Author Archives: Jack

It is an overcast and windy morning. I am back in Escape Velocity’s writers’ office, lost in quiet contemplation, attempting to describe for you thrillseekers how wonderful the experience of wandering through Stirling Castle was. So far I had, “It was a sunny day.” That’s when Marce said, “Holy sh*t it looks like Dumbarton Castle opened early!”

Now, Dear Escapees, we were nowhere near Dumbarton so we put £100 worth of BP’s finest in the tank and a few hours later we were backing into our familiar friendly parking spot in the tiny lot right under the Castle in the Clouds.

It’s our fourth visit and with excellent Bangin’ Pizza just two blocks away, why not? Tomorrow’s weather looks good but today’s is a nasty tempest and not at all conducive for a spot of mountaineering.

The morning dawned sunny and calm with a new EV record for early having already had, or in other words, fired up and ready to go. Just being able to walk through the outer gates for the first time was surprisingly thrilling but with 547 steps to go the order of the day is slow and steady.

Evidence of major rock wall stabilization is obvious as we start to climb the stairs. It’s another magical castle teetering on the top of another volcanic basalt plug. How do they do this?

Everything is functional and designed for defense but still integrated into the extreme topography. I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful the grounds and setting are.

You might wonder, how could anyone successfully attack this stronghold whose basalt walls rise vertically out of the swirling waters of the Clyde river? In 870 two Viking kings, Olaf the White, and Ivar the Boneless, with over 200 longboats, did just that. After a four month siege, and cutting off the water supply, things definitely got ugly in Dumbarton.

The Picts apparently took over for a couple of days, and notably in 1425 James the Fat tried but failed. Later medieval history seems to suggest that Dumbarton Castle was under near constant siege and squabbles. Even James IV, with the aid of the monster Mons Meg, the A-bomb of medieval times, subdued the castle. I can’t vouch for any of this but everyone agrees that Mary Queen of Scots definitely left for France from Dumbarton Castle.

It seemed prudent to stop in at the castle’s tiny museum to allow our quivering legs to settle down and it turns out they have great examples of carvings found in the terraced garden at the beginning of the stairs.

We’ve wanted to see this castle for a long time and you worry that it might disappoint but it turns out it’s even better than we could have imagined. The pizza’s still great too.

I was having a softly streaming sunny morning, kicked back, waiting for the day’s first cuppa to reach my frigid toes. It’s a cold April in Scotland.

There will be no taxi subterfuge on this one dear Escapees. The mountain does not come to Escape Velocity, we will climb to it. First, one has to navigate the modern municipal flats of Stirling, crossing over the railway tracks on a footbridge into the hills of old town Stirling.

It’s nothing but up from there. Unrelenting, steep hauling of one’s caboose up the mountain to Stirling Castle.

When I stopped to take a photo of an interesting building at what I hoped was at least halfway up, a local gentleman said, “That house is the oldest in Stirling.”

He added, “Do you know about the shortcut up the hill?” Of course we didn’t but I’m always up for a shortcut. What followed was five minutes of charming thick Scottish brogue, most of which I couldn’t understand but he seemed pleased so we gathered that we were to make a left then immediately jog right at the old pub that isn’t there anymore. What could go wrong?

Following the Escape Velocity paradigm we found ourselves on a walkway heading straight up the mountain. These people are made of stronger stuff.

The rest breaks were becoming so frequent that I wasn’t sure if we were spending more time climbing or resting. The merciless walkway suddenly ended at a two lane macadam road which seemed significant but left us without a clue as to where we might find a castle. Turns out a long staircase was hidden behind a copse of trees. Our shaky legs probably made the stairs seem longer than it ought, but we reached the arrival lot with just a handful of adventure seekers taking snaps of the view.

What a contrast to over-crowded Edinburgh. Still climbing toward the castle gates we could see the beginnings of ramparts when we came upon this familiar chap.

Have they ever seen a volcanic plug that they haven’t built a castle on? How fortunate that this one is near the lowest downstream ford of the Forth River.

Started in the late 11th century the castle has been the home of royalty and had more than 8 major sieges.

After our tour of the castle we think our local man in the know suggested we take the long circuitous way back down to see the historical sights missed while trekking up the shortcut. Sounds good to me.

