'Hear ye': Camden, London

Drawn to the Georgian past with fanfare

While exploring London we find ourselves taken to the past. We hear a loud voice booming across a river. “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!” ( French for “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!). Unmistakably he is a town crier for he follows the call by ringing his bell. Where is he? We look around and high and low. How could we have missed this rotund figure in the livery of  buckled shoes, breeches, a waistcoat, greatcoat and a cockaded tricorn hat. No question that a town crier has to be a visible presence as well as an auditory presence, for historically he announces public news or royal proclamations to the then largely illiterate public. This town crier has been hired by Camden Market to  ring about the wonderful things you can do and see at the Market.

Brawn and strategy at Camden Lock.

We find ourselves along the banks of Camden River right opposite where the town crier carried out his job while we watch the Camden Lock being operated. A boat carrying holiday makers ( probably from Little Venice to Camden Lock through Regent's Canal) is about to enter the lock. This traditional, paired set of manual locks is operated by boat crews using hand-wound paddles and massive balance beams to raise or lower vessels. Built in the early 19th century, these locks enable navigating the different water levels, often requiring teamwork to open the heavy gates and manage water levels efficiently. 

Buzz and punk

We’re already in Camden Market—lost in its maze of cobbled paths, where every turn bursts with edgy fashion and raw energy. Waterside cafés hum beside stalls of decadent treats, while multinational cuisine fills the air with irresistible aromas. Handmade jewelry glints next to vintage treasures, and everywhere you look, bold styles demand attention.

This isn’t just a place—it’s an experience. Loud, colourful, unapologetically creative. Punk culture pulses through it all, alive in every corner.

What was once an industrial pocket of horse stables and shipping containers has transformed into a daily surge of life—a thriving food hub and a fearless fashion statement, buzzing with attitude.

Trivia

Camden has been home to many famous people including John Keats, Charles Dickens, George Bernard Shaw and JB Priestley.

Candy, history, airport muddle, crossing borders: Hershey, Gettysburg,Canada

Ideals of equality

Pennsylvania earns its nickname, the Keystone State, for good reason—it stood at the very heart of America’s founding story. This is where the Declaration of Independence was brought to life, setting a new nation in motion. Decades later, its legacy echoed powerfully in Lincoln’s unforgettable Gettysburg Address, delivered on hallowed ground that had witnessed one of the Civil War’s most pivotal battles.

So it’s only fitting that we make our way to Gettysburg, a scenic mere half-hour drive from Harrisburg—a place where history lingers in every field and monument.

Spooky entry

We arrive at the visitor centre at the 6,000 acre Gettysburg National  Military  Park. We opt not to take a guided bus tour. The visitor centre is at the museum which has an indoor display dedicated to the Civil war. 

Down a staircase, a flicker of movement catches our eye—a couple slips past, dressed head to toe in Victorian fashion. A bonnet sways, a hooped skirt rustles, a corset is pulled tight; beside her, a waistcoat, suspenders, and a felt hat complete the illusion. For a heartbeat, it feels like encountering ghosts of the past.

They vanish as quickly as they appear, leaving only the reminder of the morning’s spectacle—Remembrance Day, when the military grounds come alive with a parade of devoted reenactors, marching and mingling in full Victorian dress, blurring the line between past and present.

Surviving a war

As we browse the war artifacts, the spiral ramp pulls us upward, each step heightening the anticipation. By the time we reach the platform at the centre of the cylinder, we’re surrounded. The curving walls close in with sweeping panoramic images—no escape, no protection. Battles erupts on all sides. Lights flash, sounds crack the air, horses seem to neigh in terror, fires flicker. We’re caught in a full 360° assault of motion and noise, the theatrical effects collapsing distance until it feels less like watching and more like being there, right in the middle of it. 

We leave with mixed feelings. Being at the center of a battle—even an imagined one—can be deeply unsettling. It is not only the danger that affects us, but the moral conflict as well. In the end, we are grateful it was only an enactment. We made it through.

Meet and greet

And now, we come face to face with the ever-recognisable Abraham Lincoln—one hand firmly clutching his speech, the other extended in a gesture that feels equal parts statesmanlike and unexpectedly welcoming.

What might have been a solemn, rain-drenched moment—heavy with the weight of his words—was instead given a touch of character, thanks to the quiet heroism of an umbrella, turning solemnity into something just a little more human.

Willy Wonka,here we come

Our host promotes a tour of the Hershey Chocolate factory. Milton Hershey who started the factory is of Pennsylvania  Dutch descent. We enter in the evening when it is quiet. We take the chocolate tour. The ride is a continuous loop each taking only about 3 mins. But it does  showcase how Hershey's milk chocolate is made. The tour includes agricultural scenes, a tropical farm setting, a warm cocoa bean roaster, and a finale with thousands of candies. It's a dream for children and the child in anyone. 

The seasonal adornment for Christmas serves to further enhance the atmosphere, cultivating an elevated sense of cheer, comfort, and collective togetherness.

A heavenly event

While we are there, Harrisburg is hosting a religious event at a local temple, and we take part. Interestingly, cushioned back supports are available for those who choose to sit cross-legged on the floor. We meet friendly strangers while sharing a meal served at the temple. It is certainly meaningful to spend time in a familiar cultural setting, even if only briefly, and it can have a positive effect on one’s sense of identity.

