Big Busy & Beautiful Bologna

Where

To

Begin

... !

Here! On the sunny side of the street (On the side of the street that's sunny)

I eloped, as hoped. Thus far a somewhat tribulated travaille but overall thumbs are UP. The sun has come out today instead of tomorrow. 

I set off with Werner Herzog's voice clean in my ears as I rattled toward the Black Mountains. A chilly wind blew. My hairs stood on end. What would befall me around the bend?

Frost, of which I have no pictures. And snow like none would believe, yes, south of France snow, tickling my ears, and my tent. My camera is playing silly buggers and my phone is lying in a ditch somewhere near Aix-en-Provence, unreachable except by the gods. Therefore, pictures of my first 10 days are lacking. 

However, know that they are etched indelibly in my mind's eye, and there they will remain until bouged. Happiness flaps its wings and we sing along. 

So I found myself cycling among snowdrifts. First it was in the distance, the prospect of cold. Then it was on the tops of the hills around me. Then it was beneath me, flanking me, crunching by the side of the road. French. Dench. 

'Stand still and let him go on his way [...] towards certain death.'

The so-called Black Mountains broke away to reveal a shining splendour, a bright green hilly visage. And then Montpellier, the rascal-city: accommodating, pedestrianised, becrêped and cockle-warming oh yes. 

My heart goes to Mima, lovely Mima who hosted me there with only a couple of hours' notice and a lurgy and not knowing really who I was and still served me Moroccan tea and dates and hot soup and all with a smile. 

Montpellier became Lunel became Vauvert became Salon became the dreaded charming Aix, location of The Event, though I really must say it is a dear little city with great falafels, and Pierre, and that bloke in the park who wanted to take me to Marseille (thanks but no thanks). 

Frejus, too, can come again, is brill, is top. Fields, beaches, meditative positivity, sunshine. Then suddenly I was in Cannes, Antibes, Nice/Nizza, Monaco, Ventimiglia and Sanremo all within a day. A beautiful day by the sea.

In Ventimiglia I came across a man on a motorbike when looking for a campsite. We were both directed to Sanremo to find spots there and there I discovered him to be one of life's good people. A helicopter engineer and motorcycling adventurist, generous and kind-hearted, a lung of pleasant air. All the very best to you, Dom! Alles Gute, drive safe.

We talked about how the weather had been great, pretty great, pretty and pretty consistently kind to us, and that Italy was sure to present the same face as France, one of blue-eyed congeniality, serene and maybe almost a bit bashful. Can weather be bashful? Is that more or less weird than describing someone as a lung of pleasant air?

Anyway, it got cloudy, windy and rainy. And hilly, and windy and chilly and shwifty. Less groovy. I took a short train away from the coast and was 

WELCOMED 

WITH

LOVING 

ARMS, balmy arms, by womblike motherly folds of Bologna's embrace (via Modena, also terrific). 

They say a picture paints a thousand words but only if it's a good picture and my snapper doesn't do it any snapping justice so instead I resort to rhetoric and say that Bologna is, so far in my experience of it, just simply wonderful. The centre stretches traffic-free with broad arms, broad span; the burnt orange spell of it all, grand squares and portici, majestic and understated somehow and just humming, brimming, simmering; there is pizza and gelato and there are pastry shops on the corners, cold beer in fridges and sweet little bars; the towers loom like friendly guards in their red brick places and cobbled courtyards are dotted so as to always be right where you want them to be; kids play safely, romance sizzles in the air like the smell of hot funghi, there is fruit everywhere, plenty if bicycles, people to look at, the sun is shining AND

I'm being put up by Claudia alongside her fabulous unit of a family who walk, talk and thrive with their heads held high and eat deliciously and laugh well. Best ice cream possibly ever, pistachio, chocolate & rum, bocia. Gelatoh my. Next I traipse southward, toward Firenze, Montefalco, Roma, Napoli, Vesuvio, many good places!

P and L to the family, all about, where you are, twist and shout, raise the bar. Love. Ciao.

