HAPPY HOLIDAYS 2022: Favorite Danish Christmas Plates

Danish Christmas Plate by Bing and Grondahl, 1967

My husband Art’s aunt, Carolyn T. Arnold, was a world traveler and brought home many souvenirs from her trips, both for herself and gifts for her family. She loved going to Denmark and was especially fond of the Danish porcelain Christmas plates, developing a large collection. In her house they decorated the walls of her living room, lined up in chronological order.

1967, Child With Bird Feeder; 1970, Pheasants in the Snow at Christmas; 1972, Christmas in Greenland

We were the recipients of three Danish plates from Aunt Carolyn: 1967, commemorating our wedding year; 1970 and 1972, for the births of our children. The three plates now hang in our kitchen where I can see them every day of the year.

At the Royal Copenhagen Store, Copenhagen

On our recent trip to Copenhagen, we were delighted to find our plates displayed in the Royal Copenhagen shop along with the more than 100 porcelain Christmas plates designed by Bing and Grondahl. (In 1987, Bing and Grondahl merged with the Royal Porcelain Factory to become Royal Copenhagen.)

In her retirement Aunt Carolyn wrote of her travel adventures in her memoir. Many excerpts from her memoir have appeared at The Intrepid Tourist. As we celebrate this holiday season we remember Aunt Carolyn and the joy of traveling and learning about the world. I send best wishes to all of you for a very

HAPPY HOLIDAY

and

JOYOUS NEW YEAR!

 

 

AN EXCHANGE TEACHER IN WALES, 1953-54: From the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold, at The Intrepid Tourist

Wales. Welcome to Mold.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales (1953-54), to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.
In TIT post 10/7/2013 Aunt Carolyn described her arrival in Wales, in the small town of Mold where she would be teaching in the grammar school for a year. The piece below describes her living situation during her year of teaching there.

On the second Saturday morning after my arrival in Wales, I went to Mold to find a place to live. I wanted to be part of the community where I would be teaching.  On the street I met Mr. Ledbetter, head of the English Department. He said, “Oh, I know just the place for you. Miss Wotton often takes people in.” Just then, Miss Wotton came along and stopped to chat. Yes, she would take me. Her elderly father would be glad of the company. Miss Wotton and her father lived in the south half of a brick duplex, or as they say, “semi-detached.” The house, as others, did not have a number and had been given a name when it was built. Our house name was “Y Llwyn.”

Miss Wooten’s  father, whom I learned to call Gran, was a tall erect man, very active for his 90 years. He even mowed the lawn. Later, I found that every evening about eight o’clock, he would take his hat and cane and walk along to his favorite pub, have a glass of Guinness, a game of darts, perhaps, and be home within the hour.

I found renting a room included a “sitting room” and high tea soon after I returned from school. It usually consisted of something hot, perhaps a lamb chop, plus sandwiches, dessert, and hot tea–all for $35 a month. I loved it there except for one thing. There was no heat in the bedroom or bathroom. As winter came on, I was very uncomfortable in the bedroom, and as for the bathroom, imagine that without heat! I knew electricity was expensive, and I was not paying much. I asked Miss Wooten–I soon learned to call her Muriel–why there was no heat in the fireplace in the bedroom. She said that the fireplace had not been used since before the War, and she was afraid a fire would light the soot and other material in the chimney. They burned coal in the fireplace downstairs, in my sitting room, and in the kitchen. Her brother, John, who lived in Liverpool, arranged for an electric fire (heater) as they were very scarce at the time. I could use that for a half-hour before bedtime and a half-hour in the morning for an extra pound a month, about $2.80.

Muriel is a sociable person and I owe much to her in getting acquainted with people in town. The Welsh are still very clannish and do not appear to be friendly to strangers, but once one is accepted, there are no more friendly and helpful people than the Welsh. By the end of the year I had drunk gallons of tea at the homes of friends and of my pupils.

Landscape near Mold

Through Muriel I met many more people than I would have met otherwise. Her friends Griff and Chrissy Williams lived near a small village called Gwnymyedd about two miles up the hill from Mold on a farm called “Tros-y-Wern.” Their home is a very old stone building, rectangular in shape with a chimney at each end, which is characteristic of many old farmhouses. The ceiling beams were refinished and glowed with polish. The windows are 18 inches deep, saying something of the thickness of the walls and age of the building. The kitchen has a large fireplace and is large enough for a dining room too. In the scullery is a stove, but both the kitchen fireplace and scullery stove are used for cooking. The floor is tiled, making it easy to clean, for the farm workers ate in the kitchen. There is a fireplace in every room in the house, including the sitting room, the parlor, and the upstairs. Chrissy and Griff became my friends too.

