The contradiction of travel

Why do I put myself through this? It is meant to be enjoyable, something I've missed throughout the pandemic to date, something I've been looking forward to for almost twelve months. Yet, here I am on the eve of my first foreign holiday in over two years? Lying in bed with a churning stomach, worrying about what's to come.

It has always been the big contradiction of travel for me. I love a good journey, and visiting new places, yet I book trips in the full knowledge that I will spend the days immediately preceding departure feeling sick with anxiety, waiting for the starting gun to sound.

It must be because, deep down, I know that I'm doing the right thing, that there's no gain without a little pain, and that once it begins, once I step onboard that first train to London, all that pent up stress and worry will miraculously evaporate, enabling me to enjoy the experience. Of course it won't be the end of all anxiety, I know my body too well to expect that realistically, but those future worry pangs will mostly be constrained to the pressure points of the trip - finding my way through Terminal 5 alone, arriving at my St Lucian hotel in the dark, whiling away a day on my own in Rodney Bay before the others arrive, and somehow avoiding catching COVID when unavoidably in busy areas.

It should be quite a trip all told. Eighteen nights door to door, one at Heathrow's only five star hotel, two at a St Lucian resort, fourteen sailing aboard a yacht with the silliest name, and one squashed into an economy seat on the flight back home. It will include only my second ever transatlantic return flight, the longest time I will have spent on a yacht in one go, the furthest I have travelled alone and the longest time I have spent in a foreign land enjoying my own company. But it involves plenty of things I love, from a day long private tour of St Lucia, to some potentially exhilarating sailing, not to mention escaping wintry England for somewhere with daily temperatures in the high twenties and guaranteed sunshine.

I can't wait!   

Dawn chorus

I'm lying under the covers waiting for the alarm to ring.

I'm listening to the birds begin to sing.

We're all wondering what the day will bring.

It's that twilight moment, not just between darkness and light, but between not travelling and travelling, between not knowing and knowing. The duvet still feels comforting and warm as I await the moment when the day must begin. I'm thinking about all that will happen, the things we must do, the places we will see, the great distance we will travel.

I'm worrying whether I've packed everything I need, whether the taxi will come on time, whether our attempt to find our own way through Terminal Five will end in disaster as we fail to find breakfast, or miss our flight. I'm worrying what I will do for seven hours in the air. I'm worrying whether assistance will be provided at the other end if we reject it at Heathrow, and if they will try to force us into wheelchairs. I'm worrying about the cane, and whether it can ever be a sensible substitute for a guide dog when visiting such a busy city.

But I'm also excited, so very very excited. I'm looking forward to being at the airport, to flying across the Atlantic for the first time in my life, to our arrival somewhere new to us, to finding our way alone, to our hotel and dinner and the sights, sounds and other senses of New York.

The dawn chorus reminds me how uncertain the day could be, but also oh how wonderful. 

Too much planning

I can't recall a trip on which I have heaped so much expectation. Yes, I've certainly looked forward to holidays and spent plenty of time researching travel options and hotels, but ordinarily, once that's done and dusted, I would sit back and forget about it for a bit, intending to pick up the guide books again a little closer to our departure date. Not so with our next adventure however. From the day we decided to take the plunge and buy the tickets which, several days earlier had been ridiculously cheap but were now climbing higher with every hour, I have been immersing myself in every piece of information I can lay my hands on. I have read books, downloaded articles, browsed the "best of" this and the "ten greatest" that, I have spent hours viewing YouTube videos exploring every area and aspect we might hope to visit... but still I feel hopelessly unprepared.

The question is, can one ever really be prepared for New York City? Does there come a time when it is better to close the books and swipe away from the videos in order that we can experience the city with our own eyes and ears, rather than endlessly relying on the interpretations of others? Whilst it's probably sensible to find somewhere for Saturday night dinner, shouldn't we also leave space for culinary happenchance? And whilst a pre booked ticket for Top of the Rock will surely save us some queuing, often the best discoveries occur spontaneously.

So, it is with that thought that I sit here on a train winding its way through countryside on the Kent - East Sussex border, having just parted with guide dog Gio,. I'm anticipating what's to come with a healthy dose of enthusiasm, but without the fervent rush impatience that has characterized my research and planning to date.

In truth, after months thinking about the trip I have now entered my usual pre departure state of apathy. It reminds me of exams all those years ago, and the point one reached when cramming in information served only to remind me how little I thought I knew, rather than rectifying any apparent deficiency. That change in mindset is usually exacerbated by the ceremonial dropping off of the guide dog and my return to swinging the cane. Suddenly there are more pressing things to think about than how to navigate Central Park or which harbour boat trip to take, like how do I get myself home without tripping up half of Waterloo station, and can I manage to pack for a long weekend without bringing the kitchen sink or spending the whole night pondering how many shirts to take? I'm certainly excited that, within twenty four hours I'll be heading west across the Atlantic for the first time in my life, but I'm also nervous, thinking about the places I will have to navigate with my least favourite mobility aid.

The plan is to take it fairly steadily. To count on making it to the subway only after queuing at immigration for umpteen hours, and then to focus on finding the hotel and a nearby bite to eat. Somehow staying at a European chain hotel feels like an opportunity missed, but what is authenticity anyway in a city of the world?  The CitizenM is located on Bowery, a road which was more coming than up for a good portion of its existence, but which benefits from not being in the madness of Midtown but rather closer to China Town, including, hopefully, a restaurant with our name on it for Friday evening. Of course we've done the research and have in our possession a shortlist of establishments, each claiming to be the best place for noodle soup or dumplings,   but settling on the right one feels like tracking down that proverbial needle in a haystack.

The problem is that New York sounds much like London in terms of its restaurant scene, with literally thousands of options to choose from, and no end of opinions on which should benefit from our hard earned and converted dollars. And much like in London. If one strides always to find the best one possible one is surely to be disappointed. So, perhaps a different approach is required, forgetting about authenticity or that perfect New York experience, but focusing instead on what we really want. Indeed, perhaps that is a sensible mantra for the whole trip, helping us to find the sights and sounds that will interest or engage us rather than those which everyone else thinks we should enjoy.  

 

Understanding the risks

Sitting low on the sofa the climbers above, now relieved of their harnesses and ropes, still seemed impossibly high, and the moves they described, the effort in their voices, too challenging for a wall without protection. And every so often, as if to confirm the point, a dull thud sounded as the mats absorbed another hard arrival.

