Crochet Tale 5

This foray into northern India had a very loose plan. When I knew I had days to spare me thought a little bit of wilderness would do me good. Not that snowboarding in Gulmarg is anything but wild! So I had a look to see what I could do. I picked a trail based around visiting a few, well known, touristy haunts. Then found some spots where I hoped to escape that norm.

Having visited the Mecca equivalent for the Sikhs; being the golden temple in Amritsar. Using their unique and gracious hospitality I spent the night sleeping on the floor, near the temple. Now, this was a totally free offering, by them, as was breakfast too. Dinner and lunch are also available gratis. There are donation boxes and for all I got I gave them 100 rupees. It isn't a massive sum by western standards but was better than hee-haw.

As I was packing up my things another western guest was asked to sign the guest-book upon departure. 'I’ll sign but I’m not giving you any money!' was the indignant retort. At that point I felt quite embarrassed to have the same coloured skin as him. The Sikhs merely have to keep a track of who is coming in and out; there was no inclination of want of payment. It's the first religion I’ve come across that has welcome mats at the entrance to its major shrine. I made sure that I left a good ten minutes between myself and the scrooge before venturing off for my train.

On my way I bemused a cycle-rickshaw wallah by offering to pay him to let me ride his bike taxi. He looked old and that he'd worked hard for many years. He got many an admiring cheer from his fellow wallahs as whitey cycled him to the station rather than vice versa. The train bounced along to a place called Pandikot, where is switched to a bus for Dharamasala. If I thought the train bouncy, my next 4 trips, by bus, made the train feel like I was back gliding effortlessly through heavenly Kashmiri powder, on my snowboard. Himachal Pradesh local bus service got a flat tire on every trip. Even the short two hour one! But this tale is becoming more a volume so I will negate any more mention of these musings.

 From the home of the exiled Tibetans, I headed up to McLeod Ganj for a couple of days. Here I caught up with friends, went for a little mini-day adventure and kept bumping into Scottish people, seems we like it there! However, this stop was just a relaxing debut before my first proper excursion. I was to hike, from 1300m, from a village called Baghi to Lake Prashar, at 2800m. Then I'd need to find somewhere to kip, whether it is in the temple next to the lake or under the stars was, as yet, undecided. Before I could get started I needed to get some food and a pot to cook it in. having, moronically, forgotten my trusty mug I needed a drinking vessel too! For my supply stop I chose the town called Mandi. Not because my name rhymes with it but because it was the only place I could catch a bus to the trailhead. So another 6 hour whirly-gig bus ride deposited me late on a Sunday evening.

I was quite intrigued by Mandi as I approached. It had an old looking suspension bridge, which I later found out was named after Queen Victoria. Some nice looking stone Hindu temples and what looked like lots of other bits to go exploring. Unfortunately, as it grew dark, we pulled up to the bus station and I started to get the feeling that the vibe didn't quite match my first impressions. I guess Mandi is a town the tourist forgot! With such well known destinations nearby, like Manali and Shimla, Mandi has probably never been given the attention it could deserve by the western rambler.

Not to be taken aback, I find some lodgings and haggle a fairer price than he first offers me. Only after I agree to the room and get ready to wash of the layer of travel grime, which coats you on any long Indian bus journey, do I realise one of my windows is missing its pane of glass! At least it’s not cold so I’m none too perturbed at this point, which was until the morning-bell-ringing-Hindu-ritual began. I spent my two months in Gulmarg being woken up to the call to prayer, about 6am, every morning. Sometimes it was annoying, once or twice quite pleasant and on the best days slept through! But it pales into insignificance when you compare it to the unmelodic clanging of bells from about 5am, which lasts for eons. Now if you catch me on a regular day I’m not what you call a morning person. If you wake me up rudely and without warning I’m downright monstrous. I lay in bed cursing the Hindu gods, then realised I would be there a long time seeing how they have about 3 million incarnations, so decided getting up might be better!

The previous evening I had ventured out to stock up for my trip. I’ve checked and I can catch a bus out at 5.45am to the start of my trek. (Not even realising I was going to get a free alarm call, sans snooze function, from 5am!) as I try and get the 'hotelier' to tell me where I can get a pot from, he's way more interested in telling me the gate is locked at 10pm. 'no problem' I say. 'But what time do you unlock it in the morning?' I ask, with much pointing, gesticulating and no words he understands! Eventually I get a reply of 6am. Not much help for me making my bus.

