A Week Of Immersion in The UK and Ireland: Part III

I was relaxing after the shows that night.  It had started raining when we left Holyhead…but the spiritual experience I had had radiated within me still.

As always…I started with connecting to the Internet and proceeding to open up all my tabs about my research.  I may or may not have been approaching the line of mania by this point.  Part of me was getting on my own nerves with this swath of camera lore.

I ran across something much akin to that gold pot at the end of the rainbow: a news story about the sudden, dramatic drop of the British pound.  Now of course, the summer of 2016 saw the infancy of Brexit, and that brought much economic fear to those parties invested in the UK in one way or another.  As such, the GBP went south real fast to slightly above the USD.  I did not see that fact. What my currency conversion app told me was the opposite; that the GBP went slightly below the USD. 

I felt a pang of opportunistic delight the likes of which I’d not felt since being hired.  I took my app’s results as fact.  All mental processes were then given to sums in my head, locating prices at stores, and putting their numbers into my app to satisfy the part of me that thought I could finally afford a new, pro-spec camera.  All of this took over an hour. 

At last the expectancy of the day to come hit me in earnest.  I had located stores in Liverpool, tomorrow’s port.  But even more important was that my good friend Rebecca would be taking a train to Liverpool to see me. We had been planning the meeting for a week or so.  She and I have shared much and more, and can connect like the last pieces of a puzzle.  To spend the day with her was going to be intense and wonderful all at once.  These thoughts quickly replaced my near-manic camera research and I drifted off to sleep. 

But I did wake up excited for both my friend and my to-be purchase.  I’d found a place worth stopping by.  After a hot shower and a decent breakfast I was ready to whisk myself away toward my heart’s desire.

Liverpool Parish Church against an old crow's nest
in the morning light.

The Royal Liver Building and the rest of
Pier Head silhouetted in the daylight.  

The morning was cold, pure, and beautiful.  This walkable city was a great, sprawling, regal monument to British history when I first weaved my way through its downtown roads.  None of that grandeur lost its power today. 

This man and his "peace" flag made a great impact on my morning,
that's for sure.  Because of my camera phone's irritating habit of taking the
shot a second or two after tapping the screen, I wasn't able to get very many shots worthwhile.
Of course, that handicap of my phone certainly drove my desire for a better camera,
a better tool.  

Thoughts of last summer in Liverpool hovered in my awareness as I made my way toward my to-be purchase.  Its hold on me grew.  As I neared the main road of the city centre this hold manifested into something more like certainty. 

And lo and behold…the camera store was closed.  My excitement was doused slightly, and then I felt quite light-headed.   

Rebecca, and the camera to-be….  I decided to look for Wi-Fi, to check on the GBP and also Rebecca’s whereabouts.

As luck would have it, I found free wi-fi in the open mall of Liverpool One nearby.  The sun continued to rise, as did my excitement. 

Several websites contradicted my conversion app’s calculations.

Wait.  What?  How?  Great, I was getting inconsistent information.  My rational mind was very much hidden by what I wanted to be true: that the GBP was lower than the USD was certain to me.  How could it not be?  My app was showing this!  But there were also these credible sources, showing the exact opposite….

Finally my rational mind emerged.  Slowly breaking that shell of my heart’s desire like some baby snake emerging into the world.  I did not like that snake.  You can’t trust a snake.  You can’t reason with a snake.  …damn; this was no snake.  This was reality.

My plans to move to New York City…they were based on my savings, and rooted in reality.  The conflict, however—as ever—was that my need for a camera with which to capture the world was rooted in reality, too.  My saxophone is the strongest extension of myself with which I express and create art, just as the camera I use is the strongest extension of myself with which I share what I’ve seen.

Thus my heart sank as my rational mind swooped in and rooted itself firmly.  I would still be spending more than what was shown to me through all those gold-pot-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow prices.  As much as I needed that great tool as an extension of myself—as a part of how I interact with the world, as a manifester of all that I see which is beyond words—I held back from the certainty of purchase.

