The Great Walk

(Note: Some artistic license taken in telling this tale).

So a few weeks back, our neighbours Rob, Karen and their kid, Ed, decided to go for a walk with us. The weather was beautiful - warm spring sunshine and just a slight breeze to keep you cool. The birds were singing merrily. And especially unusual for the UK, not a rain cloud to be had. At 11:30 we set off, strolling amiably along the country roads here in Quorn. Rob and I generally walked up front, commenting in a generally manly way about things generally manly (such as the miracle that is whiskey, the war in Iraq and which of the four Aliens movie was better). Cindy and Karen were usually some ways back, for they were wont to stop occasionaly and critique somebody's garden, or admire a very picturesque house. Or I suppose simply because their legs were shorter than ours, and we didn't much bother to wait for them. Ed spent his time harrowing back and forth between the two groups, using a small tree to save us from all manner of orcs, goblins and dragons (complete with sound effects), and occasionaly giving one of us an accidental but good-natured clout on the back of the head.

Our route took us along several of what I consider to be Englands greatest invention - the Public Rights-of-Way. These are public footpaths that have existed for centuries, and likely were the original paths people used to get from town to town back in the days when a fast horse was considered the maximum speed humans could travel and remain alive. In modern days, the Brits continue to use these paths, and if the path crosses right through the middle of some farmer's field, the farmer is obligated BY LAW to ensure the path remains clear and usable. This could mean going so far as to build bridges over streams, stiles over fences, and posting "Warning, don't cross this field unless you can do it in 9 seconds. The bull can do it in 10," signs where appropriate.

The nice thing about modern public rights-of-way is that they are all fully mapped and documented. And they are so extensive that with the right maps you could walk from say, Nether Wallop down by Salisbury (the place with the giant domino set) all the way up to Brawl on the Northern coast of Scotland (I just LOVE British names) without once setting foot on anything other than grass, cow dung or pub flooring.

The first thing we saw as we set foot on the path was a man coming the other way. He had a compass draped around his neck, and clipped to the left strap of his backpack was a GPS unit. On it's screen we saw a small rendition of a public right-of-way map with the present position clearly labeled, along with his total distance traveled in miles, average speed, last waypoint, next waypoint, an arrow constantly pointing toward home, and pre-programmed points of interest. Rob and I watched him amble past, as he occasionaly cross-referenced his compas against his GPS unit. We glanced at each other, rolling our eyes in a manly way to indicate our disdain for his reliance on technology. Why, it's a path. It only goes two ways. And anyway, how hard is it to see things. Climb a good hill and you can see every village for miles around. With a snicker, we turned and ambled on.

The man was soon forgotten, replaced with a fascination for the scenery around us. As you wander in Britain, you come accross some amazing and oft-ignored historical places. Places that if they were in Canada would have "Place of Historical Interest" signs pointing to them from all over (such as the infamous Buffalo Rubbing Rock just outside Cutknife Saskatchewan. Where for centuries, mighty, 1000 strong herds of buffalo used to migrate for miles over windswept, long grass prairie just to ease the itching on their butts). We passed the ruins of a windmill left over from the 1700's. Off in the distance you can see what is left of John's Tower, an abandoned medieval keep. And isn't that the ghostly outline of a bronze age hill fort?

As well, the places don't have to be all that old to be picturesque. We passed a water purification plant and reservoir built in Victorian times, complete with ornate wrought iron bridges, the occasional small gargoyle, stone pagodas, and beautiful brick sewer outlets. The type of water treatment facility that I would be happy to drown in ("Wow, now that I've sunk to the bottom I can really admire the beautiful and finely crafted brickwork of this reservoir."). And what is truly amazing is that the plant is still in use by Trent-Severn Water. We stood and watched a fully functional, passenger-carrying steam train chuff it's way from around a bend and under the bridge we were on, enveloping us in a cloud of steam and coal dust. It's as if the residents of portions of England simply said, "Okay, that's enough with the progress thing. We'll just stop right about here."

Onward again, stopping for a snack in the graveyard of an 18th century church (yes we did pack the food in, not spades). Then a bit further down the road, and our thirst was slaked with fine pints of Ale in the Griffin Pub. Then on the move again, this time picking a trail we thought would lead us back to Quorn. We ambled and talked as the shadows grew longer, occasionally ducking under Ed's tree which he was still twirling enthusiastically in our defense.

We were halfway across a farmer's field when I realized two things:

a) It was getting dark.

b) I really had no idea where we were.

