los molinos del rio aguas

los mols: an oasis in the natural park karst en yesos de sorbas. without the spring waters which originate not far up the canyon from the village, los mols probably wouldn't have come into being. rainwater percolates down through the gypsum rock beds (for which the area is famous) into underground pools from which it finds its way to the surface at the lowest point, here in the canyon. the bamboo cane thrives along the canyon floor where the spring water flows past los mols finally reaching the sea at mojacar.

it's a sort-of eco-village... most of the inhabitants use solar panels or wind turbines to generate electricity, and the ram-pump which pumps the water around uses the pressure of the water itself to force it up and around. sunseed, a british-based permaculture volunteer project, is situated lower down the village. tim rents the second of dave's houses in the middle of the village and i got the use of the top floor with it's terrace views of the canyon. tim has a room on the lower floor and the rest is dedicated to his agave museum filled with drums, didgeridoos, flutes and other things made from this amazing ecological wood. on the walls are photos of the agave plant during its lifecycle, how it is harvested to utilise the wood (and its other components like the fibre and nectar), where it grows in abundance in the arid surroundings of this part of spain and especially in the natural park cabo de gata.

i think it was about 10 years ago that i arrived the first time in los mols. then tim was living and travelling around in his orange mercedes van, and dave was just building/restoring his first house here, the casa de la realidad, which tim and i with some other helped to build. i had just signed on in london and taken the eurolines to paris, from where it took two days to hitch down to andalucia and a never-again 20kms walk from the autovia to sorbas and then a lift to los mols. tim had always egged me on to make a drum and i made a special trip just for this. tim drove in his van to the area around san jose and helped me choose the right pita (anduluz for agave) to harvest. unlike other 'wood' for drums, we didn't need to kill a tree for it. in the life-cycle of the pita, after it has sprouted the flower stem and flowered and the seeds have dropped, the whole plant dies. after a year or so, the flower stem hardens into wood and is ready for harvesting. we tore the huge dessicated spiky leaves away using gloves and dug away the soil to reveal the heart of the pita. i sawed off the flower stem and also the bottom part with the roots, and got myself the start of the drum body. over the next week or so, tim showed me how to hollow out the fibrous interior and also how to make the rings. in between times we made music sessions and trips to playa monsul and san pedro, and also the hot springs on the road from sorbas direction guadix. by the time i had to leave back for london, the drum body was sanded and oiled, and the rings prepared, but no time to put on a skin. i asked tim to stash it away in his van until the next time we would meet up, which ended up being in cadaques a couple of years later, the place where we had first met in the amazing summer of 1996 and the isla de port lligat....

when tom-tom came with the van, we had a real community action going with help from the sunseed crew to unload the dismantled workshop. rob and i helped tim put the huge 3-d jigsaw back together again in the garden behind the house. as for the drum, it got a make-over. new denim for the bottom ring and new rope for both flexible rings. the cracks were filled in with wood glue and the injection system, the whole drum body sanded down and oiled with linseed oil outside and in, except for the top rim which needed sunflower oil as this is the part which comes into contact with the skin. tim still had some old skins hanging about up in dave's shed which had been gnawed at by the rats but fortunately enough of it left to use. i cut the shape from the best one and left it to soak overnight in a tub of water, joining the sunseed crew and some of the other los mols residents in sorbas to watch barcelona beat man utd. in the champions league final.

the next morning i woke to find the skin gone... it was luna, dave's dog. guilty as hell. it was she who had first got hold of it when it was still dry some days before but someone had found it on the path, and luckily no teeth punctures. this time i was not so lucky. no sign of dog or skin. nothing for it but to cut out the second best skin and let it soak overnight again.

the new skin went on the other day and left on the balcony well out of dogs' reach to dry overnight. ended up hanging out with ruben and rosanna, a young spanish couple from castilla, in their cosy little rented house called l'oasis. beautiful. an oasis in the oasis. still can't get over ruben's story about when he was 100% sure he was seeing an extra-terrestrial only it turned out to be buba, one of the sunseed crew, instead.