I learned the size of the average farm in Wales is 80 acres, much of it usually too hilly or rough to be arable, so sheep raising is a major part of farming. The Williams had lived at Tros-y-Wern for many years so I was surprised when Muriel told me they did not own the land. It was part of an estate of some lord and could not be sold. Shortly after I left Wales, I learned the lord had died, and Griff bought the land. He divided it into plots and built bungalows. They sold the lovely Tros-y-Wern and moved into one of the new bungalows.

All text and photos, copyright Caroline Arnold.  www.theintrepidtourist.blogspot.com 

JAPAN, Hakone National Park: The Pleasures of Staying at a Ryokan, from the Memoir of Aunt Carolyn

Room at Traditional Japanese Inn

My husband's aunt, Carolyn T. Arnold, traveled to Japan in the 1960's and 70's as the leader of a tour group. Her description of her group’s experience staying at a traditional Japanese inn brings back memories of my own experience at a ryokan in the Japanese Alps.

After leaving glittering Tokyo, my groups always spend a few days at the Fujiya Hotel in the wooded mountains of Hakone National Park. It is very Japanese in architecture but adapted to Western ways of living. An authentic Japanese inn, called a ryokan, adjoins the hotel. Janet and Nancy from our group, wanted to stay at the ryokan, so arrangements were made for them to do so. The young girls loved it. Each was assigned a hostess who first brought a fresh yakata (a cotton kimono) to relax in, and then gave them a cup of green tea. For the night, the maid unrolled several layers of quilts on the floor, and the living room became a bedroom.
The rest of the group preferred more Western ways–a bed, for instance. Our rooms looked out on lush gardens and brilliant azaleas, even a tiny waterfall and goldfish. A yakata was neatly folded at the foot of the bed.

Fujiya Hotel

Hakone Park is noted for its hot mineral springs, so I suggested that those who cared to do so, could reserve a private “bath” and a massage afterwards. Public bathing of both sexes is acceptable in Japan, but I reserved a private “bath” for each of us. We were advised that we must not enter the bath unclean, but we should sap and rinse well with a bucket of water provided beside the pool. What luxury to relax in the warm pool!
I had ordered a masseuse (female), so I was quite jolted when a man appeared at my door after my bath. I repeated “masseuse” several times. He said, “Don’t be afraid, missy, it’s okay.” And, it was.
Janet and Nancy enjoyed their stay at the ryokan so much that later in Takamatsu our whole group stayed at one. We were greeted by a matronly hostess who indicated that our shoes were to be left at the door. Then, each of us was led to his/her room, which had rice paper windows and sliding doors. The only furniture was a low table. The maid indicated that I was to remove my clothes and don a fresh yakata. Then she served tea and “biscuits”. At that moment I was startled by squeals and running noises in the hallway. I rushed out to see Charlie, an eccentric older man in our group, racing down the corridor in his undershorts and shouting, “No girl is going to strip me!” The maid, giggling hysterically, came hurrying after, holding his yakata. She finally captured him and dressed him properly in Japanese fashion. I think everyone enjoyed, at least for a few days, our stay at a ryokan.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels and look at her photos, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.

KYOTO, JAPAN: A Day of Leisure, from the Memoir of Aunt Carolyn

Vegetable stall, Japanese market

My husband's Aunt, Carolyn T. Arnold, traveled to Japan in the 1960's and 70's as the leader of a tour group. Here is her description of a leisure day with her group in Kyoto.
Leisure days in any country call for a good deal of resourcefulness on the part of the tour director to keep everyone satisfied and to plan for something that was not a part of the schedule. Seldom did anyone use those days purely for leisure, so I work harder on those days.

In Kyoto my favorite leisure day activity is a stroll along a pedestrian shopping street. There are hundreds of little shops open to the mall. The fish market man proudly displayed his largest fish. At another stall, vegetables are colorfully and artistically arranged. Most people gasp at the size of the white radishes, two to three feet long. The “home folks” slice and pickle these to make a tasty relish. Once I ventured into a noodle factory where large sheets of pasta were taken out of pots of boiling water and hung up to dry, then on to the girls who measured, cut, and tied them into bundles. The girl at the corner was frying bean paste cookies; I bought a few. They were crisp and tasted a bit like chocolate.

