Teotihuacan – my first glimpse into the Pre-Hispanic

Like most tours, we were first taken to a place just outside Teotihuacan so we could be taught about different Mexican handicrafts from around the region. This type of inclusion is normally to encourage you to spend money on their premises, and don’t get me wrong, it was, but then we were also shown the many uses of the agave plant, which I, naturally, mis-took for an aloe vera plant. 

A species of maguey (agave) – the magical plant of many properties

I often use agave sweetener in my own cooking, but what I didn’t realise is that it is also used in the production of Mexico’s most favourite tipples, mezcal (a variety of tequila), and pulque, a milky-white liquor. Mezcal is produced by cooking the heart of the agave, primarily the Agave Azul, whereas pulque is mainly brewed via a fermentation process of the sap from six different types of maguey (agave).  

Stripping the leaf to make a sheet of paper

The plant itself has a very sharp tip at the end of its thick green leaves, which can be extracted simply by pulling it out. The whole needle emerges complete with the thread dangling down. The leaves can also be stripped down and used in cooking, or as paper, ropes and fabrics. None of the plant is wasted. Genius.

Needle and thread from the leaf of the agave

I can’t speak for everyone in the group, but I personally found all this rather fascinating, that is, until we had the opportunity to sample their indigenous pulque, which left a bitter yeast taste in my mouth. I was advised that it tastes better when accompanied with fruits or other added beverages, but I’m still not convinced.

After a quick tour around the silver and pottery artisan workshops, we were ushered into the obligatory shop selling local handmade crafts. One person was tempted into the world of Mezcal and purchased a bottle, but beyond that, they received nada from us.

On arrival at the ancient city of Teotihuacan, we were greeted by the ear-splitting sound of a distressed jaguar. Local street vendors wandered around the site trying to sell these wooden whistles that created the hideous sound. It took quite a lot of polite willpower not to ask them to bugger off. I don’t mind people trying to sell me bracelets, or sunglasses, or even a hammock – although how most backpackers are supposed to be able to store them while travelling around the world is beyond me – but these whistles didn’t even sound like a jaguar. Anyway, I did my best to block out the cacophony of howls so I could listen to the guide as he attempted to explain the history of Teotihuacan using the best English he could muster. 

Tourists and street vendors at the site entrance

And what a fascinating place to explore. Teotihuacan is an ancient Pre-Columbian (literally translates to ‘before Christopher Columbus) city that was built entirely by hand, though the origins of its developers remains a mystery. Evidence suggests that the site was abandoned around seven-hundred and fifty BC, and then claimed by the Aztecs, although Mayan and Zapotec texts have been discovered around the site.

The ruined city

The main attractions of the ancient city are the Pyramid of the Sun and the Moon, and the Temple of the God, Quetzalcoatl.

A geek’s aside: if you grew up playing the video game, Final Fantasy VIII, you’ll remember the use of this mythical creature as a powerful lightning force. True to the game’s representation, the God was depicted as a bird slash rattlesnake hybrid who’s name literally translates as ‘emerald plumed serpent’. However, it is suggested that he was the God of wind and rain, not lightning. He was also believed to be the God that created mankind and the calendar.

When you first enter the grounds, you come to the Temple of Quetzalcoatl himself. It is an outstandingly well preserved pyramid that you cannot climb, but there is a viewing platform for you to admire the façade. Somehow, many of the alternating sculptures of the plumed serpent and the crocodile head, complete with headdress, have survived the unkind years of human destruction and natural weathering. This type of admirable artwork often gives me goosebumps. I stand there and imagine who might have carved them, and how long it would have taken to capture the deities in such vivid three dimensional detail.

The astonishingly preserved Pyramid of the Plumed Serpent

Next stop is the Pyramid of the Sun. Visitors are invited to climb the steep steps to the very top of this structure in order to get a birds-eye view of the whole site, which is obviously very cool, but still not my favourite part of the tour. 

Pyramid of the Sun

Atop the Pyramid of the Sun – enjoying the view of the Pyramid of the Moon

Even though you’re only able to climb up to the first platform of the Temple of the Moon, from this point, you are presented with a perfect view of the entire city and the Avenue of the Dead. Some believe it was named this due to the tomb-like structures lining the road, but if you ask me, which I wouldn’t, because I’m not a historian, it was more likely because of the many sacrificial religious rituals and offerings that were made in the area. 

View from the Pyramid of the Moon – The Avenue of the Dead

Under the Pyramid of the Moon alone, archaeologists have discovered several human sacrifices, including children, at the base of the structure. If you’re into a bit of gore, head to the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City to view the remains of those unfortunate souls.