yesterday, the drum was ready for shaving. and me too! after using the shaving machine, careful sanding down the small hairs – on the drum skin!- and a final spit to polish it off. one last tensioning and it's ready to play. and it sounds great. what a great travelling drum. small but with a good bass, and weighs in around a kilo and a half. don't even want to imagine what it would be like lugging around a djembe of similar size.

el morreon & beneficio

the bus came into orgiva around siesta time. everything was shut so i walked on down to el morreon and the wooden house where nadine and her daughter lena now live by themselves, with tim having moved to los molinos. she gave me her take of the relationship breakdown. i sympathised and was careful not to judge cos they were both friends. but she seemed very much happier now, with her own place and work and new boyfriend juan, who i met later that evening. "drumroots is a traveller", she told him. “he's had some adventures... tell juan about the boat and the guy who went crazy..." "it's a long long story....", i started, and then recounted the time when i hitch-hiked a boat, for the first and only time, from gibraltar. (i'll save that story for another time). i stayed the night and went back to orgiva the next day as it was market-day. i was hanging out near the terrace bar when marco recognizes me and we greet warmly. it must have been two years since i was last in beneficio, and then it was only for a short time too. we knew each other from when we were sharing the same busking/handcraft-selling spot in cadiz at the time of the carneval. coincidentally, the same carneval where i had met clara and maria. "we are cooking paella tonight", he said in spanish, "playing some music after.... you can come if you like." "great, perfect", i said. "you know where my house is, no?", he asked. "more or less", i said. "just ask for the italians", he replied, and was gone. i got some organic avocadoes and bread made from spelt and hitched up to beneficio.

beneficio... the best known, and maybe largest, of the hippy 'communities' in spain. although i guess some of the inhabitants won't be too happy to be described as hippies. or even to be described at all. ok, let's start again... beneficio, one of the largest 'free' spaces in europe. i was first here 12 years ago, the first time i came to spain. what a turning-point that proved to be. stories of a squatted island, squatting an abandoned village in the pyrenees, rainbow gatherings and hopi indian prophecies, the life of a down-and-out in barcelona... but all in good time.
i made my way through the parking – now complete with 'chip shop' and 'bar/internet cafe' – through the eucalyptus forest and to big lodge, the communal tipi. resting there, i saw the new permaculture vegetable garden made in the form of a spiral, thinking back to the time i had also worked on a garden here with fulvio and others. i walked onto the spring and tasted again the fresh sweet water, saw how the fig tree was hanging over the pool and watched the reflections dancing around on the rocks. a good year for water in the alpujarras.
then the long walk up the side of the valley to where the 'italian' camp was. i arrived in time for the seafood paella and got introduced to the others staying there and around. the first crew came here six years ago having walked from the italian rainbow gathering with mules and donkeys, and made their home here. of the original crew, only julio was left, and the one i knew the best, ulysses, was back in italy. marco was with his new girlfriend and their baby daughter in a renovated stone casita which joined onto a communal kitchen/guest-house. kermid from israel kindly put me up in her tipi for a couple of nights, and with the other friends and guests staying at the house, we made good food and music and conversation with great views over the valley and orgiva. i took walks further up the valley side to the ruins and further, but it was too hazy to see the sea.