Still, I walked into the camera store when it opened.  Chatted with the staff there.  Talked at length with a woman my age about our mutual favorite brand.  She told me about shooting a wedding with her mirrorless camera; I told her about shooting with my smartphone.  She reiterated to me about the fact that a good camera doesn’t make a good photographer; part of me didn’t want to hear that and wished to grab that camera to-be and make my way out into the proverbial sunset. 

Moments passed smoothly inside.  I almost missed the fact that it was time for me to meet Rebecca at the train station.  I gave my thanks for the information and connection…and I was on my way without a purchase. 

The part of me that needed my heart’s desire was ambivalent as I left.  It was numb, almost satisfied with not being riled up, relieved to be resting.  The other parts of me were resolved in the present: to meet my friend, to have a great day in Liverpool with her, and to make an incredible memory.  

St. George's Hall, across from Lime Street Station

The statue of Queen Victoria outside St. George's Hall.

I was beginning to realize that, perhaps, those other parts of me had been steering me toward something bigger than a need for a great camera.  What, then, was truly my heart’s desire?

Rebecca and I would not stop talking, and joking, and it was effortless to be ourselves, to just be as we walked all over Liverpool.  I experienced the city with her by my side, and sure enough it was a new place all over again. 

A series of pictures of the Metropolitan Cathedralof Christ The King, the latter of which is from within,
a gigantic and fascinating circular layout.  

A series of shots from our walk from the
Metropolitan Cathedral:

Liverpool Cathedral

A series of shots from the waterfront:

We eventually made it back to Pier Head,

and continued on past the 

Liverpool Parish Church:

The Radio City Tower in the distance.  At that time it was a marker for the
Lime Street Station as well as a marker for the end of the day.

When the afternoon began to finally wane, Rebecca and I made our way to the train station.  We sat at a coffee place, still chatting, still engaged, still natural.  Had the many hours really lasted for as long as we'd known?  Had we noticed the many hours swiftly, deftly moving by? Was time an issue?  Did it exist?  Why does time exist for people who connect like the last pieces of a puzzle?

So we were reluctant to part ways.  I finally got to my feet, as did she; we stood looking into each other for a moment, codifying all that had been done that day.  We embraced, and I wished her the very best.  I didn’t know when I would see her again.  But we joked and riffed about that as well, surely to lighten the load of our parting—but also because we were able to joke about goodbyes until we meet again.

I turned at the arched threshold to look her way.  Rebecca's deep blue eyes poured into me again, and she smiled.  Involuntarily I did, too.

And I made my way out to this scene with the memory of our day like rocket fuel propelling me upward.

Lime Street Station

And St. George's, once again.

My awareness expanded so much that I lost track of it.  Then I lost my whole self in the surroundings.  Everything around me was special, worthy of note and love.  Spread like a blanket over Liverpool, I was a kid taking his first steps again.  Pure joy.  Like my first contract four years ago, it was wonderfully overwhelming and I was almost painfully content. 

There was one piece of music that called out, roared out, to me. Of the ends of things, things drawing to a close.  A sound of resolution.  Of satisfaction.  Each step I took was a gradual connection to the Earth, with purpose and meaning.  Walking meditation is like this, but I went beyond that with the music of The Brian Blade Fellowship; this group always makes me go beyond even walking meditation.  

“Embers” is the last track off of Landmarks, the Fellowship’s most recent album.  The melody of “Embers” is so singable that it comes out of the body without effort, and echoes in the memory without thinking.  It is unforgettable in the best way.  It is in the deep breaths we take to calm ourselves and reflect.  At this time this truth was in my core.

“Embers” was like morning’s first light into my heightened awareness.  It made my being spread gently into that which was familiar but made new by the day’s blessings.  I went, fully, utterly aware of more than my senses were taking.  I went, fully, utterly aware of that which I had had today, and in Holyhead the day before, and in Dublin with my family.  I went, weaving through Liverpool’s astounding downtown center and with “Embers” as my angel.  

The gardens behind St. George's Hall.

