Author Archives: Jack

If all goes well today we should be in Chiang Mai by 1:00 am tomorrow. So now we begin the Universal Traveler’s Dance. Checkout at the beach bungalow is 11:30am but our flight isn’t until 9:30pm so the owner kindly said we can hang out on the deck until our airport ride picks us up at 3:00 pm for the one and a half hour drive to the airport.

We have an old sailing buddy who washed-up in Phuket and we’d love to meet up, but we’re schlepping all our worldly goods, including our new vacuum cleaner jammed in a new rolling duffel, and dragging this excess baggage on and off public buses to see him is not in the cards. We couldn’t push the airport ride any later due to the rush hour penalty and we’re on a late flight because, well, it was the cheapest. After all, budgets are budgets.

We landed in Chiang Mai way past our bedtime, collected our bags, waited in the taxi queue for a lift, then wound our way through the dark back alleys of the Old City until the we came to a dead end. A small dimly-lit sign read Wayside Guesthouse. No front door, open to the air with a dozen pairs of shoes and sandals just inside.

A young man checked us in, then gave me a long look and announced sheepishly that the room is on the third floor. On the way up the stairs we noticed the impeccably clean varnished wood parquet floors, quite the change from our primitive beach hut. Exhausted, we flopped down on a thinly padded, semi-hard king size bed.

In the morning as we made our way down the stairs we could smell coffee and toast wafting up the staircase. We met our new best friend Jackie, the owner, tiny, smart, energetic and a magnificent maker of breakfasts, included. Budgets are budgets.

Bathed in Thai sunshine I was helped in tying my shoes by several neighborhood cats who extorted a few head pats. It turns out Thailand is a cat country.

We’re off to see where we are. Within a few meters of our guesthouse we entered a tree-covered park that shelters a beautiful peaceful temple. Classic Thailand. Not to borrow a phrase but you can’t swing a cat in Thailand without hitting a temple. And this is our neighborhood. For now.

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I think we can all agree that whatever your age, a drive to the beach is always going to feel like it’s taking far too long. If I’m being honest we were already an hour and a half into an hour long ride to Khao Lak but maybe the less than inspired scenery was part of the reason I was impatient. We pulled into the carpark in a cloud of dust. I looked over at a steep two foot wide roughly-paved concrete pathway that disappeared into a wild tangle of jungle and a sign pointing toward Poseidon Bungalows.

This is not the first time I was glad I’d kept my walking cane. I really didn’t need it anymore but at Phuket immigration I‘d felt like a celebrity, shuttled to the front of the line for my own passport guy. Who knew? The anxious crowd stared over at the lucky guy —Yours Truly — thinking “Who the hell is that?”

At our new digs, cane at the ready, I started to work out how I might build a little momentum up the steep grade but when I finally reached the top of the path it sharply turned towards the crashing sea and pitched over at an amazingly steep angle.

The torturous path ahead looked more like a rollercoaster than a way to get from point A to point B. It was certainly picturesque but Dr. Aaron’s last words echoed in my brain. “Just. Don’t. Fall. Down.” Turns out until new bone builds up, the knee is just glued in and not as strong as it will be.

Every walk from our tree house along the undulating cliffside path made me more confident and stronger, and the jungle color and atmosphere were amazing.

Breakfast and dinner were served at the main covered deck perched on stilts overlooking the river that emptied into the bay right under our feet. After a couple of days I threw down the cane.

At the end of our rollercoaster cliffside path was an overlook with steep uneven stone and concrete steps leading down to a magnificent crescent-shaped sandy beach with open air restaurants including, of course, Thai massage tables scattered about. You could walk for miles along this magnificent beach, and we did.

Every night we lay in our camp-style bungalow and absorbed the sweet music of the ocean swell breaking over massive well-worn black rocks just below our heads. During the day we often sat together on our tiny covered front deck in the trees writing, listening, only interrupted occasionally by a long-tail fishing boat passing close by. We eventually found our way down another set of steep steps to our own private beach.

