Vagabond Tales: Everyone wants to stay in a castle, even presidents

by Kyle Ellison on

I doubt there is anyone in the world that, if given the chance, wouldn’t want to stay in a castle.

It’s a shame that modern architecture has strayed away from castles, because there are few structures that possess the innate ability to be stoic yet romantic, welcoming and yet terrifying all at the same time. Castles conjure images of a bygone time of messengers on horseback, swords in stones, and fantastical mystery and lore.

They are the realm of princesses, knights, and royalty who swap principalities, fiefdoms, and duchies all with a flick of the wrist, a gnaw on an oversized drumstick, and a quaff from a jewel encrusted goblet, most likely made of solid gold. These are the people who spend nights in castles.

And now, apparently, so can you.

While planning a road trip across the northwestern reaches of Ireland, I stumbled upon a site like no other I had ever seen before: Celtic Castles — an entire site devoted to helping you live like a medieval badass while making your journey across England, Wales, Scotland, France, or Ireland.

Plus, they were offering steep discounts, which brought the price just low enough to make a one night stay a feasible splurge.

For those who have never visited the Emerald Isle, there are few places more stunning than the forested and perpetually soggy reaches of Connemara, the region located in the island’s northwestern corner. Connemara is the type of place where you throw on a flannel shirt and enjoy a hot cup of seafood chowder in a pub made of gloriously dark wood. Maybe have a Guinness, sit by a window, and watch the mist roll over the golden slopes of the Twelve Bens.

The only thing that would make it more perfect would be if you were wearing that flannel, drinking that Guinness, and eating that chowder from the cozy confines of a restored 18th century castle. Oh, and maybe if you were staying in a room that once housed a former U.S. president.Pulling into the driveway of Ballynahinch Castle was like pulling into a rural Irish utopia. A long,meandering ribbon of asphalt, which twists its way amongst deciduous trees and passes over stone bridges situated over gently babbling brooks — it almost looks fake.

Entrenched in a secretive plan to surprise my wife, who was certain we were staying in the hostel in the nearby town of Clifden, I chalked the foray down the driveway up to simply wanting to photograph some castles. Luckily, she bit, and the ruse was still alive.

Not more than ten minutes later we found ourselves ambling amongst the fireplace warmed interior of the Ballynahinch Castle lobby, black and white photographs of anglers adorning the walls of the adjacent pub.

As I attempted to check in on the sly, my wife found her way to the restaurant overlooking the 26,000-acre property and began discreetly taking pictures of the silverware. That’s what you do when you live a life of a traveling vagabond. You don’t own fine cutlery, but rather, you photograph it. Such is the life.

Finally, the exquisitely dressed woman occupying the reservations desk handed over our key for the evening and pointed me in the direction of one of their “classic” rooms upstairs.

“What are you doing?” questioned my wife, suddenly back from her foray into the dining lounge.

“I’ve gotten us a room for the night.”

The fireplace in the nearby living room crackled as a bearded gentleman read a newspaper in an overstuffed chair.

“No you haven’t. There’s no way we could ever stay here. Why do you have a key?”

Catching on for the first time that this was a surprise endeavor, the fine woman at the desk interjected with what to this day I consider to be one of the finest interruptions I have ever experienced.

“It appears as if this is a surprise,” she wittily quipped in a perfect Irish brogue. “Tell you what. We’ve just had a cancellation in another room. Would you perhaps prefer an upgrade? It’s on us.”

Now there were two sets of googly eyes occupying the dark wood foyer, those of my still baffled wife and my own face mystified at our dumb luck.

“Follow me. Our staff will grab your bags.”

For the record, when you backpack around the globe on endless walkabouts, never, ever, do you have people offer to carry your bags. This, it appeared, was beginning to be a window into how the 1% live.

Navigating a labyrinth of sunken passageways, narrow hallways, and simple staircases, I felt the only thing missing was a torch, a cloak, and a secret agenda. I couldn’t believe it. We’re in a castle being led to the best room in the house!

