Monday, 24 June 2013

Desert Journeys

Three Journeys Across Inhospitable Terrain

Abadan to Shiraz, with an Unplanned Stop at Bandar Deylam
30th of July 2000

Iran

On the 30th of July 2000 we set out with our driver/guide Keywan to drive some 540km from Abadan on the tip of the Persian Gulf to the 'Rose City' of Shiraz, the capital of the Province of Fars which gave its name to Ancient Persia and the modern Persian language (Fars /Pers - transliterations from Arabic script are infinitely variable).

Our journey would take us around the tip of the Persian Gulf to the small port of Bandar Deylam and then just north of east across an empty section of the map to Gachsaran where we would pick up the highway to Shiraz.

Iran is large so a journey of 540km across southern Iran looks small

The land round the tip of the gulf is sun-baked salty and often brown. It is not picturesque country, even before you add in the ugly remains of the Iran-Iraq war.

Leaving Abadan

A distant view of the small town of Hendijan made me wonder why anyone chose to live there. Perhaps no one did, their ancestor just washed up there on the tides of history and they never had the gumption to leave.

A distant view of Hendijan

The car was not been running well, given the dusty country we had been crossing for days it was not surprising the fuel filter had become blocked. We eventaully ground to a halt somemwhere north of Bandar Deylam. Keywan, for all his many talents, was no mechanic – and neither am I.

Breakdown north of Bandar Deylam

To give Keywan his due, he managed to get the car going again and we limped into the port of Bandar Deylam and found a garage.

At the garage, Bandar Deylam

The car restored to health, we headed north through the desert towards Gachsaran in the greener valley beyond. Keywan did not have total confidence in the repair and listened intently to the engine every time we climbed a gradient or accelerated away from a bend. This would not be a good place to break down.

In the spectacular desert scenery the only signs of human activity were the ribbon of tarmac and the oil pipelines which criss-cross the desert, sometimes running beside the road, sometimes veering off through narrow valleys or dropping down stony cliffs.

Road and pipeline between Bandar Deylam and Gachsaran

My father lived and worked in Iran from 1946 to 1951. I was born in 1950 in the refinery town of Abadan, and Lynne and I were taking advantage of a brief period of détente to visit the land of my birth for the first time since I left as a babe in arms.

For most of those six years my father worked in this desert, constructing pipelines, perhaps the very pipelines we were driving beside.

Pipeline between Bandar Deylam and Gachsaran

After 25Km we crossed the Zorah River which runs through the heart of the desert, scrubby patches of green clinging to its banks. Beside the bridge there is a village, I cannot imagine what its inhabitants do to earn their living.

Crossing the Zorah River

Gachsaran was still 50Km away, but the car kept going and Keywan gradually relaxed. An hour later we descended into a valley which seemed lush and green, though only in comparison to the desert we had just crossed. Here we joined the main highway to Shiraz

Into the Sunset, Ghadames, Libya
19th of April 2006

Libya

Most Libyans live beside or near the Mediterranean coast. The Jebel Nafusa (Nafusa Hills) in north-eastern Libya is the only significant non-coastal area of population, but even then it is not far inland, stretching 200km from Gharyan, just south of Tripoli, west to Nalut. Massoud took us to Kabaw, just south east of Nalut, to the home of his sister, Seham and brother-in-law, Omar, for lunch. Afterwards he drove us south into the desert to Derj and then to the oasis and former slave trading town of Ghadames (spellings vary) and Omar came along for the ride.

Ghadames is almost where Algeria, Tunisia and Libya meet

On our second evening we ventured out into the desert to watch the sunset. Hoping to attract tourists, a small encampment had been set up, bread baked in the sand,….

Baking bread in the sand
near Ghadames, Libya

… and tea were available for all. Twenty or so foreigners turned up; tourism was not big in Libya in 2006 and it is even smaller now, if it exists at all.