Gee-whiz

Drink has to fly out. He has the tickets. No room for error. Our host drops us at the terminal, and drives off to park. The moment she disappears, something feels wrong. Inside, the airport is unnervingly quiet. No lines. No movement. Just long, empty counters and the faint buzz of lights overhead. We walk farther than we should have to, unease building with every step.

At last, an employee. We hand her the ticket. She studies it. Looks up. Pauses. “You’re in the wrong airport.”

Really? A short drive away, she says—but time is already slipping through our fingers. Our host is parking… or worse, already on the shuttle back. Every second now matters. Panic sets in. We manage to contact her.

Miraculously, she hasn’t boarded the shuttle yet. Minutes later, she’s back at the curb. We throw ourselves and our bags into the car, urgency pressing in from all sides.

Apparently, Dulles Airport, where we are right now, is in Virginia, a state next to Pennsylvania.

Our driver remains calm and composed. She gently apologizes for not checking our departure airport beforehand, though it isn’t really her fault—most people she knows usually fly from Dulles.

We are now making our way toward Washington, D.C. the adjacent state. In the distance, across fields painted in soft autumn colors, the Capitol and the obelisk come into view.

Before long, we arrive at Ronald Reagan Airport, and everything feels settled again.

All’s well that ends well.

The drive back to Canada: Crossing states and countries

The journey begins at a scenic overlook at Samuel S. Lewis State Park, located atop Mount Pisgah, where sweeping panoramic views reveal the surrounding valleys and open landscapes of large grassy fields, wooded trails, and the distant Susquehanna River Valley below. From there, the trip continues as we drive through New York State, passing through steep, forested mountain terrain and crossing a roadway bridge over a wide body of water, probably the Mill Creek bridge over the Tioga Reservoir. Along the route, a quiet rural scene appears with a small-town residential street lined with single-family homes and patches of snow still lingering on the ground, suggesting winter. We arrive at the iconic Peace Bridge in Buffalo, making a major international crossing over the Niagara River.

Penn to Pennsylvania:Harrisburg

Into the bowels of New York City

After a few days in NYC we now head towards Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. 

Penn Station, NYC, is the pulsating heart of the region’s daily commute—whether it's a local trying to get to work or someone rumbling in from another city. Plonked right in the middle of Manhattan, underneath Madison Square ( there's  another story there)it’s impossible to miss (and sometimes, impossible to escape, as we found in yet another train journey a few years later).

Digging for information 

Where we go inside depends entirely on our train and so Drink and I make a dry run the previous day. We are taking Amtrak's Keystone Service and so we have to head over to Moynihan Train Hall, where the ticketing, baggage services, customer help, and actual places to sit are. But we have to stand because all the seats are taken!

Only 15 minutes to locate platform and board

Now, here’s where things get a bit chaotic: the tracks at Penn Station change constantly throughout the day because there are a lot of trains. So instead of assigning tracks early, everyone is kept in suspense. Big electronic boards around the concourse reveal our track number about 15 minutes before departure. 

We have to hurry. No time for dilly dallying. We move quickly to the elevator closest to the platform and in no time at all we are on board. 

At Penn Station, hesitation means missing your train and a frantic aftermath. The dry run made it all nearly tension free.

Urbanscape to farmland

Our train, entirely electric, has comfortable, quiet seating. We leave NYC , cross the Hudson River through a tunnel underneath, and roll towards Philadelphia, aka the Keystone State,  via Newark and Trent in New Jersey. We transition from urban landscapes to the Susquehanna River Valley and farmland. Our three and half hour ride takes us through historic towns, bridges, and rolling hills.

The farms are typical Pennsylvanian Dutch ( a corruption of Deutsch referring to German and so has nothing to do with the Netherlands). The Amish and Mennonites, two of the best known communities of Pennsylvanian Dutch, interestingly, are originally from the southern parts of Switzerland. 

The journey of discovery begins at the station

Stepping into the historic train station in Harrisburg feels like traveling through time. With its charming red brick walls and iconic barn-style roof, this National Historic Landmark is more than just a stop—it’s an experience.

The grand waiting hall is spacious and beautifully designed, with elegant columns and thoughtful spaces that make you want to linger. But the real holiday magic? A captivating model train display that had us completely mesmerized—pressed up against the glass like kids again. 

The Capitol is nothing but capital

Our host leads us through the State Capitol, and from the moment we step inside, we’re captivated. The architecture is breathtaking, the interiors nothing short of extraordinary. We’ve visited the Texas Capitol in Austin and Washington’s in Olympia—but neither comes close to this.

At the heart of it all rises the awe-inspiring dome above the main rotunda—an immense 26,000-ton masterpiece modeled after St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Below it, the first floor dazzles with intricate mosaic tiles that vividly tell the story of Pennsylvania—its history, wildlife, and industry woven into the very floor beneath our feet.

Each chamber feels like stepping into a different world. One evokes the elegance of the French Renaissance, with its rich green carpets, Irish marble, polished mahogany desks, and sweeping murals. Another transports us to the Italian Renaissance, glowing under ornate crystal chandeliers and anchored by a monumental painting. In yet another space, the lighting alone creates an unforgettable atmosphere.

Climbing the Grand Staircase, I feel as though I’ve wandered into a Paris opera house. Everywhere I look, Florentine bronze work and luminous stained glass add layers of grandeur and artistry—transforming this seat of government into something almost otherworldly.

A quiet day in the city streets heightens our senses

From the steps of the Capitol, the city begins to reveal itself—not all at once, but in layers. Glass and steel rise confidently into the sky, their reflections catching the light, yet between them stand quieter witnesses to another time. We notice how the modern world simply grew around it.