Starting to feel that my plan is coming a wee bit unstuck, I strike out in search of my cookware and food. Mandi’s very much not a night town. It also doesn't do Sundays! Turns out, there is no chance of buying said pot till tomorrow. I couldn't find a kitchen or women willing to part with what I needed. Deflated, I returned to my room and set my alarm for a few extra hours sleep, which I never even got! So the next morning, grumpy and starting to feel a little bit of foreboding towards my adventure, due to last night’s setbacks; off I set again to try my luck.

Turns out I can get booze and a shave, in Mandi, at 9am, on a Monday but no pot. I opted for the latter but felt much more like the former! My shave was lovely. I opted to keep the slug of a moustache I’d grown for company and for you Dave! I finally got my hands on a shiny new pot and headed back, packed, then made for a bus. Informed I had a 1 and a half hour wait for my bus, I went from grumpyish to exceptionally irritable because all my ingenious planning was melting like the snow in Gulmarg!

I wouldn't say I’m a fastidious planner. Yet, when I have something in mind I like everything to run smoothly. Things, most definitely, were running like a Himachal Pradesh bus: if it wasn't broken down, it was on a very bumpy course! The slug and I had a little chat, over some chai, and he calmed me down. Just to remind one's self that you've got days to waste and you are, after all, trying to do this in India, starts to bring rationality back to your woes. The bus set off and a far calmer Sandy was aboard. About an hour towards my destination, this being the start of the trek, which I had a ranging time scale of taking anywhere from 1-5 hours, we got a flat! 'Bugger all this nonsense' I thought to myself. I came here to go walking so that's what I’ll do. So I donned my boots and started pounding the extra 10kms I’d just added by abandoning the bus.

It was early afternoon by this point and I was beginning to formulate an extra night into the trip. I had the food and time so why not? I managed to hitch a decent number of kilometers off the road section and arrived at the start of the trek around 2pm. I set off at a healthy, tall Scotsman’s pace and was past the non-existent trail head in no time. Three girls heading back from school, amongst much giggling told me where I should have gone. De-layering, I traced my steps back and was heading up, up, up in no time.

The walk through the forest and what I’m calling 'ladybird meadow', which invokes a far nicer image than 'power line pass', was very pleasant. (I must note that the majority of the ladybirds were fornicating. completely off the point, but, does anyone know why the P.C. crew haven’t got the ladybird renamed yet? seems a little unfair seeing how it's a police constable, lollipop person and all the other generic non-sexist titles we have now. I suppose personbird would take a little catching on!) It was a little overcast and the viciousness had gone from the sun. I stomped it out in a little under two hours. Words and photos never do the actual walk any justice so just go do it yourself!

I did a little research before I left McLeod Ganj and discovered, disappointingly, that you can actually drive almost to the doors of the temple. Turns out Lake Prashar is quite special to the Hindus. So I passed the nice forestry rest house, you can stay in, unsurprised by its presence. The big surprise for me was the 6 foot fence, crowned with barbwire, right around the lake and temple area. I questioned its need and was told it marked the temple boundary. Why the temple needed a boundary fence in such a sparse and remote location he could not answer. Perhaps the holy power of the temple has a range that can't go past the fence. Some things you just have to lay to rest and while the fence made me a little confused it didn't detract too much from the natural beauty of my surroundings. It’s quiet there, after the boys stopped playing cricket, and clean. I took a few snaps and just sat and mellowed. The sun was soon heading down and I still needed to find a place to crash.

There were more people at the lake than I’d expected. So I instinctively new I wouldn’t get the peace I was looking for by sleeping there. I wondered off over the fence and into the unholy yonder! Rounding a high point I saw a cluster of summer shepherd’s huts. They were next to the main single-track the locals, from the surrounding dwellings, used to get to the temple. I was hopeful they'd not be in use and started to make my way over. As I skirted round a gully my eyes were drawn down. There I spotted a solitary hut. It called out to me and I knew I had found my home for the night.

I dropped down into this enclosed space and the silence came with me. Out of the wind and away from prying eyes I knew I’d get the solitude I was after. It was so quiet and peaceful there that when I was conducting my absolutions, just before sundown, I became aware of an alien noise interrupting my serenity. I pondered its source only to have a hawk fly elegantly about 5 feet above my head. Realising the noise was the roar of the wind beneath its wings. I cooked a hearty meal, made some chai and used the last rays of the day to get more of hat 5 done. When it got to dark I retired to my sleeping bag and read my book. That night I slept the soundest sleep I’ve had in a very long time. With no alarm, utter silence and very little light in the hut I slept late. I arose to a beautiful day, heated up some more chai and sat outside to finish off the hat.

