Hero on a Honda - Revisited

I came across this REVEW of Hero on a Honda on Amazon. I don't know Judy Appleby but she's caught the mood (s) exactly right.

Should you know someone going to, or has been to, or just loves India, perhaps they would enjoy Hero as well.

Here's what Judy thought:

5.0 out of 5 stars Good to read if you're going to India, 5 Mar 2013

By 

judy appleby - See all my reviews

Amazon Verified Purchase(What is this?)

This review is from: Hero on a Honda : Reflections on India (Kindle Edition)

This is a gentle and evocative account of the complex experiences that face anyone visiting India for the first time. Tony Farmer tried to blend in and observe, to learn rather than to judge. It is an admirable model, but the contradictions of modern India would challenge anyone. It is hard to avoid criticism when you encounter breathtakingly beautiful countryside polluted with industrial waste and urban garbage. Difficult to ignore the contrast between the gentle kindness of traditional life and the brash, noisy pace of a young middle class that desperately wants to ignore tradition and become American.

Tony warns that you should go to India NOW if you want to see it before the old values disappear. I have been fortunate to spend about half of the last twelve years living in India and I think that he is right. It is changing fast. The light, the dazzling colours, the lush vegetation, the bright green of a rice paddy, the dusty ochres of a dry plateau, these are always a source of pleasure. Even the incessant noise and the apparent chaos of traffic become part of the enjoyment of the place. Gradually you learn that there is a system, a logic in it all, even the traffic does follow some rules, and you can adapt to them.

But India has a rapidly growing middle class that wants its villa in Mumbai or Delhi, its holiday home in Goa or Kerala, its smart saloon and a four-wheel drive and cars for the kids. The built environment that is changing with such speed and such insensitivity that beautiful heritage areas are disappearing as landowners rush to grab their share of development profits. A few conservationists are putting up a fight but money talks in India. So go as soon as you can, don't worry that they do things differently, and that many things would be unacceptable at home, don't look for Health and Safety or a Benefits system, just enjoy the whole wonderful experience of being part of India.

Thanks Judy

More Writing Success

Hello friends and readers

Today Marble City publishers have launched KNIFE EDGE, an anthology of 23 short stories in the genres crime, thriller, mystery and suspense. I'm thrilled my story Soft Eyes was selected from a national  competition.

It's a story described by the judges as, 'revenge delivered double expresso style'. 

I enjoyed writing it and visiting a virtual Milan in the modern age.

A proportion of proceeds go to the Charity Booktrust.org.uk

I attach links for you. Note the discount code from Smash, though It may be cheaper to buy from Amazon and get free postage. Available on ebook and book formats.

Hope you enjoy all the stories

Tony

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1908943289

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/1115426412?ean=2940016443034

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/317894  coupon code VR34W

Published by:

http://marblecitypublishing.com/buy-titles/knife-edge-anthology/

End of an ordeal: walked out!

As befitting the end of a challenge, the last day turned out to be the best, 'out came the sun and washed out all the rain' according to the poem of my childhood starring Incey Wincey Spider. But the wind was ever present. and as if willing me to finish, the wind blew me the 6 miles or so to Dinbych-Y-Pysgod or the pretty fishing port and holiday centre know by the English as Tenby.
From the deliciously tranquil village of Manorbier, with its excellent B&B, friendly pub and magnificent castle, the path climbed high promontories with sweeping views over to the island of Caldey with its sandy beach and monastery, and dropped suddenly avoiding the fluttering red flags of the military firing range overlooking Caldey Sound.
In no time I was swallowed up by the town and found myself wandering in the middle of the road, forgetting momentarily that there we cars after so many days without their nuisance.
Tenby looked like a spring bride in the bright sunshine, freshly painted pastel coloured facades smiled down to the wide expanse of golden sands at North and South Beaches, a prettier place would be hard to find.
Not quite the end of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Pathway, for me it was the end; the few miles through Saundersfoot and on to the end at Amroth was a step too far after the buffeting and soaking of the past week.
Im happy my body and especially my feet remained uninjured, I am proud of my quiet achievement. No, I would not walk the path again, since you asked. Vertigo will ensure ill not subject myself to such a challenge and I should perhaps not travel such a precipitous highway without some companionship. Email requests please...
A train brought me home safe and sound and better for the experience.

