If I turn left out of my gated driveway I am on a dirt road headed for town, if I turn right, I am immediately on a goat path in pastoral countryside (I am the second last house on the road). As my head allows, I walk, and unless I need groceries, I always turn right to the sounds of birds, cicada’s and distant cow bells.

The other day I came upon a herd of goats led by an older man wobbling on a bicycle and a short, older woman walking behind. Eager to practice Spanish I greeted the woman with an obvious conversation opener, which was that my son at home in Canada used to have goats. She was smiling and receptive and we walked on companionably, as she shepherded the herd. She told me that her father had died and now it was her and her brother who ran their goat farm. That her brother had to ride a bicycle because he had back pain. They walked every day so the goats could graze. I told her about my son Max who had many goats from the time he was six years old until he was in high school and that he took care of them himself and milked them every day. That we drank only goats milk for years and also made different kinds of delicious goat cheese. She told me they made goat cheese too and that they also loved it. And so on. I was so tickled that we were actually conversing and understanding each other, that when she said they were going off path into the high grass, I followed. I just wanted to keep practicing.

Time passed and it suddenly hit me that I was concentrating so much listening and speaking that I wasn’t paying attention to where we were wandering and I’d better get back lickety-quick to the path or I’d be hella lost. I said my farewells and by the time I realized that I was already hella lost it was too late, my goat herding friends were gone. It wasn’t as dire as it sounds. Paths crisscross everywhere around here and when I found one I simply followed the sound of cow bells until I came across the horse-backed Mexican cowboy tending them. I confirmed with him that Izamal was in the direction that I thought it was.

When I finally got to town I asked people directions until I made it home. I was tired and had been walking for much longer than my head appreciated but was delighted with all the practice. It’s intimidating to speak Spanish when I know that if I had a shred of dignity I wouldn’t be speaking in public, but I do it anyway. I learn better that way. And sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s really funny.

Shortly after I arrived, I stopped at a roadside stand for a taco, run by a husband and wife team. When they asked me a question in the typical, warp-speed that locals speak, rather than ask them to please speak slowly, I responded to their question with ridiculous confidence that I was from Canada. They laughed and laughed and laughed. Turns out they asked if I was going to eat there or take it away. And then we all laughed. I knew practicing Spanish would likely bring a smile to many faces but who knew it would also be a fun, little countryside adventure.

As expected, I was a little worse for wear at the end of the travel day but was well medicated. And it was a bonus to be able to take a train from Cancun to Izamal, rather than a circuitous bus route. My Airbnb host had messaged me asking my arrival time and letting me know that it was easier to navigate to the casita by car. I responded that I didn’t have a car but my train got in at 7:45pm and I would take a taxi from the train station. She said it was better to take a bus to the center and a taxi from there. My alarm had gone off at 2:45am, my head was hurting and I was taking it one careful step at a time. It was dark when I exited the train and walked onto the deserted platform.

“Might you be Arlene?” a compact, kindly looking grey haired woman asked me.

“I am! Oh thank you, thank you so much!” I responded surprised and delighted as I all but fell into her arms with gratitude.

“It’s ok, I come down to the station every day anyway to feed the stray dogs”, she said.

We caught a bus and she spoke with the driver who took us to within a ten minute walk of her property and was apparently where a taxi would have dropped me off. She said most taxis don’t go down her dirt road as it is out of the town limits. Who knew! The night was black and as we walked I imagined trying to find the address on that that dark road alone. Grim! I’m happy to report that my Devine sentinels are still on the job. In this case, her name was Deborah.

Deborah, originally from B.C., and her Japanese husband have lived in the Yucatán for the last five years. They retired here, built their home, and two little cottage casitas, on a large gated property and spend their time rescuing dogs and cats. I was looking forward to seeing everything in the daylight and it did not disappoint. My little casita is independently gated and surrounded by serene gardens with a Japanese flavor. My hosts live unobtrusively next door. There are also other secluded gated properties on the road making it less isolated than I imagined but that’s ok. My cute casita is quiet and private and I am safe and settled.

