Thursday 21 June 2007
Friday 15 June 2007
The Philosophy of Dragon Questing
"It is better to seek an imaginary Dragon, than live in a world without dragons."
Thursday 14 June 2007
The settling dust
Takes a while to get things sorted... More photos and various accounts to be uploaded shortly. Anton is going to post material too. Clearly his opinions and perspectives are his own, and where they differ from my account must be treated with a degree of caution. We're uploading stuff chronologically as they happened.... So the story unfolds below....
Sunday 10 June 2007
Beer and The Dragon
Below us drinking beer completely knackered and boiling hot having toiled through St Leonard's Forest on the third day, waiting to be picked up by Anna in the car. And proof that there is at least one dragon in the forest, albeit a comedy one.
Shadows on the Arun
The walk ended a matter of hours ago in triumph and exhaustion. Our findings following our journey along the course of the Arun from Littlehampton to its origins in the dragon haunted St Leonards Forest will be added here soon.
Below our Tilley-hatted shadows on a nettle bank of the river Arun, a shot accidentally taken in chic black and white.
Friday 8 June 2007
A Swan at the end of the road
Medical science will puzzle for years how a few sandwiches and some sparkling mineral water can have such a transformative effect. But after leaving Amberely, Anton and I felt entirely reinvigorated. And I felt better than I had done all day.
The afternoon grew hot and there were many more miles to walk. Left the picture perfect village looking at the lichen covered walls and gardens burgeoning with flowers. Uphill, pausing to restock with water, then across cornfields and copses and over streams jewelled with electric blue dragonflies back into the grassy river valley. We rejoined the river Arun after squelching across a marshy field to walk beside it to Pulborough. We were very tired by the time we reached this town, but then had another stretch to go to get to Fittleworth.
Walking along the side of a busy road for a while, I almost stepped on another slow worm. Nearing our destination, we sloped down some beautiful country lanes and were greeted by a large airborne stag beetle whirring in the late afternoon. Towards the end, my stride length had shrunk to that of a Geisha, until at last we rounded the corner onto a road, and through a tunnel of trees was the very welcome sight of The Swan at Fittleworth.
This 14th Century coaching Inn was our berth for the night. We arrived to a cool welcome from the barman however (being hot and sweaty and flecked with mud). Nevertheless we gulped a pint of beer in the bar before going upstairs to our rooms for a welcome rest and shower. The floor of my room turned out to have a very 14th century slope but was nonetheless fine.
The evening spent cheerfully quaffing beers and eating. I had a Sussex smokie, which was a dish of smoked haddock, spinach and melted cheese, Anton going for moules, we both had steaks and I rounded it off with a bread and butter pudding. Went to bed feeling very refreshed and incredibly full.
The afternoon grew hot and there were many more miles to walk. Left the picture perfect village looking at the lichen covered walls and gardens burgeoning with flowers. Uphill, pausing to restock with water, then across cornfields and copses and over streams jewelled with electric blue dragonflies back into the grassy river valley. We rejoined the river Arun after squelching across a marshy field to walk beside it to Pulborough. We were very tired by the time we reached this town, but then had another stretch to go to get to Fittleworth.
Walking along the side of a busy road for a while, I almost stepped on another slow worm. Nearing our destination, we sloped down some beautiful country lanes and were greeted by a large airborne stag beetle whirring in the late afternoon. Towards the end, my stride length had shrunk to that of a Geisha, until at last we rounded the corner onto a road, and through a tunnel of trees was the very welcome sight of The Swan at Fittleworth.
This 14th Century coaching Inn was our berth for the night. We arrived to a cool welcome from the barman however (being hot and sweaty and flecked with mud). Nevertheless we gulped a pint of beer in the bar before going upstairs to our rooms for a welcome rest and shower. The floor of my room turned out to have a very 14th century slope but was nonetheless fine.
The evening spent cheerfully quaffing beers and eating. I had a Sussex smokie, which was a dish of smoked haddock, spinach and melted cheese, Anton going for moules, we both had steaks and I rounded it off with a bread and butter pudding. Went to bed feeling very refreshed and incredibly full.
