"Travel broadens our perspectives. Suddenly the palette with which we paint the story of our lives has more colours" Rick Steves
Travel Journals and Reflections
As students in 1973 my wife and I travelled to the Bernese Oberland in Switzerland. We will never forget that magical moment when our train came out of the tunnel on the Schynige Platte mountain railway and we had our first awesome view of the snow covered peaks of the Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau. It was the beginning of our world travels.
Over many years I have always kept a journal. I love capturing that special 'travel moment' in writing. Sometimes years later our travels inspire me to write a poem or a reflective piece of writing based on some of the amazing places we have visited. Below you can read excerpts from my original travel journals and travel reflections.
Journals
Hong Kong 1996
Hong Kong 1989
England 1986
Hong Kong 1990
Hong Kong 1996
Iran 1978
Tibet 1985
Japan 1983
Israel 2015
Wu Kau Tang to Lai Chi Wo
Hong Kong
Hong Kong
Two cannons in-front of Lai Chi Wo Village Hong Kong
After driving from Hong Kong Island via the Eastern Harbour and Tate's Cairn Tunnels, then passing Tai Po, Tolo Harbour and Plover Cove we finally arrived at Wu Kau Tang. This was the start of one of our favourite walks in the north-east New Territories. It was 11.30.am and already the temperature was in the high 20's centigrade. We crossed the old stone bridge over the stream which eventually flows into Brides Pool. This is a beautiful spot, a real 'Tolkien' scene, with the dappled sunlight filtering through to the dark waters below.
Lynne, Louisa, Susanna and I set off along the trail passing the settlement of Sam Uk Ha. It is part of the village complex that makes up Wu Kau Tang. The bright green leaves of wild ginger made a lovely foreground setting for the old and new village houses. We followed the local stream with the high pitch sound of cicadas and deeper croak of toads all around us. After a few minutes we arrived at the village of Kau Tam Tso. All the houses were locked up with the inhabitants long gone. Looking through the windows we could see that the interiors were intact but covered in years of dust. It was sad to see the village so quiet and unoccupied.
We headed north-eastwards along a trail leading up onto the slopes of Tin Tang Lung. At 416 metres the peak dominates the valley. We followed the contour path enjoying the distant views of Double Haven. The bright greens of the surrounding hills, the turquoise blue of the sea and the pale blue wash of the sky created a stunning landscape. The path occasionally moved into the cool shade of the wooded stream-beds. The cooling breeze as we came round each spur was so refreshing. We eventually began to descend the rocky footpath towards the abandoned settlement of Lai Tau Shek. Despite its collapsing roofs and crumbling walls we were able to explore the open interiors of its houses. Momentoes of its former inhabitants lay strewn amongst the ruins. Leaving Lai Tau Shek we descended north-westwards to the inlet of Sam A Wan.
As we crossed the open waterlogged paddies we noticed a village where we had bought drinks on a previous visit. It was the time when Louisa was very young and in a backpack. Above the backpack was an attached umbrella which gave the appearance of her riding on a maharaja's elephant! We by-passed the wooded rocky headland of Ngor Tau Tsui which extends out into the calm waters of Sam A Wan. We found a path to the sea where we enjoyed our picnic lunch in the shade of a shelter near the pier. Suddenly a Hong Kong Police inflatable came alongside the pier and dropped of a 'gweillo' officer and chinese colleagues. From the pier we watched tiny fish and crabs moving across the sandy sea-bed.
Our destination, Lai Chi Wo, was still forty five minutes away. We explored the abandoned houses of the nearby old village of Sam A Tsuen. We were amazed to find lots of old artefacts such as a wooden rice threshing machine, an iron rake pulled by a buffalo in the flooded rice paddies and broken traditional furniture. Louisa found an old calendar dated July 1985 which was probably the time the village was finally abandoned to the elements. We were surprised to find one of the middle houses occupied by three men who appeared to be illegal immigrants! We followed the bamboo-lined footpath passing Shan Mei An. We soon had our first view of Lai Chi Wo with woodsmoke curling over its grey roof-tops.
We crossed the water-logged fields in-front of the village. Lai Chi Wo is an impressive sight nestled against the wooded slopes of Pan Pui Teng. As we crossed the stream and walked under the shady boughs of the massive ancient banyan tree we were approached by an old Hakka lady. She was wearing the traditional wide-brimmed Hakka hat and carrying a yoke with hanging buckets. She smiled at Louisa and Susanna indicating that she could take us into the village to buy some drinks, especially as it was so hot. We went through the village entrance gate and up a narrow alleyway to one of the old houses. We went inside and bought drinks from the owner, an old man with a wrinkled face. We took our drinks back down to the large courtyard flanked by the stream, the ancient banyan tree, the old Hok Shan Temple and the remains of the village wall. Louisa and Susanna examined the two old black cannons that protected the front of the village. The massive banyan has certainly seen many sights and sounds over the centuries. I collected some of its leaves for my journal.
