Famille en Fete

MONDAY

A man is not sitting on a train, the British countryside is not flashing past his bright clear vision, his salt-and-pepper hair is not being gently ruffled by the breeze from the air-conditioning, instead, his usual calm persona is being run roughshod over by the scrum in the P&O office. Yes, he is supposed to be travelling through France on Eurostar but apparently the normal winter weather in Northern France is proving tricky, i.e. it has snowed near the coast and nothing works. P&O have been incapable of predicting that there might be a lot of people trying to use the ferry, and also incapable of keeping an electricity supply to their computers.

Nick (for it is he), decides that it is a toss-up between a heart attack and an ulcer, it is a close run thing, the coronary might get him out of the mayhem, but no nearer his destination (not that he’s going to get there) but the ulcer will fuel his ire, plus he has the chance to puke copious amounts of blood over the wastrels (multinational) who have pushed in front of him, potentially gaining him a place or two in the queue.
Eventually he arrives at the front, “Can I have a ticket to….”
“I’m sorry Sir (my capital) this is the reservations queue, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
I appeal to his common sense, perhaps he can see my sanguinary gorge rising, for (at my suggestion) he gets the bloke next door to sell me a ticket. An hour and a half later the ferry leaves and snails its way across the Channel, all hope of any sort of movement South has gone. Brother Steve books me into an hotel in Calais (when I say books, that means he makes a reservation in my name), and I sit with my fellow refugees on the boat, waiting for a coach, after Customs I will stand in the cold with my fellow refugees, waiting for a coach.

We arrive at Calais station, I stand in a queue in order to see if I can change my tickets for the next day. A miracle I have success! I also try and pick up my tickets for return, this is a bone of contention between Rail Europe and myself, I maintain that their information does not say what they say it says, they say it does. I put in the relevant details into the machine, it just stares monoptically back at me and sticks out a verbal tongue, "No record of any transactions under this name, this reference number, this bit of plastic, anyone with your stress levels, or phenotype, now bugger off and bother one of the TEN machines!" Oh good!

Now all I have to do is find my hotel. I ask Dominique for Boulevard Jaquard, she is unsure but after consultation points me down the main drag, I discover that this is, in fact, Blvd Jaquard and that the big red “Hotel” sign that I’m standing underneath is my hotel. After an incomprehensible chat about breakfast, and five fruitless minutes of cursing as my card fails to open the wrong door (305 instead of 503 – I was fraught ok) I wander round town to look for dinner, my legacy dividend cheques are burning a hole in my pocket (actually they contribute a mild warm feeling, like a slow dance with a girl when you’re eighteen), so I plump for a restaurant boasting a 15 Euro menu, which disappears on the interior one. I come over all English, don’t ask and go a la carte, which was very nice (skate wing in black butter). In a fit of largesse (and a faulty menu memory) I opt to finish with a calvados, when the bill comes, I realise I could have bought a bottle from Tesco for the same amount. BUT, this is the first time in 24 hours that my adrenal glands have stopped squirting, in the meantime they have left my cardiovascular system in tatters, and by now probably look like the moustaches of old men draped over my kidneys rather than the plump beans they’re supposed to look like. Relative calm descends and I head back to the hotel, skidding over the rapidly freezing slush.

One dubbed Sci-Fi film later (I read the story in about 1970, A Sound of Thunder, if you’re interested) and night closes over me like it does over people who haven’t slept for the last forty hours, and are in the transcendental state where they have forgotten to be sensible about spending (Ladies, this doesn’t last, watch out for it and take advantage while it you can), I was going to say “like an iron fist in a velvet glove” but sadly this isn’t the case, surplus adrenalin still roves my body like a fox in the reeds, flushing small ducks of panic, and bringing my consciousness soaring realityward, it is a pain in the arse!,

TUESDAY

Traffic starts at 5.00, I listen to a stream of vehicles steadily crunch their way through the frozen slush, little bursts of adrenalin still ravage my body, lending my drowsy dreams a lurid colour scheme. I risk the petit dejeuner, which was fine except for the cafe execrable (it didn’t actually say that on the button but it should, I opted for Fruits of the Forest tea instead – demi-execrable), and then ventured into town, well, I wandered around Carrefour looking for treacle (suffice it to say I did not want another Purple Sprouting debacle). Thence to the station for a quick diddley-dum to Lille, where I mooched around Carrefour looking for treacle, I did find golden syrup in the World Foods section but that isn’t treacle where I come from, O Crikey, I hope it isn’t!

A slightly better cup of coffee in the station Irish Pub, and then on to the train, where I discovered that I’d been upgraded to First but sadly in the downstairs bit. One of the ways I could tell it was First is that there was no room for any luggage, I presume these people commute from house to house and wardrobe to wardrobe. I pulled out the laptop and set it up, to look seasoned-traveller savvy, I didn’t want these people to think I was the sort of person who’d spent the entire previous day cursing, instead I typed, uttering the occasional, “Oh ha ha. Jolly good.” and doing pensive chin-stroking, then I reverted to puerality and went and checked out the First Class toilet and the view from upstairs (better, bastards!), that is after I’d discovered the reclining seat button (this took up a good five minutes and distinctly reduced my S-T cred.

The North French countryside speeding past the window is dull at the best of times, the patina of snow moves it into the mind-numbingly boring. Eventually I arrive at Sete, and am met by Tessa and two excited princesses, who whisk me away through the Christmas lights to Rue d'Auvergne, Tuscan Bean soup and red wine. I sleep well.

WEDNESDAY

I emerge for a breakfast and embark on what I suspect is the start of a week-long cholesterol fest. Then we, "the boys" are dispatched into town to do the market, every time I draw breath to speak, people start to talk to me in English, I begin to suspect that my neice, or even my brother, has perhaps tattooed me with a Union Jack during my unconsciousness. We return for lunch and are then dispatched to the hypermarche for an ubershop. Shopped out we succumb to pizza followed by cheese, a chat in the bath with the neices and a couple of choice readings par l'Oncle Nick.

In bed I decide to pad out the reportage of the day, hence: The house has changed since my last visit, so that the guest bedroom has changed ends of the building, it has an en-suite shower and basin and an adjacent toilet. Now I say en-suite, there is a room off the bedroom that does indeed feature a shower and basin, it also features a large window that opens onto the kitchen (very handy for instance when you're shaving and are asked how many slices of toast do you want, unable to verbally reply one can merely open the window and hold up the requisite amount of fingers, though, in reverse, kitchen users may feel an unsolicited desire for sausages, or in my case salami).

The bathroom door is also noticeably shorter than its counterpart leaving one with the distinct feeling of going down into the bathroom, contrast this with the toilet which, though adjacent, is under the stairs, I can foresee unpleasant incidents involving the quaffing of an excessive amount of wine, and a drunken attempt the keep the ceiling parallel to the top of one's head. I'll let you know after tomorrow.

Finally, the bathroom features some squirty handsoap, a transient phenomenon I realise but still worth mentioning. The soap is vanilla-flavoured but is also yellow, so every time you use it you have the strange sensation of squirting some Birds Custard onto your outstretched palms, I feel like turning to the left, opening the window and appealing for some rhubarb crumble.

THURSDAY 24th December -MY BIRTHDAY.

The dawn chorus appears to consist of a selection of small girls singing "Happy Birthday", realising that it is mine, the birthday not the selection, I join in. After that I am inviegled through various orifices (see above) to "Hurry up!". At breakfast, after I have donned a pair of antlers (though this sits uncomfortably with the concept of a horned man) there are presents, all edible, I count the number of marzipan fruits and, while tempering my face into an amiable rictus, gloomily survey the number round the table, I resolve that my brother will receive the banana one.

After a few more renditions of HB, Steve goes into town to pick up a prescription and most of a chocolate shop (I remember this, and perk up, fruitwise, there may be a trade off) and the rest of us head off to listen to rival brass bands (Santas vs Santa's Elves) and chat to school friends, after this we have some exertion in the playground before returning for lunch and Tessa's first piece-de-resistance of the day (versatile huh?) a version of my favourite chocolate cake, made from Great Aunt May's recipe, which features no instructions. For a first attempt it is a masterpiece, though I expect better in the years to come....if I'm allowed to live that long.
In the afternoon, after some playing, Tessa and I sneak out for a stroll along the sea-front to admire the biggest sea I've ever seen in the Med. There are sneaky blow holes that go off when you least expect them, and interesting explosions of spray. When we round the bend we indulge ourselves by rescuing a kite surfer.
How to rescue a kite surfer:
1. Watch them get into difficulty when they lose their board.
2. Point helpfully at the board as it wilfully avoids contact with its master (point from two angles to allow cross bearings.
3. Keep pointing as the kite surfer gets dragged to another bit of beach by his kite, and another surfer comes up to find out what you're pointing at .
4. Indicate to finder surfer when an enormous wave is about to crush him against the breakwater, there are two ways to do this, one is to point dramatically behind them, the other is to skip backward at high speed, the latter, with its sense of purpose is probably more effective - and drier.
5.Retrieve board from battered surfer and reply to comment/interrogation with non-commital non-verbal Gallic sign-language.
6.Return board to effusive dragee.
7.Become bathed in self-glorification, ignoring the fact that you only pointed.
8.Return to Family Home for a levelling bout of disinterest from dry, occupying family members.
After more playing we were forced to eat again, another P-d-R of sushi and some more cake. The day is rounded off with a rendition (en francais par le Birthday Boy [le garcon anniversaire doesn't alliterate]) of Barbie le Mousquetaire, and a film for the adults. I have to confess that I made a bit of a cods by getting "Enchanted" and the "Princess Diaries" confused, still isn't Ann Hathaway lovely (and doesn't she have an enormous gob?).

Finally, we helped Santa drink his drink and eat his biscuit, and I went to bed, listening to the traditional Christmas sounds of my Brother wrapping his presents at the last minute, until he starts to read one of the books that he's bought.

