~ wander.essence ~

on journey: virginia to indiana

wanderessence1025 March 20, 2019

I left on a cold, wet and gloomy Sunday to drive 10 hours (671 miles) from northern Virginia to Indiana. On I-66 West, passing cars kicked up cloudbursts of water while the rhythm of my wipers echoed the monotony of the brown and gray landscape. As I approached Middleburg, VA, past The Plains, Old Tavern and Happy Creek Coffee & Tea, the rain slowed and khaki stubbled fields spun past my windows. I swept past Gentle Harvest, Cobbler Mountain Cider, Big Dog Pots Pottery, and the Miracle Valley Vineyard. The Ohio Players sang “I want to be free,” but steel guard rails kept me in line.

The exit for Sky Meadows State Park reminded me of picnics and hikes with my kids when they were young. Passing Markham, I remembered our apple-picking outings to Stribling Orchards. The surrounding landscape was waterlogged after having survived one of the rainiest years on record in 2018. The rain hadn’t let up so far this year.

my route through Virginia

For four hours, I drove west then south then west through Virginia. My southerly route on I-81 took me down the Shenandoah Valley, bordered to the east by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and to the west by the Ridge-and-Valley Appalachians. In the north, the Valley is flatter, home to wineries, apple and peach orchards, and some livestock. The land to the south is used mainly for pasture; many farmers raise beef cattle, horses, dairy cows, and sheep. I flew past Naked Mountain Winery and candelabra-shaped vines sprinkled with snow. Fog hung like shredded fleece over black skeletal trees in the folds of the mountains.

At last, I saw a sliver of blue sky to the west. Neil Diamond serenaded me with “Kentucky Woman,” but I wouldn’t hit Kentucky until 3:15. I flew past the Sly Fox Golf Course, and the chain eateries Cracker Barrel and Dunkin’ Donuts. Dirt-smudged snow encroached on the edges of trees and crops. At the Strasburg McDonald’s, I competed for the bathroom with a busload of Pakistanis.

berries along a roadside stop in Strasburg, Virginia

I passed triplets of crosses along the highway, tall crosses “fashioned from telephone poles,” with a yellow one in the middle. I would pass many of these on my trip and wondered about their origins and meaning. I found this article from Appalachian Magazine when I returned home: The Story of Crosses Across America.

Bare tree branches tangled themselves over endless lines of wooden and wire fences and red weathered barns. Copses of trees dotted rolling brown/gold pastures. The highway rose and dipped. A flock of tiny birds scattered like coal dust across the sky. The names of towns painted on water towers shouted a welcome: Discover Woodstock: 1752. The Mt. Jackson water tower offered red and green apples on a colorful mural. Andros Industrial Plant, a French-owned fruit-processing factory, employed folks in Mt. Jackson. Virginia Safari Park offered a drive-thru safari, Shenandoah Caverns promised Elevators!, a Merillat Factory manufactured cabinets. Sunlight spilled over silos and a yellow tractor, and trees waited like barren bouquet stems awaiting an offering of blossoms. Kendall Law Firm asked in a billboard: “Injured? Call Me Today.”

The Valley is home to universities and colleges: Eastern Mennonite University, James Madison University, Blue Ridge Community College. Commerce enticed in the form of Massanutten Ski Area, Greens & Grains Cafe, Italy Marble & Granite, Volvo car and Kenworth truck dealerships. Trucks lined up outside a Walmart distribution center. A farm boasted a red barn and green chicken coops. Black cows with yellow tags on their ears noshed placidly on hay.

The unproductively named Barren Ridge Vineyard offered what? After all, it was called “barren.” The Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library & Museum and the Frontier Culture Museum promised some history. Flocks of birds rose and fell over a red weathered barn with a tin roof in Mint Spring. By 10:30, the promises of blue sky had vanished and gloom eclipsed the road again. How my mood changed with the weather! On one rusty tin roof of a barn was painted in sloppy letters: Vote Trump 2020. The Trump cult is still strong in America, disgustingly. Elvis Presley sang “Kentucky rain keeps pouring down,” and I didn’t doubt I’d encounter that truth later today.

rest stop in Augusta County, VA

By 11:00, I merged onto I-64 west, and I’d stay on it the rest of the day. I went over Churning Creek, the Cowpasture River, and the Jackson River. Low Moor, Lake Moomaw, and Savage sat in one hollow, but the upscale Omni Homestead Resort claimed Hot Springs, VA. Earl Scruggs plucked some bluegrass music on his banjo, while Welcome to West Virginia: Wild and Wonderful carried me on roller-coaster roads through mountains and hollows. Then another high class resort, taking advantage of the area’s abundant hot springs: The Greenbrier in White Suphur Springs, WV. I passed crossing signs for a horseback rider and a tractor. A Beef Jerky Outlet, The Ruby Rooster Antique Mall, Tudor’s Biscuit World had that hillbilly sound to them. For lunch I stopped at the drive-thru at Arby’s for a Beef & Cheddar sandwich in what would turn out to be a trip of unhealthy eating and extra pounds gained.

my route through West Virginia

Cows huddled around a lemon yellow cottage in Sam Black Church, and winter trees perched atop mountains, making them look like porcupines. Runaway truck ramps offered escape to trucks on a 7% grade, while super strong cross winds made my car wobble. Waterfalls rushed down cliffs bordering the highway and a pungent odor from a factory permeated my car. Crazy winds blew leaves into tornado-swirls. Auto loans were available at easycredit123 dot com. I easily bypassed Dodson Pest Control, Bojangles, the Exhibition Coal Mine, and Appalachian Bible College. I passed a flat-bed truck near Summersville towing a royal blue Impala, taking me back to the olden days. Paint Creek rushed and churned beside the road near Mahan. A sign identified the 38th Parallel North in honor of Korean War Veterans. Kanawha City offered Sam’s Hot Dog Stand, but I’d already had Arby’s. Too bad; it was always hard for me to pass up a hot dog.

rest stop in West Virginia

Before long, I was driving past Charleston, West Virginia, and its gold capitol dome. I crossed a blue bridge and a green bridge near Hurricane, WV, held my nose past a belching factory, and rolled my eyes at the Lion’s Den Adult Superstore. Beams of sunlight shone through a hole in the clouds, what my sister would later call a “God cloud.” America is nothing if not a land of contrasts because along with Adult stores, it has signs such as “Jesus can wash away your sins.”