Just beside a towering skyscraper, almost as if sheltered by it, stands Pine Street Presbyterian Church. Built from solid limestone in 1860, it carries a weight that isn’t just architectural. During the Civil War, it became a place of pause and refuge—a rest station for weary Union soldiers. Even from the street, you can imagine the footsteps that once crossed its threshold.

As our eyes scan the skyline, more stories emerge. A tall steeple rises sharply into view—Grace Methodist Church—its vertical lines drawing our gaze upward. Nearby, a dome curves gently against the horizon, marking the Cathedral of St. Patrick. Each structure speaks in a different voice. They stand up for history and faith.

Our journey continues past Governor’s Row, where rows of historic homes line the streets with a sense of lived-in elegance. These buildings feel less like monuments and more like memories—places where daily life once unfolded, and perhaps still does.

Then comes Shipoke, a neighborhood that holds some of the earliest chapters of the area’s story. One of the first permanent European settlements stood here, long before the city took its current shape. It’s easy to pass by without noticing.

What starts as a simple drive becomes something else entirely becoming a lesson in history.

Divisive and impassable

The Susquehanna River is the longest on the East Coast—and one of its most storied. Once a boundary between North and South, it’s still wild upstream, where rapids make it impassable. Along the riverwalk, though, it’s all beauty: a striking 51-arch bridge overhead and a quirky cow statue left behind from the 2004 Cow Parade.

To be continued in the next blog.

Corfu: not your typical Greece

Sticking to a strategy

As our liner sails into the harbour we are treated to grand views of not one but two fortresses. The grandchildren are all agog. We will decide whether to visit either one or both depending on how accessible they are from the port.

A complimentary shuttle whisks us into town where we grab a tourist map — though we all know it’s more of a suggestion than a plan. We’ve never been the “checklist” kind of travelers. The real joy lies in wandering, in straying into side streets and rejoicing in the soul of a place beyond its famous landmarks. With only a few precious hours, we execute our usual strategy: go furthest first, then drift back slowly toward the ship. After all, missing the boat would be a story we don’t want to tell.

We could walk to the fortress, but the day is already warming up, the sun climbing steadily. Why not make the journey part of the experience? A nearby bus stop offers the perfect excuse. A small group of locals waits there, their smiles warm even if their English is limited. Somehow, with gestures, laughter, and a bit of help from the grandchildren, we piece together the bus route and fare. The short wait feels longer for the little ones, who fidget with anticipation.

History and vistas

Soon enough, we’re on our way — and in less than ten minutes, we arrive at the Old Fortress.

Crossing the narrow bridge into its walls and then through tunnels and up and down stairs feels like stepping through time. The air shifts, quieter somehow, as if the past still lingers here. Built by the Venetians, the fortress stands as a silent witness to centuries gone by. We climb higher, drawn upward by curiosity and the promise of the view. 

And what a view it is. From the top, the world stretches out in breathtaking layers — a sea of terracotta rooftops glowing warmly under the sun, set against the dazzling blue of the Aegean. On a day like this, clear and bright, we’re told you can even glimpse Albania across the water. We also have a view of the New Fortress sitting on the other side of town. The climb there seems hazardous. A flint and brick path we would have to negotiate if we had the time and energy left.

Venetian and British

Within  the Venetian complex is a building with a six-column facade. This is St George's Church built in 1840 to meet the religious needs of British soldiers who served in Corfu.

War and peace

Right next to the Old Fortress entrance is the Boschetto Garden. Several semicircular stone benches are surrounded by a colonnade, and busts and statues of prominent historic figures, including poets and writers. The benches in the welcoming shade and greenery with views of the blue sea  are occupied by a few elderly couples reading and enjoying the breeze. A picture of serenity beside a fortress that reminds us of wars.

Spianada Square and Liston: British and French 

As we walk towards the old quarters we cross Spianada Square. Here palm trees sway in the breeze. The spray from the fountains cools us. The cricket, yes cricket, field is a large open expanse. Apparently it is the largest square in Greece and the Balkans. The open space is an invitation to both locals and visitors to gather along the Promenade.

Now we are led to the elegant Liston arcade. The elegant vaulted galleries, colonnades,  house cafes and restaurants are  unmistakably Parisian. And, yes, it was built during the French rule and modelled after Rue de Rivoli..

Another oddity

We stroll over to a grand, regal building with an important looking gateway on the side. The verandah of the building is colonnaded throughout.   The signage tells us we are at the Museum of Asian Art. And where is it housed? In the stunning Palace of St. Michael and St. George.

The impressive neoclassical palace was built during British administration. I've been told that the collections range from Chinese ceramics to Japanese prints. The side gateway surprises us as it  opens into the palace gardens and offers a shaded retreat with spectacular sea views.

Are we trespassing?

Suddenly all is quiet. We've strayed into the roads left untravelled! We are right in the middle of a courtyard with a quiet vibe. Surrounding us is a maze of narrow alleys, stone staircases,shaded squares. The old  pastel coloured buildings with their weathered shutters, cute balconies and hanging laundry add a touch of a movie set. Are we inadvertently walking into people's backyards? Not at all.  These are actually public walkways.

