Hvidøre

In a seaside suburb called Klampenborg, just north of Copenhagen city centre, is a beautiful white building.  A long time ago, it used to belong to Empress Dowager Dagmar of Russia.  

Hvidøre on a grey day

In fact, it used to be a palace with views of Øresund between Denmark and Sweden.  It has a long history.   Since as early as the 16th century, before it was rebuilt in its current form, it had a host of royal residents.  The building was demolished and rebuilt in the 1870s and then purchased by King Christian IX’s daughters, Queen Alexandra of England and her sister, Dagmar.  They lived there each year between September and November, until the outbreak of the first world war, when travel became too difficult.  And, at the time of the Russian Revolution, Dagmar escaped Russia, and Hvidøre became her home until her death in 1928.  

Today, it is used as a training facility and conference centre for a pharmaceutical company.    

In spite of its corporate associations, we can enter the charm of Hvidøre and meet my friend, who truly is the current ‘Dagmar’.  

Kirsten is an artist.  She paints vibrant, colourful and dynamic paintings of flowers.  I told her that one day, her paintings may hang in Louisiana (modern art museum in Copenhagen).  I hope so.  They represent so much joy, positivity, expansive energy and delight. 

Dagmar’s daughter, Grand Duchess Olga, also moved into Hvidøre with her husband and two sons; and she, too, used to be an artist.  Some of her work currently hangs in the reception rooms there.

Kirsten is working from the inside out to transform her colleagues into artists....and she is succeeding.  I assisted in one of her team building art workshops a couple of years ago.  We got dressed in what looked like space suits - white disposable overalls and shoe coverings and transformed a large meeting room into an art studio by laying out huge tarpaulins.  She instructed her workshop participants to create art any which way, using paint guns, hands, sponges and paint brushes of all sizes.  And they had a ball, and they created beautiful art.  Many tell her afterwards that she has inspired them to paint and draw at home.

Hvidøre is like a fine hotel and training facility rolled into one.  It has a top class kitchen staffed by some of the nicest men I know who prepare delicious haute cuisine.  It is one of the best dining experiences in Copenhagen - everything is made on-site, trips are regularly made abroad to gather inspiration and if you wanted a snack in the middle of the night, one of the chefs will make it for you.    It accommodates overseas staff on business trips to Denmark as well as participants who attend training held on-site.  

So while Kirsten provides historical tours of the property and graciously greets and takes care of these visitors, she is on a mission.  In her spare time, she paints and exhibits her work publicly, whilst in her paid job, she looks after Hvidøre and runs art workshops within the organisation on the pretext of team-building.  

When I visited her recently in August, I was lucky because we had Hvidøre to ourselves -there were no guests and the kitchen staff had left for the day.  She welcomed me as if she  was the lady of the house.  

Kirsten in front of one of  Grand Duchess Olga's paintings 

In spite of Hvidøre’s royal history and its current role in meeting the needs of its guests, it is like a big old house, admittedly with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a beautiful grand piano in one of the drawing rooms, but the furniture isn’t over the top.  It has a nice mixture of modern Danish design and more traditional European furniture.  It has a warm and welcoming ambience that lacks the stuffiness and mustiness of European castles and palaces.  It is small enough that it feels like a house and Kirsten loves it like it is her own home.  

Very soon, she is going to St Petersburg on a business trip to do further research into Hvidøre’s royal history.  No doubt she will take her engaging and vibrant self, much like her flowers, to Russia, where she will attempt to weave the past and the present together and most likely inspire artists and art lovers in those she encounters.

Kirsten's website:
http://kirstenoergaard.dk/wordpress/

Mouse in the House

I saw something dart under the refrigerator....oh my God...it was a mouse.  And, I felt responsible  - I had had the garden doors open after insisting to Angela, my host, that I would help her prune and tidy up her garden that had become a jungle.  And now I had somehow let a mouse in.

I shut the kitchen door hoping that the mouse would stay under the fridge for the night, and I would not be woken up by something running across me as I went to sleep on the couch in the living room next door.

The next morning, I had forgotten about it, and as I was enjoying an unusual lay in, I got up to have a drink and I saw this tiny thing now sitting on the floor across from me.  It had moved from the kitchen into the living room.

How do you catch a mouse in someone else’s house when you don’t know where anything is?  

I opened the garden door again and came back to find it still sitting where it had been.  I decided to ask it to leave.  I explained how the garden was much nicer and that it would be much happier outside.  I told it that we really couldn’t keep it inside.  It just looked at me and then darted behind the cupboard.  

I thought if I could trap it in under a box or a tin, I would be able to contain it, and started taking everything off the floor - cushions, sewing machine, chairs and bags in readiness for the sudden assault I anticipated having to make to catch it before it ran away again.  Now I had everything on the table apart from the mini trampoline I found standing against the wall.  That was not going to fit on top of the table.  The mouse kept darting out from behind the cupboard but every time I moved, it went back into hiding.

