Assisi

Dear Reader,

My apologies once again for keeping you hanging in nail biting suspense. As you know we're back in our homeland slowly making our way towards Pacific Standard Time as we cross this massive continent. Visiting with family and friends and hearing the sound of my own voice describing our travels; the fairy-tale green of Wales, the one man band we saw in Rome, the sweet smelling Cinque Terras, what's happened only weeks ago is quickly finding a place on my mind-shelf somewhere between dreams and dreams-come-true. Why is it that our most real experiences are so quick to take on a dream-like quality? Surly there is an evolutionary advantage to this state of so-real-it-must-be-a-dream, a filter, self-defense? Waking from this dream I'm left with more questions than answers, more grey areas, more edges to explore.

Exclaim: Origin late 16th cent. : from French exclamer

or Latin exclamare,

from ex- 'out' + clamare 'to shout.'

-Webster

Assisi:

Generally I'm sparing with my use of the exclamation point. My mother (a self-described "Shy Person") while editing my school work, was quick to point out that, to the reader, an exclamation point is akin to being shouted at and one should be extremely cautious (lest it be resigned to the same sad slang-fate of words like awesome and totally). That being said, my 6/23 journal entry reads: "We had a beautiful day in Assisi! "

In the 13th century while Constantine and the Papacy were going at it, Assisi became home to one of the world's first hippies, St. Francis. His story, as it's come to be told over the centuries, resembles more the life-story of Siddhartha of Lumbini than Jesus of Nazareth, but I'm sure if they had the opportunity they would have all hit it off, smiling to each other as they compared their tour-date calendars.

Like the Buddha, St. Francis came from a wealthy family who was shocked when their son chose a life of poverty in the service of serving others. In one of his first acts of love-filled defiance Francis emptied out the storeroom of his father's textile warehouse, supplying the poor lepers of Assisi with beautiful Italian cloth. (I imagine them all walking around dressed to the nines in Armani.) Later in his too-short life, Francis preached about the humane treatment of Assisi's abundant street dog and cat population and the conservation of wilderness, both revolutionary concepts for the middle ages.

During his day Francis had only a handful of devoted followers, most notably Chiara Offreduccio who only 10 years after her death became known as St. Clare. When Clare's wealthy parents arranged her marriage to a high-ranking Assisian she ran away to the nearby hills and joined the Jesus-Love-Fest Francis was organizing. In only a few years Clare founded "the Order of Poor Ladies, a monastic religious order for women in the Franciscan tradition, and wrote their Rule of Life - the first monastic rule known to have been written by a woman". - The Interweb

Thanks to Francis and Clare, today's Assisi is full of love. The tiny streets and rosy houses are all clean and well cared for, and aside from the many chachki's, (that's Yiddish for nick-knacks - especially ones you don’t need) Assisi is beautiful. Maybe it was a hot day and we were a little tired, maybe it was the thousands of pilgrims, or the jasmine aroma therapy but the town seemed to have it's own quiet stillness an invisible cloud of meditative peace.

We climbed a fortress tower and peeked through the skinny archer's slots for the best view of the Umbrian hills. I thought about how crucial narrow vision is to war. Despite all the evidence, the city wall, the knight's heavy uniforms in the museum, the crossbow key chains for sale at the gift-shop, I found it hard to imagine such a peaceful city having ever taken up arms.

After our much needed Gelato we meandered down to the St. Francis's church. My tribe would call it: ungapatchki, that's Yiddish for over-done, at the very least, opulent. Surly St. Francis would have hated this building with its golden frescos and stained glass, all symbols of wealth and power in his day. The church is a far detour from the life of poverty the simple monk followed. But pilgrims are still pouring in from far and wide. We heard guides whispering to their tour groups in at least 5 languages as they pointed to the story filled frescos.

Deep inside the basement of the church, housed in a room he also would have hated but made much more beautiful by candlelight, lay the pulsing heart of this tiny city - the stone tomb of St. Frances raised like a shrine. I felt that the prayers of the tens of thousands of pilgrims who come here each year imbued the dark space with a life of its own. We sat there quietly on the wooden benches for a long while. People of all ethnicities came and went, Catholics did their fancy curtsy and signed the cross over their hearts (something I'd only seen in movies), a few women cried quietly and one person came in with crutches. In this way one by one, year after year the little room is filled with people's hopes and sorrows absorbed by the candlelight, into the boundless heart of St. Francis, into the space carved out by prayer, until there is nothing left but an exclamation point.

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi[1]

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand;

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to eternity

---

[1] "The Prayer of Saint Francis…is attributed to the 13th-century saint Francis of Assisi, although the prayer in its present form can not be traced back further than 1912, when it was printed…in a small spiritual magazine called La Clochette (The Little Bell) as an anonymous prayer, as demonstrated by Dr Christian Renoux in 2001. The prayer has been known in the United States since 1936 and Cardinal Francis Spellman and Senator Hawkes distributed millions of copies of the prayer during and just after World War II."

-The Interweb!