FRIDAY - CHRISTMAS DAY

Such has been the excitement of the previous day, that the Princesses don't rise before the dawn. Christmas Day is a well-regimented affair. Presents are viewed before breakfast, a single present is allowed to be opened after breakfast, lunch is taken and followed by an orgy of ripped paper, after which there is playing before supper. After supper all those under the age of twenty go to bed, and those over, go to seed over chocolate, liquorice and a selection of books.

I stare at the mound of presents under the tree, thinking that Christmas is a time for children - the lucky bastards! After breakfast, and some sliding on the slide that seems to have fallen off Santa's sleigh into the back garden, Steve and I head off to the Patisserie/Boulangerie for some bread, I festively sport my dishevelled deely-boppers as I can no longer find my birthday antlers. On our return we meet a Tennis Player (as explained in previous posts they know a lot of Tennis Players) who has a chat with Steve peppered with a few asides to me, my translational lag means that the conversation becomes disjointed, and the TP's gaze keeps wandering back to my boppers, I begin to suspect that for him they have moved from the realms of British frivolity to the slightly marshier grounds of British Care in the Community.

We return and a family present is opened, it is a briefcase-sized table tennis table, this will partially occupy us as Tessa retreats to the kitchen armed with a timer and no-nonsense attitude. Vegetables roast perfectly, on pain of death, on the strength of this (and other miracles of will - for details send an SAE to me marked "Steve") I intend to take Tessa to Hastings on a rising tide, and dependant on the outcome make a bid for the Danish throne.

Dinner is, of course, immaculate, even the bit of animal has been cooked to perfection (by the vegetarian). As the table is cleared tension mounts, soon there will be presents. Even I get some, a selection of liquorice and some truffles. As the whiff of paper-rending adrenaline subsides, Steve and I are dispatched for a post-prandial walk in the afternoon sunshine (cf Thursday), I offer a truffle, the cocoa hit is overwhelming, like being banged over the head with an expresso machine, small objects (like atoms) stand out in sharp relief, the slightly cool air tornados in and out, neurons die of ecstasy.

Later we will eat more, starting with oysters and finishing with mercifully milky chocolate.

SATURDAY - BOXING DAY

After breakfast I went and got the bread, honing my one sentence of French and reprising it by substituting "bread" for "beer". I then went and got exposure with the children at the tennis club, before returning for lunch of a cold collation.

After lunch I began to fret about my non-existent return ticket and so Steve and I went off to the Station. First we tried the self-service machine, "Oh hello Mr Hayes, here's your ticket!" We came back from the station and ate - Chinese. You see this is how JK manages to make Potter so thick, I say Chinese, she bangs on for five pages and may even drop in a fart joke (Expelliarmus Fortissimo).

Then we did some playing and had a bath and watched another of my choices (The Life Aquatic) (with chocolate) and went to bed.

SUNDAY

Walk Day, we had trawled through the walk book and re-elected to go back near Salagou (where we went earlier in the year) in fact to a village called Liausson, where we were to traverse le petit montagne. The sun was out, God wasn't in his heaven (the atheist view) and all was temporarily right with the world. Off we went along a driveway before ascending up what was probably the donkey track between Liausson and Mouzeres. It became clear as we progressed that my brother made a significant contribution to global warming. When the track swung through 180 degrees he allowed me to move in front, still downwind, such generosity of spirit, fifty six years later and it's still my fault for being born.

We ascended until the trees thinned out, and the view crept in, eventually reaching a small col, where we turned left (East) along the spine while the trees thinned and the view over Mouzeres and its garden of dolomite pillars appeared. The path became slightly more scrambly until we popped out on the top (when I say "popped out", I mean that a thin streamer of methane was wafted towards Savoie). We declared it lunchtime and sat to eat our frugal repast of, bread, saucisson, clementine and liquorice.

After lunch we moved on through scrub oak and the odd juniper, meeting lots of people coming the other way, and began our descent until we came to the Grotte de Liausson, a small hole. I investigated using the flashlight feature of my phone and found a hole that went about 5 metres with a possible (very) tight extension, and a few formations (mainly caught up in a boulder choke at the entrance). Grotted out we continued down into a change of rock and forest, before re-emerging at the village, it was declared a good walk.

So taken with the countryside were we, that we decided on the scenic route back, it was very scenic, bits of the GPS kept disappearing and swinging back into view from another direction, it was very exciting. Then we turned off onto a single track road littered with hunters, presumably after boar (of whom. there was a lot of evidence on the top). Fortunately the hunt had just finished so les chasseurs were still struggling into their vans rather than driving home after, I'm of the opinion that it's the French who put the "party" into hunting party.

At this point we had a 'phone call to ask where we were. Upon being told that we had decided upon the scenic route, our veracity was called into question so it was with some dudgeon that we came down to the coastal plain along roads lined with plane trees, and watched Agde and Sete disappear below the horizon before skedaddling down the motorway to make Sete reappear again.

Evening, a chick pea and aubergine curry to remind me of other stuff I forgot to bring, followed by a lengthy read to try and finish Glen David Gold (or Mr Sebold as I like to call him) 's second novel.

MONDAY

Tessa goes off to play tennis leaving me to play the "shopping game" with the children (a pictorial and exploitative version of Lotto). The first game is fine but all Hell breaks loose during the second as both children vie, first by volume, and then by lachrymation, for the card bearing the (apparently) Fabled Cake of Atlantis, guaranteed to give its owner the power of flight, a chat line to several deities, omnipotence and access to the Haribo factory. After a long session of trying to be reasonable - a dismal failure, appeals to logic - what that, an explanation of equanimity - see both of the above, I depart to one end of the room with a ball and the Mooshter, and Steve supervises some drawing with Imo.

Tessa returns, slightly miffed at allowing her opponent a couple of games (she is now known as L'Anglaise - it is used as a curse), and a small lunch is declared.
After lunch we go swimming, well, sort of swimming. We head off to the pool in time to catch the wave-machine, yes, that sort of swimming. As the pool fills up with children I am disappointed to discover that this means the flume is turned off, apparently the Lifeguards attention is turned towards the child-destroying swell. In fact it’s most unpleasant in the shallows, where the chop rolls in and pushes you up the slope past the two year olds. The wave-machine stops, and I head off for the flume, my first big one (I go to pools to swim, they’re not there for leisure y’know, they’re there to teach life skills, like suffering), it is shallow and populated by people fifty years younger than me. The family in front are too busy chatting to notice that the previous user is now down and standing dripping in the queue behind them. They ignore my “Pas de personne!” avec gesture, and appeal to the Lifeguards for an adjudication, this, of course, is reliant on the lifeguards being in the same psychological arena as everyone else, sadly they have been diverted by each other, and so we now stand around waiting for several more minutes for the Tobogganer Phantome. However, I eventually get my go, a wind up on the crossbar and a quick schusse down the sluice with suitable graceful entry into the pool. What, no applause! I eventually take Imo down, it is embarrassing, we don’t move until the last few feet, and then I forget that I should stand up, so that we both disappear in the plunge pool, though to be fair I am supporting Imo two feet above my head, sadly, I’m lying in four feet of water. Apparently the Lifeguard notices an absence of bodily presence on the surface and is nearly moved to action, probably a shrug and hand-wave.

After waiting for Steve’s towel in the Jacuzzi (a slight misunderstanding) I notice the water is brown, we quit the Jacuzzi and spend a long time under the showers. Then, pausing for bread, a quick shop for Tartiflette goodies, and we return to cook said Tartiflette plus sauté potatoes for Tessa. The concensus is that we should have added the rest of the Reblochon ten minutes before the end, still, we can have another go. I then set off on a marathon read in order to finish the book, I succeed at 11.00 pm and retire to bed to explore the next one.

TUESDAY

I arise and expose myself to shower roulette for the last time, after breakfast I mosey upstairs to harmony, Imo is writing and illustrating a story, the Mooshter is playing the shopping game, strangely the card featuring “Cake” is missing. We then troop off to the Tennis Club to watch Steve battling one of the Coaches, the sun is low in the sky, that’ll be it. The Clubhouse is full of bonhomie but ere long I have to depart.

A quick go at stopping Mooshie falling off the slide (Mooshie’s fleece trousers are the business as far as sliding goes, she keeps ending up halfway across the catchmat, cushioned by her nappy), then I get in the car and catch the train, now all I have to worry about is whether my flat has been flooded, or whether the freezer has defrosted to the point of putrefaction, that is – after Paris.

Devon Coast to Coast - The Knee Trembler

A man is standing on a train, he is staring at the floor, more particularly he is staring at his cycling mitts on the floor, he is convinced they used to be on his seat. He takes one pace forward and spots the example of Exeter youth that has ejected his mitts so that he can use his mobile more easily. After ejection Nick (for it is he) regains his seat and gloves, and contemplates the countryside whizzing pas..., whizz..., the grass at the edge of the track comes into sharp relief as the train stops.
Nick, being observant, part of his profession, notices the herd of bullocks thundering across the field to observe, and comment lustily upon, the train. He thinks, "Cow on the line, hope we haven't hit it!" the latter part of the thought being for the benefit of himself and the fellow passengers, as opposed to the cow. The train edges forward passed a bemused bullock that seems to have forced the hedge.
Outside Castle Cary we come to a shuddering halt again, the bovine bush telegraph has been in operation, our train has been deemed of significant interest for cows, this time a whole herd has decamped onto the line to admire the livery. The driver is unable to warn his fellow drivers as his emergency radio has broken down, necessitating the train being taken out of service at the next station. Nick fulminates but then a glimmer of light, two engineers on the train have managed to fix the radio.
"Dear Passengers, the following trains have been held at Exeter for those of you travelling to X, Y and Z, passengers for Barnstaple, there's no way we can hold the train for thirteen minutes." Nick fulminates.

So it was that I ended up in Barnstaple an hour later than I had meant to be there, I had decided to do the Devon Coast to Coast, a cycle route of 100 and something miles running from Ilfracombe in the north to Plymouth in the south, the majority of it off-road on disused railways, Barnstaple being the closest railway station. From there I had to cycle 14 miles north to Ilfracombe and then back to Barnstaple on the railway track down the Taw estuary. I had elected to go via Guineaford, a route recommended on the internet.