Some photos from the afternoon....
Below the road goes on forever... Anton in a cornfield, and by the Arun. A gritty self portrait after 15 miles. And fern and fields in the beautiful county of Sussex.
The dragon quest starts again...
Anton called around and we set off to Arundel to recommence the route that Anton had planned for us to follow the river Arun to its foresty and be-dragoned beginnings.
My enthusiasm for the whole venture was severely tempered by a violently upset stomach, and dehydration caused in part by the Polish beers and Chinese meal I had accidentally consumed the night before. Anton, meanwhile, was complaining about his verruca which, from his descriptions, was the size of a dinner plate.
Easy journey to Arundel on the train. Both of us cheery. We re-started the walk from Arundel Bridge, under the suitably glowering rain-soaked castle, with Anton chewing on Polish sausage.
It was still spitting slightly as we set off east along the river. Soon we were walking through the bird reserve. Unsurprisingly, despite the fact it is so close to the town of Arundel, it is full of birdsong, and we walked along the raised walkways through to lots and lots of wet grass, which instantly soaked through our trousers.
Then off past the Black Rabbit pub on the river (which looks idyllic) inland a little into the country squelching along past a hill called Fox Oven towards the tiny but beautiful village of South Stoke. The last time we had been there Anton left the gate of St Leonard's Church open and we were soon both engaged in chasing the flock of sheep out. This time the sheep had got there before us, and one of them was stamping her foot and glaring at us balefully as we neared the gate. Maybe it is to do with having lambs, but the sheep we encountered on this walk seemed to be harder than the usual run of the mill sheep. Rambo perhaps. Or Lambo.
We crossed the river Arun and walked through woods and over small but swaying suspension bridge through and climbed slightly from the river valley, walking through lush green fields full of sheep.
After only a couple of hours we reached the Amberley museum of work. Anton, I think, had a secret agenda about buying a walking stick there. Both of us were not too impressed by it. There were a load of old sheds, with dusty bits of old machines and evidence of old crafts in them. Meanwhile mobs of French school kids were hanging about, shrugging and wondering why they had come all this way to look at sheds.
I was feeling aboninable at that point, which may have coloured my opinion of the place. We stopped at the museum cafe and sat outside as the sun was breaking through. Anton went to the toilet where he washed the Polish sausage which had dropped from his rucksack to the path in a muddy overgrown path. He had also applied his expensive aloe trekker's suncream having laughed derisively at my bog standard stuff. Apparently the aloe stuff didn't sting your eyes when you sweat, and has many other excellent features.
I waited for him outside sipping the stewed tea, and sincerely wondering if I would make it for one day, let alone three. I felt horrible, and my guts were in a diabolical state and I already felt weak and tired. But on a good note I was soon slightly cheered by Anton having an fast and unpleasant allergic reaction to his lotion which forced him to go back into the bathroom to wash it off.
It was a short walk from there to the village of Amberly, which turned out to be a stunningly beautiful and archetypal English village, which we entered through trees and suddenly we were there. We chose a pub there called the Black Horse and had some mineral water, and sandwiches and potato wedges in the beer garden. It had turned into a beautiful day, in the middle of a perfect village in a garden full of birdsong. Pausing only to applied some of my new aloe suncream, Anton and I set off again.
Below sheep retake the moral high ground at St Leonard's Church in South Stoke; cows cowering on the way to Amberley; the inside of an old forge in one of the sheds at the unpromisingly-named Amberley museum of work.
My enthusiasm for the whole venture was severely tempered by a violently upset stomach, and dehydration caused in part by the Polish beers and Chinese meal I had accidentally consumed the night before. Anton, meanwhile, was complaining about his verruca which, from his descriptions, was the size of a dinner plate.
Easy journey to Arundel on the train. Both of us cheery. We re-started the walk from Arundel Bridge, under the suitably glowering rain-soaked castle, with Anton chewing on Polish sausage.