Now all I had to do was find a box or a tin but no luck.  And then I lost sight of the mouse.  

So now I was worried it would find its way into my suitcase, clothing, papers, etc.  I proceeded to get all of my stuff off the floor, including my suitcase which was now perched on top of my bed.  And then I saw it again, as it scurried under the piano, this time a lot closer to my bed.  I never thought I would be on my hands and knees in my pyjamas looking for a mouse after having turned my host’s living room upside down.  Lucky she wouldn’t be home for several hours.  

Four hours later, the living room is back in order but the mouse is still at large....

The Golden Orbs

“Once upon a long, long time ago

there was a jellyfish with a big hairy belly button.

He went to the shopping mall to have a pedicure

There he met a policeman and he said:

nice underwear, very fetching!

Mmmm...he murmured, licking his lips,

"I can't believe this is happening to me."

But in fact, it really was. And the world agreed.”

I cannot claim that the little story above is mine except for two lines. Let me introduce you to my co-creators, the Golden Orbs:

Junko, reflexologist, energetic cooking aficionado and soon to become expert, a massage therapist and healer in various modalities - dances to her own rhythms and time

Ananda, film-maker, spiritual seeker, lives on a house boat, Junko’s partner, meticulous and punctual

Andrew, river conservationist, softly spoken, gentle in nature - a contemplative

Parul, town planner, bubbly and full of energy with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes

Joel, committed high school geography teacher looking for a career change in goat and walnut farming, avid traveller and photographer, Parul’s partner in mischief

----------

I had no idea what I was in for.  I had met Parul more than a year ago in London at Junko’s.  Junko and I went to the same primary school in Tokyo and had reignited a friendship in the last ten years.  As I was making plans earlier this year to head to the UK again, Junko sent me an email inviting me to join her, Parul and her friends for a week in a cabin in Norway.  I had never been to Norway and a cabin on an island sounded idyllic.  It seemed a long way away and a good idea.

As the weeks passed and on more than one occasion I started to wonder if a week in a cabin in a remote area of Norway with people I didn’t really know was such a good idea. I like my own company,  I crave for peace and quiet and I am not a group person.  

I then received another email from Junko saying she had bought the flights.  It looked like I was now committed and I learned that there would be at least 6 of us, perhaps more.  The cabin could house ten.  I didn’t know there would only be one bathroom.

By the time my Norway trip came around, I had spent ten days in Ireland, five weeks in London spinning my wheels trying to find a place to live, and a week in Galicia in Spain at the time of the Santiago train crash.   So in spite of my trepidation about my fellow cabin crew I was ready for the holiday - with regular meals, not on Spanish time.

Junko, Ananda and I flew in to Stavanger where we were picked up by Parul.  Stavanger is an oil city, the airport full of cars where people had left their them to commute to the offshore oil rigs.  The air was cool and fresh and I was greeted by a sense of space.    The streets were wide with little traffic, the houses were clean, neat and tidy and lakes dotted the landscape.  I could breathe.

We arrived at Parul’s where we were greeted by her parents and the remainder of our crew, Andrew and Joel.  As we gathered around mango lassi in a Norwegian style conservatory, Parul’s father enlightened us on the wisdom of Krisha Murti and what the mind was not.  Parul’s mother fed us dhal, saffron rice, raita and salad to sustain us on our journey to Korshamn, a small island off the south coast of Norway.  

We packed the stationwagon full with our luggage and supplies of food that had been brought from London and sourced from Parul’s kitchen.  We had been warned that Norway would be expensive - we discovered that red peppers were about $5 (AUD) dollars each.   Stuffed red peppers were not going to be on the menu.    

We, barring Andrew, got in the car to start what should have been a two to three hour journey.  Andrew was going by coach as we couldn't all fit in the car.    

Five and a half hours later, admittedly with some tourist stops, we finally arrived on a tiny island accessible only by one road that led from the bridge connecting to the mainland.  

It was nearly 10 pm.  It was still light but only just.  We arrived at what we thought was our cabin - the instructions had been to look for a brown house with white blinds.  We found one and it looked delightful -  right on the water with a private jetty, a beautiful garden, a BBQ, a living room that opened out onto a large deck and the interior through the window looked nicely furnished.  But as hard as we looked, we couldn’t find the key.  It was not under the grill, where it was meant to be.  Andrew would soon be arriving and we had to pick him up, 15 km back on the road we had come.  

Joel offered to look further up the road to see if there were any other brown houses with white blinds.  He returned saying that there was  one more house but it didn’t look all that inviting so it couldn’t be the right one.  This beautiful house on the water had to be ours!

But as more time passed, it was quickly getting darker and colder and a slight panic set in.  We couldn’t get into our house.  Andrew needed to be picked up and ‘dinner time’ had long gone and in fact it was soon time for bed according to my watch.  

