Luck O' The Un-Irish

So there I was: 10 miles from my goal, in the oncoming front of a storm, paying far more than I should for a night in the country, and quickly realizing that traveling on a Sunday in the south of Ireland for whatever reason is not a good idea. But that's all far in the future, so allow me to fill you in.

My trip to Ireland was, in retrospect, successful...but it was the kind of success that one can only recognize once the goal in question has been achieved. The summit summited. The dragon slain. But whilst one is breaking limbs on the ascent or getting hairs scorched off by fiery eructations during the battle, things can seem quite grim-- and so they were. I began the trip on a excellent note by rising with plenty of time to spare on Wednesday morning, eating a hearty breakfast, and being driven the short distance to the Glasgow Airport. This is where things begin to go wrong.

There are two airports in Glasgow. And when I say "in Glasgow," I mean that one is in Glasgow and the other is 45 minutes out of the city in the middle of the countryside. Of course, upon arriving exactly one hour before departure at Glasgow Airport, I discovered that, while my timing was correct, I was in the wrong location. So back in the chariot and onto the highroad to Prestwick, upon which we were, of course, enjoying the back end of a line of traffic which had accumulated behind a tractor moving at imperceptible speeds farther up the road. Almost an hour later, 20 minutes before the plane was due to fly, we gasped and staggered into the terminal, only to be very politely told that check-in had closed long before and we were, to put it in colloquial terminology, screwed.

Luckily (Can we call it that?) I could pay £50 to get myself onto the next available flight at 6:50 pm (It was 9 am at this point in time) and so get to Dublin on the same day as I had originally planned. Hooray? Question mark?

I resigned myself to a classy day in the terminal and bade my farewells to Peter MacDonald, my lovely host, who was off to speak in the Scottish Parliament and so had to make himself presentable. Cor blimey. Kicking myself for making such an idiotic and costly mistake, I sat down morosely and had some highly unsatisfactory porridge before heading upstairs to the lounge and falling into fitful slumber. The day passed slowly, but eventually I was back at the check-in desk (First in line -- not taking any chances) displaying my passport and taking out extra clothes to wear so my bag would fit the weight limit.

The flight was incredibly brief for such a long build-up, and soon enough I was walking through the familiar halls of Dublin International Airport. I felt positive. I had directions. I was going to the hostel. I knew what bus to take. All was well in the world. This proceeded in a positive fashion until I got within about 5 minutes of the hostel itself. My directions were to head South from Heuston Station. My decision, since the large compass I had expected to find sunk into the concrete was not forthcoming, was to head North instead. Mistakenly believing that I was heading for a warm bed and a pleasant home, I set of boldly across the river.

I progressed, growing less bold with each passing half mile, for another 45 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this would hardly phase me, but with 50 pounds of assorted junk strapped to my shoulders (Why did I pack so much RUBBISH!?) it quickly became a kind of purgatory (Why did I decide to wear my FLIP FLOPS!?) which I barely struggled through without breaking down and hailing a taxi (Why are there so many TAXI RANKS in Dublin!?) while descending to a level of pain and despair so great that I ended up hurling a torrent of caustic expletives at every vehicle that passed me with such smug ease on the highway.

After completing my giant loop of folly, I was back at the station. I collapsed on a bench and gathered my thoughts, then set out in the other direction. Soon enough I was passing the giant, brick Guinness storehouses and factory buildings which, since I was in search of the Brewery Hostel, was a good sign. At last...at long last...I spotted a sign which held the words I had so long been searching for. I staggered through the doors and fell into a corner, giving my check -in details from my prone position to a rather surprised-looking French guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. It was 9 pm. I was finally safe.

My room was on the very top floor (10 flights of stairs -- Thank you Murphy and your damnable legal procedures) but, once reached, very nice. This was good news because in my state, had it been cold and depressing and inhospitable, I probably would've broken down in tears. Waiting for the computer in the lobby to free up, I recorded the day in my journal amidst a gaggle of conversations between Americans, French, Germans, Swiss, Spaniards, Australians, and Irish. At last I checked my email and was about to go to bed when I was pulled into the orbit of a group who were planning on watching Transformers that night. I felt that my stamina was restored to a point where this might be possible, and so I joined them, slept for a couple hours on the couch, and then, at 1 am when the film was finally ready to be watched, I woke up. I approved of it on the whole. It was well-done and surprisingly amusing and pretty to look at in a robots turning into cars kind of way -- so bravo there. I then dragged my carcass upstairs and fell into bed, ready for slumber.