(On a Jet Plane)

Cory Zabiggie flies again! Literally third time writing silly rambunctious blog post because of stupid blogger app and ignominious thumbs. Is it worth remembering? What is recreation? Dishonesty, lies. Lies, lies from tiny eyes.

J is right when she says I am nomadic. Heck, I'd rather be a nomad than a monad (though I have just read a little about various meanings of the word 'monad' and they're nothing if not multifarious). Go mad, nomad, ad-free and unsaddled with sadnesses! No mad is an island.

Recommendation shout-outs for the free-willy walk go to Contact by Sagan, for humane and blastingly lovely sci-fi with HEART and FEELING and sociological tremors; Pancakes by Pontiac (by way of s.v.); and The Meters. Rejuvenate, don't denigrate. 

Pressing matters! (Especially regarding trousers) YES DAN I'M READY FOR THE SADDLE. Ready to be asked the question. What do you, there, wanna do? Pale blue dot, looking toward the eastern horizon. Is that a red beacon I see? A marker? Red blob at night, Turkish delight. 

First leg logged, planned. Preliminary preparations perfunctorily accomPlished. Staring down the 0zone. Just one more mug of China rose petal leaf tea and a timely reengagement with various contacts IN China. Enough to make you feel squishy. The World does blossom! And the people with it.

Neat little rows, a pocket full of posies. I leave tomorrow. They give it three three three clear days so if that isn't a clarion call then what is? I'm in the Totnes Times, so get yours now or next week at the chippy and read me through oil and mushy peas (Silver Grill please).

Reachable by phone until I am in Serbia, Kosovo or Turkey and beyond. Data available till then, occasional Wi-Fi thereafter. Sending love via usual channels. Be good to each other. See you on the continent, or off it. 

P

&

L

!

www.justgiving.com/fundraising/cycleaid18

On the road again!

Greetings to all the family!

{scroll down if you can't be bothered with a poem}

[Excerpt from the diary of well-worn traveller, elk masseuse and all-round tarot-man, Cory Zabiggie // Titled Don't make me work at the weekend, Tony (Don't make me work in the week), not to be taken salty]

February is the cruellest month--
But this the winter of our content
Shall not unlike a hyacinth
Unfurl and marry to th'intent
Of purchase on a marlèd ground.
So butter swept and money spent
Are better than that honeyed sound.
Was mead the spark to which they leant?

If Turkey is as turkey does
And March still marches, west to east,
To feed on soil and grain and gust,
Or west to east, as like a feast,
(In nighttime, while the sky is best)
Then flowers on the wind do make
An angel, and, like beads on string
Do talismans of angels sing.

For now, at least, like spoons in cream,
Two roads are laid in print. But know:
When eye turns back and sees the night--
When Didi met with harlequin
And found resolve, if met with like,
To curlicue, and so with you--
It glisters upward, scripts a wave:
Awaits a secondary weave.

-

I am due to set sail again on my bicycle in mid-March. I'm raising money again (for more info, follow this link: www.justgiving.com/fundraising/cycleaid18), this time for Refugee Action. Read all about them here: www.refugee-action.org.uk/about.

My current plan is to cycle from Toulouse, that is, mi casa, through Italy, Slovenia (aka paradise), a bunch of other places, Turkey and Georgia and eventually reach Baku, in Azerbaijan, on the Caspian Sea. That's 8,500km and LEG ONE. I've actually broken down the route into smaller legs, but for the sake of illustration this can serve as Leg One.

LEG TWO:
From Baku I will probably double back, cycle west back through Georgia to the Black Sea coast, to a town called Batumi, from which I will travel on a very ferryish ferry to Chornomorsk, Ukraine. I will weave through Moldova and Ukraine to Poland, and end up either in Berlin or Helsinki. The latter means travelling through Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia. Big ups to the Baltics.

The alternative or "Plan B" is to say bunkum to all of Europe, take a big ship across the Caspian Sea and sea what's going down in Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, maybe Xinjiang Province (China), or what, I don't know. There are complications that way, so I might just go to Poland. It's easier.

