Whyteleafe, Surrey UK to Cape Town

While I was enjoying the Lake District, riots were going on in London. And elsewhere.
But riots have been occurring in London, and in Engand, for centuries. It's not really a new thing.
But that's no excuse, and it's very sad.
Equally sad is all the rubbish that is said and printed in the media, most of it to serve one of three objectives:
To increase newspaper sales,
To increase viewing figures,
To make political capital.

Caroline and Beau arrived home in Khartoum today, just in time to rush to the bank with a sackful of cash.
I don't have a full report yet, but Beau's bike must be going pretty well now for them to have made such good time.
After departing Addis Ababa early on Saturday, they crossed into Sudan at Metema on Monday, wild camped on Monday night and arrived home around midday today, Tuesday.

My first home was a small bomb-damaged rented terraced house in London's Pimlico, where my parents and grandparents lived. By the time of my arrival, the post-war renovation of London was well underway, led by a new estate of high-rise flats going up on a flattened corner of Pimlico, one block from our home.
It's called The Churchill Gardens Estate, and is the only post-war social-housing project built according to the imaginative plans of Professor Patrick Abercrombie.

"One centimetre."

"I have a half."

"Spot on up here.""Forward eight."

"Left two now."

"Back four."

"Eighty-three on the gantry ... eighty four ... eighty-five ... mark!"

"Need four degrees left."

.......The cockpit moves .......

"All go?"

"Alignment set."

"Right. All back! All still, don't move!"

I was right about that B1 road that stretches down the length of Namibia. It's so straight you can go faster than the speed of light. Warp 1.0001414 in fact.
A group of scientists in Switzerland, next door to their colleagues searching for the Higgs boson particle, announced on Thursday that they had caught a whole load of neutrinos, red-handed, exceeding the speed limit. They clocked them leaving Switzerland and arriving in Italy so quickly they must have been going at well over the speed of light.

At Last. HM The Bike is back amongst its subjects - mud, sand, ruts, stones, holes, good dirt.
And when you go to Guildford by bike for radiotherapy, there's only one way home.

Starting here after the daily dose of sub-atomic particles:

Then continuing from Shere, taking London Lane, on the left by the cricket field.
Yes, there's a hamlet called Little London just south of Shere, this is the lane that leads to it:

I took another couple of alternative routes between home and Guildford, so below are a couple of photos.
But firstly I read the other day about two lads who are soon to embark on an adventure on two scooters to raise money for Cancer Research UK. And would you know it, their 2,300 mile Round Britain Route includes a ride from Caterham to Guildford, the same route that I've been trundling along every weekday for the last 8 weeks. More info below.

Had a particularly enjoyable outing through more Surrey byways on my latest trip to Guildford.
There's a huge patient support centre at St Lukes with a wide range of activities and therapies, some free, some almost free. So I joined the art class. One morning per week, everything provided, making for a much more relaxed visit than when undertaking treatment there.
Ideal for getting lost and muddy on a motorbike on the way.

To The South Pole.
And at last I was off, with a Ryanair ticket. I wondered what airport they would deliver me to. Southend? Southampton? South Of The Border? Down Mexico Way?
No, it was Cork.
And just beyond Killarney lay my destination.

The pub that Tom built.

He was born here:

You never know what simple adventure may lie round the next corner.
But first, last night I saw a brilliant staging of 'Tom Crean - Antarctic Explorer' at the INEC Theatre Killarney.
Slightly updated from the version I'd previously seen, which in turn had developed from the first performance I ever saw, in the tiny lecture theatre of the Scott Polar Museum in Cambridge, about eight years ago.

A little jaunt of photos around a bit of South West Ireland. Mainly in the rain and mist and wind. (Severe gale 9 on the BBC shipping forecast - longwave 198kHz - what a great institution! Not only for those at sea, but when you're clinging to the edge of land as well).
The title of this entry has nothing to do with the area, but I couldn't think of a better one.
(Except Way Out West, but that's Laurel and Hardy who we've had twice already if I remember right).

It's that time of year - the shops full to bursting with stuff - when the Magician of the Skies, the Lone Pilot with the Biggest Flight Plan, has to be tracked down to make sure his map has the grandchildren's chimney clearly marked for the Big Night.
But where to find him? Where to start?

The North West, that is. I'm going to use the reference to Way Out West in a previous posting as an excuse to include this youtube link.
It sort of introduces a trip I'll be doing over Christmas and New Year. In that there may be a lonesome pine where I'm going, but there'll definitely be no trails or lanes or tarmac or motor transport. Nor much else.

A chunk of my brand new adventure came to an end last week, pending pit-stops over the next few years for engine and frame checks, and hormone top-ups in between.
The Doc says there's nothing detectable of my old prostate tumour and the checkups will be every six months for now.
Phew! I hope not to do that sort of journey again. Plain old two wheels (or four, or two feet,) will do in future.

Wherever you find yourself in the towns of Jordan you'll hear recordings of the Quran being sung. Everywhere.
From someone's radio, from computers sitting idle on desks in offices, from cars in traffic. And from Mosques of course. It was always very melodic and relaxing as the sounds drifted all around.

Here's an example.

Beduin entertainment at Wadi Rum.

And at Petra, inside The Monastery.

Next, dependant on time and internet access on the remote Holy Isle, is Egypt.

Have managed 154 entries on this blog. How did that happen? I never imagined it would become such a labour of love. I just try to keep it going by scribbling down mundane events with hopefully different or odd angles.
It certainly prompts strong memories of the journey from time to time, and occasional intense desires to be back on the African continent.
One of the triggers for that is music.
I collected quite a bit along the route, was introduced to more on the way, and already had a good smattering of African tracks on my MP3 player as a starter.

After two brilliant weeks on Holy Isle I nipped across Scotland to Edinburgh to stay with my cousin Geraldine for a few days. Now her Dad, like mine, was a motorbike-and-sidecar family man so she's no stranger to adventures on 2(3) wheels. And maybe that heritage led her to the idea of driving north to visit the commune at Findhorn near Elgin.
Well, the weather reports from up north told of snow gates being closed on some of the roads, so Geraldine had an inspired vision of an alternative outing.

For an adventure.
On the day that Scotland becomes independent, I'm going to get myself by two wheels to Berwick-Upon-Tweed.

Or even The First True Border Toon a few miles to the west.

I'll try not to leave my passport at home.

The end of a wonderful two weeks on Holy Isle. Christmas and New Year.
And it's difficult to say what makes it so good, in the midst of the constant winter gales, rain storms, and little occasional sun.
To start off, maybe it's best to say what the island doesn't have:Mechanised transport of any sort. (Except - see below)
Roads
Shops
Mobile phone service
Internet
TV
Radio
News
Outdoor lighting
Amplified sound
Alcohol/cigarettes/drugs
Fast food

There's a wide range of music to be found in this big country. Here are just a few samples from Youtube.

A piece composed by Yasser Abdel Rahman.

The Temple of Horus. Amir Khosrowshahi plays the Egyptian Ney (reed flute).

Ancient ritual music with modern instruments.

'Masreat' (Egyptians) by Omar Khairat.

And another piece played by Amir Khosrowshahi on a ney made by himself.
I've had a soft spot for the ney ever since seeing it played by skilled Iranian musicians during the Rumi Festival in London many years ago.