Off to Amsterdam

Little jaunt to Amsterdam for my friend Bryony's birthday present. I'll let you know how it goes and hopefully get some photos somehow (I'm cameraless again unfortunately). x

Winspit- an inadvisable excursion...

Not exactly a travel blog, but expeditions to a different county about as exciting as I can hope for at the moment...

It probably says something about me* that nobody was particularly surprised when I arrived to see my family in Lytchett on Saturday morning saying I'd spent the night in a cave. This ill advised plan was, for once, very little to do with me... I watched passively as it mutated from a gathering at the Square and Compass and staying the night in my friend's van, to climbing in Wimborne and the possibility of camping down on the coast somewhere. Desperate to escape the library and working on the usually reliable assumption that the majority of the population are more sensible than I am, I felt safe enough to go along with whatever conclusion my friend Dom eventually came to. He does work for the RNLI after all!

Looking slightly worse for wear after our Lifesaving AGM the night before, I packed my bag with characteristic flippancy; I couldn't possibly need much for two nights away and carrying my big bag on the buses and trains didn't appeal (walking boots? - too heavy! roll mat?- too bulky! head torch? -no, I just couldn't find that one). I actually felt quite smug about the fact that i'd managed to fit everything into a bag the size of something most people would take to the gym as I set off for Dorset. Ginger hippy or not, at least i didn't take up much room. Hurrying through the train station, I was happy to find both that my train was delayed (I was running late of course) and a family friend Adam** on the platform. It seems slightly less hoboey to curl up on floor between carriages when you are with somebody who has a small suitcase!

When I arrived in Poole, I was half expecting Dad to be picking me up after work and had to keep reminding myself that he was actually in the Hebrides. Thankfully Dom and the van were there instead, so we set off to pick up another friend and head to the climbing wall. Climbing was half fun and half frustrating... Having not been in a long time, my finger strength is pathetic and there was even a point where Dom took pity on me and yanked me up on the rope instead... probably not my finest nor most elegant moment.

I left Wimborne irritated, but promising myself some new climbing shoes and practice at the uni bouldering wall. The second half of that bargain i've actually kept to quite enthusiastically so far.

 By the time we'd finished, gone to buy some ravioli and spent a bit of time lost in the fog, it was pitch black and raining. I think Dom may have been hoping i'd say no when he asked 'So, shall we do this?', but we could hardly back out now and I certainly wasn't going to be the one to give in first. We slipped and slid down the path to the sea, where i suggested that as long as we were going downhill, it was probably the right direction. In fact, we went a little too far down and ended up right next to the waves before heading back up to the quarrys Dom was thinking of. Still these cavernous holes didn't look too inviting... I had to explore right to the back of our chosen camping cave before i could relax in the knowledge there were no monsters. After a few beers I slept surprisingly well, despite the dripping roof. With my lovely down sleeping bag and a borrowed roll mat, i was quite comfortable and just pleased to wake up having not been crushed by a loose boulder.

I'm not sure if I could recommend Winspit as an ideal bivying spot, but if i was a tramp***, id deffinitly give the caves an investigation. You cant fault the sea view.

xxx


*or my slightly ecentric family
**mentioned in the Islay blog, for avid fans...
***a not too unlikely possibility for my future

Finally..

Hi everyone,

I realise I’ve been pretty terrible at this blogging business recently. I hope nobody has been worried about me or anything. Sorry family! This is a very different form of traveling to anything I’ve experienced before. I have little to no control over where we’re going and a very limited say in how long we stay anywhere. However with great power comes great responsibility, so in this case the opposite is quite liberating. This is honestly the easiest trip I’ve ever done: Yannek our chauffer and budding human encyclopaedia knows where we’re going, how to get there and what Napoleon was up to there a few hundred years earlier. It’s mildly depressing to be starting my third year of a history degree, but still have nothing on someone two years younger than me. I should probably be more concerned by this than I actually am… In terms of actual living, staying alive, I don’t need to concern myself too much either. Alex manages to turn their busking money (often surprisingly lucrative considering their four song set list) into food for us all via a combination of a lot of hours spent in supermarkets, comparing the price of SuperU’s kg of chips with that of Leaderprice, coaxing the van’s dodgy hobs into action and using pretty much anything to make the result taste a bit more exciting. Ever had pasta with a can of lentils and sausages? Neither had i… We drive in the van, cook in the van, eat in the van, drink in the van and sleep in the van. It’s our portable, comfy cocoon and I might cry a little when I have to leave.

This adventure, despite it’s relatively safe setting (what can go wrong as close to home as France?), has possibly been my biggest spontaneous gamble yet. I first met Alex and Yannek in Chefchauen, Morocco around two months ago, where I was impressed by their story and the breakfast Alex and Dougan (the crazy, long haired American hitch-hiker I travelled with for a little while, if you are an avid enough blog fan to remember that far back!) cooked for us one morning. I was intrigued by the idea of traveling around Europe in a van, especially when I found out that Alex had never been abroad before setting out for a year and a half with very limited mechanical knowledge, no idea of what it would be like and a tendency to get sunstroke. I would have liked to travel with them from Chefchauen, but was interested in going to Al Hosema with the other boys, so I said my goodbyes and thought little more of them…. For  a week or so anyway. At the point, the wonder that is facebook informed me that they were in Portugal. By now, I was staying with Geoff in Spain and had run out of time to stick to my original plan of traveling back via land and see and had booked a flight out of Porto. We were all going to be in Faro at the same time. We ate burgers, finished off a few too many beers and made drunken plans to meet up again soon. I’d fly out to meet them mid-August. Why not?!

