ghnomads

2006-01-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

A year in Europe by Motorhome

David and Janice closed their English garden gate on the 1st September 2004 and set out on a three-year journey by motorhome to pursue their passion for travel - it broadens the mind of course, through landscape and culture, language and food, and music and art. With a common interests in wildlife, photography, writing and walking, their first objective was to venture extensively throughout Europe, wandering with the wind to places of interest; mountains and wild National Parks, cities and tiny villages, absorbing the sights and sounds as they went, and recording them in word and film.
This travelogue helped to maintain the threads of ties to family and friends at home. It started as an email diary every week-or-so, and developed its own character as the seasons changed and the joy of writing took its inevitable grip. It is presented here in three parts as it happened, broken by short periods back home. We hope you enjoy it and that you are driven to seek your own adventures in the footsteps of the grey-haired-nomads.

Further adventures of David and Janice in North America will appear from January 2006 on: http:/www.travelblog.org/bloggers/grey-haired-nomads/

Sept-Nov2004

2005-12-11T01:32:00.000-08:00

Smiley, our trusty Autotrail Cheyenne

News 1 September 1st 2004 D Day and the French chateaux

This trip has been so long in the planning that it is hard to believe that it has finally begun. Smiley, the motorhome, has been gradually packed over the last month. It began its journey very tentatively with a drive of a few yards across the road to spend the night at J and G’s while we downsized yet again into our second new home in a fortnight. A fish and chip supper marked the end of an English summer, and several new beginnings, one being a new life as nomads, unsure where tomorrow will take us.
Early morning on D-Day (Departure Day) dawned misty, following a cold, moonlit night. Autumn was definitely on its way. But soon the sun came out to accompany us on our way towards Dover. The 75 minute crossing passed in a flash with barely time to reach the second chapter of Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley”, which seemed totally appropriate and inspirational.

Of course, an hour disappeared somewhere over the Channel, so it was apparently about 3.30pm by the time we left Calais. The motorway whisked us effortlessly as far as Rouen, where the city road system defeated us and we took ages to find our way to a campsite at nearby Louviers. Here we realised that September 1st brought low season to French camping. We also realised that motorhome camping is the height of luxury; compared to an English couple we chatted to who were on their first ever camping holiday with a tent – at the age of 60!

From Louviers it was a relatively short drive to Chartres. Another French town, another defiant road system, with roadworks and detours at every turn. Patience prevailed and we parked by the roadside, free, just beyond the pay and display car-park. The jewel of Gothic architecture, Chartres cathedral, was just five minutes walk away. We had seen the two spires from several miles away, but closer inspection revealed amazing carvings adorning the north, south and west portals. On walking inside, the first impression was that the soaring Romanesque masterpiece was incredibly dark. Little light was able to enter because all the magnificent windows were stained glass. There was certainly a great deal to study and marvel at.
“There’s no point in being in France if you can’t rub shoulders with the French in the odd café or restaurant.” No sooner were these words uttered, than we were having omelettes, frites and salad in the Café des Arts. If ever you find yourself in Chartres, you must go to this café to visit the loos – floor to ceiling black slate tiles with stainless steel loo and a rectangular steel dish for a hand basin. A totally new experience.
The roads between Chartres and Blois were boring – very straight, occasionally tree lined, but more often just flanked by vast fields of stubble, or sunflowers or maize. Some were being burnt, sending up huge columns of smoke which hung in the air for miles around. We passed through a few very dodgy-looking villages but little else. Then we found Blois, a large town on the Loire. The campsite we had in mind for the night was just outside Blois, but it took us nearly an hour to find the right road. We realised that everyone finishes work at six, as we sat in traffic jam after traffic jam. However, eventually Smiley found his way to Huisseau-sur-Cosson, near Chambord, where he decided to spend the night. This site only has about 2 other campers, discretely parked behind tall, neatly clipped hedges. The patron was very attentive, but I think that was just because he didn’t want us to blow up his electricity system.