After a well earned rest, it was already 4.40.pm, we set off to return to Wu Kau Tang. At a junction of footpaths an old man indicated that there was a quicker more direct route over the hills but we decided to follow the coastal route and then inland up the valley we had originally come down. We stopped once again at the rocky beach looking out to the waters of Kat O Hoi and the coastline and mountains of China beyond. It was a lovely tranquil spot with the gentle in-coming tide lapping against the pink rocks along the shoreline. Louisa and Susanna didn't want to leave! In the distance an elegant pure white egret flew low across the sea to a rocky islet. Mudskippers splashed and plopped between sandy pools. We didn't have time to get out our sketch books so we took a few photos. Louisa was truly inspired by the landscape and wildlife. She started to compose a tune and expressed her creative ideas on what to write, draw and paint! We stopped again at the sheltered inlet of Sam A Wan. We stood on the rocky outcrop admiring the view. A small pleasure boat was at anchor preparing to spend the night in the shelter of the inlet.
Light was fading fast so we pressed on back up the valley leading back to Wu Kau Tang. We had a quick rest at the pool near Ha Min Tin. Louisa and Susanna raced leaf boats down the stream. The glow of the sunset merged into the gathering darkness. Louisa and Susanna had walked for well over sixteen kilometres. We were all very tired by the time we crossed the old bridge over the stream at Wu Kau Tang. We stopped for an evening meal at a Thai restaurant in the village of Tai Mei Tuk on the way home. It was the end of a brilliant day out in the New Territories of Hong Kong.
David Stott
Hong Kong Journal
Saturday 27th April 1996
East Gate of Lai Chi Wo Village Hong Kong
* One of the highlights of living in Hong Kong was the opportunity to explore its spectacular varied landscapes. A walk we did several times in the north-east New Territories was from Wu Kau Tang to Lai Chi Wo. Indeed the first time Lynne and I did it was as a training walk for one of our Nepal treks in the early 1980's. On this walk in 1996 our children Louisa and Susanna did really well to walk 16 kilometres on what was a hot day. The photos of Lai Chi Wo, both accompanying this journal entry and on my blog, were slides taken on an earlier walk. I am delighted that Lai Chi Wo is now a protected village. Rice and vegetables are once again being grown plus the pig and cow sheds have been restored.
Sheung Yiu
Hong Kong
Sheung Yiu Village Pak Tam Chung Hong Kong * Photo by travelbag.hk
As I walked beside the dark calm waters of the creek I became aware of an egret gently flapping its pure white wings. It was the only movement in the peace and tranquility of the early morning. The muddy stone strewn foreshore, revealed at low tide, was home to the dull plop of mudskippers and exploring fiddler crabs. The lifting chorus of hidden birds welcomed the dawn of a new day in Sai Kung.
My eyes glanced sideways to a flash of turquoise as a speeding kingfisher skimmed along the banks of Pak Tam Chung. Below me on the creek edge an energetic pied dipper crossed the still mirrored surface, its undulating flight seeking the protection of the muddy mangroves. Scattered young mangrove poppers, gently ruffled by the early breeze, defied the tidal flow. Circling above, in widening hoops, a watchful black kite swept across the heavy steel sky.
Local dogs barked announcing the arrival of an unknown visitor to their village. The distant chug of a motorised junk echoed across the leaden surface of the widening estuary of Tsam Chuk Wan. I crossed the old Fuk Hing Bridge, which spanned the Lung Hang River. Its gently flowing waters slackly ambling between small smooth stones to greet the incoming tide. I approached dense thickets of towering bamboo, hollow stems creaking, delicate foliage shivering.
I followed the winding village path lined by large grey-green century plants. Their spiny leaves, like sharp swords, planted by villagers over the centuries to protect their pomelo and orange trees. The screw pine, 'pandanus tectorius', clearly recognisable by its pineapple fruits grew alongside the footpath. The leaves of the screw pine were used to wrap rice dumplings, 'Lo Tau Chung', during the festival of Dragon Boats on the fifth day of the fifth moon. The heart shaped leaves of the cuban bast reflected the brightening sky, its timbers long used for making village furniture. The sandpaper vine climbed and twisted through the hillside undergrowth, its rough leaves used to polish ivory chopsticks, tin pots and pans. I stopped and looked at an ancient 'Heong' tree, its fragrant incense wood harvested and traded by the Tanka people in local coastal waters. Hong Kong, the 'harbour of heong wood' became known as the fragrant harbour.
Hidden by a cloak of bamboo and ancient trees the grey roofline of Sheung Yiu blended into the sheltering hillside. Approaching the village boundary I came across granite blocks on each side of the narrow pathway. Long ago they supported festival banners on bamboo poles. The derelict lime kiln once belched smoke from burning firewood, seashells and coral collected in local tidal creeks.
The grey gatehouse tower, abandoned for over forty years, protected the hushed stillness of the nine lifeless houses. Yet I felt the presence of its Hakka ancestors. Sheung Yiu descendants, long since departed to distant continents have no memory of their ancestral home. Once alive with shouts of daily life, idle chatter and the playful calls of children, the village now sleeps in quiet solitude. The sheltered shade of the huge 'Longan' tree covered the courtyard, its ancient memory stored deep within its creeping roots. Still surrounded by its sacred 'feng shui' grove the village remained protected by an enveloping cloak of natural harmony.