Bread and tea, near Ghadames, Libya

A Taureg rode into camp with the effortless elegance that is every Taureg’s birth right.

A Tuareg arrives in camp, Ghadames

He halted his camel by one of the huts and it lowered itself to the ground. Swinging his leg forward to dismount he strode towards the hut, his robes flapping in the gentle breeze. Then there was a strange electronic sound. Patting himself, he found what he was looking for and as his hand delved deep into his robes to emerge grasping a mobile phone, the magic evaporated into the desert air.

As the sun sank we climbed a sand dune…

Climbing a sand dune, near Ghadames, Libya

… and took up our position on the top.

Waiting for the sunset, near Ghadames, Libya

For reasons known only to himself, Omar walked off into the dunes for his own private view of the sunset. He can be seen in the photograph, a tiny figure at the end of a trail of footprints.

Omar of the sands, near Ghadames, Libya

Somewhere in the west, over Algeria, was a single band of cloud. We saw no sunset that day, the cloud swallowing the fiery orb long before it reached the horizon.

The sunset that no one ever saw, near Ghadames, Libya

We were disappointed, but it does no harm to be reminded that such things do not happen to order; sunsets cannot be bought and sold. Anyway, there would be other opportunities.

Bahariya to Siwa, Egypt
10th of November 2009

Egypt

We had crossed the western desert from Luxor on a good tarmac road through the oases of Kharga, Dhakla, Farafra and Bahariya. From Bahariya the blacktop turned east and headed for Cairo. To reach the Siwa oases 300km west near the Libyan border, the only way was over the sand. The British army had built a road of sorts in the 1930s, and we followed their route, but little of their construction remained. [Update: That was largely true in 2009, but a new road was planned and a few kilomtres were already in use near Siwa. I believe that road has been complete for some time]

Egypt and the oases of the Western Desert

Before setting out with Mohammed, our ever-affable driver and Araby, our cultured and knowledgeable guide, we presented ourselves at the local police station to prove we had a satellite phone for emergencies and to register for the desert crossing. The Egyptian authorities do not want anybody, particularly tourists, lost in the wilderness so they counted us all out, counted us all in and also checked us half way at an isolated army post, possibly the most boring posting in Egypt.[That might have been true in 2009, but between 2014 until 2018 there were a number of attacks on isolated outpost, and dozens of soldiers have been killed. An ISIS affiliate has been involved and the instability of Libya has not helped. This is no longer an area for tourists]

Outside the police station, Bahariya

The six vehicles making the crossing set off in convoy, but soon became separated.

Leaving Bahariya

After a couple of hours we stopped to stretch our legs, though finding a bush to pee behind presented a problem.

Stopping to stretch our legs

Half an hour later we encountered a small lake surrounded by reeds. It looked curiously out of place.

A small lake surrounded by reeds

Beyond the lake we dropped down into the Qattara Depression. The depression is the size of Wales, though a lot less rainy (where isn't?) and at its lowest point is 133m below sea level. Our route crossed only a small corner before we climbed out again.

Coming out of the Qattara Depression

At lunchtime we left the road and headed down to an oasis, now dry and deserted but once a centre of population. We walked down, leaving Mohammed to pick his way carefully over the firm sand and avoid the rocky outcrops.

Down to our lunchtime oasis

He found a shady spot for the picnic…

A shady spot for a picnic, Areg Oasis

….and laid it on the bonnet of the car. As well as being a skilled desert driver, Mohammed was also a top class picnic maker, in fact a good man to have around.

Mohammed's picnic, with added butterfly

The base of the cliff had been used as a necropolis in antiquity, but time had long ago opened up the graves and desert foxes ensured the area was littered with the bleached bones of the oasis’ former inhabitants.

Necropolis at desert oasis

Leaving our macabre picnic site, Mohammed navigated back to the track and an hour later picked up the new road under construction from Siwa. The last 20km or so were on tarmac, but we arrived with a sense of having journeyed across a desert and reached a destination of utter remoteness. This feeling lasted until we checked into our hotel and found it full of elderly Italians, bussed down from the Mediterranean coastal resorts.