Almost six weeks after the tobogganing incident my brain is still scrambled. It doesn’t like fast movement, bright lights, loud voices and noise and if I am not consciously focused on a task, it no longer exists. Take for instance a pot on the stove. If I’m not staring directly at it, my mind, followed by my body, wanders off until the smell of burnt whatever alerts me. I lose words all the time (more than usual) and still feel like I’m in a rubber life raft riding the waves on the open sea when I’m on my feet for ridiculously short periods of time. But my ribs no longer bring tears to my eyes if I need to cough or sneeze and I’ll take that win!

The concussion symptoms have grown old but funny as it sounds, the days I have spent sequestered at home have not. With no choice I have leaned into a slower pace as I sort through papers, organize shelves and purge junk. Things I normally don’t take the time to do and my house and mental health are better for it. Around the same time as the toboggan fall, I was working through some emotional adjustments and the organizing and purging cleared my headspace so I could process better. I have never been one to buy new things very often, I have mostly pieced together a life with bits and scraps and sorting through the stuff reminded me that life is a rotation of change and adjustment from the time we exit the womb until we draw our last breath. The ability to accept ‘what is’ is essential for well-being, and so, with all the grace I can muster, that’s what I’m doing. My daughter Sabrina said I should journal. I think I will.

But it’s time for a revised healing plan. I have rented a private little casita on a dirt road off the beaten track in the Mexican Yucatan for a month. I know the ‘getting there’ part with my broken head will be grim. Between the airport with its loud announcements, the plane to Cancun, a four hour bus ride to Merida, followed by another bus to Izamal, and a 30 minute walk out of town to my casita, I will be done in. Just writing it makes me wither inside, but once there, I think the warmth and sunshine will do wonders for me. My son Colin will drive me to the airport in the wee hours this Sunday morning. 

At the moment there are raging fires across central and southern Chile about 500 miles south of Santiago. Thousands of acres of forest and hundreds of homes have been destroyed and people have died. My original plan to fly into Santiago and start riding my bike south from there would have put me in exactly that region. Who knows why events unfold as they do, but my dear friend Sue said she thanks God for my broken ribs.

I will be laying low in Mexico as my goal is to heal. Walking to town to get groceries will likely be my most exciting outing. Spending time in a lovely little casita simply reading and writing will be a new experience for me. It’s a far cry from adventures around every corner like my other winter forays into parts unknown but I am looking forward to it regardless. And I will still post… even if the posts put you to sleep. Here’s to good nights rest for all and restored health. 

“Will you slide down the hill with me Gram? Cuz you didn’t last time.” My four-year old granddaughter Cade (who has the memory of an elephant) looked up at me. We had just arrived to Conlin farm, our local toboggan hill in Perth. She spoke true. Last year I would run down the hill and help her drag the toboggan back up but not once did I sit my butt on the sled.

I was in my twenties the last time I went hurtling down a hill on a wooden death trap. I wiped out, cracked my tailbone and it was six months before I could sit without pain. And that wasn’t the first time I had hurt myself tobogganing. It amazes me when I see people speeding down a hill, swerving and steering, gliding to a stop, unharmed and happy, almost in the parking lot. My daughter-in-law Sharlee is one of those people, she and the kids are like poetry in motion on the hill. I’m kind of in awe.

I can do this, I thought. People love tobogganing, I was being paranoid. So I sat myself down on another wooden instrument of agony with Cade in front of me. Sharlee plunked my 15-month old grandson Huck on my lap, who was delighted, and down we went. It happened fast as these things do. You have probably already figured out that, of course, it didn’t end well. It’s a blur for me, all I remember is pain, but Cade says we rolled and rolled and rolled. Fortunately, the kids were both ok but my relic of a body was not. I was pretty sure I had broken a rib but after a few days it was clear there was also something wrong with my head. I had constant brain fog, headache, nausea and dizziness. At my daughter Sabrina’s insistence, I went to the hospital where X-rays confirmed the broken rib and the doctor confirmed a concussion.