Charleston, West Virginia capitol dome

bridge before Huntington, WV

Amazon has set up some kind of operation in Huntington, WV and near Louisa the whole hollow on both sides of the highway was a congregation of smokestacks polluting the environment. West Virginia is truly gritty, so different from my home state of Virginia. People often get them confused because of the names, but the states are as different as country clubs and slums.

bridge near Huntington, WV

Trees in West Virginia

At 3:15, I crossed into KENTUCKY: Birthplace of Abraham Lincoln, home to Kentucky Christian University and the Daniel Boone National Forest. Places here seemed to be named after people: Vanceburg, Morehead, Flemingsburg, Frenchburg. At the Speedway Gas Station, people stood in line to buy lottery tickets, hoping their luck might change.

route through Kentucky

I drove through the neat, gently rolling pastures of horse country around Lexington, Kentucky. Cows gathered around a table of square hay bales as if enjoying a family dinner. The water tower in Lexington spelled “Welcome to the Horse Capital of the World” against a mural of horses. I was driving along the Kentucky Bourbon Trail – Buffalo Trace, Wild Turkey, & Four Roses distilleries – accompanied now by wild scribbles of winter trees against a sudden blue sky.

The drive in Kentucky

I was tempted by Equus Run Vineyard and Winery, but I still had further to drive, passing The Goose & Gander, Midway, Versailles, and, before long, Frankfort, the capital of Kentucky. Another hour, and I skirted the edge of Louisville, seeing the unique shape of the Muhammad Ali Museum on the edge of the highway.

As I made my way across Kentucky, the sun was floating toward the earth, and fireballs of light bounced off the passing cars. I had to put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun.

By 6:25 I finally crossed into New Albany, Indiana: The Crossroads of America, passing Palmyra, Squire Boone Caverns, Santa Claus, Ferdinand and Jasper.

route to Dale, Indiana

After dark, I arrived at my destination, the Baymont by Wyndham in Dale. When I drove up to the hotel, a young woman bolted out of a stopped car and ran frantically across the parking lot. At the front entrance, she did a flip and tumble on the sidewalk, and picked herself up quickly. In the lobby, she was panting and crying, and disappeared into the restroom. The receptionist seemed baffled and perturbed by this woman and we commiserated about what was going on, but we were clueless. I disappeared into my room and double-locked my door.

my pathetic attempts at sketching

*Sunday, February 24, 2019*

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“ON JOURNEY” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about the journey itself for a recently visited specific destination. You could write about the journey you hope to take in the year ahead. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments.

My intentions on this trip included picking a random theme for each day of my trip. I had written in my journal, before leaving home, a theme for each day that would focus my attention. This day’s theme was “Economics.” I tried to focus on the economic activity that I noticed along the drive. Another of my intentions was to draw a sketch in my journal. I used a pen (a mistake!), but I tried my best to draw some of the things I noticed along the way. My drawings are still so elementary! My sister called the light streaming from clouds “God clouds” and my husband wondered what a bunch of cigars were doing in the fields. 🙂

Include the link in the comments below by Tuesday, April 16 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Wednesday, April 17, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, once on the third Wednesday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Anabel, of The Glasgow Gallivanter, wrote about a journey to Dundee in November, and titled it after a Scottish folk song.
- The Road and the Miles to Dundee
Jude, of Travel Words, shared a story she remembers clearly from 40 years ago – a surprise encounter on a bus from Casablanca to Tangiers.
- A Small World
Meg, of wordsandimages, wrote in fabulous detail about a road trip she took over two and a half days in New South Wales, from Liston to her home in Potato Point.
- Every journey is a quest

Many thanks to all of you who wrote posts about the journey. I’m inspired by all of you! 🙂

{camino: day 8} lorca to villamayor de monjardín

wanderessence1025 March 17, 2019

I left Bodega del Camino in Lorca by 7:03 with no breakfast. I had to use my headlamp until it got light enough to see. It was so pleasant walking early in the morning and watching the sun rise. I hiked for a bit with a lumbering Spanish man named Antonio. He didn’t speak a word of English and I hardly understood a word of his Spanish despite my Spanish in 10 Minutes a Day! No surprise there.

It was a day for snails in their shells, pretty wildflowers, and starry weeds on the trail. Vineyards gave way to cornfields. We passed a huge building-like haystack like in The Way, but it was a bit far off the path to photograph properly. Antonio and I parted ways when I went to take a photo and then I jumped into the bushes to take care of business.

About “taking care of business:” This is something people don’t like to talk about on the Camino. There are long stretches where there are no bathrooms at all. For a path that is a UNESCO World Heritage site, there are simply too few facilities for pilgrims. Many of the towns along the way wouldn’t even exist if not for pilgrims coming through. Although many disagree that Spain should provide better facilities, I believe the country derives enough economic benefit from the Camino that it should provide and maintain facilities. Although pilgrims are able to use bathrooms at bars, those were only in the towns, and some required a purchase to use them.

I arrived in Villatuerta around 8:30 and stopped for a potato omelette and huge coffee. It wasn’t my normal café con leche, but better; a lady at the bar was having one, so I just pointed to it. I wished I had learned the name of that coffee so I could order it in the future. Pat from Seattle sat at the café and joined us. I also met Bernie, a woman from Britain, and her husband Mick. Once again, I felt Pat connected with them so much better than I did; it seemed I always had the hardest time connecting with people.

I tried to use my debit card in the ATM machine and it said the transaction was denied and I needed to call my bank, which I did. They told me the attempted transaction was trying to access a savings account not attached to my card, despite the fact that I was pushing the button for “current account.” The bank guy stayed on the phone with me while I tried again, but it still didn’t work. He said my account was good, had plenty of money, and they had on record that I was in Spain, so I should try another bank. I never found one on today’s path sadly, so I was nervous about running out of money.

Lorca to Villatuerta (4.5 km)

flowers on the trail

building-like haystack

pretty in yellow

a day of snails

the winding path

star-shaped weeds

pretty weeds

heading to Villatuerte

windmill

In Villatuerta, I walked past the 14th century Church of the Assumption, watched over by a statue of St. Veremundo. Supposedly the church has ornamental screens on the wall behind the altar depicting St. Veremundo defeating the Moors. The church was closed so I didn’t go inside.

Villatuerta

Church of the Assumption in Villatuerta

house in Villatuerta

Just outside of Villatuerta, I stopped to explore the ruins of the ancient pilgrim hospital and 10th century hermitage and of Archangel St. Michael (ermita de San Miguel arcangel). It had a nice little picnic area with olive trees scattered about.

I walked on from Villatuerta with Pat. She is the eldest of five children and has been with her spouse 27 years. They had five children between them from previous marriages. She said her husband’s son died from an opioid overdose but she didn’t want to mention it earlier when I’d told her about my loved one because she was afraid it would bring me down. I told her, no, it made me feel not so alone. I told her I felt guilty because I left my marriage when my loved one was 14 (my husband and I got back together after a seven year separation), and I feared it did permanent damage to him and our relationship, although it was the best thing I’d ever done for myself.