Bologna - Perugia

We only had one day in Bologna and it rained on and off, but mostly on. Making our way from wide paved streets towards narrow cobblestone alleys, we eventually ducked out of the rain taking refuge in a cappuccino. Feeling revived and nearly dry we ventured out again towards the town hall - home of the largest collection of works by the painter Giorgio Morandi. Along the way we passed a medieval fortress, and the massive church it was protecting. A Medieval fortress on a rainy day is enough to give anyone the blues…. and Morandi certainly had them, especially (sadly) at the end of his life confessing he had only scratched the surface of his artistic potential. Like Morandi we longed for more time in Bologna, but we were off to the heavenly city of Perugia, famous for it chocolate hazelnut Baci, or Kiss.

Perugia the capital of Umbria (the only province in Italy without a coastline) sits perched at the top of a hill like the nest of a phantom eagle. One way or another it takes some effort to get up there. The city has worked very hard to limit the number of cars zipping around tiny medieval streets. From the train station at the bottom of the hill we took the Mini Metro; an unmanned mini train car (seats about 12) running automatically from the hustle and bustle of the university and train station, up the hill (and back in time) towards the old part of town. The ride is somewhat reminiscent of a rollercoaster with wide-open views through the big windows but thankfully sans nausea. From the Mini Metro stop we took the Escalla Mobile (that's the sexy Italian word for escalator) up towards the towering medieval city wall. We climbed a few more flights of stairs and eventually put our backpacks down in a room with a view but not much else. We stayed three nights in Perugia sampling the town's best:

A. Pizza - each of us eating our own pie and giggling with delight as the flavors tickled our taste buds. Looking around the cozy pizzeria we couldn’t have been the first Americans to wonder why everyone else was using a fork and knife. …

B. Chocolate - the best thing to ever come from colonialism.

C. And of course gelato.

When we weren’t eating or walking towards food we kinked our necks looking up at ornate churches and toured the national gallery of art, which traces Umbria's story from a stark 13th century wooden crucifix to the light filled oil paintings of the Renaissance. Back outside we searched for the griffin and lion, symbols of the Pope and Holy Roman Empire that appear throughout the city, small reminders of its tumultuous and bloody past. But today Perugia is for lovers. The city has capitalized on its rich artistic heritage and attracts students from across the globe. The thick walls and steep slops around the city have not only kept invaders out over the centuries, they've upheld the old world within - the architecture, cobblestones, frescos, pizza ovens etc. etc. Eventually we descended from the winding narrow streets of old Perugia for a day trip via the Escala Mobile, Mini Metro and Italian National Rail to the neighboring hill-town of Assisi to pay our respects to St. Francis….

Cinque Terra

The clock here at my parent's house reads 4:00 am but by body thinks its 11:00. We're back from Israel safe and sound and jet-lagged. Ryan, always a man of his word, is sleeping soundly through the night as promised. I have some time to tell you more about our adventure.

When we last left our heroes they were about to board a train to The Cinque Terres...

The Cinquea Terres or Five Lands are five tiny coastal villages nestled into the top left crook in Italy's boot. Homes, churches and shops all covered in rosy hues of plaster were built up over the centuries and now tower over the shimmering Mediterranean like a flock of sea birds reflecting the sunset as they head towards the cliffs to roost.

On the train there:

A 13 year-old boy sits hunched over a video game beside his mom. She reprimands him for stretching his growing legs into the isle and for just a moment I understand Italian perfectly. A man in his 60's adorned in the male Italian dress-code of silk scarf, sharp trousers and what my Grandmother would call a "smart" shirt sits behind them sifting through a 4" stack of paper work, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. A teenage couple sits whispering, giggling and necking, their own 80's soft-rock soundtrack playing through a cell phone for the whole train to enjoy. One car down a group of local boys also around 16 all in their summer uniforms of short-shorts, tank tops and fanny packs, cheer and chant together strengthening their bond of Italian Brotherhood. Outside the window the Italian graffiti adorning the post WWII era concrete walls is equally as illegible (to my eyes) as the open-air artistry of NYC.

The train weaves in and out of tiny towns and trough many tunnels as it winds its way westward through the mountainous north towards the coast. I know we're getting closer when a gang of Australians join our car with their sun hats and cool accents. The girl next to me smells sweet wearing this season's eau de sunscreen. I know they're Australian straight away but for the moment we all share a nation-less identity:

From the country Tourismo

The province of Rucksack

We live in the city of Sunscreen

Our street: Camera

Apt. # 2

Then all of a sudden there it was! The Mediterranean peeked out from behind the rocks and winked at us. My heart skipped a beat and I felt like I'd been reunited with a long lost friend.

Moments later we disembarked:

All Five Lands are connected via train and footpath, there is a small road but that's not the point. People come from all over the world to hike from town to town and in our case sample gelato along the way. We heard languages of all sorts being spoken adding a strangely cosmopolitan feel to these formerly tiny fishing villages. We wondered, with all the tourists and their Euros milling about, why the plaster on the houses was still pealing off? That being said, pealing plaster does make for a wonderful photography subject. The train dropped us off at the northern most town of Monteroso and we slowly made our way south by foot and by train to Riomaggiore.