So here I am, packed and ready for my bike trip to Chile. My brother Rob and I had gotten my bike road-worthy, he gave me a crash course on the mechanics, the bike box for the flight is waiting in my garage, but when the Santiago-bound plane leaves tomorrow, I won’t be on it. Between my dizzy head and my busted rib I can’t ride or carry a pack. Initially, I was super down-hearted that my winter was not going to look the way I thought it would. My visions of coasting down the mountains of Patagonia would not happen. It took me a couple of days to make my peace with it and then I decided that, for whatever reason, I just wasn’t meant to go on this trip. Maybe I would have crashed my bike or skidded off a cliff (making my toboggan shenanigans look like a winter picnic). Who knows. In any case, I’m grounded for now. Sabrina says I’m starting 2026 from a place with only room to improve. I like that idea. Maybe when my head is straight I’ll go for a few weeks to an Airbnb in Mexico to rest and write. I like that idea too. Until then, Happy New Year. Stay warm, stay safe and only go tobogganing if you are good at it.

It feels incredible that we are into November as I sit here writing, thinking about this past blueberry season and the winter adventure ahead.

It was another record breaking year in the blueberry field! Even with the drought, the berries were beautiful, big and plentiful, and for the first time, everything felt seamless. Maybe I’m just getting used to the pace but it’s more likely because I hired out some of the work this year so I still had energy for the fall chores. Which is also a first! I often cross the finish line of the season on my knees with a real estate agents number clutched in my dirt caked hands. Instead, this fall we re-mulched the plants, spreading 20 full tandem dump truck loads. That’s a mind-boggling amount of mulch. Let me repeat: 20 full dump truck loads! And even though it was a staggeringly huge job, I enjoyed it. Day after day I breathed in the smell of fresh pine as I weeded and spread mulch and imagined the plants’ joy at being so loved and cared for. Those are the sweet moments when I want to grow blueberries forever.

I recently booked my flight to Santiago, Chili on January 5th.

My plan was to bring my bicycle and ride the Carretara Astral, a remote, mountainous, mostly gravel 1200+ kilometer road through Patagonia, but after watching numerous youtube videos of bike-packers who have done it (many of whom were 20 and 30 year olds, who look like seasoned, muscled road warriors) talk about how challenging it was between the weather/terrain/road conditions, I changed my plans. Let’s face it – I’m about 40 years and 200 cheesecakes past those guys (who am I kidding – it’s way more than 200). I don’t mind hardship on an adventure, I really don’t; I even perversely like it. But while no one who knows me would ever confuse me with being delicate, I’m also not looking for a total suffer fest. So instead of riding the Carretera Astral I’m going to ride wherever I please. I’ll likely head south from Santiago towards Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia. I feel compelled to ride this year and want to take my same bike that I took on my first international adventure.

My first really big adventure was riding my brand new bicycle for a year and a half across Europe and North Africa when I was 19 and it changed my life. I imprinted on the freedom of living life outside pared down to its most basic needs, experiencing different cultures rurally and authentically, while traveling under my own steam. I know the way I generally choose to travel with my backpack and tent has an expiry date and you never know when that window will close. So the thought of riding again feels like I am completing a circle that is calling to be completed. The only thing is, the frame on my 50 year old Norco is slightly bent and my arthritic hands can’t reassemble what needs to be disassembled to be boxed for the flight. If it can be somehow banged back into shape, I’m good to go. If not, I’ll be hiking after all.

If I can ride, I will. And when I am finished, my plan is to give my bike away and hike the ‘O’ circuit (a stunning 120 kilometer hike) through Torres del Paine National Park. It is a legendary hike and I am hoping that, by then, I will be conditioned enough to do it. Patagonia is remote, vast and breathtakingly beautiful. I think it’s going to be quite an adventure.

