America - The End

We got up and stumbled bleary eyed into the dawn ("Woss happenin'? Oh, I'm at Camp!"), shovelled down some toast and cereal and a dramamine, built sandwiches and filled water bottles. Why dramamine? This was whale watching day and we were about to spend several hours on the Pacific. Warm clothes packed, and we set off for the marina, as we got to the coast we could see the restless Pacific. It was not a surfing day, the Pacific for once, was. The flat sea stretched away into the fog, the surface only broken by a pelican feeding frenzy, elsewhere it was mirror smooth. I rued scoffing the dramamine, $5.00 down the drain and probably totally uneccessary given my Island Heritage (IH).
We arrived and met up with Susan our naturalist, who while we were waiting for the boat asked the question,
"Any Birders?"
Margie, "Yeah!"
Paul and Nick, "!"
Nick, "I say Old Chap, spot of interestin' tarmac over there. Check it out?"
Paul, "Rather"
There was a Birder, he was dressed head to foot in matching North Face Gear and sported a beard, a beanie, and some expensive binoculars. His brain was wired up as Birders brains are, any speck floating disdainfully three miles from the boat would be spotted, identified, sexed, aged and catalogued before anyone else could raise their bino's, let alone fiddle with the focussing bits.
Our boat arrived, and with it Captain Tom, and Engineer Den, it was obviously a bit early for Den, as his teeth were missing, sadly talking about such things as sea-lions, Stellar's Sea-Lion, ceteceans, sea and surf would be challenging for him - and us. We climbed nimbly (IH) aboard and set off, Captain Tom regaling us with nautical niceties over the Tannoy, such as, "If you have to throw up do it over the side." I nearly added, "To leeward." but refrained, no-one likes a smart arse.
We passed under the Golden Gate bridge, a relatively rare occurrence and one that bestowed a wish, or so Tom said. I debated, it was an agonising choice between seeing some whales or ever having sex again, for the sake of my fellow passengers, I eventually plumped for the former.
Outside the Golden Gate we hit a very small swell, mainly due to a shallow sea, this was the Potato Patch, so-called as quite a few of the ships servicing the 49'ers lost their deck cargo here, the deck cargo being - potatoes. Here also, we passed a small pod of porpoises, this was felt to be a good sign. Then we turned towards the Farallon Islands, at some point my IH came to the fore and I stood at the prow, at one with the Ocean and its vagaries, balancing deftly on the balls of my feet and allowing my supple knees to absorb the movement of the boat, my hands lightly gripping the rail, my nostrils flaring at the scent of the salt spray, my heroic profile raking the horizon with my hawkl......
"Can you move please we can't see."
"Oh ummm ... sorry."
We all raked for a bit but no whale showed a fluke, so we went to the islands instead, there were a lot of birds and a lot of sea-lions. some of the Sea-lions climbed up about fifty feet above the tide level, I'm still yet to find out how, unless they had been stranded during post-glacial melt. Suddenly, great excitement (GE) Mr North Face had spotted something, "Tufted Puffin!" There were two, they were quite cute.
A sad tale; originally this trip was to spot Blue Whales, which feed on Krill, a cold water shrimp, there ain't no krill as the water's too warm, but there are a lot of bait fish, hence Humpback Whales. The Puffin have failed to breed for the last few years as bait fish are too big for the chicks to swallow and consequently they starve to death, despite frantic attempts at force-feeding by Ma and Pa.
After a quick history lesson, and an aquatic mooch about, we left the Farallons and their bloody annoying Guano flies, and headed off into the Pacific to look for Whales. Several times porpoising sea-lions (I can't help it, that's what they call it, even penguins porpoise) caused a momentary hiatus, the porpoising looks like joi-de-vivre but is probably something more natural (as in red in tooth and claw, natural) like avoiding shark attack.
The we found two Humpbacks, both adult, about 40 foot plus, we watched them for a bit till GE reckoned that there was one breaching on the horizon, we skedaddled over, he was right (sadly). There were three more and the juvenile with them had obviously been at the tartrazine, he even breached twenty feet from the boat, I, of course, heard, "WOW!" splash.
We moseyed on looking for more, I was sat at the front when some big fins started to go past, "Hmm? there aren't supposed to be Orca here." I thought.
"Risso's Dolphin!" GE.
Rareish, squid eaters, no beak, lots of squid scars.
We started for home, bathed in cetecean glory.
"Rhinoceros Auklet!"
"Pink-Legged Shearwater!"
"BlueWhale!"
A minor sensation this, first one of the year etc. Margie agreed she'd seen something that wasn't a Humpback, it was at this point I asked Paul if she'd ever been Headgirl.
The journey back was somnolent, GE, resuming scanning the horizon when he discovered;
A. That Margie was married.
B. That her husband was on the trip.
C. That the couple of chicks next to him were just that, a couple.

As we re-approached the Golden Gate I wondered if the wish idea worked both ways, now what to wish for? "Sex" or "Sex in a meaningful relationship".

We harboured, and climbed back into the car, mindful of the need to re-hydrate after our lengthy time at sea (there was coffee on board, brewed by Den, but it wasn't very liquid) it was agreed to head for a suitable hostelry. Sadly the complex grid system of San Francisco proved too much for the driver so we ended up in the Half Moon Bay Inn. We decided to snack,
"Oysters please?"
"Run out, sorry."
"Artichokes?"
"Yup."
They arrived, deep fried and breaded, ho hum.
"Pint of Great White,please?"
Sound of dry pump.
"Run out....sorry."
"Fat Tire?"
"Yup."
It arrived, dark and malty, ho hum.

We went home a(Hi! I'm back! Now let's see... don't tell me. Salt, hint of guano, diesel, thrice brewed coffee and the merest trace of... hmmm...Dramamine. Add to that the overlay of adrenaline, fish, pinnipeds and cetecea. No - haven't a clue. Where you been?)nd ate a highly civilised meal, before a comparitively early night, due to my early morning flight. I slept, the bed didn't move(IH).

U(Bye, missing you already!")p. Then up and away via Philly. I was talked to on the way back - she liked my accent.

