Too tired

I am just getting too tired of moving around, of changing countries, jobs, regions...it used to be exciting but now it's becoming too taxing. I am looking forward to some serious settling down here in Fife!
But nevertheless, on our way this weekend for a trip round Loch Ness. On Saturday we'll have to cycle 70k, and I've bought a down sleeping bag for this purpose.
Here is a picture of me getting in the mood:




And of course, I will also be using it in Espagna. Ole. No time for language lessons so far, I have not even started playing the flute again - feel v guilty. The people here still great, must be the nippy, clear air from the mountains.

And here is a picture of my ol' bike with new, snazzy drop-bar handles. I am suddenly cycling much faster!

Anticipation and constipation

What does one call the preparations before the preparations? That is what I am currently busy with, the thing before the real thing.
Equipment for the great pilgrimage:

1. Literature
* General:
Edwin Mullin's The Pilgrimage to Santiago, Tim Moore's Travels with my Donkey
* Travel specific:
Davies and Cole's Walking the Camino de Santiago, The Teach Yourself Spanish language book and cd

2. Information
* Visa: It's going to cost us £101 each to get a Schengen visa, since we are unfortunate enough not to be living close to London in order to cue at the embassy

3. Lack of clarity
* Starting point: Do we fly to France and start at St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, cycling over the epic Pyrenees in order to meditate on endurance and suffering, or do we take the ferry to Bilbao and start in Pamplona or elsewhere in Spain?
* Accommodation: Do we bargain on finding places to stay in the albergues(since we will be doing it "decaf" by cycling rather than walking, we might not be able to find spaces in these hostels, they prefers walkers...) or do we camp the entire way and give in to occasional temptations of comfortable B&Bs?

4. Worries
Who is going to look after my cats!?!

I can just about imagine a Celt fretting over the same things a few thousand years ago. Although one friendly Scot told us the pilgrimage in those days could be likened to today's package tours.

But this is the joy of the journey, the anticipation being as much part of the process as the going itself. Adios!

PS: Please follow the link for a good laugh about a pub and a fart here

The beginnings of a pilgrimage

I have had another long and hard think about this blog. It needs to go somewhere, do something - which is one of the reasons I'm writing it. But now we're settled in Fife, a few things are falling in place, and one of them is our prospective trip to Spain. Ever since I've read Gerard Hughes' In Search of a Way, I've wanted to do the Camino de Santiago. And finally this year, it's going to happen.

We are going to do it decaf, meaning with bicycles, and I guess the journey might not be as spiritual as Gerry's. But isn't everything we do spiritual? I have a feeling every single thing that we think, do, say, or act, resonates somewhere, in some mysterious way. With God, or in God. How, I don't know, and that is also not important.

I seem especially spiritual tonight, possibly due to the wine we've had with supper. Slainte!!

To come back to the point, I want to bog, oops, blog about the preparation for the trip, and then publish a book (in Afrikaans?) about it. I can already imagine the title:
"The journey before the Journey", or
"A pilgrimage in perspective: what to take and what to leave behind"
And so forth.

Good night, and good luck!

Thought for this day

I am back in full swing, with not much to tell.

Why do African governments seem to want to sabotage their countries and peoples? Mugabe maak droog, is my humble opinion, and that of the rest of the UK, according to the Times.

Last week some high placed person from Ghana said that African nations don't like condescension and having Western governments tell them what to do. Who does?
But the problem is, Africa wants to share in the good things of western modern life (cue mansions, tvs, supermarkets, limousines, GUNS...), but mostly without paying the price of democracy and freedom of speech. This is a dreadfully simplistic explanation, I know, and if somebody out there would like to correct me, please feel free.

I am starting to cry for my beloved country. And even though I’m sitting here, in breezy Scotland, it still is my country.

PS: Today, in one of my classes:

Girl: How old are you, miss?
Me: (Very suspicious) Why do you want to know?
Girl: My dad's looking for a girlfriend.

Wonderful!!

Fife adventures

We have moved, now, to Fife, part of the glorious Scotland. In this week, at my new job, a few momentous things have happened:

1. A student asked: "If you're from Africa, how come you're not black?"
2. I was asked, repeatedly, why we decided to move to Scotland.

These two questions I have read in a gazillion English eyes and faces, but nobody ever asked. Not because they weren't interested, but because it is not proper to be so direct. And to be asked these very simple questions in the first week in Scotland, says just about everything about why we decided to move here.

PS: Answers to follow!

Monday blues

(This was written on a piece of paper, this past Monday, faithfully reproduced here)

I realise, after having read the story of the blogger who was offered a £70 000 publishing deal, that mine is lacking direction and a clear purpose. More or less like my life, at the moment.
I envy people who know what they want to do in life, and stick with their decisions. I am still deciding what to do when I'm grown up. Which is, these days, at 40, when life begins. Or, like the BBC Radio 4 comedian said, 40 is how long it takes to realise you have a life.

I've always wanted to be a writer. At 16 I visited an educational psychologits who submitted me to a battery of tests and interviews in order to assist me in the serious subject of future career plans. At 16?!! My number one choice was:
To become a journalist and see the world.
He told me that I was an idealist, and I promtly went off to study music, the more sensible choice. I see now that I'm not much of a rebel.

But since I'm only 33, my life has technically not yet started. And because I am a woman, I am able to a lot of things at the same time, successfully.

Edinburgh, Oh, Edinburgh

We are moving to Fife, Edinburgh, Scotland, in a few weeks' time. What a great place, aye! The Scots are noticeably poorer than the English, or rather, they seem less interested in material wealth. What they are interested in, I will find out as we start a new life there. We found a 3-bedroom house, 1 minutes from the beach, with a garage and workshop, for less than what we are paying now for a one-bedroom flat in Reading. I love Edinburgh!

I also applied for and got a job at a high school, it will be interesting to compare the English system with the Scottish curriculum - which, my dad says, greatly influenced South Africa's schools and churches in the past. Not necessarily a good thing. I'm pretty sure the Sotcs don't have veldskool, though.

I saw a really fat lady (back in England), and I wanted to ask her: "Do people treat you badly because you are fat?" See, being fat is a big crime against health these days. But I'll not dare say the fat word in these politically correct climates. I feel guilty even saying I am a white person. At my old school, one day, as I was teaching the class the difference - on a keyboard - between a black and a white note, a person shouted out:
"That's racist, miss!"

I rest my case. Goodnight!