Archive for April, 2005
April 29th, 2005
How do you know you are back in Spain?
1: Three course lunch costs five euros with booze
2: The world stops between one and five in the afternoon
3: Everything happens "Mañana".
We have had cause to both laugh and (almost) cry over these wee foibles this week.
We have been meaning to get our Hepatitis A second dose vaccines for a while now, as they are due before we enter Morocco. We got to a reasonable sized town in Spain and decided to camp up and make it a priority. At the risk of boring you to tears, what follows is a recital of the comedy of errors which then ensued. I suggest you pour yourself a large glass of something stiff and settle in with great patience. It is not a quick tale.
Our campsite is about three kilometres out of town. We walked in and went straight to the office of tourism where the woman pointed us to the public medical centre. Unfortunately, it had moved buildings without advising the tourist office, so it took us about an hour wandering back streets and following various directions to eventually find it. By this stage it was late morning, so obviously the medical centre was packed with screaming toddlers and miserable looking sick people. After a lengthy discussion in interesting sign language with the guy at the desk, a woman who spoke French was summonsed from the back room. I explained what it was that we needed, and she nodded and disappeared again, to make enquiries.
Gary and I sat quietly and waited for about half an hour. When she returned she informed us that we would have to go to the pharmacy and order the vaccination, pay for it there, and then go to a private clinic to have it administered; she gave us the name and address of a clinic and sent us on our way.
We duly headed off to the pharmacy, only to discover they did not have any Hep A stuff in stock, so we trundled around a few until finally we found a lovely bloke who spoke English. He also had none in stock, but told us he could order it and have it in that afternoon. Unfortunately, he was not sure what quantity was required for the second dose. We said we would go to the internet and look it up. He also laughed when we showed him the address of the clinic we had been recommended to attend by the medical centre; apparently, it closed down over a year ago. But, he said, he knew someone who was authorised to give us the vaccines, and would call to get us an appointment. But first we must let him know what dosage we needed.
We headed off to the internet cafe marked on our office of tourism map. But of course, by this stage it was one o’clock – the Spanish witching hour. We arrived in time to see a regretful smile from the proprietor as she closed up and headed off for a long lunch and siesta. We decided resistence was futile, and headed for the nearest restaurant to make like the locals.
An enormous four courses and a litre of wine later, we emerged into the glorious sunshine at peace with our little universe and entirely unfussed about vaccinations, internet, or any such trifling, insignificant matters, and suffused with a distinct feeling of goodwill toward Spain, the Spanish, and the blessed wine makers of the North in particular. We wandered aimlessly about until we found our internet cafe again. Unfortunately, there was a problem with the system, so that one was out.
No bother, we thought, and headed for the other internet cafe on the other side of town – about two kilometres away. By the time we reached it the wine had worn off a little, although we remained in fairly congenial spirits. Until the owner of this cafe informed us that due to the building work going on next door, he had temporarily lost power to his computers; but if we were happy to have a coffee or drink next door in the cafe, he was sure it would be functioning again soon. We sat down outside with the rest of the locals and drank some more, refraining from joining in as they lambasted the electrician for his inefficiency and called advice and encouragement from their chairs. Scarily, the electrician seemed actually to be heeding some of their tips.
About an hour later we had lift off. In we went and spent a long hour searching site after site to find the specific dose of vaccine required for a second shot of Hep A. Eventually, armed with our newfound knowledge, we returned triumphantly to the Pharmacy to place our order. But by then, they had closed for the day.
We walked the three kilometres back to the tent. Luckily we are camped by a rather lush beach, which we proceeded to sit on and regain a little perspective over yet more wine and some decent olives. Tomorrow, we promised each other, tomorrow we will sort it all out.
Bloody Mañana.
So. Mañana arrived and we walked back into town. We went to the Pharmacy and placed our order. The very helpful bloke, curse him, then told us that if we were really smart, we would go back to the medical centre and get a prescription; then we could save fifty euros on the cost.
Now, for those of you who know Gary, you will see what is coming here. For those of you who don’t – let me just say that this is a man who makes Scrooge look like a spendthrift and goes into actual spasms of ecstasy at the mere hint of the Holy Grail commonly known as a "bargain".