The next day I explored downtown Dublin -- a fantastic, bustling place full of nooky side streets and unusual shops and lovely churches and lots of pubs. Tall, brick rows of flats and broad cobbled boulevards. Bliss. I wandered and wandered and finally headed home around 4 pm and toppled into bed. I napped until 8:30 pm! It was FANTASTIC! I dreamt of reunions in airports with long-lost friends and coming home to the arms of my family. At 9 the hostel threw a BBQ for all the guests, frying up loads of sausages and onions and other tasty gubbins to consume with buns and ketchup. Hooray for free dinners! I chatted with a lot of people before excusing myself and toddling up to bed around 2 am, preparing for my journey the next day.

Cappoquin! That land of legend and bread which I had been charged with locating. That unattainable Shangri La of countryside cottages which would be within my grasp soon enough. I could find it on a map and estimate its distance from the nearest hostel and would GET THERE! Such naively simple thinking compared to what lay ahead.

I had booked myself into a hostel in the seaside town of Tramore, just outside Waterford. A 3 hour bus ride from Dublin got me to Waterford proper, while a 45 minute local bus put me in Tramore. The hostel was awesome, I got to check my email at the local library, and then I was sleeping, waking, packing, walking, and calling the Barron Bakery, convinced that I would find answers. Solutions. Ways to get around the canceled bus service to my destination of choice.

Esther, my contact from Laignee's family, wasn't able to help me with bus service info, but pointed me towards Dungarvan, the closest largish town where I could probably find a hostel and then make my way to Cappoquin, 10 miles from the center. This sounded like a good plan so I booked myself a return ticket and bussed it another 3 hours to Dungarvan, arriving around midday. The tourist info office was closed for lunch so I decided to meander about for a while. The tide which normally fills the river outlet into the ocean seemed to have some more pressing arrangements and had abandoned the various sailboats dotted about the harbor. They sat upright despite the lack of water to support them, stabilized by the five feet of mud into which their keels were sunk. Deeper pockets of water kept small rowboats afloat, while seabirds bickered and skipped around in the exposed rocks. It was relaxing, small, calm. Come 2 I headed back to the office and inquired about the Dungarvan Hostel.

This is where things started to go wrong.

"Oh, the hostel closed a couple months ago."
"No there isn't a bus to Cappoquin."
"Of course not, it'll be Sunday."
"You could go back to Tramore."
"The cheapest Bed and Breakfast here will be €45."
"It looks like the hostel in Tramore is booked for the weekend."
"I would suggest staying here."
"No there aren't any hostels in Waterford."

I was running out of options. I hadn't anticipated any of this, and so I did the only thing I could think of.

"Alright, that will be €90 for two nights. If you head back to the N25 to Waterford and just walk a little ways, it's right past the gas station. Thanks very much. Bye bye!"

Ninety euro. Good God. I could stay two weeks at the hostel for that kind of cash! I could eat 25 hearty meals in fancy restaurants! I could buy a very expensive hat! Still, it was somewhere to sleep, and better than my briefly entertained fantasy of purchasing a tarp and roughing it in the local park. And I got breakfast. And an en suite bathroom. And a room to myself. Was it worth it? Maybe.

The directions I had received from the tourist office were excellent aside from their accuracy. Sure, I passed the gas station about half a mile down the highway, but after that the deceptively short distance on the map to the B&B lengthened into a couple miles of barren highway which, since they contained no landmarks, the designers of my map hadn't seen fit to include. More trekking, more swearing under my breath at passing vehicles, more pain in the shoulders. I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? After Ireland, I'd like to introduce myself as Clark Kent.

So I checked in and spent Saturday afternoon preparing. Buying food. Resting. Bracing myself to walk the 10 miles to Cappoquin the next morning, disc of photographs clutched firmly to my breast. The owner of the B&B offered to ask around and see if any of her friends were driving to Cappoquin, but it being Sunday, nobody was. And so that glimmer of hope was snuffed. 9 am the following morning, breakfast in belly, I prepared to hit the road. Then the rain came. It wasn't too bad when I set out, but I was subjected to intermittent downpours as I walked along the mostly-deserted highway. My rain jacket was more than damp by the time I had reached the turn-off to Cappoquin from the main highway.

