A Journeyman's Log

Intrigued by the intractable tensions in the Middle East, I determined to read Jerusalem – The Biography by Simon Sebag Montefiore. This evening I finished it.
It’s a big book, spanning the city’s history from the time of King David (circa 1000 BC) to this decade. Apart from my constantly getting lost with the names, family relationships and various empires, what hit me hardest was the constant slaughter of people through most of the generations covered by the book.
That took my mind to the Old Testament:
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls and security within your citadels.”  Psalm 122:6-7, written by King David.
How many generations of Jews have prayed that prayer, or Christians eyeing prophetic writings about the nation and that city? Did they pray in vain?

On November 6th our first grandchild was born in Cambridge. My wife is now Gran and I am Grandad. In my far off childhood my mother’s mother was Gran and my father’s father was Grandad. So these new titles are fine.
My Grandad was a quiet and authoritative figure to me. He used to sit in the kitchen saying very little. He had a full head of hair and a white moustache, which I think was tinged yellow from smoking. The sad fact is I never felt close to him or that he was much interested in me.
Perhaps it’s the way families work, but my mother’s parents seemed to be more loving. My Grampie was a shorter, smiling man who had words to build up. I hope my granddaughter remembers me as the smiling, talking one — not that her other grandfather is anything like my own was.
The journey from the South Coast to Cambridge will become more familiar in coming years. It’s mainly motorway: A27, A23/M23, M25, M11 with the glorious Dartford Tunnel going north under the Thames and the high-flying bridge coming south.
Sending a message to my wife and sons opens up the identity question. Should I be Tony, Dad or Grandad? I enjoy all three, so had better get used to the multiple identity.

24 November, 2011

Sometimes the nicest things happen close to home, not on long journeys.

At 7.00 AM today, this was the view from an upper window in our house.

24 November, 2011

In the 1970s Brazil and Paraguay set up a new entity to build a huge dam, then run the hydroelectricity plant it holds. The partnership is celebrated in the name – Itaipu Binacional, seen here in the first vehicle park visitors go to on their tour.

The most spectacular part is the overflow, which opens up when the huge artificial lake is too high. Giant doors that weigh as much as a jumbo jet are opened to let the water run down an enormous concrete channel into the river below.

The whitish pipes to the right are 10 metre diameter channels for the water to drop 100 metres to huge turbines beneath the level of the river. Paraguay gets 90% of its electricity from this generator, Brazil 30%.

There are three sections to the dam:
1. An earth and rock piece, seen here from inside the coach as we drove down from the top of this section to river level below.
2. The concrete working section with the huge tubes, turbines, switching matrixes and high voltage feeder cables to nearby pylons.
3. The overflow section, also concrete, which deals with any over-high level in the dam.
I found it pretty amazing, in the ambition of its first conception, to the construction and now the invaluable contribution to green energy for the region.

31 October, 2011

My last post was from Iguassu in Brazil, with the spelling varying from time to time even within the town itself. Since the settlement developed around the Iguassu Falls, it’s tempting to think that Foz is Portuguese for Falls, but no it means Mouth. A tour guide put things right by explaining that Falls are the cataratas in Portuguese.

Whatever they are called and spelled, the falls are truly awe inspiring. Just prove I was there… I am the one in the red, wet T-shirt. The bridge is built out over the first level to which the mighty river descends. Below it is another drop to the new, lowest level of the river. More pictures when I can get them processed.

31 October, 2011

This afternoon I was thinking how many times I have attended meetings and conferences inside big rooms in a hotel or conference centre, most of which look and sound the same. Since arriving here two days ago I had not set foot outside the nice hotel where our group is staying. So, today I took a walk around a big block around 5.15 PM. It was still hot, probably in the upper 70s Fahrenheit, and humid. This town, Iguazu, is quite hilly in this quarter which is filled with various car shops–dealers, menders, washers, alarm-fitters. A friend who lived here for 17 years told me that the roads are such that shock absorbers, springs and electrics are all shaken to failure, so that’s why the repair shops are here.

Just outside our meeting room is excellent coffee several times per day, each supply desperately needed for weary travellers trying to make sense of multi-cultural conversations as we probe the future for this mission. What I find really odd, having travelled through multiple time zones many times, is that the 11-hour flight from London to Sao Paulo required only a three hour adjustment to the wrist watch. Usually that length flight needs a draining 8 hours. And the coffee is not so good, either.

20 October, 2011

Since Lisbon, our journeys have been in the U.K. – the longest to Newcastle Upon Tyne, where our oldest son was ordained into the Church of England. It’s a region unfamiliar to me and proved to be as beautiful and interesting as any other. Then Cambridge where our youngest son has moved for his work. Buying a house these days is a major challenge for first-time buyers, but he and his wife have managed it. The only other journeys have been up and down a ladder as I painted the eaves of our home. In October comes a major trip to Brazil for the mission for whom I volunteer. Excellent!

7 September, 2011

Today’s Sunday, so not the Sabbath. We live in the age of grace not law, so the old restrictions on journeys on Saturday don’t apply – unfortunately. The weather here has been so summery through most of April and today, 1st May, that it’s great to be outdoors. Today, I started with a semi-jog around the local golf course (3 miles), walked to and back from a local church (1.5 miles), then walked from Truleigh Hill to Devil’s Dyke along the South Downs Way – and back – 6 miles. It’s no wonder I feel just a tad jaded this evening.
Yet, it’s time to rejoice again. Two years ago my darling wife was so ill we wondered if we’d ever even picnic on the South Downs, let alone walk so far. Today, she did it. And that’s not the first time either. What a lady!

1 May, 2011

It’s confession time: I am a fan of Wallander – Inspector Kurt Wallander of the Ystad police in Sweden. BBC3 or BBC4 carried Swedish TV adaptations of Henning Mankell’s detective novels, then English versions of other stories emerged starring Kenneth Branagh. The Swedish actor, Krister Henriksson, was the first Marian and I saw in the role, so he’s the benchmark. We think the others don’t make it. But, then, isn’t that often true of the first recording one hears of a piece of music?
One reason I like Wallander is that he is getting older, touching 60 in later stories, his life has been unpredictable and disappointing in some areas, in his failed marriage, for example. Yet he’s passionate in his pursuit of criminals and a just response to their deeds.
Since last Autumn I have read the first six novels – in English translation, as my Swedish is as accomplished as my “insert language name of your choice here.” What a little islander these British Isles have brought forth.
Dark deeds, Swedish land- and seascapes, in light airy Summer or freezing wind-swept Winter, and a frail, flawed detective who always resolves the mystery. Excellent!

13 April, 2011

Going home – but where is home? It used to be where my guitar was, then became where my wife and family are. Now the boys have left home, so it’s where my wife is. But both of us long to go back “home” from time to time. Back to where our earliest memories lie, back to Wales.
I was born in Cardiff and left there only to go deeper into Wales to university in Swansea. After that I have never lived in Wales, only in England, with a few happy years in Seychelles.
What does “home” mean? Wales is where our parents came from; 75% of them, anyway. Where our grandparents came from; 66% this time. For some reason we choose Wales as home because our own early days were spent there. The accents are familiar. We can pronounce most of the place names. Wales is where we feel refreshed, re-rooted in our lives, strengthened in the faith we were taught there.
They used to say that teachers and water were Wales’ biggest exports. The three days we just spent in mid-Wales were rain free, unusually. Although trees were still winter bare, sheep were lambing, gorse bushes thrust out new yellow blossoms, daffodils celebrated spring and the sunshine was delicious.

20 March, 2011