Those were the days: UNESCO world heritage site

And then we are practically at the labyrinthine old town. Each narrow alley leads to another. Venetian buildings with their characteristic ochre and sienna hues stand alongside neoclassical mansions. The town is so compact that we head straight to the main walking street. But we have to get back to the ship. There are so many churches, and little time left that we have to choose. Our selection is Saint Spyridon Cathedral Holy Church of Saint Spyridon which wowed us with its painted ceiling. 

A quick look at the market is all I hope for now. The variety of shops offering local crafts, souvenirs, and traditional products are enticingly set against historic buildings. Strolling through the lively stalls,we  immerse ourselves in the local atmosphere 

Adio Corfu: Have mouth will ask

Dizzied by the maze and the attractive display of souvenirs we’ve completely lost our bearings. We probably need a bus back to the ship… somewhere, somehow. According to fragments of our sense of direction, we are actually close to the New Fortress—which, naturally, is a long, long way from the ship. At this point, “lost” is an understatement. 

. Plan A kicks in: One grandson bravely approaches a man smoking outside a cafe.  Hesitant, he asks for advice. The man—hefty, jolly, and smelling of smoke—throws an arm around the grandson’s shoulder. Panic flickers: will we be invited for a smoke or . . .? We know from previous experience that Greeks are very hospitable. We may be hard put to turn down an invitation.

Animated gestures follow: fingers point, hands wave, eyebrows jiggle and laughter crackles forth . After several tension-filled minutes, we are reassured—somehow—that the conversation is going well. Maybe the man was giving directions… or maybe just entertaining himself. Either way, we wave our thanks.

And just like that, our Corfu adventure ends: equal parts confusion, courage, and comic relief.

We wave. We trust in the kindness of strangers… and that’s how our Corfu adventure ends: confused, amused, and much closer to the ship than when we started

As we sail away the view sums up why Corfu is a popular holiday destination. The mountainous terrain, cypress trees, olive groves, crystal clear seas and excellent weather add to  the rich multi-cultural heritage(Byzantine, Venetian, French and British) lending it a vibrancy.

Coastal Charm and history: Albufeira, Portugal:

Ideal time of year

When we arrive in Albufeira it is the low period, it being November, the beginning of colder months. For us it is just ideal. We don't need even a thin jacket for all the arduous walking we do keeps us warm. 

Basics: lodging

We're staying for two weeks and so we need to shop for groceries.We have a compact kitchen with a tri-ply pot and pan, ceramic crockery, stainless steel cutlery and a well kept double induction burner. Only the kettle leaks. The replacement also leaks. We are not going to bother with it. Two hotel boys come to housekeep every alternate day with fresh towels. They clean the washrooms in a jiffy. Then a damp rectangular flannel is pulled all over the floor. Tada! No dust. All the condensation on the walls (for it gets humid) from the cooking is wiped up.

And boarding?

We stroll the inclined street looking for stores but there are only convenience stores that are pricey and would not meet our needs. All around us are hotels. 

Our short stroll takes us to a huge junction. Surprise! We are at the famous The Strip. But where is the crowd? Only about three hours from Lisbon, Albufeira has been one of the Algarve’s busiest resorts for decades. Of course, it's not the season. 

We have to watch our steps not only because of the infamous calçada ( dealt with in my previous blogs) but also the shocking state of disrepair. We have the whole street to ourselves with waiters holding out glossy menus inviting us into the classy restaurants. Plenty of liqueur and loads of meat. Not our fare. Startlingly almost all of the ushers and waiters are of Indian origin. Perhaps I should not have been surprised since there are at least 7 hotel complexes in the vicinity run by the Indian MGM  Muthu Group, one of them housing 500 apt/suites just across our accommodation in Praia de Oura.

Language games: logic and intuition

We continue walking along another major street at the end of the Strip, and, behold ! It's Pingo Doce, the affordable supermarket. The varieties of fish with names unheard of astounds us.  The oranges are at throw away prices compared to Canada. The milk cartons/ bottles are baffling. With some guess work, for no one in the store speaks English, we think we've got the right kind – full cream. Leite Gordo.We learn some new words:Gordo (Whole), Meio Gordo (Semi-skimmed,) and Magro (Skimmed) just by word association as in leite sounding like latte. Meio sounds close enough to mid. Altogether it is fun reading the labels. It is also great to be able to buy pasta and cereals in small quantities unlike American sizes.

The suitcase saga continues

Over the next few days we cover the whole area and the Old Town taking different routes each time. Twice we walk over to the bus station hoping to find our list wheel scouring all the dark corners where it could have been pushed to. We also hope to visit the market beside it but we are often too late. We have to conclude that we have to get new matching wheels. We find a Chinese stand alone store which has practically everything but the right sized wheel. The new suitcases are not worth the asking price. So we settle for strong masking tape and saran wrap! Against all odds, the limping suitcase survived 3 subsequent inflights.

We adapt. Travel teaches  that not every problem needs solving—some just need sidestepping, like the calçadas!

First approach

Our first approach to the old town is through an arterial road which is built up with holiday homes and hotels as well as a huge mall. The avenue has a statue of Gandhi in the park that divides it. As we walk towards the cliff edge we come across what used to be fisherman's homes of which some are being used as holiday rentals. Those occupied by the locals look quite lived-in replete with cooking odours, clothes lines, etc. 