The N72 to Cappoquin is not really a highway. It's a lovely country lane. A lovely small country lane. And on a Sunday, although there was a smattering of traffic on the main road, this tiny backwater was deserted. So I walked, and walked, and walked...and only passed one road sign telling me that I still had 19km to go. After about an hour I heard an engine in the distance. Human contact! A chance for salvation! I worked up my courage and thrust my thumb out as the vehicle rounded the corner and -- Good Lord! -- stopped! The couple inside were consulting a map. The woman turned and handed it to me. "If you can show us where you're going we can probably get you there," she smiled.

The two of them had come from England on holiday, never having been to see the Emerald Isle next door, and were going to Killarney for the last couple nights of their stay. Cappoquin is directly en route to Killarney and they were more than happy to drop me there on the way. We chatted easily as the rental car ate up the miles with enviable ease until the signpost loomed and the streets narrowed and we were there. A simple 15 minute drive which cut ages of my estimated travel time. Thanking them profusely, I waved the car off the curb and set off in search of the Bakery, which turned out to be right around the corner. (Cappoquin is not a large place by any means.)

So a call to Esther was placed, and she very kindly invited me 'round even though they were preparing to dash off to Mass at 11:30. She and her husband Joe live in the old Cappoquin station, a beautiful airy house with a large garden and bees! (In hives. Not just...you know...around) I passed her the disc, marking my successful completion of the mission, then chatted while she made beds for the upcoming family event - 50 relatives in one place! My goodness. Joe went and showed me around the bakery, which was amazing. The heat still wavering off the giant stone ovens, shelves of tins ready to receive dough for baking the following morning at 2 am -- this was a place of traditional skill and wholesome, bready goodness. I loved it. And Laignee, you should get over there and become a baker. I really recommend the whole experience. And by gosh it's been in your family since the 1880's! Get with the trend!

Since there were few other options for socializing, Esther invited me to attend Mass with them, an offer I accepted as I hadn't been to Mass in southern Ireland before. Hell, I don't think I've actually ever been to Mass anywhere. Except perhaps once at midnight on Christmas in Norfolk...Anyway. We were treated to a marvelous sermon by the preacher, who eternally placed himself in my memory for likening Mass to a football match and praying as the spiritual equivalent of shouting at the ref. He also calmly explained that he'd been getting complaints that Mass was boring, and responded to them by saying that he generally found people who found things boring to be quite boring themselves.

So, despite being the Pagan child that I am, I have found a soft spot in my heart for the small congregation of Cappoquin and it's unusual views on religious practice. We're all essentially saying the same thing, talking about basic human goodness and love. Mr. Vonnegut's following passage got it right in my book, and should be recited by schoolchildren in place of the Declaration of Independence.

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

As the rain returned we were walking out of the church, and Joe very kindly offered to drive me back to Dungarvan so I wouldn't have to hitch in the bad weather. We chatted about global issues and theatrical traditions, then shook hands and made promises to keep in touch.

I walked back into the B&B with a spring in my step and a glint in my eye. I had completed my quest. Slain the dragon. Summited the mountain. Fought the nemesis. Destroyed the Cube. Melted the Ring.

The next morning I was jumping from bus to bus to tram to lightrail to bus to foot to hostel. Boogied down with a variety of folks from different countries, happy to be back in communal living, happy to be able to make my own food and listen to other folks snoring at night. This is the life I like to lead. In the pitch black the next morning I packed with my cellphone between my teeth for illumination, burst through the freezing Dublin air to the bus station, averted panic when I found out the airport shuttle wouldn't start running until after my flight went, dashed to the other airport shuttle stop via lightrail, made it to the airport convinced I would repeat my Glasgow snafu and miss my flight, arrived seconds before they closed the desk, checked in, walked to the plane, and sank into blissful contemplation of the pleasures waiting for me at the other end of the line.

Those pleasures included: my mum, a letter from a lovely friend, a picnic to enjoy in London, tea with marvelous companions, vehicular transport, and a stay with amazing friends from Ojai.

I'm in London now in a flat which feels like the best combination of London and California, with my mother, who I got to curl up with on a big air mattress under a down comforter last night for the best sleep I've had in weeks. Things are looking good. I worked hard to get here, and now I can take a break and get my systems back in order. It's only going to get more fantastic as the new month rolls around.