America - Still there

I got up, today was back to town and a trip to Alcatraz, well why not. After br("Your left testicle weighs 13 grams, about average, and is slung marginally lower than your right, all quite normal. I had testicles once...I think")eakfast Margie took me back to Linda Mar and I caught the bus to the train. From Market I walked over the top of the hills via Powell. On the way I passed by the cable car museum, which is also the place where the cables get turned through 90 degrees, so that they run under the street, all quite fascinating, if you like big wheels. On the way out I met an exclusively Chinese school crossing the road, cute, in a monoracial sort of way. I stopped at Safeway to pick up some provisions before joining the queue for the ferry, on the other side I ate my lunch while the crowds moved off up the hill, the jalapeno and cheese bread being excruciatingly delicious. Hmm Alcatraz, what can I say, well it's ok if you like concrete, it used to be a prison, ten foot by six foot is quite small, there's a lot of wind, there's a good view of San Francisco, no one was ever executed there (they shipped them out to San Quentin)? The audio tour delivered such humanitarian goodies as, "There were rules saying that the windows in the doors of solitary confinement had to be left open, but we ignored that." No wonder Clint wanted to escape. To be fair it was quite interesting in a punitive sort of way.
From Alcatraz, back to the mainland, and an ancient tram back to Market, where I strolled down to the Caltrain station to venture out to Burlingame, where Paul was having a tonsorial makeover, we were due to meet in the Steelhead Brewery before heading off to try a new "mediterranean style" (aka Turkish) restaurant ( a digression: this is the only country where the humble and drunkenly delicious doner kebab, pretends to be Mexican, living [and some of them are, believe me] under the name of Gyros ). I arrived and went upstairs on the train - for the view. As we left the Attendant announced what we were on, where we were going, what we could do when we got there, and finally made a plea to keep cell phone calls to oneself, as not everyone else necessarily wanted to know what you obviously thought they should. The click of the mike button was immediately followed behind me with, "HI BOB! I'M CALLING YOU ON YOUR CELL!" Would Bob be surprised, would he do a double take as the thing in his hand spoke to him, or would he just roll his eyes and mutter such things as, "Fatuous oaf." under his breath. I know which I did.
The Bombay IPA was delicious but a little strong, the meal was passable, as was the topshelf Margarita, the journey back was through fog, no, it was.
Thursday, I got up mo("Why do you think I've got this bald patch on the top of my nose")oched about for a bit and then leapt into the car with Margie for a trip to Ano Nuevo. We parked and strolled through the park to the beach, the grass was speckled with the brilliant scarlet of Indian Paintbrush, the pond speckled with small waders ("Virginia Rail?" I thought) and the sea... the sea was speckled with something, sometimes a triangle of something, sometimes five somethings like a particularly irregular pentagon. A quick squint through the binoculars confirmed my diagnosis, yep, definitely blobs of some sort, actually incredibly cute furry blogs (unless you're a clam) - sea otters, eventually three. Much bouyed by their appearance we pointed them out to various passersby, whilst loaning out the bins to their offspring (loaning out bins to children usually means that various bits of sky leap suddenly into focus, closely followed by various bits of grass which leap out). Eventually we decided to be less smug and carried on down the path, merely spotting an osprey passing, carrying a fish about the same length as itself, presumably giving it a quick tour of a new environment.
Eventually we arrived back at the shore and were fielded by a docent who walked us towards a pile of somnolent flesh, these were Elephant seals, mainly juvenile males, having a moulting session.
How to moult as a post-puberty Elephant Seal (male):
1. Swim to the shore and caterpillar your way above the tideline, some of your skin will be abraded by pebbles.
2.Lie still.
3.If you can afford to spare the energy you may scratch.
4.Eye opening is optional.
5.Other seals may sometimes climb over you, abrading your skin.
6.You may have to turn over occasionally, this is a chore.
7.In about a month's time, girls will arrive and you may be motivated by strange urges, you need to suppress these, otherwise people three times your size will try and bite your head off, some of your skin will be abraded.

The docents took us to within 25 metres of these lardpiles. 25 metres because thats the distance when they run out of steam, 20 metres and you're acting as a lubricant ! Just offshore there was a female sealion, waiting for us to go so that she could come ashore to die, her tail had been taken off, probably by a Great White. I decided against a paddle.

We returned, with me being dropped at Safeway, to buy some goodies, Mexican drinking chcolate, some Jelly Belly beans, that sort of stuff. In the ("Jelly Belly my favourite!") bedroom I decided to sneak a few beans, Rocket decidedto sneak a few more when my mind wandered for a moment.

It was my turn to cook, I chopped, I ground, I marinaded, I caused catastrophic kitchen covering by adding the mustard seed to the oil when it was too hot, I've seen blast furnaces produce less spelter. The tikka was pronounced a success, as were the gin and tonics.

Friday, and I was being left in charge of the d("I smell fear")og I had to take him for a walk before bussing into town. I got the lead and Rocket got excited. ("Aha, the fear-fouled one is taking me, Rocket AKA the Terror of Terriers, Punisher of Poodles and the Lash of Lickspittle Labradors, walkies! Nice. Let's go!
Hey Bub less with the, "Heel!" stuff, I'm strutting!
What's that twenty five degrees to port, some sort of wrapper, check length of slack, nonchalantly walk past and DIVE!
Got it, hahaha!
No Lead Boy, it is mine, your weak fingers cannot pry this prize from my mighty jaws. There, it is gone.
Onward!
But Lo! Mine enemy and his two enfeebled owners! I roar, my rage is all consuming, tremble at my voi... Ouch! OK, keep your hair on.
Now keep an eye out for likely low lying shrub. There's some! Adopt the position, strain... such relief! Why, I smell adrenaline, and what's that keening noise? It's Lead Boy. Whassamatter? Ahh you want the prize of my leavings, like the others, you will wrap them in sacred wrappings and deposit them in the Vault.
The Castle now looms, the Terror of Lesser Canines returns to his Ancestral Seat.
C'mon give us some peanut butter.
Ta, I like you.")

I caught the bus, fretting that we would miss the connection as we were late, when we pulled into the terminus I dismounted, alone, my fellow passengers sitting firmly in their seats, the connection was nowhere to be seen and I began to curse. After a while I watched the driver of my previous bus change the number and become the connection, I cursed and handed over the new fare while failing to make eye contact with my erstwhile travel mates.

In Town I was looking for an outdoor shop, REI, I knew it was on Brannon near the centre of Town, I strolled down 7th and, at Brannon, peered in both directions, all I could see was the Fashion Center, I set off towards the Bay. Forty minutes later I had a great view of the Bay Bridge from underneath, I moved one block northwest onto Bryant on the grounds that it began with B, and walked back to 7th, pausing to investigate the yellow pages dangling in a booth, nope. Depressed I mooched back to Market, with a brief (very) diversion into the Tenderloin (so named because that's what you end up with). On Market I found a sports shop, "Do you have....?"

"Only in Winter"

"Any ideas?"

"Try REI."

"?"

"8th and Brannon."

There was some fulmination, as I limped out onto Brannon and turned left, the Fashion Center sign winked at me, the REI sign was set back from the road, I fulminated some more and then went to purchase. I had had enough, I returned, missed the bus connection by 10 seconds, got to Linda Mar an hour later and phoned (with trembling lip) for a lift.

In the evening we we("Hi nice to have you back, whatever it was I ate doesn't seem to have done me any harm. Your feet smell sore.)"nt to the Yacht Club(not for the glamour, just has the cheapest beer in town). At one point the Commodore, well, a man wearing a cap, came for a chat, and I was introduced as "the Brit". It was one of those occasions where the neurones fired a little late.

"Do I detect a trace of an accent?"

"Ohh umm ha ha ha!" when what I meant to say was, "God forbid!"

From the club to Mezza Luna and a competent Italian meal then home for an early night, as, come the dawn, we had to get on a boat and watch some whales.

America - Trees and Sh*t. Dedicated to Jerry.

It was Monday, I got up, showered, and got dressed before ("Ooh minty!") preparing breakfast in the middle of the breakfast bar where it was dogproof. I had summoned up courage and decided to go into town - on the bus and the train. Margie gave me a lift to Linda Mar, where I bravely caught the bus to Daly City, where I bravely caught the BART. In the City it was sunny but with a cool breeze blowing in from the sea, the top of the Golden Gate obscured by fog. "What a great burning combination!" I thought, remembering the suntan lotion lounging in my suitcase.
I hoiked out the guide and riffled through to find the "Downtown Walk", the book, Lets Go San Francisco, I had bought from the remainders box in a bookshop, as I now consulted it I discovered it to be, "The Budget Conscious Traveller's Guide" something I hadn't noticed before - honest, though it did explain the directions to walk everywhere. I started out, looking for the cartoon museum - moved, the fortune cookie shop in Chinatown - moved, Jack Kerouac's bookstore - moved, Lyle Tuttle's tattoo museum - a lot can happen in five years. The big bits of architecture fortunately proved immutable, I enjoyed the Yerba Buena Arts Centre initially for its post-breakfast-coffee rest rooms and later for the Martin Luther King Jr Memorial (the aqueous nature of which leads inevitably back to the restrooms). The memorial consists, finally, of a waterfall, representing the change in the Black Man's enfranchisement - drips to waterfalls. Sadly the memorial is made of granite so that the waterfall is never going to get noticeably bigger which, equally sadly, feels apposite.
On to Chinatown, moving rapidly through the main tourist section with it's OTT objet's d'art (I though ivory importation was illegal) and tat stores, full of fans, fireworks, buddhas and lucky kittys, to Chinatown proper and shops full of soon-to-be-unlucky frogs, soon-to-be-unlucky catfish, previously unlucky chickens and the like. I turned a corner - Italy. Hang on, turn back - China, go left - Italy, how strange.
Popped into the art school and checked out the Rivera at the San Francisco Art Institute, something that should remain there 'til the Big One.
After the sublime, the ridiculous, I arrived at Fisherman's Wharf, how shall I sum it up? Ooh, Rainforest Cafe, Hard Rock Cafe, T shirt shops that sort of thing. I gave up, caught an antique tram (not a cablecar) which wheezed up to Market and then did the reverse journey with an extra bus thrown in. During the wait for the transfer I went into the Linda Mar Safeway and experienced a strange deja vu, it was familiar but wrong, I eventually sorted it out, it was identical to Half Moon Bay but inverted, so that the pickles were where the bread should be and so on, how dare they non-standardise their stores, I mean if it was on the other side of the equator I could understand it!
I arrived back (You've been through Chinatown, and had a strange experience in Safeway), we had a quiet night in.