It was a spent duo of escapees that staggered back to the van, tired but happy.

The United Kingdom is quite serious about diesel pollution. They are clamping down on population centers like London and, of immediate concern, Edinburgh. Escape Velocity is a 2009 Fiat Ducato-based chassis with a relatively clean burning class 4 diesel engine which, it turns out, precludes us entering many populated cities. It takes a minimum of a class 6 or better to get into Edinburgh proper but as luck would have it, we just found out the draconian exclusion hasn’t started yet. As a further hassle the more you travel south in the UK the fewer park-ups can be found, especially near cities, but we have a secret weapon, Marce the bloodhound. We decided to face the music and dance.

We rarely use a campground. All we need is a lot to park in and transportation into our city of interest. She found all of that for £2 a night at a park-and-ride, just two train stops outside of Edinburgh. No clue if that will be within the exclusion zone when they do in fact clamp down and we’ve been led to believe that the maps and signage are less than perfect elsewhere and it’s easy to inadvertently wander into an exclusion zone with a hefty ticket featuring a photo of your vehicle showing up in your morning Royal Mail. This country is blanketed with CCTV cameras and there are no less than 12 in our park-and-ride lot.

The ride part of the park is adjacent to our lot so it would be hard to be more convenient and it’s a cold but sunny day so we’re off to see Edinburgh. Train tickets are purchased online and within minutes we were disgorged at Edinburgh’s massive bewildering train station in the center of town. Ramping up to street level the first thing we saw was this.

It’s a memorial to Sir Walter Scott and for £8 pounds they’ll let you climb the 287 steps to the top. It’s that kind of town but as a consolation prize members of Historic Scotland get into Edinburgh Castle for free. Care to make a guess what we’re doing?

The Scots had every reason to be paranoid, what with nearly every castle changing hands typically about every ten years or so, but if there was a huge bulging volcanic plug in the vicinity they built a castle on it, which you’ve got to think ought to help with the defense of the place. Consequently you can imagine that to see Edinburgh Castle you’re going to have a wee climb. Sure enough, at the end of the bridge over the station you turn to the right and immediately start to climb. It does nothing but get steeper from there.

It takes a while but eventually you start to get a peek-a-boo view of the beginnings of the castle as the charming, but steep, street turns into castle instead of street buildings.

Of course, on your approach you have to negotiate a large, let’s agree to call it an arrival area filled with thrill seekers, photographers, YouTubers, fashion posers, ticket buyers, and at least two castle buffs in the mood for ice cream, balloons, and children crying over dropped ice cream cones.

We haven’t faced this much chaos since Kathmandu.

Heading through the ancient gates by necessity, it’s slightly less crowded.

Kitted-out with audio tour headphones we started climbing again.

I can’t remember ever being in a place so grand.

Correct to a T, even the paving blocks are perfectly laid.

The views are magnificent, all the better to see those trying to sneak up on you.

We decided to walk back down into town via the Royal Mile, dodging the crowds and pipe blowing buskers, to share a pint with our friend at a very fancy old pub on Princes street.

It took a while, mostly due to whimsical signage, to find the correct track to get back to our parking lot but find it we did.

We’re really excited about our adventure to Perge, which is where all those shiny-pants museum statuary came from. We’ve been researching Antalya’s flash new tram system and with the help of a kind woman who watched our frustrations trying to decipher the transit card vending machine and stepped up to help us, we purchased our very own plastic card which can be used by both of us. I guess they figure you’re going to share anyhow so what the hell.

The next test is guessing how much lira to put on the card. Turns out the A tram line goes out to Perge and has a spur line B to the airport. How close it comes is anyone’s guess, but I was able to find a tram stop about twenty minutes from our guesthouse, most of it up a steep winding road through the old town. Everything went smoothly, and I mean the tram just glides along like it has nothing to do with the hard steel rails underneath. Clean, modern, and comfortable, the only stress was remembering where to get off because Perge is nowhere to be seen on the monitor.

After about an hour Marce suddenly said, “This is it.” The tram was elevated at this point but there was very little to see, kind of a dusty burbs vibe. We followed everyone else down the very long concrete staircase to the ground, and did the Escape Velocity wander-around-and-guess-which-direction-to-walk trick. I was under the impression there would be a taxi at this juncture but the taxi drivers figured they have us at a disadvantage and in Turkey you never want that scenario. I guess we showed them.

