Pink Sneakers on the Go

A tale of a bar, a biker and a beagle in Wales

Posted by Nora K ,

Had I not spotted that doggy in the window, I would never have hitched a ride on a vintage caboose en route to a village called Beddgelert and paid tribute to a hound named Gelert.

It all started with a billboard directing us to “the smallest bar in Wales”. Located mere steps from a 13^th century medieval fortress, Bar Bach was a gem of a find in the Welsh town of Caernarfon - that is, if you are able to accurately pronounce it. I must confess that I struggled to correctly enunciate, repeatedly garbling this tongue twister of a name. Like seriously, how challenging is it to say “Kar-Nar-Von”?

How and why Travel Bud and I ended up in a remote Welsh village is a tale best told another day, so those details will just have to wait, as this week’s scribble is about a biker and his dog that led us on a railway journey back in time.

Whether a gimmick or a trick, the wording on the placard outside the micro-pub worked like a charm and we had no choice but to saunter on in. Rustic and intimate, the décor was a mélange of wooden beams and stonework. The crackling fireplace added yet another layer of cozy to the Inn.

And, there we found Toby, lounging on a red leather covered barrel.

Next thing you know, Travel Bud and I were indulging in some Guinness and chatting up a storm with our newly found biker friend.

Uh - oh!

Drat! Meant to say Fiddlesticks instead!

Under normal circumstances, there is no way in Hell that I would strike up a convo with a heavily tattooed dude and not fear for my very existence. Whether you label me either a princess or an overly skittish prude, the sight of a Harley Davidson motorcade sends shivers of fear up my spine.

But alas, first impressions are oftentimes misjudgements of character.

The bond between the burly biker and his four-legged companion was undeniable. Toby was the epitome of gentleness and on his best behaviour. The pair had just returned from an excursion to the countryside, riding the rails on a narrow-gauge steam-engine choo-choo. The village of Beddgelert was a highly recommended stop, a picturesque spot where dogs cavorted and played and the home of a 13^th century hound named Gelert.

And with a woof and a paw-shake, Toby bid us a slobbered adieu.

Next post: Come along for a ride in an old-fashioned caboose as the journey continues.....

Post will be published in a week or so. Sometime the w/o May 11^th. Either Tuesday, Wednesday or thereabouts.

Stay home, stay safe, catch up on your reading and look up the Welsh folk-tale of Gelert, my friends!

Doggy in the window!

No explanation needed.

The castle

Choo-choo!

Guess where? NOT my living room!

Gelert

Gelert and friend

The scribbling continues...

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Sandcastles at midnight

Posted by Nora K ,

The jolt of the chime should be classified a crime.

The ewes have called it a night and scampered on home, ravenous for their morning graze. 300 minutes past the witching hour and I’m waking with the crows, bleary-eyed and oh-so weary. I’m yearning for just a smidgen of shut-eye. It’s not like I’m asking for the moon, just a chunk of ZZZ’s to appease and help ease into the monotony of 9 to 5.

Shovelling sand in pyjamas is quite the tedious task, as I’m building sandcastles in the dark. Stored under the bed are the tools of my trade: Pails and scales in all shapes and sizes, taunting reminders of my sleep deprived tales.

Never did I dream that I’d be watching the hands of time crawl to a stall. I must confess I’m a discombobulated mess, my somnolent state flung into a whole new level of distress: the nightmare of sleepwalking the day away.

Squinting through cobwebs.

Next post: Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday May 5th or 6th or thereabouts. I'll update on my weekly reflections. Stay home and stay safe, my friends!

WHERE are the sheep????

Not a sheep

Picturesque and sleepy - De Haan Aan ZEEEEEEEEEEEE

Resting from building sandcastles

Scribbling memories not so long ago

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For the first couple of days...

Posted by Nora K ,

For the first couple of days, my thoughts were suspended in a bubble of disbelief, as I processed the global news reports. The statistics were grim. Almost overnight, the world was under mandatory lock-down. Stay home, Stay safe and Stop the spread were now part of my daily vocabulary, as I shut the door and sequestered indoors.

The pause button had been activated. TIME and BUSY had nowhere to go, but isolate at home and re-evaluate their former lives. The countdown had begun.

Day One was a welcome break made bearable with a hint of a “holiday” feel. No work, minimal obligations, a lot of naps and lounging all day in my pyjamas. What could be better than leisure and play?

There were plenty of distractions on my “TO DO” list: Organize, de-clutter, read, write, meditate, re-vamp my blog and register for online classes. My journal was crammed full of notes, ideas and inspiration. I was psyched, eager to get started and Get up and Go from the comfort of my home.

Such lofty ambitions! I should have known better.

Day Two instead found me bundled in woollies on my couch, clutching the remote. And there I sat, eyes glued to the TV, for the remainder of the day. By Day Five, I had no option but to trudge to the store for a vial of soothing eye drops and a box of merlot to mellow my now-frazzled nerves.

The start of Week Two (or was that Week Three?) was when full-blown panic set on in. After all, channel surfing 24/7 for weeks on end was taking its toll. I was on edge, a mess and in distress. Catching up with daily Coronavirus updates on the telly had become an obsession that had spun out of control. Time was at a premium and it couldn’t be “wasted” on other mundane activities. Journaling, exercising and long-distance learning had to take a back seat to the more important task of digesting the news.

