Flies on the Wall of Evil

Discovering Hidden Routes

We too easily see a place through one perspective, but last week, because of our proximity to Century City in Cape Town, we decided to walk a network of routes from Rugby to the Canal Walk Shopping Centre, which had been the focus of our visits many times before.

After visiting the shopping centre, on our walk back, we bought MyCiTi bus passes in anticipation of using the public bus rapid transit service that we had been shy of approaching in the preceding seven years of staying in Cape Town. However, it was a panel of pictures showing how Century City had evolved since the 1990s that caught our attention, though we were too tired to explore further.

Century City: The History of Century City

A Second Chance

In our move to Pinelands, we could have dismissed this opportunity again, but proximity once more compelled us, not so much to walk it, but to get an Uber from Pinelands to the shopping centre, explore the walkways of Century City, and then walk through Rugby and Milnerton to Woodbridge Island.

It was during this plan that we became flies on the wall of two encounters that left us saddened by the malicious and malevolent intentions of others.

An Uncomfortable Ride

The Uber that took us to the shopping centre was supposed to be a cool, comfortable ride, but for the duration of the journey, the driver was in conversation on the phone. I did not understand anything of what he was saying, but could hear bits about sums of money being pushed about. You could immediately recognise he was involved in some sort of deal.

His name was Trust, but I would pray that no one, and especially Uber, should be trusting him. Had we known what he was up to, we would not have trusted his picking us up either. Whilst we were delivered to our destination safely, he was speaking Shona, one of the major languages of Zimbabwe, which he probably assumed none of us understood, but Brian did. With whoever he was chatting to, they were planning a number of exploitative and manipulative schemes.

Schemes of Exploitation

The first was to register a number of cars with fake identities on the Uber platform, then traffic people from rural areas in Zimbabwe to drive the cars with the aim of paying them poverty or slavery wages as they drove endless hours to bring money home for these chaps with pretensions to being crime bosses.

In the words of Trust, and I paraphrase, "Just put a plate of food before them and they'll be happy as Larry." They had every intention to mistreat, abuse, exploit, and deal wickedly with whoever they were able to entice with the bright lights of South Africa.

A Difficult Decision

I learnt all this after our ride, to which I suggested Brian should have exited with a greeting in Shona, just to let him know we were onto him. Obviously, there was no possibility of us giving him five stars for his service, even if he did not carry out his evil intentions, but we were left in a quandary as to whether to report this encounter to Uber and how to frame what we understood had happened.

Another Overheard Conversation

No sooner had we begun our walk beyond the territory of the shopping centre into Century City proper than there was another wheeler and dealer on the phone. I do not think he was planning a new magic trick for his next performance, but he probably works in one of the offices in Century City. He confided in his interlocutor on the other end of the call about how he had to try to make four million South African rand disappear.

I doubt we'll recognise him, as we only heard him as he walked by us in the opposite direction, and the disappearance of the money can only pertain to him having view of, or access to, that money somewhere in an organisation and scheming to thieve or embezzle it.

The Audacity of Evil

It did make us wonder about both the audacity of calumny and the recklessness of incriminating conversations that others think no one is hearing. These are thoughts that should never emerge as words spoken when there is a conscience alive in us, even if barely so. In both cases, we saw the clear sign that the love of money is indeed the root of all evil.

It is quite likely there are many instances of human trafficking, people exploitation, and embezzlement as we visit places around Cape Town that we are totally oblivious to. Yesterday, I gave a tip to a server in an establishment where the personification of Cruella de Vil superintended with vicious verbiage; the server's deep gratitude would suggest something I am unready to countenance.

The question is, who will stop these evil people before they implement their rotten plans?

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

The supermarket trolley on the move

In the folly of a trolley

The times that I have chosen to do my walking exercises to avoid encounters with unruly owners with their devil dogs in public parks present a new kind of solitude and quietness for contemplation and reflection. Then again are the observations one makes of the somewhat ordinary and yet attractive.

The uncharted and relatively insignificant life of the supermarket trolley is one that seems to fill me with intrigue and genuine interest. I will use trolley for the rest of the blog.