St. John's Beacon, also known as the Radio City Tower

Once again, I understood greatly how a person’s presence in travel can do us so much good.  And of course, Rebecca is also British—following the wonderful pattern of locals with whom I’d interacted over the week.  She isn’t necessarily from Liverpool, but hey; the events of life can’t always be as balanced and satisfying as a movie.  And yet “Embers” was my soundtrack of the day’s closing, and of the week’s closing, and of my life at that point in time.

Thus I made my way from Liverpool Central, through the lavishly regal buildings, that semblance of history and age almost pulsing around me, like a slumbering diety who may awaken at any moment to give me the knowledge of centuries and millennia.

I had dug deep into my awareness in order to realize the present, and there it was; and me in the middle of it, unabashedly and intensely happy, because life’s magic happens from and of the depths of our hearts and minds. 

The ship, nestled in the background.

The Royal Liver Building and Edward VII.

And of course....  The Beatles' Story is nearby here in Pier Head.
It's worth the time to experience. 

And you can be sure that I wasn’t thinking about a camera at this point.  It was obvious to me now that my heart’s desire was so.ething else entirely.

More often than not, travel isn’t just the landmarks and the places...nor capturing them in pictures.  This day proved it, because most of all it was Rebecca’s presence that made the day.  She was more important than the place.  Our connection was a perfect example of that lesson.  Like a toddler taking his first steps, I had that newfound perspective which sparked my love of travel, discovery, and life into motion.  Thus I boarded the ship with an old chapter closing behind me and a new book in front of me. 

Disclaimer: 

I do not intend to speak on behalf of Azamara Club Cruises.  As an employee of Azamara Club Cruises, I hereby state that all views and expressions of opinion I hold are solely my own, and do not reflect or represent the views, values, beliefs, opinions, or company policies of ether Azamara Club Cruises or Royal Caribbean Cruises Ltd.
Additionally, I do not own or claim any legal rights to the links provided in this post

A Week Of Immersion In The UK And Ireland: Part II

I was still looking for a camera.  My obsession was at a fever peak.  I felt almost smothered by the amount of computer-screen light that had washed over my face.


I knew part of me had had enough, but still I kept researching, night after night.  The research actually became more like studying for a big test.  I memorized multitudes of specs for any given camera--of which there were also multitudes.  Oh, the layers upon layers of information.  I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be bombarded by information from a computer screen.


Meanwhile, that fundamentally enriching shift in my mind grew with each day....  After docking in Southampton for the start of a new cruise, the ship cruised north to Wales--a place I'd never been.  

Even before then, I’d been feeling my travel fever simmering gently underneath a new significance….   As a matter of fact, the simmering of the travel fever began fresh and new before Dublin.   

There were two places--both Scottish isles--upon which I'd never lain my eyes.

The first isle was Orkney, where we docked in the town of Kirkwall. 

The sights around Kirkwall were relatively normal, filled with blocky buildings and their multi-chimney-stems propping against the sky like testaments to the fact that I was in the UK.  The main street was small but bursting with charm.

At the start of that stretch was St. Magnus Cathedral, easily among the most imposingly gorgeous cathedrals I had seen in some time.  

I did not know if I was more enthralled by the design of this Medieval relic, or simply by the red bricks.  The magnificent graveyard around the cathedral was made somber by the heavy gray sky.  But the entire scene nearly transported me back to Medieval times.

Orkney is the isle upon which can be found Skara Brae, ruins more ancient than Stonehenge.  In fact, they date back to the Neolithic Era...almost 4000 years ago.  They are thought to have been inhabited between 3200 and 2200 B.C.

An expansive field outside the town centre.

Rolling hills complemented the already-gorgeous foreground
of my immediate surroundings.

I did not have the chance to get to this archaic place.  However, I still felt the presence of the past here in Orkney.  I have St. Magnus to thank for that.

The second isle was the Isle Of Skye.

