Why is this blog called "Souvenirs of a Black Cat"?
Because I've always a particular affection for black cats, a real soft spot.
Their shiny and soft hair, with the colour of the night, their intense and intelligent green eyes, are like the apotheosis of the felinity to me.
Whoever knows and loves cats, is aware that the black ones are usually charachterized by a particular intelligence, by a curious predilection for everything made of paper and by an even more adventurous and rebel spirit than the feline average.
So, if we ever want to humanize it (even if I'm nor actually sure I would give it any advantages in this way), the black cat would no doubt be a traveller and writer cat - therefore my perfect alter ego, the ideal mascotte for my blog about travels, observations and mysteries.
But it's not just this...
Showing posts with label uk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label uk. Show all posts
Monday, 10 November 2014
Wednesday, 22 October 2014
Farne Islands and Hitchcock fantasies...
Farne Islands are a group of uninhabited islands along the Northumberland shore, on the border between England and Scotland.
With "uninhabited" I mean that they are not inhabited by human beings; but yet they have quite a number of inhabitants.
They all are inhabitants with feathers, wings and a beak, and there are so many of them that the National Trust has made a protected oasis out of it, called the Birds Sanctuary.
You can reach it with a boat tour: there are many of them and they all depart from the harbour of Seahouses.
The approximated cost is about 30 £ (plus some other 4 £ for entering the island), and they consists of a circumnavigation of the archipelago with a landing of about one hour on the main island, the Inner Farne.
Both on Lonely Planet and at the ticket office is warmly recommended to wear a hat or a hood when you land on the island.
Sure, we think, no one enjoys a not-requested shampoo, expecially if it doesn't exactly smell of jojoba oil or silvestris pine.
"Oh no, it's not for that" - giggles misteriously a guy we've met on the bus.
"You are a couple of brave girls" - he adds, before getting off and leaving us.
With "uninhabited" I mean that they are not inhabited by human beings; but yet they have quite a number of inhabitants.
They all are inhabitants with feathers, wings and a beak, and there are so many of them that the National Trust has made a protected oasis out of it, called the Birds Sanctuary.
You can reach it with a boat tour: there are many of them and they all depart from the harbour of Seahouses.
The approximated cost is about 30 £ (plus some other 4 £ for entering the island), and they consists of a circumnavigation of the archipelago with a landing of about one hour on the main island, the Inner Farne.
Both on Lonely Planet and at the ticket office is warmly recommended to wear a hat or a hood when you land on the island.
Sure, we think, no one enjoys a not-requested shampoo, expecially if it doesn't exactly smell of jojoba oil or silvestris pine.
"Oh no, it's not for that" - giggles misteriously a guy we've met on the bus.
"You are a couple of brave girls" - he adds, before getting off and leaving us.
Tuesday, 14 October 2014
Bamburgh Castle: on the top with ghosts
We get in Bamburgh on a double-decker bus - which, as far as I am concerned, is one of the peculiarities about travelling in the UK which mostly enthralls me.
Ginger Cat & me have an almost childish taste about travelling on double-deckers - obviously upstairs, where it feels like flying.
Just like kids.
And in fact in the seat next to ours there are Batman & Superman - or, better, two young boys wearing the caps of their fave superheroes.
And we fly with them.
Somehow.
After all, as it's known, also Batman doesn't fly, if not with the aid of some technological Bat-gadget. Or with a double-decker bus, come to that.
Anyway the landscape we are crossing is amazing: fields are enlighted by the golden kiss of the sun, and everything is so beautiful that we are able to enjoy it, ignoring for once that tiny voice that keeps on complaining about how you cannot take pictures of this beauty, because of the army of kamikaze mosquitos committing their last sacrifice on the bus's windshield.
Ginger Cat & me have an almost childish taste about travelling on double-deckers - obviously upstairs, where it feels like flying.
Just like kids.
And in fact in the seat next to ours there are Batman & Superman - or, better, two young boys wearing the caps of their fave superheroes.
And we fly with them.
Somehow.
After all, as it's known, also Batman doesn't fly, if not with the aid of some technological Bat-gadget. Or with a double-decker bus, come to that.
Anyway the landscape we are crossing is amazing: fields are enlighted by the golden kiss of the sun, and everything is so beautiful that we are able to enjoy it, ignoring for once that tiny voice that keeps on complaining about how you cannot take pictures of this beauty, because of the army of kamikaze mosquitos committing their last sacrifice on the bus's windshield.