The rosy Cinquea Terres are adorned with blossoming Jasmine, bright Bougainvillea, Oleander, Lemon trees and twisting gnarly Pines. We swam in my world-favorite ocean and Ryan pulled a rainbow of rocks and plastic bits out of the deceivingly white sand. Tired from wondering from high above the village's steep slopes down through their narrow streets we sat on a bench and wondered where to rest our weary bones for the night. Just then the unmistakable sound of a hefty key-chain echoed up through the cool alleyway followed by a dark haired middle-aged woman and her young granddaughter. She had a room for us and we gratefully follow her to it. That evening we gorged ourselves with Slow Foods:

Dear Antipasto, Dear Primo, Dear Secondo, Dear Contorno and Dolce…Oh how I Love Thee?! Let me count the ways…

In the morning church bells ringing nine times remind us to return the room key to the café around the corner. We bid a fond farewell to the terracotta rooftops and the shimmering sea and made our way back to the ranch.

Back at Casa Lanzarotti a calf was born and after three more days of helping out in exchange for gourmet food and sparkling conversation Geanluca and his long-time friend Daniello brought us to the train station. And that was the end of our wwoofing adventure- just like that, one last lift to the train station. We headed to Bologna, as in Bolognese sauce...yummm.

Casa Lanzarotti Part II

Our wwoof hosts at Casa Lanzarotti where amazing and not just because of their culinary skills. Geanluca and Iris met in Africa working for the Red Cross about twenty years ago. They've traveled the world together working to help people living in the ugliest circumstances.

Taking our time to talk during meals in traditional Italy style, we heard many amazing stories. Though they'd been in serious, oftentimes life-threatening situations, Geanluca's stories were full of humor and his delivery alone was as intriguing as the content. With expressions like: "Very Impressive!" and "indeed" peppered throughout, eyes bulging forward in exclamation and hands narrating, it was often after 10pm before the dishes were all put way.

Woofing at Casa Lanzarotti was wonderful but to be a guest there- Wow, that's the way to go. We got to see a bit behind the scene, all the work they put into caring for their guests. Their organizational experience of coordinating massive international relief efforts is put to use as they prepare nearly every meal, shuttle guests around from train station to town, and continue to run their farm, go to markets, go to the butcher etc, etc.... Iris is a power- house of energy, baking bread in the outdoor wood fire oven to sell at the market, canning strawberry jam, heading up the local beef cooperative, overseeing the butchers union, and serving meal after gourmet meal all with the precision of a Swiss watch. (Sorry for the cliché'- I just couldn't help it).

With all this hard work going on around us we were inspired to work a double shift and take two days off heading out for a brief holiday at the Cinque Terras.

Casa Lanzarotti (part 1)

It was early afternoon when we disembarked the plain onto the sunny Italian tarmac. As we watched the last of the luggage being swept off of carousel 2 our facial expressions slowly changed from generally tired to generally concerned; the loading door was shut, the carousel came to a stop and our bags were obviously still in Munich.

We decided (somewhat naively we were later told) to trust the woman behind the lost luggage window when she told us that our bags would be delivered to our destination "tomorrow". Partially relieved to be walking around without our backpacks we made our way to the train station and a few hours later to Borgo Val Di Taro. As the train rolled further and further away from Bologna Centrale I wondered if I'd ever see my red backpack again…

"Excuse me, but by chance are you wwoofers?" A thick Check accent picked us out of the dwindling crowd. "I am Klara", said our new wwoof coordinator and quickly introduced us to our hosts Iris and Geanluca. I could tell we were all tired after a long day. We hopped into a big yellow van and were off to Casa Lanzarotti. It was just after 10 p.m.

Two days later to everyone's amazement a Hertz rental truck bumped it's way down the driveway. "Leah! Ryon! Your bags!!" we heard Iris shout. And there they were, along with a hand-full of other abandoned suitcases, being fished out of a mountain of bread rolls. "In the morning he delivers bread and in the afternoon he delivers lost luggage" Iris translated for us. The bread crates had toppled over as the truck came down the hill (or too fast around a curve, more likely) covering our bags with a dusting of the finest Italian flour. Diligently resourceful, Iris pulled some bread rolls out of the truck and fed them to the sheep.

Over the next two weeks we ate prosciutto with fresh melon, drank milk from the dairy up the road, minestrone soup with fresh everything, cured meats of all sorts, mushrooms from the woods just past the house, cheeses galore including parmagean from neighboring Parma, wine with every meal, espresso on demand, nettle pesto, plum tarts, cherries, quince jam, plum jam, cherry jam, dandelion chutney, fresh strawberries, wood fire baked bread, sausages from their pigs, a roast from their cows, salads from their garden, and the pastas, O! The pastas….

In between meals we earned our keep helping to set up the farm for another bountiful autumn harvest. We planted chard, peppers, squash, and of course basil. We thinned the carrot patch, weeded the peas, leeks and harvested a great many strawberries- making sure to check for quality along the way. Our fingers were stained red. Ryan's weed wippin' skills were promptly put to use as we helped to spruce up the place for the coming agritourismo guests. Each morning, before our daily fresh cereals-milk-homemade bread and jam festival, we walked up the hill to cut grass with a scythe for the 5 sheep and 1 old horse who spent their days in harmony overlooking a picture postcard valley.

After lunch you could find us fast asleep in our caravan (wine with lunch is not my general M.O.- but it could be...) or on warmer days down by the Taro River. To get to the river we'd walk through fields of grass and wild flowers down to the shady wooded road, through the one horse town of Gotra, passed the café'/ gelateria- I meant, into the café'/ gelateria and eventually down to the river.