In the meantime, Ananda had decided to check the uninviting house once more.  To our relief and dismay, he found the key.

This was to become the start of what turned out to be a super week, with already the various personalities emerging.  

A week that consisted of gingerly swims amongst massive jellyfish,

(Photo doesn't do justice to the size of the jellyfish)

adventures with ticks (the victims - the two lovebirds), 

Tick Haven

canoe trips involving nude swimming by some, boating expeditions where fish could be caught in a matter of minutes, 

a much anticipated beer on the pier that unfortunately didn’t eventuate (the pub had closed), 

hand made sushi rolls and fresh sashimi, beautifully filleted by Ananda, 

beetroot veggie burger fights where Parul and Joel’s faces  were nicely covered in pink gunk, 

hikes up sheep trails in thick gorse bush, a sound and light show where thunder and lightning lit up the Norwegian night, and belly laughs that went all night as we spun tales to amuse ourselves with perhaps the unconscious desire to milk all the fun and joy that could be had out of each day.

By the end of the week, we had come to be known as the Golden Orbs, which originally had been used as a description for a particular effect in a photograph, which quickly got bandied around to refer to all manner of things, more often than not with a hint of the naughty, including our good selves.

The End

......and another by the Golden Orbs......

In a moment of unguarded pessimism he removed his long-johns and offered his body to the majestic amoeba displaying their beautiful colours under the gentle ocean waves. They were gentle  and kind and life was wonderful. Then something bizarre happened. BANG! A loud noise  and suddenly in a cloud of stale smoke there appeared a scrawny man holding 2 canoes and a large  potato cake around his neck which he began eating until he stopped because  he was so guilty that no one else was interested in the jellyfish. He wanted to make them feel happier.

  

Revisiting Santiago

I did not expect to be back on the Camino so soon.  Although this time, it was not for the purpose of walking.   I was invited to spend a week with a friend who lives in Lugo, an hour away from Santiago de Compostela.  Santiago of the field of stars known because of the quartz in a nearby hill, the Pico Sacro, that sparkles when lit in the dark.  

She and her colleague were going to Santiago for the festival of St James to receive a medal presented by the Archicofradia and to film the light and firework show on the 24th of July. They also wanted me to see their photographic exhibition at the Paradores Hotel, where my photo hung.  I had met Susan and German while walking the Camino two years ago.  They hailed me and asked if I wanted to participate in their Camino project.  I obliged.  They were creating a visual register of pilgrims walking past German’s ancestral farmhouse in Vilei.

So here I was again in Spain, and on the way from Madrid to Lugo at one of the rest stops, I stepped out of the coach to breathe in the air, which struck me because it was so familiar.  It was good to be back.  

I had left London at 7.30 am and the bus finally pulled up at the bus terminal in Lugo 14 hours later. The city is the only one in the world surrounded by a still intact Roman wall.  It is a nice place, with a river flowing through it surrounded by the Galician countryside.  Not very big, but big enough to feel one was still in civilisation with access to conveniences normally found in a city.

I had a few days to become acquainted with Lugo and some of the surrounding area.  We drove an hour north to Cathedral Beach, known for its stone arches that resemble those of a cathedral, we swam in a bay with crystal clear water of 20 degrees C - perfect for swimming.  We had tapas and beer in tiny fishing villages.  We went shopping at the local markets and had a pedicure in Lugo’s only beauty salon and run by a beautiful Columbian woman.  

On the 24th of July, we set off early for Santiago.  Based on previous years, Susan warned me that the city would be packed with pilgrims, visitors and locals who had come to be part of the festival, so much so  that we would not be able to drive through the city  But to our surprise, it was quiet.  There were not many people, even fewer than when I had arrived in October of 2011, long past the main tourist season.  Pepe, the owner of Obeiro, Susan’s favourite wine bar, spoke of the reduced numbers of pilgrims choosing to stay once they arrived.  Many left the same day.    

We made our way to the Paradores Hotel, one of many belonging to a chain of four star hotels run by the Spanish government.  In a previous lifetime, they had all been beautiful historic buildings of importance - often religious.  In one of the courtyards, in the interior of the hotel, hung German’s photos of pilgrims, printed on enormous sheets of weatherproof canvas, suspended on chains.   There was one of a pilgrim on horseback, one of a man who had travelled by bicycle, a picture of a couple in their 80s and the woman had arrived wearing a skirt - not the usual clothing of a pilgrim.  Another photo was that of a young couple - an Australian woman and a Spanish man who had met on the Camino, fallen in love and were still together.  I was impressed.  And then there was me, my image bigger than my real size.  I had forgotten how brown I had become after having walked almost 700km by this point.  There I was with my backpack that was almost as big as me, holding onto my walking poles.  As a friend told me later, it didn’t look like me.  

