The Travelled Heart

By Debra Robinson

This anthology of travel stories takes you on both a physical and metaphysical journey that will be unlike any book you have read before! That the stories are actually all true is deeply mind-bending. From mystical Cappadocia to Egypt Road, Tokyo, Hay-on-Wye in Wales and beyond. Enter dimensions of heart and spirit that will enlarge your soul...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Robinson
• Release date: Jun 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223903093

Book preview

Dedication

I respectfully dedicate this story to all my patient teachers in this life.

The Seen, the Unseen, the Noble, the Ordinary, the Encouragers without number.

As you will find in the stories that follow, some of these Sacred Teachers came in the guise of rascals, cabbies, carpet sellers and even a juvenile delinquent. One of my favorites is a guy who wrote a book about beets.

And to those who also took up the call to write for the ones that follow…those dispellers of Grace to us all daily.

Death by Cheese

Hay-on-Wye, Wales, the Three Tuns pub…

This story is set at the beginning of a round-the- world foray that I embarked on when I turned 50.

I hoped that I had gambled wisely in the intervening years by postponing the Great Trip to a later phase of life. Not too late, mind you. Sixty-five was the cultural norm but travelling in one’s declining years made little sense to me.

As well, travelling…like youth…is wasted on the young.

One still lacks real capacity for taking in the experience. There is often that excess of enthusiasm which is akin to madness. Timing is everything in life…

In my earlier years, I would have opted for an ambitious itinerary…a fast and furious race to step foot in every country on the globe. Approaching 50 called for a fresh consideration. I was a vastly different person 30 years later. My interests in travelling centered around writing, hiking, a more specific kind of exploration of life, the world and its people. Editing in life…as in writing…has its distinct advantages.

So what more fitting place to embark upon the great trip with its aspect of writing than the celebrated Village of Booksellers… Hay-on-Wye in Wales. This most enchanting and inspiring hamlet had turned up on my radar in the 70’s, during my own decade of bookselling in New York City. I vowed to return and spend more time there one day…

It was a chill spring afternoon when I stepped off the bus from London. I breathed in the sweet country air with a sense of excitement and anticipation for what lay ahead! I made my way up the hill toward the castle at the heart of town. Clouds raced overhead and a light sprinkle was felt now and then. I found a café patio with a wrought iron table and chairs. I settled in with a cup of tea and took in the scene. Thankfully, very little had changed in the intervening years. Hay was every bit as quaint and charming as before.

A young man, no doubt curious about a stranger in the village, introduced himself and asked if he could join me. We enjoyed a lively chat. He marveled that I was marking the start of a world tour with a sojourn in Hay. Books were my first trip around the world! I told him. My trip began in childhood!

I asked if he could recommend a good B&B. In response, he graciously took me on a walking tour of the village. He helped me choose the perfect inn. After introducing me to the owner, he wished me a good stay and a good journey. I was shown to a lovely, well-appointed room. I unpacked my bag and made things cozy for my stay.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. My companion from the café…bearing a single long-stemmed red rose. A gift for your journey… He handed me a card with his number. Call me on your return at the end of the trip!

A lovely token of blessing for the journey…

That rose, placed between the pages of my travel journal graces my writing desk to this day, 22 years later…

As the first day was drawing to a close, I eagerly sought out the lanes of booksellers. I was a bit late and out of season. Only one shop remained open. I ducked in, hoping to browse awhile. There was only one other customer in the shop. We exchanged a knowing smile that only another bibliophile could offer…

A few minutes later, the clerk announced that the shop was preparing to close. I was stricken! At that point, the only other customer struck up a lively conversation with the proprietor. Thankfully, that bought me more time! I found just the perfect small tome for my trip and approached the register. As the man behind the counter rang up my purchase, the other gentleman engaged me in conversation. There was something familiar about him…an old memory tugged at me.

Before I could quite place him, I had been invited to dinner that very evening…at Hay Castle! I was in the presence of the King of Hay… Sir Richard Booth! I had seen him from a distance many years before on my first visit. Richard Booth was legendary…the inspiration for villages of booksellers that began in Hay and have proliferated around the world in the decades since.

A VERY auspicious beginning, indeed!

The following morning, I packed my belongings and headed off in search of a writing warren. The inn, though lovely, was bustling with visitors. I needed some place peaceful and solitary. Now Hay is filled with inns like it is filled with booksellers. So many to choose from…and all so appealing! It should have been easy, but I found myself tracing and re-tracing my steps through the village, unable to settle on a place that felt just right.

Why was I being so fussy?! A bed, a desk, a window and tea service were all that was required. I was wasting valuable time, but a 3 week stint here called for a place where I could rest and concentrate on my writing.

I finally wandered off to the edge of the village. It was there that I saw a humble yellow house that had perhaps seen better days. No overflowing flower baskets ornamented its windows, no climbing ivy or cozy hedges. No ‘Vacancies’ sign… But it continued to pull at me. I thought it would be too plain and uninspiring. Perhaps I was trying too hard to stretch a dollar…

After trying to settle on one of the nicer ones, I went back and stood in front of the yellow house a bit forlornly.

I knocked at the door with some misgivings.

No answer. ‘Ah good’ I thought. As I turned to leave, however, the door opened and a tall elderly gentleman stood staring at me as though he’d seen a ghost. He became terribly uncomfortable when I asked if he had a room available. He said he wasn’t quite open for the season yet. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was opening the inn at all in the coming year.

I must have looked so disappointed. He lingered a moment. I’d really like to stay here if…

Why was I being such a nuisance? I’d put the poor man on the spot.

Well, if you could give me an hour, I might be able to prepare a room. You see, we’re not really… and his voice trailed off.

Oh thank you so much! Would you mind if I just left my heavy bag with you? I’ll just go down to the town and give you all the time you need.

He took the bag, but I could see that this gentle fellow was at odds with the unexpected arrangement. When I returned later on, he showed me to a simple room upstairs, apologizing along the way. The house had such an empty feeling…damp and still. Dreary…

My host said I was the only one staying and added that breakfast might be a simple affair as his wife had always prepared breakfast for the guests…

His voice trailed off again. I realized then that he had lost her. Everything was clear…his inward stance, his discomfort. He was having a hard time picking up the pieces. I had crashed into their home and his mourning like a bull in a china shop.

Had I made a terrible mistake? Quite likely, I thought… But I had felt so strongly about THAT house…

There I was unpacking, the only guest in that big empty house. Both he and the house were suffering her absence. I made a cup of tea and tried to write, but I couldn’t get past the chill and the emptiness. The house itself seemed to intrude on my thoughts. I was restless…unusually so. I put on a heavy sweater and went