I could have stood at the top of the Moon for the rest of the afternoon, just staring down the avenue and picturing the thousands that once lived there. But alas! Lunchtime was calling, so the guide ushered us back into the van and sped us towards the overpriced restaurant a few kilometres away. I refused to pay for the expensive not very appetising all-you-can-eat buffet and opted to try a lovely bowl of cactus soup instead. Delicious.

This post was written to the sounds of Maroon 5 during a nine hour bus journey from Granada in Nicaragua, to San José in Costa Rica.

Why did I choose Mexico City?

If I’m perfectly honest, when I was planning my trip (which pretty much involved deciding on the cheapest one-way flight I could find), I had no intention of going to Mexico. My original idea, was to head straight back towards South-East Asia, where prices are cheap and I could dive for next to nothing. My travel compass swiftly changed when I made the last minute decision to book a flight to Toronto and spend 3 months split between Canada and the USA.

It was all thanks to my fabulous French friend, Charlie (the proudest French person I know), had planned to visit Mexico City in October of twenty-sixteen, so I decided to follow his lead and fly down from New York City. It would have been a wasted opportunity for us to be on the same side of the world and not see each other. He did, after all, attend my party in the UK before I left for my year of travels. And I am so grateful that he suggested I join him. What a beautifully interesting city. 

My favourite building – Casa de los Azulejos (House of Tiles)

Like most countries in the world, the capital city is generally the place that you spend the night and leave on the first bus the following day. Expect for London. Everyone seems to love London. Anyway, Mexico City is the polar opposite. It is abuzz with crumbling architecture, cheap local roadside eateries (oh, those tacos) and accommodating, super friendly people. In fact, the nature of the Mexicans was one of the reasons I extended my intended stay. Everyone wants to get to know you, even if your Spanish is particularly terrible – guilty – they will try to have a broken conversation because they are genuinely interested in who you are and where you come from. 

Helping a local with his English project for school

I was very lucky to be in that amazing city during Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). I did not experience the ambience of attending a cemetery during the festival, but I did go to the parade on the twenty-ninth of October. Apparently, it was the first year that they conducted the event, as it was inspired by the famous James Bond movie, Spectre. 

Amazing costume effort by the locals

It felt like the entire population of Mexico City had come out to enjoy the new fiesta of native dancing, creepy costumes and the deep bass of Spanish music. Well done Bond, you’ve started something special. 

A float from the parade

Beyond the colourful wreaths of flowers, and competitions of oversized pan de muerto (bread of the dead, or ‘dead bread’ according to America) offerings, is an architect’s dream. You could explore the streets of Centro Historico for weeks and still come across a different church or even a ruined piece of lost Aztec heritage. Im going to give you a brief lesson to explain why the ruins of this city provide such a vibrant, if a little complicated, Mexican history.  

Mexico City was once the ancient capital of Tenochtitlan. The Aztecs and the present citizens share the same appreciation for the centre of the city, known today as the Zócalo. It is one of the biggest main square’s in the world and has been used for ceremonial purposes, religious festivals and celebrations; true to form, it is where the Day of the Dead Parade finished and the musical fiesta began. 

 Zócalo – Day of the Dead Festival shrines in front of the Catedral Metropolitana de la Ciudad de Mexico (Metropolitan Cathedral of the City of Mexico)

Adjacent to the Zócalo is the ruin of Templo Mayor. Originally, this was the location that the Aztecs considered to be the centre of the universe; all according to legend, of course, as is the popular phrase in many Central American museums. Unfortunately, I do not have a photo to post because I think it’s on my camera, not my phone, however, this website offers more in depth information and shares an image of what historians believe the site looked like when it was constructed.

A common theme that appears in the history of this archeological dream-world, is that many of Central America’s ancient cities were overthrown by greater forces. For example, the Aztecs conquered the Mayans and muscled them out of their homes. Many ancient treasures of this world have been lost due to years of pillaging, or piracy, or, in a strange not-quite-justified kind of way, recycling. This brings me back to our modern day plaza in Mexico City, the Zócalo. After the conquest over the Aztecs in fifteen-twenty-one, the Spanish disassembled the beloved centre of the universe, Templo Mayor, and used its bricks to pave the Zócalo plaza. This savage destruction is peppered throughout all of Central America’s history. Templo Mayor is now a museum and a sad looking archeological site tucked away behind the beautifully decaying Cathedral. If you were touring the city, and didn’t know of it’s presence, you would probably miss it. 

Another stunning piece of architecture in the city is the picture perfect, front cover dominating, Palacio de Bellas Artes. This museum mainly houses art collections, but also has a permanent exhibition featuring models and photographs that depict the work of Mexican architects.

