A couple of miles from O Rosal the road begins to climb gently into the mountains. Built to harness the Picon and Folon rivers, the first mill dates from 1702, with 60 eventually completed. They remain well preserved and linked by a hiking trail. Despite their entirely functional purpose, they manage to have a wonderful symmetrical pattern in two areas. The trail sneaked up the Campo do Couto mountain and the mills started to come into the view. They are in surprisingly good condition, with small irrigation channels running between them. The water usually runs directly through the mills, which…
Outside the main Municipal hostel in Burgos I joined the back of a long line inhabited by a truly bedraggled bunch – all staring vacantly into space. Those who arrived after were given the solemn news that there were no beds left.
“You won’t like it” the taxi driver sneered dismissively as we climbed out in front of the Massara Hotel, “I will wait” he casually added. We were in the seaside town of Kohbar for the weekend. We did like it – I’m not sure if he’s still waiting.
There are few taxis in Al Hofuf. Those that do appear tend to fire past you with a look of repulsion in their eyes. It was a Friday evening in the mid size desert oasis town and we were standing by the side of the road. Nabeel threw out an arm, and within seconds a white Toyota truck came to a halt next to us. The briefest of negotiations took place and we all climbed in.
I’m always genuinely surprised when I successfully manage to get through an airport and onto the plane. Thanks to a litany of travel screw ups, I always fear I’m moments from disaster. An employee turning to me and asking flippantly, “You’ve got your B7236 per-authorisation form right?” or even the worryingly frequent “this flight is actually tomorrow sir”. On this day however, and despite the body complaining loudly about the rambunctious evening the night before, I breezed through.
In the grand scheme of a walk, it would be a little longer than a pleasant Sunday morning stroll. The Camino de Santiago, a thousand year old pilgrimage route, would take me from the edge of France and across Spain to the famed cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. A little less than 500 miles.
I thrust my hands deep into the coat pockets, a refuge from the biting cold. The Beagle Channel stretches before me. A fierce, angry wind growls in from the sea. Great hulking ships sit dormant in port. Monsters of nautical travel – ice breakers – Antarctic ships. The frozen continent lies a thousand kilometers to the south. Bronze busts of past explorers line the waterfront, staring whistfully out to sea. I have no idea who any of them are – but if their clothing, steely gaze and sensational facial hair are anything to go by they were quite something.
It was still dark as we woke to the frozen town of Rio Gallegos. We disembarked into the scruffy, but warm bus station. Our legs wobbling slightly, as they became used to being used as legs again. The bus had long disappeared when I realized I had left a camera bag on-board. After a slow and fairly painful interaction with a bus employee, I was given directions to the re-fuelling depot. I ran frantically down the dark, icy street, my breath swirling into mist above me. A bus appeared out of the gloom. I barrelled into the road, waving my…
On the penultimate day of the World Cup we traveled to Brasilia for the third/fourth place play-off, between Brazil and Holland. Twelve hours in Brazil’s capital, of which I had high hopes. Brasilia is unfortunately an unrelentingly boring city. Unless you have a particular interest in tarmac and fly-overs – or you get a real kick out of grid like systems, I cannot in sound mind, possibly recommend it.
Goal after goal. After goal. After goal. The Germans bellowed until their throats cracked. The Brazilians carried an empty vacant look. A look of complete astonishment – and also near complete pain. The rain hammered down around us. Brazil’s dreams had been obliterated in one astonishing half of football.