I saw all the warning signs. His eyes lit up, he began to get that highly interested fidgety thing going on, prodding me occasionally in the side to prompt me to ask more. I was doing my level best to ignore every hint and in desperation tried to communicate to the lovely bloody pharmacist that he was about to cause me extreme mental agony if he insisted on giving details; but to no avail. He merely took my pained expression as confirmation to carry on merrily, and before I knew it, we were heading back to the medical centre to gain a prescription.
Of course, it was now late morning again, and the place was swarming again, we had to wait again, and we had to indulge in copious communication via sign language again. But if you think any of these obstacles would deter my sweet beloved from getting his DISCOUNT, then you would be sorely underestimating the addiction to a bargain that runs in his bloodlines.
We emerged some years later and – miracle of miracles – managed to catch the pharmacy before it shut. As I write this, we are now waiting until the dose arrives – hopefully before sodding mañana – at which stage we will embark upon the adventure of making an appointment to have the dose administered.
Fortunately, it will be lunchtime soon.
And I wonder why it is that we always seem to stop for longer than I anticipated…
And later that same evening…
I had to add a little something in light of following events.
When we went back to the pharmacy, it turned out that – would you believe it – the paper the doctor had given us in fact was not an actual prescription. Of course, by this time the health centre was closed, so we just forked out the full sum. The absolutely wonderful pharmacist insisted on driving us to the place where we were to get the vaccinations, which was an extraordinarily kind gesture – and very fortunate as there is no way in hell we would have found it, being as it was an entirely innocuous brown door with nothing to suggest it was a clinic.
Gary, however, is highly incensed at not getting his discount, and so rather than leaving tomorrow as planned we shall now stay yet another day so that he can go down there and raise merry hell until he gets the required paper.
I do believe that if the place is closed tomorrow we will be here until Monday. Hell hath no fury like a Gazza ripped off…
Personally, I’m heading back to wine and Tapas. No point in both of us getting all upset now, is there?
April 26th, 2005
I am posting the following several days after it was written, due to problems finding an internet cafe – I shall write another update shortly. I am also in the process of altering this diary page to make it quicker to download, so apologies for any problems you may experience over the next day or so as I muck about with it.
It’s our last night in Portugal. We should have been gone far earlier than this, really; but Gary’s brother Neil and his partner, Lisa, came 
out to the Algarve for a week’s holiday in a rented villa, and so we felt it necessary to gate crash and take full advantage of the sybaritic lifestyle on offer. Neil came bearing suitcase loads of gifts, the kind of things one usually takes to slothful backpacking relatives – like mosquito nets, tarps, and new bed rolls. Unfortunately we have sent him back to the UK with rather more than he brought. We sincerely hope the accumulated stench of our discarded belongings did not cause him to be detained at Faro airport.
Amongst other things, he took with him our beloved tent. We are now solely reliant upon a “Basha” style tarp, which we can string up or peg and pole; and a mosquito net. The theory is that this combination will have the dual advantage of being both lighter than the tent, and also rather less conspicuous and more adaptable to different social environments. Time will tell, I guess.
We are now less than twenty walking days from Tarifa, where we can take the boat to Morocco. Obviously it may take us longer than that, given our enduring penchant for lush coastline, and the fact that once again we will have access to the noble institution of the endless Spanish lunch hour – but at this point we have every intention of walking fairly consistently South. We are also enormously heartened by our once again feather light (okay, slight exaggeration) packs. The loss of our cold weather gear and tent has made an enormous difference.
I am quite sad to be leaving Portugal. We have become kind of used to it; crappy phone system, balding paunchy retirement Brits and all. To commemorate we decided to indulge today by buying our last English Sunday papers and reading them over a late lunch, after we stopped for the day. And then I came across an article in the Sunday Times News Review that really struck a chord.
It was by Christina Lamb, a female War Correspondent who unwittingly became the inspiration for the heroine in Paulo Coehlo’s latest novel. The article was a personal story of her life as a journalist, and how she had met Coehlo himself. One particular paragraph stood out for me:
“My passion is Afghanistan…I feel strongly that people in such countries have values we have lost: the most important thing in human relationships is conversation, but people don’t talk anymore, they don’t sit down to talk and listen….if we want to change the world, we have to go back to a time when warriors would gather around the fire and tell stories.”
