UK Part I: Folkestone - the method and the madness

This is a long one:

Before I left the US, my mom asked me about my travel methodology.  This trip, on the whole, won't serve as a great example since most of the planning was done by my good friends Stephanie and Joanna.  On the other hand, the last three days are a great example of how I travel.  To arrange this part of the trip I merely followed the following steps

The Folkestone Train bridge

Step 1: WHERE? The answer to this question can be determined in as arbitrary a method as you like.  For example, I chose Folkestone because it had some of the cheapest hotel prices within a 2 hour train trip of London.  Arbitrary.

Step 2: BOOK A ROOF.  This is the most important step.  I've learned the dangers of traveling without reservations.  It often means sleeping outside, sometimes in less than savory spots.  My earliest memory of this is Copenhagen, summer of '92.  My family spent $100 for a train-car style staff room in the basement of a hotel.

Step 3: GET THERE.  There is a bit of work involved in this.  In addition to researching transportation I also print a copy of the Hotel address and a google map of the area before I travel.  The map is so I don't get lost, the address is so I can get a cab if I do get lost.

Step 4: GO.  Yup.  I generally do very little additional planning until I am in the location.  Sometimes I'll do some research on what locals like about their town or city, but generally I like to be surprised.

Folkestone's sole sandy beach. Most of the beaches along this coast are pebble

These steps sum up how I came to spend three days in Folkestone, Kent and what I did with my time.  Folkestone is a small town on the southeastern coast of England.  Apparently it is one of England's holiday destinations as the town is packed with holiday-goers and tourists (mostly British, French, and German - I think I might be the only American here).  Of course, since I was following my methodology, I didn't know discover it was a holiday destination until well after I arrived.

My flight landed at Heathrow Airport early (think 5 am early) Saturday morning and, with the help of several exceptionaly courteous  Heathrow employees, I checked the luggage I'm not hauling around England at the left-baggage office and found my way to St. Pancras Station in London via tube.  From there I purchase a 36 pound ticket on the high-speed line to Folkeston Central station.  The trains left St. Pancras every hour, so I got some coffee and enjoyed the view until it was time to go (I do that quite a lot).

I arrived in Folkestone around 10 am and almost immediately discovered a small flaw in my arrangements: even though I booked a roof, I neglected to make arrangements for my luggage for the several hours before the Four PM check-in time. For the next several hours I wandered around town with my backpack on my back.  During that time, I found my way into the shop-lined center, to the Leas, the Harbor, and the fish market, and eventually to a shady spot on the grass where I took a jet-lag induced nap.  It was during my initial acquaintance with Folkestone that I stumbled upon the activities that have filled my time for the last couple of days:

One of many Folkstone staircases leading from town to the Lower Leas and beach below.

The view from atop the thistle-crowned hill

1.  Sunday: Walks to the Countryside. On The Leas Promenade near the Leas Cliff Hall there is a map showing walking paths to various places in town and in the countryside surrounding Folkestone.  They say things like "Follow the Rabbit to the Warren," or "Follow the crab to the Lower Leas Park." On Sunday, I tried "follow the Kestrel to the Folkestone Downs."  I shouldn't say "tried."  Early in the morning I found and followed the Kestral through many streets and shortcuts along dark, narrow paths where the branches of the trees that lined either side reached up to each other.  Eventually I cam to a hill and climbed it.  At the top I was rewarded with a large patch of purple-flowered thistles and spectacular view of town, but being some distance from the ocean, I knew I was not where I wanted to be.

Later in the day, I approached The Downs from the opposite direction.  I followed the Rabbit along the hills right by the water until I came to a path leading upwards toward the white cliffs.  I later discovered (from a sign post) that the path I was on is called the "North Downs Way" and it loops runs from Folkestone, to Dover, to Canterbury (for more about the trail and a map, click here.) It took me half an hour to climb the path in the steamy summertime air, but from the top I could see far out into the deep blue channel, and on the horizon, a sliver of land: France. I followed the trail along the cliffs until I came to several mounds of grass covered earth surrounding a statue of an airman gazing accross the chanel toward France - a  memorial to the Battle of Brittain.