With fifteen minutes to go I didn't want to be sitting out the final exercise of my two session climbing course. I had done everything else to date, felt the gear, tied the knots, learnt to belay and to climb, arrested a staged fall, tried falling myself, and ridden the ever so slightly scary autobelay. There had been aspects which, as a visually impaired person, had been difficult, like pausing before each move, straining to hear shouted directions from my climbing partner or trainer below, before thrashing around for the right hold. And there had been things that were easier, like the very tactile process of tying in, or of raimbowing up a wall with no care for the specific holds involved. The point was, I had done it all. 

Kerry, the trainer, had been concerned about the autobelay. Without the manual engagement of a belayer controlling my rate of descent as I returned to earth from the top of a wall, she feared that I would be at heightened risk of injury. I respected her view, but I also felt the risk was manageable. Yes, there would be no braking before I hit the ground, and yes, I would need to be very conscious of how far I had climbed, how long it would take to drop, and of when to brace for impact. I would also need a trusted partner who could watch out for me. But none of these points were insurmountable, and ultimately she was content for me to make the call.

In the event it wasn't the floor that caused me pain, but the counter-intuitive act of letting go of the wall, five meters up, with only an unthinking machine to catch me. I understood the technology from a bit of prior reading, and that the physics involved were equally as unavoidable as the gravity that would pull me down, but it still took several counts to three and a couple of deep breaths before I could give it a go.

The landing itself was uneventful, but that's not to say I couldn't see Kerry's point. The ground certainly arrived quickly and without warning, and should there be an uneven surface, some discarded gear, or if my feet were not positioned properly, I could see well how a routine trip up and bad down the wall could turn into days or weeks with my leg up.

I think it is fair to say that risks abound for the unwary visually impaired climber, and not necessarily in the places they seem most likely. Uneven floors, snaking ropes and industrial staircases all conspire to trip one up, and of course scrabbling for a hand hold to steady oneself following a fall, or attempting to avoid the large jug holds whilst walking backwards on a descending rope are much more challenging when the wall is just a blurry mass.  

Learning to fall, and catching a falling climber, proved to be a interesting experience. The slight pull upwards as the rope tightened, the sense of being only just in control as an invisible force attempted to propel one face first into the wall and into the path of the descending climber, not to mention the trust one needs in one's belayer in the first place,            provided welcome practice and demystification for the day this would inevitably happen for real. Aspects of it are certainly different for a visually impaired belayer, not least the need to be in communicative harmony with one's climber, knowing exactly what they are doing at whenever their direction of travel or intentions change. Important too  is the guiding hand, constantly checking for slack in the rope in lieue of eyes watching the climber to anticipate each new move or the start of a fall. But the basics remain the same, the need to be primed for a potential fall, to return one's hand swiftly to one's side after pulling in slack, and to never ever let go of that brake rope. As the falling climber, on this occasion deliberately so and in a space chosen for its lack of protrusions, I suspect the chief challenge will be avoiding painful collisions with the larger holds and reorientating oneself following the event. On this occasion it was all quite controlled, and actually quite a positive experience.

So, it was with a degree of surprise and a little disappointment that I received Kerry's very strong advise that I should not participate in the final part of the course, bouldering. In my naivety I had rather imagined this to be the less challenging part of the experience, remaining relatively close to the ground, able to get off the wall easily when things got more tricky. I think I also had in mind happy times as a child clambering over boulders and other rock formations at the wonderful Brimham Rocks in North Yorkshire, their amazing tactility making it simpler, not more challenging, for a visually impaired person to navigate. But, I needed to be realistic, to recognise that indoor environments and the risks they introduced, were quite different. More importantly, I had been genuinely grateful for the thought and care that had been invested in ensuring that I got the most from the course and was not excluded from anything unless absolutely necessary.        As the course trainer Kerry of course had a fair degree of responsibility for the safety off those climbing under her instruction, and I had to take seriously her concerns About my likely inability to fall safely if I couldn’t orientate visually.  Therefore, whilst I dearly wanted to complete the whole course and, frankly, to be able to boulder like anybody else, there was no question of me pushing the point.

In the event I did get to try some traversing, albeit on the lowest holds and with Kerry resting a hand on my back, lest I missed a step and stumbled back the foot or so to the matting. It was surprisingly strenuous, far more so than any of the top roping we had done to date, and the first time I had raised my breathing rate or broken into a sweat. 

Listening to the four other course members, and the countless other climbers on the bouldering wall upstairs, as I reclined on my plastic cushion, it was clear that cardio vascular workouts were par for the course, with the opportunity to attempt more challenging moves without the safety net provided by rope and belayer. I wanted to be experiencing that too, but secretly I was also relieved. Whilst I couldn't recall doing anything to prompt it, my left ankle was beginning to ache, and I suspected that, had I tried to take part, at the end of a long day at work and three hours of tuition, the risk of injuring myself may have been heightened somewhat, and what a sad way to end that would have been.

So I enjoyed the rest instead, listened to those around pushing themselves to try something new, and reflecting on the fulfilment of a long term aim. Now, all I need is to somehow keep it up.   

Learning the ropes

Leaning backwards, away from the wall, I transferred my trust from the sturdy hand and foot holds that had hitherto been supporting me to the harness about my waist, the double eight and stopper knots I had tied myself, to the ten metres or so of rope which led first up to a pulley and then down to the ground and my billayer, another novice like me, standing ready to lower me to the ground. Ten minutes earlier I had been in his position, recalling the hand movements learnt earlier in the classroom, first to control the slack in the rope whilst remaining ready at a nanosecond's notice to drop my hand down to my side and lock off movement through the device and prevent a slight slip from becoming an eight metre drop to the floor below, and then to control his descent, gradually giving him more rope as he walked his way back to earth. Upstairs, when it was just us, in relative quiet and with a very short piece of wall on which to learn the ropes, it had felt relatively simple but now, with music glaring, the calls of other climbers all around, and the potential for serious consequences if I let the rope slide and my climber plummeted,       learning to climb felt a lot more challenging.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that I had been waiting for this day for years. Ever since I had first climbed an outdoor wall in Devon whilst on an activity holiday for disabled children and, on reaching the top had been allowed to abseil back with the rope looped around my body in a manner reminiscent of those early mountaineers lacking the fancy equipment on which climbers now rely, I had been hooked. Yet, it had taken me the best part of twenty years to do anything about it. The other activity I had enjoyed so much at the Calvert Trust's base on Exmoor had been a morning's sail on the reservoir, which had started out as a boatful of children eagerly waiting for their moment to pull on a sheet or hold the tiller, and had ended with just the trainer and I careering about in a gusty breeze, the boat sat on its side as we bore close to the wind. It had taken me a mere decade to pluck up the courage to visit a club and learn to do it properly.