one time when i was 'down-side', i bumped into paz, also from london, whom i had met at the small polish rainbow gathering at jawornik last year. he took me to see the dome he was constructing and over a cuppa, told me of his adventures and travels since poland. we went to big lodge that night and marco from 'old beneficio' had everyone entranced as usual with his guitar and flute and drum and singing... he was only one of two that i remembered from that time 12 years ago when i was first here. the other was sirio, who was now doing the bar/internet business in the parking. i was surprised to see him there as before, he had lived with his family a little down from big-lodge. "es sirio...?". "si", he replied, squinting his eyes to look for some sign of recognition. i told him my name and he squinted even more. "a long time ago...", i said by way of explanation. i sat and waited patiently in that fly-ridden shack whilst he connected up the various wires for the internet connection through a maze of other cables, wiping off the dust from the laptop keyboard. and when finally we got the connection, i checked my mail to find one from tim confirming he was coming down to el morreon on wednesday to take down his workshop from nadine's place.
i found tim and rob at tom-tom's place wednesday evening and early next day, we started taking down the workshop. the workshop space that was designed for that amazing little terrace place at markus' place near rodalquilar, in the natural park cabo de gata. it was designed to be portable and when time came for tim, nadine and lena to move from markus' big bus, the workshop, where many a drum and magic pueblo etc. had been built, came too. and now with the split, the workshop was moving again. i left halfway through to go to the market in orgiva and was lucky to find michel driving up. the italian connection were there with their wholemeal bread baked the night before in the stone oven at the house. i brought a loaf and got some more of those delicious organic avocados.
back to the wooden house in time to help out with taking the solar panel off the roof. rob it was who pulled off the miracle of taking it down whilst balancing on a near vertical ladder which i was holding steady, and tim on the shorter ladder helping to get it down safe. huge relief when rob finally got off the ladder with him and solar panel still in one piece!
whilst we waited for tom-tom to come with the van, tim gave his version of the split which happened a year ago. but what was more on his mind were the love blues which came when his latest girlfriend left him a few weeks ago. of course i was sympathetic. we had all been there before, and i gave him the wisdom of my experience. but of course none of it really helps because love is like that... it follows no rules.


when tom-tom came with the van, we loaded it up, and after a coffee at tom-tom and gundalla's yurt, we drove to los molinos in tim's car/van. tom-tom and gundalla would follow later in the van.

granada

"there is no worse punishment than to be blind in granada" were the words, more or less, inscribed on ceramic tiles near the cathedral steps, where i waited to meet up with raul. with a backdrop of the sierra nevada mountain range and the alhambra as the jewel in the crown, granada certainly attracts a lot of visitors. raul and maria were the perfect hosts. they made me very welcome in their small but cosy flat on elvira street, situated in the albacin district in the heart of granada. that first evening, we made our way up to the lookout at plaza san nicolaus... turning the corner to see the alhambra bathed in the red-orange rays of the setting sun with the snow capped mountain peaks in the backdrop, it took my breath away. a couple of africans were busking with native xylophone and stringed instruments, the soft tones floating dreamily through the square. and when one of them came later with the hat, we dropped some coins in. i started to play on my drum, not to busk but just for fun, and the 'strings' took up the beat. “let's join them“, i said, and so we went to where they sat on the wall. and after the introductions, we just started to jam when one of them stopped suddenly and said, “watch out, police“. and so that was that. nice ambience gone in a flash. can't even make music for the fun of it, never mind busking.

yeah, granada and busking.... dodging the police, beating the competition to the good busking spots, avoiding water thrown from balconies and windows.... yeah, it's only ever happened to me in granada, some years ago.... twice.... on the same day! these granadinos are probably very tired of drumming buskers.

i played in my usual spots... one time, two pigs came up and told me that i couldn't play there. “maybe down there“, i said pointing down the road. “no, not even there“. “but it's away from the centre“, i pleaded. “no, it's still the centre“, they said. it was all very polite but it was like my first warning. “ok, no worries“, i said, collecting up my 'hat' with the few coins that were in there. it wasn't really a good spot anyway and they weren't too open to changing their minds. i walked on down the road a bit and found some african guys hawking their fake designer fashion stuff. i asked one if it didn't disturb them if i played nearby. “no problem“. but it wasn't the ideal place either and after ten minutes or so, the first sign of the pigs heading our way had us all packing out stuff and a hurried stroll away.

yeah, granada... not easy. but not to worry. i had made enough for the bus to orgiva, raul was cooking great meals for us all, maria had given me her keys so i could come and go as i pleased, and the lookout was a great place just to relax and enjoy not being blind in granada.