Typically, a trolley will be arrayed with similar trolleys at the entrance of a supermarket, a refundable charge for use allows the trolley to be detached from its mooring to other trolleys and after usage, it is returned for the click mooring to release the coin inserted to gain use of the trolley.

The trolley quite adrift

In some instances, the customer fails to return the trolley to the mooring post and the coin is trapped in the trolley release mechanism, but that is not the issue here. Obviously, the command and control of a trolley around the supermarket and when wheeled towards a vehicle in the car park can present an irreverent waywardness no matter how much the customer attempts to steer it. It is a wonder that licenses are not required to steer those beasts.

However, my chronicling of the odyssey of the trolley comes from seeing the trolleys a long way away from the home supermarket, on a pathway, in the river, idling in the fields, or full of rubbish rather than consumer goods and groceries.

Meeting the tunnel trolley

For instance, walking through a pedestrian tunnel three days ago, there was a trolley halfway into the tunnel party blocking the pathway and a bit askew. I did wonder where it had come from. Perish the thought that it had automation, or it arrived there by some poltergeist phenomenon. A certain human being must have got it that far and decided to abandon it there.

The next day, the trolley was on its back, the handlebar and the hind wheels on the ground looking up like the wire sculpture of a yawning hippopotamus. The thought crossed my mind, but I did not dwell on it, as for the questions, there were many to think of too.

The story-making trolley

Then, at another brisk walk through the tunnel, the trolley had righted itself, now on its four wheels and did I notice there was a wheel brake to stop it from being wheeled away from the perimeter of the home supermarket. Yet, it had escaped by velocity, anti-social behaviour, or a quest for liberation. Let’s not wonder too much. It was now well placed at the entrance of the tunnel as if standing sentry.

You can expect, I did expect to see the trolley again as I traipsed through the pedestrian tunnel again, but it had gone. I half-expected to see it along the route between the interconnecting tunnels, footpaths, and bridges, but no, it was nowhere to be seen. Not that I have trolleys for company, but there might have been an unspoken conversation between us that was missed on my last traversal.

The trolley back at home

Another 750 yards on, it clicked, there is a large supermarket and the trolley from its colour scheme must have belonged there. If I had tagged it, as one cannot take the name of the trolley, I do wonder of out of the formation of trolleys in resolute order bettering a military parade, I could have asked the trolley for fallout for a dressing down or a commendation.

Herein is the quandary:
for the trolleys that roam,
a long way from home,
is there any hope,
for how they should cope?

Coronavirus streets in London - XXXVIII

We are not there yet

The pleasure of the walk is always fun. The discovery of London by foot and the surprise of finding strange and new places you have only heard of or driven past. It is the condemnation of the Tube to a loneliness it could never have thought could befall it. We are in the age of the pandemic, the Coronavirus has left us seeking the natural away from the superficial and we are the healthier for it.

English placenames are Shibboleths of possible embarrassment for I do remember playing the Monopoly board game thinking Angel Islington had the sound of the first syllable of island when in fact it began with the sound of is, for I began in Islington. Yet, I saw Angel, the London Underground station that is, danced by Sadler’s Wells and could have been a phantom of operatic earache in Shaftsbury Theatre.

The West End is alive

In the court of Palace Theatre were crowds gathered to watch Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, queued up in a press without spacing, their expectations of entertainment probably delivering them from the plague of COVID-19 or so they think. I pulled on my mask without a second thought.

Into Old Compton Street, I strutted, a haunt from the 90s, now fully pedestrianised and barely passable because of al fresco dining, raucous and gay like a summer camp of queens or drag that would make you blush. There is no pandemic here, and you are not invited to the masked ball, as we have come to live life, to die would be unfortunate, and those who passed on will be remembered after we have enjoyed ourselves, is the message on the streets of London.

