Horsing Around in New Bedford – Summer 2026

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Well, we did “horse around” but it wasn’t in New Bedford. And some of our summer adventures concerned clams, not four-legged mammals. But both experiences did occur during summer visits to New Bedford, so this title isn’t as misleading, I hope, as Voltaire’s famous comment about the Holy Roman. Empire (neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire).

New Bedford is marvelous in the summer, especially when contrasted with the hot humidity that defines Orlando from June through September. (Ok, maybe it starts in May and doesn’t truly end until October. Just another slightly inaccurate statement.)

Our summer visit coincided with J’s birthday, and I thought an appropriate gift would be to add to our collection of horseback riding experiences. To the dismay of some of our travel companions, we’ve added “horseback riding around the world” to our repertoire of desired travel events. We’ve managed Russia, Croatia, Hawaii, South Africa, Arizona, California, and the list continues.

Riding Icelandic ponies in Croatia

What I eventually found around the New Bedford area was an outfit located in Middletown, Rhode Island, not far from Newport. (BTW, none of the rest of the family indicated any desire to join us.) After an hour or so drive, we finally found the entrance to the stable and after some waiting around a guide showed up – we were the only two who’d signed up for the “trail ride” out to the Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge. After circumnavigating the barn a few times to get used to the horses – J had Pumpkin and mine was named Cool Whip – off we went.

Because the beach was still open, the much advertised “riding on the beach” wasn’t available and we were relegated to the roads with a few forays across some fields, paralleling the ocean. The wildflowers were spectacular.

But I have barely any photos, because the winds were as ferocious as the wildflowers were spectacular. The further out the peninsula we rode, the rougher the wind became, to the point that it truly felt we were riding out a tropical storm.

This had the decidedly unfortunate effect of kicking sand and dirt up into the horses’ faces. – which they, most decidedly, did not like. J’s horse weathered the situation with aplomb, but poor Cool Whip – who was supposed to be elderly and calm (albeit extremely big) – did not. All of a sudden I was galloping along, fervently trying to remember how to hold on with my legs and not drop the reins.

Somehow I stayed on, the horse calmed down, and our guide announced he’d never ridden out there in such winds before. I don’t think there were any more trail rides that day.

Four legged creatures were one thing – but I’ve also always had a strong desire to catch a large fish. The effect, perhaps, of studying The Old Man and the Sea in 8th grade? In any event, having met with no luck on that front, clams seemed like a good option. During our horseback riding visit to New Bedford, A and N’s friend B had brought clams he had caught (retrieved? pulled out of the water? not what the appropriate retrieval verb is) to their summer solstice party. I was hooked. Yes, that’s a fishing joke. Anyway, he promised to take me clamming on my next visit.

So, in August I took a several day solo trip up to New Bedford to see A, N and the grandson, and clamming was indeed on the agenda. It started with having to obtain a license. Apparently Rhode Island residents are allotted a certain amount of clams per year as a right under the state constitution. But the rest of us have to get a license. And getting a license requires filling out a form that asks for your social security number, drivers license, and about all of the personally identifying information you can think of. For some reason, a clamming license is basically the same one you have to get if you’re going out to actually hunt something with a rifle. Anyway, I filled it out, took a deep breath and prayed it was a legitimate website, and pressed send.

Due to rainfall the night before we couldn’t go to the place B had originally found. Apparently clamming is one of those things where the prime locations are kept as a deep dark secret by those in the know, and this was one of them. Sort of like terminal top parking at the Orlando International Airport or the secret recipe for making Coke.

But ever-resourceful B found an alternative, and very early on the designated morning, A, N, grandson L and I were off to go clamming. To be honest, L loved the beach, but didn’t last long at clamming activities and fortunately A was able to take him to a nearby playground.

The tide wasn’t all the way out, and what I hadn’t realized is that clams are not like coquina shells on southeast coast Atlantic beaches just waiting to be picked up. Nope, you have to wade out there, feel around with your feet, and then use a rake like implement to literally scrape the sand, scoop it up, and hope that it contains some clams.

I’m the little spot in the distance

There were a couple of problems from the perspective of a five foot one inch clammer. First, since the tide wasn’t all the way out, we had to wade out such that the water was approaching my shoulder level. And second, with that amount of water weighing on you it is exceptionally difficult to lift up your clam rake up above your shoulder and drive it down through the water and waves at a sufficient depth to pick up anything other than the finest trace of sand, with a few bits of gravely rock mixed in for good measure.

