Historic Kinsale Harbour

Some time ago………

I arrived at Kinsale, the fishing and tourist village on Ireland’s south-west coast. Kinsale is famous for the historic Battle of Kinsale, in which the Irish and the Spanish fought the English, but lost in 1601, during the reign of Elizabeth I, was a turning point in Irish history.

Quite chilly with a fair wind. I walked around then village and then visited the Armada Inn for lunch. Since seafood was the speciality, I ordered some fish and chips. During lunch someone’s friend rang through with a tip for the next race somewhere in England.

So we all put our £5s on this certainty. The radio was turned on and we all followed the race with great interest. With the best of Irish luck, our horse came nowhere near the front.

I left my backpack at the Armada and went to explore town. Some narrow streets, closed tourist shops. I enter a warm pottery shop where Bill and Carol were working on their latest creations. Returning to retrieve my pack, I stopped at a milk bar (small grocery store) and found that the owner Clive was planning on having some holidays in Australia.We swapped information.

I walked the 1 ½ miles to the old Kinsale Youth Hostel. (A new hostel is now located in Cork St. in the heart of Kinsale). The views of the mouth of the Bandon River were superb. By 4.45 pm it was getting dark.

The next morning, a drizzly, rainy day. I visited Charles Fort, one of the largest military installations in the country. It has been associated with some of the most momentous events in Irish history, the Williamite War in 1689-91 and the Civil War in 1922-23. I joined a short guided tour.

Afterwards I returned to the town and bought a Donegal scarf and then to Murphy’s for a woollen cap. Ireland was cold.

I walked up to St. Multose Church, the oldest church (and building) in the town. It dates back to 1190, and has been in continuous use all this time. The church was quiet and peaceful.

It had been drizzling all day. Fine if you’re a duck, but for the rest of us, a bit wet. Back at the youth hostel, the warden got the open fire going and before long us hostellers were back in fine form, telling yarns and sharing stories over a great dinner.

Grisdale Tarn on Coast to Coast walk

We were on the Coast to Coast walk across northern England and had overnighted at Grasmere in the Lake District.

The fifth day: Our fellow breakfasters were an American couple who had walked the Coast to Coast path three years ago. Every year they return to Grasmere for a couple of weeks to indulge their passion for daily rambles in the district.

Bob, our host, brought us food and regaled us with stories of his maritime days travelling the world as a “chippie” and later as a fiddler with a musical group.

I asked Bob whether B&B owners ever ate their own fare.
“ No way,” he replied. “If I did, I’d be the size of a horse.”

Since the unexpectedly good weather had caught us unprepared, it was necessary to buy some sunscreen lotion as both of us we re beginning to look as red as English postal boxes.

We consulted our map for today’s route. First we were to climb to Grisedale Tarn and from there we had three options. The brave at heart could climb one of Lakeland’s best known peaks, Helvellyn. The second option was to stride out along the neighbouring mountain route of St Sunday Crag,and the last option and least arduous – which we chose – was to follow the Grisedale Valley into Patterdale.

Occasionally Carol and I liked to walk separately, to experience some time alone. In this mode I began the ascent to Grisdale Tarn. The sun was warm and a slight wind kept the air fresh. My boots felt comfortable and my fitness much improved from the first day at St Bees.

Near a waterfall the track divided, so I kept to the high side and walked past a crag named Hause Riggs. Up ahead I could see a gap in the fells indicating a pass. This would be a good place for a breather. Over the ridge of the gap I met two other walkers having a rest. We chatted about the walk and one of them, a Scot, asked, “When you we re up at Haystacks, did you get any dust in your eyes ? ”

I was puzzled.

“ It may have been a piece of Wainwright!” he chortled.

I laughed, finally getting the joke. (Wainwright had requested that his ashes be scattered over his beloved ‘Haystacks’ – a rocky section of the range).

A little further on was the dark water of Grisedale Tarn. Here I caught up with Carol and we ate our sandwiches in the embracing sunshine. On our left was the huge climb to Helvellyn and glory, while the remote peak of St Sunday Crag was visible on the right. Tiny figures resembling stick insects were slowly making their way along the distant ridges. For a moment an errant thought crossed my mind, maybe we should try the Helvellyn ascent. However, the relaxing sun and gentle breeze soon blew that thought away.

Near the track was a large rock known as the “Brothers Parting Stone”. It was on this spot that William and Do rothy had farewelled their beloved brother, John. John was off to Penrith, en route to take command of a ship in the English fleet. He was never to return to Dove Cottage, as he drowned a few years later when his ship was wrecked. Inset was a weathered, almost unreadable plaque, but the spirit of departure remained.