As before, I'll update with pictures and the like on this site. To get into the spirit of things, here are some pictures of my bike in some places which prove to myself that I can do this because I have done something like this before, only smaller.

-

1. The first one is in where? You guessed it - Vienna.

2. 5 points for--yes, correct, Austria.

3. Any takers on this baby? Hungry for clues? Oh haha, it's Hungary!

4. My bike isn't in this next one so you can't be sure that I even took it, but on my life I swear I did! This is coming down from the Reschen Pass from Italy into Austria, right next to Switzerland, aka one of the best places to be coming down from and ho mama look at all that alpine.

5. This is my favourite place in Namur, up on the citadel.

6. Hello Germany and your beautiful pines.

7.
i point to the field of yellow outside
sunflowers worship the sun i tell him
only when it arrives to they rise
when the sun leaves
they bow their heads in mourning
(etc.)
- Rupi Kaur, who is NOT Czech but THESE are:

8. Surprise! I'm back. Only I'm not, because I haven't really started yet.

More to come.

P&L

NOVEL EXCERPT: Richard's first MAM:A meeting

The group leader was an officious turd whose name, Ronald, was actually his first middle name. Ronald was two minutes into a tiresome speech about Man and Man’s habits, Man’s desires in conflict with Man’s religion, Man’s Manness in conflict with Man’s Misunderstood Masculinity, and so on. After eight indulgently meandering sentences and 43 iterations of the word ‘Man’, even Richard, whose own gender-specific vernacular was exclusionary and unacceptable, was thinking something along the lines of shut up you arse, we’ve better things to talk about.

Before he could muster the words, Jenny stood up with enough force to knock her blue plastic chair over its hind legs and exclaimed:

‘Listen, Ronald, we’re here because we’re tired of wanking and punishing ourselves for it.’ Richard had never heard this said out loud. ‘At least I am.’ She glanced about the room.

‘Enjoying it and hating it at the same time, myself and it, hating and enjoying and spiralling into depression.’ It was true, all true. ‘I can’t remember what came before, because... Well, Because. But I know that it was in tatters long before I came here and I assume some of my colleagues feel the same way.’

I do! I do!

‘We would like to fix ourselves, women included. Your pontifications about Man and Man’s infernal Manness estrange half your assembly.’

She paused and cleared her throat. Richard danced a little, inside.

‘I am sat between two humans whose status is equal to mine.’ Richard and Jenny’s other neighbour, a weedy gentleman, turned and looked at her. ‘We would like to get started.’

Bravo! Should he applaud? Sitting down, Jenny looked round and winked surreptitiously at Richard, who just sweated.

Ronald grumbled something into his hand before gesturing to Jenny.

‘Well, Jennifer, please start us off.’ Specks of perspiration shone on his temples. He drew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

Richard watched him and shrunk satisfactorily into his seat, then focused on Jenny. She seemed wise beyond her years (mid-thirties at most, but she had a wizened elegance Richard found enchanting). Her hair hung gingerly over slim shoulders. A few wisps clung beneath her large Roman nose and pointed towards a triumvirate of moles on her left cheek, the largest of which boasted a modest fuzz. Hanging about her cat’s frame was a purple cardigan, thick-knit, tied like a dressing gown round her waist. Sandals protruded from beneath a maroon skirt and revealed crudely painted toenails, the smallest of which was barely a dot. Richard suspected the nail to be missing, the paint a diversion to the fact.

Folding his arms, his eyes met hers. He imagined their souls meeting in an ethereal playground, surrounded by swirling winds and eddying astral forces, shaking hands and sealing their mutual fates. He knew her little secret, her little toe secret, and nodded his recognition, with it forgiveness, understanding, admiration, all wrapped in ribbons of something like infatuation.

By now Jenny was midway into an anecdote and Richard had missed the whole first half.

‘Without, I think, this element of structure, thoughts of it permeate my everyday. I can’t think straight, I can’t work.’

Gosh, he knew how that felt.

‘Like I sit at my desk and, you know the classic, there’s a vibration somewhere nearby – a truck reversing outside, someone’s using the photocopier…’

Was she reading his mind?

