Croatia on a limb

I came into this country having no expectations. Everybody seems to have heard of Zagreb, but as for Croatia’s other towns they may have become infamous for the war with the Serbs. I left Slovenia’s fantastic landscape following a windy road that ran along the autostrada. The border came upon me all of a sudden and for the first time I had to show my passport. I thought the guy was a little condescending but talking about my journey seems to soften people up. At the second checkpoint I pretty much used the same face, making sure I talk my London lingo rather than the ‘foreigner who talks good English to other foreigners’. I’ve learnt to intuit the situation so that if I am telling people where I come from, or even where my parent’s come from, it makes sense to focus upon the right elements. For instance, my mother was brought up a Catholic, but my father was Greek Orthodox. This chatter would serve me in rare moments where it counts, for instance most Catholics know what religion both Spanish and Greek are. But there has been a growing concern centred around my look. The ‘Muslim’ beard is not an outward expression but rather an inward one pertaining to my religiosity, and shows me more concerned with my vocation of going on a spiritual journey as well as a traveller’s adventure. I can’t remember the last time I took much interest in my face other than from the photos people take of me and from when I shave my whiskers from around my mouth – it is just cleaner and more hygienic doing this. In this vein I am not an ascetic. If this journey was any form of repentance I would probably go about it in a different way, but in actuality I am exploring my true potential and living out my genetic heritage. I thought that maybe I would meet my future family on this trip, and that may still happen, but my individuality is so strong that it would take a very special person to anchor me down. As such I keep my options open but let’s be frank, when life is this good why change it? And why pretend to be someone or somebody of any particular heritage? It is better that people know me for what I am, a liberated human being getting older through living life fully, but not getting old. If I cycled into Damascus tomorrow and ended my life it would only be through choice, an understanding of where my genetics is ultimately taking me. I believe I am a predestined human being that other people see hope within because I represent freedom.

The road to Zagreb was a long one. It is quite close to the border but it went on and on. I passed industrial sites that were at most fragmented. The condition of the road deteriorated and the architecture was at best economical. I seemed to enter from the poorer end and a slight twinge of disappointment overcame me; the place looked dirty, the infrastructure under-maintained. As I turned another treacherous corner I decided to get off my bike and avoid the pot holes. And then the gardens appeared, like a polished gem. It was a refreshing change, but before I engaged too much of a tour of them I searched for the offices. Everything was closed; it was Saturday. I thought no-one would turn up and the friendly security kept their eyes peeled for any returning staff. As it goes I got lucky. I couldn’t imagine staying here longer than 12 hours but it so happens that Vanja, the principle keeper of the arboretum, took me in and engaged me with some interesting conversation. The first issue that was raised was my lack of funds; I just didn’t know they had their own currency here, and everything was closed. So he fed me cake, coffee and snacks. It was lovely as we negotiated various seeds between us. He told me something about Croatia, that the decadence was a result of politicians who have now only gone to jail, but that the corruption has not been rooted out, and this has resulted in a delay entering the EU (officially 2013). The transitional period has glaringly exposed the inability of organisations to know how to apply for European funding, and this has meant that as little as 10% of funding targets have been achieved. Hopefully this situation is turning around now that proper training in bureaucratic and application procedures are available.

I will digress here in order that I can hope to understand the history of this country, even if I bore you a little with some research. Vanja mentioned the communist years under Tito when the communist Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia was formed (renamed in 1963 the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia) in the wake of its resistance against fascism, and included SR Bosnia and Herzegovina, SR Croatia, SR Macedonia, SR Montenegro, SR Slovenia and SR Serbia. After the Yugoslav wars in the early 1990’s the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia existed until 2003, when it was renamed Serbia and Montenegro. In my travels across the continent I would begin to get an understanding of the peoples and their religion here, for instance the contingency of German-speaking Croatians and Serbians; Yugoslavia had been invaded by German, Italian and Hungarian forces during the war. German troops had occupied parts of Slovenia and Serbia, as well as Bosnia and Herzegovina whilst Croatia was established as a Nazi satellite state. Resistance was forthcoming, but by the end of the war the pro-Serbian Chetniks focused their efforts against Tito’s Partisans rather than the occupying forces, who would supply the collaborationist Serb nationalist militia. The Partisans led a successful campaign and drove out the occupying forces. Post Second-World War popularity favoured Tito who was seen as a national hero, and the old government was abolished. During the ensuing years Tito distanced the Republic of Serbia from the Soviet model and the Eastern Bloc, as well as NATO, to form its own socialist strand. As religious piety dropped and nationalism rose differences between Orthodox Serbs, Catholic Croats, and Muslim Bosniaks contributed to the collapse of Yugoslavia in 1991. The federation of Yugoslavia did not banish the Catholic Church as had been the case in other states fronted by the Tito’s secret police. He was the most powerful man in the country, each republic had its own government and presidency. Tensions amounted between the independent states when it was considered that Serbia had too much power. Tito’s response was to lessen their autonomy but this was to the dislike of Serbian nationalist tendencies. On his death in 1980 ethnic tensions continued to grow, demanding more independence. Just before the Yugoslav wars most states were entering an economic crisis, leading to its ultimate collapse. Serbs had the greatest percentage of the population in Yugoslavia and by the time of Milosevic were applying the old claims for pro-Serbian sovereignty against accusations of hegemony by other member states. The League of Communists sought various solutions to the divisive sentiments of the Federation which led to Slovenia, and then Croatia, withdrawing from the 14^th Congress with the result of the collapse of the Communist party of Yugoslavia. With the subsequent fall of communism in the rest of Eastern Europe the inevitability eventually caught up with all member states of Yugoslavia, the democratisation process beginning with Slovenia and Croatia who voted peacefully in its favour. The unresolved issues that the Serb majority posed would remain the trigger for nationalist tendencies prevalent in the Yugoslav wars to come. I was learning all this because I was engaging a people who’s memory of the recent war was still fresh and indelibly printed in their minds. And there would be more to come, from the people themselves.

Zagreb Botanical Garden was started in 1889 as part of the faculty of science in Zagreb University. Its arboretum is designed on the English garden, the floral parterre on French style symmetry. There are 5,000 species here. I had no time this night to enjoy the wonders of its trees now that it was dark, so I took my leave from Vanje (as well as the cake and bread he offered) after he showed me to the greenhouses where I would stay. How fortunate in this late hour for I was considering finding some trees to hang my hammock upon. The rooftop garden was appropriately out of the way, hanging my hammock between two conveniently situated posts. It rained that night. In the morning I took my ramble and was silently overcome by the beautiful magnolia trees in flower. But that was just the icing on the cake for there was plenty of ornament to get my teeth into. I was captivated by the swamp cypresses, the insectivores plants, the unfurling ferns, and not least the numerous written accounts of botanist triumphs over the centuries. For instance the metasequoia was rediscovered in 1941 in the eastern Schuan Provence of China by a forester that fed the plant to his cattle. It was thought extinct for 5 million years before Dr. Hu of Beijing compared it to fossil records 100 million years old. This is the Chinese redwood now known to have dominated the arctic forests. Its preservation is aided by its distribution in world-wide botanical gardens because its natural habitat is being threatened by rice cultivation. It is now a Critically Endangered Species of the World Conservation Union. Likewise the Ginkgo was rediscovered in 1691 in Japan where it had survived in monasteries and mountainous regions, as well as palace gardens from the Buddhist practice of cultivating the tree for its many properties (including its popular edible nuts that are roasted or baked). It is in fact the sole living link (gymnosperm) between the lower and higher plants of ferns and conifers. And lastly there is the sequoia sempervirens which can live up to 3,000 years plus. The one in Sequoia National Park measures 85m high and weighs 1,700 tons. Its girth is over 31 metres, the bark up to 50cm thick protects it from fire and disease.

It was Sunday now and as the morning drew on I thought to take my opportunity in the city to see what it had to offer. The weather had broken and the garden security informed me the location of the old part of the town. I strolled up some steps, guitar strapped to my back, and ended up on a viewing plateau overlooking the city. It wasn’t particularly distinctive but as I glanced over some English tourists were sticking their fingers in the ears. I wasn’t bothered as to what they were up to but in that moment a canon shot was fire. It was so loud I thought someone had fired a gun behind me. I didn’t budge though, just slowly working out what was going on, like the cartridge paper gently floating down around my head onto the steps. If I hadn’t slept 12 hours I may have been more sensitive to the moment, but it did occur to me that the canon shot was a salute of sorts fired at 12pm every day. So I continued to stroll the upper part of the city realizing that .this was the wealthy area but still lacking slightly in its maintenance. Further along though I came upon its principle buildings and then I was surrounded by untold amounts of museums. I only had time for one because they close early on a Sunday, and headed into the nearest one, the war museum (www.hismus.hr Matoseva 9, 10000 Zagreb). The exhibition was on the Homeland War and everything here caters for the English speaker. It is just so impressive how many people talk English here, Vanja had spoken like a true native. Since I had no money the woman told me it was fine to go around free. As far as I learnt the frontline never reached Zagreb and the rather small exhibition told me enough to understand what the Croatian people might be feeling. I, personally, have never experienced war but my destiny was opening my eyes to maybe something I was subconsciously preparing for in the future. But the Croatian outlook highlighted the increasing unrest of Serbs living outside Serbia that lead to unconstitutional and terrorist activities during the Yugoslav wars. The Serbian revolt in Croatia in 1991 occurred between rebels and Croatian police, but since Croatia and Slovenia had freely voted for democratization and independence the Yugoslav army (including Montenegro) sided with Serbia. Full-scale aggression transpired from the Summer of 1991 and many Croatian cities were destroyed. How much so I would only learn later in my travels. The UN stepped in and many Croatians sought to defend their homeland, key cities being Vukovar and Dubrovnik. As Croatia organized its defence it required to relocate many displaced people. To this day the whereabouts of one thousand people remain unknown. After the UN created protection zones (UNPAs) the conflict moved to Bosnia-Herzegovina and by 1995 the Croatian forces liberated occupied territories leading to a peace treaty. The international world were being asked questions, the disrupted pre-war ethnic structure, the impoverishment, the unresolved war crimes and fate of missing peoples. Years later they remain unanswered. I knew nothing of this war even though I remember the news reports –just another war – but now I seemed to be preparing my mentality for what I could experience in Palestine when I reach my destination. Are we not talking about the same issues here?

I took in a stroll about the town and didn’t feel like playing any music after that, since I had been engrossed by the eerie recordings and images with the sound of Samual Barber’s Adagio for Strings in the background. I passed through the outdoor market but had no money. Then coincidentally, another American called me over and asked me to play. His name was Joe and he told me he was going to Palestine also. He gave me 20 Kn and I wondered how much that was. As he attracted a group of youths with his charm I played a series of songs in the background. Some interesting people dressed like Greeks in tunics fed me grapes and danced in exotic forms. The young guy who made a collection for me was from Palestine. I now had 32 Kn and wondered how much that was. Since I had an appointment back at the garden (late as ever) I took my leave with a big smile on my face – I was in credit. There I met another Vanja who accepted more seeds from me, and allowed me to make coffee. The security came in and fed me. Fantastic! We talked about the journey as I pondered whether to leave the city that night. As it turns out I decided one more night, taking an excursion around its shopping centres and returning just as it started to pour rain. I measly kept most of my money and wondered how long it would last – it was only about £3-4 equivalent. So I stayed ‘til the following morning, met all the gardeners, about 20, saw them busily preparing pots, and as they fed me I knew I was in communion with them. It was enough that I give them my third bottle of Catalonian olive oil as first pizza, then bread and jam was plied onto me. I couldn’t believe these people eat whole chicken for breakfast. I learnt that Croatia has a population of 4 million people but that 300,000 people are unemployed. How could these gardens support themselves? I remember Vanja telling me that they will try to apply for construction funds when officially joining the EU in 2013, especially since practically all the greenhouses are deemed too dangerous to be opened to the general public. But here I saw a realistic pattern for sustainability, I saw a very large queue of people waiting to buy plants propagated from the gardens and sold at substantially lower prices than garden nurseries, from 10 to 30Kn. It went on all morning. I took one final tour of the gardens, saw the herb beds and restored pavilion, and actually was a little reluctant to leave. They still had much work to do here but the arboretum sticks in my mind. I wondered about the links between the religious communities and science, reading up on the single seed of Davidia involucrate sent over by the missionary Father Farges in 1897 and which germinated and flowered in 1906. What an oasis this place was, it warranted one of my fig cuttings which I duly potted up.

I took the road to Petrinja on advice. I saw unmanaged woodland and pasture, arable left fallow. Litter lined the roadside gulleys and many building were abandoned or plainly looked unfinished. There was no infrastructure here – nothing. Surely, every penny that these Croats receive must go into farming; the wealth of the people will be reflected here. As it goes wealth is only indicated by individuals, I saw no regional differences. How poor these people are! The Catholic Churches appear like sanctuaries in a wilderness. The impression I get is one of waiting for some big decision before anybody wants to move. It was only when I reached Kostajnica that something of a regional indicator of wealth became apparent. My first interpretation was that after the war the land remained dangerous from unexploded mines, and this was true to a degree. Many building lay abandoned from bomb and bullet damage and all I could do was keep on the road for safety, occasionally stopping to photograph lovely woodland cabins that reflected a bygone era. Before I reached the border it started to bucket down. I slid into a decrepit bus shelter, smashed and vandalised, and peered over at the house opposite. I was going to request a spot in the back garage just until the rain abated but as it goes the old women told me to get lost. So much for a heart, and then I realised that her bitterness reflected the war; the dead trunk of a tree next to the bus shelter said it all. So I trundled up a little way and found an abandoned bar with a large awning on the front. It was perfect for my hammock and I took an early night. That morning a women came by and invited me to her place. She was lovely and her name was Ljubica and I huddled up to her wood-burning stove. She made me food, gave me stuff for my journey and the least I could do was play her music and plant a couple of fig cuttings in her garden. I told her they were from a church. We struggled to converse using the dictionary but I then understood that these people require healing. I was a sign of hope for her, for her solitary lifestyle.

There was a spring in my cycling again, everybody was waving at me and even stopping to ask to help me to my destination. As it turned out I bumped into the border to the Republic of Serbia. I still hadn’t spent all my kuna and so left the country with an unimaginable credit (it must say something about the economy here). The guards were really nice people, all coming out to greet me. They told me about the war, gave me good advice, and told me that here in particular, Bos Novi, the war hit hard. They think the politicians are stupid to join the EU, making them slaves to an international monetary fund. But this was the opinion of one of them. He told me I was a rare sight, travellers don’t normally come through here and that I was the first. Second checkpoint was fine also but rather than follow the river I decided to take their advice and go to Banja Luka, the capital of the Republic of Serpska. I passed that night in Prijedor. I would say at this stage that since Zagreb the roads have been adequate, but there are no concessions for cyclists. There are no cycle tracks from here to Sarajevo, and the drivers get gradually worse, which I can only accredit towards the lack of awareness for cycling safety. These countries are a long way from Slovenia. The Republic of Serpska or Serbia was a culture shock – their industriousness to work every available piece of land was beautiful to see. It was a stunningly green country reminding me of Gloucestershire in England. Everybody was growing something and they do it with modern equipment and a methodical approach. Horticulture was a skill here; many trees are painted with white latex paint to protect from sunscald and the rapid fluctuations of temperatures. As such indicators of wealth dramatically increases tenfold from Croatia. Prijedor is a small sleek modern town, full of cafeterias and restaurants. The helpful shop owner changed up my Euro and her honesty would make a lasting impression on me of Serbian people. Here they use the mark (DM) and that night I would find me a cafeteria and engage in local conversation. I was like a spectacle; everybody looked at me like I was on exhibition, or maybe the cyclist announced on the radio a week ago travelling from Spain. Maybe they thought I was a Muslim with that beard of mine, a terrorist because, as it turns out, I was entering a police state. I had noticed minaret in the country around Bos Novi and I began to wonder whether the Orthodox religion here reflects the tensions with Croatia as does Protestantism does with Catholicism in Ireland. Nevertheless, people remained neutral to me. Two young guys helped me out, telling me that most of the youth here were into heavy metal; funny how they reminded me of the Spanish. I asked them about the war and why so many police were about. They told me that the war was started first between the Slovenians and Croats but I was reluctant to forward this assertion in my previous blog. Still, I got some good advice from them to try out Cepavi (rolled meat in pitta) when I reached Sarajevo. They bought the coffee for me, informed me that this cafeteria was owned by a police man, and helped me on my way. It was night and I travelled on my way. I kept on going on a relatively clear road making up the distance to Banja Luka. In the misty, moonless night my vision just caught a wooden bus shelter off the side of the road. It would be the last real possible place I could get my head down. Sheltered on nearly all four sides I had a decent night’s sleep. Entering Banja Luka in the morning it was obvious that I wasn’t that welcome. The police stopped me, asked for my British passport, took loads of notes, and asked me to move on. So I did, and then I was stopped again whilst I waited for them to make a few calls. I didn’t want to hang around; the bitterness was stifling the air. One monument said it all, commemorating the death of 13 babies and one permanently damaged for life because oxygen could not be supplied to them during the war. The old men played chess in the street and in general everybody was fine. Most people were helpful though, and taking a few photos I quickly moved on, the disparity here is one of urban living against rural living since cities tend to concentrate problems. The outskirts of Banja Luka was gorgeous, the road followed the very fast, wide river since all the rain had raised its level. I caught a quick dip in a part that was slow since even then I swam to keep still. The valley complex of this part of the country was a joy to ride in, as I say, everything was clean and tidy here, but the car drivers were the worse I have ever known – they are crazy. I looked over the side of the road and could see a veritable meadow of dandelion, verbascum, dock, sorrel, ragwort, bugle, vetch, yarrow, groundsel, euphorbia, hedge garlic, the list goes on. It was like being in Britain. Following the river was good advice since it was generally flat, but on occasion I miss the path and veer off into the hills, sometimes intentionally, and then I came across Krupa with its Orthodox monastery. At the last cafeteria of the sleepy town I gathered a few people around me. We were soon playing music and eating loads of meat that the bar owner brought out (I am sure he was testing me to see if I was a Muslim). One lovely old man sang some songs with me, gave me a load of painted Easter eggs and sent me on my way after buying me a drink. I cycled up the steep incline to the monastery and took a few pictures. It would be good preparation for the long steep incline about to beset me as my body sought to regain the lost oxygen of consuming all that meat, and I really did pig out. As I say, I am here to respect the wishes of my hosts and I do not discriminate against anyone, that is why I am at peace. For the record I wrote this down in memory of the old men:  

