last place we went to was a small little colourful joint with old pictures of Ghandi and the Himilayers on the wall. It was extrememly hippy and had a lovely cosy atmosphere. Amongst the Indian dishes they offered were Thai and proclaimed 'European' dishes also.

As I am now officially a commuter again, I am getting through an awful lot of books. I'm finishing off at the moment 'Long Way Down' by Ewan McGreggor and Charley Boorman. I watched parts of their journey back in March when I was staying on Guernsey. There is an immense sense of adventure with those two that somehow for me became all the more real with the insight into the workings of a famous 'celebrity'. There I was watching (reading now) a guy I ascociate with 'Trainspotting' and fancied in 'Moulin Rouge' talking about how fascinated he was with the African landscape, how moved he was at landmine injured children, how frustrated he was with the road conditions and how dedicated he was to his wife and daughters. This wasn't an article in Hello magazine saying 'newsflash' Ewan McGreggor loves his wife - this was an insight into a celebrity's life and mind. Something we as the public aren't privy too although we are under the constant impression that we are. Apparently we know everything about them, we know who they are, who their familly is and what they do thanks to the constant barage of photoinfo we are subjected to. But we know nothing about them and have no right to either. They're famous because they are good at something and we should be satisfied with that - not famous for the way they live their life and who they live it with. What I am left with is the incredible respect I have for Ewan McGreggor by the touching ties he has with his familly and friends (and a little bit of laughter when I see his fragrance ad) but I long for the same sense of adventure now.

When in Guernsey, my friend who was my host, and I imagined how amazing it would be for us to go riding deep into nowhere we've known before and how we'd manage. But that excusrsion I think is saved for another time at the moment. Now though, working for the weekend, feeling a little bit trapped in the city, I crave something to make the weekly rat race worth while. Geographiclly I find Madrid very closed-in anyway. To the north we have the mountains and south becomes a bit of a waistland. But I know the landscape here has so much to offer, especially compared with Britian. Even the sky here looks wider than in the U.K. A couple of weeks ago I was all set up to enjoy what the mountains had to offer in an excursion with my fellow TEFLers named 'Treetop Adventure'.

We were off to an obstacle course set high in the trees of a National Park north west of Madrid. I was extreemly looking forward to it - it had been a long time since I'd done anything physical and it was just what I needed to get me out of the concrete and into the green. Everyone was aprehensive about the heights we'd have to overcome but I didn't share their concerns, at first. My reasons were that I seemed happy enough to the chance of a group outing and that I was always doing this kind of thing as a kid and I enjoyed it then. We arrived to get kitted out with harnesses and clips I'd worn a thousand times before but then slowly my attitude towards the activity started to change. The catalyst was a small expectation of mine - that there would be monitors on the stations in the trees to make sure we doing things correctly. Guess what - this is Spain and Health and Safety isn't really much of a concern out here. It started a quiet aprehension in me. After signing my life away to not sue them if..., we underwent a 10 min training session. 5 mins on what to clip on to what wire and which way it should go and 5 mins of going round a dummy 3 station course not 2 metres of the ground. There was a big group of us and it seemed to take ages for all of us to get through.

Lining up I was one of the last to go. I had deliberately placed myself there - the course was obviously single file and we were only allowed 3 people to a station and I did not enjoy the thought of having a backlog of people waiting to go if I was going at a speed they didn't like. I was managing quite well, my initial concerns were with clipping myself into the correct places in the correct way and crossing the wire and getting off the zip wire was whilst a little bit cumbersome not impossible. I trundled off to the real thing, the least challenging course out of several inc. one marked 'extreme', with a small section of our party. I was in a nice order, right in the middle - there were people I could follow but people behind me so I was not the one 'trying to keep up'. Suddenly the height hit me - shit. I'm not feeling too safe up here I thought, even though of course I was strapped in to everything properly. The rope was wobbly, the wooden planks were shaking, the possiblities of what I thought I could physicially achieve were being challenged. A constant internal dialogue was going on: I'm not a screamer, I don't voice my fears I just get on with it. I thought, 'why does this seem so hard, I used to do this kind of thing so easily, I must keep on going, I can do it.'

There were people at the back of the line that were seriously struggling and those that were in front decided to hang back at certain stations to help them along. The change in line lead to me being in front. For some reason it was extrememly unsettling to me to be put as 'leader'. There was no one in front showing the way, it was all down to me - if I did it wrongly - the consequencs could be dire. At this point my only thoughts were of sort of stopping this and getting off the ride. I felt assured that most of the others were thinking of doing the same thing. We noticed an escape ladder ahead - and I focused on that. It didn't seem like the end but I got down anyway, relieved on firm ground. However the rest of the group decided to go on. A monitor came up to me and told me I could go back up the ladder if I wanted but by this time, the wobbly group had established a sort of pace and the idea of me trying to insert myself into that when already feeling shaky didn't appeal. I just kept on thinking if I could do it in my own way, at my own speed, with none of them being part of my own challenge then I could get through.

I hung around until they completed the course and some of them were scared but happy they'd completed it and some of them were less scared than they thought they would be but happy they'd completed it and then there was me. This great pretender - coz I felt nothing of what they were talking about. It was one of the group's comments about this trip being a great team-building exercise that made something click inside me. It wasn't the hieght, or the swing rope, or the zip wire that was the challenge for me - it was being in that unavoidable line of people and doing this thing as a group. Because I couldn't cope with their way of doing things, I couldn't physically fit in to their system. And I thought well if I can't do that - how am I supposed to cope going around the world all by myself - being away from my friends for so long, from a familiar support network? How am I supposed to survive if I can't stay on that hard narrow course and not automaticlly look for an exit sign?

I have ALOT to sort out in terms of funds for my overland trips, sea voayages budgeting time in OZ and USA, itinaries, back-up support before I attempt to move on. I needed to leave Britain so much I just sort of upped and left without really planning anything. But I had my ideas and I'll stick to those, they just need morphing now to fully work.

Coming back to Madrid in a People Mover I passed wonderful scenery from the countryside. I love those views, they're what I came to see. But it always seems to be at those times that I am just a passenger with someone else in the driving seat. Somehow I have to take control of the wheel.

"I never thought you were a fool but darling look at you.
Cause tears are going nowhere, baby.

Don't say that later will be better cause you're stuck in the moment.
And now you can't get out of it."
But I will.

Short and sweet...

I haven't got much to say at the mo so I'll make this short. This is probably best, I do have a tendency to go on a little. All my friends are getting married, or at least all my Facebook friends are. I know this through their facebook status. You know when they change from being 'single' to 'in a relationship' to 'engaged' with all the congrats wall posts that come along with it. Then finally (in Facebook terms) the 'married' status. This is followed up by more congratulatory wall posts from close friends who couldn't make it and those who found out too late and wondered why they didn't get an invite.

But it has come to my attention that there is a flaw in the Facebook profile status setting. The choices are 'single' for those who are ok to state that and leaving it blank for those who feel sad by not having a partner. The step up is 'in a relationship' and one can choose another Facebook contact to be in a relationship with. This is usually a defining moment in a young relationship and comes with connotations of a girl being freaked out by the speed in which the guy has announced their relationship or the guy being freaked out by the declaration. Then there's 'engaged' and 'married' for people who really know they love each other or, annoyingly, for those female best friends. Then there's two more strange additions, 'it's complicated' and 'in an open relationship'. I put down 'it's complicated' once and one of my friends demanded to know who was the guy I was referring too. It was no one in particular, just the general description of all my relationships.

But in a world where most people who get married in their twentys WILL be divorced by their late thirties I see no Facebook status option of 'divorced'. It seems to me they've missed a vital demographic here. Or maybe Facebook users are all under 35? Maybe they could argue that no one in their right mind would like to share the fact that they're divorced but my argument is this: When greeting card manufacturers are producing 'Congratulations, you're divorced' cards I see no reason why this status should not be included as an option.