Below the village the old 'kaito' pier led out through the rising estuarine waters to the submerged barnacled boulder beds. Silence drifted across the dense stillness of Pak Tam Chung.
David Stott
Journal
Hong Kong
October 1989
My eyes glanced sideways to a flash of turquoise as a speeding kingfisher skimmed along the banks of Pak Tam Chung. Below me on the creek edge an energetic pied dipper crossed the still mirrored surface, its undulating flight seeking the protection of the muddy mangroves. Scattered young mangrove poppers, gently ruffled by the early breeze, defied the tidal flow. Circling above, in widening hoops, a watchful black kite swept across the heavy steel sky.
Local dogs barked announcing the arrival of an unknown visitor to their village. The distant chug of a motorised junk echoed across the leaden surface of the widening estuary of Tsam Chuk Wan. I crossed the old Fuk Hing Bridge, which spanned the Lung Hang River. Its gently flowing waters slackly ambling between small smooth stones to greet the incoming tide. I approached dense thickets of towering bamboo, hollow stems creaking, delicate foliage shivering.
I followed the winding village path lined by large grey-green century plants. Their spiny leaves, like sharp swords, planted by villagers over the centuries to protect their pomelo and orange trees. The screw pine, 'pandanus tectorius', clearly recognisable by its pineapple fruits grew alongside the footpath. The leaves of the screw pine were used to wrap rice dumplings, 'Lo Tau Chung', during the festival of Dragon Boats on the fifth day of the fifth moon. The heart shaped leaves of the cuban bast reflected the brightening sky, its timbers long used for making village furniture. The sandpaper vine climbed and twisted through the hillside undergrowth, its rough leaves used to polish ivory chopsticks, tin pots and pans. I stopped and looked at an ancient 'Heong' tree, its fragrant incense wood harvested and traded by the Tanka people in local coastal waters. Hong Kong, the 'harbour of heong wood' became known as the fragrant harbour.
Hidden by a cloak of bamboo and ancient trees the grey roofline of Sheung Yiu blended into the sheltering hillside. Approaching the village boundary I came across granite blocks on each side of the narrow pathway. Long ago they supported festival banners on bamboo poles. The derelict lime kiln once belched smoke from burning firewood, seashells and coral collected in local tidal creeks.
The grey gatehouse tower, abandoned for over forty years, protected the hushed stillness of the nine lifeless houses. Yet I felt the presence of its Hakka ancestors. Sheung Yiu descendants, long since departed to distant continents have no memory of their ancestral home. Once alive with shouts of daily life, idle chatter and the playful calls of children, the village now sleeps in quiet solitude. The sheltered shade of the huge 'Longan' tree covered the courtyard, its ancient memory stored deep within its creeping roots. Still surrounded by its sacred 'feng shui' grove the village remained protected by an enveloping cloak of natural harmony.
Below the village the old 'kaito' pier led out through the rising estuarine waters to the submerged barnacled boulder beds. Silence drifted across the dense stillness of Pak Tam Chung.
David Stott
Journal
Hong Kong
October 1989
Tidal creek of Pak Tam Chung Hong Kong Photo by mapio.net
* The Pak Tam Chung Nature Trail was one of my favourite short trails in Hong Kong. On every Bradbury School residential outdoor education trip to Pak Tam Chung we took the children on this nature trail as it was quite close to the camp centre. It is was a very peaceful and tranquil location. The plants alongside the footpath are fascinating as they were all used by local villagers in the past.
My First Mountain!
England
David on the summit of Blackstone Edge near Littleborough in Lancashire
My First Mountain!
Leaving Littleborough behind me I head off up Blackstone Edge Old Road. Setting a good pace I pass the old stone cottages of Gatehouse. The crumbling banks of the road rise high on either side as I push over the crest of the hill. Before me the magnificent millstone grit summit of Blackstone Edge beckons. I sprint down past the old Lydgate pub and through the hamlet of Lydgate, its cottages and farmhouse protected by windblown trees. Peat brown waters bubble under the old bridge and over the whisky weir. Heart pumping I glance at the wide moorland vista opening up before me. Bar House cottage stands alone guarding the junction of the old and new roads that eventually lead up to the White House and the Yorkshire border.
My rhythmic strides pound the dark stone troughs and flags of the Roman Road. Immersed in the sheer joy of running I sense silent battalions of Roman soldiers force marching upwards through my mind. Across embattled pastures Blackstone Edge Farm nestles beneath the windswept moor. Decades of hard labour forcing back the encroaching peat bog. Once through the sheep-gate I run alongside the peat stained waters of the catchment drain.
Jumping the channel I make for the black battlements of Robin Hood's Bed. As if on a lunar landscape my trainers sink into the acid brown peat. I stride through the sea of moorland grass and heather that surround weather worn islands of millstone grit. Windswept micro shores of sparkling quartz merge into the ebony sponge. Tufts of cotton grass lean towards the Pennine escarpment in the westerly wind. Behind me the towns of Lancashire glisten in the late afternoon sunshine before blending into the moors of Rossendale. Huge tumbling white cumulus cross the clear blue sky while showery grey bubbles gather at their base.