‘So, without structure, thoughts of masturbation escape my control. The act itself becomes frantic. I rush it in order to somehow reduce the damage done to my conscience. It’s indulgent but in all the wrong ways.

‘And so this week I’m advocating Structure.’ She enunciated this word with a finality which brought Richard to a standing ovation. On his other side, Lara giggled. Ronald rolled his eyes at the newcomer. Tim, name yet unknown to Richard, weedy Tim, chin resting via hand, lower arm and elbow on bony knee, rent from his own oblivion by an uncontrollable guffaw, lost control of his limbs and slid polygonically into a prostrate mess of angles, jeans and Crocs.

NOVEL EXCERPT: Why Richard is called Richard

Richard's affliction first presented itself on his sixth birthday.

After a wonderful day at the playground with both of his friends, his parents took him home for apple pie. Apple pie was his favourite. Then, it was time for his bath.

Splashing about in the tub with his ducks and battleships, he was completely carefree. He liked to smother his lower face in bubbles and pretend he was Father Christmas, then wipe his chin clean and pretend he was Nietzsche. He had very mature reading habits.

During this bath, as it was his sixth birthday, his mother made it extra special.

“Would you like one last present?” She touched his nose with her finger.

“Oh, yes!” Richard was overjoyed. He loved surprises.

Karen left, leaving the door open behind her. She returned a minute later, and when she did a strange aroma filled the room. She held a round object, covered by a tea towel. Richard marvelled at the strange object.

“Can you guess what it is?”

“Umm…” He couldn't.

“I thought, because you like apples so much, you might like to try a new fruit.”

“OK!” That did nothing to explain the peculiar whiff which drifted up Richard's nose.

“This is called a durian. It's from south-east Asia. Would you like to try it?”

“Mm-hm,” said Richard. He was cautious because of the smell, but nothing could ruin his sixth birthday.

Karen unveiled the fruit. It was a greenish yellow, and covered in spikes. It had a split down the centre, and emitted an odour incomparable to anything Richard had ever smelled. The smell intensified as the cover was lifted, and grew stronger and stronger. It wafted about the room and tingled in his nostrils. When Karen wrenched the fruit open, the smell became unbearable.

At once he felt his innards contract—he thought he needed to sneeze, then to be sick, then… His bowels reacted in the most formidable way. A rush of gas built up in his colon and burst through his anal canal, carrying with it all the diluted, unprocessed brown fluid which was being held in his intestine.

In an instant, the bathwater turned a murky ochre. Richard squealed as soft pulps of shit floated up to the surface. 

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Karen ushered him out of the bath. Then, when he started to drip the soiled water on the tiled floor, she panicked and pushed him back in.

“Oh, Richard!”

“Sorry, mummy,” Richard said. He didn't know what else he could say. It was all his fault!

“Oh darling it’s not your fault.” He felt sure that it was. “Stand up and let me hose you down,” Karen stifled a giggle. “That's it. Now, one foot up.” Masterfully, Karen ensured that no more poo drops made it onto the floor. She wrapped him in a towel and gave him a big hug. He began to cry. Karen drained the tub and rinsed it down while Richard went to the kitchen and stared at the fridge, shaking occasionally with a sob.

A cup of hot chocolate cheered him up, and his sniffles subsided. Karen sat with him and watched him drink it, wondering what had occurred within him to prompt such a violent outburst of faecal matter. Could it have been an allergic reaction? She’d never known that to happen, and so suddenly too. Something to do with bad smells? It was a mystery. She resolved to ask her friend Elisa the next day; he knew lots about these kinds of things! Then, Richard surprised her with a question.

“Mum, why am I called Richard?” 

“What? Oh, your name? That's a good question. How long have you been thinking about that?”

“Um, a few days. Everyone at school’s been talking about it. Frank was named after a boxer, and Isabelle was named after an explorer.”

“And what do you think you were named after?”

“Well, everyone says I was named after one of the instruments used when I was made,” Richard looked up, and Karen saw that he was puzzled. “But I told them you and dad don't play any musical instruments.”