Some friends of mine have recently changed their relationship status to one of being married to each other and this is what popped up on my Facebook Homepage "...made a lifetime commitment to one another, and let everyone on Facebook know." Note: Lifetime Commitment. So we're all aggreed - we all still believe Marriage is 'till death do us part'. I believe this may be a reflection of how the world likes to see marriage as opposed to the reality of it. The engagement phase and wedding is a magical time, special, when two people who love each other join together (sometimes in front of God even though they don't believe) in official matromony. Except people fall in and out of love with each other all the time. What makes a precious metal ring on a finger mean it's going to last forever? I think the vows should be changed to 'in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for however long we feel like it...' None of this forever sharade.

If we all just accept the option that marriages don't always last forever then I think that the meaning of a marriage wouldn't feel like such a sham. I do love the dresses though, and the cake, and the flowers. I'll probably get married one day just to have a good party. I dream of a world where I might be able to get away with the line "Great wedding, can't wait for your next one." and where the Facebook Homepage states 'Bob Jones has changed his relationship status from Married to Divorced.' Wall post reads 'Congrats on the divorce Bob, I never liked her anyway.'

What's the plan Stan?

Feel I need to re-establish myself with the long term goals. Plus peeps keep asking me what I'm up to and my answer is annoyingly vague.

Aim: Around the World without flying.
Reason: Environmental (air pollution yes but I feel cars do as much damage in that area), financial (I don't believe air travel is as necarsary as the governemnt push for expansion on all areas of the industry regardless the obvious low cost and speed. I can not imagine how we have come to access trans continental travel in 2 hours and £40), personal (to me flying isn't part of the journey - it's a metal time machine taking me out of one time-zone and dropping me into another causing my body to re-adjust un-naturally and my mind tired from no connection of the previous place to the present).

Route: Spain (1yr approx to become fluent in Spanish)
Africa (Overland with a company including Morocco ending in Cape Town)
Australia (Must reach Perth by Sea from somewhere in Africa. Preferably Cape Town but I have yet to find a freighter that is on that route, approx 1yr in Australia inc a stint in New Zealand to see in the new yr from the furthest easterly Island in the world)
North America (Starting out in LA, experiencing Hawaii, doing Route 66 to Chicago, NY and the surounding area).
Ending trip with a sea crossing to Ireland/England depending on funds.

Deadline: Return to England for the 2012 Olympics.

Well that's the plan for now. Who knows what will pan out.

What's the difference between Benidorm and Benicassim? One of them has a music festival.

On Thursday 10th July I flew to Luton Airport from Madrid. Yes I flew. I damn well hit the runway and sold my soul to Easy(sleazy)jet. Turns out it was better to be without a human spirit when they announced a 2hr30mins delay to my flight at 9:30pm. I personally thanked them for reminding me why I was chosing to opt out of air travel. Onboard, by-passing the furious Aussies who were possibly missing a connecting flight, I was amused by the blonde air-hostess giving out the safety intsructions in her familiar Essex accent. It seemed strange hearing it again and I couldn't work out if I had missed it or glad that I didn't have to listen to it anymore. But why Luton Airport and not Stansted seeing as that's actually my personal Airport (as my father says sarcastically we really do enjoy our personal driveway through the villages and town of Stansted, over the M11 and into the terminal). You can fly to anywhere in Spain from Stansted except Madrid, handy that - much. Though that's all changing now with demands from whoever the movers and shakers are in the Aviation industry to start flying to Madrid. Landing at Luton gave me a warm feeling anyhow. The same one I get whenever I land back in Britain from being away. I've flown quite alot in my life, a luxury I forget to acknowledge.

I first flew when I was 4yrs and it was the best flight I've ever had. My Dad was working out in Canada and my Mother and I flew out to Toronto to meet him for a bit of a holiday. My mother was quite nervous I'd play up when taking off and landing because of the pressure so she gave me lots of sweets to keep my mind off it which I loved of course. We were in Buisness Class so I was the only child there and naturally the Air Hostesses were nervous I'd get bored and disturb all the other Buisnessmen. But there was no need to be bored - there was a wide screen TV for god sake! Wide screen! In the early 90's! I was in heaven with the leather seats and strolling around on the carpeted floors with my shoes off, I acted like I owned the joint and everyone thought I was cute for it. A way through the flight the Hostesses invited me to cockpit to see the captain and the view from the front. Oh my God! It was amazing. I've never flown Buisness Class again or gone up to the cockpit - naturally flying has been a sort of let down eversince.

I had to fly back to Britain from Spain for some emergency medical supplies. I was flying out of Stansted to Valencia on the Tuesday 15th July for travelling to Benicassim. Stansted was the usual, I was sad to leave it. Like I was happy flying into Britain, with the spontanious smile I get realising I'm home, I was meloncholy when I left. Sad to leave the place I love below but knowing I have to now. Turns out there were alot of festival goers on my flight. There were a group of five lads I identified as festival goers by the traditional wearing of strange hats. Hats has been the accessory of choice for at least 4 years now. It's all about the bowler now but no one has caught up on that - they were all wearing the straw trilbys still. Turns out they were helpful when we landed as I had absolutely no idea where I was going or how to get to Benicassim. I knew there was a train but getting to the train staion? (and remember I had my house on my back again, complete with ironic 'wish it was more individual' Cath Kidston tent). I had a rough idea of getting metro and generally just followed the flowing skirts, designer sunglasses, trilbys and backpacks. It was seeing the other festival goers that made me realise my one nice dress wasn't really going to cut it in terms of style. But what the hell was I supposed to do? I was camping for god sake and I'm already on my travels. You can all dive back into real life once the festival was over.

I have been looking forward to the festival since I left my University town of Plymouth where I was living back in Febuary. I left behind some friends who were coming to meet me at the festival that I was incredibly excited about seeing again. I needed some R and R with my ol' time crew to re-fuel me for my next stint at being alone in Spain. (I aint got a job at the mo and everyone I know in Madrid is leaving - losers). However - on train to Benicassim, finally get a text from one mate and his girlf who say trains are rammed until eve. Great. It's gonna be me holding down 3 tent pitches all by myself - I see that happening - much. My other mate was meeting us the following day. Or so we thought. I rocked up at Benicassim train station around 2 or 3pm in searing heat and was not looking forward to hanging around wondering what the hell to do or where to go liked everyone seemed to be doing. Outside was an info booth - a nice lady told me to walk to campsite about 20mins away. Yeah, great, lovely. The Spanish mid-day sun, my house on my back and exercise I was not mentally prepared for - loving it.

Treking on, reaching campsite which seemed a bit too much like a wasteland for my liking I got told to wait before being escorted to camping spot. Wait?! Wait - you bloody kidding! I'm about to collapse from exhaustion! Anyway... the long road ahead (it was actually like 5mins) and we got to a spot where a group of about 20 of us were told to wait again when the organisers didn't really seem like they knew what they were doing. Ahhhh, aint that sweet - when I'm bloody dying! A frantic Spaniard asked if there were any one persons available. As everyone else came with friends I jumped at opportunity of being told where to camp. She showed me a tiny plot practically on gravel pathway where we were waiting. How picturesque, (does sarcasm come out in bloggs?)

Now I've put up many a tent in my time, having gone through an obsession with camp-outs when my parents aquired the field at the back of my house and also being a Guide (how traditional and tedious too) but somehow I made it a rather less smooth experience at Benicassim and what little style and grace I had, I was losing fast in the struggle to put the poles in. Luckily I was next to four lads from England and one of them offered me some help. How lucky I was to be camping next to someone from England I thought. How lucky it was that most of the people at the train station buying tickets were English, how lucky that most of the people there seemed English. Oh no, hangabout - what the hell happened to the foreigners? This was Spain for god sake. Tent up - I kipped til I recieved phone call from mate saying him and his girlf had arrived.

