Mont-Saint-Michel

'Hurry up! We’re going to miss the bus!' I screamed over my shoulder.

'Relax, chid-chid' she said, as she continued walking at her slow pace.

Over the 10-day holiday in Normandy with a friend, this has come to be my nickname. Chid-chid. Irritable. Whether it is a noun or an adjective, I still don’t know, but the Hindi language has always been too mind-boggling for my ‘How can non-living things have a gender?’ logic. I can’t argue with her. I think I can be a real chid-chid, more so when it comes to travel.

Visiting Mont-Saint-Michel (pronounced Moh-Sah-Me-shell) has been one of those little dreams for quite a while now. Those little dreams, that aren't large enough for you to dive into and pursue in hasty determination, but that lie in wait at the back of your mind, and find their ways into your thoughts at the most random moments, only to gently remind you that they too, are waiting to be acted on. It struck me as unreal in every picture of it that I came across, as if such beautiful structures were saved for fantastic imagination, and would be lost the moment pen touched paper. This was undoubtedly the top thing-to-see on my bucket list when planning my trip to Normandy.

Mont-St-Michel is a small island off the coast of Lower Normandy. The hill's peak is capped by the beautiful abbey, while ramparts along the periphery of the island enclose a tiny medieval village. Due to its location, the island has been exposed to the strong currents of the Couesnon river. I stand corrected. That’s how it should be. But over the years, a lot of sediment and silt have accumulated on the island, and the river, rendered powerless due to human activity, has been unable to carry away the sediment. A huge project, to be completed by 2015, is now underway, to restore the Mont to its original maritime character.   

To get there, we caught a bus from the city of Rennes. I’ll save practical information for the end of the post. But, be warned, a day-trip there must entail solid plans, quite unlike our own. The bus schedule can quite often get in the way of visiting the Mont at your own pace.  

The things that stood out on my visit: The crowd reminded me of the only time I visited Tirupati with my family. For the uninitiated, Tirupati is a city in south India, well-known for its temple that is probably one of the most visited pilgrimage sites in the world. A trip that we took when I was around 8 years old, that has left me with unexpected memories; of being unable to catch sight of the idol after waiting for long hours to see it, because I was being carried away by the sheer force of the tall crowd; of being in tears while my father got a tonsure, as amused bystanders looked on; of being appeased by large portions of Tirupati laddoo, a sweet that I hold in high reverence, quite unlike the place it originates from.

I seem to have digressed. Back to Mont-St-Michel. So, caught amidst such a high density of people, we could hardly move. Before we even realised it, we had joined the end of a queue that appeared to head in the direction of the entrance of the abbey. It was time to weigh the odds, as we stood there sweating under the scorching sun.

With this never-ending queue, who knew if we’d be able to make it back in time before the last bus left? We had no place to stay there, and I wasn’t willing to squander 100 or more euro on a hotel closeby. I had been inside more cathedrals in the past three years than I had visited sacred places my entire life before that. And quite frankly, probably because of my agnostic nature, I am more enamoured by the external architecture of churches than their sacrosanct interiors.  

We passed souvenir shops on our way, and I began to take a look at the postcards. One thing I have come to realise on travels, and then applied to every trip I make. I always take a look at postcards displayed in local stores after I have finished visiting a place. That way, I know if I’ve missed something, and if it is alright to have skipped it. Postcards provide a compilation of the best shots of any spot, and usually cover the main attractions in a region. While I guiltily swallowed the voice inside my head that screamed 'This is cheating!', I quickly spotted a few postcards of the abbey. It looked like a pretty cloister, but it was something we could skip. We broke out of the queue, and made our way in the opposite direction as we walked along the periphery of the little island.

A lot of people were peeking out from the abbey and taking photographs. This struck me as a little unusual. I doubted that the muddy slush that surrounded us would make for a pretty picture. But a view of the distant bay lay in wait. For the moment, I was happy enough to be looking at the structure than from it.

After spending an hour or two walking around the island, we made our way back to the bus stop on the causeway. I took one last look, longingly, before getting on the bus. The feeling hadn't changed. I had imagined that being there, seeing it for over two hours, touching the medieval walls as we walked in narrow streets packed with touristy shops, would change its surreal feel. But it hadn't. To me, it was still unreal, like a florid drawing in a fanciful dream. I would revisit it, I promised myself, in what now seems like shallow attempts at placation. Someday, after 2015. When the construction was complete, and the Mont had been restored to its original setting. When plans were properly laid, queues wouldn't bother, and I didn't have to worry about having to leave. I would time it to stand at the highest point in the abbey, and peek out as high tides swept up to the shores of the island around me. And then I would stay there, on top of the world, and allow it all to sink in. Someday. 

Practical information:

• This site here provides all the information you’ll need about Mont-St-Michel. Do try and sychronise your visit with the time of the high tides that occur twice a month. I’ve heard that the view from the abbey during high tides is spectacular.
• Getting there by public transport: Buses ply from Rennes and Saint Malo. In Rennes, the bus service is provided by Keolis, and the bus station lies just outside the entrance to the train station, on the right. Silly as this might sound, if you’re over 18 and have a valid licence, my suggestion would be to rent a car and drive there! It’d save you a lot of trouble.

