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I was thinking about birds and the meaning they give to our lives.The British are bonkers about birds! And, then I remembered the incredible birds that inhabit the Gambia in West Africa. I remember being owed down a tributary of the River Gambia called the Lamin Stream to see an ecological centre. Twists of woody lianas trailing from the banks of lush mangroves formed an unbelievably green corridor. The sun was a fiery beacon beating down directly overhead and bouncing off the water. And there, on the boat, I was told something about myself that I could not fully comprehend at the time.
Everything was present in that moment and my heartbeat was rapid in the midday heat. My guide pulled on the oars and I faced him in a heightened state. “You will write two books,” he said. I can hardly believe him when I doubt that I will even make it out of his boat. But we arrived at the lodge intact, and pondering his words in the incomparable natural scenery, I resent the Gambian government’s policy of not allowing tourist cameras into the country.
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July 1st 2019
The Lisbon Metro is a system of coloured lines: amarela, azul, verde, vermelho, or red, blue, green and yellow. The simplicity of the network of fifty-five cool tiled stations is a weary travellers dream. I gradually come down into my body from out of my head and feel safe from the prying eyes of a yellow line predator.
Out on the street the temperature is 35 degrees centigrade, and thankfully dropping. The city is yellow and hot. I don the yellow sunhat nearly left in the loos at the airport in London when I rush to answer the last call for the flight. I wonder at The Torres das Amoreiras, also known as the Amoreiras Towers standing to attention over the city. I later discover the architect of these yellow fortresses of post-modernity have become a standing joke after sex tapes of him roughly buggering a succession of young girls in his Lisbon office were released onto the internet.
A gloriously enduring and joyous yellow feature of Lisbon is the electrified trams rattling along the networl of street lines. I wait in a dertermined, but friendly queue for ninety minutes to get on board Lisbon's famous Tram 28. This yellow tram has been trundling through Lisbon's narrow streets since the 1930s. I happily allow Tram 28 to take me where it will and rejoice in my seat by the open frame wooden window and welcome the sound resounding bell.
A revolutionary wind is blowing through the top floor windows overlloing Lisbon Castle in my hotel on the pretty tree filled square, Largo do Carmo. The square is where The Carnation Revolution took place in 1974, heraldeding the change from 48 years of an authoritarian state to a democracy with barely a shot fired. The people, despite being told to stay indoors, mingled peacefully with the troops, who along with the public put the red carnations in their rifles and demanded the resignation of the regime. Today the spot is marked with a museum dedicated to the success of revolution in the shadow of the high gothic arches of the ruined, but still magnificent Carmo Convent.
Renewables Revolution
An Atlantic wind blows through the hills and whistles noisily inside the bus's air conditioning system as i leave Lisbon. Outside the tinted windows, Nordex wind turbines are busily spinning megawatts of energy for the yellow city. Amongst the verdant native forests, patches of drooping genetically modified eucalyptus and pine stand out like sore dry thumbs dwarfed by the plantations of steel windmills that produce nearly a quarter of Portugal’s electricity.
The revolutionary spirit of freedom and self-empowerment lives on. No longer dependent on natural gas, 63% of the Portugal's total energy is provided by renewables; a carbon saving combination of on-shore and off-shore wind, wave and solar. In January 2020, Portugal achieved 100% renewable energy, a target other developed countries should be striving for.
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I visited Sicily many times between 2009 and 2015. Each time I felt compelled to write, not just about the resplendent locations and history, but about my observations, feelings and hopes for the future.
Do you know the land where lemon blossom grows?
Amid dark leaves the golden orange glows.
A gentle breeze drifts down from the blue sky,
still stands the myrtle, and the laurel high.
Might you know it?
There, there
Would I with you, oh my beloved, go.
These words are from Goethe's 1796 novel Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and reflects his attraction to the Mediterranean World. I didn't know until after my visits to Sicily that I shared a soul journey with Goethe, which is a fresh source of inspiration demanding a further exploration of my love of this island.
Acireale
Waiting for the bus to leave Catania Central station, I shed my clothing down to a t shirt and roll up my jeans to just below my knees. I am suddenly struck by the fact that I started solo travelling at the age of 14. Nowhere as interesting as Sicily certainly, but a journey taken with the single-minded purpose of reaching an unknown destination.
The driver indicates that he is ready to depart by saying, “Ok lady.” I readjust my clothes and climb on board choosing a seat immediately behind the driver, because although curious and excited, I’m relying on the goodwill of strangers to help me find where I am staying. Because, I have now discovered, my phone is not working on Italian network. So, I can neither phone or text Gloria, my Airbnb host. Amid my mental chaos a Franciscan nun sits down next to me. Her habit is made of stiff, grey buckram, impervious to any stain or weather. It spills out from her onto my seat. We are going all the way to Acireale together.
I consult my printed off Airbnb map. Only a couple of streets are named next to a vast expanse of blue sea. So, I ask the nun if she knows the Via Pacino. She shakes her head and shows the bus driver my map. He calls merrily out of his window to people in the street, "Via Pacino, Casa Gloria?” His enquiry is met with shrugs and smiles. He calls the mobile number printed on the sheet on his phone and Gloria answers. She is shopping in Catania about fifty minutes away, and where we have just come from.
Leaving the bus in the centre of Acireale, I call Gloria from a coffee bar on the owner’s wife’s phone. She gives me a set of indistinct directions that I decide to ignore. I gather what I believe to be a more coherent set from an intelligent looking young man, who concludes his step-by-step guide with an, “enjoy your journey.” And so I do, for the first part, wandering passed white domed churches and through neat parks and squares that lead on to a fish market that is just finished for the day. The streets are being brushed and washed down, a fishy smell is lingering.