DUCHESS VIEW FARM: APRIL 8
There is a difference between a love letter and a letter of love. A love letter is written to a lover. This diary is a letter of love - and of gratitude to those who made my journey possible, those who picked me up and nursed and mended me when I was broken, sent me on my way with courage restored. It is dedicated firstly to Graciela Abat Agostinelli - and to her ex-future novio, to Pepe Gonzalez the one legged orthopedic surgeon, to all the residents at the Hotel Argentino, the oil workers of Rio Grande, my cousins in Buenos Aires - yes, the people of Argentina, a people who proudly portray themselves as tough and macho yet are such softies. They are immensely kind, immensely generous and immensely thoughtful. Oh that they were subject to less vile politicians.
My treasured friends, I have waited to write to you until the journey was done. It is your journey. Had I failed, I would have betrayed you.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
JOHNNYCAKE HOLLOW
HOME: APRIL 8
Take a right after Pine Plains, then a left, swoop into the next valley. The farm road is on the right. The road runs up hill between dark-stained post and rail fences to the homestead. The journey is done. I park outside the office between the stallion pens. Anya pushes open the door from her and Michael's duplex. Anya is small and immensely beautiful. She carries her baby in her arms. I am a real man. I pretend that riding in the cold wind has made me weep.
Take a right after Pine Plains, then a left, swoop into the next valley. The farm road is on the right. The road runs up hill between dark-stained post and rail fences to the homestead. The journey is done. I park outside the office between the stallion pens. Anya pushes open the door from her and Michael's duplex. Anya is small and immensely beautiful. She carries her baby in her arms. I am a real man. I pretend that riding in the cold wind has made me weep.
PINE PLAINS
PINE PLAINS: APRIL 8
Pine Plains is a few blocks each side of a crossroads. Houses are white weather-board in lawned yards, upstairs and downstairs, a few pillars, shaked roofs, sash windows and dormer windows - cute to an American - and to me. The brick restaurant on one corner of the crossroads is French owned. The food is reasonable.
Nothing much happens in Pine Plains (nothing much happens back home in Colwall). They are good sane places in which to sink roots.
I ride in sunshine. My hands are warm. The Honda purrs contentedly as we coast the country road. In my early youth this was a land of small dairy farms. A hundred or so years of toil won fields from hillsides. Dry stone walls protected the fields. Agro-Industry has put the farms out of business. Hill fields have surrendered to second generation birch woods spotted with weekend homes. Valleys are given over to hobby farms and horse farms. White painted post and rail fences enclose horse paddocks, white houses, white painted stable blocks. Even the dirt has been deodorised.
Why so bitter?
Not bitter, sad.
Sad at the waste of labour dedicated to future generations, a cold funeral pyre of dreams for a better life.
Such was New England...sacrifice to avarice.
Pine Plains is a few blocks each side of a crossroads. Houses are white weather-board in lawned yards, upstairs and downstairs, a few pillars, shaked roofs, sash windows and dormer windows - cute to an American - and to me. The brick restaurant on one corner of the crossroads is French owned. The food is reasonable.
Nothing much happens in Pine Plains (nothing much happens back home in Colwall). They are good sane places in which to sink roots.
I ride in sunshine. My hands are warm. The Honda purrs contentedly as we coast the country road. In my early youth this was a land of small dairy farms. A hundred or so years of toil won fields from hillsides. Dry stone walls protected the fields. Agro-Industry has put the farms out of business. Hill fields have surrendered to second generation birch woods spotted with weekend homes. Valleys are given over to hobby farms and horse farms. White painted post and rail fences enclose horse paddocks, white houses, white painted stable blocks. Even the dirt has been deodorised.
Why so bitter?
Not bitter, sad.
Sad at the waste of labour dedicated to future generations, a cold funeral pyre of dreams for a better life.
Such was New England...sacrifice to avarice.