Nay, be not one of the Les Misérables that is doing time with the butler in Arthur, and I really did like Sir John Gielgud, he died at 96 and a theatre is named for him. Les Mis as we know it, once did 19 years at the Palace, it is the West End, the world of theatre and spectacle. That was after Oxford Street and Carnaby Street much changed from what I remember, memory is not just a lane but a bustling city of dreams.

History and pageantry

Eros did try to smile on me and Haymarket I ignored at Piccadilly Circus and turned onto Regent Street St James’s and do not be bewildered, the possessive James peculiarly carries a full apostrophe S and The Court of St James’s is the royal court of the sovereign monarch where the Queen receives ambassadors to the Court of St James’s never to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Now in peak Establishment territory, I was at Waterloo Place with statues of famous Field Marshalls, kings and politicians making an avenue of the revered, Florence Nightingale even lights her lamp here in the day and the night, if you have the vision for such. Down the steps by the Duke of York Monument whose fame is recalled in the risible The Grand Old Duke of York nursery rhyme.

To the river and over

I cross The Mall to Horse Guards Road with Horse Guards Parade where the monarch’s official birthday is celebrated in June at the Trooping the Colour, to my left and St James’s Park to my right, I could have ventured a walk to Buckingham Palace to see it for the first time, but that would be another time, for I was pressed and the toilets closed.

The Palace of Westminster, the British Parliament with all the surrounding famous buildings including Westminster Hall, came into view, but I could barely see Big Ben, it was bedecked in scaffolding and I crossed the River Thames on Westminster Bridge onto the South Bank with the London Eye on its last rotation for the day, my sister called from America as I was lapping a soft ice cream on a black waffle cone after which the Tube took me back to Angel from Waterloo Station.

Thought Picnic: Being here for yourself

All that show

Coming from my left side crossing the road, he began running in front of me to what intent I could not determine. I felt like saying to him, “Dude, I am already in the 8^th kilometre of my walk and on my way home.”

I move at my own pace, with lots of people running past me and into the horizon by the time I have blinked twice. There are people who walk faster than I can, and they are not exercising, they are strolling along and what has that to do with me?

Steady I go

My pace works for me and the benefits of what I do for myself will be noticed on me rather than on other people. I am usually into my 5^th or 6^th kilometre before I meet anyone, I can exchange a greeting with, in the mornings, I am left to my own thoughts most of the time and the riverside sounds of nature.

It reminds me of when I arrived at the Federal Polytechnic, Ilaro to see a junior of mine from secondary school, in fact, the first I exercised seniority rights on, he was in the final year, whilst I had wasted 5 years before. It probably would have been a testimony of karma for him, but I was not there for him, I was there to find myself, make my mark and thrive, I did.

A wonderful life

I have no idea what he went on to do, but the story it became for me was I was minding my own business, there were times I was ahead and winning, other times I was behind and losing, many times failing woefully, but the sum of it all when put in the ledger of life, I have been blessed beyond measure and have lived an extraordinary life. My story is mine, not for others to be written into it to take away my voice.

The chap who ran ahead of me was soon panting and slowed down to a walk, can I even remember what he looks like? It does not matter, live your life, your truth, on your terms and in your own way. It will come good and in the scheme of things, it can be beautiful, wonderful, successful, joyful, full of love and excellent. You run along, my pace suits me well. Thank you.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - XXX

Closer with the jab

My Manchester is as much a strange place as it is familiar, I still take my walks through the usual routes and at times veer off down a side road to discover something I did not know about my city. Buildings of rare or unusual architecture that one would never have thought was down a particular lane, a canal ending like a cul-de-sac the wall perched high up your imagination wonder what a mishap might portend, but we feel safe.

Down by the Sikh gurdwara, there was an assemblage of people and some donning high-visibility vest but strangely not of the typically Sikh ethnicity. For the Saturday, it had been turned into a vaccination centre, the need to get the apparently vaccination-averse ethnic minorities into the Covid-19 vaccine programme is moving into their community spaces. I hope the uptake is welcomed and the sceptical are being won over.

New friends in the park

Then I finally got to have a proper conversation with the lady and her companion who feed the birds in the park every morning when I am out for my walk. As usual, the greetings and the weather starts the proceedings before we put in our complaints about people who care little for the park leaving their litter all about the place.

