Originally Posted October 13, 2013
Dwindling days were comforted by the perfect pair of company. A week of stargazing and star chasing, where hard work was revealed in the heart of a fellow gentleman. But these three shant be shackled, and found themselves on a storied means of travel. Delivered to a city in search of their legend. Chasing fantasies to uncover the mystery of a familial past. Though unsuccessful in this weighty purpose, the search continues with unbridled resolve. Turned did this voyage into a story of redemption. Failures in the night of first, unable to acquire the strength to climb accomplishment, powerful nectar proving a worthy opponent. But failure was not an option, especially at the hands of this accompanying gentleman foe, spitting acid taunts of roccli. On the faithful final evening the score was settled with stomachs as such and scaling surmounted.
Emotional farewells were eased by the knowledge of swift reunion. But there was little time for remorse. Our noble traveler was about to embark on a journey of epic proportion. A journey with the opportunity to define experience before patriotic return. A journey not a question mark, but a blank space to be filled in. Shoulder’s strapped with the entirety of his existence in sixty-five litres. Now was he, found to be playing connect the dots with the lines on the open road, leading him towards the horizon. Onward, forward, Portugal.
This chapter began reminiscent of a morning fog, the vision of an uncertain beginning. Although the weeks ahead were an empty glass to be filled with the substance of memory, the keys to unlock this future were absent. Although met with the frustrated chains of confinement, seeds were planted that would blossom into future experience. But alas, means of entry finally delivered thus delivering him to the possibility of a changing tomorrow.
A month existing in the singularity of uncertainty. A silent acceptance of contentment. A simple, natural purity. A personal question of whether accompaniment would be welcomed met with a realization that the answer is no. Our hero was on this voyage, for better of for worse, on his own. But there is a confidence found in his self-assurance and quiet optimism. Although this potentially uncertain expedition is following a road with twists and turns, one takes comfort in the knowledge that he is forever moving forward. There indeed exists a degree of singularity, but a question comes to mind. Is one ever truly alone when kept company by their conscious? The voice of your soul. The angel and devil on your shoulder. Blind and deaf, your consciousness requires your living being to exist. Is there a better possible reminder that one is alive?
Instead of accepting an ill forsaken burden, a choice was made to view this in a different light. The luck of loneliness. The simple serenity. The calm comfort. Presently was he locked into a cruise control of contentment. An alone that only made more clearly the truth in silence. The romance in the weight of a whisper. When going days without speaking allows one to truly appreciate undertones and subtle moans. Where this whisper can carry more weight than the loudest of screams. Gentle internal reflection as if the subconscious was peering into its reflection on the surface of a quiet pond, with the slightest of disruptions causing ripples of confusion. No, this was a necessary silence. This was the opportunity for our traveler, a man, to consider the ramifications of existence. The consequence of action. The slightest of stones causing the ripple on his quiet pond to grow slowly but steadily. This month allowed for the companion of introspection to provide a chisel for sculpting a man’s hopes and dreams. Realizations and internal growth only understood by means of a whisper.
My time in London had unfortunately come to an end. However it was a bittersweet ending as I was sad to be leaving London, but I was lucky enough to have my brother and his fiancé come visit in my final week and get the opportunity to travel before having to head back to Canada. The three of us ended up having a fantastic week together. I wanted to provide a memorable holiday for the both of them, so I was able to plan a few special surprises. The major highlights were champagne in Vertigo 42 (a bar on the 42nd floor of a skyscraper looking out over London), the Open-Air Cinema (we watched Shakespeare in Love outdoors in Regent’s Park) and my brother stepping behind the bar of his first coffee shop job and preparing proper coffees (Latte art above was Rob, well done ma brotha). Although we could have easily spent their entire holiday in London, we chose to take an excursion to a storied land. A land that produces confusing names that people can’t quite understand, assume is Dutch and most certainly cannot pronounce after one or two tries. We were off to Belgium, the native land of the ancestral de Vooght’s.
After a lovely Eurostar journey to Brussels including a panicked security check involving potent flask liquid, we arrived and had a really nice few days. Obviously some of our funniest stories came as a result of Belgium being one of the premier beer producers in the world. One of the most famous beer drinking bars in Europe is found in Brussels, called Delerium, which we just so happened to frequent on our journey. Our first night, I will admit, was not my finest, but I still hold fast to blaming my brother who ordered an extra few cheeky pints. Let’s just say one litre glasses of 8+ percent beer would cause anyone to start holding up various pieces of bar furniture in response to an impromptu photo shoot. Also, side note to all, rock climbing two to three times a week will definitely help you climb a light pole at 3am more than people who do not rock climb two to three times a week. Don’t worry Dad, I muscled up that baby on the last night. Brussels was great, mixed with a lovely day trip to Bruges, but we were back to London. It was not only the last days of their holiday, but also the last days of my time in London, so we were able to put together a wonderful send off celebration involving friends from all of my London endeavours. A marvelous goodbye to my friends only made sweeter by the popping of a magnum of Moët & Chandon. Although this involved saying a solemn goodbye to Rob and Rach, I had the prospect of my traveling to prepare for.