Thirty-five minutes later, dusty, hot, and exhausted we wandered into the Perge gift shop. One bottle of cold coke and one bottle of cold water and we were off toward what the sign said, “This way to the ruins.”

First thing we saw were two colossal round towers, probably part of Perge’s main gate. It’s meant to be intimidating, and they are definitely humbling. Just beyond the gate is an amazing forest of one-piece marble columns.

This is a huge city. There’s a very large market square surrounded by dozens of buildings, homes or warehouses. You be the judge. We would have appreciated a guide of some sort, an app, an audio tour maybe, at the very least a brochure with a map. Marce asked at the ticket booth but they have nothing. There are a few signs but we were mostly on our own.

After the market bit, you’d have to call this a boulevard, over a mile long with water running down the center canal, bridges over the stream and one piece marble columns as far as the eye can see.

I was compelled to see everything that I could and that meant reaching the end.

After about a mile the main boulevard forms an intersection continuing straight into the hills.

The intersecting road to the right quickly deteriorated into rubble, however the left wing was really interesting.

It eventually ends in a massive pile of stone blocks.

It must have been an impressive building judging by the sheer size of the pile of stone blocks at the end of the street.

We still haven’t seen inside the incredible theater that gave up a lot of sculptures to the museum but that will involve retracing our steps down the “miracle mile,” back through the market square, main gate, and gift shop, not to mention the parking lot and out the long driveway to carefully cross the highway. It was worth it.

No one else was in the theater which seats over 12,000 with a 3-story stage more than 52 meters long which easily enhances the moody, spooky feel of the place.

It boggles the mind when you consider who might have sat in the hard stone seat that you’re sitting on.

It’s easy to tell where the sculptures were but access to the backstage area is blocked off due to an unstable structure. This is the kind of place you have to tear yourself away from just to leave. Golden, late afternoon sun was angling down into the theater reminding us that we are far from home and we still have a bit of a hike to do.

Exploring the stadium will have to wait for another time. We’ve got a tram to catch.

As Escapee layovers go, our Istanbul — or is it Constantinople — layover was a short one. Not short enough to cause panic but we were still able to buy new sims, pick up some pocket lira and kick back for a few minutes. After our business class windfall we weren’t looking forward to back-of-the bus seating to Antalya even though the flight is only an hour duration.

Feet on the ground, bags by our side in Antalya, Türkiye (same fine country, creative new spelling) we began to fully appreciate how utterly profound the difference is between Turkish and English. We haven’t a clue. Not one word is recognizable.

Showing true Escapee chutzpah we left the terminal dragging our two wheelie duffels into the usual taxis driver scrum knowing that the favorite Turkish taxi trick is to settle on a fare only to raise the price on arrival. Our guy gave it go. We weren’t having it.

Apparently our hotel has a part time doorman who held the door while I wrestled the bags into the lobby. Let that sink in a minute, Escapees. We are staying in a hotel with a doorman. During the day Yusuf cleans rooms, but the elevator is very real and whisked us up to our 5th floor room with a gorgeous sunny Mediterranean view.

There must be some kind of screwup. I mean, have I died and gone to heaven? Marce has pulled off another miracle on such a miserly budget.

Turns out that Antalya Harbor is a block away and about 200 feet down at the bottom of a cliff. A glass elevator is gratefully provided to whisk the savvy thrill seeker up or down to the harbor esplanade where vendors of all stripes can be found hawking their wares.

Tour boats with bizarre cartoon like, large plastic “Pirates of the Caribbean” themed sculptures stuck on the stern, were arrayed around the harbor in a huge horseshoe shape.

But the truly amazing thing is the massive defensive walls, some built by the Romans. With Marce fighting the traveler’s lurgy I decided to reconnoiter Old Town.

This town is really cat crazy and everyone puts out water and cat food. It’s actually hard to get a photograph without a cat in it.

Five roads crossing blended perfectly.

Any yachtsman worth his grog knows who Sir Francis Beaufort is but few know that in addition to creating the Beaufort windscale, he explored and charted southern Anatolia, locating many classical ruins including the ancient Hadrian’s Gate which apparently was encased within the heavy walls of the city.