De-vine valley of the Rhine

Before I left for Germany, I knew that a visit to the Rhine valley was mandatory. The Rhine valley is the romantic, 70 kilometre stretch along the Rhine river, that blends together medieval towns, fortresses and historical castles among fields of vineyards. This was certainly a site worth seeing. When a friend showed me a picture of the castle ‘Burg Eltz’, not quite far from the Rhine, and added that I could trek to the castle, I decided to try and combine a trip that would encapsulate multiple interests.

I reached the city of Koblenz late one night, and spent a couple of hours getting to know my couchsurfing hosts. Koblenz is a touristic city (a description of which I shall save for a future post) where the Rhine meets its tributary, the Moselle river, and is a good place to base yourselves when touring the region. Early the next morning, I caught a train from Koblenz to Moselkern, a little town on the banks of the Moselle, the starting point for the 5 kilometre trek to Eltz. The short train journey to Moselkern follows the Moselle river, and the scenic little houses on the opposite bank, with a backdrop of rich, enticing vineyards, made for a very pretty picture.

View from the train

I managed to take a couple of pictures on the train, hoping to pocket some of the beauty as it passed me by. A lot of people say that if you're spending your time taking photographs, you’re losing out on the experience. Although I don't wholly disagree with that, I always like to ‘take a shot’ at salvaging an experience that would otherwise be quickly forgotten. Hopefully, years from now, photographs and travel notes will aid in reliving days worth remembering.

I got off at the empty station, and made my way through the narrow streets of Moselkern. It seemed to be a well traversed route; at frequent intervals, informative signboards (some of them provided the distance left, and the approximate time that it would take to reach the castle) guided me in the right direction. Before long, the route broke off tarred road, and I made my way through a muddy and gravelly path.

On my way to Eltz

For me, a large portion of reaching a destination has to do with the journey. Much like achieving orgasm. Sorry kids, but allow me to attempt cheap humour on the birds and the bees while your parents send across virtual glares. No matter how much you want to arrive at your destination, it’s the anticipation and excitement building up to it that make it worthwhile. This was exactly how I felt as I headed towards the castle. The setting quickly grew more wild, and I crossed little rivulets as the narrow, winding path got steeper.

I was soon greeted by the castle’s brown façade that merged well with its dark green surroundings. As I got closer, I was taken aback by its size. It was gigantic! The white towers and oriels stand out in stark contrast to the rest of its mild, yet alluring appearance. The entrance ticket came with a guided tour of the castle, which proved to be very informative and interesting. I learned that it was still in fantastic shape, even with an eventful history of war across the centuries, because of the political power of the Eltz family. The armoury and treasure chambers were certainly worth a visit. Extensive cabinets displayed the vast wealth of the owners. 

Burg Eltz

At the end of the guided tour, I was approached by another solo traveller who had come to Eltz with his car. Initially, my fuzzy plans involved trying to make my way to the Rhine valley after the Eltz visit. Since his plans were similar to mine, we agreed to continue our journey in his car. A final, panoramic view of Eltz awaited me at the parking lot. 

We decided to cut across from the Moselle to the little town of Bacharach that lay on the banks of the Rhine. We’d then make our way back to Koblenz, about 50 kilometres away, all the while driving along the Rhine. Only with an automobile would it have been possible to pass through such a large portion of the Rhine valley in a couple of hours. This was turning out to be my lucky day!


Bacharach turned out to be a charming little town, with a population of just over 2000. On either side of narrow, cobbled streets, lay timber-framed houses interspersed occasionally with the tall steeples of churches. Richly coloured flowers sprouted from much adorned balconies and flowerpots on the streets, lending the entire city a very decorated look. The town’s castle, which has been renovated into a hostel, stands atop a tall hill. After failing to climb the steep route to the castle, we decided to stop at a platform midway, to get a view of the Rhine below. With that, we headed back to roam around the little town.

Bacharach

As I walked through streets in different towns in Germany, one thing that struck me as common, was the mysterious chalk markings at the entrance to certain houses. 20 + C + M + B + 13. I came across this message in several places, and each time, I wondered what it stood for. I later read that it was a blessing to the homes that donated to charity events during the Catholic holiday of Epiphany (January 6^th, every year). While the letters C, M and B stand for the three wise men, the numbers on either side represent the year that the house would stay blessed. Interesting trivia! 


It had already been a long day, and fatigue, always undesired at such times, was inevitably creeping up on me. After spending an hour or so in Bacharach, we decided to head back to Koblenz, while pausing at towns or castles that caught our fancy.

This was the best part of my day, and the hardest to describe. As we drove through winding roads that struggled to keep up with the meandering river, we were presented with one picturesque panorama after another. On our right, the Rhine seemed to flow headlong through seemingly untouched regions that fell prey to its powerful currents, only to create lush, beautiful valleys that thrived in its presence. As we swept past medieval villages on our left, hilltop fortresses and castles that adorned rustic cliffs loomed on a horizon much above us. I loved how the verticality of discontinuous vineyards on untamed, green hills created the backdrop of every panorama. You’re saying that for the sixth time this hour, he said. Only then I realized that, immersed in a trance-like state, I was caught muttering - So beautiful. Although I didn't want to pause, I wished that the continuously altering landscape, constantly emerging afresh, would go on forever.