Thought you all deserved to know. I promise I'll write more frequently over the coming weeks and beyond, but for now I'm taking a bath and eating soup and generally luxuriating in the fact that I am as close to home as I've been for a long time and I finally feel like I've arrived somewhere I belong.

Thank goodness.

Long We Tossed On The Rolling Main

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...

I'm back in Glasgow! We left Stornoway by ferry at the ungodly hour of 6am this morning and drove and drove and drove through the centre of Scotland to return here, to home, and the chance to repack before I board a plane tomorrow morning for the Emerald Isle.

A few things I'll miss from my time in Stornoway:

1. The sheep!

They're everywhere! Mincing across the road as if they have no idea you're bearing down on them at 50 an hour. Better yet, not even bothering to get up from their afternoon siesta across the double yellow line. Lewis sheep look different from the normal countryside variety. They've got character. And My day will be that much greyer without them.

2. Sailing.

Stornoway is an ocean town. The island has so many seafaring connections it's unbelieveable. There are some seriously beautiful tall ships who come and set anchor here for a few months every year, the fishermen come home each day with the sea lions in their wake and the birds diving overhead, and the locals make amazing yard decor from old buoys and fishing net. A few days ago I had the pleasure of getting to temporarily play skipper aboard a 26' sailboat in the Minch. Several hours of pure bliss skimming before a stiff breeze up the craggy coast towards Harris.

3. The Sunsets.

That's all that needs to be said about them.

So I leave Lewis behind for my next stop, Dublin! Now, at last, after the madness of the Fringe Festival, I can settle down to being a budget traveler and spending as little as possible. But just when I thought it was safe to not go broke, I discover that the city of my destination has decided to host its own Fringe Festival in September.

Bastards!

I'm going to have a hell of a time restraining myself from seeing every show I can lay my grubby little mits on. Luckily I'm not staying long becaue of Laignee!

For Laignee's sake (You'd better still be keeping up with the blog, young lady. It was your idea in the first place.) I am roughing it by bus to the Southern countryside in search of a small bakery bearing her last name. Of course the national bus route to the place has just been cancelled, so I am on a quest to avoid walking the 50kn from Waterford on my own little tootsies by any means necessary. We'll see how that goes.

And then there's the matter of my European Union passport. I haven't been boring you all with the details of my family's trials and tribulations vis a vis the labyrinthine beurocracy inherent in any governmental department responsible for citizenship, because I wouldn't want to inflict that sort of torture on anyone voluntarily. However, the fight has been going on for about three years on and off, and now, when it matters most of all, we're at an impasse.

So some drastic steps have been taken, and some exciting plans have been laid. Like any surprise tactical maneuver, this one has daring advances to places nobody expects, long-lost reuinons with souls given up for lost, secretive documents which must be delivered safely to certain parties, and plenty of time doing battle with the Forces of Nature.

You are all in the dark for now for the sake of your own safety. Information will be dispensed on a need to know basis.

Remember: The codeword is "Badgers." We meet tonight at the sign of the Flummoxed Haggis!

Illness and General Debauchery

Time flies when you're staying on a remote island in the Northern Hemisphere with a man who's almost blown up a whiskey distillery on more than one occasion.

Or at least, I think that's how the saying goes.

Time spent thus far on the Isle of Lewis has been fantastic. The landscape is so ancient and full of tradition and history. Everything is beautiful. We've drove from coast to coast looking at everything worth looking at...which is everything. Standing stones far more extensive, impressive, and accessible than Stonehenge (Thank you, low tourist traffic!), blackhouse villages infused with the delicious scent of burning peat, bow-legged sheep grumpily vacating the narrow roads, white sand beaches pounded by wild, aquamarine surf and hemmed in with astonishing rock formations, and eccentric cottages populated by kittens and leatherworking milkmen drinking tea from champagne flutes.

There is a sense of belonging here. These people were raised on the island. Their anscestors have lived here for centuries. It is a world of old ways. Of craftsmen and farmers. People surviving by common sense and a unique relationship with the land they live on. It makes me realize how transient everything is in America. How scattered and young and chaotic. I've never felt as at home there as I feel I could given time to live here. It's bleak and wild and beautiful. The people are kind. Life is simple.

Apart from driving and exploring, I've had time to relax and read (It Ends With Magic by Spike Milligan, John Masefield's poetry, My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrel, and Contact Zero by David Wolstencroft) as well as wander aimlessly through the countryside.

