"Growing up in a biosphere..."

There is a land of Eden, and it exists in southern England.

Cornwall, to be exact. A man (who may now be my hero) converted an abandoned china clay quarry into a dazzling biome display, and I was lucky enough to visit over the weekend.

For a Canadian, the countryside in the UK is quite an amazing place. There is no real "wild" land as I know it; much of the land is intensively farmed and managed. Every square inch of land has been claimed by someone for something. Stone walls, grown over and winding through the hills, divide the land as they have for centuries. Roads cut their way through this, though in a very narrow, winding, hapazardous fashion. It's a little like an obstacle course combined with Russian roulette, driving on English B roads. Everywhere you look, history pokes its way through the brambles.

Anyway, back to the biomes. Even the parking lots were fun--each was named for a different fruit. We limed it up and headed down the windy path for the entrance. One delicious coffee later, we were roaming free, down the zig zag path toward the biomes.

But wait! A fork in the road! In one direction, an eco-walk with all kinds of really cool plants. In the other, a giant zip line across the quarry. Hmm, dilemma. Plants, or zippy zip fun? Brian was all for the zip line, so that's what we did. It was a much faster way to the bottom, I must admit. It was also the longest zip line I've ever seen.

The zip line deposited us in front of the rainforest biome. Inside, it was divided into the various types of rainforest-South American, African, Asian, etc. Brian was very patient with me, as I had to examine practically every plant. I was in botany heaven. The humidity wreaked havoc with my arthritis, but I hardly noticed until we were back out in the mezzanine eating pasties for lunch.

The mediterranian biome wasn't nearly as humid, with many more familiar plants. I punctuated every third sentence with, "man, I wish I worked here!" until I'm sure Brian was sick of it. He good naturedly kept at it though, and with ice cream in hand, we started wandering through the outdoor gardens.

What did we find? A maze! Okay, it was designed for little kids, but it was really cool! There were little forts, giant sandboxes, tunnels of varying sizes...I was in heaven. I found a little hut, staked my claim, and ate my ice cream there.

There were too many things to mention here. I highly recommend that you go there, and to Cornwall, if you come to this island. If you live on it, you have no excuse. www.edenproject.org. Go.

Saturday we visited a ruined castle and walked from our campsite to a small but beautiful beach. We enjoyed a cider at the beachside pub before making our way through the fields back to the tent for supper. A chicken (we were camped at a farm) tried to join us several times for the meal, which ended in hilarity as Brian carried it across the field.

Sunday was spent wandering through the Cornish countryside, seeking ruins and henges. We found both, and managed not to get lost. I also managed to keep my feet free of sheep dung.

The last stop of the day was at Stonehenge, which was a pleasant surprise and a let down all at once. A surprise, because it hasn't been over-touristicized American style, and a let down because it's crowded and surrounded by highways. It was still awe inspiring and beautiful, though.

For this week, I'm back in London. Come next Tuesday, I'm headed back to the Maritimes to spend some time with my family, and then on to Ontario for more visiting. Stay tuned...

Wet, Wales, and Sheepishness

Last week my friend Joel and I (of Wahanowin fame) headed off on what was to be a four day canoeing trip down the river Teifi in Wales.

Of the parts of this island I have seen, Wales ranks as my favourite so far. Winding our way through the vivid green hills on a narrow track (it was loosely called a road, but wouldn't pass for one in my dictionary) past countless sheep and farms, I felt strangely at home. Phil, our Welsh shuttle driver, wasn't much help when it came to deciphering street signs, however. Even the Welsh can't pronounce the names of some of these towns.

The river was running fast and high when we put in, thanks to a recent rainfall, so we made good time to our first campsite. The river meandered through a quiet valley, though the high water often meant trees overhanging the water. I ran Joel into several before I realized that gawking would have to wait until I was in the bow.

We saw very few people our first day. Our one episode of note was a narrowly avoided collision with a barbed wire fence placed across the river by a malicious landowner.

You see, there aren't a lot of paddlers in the UK for many reasons, but the largest is access disputes. Landowners don't like paddlers because they consider the rivers "theirs." Fishermen don't like paddlers because they believe the boats disturb the fish. Yep. I've been called many things before, but "fish" disturber is a new one!