It's Sunday and I'm settled in and glad to be back home.

Not more walking!

You guessed it; another wet day dawned. Sometimes the task seems daunting in the foul weather, there's not much enjoyment except to load on the miles and hope.
The route suggests I take a circuitous arc of more than 20 miles through the petro-chemical installations of Milford Haven, out onto the wild windy reaches of West Angle; it seemed from OS OL 36 unlikely I would find accommodation and an drying fire. The locals confirmed my worse fears: the rain was set for the day.

In cut out and discarded the 20 miles round the oil refineries. i took a bus as a gesture of defiance and set out from a more southerly point in the pouring rain.
Nature was closed for the day. At Stackpole Head there were no kittiwakes, razorbills, fulmars or guillemots and my new 'bins' remained in my backpack. The sea had the all the character of a wet blanket, even the blow-holes were closed for the day and the ruffians at the base of the cliffs were having a lie-in.
The bakery and teashop at Stackpole Quay was lifeless, a single fishing smack anchored off shore rose and fell with the gentle swell. There was only me, the cliffs and the sea.
Soon into my rhythm the light rain presented few problems. The grass on the track, however, grew in great tussocks of rain drenched leaves and soon my boots were waterlogged; I had only one option and I was exercising it with little enjoyment. There were places to stop and amaze at the view through the rain. Vertical strata rose out of the sea and at times the cliffs resembled giant organ pipes. In other parts the vertical cliffs were ground down by the sea at the base of the cliffs like a vast surface of wet, black waffles, each indent an enticing, deep mysterious rock pool. Sweeps of sandy beaches rinsed by the rain came and went, missing the chatter of birds and cries holiday makers on sunny days.
At last the path nose-dived from the cliff tops to an arching stretch of would be golden sand. In the beach toilet block I warmed my hands and dried my fleece hat in the hot air hand-dryer and plodded onward on the soft wet sand; soon a path rose steeply into the cloudy sky and I was back in business.
Up on the cliffs, I gave up taking photos as the rain notched up a gear and I began to crave a log fire and hot buttered toast with strawberry jam.

A few hours later I lay in a hot bath, my sodden jacket and sloshing boots whisked off to dry by the AGA and replaced with a pot of Darjeeling and a dozen chocolate Digestive biscuits. Upon recommendation from a couple of dog-walking residents of Manorbier village, I landed in the B&B of Wendy and Roger, not their real names you understand.

I had a burger and chips at the local pub with couple of pints of cider and stayed to join in the quiz before hobbling 'home' in the brogues borrowed from Roger. He told me he'd purchased the pair in Buenos Aires. He clearly never paid for them because they squeaked and began to sever my big toe from my foot as I tottered back to my billet. I woke the ancient 'deaf' Jack Russell called Crumble and climbed the last steps of the day, not to a hilltop but to an enormous four poster bed and voluminous duvet. I knew breakfast was going to delight. I fell asleep instantly and dreamed of galleons in full sale.

There's always a tomorrow.

More Walking

Different stretch of coast: different vibe.
This stretch has broader paths, expansive views, wild ponies still in their winter coats, and gulls cavorting in the updraft. Fleeting and welcome sunshine lifts my spirit but there's always my constant companion nagging, tugging and buffeting me with an irritable persistence, trying to throw me to the ground. Whilst I walk I must look like a drunkard fighting to stay upright.
I'm getting the hang of this cliff walking. Somewhere there's a metaphor for life here.
One foot in front of another, again and again, over and over, distance is consumed. Concentrate on the task unswervingly, up the steep bits without resting, careful on the down slopes. Rhythm is everything.
Stop only with a purpose; tie a shoe, swig some water. Where the path allows, take in the view, but NOT whilst in motion. Danger Lurks there.
Look forward no more than to locate the direction of the path. Look too far forward and you're likely to be daunted by the task ahead and loose heart. Look back by all means to delight in the progress you have made.
Rest well for a few minutes only; remember that rhythm is everything. Getting going requires energy. Walking, like life, isn't a race
If you must take in the view, do so from a good vantage point with firm foothold. Do not be tempted by the sirens, mermen and mermaids calling from the foaming deep; resist all temptation for they will beguile you. Tempters all.
Watch carefully the path you tread, one foot in front of the other, over and over until your destination.
Most things are easy when you know how, when you realise the benefit of the rules to get you from here to there safely and in good heart.
Walk the walk...