It was about 10:30pm and we had an impromptu meeting on the walkway. As luck would have it, they had been assigned a pitch a couple of letters away. I walked with them to site where we decided on tactics to keep pitches all together in wait of my other mate and her boyf from Plymouth. My mate put up the tent as his girlf and I took part in what we named 'Festival Relocation Relocation'. Up we took tent, bags and all and walked up the path with structure, dodging a few allready drunken kiddies from Wakefield. I only managed two pegs in tent anyway, ground was so bloody stoney. Wednesday the three of us chilled on the beach where I noticed those airline boys again. The groups that I was coming accross generally seemed to fall into 3 catorgories - the lads holiday, the girls holiday or the couple of couples group. On returning from day we found our camp that was on edge of site next to walkway slightl encroached on by another group of 5 tents. Luckily, the group turned out to be a pretty good bunch from Manchester and Leeds. They managed to break the mould in typical festival goers there in as much as they seemed to have a mixed ratio of females to men and couples to singles. Plus they weren't like 14yrs, excited about the fact they were managing to smoke weed. Or as one guy came up to them and said "I'm so fucked." And their reply being "Well you're obviously not are you - you can walk."

But by this time the three of us were only slightly worried about where the other two would camp. They were meant to meet us on Wednesday or Tuesday, I forget but their flight from Newquay on Tues got cancelled. Their next flight was Thursday when they were going to make contact in noon to tell us when they would arrive. Unfortunately, on returning to my friends from a lovely swim in the sea, they told me they were refused boarding at the airport. Something to do with my mate's boyf's passport being unreadable. I suspect the lazy so and so put it through the wash or something. So that was her out of the running for some fun in the sun which made her livid and me extremely dissapointed. That night was the first night of music though so I hoped it would pick my spirits up.

It did not. I couldn't drink to get drunk, I was dehydrated allready. Entering the festival site was a hideous affair of being searched for alcohol. I just had a small bottle of water in bag which they didn't seem to mind that night. The next night I took a normal sized bottle of water which a Spanish Festival Mafia man thought might be alcohol so I protested "Agua, Agua." To which he took cap off, smelt it and threw cap away. Threw it away! Threw it away in one swift action he had taken away a basic human right to water. Becuase in this way, as the organisers well knew, I had to drink it all in one go and then buy more at bar which is even more of a fucking liberty than I have ever encountered before. One could only buy drinks with tokens previously purchased at a booth which cost 2 Euros and 50 Cents per token. One small beer cost one token, one bottle of water cost one token. 2Euros50C for a water! You fucking kidding me! By taking part in this festival of music I was becoming subservient to the capitalist pigs that were running the place - I did not enjoy that loss of control. Or more importantly - loss of choice.

But Sigur Ros were on the first night and they put on an excellent show. The best show there I think many would aggree. And it was a shame they were put on the first night and not the last. I had never really heard Sigur Ros before and didn't really know what to expect but I love being introduced to new music and I fell for their sound as I recognised one of their songs used on an O2 advertisement. They had massive paper globe lights suspended from above that faded in and out to the music along with the occasional strobe punctuation that the lighting guys seemed to enjoy for all main stage shows. We were not that far back, but far enough in the crowd that every 2 minutes I was jostled left, then right, I could barely keep my balance to stay standing. I've been in shity crowd situations before, the usual at Reading when teenagers go crazy to Foo Fighters. But this was different being that I was still wearing my flip flops. Didn't make that mistake the next night. Getting to and from a performance was the hardest task, managing to keep my balance in barely there footwear when every other person coming towards me, behind me, moving past me was stepping on the back of my flip flops. I was not a happy bunny. Having my toes crushed by a bouncer looking fellow comeing straight for me was the last straw and I returned to camp without an ounce of feelgood drug in me.

Friday was a better showdown, with me finally purchasing tickets for drink (much to my despair obviously) and us and the northerners getting on nicely. We watched Babyshambles whom I have never seen before and have never had a desire too. If you're a fan of Pete Doherty - look away now. I have never seen him as any benefit to music whatsoever. The only shows I've ever been privy to clips of he's been falling over from too much of what ever the hell he'd pumped into his body that night. To me that is not talent - that is a waste of space. So I was hoping to be pleased by his performance at Benicassim. I wasn't much. He did manage to stay standing for the whole thing and say a couple of words. But I felt no movement by his music. And as soon as I did hear his voice I could tell him for what he really way - a scared person with no confidence. Why else would he pile himself full of shit.

I had a nice falafel after the show then went off to Spiritualized who put on a good show with good music. That's all I ask of music festivals... somewhere to let lose to good music without having your personal space being incaded. Somewhere to free your mind to something new. Oh my God I want to be at Woodstock. Damn, I was born too late. Saturday was pretty much the same with eating, seeing Jose Gonzalez but then made the mistake of going back to camp and calming down and having a kip to which I could not rise myself from and missed The Raconteurs which I kicked myself for. But Sunday I was well looking forward to. Morissey was up. I love Morissey and yet I have never actually seen him live before. He is one of those guys that I feel speaks through his music and no one dares do that these days believing it harder to make money that way. There's a reason it's called the Music Industry and not an Art Club.

He was on just before Siouxsie who I also wanted to see for Genrational sake but didn't manage. Morissey played everything I wanted to hear and more. And when I heard those familiar songs, and the lights go up and down in time to the music - I was free. I was enjoying it - I ruddy loved it. Because I believed in it. The music, the words, the moment. It was mine. Morissey, always criticised in The Smiths for being romantic, now has turned into a dissapointed and sarcastic artist. I love him for it of course - it's the truth. But he did seem to let the side down a tad going on about Vegetarianism to the Spaniards. Who are you trying to change - this is their culture. But he kept on about 'Death, Benicassim is not free...' or something or other which was a bit uncalled for. But it didn't spoil my fun.

Another legendary moment from earlier the Sunday evening was Leonard Cohen. OMG! What a guy... what a voice. So soulful, so deep, so effortless. The VIP section was the fullest it had ever been the whole weeekend as everyone had turned out to see his possible last ever tour of Europe before his 74th birthday. Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing. Ironicly though it was the last day that turned out to be the best one I had spent in Benicassim. Monday when half the camp were exiting for England leaving some mighty scavenging going on by the hangers on. Considering we were in Spain, the food in Benicassim wasn't that great and alot of us seemed to survive on what we could find in Supermercado and trek back to camp with (the whole death defying experience that was crossing the out of town junction of main road, though not as death defying as the idiots who decided to play 'lets roll down the roundabout hill' onto oncoming traffic). The flimsy barriers that served to pretect pedestrians from traffic was defintely put down to 'the Spanish way'. Glasto would have had a health and safety field day.

But on the last day, the northerners, my mate and his girlf and I found a lovely little resturaunt to have lunch in. It might have been Italian in origin but offered us some official Menu translation entertainment in chosing what to have - and my God there was alot. I felt that had Gordon Ramsey entered the joint he would have said "fuck me there's alot here isn't there." My mate, his girlf and I had already discovered an offering of 'Sausages to the White Wine' in a jamon joint up the road. Here we were able to find such delightful dishes as 'meat and treacle starter', 'all of the cakes with some of the ice creams' and 'beef cheek'. Exactly which cheek would that be now? Fun was in the translation and on attempting to order when the boys got double the beers they were expecting when asking for Ceveza and then specifying which beers they'd like. Entertainment was further provided by Mat with one 'T' who discovered a whole chilli hidden in a bubble on his pizza. An instant after he told us of this chilli his face burned a bright red and it was all he could do to drink water and then retire to the bathroom to gather himself. Of course us at the table had descended into fits of laughter helped along by my mates girlf who was feeling the humour more than most. Once Mat with one 'T' had returned he was then put out by an on set of hiccups which was more annoying to him, thus fueling our laughter rather than a hilarious incident itself.

