walk of Life

Spent three days of our tour itinerary trekking through the rustic English countryside. Don’t think mere words can do justice to the magic of nature. Think vast expanses of lush green pastures, the long perimeter of low brick wall running along undulating hills, and the crisp and dry patched bark of winter trees and their naked leafless branches. Think the serene sound of running water breaking over eroded rocks in shallow streams, the gently growling gray skies enveloping the heavens, and the creaking of the wooden suspension bridge as a foolhardy party of 19 trooped across it.

Actually had to make two trips to the White Scar Caves in Ingleton Waterfalls. Found the tourist attraction in North Yorkshire to be flooded on our maiden trek. Thoroughly enjoyed the 8km walk nonetheless. Think the slight drizzle merely enhanced my appreciation of the countryside. Spotted a rock formation that looked like a lion head.

The 200,000 years old caves were a spectacular piece of underground art, with waterfalls (!) and streams coursing through it as blood flows through arteries. The mysterious rock formations were a sight to behold: diverse enough to appear as random forms of water erosion, yet intricate to the point of being deliberate creations of a higher power. Spotted a decadent lump of rocks that bore a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hut. Drooling.

The obit red plastic helmet that I’d donned reluctantly proved to be a lifesaver while I negotiated through low passageways, taking the brunt of the force as I crashed against the rocky top time and again. Eventually, the narrow tunnel opened up into a magnificent cavern. My mouth just gaped open in awe as I caught sight of the thousands of stalactites hanging delicately from the roof of the cavern. It must have taken scores of centuries for the stalactites to form, a testimony to the peace and serenity radiated by the holiness of the place.

The guide didn’t have much to do, in all honesty. Think her only worthwhile contribution was to switch off the dim lighting for about 30 seconds so that we were consumed by total darkness momentarily. Would have gone crazy should there be a blackout. In the absence of visual inputs, a thousand thoughts streamed through your mind every second until your consciousness turned numb and you eventually break down from the strain. A chilling experience indeed.

The trek through Cumbria was enjoyable as well. To get to lakes Windermere and Derwentwater, we had to climb over picket fences, walk through a fog and tiptoe through farms (private property), taking care to close the huge wooden gates behind us. Mr Barker warned us against annoying the rams lest the nasty beasts charged at us. The poor sods scampered for cover instead, dropping dung behind. The liar.

Eventually reached the hamlet of Grasmere, where William Wordsworth’s grave was located. Thought the cemetery well maintained, with rows of tombstone cast in pretty lawn grass. Noticed an interesting inscription, with someone born on my birthday who died on my brother’s. Then again with the number of births and deaths worldwide each day, I suppose the coincidence wasn’t really that remarkable. Though I suspect I let slip an opportunity to produce some 4D numbers.

Remember the Gingerbread Shop in Grasmere distinctively. Tucked away in a corner by the churchyard lynchgate, it was modestly built. A small brown sign stuck out above a wee window that read “Sarah Nelson’s original celebrated Gingerbread”. The peeling white paint didn’t look remarkably delicious, and the generous foliage peeking out amongst the gray-tiled roof looked more unsavory weeds than feel-good Christmas enhancements; but upon entering through the narrow green wooden door, the enchanting aroma of baking gingerbread wrapped around my body teasingly before twirling up into my nostrils and settling contentedly in my stomach to make complete the conquest of my soul.

After savoring a few bitefuls of the seductive samples at the counter, the whole party was moved into ordering, en masse, gingerbread galore. One guy even bought a few whole boxes, supposedly for his extended family members. Though how he’d be able to resist their ginger charm in his larder-less hotel room I’ll never know. Of course, my mother would open up the only pack of gingerbread I bought only one month on my return to discover moldy colonies all over the tasty fare. “You siao ar, those ang mo eat chao4 seng1 bread, you also want to follow!” Sigh…

Also trekked to Keswick on another occasion. ‘Twas evening by the time we wrapped up a long day’s walk, so the idea was to reward ourselves with dinner at the famous 1657 Chocolate House Shop. Don’t remember what I ate…suppose chocolate would be a good guess. Anyway one tends to appreciate his meals more at the end of a long day’s walk. Though trekking from Holland Road to Mandai to have breakfast with Ah Meng doesn’t quite have the same feel to it.

It was evening, the skies were graying, and we’d just completed an uphill walk to the top of Lake Ullswater. Most of the party were in a souvenir shop, either taking solace from the outside cold or picking up a few gifts, but probably not shoplifting. Stayed outdoors with Mr Barker, at a ridge overlooking Lake Ullswater , serene and strikingly beautiful at this time of the year. A guard of trees lined up alongside her, their dry leafless branches arresting the very essence of winter solstice.

“When I retire”, Mr Barker offered unflinchingly, “I’ll buy a cottage and spend the rest of my life here. This is what life should be about.” Me too. But I’d still have to spend decades ploughing away to fulfill this dream. By which I’d be too old and redundant ( and not quite rich enough) to apply for citizenship.

Mr Barker went away to China to be a school principal while I was still in JC. Never heard of him again.

When the setting sun blazed over the undulating hills, they gleamed like molten gold.