Certain Doom

Having a couple of guests staying with us (Geoff & Bernie) we decided on a day trip to Spain for a spot of gentle entertainment. Driving over the col de Mourtis to Spain only takes half an hour and the views are jaw dropping.

We were in search of some charming villages, but missed a turning and found only large new-looking towns (so there is money in Spain?) thus we headed back to the border for a spot of shopping. Carrying our booty (mostly rum and peanuts) we crossed the border and headed past a salubrious looking hotel and on up into the mountains.

This route took us through Melles, a small village perched precariously on the mountain side.

We continued up the steep mountainside along a narrow switchback road…

…until we reached the top.

There not being much snow around, we decided to carry on and use a shortcut through the mountain pass forest leading to our village.

We drove on until reaching the middle of the mountain pass. A little more snow here, but not enough to trouble my all powerful Nissan Qashqai with four wheel drive and snow tires.

The more observant of you may have noticed some fatal flaws in my reasoning. Firstly, the sun was going down. Not a good thing at any time of year in the mountains, let alone in winter. Secondly, the sun was behind us, this means that the amount of snow on the south side of the mountain, from whence we came, could be significantly less than on the next part of our journey, the North facing side…

And so it was.

On turning the next bend, we decended a short way in significantly thicker snow. No problem going down, but this was clearly the point of no return. The track was too narrow to turn on, and the car would not have gone up the slope even if we had been able to do so.

Now committed to go on, we drove for about twenty minutes whilst the snow gradually got deeper. There was a choice of two tracks. One down to our village, a steep dangerous track even in the summer, or along the side of the mountain to a ski resort. I took the latter, remembering it to be relatively level. My memory ain’t what it used to be.

For a further half hour or so, we tried to go up some gentle inclines, but this involved shrieking clutch and side slipping towards certain doom.

It was getting dark.

And so, we decided to leave our less than super car to the whim of the forest, and set out on foot.

So here we were, four people against adversity. Annick (recovering from surgery on her wrist), Bernie (recovering from knee surgery and a diabetic in need of food and drugs), Geoff (whose guts had chosen this time to revolt), and myself (with the last words of the doctor hanging in my ears “Don’t go out in the cold”).

The sounds of animals rang through the forest. Whether deer or bear, did not stop its chilling effect. There was something out there and it knew where we were.

We walked. There was, of course, no phone signal available. We walked on. It became dark. We walked on. It became pitch black. We walked on.

As our physical strength ebbed, we managed to find a signal and got through to the hero of the night, Greg the builder. He set off to rescue us in his ‘real’ car, a fully equipped Toyota Land Cruiser. After walking for well over an hour we arrived at the abandoned ski station with thoughts of imminent rescue, a warm fire and several beers.

It was not to be.

On meeting us, Greg said that we must rescue our car now incase of further snowfall.

Gulp.

We returned to the forest. With Greg’s beast of a car equipped with all-round flood lights, we penetrated the gloom of the forest at breakneck speed. This man knew how to drive in all conditions. He was trained in the foreign legion and ran a 4x4 club. We were, nevertheless, still scared shitless.

We arrived at our poor abandoned car (still well provisioned with rum and peanuts) and spent a good half hour digging it out and learning much of how to place snow and clear a path. Finally pulled away from the edge, we started on our way, Greg towing, me pissing myself.

It was not straightforward. On two occasions our car slid towards the edge of the precipice, pulling Greg’s car with us! We stopped a heartbeat away. More digging, more soiled pants.

Then the rest of the trip, three meters away from Gregs car at speed in ever thicker snow. It began to dawn on me why they put the ski station there…

We made it. We all gave Greg a big hug. We drove back to our village humbled and stinking of clutch plate, where some local friends had drinks ready, a warm fire, and casseroled wild boar. A perfect end to a less than perfect day.

Today I learned Respect for the mountains.

'Bye Mum

Fears, hopes, doubts, wishes, hush my pensive shell,

Fount of them all, dear Lake! farewell! farewell!

Wordsworth, written on the bank of Lake Windermere.

It may have taken a long time to get ourselves organised, but finally we two estranged brothers made it together to Lake Windermere, where mum’s ashes were finally scattered.

A memorable few days it was too.

Tinged with sadness? Of course. However, three days of nostalgia went down very well with copious quantities of local ale and more wine than you can shake a stick at.