We spent Monday afternoon on the beach where we were surprised to learn that there was to be no swimming because the weather had turned a tinsy bit stormy. Tall Helen did suggest how ridiculous the no swimming was as those conditions in British waters would have been perfectly acceptable. Before we settled down to a game of Shitface, courtesy of Matt with 2 'T's two pack of cards, we were treated to an ocean drama as one man had took it upon himself to ignore the red flag on beach and swim as far out as he could, prompting an emergency rescue by lifeguards. One lifeguard who attempted to swim after him, 2 lifeguards who decided to take the boat out, a lifeguard who came on a quad bike from up the coast seemingly just for the crack and a Civil Guard. It was all rather exciting in a comical, this is a tad bit of an over-reaction kind of way. The man who eventually came out of the water was rather lardy and didn't seem to have any inclination of what events he had caused. He was of course even more put out when the Civil Guard attempted to take down his details.


The night previous had seen lots of scavenging as the campsite was emptying and I and small Helen had spent the whole of Monday walking around town with lylos we had nabbed from those who had left. The kiddy idiots I had got my retro bed from were complete and utter shit-toffs. The kind with no sense and voices barely broken and all they caused me was agro as they'd swan into camp at 5.30am shouting their baby faces off about who they had or hadn't got off with. The girls weren't much better - idlessly gossiping about who was going out with who on camp and putting out with a bottle of vodka. Like get over it - and learn some self respect. The Monday evening saw some desperate attempts of scavenging left over tents which another group of kids were building up 'hidden' in an abandoned shelter. Matt with 2 'T's revealed a more devilish side to him as he was rather taken with the idea of a lighter and and an aim for their stash. To be fair this would have been sweet festival justice as the little f***ers made a nuisance of themselves constantly baraging us for weed and using the shade structure as a climbing frame.

But we made for ourselves a carpet of stolen lylos and chilled out to the sounds of a personal i-pod the last night. A perfectly relaxing evening bringing to a close a more or less lovely week. The following morning the Northerners left in their hire car for Barcelona. We said our goodbyes and expected the obligotary Facebook adding. I left my mate and his girlf on camp as I headed for station for 11:00am train outathere. Had a panic booking session on Friday when I realised everyone would be heading out that day. The platform to Valencia was packed but not as much as the other one to Barcelona. I think I definitely picked the right direction to come from. It was a Cercanias train that rocked up for us which meant a race for seats and no space for luggage. At Valencia though i had time before my afternoon train for lunch and a stroll through a part of the city. Loved it. On board train back to Madrid (not before my luggage was scanned on platform) I settled down to a nice film and a quick sleep. I was heading back to reality and the post holiday blues were setting in as I realised I still wanted to be on holiday. All in all a good trip, not what was I expecting but good. Highlights - Leonard Cohen and Battles for those that saw them. Let downs - Jose Gonzalez and Babyshambles for me. I think next year I'm off to Summercase near Madrid.

Breakfast at Manuel's

My alarm on my Casio 'Boywatch' (what all the boys were wearing in the 90's) wakes me at 6am most days. I say most days because my working schedule is a changing one due to the demanding life that buisness people lead and often they cancel classes. Once my alarm beeps I am panicked into motion. I'm not awake but I move. Once the cursed thing is silent I probe into the darkness for a light switch. Yes, in Spain, I get up when it's still dark. Spain is really a holiday country isn't it - ascociated with long lie ins and siestas, a vivid night life. I'm lucky if I get a nap in the afternoon before I head for my extra curricular evening shift.

Arranging some sort of order of clothing on bed, I manage in a state of half madness to get dressed. Breakfast was always in my mind a healthy affair. I pictured a classic balcony overlooking a small square, me enjoying a bowl of Special K with Soya milk. In reality I eat 'Special Form' from Dia the supermarket that never has what you want for more than a day with random what I think is Soya milk from the deduction that it is not labelled Pascual and that is often off the day after I open due to the 'white cupboard' of a fridge in the kitchen. I don't have a balcony overlooking a square - it's a sort of patio space of which half has been taken up by my extension of a bedroom. It is enclosed on absolutely every side - the doors that enter it from, my bedroom, my housemate's window to her bedroom and a concrete, holey, screen. It overlookes an inner courtyard of another few buildings, only ever used as I can gather as a fag break place at 7:30am. It leaves a rather poor view, and the sky is almost funneled. Not that a view of sorts I would enjoy, I leave when it gets light and come back when it's getting dark.

At 6:50am I leave the flat. Pressing the self-timer light switch next to the lift door, I make my way round to the central stair well. I enjoy the old banester and the inside of the building is a taste of European life. Once down to the vestibule I step carefully to avoid the cockroaches (which has goten passed the point of foreign differences but to one which I can no longer stand). I press the door switch inside the front door, without which I can not open the front door, a perfect reminder of Europeaness and step out onto the bearly light street. I have been known to walk to the train station when the street lamps haven´t even been turned off yet.

It only takes me 15 mins to walk to the Cernacias line of Piramdias station. On the way I pass a little lovely Pasteleria that if I have time and it actually isn´t too early, stop off in for a coissant and coffee. But this I have to say is a luxury. The Cercanias (RENFE train that goes underground) is actually a nice experience. Much better than the commuter trains offered by Britain and better than the rush hour on the metro as you can sit down most of the time. Sometimes I'm treated to a ride on a double-decker train which is delightful, though underground for most of the way, there is no view. I guess my feeling towards the experience on board a double decker train must be similar to that of those of the tourists who ride London double-decker busses.

My train journey takes me 20 mins before I arrive in Nuevos Ministerios and take a leisurely 10 mins to walk to my Office. God, I work in an office - I´m part of the system! I pass many a lovely shop on the way, Cafeterias with buisness men and women taking a pre-work coffee and talking about... whatever buisness people talk about. There are a few designer furniture stores including one I spot with a circlular kitchen pod in the window which I have now decided is my 10 yr goal and one day I must have. There are lots of clothes stores, designer or not and some designer maternity wear shops but there are an astonishing amount of pregnant women around - they must all gather for the clothing. I have also discovered the anti-dote to my previous obsession of Laura Ashley-fying interior spaces; Zara Home! It is the best thing to come out of Spain since, well, Zara.

My working day begins at 8am and though not an intensive morning, I generally hang round for buisness types at their offices to decide wether or not they feel like talking English today. Although the dedicated few are incredibly interesting to talk to and I´m learning alot about the country from the natives. I spend an enormous amount of money for a little satisfying snack of a lunch (apparently Nuevos Ministerios could do with a Subway) as I have not much time for a traditional Spanish lunch. Over that time I am teaching back at the school.

I finish at 4:15 and hang round til it´s time to get the metro to the edge of Madrid to teach the little girl at 6pm. I am meant to stay with her for 2 hours but past 7 - tis a struggle to keep her occupied and I spend most of the last half hour saying please get up from underneath the table. I don´t arrive back to my flat from the metro until 9pm or so. I walk passed the Spanish firemen hanging around outside their station (this is not as pleasent an experience as it sounds as none of the firemen are actually fit!) By the time I get back, scramble for my keys, curse the postman for not delivering my letter from the bank again, remember to turn the lights on so as not to step on any cockroach corpses, I´m not exactly a bundle of sociable energy. I dump my stuf in my room, collapse into bed and set the alarm on my watch for another day.

It´s Her way or the Cryway.

It has come to my attention that I seem to be in training to be Supermum one day.