Our visits to the many Loire Chateaux began today, at Chambord. What a delightful turreted architectural gem to begin with! It was very pleasing on the eye from every aspect, especially as several elegant equestrians were putting their equally elegant horses through their paces on the grass stretching away from the chateau.
We left Chambord to its coachloads of Italian tourists and meandered to neighbouring Villesavin. Here we found a comparatively tiny chateau, in a state of elegant decay. There were only two or three cars visiting at any time, so it was wonderfully tranquil – except when we discovered that we had broken our water pipe by reversing into a slightly inclined grassy bank. Helplessly we watched our 6 € of fresh water drain away into the sand of the car park. Fortunately D, “Mr Fix-it”, had a handy tool kit, which repaired the damage with the minimum of effort and absolutely no swearing. Villesavin was charming, though damp and cobwebs added nothing to some extremely naff exhibitions of wedding memorabilia and carriages.
Onwards to Cheverny, and chateau number three for the day. Its white symmetry glowed in the dazzling sunlight, as temperatures soared to 31 degrees. We ventured inside to inspect the furnishings, which were very tasteful, in surprisingly small rooms. Despite its chunky, massive exterior, this chateau was actually very narrow. It was surrounded by an enormous estate, most of which consisted of immaculately trimmed lawns, dotted with magnificent specimen trees.
The heat and common sense prevailed today and we checked into a nearby ****campsite, where we found a pleasant shady pitch amongst the trees. Before long we found our way to the pool where we cooled off.

Sat Sept 4th
Another baking hot day, another day of chateaux. So many of these chateaux begin with the letter “C” – today was Chaumont and Chenenceau. At Chaumont we walked and admired from outside; at Chenenceau we had the full deal of chateau and jardins. Chenenceau is a “must visit”, as it has it all – moat, drawbridge, turrets, vast park, landscaped gardens, forests – everything a fairytale castle should have. Indeed, it is built across the River Cher and looks like a castle on a bridge, which is what it is.
Feet aching, we found a local campsite (run by Brits) for the night. Its main criteria was having a pool to cool off in; its second best feature was toilets with seats, and toilet paper. (I bet you really wanted to know that.)

Sun Sept 5th
Another scorching day. We visited the last home of Leonardo da Vinci in Amboise. This is another place I would highly recommend, as it really captures the feeling of da Vinci’s era and is superbly well presented. You see his home as he would have seen it and you see models of many of his most amazing inventions, most 3 or 4 centuries ahead of his time. Renaissance music is piped throughout to add to the atmosphere.
We then had to visit another chateau, this time for its renowned gardens, at Villandry. Unfortunately, it was really too hot to linger too long amongst the formal box-edged gardens, but we were impressed, especially by the flawless kitchen gardens. We’d never seen purple chilli peppers before.

Mon Sept 6th
The heat-wave continues. Having camped on the banks of the River Indre, we visited the fairy-tale castle of Azay-le-Rideau today. This was beautiful from every angle outside, dark and rather dull inside.
We were by now feeling rather castled-out, so our thoughts turned to bird-watching and we headed south towards the Brennes wetland area. It might be too hot for birds, but we did see 2 kingfishers today. Overnight camping at Chatillon-sur-Indre.

Tues Sept 7th
Still unbearably hot (37 degrees).
Did some birdwatching in the Brennes area, which is rather like the Broads, without the boats. Sightings included whiskered and black terns, water rail, snipe, egrets, Slavonian grebe, marsh harriers, buzzard, long-tailed tits, and many more. Have also seen some deer (not muntjac) and red squirrels.
Continued driving south, as far as Limoges.

Wed Sept 8th
Hot again.
Day of driving as we reached Perigord and the Dordogne Valley. Scenery more dramatic with rolling wooded hills and rocky gorges reminiscent of Cheddar. We seem to have found some tourists again; after a couple of very quiet night’s camping, tonight’s site is almost full. Having said that, it is only a small farm site, but it does have a lovely pool with magnificent views. We have been very impressed by the sites we have stayed at so far. All have had good facilities, attractive settings and reasonable prices.
Our drive today took us to Brantome, which was crawling with British tourists. It was quite pretty and we had a very good lunch there, but I’m not sure why so many tourists were there. Perhaps they were all looking for property to buy as there were estate agents galore, all advertising in English. We much preferred the nearby village of St Jean de Cole, with its ancient stone cottages, clustered around a wide sandy square dominated on one side by an 11th century church and a 14th century chateau. Beautiful at every turn, and not a gift shop or tourist to be seen (except us).
Now we’re near Les Eyzies.
We did plan to stop in Perigeux to e-mail home, but the traffic defeated us, there was nowhere to park and after driving in completely the wrong direction, we continued south to here. Where are we?