So much more to say- but we're in Rome and when in Rome…

London Amsterdam Haikus

Haiku London

Rainy London Town

Surrealists at the Tate

Thames River Rainbow

Hello Pakistani Plates!

Thanks David and Jahlia

So long Fish & Chips

Haiku Amsterdam

Bicycles and boats

"Who wants to get a coffee?"

The night is still young…

-Ryan

Church stairs spiral up

no where to be but right here

a three sixty view

-Liat & Ryan

Curtains closed in Otto's house

1944

Outside a bird builds a nest[1]

-Liat

Colors fill the mind

Empty onto the canvas

Why did you do that?

-Ryan

---

[1] We visited Anne Frank's hiding place made into a museum by Anne's father Otto. The Franks lived in hiding for years in the apartment above Otto's spice warehouse. Black curtains were kept shut all day "not even an inch". - A. Frank. In the morning she would go up to the attic and gaze out of a skylight at the sky and birds. Looking out of their tiny window with streets and canals busy down below we saw an egg sitting silently in a gutter.

Do you think I'm the first to put a footnote on a Haiku? There can't be that many out there....

From Swindon to Avebury

Dear Reader,

You will be pleased to know that we're on a farm in Northern Italy safe and sound. We have our afternoons off so when we're not down by the river I'm taking the opportunity to write about the last few legs of our journey, i.e., Swindon/ Avebery, London and Amsterdam. With a healthy dose of F.O.M.O. (Fear Of Missing Out) we decided not to go to Scotland after all. In the interest of more time spent exploring and less traveling, of saving a few extra dollar-pounds, and also because sometimes less really is more, it just made more sense for us to stay put. We'll have to make another trip there someday, that's all there is to it.

Thank you for your continued support and readership.

Yours sincerely, Liat

From Swindon to Avebury

About an hour west of London is the town of Swindon, once known as Swine Dune or Hog Hill by the locals this little city, like the town of Ruardean, has seen better days. During the railroad days (when cheep labor was abundant) Swindon was a bustling boomtown with a church tower to prove it. Since then, Swindons' seen its share of ups and downs, and presently it's down. On the last day of May, walking from the train station to our B&B (on the 25 min. walk the B&B owner said would "only take 10 minutes") we wondered if we were in a real live ghost town. Everywhere boarded up shop windows and flats were displaying "To Let" signs and as usual I wondered what in the world we were going to do for dinner?

Bath was sometimes too fancy and Swindon felt really run down. (Is it too much to say that I would like the best of both worlds please, what Permaculturalist call, the edge? Somewhere between the flourishing, expensive and gentrified communities and the depressed, rundown, cheep ones. I have been known to want it all- but a girl can dream can't she?) Any way, it just so happens that there was an amazing (and open) Indian restaurant just down the block from our B&B. And the next morning, like most of the people who live in Swindon, we were off to seek our fortunes elsewhere.

We took a 20 min bus ride to magical Avebury. On the way I said, "I hope we get to see one of those white horses" and looking out the window a moment later there it was! The horse is made out of white limestone and lays flat like a stamp on the ground. Stretching across the hillside hundreds of feet long, the first settlers of this region took cave painting to a whole new level. Like all great art you feel mysteriously pulled towards it, sensing something of yourself and all humanity within it, but often you're left only guessing (and projecting) what the artist "really" had in mind. Seeing the white horses was a dream of mine ever since I first heard of them. As the bus rolled on I felt both nourished and hungry for more. 5 minutes later we were in Avebury.

If you ever get the chance to go to Avebury- go for it! About 5,000 years ago a great big moat-like fort was dug out of white limestone (probably by cohorts of the White Horse artists) into a perfect circle about a half-mile wide- thousands of tons of soil were moved by hand. A few hundred years later massive boulders were brought in from a great distance, many of them over 15' tall, and were stood up, pointy side down creating a ring with in the fort. The circle has four major openings corresponding with the four directions. A remaining "Great Avenue" or ancient road also lined with massive standing stones stretches outward from the circle towards the south for over four miles. Eventually, "Many of the original stones were broken up or removed from the early 14th century onwards at the behest of the Christian Church to remove association with pagan rituals, to make room for agriculture, or to provide local building materials. - The Interweb. The Christens left behind a church and a town to go with it.

This is the town of Avebury. It hosts the holy trinity of Pub, Church, and Post Office that constitute the core of country living world wide- this one just happens to be within a monolithic archeological wonder.

Except for a few arrowheads there exists very little physical evidence about the life of Avebery's first architects, foremen and laborers. There is a bubbling cauldron full of questions about who theses people were, how this space was used, and what was "truly" intended. Filling this void of hard evidence Aveburys' become a magnet for forward and far-out thinkers alike, each claiming their stake in the mystery. The chachky (Yiddish for knickknack) store is overflowing with books about Goddess worship, sacred geometry and aliens all packed onto the same small shelves, each one silently hoping to be vindicated by your purchase.