Such a day was yesterday, when I set out for the castle around 12pm. The castle sits on a hilltop beside the harbor, rising out of a forest of birch and willow. The grounds go on for miles and are full of trails and adventuresome places. I wandered through many of them before ending up on a long track which ran straight into the distance. Shoes cast aside in favor of the deliciously springy turf and oozing mud, I must've walked for two miles or so before reaching a fork which would lead me back to the town centre.

Heading home, I couldn't resist the temptation to explore a small side trail which ran downhill into the underbrush on my right. Careful not to slip in the black mud and cake myself in earth, I proceeded down, down, down until I emerged into the most beautiful glade imagineable. Ancient trees with low, curving branches completely covered in green moss formed a canopy overhead. My inner imp took over and soon I was 20 feet up in the largest tree, cradled by the padded branches. These were trees that were meant to be climbed. You could feel it in them. Each handhold was perfectly placed, each low-slung branch just wide enough to lounge on in comfort, the trunk steadfast and strong. I've been branded a tree-hugger in my time, but many trees aren't that comfortable to embrace. Not so these. They were soft and warm and loving.

I gamboled for at least half an hour, delighted by my find, when the wind dropped.

For many, this would be a relief. The wind here is like a person all its own. A constant presence. A character. It buffets you from all directions wherever you are. A lack of breeze would be a relief, no?

Wrong.

When the wind dies a far more sinister presence is able to take it's place: The Midges.

Scottish Midges are very small, very sociable, and very toothy. They swarm one's head and any other exposed body parts, nipping like the Dickens, buzzing into nostrils and ears and eyes. They're enough to drive even then strongest man mad. And when the wind is gone, they arrive.

When I inadvertently stuck my head into a swarm of them I almost fell out of the tree. Swatting desperately at my face, I managed to climb down and get my immediate airspace relatively clear, but they were on the move. I had to act quickly. Hoping to find sanctuary by continuing downhill, I grabbed by backpack and set off further down the path.

This proved a grave error. The track, if it could be called that, was shin-deep in black mud, threatening to smack me down on my backside at every step. It wound steeply through dense foliage and was bordered by a stagnant trickle of water. Of course this was a perfect midge breeding ground. I barged through swarm after swarm, one hand keeping me balanced, the other defending my breathing passages, until finally, finally, I exploded out of the underbrush and onto the main road.

Luckily there was nobody passing because I looked a right mess. Mud-spattered, wild-eyed, clinging to my bag and my jacket. I stumbled along the road until I reached the Island, a lump of turf nestled out in the harbor, connected only by a thin strip of land. The ocean felt like Heaven itself. I washed my feet as best I could, rinsed my face, and collapsed on the grass.

Once I had regained my strength I struck out for home. On the way back I sampled a few of the blackberries hanging in ripe indigo clusters by the side of the trail. This is an important point. Make note of it.

When I finally got home I was so tired I just collapsed into bed and slept until 7pm. The rest of the evening passed without event until about 9. I was curled happily on the couch watching Rome on uktvHistory, when my stomach started to hurt. After about half an hour I decided the best thing would be to sleep it off since it wouldn't get better, so I went back to bed.

Let's skip ahead to 2am. Stomach still in agony, I was coming to terms with the fact that something I'd eaten -- I blame the blackberries -- wasn't agreeing with my system. I couldn't sleep. I was miserable. Finally, I managed to throw up and get whatever it was out of my stomach. Thank God. I fell asleep soon after and woke up this morning feeling vastly improved, if still rather delicate.

So the moral of this story is:

Well, I think you can figure that one out for yourselves.

Until next time...

A Stirring Somewhere Deep

There is no way to express with words alone the beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It is rare that I come across something which I feel cannot be brought to life through language, but in this case I'll have to ask you to bear with my impressions, knowing that they will not gain true meaning until you find yourself in the same position I've been in.

The landscape is not just a vista, it's a feeling. A startling tapestry of emotion and vision and scent and sound. A pounding, soaring desolation and majesty. Crags brutally carved into distinction by unstoppable glaciers, brooding in huddled solidarity, bases sweeping seamlessly into sloped valleys. They flow into one another: Alive with a carpet of purple heather and bristling, low bracken. Burbling streams, an occasional bird, nothing more.