I momentarily misplaced my way when heading back down to Baghi! I didn't care. I was so relaxed and happy I just jumped from rock to rock down a river bed till I found the trail again. I was smelly and dirty so stopped short of Baghi for a swim and some lunch. A local shepherd appeared and we shared some chocolate as he tried to make sense of all my stuff. He also showed me a far more efficient way to clean my pot than I had known. Basically got it looking like new again. I sauntered all the way back to the main road and hitched and strolled back to Mandi. My next destination was picked by the proximity of the buses departure to my arrival. It ended up being Chandigarh, which was a crippling 8 hours but I was pleasantly sedated by the memories of the previous couple of days.

Ramble on...............

Crochet Tale 4

Sitting on a very early train out of Delhi, having deftly tucked my pack under the seat, before the deluge of over-sized Indian luggage ensues, I get ready to finish off hat three. As I pull the necessary gear out of its bag, the clicking, clucking, babbling and curiosity of the surrounding women, whom I share the bench with, noticeably increases. As do the stares, pointing, nudging and general furore of my fellow carriage inhabitants. Anyone who has spent time on a general class and busy train, in India, will know, all too well, its seething possibilities of intrigue.

After the inevitable expressions of surprise have dispersed, the afore mentioned ladies, begin to take a keener interest in this strange looking foreigner, crocheting a hat. In my limited Hindi I gather they are all 'tika' (fine) and off for the Indian equivalent of a girl’s spa weekend. This is more meditation, devotion and yoga; than mani-pedis and cocktails. I’m sure, east or west; they'll share the same tendencies to gossip! Now the tables are turned and it's my turn. The one with the best English fields the onslaught of questions. What am I doing? Why? Where did I learn? Am I married to her now?! Can they all have one as gifts!?! These are just a small sample of the heavy question bombing I was being annihilated with. I struggle to reply to them all but the ladies are just getting the niceties out of the way!

Then the real lesson starts: supposedly I crochet all wrong or un-Indian. My polite nods and smiles are not enough to hold back these ladies! Before I know it, my tools are whipped away and the practical demonstration begins. Having been taught different methods, by different people, their way of crocheting was as alien to me as mine was to them. I eventually manage to coax my hat back and resume to incorrectly continue!

Funnily enough they are not the only members of India's female crocheting fraternity to try and explain the follies of my workmanship. Whenever I pull out my hook someone will try and show me the errors of my way. 'They began long before I could crochet', is all I try and convey to them

So after giving up my seat, to the lady that boarded the train whilst still on the waiting list, I take up residency by the open carriage door. Hat three is completed as the scenery whizzes by, the smells intermittently interrupt my concentration and the sounds, thankfully, are the beats coming from my headphones. Not the excruciating tinny Hindi noise blaring from a mobile phone! Hat four began on the same train journey but while its beginnings are here, its completion lays in another tale: one that deserves its own story to be told.

Ramble on.....................

Crochet Tale 3

Travelling in India is always one way to spur a person on, towards the ever blissful life, of what I'll call utter Indian insanity. A presence, where one's mind is forever at peace because you no longer have to make sense of anything!

This journey has been induced by a completely outside factor: the short falling of anot5her countries airline. While one of India's main airlines is failing to even get off the ground, my chosen airline, to return me to Perth, has decided I deserve better! More legroom, better food, free entertainment and not just to KL but all the way to Oz. Score one for Norval. They've also refused to change the date 'forcing' me to stay in India for 12 more days; score two!

I would love to make my way down to Kerala and visit young Vizzy. But 56 hours on a train, flying solo, there and back again, cuts into my stolen time quite drastically. Therefore, I'm going to Rambo it north. I owe a few people hats so south would have given me plenty of crochet loops. However, I'd probably be so hot I'd never have bothered my arse!

So North I go to Amritsar, I’m saying hat three could be accomplished on that journey. Possibly dossing around at the golden temple and the India vs. Pakistan border banter could yield number 4. After that I’m going wild. I found a temple by a lake, which looks epic and plan to hike up and camp there for a night. (I knew bringing a stove would be a good idea!)

Since I started writing this tale, the McLeod Ganj has made an unexpected appearance so my numbers could swell to 5 there. While I imagine the 6th could be made, under the guidance of the moon and stars, at the afore mentioned temple. After that I’m going to head south to the Fantasy Rock Garden, designed by Nek Chand, near Chandigarh, maybe a seventh! Then there's always my travel back to Delhi.

The reason this is 'Crochet Tale 3' is that I'm currently making the third hat. The first two tales are stand alone masterpieces yet to be written! The hats are, however, completed.

Ramble on..............

Prelude to the deluge.