This week of beach decompression was so restorative that we felt ready to tackle the rigors of the old walled city of Chiang Mai. I decided it was time to pass on my cane to someone in need and we were off to the airport.

I struggled up as if from a deep abyss. Up towards the surface I kicked one last time and I’ll allow that last kick was a mistake, but I was suddenly conscious. Nurses were everywhere assembling clear tubes to valves into various beeping boxes with bags hanging from stands filled with clear liquid and Marce holding my hand. It’s coming back to me in dribs and drabs now. I remember sitting up in bed leaning forward and the nurse saying hold this pillow in front of you this might pinch a little. The next thing was the abyss.

I asked for this, as a matter of fact we paid for this, but I pushed that poor knee until I felt there was just no alternative. It was a lot like when I was a kid and my friends and I rode our bikes all over the place on a steamy hot Pennsylvania summer day and somebody said let’s ride over to a well known public water fountain for a drink. I remember saying, “not me, I’m not thirsty enough yet.”

It’s a sobering decision to have your leg sawn in half with a Bosch saber saw, or whatever they use. Three years ago we went through this same process but under very different circumstances. At the time I was responsible for our safety on a sailing yacht and I had only a rough idea what I was in for. I was encouraged when I could stand on my leg the next day. I had to learn patience, but it turns out not much happens until the swelling goes down.

This time I had much better movement from the get-go and a couple of times I startled my doctor and he would say, “slow down!” Point taken. After all, it’s just glued on.

Maybe it was better pain control and better physiotherapy in a brand new wing of Island Hospital with more exercise machines than one of those fitness gyms where they yell at you.

You get really close to your Physio; after all you’re in it together. Mine was Zoey, maybe 90 lbs. but she could make me cry squeezing my leg with just two fingers.

I walked out of here without a cane mostly due to Dr. Aaron, or “Mr. Aaron” as they prefer in Malaysia, but he’d be the last to stand on ceremony.

He’s witty, loves bright colors especially the Rosso Corsa of his Ferrari that I pass every day in my Proton Grab ride.

They say all’s well that ends well and that works for me.

Today’s installment begins with a rare parkup failure, which is to say that paper will sit still for anything and as we pulled off the hard road this place didn’t look anything like what was promised. It hadn’t a view and was exposed to the weather. But as I turned off the road my peripheral vision caught a brief snapshot of what might be a footpath along the steep cliffside over toward Portsoy, the next village along the coast. We were left facing down a narrow death spiral half lane, twisting around an outcrop of rock where you can be assured that if somebody’s coming up around that blind corner while you’re going down, you’re both going to have a bad day. It’s steep, tight, twisty, and there’s no way to see if anything is coming.

As we inched down, Marce practically stood up in her seat. Luckily we met nothing coming up. As a matter of fact, no one was down at the bottom either so we had this beautiful rocky coastal parkup to ourselves.

This place was chosen as an Aurora observatory for Marce, having northern exposure, low light pollution, and an observable horizon, but it necessitated a drive across most of the country.

To our left we found strange concrete constructions tying massive piles of rocks together in what appeared to be a way to keep the ocean in a tidal pool for swimming but there was a sign that forbids swimming in the tidal pool.

We decided the empty pool deserved further exploration but it was called due to darkness.

It seems the electromagnetic gods giveth and they also taketh away in what feels like a completely arbitrary way without regard to how far you might have driven. It seems the high Aurora activity alert was pushed back a day but Marce was on full watch all night which it must be said makes for poor companionability aboard Escape Velocity in the morning.

After caffeinating, we decided an exploratory stroll along the cliffside path into Old Portsoy was just the ticket.

It was a fine morning and eschewing the twisty access road, we soon found our way up a steep path to the top of the ridge and spectacular views.

Calling Portsoy quirky may be an understatement after we bumped into this memorial.