The front of Palacio de Bellas Artes

 I did not visit the museum itself due to time constraints (as per usual), but I did go to the free tour of the fully functioning theatre inside. Now this was something special. This is where you can watch performances of the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico and of the National Symphonic Orchestra. Sitting on one of those soft red velvety chairs in the audience, I looked up at the heavy marble walls and intriguing safety curtain hiding the stage. That curtain alone weighs twenty-seven tonnes. Built by Tiffany and Company of New York, it is a mosaic made from a million tiny pieces of crystal to create a shimmering stained-glass-effect masterpiece of a Mexican valley. The image features two active volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Iztacchihuatl, both of which can be found bubbling away South of Mexico City, in the state of Puebla. 

Tiffany’s marvellous crystal creation – the lighting inside wasn’t the best for amateur photographer skills

Fun fact – Mexico City was originally built on lake Texcoco. Because of this, the immense weight of the marble structure and the Tiffany curtain are a heavy burden for Bellas Artes, resulting in the loss of two to three centimetres of the building each year, as it sinks into the earth. 

An example of the marble inside the theatre – my photos do not do it justice

So, I spent ten wonderfully jam-packed days of exploring Mexico City and its surrounding delights. And believe me, this was still not enough time. Fortunately, The airport tends to be a very cheap destination to fly into as it is an international connecting hub, so hopefully I’ll find my way back there one day. Actually I know I will. I completely intend to. It is a city with surprise around every corner, so don’t be afraid to explore side streets, local markets and buildings, just check with the security guard on the door that you’re allowed inside first!

Inside the post office – I fell in love with the iron staircase and elevator

My original intention after this was to head straight to the famous Tikal ruins of Guatemala, but something kept me anchored to that smoky taco-pregnant country for a few days more. With a cheap ticket to Cancun purchased, I got on the easiest Metro in the whole world (they have pictures for each stop) and made my way to the airport. 

Cancun Airport – Get yourself a cheeky cocktail before you get on the bus to Cancun

This post was written to the sounds of orchestral Nicaraguan street music and deafening bangs of fireworks at six-thirty in the morning. 

New York – I took my bite, and my hunger still isn’t satiated…

You’d think that it would be possible to pretty much see everything if you spend thirty-seven sporadic days in the city of lights, horns and smoke. But no, I absolutely have to go back. I must discover the reason that everyone queues to shoot themselves up the Empire State Building, I need to take a sneaky peak inside at least one beautiful theatre, and have a swanky evening meal in the Upper East Side.  

 Naughty treat of wine and sushi in Long Island 

I may not have taken part in these rather expensive experiences this time around, but I still managed to spend a decent portion of my poor backpacker fund. ‘Don’t worry,’ I would tell myself, ‘you’ll be in Central America soon, so have one more of those tongue tingling, free-poured gin and tonics that you love so much.’ Thankfully I’m writing this blog from Mexico where my daily spend is roughly thirty of those special Great British Pounds that I intensely saved. This budget includes my accommodation, food and sightseeing. It is around the equivalent of six hundred Mexican Pesos. Stay tuned to find out what I spend those pesky pesos on in my next post.  

So back to New York City. There’s so much to tell you. I have a list (I love lists) of everything I did, everywhere I went and sweaty photos to show you where I ran. My original plan was to run around Central Park like a local, but as I was staying in Brooklyn, I would have had to use the Metro to get there and back. In resisting the urge to do so, I saved the whole of the subway from having to endure the after effect of my sport session during an unseasonable heatwave. 

Running is addictive, especially when you’re in new places where you accidentally hit distances of eight miles because you get lost, or completely underestimate the length of a road. Did you know that the longest road in New York City is Broadway? The reliable internet states that it is sixteen point three miles long.  

I did not run this road.  

In fact, my favourite place to run was Prospect Park in Brooklyn. There is a track that circles the entire ground, specifically for those who wish to run, cycle, walk, etc.  

Cheeky selfie in Prospect Park during a morning run

Each time I took the route to the park, I passed the beautiful gold mythical mural surrounding the entrance to Brooklyn Public Library. One quiet rainy day, I wandered around the building and read the majority of a haiku poetry book. I was soggy, but it was bliss. 

The door to Brooklyn Public Library

I arrived in New York City at the beginning of September and left on the twenty-fifth of October. With a couple of road-trips in between, I was able to experience the city during a time of intense heat, and witness the slow transition into a chilly red and orange wonderland. Winter was coming, and with it, so was ice hockey season. A quick search on Stubhub and I had my hands on two pre-season tickets for the game between New York Islanders and the Philadelphia Flyers at the new Barclay’s Centre in Brooklyn. 

Singing the National Anthem in harmony… Before the match mayhem…

It’s a great place to watch sport, but, I warn you now, if you want a pint, or a liquor with a mixer, or even a cocktail in a plastic cup, expect to cough up thirteen of your hard earned bucks. THIRTEEN. But beyond that, what a show. Talented men glide around the ice like they knew how to do it from birth, or even before. Underneath all the padding and oversized Jerseys was a sport that was instilled in their very being. They weave in and out of the other players on the ice like a rehearsed musical. Naturally, a seemingly harmonious dance between rivals wouldn’t be complete without a friendly punch-up or two. Or six.