Joy Hristos Vaskrese, Joy Vaistinu Vaskrese

Krupa na vrbasu Republica Srpska 18.04.2012

Godpozdrav od prijateya – Drasko, Gagi Marinko, Kafe Bar “Ribamerc”

Frend Miudrag Vidovic, Drasko Petrovic, Marinko Nova kovic

City Krupa na Vrbasu Repbluka Srpska 18.04.2012 Godine 16.40.Casova

As I draw towards the end of this blog and towards the border to Bosnia I would see some very interesting sites, not least the millions of plastic bottles in the River Vrbas contained within a floating baton. I couldn’t understand it, their eerie silence with the occasional expanding ‘pop ‘assuaged’ me for a moment. It was night and I stopped just before Jayce at a service station with a cafeteria. Little did I know then that this was the border. My back rack had snapped the other mounting fixture to the frame and so I endeavoured to fix it with a jubilee clip. It worked but as I took a coffee I engaged the workers who stayed here – it was an all-night cafeteria. I declined the offer of the gay couple but the hospitality of everyone was stupendous. I took good advice not to take the shortcut through the hills because of wolves, boar and bear, and besides, the road becomes dirt track and signs at night are just not happening. So I stayed all night in the cafeteria, met 3 policemen who changed my view of them and who bought me sandwiches, got about 3 hours sleep and had my coffee paid for. That morning a guy I saw earlier helped me out with the bike as he worked in a factory selling component parts (www.zanychew.com) . I was astonished, they gave me completely free of charge a new back rack and about 40 replacement spokes for the wheel (which was running on a broken spoke). These people really wanted to help me, the message had got out that I was on my way to Jerusalem. So I say a fond farewell to Zan Andic and Ivan Dramac, the staff at the cafeterias, the very accommodating Serbian people, and the beautiful landscape. On leaving the town in the pulsating rain I passed through Jayce, the only city I know where the waterfalls are in the heart of it, and what a spectacle! (See photos) My perseverance paid off because the rain would subside. I was now in Bosnia and here the Muslims multiplied. I end by saying something important, that practically all the help I receive are from Christians, the Muslims are just friendly people. Muslims never take you in, they only respect you as a guest if they think you are a Muslim yourself. Saying that, even with a population of some 10,000 Muslims in the region I knew that all this was good preparation the further south I went.

Dobre Slovenia

At this stage the route has gone out of the window. I don’t have any maps nor any other languages. Spanish got me through Italy but as soon as they spoke Italian I was lost. The first thing you notice when you enter Slovenia is the multilingual abilities of the people, so English is no problem here. I have had enough exchanges to know that everyone has a subjective viewpoint being used to the idea that people sometimes appear negative towards me. They will, for instance, naturally try to deter me in my drive when I ask for directions up hills. They inflate distances too. I believe the car culture has somewhat distorted their experience of outdoor life. Anyhow, I occasionally meet those who are aware of their own projections and will forestall elaborating on the journey too much, allowing me to find out the consequences myself. It is a philosophical point. It got me out of trouble when during the night I needed redirecting down a motorway to get me back to a cycling road. That night I slept just off the beaten track in a small copse of trees. I was out of sorts, the hammock was at first too high to reach. Then during the night my feet froze and I kept on waking up to rub them. I waited for the late morning before deciding to get out. Then I headed down and no sooner hitting the border (with no-one about) went to the first supermarket. The language distinction from Italian is immediately apparent. I felt good though and headed for my only real destination, Ljubljana the capital. On the way I would pass Postojna the site of some fantastic caves. When I got there they had stuck a building over the entrance in the same manner that the hot water springs at Amélle les Bains-Palalda were covered. It was just daylight robbery, a natural gift of nature denied general access. I admit to having to prevent idiots from vandalising the place and ensuring safety and conservation but at 23 Euros standard adult price I wasn’t game. So I sat down and had a look at the theme park they built in this area with all the tacky gift shops lining the path. It was Disneyland but already there were queues of people waiting to go in at this time of year. I took out my crisp toast, cheese and sausage meat and pondered what to do – surely there are other natural formations around here? That’s when I met Darko and Norma contesting the same issue. So in the end we all went for a lovely walk to another nearby cave and caught some intellectual conversation. When we got there the place was likewise fenced in; had I been alone I would have risked a climb-over. In reality I wasn’t really disappointed, what you don’t see you don’t miss. Ljubljana it would be then. I did then what I do best, arrived just before the city in a place called Brezovici and went to a cafeteria to buy a two-hour coffee with free electricity usage. We talked and they kindly allowed me to sleep in the covered outdoor seating area where I duly overate and fell asleep. As for my music I wasn’t really playing it and anyhow, had a broken string. Concerning my musical abilities I seem to peak with it and then abandon it for a while. I took an easy morning, received their gifts of a cigarette lighter and pen respectfully and carried on. I strolled into the botanical gardens late afternoon. Before I got there I knew I had received a good sign when a local man helped me with directions. He pointed me towards a printery and that is when I struck up an impromptu conversation as if we were old friends or something. It was just amazing as I watched this guy single-handedly serve a multitude of customers all at the same time. It was like poetry in motion. I was getting a deal out of him and had all the time in the world to watch him. He printed up a load of extra laminated flyers for the journey at more or less cost price for me whilst streams of students came in and out. This place is probably the best deal in town. (Reklamni Atelje – Dunajska 18, 1000 Ljubljana) We had a beer together and I wondered if his gratitude would extend to getting me a place to stay. Despite the occasional flirt from interested young girls from the college I just think that the ‘wild man from Borneo’ look is a nut many people try to crack. It doesn’t have to be sexual.

So I continued along my way and soon found the gardens. It was fateful how the first person I met was the curator, Janja, who afterward did that most gracious thing – make me a coffee. We soon exchanged seeds but I was becoming self-conscious of the fact that my shoes stank. Just a minor point, but I couldn’t help ask whether there were any second-shops in the region. I found out that they don’t have them here, but nor do they have ‘Compro oro’ shops so prevalent across Italy. In fact, I would come to understand them as a subdued people in the sense that they don’t appear as consumerists. I would also learn that there was only one Fairtrade shop in the region (http://www.inyourpocket.com/slovenia/ljubljana/Shopping/Fair-Trade/3-Muhe_39612v) (a testament to their relative isolation from the West) but later that night the owner tried to help me out as much as possible. Janja prepared the seeds whilst I went for a tour of the gardens. They were a nice diverse mix and I got in some of the history from her. Apparently half the occupied grounds was a saw mill until between the world wars when the original botanical gardens, the first in Slovenia, were conjoined with it. The relatively small arboretum used to be circled by a wall which was mainly destroyed 100 years ago by a massive earthquake. They rebuilt part of it 15 years ago. The new greenhouse is beautifully designed and was officially opened in 2010 to commemorate 200 years since the founding date of the garden. The Tilia platyphyllos stands as a testament to that time. I wouldn’t see that ‘til the following day, for now I was content with taking in the rockery, pond and substantial groundcover ‘neath the trees. The relevance here is that of snowdrops, they were just everywhere. Before I left that night Janja was eager to show me a few plants. Of special note were the young germinating lime shoots with their distinct first leaves, the Gladiolus illyricus from the Balkan regions, the Allium sphaerrocephalon with its red and purple flowers, and the rosa glauca  who’s leaves are indeterminate and don’t breed true. They also had a substantial Index Semine of 1,250 seeds collected from their gardens and the wild. Unlike Italy they did not have any laboratory equipment here. What pleased me the most was the rockery and undercover. I thought I could bring back some ideas for ground cover to Hanbury gardens including Sedum spurium, Cerastium carinthiacum, Allium ursinum (delicious), Lamium orvala, Melittis melissophylum, Campanula trachelium, Aruncus diocus, Agrimonia procera, Thalictrum aquiligiifolium, and Asperula taurina. (See group photo) All that was left to me to do then was to go into town and create my own ground cover to see if I could catch the night-time architecture.

I had learnt that there are 2 million people in Slovenia and maybe as much as 30,000 Muslims here, but I haven’t really seen them. The population of Ljubljana is 300,000. The sites that caught me on the way through were the size and power of the rivers. At points they were as wide as the Thames obviously taking water from the variable landscape which makes this country very diverse in its habitat. It includes four distinct phytographic regions, the Alps, the Dinaric mountains, the Pannonian plain, and the Mediterranean. The countryside is stunning. Slovenia along with its neighbour, Croatia, were the two countries that resigned from the Socialist Federation Republic of Yugoslavia in the early 90’s and from which point the Serbians (in collaboration with the Yugoslavian army ) increasingly felt threatened to ultimately declare war on their neighbours, but that is another story which I hope to elaborate upon in my next blog. The architectural influence here is Venetian and Austro-Hungarian, and straight away I followed the ornate route through the dusk-lit old town. As night settled upon me I trundled into the main plaza where I consumed the petty remains of my stores. My first objective is always to stay friendly, and already the place had a feel of openness and sociability. There are a couple of quaint streets and I enjoyed the abundance of statutory everywhere I went. I would eventuate to find a funky cafeteria and plug in my laptop. Luckily it was not too far from Tivoli Park in which area I discovered a lovely woodland, the Slovenian word is les. It must have been 3am and upon the wooded slope there were many dells to tuck into. I had a perfect sleep, waking up to masses of snowdrops and various joggers and dog walkers. It was one of those mornings where you find a bench, eat your cereal, and repair any outstanding bike problems, in this case re-sewing the panniers again. As I left I meandered down in the opposite direction and began to see the city in the light. The aura of moonlight had lifted its veil and now I could see the occasional derelict grandiose house that many a people would pay a mini fortune to own. I could see the influence of the youth on the city now, the graffiti art, the burnt out shack, the late-night rowdiness, but it was minor to say the least. Like many of these European towns they are served by trams. There are many young people here but my objective on this sleepy day was to catch the director at the botanical gardens. The sun was out and I would get there late. Joze would turn out to be a renowned botanist and plant collector, especially of snowdrops for which he is called around the continent to give talks on. (See http://www.bf.uni-lj.si/en/biology/o-oddelku/about/ to find out more about the garden’s university links and publications)  He gave me a special tour of the new greenhouse, opened in 2010 to commemorate 200 years of the official opening of the gardens. Joze is a photographer, the publications by the Institute use his crystal-clear photos. He told me that he became one after he got into botany; strangely I feel that this could be my own personal development. He presented me some lovely gifts of a DVD and a few glossy books, telling me that all answers I needed to know are in them. (They read as a thesis or paper and obviously extend the work of the Professor – the gardens have a rich heritage of education from its origins during the period when Napoleon’s France bore a lot of influence in this region, albeit short-term. I took this as a hint to use the opportunity to take more pictures whilst he gave me a personal tour of the new greenhouse, stunning as it is with its treetop walkway. Divided into 5 distinct continents, American, Asian, African, Australia and Oceania; the quality of the plants are absolutely spotless. The design was to incorporate seasonal flowering, overall size and height of the plant, and regional habitat so that the viewer has an all-year interest in them. Even Joze had noticed a few new flowers worth stopping for. It is like a small version of the palm houses in Kew Gardens, a childhood reminiscence invoked by the whiff of chlorophyll in the air. It is not difficult to imagine that exotic gardening is a way of bringing worldly education into an outdoor classroom, where the senses are invoked to take in both space and season. 8,000 students a year come to these gardens and it has an Index Seminum of 1,250 species. I learnt something new, that plants obtained before the signed Rio Convention of 1990 were allowed to be sold. In fact the gardens do a little better than Hanbury in this respect. The nursery at the back housed his collection of snowdrops and a variety of plants available for other gardens. He amused me with his story of the Heliconias, a Madeira market and which was now gloriously flowering. These botanists do get around – it must be a beautiful life. They know much of the country around the world; the acres of glasshouses and polytunnels in Italy I was informed were probably strawberries. So just as the rain clouds threatened he escorted me to the bakery opposite and told me about the school that forms a part of it. I could hardly say no to his offer of bread, and the olive oil I am carrying looks like it may stay the distance all the way to Palestine. Just then I was ushered into the educational side of the gardens as a bunch of kids and their parents were learning to make willow whistles. I remember doing this back in London and it didn’t work. Heck, I had another go and guess what, it still wouldn’t work, and in fact I think it made my hair go grey. I guess Apollo wins the day and Pan is relegated to the wild side of life. 

At this point my bags were loaded again from the trip to the market square where I saw untold amounts of fruit sellers selling all the same products. How can they compete, it just seems the market is flooded. I managed one organic apple (Fairtrade and Organic is a scarcity here) and then spied a stall selling very cheap delicious fruit, so I stocked up. On the way out I encountered a line of flower stalls doing much the same thing. But the women at the end had a special skill for making dried flower arrangements. (See photo) So my plans were to go to the arbo retum but I was advised to wait ‘til the following day. That was good advice and strangely enough, as I took the wrong road for directions to the shopping centre to buy strings for my guitar the heavens opened. No more than 100 metres along I decided to turn back anyway when the front rack snapped with the extra load of fruit. What do you do? It carries three essential bags. I crossed the river and thought to head down the proper road when out of the blue there appeared a rubber components factory. (http://www.klander.si)  I enquired within and lo and behold… a man called Vili came out with a replacement rack. It was a back rack (even stronger) but we adapted it and with the help of two other people who drilled a few holes and made an attachment bracket, voulez! I mean, if that wasn’t a miracle what is? I spent the next two hours chatting with Vili and he kindly printed out Google maps of the whole route to Thessalonica. It was my turn to buy coffee so we went next door and for the first time in my life I experienced a Turkish coffee house. And the rains came even harder, but the factory staff had located a waterproof covering for the bike and this would prove very useful for the the future. Vili managed to suss out a space behind the factory which turned out to be a garden orchard (everyone grows top fruit in these Slovakian states). The dusty old sheds were inadequate so I adapted the waterproof sack and slid it over the hammock – it worked. I took another long morning making minor adjustments to my equipment and admiring the adjacent river with the mating ducks. Planting a fig cutting I took from Italy I went off in the sun to catch the music shop. And just as it began to rain again another spoke popped, in fact two had loosened. I took an easy afternoon fixing them and then reassessed the situation. This is a recurrent problem and I am not getting any lighter. On checking the wheel I realised that one side of the spokes were over-tightened and its opposite side too loose. I get better at understanding problems the more they go on and bless my luck, it seems to be holding up. But I had to give the arboretum a miss and knew that one day I would return to catch up. I also missed out on Lake Bled about 60km further north, as well as the castle and much of the surrounding landscape. I have learnt though, that going backwards is not my style, so forward it is. I headed for the same cafeteria (irony at its best), bought a few puncture patches and waited for the night. Just before I left I decided to play my music but like I say, I could play for hours and make a pittance – I do it for the love of it.