“Mmmm.”

“And then they laughed so I went away.”

“Oh, darling!” Karen’s parental urge kicked in, and she squeezed her son’s little cheek.

“But can you tell me who I'm named after, so I can tell them?”

“I’d be glad to. You were named after a man called Richard Sterling. He's a travel writer! He writes about all kinds of things. He’s how your dad and I found out about durian fruits.” Richard’s stomach lurched at the thought. Seeing his skin turn a shade paler, Karen decided to veer away from the subject.

“His writings will shake the earth, they really will. He leant us some of his notes and they are, well, extraordinary.” Richard swilled the end of the hot chocolate in his mug. Tea, chocolate, Mum and Dad’s coffee. Some of humanity’s favourite beverages are brown, he thought. Why did it have to be so?

“What do you think?”

“Um, so I was named after a writer?”

“Yes. So now you can turn around to your friends and say I wasn't named after a boxer, or an explorer, I was named after—well, I suppose he is something of an explorer. So, you can say, I was named after an explorer too. That's much more interesting than someone who fights for a living. Don't you think? Richard?”

But he was lost, once more, in the dregs of his mug. He put it back on the table and saw the image printed on the side: Winnie the Pooh sitting merrily in a field of orange flowers. Richard didn't feel so merry, but he did like knowing why he was called Richard.

“Much cooler,” he said. And then he went to bed. Thankfully, he didn't dream of the durian. It never even crossed his mind, until one October morning, six years later.

SIGUNIANGSHAN

We emerge like squirrels from the plane, toes dragging. A nutty minefield awaits. Its claws lose no time in seeking our haunches. They find purchase. We're flat on our arses, legs akimbo, caution to the wind and we don't mind. It's here, it's all around us -- winter is coming.

As a brand ambassador for Game of Thrones™, it's my duty - and I consider it a filial one, because GoT is my daddy - to sing the song of hot stuff and cold stuff till thither the wild wind drops. 

Siguniangshan translates to Four Sisters Mountains, and honey, these are most cantankerous sisters I ever saw. Proud to humble myself at their feet.

This is a Tibetan villageship, as you can tell by the Holy Shell of Shentaka, gifted to the first Bodhisattva upon her arrival on the golden sands of the Balearics, specifically Ibiza, where she did party hard.

The Four Sisters Mountains are big and beautiful. As Kristin writes in her 46-times commented piece for Be My Travel Muse dot com, 'the sky became blue and the vistas so impressive that almost everyone in the bus crowded around the windows as the bus navigated the winding roads, clamoring for a photo opportunity'. Thanks Kristin, I couldn't have put it better myself.

It was only a six hour bus journey from Chengdu but you can really tell that we're not in the city any more. There are absolutely no marks of civilisation in this 30km long valley, except the 6km long LED-lit boardwalk leading to the Hilton Plaza at the end which overlooks a set of lustrous infinity pools and artificial rockpools. But like nothing else - escape to the country R Us!

These gals in blue struck a charming contrast to the red trees.

There was this like really great glade thing at the end which was like such a refreshing like change from the kinda monotonous like woods and that, so we like sat down and talked about how much we like liked it.

What can you see, Kristoff? Bolt! Ye old scalawag. Drink ye water and turn ye round, legs and fists and hearts abound!

This bloke's so bamboozled by the viewzle that he can't bear to look.

Here's some real news. We arrived at Rilong, at our hostel, on Friday evening. Early the next morning there was a landslide in Xinmo, a village not a great distance from us, which reportedly flattened 40 homes and killed 100 people. Figures have changed since the weekend but it was definitely a ting. Heavy rains and atmospheric tumult. We were discouraged from entering mountainous areas but unfortunately were already in a mountains area, so we didn't leave out of fear of tempting fate, or something.

Instead, we went into Shuangqiao Valley, left the path, went where passing for the passengers was forbidden, and arguably behaved churlishly. But we were safe and fine until Elaine dislocated her knee bone and we heard a rumble on the other side of the pass. Oh shucks! Down we go, ey.