We were amazed at the variety of things for sale. Mechanical toys might be beside mannequins featuring ready-to-wear, mostly Western styles.  One of the many delights of Japan is the food. It’s hard to forget the rice, green tea, sake (rice wine), chop sticks, and even green tea ice cream. Dick, the clown of the group, kept everyone roaring as he attempted to pick up a green pea with his chopstick.

Window display of plastic replicas of dishes on the menu in a Japanese restaurant

We tried various types of dinners. Mongolian barbecue was a favorite. A waitress grilled small pieces of chicken, beef, shrimp, and vegetables over a charcoal grill sunken in the center of the table. Then, she daintily picked up each piece, dipped it into a bowl of soy sauce, and placed it before us. A thimble-size cup of sake completed the meal.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels and look at her photos, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.

TOKYO TRAFFIC: From the Memoir of Aunt Carolyn

Sightseeing in Tokyo

My husband's Aunt, Carolyn T. Arnold, traveled to Japan in the 1960's and 70's as the leader of a tour group. Here is her description of the challenges of traffic in Tokyo. Although she took many photos during her years of traveling, some, including many of Japan, were on film that deteriorated.The above photo is one of ours from our trip to Tokyo in 1995.

Traffic in Tokyo is a nightmare. If you think State Street in Chicago during rush hour is crazy, try a taxi ride in Tokyo. The Japanese drive on the left side of the street. The new thoroughfares are wide and straight in the heart of the city and are marked in lanes like ours. Most taxis are compact size; a large taxi costs more. It appears that drivers either have not learned to stay in their lanes or maybe because the cars are small, the drivers think two cars can drive in one lane. One day one of my group who was sitting on the left shrieked as a “kamikaze” driver whizzed past us allowing only a few millimeters for passing.

Pedestrians in Japan, crossing a street where signals are few, may land on the doorstep of the Imperial Palace before they are aware of what hit them. There is a correct way for a person to cross the street. Often one will find a tin receptacle about the size of a three-pound coffee can nailed to a light post at a street crossing. A person wishing to cross the street takes a yellow flag from the container, steps off the curb, and waves the flag wildly as he crosses the street. All traffic comes to a grinding, scre-e-ching halt. The pedestrian then crosses and deposits the flag in the container on the other side of the street. It takes guts to step onto the street in front of oncoming trucks and cars. Peter, our youngest member, dared me to be the first one to lead the way. However, he decided he wanted to be first, so we followed safely behind him.

Each day we had the same driver for sightseeing tours. To mark our bus from many other tourist buses, we used the name of our tour “Brownell World Tour” and posted it on the windsheild. On one tour the sign painter apparently did not read English very well. He confused my name with the tour name so each day there was a different spelling on the windshield, much to the amusement of the group. One day it was “Caryn Round Tour.” We all laughed about our renamed tour. The next day the sign read “Around Caryn Tour.” It became an exciting serial to see what it would be next. On the last day, the sign was spelled correctly, and we all applauded.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.

JAPAN: Train Ride to Nikko, from the Memoir of Aunt Carolyn

Carolyn T. Arnold, Nara, Japan 1969

My husband's Aunt Carolyn traveled to Japan in the 1960's and 70's as the leader of a tour group. Here is an account of one of the challenging moments of her life as a tour leader. Although she took many photos during her years of traveling, some, including those of Nikko, were on film that deteriorated. For photos and information about Nikko, click HERE.