We then went to our hotel, situated a few kilometers from the city centre, where we lunched and freshened up.  At 5.30 pm we returned to the Cathedral of St James for the mass where Susan and German, amongst others, would be presented a medal to honour their work promoting the Camino.  It was a medal conferred by a group known as the Archicofradia.  The Archicofradia is the organisation commissioned by the monarchs of Spain and inaugurated in 1499 to build a hospital for pilgrims. It was to be “a Confraternity ordered and instituted, of both sexes, from whichever province or nation, in any part of the world”. Build and run a hospital it did in the building which is now the Parador, the Hostal los Reyes Catolicos. In modern times this religious organisation supports projects to help pilgrims and to encourage pilgrims to be of service to other pilgrims. - quoted from http://johnniewalker-santiago.blogspot.dk/2012/07/opportunity-to-meet-reflect-and-pray-in.html

We had VIP seats, right in front of the priest where we had the best view of the Botafumeiro, a swinging metal container in which incense is burned.  I had seen this before but it was amazing to be so close.  One would surely die, if hit in the head by the incense holder as it came flying at high speed from on high through the Cathedral.  

The mass ended with the medal ceremony.  Perhaps thirty or so people including a dozen teenagers were presented with a medal - on one side was an engraving of St James and on the other the red Knights’ Templar Cross.  

After the mass we made our way back to the Paradores.  The hotel was hosting a very expensive dinner in celebration o the feast day and the dinner guests would then sit on the terrace to view the light and fireworks show at midnight.  We were not dining at this expensive dinner, but Susan and German had a spot on the terrace where they would film the spectacle.  

We had a few hours to kill as we waited.  We had some food at the bar and took in the ambience. 

At about 10.30, Susan received a text from a friend asking her if we had heard.  Heard what, was the question.

We discovered then of the tragedy that had hit Santiago, on the eve of the feast day of St James.  Many pilgrims would have walked the Camino to arrive at this special time.  The dinner guests were still eating their expensive meal.  We learned that scores had died just outside of the city when the high speed train from Madrid derailed and carriages were strewn in all directions, some landing on top of others.  The final death toll came close to 80.  

The entire festival program that was to span a number of days was cancelled.  We were all in shock.  It was a surreal feeling to be so close to the tragedy that it was palpable in the air and yet to be thankfully, unscathed.  Eventually some time after midnight, Susan and I left the hotel to look for a taxi.  We ended up circling the old part of the city unable to find one and returned once again to the Paradores.  The crowds that previously had filled the enormous square in front of the Cathedral had disappeared.  It was no longer the Santiago I remembered from two years ago.  The city had started mourning her losses.   Later when we returned to our hotel, we were to find out that the the phones had not stopped ringing with people requesting bookings who must now make the journey to Santiago to attend to loved ones who were injured or dead.  

Interlude at the Isle of Glass

Although now the memories are not so sharp, a little about Glastonbury, a place I had only heard and read about.  

After being touched by the numinous light between day and night, the bus continued onwards and in my half asleep state, I took in Bath, Wells and finally Glastonbury.  It was dark and late by the time I arrived.

It had been a long day and what a relief to be welcomed by my host and hostess.  I was shown my beautiful room, furnished with a double bed and lots of space (finally I could breathe and be).  A bathroom was next door with a bath.  

Thank God I had arrived here.  I knew in that moment that I needed to stay another night after my schedule had been turned upside down by the bus debacle.  

I had come here to take part in a ceremony honouring the Divine Feminine and to heal the wounds and trauma perpetrated by the medical profession on women in childbirth, the latter of which I was only to become aware of after the event had started.  I had also come drawn by the presence of one of my teachers from Australia who would be leading the day.  

When I opened the curtains the following morning, my bedroom window presented to me the gentle green landscape once known as the Isle of Glass. It was a beautiful summer morning in anticipation of all of the possibilities of a new beginning.  

I walked to the Chalice Well Gardens which was where I would spend the rest of the day.  A day of ritual, of sharing with other women, of being held and honoured, a day of co-creation.  I also learned of the horrors of our 21st century obstetric practice and midwifery.

I heard stories from student midwives who were traumatised by their training, from women who had experienced their own traumas in childbirth, and of the prevailing attitudes of the medical profession, not necessarily informed by malice or ill will but by ignorance, habit and unconsciousness.  Attitudes and practices that seemed primitive and barbaric.  

I was struck by the honesty and strength of these women, of all ages, who were gathered here in the hope that working together like this would bring about changes in our world, of restoring balance in a world gone awry.  

Of the many gifts I received that day, one of the most beautiful was my connection with, Myriam, a Spanish woman.  She came with her 5 month old daughter and I was utterly mesmerised by their relationship.  They embodied the energy of the Madonna and Child.  The mother was totally present for her daughter and the child was so at ease, happy to be lain on the floor amongst the rest of us in Circle.  I have never seen such beauty and light as what these two brought with them.  