         
               


                  

The whole while, I felt like I wanted more time. More time to just absorb it all, knowing only too well that I would never be able to. We were driving through the best part of the Rhine, through a cultural wealth so rich, it was bursting at its seams. Undoubtedly the most picturesque landscape in the region, the stretch justified its status as a world heritage site. We made a final stop at Rhens, a pretty town very close to Koblenz, but didn’t spend too long there. As we arrived at Koblenz, at the end of a wonderful day, I felt like I had been on a magical trip. An experience that I couldn’t seem to hold on to, that seemed more dream-like and unreal with every passing minute. 

View from Rhens

I was fortunate to spend the day as I did. Now I am left with photographs that do no justice to the beauty of the Rhine valley. To everyone reading this, I’d urge that someday, you try and pay it a visit. Whether it is with a bike, or on a river cruise, or on a walking tour, tourists can choose from several options to discover and enjoy it on their own terms. I can assure you it will be well worth your time, and most likely, like me, you’ll be left longing for more.

   

The couchsurfing experience

I recently spent two weeks travelling in Germany, and managed to add the couchsurfer tag under my belt. For the uninitiated, couchsurfing is a platform that provides travellers (called ‘surfers’) with a chance to stay with a host, usually someone who’s local to the city they’re visiting. On the flip side, people who have extra room at their homes lend their ‘couch’ for travellers to spend a couple of nights. At the end of the stay, references are written, so that future surfers/hosts know what to expect from the next hosts/surfers. It is evident that the basis of such trysts is trust.  

While I travel, at least 50% of my dough is spent on accommodation. The longer the trip, the more relevant the synonyms for ‘spent’. Consumed, exhausted, or quickly depleted. You get the picture. I must admit it, selfish as it may sound (who isn't?), that I joined the couchsurfing website some time back with the sole intention of being hosted for free, and thus saving myself the money I’d spend on hostels. To get started, I needed some references, and to get references, I needed to host people. The idea of hosting people seemed like a means to an end.

I left on this impromptu trip to Germany with a couple of references on my page (from some kind friends). Since I was making on-the-spur-of-the-moment decisions of where to head to, I decided to try my luck with couchsurfing, and didn’t book any early hostel accommodations. I really enjoy travelling alone, and the unpredictability of an unplanned trip certainly adds to thrill. I turned out to be extremely fortunate, I was hosted thrice in the same week.

My curiosity got the better of me on these surfing trips. Each time, I made it a point to ask my hosts their reasons behind opening their doors to strangers. What was in it for them? Their responses fell in the ‘We like meeting new people from different cultures’ category. Not one said that they’d like some positive references so that it would be easier for them to travel. Was I the only one with this selfish thought? Was that not at least one of the reasons? If so, how come people weren’t stating it, at least as an afterthought? Is the notion of coming off as selfish something we fear, even amidst complete strangers?

What struck me as extremely kind was that some hosts don’t just provide you with a place to spend the night. They also cook for you, provide a drink or two, and show you around their city if they have the time. If hosts were doing this in the long run (I came across some gracious people who hosted at least 2 surfers a week), it occurred to me that they’re actually paying for one more person to live at their homes. Monetarily, isn’t that running a loss? So again, what was the point of being so kind?

At the end of the week, I was really thankful. Not just because I was saved some money, although I won’t deny that that is also one of the reasons. But, most of all, I was thankful because of the experience. The couchsurfing affair was different.

I got to meet people with backgrounds a far cry from my own, that the short time I spent with them, exchanging stories, turned out to be an enriching experience. To listen to a musician's opinion on appreciating music, that I would like to think I empathized with after it evoked a ten-year-old memory. To engage in conversation with someone who’s undertaken an obstacle course that I’d never even dream of registering for; whose elaborate description, made with such perspicuity, left me feeling like it was better than any race report I had ever read. To be so inspired  by someone's work choices, that it left me feeling guilty for a couple of days, like my life suddenly seemed so shallow. Contrarily, it’s nice to know that even with such disparate lives, you’re similar in so many ways. To find that somebody who grew up in a totally different environment shares a fondness for the same genre of music as you do; or to discover that a stranger has the same idiosyncrasy as you do (You HAVE to completely wet both hands with water before brushing your teeth? Me too! ). 

All this, I must emphasize, with strangers, who I will probably never meet again, unless fate plays a part. 

In retrospect, I may have relevant answers to the questions that plagued me earlier. I think, sometimes, with acts of kindness, it isn’t about the act per se, it’s about the feeling it leaves you with. Maybe, it isn’t about being told that doing nice things for others will make you feel good, it’s about having been at the receiving end of those nice things, and knowing what it feels like. Realising that, maybe, it isn’t about returning the favour, because who knows when you will meet the same people again? Maybe, it’s about passing it on, to be able to experience that feeling once more.

I don’t know if I will be as lucky the next time around, to come across such gracious and wonderful hosts. But I do know that I would certainly like to experience couchsurfing again. Two years ago, if I was asked to host a stranger in my home, I would’ve found the idea ridiculous. Today, I certainly would, and not just because of the possibility of a good reference.