In minutes I am approaching the bleak rocky outcrops leaping from boulder to boulder. Whistling winds whip through gaps and gullies creating miniature whirlpools in the gritty surface craters. Excitement explodes as I jump the gap onto the final summit rock. I heave myself onto the ordinance survey trig point standing braced against the elements. Fulfilled, I breathe the piercing northern air to look out across the backbone of England.
Everest, Annapurna, Kanchenjunga, Chomolhari have all beckoned me, yet still one peak stands aloft in my thoughts. To many it is just a Pennine hill but to me it is a breathtaking summit. My first mountain, Blackstone Edge, was there at the beginning!
David Stott
Based on my poem 'Blackstone Edge' (1986) 'My First Mountain' describes one of the many training runs I did from my mum's house in Littleborough up to the Pennine summit of Blackstone Edge.
August 2016
Leaving Littleborough behind me I head off up Blackstone Edge Old Road. Setting a good pace I pass the old stone cottages of Gatehouse. The crumbling banks of the road rise high on either side as I push over the crest of the hill. Before me the magnificent millstone grit summit of Blackstone Edge beckons. I sprint down past the old Lydgate pub and through the hamlet of Lydgate, its cottages and farmhouse protected by windblown trees. Peat brown waters bubble under the old bridge and over the whisky weir. Heart pumping I glance at the wide moorland vista opening up before me. Bar House cottage stands alone guarding the junction of the old and new roads that eventually lead up to the White House and the Yorkshire border.
My rhythmic strides pound the dark stone troughs and flags of the Roman Road. Immersed in the sheer joy of running I sense silent battalions of Roman soldiers force marching upwards through my mind. Across embattled pastures Blackstone Edge Farm nestles beneath the windswept moor. Decades of hard labour forcing back the encroaching peat bog. Once through the sheep-gate I run alongside the peat stained waters of the catchment drain.
Jumping the channel I make for the black battlements of Robin Hood's Bed. As if on a lunar landscape my trainers sink into the acid brown peat. I stride through the sea of moorland grass and heather that surround weather worn islands of millstone grit. Windswept micro shores of sparkling quartz merge into the ebony sponge. Tufts of cotton grass lean towards the Pennine escarpment in the westerly wind. Behind me the towns of Lancashire glisten in the late afternoon sunshine before blending into the moors of Rossendale. Huge tumbling white cumulus cross the clear blue sky while showery grey bubbles gather at their base.
In minutes I am approaching the bleak rocky outcrops leaping from boulder to boulder. Whistling winds whip through gaps and gullies creating miniature whirlpools in the gritty surface craters. Excitement explodes as I jump the gap onto the final summit rock. I heave myself onto the ordinance survey trig point standing braced against the elements. Fulfilled, I breathe the piercing northern air to look out across the backbone of England.
Everest, Annapurna, Kanchenjunga, Chomolhari have all beckoned me, yet still one peak stands aloft in my thoughts. To many it is just a Pennine hill but to me it is a breathtaking summit. My first mountain, Blackstone Edge, was there at the beginning!
David Stott
Based on my poem 'Blackstone Edge' (1986) 'My First Mountain' describes one of the many training runs I did from my mum's house in Littleborough up to the Pennine summit of Blackstone Edge.
August 2016
Kei Ling Ha Hoi
Hong Kong
Mangroves in Kei Ling Ha Hoi Hong Kong
*photo courtesy of kmb.hk
Kei Ling Ha Hoi
A warm humid breeze flowed over the mottled green hillsides above Three Fathoms Cove (Kei Ling Ha Hoi). From the footpath we could see the towering bulk of Ma On Shan overlooking the blue-green shallows of Tolo Harbour. Feathery altocumulus stretched across the small patch of pale blue sky sharp amongst gathering heavy clouds. In the distance we could see the serrated ridge of the Pat Sin Range, its rolling dragon spine extending eastwards to cradle the waters of Plover Cove.
Suddenly a flash of brilliant turquoise revealed the flight of a kingfisher. In seconds it disappeared into the dense undergrowth of the rocky foreshore. Butterflies fluttered around us as we crossed the stubbled field. Cicadas screamed their pulsating pitch amongst the densely cloaked sub-tropical slopes. Above us we could see splashing streams falling in twisted braids on the wooded slopes of Kai Kung Shan. Close by we were aware of a brown rat nervously negotiating the twisting branches of an inter-tidal mangrove.
Our path meandered across fresh water marsh, tidal mudflats and abandoned fields. We approached the ancient village of Yung Shue O. Faded new year papers surrounded the wooden door frames. Lazy dogs grizzled as we threaded our way through the narrow alleyways. Smiling, we nodded to old villagers who peered out of darkened interiors. The old grey brick walls of a few derelict houses crumbled between collapsed wooden beams.
Leaving the village we followed the winding footpath across neglected paddy fields waterlogged by recent rainfall. We watched groups of local villagers searching for shellfish along the marshy shoreline. Fiddler crabs scurried in and out of their holes in the brackish tidal mud. We looked across to an old wooden junk lying at anchor offshore, mirrored in the calm waters of Kei Ling Ha Hoi. Mist and low cloud descended across the face of Ma On Shan bringing a fine drizzle to the late afternoon air.