Villatuerta to Estella (3.9 km) and ermita de San Miguel arcangel

ermita de San Miguel arcangel

olive trees around ermita de San Miguel arcangel

Villatuerta to Estella

cross along the way

Pat and I walked into Estella together; at the tourist office, we dropped in for a sello and ran into Darina. Pat said she was going to stay in Estella, so I went on my way.

The compact and vibrant town of Estella has a population of 14,000. It is a recommended stopover as it has a wealth of historical buildings, museums, churches, restaurants and bars. I climbed an impressive set of stairs to the Church of San Pedro de la Rúa, where the Kings of Navarre took their oaths. It has a beautiful 12th century cloister, two sides of which are missing due to a troubled past.

As was common on The Way, artisans were encouraged to return and bring their skills with them. The influx of stonemasons and artists resulted in the beautiful buildings, monuments, bridges, hospitals and cathedrals seen today. However, jealousy and greed also caused much disharmony, leading to the expulsion of the flowering Jewish community in the 14th century, and the destruction of the castle adjoining San Pedro, which destroyed two sides of the cloister.

Estella

Entering Estella

Estella

Church of San Pedro de la Rúa

door at Church of San Pedro de la Rúa

cloister at Church of San Pedro de la Rúa

cloister at Church of San Pedro de la Rúa

view of Estella from Church of San Pedro de la Rúa

I walked alone from Estella to Irache on a road lined with factories and businesses. Soon, I came upon an ironsmith artist from whom I bought a tiny iron shell necklace for 4€. David from Britain and I took turns taking photos of each other with the artist, who gave me a fresh fig, opened it for me, and wished me a Buen Camino. As it was already hot by then, that fig was like nectar from heaven.

A bit further along, I found the famous Fuente de Vino, a fountain installed by a local winery that has two taps, one with water and one with wine. Here, I ran into David again. I had nothing to drink from as I’d sent my pack ahead again; it had my shell attached to it. David shared his shell as a cup. An inscription on the fountain asks the traveler to exercise moderation. After drinking a sip or two of wine, I continued on my way, passing the ancient Benedictine Monasterio de Irache, long connected with Roncesvalles and the Camino, but it was closed. A community of monks served pilgrims here since the 10th century, but were forced to evacuate in 1985 due to a lack of novitiates. I sat at a picnic table in the shade to cool off and refilled my water from a fountain there.

Estella to Irache (3.3 km) and Irache (0.7 km)

ironsmith before Irache

ironsmith and me

Bodegas Irache

me drinking wine from David’s shell

Fuente del Vino

Monasterio de Irache

I followed a long ascending and descending dirt track along a wall in an unsightly area, then walked in the sun along the edge of a plowed field and then in a shaded holm oak and pine forest. To the south, I had an amazing view of the rocky face of the Sierra de Urbasa.

Irache to Azqueta (3.4 km)

leaving Irache

Irache to Azqueta

rocky face of the Sierra de Urbasa

holm oak and pine forest

rocky face of the Sierra de Urbasa

view of Castillo de San Esteban in Villamayor de Monjardín

Irache to Azqueta

I walked through the sleepy town of Azqueta and then onward to Villamayor de Monjardín up a broad, dusty track running between vineyards.

Azqueta

It was always such a welcome sight to see a village ahead at the end of a long day of walking. However, seeing the cone top of Villamayor de Monjardín in the distance, I thought, I hope to God I don’t have to climb up there!

Luckily only the ruins of St. Stephens Castle (Castillo de San Esteban with the tomb of Sanchez I) sit atop the conical peak, and though some hardy pilgrims, including Darina and Anna from Denmark (she had slept in my room in Lorca the previous night), climbed up there, I was too tired to consider it.

Azqueta to Villamayor de Monjardín (1.9 km)

Azqueta to Villamayor de Monjardín

Azqueta to Villamayor de Monjardín

Azqueta to Villamayor de Monjardín

I checked in to Villamayor de Monjardín Albergue, showered, washed my clothes and ran uphill to the only bar in town for a Coke Zero and a ham and cheese sandwich. A couple from Holland, Kees and his wife, Jannie, joined me and had a beer. Over many years, they have been doing sections of the Camino starting in Holland.

Villamayor de Monjardín Albergue

laundry line at Villamayor de Monjardín Albergue

San Andrés Church

Later, I did some Instagram posts and wrote in my journal and then had a beer with an obnoxious guy named Tim and his friend Ben, the Anglican priest I’d met in Muruzábal. We’d had a bit of a misunderstanding with the bartender who charged us too much. They both seemed anxious to get rid of me. I didn’t really care because, though I liked Ben, I didn’t care at all for Tim.

I visited the 12th century Romanesque San Andrés Church, directly across from our albergue; that was about all I could handle. Its Baroque bell tower seemed incongruous, but it was pretty. I said prayers for my kids and family, my fellow pilgrims and myself.

Villamayor de Monjardín had lovely views of the countryside and plenty of good company. Darina, the Dutch couple, Anna (who pointed out that her name is a palindrome) and I sat at a red table outside at the bar, the only restaurant in town, for what seemed like an eternity while they served an entire pilgrim meal to an adjacent table without checking in with us once. We got increasingly impatient over being ignored. Anna got up in a huff and said she was tired of waiting, although it was the only restaurant in town. Shortly after she left, we were finally served delicious lentil soup with chorizo, bread (as always), albondigas (meatballs in sauce with tomatoes), thinly-sliced potatoes, flan, and all the wine we could want. It was delicious.

The next morning, Anna, quite chagrined, said she needed some anger management, and felt embarrassed by her behavior the night before. Luckily she had been able to scrounge together two eggs, a huge tomato, and a little spaghetti for dinner. I loved how she learned something about herself, and we all could relate because we’ve all had regrettable behavior at times in our lives. She was good-natured and self-deprecating about it, which made her endearing. It was lovely getting to know this group of pilgrims, all seeking something and expanding their hearts.

The albergue had disposable paper sheets, the consistency of the small sheets you use when drying clothes. “Sheets” such as these were commonly provided. Pilgrims in the twelve beds in my room were pungent. I was near the window, but had to walk past everyone else to get to the bathroom. It was disgusting. Smells in albergues in those hot September days were generally quite unpleasant.

Villamayor de Monjardín

Villamayor de Monjardín

Villamayor de Monjardín with ruins of St. Stephen’s Castle

Villamayor de Monjardín

San Andrés Church

Villamayor de Monjardín

Villamayor de Monjardín

San Andrés Church

Villamayor de Monjardín Albergue

San Andrés Church

Darina, Jannie, Kees, and Anna

Darina, Jannie, Kees and Anna

*Day 8: Tuesday, September 11, 2018*

*30,219 steps, or 12.81 miles: Lorca to Villamayor de Monjardin (18.7 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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On Sundays, I post about hikes or walks that I have taken in my travels; I may also post on other unrelated subjects. I will use these posts to participate in Jo’s Monday Walks or any other challenges that catch my fancy.