Anyway, we stealthily made camp and settled into supper. In classic Welsh style, the skies opened, the rain fell, and we retired to play cards in the tent.

The next day proved to be the best, weather wise. Paddling wise, as well. We went through several lovely little rapids and (unexpectedly) over a short waterfall, which gave Joel quite a thrill. He had both hands over his head, one holding his camera, the other his paddle. Wasn't much help on that one. I had my first encounter with an ornery landowner just after this, as he came down to the water and said, "Leave now. You're disturbing the fish." No please, no nothing. He also had a camera.

Making good time, we headed downstream and passed our planned campsite, opting instead to hit the Llandysul paddling centre by evening and camp there among allies. We met quite a few fisherman after that, but only one was mean. The rest were quite friendly.

We set a fine camp up in a field and spent the evening chatting with local paddlers. I wasn't feeling well, so we decided to plan the next day's activities accordingly in the morning.

Fate, as it happened, was a little parched that night, and decided Wales needed a good soaking. Seventy five millimetres of rain (a month's worth) in one day, as it happens. Sopping wet us and sopping wet equipment plus illness and high water spelled an end to that little adventure. We bailed out and went back to Bognor Regis to dry out and recover.

We did manage two short day paddles around the south-the river Arun and Chichester Harbour-before heading back to the big city. Brian came out for the weekend and was happy to see his first seals playing in the harbour. They stalked our boats halfway back to the launch.

Today I'm off for a short weekend jaunt down to Cornwall. We're hoping to see some really cool castles and ruins (possibly Stonehenge) as well as the Eden Project. Since most of you in Canada won't know what that is, I'll explain. It's a BioDome! Now, if you know me at all, you'll know why that has me all excited. I'll tell you all about it next week!

Iceland, Part 3

Okay, so my blog entries were a little long winded. I'll condense this one, mostly because I'm weeks behind and lazy.

We hiked around in the morning, taking lots of photos and climbing a nearby peak. We scrambled out on a nice ledge, but don't tell Brian's mom. Or my mom, come to think of it. Mom, if you're reading this, I was nowhere near the edge. Kinda.

Our bus adventure back into Reykjavik was uneventful. Saturday nights at the hostel campground proved to be busy, but we found a spot and set up hurriedly. Why? Because a free concert was just starting in an adjacent field, with Bjork and Siguros headlining. Yep, only in Iceland.

The concert was packed. The lead singer from Siguros was wandering through the crowd later, stood right behind us, and eventually brushed past on his way for more beer. I was going to ask him to teach me how to play the electric guitar with a bow, but I didn't. That's one opportunity wasted. Sigh.

The next morning we packed our things and jumped on the Blue Lagoon bus. Halfway between the city and the airport, the blue lagoon is a salt water hot pool spa place that is so popular most airport buses stop there. We were quite tired and looked forward to the hot soak.

I have no pictures of the lagoon, because I didn't realize I could take my camera inside. Picture it this way: A barren landscape of sharp, dark volcanic rocks, windswept; vivid light teal waters, bordered by a white salt crust and whirling with steam, bobbing heads, and speedos. It was a wonderful relaxing way to end the trip.

Back to the airport, back to London, back to the flat, all without a hitch. A fantastic surprise trip.

Icelandic Adventures: Part 2

Iceland’s one main highway, the Ring Road, circumnavigates the island in a haphazard fashion (avoiding trolls and elves, of course.) Once outside the Reykjavik area, it is usually the only paved road as well.

As a Canadian raised in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t disturbed by the sudden apparent emptiness we encountered as we meandered east. The rocky moonscapes and steaming hillsides gave way to endless flat green plains. If you wanted to play a game, it would have to involve sheep, ponies, or grass. That was the extent of the scenery. But what colours! The grasses seemed a fantastic shade of green against the sky. Several fallow fields, covered in a red weedy grass, provided startling contrast.

The farther we ventured from the capital, the fewer houses we saw. Farms mostly, with the occasional small, compact town. In this land of shifting earth, snow, and volcanoes, buildings more than four stories high are hard to come by.

Another word of caution for the unwary traveler: know where you and your bus are going, and where you are at all times. I guess because Iceland is such a small place, everyone is assumed to know everything, such as the name of the towns you are in, where to switch busses, and when to get off. The drivers make no announcements and won’t tell you unless you ask.