Lübeck beckons

The first time I heard of Luebeck was when I was hurriedly booking a flight ticket from Germany to Portugal. Low-cost airlines occasionally take off from unheard of places, some of them extremely hard to get to. I was taught a lesson last year, when I booked the cheapest ticket from France to Porto. The St. Etienne airport turned out to be so far away from civilisation, we spent more money getting there, than on our flight tickets! Since then, I quickly look up the airport in question, to see if it’s easily accessible. This was when I came across a post about the ‘Hanseatic city of Lübeck’ being declared a world heritage site by UNESCO. I bought the ticket without further ado. I’d worry about getting to the airport later. There’s something about world heritage sites that thoroughly excites me.

Luebeck is about 60 kilometres from Hamburg, in the north of Germany. The river Trave surrounds the old town of the city, creating a moated island locked in medieval charm. The town’s biggest attraction is the Holstentor, the most significant of the four town gates into the island. While the front view (from inside the city) of the Holstentor is a continuous, richly decorated facade, the view from the outside presents three separate structures, two columns and a central block. The gate is now home to the museum of municipal history.

Holstentor, from the outside, along with the towers of St.Peter's and St.Martin's churches

Once inside the city, I headed towards the tallest of the churches. St. Peter’s provides a panorama of the entire city from its 50 metre high viewing platform. Though it didn’t occur to me as intensely breathtaking, the view gives you a gist of the city’s appearance. Apart from the six other towers that dominate the Luebeck skyline, what drew my attention was that the entire town is built in brick. I learned later that this sort of architecture, called brick-Gothic style, is a trait of regions around the Baltic Sea. This lent the city a very ancient, yet authentic feel.  

I walked into the oldest part of the city, the Marktplatz, where flea markets are in progress during the day. The town hall, called Rathaus, lies on one side of the Marktplatz, and is a magnificent structure. I’ve not seen anything quite like it before. An ornate facade rests atop an arched walkway. With a number of little spires and seemingly unnecessary holes in the structure, the Rathaus exuded a bewitching charm. The darkness of the brick added to its appeal.

Rathaus

Luebeck also has a reputation for its marzipan, a sweet made from almond and sugar. Right outside the Marktplatz lies a store of the most famous of marzipan brands, called Niederegger. I was advised to try some. Being a sweet toothed person, that turned out to be sage advice; the marzipan was delicious!

I spent the rest of the day walking along the narrow streets of the little town, always fully aware of the amount of brick around me. I was also struck by the sheer size of the churches. Compacted in tiny lanes, the towering structures gave me a crick in the neck, and made for distorted photographs. But I have no complaints. The more I absorbed the brick ambience of pretty Luebeck, the more it appealed to me, and the longer I wanted to linger.

View while crossing one of the bridges into Luebeck

Fortunately, getting to the airport was a ten minute bus journey from the Marktplatz! I couldn't have asked for more. 

Rückkehrunruhe

I return to India eleven months after my last visit. In a decade, that isn't too long a span of time. But, it's still 330 odd days! I come home to steeping familiarity. Nothing seems to have changed.

On the one hand.... Nostalgia re-visits, like the well-known stranger. My surroundings play trigger to dormant memories that seem to have been patiently waiting to spill out in abundance. Even though the time of each occurrence is obscured, the clarity of it all takes me by surprise. I was always considered (by myself too) to have a mind like a sieve. How do I remember so many details? The flood of recollections overwhelm. Too much is bundled up in a single word - childhood.

Running late to catch the school bus. Every day. Playing cricket in the evenings, the lefty vs righty teams we made. Lock-and-key in a space that quickly became too small. The large tree in which our 'favourite' tennis ball would get stuck much too often. The antics and affections of elder brothers. The rush to quickly get to a friend's place on Sunday evenings, only to realise midway that it wasn't such a good idea to sprint right after gulping down a tumbler of milk. Madly sprinting the next Sunday anyway. The sheer terror after falling down my cycle at a hollow in the road. The same depression still exists, at the same spot. The memory of that terror returns with a silly smile, like a lingering aftertaste. Experimenting with gravity-defying (that's a euphemism for stupid) stunts on the cycle even after all the mishaps. Petrichor, and the desires that it brought along. While those desires morphed over the years, it adamantly remained my favourite scent. Be it the mouth-watering craving to eat mud, or the urge to frolic even in downpours, or the need to drink chai and eat hot pakodas that very instant, Petrichor meant happiness. Broken lampshades, and one-too-many shattered vases that would conveniently be blamed on butter-fingered tendencies. The thrill of stealing Bournvita and sugar, hoping we'd never get caught. Sigh, I could go on!

On the other hand..... Events that occurred in the past eleven months suddenly seem oddly distant. Like they aren't my own. Like the experience is someone else's story. The sense of detachment leaves me feeling very unsettled. Why am I unable to bring home with me some of what I had experienced? Why does it seem like the rush of a forthcoming trip, that I had felt so often, was now unknown? Like the joy of adventure, unfamiliar? It's as if I never undertook those journeys in the first place. It feels like all I am left with are a fresh load of memories that I don't belong to. As I sift through photographs taken in the last few months, I feel disconnected from it all. As if I have been photoshopped in them.

