The light at the end of the lens (Medium Article)

Apparently dissatisfied with the experience of blogging periodically on Blogger I thought I've give the text-centred writing platform Medium a shot. My For a service meant to put words up front and make the process as painless as possible it was a remarkably difficult interface to use. But enough of that, I still managed to publish a post to be proud of, which I embed below for your reading pleasure: The light at the end of the lens

An ode to the Scots

It is Destiny Day for our friends the wee Scots,
The hour is here to place a cross in the box,
We'll love you no less if you choose to say bye,
But we may shed a tear when cutting the tie.

It has been quite a tale, the story to date,
And there's more to come if you've got time to wait,
But your moment is here, we're holding our breath,
Are you signing the warrant for our Union's death?

Was it really so difficult, that promise we made,
To love one another until in coffins we laid?
Weren't we there for each other in good times and bad?
Does the thought of maybe leaving not make you feel sad?

This island was our's for three hundred years,
Building industry, commerce, sharing high hopes and fears.
Repelling invaders, welcoming new friends,
What kind of message will our divorce send?

But we know you're proud people with your own history,
We're cramping your style and you want to be free.
With brave hearts and big dreams to the polls you will leap.
I hope the result is what you want, and cool heads we'll all keep.

You see, whatever your preference when picking your fate,
We'll still love you dearly, our best friend and mate.
And despite all the cruel words, despite all the muck,
For this difficult day we wish you good luck.

BiH 14: The joys of flying

It has just gone twelve midday and I'm sitting in a rather dingy corner of Cologne Bonn Airport waiting for the assistance people to return. We hadn't originally asked for help changing planes on our way to Sarajevo but the offer seemed too helpful to refuse, particularly given the stresses of our departure from Heathrow an hour or so previously.

German Wings is a funny sort of airline. Closely linked to Germany's flag carrier Lufthansa it has many of the hallmarks of a legacy airline, with light snacks and complimentary coffee still served to most passengers and staff who actually want to help their customers. Yet it also appears to have acquired a number of similarities with the likes of Ryanair and Easyjet, including low prices and a check in process to match. Having arrived safely from Richmond, save for a my knee taking a severe bashing against a metal girder apparently holding up part of the soon to be demolished Terminal One, we entered the departure hall to find a vast gathering of people around a clutch of check in desks. It seemed that, despite checking in online several days previously we were destined to spend a good part of our pre flight time waiting to be relieved of our luggage. To make matters worse, fifteen minutes before the final call for each departure's check in passengers yet to be served were invited to queue for a different set of desks, the outcome of which being that those arriving last were served first and a state of perpetual confusion existed in the main queue.

Formalities completed and bags dispatched we looked forward to a coffee, and perhaps a paracetamol for me, but alas, by the time we had passed through security, filling plastic trays with everything that might conceivably contain a sliver of metal only to spend five minutes putting everything back together again, we had just five minutes left before we would, presumably, have been unceremoniously unloaded from the flight we had queued so long to join.

Thankfully this was where we left behind the less favorable aspects of flying and were able to enjoy a speedy and efficient flight southeast from London, across the Channel and onto the continent. Onboard service was of a good standard, and the help we received upon arrival, from Thomas, a member of airport staff who spends his days ferrying disabled passengers disparate areas of the airfield, was some of the best I have experienced. A little early confusion over how exactly we should be transferred from one aircraft to the other, without officially entering the Schengen free travel area, was quickly resolved by stamping us (figuratively) into Germany, before checking us straight back out again before a wander through a pretty deserted departure lounge led us to where we sit now.

As a child I adored flying. Without the responsibilities of adulthood and more recently introduced security measures, the whole experience was one big adventure. Large airports with their intricate networks of corridors and moving walkways captured my imagination, offering as they did, a vast array of possible routes and destinations. Everything was exciting and shiny.

But now, with documents to keep track of, deadlines to meet and obstacle courses to navigate, it can sometimes feel a little overwhelming. To some degree this explains my preference for travelling by train wherever possible. The simple departure processes and freedom once on board, to my mind, make for a much more pleasant experience, allowing the travel to and from the ultimate destination to truly become an integral part of the trip. As a visually impaired person too, airports are so difficult to navigate without help, whilst stations and trains facilitate a much higher level of independence.

