The Finest Beach in the World

That is what one guide book calls the 20km beach at Cucao on the Pacific coast of Chilloe. It is spectactual and just as desolate as when Darwin dropped by. No development just intimidating thundering surf, nothing like the occaisional tsumani to sweep it clean. I biked on the next day through pouring rain, the gortex and marino keeping balance of  rain in and sweat out. Pushing the bike up long inclines kept me warm. I´d stop at bus shelters for a quick brew-up of tea. My homemade beer can alcohol stove works brilliantly.

The Pan American is a ribbon of juggernauts blasting inches away until the final day when it was reduced to a single lane and the mountain bike ruled. I passed the long lines of waiting traffic and bounced throught the mud, rocks and flooded washouts.

Next I go back to the mainland in search of the 3000 year old trees, the only new things here are the earthquakes and volcanoes.

Shouded in Pacific Mist

I´m on the Souuth Pacific island of Chiloe and the plants and shrubs are the same as rural Ireland - Darwin really must have been stuffing his bags full when he stombed thru here. Had a great two days in Porto Montt staying at Casa Perlas. The hostel has everything the weary traveller wants, good chat, great breakfast, hot showers and a peaceful garden.
I stay here until Christmas day camping on the beach , fishing and maybe write a little, then back to the mainland and peddle south.

Peddled to the Pacific

Twelve days and 1200km I`m in Porto Montt eating strawberries. The backdrop are snowcapped volcanoes and along the water front are artisan stalls of fresh fruit and handcrafts. Faded, jaded and definately slightly smelly after living outside for two weeks lonesome for soap. Now, refreshed and re-stocked. Next I cross onto the island of Chiloe and bike the coast which is the South Pacific`s equivalent of Newfoundland`s outports, a world of mists and magic.

Rolling down the Pan American Highway

Its day seven and I´m in Temuco, 750 km south of Santiago. Tomorrow I do a loop through the Lake District to see the volcanoes and hot springs. Then onto the Isla de Chiloe before peddling into the heart of Patagonia on the carratera austral. The first night´in Santiago the hostal had morphed into a retirement home and so instead of samba it was the sound of shuffling slippers.

Why Community Gardens Are Bending The World

 Why Community Gardens Are Bending The World

 

The great unbooted public are unaware how the wheelbarrow is replacing the shopping cart. This has been the way since Babylonian times in the developing world where, today, 200 million urban folk (women and kids) feed 700 million people. Now the Western world, rattled by economic downturn and heath concerns, is reaching for the trowel. We are close to a tipping point when backyard growers produce more edible food than industrial farmers.  

 

Community gardens hit the hot buttons – food security, diminished resources and health concerns. The 10’ by 5’ raised bed is the building block of community in urban wastelands. Gardening is a common language shared by all cultures and these initiatives are a win/win for everyone - the spiky hair crowd have the satisfaction of giving agri-business a slap in the face, immigrants bring gardening expertise that helps integrate them into the community and property developers can pocket an 80% tax saving by having a commercially zoned property reclassified as a garden prior to construction.

 

Gardening no longer means lost weekends, mastering arcane skills and an aching back.            Vermicomposting turns waste into worm castings, which can be worked with a trowel. Growing in raised beds doubles the output and community support cheers you on. Crunching into a luscious carrot, you have the happy thought that it didn’t take 100 calories of energy to produce 10 calories of edible food like its sappy supermarket brethren.

Two Cups of Tea

Two Cups of Tea

 

Hugh Morshead

 

It all began at the parent and teacher meeting at the end of my first year at High School. My parents sat in shock as my teacher argued that I should take the year again. The kitchen table meeting that evening left me gutted.

     “Rory, we work so hard for you, you break our hearts. It’s not just the grades, but when he insinuated that you cheated in exams that was a knife in my heart,” said Mom.

“I’ll do better next...”

“First, your pony has to go, you’ve outgrown Tonka anyway. Then, you work this summer so you stay out of trouble”.