Turns out some of the TV show Peaky Blinders was shot in Portsoy. A genuine brush with fame.

Back at the parkup, with the tide filling in, the pool starts to make sense.

After a second night of little or no electromagnetic activity you just have to accept that sometimes there are things over which you have no control.

The sun finally showed up to reveal a beautiful parkup by the water. I don’t know how she does it night after night, but she does it.

Marce’s Ordinance Survey Map shows every bump or feature on the land in the UK and it swears there’s some nineteen or so Megalithic sites in what would have to be a very successful fertile valley. These folks must have been well fed with a lot of free time, organized enough to find and quarry large slabs of stone, strong enough to schlep them to the designated spot — you can just imagine the arguments — then solidly erect tons of them. We’re very near one of the sites right now but you couldn’t prove it by me. A few miles across the loch there’s supposedly a massive circle and that’s where we’re headed this morning.

Turns out the parking lot is already filling up and I can’t help but notice a bus parked near the visitor center. There’s a gaggle of passengers politely waiting in a queue for the visitor center to open, probably for that second cup of joe and maybe a T-shirt or a couple of postcards.

Without a word we adroitly swerved around the thrillseekers and headed up the path toward the stone circle of Callanish on top of the hill. What a dramatic presentation as you wind your way up around the hill and begin to see the standing stones with virtually no one else there. I’m filled with awe and wonder at the mystery of it all. It takes your breath away.

At first it’s hard to see a design to the layout but it’s described as cruciform and it’s thought to be over 5,000 years old, the oldest in the UK.

A chambered cairn is at the center with a tight circle of 4.5m standing stones each weighing over 5 tons.

Each stone seems to take on an interesting character of its own. Was it originally chosen for its shape or color? Some seem to look like old twisted wooden tree trunks or thin warped boards. Did the passing centuries of nasty weather imbue each stone with its own character? I’ve seen some pretty amazing looking standing stones and wouldn’t it be a human trait to choose the most interesting? I guess we’ll never know.

Avenues radiate out from the center circle and as you walk through suddenly a whole row of stones will line up seemingly out of nowhere.

You are looking at 50 large standing stones.

These standing stones have been battered by Outer Hebrides wind and storms for over 5,000 years.

Local lore calls the stones “false men” probably due to later Pictish Christian influences that claim if a person refuses to convert to Christianity they turn to stone. I don’t know but it sounds biblical to me.

We woke at another stunning Skye parkup featuring this view of Harris and Lewis, which will be our next destination.

It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that when you build a stone castle on a narrow pinnacle overlooking the sea, it’s a strong defensive position but a weak position for durability, especially in this windy and rainy climate. Have I mentioned the wind lately? So after jockeying for a roadside place to park the bus, we assumed, rightly, that Duntulm Castle would be impossibly perched cliffside high over the sea. It wasn’t a long hike but we couldn’t see much of it until we were on top of it.

The castle was built in the 14th and 15th centuries on a former Pictish stronghold that later saw the feuding of the Macdonalds and Macleods. The Macdonalds claimed the upper hand in the 17th century but by 1732 the fortress was abandoned.

The castle was built mainly for defense but you’ve got to have a few luxuries in life. For instance, how could you not put in a picture window with a view like this?

Turns out on the Isle of Skye first you get the rainbow then you get the wind and rain. We were sopping wet by the time we got back to the van.

It’s a blessing and it’s a curse. It makes life easy while making it worse. It’s this handsome bridge to the Isle of Skye. You don’t need a ferry, you just drive on over. Well, you and just about every other RV owner in the UK. We soon found ourselves nuts to butts in a camper van bouncing along Skye’s potholed roads in a conga line winding our way apparently towards the same destination. It’s the Big Enchilada of Skye, kind of like heading south on I-95 in the US and you start seeing signs for “South of the Border” several hundred miles before the actual venue. If you ever headed South with a child in your car it’s safe to say you’ve been there. As a matter of fact, I remember my parents trying to explain the meaning of the term “tourist trap” to a tearful me as we drove on by.

