Progress?

(More pictures to add later)

Cuckoo calls, the delicious songs of blackbird, robin, thrush and many otherbirds provided a day-long soundtrack punctuated by distant calls of lambs and ewes. At night a running stream (the river Aber Wern) lulled us to sleep even before darkness had fallen in these northern latitudes. On clear nights the Milky Way was spectacular.

Leonard and I were staying on the borders of Pembrokeshire National Forest overlooking the Welsh Preseli hills, wild, mysterious, rolling, boggy moors roamed by sheep and wild Welsh ponies, home to multiple standing stones and circles and source of the famous Stonehenge bluestone.

We had answered an ad in Resurgence magazine and rented a Shepherd's Hut for a week, a small wooden caravan of traditional design but new construction, set on a 100-year-old chassis. The walls had sheep's' wool for insulation, and sheep's wool filled the mattress, cover and pillows on the bed.

For heat we had a highly efficient woodburning stove, though after the first two nights the weather warmed up and the sun came out uncharacteristically, making the stove unnecessary. The only furnishings were a Welsh dresser, two tiny tables, two wooden chairs and a two-burner propane gas stove. The general effect was charming and comfortable.

The ultimate attraction for me had been the words, "No Mod Cons:" no electricity (no low grade hum) and no running water, hence no indoor plumbing. Instead there were battery-powered LED lights that we hardly used, a cooler suspended in the water for fridge, an outdoor tap to access the local spring water, and a "tree bog." It was a delightful and thoroughly relaxing week.

Most days we trekked on foot exploring the surrounding countryside, from Beddarthur – a bed-shaped formation of standing stones, set high in the hills with a wonderful view, that could well have been the the grave of someone very much loved – to Rosebush – an unusual small settlement that grew around a failed attempt to build a rail-accessible tourist attraction complete with gardens and healing waters (the waters were discovered to have no special healing qualities after all).

My favorite day was when we stayed home doing "nothing;" what a luxury! Another was when we visited friends Tony and Faith in their roundhouse, part of a small intentional community, Brithdir Mawr, that thrives entirely off the grid near the small Pembrokeshire fishing town of Newport.

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The entire experience was set in high contrast when we landed the following Saturday in a youth hostel in the middle of Cork, Ireland, on a visit to my brother and his partner.

Once again the room was simply furnished, but the walls were paper-thin. A sweaty, synthetic bed cover, a heat exchanger roaring periodically through the night, and partiers carousing back to their rooms throughout the not-so-early hours all kept me awake in a restless fog. And, as a final "insult", instead of the full-on dawn chorus we had been reveling in all week, all we could hear was a blackbird or two and a few mourning doves.

I could empathize with how it must feel to be a new city-dweller, excited at the prospect of a new life but missing terribly the simple treasures of home. Thus has progress "improved" our lives. We pay for convenience with the loss of natural riches. Our week in Wales was a valuable reminder of exactly how much we have to gain by living more simply.

Gifts Follow Need

Packing for my trip I was unaware that the UK was expecting the coldest May in 100 years, so when we were sorting out the last of my mother's effects on Patmos, I took one of her winter hats and warm gloves simply because I liked them. I had no idea I would be wearing them a week later! Today, the outside temperature is a damp and chilly 50 degrees (8 C), unseasonal for Oxford by anyone's calculation.


I do love synchronicities, and often the best gifts turn up that way. Turns out my granddaughter's schedule is rather full Monday through Thursday so four days of the week are wide open for anything I care to pursue.

Just around the corner from my stepsister Sarah's house where I am currently staying warm, dry and well fed, is the UK headquarters of Barefoot Books, and a colorful store and café. I first came across this publisher at last year's Albany Arts and Green Festival so I popped in and asked if they needed volunteers. "Oh yes," I was told immediately, "Would you like to read stories in the afternoon?" What could be better?! Today, they say, is Grandparents' Day so I'm scheduled to read there Monday at 4 pm.

Since the intention on this trip is to rely on gifted places to stay rather than paid ones, I sent messages to like-minded Oxford groups I found on the Internet before setting out from Albany, and asked if anyone needed a housesitter. (House sitting here one does free of charge in exchange for the use of the house). By the time I left the US I'd heard little back, and the question of where I'd be based for most of this excessively long period was still up in the air. I would like to think I remained sanguine. After all, "Something always turns up."

And now, only a week after being able to retrieve my emails again, I have four housesitting offers that cover my entire stay including the odd days when Leonard and I will be back in Oxford during his month-long visit.  All these generous people responded to a request I sent to Low Carbon Headington, Headington being the part of Oxford in which my son lives.

So far I have actually met only one of these kind people. Judi and I had a wonderful morning discovering our common interests, which included circle and liturgical dance and old children's books (she has a huge collection that includes all my favorites, so I won't be short of reading matter!) My main task at her house will be watering the garden and eating the homegrown vegetables.

I had a contrasting experience at my first port of call in Oxford with a couchsurfer we shall name Lee. Lee is a man of my age and a long-time member of the couchsurfing community with many enthusiastic references from people of all sorts. He provided a bedroom and sole use of a large bathroom, simple and clean.

One of the attractions of staying with this man was that he described himself as a "freegan," obtaining most of what he needs by dumpster diving (liberating perfectly good food and other items that are destined for the landfill) and volunteering with a Food Bank. Though he lives simply, he doesn't appear to lack for anything.