busking

busking. making music on the streets for money. for some, it is just glorified begging. for buskers themselves, it is an extension of the performing arts, but the street/metro station/square is the stage. all travellers will have done a busking (or other performance not necessarily musical) stint at one time or another, it's inevitable. i started with juggling on the ramblas in barcelona. and then timbe showed me how to make a drum and during the last 5 or 6 years this has been a constant companion on the road. i should move on to doing 'statues' cos this is still quite novel in a lot of places (except barcelona!!) and so it brings some good money in. but hey, you know, it's not just about the money.

how to become a good busker? busking is a mix between an inexact science and a black art. because at the end of the day, it's all about people and the myriad of conscious and unconscious interactions going on all the time. i'm there to bring some music and rhythm into people's lives, to put a smile on their faces. if i saw it as a job, i would have quit a long long time ago. and if the people like what they see or hear, then i'm very happy that they show their appreciation in monetary terms so that i can continue. and when the police move me on, i ask whether they rather i steal from the supermarket. i once had a haircut and a real job - it made me sick.

the perfect pitch? in the big cities and towns there are the pedestrianized streets without the traffic with a good flow of people. it's the first place i look for. hopefully there are no residential flats above the shops. i don't bother to ask the people tending the shops nearby if i can busk in front cos if they did mind, they would come to tell me after a while anyway and i move on without arguing. sometimes the police don't hassle you, but sometimes they do. usually i try to find somewhere else or come back at another time... always with one eye out for them.

the biggest bug bear is competition from other buskers, especially if they've got amplifiers. usually these are 'professional' local buskers, not the travelling kind, who have a different interpretation of busking etiquette and who will have no hesitation to tell you bugger off from 'their' patch. i remember a guy from berlin. george was his name and he played the sax. i asked if we could play together but he refused. he was always there, hogging the prime busking pitch on the bridge going over to the museum insel. one day i decided i was going to put one over on him. i got to the bridge especially early and was there for an hour before he showed up at ten in the morning. i could see he was annoyed. "ok ok let's play together", he insisted. didn't ask it was ok by me. "i'm here first today", i told him. "you will have to wait". "but i am always here at this time, you could have taken my number and called me and we could've arranged something...". "i don't keep a timetable, and this place is for everyone", i replied,"but we can play together and then you can find another place". i could see he was not a happy-chappy but he took his sax out and we played a couple of numbers together. and then he took some money out of the hat and gave it to me. "no no no, you find another place, i was here first." george was a big dude, more intimidating than ever before now that he was getting pretty pissed off. but i stood my ground. in the end he stood across the way from me and started to play. it was a farce. i tried to carry on drumming but it was pointless... this was not music and this was not fun. i let him carry on playing for a while and when he stopped, i told him that he should go and let me have my stint. he carried on playing. george was being a bully and there was nothing i could do. after a while, i got on my borrowed bike and rode off the bridge, incensed. and then i turned back. i rode back and stopped directly opposite him on the bike, an arms length away. i just glared at him as he continued to play and then seeing the sax case with the money inside, i gave it a good kick. and rode off fast! i looked back to see george give chase for a few paces and then give up.

and then there are the gypsies who have kind of made busking their own. usually in pairs or threes, usually doing the terraces... and usually there is an accordian player amongst them. never any hassles with them cos the terraces are not my territory unless i'm busking with someone else. sometimes i ask to play with them and most times they don't mind. last time i was at the museum insel bridge, there was no sign of george, but three gypsy women with accordians at either end of the bridge and one in the middle. with hand gestures and smiles, i asked how long they were gonna be and if we could play together. in the end i got to play one 'number' with one of them and also negotiated a stint of an hour at one end of the bridge! gypsy kids have no inhibitions to come up to me and play my drum. i even had one gypsy boy, aged maybe 8 or 9, come up to me when i was busking in lisbon, look at my drum, play it a bit, and then put the open end to his ear. "you try it", he gestured to me, so i did. wow, it was the sound of the sea, like a conch! never ever occurred to me to try that before.

busking... it's just about tolerated by the system. like hitch-hiking. sooner or later they will try to prohibit these too.