David Stott
Journal
Hong Kong
Tuesday 10th April 1990
A warm humid breeze flowed over the mottled green hillsides above Three Fathoms Cove (Kei Ling Ha Hoi). From the footpath we could see the towering bulk of Ma On Shan overlooking the blue-green shallows of Tolo Harbour. Feathery altocumulus stretched across the small patch of pale blue sky sharp amongst gathering heavy clouds. In the distance we could see the serrated ridge of the Pat Sin Range, its rolling dragon spine extending eastwards to cradle the waters of Plover Cove.
Suddenly a flash of brilliant turquoise revealed the flight of a kingfisher. In seconds it disappeared into the dense undergrowth of the rocky foreshore. Butterflies fluttered around us as we crossed the stubbled field. Cicadas screamed their pulsating pitch amongst the densely cloaked sub-tropical slopes. Above us we could see splashing streams falling in twisted braids on the wooded slopes of Kai Kung Shan. Close by we were aware of a brown rat nervously negotiating the twisting branches of an inter-tidal mangrove.
Our path meandered across fresh water marsh, tidal mudflats and abandoned fields. We approached the ancient village of Yung Shue O. Faded new year papers surrounded the wooden door frames. Lazy dogs grizzled as we threaded our way through the narrow alleyways. Smiling, we nodded to old villagers who peered out of darkened interiors. The old grey brick walls of a few derelict houses crumbled between collapsed wooden beams.
Leaving the village we followed the winding footpath across neglected paddy fields waterlogged by recent rainfall. We watched groups of local villagers searching for shellfish along the marshy shoreline. Fiddler crabs scurried in and out of their holes in the brackish tidal mud. We looked across to an old wooden junk lying at anchor offshore, mirrored in the calm waters of Kei Ling Ha Hoi. Mist and low cloud descended across the face of Ma On Shan bringing a fine drizzle to the late afternoon air.
David Stott
Journal
Hong Kong
Tuesday 10th April 1990
View of Kei Ling Ha Hoi from MacLehose Trail. Tolo Harbour and Pat Sin Range in distance. Hong Kong 1990
* While living in Shatin we often enjoyed Sunday afternoon walks in the New Territories. In 1990 we were living in Fo Tan which is located in a valley close to Shatin. We did this walk by Kei Ling Ha Hoi on Tuesday 10th April 1990. Our daughters Louisa (3) and Susie (3 months) were now with us on all our walks.
Sir Cecil's Ride
Hong Kong
It was early morning as I walked along the footpath on the slopes of Bo Ma Shan. Hong Kong Island appeared to stretch its overnight stiffness in an olive backbone towards the western anchorage. The trail, known as Sir Cecil's Ride, was named after one of Hong Kong's past governors. It slithered around the crumpled folds of lush green contours. To the east the distant Ninepin Islands softly faded into the misty horizon of Mirs Bay. To the north stretched the undulating dragon peaks of the Kowloon hills.
A sudden rumbling reverberated around the soft granite spurs as a Cathay Pacific 747 gracefully rose into its climb above the harbour, outward bound across the Pacific. Humid breezes shuffled rustled leaves amongst exposed granite boulders. The rising dawn chorus echoed the hint of approaching daylight. A flock of rapid wings, disturbed by the crunch of my footfall, flitted delicately amongst the bushes.
Stiff grasses, dry seeds rattling, swayed in unison with the groves of young bamboo. Mottled grey-pink lichens hugged the surface of rocky outcrops protected by the overhanging sub-tropical canopy. Entangled sand-paper vines crept amongst the quivering clumps of mature bamboo. I followed the curving path as it crossed arid stream beds. At several points milky quartz veins sliced through the dark shadows of decomposed granite.
The muffled bustle of humanity wafted upwards from the juxtaposed pastel blocks of Quarry Bay. An old man approached, his wrinkled weather beaten face acknowledging my presence, shouting "Jo San!". He repeated this loud Cantonese good morning with all fellow early risers. He proudly showed me his two ancient birdcages with their chirping residents. Swirling scrapes, interrupted by violent slaps, rose and fell as elevated voices revealed 'mah-jong' hide-ways in amongst the screens of dense foliage.
Darting, a flash of reptile copper scurried in front of me, soft belly scraping across the pink granite crystals. Abundant rose mallow decorated the footpath while the aroma of pale white mountain-orange blossom wafted in the pre-dawn breeze. Piles of damp leaf mould glistened in the humid undergrowth.
Beyond the pass I finally reached my 'prayer tree'. This isolated slash pine looked out across to the dominating bulky slopes of Mount Parker. I paused beneath its fresh evergreen needles. Here time seemed to stand still. It was at this spot I made the life-changing decision to return to the UK. After eighteen years in Hong Kong this was a moment that required a 'leap of faith'!
High above me a whirling pair of black kites soared in a rising spiral of warming thermals. Suddenly intense flashes of glorious new light pierced the narrow channel of Lei Yi Mun. The sky glowed in a velvet pane of cinematic purple. The sliver of a new crescent moon shone like a precious jewel. The diffusing dawn radiated in an aurora of pinks and golds. The early light reflected across the waters of the 'fragrant harbour', up through the darkened pleats of Hong Kong Island and out across the awakening expanse of Kowloon.