Finally reaching our destination, our castle chauffeur inserted a long brass key into a modern looking door and casually swung it open.

Before us lay a room of a substantially higher caliber than I feel most twenty-something international wanderers are accustomed to. A four-post bed and ambient lighting highlighted a room, which featured ground floor window views out onto the banks of a gently flowing river.

Stunned, and for lack of a proper display of my gratitude, my attention shifted to an old photograph I had seen hanging in the hallway en route to the room.

“Who was that guy in the photo we passed on the way here?” I asked out of the blue.

“Oh you don’t recognize him? I figured since you were American you would know. That was President Gerald Ford. He stayed in this same room. Have a good night and we look forward to seeing you both for dinner.”

Want more stories? Read the rest of the Vagabond Tales here…

Vagabond Tales: Scuba diving Nicaragua in a lightning storm

by Kyle Ellison on

In spite of being one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere, many travelers list Nicaragua as their hands-down favorite country in Central America. The colonial heritage of Granada and Leon, the world-class surf of Popoyo and San Juan del Sur, and the relaxing feel of the islands, these are all highlights of Nicaragua that draw visitors back time and again.

Wait. Did you just say the islands? Since when are there islands in Nicaragua?

While a fair amount of travelers pay a visit to Isla de Ometepe, a volcanic island located in the middle of Lake Nicaragua which is home to some of the world’s only freshwater sharks, not as many people venture off the Caribbean coastline to Las Islas del Maiz, an isolated grouping better known as the Corn Islands.

Reachable via a short flight from the coastal outpost of Bluefields (or an all day/overnight ferry), the Corn Islands were originally colonized by the British and have a distinctly more Caribbean feel to them than the Latin influence found back on the Nicaraguan mainland.

They are also reputed to have some of the best scuba diving along the Central American coastline, which is what ultimately lured me into stuffing myself into a 15-seater prop plane for a flight to the middle of nowhere. Little did I know that heading into this dive trip, things were going to get just a little bit weird.

Having arrived in Big Corn Island after an uneventful flight, a brief taxi ride and fistful of Nicaraguan córdobas landed me on a 30-minute panga ride to Little Corn Island, population 800. With a land area that barely exceeds 1 sq. mile, Little Corn has no motorized vehicles and a single, sandy footpath, which serves as the island’s pedestrian highway.

Shacked up in a multi-colored, refreshingly rustic beach bungalow at Casa Iguana, arrangements were made for doing an offshore boat dive the following morning with Dive Little Corn, one of only two dive operators on the entire island. I was introduced to our dive master, a local Nicaraguan man who would be leading us into the crystalline waters the following morning. From his wide smile and affable demeanor he didn’t appear to be the type of person who would take pleasure in manhandling sharks. Apparently, I would be wrong about this.After an enormously satisfying dinner of locally caught barracuda, I rose the next morning to the sound of heavy raindrops crashing violently onto the bungalow’s tin roof.

The rainy season for Central America generally spans from May to December, often heaviest in September and October. On the bedside table of the bungalow sat my boarding pass from yesterday’s flight. The date read October 11th. A brief look outside confirmed that this rain meant business.

Throwing on an old blue rain jacket, I opted to skip breakfast and hustle down to the dive shop for an update. With each step I trod down the puddle-laden walkway, the rain and wind increased by ferocious leaps and bounds. As I emerged from the soggy bush and rounded the corner towards the dive shop, deafening claps of thunder and frequent blasts of lightning added an orchestra to the tempestuous sky.

There was no way we were going to dive in this.

There in front of me, however, stood our resilient dive master diligently loading tanks, BCD’s, and regulators onto a silver boat that bucked like a rodeo bronco atop the churned up sea.

Amidst the maelstrom that had momentarily engulfed this Caribbean paradise, it suddenly became apparent that this dive was still a go. Any momentary hesitation I may have once felt immediately changed to reckless excitement. I mean, why not dive Nicaragua in a lightning storm?