When the day finally came to a close, many of us climbed the famous Tor.  The wind was blowing wildly and the sun was shining as our group made our way up.  Perhaps the elements were happy with the work we had done that day and were helping us blow away what no longer served us

A couple of hours later, after I had said good-bye to the women and I had returned to my B&B, I ventured into the town for a bite to eat.  I found a viby cafe, secured a table and ordered some food.  

As I was just about to settle into some reflection of the day, I saw Myriam, her baby and her teenage daughter enter the cafe.  How delightful to see them!  I invited them to join me at my table.  I had been looking forward to my own company, but for them, I was happy to share my table and evening. I learned many things about this beautiful family.  Myriam’s husband was back home in the mountains near Barcelona where he is building Myriam's and his vision, a healing centre for women.  She herself is an artist and photographer, honouring nature and the sacred feminine.  http://myriamnegre.es She and her daughter speak fluent English and so we ate and talked, exchanging stories about our lives and journeys.

To Glastonbury

I don’t cope well when well laid plans go awry, when straightforward and simple plans go awry.  

I had arrived early at London Victoria to get on a coach for Glastonbury.  I was going to an event run by an Australian shamanic midwife whom I had done some work with before.  

I was longing for the familiar and the restorative.

As I stood amidst the other waiting passengers at the gate for my bus, a man dressed in a suit stood in front of the gate, cheerfully answering questions from passing passengers.  I thought to myself, he must really enjoy his work as he greeted each person with much enthusiasm and attention.

My bus was leaving at 8 and I was waiting for some sort of instruction to board the bus.  As the sign at the gate ticked over from 8.00 to 8.01 am, the sign for my bus disappeared and on came the sign for the next one departing at 8.30.  Alarmed, I went to the man in the suit and asked where the bus to Glastonbury was.  He turned away from me and told me he did not work there.  He then turned to another passenger who had come up behind me and told him “I work here, for you” and proceeded to answer his question.  It was a surreal moment and I still cannot explain two days later what had happened that morning.  I turned to a woman who was standing nearby wearing the yellow fluorescent vest of the coach station staff, and as I was about to ask her, the man in the suit told me she doesn’t work there either.  He then told me to go and see a woman who was standing amongst the buses in the bus parking area, which technically was off limits to the public.  I went up to her and inquired after my bus and she told me I had just missed it.  She didn’t really want to know about me and sent me in search of an office next to gate 11.  I found a small shed where a man was just entering and I explained my predicament.  He too didn’t want to know and told me to wait as he had only just arrived.

He closed the door on me.  

I had planned my trip so that I would have half a day to explore Glastonbury, the next day to spend at the Chalice Well where the event was being held; and I was booked on a bus back to London the following morning, at 6.50 am.  And from memory there were only two services to Glastonbury, the 8am and one much later in the day.  

The man in the shed finally emerged as he rolled open his shuttered window and asked me how he could help me.  I had just told him what my problem was.  So I explained again, holding my tongue, that I had been waiting for this bus for more than 20 minutes and somehow it had left without me.  He told me the others had managed to get on the bus (only 2 passengers) and so it wasn’t the coach company’s fault.  I had never said it was anybody’s fault.  By this time, I was feeling myself falling into a spiral of despondency and helplessness, and there was now a queue of people waiting behind me.  The man told me to step aside because he had to help the others while he waited for his computer to start working.  

After serving a half a dozen customers, he finally turned to me and told me there were three services that afternoon, 4.30, 5.00 and 6.00 pm, all arriving at 10 pm.  He couldn’t give me a refund and I had to make a choice.  As I was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, I was struggling to make a decision so he just went ahead and booked the 6pm.  I then asked him how I could avoid missing this bus seeing there had been no announcement or indication of where and when to board the bus.  He ignored my question and told me I should be satisfied he had fixed my problem.  

So what was I to do for the next nine hours?  For various reasons it didn’t make sense to return to where I was staying so I went to the tourist office and asked where the nearest museum was, which is where I spent the rest of the day.  At least, it was free, there were toilets, places to eat and beautiful things to see.  

I made my way back to the coach station at 5 pm determined to get on that bus.  I would make myself known and demand to be shown the bus.  The man in the suit was nowhere to be found.  I entered the area of the buses and found a staff member and asked where my bus was. He told me it had not arrived and to go back to the waiting room.  I told him how the 8am bus had left without me and that I wasn’t going to let that happen again.  

So I returned and sat at the gate and found a couple of old ladies waiting for the same bus.  They were returning home after travelling since 9am on multiple buses and this was their last leg, lasting 4 hours.  What a way to travel.... This time, there were announcements and last calls for all the buses that were departing.  Was this the same place I had been earlier in the day?  For whatever reason, circumstances had conspired against me to get on the 8am service.  