However, I’ve always prided myself on foot and toe dexterity, and what it turned out I was really good at was finding where the clams were, alerting B, who, with his much greater height, could swoop in for the final capture.

It was enormously rewarding.

And particularly rewarding when we had a clam boil that night.

As October begins, summer’s technically over. Time now to find some fall equivalent to horsing and clamming. Our intrepid friend in adventure S has signed all of us up for another 20-mile Mammoth March on January 30, 2027 – so I guess there are some long training hikes in my future.

Surprisingly Sunny in San Francisco

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Not sure whether it’s climate change or not, but the week of summer we just spent in San Francisco hardly resembled Mark Twain’s famous quip about the coldest winter he’d ever spent. To the contrary, we were blessed with beautiful blue skies and warm temps practically the whole time we were there.

Our first day we urban hiked with daughter S through the financial district and on to the Ferry Building where we met T for lunch at Hog Island Oyster Co. S also managed to try on multiple pairs of sunglasses at the Sunglass Hut by Union Square (her birthday is coming up, after all), where the salesperson was so taken by J’s ancient Native sunglasses he asked where they were from and cleaned them for free. The financial district is much more bustling and youthful than it was our last visit – the move to RTW (return to work) certainly is reinvigorating the city.

After a day or two in SF, we headed south to Monterey to visit family. We drove Highway 1 all the way – I’m not sure I’ve ever been on that stretch. While it’s not as breathtaking as the Big Sur section, the steep cliffs down to the beaches, rolling hills and the wildflowers edging the road are much preferable to the bumper to bumper traffic on 101. We stopped for lunch in Half Moon Bay at The Barn – a fun little sandwich place just off the highway. The last time I remember being in Half Moon Bay was for a 4th of July event back in 1983 when J and I worked at his brother’s computer company for the summer. My main memory of that occasion was watching seemingly staid co-workers throw fireworks from the top of the cliffs down to the beach and crossing their fingers that no one down below ended up part of some spectacular explosion. 

Normally Monterey and Pacific Grove are bathed in fog, but even that was not so on this trip. We were able to enjoy several sunny (or sunny-ish) walks and of course dinner at J’s favorite restaurant, Domenico’s. It’s become a family tradition to order sand dabs, which don’t seem to be served anywhere but Monterey. The fact our niece from Nice was also visiting made everything taste even better. Plus, oddly enough, an old friend of hers had come down for the weekend and was headed, of all places, off to Ladakh the next week,  traveling to some of the exact spots we went to when we climbed Stok Kangri. 

Here’s a throw back photo of Leh in Ladakh –

We journeyed back to SF during the finals of the World Cup. Somehow we stumbled on to the charming town of Rio Del Mar where we amazingly found an uncrowded, beach front bar/restaurant with a TV. Given that everywhere in Marina, where we had to charge the car (S and T of course have an electric car) had crowds spilling out of the doors, this was a very pleasant and unexpected surprise.

Highlights of the rest of our San Francisco trip – 

The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It turns out one of the best things about being 65 is that we qualify for senior discounts everywhere. The SFMOMA is an extraordinary collection, and it was topped off by the special exhibition of Matisse’s Femme au chapeau: A Modern Scandal, largely based on the 1905 show in Paris where the painting of that name created such a stir. Beyond the special exhibition there’s a great collection of 20th Century art and beyond. I really liked the Gerard Richter below, a chart of 256 colors generated through random selection. I’m considering making a DIY version – after all, imitation is the highest form of flattery!

The Lands End hike and Sutro Baths. This area lies just to the west of the Golden Gate Bridge and below the Legion of Honor museum. In the 1890s Adolph Sutro built a huge salt water swimming pool right on the edge of the water, as well as a small train to transport city residents to his seaside wonders. Although it eventually burned, the stone ruins remain as a testament to what must have been a very impressive, if freezing cold, place to amuse oneself.

The trail itself hugs the edge of the cliffs and offers spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s an out and back but you can return along an upper trail by the El. Camino del Mar that rejoins the lower one near the trailhead. It also has the perk of providing a bathroom. The Lands End trial (also known as the Coastal Trail) ends in the Sea Cliff neighbood, and the multimillion dollar houses are definitely worth strolling by.