A quick consultation was in order. I turned to Rob next to me, "You reckon we're getting close to Quorn," I asked in as manly a manner as I could, images of the Hound of the Baskervilles flashing through my mind. Quickly followed by an image of a GPS unit with a pre-loaded foot trail map.

He looked at me, then looked into the gloaming around us. "Bloody 'ell, I'm not sure." We peered around, searching for something familiar while Ed's tree whizzed between us. Off in the next field a cow regarded us with solemn eyes, chewing with mildly curious contentment. Karen and Cindy ambled up.

"D' ye figure Quorn is that way," Rob asked, indicating the chosen direction to Karen with a jut of of his goatee.

Karen contemplated the far-off hill on that bearing, then spun a complete circle. "I thought it was over there," she said, pointing to the left.

"Well, we've made a couple of lefts and a right just after that last stile two fields back," Cindy put in. "So it should be this way." And she indicated the opposite direction.

"My gut tells me it's this way," I said, pointing down the path we were on.

We stood there, the four of us peering hopefully in four different directions. Ed smote a dragon. The cow took another bite.

"Well, perhaps we should just carry on in the direction we were going, and hope we fetch up somewhere close to Quorn. I mean, how far can it be," Rob said.

I glanced at my watch. We'd been walking for 4 hours. We journeyed on, in much the same order but now with a bit more alacrity in our steps.

"Wherever we're going, we're making good progress," I said in an attempt to be cheery. Afterall, it had been a great walk. I got no response. Ed's tree whirled dangerously close to the back of my head.

After a short period we came across a public bridal path, which looked like it went in the right direction, meaning that it split the difference between all the various directions we had each picked. Plus it ran downhill, which was the clincher. With these unassailable arguments as guidance, we decided to take it, and set off in this new direction. After some time, the bridal path made an abrupt u-turn around the base of a farmer's field, then petered out to nothing. We stood at it's tip, like shipwrecked sailors peering over a darkening sea in the hope of sighting succor. Visions of GPS's danced in my head.

"Say, isn't that a foot path sign over there," I said.

"Where," Cindy replied, bleering into the darkness.

"There," I pointed. "By that hedge. See it? A little flash of yellow? Green foot?"

"Looks like it."

We trooped over, gathering around the footpath sign and examining first one way, then the other. Eventually, we decided that downhill was still a good direction, and turning right, marched on. We'd now been walking for 5 and a half hours.

Sometime later, we arrived at a major road. We assessed our situation, then took the obvious choice, turned left and started downhill. Two hours, four roads, one footpath and a very passionate and manly discussion about Pizza later, we finally arrived back in Quorn. It was getting true dark now, with stars twinkling on in the sky.

And as we limped into town - dusty, muddy, with legs aching from walking for 7 hours, Ed's tree making a pathetic bump-bump-bump sound dragging along the sidewalk behind us - we passed the White Horse Pub. There, seated comfortably inside, his back pack, compass and GPS beside him, was the man we had passed almost 7 hours previously. He saw us outside, nodded his head and smiled. Then, as Rob and I watched with desperate envy, lifted what appeared to be his third pint of cellar-cooled, golden-red bitter, and took a long, loving swallow. The glass lowered, and with a look of utter satisfaction, he wiped the foam from his upper lip.

Rob and I quietly hated him. Then turned and limped our way home in as manly a manner as we could.

Ah, Venice

My wife and I recently took a trip to Venice (and I must say, if you ever get the chance to go there, go! It's truly an amazing city). We were enthralled and spent three days getting lost down tiny alleys, walking under and overhanging arches, eating Tofu sandwiches by canal sides, and drinking espresso every morning. The air was filled with the chugging sounds of boat engines as all-wood water taxi's, flat delivery barges, police boats, pleasure boats and public water busses ferried goods and people through the city. Tens of different dialects reached us as we wandered - from the smooth, sensuality of Italian, French and Spanish, to guttural German, twangy North American, and even the banging pots-and-pans sounds of Chinese and Korean. Intermingled with this noise came the occasional sound of a exorbitantly priced tenor, crooning opera to well-heeled tourists taking romantic gondola rides. Hearing wasn't the only sense wallowing in overload. Our noses were overwhelmed in turns with various aromatic bouquets depending on where you were in the city. By the canals, the air was thick with the smells of sea-water, seaweed, deisal engines and fish. The market areas waft with the fragrance of spices, fruits and vegetables. Simply moving around you wade through the rich smell of coffee drifting from a cafe patio, or cloying perfume from a passing lady, or pungent pipe and cigar smoke. And while you try to absorb all the information from sound and smell, the others crowd into your consciousness for attention too. Every building in Venice is huge, impressive and old. Here a cathedral clad in beautiful white marble, smooth and glossy in the sun. There an old brick wall, stucco cracked to expose the rusting metal underlay, surrounding wooden window shutters painted a deep sky blue. And over there chaotic colour from a street vendor selling grotesque and beautiful carnival masks. Under your feet you can feel cobble stones laid down a millenia ago, then modern herring-bone paving stones, then a street lined with building bricks. Truly a sensual overload.