It was Tuesday, I rose and had bre (Your inside leg measurement is twenty nine inches) akfast then Margie took me to Purissima Creek Preserve, showed me a path and said, "See you in six hours."
Purissima Creek is a mixed Douglas Fir and Coastal Redwood forest, the Redwoods were logged out about 100 years ago when they were cut and then dynamited into convenient chunks to put on the railroad for Redwood City. Over the past 100 years, new growth of "Daughter Trees" has taken place, so that as you wander through the forest you become aware of tree boles about fifteen feet across sprouting (if one can use that on this scale) several five foot diameter, 150 feet tall siblings. The original forest must have been truly awe-inspiring, sadly the sort of awe that said, "Shee-it look at all that there wood. There's a powerful lot of planks to be sawed outta them thar trees.".
The path climbed up into the fog (yes fog) heading up for the North Ridge where there "are fantastic views over Half Moon Bay" today there was a view of the fog, however my disappointment was tempered by the sight of a Banana Slug (the world's second largest slug) followed by finding a lizard's tail on the path. Lizards shed their tails when being chased as a diversionary tactic or possibly a consolation prize, I found the tail but no lizard, so it looked like the tactic had failed this time. As I moved back into the woods the sun came out, actually I think I climbed above the fog, it was balmy, I slipped into my shorts, crossed the peak and started off down another trail. Not being the nervous type, stoic Brits and all that, I decided not to worry about Poison Ivy (probably cos I was on the West Coast), Poison Oak and Diamond Back Rattlers, consequently when a humming bird flew behind me at knee level I only yelped a small amount, rather than the full blown scream of lesser mortals.
The path contoured down and round the mountain, diving back into the trees. Naturally as I contoured down and round the mountain the fog receded before me, no doubt revealing fantastic views of Half Moon Bay, though it did allow me to see more trees. It was about this point that disaster struck,and the elastic on my underpants gave up (some of you may realise that this is a not uncommon experience for me, my pants being of a certain age), so it was that I continued with, perhaps, a more refreshing outlook on life. A mile before the finish I saw my first human, I think I ruined his day too.
I returned to the Gaterpad and (Your elastic's gone!) pottered in the garden before settling for a doze in the sun. Rocket also settled for a doze, finding the one strip of sunlight (there was a yardful to choose from) that was Rocket width and sunned his belly.
In the evening we went to The Half Moon Bay Brewhouse it being $2.50 Tuesday where we met up with Pat and Liz, a couple that I'd subjected to the Nixco Ye Olde Pubbe Tour (now booking) and their two children, Nathan and Grace. The kids went hyper on root beer and I went hypo on the IPA. Later we ate, I had the Baby Back Ribs, half a pig smothered with a trickle of cooling BarBQ sauce with cold garlic mash on the side, they seemed to be having an off day. However, I soldiered on, knowing full well that I had several hours of sleep in which to digest it and partake of the lurid dreams such digestion engendered. My favourite was where I told someone off to inject a little humility into their life (a Doctor - naturally), and then walked across the water to work.
Tomorrow, back to town and Alcatraz.

America - Being there.