No doubt this is a magical place- but for me the magic came from not knowing and from appreciating the wonder of human ingenuity, our monument-building instinct. We spent the afternoon feeling giddy with awe at the beauty of this place, walking around the massive stones slowly and snapping at least a hundred photos. The sun was shining, it was warm and breezy, clouds were dynamic and grass seemed extra green.

Under the thatched roof of the Red Lion Pub we raised our glasses to Earth's great mysteries. The following morning we were on the train to London.

-Dear Trip, Please don't go by too fast. With Love, Liat

Bath

Bath England

After pushing and shoving our way towards the door we felt like we'd been spat out of the over-crowded train onto the Bath platform. It was so packed I worried Ryan would squeeze out and I would be left on board crying all the way to London. Thankfully a stranger pushed the door open for us and we both made it out, backpacks and all. We stood there on the platform for a while- stunned. We said a blessing of thanks to the helping hands of strangers everywhere.

Eventually we got over our rough start and put our bags down at the B&B. Later standing at the bus stop heading back to the town center we met a true gentleman and Bath native John Emory who was more than happy to point us towards Bath's many treasures. Thanks to John we were able to sneak away from the crowds of "other people" and find quiet streets with tucked away corners. It was the end of May and Bath was brimming with tourismos. We couldn't help but hear American accents as they floated above the crowds sounding long, flat and somehow improper to our British-trained ears.

We probably couldn't have planned it if we tried but it happened to be the opening night of Bath's annual International Music Festival and the whole city was celebrating. There was plenty of free music all around. Outside the Abby's back door there was an old piano with the words "play me I'm yours" painted on it in pink letters. We stood around for a while enjoying the many virtuosos (including a 12 year old boy) as they took turns sitting on the velvet piano stool. Eventually when the sun set the beautiful Abby in the center of town was lit up in changing hues of blue and pink. There was a fireworks display that would put Disney to shame and people dressed in Victorian garb (wigs and all) floated around the city like ghosts. We missed the bus and got lost on our way back to bed- but eventually made it.

The next morning, stuffed to the gills with yet another "full English breakfast" we joined the crowds and caught a glimpse of what Baths' famous for; Roman Bathhouses built by Celtic craftsmen over England's only thermal springs. We took the audio tour (laden with quirky British humor) and nudged our way through. Except for the led lined pipes and pools, those Romans sure knew how to build. By the sign that read, "don't touch the water" we knelt down to test the temperature with the tips of our fingers. A lone mallard gracefully landed in the warm courtyard pool and called for his mate. We made our wishes on one pence and one stow-away penny and marveled at the shadowy ripples they left behind as they sank to the bottom of the Roman cold-plunge; a cavernous stone room dramatically lit thanks to the British National Trust.

We had our Teatime at a corner café and wondered why the fiddling tightrope walker captured a crown only half the size the juggling fire-eater was able to round up on the opposite corner. Dave our B&B owner graciously delivered our backpacks to the formerly cursed train station promptly at 5:pm and we were on the 5:30 to Swindon.

Bont Glan Tanat

Bont Glan Tanat

On the train to Gobowen tiny Willow seeds float in through the window by the 100's along with the golden afternoon light. It looks like it's snowing. I'm not the only one to notice these gently floating fairy stowaways. Chattering voices slow to a hush and people are smiling and looking all around taken by the ingenuity of these immigrants- hoping to take-root. Hedges, canals, men fishing, bright yellow fields, bright green fields, woods, electric posts, stone bridge, stone wall, church yard, cemetery, land sloping this way and that, all around us summers' creeping in. Eventually the train brakes squeak and we're back in Wales to meet Francine and Steve our hosts at Bont Glan Tanat.

"That's Welch for Bridge over the Tanat River" Francine tells us once we're in the van heading to her Smallholding. It's a hot Saturday afternoon and her five-year-old boy Lindon is passed out in his car seat with red cheeks and sweat collecting on his brow. His big sister Tanath is at a friend's house swimming the afternoon away. As we bumped along the road Francine told us all about the cosmology of her homestead; from it's humble beginnings to its present state of perpetual work-in-progress. We felt instantly comfortable and glad to once again be in good hands. As she talked I wondered if she was describing our own journey- a balance of hard work, helping hands, and fortuitous twists in the road?

We stayed in a little bow-toped gypsy wagon by a creek that sang us to sleep for the 5 nights we were at Bont. During the day we put on our armor and pulled Nettles, using straw we mulched heavily as much exposed soil as we could, we adorned the Gypsy wagon with a fresh coat of very green paint, Ryan built new compost bins, and of course we weeded. All this in exchange for good home cooked meals, our afternoons off, two bicycles, and one fishing pole. We rode those bike a lot. Way out to a magical waterfall and down to the pub in the evening. On the way we passes a 17' standing stone out in a newly sprouted cornfield. Clearly Wales is the birthplace of Gnomes and Fairies- there is no other way to describe it.

The time to bid farewell to our new friends came quickly. Steve drove us back to the train station all the while pointing out Iron Age burial mounds of Welsh Kings and Dragon Slayers telling us stories about "families with Influence" and how the landscape has changed as it's changed hands. Steve and Ryan communed in the age-old language of Fishing. On the train to Bath I wondered, "is that a burial mound, fort, standing stone?"

With just a little bit of history this new place became so much more familiar. "To name something is to imbue it with sole". -?