Going for another walk

The day stared brightly enough, pale sunshine and a keen Westerly full on for most of the walk between Newport and the unfortunately named Fishguard. Progress proved tortuous. Paths echoed the terrain, steep narrow paths often steeply stepped up and down; narrow and too close to the edge for my liking much of the time.. I resolved to keep my eyes firmly fixed on the path, ignoring the booming mad crashing of the sea, colliding with the land hundreds of feet below. I have to force my thoughts not to go there or else my knees begin to tremble, inside.

I had not expected such a challenge. Total concentration was called for. Progress was halved, whittled to 2 miles per hour rather than the expected 4 MPH. Apart from the effort required to maintain progress there were but a few diversions.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I reached the top of one particular incline to be greeted with a bazaar scene. Often the vegetation is shaped by the prevailing wind in such a way that blackthorn sweeps over narrow paths creating a tunnel over the footpath, the floor often covered white like snow from the fallen tiny white spring flowers.
Here I encountered Bilbo Baggins, Frodo and his chums about to have a spot of lunch. A family of 5 or 6 had encamped in this particular tunnel and were preparing a pot of soup with a little stove, several French sticks salads and sundries. We were equally surprised by each other and profuse apologies were offered for the taking up of the whole narrow width of the path. Pots, pans and plates were removed to make stepping stones for me to continue of my way. And On I went.

Next, at the right angle corner of a field fence I looked up from my preoccupation of watching the path to see coming towards me a large woman walking alone wearing a blue trouser suit, and a tee shirt emblazoned with the word 'Wales' across her ample chest. She wore white trainers, spoke with a strong German accent, walked with a pronounced limp and carried a single Norwegian Walking Pole. In a brief conversation she informed me that she didn't much like the 'vind' particularly when it gusted and didn't get on with cliffs. Strange I thought, here in this particular location. I was keen to be off incase I was needed. I told her of my own fears and suggested she might pretend to look for Roman coins along the way to detract from her aversion to the frequent sheer drops of several hundred metres. she oped her purse and showed me a battered 1946 George VI halfpenny she picked up on a footpath in Siberia. She set off with her wonky gait dressed as if she was on the staff of the glove department in some Munich super store chuntering about looking for Roman coins. Very strange.

It didn't get any better.

Not too far from the previous encounter, I came upon a man and his unleashed dog up ahead where the path widened. He was deeply preoccupied with his mobile phone. I thought perhaps he was texting his lover to come to his side before it all got too much for him and he jumped off the cliff.
'If you really really loved me Gwendoline (Welsh) you'd leave your stupid job at the call centre and come to save me!'

As I passed, the dog, a kind of golden retriever/greyhound cross, gave me a wide berth; the man and I exchanged 'Or right then,' and I went on my way.
I recalled that the man had no backpack, didn't look like he should be out in the wilderness taking on nature. Very strange this man with a phone, locks of premature greyness, scruffy clothes and I demanding agenda. I began to mistrust him; he entered my thoughts. The click of a gate I had recently passed through caused me to stop and look back. There he was. Just metres behind me. How had he travelled so fast? I'm no spring chicken but I do walk with a purpose.

My mind ran amok. The dog passed very close to me this time, close enough for me to feel the brush of its coat on my shorted legs. It stopped ahead of me turned and stared at me. I turned and found the man was there right behind me. I jumped with fright.

'Give me your money,' he asked menacingly. 'Give me your wallet and anything valuable, now,' he demanded.
'I'll give you everything apart from my Swiss Army Penknife, with the clock,' I answered firmly. His small black eyed drilled into me. I remember the wise thing to do in these circumstances is to give stuff to prevent a worse outcome.

I burrowed in my backpack, handed over my wallet, my Tesco phone (what a cheap scape I am) my new binoculars, my trusty Panasonic camera and my moisturiser.

'The knife too,' he demanded, his hand thrust out in front of him. I handed him my knife.

To my horror he threw everything but the Swiss Army knife over the cliff. Noise from the crashing waves below absorbed the sound of breaking glass.

