Friday, May 24, 2019

Пример Письма

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Sergey Popov would like you to support Summer camp for IDPs childrens 2019 by making a donation and spreading the word.

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We made a project to create fourth summer camp for IDP (internally displaced persons) children, who live in Ivano-Frankivsk (Western Ukraine).Purpose: organization of spare time activities and rest camps for IDPs (internally displaced persons) children and teenagers from war territories ...View fundraiser

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Friday, June 15, 2018

Arrived as Planned

I really did arrive at the Basilica of St Martin, in Tours, France as planned on 31 March after a fantastic 5 months of walking 5,126 kilometers (=3,185 miles).  I love being a pilgrim!  I met many wonderful people, stayed in majestic old monasteries and churches as well as in places found in small communities and family homes.

As anticipated, it was hugely difficult to find places from which to update my blog.  Countless hours were spent in the attempt, despite the pitifully few opportunities for successes.  I've got some busy travels coming up this summer but will endeavor to find a solution to make the blog function efficiently.

I appreciate the comments and interest from everyone.  The world needs more pilgrims.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Greetings from the Black Forest

One day last week, walking in falling snow on a quiet path through forests and fields, I crossed a small wooden footbridge over an swiftly flowing unmarked stream and hardly took note.  When I reached the next village, I studied a map posted in a open-air information kiosk between the church and village hall while I ate a partly frozen clementine.  The humble stream was the great Danube River.  From the delta to the omegas, the sluggish oxbows the drain collectively in the snowy Black Forest, I have walked the length of the Danube.  I reached the official source the day before yesterday and got a stamp in my book.  Including my little deviations to visit other places of interest on my pilgrimage to St Martin, my journey has so far taken me 3,681 km.

Onward to other places important to his story - Strasbourg, Worms, Trier, and Amiens... I'm easily on target to reach Tours for Easter...
   (...and it's nearly impossible to find a computer these days to update this blog - the blogging culture as evolved in the 11 years I've been a pilgrim...)

Monday, January 8, 2018

Greetings from near Budapest

Belated Merry Christmas - I was in Belgrade - and belated Happy New Year - I was in Croatia...

I've been looking hard for a computer update all along the way, but at Christmas, the warm and wonderful Petites Soeurs de Jesus had a dial-up modem... updating the blog just didn't work; then all the public buildings and most parish offices were closed for two weeks for holiday times, and well, that finished off Serbia and Croatia, and I'm now well into Hungary, and only have a few minutes in a school library before the kids arrive for computer class...

I've just passed the 2,000 kilometer mark for this pilgrimage, and now that I've entered Schengenland, the race is on to get to Tours and off the continent within 90 days.  I'm having a great time =D

The weather has been unseasonably warm, very springlike, which forces me to carry my winter clothes in my backpack and slosh through mud instead of snow.  The swans that have been keeping me company all along my Danube wanderings don't seem to mind.  I hope winter appears again - I only had one snowy week back in Romania.  Still, the scenery is tranquil and gorgeous.  Hungary is well set with pilgrim routes fairly well marked and very well supplied with information boards printed in Hungarian and in English.  Many people speak German, so communication has been getting easier.

The world needs more pilgrims...

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Greetings from the Iron Gates

Having just entered the narrow gorge where the serpentine Danube River squeezes between the snowy Carpathian Mountains of Romania and the rolling Balkan Mountains of Serbia, I've accepted the gracious invitation of the Daughters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus to take a day off.

Many days of cold, steady rain - coinciding with a four-day weekend to celebrate St Andrew's Day (Nov 30) and Romanian Independence Day (Dec 1) - were a tad grueling for me... despite the morning hoarfrost, the mud created by the excess of rain made the dike tracks impassable, forcing me to retreat to the paved roads where the periodic cars and trucks speeding by doused me with frequent showers.  Even the most impenetrable raingear takes a beating.  A day off to dry out, clean everything, make repairs, and re-wax my boots has been a good remedy.  Although I'm now out of duct tape and black thread, I'm set to resume the journey upstream.