Crooked End Farm

"Travel: ORIGIN Middle English:

Variant of TRAVAIL and originally in the same sense."- Webster

The following day we took our time reaching our next wwoof assignment: Crooked End Farm. We stopped at the Lantony Abby a 12th century relic with silent pillars and rock walls all around. The Abbys' had a hotel on site since the 1760's and the Bar has only been open for100 years. Matt played his guitar in a tucked away corner and the sound echoed throughout bringing with it a bit of home. Down at the cozy pub we raised our glasses in honor of beer-brewing monks everywhere, shared a Market Plate of cheese and pickles and were on our way to Crooked End in Ruardeen in England's west midlands.

From the moment we pulled into town I had a bad feeling about it. Sorry Ruardeen, no hard feelings please, you're just a little rundown, a little depressed. I wonder what happened to you? I know the tanked economy has hit small towns in a hard way, but it seems like you’ve been down for a while….

When we got to the farm the welcome we received from our host was luke-warm at best. Filled with apprehension towards our coming days I bid my farewell to Captain Davies and seriously considered calling after him to turn around as I watched him drive away. Our host quickly introduced us to her very sweet (but a little too-perky if you ask me) assistant who led us to our shabby dwelling to drop off our bags and then through a quick tour of the farm.

Remember what I said about the Hatch? Everywhere we looked something was beautiful and interesting- I would say the opposite was true at Crooked End. Granted they've only been up and running for a couple of years and our hosts both have other jobs to pay the bills and young children to contend with so I know I shouldn’t be too hard on them. I don't really want to get into it actually. I'll just say I thought the place lacked structure, was messy, dirty (yes I know it's a farm but seriously…) and I was very happy to be back on a bus 4 (seemingly long) days later.

In defense of our time spent at Crooked End I will say that we met two very sweet French woofers, fed baby sheep from a bottle, went for some beautiful long walks in the countryside, had my first tractor driving lesson and made it to dart night down at the local. Pretty good I guess for an otherwise bunk detour.

Brecon Beacons

Captain Davies and his trusty GPS led us down narrow twisting roads through the Black Mountains of Wales on the East side of Brecon Beacon National Park by Hay Bluff- a sinuous landscape carved over millions of years out of moving ice. We were taking a day trip out from Bookton to visit Matt's friends Diana and Nigel.

"The Brecon Beacons are named after the ancient practice of lighting signal fires (beacons) on mountains to warn of attacks by the English, or more recently to commemorate public and national events such as coronations or the Millennium."- The Interweb

It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm with a cool breeze chiming in from time to time. On the way we passed a standing stone no more than 4ft tall. Chances are it was once part of a stone circle, but now it stands alone- the last of its tribe. This rock has enjoyed one of the world's best views for at least 2,000 years- rolling hills as far as our eyes could see. I imagined how the landscape has change since it was first erected; woods became sheep-speckled fields, foot paths became paved roads, a few hill tops may have rounded over. We don't know much about who first stood at that spot and thought it needed marking, but thousands of years later we're glad they took the time, the stone reminded us to slow down and open our eyes wider still.

We pulled into Diana and Nigel's cottage just in time for Tea. Matt first met our hosts about 10 years ago when he was a studying Art History in the UK and Europe and they were running a B&B hosting student groups visiting the area. Lucky for us he stayed in touch with them over the years. We sat in the garden and had our first taste of Welsh cake (a likely predecessor to now infamous holiday fruit-cake) and our first peach of the season- imported from Spain. Diana is one of those amazing people who can remember names and dates. She told us about local history, plant-lore, geology, genealogy - you name it she had something interesting to say and in-between it all she was genuinely curious about us. Nigel mostly sat back and smiled, a recovering banker, he simply enjoyed being out in his garden and seeing it through the fresh eyes only newcomers can bring. We felt very welcome there.

Sometime during Tea our beautiful day quietly tipped its hat, bid us farewell and was replaced by a lovely evening. With golden light dripping in all around us I wondered when the fairies and gnomes would come out with flutes and drums to lead us through the magical wood? That's when Diana said: "Would you like to borrow some Wellies, we have to cross the creek to feed the horses dinner?"

We waded across the stream, ducked our heads below heavy beech branches, through the gate, across the field with a 600-year-old oak tree (where the fairies and gnomes surly gather to dance on a full moon), up the hill to the horses with their epic view of the Black Mountains. We stayed there for a while listening to stories about when "the train used to come through here in the coal mining days" and how "the foot paths are ancient short cuts to get from your farm to the church on Sunday". Ryan took pictures of our very long shadows stretching across the bright green grass. Heading back we all walked slowly along the creek and communed with the sacred water-rock-tree-air spirits. It was a hard spot to leave, but eventually we had to pull Diana away from her storytelling and make it back to the Blue Boar in Hay before they stopped serving supper.

Because the UK is so far up north it's not fully dark till way past 10pm. All this light has become a traveling companion, pulling at our sleeves to go around just one more bend. Eventually we did extinguish our curiosity-beacons and made it to bed.