I’ve never been to Afghanistan, and know nothing about warriors sitting around telling stories. But one of the things I have become accustomed to enjoying, as we have walked through Europe, and increasingly as we go further south, is the importance placed upon conversation and human interaction. In every café, it seems, in every restaurant, groups of people while away the afternoons talking, eating and drinking. On Sunday afternoons entire villages gather in the local restaurant to eat a communal meal and talk together. When we stop at an out of the way village café, the whole place stops, people pull their chairs close to us, and start talking. Even when we don’t understand the language, they will continue to talk, slowing down and using gestures to communicate. I cannot imagine anyone in an English speaking country showing so much interest in, nor patience with, foreigners. And there is no point, necessarily, to the efforts to communicate with us; it is just the conversation itself that is important, no matter how long it takes nor how laborious the process is.
It is a bit the same with eating. People here do not eat out as a special treat. They meet at the local restaurant, pay a minimal amount, and eat whatever the restauranteur chooses to serve that day; they are there as much for the social interaction as for the food. In many villages there is a large shed with a deep concrete pool which serves as a laundry for the village as a whole; and a fountain for everyone to collect water from. Life itself is simply far more of a communal experience.
It is a phenomenon which has been increasingly obvious ever since we arrived in France, and it is becoming more and more prevalent the further South we go. And I love it.
It has taken being in Europe this long, and gradually moving through it’s different areas, to begin to really understand what an important role community plays in life here. Regardless of the individual country, the emphasis which is placed upon the community as averse to the individual is remarkable and unmistakable. Seeing the openness and willingness to work together that characterises many of the small towns we have walked through has been a humbling and educational experience. And, at the risk of sounding heinously like a really corny political advertisement, I have come to realise that I agree with what Christina Lamb writes – many countries have lost a lot of values that are important. And although I can laugh and take the mickey out of all the Brits hanging around the Algarve in search of sun, pints, and fish and chips, a part of me wonders if in fact they are here as much for the wonderful warmth of the communal experience as anything else. Europeans everywhere seem to be constantly agonising over the loss of their particular cultural identity. But I think as long as this wonderful tradition of collective responsibility and interaction continues, these European countries retain a core strength that many other Western countries have lost.
But luckily leaving Portugal won’t mean leaving any of that behind. I am guessing life is only going to become more communal as we carry on. Although I don’t know how many more times I am going to get to sit an contemplate it all contentedly over English papers and copious amounts of red.
Which, given that I have just subjected you to one thousand words of egotistical navel gazing, is something I am sure you are all very grateful for.
April 11th, 2005
Whoever said that British colonialism is dead has obviously never holidayed in Quarteira. Perhaps there has been no conquest via the customary channels of the military and political systems; but the capitulation is no less complete for having been won by the formidable combination of Sky TV and HP sauce. 
They are everywhere. Beer bellies proudly on display, milk white legs encased in socks and sandals – and that’s just the women. The cafes proudly advertise all day English breakfasts, the bars show Eastenders interspersed with Premiership matches, and the newsstands sell “today’s British papers TODAY.”
But this is no Ibiza or Faliraki, inhabited by chemically enhanced size eight club heads looking for an all night drinking fiesta. A long way from it. This is more your over fifty, why-eke-out-my-pension-in-bloody-Manchester, pint of Boddingtons and fish &chips crowd. Bless ‘em. They’ve 
finally discovered life in the sun – complete with the Daily Mail – and they’re loving it.
We got a bit of a shock when we walked in here. We were looking for a place to chill out for a few days before Gary’s brother arrives to meet us for a week’s holiday on the other side of Faro. We thought Quarteira looked a reasonable size on the map, and by report it had a good campsite, so off we went. By the time we had hit the centre of town, we were feeling a bit daunted by the endless concrete apartment blocks and high rise hotels, and had virtually resigned ourselves to leaving the next day for shores less expensive, and a more stinky-backpacker friendly atmosphere. But then we discovered mini-Blackpool, and, well, we decided to stay for a few days.
I know how bad that sounds. During our years in England we used to scoff in derision at the 
masses who left the UK for two weeks in the summer to go “abroad” to..well…the Spanish or Greek version of the UK. But after months and months of walking through France, Spain, and now Portugal, there is something weirdly comforting about sitting in a faux English bar, drinking Boddies, and reading the Sunday Times whilst occasionally tuning in to the Royal Wedding and 
the Grand National. And then going for a Full English.
