freedom from the known . . .

. . . a topic of conversation with reference to this journey as well as a book by Krishnamurti . . . and the journey is delivering . . . when I first imagined the trip to the Rio Dao, I thought to visit my big sister in Dorset and my little sister in Brittany, then head down the west coast of France . . . and a dear friend in Southampton was added to the plan . . . none came about . . . today's idea was to take the bus to Poole, then onwards to Exeter, with some coast path walking in between . . . my bus pass allows me free travel after 9.30 am and the Poole bus left before that, so I took the Bournemouth express and set off walking along the promenade towards Sandbanks . . . a strong south westerly wind was warm and in my face . . . inspired by the walk, I recalled happy days at Studland and decided to take the chain ferry across the Poole Harbour opening and walk to Swanage . . . rounding the Haven Hotel I saw no boat . . . it was being refurbished, the service suspended . . . so, a bus to Poole and another as far as Lyme Regis . . . wandering, watching the full moon rise over the bay . . . spotting shelter in case accommodation was not available . . . then, at a 17th century house in the centre - vacancies . . . a friendly and slightly eccentric landlady . . . breakfast early and a walk along the cliffs . . . then the bus again . . . maybe aim for Plymouth tomorrow and Santander Sunday . . . the France bypass via the Bay of Biscay . . . though the journey may have its own ideas . . .

beautiful Brockwood . . .

. . . today dawned cold and bright . . . a travelling day after a wonderful few days reflecting, walking, talking with K fans from France, Spain, Holland, Andorra, Canada and England . . . reading in the library, watching K and David Bohm in dialogue in the video room, sitting silently in the tranquil quiet room . . .

. . . an hour or so wandering along a track towards Winchester, getting used to the weight of the pack . . . bus from Cheriton along back roads, past big houses . . . this is one of the wealthiest parts of England . . .

. . . plans for a couple of visits came to naught as I took the bus to Southampton, tried hitch-hiking for a while, hopped on a bus for Salisbury, then on to Ringwood in the rain . . .

. . . tomorrow's options? . . . thinking about a bus to Poole, then along the coastal route with some seaside walking . . . maybe Plymouth in a day or two then cross the water there . . .

... an experiment in freedom

... where do you live? - nowhere .... what do you do? - not a lot ... where are you going? - to the Dao, maybe ...

...interesting to read and discuss Jiddu Krishnamurti at beautiful Brockwood ... his teachings were all about freedom from the conditioned life and love at the heart of it all ... letting go being the key ...

... today I am walking towards Winchester then onwards to Verwood to see my sister ... still not clear when or where to cross the water .. all options still open ... to St Malo, Cherbourg ... the France bypass to Santander or Bilbao ... let's see ...

... meanwhile the moon is shining outside and Brockwood is still sleeping ...

at Brockwood

the sun is shining here in West Meon . . . the K Centre is wifi free and I have walked here along a quiet lane . . .
the journey yesterday was perfect . . . 20 minutes late into Kings Cross, which cut my time across London to Waterloo from a comfortable 56 minutes to a risky 36 . . .briskly walking through the rain, a fitting pace for the manic metropolis . . . on Kingsway a 68 bus in a hurry and I knew it was going to Waterloo since I drove that route some decades ago . . . 10 minutes to spare for the Winchester train . . . a short walk to the Petersfield bus . . . a double decker on a rural route at 3pm can only mean one thing . . . or about 40 in this case, at Alresford . . . noisy but civilised . . . at the K Centre by 4.15 . . . simple, beautiful building in lovely grounds, in a corner of Hampshire strangely underpopulated, due to a savage experience in the Dark Ages with the Plague and subsequent reforming as large estates . . . which led me to consider the merit of perspective and how something so terrible becomes something so tranquil given time . . .

transport modes . . .

. . . the first time I went to Portugal was in 1974 . . . the fascist regime had toppled with a little help from junior army officers and other progressive forces . . . my best pal at the time, Pedro, was a political refugee, who I met at college and we set off to join the party . . . exciting times!

We went by train that time . . . the following year Pedro decided to relocate to Lisbon and invited me to co-drive his Austin Healey Sprite, with his belongings somehow crammed in with the two of us . . . my request for holiday from my job driving buses in London was refused, so I went anyway and rang in sick from Lisbon . . . the drive was 48 hours, more or less non-stop . . .

At other times I have flown there, which is quick and convenient, though missing all the bits in between, of course . . .

This trip is different . . . there is no fixed mode, though car and train have already been involved and buses too before the day is over . . . plenty of walking ahead . . . a boat . . . lifts, trains maybe . . . and maybe not even arriving in Portugal at all . . . this trip has its own ideas and I am listening . . .

off we go . . .

With a heart full of hope
And a mind clear of fear
The journey begins
To the Dao from the Wear

happily homeless

. . . intentionally homeless now . . . and reflecting on home and place . . . my first home was a tied cottage on an estate near Ringwood, Hampshire . . . Dad was a carpenter on the estate . . . when I was five we moved to a smallholding on the edge of Verwood, Dorset . . . fields and woods were on the doorstep and were our playground . . . I moved away when I was seventeen . . . my elder sister, Linda, lives there now and though the place holds good memories, I am not attached to it . . . having wandered in and out of many homes since then and even co-owned two of them, I never really understood them . . .which was reflected in my lack of enthusiasm for DIY . . . landing in Stanhope on an outing from Newcastle over twenty years ago, I felt immediately at home, though it was fifteen years since I lived here . . . looping time perhaps? Now I am off wandering I leave it gladly and when people ask if I will return, my honest response is I don't know . . . I am not coming back and I am not not coming back . . . and of all the places I have lived so far, Stanhope is closest to home and I am happy to know I am welcome here . . .