Wednesday, 1 October 2014
Betws-y-Coed and Gwydyr Forest: the real soul of Wales
Wales is the land of the Red Dragon, it's the land of Merlin and King Arthur, it's a land of myths and legends, of wizard druids and heroes.
It's a land full of legendary stories, where you don't really know whether supernatural was used as a metaphor of what was actually happening, or if was what had actually happened to be then transformed in supernatural.
These stories have been handed down orally, from father to son, sliding through one generation after another, with no stopping even in front of the advent of Christianity, but simply changing face to the protagonists: no more druids but saints, with no more dragons to fight but with Satan as adversary.
Because they are not simply stories, they are connected with the identity of this Country.
They are connected with the green of its valleys, the mellowness of its hills, the shadow of its woods.
With the flowing of water and the blooming of the bluebells.
When you are surrounded by so much beauty it's not difficult to believe that magic actually exists...
It's a land full of legendary stories, where you don't really know whether supernatural was used as a metaphor of what was actually happening, or if was what had actually happened to be then transformed in supernatural.
These stories have been handed down orally, from father to son, sliding through one generation after another, with no stopping even in front of the advent of Christianity, but simply changing face to the protagonists: no more druids but saints, with no more dragons to fight but with Satan as adversary.
Because they are not simply stories, they are connected with the identity of this Country.
They are connected with the green of its valleys, the mellowness of its hills, the shadow of its woods.
With the flowing of water and the blooming of the bluebells.
When you are surrounded by so much beauty it's not difficult to believe that magic actually exists...
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
The Holy Island of Lindisfarne
What makes an "holy place" holy?
Is it only the sheer fact of being chosen, more or less casually, to erect a temple, a church, a worshipping building?
Or maybe it gets chosen exactly because it actually emanates sacrality, because it's a place where man, for some reason, for some esotherical requirement of its topography, or simply for its beauty, is able to feel closer to god?
I like to think that, once upon a time, there must have been an era when human beings used to be more aware and deep in living their own presence on this Earth - and that, therefore, also their spirituality wasn't made only of concentration and isolation, but mostly of communion with what surround them, in an holistic exchange with the harmony of nature all around, in order to reach that wonderful sensation of feeling part of the Whole.
And that, so, holy places weren't chosen randomly.
Is it only the sheer fact of being chosen, more or less casually, to erect a temple, a church, a worshipping building?
Or maybe it gets chosen exactly because it actually emanates sacrality, because it's a place where man, for some reason, for some esotherical requirement of its topography, or simply for its beauty, is able to feel closer to god?
I like to think that, once upon a time, there must have been an era when human beings used to be more aware and deep in living their own presence on this Earth - and that, therefore, also their spirituality wasn't made only of concentration and isolation, but mostly of communion with what surround them, in an holistic exchange with the harmony of nature all around, in order to reach that wonderful sensation of feeling part of the Whole.
And that, so, holy places weren't chosen randomly.
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
Barter Books: keep calm, black cats love reading!!
Everyone has his own personal definition of Paradise, according to his biggest passions.
Who love books often daydreams to get closed like forever in some labyrinthic libraries, where you don't even understand if walls exist or if they are made of bookshelves, where there are very high piles of books, where you can find all the stories you've always had in your to-read list, and then many others, unknown until that moment, but ready to be loved as soon as you will dive into their pages.
Who love books, England and finds himself at ease among a touch of vintage, should visit Barter Books in Alnwick, Northumberland.
Who love books often daydreams to get closed like forever in some labyrinthic libraries, where you don't even understand if walls exist or if they are made of bookshelves, where there are very high piles of books, where you can find all the stories you've always had in your to-read list, and then many others, unknown until that moment, but ready to be loved as soon as you will dive into their pages.
Who love books, England and finds himself at ease among a touch of vintage, should visit Barter Books in Alnwick, Northumberland.
Monday, 11 August 2014
Alnwick Castle, or how the Duke of Northumberland is very skilled in tourism marketing
I must confess, I didn't
even know that Alnwick Castle existed.
It's been Ginger Cat who,
when we were organizing our trip in North-East England this year, has
discovered that not only it's been the castle that has been used for the
external shootings of Hogwarts, but that, among the many attractions that it
offers to its visitors, there are also broomstick flying lessons, just like you
do during the first year of the Magic & Wizardy School.