Things started well but ended badly. He was externally warm and welcoming but I was so intent on exercising my "receiving" muscle (even though my "need" to live on less money is a choice rather than a necessity at this point) that I didn't pick up on some pretty broad hints. I could have taken him up on his suggestion to eat good food at the pub down the road where they had free wi-fi, for instance. Instead, I got caught between not knowing how much I could ask him for and trying to be more open to receive, with the unfortunate result that I was hungry in a house full of free food. (His couchsurfing (CS) profile actually states he only occasionally offers to share meals, but I had forgotten that).

So, after several lively conversations, a nice drink at the pub, and my personal introduction to one of the better dumpsters (skips) in the area, our relationship fell apart. Lee expected me to pick up on his idiosyncratic lifestyle habits, and took exception to what he perceived as my desire to abuse his trust and take liberties with the limited download ability of his wi-fi connection.

One aspect of the CS lifestyle is giving back; one of our CS guests in Albany gave us a book she had written on living without money, another transcribed music for us, another took us out for a meal. I could have accepted Lee's invitation to bring cheer to an old friend living alone instead of opting to stay home for a phone conversation with my husband that didn't happen anyway.

Lee also expressed impatience with "freeloaders," people who use the CS network simply to avoid paying for a place to stay. Did he think of me as one of them? He certainly had his own issues – he's "at war" (his words) with both his neighbors – so in the end, we parted ways with a handshake.

My lesson? "Life always provides what I need" – even when it's an uncomfortable lesson.

There's clearly more to gift culture than meets the eye. Here is a penetrating and worthwhile piece by Charles Eisenstein.

An Easter sojourn on Patmos, Greece ...

My adventure begins on Patmos courtesy of my mother having lived on this Eastern Greek island for 35 years, much loved by the locals even now, six years after her death. The most consistent comment I've received on this trip: "Oh, you look so much like your mother!"

We're here to make peace with her bones, my younger sister Sally and brother John, accompanied by his woman friend and artist, Tina. We retrieve her skeletal remains (from the priest) in a close-fitting, handmade wooden box in which most of them were placed after her body spent the obligatory time in a concrete vault in the church cemetery. We take turns to spend time alone with the bones and say our final goodbyes. How many people get to do that?! I feel complete and grateful.

It's the first time my brother and sister and I have taken a holiday together since we were children. We're here in Spring partly because it's our mother's birthday anniversary and partly because of the flowers. Red poppies, purple gladioli (wild ones) yellow and cream-tipped daisies, dark pink convolvulus, aromatic herbs and other varieties decorate the fields and hillsides… At night their beauty is replaced by a panoply of glittering stars in the dark sky.

Our champion here is Vangeli, an old friend of our mother's and a hard working father, brother, husband and grandfather who can be seen working the fields below the house every day with his brother. Their father, who lived to 96, built the thick-walled traditional home in which we're staying and Vangeli grew up here. In exchange for interpreting for the British woman who now leases it from Vangeli, my sister has been gifted two weeks' vacation at the house. John and Tina are staying in the house my mother rented for 30 years across the valley, also for free. 

Vangeli comes by regularly with generous gifts for us from his fields and wouldn't think of taking money. He risked his car chassis on a rough road to get us up here from the port and has always been the generous benefactor when any of our family are on the island.

Generosity runs in the Greek blood. When I missed the bus home after a major food shopping expedition, I was quickly offered a ride by Lefteris who had overheard my request for a taxi. Conversing with him (with the aid of his older son who had learnt English), I discover that Lefteris' mother was a friend of my mother's. On our way back, a bowl of young goat entrails sloshes about in the trunk, in preparation for the traditional Easter meal, kokoretsi.

At midnight on Easter Saturday, orthodox Greeks break their lent-long meatless fast and celebrate Christ's resurrection with feasting and fireworks. They greet each other with "Christ is Risen!" "Indeed He is Risen!" comes the reply and they wish each other a long life, "Chronia Pola!" along with fireworks and gunpowder. These greetings ring across fields and valleys for the next few days, and the young men continue to light gunpowder packets or sometimes dynamite in an apparent contest to find out who can make the most satisfying noise. It can be quite startling ...


On Easter Sunday, as we sit at lunch on a terrace overlooking the valley and the blue sea, strains of haunting local music begin to curl up from the beach taverna and fill the air all afternoon. A lazy few hours bathing in eastern harmonies and warm sunshine turns into an evening with the local community dancing in the square. It hasn't all been sunny, though; the weather has been changeable: stormy wind and driving rain as often as sun.

On the Monday after Easter we're collecting drinking water from the communal spigot when we notice the local priest with acolytes bearing icons calling on various homes and businesses; the priest waves a posy of local herbs dipped in Holy Water as a blessing and offers ritual prayers at each stop.

Several times a day a sudden musical clamour arises in the valley as the goats, penned at the top of the mountain opposite, are released to pasture. Their bells are tuned for harmony and there's no sound to equal it. The goatherd once told us that his goats prefer the sound of "old" bells to new ones that can frighten them with their inferior sound.


Other sounds that charm: an unexpected peal of bells (in the monastery town of Hora at lunchtime, donkeys braying, the now familiar sound of a chicken who has laid an egg and the encouragement of her sisters, and a little owl outside my window one night. On one of our expeditions we spot one of these little owls looking at us from a drainpipe in the wall before shuffling backwards to hide.

The gifting continues when we face a long wait on the island of Kos on our way home. As we were inquiring about busses, a young man offers to take us to the small seaside resort he is driving to, where we while away our time watching an ingenious young family prepare their store for the imminent tourist onslaught: imagine a young woman hoisted atop a pallet, painting her balconies the signature Greek blue with brothers, husband, father below her taking care of other tasks. The popularity of the Greek islands with international tourists ensures that, so far, they have fared far better economically than the mainland.


The lovely pictures are mostly thanks to my sister Sally with her expert eye and an amazing phone/camera.