'Now the boots.' I swallowed hard. 'Now given me your boots and socks.' There was nothing i could do, so I unlaced and took off my beloved Salomon boots which held countless memories and watched with horror as he tossed these over the cliff into the abyss.

I felt the full horror of my circumstances. No money, no bank cards, no driving licence, no moisturiser, nothing. I looked down at my feet. I had at least 2 hours of clambering over sharp rocks to arrive in the town of Fishguard, unable to confirm my identity blooded and exhausted from my ordeal and a long way from home.

'Turned out fine didn't it,' the man said almost matter-of-factly as he passed me standing rooted to the spot for the brief moment I heard the click of the gate behind me.

The man disappeared from view. I turned, pulled myself together and resumed my purposeful gait.
Funny the sort of things that flash past in your mind.

It comes from having a fertile imagination.

Going for a walk

I cast the heavy bow howser out over the widening gap between the departing boat and the quay, so-to-speak and wave goodbye as my wife Lynne drives away in our car waving furiously, her eyes not on the road but in the rear view mirror until turning a corner and disappearing from my view. I heard no sound of collision!

Im aware I stand alone in a strange place, white cottages tumble down to huddle along the shore of an snaking estuary; muddy banks bared at low tide.
I hitch up the unaccustomed weight of my rucksack to get comfortable. Gone are the lazy, hot sunny days of the past few weeks; here on the coast the wind whips people brave enough to venture, just now licking the back of my knees; perhaps I shouldn't have chosen to wear shorts. Patches of blue in the sky came and went. My grandmother would have said ' there's enough blue up there to patch a Dutchman's trousers'. Without the wind it would be a fine day to begin a long walk along the coast of West Wales. But first i need to find my bed for the night.

I feel like John Bunyan's Pilgrim about to embark on a journey into the unknown. In my backpack the bare essentials for protection against the elements and a few nut bars and a bottle of water to quell the munches. I realise I have with me items from every room in our house: windup torch from the garage, my Swiss Army knife note book and pencils from my work work room, from the bathroom electric tooth brush and razor, even from the toilet, a few sheets, and all the rest. I strode purposely into the unknown, carrying my house on my back.

Looming sinister rain-bearing clouds begin to gather as I find an easy rhythm climbing gently up the gradient away from St Dogmaels to follow a lane carved out by a babbling brook, upward and onward. People unloading shopping, trimming hedges and walking dogs welcomed me with a cheerful hellos. Two ruff looking handlers of Engish bull terriers looked like they might bar my way so I tipped my hat and bid them,
'Ello, Bon jour.' I thought a spot of French might dissuade them from roughing me up and pinching my penknife.

The shaded dingle dell, over which trees, displaying the first vigorous growth of spring, spread across the lane throwing shadow patterns and allowing floating glimpses of blue sky, mercifully providing shelter from the increasingly strong westerlies.

Out in the open upland I stop to lean on a gate to take in the scenery; wind swept pastures and coppices nestling in the folds of vigorous rolling landscape. I knew then I had got away, i was reduced, subservient to a greater whole, one small part of many. I began to look forward to tomorrow.

B&B at a farmhouse tucked into high bank, a beech stand holding on for dear life in the gale took me into its cosy embrace; provided every creature comfort.The outdoor pool however continued to wear an overcoat. Tomorrow after breakfast my walk will begin in earnest.

I'm woken by bright sunshine at 5 am but by 7 the sky begins to grumble and by the time I'm waving goodby to my hosts the lashing begins and doesnt let up for 6 hours. The cliff-top walk was no fun in the driving rain, mist obscured much of the dramatic views; there were no birds and i was in no mood to take photographs; i just wanted to get to my destination. By the time I finally reached Newport, Pembrokeshire i was freezing, my teeth chattered, everything including my underpants where soaked; only the pilot light of optimism remained alight.

I'm now in room at the Golden Lion in Newport. My wet stuff snuggles up to the radiators and heated towel rail. I read for an hour or so this afternoon while nature continued to take its revenge upon west Wales....then suddenly the clouds disappeared, to be replaced by blue skies and a warm buffeting wind. Been out to see where I came from out of the mist and gales just hours ago. I've given up the idea of getting the bus to Fishguard tomorrow for now. I get the feeling I'm being given a lesson...

At least the forecast for Friday looks more positive.