The road is flat and I flew along but this is where you need a proper map to get by. I lost the main road(!) and went south into the hills. It wound away, up and up, and it got cold in this thick coniferous woodland. I knew I had lost the road but I wasn’t turning back now. Two hours later I discovered some life in these backwoods; I was looking particular wild at this stage. Nevertheless the bouncer at the cabaret club and later the fortunate encounter of a couple told me of a road that cuts through the hills. I was cold but I persevered. I decided that the glowing attraction of a roadside shelter was too enticing to give a miss; its widened bench with the bicycle leaning up against it was ample comfort for this late hour in Ponikve. I slept well and discovered that I had a slow flat on the front. As I enquired to the neighbours they took me in, fed me, allowed me to have my first hot shower in a month, and said adijo to the lovely women, who also received a blessed fig cutting. I also fixed the inner-tube by tightening the internal valve. I was all smiles for I know that my little gift at the end of a hill came true. I made up for my loss in Italy where I changed the route. Here, just like every other hill country, the scenery is spectacular. I was saying hello to everybody and eventually my road took me to Brezice. But before I elaborate I need to say something about life: it isn’t maps you need but a willingness to see where nature leads you. Not all the maps in the world were going to deny me this experience. So even though I now had a map of the hill country given me by Carolina and I still managed to go another route from the intended one. Country folk are just different though. The numerous roadside shrines are for traveller alike, and in this Catholic country carrying a guitar on your back on the way to Jerusalem is a sure way of getting help. The novelty of travellers in cities and towns isn’t strong enough to administer altruistic behaviour, not even at 2am in the morning. But even that hypothesis would prove wrong as the sound of a Kurt Cobane tribute concert drew me to this bar. Without buying a drink all night the lovely people I met there sorted me out. The next thing I knew I was drinking and being looked after in a B & B (Les Franc Rimska cesta 31, Catez ob Savi, 8250 Brezice http://www.gostilna-les.com) by the kindness of Frank, Peter and Ljubisa. They told me that the rooms were empty because the workers from the local nuclear power station go home for the weekend. That morning I had eggs and bacon, bread and coffee whilst admiring the artwork around the walls and the view over the landscape. (I secretly pined for the pizza actually in the wood-fired hearth) It was the same pattern as of France, one of those days when everybody loves you. Frank gave me his CD’s (the name of his band is Shyam – everyone is a musician here) and a quirky little book of local folk songs. (Rompompom se ne gremo domov ­– answers on a postcard please.) I played some music in return after meeting all their family and hit the road. At the border to Croatia I was asked for a passport (the first time since leaving) and my reflection of Slovenia was one of astonishment.

I end this blog then by saying something of the people here. I was told that the further south I go the more heart they have. That the Slav people are variable and distinguishable differences can be seen between Slovakia, Slovenia, and Slavonia. The country is outstandingly beautiful but its language is difficult. I remembered the word for dog very quickly, since they took a fancy for my bike (they ignore tour cyclists). My list of words for budding peregrins is as follows:

Mum/dad – Mama/tata

Woodland – Les

Goodbye – Adijo

Hello – Zdravo

Hi – Ziujo

Please – Prosim

Yes – Ja

No – Ne

Thanks – Hvala

Dog – Pes

Cat – Mucka

Pig – Puig

Chicken – Cura

Cow – Crava

 I noticed when I left Italy that there was increasing agritourism, and this reminds me of my calling. For on this last day approaching Brezice I pulled into a mixed farm and asked to use the toilet. It turned out that they put on working holidays for mainly Slovenians and Italians as well as B & B (€20), Half Board (€25), and Full Board (€30). They come to eat locally grown and butchered meat from the animals kept on site. This included horse (one per year) salami (sorry Michelle, but I had to try it), pigs (25-30), rabbit, chicken, ducks and cows (2). The farmer is a butcher and they will not domesticate the animals enough to feel too attached to them. But the other specialty was the home-made wine derived from both red and white grapes. They have a vineyard with something like 4,000 vines producing 7,000 litres of wine. It was impressive and has won a number of awards. They keep it in a large vat where customers can purchase it for a considerably lower price using refillable bottles. Interestingly, they float oil over the top of the wine to provide a bacteria seal against spoiling, and the wine lasts for one and half years. People come to eat food, this is their biggest selling point, and they will do it in a traditional room made of timber. They huddle up to the ceramic stove, the traditional method of keeping warm in big houses where heat is extracted from the kitchen furnace. From here they also supplement meat with home-grown fruit both soft and top, which mainly includes blackberries, blueberries, apples and pears. All told they have about 40 fruit trees which will supply them for the whole year. There are also opportunities to work in the field, but Ursa tells me that you can’t work them too hard. They put on a variety of services and overall everyone is content to be looked after. They can be contacted and located here: Pr’ Martinov’h Gor. Gradisce 7, 8310 Senternej Tel: 07/3071394 Mob: 041/906426 and here: http://www.slovenia.info/?excursion_farm=470&lng=1 for general information of the group of tourist farms in this outstanding area of interest.

Food then is the critical sustainable edge that drives this industry, and it gives me ideas for the speculative project in Barcelona I have been referring to previously. The one issue that has been consistently raised is the bureaucracy put in place that has made it a costly business to conform to EU regulations. Many prospecting businesses find that planning costs are rocketing (after membership in 2006) whilst the cost of living rises also, and sometimes it can take years to implement a construction project. This is a point in case that maybe my next hosts will bear in mind, Croatia is about to enter the EU.

Ciao la Italia

I was undoubtedly in the richest farmland I have ever seen. It is no wonder empires are built on farming. The Romans knew it, for even though their homeland in the north produces some of the best soil one can imagine Rome in the south was still shipping in grain from Alexandria by the 1,000 tonne load on ships 80 feet long with a capacity of 600 passengers. Their yearly import reached a staggering 135,000 tonnes from Egypt alone. But it makes me wonder where all the food was going to, and in a way reflects the situation today where I can ask the same question: Crisis, what crisis? Truly, the global economics out there looks terribly flawed. I think it needs to be centred and reapplied in a manner that reflects the working landscape.

I missed Brescia and probably some stunning architecture, instead I would arrive into Montichaiari during the night taking in some lovely night shots. I sat down on some medieval steps and plied at my blog text. Like a lot of these towns it was terribly quiet, Still, we were in holy week. And then the first drops of rain came. As it steadily grew my battery pack was running low, and I knew that it was time to head off. I cantered into the desolate lit up streets looking for the long flat road to Desanzano. As usual I forestalled entering the town ‘til the morning and found a useful spot to set up the hammock. It was another great decision, I spotted a derelict house and garden which had a run-down shelter in the plum garden. The place was so decrepit that I found it difficult to attach the hammock to a safe hitching point, but it would suffice in the end without the thing coming down over me during the night. As usual I slowly awoke to the task of the day and headed for the next town, Lonato del Garda. On entering I read up on the rich history of the Venetian wars that gave this town prominence in the Middle Ages. A few centuries later Napoleon marched against the Austrians and then later still Italy fought for its independence here. Hence there has been a long history of the fortification of the town. The sights to see include the Basilica Minore and the Visconteo-Venetian Rocca Fortress. I was absolutely taken aback by it all, heading up to the castle and entering the main gate. There was no-one there, in fact the security was a gardener who happen to be working at the time. After going on a free tour of the walls I headed back down as the gardeners were leaving, and then realised that the place was closed – gardener’s prerogative! Apparently, being the home of Ugo da Como there is a collection of the first printed book ever, the collection of 404 incunabala, as well as a load of stuffed birds (700), but it was still off-season so no luck getting in that way even though I was stuffed. I wound down and played some guitar to no-one in particular and I was brilliant. That is the way it works – people seem to cause psychic interference with me in their company. I needed a wash though and knew my next stop – Lake Garda. On the way I came upon the small town of Lonato with a ruined Roman villa nestled amongst its tightly packed buildings. It was one of those rare occasions when I paid to see the exhibit, because the mosaic floors were stunning. (See Photos) These were rich Romans, and this site has been hinted as being owned by the emperor’s brother. Originally it would have bordered the lake, the luxuriousness of the setting speaks volumes. Every floor was ornate, as well as the walls. I learnt from a video show that the area had been inhabited by prehistoric man for millennia, building houses on stilts. It was originally thought the reason was due to flooding but is now known to be a fishing community and aid to transportation. The Romans themselves built entrance ports to their luxurious villas. So I continued to head down and found a lovely cobbled spot next to a deserted restaurant. The water was superb – fresh water, and in the distance I could see that sailing and wind surfing was on the agenda. I slowly packed my cycle bags and headed along the waterside route, swinging this way and that. Unfortunately I never had time to visit Sirmione and the site of a massive three-tiered complex but continued along my way heading towards Verona in the hope I would draw near to it that night. As it goes I broke another spoke and settled down to repair the bike. A little later on I went into a bike shop and got a discount from them after I had told them of my journey. Thanks to them, Il Ciclista (www.ilciclistadisirmione.com located on Via Brescia, 23/25) I was prepared again for what would be a continuing problem. I just think the extra load of food and drink is just too much for the bike sometimes. I entered Verona that night and the clouds were looming. Again the architecture was stunning, especially along the river route, and then I heard some singing coming from a Church. It turned out to be a rehearsal but enjoyable all the same. Then as the rain came again I spotted another church with candles. The architecture was fabulous but the artwork even more so. Not bad are the pictures for this cheap little camera I have. As I was leaving I met another man who enquired what I was doing. I was outside the Basilica di San Pietro Martíre in Sant Anastasia. He happened to be a pilgrim, as was his wife, who has walked all the way to Rome and Jerusalem. It turns out that he formed a pilgrim’s group for like-minded people. Details can be obtained from his website at www.pellegriniverona.it It is in Italian but English peregrine should check out the photos. As I chatted with his two daughters, first in Spanish and then in English it was obvious that he felt obligated towards me. Nevertheless I gave him a pack of basil seeds and then he offered to buy me coffee. So they all took me to this plush place where I was served two types of coffee and anything I wanted to eat. My better sense told me to go for the apricot tart, sweet and stodgy. Well, what can I say? They offered me to go with them 15km down the road but I refused on the basis that I will make this journey completely on bicycle. I asked Francesca if she would deny me my glory.  In return she offered to give me a night tour of the city since I think it horrified her that I would leave without seeing it. She was obviously very proud of it, it is a stunning city. I was originally going to bypass this place but as I flew in I remember seeing the UNESCO sign and decided to see what the fuss was all about. There are just so many monuments here it makes me wonder. I learnt that the Scaliger family were very prominent here, owning much of the landscape. Dante based his famous works in this region including The Divine Comedy. The picture of Francesca shows her standing in front of the Portoní, the gate where the borsarí collected tolls for use of the road; borsa means bag. One of my final images was the Arco dei Gaví, an arc de triumph for a famous victory, but even as I left that night I continued to notice one historical site after the next, all in the dark. After we departed and feeling all the better for my coffee, what I really needed was a laundry – my clothes stank of sweat. Can you imagine what it is like sitting next to me? I am sure those pilgrims have been there and done it. That night I set off into an empty road and cycled ‘til 3am. I was greeted by an endless stream of commercial outlets and this would ultimately continue all the way to Vicenza and later Padua. But before I got there I decided to pull off the road at a Lidl store and search the surrounding countryside. I found a track leading to a hedgerow but no strong trunks to hang my hammock. Trundling through rough ground I happened across a small village called San Bonifacio and there a copse of trees awaited me. It must have been 4.30am by now, nevertheless, I got up early that morning and headed backwards towards the store, having a coffee in the local gas station where I plugged in and typed away, loaded up and headed for Vicenza about 5km away. At last I had eaten substantially.

In this mire of commercial activity small towns just appear from nowhere. The sr11 is the road for cyclists although I wished that a law would be passed that kept lorries to the major roads, the ones we can’t use. It probably explains the drive towards creating new roads where all the money from Europe has gone into an infrastructure that is leaving many countries bankrupt. The smaller roads have been neglected and are not particularly in good condition. The pattern is one of commercial parcs before and after all cities and, as I say, can go on until one reaches the next town. The signage though is very ambiguous, crap actually. Everywhere in this region there seems to be two sets of signs, I am not referring to the autostrada but two signs for the national or major roads. The kilometrage goes up and down, sometimes as far apart as 10km. These signs can be on opposite sides of the road and be exactly the same type. I must assume that the road system has changed and some signs are older than others. Failing that it’s possible they used a cyclist with a tape measure to check the distance. I mean, he must have gone backwards and some point.

If Verona is anything to go by Vicenza in the light is even more stunning. Just look at the photos. What a youthful town and the question begged me: Why not sit down and busk away? Well actually, these people don’t need me; Jesus will soon be crucified and the holiday will be over. So despite the temptation of a free meal at the institute for the homeless I forsook it and went my way before it got dark again. Padua awaited me and my fourth drop off point of botanical seeds. It was dark as I approached the city, flying as I do at this time of night. I spotted a funky cafeteria and stopped over. It then bucketed down and my choice of place and timing can only be pure instinct. By now I am so finely tuned I consider myself a true indigene. Even as I sat in this bar playing music, paying a ridiculous amount for a beer, I eked out value for money by getting my phone charged up. They told me where the botanical gardens were but before I went there I sussed out the area. Going down some country lane I espied a crematorium or enclosed graveyard by a large church. There was a copse of trees here but it was so dense that I could only penetrate the outer edges. Going further I noticed a derelict farm house. I broke into it and checked it out, then broke back out again. Too dangerous and too dusty; the place was falling apart. I would eventuate back to the small copse and after clearing some vegetation set up my hammock. Here I was completely safe; not even a fallen tree trunk could threaten me. I needed a wash in the morning to clean myself up before visiting the gardens. As it goes I arrived and was told that it would be better to come back the following day. Nevertheless, I toured the gardens and then went about visiting the rest of the town. Padua is surprisingly architecturally barren but when I arrived at the Basilica of San Antonio the artwork was the greatest I had yet seen. Unfortunately no-one was allowed to take pictures, nor take notes (or does that mean ‘no graffiti’?), and NO HOLDING HANDS! Well, how else are they going to make money here if they have a lack of tourist sites? They must rely on merchandise. The central park was lovely too with its numerous statues circling a pond, in fact northern Italy is big on statues. I fixed another spoke on the wheel hoping that the new ones were taking most of the tension by now. In the meanwhile I was yet again plagued by Moroccans who consider me to be a drug dealer. It’s obvious drug dealers own bikes. I trundled through the architecturally bland streets and played my guitar in the porch area of a student’s residence. I was brilliantly magical, but yet again alone for no-one to trouble the purity of my consciousness. Padua had other some nice areas too. I discovered a 63km cycle track that follows its rivers and beyond into Montegrotto Terme, Battaglia Terme, Monselice, Este, Cinto Euganeo, Lozzo Atestino, Valbona, Vo’vechio, and Bastia di Rovolon.  I found this out because I took a lovely walk along the river on advice of a friendly group of people. Eventually I found a section that had been maintained as a garden with ornamental trees and palms. I hung the hammock there and in the morning watched the dragon’s breath encompass everything.

I arrived right on cue. Padua’s botanical garden is the oldest in the world. (Actually another garden was incepted two years earlier in Pizza but it did not survive longer than 1545.) It didn’t compare to Hanbury in Ventimiglia but it serves a different purpose here, or hopes to. Dating from 1545 it is also considered on the UNESCO world heritage list (only Kew Gardens has this UNESCO status too.) They came at the time of the birth of science and were figuratively designed as a perfect square in a circle (of the universe), i.e. the technician Carlo informs me that it should represent the perfection of scientific purpose. (It implies that all things can be reduced to maths.) Its contribution extended to botany, medicine, chemistry, ecology and pharmacy. The square is dissected by two paths creating four quadrants. Primarily these served for medicinal plants only. At a later stage the first exotics were introduced into the country and grown here because it encouraged the exchange of plant material. The gardens were then extended further outwards. The founding of the garden was a result of the impact of the Carrarese Herbarium written by Jacopo Filippo da Padova and is a vulgar version of the 12^th century Medicinus Semplicibus aggregates by the 12^th century Arab doctor il Giovanne; it is based on the direct experience of nature – a precursor to science. I moved around the gardens with Carlos who discussed various points of interest. For instance the Goetre palm was so called because he wrote a book concerning the metamorphosis of the plant taking his experience from travelling all around Italy. Interestingly it has 3 types of leaves, from single leaves at the bottom to full fans at the top. The specimen on show had a greenhouse around it to protect it from the cold. It was in fact huge compared to how they normally grow a couple of metres high. Other plants included one of the oldest magnolia grandiflora in Italy (1786), yet funnily enough the younger specimens in the basilica were larger (massive). I put it to Carlos whether he thought praying had a scientific effect, he didn’t reply. Other specimens include the Gingko (1750) which was grafted in 1880 with a female branch so that it could pollinate itself and produce fruit; flowers are normally born separately on male and female plants (dioceious). There was a Platano orientalis the second oldest plant in the garden (a cross between P. Occidentalis and the London Plane). Lightning struck the plant and caused a fungus to grow in the wound. It consequently had to be cleaned out and made hollow. (Check the photos on all of these specimens) The site does have its problems though, not least in its transitional stage of becoming what it had once been – a universal centre for scientific research into the properties of plants. For this reason they were in the process of building a huge new greenhouse (to be completed by next April). The centre has not had a professor for 10 years, just trained technicians to keep the plants in good shape and the gardens open for ornamental purposes. I asked Carlos the importance of this event and he told me that medicinal knowledge of this sort only happens here but also the emphasis has moved to bioconservation and the protection of wildlife. What used to be classrooms (disused) will now all be transferred to the new building with increased materials and laboratory equipment. The historic parts of the garden are plain to see. There is a row of plants that represent their first introduction into Italy. A couple, like Robinia and Ailanthus have since become national weeds, escaping into the further bounds of Italy. But other examples include the first ever potatoes grown here in 1590 (most of the solanum species). I then found out that there is an artesian spring 30 metres deep that brings up warm water and allows exotic aqua plants to be grown also. So loads of important botanical history and yet the place has only 15 employed people, most of them gardeners. The 23,000 students that visit will be expanded, and I know that there was a sense of excitement at being here for the opening next year.