Whilst staying on the farm and having the fortune of looking after the 5 yr old girl that lived there for a few evenings a week for 2 months I now know that I don´t want to live with a 5 yr old ever ever again. And if that means putting off the kiddies for a couple of decades I think I can handle that because a child that refuses to go to bed without a packet of chocolate biscuits - I can´t handle very well at all.



However there were a few things I learn´t about looking after the dear little thing whilst being left in front of her favourite 7 TV programs a night and her insesent whines for something or nothing. Admittedly anything I´ve previously known about childcare I got from Channel 4´s Supernanny but I wasn´t sure how easily translated ´the naughty step´would be in a Spanish Bungalow. So I prepared the littlen for bedtime by saying in 10 minutes or after the next program you´re going to bed and got her to aggree with me. The more she watched TV though the more it became a problem for her parents of how close she got the the set. So a few weeks into babystiting duties they told me to tell her not to sit too close and if she didnt obey to switch the TV off. So one evening, armed with the determination and firm believe of Supernanny herself, I prepared for battle.



One, two, three times I asked her to move away from the TV and defiance was ever more apparent. So I reached for the plug and switched off. At first I walked away and sat down explaining why the TV was off. This was a mistake for she was used to just going behind the TV and switching it back on. This did not sit well with me and I had to make sure I took complete control of the situation. So I tried getting rid of the plug but some how the 5 yr old became an eletronic genius and managed to work the TV post plug. I didn´t understand but just went to the main socket an switched off. And stayed there. At first she decided to act all let´s play a game which weaker sitters might think means she´s come round to your way of thinking and is ready to co-operate. But beware - they are distraction techniques designed to lull you into a false sense of security until - pounce - they are in control, again.

Unfortunately my lack of communication skills in her language made it slightly difficult for her to understand why I was sitting on the TV controls but I tried to keep explaining in my limited spanish. This went on for 10 minutes and she had just decided to give in when her parents came home. There arival changed her mode of behaviour becasue she knew that one scream in their ear would sometimes (not all the time I had noted) work and thus undoing my work on dicipline. I´m pretty sure at times she tried the whole ´she´s not letting me routine´hopefully the parents didn´t fall for it. ´

Having now left the farm and living in a flat and teaching English in the city of Madrid I now find myself tutoring another ´challenging´child. She is Spanish but her Dad is from America and she goes to a Scottish school in the city where they follow the curriculum of UK. (Her mum says it´s English but all the teachers are from Scotland which is a separate country much to the confusion of foreigners I come accross). Last week it was her SATS. I am soooooooooooooooooooooooo lucky I only had to do them once and I was 10-11 when I had to. She is 6 years old. 6 and she had a whole week of exams! It´s just not right. She feels herself that it´s not right as last Tuesday there was a Comprehension Exam which she outright refused to do. As soon as I was told this I had uneasy flashbacks of my own refusals in class.

I am compasionate of the amount of work she is given as homework by the school (3 separate exersises for completion the next day at times), her difficulties with reading (she mixes up letters and words which could be classed as Dyslexia but I refuse to label a child who is simply different) and her recognition of her differences compared to her classmates leading to her low self-confidence but I don´t know if I´m the best person to help her through this. Because my understanding which comes from my own experience isn´t letting me, at the moment, find a solution or process to help her through her problems.

It´s something that has to be worked on I guess. It´s just sometimes, when we´re reading Biff and Chip and answering the corresponsing questions I get the same terrible boring, pointless feeling that I had myself as a child. Although to be fair Biff and Chip is way more interesting that what I had to read and those Magic Key adventures remind me of the good times. But still when we´re doing some maths exercises like find the missing number, or what´s the pattern - I don´t know who still needs improvement - me or her.

Down on the Farm

Finca del Molino, Valdeolmos, Monday, end of March 2008 where I lay my scene. First day saw me adjusting to life in a foreign country I was pleased to be in and a language I was keen to understand. Angel, the owner of the Finca had gone to work and his wife Rosa, spoke no English so chores were off for the day. Angel had told me in emails that his place was not an organic farm and on living here for a while it is more of an experimental project for the familly and friends. All which I´m sure reap answers for the greater good of mankind.

Angel´s house was built 15 years ago but he says he has not lived in it all that time. It is a house I warmed to immediately and as I´m extremely sensitive to my manmade surroundings I was glad of this. Perhaps it was the previous day spent mostly traipsing around in the sun and the thought of being stranded that meant as soon as I walked in I felt welcomed or it could have been due to the hippy hangings on the wall and teh cute picures painted onto the pastel coloures walls.

My bedroom is a little room off teh main living and dining area that lets light in through two of teh internal walls with glass bricks at the top. There is a window facing south to the back of the house and the back land with curtains that are a little too transparent for my liking. To try and solve this I raised an old blind that was folded at the bottom of the window, inbetween the outside and inside glazing.

The floors are tiled throughout, some now lifting a little out of place and the windows in the bathroom are a little rusty, the shower holder up on the wall broken, but all this only adds to some sense of charm to this place. It being a B and B somewhere hosting travellers as they come and go in a fairly impersonal fashion would make this a depressing place. But it has been lived in by a familly and been made their own with personal objects. Glad to be feeling at ease here, I looked forward to a wealth of information on sustainable living.

My first task was to paint a summer house with oil. Not exactly what you would call organic (although the oil was sunflower and Angel said the price had gone up threefold within the past year because of people using it as fuel for their cars. Painting that whole cabin seemed a bit daunting all by myself and tedious. But I was happy to do it as on walking in I recognised the smell of new wood from my own summerhouse back home and was pleased for the comforting memory. Dragging the stepladders out of teh unused swimming pool, finding brushes and rollers in the tool shed dodging the wasps that inhabeted it for a while, I decamped for a day at the top of the farm´s land in the cabin. Having once decided on some sort of plan - roof first, walls then floor - I set about to do my part. The activity gave me alot of time to think as you can imagine.

Too much time to think though as a week and a bit of that and my next task was to weed the permaculture flower beds. This I was looking forward to as it was what I had come to learn about. The amount of weeding though that had to be done, I was not looking forward to. And all by myself! Gloving up, kneeling down, dodgy hoe in my right hand I became a human jukebox to stave off the brutality of natural silence. The natural silence, which is in fact natural noise. The noise of birds, insects the village church striking on the hour and at half past, the builders a couple of fields away building a new housing estate and distant cars on dusty roads. My own music and imagination became enlightened against nature´s white noise.

Weeds vex me. They are illusive and masters of disguise. I found that those with the most horrendous of foliage that pricked and hurt were in fact the easiet to up root. They had one thick root that grew vertically down, allowing for little anchorage. On pulling these up I would be glad of the achievement of a whole, unwanted plant being removed. I felt equal negativity when the plant broke away from the root system leaving a hidden part of it buried in the ground so that it may rejuvenate. The hardest of these weeds to pull up were those that had leaves which were fairly inconspicuaous but a tremendous root system. I had to srcrape and excavate the soil around teh plant to get a firm grip of the very base of the plant and pull with focussed force. If successful then the weed was retrieved with an alien like tentacle system that I was afraid to look at for too long in case it might come alive (I think this is an image put into my head by a bad Harry Potter film).

The weeds are not taken to a seperate composting department but simply strewn straight on top of the straw covered beds. Permaculture requires that 70% of what came out of the environment, stays in the environment. The straw is to provide a culture for the plant to breath on top of the soil. This way of nothing added, nothing taken away means that the plants grow in an obvious more naturally way and also, the ground they grow in becomes better year after year. The beds are lines of mounds that have been dug from the land and shaped. It is important I learned that one doesn´t step on the beds so that the soil does not become depressed. The emphasis here is on as little human interfierence as possible. When I had finished weeding I replensihed the supply of straw with a smell that reminded me of mucking out stables.

