Falling forwards, one step at a time

Arriving in Marrakech

madocflynn — Thu, 4 Sep 2014 07:58:00 GMT

Wednesday 25th June 2014

As we descended into Marrakech the sun glimmered in a red haze as it set. The desert sand colouring the sky its unique colour. The landscape of fields and dirt roads look like the path of water as it cuts through a dusty floor.

Lara my beautiul girlfriend gripped my hand, our England daydream finally a reality. As we stepped out the plane we were greeted by the balmy 26 degree night air, tantilisingly foreign.

We quickly passed through customs and got into a taxi to our hotel. Immediately our language barrier was up, and we instantly regretted not atleast glancing at an Arabic or French phrasebook. Unfortunately once the driver had latched onto our clear foreigness we got the tourist price, well over double that of the normal fare, ending up costing us 100Dh (£7.50). Although not much by british standards, it was virtually robbery by Morrocan. The first of many such pricing lessons. Though it wasnt going to dim our enjoyment, as we drove down the palm tree lined streets, feeling like an african LA.

Our taxi driver pulled us into hotel Almas, we could hardly believe it was our hotel. The bell by took our bag and the concierge greeted us (thats right a bell boy and a concierge!). Our shopping around had paid off, we both made ourselves look less bedragled, as if this was the standard of accomadation we were accustomed to, while quietly bickering as to whether you actually were meant to tip bell boys or whether that was just a film stereotype.

Once we had dumped our belongings in our sumptous room and had done several eagle dives onto our bed (easily big enough for 4, so much so it was difficult to reach each other if lying on opposite sides), we headed into the night. The corners all bustled with cafe owners and patrons alike taking long deep drags of cigarettes and wooping at the world cup that was playing in the background. After a maze like walk we settled on a small clean cafe, that was busy enough to show it was good, but not so busy that we couldn't find a table.

We ate shawarma (Iron man's favourite food) basically a grilled kebab, sides and drinks for 68Dh between us! (£5ish) and then waddled to the fruit stall and bought figs so ripe and sweet that I carried the flavour with me into my sleep.

The man who went up a hill and came down a...hill

madocflynn — Tue, 3 Jun 2014 08:11:00 GMT

Sunday 1st June 2014

Today was the result of one of my impulse decisions, a process that always seems to bear fruit. Late last night while pontificating about the need to "get some good healthy air in my lungs", while gulping down copious beers at our local, I purchased some tickets to Edinburgh to join a friend who was heading up there.

I realise that Edinburgh has numerous attractions, so I know it will be impossible to do it justice in one article alone, so this is primarily about Arthur's seat. The highest point in Edinburgh. Which dissappointingly is neither a large mountainous carved seat such as the one for abraham lincoln in washinton DC or even have a seat there.

I got off the train in Edinburgh to meet my friend Colin, who had dressed himself as a 19th century explorer. Off we went, marching towards our mighty adversary. When we approached Arthur's seat a low brooding dark cloud was above us, but as we started to walk up it's grassy, rubbley path a slim gleam of clear sky broke open and within minutes we were basking in the sunlight.

The ascent was more challenging than I thought would be, partly due to my hangover but none the less, not one to be undertaken with elderly family members if you wish to get to the peak. The view of Edinburgh on the way up is unparralleled. The landscape on Arthur's seat shows how wild scotland is, great peaks of rock face cracking out of the tussocks, with eager climbers chalking up the rock face. It almost feels as if you have stepped into the set of 'lord of the rings'.

The final part of the walk turns more into a scrabble up the sheer side of the hill, partly due to our choice of route, but thats half of the fun anyway. Suddenly we crest a ridge and we're looking directly at the marker on the top of the hill. Here we stand on the marker letting the strong winds dry the sweat from the walk. Edinburgh is lucky to have such a pleasant reminder of nature within the city, not many cities have that sort of link.

On our descent we stopped off at the ruins of a priory for a climbing and photo oppertuinity that couldn't be missed. I'll post them once the film is developed.

Anyway that is my very delayed, very brief summary of arthurs seat.

My very good friend Colin Wan is raising money for help for heroes via lots of fundraising activitys culminating in a hike to everest base camp, if you are feeling generous please donate to my 19th century explorer Colin

www.bmycharity.com/colinvseverest

Madonnari

madocflynn — Sun, 11 May 2014 02:23:00 GMT

Raindrops are splattering on the canvas rolled out on the street. Making the chalk pastels swirl in the droplets. Kaleidoscopic vortexes appearing all over the work-in-progress replica of ‘the school of Athens’ by Raphaelo. At this point the artist Bernt, snaps me out of my daydream and emplores me to help him roll it up before it gets ruined. Together we roll up the canvas with the efficiency of a military operation. Quickly masking taping it tight onto the guttering tube we use as the core, and leg it back to his van, his home, and my home for the previous week and next 3 to follow.