It takes two days to sink in. Two days of rückkehrunruhe. I came across this empathic post here:

Rückkehrunruhe

n. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness—to the extent you have to keep reminding yourself that it happened at all, even though it felt so vivid just days ago—which makes you wish you could smoothly cross-dissolve back into everyday life, or just hold the shutter open indefinitely and let one scene become superimposed on the next, so all your days would run together and you’d never have to call cut.

Brilliant, isn't it? To coin a term that captures such emotion! Hence the title of my post. Maybe distance does that to you. Brings back some memories while taking away others. Making you feel like time stands still in one world, while it's whizzing past in another. I feel like I am living two separate lives. Like I can't be a part of both at the same time, no matter how much I'd like to. Oh well, it isn't every day that I get to experience such paradoxical emotion! Might as well revel in it as it passes by. 

Scintillating Sintra (part 2)

I am obliged to continue from the end of the last post, where, by 4 PM, we had exited the Park and Palace of Pena and made our way to the centre of Sintra. But, I will have to interject a bit of our web search from the previous night. A Google search for 'Things to see in Sintra' provided us with a whole list of palaces and parks. Narrowing our search down to 'Things to see in Sintra IN ONE DAY' gave us subjective compilations of the best things to see. In all the opinions of what is worth it, and what can be skipped, one thing stood out. The 'Quinta da Regaleira'. What is it? Google provided us with this image -

Mild curiosity quickly elevated to intense levels of inquisitiveness mixed with excitement. What IS that? A further web search gave us a list of seemingly melodramatic opinion. Magic, cosmic, mystical, unreal, they all exclaimed. Must see, cannot miss, DO NOT miss, they all stated. But, WHAT IS IT, damn it? In all their hyperbole, none of them had explicitly stated what exactly the Quinta da Regaleira was. Whether my amateur web searching skills are to be blamed, or we just didn't have enough time to spend online, the mild frustration that I was left with that night only fuelled my desire to see the place and find out for myself what it really was.

I will let the cat out of the bag. In a nutshell, the Quinta da Regaleira is an estate that hosts a summer palace in a gorgeous garden. But, that is putting it too mildly.

The travesseiro

After reaching the centre of Sintra at 4 PM, we decided to pick up something to eat at a cafe before walking to the Quinta da Regaleira (henceforth shortened to just 'Quinta'). While figuring out how to get there, we also tried the 'travesseiro', Sintra's pastry specialty. Portuguese for 'pillow' because of its shape, the travesseiro was something I quite enjoyed. The sprinkling of sugar on the top was the icing on the cake, quite literally too!


Getting to the Quinta by walk takes less than ten minutes from the centre. Once on the street leading to the Quinta, one is greeted by a picture of the palace in the distance. Even while on the road, the palace's intricate exterior is visible from afar, something that I have noticed only once before, in the palace hotel of Bucaco, also in Portugal. It turns out, the same architect worked on both palaces.

At the entrance, we were handed a map of the entire estate. We immediately spotted a tiny picture of the same photo that we had come across on Google the previous night. Termed the 'Initiatic well', the structure is a 27 metre tower that sinks into the earth, and is connected to different caves via underground tunnels and walkways. The short description provided on the map sounded so thrilling, my childish whims re-surfaced, and I decided that come what may, I HAD to see this well before leaving the Quinta. With just an hour and a half to spare before catching the last bus back to the Sintra station, that didn't leave us with much time.

After spending very little time gaping at the splendid exterior of the palace, we made our way towards the Initiatic well. And here's where the Quinta quickly managed to highlight my "true" (read abominable) map-reading skills. Heading in the direction of the Initiatic well (or so we thought!) proved fruitless, and winding paths just kept taking us around the same place. In the hour that quickly passed, we managed to cross the extremely ornate chapel, and the Regaleira tower. We also crossed a couple of grottos, cave-like recesses, the most well-known of which has a statue of the Greek mythological figure, Leda.

Before we knew it, the time to depart arrived, and the Initiatic well was nowhere in sight. With heavy hearts, we trudged back to the bus stop. Only after taking a closer look at the bus schedules did we notice that in so long we had been looking at the schedules for 2012. According to 2013's schedule, we still had an hour to go before the last bus. What a lack of attentiveness! This was turning out to be the day to expose flaws that I had managed to artfully conceal so far. In our frustration, we ripped off the previous schedule, so that it wouldn't fool future tourists.

We literally ran back to the Quinta, and decided that in order to waste no further time, we would ask the lady behind the information desk to direct us to the Initiatic well. With a perplexed look, she told us that we just had to walk along the left boundary of the estate, to reach the 'Grotto of the east' which is the entrance to the tunnels leading to the well. By then, it had begun to rain.

We walked briskly and managed to find our way to the entrance of the Eastern Grotto, thankfully, without further ado. What follows is probably going to sound over-the-top, but I will try to pen my emotions down as I felt them. As we entered the caves, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness that we were quickly engulfed in. Treading carefully, I noticed how the caves had amplified the sound of the rain. Or was it just a heightened auditory sense now that my vision was obscured? I couldn't tell, but it was much like I have heard only in some movies, and imagined when reading books. Amidst the din of the pouring rain, I felt like I was consumed by an empty silence.  