We then move to the nicer things of life, nature; the new ducklings so recently hatched, the rare kingfishers that have not been seen for a while, the wild around the park that allowed otters to thrive and deer to graze into urban spaces, then the occasional terror that becomes of the usually idle and placid River Irwell.

Many personalities of River Irwell

Whilst I am fascinated by the ebb and swell of the river watching the levels on a website, where they live, they are threatened by floods, to my fascination, they have concern and sometimes dread. Her companion who I assumed was her husband is a family friend, her husband is busier now with the church nearby as they learnt that I am already 5 kilometres into my walk when we meet in the park. [Flood Information Service: River Irwell]

My ears attuned to her broad Lancastrian accent that I got used to when I holidayed with a family in Lancaster, we introduced ourselves by name and bid each other a good rest of the weekend. Indeed, I do miss the joy of conversation with strangers.

Just another walkabout

Just by the way of

I begin to write with no idea of what I am writing about, I begin, nonetheless. The thoughts in my mind percolating like coffee being made for a morning pick-me-up.

Maybe I should write about the chance encounter made possible by my taking a detour to take a look at the statue of Abraham Lincoln. Unfortunately, it is in the midst of a construction site and boarded up out of view. I suspect it might have temporarily been moved elsewhere. [Manchester History: Abraham Lincoln]

Then I came upon a bigger restoration site of our city town hall, a Grade I listed building completed in 1877 by the architect Alfred Waterhouse renowned for over 600 architectural works around the UK, including Strangeways Prison in Manchester and the Natural History Museum in London. The town hall is undergoing a 7-year restoration until 2024. [Wikipedia: Manchester Town Hall]

Policing our curiosity

As I read the notices on the hoardings around the site, two policemen walking towards me were sharing information about what changes were being implemented. I was reading a list of the rulers, the rich, the famous and accomplished that had visited the town hall when I suggested to them to have their names on the list.

That began a conversation about the names on the list, the history of the town hall, my discoveries during my walk around Manchester, the joy of travel and so on. We concluded travel broadens the mind out of sheer curiosity and curiosity inspires the need to travel. In something like 20 or so minutes, we had such a meeting of minds that at another time, we would have shaken hands, we didn’t.

Edinburgh of the dead

And so, I strayed,
To places that made me afraid,
A city of many hills,
That surely gave me the chills,
It has so many ghosts,
Beware they might be your hosts.

By Regent's Park, I walked,
In the wariness of the stalked,
To wit, in the rubble, I saw,
A hand outstretched live and raw,
Before fear gripped me so to run,
My senses deigned it belonged to someone.

In this stroll, I wrote and thought,
What a place to be highly wrought,
Stones and memorials mark the places,
Of souls and works of long gone faces,
A city strewn with graves,
Of the dead, we became as slaves.

Thought Picnic: My city of sights and sighs

Walk this way

On the rare occasion that I spend the weekend in what is essentially for me a hotel city, I could easily be at a loose end. Not given to much rigorous exercise until those who I have asked to teach me how to swim, find the time to send me the forms and offer me a slot, I go for walks.

Night time walks around the city can be interesting and it could be anything from 90 minutes to two hours. Easy, unaided, purposeful and consequently tiring.

Obstructions abound

On this walk, I took a different route, up the road to a section that was buzzing with more activity than I thought was possible, loud music, people outside smoking, pavements impassable, you wonder what the bouncers are there for if the patrons of the establishments they work for, block the public freeways.

Anyone who had to navigate the city in a wheelchair will probably not venture out again after one night of running the gauntlet of unreasonable and inconsiderate human impediments.

The result of excess

Of the people, in interesting states of dress and wear brought on by the excess of party, drink, food, drug and whatever else, there is much you probably would not like to see. A lady wearing one high-heeled shoe with the other in her hand, a wobbly gait that would make a silent movie a hit.