A set of escalators at the top of Praia Pescadores takes us a couple of levels down to the beach area as well the main square with unique eateries and souvenir shops. Under and around the trees are benches occupied by what seems like the homeless. Staircases in every direction take us to different levels of the maze of a town along ubiquitous buildings way up to the whitewashed and tiled houses perched above the cliff, balconies spilling over with geraniums and to the ruins even further up. Several small inviting shaded cobble stoned parks offer respite to our feet plodding on the tiled walkways. But the most attractive walkway/calçada viewed from above and then walked along as it takes us through a historic tunnel to the beach is a delight. It's true art! The wide strip of sand  once doubled as the town’s fishing harbor. Brightly painted boats used to line the shore. Today, we see beach umbrellas, cafés, and deck chairs.

We come across several churches that help keep the old time feel, and provide some cool relief from the heat. We managed to get into one with an interesting doorway and a uniquely tiled interior. 

An archaeological exhibit.

We visit a small museum featuring a dedicated section on the history of local fishing, showcasing traditional tools, fishing gear, and historic photographs of the coastal area. The miniature boats on display

Resemble those in Malaya. Guess what? The curator's wife's ancestor had sailed to Malacca when the Portuguese colonized it!

There is also an archaeological site.

Better safe than sorry

From the top from what we think are ruins we take a walk along the cliff edge. We find a viewpoint which is actually a park for the holiday condos adjacent to it. We are so immersed in the view of whitewashed houses perched on the sandstone cliffs and the driving skills of drivers negotiating the narrow lanes  that a sudden thwack on a wooden bench startles us. A few young unsavoury characters appear. We leave.

Second approach

From the Promenade to the foot of the look out point 

On our next trip we walk from the Strip to the old town along a posh residential area that leads  us to the promenade. From there we take the escalator down to the beach and walk along, passing the Tunnel,  until we reach the Elevador do Peneco, a free, 28-meter high municipal elevator connecting the top of the cliffs to the beach below.  Unfortunately for us it is not in operation.

The wonders of the sea

It is fascinating  to watch a pier being washed over by the fiery waves when an engineered blow hole helps mitigate the force to protect the structure. When the tide is out or when the ocean is calm people walk casually up to the end.

Alternative mode of transport

A small road train loops between the old town, the Strip, and the beach areas. It looks slow and there do not seem to be many takers.it certainly is a no hassle way to get around 

A natural amphitheatre 

From our balcony we get to see the sunrise and sunset everyday. 

The cliffs glow golden at sunrise and turn deep orange by sunset. We take great delight in discovering hidden coves. Every now and then there is a stand alone sandstone structure sculpted by the weather. Some of the cliffs are restrained by wire netting to keep beach goers safe.

Rhythms and colours.

We see the character of the sea change by the hour and by the day. Some days we see the shoals like whales lurking around. Depending on the weather the sea turns blue, turquoise, aquamarine, gray. On other days the waves crash into each other causing a great turbulence and vent their fury on the cliffs sending sprays  sky high. Most times the ocean maintains its rhythm. It can be a soft whisper, a lullaby or a roar. We could spend hours just staring at the ocean. 

Wheelless travails in Albufeira, Portugal

Lost a wheel

We arrive at dusk in a not so crowded terminal. The bus driver has got the bags out. Again I have to drag them along the ubiquitous Portuguese calçada. One suitcase is leaning on its side. We are booking an uber and communication is iffy. But when it's done we have only five minutes to get to the pick up area also across calcadas. A BYD is already waiting for us. Only after the driver helps us hoist the suitcase into the trunk,does he utter  “ You’ve lost a wheel!”. The corner is also cracked.Must be all the movement in the bus's luggage compartment. Or scraping against the jagged calçada.  Too late to check. The bus has already left. No wheel in sight.

Left in the lurch 

The enormity of the situation crashes over us the moment the driver pulls away. Our apartment building looms across the street, perched on an incline like it’s daring us to try. We’re dropped at a perpendicular road, nowhere near an entrance. Every path is a mosaic of ankle-twisting stone.

Where is the entrance? He shrugs. He doesn’t know. And then he’s gone.

For a second, we just stand there with the wobbling, tottering, mangled object that now feels twice as heavy. We scan the street. No signs. No shortcuts. Realty sinks in.

It’s uphill.Not a gentle slope. Not a forgiving climb. A relentless, cobbled ascent that threatens to send both us and our belongings crashing down at any moment. Each step is a gamble. Each tug feels like it might be the one that snaps our grip, our patience, or worse, the object itself.

Forward march

By the time we reach the building, our arms ache, and our feet shaky. Relief? The receptionist greets us with a polite smile and a sentence,

“The apartment is across the courtyard.” More dragging. More scraping. More jolts. The calcada is unforgiving as ever. 

Then comes the final blow:“Third floor.” No lift.The staircase zigzags upward in narrow, brick-lined turns. We stare up at it, 

For a moment, neither of us moves.Then, unexpectedly, the receptionist steps forward. “Let me help.” 

At last, the blue door. We push inside.The apartment opens into cool stillness, red tiles beneath our feet. We are drawn by the light from the glass doors at the other end.And then we see it. The door leads to a balcony and beyond it the calm azure sea that stretches to the horizon. 

Against all odds we made it!

A test of faith: Montreal to Albufeira

Time Warp

Our journey from Montreal to the Azores is supposed to be routine—just a quick transit before continuing on to Lisbon. We believe we have a comfortable two-hour window between flights. Plenty of time… or so we think.

We are fully aware that we are flying to a different time zone. As soon as we disembark we look for the restrooms leisurely. Then we look at the clock. What a shock! We only have 40 mins left since our previous plane was late. Very late, indeed. Suddenly, the generous two-hour cushion shrinks to a breathless forty minutes. Forty minutes to find the gate, and board again.