I weeded in total 2 gardens and a tunnel. I hoped that I did a good job because a few weeks after I got to actually plant some things that would be harvested in July for the familly to eat. Delicately lifting the seedlings from their plastic shells, and placing the in moist soil, I felt quite some responsibility to the end process. I felt extremely glad to be part of teh process too and on finishing planting I was strangely uplifted. My back ached and I had dirt under my fingernails but I had never felt better. Like I had really achieved something important.

Mother´s Day - continued

My fellow Americans and I had travelled over the period of the clocks going forward so when we arrived in Madrid we didn´t know what time it was. Our confusion was over wether the time stated on the ticket was the changed time or time without daylight savings. Also we though we might be a little late arriving. We had lost the fourth girl sometime in the middle of the night in the north of Spain. We recieved our passports back and disembarked. I dragged myself and my luggage out onto the platforma nd said goodbye to the Americans for the first time. I then thought that I would skip breakfast (it was 10.00am) as I wanted to arrive at my final destination in Spain as quickly as possible. This turned out to be a mistake.

I wandered around the station, lapping it and the Americans several times before finding the right directions to the subway. Below, I waited at a nice new subway station for a train to Plaza Castilla where I was to catch the 182 bus to Valdeolmost. I think I must have arrived there at 11.00am with all the wasted time at Chamartin. I followed directions for the buses until I reached a subway crossroads. To my left was a sign for ´autobus subterráneo´and to my right a sign for ´autobus terminal´. I went right as all logic pointed to a bus terminal for buses out of the city than some metrobus thing.

On reaching the surface I found I had arrived at an old, smelly bustation with very little busses passing through. I had been told that the busses left at ten to the hour so I sat in that place for just under an hour for a bus to come. A bus didnt come, I had been waiting 2 hours when I thought. shit I could be in trouble here. I asked a Spaniard (pleased to be using a language I had a basic knowledge of) where I could find my bus. However understanding the Spaniard prooved more difficult than previously expected. He kept on saying ´bajo, metro´and I kept on saying ´no, quiero áutobus, no metro´. And the conversation went round in circles. It took me two other attempts with two other people to understand that what they were referring to was an underground bus station or áutobus subterranéo. Silly me for thinking that busses ran on roads on the surface, in daylight. I managed to go back underground and once there, finding my alloted bus place was easier. It was new and modern but the time was 13.00, I was hungry, there were no food places near and the next bus out was in 50 mins. I survived those 50 mins on half of the last of the chocolate from the Channel Islands. Don´t underestimate the importance of chocs when travelling.

A phone call to the Parents on a ridiculously overpriced, supposingly easier, global simcard mobile connected me to the sain world. The bus eventually came. I told them where I wanted to go and asked to be told when we arrived as I did not know what the place looked like. That´s why I don´t like busses - it is way too easy to get stranded as did happen to me in ´The Bus Story´of 2000. But that´s for another time. The journey took 40 mins and it was a fight with my eyes to stay awake for that time. Then, the last on the bus, I got off in a quiet, dusty but established village called Valdeolmos, N.E. of Madrid. My instructions were to go into the Restaurant and ask for the location of farm where I was to spend the next month. I did so, sort of, in broken Spanish, and a presumably semi-drunk guy came out and told me where to go in Spanish, and pointed. Out of his conversation I understood Church and right. And I could see a church and a road bearing right so I was happy to set off.

However the road quickly turned into rubble track behind the church and I had absolutely no idea in which I was heading. I was meant to be able to see a windmill but for love nor money I could not make one out in the skyline. Maybe I was too tired, I was low on sugar and water and starting to panick. Being in the middle of nowhere, heading nowhere with the weather closing in on me. I trekked back, directionless to a shop and asked. A guy pointed and talked which I got nothing from and headed further down the unmarked road than before. But I stopped thinking I was heading in the worng direction as I could see no sign of life for miles so I turned back and asked at the shop again. This time the guy who had told me before took me to a high point by the church and pointed several, shouty times and I spotted a windmill. Oh thankgod I could see it I thought. Off I went down that same unmarked road only this time my eyes were fixed on that windmill. I frustratingly overshot the entrance to the farm thinking it just another road but reached the place just in time before the heavens opened.

I had arrievd in siesta time which is why I did not think it odd their being a deathly silence as I traisped past little garden patches and old bbq table and chairs, befitting the organic lifestyle I had come to learn about. A porch door was shut but I opened it and entered to the main front door. I knocked. No answer so I knocked again, louder. Nothing, so I knowcked and said `Hola´. Nothing still. Rain poured and it was enough to drag my stuff into the porch. Phone rang. Mother suggested I ask someone. There was no one to ask and the thought of going all the way back to village in rain whislt allready cold was throurally depressing. As we talked though I noticed a van drive up the side of teh farm land to the back where several huts were. The rain had eased up and I rushed out to ask teh stranger where he thought the familly was. He confirmed though that I was at the right place which was a plus but didnt know where they were and when calling them, they did not anwer.

My mother decided to try and solve the situation UK side and I sat in the porch, on my bags, cold and wet and hungry and thought - yep this is it! This is the nightmare. I´m going to be stuck here all night. This is my life now - no one, nothing, no hope. All has been lost. I had to go back into village to bar to get something to eat but my hunger had turned into sickness and it was a sturggle just to keep some food down. The bar was a feast of life and traditional with bull fighting on the 70´s TV. Being there in any other situation would have positively uplifted me but I was in no mood for anything but sleep. On returning to farm I had hoped that the note I had left for the familly in the doorway had been moved by someone returning. But no, there it was, in the same place I had left it. I waited for some time, god knows how long before my mother rang to tell me she had made contact with familly and they were now returning home. How she managaed contact and I didn´t I don´t know. Five minutes later they had arrived, host, his wife and 5 year old daughter and I was welcomed inside. A chocolate in my hand I sat with a tea and then asked if I could go to sleep. It was 5pm. It had taken me 7hrs to do a trip I now know can be done in 2 because of a miscommunication (he thought I was coming the following weekend), panick due to lack of food (I should never have skipped breakie) and little preparation.

I made an appearance in the evening to watch the end of Muriel´s Wedding in Spanish (shame as the beauty of that film is really the glorious Aussie accents) before retiring for good. The next day brought about the start of life on a self-sustainable farm.

Happy Mother´s Day from Spain

Ok, so Sark was a very long time ago. I left Guernsey in the mist of drizzle that covered the Channel Islands at the end of March on board a Seacat bound for St Malo, France. A crossing which was earlier than planned and just as well too because when I arrived in France, with my home on my back, I though what a good idea it would be to walk, without map, in cloudy sky, to the train station from Ferry terminal. Hint - don´t walk without waterproofs within easy access because as soon as I disembarked, the french heavens opened, the wind howled and I was unwelcome in this foreign land.

Took me a painful 2 hours with sweating breaks in my ski jacket as the only protection from the weather. Note to self - don´t ask for directions in broken french by starting off conversation with a misstitle to a lady, this is insult apparently. The french don´t like me. They don´t understand why I can´t speak their language - maybe they should have met my french teachers. Or maybe they should start spelling their words with letters that one actually pronounces.

Yes I found the tran station, I waited, cold and shivering from my exercise, back aching, on the platform. I held my ticket, ready to stamp on platform (do this or be fined) before boarding my train. I prefer train travel. It takes you through the countryside, you can see landscape changing, it takes you to a named destination unlike the bus. The train I got on was for Rennes. It was comfortable, clean and modern. Far more than I can say for British trains. Rennes was big. A quick hour was waited before I got on my rush-hour train to Paris Monteparsse.