This ancient gate with its deep worn chariot tracks has perked our curiosity especially with the ancient city of Perge ten miles away. A rare Escapee museum visit sounds like a plan.

Sometimes, it seems like I’m the last to know. I found myself humping away at a morning forced march through the old cultural city of Bhaktapur.

It was a vain attempt to keep up with Marce who has an insanely swift walking pace.

I was under the impression that we’d walk until a decent deal on a tour up to Changu Narayan presented itself to us. I really need to read the fine print more carefully. Apparently it’s the temple of peace and love featuring a decent view of the Himalayas on a clear day, which we have not got.

You can imagine my disappointment when Marce turned away from the charming old town and headed down a steep grade In Kathmandu-like conditions. It didn’t take long for us to be in flatlands in the middle of nowhere.

Every time a truck approached we lunged off the road raising a cloud of dust in the path alongside.

Just before my total breakdown the land began to rise. It kicked up quickly into a remarkably vertical road with switchbacks. These are legendary tough folks. Occasionally we had to ask a local which road to take and they would look at us and point straight up. Halfway up we ran into a wedding party. It’s hard to believe that ordinary life events could possibly take place on a gradient like this but there it is.

For entertainment we tried to imagine what the occasional old broken down signs of abandoned defunct businesses actually were. Sometimes we slowly plodded through tiny villages. Far ahead we could see mountains and we knew that the temple of peace and love might be on top of one of those. What I want to know is, what happened to my tour?

Breaks for a breather came more and more often. Just when the question of who will take the blame for this fiasco were all I could think about, a parking lot came into view. We collapsed into a vendor’s chair and gasped for drinks.

It turns out we’re not there yet. There’s a path up to the temple, but first you need to buy a ticket and walk up through the gauntlet of souvenir and trinket hawkers. It’s the “enter via the gift shop” paradigm.

With quivering thighs we climbed the final stairs to peace and love.

The earthquake did major damage to the temple up here.

While trying to get some feeling back into our old legs a young Italian couple who are staying at our hotel came bounding into the square through the backdoor archway.

I’m no expert but Changu Narayan is purported to have the highest density of erotic art in Nepal. I guess that’s the love part. Still looking for the peace bit.

We decided to go back to Bhaktapur on the same southern trail that the Italians walked to get here. Instead of wandering around the mountain it just drops straight down towards the valley.

We could actually see the Italians far ahead of us but soon the trail began to roller coaster up and down in an exhausting pattern. We spent a few miles plodding through dusty and desolate stacks of drying brick.

Just when we were sure the trail was heading down to a flat valley road I could see the Italians, by this point far ahead, reach a fork in the road and turn up another long steep hill. I found this particularly soul-crushing.

After the hill we dropped down into another valley that had a few obviously empty, isolated, strangely suburban-looking houses right before the path kicked up again. The significance here is that one house was surround by a small wall. I sat down. I was spent.

I looked at Marce and said, half joking, “I wonder what the chances are of finding a taxi out here in the middle of nowhere?” She laughed but found just enough cell signal to pop up the local ride-hailing app, and in true Marce fashion, found a driver on the map, also out in the middle of nowhere but very close to our middle of nowhere. What are the odds? Minutes later it was bizarre to watch a little yellow four door speck find us on this lonely stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. We crawled in.

Before long we were dropped off at the city gates, flashed our passes and shuffled off in the general direction of our Rupakot Hotel and Rooftop Restaurant.

As my grandfather used to say, “There and back in the same day!” Then he’d look at you as if to say, ”Isn’t that amazing?”

My feet think so, too.

In Nepal one breakfasts up on the roof. It makes sense to get above the dust and dirt. Om and the boys at Rupakot Hotel and Rooftop Restaurant do a great job and the view is without equal. I suspect that given a modest amount of time most of Bhaktapur will walk, chant, dance, or parade past our front door. Back to breakfast, which is up one more flight of stairs from our room. From here we have a 360 degree view of this magical ancient city but those shy Himalayan mountains just north of us are still AWOL.

Across the street we can see down into what must have been a temple but due to the earthquake has slumped down into a pile of rubble.