We are close to the gates. The numbers are clearly marked—until they aren’t. The sequence marches along the corridor… but ours is nowhere to be seen.

Orderly lines snake away from other gates, passengers waiting patiently, while we peel our eyes desperately for our own. Finally, we ask someone already standing in line. With a casual gesture, he points toward a number hidden completely from our view—concealed behind a thick pillar.

What a relief. We slip into the line just in time. Moments later we are airborne again, and the flight to Lisbon is a welcome contrast to the frantic dash that preceded it.

A stroll becomes a trial

We arrive in Lisbon, retrieve our luggage, and step outside the airport, heading toward the underground metro that will take us to the intercity bus terminal. 

The pedestrian path is mosaic paved in beautiful but treacherous Portuguese fashion—artfully crafted with uneven, broken tiles. Charming to look at but brutal to my suitcase and my feet. The luggage wheels catch and jam every few feet, forcing me to hoist and heave the stubborn thing forward. My footing isn’t much better. The polished tiles seem determined to send me sliding and tripping.

After what feels like a strenuous expedition, we finally reach the station entrance. Our train ride will only take about fifteen minutes—but catching the bus afterward is critical. Intercity buses, we’ve learned, leave exactly on time, and we still have no idea which berth ours will use.

Obstacle courses

The metro is underground but one level above  our underground exit from the airport. Fifty steps to climb up  into a cavernous ticketing area. I take a look at my suitcase and carry on. It's a definite killer. Luckily a gentleman comes to my rescue.he deftly lifts my suitcase and in no time at all deposits it at the top. I huff and puff after him.

We reach the ticketing machines at last, breathing hard but hopeful. But that is premature because the machines stubbornly refuse to accept our credit cards.  My companion still has a railway card from a previous trip with money left on it, but the machine stubbornly spits it out. I try to buy a one-way ticket. The interface seems determined to confuse rather than help. Precious minutes tick by. At last we manage to extract the ticket we need. The train ride is comfortable.

But Lisbon isn’t done with us

At the bus terminal we discover we are underground while the bus bays sit at ground level. The thought of hauling our luggage up another punishing staircase is almost unbearable. Then we notice a row of circular elevators—our salvation. So we hope.

A new head scratcher emerges: which elevator leads to the correct bay? The bays stretch in a long line above us, and the last thing we want is to drag our bags up and down them searching. We try the first elevator. Out of order. The second? Also out of order. The third? Got the gist?

Now there are only two left at the far end. Do we risk the long walk, only to discover it’s broken too? Ha! The first elevator that actually works! We jump in without hesitation. At least from there only one bay stands between us and where we need to be.

We step out  and immediately see buses lined up along the opposite perimeter of the terminal.For a moment it feels like another dead end. 

But after squinting at the destination boards, scanning name after name, we finally spot our bus. With barely a minute to spare, we shove our luggage into the compartment below, climb aboard, and are ready to collapse into our seats. But wait. They're occupied! No one speaks English but waving our tickets in front of them does the trick. At last.

It's getting dark. As we cross the famous Lisbon bridge we get a goose skyline view of the city we have visited twice  before. The ride is a mere 3 hours but enough to take in the countryside – the farms, orchards and vineyards. Its an over

We arrive in Albufeira 

Enchanting: Lake District, UK

Terraced by the snow: too early for daffodils

The first time I visited the Lake District was in the early 1980s, the district  was just waking up from its winter slumber. The hills were still wrapped in snow, their pale slopes terracing gently into the cold sky. I had arrived with a certain expectation shaped by the poem I read when I was 10. In my mind I carried images of vast fields of daffodils, the golden host celebrated in Wordsworth’s famous lines. Yet the season had not turned that far. The flowers had not appeared, and the hills remained silent beneath their winter covering. Still, it was easy enough to visualize waves of yellow trembling in the wind

Too late for daffodils

My next journey there came more than thirty years later. This time the land has just entered autumn. Now I visualised John Kear's (though not a Lake Poet)  Ode to Autumn.The colours are different—soft browns, fading greens, and the burnished gold of late leaves. Again there are no daffodils, and once more I find myself imagining that sea of yellow. But simply standing there, lulled by the breeze, knowing I was in the same landscapes that stirred the Lake and Romantic Poets, is highly gratifying. The hills and lakes that inspired their verses seem to whisper into my ears through the rustle of the leaves,  the snapping of twigs, and a not too distant baa and a moo.

Walls may trace boundaries but much is shared 

As we veer off the expressway toward Windermere, the scenery opens slowly around us. Fells and dales stretch across the horizon, their rugged  contours softened by distance and light. Farms and small fields form a patchwork across the land, each parcel bordered by the familiar lines of dry stone walls. These walls made of interlocking stones, built carefully without mortar, have stood here for centuries. The walls trace boundaries, guide livestock, and quietly shape the rhythm of the countryside. They are as symbolic of the region as the hills themselves, appearing again and again in poetry and paintings. 

Much of the land remains open and shared, woven into a long tradition of hill farming that continues to shape the landscape today. 

The spectacular ribbon lake

The entire region is compact—barely thirty miles across in either direction—yet within that small space lies a remarkable variety of lakes, valleys, and ridges.Windermere, the largest natural lake in England, is perhaps the most well known of them all.10.5 miles long, that's just over 18 miles It stretches from north to south, its long surface reflecting shifting clouds and distant hills. From certain viewpoints the lake appears to gather the entire landscape into a single sweeping panorama.