The next day is worse.

“I talked to Gloria De Bacle last night. The Chascomus Hunt and Country Club are hiring... oh, and Penelope is coming to try Tonka,” said Mom.

“Ahh, no, she’s a dressage rider.”

 I grab my bike and peddle furiously to the gypsy encampment seeking solace. Liam and his Dad, Mick, are working on a car and his sister, Siobhan, is skinny a rabbit.

“What’s up with you, this fine mornin’,” said Mick.

       “My life’s destroyed. Tonka is for sale and I could be conscripted into the Chascomous labour gang.

       “And why would this be?”

       “My grades were sketchy.”

       “School just replaces ignorance with confusion, but, there’s no harm in work and you should be ridin’ horses not ponies. Come on jump in the truck, I have to go over to Owens to shoe a horse.”

      Mick and Owen Monet are both horse dealers. That was all they had in common. Mick regrets having to be dishonest, Owen thrives on it. Their appearance and lifestyle are also opposite. Mick is a big raw-boned man with a battered face and wears soiled work clothes; like a granite outcrop, he is all rough edges. Owen, on the other hand, is a chameleon; he can blend into any milieu. Like a water-worn pebble, his smoothness prevents creditors and lawyers getting a grip on him. However, the real difference is that Owen has elevated from the grubby world of horse dealing to the real business of trading in prestige and information.

      “How’s business?” said Mick, as he steps out of the truck and continues, “You know, Rory, the hell-rider that lives down by the strand. He is cryin’ the blues ‘cos he’s losing his pony.”

       “I’ve outgrown him and the De Bacles are coming on Sunday to try him,” I said.

       “Well, he couldn’t go to a better home,” said Owen.

       “You‘ll see him every day when you’re working at Chascomous,” adds Mick.

       “When do you start there?” Said Owen.

       “Next week, if I get the job; they’re building a new cross-country course.”

       “While Mick is doing the shoeing, why don’t you hop on one? The chestnut in the first stall is a lovely ride.”

      I go into the barn with its double row of stalls either side of a center aisle. I take the head collar off the hook and slide the door open. The sleek chestnut horse looks at me quizzically. My real education had come from hanging around Liam and Mick; they had taught me how to establish a rapport with any horse. I slip the head collar on him and lead him to the crossties in the aisle to be groomed and tacked. I warm him up jogging around the arena and then jump through the line of show jumps. It is effortless for us both.

      “He just came in last week, he has potential doesn’t he?” Said Owen, as I take him back to the stall and untacked him.

       “Ya, he’s a sister-kisser...no problem.”

       “Anytime you want to come and ride, you are welcome,” he said with a friendly smile.

       “Thanks, I might take you up on that, I’ll have nothing to ride when Tonka goes.”

       “You’re very confident the sale will go through.”

       “Oh, Tonka is a real gentleman and Gloria De Bacle would never put her daughter at risk...though, I can’t bare thinking of the endless dressage he will have to do.”

       “There is a way you can keep your pony without risk to anyone,” said Owen.

       “How?”

       “Give him two cups of well-stewed tea in his feed an hour before he’s ridden and he’ll be a different horse.”

       “What do you mean?”

       “It’ll just give him a bit of an edge. When a rider tries a new horse, they are nervous and fear travels down the reins, neither will feel comfortable with each other. That uncertainty is enough to insure there is no sale.”

       I peddle home with my brain racing. My friends call me, Captain Apache, after the way I scalped the competition at the local shows. My only real success is with Tonka. I need time to find the right home for him. Handing in homework on time would fix my grades.

     The De Bacles are due at nine. I slip the teapot out to the stables, mix up a mash and stir in the tea. Tonka wolfs it down. Shortly, I hear the swish of gravel as a black sedan curves in front of the house.

      “Wonderful to see you again, Gloria...and you too, Penelope,” said Mom.

       “We do hope your pony will be suitable, we can’t stay too long because Owen Monet has a new chestnut we just must look at.”