Urban Hiking.  As many of you know, J and I are fans of lengthy urban hikes and SF is a great place to embark on them. In fact, the steepness of the hills gives mountain hiking a run for its money.  Aside from several trips walking to the Ferry Building (with detours into Chinatown) from lower Pac Heights, we also walked all the way from the de Young Museum (enjoyed the American art collection as well as the cheap senior ticket) near the Presidio, down California Street back to Polk and Franklin. I’m struck by how residential San Francisco feels, and the pockets of neighborhoods make for interesting walks.

Restaurants. I’ll mention just one – Quince. T and S treated us to Quince’s incredible multi course tasting menu in honor of J’s retirement. Three Michelin stars says it all.  As an example, a tomato salad served in a carved clear giant ice cube. All the servers wore matching olive green suits. Following a particularly amusing description of one of the dessert courses by T, S and I were almost overwhelmed by a fit of giggles but we persevered and managed to exert some vestige of control. And even though I said only one restaurant, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to House of Prime Rib, possibly one of the best deals in SF.

Oracle Park and the Giants. J would refuse to read this post if I didn’t close with the extravaganza of the Giants versus the Angels game at Oracle Park. We were sitting only a few rows away from the field – in fact, we were so close that the balls hit in our direction flew way over us. But –  what in the world is the deal with all the men talking off their shirts and twirling them around as if they are flapping scarves at the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona?

San Francisco isn’t a mountain summit, but it’s certainly a summit of a sort. Not a bad place for S to have taken up residence. 

The Potential of the Worry List

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Gratitude lists are everywhere. Apps encourage you to make them, yoga teachers urge you to think of only what serves you, and there’s a whole line of greeting cards centered around being thankful. 

This is what came up when I searched”worry” in my photo library

But I’m thinking that a worry list might be even more rewarding. Let’s be honest – at 4 am when your eyes pop open the first thing that comes to mind is not counting your blessings. No, it’s to wallow in the doom scrolling of your own life.

Usually it starts with the mundane of “oh I really don’t want to have to talk to x tomorrow,” followed by “could that dark spot on my leg be melanoma” to fretting over family or friends facing health issues, real or imagined (on their part and yours), and culminating with “how high will the seas rise” or “has Ebola broken out yet in Florida (not to mention the invasion of the screwworm fly).” At that point, you usually cycle back to something like “did I forget to pick up milk for coffee this morning” or “did my husband/wife/partner put out the trash for trash day” and eventually the boredom of your own thoughts lulls you back to sleep.

I’m thinking that if we could harness the collective power of our worry lists their combined force might just be enough to generate some new form of power that could turn that dark but intense electricity into something positive and not negative.

The little I remember about electricity from my Introduction to Physical Science class in 9th grade (which I’m sure is no longer taught) is that to get a positive you have to have a negative as well.

Like I said, a worry list isn’t so bad after all.

A Short American Odyssey – Road Tripping up the Eastern Seaboard

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The title is perhaps an overstatement for a two day adventure that takes us from Florida to North Carolina. But nonetheless, as J and I were accompanied by my parents, E and M, who are in their 90s, it seems worthy of something grander than “two day car trip.”

And as I write this on July 4th, 2026, the 250th sesquicentennial, a little American road trip story is in order. I was 15 in 1976, and I do have to say that “bicentennial” had more of a ring to it.

The goal of the trip was to deliver my parents back to N.C. for a few weeks so they could take care of various appointments, J and I could see to matters at Five Oaks (our farmhouse in NC that now should be called Phantom Oaks because all the big oak trees came down in various storms), and also spend time up in New Bedford, MA with daughter A, her husband N, and grandson L. However, this seemingly uncomplicated plan involved the packing, repacking, assembling, and sorting of a multitude of items, ranging from my parents’ spring wardrobe, kitchen and other equipment J and I were bringing to Five Oaks, and camping gear for the two nights J and I were planning to spend in the Roofnest on the way to and from NC. Not to mention my father’s walker. The night stand I found on the side of the road for Five Oaks didn’t make the cut.

In any event, we finally managed to take off, leaving our cat Boudin (as a member of a different species, he gets to be known by his full name), in the careful (but wary) hands of our house sitters. One day he will make the trip also….

My mother and I were esconced in the middle seat of the Ford Explorer. Seat belts seemed unnecessary since we were both firmly wedged in between the handles of the walker hanging over the back of the seat, boxes of personal belongings placed in the center of the seat, and, of course, J’s collection of potato chips that he needed for a two day car trip.