There has always been a smidgen of sibling rivalry betwixt the two of us, with Mick’s 5 year head start putting me at a disadvantage that my superior intellect and physique (delete as appropriate) has struggled to overcome. Suffice to say, I now feel my drinking abilities also inadequate.

Having cast mum onto the cold waters, we toured the local sites, hostelries etc until the weather forced us permanently inside.

In truth, a small amount of mum’s ashes were held back (what I lovingly refer to as ‘mum’s left foot’) so that it can be mixed with dad’s ashes back in France. It would be disrespectful to make jokes about where I should put mum’s left foot, suffice to say we will have a further ceremony when we can get all the kids together at the same time. Resting in peace isn’t what it used to be…

The scenery was beautiful, albeit dark and wet..

The hotel was stunning (good choice Mick)

and the boats, as Mick pointed out, were nearly as big as his…

Thus, with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction, we both headed back abroad our own seperate ways. He to Majorca, me to be interrogated in the airport as to the strange grey substance in a plastic bag that I carried with me.

'Bye Mum.

Phil

End of the summer, fine...

Well, gotta admit that the last couple of months have been pretty good weather-wise over here in the south of foriegnland.

As usual, we are more than happy to mouth off about it, whilst listening to your pious claims of “pooh, I really love the rain over here…”.

In keeping with normal behaviour, we may well omit to mention that the summer itself was nothing to write home about.

The resultant verdant lawns are difficult to hide.

Suffice to say, all that glorious ‘Indian summer’ is now at an end. The cold front has done its least worst, and the winter is coming.

None of this is news. We are told that the English talk incessantly about the weather. This may be true, but the French brag about it incessantly.

And so, did we make hay whilst the sun shineth? Well, not precisely, but we did make best use of it.

After our start up the mountain as per previous blog, we toured the Cominge a while, where Louis became a little aggressive.

Putting as much distance between us and Louis as possible, we passed by our favourite village, St Cirq Lapopie,

and onto Carcassone.

Before ending the month watching the sunrise chez nous,

Oh well, off to the Lake District now, to say goodbye to Mum. Scattering her ashes on lake Windermere will be strange, I’ve never done that to mum before, but catching up with my long lost brother may be ammunition for another blog…

Here’s all October’s pix for those who cannot sleep:

Feet don't fail me now.

There are many thousands of walks in the Pyrénées, beyond count. Our friend Peter is keen to show us many of them.

So keen, in fact, that he is often intent on making new ones himself.

Today’s ‘off piste’ walk involved following what might have been wildlife track vertically up the side of a bloody mountain.

Breathtaking, in more ways than one.

Once up there, there is always the descent to look forward to…

Back in time for a beer or two at Peter’s restaurant, and a view of the sun gong down on another great day…

…and my feet are still intact!

The Desolation of Dawg.

As daylight fades in Le Vallée de Ger, haunted moans disturb the peace.

A tortured groan echoes across the valley, as if a great beast lies dying of terminal indigestion.

These sounds of dire distress last throughout the night, dispersed only by the late-coming morning sun.

What tortured soul makes these desolate cries? What foul misfortune has befallen some unfortunate beast?

As autumn falls each year, these sounds can be heard resonating around the Pyrénées. Surely no beast deserves such hell? All puny humans shelter in fear of what has befallen out in the lonely forests, bereft of all hope.

It is said by some that these forelorn sounds are actually those of rutting deer; their once yearly copulatory excesses leading them to vocalise their joy.

But we know better…

Faking it.

To fiddle or not to fiddle.

Coming to the end of an amazing holiday can be very sad. Loving photography changes that.

The week in Tanzania was awesome. Approaching the last day generated a mixture of longing for the holiday to never end, and anticipation for the first proper look at all those photos.

During the week I had looked at almost none of them. On return, it took some time to sort all 3,250 photos taken during that incredible week.

With some I was really pleased. Some of the scenery shots I love…

and the wildlife presented endless opportunities…

And so, feeling rather pleased with myself, I eagerly posted many of my favourites to Flickr, thinking that some would trigger a lot of feedback. My ego was not to be so easily pleased. Little interest was generated.

Somewhat disgruntled, I tried experimenting. ‘If they don’t like my normal photos, I’ll make one up’.

After spending a couple of minutes ‘gluing’ elephants to a scenery photo, I created something obviously faked. It instantly went viral.

My most popular photo ever; a complete fake. Ego withered, I tried a second attempt.

This one, too, went viral.

It’s a funny old world. I think I’ll try another one…

Fake? Nah….

And they say that the camera never lies.