Across the road is the indulgence of emesis, the effluent of which, some hapless fellow will step into with the very likelihood of capturing the sensation of a waterslide, forget the stench. Others with eyes glazed, words slurred, gaits unsteady, just coherent enough to call out their home address before the slump in the backseat of an Uber cab. What a night, it must have been.

Emerging for emergency

The night is busy, blaring sirens of ambulances and police cars piercing the night with an uneasy cacophony in a rush to incident, accident, disturbance or crime. The price of peace is hardly won in tranquillity.

Then down the road where both police and ambulance were stayed, the aftermath was a van over a motorcycle, the rider probably survived, but very likely will see the hospital before getting home in a week, if lucky.

You can never say whether it was inconsideration, indifference, distraction or impatience, but at that time of the night, dangers lurk and so the need for more care from all users of the roads.

On reflection

I have my vices, but they are neither of drink, of substance nor of inhalation, I wear my sobriety in many places like a middle-aged man yet to lose his virginity, unaware of any of the whys and wherefores of what others over-indulge in that they are non compos mentis.

My vice is of the hidden sort, acquired at a time when I had no choice, an innocence lost to the pleasure of another and from that issues that have me railing against those who freely take advantage and face very little consequence.

Silent amongst the revellers in some doorways, however, are other people without choice, a blight on our consciences and society, the homeless verging on the helpless. We may never hear their story beyond a plea for spare change or a light for a cigarette, we have a great city of sights and sighs; may we find more sights than sighs, lifting all in aim and cause for the pursuit of happiness.

London: Making light of irksome sights

A small centre

London still remains a place of new discovery for me in many ways just as I never knew that I did not need to change at Leicester Square for Charing Cross to get to Trafalgar Square almost 25 years ago, or that if I got off at Liverpool Street, I did not have change trains to get to my office between Liverpool Street and Moorgate.

I have taken to walking as much as I can within London having realise that the London Underground, known as the Tube sometimes makes central London feel a lot bigger than it really is.

For instance, London Euston Station to London Waterloo Station is just 2.1 miles or 3.36 kilometres, it is literally one straight road down and over the Thames – give it about 50 minutes of a brisk walk. It is better to do this than get on the Tube.

The bastards of Westminster

Then, I have walked from London Euston Station, through Old Street to Liverpool Street and then London Bridge before walking the south embankment of the Thames called the Queen’s Walk all the way to Vauxhall.

As I pass Westminster Bridge, I see the mother of parliaments, the Palace of Westminster and lament the whoring that has given her bastards for children.

The many politicians who have never had a life outside politics, rent seekers who are leveranciers of the poverty they portend as policy. Looking upon them from the tower is Big Ben that I pray when next she tolls at the point we are asked to find new leaders would toll for this lot.

Dressed to ostracise

Yet, London presents fascination from mundane observation, like walking into a T. M. Levin shop full of seemingly formal wear to find that the shop attendant does not know what a cravat is. I could not muster the strength to be aghast, I was beyond that. What training do these label readers and payment till get to man these shops? Perish that thought.

Further along the road was a family out for the day, the man proudly strutting along with his wife and two children. Well, I am not sure of the kind of pride in a man that would have his wife all covered up except for the slit in the garb made for her eyes to peer through.

If the lady were walking alone, maybe it might ward off interest, but with her husband and family, it is more about the man than the woman. The concept of dressing to cultural and religiously defined codes in a very secular society does sometimes make one wonder about societal cohesion and integration – this applies to all, by it Muslims, Jews or even Sikhs – these being the ones that come easily to mind about men, women and their dress sense.

I paid for better than this

Off clubbing we paid to use the coat check and were given numbered tickets to identify our things. At the end of our revelling, we presented our tickets and told them the initials as a security safeguard against them giving our bags to others.

Unusually, we were ask what our bags or jackets looked like and 10 minutes on they were still looking for my bag just as the mess in the coat check storage had become too chaotic for words, it was disheartening and annoying in the same measure.

I remonstrated and I was asked to calm down at which point I smacked the counter with an open palm loudly stating I paid for the service beyond which it was just unacceptable to have to wait this long to find my things.