Day 1 went fairly smoothly. We congratulated ourselves journeying north, as the traffic heading south was immense. And the beltway around Jacksonville really helps. There are two spectacular bridges – one in Jacksonville and another after we veered off of I95 onto 17 North near Brunswick, Georgia. The one on 295 in Jacksonville is the Napoleon Bonaparte Broward Bridge, also known as the Dames Point Bridge and is two miles long. The one in Georgia is called the Sidney Lanier Bridge, and a little research for this post informed me that it’s named after Georgia-born poet Sidney Lanier. No, despite being an English major, I haven’t heard of him either. At the time it opened in 2003 it was the third longest span of any “cable stayed” bridge in the U.S. and Canada. (By the way, I just discovered Lanier was a 19th century poet, known for “lyrical verses” and hailed as the “poet of the Confederacy,” according to Wikipedia. He ended up as a professor at Johns Hopkins and a lot of landmarks are named after him. Hmmm.)

Although I am slightly terrified of bridges and insist on driving in the lane closest to the middle, even I appreciate the feeling of flying that these sailboat like structures provide.

17 North is by far more beautiful than I95. We got onto it just north of Jacksonville, and soon found a place for lunch near Yulee, Florida. While it was tempting to believe it was a one of a kind, purely local place, a little research soon showed that it was one of a chain that had started with a couple of old barbecue restaurants in Jacksonville and has since expanded to multiple locations. It’s named after Willie Jewell, a cook from Jacksonville who taught the barbecue business to the family who owned the restaurants. While my mother and J had traditional BBQ meals, I had three sides (including collards) and my father for some reason thought peach cobbler was an appropriate lunch.

Interesting bathroom wallpaper at Willie Jewell’s

Part of the reason for going up 17 was to stop in Darien, Georgia. J and I had lunch there once before and were captivated by the small little town’s old buildings and proximity to the water, the Altamaha River. It was founded in 1736 by Scottish Highlanders to protect the Georgia Colony from the Spanish. This time didn’t disappoint either. We found a wonderful and reasonably priced antique store – it was chockfull of things I would have liked for Five Oaks, but the transportation issues were insurmountable. J did manage to buy a cocktail shaker. I saw an ad for a walking tour of Darien, and perhaps someday there will be time to do that….

The orange marks are from J measuring the table

We made it to our planned stopping point in Ridgeland, SC in late afternoon. My parents, declining any offer of sleeping in the Roofnest, stayed at a hotel at the edge of the very small town, and next to a fabulous Mexican restaurant that we had heard about last time we were there. The portions were absolutely gigantic, including a tilapia florentine (not sure how Mexican that dish was) that could have fed the entire group.

Leaving my parents at the hotel, J and I ventured off to our Hipcamp at Whipperwill Farm. The place we had stayed on some many other occasions (with the best outdoor shower I’ve ever experienced) seems to be unavailable at the moment, so this was a new site for us.

It was fine – we got there late so we didn’t have anytime to explore the trails on the property – but we’ve become fairly proficient over the years at erecting the Roofnest, so were able to situate ourselves quickly. Yes, it was hot and buggy – but cooled off so much during the night that we both woke up quite chilly. Plus, we had forgotten to bring pillows (and there wasn’t room for them anyway), and using the sleeping bag stuff bags filled with clothes isn’t the greatest substitute.

The next morning we packed and met up with my parents after breakfast at PJ’s. Yes, for some reason the little town of Ridgeland is home to a PJ’s coffee shop – as in the one from New Orleans. No idea where that connection came from.

We were all ready to get on up to Durham on Day 2, so I95 it was. We did have a lovely stop at the brand new NC welcome center, and now possess a collection of brochures that cover just about anything you could want to do anywhere in NC.

Arrived in Durham about 2:30 or so, and began the process of reverse engineering our way and the way of all of our things out of the car. Despite a few cramped muscles we all had survived in good form – showing the great American road trip can be accomplished during any decade of life!

Five Months of Hills and Dales

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Given that I last posted in December 2025, it’s clear that the two years it took me to write about our six month sabbatical in 2023 took their toll. And finishing writing about 2023 at the end of 2025 also means that events and adventures of the last two plus years largely went unrecorded, at least in this blog.