I'm not sure what finally made me make the booking. With the sailing it had been an item on Radio Four's In Touch programme featuring a visually impaired sailor pootling about an East London dock with the totally blind presenter,. For somebody who can't even drive a shopping trolley independently the promise of helming a dinghy for myself, of being able to learn a practical skill and apply it to different situations without a sighted companion always being in charge was attractive, and I thought that if I didn't do it now I never would. But with climbing it was different, there was no eureka moment, just a slow burning ambition to have another go, and I simply had to wait until the desire to act overtook my anxiety at entering a new and potentially uncomfortable environment.

The discomfort I feared was not the bite of the rental harness or tow pinching climbing shoes which I now know to be my real foes, but being in a sweaty sporty environment where strength and stamina rule. I've never especially liked gyms, indeed I haven't set foot in a proper one since my mid teens, and most of my exercise comes from fast paced walks with my guide dog, Gio. I don't like the shared changing rooms, the pumping music, or the frenetic atmosphere, and the thought of paying to spend hours in such a place had never filled me with excitement.

But my desire to climb, fueled by friends' tales of adventures in Cumbria or North Wales, and books following endeavours up distant mountains or Scottish sea stacks          Finally won over. In early October I promised myself that, whatever happened, The month would not end without me beginning the process of learning to climb. I immersed myself in information on the various options. Should it be bouldering or top rope, a good Centre far from home or somewhere a bit more limited but much easier to reach? I also followed a trail of Facebook groups, VI Talk, VI Talk Sport, Paraclimbing for All, and eventually Paraclimbing London where I was finally able to glean the knowledge I needed, that the place to be, the place where they would not run a mile or perhaps climb a pitch at the thought of training a visually impaired novice, was The Castle in Islington.

Pushing open the heavy door at its entrance or climbing the metal staircase to its upper levels one feels The Castle's past. It was formerly a water pumping station and still seems somewhat industrial within. Light barely reaches the ground from strips high on the ceiling,   and seemingly every inch of floorspace coursed with intent as crowds of evening climbers harnessed up and took their positions beneath the towering walls.

I must confess that it was all a little overwhelming at first and I was grateful for the friendly receptionist leading me upstairs, pausing to drop my belongings in a swimming pool style locker before handing over to our trainer for the evening, Kerry. The training room was simple, a line of plastic chairs on two sides facing a short section of slab, the technical term for a wall slanting away from the climber. Our group of five introduced itself to each other and talked a little of its climbing experience to date, ranging from a couple who had climbed at the center with a friend, to me as a total beginner. All however were there an introduction to climbing quite literally from the ground up, and we started with the very basics.

First up was the equipment, alpine and sports harnesses with their different adjustment mechanisms and potential risks noted. For each example discussed I was given one to feel, to adjust the buckles for myself and somehow to disentangle the leg loops from the waist. I never have been much good at 3D puzzles and, sure enough, on being invited to don one for the first time, managed to get in a Ness.

Next up was the belay device and its connecting caribina. I had read about belaying and think I was expecting something a little more sophisticated than a simple metal frame divided in two with a loop of wire for securing it to one's harness. This, along with the bellayer's iron grip on the brake rope could be all that stands between a climber and a potentially devastating fall. Getting the technique right, feeling the live rope with one's left hand, pulling up with the right to draw down the slack, locking down, transferring the left hand down to the brake and sliding the right hand up, seemed simple in principle but easy to Ness up. If only I had a set at home with which to practice.

And then there was the rope, and the all important tying in technique. Knots were never my thing when sailing, and when tying a bowline the hapless rabbit would all too often find himself popping out of his hole before heading the wrong way round the tree. The double eight was a little easier, indeed, even without seeing the trainer's example the instructions were simple to follow, though doing it well will take a little longer to master.

        

Finally it was time to swap my work shoes for something altogether more toe chrunching, and to be let loose on the four metres of wall in the corner of the room, albeit supervised by Kerry. Taking it in turns to climb and to belay, I finally got to find out what happens when my rather puny mass is pitted against the weight of somebody a little less scrawny at the other end of a rope. No sooner had my partner flown to the ceiling then he was ready to descend, leaning back in his harness, allowing the rope, and me at the end of it, to take the strain. Holding his weight wasn't difficult initially, but with every foot of rope I let through the belay device a surge of energy attempted to pull me off my feet and smash me into the lower handholds. The sensation was quite unnerving, though in time I learnt that a more balanced, braced stance, combined with smaller, faster movements of the rope minimised the jerking that was initially my undoing.

And then it was my turn, tentatively stepping forward until I could feel the wall before me, exploring with one hand and then the other to find my starting holds, and repeating with my feet, clumsily feeling left then right, up a bit, down a little until all four limbs were connected and ready to go.      I probably should have been ready for the frustration that would follow having read Red Szell's account of re-learning to climb as a visually impaired person, but my first trip to the top was about as graceless as I thought it was possible to get. With each movement I felt around for the holds, which could be anywhere about my body. With my hands it wasn't too bad, but with my legs I had the sense of thrashing wildly to find some grip, seemingly missing each hold by a matter of inches. For the others this had been the easy bit, the simplest of simple climbs to whet their appetite, a reward for all the faffing about with harnesses and belay devices, but for me it was a challenge, and I was all too glad to reach the top and take my turn at walking backwards down the wall. To be clear, it wasn't the physical process of climbing that was the issue, but rather the process of searching for holds when one cannot identify them visually. Looking straight at the wall from perhaps half a metre away the holds are invisible to me, and it is only when they are sat right in front of my nose that I am more likely to spot them. Even then it is less the hold I can see than the shadow it casts beneath, and so identifying their shape or colour is an impossibility.