Proper mountains dig on snow.

You shouldn't anthropomorphise stones, they don't like it.

Yakkety yakkety yak / cow.

Didn't see it, myself. But dancing trees.

Here we are, all successfully alive and newly nicknamed - hello Bilbo.

If everybody winded full of tenderness like the water, maybe Steve Bannon would be out of the job, and Friedman would roll in his grave. Go out and read The Man Who Planted Trees, by Jean Giono. It'll fill you will mushy love, maybe.

Hey anyway I'm back from China now but still have some photos and of course writing is my passion so I'll write again. P&L.

EMEISHAN

It is or is not a coincidence that Emeishan (pronounced UH-MAY-SHAHN, kind of) is pronounced in a way similar to 'amazing', so you can say them both quickly in quick succession and succeed in muddling them up, muxing them ip, so to speak. Welcome back to blogworld, writer of BS (sure is better than PF, anyway) -- and there's plenty more where that came from!

Emeishan, or Emei Mountain, is significant for various reasons, all of which are available for your perusal at Wikipedia.org, a fantastic new resource brought to you by the May Administration - String and Stabbel, forever and ever. 

It's one of the four sacred Buddhist mountains of China, and is therefore teeming, and incredibly well infrastructured. Perhaps disconcertingly so. Stairs, dozens of thousands of stairs, carry tourists by the mill to a heavily built-up peak, whereupon a gilt Buddha light fountain waves to a tumult of clouds. And oh yes there are hotels and restrooms, cookies and all the rest, shucks. 

It stands at 3,099m / It is 3,099m tall / Its height is 3,099m / Its highest point is 3,099m above sea level / Elevation = 3,099m. So many ways to say the same thing, it's no wonder people lose sleep over where they'll be in six months, or what colour the decking ought to be.

A common occurrence:
(in Chinese)
hey, you lot are foreign! guys, I found a bunch of foreigners!!
(chiming in)
oh wwaaaaw foreigners!!! hey, go and stand next to them while I take a photo.
(giddy)
hey hey hey HEHEEYYYY WWOAW YEAH
etc
etc
etc

So I photograph the photographers in a trite, meta-theatrical effigy to the act of retaining pictorial dignity, or some such bogus.

Ram got a chilli shirt (name has been spoonerised to preserve nominal anonymity).

Tibetan macaques make a living by pick-pocketing unwary passers-by and undercutting the human vendors (that is, vendors which are human, not vendors of humans) with their stolen wares. Poor Sophie got assaulted by one and was forced to surrender a flagon of flavoured water, bless. We saw the bottle in question being exchanged for intimate favours by a shrewd social media magnate the following morning.

This (picture below) reminds me of that mediocre Stereophonics song A Thousand Trees, of which the op-fejwafewnv;----- but it's slightly too boring to talk about here. I had a trivia point but it's not worth it. I mean I like the Stereophonics, or at least I used to, it's just that quite a lot of their music is, how to put it - bland// Like they're not trying to invent, or innovate, in the way some other musicians or bands are.
Who's original then, B?
Well, I'm glad you asked. Tony Allen - Losun, is groovy. Obviously Gambino, and Ryo Fukui was back in 1976. Also, you could listen to Treece, and I will forever love Dizraeli, whose lyrics are bottomless. Childsplay, Kieren Hebden, PBU, Quantic, Aphex and the PSS. Caps duly doffed.

Had a bit of a scare as the cable car (from near-summit to tru apex) collapsed under the weight of so many years of service, leaving 98 of us dangling from a shoestring five sixths of the way up. Silver lining - spectacular views as we slid to the bottom, landing on our various bottoms in a bruised and bloodied pile.

It being China, there must be people, so here they are in force (though actually it was quieter than it could have been, truly).

The last few weeks here have been fab. I hope yours have too. In 11 and a half hours I will turn 23, and thereby be 11 and a half hours closer to the next large-scale event, the significance of which is overwhelming, understudied, overbearing, undeniable, overdone, well done, blue.

Here's to the fools.