I finally boarded the very full bus, found a seat and promptly fell asleep with sheer relief that I was now on my way.

When I awoke, the light was the light of a summer evening, in the in between of day and night.  And I had been transformed to another world, the world of villages with names like Nimlet, where my eyes beheld fields and valleys of green and the yellow of the rapeseed.  

This was what I had come for.  

A Sense for Skerries

Travelling on my own is great but I miss companionship.  I prefer my company to that of just anyone’s but a good friend and travelling partner would be grand, as the Irish say.  I was told to wait for things to come to me.  I need to trust my intuition.  I should have stayed in Derry another day to enjoy the 2013 City of Culture but I missed out because I got thrown when my booking at the B&B didn’t turn out as the internet had said.  And all the possibilities were still there to be had but I just chose to keep going because I chose the path of limitation.  I thought the drive to Waterford would be long so better to make it easier on myself and get going rather than have a 7 hour drive today.  And I think my initial judgement would have been the right one.  Stay two nights, not one, in Derry.  As I drove out of Enniskillen, I heard on BBC Radio Ulster that last night Derry had been a city of music on the summer solstice and hot air balloons had been released into the sky.   

So I followed my intuition this time and took the longer route to Waterford, to stop at Skerries on the east coast just north of Dublin.  I don’t know why but I felt it was what I had to do and I was rewarded with a delicious vegan meal and a soy latte.  The coffees in Ireland are awful, but this one is actually drinkable.   And Skerries is a nice little seaside village although I had expected something bigger.  The food, the spacious and airy cafe overlooking the sea in the distance, and the vast ocean, made my extra detour completely worth the effort, even if I had come to a road block caused by a van on fire.  I hope the driver had managed to get out.  I know also I cannot be far from the sea.  I felt so much better the minute I saw the water.

And there is a painter at my window next to me - I am on the first floor of this refreshing cafe and a young man is just outside painting.  And it is now pouring behind him.  

And what do I see on the wall across the floor from me but words:

It’s an endless road that asks everything  

It is only life  

That lays itself down  

Gone are the ways of the history wind everyone we love will be all around.

Blessings of the heart on us  

Blessing on our hands  

May our feet walk fearlessly As the heart commands.  

Grace is just some birdsong  

Grace is morning dew 

May our feet walk shoeless  

One day out of two. 

And on the wall next to me:

The heart escapes its prison  

As a kiss, or broken bread, or in forgiveness, 

And lives happy ever after  In the guise of simple kindness.  

  --  Patrick K Lanzing 2011

And now as I look out the window, the sun is out and the rain has stopped.  

Gypsy Queen

A Celtic mystic once told me that I was a Gypsy Queen.  Now I don’t know about being any sort of queen, but perhaps I am a gypsy at heart - a modern day gypsy with a rented car, GPS, laptop and suitcase - for there is nothing quite like being on the road with no set destination except for a meal and bed to sleep in at the end of the day. 

My German B&B host, suggested I visit Glenveagh National Park in County Donegal in the northwest of Ireland so I set off in the car with some vague instructions.  I followed them down the country road, right after the petrol station and straight on.....until I came to a three way fork.....at which point, I decided to use my GPS.  

This part of Donegal is bleak but beautiful - rolling plains with little vegetation, dotted by lakes.  I turned on the classic radio and relaxed into the drive listening to Strauss.  All I had to do was enjoy the scenery and indulge in my own headspace, not having to attend to anyone.

I passed the sign welcoming me to Glenveagh National Park and kept following the road.  I  was the only person in sight - no cars, no people, just the odd sheep and plains all around me as far as the eye could see.  I had been told that there would be a castle in the park but nothing was in sight so I kept driving.

“You have reached your destination”  said the GPS.  I was still nowhere, only in the middle of this rugged landscape.  Perhaps this wilderness was what my gypsy heart was looking for.  

Little did I know that this was to be the start of a frustrating relationship with my navigator.  Between it and a more than inadequate tourist map, I would see the countryside and coastline of Donegal with some hair raising moments.  Eventually I hailed a man driving his tractor and asked for instructions to the castle: left at the T junction, right after the bridge and follow the road to the left.  So off I went and indeed the signs for the castle started to appear.  

With no expectations, I had in mind to spend an hour or two in the park and then head off west to explore the coastline.  I soon realised that I could spend a whole day in the park.  It is extensive, covering 16,540 hectares, and the most popular part is an old castle that used to be someone’s holiday home surrounded by beautiful gardens.  From the parking lot, there was a 5 km track that led alongside the lake to the castle.  Shuttle buses ferried people back and forth but I opted for the exercise. 