Onwards and upwards. With an hour of tuition left for the evening we headed down to the main floor, and along a narrow valley separating two artificial crags. To my eyes it could have been a dimly lit outdoor site, short cliffs rising to left and right, a black night sky above, though my brain frequently fills in the picture parts my eyes don't see and to everyone else it was probably just a climbing gym. Either way, we were allocated our ropes, Gio was attached to a ground anchor, and the real climbing began. First time on the proper wall I rainbowed, scrabbling for any hold I could find regardless of colour, just thankful to reach the top. Once again the experience wasn't fluid and serene as my companions managed at times to make it appear, but an inelegant trudge skyward, kicking one leg out and then the other to find something to lodge my toes in. It didn't help that as I jammed my foot into the early holds it cramped up, reminding me of how my feet really don't like being manipulated against their will, even if only by an inanimate wall. Had I been at home I probably would have been found hopping up and down to relieve the contracting muscles., but a quarter of the way up a climbing wall I simply had to grin and bare it   until there was nowhere left to climb.

And then it was that moment. The point where I had to plant my heels against the wall, lean back and let go. I couldn't see the ground, but I could certainly hear the jumble of different voices sounding as if they were dozens of metres below rather than a paltry eight. "Keep your feet apart" Kerry called as I stepped gingerly backwards into the abyss, my weight held by my harness, that newly learnt knot, the pulley and rope, and my belayer at the bottom, nodoubt digging his own feet firmly into the ground to save himself from being dragged forwards. 

As the end of the evening approached there was time for one more climb, this time on a single grade. I had suggested to Kerry earlier in the evening that we should borrow the clockface approach described in Red Szell's Blind Man of Hoy, envisaging my spine as the hour hand on a clock, pointing straight up to twelve, the available holds taking the place of hours about the face so that, even without indicating which hand or foot should move it should be possible to identify where the next point of contact is to be found.      For the starting holds I suggested she simply show me where they were, but for each successive one she would call out, directing a hand to two o'clock, a foot to nine. Sometimes the needed hold was slightly above my left shin, or immediately above my head, and once it was the same hold I was already gripping with the other hand. Whilst I may have sacrificed autonomy I had gained in self confidence. Now I could attempt moves like anybody else, conserving valuable energy and enthusiasm by avoiding the mad scramble for each new handhold, and able to focus on where I was going and not simply where I was at any given moment. And when I reached the top I finally felt as though I had accomplished something, physically probably one of the least demanding climbs I will complete, but finally relieving the frustration I had felt earlier in the evening, and confirming that this was a sport for me.

   

References:

• Red Szell, Blind man of Hoy.https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blind-Man-Hoy-Red-Szell-ebook/dp/B00RKP9UVI

• Paraclimbing London Facebook group:https://m.facebook.com/groups/336808226819833     

Geographically Challenged

It was fifteen minutes into my walk that I realized my mistake. For a fleeting moment I thought I had found the right place, a large building beside a body of water, a steady flow of people entering and exiting the road beside. Was it just me or did they look like the young, athletic type I had been expecting, or was I seeing what I wanted to see?

I had left the Tube station as I so often do, striding purposefully, not so much because I know where I am going, but because I don't want anybody else to think that I might not. It is a failing of mine, I know, but I hate to reinforce any preconception that passers by may have of the guide dog owner they see, no doubt lost and in need of their assistance. So, rather than do the sensible thing, I strike out in whatever direction my inbuilt compass tells me must be right, walking with confidence and pace until I sense that something must be amiss, and pause to consider my options. This would of course be a good point to accept my predicament, ask for help, or in the very least retrace my steps to the last place I knew with any certainty where I was and where I needed to go.

Of course, in this instance, I had neither sought help on climbing the steeply curving steps leading from Manor House Tube to a busy street corner., and nor did I accost any members of the public when my phone informed me, rather disappointingly, that the shining water surface I had glimpsed briefly as I approached my present location was not the lake I was looking for, but the New River, channelling, as I believe it still does hundreds of years after its construction, drinking water into the Centre of London.     

Truth be told, I was quite excited to have found the river, having previously read the wonderful London blogger, Diamond Geezer's account of walking it from source to sea, or whatever the equivalent journey is for a man-made water course. Perhaps it was this, or more likely my hatred of turning tail and confirming to all and sundry that as a confident user of their local pavements I was something of a fraud, I instead took a sharp left and began to trace my way along the road shadowing the river bank. This wasn't a bank like any that most people would know it, rather it was a Dan of sorts, rising steeply from the stout fence which kept pedestrians out, to a height of perhaps five feet, and in this way presumably maintaining the gradual gradient used to keep those precious water's flowing. If I had wished for an easy view of the river I was to be sorely disappointed, for it wasn't until I had returned, chastened, to Seven Sisters Road, having admitted defeat after a quarter of a mile trek in the wrong direction, that I was able to look down on it from the edge of a bridge parapet. It had a canal like straightness, and its towpath appeared decidedly unappealing, so only half an hour late I cut my losses and returned to the Tube.

But what was it that I was looking for in the first place, I pretend to imagine hearing you cry? What was it that drove me to leave behind the comparative safety of southwest London and head instead for the unknown hitherto largely unknown lands that lie beyond Kings Cross? Well, I was attempting to be sensible for once, recognizing that the next time I came this way, butterflies fluttering inside my stomach ahead of three hours of climbing tuition at The Castle Climbing Center, it would be dark and cold, and not a time to be getting lost and exploring rivers, new or otherwise. I had it in mind that I would pop gown there on a nice bright Saturday afternoon, trace the route a couple of times, ensure Gio could find the front door, and then head off elsewhere for a little more exploration. My unscheduled visit to the New River had put paid to this being a quick trip, but, having returned to those steep steps to the Underground I was finally able to achieve what I had come for in the first place.

The route to The Castle was, as I had been led to believe, simple and straight, and within less than ten minutes I was mingling with the hordes inside, young and old alike, just for the record, seeking out their shop and a new pair of trousers to see me through my early days on the wall. The but that's a story for another day.           

Taking the plunge

Ten years ago I embarked on a new course with my free time, learning to sail a boat and ultimately helming in four Blind Nationals events, two of which I won. I have never been much of a sportsman, and am generally pretty aprehensive about entering a new and unfamiliar environment with nobody I know to lend moral support. That first day, turning up all alone at a dock in southeast London truly felt like leaping from a high board into an unknown pool. Little did I know that I would never look back, and whilst I don't sail as much as I would ideally want to, I made friends and enjoyed experiences I never would have otherwise.

And here I am doing it again. Having thought about it ever since I abseiled down a wall in Exmoor, two decades ago, I am finally going to take my first proper steps, or perhaps more accurately find my first handholds, learning to climb.