Mt. Toubkal, Morocco
Campsite at the Lost Coast

I’ve always been fond of in res media, so rather than “catch up” I’ll start in the here and now, also called the present. However, I can’t promise there won’t be throwbacks to some adventures of the past, which include a trip to Morocco to climb (unsuccessfully) Mt. Toubkal (May 2024) or our backpacking trip along the Lost Coast of California in 2025.

That’s not a pocket watch. It’s a pocket compass.

In the meantime, husband J has concluded his 37 years at Rollins College and is now a professor emeritus. It’s not really sunk in yet, since his normal June routine involves not having to teach – but I suspect September will feel very different. By the way, while I think he looks like the bartender in the Shining in this photo, the most remarkable thing is that his colleagues didn’t give him a pocket watch – it was a pocket compass!

And yours truly stepped down as an equity partner in January in favor of an “of counsel” position, which is providing me with a lot more flexibility.

That’s quite necessary in the type of year that 2026 has thus far revealed itself to be. So far we’ve ranged from a wedding of daughter #2 to T in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico in January, baby sitting grandson L when he’s visited from New Bedford (I did 48 hours solo for various complicated reasons, which is about as daunting as any mountain I’ve climbed), and moving my parents, at least temporarily, to Orlando for a while (they shall be known as M and E). And that doesn’t include the seemingly never ending remodel of the property in NC (known as Five Oaks), where, having completed the house, we’re now embarked on hardscape.

Even all these changes don’t reveal J’s and my ever advancing age as much as the fact that the topic du jour among our friends seems to be the always scintillating topic of Medicare.

But somewhere in the midst of this – not humdrum, but somewhat routine – existence, there’s got to still be space for the unexpected. And for me, at least, that means finding some sort of goal to focus on – whether it’s another 20 mile Mammoth March or something else. By the way, the Mammoth Marches are fantastic. I think we’ve now done four. They sell out fast, so get tickets early.

Anyway, I didn’t mean to wander into a plug for Mammoth March. But we do need to find a doable, but relatively short, adventure somewhere. Suggestions?

I have a brand new pair of hiking boots (my last pair of Renegades was literally thrown into a garbage can the last day of the Lost Coast hike after the entire insole fell apart, not to mention a loose seam…) and I’m working on breaking them in. Hopefully they will break in before my feet do. Five miles today. More to come.

Rome – the End or the Beginning?

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I’m writing this in December 2025, and am only just now finishing up the events of our 2023 sabbatical. I never dreamed it would take two years to write up six months of travel…and I promise that FromSwamptoSummit will become more timely. Transporting us back to November 2023….

We had two days left in Rome and much more than two days worth of things to see and do.

Of course, a trip to the Vatican Museum was essential. We woke up very early to arrive for an 8 a.m. tour, which was the only slot available. We took a taxi – Rome is the only city in which we used taxis. We arrived way too early, only to be totally ripped off by buying double coffees at the cafe across the street, but I needed the caffeine.

The Vatican Museum is a trip. The building itself is comprised of room after room of frescos, topped off, of course, by the Sistine Chapel. The ceiling depicts Michelangelo’s universe – a sea of writhing bodies, with his worldly enemies and friends inserted as characters. It is a sea of movement. No photography permitted…hence, no images here.

Other rooms house ancient statutes and the spoils of the papacy. There’s a dearth of depictions of women, except for the idealized Virgin and sometimes Mary Magdalene or a few other saints. After the tour ended, we stayed longer to look at the first and second century artifacts.

Finally we walked to the Piazza Risorgimento and waited to meet up with C. We managed to locate her charming turquoise mini and she gave us a tour through the lovely residential area by Vatican City. We found parking not far from Via Corso, and had a great lunch at a hole in the wall place with a 10 euro menu, then walked by the Spanish Steps, high end shopping, into the new Bulgari hotel and several ancient coffee houses. Especially notable was one of C’s favorites – the doll repair shop.

We said our farewells to C, and took our time walking back to the Airbnb. After resting, we enjoyed aperitivo across the street where they served pistachios and peanuts, and dinner at an Argentinian restaurant recommended by our Airbnb host.

Our final day in Rome – and of our six weeks in Europe – not only involved packing, but also a trip back in time to the coliseum, which we’d only briefly perused from the outside. We arrived early for our tour, only to find that I’d booked one that was conducted in Italian! But my dear friend Rick Steves once again came to the rescue and we were able to depart from our group and instead follow his guided audio tour. They are very strict about entry times and we had just enough time to buy gelato before going in.