Barnstaple has obviously subscribed to the same Transport Policy as Harlow, there are signs for the A39 (a road) and signs for the A361 west (another road), there are no signs for anything/anywhere else. After an hour, and several enquiries (revealing a paucity of folk who have diverted from the A39 or A361) I found a roadsign for Guineaford, the first roadsign, the first roadsign that was 1.5 miles from Barnstaple, I was now another hour late, and was getting worried about getting back before dark.

The author of the internet piece had alluded to "a few climbs", one patellic explosion later and I was cursing both him and the inability of my bike to drop swiftly into the ultra-low granny gears. I appeared to summit but this was difficult to gauge as the cloud had dropped heavily onto the top of the down and the lenses of my spectacles. The descents would have been cold but for the heat generated by my brakepads. Finally I arrive at a crossroads, and am immediately abandoned by any useful roadsigns, at this point I made my first correct decision of the day and screamed down the road entitled "Harbour P" before screeching to a halt at the Tourist Information to ask where the Tarka Trail was. They pointed back up the hill, so it was with a heavy heart and bicycle that I turned and pedalled dankly upwards.

The author: "The starting gradient is 1/32, no problem for a bike but feel for the fireman stoking.....". I had a problem with 1/32, I couldn't do it in anything but low range, and I was passed by a jogger, not a runner, a jogger. Add to this the fact that I couldn't see anything through my rain-obscured glasses. Things were desperate, I foraged - a few blackberries gave me a noticeable sugar hit (it was either that or the stopping to pick them). I clicked up a gear and set off down the single track road to Buckland, meeting several short-cutting commuters coming the other way, I was of course, forced to move to the side of the road and wait their passage. Eventually I made Braunton and promptly lost the waymarking, fulminating, I cast about and discovered them lurking in some bushes. My trip down the estuary was good with frequent pauses to admire the bird life... when it swam back into focus. Soon I was re-approaching Barnstaple, my B&B was called Sandford Mount, a fact I hadn't considered up until now. I discovered it at the top of the hill, and creaked up the drive.

She stared at me as I dripped in the hallway,

"Bring your bike into the living room and park it on the mat."

"Are you sure? It'll drip!"

"Fine, what time would you like breakfast?"

"Nine?"

"Is there anything you don't eat?"

I reviewed my 1/32 debacle plus the cramps I had later, plus my general lack of energy.

"No.

Where can I eat tonight?"

At this point she should have said,

"Risk life and limb on the pavement-/sidewalk- less major road for an eon, then turn off, walk up and down to the village and get lost, and then ask a bloke with a dog."

What she said was,

"The Crown in Lynkey. Walk about half a mile down to the end of the main road, and then down into the village."

Some pate and a sea bass fillet later (carbs supplied by a pint of Doombar and a pint of Tribute) I set out on my hazardous return journey, about a quarter of a mile from the driveway I pass a roadsign, "Lynkey 1 1/2 miles" it says. I festooned the bedroom with an assortment of wet clothes and passed out.

WEDNESDAY

I awoke to a gloomy dawn chorus of several dispirited birds, and rain dripping off the eaves, that plus increasing traffic heading into Barstaple. I turned on the 'phone in the vain hope that someone might have tried to contact me - it had died, not just run out of battery, died, a non-phone, a screen blank except for one and a half straight lines, I shaved instead.
Over breakfast the gardener, drafted in to act as waiter due to a delivery of flowers - I don't know! That's just how it was - ALRIGHT? Over breakfast the gardener asked me where I was going.
"Hatherleigh."
"Oh over hill and down dale, that'll keep you fit!"
"?!"
After I had got over this shock I decided that he was wrong, it was, after all, a railway line. Well the start of it was a railway line, well, when I found the start of it, it was a railway line, and a beautifully tarmaced one at that, well. tarmaced down to Staplevale at least, and then it wasn't.
However, it was a nice run, if you like gloom and the sort of heavy dew that drops continually from the sky, on other occasions, and with the right company, it would be lovely. I'm being churlish, it was lovely but dank.

After leaving the railway it became "over hill and down dale" and also a typical Sustrans route.

A typical Sustrans route : This way. That way. This way...............................................................

....................................................................................................................................................This way. What do you mean I didn't tell you which way to go back there? Well tough! This way. That way.

The road sign said Hatherleigh to the right, Route 27 (the Devon Coast to Coast) to the left. So it was after the bliss of the railway that I started on that most typical of Nick cycling trips - like a Triathlon without the swimming - or running- or going very fast at all. I walked up steep hills, pausing to forage, and then went down a series of what they call screaming descents, well, I know I did.

By the time I got to Hatherleigh it had nearly stopped raining - nearly. I checked into theTally Ho Inn. The girl behind the bar said that she'd send up the girl with my Continental
Breakfast, it arrived, two slices of white bread wrapped in cling film, a pot of marge, plus some milk to combine with the tea and coffee already in the room. The room smelled of stale smoke (curtains not washed since the 1st July 2007), still, I made it my own by hanging wet gear everywhere, and repairing the convector heater, whose feet fell off when you picked it up, I could sympathise. I have enclosed the link so you can avoid it, though the food and beer was fine.

I then wandered around the town (10 minutes), which gave me the opportunity to find my route out in the morning (about 1 in 7 up) and to extend my "continental breakfast" with some bananas. My dinner was extensive, a rack of barbeque pork ribs, which necessitated some shirt cleaning afterwards. As I lay in bed attempting to digest the repast, while at the same time trying to ignore the persistent buzzing from the BBQsauce sugar-rush, I was taken back to a skiing holiday in Keystone. There I shared the room with a fridge, here I shared the room with a fridge, and not only that a fridge that could shake itself with the alacrity of a post-dip cocker spaniel, that could resonate on the same frequency as my fillings (resin AND amalgam), that would wait until 10 microseconds before my sauce-addled brain shuffled through the door to dreamland, and then would clear its phlegmy throat with all the enthusiasm of a camel with chronic hayfever.

THURSDAY (just).

At 5.30 I got up and turned off the fridge. At 8.10 I got up and discovered that the clingfilm on the "continental" had proved ineffective at stemming the flood from the defrosted (probably for the first time ever) icebox - I flushed breakfast. I then tried to leave, I had keys but was somewhat disconcerted to find the pub sans staff, after another wander round the town (5 minutes) and some topping up in the co-op (a packet of Twix, for extremis situations only), I came back to find that the Chef had arrived, he allowed himself to relieve me of some cash.

It wasn't raining, I put on my shades and set off for a brisk walk up the hill out of Hatherleigh, I took the bike with me. At the top there was a view south towards Dartmoor, I turned my wheels towards it, and set off. At the bottom of the hill the sun went for a sulk behind a cloud, I took off my shades, pulled out my other glasses and watched in horror as the side arm fell off, fortunately, actually miraculously, the screw stayed in the case. I cycled crepuscularly on, until I found a roadside fruitstall where I could borrow a holeless cardboard box in which to effect a repair with my cycle multi-tool. In gratitude, and for the sugar content, I bought a couple of apples so red that I cast around for an evil stepmother, in fact, so red that the flesh was pink.

Half an hour later and I'm in Okehampton, in fact in Specsavers,

"Can I borrow a screwdriver?"

She looked at the helmet, the fleece, the sweat and snot-stained shorts (it had been cold the previous two days, my nose had run, and the panniers I was holding.

"Ummm what size?"

I took off my specs and indicated.

"Oh! Yes they look a bit loose, I'll tighten them for you."

Okehampton has a good High Street, some cast-iron pig bike-parking and a mural of Sherlock Holmes standing on (well, nearby to, the Great Grimpen Mire), oh yes and a large hill up to the start of the cycle track. After a refreshing stroll I remounted the bike, and set off down the Granite Railway, skirting the northwest edge of Dartmoor, with an absolutely delightful (the sun had come out, it could have been wall-to-wall gorse and nettles, it would still have been delightful) across-the-moor section. It was so lovely that I lost my hankie when I rolled up my sleeves in the unexpected heat. Eventually we (the bike and I) arrived in Lydford, where I promptly had a not-inconsiderable fly lodge at the back of my throat. Consequently the passing tourist were treated to a first-class display of retching and choking (perhaps this should be "wretching") as I struggled for my water bottle, they didn't say "Hello!"

Having consumed a small amount of protein I decided to have lunch, so parked the bike in the beer garden of the Castle Inn, next to Lydford Castle, which was a prison (don't ask me, this is reportage), and went inside, then I came out again, my heart swilling around inside my boots, as I failed to find my wallet. Fortunately, with the addition of sunlight, it appeared back in my pannier, wearing a smug expression, I re-entered the pub at the back of the queue again, and ordered the last chilli baked potato.

Then on to Mary Tavy, including a bit of track that people have been complaining about for ten years, yes, even full-on hardened cyclists have been forced to walk up it. Then Peter Tavy and some more typical Sustrans marking, and finally a deliriously pretty contour to my B&B The Manor (see embarrassing video) at Samford Spiney, home to horses, dogs, alpaca, and me (for one night only). The Manor was a huge farmhouse, featuring such items as bread ovens and huge granite sinks, ("That's where they used to bleed the pigs."). I washed up and chucked a couple of sticks for the dog before heading down off the moor, to Whitchurch and yet another pub. Obviously influenced by my surroundings I opted for game pie, which incidentally, came with very good chips. I then had to head back, the dusk had fallen and would soon become night, it was at this point I discovered the shortcomings of my illuminatory equipment. The lights, so useful at saying to London traffic, "Look there's a cyclist, you now have two options, one of them illegal." were so unused to the absence of streetlights that they went into a sulk and lit virtually nothing, nothing that is, apart from the all-round visibility ring which illuminated my retina so perfectly that I had to cycle with one-eye shut to retain some night vision. It is, how shall I put this? It is disconcerting when riding up a hedged road and committing the strange shape looming over the hedge to the role of tree trunk, as opposed to monster from the Cthonic reaches, to have it suddenly move. This immediately reverses the above committal until one can reclassify it as curious horse, or possibly, giraffe, this period engendering a lot of swearing and even a quick revision of atheistic tendencies. If one cannot reclassify - keep cycling!