"Bits and Pieces"

I brought a little black journal on this trip, leather bound with a grey tassel to remind me where I was last. Inside the book, way in the back is a pocket that folds out like a tiny accordion. In the spirit of blogging, here's what's inside:

-A fortune from a cookie in Sebastopol that reads "An airplane ride is soon in your future sending you to fun!"

-A few business cards that map out some of this journey with names like Boundry Bay Brewing Company from way up in Washington State to Pistyll Rhaeadr Waterfall in Wales.

-A 2"x2" birthday card from Ryan, hand made.

-The contact # for our new friend C in London (who's husband happens to be a professor at the Art Collage)

-A scrap of wool I pulled off barbed wire fencing on one of our walks along a "publicfootpth"

-Pressed flowers: red Clover, Daisy, Bluebell, Buttercup. And my most recent addition:

-A bit of china no bigger than a fingernail, blue and white that I found in the soil while weeding at Bont Glan Tanat.

That was our last wwoofing spot in the UK; we're leaving for Amsterdam in 3 days. I'll do my best to catch up- please accept my apologies for not writing sooner. In all honesty when I've had the time, I've lacked the space, and when I had the space, there was no time.

The Hatch: The warm welcome we received from 3 year-old Romy feels strangely like it was both ages ago and somehow just yesterday. I can't share enough good news from the Hatch - I'm only left with the miraculous feeling that "home" can be found in the most tucked away places- down one lane windy roads hidden from view by a tall thick hedge and "family" is an ever-expanding organism of it's own.

The oldest part of their 4 story brick home is a converted Hop Kiln dating back to the 1760's. Inside the walls are full of art- everywhere your eye rests on something interesting, unique and beautiful. Outside, past their garden there's a pond (bordering Lake-status) with water Lillys and an old wooden bridge that looks like the Monet - no joke. This place is a fairy-tail postcard with nooks and crannies, woods blanketed in Bluebells, orchards, flowering perennials all around, complete with a hammock and rope-swing to sweeten the deal.

There is no shortage of enthusiasm or inspiration at The Hatch a 30+ acre estate owned by Ben's father the white haired, pipe smoking, salty architect: Robin Salmon. With expressions like "not exactly up to muster for the barber but respectable none-the-less" sputtering out during sheep sheering (sheep bum-wool trimming to be more specific- ask Ryan for details)- someone should really write a book about this guy…. or paint a portrait…

Ben and Nada are working out ways to make their family property into a viable business. They've been busy networking with local agricultural business coaches and it was inspiring for me to see them in their process: sticky notes, poster boards, schedules, meetings- to see past the icing on this delicious cake into what it would really take to "keep the farm".

We helped them extend their chicken run to near palatial status, and built a compost heap worth writing home about. I think what we really liked about being there (besides our gracious hosts and the view from our window) was that Ben and Nada were really open to our ideas and suggestions. Theirs is a work in progress - and so is ours.

On our third day there, working in the woods, setting posts for the fence that would keep the chickens in and the fox out, a black Audi sneaks up the driveway. Out of the wrong-side-drivers-side window we see the white teeth of our new traveling companion and Ryan's long-time friend, Mr. Matt Davies.

We quickly put him to work and Matt stayed and sweated with us at the Hatch for a couple of days digging a moat-like ditch as part of our chicken run fortification project. In the mornings he played his guitar on the sunny porch.

Ben and Nada had a full house that weekend, and this is a big house I'm talking about. Ben's band was in for a rehearsal, 2 wwoofers from California and their friend from by the Big Lakes, 2 more wwoofers with a baby coming on Sunday, and their long time friend Handy Andy (another one deserving of a book and a portrait). Did I mention that Ben and Nada have a 1 and 3 year-old? All this is to say that I was inspired most of all by Nada's grace. She even found time to bake bread - all the while with little Wolfie on her back…. amazing!

On Sat. we bid a sad farewell to The Hatch and I did my best to move gracefully from what was now known and comfortable - to the yet unknown (at least for me) town of Hay on Wye.

On the way to Hay we stopped in the little town of Pembridge and sat outside a 13th century Norwegian-style round bell tower which was across form the 14th century Church. We walked through the graveyard and took photos of old doors, cobblestones and clouds. Pembridge historically was a really poor town, too poor to renovate it's buildings when the hip thing to do was plaster over exposed beams and change the wattle-and-dob to brickwork. Lucky for Pembridge all those years of hardship are now paying off - it's a beautiful historic village tucked away in the countryside where travelers come from far and wide to enjoy a pint outside the hotel pub.

If you ever get the chance to go to Hay on Wye, go for it! The documented history of this little village goes back to about 1070 when Welsh kings battled for the usual stuff boys fight over. But it's the pairing of Hay's rich past with its more recent history that shapes it into the groovy place it is today.