The white Cliffs of the Downs

I never intended to visit this particular memorial.  I knew it was in Folkestone, but I always just assumed I wouldn't have the time or the inclination to do the kind of research that would get me there.  And here I was on an adventure that involved the memorial.  The memorial itself is simple, the statue situated in the center of paths designed like propeller blades, amidst bunker-like hills.  Two replica fighter planes (including a spitfire) and a black marble wall with the names of the airmen who lost their lives are the only other components of the memorial, nevertheless, it is a moving experience to stand with the stone airman and look across so narrow a boundary line toward France. 

2.  Canterbury: After my long day walking here and there Sunday, this morning I wanted to do just a bit less on foot. Over the course of my various wanderings through town on Saturday and Sunday, I often saw a bus that read: 17 - Canterbury. Now, when I came to Folkestone, I knew I was in the same neighborhood as Canterbury, but it never occurred to me that I could get a public bus there from Folkestone. Since that was now a distinct possibility, a bus ride to Canterbury (and in particular, it's amazing cathedral) seemed like a great way to spend today.  But first I had to take care of some business.  When I went to charge my camera battery early this morning, I discovered that a charger was not among the various camera accessories in my case.  I'm not sure how it found its way out, but I needed to find a solution to the charger problem before I did anything else.  A bit of Google research brought me to the happy hope that I could obtain some kind of universal charger at a store called Maplins (the interweb said it was a bit like Radio Shack in the U.S.).  As a happy stroke of luck would have it, there is a Maplins in
Folkestone, not far, it would seem, from that Thistle and Bramble crowned hill I climbed Yesterday morning.  So this morning, I set off once again on the trail of the Kestrel, but this time with a different object in mind.  I arrived at Maplins exactly 7 minutes after they opened and found not one but three universal Lithium Ion chargers.  I hate making choices.  Fifteen minutes later I decided on the one that 1.  Looked coolest and 2. had the lowest price. and began walking back into town where I deposited my charger in my lodgings and being starved after several low protein days, went to a little place called Cafe Luca for Scrambled eggs on toast before beginning my personal pilgrimmage to Canterbury.

Rambling and poking and wandering around Folkestone meant that I knew exactly where the bus terminal was (not that it takes much findin as it is right next to the heart of town), so after breakfast I went to see if I could figure out how to get to Caterbury.  There wasn't much to figure out.  The bus attendant took one look at me, asked in a friendly manner if he could help me.  Set me on the correct platform armed with three bus numbers and knowledge of the fare and timetable.  It seems that a bus goes to Canterbury from Folkestone every 16 minutes or so.


Canterbury's center is quite a lot larger than Folkestone's.  This makes sense given that town's historical importance nevertheless, it felt congested and crowded.  Like Folkestone, the Canterbury Bus terminal is right next to the heart of town. Pedestrian-only streets lined with Tudor style shops and cafes are easily navigated with landmark signs that point the way to major attractions.  Somehow the whole think felt like a historical Disney Land, only with a really cool ancient church.  I easily found my way to the Cathedral and spent nearly two hours sitting, meditating, and enjoying the beauty of such a magnificent set of creations that join together so harmoniously (like many building from the middle ages, some parts of the Cathedral were built more than a century apart).  

Part I of my trip is complete and tomorrow I head back up to London. Yet to come: Part II - London, Part III Lake district walk, Part IV Scotland. 

Shakespeare, Sondheim, and Silverton or: When you buy new boots

One of the views from the San Juan Skyway

This summer I had the opportunities while enjoying the rocky mountains of Colorado.  I got to see the Complete Works of Shakespeare (abridged) at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival, and Sweeney Todd (one of my favorite musicals) at the Idaho Shakespeare Festival.  Trying to make it back to Boulder from Flagstaff during a thunderstorm with a broken drivers-side windshield wiper was certainly fun.  Riding, the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad is always a treat. Finally driving the stunning San Juan Skyway (aka Million Dollar Highway) from Ouray to Durango. 

Before the Storm from Flagstaff, CO

The real fun this summer, however, began when  I bought new boots.  OK, you might be thinking that not the most exciting blog topic, but I feel that the fact warrants mentioning since I also spent a good portion of the summer hiking trails around Durango in an effort to break in my new boots. 