It’s as if my very existence depended upon these minute-by-minute reports. My insatiable thirst for answers became my main focus in life, as I questioned the how, why and what of this worldwide pandemic. My anxiety level skyrocketed as waves of sadness and despair submerged my soul.

A tsunami of tears unleashed my fears as I eventually came to grips that I was not the only person who was straddling the dark side of the tunnel.

It’s all of us. Together.

There is a light, be it ever so faint, but it is there.

We just have to persevere and get to the other side.

Next blog post will be in one week, Tuesday or Wednesday, the w/o April 27^th. I’ll update further on my daily reflections. Stay home and Stay safe, my friends!

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Scooting across the runway in Gibraltar

Posted by Nora K ,

“Hey, you fancy dashing across an airstrip for a Guinness?”

An odd question, to say the least, but then, one never knows what sort of hair-raising excursion Travel Bud Oz is apt to suggest. The incessant rain in Spain had been trailing us for three weeks straight and I was a discombobulated mess, whose level of stress had come close to the edge. The daily deluge of hail and sleet had taken its toll on my formerly sunny self and I was desperate to escape the cascading buckets of rain.

One more drop and I’ll surely go insane.

So, why not lift one’s spirits and jaunt into another country? After all, Gibraltar was a stone’s throw away from Algeciras and it would be a hoot to scoot across the runway from Spain into the UK.

You’re kidding, right?

Nope.

You have to skedaddle across an airstrip in order to get into Gibraltar. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes and hesitantly placed my pink-sneakered foot on the runway, I wouldn’t have believed it either! The airstrip is closed several times a day in order to accommodate airplanes that either take off or land on the runway. Uniquely shared by both pedestrians and aircraft, this landing strip is definitely one of a kind!

Yikes!! Exiting the bus in the Spanish border town of La Linea, about a 45-minute journey from Algeciras, I came face to face with the white lettered sign strategically placed at the entrance to the runway, advising pedestrians to “please cross quickly”. Needless to say, I was both intrigued and intimidated by the red plaque, warning unsuspecting jaywalkers to be on the lookout for airplanes.

AIRFIELD AHEAD. You are now crossing a live runway. Pedestrians are to keep within the white lines. Please cross quickly.

Trying to outrun the incessant rain in Barcelona, Alicante and Algeciras, I now faced the challenge of having to also dodge oncoming aircraft! Could it get any worse? Yep, it could and it did, as the second that I disembarked from the bus, I was submerged by a monsoon of a tsunami and drenched from head to toe.

There was no escape. The rain in Spain had once again stalked me all the way from the plain.

A soaking mess, I was a damsel in distress as I had neither wellies nor a slicker to shield me from the elements. My flimsy protection was a battered and broken brollie that had been hastily salvaged from the rubbish bin.

Should I stay or should I go? There was no other option, only one, and that was to R.U.N.!

Scanning the open runway for oncoming aircraft, I practically broke the sound barrier as I hightailed across the pavement, lingering only long enough to get my passport stamped at the border.

Whew!! Safe from wind shear and low-flying planes, my mood brightened as I scanned the multitude of pubs, fish and chip stands and shops that lined the streets. I could feel my heart rate accelerate as I spotted the various British goods for sale in the shop windows. Look...there’s Marks & Spencer’s and the ever so trendy Top Shop, a favourite haunt of Kate Middleton. By crossing over into this British colony, I had now saved myself a ton on airfare, as I didn’t have to jet to London to indulge in my shopping addiction, as these labels were readily available to me right here and now.

Amazing how the allure of a new, limited-edition designer handbag can elevate one’s mood and transform one from a miserable drenched rat to a most agreeable and fabulous travel companion. Here’s to enjoying that Guinness and spending every last sterling pound!!

Come skedaddle across the runway to Gibraltar and discover a flavour of Britain in the rain-soaked Mediterranean...

A few fascinating Pink Sneaker tidbits of info about Gibraltar:

The 1713 Treaty of Utrecht handed Gibraltar over to the British, giving this Spanish territory monarchist allegiance to the Queen.

This narrow peninsula is less than 4 square miles and is called “the Rock”.

The massive limestone Rock jutting out of the Strait of Gibraltar is an impressive 1400 feet high.

Spain and Gibraltar have a somewhat uneasy alliance as this uniquely British colony is situated on the edge of the Mediterranean and is surrounded by Spanish territory on all sides.

The Rock is home to the famous tail-less Barbary apes and according to legend, as long as the apes inhabit the Rock, so will the Brits.

We were advised not to feed the apes and to watch our belongings as the apes loved to snatch tourist’s sunglasses, handbags and anything that they could get their grubby hands on. It was good to know that I wasn’t the only one who had a satchel hoarding issue!

If planning to stay overnight, bring British three-pronged electrical appliances, as your European two-pronged ones will be useless and will not work.

Exchange your Euros for British Sterling and Pounds.

Bring your passport with you, as it is required in order to cross the border into Gibraltar.

This British colony is a VAT and tax-free shopping mecca, catering to your inner shopaholic desires!