Siwa

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

A Brief Encounter with Carnforth and a Train Trip to Grange-over-Sands

A Railway Station that Thinks it Won an Oscar and a Trip Across the Kent Estuary

Carnforth

Lancashire

Lancaster

‘There’s not much else to detain you in Carnforth,’ Brian said, ‘just a couple of charity shops, a branch of Greggs, a Chinese take-away and an estate agent or two.’ Brian was right, Carnforth has all these things and, useful as they may be, they are not the stuff of a blog post. Slightly more interesting are the old fashioned ironmonger’s and Carnforth Bookshop selling new, used and antiquarian books, but by and large Carnforth looks and feels like a town side-lined by the currents of history.

There is a Co-op which has taken up residence in what was, until the mid-sixties, the Roxy Cinema….

Carnforth Co-op

….and a war memorial with half a dozen floral tributes to Drummer Lee Rigby, murdered the previous week in London. I was surprised; he was not a local man, and their presence clearly says something about the current state of the national psyche, though I am not exactly sure what.

Carnforth War Memorial

Carnforth Railway Station

And then of course there is the railway station, the ‘else’ of the opening sentence. It was the railway - and the abundant local limestone - that made Carnforth, turning a village of a couple of hundred at the start of the 19th century into a steel making town with over 4000 inhabitants by its end. Then steel making stopped and so did Carnforth’s growth, though it remained an important railway depot for the first half of the 20th century.

Carnforth Railway Station

Carnforth Station and Brief Encounter

The railway also brought Carnforth its 15 minutes of fame, or more precisely, its 86 minutes of fame as that is the running time of Brief Encounter. If the locals are to be believed Carnforth Station was billed just above Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard, though, unaccountably it was Celia Johnson who got the Oscar nomination not the station.

The station clock, which features prominently in the film is still there….

The clock, Carnforth Railway Station

… and part of one platform has been set out like the fictional Milford Junction of 1945.

Carnforth Station as it might have been in 1945

Inside, the refreshment room, which also played an important part, has been lovingly recreated…..

Refreshment room, Carnforth Station

…… and returned to use. Despite the 3d (that’s thruppence, children, there were 12d to a shilling and 20s to £1) on the till, the £8.95 on the blackboard shows they have not recreated 1945 prices. This till is just for show, but they all looked like that when I was a lad.

All tills used to look like this

Although the station was used extensively as a location, the refreshment room scenes were shot in a studio, so this is a recreation of a room that never was.

The rest of the interior is the ‘heritage centre’. Beside the shop, Brief Encounter runs on a loop, while other displays chart the history of Carnforth. There is as much railway memorabilia as anyone could wish for, a serious model railway shop for small boys of all ages and, of course, a nod to the superstar of the railway world, Thomas the Tank Engine (here upstaged by Percy the Green Engine).

Percy the Green Engine, Carnforth Railway Station

West Coast Main Line trains stopped calling at Carnforth in 1970 and the platform was removed so they could scream through at full speed. The station deteriorated into dereliction until its redevelopment as a heritage centre in 2000.

Carnforth Railway Station, the functional part

Taking the Train from Carnforth to Grange-over-Sands

Two working platforms remain for trains running between Manchester Airport and Barrow-in-Furness. When you are at a station you should take a train, so we made the fifteen minute journey to Grange-over-Sands on the opposite (Cumbrian) side of Morecambe Bay. The attraction, at least for me, was that the line crosses the bridge over the Kent estuary or the top end of Morecambe Bay, depending on how you want to look at it.

Across the Kent estuary...or the top end of Morecambe Bay

Grange-over-Sands

Cumbria

South Lakeland

Grange is about the same size as Carnforth, but there the similarities cease. The railway turned it, almost overnight, from a fishing village to a seaside resort but a small and select sort of resort. We walked along the promenade which is unusual as proms go as it overlooks not a beach, but a strip of salt marsh, grazed by a small herd of sheep.