For the Isle of Skye it’s the Fairy Pools. One wonders where they could possibly put all of these RVs. Well, they put them in a massive rough gravel parking lot terraced into a mountain, directed by every teenager in Skye. There’s no indication where the Pools are but this parking lot represents a serious hike just to get out of it.

We could see a mass of fellow thrill seekers gathering a km up a steep grade and we headed towards them. Stopping for a breather we tried to see the fairy pools but the valley before us was so majestic that we figured it must be somewhere over there.

Didn’t enjoy the down bits of the gravely hike but inevitably we started back up the mountain beside the gorge which apparently contained the Fairy Pools.

With little rain lately neither fairies nor pools were much in evidence.

Some of our party were not amused and stubbornly sat down refusing another step while Yours Truly soldiered on until the last dribble of a stream could be seen.

With thoughts of the long hike back and even longer rutted single lane access road, we turned for home.

Back at the main road most of the RVs turned right toward the main town. We turned left, as we do.

Marce found another cracking parkup which was to become a hallmark of the Isle of Skye.

In three days the ferry will take us back to mainland Scotland and we suspect there are many things Orkney has not yet revealed. We start with the Orkney Museum in Kirkwall. We’ve walked past its beautiful arched doorway dozens of times but bad timing or a busy schedule made us say, ”maybe later.” Today will be later.

The museum tells the story of Orkney from the Neolithic period through the present. We’d already learned much of the history from other museums and visitors centers we toured, so most interesting to us here are the Kirkwall-specific exhibits and Orkney art and craft through the ages.

This practical chair features a drawer on each side of the base, one side for a bible, the other for whiskey, which I think we can agree is the best way to study religion.

There are plenty of examples of the designs and writings of the Picts and the Vikings.

Marce’s favorite exhibit was learning to spell her name like a Viking might, to which she applied her considerable talents and energy.

There’s one Kirkwall parkup we haven’t tried yet, Scapa Beach, adjacent to a section of the St. Magnus trail. We followed the grassy track up to a sweeping overlook toward the Scapa Distillery. There’s that religion-whiskey intersection again. I think we’re finally starting to understand the essence of Scotland.

We agreed that for our last tango in Orkney we’d return to our favorite parkup behind the golf course along Hoy Sound.

It was a beautiful place to celebrate our 32nd anniversary.

On an evening walk we discovered that the old ruin near our parkup used to be a lifeboat station until they realized they could only launch the rescue boat during high tide. Oops. The station was relocated.

Tomorrow we’ll board the ferry to Scrabster and leave the northern isles of Scotland. It’s been a beautiful journey, enlightening, often surprising, the people warm and welcoming. We always found everything we needed or wanted, from camper supplies to gourmet cheeses. And the scenery never failed to take our breath away.

The next morning we said goodbye to Orkney, and as we rounded the tip of Hoy, we waved a final farewell to the Old Man.

We awoke to a quiet but sunny morning. I guess there were no takers on the morning ferry. At least none showed up at the car park. I couldn’t even see any crazies coming from the direction of the ferry after slogging their way through the Glen. They present as tiny dots about halfway up the mountain slowly moving horizontally, right to our left, climbing over stone pasture walls on a slope of 30 degrees or more. Tough going but they join the official trail about half way up the mountain, right before the path kicks up almost vertically. It must be really disappointing. No takers today. What do they know that we do not?

I imagine all you Escapees knew we were going to do it but I wasn’t so sure. I have to confess that any nervousness I may have felt has been replaced with anticipation at what we might discover. This drive to see what I might see has gotten me into trouble more than once but then again I’m still here and willing even if my knee is not.

Hiking poles, boots, tracker, puffy jackets, sandwiches, small amount of water, too heavy for more and we’re off. It’s a bit of a hike just to get to the trailhead.