"On 1 April 1977, [Hey resident and] bibliophile Richard George William Pitt Booth conceived a publicity stunt in which he declared Hay-on-Wye to be an 'independent kingdom' with himself as its monarch. The tongue-in-cheek micronation of Hay-on-Wye has subsequently developed a healthy tourism industry based on literary interests for which some credit Booth." …'His legacy will be that Hay changed from a small market town into a mecca for second-hand book lovers and this transformed the local economy." -The Interweb

There's a bookstore for mystery lovers, a bookstore for chefs, a bookstore for war-buffs, and one for plant nerds too, book stores everywhere you look, each one cozier than the next (most of them eliciting a sneeze of authenticity from the dust-sensitive). Over our two days there we hopped from coffee to books to chachkies (that's Yiddish for nick-nacks), to tea, to a walk along The River Wye, to books, to The Black Lion, to the Blue Boar, to books, and eventually to bed. Thanks Hay! …

More to come soon - I promise….

toast and tea

"Bread and water can so easily be toast and tea"

- Tea box in Jahlia's cupboard

So much has happened since my last check in. I have a feeling that every entry could easily start with that sentence, though to our credit Internet access has been limited (but we're grateful for that too).

After a warm send off from our West County cohorts we packed and tidied the house one last time, managed to get two hrs of sleep and were up before sunrise to catch the 4:30 am airport shuttle. This is the point in our story where I started to feel that something was really happening, I mean, subletters are moving in and we are moving out and won't be back until August.

Two sunrises, a chicken salad, one bag of pretzels, a banana, one cramped leg, a kinked neck, and two complementary hand towels later, it's time for continental breakfast 30,000 ft. above Ireland and one hour till landing.

Somehow in our daze we made our way towards my friends Jahlia and David's flat on the upper east side of London. We followed their instructions left behind on our cozy bed and slept for most of the day. By the time they returned from work we were refreshed and ready for our first ever round of "quiz night at the pub, very British".

We proceeded to watch in awe as our new friend and team leader Elliot blazed through round after round of questions with the competitive spirit of an Olympian. We chimed in when we could with answers like, "Avatar, and Tony Blair" but being generally out of the loop of U.S. pop culture and even less tapped into Brittan's, (I should just speak for my self here…) I wasn't much help. We were both impressed by the amount of work the MC had put into all the questions, many involving sound clips, not to mention the photo round. We were equally impressed by the fervor with which teams gathered and worked to win. (Winning team takes home the pot by the way.) In the end, we went home with a box of chocolates for "best team name" which will remain omitted from this entry; I'll only say that Elliot was sure he, "understands the inner workings of our judge's mind", and indeed he did.

The following day we walk around small streets and some big ones too exploring nooks and crannies, taking it all in through our jet lagged daze. Then we packed our bare essentials; our sense of humor and our sense of wonder and made it through London's rush hour to our bus station heading towards our first farm. On the bus we watched from the window as cafés and apartments transformed into small houses with cars parked out front, then larger houses with garages slowly opened up into fields, an enormous quilt of green wheat and yellow mustard all around us. Soon the houses were few and far between and stone church steeples were peeking through thick hedgerows. We were heading northwest to Cheshire (as in Cat). It's almost as if we've gone back in time because sprig is just springing in the UK, I feel so lucky to have two springs in one year. 5hrs and one short train ride later we were met at the station by Pam our first wwoof host.

We knew right away from her warm smile that we were in good hands. Pam is in her early 60's, tall, thin, and very strong. Back at the ranch she introduced us to her very sweet sister C (for Celia) who spends half of each month in London and the other half running back and forth between the garden and the kitchen at Yarangal Green Farm making Yarengal Family Jam. They're both artists, and needless to say, full of vigor.

Their family has lived on the property for two generations. The oldest part of the farmhouse dates back to the 1,500's, with beautiful thick wooden beams running across the low sealing in what is now the living room but was once a traditional Welsh longhouse. "Bits and pieces" have been added on throughout the years (including the 1970's kitchen wallpaper) transforming the house into a living historical document. We spent the next four days "mucking about" their place, fixing a gate, weeding the onion bed, building a few steps, mulching, and making Damson jam. In the evenings we would all get together for a traditional British starch-filled supper and talk about art, politics, and mostly the environment. Their farm was on the Sandstone Trail and they run a small B&B where they host "walkers" over night. We had a chance to explore a little and walked through their "woodlnd" (a nature preserve they're restoring with a government grant) for a view of the Welsh hills. Except for the cold nights we were lucky to have "lovely weather", but before we know it, it was time to head off to The Hatch in Tenbury Wells, Worcestershire (as in sauce).

We recognized Ben straight away from the photo of him we saw on The Hatch web site; strawberry Blond hair, huge blue eyes and big smile. We hopped into his very yellow van, pushed aside some baby toys, children's books and a guitar to make room for our bags and were off to the Pub for a gig. In this band (one of many he's a part of) Ben plays rhythm guitar backing up a 22 year-old Django-like virtuoso, "Brilliant!" Ben is also a drummer and a painter, a real Renaissance man much like the one I'm traveling with. In the van we wolfed down generous portions of a delicious onion quiche still warm from the oven which Ben's wife Nada had made- our first clue that she, like Ben, was a total Rock Star. After the wonderful show in the very-old Pub where they brew their own beers called, "This", "That", and "T'other" we were off to The Hatch where the lights were all out and it was way past bedtime. We crawled into our lovely warm bed in our spacious room at the top of the stairs and were off to dream land feeling right at home though we'd just arrived.

In the morning (bright and early) redheaded and rosy-cheeked 3-year-old Romy rousted us out of bed eager to make new friends. And so began our time at The Hatch…..

http://www.thehatchworkshop.co.uk/Welcome.html

http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?hl=en&tab=wl