The sky seems insubstantial, fleeting. A mess of constantly evolving wisps of fog clinging to the tops of the peaks, floating into hidden valleys and gorges. The wind whines through the landscape. It feels a thousand miles from nowhere. Nothing but the endless flow of peak and plateau. Shelves of sheer rock jutting at sharp angles to the sky, stacked upon one another like haphazard books fallen from a great height. Buttressing the final summit.

The highway seems to go on forever. A smooth expanse of dips and curves. A strangely precise creation in the midst of such wilderness. A sweeping field of gorse and heather, then a drop into dense pine forest, sequoias, mouldering rock walls exploding with moss and fern, then a curve flings us into a wide plain, the mirrored, pristine surface of a loch, calmly reflecting the green hills surrounding it, a waterfall high in the cliffs, tumbling down like an avalanche, cutting deep into the rock. Here and there an ancient barn imploding under the weight of centuries, small clusters of whitewashed homes, churchyards with tombstones tumbling like dominoes. Occasionally a flock of sheep, almost mistaken for clouds, high up, complacent, browsing in the green, stepping nimbly across the rocks.

A part of me cannot believe that I am here. Now. Experiencing this. The unbelieveable beauty of it all. Glencoe sweeping out of the fog, rising to dizzying heights, wrapping me in all its bloody history, its remote magic. It does something to your soul. Tugs at it. Dares you to scale its peaks and ramble through its valleys. To brave its scaled spine with nothing but your flesh and your bones and your blood for company. To tumble, at the end of the day, down the impossibly smooth plane of its foothills into a brook. To return home soaked and giddy.

Or to simply stand and weep at the desolation of the place, the aloneness that presses your nose into the glass dividing you from yourself. Making you ache for the chance to smash your way in, or out, depending on how you look at it. This is the sort of place that could drag you through madness and back, still leave you wishing to return. To understand. If there is a place where magic can still exist in the world, it is here.

Reaching the coast. Stormwalls holding back the steely, unstamed North Sea. The Minch. The passage of legend which I sing about with ease while sailing the Pacific. Mingulay settled in the waves to the south. The air is full of misty rain and the smell of fish. Smoke spirals lazily from a few chimneys. In neat rows the cars trundle into the underbelly of the ferry. The stench of fish strengthens, flourescent lights flick into life along the ceiling of the beast. Up two flights of stairs to the passenger deck. It's outfitted like a hotel. A sleazy casino. Still another flight of stairs and I'm on the open deck. Rain falls in horizontal sheets, the wind buffetts me across to the railings. Everyone else is inside.

I gaze out at the water, the looming coast. In front of me the giant wake of the vessel smooths itself into the fabric of the sea. A cluster of islands to starboard, nothing but fog blending the ocean with the sky to port. The islands look like a fleet of ships bursting out from the deep, prows jagged against the white sky. Wild. Treacherous. Waves whipped to foam along the shore, wind flattening the patched grass into the rock. I long to camp along on their shores. To weather storms in their craggy embrace.

The roll and toss of the waves is welcome and familiar beneath my feet. It feels like home. The ferry judders through the choppy waters, beating against the wind and the current. Lumbering, enormous. I can feel my ears going numb as I sift through the past few days.

Watching the end of Festival fireworks from a dark window on the second floor, the nestled lights of Edinburgh twinkling, Barber's Adagio for Strings crackling from the radio, enough to break my heart. Catching the bus away from Edinburgh, the thrill of being on the move again. Meeting Peter MacDonald at the the station in Glasgow. Staying the night with his Aunt, Joy. A bathroom with a felt floor. The tang of whiskey rising from a glass at my bedside ("A wee dram," Joy had insisted, "To help ye sleep."). Fumbling with the toggle on my necklace. My little string of family camp memories. M. C. Escher ceiling tiles sloping this way and that in geometirc impossibility. Taking off my watch before tumbling into sleep.

It has struck me as appropriate that we do this as humans. Disconnecting ourselves from time just before we misplace several hours of it. Each night we unquestioningly relinquish our precious minutes to sleep, not stopping to wonder where they've gone when we wake in the morning. Death is simply the rediscovery of all these moments lost in slumber.

Fog has descended on the ferry, drawing out the mournful cry of the horn every five minutes. We are blanketed. Blind. The motion of the boat works its spell on me and soon I'm curled into myself on the bench, thinking of the people around the globe following my progress -- in Australia, South Africa, England, California, Washington, Illinois, New York, London, Edinburgh. Old friends, family, shipmates, relatives, strangers, teachers. I'm being tracked by more eyes than I expected. It's comforting. A safety net. A web of validation.