So, come my next holiday, wherever that will be, in addition to weighing up the usual factors when determining where to go, I will be considering seriously the travel options available and the degree to which they contribute to or detract from the whole trip. In the meantime however, we have another flight to catch, the uncertainties of baggage reclaim to look forward to, but also the arrival in a new and hopefully interesting city to look forward to.

So you're going to Bosnia?

Since low cost flying really took off in the early "naughties" European city breaks have become the travel version of the power nap for time pressed tourists.

I've done a fair few in my time, whizzing off to locations as diverse as Paris, Vienna, Bordeaux, Aachen, Munich and Venice - only to whizz right back again just a couple of days later. To date most of the destinations, where not squarely on the usual tourist trail, were at least places that others had been to or were thinking of visiting. Bordeaux is, of course, world famous for the wine lands which surround it, so even if people hadn't thought of going there themselves it rarely seemed to strike them as too outlandish an idea to go.

But try telling people that your next mini holiday is to bosnia and Herzegovina.

Silence seems to be the first reaction of most, followed by a somewhat mystified enquiry into the purpose of such a trip, concluding inevitably with a sincere yet misplaced urge to be careful in such a "dangerous country".

Granted, BiH, as I shall refer to the country henceforth for the sake of brevity and to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to the inconsistencies in my spelling, is no stranger to conflict. However, the scenes of snipers in the hillsides and international boots on the ground are now over seventeen years old, and the biggest threat to the majority of tourists is petty crime, sun stroke and over indulgence in Bosnian hospitality.

So, what exactly are we expecting BiH, and especially Sarajevo and Mostar, to offer us in return for our hard earned time and money, and what can we do for BiH? First up, this is an incredibly scenic country, with steep mountains and shimmering streams providing the perfect backdrop to many a photograph. The country also has huge historical and political interest, having stood on the road between west and east, Christianity and Islam, new ideas and long held wisdom, for all of its existence. But most importantly of all, BiH is, as far as the literature I have read is concerned, a friendly and hospitable place, where travellers are welcomed and looked after, and where the most important task of the adventurer can be realized, namely the sharing of knowledge, the identification of similarity and the celebration of diversity.

And what can we do in return? In the very least we can tell the world of our travels, of the nature of the country, and help to chip away at the two decades old myth that this is a state to be avoided.

But, before any of that, we need to get ourselves packed and on the plane.

Unfinished articles: Abandoned stories

Rather ironically I wrote this post a little while back, bemoaning my inability to finish and upload my posts, and then failed to finish it.  I publish it now, worts and all, for your interest.

Oh dear, somehow I knew it would end up like this. That, no sooner had the metaphorical gangplank been raised, signalling the start of my adventure on the Clyde, and the knots and cleats of sailing reality replaced the hopes and dreams of imagination, then my enthusiasm for dedicating an hour or two to penning interesting prose would fade away irreversibly. And somehow, despite being aware of the danger, the risk that the anticipation I had built amongst my readers would be dashed against the rocks of disappointment, I allowed it to happen.

I lie here now, tapping away on my iPhone screen in the middle of a late Spring night, I could make myself feel a little better about the situation by telling you that it always was an inevitable outcome. Sailing is a demanding activity, physically, mentally, and occasionally emotionally, and there simply isn't sufficient capacity in the human mind - I mean my very human mind - to dedicate to the rather frivolous and peripheral task of charting the days events in writing. But, whilst it is certainly true that the time available to me for blogging was a limited commodity, usually eeked out from moments otherwise reserved for sleeping, eating or engaging socially with one's crewmates, the form of writing used, and the expectations made of myself, were a conscious decision for me. By this I mean that I choose to write long, hopefully expressive sentences, carefully conjure images in the mind of the reader, and generally sweat and squirm over every word and clause until I'm absolutely happy, or at least as happy as I ever will be, with the results. It is me who chooses to write in a manner which takes time and effort. Me who eschews brevity and embraces verbosity. I am my own worst enemy.

And so it was, that I found myself stirring in the early hours as the good ship Avacet rocked gently on her moorings, exploring my immediate environs with pensive finger and gentle touch in search of my elusive virtual notepad, and indulging in cerebral gymnastics, painting pictures of sight and sound with the humble English word.

