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.

Little five-month old Ellie has been a real champ with all the travel. The eight-hour time difference (from Alberta) confused her at first, but she has adjusted and is content resting against Sabrina in her sling or carrier as we explore. Her squeals of baby laughter are a joy to everyone.

Our mountain villa, with its stunning view of the Mediterranean, is about an hour and a half north east of Malaga. Sabrina has researched the most noteworthy and beautiful trails in the area, which are generally part of the GR (Grande Routa) system. While the small (often blind and one lane) winding roads around the mountains to reach the trails can be slightly harrowing, the hiking is magnificent.

I stopped back in Essaouira on my way Spain-ward. I wanted another hammam (still awesome!) and I also wanted to stock up on some stuff. I bought six kilograms of almond butter, three kilograms of black argan soap, two kilograms of dates (I knew the kids would love it all), a liter of olive oil and a ton of spices. I also bought a bunch of groceries (I was arriving to our mountainside villa earlier in the day than Sabrina and company and I wanted to have supplies to make dinner). I knew I had space for it all (barely) but what slipped my mind as I loaded it into my backpack was the weight of it. When I tried to hoist said backpack, I couldn’t lift it. I had to sit on my bum, put it on and then roll onto all fours. When I managed to drag myself into a wobbly semi-upright position my back was like, “wait, I don’t understand whats happening! Why! why!!”

Whenever any bus attendant or official tried to move my pack they would do a double take and stare back at me. On one train a young, burly Russian tourist that I had been chatting with offered to take it off the train for me and I noticed his knees buckle a little. He really stared back at me. At least I wasn’t worried about anyone running off with it. But the thought of navigating buses, hostels, trains, and a ferry for 1028 kilometres with a 33 kilogram backpack (we weighed it at the hostel in Essaouira) made me feel a little panicky. I decided to just relax, breathe, take it slow and steady, and that’s what I did.

As per my backs request, I questioned myself as to why exactly I bought so much and all I could come up with is that I just get so excited and wrapped up in how much fun it is to share the enjoyment of foods and pleasures of other places. I realize that my extremes can appear almost unhinged at times. Maybe it is a little, but it is also the weight of my love. And that is a weight I’ll gladly carry.

My back gradually accepted the load with glassy-eyed resignation and mostly without complaint. But I sure was happy to board the last bus.

I arrived in Spain in our villa yesterday afternoon! The views are stunning (pictures and more next post). I had dinner on the stove and was eagerly awaiting Sabrina, Ben, Little Ellie, and Ben’s parents, Jen and Fraser. They had landed in Madrid (sadly their luggage didn’t arrive with them), had rented a car, and drove the six (plus) hour drive. The small blind, hairpin turns up and around the mountains were absolutely crazy (I experienced them on the bus) and I tried not to worry. It was almost dark! And then I saw their headlights slowly making their way up the narrow bumpy driveway. It was a joyful and teary reunion.

I have been loving Tamraght! This small, hillside surfing village has dirt roads and is about three hours south of Essaouira. My hostel is very small and quiet with the ocean in front and endless mountains out the back. I was offered a ride here some days ago from two young German friends that I met at the Essaouira hostel who had rented a car and were heading in this direction. It was a bonus.

The weather here ranges from 8 – 12 degrees at night and 17 – 21 degrees in the day and is always sunny. I have been spending my time writing and reading in the evenings, with lots of hiking in the day.

I set off to find some castle ruins that I had spotted (all the way up) in the distance on a previous hike. After two hours of up, and more up, I (literally) stumbled on them.

When there is no known (at least to me) history of a castle I always wonder who lived there and built it. Did they stop at the highest point in the land, puff out their chest, plant their staff, and say, “Here I will build my castle! Start gathering rocks!”

I followed the wrong goat track back down and ended up in the village next to mine (they are scattered everywhere and all look the same) I had taken pictures giving myself a digital trail of bread crumbs to find my hostel once back, but that didn’t help me in the wrong village. I wasn’t worried about actually being lost. I could always see the ocean and from there, I knew exactly where I was.