I stay there until nightfall, dreaming of mermaids on barren islands and the whistle of the wind through Glencoe.

A Change of Pace

Recently, I've found myself in a slump due to the end of the Festival and my own accumulated sleep deprivation. Stagnation has set in and I'm ready to be on the move again on a new adventure. Luckily, the Universe is looking out for my spirit and saw fit to send some help. My best friend in the whole world, the Fantastic Riley Burch (pictured at right in all her glory), just returned from her summer of adventures as a white water rafting guide in the Grand Canyon. We've picked up email correspondence after a hiatus of several months which is a pretty wordy business. The average installment from either of us measures about 10 pages as we try to discuss all that has transpired since we last spoke.

In short: Riley is my inspiration. She and I can talk about anything together. We're the world's best couple of nomadic-spirited, adventuresome, succulent, vibrant young women I know. Getting back in touch with Rye puts me back in touch with my sense of myself as a temple, a goddess, someone worth knowing. Even as I'm surrounded by strangers in a new country, she reminds me to hold my head high and smile because I am me, doing my own thing, enjoying life. It's been great to hear about her adventures on the river and to tell her about my experiences sailing on the Lady. Nobody else in her life quite appreciates the awesomeness of piloting a raft through Lava Falls and no one else in mine quite understands what a thrill it is for me to finally watch the sunset from a yard 80 feet up off the rolling deck.

I can still remember when these adventures were mere fantasties that we discussed at snack time on the Pavillion deck at Oak Grove, muching on Saltines and peanut butter-filled pretzels. We've both come a long way since then and it's inspiring to see that those dreams have become a reality. We are living our dreams. Every second. Because we believe in them. So this post is a thank you to Riley for galvanizing me to get excited about my freedom, because that's what I've suddenly become the owner of.

A whole lot of freedom.

I've got a fair amount of money saved up, not too much, but just enough. I have all my posessions in one easy-to-handle bag, I can book flights to basically anywhere on the continent, I can stop in other states on my way home to see old friends, I can decide to take a solo backpacking trip into the Himalayas if I want to. These next six months are entierly mine. I think I still need time to get used to this idea. To fully grasp how much fun this is really going to be. But today Riley got me started really thinking about it. And that's all it takes.

One of Riley's and my favorite authors is Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy, otherwise known as SARK. Her books and general philosophy always make me smile and get creative with my joy or my sadness. Simply reading one of her posters completely changes my frame of mind. She makes me want to dance in the woods and picnic in the back garden. I realize that if there's an author I should take the trouble to carry with me, it's her. I need the emotional, creative, spiritual pick-me-up her writing provides. To remind me of how much fun is out there waiting to be had.

So I'll be off to the shops tomorrow to hunt down a copy of Succulent Wild Woman and to photograph the site of my Great-Grandfather's stationary shop in George Street. My anscestors walked in this city years before I came here and now I'm the next link in the chain. My children will come to Europe one day and they can follow the steps of my journey through my journals, seeing the cities and countries as I saw them. This is what heritage is all about.

I've been getting in touch with other sailors as they leave the tall ships for the summer, so I've been feeling really connected to them as well. Lots of new friends around the country to visit and flourish with. We are a wild bunch of siblings. A few new views of longboating during family camp which I thought might be illuminating:


And the lovely summer crew -- Who are all hired for their good looks:

I'm really excited to return to the Lady when I get back to America, especially since Tall Ships Tacoma will be rocking it in 2008! And I'll definitely be around. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Hopefully this time my life won't get in the way of a good long stint on the Lady. At least two or three months to enjoy Tall Ships, two family camps, and plenty of sailing. Perhaps I'll even apply for Steward for a bit if I can wrangle it. Who knows. Getting paid for what you love is a grand goal to have. And even grander to attain.

I think I'll actually turn in before 3am tonight, which is probably a good idea. Tomorrow I'm on my way out of the city and into the far-flung north for some stunning scenery and a change of pace. I wish you all inspiring, delicious days and nights. Please please please relish everything. Including your bad moods and your boredom. They are just as important as any gleeful excitment.

Huge hugs and creative vibes,

Lucy

P.S. THE HAT!