Paris was bigger. The taxi line was long. A girl asked to share one to the airport but I was going in a different direction. I didn´t know which direction but I named a place and she was native and knew it was no where near. I wished I knew. The taxi driver didn´t understand where I wanted to go. I resorted to pointing of words on a printed confirmation of a hostel place and he drove off, muttering french things under his french breath.

I arrived outside a hostel that I recognised from the pictures. Lugged my stuff in and told to wait a while by the reception staff. After a while I went up again, showed my reservation, paid and got given a key. Some intructions were told to me, off which I understood that breakfast was between 7 and 9am. I went up to my room byt tight, curling, steep stairs with intention to sleep. God I needed to sleep, I was knackered and had survived on sandwiches I had bought in Guernsey. My sleep was interupted by a Chinese girl asking for the key. Apprently there was only one and I needed to hand it back in.

My train to Madrid was a night one, the following day and meant I could enjoy being a tourist in the city. Except I don´t enjoy being a tourist. I´ve never enjoyed being one. You can always tell who they are, they always wear baseball caps and carry a rucksack on their front. They never belong to where they are visiting and merely look in on a show put on by the government of the relevant country. I have been to Paris countless times with different company, familly, school, summercamps and each time we have done the same, tedious touristic things. My interests lie in the social culture of a country, however I am always slightly put off by the langauge of the country. I don´t even find the spoken language beautiful in any way. The only time I´ve ever found Paris and France attractive is when I´ve watched ´Amelie´or ´Chocolat´.

But in Guernsey I had read up (thanks to Mel´s parents wonderfully extensive travel book collection) and had found an area of Paris I wanted to visit. Well I just wanted to take a walk heading for the River, I always head for the water whereever I visit. Walking through districts from the north of the river where I was staying, I came accross a demonstration for Disabled people, the only event that seemed to be interesting that day. I made it to river, sat and wrote, thankful that the sun was shining then. On a postcard - it was a picture of loveliness, book stalls lined the river, tall narrow buildings housing flats and a shop below sat back and were bathed in the fresh early spring light. And for a short while, I too enjoyed the Parisian atmosphere. I made a promise to myself then that if ever I was to come back to that capital it would be with artists who had invited me or friends who could speak French.

Paris, admittedly, a city of fine food, of lovely bars, restaurants, true cafe culture and where did I head for lunch? Where I always go when I´m in Paris - McDonalds. I was a dirty tourist whore then. But I didn´t have much money and I didn´t have the urge to try a bar. Heading back to the Youth Hostel, I passed through the square where the demonstration was before, empty and littered with the empty packets of snacks the partakers and onlookers had ingested. I stopped here again as it was still early afternoon and my train wasn´t untill 7pm. I read a while and then continued back to the hostel. Once there, there was nothing really for me to do except check up on Facebook and email the parentals to tell them everything was fine. Everyone was still out on their daily excusrions, checking out the museums, shopping, hanging out with their friends. I sat and read a magazine I had brought with me from Guernsey. ´Living ETC´is a favourite interior mag of mine, showcasing modern living at it´s best. But unfortunately I have been reading it for too long now as the houses they show no longer interest me - they are all arranged the same and everyone has that bloody Barcelona chair either in black or white in their sitting room. Just like Country Living, with their continuous love of stripped painted wood, you can only really subscribe to the magazine for 2 years at the most.

I got the receptionist to ring a taxi for me at 5:30pm, entirely bored of waiting. I hoped that I had enough money in notes on me to get me to the station. Thankfully I did and was pleased to see that there was no real hike to my trenhotel. Finding the right platform I managed to bypass a class trip and got on the train. I got on it - but I didn´t get very far. Having a backpack widens your body and lessns your capabilites of movement. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU NEED ON THE TRENHOTEL. The corridoor is very slim, slimline is key. It took me five mins to navigate a metre section of it. So frustrating. I entered my cabin and met two American college girls who were studying in Salamanca until May. They had been doing Europe on their spring break for the past 2 weeks. It was nice to exchange stories and advice - my first 'meet the fellow traveller' experience which ended in the familiar Facebook contact exchange.

Passports were taken as we set off, we were intructed that we would recieve a fourth girl at another stop which worried me as her seat was currently occupied by my rucksack as the ONLY place it could fit. Beds were turned down at 9pm. This is a process of seats being folded down and overhead bunks being folded down. I started to wish myself and my luggage were so easilly foldable. On board is a complementary kit of water, toothbursh, toothpaste and soap to use over the foldable sink. All of us embarked on getting ready for bed. I climbed to my top bunk and waited with all my bags for some floor space to clear so that I may start the changing process. Hint - wear a skirt, girls, to easilly slip on pyjammas. I managed to haul my backpack onto an overhead (again slim) luggage space and keep the rest of my stuff at my feet. Sliding into bed, the movement of the train soon rocked me to sleep.

Happy Easter from Sark

I realise that I have alot to fill you in on, like what I got up to from when I arrived on Guernsey until now but I've just come back from a lovely weekend on Sark and I'd like to tell you all about it. Well actually the story of how I came to spend Easter on the tiny car-less island starts the week I arrived anyway.





Mel, my lovely Guernsey host had introduced me to a couple of people from her Art Collective group as I had accompanied her to one of their meetings. It's a Guernsey group of freelance artists located in St. Peter Port who have their own gallery (Mill Street, catch it whilst you can - they've just lost sponsorship and the building's uninhabitable). After that initial meeting events took me and Mel to anothe pub with a girl called Den and her boyfriend Theo. Ther was some open mic activity going on and I got up and did a song acapella as ther was no piano nearby. Talking to Den and Theo it transpired he was a budding guitarist whilst stuck in a job that made ends meat whilst Den was an aspiring artist being stuck in a job that made ends meat before they both departed on their travels.



Theo was a Sark boy who´d been on and off Guernsey from 11years for schooling and spent time on mainland for Uni. Den was an authentic Islander who´d also spent time in England studying at Uni. Anyway it was whilst at this pub discussing life over lager (or was it Cider, I forget) that the two of them invited Mel and I to Sark for Easter. I was intruiged to go as I had visited the place as a 2yr old with my grandmother. The last holiday I think she ever had and so I´d always wanted to visit that place, in some nostalgic manor.



Easter was a month away anyhow at this point and many weekend of drunken times did me and Mel encounter. Some of which I would mention but would get me into trouble, some of which I forget and some I chose to forget but most that have taught me lessons. The first was to not get drunk and go back to strangers houses. The second not to get sober when others were still drunk (no matter how badly the wine tasted). Well Easter rolled on in after a fantastic birthday gathering of Mel´s when her Reading Uni friends flew over. However it transpired that it would not be possible for Mel to go to Sark for her impending travel arrangements needed to be made. But the weather was to play a bigger part in hindering my visit.



A couple of days before we were due to go over. the traditional March storms flared up accross the nation. I say traditional as in Febuary/March now we experience pleasent spring like weather - then comes a hurricane 1987 styley and snow. That week before Easter ports had to close, waves battered the Channel Islands, police closed the coastal roads, papers didnt arrive the next day, v. dramatic. On such small, isolated pieces of land, life and culture there becomes exagerated. On no other place can you experience the importance of nature upon human life and human nature in closed social environments.



The morning crossing Den, Theo and I were due to make to Sark was cancelled owing to the bad weather. The afternoon one thankfully (or not thankfully) was running. Waiting in harbour for our boat to come in I suddenly became nervous as the other two kept on saying how brave I was to make the trip. I started to think that perhaps I´d underestimated the short (40 mins or so) boat trip. I swallowed any nerves in any case that this was something I wanted to do and there was no other way of getting there. Local boy Theo started talking to the other locals who were there, as if they were all waiting for a bus, it was such normality. The boat arrived and we boarded.