sevilla

i first met clara in cadiz. i was there at the time of the carneval some years ago, busking as usual in the centre. it was evening and a group of three teenage girls stood nearby, watching. suddenly, one of the girls began to dance. she rolled up her top baring her midriff and started belly dancing! i was a little shocked but i kept drumming, and she was certainly attracting a lot of attention now as people stopped to watch. if only i had a hatter now to go round with a hat. but that wasn't important. just watching the show happening in front of me had made my day. she would've danced all night if i hadn't decided to stop drumming after a bit. the girl was maria, she was already in the mood to go home and get changed into her costume and dance some more. she was with her sister clara, and their friend laura, who was up for dancing too.

the last time i saw clara was about 3 years ago. now she had moved from cadiz to study in sevilla. when i saw her at the bus station, she had cut her long hair and dyed it red. in her e-mails, she had written that her guitar playing was improving all the time and i was keen to play with her. when we got back to her place, maria and her boyfriend raul were there too. surprise surprise! maria still had her long long hair. they had been visiting from granda for over a week now and after lunch, out came the drum and guitars. raul could also play guitar very well and that jam session we had was just amazing. with pablo on harmonica too, we made some great music. enough for maria and raul to decide to change their train tickets for the following morning! we went down to tetuan to busk and had a good time... unfortunately the well-dressed so-called sophisticated sevillanos didn't show their appreciation for the music as we made only about 7 euros. no matter. we surprised raul, who birthday it was that day, at the bar by secetly buying some cheesecake (his favourite) with the money we had made.

so hot in seville. over 30 degrees every day. pablo said in july and august the heat was just so oppressive. the next days, the routine was busking after the heat had subsided around 5p.m. fortunately no hassles from the police who patrol the tetuan pedestrian drag every now and then. but the mexican and other latinos who are hawking their wares illegally play their cat and mouse game with the pigs. and times must be hard... the busking income was low every day. "es la crisis economica", clara explained. but i was more tempted to agree with eduardo, a mexican guitarist i befriended on the street who said that the people had money... just they didn't want to give. and definitely not to me. rhythm is out, classical is in.

clara and i met up at the centro sociale okupa (squatted places for workshops, meetings, bar/cafe, hanging out etc etc) la fabrica de los sombreros last night. before, i watched a great theatre performance about anti-militarism. and then we saw a flamenco music and dance show which was amazing too. such talent here. clara and friend went onto alameda but i was too tired from the busking and crashed for the night.

today the rain has come to make life a little bit more bearable from the heat of the last days. i got the last of the money needed for the train last night and with ticket to granada bought, i can chill a bit. in old times, i would have managed this in a night, now it took 4 days! but i have no deadlines and so it does not matter. "really free wind" wrote uma in a mail. time is on my side and you cannot put a value on it. in germany, i once got a lift from a red porsche driver going to munich. " i envy you", he told me. "you don't have much money but you have lots of time. with me, i have lots of money, but never any time."

faro

why faro? 'cos it was the cheapest flight in the general direction of spain, i.e. south. in spanish, faro means lighthouse. i had always thought it was the same in portuguese seeing as how these two languages are similar, never ever being troubled by the fact that there is no lighthouse here. tiago put me right... "it means the sense of smell", he said. "ah yes", i replied, thoroughly unenlightened.

the bus pulled up outside the bus terminal in faro, and i went inside. i had to text my host when i got here but of course the battery in the mobile had died (cos of all those pics done at stonehenge and after). i asked the woman at the ticket office and without hestitation, she took it and plugged it into a socket. i waited about 5 minutes and then retrieved the phone, sent the message and waited. and waited. and waited some more. maybe my english sim wasn't up to sending texts in portugal cos it hadn't sent a 'delivered' text. i asked the woman again and then the security guy if i could use their phone but no luck. there was an african guy buying a ticket and after he was done, i approached him. "hablas ingles?" "no". ok, i´ll try in my rusty spanish. i conveyed that my phone was not working and i had to contact a friend to let them know i had arrived and can i please use his phone. "si, claro", he said. he phoned the number i gave but  nothing but an automated response. he tried again but the same. maybe the number is wrong. number is good, he said, but maybe the phone at the other end is switched off. hmm. would marta leave her phone switched off knowing that i was going to send a message that evening? i thanked him and sat and waited, there was nothing else to do.