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News 2 15th September 2004 A Week in the Dordogne

There will surely come a time when the concept of our journey will turn from holiday maker to traveller, but it will take a change in the weather to tilt the balance. With temperatures in the 30’s since our arrival in France, the prospect seems a long way off.
The Dordogne has welcomed us with its terracotta fields, drilled like corduroy behind the plough, the autumn sun filtering through chestnut and oak tunnelled roads opening suddenly on to rolling wooded slopes, valleys of maize and tobacco, and mellow stone villages perched high on distant hillsides. Fields of sunflowers bow their dark heads in sorrow now for the passing of a summer of a million smiles.
Sarlat la Caneda at its centre, is the sort of place that you could have an affair with, full of romance and a warmth that glows from every stone in every building and every cobble on every narrow passage. It is a special place now that the tourists have gone, sun soaked walls festooned with geraniums, primrose tablecloths and gentle chatter over lunch at a secluded cafe and the chink of cutlery on fine china, tiny shops in narrow alleys purveying the local specialities, foie gras, wine and truffles. Janice was caught with a smile on her face here over lunch and a second glass of wine. She told me she was thinking about school dinners. Now, why should that make her smile, I wonder?
A chance conversation with a French couple revealed a genuine concern for the rising house prices induced by the invading Brits and Dutch, and, somewhat unexpected, the changing face of religion towards Protestantism. The takeover of north Norfolk by wealthy Londoners and the flow of immigrants into the UK from Iraq, Poland and Serbia, India, Pakistan in recent years, and locally of course, Portugal, puts this into perspective.

Long lost memories of history lessons and films came home this week, back to the 13th / 14th Century picture book images of knights in armour, maidens in distress, The Black Prince and the 100 years war, when English Kings fortified their domain with Bastide towns on every hilltop bordering the challenged territory. A number of these small and charismatic towns remain, guarded by high walls and turreted gates, with arched arcades around the central market square. Montpazier and Montflanquin, where we had afternoon tea, are mirror images with their narrow cobbled streets in grid formation. Our evening dip in the campsite pool all to ourselves was followed that night by a magnificent thunderstorm, lightening flashing across the sky and thunder reverberating through the valley. We were to have storms on the two following evenings as we travelled the Lot valley, but it rained only once, in torrents for just a few minutes, bringing a welcome cool breeze in its wake.
The Cele river heads northwards, leaving the Lot at St Cirq Lapopie and the high road passes by Belaye, with wonderful views over a meandering loop in the river, a whole community locked in on three sides, a huge patchwork of vines and maize stretching to forested hills and chalk buttresses beyond. It’s no wonder that brother Michael loves this area so.
The locals are out shooting birds in their hard hats. It’s not surprising there are few birds about. Significantly, there are lots of sparrows. Doubtless these are the ones that have left England for the better weather, the pan tiled roofs and the improved cultural environment. Every small town has its neat park with tennis courts, swimming pool and football facilities, and a Municipal campground with immaculate toilets and showers. Why are they not vandalised like ours at home?
The fuel gauge started flashing at around 12 o’clock on Sunday. That’s the time when garages shut for the day; not that there are many around these days to shut of course. The supermarket sign-posted 12km ahead was closed, but the 24/24 sign gave hope of diesel to get us to our destination. We should know better by now of course; they don’t accept English credit cards. So, it was camping locally to await opening the next morning, Monday.
Full to the brim with diesel we headed for Lascaux to see the cave paintings. Now, we would need cash of course to pay the small entrance fee, but of course, banks don’t open on Mondays! God bless the cash card.
Lascaux 11, whilst it is a reproduction of the original cave, is stunning for its sheer scale and artistic authenticity, taking us back across 17,000 years. Truly a touching experience in realistic surroundings, though the French guide’s accent was unintelligible. Two out of every three tours (in groups of 40) are in English. S arrived on a cheap flight from Stansted yesterday, bringing with her some light rain and her usual broad smile. It was good to see her and travel with her to meet her friends in their new home at Massignac, Charente, just west of Limoges. We learned that 25% of the children at the local school are from England which raises the question of who is paying for their education and will they stay long enough to repay the debt. Were it not for the Brits here the village might soon become deserted and degenerate beyond repair, for the youth of today demands more from life than a tiny village can ever hope to provide.
If today’s break in the weather marks the transition from holiday-maker to grey nomad, we will celebrate with a drink to your health and good fortune tomorrow, in St Emilion.