In the summer of 2008, I got the privilege of travelling with a family friend by the name of Bernard von Hesseburg around northern Italy. A german born Baron, whose family had sold their castle and who now lived as a Madonnari… a travelling artist. This man was ever present during my early childhood, he was my substitute father figure, my first idea of masculinity. He was a good choice, with facial features looking like Chuck Norris, a huge german sheppard called Gypsy, a ragged presentation of dark skin, rough worked hands, and a constant cigarette in his mouth that gave his voice the rasping quality of a 1950’s movie star.

His life is tough, a constant battle of wits to avoid the rain that can take him across continents. Each day I helped him carry his equipment (chalks, mats, bowls and canvases) from his van to the busiest tourist spots across northern Italy. We’d roll out the canvas’s tape down the donation bowls and set up his tools of the trade. For as long as the sun was out he’d sit there and draw, answering questions, and passionately talking to the curious passers-by about his work. The sun reaching such heats as to make his pastels begin to melt, and forcing myself to the shade and the welcome coolness of italy’s famed gelateria’s, yet he would stay and draw, utterly devoted to his art.

In the evening he’d cook simple meals for us on his campervan stove. Lighting his first evening cigarette and sipping a beer , he counted his takings for the day. Deciding whether it was time to crank up the ACDC CD and move on to the next town. His campervan is homely, yet an essence of what it means to be a traveller, with space only for the essentials and a few personal possessions (photo’s of him and his brothers and well thumbed books). We were not limited to the campervan meals, no trip to italy is complete without sampling as much local cuisine as possible, though local is possibly not the correct term anymore as it has been shipped to every reach of the globe. But authentic italian cuisine "like mama used to make it", is essential. The coastal seafood, pastas and the epitome of pizzas provide dishes to suit all palletes. If you dont return with a few extra holes on your belt, you havent realised the italian lifestyle. Do what you want, when you want, and be happy about it. The country overflows with happiness.

Bernt has his regular towns he visits, and hence a group of friends in each. His naturally gregarious personality making it effortless. Each place he would visit he would be greeted like an explorer returning from a long adventure. Everyone rushing to see him to check how he’s been, his latest exploits and to persuade him to come have a beer with them that evening. That is how I felt aswell, an explorer. It was my first travel experience solo, it opened me up to the beauties of italy. A country shaped like a boot, that I fully intended to walk every inch of. Niaivety had gotten the best of me. The first time being fully immersed in another culture without the safety of parents to guide me. Aged 15 and thrown into the world. To me italy will always evoke that feeling of freedom. A fertile land where any experience may be had. whether diving into the streets of the sinking city of venice, falling in love with the setting of romeo and juliet (Verona), or drinking in the beauty of a harvest one of the countrys many vineyards(I'll agree this metaphor thing is getting tenous).

This trip and Bernt’s life is what has driven me since. The simplicity of choosing something you love and finding a way to live from it no matter what, appeals to me on so many levels. It is hopefully clear from this account that it isn’t easy to do so, and is not to be undertook lightly. But the rewards for daring to do so are huge. I hope you can bring yourself to do the same. I realise it is a risk, but when deciding what to do in these situations I always think of a phrase an old friend of mine uses. You can die from something dangerous, or be dead your whole life. Seize the day and explore italy. Do what you want, when you want and be happy.

Photos: Inter-railing

madocflynn — Sat, 3 May 2014 04:59:00 GMT

Newcastle-Amsterdam-Berlin-Prague-Krakow-Auschwitz-Budapest-Vienna-Hallstatt-Ljublijana-Lake Bled-Pula-Zagreb-Plitvic lakes

Empathising with Icarus

madocflynn — Sat, 3 May 2014 03:15:00 GMT

Thursday 17th April 2014

I didn't feel nervous until I was kneeling in the plane, leaning my bodyweight forwards to help the duct tape covered plane take off. A breeze passing through its chasis as the greyed pilot told us we could lean back again as we were ascending. The inside of the aircraft was well worn, with scrawls and maps all over its walls.