Lynne and Hilary on the promenade, Grange-over-Sands

A hundred years ago the main stream of the River Kent ran beside the promenade but over the years it worked its way south, leaving behind sands and mudflats which have developed into the salt marsh we see today. Sustained easterly winds in early 2007 started the river moving back again and the marsh is now eroding; Morecambe Bay is forever changing.

The salt marsh - and the salt marsh lamb, Grange-over-Sands

Just because the river has been neglecting the promenade, it does not mean the residents have, and the gardens are carefully tended by a group of volunteers; we passed them as they took their coffee break. Mainly retired people – Grange is full of ~~them~~ us – with a sense of civic responsibility, they are doing an excellent job.

Having strolled out along the prom, we walked back through the streets, past large, solid stone houses built to last until eternity, if not a little longer. There are charity shops here, too, but you have to admire the wrought ironwork.

Charity shops and wrought iron, Grange-over-Sands

There are also a couple of top class delis. Where Carnforth looks sad and dated, Grange’s response to the 21st century is to be archly retro - and it seems to work. They have an artisan baker who makes real bread and a serious butcher who also produces pies - and do I approve of a proper pie. Brian assures me they are as good as they look, and Brian’s opinion in such matters can be taken as fact.

Archly Retro, Grange-over-Sands

At the end of the Main Street....

Main Street, Grange-over-Sands

...we crossed a small park populated by a variety of exotic ducks and geese (though fewer than of late, Hilary thought) and made our way back to the station, itself a listed building and recently restored and repainted.

Snow Geese and chick, Grange-over-Sands

The climate and the nature of Morecambe Bay mean that Grange was never going to be a candy-floss, kiss-me-quick-hat sort of seaside resort, but the surrounding countryside is beautiful and the Lakes are nearby so this is prime holiday cottage country. People retire to Grange, too. I would not consider it myself, despite its direct link to Manchester airport, as the climate is just too cool and too wet, however for those with webbed feet….

Grange-over-Sands station

Monday, 6 May 2013

Wells to Glastonbury, 'The Mountain Route': Day 18 of the South West Odyssey (English Branch)

The South West Odyssey was a long distance walk.

Five like-minded people started in 2008 from the Cardingmill Valley in Shropshire and by walking three days a year finished at Start Bay on the South Devon Coast in May 2019.

The road sign outside our B & B said ‘Glastonbury 5 miles’. And indeed the A39 flies straight as an arrow across land as flat and green as a snooker table, if rather more criss-crossed by water courses. So that was it, then, a hearty breakfast, an early start and we could be finished in time for coffee.

But it was not like that. All walks need a destination, and ours was certainly Glastonbury, but the destination is secondary to the journey. Along the eastern edge of the Somerset Levels a couple of small hills swell out of the flat land, and others obtrude from the higher country inland. It was through these hills that we walked, heading southeast until our intended destination lay ten kilometres to the west. Only then did we turn towards the landmark of Glastonbury Tor. Calling it the ‘mountain route’ might be the tiniest of exaggerations, but it would keep us busy all day.

As we prepared to set out we welcomed Heather, Francis and Alisons’s daughter, who arrived to walk with us as she had in 2011 (Day 11: Perrott’s Brook to the Round Elm Crossroads) and 2012 (Day 15: Old Sodbury to Swineford)

Ready to set off from Glengarth House, Wells
(L to R Heather, Alison, Me, Brian (largely hidden) and Hilary

We left Wells through the recreation ground, its wrought iron gates surmounted by the words 'Mary Bignal Rand 1960-64' as though they were a memorial to a dead child. Born Mary Bignal in Wells in 1940, Mary Bignal Rand is alive and well. She came back from disappointments in the 1960 Rome Olympics to win, gold (long jump), silver (pentathlon) and bronze (4 x 100m relay) in Tokyo in 1964. She was granted the Freedom of the City of Wells in 2012.