In Dorothy’s journal dated September 29th 1801, she wrote:
“John left us. Wm. and I parted with him in sight of Ullswater. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad. I could not help thinking we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith.”

Up here were the flowers that John Wordsworth had loved, like the daisies which grew near the tarn.

Daisies were originally known as “Day’s Eyes”, an emblem of Freya, the northern goddess of rain and sunshine, and they represented innocence.

Since we had climbed up to the pass the next few kilometers should take us on a decline…… more later.

St Clare in the crypt

A brief detour from the Via Francigena, the 2000 km pilgrim path which joins Canterbury to Rome.

We had arrived in Assisi, the home of St Francis, Italy’s patron saint, and checked into St Anthony’s Guest House.

St. Anthony’s was well designed for pilgrims and travelers; a coffee machine, white and red wine in the fridge, a library, laundry and a large garden, often visited by melodious birds.

Over lunch we met Peter, a Marist Brother and a headmaster of a Catholic school in Brisbane, Australia. He had recently walked the Camino, the old pilgrimage path to Santiago de Compostela in Spain and was resting here before traveling to Morocco.

That afternoon, we walked around this fascinating town and visited Chiesa Nuova and Santa Maria Maggiore. Then a walk to the Basilica di Santa Chiara (Basilica of St. Clare) constructed in 1257.

In 1212 with Clare of Assisi, Francis founded the Order of Poor Ladies later known as the Poor Clares. St. Clare was made the patron saint of Television in 1958 in recognition of her televisual powers. Once, while on her sickbed, she was able to see and hear Francis lead a Christmas service a mile away. Clare was such an important figure in Francis’ life, a twin soul perhaps. So it’s fitting that she is remembered so well in Assisi.

Her basilica is a huge building and has statues of her and St Francis. It also houses the Byzantine crucifix (Oratorio de Crocifisso) that had bowed its head and had spoken to Francis at St. Damiano. We climbed down to the crypt to view St. Clare’s body.

We returned to Piazza del Comun to explore the small shops for dinner ingredients. We bought some aromatic bread, prosciutto, cheese, tomatoes and a bottle of wine. Once our haul had been delivered back to the guest house’s garden, we whiled away the warm evening chatting.

Storms raged overnight. The wind blew rain in through our open window before I was able to close it. By morning the storms had passed, leaving a refreshing dampness over Assisi.

We were going to climb to the Eremo del Carceri today……

Dove Cottage at Grasmere

We were in the Lake District on the Coast to Coast Walk across England, a 307 km journey. We were visiting Dove Cottage, one of Wordworth’s home. Read on:

Around this time the five Wordsworth children were born in the Lake District and the second eldest, William was to leave an indelible mark on English poetry. The middle three children, William, Dorothy and John were to maintain a close family bond throughout their lives.

In 1789 the hated Bastille prison in Paris was stormed and the French Revolution declared. Wordsworth had always enjoyed the hills and rivers of his native land, and in 1790, when he was twenty, embarked on a walking tour of Europe with a friend. This was the era of the Grand Tour, when young men of society travelled to view the great sites of Europe.
 
William and his friend walked from Lyons, climbed Mont Blanc, continued on to the Alps and across to Lake Como. Wordsworth was a tireless walker, often covering forty miles in a day. They made their way back to Switzerland and steered a boat down the Rhine to Cologne and walked through Belgium to Calais.

Then returned to college life at Cambridge. For the next decade, Wordsworth would walk many miles in appreciation of nature and his search for man’s relationship with it.

William rejoined his sister Dorothy and brother John after a separation years earlier. Dorothy remained an integral part of Wordsworth’s close entourage until the end. They travelled with Coleridge, another renowned poet, to Germany where William and Dorothy undertook a long journey through the Harz Mountains.
 
The Napoleonic Wars impeded many writers, artists and travellers from completing their Grand Tour of the continent, but as compensation, they discovered a set of  “English Alps” in the Lake District.

In 1799 Wordsworth toured the district with Coleridge, and came upon an old disused inn “The Dove and Olive Branch” in Grasmere, which thanks to an inheritance a few years previously, enabled him to rent the inn and so continue his literary career.

The name of the inn was a biblical reference to the dove, which returned to Noah’s ark carrying an olive branch after the flood. The name was shortened to “Dove Cottage” and William and Dorothy settled there. Life at the cottage became quite full, with William’s marriage to his childhood sweetheart, Mary, children and countless visitors. The entourage eventually had to move to larger quarters.

We found the way to our own quarters, delightful accommodation just out of town, later dining at the Travellers Inn. So much history in Walking across England.