It did occur to me that one of the gaping holes in the country’s industry is the lack of a volunteer sector. This is definitely something I could begin to work towards and could tie in with any possible outcome in Catalonia. It just doesn’t happen here in Italy, and maybe the student exchange system I anticipate will embolden this idea of work experience and real vocational training methods that take in the greater culture of things. I ended my stay with Pierluigi telling me stuff about seed conservation, expanding on what I had learnt at Hanbury gardens. In fact endangered species are stored at -18^oC but if the moisture content of the seed can be got below 5% then it allows for seed to be stored closer to 0^oC. The interesting examples quoted were Silene stenophylla and Phoenix dactylifera (Date palm) species, the former discovered in frozen conditions 20,000 to 40,000 years old and the latter in dry arid conditions. Scientists claimed to regenerate the plant from frozen fruit 32,000 years old. Hence the seed moisture had reduced significantly to allow the survival of seeds for thousands of years. In the case of the former one notes that the same species living today show slight adaptation in the ensuing period. I don’t think I could ever become a scientist but I wonder if they would allow me to conduct some religious experiments with their plants. It has been done before, just consider Steiner’s whole philosophy.

We made our seed exchanges and I thanked Carlo and Pierluigi for taking the time out for me. But I had to move on now, the nightmare getting out of Padua eventually led to a very nice road to Venice that followed the river. I had to go for a dip although the river was full of fluff (pussy willow I think). The sun streamed behind me and I was gliding towards Venice. After crossing a huge bridge I wondered about the attraction of this city. It is the novelty of water canals that lead to people’s doorsteps that so intrigues me, otherwise the place is pretty average. In a strange mythical way it gives one the sense that they can be free as fish, disappearing off at all hours of the day and night and secretly arriving at some rendezvous. It definitely rings Atlantean to me and I think that is its appeal. It really is unique, but I didn’t stay long. I thought I saw an anti-capitalist campaign going on at the station but it turned out to be nice people complaining why they had lost their jobs when they cut the night service. I mean, not even tourism can bail out these economics. I am sure something is truly aberrant here. I think countries should go back to being independent but globally linked through tourism and independent trade. It doesn’t make sense, the wealth of the country is being drained away, its timber of rich Black popular plantations and arable land, the finest soil one can possess. As I passed onwards towards the border of Slovenia I eventuated to find a perfect spot about 15km outside Venice at some ridiculous hour in the morning. It was another plantation woodland absolutely ideal for my hammock. The following day I smashed out 130km but stopped before I reached Trieste, unusually freezing at this time. A lovely bar tender (www.knulp.it) got me on my way with some bread and a pastry (there’s wifi here too) which ignited me up this massive hill and got me within a few kilometres of the border (somehow I lost the road at night and had to use the motorway for 5km – now that is crazy isn’t it?) You wonder why the Italians keep this part of the country, why not just give it to Slovenia. I have subsequently learnt that former Yugoslavia gave it after the war. But I suppose it is their claim to the Adriatic coast. Even in these border lands one gets the sense that everything is au fait. But it was the experience of the night before on Easter Sunday where I camped in some amazing place in the hills of the Duino region, would you believe it amongst the ugliest industrial factory you can imagine. It just boggles the mind how they could build such a thing here next to lakes and streams. It bucketed down but I remained stone dry during the night as I slept. I used my second hammock suspended in the running water to clean all my underwear. No prose could do this place justice so I end this blog with a poem, and I say ciao la Italia.

 The Ascendency

 

I wake up to a canopy of bay,

A brow to the mottled overcastting sky

Its whiteness is a distant reflection,

Of the rushing stream perpetual in its noisy hiss

It gushes at a point below me

 

Further up a blue lagoon awaits its befalling

Yet tranquil as if divining

The placid pond mirrors its sounding

Echoing as it does the aspiring tree tops

Reaching as they do into the deep unknown

 

They waiver in the wind

Long slender trunks roughened by the call of nature

Ivy bites into their flaky scales

Too far to reach both the pine and the black popular

Who’s heads whisper of torrents further afield

 

Their legacy lies in a forest of dead wood

Broken branches strewn and juxtaposed between leaning trunks

Sunk amid a carpet of dead nettle and elder

Only the leggy fig could look more anxious

Of a once man-made environment returning to nature

 

I spotted a red squirrel in its haven of canopied walkways

The dog halting at intervals waiting for its master to catch up

The chirping of multifarious birds plying the upper branches

The stream of motorised traffic flitting interstitially through a green wall

And I nestled in the cocoon of my hammock

 

The sound and sights of the forest scape

Each to themselves but everyone transient

The death of one leads to the birth of another

Like a dice edge between the roll

Only the eye in the sky will see all of this

 

We are not forsaken in our longing for the sun

Though the cooling, drying air parches our skin

We yearn for the moisture and when it pours we are every one satiated

The seeds of life are sewn here into ascendancy

When once drawn and dormant we are now given impetus

 

Let’s not be fooled by or befall life’s apparent randomness

Our record is written in code for generations to come

Our coats, though they run dry, are incubated with free-flowing water

So that we may swell with the abundance of life

We are all green in the centre

                                                                                                             

Complement?? la mama

Liguria is olive country also. Its gardens are decorated in flowers at the moment including Bachelors’ Buttons (Kerria Japonica) and magnolia spp. The cycle track sporadically appeared and disappeared but at one point it became a joy to follow. It ran along the coast and next to the main road, occasionally offering exits to various communes along the way. Remaining at a consistent level I espied the sea between the residential buildings on the other side. My senses were sharp as a knife, for in a glimpse I noticed a lovely sand beach; most of the coastline here is rocky. An elevator took me down to the level of the sea and I gladly took up the late afternoon temptation . Why nobody else was swimming will always remain a puzzle for me. Joyfully leaving the Commune di Santo Stefano al-mare I noted a few observational thoughts. Firstly, this cycle/jogging track has SOS points. Either side of it I saw a cemetery, a crazy golf course, and various small gardens. And then I was taken aback but what appeared to be a specially made 2km tunnel for bicycles. It seems inconceivable that they would make such expense for a cycle track, and I must assume it is a converted one-way road. I trundled on through Commune di Cervo and Finale Ligure just before hitching up with Alassio. Other than Cannes this was one of the longest beaches I have ever crawled along. I looked out for a good sheltered beech spot, and there was plenty of sand here, but in the end I made for the peninsula and settled down next to some craggy rocks. The train line ran right above me, and above that the road to Genova. It is extraordinary how shop fronts and cafeterias lead onto the beach. But after the experience of Ventimiglia the architecture seem to dull. In the morning, traversing the steep road up I was greeted by many a tour cyclist who got me going in the right direction. I was confused at first since it went in the opposite direction of the rising sun. Nevertheless, this road would prove to be a good workout, navigating hilly outcrops and peninsulas. It seemed to be served by lots of bicycle shops called Olmo, and probably reflects the amount of tour cyclists that come through this way. The other thing I took account of, and still get confused about, is the change of signs from blue to green (for autostradas), and green to blue (for major roads). I drifted into Savona, and then it struck me how mundane the world now was. The industrial nature of its surrounding borders uglify what was probably very beautiful country. Still, my sharp eyes spotted the beech signs and I went for another lovely swim. Sticking around for a few hours I recharged my energy levels and I began looking forward to Genova. I had got here in good time actually because of my night riding. It was Thursday and once I saw the entry sign for the city I slowed down and wondered what it had to offer. The quaint outskirts were impressive enough but slowly the road widened into a busy, noisy thoroughfare. A young guy thought to help me out and nearly had a fight with another passer-by. Elena had warned me about this town; there was I thinking it was another Montpellier. My only advice is this: Avoid it at all costs! It is a nightmare, the same road forever looking for el centro, passing though dirty streets and unceasing traffic including a multitude of prostitutes. In the end I was so sick of the noise I just went left in the hope of getting away. It took me up this massive hill where nothing happens. Eventually I found a Kurdish shop selling pizzas. Everyone talked English and the young delivery guys bought me a drink. I decided to play them music. The owner was crazy to say the least. In fact it was a crazy night. I got some advice to get out of there and had to make the unfortunate journey of going down again. I was hoping I would traverse the immediate hills on my journey inland, for from here I said au revoir to the sea. A young girl would tell me that there were some beautiful beaches here, and only after I left did I remember that I was going to go to the university and see their botanical garden. I must have been overcome by the earlier encounter that nearly ended in a fight. And why I didn’t go to the beech to sleep indicates my mind was somewhere else. Taking the road to Pontedécimo I turned off a short while and followed a stream. This was about 12am and it led me to a sharp incline. For once I was exhausted and sought to locate some trees to hang my hammock. I had to stop twice because my heart was palpitating so much that my throat was vibrating. It may have had something to do with the chickpea pancakes the Kurd gave me. Anyhow, my magical instinct located a rambler’s trail on the hilly road. In the end I would find a very sheltered spot amongst sawn logs and storage tunnels beneath the actual road. The owner said hi in the morning and sent me back down the hill. My luck had changed once again and that is when I met Frank Si Nutra (see website www.myspace.com/I Maleducati and You Tube: Mr Frank and the Soul Band). Seeing my guitar he called me over and for two hours we played together. He bought me coffees, gave me clothing including a t-shirt of a Genoan footballer, baby wipes to stop me from getting rashes (which work really well on greasy hands from fixing my bike wheel all the time), and then invited me to a gig that night, just a mere 50 kilometres down the road. He taught me something indelibly warming, a very special phrase to take from Italy. It goes, ‘Complementi la mama’. I haven’t used it yet, but after going away from his market stall with 4 packets of vegetable seeds and some free ice tea I knew I had left that hole behind in Genova. Sorry to say it, but Marseille just pales in significance. Rather, it was joy to see the real Italian countryside stunning as it was in the hills. For once I sweated but when I reached the top I began to feel that the rest of the journey was a foregone conclusion. I cruised into Busalla, managed to eke two hours of electricity and free wifi from a bar owner without buying anything (I had enough stores), gave him my thanks and spent the afternoon sun drifting along the flat winding route to Serraville. There I would find the venue, actually backtracking a little to a place called Vignole Barbera. I couldn’t remember the name of the place at first but looked for the music posters, where I promptly discovered a benefit gig to Bob Marley at Area 51. When I got there the generosity of the Italian people was unceasing. The bar owner next door (Fernanda), on hearing I was going to Palestine, gave me a free pastry, and then I was approached by Gianni and Paula who bought me a ravioli meal, a selection of cheeses (including Gorgonzola, Stracchino and Brie), bread, wine, ice-cream with whisky, and then a Grappa liqueur to top it all. It seems that my journey reveals something of the nature of this religious country. Maybe I am achieving something that these friendly habitants have always wanted to do themselves. But also, that they have identified something holy in me. My guitar is my religious burden, the instrument of salvation. But it is no real burden, I do not notice the weight of it for it is but air, air that sings to the trees. But the weight of the bike is extraordinary, and even other cyclists take notice. I met up with Frank and his band who took over looking after me, listened to a lot of average music, and found myself a copse of trees down the road in a place called Varíano. I left my laptop at the cafeteria and would have to go back the following morning to pick it up, with the promise that I could eat any food I wanted. Well, there was another story before I left that place, but let me just say that I am a religious man, a peregrine, and these people identify with that. They know the power of the wandering pilgrim to release them from what some people understand as guilt, sin or shame or pity. Gianni said something of the sort, that he thanked me for clearing his mind. I wish now that I could have played my music to them for I think then I would have been worthy of the honour. Instead I just let myself go on the breeze. That night then, I set up my hammock. There I passed a small shrine to the Virgin Mary; it was lit up with candles. I awoke and looked up through the trees, what I believe to be elder. As the clock chimed 8am and right on cue 4 men approached me with chain saws cutting everything in their path. What the hell was going on? Who did they think I was – an environmental activist? Was the destruction of the football pitch and this little copse of trees going to be replaced with a supermarket or something? 10 minutes later after they saw that I was packing up, they all disappeared in a car – weird? So that morning I would go back to the cafeteria and pick up my laptop. I had two coffees and a pastry, spoke about environmental politics to the friendly Latvian girl, and decided to play to her a whole selection of my songs – I was on form. I went along the way and no sooner had I got a few kilometres down the road was I welcomed by Paula and her friends at a bar. It was incredible. They were buying me everything I needed and I came away with biscuits, fruit, and sandwiches. I thought they were going to marry me off. They had in fact deterred me from continuing on this route since the hills they said were massive. I took their advice because they were incessant about it, making calls to various family members and friends about its steepness. I give my lovely thanks to Sandra and her daughter Simone for the food and hope that the next time I come here those carob seeds I gave them are germinating nicely. So I decided to go the flatter route, and in a way made a good long-term decision but am not capable of judging fully the missed opportunity. For instance, every time I do big hills my good karma rockets and it may be that I let down Gianni who asked me to go this way. Not only that, there was potentially a very interesting Indian community of a few hundred people in the hills of Candalupo. These could be lost opportunities but nevertheless, I met another wonderful couple who gave me home-made plum jam and more biscuits after I enquired the species of the trees in their area. I hope they all read this blog and understand that for them I completed this journey. I have plenty more mountains and hills to climb.

The rich countryside here has been mainly arable, at the moment sown with tares and clover as green manure, intersected with cherry/plum orchards (pruné). As I passed through Persí, fed by the River Boblera, I could see why this plain (called the Po) has been inhabited by prehistoric man for thousands of years. Other rivers like the Grué also served to bring in fresh water for irrigation. A little further back I read something of the history if this area, especially since this route was the main thoroughfare between the scrivia and the Po. The Romans had made full use of this route creating and expanding existing towns. One of these was Libarna colonised in the second half of the 1^st century. It had become a staging post along the Via Postumia. By the second century AD it had expanded significantly to have its own amphitheatre. The rich plains and its main rivers that extend for kilometres were navigated by boats too. It is easy to see how the Po would become a prosperous area for any developing empire and would subsequently become the scene for major battles in the Middle Ages for control of its agriculture. The one thing I noticed coming out of Busalla was how many transport links congregated along the via Postumia and with it industry. This would be the pattern as I traversed the long flat road. I felt completely safe on the roads; Italian drivers are pretty respectful of cyclists. In all honesty though, it can be a little boring seeing the same vista for kilometres on end and sometimes a hypermarket (and there are more here than in France) is a welcome break. But I made good ground and swept into Tortona to the Palazzo Guidobono. I recommend anyone in the area to go and take a look at the free exhibition called ‘Labyrinths of Wood.’ There were some stunning pieces of sculpture which I hope my photos do justice to. The exhibition finishes on the 9^th April.

Munching through the last of those delicious oranges I blazened on reaching the town of Costello, the road as it does now follows the main River Po. Things were not as easy as all that though. I broke two spokes and took the opportunity to have another meal next to the highway. At least 2 people stopped for me to see how I was doing, that is how friendly the Italians are. With nightfall on me I did another one of those instinctive things – I came off the major road and searched for a place to get my head down. It just so happens that I bumped into a cycle track in the same manner I did when I was approaching Hyéres in France. Bypassing a hedgerow for the ominous sound of dogs barking in the distance I eventuated upon a path and a copse of oak trees in a little dell. It was perfect cover not really knowing where I was. Even as I left, always clearing up behind me, I walked out of the track and passed the farmer and his dog without a sideward glance. As I continued along the bike route it turned out to wind in and out of various little villages, with stopping off points. For those cyclists out there traversing the country near Piacenza it runs hence: Castel San Govianni, to Fontana Pradosa, to Sarmato, to Rottofreno, to Santimento, and then continues to Calendasco along the river, to Piacenza, to Caorso, to Montecelli D’Ongina, to Castel-Vetro Piacentino, to Villnova D’Arda. Sarmato would be a very interesting place. I stayed in this small town half the day playing my music and working on my laptop. As I sat down in a very pleasant area I was approached by one local after another. That is when I was reminded that it was Palm Sunday. An older gentleman came over and gave me a branch of an olive tree, traditionally replacing the palm fronds that greeted Jesus in Jerusalem. After endeavouring to talk about my journey he offered me a drink and something to eat. He then did the most amicable thing, going away and printing up some more flyers since I was running out of them. A little bit later I was approached by younger people who jammed music with me, in between which I was listing my seeds on the blogsite. I was good, wondering what would have happened if I had donated my energies to the bigger city of Piacenza (pop: 100,000). I left Sarmato with a promise to come back and found myself hitting the main road again. I remembered then that another spoke was broken and had decided to wait until the wheel buckled further before going through the rigmarole of taking it all apart again. The wind felt like the Mistral I encountered in the south of France, that poxy wind remember. And as I approached Piacenza the architecture was quite lovely. But I didn’t hang around. Lots of people gave me long stares on this Palm Sunday as I breezed out heading towards Cremona. There I happened across reforested mixed deciduous woodland of birch, cherry  and alder. The peace of this area that not even the distant barking dog could remove was signalled by the company of a hedgehog, who decided to turn back the other way when its vision kicked in. And that reminds me, the endless stream of flattened animals along the roads. The cyclist is always kept aware of the possible dangers facing him or her. But the drivers here, like France, appreciate a well-dressed cyclist who looks the part. Cyclists have greater favour than any old gardener does.