It was still spitting slightly as we set off east along the river. Soon we were walking through the bird reserve. Unsurprisingly, despite the fact it is so close to the town of Arundel, it is full of birdsong, and we walked along the raised walkways through to lots and lots of wet grass, which instantly soaked through our trousers.
Then off past the Black Rabbit pub on the river (which looks idyllic) inland a little into the country squelching along past a hill called Fox Oven towards the tiny but beautiful village of South Stoke. The last time we had been there Anton left the gate of St Leonard's Church open and we were soon both engaged in chasing the flock of sheep out. This time the sheep had got there before us, and one of them was stamping her foot and glaring at us balefully as we neared the gate. Maybe it is to do with having lambs, but the sheep we encountered on this walk seemed to be harder than the usual run of the mill sheep. Rambo perhaps. Or Lambo.
We crossed the river Arun and walked through woods and over small but swaying suspension bridge through and climbed slightly from the river valley, walking through lush green fields full of sheep.
After only a couple of hours we reached the Amberley museum of work. Anton, I think, had a secret agenda about buying a walking stick there. Both of us were not too impressed by it. There were a load of old sheds, with dusty bits of old machines and evidence of old crafts in them. Meanwhile mobs of French school kids were hanging about, shrugging and wondering why they had come all this way to look at sheds.
I was feeling aboninable at that point, which may have coloured my opinion of the place. We stopped at the museum cafe and sat outside as the sun was breaking through. Anton went to the toilet where he washed the Polish sausage which had dropped from his rucksack to the path in a muddy overgrown path. He had also applied his expensive aloe trekker's suncream having laughed derisively at my bog standard stuff. Apparently the aloe stuff didn't sting your eyes when you sweat, and has many other excellent features.
I waited for him outside sipping the stewed tea, and sincerely wondering if I would make it for one day, let alone three. I felt horrible, and my guts were in a diabolical state and I already felt weak and tired. But on a good note I was soon slightly cheered by Anton having an fast and unpleasant allergic reaction to his lotion which forced him to go back into the bathroom to wash it off.
It was a short walk from there to the village of Amberly, which turned out to be a stunningly beautiful and archetypal English village, which we entered through trees and suddenly we were there. We chose a pub there called the Black Horse and had some mineral water, and sandwiches and potato wedges in the beer garden. It had turned into a beautiful day, in the middle of a perfect village in a garden full of birdsong. Pausing only to applied some of my new aloe suncream, Anton and I set off again.
Below sheep retake the moral high ground at St Leonard's Church in South Stoke; cows cowering on the way to Amberley; the inside of an old forge in one of the sheds at the unpromisingly-named Amberley museum of work.
The Morgul Veruca
Each foot fall (right foot) is a pain. A pain like Frodo's when the Morgul knife broke at the tip, and the shard started making its way to his heart. I knew I would soon be in the power of this veruca. Sadly Pete was displaying non of his Sam Gamgee like qualities, and wasn't even carrying his own water. The tall dark peaks of Amberley station were towering ominously to the north. I forget the dwarfish name for them but its sure to be a jaw cracker. Towards lunch my remaining Kabanos sausages made a bid for freedom down a dark track. Luckily the situation was saved by the outstanding gents toilets at Amberly working museum. The afternoon wore on, treacherously bright. After a few wrong turns we sheltered in a beer garden and ate a frugal lunch (once the salad garnish had been moved to one side). I was awoken from my daydream by the ersatz Sam and had the terrible realisation that we were still only a third of the way on the day's march. At this point I thought it was prudent not to mention this as he was looking contently fed and watered and was bubbling with enthusiasm. In the immortal words of Gandalf at the council of Elrond "would anybody freely join the company if they knew what really lay ahead?"