The mountainous, jade-green Isle of Skye was where I felt the presence of nature.  I had the golden opportunity to tour around the isle.  Clouds moved amongst the on-and-off-sun. As the bus drove I watched massive rock dance and sculpt the horizons.  The rock wasn't the only thing dancing; Skye was where I watched nature dance.

The tour was historical as much as it was mystical, and certainly no less so because it was led by an elder-like, snow-bearded man named Rody.  I learned much and more about the main warring clans over the centuries; the MacLeods and the MacDonalds. 

The main facade of Kilt Rock.

It is a geological wonder of the isle.  

Even when we stopped at a re-created village of old, the history of how people lived on Skye inevitably mixed with the massive, awesome presence of nature.











That day, majesty was defined as nature.  That day, the dance of nature was reality.  There was no other explanation.

In The Town Of Holyhead

Several days after departing Southampton, I stepped off the ship in Holyhead with Orkney, The Isle of Skye, and the meeting of my wonderful family in grand old Dublin all floating in my mind.  Holyhead was virgin land.  I pick out explosively exciting sights anytime I see virgin land.  Holyhead's sight was a giant hill easily seen from the ship.  I swore I would hike it.  I could sense the culmination of new experiences paving the way for an ecstatic happiness.  But first, there were some pleasant surprises to be had.  

The main road through the city centre was barely large enough for a bus.  The place was more than charmingly quaint enough for the imagination; this was such the sweet little Welsh town.  

I quickly started soaking it all in.  The more I get lost in the surroundings, the slower I tend to walk.  I came across the old church of the town walking thusly.  

From here my determination in getting to the mountain was solid.  I backtracked to the main road and made for the outskirts.

I went only this far before I ran into a couple of good buddies from the ship.  There amongst the homey buildings of this sweet little place we got to chatting about what we'd already seen.  They, however, we headed in the opposite direction to find some local brews.  I thought about it hard, but briefly.  I was then convinced I would have enough time to join them for a beer, and then go for the hike.  

We chose one of only two bars on the street. We sauntered in to a tiny,  modest place with several people already inside.  The conversations were bright and happy, and the laughter erupted often.  Sure enough, these people were locals.  


One man--shoulder-length hair and fine age lines--was just leaving.  He asked about the three of us, where we were from.  He was unabashedly interested.  There was me, from the United States; Ian, the trumpet player, from Canada; the sound and AV man, Andre, from Portugal.  Some friendly jokes were shot off like kids playing with fireworks; the three of us joined in the laughter.  


After pouring our ales, the older woman behind the bar joined in and said we'd walked in to a very local place.  We figured as much; in my experience (which is little, and therefore subject to misinterpretation; haha), even a small gathering doesn't tend to happen at pubs in the morning unless the gathering is local.  


The three of us took our seats in a corner.  Ian started talking about how great it is to hang around local people.  The feeling you get from experiencing interaction with the locals adds something great to the travel experience.  After spending time in Dublin with my family, I couldn't have agreed more.  







I had taken my seat next to an elderly man who had been chatting it up with another when we had entered.  After us ship people had chatted for a bit, it was either Ian or Andre who commented upon something the elderly man said.  Sure enough, he was now involved in our little circle.  


Shortly after that it was just the elderly man and me talking while other conversations shifted and morphed around.  The elderly man's appearance was that of your concept of a grandfather: thin frame, wearing a grey flat cap, coffee-colored coat over a button-shirt, tan slacks, and long loafers.  He had a long face, a long chin, and a slight overbite.  His eyes were perfectly round, somewhat sunken, and unassumingly grey-blue.  


I believe the conversation between us started when I commented that I'd learned about the Welsh language that day.  Until today, I'd thought the tern "Welsh" only applied to the people--the language was new knowledge to me!  Ah, but that's life: we are always learning.  Anyway, the man leaned forward, with that aura of wisdom, and said, "Do you know any Welsh?  I can teach you to say 'thank you.'  ...diolch."  
"Ah, okay....  Diolchhhhh."  The suffix was supposed to sound like something like developing a spit wad from the throat.  My spit didn't accumulate much.
"Have you got any spit?" the man asked, humor and command combining intriguingly in his voice.   "Diolch."
"Uh...diolchhhh."
"Well, it'll take some work.  So, what brings you out into these parts?"
"Well, the three of us"--gesturing to Ian and Andre--"work on the cruise ship docked in port."
"Ahhh, okay.  You know, I used to work on cruise ships."
I was genuinely surprised. "Wow; no kidding!  So of course, you know what that's like."