Yet as we walked around, wallowing in our senses and overwhelmed with the magnificence and the history, something occurred to me and I stopped short (Which caused some consternation to the people walking along behind me). This is what it was:

This city is built on water.

Yeah, it seems a pretty simple concept. But what got me thinking was, what made the Venetians decide to start building the city of Venice where it was? There was perfectly good, dry land just 5 km across open water on the mainland. Why did they feel compelled to paddle out in their wobbly, single-oared open-topped gondolas and build their home on muddy, smelly islands a good 3-hour row from the mainland. In an area subject to high waves, stormy adriatic seas, shifting tides, seasonal floods, earthquakes, and the always present threat of having your kid drown? Surely it can't have been for overcrowding on the mainland. And I can't believe that the early Venetians were so far-sighted as to feel that in 1000 or so years Venice would be one of the top tourist cities in Italy, thus allowing them to reap the benefits of tourism revenue.

Granted, there are decided advantages to living over the ocean (early houses in Venice were built on thick stilts sunk into the mud). First, it's mighty difficult for violent invaders to raze your city to the ground. By the time they rowed out to it, there tinder would likely be damp from sea spray, and there arms tired from pulling on oars for 3 hours. Thus you would be well prepared to defend them with nothing more than a few well chosen names and a little girly pushing match. Second, getting food was likely very easy back in the day when the oceans still held fish. There are stories of mariners simply dunking a bucket over the side and pulling up a catch of fish. Or of having to push shoals of sea turtles out of the way with an oar so your boat could pass through them. And finally, living over the ocean likely solved the problem of what to do with food once your body was done with it, so to speak (which thankfully the Venetians seem to have ceased doing). So there are advantages.

But the disadvantages were just as clear (drowning, destruction by waves, having your house sink into the mud, losing your boat and having to swim to shore, being allergic to shellfish, invaded by pirates, not being a natural tenor). To my knowledge, Venice is the only major European city built entirely on mud flats (with the exception of almost all of Holland, who's people just decided to push that messy, annoying, old ocean out of the way).

And as I walked and thought, I saw a lot of evidence that Venice was still paying for it's choice of building locals. Church towers leaned at alarming angles, and I constantly felt the urge to swerve to avoid what I thought was 1000 tonnes of brick and mortar about to come crashing down with the slightest gust of wind, flattening all the houses around and two luckless Canadian tourists who happened to be in the right place at a very wrong time ("News Flash: Patron Saint of Venice Declares War on Canadian Tourists!"). There is not a straight line to be had anywhere in the city, and I pity the poor carpenters trying to hang a door so it swings smoothly. In fact, there probably is little profit in selling carpenter T-squares at all in this city. In some of the larger buildings in Venice, one side has sunk so far down into the mud that I imagine the children who grew up in those houses have one leg longer than the other.

Yet the Venetians seem to have adapted well enough to their extreme building local. They were the first in Europe to use the term "ghetto", (which is likely a twisting of the latin term "to throw" and referring to the proximity of cast iron works near the Jewish Ghetto) and to have the oldest jewish "ghetto". They became famous for turning sand into beautiful and very pricey glass objects. They successfully smuggled the body of their patron saint (Saint Mark) from his burial site in Egypt back to Venice through the simple expediency of stuffing his corpse into a pork barrel. And apparently they have solved the problem of stray dogs (because we were told condescendingly that there are "no stray dogs in Venice, silly American tourists"). So despite having not read the first chapter in "How to Build a City" (the one on picking a sound location), the Venetians have given the world a number of important things. And ended up with a city that is captivating (and speaking personally far more romantic than Paris).

Ah Venice. May your muddy foundations never give way.

Closure on that BT thing...or not.

Hey. Just a quick update. Still no word from BT. Good thing we went out and got our OWN modem. Now when I call myself for tech support, I can be sure that I will respond almost immediately!