Overhead the darkening sky unexpectedly mushroomed into a deluge-threatening cloudburst. The breeze strengthened into a wind that whistled in the creaking casuarinas. I started to run through the refreshing coolness as each raindrop exploded into the dry dust. Turning for home I looked up to see the curving arc of a stunning rainbow!
* Sir Cecil's Ride is a contour walk on the slopes of Bo Ma Shan on Hong Kong Island. It was my regular prayer walk when we lived on the island from 1991 until our departure from Hong Kong in 1997. Prior to 1991 we lived in the New Territories and Kowloon.
Choga Zanbil
Iran
Hong Kong
It was early morning as I walked along the footpath on the slopes of Bo Ma Shan. Hong Kong Island appeared to stretch its overnight stiffness in an olive backbone towards the western anchorage. The trail, known as Sir Cecil's Ride, was named after one of Hong Kong's past governors. It slithered around the crumpled folds of lush green contours. To the east the distant Ninepin Islands softly faded into the misty horizon of Mirs Bay. To the north stretched the undulating dragon peaks of the Kowloon hills.
A sudden rumbling reverberated around the soft granite spurs as a Cathay Pacific 747 gracefully rose into its climb above the harbour, outward bound across the Pacific. Humid breezes shuffled rustled leaves amongst exposed granite boulders. The rising dawn chorus echoed the hint of approaching daylight. A flock of rapid wings, disturbed by the crunch of my footfall, flitted delicately amongst the bushes.
Stiff grasses, dry seeds rattling, swayed in unison with the groves of young bamboo. Mottled grey-pink lichens hugged the surface of rocky outcrops protected by the overhanging sub-tropical canopy. Entangled sand-paper vines crept amongst the quivering clumps of mature bamboo. I followed the curving path as it crossed arid stream beds. At several points milky quartz veins sliced through the dark shadows of decomposed granite.
The muffled bustle of humanity wafted upwards from the juxtaposed pastel blocks of Quarry Bay. An old man approached, his wrinkled weather beaten face acknowledging my presence, shouting "Jo San!". He repeated this loud Cantonese good morning with all fellow early risers. He proudly showed me his two ancient birdcages with their chirping residents. Swirling scrapes, interrupted by violent slaps, rose and fell as elevated voices revealed 'mah-jong' hide-ways in amongst the screens of dense foliage.
Darting, a flash of reptile copper scurried in front of me, soft belly scraping across the pink granite crystals. Abundant rose mallow decorated the footpath while the aroma of pale white mountain-orange blossom wafted in the pre-dawn breeze. Piles of damp leaf mould glistened in the humid undergrowth.
Beyond the pass I finally reached my 'prayer tree'. This isolated slash pine looked out across to the dominating bulky slopes of Mount Parker. I paused beneath its fresh evergreen needles. Here time seemed to stand still. It was at this spot I made the life-changing decision to return to the UK. After eighteen years in Hong Kong this was a moment that required a 'leap of faith'!
High above me a whirling pair of black kites soared in a rising spiral of warming thermals. Suddenly intense flashes of glorious new light pierced the narrow channel of Lei Yi Mun. The sky glowed in a velvet pane of cinematic purple. The sliver of a new crescent moon shone like a precious jewel. The diffusing dawn radiated in an aurora of pinks and golds. The early light reflected across the waters of the 'fragrant harbour', up through the darkened pleats of Hong Kong Island and out across the awakening expanse of Kowloon.
Overhead the darkening sky unexpectedly mushroomed into a deluge-threatening cloudburst. The breeze strengthened into a wind that whistled in the creaking casuarinas. I started to run through the refreshing coolness as each raindrop exploded into the dry dust. Turning for home I looked up to see the curving arc of a stunning rainbow!
* Sir Cecil's Ride is a contour walk on the slopes of Bo Ma Shan on Hong Kong Island. It was my regular prayer walk when we lived on the island from 1991 until our departure from Hong Kong in 1997. Prior to 1991 we lived in the New Territories and Kowloon.
Choga Zanbil
Iran
Choga Zanbil
Iran
The sky was steel grey as we drove north from Ahvaz in Iran. The coolness of the day was spreading from the foothills of the Zagros Mountains across to the arid plains of Khuzestan. We could see the River Dez meandering southwards towards its confluence with the Karun. In the distance rising out of the dry stony plateau we had our first view of the stepped remains of Choga Zanbil. The ancient ziggurat was soon rising above the darkened horizon.
As we approached on foot we could clearly see how the onslaught of time and Assyrian plunder had caused the denuded remnants of this Elamite citadel to merge softly into the undulating landscape. We walked between shallow archaeological spoil heaps to reach the rubble strewn outer courtyards. Beneath our feet were the splintered shards of pottery and shattered amphora.