The view from the Anasazi Descent trail

Like Almaty, in Durango you can easily get into the mountains from the streets of town.  My first couple of hikes in my new boots, for example, were on the Telegraph Trail system - a network of trails in the foothills and canyons that border Durango's Eastern edge.  You can access this trail system from several points. Since I live in the southern part of town, I hiked in on the "Carbon Junction" trail which takes off from the 550 and rt. 3 interchange. On my first hike, I connected from Carbon Junction trail to the Big Canyon trail (a 3 mile hike that ended up only 100 meters down the road by Walmart).  In a later attempt to make sure my boots are comfortable for upcoming adventures, I took the Crites connect toward town and then the Anasazi descent down to Horse Gulch Road.  The trails in the telegraph system are perfect for mountain biking but make nice walking and hiking trails as well. 

The view from atop Animas City Mountain

Cool Tree: animas mountain

Last week, my dad and I walked the Animas City Mountain trail, a well groomed trail that takes off from 32nd and 4th street accross from the city market in the north side of town.  This 6 mile, moderate hike takes you high above the valley for stunning views of Durango, and of the Animas River.

For a map of the telegraph system click here.
For a short list of hikes from Durango click here or here 

Movie Monday: Celebrating Independence Day in Durango, CO

Durango celebrates Independence Day like many other American towns:  Rafting, Tubing, Kayaking and Biking in the morning followed by a small but spirited parade, a hopping street dance, and a small but rare (fire danger often trumps fireworks) fireworks display:

Sunday Story: A small springtime adventure in the Aksai valley

Two weeks ago I promised this post, so here it is, but a word of warning: it's a long story.  I've tried to put pictures in to keep it interesting, but read at your own risk:

Part I: Finding our way

I wasn't exactly sure where we were.  Let me clarify: I knew where we were - we were west of Almaty on Zhandosova at the 20 km marker.  The problem was that I wasn't exactly sure where to find the road that leads into the Aksai Valley.  So while I knew where we were, I had no idea how to get where we were going.

"I'm gonna call Marsha and see if Mike can give us some land marks."  I tell Dee and Jon as I pull out my cheap Nokia phone.

"Hi Marsha, it's Elizabeth...you don't happen to remember exactly where the turn off is for the monastery do you?  Gas station and grey fence?  Thanks...yeah, I'm sure we'll find it.  Thanks."

"She says it's right before a grey fence."  I looked around for a grey fence.  Down the road further was a grey cement wall, but there was no accompanying gas station.  Up the road, two strawberry salesmen stood in the shade of some trees with their flats of strawberries.  "We could always try and ask" I suggested to Dee and indicated the strawberry salesmen.

Dee, Jon, and I walked toward the little strawberry stand.

"Hello" Dee said to the men as we approached the stand.  "How are you?"
"Hello, thank you we are fine." Replied one of the vendors.  "Where are you from?"
"From America," Dee answers.
"Would you like some strawberries?"
"Are they delicious?" Dee inquired.  Asking whether produce is delicious is one of Dee's go-to Russian conversation pieces.
The man chuckled as he answered "very delicious."
"May I taste one?" Dee asked.
"Of course," he replied, and selected a large bright red berry from a pile on one of the flats.
"Oh, very delicious," Dee said as she bit into the strawberry.
"You don't happen to know where the street to Aksai is?" I asked the man, as Dee finished the strawberry.
"Aksai?"
"Yes, The Aksai Monastery. In the Mountains."  I don't actually know the Russian word for monastery, but I use the word I saw on Google maps assuming it means monastery. It turns out that word means "cell" and that the Russian word for monastery (Monastir) sounds a lot like the English word for Monastery.
"Do you mean the church up there?" the strawberry salesman asks indicating the gorge where I knew we were headed.
"Yes," I reply with enthusiasm.
"Go back toward until you come to a small store on the right. The road you want is by the small store."
"May we buy some strawberries?"  Dee asks the man.
"Sure, how many?"  The man replies.
"Not a lot, half a kilo?"
The man laughs, says something to his partner in Kazakh as he throws several handfuls of the beautiful ripe strawberries into a plastic bag. "Money not needed" he says as he hands the bag to Dee.
"Really?!"
"Really, not a lot." The man laughs.
We thank the strawberry salesmen, and begin walking back up the road toward town until we come to an red-signed АСЗ gas station, corrugated tin fence, and a small store and know we've reached our road.  So we turn up the road toward the mountains munching on fresh strawberries as the sweltering mid-morning sun climbs high into the sky.