Lost in the Forest
The emergence of the compass can only mean one thing: we are lost. Our merry company at this point, dubbed Flight 19, was aimlessly wandering in a small wood peering again and again at the visitor's centre car park, and trying to keep away from the road, to which all paths seemed to lead. The appearance of the compass at this point confirmed that North was indeed North and no matter which way we held the map up we had still lost the trail. There would be nothing for it, we would have to break out on to the road and face all the dangers that that held. We made fabulous moving targets that only walking gear can create. All those bright gaudy colours are like headlights to rabbits. Fortunately Sam II, the slight return, was covering my back. 5 minutes of traffic dodging that felt like 3 hours of mental torture on this highway to hell (Pulborough) and then thankfully we plunged into a small lane that lead to the nameless village.
Above the Pulborough fields
We first espied Pulborough, our no longer final destination by the side of the church on the hill. Our careful planning in the Lord Nelson public house had led us to choose Pulborough as the logical/reasonable/practical end to the first days walk. It was, we thought, the ideal lodging point between today and tomorrows epic legs. Alas due to poor and late and somewhat blokish organisation there was no accommodation to be had. Luckily a little finger's distance on the map lay the sleepy hamlet of Lower Fittleworth, and what promised to be a welcoming inn supplying victals and beer and, most importantly, accommodation in separate rooms with en suit showers. But now the realisation was that this now lay to the west on a distant line of darkening hills. Still the first glimpse of Pulborough lightened our hearts as this meant we were closer to our first pint and we could stock up on some valuable water as we had been running on empty for the last hour or so. The path descending steeply through a thicket of trees and then without warning were suddenly out in the open again in the rich meadow lands of the river, which was meanderingly majestically in the hot afternoon sun. The path was straight and true, yet underfoot it was becoming wetter. Then all of a sudden we came to a halt with a splash. The treacherous path had ended in a deep flooded bog and there seemed to be no way across. For the next 20 minutes we jumped from grass clump to grass clump trying to find away through. Pete the stout hearted suggested that we get the compass out again. "Unless you intend to sail in it I don't see what f*&!$king use that will be" I said as my foot dislodged another cloud of flies. Hope had all but departed when suddenly we espied a new path. We journeyed anew on the tricky shifting pathway, the OS map having been relegated to a dog eared orange fly swatter. After such a solitary journey we finally encountered our first fellow walker. A rather perplexed looking lady who said she had lost her dog. This was the final straw. Travelling footsore, rucksack chaffed, thirsty and harbouring the terrible truth of the true distance and now the added element of edginess as there was now a rabid mangy cur on the loose. Her honeyed poisoned words, describing it as a tail wagging spaniel answering to the name of Fido or something. But steadily the path rose form the meadow and the ground became firmer and drier and increasingly frequent dog spoors we knew that we were approaching the journey's faux end. Somewhat red faced and mud spattered we almost fell in the Aladdin's cave know as CO-OP one stop shop. We stocked up heavily (at least as they were piled into my rucksack heavily) on bottles of water.
The last debate - or lack of it
Pulborough was somewhat lacking in the public regional transport department. Whilst that woolly footed rascal Pete was ensconced in the local chemist looking for Athelas of the butt, I had ambled up to the local bus stop. Unfortunately the timetable must have had a bit part in the Davinci code. For a good ten minutes I was trying to make head or tail of the complex cipher. After 10 minutes and on Pete's advice and after deciding that this local service had nothing to do with Mary Magdelin's bloodline we gave up and started to walk along the main road which was to be our only path to Lower Fittleworth. The road was now thronged with cars full of happy carefree drivers racing home for the weekend. As we trudged slowly in silence up the never ending incline, the jolly little bus whooshed past. We both stood there, neither saying a word and resignedly carried on tramping our route. We took a few minutes out at the Stopham bridge which had now been cut off by the new main road bypass and was standing there isolated like an ox bow lake. It would have been a beautiful spot with the ancient bridge leading to a inviting looking Inn. Alas we were not in the mood and this idyllic river now had all the features of Hades . The evening was getting on and the sun was now sinking below the evil hills to which we were heading. After a few more decades of minutes we turned off the main road and descended into an unmade track, which was to be our shortcut. The conversation had died along with our appreciation of spectacular scenary. Each step forward was now torturous. In another walk in another body this would have been like walking through the garden of the English countryside, but now in the deepening gloom, each hill, each corner revealing no Lower Flittleworth was sinking our hearts in to our boots. After an hour we finally emerged from the long lane and there suddenly was the sight of the Swan Inn and Lower Flittleworth. With renewed vigour we upped pace to a pigeon step and hurried the last 200 metres and arrived to an indifferent and cold welcome. With pint in hand and backside on chair I can take ostrasisation. Bring it on.