It was by no means a shore. Indeed, writing has long been a release for my thoughts. However, that isn't to say that capturing a day's worth of senses recorded in my head, and translating them into script which conveys adequately the holistic experience, is a simple and uncomplicated task. As something of a persistent apprentice in the profession of perfectionism, I am inclined to interrupt the writing process every sentence or so to correct a misplaced word or rework a clunky passage. I'm doing it now in fact, stopping in my tracks to consider how the informal "clunky", set amongst more greater eloquence, might prove abrasive to the eye or ear, and stop the reader dead in their tracks. And, as I rummage for the right words or rhythm the story I am attempting to relay ebbs gently from my mind.

Lying there flat out in the coffin like space between the central bulkhead and the wall of assorted belongings constructed between my cabin companion and myself, I fought a constant battle between the forces of imaginative writing, accurate storytelling and a creeping fatigue which frequently threatened to immerse my body in creativity sapping lethargy. The previous day's events - the powerful gusts which began striking our sails with relentless regularity, the apparently permanent list of the saloon which made tea making a perilous activity, and the sheer joy of peering through a porthole to see conical silhouette of the Scottish Holy Island rising steeply from now calmed waters - loomed bright and bold in my head. The words too, which would bring them to life when applied to a webpage were not difficult to find. But their relentless refinement taxed my already depleted resources, resulting in stunted stamina and a growing impulse to succumb to sleep so as to be refreshed for the morning's tasks.

Pushing back against the urge to close my eyes and rest my mind, I ploughed on for another paragraph or two. But by now the pressure was becoming too great, and the very real need to put down my pen was becoming fixed in my brain. The sentences became shorter. Workmanlike reportage replaced evocative imagery, and the very foundation of my writing, the enjoyment of playing with words to enact scenes from memory or imagination, began to shift in the sand. And before long, that mind, once active with thoughts and ideas, would relinquish its burden and relax into slumber, leaving the stub of a story hanging lifelessly like a beautiful bridge to nowhere.

Oh to not care

Months and months ago I set out to turn over a new leaf in the documenting of my life.  Sounds grand, doesn't it?  Well, it might have been grand had the perfectionist inside of me not scuppered everything.

You will surely not have overlooked the fact that, since putting finger to (virtual) keyboard back in those heady days before the coming of Easter ... or the Tour de Yorkshire ... I have failed to publish a single blog entry.  This is pretty poor, even by my standards, but really isn't for want of trying.  I've now lost count of the number of articles I've written.  Articles on my sailing trip in the Clyde, articles on journeys in the past, and even pieces - just like this one - bemoaning my complete inability to finish and post a post.

I'n pretty sure that virtually every non-perfectionist thinks that to be one means to be perfect.  Nothing, at least in my own experience, could be further from the truth.  To be a perfectionist is to write every sentence ten times; to review and counter-review; to dot every "i", cross every "t" and ponder eternally over the merest hint of a split infinitive.  The perfectionist is cursed to spend their lives in search of the very best metaphor, whilst worrying that it might actually be an analogy; to search deep in the recesses of their poor cluttered brain for a certain word, as only that one will do; and to not stop writing, editing, or worrying until they are absolutely, completely, one-hundred-and-ten-percent positive that everything is absolutely perfect ... which, of course, it never is.

So, this is why, I have umpteen unfinished articles sitting in a little bit of cyberspace, just waiting for hell to freeze over and my resolve to slip, allowing them to be shown to the world in all their 99% perfect glory.

But that isn't the end of the story, as you will have guessed from the appearance of this not-quite-perfect-post.  I simply cannot go on like this.  I need to write!

So , here is my plan, not my first one I should say, but let's brush over that.  I'm going to do a little deal with you, my dearest and most valued reader.  I will write more posts, tell you a bit about what I'm up to now, and what I've done in the past, if you promise solemnly never to comment on the inadequacies of my spelling or grammar, the structure of my prose, the lack of imagination in my storytelling, the factual errors and blatant, omissions, the things I shouldn't have bothered with and those I should have but didn't, or the fact that I am about to break my original promise of writing only about over there and not the here and now at home.  This is a rebirth or sorts, a freeing of the self-imposed shackles with which I had previously constrained my own thoughts.  I will now write about anything and everything (within reason...), and enjoy it.