So I've tried to be all techy and write blogs on my note app, on my i-phone. They're stuck there and i'm going to have to re-type them here. What is to follow is a series of 'crochet tales' based around a trip to northern india and my time expanding my hat empire. I'm currently needing to pick up a pair of blown out crotched jeans so you'll have to wait to read them! I will get them all typed up tonight so expect a long and loving morning reading the garble that you all know and love. Ramble on....

Adapt, improvise and overcome.

Seriously, over two months since I last had the time or energy to try and sculpt some words into meaningful sentences, stick them together to form paragraphs and then rinse and repeat to make a new post. Seems that living in a tent saps it out of you! So the months of summer are in full swing and the Scottish rain and midge scene is growing rapidly. The tent is yielding numerous wildlife surprises but as there aren't any seriously dangerous insects in Scotland they're all welcome. All that is apart from the slug in my sleeping bag!

It's been a ponderous time these last few months. Ebbing and flowing through pools of clarity to the muddy waters of uncertainty. I mean what is dubstep? Apart from being all the rage with the kids, to me, it sounds like Rolf Harris got some serious jungle fever and went mental with his plywood sheet! In saying that though it's growing on me as a new form of music. It certainly has it's moments where I can accept, unapologetically, the skills and the talent needed to produce it. So I'm growing over the summer, allowing myself to open up, to experience something new, something that I thought was the milk for a special K diet!

It's been a summer of change, which is rapidly passing by. Soon it'll be the season of change and all things autumnal will see me head off into spring! Confused? Well I like to keep things as simple as what goes on in my head, so tough luck. But looking forward, I just realised I'm going to go from autumn, to spring, to summer, to winter, back to autumn and on to another winter. Go figure that out!

Change is an exciting prospect that many don't like. I relish it. The unknown is something that puts up considerable challenges. Constantly forcing us to make up new solutions to problems we've never encountered. It's a shame that so many people fight change. Fear of the unknown is rational enough. People like the comfort of the known world, the 9-5, the two day weekend, the bills, the relentless monotony. That is what I fear. Many people see my age as a turning point. Settling down time, time to make real plans, put down roots and start growing up.

Some might say "unfortunately" but I'll never grow up. I'll always be a kid at heart, fascinated by the unknown, taking child like glee in things that no one else finds amusing. It keeps off the wrinkles I tell you. I get such a pleasure out of mother nature and the great outdoors that I'll be bouncing around for a bit longer yet. Even living in one place for six months, through the medium of my tent dwelling, has allowed me to feel mildly nomadic! But to cliche it up, the winds of change are blowing strong and I'll be raising my sails soon enough. I've missed you blog and i'll try and lavish you with more attention soon. So for all those in the know guess I got my swagga back!

Ramble on....................

Pondering life under canvass

When you move to a new place, whether it be house, city or country, it usually takes time to settle. To learn what the strange noises are, what is getting the olfactory sense going and the general geography of the place. After my last entry I had the most wondrous idea of writing my blog in my tent, loading it up at work and having some strange juxtaposing rants about old vs modern, nature vs computers but guess what? They don't have an ap for it! So i went old school. Even older than pen and paper, older than chalk and rock, I went back to the future and just thought and wrote about it in my head! Very little in my life would I class as pure genius moments. I have had some. It's an amazing moment of pure crystalline clarity, which yields a result that feels like you've been graced to succeed, in the task you solve, with said essence of genii. This wasn't such a moment!

At 25 I lacked the sponge like absorbency of a younger mind. While I push into new decades I recede great thoughts to blank stares of wonderment. When passing into a dream like state, in my tent, having written in my head, with afore mentioned crystalline clarity, words of such magnitude they could stop evolution, it pains me in the morning when all that's left is an arbitrary mingling of confusing anecdotes. But then I'm like 'Wise up Norval! You've got a blog that's full of that stuff. Just palm it off on them.' 

Last time I wrote I was commenting on the glorious amusements of the Scottish summer arriving in April. How living under canvass was the highlight of it all and 5 months would be a quick and enjoyable summer jaunt. I nostradamus-ed myself by mentioning rain, it finally came. However, it yielded much thought on my part. 

The first night I closed my eyes the rain sounded like an epic fireworks display. Some drops sounded like multi-stage, high flying, ooers. While others were long drawn out aaaaaahhhhers. My brain joined in with my ears and created a light and noise show to herald the coming of a new era. Soon enough I was conducting my own fireworks display in a technicolour paradise in my head. While it was an enjoyable adventure for a short period, after an hour of no sleep and with no way to switch the fireworks off, I began worrying. Sleep eventually came and there were no dreams of explosions or bombs, which I thought may have followed.