As we crossed the inner threshold we were awestruck at this close up view of the largest man-made structure in Iran. This weathered artificial mountain was the dynastic dream of 'Unlash Gal'. We stood before one of the monumental doorways which support the five fragile towering stepped platforms of 'Dur Untashi'. This soaring complex of tombs, tunnels and chambers enabled 'Inshushinak' to ascend heavenward into the depths of the starlit night.
On close inspection we could see that countless mud-dried bricks were sharply incised with uniform wedged symbols. Despite centuries of slow attack by the elements they still clearly announced the enduring dedication to the Lord of Susa as if they were freshly fired yesterday. We circumnavigated the extensive ruins of this once imposing royal city. Choga Zanbil, 'hill of the large basket', was revealing its sacred secrets to us as we approached the imposing Royal Gateway. This was the place were elaborate devotional processions entered the imperial city. The winged griffins and horned bulls that flanked the gates and stately enclosures, rising in ascending terraces, are now long gone. On top of the ziggurat in ancient times was a turquoise golden tower that must have appeared to touch the sky.
As we stood alone soaking in the atmosphere of 'Unlash Gal's' magnificent ziggurat our eyes looked westwards to the misty 'land between the rivers' and the now extinct Kingdom of Elam.
*We lived and worked in southern Iran between 1977 and 1979. We were teachers in the Bandar Mahshahr International School. We explored the ancient ziggurat of Choga Zanbil in February 1978. We escaped the Iranian Revolution in early 1979.
The Jokhang
Lhasa
Tibet
With growing excitement we made our way through the backstreets of old Lhasa. As we approached The Jokhang we could feel the vibrating noise emanating from the most revered place of worship in Tibet. Shuffling, wide-eyed pilgrims achieving the ultimate spiritual goal of a lifetime were entering their 'holy of holies'. Drifting smoke and fragrant incense blended with highly aromatic juniper fumes purifying and cleansing the sacred space. Yak butter lamps illuminated the darkened interior their thick smell permeating the enlightened atmosphere. The polished irregular flagstones shone with years of prostrations, each 'nama-kard' promoting reverence and veneration.
Beyond the four guardian 'chokyong' we could see the labyrinth of halls, shrines and corridors. A powerful hum, like an undulating swarm of bees, resonated passionate fervour and zeal. We peered through the smoky vapour to the open courtyard beyond where dimly lit lines of devout worshippers gathered. The shiny brass knobs on carved wooden doorways were rubbed to a burnished reflection indicating centuries of human touch. Moving past darkened Yarlung Dynasty statues each devotee touched their own head, threw seeds as an offering to the deities and then laid white 'khatak' scarves nearby symbolising the pure heart of the giver.
A thousand brass prayer lamps, filled with molten yak butter, flickered as if ignited by the passion of humanity. Deep into the murky interior, beyond where we were allowed to go, the gathering reverence indicated the presence of the oldest and most precious object in Tibet, the Sakyamauni Buddha. Embedded with countless precious stones and surrounded by dragon pillars of silver the Buddha rose above the offerings of coloured silks and precious jewellery. As we retraced our steps we glanced back at the long gallery of revolving prayer wheels. They were spinning in perpetual motion from hundreds of years of earnest flicking hands.
As we returned to bright daylight we looked up at the iconic gold encrusted Wheel of Dharma flanked by two golden deer. It was a very special travel moment as we stared back in awe at the holiest site in Tibetan Buddhism.
Lhasa
Tibet
With growing excitement we made our way through the backstreets of old Lhasa. As we approached The Jokhang we could feel the vibrating noise emanating from the most revered place of worship in Tibet. Shuffling, wide-eyed pilgrims achieving the ultimate spiritual goal of a lifetime were entering their 'holy of holies'. Drifting smoke and fragrant incense blended with highly aromatic juniper fumes purifying and cleansing the sacred space. Yak butter lamps illuminated the darkened interior their thick smell permeating the enlightened atmosphere. The polished irregular flagstones shone with years of prostrations, each 'nama-kard' promoting reverence and veneration.
Beyond the four guardian 'chokyong' we could see the labyrinth of halls, shrines and corridors. A powerful hum, like an undulating swarm of bees, resonated passionate fervour and zeal. We peered through the smoky vapour to the open courtyard beyond where dimly lit lines of devout worshippers gathered. The shiny brass knobs on carved wooden doorways were rubbed to a burnished reflection indicating centuries of human touch. Moving past darkened Yarlung Dynasty statues each devotee touched their own head, threw seeds as an offering to the deities and then laid white 'khatak' scarves nearby symbolising the pure heart of the giver.
A thousand brass prayer lamps, filled with molten yak butter, flickered as if ignited by the passion of humanity. Deep into the murky interior, beyond where we were allowed to go, the gathering reverence indicated the presence of the oldest and most precious object in Tibet, the Sakyamauni Buddha. Embedded with countless precious stones and surrounded by dragon pillars of silver the Buddha rose above the offerings of coloured silks and precious jewellery. As we retraced our steps we glanced back at the long gallery of revolving prayer wheels. They were spinning in perpetual motion from hundreds of years of earnest flicking hands.
As we returned to bright daylight we looked up at the iconic gold encrusted Wheel of Dharma flanked by two golden deer. It was a very special travel moment as we stared back in awe at the holiest site in Tibetan Buddhism.