Greetings Friends! Once again, I am participating in the Ride to Conquer Cancer to support the Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation. I am having my annual trivia fundraiser this Sunday May 25th at 2pm here at the farm at 211 Keays Road, Balderson. It would be great if you could come (if you can, give me a call at 613-812-1084 to let me know). If you cannot attend but would like to help me reach my $2500.00 fundraising goal the link for my personal donation page is below. Thank you in advance!

https://supportthepmcf.ca/ui/Ride25/p/ArleneKeith

Ireland was a nice waypoint. I walked for hours taking in Dublins city centre and enjoyed listening to spoken Irish and the accent. But it’s still just a city, and I’m generally not a fan of cities. It felt very loud after the mountains and the desert. My romantic notion to get down and rowdy till the wee hours in a pub didn’t happen. It was a bizarre thought as I don’t drink or like bars at the best of times, and I was tired. I guess I just thought… while in Ireland. But I did fend off a drunk on a city bus. Actually, “fend off” is overstating. I smiled politely (as Canadian’s do) when he sat down beside me. He then leaned into me and kept staring intently at my face. He was pretty brined and I leaned away and turned my head toward the window.. so I kind of got a taste of the pub experience. I eventually just got off the bus and went for fish and chips with malt vinegar (and half a pound of salt) which was delicious. I was warned the city could get pretty rough and I didn’t want to be caught on the streets alone after dark, so it was back to the airport for me.

I have only been back home a few days but Spain (and especially Morocco) already feels far away. I’m grateful that Sabrina and Ellie are home with me for a week as Sabrina introduces lil miss to the rest of the family. It was great to reunite with them all. Cade was so excited to see her aunt Sabrina and meet baby Ellie. And little Huck just kept on smiling.

In the fray of these uncertain times I feel so thankful that I was able to have this extraordinary adventure. It was the trip of a lifetime making memories with loved ones! And I enjoyed sharing it with you. My heartfelt thanks that you took the time to read, especially now, when our economy and very future feels turbulent and precarious. I love Canada with all my heart. Every time I cross the border back into Canada I am overwhelmed with a flood of emotion and my whole body exhales. No matter how wonderful the adventure, Canada is home and coming home is the best.

Thanks again for reading and riding along with me. If don’t see you soon, I’ll see you on the flip side!

Arlene

This postpartum family bonding adventure has been Sabrina’s dream for the past six years. Our little gang consisted of different personalities, mobility challenges, complete time switch for Ellie, in-laws and new parents but it all worked out beautifully! The trip was everything, and more, that Sabrina (and the rest of us) hoped it would be! We laughed until our stomachs hurt (playing with munchkin), made forever memories hiking through countless mesmerizing hikes. And through it all, Ellie was pure joy.

The Nerja Caves are a renowned massive cave system that were occupied in the Upper Palaeolithic Era. There are hundreds of prehistoric drawings (that we were unable to see due to preservation challenges). It was the only ‘tourist sight’ we saw and it was impressive.

Sabrina, Ben, Ellie, Jen and Fraser fly out of Madrid and are making their way northward as I write. They dropped me off at the Malaga airport where I am waiting to board my flight to Dublin. I’m going to squish in whatever Irish adventures I can in my 30 hour layover. And I just realized that the boarding line I have been keeping track of is going to Turkey. It is intermingled with my now very short boarding line. I’ve gotta go!!

Historical story about the Cortijo del Fraile Hermitage (copied and pasted from the internet).

BLOOD WEDDING

On 22 July 1928 the “Crimen de Nijar” (Crime of Nijar) took place at the cortijo, which inspired Federico Garcia Lorca to write his famous play Blood Wedding, and Carmen de Burgos to pen the novel Puñal de Claveles.

Francisca Cañadas Morales was born in Nijar in 1908 and lived in Cortijo los Frailes. She was known as Paquita La Coja (Paquita the Lame) because of her gammy leg. Some attribute this to polio, others to a hip dislocation when her father smacked her bottom too hard as a baby to stop her crying. Her father arranged for her to marry Casimiro Perez Pino, who lived near the cortijo.

The wedding party met at the Cortijo del Fraile in the evening for the nighttime wedding (traditional in those days) and guests noticed the bride was missing. Then they realised that her cousin Francisco Montes Cañadas was also missing and they worked out that she had eloped with the man she had been close to from a young age. The guest began searching and found Paquita a mile away, with her clothes torn and a bloody neck, claiming to have been strangled by masked robbers.