A few hours with Google Maps and I've got a route sketched out that gets me to Belgrade for Christmas, including a deviation from the river to visit a little more of Romania before heading into Serbia.  Romania is nearly the size of Colorado and diverse enough culturally and geographically to warrant another pilgrimage here one day - I still haven't been to Transylvania or Romanian Moldova... one day...

A few noteworthy encounters came to me on the morning of St Andrew's Day... 

Even before mid-morning, I crossed a narrow bridge the same moment as a shepherd was driving some sheep across it.  The shepherd's dogs went barking, the sheep were agitated, a small commotion got the attention of some of the villagers nearby.  As I passed the first houses, an older man hurried up to the road bidding me in halting English to stop and talk with him.  I was sort of inclined to pass on the invitation, though his intent seemed pure.  I was having an inward day marching in the rain and the fussing of the sheep and dogs put me a bit out of sorts.  But he persisted, offering coffee - a magic word on a cold, rainy day - and announced his name as 'Johnny'.  I conceded.  With his own chained dogs barking and howling in the mud, he led me under a grape arbor, around some great baskets of apples, quinces, and pears, into a small unheated kitchen where a pot on the stove was boiling over with coffee.  He cursed, tossed the burnt coffee into the courtyard outside, and started a new pot, yammering at me the whole time.  He wiped two cups with his sweater and rummaged for some saucers to add some class, then finally sat at the table with me.  He wanted to offer more - a bone of ham, perhaps, some wet cheese from a small wooden barrel, some pickled peppers in jars of every description, a plate of meat (chicken? rabbit? goat? fried in small pieces, it was impossible to tell).  I had only been on the road an hour or so, so wasn't in the least hungry.  He persisted like an Italian grandmother - eat! eat! you're too small! you need energy!  I was more than satisfied enjoying the break out of the rain and mud and enjoying the coffee, hot and strong.  He boasted of his 200-meter long garden and orchard that he maintains and harvests for his own consumption - his children and grandchildren living abroad.  Wine! he remembered suddenly, and whiskey! please, you must try!! all homemade.  Too early in the morning for me, and too cold... still, he took me insistently to see the wine cellar, where enormous wooden casks and countless glass bottles full of red wine were stacked dirt floor to wooden ceiling... stay here, he urged, at least until Christmas... get to know the village, get to know Romania... eat, drink, be merry... he was quite the ambassador.  I was amused by his sweet and earnest demeanor, but twinged to see the situation with some clarity... these villages are already anachronisms.  Johnny was born and raised there in the house his father built and then went off to Bucharest for his education and profession - electrical engineer - and only returned on holidays.  His parents long deceased, their house became his for his retirement, but his still lives in Bucharest most of the time, a few hours' drive by car.  His own children and grandchildren have nothing to do with it or the bountiful garden.  Such is the case for most of the village's hundred or so houses - some abandoned, some only temporarily occupied, most falling in disrepair.  What will it be like in 20 years when Johnny and his companions are no longer there?  There was a bitter-sweetness to the encounter.  I managed to leave the dear old guy and head back out into the rain an hour later, but not without a large and tasty chunk of his homemade sheep's cheese, some fruit from his trees, and about a liter of his wine, a not unpalatable demi-sec.

A few hours later, I had a quick chance meeting with a bicycling Belgian/British/Canadian adventurer heading to Istanbul and beyond.  He was the first such traveler I've met, both being rather out-of-season travelers of the Danube, and we took a little standing break to chat between raindrops.  We met because I was on the paved road, a domain I generally eschew and was there only because of the bad weather; on a laden bicycle, of course, he wouldn't have been on the rutted dirt dikes where I prefer to walk.  In truth, although there can't be a happier pilgrim than I, some days have more noticeable struggles than other days.  I was sort of moping along when we passed each other, both equally surprised by what we saw.  Even after just a few minutes of our little encounter, my soul was lifted and the bounce I hadn't noticed was missing, returned to my step.  ...and then he gave me a few chocolate bars =D  Kudos to Matthew the bicyclist.