Each foot fall (right foot) is a pain. A pain like Frodo's when the Morgul knife broke at the tip, and the shard started making its way to his heart. I knew I would soon be in the power of this veruca. Sadly Pete was displaying non of his Sam Gamgee like qualities, and wasn't even carrying his own water. The tall dark peaks of Amberley station were towering ominously to the north. I forget the dwarfish name for them but its sure to be a jaw cracker. Towards lunch my remaining Kabanos sausages made a bid for freedom down a dark track. Luckily the situation was saved by the outstanding gents toilets at Amberly working museum. The afternoon wore on, treacherously bright. After a few wrong turns we sheltered in a beer garden and ate a frugal lunch (once the salad garnish had been moved to one side). I was awoken from my daydream by the ersatz Sam and had the terrible realisation that we were still only a third of the way on the day's march. At this point I thought it was prudent not to mention this as he was looking contently fed and watered and was bubbling with enthusiasm. In the immortal words of Gandalf at the council of Elrond "would anybody freely join the company if they knew what really lay ahead?"
Lost in the Forest
The emergence of the compass can only mean one thing: we are lost. Our merry company at this point, dubbed Flight 19, was aimlessly wandering in a small wood peering again and again at the visitor's centre car park, and trying to keep away from the road, to which all paths seemed to lead. The appearance of the compass at this point confirmed that North was indeed North and no matter which way we held the map up we had still lost the trail. There would be nothing for it, we would have to break out on to the road and face all the dangers that that held. We made fabulous moving targets that only walking gear can create. All those bright gaudy colours are like headlights to rabbits. Fortunately Sam II, the slight return, was covering my back. 5 minutes of traffic dodging that felt like 3 hours of mental torture on this highway to hell (Pulborough) and then thankfully we plunged into a small lane that lead to the nameless village.
Above the Pulborough fields
We first espied Pulborough, our no longer final destination by the side of the church on the hill. Our careful planning in the Lord Nelson public house had led us to choose Pulborough as the logical/reasonable/practical end to the first days walk. It was, we thought, the ideal lodging point between today and tomorrows epic legs. Alas due to poor and late and somewhat blokish organisation there was no accommodation to be had. Luckily a little finger's distance on the map lay the sleepy hamlet of Lower Fittleworth, and what promised to be a welcoming inn supplying victals and beer and, most importantly, accommodation in separate rooms with en suit showers. But now the realisation was that this now lay to the west on a distant line of darkening hills. Still the first glimpse of Pulborough lightened our hearts as this meant we were closer to our first pint and we could stock up on some valuable water as we had been running on empty for the last hour or so. The path descending steeply through a thicket of trees and then without warning were suddenly out in the open again in the rich meadow lands of the river, which was meanderingly majestically in the hot afternoon sun. The path was straight and true, yet underfoot it was becoming wetter. Then all of a sudden we came to a halt with a splash. The treacherous path had ended in a deep flooded bog and there seemed to be no way across. For the next 20 minutes we jumped from grass clump to grass clump trying to find away through. Pete the stout hearted suggested that we get the compass out again. "Unless you intend to sail in it I don't see what f*&!$king use that will be" I said as my foot dislodged another cloud of flies. Hope had all but departed when suddenly we espied a new path. We journeyed anew on the tricky shifting pathway, the OS map having been relegated to a dog eared orange fly swatter. After such a solitary journey we finally encountered our first fellow walker. A rather perplexed looking lady who said she had lost her dog. This was the final straw. Travelling footsore, rucksack chaffed, thirsty and harbouring the terrible truth of the true distance and now the added element of edginess as there was now a rabid mangy cur on the loose. Her honeyed poisoned words, describing it as a tail wagging spaniel answering to the name of Fido or something. But steadily the path rose form the meadow and the ground became firmer and drier and increasingly frequent dog spoors we knew that we were approaching the journey's faux end. Somewhat red faced and mud spattered we almost fell in the Aladdin's cave know as CO-OP one stop shop. We stocked up heavily (at least as they were piled into my rucksack heavily) on bottles of water.