Serengeti - the Endless Plain

Of Wallabies and Coconuts.

And so we flew east to the Serengeti (Swahili for ‘the endless plain’).

Our main aim here was to see the Mara crossing, where over two million wildebeest and zebra migrate to Kenya across the Mara river. Expectations were high. We chose the Serengeti Mobile Camp as it changed site depending on the migration.

When we were there, the migration was at its tail-end, having started early this year. Numbers crossing were low (although you wouldn’t think so looking at the photos). This disappointed the bloodthirsty French, as they were hoping to see the wildebeest decimated by crocodiles as we had done back in 2011 in the Massai Mara. As you will be aware, all Frenchmen are hunters, and get up early each morning to kill any local animal life. They then eat much of it raw for their breakfast.

French women also have their foibles. One of Annick’s is to blame me for everything, even when, occasionally, it is not my fault. One example of this is my hearing. When I do not hear what she says, she arranges a hearing test for me. When she cannot hear what I say, she says that it is because I mumble. Harrumph.

Well, this sorry state of affairs was exacerbated on this holiday by the presence of Caroline and Denis, who both speak English with an American/French accent. This, along with my (alleged) hearing problems, did, upon occasion, lead to some confusion.

On of their common mistakes was to pronounce ‘wildebeest’ as ‘wilder beast’. After repeated correction by myself, their pronunciation transmogrified into something that sounded to me like ‘wallabies’. Another tripping point was ‘crocodiles’ which often sounded like ‘coconuts’. Thus my confusion when they described their sadness at not seeing wallabies being killed by coconuts…

We saw a plethora of wildlife, from leopards sleeping and mating (not necessarily at the same time)…

Cheeta sleeping and not sleeping…

Lions sleeping…

Rhino hiding in bushes

Vultures doing…disgusting stuff…

And, well, so much that my camera nearly overheated.

Here' a link to my favourite photos from the Serengetti. (Flickr Album link)

Tarangire National Park

Tales of baby tigers and penguins.

We are on safari again, but this is no repeat journey, this is the real deal. Tanzania has more wildlife than you can shake a stick at, and I feel that we have seen most of it. in just one week.

This blog is somewhat delayed due to the complete lack of hi-tech communication suffered over the ten days abroad. I say ‘suffered’, but, in fact, it was bliss. No intruding phone calls, meals taken without everyone texting friends and playing angry birds. Peace in our time.

Tanzania; a first time visit for Annick and I, along with Caroline and Denis for whom it was a first ever safari. They are two lucky bustards! Ahem.

The safari trucks we used all week were the very latest Toyotas. Comfortable, spacious, designed for wildlife spotters and photographers in mind, with 240V charging points next to each seat.

From the airport pick-up at Kilimanjaro, we spent a couple of hours passing through the local towns, with instructions to keep our cameras out of sight to avoid the local down-and-outs. On reaching the Tarangire National Park, we were surrounded by all manner of timorous beasties. The density of wildlife here has to be seen to be believed.

Our guide in Tarangire was the endlessly ebullient Raymond. He was forever filling us with information (some good, some… not so good). When he started a sentence with 'latest research shows…’ we quickly learned that bull was soon to follow. Always the jocker.

He asked us what we wanted to see, and he would then attempt to comply. My quest, for instance, was to see leopard. On the very first evening he found one for us. Unfortunately, this was to prove all those months of eye surgery (to make my new bionic eyes) wasted.

“Ah, there’s a leopard!” He said.

“Where?” We cried.

“In that tree” he said.

“What tree?” I replied…

Even when we parked next to the aforementioned tree, we had real difficulty seeing the leopard, so effective was its camouflage. I took pictures and, on returning home, I enlarged, refined and photoshopped the images until, finally, I could see the bloody thing…

We were later to get much better, stunning sightings of leopards in the Serengeti, but for now, he had kept his promise.

You want Zebra? We got zebra (bums and all)

You want trees? Raymond could track 'em down…

Some of which contained a surprise…

You want romance? We got romance…

You want dental care? We got teeth…

We challenged him to find many different species. He succeeded with most, failing only at baby tigers and penguins (duh).

The sunsets kinda made up for it.

And so, after three incredible days in the Tarangire National Park, the great white hunters left for one of the most amazing places on this entire planet.

The Serengeti.


Here’s a link to all the best photos from the Tarangire National Park (link to a Fickr album)

Keep your eyes open for the next blog, 'The Serengeti - Tales of Wallabies and Coconuts’.