I've scoured London for the best climbing centres, not just for the variety of their walls or the quality of their instruction, but for somewhere where they will feel comfortable and confident teaching a visually impaired person whilst accomodating their guide dog. It could have been a tough ask, and may still prove to be, but for the time being I think I have found my venue, with the Castle Climbing Center near Finsbury Park. Not only that, but afraid that I night get cold feet and put it off for another ten years, I've made the necessary booking and, all being well, should be found somewhere on the end of a rope in about three week's time. Wish me luck...     

Tales of a Blindy Photographer: The missing subject

Wherever I travel I love to take photographs, but sometimes being visually impaired means it isn't all plain sailing. Some might call these “blind fails”, but to me they're just a consequence of attempting to take pictures with rather imperfect vision. 

There was a good example today. I was wandering along the quayside at Newhaven in Edinburgh ( yes, it was a surprise to me too that there is a Newhaven in Scotland, though when really thinking about it, what's really surprising is that there aren't more around the country) attempting to find the Light House restaurant, and pausing every so often to snap an image of the harbour below me. I thought at one point that I had found the lighthouse after which the establishment was named. It seemed to be one of those old fashioned types, part of a general building rather than standing tall and alone on the water's edge, and I took a few shots from across the road. 

It was only when, several hours later, flicking through the photos I had taken that I came across one with a strange pencil like structure almost hidden by a brick wall I had deliberately included in the foreground. Yes, of course it was the lighthouse, but what of the building I had previously mistaken for it? 

Well, that turned out to be a church spire, perhaps a lighthouse of the sorts, guiding the souls of mariners rather than lighting the way home. 

Always on my mind

The Facebook status box asks, rather intrusively if I stop and ponder it, what is on my mind. 

I don't really know where to start. 

Firstly, and probably most importantly, I've had a pretty successful day. I arrived in Edinburgh fresh as an ever so slightly wilted daisy, navigated my way around a largely unfamiliar station, net up with a colleague, chaired a consultation event, facilitated a break out group, found my way from a random bus stop to a never before visited hotel despite the best efforts of the local planners, and capped it all off with a pleasant dinner in a little place overlooking the water. 

All pretty good, you might think, and with good reason. Travelling alone can be stressful and challenging, until a year or so ago the thought of speaking at an event, let alone leading it, would have terrified me, and if there is one thing I really hate it is eating alone in a restaurant. So, on the basis of that I have really had a pretty good tiime. 

But then theirs the fact of where I am right now, enjoying the springyness of a Premier Inn bed beneath my body whilst penning this post rather than making the most of a night in Edinburgh during the Festival Fringe. Despite all that I have achieved today I have failed. I have failed because I have succumbed to the tidal wave of anxiety and fear that frequently threatens to overtake me when anticipating doing something challenging from a visual perspective, but which I mostly manage to hold back just long enough to do the things I want to. Right now, where I want to be is inside the Merchant Hall enjoying the Blues and Soul Review rather than hiding away in a nondescript hotel room miles from the city center, but the thought of navigating thronging crowds alone on dark, unfamiliar streets, first to find the box office, and then the venue itself, is just too much to contemplate.

The feeling won't last forever, I know. Indeed, from past experience I know that it will last just long enough to make me miss the event before subsiding sufficiently to allow me to rue my decision for the rest of the night, before the next wave of concern begins to build up. 

Tomorrow is a new day with new challenges. It has things I will enjoy, like travelling further north on the UK rail network than I have so far been to date. It will have things that will be enjoyable and worthwhile at the time, but which I will worry about beforehand, such as meeting stakeholders new to me.  And I dare say it will have challenges, as yet unforseen, which will test my resolve to keep going. I only hope I can push through this time around. 

A knotty problem

I've got a knot in my stomach. It has been there for several days and is showing little sign of going anywhere. Truth is, I wasn't especially surprised by its arrival and rather expect it to stick around in one form or another for about the next seven days. 

You see, this always happens when the date of my next big adventure transforms from a grey smudge on the horizon into a wall of rock and ice to be surmounted imminently. On this occasion it is a week away, a bit of work, a bit of play, with a couple of sleeper trains and five different hotels thrown in for good measure, all things, quite frankly, which one would be forgiven for thinking that a Robert would be entirely comfortable with, if not relishing actively. 

If my pre trip anxiety seems rather contradictory to you then I can assure you that it is downright baffling to me. As any reader of this blog will have realized, I really love to travel. Indeed, I love to dream, and scheme, to anticipate and dream some more, before departing on a new adventure, to visit unfamiliar places, meet new people, eat and drink and even learn a new thing or to. It is the thing that keeps me going in the long days of winter or on late nights in the office, yet it frequently renders me frozen with fear, overcome by the enormity of what is to come. Of course, I could just stay at home and spare myself the stress, but then that travel bug would start nibbling at me anew and the whole cycle would start once more. 

So, here I I am, stuffing the kitchen sink into my holdall, worrying that my luggage is suitable neither for a business trip to the Scottish capital, nor a jaunt through the highlands, but somehow having to make it work for both. 

BearingAway Live: Japan - Sticks and Fire

BearingAway Live: The Beginning

A video of our journey from London to Japan. 

https://youtu.be/4fEJUZffNzA 

First steps in Japan

One's first day in a new city or country is always rather tricky.  First there is the physical grime of travel to wash away, the tiredness to banish and one's packing - once so familiar, now seemingly incredibly alien - to explore, but then there is the small matter of a different language and culture to get used to.  In some ways Japan feels to be in a league of its own in this regard, and so far we have barely dipped our little toes in.

Yesterday was all about getting here - the eleven. Hour flight to Seoul and the hour long connection to Fukuoka, the latter spent predominantly completing the lengthy immigration and customs declarations to enter Japan.  The journey itself wasn't bad as long-haul flying goes.  Asiana hadn't been the easiest of airlines to deal with electronically, but once on board the seats were relatively comfortable, the crew unfailingly friendly, and the food remarkably good for aviation fare. Wehad expected formalities on arrival to take a while, but save for a little disagreement over how best to represent the seven hotels we will be staying at in a single box on the form, we were allowed in without too much trouble.  Goodness knows if they will be able to make sense of Mark's cribblings, or indeed whether they would have been just as happy with something a little less comprehensive, so long as pen had been commited to paper in roughly the right places.