After all, as the sign above my desk reads, “all bad decisions make good stories.” I tried to keep this in mind as I watched lightning flashes strike nearby from the comfort of a soaking wet metal boat.

As it turns out, once beneath the surface of the water the lightning storm became completely irrelevant. The water clarity was on par with dives from Thailand to Hawaii, and for a moment I was finally able to relax and enjoy drifting weightlessly past colorful fan coral and vibrant underwater pinnacles.

That was, of course, until we started petting nurse sharks, which is an experience probably best left for an entirely different column.

Though the scene may have been tranquil at 80 ft. below the surface, the storm back where we had left the boat had reached incredible new levels of intensity. Surfacing from the dive amidst constant flashes of piercing white light, the hard metal boat bounced about the ocean like a toy boat in a tub.

“No te preocupes,” the captain warmly comforted me as he helped schlep my gear back aboard the soaking wet vessel. His calm demeanor stood in stark contrast to the atmospheric fury taking place all around us, and his broad smile revealed a number of missing teeth.

“Todo está bien,” he surmised. It’s all good. As the threat of being struck by lightning seemed to be an inevitable reality, however, all did not currently appear to be good.

As legendary travel writer Pico Iyer discussed in a recent piece on Gadling, often times while traveling we must accept that we are no longer in control. There are forces of the universe far greater than we are, which can determine our ultimate fate, and when we strike out on the road and remove ourselves from our comfort zone, we often are left with little more to do than sit back and enjoy the ride.

And what if that ride is on a rollicking metal panga with a shark stroking dive instructor while surrounded by electrically charged bolts of absolute and certain death?

Just follow the thinking of a Nicaraguan boat captain: todo está bien. Just roll with it and see where you go.

Vagabond Tales: How to wine taste in France without speaking French

by Kyle Ellison on

For many global travelers there are few languages more useful than French.

In case you aren’t aware, or it’s been a healthy number of decades since your last high school French class, the Francophone world still extends far beyond the borders of France. From the beaches of Martinique to the cloud forests of Rwanda, French is still the default language of choice for tourism and local commerce. Madagascar, Belgium, French Guyana, Morocco, Tahiti, and even Laos and Cambodia to some extent are all global travel destinations where the ability to speak French can make or break your travels.

And then, of course, there is France.

Amongst travelers it isn’t exactly a secret that the French people can be a bit reluctant to speak anything other than French. Although some complain it smacks of arrogance, to be fair, as travelers to another country we should always make the effort to learn the local language, and after multiple visits to France I can attest that effort is often weighted heavier than proficiency. Still, it can be challenging.

So what’s the only thing more intimidating than traveling through France and not knowing French?

Talking about wine, in France, and not knowing French.

Seeing as many French people are immensely proud of their wines and often consider them to be some of the finest on the planet, discussing such a passionate topic in a language in which you claw for the basics can be an overwhelming undertaking. So much so, in fact, that some travelers opt to not go down that road at all, which from a cultural standpoint can be a major faux pas.

So what’s a non-French speaking traveler to do if they want to learn about wine in France but don’t have the linguistic tools to get them there?

Luckily, on a cobbled street corner in Aix-en-Provence, I would find out there is a niche market for people asking themselves that exact same question.Enter Wine in Provence, an American-operated company who specialize in helping native English speakers get a handle on French wine, food, and pairings. Run by a mirthful team of young Americans who are as passionate about the Provence region as they are about the wines which come out of it, it’s a linguistic safe haven for those just looking to learn about wine while in France.

Sure, I suppose you could always search out a French wine-touring company which happens to have an English speaking guide, but for some reason, having a native English speaker who understands where you, and your questions, are coming from is a breath of fresh air amongst a sea of constant struggle.

“The first thing I want everyone to know is there are no dumb questions” ensures our American guide, Brian.