This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: A Very Traditional Village.

braga, portugal: immersion

wanderessence1025 March 12, 2019

A full late-October day in Braga, Portugal. A day fortified with a breakfast of eggs, meats, cheeses, pastries, orange juice and coffee served by our lovely hostess, Conceição, at Domus 26 Guesthouse. A day switch-backing up a mountain with my husband in a rented MINI Clubman on narrow roads lined with colorful houses; a blue-sky day that refrained from raining. A day attempting to escape hordes of Chinese tourists at the pilgrimage site of Bom Jesus do Monte, a remake of Jerusalem’s Golgotha, by hiding inside a man-made grotto; a day descending and climbing the baroque tiered staircases dating from different 18th century decades and lined with stations of the cross. A day encountering statues with water gurgling out of eyes, ears, noses, and mouths on the lower Escadaria dos Cinco Sentidos (Stairway of the Five Senses). A day meeting face-to-face with Faith, Hope and Charity on the highest Escadaria das Trés Virtudes (Stairway of the Three Virtues). A day meandering through the park, hotels, tennis courts, flower gardens and lakes and then driving further up to the neo-classical sanctuary and Marian shrine of Nossa Senhora do Sameiro. A day admiring sweeping views of Braga and sitting on azulejo benches at Sameiro.

A day wandering through the oldest cathedral in Portugal, Sé de Braga, with its mishmash of Romanesque, Manueline and baroque styles. A day finding satyrs and mermen holding up twin baroque organs and cloisters disclosing Gothic chapels. A day, a moment really, paying homage at the tomb of the Infant D. Afonso, coated with gilded and silver copper.

A day forgetting we were in Portugal as we mistakenly blurted Spanish words. A day marching around the elegant town center with its ancient buildings, narrow lanes and plazas, past the Fountain of the Castles, among candy-colored and azulejo-covered buildings. A day dipping into trim boutiques and buying scarves. A day leaning on the blue doors of the azulejo-tiled Palácio do Raio, built when John V reigned. A day strolling through geometrically carved boxwoods, cedar topiaries, and a sea of flowers at Jardin de Santa Bárbara to the broken arcade ruins of the Paço Arcebispal dos Braganças.

A day drinking beers in a dark bar; a day savoring delicious sea bass with vinho verde at Restaurante O Jacó, known for its meat, while Mike chewed relentlessly on grisly braised beef loin medallions. A day that would be our last in Braga, as we headed to Porto by way of Guimarães on Sunday.

Steps: 14,904 (6.32 miles)

*Saturday, October 27, 2018*

See below for historical facts and figures, if you’re interested. 🙂

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me & Conceição at Domus 26 Guesthouse in Braga

Bom Jesus do Monte is a famous pilgrimage site outside of Braga. It has a monumental, Baroque stairway that climbs 116 meters (381 feet). It stands on a forested hill that offers grand views across the city. The new church (built 1784–1834) was one of the first neoclassical churches of Portugal.

Bom Jesus do Monte

Bom Jesus do Monte

grotto at Bom Jesus do Monte

Bom Jesus do Monte

stations of the cross

Escadaria do Bom Jesus

Escadaria do Bom Jesus

Mike at Escadaria do Bom Jesus

me at Escadaria do Bom Jesus

veiw of Braga from Bom Jesus

red bushes at Bom Jesus

view from Bom Jesus

garden at Bom Jesus

Bom Jesus do Monte

Mike and the Mini-Cooper Clubman

The neoclassical Nossa Senhora do Sameiro, or Sanctuary of Our Lady of Sameiro, is the largest Marian devotional shrine in Portugal, second only to the Sanctuary of Fátima. Construction was begin in 1863.

Nossa Senhora do Sameiro

view of Braga from Nossa Senhora do Sameiro

Nossa Senhora do Sameiro

inside Nossa Senhora do Sameiro

Estampas

azulejos at Nossa Senhora do Sameiro

The 1089 Sé de Braga is the oldest in Portugal; it was declared a National Monument in 1910. The interior includes a sacristy, Treasury Museum and the chapels of São Geraldo and Glória (Chapel of the Glory, built 1326 – 1348). The Capela dos Reis (Chapel of the Kings), was built around 1374 in the place where Count Henrique and Countess Theresa, parents of the first Portuguese King, were buried. Their tombs were substituted in the early 16th century by new ones, with recumbent figures. The cathedral’s choir is beautifully decorated with a painted ceiling and sculptured gilt wood choir stalls (1737). In front of the high choir there are two gilt wood organs, carved in the 1730s, heavily decorated with baroque and fantastic motifs.

Sé de Braga

interior of Sé de Braga

inside Sé de Braga

interior of Sé de Braga

Tomb of Infant D. Afonso

Largo do Paço represents the seat of the Republic of Braga, extinct in 1790 by the order of the first Queen of Portugal, María I. The central fountain is from 1723.

Largo do Paço

Colorful streets of Braga

streets of Braga

The small Palácio do Raio was built from 1753-54. It is an example of the late Baroque, early Rococo style of decoration by Portuguese architect André Soares, notable for his influence in the northern Baroque movement.

Palácio do Raio

Mike at Palácio do Raio

Blue door at Palácio do Raio

balconies at Palácio do Raio

Throttleman for men

Igreja do Hospital de San Marcos dates back to the 18th century. Life-size statues of the apostles define the upper rampart. In the middle of the church façade, there is a niche containing a statue of Saint Mark. On the same site, there was a church and hospital that Diogo de Sousa had built in the 16th century. The hospital provided relief to the poor, pilgrims and travelers staying in the city of Braga.

Igreja do Hospital de San Marcos

Outside the spiky, medieval north wing of the Paço Arcebispal dos Braganças, begun in the 14th century and enlarged in the 17th & 18th centuries, is the 17th century square known as Jardin de Santa Bárbara. The building is now home to university offices and the municipal library.

Jardin de Santa Bárbara

Jardin de Santa Bárbara

public building in Braga

West of the old center sits the elegant 18th century “arch of the new gate,” the Arco da Porto Nova, which once served as the city’s main entry. It displays the coat of arms of the archbishop who commissioned it, Dom José de Bragança.

Arco da Porto Nova

Conceição recommended Restaurante O Jacó, which she said was well-known for its meat. My fish meal was great, but Mike’s meat was very gristly and chewy.