One of the tunnels. My camera seems to have
added much light to the scene.

The first light I spotted emanated from one of the exits of the tunnels, which led to the waterfall in the garden. But, we continued walking in the opposite direction, towards a distant light, where we guessed the Initiatic well lay. When we finally reached the well, I was dumbfounded. The look of wonder in my friend's eyes mirrored my own feeling. We were finally here, standing at the bottom of the well, looking up at a view that people had captured a million times. Looking up at the view that got me excited about visiting the Quinta in the first place. In the hollows of the caves, enveloped in darkness, the stream of light that seeped in from 27 metres above us lent the well an illumination that left me astounded. How beautifully it had been preserved, for over a century, not just the physical structure, but its potency to overwhelm, while taking the tourist from darkness to light. We took the spiral staircase that led to the top of the well. When I finally got out from the top, the feeling that had been generated quickly fell away from me. It was as if it was  meant to be experienced only while within the well. We were back in the outdoors, that suddenly seemed much too ordinary. We walked back to the bus stop, consumed in our own thoughts by this last-minute experience. It had been the perfect way to end our splendid day at Sintra.

I wish I had more time to spend in the Quinta. If a quick trip to the Initiatic well could leave me feeling so intoxicated, I can only imagine how it would've felt to spend an entire day there. To understand the complexity of the palace in all its resplendent beauty. To walk at leisure along the garden's winding paths, without having to keep a check on the time. To discover, and allow myself to be carried away by stories of mysticism. To appreciate the whole of the Quinta as it was meant to be. It truly deserves more than just a hurried visit!

Scintillating Sintra (part 1)

Our day trip to Sintra began at 9 AM at the Lisboa railway station. We were pleasantly surprised by the animated employee behind the counter, who was very eager to sell us train tickets! After taking the 'Linha de Sintra' from Lisboa, we reached on a favourably rainy day. Rain has never been welcome, especially when spending the day outdoors. But, apart from providing a mystical touch to Sintra, our pleas for propitious weather were answered, and heavy rain was contained to times spent at bus stops or cafes.

Sintra, a town located at the foot of the Sintra mountain range (Serra de Sintra in Portuguese), is around 30 kilometres away from Lisboa. For the sheer number of monuments, gardens and parks, that together provide a potpourri of multifarious historical elements amidst natural beauty, the landscape of Sintra was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995.

After getting to Sintra, we caught bus 434 that departs from right outside the railway station. It takes a circular route past the parks of Sintra. My friend and I decided that our visit would begin at the Park and Palace of Pena. The first time I came across a picture of this colourful palace was on my Windows desktop background two years back. It is one of the palaces in the 'Castles of Europe' theme. What struck me was how it stood out in the surrounding greenery, like a reckless dash of colour left on a hopeless canvas. Ever since I set foot in Portugal, a visit to the Pena palace was on my checklist.

View of the Pena palace

The original chapel

As we approached the palace, I noticed how drastically different it is on either side. The history of the palace provides an enlightening account of how it came to be, and helps merge a variety of elements into a single, albeit intricate, architectural entity. Beginning as a chapel (the northern most, red portion of the palace) in the 12th century, an earthquake in the 18th century left the monastery in pieces. King Don Fernando II acquired what remained of the monastery in 1838, and while reconstructing it, also constructed a larger wing in ochre, called 'New Palace'.

We spent a long time walking around the large palace, discovering and taking in its various towers, turrets, tiles and ornate designs. The most intricate of them all seemed to be the vicious looking Triton, a half-man half-fish structure, at an archway. The walls of the arches and facades were covered with very pretty tiles, some extremely exquisite. We also paid a quick visit to the museum, whose extravagant interior has been well preserved.

Since it is located on one of the highest peaks in Sintra, the palace provides for panoramas in all directions. Walking along its perimeter, the Moorish castle (another of Sintra's gems, that we didn't have the time to visit) can be seen in close proximity, while a view of the Atlantic looms in the distance. An intangible horizon leaves you wondering where exactly blue sky meets bluer ocean.

I have always thought there is something special about horizons. They hold a charm that I can't quite put a finger on. Platform for some of nature's best gifts, they stand steadfast in an ever-changing time. Whether you're hoping a fleeting sunset would last longer, or aspiring for endless possibilities, a horizon can signify anything you want it to.

Clockwise from left: Triton, the turret's dome, archway's tiles 

Apart from housing the Pena palace, the park is a remarkable landscape of beauty. Even from the map provided at the entrance, it is evident that it is teeming with treasures to be discovered. Amidst walking circuits, and recommended view points, exotically named spots provided an enchanting touch that only fuelled further my existing excitement. Very keen on viewing the palace from different vantage positions, we headed in the direction of the 'Cruz Alta', the highest point of the hills in Sintra. A Cross carved in stone stands at the apex. Along the way, we crossed the 'statue of the warrior', a bronze statue of the King, also visible from the palace. The Cruz Alta provides the best view of the landscape of the palace and its surroundings. When we reached the top, passing clouds concealed the palace from sunlight. So we hung around for a while, impatiently waiting for the taunting shadow games to end and allow for some rays of light to fall on the palace. Oh, it shone like a jewel when they finally did!