Eddie, my new acquaintance, began describing his time working on ships, decades ago.  With each sentence Eddie proved more and more interesting.  He had been a singer for many years.  He did not say what decade that was; given his age I assumed this was in the 60's or 70's.  


One night he had been doing his thing--just performing in one of the venues--when a new acquaintance approached him with a job opportunity.  Incidentally Eddie had liked the details; he accepted the new job as a singer and performer in a steady drag show.  The drag show's setting had been on land, so Eddie resigned from ship life and began his career as a drag queen.  He said that gig helped provide for his wife and children throughout the next thirty-five years!  


Though he spoke only of those years predominately, Eddie closed out the conversation with his aspirations to write a book about his life.  He told me he had already written out the ideas, and that he wants to publish the finished book sometime in the next few years.  "Well," I began, "do you have an email at which I can reach you?  I'd love to have a copy when you come out with it!"
"Ah, well, that's alright.  Just look out for my name in a few years: Eddie Jones."  At that point, his adamancy was as bright as his eyes.  I took his word.  In a few years I will remember to look for the name Eddie Jones!  


I only wish now that I had taken a photo with the plain-looking but exceptionally colorful man.  Approaching people about getting photos for my blog is still very much a reservation of mine.  I feel like I would invite discomfort by invading their privacy.  I know fully that pictures cement the authenticity and realism of posts about individuals….  Maybe one day I can break out of this barrier with confidence!  



Nevertheless, all that being said, Eddie Jones is that local I will remember forever.  I reached a stupendous level of immersion into Welsh society within two hours of my time in Holyhead.  It was almost like home, like I belonged.  And I owe it all to an unassuming but wonderful former drag queen!  

Ian, Andre, and I gave fond farewells to the fine people in the bar.  Invigoration leapt into me as I stepped outside into the fresh air and sun.  It was strange how quickly I was overcome with the desire to get to that mountain outside of town.  I definitely left a piece of myself in that bar, but time was running a little bit short. 

I was thinking of Holyhead's impact upon me as I passed through its streets and toward the beach.   The little-village vibrations were impossible to ignore; alas, the sights were shining.  Sure, I knew not to expect something like the Eiffel Tower or Il Duomo to be a part of this new experience, but nonetheless the sights were as spectacular as the Eiffel Tower, as Il Duomo.       


My newfound invigoration was driving the day forward, and it had everything to do with meeting Eddie.  I recalled Dublin; Dublin became more real--more there--after I'd spent the afternoon with my family.  Interaction with the locals brings that great awareness to the mind.  What a joy to have that again!

So it came as no surprise to me when this great bastion of looming rock, called Holyhead Mountain, took my imagination, wanderlust, and overall travel fever to a sweeping level of brilliance and inspiration. 

Everything about this godly day was now more real, more there, and more than its reality.

The Hike 

The resplendent sunshine helped the experience.  Clouds came and went under the rare
Welsh occurrence of a sun's smile upon the Earth.

The lushly rampant green helped the experience, too.  The road here disappeared into the
base of the bewildering mountain.  Each side of the road was overflown with green,
edges supernova-white in the sun

I couldn't listen to music yet.  The scene was so alluring and beautiful that its music was unavoidable.  And inexorable.

Shadows came in great swaths over this grazing field to make
art out of nature.  ...what is more artistic than nature? I thought
to myself.

From here, the trail began in earnest, a shy incline at first.

After emerging out of this fairy-like canopy I saw the 

now-steep incline rising swiftly; the 

true beginning of my hike.