On the way, I had a nice chat to a school teacher who was also training to be an outdoor adventure coach.  I was told the water temperature of the lake was about 5 degrees and the ocean about 12 degrees, a far cry from what I had left in Sydney in winter.  I had hoped I would be able to swim at one of the beaches on the Atlantic coast, but it didn’t sound like it was likely to happen anytime soon.   

We soon arrived at the castle, and in contrast to the surrounding stark landscape, the grounds were lush with a diversity of plants.  I said good-bye to the adventure coach and headed into the gardens which was alive with colour.  I have never seen such enormous poppies. They were beautiful.  In fact, it felt like I had come across a treasure chest of jewels, after the equally beautiful but desolate and barren countryside.  

After leaving the garden, I headed further out of the castle grounds and along the lake in the direction of a waterfall.  Unfortunately on the way, it started to rain and as it was also lunchtime, I turned back hoping to get a bite to eat in the tea rooms of the castle.  

After spending a good three hours in the national park, I got back in the car and headed towards the town of Dunfanaghy on the northwest coast.  I thought I would follow the tourist map and stop at the advertised points of interest in the free magazine I had picked up at the tourist office.  It was by no means a Lonely Planet and so with very little information apart from a few attractive photos, I decided first to go to Horn Head.  I couldn’t find it in the GPS so I followed the road signs which took me further away from the main road, up and down narrow lanes that eventually turned into an unsealed road separated from neighbouring fields by a barbed wire fence.  I followed it until it became a dead end where a few cars were parked.  I got out and hoped that I would find something that told me this was Horn Head and perhaps even an explanation of what it was that I was looking for.  

Unfortunately there was nothing.  I don’t know where the people were who must have driven up here in the parked cars.  In all directions, land covered by gorse stretched out before me.  I could see that it led to the cliffs on the coast but they were still quite a distance away.  So who knows where Horn Head was or how one got there.  I didn’t really have time trampling through the gorse in search of it so I decided to get back in the car and this time, I entered a village a bit further along the main road as my next destination in the GPS.  I had assumed it would take me back the same route I had just come.  However,  I found myself going up a narrow unsealed road, with a little sign saying ‘Scenic Route’ .  I thought it must be okay if there was a sign advertising that this was a scenic way so I kept going.  I soon forgot about the scenery as I had to slow down to about 5 km/h as i made my way over rocks and gravel, worrying about doing damage to my rented vehicle.  I looked at the GPS and it told me this that I would not be making a turn off this road for another 3km.  I hoped there would be no oncoming traffic as there was room only for one car as I bumped along the unsealed road which occasionally dipped into pools of muddy water.  By the time the 3km were over and I finally found my way back onto a sealed road, I was stressed from gripping the steering wheel and I found myself breathing more deeply as I must have more or less stopped breathing in concentration and anxiety that I might find myself stuck somewhere with no mobile reception and in the middle of nowhere.  Before the day was out, this experience was to be repeated many more times.  This was truly the road less travelled.

By the time I reached my B&B, I wished no more to go down scenic routes or explore points of interest on my tourist map.  I only wished to find asphalt under my tyres and an end to my adventures for the day.  

Transit at Abu Dhabi Airport

As I found my aisle seat on Etihad flight 451 bound for Abu Dhabi, I smiled and greeted the young girl who was sitting next to the window.  She appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen and was dressed in a chequered shirt, jeans and a birka.  

Suddenly a voice in the row ahead asked if we wouldn’t mind swapping seats with her parents who were seated several seats behind.  She had a baby with her.  The young Muslim girl obliged so I followed suit.  We moved and settled ourselves into our new seats.   

I discovered that my new friend had travelled from Dunedin, in the south island of New Zealand the night before and she was returning on holiday to her home town, Dammam in Saudi Arabia.  She told me she was studying commerce and had just received a scholarship three days ago to continue the rest of her studies.  It was a Saudi grant for students who excelled academically.  I asked her where she was living and she said with her husband.  I couldn’t help myself and asked her how old she was. Twenty-one.  Her husband was studying medicine and was finishing this year.  He would be joining her a week later as he had not yet finished his semester.  He had been in New Zealand for several years already and she had joined him recently after her would be mother-in-law had chosen her to be her son’s bride.  I was curious.   I asked her how it had all happened and she said that it is common her in culture.  She had met her future husband a few times, had spoken to him on the phone and they agreed to go ahead.  I asked her how the marriage was going and she said ‘good!’.  

What I write here will only show my deep ignorance about Middle Eastern cultures.  This  delightful girl, Zaina brought it to life for me as she patiently answered my many many questions.  We only had 15 hours to share together.  She showed me a photo of herself without her head dress and asked me what I thought.  I told her it looked liker her with hair, to whaffectedmen apart from her husband, father, brothers and uncles could see her uncovered.  I asked her if she went swimming and she said only at the swimming pool where it would be a private booking for her and her family.  They would take food and spend the day there.  I asked if anyone swam at the beach and she told me only the men did.  What a shame.  The inflight video advertisements for the UAE clearly showed images of beautiful coastlines and beaches.  