NATURE
Rosy-fingered dawn had touched the sky, somewhere above the fog, I surfaced through a fog of my own and sought solace in the shower. When I emerged, swathed in a towel, Rocket came and gave me his greeting, in fact he gave me this greeting at every available opportunity. What was it with this animal, had he been a sniffer dog for testicular cancer, was he attempting to induce some sort of psychological trauma, or was my crotch the canine equivalent of Kleenex?
"For those annoying little sniffles - try NIXCROTCH! Nixcrotch is mansize and comes in a variety of smells and textures, try Earlyamnude and really wake up the neighbours! Yup, try Nixcrotch today - as recommended by Fido, Rocket, Rover and Patch." After that he came and ate my breakfast when I wasn't looking! I mooched about, admiring the way the hummingbirds ignored the feeder, and made a mental note to grub up the fuschia should I ever move to the States. Then we took Rocket, a round, surfeited, Rocket off to "camp", before heading back to Safeway for supplies. I love American supermarkets for two reasons, firstly the enormous range of stuff they have and (sort of) secondly the vast variety of crap they have, like completely fat- and cereal-free cereals.
In the afternoon I made myself useful, I built soup, a sandwich lunch, watered the plants and had a nap. Paul arrived fresh(?) from work, so we loaded the car and headed off along Highway One to Point Reyes. This means crossing the Golden Gate Bridge (tick) and then hanging a left at Marin City where Highway One turns into a road that Wales would be boast of, it twists, it dives and swoops, it dives its head in its armpit, I was proud of it. Brief stop at Bolinas Lagoon,
Passenger, " Cor look at all those, wonder what they are?"
Supposed Birders, "Pelicans!"
Passenger, "Nope I meant the 5000 other things, wheeling around the sky in those patterns so loved by chaos theory people, the groupings and partings forming shapes that Escher would have died for."
Supposed Birders, "?"
Passenger, "Those!" points.
SB's, "Oh!"
I don't think we found out, maybe terns.
Onward to our residence for the next two nights, An English Oak (I've linked it so that you can revel in its tweeness, I wouldn't recommend it) where we installed and tried the breakfast cookies before hightailing it to bar for steak and oysters and Lagunitas IPA (recommended - in medium doses, let's put it this way, on the way home, Paul slipped into the ditch, well I say ditch, Paul slipped into the gulch - about forty foot deep and two hundred and fifty feet wide, apparently he didn't see it, though he did stop after six feet or so, thanks to the large patch of brambles. A welcome import from the Old Country, as I pointed out as we inspected the damage, I thought his response somewhat terse). And so to bed.
Still digesting, I had the remains of my breakfast cookie and headed out to sip, slightly stale coffee while contemplating the Zen Garden, I knew it was a Zen Garden because it had a hand-painted sign, propped on a stone (not representing an island, unless it was a small one with a big sign on it) telling us that it was. It also had a Japanese Lantern and a Japanese Bird Table (?), it did have gravel though, sort of, have a look at the picture and you'll see.
Then off to the Port Reyes Station and the Earthquake Trail where we read all the boards and learned that the area was prone to earthquakes because of tectonic plates and the subduction zone where the Pacific Plate dives under the North American Plate, damn careless if you ask me. After that we zoomed up to Pierce Point, a backbone of rotting granite supported on what seems to be windblown sand and other sediments so that the severely cut gulches are marbled and fluted.Here we had a wander down the path while being serenaded by Bull Elks bugling to attract the girls with their somewhat wheezy prowess (they sound a bit like me with 'flu'). Bull Elk run harems, the older males coralling in the cows to make their own private mating herd. However, such are the ups and downs of the mating game that the whole thing tends to run like a student disco. At the edge of the herd you'll see the adolescent males, strutting their stuff along invisible boundaries, trying to attract the odd wayward cow, some of them lurk in the undergrowth with just their antlers visible. Occasionally a cow will wander from one harem, ignore the bull who's trying to chase her back, and end up in the harem next door, leaving the bull attempting to look like he doesn't care. Sometimes whole harems decamp and head off for the bull who obviously has a car and might buy you cocktails, leaving their previous boyfriend to stand dejectedly in the middle of the dancefloor, antlers scraping the ground, trying not to shed unbully tears. As we walked along the spine we were kept pace by Turkey Vultures who cruise looking for carrion, they found some this day in the guise of a dead sea-lion on the beach, however there were only three hardy souls in attendance - everyone else being, presumably, on a low sodium diet. Scattered along the paths, were Docents, unpaid experts who will tell you about stuff if you ask and will let you look through their telescope (very docent of them). It being a wildlife sort of day we agreed that the occasional dollop of non-elk crap on the path must be that of mountain lions, who live there taking advantage of an elk diet. We had a mercifully small lunch, watching the disco and doing the odd bit of birding, Paul won with a raptor of some sort (a black-shouldered kite, apparently), then wandered back to the car, avoiding stepping on the snake on the way.
A quick whizz down the road, then out for more nature at Abbot's Lagoon, where we used our combined birding skills to identify firstly Pied-billed Grebe, and then an immature Moorhen as the Virginia Rail that the docent had told us was there, before heading off to the coast, past hills reminiscent of the cellulite-dimpled buttocks of mature ladies (well, I could see it, the others struggled with the concept). The coast held a mixture of Pelicans and one Blue Heron (resembling a badly put together feather duster, I wonder if this is camouflage?
Natured out we high-tailed it to the Old Western Saloon, following in the footsteps of Charles and Camilla. The Great Western Saloon is a pub, pure and simple, well when I say pure - the carpet is a pub carpet, thick, stiff and redolent with sins and spills past, made more potent with the ban on smoking. We watched the barman chew his way through a series a bar snacks, only drawing the line at the Demon Dog, a sausage about the same thickness and colour of a firecracker and, we suspected, with the same kind of oral punch. However, it was the ingredients that put him off, the phrase "mechanically-recovered meat" and his suspicion that the Dog was only made from the extreme front and rear ends of the cow, I had a chaw of jerky, it's made of steak.
Back to the "cottage" for a shower, where I discovered my towels to have the same degree of freshness as the Old Western carpet, resulting in two showers and a dry on a spare handtowel, no mean feat some of you may think. Then back to Port Reyes and the Station Cafe, for salmon fishcakes (somewhat drowned in oriental herbs and spices) followed by seared baby backribs - baby here being more of a PIGLET than a piglet. I pigged out on a pig. The couple next to us troughed their way through two bowls of clams whose aphrodisiac qualities became more self-evident throughout dinner. The size of the dessert however, may have put paid to any of the more energetic, umm, roistering. We returned with a chicken breast about the size of one of the ones barely contained next door, and a half bottle of wine, which we drank.
DRIVING
After a breakfast of Costco peach yoghurt (the cheapest) and some coffee we hit the deli in Port Reyes and watched Margie rack up an impressive collection of expensive cheese followed by an impressive collection of expensive vegetables for me to buy, the twitch abated after thirty minutes or so. Then we offed to a breakfast of polenta cake in a layby/pullover overlooking the Tomales Bay (1 Heron - Blue, 3 Egrets- Great, several Cormorants - varied - in a panic). The polenta cake was fine. The off, over the hills to Bodega Bay where The Birds was filmed for a quick stop at the harbour (Pelican- Brown, Bittern - American, Lion - Sea) before heading on to Russian River (discovered by Russians) where we flicked from coastal heathland to Coastal Redwood. The road was in a bit of a state having had several "washouts" (I think these are landslides, I myself, have had several washouts but I think they involved women) so that the river was hidden behind large concrete barriers - and holiday homes.
We motored on - popping out of the forest and being drawn into some strange kind of gravity well centred round the Sonoma valley (reknowned for its wine-making apparently). And so it was that we turned up at the Iron Horse Winery, in fact at the tasting bench. Now I'm interested by the choice of Iron horse by My Hosts as the vineyard (that's what we call them in Europe) was much favoured by Ronald Reagan (who was not much favoured by MH) but perhaps they didn't do red then. Sadly the picnic area was shut, so that all we could do was taste the stuff, quel horreur! Wine was delivered at breakneck speed by a rather gushy girl whos delivery was not impeded one jot by her piercings - I decided to call her Mildred. The sauvignon blanc drew the most comment, who would have thought that the addition of 1 % viogner could turn this friuty refreshing, rather spritzy w....
So, no picnic spot, what to do, for me, quaff wine number 13 and slide back into the car for a trip to the next winery with a picnic spot, down the road. Anyway I think that's what we did, after being forced to taste theirs we sat outside for a very late lunch and a modicum of picnic rose, the cheeses lived up to their price. Then back in the car and a trawl through the rush hour back to Half Moon Bay, where we were met by Rocket ("99% sauvignon blanc and 1% viogner, interesting, I'll bet it took some of the zing out. And speaking of zing, I say those towels! What were you thinking?") in the usual manner. We had just enough energy to fling the steak on the broiler (or gas-powered barbecue) and eat it with some wine, before an early night.

America - Getting there

I flew from Gatwick. In the light of enhanced security (this was two weeks after the arrests for potential bombings - this time liquid, severely denting duty free sales, lucky I sold my BAA shares) I arrived three hours before takeoff, I was inside the Departure Lounge within an hour. Amazingly, the Great British Public had taken notice of the restrictions, and arrived with the bare minimum, gobsmacked I had a coffee to give me takeoff jitters.

Once upon a time I went flotilla sailing in Turkey. The nice lady (well an Irish flibbertigibbit) said,
"There's a bit of a problem with your boat, the mechanic's working on it now. Come with me and I'll buy you a beer."
So we sat, in the shade of a thatch umbrella. As time wore on and the sun went down, a host of fairy lights came on under the umbrellas - I'm sorry, all the umbrellas except one, this set the pattern for the week.

Aircraft gained, I sat in my seat, listening glumly to the announcement that we were waiting for the TSA to give us clearance - about ninety minutes, then we missed our slot - about thirty minutes. I had decided to read, and inserted a digit into the button marked with a bulb, I was not illuminated. I vigorously poked the button with various digits in case size was a deciding factor, my gaze roamed around the plane spotting small constellations of lights.
We took off, after some time, I foolishly allowed my eyes to roam again, everyone was glued to the seatback in front of them wherein the video lurked. I turned mine on, and got a rather nice collection of stripes, I tried the one next to mine (it was a quiet flight, something to do with getting blown up I think) - more stripes, different pattern. The LED display on the armrest read E9, I came to the conclusion that this meant "Error 9 -I'm totally f*cked". So I moved to another empty seat nearby and managed to watch one film at a slightly obscure angle, so that it became less of a film noir and more of a film chiaroscuro, with head-bobbing.
As we taxied into Charlotte NC I had the pleasure of watching my connecting flight take off. In the UK this would have been a disaster involving, taxis, trains, other airports, tears and tantrums, in the US you just get on the next plane. So it was that they let me into the country, failed to find my undeclared farinaceous comestibles, and took my luggage to put on the flight due to leave in 30 minutes. I got out my instructions for using the phonecard and prepared to phone my hostess. I dialed and got the message, "You are English and stupid, wait for the Operator, Limey!"
"Oh Bugger! Collect call please?" All that American tv watching was not in vain.
"Name?"
"Eh? Oh - Gater"
"I have a collect call from Jacob>"
"?!" x 2
"NICK!" I screamed.
"Oh hi Nick!"