FRIDAY

My hosts had left for a funeral, leaving me in the charge of the house-sitters,

"I couldn't find the mushrooms so I gave you an extra egg."

This was the sort of lady that appreciated a good trencherman, the dog, however, didn't, and gave me the rueful eyebrows that only a spaniel can carry off, charged with the emotion of a beau from the silent age. Before I left. I threw him a couple of sticks but I could tell that he knew it wasn't a sausage. Upon regaining my room and packing, I looked upon my statins and addressed them, "Boys, your time has come!"

Heaving myself aboard the Trusty Steed, I sallied out along the single track road and met the dustmen (garbage truck) coming the other way, I deferred to their bulk and stood to one side with extensive breath holding.

Once again the signposts let me down but I eventually found myself at the start of the track along the old Plym Valley Railway. The start was atrocious, a rubbled path descending steeply down the valleyside, a path that obviously aspired to greater things, like Annapurna but it eventually turned into a ballasted track, which then turned into an asphalt track. I zoomed but had to keep stopping to stare over the edges of the viaducts. I even took a video going through a tunnel, fulfilling all small boys' fantasies (the ones that don't involve the next door neighbour), I was at the front of the train, and driving! I suspect that tandem users may have to do the tunnel a couple of times to avoid divorce.

We emerged at Coypond outside Plymouth. It sounds delightful doesn't it? Visions of expensive and expansive carp lazily disporting themselves in gin-clear water, flicking a fin here, a whisker there. Sadly it was the recycling centre and a traveller's encampment. There followed an industrial journey into the heart of Plymouth, a cup of coffee, a failure to find the route to the official end/beginning and a failure to get on the train due to late-running and overcrowding. After an hour (I had a book) I managed to get on the next Virgin Cross-Country, the three lads two minutes behind me got thrown off, "No more than three bikes. Health and Safety!" As a Health and Safety professional - what a pile of shite.

I arrived back at Exeter at 3.30 and threw myself gratefully onto the tender and welcome mercies of Paul and Carole for the weekend.

Yet more Lakes. 2009

A man is sitting on a train, the sweat is pouring freely down his face, his back, his front, dripping onto his paunch and pooling in the crotch of his pants. It is Nick, he has been waylaid at work leading to a mad dash to the train, which, naturally, has been sent to one end of Euston Station, the wrong end. He is heading for Milton Keynes prior to driving up to the Lake District the next day, his well-insulated frame is failing drastically to radiate the heat that five minutes of frantic activity has produced, people move away from him afraid that he may combust - wetly.

I arrived in Milton Keynes some 40 minutes later, and left the station to be greeted by my bedfellow for the following week - Andrew, and his mother, Sheila. My cousin Julian - absent (ohh -in so many ways) watching daughter Louise graduate in Nottingham. We return to Buckingham in high dudgeon after chatting about Management duplicity, and discover one mutual friend over a baked potato.

The next day the car is loaded by 9.00am, Julian is ready by 10.40. We head North, through torrential rain and a packet of wine gums, stopping only to buy a sandwich at Marks and Spencer (where as I chatted to the shelf stacker, my cousin, wantonly unable to stand me having any sort of congress with the opposite sex intervened), and two balers and a bottle of two-stroke at Bowness. We arrive at Bank Farm at the same time as the man from Tesco who is bringing supplies (as is my parsimonious/thrifty wont I have baulked at paying any money to Booth's in Windermere - who make Harrod's look quite reasonable). Some of the party are already at Coniston, having set off from Farnham (or thereabouts) at an ungodly hour, in fact they have nearly arrived by the time Julian has finished checking that his Tesco clubcard statement is, in fact, correct (about 10.30). These will be the Toases (Chris, Lesley, Heather and Michael), friends newly acquired on Mauritius by Julian and Sheila. There is, of course tea to be drunk (and a Tesco order to be unpacked). More people arrive, more tea is drunk, bathrooms begin to get used, toilet paper is consumed at an alarming rate.

More people: Sarah and Steve and daughter Flora (friends of). Pam and Trevor (family). Joan and Harold (parents of family).

Curry is heated, raita made, wine and beer drunk (my bloody beer too), games are played (and lost), and bed visited (why visited? See wine and beer above).

Saturday: breakfast 1hr 40 mins. The sun is out, and a walk is called for. Trevor casts an experienced eye over the assembled party, and opts for the ascent of a pimple at the end of the lake. So it is that we ascend Howe Fell, have lunch on the top and descend to the tearooms at the bottom. Though there is a moment of drama as another party of perambulators back off the car park, and start to slide down into the stream. We run through the resulting clouds of burning rubber and shouting, and latch on to various portions of the car. The car, formerly full, now only features a driver but is surrounded by former occupants who have apparently screamed themselves to the point of exhaustion, as they have no interest at all in rescuing the car and driver by dint of main force. Rescue is achieved, we hint at the presence of the tea room and gratitude but, like me in a leap year, it is not taken up.

In the afternoon, we rig the boat and discover, upon launching, that the tree which underwent mast pruning the previous year has made a marvellous recovery. After an hour of standing thigh deep in the lake, doing various fending duties, I repair up the hill to the kitchen where Andy and I prepare dinner - a sort of dauphinoise tartiflette. My notes at this point say, "Red Wine" at least I think that's what they say. On Sunday I am due to be picked up to do non-pimple climbing by the alternative team.

The alternative team: Caroline, John and Clunes (see "More Bloody Skiing") plus Chris (a scarily clever mathematical type and his wife and daughter Fran and Emma, respectively).

Monday: Breakfast 2hrs. The alternative team arrive at about 12.30 after having done an involuntary but extensive tour of the lake, and admiring John Ruskin's car park, of which they have done a 360 degree tour. I offer tea, which Caroline leaps at, it takes Clunes less than 3 minutes to stentor the company to silence. Then we move off, to the next mountain on the left of the pimple, Weatherlam, which we ascend by way of Tilberthwaite gorge. The last bit of the ascent is, as my notes oxymoronically tell me, a good scramble, in fact a good scramble in worsening weather but we summit and then head off back down one of Chris' specialities - the longer way back. as we descend it becomes obvious that John (who's birthday it is tomorrow ) is slipping into his dotage as he has become fascinated by sheep, who, recognising fellow-feeling, are equally fascinated by John. This adds a certain longueur to any journey in the mountains.

On the way back we felt compelled to call in at the Black Bull, if only to allow Clunes to stock up with takeaways, and so it is I have a late supper.

Tuesday: Breakfa..... actually by this point the whole thing had started to have a Harry Potteresque quality about it, in other words, and in my opinion, all that happened for seventy percent of the time, was eating, interspersed with the odd bit of laconic action.

Today's laconic action was to be a "sailing lesson", a remnant of Julian's sixtieth from the previous year that had been precluded by Typhoon Ruskin. Steve had volunteered to risk his body and so we quickly built a boat out of a couple of chairs and improvised a boom out of Sheila and a torch. A word: turning a boat into the wind is a "tack", upon realizing that one has to tack (usually the advent of the shore, another boat, boredom or, potentially, a tsunami) one asks of the crew, "Ready about?", upon receiving the answer, "Ready" or similar ("Wha...." or "Ummm?") one responds with, "Lee-Ho!" and shoves the tiller away from oneself. Steve's "Lee-Ho" emerges querulous with distinct overtones of Julian and Sandy (younger people can check out the clip available here), there is much hilarity.

Donning our suitably-ruinable clothes we depart for the pier at Coniston, where we are met by Phil, who ushers us onto a Hawk, a twenty foot dinghy which "is impossible to capsize", in better weather a glint may have crept into some eyes but in the crepuscular gloom of what was passing for daylight any ideas of putting this claim to the test vanished into the ether of hypothermia. The cockpit was easily big enough for the four of us, Phil lodged himself under a weatherboard and put one on helm, one on main and one on jib. Julian and I steeled ourselves to avoid fits of hysterics when Steve's turn at the tiller came up. "Lee-ho" Sniggering from us and knitting of eyebrows from Phil. Piqued, Steve tries again, "LEE-HO!", "Much better." says Phil. We continue up and down the lake, through three cloudbursts and the odd attendant squall. Steve is now on the main, letting it out on the tacks, I tell him that in my opinion he is being over cautious, so that on the next tack, while being hit by a gust, the boat heals to the point where Julian and I are standing about four feet out of the water. Phil looks at his elbow, now submerged in the lake and comments, "Let a bit of sail out, Steve." As the boat approaches the vertical, Steve looks at me reproachfully, "You said I was being overcautious."

We emerge - soaked

In the afternoon, during a lull, a walk around Tarn Hows is planned, on the way there, Sheila, who is driving, says excitedly, "Look at that bird, what is it, it's gone in there?". It was potentially Hen Harrier, I failed to see it, I was looking at the road (I would become familiar with this situation, in fact it took me back to the latter days of driving with my Father, I would stare fascinated as the white line slipped under the bonnet between the front wheels. Later in the year, with Sheila and Julian we would come to a juddering halt behind a stationary vehicle, the weight of the towed caravan, bouncing the wheels down the road, "What did he do that for? Why on Earth?" For once in my life I employed discretion, particularly acute given my non-driver status, and didn't point out that I thought he'd stopped because of the red light.) We decamped from the cars and set off for our walk, Steve's enjoyment being slightly marred by spending the first twenty minutes talking to the bank explaining that yes, he wasn't in Bristol, that yes, he had his card in his wallet, and that yes, he probably thought that he hadn't and wasn't buying that stuff. It rained, a lot. The morning's crew agreed that they were probably wetter than when they'd been sailing.

We arrive back at the cars - soaked.

Back at the farm, there was a new pond (complete with ducks) in the bottom field, and the lake had risen sufficiently to necessitate moving the boat to higher ground (and potentially to start looking for pairs of animals), as we moved the boat it started to rain. After finishing moving the boat we trudge back up the hill to the barn, we are -soaked.