ROBERT SHECKLEY
UPSTATE NEW YORK: APRIL 8
I feel the Hudson river as a frontier between old and new, between the United States that is foreign to me and the United States with historic and cultural ties to Europe. I take the correct road round town to the Hudson River bridge. I am home East of the river. Anya and I have toured every lane, visited each small town - Rhinebeck, Red Hook, Millerton - stopped for coffee here, shopped there, visited Anya's doctor, browsed the bookshops, collected a cat from the vet, ordered a Chinese takeaway.
Anya's genetic father, science fiction writer Robert Sheckley, passed his final years in Rhinebeck. He is buried in the artists' corner of Woodstock cemetery. Anya and I visited his grave at Christmas. Snow covered the cemetery. We parked and watched as two deer broke out of the trees and bounded uphill across the gravestones.
I am indebted to Bob for his teaching. He was a fine writer and a great teacher of writing. Largely forgotten in his own country, Sheckley remains a hero to those who live in what was the USSR. Soviet censers failed to recognize dangers in Sheckley's anarchist take on society; collections of his short stories sold in millions. To quote a leading literary critic in the Ukraine: "We were safe in a sort of intellectual stupor. Bob kicked our minds out of neutral".
I feel the Hudson river as a frontier between old and new, between the United States that is foreign to me and the United States with historic and cultural ties to Europe. I take the correct road round town to the Hudson River bridge. I am home East of the river. Anya and I have toured every lane, visited each small town - Rhinebeck, Red Hook, Millerton - stopped for coffee here, shopped there, visited Anya's doctor, browsed the bookshops, collected a cat from the vet, ordered a Chinese takeaway.
Anya's genetic father, science fiction writer Robert Sheckley, passed his final years in Rhinebeck. He is buried in the artists' corner of Woodstock cemetery. Anya and I visited his grave at Christmas. Snow covered the cemetery. We parked and watched as two deer broke out of the trees and bounded uphill across the gravestones.
I am indebted to Bob for his teaching. He was a fine writer and a great teacher of writing. Largely forgotten in his own country, Sheckley remains a hero to those who live in what was the USSR. Soviet censers failed to recognize dangers in Sheckley's anarchist take on society; collections of his short stories sold in millions. To quote a leading literary critic in the Ukraine: "We were safe in a sort of intellectual stupor. Bob kicked our minds out of neutral".
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
HUMANITY IS IN RETREAT
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
The terrain of the past two days was familiar in scale and history: a land of valley and hill, mill and mining towns, scattered villages, small fields and woods. Cross the State line into New York and everything is different. Development seems haphazard. The peripheral rash of abandoned stores and warehouses, multi-pump gas stations and fast food outlets is the United States portrayed by Hollywood. Pimped-up trucks, automobiles and pickups are protagonists. People are redundant: a bag lady, hoodies cloaking a black or brown or white face, baseball caps, faded jeans, slouched walk, scuffed trainers. Pennsylvania was an aberration.
The terrain of the past two days was familiar in scale and history: a land of valley and hill, mill and mining towns, scattered villages, small fields and woods. Cross the State line into New York and everything is different. Development seems haphazard. The peripheral rash of abandoned stores and warehouses, multi-pump gas stations and fast food outlets is the United States portrayed by Hollywood. Pimped-up trucks, automobiles and pickups are protagonists. People are redundant: a bag lady, hoodies cloaking a black or brown or white face, baseball caps, faded jeans, slouched walk, scuffed trainers. Pennsylvania was an aberration.
MENTAL MATH FOR A NUMB BUTT
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
I stop in Milford for coffee and a Subway chicken sandwich. Sun shines. Woods fall back The country opens. Route 209 crosses Interstate 84. I ride the frontier of New Jersey. How many States have I crossed? This has been a journey of calculations - kilometers to miles, liters to gallons, distance into minutes - anything to pass the time while crossing the deserts of Argentina or Central Brazil, any distraction that took my mind off the pain in my butt. Next trip I will buy a custom saddle. Next trip? I'll be 76. What am I planning? I'm crazy...