Tiny figures up on the ridge (Lakeland,UK)

We were in the Lake District on the Coast to Coast Walk across England, a 307 km journey. The story continues:

After this pleasant interlude at Greenup Edge, there was further to go. The ridge walk continued alongside Calf Crag, Gibson Knott and Helm Crag.

From here another surreal view presented itself. Down below were the narrow roads and green fields with the town of Grasmere sitting alongside its namesake – the lake of Grasmere.

Through the crystal clear air, the little town seemed so close that you could almost reach out and touch it. A couple of airforce jets screamed overhead, causing us to cover our ears from the blast. Seeing the armed forces patrolling British skies against possible, if improbable foreign attack, promoted a sense of security and reminded me of the earlier Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Viking and Norman invasions.
 
It took some time to carefully pick our way down the steep winding path from Helm Crag till we arrived at a flat sealed roadway that led to the heart of Grasmere, one of the Wordsworth Villages. William Wordsworth was one of England’s best known poets and had lived in Grasmere for a number of years.

It was a pretty town, which, although it catered for tourists, did not seem unduly spoiled by its popularity. In earlier times, pigs were herded near the lake and the name Grise Mere came about, “grise” meaning pigs. And so the name Grasmere evolved.

The temperature had dropped markedly since our descent from Helm Crag and stopping briefly to look at a shop window, we both realised how cold and tired we were. But there was no rest to be had for us walkers, as Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage and museum had to be visited that afternoon, or not at all.

The Tourist Bureau supplied a map of the town showing the location of the cottage and we hurried there, hoping that we would have enough energy to fulfill our tourist duties. We made it in time to join the last tour of Dove Cottage for the day.

The year 1766 found the western world in flux. Demand for change and freedom, especially freedom of the imagination was high. A renewal of interest in history and mystery grew alongside a new appreciation of nature.

The French were impatient with their monarch and the British colony of America was chafing under the yoke of British rule. Revolution seemed imminent.

To be continued.

We had overnighted at the wonderful small village of Stonethwaite in England’s Lake District. This was day four of a seventeen day walk from St. Bees on the Irish Sea to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea. For any of you who want to do this walk, we have a comprehensive downloadable course available. See the ads to the right - The Coast to Coast Walk.

With the taste of a delicious marmalade still lingering, we set off towards the well known Lakeland town of Grasmere. Across Stonethwaite Bridge to the north bank of Greenup Gill and then a constant climb along a thin gravel path up the valley.

Above us, fleecy clouds had deflected the sun’s direct rays and a cool wind removed all perspiration. Briefly stopping at Lining Crag refreshed us enough for the final ascent to Greenup Edge, the highest point of today’s walk.

Austere views. Fells and peaks, a total absence of trees or bushes. Valleys, rivulets and exposed rocks. Amazing views. We gazed upon a fractured and worn landscape whose charm was inescapable. I could make out tiny shapes of walkers ahead of us on the distant ridges. Clouds brushed the tops of the jumbled peaks and I sensed the moistness they left in their wake.

It was almost unbelievable. I had to touch the ground with my hands to make sure that I was not in a dream or watching a wilderness documentary on television. There are some fabulous documentaries available. One that I’m currently enjoying is David Dimbleby’s – Seven Ages of Britain, full of history, culture and scenic views.

Up at these heights there were other walkers and we again met the British couple, Zillah and her son Tim, with Doris their Border Collie who kept darting around and sniffing at everything in sight.
 
“What an interesting walk so far,” Zillah greeted us.
“It’s magnificent,” agreed Carol. “Where are you heading to?” she asked.

“To Grasmere today and Patterdale tomorrow,” said Zillah. Tim and Zillah were making their way to Keld, which was the halfway mark of this walk. They had already walked some sections of the route, from Keld to Robin Hoods Bay, during previous excursions.

A photo session was called for again. Discovering that they would be staying at the same farm as ourselves in Patterdale the following night, we agreed to meet there for dinner.

Yet we still had some way to go before arriving in Grasmere.

More to come….

Basilica di San francesco.

We had been walking around the fabulous ancient hill-top town of Assisi as part of our journey along the Via Francigena.

We followed the cobble-stoned road up to Piazza S. Francesco and entered the Lower Church of the Basilica San Francesco, the numero uno site in Assisi. This basilica ranked as the second most visited church after St. Peter’s in Rome. Leaders of the world’s religions meet here for summits. The Basilica was built on the site where Francis had chosen to be buried, an area known in his time as the Colle d’Inferno, the Hill of Hell, a place used for public executions.