Still, every day we see two people separating roofing tile from bricks, stacking tens of thousands of those clay colored bricks against what was once their back wall while avoiding the angled wooden props stabilizing the next door wall.

A few steps from us a small group of workers are reconstructing another ancient temple lost to the earthquake. The bricks from the original structure were saved and neatly stacked. Bearers load them into a basket they carry via a strap across the forehead leaving their hands free to climb ladders up to the second story where they throw the bricks one by one up to the third story. We watch their progress every day.

A few steps from this rebuild site is a beautiful conical temple that has been completely restored.

By this point you would have been encouraged to add to your baggage allowance with a brass singing bowl, carved wooden masks, pottery, spices, tea, jewelry, t-shirts, curved daggers, all at a special price just for you because you’re the first customer this morning.

Moving farther into Taumadhi square is a beautiful four-story cafe that we frequent.

The square is dominated by the tallest temple in Bhaktapur with a long climb up steep uneven stairs past restored lions, elephants, and fantastical creatures.

An early morning climb shows a rare quiet moment at the square.

This temple seems to gather a lot of attention.

Almost everyone stops to light something, bow in Namaste, or breathe in incense, and most nights feature a couple of hypnotic tunes and chanting by the band.

Streets head off in every direction promising weeks of adventurous discovery. We’re up to the challenge.

We’ve been kicking around the idea of traveling to Bhaktapur for a few days. We’re trying to avoid the expense of another flight. There are no trains. The bus to Kathmandu is posted as a ten-hour trip, but has been known to take hours longer and has rattled and even unhinged seasoned travelers that we know. The mostly unpaved H04 road is legendary in Nepal. Legendary snarled traffic. Legendary potholes. Legendary mud.

Our friend Peter came up with a compromise solution which is his special skill: hire a driver with a newish 4-wheel drive high-clearance vehicle who promises to stop for food and photos and we split the cost. Done and dusted. The only fly in the soup is that our innkeeper at the Orchid Hotel warned that early in the morning we’ll run into the tourist buses, but how bad could that be?

The problem with the road to Bhaktapur is it appears they are trying to pave the unpaved bits and maybe widen it too, all while you and everyone else are trying to drive on it. Some Nepalese smiled and proudly told us, “Come back in two years and you will be amazed.” After a couple of hours on the road we all agreed twenty years might even be optimistic.

Things went smoothly in the morning, but no final appearance of Fishtail and our Himalayan friends. Immediately, while passing the airport, we ran into school buses that were not fond of pulling off the road to swallow the kiddies. The buses behind would try to leapfrog the one stopped to pickup a new load of kids. It was a mess but our driver remained stoic and calm.

Out of town things began to deteriorate. Between tourist buses, construction vehicles, mud, and far too many cars, things were slowing down quite a bit. And getting bumpy.

After sitting still in a line of vehicles for a long while, without a word our driver turned the truck off and went back to watching a Bollywood drama on his phone.

Eventually we started to move again, surmising that some construction issues were afoot.

This was the pattern of our day, except for the occasional snack and comfort stop.

At Anbu Khaireni we stopped for a few photos

We still had to work our way through the mountains, then around the constantly constipated traffic of Kathmandu.

This is Nepal. There are no ring roads, and Bhaktapur lies about an hour or so beyond Kathmandu.

We could feel things constrict as we approached the Old Town of Bhaktapur. It had taken us just over eight hours.

Bhaktapur is a restricted UNESCO site and requires a pass, 1800 rupees whether you stay for a day or a month. We got a long term pass which required some lengthy paperwork.

Our hotel is right in the heart of the old town on Taumadhi Square. While we passengers were now legal to pass through the gate, sadly our driver had to turn back. It was schlepping time and we unloaded the roller duffles and started to hunt down the Rupakot Hotel and Rooftop Restaurant.

The walkways are carefully paved with cobblestones and bricks but they’re incredibly old and with all the earthquakes some shifting may have occurred. The rolling duffels did their usual flop over trick on the uneven streets which made dodging the thousands of maniacs intent on skewering us with their speeding scooters quite scary. Funny that the authorities are so careful to regulate visitors but apparently any idiot can speed through this amazing UNESCO site on a motorbike at breakneck speed, scattering people out of their way.