i was just about to leave to find somewhere to crash for the night when a blond haired girl comes up to me. "are you drumroots", she asked. "marta...?" "no, i'm gerda, marta asked me to look for you. it seems she gave you the wrong number by e-mail". i was relieved not to be roughing it that night and gerda escorted me to marta's place, where we met her as she was on her way out for some beers. marta was all apologetic but i said that these things happen. there was a little party happening and i got introduced to everyone, including fi , the only portuguese, one of marta's flatmates. neil was scottish evs volunteer in porto, down in faro on holiday. and bernardo, italian, was befriended by fi that day and dragged back. and one other hc guest, karin from germany. and what with marta and gerda being lithuanian, it was a very international affair.

hc? hospitality club. travelling has changed a lot with the introduction of internet and mobile phones. first time i was in faro, i had crashed near the tracks overlooking the rio formosa 'delta'. this time, i had logged onto the hc website a week before and looked up likely hosts in faro and found marta. one e-mail later and she had agreed to host me. almost three years and all the hosts who had hosted me in all those different countries have been really great people. i could write a book on this alone....

fi could play the transverse flute and i had my drum and we both needed to get some money in, so we agreed to become a busking duo. we tried to hitch to tavira but fi got totally annoyed after 30 minutes of failing to get a ride and we took the train. "last time i got a lift in 5 minutes", she said. "yeah this time you were hitching with a dodgy looking al-qaida terrorist!", i joked. we busked for the people dining and drinking at the restaurant terraces, a captive audience. after two 'numbers', i got fi to go round with the hat. she was nervous but i explained that people would be more receptive to a woman than aforementioned dodgy-looking guy. we made about ten euros or so and fi took us straight to another restaurant where we got two plates of fried pork filets with an fried egg on top with french fries and rice. and a beer for her. for a special price of all the busking money we had just made.

a couple more terraces after a short siesta on the bridge, enough for the train home and some. i would have busked some more but even from this first experience, i got the feeling that fi was not that motivated with working too hard and would moan a lot. i remembered what marta had told me about her impressions of the portuguese and it seemed that fi was doing her best to fit that stereotype.

that night, karin gave a tango workshop at the 'youth centre'. 5 guys and 5 girls going through the basics of tango. after a lot of partner swapping, i finally teamed up with marta and we had a good laugh whilst trying not to step on her toes too much. and then the session in the 'football club san joaoese' to catch the champions league game. and a good laugh after watching candid camera clips. wow, just really evil practical jokes to pull on unsuspecting people! just my cup of tea!

fi and i also did a busking stint in montegardo near the spanish border. we found neil that morning wanting to go to the beach in faro and got him to come with us to montegardo. just as well cos he paid for the train tickets there. again fi was not very motivated and again we didn't make much, enough to pay neil back and to catch the train to casels, where we had been inivited to attend the opening of a bar by the coast at fabrica. rita's dad from holland was our host. rita drove us to tavira and then onto faro, where via a couple of bars, fi got drunk and in a strop. i decided to go back to the flat where fortunately tiago, the other flatmate, was still up to let me in. i told him and margherita, the mother of his son, what had happened. they invited me to go with them the next day to faro for a day out at the home of their friend bruno. 

faro island is not really an island but a sand-spit on the outer edge of the delta. it turned out that bruno's home was on the beach itself, the last line of dwellings before the sea, not 50 metres away. the swell was up and the surfers took advantage. margherita and i ("the boys don't like this stuff") had a traditional algarve lunch of cockles with fried garlic and onions and coriander, and polenta. and later in the evening, a barbecue dinner when bruno's mum and dad and his brother and family turned up. midi from france came and played his guitar and with tiago on his drum too, we did an impromtu jam. when we got back, the others were watching a film about che.