The building of the basilica began in 1228 prompted by the wishes of Pope Gregory IX and Friar Elias, who Francis had chosen to lead the Order. To pay for the construction, Elias began selling indulgences across Europe to the horror of his more conventional Brothers. He also renamed the Colle d’Inferno the Hill of Paradise. It took two years to complete the Lower Basilica. As soon as it was ready, Francis’ body was received into the church and Fr. Elias bolted the door. He buried the body deep in the rock below the church to protect it against grave robbers and only he knew where the body lay. Six years later the Upper Basilica was completed, over the top of the Lower Church.

Almost six hundred years later in 1818, after excavations beneath the altar and careful examination of the remains found there, it was officially recognized by Pope Pio IX, that the remains were those of Francis.

Entering the lower church was like walking into a friend’s velvet-like embrace. I felt calm and soothed. The ceiling and arches were richly decorated in dark, mysterious colours. Candles stood quietly, each indivual flame illuminating this amazing place. Occasionally, a voice would be heard over the loud speakers, “Shhh, silencio,” to remind the many visitors to refrain from speaking or at least to lower their voices to a whisper. There was a sense of being in a large cavern, bringing to mind the caves and hollows that Francis and his companions prayed in as they searched for enlightenment.

Down in the crypt was the tomb of St. Francis, surrounded on four corners by the tombs of his close friends and fellow Brothers, Leo, Angelo, Masseo and Ruffino. Just up the stairs from the crypt was a large niche, enclosed by glass which housed Francis’ shirt and sandals.

We climbed a staircase to the Upper Church, which had a grander interior, Gothic styled and luminous. It was on these walls that Giotto’s students had painted frescos depicting the life of Francis. Students from the school of Cimabue had painted stories from the Old and New Testaments. Everywhere in this medieval sanctuary were pictures designed to tell a story for people who could not read.

If you get the chance while in Italy, do yourself a favour and visit Assisi. They also have great food there.

A classic Lake Leman steamer.

When on the Via Francigena, there are precious few opportunities that come your way in regards to being ferried about instead of walking. Such an opportunity arose in travelling from Lausanne to Vevey – by ferry.

In the morning, with the bright sun beaming in the sky, we walked down to the wharves at Ouchy past a metal fountain with the heads of three horses drinking. Finding the tourist office we booked two seats on one of the classic lake ferries.

The ferry would take us to Vevey after which there was a 4 km walk to Montreux. Holiday makers crammed themselves onto the ferry and the attendants cast off. We passed the Nestle Company’s head quarters and the vineyard covered slopes of the surrounding foothills.

Passengers  enjoyed aromatic Swiss coffee and rich creamy cakes as the ferry chugged its way to Vevey. Lake Leman and its surrounds were definitely postcard material.

As we disembarked a woman shouldering a solid-looking backpack asked if we were walking the Via Francigena.

“Yes we are,” Carol answered.
“I couldn’t help noticing the Camino badge on your pack,” the woman added.

She introduced herself as Alison, from Nottingham in England. She was also traveling the Via Francigena and had, until Lausanne, covered the distance from Canterbury on foot.

Alison was about to catch another ferry as she had to reach the town of Aigle that evening. A brief comparison of our respective timetables revealed that we would meet up again at the Grand St. Bernard Pass within a week’s time.

Alison walked off to find her ferry while we went to enjoy a coffee and visit Vevey’s memorial to Charlie Chaplin, the actor immortalized in the role of The Little Tramp. Chaplin had retired to Vevey and spent the last years of his life in this pleasant lakeside town. It turned out that Alison was Alison Raju, the well-known guide book writer, especially about the Camino.

For walkers, the only way to Montreux was along the main road, as the grounds of mansions had monopolized all access to the lake. The heat made walking a challenge. Covered in perspiration we made our way to Hotel Helvetie, once a grand hotel now showing signs of genteel decay.

There we unpacked and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon tea in the hotel’s classic tea-rooms.

1820s Lock Keeper's Cottage

In a B&B at Buttington on the Offa’s Dyke Path:

Over a breakfast shared with Dan, our hostess Mona told us she had been doing B&B for 36 years since her husband’s death. Her husband had just got off the bus, returning from work when he was hit by a car.

Mona was a sprightly pensioner, keeping herself busy with providing accommodation for walkers, looking after the local church and caring for a bed-ridden patient. Shows you that a busy life and the fresh Welsh air contribute to longevity.

Dan from Oregon in the USA, had come to London for a friend’s wedding and planned to do the Coast to Coast Walk. Plans changed and he decided to walk Offa’s Dyke instead.

With breakfast over Mona drove Dan to Buttington Cross from where he would continue on the Path. She soon returned and drove us to the Buttington wharf. We had decided to walk the alternative route along the Montgomery Canal, a branch of the longer Shropshire Union Canal, as a day of level walking would suit us just fine.