Grilled sea bass at Restaurante O Jacó

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“PROSE” INVITATION: I invite you to write up to a post on your own blog about a recently visited particular destination (not journeys in general). Concentrate on any intention you set for your prose. In this case, one of my intentions for my trip to Portugal was to pick five random verbs each day and use them in my travel essay: ~~reign~~, ~~rain~~, ~~disclose~~, ~~attempt~~, ~~march~~. √

It doesn’t matter whether you write fiction or non-fiction for this invitation. You can either set your own writing intentions, or use one of the prompts I’ve listed on this page: writing prompts: prose. (This page is a work in process.) You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Monday, March 25 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, March 26, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired. 🙂

Jo, of Restless Jo, wrote a revealing post about her struggle to acclimate to a new culture in her newly adopted home in the Algarve.
- Living the dream… 3 months on

Thanks to all of you who wrote prosaic posts following intentions you set for yourself. 🙂

{camino: day 7} muruzábal to lorca & ruminations {week one}

wanderessence1025 March 10, 2019

Today, for the second time on my Camino, I decided to carry my full backpack rather than sending it ahead. At 7:30 a.m., Ingrid and I followed the path from Muruzábal to Óbanos, a mere twenty minutes away.

At the entrance to the historic village of Óbanos, we stopped to admire the metal scallop shell, the symbol of the Way, set in concrete pavement. A friendly white horse welcomed us to town. We walked past the neo-Gothic Church of St. John the Baptist (San Juan Bautista), but we didn’t go in. In this town, the noblemen of Navarre met in the 14th century to try to limit the power of the monarchy.

It was only a half hour further to Puenta la Reina. At the entrance to town was the beautiful Church of the Crucifixion, or Iglesia del Crucifijo, today named after the 14th century “Y”shaped crucifix brought here by German pilgrims.

In town, we stopped for breakfast. I went inside the Iglesia de Santiago, with its twelfth century façade and portico. The interior was sombre but was brightened by a gilded statue of Santiago Peregrino. On my way out, I ran into Darina from Slovakia and found out she might stop in Lorca, which was also my destination. Darina and I had quickly come to understand that we both enjoyed walking alone, and at our own paces. However, whenever we stayed in the same town, we would often meet for dinner or beers.

On the way out of town, I strolled through an arch and across the Romanesque Puente la Reina, which means “Queen’s Bridge.” The bridge’s six arches span the Arga, which we had first crossed in Zubiri. The bridge was named in honor of Doña Mayor, wife of Sancho III, who ordered the Romanesque bridge be built to help the increasing numbers of medieval pilgrims cross the river safely. Charlemagne is thought to have stayed in this town after he defeated the Moors in Cizur.

At Puente la Reina, Ingrid and I parted ways because she was moving at too fast a pace for me. I lingered to take photos of the bridge, and she went on her way. Soon, I came upon a Californian named Rubin who was slowly making his way with two bad knees. We had run into a group of Mexican guys earlier, and he was with them but going at a snail’s pace. I had to sneak off into the woods to take care of business. When I got back on the path, I thought for sure I’d overtake him, but I never saw him again. It was hard to believe with those knees that he was outpacing me, but apparently he was!

I continued on my way to Mañeru, which was another 5.2km mostly on level ground but turning into a steep slope with reddish soil and large stones which made progress awkward. This village is linked with the Knights Templar and the Order of St. John, whose influence was considerable in the Middle Ages. Here, I stopped for a coffee break then walked past a small cemetery with a pretty iron cross over the gate.

I continued on another 2.6 km to Cirauqui, passing vineyards and olive groves and fig trees along the way. Cirauqui is a medieval hilltop village with narrow winding streets, archways, and imposing houses with massive main walls and façades, ornate balconies and doorways topped with coats of arms. It was quite a climb into town and I didn’t feel like lingering as I needed to walk another 5.7km to reach Lorca by 3:00 or they’d give away my room, unless I called to let them know I’d be late. As I wasn’t sure my phone would work in Spain, I powered on.

After descending a steep hill from Cirauqui, I came upon a rough track that was once an old Roman road. Alongside, was a rest area / “book crossing;” it offered, for donations, fresh fruit, drinks, tables, chairs, library books and a place to rest in the shade of an olive grove. A young Spanish man with a braid and his girlfriend were operating the stand and said they’d been doing it since July of 2017. He said something to the effect that he hoped the land would become a cultural center in two years.

My pack was feeling ponderous at this point, and it was scorching, so I enjoyed a bit of a rest in the shade.

Finally, it was a long tough slog 5.7 km to Lorca under a relentless sun. The dirt track meandered gently downhill through open farmland and parallel to a highway. We tunneled under the highway several times and then walked under a modern aqueduct (canal de Alloz). I didn’t really chat with anyone all day, so it was a bit lonely. On the hot, shadeless dirt track, it seemed to be a day of centipedes. The Way seemed to be crawling with them, or maybe it was just the heat making me delusional!

We crossed a medieval stone bridge over the inviting río Salado (Salt River) before the long uphill climb to Lorca, and although many pilgrims had stopped to soak their feet, I didn’t stop because I had run out of water and just wanted to get to Lorca and have a cool drink. It was miserable as there was little shade and my mouth and throat felt like sandpaper; I kept stopping to catch my breath under each tiny bit of shade I could find.

I finally arrived at Lorca at 2:00, drenched in sweat. I was never so happy to arrive somewhere. This quaint village is the site of a former pilgrim hospice with connections to the monastery at Roncesvalles.

Ingrid was sitting at the door of La Bodega del Camino, looking red-faced and irritable, but she had to go on because she’d reserved a room further on. I felt so bad for her because it had been a grueling walk and it would only get hotter as she hiked on. It also happened to be her birthday; I didn’t think today’s walk could have offered much of a birthday celebration.

I secured my room and went right upstairs to shower and wash my clothes. While I was having a tinto verrano and a cool gazpacho at the bar, Darina arrived. We arranged to meet for dinner in the cafe of the albergue at 6:30. I went up to my room and lay down to catch up on Instagram and write in my journal.

At a dinner of paella (a frozen pre-made and heated version), Darina and I were joined by Josh and his sister Lisa. Josh, who lived in Washington, D.C., would be starting a new job at USAID the following week, and Lisa would continue to Santiago without him. Pat from Seattle checked in at the albergue right across from Bodega, but she partook in the pilgrim meal there.