All I can say about the Coliseum is that the bloodthirstiness of human beings is highly concerning. As Caligula said in Robert Graves’ I Claudius on Masterpiece Theater, after engaging a particularly gory murder, “Aren’t people awful?”

Random facts: Prisoners were forced to dress as historical figures who had been killed and reenact their deaths in real time. The first theatrical sets were designed at the Coliseum – sets were raised up from a basement below the floor using a pulley system. Rome originally held one million people, but in the Dark Ages, its population shrank to less than 10,000, at which point the Coliseum became used for housing, workshops, and stables, among other things.

It’s still clearly the model for current arenas, at least with regard to the layout, although hopefully not the contents. Different tiers according to social class, reserved seatings, and you could even contribute mementos for your favorite gladiator.

Afterwards we talked to the Forum and Palatine Hill, also included in our admission. I wished we’d had more time. We saw the tomb of Julius Caesar, the Curia, the temple of the Vestal Virgins, the massive three arches from Constantine (Maximum). and the palace itself – labyrinthine, dark, high arched ceilings and a road that traveled through the middle of all of it. East to imagine royal intrigue.

After, back to our Airbnb for a late lunch, a final aperol spritz, and dinner at a neighborhood spot that turned out to be very good. Roast beef, potatoes, spinach, pasta amatriciana, panne cotta.

Somehow this photo of the Baths of Neptune, 3rd Century AD at the airport sums up Rome

On November 15 we walked up to the train station, and took an express train to the airport where I successfully smuggled C’s marmalade on board in my carryon. When I wrote this in my travel journal over two years ago, we had six more hours of flying left.

Roaming in Rome with the Romans

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We started our trip to Rome from Orvieto early the morning of November 11. From the Duomo we took the shuttle bus to the funicular, and then had quite a lengthy wait at the train station, but it was sunny and nice, so not too bad.

The train was fine, with only one stop, although we didn’t get seats together. We ate our sandwiches, arrived at the Roma Terminii, and walked to the Airbnb without issue. Very sunny and lots of people, a real contrast to Orvieto.

After we got settled, we ventured out to the Coliseum, which was only two blocks away. It was a total mob scene. Souvenir hawkers, etc. You walk along a very unprepossessing graffiti-embellished street and suddenly there it is. We didn’t stay long – on the way back to our Airbnb we saw police in riot gear barricading the street and could hear the 50,000 person opposition march about Gaza approaching. We retreated to the Monti area – our Airbnb was on Via del Boschetto – lots of cafes, restaurants, small shops and the St. Louis College of Music. And a furniture upholsterer.

We had an aperitif at a nearby spot and then managed to find a taxi at a taxi rank to visit my old high school friend and partner in crime, C, and her husband. They live right by the Vatican on the other side of the Tiber. The taxi driver had absolutely no idea where he was going and ultimately consulted a paper book of maps. Not sure when I last saw one of those. Finally we just got out and walked.

We arrived a little early – their apartment has a beautiful view of St. Peter’s. We enjoyed lovely Sicilian style pasta, courtesy of C’s husband, and I later managed to smuggle the marmalade made at their country property onto the plane.

Sunday was our “free” day. We slept in and then started to wander toward Vatican City. On the way we stopped at the Trevi Fountain – it was mobbed but you could still see the beautiful sea sculptures – then along the Via Argentina where multiple Roman ruins line the roads. Every time you dig, you find something.

We walked past the Bank of Italy – with lots of large green parrots in palm trees. And passed by the gaudy and over the top huge Vitore Emmanuel monument. I can only describe it as baroque gone bad.

We finally found a lunch place where we had a nice conversation with a young Canadian couple, possibly on their honeymoon. Their rings looked very new. We bought Italian ties as gifts from a small men’s clothing store.

And I almost forgot to mention the incredible Pantheon and the accompanying Rick Steves audio tour. (No, I am not receiving kickbacks for my continuous references to my friend Rick.) The Pantheon is still definitely not Christian, despite all the efforts to make it so. I loved the open oculus at the top of the dome, and kept wondering it would be like if it rained.