    One day in Tokyo, my group was scheduled to go by train to Nikko, a mountain resort and national park. All were assembled in the hotel lobby and were casually visiting with one another. The transfer bus driver had reported early. I was relaxing while I waited for Mike, our Japanese guide. (Japanese guides always assume American names.) Suddenly, an uneasiness made me check my watch and I realized it was high time we were leaving. As I was going to the desk to inquire if there was a message from Mike, I was paged to answer the phone. It was Mike calling to tell me his taxi had been involved in an accident; he was being held as a witness. I told him there wasn’t any problem; I could take the group to Nikko, but he had the train tickets. What to do? We agreed that I should immediately “kidnap” one of the hotel bellboys to act as my interpreter, get my flock on the bus, and head for the station immediately. Mike would call the stationmaster, explain the situation, and after lunch in Nikko, he would join us. So off we went all alarmed about possibly missing the train and the day’s excursion.
    We hopped on the bus, drove through the early morning traffic to the station. I led the group to the proper platform where we were stopped at the gate. There stood the train, and the large clock showed just five minutes for us to negotiate. I pushed the bellboy under the barrier and into the office to get an okay from the stationmaster for us to board the train. We all watched the clock. Four, three minutes until departure time and still no word from the office. Wildly gesturing I pointed to the clock, to my group, and to the train. Evidently, Mike’s call to the station had just come through. We had two minutes until departure when the stationmaster slowly rose from his chair, walked to where we waited, and personally escorted us to our coach, where he bowed and left us. Without any warning or fuss, promptly on the last minute, the train slowly moved out of the station as I collapsed in my seat. As Bob said later, “Now you know how to get twenty people on a train without tickets.” Mike met us at Nikko, and we continued with the scheduled sightseeing.
    Nikko is a delightful place, ninety miles north of Tokyo. The scenery of mountains, lakes, and waterfalls is spectacular. The Toshogu Shrine is a Shinto shrine built in the 17th century. The Yomeiom Gate to the shrine is very elaborate, almost gaudy. It is awe-inspiring to walk along the long avenue approaching the gate between the towering cedar trees arched overhead. Before entering the Inner Court, we removed our shoes as is customary before entering anyone’s home or shrine. Here we were provided with cotton slippers, so ill-fitting that I felt like I was a web-footed duck.
    To one side of the Yomeiom Gate is a five-storied pagoda dedicated to Buddism.
    There is so much to see in Nikko. My groups always enjoy the bus ride from Nikko village to Lake Chuzenji at 1,000 feet elevation, at least until we start the uphill climb. Judging by the chorus of shrieks from the women on the bus, the ride is a real thriller. The narrow, twisting road has 47 hairpin turns as it rises sharply up the mountainside. The up-grade bus always has the right of way. Each switchback was numbered so we knew how many there were to go. This did not help the nervous ladies. At the parking place there are always “ohs” and “ahs” as we looked down at the twisting road over which we had come. The thought that we must return by the same road was not reassuring. Today the road to Chuzenji is one way as another approach has been built. However, there are still those sharp curves and breathtaking views below. Yes, I am glad we did not miss that train to Nikko.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today. 

FINLAND, 1952: Midnight Sun and Summer Olympics, from the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Midnight Sun, Finland

My husband's Aunt Carolyn traveled to Finland in 1952 for the Summer Olympics and wrote about the trip in her memoir. Here is her report.

In 1952, three friends and I decided to attend the Olympics in Helsinki. We flew to London. Then, by train we went through France and Germany. Just below the Danish border, we stopped at Flensberg, a small city, to buy new bicycles. The shopkeeper had only one in stock, but if we could stay overnight, he could get us three more.

Flower Market, Helsinki Waterfront

The next day on our new bikes, we crossed into Denmark, a cyclist’s paradise. The land is so flat no pushing up hills was necessary. In Copenhagen, we found that the first flight we could get to Helsinki was ten days before the Opening Day of the Olympics. We took that flight and spent the ten days seeing something of Finland. We bought train tickets as far north as the train went. From there, we rode the bus to the end of its line into Finnish Lapland. We had not realized the extent of the Nazi occupation which had burned over most of northern Finland. Finland was just beginning reconstruction.

The train still burned wood, so smoke and dust were constantly with us. The Finns are normally very clean people, so every hour “train maids” would come through the coach to dust and clean. The next hour the seats and windows were just as smokey.

Far north Finland--End of the Bus Line

We rode all day through miles of green forest, the “green gold” of Finland. At the end of the first day, we stayed at a hostel, which was far better than others we had lived in. The second day we were booked at a new hotel in Rovaniemi, right on the Arctic Circle. When we left the train, no hotel or any other person or building was in sight. We waited a short time, wondering what to do. Then a police “paddy wagon” drove up to the train platform. We thought they had come for us. By pantomime, we learned they had been sent to pick up some drunks, but we persuaded them to take us to the hotel. The police demurred at first, finally deciding to leave the drunks, and we drove up the hill from where we could see the town of Rovaniemi. They deposited us in front of the hotel. I wonder what the hotel people thought of our unusual arrival. We continued the next day by bus. It was also a pre-war model and broke down frequently. We did not mind this as some of my most pleasant memories are of meeting people who gathered around, offering advice about the broken vehicle, sometimes offering us a cup of coffee at their homes.

Reindeer

Our destination was a simple lodge far to the north in Lapland. Even though we arrived at midnight, we climbed up a small mountain behind the lodge, anxious to see the midnight sun, which was hidden from view at the lodge. The permafrost and mosquitoes made the climb uncomfortable, but we took pictures of the sun at 1:00 a.m. and saw a herd of reindeer.