Broomstick flying
lessons?? Shoot me.
Since the nerd inside of
me doesn't do the slighter effort not to show up (and actually I'm not even
sure that I do have a not-nerd part, to be honest), we have immediately put it
in our itinerary.
Friday, 1 August 2014
Berwick-upon-Tweed, and upon two different worlds...
Berwick-upon-Tweed has the kind of charme of things hanging half way.
Whenever a person is being defined "neither fish nor fowl", it's usually intended in a negative way, as something without any shape or direction, without a defined personality and therefore as something that evokes indifference.
Whenever a person is being defined "neither fish nor fowl", it's usually intended in a negative way, as something without any shape or direction, without a defined personality and therefore as something that evokes indifference.
But I also think that hanging halfway hides an enormous potential, a way to be able to be both the things you are suspended between, representing some sort of reconciliation, a junction between two elements that are usually considered very different from each other, if not actually the opposite.
Well, Berwick-upon-Tweed is not English nor Scottish.
Well, Berwick-upon-Tweed is not English nor Scottish.
Sunday, 20 July 2014
Newcastle - or how a cat from Turin has befriended with the Geordies
Whenever I visit a big and industrial city I always fear it might turn out too grey, brumpy and busy.
In the urban settlements I visit I'm always looking for that certain welcoming and cosy touch, that respectful bond with their own history and traditions which gives you the impression to step inside an old family's living room, where you can sip a tea looking at the pictures of the grandparents of your host.
But industrial cities are often too pragmatic to care about this aspect: the furniture of their living room is minimal, very modern and functional, and they find it self-defeating to get lost in nostalgic contemplations of the past, since their goal is running towards future as fast as they can.
But Newcastle was inspiring me.
Being from Turin, I was somehow feeling it alike even before actually visiting it.
In the urban settlements I visit I'm always looking for that certain welcoming and cosy touch, that respectful bond with their own history and traditions which gives you the impression to step inside an old family's living room, where you can sip a tea looking at the pictures of the grandparents of your host.
But industrial cities are often too pragmatic to care about this aspect: the furniture of their living room is minimal, very modern and functional, and they find it self-defeating to get lost in nostalgic contemplations of the past, since their goal is running towards future as fast as they can.
But Newcastle was inspiring me.
Being from Turin, I was somehow feeling it alike even before actually visiting it.
Friday, 11 July 2014
A day in London with Ginger Cat - and so the adventure starts...
Every story has its own incipit, every travel has its own start, every adventure has a beginning - and Ginger Cat & me usually like to start ours with London.
A bit because we are obliged (since both Turin and Genoa have direct flight connections to the UK only on its capital), but mostly because we love this city, all our British trips, which for us sound more like an homecoming rather than an holiday, start and end in the Eternal London.
This latest travel, for what concerns me, has been preceded by a very hectic week, made of anxious rushes and evenings when headache was transforming me into a lethargy animal - so I haven't even got too much aware of time passing, and, when I went to the airport, I still wasn't able to realize nor to be on vacation, nor to be about to leave for my most beloved country.
A bit because we are obliged (since both Turin and Genoa have direct flight connections to the UK only on its capital), but mostly because we love this city, all our British trips, which for us sound more like an homecoming rather than an holiday, start and end in the Eternal London.
This latest travel, for what concerns me, has been preceded by a very hectic week, made of anxious rushes and evenings when headache was transforming me into a lethargy animal - so I haven't even got too much aware of time passing, and, when I went to the airport, I still wasn't able to realize nor to be on vacation, nor to be about to leave for my most beloved country.
Saturday, 14 June 2014
Urquhart - because Scotland knows what ruins stand for!
I've always had a soft spot for ruins.
Well, actually it's more than a soft spot. They attract me like magnets, they bewitch me, they charme me.
I'm a black cat, after all, and I do have a gothic soul: decadence draws me away; it has the melancholic charme of what has been and no longer is, and that is therefore bared from all the mean things and the troubles of everyday, revealing its most intimate essence, that goes beyond any labels of good or evil, of positive or negative. Things' most intimate essence is their truth, and truth is not good nor bad, not pretty nor ugly: truth simply is true, is what we often don't want to see, but that, in the end, is what we are being left with.
And that's the way ruins are.