I stop in Milford for coffee and a Subway chicken sandwich. Sun shines. Woods fall back The country opens. Route 209 crosses Interstate 84. I ride the frontier of New Jersey. How many States have I crossed? This has been a journey of calculations - kilometers to miles, liters to gallons, distance into minutes - anything to pass the time while crossing the deserts of Argentina or Central Brazil, any distraction that took my mind off the pain in my butt. Next trip I will buy a custom saddle. Next trip? I'll be 76. What am I planning? I'm crazy...
SUNSHINE HERALDS A GLORIOS DAY
STATE PARK: APRIL 8
A barrier closes the road midway through the State Park. The detour winds through woods and a narrow valley. Trees part to a scattering of clapboard houses, a couple of churches, a jail - or perhaps a down-market holiday camp? The lane climbs again out of the valley before dipping to the river. Clouds break. Sunlight glistens on wet tar and on the clear waters of the Delaware. Joy is instant.
A barrier closes the road midway through the State Park. The detour winds through woods and a narrow valley. Trees part to a scattering of clapboard houses, a couple of churches, a jail - or perhaps a down-market holiday camp? The lane climbs again out of the valley before dipping to the river. Clouds break. Sunlight glistens on wet tar and on the clear waters of the Delaware. Joy is instant.
ROUTE 209
DELAWARE RIVER: APRIL 8
Cold, cold, cold. Yet the route is beautiful. The two-lane highway follows the wooded banks of the Delaware. Mountains rise to my left. Dressed in Spring-green this would be wondrous. Now the naked trees seem frozen in their stillness. Skinny branches drip at the border of a patch of bald plow. I stop a while, beat my hands on my thighs and watch two men cast for trout in clear waters. The fishermen wear waders; the river drags white water eddies round their thighs.
Cold, cold, cold. Yet the route is beautiful. The two-lane highway follows the wooded banks of the Delaware. Mountains rise to my left. Dressed in Spring-green this would be wondrous. Now the naked trees seem frozen in their stillness. Skinny branches drip at the border of a patch of bald plow. I stop a while, beat my hands on my thighs and watch two men cast for trout in clear waters. The fishermen wear waders; the river drags white water eddies round their thighs.
DELAWARE RIVER
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
I will finish this journey today - gratefully finish. I have been scared often - here, in the US, of falling ill. Not scared of illness. Scared by medical costs. We Europeans carry a plastic card that gives us free health treatment anywhere within the European Union. How good is the health treatment? Very good. Senator McCaine asks voters which they would prefer: European waiting lists or US freedom of choice. Freedom for whom? Senator McCaine. The Senator has Senatorial health insurance, a billionaire wife and doesn't know how many homes they own. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah....
I will finish this journey today - gratefully finish. I have been scared often - here, in the US, of falling ill. Not scared of illness. Scared by medical costs. We Europeans carry a plastic card that gives us free health treatment anywhere within the European Union. How good is the health treatment? Very good. Senator McCaine asks voters which they would prefer: European waiting lists or US freedom of choice. Freedom for whom? Senator McCaine. The Senator has Senatorial health insurance, a billionaire wife and doesn't know how many homes they own. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah....
POCONOS MOUNTAINS
ROUTE 209: APRIL 8
Nature is what the US does best. They possess a vast quantity: desert, plains, mountains, take your pick. I have ridden the Natchez Trail and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Now for the Poconos Mountains. Route 209 follows the Delaware, one more name conjuring a romantic view of history.
I leave Stroudsburg under an overcast sky. Cold? Bitterly cold. I stop at Wal-Mart and buy an outsize pair of ski gloves to wear over my other gloves. The gloves keep my hands warm for a few kilometers.
Nature is what the US does best. They possess a vast quantity: desert, plains, mountains, take your pick. I have ridden the Natchez Trail and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Now for the Poconos Mountains. Route 209 follows the Delaware, one more name conjuring a romantic view of history.
I leave Stroudsburg under an overcast sky. Cold? Bitterly cold. I stop at Wal-Mart and buy an outsize pair of ski gloves to wear over my other gloves. The gloves keep my hands warm for a few kilometers.
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