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News 3 Tuesday 21st September 2004 Bordeaux

Having said farewell to Sonia, we headed west to Bordeaux country and the wine town of St Emilion. There were vines as far as the eye could see in every direction, just about ready for harvesting. Every shop in the town seemed to be selling wine, of course.
We passed through the Sauternes area and into the Landes, an area of reclaimed sand and swamp that has been planted with pines and consequently looks a bit like Thetford forest. We spent a very pleasant day at Le Teich bird reserve, a huge expanse of wetlands, rather like Minsmere, but with dozens of hides – and dozens of kingfishers, storks, egrets, herons, night herons, godwits, sandpipers, cormorants, grebes (various), snipe, stonechat, wheatear, …..
It was time for golf the next day. Golf courses have been scarce and the one we opted for, at Biscarosse, was attached to a large resort complex. Amazingly, in an area as flat as the Fens, it turned out to be very hilly, with constant blind shots and narrow fairways. I think we enjoyed it and played quite well, although the legs complained afterwards.

Once on the Atlantic coast, freecamping became more available, with sites provided in forests and by lakes especially for motorhomes. We tested the glorious sandy beaches that stretch all along the French coast south of Bordeaux. We discovered some of the best surfing beaches in Europe, where we enjoyed just listening to the constant roaring of the waves. By the way, the weather was perfect for the beach, with sunshine and cloudless skies. On one beach we decided to do a bit of sea watching for birds, so we took the telescope, only to discover that although there were gannets, and probably other things, off shore, there were plenty of nudists on the beach and in the sea; so we hid the telescope in our blanket and beat a hasty retreat.
Having dawdled our way gradually south, on Sunday we hit the east/west motorway to get into the heart of the Pyrenees. Our destination was Lourdes, best avoided unless you’re a genuine believer, but we stopped for a quick peek anyway. Its first impression is of a rather grey, depressing, industrial town, with a couple of big churches. Further inspection lead us first to a lovely church, nothing to do with St Bernadette. Then to the High Street where dozens of shops were selling unbelievably tacky souvenirs – I think the worst was a plastic bottle for your Holy water, shaped like the Virgin Mary. Beyond the commercialism, however, there were thousands of faithful believers, focussed on the cave where Bernadette saw her visions, the Holy water gushing from the spring there, and the Basilica that has been erected nearby. It is an area of prayer and hope.
Moving swiftly on, we entered the Pyrenees ski area to low cloud obscuring the views promised by the guide books. We camped at Cauterets, a ski resort, which seemed as grey as the clouds.
Yesterday began equally grey but we were promised by T.I. that the weather would improve, so we headed for Gavernie, where we hoped to see “one of the great spectacles of the world”. We were a bit doubtful because of the cloud, but it broke just as we arrived and changed to glorious sunshine. And there as promised was a spectacular view of the Cirque de Gavernie, a glacier-scoured wall of rock, rising 4265 ft from the valley floor. We broke out the walking poles and boots and headed off for a 6 mile hike, with awesome views all the way. Wait till you see the pictures.
We freecamped back in the village and were awoken this morning by the braying of a free range donkey just outside the van.
Today’s weather has again been very kind and we have enjoyed more awesome scenery as we drove over 2 passes and found our way into Spain. We have had some incredible sightings of griffon vultures, which seem to hunt in packs. We counted 17 over lunch yesterday and 23 this afternoon. We’ve also seen some passing golden eagles and several ravens. We’re hoping for more raptors in the next day or two.

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News 4 28th September 2004 Pyrenees and Picos

It is now just four weeks since our journey began, every day another adventure with new towns and villages, wild open spaces and tree covered hillsides, another mountain to climb, new faces, time for meaningful conversation, and to make new friends. Our journey has taken us through the valleys of the Chateau on the Loire to the verdant pastures of the Dordogne and the Lot, and south into the vineyards of Bordeaux and the beeches and forests of the Atlantic coast. Our first sighting of the Pyrenees was from Lourdes some ten days ago where we turned south-east, then back, south and west, enjoying the spectacle of both French and Spanish mountains and tree lined valleys. In the past few days we have travelled westward along the north coast of Spain towards the Picos for more dramatic scenery, walking and hopefully more exciting birds.