I will end this current blog about my general observations. The architecture here is more concentrated in the larger cities, and subsequently I believe more grandiose than France, but France is more consistent throughout its countryside. Here in Italy though, the rural habitants can be incredibly religious, and will set up shrines along traveller routes. In particular I saw a statue on the road to Brescia of the Virgin Mary. It was at the site of a lock and in some ways represents a sign for the traveller at the crossroads. They also have the most beautiful frescoes everywhere, but the churches and main buildings really bring out the history of Italy. They are gardeners; they have a keenness for plants growing near buildings, probably an inherited Roman villa mentality, and at this time I have seen many a magnolia and kerria in flower. As a cyclist I think religious people pay attention to you. Italy is a cycling nation, producing various champions. I am taking it one stage further and reproducing the whole hero myth – the sacrificial journey that has become a holy-day. And the Virgin symbolizes the purity of the earth; she represents the untainted quality of being. In its purest natural form this means the wilderness, the wilderness of the peregrine who travels ever lighter into the holy world. I would continue to pass through layers of history through iconographic towns like Robecco D’Oglio and its Campaniglie and then I would enter some of the best northern Italian culture of its time. Ahead of me awaited Lake Garda and then Verona, but that will be for my next blog. So I must say a final thanks to all you lovely helpers – you are like the air under my wings. And to Bonova Fiorenze who bought me food at the supermarket in the Commun di Bagnolo, to Jasdeep Indian store (Rupinder, Bhupinder & Navjot) who gave me free internet service, and to Stephanol and the school teacher who brought me there and gave me a drink.

Arrivederci la Italia

The hum of bees in the almond grove; beneath stare up bear’s breeches, and the yellow oxalis lull in the wind.

The Lord’s Prayer

God, for me you represent the unknown

You will never reveal yourself to me in any form

Other than through the lens of my senses

For you have raised me high amongst the people

And made me a guest of honour amongst them

What befalls me now is always in your hands

I await my great fate

For it seems you bring me to a grand finale

I ask, Is this an end of earthly life?

Or am I to expect this to be the beginning of eternal sustenance

You bring me amongst every kind of flora

My search for the origin shows you in a multitude of forms

To see you in such opulence surely is the end of time

When only the most revered amongst humanity are granted this path

It is a solo quest not lonely in the least

Every walking day is a guiding hand into the deeper unknown

Bringing me in closer union with the singularity of your being

And each new rising sun brings with it greater freedom

As your messenger the lower conscious masses see me as a guiding light

They would touch me only to draw nearer the flame of life

Burning as it does in the deepest recesses of every living being

I am amongst your garden and consistently struck by one beauty after another

Where does it end, where does it start?

It seems nature is in the palms of my hands

I am not alone

The border crossing was interesting enough, there was no-one there other than a group of campervans huddled together. I espied one with the door open as I tried to get one more photo from my rapidly diminishing camera batteries. He offered me some replacement batteries, which didn’t work, and then he filled up my water bottle. It was a good sign. I got some kind advice as to where I could sleep the night, but I mistook his instructions. Nevertheless I carried on and saw the sign for Ventimiglia. Faced with a decision to go either straight (up) or down I decided on the former since I assumed I would not come back here, and took my opportunity to see the heights. It was another one of those excellent decisions. The antiquated city looked stunning in the night, narrow cobbled streets with arching passages and tunnels between the buildings. As I pondered the prospect the old man I passed on the way befriended me as I yet demolished another one of those cheesy bread rolls. At about 12am he took me on a tour of the town. He was English but could speak a number of languages. With his educated accent I thought he was a spy, working the border patrol. He told me the police crawl all over the beech and that being here at the top overlooking the new port they were building would be a perfect spot. He was right. I strung my hammock between two metal railings and perused the stars.

In the morning I read a book and worked on my blog. I looked down at the port and considered Howard’s words, “Why do we need another port, they have got one at Nice.” Well actually, it is the surest way of bringing money into the city; these boat owners will build restaurants and fancy shops. My evaluation would be vindicated. As I trundled down the old cobbled streets in the light everything, apart from the Cathedral, was in a state of dilapidation. But it had a beauty about it. Howard had told me where to find the botanical gardens; I overshot them in the dark the previous night. Before I went there I cleaned myself up by going for a swim. The seashore seems to be a gathering point for depressive people, or more likely people needing healing. I wasn’t feeling too great myself to be honest. I shot back up and found the gardens, named after Sir Thomas Hanbury who created them from his exploits at the beginning of the 20^th century. They were absolutely stunning; the view, the disposition; the entrance portal. Elena Zappa the curator soon accommodated me, and all of a sudden I was feeling very honoured. A fuller report is forthcoming, but for this blog I am going to let the pictures speak for themselves a bit. I was blown away by one scene after another, my eyes wandering between the architecture and the flora. There were stairways running between the different tiers with statues and busts hidden in various niches. There is a wonderful Japanese bell, originally hung by Thomas Hanbury on an olive wood frame to strike away the labour hours. It belonged to a Buddhist shrine in Tokyo destroyed in 1764 by fire. The water fountains were timed to come on sporadically. As she took me into the main house I kept on looking at the murals depicting historical figures. Everyone was interested in my journey, hence the group photo (Tino, Anita, Vanissa, Elena and Anna), and they mentioned a number of activities here to include concerts, conferences, school outings, seed collecting and student participation. From the balcony the view to the sea was stunning. We then wound down to the cafeteria where a much welcomed coffee greeted me. At this stage Elena had already arranged for free accommodation in the old head-gardener’s shack near the site of the orchard and former kitchen garden. I would share this accommodation with a temporary student, and it had everything I needed. For the next 3 days she answered all my questions, being very knowledgeable not just in plants but the history of the place. The 18 hectares would provide ample opportunity to go round and make for myself a botanical portfolio, half of which were woodlands currently closed off to the public. Peering through the gates the sea beckoned me, the steep decline of the Capo Mortalo was an idyllic paradise of exotic and native species. Quite stunning was the variety of trees and cacti making use of a variety of microclimates in this south-facing perspective. I vowed to use the Roman road with the same austerity that Napoleon Bonaparte, Pope John Paul and Pope Innocent IV, and Charles V all did. That would come the following day, for this night I settled in. As it goes, I had a natural emission which for me signified the beginning of a new cycle. Too much protein I think, too much bread.

The following day bought a serendipitous encounter. I met the current descendant of the Hanbury family, Caroline with her mother, who asked me to help with the new IKEA sofa, and then she invited me to have a meal together. They brought out the cheeses and home-made ice-cream, as well as the wine. The buffet of meats and vegetables were a treat. She mentioned the fact that it keeps the tanks filled up so to speak. We were very open together but I did feel mildly honoured. Their lovely home and garden looked out over the whole estate. She even showed me her pride and joy (see photo of plant of Cantua bloxiflora) which is apparently very rare in this country. I would discover in that conversation that Caroline appreciated making the right impression with new people. She loosely referred to the mafia also who were still lurking in the background politics, and it frustrated her that only now can she get a change of use on one of her buildings to make it into much-needed student accommodation. Actually one gets the impression that the authorities around here are a little paranoid. We ended up swapping Extra Virgin olive oil, Catalonian for Italian , giving the bot tle a heritage to look forward to I hope. After saying a fond farewell I took a mass of photos

that day. I stumbled into the out–of-bonds woodland and even though a few parts need repairing I was secretly whisked away into a mythical world of architecture. I then did something which was totally inexplicable. Whilst I sought to glue my trainers together I walked flip-flop to the coast, taking part of the old Roman Road before hitting the cliffs. This is where illegal immigrants used to try and cross the border to get to France. It really felt like that, small footways going this way and that, some ending nowhere other than a big drop. I managed to find some people lurking around and wondered whether they were doing something illegal. As it goes, some of them were completely nude taking in the sun. The other thing I noticed about this area was the amount of junk hanging around. It seems to be all but forgotten – “the land that time forgot”. Maybe when they moved the border (apparently Italy sold the land to France including Nice) they sold the cleaners as well. Anyhow, the point I wanted to make was this sense of starting a new cycle under physical restraint. My feet were being ripped to pieces. I eventually got to the beech I was looking for feeling like I just jumped border. It was only after I went for a swim that, on relaxing, I began to feel the damage. There is a museum to prehistory here which I never got to see. But the whole area had an intimate contact with the sea because of the narrow walkable coastline. You wonder if First Man walked this road too. It was enough to play a few songs on the beach and return to the hut to put up my feet (for sale!) where another student joined us. We talked botanics and sustainability; it is amazing how much knowledge everyone has. There was the three of us getting to know each other.

So the following day Elena would show me the seed bank and laboratory; how important this work is. What a brilliant advert all the staff were. My parting gift to them was the printed t-shirt of my journey (available by request) and the seed bank had provided a selection of seeds (the Seminum Index is available for scientific purposes only) for me to carry into my ensuing destinations. (See forthcoming report for more information and links under Useful Information.) I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play one song to a bunch of OAPs but my lasting memory is one of being treated special. I hope I have done this place justice and will endeavour to come back on the advice that Caroline gave me: Why not set up a student exchange system between all the botanical gardens? As usual I left on the wind not a day too soon or early.

Au revoir la France

The memory seems distant already because the scenery here quickly returns to vegetation and rock. I didn’t want to hang around, so I had used my opportunity in Marseille to go to a supermarket and cool off a bit whilst gathering myself; I bought a few stores and sat down in the cafeteria section making baguettes and charging my phone up. But I knew I could make Hyéres tonight, even leaving at such a late afternoon hour. The 5km descent into Marseille told me that the terrain was rapidly changing, and it did. As I traversed the mountain-scape there was a vigour about me. Maybe I was secretly looking forward to a change, and as I approached the mountain I ate it up like one of my baguettes. It went up and down all the way to Pradet, winding a sheltered path through woodland. The pine and the oak had been thinned here, and looked like an excellent piece of forest management. Logs strew the roadside and the smell of freshly cut wood was still prevalent. I passed a strange theme park on the way where cowboys and Indians shoot it out, empty at this time of the year. On reaching the final peak before my destination, and the accumulated climb must have been about 15km, I filled the water bottle, discretely refused to buy any expensive food, and headed down. I entered another supermarket where I had to queue for 15 minutes to buy 2 apples and a banana. I kicked myself for missing the local fruit and vegetable stall around the corner, but I had intended to buy another bottle of ice tea which I forsook. As I continued to fly on my journey I noticed the darkening clouds and a few specks of rain. I also noticed my speed, a cool 42km/ph. Coming into Toulon it was bucketing, but I was all joy. The roadside cafeteria with its awning offered a welcome retreat. I thought I would buy a beer and the joyful owner of the bar reflected my countenance. “Un bierre petit, s’il vous plait?” I asked. He got out the tiniest bottle of Heineken for which I protested. “What’s that?” I harangued. “I want draught beer, blonde beer, not that crap.” He then explained that he had already taken the cap off. “So put it back on”, I said. By now I had an audience. “I don’t want it, it is crap, crap beer, do you understand?” Of course he understood, many talk English here. They buy the stuff in a supermarket for a few cents, hundred at a time, and make a killing on it. I gave up on this one though, took my beer and went next door to a fast food outlet. I think they were very good friends, because he apologetically allowed me to plug in and charge up my laptop whilst I used his iPod internet service to check my mail. I felt better then. After an hour the rain abated and I slowly trundled through the town. The battery power on my camera was running out (re-chargeables are the only option for such a long journey) and all the pictures I took didn’t come out. Never mind, I hit the road at night and scootered down, eventually hitting the motorway. I thought I was stuffed but as I veered off the exit a cycle track magically appeared. It turned out that it was heading straight to my destination, Hyéres, where I would be meeting the botanical institute there. It was getting very late now and I sussed out a few locations to hang up my hammock. Eventually, as fate would have it, I noticed on the side of the track amongst the vegetation a sheltered spot. It turned out to be someone else’s temporary shack now abandoned – last year’s beer guzzlers on the way to the beach by the look of the junk he left hanging around. In the morning I reached the village of Pradet, the extensive network of bicycle tracks, I would subsequently learn, extend along this section of the coast all the way to Italy. This part of the country was garden land; everything had changed dramatically. There were lots of nurseries and fields growing tulips; Pradet was just picturesque.

I wasn’t that far now so I managed to enter Hyéres in the early hours. Getting myself a black coffee on the street where I would rendezvous with my hosts it turned out that the botanical institute had moved address, a few doors down, and that I had to make an emergency mobile call which cost me a mini fortune. Nevertheless, O2 gave me a £4 reward which offset it. It is amazing how God works. The institute was totally surprised at my appearance; they had not received any emails because they changed all their contact details. Still, another coffee wouldn’t have gone amiss. Anyhow, they surprised me with a free return boat trip to the island of Porquerolles which I decided was for tomorrow. Today I would head for the médiathéque, my usual internet station, and spend the whole day writing. As it goes I learnt of the institute here, that they have no garden so to speak, but that they conduct research and field trips into various regions of the country identifying and registering species. They, in fact, collect seeds, so I wondered what they would do after I gave them my second packet donated by the Barcelona botanical gardens. Virgile elaborated on the Argania spinosa saying that they require the acidic action of the gastric juices of goats to break the hard shell (pericarp) that allows them to germinate. Endemic to south Morocco he also tells me that it is one of the last of its kind to represent temperate climates now that it has an affinity towards tropical conditions. It produces an expensive oil and can easily be mistaken for the olive tree with the same shaped leaves. I will look further into its values and study it to see whether it has increased fruit production in dry climates. It turns out that Virgil was very pleasant and helped me as best he could. He introduced me to a website www.flore.silene.eu highlighting the point that by entering a species name the online maps will identify the areas and quantity of any various types in any given region, so that if these species were required in the future more seed could be obtained. All the staff here have probably got to know the continent well enough to be able to monitor the need to continue unmercifully the saving of seed. It would be interesting to observe also how varieties have stood the test of time, especially those that have naturalised in the Mediterranean, from being carried into it by ancient peoples. Doing the best thing then, which was to give me a few possible directions to progress towards, they let me chose my own path. I dropped my bags in the office and set off. That night I went into the old town, saw some wonderful architecture including a 12^th century Templar Tower, and headed upwards; the old cobbled streets led me to small alley ways. I was beginning to think that this hill might have secret underground passages running through it. Eventually I reached the tor and on top was this ruined chateau; these medieval structures speak of dragons and knights. Spying a couple of oak trees I hung the hammock and dreamed away, on top of the world. Come the morning I took a good look around and descended, met a few friendly people and went into a beautiful garden called the jardin remarquable – a must-see. The following morning I headed to the nearby Ile de Porquerolles, sister to another botanical island called Port Cross. An expo in the local church tardied me but I managed to get the boat in time. On the way down I glanced at the life in the drainage streams and was quite fascinated by an evasive white-plumed egret and the ever distant flamingos. I had no time to take a picture though. Leaving the bike behind at the port on advice of the ticket inspector, since it would have cost the same again to bring it back and forth, I was told that I could hire a mountain bike on the island; my bike wasn’t suited to its terrain. As it goes, everything is too expensive; the return trip was €18, cheaper for locals, and the bike hire €9 a day. It obviously deters the tramp and binger alike who overstay their welcome. And the risk of joy riders burning the island down cannot be underestimated. So I arrived and it would be a most enjoyable stay.