So I did, and here I am, one of the best decisions I ever made (other than originally going to Morocco of course, without which none of this would have happened) . In fact, without alcohol none of this would have happened as I booked my Marrakech flight drunk too (didn’t tell you that did I Mum, sorry). I’m not sure what the moral of that story is really?

Anyway, I hope this makes up for a little of my silence. Until yesterday, we’ve been enjoying the sunshine (except first thing in the morning when we wake up clawing our way to fresh air), jumping off high things into rivers and admiring the incredible scenery in South-East France. Picking up hitchers is always interesting, especially Matthew, a middle-aged hippy who invited us back to his house in Circ de Archiane which was probably the most amazing place we’ve seen, surrounded by massive rocky outcrops. He might be my new idle… This sunny bliss continued until we reached the ugly city of Genoble, where we lost a day confused in  what looked like endless council flats, expensive  supermarkets and sweating in the van. The next morning we woke up to find the battery dead and after some pushing and shoving, tried to explain to the nearest Frenchmen what the problem was. What followed was a very long wait in the middle of nowhere. Even half an hour would have been painful before breakfast. Trouble comes in threes, so I didn’t let my guard down. Then came the rain …and the leaks. Our portable, comfy cocoon turned into a enclosed sprinkler system. Everything was getting wet. The storm was so intense, I managed to have a shower in it (trust me I needed it!).

The weather is still bad, but we have mostly contained the leaks and they made enough money busking in Chambery yesterday that we have food for the time being. We’re heading to Germany now, the land of plenty (as far as sausages are concerned anyway). Life will be easier for them being able to speak the language and having friends to visit. I don’t envy them sleeping in here all winter though…

photo dump!

Bumbling around the south of France

Hello everyone, sorry for the silence...

The past week or so has been an extremely hot journey through Marseille, Avignon, Uzez, Nimes and some little villages I forget the names and spellings of. Sleeping, eating and driving around in the van is a little claustrophobic in the heat, but it's a much easier way of traveling. Yannek drives us from place to place, while i usually have very little idea of where we're even heading to.

 

We've been traveling with a group of Germans, making us six, a great number for late night feasts, drinking and early morning swims to cure the hangovers and wash of the inevitable drenching of sweat which we wake up drenched in every morning.

Alex and Yannek have been pretty successful with the busking recently, allowing us a few more luxuries and everything was going fantastically until our friends car was broken into while we were swimming. Cue a few days of stress and hassle for them.

Sorry about the lousy blogging and wonky photos! xxxxx

Goodbye UK (again...)

It's not going to be a long one, but just to let you know I'm here. After a 4am start, tubes, buses and a plane , I was pretty relieved to find Alex and Yannek waiting for me with the van at Marseille. We set off for Calanquez straight away... 

First night in the van last night and a shower in a suspicious stream this morning!

Islay 2012... contemplating the holiday over a 26 hour journey back down south...

So I was sat out on deck, soaking up the last of my Scottish sun, at the beginning of my mamouth journey back to Southampton. I wasn't going to be back in London, let alone to the festival I was heading for in Winchester, for at least 24 hours time. Despite this dauntingly long journey, it felt strangely right to be leaving alone. I was gutted to be missing thier last few days on the supprisingly sunny island of Islay, but I was enjoying the freedom of traveling independantly again. I'm sure Jenny and Joe appriciated the extra legroom too.

This years Hebredian holiday was one with a difference. I have to say, I doubted Mum's sanity when she told me how many people would be joining our usually fairly relaxing, allthough physically exhausting fortnight. Would this motley crew, ranging from baby Issac to Nanny and Nigel be able to feel the Islay magic? I couldn't imagine Uncle Mark enjoying the steriotypical Scottish weather and how would Rosie cope with all that sand? Regardless of the mixed company, organising 25 people sounded like a logistical nightmare (I only live with 13 and we still cant get ourselves out of the house for a night of drinking and dancing much before 11.30pm, whatever our intentions). Yes, I had concluded Mum was mad, but that wasn't going to stop me coming along for the ride. How would the carnage unfold?

Our first day on the Island also happened to be my 21st birthday. I wasn't expecting anything really, but despite most people having only had somewhat less than the recomended 8 hours sleep the night before, they   pulled together quite a feast. Jenny and Joe sneakily draped the house in fairy lights, balloons and even a banner (provided by Nanny I think), while Mum took me out for a wander down to "Seal Bay". Enough food was cooked to feed a small army, and it was a good job too as we had 16 bleary eyed guests swashed in around the dining table that night. I'm sure everybody would have really prefered to be in bed, but my enourmous glass was kept topped up by the ever vigilant Uncle Mark and we devoured one of Nanny's giant chocolate cakes which i rather tipsily chopped and distibuted. The Kerrs arrived a little too late to enjoy much of the party, after thier multiple ferry crossings, but it was great to see them all for the third time this year allready. 