The last debate - or lack of it
Pulborough was somewhat lacking in the public regional transport department. Whilst that woolly footed rascal Pete was ensconced in the local chemist looking for Athelas of the butt, I had ambled up to the local bus stop. Unfortunately the timetable must have had a bit part in the Davinci code. For a good ten minutes I was trying to make head or tail of the complex cipher. After 10 minutes and on Pete's advice and after deciding that this local service had nothing to do with Mary Magdelin's bloodline we gave up and started to walk along the main road which was to be our only path to Lower Fittleworth. The road was now thronged with cars full of happy carefree drivers racing home for the weekend. As we trudged slowly in silence up the never ending incline, the jolly little bus whooshed past. We both stood there, neither saying a word and resignedly carried on tramping our route. We took a few minutes out at the Stopham bridge which had now been cut off by the new main road bypass and was standing there isolated like an ox bow lake. It would have been a beautiful spot with the ancient bridge leading to a inviting looking Inn. Alas we were not in the mood and this idyllic river now had all the features of Hades . The evening was getting on and the sun was now sinking below the evil hills to which we were heading. After a few more decades of minutes we turned off the main road and descended into an unmade track, which was to be our shortcut. The conversation had died along with our appreciation of spectacular scenary. Each step forward was now torturous. In another walk in another body this would have been like walking through the garden of the English countryside, but now in the deepening gloom, each hill, each corner revealing no Lower Flittleworth was sinking our hearts in to our boots. After an hour we finally emerged from the long lane and there suddenly was the sight of the Swan Inn and Lower Flittleworth. With renewed vigour we upped pace to a pigeon step and hurried the last 200 metres and arrived to an indifferent and cold welcome. With pint in hand and backside on chair I can take ostrasisation. Bring it on.
A tale of two rucksacks
I guess the cursing, puffing and sweating were perhaps the first tangible signs that it was indeed quite heavy. To bring a new angle to the situation at the station we increased our burdens by stocking up on bottles of waters and nuts. Here we experienced one of the first notable differences between or rucksacks – mine having a useful water holder on each size, Pete’s having sides like racing slicks. My intrepid adventuring companion then proceeded to stow these large bottles in to a remaining cavity the size of a match box. With a decent measure of good fortune and a soupcon of serendipity Pete’s rucksack did not require a separate ticket.
Calling for Peteo
Awoken early, by the children and then by the Cat. But today was one of eager anticipation. Ambled gently over to the window, not wanting to peak too soon and then to my disappointment found it was raining. Spent the next 10 minutes getting more and more frustrated trying to zip my shorts back in to trousers. For 5 days the BBC online weather forecast had been predicting 24c sunshine. Cunningly they must have had a Stalinist revisionist moment between my look at 10pm last night and 6 this morning.
Limped badly cursing down the hill to Pete’s, the verruca so large this morning I was contemplating using a third boot. Wondered (painfully) along whether Pete would be;
a) Up
b) Up and hungover
c) Up and hungover and irritably turning his house upside down looking for his phone or his train pass or something
Instead I found a serene and ready if somewhat bleary looking fellow adventurer stuffing some final items (with seemingly unwarranted force) in to his small, but modest, walking specific, yet retro rucksack. Truth be told I had never imagined that it could be swelled and stretched to such a size, both the fabric and the stitching worryingly displaying some translucent quality.