All I recalled about the Muslim faith, learned in primary school, was that one faced and prayed to Mecca 5 times a day, that Ramadan was a month of fasting, that the key figures were Allah and Muhamad and that there was some black rock which was a famous pilgrimage site.  Apparently that was more than the average non Muslim knew in Zaina’s experience as she was fascinated that I had learned ‘all’ this at school.  She then proceeded to look for another photo on her phone of this black rock.  To my disappointment, it was a black box.  I told her I thought it would be a large black rock or stone in some natural setting.  She told me the rocks were in the box.  

The conversation turned to more serious topics.  Again showing my ignorance, I asked her how and whether she was affected by the violence that we saw on television in other Middle Eastern countries.  She told me that the violence also existed in Saudi Arabia, although she personally did not feel unsafe where her family lived - it just wasn’t being publicised to the rest of the world.  She told me people in her country felt their rights were denied them but what could anyone do - it was dangerous to speak up so it was best to endure and keep quiet.  I asked her how it had been for her the first time she had returned home after living in Dunedin where one could assume and live a life of greater freedom.  She said she was shocked but she didn’t speak of it because those who had never left the country did not understand.  

Seeing that her husband was finishing his studies this year, I asked her what would happen next - were they intending to stay in New Zealand?  To my surprise, she said that she would stay in Dunedin and he would probably return to Dammam.  Here was a culture of paradoxes.  Women who were married off to husbands at a young age and forbidden to be seen by other men with their heads uncovered and yet she was planning to live by herself on the other side of the world in a remote town like Dunedin.  Curious to know what she ate at home with her husband, I asked about her cooking.  She told me they ate out most of the time although choice in rural New Zealand was limited.  She did cook her native cuisine with spices she had brought from home and when I asked her what sort of food that was, she told me it was similar to the biryani that I had just eaten.      

After many conversations that were interrupted only by periods of intermittent sleep, we finally arrived at Abu Dhabi International Airport.  I had a two and a half hour layover and Zaina’s was slightly shorter.  As we walked through the transit area and came to the duty free section, she exclaimed that she could now shop.  I laughed.  Her manner was so typical of a young girl and I said ‘really?’.  She told me Dunedin had no shops.  Of course.  She then told me she had to pray and that I could come with her.  I was a little unsure about this but I followed.  I found myself in the ladies bathroom so I asked what the normal protocol was before praying.  She said you washed your hands and face, so I did the same as she did.  She then proceeded to leave the bathroom and headed down a passageway - she told me she wouldn’t be long so I wasn’t sure if that meant I was to wait for her or whether she wanted me in there with her.  I said I would wait for her outside and she looked disappointed so I asked if it was really okay for me to go in.   She led me down the hall and to a closed door and next to the door was a row of what looked like square blocks (not dissimilar to diving blocks at swimming pools) with some sort of washing facility in front of each block.  We removed our shoes, entered the room and she walked to the opposite wall, placed her bags on the floor and put something on the floor before her.  It was an object wrapped in a piece of cloth.  She faced a corner of the room adorned by an  ornament - presumably that was the direction of Mecca.  I felt a little fraudulent being in here.  There appeared to be some sort of attendant, half lying on the floor in the opposite corner who was eyeing me suspiciously.  I knelt behind Zaina, bowed my head, not knowing what else to do.  She proceeded to mutter something to herself very quickly as she started a process of standing up and kneeling down repeatedly.  After  several minutes of this, she packed up the little cloth and whatever it contained and picked up her bags and I followed her out of the prayer room. As we stepped out, I asked her what the white blocks were and she told me it was where people washed their feet.  She then suggested we get a drink so I followed her to the food hall.  She wanted fresh strawberry juice - I really didn’t think that was an option at the airport.  I grabbed a bottle of water as I waited for her to decide what she wanted in the absence of strawberry juice.  While she was waiting to pay for her purchase, I spotted a man dressed as if he had walked off the set of Lawrence of Arabia.  I asked Zaina if that outfit represented a particular country.  She told me all Arab men dressed like that.  I was puzzled. He was the only man dressed in a white robe and a white cloth draped over his head secured with a red and black head band.  I told her we hadn’t seen anyone else dressed like him.  She said, they probably didn’t feel comfortable.  Fair enough.

We finally proceeded in the direction of the gates only to find that hers was in one direction and mine in another.  She looked at me forlornly and said ‘so you have to go now’.  We really had had a pleasant time together in spite of the twenty years and our different cultural backgrounds that separated us. Zaina on many counts was so much more mature than her years, and only her delight at the prospect of shopping or her desire for strawberry juice gave her age away.  I was grateful for her gifts of a new experience and a window into a culture I would like to see more of.