Standing in a tasting room in the legendary Châteauneuf-du-Pape region, Brian, a native of Seattle, has already given us a rundown of the entire region from the storied history to the unique soils and terroir. I’ve learned more on the car ride here than on my entire three previous tasting excursions, all of which, of course, were performed in an awkward French/English combination.

Furthermore, there are only four people in our group, a major plus when considering some of the mass group wine tours I’ve witnessed in the past. Teaching us how to properly swirl our glasses along the nicely polished wood bar, I feel a surge of energy not from the wine, but from the fact I suddenly realize I can ask Brian for answers to all of the lingering questions seemingly always lost in translation.

Why does France mix so many grapes? How do I choose a good bottle in the market simply by reading the label? What exactly is malolactic fermentation and why is this important to me? Which wine won’t give me a headache and turn me into a firestorm of bad decisions? You know, those sorts of things.

The funny part is that up until this moment in Provence, I really had never been interested in wine, mainly because it’s such an overwhelming topic that even finding a starting point seems like an undertaking unto itself. Now, however, with someone here to explain it all to me in plain English, pun completely intended, my genuine interest in international wine touring legitimately began to take off.

More than just guiding you through a fleet of tastings at countryside vineyards, I’d later find out that Wine in Provence can arrange customized food pairing sessions where they accompany you to the fabled outdoor markets of Aix-en-Provence, help you purchase local produce, teach you how to prepare it, and finally instruct you on which wines will best accompany your meal.

Back in the final tasting room of the tour, a strong buzz permeates amongst the group as a bald headed bartender aggressively sniffs a glass of deep purple liquid. He mumbles something in French which causes him to close his eyes and smile, an aura of overwhelming satisfaction beaming from all parts of his face.

“I guess he likes the wine” I inquire to Brian, confident in my ability to read his facial expressions.

“Actually”, Brian translates, “he’s smiling about what it will taste like in five years. Right now he says it’s just alright, but in five years, he thinks it will be one of the best bottles this vineyard has ever produced.”

I sniff along with the bartender and decide to buy a bottle. Though I may not be able to speak directly to him about the nuances of the aromas and the proper temperature for storage, thanks to my English speaking intermediary I’m no longer intimidated, no longer wandering lost in the woods.

So does one day of solid English explanation make you an expert? Far from it. Can it help you learn French? Perhaps. Will you be capable of ordering a proper glass of French wine? Well that’s all most of us can really ask for isn’t it?

Want more stories? Read the rest of the Vagabond Tales here…

Vagabond Tales: Winter on California’s Mt. Tahquitz

by Kyle Ellison on

Some people are not aware of the fact there are mountains in Southern California. Not just brown looking hills with Hollywood signs sprinkled across them, but real mountains which feature real fresh snow. You can even ski in Southern California.

If you aren’t one of the 22 million people who currently reside in Southern California, there’s a decent chance this is the first time you are hearing this. Why? Because the image of the “California Dream” of sun, sand, and surf has been marketed across the country since well before the Beach Boys decided it would start selling records.

Due to the year-round sunshine, many of the those 22 million residents have relocated from elsewhere to sprawl along its trademark golden shores. During the winter months, while most of the country collectively pulls on another turtleneck, Southern California frequently basks in midwinter warmth. This is the Southern California most people know.

While there is no denying the existence of the stereotypical image, beyond the beaches, date palms, and sun drenched boulevards, there exists this other Southern California that only a handful of people take the time to experience. In order to get there, you have to shun the warm beach image and drive into the icy hinterlands where the population can easily drop to only 1.

Climbing off of I-10 and onto the back roads which lead into Southern California’s inland mountains can be a relaxing, near meditative experience. The number of lanes gradually funnels from 6 down to 1, and the scenery slowly morphs from that of aggressive billboards, off ramps, and car dealerships to dry rolling pastureland and rows of solitary fence posts.