       “Oh really,” there is enough meaning in the words to pack a suitcase.

       “I can’t stand the man, he’s an oil slick... but his horses win gold.”

      My brain races. The bastard had tricked me so he could make a sale. I agonise about what to do. I look at Penelope, a slim blonde in form-fitting breeches and polished riding boots. I wish I had been able to ride Tonka before they came.

      “You don’t need spurs; he knows all the aids and responds to the lightest touch.”

       “Penelope likes to be properly attired when she rides,” said Gloria.

       As soon as she sat in the saddle, Tonka’s ears twitched. They went into the back field, rode some circles, and then cantered. Tonka and I were partners; Penelope rode as if the pony was an employee. He is not happy and gives a couple of half bucks.

      “Take him for a canter around the field,” shouts Gloria.

      Instead of letting him ease into the canter, she grips the reins tightly pulling on his mouth.  Tonka takes off and the canter becomes a gallop.

       “Circle him, circle him,” screams Gloria. Penelope leans back with her legs outstretched, she has lost all contact. They whip around the corner; she tries to jump off and hits the ground like a rag doll.

       She lies motionless. The two women run across the rough field frantically. Mom knees and cradles the girl’s head in both hands. Gloria frantically dials.

       “What’s the address, what’s the address?” she screams. Mom recites the address.

        “Wriggle your toes,” the boots move, “now wriggle your fingers,” fingers move spastically.

         “Oh, thank God, it’s not her spine,” said Gloria.

        “Where does it hurt?”

        “It’s my hip,” said Penelope, sobbing.

        “You’re going to be alright darling; the ambulance will be here any minute.”                                      

        “Rory, go to the road and show the ambulance how to get here,” said Mom.

       The ambulance, with lights flashing, arrives shortly and I direct them across the field. Tonka munches grass with the reins caught around one leg. I take him back to the barn. I feel sick with what I have done. The stupid girl couldn’t ride and it is really dumb to bail out from a gallop. It was no good; I knew it was my entire fault. The ambulance makes its way back to the stables and I open the gate.

       “Is she going to be okay?”

       “We just wrap ‘em and pack ‘em,” he said, with macabre jocularity. The two mothers came across the field with looks of anguish.

       “Come in for a quick cup of tea, you need a moment to get over the shock before driving to the hospital.”

       “I don’t know if I could stomach it, I feel physically sick.” The two walk to the house. I shuffle back to the stables and try to make sense of it all. I ride Tonka and down the road to cool him off.

        A car slows down behind me, it is Owen. He pulls alongside and lowers the window.

       “Did she have a fall?”

       “No, she bailed. Tonka is just not used to spurs.”

       “Or a cup of tea,” said Owen, adding, “a horseman’s grave is always open.”  I could not believe his callousness.

       “They’ve taken her to the hospital.”

       “You and I are partners now, we’ll keep our little secret to ourselves,” he said, with a tight smile that had a blade in it. I slump in the saddle, sick over of the terrible price I had paid to keep Tonka for a little longer. By the time I got home, Gloria had left and my mother is standing at the door.

        “Rory, have you seen the tea pot? I can’t find it anywhere.”

        “It’s in the tack-room,” I reply.

        “Why on earth did you take it there? You have a perfectly good travel mug. I wanted to make Gloria a proper cup of tea; instead, I had to use tea bags. I was mortified.”

I went back to collect the teapot. I wanted to smash it and Owen Monet against the wall.

       “Gloria just phoned, Penelope is going to be okay, she has a big bruise and a mild concussion...and she said you can stable Tonka at the Club when you work there. Penelope would like company when she rides,” said Mom.

       “Thank heavens she is going to be alright.’

       “Gloria wants to give you dressage lessons; she says you need them...cup of tea? She asks, offering the teapot.

        “I’ll have a glass of milk, thanks.” I took the milk to my room and swore that never again would I be so selfish and stupid.

The latest pictures of the hobbit house...