Other elements in the park that are worth a visit include the 'fountain of the small birds', an Islamic style monument with an Arabic inscription on its dome, 'Saint Catherine's heights', the favourite viewpoint of the Queen, with yet another magnificent view of the palace, and the 'Valley of the lakes', one lake after another, with little duck-houses right in the middle, making the spot more scenic. One of the things that I missed visiting was the 'Chalet of the Countess of Edla', which is a house built by the king for his second-wife Edla, who apparently shared the same love for nature as he did. The house is said to have been built to blend in with the surroundings.

By the time we got out of the park and made our way to the centre of Sintra, it was 4 PM. Even though the palace left me feeling extremely pleased, little did I know that the best part of the day was yet to come. Entitled to its own separate post, an account of the rest of our day shall soon follow.

Let's meet the Flintstones!

My first encounter with the words 'stone house' was when I overheard a conversation between a group of friends who were animatedly talking about how they had spent their Sunday afternoon. To hear that there exists a house built in between large boulders would capture anybody's interest, as it did mine. The mere idea befuddled me, and sounded too good to be true. Before I knew it, I was browsing the internet to find out as much as I could about this mysterious house.

Most of the places worth visiting in Portugal are inaccessible by public transport. The Casa do Penedo (Portuguese for 'house of stone' ) is one such spot. Tucked away in the mountains beyond the city of Fafe, the house lies in a remote countryside region. It was apparently built by the owner to provide for a quiet getaway during the holiday seasons.

We headed on our first visit to the stone house some months ago, with inadequate directions, and incomplete information. Intermittent stops in Fafe to ask bystanders for help proved fruitless. Not only did the idea of a house built between stones seem ridiculous to them, we were instead being directed to a church in the city, which, coincidentally, is also built of stone! After frantically searching the internet, and making some choices on the spur of the moment, we found ourselves driving along steep winding roads with a view of windmills on the horizon, quickly leaving the city of Fafe in our wake. As we proceeded further, the terrain transformed into mountainous wilderness, and tarred road gave way to mud and gravel. Even with the contemporary windmills that are scattered across the area, the huge boulders did make me feel like I was in the stone age. We had to slow down to a crawl, and keep our eyes peeled to spot the extremely well camouflaged house.

The house from a distance. Two different perspectives.

The house turned out to be marvellous in so many ways. Apart from being situated in an ideal location, the ingenious artistry behind its construction is admirable. The house is two- storeyed, and peeking inside exposed a furnished room, with an included fireplace. The ability to put together an authentic house between four boulders that seem appropriately positioned still boggles my mind!

The house's popularity has risen rapidly in the past couple of months. It has recently been advertised on Portuguese television, with a personal description from the owner along with a quick tour of the interior. It is also being featured in a short film. From being 'the mysterious house with the unknown whereabouts' to one that is now firmly placed on Google maps, a horde of people have already paid it a visit. The downside of such creativity is that, even if undesired, popularity quickly catches on. It does seem like a shame that the owner and his family cannot vacation here anymore. I do hope the attention that their home is drawing leaves them pleased nonetheless.

After walking around the area for a while, we climbed up the largest boulder in the vicinity, box of strawberries in hand, and caught the sun as it quickly set past the city of Fafe. A pleasant way to end our visit to the modern day Flintstones' house. 

Of culture, character and codfish

When I moved in here in the autumn of 2011, a friend who came across my 'current city' status on Facebook exclaimed 'It sounds like you live in a place that belongs to the Lord of the Rings trilogy! How is it pronounced?'

Guimarães (pronounced Gi-ma-ra-yesh) is a little city in the north of Portugal. Unheard of to most foreigners, it is suggested as a quick half- day stop to tourists visiting this country. Apart from being termed 'the birthplace of Portugal', and being an integral part of an eventful history, Guimarães also has a well- preserved historic centre that was declared a world heritage site by UNESCO in 2001. Walking past the narrow, quaint lanes always makes me feel like I have been transported to a medieval past. One too many times, I have paused amidst these surreal avenues to convince myself that I am not dreaming. In the summer time, the rows of cafes that line these streets are brimming with lively people and the smell of fresh coffee.

Largo da Oliveira square

No matter where you are in Guimarães, you will notice Mount Penha in the distance, which is about seven kilometres from the city. A cable car operates from the city centre all the way to the top. For those in the mood for physical activity, winding roads interspersed with enjoyable picnic spots provide for an interesting hike, ultimately leading to a panoramic view of the entire city. 

The castle

Guimarães' castle dates back to the 10th century, and has an imposing statue of Afonso Henriques, claimed to be the first king of independent Portugal, at its entrance. The castle, for a myriad of reasons, is the first of many things to see in Guimarães. Its history is intertwined with that of the nation's, and its strategic central location in the city makes for ideal tourist activity.