The Western Pyrenees

It’s ten o’clock before we’re under way most days. The mental clock has still not adjusted to continental time, though it might just be that daylight is our alarm or we are adjusting to the French way of life. Nothing much stirs in these parts until after ten; except perhaps the donning of a beret and a keen grip on a walking stick for a trip to the patisserie for bread, or a small chink in the shutters to indicate that life still exists.
Bright sunshine followed us from Gavernie and the Col du Tourmalet where superfit cyclists tackle this challenging climb on the Tour de France. There’s grafitti on the road to celebrate the race; ‘Go Lance’, ‘Mayo’, ‘Virenique’, ‘Jan’ and ‘ETA’ of course. The French take their Pyrenean Mountain dogs to Gavernie to let them know where their roots are, and to let them mess on the footpaths of the National Parks instead of the streets of Paris. Then it was on into Spain through the tunnel at de Bielsa. A similar tunnel in Norway would net the government millions of Euros, but here in this sleepy neck of the woods where France meets Spain high on the mountain top, it’s for free. Only the signposts give any indication that there might once have been a border post here; signposts that give instructions in Spanish are close to meaningless for us – though we will learn!
With the fuel gauge well below a quarter coming over the pass, the search was on for a fill up. We didn’t know, but it’s even cheaper here; that’s Fossey luck for you; 78.5 Euros compared to 85.9 - 103 Euros in France. We reckon you make your own luck in this world and we’re exposing ourselves to our share every day. Here in the high peaks, tiny summer grazing hamlets mark the end of sharp-sided valleys, inaccessible in winter and almost so at any other time of the year. Single-track roads wend their way through forested hairpins climbing ever upwards for mile after long kilometre of breathtaking mountains under azure cloudless skies. Here in Revilla and Tella the griffon vultures soar high above, almost invisible to the naked eye, and a lammergeier – another first for us, way above the soaring peaks that would be at home in the Rockies; patchwork emerald meadows teeming with redstarts and fleeting wheatear and the sound of contented sheep, dots in the distance, heads down in the lush grass, their bells echoing rhythmically across the landscape. It’s still 30 degrees on and off, and the enormous pool at our campsite at Ainsa was most welcome – even at 7pm, and we had it all to ourselves.

There are a number of recommended car tours in one of our books. The ‘Grand Canyon’ tour provided stunning views of square topped mountains stroked by the morning sun, looking down on a scrubby landscape of grey slate with stunted trees and bushes, gorse; and thyme dusting the air with its sweet perfume across the hillside, scattering stonechats ahead of us as we ascended the pass in second gear, onwards, ever upwards. J was clinging on for dear life around torturous bends with sheer drops of hundreds of metres (and lots of feet too) to the valley floor below. It’s tough riding shotgun in the middle of the road.

Whilst there are few campsites in the area, we have yet to be disappointed. Summer walking, hiking, canoeing, caving and climbing in the surrounding hills and skiing in winter, demands accommodation of all sorts and the campsites have invested huge sums in brick paved paths, hundreds of pitches, good facilities, pools, restaurants, bars; and log cabins for the winter, some of them quite luxuriously appointed. Ours, some 10k west of Jaca was no exception and we shared it with just one other motorhome and a couple of campers. We’ve discovered that these sites fill up at weekends as those seeking the open air descend in droves with their strong boots, walking poles, backpacks and climbing gear.
A couple of white fluffy things appeared in the sky mid-week. They were obviously lost and looking for the migratory route to England. We could see more clouds from the top of the ridge above the monastery at San Juan de la Pena, way out over the mountains more than thirty km across the plain, reminiscent of Montana. A strong wind kept many of the raptors away that day, though we did see a peregrine soar across our path and flycatchers, firecrests and woodpeckers along the wooded valley amongst the holly, beech, elm, scots pine, old mans beard and bright red rose hips. The monastery is being reconstructed at enormous expense; huge cranes and hundreds of men are erecting an enormous building that would put Buckingham Palace in the shade. It was sacked by the French in the 18th Century, so why has it taken so long to think about restoration? Later that afternoon a dozen griffon vultures treated us to a fine display along the beautiful Hecho valley, its hillsides rising steeply from the grey soiled plains, ploughed since harvest, and up the pink-stoned river bed through Hecho to the daunting, ever- tightening canyon at the top of the valley where it gets its name. Smiley is coping well with all these hills, the narrow roads and frightening hairpins. Thank goodness for 2.8 litres of turbo diesel and good brakes. These roads were not designed for 6.35m and 3.2 tons of luxury motorhome, but if you want an exciting life you have to paint a few colourful pictures, close your eyes and dream don’t you? We continued on into the clouds, a little light rain in the early evening sun casting rainbows across the valley.
With no evidence of campsites in the book anywhere on our planned route, we continued northwards back towards France in second gear, up and down, on poorly maintained roads, (EU money has not yet reached the Pyrenees). The roads here are either excellent or extremely poor. In the last of the failing evening sunlight we spotted a ‘Campsite 3 km’ sign and shortly, at the base of a glorious rainbow, an open campsite came into view. Old father luck strikes again! It was still another 20km to France over the steep winding pass to ‘free’ camping and our day had been exciting but very long and very tiring.
The morning sun streamed through the clouds en route back into France, high over the cloud-covered pass to Arête Pierre St Martin, looking more like a slate mine than a smart skiing resort, shrouded in thick mist and limestone rocks in strange formations. The steep valley through the Foret d’Issaux towards Accons is amongst the most beautiful and spectacular places we have ever experienced. Honey golden cows grazed the verges, their doleful eyes intrigued by our passing, with wild ponies and sheep to keep them company in this area of rich green trees rising higher than the eye could see and deep down to the sparkling river way below. This area would be so wonderful in the spring; but we can’t be everywhere; the Dolomites, the Extremadura, Finland before the mosquitoes, Tuscany - or the Alps. It would be beautiful here in the autumn in just a week or two; but then it will be autumn somewhere else – and we will be there to witness it.
We turned north at Bedous, then west up the Col d’Icheve, through milk, cheese and lamb country. Why is it that with all these cows you can’t buy fresh milk here; and you can buy bread, but it’s only fresh for a day?
Todd has taken to riding in the cab with his nose against the window, keeping an eye out for trouble ahead. He watched as we tackled another ‘Tour de France’ Col, recommended for watching migratory raptors. A group of French ‘birders’ were encamped at the top with binoculars and scopes at the ready, and with their help we identified booted and short-toed eagles as they headed south. We had noticed the locals out with their guns earlier that morning, sitting, guns over their knees waiting for something to take a pot at. Here there were hides along the ridge, unoccupied this morning, overlooking the prime European migratory route for eagles, honey buzzards and osprey (from Rutland Water and Scotland?). I asked our French birders why they didn’t pull them down – as we would in the UK. ‘It’s politics,’ he replied, ‘They do it in the south, but it’s not acceptable in Brittany.’ Below the peak was a mustard coloured car some 200 ft below us over a vertical rock face, flattened and smashed beyond recognition. On the bend at the top, a hand written sign read ‘Sandy’, beside six silk roses. A timely reminder that one microsecond of lost concentration on these roads can extinguish a young life - forever.