Game time

New York is full of surprises during every season. As you may have read in my previous post about the 9/11 memorial, I am interested in the preservation of history and memory. On the eleventh of September, I made it my mission to scour the city for the best location to view the tribute of light. A couple of local friends advised that I head towards the piers on the Westside of Manhattan, so I made my way through Greenwhich Village, resisting the enticing soft serve in Big Gay Ice Cream, towards Pier Forty-Five on the Hudson River. It was half past six when I arrived and the sun was already setting. I meandered along the wooden boards and thought of home. I looked down and remembered the years I would stomp along the planks of Weston-super-Mare’s Grand Pier, desperate to get to the Pavilion, where I would spend all Mum and Dad’s money on the teddy grabbing machines, and eat my weight in deep fried donuts.

I reached the end of the pier and found fifty or more people partnered up and dancing to a Waltz. I watched the pairs traverse the wood until the sky faded and the clouds turned from white fluff, to a rainbow of orange, yellow and pink candy floss. 

The sunset across Hudson Bay

A few moments later I saw it, a blue beam of light streaming from it’s bulb in the financial district. But something wasn’t right. I could only see one. There should be two. I was in completely the wrong place. Drawn to the dramatic sky, I stayed until the pretty melody stopped and the dancers dispersed before I headed towards the nearest Metro. 

Dancers on Pier Forty-Five

A couple of misjudgements and an hour later, I finally figured out the best location. Perched on a bench at Brooklyn Heights, I gazed at that blue number eleven against the blackened sky. The ghost of the Two Towers. 

This beautiful picture (somewhat blurry – I need to perfect my photography skills) needs no caption.

I realise, as I think about closing this post, that I am yet to discuss Lady Liberty. How dare I. That one hundred and fifty one foot gift from the French (three hundred and five foot including the stone pedestal) was a symbol of freedom and new beginnings for thousands of weary travellers that crossed the ocean in search of their American Dream. I will admit that I almost didn’t bother doing the trip to Liberty and Ellis Island. I had seen both from the free Staten Island Ferry, but something piqued my interest as my New York City stint drew to a close. I also owed it to the friendly people of the United States, that are so proud of their country’s heritage, by taking my time to absorb the most dominating piece of their history. At eighteen dollars, it is one of the more affordable historical attractions in New York, and probably the most informative. This is where it began. This is how the United States of America became the super power that it is today.

Morgan Bear asked to have his photo taken with the iconic Statue of Liberty

Obviously Lady Liberty herself is quite a special sight. The crew that take you to the island will cut the engine and allow the boat to drift onwards. This is the perfect opportunity to take close-up snaps and study the statue as a whole, rather than craning your neck as you stand beneath her. As the vessel glides, you’re already imagining the wide-eyed foreigners staring at the crown of sunshine and the fierce gold flame; her mighty presence asserts promises of freedom, opportunity and improved lifestyle. Even today, when Ellis is nothing more than an island for learning and memories, Lady Liberty sits upon her plinth, and continues to look straight ahead, determined and unfazed. Regardless of the number of people that mill around her island every day, it is a peaceful idyllic location for a Copper deity who bears the burden of the Nation’s prayers upon her stone tablet.

View of Manhattan from Liberty Island

After gawking at the statue for an hour or two, I hopped on the shuttle boat to Ellis Island. I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d heard many a story of how the conditions on the ships were horrendous, and that many people died along the way. I heard that once on the island, there were still no guarantees that you’d be granted the right to enter the United States. In my mind it had never been a very welcoming place, and to an extent, it wasn’t. But it certainly wasn’t as bad as I imagined either.

Entrance to Ellis Island’s immigration centre

The audio tour is included in the price, so I followed the invisible voice as she took me through the stories of the thousands of immigrants that had trudged the halls of Ellis Island. She took me up the staircase where I would have been obliviously examined by doctors for approximately six seconds. They would have determined whether or not I was fit to enter the country. If I failed the test, they would pre-determine an illness and chalk a symbol on my clothing to establish the ailment. 

View of Ellis Island’s hospital buildings

If I passed this test, I’d have entered the iconic hall where my whole life would be examined via a set of rigorous immigration questionnaires, before being granted the freedom to join the American Civilisation. In the present, as I entered the now echoey hall, I could sense the buzz of multi-lingual conversations that would have bounced around the room all those years ago; frightened voices of people realising that they had just entered a completely foreign world with no concrete plans of where they would live or work.

The hall in Ellis Island’s immigration centre at the end of the day

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom, apparently, throughout the sixty-two years that Ellis was in operation, the island let ninety-eight percent of the immigrants onto American Soil, that equates to more than twelve million people. Another fun fact is that around forty percent of Americans today, are able to trace part of their heritage back to Ellis Island. If you’re lucky, you might catch a talk presented by one of the grand-children of an Ellis Island immigrant.