Beside the recreation ground is the modest ‘stadium’ of Wells City FC of the Western League where 100 paying spectators is considered a bumper crowd.

Wells City FC
Photographed through a hole in the fence.

Beyond the football ground we hit open country and made a gentle descent to the little River Sheppey. Crossing the river we turned southeast towards Wellesley Farm over fields that had been ploughed and then baked in the sun. As no field head had been left we were faced with dusty and treacherous footholds, as Francis found to his cost. I did not laugh – but that cannot be said of everyone.

Footbridge across the River Sheppey

We rejoined the Monarch’s Way at the foot of Worminster Down, one of the hills that rise gently from the surrounding levels. Most of the climb was across a grassy field made interesting by the antics of a small herd of young cattle who charged around in tight formation like bovines on a mission, though what mission none of them seemed to know.

Worminster Down
The cattle are about to charge in from the right

On the broad summit we passed close to a possible hill fort, spotted on aerial photographs but not yet investigated on the ground. If there was little to see yesterday on Burledge Hill, there was nothing to see here.

The descent was through thick woodland. Passing a wooden cabin where an old man seemed to be living as a hermit, we picked our way downwards. As so often happens in woods there were plenty of paths to choose from, most of which petered out after 50 metres or so leaving us to crash downwards through the undergrowth or backtrack to try and find the correct route. Eventually we emerged from the woods at a stile, which indicated we were on the right path, if only at the end.

Descending through the woodland
Worminster Down

We made our way to the village of North Wootton where we climbed up the side of Pilton Hill, only to climb down it again a little further along. I am quite happy to climb a hill to get to the other side or just to reach the top, but this manoeuvre left me bewildered. Our footpaths have come down to us from medieval times or even earlier, and whichever ancient thought this was a good route had clearly been on the cider.

Approaching North Wootton
The oaks are only just coming into leaf

Appropriately we then passed through a cider apple orchard, surprisingly the first one of the weekend. Had we arrived a week later (or had spring arrived on time) the trees would have been in full blossom. Even so, I still find the military ranks of straight trunks rather pleasing.

Cider apple orchard, North Wootton

From here we continued south, on the Levels for once, until the foot of Pennard Hill, where we finally turned westwards towards Glastonbury Tor.

Heather and dandelions
Summerland Meadows

Pennard Hill is a sizeable hog’s back swelling up from the Summerland Meadows.

Up Pennard Hill

We paused halfway up to look at some locals….

Some of the locals, Pennard Hill

….and then a little higher up to look back at the Glastonbury Festival site. The structure in the centre of the photograph is the part completed Pyramid Stage. In eight weeks these empty fields will be occupied by over 100 000 people and it occurred to me that from where we stood you could doubtless hear the Rolling Stones and pay nothing. Brian pointed out you could hear them for the same cost but in rather more comfort watching it on television.

The Glastonbury Festival site
from Pennard Hill

Once on top of Pennard Hill it was a simple walk along the ridge before we picked up Cottles Lane and descended to West Pennard and the Sun Inn where Lynne joined us for a glass of lunch. She had spent the morning hunting her ancestors, her mother’s family having lived in this area before migrating to South Wales during the late 19th century industrial boom. The brother of one of her great great grandfathers had lived in West Pennard.

A glass of lunch at the Sun Inn , West Pennard

The first part of the afternoon was a straightforward walk across level ground towards the Tor, which had been a distant landmark since we topped the Mendips and was now becoming closer and apparently growing larger.

Glastonbury Tor gets closer...