They've been rich and powerful, they have dominated the world of men or their spirituality - and now they are sitting in a corner, as lonesome as decayed nobleman, lost in contemplating with their misty sight what no longer belong to them.
But sadness of the decadence has also a sort of reflection in it, wounds that cripple their walls have an intense and rich history - and their essence gets being distilled in all of this: power's boasts no longer exist, they get milded by defeat, which makes them more noble, which gives back to us not a controversial symbol of domine anymore, but a trascendental story, made of both lights and shadows, of injustices and heroism, and that, because of this, it gets its own sort of beauty, it becomes worth of respect and it makes you willing to get to know it, and to write about it.
Well, actually it's more than a soft spot. They attract me like magnets, they bewitch me, they charme me.
I'm a black cat, after all, and I do have a gothic soul: decadence draws me away; it has the melancholic charme of what has been and no longer is, and that is therefore bared from all the mean things and the troubles of everyday, revealing its most intimate essence, that goes beyond any labels of good or evil, of positive or negative. Things' most intimate essence is their truth, and truth is not good nor bad, not pretty nor ugly: truth simply is true, is what we often don't want to see, but that, in the end, is what we are being left with.
And that's the way ruins are.
They've been rich and powerful, they have dominated the world of men or their spirituality - and now they are sitting in a corner, as lonesome as decayed nobleman, lost in contemplating with their misty sight what no longer belong to them.
But sadness of the decadence has also a sort of reflection in it, wounds that cripple their walls have an intense and rich history - and their essence gets being distilled in all of this: power's boasts no longer exist, they get milded by defeat, which makes them more noble, which gives back to us not a controversial symbol of domine anymore, but a trascendental story, made of both lights and shadows, of injustices and heroism, and that, because of this, it gets its own sort of beauty, it becomes worth of respect and it makes you willing to get to know it, and to write about it.
Tuesday, 27 May 2014
Bodnant Garden - how do you imagine Paradise?
There are places that give you the impression of having already seen them even before you have actually visited them.But this doesn't happen because you have seen them in some movies or in some déja vu - it simply happens because they are very similar to something your fantasy has created while you were daydreaming.
They are places that, as soon as you step there, make you open your mouth with marvel and make you say "Oh, so you exist for real, then!".
This has happened to me with Connemara, whose green and blue lands were looking incredibly like to the kind of landscapes that my mind used to create as a background when I was reading fantasy novels; and this has happened with Bodnant Garden as well, which is the garden of a villa around Conwy, in Northern Wales, that now is entirely open to the public.
They are places that, as soon as you step there, make you open your mouth with marvel and make you say "Oh, so you exist for real, then!".
This has happened to me with Connemara, whose green and blue lands were looking incredibly like to the kind of landscapes that my mind used to create as a background when I was reading fantasy novels; and this has happened with Bodnant Garden as well, which is the garden of a villa around Conwy, in Northern Wales, that now is entirely open to the public.
Thursday, 15 May 2014
Conwy - the smallest house and a castle
Bus journey from Llandudno to Conwy is short, but the 20' route that connects the two towns is already a sort of small tasting of the best of Wales.
Meadows, gorses, sheeps, rocks, beaches, sea... and then, all of sudden, Conwy appears on the horizon: the small borough with its trellis houses perched on the bay, closed, almost hugged, by the imposing medieval walls which are still intact, and the castle on their side, dominating them, strong and reassuring, almost like a sort of father trying to shelter his beautiful daughter shielding them with his imposing figure.
Meadows, gorses, sheeps, rocks, beaches, sea... and then, all of sudden, Conwy appears on the horizon: the small borough with its trellis houses perched on the bay, closed, almost hugged, by the imposing medieval walls which are still intact, and the castle on their side, dominating them, strong and reassuring, almost like a sort of father trying to shelter his beautiful daughter shielding them with his imposing figure.
Sunday, 11 May 2014
Llandudno - 2 "L"s & 10 good reasons to visit it
It took me a while to decide which town to choose as a base for our exploration of Northern Wales.
Llandudno grabbed my attention because it is situated in a strategical position and because it was well connected with bus routes to the main places I wanted to visited.
Bill Bryson, in his "News from a small island" (an ironical and very pleasant chronicle of a journey through Great Britain, from Dover to the most extreme point of Scotland), defines it "soporific"; but, when on Lonely Planet insted I've read "Victorian seaside resort" and "tiny pastel colour houses", I've decided to give it a chance - after all I've already stumbled upon the fact that dear old Bill and me not always share the same point of view.