In the evening Lesley produces a chicken and bacon pie, much wine is drunk, I go to bed - soaked.

Wednesday. Bre...... I get a lift to Bowness and meet up with the alternative party. We mosey on over the Kirkstone Pass towards Brothers Water and park near the village of Hartsop. Before starting our ascent to High Street we have a few games of Sprint Poohsticks, this is like normal Poohsticks but because of the flood you have to sprint over the bridge to catch any sight of your stick. Then we ascend, splashing our way to the top, which is, amazingly, devoid of rain. As usual the walk extends but on the other hand we descend to Hayeswater, a rotund, but very handsome little tarn, dare I say it, one of the better and most attractive tarns in the lakes. On the way back we call in at the Queens Head in Troutbeck and eat, the meal is declared most satisfactory, especially the chips!

Thursday. Is leftovers day, the majority of the party is dispatched to the copper mines above Coniston. I meanwhile riffle through the fridge and make a hearty soup, a large amount of hearty soup, enough soup to feed a small army. Then Julian, Cap'n Sheila and I go for a sail, scudding up and down the lake. When we return, half the soup has gone, leaving scant remains for the returning horde. We repair back to the boat and fit the outboard to the custom rig, this will remove us from the soupless and render us deaf to shouted threats from the shore. When we return, a frost has settled over the barn, and several gazes are pointedly turned on barely damp soup bowls. At this point Harold, Joan, Pam and Trevor arrive. Harold: "Oh we found some delicious soup, we had two big bowls each! Delicious." The frost shifts from the boaters.

Friday. After packing, we all head off to the Black Bull for lunch, as we leave it is noted that the Bank ground tea rooms have re-opened, so a plan is made to return for dessert. I had forgotten about the toilet with the matt walls and handy felt-tip. While otherwise occupied my eye drifts over the walls and discovers the autograph of Zinnia Bacon, who is immediately fixed into my lexicon of useful names for novels (alongside Tom Landrover). I am informed later that, "You can't go wrong with flower names for girls, I immediately resolve that my firstborn will be Viper's Bugloss Hayes. The last thing I see before heading out to the car and the slightly congested arteries of England is this: "FAB DAY! SCATTERED DAD'S ASHES ON THE LAKE. ALSO - GREAT FOOD!

French Leave

A man is standing outside a railway station, a warm breeze raises his grey hair as he shrugs out of his rucksac and places it in the cellar of the coach. It is Nick and he is about to set off and visit a princess and her sister and parents in the South of France. The coach does exactly what it says in the adverts and pulls into the car park at Stansted 55 minutes later. After a mooch around the airport (vodka taster in duty free and an avocado and chicken sandwich lunch) I board the plane, fight my way into a window seat and allow the pilot to take off. It's an interesting journey, we fly over Luton Airport, Heathrow Airport and Gatwick Airport, we also fly over several airports in France but I don't know what they are. Eventually we land at one, fortunately it turns out to be Perpignan which is where I wanted to go. I get on the bus which has a handy sign saying Airport Bus, and a handy lady driver whose command of English stems beyond the fare, and encompasses such useful phrases as, "Get on the bus!" "The bus station!" and "The railway station! Get off the bus!". As I was an hour and a half early I summoned my best French and approached a railway official,
"Bonjour, votre pardon, je suis Anglais et je parle Francais comme un Anglais."
"Yes?"
"Oh, umm... can I use this ticket on that train."
"Yes - platform two."
"Merci."

We zoom off along the coastal plain looking back to the Pyrenees looming over the town and the passing one of the many windfarms that dot the hilltops. As they sink behind the skyline they turn into a series of front crawlers, flailing at the scrubline. At d'Agde the train comes to a grinding halt just after a level crossing, a total mystery but at least with no-one dead. This means we're in late to Sete and consequently get caught by the harbour bridges being raised to let in the local regatta.

"That's the road bridge...."
"Hmm." - I've seen Tower Bridge raise it's bascules, and one of the Chicago ones and that one in Dublin.
"... and that's the railway bridge."
"Cor!" I haven't seen that before- the engineering aspect of my holiday is complete, tomorrow a trip to the beach will help me with the biological aspect.

In the car, is lovely Tessa, a princess (Princess Imogen of Cambridge), and the Mooshter (Princess Lucia of the Boob) (who must be kept awake), we arrive back to some bread and cheese, and my brother, who spends a lot of time carping about the fact that I have failed to bring purple sprouting (£1.99 for 200g in Sainsbury - no chance), I merely hurl the Jersey Royals and poppadoms at him.

Soon it is the Princess' bedtime, I am summoned to read a story.
PI "How good is your French pronunciation?"
Lackey "Err?"
I am given "Cendrellen", par Walt Disney.
PI "Now you read it and then I'll read it with the correct pronunciation."
L"!?"
Apart from a slight mix-up with sourire and souris I apparently do quite well (when she's being mean the Stepmother apparently does not sport a little mouse but rather, a little smile).

The evening closes in and we watch the bats fishing the mosquitoes out of the gloaming, and the lights of d'Agde coming on across the bay. The white chocolate tasting goes quite well with Sainsbury's basic being declared adequate, and Montezuma raspberry being pronounced "lush".

I fail to sleep as per normal for a "new" bed, I also have to get up at 3.00 to take the pills that I forgot to take at bedtime, probably reminded by my blood trying to squeeze past the Camembert blockage in my cardiac arteries.

Next day breakfast dawns in a riot of children and eggy bread, followed by some colouring in and general snoozing. Then we have a light lunch of cholesterol with salad, before a snooze, followed by a trip to the beach for a snooze, and for me, a swim, my summation "a bit bracing!". After this there is a bout of castle building, where I realise that it is the lot of a lackey who has achieved a faithful one tenth scale representation of the Great Pyramid of Kufu (or Cheops, as he used to be known in my day), to have it jumped on by a Princess who has only achieved a faithful representation of a small cow pat. We then return for supper, featuring my smuggled Jersey Royals and some fish, and a (hopefully) cholesterol-busting glass of red.

By this time I have realised the error of my ways as far as purple sprouting is concerned, it would be worth 10p a gram to avoid the unrestrained ire that I have been subjected to, even the baby seems to have been bribed to assault me. Injured I go to bed and feed the mosquitoes, they have probably been slipped into the room in a jam jar placed under the bed.

Today is big walk day, Steve and I are off to the Lac de Salagou, a reservoir and watersports utility area about 50K North of Sete. We arrive missing, bread, sunscreen and a jumper, but with a saucisson sec, some fruit and 1.5 litres of water each. The day is sunny with a disarming breeze, by this I mean the sort of breeze that blows across your sunscreenless arms, making you unaware of their UV challengedness until they separate from your elbows. We ascend a track offering unparalelled views of the car at every turn. It is bathed in the scent of broom and wild thyme, we scatter butterflies (fritillaries, tortoiseshells, some blues, some swallowtails and even more nobloodyideas) before us, and, surrounded by birdsong, it is a rustic poesic heaven, even the ubiquitous cuckoo buggers off before it drives us insane.

The rock is red, dark clotted-blood red, with an inch or so of mudstone deposits running through it, in parts we will come across these light mudstones clearly displaying their dried- out muddiness (have a look at the photo's and you'll see) In other parts of the area, dinosaurs have left their footprints trailing through these muds. As we ascend, we move through out of the red, into a zone of basalt that caps it all, an outcrop displays basalt columns, unnatural hexagonal pillars, like some gargantuan Lego. The path continues, skirting the lake, the reds of the rock changing in different light levels, after a couple of hours we reach the far end and descend to the hamlet of les Vailhes, where we stop for our carbless lunch, reasoning that the fat from the saucisson will either do for energy, or do for us.

We have moved out onto a headland, as neither of us want to be seen handling Tessa's penknife, while engaging in such manly pursuits as sausage slicing, and discussing the virtues of Pink Lady over Fuji. Tessa's Victorinox is bright pink, contains a compact mirror, and, where the long blade should be, there is a nail file, a Victor/Victorianox perhaps.

Post-prandially we stagger back along the shore over a series of switchbacks, with the wind at our backs (after saucisson this is only good if you're the one in front), admiring the plants and rocks, until a final climb back to the original path. Halfway up we meet a man coming down carrying a bike! At the crest we stare across the creek that we are going round to the other side where an elderly couple are making a determined attempt to go the wrong way, the cliff, oops, fall into the water way. I wave, moving both hands in an extravagant gesture designed to convey the message that you really should be going THAT way. The elderly gentleman waves back but eventually turns and heads off in a new (wrong) direction. A few minutes after this we are re-overtaken by the man with the bike, this time it is carrying him, he appears to have peaked either early, or insanely, and made a bid to cross the dam at the end of the lake, before actually getting there.

As we cross the dam it starts to rain, so that it is with a lucky smirk that we regain the car two minutes later, we celebrate with the last of the fizzy water before heading off to Moureze.

Moureze; a mediaeval town with fortunately touristic geology. The mountainside above Moureze is composed of Dolomite, a limestone where the calcium has been replaced with magnesium (the Dolomites are made of it), which has been weathered into a series of pillars and blocks which resemble "fantastic animals, towers and phalluses" (bloody French). We spend fifteen minutes going, "Cor!" (that's fantastic animal/tower "Cor" obviously not a phallus "Cor!" got to have some sense of propriety y'know)) and decide that it's gone into the "must come back and give it more time" section of the Guide de Hayes.

We return through the traffic of Sete to Tessa's delicious curry and some beer from the Brewery at Meze (Visite et degustation) which sadly (as far as Tessa may be concerned) has been located on the way back. Whited-out, Tessa settles for Milk with Hazelnuts.