The night after was a strange one. It started of dry but I could smell the rain coming. Sure enough I was in my sleeping bag for twenty minutes and then the first pop came, then the next, a couple more and then it got more frequent. I lay there in my sleeping bag thinking i was in a giant microwave bag of popcorn. It's just how it sounded. It didn't take long for me to imagine myself spinning round in the microwave, warming up and getting close to exploding. Luckily, when i popped it was off to the land of nod! 

The next night the rain was pounding it out to a different beat. Tonight it felt like there were twenty kids outside my tent with a barrage of water bombs. My tent was shaking feebly under the onslaught. I was inside unsure of how to broach the subject and stay dry at the same time. Sleep came slowly that night too. After that I was blessed by a starry and moon lit sky. It was quite beautiful on my stroll to bed. The massive cat/dog/beast/four legged animal from the deep being projected by the moon, through the hedge, onto my tent was slightly unnerving till I called it Biggles and decided it was actually my guard beast.

Unfortunately, Biggles got eaten the following night by the dark skies, which brought back the rain. This time it was like I had an army of marching ants swarming my tent. The 6 legs of each one pitter pattering over my tent. However, that evenings ant attack was short lived and my new wild style of living meant i was more mentally prepared. Today my new fear is a branch getting blown off  one of the trees and spearing me in my sleep. An odd way to go but i'm not ready to bow out so soon. (If you get the joke on the last sentence you're my friend.)

Overall, tent life suits me. It's a conversation starter and stopper, it allows me a personal amount of space, which yields a musing ground for blogs, it puts off the wrong sort of people and attracts the best. People think I'm a little bit crazy, which is better than them knowing I'm actually a whole lot more. But I feel settled, which is the main thing. So i'll go back to a blustery, canvass covered, rain hallucinating sleepy life tomorrow and report back shortly.

Ramble on..............

Life in the tea and cake lane

So I'm leaving India for a blog about life in a tent. It's been a wild month since returning to the 'real' world of the UK. Well not like snakes, tigers and elephants wild. Nor hedonistic partying or extreme revelry wild. In fact the only wild thing happening is that I live in the wild. Well not even that wild but I do sleep in my tent now.  Pre-tell why a tent? I've got no other place to sleep is the shortest answer, here's the longer one.

Once upon a time I had a job. That job was working in a bar. In that bar I met a woman and we became friends. Funny that, me making friends with a lady in a bar. Now this woman had a dream that was filled with tea and cake. MMMM cake. Said dream is now a reality in the form of a tea and cake shop in Pitlochry. Pitwhatry? Small Scottish town pertaining to the travelling octogenarians and world travellers alike. Seems to be a half way house for the masses on the move north and south of Scotland.

Quaint wee place crawling with touristy traps. However none as successful as ours. Like the ingenious carrot on a stick the powers that be came up with cake in the window! Like the Klingon's masterful tractor beam, the tearoom Hettie's, which I am running for the summer, has an intense power that draws people through the door. No, I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about layers of cakes, muffins and scones, the lure of calorie indecency, the sugar buzz needed to help the weary tourist on their way.

It's a daily occurrence to think that a bird has hit one of our windows. When, in actual fact, it's another hapless wanderer being drawn into a cake paradise. But what has all this got to do with me in a tent? Well Pitlochry is not very well connected to the real world. I had the choice of a three hour commute a day, splashing all the cash I'm going to save getting a car or living in my tent. I chose the latter. For the next five months, after travelling in one of the world's largest tea producing countries, I'm now a tea peddler myself.

I'm lucky considering the last three weeks have been Scotland's summer. So my tent and I are enjoying a renaissance of warm evenings and no rain. The birds poop on my tent and I smile, the bees buzz merrily around me and I become entranced in there wondrous flight, even the cat's trying to get laid I salute at 3 in the the morning. I'm worried that my tent living fantasy bubble will be shattered when summer starts proper!

When it's constantly drizzling, the winds are howling, the bees sting and the midge make an appearance perhaps bricks and mortar will become more appealing. But I doubt it. My reputation as the one who lives in a tent is growing. I'm going to clean my BBQ and get the summer furniture arranged so I can have guests. Every night still feels like I'm on holiday. So it's good times for me. It also means this blog will be a sporadic indulgence between past and present rambles.

Will it make it better? Me thinks not, however, we all want variety in our lives. Not a monotonous drone of similar verbal expulsions. But a waterfall of colourful indecencies, cascading over a precipice, spraying delight and wonder into our face. This is what I'll strive for you my reader.

Till then ramble on...................