Inevitably such a strange and striking landmark has attracted a range of legends. Some claim the identification of the tor with the Isle of Avalon goes back to Romano-British times but, more likely it dates from the discovery in Glastonbury Abbey of the bodies of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere in suspiciously neatly labelled coffins in 1191. Marketing is not a new invention, and medieval monks could lay it on with a trowel. Joseph of Arimathea visited Glastonbury, they claimed, and as proof you can see the cherry tree that miraculously grew where he planted his staff. He came with a companion, more than likely, a young Jesus…

‘And did those feet in ancient times

Walk upon England’s mountains green?’

asked William Blake many years later, knowing full well that the answer was ‘no’.

....and closer

It comes as no surprise to learn that the Holy Grail is also buried somewhere on the Tor (probably between Lord Lucan and Shergar) and it is also the home of Gwynn ap Nudd, Lord of the Underworld and King of the Fairies.

With all this magic in the air we approached with trepidation. There is a more prosaic – but perhaps more accurate – story, that the tor consists of layers of clay and blue lias with a cap of hard midford sandstone bound together by precipitated ferric oxide from the waters of the Challice Well. The surrounding soft sandstone has eroded away leaving the tor standing 170m above the Summerland Meadows. Before these meadows were drained it really was an island (though perhaps not the Isle of Avalon) in a sea of wetlands.

The path rises gently to the foot of the tor. On a sunny Bank Holiday Monday hundreds of people were climbing up and down it and there was an ice cream van parked at the bottom. I took advantage of it.

There is a concrete path all the way up - and down on the other side - to prevent erosion. From the top there are fine views back over where we had been, and westwards over the Levels and the low Polden Hills to the dark bulk of Exmoor our target for next year.

Looking back to Pennard Hill from Glastonbury Tor

The tower on the top is the remains of St Michael’s Church. The first church on the site was built by the newly Christianised Saxons, probably to keep Gwynn ap Nudd in his place. It was replaced by a medieval stone church which was destroyed in1275 by an earthquake – a rarity in these geologically stable islands. A third church was built and maintained until the Dissolution of the Monasteries in1539 after which it was quarried for building material so now only the tower remains.

Th Tower of St Michael's Church, Glastonbury Tor

We descended into the streets of Glastonbury. It is a strange town, half hardnosed marketing, half New Age vagueness. If you need to buy healing crystals or get your aura sorted, Glastonbury is the place to come. Having said that, some the streets round the south of the town or rather mundane…

Glastonbury, mundane streets

…at least until you look back at where you have been.

Looking back

On the western edge is another small hill called ‘Wearyall Hill’. It is a low ridge providing good views of the town and the tor (and the industrial estate, but best not to look there) and popular with those out for a stroll in the bank holiday sunshine. It’s not really big enough to live up to its name, even at the end of three days walking, but it provided a pleasing finale.

Glastonbury from Wearyall Hill, the ruins of the abbey are to the right of the picture

A lake survived at the foot of the hill for many years after the Levels were drained. It was into this lake that Sir Bedevere threw Excalibur after the death of Arthur so that it could be reclaimed by the Lady of the Lake.

9th and 10th century sources of dubious reliability mention a Romano-Celtic kinglet called Arthur who, in the early 6th century, resisted the invading Saxons, fought heroically at the Battle of Mount Badon and was killed at the Battle of Camlann - the locations of Badon and Camlann are unknown. Everything else is legend, mostly made up by Geoffrey of Monmouth (1110-1155) who gathered together all the stories he could, dreamed up a connecting narrative and presented it as a History of the British People. He was not highly regarded as a historian, even in his own time, but he did create a story that has kept on giving right up to the present time.

Lynne and Hilary were waiting for us near the Pomparies Bridge [update: It looks like 'Pomparies' but crossing it next year I discovered it is actually Pomparles] over the River Brue which divides New Age/Arthurian Glastonbury from the less exotic town of Street, more famed for its outlet shopping centre (where Hilary had spent much of the day) than its legends.

The end, at least for this year

If the Lady of the Lake and all her elves preserve us from Gwynn ap Nudd and his goblins, we shall reassemble at this spot next year for a further exciting instalment of the South West Odyssey (English Branch).