next day and time to leave, the whole day busking to get the fare for seville. i said i would hitch but the memories of the last time i had hitched this route made me decide that another 2 days melting in the baking hot sun waiting hours and hours for a lift was not worth the pain. i returned to the flat for the night, the guys were just tucking into the snails they had picked that day and invited me to try some. which i did. was ok, just needed more garlic and butter! i was up early to catch the bus to seville, waking marta to give her a big hug goodbye.

the bus stopped at the border for the portuguese border police to check passports. i had thought that this was no longer necessary (and for the people driving through in cars it wasn't needed) given that both spain and portugal were eu members. arriving at the bus station, i gave clara a text to say i had arrived and she texted me back to say that she would come in 20 minutes. welcome back to spain and seville.

the rucksack's packed and the road awaits...

i finally made my escape from that dirty old town and took to the road once again. i had some time to kill before the flight so i chose to head to stonehenge with the idea of spending the night amongst the stones... stonehenge, ancient pagan burial site, healing place, astronomical calendar, sacrificial site... whatever it was or had been, it's presence was like a magnet for me and many others.

i got to heston services on the m4 in a persistent drizzle, already cursing that i hadn't bothered to take a waterproof jacket. but i only had to wait 30 minutes or so before an old citroen van pulls up."going down the m4?" i asked. "sorry, i'm taking the m25 and then m3...." came the reply. "m3... how far down... a303?". "yeah, a303...". my first stroke of luck for the day. justin was an old traveller sort too, and when i told him i was going to stonehenge, he talked about his experience at another sacred pagan site which also lay on the ley line connecting stonehenge, avebury and sarum. "yeah, i don't how to describe it... like you're conscious but also in a different... world..." i could see he was struggling for the word. "like you're dreaming but conscious", i offered. "yeah, i 'saw' knights in armour coming out of the mist at the same time my girlfriend also 'saw' something but in the opposite direction".

justin dropped me off at popham services on the a303, the drizzle had eased a bit and it wasn't long before someone approached me..."where are you going?" "a303... towards andover". that's how i got the lift to amesbury, thanks to charlie, he dropped me off at the roundabout and i walked a mile or so into town and straight to the library. and just in time as by now, it had really started to piss down. i asked the librarian for the ordnance survey map for the area and spent some time mulling over the map, looking for convenient locations to camp for the night if it was not possible to be by the stones.

when the rain had stopped, i stopped by the co-op for a packet of hobnobs and munched through the whole packet whilst taking the back road from amesbury to the site. it was when i got to the top of the hill and made my way down the busy a303 that i got my first look at the stones and the ant-like creatures beating a circular path around them. by the time i had finally managed to cross the road at the bottom of the hill and walked up to the visitor centre that i realized that the fence triangulating the whole site was still there and the visitor centre was charging 6 pounds 60 for the right to view the stones from the visitor path. i took a break at a picnic table before deciding where i was going to jump the fence in the night.

i decided to make a pre-camp just up the road in the woods before coming back down to get to the stones at night. and as i set off from the car park, i spotted a dirt road by the side of the site, by the sheep enclosure. i could see a caravan/campervan, a van and a couple of cars and so i decided to have a look... it was a good view of stonehenge from here too and i said so to the guy sitting in his car at the top. charles was his name, he was a pensioner and he was also just admiring the view, the late afternoon sun casting a nice light on the stones. i told charles of my plan and he said that it was not possible... "see that yellow hi-viz jacket down there... that'll be the security now... they're closing the site for the night and for sure there'll be others, they'll do shifts for the night... sorry lad, but you'll not get close to the stones now. no free festivals anymore! only on the solstices and equinoxes, then you're let in free for the ceremony with the druids. along with thousands of others drug smoking hippies! the real druids, they go avebury now, it's a more authentic ritual there." we talked a while longer but i was trying not to be too disappointed about not being able to spent the night amongst the stones. "yeah, if you want to spend the night somewhere, i'd choose those woods up there (where i had intended to pre-camp), you can go down that path along the cursus, you see where those bullocks and cows are", pointing into the distance. "or you can stay here, there's one guy here permanently in his van, the council are trying to evict him... or you can try down at the end of the path to those woods there but i was there and there's another guy there with some dogs...."