The supervisor then came forward to take control of the situation, but it was not before one of the team took exception and offence to my attitude. I was having none of it, we celebrate incompetence to the point of excusing atrocious customer service, even apologising for poor customer service that we have paid for, not if I could help it.

Eventually, after a third time of describing my rucksack, they found it, I was not effusive with thanks, I was infuriated. Am I supposed to demand for the service I paid for or allow people act without responsibility for the jobs they have been hired for? I think I am just getting too old-fashioned for the lack of attention to order or detail, but I would not tolerate it.

Holiday Snap: A granny for a penny

Getting busy doing holiday

Coming into our fourth day of holiday, we have been taking things quite easy, but it is about to get a bit frenetic.

There are many things I would like us to do, but the shortness of this break means we have to choose what to do and what to leave to another time.

Already, we have been booked to go to Tenerife which is a 70 minute boat ride from Puerto de las Nieves on the north-eastern coast of Gran Canaria, this is to go to Loro Parque and what a long day it would be. The bus picks us up at 6:10AM.

For a pound and more, these fakes

Meanwhile, we have concentrated on Playa del Ingles, a walk up to Yumbo Centre where the shops stock imitations and counterfeits of brands names made to look like original and properly sourced products with such sweet-talking merchants who would at a whim sell their grandmothers at a discount if it would leave them with a coin of currency richer.

On Saturday, we went to Maspalomas and walked some 3 kilometres up the promenade from the lighthouse to Meloneras where the competition from the somewhat isolated restaurants was brisk and almost aggressive.

Food cooked with calumny

In a stretch of hardly 100 metres we were accosted by waiters selling their fare so well by disparaging their competition. Our hands were filled with restaurant business cards that by the time we reached the end of the promenade, the last card handler quipped that the cards of the other restaurants were bigger, but in his restaurant, the plates of food are bigger, the quality fresher and much else.

It was all too much for me, I hate having food forced down my throat and most especially bargain food. When we turned round to walk back, I could not run the gauntlet of that crowd again, we walked that part in front of the restaurants on the beach. Phew!

Then Sunday, we headed for the beach negotiating the dunes following the red-marked pillars. It takes just about 30 minutes to make it to the beach from our hotel. For the very first time, I did get my feet wet in the sea, I might get more wet next time.

Walking steps to better fitness

Walking the walk

Being the non-conformist that I am, even though I have free use of a gym as part of my apartment block, I am so not used to the regimented use of gym equipment much as I would love to begin to sculpt aspects of my physiology.

I have biked, cross-trained, rowed, walked, pulled weights, lifted weights, done crunches and much else, but there is no fun in enclosed places with you alone as the motivator.

Instead, I decided to take to walking around Manchester, this is strange because I normally use a cane, yet if I wear trainers and walk quite briskly, the need for a cane is somewhat obviated.

Walk, I must

The situation is that the normal walking pace, the formal shoes and my gait, whatever that is, somewhere between a dawdle and a catwalk goes to my lower back with excruciating pain, I have at times had my much lighter partners stand on my back just to ease the pain.

Then, I cannot run because there is just not enough cushioning in whatever shoes I choose to wear to take the impact of my feet hitting the ground, I have always suffered from medial tibial stress syndrome (shin splints), so walking, it is.

Walk the steps

I have been walking for anything between 90 minutes and 2 hours, enough to break sweat and get my heart racing, all of which I think is healthy and useful.

Then, I found an App on Google Play called StepWalk Pedometer, that allows me count my steps by recording the vibrations of my feet hitting the ground as well as charting the course of walk. Since I started using the App, I have averaged 7,500 steps daily, and the most I have done is over 11,000 steps in the space of just under 2 hours.

In the process, I am discovering Manchester and getting to see interesting places, some of which I would cover in subsequent blogs.

Walk for sights or by nights

The good thing is if I do decide to walk in the daytime, I have use the canal towpaths, however, at night when I have done most of my walking, I have to keep to well-lit roads and well away from cemeteries before my wildly vivid imagination gets the better of me.