We finally made our way across the Tiber to St. Peter’s Square, by mid afternoon, where we did another Rick Steves audio tour. The basilica itself is enormous. Lots of priests, monks and nuns. Michelangelo’s Pieta (behind bullet proof glass), in contrast to most of the paintings and statues that you can almost touch. We stayed around for 5 p.m. Vespers. Priests in white and purple in the choir, Monsignors with pom pom hats, bishops in purple, officiants in green, and a sole cardinal in red. A sermon in Italian where an elderly bishop (who had to be helped out in and out of the stalls) definitely nodded off. I wonder if after they all retired to happy hour and dinner afterwards? Incense, green vestments spread wide like giant wings at the altar – we were at least all given a book of the service to follow. It’s interesting to put the Reformation in the context of all this.

A very brisk walk back. That night we ate at a simple restaurant near us that had already put up its Christmas decorations. Classic Roman pasta – Amatriciana sauce (J) and carbonara (me).

Much more to see and do, and only two days left.

Orvieto – A City on a Hill

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Our six month sabbatical is now two years in the past, and it’s surely time to finish up my account There’s Orvieto to go – and then our stay in Rome. But I do have to say that writing these posts, which are almost verbatim from my travel diary is a wonderful way to revisit these places. Especially on a humid and hot Orlando day, when the thunderstorms rolled in before noon.

Once you arrive at the Orvieto train station, you buy a one euro and thirty cent ticket and take the funicular (what a great word) up the cliff to the town. From there, a shuttle bus takes you to the Duomo.

Our La Magnolia BnB (a Rick Steves recommendation) was just a half block away. We checked in and then took a preliminary stroll around town. By then it was raining. After seeking shelter back at the hotel, we had to wait until 7 for dinner – no restaurants open until then. We ended up at Ristorante I’ll Cocco, recommended by the hotel. It was a bit expensive and no one spoke any English, but it was really good. I had rabbit with herbs, and J had a chicken cacciatore with olives. There was an amazing apple cake for dessert.

After breakfast at the cafe next door, which was owned by the same family, we toured the Duomo. More Signarelli artwork – Last Judgment paintings – and a chapel housing the bloodstained cloth where the Host is supposed to have bled, thus proving the doctrine of transubstantiation.

We also went to the Cathedral and Greco museums, which were included with the Duomo ticket. Greco designed the modern doors of the Duomo and to see his nudes next door is quite a contrast.

We followed all this with the Underground Orvieto tour – entering two of the thousand plus caves located underneath the houses here, including a well that dates back to the sixth century B.C. Most of the caves are medieval – having run out of room in the town (at one point 30,000 souls lived here, now only 5,000), plus needing room for supplies when under siege (which was most of the time), the inhabitants resorted to underground caves. Pigeons turned out to be the answer to the food problem, and the caves on the side of the cliff were actually pigeon houses with nooks for nesting.

Onto a huge lunch, which featured a porcetta sandwich – slow roasted pork, with crispy skin and stuffed with liver and fennel. I was full for hours.

By then it was raining steadily. J wanted to rest, but I wanted to do the remainder of the Rick Steves tour. It took me through various squares, and at a certain point I realized I was tailing another couple who were clearly following the same guide!

I came upon the church of S. Giovenale – the couple ahead of me stuck their heads in and turned around. But I ventured all the way in. It was totally dark, except for an illuminated chapel. It’s the oldest church in Orvieto, Romanesque in style, 11th century frescoes on the walls. Supposedly a mass was to occur at 5 p.m. but I had my doubts. It made for a serene shelter from the rain.

I finished my walk, in a somewhat soggy state, and made it back to La Magnolia. J and I ended up at a very modern restaurant called Febo. And a veggie burger was a nice change after porcetta.

Orvieto was absolutely charming, and I’d go back in a heartbeat. The excitement of Rome beckoned though – as well as the end of our six weeks of travel.

Droning On About Drones

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At some point I’ll finish the last of the sabbatical posts – which will require a return to November 2023 and our stay in Rome. And I still haven’t recounted our ill-fated adventure up the highest peak in North Africa, Mount Toubkal, back in May 2024. Much less our recent backpacking trip on the Lost Coast of California.

But regardless, today’s digression is a brief journey to the wonderful world of drones. Not the male bees who lounge all day outside (or inside?) of the hive, but these small, buzzing mechanical creatures that whir overhead, seemingly spying on all below.