Spellbound

One such view unfolds from the summit of Orrest Head. The narrow trail along a breezy ridge through the woods and petrified roots leads us  to the summit. At one point, to my delight I find a wooden stile across a stone wall. Standing there, the lake spreads out below like a long ribbon of silver, bordered by wooded slopes and distant ridges fading into blue, just as Wordsworth described in The Prelude. 

Avoiding the bustle for the pastoral

We drive to the village of Windermere which does not lie on the shores of England's largest lake. It is Bowness that rests directly on the lakeshore. It's a picturesque Victorian town. Bowness is more touristy with various water activities.  We are unable to find parking space and so we go a little further to a piece of land where we see a few families picnicking. Across the walls are calm sheep and cows. It's the simple old fashioned charm that makes my  trip serene, poetic and timeless. A long-held aspiration is finally and peacefully fulfilled.

Picturesque villages

As we leave the Lake District we drive by Hawkshead and Ambleside, a lively town near the northern shore of the lake. Stone cottages line its small streets, and walkers fill the cafés and outdoor shops that cluster around the centre. It has long served as a gateway to the surrounding hills, a place where many Lakeland journeys begin. Paths lead outward in every direction, climbing toward ridges or winding quietly through valleys.

The power of faith?:Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Spain

My 3 previous posts are related to the cultures, beliefs and lifestyles of ancient India. They refer to caves that predate Christ up to the 12th century,  humongous monolithic edifices hewn with astounding precision and fine detail, the merging of culture, religion and philosophy, the technology and incredible skills and devotion - these are living proof of the astounding ancient history of India.

A living history: not hewn into a cliff but built up

This week more history is being made in the West. The Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain, has been topped with the final outer piece, a cross, which makes it the tallest cathedral in the world. How many years did it take to reach this stage? 140 years?!

Gaudi/y: which came first? The name or the adjective?

We are first introduced to the word through buildings in Barcelona. These are high rise residential buildings like Casa Mila with a stone like appearance and Casa Batllo whose balconies look like spectacles and the embellishments like natural corals.They are unlike any other I've seen.

So many seemingly impossible free form  facades.  Where does one apartment end and another begin? Each is unique even in its furnishings. Do the tenants discover something new everyday, because there is so much detail you can't take it all in at one go? To Picasso it was all gaudy.

Curiosity and amazement triggered

Are these facades structurally safe since some embellishments and protrusions seem lopsided? How did he work out the intricate balance? Does anyone really have the patience to look at the delicate tracery in replication of nature. How have these lasted for so long? Are they easy to clean ? What are the structural innovations of the visionary? Where are the buttresses? How ornamental the lampposts are!

Fantasy to reality 

How did the highly decorative become functional as well? The architect's  love of nature and devotion to religion is visualised in parabolic arches, mosaics and wrought iron and brick. No straight lines or right angles. Instead the structures take on natural forms like tree trunks, bones, shells, waves, fruits and flowers. Where does all the Gaudy colour come from? Broken ceramic tiles, glass and other waste materials cover the surfaces. One would think that with all the heavy artistic embellishments the interior would be dark, but the genius of Gaudi has made sure the spaces are airy. We don't have to go into the buildings to marvel at the innovations. Park Guell gives us a taste of it, including one of Gaudi's residences.

The lofty sand castle.

From afar that is what Sagrada Familia looks like. Could it be washed away anytime? Even so, Gaudi's masterpiece will remain legendary. 

Gaudi, a deeply devout Catholic,the architect and designer who envisioned these buildings died in a tram accident when he was 73. Had he been alive he would be100 this year. His centenary is marked by the planned inauguration of the ephemeral place of worship. Is it any surprise that the vibrantly colored mosaics were considered gaudy by religious moralists like Picasso? 

Construction began in 1882. Work on it continued through wars, political upheavals, revolutions in architecture, and the transformation of an entire century. The building kept growing taller. 18 towers in all One hundred and forty years later it has reached its highest.

How detailed was Gaudi's blueprint? How did the younger engineers who got on to the project long after Gaudi interpret it? How did they incorporate new techniques and technology? Its mind boggling how the spires kept growing part by part laid one top of the other, and how the three facades depict passion, nativity, glory respectively, in great detail all infused with the essence of life and nature. The lighting within through the stained glass windows and strategically placed openings  create an otherworldliness as seen from pictures of the interior.

Elephanta caves: Mumbai, India

We are at the Gateway of India in Mumbai(Bombay), the arch that was built in 1911 to commemorate King George V's visit to Bombay. It's right next to the luxurious Taj Mahal Palace Hotel which was completed in 1908.

Yet another site where stones speak

Just beside the Gateway is the pier from which to take a ferry to an island merely a half hour ride away from the hubbub of Mumbai. Almost everyone on the boat gets excited when sea gulls try to steal the snacks held out overhead enticingly as we glide on the sparkling Arabian sea.

A Layered history: What's in a name.

We alight at the jetty on the island only to find out we still have a long way to walk. It is a hot day. We choose to take the toy train for a small fee which takes us to the foothill of the Elephanta Caves. When the colonial Portuguese arrived centuries ago, they discovered massive stone elephant statues on the island and named it “Elefante,” which eventually evolved into “Elephanta.”  The one colossal elephant statue that remains is now at Jijamata garden in Mumbai.

