Twelve Months, Twelve Photos

January

It all started with Dad and I driving across the UK, into France, through Belgium and Germany and ending up in a snow covered Tirolean valley. Innsbruck was now home, and we celebrated with a couple of days skiing just above the city. I couldn’t think of a better way to start living in the capital of the Alps.

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Continue reading Twelve Months, Twelve Photos

Christa Came to England

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London, England. There’s a light flurry of snow on the motorway, and taillights are flashing in front of me as nervous drivers negotiate the increasing volume of traffic that appears in the shadow of the great city. I’m following road signs, an old fashioned and unpopular way to navigate in the age of mobile information, but the road signs don’t move, and I’m making good time, with only an iPod to distract me from the road ahead. The car smells fantastic. The grey and dismal outside looks cold, but the smell of the flowers on the front seat next to me is warm and colourful.

I get to the airport. Early. Eager. I’d told myself to be patient, arrive 20 minutes after the flight landed, and I’d still have time. But I got there 15 minutes before the plane was due. Christa was probably still somewhere over the north Atlantic at that point. I find a good position, bustled between families waiting for parents and children to arrive, and bored taxi drivers holding up scrawled names on dog-eared pieces of paper. I have a direct view of the sliding arrivals doors, and my heart races just a little every time they open. I know I’m too early, but I stand there anyway, just waiting.

Finally, the status board tells me the flight is landed, the bags are delivered, and I find myself looking through the doors longing the next person to be Christa. It finally is. We both have tears in our eyes, and we don’t say a word. I feel like everyone in the hall is watching us, and I’m glad to be holding the centre of attention. Together again.

Saturday January 12th wasn’t that exciting for everyone else, but getting lost in the outer reaches of London was paradise for me. We turned out of the airport on the hunt for Windsor Castle. A massive hulk of medieval building on the banks of the Thames. Somehow we ended up in Hounslow, a massive hulk of beat-up Indian restaurants. At least Christa had seen that not all of England was like The Holiday! We found Windsor 15 minutes later, the castle towering over the pretty shops and restaurants by the river. We walked alongside the grand castle walls in the twilight, and strolled down past the river, before settling on a nice pub for a quick evening meal.

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With the light truly fading, it was time to make the journey back to Devon. Although not many miles, the sinewy roads mean the drive would be four hours at least. Late on a Saturday, though, the roads were clear and we sped free of London and towards the countryside. Past Bristol, the biggest port in England, we were within reach 3 hours later. Winding down from the hills into Combe Martin, it felt like magic that Christa was coming home with me.

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We awake to something strange outside. The sound of waking throughout my childhood was the pattering of rain, light or heavy, onto the tin-roofed shed opposite the house. This morning though the gentle winter sun, hovering just over the greens hills, was reflecting off the roof. We woke quickly and booted up. Rain jackets a necessity, no matter how sunny it looked outside.

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We walked down past the Combe Martin seaside as the tide receded to its furthest point, and then followed the edge of Exmoor National Park up a small footpath and into open pastures filled with sheep. The track was muddy from continuous rain, and we negotiated sliding down a couple of cliffs to open up into a huge view of the North Devon coast. As we climbed up the last reaches of hangman, the true expanse Exmoor becomes visible. Although the sun was shining, a heavy haze filled the horizon blanketing the distant sea and keeping Wales undercover for another day. Day one success.

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With my parents off work, and the rare fact of the sun shining for a consecutive day, we unanimously agreed to show Christa perhaps the most idyllic spot on Exmoor. We drove East into the National Park to Watersmeet; the confluence of the East Lynn river and Hoar Oak water. We followed the east Lynn through a mossy and humid gorge along a windy and leaf covered trail leading to the small village of Rockford; only one road in or out; this is the British idea of solitude. The steep sided oak clad hills tower over the river, and the path to the top was equally as muddy as the day before, but we made the top of the hill in no time. The distinctive rolling tops of the moorland contrast with the secluded valleys.