I think walking is a good thing, the kilograms are not falling off like bricks, but there is some noticeable effect, I am sleeping better, resting well, I don't get tired that easily and with a diet that has slightly changed to eliminate excess and appreciate more natural things, it would take time, but the journey to a healthier me has already begun, one step at a time.

Thought Picnic: Awake and asleep

Awake to my inner voice

It is not a too distant memory the holiday I had over a week ago in the sun. There was more strength in my legs that the 60 minute walk to the beach from my hotel in July was now done in just about 30.

The look was still the same, my feet well shod, enough of my body exposed to the sun whilst maintaining a modicum of decency, my cane, still comes in helpful and my Creative Zen Mosaic MP3 player in ghetto-blaster mode playing out in shuffle-mode my collection of classical music from Bach to Telemann and the almost 700 in between.

I cannot say why but when I read up on it is realised why, I start off with Johann Sebastian Bach Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme (Wake up, the voice calls to us), it is also my ring tone, it has an awakening for me, an uplifting and readiness for the journey I am about to embark on.

It is peaceful; it brings calm, the beginning of meditation as you enter the caverns of deep thought and introspection.

Asleep to the world around

The world is quiet in spite of the ambient noise, I am not wearing headphones but I hear nothing else, as I walk, my arms begin to conduct an imaginary orchestra anticipating the next chord ready to wield my baton towards the violinists, the roar of the percussionist is quelled and the wind instruments bring the cooling breeze to my face, I am in dreamland, a somnambulist with intent, mesmerised and oblivious, at one with myself.

The look out to sea is a look of wonder, the waves lapping the beach, a coast is a far as your imagination will allow and in the horizon is a speck brought to life by a pair of binoculars, a freighter of goods and supplies, part of what makes the world so small.

The sun bakes each side for minutes before the refuge of the shade is more pleasant, you are in a crowd of sun worshippers and yet one and you, beside none else.

Hours pass, the roar of the waves and the sound of the music have become too familiar to be noticed anymore, they are all in the background when it is time to walk back to my hotel.

The voyage on the sands

The undulating dunes of troughs and crests test each unsure stride that lands in shifting sands it is laborious and energy-sapping but all to the good, you have strength you never knew you had, in reserve and to expend, the longing for a journey’s end does not weary you as you catch the glimpse of shadows so long cast from the light of the setting sun.

We all return like from a wilderness to a land flowing with milk and honey, never a walk to be taken without flagons of refreshment, the voyage ends at the ports of concrete, respite is close and a shower to relieve.

Many a day took this rhythm; it was my comfort and my refreshment.

Welcome in Amsterdam - Let us walk

Getting out a bit

We stow our bicycles away on a moored ferry, there are probably more bicycles than people in Amsterdam, I have 4 in different stages of usability, I was once a closet circus act.

As I got to the Amsterdam Central Station on Sunday, the weather was fine and gay as the sun came out in radiance not too oppressive and the breeze was moderate enough for a leisurely stroll.

I have never taken the deceptively long walk from the station to my home, deceptive in that, I can very well see my apartment block from the station on a good day, but it is a good 40 minutes away by the plod.

The WikiMapia view of my walk is from the Central Station on the middle left South bank, down the waterfront to right where the right where the second bridge links to the island strip which is in the middle of The IJ known as Het IJ - IJ is also a Dutch diphthong with the closest English sound being that of the letter I.

Living by the water presents its surprises and this time I realized how much one misses out of nature, wonder and the work of man when we get on one vehicle or another - even on my trusty bicycle, I miss so much.

With camera handy, I began snapping away, the slideshow is a depiction of an Amsterdam I have not cared to notice.

The detail however, is a narrative from the bicycle shed as a moored ferry, the absent gas flares around the Shell Building, amazing views down the IJ towards the old Amsterdam harbours in the East where I live.

This is one side of Amsterdam, far from the madding crowd.

PS: Welcome in Amsterdam is a literal translation Dutch to English in what we call Denglish - I reviewed a book on Denglish in April 2006.