In the morning a bit of a lie in to allow my overused limbs to recover, and then up and at a croissant, before un petit visite a la club tennis, where I met Pierrot, who rumbled at me in true Gallic fashion (a background rolling growl, punctuated by highs and lows of intonation signifying affirmation, query, disagreement and amusement without any pause for breath, or indeed any noticeable vocabulary - plus shoulders) I replied in true Anglo-Saxon fashion by raising an eyebrow at my brother, and submitting a short prayer to Durex, the God of Divine Intervention. We got on famously.

Later I mounted Tessa's bike and skedaddled off to Auchan (the supermarket). At least that was the plan, the skedaddling part didn't quite come to fruition. A misunderstanding of the working parts of a Presta tyre valve left the front tyre quite squashy, and a reluctance on my part to be of a similar consistency left me over-cautious. However, I got there, bought cheese, sweets and sausages (like you do), forgot to buy Tielles* for the workforce at UCL (who'll have to make do with sweets), briefly dallied at the wine section to look for a particular bottle-shape that I'd seen being scarfed in the bar on Sunday ( I failed to find it, time and sensory overload was taking its toll), and remounted my soggy steed for the journey back. I didn't die, even at the roundabouts.

* Tielles: the local delicacy, a delicious flaky pastry, round pasty filled with a tomato and chilli mixture, featuring as its protein content - squid. No seriously they're fab, really, would I lie to you? No I bloody wouldn't! How dare you? Come outside and say that! Interestingly squid in Setois is apparently "pouffre" I wonder if this is onomatopoeic?

After lunch, I pumped up the front tyre and set off for a whizz along the promenade, hoping to recapture those heady days of my first trip to the South of France in 1980, sadly, young women did not take their tops off directly in front of me, leaving me to wonder why I'd put my sunglasses on in the first place. At the first bump the water bottle flies out of the basket, I catch it, between my legs! Sadly this display of femoral dexterity is not witnessed, I re-wedge the bottle and continue to the end of the prom, contemplated the suicide run alongside the German camper vans arranged along the front, and returned back to entertain the Mooshter for an hour or so.

We then pick up the Princess from l'Ecole, where she has been audiencing minions, before heading off to the beach to throw stones at the sea, pour sand into the lackey's leg hairs and use his Croakies as a sieve. After an hour or so we move off to the new Japanese restaurant "Via Tokyo", they have just opened, they fete us with a free cocktail of sangria, litchi and sake and later a free digestif of sake (or Grappa as some of us know it), the digestif is served in a novelty glass featuring a drawing of a young woman disporting herself wanton- and nakedly, upon drinking she disappears. My brother and I, of course, commence on a discussion about refraction, and are only dissuaded from trying to recover the picture with an increasing concentration of sugar solution by Tessa pointing out that it is past the Princess' bedtime. Just before the first course I pour a glass of water over the Princess' drawing, tears are abated by the suggestion that I should do ten penalties, they are formulated throughout the meal with many chuckles, giggles and laughs of PURE EVIL. Here they are:

1. Stay in a palm tree for 1 week.
2.Cook in a bar for 2 whole weeks.
3.Put your pants in your eyes for 4 weeks.
4.Put a tree in your head hole for 10 weeks.
5.Every day you see me buy me a chocolate ice cream.
6.When the avion (Fr) takes off hold on to the wing.
7.Put a noodle up your nose for 100 weeks.
8.Put coffee on your head for 3 whole weeks.
9.Call Nick (me) a sticky face.
10. Be my French Teacher, please.

We return home to bed, with the realisation that my flight leaves at 10.00 am, and white chocolate with toasted coconut.

I arrive back at work to find a packet has been delivered to me, it contains 50 purple sprouting seeds. Har bloody har.

More bloody skiing

Saturday.

A man is standing at the top of the escalator at Gatwick Airport, he is subject to internal debate, should he go for a cup of coffee in Apostrophe or should he go for a "cup of coffee" in Wetherspoon's? Wetherspoon's wins, so Steve stomps off to Wetherspoon's leaving Steve and Liz with Nick, in Apostrophe. Too many Steves, I shall call Wetherspoon Steve "Clunes".

I had arrived earlier and so, after a whisky and a Jageermeister before 8.00 o'clock, I had settled into a corner with my book, and had pauses to watch the recycling team. He, for such was the team, very carefully combined the bags of all the bins into one bag, and replaced the bags, he then moved off with the trolley (the rest of the team) to continue his green crusade around the rest of the airport.

The nice people at Apostrophe filled up my water bottle for me, as, since Christmas, the iniquitous bastards at BAA have removed the drinking fountains, forcing one to indulge in overpriced planet-busting bottled water.

The plane was caught, it flew, my prediction of Sheperd's Pie being sadly confirmed, though the ejaculatory sticky toffee pudding proved interesting, and viscous, or is it vicious? It landed, with me not endearing myself to the man who refused to turn off his computer until the cabin crew told him to, again, thanks to my intervention. I rehearsed,"It may well not interfere at all mate, but I'd rather you didn't test it out on my flight." for the ten minutes cruise through the Alps before landing while trying to memorise exactly how the Ali Shuffle was done (early moonwalking I think). Fortunately there were no fisticuffs, and Steve (not Clunes) agreed with me that it, the computing, was irresponsible, and he'd been in the RAF so he should know. In fact it was a holiday with three people knowing everything, and two women and John.

At Innsbruck, the sun is out, the sky is clear, the transfer rep is called Ruth Cluness, and is obviously a relation of Clunes, "Oh yes we dropped the 's' when we moved to the UK in 1814." We get in the coach and roar up the Ziller valley to Mayrhofen. On the way it transpires that my "Snowhouse" has mutated into a room in Caroline's hotel, though I am not allowed to eat with the others due to "contractual obligations", serendipitously this saves me a bar bill of titanic proportions. At the Landhaus Roscher I am met by Mein Host, Gunther, a tall spare man sporting luxuriant hair and a moustache stolen from a Mexican, who gives me a key and shows me the lift. As I unpack I hear Caroline arrive and pop down to say, "Hello", Gunther gives her a key and allows me to show her the lift.

Her room sports a hob and 'fridge', "Oh good! We can fill it with beer!". At 3.30 the next morning the 'fridge will be turned off having been labelled a liability on the somnolence front. It must have been a doozy of a compressor to cut through the alcohol-induced coma of the typical skiing holiday.

We meet up, go to the shop and get skis, and go to the cafe and get beer, followed by more beer before we split up to eat. My soup is very nice. I meet up with the rest later, assist them in drinking their wine, and then head off to the bar. Eventually I've had enough, and go home leaving Caroline to chat up Billy the Fireman from Belfast. At 2.00 a.m my phone goes off,

"I'm lost."

In high dudgeon I don clothes and set off to the rescue.

Sunday.

Breakfast is a subdued affair, rather like the mountains around the town, a cloud has settled on it. We meet up, fight our way on to the Gondola and ascend. At the top the cloud is undiminished so we have a ski around the mountain by braille. Then we pick up John and watch him use braille as it is designed to be used, i.e. he scans the mountain with his hands, hips, thighs and arse, to find out what it is saying to him; generally it is saying, "Get Off!". Steve (who as well as being a know-it-all is a ski instructor) takes John under his wing, and so the party factions a bit.

In the afternoon I end up with Caroline (Caroline's motto is "Work hard. Play hard." which leaves me at a considerable disadvantage), totally lost, falling and pulling my neck, by being convinced I was stationary, when I was, in fact, travelling sideways at speed. We find a cafe, and stop for a coffee, discover that we're at the top of the gondola and so move to beer. The cafe is a giant umbrella surmounting windows, as the afternoon wears on, the volume of music gets higher, Europop interspersed with Austrian Oompah, the latter being very popular, sporting a suspiciously martial beat.

We descend, and an 8 year old tries to kill me by forcing me off the step of the gondola into the pit, if this doesn't kill me it will merely screw my legs off, the child is from Belfast, and after she has made sure of a seat by force of buttocks, his mother eyes her little lad indulgently. I eye the little lad indignantly, and Caroline, who is standing, eyes the mother - well, Caroline just eyes her, think cobra and passing rodent.

Back at our Hotel:
"I've lost my fucking skibag!"
"!?"
"It was brand new!"
"Where did you have it?"
"In the locker room."
"Perhaps it's still there."
"Aaach!"


"Aaach!" is a fair summation of Caroline's feeling for her fellow human beings, it is a syllable that can encompass, hatred, despair, resignation and mild discomfort, we will hear it a lot, in several manifestations over the next few days.

I return with her to the other hotel, before heading off for my dinner, there, on the bench, in the middle of the locker room is a skibag, the resultant change in atmospheric pressure will account for the weather the next day. Several beers later, I head off for my eatery and meet my table mate Rob. From Northern Ireland, a programmer with Microsoft. I have a slightly slipshod conversation with him, before staggering back to the others. A slightly earlier night is declared.

Monday.

The view at breakfast is uninspiring, the mountains are cloud clad again. We troop to the Gondola and ascend, halfway up we pop through the cloud into bright sunshine. The snow is good, the weather is good, cor! John's lessons continue, and we venture over the top of the next peak, to a point where Caroline decides we should go up the World's longest T-Bar (for an exposition on the T bar see "In the Dark" two posts previously). John who had previously been up a short T-Bar, well, partially up actually, was now familiar with their foibles. I drew the short straw and accompanied him, on the left, my right thigh locked into screaming agony as I tried to stop him forcing my skis off the track. Now the T-Bar is not my favourite device but John did his best to put my mind at ease, the litany of diverse profanity and blasphemy that accompanied our ascent acting as a distraction.

Such is the beauty of the scenery, that we only pause briefly at the site of the Panorama restaurant, and admire the way that the blue of the smoke from its smouldering carcasse contrasts nicely with that of the sky. We then stop for Jagertee and beer before descending.

Jagertee: herbal tea with a liberal dose of Stroh rum and a lot of sugar, the last time I was in Austria I was convinced it helped my skiing, by the end of this week I knew that it didn't. At this point Caroline noticed a girl drinking something red with berries floating in it, I dispatched myself to find out. There followed an uneasy conversation until I managed to move my syntax away from, "What are you having to drink?", and on to, "What is the name of the drink that you are drinking?". I reported back, much to their relief.