1952 Summer Olympics, Helsinki, Finland

Our return journey brought us to Helsinki in time for the Opening Day of the Olympics. Paavo Nurmi, the famous Finnish runner, had the honor of opening the XV Olympiad. He carried the torch around the track and then ascended the tower to light the flame, which burns constantly until the games end. We looked anxiously for our flag in the colorful parade of athletes. We could see the parade was nearing the end and no U.S.A. in sight. Then, there it was, and such an uproar rose from the crowd. We had forgotten the names were in the Finnish language, and U.S.A. became Uni des Etats.

Boarding TWA for Europe and Olympics, 1952

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today. 

All photos by Carolyn T. Arnold. 

ON THE ROAD IN INDIA: Village Life, from the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Roadside scene, India

The following is an excerpt from the memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt, who traveled to India in the 1960s.

On my first tour of India the itinerary called for a drive in cars as we toured northern India. The idea was a good one except in July the usual range of heat is from 100 to 117 degrees, and the humidity goes up to 75%. We saw much of village life, more than was intended, as the old cars broke down repeatedly. Daniel, our driver, was the only mechanic, so we all had to stop while he went back to fix the car.

On the road in India

Before we left, I had asked if the roads were paved and was assured they were. True enough, one strip down the middle of the road was covered with asphalt. When meeting another vehicle, both had to swing out to the wide shoulders, stirring up clouds of choking yellow dust

Man with laden donkeys

On the roads of India, one can see almost any kind of transportation from man-drawn rickshaws, to camels, to trucks, and worn out buses, and always cows. They are allowed to go anywhere without harm, wandering in and out of traffic, which is hectic even without the cows. At one point on our journey, several carts, with two large wheels, creaked along as the oxen lumbered by. 

Gypsy woman

Then a band of gypsies and their camels came along. The women carried jugs of water on their heads while their long, red skirts were swinging and their bracelets and necklaces were jingling. Small babies rode in pouches on either side of the camels. 

Women at the village well

We saw elephants, water buffaloes, and women at the village water well. The women seemed to be engaged in local gossip. Leaning against the outer wall of a building was a charpoy, which is a bed made of a wooden frame with web straps woven alternately in and out and fastened to the frame. It didn’t have a pad or mattress. We could easily understand why it was cooler to eat, sleep, and work outside then inside a building. We saw a barber at work, his customer sitting on a piece of cloth spread on the grass in the shade. I learned later that families of a higher class also sleep on the flat roofs of their homes during the extremely hot weather.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, Iowa, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  You can read of some of her other adventures in these posts on this blog:  October 21, 2013; October 7, 2013; July 29, 2013.March 10, 2014, January 12, 2015.

Pakistan: GILGIT PROVINCE, Part 2: Punial and Naltar, From the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Punial Estate in Chitral Province

My husband’s Aunt Carolyn traveled to Pakistan in the 1970's. The following are excerpts from her memoir of her travels.

Road to Punial

The next morning a jeep was provided for a ride to Punial. We were to have tea with Raja Jam Khan, King of Punial. This was once one of the hereditary kingdoms of Gilgit Province, but, in 1972, the Pakistani government abolished the Kingdom of Punial, although the people of the village still call him Raja. 

The approach to the Raja’s home was unusual. Down to the river again, we crossed a little bridge over a torrent, and we found ourselves in a courtyard surrounded by imposing buildings. We were shown into a private room adorned with many mementos, deep carpets, and comfortable chairs. Family photographs were on the mantlepiece. The Raja came in to greet us. He was a large man with twinkling, blue eyes and an enormous mustache waxed at the pointed ends. With a rakish smile, he beamed at us. We were served tea and a huge bowl of white, sweet cherries.

We returned to Gilgit during the afternoon. The last suspension bridge looked doubtful as I watched a jeep in front of us make the crossing. The bridge floor seemed to be built in several sections, each one swaying alarmingly as the jeep was lowered onto it. The floor of the first section was several inches below the surface of the road so there was quite a gap to span and the weight of our jeep lowered the bridge floor even more, each section swinging in a different rhythm. Soon we were back at the Vershi Ghoom rest house and began to relax from the exhausting ride.

Road to Naltar

Our next objective was a drive to Naltar, a beautiful spot high in the mountains near the northern border. The first part of the journey from Gilgit was fairly easy. Crossing a narrow bridge over the Gilgit river, we began a climb leading into the heart of the mountains. The road rose gently at first, then wound around mountain curves to the river again, only to zigzag up in a succession of turns and twists until we reached the “Spruce Forest.” The pungent pines, the towering mountains topped with snow in the distance, framed by spruce trees, made this a truly magnificent sight, especially in a land largely arid. We turned sharply across a log bridge onto a track that led to a green open area with numerous military buildings in the background. On the lawn was a picnic table where we had our lunch.