And now it is morning on our first day. The free hotel rahmen last night had been a nice welcome, saving us from exploring the city in our rather fatigued state, and the cans of lager from the very Japanese vending machine were truly welcome.  The main objectives for the hours ahead are simply (I use the term cautiously) to become acquainted with Japan, to pick up our oh-so-precious JR rail passes, to book seats on around ten different trains, and to find lunch in what is regarded by some as the culinary capital of Kyushu.  I can't wait to get going.

  

Different this time

Goodness me, it's that time again - that point in the year when I promise myself, not to mention my faithful and very patient readers, that this time will be different.  I really do mean it each time I write a post such as this, even if deep down I have a sneaky suspicion that this holiday will be just like all the others, and that once I'm off the first train or plane I'll forget all about writing, or simply find something more enjoyable to do, like eating or drinking, or generally anything other than sitting in front of a computer keyboard.

Part of the problem in the past however, has been over-ambition.  That, and a healthy dose of perfectionism, combining to mean that I spend so long takig photographs, video and audio that I have scant time left to pen carefully worded prose - and frankly I'd rather write nothing than utter rubbish (though will let you be the judge of how well I succeed in this).

Now I know about bad workmen and all that, but the other problem in recent times has been a frankly awful bluetooth keyboard, which somehow managed simultaneously to omit characters that I had typed whilst adding in plenty that I hadn't.  It meant that a post of roughly this length might have taken me several hours, all the while picking about in each sentence to correct the nonsense that I had inadvertently drafted.  The good news is that my new Griffin Lightening keyboard is making very snappy work of this post.  The downside is that any nonsense present on the page is well and truly down to me!

So, I've spent too much of your precious time telling you what's going to be different this time, and not nearly enough saying where I will be going, and what I'll be doing when there.

Well, suffice to say that this is a big one.  Last year I travelled no further east than the Franco-German border, and as far west only as Madrid.  This year the journey will be of a similar length to the first leg of that trip to Spain, albeit with the twelve or so hours spent in planes rather than trains.  I'm heading somewhere that's been on my bucket list for years but somehow never reached the top, a place whose culture is both all around us and yet in many ways quite foreign.  It is said to be one of the only truly modern non-Western countries and its impact is felt globally.  This year I'm heading to Japan.

Battle for the written word

I've been re-reading a few of my blog posts. It may seem a rather self centred, introspective thing to do, but it was prompted by a comment being left on a long forgotten post and my wish to rediscover it.

The commentor in question said something nice about my style of writing, and looking back through the various articles, I had to agree. Whilst it must be the very epitome of immodesty to praise one's own pros I can't help feeling that some of the text, written months and years ago, still achieves The effect I originally sought to create. Often, at the time of writing, I find myself publishing pieces without reviewing and re-writing them as much as I ought, for fear of never actually pressing "send". It isn't that I don't care about what I write, as I have commented on in the past, it is simply that I would likely never be happy with the words used or the flow of sentences and paragraphs. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that, in many cases, those words fitted together quite fine and conveyed the meaning in an interesting and engaging way.
What I was less happy to discover however, was my almost faultless trait of beginning interesting sounding series, only to never continue them. At the beginning of so many holidays, it seems, I have begun with the intention of writing each day, chronicling journeys and experiences, only to run out of steam before I've left the starting station. Take, for instance, my recent trip with Mark to Sicily, all the way from London by train. It had the makings of a gripping story, with significant challenges to overcome on the way to a Mediterranean idyll - save for the fact that, in writing it, I got no further than the French Alps.

Another example was my independent trip to Amsterdam with my (now previous) guide dog Vance. Typographically the starting post left a little to be desired, penned as it was on my normal dodgy Bluetooth keyboard, but the tale was truly sunk by my Phalia to write another word after my overnight ferry left Harwich.

So, whilst I can see some merit in the sense of some of my articles, I am left deeply frustrated by my apparent inability to finish what I have begun. It isn't as if there wasn't anything worthy of being written about on these trips. Had I spent the time and effort doing it I am sure I could have conveyed fear and exhilaration which seem to fill most journeys in equal measure - yes, I love travelling, but that doesn't mean it is always plain sailing. I could have happily talked about the contradiction of pleasant monotony on a long distance sleeper train to Palermo, or the frenzied swarms of bicycling locals which infect Dutch streets and make independent mobility a frankly frightening affair. I might have written of walking the circular promenade of Altigia, as if I was experiencing it live, or brought to life the cacophony of a Munich beer Hall. I didn't do any of that however, I was too busy taking photographs and audio recordings, too preoccupied with capturing the "now" to really sit back and think about it.

The tension between keyboard and camera began early on the Sicily trip. My original, indeed only, article from that journey took over three hours to write because I was so distracted with taking pictures every few miles, or recording thoughts live on video or audio. Yes, the writing was certainly hard going with a phone and keyboard combination which wrote the wrong character more often than the right, but The products of combining observation and imagination on paper are often so much more gratifying than the simple electronic capturing of a moment.

Reading those initial chapters pre-seeding empty books it seemed as though I did not, could not, trust myself to recall and relay events without those pictures and sounds of actuality to back up the memories. It was, I think, a strong desire to convey the experience to a wider audience in a way which could be digested, understood easily, and a belief that in order to do so properly one needs to film and photograph as much as possible. In my head, I could see the cut-away shots that would be needed to make my video flow, or the photographs which would help me and others to understand or appreciate a location long after it had passed. If I couldn't see the detail of a landscape or building the photographs and video would help me to review it later, and somehow this seemed more important than the feelings and thoughts triggered by the experience itself.

So, five months after Sicily I have over 4000 photographs still waiting to be organised, two hour long videos produced but plenty more footage to edit, hours of audio uploaded to the Internet and a solitary blog post which says more in its few paragraphs than most of the other electronic memories put together.

I may yet manage to write a little more about some of my most recent trips, dredging up memories from the depths of my brain, but what I would really like to do is find The inclination to take a few less photographs, video shots and audio recordings and focus a bit more on the written word. Perhaps by standing back and thinking that every picture counts, as we all did before digital photography, and not feeling that I have to chart every single second live, I can create the space to achieve this.