For example I team for Oxford and he for Cambridge - but we will talk about this another time.
Moreover, of Llandudno I fancied the name: with its initial double "L" was evoking Welsh-ness to the maximum degree - wild beaches, a lot of green and some legends about wizards and heroes.
I just had quite some doubts about how it should have been correctly pronounced - then I've asked to Ginger Cat, who has studied Gaelic, and who revealed me that it was simply to be pronounced the way we would have read it in Italian.
Well, simpler than I've thought.
Llandudno grabbed my attention because it is situated in a strategical position and because it was well connected with bus routes to the main places I wanted to visited.
Bill Bryson, in his "News from a small island" (an ironical and very pleasant chronicle of a journey through Great Britain, from Dover to the most extreme point of Scotland), defines it "soporific"; but, when on Lonely Planet insted I've read "Victorian seaside resort" and "tiny pastel colour houses", I've decided to give it a chance - after all I've already stumbled upon the fact that dear old Bill and me not always share the same point of view.
For example I team for Oxford and he for Cambridge - but we will talk about this another time.
Moreover, of Llandudno I fancied the name: with its initial double "L" was evoking Welsh-ness to the maximum degree - wild beaches, a lot of green and some legends about wizards and heroes.
I just had quite some doubts about how it should have been correctly pronounced - then I've asked to Ginger Cat, who has studied Gaelic, and who revealed me that it was simply to be pronounced the way we would have read it in Italian.
Well, simpler than I've thought.
Thursday, 8 May 2014
Wales & stereotypes
When coming back from a trip it always takes a while to get readjusted to reality.
And when the trip happens to be in my most beloved country, it takes a double effort ;)
I've landed back in Turin on Monday evening, with a mix of emotions consisting of longing already the awesome places I've just left behind and of treasruing the beautiful memories collected there, willing to finally sit here and write about them, sharing with you my stories about the places we visited and the beauty we gathered.
Yesterday I've returned straight to work, and it has been a long and hectic day, catching up with all the tasks left behind and the new issues emerged during my absence. So when I finally got back home, I didn't really feel like turning on the pc - my headache was begging for mercy...
But tonight here I am.
I've just booked the flights for two more upcoming trips in July and August - this year there is definitely a lot going on; so now it's high time to start catching up with my Welsh adventures :)
And when the trip happens to be in my most beloved country, it takes a double effort ;)
I've landed back in Turin on Monday evening, with a mix of emotions consisting of longing already the awesome places I've just left behind and of treasruing the beautiful memories collected there, willing to finally sit here and write about them, sharing with you my stories about the places we visited and the beauty we gathered.
Yesterday I've returned straight to work, and it has been a long and hectic day, catching up with all the tasks left behind and the new issues emerged during my absence. So when I finally got back home, I didn't really feel like turning on the pc - my headache was begging for mercy...
But tonight here I am.
I've just booked the flights for two more upcoming trips in July and August - this year there is definitely a lot going on; so now it's high time to start catching up with my Welsh adventures :)
Thursday, 17 April 2014
Whitby - If I were a vampire I would choose you as well...
Spring is my favorite season.
It's not just a matter of colors or temperatures, it's the air that you breathe that I like: it is an air that smells of rebirth, of hope, that makes you want to start something new, to discover something that you have never considered before.
And, consequently, to travel.
But the air spring is also a sort of curse to me, since I'm allergic to some yet to be identified pollen, that transforms me in a sort of feline version of Sneezy from the Seven Dwarves, anytime I dare to breathe them with my nostrils.
Now I don't mean to quibble about how each rose must have its thorn - I'll rather make an apparently nonsense connection and tell you about the most beautiful place where I've ever have an allergy attack; that is Whitby , a small gothic pearl, beautifully gloomy, perched along the coast of Yorkshire.
It's not just a matter of colors or temperatures, it's the air that you breathe that I like: it is an air that smells of rebirth, of hope, that makes you want to start something new, to discover something that you have never considered before.
And, consequently, to travel.
But the air spring is also a sort of curse to me, since I'm allergic to some yet to be identified pollen, that transforms me in a sort of feline version of Sneezy from the Seven Dwarves, anytime I dare to breathe them with my nostrils.