We immediately start climbing and then the switchbacks begin. We’ve already gained a lot of altitude and the vastness of the Rackwick Valley stretches off into the distance.

This hut is where the Glen trail and the car park trail join forming the steepest section of the trail.

Finally we’ve reached the plateau at the top of the mountain, where it seems like it can’t decide wether it wants to go further up or down so it does a little of both while skirting a dizzying cliff side drop off.

A standing stone and a cairn seem to mark something significant, maybe half way. One of those pebbles is mine.

Soon a glimpse of what I assume is the Old Man, although Marce isn’t so sure.

Turns out it’s a lot further than it looks.

Huge stone blocks form an especially torturous kind of quasi staircase.

Still a way to go and the wind is picking up.

Finally we meet the Old Man of Hoy.

Yes that’s Yours Truly, your intrepid reporter verifying that it’s definitely windy out on the point.

After lunch we noticed the Orkney ferry doing a spot of sightseeing.

After 45 minutes or so of profound appreciation we sadly wished the Old Man well and began the trudge home.

The trail continued to deliver amazing panoramas.

Tail dragging the gravy we clambered back into Escape Velocity after setting an age-adjusted blistering pace. Overall it took just under four hours, and I’d never change a thing. What would it mean if we didn’t even try? You have to try.

So, it’s been a while. Kirkwall keeps serving up surprising things to do but inevitably even a tiny palm tree decorated island paradise in the Malacca Strait can get old. There is just no avoiding it. So we are inexorably drawn to it. It’s bigger than us. Passage booked, we are off to Hoy! In addition Marce has found a fabulous free parkup near the jumping off point for the hike to the Old Man. So it’s there if we dare.

We prudently stayed at the Kirkwall town campground to ease camper maintenance, less said the better, and made it to the ferry ahead of schedule.

We’re old hands at ferry protocol but due to the short duration of the trip we just stayed in EV.

Marce planned a few little side adventures on the way to the parkup. First stop was the Longhope Lifeboat Museum featuring the beautifully restored Thomas McCunn in her original rapid-deployment setting. (See link for a short video of the thrilling rapid launch.)

Lifeboats stationed on Hoy respond to vessels in distress in the North Sea and Pentland Firth, some of the most dangerous waters in the world. We were regaled with tales of heroism and tragedy, reminding us of some of the shipwreck memorials we visited in Shetland.

The honored list of lost heros is as impressive as it is sad. When one of the lifeboats doesn’t make it back home, it represents a large percentage of this tiny community’s population including several members of the same family since many fathers and sons serve together.

As sailors we’re grateful for every brave mariner who responds to an SOS. Every time these folks get a call, someone is having the worst day of their lives in some of the worst conditions on earth.

Next up and further down the road was the Hackness Martello Tower, built in 1813 at the height of the Napoleonic Wars. The style of tower derives its name from the original design at Mortella Point in Corsica where in 1794 the French mounted two small cannon on top of a projectile-deflecting round masonry tower some 4 meters thick, which enabled the French to fend off two British warships carrying the combined firepower of 106 guns.

This so impressed the Brits, understanding good value for money, that they built over 100 similar towers in the South East coast of England when Napoleon began gathering his forces to invade Britain. They apparently misremembered the name, and the British towers are called Martello instead of the original Mortella.

So you have a nearly bomb-proof structure housing ammunition, complete gun crew, a cistern for water, and the British innovation of an oval shaped tower, with elevated gun platform for a 24 pounder, replaced fifty years later by a 68 pounder.

Two sister towers protected the massive anchorage at Scapa Flow from 19th century American privateers and through both world wars, never firing a shot in anger.

Finally we drove 45 minutes the entire length of Hoy to Rackwick at the end of the road.

On the other side of the mountains the clouds parted and we descended into the vast beautiful valley under a rare blue sky.

Rackwick is the settlement at the end of the earth and the closest you can get to the Old Man of Hoy by car. A good place to stop.