An overcast day with a ruffle of wind at our backs with the sporadic spotting of rain. As we walked along the quiet towpath, Carol moved on ahead, and I appreciated the relaxing of muscles that for the past ten days had tensed for numerous ascents and descents.

The path ahead was clear and I found myself in a meditative mood. The grey sky was reflected in the largely still water of the canal while the rushes moved in the wind. The story of “Wind in the Willows” surfaced and I half expected Ratty, Mole and Toad to be punting along in a small boat splashing the water with their tiny paws.

I had the feeling that I was a monk wandering the cloisters of a very large monastery, with my hood pulled up over my head against the cold. I thought about the abbeys, the churches with their yew tree enclosures. The site of Strata Marcella Abbey, founded by the Cistercians in 1170, was just across the Severn about ¼ of a kilometer away.

The only interruption to this monastic walk was the traffic moving along the nearby road. Swans with their goslings cruised along the canal in search of food. At Pool Quay there was an 1820s lock-keeper’s cottage by the locks, now neglected. In their heyday, the system of canals that criss-crossed Britain, was the main infrastructure for the economy. Now the canals are a pleasant source of interest for tourists and provide a relaxed lifestyle for canal boat owners.

Although the direction of the path was clear, the paucity of signs or name places made it necessary to check the map because we would have to leave the canal where the B 4393 crossed it. There was one section of the canal which was empty and I was fascinated with the sandy, muddy bed now obviously silted up. A little further on, we saw a lone canal boat with a family on board. We warned them about the dry section ahead.

On the map, the A 483 passed over the canal at two places, so I expected to see large bridges, but coming to the first crossing, it was obvious that the road barely cleared the canal creating an impassable obstacle for any canal boat.

The weather remained blustery and we decided to take a break from the wind underneath an old stone bridge. Here our voices echoed as we discussed how difficult we were finding the Offa’s Dyke Path and decided to ease our journey by using some of the baggage carrying services available and slicing off some of the distances.

Being a foot traveller means that you adjust to suit the pace.

At the cosy Telscombe Youth Hostel

We were on the South Downs Way, one of England’s fine walking paths and staying at the Frog Firle Youth Hostel.

For an interesting description of this youth hostel see the article: South Downs Way – Frogs and White Horses

Breakfast with youth hostellers Alan and Jane. Alan mentioned that he made bike wheels for a hobby. In those days, one of the conditions for staying at an English youth hostel, you had to perform a task, such as cleaning, or sweeping the floor. This wasn’t a bad idea per se, but that with not allowing alcohol on site, made the UK youth hostels a little behind the times compared with those on the continent.

After completing our duties we walked to Alfriston, on another clear sunny, day. Alfriston was an atmospheric village. There was Spencer’s General Store and Post Office. In here for postcards, stamps and apples. Next, Woods, the butcher shop was open – pleasantly old-fashioned. We bought some sausages for tonight’s meal.

It was time to get back on the South Downs Way. We spent the next few hours ascending the ridges of the rolling downs. It was fairly difficult work and it seemed to take a lot longer than yesterday’s walk. We passed a few walkers, stopping to exchange walking experiences or a simple ‘hello’. We came to the top of a river valley and descended to the Ouse River. We crossed the railway line and reached Southease, but found that there were no shops. There was a pleasant green and St. Peter’s Church with its round tower.

By (3.30 pm) now we were really hungry. Luckily we had some snacks packed away for just these times. We recommend to always take some trail mix – a mixture of nuts, chocolate and seeds of your choice. Also some fruit. Cookies, crackers and peanuts. And water, as you never know when you’ll get thirsty.

We hoped to find accommodation at the Telscombe Youth Hostel. According to our map, from Southease we still had a 3 ½ km walk up a hill.

This turned out to be the case. Feeling tired, we plodded on and over the hill, finally spying the village of Telscombe in the distance. It looked fantastic.  Our only concern was that Telscombe was at the end of a dead-end road and if there wasn’t accommodation there, we would have to backtrack some distance to get to the next possible accommodation.

We followed the path down and arrived at the youth hostel. While we waited for the hostel to be opened at 5.00 pm, I had a look at our guidebook which read, “The Prime Meridian passes just to the east of Telscombe”. Also that Virginia Woolf’s house, Rodmell, was nearby.

Margaret the warden arrived and we were relieved to find that we there was accommodation available. It was a great little hostel and that night we cooked our sausages.

Today’s walk was worth it. And now showers, food, time to read the papers, crosswords and comfy beds!