The geology of Holyhead Mountain struck the imagination; that also helped the experience. Boulders and upthrusts and crevices and moss upon the endless granite hypnotized me as I ascended into the shining light of the sun. 

The clouds, the blinding sun, and the vast green--yes, just like on the Isle of Skye, I was watching nature dance once again.  I felt the presence of entities larger than life.  


And now, as I started hiking in earnest up the steep path, beloved music from years past could be heard in the calm air.  I looked out over the vista of that rare sunny Welsh day, rare even now, in summertime. 

The ship can be seen, the size of a toy in the distance....

The land sloped gently but so powerfully toward whence I came.  It had taken me an hour to get to this point; suddenly the music from years past was yearning to be heard, to add to the dance of nature.


So it was that I took out my Ipod and put on Brad Mehldau's Highway Rider, one of the most engrossing albums by which I've been influenced.  Brad Mehldau is one of the iconic pianists in jazz today.  Highway Rider was well-received and critically acclaimed.

On the Music:

Though a contemporary jazz album, Mehldau pulls from a variety of genres to construct the sounds of this album.  Indeed, he himself says in his essay "Highway Rider: "Highway Rider" is influenced by a bunch of music--a bunch of classical scores I've lived with for a while, jazz performances and pop songs.  Different people might hear different things." Mehldau employs a string-section at times.  Some tracks end up sounding more like symphonies than like jazz, or like pop more than jazz--perhaps "different things" altogether.  

Mehldau's album is unique in that he connects all tracks in the album with one melodic idea.  The idea seen at the beginning of the Highway Rider essay is one that morphs and weaves throughout each track--it gives a sense of unity within the entirety of the album.  

This breathtaking music first inspired me when I had been reading Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games series.  Since then, I had started my ship career; then, that inspiration's energy had shifted, quicker than I expected, toward my new life as a world traveler.  Highway Rider was lost amongst the new music I had discovered, only to resurface with a new purpose to influence my newfound love of the world through which I've traveled.  Today marked one of the first occasions in a long time when Highway Rider resurfaced.  


 It was the track Now You Must Climb Alone which proved irresistible.


The string section from Now You Must Climb Alone thrust me suddenly into the past--I used to become lost in the sound while simultaneously branding my existence upon the hill in the present.  All around me nature danced fervently yet gracefully with the clouds and sun.  Thus I hiked the rugged ground as the strings grew endlessly passionate and the scenery grew closer to the heavens.

On the Music:

Joshua Redman—he is one of my biggest idols, and a legend himself--joins Mehdlau on this record as the front-man in many instances. Such it is that on the next track, Walking The Peak,  he comes flying into the piece with his tenor sound.  From then on his improvisations add a unique beauty to the pulsing, steady beat of the rhythm.  The strings, and great, orchestral chords from Mehldau, sometimes fill the soundscape to bursting.

The pulsing, steady rhythm feels like great, effort-driven steps on a hike; like "Walking The Peak." It's like an epic soundtrack for an adventure film.  But this was my adventure.

Sloping down the summit of this music can be heard Mehldau's solo piano; it unveils itself like elves from the swaying trees, or like that guy you don't really want to run into right now but you're suddenly glad you did.  Mehldau's playful notes joined the dance of nature.  

Then the strings came back with a full, lush statement.  I felt like crying.  

On the Music:

The end of Walking The Peak ends with the warmest brass harmonies and piano chords heard above the full string section.  The next track, We'll Cross The River Together, is what ties it all together for me.  The unifying element of this piece is the melodic statement of the French horn at the beginning.  That statement weaves it way throughout the entirety of the intro: the strings pick it up, the saxophone distinguishes it, and even a full orchestra resounds with it.  Mehldau's piano breaks each statement with short ideas.  After each idea comes a more profound orchestrated statement of the melody than the last.  The greatest statement involves the bells; you feel the melody in your bones.  

The tambourine comes in as the predominant percussion instrument to accompany Mehldau's spotlight moment; he starts soloing with bluesy, sometimes dissonant, sometimes playful ideas as the orchestra builds over a powerful section rooted in B minor. This time it is over Mehldau's solo, made powerful by the octaves in which he plays it.  