The multitude of peaks which populate the southwest corner of the state can refreshingly offer a transcendental respite from the chaos of the urban world left back below the tree line.It’s for this exact reason, this sobering calm amidst a sea of modern turmoil, that I have chosen to climb Mt. Tahquitz, an 8,720 ft slab of rock in the heart of the San Jacinto mountain range. At the base of Tahquitz sits the secluded mountain hamlet of Idyllwild, a town with a higher elevation (5,000 ft.) than resident population (about 3,500).

Although it’s a brilliantly sunny day, patches of snow still dot the shaded patches of the downtown streets. Residents linger in a cafe across from the National Forest Service office as a pair of flannel-clad men in trucks wave to each other while passing on the two-lane road.

For as “small-town” as Idyllwild can be (and the antithesis of the Southern California stereotype), the true beauty of these mountains cannot really be felt until out on the trail and into the surrounding wilderness. When climbing Tahquitz from Idyllwild, the trailhead begins at the base of Tahquitz Rock (aka Lily Rock), a stoic monolith which is a haven for ice climbers after a strong winter storm.

That’s right, ice climbing in Southern California.

Meandering its way up shaded switchbacks, the trail ascends steeply towards a mountain saddle and offers up incomparable views of the valley floor below. On the walk I encounter only one other person on the trail-a ranger on his first night of a three night overnight for trail maintenance.

“Beautiful day”, we nonchalantly exchange with each other.

“Seen many bears?” I inquire, knowing full well that it’s too early in the season for any substantial amount of sightings.

“Not today, but there are some fresh mountain lion tracks just up the way.”

Though actual mountain lion sightings are rare in the area, fresh tracks soon become apparent in the snow alongside the trail. It’s a simple reminder this is still true wilderness and we are but a part of a larger domain.

On long, clear days when the trail isn’t covered in snow, the hardiest of hikers can make it all the way to the fire lookout on the summit of Tahquitz, a rustic throwback to the days of lonely fire spotters perched high atop prominent mountains of the American west.

Today, however, lacking proper crampons and with insufficient daylight, the bluff overlooking the ridge forming the saddle will have to do. If ever there was a spot where Kerouac’s Japhy Ryder were to manifest himself and scream in all his carpe diem glory, you are standing in that spot whilst at the overlook on Tahquitz.

Go ahead. Yodel your head off. There’s nobody here to hear you. If a man screams into the wind on Tahquitz, does anybody care?

The panorama from the saddle stretches from the desert of Anza-Borrego park and the Salton Sea in the east all the way to the shimmering Pacific blue ocean way out west. In between, nothing seems to exist except you and the sound of the wind.

This here, this remote perch in the breeze, this is the Southern California nobody ever tells you about. It is solitude, wilderness, breathing easy, isolation, seclusion, freedom, and a sense of being alive.

This is winter on Tahquitz.

Vagabond Tales: Why you might not be allowed into Canada

by Kyle Ellison on

The border between Canada and the United States is the longest undefended border in the world, yet, of the 60 countries I have wandered through, it’s the one in which I have had the hardest time gaining entry.

At 5,525 miles long, there are over 120 official places where a traveler can cross the Canada border in a manner which is consistent with that of virtually any other border crossing in the world: Speak with a customs or immigration agent, display passport, visa, and proper documentation for onward travel or proof of funds, answer some background questions, and more likely than not you’re on your way.

For some, however, it isn’t always that easy.

In looking at the fine print, Canada has a trump card in their back pocket when it comes to admitting people into the country, and it all has to do with a condition of entry officially known as criminal inadmissibility. Go ahead. Look it up. It really isn’t that strange. The United States has one too.

According to the Citizenship and Immigration Canada website, “If you have committed or been convicted of a criminal offence, you may not be allowed to enter Canada.” Such offenses listed include examples such as manslaughter, assault, theft, human rights violations, involvement in organized crime, and driving under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Ok, fair enough. If you’re a convicted criminal we won’t allow you into the country. I can agree with that. Murder, manslaughter, trafficking. I wouldn’t want that in my country either.