Limped badly cursing down the hill to Pete’s, the verruca so large this morning I was contemplating using a third boot. Wondered (painfully) along whether Pete would be;
a) Up
b) Up and hungover
c) Up and hungover and irritably turning his house upside down looking for his phone or his train pass or something
Instead I found a serene and ready if somewhat bleary looking fellow adventurer stuffing some final items (with seemingly unwarranted force) in to his small, but modest, walking specific, yet retro rucksack. Truth be told I had never imagined that it could be swelled and stretched to such a size, both the fabric and the stitching worryingly displaying some translucent quality.
Waiting for Anto
Just scarfing some beans on toast and looking out my window at the rain. Yes rain. The forecast is for a hot sunny day, and yet there is perhaps a more appropriate rain. My rucksack is almost packed, and I am awaiting the call from Anton which will say something annoying like... Hello mate, did I wake you up?
Ideal preparation for the walk. Cats fighting in the Twitten last night, body churning with the MSG from the Chinese food I bought last night after a few beers with work pals.
Right... Boots on! We start at Arundel
Below taken from the dungeon at Arundel Castle.
Ideal preparation for the walk. Cats fighting in the Twitten last night, body churning with the MSG from the Chinese food I bought last night after a few beers with work pals.
Right... Boots on! We start at Arundel
Below taken from the dungeon at Arundel Castle.
Wednesday 6 June 2007
Two days before the big one
So we are finally gathering ourselves for the assault on St Leonard's Forest. Anton has booked overnight rooms in village pubs. Our walk will start again from Arundel and will take three days in what looks to be conditions of blazing sun.
So good job that I washed and treated my Berghaus last night. But it may afford some protection against the spitting of the dragon. Or village locals if they take exception to the rather natty pair of Vans slip on shoes I am packing.
We also managed to source things like a USB recharger for the MPG recorder from under Anton's desk. Annoyingly he has indulged his penchant for planning: buying clothes, and other paraphernalia. And he has already gone through a trial pack of his kit. Including the Kendal mint cake Anna bought him.
But there are worrying injuries to contend with: Anton has a verruca, and my back is bad with no time to see the chiropractor. The weekend will be full of moaning.
So good job that I washed and treated my Berghaus last night. But it may afford some protection against the spitting of the dragon. Or village locals if they take exception to the rather natty pair of Vans slip on shoes I am packing.
We also managed to source things like a USB recharger for the MPG recorder from under Anton's desk. Annoyingly he has indulged his penchant for planning: buying clothes, and other paraphernalia. And he has already gone through a trial pack of his kit. Including the Kendal mint cake Anna bought him.
But there are worrying injuries to contend with: Anton has a verruca, and my back is bad with no time to see the chiropractor. The weekend will be full of moaning.
Tuesday 5 June 2007
Snakes with Wings
Been reading the classics in preparation for the walk.
Here is Herodotus from the Pengin Classics edition of Snakes with Wings and Gold-digging Ants translated by Aubrey De Selincourt, and revised by John Marinola. Sounds like a description of a dinosaurs' graveyard.
Here is Herodotus from the Pengin Classics edition of Snakes with Wings and Gold-digging Ants translated by Aubrey De Selincourt, and revised by John Marinola. Sounds like a description of a dinosaurs' graveyard.
There is a place in Arabia more or less opposite the city of Buto, where I went to try to get information about flying snakes. On my arrival I saw their skeletons in incalculable numbers; they were piled in heaps, some of which were big, others smaller, others smaller still, and there were many piles of them. The place where these bones lie is a narrow mountain pass leading to a broad plain which joins on to the plain of Egypt, and it is said that that when the winged snakes fly to Egypt from Arabia in the spring, the ibises meet them at the entrance to the pass and do not let them get through, but kill them. According to the Arabians, this service is the reason for the great reverence with which the ibis is regarded in Egypt.... The winged snakes resemble watersnakes; their wings are not feathered, but are like a bat's.
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