For the first time on this trip I spent a couple of hours just sitting on the beach. It was another world. Tourists were strolling or sunbathing and surfers were surfing. I watched a group of young people in a surf lesson simulating surfing on dry ground. The inner dialogue between my ego and my alter ego went something like this –

“Such beautiful young people. Not a stretch mark to be seen. I should try surfing! It looks like so much fun. I think I will ….. Are you on crack?! Look how fast they leap up on their board from lying flat. You couldn’t get up that fast if a camel was running you down. Have you forgotten that you took another tumble because your ankle turned on a tiny little ledge on the road? You think you could balance on a surf board, with waves?! You can’t balance standing on solid ground….. But it looks so fun. Maybe I could do it. At least I could tr…

Suddenly, not quite in time, I noticed the surf racing up to overtake me where I’d planted myself. I grabbed my little bag with my phone, money and passport and moved as fast as I could. But I was stiff and slow because I’d been stationary for half an hour, so my joints didn’t work right. Everything got soaked. I just managed to save my shoe and my skirt, which were both floating out to sea. With my sodden and sandy belongings I positioned myself further up the sand. Soon my back was sore and it was time to move on.

Tamraght is definitely a surfers paradise and I will never surf. But the mountains behind it are a walkers paradise and I can still walk. Damn straight! Well…not always straight.

It was located in a large building with the ladies entrance on the right and the mens on the left. I walked in one of the ladies’ doors to see a small group of local women sitting on the floor in a circle with a big bowl of veggies, chicken and couscous in the middle. They were having lunch, traditional bread in their hands where we would have a fork, all digging in. Without question, they immediately invited me to join, so naturally I did. Expecting a hammam, I was a little confused but loved the random wonderfulness of it. And the food was as delicious as I remembered.

Forty-five years ago I spent a year and a half on my bicycle riding through Europe and North Africa with my first husband. In Tunisia we biked across the Atlas Mountains down into the Sahara Desert. It was hell and gone off the beaten track and we were often invited in for food. The veggie, chicken, couscous dish was the staple and I loved it. It was then that I was also invited for my first hammam.

In a nutshell, a hammam is a communal bath house involving sweat, hot water, soap, and a scrub. It was a small village in the mountains; the tiny cement building had a large wood furnace in the centre, surrounded by a circular half high cement wall with bench’s built into it, and a water cistern. It was me and all the village women, young and old. They stoked up the fire hot enough to make a sauna, took off their burka’s, soaped up their bodies and scrubbed each other down, including me. Then they poured pails of hot water all over each other. I remember tightly packed bodies, a lot of laughing, much raucously spoken Arabic (no one spoke English) and a strong sense of caring. It was a memorable and impactful experience for 20-year old me.

Anyway…back to the present. Once we were finished lunch one of the ladies led me out of the room and into the correct door for the hammam. Ahhh…got it!

It was essentially the same process as the first time but with much more finesse, style, comfort and modern facilities. I was led to a large, warm, clean, circular tiled room with a central platform and eight marble table slabs coming out from the wall by a smiling young woman who spoke no English. There were five or six local women there and two pubescent girls. Everybody was naked as a newborn and in some stage of the progression. There were no barriers or towels and I admired how comfortable they were in their nakedness among the sisterhood. The sight of an wizened old grandmother sitting and brushing her spry young granddaughters newly washed hair was so tender and beautiful it pierced me to my core. It was all very ‘just another weekly hammam’ for them. But for me, it was an intimate blending into another culture.

Body positivity is an ongoing work-in-progress for me and when I was told to undress I was initially self-conscious. But of course no one was remotely interested in me and I decided to let my body image dysfunctions drain out with the hammam water. Buck naked, in all my jiggly fish belly white glory, I was seated on a marble block (close to the grandmother and her granddaughter) where my attendant soaped me up all over with the local soft black olive soap. Again, it took some energy for me to relax with being attended to in that way… but while in Rome… I was then placed in a marbled steam room for about 10 minutes before she led me to one of the slabs and rinsed me off with pails of comfortably hot water. It was so slippery I was afraid I would shoot right off (I didn’t). Did she like her job I wondered. Was it interesting? What was going through her mind right then? (probably what was for dinner). I quieted my inner dialogue and laid on the marble slab. She proceeded to vigorously scrub every inch of my increasingly relaxed body with an exfoliating glove and some kind of paste. She washed and conditioned my hair and then more rinsing. The finale was a brisk, energetic 10 minute all over massage with a scented oil. The whole process took about 45 minutes.

I imagined Arabic women in their burkas to be more body inhibited than we are (and by that I mean me) in our culture, but that was not the case. They were relaxed and comfortable. And once I decided to lean into it, the experience was wonderful, invigorating and liberating.