It struck me, as I wandered down the Promenade with a stomach full of greasy eggs, bacon and beans, that places like this have actually become the new British seaside – scene of a million children’s childhood memories. All around me families from places in England where the accents are thick and money is tight wandered happily along the deserted beaches, kids waving their buckets and spades about as they paddled through the shallows. Dads pointed to the old Portuguese men making fishing nets, and said things like: “You see that, son? My Grandad used to make nets like that, he did. Come and watch how it’s done…” and the kids would stop and watch, fascinated, learning part of their own history on a beach thousands of miles from home.
Something in the atmosphere has that quintessentially British feel – a sort of pride in being seriously nerdy, a complete unabashed delight in the novelty of sun and sand. Beach culture has become so seriously cool in many parts of the world, all deeply funky Rip Curl designer togs and rippling pectorals, that it is rather nice to see so many people sunburned, eating ice-cream, making sandcastles and watching the sunset over a pint. It is, comfortingly, much more Famous Five than Baywatch.
In the evenings the same families buy cheap barbequed seafood from the restaurants on the Promenade, which, although obviously priced up for tourists, are still ridiculously cheap if you are used to paying for meals out in the UK. And if the kids – or, more likely, their Grandma – can’t handle all that tricky foreign food, they can tuck into a plate of steak, eggs and chips.
I realise that it is deeply uncool, and very anti-Lonely Planet to think that any of this is a good thing in any way. What about Portuguese culture? I hear you scream. How could any pleb possibly want to eat English crud when there is great, cheap local food, and a whole other culture to experience?
And I have no defence at all to offer. But if you give me a day or so, I shall go and sit in the pub and think it over whilst I enjoy a pint of Boddies, some fish and chips, read the paper and enjoy the sunset.
In a t-shirt.
Meanwhile, our campsite is lovely, and far away from the high rise outcrops on a beautiful deserted beach. Unfortunately we have been forever spoiled, as far as sea temperatures go, by living in Broome, and so neither of us have done more than dip a toe in the somewhat arctic water. But it is very peaceful to sit and watch.
We are only two days from the Spanish border here, but we will be stopped now for the best part of two weeks, in order to spend some time with Neil when he arrives. After that it is about twenty days walk to Algeciras, where we catch the ferry to Morocco. We have thoroughly enjoyed taking our time through Portugal. The coast line is beautiful, and the inland regions, particularly through Alentejo, equally so.
I am also determined to conquer my rough camping fears now after the predicted deluge of emails in response to the last post. But I have to say I am heartily grateful that there are so many of you out there who are even more terrified than me! Although most of our American readers seem convinced that Australia is awash with the most deadly array of creatures imaginable, I have to be honest here: the most deadly creature in the Australian bush is usually two legged, male, and drunk.
I shall, however, try some of the more interesting suggestions; from Elsbeth’s earplug theory (not bad) to Craig from Manhattan’s idea about the dirty socks and undies line around the tent, to my personal favourite which came via an advertisement forwarded by someone from California: an actual solar powered booby trap alarm system worked by trip wire. Except I am sure I would end up tripping it myself during a midnight loo stop. But thanks for the thought.
So I shall head back now to our little green tent, adrift as it is amongst the sea of plastic fantastic Dutch and German motorhomes littering the campsite. By the way, we are sure there is a serious swingers movement going on amongst the motorhomers. Unless there is some other excuse for midnight accordian renditions of “I just called to say I love you” en masse. Very, very scarey.
April 4th, 2005
After nearly eight months of walking – admittedly interspersed with regular long, blissfully indulgent, rest periods – I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make.
And, given our intended route, it is no minor obstacle: I remain pathetically, abjectly, and most inconveniently, terrified of rough camping.
There. That’s it – I’ve finally ‘fessed up. Do I feel any better for unburdening myself? Not bloody likely. I am sure this latest blog entry will inspire a deluge of superior sniffing emails from all you hardy, serial Appalachian Trail and Camino rambler types out there. Surely I should have thought about all of this before, I hear you say; surely I must have foreseen there would be a lot of rough camping ahead.
And, look, you’re dead right. I have no defence to offer at all. Except that rabid though my fears may be, we continue to spend the vast majority of our nights rough camping anyway.
I never used to be like this. Years ago I camped all the time, and sometimes on my own. Sure, the night noises were a little spooky at first, but mostly they were just the usual comforting bush sounds; after an hour of listening closely I could hear them being repeated, and would relax into sleep knowing there was nothing more fearsome out there than the odd hungry possum.