Rushing through France

Mark has lost the keys to his brain apparently. He's sitting opposite me, speeding backwards through undulating countryside between Paris and Lyon, grumbling about the lack of sleep he's suffered in the past couple of days. To be fair, he's also throwing potential blog post titles at me and, extremely helpfully, giggling at the curvature of my bluetooth keyboard,, apparently distorted from the pressures inside my rucksack - so the cheerful Mark we know and (sometimes) love is still in there somewhere. After ten minutes of massaging the keyboard back the other way and considering the relative merits of writing about our travels so far or preparing for our next destination with a quick Italian lesson I think I finally know what I'm doing.




It's been a slightly mad twenty-four hours or so, beginning with my departure from my parents' local station in East Sussex, leaving behind my guide dog for a couple of weeks, and finishing with a rather civilised stroll next door from the Mercure Gare de Lyon to catch our TGV service to Turin, sitting at platform D (who's idea was this strange lettering system anyway?) an almost lliteral stone's throw away. It almost feels rude to be rushing through France so quickly, with barely a moment to breathe. We arrived just before eight last night, having enjoyed a stress-free trip from St Pancras, crossing to Gare de Lyon and settling intoo the Mercure without having to give it much thought. It was all a far cry from the middle of the day, as I frantically completed my packing before crawling painfully along the District Line to Bow Road, all the time attempting to keep tabs on Mr Rogers in the vain hope that he wouldn't cause me to run for our international departure. I'm personally no stranger to cutting it fine when heading off from London, but when the train is merely the first link in a 1,800 mile rail journey there is a little extra impetus to get it right and avoid messing up the the rest of the trip. I'd be lying if I claimed not to be just a little nervous as I waited for Mark outside the Tube, the clock ticking away the final minutes before check-in closed, in fact I'd be lying if I claimed not to have threatened him with a slow and grrzzly death if he made me miss the train. Thankfully Mark was spared a premature meeting with his maker, and I could look forward to a great continental railway journey rather than decades in prison.

The threat of indefinite incarceration may have receded a little as we squeezed our way through the ticket barriers, security machines and two sets of passport control crammed into the tiniest of spaces at St Pancras, but I wasn't without a ball and chain - and this one would be joining me forr the entire journey to Sicily. One of these days I will learn to leave the kitchen sink, oven and cupboards in their rightful place at home, but for this trip, as for so many that have gone before, I'm lumbered with an enormous holdall filled to the brim with sufficient clothing for a Grand Tour of Victorian proportions. That's all well and good when it only needs humping to the airport conveyor belt, but a little different when your trip involves ten station changes and goodness only knows how many flights of steps. As Mark keeps reminding me, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger., though I may reserve judgement until I returrn in one piece.

Talking of death, or at least pushing one's body to the limit, and then a little further, Mark is not only testing my hhheart rate on this trip. Seeing him arrive yesterday with three rucksacks to cart down to Sicily, wheezing from exertion, or tucking into an enormous meal at the wonderfully grand Train Bleu restaurant, complete with champagne and half a bottle of wine, one would be forgiven for questioning the merits of undertaking such a trip following a diagnosis of sky high blood pressure. Thankfully for him we're heading to the world of olive oil and heart-sustaining cuisine, which should at least appease his doctor should he return in an even worse state than when he left.

In the meantime, a couple of hours after I began this post, and as we twist and turn through stunning Alpine scenery I can hear sleepy breathing from across the table. I'd better not wake him, he needs all the stamina he can build to get through this mammoth adventure.

*Please note that this post was written on a dogy bluetooth keyboard which is inclined to omit or invent characters. I hope you will therefore forgive the inevitable errors.

Location:D75,Francheleins,France

To Sicily

After months of planning the big trip is finally here. I hope to post plenty of updates on this blog, and will also be uploading audio to AudioBoom ( http://www.audioboom.com/rjnet). To get things started, here is a recording taken as I returned home, having left Vance with my parents:
https://audioboom.com/boos/3475196

Flirting with truly independent travel

I've been waiting for this evening for years, but now that it's here I can't decide whether to relish every step along the way or curl up in a ball, grit my teeth, and hope that I make it through in one piece. And, isn't that invariably the case::? When a plan is still on the drawing board, sufficiently distant from reality for comfort, it's easy to get excited about the grand adventure one will be embarking on, but once it gets close enough to ssee all the individual elements for what tthey really are it all begins to feel a bit too big and scary.

I can't remember who said that the journey was as important to travel as the ultimate destination, assuming I ever knew, but it certainly rings true for the journey that Vance and I are a couple of hours into making. As we race east from London, watching the setting sun lighting the high clouds behind us I can't help, despite my nerves, feeling just a little excited that by the time daylight arrives once more we will be on one of the largest passenger ferries in the World, approaching the Hook of Holland. From there, after hopefully enjoying some breakfast prior to disembarking, we will travel by train to the outskirts of Rotterdam, changing for our intermediate destination, at least for twenty four hours, Amsterdam.

I have never been to The Netherlands' most popular, well known, not quite capital, city - but when planning to take the overnight ferry route on my way to visit friends in norther Germany, stopping there felt like too good an opportunity to miss. The only problem, easily glossed over at the point of booking, was that, despite having travelled widely in Europe, including independent journeys to see the same friends, I had never yet stayed in a foreign city alone, with or without my guide dog. Somehow finding a hotel, walking the city streets, popping into restaurants and bars or visiting museums and other sights feels quite manageable in the UK, but an enormous challenge anywhere else.

Thankfully the promise of the sea crossing, which I first read about long ago on www.seat61.com carried me through the booking hoops, ensuring that I didn't lose my nerve before I could commit myself to travelling, leading me directly to this seat, on this train, speeding backwards through the late April dusk.

The trip could go one of two ways. If things go according to plan, if I avoid getting too lost in Amsterdam and Vance isn't prevented from entering too many places, it could well give me the confidence I need to try it again, potentially opening up many an opportunity. But it wouldn't take much to knock my existing confidence, and I worry that this could be my one and only flirtation with truly independent travel on the Continent.

Location:Claremont Heights,Colchester,United Kingdom

One stride forward and two steps back

Imagine you've just purchased a new computer. You've snipped off the packing tape with a knife, sniffed the unique scent of electronics fresh from the factory floor, and have set it all up on your desk. You know that things are going to be a little different from this point onwards, and as you depress the power button you take a deep breath.

But all the oxygen in the world couldn't help you as you go into battle with a way of doing things so different to what you knew before that you want to turn back the clock, pull the old machine from the skip, and forget all about things new and shiny.

First up, every time you click on anything it takes an additional second to load. Doesn't sound much, but when multiplied across hundreds of interactions in any one session it begins to feel like a lifetime.