Naltar

After lunch we climbed farther up through the forest for a closer view of the snow peaks. On the way back, we met an old man and a young boy with a burro laden with firewood. They seemed pleased to have a picture snapped. How I wished I could speak to them.

We returned to Gilgit to prepare for the flight to Rawalpindi the next morning. There was no airport as such, so we joined the people from Gilgit lounging in the shade of a few trees, all waiting for the plane to arrive on the grass strip. The same flight over the mountains was just as spectacular as our first, with the white jagged peaks all around like some monstrous cake whose icing had been fluffed up into points.

Himalayas

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, Iowa, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  You can read of some of her other adventures in these posts on this blog:  October 21, 2013; October 7, 2013; July 29, 2013.March 10, 2014, February 9, 16, 23, 2015.

Pakistan, GILGIT PROVINCE, Part 1: Rawalpindi, Murree, Gilgit, From the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

View from the Cockpit, Flight over the Himalayas to Chitral

My husband’s Aunt Carolyn traveled to Pakistan in the 1970's. The following are excerpts from her memoir of her travels.

We departed from the Chitral airport over those same mountains back to Peshawar before departure the next morning for Rawalpindi. This city, a little more than one hundred miles east of Peshawar, has developed considerably since Independence Day in 1947. After partition from India, the people chose a new capital, Islamabad, a planned city twelve miles from Rawalpindi. It is the administrative capital of Pakistan. There are wide boulevards, white modern buildings, and diplomatic headquarters. Many buildings are still unfinished and there were few people about. Rawalpindi is much more lively with the old way of life and its historic monuments. Our girl guide was pleasant and on the way back to Rawalpindi took us to a bazaar for Edna to find some fabric and a tailor to make some Pakistani pants.

Rawalpindi was the starting point for Gilgit, another village over the main range of the Himalayas. The flight is always based on weather conditions. We were optimistic and arrived at the airport in brilliant sunshine at 6:30 am. The waiting room was hot and crowded, largely with Gilgit people returning home. By 7:00 am we were told that the flight was cancelled.

Murree Village

Instead of flying to Gilgit, my friends suggested a trip to Murree, a hill station where they had acquaintances at a mission station. A car and driver were obtained and we set off. We climbed higher and higher on good roads through the trees on large estates, for this was a popular summer colony of British officialdom in the old days. We finally found the home of their friends, the Reeds where we were given a warm welcome and invited to lunch.

Gilgit Valley

Early the next morning, we were back at the airport. This time we were lucky and boarded the Friendship Fokker 27 for the flight to Gilgit. The approach by air is hair raising. First, we flew up the Kaghan Valley and over the Babusar Pass. The pilot invited us into the cockpit when he saw we were trying to take pictures out the side windows. As we drew near Nanga Parbat, the fifth highest peak in the Himalayas, we passed below its crest of twenty-six thousand feet in brilliant sunshine. The pilot said, “I have a wonderful view of the peak. Let me take your camera for a good shot.” At times, we feared we would scrape the snow from the peaks around us. We seemed so close, but the angels were with us, and we passed safely. No less awe-inspiring were the surrounding ranges of the Karakorams, and to the left, the Hindu Kush, the point where the borders of Pakistan, China, and Russia meet. The Indus River below was a mere stream. Then, we dropped into the Gilgit Valley. The brakes were applied sharply, and there, at last, I was in the world of which I had so long dreamed.

Gilgit Village is mainly one long street, bending at the far end toward the river. The hotel, the Vershi Ghoom, was a quadrangle of one story rooms with an interior courtyard. We had anticipated an excursion that day, but since we were a day late, it was cancelled. After lunch, there was not much to do except to sit on the veranda and watch the children of the family play in the courtyard with the chickens.The family tried to please us, but the food was not good. They asked us if we liked chicken and rice. That sounded familiar, so I replied, “Yes, that will be great.” Thereafter, we had chicken and rice and some kind of vegetable at every meal. I wished I had not been so enthusiastic about it. (Part 2, next week.)

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, Iowa, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  You can read of some of her other adventures in these posts on this blog:  October 21, 2013; October 7, 2013; July 29, 2013.March 10, 2014, February 9 and 16, 2015.