A Portuguese friend once warned me 'Do not ever walk around Guimarães with a jersey apart from their own. You'll come back home with a broken nose.'  This was the first of many bizarre trysts I have had with football in Guimarães. Unable to comprehend such fanaticism, I said 'But it's just a sport!'. 'It's not "just a sport", it's FOOTBALL!', he retorted. Such fine advice instantly changed a prior notion I had about football mania being analogous to the average Indian's cricket craze. The sport is the only reason I've seen these peaceful, friendly people raise their voice or create a hullabaloo. Football is being aired all the time, in every cafe and store in the city, and it is a common sight to come across Portuguese males of a diverse age group, packed in a tiny cafe, gaping at the telly, and screaming their hearts out. The people's patriotism for the local club, Vitoria de Guimarães, is quite spectacular. Ardent supporters till the very end, they are quick to forget Vitoria's failures, and they always return to cheer their team with a new- found vigour.

The Portuguese are very proud of their 'bacalhau' (codfish) and one of the first things I heard after moving here was the number of different ways that it can be cooked. It was to my friends' utmost disappointment that I disliked bacalhau. After being forced to try different types on several occasions, a few Portuguese have come to terms with the fact that I dislike fish. And so, while declining offers to eat bacalhau, I now also diplomatically add that I don't mean to offend them, and though it may be delicious, I have never liked the flavour of fish.

Another unique trend among the people here is how they replace most punctuation marks with curse words. Foul words are part of their daily vocabulary, irrespective of emotion. It isn't a surprise then, that the handful of Portuguese words I now know are the nasty ones. Out of curiosity, I once asked a friend to translate a couple of words that he automatically blurted out. Put euphemistically, it was 'The female dog that gave rise to this piece of poo.'

Finally, I think life in any city is well spent when appropriate events come to mind as one walks past familiar surroundings. All the memories that have accumulated over the time I've spent here are what make Guimarães the city I now call home. Be it the good times spent with friends in Oliveira square, or catching a jazz concert in 'Casa Amarela' on a Saturday night, or the time a loud, noisy group of us ranted curses at the statue of Afonso at 2 AM, to the sunny afternoons spent in the city park reading a book, while ogling at ongoing aerobics classes, innumerable such moments come to mind. For being termed a quiet little city, Guimarães has so much to offer.

View of the castle, the chapel on Penha, and everything in between.

Be it the countless mornings spent walking to the University, past a picturesque view of the castle partially hidden among the clouds, or the warmth of a hot cup of tea on a rainy day with the view of the entire city from our apartment, Guimarães had made me look past mundane routine, to capture and welcome its simple pleasures. After living here for a year and a half, I can now say that it may not be right out of the LOTR, but with Guimarães, I have certainly had the chance to live in a fairy tale !

P.S. Credit for some of these beautiful photographs goes to an artistic flatmate.  

'Not-so-silly' putty

"What do you study?", one of the first questions people ask when they meet me, elicits the same response from me, and the most varied reactions from them. "Rheology", I say. From "What's that?" to "Geology?",  "Theology?", and  "Oh, I've heard that, it's another word for microbiology! ", replies never cease to amuse me. Though I quickly begin to explain, I almost always fail to keep their attention.

Last week I came across something that could hopefully make my answer a little more interesting. A colleague brought along a box of silly putty to work, aptly named 'thinking putty' by the Firebox store.

Apart from making me feel like a six year old, I realised that this gooey material, amongst many others, has changed so much of my thought process and understanding over the past two years. Some of these thoughts, I intend to now pen down.

I'm sure most of us have come across silly putty as kids. The 'real solid liquid' that bounces like a ball when flung on the floor, and yet, flows like a liquid when at rest. What gives this ingenious material it's two- faced behaviour? (solid AND liquid, really? )

Silly putty is one of many materials that are termed 'viscoelastic fluids' in the scientific community because of their dual- behaviour. We would expect that a 'normal' liquid flows on the application of a force, and instantly stops flowing when the force is removed. Yes, water and oil do behave this way. In contrast, when the force applied on a 'viscoelastic fluid' is removed, it continues to deform for a while. This behaviour arises from the materials' capacity to sustain stresses for some time, termed 'fluid memory'. The time it takes for the material to completely release all the built up stresses is called 'relaxation time', and varies widely among materials. When exposed to quick force inflections, such materials are not provided with enough time to completely release the acquired stresses. So they behave like solids, and respond elastically. When given much more time, they relax, release the stresses, forget what they have last been through, and are liquid all over again. So you can deform it to any shape you want, and with time, silly putty lets it all out and reforms to its original gooey state.

Juvenile trial: On the left, a semi- cube at the start, and  on the right, its shape two hours later

In essence, this is what I deal with. The flow behaviour and deformation of such materials. And that is where the word 'Rheology' comes from! 'Rheo' being the Greek word for 'flow'. Viscoelastic fluids are just one kind of a large number of materials that behave strangely. Ironically, the unusual behaviour of materials is not uncommon to come across. Most of the stuff we use in our daily lives, from toothpastes and shampoos, to ketchup and paints, are materials that display such complex characteristics. Water is the exception! Rheologists try to understand the deceptively enticing behaviour of such materials to the best of their abilities, and delve into the niceties of such issues, in a hope to better predict them.

Sometimes it's fun to forget the intricacies involved in dealing with such materials, and just spend the entire day entertaining myself with silly putty. I must admit, I was completely absorbed by how my firmly placed fingerprint quickly faded away into nothingness. Fleeting memory is a lesson in itself. Putty certainly doesn't seem silly to me any more!