Leading up to a frozen past

Our ascent begins on the 130 steep steps that test our stamina. We are flanked by souvenir shops all along and therefore a relatively comfortable climb in the shade. We seem to be at the top in no time at all.

Dramatic entrance to cave number 1

The top most step puts us at the entrance to Cave number 1, also known as the Great Cave, hewn into the hill. Three porticos framed by 4 pillars lead us  into a vast pillared hall. Six columns in each row divide the space into smaller chambers. Surprise!  The roof is supported by concealed stone beams and capitals: a marvel of ancient engineering. Standing inside the cool stone hall, with filtered light entering through the pillars we can't help but feel the vibes of the past, of what was once an active place of worship. Every wall of the mandapa tells a story from Shaivite mythology. 

Distinctive in diversity

Massive friezes — each more than 5 meters tall — depict legends with provocative intensity. In one  Shiva is depicted as  the cosmic dancer. In another he is the supreme yogi. Even though the carvings have weathered the expressions remain captivating.

A little further in is an unassuming linga sanctum sanctorum. Grace and simplicity, not grandiosity, are the characteristics of  an intense religiosity.

Piece de Resistance 

But nothing prepares us  for the moment we stand before the Trimurti.

Carved from a single monolithic rock and standing 5.45 meters (17.9 feet) tall. The three-faced Shiva — known as Trimurti Sadashiva — dominates the south wall opposite the main entrance.

The sculpture represents creation, preservation, and destruction — the cosmic balance of existence. It is both serene and overwhelming. The calm central face radiates stillness, while the side faces embody contrasting aspects of Shiva’s nature.

According to Hindu belief, this destruction is not arbitrary, but constructive. Shiva is therefore seen as the source of both good and evil and is regarded as the one who combines many contradictory elements.

A fusion, or an acceptance of similarities and differences?

The caves were probably hewn between the 5th and 7th centuries. Even though the place of worship fell into oblivion, and the art work and carvings suffered damage, attempts by the British India officials, and then the Archaeological  Survey of India have helped prevent further deterioration.

On the hill next to the temple is a stupa, remnants of a Buddhist shrine.

Like the Ajanta and ellora caves, the Elephanta Caves, though much smaller in scale, are combination of different forms of belief or practice

Religious harmony and brilliance of ancient India: Ellora Caves

Out of this world

Hardly a two hour drive from the Ajanta caves (my previous blog)  lie the Ellora caves. There is an air of eager anticipation as we have heard of its grandeur and scale. We are rewarded with a long stretch of caves(34 in all) cut high up yet another vertical basalt cliff.The caves sit side by side.

While Ajanta’s masterpieces were completed by the 6th century, Ellora began its story in the 7th century—and continued shaping it through the 11th. Thus the irresistible inference that Ellora is a continuation of the work done in Ajanta. In just two hours we cross from one era to another.

Breathtaking repository of Ancient India 

Over a span of 4 centuries generation and after generation of artisans have climbed this cliff and left their handiwork, chipping and chiseling into the rock to create temples, monasteries and sanctuaries.

Ajanta seems tame compared to Ellora which is much larger in scale and bolder in the fine artistic details. 

Imagine the tons of rock scooped out to make room for all the carvings inside.

A socio-cultural phenomenon

Three great religions, creative expression, social norms,innovation, craftmanship, structure and technological mastery all converge within a short walk.  The religions thrived not just symbolically but also physically.

The 12 Buddhist caves reveal stages in an evolving philosophy of  Mahayana Buddhism, not only echoing earlier serene artistic traditions seen in Ajanta but also surpassing them in colour and imagination. More elaborates deities and celestial, beings either sculpted or painted in vibrant colours, adorn the walls and ceilings.

The piece de resistance is the three storied monastery replete with staircases and balconies.

It couldn't have got more spectacular

The 17 Brahminical caves are show stoppers. The one that took my breath away is, without a doubt, Kailasha temple. 

The entrance, a tiered gateway, flanked by monumental elephants seemingly standing guard, is already awe inspiring and promises more.

Sure enough, looking up when we enter the front mandapa (pillared hall) we are enthralled by what remains of ancient paintings still clinging precariously to the ceilings — a testament to how the temple was even more vibrant in the days of yore.

That in turn takes us into the open courtyard that suddenly reveals the full scale of the temple — rising from the earth as though it grew there naturally.  Incredibly  this entire free standing complex was built top down from a single massive rock – Not constructed but carved out to include every architectural detail of a Dravidian temple.

The walls are alive with mythological scenes that seem to come alive in their action oriented captured mid gesture or mid emotion, each palpable

One particularly dynamic sculpture shows Ravana, from the epic Ramayana, attempting to lift Mount Kailasa itself in a display of arrogance and power. This temple represents Mount Kailasa, the spiritual Himalayan abode of Lord Shiva

And yes — some of the depictions are strikingly bold. The expressive forms and mythological intensity might be scandalous to modest eyes, but they also reveal a culture unafraid to explore power, passion, divinity, and humanity in all its forms.

The non-theistic

The last set of 5 caves also display exquisite carving in fine detail and delicate sculptures, and includes fine paintings dedicated to Jainism's Digambara sect focused on spiritual liberation through non-violence, non-attachment , and asceticism. It is non-theistic.

The Ellora caves are a testament to that faith which can shape mountains and philosophy which can find form in stone through human ingenuity guided by devotion.

Returning to the sunlight, the rock face appears unchanged. But we know better now. Inside the caves is a world where belief, artistry, and innovation converge in spell binding harmony.