We were an hour late taking off, we had one go but moved off the runway again to stop the next plane landing from using our arse-end as a novelty braking system. So we then had to wait for the top of the hour stack to move through. Inflight entertainment was Mission Impossible 3, we watched the first fifteen minutes of the silent version three times before the crew gave up. Everyone then produced laptops and got down to some serious work, well, actually, if you took a stroll around the plane you could see that they got on to some serious pinball and solitaire.

I arrived, amazingly, so did my luggage - and Paul. A quick zip through the fog and here I was, greeted at the door by Rocket, who did a quick check of my genitals (two, one on each side of the nose, his nose, he's a dog), and Margie, who didn't, well, not that I noticed.
I ate, I drank, I went to bed.

Austria 2

If my memory serves me correctly, I had arrived at the first hut and had been rudely assaulted in the middle of the night by an Austrian gentlemen who expected me to have unconscious control of my adenoids. I awoke, drenched myself in the, still cool, nuzzwasser, and, after a breakfast, set off for the Simony Hutte and then to cross the "Stone Roof" to the Adamek Hutte. Ha Ha Ha. The Simony hut was an hour and a half of steep, but I persevered, admired the glacier, filled up with drinking water, went to the toilet, just in case, and set off balancing on whalebacks of limestone. Here, I was now on the moon, there was very little vegetation, and what there was, was secreted down deep ankle-shattering cracks. At the first scree I met my first man travelling the other way, he was an elderly but spry sixty something, dressed in Loden Green, sporting a Tyroler hat and - an ice axe, "Hope he's going to the glacier." I thought.
After my new standby of, "Hello.I'm English and don't speak any German." in German, he raised one white eyebrow at me, plummetting me back to eleven, and said,
"How much water are you carrying?"
"Umm two litres."
"That should be enough. Gruss Gott."
"Umm yeah, oh Gruss Gott!"
And off he went a wandering along the mountain path, I, however, turned up the slope and continued my weary ascent, before going over the col and starting my painful (in all senses of the word) descent.
A diversion, the squeamish may care to skip this paragraph. Some of you will know that I have problems with my knees, other than the fact that they're too close to the ground. My left knee in particular now has a pocket containing a lump of floating cartilage, as I descend it slides gently in and out from under my patella, pressing on the joint capsule, and clicking back home. It makes me feel sick. Imagine my joy at the prospect of several long, excruciatingly long (I forgot after a long time it hurts, probably friction) downgrades (also in all senses of the word). There I feel sick now.
At the bottom I met a young man coming up, he looked - unhappy.
"I'm English and don't speak any German." I said, in German, in reply to his somewhat fractured question (he was on the way up, remember).
"How - far - Simony - Hut-?" I got the impression that while his English may have been up to the task of constructing the whole sentence, that his lung capacity and soul were not.
"Umm, two, two and a half hours?"
"NO!" scorn and disbelief.
I gestured, "'S'very steep."
"That way also!"
End of conversation, he left in high dudgeon.

I continued, forging my way over the next col where I met young man number two. He was just wet, sweat dripping of his face, and his face? His face was like thunder, he glowered, he scowled, his frown was so low that most of his forehead had disappeared, his body language said, "Talk and I will kill you!"
I wondered what had prompted these last two into such a truculent, and possibly in the case of the latter, murderous state?
I found out.

Over the next col I was faced with the "Stone Roof" that the Adamek Hut was so proud of. This was a couple of miles of karstic limestone (great grip but cuts you to ribbons when it trips you up by holding onto your boots a fraction of a second longer than you think it should), weathered into rolls, ridges and boulders, at points it was like walking over the backs of some of the more extravagant frilled-dinosaurs, there was also the odd twenty metre deep pothole to teeter by. The route (!) was marked with paint splashes and on the higher pinnacles large bullseyes had been painted, I discovered that these were starting points for when you lost the path amidst the jumble of stones. I'll not bother to tell you how I discovered this. It was early afternoon, so that the sun reflected off the white stone and slowly cooked me as I travailed, at times I came across rafts of fossil shells, all of which looked at me, and pointed out that I could have had a beach holiday. As I came over the top of the roof the water ran out so that it was a rather raisin-like Nick that rolled up at the hut.
"Hello. I'm English and only speak a tiny bit of German."
As you can tell I was buoyed by self-confidence at this point, though, I didn't point out that, that was the tiny bit (along with "A beer please?"). Still, my evening was rescued by some medical students from Gratz.
No-one woke me during the night, quite probably because I was failing to get to sleep in case someone woke me up. But when I opened my eyes, I did have a very good view of a magnificent teutonic moustache complete with nicotine staining, sadly this was failing to strain the nicotine laden breath behind it, perhaps that's why I stayed awake.
The morning, and matters scatological. The problem that most mountain huts, refuges, refugios and the like, have, is a lack of water, in Winter everything is frozen, and in Summer it's dry, consequently a lot have now adopted the earth closet. This is a large tube, usually industrial ventilation ducting, that plummets down through the building to a pit somewhere in the basement, at the top there is a hopper full of sand, well actually at the top there's a seat with a hole in it, just above and behind this, there is a hopper full of sand. Using one of these is like going back to childhood as, because of the width of the ducting (possibly something to do with Coriolis Force), the box that surmounts it is large, consequently one's (ok, my) knees stop before the edge of the box so that your (ok ,my) feet are floating some distance off the floor, and everything suddenly seems much bigger. There is also the notion that you are going to fall down the hole. You'll be pleased to know that they dig it out in Winter, when it's comparatively frozen and innocuous.
I set off across the moraine under the ever-decreasing glacier and arrived at a cliff (upward). In Italy and France, if the path is going to make you do something foolhardy, then it's marked on the map so that you can decide whether you want to die today - or not, in Austria, with characteristic Teutonic reserve, it's not. Consequently, in front of me were several bars of steel, that had been hammered into the cliff face, and, starting about halfway up, a steel cable for your fingers to rictus onto before having to mentally prise them off again. It was at this point that I regretted having my water permanently accessable, as I couldn't take off my pack and have a delaying rummage around in it, what I did instead was have a comprehensive swear at all things Alpine with special reference to Austria, and Austrian cartographers in particular. I started, I stopped, I started on the other foot, and adrenalined my way up, it was probably five metres. Once on the top and several metres away from the edge, just in case my boots decided to caterpillar their way back to it, or the cliff face fell off, I took stock, and decided it wasn't too bad. Ten metres further on, there was a plaque to someone who disagreed with me, five metres beyond that, there was another one! Thus psychologically enriched I teetered on over the dragon's back of the ridge.

Iceland

A boy is standing in a street, his back pressed to the wall of a shop: a sharp, cold breeze is running chill fingers through his sandy hair. It is Eddy Piron, and the Imp of the Perverse has just played him a nasty trick. After pinching, prodding, scratching, tickling, nipping his heels and whispering urgently in his six year old ear, the old devil has twitched off the shackles of restraint causing him to run, licketty-spit, down Laugavegur, Reykjavik High Street. Running from the Do's and Dont's, running from the Being Good, running from the Be Nice to Your Sisters: Sisters, those icebergs that appeared in the calm ocean of exclusivity that was, but never again will be, all his.
But the Imp, being perverse, has deserted him, run off to goad some other soul into misdemeanour. So here is Eddy, adrift, anchors slipped, moorings sundered, in a strange country. Soon the panic, at the moment a small restless beast, tickling somewhere at the back of his neck, will rise and grow, roaring, to tighten his chest and squeeze his eyes 'til the tears flow.
But wait, what's this?
The Captain hoves or perhaps heaves, into sight, his face set, frozen into a semblance of disapproval. He fields the mite errant and they shop. Eventually Eddy will ask about the glower and the tight lips and will be told about, "Running Away". After a lengthy review, during which he subdues Truculence, Rebellion and Bravado, (three trolls that turn all the moving parts of the male brain to stone), he will apologise. Now all he has to do is weather the consequences; the parental wrath, the naughty step and the awed, but nevertheless present, sororial gloat.