I had a bottom bunk in a nice 6-person room. We were given sheets and pillowcases but no blankets. I hadn’t yet used my sleeping bag, and was trying to avoid using it to see if I could do without it and possibly toss it out (reducing the weight in my pack). When darkness descended, the cooling night air made me wish I had taken it out, but I didn’t want to rifle through my pack in the middle of the night, possibly waking the other pilgrims. Instead I put on my fleece and leggings, but it was hard to be comfortable without any covers on. To warm up, I did knee exercises in my bed, trying not to disturb my five roommates. 🙂

Ruminations {week one}

The first week of my Camino was all about getting into the rhythm of the walk: determining when to eat breakfast and when to stop for snacks or second breakfasts, learning to listen to my body’s needs and limitations, figuring out the afternoon routine once I checked into the albergue, learning how to sleep with hordes of people in the same room, realizing that I didn’t want to walk in the late afternoons when there was no respite from the sun. I quickly learned to reserve rooms ahead of time because of the crowds.

The challenges of my first week included getting used to carrying my full backpack. I only carried it two days, opting to send it ahead for the other five, but those two days were misery. After the first week, I would opt to send it ahead for the rest of my Camino.

The heat was another challenge. The early mornings were pleasantly cool and the sunlight lovely, but around 10:00 a.m. it got hot and by 11-12, it was usually sweltering. Walking up and down hills in the heat with little shade made me wonder how on earth people did the Camino in the summer.

Problems with my loved one would become a near constant on my Camino and I often shared with other pilgrims my fears, worries, and even my hopes. I would find consolation from many compassionate people, some of whom would share a related story that was highly personal, without offering unwanted advice. After a deep talk, they would often disappear on the horizon and I’d never see them again, as if they were angels who dropped in to console and assure me I wasn’t alone in my struggles. These were sacred moments.

My first hope was to befriend everyone I met, which is how I often feel whenever I am thrust into the midst of people I don’t know. I had that optimistic view in the first heady days of walking. Soon it became apparent I would be naturally attracted to certain people, and them to me. Just like in life, some people got on my nerves. Others I had no feeling about one way or the other. Some people I hoped to befriend, but they seemed standoffish, and I’m not one to pursue people who don’t seem interested. I never considered latching on to anyone and walking with them the entire way; that simply wasn’t my way. I wanted time for silence and contemplation, although I was happy to have chats with pilgrims who would walk beside me for a while. I enjoyed sharing intimately with fellow pilgrims and listening to their stories; this rarely happens in everyday life. I also liked to walk at my own leisurely pace, stopping to take pictures or to rest whenever the urge hit me. I loved the long stretches of silent reflection and stopping into churches to pray.

My first week’s highlights included the first two days walking over the Pyrenees. Between the excitement of starting out and the magnificent scenery, I felt great energy and enthusiasm. I enjoyed walking with Ingrid those first days. I was entranced by bucolic scenes of green meadows and infinite peaks, spotted pigs, cows, long-haired sheep, black-faced sheep (churros), horses wearing gently clanging bells, and a beech forest, the trees gnarled and moss-covered.

Another favorite day was walking from Pamplona to Muruzábal. We had gorgeous scenery all day, topped off with the climb to Alto del Perdon. There we had magnificent views of wind turbines twirling on the ridge line and rusted sheet metal pilgrims headed westward in a line. On that day, I met Darina from Slovakia, who would become a dear friend on my Camino, and who would encourage me to take a bicycle on a detour to explore the 12th century Romanesque church of Eunate. This was of my most memorable moments on the Camino.

I found myself captivated by anise, blackberries, thistles, prickly weeds, figs, olive groves, huge square haystacks, rolling farmland, medieval stone bridges, and meandering rivers. I became obsessed with collecting sellos (stamps) in my pilgrim credenciale. I loved the tapas in Pamplona and the potato tortillas and café con leche that became regular “second breakfasts” along the Way. I loved the pilgrim meals where people shared their reasons for doing the Camino and fellowship evolved among pilgrims. I loved simply being outside each day, putting one foot in front of the other, with no other obligation whatsoever. It felt like a daydream, magical and otherworldly.

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Muruzábal to Óbanos (1.8 km)

starting out in the morning

a horse on the way to Óbanos

official building in Óbanos

Church of St. John the Baptist

Óbanos to Puente la Reina (2.2 km)

Church of the Crucifixion

Church of the Crucifixion

entering Puente la Reina

entering Puente la Reina

Iglesia de Santiago in Puente la Reina

Iglesia de Santiago

12th C façade & portico of Iglesia de Santiago

interior of Iglesia de Santiago

gilded statue of Santiago Peregrino (Beltxa)

Puente la Reina

gate to Puente la Reina

view from Puente la Reina down the Arga

Puente la Reina

Puente la Reina to Mañeru (5.2 km)

building outside Puente la Reina

Puente la Reina to Mañeru

Puente la Reina to Mañeru

Puente la Reina to Mañeru

Mañeru

Mañeru

door in Mañeru

Mañeru to Cirauqui (2.6 km)

Mañeru to Cirauqui

figs on the Way

Mañeru to Cirauqui

Mañeru to Cirauqui

stone walls on the way to Cirauqui

olive groves along the way

Mañeru to Cirauqui

Mañeru to Cirauqui

Cirauqui to Lorca (5.7 km)

Cirauqui

Cirauqui to Lorca

Roman Road – Cirauqui to Lorca

Roman Road

Rest Area / Book Crossing along the Roman Road

Santiago: 676 km ??

Cirauqui to Lorca

the modern aqueduct (canal de Alloz)

Cirauqui to Lorca

Lorca

paella in Lorca

Josh, Darina and Lisa at dinner in Lorca

*Day 7: Monday, September 10, 2018*

*29,410 steps, or 12.46 miles: Muruzábal to Lorca (17.7 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Rock Cistus and Water.

colorado towns: ouray

wanderessence1025 March 7, 2019

I stopped for about an hour in Ouray, Colorado during my drive around the San Juan Skyway Scenic Byway. Ouray is designated as a National Historic District and is nicknamed “Switzerland of America” because of its panoramic views of the San Juan Mountains.

The town has preserved a charming Victorian-era feel within its box canyon setting, keeping alive the spirit of the Old West. There is a famous hot springs here that I sadly didn’t take the time to visit. There are also close to a hundred hiking trails into the San Juan Mountains, and many off-highway driving adventures. From here, you can explore a ghost town, go mineral hunting, hike a historic mining trail, ride a horse or historic train, or tour a historic mine, along with countless other activities.

I walked up and down the streets, taking pictures and popping into shops. Glossy pickup trucks and SUVs parked diagonally on the town’s streets, and an elegant cowboy strolled happily along. The town boasted an opera house, eating and drinking establishments such as Buen Tiempo Mexican restaurant, Ouray Liquor, Ouray Brewery, O’Brien’s Pub and Grill, Duckett’s Market, Khristopher’s Culinaire, and the Silver Eagle Saloon. Cute shops lined the streets, with names such as Rockin P Ranch, Ouray Alchemists, North Moon, RB Horse Traders, and Chipeta Emporium.