Francisco’s body was found 8km away at Cañada Honda Serrata (later marked by an impromptu cairn of small stones and a wooden cross) on the track to Los Pipaces, shot three times. José Pérez, the brother of the abandoned groom, handed himself in. He claimed at the trial that he had not pulled the trigger, but would not say who did. Perez was found guilty and given a seven year prison term, but only served three, and died shortly after of typhus. Francisca’s attempted murderers were Carmen Glen, her own sister and wife of José Perez. The killers were hooded and Francisca claimed to recognize the voices but refused to reveal the identities. Carmen was found guilty of attempted murder and served a 15-month jail sentence.

The groom Casimiro was found to be innocent of any connection with the murder. He never spoke to Francisca again and later married Josefa Segura. They lived in the fishing village of San José with their two children and he died in 1990. Francisca lived quietly as a recluse at El Hualix near the Cortijo, cared for by a niece. She never married, and refused to tell her story, despite petitions from journalist all over the world. She only met Carmen once again – when Francesca was very ill, Carmen came to the bedside and apologized. Francisca forgave her, but did not want to talk. Francisca died in 1987 and was buried in Nijar cemetery, not far from her murdered cousin.

Our new location is a little hacienda, three kilometers from the small coastal fishing village of Las Negras on the Cabo de Gata Peninsula (that section of coast is also called the ‘Ruta de los Pirates’). This arid, sparsely populated southeast corner of Spain is the driest place in Europe and feels like the mid southwest (many western movies are filmed here). It is surrounded by range after range of barren mountains with many varieties of blooming cactus, deserted beaches with sapphire Mediterranean water lapping its shores and stunning rock formations. The hiking has been absolutely wonderful!

The 14 kilometer trail (unreachable by road) across the range from Las Negras to Agua Amarga was rated by Lonely Planet as one of the best in Spain, but the 28 kilometer return trip was too grueling for las dos abuelas (the two grandmothers), so Sabrina devised a plan. Jen and I would start from here, she and Ben would drive the 62 kilometers around the range to the other end and start from there. We would meet on the trail, transfer the car keys, then Jen and I would drive home from Agua Amarga. That way we could all do the hike. Sabrina uploaded, downloaded and reloaded navigation apps and maps on my phone, including their zoleo (a satellite system where you can send a pinned location or an SOS) and a crash course in operating all the technology (my brain was sparking and in danger of short circuiting). But since none of us have a Spanish SIM card or internet, it was important to stay on trail so we didn’t risk missing each other.

We passed through San Pedro, an isolated (reachable only by foot) tiny hippie dippie community of cobbled together shelters from reclaimed castle ruins (built in the 1570’s to fend off pirate attacks), tents, and a couple of roughly built structures. It’s been occupied since the 1960’s by people living an alternate lifestyle and while it was interesting, my eyes were mostly glued to the trail app on my phone making sure we didn’t get lost in the maze of trails and end up in some occupied cave with ‘our’ trail lost forever. Jen said, “I could see me living here during my hippie days”. I said, “I could see me living here now”. But I couldn’t, I’d miss my grandkids too much. And who would grow my blueberries.

It was a great success and so we did it again, with Ben and Jen going one way, and me and Sabrina going the other way for another wonderful hike.

For over two hundred years the tiny village of Acebuchal, perched in the foothills of the Taheda mountains, was a waypoint for merchants traveling by mule to Grenada to sell their wares. But in 1949 it’s inhabitants were forced out by Franco, who used it as a base to hunt down guerrillas that opposed the fascist regime and eventually the village fell to ruin. For 60 years it was a ghost town until a former resident revived and renovated the 30 odd homes, started a small restaurant, and it is now a thriving family business with home stays. It was beautiful hike there and Sabrina and Ben treated Jen and me to lunch in the quaint little village (sadly Fraser isn’t able to come with us on any of our hikes as he is blind. He stays at the villa and listens to audio books and works out chess puzzles in his mind). We accompanied our delicious savory dish of wild boar and beef cheeks with bread and olive oil which was, hands down, the best bread I have ever tasted.

We will be leaving this sanctuary for another location in this land of olives and avocados on Sunday. Our stay so far has been full of abundance – lots of hiking, writing on the deck facing sea and mountains, Mediterranean cooking, and laughing with lil Ellie.