in the end i walked along the road and to the woods and found a place to watch the sun go down before i put up my tent... and the pole snapped so i had to improvise a bit before i could get into it to sleep for the night. it was a cold night and my sleep was punctuated with wakeful shivering spasms. i was up early enough to see the sun rise above the hill lighting up the misty pastures. i packed up and took the road back down to the site. passing by the fence, i spotted a 'hi-viz' coming the other way on the stones' side. "good morning", i beamed, "any chance of getting in for free?". he chuckled, "no chance! look, we're on cctv right now." i told him that the site should be open to the public completely free and he said that was just one opinion. "you will get people here daubing graffiti on the stones, some of the stones have even been taken in the past... they need to be protected...". "i could jump the fence". "there are cctv cameras everywhere, in the bushes, in the centre, all around, it's a 3000 pound fine you'll be in for....". i could see he was not going to be receptive to persuasion. (it was always the same with security. they were right little jobsworths. i remember the one at the top of the eifel tower - i had asked in my poor french if i could kip there for the night. i still can't work out if i was really naive or really cheeky in those days when i first tasted the thrill of backpacking on a shoestring). it was around six and although the centre was closed, there was a group already in and passing amongst the stones. probably touching them too. academics, most probably. lucky bastards.

i took a last look at the stones, the red sunrise casting a beautiful light on them, before i took the same road back to amesbury and the road out to salisbury. about a 20 minute wait before adam, a student from poland, gives me a lift to salisbury. i waited for the post office to open before posting my tent back to brother's place. it was no good to me now and i was inwardly pleased that fate had taken 3 kilos off my back and given me more room in my new smaller 45l pack to carry real essentials like grub! rearranging my pack, i found the crisps and cookies and chocolate bars that charles had given me and had breakfast.

a walk through the cathedral grounds and a quick peek inside before i found the road to bournemouth. i wasn't there 10 minutes before i got a lift. the country was going to the dogs but at least the hitching was still very good. darren was a real chatterbox and kept me entertained with his stories the whole way to bournemouth. like salisbury, this place was new for me. it was the first sandy beach i ever saw in england! i decided to walk to the airport, i had some time to kill. i found a chippie along the way and couldn't resist a last fish 'n chips lunch. by the time i got to the airport, my feet were aching. it had been a long day of walking and after months of relative laziness, my body was letting me know i had to get back into shape. not that i didn't know already... the winter fat accumulated around my waist was a daily reminder that i was at my heaviest ever. still, i knew also that i would need these reserves for the way ahead!

ryanair gets a fair amount of bad press. still, it is the cheapest way to get out of england if you book early enough. gone are the days when i would hitch across the channel with the truckers. it was a free trip but the last time i tried it, i got dropped off by a hungarian trucker at calais. this is now a real no-go area for hitchers, especially if your skin colour resembles that of the so-called illegal immigrants waiting to clamber aboard a truck heading into fortress britain. but that's another story. no hassles at check-in or security checks and i spent the last 2 quid on some fair-trade organic dark chocolate for my hosts in faro. 2 quid for chocolate? - worth every penny! it was when i sauntered nonchalantly into the departure lounge that one guy looks at me and gestures to his own daypack that i realized that he had noticed that i had somehow misplaced mine. oh shit i forgot to pick it up at the security check. running back, i exclaim to all the security personnel that "i forgot to pick up my daypack" upon which one of them mentions to another that it was the drum and said daypack was retrieved. how the hell did i forget to pick up the most important material possession i own? "it's either a lack of sleep or i must be going senile", i joked to the dude who saved my bacon when i got back to the departure lounge. grant was his name and i got talking with him as we waited to board the plane. he had become a photographer after many years as a project manager, now carving out a niche for himself photographing musicians.

the flight to faro was without incident, and passport control also proved trouble-free. unlike other times, but those are other stories too. but now i was just glad to have arrived in the algarve and sat patiently outside the terminal for the bus to take me into faro itself.