It all began on the second of January at Exeter Station, where I was to begin an abortive attempt to meet up with Paul and Margie, my 'phone went off causing the usual panic and hiatus, akin to discovering that that tickle on the leg is actually an ascending tarantula, it was Two Paths, "We're going to Iceland for half term do you want to come?"
So what did I think? "Jolly nice of you old chap, love to." or "Hello? Third adult required." Either way I acquiesed.
And so, after an interesting take off ("Need the potty Mummy!"* as the plane is on stand, and revving up the engines), I found myself getting off the plane at Keflavik having spent the flight flanked by Eddy and Ella, the woman in front turned and said, "You were marvellous!" Ahh if only different circumstances - at this point I had put "and a younger woman" but at my age, beggars and choosers and all that.
Pecuniarily speaking, the bus journey from the airport probably set the tone of Iceland, Salzburg airport into town £1, Dublin airport into town £4.50, Keflavik into town £19, children free (Thank God). The transfer bus did not go to our guest house, the Adam, so the children and mum were placed in a taxi. Cavilling at the idea of another taxi Two Paths and I set off for what turned out to be the five minute walk to the hotel. It's amazing what chaos can take place in five minutes. We found our host, Ragnar, glassy-eyed, staring at the seemingly endless scrum of children burning off the potential energy accumulated over several hours at 30,000 feet, by the simple process of dispelling it as noise, speed and door opening. I found my room and left... to unpack.

The evening was spent mastering the intricacies of the microwave and quick cook pasta, plus mastering the correct amount of tonic to put into export strength gin, not too much as tonic is really quite expensive in Iceland. I checked out my balcony, double-taked the gin and then went to see Two Paths,
"Um Jer, need your opinion."
"?"
"Just step out onto the old balcony what! Now whaddya think, over there!"
"Cor, I reckon you're right."
Through the sodium haze the Northern Lights shimmered just like cloud underlit by the motorway, though cloud doesn't drizzle at the bottom. Impressed, we retired.

* A diversion. My neice Imogen is about the same age as Maddy and has the typical sloppy pronounciation of the two year old, consequently things like stawberries ("Poofats") are "yed" in colour and bananas are "nan nan". Maddy however, unlike Imo, has two siblings and consequently sounds like she's been trained at RADA, Larry Olivier himself has never uttered, "I'm sorry Mummy!" with such clarity, though he may have said it with more of a tone of honesty.

Dawn failed to break till gone 8.30 something to do with being "Up North" and when it did break it revealed gusting wind and snow flurries, regardless we set off into town, and after 30 minutes or so the children went back to the guesthouse, while Two Paths and I discussed the relative merits of standing on the shoreline while a Mid-Atlantic gale is flinging handfuls of ice and bucketfuls of spume at you, we decided there were no relative merits, and so went back to join the rest, at least we had discovered the Supermarket.
Reykjavik is built on a grid pattern so any passage through the streets is either against or with the wind, or in calm, punctuated by blasts of ear-shredding cold, it was the ear-shredding cold that had decided Ella that she no longer wished to partake of the perambulation and announced so with a wail.

After lunch we went to the swimming baths, well I did, the others got lost and turned up later, the most interesting experience was sitting in the "Hot Pots" outside (my resemblence to a slice of potato is not up for discussion here) with a howling gale rattling the windbreak, and one's hair freezing in the sub-zero of the day, one of my fellow bathers said "Ragnarok!" so I told him I was English but that I agreed with him. About an hour later we emerged, chlorine-eyed, back on the streets, and headed back to heat up more pasta.

The next day was Bus Trip Day, we got up, we got on the bus, we tripped and got off the bus at an extinct volcano crater, it was full of ice, we got back on the bus and set off for Gulfoss - the Golden Fall. About halfway there, the dread shout of, "Is there a Doctor on the bus?" bounced among the seats causing everyone but the driver and the guide to examine their boots (the Captain found several bits of tufa in his). The guide merely extracted his mobile and the driver turned the bus round, both scarily professional acts, prompting the question of just how many ancient people come to Iceland? There was a Doctor, it was Gail (another scarily professional act) but it did occur to the Captain that this could be an "above the waist" (not Gail's speciality)problem so he lumbered in to offer his two pennorth, with the sort of excited tones usually reserved for small boys after too many sweets. The victim was a young man with the sort of alcoholic breath that said, "That must have cost a lot!" but that apart, he wasn't having a fun time. As he seemed to be having some sort of left arm problem the Captain was dispatched to find aspirin. Now, I don't want to over inflate the poor man's ego here but what better choice could there have been, applying his huge lexicographical expertise he managed to reject several offers of Tylenol (and such was the urgency resisted the temptation to explain why, and the difference between a headache and a heart attack) before returning with a "seen better days" aspirin tablet. He then went off to console the wife of the victim (who had, by this time, admitted to having had panic attacks before). They were duly discharged at a cottage (more of a chalet) hospital and the bus returned to the trip.
So they arrived at Gulfoss, the Golden Fall, a cross between Victoria and Niagara Falls (Viagra?) only on a smaller scale, the path to the fall was ice, the sides of the rift were ice, all the grass was ice, at this point the Captain must have lost his usual photographic aplomb ( a reluctance to take photo's on the grounds that film and developing costs money) as he started snapping away with the alacrity of a famished pirhana. Several frames and a skating trip back to the bus later, and they were off to Geysir - the place they're all named after. The Great Geysir itself goes off about three times every twenty four hours, but abjectly failed to do so (in fact it abjectly failed to do so for several years being choked with rubbish and [probably] soap, suffering from the geological equivalent of benign prostatic hyperplasia until a large earthquake managed to clear its, umm, "throat") however, its neighbour Skokkir, goes off every fourteen minutes or so. So, three young children, bloody great holes in the ground spitting out superheated steam, thin crusts on the edges of deep pools of near-boiling water - paradise! Eddie's time was taken with breaking off pieces of ice and hurling them into the nearest hot pond, at Skokkir the Captain and Two Paths were rewarded with a fifteen foot high burst of steam and boiling water.
"Cor! Eddie did you see that?"
"Yeah"
Notice "Yeah" lacks an exclamation mark, this is because it was said with the world-weary tones that only a six year old can manage when being addressed by those dullest of creatures, an adult, and probably an adult who has found something a lot less interesting to show you than some melting ice.
"He didn't." muttered Two Paths.
Skokkir blew again, this time causing Eddie to fall over backwards with a "Whoa!", there was much satisfaction in the Captain/Two Paths camp.
Home again for more pasta and some gin.

Blue Lagoon Day. Another stroll to the bus depot, and then a trip to Iceland's most unnatural tourist attraction. The Blue Lagoon is the effluent from one of the country's geothermal power stations, it contains a lot of suspended silica and is therefore a milky, semi-opaque, duck-egg blue, it's also very warm with the odd hotspot and a, very welcome, cold spot if you swarm over the ridge at the back. In March, a permanent fog rises off the water, perfect for a bit of clandestine skinny dipping out of sight of shore, though you would have to be doing a very efficient backstroke to upset someone such is the opacity of the water. It also has various spa bits scattered around including a shoulder-pummelling waterfall, steam room and sauna, plus free white clay to smear grittily over one's person (if you need it). And, it does a great magic trick; stand in the water and feel your toes sink into the ooze, hold your breath and reach through the white soup to grab a bit of the bottom (of the pool), what colour is it? Black naturally. The evening was as before, though with better skin, the second bottle of gin was opened.