"It's a Himberboller."
"A HIMMLER BALL!"
"Ha ha. Shut Up! Ha ha ha. No, a himberbolle, rasberry schnapps with sparkling wine, the himmlerbolle has a double and the hitlerbolle only one shot (dimuendo, followed by rapid retreat).


In the evening Rob tells me that he is a Malthusian, I nod assent, immediately deciding to ask Clunes what the hell they are in case of a test later in the week. The rest of the evening is spent listening to the free entertainment and grumbling about the Austrian lack of anti-smoking laws (next January apparently).

Tuesday.

Another glorious day, the sky is blue, the snow is great, I volunteer to look after John on the blue runs, and Clunes, after a morning with Caroline and the "keen" skiers, decides to join us for the afternoon. The first run from the restaurant is a hard-packed road, John takes it first and fails to make any impression with his snowplough, me second, similar, Clunes the same but sadly decides to stop by running into the bank rather than off the edge. The bank has been there for three months, thawing and freezing into the sort of solid mass that puts concrete to shame. Having finally come to a halt, I turn round, Clunes is lying on the track, his skis are neatly arranged behind him.

"Are you alright?"
"My ankle!"
"Bollocks!"
"Bollocks!"
We come back to the body and watch with trepidation as he rises to his feet.
"Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!"
"Shall I go and call out the ski patrol?"
"No I'll try."

And try he does. We take a long, slow, minimal turn route down the mountain, fortuitously meet up with the others and all descend. The Doctor is a "Doe-eyed Beauty" who for a large fee, declares the ankle chipped, pops it into a splint and signs the insurance forms, sadly she does not say, "For you Mister Clunes, the skiing is over."

At my eatery, I wish Rob, "Happy Paddy's Day!", comment on his circumspection on the alcohol front and am told that his psychiatrist has advised against spirits.

Wednesday.

Another subdued breakfast, after which Caroline again hits the Spar to work her way through the selection of rehydration therapies. Today we decide to go up the Ahorn, on the other side of the valley. We stagger to the cable car, and are whisked up the mountain to uncrowded slopes, brilliant sunshine and the blockhouse of the combined WC and weather station (I could go on about gale force winds and scattered precipitation but I won't*).

*However, I include a comment from Liz: "The terrible farting with which some of the party were afflicted - ie those who drank more than (say) 5 litres of beer a day mixed with Jagermeister, cream, chocolate and red wine. I think that would act somewhat like a Coke Float - violent fizzing (resulting in a mixture able to restore rusty metal to shining newness), followed by an explosive secondary fermentation (tertiary fermentation? can't recall if that's possible). The blame was laid on the beetroot or the carrot salad. Every day.

I (Liz) am the control in the experiment as I only drank small quantities of beer but plenty of red wine, ate everything everyone else ate and was fine.Therefore, it was the beer not the beetroot or carrots that was the responsible factor."

Liz has, of course, forgotten that she is in fact a girl, and that girls do not do that sort of thing!

The morning is spent getting John more confident, and storming down the top blue, after which a red run and side-slipping is thrown into the pot. John gets down and we re-ascend up the T-bar, which, as he ascends with Caroline, he falls off, she, ungallantly in my opinion, stays upright and leaves his flailing body behind. As we pass I make an offer,

"Stay at the bottom and I'll come up with you."
"No. I'll be alright."

We gather at the top and eventually spot him, he waves - with both hands.

"How did he do that?"
"Oh God he's straddled it!"

He has indeed straddled it, despite the notice at the bottom, "No Straddling", despite my telling him, "No Straddling". We stand at the top waiting for disaster, will he be capsized and dragged off down the mountain or will he merely be impaled on the poles put there to stop the bar digging into the snow. With waxing anxiety, we wonder whether we should get out the cameras. As he crests the top there is a mounting chorus of "Get off. Get off! GET OFF!" Amazingly he does and grins round at us in triumph. There is now a mounting chorus of, "Let go. Let go! LET GO!" as he is dragged towards a harsh encounter with the poles. At the last minute he does, the pisteur comes out of the hut and soundly berates him in German, it is at this point that John truly becomes a British Skier, "Yeah, yeah." he replies dismissively.

After some more skiing we visit the Ice Bar for a Gluwein (which comes out of a 10 litre pressurised vessel - how romantic) or a cup of tea (which comes as hot water and choice of teabag). Perhaps John is a little more fazed by his experience than we thought, firstly he gets lost by the simple process of looking in the wrong direction as everyone else skis off (though to be fair I did give him instructions contrary to what we actually did), and secondly upon being handed his tea,
"Where's the milk?",
I point at a glass bottle full of white stuff,
"There, in the milk bottle."
"D'you think so?"

We sit in the sun and have a mooch around the ice hotel before committing to the descent, down the red run back to the town, it is a long way. As we descend it gets warmer and the snow turns to porridge. The slope is one of those that has been banged in so that it is possible to "ski back to the resort", there is a huge, incredibly steep slope just before the bottom, the top of which is littered with people summoning up courage. As we stand summoning ours and waiting for John, I notice Steve looking down the slope and then back at John's approaching figure:

"Oh shit.... Aha!" (broad grin)
"There you are. So what we're going to do here i....".

At the far side of the slope Liz, yelping, rolls down in the arms of a skateboarder.

"...s side slip down to there (she alright?) and then turn and head off to there. Follow me."

Thus John is subverted from watching one of the "experienced skiers" screaming her way down the first twenty yards of the slope. Halfway down Liz falls again, and Caroline and I are treated to a masterclass of how inflection can change the meaning of a phrase, viz:

"Oh shit!" - I have fallen over - Anger.

"Oh shit!" - Now I am sliding out of control down the hill - Despair.

"Oh shit!" - I'm heading straight for that tree - Fear.

But she stopped, and eventually, we got down, at the bottom there was a schuss and after that a bar.
Steve, "Well thank God we're down that in one piece, that's never a red run."
I merely point, at the start of the schuss there is Caroline, and next to her a pile of clothes and skiing accouterments that used to be John. He is fortunately unharmed, and has just had one of those explosive speed skiing accidents that leave you naked, surrounded by debris.

In the evening Caroline and I visit the spa (not the Spar) for a swim, there is a bubble pool, which when working fills my trunks to a degree previously only promised by Cialis, causing great consternation. We find Clunes and ask him about his day, he replies that he has made a great discovery in the Spar; the "Kellermeister" range of 25cl bottles of wine,and that he has commenced his oenous world tour. The rest of the evening is fairly subdued, though as we get within an ace of the Hotel, Clunes summons us back to look at his foot. We look, undo the bandages and do them back up again, the first-aid equivalent of a turning it off and then turning it back on again. We then tell him to keep his leg up at all times, he looks at us - amazed, "That's exactly what the Doe-Eyed Beauty said! I'll do that then."

Thursday.

After the exigies of the previous day, John elected to have a day off, leaving the rest of us (the upright ones) to take a trip, the rep sold us Zell-am-Zimmer, "as the glacier can be very exposed". So it was that we caught skibus B and arrived at the station ten minutes later than it would have taken us to walk there. From there, another bus to Zell station, and yet another to the gondola. Caroline squares her shoulders, gets in the car in front, gets off at the mid-station,
"GET ON!",
and so joins us for the last section to the top Here there is the familiar low cloud but we persevere catching a long run along the crest of the mountain, that on a good day would be fabulous, as it is, it's blowing a gale, is unpisted, and has no visibility, everyone falls, well nearly everyone, modesty forbids me pointing out who didn't.

To move on I am forced down a black, and then, to add insult, I am deserted at a four man chair, and ascend in the freezing wind by myself, my usual sunny disposition evaporates as I experience a "sense-of-humour-failure". At some point I stump off leaving the other miserable bastards to disport themselves on the slopes, I sit in a small hut drinking coffee inhaling pipesmoke. After this anything looks good, so I rejoin the merry throng, and we begin to make our way back, this involves a chair that runs along the route of the ridge track that 75% of the party found so taxing, by the far end of the chair most of us are frozen in place and my cheeks have become baby-soft from the scouring of wind and ice pellets - well thank goodness we didn't go to the exposed glacier! We descend in about ten metres of visibility, it is horrid, so horrid that when we arrive back in Mayrhofen we have to have a beer. The evening will be short, attrition having taken its toll. Clunes has spent the day talking to his insurance company, trying to convince them that Austria has had self-determination (with a small hiatus between 1939 and 1945) and is, in fact not part of Germany, where all the details have been sent.

Friday.

Having looked at the cloud encasing the mountain, Caroline has declared a "not very good for skiing day" and is sitting at breakfast in her normal clothes.

"Look Caroline, it's clear on top!"
"Oh fuck! Well I'll go and change then."

My phone rings:

"I've lost my goggles!"
"When did you last have them?"
"On my hat."
"Perhaps they'll be in the hotel like your skibag."
"Pffft!"

"Pffft!" is equivalent to "Aaach!" but is reserved specifically for inanimate objects.

We meet up to stagger down to the others' hotel.

"Guess what?"
"You don't want to go skiing?
You have a hangover?
You feel sick?
You've found your goggles?"
"Yes. Under my coat."

Up the Penken gondola and over the top, where we find deep heavy snow and an unpisted slope. Steve decides to show off his powder skills and then (because I couldn't be arsed to walk back up) so do I. My tips disappear vertically downward into a metre of snow and I come to a grinding halt, well actually my skis come to a grinding halt, sadly I continue for a bit ripping a muscle in my calf. It takes me twenty minutes to dig myself out, from there the day went downhill (haha). Caroline leaves her camera in the lunchtime stop.

Saturday.

Caroline has left in the ungodly hours, the family from Northern Ireland in our hotel obligingly telling the taxi driver that there is no-one else expected, so that she has had to carry everything to the coach pick-up. this will not endear them to her. "Aaach!"