The track brings about an all-at-once triumphant but somewhat despondent atmosphere.  It is akin to knights about to ride into a dark, vicious battle...but with all chivalry and glory mustered to aid them. And yet as the solo ends, there is a sense of that battle having ended in fantastic victory....  

After a brief expressive section from Redman's sax and Meldau's piano, the rhythm section sets up an epically charged pop-like groove.  The melody emerges like a king to his court, stoic but benevolent to all.  

The growth of the music overtook the peaks and ridges of my reality, of Holyhead Mountain, into the true climax: the entire orchestra plays the melody in a heart-stopping symphonic statement.  I certainly felt my heart skip as it bursted with warm euphoria.  

I suddenly, finally recognized a thin place here.  I let the track end; the satisfying, guttural finality of the contra-bassoon stating, once and for all, the end.  Silence.  I took my headphoens off.  The wind was feeling about curiously, timidly.  My mind was reverberating with the former music of Mehldau, but that wind may have been the most honest and powerful musical statement I'd heard all day.


With the wind as my guide, I followed the veil of that thin place, that heavenly world so near, all the way over the ridge.

The wind was less silent here.  Perhaps it was connected to the majesty, defined as nature, that slowly continued to unfold before me.

As much as I yearned to walk the entire trail, to camp out here, to pay homage to this experience...it was time to go.  


I wanted some more music for the return.  

On the Music:

Always Departing and Always Returning are back-to-back on the album.  They are the mirror image to Now You Must Climb The Peak and We'll Cross The River Together.  For instance, it all begins with the endless passion of the strings once again; but now it is more dissonant, as if to depict disdain about the prospect of "Always Departing...."   

"Always Returning" sets out to proclaim, with authority, a variant of the album's melody underneath a driving groove that is nonetheless subdued and lovely.  The pulsing, steady-beat to be found here is also like the mirror image from earlier; except now the low drums are faster, more solid--more intent on conveying the intensity and imagery of heroism and glory.  Throughout this proclamation are subtle but emotionally gorgeous moments in the orchestration and in the way certain things move in and out through the overall sound.  

Indeed, the soundtrack factor of these pieces played a major role here, too; once again, the music overtook the peaks and the ridges of my reality.  I allowed the drive and wonder of the piece to gently carry me back from whence I came.  There was a soft daze enveloping my consciousness, almost as if I were distant, and not fully aware of my own rampantly joyous emotions.  

I finally made it back down to the trail's beginning.  There I was able to regroup with my mind.  The pieces of raw happiness, brought on by all the sights, sounds, and smells I'd just witnessed, congealed into a foundation of satisfaction of life; the ups and downs of living; finding the good in anything and any situation; happiness in just "being."  

Thus I walked in fullness of life along the roadways past rolling, swaying fields and wondrous plays of sunlight that continued to dance as part of nature.  

A beach garden just outside the town centre.  

Once I made it back to town, I boarded the bus, making the bumpy way back to the terminal a changed man. Travel; I had somewhat forgotten how immense it can be.  It felt new all over again.  

I pondered about just how vital a role Eddie Jones played in the impact of the day.  I concluded that his role was just as immense, and maybe more; for as significant as the sights can be, travel is about the people, too.  

Only a day later I would find myself in Liverpool.

An old friend of mine came to see me from 60km or so north of town.

We proceeded to walk and chat for hours, reconnecting and having a damn good time of it.  Though not necessarily a local of Liverpool, she gave more proof to the significance that  people impart to our travel experiences.

Disclaimer: 

I do not intend to speak on behalf of Azamara Club Cruises.  As an employee of Azamara Club Cruises, I hereby state that all views and expressions of opinion I hold are solely my own, and do not reflect or represent the views, values, beliefs, opinions, or company policies of ether Azamara Club Cruises or Royal Caribbean Cruises Ltd.
Additionally, I do not own or claim any legal rights to the links provided in this post.