If you read more closely, however, according to the Wikipedia entry regarding American entry into Canada, “a single criminal conviction, no matter how minor or long ago, is grounds for exclusion from Canada.”

I mention this because it’s this fine print which provides the background for a rather curious sequence of events which took place in the spruce forests of the Yukon Territory.When driving from the Alaska into the Yukon there are only two main border crossings for the traveler to choose from. Neither of them, as you might imagine, are remotely close to anything at all. As far as the eye can see the border territory is a sea of spruce trees and uninhabited woodland, a scene which is unsurprising considering the Yukon is the size of Sweden and has a population of only 34,000 people.

Seeing as this comprises a measly .1% of the entire Canadian population, you would figure that crossing the border into Canada via the Yukon would be easy.

Wrong.

The first indication that something was amiss was when I encountered a forlorn man on a bicycle, his rig completely laden with saddlebags and long-distance gear, with the heaviest piece of equipment being the sense of despair worn across his face.

“Good luck in there”, he caustically growled. “That border guard’s having a bad day.”

“Did he not let you through or something?” I sincerely questioned.

“Nope. Making me turn around. Fifteen years ago I got in a fight. He’s calling it assault. It’s the only thing I’ve had on my record ever.”

This, you see, was problematic to the biker for a number of reasons: The nearest building, much less town, was nearly an hour away. By car. He was on a bike, and was already 800 miles into a two-year bike ride from the Bering Sea to Patagonia at the bottom of Argentina.

“I can’t believe he actually made you turn around, on a bicycle, out here in the middle of nowhere, while you’re fulfilling a life dream of biking to Argentina.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what are you going to do now?” I wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. Maybe skip that whole Canada section.” With an exasperated wave of his hand he pedaled a lonely road back into the spruce forest.

Given this curious interaction I was hesitant to approach the border, even knowing that I was clean. Still, the process didn’t exactly go swimmingly.

“Good morning”, I nervously offered the border patrol agent, shocks of brown hair poking from beneath the gray beanie covering my head.

“You got anything in the car I should know about?”, countered the visibly perturbed officer.

“Um, no sir. I’m pretty sure we’re all good.”

Meanwhile, our passports had been run into the office for scanning, thereby leaving us at the officer’s whim until their eventual return.

He looked at my gray beanie. He looked at my haggard green truck I’d been camping in for the past 3 months. He looked at the bed in the back, the curtain on the campertop window, and my youthful, twenty-something appearance.

“So I’m not going to find any marijuana in here?” he pulled out of left-field.

“Nope” I replied with a smile, a little taken aback but confident in my response seeing as I’ve never touched a drug in my life.

“So no pipes, no papers, no bongs, no residue, no plastic baggies?”

This was starting to get weird.

“Ugh…no, you won’t” I matter-of-factly replied, slightly irked at the obvious profiling.

“You mind if I have a look?”

“Not at all”

Which is how I ended up waiting on wooden bench in the Yukon for nearly 30 minutes as a border patrol officer searched completely through my vehicle for some sort of illegal substance. This man didn’t just expect to something, it was almost as if he wanted to find something.

I came to find out later that when the officer inside ran my passport an alert was raised that I had previously been involved in a “drug-related arrest”, a charge I vehemently denied and later tracked to a disturbing computer error that nearly cost me entry into the country. Regardless, this error had never shown itself at the 30 or 40 border crossings previous to it, so why here in the middle of nowhere?

After an hour long saga amongst the spruce trees, the agent finally relinquished our vehicle amongst an uncomfortable feeling he was disappointed he couldn’t find anything on us.

Shaken, my wife and I crawled back into our forest green Toyota and made an unsettling drive to our campground in the Kluane National Park.

So what’s the lesson here?

If you’re considering traveling to Canada, think long and hard about if there’s anything which may preclude you from entering the country. DUI, fighting, that “stupid mistake you made in college.” Anything.

Why?

Because one day you might want to ride a bike to Argentina and find yourself pedaling backwards.

Want more stories? Read the rest of the Vagabond Tales here.