A New Yorker that works at Ellis Island – her grandmother was an immigrant here

What a fascinating and haunting place.

This post was written to the sound of my iPod songs on shuffle, some of which included the childhood tunes of Steps…

My Love Affair with Washington DC

A pleasant surprise

When I booked a one-way ticket to Toronto, I thought, okay, I’ll start off slow, take some time out, visit some friends, a couple of weeks in Canada, a month or so in New York City, then get back into the grit of backpacking, head to South America, and get my relaxed self back into the crazy world of hosteling. Three months later and I’ve visited 4 Canadian States and 10 US States. This is way more than I bargained for, and it’s all down to the amazing accommodating friends that I have visited, all of which are now family to me. So thank you to everyone that has been part of this not so relaxed whirlwind.

Don’t worry, the reason I’m writing to you today isn’t to present you with a soppy Oscar speech, it’s to reflect on my favourite place so far.

During a trip to my friend David’s hometown in Virginia, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to visit Washington DC on three occasions. Naturally, I was desperate to see the monuments. David’s sister, Katie, drove us to a parking garage near the Capitol Building so we could loop around the whole National Mall. She warned me that it would be a lot of walking, but this didn’t phase a Fitbit obsessive who tends to avoid any transport that does not involve using her own legs.

The Capitol Building, like most of the monuments, is a bright white structure supported by an array of columns. It’s situated directly opposite the Lincoln Memorial at the other end of the National Mall. It’s a pretty building, but it doesn’t have the ‘wow factor’ for me, probably because you can’t get close enough to really appreciate the architecture.

Capitol Building

I do however, recommend checking out the Botanic Garden. Guarding the entrance to the conservatory, is a wiggly brown tentacled metal sculpture. It reminded me of a kraken or mythical creature from a Japanese Anime, but really it just represents the roots of a tree. You may have to patiently wait for a class of school children to stop climbing all over it to get a good photo, though. Inside, the garden is sectioned off into different categories of plants/areas of the world, like a mini version of Cornwall’s Eden Project. Did you know that cocoa pods actually grow from the trunk of the tree? I also found it amusing that they were growing Cabbage on a Stick and Pumpkin on a Stick. High five America.

Cabbage on a Stick

Pumpkin-on-a-Stick

After our short trip around the natural world, we continued our historic journey until we came to a tired, yet fully functional, carousel. This extra-ordinary carousel marked the end of segregation when eleven month old, African American, Sharon Langley, took a whirl on that magical roundabout; the same day that Martin Luther King, Jr belted out his, I have a dream, speech. The carousel is now enjoyed by people of all ages, shapes, sizes, colours, cultures… Everyone! This history was all very interesting and serious, until I read the first of the Rider Rules:

That was it. Game over. Hilarity won.

I feel very fortunate that I was able to explore DC with someone who had worked in the area and has an true interest in its history. The passion that Katie has for sharing her knowledge is infectious. I could feel my brain sponge working overtime to absorb as much information as possible, eager to make the most of my private tour.

Now we’ll move onto the good stuff. You can pretty much see the Washington Monument from anywhere in the city. DC law states that no building is permitted to be constructed taller than the five hundred and fifty-five foot obelisk; so you won’t find a stuffy high rise metropolis here. One of my favourite facts about the monument is that it is two-toned in colour. Six years after the commencement of the construction in 1848, it was halted due to lack of funding. Around a quarter of it had been completed. The money sucking American Civil War pushed the construction back even further. It wasn’t until 1884 that the monument was completed, and on 21 February 1885, it was dedicated to the first President of the United States, Mr George Washington. The bottom quarter of the obelisk is a darker stone than the rest of the structure due to the elapsed time and different sources of marble used; a constant reminder/symbol of the wartime effect.

Morgan Bear loved the iconic obelisk

A post about Washington DC would not be worth the read if good ol’ Lincoln and Jefferson were not discussed. Towards the other end of the National Mall, we came to a fork in our path. A bit of extra walking wasn’t going to deter a Fitbit freak like me, so we opted for the route that opens out onto the track that loops around the Tidal Basin of Potomac Park. Towering above the edge of the North bank is the gift of Japan – cherry blossom trees. Katie excitedly described the Spring season where they would bloom, unashamedly admiring their own pink reflections in the water below. Directly opposite, is the Jefferson Memorial. Proudly tucked away from the buzzing centre of the touristic city, Jefferson stands tall in his own columned castle. I was shocked to find that there were not many people milling about on the steps, enjoying the view of the Washington Monument from afar. Apparently, a lot of tourists don’t venture to this area because of the added walking distance. I wasn’t complaining.

