Just been to the doctor, all excited about getting travel advice. Filled in a risk assessment before the appointment and spent half an hour with the nurse solemnly discussing rabies, hepatitis, malaria and typhoid. At which point even I usually have a small wobble and wonder if I am Really Doing the Right Thing. And then, having put forward an excellent case for filling my body up with chemicals to zap these various bugs, she gently explained that they are going to cost more than it will cost to get me all the way to Morocco. Blimey! There’s an element of going-to-the-dentist syndrome about this (sorry Elli) – yes, I need to be here, yes I know it will hurt, yes, I will feel physically invaded, yes I know it’s the right thing to do……………but I cant believe I’m actually having to pay (a lot) for all this aggro and pain.
But I still left the surgery grinning from ear to ear with excitement!
There are little piles of things appearing around the James household. One on top of my desk: the Lonely Planet Guide, train tickets to Paris and Madrid, printouts of hotel and hostel reservations, a luggage locking device which proved irresistible in Aldi, a library copy of the Man in Seat 61(fount of all wisdom) ………………. didn’t know it is a book as well as a website.
Envelopes with lists scribbled on the back: sort insurance, get ticket London-Ludlow, check passport still valid………………
Another pile in my bedroom is growing: money belt, tin mug, an amazing spoon-cum-fork thing, a packaway daysac, an ancient strepsils tin with basic sewing things so I can mend stuff – I must have had that for about 40 years and it’s still just the job.
I have decided to send my surgeon and my thyroid specialist a post card each from Morocco “hey, you fixed me – thank you!” or better still an open postcard to the local paper saying we are all so quick to complain about things – I want to sing the praises of the National Health Service generally and Shrewsbury Hospital in particular.
What is it about travelling? Why does hoisting a rucksack on my back and taking off somewhere fill me with such pleasure? I know half the time I’ll be too hot or cold, uncomfortably sitting on some horrendous bus desperate for a pee, cross with a taxi driver, desperate for a bath…………I’ll worry about finding my hostel or missing a connection or losing some vital paperwork, or finding a nice present for my nearest and dearest, or drive myself mad sorting and organising all my stuff and then losing things in my rucksack. And I will be content. There will be nowhere else in the world I would rather be. I will revel in what is around me and will relate to total strangers and will feel totally at home and want to stay forever.
Friday, 20 August 2010
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
1. How does a journey start.......................
In this case, over a bowl of olives. Or rather 2 bowls of olives. A shared lunch, and a delicious surfeit of olives prompting the comment "well if you really like olives you need to go to Morocco." Bit of a silence. And then…………….. "THATS where I want to go" - and that was it. That sort of glow, that excitement......................there's nothing quite like it in the world.
This trip started 2 years ago with a plan to go to Mongolia on the train, taking my niece (how about "Travels with my Niece" for a blog) . I'd booked up staying with nomads in their yurts in the Gobi desert - and other things that middle aged aunts do with their nieces, and was trying to feel excited and not to worry about the fact that I didn’t feel brilliant, when my legs swelled up........and I will stop at that point because 2 years of dodgy thyroid (and no travelling, with my niece or otherwise) would fill several blogs and would be insufferably boring.
And now our wonderful national health service has made me better by cutting my throat and removing the offending part and what is the first thing to do on feeling better? Plan a trip, get out my rucksack, delve into a guidebook or 2, fantasise over the internet and decide that Italy looks good, and would be nice. And sensible. For someone who is still convalescing.
And then I ate the olives............................do you know in Morocco you get platefulls of olives with almost every meal and as you savour them you gaze out at the desert, or maybe watch the world go by from a street cafe? Or catch tantalising glimpses of snow capped mountains in the distance as you bask in the sun and listen to the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer? In Morocco it feels different, and its beautiful, and the people are delightful and polite, there are tiny, medieval streets, and gorgeous palaces and buildings, and you can go to the Saraha desert………………..or climb in the Atlas Mountains, the very names sound romantic – Tafraoute – Ouzazat – Fez – Zagora – Tangier – Cassablanca…………….
I’m doing a proper journey, on the train, with a visit to Gibraltar on the way, and Paris, and Madrid……………….and will arrive by ferry and set foot on that most northern tip of the African continent. I’ve booked my first night in an old fashioned slightly faded, atmospheric Moroccan hotel looking out over the port and the medina, I can hear the sounds now and feel that pull to go out and explore, to walk, to gaze, to listen………………………
Its such fun researching and booking it all over the internet, train tickets arrive in the post and emails tell me that I can now book the next leg of my journey. I’m going under the English Channel in a train and then in a trainhotel overnight to Spain. I’ll be able to sit in my seat on the train and look out at the countries I pass through – just like Ghandi in the film. I know I’ll get neurotic worrying about the ferry crossing and that seasickness will threaten or even happen. And then the questions to mull over – do I splash out on the latest edition of trusty old Lonely Planet or take my old friend that has been twice before and has wrinkled pages and hand written notes and email addresses and out of date information? Do I go to the desert again? Or explore the mountains? Will I go back and see the family I stayed a night with in Ouzazat? What should I take for their children? Shall I try to ring them first or just turn up.............................
This trip started 2 years ago with a plan to go to Mongolia on the train, taking my niece (how about "Travels with my Niece" for a blog) . I'd booked up staying with nomads in their yurts in the Gobi desert - and other things that middle aged aunts do with their nieces, and was trying to feel excited and not to worry about the fact that I didn’t feel brilliant, when my legs swelled up........and I will stop at that point because 2 years of dodgy thyroid (and no travelling, with my niece or otherwise) would fill several blogs and would be insufferably boring.
And now our wonderful national health service has made me better by cutting my throat and removing the offending part and what is the first thing to do on feeling better? Plan a trip, get out my rucksack, delve into a guidebook or 2, fantasise over the internet and decide that Italy looks good, and would be nice. And sensible. For someone who is still convalescing.
And then I ate the olives............................do you know in Morocco you get platefulls of olives with almost every meal and as you savour them you gaze out at the desert, or maybe watch the world go by from a street cafe? Or catch tantalising glimpses of snow capped mountains in the distance as you bask in the sun and listen to the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer? In Morocco it feels different, and its beautiful, and the people are delightful and polite, there are tiny, medieval streets, and gorgeous palaces and buildings, and you can go to the Saraha desert………………..or climb in the Atlas Mountains, the very names sound romantic – Tafraoute – Ouzazat – Fez – Zagora – Tangier – Cassablanca…………….
I’m doing a proper journey, on the train, with a visit to Gibraltar on the way, and Paris, and Madrid……………….and will arrive by ferry and set foot on that most northern tip of the African continent. I’ve booked my first night in an old fashioned slightly faded, atmospheric Moroccan hotel looking out over the port and the medina, I can hear the sounds now and feel that pull to go out and explore, to walk, to gaze, to listen………………………
Its such fun researching and booking it all over the internet, train tickets arrive in the post and emails tell me that I can now book the next leg of my journey. I’m going under the English Channel in a train and then in a trainhotel overnight to Spain. I’ll be able to sit in my seat on the train and look out at the countries I pass through – just like Ghandi in the film. I know I’ll get neurotic worrying about the ferry crossing and that seasickness will threaten or even happen. And then the questions to mull over – do I splash out on the latest edition of trusty old Lonely Planet or take my old friend that has been twice before and has wrinkled pages and hand written notes and email addresses and out of date information? Do I go to the desert again? Or explore the mountains? Will I go back and see the family I stayed a night with in Ouzazat? What should I take for their children? Shall I try to ring them first or just turn up.............................
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