But that is back in one’s own country, in a familiar environment, where all of the sounds are known or at least vaguely remembered. Not in a different environment every single night, where the habitat changes as often as the temperature, and a rough camp can mean anything from the glorious, peaceful bliss of a remote mountain lakeside, to the backyard of a deserted old house next to a motorway.
This last couple of weeks we have walked inland through the beautiful country of Alentejo, cutting off the south western part of the coastline. We decided on the change in route mainly because there were few alternatives to the busy national route heading southwards, from which we found ourselves having to continuously walk three kilometres at the end of each day to reach the beachside campsites. Day in and day out, doing an extra six kilometres in addition to our normal 20-25 was exhausting and counterproductive; but as there are few settlements along the road itself, it was necessary in order to stock up on food and water. In the end we decided that the inland route would offer quieter roads and more interesting walking, even if there were no campgrounds until we hit the South coast.
We have had little trouble finding places to camp in Portugal; it is a peaceful, relatively sparsely populated little country, with loads of farms and scrubland. But the difference between rough camping in one’s own country, and in a foreign one, is the difficulty in establishing what is parkland, what is farm, and what is deserted. As we discovered to our surprise during our late night encounter with the gun wielding police several weeks ago.
Another problem for us here is our lack of language – a problem I am well aware is our own fault – but which is in stark contrast to France, where we could at least ask to camp at farms without any fear of miscommunication. Many Portuguese speak either French or English, and in many cases both; but they aren’t farmers. And often by the time we are ready to camp we are simply to tired to try to go through the effort of trying to explain our situation to a farmer in pidgin Portuguese and sign language. It is also, I admit, partially due to the fact that often after we have spoken to someone, and been told we can camp, they most generously want to stay and offer us further hospitality in the way of food and conversation; but at the risk of sounding heinously selfish, sometimes after many days walking long distances and camping, all we want to do is eat a sandwich and collapse in the tent before the next day. We both love meeting and talking to people, but it’s really tough when you are exhausted and being talked at, by an entire family, in a foreign language, for hours on end. So sometimes we find ourselves being cowardly and looking for somewhere we can just throw the tent up and get a good night’s sleep.
Which is where my fears begin to rear their ugly head.
There are three recent examples I can think of, offhand, which demonstrate the varied experiences we have rough camping.
The first occurred one night after a really long day – we had done about 35km and it was particularly hot. For the last 10km there had been open fields with no farmhouses in sight and private property signs, so it was with relief that we saw a crumbling old stone wall partly enclosing an old olive grove just off the road. We were on the outskirts of a settlement and the clearing seemed to be the little used back end of a larger farm we could see some fields away on the hill. We headed in to scout about for a place to put up the tent, and were suddenly startled by a shepherd bringing his flock straight 
through the enclosure. He was a lovely old man, and assured us it was fine to camp there for the night – by his manner we assumed he was the farm owner – so we settled in, content to know we were camping with permission.
Now by the time we set up, cook dinner, peruse the maps and have a splash bath, we’re both usually ready for bed; sadly we are frequently tucked up by eight thirty. And Gary, bless his innocent little heart, is generally sound asleep by eight thirty five.
Unfortunately my relationship with insomnia is a close, long standing one, and I find myself awake for somewhat longer. 
Which is when my rather over active imagination begins to flex it’s little muscles.
What if Lovely Smiley Shepherd Man is really Dark and Sinister Serial Killer Man? Or worse, what if he went for a drink at the bar and mentioned us idly in conversation, and Dark Sinister Serial Killer Man, lurking menacingly in the corner, decided to come looking for us? What if that clear owl call out there is no such thing, but is really one DSSKM whistling to his partner in crime?
By now my breathing is shallow, chances of sleep incredibly minute, and every sense on wide alert. Which is when I hear voices passing within metres of the tent. Gary remains snoring soundly by my side – he always says he’d wake up at the first hint of danger but, frankly, I don’t buy it – and I am too scared to wake him in case the voices hear me. Suddenly the voices hush, and for long minutes I can’t work out whether they have hushed because they intend to make a sudden break into the tent, or if they are simply being quiet out of respect for our sleep. Eventually I will get so fed up with speculating I get up to go and look, and of course there is no-one there. Imaginary foes vanquished, I return to bed determined to sleep – but by now my chances are not good.
Gary wakes up at this point.