From 1882-1890, the businesses along Main Street consisted of saloons, barbershops, hardware shops, gents’ furnishings, a wagon and carriage shop, a Times printing office, a flour and feed, a coffin maker, and a cabinet shop. From 1902-1908, the shops were barber and tailor shops, dry goods, hardware, saloons, bailed hay and feed, groceries, jewelry, meat, bakery and grocery stores.

In one shop, I bought an Ouray t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy slippers printed with moose as a Christmas present for my daughter.

first view of Ouray from the San Juan Skyway

Wright Opera House

The Beaumont Hotel celebrated its grand opening in 1887 and immediately became known as western Colorado’s most elegant hotel. For fifty years, it lodged wealthy mine owners, railroad men, and corporate executives who had business in the San Juan Mountains. However, as the region’s mines declined, the Beaumont’s vacancy rate grew; by the mid-twentieth century it had lost its luxurious sheen, and in 1964 it closed altogether. Covered in a coat of unsightly pink paint, it stood empty for 38 years, an eyesore on Ouray’s quaint Main Street. In the late 1990s, two investors rescued the Beaumont, spending several million dollars restoring the building. Today the Beaumont serves as a textbook example of historic preservation, and Ouray stands among Colorado’s best preserved Victorian towns.

Beaumont Hotel

a lone cowboy

Buen Tiempo

Rockin P Ranch

Ouray Alchemisst

clock tower in Ouray

Ouray Brewery

Ouray Liquor

Silver Eagle Saloon

ski bench

RB Horse Traders

Chipeta Emporium

bloom

Duckett’s Market

Khristopher’s Culinaire

The way north can be seen from an Ouray street corner.

street corner in Ouray

street mural on O’Brien’s Pub & Grill

Beaumont Hotel

Elks Lodge

street in Ouray

Beaumont Hotel

After leaving Ouray, I continued on the San Juan Scenic Byway, passing a herd of brown cows as I headed into Ridgway. I didn’t stop in the town except to take a picture of a mural at the Old Fort Smith Saloon; this historic building featured in the 1969 Western movie True Grit.

Street mural in Ouray

*Saturday, May 19, 2018*

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“PHOTOGRAPHY” INVITATION: I invite you to create a photography intention and then create a blog post for a place you have visited. Alternately, you can post a thematic post about a place, photos of whatever you discovered that set your heart afire. You can also do a thematic post of something you have found throughout all your travels: churches, doors, people reading, people hiking, mountains, patterns, all black & white, whatever!

You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20-30 photos and to write less than 500-800 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, March 20 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, March 21, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Carol, of The Eternal Traveler, takes us back to the past at Fort York in downtown Toronto.
- Sensing the Past: Canada #23 Fort York

Thanks to all of you who shared posts on the “photography” invitation. 🙂

on returning home from france & germany in 2006

wanderessence1025 March 4, 2019

Two weeks traveling through Paris, the north of France, and southwest Germany with our two boys, ages 13 and 15. Standing in interminable lines for the Eiffel Tower and watching our youngest son take “artistic photos” of that Paris icon as well as the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre. Being accosted by African guys trying to make us braided bracelets, climbing a thousand steps to Sacre Coeur at Montmartre, and admiring the mosaic of Jesus with his gold heart. Finding serenity in the Cimitiere de Montmartre. Photographing our boys posing in front of Moulin Rouge’s windmill and sex shops. Enjoying the view from the Arc de Triomphe. Running through the Luxembourg Gardens.

Two weeks listening to my older son say, “What a way to ruin my day,” as we watched a decrepit old woman at an outside café trying to light a cigar with four bunched-together matches, finally giving up on the cigar, then pulling off her pants to reveal a saggy bare bottom, pulling off her hospital gown, and putting on a t-shirt, and then getting ushered out of the café by the proprietress.

Two weeks watching Parisians take to the streets to celebrate their victory over Spain in the World Cup, yelling “Allez! Allez! Allez! Allez!” Listening to people honking, dancing and singing, wild in the streets.

Two weeks driving a blue Renault Laguna from Paris to Normandy. Exploring the artificial port remnants in Arromanches from the WWII Normandy campaign. Enjoying 1664 beers at an outdoor cafe in Arromanches. Staying in a pigieonnier at Manior de Herouville. Watching Cool Runnings on a mattress pulled down from the loft of the pigieonnier because the boys saw a spider and refused to sleep up there. Meeting the aging, deaf and blind animals on the grounds: Ozzie the rooster, Purdy the white lab, Gimble the blind-in-one-eye English Spaniel, Twinkle the white cat, and a black Cocker Spaniel who was both blind and deaf.

Two weeks weeping over the film about the Normandy invasion at the World War II Museum in Caen and the 360º film at Arromanches where actual violent war footage was overlaid on tranquil scenes of the countryside and villages. Two weeks of the boys running in and out of bomb craters and into old German bunkers at Pointe du Hoc. Two weeks encountering Middle Age re-enactors at a Medieval Festival in Bayeux.

Two weeks to visit over 9,000 American dead at the American Military Cemetery while our boys stayed behind to watch videos. Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of young men who gave their lives to fight the Nazis and fascism. Basking on the beach at St. Laurent in much needed solitude. Exploring Mont St. Michel and enjoying the Bayeaux Tapestry while the boys walked around Bayeaux on their own.

Two weeks in Colmar eating disgusting German food while listening to a Russian bum play a boom box accompanied by a saxophone, after which he demanded money from the restaurant patrons. Listening to Alex complain about how bad and stupid the music was. Exploring the Route du Vin (the Wine Road), beginning at the Haut-Koenigsburg Castle, where the boys enjoyed the swords, knives and other weaponry. Driving south down the Route du Vin through charming towns, with clusters of red roofs nestled into hillsides surrounded by vineyards. Sampling wines in Kayserberg when we gave up trying to find the castle tower because of the heat, exploring Heidelburg and its castle, taking a Rhine riverboat cruise, and visiting Trier and Mosul. Admiring the wind turbines in the German landscape as well as the well-behaved off-leash dogs throughout Germany and France.

Two weeks eating omelettes, rarebit, pizzas, eclairs, and dessert crepes topped with ice cream, chocolate and chantilly. Devouring croissants and walnut caramel glacés and pain de raisins. Enjoying picnics of raspberries, strawberries, pears, apples, baguettes, pain du campagne, brie and gouda at Place des Invalides. Eating brochettes of beef, profiteroles, mackeral and salmon spread on bread, and “Noix de lotte au chou vert et au lard fumé (monkfish with green cabbage and smoked bacon).” Savoring asparagus tarte flambés at an outdoor cafe with a big screen TV where people watched Italy and Germany in the World Cup; watching honking cars flying Italian flags drive in circles around our hotel when Italy won. Two weeks drinking wine and cold beers.