Jefferson Memorial

The biggie, the one that everyone swarms to, like shoppers to a Black Friday sale, is the Lincoln Memorial. I proudly admit that I was one of the masses, happily chatting about the famous scene from Forrest Gump, recalling that time I ate Bubba Gump Shrimp in Las Vegas and taking my souvenir selfie of the Reflection Pool. We chilled on the cool steps, taking our time to imprint the memory of this monumental place. Children fed snacks to the fat ducks bobbing at the edge of the pool, locals obliviously jogged past, miming to their motivational running tracks, teens jumped in unison for a cheesy Facebook cover photo. Luckily, we had arrived at the time of a very rare tourist lull. It was not overly crowded in the memorial and I was able to have my picture taken with the big guy, completely on my own (with Morgan Bear), without having to queue. Not like the time it took me half an hour to take a photo of New York City’s Raging Bull.

Lincoln Memorial

We completed our tour of the iconic National Mall with congratulatory cocktails and a hearty meal of my first ever juicy mound of meatloaf (oh, my… just wow) in Old Ebbitt Grill. Before leaving, I made sure to take a photo of the original Walrus head famously bagged by President Teddy Roosevelt.

Aside: I was a little disappointed that we could not see the Whitehouse during that first day trip, as the whole area was closed off for an unknown reason. Fortunately I was able to visit during my second and third trip to DC in the week to follow. The best time to tour the monuments is definitely at night. I was like a child at Christmas, running from one to the other, eyes wide at the ghostly white marble against the black backdrop. It was a chilly evening and not many people were around. We almost had the moment to ourselves.

Our serene moment at the World War II Memorial

As we drove back to Reston, Virginia, I pictured my own Washington city lifestyle – I would stretch out my limbs each morning, prepping for a lap around the National Mall, eat lunches on the green, attend exhibitions in the museums, read under the cherry blossoms. My day-dreaming triggered a strange comforting feel. This was a place I could, possibly, call home, one day. I never thought I’d think this way about a city, but DC isn’t like hyper populated, claustrophobic London or New York. It is the equivalent of the United Kingdom’s artistic culture hub, Bristol, which I greatly missed, until I was introduced to this marble historic playground.

This post was written to the Spanish sounds of Mexico City at night and the pumping base of the upstairs club in Hostel Centro Historico Regina.

Nova Scotia – Cabot Trail

No idea is an absurd idea
Just over a year ago, I stumbled upon a simple double-page spread about a road trip around the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia.

I started informing friends and family that I would be embarking on an adventure around Cape Breton Island. After nodding, smiles and ‘wow, I’m so jealous’, I realised that not many people had even heard of it, and to be honest, neither had I until that article. It started to feel a bit like a dream that wasn’t possible, so naturally, I was determined to make it happen. But first I had a number of issues to deal with:

1. I had never driven on the opposite side of the road
2. I had never hired a car
3. It would be uber expensive to do this as a solo budget traveller

I got in touch with my friend, Jeff, in Toronto. Within moments of mentioning my intentions, we’d mapped out a sixteen day tour in his little white MANUAL (British victory fist pump) Mazda 2, complete with camping equipment and an Enrique Iglesias playlist. We would drive across New England, bask in the nature of the Cabot Trail, and stop by Québec City and Montreal on the way back to Toronto. A five thousand kilometre jaunt around two nations.

We began on the East side of the island. At the entrance of the trail, you cross the border into a Cape Breton Highlands National Park. It costs $7.80 per adult per day. We received a map of the park and a ticket to display on the car’s dashboard.

Due to our time constraints and other on-the-road plans, we estimated that two days to wind our way around the coastal road would be ample, but then we opened the map. In the top left corner there are detailed descriptions about all the trails and treks we would find around the island. The explorer in me wanted to do all of them. Each one sounded unique and invited you to a different view of the park; deep forested valleys, lakes that promised moose sightings, cliffs, beaches, ocean, rivers, waterfalls. We had some choices to make.

Starting small, we parked the car and followed the Jigging Cove trail through some dense forest that surrounded a lake; gaps in the foliage teased us with views of the reflecting water. It was a hot day above the trees, and the rocky path looked reasonably undisturbed. Consciously making the effort, we trod carefully so as not to disturb basking snakes or other wildlife. Occasionally, you’d hear the leafy rustle of a fleeing critter, but other than that, the hike was quiet.

Jigging Cove

Before continuing the loop of the lake, we followed a path that opened out onto a coastal pebble beach. The sun was high and the stones lit up like pearls, clean and polished. There was no salty wind, no screeching seagulls, no muddy water, just the blue waves in front and the edge of the forest behind. We were the only people around. I stretched out on a smooth rock and closed my eyes. This was one of those, ‘I’m really doing it’, moments. I was exploring a wilderness that once seemed like an untouchable glossy picture in a magazine.