“Are you still awake?”
“Of course I’m still bloody awake. Two blokes just walked past the tent and you didn’t even hear them. Someone has to be awake.”
“So what? There’s a track up there, they were probably on their way home from the pub.”
“How do you know that? What if they’re still out there somewhere waiting for us to go to sleep?”
Gary gives a long suffering sigh: “I seriously doubt that is the case.”
“Well, don’t you think we should have a look and check?”
“By ‘we’, I suppose you mean ‘me’?”
“Well I already looked once. It’s your turn.”
“I am not going to get out of my nice warm sleeping bag just to check whether or not your bogeymen are there. I’m sure if they plan to murder us in our beds we’ll hear them coming.”
We lie in silence for a while, and then I hear Gary start breathing deeply again and I get really frustrated.
“Right, that’s it, I’m going out with the torch to have a good look,” I say with great resolution.
Gary heaves another of those sighs: “Whatever.”
I get out of the tent and have a good scout around. By now it is really late, and of course once I am out of the tent all seems calm and peaceful and perfectly normal. There are no serial killers in sight.
“So, did you kill all the monsters and vanquish the demons?” he asks me sleepily as I return to bed.
“ha ha,” I say grumpily, and try to go to sleep.
Which I don’t, really, all night, lying with one ear open the entire time.
The next night I am determined to find a good camp; in the end we 
do, a sheltered outcrop on a hill by a beautiful lake, where we have a great swim and wash, and I sleep like a baby. We are miles away from anything that night, off a quiet mountain road, and I am not worried about being disturbed. All my faith is restored.
But the following day is a return to my customary cowardly form.
We walked down a motorway for the last fifteen kilometres and are both exhausted. There is nothing remotely inviting about the dense eucalypt scrub on either side of the road, so when we finally see a pretty little farmhouse we turn off down the driveway to ask if we can camp.
Except there is no-one there.
“But I don’t get it,” I say to Gary. “There is a chook inside the door, which is padlocked – someone must be coming here to feed it. There are fresh tyre prints on the drive, and the water is still turned on. Someone must live here.”
“But the windows are all boarded up,” he argues, “and the place is obviously in ruins. The chook could have climbed in through the roof. And there is another house up on the hill – maybe they use this as the entrance.”
“I don’t know,” I say uneasily.
“Look. Why don’t we just camp here, and down the bottom where it is sheltered and out of sight, and then if anyone drives down we can always ask them if it is ok? I’m sure no-one will mind. It’s not like we’re criminals or anything.” Gary is already unpacking.
I walk up to the door and rap on it, just to check. To my absolute astonishment and Gary’s major amusement, a sharp rapping comes back from the other side; I jump about fifty metres in the air, shriek, and say: “I told you! There’s something in there.”
“ I know there’s something in there. It’s a bloody chook,” Gary says, killing himself laughing at my expense. “You probably scared it half to death.”
“How do you KNOW it’s a chook?” I say. “What if it’s a dangerous insane psycopath locked up by his even madder family? What if he gets out at night? What if they lock him in there to keep him away from people? The thing is, YOU DON’T KNOW.”
I keep going in this vein for some time. You get the picture.
Grumpily I set up the cooking stuff and get to it. There is a plastic bag hanging off one of the orange trees; every time it rustles in the wind I leap three feet in the air, convinced the madman is on the loose.
In actual fact the camp is so peaceful that I end up sleeping really well. But nonetheless, every time I roll over I wake up and cast and ear about, terrified I have missed something.
“I wonder how the madman is this morning,” says my dearly beloved as we pack up the following day. “Did you need to knife him during the night?” I give him my best disdainful stare and ignore his snickering as I pack up.
Like I said, it’s utterly pathetic. I love camping, love the smells and stars and the way everything tastes good when you eat it outside after a long day. I couldn’t care less about the lack of hot water – or, indeed, often any water at all – or the fact that we our packs are several kilos heavier because we have to carry so much water and food. And worst of all, I know that if I was in Australia, I wouldn’t be remotely concerned about the bogeymen. I think that at home, everything just seems that much more safe and familiar, which is completely irrational – as if there was any more likelihood of serial killers roaming around Portugal than the outback. But nevertheless. Irrational, childish, and pathetic as it may be, I remain a total Nervous Nellie when it comes to rough camping.
I know, I know. I’d never cut it on the Appalachian Trail.