Car Hire Day. The people-carrier expected turned out to be a saloon but, nothing ventured- we set off illegally for the National Park of Pingvellir, site of the first Parliament in the World. In those Norse days it only had one major feature, the Lawgiver's Rock, where the keeper of the law, a bloke with a good memory, would expound on cases ( though how you would tell if he wasn't making it up is anyone's guess), after Christianity there was the Hanging Rock, the Drowning Pool and other such delights, Gosh the wonders of civilisation.
Pingvellir is also where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge breaks surface so that it is possible to bestride a crack (like a mighty/short, fat colossus) where one foot is heading off to America and the other to Europe, a sort of geological version of failing to get out of the boat fast enough (ask me nicely and I'll tell you a tale about my Uncle Jim and my Auntie Reny). This caused Eddie great excitement, there was a lot of jumping between continents, though which was which became a little confused.
We went for a stroll, down the crack, back round to the lake and up a stair into the crack again, it rained - miserably. Eddie and I discovered the local wishing pond with large amounts of cash in it, so my recommendation is that if you want a serious night out in Iceland, pay a visit to Pingvellir with a wetsuit. Having said all that, it is a stunningly beautiful place.
We returned the car, and Jerry and I watched from the office, as the man from the hire firm, disappeared in a roar of exhaust smoke with Gail and the children, one phone call later and we were re-united, squashily.
It was eating out night, so eschewing the delights of rotted shark, stewed puffin, or scientific-evaluation minke whale, as well as any recommendation of the Captain, who had spent the last three nights trawling through the town peering at menus and memorising happy-hour prices (this should of course read, "relatively-happy-hour prices") we opted for the traditional Scandinavian dish of pizza. How shall I put this, the beer was the same price as the ice cream £6/$11.
Then back to packing and an early night, as the next day we bid a fond farwell (as they say in the travelogues) to that bleak land of fire and snow, Iceland.

Austria 1

A man is standing at a railway station, his grey hair has been tinted orange by the sodium glare of the station lights, his face is drawn, an unhealthy pallor still visible in the eldritch arc of the lamps, it is 4.15 in the morning and Nick (for it is he) has alighted from the night bus to get the redeye to Stansted airport. Being a Bank Holiday Weekend the neighbours downstairs naturally had a party, winding up at about 2.30 am, this, combined with pre-trip anxiety has left the poor chap feeling like the elbows of a favourite jumper, but no matter, he is here, the train has promised to go, he will get to the airport on time.

With almost no planning (for me) I had decided to go to Austria and venture into (and onto) the Dachstein Alp for a week, stopping in Mountain Huts (actually more like a fleapit hotel with dormitories), my luggage contained a borrowed map and guide book, the former being distinctly more useful than the latter, I had a carefully thought out strategy vis, “Entschuldigen, ich spreche keine Deutch, sprechen Sie Englisch, bitte?” and I had the times of the train to Hallstatt, a lakeside village at the bottom of the Alp. Furthermore I had joined the Alpine Club, entitling me to cheaper lodging and the chance of a calorie controlled (on the high side, normally) meal every night.

The plane took off, it landed, no-one died. Salzburg was wet but not as wet as the West of Austria which had succumbed to floods the week before. The train took me to Hallstatt station which was on the opposite shore of the lake to Hallstatt, and so I stood, surrounded by Japanese people having their photo’s taken with a passing dog, and standing in the way taking photo’s of the town across the lake, when I wanted to. I trundled my case through the village (pop 951) and arrived at my guest house where I had a little lie down before venturing into town and doing it, this didn’t take long, so I found a suitable hostelry on the lakeside and sat. A sign in the window advertised “Sturm” for 2.2 euro for the ¼ litre. “Ein Sturm bitte?” It arrived, it was delicious, it was lightly fermented grape juice and tasted like sherbet complete with the fizz, the French do it too but the name escapes me for the moment, and, actually, I think it was fermented “everything we’ve got left after the pressing” but hey, who cares, I had another by which time my café was shut and the non-pizza restaurant was open. I entered, was installed on a throne on a raised balcony and handed the English menu, I decide my accent needed work. I had potato soup and venison, washed down with a pint of homebrew beer (v.nice if not a little opaque), I almost fell asleep in the venison. I began my journey back and gradually became aware of my nether regions - there is much in this journal concerned with the scatological, for those of you with a sensitive disposition perhaps I will precede and end the offending paragraphs with the term SCAT, thus- SCAT – no bollocks to it caveat emptor and all that - became aware of my nether regions, those of you who know the Captain well, and, in fact, know the derivation of the moniker “Captain” well know that my capacity for output far exceeds my capacity for input, or so it seems, though there is something against this contained in most physics text books, suffice it to say that I always think that I have been cursed with a semi-colon. In fact, became aware of an increasing pressure in my nether regions, I picked up the pace, consulted a map board, and decided on the shortcut back to the Gasthof. Fifteen minutes later I became aware that the map board was not to scale and so turned to retrace my steps, slowing now and again as I was overtaken by waves of peristalsis and clenching everything possible, occasionally accompanied by various bubblings and gurglings, borborygmi for the medically minded. My entrance to the Gasthof was swift, nod of sweat-streaked, gritted-teeth head, up stairs, my catharsis swifter, my relief enormous. I went to bed 8.30 pm Austrian time, 7.30 British time.
The next day I paused for true Continental breakfast as opposed to the Continental breakfast you get in Britain and France, in fact, I’m sure this confection of miserliness should be called French Breakfast, and then packed my pack for the fourth time, being forced to jettison my book before heading off into the mountain. As I started a passing Teuton remarked, “Schoner tag.” I grunted and moved on eliciting looks of scorn, the translation came from my language centre about 4 hours later, he had been right it was a beautiful day.
After ten minutes I was forced to find a quiet backwater and change into my shorts, it was going to be hot, my two litres of water became remarkably less of a burden. The road ascended up the hanging valley of the Walbach pausing at the top to cross the stream via a bridge that was about 70 metres above it on one side and 90 on the other. Having a low parapet it was the sort of bridge that one kept moving over, having a little rest and a brisk reinforcing chat before returning to look at the view. It was the sort of bridge where you can feel your, previously stable, spectacles inching down your nose to throw themselves into the void, know that the buttons on the pocket containing your wallet are springing open and that your wallet is going to burst forth in a gravity-defying leap. The sort of bridge where, if you have them, your gold fillings screw themselves out of your molars, fall into the road and tantalisingly balance on the lip of the bridge ‘til you are within a handsbreadth of them, when they fall twinkling in a golden counterpoint to the rushing silver below. If this ever happens to you, do not scream in anguish, the rapid intake of breath across the now-exposed nerves has been known to poleaxe lesser men, and falling down on bridges with low parapets is to be avoided. But I digress, I continued up the stream on a forestry road before taking a path that cut all the corners off said road, and followed a minor diversion to the Walbach Urspring where the river suddenly appears out of the ground before going to commit suicide under the bridge.
After this the ascent proper began, so I stopped and fitted anti-blister patches to various bits of my feet, stuck a Swizzles lolly in me gob, and then got down to the serious business of going up. After a couple of hours I was overtaken by two boys of about ten and twelve and, ignominiously, by their grandfather, of about seventy three. Soon after the trees became dwarves and the high mountain began to show itself, bare limestone breaking through the rain-lush vegetation and the surroundings of the path littered with alpine flowers, cor, it was dead pretty!
I progressed and from the leaden state of my legs decided I would stop at the first hut instead of continuing to the second, and so it was that I came to the Weissburger Haus. I tried my German, and got, “a little” in reply. After a beer I staggered to the dorm and checked out the facilities, in the men’s washroom there was a large sign above the basin, “Nutzwasser” it said, “Oh well, when in Rome….” I emerged five minutes later, refreshed though decidedly non-competitive. As I contemplated my next beer, two other travellers emerged from the scrub, one wearing no trousers, with his shirt tucked through his underpants, he had clearly been nowhere near the Nutzwasser.
Evening and without a book I was forced to stare into space (or my beer glass) for some hours before going to bed. I was woken at 3.00 in the morning by Herr Underpants vigorously shaking my thigh, it was rather like being set upon by a randy alsatian.
“Was I snoring?”
“Yes. Sleep on your side please!”My German wasn’t up to questioning the logic of this order let alone explain the difference between the conscious and unconscious mind, consequently I lay awake until 5.00 trying to sleep on my side.