My travel buddy, Morgan Bear, was with us too

It probably won’t surprise you that my goal was to spot a moose. This meant heading to the Benjie’s Lake trail on the West side of the park, for the description was simply, Moose, boreal forest, birds. They generally appear around dawn and dusk in boggy areas, so we arrived at the trail at five o’clock in the evening. As we carefully inched our way along the path, Jeff spotted tracks. Huge fresh imprints of elongated lily pads in the soft earth. This was it. Our best chance.

My silent excitement was disturbed when we reached the outskirts of the lake and heard a tapping noise in the canopy above. Clinging to the side of a tree and using the sharp of it’s beak, was a woodpecker, chipping away at the trunk, spitting shards of bark all over us. Mesmerised by the rhythm, I watched as it jerked it’s head back and forth, determined to extract the best grub from the depths of the wood.

Woody Woodpecker

At the lake, we sat down and commenced moose-watch. We waited, occasionally whispering to each other and pointing, sharing the odd moment. The tranquility and warmth of the atmosphere drugged my eyelids. As the sun dipped below the forest and the sky dimmed, I let myself drift into what I thought was a light doze; ‘just resting my eyes’. An hour or so later, the temperature dropped and I woke up shivering. We quickly scanned Benjie’s lake. We gave up.

Mooseless, but still smiling at Benjie’s Lake

As far as the Cabot Trail is concerned, the Skyline trail is probably the one that’s on most bucket lists, and I can assure you that it does not disappoint. When the map boasts ‘dramatic headland overlooking the rugged Gulf coast’, you definitely need to add this to your itinerary.

As per usual, we decided to be different and take the path anti-clockwise, which was also the longer route. It seemed that the trail was split up into sections. At some points we were winding our way through woodland, although a lot sparser than I was expecting. Other areas were vast grasslands with bare trees. I pictured a herd charging through the habitat, or a forest fire munching its way through the foliage. But the bark was not scorched and the and the trees remained rooted. Our confusion was answered when we walked through a gated area of land. An information board explained that the wall had been built to keep the destructive moose out. Further along the trail, outside the wall, we passed a bunch of abandoned carrots on a boulder. I doubt they were there for long.

If you take the longer route, the journey to the summit is peaceful, but the paths eventually rejoin and it is quiet no more. I picked up the pace and moved towards the wooden platforms built into the side of the mountain. We had not chosen to tackle this on a clear day, and for this I was grateful. I’m sure the sight would have been just as spectacular if the sun was shining, but we were greeted by low cloud and mild winds.

Skyline summit

I walked off the safety of the platform and scrambled to the edge of a rock to watch the wispy mist as it was sucked into the valley. I stood, rigid, camera poised, waiting for that perfect image of cloud brushing against the land as it seeped back towards the sea. I turned around to find that the platforms, and stairs connecting them, had disappeared behind the fluffy veil. When the valley eventually cleared, I could see cars snaking around the mountain’s edge, the same road we had travelled a couple of hours ago. Birds emerged from their nests, looping and diving, spreading their wings and riding the breeze. The treetops reminded me of a vast green latch-hook rug that you’d want to squish your toes into on a wintery day.

Skyline

Jeff and I snapped our memories and took one last look at the natural paradise. As we walked back, we discussed what we’d seen, what we planned to research and what we loved about the Cabot Trail; all failed moose sightings were temporarily forgotten. Once we were back on the road, our spirits were high, we sang badly at the top of our voices and we returned to our highly unsuccessful moose-watch.

I love the ease and freedom of travelling on my own, but there are just some experiences that are better shared with company.

This post was written to the sound of Take That’s album III. 

This blog has achieved it’s goal if…

…it inspires you. My aim is to show you why it’s important to explore and learn about this beautiful planet that we are so lucky to be part of. We could have woken up anywhere in this solar system, but we woke up here, on Earth, a place where mysteries are still waiting to be discovered. Hidden histories of our ancestors that need uncovering. Forever changing nature that we need to document. Did you know that five percent of the world’s eco-system can be found in Costa Rica? Five percent! In that tiny country. Wow.

It’s true that we can read about all this in books, on the internet, in blogs, because there are people out there now, doing it all for you. I’m proud to be part of that community, and to be able to share my experience, but believe me, reading that Angkor Wat ‘is a temple complex in Cambodia and the largest religious monument in the world, with the site measuring 162.6 hectares’ on Wikipedia isn’t going to teach you anything. You could be understanding why it’s such a special place by absorbing the information through all your senses. Nothing compares to the excitement of standing at the bottom of a crumbling staircase, imagining who used to walk there – was it for the royals? Servants? Guests?  Or running your hand along the ancient sandstone while listening to the sound of your footsteps reverberating around the abandoned hallways. Or being able to look closely at the intricate carvings on the walls, admiring the time consuming artistry that is being preserved.