Unexpected dramas

I'm lying flat on my back in the starboard aft cabin, feeling the rumble of the boat's engine and listening to the flogging sheets being brought to heel. Outside the door Antonia is preparing cup-a-soups for the hungry crew upstairs. Avaret, steady and stable for the past ten minutes suddenly heels to the starboard followed by a sharp roll to port. The stove and kettle are pivoted and the scolding liquid stays where it is as its cook emits a note of alarm and grabs for the nearest fixed piece of furniture. Before long hot beverages are being passed through the cockpit once more as the passage continues.

It's the first leg of our trip around the lochs and islands of the Clyde and we are motoring up Loch Long a little way behind the lead boat, the wind having died after its earlier exertions. It isn't the way we wanted to arrive at Loch Goil Head, but it is better than bobbing about with nothing to power the sails. The route north from Largs was relatively simple in theory, and Chris, our Skipper, was confident that the sheltered nature of the Firth would protect us from the worst of the waves currently battering the area around the Mull of Kintyre. Gaps between islands and mainland promentaries combined with sudden gusts of wind conspired however to provide us with a somewhat bumpier ride than anticipated.

Keen to take some photographs to chart our journey, I had descended into the saloon with Antonia as the island of Great Cumbrae drifted away behind us. Perching on the sofa as she checked the kettle, which had seemingly been boiling since we pushed away from our berth at Largs. The healing, welcomed at first as an exciting addition to the day's journey, was increasing in severity and attempts to check the water temperature and hurry its progress proved futile. Noting a trickle of water from the heads she staggered to her left, grasping for the door handle whilst searching for something a little more solid. The water source undetected, focus returned to the promised coffee just as another gust struck, causing both of us to sprawl backwards across the lounge furniture, with me trying desperately to kick the toilet door shut as it swung wildly, threatening to break something.

We cane for adventure and we certainly seemed to be getting it. Up on deck Roger a former civil engineering diver and my cabin Nate? Was battling with the wheel. A tighter than intended mainsail was forcing the bow upwind, and it was taking much of his strength to hold us on a steady line. Though the course was relatively straight our path wove its way through the waves leaving behind a serpentine wake.

Also up top, George, Emma and Mark were enjoying the ride. As Roger called out each increase in speed-over-land a cry of exhilaration would ring out, encouraging us ever forward, ever faster.

Chris had deliberately entreated the visually impaired members of the crew to enjoy the journey for a bit whilst he got used to handling the boat, a new one for him despite his considerable experience. Liam, probably the most experienced on yachts aside from our sighted crewmates, was at least able to handle the jib sheets.

Four feet below I was starting to feel queasy. I've never experienced sea sickness before but the impending sense of doom which frequently accompanies a dancing stomach compelled me to hand back a mug of water, requested seconds before, and lie back on the sofa. As the yacht continued its somewhat erratic progress towards Loch Long I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, wishing the sickness away.

Squeezed between my own large holdall and Roger's belongings, which face each other across the no man's land of our shared mattress, I'm beginning to feel a little better. I may not yet be able to stomach any proper food but a few tiny pieces of dried fruit, stowed in my coat pocket for emergency use, are giving me a much needed energy boost.

Having lain on the saloon sofa for a nautical mile or so, eyes shut and ears only just registering the sounds from outside, disparate tracks of wind, chatter, instructions and mechanics mixed into a single inelegant piece, I stumbled my way to the cabin, slamming the door slightly too hard, and throwing myself at the bed. This space, somehow reminiscent of the tiny bathroom in a modest house, stretches the notion of bedrooms somewhat. An area just within the door threshold serves as bag store and welcome mat, with a double mattress stretching aft beyond, partly covered to the right by the overhanging cockpit floor. Lying here now I listen to the water flowing past outside, and try to block out the engine. The horizontal position has eased my nautiousness though every time I raise my head, contemplating joining the others outside, the giddiness returns.

Then, without warning, Avacet is bowled over, granting the gift of flight to unstowed objects in every part and emptying a bowl of washing water straight into the fridge. We're turning fast and sharply, uninteligible shouts coming from above, and then an equally severe roll to port finishes the task of scattering utensils, food and nautical charts about the saloon. Another turn follows, shattering for good my internal compass which had hitherto done a not so bad job of keeping track of our progress.

Stability restored we continue our carbon guzzeling way towards the head of the loch.