I, as Butler and companion, am picked up in Clunes cab, and we are soon whisked down the valley with the odd diversion to avoid traffic. It is very pretty, and we learn a lot from our driver (also very pretty) like, you can tell which diocese the church belongs to by the colour of its steeple. At the airport, at loading time, Clunes is escorted into the Innsbruck Airport Medical Lift by two pimply youths (probably doing National Service) and a policeman with a submachine gun (just in case he can't bear to leave Austria and makes a break for it), where he is strapped into a chair and driven out to the plane. The lift then mechanically hoists its trousers, and an x-frame expands to deposit himself (and several others) at plane height.

The inflight meal hit an all time low, even for the airline culinary circuit, the nadir of airline food - sausage and mash.

We arrive and wait for the plane to empty before transferring to an electric buggy, which proves great fun up to the point where I realise I have left my book and my journal on the plane. When I get back to the plane, someone (the people sitting next to me, in fact) have nicked the book. I walk Clunes to his car to await the arrival of his driver, and then head home for a little lie down.

Further into the Dark

Nick and I were getting used to it by now, the wildebeest would start tramping past the door at about seven, impinging on our drug-addled consciousnesses and competing with our swollen bladders for attention. At about eight thirty, the combination would force us out of bed and (eventually) into our clothes for an amble to the culinary delights of breakfast, on this day we had arrived early enough for the bacon rather than the bacon fat of previous breakfasts, though to be honest it was so streaky it didn't make much difference.

A quick word about breakfast, well about Finnish eating in general: Finland, trees and lakes, apparently not much else, consequently most things are imported which leads to some interesting breakfast choices, my favourite was the broccoli and carrot stir fry with water chestnuts, obviously from a five litre can, the last time I'd had this sort of catering was on Malta, where the beef was cuboid.

Another day of high winds and cancelled lifts, so most of us trooped off back to Top Safari and hired cross-country skis, after five minutes and one fall, Paul declared himself ill, and headed off for a snooze and steam, leaving Carole, myself and the Boys to head off in the opposite direction to the previous day, and go to the shut ski slopes, and then up into the valley and the Urho Kekkonen National Park. It was another typical day of cross-country, as I picked up Boy 2, I heard Boy 1, "Look behind you!", I did I saw trees, Boy 2 did and saw the reindeer cross the track. I brusquely pulled him to his feet and poled off.

Several bouts of sibling rivalry later, we ended up at the slopes, the cafe, like the slopes was shut. At this point, and to avoid sibling meltdown, we split up, Carole returning with Boy 1, and me continuing with Boy 2 into the park. Suddenly, a wildlife moment, two reindeer (!)- and later a bird!! (normally I try and stick with one exclamation mark but this was a very unusual occurrence), when we turned round we saw the reindeer again!

Upon arrival back at the hotel we dispatched the Z's to their afternoon of Santa, and husky humiliation. The general idea of running a dog sled, a lot of people find attractive, however, one should first consider the view, think huskies from the rear. Plus the sudden exercise, the tightening of the harnesses, the large breakfast of reindeer superfluity, leads to a mass canine catharsis about half-a-minute into the trip, which has to then be avoided. Apparently, after that everything settles down with the charm of sledging in the dark only broken by mass epidemics of farting, amongst the dogs I hasten to add.

I had a shopping obligation and so ended up in the gallery and Moomin shop. They had a lot of lovely glass which I eschewed on the grounds of fear of impalement on the return to the hotel. I bought the Moomin cutlery I'd been sent for, went to the supermarket for more liquorice and a tour of tourist tat.

Arriving back at the hotel, I entered into an in-depth discussion with Nick on why hot rooms make you fall asle...................

........................I am woken by Carole who slides me off for more cross-country, we decide to seek adventure and head for pastures new across the road bridge. The road bridge that is high in the middle. I place my skis in the slots, lean forwards to plant my weight to keep the skis in the track and push gently off. Immediately the burr of the skis in the track ascends to a high pitched whine, the sort of whine that one hears before it is followed by the sharp percussion of overstretched machinery, my eyes begin to water as the wind increases, in retrospect these may have been tears of fright but I think not, I doubt whether fright could have caught up! I press outwards with the skis, a manoeuvre that has no effect what so ever apart from increasing my anxiety, through my tears I see the curve at the bottom of the bridge approaching. THE CURVE! How could I be so stupid, how could I not plan fifty metres ahead! The curve starts, I lean into the bend and smoothly start to flow round it, such elation, as the centre of the bend approaches I lean more, it fails, centrifugal force laughs in the face of my false hope and hurls me from the track. The centre of the piste is, according to my head, "medium to hard", my hat imprints a delightful waffle texture to a small area of snow.

I gather myself up and wait for Carole who will be walking. While I wait I try and remember if that lump at the base of my thumb was always there. Carole does not appear. Eventually I climb up the the track of death and mount the top of the bridge, Carole is standing at the bottom of the other side with one ski, the other, in the face of my demonstration of the implacable nature of gravity and moments (physics not empathy), has run away and hidden itself somewhere in the bushes. Eventually it consents to be found, and we both walk over the bridge to continue. After a brief perusal of the serried floodlit cliffs that constitute the way forward we declare discretion and head for home.

After dinner it starts to snow, so Nick and I contemplate staying in the hotel, I decide to try the Lonkerot, it is grapefruity and refreshing.

As promised, more on Lonkerot: generally speaking there is a lot of Government control on drinking in Finland, beer appears to come in three strengths (up to 5.5% is my guess, though "2" at 4% is normal) but then there is Lonkerot, this is gin which is diluted to 5.5% with soda and (normally) grapefruit, thought "red berries" is also available. This retails at the same price as beer but is, as you can see, generally stronger and always comes in 500, as opposed to 440, ml. Therefore to get more bang for your buck you drink Lonkerot, which is why you can spot huge miners and the local skinheads (huge minors) supping away on cissy grapefruit soda.

Tonight in the bar there is "entertainment", an Irish songster is attempting to work his way through his set but has become the karaoke machine for the girls from Esprit Holidays, when they leave him alone he starts wearily on his "Top Ten Lugubrious Greats", we put on coats and boots, and head to Parmino. It has started to snow, about 8 cm so far.

It is Friday, the lifts are open, so Nick and I head off for the slope, as we sit on the chairlift a skidoo goes past - and waves. We ski down to the beginners. slope and mooch around with the boys for the "morning". They will be having an extra catch up lesson later, so Nick and I return to the hotel, I leave Nick to snooze and head off back to the slopes sans skis. I have decided to take advantage of the longest toboggan run in Finland all 1300 metres of it. This requires finding a toboggan, riding the chairlift up, and tobogganing down without breaking anything.

The bottom of the slope is littered with abandoned toboggans, so I pick a Nick-size blue one and skedaddle down the pavement until I have to walk. Eventually I arrive at the bottom of the chair and approach it with my faithful but moribund steed, they slow it down for me to get on, now all I have to worry about is the dismount at the top. They slow it down for me again! So far so good. It is 14.15; dusk. I stagger around the top of the fell, the freezing wind grabbing at my toboggan, looking for any sign of a run, I do find a cross-country track but I'm not falling for that again. Eventually I pop into the cafe and ask, "It starts between the two signs that say you do this at your own risk." Well, naturally, it would. In the gathering dark I find two signs in Finnish, that appear to read the same. I move forward and find a dead straight firebreak running through the forest - for 1300 metres. I now have to make a choice: broken leg? - Maybe. Broken neck? - I think not. I adopt the seated luge position and start. The first bit of steering and braking precipitates a jet of snow into my face and down the front of my jacket, causing my already adrenaline-shortened breath to be shortened even more. I stop, allow most things to return to normal, pray that I'm not being watched through binoculars by a man on a skidoo, and resolve not to brake again (the phrase "on pain of death" drifts into my mind but is immediately sent packing). I adopt the "luge-recumbent", pick up my heels, and watch the trees metamorphose into a dark green blur, until I run into a large drift. I restart and manage the rest of the descent in one seamless ride - with aerial sections that make me glad that I'm flat, 5' 6" is short enough, let alone any spinal compression. The whole was rather like Disneyland i.e. it takes you 25 minutes to get there and the whole thing lasts less than two.

I return, pick Nick up and head off for another pub, the Terenpesa, where we find the cheapest and biggest beer that we will find. In the evening Paul, who is now semi-recovered from his illness and the trauma (physical and mental) of cross-country skiing buys us dinner. It is much better than the catering though I fail to have the liquorice ice cream (which I last had in Brescia, Italy, for those of you that want to know).

The last day of skiing dawns (for want of a better word) and after the lesson we meet up with the Boys (I include Paul here), and offer to take them up the mountain and down one of the floodlit blues. This is managed with great aplomb, apart from the last steep section, which is "managed" with great trepidation. however, such is the draw that we have to do it several more times. On the last run I turn to see Paul aiding Boy 2, as I watch I see his skis cross and slip backwards, they ping off, only after pinging his knee, I decide to do the run once more to see if I can help (experienced skiers will know that it is preferable to wait up to forty minutes to render aid rather than having to go forty metres back up the hill - which can take the same amount of time) but they have sorted themselves out and limped off by the time I get there. The skis are returned.

This evening is the evening of the "Gala Dinner", a cross between British and Finnish Christmas Dinner. The smoked beef is particularly delicious and I say so to the waitress.

"Ohh, it is not beef, it is....." a rather startled look comes into her eyes, we are after all, waiting for Santa to arrive ".......... another animal."

"Oh is it that other animal we don't talk about."

She stares at me, tears of gratitude pricking the corners of her eyes, "Yes."

Santa arrives and the Boys are given pencils and a photo opportunity for Christmas. We slope off before the Disco gets going but after we've been forced to sing (and Santa has been forced to listen to) Jingle Bells. Paul comes out with us to the Parmino and we fail to get beaten up by the four skinheads who share our table. Then we go to bed, we have to be up about three weeks before dawn in order to get to the airport to be delayed on the runway while we search for some people who are apparently lost, though how, in Kittala airport, is a mystery.

On the flight back we get Journey to the Centre of the Earth, sorry Center, it's rubbish. Nick will get back home about 13 hours later. Poor soul.