We discovered this in Hvolsvöllur, when the bus stopped and everyone got up to leave, including the driver. Oh yes, he said when we asked. You must transfer to this other bus to reach the nature preserve.

I didn’t see (at the time) why a bus switch was necessary, but I was very glad for it in less than an hour.

Hills had risen in the distance and were rapidly approaching as we veered off the main highway onto a smaller one. We were awed by a spectacular waterfall on our right, plunging into the greenery from the abrupt cliffs that were suddenly before us. The driver didn’t stop for pictures, however, or even tell us the name of the falls, but continued north along a single lane dirt track.

Þórsmörk Nature Preserve is located in a wide river valley full of dark volcanic gravel ground clear and moved downward by the glaciers that flank it. The river, quiet and small at this time of year, threads its way through silt clogged channels with surprising speed. We often had to wade through these small channels, but our large bus was equipped for such a journey.

After an hour or so of weaving our way along this bumpy track, a glacier came into view. The toe was dirt clogged and blackened. It emptied into a blue green lake eerily similar to those around my beloved Revelstoke, but with much less vegetation. In the dying light of evening, the driver stopped to allow us our photos as a spattering of rain began to fall.

Great. I always love starting a camping trip in a downpour, don’t you? Especially when I’m arriving late at night in a foreign country with no idea where I’m going and no map. But I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just shrugged and watched the rain fall as we started on the last leg of the journey.

This last section of road couldn’t properly be called a road, since large sections of it were actually under the flowing water. Yup, the river bed was the road, and we drove along for another half an hour to Husadalur.

When the bus pulled up among the clustered buildings, the rain was still falling. We unloaded our bags, dug out our rain covers, and plotted our next move. There was a campsite here, but there were also a lot of people around. Who wants people around? Not us. So while Brian was discussing hiking options with the locals, I wandered around and found a small hot pool there among the small trees. By the time we were ready to walk, the sun had emerged and it was well after nine in the evening.

The campsite we wanted was supposedly a twenty minute walk away, and very beautiful. I led the way (though I didn’t know where I was going) along the well kept trail through the dwarfed birches, listening to the birds call.

We came to a series of steps leading upward. Icelandic hiking trails, in my limited experience, are very well maintained. Partway up these stairs we met a cliff face with a small cave. Viking smugglers used the location as a hideout, and their handholds, carved into the rock, were vivid in the bright sunlight.

Unlike many places in Canada and the UK, there were no fences keeping you away. If you wanted to climb up the cliff and into the cave, you could. You might break your neck getting back out, but that’s your problem. So we both had a go at climbing up the handholds, though neither of us ventured into the cave.

Our directions were accurate. We arrived at the Langidalur campsite, starting/ending point of the famous hiking trail, after ten in the evening. The site has a large hut with bunks, abundant camping, functioning toilets and showers, and a small shop. As we approached the main hut, we were greeted by two older gentlemen in stereotypical woolen sweaters, chatting and playing a game. “Whiskey?” they asked.

I love Iceland.

It took awhile to find a warden, get a permit, and decide where to camp. Actually, we could have camped anywhere. There were no formal campsites laid out. You could pitch your tent anywhere flat enough. On our way into the site, we had seen a small side valley with a campsite sign in it. The warden didn’t care where we went, so we walked the five minutes back to this little secluded nook.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being in the thick of things, socializing and learning what I could about the country and its people. Unfortunately, the groups at the hut included what appeared to be a hen party and a large youth group with a Bob Marley flag adorning their encampment. I was looking forward to a little peace and quiet in my own little valley.

By this time, the valley was shaded, though there was still plenty of light to cook, read, hike, or do whatever you may like. It was chilly, though, and we were looking forward to a cup of hot chocolate with dinner.

Brian was anxious to try out his new Trangia cooking stove. Back in Reykjavik, we had scored some free fuel off a table where travelers could leave leftovers, thinking ourselves lucky. In the middle of Þórsmörk, eleven at night, cold and hungry, it was a different story when we discovered it wasn’t the right kind of fuel.

So we ate our couscous cold, drank whiskey to warm ourselves, and watch what passes for night descend upon our little valley. Because it never gets dark, the birds never stop singing. There is one particular cackling bird that goes on and on. It must be very small and well camouflaged; otherwise humans would have killed them all out of sheer frustration by now.