Once on it was very clear why Den was going to lie down and try to sleep through it. Warnings from the lady who sold me my ticket saying might have to turn back even if make it to Harbour was going through my head. The waved were deep and rolling though thankfully not jerky which probably would have made it a whole lot worse. Setting off I found it quite exciting actually, like a theme park ride. I knew I wouldn´t be ill as long as I fixed my eye on some land and moved my body (not my head) with the boat. I guess you could take it as some kind of philosophy of life - to keep your focus but to roll with whatever comes your way.

And off I go...

After a short but what seemed like a lifetime stay with my parents got on a train at Tottenham Hale, destination Weymouth. I was nervous being driven there. Nervous because I knew what this meant now. I was leaving everyone I knew and loved behind me and it was a different experience to what had gone before. I've left people I've cared for behind in the past and even though that has bothered me I've always moved swiftly onto the next situation and group of people to distract me from anything real I might be feeling. I've always had somewhere to move on to because something before had definitely ended. But at Tottenham Hale I had the very real impression of nothing definite in front of me - just a vague idea of what I wanted to do. And I was making a conscious decision, myself, to leave those around that were important to me.



Armed with my backpack and bags (minus a laptop) I descended to the tube platform. There I had to endure some unnecessary histrionics from my mother and hope that she gets over her daughter not 'coming home' for a while. The trains were unusually busy for a Sunday and this annoyed me. It was like traveling with a very heavy, unmovable baby on my back and I wasn't appreciating (as my fellow passengers) the corners of tube train I unstably backed into. A check of the time on my phone got my adrenaline going at the uncertainty as to whether I'd catch my next train at Waterloo. But I got in with plenty of time which is what usually happens when you worry that you won't. Then when you don't worry - you miss your train, life's a mystery.

The platform at Waterloo did that annoying thing of announcing that the very long train on it, only half of it was going to Weymouth. This immediately set my traveling paranoia into action - what if I got on the wrong half, what if I didn't know? Where would I end up? Ahhhhhhhhhh. But after calming myself down and taking all the directions I could from tanoy systems, ground staff and snatched conversations from other travellers I settled onto the right coach.

A quick text to my best mate was sent. I think she called me sometime into the journey but we were untimely cut off a few times by tunnels. I ate slept a while, ate something to keep my mind off thinking of what my friends were up to at that precise moment. What bar they would be heading to tonight - or any important up coming weekly events I was missing out on.

I arrived in Weymouth nicely on time after a promise of delay from the train driver. I was very kindly picked up by the lady who owned the B and B I was staying at that night. I had to stay over as my ferry was at ridiculous O'clock in the morning. Small talk proceeded on the short drive to the B and B. My room was lovely which is surprising because it really is hit and miss whether you get nice ones or not. The owners hadn't had it long and had just given it a face lift which explained the presentation. Before I settled in for the night I went on the hunt for supper. I was recommended an Italian down the road but I hadn't the means for anything mildly luxurious that evening. I was hoping for a sandwich from a Newsagents but it was 6pm on Sunday. First lesson of travelling - try not to do it on Sundays, if necessary take own provisions for all meals and drinks.

I headed out to explore town but ended up going to the Italian. It was open and only had one other sitting so I thought I could get away with eating by myself and not ordering very much. Some people have a problem with going to restaurants by themselves but I can hack it. I appreciate my own company at times - time to reflect and daydream. I just mustn't make a habit of it because it can get awfully lonely.

After a lovely quick dinner I returned and watched T.V. I can always tell the quality of the place I'm staying by the quality of their T.V. It's been a personal scale of standards since I was a little girl. This place had a smart T.V. with good picture and control but no channel 5. I would of course prefer digital but that is still luxury standards at the moment. 'Five' a decade ago would have been forgiven for being absent but it is a standard channel today. Something decent was on Channel 4 anyway and during watching I made last contact with my friend on Guernsey before meeting tomorrow morning.

Getting on the ferry proved problematic. Armed with my backpack ready for around the world adventure and my hat that looked like it had come from the Wardrobe department of Indiana Jones I attempted to board with my return ticket (it's all to do with pricing). The lady at the desk asked me 'and are you planning to return today?' I hated answering this question but no amount of skirting around the issue could quell her inquisition. So yeah I'm coming back today, of course. On ferry, on seat and we're off. No sea sickness for me - I love the sea I could be on it forever. But I used to say that about being in the car and now I get car sick. So who knows.

A look at my phone with the sign No Network Coverage on it's screen indicated I was now moving into uncharted territory. I was excited now. A couple of hours later, an engine failure delay and I received a text from my contract network stating the new charges for my phone usage - abroad. Abroad???????? Abroad - are you joking?! I'm only going to the Channel Islands. Is it just me or they meant to be a part of like English speaking land? No. I've later learnt that even though they are part of British Islands they are not in fact part of the British Isles. Right, yeah, great distinction.

Well consequently I am out of mobile action but this was partly my goal I think. To discover that somewhere, somehow there is life beyond the gadgetry shackles of 21st Century life. Though if that was the case I wouldn't be blogging now would I. Oh well.

Arriving into port it was clear and sunny. And I noted beauty for the first time in months. The harbour was inviting, it was promising. This was the start of The New Adventures of moi.

So here goes...

First time blogger, hmmmmmmm what to write. Well I'm never short of words so I guess I should start by introducing myself.

I graduated from Uni last summer and have absolutely no idea what I should do with myself. So I'm like every other twenty something in Britain; a huge debt and a misplaced career choice ahead. So I thought I would skip the whole career thing for a while and go on a bit of a mission. What I said to my family and friends was this, "I'm going travelling." Immidiately they thought I should be purchasing an around-the-world plane ticket and alot of phrase books. However I didn't explain myself properly.

What I had in my head was this: visit amazing new places around the globe, get to know the people who live there, survive and do this with as little aeroplane travel as possible. Great - yeah an eco-trip. (Except I hate that prefix, it is used too often and all meaning has been lost) All I want is to experience what differences life has to offer. What different views and opinions different people have in different cultures. And then hopefully I can come back and make money out of writing about it - yey.

Initial problems I have encountered- travelling without being on board Ryanair takes at least three times as long. This effects planning im terms of what days I'm going to be where. Also effects accomodation - care needed to book a warm bed where necarsary. There's the added problem of the whole world only being geared up for air-travel. Watch a travel show - they'll give you all the flight information, even if its only to Barcelona. Watch my show - I'll tell you which train to get (which I'm currently working on).

I'm in Guernsey at the moment, staying with a friend, organising a stay on a Spanish organic farm at the end of march. I started out in Plymouth where I was at Uni and left my house there in a taxi. I was taken to the bus station with a massive backpack full of stuff I didn't really know if I needed and the horrendous thought that I'd probably left most of what I needed in my room. I had a Modbury (first plastic carrier bag free town in Britain) shoulder bag practically collapsing with its contents and a stupid laptop that I just needed to see me through the time at my next stopping point.

After a short wait with my load I got on a National Express bound for Victoria Station, London. It was specifically central London as freqeunt bus users will know to take advantage of the cheap ticket called funfare. It can be as low as £1 each way but I've never got that. Even with well in advance booking the lowest I've had each way is £9. It was evening (5hr from Plym to London) by the time I got in to the Coach station. Waited an hour for my Bus to Stasted Airport. Here my parents picked my up and stayed for about a week at my house which on a clear day you can see is only a few fields away from the airport itself.

Yes - there had to be a more personal reason for this whole no flying thing didnt there. This glass beacon, sitting pretty on the flat essex landscape is my local landmark. It used to be just a little air strip with a shed next to it - now its BAA Stasted with a mini-spaghetti junction off the M11 to get there and an appetite for knocking down 500 year old houses for an apparent well needed extra runway. How about no.

I'm bored now and hungry. I'm gonna have a cup of tea and biscuits. I'll tell you more when I feel like it.