I’m not suggesting that you quit your job, sell your house, send your children to boarding school, give away your pets and pack your bags, because that this is totally impractical. I have no responsibilities or commitments, so it was easy for me (yes easy, you may not believe it, but travel is very simple these days). But it’s not stopping you from a little self-indulgent dreaming, maybe even planning, thinking about how to make the most of that summer holiday, or winter break.

For me, it all started with the opening of a world map. I spread it out in front of me, and thought, ‘oh, wow, that’s a lot of countries’. It sounds ridiculous,and obvious, but when you don’t know where to begin, that’s exactly how it feels. So why not do the same? It’s never too late to start thinking about it at least, maybe make a list, do a bit of research.

Or why not start small? Open up a map of your own country. Is there anywhere that you would like to see for yourself? You don’t have to get on a plane to start an adventure.

What I’m trying to convey is that travel is timeless. You can do it at any age, on any budget, with anyone. This is likely going to be our only shot at life. Let’s not waste it. Travel is freedom.

Happy dreaming.

 

I would like to thank my friend Jess for the inspiration towards this post. She is my favourite country bumpkin who would rather go for long walks around her little village than even whisper the word travel. For my birthday and Christmas present this year, she is buying a passport and a plane ticket. I admire her bravery and can’t wait to share part of my journey with her. 

This post was written to the sound of a Santorini relaxing Chillout Mix on YouTube.

Koh Tao Take Two

Okay, so I’ve just realised that I’m behind by roughly twenty-four blog posts, and now that I’m editing this, it’s probably more like thirty. I better get started.

This time, I will actually write about Koh Tao.

Four hours after arriving in Thailand from Kuala Lumpur, we boarded the 10pm sleeper ferry from Chumphon. Despite the Hobbit sized beds, the mattresses were comfortable, and I managed to sleep for the full six sailing hours. I would recommend this mode of transport, that is, I would have, if we hadn’t arrived on Koh Tao at 5am, four hours before we could check into our accommodation. If you should choose this option over the high speed catamaran, I can however, recommend a top notch stone bench outside Davy Jones’ Locker (where my dive journey begins: http://www.davyjoneslocker.asia/ ).

After observing the early morning island life of divers heading out to the longtails with their gearbags, and drunk backpackers stumbling the wrong way home, we checked in, paid for the dive course, and hit the beach. Not before I slapped on the factor fifty, though.

The course started at 4pm that same day. Who needs to nap when your first lesson is in the classroom, watching videos?

For future information, (because I know you’ve all going to want to take a dive course after this) our Padi followed this syllabus:

DAY 1
– Classroom: watching videos and filling in questionnaires (roughly 3 hours)

DAY 2:
– Morning pool session: instructors distribute health and safety information which is then implemented in the pool. Here you will learn and practice the Padi skills (3 hours)
– Break for lunch
– Back to the classroom: last few videos and questionnaires. (You are often given the option to do the exam, too. As a whole group we decided to get it out of the way. so our session took about 3 hours)

DAY 3:
– Two dives and basic skills

DAY 4:
– Two dives and basic skills
– Qualification! (You have to have your photo taken for your dive license. I recommend having it straight after the dives, it’s more authentic that way. You may not even have a choice either way).

Side note: I am claustrophobic and my biggest fear is drowning.

The first dive is always going to be pretty daunting. So why was I the only one that looked like I’d forgotten how to breathe and speak? Like a line of ants, we descended a rope at the end of a fellow dive boat. I probably hadn’t even reached the five metre mark before my ears started compressing. I tried all the techniques I knew to equalize, wiggling my jaw, blowing against the ear drum, etc. Nothing worked. I stopped breathing. A diver should never stop breathing. Ever. It’s the number one rule. I panicked. Without realising, I’d ascended to the surface. Fortunately, our dive master trainee, Arno, followed me. He calmed me down. It took about ten minutes for the pain to subside.

“Do you want to try again?”
“I don’t know. I want to. I’m nervous.”
“Five more minutes?”
“Okay.”

We floated in silence.

“I want to try again.”
“Okay.”
“Slowly?”
“Very. Equalize every time you move down the rope.”

With Arno’s guidance, I successfully made it to the bottom where my group sat waiting.

At this point, I’ll give you a handy hint: it’s not a very good idea to smile when your knees touch the sand, no matter how proud you are of yourself. You don’t want your mask to flood before you’ve even attempted it as a skill.

I’ll never forget that first trip out on the boat. I generally felt ready to quit before I’d completed one dive. Without my patient safety net, Arno, I wouldn’t have given myself the opportunity to become addicted to the hobby I never thought I would be able to try in the first place.

Oh, and before I go, yes, I did qualify. I may have also splashed out on another course, the…