Now I don't mean to quibble about how each rose must have its thorn - I'll rather make an apparently nonsense connection and tell you about the most beautiful place where I've ever have an allergy attack; that is Whitby , a small gothic pearl, beautifully gloomy, perched along the coast of Yorkshire.
Saturday, 8 March 2014
Chester - A coffer of Medieval treasures
I've started studying English at school at the age of 11, like almost everyone of my generation in Italy.
English immediately became my very fave subject, also because I was learning it with pleasure, without doing much effort.
I surely had a very good teacher, but I guess my most vivid memory about those lessons was the book she had chosen for us pupils. The book was called "Dear Penfriend" and was based on the formula of presenting English habits and places through letters of imaginary girls and boys: each chapter started with a short letter of presentation by someone, and then the place where this imaginary teenager was living was being presented, together with some costumes & traditions hints.
I truly loved that book. Besides the interesting contents, it was also very colorful and catching, and I used to read it over and over again - not only when I had to study stuff from it, but just because. I was keeping on daydreaming all the time about visiting those places one day...
I actually blame that book for two of the biggest passions in my life nowadays: penpalling & UK.
Chester was one of the places presented in that book.
I was finding it so charming from the pictures displayed on the pages, with its medioeval appeal and the trallis buildings. Maybe I should blame the book also for my soft spots about these two aspects!
English immediately became my very fave subject, also because I was learning it with pleasure, without doing much effort.
I surely had a very good teacher, but I guess my most vivid memory about those lessons was the book she had chosen for us pupils. The book was called "Dear Penfriend" and was based on the formula of presenting English habits and places through letters of imaginary girls and boys: each chapter started with a short letter of presentation by someone, and then the place where this imaginary teenager was living was being presented, together with some costumes & traditions hints.
I truly loved that book. Besides the interesting contents, it was also very colorful and catching, and I used to read it over and over again - not only when I had to study stuff from it, but just because. I was keeping on daydreaming all the time about visiting those places one day...
I actually blame that book for two of the biggest passions in my life nowadays: penpalling & UK.
Chester was one of the places presented in that book.
I was finding it so charming from the pictures displayed on the pages, with its medioeval appeal and the trallis buildings. Maybe I should blame the book also for my soft spots about these two aspects!
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Arran - a.k.a. Scotland in miniature
When Ginger Cat & me were planning our trip to Scotland in summer 2011, my main wish was to include in the itinerary at least one island, because I stil haven't visited any, not even the Island of Skye.
I was actually thinking of the Hebrides, but when Ginger came up with the unusual idea of going to this almost unknown Isle of Arran I've immediately got enthralled by the idea.
Mostly because, in fact, it is unknown - I have to admit it: I've always had a soft spot for the underdogs, more or less in any fields, and I'm all for discovering small hidden treasures far away from the main path. Moreover, we were doing our trip in August, and in August choosing less touristic places can actually make a difference with being able to enjoy your destination to the fullest, instead of just fighting in the crowd to do and see things.
And indeed, it's really been a little jem this one we've discovered.
I'd say the 3 days spent on Arran have probably been the past part of the trip - altough it's been a very interesting trip with so many other memorable destinations.
This place includes all the sort of natural environment which I find most beautiful and which fulfills my heart with peace and serenity: wild rough beaches, enchanting woods, moorlands, cliffs - my soul just fits this kind of landscape, it makes it vibrate, both with emotions and peace, like a sort of homecoming.
I'm glad we chose this place.
When telling about it, most of people was mistaking it for the more popular Aran Islands in Ireland - but no, this ARRAN, with double "R" and it's in Scotland, more precisely in the Firth of Clyde. Not too far away from my original plan concerning Hebrides, actually, and it's even quite similar, both physycally and culturally, to them - but they are separated from a peninsula, so it doesn't count as one of them.
It also has a different ethimology from its Irish almost homonymous: Aran means "kidney", as that's the shape they have; while Arran is probably a Brythonic derivation which means "high place" (the Goat Fell hill overcomes the 800 mt - which is a pretty considerable high for the Scottish standards).
As for its shape, the isle is actually nicknamed Sleeping Warrior - as its coast seen from the mainland actually looks like a sleeping human figure, and I find this so charming. I wonder if there are any legends concerning this sleeping warrior transformed into an island - and if there are not any, maybe I should try to invent one :D
I was actually thinking of the Hebrides, but when Ginger came up with the unusual idea of going to this almost unknown Isle of Arran I've immediately got enthralled by the idea.