Not a day after they left, I was on a flight to Portugal. Quite fortunately my flat mate in London owns a place in a town called Ferragudo, so he was kind enough to let me stay there in September. Rent-free living right on the beach and cheap, delicious food made for an easy planning process for the beginning of my trip. I started in a town called Faro due to the fact that I didn’t actually leave London with the keys for the flat (I will take the blame Pegler), but it really did end of up for the best. I met the lovely owner of the hostel whom I had conversations with over glasses of Port and who was very helpful with travel tips and advice. Also, I shared a room with two German fellows who, after playing some drinking games, ended up inviting me to stay with them during Oktoberfest. The invite was obviously and gratefully accepted (details to follow in subsequent post). Finally the keys arrived and I was off to Ferragudo. I had an incredible few weeks there enjoying the pristine beaches of the area, inexpensive food and drink and the beautiful landscape of the area. I visited local towns such as Lagos and Monchique and took the opportunity for an inexpensive train to Lisbon. For those who haven’t visited, you must put Lisbon on your European to do list. Such an incredible city. I stayed in a hostel that was voted the best hostel in the world in 2013 (not that great), but my highlights of the trip were the views from all of the various points around the city. Lisbon is built on seven hills, so by climbing through any of the neighborhoods you are randomly met with a spectacular viewpoint of the surrounding area. Absolutely stunning. This, along with kind locals, delicious food, pastries with a recipe that only three living people know and incredible weather, one is destined for a memorable excursion. After a great time in Lisbon I headed back south for the last few days before heading off.
My time in Portugal was spent mostly in the fishing village of Ferragudo, comprised primarily of Portuguese locals; therefore much of my time was spent alone. However there was one day that stood out from the rest. Off was I on a regular beach day, lounging on the sand, sun and swimming, reading and writing. Unbeknownst was I to the surprise in store for me waiting back at the flat. Returning in early evening my key was met with surprisingly little resistance, with which followed a slight panic of possible robbery. Gradually I open the door to a bright pair of eyes fixed on me from across the room. A slightly elevated heart rate focused my attention to possible danger, but quickly eased by the realization that I was looking at an elderly man. Potential old man strength aside, I could almost certainly battle or outrun this questionable fellow. Turns out it was a simple mix up of dates and being a family friend of the owners who lives in the region, he was planning to stay a couple of weeks before heading back to England. He owns a pig farm in the nearby mountain forests, so I will admit my mind went back to this being a mildly sketchy situation (anyone seen Snatch?), but all was well and we parted ways leaving me in the oasis of my tranquility.
After using my infallible method for testing whether I appear to be a local, I have come to the unavoidable conclusion that I do not look Portuguese. This was solidified by the owner of a hostel replying to my disappointment with “it’s because you are too white”. I was heartbroken. “But what is your method for determining whether you look like a local?” you ask. Well, it is simple really, a two-part method. Firstly, when approaching/approached by a member of the service industry, am I greeted with the native tongue. Second, how many old ladies ask me for directions on the street while speaking extremely slowly. After facial success in France, Spain and Italy, I took it to heart that I did not appear Portuguese. I quickly committed myself to a personal transformation. I have since allowed my terribly unfortunate array of facial hair to grow aimlessly and have attempted to spend as much time outside as possible to change the colour of my skin. I am happy to report, after only a week on the makeover effort, I had two successful Portuguese conversations ordering coffee and beer without the slightest inclination that I was from the Canadian north. Portugal – check. Now I await a confused old lady with a map in the town square (A day after I wrote this I was stopped by a women asking which way to the city centre. Boom.). Also, a beard update for those concerned, i.e. Rob, Omar and Ted. We are six weeks in and it is glorious, albeit a bit dodgy.
Yearning again for the open road and the concept of company, off was he for the next chapter of his journey. One was to cross-country for the experience of a classic European adventure found only in a specific circumstance. It happens but once a year. One would be remiss to pass on such an opportunity. Oktoberfest, the story to follow.
Sorry this was so long. We had fun though, right?
Happy Thanksgiving!
Take care.
No Regrets.
Pete