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The windswept hedgerows are known for their sideways growing trees, and we sheltered along their length as we made our way to the top of Countisbury hill. On the border of Devon and Somerset, this hill is a famous climb for British cyclists, but today it was desolate. At the top, seemingly impervious to the gale coming off the sea 1500 feet below, a herd of Exmoor Ponies grazed on gorse bushes and tough grass. Their nonchalance to our advances showed that there were certainly more suited to the Environment than we were. From the top of the hill, we descended to Countisbury church, a small and bare church tucked into the hill. Just below that, the Blue Ball Inn, a welcoming pub filled with open fires and friendly dogs waiting by the hearth. We ate heartily, knowing the walk back to the car was all downhill. It was difficult to re-dress and head back to the cold outside, but we eventually mustered the courage and found ourselves back among oak trees as we descended our stored elevation on a winding singletrack path. The steep valley meant we were within 200 feet of Watersmeet before we could see the bridge over the river. With rain clouds just building, just got back to the car in time to avoid getting wet. Two dry days in a row; someone up there must have been in a good mood.

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Day three, the contrast to the rugged North facing Exmoor Coast is the smooth sandy beaches of Western facing Woolacombe. We parked in the empty village and strolled down to the beach. Three miles of almost untouched sand, with only a handful of people in sight. We walked almost the full length, taking in the vast expanse of headland jutting out from the sea. Morte Point lies to the North; named for its jagged and dangerous rocks that have claimed many ships in darker times.

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With a low tide, we could see all the rocks, and why sailing here is a skilled past-time. We hopped onto the sand dunes and made our way back towards the village, before getting back onto the beach to find some pretty driftwood and take some photos. We were soon to discover that being the only ones on the beach was a problem. Everywhere was shut, apart from a small shop tucked into a side street. Christa enjoyed hot chocolate with a side of chocolate cake, and I devoured my first cup of tea since breakfast. We drove back towards Combe Martin, but detoured into the valley that half of my family would trace to be their ancestral home. Simply named ‘Lee’, which is a local term for a sheltered valley, the name is apt. I had to stop and show Christa the steps carved into the rock, during a time where the quickest route was along the coast. We skipped stones across the incoming waves and once again enjoyed being alone with the sea and the sand. Unlike before, Wales was now sitting high on the horizon – the towns and hills clearly visible 30 miles across the coast. Back in the village, we saw a restored cottage, with rounded walls, low ceilings and small windows, typical of North Devon. Its thatched roof had just been refitted, completing the picture.

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With three days of exploring the natural beauty of my home county, it was time to head towards civilisation once again. Devon is old, its history rooted in farming and fishing. The houses are humble and quaint, built for warmth and purpose. They show what happened in England before the idea of industrialisation was ever conceived. We had to move on to the ‘big’ city. We caught the train to Bath, stopping briefly for a change of trains. Christa survived the backwards seating and we got to town in the middle of the morning. The same population as Boulder, but very different, Bath sits in a bowl of wooded hills, the river Avon snaking through the centre of town. We had 8 hours to explore before we’d get back on the train and head to London. The uniform sandstone architecture is the responsibility of two 18th century architects; John Wood and John Wood Jr. They constructed a grand town with little financial or physical constraints in their way. The fortuitous fact that Bath suffered little damage in World War two means its beauty remains unaltered. The most famous buildings are the ones we visited first.

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Bath Abby, a huge and magnificent Cathedral, is one of few inhabited monasteries left in the UK. We sat and marvelled at the grand arches reaching to the ceiling. We sat in silence and absorbed the total absence of sounds inside the great hall. The kind of warm quiet that fills churches. After a tour up the main street, we visited the Royal Circus and Royal Crescent. The most desirable residences in Bath, these arcades of huge houses typify Bath. The light snow falling just added to the winter magic. With the sights seen, we ate lunch in a small cafe next to Pultney Bridge overlooking the River Avon. With refreshments consumed, we had to do some history

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The town of Bath has been inhabited continuously for over 2000 years. The romans invaded Britain before Christ was born, and made their settlements during the late first century. The thermal waters rising from the ground signified something special for them, and the location became a shrine to Minerva; the roman goddess of art, education and trade. Named Aquae Sulis, the town was created around the bathing complex that still survives under the main streets of the city. The shrine survived until 300 AD, when Christianity was brought to the country, and worship of pagan gods died out. The town that replaced it remained powerful and constantly changing. It wasn’t until the last phase of construction in the 1700s that the roman baths were uncovered, and once again rebuilt to utilise the warm waters. These bath houses still stand, but the roman foundations, and locations of the shrines, can be seen under the ‘modern’ buildings.