* In 1985 our trip to Tibet was a wonderful adventure! We had originally planned to travel on the Silk Road by train. However just by chance, at a Public Security Bureau office in Shanghai, we discovered that Tibet was open to independent travellers. We immediately changed travel plans and ended up in the magical kingdom known as the 'Roof of the World'. We are now so excited to be returning to Tibet in April/May of 2016.
© 2016 David A Stott All Rights Reserved
Snowfall
Kyoto Imperial Palace
Japan
My breath merged effortlessly into the clouds of hanging ice particles. I was settled into the rhythmic motion of a marathon training run through the crisp night. My trainers softly scrunched into the sparkling blanket of undulating fresh snow. My trail of snowy implosions resembled delicate stitching across an unblemished white kimono. The shadowy presence of the Imperial Palace was my constant companion as I ran around its perimeter. Gaps in drifting snow-laden clouds revealed sporadic glimpses of the star pierced sky. Heavy snowflakes gently deepened the twisted outlines of ghostly pines.
The tolling stroke of the sacred Shinto 'bonsho' resounded in the darkness. Aromatic wood-smoke drifted across the gravelled pathways to merge with my frosted exhalations. Through the drifting snow I was aware of the mysterious timbered dwellings of ancient 'Heian-kyo'. Muffled shouts of "Hi no yogi!" echoed to the crack of wooden clappers as the neighbourhood fire-watch emerged from the snow engulfed alley. Distant huddled figures, snow softly layering on their red 'kyowagasa', struggled
homewards with their 'geta' ploughing through the deepening snow.
I ran beneath the gnarled limbs of the infamous 'Muku' tree. Its drooping branches propped up against the ravages of time. Its very presence evoking memories of the slicing Samurai sword of Chosu's final mortal combat. Steady and regular my crunching footfall reverberated against the earthen walls and smoke-grey pan-tiles. In the falling curtain of flakes I could just make out the imperial gate of 'Kenreimon' with its dark cypress roof and supporting pillars. The sweeping gabled roofline of 'Shishindon' almost disappeared against the settling snow crystals. Beyond the walls I heard the mournful cry of a swooping owl breaking the serenity of the snow-clad pines.
Unexpectedly a freezing northerly wind rolled down the icy slopes of Mount Kurama. It ruffled the deepening soft snows wrapped around the protective soul of the ancient capital. Eerily the snow swirled in spiralling eddies accumulating in sweeping drifts up against the locked gates and imperial walls. Frozen by the onset of the bitter penetrating blast, funnelled by the Takano River, I turned for home. As the agitated blizzard strengthened I thankfully found the darkened old 'machi-nami' and stumbled into the numbing warmth of our welcoming 'ryokan'.
* We first travelled to Japan at the end of December 1983. At the time I was in training for the Coast of China Marathon. One night I left our traditional ryokan for a run around the perimeter of the old Imperial Palace just as the snow began to fall. It was magical!
* painting 'Snow at the old Imperial Palace in Kyoto' Eiichi Kotozucha
© 2016 David A Stott All Rights Reserved.
The tolling stroke of the sacred Shinto 'bonsho' resounded in the darkness. Aromatic wood-smoke drifted across the gravelled pathways to merge with my frosted exhalations. Through the drifting snow I was aware of the mysterious timbered dwellings of ancient 'Heian-kyo'. Muffled shouts of "Hi no yogi!" echoed to the crack of wooden clappers as the neighbourhood fire-watch emerged from the snow engulfed alley. Distant huddled figures, snow softly layering on their red 'kyowagasa', struggled
homewards with their 'geta' ploughing through the deepening snow.
I ran beneath the gnarled limbs of the infamous 'Muku' tree. Its drooping branches propped up against the ravages of time. Its very presence evoking memories of the slicing Samurai sword of Chosu's final mortal combat. Steady and regular my crunching footfall reverberated against the earthen walls and smoke-grey pan-tiles. In the falling curtain of flakes I could just make out the imperial gate of 'Kenreimon' with its dark cypress roof and supporting pillars. The sweeping gabled roofline of 'Shishindon' almost disappeared against the settling snow crystals. Beyond the walls I heard the mournful cry of a swooping owl breaking the serenity of the snow-clad pines.
Unexpectedly a freezing northerly wind rolled down the icy slopes of Mount Kurama. It ruffled the deepening soft snows wrapped around the protective soul of the ancient capital. Eerily the snow swirled in spiralling eddies accumulating in sweeping drifts up against the locked gates and imperial walls. Frozen by the onset of the bitter penetrating blast, funnelled by the Takano River, I turned for home. As the agitated blizzard strengthened I thankfully found the darkened old 'machi-nami' and stumbled into the numbing warmth of our welcoming 'ryokan'.
* We first travelled to Japan at the end of December 1983. At the time I was in training for the Coast of China Marathon. One night I left our traditional ryokan for a run around the perimeter of the old Imperial Palace just as the snow began to fall. It was magical!
* painting 'Snow at the old Imperial Palace in Kyoto' Eiichi Kotozucha
© 2016 David A Stott All Rights Reserved.