We decided to tuck in and call it a night.

Icelandic Adventures: Part One

I wrote part of this story while sitting at a picnic table in Þórsmörk, a wide floodplain of a valley in southern Iceland; the remainder was completed when I returned to London. To spare your eyes (and leave you waiting for more) I’m breaking the posts up a bit. I can be a little long winded sometimes.

We arrived in Iceland just after 11pm on Thursday. Driving through a soft sunset indistinguishable from sunrise, a bus carried us through the desolate, treeless rock fields to Reykjavik and our youth hostel campground. No worries about setting up the tent in the dark, as I could comfortably read a book at any given time during this trip, no flashlight required.

My first impressions were of a stark, demanding beauty. Coloured hues, jagged contrasts, the young Earth showing her muscle, might, and mercilessness. That impression turned out to be both true and false.

Red streaks of a sunset over a deceptively calm ocean. Rolling hills decorated with fantastically shaped volcanic offerings, carpeted with arctic lupines glowing a brilliant purple. Harsh, yes, but also soft and surreal.

Sleeping in the light, normally a problem for me, wasn’t difficult given my level of exhaustion and excitement. Armored in my new sleeping bag, I snored the night away (much to the chagrin of our neighbours and Brian, I’m sure) through until well after nine. With no changes in light, the birds simply sang all night, and my circadian rhythms were thrown off.

Friday we had planned to explore Reykjavik and discuss our options. Would we make the city our base and take various day trips to see the sights, or would we camp elsewhere? Such weighty decisions cannot be made without coffee, and we hadn’t brought our groceries along, so downtown on the city bus we went.

A note to any who plan on traveling to Reykjavik: the city has a lovely welcome card which grants you access to all city buses, a thermal pool, museums, and discounted day trips. I suggest you buy one, because they come in very handy. We, of course, didn’t learn about them until it was too late. Sigh.

But back to the coffee. I mean, the exploring. We had a light breakfast at a café and started wandering the streets of the city. Clean, spacious, functional-these are the words that come to mind. Little graffiti or litter, well-dressed and happy people. Expensive stores full of expensive designer goods. Arts and culture are very important in the community, as was expressly evident that particular Friday.

Fantastic Friday it was, and the country’s young artists had taken to the streets. There were jazz bands and string quartets playing streetcorners, visual artists roaming about in fantastical costumes, dancers and singers. We were a bit puzzled by it all at first, but found a few signs and understanding dawned.

Iceland is famous for avant guarde music, natural wonders, wool and its ponies. We didn’t get to ride the ponies (next trip) but we managed to experience the others. The tourist shops are full of beautiful wool sweaters, blankets, scarves, hats, and curiosities. I purchased a sticker for my guitar case and a knitted pair of gold woolen handwarmers. Brian mocked my handwarmers then, but later regretted not having a pair himself.

Iceland has very high rates of literacy and education. Supposedly it is one of the happiest places in the world to live, and thrive. It was surprising to see, then, the prevalence of superstition and traditional beliefs. Elves and trolls are common in Icelandic folklore, but are also taken quite seriously by many. Not just little tourist statues, elves and trolls are thought to live in certain locations. Roads have been re-routed because of these beliefs. Seeing some of the fantastic “stone trolls” that, as the story goes, were turned to stone by the rising sun, I could almost believe it myself. But not really.

Around 2pm, we decided to take a bus to Þórsmörk, supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Iceland, and camp for the night. After hiking around for the morning, we would return to the city in time for Naturra, a free concert that was taking place Saturday night. It would limit what we would see, but who wouldn’t miss the chance to see Björk and Sigur Rós in a field next to our campsite?

Regular bus lines, like Greyhound, didn’t seem to be running. Rather, we couldn’t find them. We later discovered they do exist, but don’t travel where we wanted to go (for very good reasons.) Reykjavik Excursions offered a daily bus to and from Þórsmörk. We were told to be at the bus station, ready to go, at 5 pm.

That meant we needed to buy groceries, return to the hostel, pack up, return to the bus station, and go. Though it took a little hustling, we made it according to schedule. Tickets in hand, backpacks in place, we boarded the bus and were on our way.