Two weeks reading Bee Season by Myla Goldberg and keeping a sporadic journal.

Two weeks mangling the French language with “Je ne comprende pas” and “Òu sont les toilettes?” Two weeks attempting pathetic German phrases such as “Bitte.” “Danke.” “Entschuldigung!” “Guten Morgen!”

Two weeks wearing turquoise and denim and khaki bermudas and white frayed shirts and tank tops.

Two weeks trying to possess beauty by buying postcards, scarves, stamps, phone cards, watercolors of Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower, and a turquoise flowered wrap shirt.

Paris

me at Shakespeare & Co.

“Artistic” Eiffel Tower

Alex, Mike and Adam

the Seine

Atop the Eiffel Tower

“Artistic” Eiffel Tower

Sacre Coeur

Alex in hat in Paris

Adam and sculpture

Moulin Rouge

boys in front of sex shop

Eiffel Tower

me with Mike

Normandy

Normandy

Mike

American Cemetery

me at American Cemetery

Mont St. Michel

me at Mont St. Michel

pigeonniere

Normandy

Crêperie

Alsace-Lorraine & Germany

Haut-Koenigsburg Castle

World Cup celebrations

Adam

Colmar

Heidelberg

me with Adam

Rhine River

While traveling, I captured only the French part of our journey in a handwritten journal, which I kept in some detail. However, I totally slacked off once we arrived in Alsace-Lorraine and Germany. I fell abysmally short in my descriptions and observations.

I wasn’t much of a photographer at that time, although at least on this trip, we were able to take digital pictures. I never did much with the photos until much later, when I added them to my European blog: in search of a thousand cafés: france. I still failed to use all my senses in descriptions, especially as, without a good journal, I couldn’t remember details.

I have a difficult time finding time to keep a journal when I’m traveling with other people. On this trip, as both of our sons were along, I simply didn’t take the time to write. It’s sad, but my record of this trip is very sketchy.

*June 26 – July 11, 2006*

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“ON RETURNING HOME” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about returning home from one particular destination or, alternately, from a long journey encompassing many stops. How do you linger over your wanderings and create something from them? How have you changed? Did the place live up to its hype, or was it disappointing? Feel free to address any aspect of your journey and how it influences you upon your return. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments.

For some ideas on this, you can check out the original post about this subject: on returning home.

Include the link in the comments below by Sunday, March 31 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Monday, April 1, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation on the first Monday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the saint louis gateway arch

wanderessence1025 March 3, 2019

On my second day of driving back across country from my Four Corners trip, I stopped to visit the Gateway Arch National Park in St. Louis, Missouri. I had visited the Arch in 1979 with my first husband, but at that time I had never heard of the National Parks Passport, so I didn’t get a cancellation stamp. We had only stopped briefly, and we didn’t take the tram inside the Arch to the top, where we could see views of the city of St. Louis and the Mississippi River. On this day, I took the tram to the top and also got my cancellation stamp. 🙂

The Gateway Arch soars 630 feet in a graceful curve on the eastern shore of the Mississippi River, with the city of St. Louis to the west. It stands on ground that was once the original village of St. Louis, founded in 1764. By the 1840s, this spot was the center of a bustling riverfront district, where explorers, fur trappers and covered wagon pioneers readied themselves for their journey westward.

The Gateway Arch

The idea to memorialize the role of St. Louis in the western expansion of the United States was proposed in the 1930s but it took 30 years to complete. Hoping to revitalize an ugly and rundown waterfront, the idea was set in motion, with President Franklin D. Roosevelt creating the memorial by executive order in 1935. The National Park Service was chosen to manage the memorial and to research the history of the site. Between 1939 and 1942, 40 blocks of condemned buildings were razed.

In 1940, the city deeded the Old Courthouse, the historic building in which the Dred Scott case began (a case that pushed the nation closer to Civil War), to the National Park Service. It was incorporated into the memorial.

Old Courthouse in St. Louis

Just as progress was being made, the nation became embroiled in World War II. After the war, Luther Ely Smith, the prominent St. Louis attorney who had instigated the process of creating the memorial, raised money to fund an architectural contest, hoping for something “transcending in spiritual and aesthetic values” which would attract visitors from at home and abroad. The design by Eero Saarinen was selected, although none of the judges actually believed the Arch could be built.

After delays caused by the Korean War, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed a bill authorizing the memorial in 1954. There were many challenges in building a 630-foot arch that could support two leaning legs up to the point where a keystone section could be inserted. You can read more information about the architecture here.

Before going up into the arch, I took a walk by the riverfront where one-hour riverboat cruises along the St. Louis downtown riverfront are available.

Riverboat Cruises on the Mississippi River

At 1:10 p.m., as per my timed entry ticket, I took the four-minute tram ride to the top of the Arch. From the inside windows, the view stretches for miles east and west over metropolitan St. Louis, including the Mississippi River and Illinois. The observation room comfortably holds about 100 people. On most days, no motion can be felt at the top, but when the wind picks up, the Arch gently sways several inches from side to side. Engineers estimate that in a 150 mph wind, the arch will sway only 18″ at the top. I felt a slight movement while I was up there.

view from the top of the Arch

view west of St. Louis

view southwest

view east of Mississippi River to Illinois

The stability of the Arch arises naturally out of a few elegantly simply ideas. No inner frame or skeleton holds it up. It traces the lines of a “catenary” curve, the curve that an idealized hanging chain or cable assumes under its own weight when supported only at its ends. This is a sound shape for a standing arch. All the forces of thrust are kept in the center of the legs and transferred directly to the massive concrete foundations, which are sunk deeply into bedrock.

The Gateway Arch view from the river

The legs of the Arch are equilateral triangles, the most rigid geometric shape in nature. With a taper diminishing from 54 feet on a side at ground level to 17 feet at the top, the shape reduces wind loading and virtually eliminates stresses caused by oscillations.

The Arch from below

The Gateway Arch

The Gateway ARch

Gateway Arch in the clouds

After going to the top, I walk down by the riverfront and then all around the surrounding park.

Riverboat Cruises

I circle the Arch, getting closer to the Old Courthouse.

Old Courthouse in St. Louis

From this side, I see the base and the Arch looking the east toward the Mississippi River.

Gateway Arch from the Old Courthouse

The landscape around the Arch reflects the curvilinear nature of the structure. Curves define the entire landscape, from the gentle arc of tree-lined paths and staircases to the retaining walls and the flowing ribbons of the ponds edges.