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A long day was finished off with a carafe of wine and good Turkish food in a small restaurant. Turkish, although entirely foreign to Americans, is common in the UK and a great example of how one culture can become part of another. With the wine finished, we sat back and enjoyed the relaxation of train travel to London. Two hours later, we stepped into Paddington station, and walked towards Hyde Park and our hotel in light flurries of snow.

With snow falling heavily outside, we buttoned up and headed out into the morning to see the sights of the great city. We rode the tube under Hyde Park to Kensington, and the grand building of the Victoria and Albert (V&A) Museum. Set up to show the splendour of the British Empire by the Queen who formed it, the V&A now holds collections of culture. It makes no attempt to catalogue the life of a region or country, but takes the finest examples of art, sculpture and fashion across every age. We walked around the display of western fashion from the 1300’s to the modern time with amazement, and marvelled at Japanese samurai swords, before walking around the corner and seeing the world’s best examples of marble sculptures from ancient Greece. We left before we ran out of capacity to look at anything else, and recaffeinated in anticipation of the Science Museum. Encyclopaedic collections of technology and innovation. Full size replicas of space crafts, and a whole room filled with what makes a human a human. We played in the ‘Google Lab’ creating music with people across the world, and saw how a robot can draw our own faces. Sometimes, tourism feels a lot like education!

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With hunger building, we jumped back on the tube and went to Covent Garden; the famous glass house that used to house the market stalls of fresh fruit and flowers brought into the city by traders and farmers. Now, the area is full of restaurants; we picked a pie shop and Christa tucked into a heart Pasty. With the light fading (yes, at 3pm!) we made the walk into Leicester Square; home of the west end and the biggest theatres in the world. We wanted to see a play, and found ‘Spamalot’ to be exactly what we were looking for. Light hearted comedy with no pretence of anything else. As we ran out of time to head back to the hotel, we headed for the Thames, and walked across the Embankment Bridge to have dinner.

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The snow was falling hard, filling the sky with a reflective orange glow from the city lights. The London Eye towered over the houses of parliament, but with no little visibility, we decided to give it a miss. Walking into the theatre after dinner, we climbed up four flights of stairs to find our seats in the upper stalls, high above the stage but with a perfect view of the action. The place was packed, and the cast enjoyed endless laughter and applause from the crowd. It was perhaps the best money we spent, and a great first experience of theatre in the west end. Tired and with aching feet, we made it to our hotel just before midnight, ready to start again the next day.

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Saturday in London. So much to see and do. No trip would be complete without seeing the seat of British power. Buckingham Palace, grand and old is a magnet for tourists, and we dodged the crowds to see the Union Flag flying high over the rooftop; a sure sign the Queen was currently in residence.

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We walked through St James’ park to Parliament square and Westminster Abby. The site of royal weddings and national remembrances, the Cathedral beats Bath for size and grandeur. It sits up against the bank of the Thames, next to the houses of Parliament; Parliament Palace and Big Ben adding huge towers to the skyline. Christa and I both seem to be equally crowd averse, so we danced around the hordes of people to find our very own phone box in which to pose. What could be better than me and my girl living it up in London?!

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Lunchtime. Again. We dashed to Kensington and found a seat in a cafe for soup and coffee, just the energy needed for a trip to Harrods; the emporium of everything expensive ever made. Four stories and countless departments filled with Dior, Armani, and thousands of other people! We viewed the boutique clothes and daydreamed of driving off in the Aston Martins parked outside, but left on foot, back to the tube, happy to be happy and not caring about anything else. With one stop left on our whistle-stop London Experience, I found my good friends from University to be in town for the evening. We dashed to the Tower of London and Tower Bridge for a quick photo in the frigid cold, but cruising across town to our hotel. We freshened up and hit Covent Garden once more for a late night meal with Trevor and Sarah. Conversation, like normal with four cyclists at one table, revolved around cycling. We drank beer, ate burgers (which could not live up to their American competitors), and didn’t leave the restaurant till 11pm. Our idea of a late night film dissolved as we realised not even London cinemas show films that late, so we called it a day.