I’ve always found them somewhat horrifying, so I was not overly thrilled to arrive home a couple of weeks ago and find that J had taken advantage of Amazon Prime days to purchase just such a creature. His ostensible justification was that we could use it to take photos at Five Oaks, the property we are restoring up in North Carolina. Ah well. Maybe.

The next day, I returned home to find J with a woebegone look on his face. Apparently he had experimented with the creature inside our house – this was even more horrifying because the possibilities of a drone-domestic object crash seemed quite high. In any event, he’d avoided such calamities and was emboldened to take the creature outside on what seemed a perfectly still day. However, that was not true about 30 or 40 feet up – where the wind had whisked the creature off, outside the range of the controls, and it was carried off to parts unknown.

J drove around the neighborhood in a vain search for the thing, but it was nowhere to be found. Whew, I thought.

That is, until about five or so days later. Following one of the particularly heavy rainstorms that have been the hallmark of this summer in Orlando, J went out to look at our very small pond – only to find the creature sitting at the bottom (only about five inches down) – cheerily smiling up at him.

He carefully extracted it from the water, and dried it with care, blow drying it and gently wiping off the pond scum, providing it with all the creature comforts a drone could want. Oh well, I thought, the likelihood it could still work were slim.

But a couple of nights ago, just before I left for an out of town weekend, I was lying in bed and heard a whirring, buzzing noise, like the pitch of a mosquito but a bit lower in range. This was followed by the sound of several crashes, a yowling cat, but fortunately no breaking glass.

Like a phoenix, the drone had resurrected itself and was happily flying around the house, wreaking havoc and presumably recording all it was seeing. I head back to Orlando tomorrow. We’ll see what damage the creature has wrought.

Or maybe it will have decided to fly away again.

Detours on the Way to the Summit – Lost Coast, California

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FromSwamptoSummit has been silent over the last few weeks….but that’s the effect of a brand new grandchild, who shall be known by the initial L, son of A and N. Plus, daughter S and her boyfriend known as T (he plays a starring role in our Basque Country trip back in 2023) just announced their engagement, with a wedding early next year, so that’s served as another distraction.

But my real excuse is that never in my wildest dreams did I still think I would be trying to finish our sabbatical trip write ups over a year after the fact!I still have to write about Orvieto and Rome. And of course, my dedication to fully memorializing our six months of travel means that I haven’t even broached our trip in May 2024 to climb the highest mountain in North Africa (Mt. Toubkal in Morocco). That trip is still residing untouched in my travel journal.

But in an attempt to introduce some temporal reality, I’m going to take a detour to 2025 and current events.

Right now J and I are training with 30 plus pound packs for an upcoming backpacking trip to the Lost Coast in Humboldt County, California. We start off with a few days in San Francisco and Monterey to see family (including the newly engaged couple!). Following that, we have to figure out how to get to the REI in Corte Madera, which is the meeting spot for the backpacking group. REIs seem to be a common meeting place for backpacking groups – we did the same thing when we hiked Long’s Peak in Colorado with a different outfitter.

Long’s Peak hike – July 2021

The Lost Coast is about a 4-5 hour drive north of San Francisco. It’s the section of Pacific coastline that was too rugged for Highway 1 – hence, the coastal highway dips inland, leaving a completely remote area known as the King Range National Conservation area.

The hike itself is 4 days and 3 nights, and involves sand walking, rocky beaches, and going up and down dunes and cliffs. One night we camp in a cove that is “locked in” by the high tide.

I’ve always made the point that FromSwamptoSummit is not a water person, despite the swamp in the name. Swamps do contain a lot of earth, I note, which makes them more palatable. But I must admit, the idea of a beach hike has a lot of appeal. For one thing, coming from the swamp of Florida we won’t have to deal with the acclimatization issues that can affect a bid for a real summit. (Wait til I write about Morocco.)

And for another thing, we can actually train for sand walking. A couple of weeks ago we went out to the Canaveral National Seashore to hike in the back country. To get there you have to walk through the farthest end of the public beaches – where, as usual, we were the most covered up folks around. (I will just point out that there is no federal law against nudity.)

But once we got beyond that back country sign – permits dutifully in hand – there were no footprints, and little but sand, surf, and most remarkably, a flock of flamingoes on the sound side of the narrow strip of barrier island. (The photo below doesn’t do them justice. They really were pink and definitely were standing on one leg.)

We’re hoping for some of the same next week. Although I don’t think flamingoes will be in the mix.