With Marce navigating we found our wonderful old hotel and our room on the fifth floor. It was a long but interesting day of travel and we now have an amazing ancient city to explore.

A loud grating sound came from somewhere high above me. It rudely brought me close enough to consciousness that I could open one eye. Darkness, nothing but darkness. Eye quickly closed, I began to slowly drift down into the ether. Sweet Jesus, there it is again. In the name of all that is holy, surely someone will turn that damn thing off. But wait there’s more. Now in a strange juxtaposition, a disturbing ascending wave of sound, over and over in seeming endless repeat, but now there’s that klaxon thing again with, oh my god, I actually know this one, it’s the iPhone classic Apex.

Well that puts paid to my night because, by now, I’ve remembered why we need to get up before dawn. It rained last night and with any luck at all, we have a date with Fishtail and the Annapurna range of the Himalayas.

Pokhara is nestled lakeside between high hills that tend to trap it’s considerable smoky-foggy air pollution so it takes a little rain and proper air currents to see the big boys.

Hot coffee in hand we eagerly wait for dawn’s early light, sitting on the edge of our bed staring through a large picture window, trying to make out what looks like the outline of the Himalayas. Minute by minute the view coalesces into a sharper image. The mood is buoyant. We see the first of the sun’s rays strike Fishtail.

Without a word we head to the elevator and punch a higher floor, climb the spiral stairs and out on the frosty roof we behold magnificence.

So much higher than the surrounding hills, it almost seems like a massive set of rogue waves, white with frothy foam, topping the hills only to topple and inundate Pokhara. It was kinda mystical.

We spent about two hours. In that time the Hotel Orchid’s manager stopped by to make sure we were up and enjoying the show, which was awfully nice. Ultralights, airplanes, and hot air balloons were all up too.

At this point of the story, dear Escapees, I’m reminded of our fat old black cat Margaret. Once, in an effort to get her to exercise, we bought a Wacky Wall Walker, a jiggly gummy bug-like toy that “walks” down the wall. We were told cats love them. Surprisingly, Margaret perked up and waddled over to the wall and attempted to jump up and grab the Wall Walker, except that her bunty little legs couldn’t lift her caboose off the ground. We also had an athletic calico cat who came over to see what the fuss was all about, waited for the toy to get within her range, gave a mighty leap, snagged the Wall Walker and trotted off with that smug expression she used. Margaret remained there waiting for the magic bug to return. From that moment on we would periodically see her sitting patiently beside the wall, quite content, watching for that magical Wall Walker. Let’s agree to call this the Margaret Method, or MM.

For the rest of our stay in Pokhara we practiced the Margaret Method as applied to the Dawn Himalaya Reappearance. MM mainly consisted of an alarm at dawn, two cups of coffee using our Aero-Press, which is a fiddly thing to do at dawn, and a fruitless wait with little to show for it. You have to admire the family’s tenacity.

I’ve been searching for Kathmandu. The real Kathmandu. Prowling the narrow streets and alleyways almost every day. It’s dirty work. Maybe even a little dangerous. There are stone culverts running along the sides of the alleyways that you are sharing with fellow pedestrians, scooters, cars and trucks, that you are expected to repair to if the hell-bent-for-leather scooter heading straight at you decides he needs the space you’re currently occupying more than you do.

Dirty work. Every morning the shopkeepers brush yesterday’s dust and dirt into the street where you’re walking, using a broom made out of natural grasses. I see the broom man pushing his impossibly overstacked bike everyday. I marvel at the skill needed to keep ten feet of brooms stacked on a bike without using any line.

You can really get lost In Kathmandu but I’ve noticed that each street has a different character or special product. While name-brand technical gear can be found spread around just about anywhere, it’s mostly found on a specific street. Some of it is even real. After all, Kathmandu is staging for serious trekkers.

The city was hit by the 2015 earthquake more than I would have thought. Most buildings had some damage, some just slumped down into a pile of rubble. (The Netflix 3-part documentary Aftershock about the quake is worth watching.)

I had my first mo:mo, on a five floor walk up restaurant in Durbar Square.

Make sure you get them fried, not just steamed!

I find myself warming to Kathmandu.

Lately on my walks I finding certain parts of Kathmandu to be almost charming.