The last day. No time for being sad though, as happiness is the cure of all ills. We ate Croissants until we could no longer move, and drank coffee until it seemed like a bad idea. The heavy snow coming down in sheets outside the cafe was causing panic in the British media, but we kept a close eye on the departures board, and could see no reason why Christa would not be getting back to Colorado. The train lumbered slowly out of Paddington station on the way to Heathrow. We held hands tightly. No words are needed after 7 days together; we knew what we were both thinking. Goodbyes suck. The airport formalities distracted us from the inevitable, but soon enough Christa walked through security and out of sight. A heavy heart is never a bad thing though; the negative emotions of leaving are the balance needed for the next hello to mean more than the last. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Down by the River

I arouse from my heavily sedated state. For the second time. My Brother who has brought me a cup of tea two hours earlier is heading out of the house for a run. Its nearly 10am. Jetlag. I lug my lead-weighted body down the stairs and see the bacon already cooked and another cup of tea steaming on the kitchen side. Its good to be home. Nothing to do but eat vast quantities, drink tea, and ride my bike.

Hmm, yes. Ride my bike. Its raining outside and I’m not surprised; I could hear it lashing the windows when I was still in bed. I feel my cycling clothing, left by the Aga overnight, and its still wet from the sodden ride yesterday. I settle into my bacon sandwich and hope that it will be dry enough to ride in half an hour.

As time slips towards midday, I finally get the courage to get changed and hit the road.

Living in the bottom of a steep and verdant valley, there is no option other than climbing up a hill to get out. My sleepy mind had baulked at the idea of heading out into the grey windy day, and as such I had massively over dressed. Its warm and sticky outside. The humid air seems to have caught hold of the rain before it could hit the ground – its so thick with moisture that I feel like I’m battling it, as well as gravity.

My aim of five hours of pedalling, I realise, is rather ambitious. Not for distance or energy but it occurs to me that it will be completely dark in four. So I head over the big ridge of hills which mark the start of Exmoor National Park, and down towards the Estuary. The Tarka trail might be one of the heaviest used cycle paths in the country, but today I would rather battle recreation cyclists and dog walkers than possessed drivers on narrow wet busy roads. The Tarka trail hugs the riverside for 32 miles around the Taw and Torridge estuaries. Its main benefit, other than the fantastic sea breeze and views across the coast, is its lack of hills.

The wind blowing off the sea is at the perfect 90 degrees to me riding. I lean towards it and quick find a steady rhythm. The occasional stray dog is subdued by its owner, or scared witless as it realises I wont be slowing from my steady 18 mph.

It seems that the average speed of most cyclists along these paths is more in the region of 10 mph. The look of sadness and disappointment of the faces of some cyclists is priceless: Kitted in brand new Christmas apparel, handlebars adorned with lights and bells and wing mirrors and all manner of other clip on accessories, they’re aghast as I cruise gently by with a smile on my face. They struggled to pilot their hydrid racers against the gentle wind, the extra pounds of Christmas festivities put on over causing too much resistance.

The random 10 year old – let loose by his parents to pedal like crazy – sees me coming and sprints into a fury, holding my wheel for a minute or two. I encourage the youngster to sit in. Alas, the furious base pace is too high and he fades away.

Unlike Colorado, where a 60 mile ride can take you into the depths of nowhere, my ride pedals through many communities. The small cafe on the river in Fremington was bustling with pension aged custom. Instow, with trendy pubs and restaurants, was abuzz with middle aged men in nice cars ferrying their families out for a meal followed by a stroll on the beach. I felt like a was steamrollering past these places, just catching a glimpse of the personality of each little hive.

Past Torrington and everything starts to get quiet. Away from the coast now, the river winds its way into the country. The valley sides get steeper and greener, and the families are replaced by lone dog walkers – the type that are out here every week through the year. The smooth surface of the paths becomes a little greener and narrower; not by design but from the moss and lichen which blankets every available surface.

I look at the clock and realise its just gone 2:30 in the afternoon. In the mood for exploration, and legs feeling warm and full of energy, I am hesitant to turn around, to head back through the maze of seaside community, but I know that if I don’t I will not be back before the thick blanket of northern darkness falls.

I turn around and do it all again.