I wandered here and there looking at the fantastic Pinus pinea overarching the road side with their crowning canopies. They gave a strange sense that I was in Africa. I learned of an old man who has a large selection of fruit trees including many olive varieties but unfortunately he only comes to the island once a week. Still, I bumped into the other office of the Conservatoire Botanique National in which the workers live on the island. Virgile spent 6 years here, with its wonderful beeches and woodland walks. Meeting with Jean and Celine I was immediately taken care of. They themselves were on a special mission that night, to tag puffins so that they could be monitored. (See short video) Working in the darkest of nights Celine explained that the birds in the video were known as the Puffin de Méditerranée or yelkouan. The other variety common here is Puffin cendré. That night I stayed on the Plage d’Argent, taking in the sound of the wash and managing to avoid any serious rain. The huge pine trees here (P. Pinea) are a picture to the sky. The rocks themselves I found fascinating with its variety of scattered flora, living as it does on seaweed debris. On some parts of the island it is a foot deep, and it makes for good bedding. Meandering my way back to the hut, on an empty stomach and dying for a cup of coffee, I noticed the fire hydrants spaced out at intelligent intervals. It is the solution for those parts of Spain that systematically suffer from forest fires, especially since wells could be dug and water accessed freely. Spain’s infrastructure is severely lacking though in regions left to wildlife. Anyhow, Jean and Celine fed me, and accidentally leaving my tartan shawl behind by accident I hurried to the boat. Once I got back on the mainland I knew I would not hang around. I loaded up my bike and hit the road at night. I was full of energy and managed to do a few hill climbs along the coastal route. It was good advice, the streets are lit up and, as I say, there are cycle tracks most of the way. I found a small beech by the name of Plage l’Ancre d’Or about 25km from St. Tropoz but it was so close to the wash that the sound kept me awake. Nevertheless, the morning brought sunshine and a gorgeous swim. By this time I was feeling starved; my stomach was severely shrinking. I endeavoured to eat some of the carob pods I was carrying whilst sprinkling a few seeds in the vegetation here. In fact, they tasted delicious! Breezing through these touristy towns and taking some amazing pictures I found a place to get my head down just before Nice called Villeneuve L’oubet. Well actually, I had stopped in Cannes first, playing my music. As usual I made nothing (about 10 cents actually) but I was so full of joy (endorphins) and food from the supermarket that I was laughing as I walked all the way through it, wondering where to go next. In fact, I took some advice from a cyclist coming the other way who suggested Antibas, a beautiful historical town. But the beech was too stony, so I carried on and got lucky on one of those man-made beeches where they add sand. I woke up to fishermen, went for another swim, and set off for Nice. Another conflict over coffee (By now I would have cursed the whole coffee culture in France. A better idea would be to give up drinking it!) and checking out the nice architecture, for this is a very pleasant city, I hit the road again in late afternoon. I wanted Italy tonight and no hill would stop me. Doing a huge 25 minute climb I endeavoured to buy a baguette because I knew I would need something tomorrow morning. Intuition works like this: going into a supermarket I changed my mind. As I crossed the road a boulangerie/patisserie presented itself but was closed. Outside they had thrown away about a hundred loaves, some with cheese and chorizo on them. I thought, how lucky can I get? Before the sharks got in I helped myself to about 15 of them, rearranged my now disguised bicycle (you can barely see it anymore for the luggage) and continued on. It was like a gift from God. All I needed now was a following. As I ate myself through the landscape (see the amazing pics), missing Monaco for I was told it is full of police, I headed for Menton. The border loomed a few hundred metres away and I was singing at the top of my voice into empty streets. I think a police car was tagging me but gave up the chase when they saw the beard, or was it the singing? Anyhow, I crossed the border, walked back and forward a few times taking pictures of the sign, and endeavoured to destroy a few more wheaten hills. Inadvertently, I had reached my third stopping off point. I couldn’t believe I got here so quickly.

France was a blessing. I will always come back here. The friends I met, the lessons I learnt, how could this be applied to what Josep Montserrap wants me to think about? How can I apply a tourist slant to growing food and making it come alive in Barcelona? Well, the first thing you learn about tourism is that it changes the landscape. Secondly, people seek pleasure, so unless you stimulate the senses one is wasting their time. Cycling holidays also work, but only if food and culture is variable enough to keep the holiday maker interested. Cycling for fitness only is for purists, but I do meet them also around mountainous and hilly regions. People spend money if there is entertainment. If you gave me a river, 20,000 acres of good soil, and asked me to create a tourist industry, the first thing I would think about is creating diversity and transportation. That means horses, bicycles and boats. I would divide the land up into manageable plots, invite working holidays, lay on the food and wine, and treat it like an educational course. Excursions would be provided, but holiday shacks and in-board entertainment would be laid on. I wouldn’t work the holiday makers too hard, but I would give them a sense of accomplishment and vision. A good example of this could be the Centre of Alternative Technology (CAT) in Wales. There, technology is fascinating enough to generate massive external funding from the outside, and partnerships with educational institutes and other ethical bodies. That then, is a start.

The End of One Cycle, the Beginning of Another

It is interesting how I watched those animals, the monkeys especially looked sad. I was ill actually, having to sit down because I was having a dizzy spell. It happened in Tarragona too, the trees were going round in circles. It certainly wasn’t from exhaustion. In fact, the rationale side of me would say it was a malignant spirit. It is an interesting phenomenon I notice that when I am ill I am more attractive to women. This is a distinct pattern. I have always fought for my health indicated, I believe, by my toilet habits. It was one of the reasons why I left Britain – I was fed up being ill. I believe this to be a climatic response in which the erratic nature of British weather and urban living is linked to my religious vocation. Anyhow, I wonder how the weather and daylight hours are affecting these zooed-up beasts. I watched the feeding program of the South American Loup á criníere whereby they spread the food to various niches in its isolated environment. It obviously was supposed to maintain some sort of sanity within the animal to ensure that it didn’t lose entirely its instinctual need to find food from just having it served on a plate.

On leaving Montpellier I managed to take a wrong turning somewhere, but it led me to a big Lidl supermarket. On the way I stopped in astonishment at a field that endlessly had plastic cloches from one end to another. My only educated guess as to the reason was that the grower needed to get ahead of the market by bringing on the plants more quickly. Not only has it been a dry winter here, it was cold also. But big supermarkets are the one thing that France excels in; they are just everywhere. No doubt they dictate the needs of the farmer. I espied the supermarket straight ahead and stocked up on ice tea and pastries. I got back on the right road and continued on into the small towns. There also the supermarkets abound, as well as pharmacies, and bars. There really is an international disposition about the south of France but no doubt I will find it in most developed countries. The other thing I see a lot of are ambulances. When you consider that France takes 80% of its energy requirements from nuclear one gets the impression that it can afford to seek a higher ideal of life, and thus improve the quality of its networks and general standard of living; it doesn’t fear the looming energy crisis. My intuition tells me the French try to live out their ideals, which is not the same as a country that is struggling with an ailing economy. The fields upon fields of grape vines are unceasing and would suggest that they are a long way from a food crisis also. In fact, in my travels you barely see anything else; olives and almonds only begin to appear nearer to Avignon and then it is no coincidence that the change of crop reflects a general deterioration in the quality of the roads. If the French are sometimes haughty, they can afford to be; they can demand that visitors speak French; their country in the south conveys them a sense of success.

I entered Nimes and headed straight for the Roman ruins. Passing the Eglise Ste. Perpetue et Ste. Felicite I saw the magnificent Coliseum (Place de Arénas) built of local white Barutel limestone. It speaks of grandeur, why when the Romans (Julius Caeser) conquered Gall they were not going to let go of its fertile, flat plains. It is amazing to think what would have ensued if the Roman Empire continued in its unprecedented building program. The Middle Ages only brought superstition and a general declination in living standards although it would be fairer to say that this observation overlays the growing disparity between rich and poor. Coliseums and amphitheatres became protection zones for the later Franks and Goths. So in my awe I trundled to the tourist office and had one of those predestined encounters. There a wonderful little lady asked me to accompany her to the Roman Jardins de la Fontaine where we amused at the Temple to Diana the Huntress. She wanted to learn Spanish and it is surprising how much I know when you talk to another foreigner who has learnt the same words as you. The site was grand, the flowing water entered into a bathing area with submerged pillars. The whole area had a sense of sterility about it though, since large expanses of stony earth did nothing more than act as a thermal blanket. It could have been a massive playing field for pétanque. We went to the supermarket together and she asked me what I wanted to eat as she was inviting me to her house. As I waited for her out the front I met an English teacher who spoke perfect English. He also invited me to stay at his house but I enjoyed the little lady too much and would not rebuff her friendliness. As it turns out she got the bus and we jumped on our bikes and cycled to her home. We had a social as Josyane prepared the food. The Frenchman had to leave but I stayed the night. The meal Josy prepared was fit for a king, I was astonished. And then the following day she did it all again. Since she lived with her daughter Arielle I found them distinctly interesting as I thought that they had recognised something in me. I think they were spiritualists. But I needed to leave and head for the Pont du Gard, some 20km down the road. I will return no doubt one day to give them my thanks for being marvellous people. But there was obviously something about me, for when I arrived at the Roman aqueduct I met Nathalie who was interested in my journey. I would stay the night with them but before I elaborate on the tale let me recount the experience of the aqueduct. I stood there in massive admiration as I looked at the closely fitting stones and wondered how such a 3-tier structure continues to stand the test of time. I mean, it is brilliant. Nathalie happened to be there with Phillip and the amazing dog Doudou. They bought me a drink and invited me to the restaurant after my tourist visit. I passed a large prehistoric cave on my left and scaled the banks either side of the bridge – a few people must have died building this thing. It was ingenious how water could be diverted in various directions depending where it needed to go – one tier could feed into another. But the top tier was closed off, so I did the next best thing, I swam under it. I felt superb in this river, clean and deep. And then off to the restaurant, Nathalie asked me to play to the diners. I wondered what was going on. I was okay, not my best, but I was a little out of sorts, in such a grand place surrounded by wonderful art. Both Phillip, a metal sculpturists and Nathalie, a painter were expressionists. I hope these titles do them justice. They offered me any food I wanted, but I had eaten so much already that I went for the fish, something light. They gave me a hotel room and all the drink I needed. Was I lucky? What does God hold for me? Before I left the following day I saw the dog do tricks, jumping through loops and behaving like a human; it could open various compartments of a box to get the biscuit inside including lids, drawers and doors. They would stick a biscuit on its nose and it would flick the biscuit in the air before gobbling it down. Again, I said a fond farewell and vowed to come back. It rained heavily that morning so I had to wait to get into Avignon. Before that they continued to feed me, this time raw fish called Espadon Thon.

Avignon would be an interesting ride but it paled in significance. In fact, I nearly had another disputatious encounter over coffee. Apparently students pay €2 and the rest €2.50, unless of course you are a local. These were the prices within the medieval walls and so reflect a tourist tariff. I eventually discovered a few antiquated places, found a lovely bar called BAO in which the young bar owner gave me two free cups of coffee, and sent me on my way to Marseille. That would be the current end of my blessed luck, discovering that the day before at the aqueduct was St. Patrick’s Day, and I have always been lucky on that day. As I ventured into the night a beautifully lit chateau stole my attention. I decided it was worth seeing in the morning, so hitching my hammock to a nest of ivy-covered plane trees I waited ‘til the morning. Well actually, I had too much energy and would have been better going for another 20 or 30 kilometres. As it goes I had a natural emission during the night, and for me that depicts the end of a cycle. I knew then that the following day would be critically important towards getting the new cycle right from the beginning. The chateau was closed on Mondays, but it didn’t bother me. What bothered me was the loose pedal arm on my bike. I had a replacement part, I was just waiting for the old one to fall off. I managed to pull into a garage and they kindly lent me a size 15 spanner. The new arm works splendidly. I kept the old one in case I needed a hammer of sorts. From here on the arboriculture changed to almond and olive, and it was nice to feel like I was back in Catalonia. I dipped my feet into an irrigation channel and continued along my way. As I passed Salon the bioregion definitely took on a Mediterranean feel. I should make a few observations at this point.

My silk gloves were deteriorating at the fingers. That is what happens to people with snotty noses at night, they begin to corrode them. I was definitely sweating less and ultimately didn’t smell as bad, although taking regular swims keeps me fresh. I was by now at optimum fitness, continuing to drink lots of fluid to prevent injury. Whilst at Montpellier we weighed the front and back wheels separately. The front came in at 15kg, the back at 30kg. With food stores at an additional 5 kg and I weigh about 76kgs, that means the bike is pulling about 125 kg plus its own weight. It is a great machine. The stresses on it must be huge though. Thanks to Vaidas who built the wheels everything is going right. It was superb advice I got from my local bike store. The pincer breaks can handle it also, especially on the fast downhill runs. I wouldn’t trust disc brakes here. This would keep me in good stead, but the test was still to come. I pulled into a town called Marignane and had a lovely swim. As I washed my underwear in the salt water a couple of swans came by and gave me company, and then two cooing pigeons flew above them. They were heralding spring and in some ways it was nature giving me a sign.  I sat down and read a book whilst I hung the clothing up. I missed my opportunity to get advice to Marseilles as yet another person befriends me, the French people must rate as the most hospitable I have ever met. And leaving for the big smoke I knew things would change. The autovia is chocka with cars and enters a tunnel. I didn’t fancy it so in the end I pulled by someone’s garden and he drew out a map of villages for me. Whilst I waited his son made me a cup of coffee. I gave some gardening advice, said my thanks and followed his plan. And then I heard it ping – a spoke went on the back wheel. I thought about it, on this dark, cold and lonely road whether I should limp into the next town but the tyre was rubbing. I sat down at a roundabout, laid out the blanket and had a meal. In less than an hour I replaced the spoke, dismantling the sprocket and putting it back on again. It worked a treat, and again is a testament to the good advice I got from Vaidas about getting a new 8-speed modern-style fitting sprocket that has a simple fastening action to it; essential stuff for 7,500km.

I was going to give Marseille a miss but the delay changed my mind. My instinct told me to continue following this route and head straight for Hyéres where I would be dropping off my second set of botanical seeds. But on going to Marseille I entered from the old road and the poorest area. Believe me, it went straight down, and down, and down, without veering left or right, both sides peppered with fast-food outlets. By the time I reached the bottom I knew I was in a dump. It was like the butthole of France’s modern culture, which is a good representation of one of the oldest cities in France. It was night but I thought it best to see as little of it as possible. There was no structure or pattern to the place. Construction was going on everywhere and cycle routes were less apparent; it is not cycle friendly. Even when I eventually found the centre ville, as well as the beach, one can understand why it is such a cheap-flight destination. I was beginning to hate the place; too many cars; too many traffic lights; bad quality roads; too wide open spaces. I iterate, it had nothing to do with the people, they have always been friendly in the main. But Marseille had gone beyond its optimum size, and maintenance was severely lacking, itself devoid of any real strategy. The one blessing I had was the ugly beach. I woke up in the morning very late and followed the lead of some OAP swimmers taking a dip. Now all I needed to do was escape, but I couldn’t swim my way out. I seemed to be stuck in the centre wondering how to find my village route. When I did eventuate to discover the road to Aubagne I took a picture of the sign that told me I was leaving Marseille. Never again, but as life has it, I understand urban life to be the contributor to my illness. This was a natural reaction. Quite frankly, the fragmentation of society is all too apparent and my body knew it. There is no time to talk about it here, but it was the point in my new book that I was just so happening to discuss, the edge between nature and urbanity, and optimum growth for healthy lifestyles.