A misadventure

There is an unwritten rule of offroad cycling (see Nixco for written rules) which states that the cyclist should never look at something he wishes to avoid, consequently I hit the pea gravel at speed and sideways, leaving various bits of my epidermis all over it, and severely banging my ribs on the handlebars. The previous time that I came off was on the other bike where I discovered that if one lets one's foot dangle on the dismount, to the same extent as one does from the bike with the bigger frame, one's foot is trying to dangle half an inch undergound, thus speeding the dismount.
The bloke behind me stopped and summed up the situation thus, "I know you're embarrassed but are you all right?".
I dripped from the gouges in my hand and the sandpapering of my left leg, "Think so."
"Gravel rash that'll hurt tomorrow. I've got nothing to offer you but my sympathy."
His sympathy extended to offering up the gravel rash statement five times, I thought he was a bit of a dolt, it hurt like blazes now.
His parting shot, "Which hand is it?"
"Both"
"No wanking for you tonight then!"
How he knew I lived by myself, let alone masturbated, is a mystery to me.

A Blurred Weekend in Somerset

A man is standing outside a station in the early evening sunlight, a slight breeze ruffles his cropped, now salt and pepper, hair, behind him thunderheads are building up over London. It is Richard the Quiet and he is waiting for Leadfoot; somewhere in the station behind him is the Captain living up to his name with a routine catharsis. They meet up and study the clouds, only to be interrupted by a rude shout from behind - Leadfoot has arrived.
This weekend Leadfoot has arranged to take a group of Amersham people to the Mendips for some caving and walking, himself, the Captain and, theoretically, Two Paths are to lead the intrepid band of virgins. The Footmobile II barrells west filled with the scurrilous details of Leadfoot's past for the benefit of Anona (a girl) even The Quiet feels impelled to speak. They arrive and meet up with various others in the New Inn, then Quiet and the Captain leave to put up the tent, they return to find Two Paths and the Acquirer. At the end of the evening the caving party arrange to meet at 11.00 on the green and Two Paths and the Acquirer arrange to meet between 10.30 and 12.00 on the green, at this point the Captain must have lost his presence of mind as he neglected to relieve Two Paths of all the gear required.
At 5.00 am a strange noise hovers over the tent for 5 minutes, at 6.00 it returns, Leadfoot sleeps through it and the next morning the Quiet and the Captain decide to ascribe it to an UFO as they can't think of anything else it could have been (apart from a slow microlight but thats far to dull, anyway Glastonbury is just down the road and everyone knows that was built by Saucerfolk [ an advanced class of the Beaker People]).
It is foggy, they go to Wells to hire their lights and buy some Mars bars for the novices, they then go for breakfast, as they walk into the cafe the jolly lady behind the counter says, "Oh are those for us?" "Ha Ha!" they reply dutifully little knowing the powers of prophecy bestowed upon these people by frequent contact with aliens. The Captain goes to get Leadfoot some money out as he finishes his tea (4838 for those that are interested). In the car on the way back to Priddy he notices a lack of something, there is much spluttering, "I was paying." "I was in the toilet"; back at the site he buys another 10 Mars bars.
They change and then stand around in the hot sun waiting for Two Paths, the Captain and Leadfoot self baste gently in their wetsuits. There is some discussion on the cave and the Captain announces that he thinks there will not be much water in it as Wells was dry, looking round the assemblage of anoraks, track suits, and sweatshirts he hopes this is true, they are indeed a motley crew. One of Two Paths party arrives, (Yes you guessed it, the presence of the Acquirer now means that he is doing "something else"), Two Paths doesn't. She leaves, he arrives, upon being asked what they have been doing he casts his eyes around to check safety and then growls, "Pissing around in Wells!", the Captain nods sagely, adjusts the belts of all the girls present, reads the guidebook, asks Two Paths, reads the guidebook and sets off over the fields to the cave entrance.
The stream can be heard hurling itself down the pot from 20 feet away, the Captain turns to address the cohort shouting above the throaty roar of descending water and then leads the way into the water park that is Swildon's Hole. The first bit of descent is met with screams as buttocks and breast encounter the stream way. They look for the Dryway but fail to spot it by two feet and slip down into the Wetway instead, there is more squeaking, especially at an awkward descent, where the Captain is forced to make a grab at everyone's chest (everyone's) to stop them going down a rift. Here there is a moment of mutiny as Rob refuses to sit down in the stream to slide, but eventually descends. It is at this point that DISASTER strikes, as he points the way down to the stream, the Captain's spectacles slide gracefully off the end of his nose, skillfully evade his outstretched fingers and dive into the torrent, there is much groping but they are destined to become an archaeological artifact; they continue, fuzzily.
The Captain is pleased at the grip that Leadfoot's trainers offer, he would have liked to be wearing his wellies but they are somewhat akin to Mars bars i.e. not easily remembered, though Leadfoot had considered taking them for Anona but decided against it on grounds of size. The Showerbath is a bit torrential promoting more squeaks and cooling people down. They decide to move on to the next fall and then return, the next fall is the Pitch and is covered with people, the cold is against them so they return Passing Two Path's party who join the queue for descent. The Captain ascends the Showerbath first and stems the flow with what later become known as his Golden Cheeks to allow the party to ascend one by one in comparative dryness. They return up the Dryway losing it only once and emerge into bright sunlight, everyone has enjoyed themselves, on being asked if they would do it again there is a majority yes reply, Leadfoot and the Captain look glum.
Then a walk, or mass trespass as it is better known, first to Deer Leap for the hazy view, then down the hill to Ebbor Gorge, sending up an adder which causes great excitement amongst the Irish contingent. Banks of primroses and violets are everywhere, it is Spring; on the random route back, Rob decides to demolish a wall and severely chastise some barbed wire with his fingers, the Captain reminds him it is Spring and suggests an anti-tetanus jab.
The pub, the Acquirer drinks a bottle of red wine, a gin and tonic, Sinead and Maureen's lager she tries to persuade Two Paths to go caving, fortunately he declines. Sunday a disparate group meet and faff, they faff a bit more and then go in convoy to Cheddar where they faff. Eventually they climb up a 'path' that has notices at the bottom that say "Do not climb here." and at the top have notices that say "Do not descend here", after Gary kicks off the first avalanche the party rapidly splits into two (actually three) The top party descend to Cheddar, the bottom party sit in the sun and read papers, the othr party (Rob) ascends to the top but turns uphill to the head of the gorge, he is eventually found. Faff. A trip throught the countryside to a lunch pub. Faff. Slit and decamp. Meet in Wells where Leadfoot sufffers the indignities of the tea ladies as he recovers the Mars Bars. Tea and then home to Anonas followed by a curry of average quality in (apparently) the wrong restaurant. Home to the Footpad.