The rest of the holiday passed in a supprisingly disaster free manner. Everybody younger than me, I can hardly refer to the majourity of them as children, seemed to be having a fantastic time building damns, horse riding and having sleepovers at each other's houses. A large sandy dalmation was sculpted, piggy back races were held and bubbles were blown all over the place. Unfortunatly Sophie, Andy and Issac were unable to make it, but I'm sure even a baby would have had a great time. Unfortunatly I, at the grande old age of 21, elt a little to lazy to keep up with these shinanagans and after a highly inappropriate game of twister and a few piggy backs for Rosie and Ellie, I was exhausted. 

Hanging out with the "adults" was usually a slightly less energetic option. Saying that, chasing Dad, Uncle Ian and Uncle Mark the whole three miles from Claggan to Proaig could hardly be called relaxing. It seems that even though I could probably give Dad a run for his money on land these days, the competition in a kayak would be a little different. It wasn't until I saw the three boats disapear around the first headland that I decided that i'd quite like to join them and imagining that they would daudle around the Islands of Ardtalla, I set off at breakneck speed, hoping to catch them up. All looked fairly hopeful as thier dots seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, until Proaig came into view. I had thought this to be a gentle amble around the coastline, but spotting the old bothy in the distance, I knew exactly what Dad was planning. Having come so far, I would have felt a little pathetic to turn back now, so I blasted out into the exposed bay and battled after them against the wind. Why wouldn't they wait? Surely somebody had seen me by now, but I guessed they wanted to land first and hang around on the beach for me. As I paddled harder and harder, they only seemed to get smaller untill all but Uncle Mark's blue boat (strangely) disapeared out of sight. By this point I was getting a tiny, but piercing, spot of fear in my chest. Last time I had been in a kayak, it was upside-down after all, and I didn't fancy my chances swimming that far. My lifesaving friends would have been less than impressed.

After what seemed like an age of plowing through the weather, I could just about spot them climbing out onto the beach. Thankfully they seemed to be waiting, so I powered on before they could vanish again. When i finally came into the beach, it transpired that they hadn't even known I was following. Uncle Ian explained how they had just been congratulating themselves on the paddle, when Dad spotted me out in the distance. All was forgiven...

Proaig is an old abandoned farmhouse which has been turned into a bothy for chilly walkers to shelter and sleep in. Looking back in the visitors book, I found our old entries and left a new one for our future selves. The way back was rather more sedate and I certainly felt we deserved a few of the 40-somthing sausages Jenny was cooking on the fire back at Claggen. 

The only exception to the ludicrasly sunny weather was a day at Aunty Helen and Uncle Ian's house, which appropriatly feels somewhat like a lighthouse due to an excelent view from a living-room surrounded in windows. The Claytons were keen to show us the beach nearby, so we donned wellies, waterproofs and determination, to battle against the wind accross the fields and down the steep path to the beach. It was a fantastic place with the waves crashing in on the rocks, a waterfalls blowing off the cliffs behind and a whole heard of goats scattering around the headland. I couldn't resist clambouring onto the most exposed rock I could find and hanging on for dear life as I got splattered with spray. Soaked through but exhilerated, I spotted a kamercazi seal in the waves and discussed the possibilities of kayaking or even lifesaving in such conditions. Not a chance!

Over the couple of weeks, we showed the party many of our old favorite spots including Sanaig More, Proaig, Ardtalla, Bowmore, Singing Sands and Gorden Tui (please excuse my particually bad spelling here). Traigh Bailea Aonghais, aka Angus's beach, is one of my favorites. So flat and wide it merges with the sea, allowing you to understand that you are truely stood on one of the millions of faces which make up the earth's sphere. The sky is enourmous, emphasisning the weather conditions, so that the sight of blue sky breaking through the clouds is a cause for true excitement as it highlights the trickles of water running down the beach. For those beginning to feel the stab of insignificance which often attcks in such vast spaces, a perfect antidote lies on the edges of the beach. If you walk until you reach the piles of kelp and bladder wrack, crouch down and have a peak below the fronds. From this perspective, you will feel like a giant as you find tiny crabs, strange fish and winkles all waiting for the tide to rise and free them.

These are just a few of my favorite memories, there are so many more: there was a day so calm we could look through the surface of the water as if it was glass and from a distance Uncle Mark looked as if he was sitting in his kayak on the horizon; the curry night with endless amounts of rice; a trip over to Jura which nearly ended up in the whole family being marrooned; Federer verse Murray at the Short's house; beers on the beach, climbing rocks, building castels, deer, eagles and even the odd otter.

Arriving in Glasgow at 10pm at night and casually settling down on the floor for a two hour wait before my next mammouth leg to London, I thought to myself, maybe it wasn't Mum was was loosing her marbles after all or if she was, I was hardly one to judge.