Mostly because, in fact, it is unknown - I have to admit it: I've always had a soft spot for the underdogs, more or less in any fields, and I'm all for discovering small hidden treasures far away from the main path. Moreover, we were doing our trip in August, and in August choosing less touristic places can actually make a difference with being able to enjoy your destination to the fullest, instead of just fighting in the crowd to do and see things.
And indeed, it's really been a little jem this one we've discovered.
I'd say the 3 days spent on Arran have probably been the past part of the trip - altough it's been a very interesting trip with so many other memorable destinations.
This place includes all the sort of natural environment which I find most beautiful and which fulfills my heart with peace and serenity: wild rough beaches, enchanting woods, moorlands, cliffs - my soul just fits this kind of landscape, it makes it vibrate, both with emotions and peace, like a sort of homecoming.
I'm glad we chose this place.
When telling about it, most of people was mistaking it for the more popular Aran Islands in Ireland - but no, this ARRAN, with double "R" and it's in Scotland, more precisely in the Firth of Clyde. Not too far away from my original plan concerning Hebrides, actually, and it's even quite similar, both physycally and culturally, to them - but they are separated from a peninsula, so it doesn't count as one of them.
It also has a different ethimology from its Irish almost homonymous: Aran means "kidney", as that's the shape they have; while Arran is probably a Brythonic derivation which means "high place" (the Goat Fell hill overcomes the 800 mt - which is a pretty considerable high for the Scottish standards).
As for its shape, the isle is actually nicknamed Sleeping Warrior - as its coast seen from the mainland actually looks like a sleeping human figure, and I find this so charming. I wonder if there are any legends concerning this sleeping warrior transformed into an island - and if there are not any, maybe I should try to invent one :D
Thursday, 16 January 2014
5 British Cities I've left my heart in
May them be modern and industrial, or old and cosy; may they have the charming gloom of the North or the friendly brightness of the South - they can only be in England and nowhere else.
Like the members of a large, aristocrat family, they all differ from one another but yet they have some traits in common - that little undefinable "something", that sort of air which tells you they all belong to the same roots.
Maybe it's the pebbles alleys, the towerbells with the pinnacles, the trellis wooden houses, the red phonebooths, the old fashioned signs of the pubs or the smell of fish & chips in the air - or maybe, better, it's a combination of all these small things. Just like a chemistry law, the result is something more than what we might expect from summing up all the single components - that's Britishness and that's what I love: it's the common trait you can find from Cornwall to Yorkshire, and that's the one thing I mostly enjoy of this country.
Its way of being, simply.
London is out of this list because it would have been a rather obvious choice and a way too easy winner. I wanted to focus on other places this time, so sit down with your cup of tea and come explore a piece of England with me!
Sunday, 5 January 2014
10 ways London has managed to surprise me
Cities are like people.
When they have well defined personalities and lots of interests going on, they will always hang you up in interesting conversations, no matter how often you meet them.
Then, with cities this gets on an even bigger scale, since anyway their lives are much longer than those of humans, and they are way much more multitasking - with a lot of activities and events going on in every single corner of them, with millions of single minds thinking ideas, millions of hands making them real and millions of single lives summing up and giving breath to the soul of the city.
And London definitely belongs to this category.
We meet almost every year, since our first rendez-vous in 1998, and, although there are some good oldies of it that, just like favourite subjects in a conversation, I never manage to miss, every single time I've been there I've managed to discover something new - a different side of its personality, a place, an experience.
Something that makes me definitely agree with Samuel Johnson when he was claiming "A man who is tired of London is tired of life".
When they have well defined personalities and lots of interests going on, they will always hang you up in interesting conversations, no matter how often you meet them.
Then, with cities this gets on an even bigger scale, since anyway their lives are much longer than those of humans, and they are way much more multitasking - with a lot of activities and events going on in every single corner of them, with millions of single minds thinking ideas, millions of hands making them real and millions of single lives summing up and giving breath to the soul of the city.
And London definitely belongs to this category.
We meet almost every year, since our first rendez-vous in 1998, and, although there are some good oldies of it that, just like favourite subjects in a conversation, I never manage to miss, every single time I've been there I've managed to discover something new - a different side of its personality, a place, an experience.
Something that makes me definitely agree with Samuel Johnson when he was claiming "A man who is tired of London is tired of life".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)