Back to the Sea

That night, after spending some time in a cafeteria writing up my book, I decided to ride towards the coast. I knew I wanted to get back to the sea, the warmer climate is an obvious factor of that. As I wound in and out of a few beach resorts no one was about other than the odd patrolling security or police car. I endeavoured to reach Port Barcarés. It was still quite gusty but along the beach they had set up a wind break. It looked like perfect cover for the bike too so without further ado I stretched out in my sleeping bag and listened to the sound of the surf and watched the late moon, ballooned as it was on the horizon. Morning came and I followed the sunrise, using the opportunity to read. After endeavouring in my mental studies I decided it was time to hit the road. I had no banana to get me on my way and besides, there were no trees here to leave them the skin. Knowing that I needed to use the toilet it felt unnecessary to migrate into the shopping area behind the beach, so I endeavoured to have a crap right here on the shore. I ensured to cover it up with sand and placed stones on top so nobody would sit on it. And afterward, around noon I took a welcome dip, so gorgeous was the sea that the solitude of advancing into it felt like an initiation. This was my way of giving back to nature, and nature would deal with it appropriately. By this stage my euros had run out, and I was now still carrying  my British pounds from the banking that I was supposed to do the day I left for Spain. It was then I realised that the broken bike rack was rubbing against the back wheel, so being stalled in my advance I would eventually turn up at a beach stables and find the time to realign my rack, trying best I could to bind one side of it to the mounting stub. It worked, with the odd wink to the horse that was more interested in my bags. So I flew into Narbonne, arriving late as I did. Nice town, but I was skint. I thought to myself, I cannot even busk for money because there is no-one about. Instead, after taking a night tour I sat down in the empty cathedral square and watched the suspicious movements of the youths around me. It was obviously a collection point for drugs; one man asked to buy from me. I suppose the traveller type that I am must be related to the wandering mendicant of old who also makes a tidy packet moonlighting. I seemed to be intruding in their space, but I decided to play my music to pass the time. I tried those songs for a change that the serenity welcomed, whilst stopping to talk to a few passers-by. I hadn’t eaten since the morning, finishing off the halal meat from the day before but nature has her ways of looking after me. As I approached the outskirts of town I changed into my riding gear in the pavement enclosure of a street restaurant, where diners sit under protection from the noise and wind. At that moment the owner vroomed in on his Harley Davidson. He turned out to be a really nice guy and was interested in where I was going. It was then he gave me two leftover pastries whilst he dismantled the street arbour. He and his friends shook my hands so firmly that they could have crushed them. It got me going, I felt superb, God’s guiding hand produces those encounters where the friendly stranger knows what I need. I continued then, during the night about 40 kilometres into Béziers. Discovering a canal I endeavoured to follow it into the park. There, amongst a hazel stand, I set up the trusty hammock. I watched the late moon and woke up in the morning perfectly rested. That morning I gathered myself in time and went to change up my British pounds. After a few enquiries I was told that I would have to go the Bank of France for travellers cheques, or to the post office if I wanted euros. There was no such bank here but the PO offers a superb alternative. The exchange rate was about 87p to the euro, and they only charged 5 euros commission.  I headed for the médiathéque since bíbliothéques are old skool now, received some good support from the staff and spent much of the day writing up and posting my photos. What to do I thought. Should I go on and hit Montpellier with the 3 hours of light I have left? I thought it nice to play some music, so asking for directions to Perpignan, yes Perpignan! (I was obviously in a different time-frame), I went in the wrong direction. Nevertheless I sat down at a bar, ordered a café au lait and played. I was superb, drawing all sorts of smiles from the passers-by. It was then I decided to stop, but asked one of the drinkers if he would like one more song, my road song. He agreed but before I could finish it the owner asked me stop playing. No one ever asks me to stop playing. Anyhow, I was happy and I went to pay. “How much??? 2 euros? The price list says 1 euro 30 for café solo. But I didn’t ask for café crème. I asked for café au lait.” I demanded justice. I asked him to call the police. They came. The plod couldn’t even look me in the eye. “You must pay” he said. “But does it cost 2 euros?” I said. “yes.” If anyone can give me some French feedback on this it would be much appreciated, but I have been buying coffees along the length of my travels and I just hate dishonesty. I paid and, after telling them I was heading for Palestine, the police told me to get out of here even though the bar owner was making a fuss about my guitar playing. As I went to tidy up my panniers I realised all the afternoon heat of the sun had dislodged the stopper on one of my olive oil bottles. Still unnerved I attempted to push it back in. Disaster struck. The bottle caved in under my strength and oil went all over the pavement next to his cafeteria. I split my finger open and was now dealing with two messes. The police told me to forget about it and to get out of here, glass everywhere. This isn’t my style, instead I believe that anyone who has an accident should clean up after themselves if they are capable, as part of their therapy. There is too much broken glass on roads already from minor accidents. About 20 minutes later, after the owner of the shop next door brought a mop and bucket I set off, this time in the right direction. I endeavoured to fix a proper bandage on the wound, which was big, and continued along the open road wondering of the significance of that encounter. These bottles were gifts, but ever since Perpignan there had been this growing adversity to my presence. I thought that it could be a prophetic statement, one in which the French olive oil market may suffer for. We will see, but further along the D613, another one of those very good even French roads for cycling at night and admiring the lit-up richness of its architecture, and without the vigour of previous rides, I pulled in to an antiques shop in one of those gorgeous French towns by the name of Pézenas. It was there I met Claude. I only wanted to have a look around but he was interested in my journey. Out of the blue he totally surprised me, offering me 20 euros to get me on my way. Again, the friendly stranger balances out the extremities of life – the generosity of one is mirrored by the theft of the other. I had to give him back something, surely. He did not want my oil because he had enough himself. So I gave him a specially-printed t-shirt of the journey, and he promptly gave me back another t-shirt with my lucky number ‘8’ on the back, as well as a packet of biscuits and a postcard in exchange, for the postcard I gave him. And then he gave me a tour of the shop, stuff that was centuries old. I mean, he couldn’t speak English, I can’t speak French (although I am improving), but we had this engaging encounter. Saying my farewells I wondered how God looks after me, throwing these tests in front of me. I do believe in the natural economy and seriously considered that, even if I had no money at all, everything would turn out just right. I arrived into Montpellier, bought myself a pizza and headed off towards the sea. There on the beach, finding cover behind a wall bordering a crazy golf circuit, I plunked down and waited for the late moon. I needed this, a wash in preparation for my first drop of seeds to the botanical institute here. But that would wait ‘til the morning.

The thriving little market on the sea front occasioned a moment to sit down and play some music. It was a tourist’s market, inflated prices and specialist items for the holiday maker with money. On locating the cycle tracks I came by a park with various features that amused me for a while. Not least was the small aviary with birds that intrigued mainly the child, but it had induced an ironic laugh as I watched the rivalry of particular members of the parrot family squawking and chasing each other around from branch to branch. It was entertainment which on reflection I felt a little sad about. I moved on, arriving into Montpellier via the cycle track that runs along one of the canals. On the way my expectations were confirmed. The calling of birds and the smell of sea confirmed this region to be mudflats. For the first time in my life I saw pink flamingos. At such a distance, maybe 200 metres, it was difficult to take a photo without them taking flight. But it was in their flight that their beautiful coloration comes into focus reminding much of the fuchsia plant. I took a hint and rambled my way into town. As I rounded a corner and got back on the cycle track I occasioned another conflict and began to wonder whether this would be a pattern. The bike weighs a ‘tonne’; the panniers requiring slow turns. On the wrong side of the track another cyclist came flying at me. He smacked me straight in the face causing injury to my nose. The cyclist behind me stopped also, but my assailant blamed me, in perfect English, for using the wrong side of the track. The cyclist behind defended me and as I listened to an argument in French I looked over the assailant’s bike – it had no breaks. Enough had been said, no other damage done, we all moved off. I would eventually arrive to the Jardins des Plantes de L’Université near the Palaise de Justice. It was an appropriate time and would mark a turnaround of events. Firstly, I was welcomed by the university as we struggled to converse in English, and introduced to the taxonomer Didier Morisot. He was very helpful explaining that these botanical gardens may be the oldest in the country. They originally used to be connected with the practice of phytotherapy and herbalism but have since become independent. As I drew out the first packet of seeds we went through them, in much the same way that Josep Montserrat did with me. A fuller description will be made available in the equipment list but for now I list them here:- Argania spinosa, Salvia barrelieri, Paeonia cambesedesii, Lysimachia minoriensis, and Antirrhinum silveum. In particular we talked about the first one as a possible alternative crop to olive, for the yellow fruit produces a very similar oil. Its main cultivation is for cosmetic use. He pointed me towards the new greenhouse, but before I would go there I happened across one of the grass-root enterprises similar to those that anchored me back in London. It was an event called the Semaine de L’Environment which included films, conferences, discussions, concerts, practical workshops and circus. Organised by students in the gardens themselves I found it very refreshing. There were brilliant musicians scattered around the garden and loads of children working in craft and using nature as a foothold. The event happens yearly across the country and more information can be sought here at http://www.reseaugrappe.org After indulging in a very difficult conversation in English, for I notice that here English is only occasionally spoken and most people prefer Spanish, I manoeuvred towards the greenhouse. There I met the gardeners who had already got ear of what I was up to. There was a sense of pride about them as they had just finished the new cacti collection. The head gardener, Francois Georges, was a very happy man, and he gave me a tour of the plants. My fascination with cacti starts from when I was a boy and remember collecting them for their unusual striking qualities. Some of these were already in flower, the mechanisms of the plants for conserving moisture in their forms is sometimes ingenious. Most of these plants were donations from private collections, and the greenhouse had to be funded by various sponsors. It hadn’t been officially opened so for this reason I couldn’t take pictures. Francois pointed out a few specimens to me including a very interesting Aloe dichotoma from Namibia. It was a stunning display, protected I note, from the masses of children climbing over trees and beds outside. I asked Francois what was the state of botanics in France, and he told me it was “the poor son of science.” He went on to explain that botanics in the future should be continually directed towards conservation and protection, pedagogy and education. I recall the conversation I had with him there, when I likened it to the desert communities of Judea, the spiritual communities that gave rise to the fermenting monastic institutions of early Christianity. The analogy lay with the importance of edge – the fringes of our societies that have a role to play in providing something of the unknown hidden qualities of life; how “desert” conditions bring on special attributes and behaviour patterns. In this way the genetics of a desert plant reflect the specialisation of some of these ancient wilderness communities, maintaining a genetic heritage that can resurface at any given time. In some ways they represent a purity of existence and for this reason become icons of faith and learning. I gave a fond farewell to this bunch and endeavoured to take a tour of the old city. I was right, things had taken a turn for the good.

That night I would go to a coffee and tea bar and play music amongst many other musicians. I discovered other French travellers and made some important links. It seems the French have a flair for voyage too. The chef, by the name of Chris, allowed me to stay at his house for a couple of nights. He introduced me to these Bulgarians and awakened me to the possibility of the additional option that I could visit Bulgaria also. Chris turns out to be married to a Nepalese woman, and so he makes regular trips to Nepal. He showed me his blog but more impressive was the variety of Tibetan and Nepalese rugs neatly applied in various niches of his house. All hand-made I slept amongst them, taking the opportunity to introduce to my new friends the carob pods I was harbouring in my panniers. I also decanted some of my olive oil as a spiritual gift for their hospitality. It was a welcome rest and I hope to continue our friendship now that I have a good link to the East where Chris regularly travels to. Helping me to fix my bike I tarried no more. I set off but no sooner did I get down the road did I have more bike problems. Espying a place the day before, and without a word of English, the owner of a second-hand bike store sold me a spare pedal arm for 2 euros and I promised I would put him on the blogsite. I, in fact, moved from one Aladdin’s cave to another, but of bike parts essential for the travellers that come through this cosmopolitan city. Look under useful addresses and contacts for his full details, but his location is on Boulevard Pasteur opposite a Spar supermarket. Before I say farewell to Montpellier I had managed to go back to the botanical institute and meet the curator, Daniel Jarry, who spoke excellent English. I told him of my trip to the Parc Zoologique which is free to enter. I was in two minds since I don’t like seeing animals in captivity, but if they are being protected and bred that is a different matter. The problem though, lies with human exploration and colonisation, between striking a balance for what is humane and what is natural. I hope this poem will suffice.

 

The Pecking Order

So you think this sport you squawking rabble, you mutter like a disputatious gaggle

Like Sadducees of old you welcome the tithes, a crisp packet calls you to haggle

Your Temple for a cage is crowned in gold, it dares you not to freedom

Content you are to tow the line, you imperiously number the parroting throng

 

Oh, have you not seen how the otter entertains so boisterous in its dues

It twists and turns in such a small place, it never gets bored from seeing you

There comes a point at which it resurfaces and ventures towards the wall

It waits and waggles in subservient expectation, a Pharisee who upholds the public revenue

 

But most apparent of all is the leopard who pries from his position in the arid grasses

It wonders how long this unacceptable hierarchy will continue amongst the Jewish classes

Pacing its boundaries it waits for an opportunity to free his country from domination

Just give it a chance it will come like a lance, the Zealot who wishes for God’s vengeance

 

But to live in the desert as a pious Essene the asceticism is clear in the addax

Its spiralling horns are genetically turned to receive God in avoidance of the death tax

This old world ruminant chewing the cud waiting the moment of resurrection

When the chosen are raptured into heavenly illumination for divinely assigned insurrection

 

But the wilderness offers another alternative for the blessing of life is serenity

The marabout in its stately pose will provide you a feather to paternity

Its razor face is a pointer for Christians, just follow its beak to a crossing

And there you will find the rivers that lead to the eternal springs of giving

Entering France

Tree Herder

The wind flows through my limbs

Drawing faster

Energy rising in a crescent wave

Growing lighter

Blowing, lowing

Softly, loftily

Silent as the clouds in a thunderous sky

Drifting menacingly

Ambience turning in a universal spire

Towering, reaping

Scything, tithing

Clinically, efficiently

Bring on Your breath that I may cherish Your words

God makes manifest the rhythmic beating of His heart

Humming, drumming

Sounding, pounding

Transfigure the light emanating from within His spirit

Eternal transformation of the sun’s power through day and night

Warming, consuming

Photosynthesising, creating

Into the flesh of nature’s green revolution

A wondrous miracle of seed and its mother

Fleshly, earthly

Virile, fertile

Giants on the arboreal landscape

Herding, preserving

Saviours of our ancient legacy

Harnessing, nurturing

Servile, tactile

Fostering, protecting

We are the elders of the next generation

Rearing, commissioning

Delivering our young ones to the eternal source

Omniscient, prescient

Inspire, respire

Observant, transcendent

Overseers to a changing landscape

Efficacious, spacious

Witness to the environmental convocation

Resplendent, verdant

Fulfilling, conceiving

Synchronised, synergised

It was a good decision to pull off the road then. I sited a commercial building alongside what looked like undeveloped land. On closer inspection it turned out to be a well-protected area lit up substantially enough for me to be able to locate a copse of holly oaks. The hammock strung up beautifully between them and I slept like a log. In the morning it became apparent how bad the roads are; the tarmac doesn’t extend substantially enough to create a hard-shoulder without the risk of skewing off the road and into a crash barrier. Obviously the road building budget was cut short here. It was a pleasant climb up to Vic, but when I arrived I was even more pleasantly surprised. What an astonishingly gorgeous town. Every building looked antiquated and restored so as to give the impression of another era. The entrance way into the town was lined with plain trees; in this environment they take on a more decorative quality. Their mottled bark sets off the stone buildings around them. As one trundles between the various religious and political structures, noting the statuettes and mural bas reliefs depicting mythological and folkloric figures one can’t help think that this place used to be a central administration centre for the whole of Spain. Hours later I was still crooning my neck at the wonderful variety of the styles. It wasn’t all hunky dory though, for just as I was to set off to a jazz bar I had espied a few hours earlier I noticed the back bike rack had broken its mounting stub. There was no screw hole left on it so I used an old guitar string to bind it to the frame – it worked. It was a night to remember, taking myself and my bike onto the dance floor where I did what I do best – I led the dance all night til 3am in the morning. Making new friends I endeavoured to hit the road and find a good spot. It was too much to ask for digs so there I was, fingers freezing to the bone looking for the best spot on the way to the next town. Again I passed the industrial zone and then, as the old service road deteriorated in quality I decided to search the area. I managed to find another copse of oak trees within a surrounding grass land that was as springy as the mattress of my bed back home in London. Fearing the frost the hammock provided ample protection as I hung it between two tree stubs. I was right, the frost was prevalent in the morning. Even with thermals my feet still suffered, But it was a lovely spot again, and I am getting good at this thing. Moving past Ripoll where I could have played the guitar all day and not earned a cent, I did the hard climb up to Molló and caught something of the real cold where, even on such a gorgeous day as this, leaky waterfalls and sun-deprived water pools were freezing up. It was a warning. I took some good advice from two descending cyclists who told me to miss the top because it was too exposed. Even before this I initiated my right to ascend this region, taking a dip in the River Ter next to one of the numerous hydro-electric dams that conveniently pooled certain parts of the river. Of course, I got told off for trespassing on land I needed traverse on the way down to the river. But after skinny dipping and washing my underwear I merely told the man that the river belongs to God. He didn’t argue. So I criss-crossed the winding river on my way up and soon enough will find myself over the border. I sit in a bar writing this watching the news and learning of the outbreak of forest fires in the Catalonian region. I seem to be avoiding them. It is exactly as I told the courts, that my own experience was a prophetic wake-up call. This is what it means to hold the collective voice – I say something and it happens.