Next up is the screen, or rather the characters which appear on it. Call you a luddite but you prefer your letters crisply formed rather than in this new font which starts off strong but, within the space of a few pixels, becomes fuzzy and rather incomprehensible.

Finally, to cap everything off beautifully there's the keyboard. I suppose you do at least have a choice, able as you are to pick between the keys you knew, but slowed down so that each press takes an eternity to register, or one where you can type quickly but every third word will be nonsensical and the entry of punctuation or carriage returns involves a complex and time consuming process.

Before long, faced with this, you will nodoubt have slung your new toy in the bin and have embarked on a process of rebuilding the old device.

Except I don't have that option. Having installed iOS 8 on my iPhone, metaphorically hurling the old operating system into an eternal pit of fire, and suffered the consequences, there is no way I can roll back time.
So, whilst my two year old phone may now be sluggish and frustrating to interact with,, the voice I was used to, effectively the equivalent of a font to a fully sighted user, may be painful to listen to, and my typing options may make writing either time consuming or hideously inaccurate, I am going to have to live with it.



The majority of my ire over the past few hours has been reserved for a little app called Fleksy. In my phone's previous state this was a stand alone application which allowed me to type emails, messages, tweets and other text at a pace approaching that which might be possible on a full size, real life keyboard. It isn't much of an exaggeration to say that Fleksy was at the very center of my iPhone toolkit, absolutely essential to a whole raft of activities. Now, on the new operating system Fleksy has graduated to the impressive status of an embedded keyboard, able to work with almost any program that one might pick. The problem is that, alongside this change, has come an apparent and entirely understandable refocusing of attention on the mainstream market and all the bells and whistles that entails, to the extend that the app is now no longer nearly as accessible as it once was. Not only that, but an increase in vocabulary has seemingly resulted in a degradation of accuracy, requiring one to flick through countless alternative words to find the right one, where before this might have been accomplished with one or two swipes.

It could be that, as with many changes in the way one is used to doing things, I just need to let the new experience bed in, in the knowledge that within a week or so this will have become the new norm for me, as unlikely as that may seem. However, at present it feels as if I am being required to take an enormous step backwards in my interactions with my phone, with direct and increasingly negative effects on the things I use it for. My writing may not be quite as fluid as usual, my spelling and punctuation may be a lot worse, I may shy away from shooting off a quick response because it simply isn't worth the bother, or I may simply be even more irritable than usual as I struggle to get to grips with things. Let's hope it's a bit better than that rather gloomy prediction, but I'm not holding my breath!

Train to the coast

Onboard the 0919 stopping service to Waterloo the passengers were syking themselves up for the first day back at work after the long Easter weekend. Outside the train the sun beat down from a sky almost entirely devoid of cloud as if the weather knew the Bank Holiday was over and the slog to the next break had begun. The lady next to me was using the thirty minute journey to redirect a parcel apparently left at the wrong address, and across the aisle somebody was rustling a newspaper noisily.

At the terminus commuters strode off purposefully, the single aim of reaching the office by 10am shared by thousands. Services west were delayed due to tresspass, the station announcer intoned, but there were none of the inpatient crowds one becomes accustomed to when travelling regularly on overcrowded lines.

With ten minutes to go a lady approached to check if I needed help. My train was yet to appear on the departure board but she would ensure I caught it. And whilst I waited the sun continued to shine, lighting the concourse like some giant mirror.

The railway tracks out of Waterloo are familiar to me, having lived in Richmond and travelled all about these parts over the past eight and a half years. In the past I used to catch the Weymouth service frequently to start or end a working week in Southampton. Now, on that same train, I remember the little knocks and jolts as we speed out through the suburbs, the sudden shuttering out of daylight as we pass through Wimbledon, and the flashes of other trains heading eastwards to the big city. Onboard little sound can be heard above the rush of air conditioning and the rhythmical squeaking of the bogies. Occasionally the crisp flick of a magazine page catches my attention, as do the hisses and grunts of the automated toilet cubicle. The air that surrounds me is bland to taste and smell though it's temperature is startlingly chilly. My ears feel cool and I clasp my hands together whilst typing to retain some warmth.

Our first stop outside London rolls into view outside my window and the train jerks to a halt. As the doors slide open a passing diesel train can be heard, drowning out an announcement itemizing the further stops we will make. Three days ago I changed here for Salisbury, Newport and Abergavenny as I headed for lunch with my sister. Today I remain in my seat as the doors slam shut and a lady settles herself next to me.

"he looks comfortable " she notes as Vance rolls onto his side, jamming the guide dog harness into my shins.

He's certainly no stranger to a bit of rail travel, having accompanied me on numerous trips throughout the land. I wonder if he will miss it when he eventually retires, becoming a normal domestic dog, banned from so many public buildings and modes of transport. He so loves to work that I struggle to imagine him doing anything else, and of course, to him, this is the only life he knows.

Lying at my feet as the train turns south for Southampton before continuing along the coast to our destination for the day, he knows little of what we're doing. He saw me pack my bag, paying particular attention to the folded long cane which has previously heralded him being left for a time, but which more frequently comes along to support me if the chance of a long lead walk arise. Vance is thankfully used to these somewhat impromptu visits, to wandering around unfamiliar destinations, walking one way before losing our bearings and doubling back, or pausing every twenty meters for me to photograph some object which has caught my attention but which will ultimately turn out to be a street lamp or rubbish bin when viewed at home. I love capturing the moment, whether visually or audibly, but this doesn't mean I can see what I'm doing when framing shots or selecting settings. There is a certain amount of art, but an awful lot of luck.

An hour after leaving London I'm halfway to the sea. The train is still half empty, though conversations are becoming louder, the conductor ever more cheery. The glue which bone binds the lips of Londoners when travelling by Tube or train is less evident here as we travel deeper into Hampshire, further away from our capital.

I know little of exactly what the day will have in store for us. The idea was crystallized whilst reading a Diamond Geezer article, but I have never been before and have undertaken precious little research. There will be a beach, I know, a cliff lift, two piers and some art deco architecture. I hope that there will not be the tourists who undoubtedly flocked there yesterday. I hope too that the clear skies and bright sunshine will create a warmth not present in London this morning. Aside from this my mind is open, I'm ready to walk and learn, to capture memories and to enjoy time with Vance on the final day of this early April break.

Location:Central Station Bridge,Southampton,United Kingdom