Part II: the long road to the beginning of the trail

The trail to the Monastery begins around 8 kilometers south of Zhandosova.  It is fairly easy to catch a taxi out to the 19km marker (we paid 1000tg for our taxi ride), or to take a bus (several buses including bus 11 go out that way) but getting a ride into the national park is a little trickier.  As we walked along the road we took turns trying flag potential rides down.  Finally a little grey sedan that looked a hundred years and a million miles old pulled over.  We explained where we were going and the driver nodded toward the back seat.

we crawled into the back seat and I rested my feet atop the paint cans that filled the already limited floor space.  With a squeal and a groan, the car slowly started forward.

As soon as the car began to move, I noticed strong odor of gasoline permeating the interior of the car.  I tried to roll the window down, but when I pressed the button, all I got was a faint humming sound.  We bumped and swerved our way up the rough road at an agonizingly slow pace.  Each bump and rise brought a groan and squeal of protest from the car's over taxed suspension.

Finally we reached a hill the car just couldn't make it up.  It groaned and protested, and then stopped.  "Perhaps we should walk." I suggest to the drivers.

"Yes, it isn't far."

We crawled out, over the paint cans on the floor and back into the intense glare of the summer mid-day sun and begin to walk the narrow road lined by the tall cement walls of the homes and dachas.

The drivers were right, the entrance to the park was only a few hundred meters further along the road, but even that short distance felt unbearable in the heat.  The sight of a ranger with a hose spraying the hot, dusty, road down was almost too much to handle, as we approached the gate, payed the entrance fee and went to look at the map.  

It is several kilometers from the entrance of the park to the trail head to the monastery and trees that lined the road provided no shade from the day's unusually hot sun.  As cars passed, we tried to get a ride, but most of the cars were filled with families out to enjoy a day along the river.  The road follows a small river whose white waters bound and bounce through the rocky valley leaping over boulders and rushing under the 5 bridges that carry the road across it.  Every now and again public picnic areas spring up along its banks, and in a few places, it is even slow enough for a dip.

Each time we crossed the river we took a bath in its refreshingly cool waters and then re-applied sun screen.  Water and sunscreen were our only defenses from the day's brutal sun.  two and a half hours and three river baths later, we came to the gravelly remnants of an old mud slide, a place where the river slowed a bit and where little copses of birch trees along the water's edge provided some shade.  We sat down to rest our feet, munch on a lunch of cheese and Jam Sandwiches and M&M's, and watch people as they stopped at the spot to wade and splash in the slower waters of this part of the river.

The Hike and the Monastery

The Trail to the monastery begins only half a kilometer up the road from where we lunched.  What had been a well groomed, well traveled road in the fall, was now overgrown with brush.  We climbed the steep hillside of the canyon, through the apple groves, just now beginning bud.

The trail to the monastery is quite steep and takes most people around two hours to hike.  The first part of the trail cuts up and along one side of a steep gorge. In the fall the hillsides are covered in red and gold trees and the brush along the trail is laid low by the tread of a thousand feet.  In the spring, however, the brush on the first part of the trail was often as tall as I was and many times completely obscured the trail.

At the top of the gorge the trail finally crosses the spring-fed stream and enters the gate marking the monastery grounds.  In the fall, the stream ran clear and clean and people drank without reservation from its waters.  Today however, the stream water looked silty and unappetizing and as we began to climb the series of wooden ladders and steps up forested hill that the monastery tops, I began to worry about my rapidly depleting water supply.  

I shouldn't have worried, though. When we reached the top we were invited to drink from the monastery's water supply and the monk who was greeting visitors that day even filled our bottles with the cool water from the church.  Any concerns I might have had about drinking unfiltered water from a natural source were dwarfed by much more pressing concerns about dehydration. We found out later from the off-duty police officer who drove us back into town (we were so happy that we didn't have to walk all the way out of the park).  That the temperature in town that day was over 36 degrees Celsius (close to 100 F).  Strawberries, fun cars, long walks, hospitable monks, who could ask for more on a hot day in Almaty?