I recall the two cyclists with whom I had a conversation with just before reaching the top. Coming from the direction I was going it is worth gleaning any forthcoming information on this level that only cyclists can appreciate. They told me of the onward climb and of the coldness on the top. They also recommended that I should spend the night in Molló, some 10 kilometres before the frontier. Molló is just another of those quaint towns, immaculate and conservative. I managed to gain the confidence of the bar owner who recommended the back of the church to string up my hammock. There wasn’t enough hitching points there so I decided to progress in the direction of the next village. There, along the rocky escarpment and huddled at its base were a group of birch. It turned out to be a good spot. Unfortunately, it was just a bit too cold to sleep well enough, so I got up late to take advantage of the morning sun. As it goes, setting up the hammock so that my face looks towards the moon holds me in good stead; it tends to be where the sun rises. On this particular occasion the rising sun followed the outline of the rocky outcrop. I couldn’t have designed it better if I tried. As I read a great tit landed on my hammock whilst in the distance I could hear a woodpecker making its familiar drilling sound. I decided to sew up my pannier and head off. It was good advice that led me to start with first, a short drop, and then a steep climb. About 4km later I was on the top. From here I got my first real pictures of the snow-capped Pyreneen Mountains. And as I descended down I remembered that other bit of good advice from those cyclists, that the road is very gravelly. It seems that no-one is taking responsibility for no-man’s land; somewhere I had passed the border point along the way. I moderated my speed and I felt as though it would never end. From the pines and larch species I encountered they were quickly substituted with cupressus type evergreens winding as I did into the sleepy town of Prats de Mollo. My first impression was that they didn’t speak Catalan here, but French. The late afternoon sun was winging me along, so hot it was that I decided to have a coffee in one of the few places open here. €2.50 left a taste of disgust on my tongue, and I vowed I would never blindly fall into that trap again. Coffee can wait. As it goes I played my music and headed off to one of my main destinations in France – Amélle les Bains-Palalda. The road continued to wind slowly to the East and as it did so the setting sun warmed my back. With barely an effort to get here I found myself bathed in sunlight, the whole valley complex that followed the River Tech was gloriously lit up. I could never have imagined it being this beautiful. The natural vegetation had changed to wild olive, remembering something that Josep Montserrat said to me that genetic cultivation of different olive varieties are just that not well developed as other species. It may be that in these craggy wilderness areas there are some interesting discoveries.

The Romans knew of this spa town for its hot springs. I endeavoured to follow their lead. I happened upon its commercial centre where everything was closed, late as I was. On entering a hotel the only advice I got was that the baths will be open again on Monday. I would not be deterred. My best option is to ask the kids, they should know all the other natural sources. As it goes I asked the wrong ones. And then, as every traveller knows, the friendly archetype happened my way. He was a vagabond who seemed to know everybody in town. The name of his dog was Gira. I sat down and played some music whilst I waited for him to finish his drink. He told me that he would show me all the different sources. And then, quite unexpectedly, he bought me a drink, in fact he was loaded. Let’s say no more. He was the first person to buy me a drink on my travels despite the hours of playing music at bars. And then he bought me another along the way. What a gentleman! It was then that I knew that the other official sources for the hot springs were fenced in, and he advised me to take a bath a night. As I lay on a mountain ledge, navigating the fence along the way, in specially constructed concrete baths, I sang to my heart’s content. LIFE JUST DOESN’T GET BETTER THAN THIS. Half an hour later, fully washed, I endeavoured to find Piere again, but he was nowhere in sight. Shame, I wished to give him a gift, but maybe I will encounter him again on another trip. He told me that the river looked exactly as it does in summer, when there is no rainfall or snow. Things must be getting very dry here. At about 10pm I decided to hit the road feeling utterly satiated by the experience. And down it continued to go – I was flying. Without a nauseating lorry in sight I happened across an interesting building which I mistook for a bar. As I approached I discovered it to be a tramps night lodge. They gave me all the fruit I wanted to eat and I contemplated whether I should stay there the night. He showed me the room but I was immediately put off by the soiled mattresses and the stink. I didn’t need it, but I spent some precious moments with an old junkie who tinkled my guitar. These people living from day to day, just like me, but who have no place to go, no vision… On hitting the D900 I felt I was on a Roman road. The serenity of the previous roads adorned as they were with massive, old plane trees, some like those in Prats de Mollo with trunks 4-5 metres in circumference, disappeared. In their place was open plain, and suddenly the road became very lonely. I was only about 17km from Perpignan but the on-shore winds dragged at me; I was all over the place. After a few more kilometres I coined the description ‘poxy’, for it utterly dashed my elation. A welcome lay-by “illusioned” me in, on the back of a gust. As I tried to put up the hammock I felt that I was making a kite. It took me a full hour to sort myself out and even then I fell out of the thing a couple of times. That’s when I realised I had left the extension rope behind at the last sleeping point. I resigned myself to using the waterproof sleeping bag cover that my old friend Michael donated to me, and it worked a treat. The grass was soft and I literally disappeared into the darkness. Morning would soon come and hopefully these gales would be gone. Unfortunately not; I should have allowed them to blow me to the coast. But it was the right decision since the condition of the road had deteriorated and the wind was even more perilous. The palm trees on approaching the town were just knackered. I saw a field sparrow attempt to avoid a car as a gust took it into the bonnet. Its wing looked broken, and maybe it was nature’s way of providing me a sacrifice in my place.

Perpignan was still sleeping after the strenuous effort to get there, and here I am. I blew into the market area on a bad wind. One of the stall holders manhandled my bicycle as I searched for my wallet to buy a cream churro from him. We didn’t understand each other but I knew what to do with his pride. I continued to offer to buy one of his churros thinking that I wouldn’t normally do this. As Jesus says, “Turn the other cheek”. He gave it to me for free and told me to move on, pride dismantled. He knew he had done a wrong and this was his way of addressing it without admitting the shame. I turned the corner, sat down and played. Some people looked at me strangely, some laughed. There was definitely a bad odour here. After about 4 or 5 songs I dissipated it.  Some poor Muslims started begging next to me and we were both getting paid – they are obviously a dab hand at this. Not long after that I got some poor Muslim boys to sit with me and mess about with the guitar. And then another Muslim or two helped me along my way, told me where to get cheap coffee. In fact, the Muslim attendant bought me one for free, and then I went on and ate some halal food. I am continually drawn to my own kind – we are the poor. I endeavoured then to become the tourist and took pictures of some of Perpignan’s beautiful architecture. I like France.

And he’s off…

In this part of Catalonia most people are here by choice. The familiarisation of the landscape is set into their bones like the conglemate rock one encounters beneath the shallow soils. Over time it gives way to an encroaching sea but here in the Costa Bravo and Costa Daurada man-made sea breaks placate the waters to allow pleasant swimming and fishing recreation. Huge rocks dumped on the saline edge ensure that her ebbing wash does not take too much of a swipe from the urbanised edge. For here, natural rock quickly encounters tarmac and subsequently an array of villas and beach resorts for the rich and poor alike to share in nature’s cleansing attributes, transient though the tourist may be. They come and go when the favourable conditions suit their escapist habits, as do the large corporate bodies that ply the coast with fantastic hotel complexes, all but empty during the cooler season. Yet they provide seasonal employment so important towards the sustaining of a national economy that now relies upon its Gross Domestic Pleasure (sic). And occasionally the ghost towns are shaken by the distant echoing of a boisterous encounter and the smell of barbequed meat accompanied by laughter on a serene wind. And for those urbanisations that developed alongside much older towns and cities the fresh air and sound of the breaking water’s edge fill their jogging boots and the dog handler alike. Only during the warmer months does the seaside transform into a heaving mass of people all sharing the one common denominator of human existence – temporality. Like prehistoric man of the Pleistocene Age nothing could be certain. The multiculturalism of the time is the continuum that forever drove man to evolve a variety of traits that saved him from the vagaries of nature. These beach camps enjoin many a nationality now homogenised into a common goal, to take in nature on its carnal level. One should note our Roman predecessors who set in motion the whole gladiatorial sport of slaughtering untold amounts of animals – venationes – the likes of Augustus used to entertain the mob. Many an amphitheatre and coliseum were located on the sea’s edge where the transportation of exotic beasts accompanied slave and master alike. What a spectacle it must have been, the racehorse or the elephant, bringing the rest of the world into this one arena, the capturing of time. Of course it was here that we can see the seeds of tourism firmly planted with the accompanying attraction of large cities bolstered by the thriving trade of its sea ports. We can only imagine an historical past of grandeur and what it could have meant to live in these environments of satiated lust, at one extreme a craving for all worldly goods, at the other a sense of power for the elite to aspire into nobility. Now, of course, it is the invisible hand of the market that provides the mechanisms for the servant and business owner alike to regulate their fiscal ventures within. And the supra-elites operate from other parts of the globe with barely any direct influence upon the habitual modes of the masses – everything is numbers. Nearly everything has been homogenised so that one global city is like another. The great dichotomy between the East and the West still exists but overlaying the bones of culture is a skin so thick that sometimes one may barely recognise what side they are in; the mixing of populations, the multiculturalism is a hallmark of thousands of years of the continued plying of trade. It is the one thing of permanence that characterizes the human spirit, that the only way we are going to survive as a race is if we continually expand and reinforce boundaries, exchanging as we do the products and genes of our localism. Occasionally though, in these breezy seaside resorts, the fresh winter’s air blows in the hobo or itinerant traveller, not concerned too much with the corporate backdrop of high-rise buildings, motor boats and theme parks. Rather the vacuous sea that provides a welcome wash and the warming off-shore breezes that, combined with the exposed rock surfaces, allow for an overnight thermal blanket in some ecological niche where the pining slumberer may take a break…

At last I am on my way. I couldn’t expect to rebuild a bicycle with new parts and hope that everything was going to stay in one piece. I trialled the new wheels and sprocket with various degrees of weight put upon it. Plying the coast for a few hundred kilometres was absolutely essential to see what bits fell off and what stayed on. Luckily I still have my head about me, although the Mosses d’Esquadra occasionally pull me over and tell me to get off the autovia, I innocently respond in my broken Spanish and request assistance to where the correct road is. Some big cities, like Barcelona and Tarragona, are utterly confusing – for a cyclist it can be easier to get out than to get in. I remember on one occasion where a high street, not much wider than say Electric Avenue in Brixton, turned into a dual carriageway, and then the next thing I knew I was in spaghetti junction at about 9pm at night. It can be quite exhilarating considering that lorry drivers fail to use the superfluous motorway they built here with European money. Occasionally I shout at them when they come within 10 inches of me…. I always remember that line in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

My unofficial departure was on the 4^th of March, a Sunday, from L’Amet’lla de Mar where we live on a finca. I waited to finish pruning another field of olive trees so that I could set off with a sense of accomplishment. It was an auspicious start to the whole journey. It actually rained (spit) for the first time in months. Now this is a relevant point. Everything is so dry here that the threat of a forest fire where we live next to the barranco’s (dry river bed) edge is ever apparent. If that isn’t enough I have been ploughing through the Qur’an in preparation for my future visit to the Islamic countries in the East. I have a deep respect for Muslims, I meet them everywhere and they are much more prevalent here being closer to Africa and the East, than they are in Britain. So if I talk about the holy book I don’t do so lightly. One is continually reminded of the threat of God’s wrath for those who follow the monotheistic teachings, for as every Muslim knows, both the OT and NT are critical reading for the Muslim. Most of them chose not to though; rather they engross themselves into a milieu that speaks of war and idolatry. It can be no coincidence that what must have accompanied the Muslim, Jew and Christian alike during those momentous centuries of fighting and conquering were fires and bloodshed. The Qur’an, like the New Testament, was written to prepare one for death. So if I told you that I started a fire at the back of our land in order to burn the tree clippings, which is what everybody does, you might understand how I came to find myself in the middle of a forest fire spreading in three directions. The speed of combustion was just phenomenal. After 15 minutes I had to call the fire brigade and about 30 minutes later my dad tells me there were five engines there, obviously bringing the essential water supply since most of these properties are off the grid. I didn’t panic, quite the contrary, I ran around like a Zealot dampening out the flames that were moving towards our neighbour’s house. I was utterly exhausted as I took a sack to hand beating every noticeable combustion point. Successfully achieving this, I nearly collapsed in exhaustion. Meanwhile the fire had crept over the edge of the land and was heading down towards the river bottom. There were whole trees alight, and the smoke was almost unbearable. There was nothing more I could do, and the firemen eventually took another 3 hours to quell any potential re-ignition.

Now, there were some positives to take from this. Firstly, even though I had had the foresight years ago to start building a cisterna (water tank) of about 100,000 litre capacity and could not finish it through lack funds, the unkempt land at the back exposed something of the potential for new growing spaces after it was burnt black. Most of this though was the neighbours. Secondly, I got firsthand experience of going to court which ultimately delayed my journey to Palestine, and subsequently learnt the rules for making fires, like the permitted size (3 metres high), the burning season (November to March), the chosen location for burning (25 metres from the barranco), and the speed of the wind (up to 10kmph). Thirdly, it began to prioritise the issues on the land for my now new long-term home, including getting to know the local services whom are willing to listen to your ideas. This included la policia rural. I was clear in my mind as to what I was going to say. I asserted my rights as a human being, took all responsibility for it and ensured my parent’s didn’t get blamed, offered to do volunteer service with the local bomberos (firemen), and told them that it was an act of God – the wind took the fire. Anyhow, I will be writing a lot more about it in my new book, which coincidentally was examining at the time how fires have been used by indigenous man in the process of working with the landscape. The new book is called The Carob Pod – The Anthropological Guide to Permaculture, and it is nearly complete, just writing the last chapter now. Whatever the judge’s decision it will have to wait.

My next stop was Tarragona, a place I have frequently visited. Because it was so dark I took the opportunity to sit at a bar, play my music, and have a coffee, the pattern for this whole adventure. Take a look at the picture of my kit. I have got triple panniers on the back, double on the front, carrying spare bike parts, all my sleeping gear including two hammocks and an army-issue sack, my cycling gear including electronics, tools and batteries, a spare selection of normal clothes and waterproofs, books, writing equipment, a camera, and a laptop, first-aid kit, sewing kit, about 4 litres of olive oil for gifts along the way, about 12 sets of seeds to give to various botanical institutes, and my guitar strung to my back. This is why I have chosen the relatively flat coastal routes, but I have realised something very quickly, that I can achieve much more if I cycle during the night also. So leaving Cambrils behind I went along the old road through the sleepy town of Salou before taking the back door into Tarragona, in a dazzling display of night lights. It becomes apparent that there are just no vehicles about – much safer. The hammock was strung between olive trees because the pine has these caterpillars living in them that can kill you I have heard; they build these webby nests and march around one behind the other toe-to-toe.

From there it was only a short ride to Torredembarra, and the gorgeous sea. I swim anytime, any day, any climate. As I sat down to play it is obvious that in these smaller towns, despite the Roman heritage, playing music in the open invites deep, long stares. On this occasion I was quite flat, good job I don’t busk for money, not yet anyway! I decided to play football with the kids instead, that got a better response. And then I went on to Sigetí in Bonastre to check out a fantastic food growing enterprise who I have known for years. Now, I will be writing a lot more about these people in the future but for now I strung my hammock in the dog’s pit and listened to the sound of a donkey braying in the distance, cocks cockucukecooing, and the occasional barking dog, obviously suspicious of my entry. The place is a real inspiration for anyone who wants to know how to put over scrub land to vegetable growing and market gardening, but of course, it helps to have a natural water supply coming in. I don’t like it when people watch me working, so I always try to make myself busy. On this occasion I thought it good to fix up their bikes so that they can run around the farm. I talk about this finca in my new book, but I think they are willing to receive volunteers, and maybe I could liaison for them when I return from my trip.

On the 7^th I was at Antonio’s, my main contact for the permaculture movement here in Barcelona. Permaculture and Transition Town is really happening here, it is just so spaced out in a big country. On a previous trip I managed to sell them some of our lovely, chemical-free olive oil to raise much needed funds. His family only eat cooperative food in the main, they are a real example of committed people. I hope to work with him more in the future. But by far my last important encounter here was with the Botanical Gardens. I have been in discussion with the Director, Josep Montserrat, for many months now. He has given me a real motive for the continuing development of my vocation here. A wealth of knowledge that he is, he prepared for me 5 varieties of seeds to take to various botanical centres, literary in every country I intend to visit. What a mission! On taking me for dinner to a new organic restaurant we discussed many potential developments for the future. Not least is the availability of large amounts of land in the valley regions here in Barcelona. He wants me think about growing food along the rivers, to make and keep it a public asset, and to bring food growing to people’s doorstep, closing the loop of waste that is so apparent both in production and disposal. He tells me that local food is much more sustainable than organic, the latter requires an 80 mile radius of import. It was a lovely meal finished with a lemon liquor, and back to the gardens to collect the seeds and take the photos. I am very grateful to Joseph and the botanical gardens for giving me this opportunity. I am sure it is the beginning of a great enterprise.

I did something brilliant. After declining any offers to stay at anyone’s house I knew that on the eve of the 8^th (my lucky number and a full moon), it was time to depart. Taking one last look at the street culture of Barcelona I headed north and west, pedal creaking like a frog pining for water. Getting a free non-alcoholic beer from a Pakistani bar owner I declined playing my guitar. This was teeth to the wind and I headed out of town as far as I could go during the night without a dangerous vehicle in sight. I passed all the obnoxious gases of the industrial park, went through the over-lit commercial centres, and eventually, 20 kilometres down the road when the darkness suddenly looked ominous, pulled off and set up my ever-comfortable hammock. I go through my ritual of unpacking and packing, night and day. But this hammock… is just too comfortable. I don’t want to get out of it.