I was the second to jump, the noise and wind coming from the open door only just eclipsing my thoughts as to how uncomfortable and numb my feet were. Unfortunately it was doing nothing to silence my emotions. I was excited, nervous, and predominantly doubting what had posessed me to think I could do such a stupid thing. As I shuffled forward into the space created by a guy called Craig, who had just thrown himself out of a moving plane, I laughed at how utterly rediculous this situation was. Here I was about to fight every self-preservation instinct that has kept me alive for the last 21 years. The craziest thing was that it excited me. Facing your instincts and overcoming them. It has a certain strength of mind to it. A fortitude in your own ability to make a decision and stick to it. As well as a very good example of mind over matter. But all this only comes with hindsight. As Nigel (my instructor) called me to go onto the step on the wing, all thought dropped, except for this could kill me, I'm scared shitless and pure excitement.

The first thing that hit me was the wind (literally). It is so bloody windy. I struggled to move along the step to assume my position. It's like when you put your hand out the window, while driving and it blows all over the place. Delibrate movements are like moving in treacle.

Then I was in position, hands on the wing struts, left foot on the step, and my right foot handing over the town that was so small and passing so quickly below.

One last moment of doubt and then I let go. I arched (or tried to) and did my safety count. 1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand, 4 one thousand and check canopy. Low and behold it was there! with lots of line twists, but present none the less. I kicked the twists out, pulled my controls and released the brakes.

Only then did I notice the spotter on the ground barking instructions to me through the radio. The wind was too strong, I had to turn and face into it. I turned into the wind. Then hung there, adjusting to keep face on. Finally I could take a look around me. I'd descended a few hundred feet from the 3500ft drop height, and the view was incredible. So peaceful and quiet. My hands struggled to grasp the toggles. My feet had pins and needles from kneeling on the airplane floor.

I was guided down. Experienceing a full 360 degree dive as I approached the corner of the airfield. It was exhilerating moving so fast, controlling its graceful banks. Then I began my landing pattern. I landed just south of the runway at Peterlee airfield. Flaring (pulling the brakes) at just the correct time. It wasn't the softest of landings, but neither did I turn to strawberry jam (as a book I read as a kid put it). The wind wasn't finished with me yet though. Despite letting one of the toggles go, the chute still tried to reinflate and dragged me accross the tarmac runway before I could stow it.

I looked up and saw Felix, my friend I was jumping with coming down sowly, clearly overshooting the drop zone. He hadn't even landed by the time I had got back to the hangar and checked in. He blew 3 fields down and had to be picked up by car.

Photos: Russia

madocflynn — Tue, 29 Apr 2014 01:32:00 GMT

A brief collection of photos from the trip of a lifetime

Cold hands, warm hearts

madocflynn — Tue, 29 Apr 2014 01:29:59 GMT

Warm light pours from our passing windows, flashing on the cold snow, illuminating the desolate, frozen and most importantly, beautiful landscape of Siberia as our train rattles through, its coal heating system billowing smoke into the night sky. Inside I perch, on the top bunk of my compartment, sweat permeating the air, condensing on the cold window, forming droplets and trailing a path downwards to the edge of the frame. By the morning these droplets will be frozen.
Around me and in countless numbers are friends or should I say comrades, from all over the globe, squeezing into every space of the carriage, vying for your eyes attention. A heavy contingent of Russians, laugh, play cards, party and make the traditional introduction (passing around the vodka bottle sneakily bought from the provodnik or train attendant to you and me) to their new found intercontinental friends. I get to observe and experience this from the thick of it, in the position thrust upon me by an inebriated Frenchman as the designated musical entertainment for the evening. Outside may be a vision of isolation, but that is definitely not the atmosphere here. Third class, affectionately called the cattle cars, is never short of bodies, with the numerous small beds that can barely accommodate one. Yet, this isn’t the reason for the feeling of company, it is the great warmth of the Russian people that provides this; along with the countless foods they will happily offer to share with you along this 9000km journey. Though the scenery nurtures a contemplative mood and self-reflection rarely found in modern life, in my eyes the greatest experience of the Trans-Siberian is the immersion within such a diverse cross section of people from this gargantuan country.
I sit in my shorts in the midst of a crazy party, on a train, in one of the most remote environments in the world, and look down at my hands. My fingers are swollen and blistered from the hours I have been playing guitar and singing for my new friends, looping the ten measly songs I know how to play. I hadn’t even noticed, nor did I care, it was worth it. Tomorrow I will cool my burning fingers on the ice on the window frame, while trying to warm my body up with a hot drink from the samovar, a perfect representation of the juxtaposition of Russia, but for now I will take a swig of vodka, laugh it off and sing. The expression “only in Russia” springs to mind.