A cool breeze rustled the red oaks on our campsite at St-Jean Pied de Port at the weekend as we sat in the shade of our awing writing our diaries and contemplating our route through Spain and into Portugal. A buzzard called overhead, scouring the valley floor through thin autumn sunshine. An hour’s walk took us into the old town here. It is built from pink stone, fortified to protect the valley from Spanish invasion and now a main route for pilgrims en route to Santiago. A pilgrim can get a room here for as little as 5 Euros. This was our first lazy day since leaving Dover and a good lesson learned; we would travel well tomorrow, refreshed, better prepared and all the better for it. J spent the afternoon planning our route into Spain and we are going to by-pass Biarritz and the whole Cote Basque to avoid the crowds and the traffic.
A tough drive out of the Pyrenees brought us down to Mutriku on the coast just west of Deba where we spent the night overlooking a beautiful beach and harbour. The town was once a small fishing village with some fine historical buildings, but they have been throwing concrete at it since the 60’s and it has lost all its real charm and thrown away its heritage. The Town Council must be made up of builders. Today, Mutriku is 100% apartments. If you want a house on your own and somewhere private to hang out your washing, it has to be out of town.

The best-dressed man in the Basque country is wearing beret and cardigan, and carrying the compulsory stick. In France, they are wearing the blue overalls with their berets! Our next day’s drive took us to the rich limestone of Cantabria with its’ high white peaks and sharp outcrops and pine forest. They are planting wide areas of Eucalyptus here. We passed a number of small towns where there were skeletons of once palacial buildings, deserted now since the quarries closed. The reason was soon clear; at Castro Urdiales they are dismantling a mountain and taking it into the towns to build more ghastly concrete apartments and EU roads. Our long drive was worth the effort; we were rewarded with a magnificent winding road through a ravine into the Picos mountains. This road scores about 83 on the ‘Wow!’ scale. (Details of the formula available on request. Norway still the only place we know` with over 90!) Were looking forward to a day at the top later today. We’re off to the cable car in a minute!

So, it’s adios for now from the Picos. The sky is blue and the sun shining its heart out again,

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News 5 - Sunday October 3rd 2004 Galicia

We really enjoyed the Picos. We were there for four days, by the end of which we both felt that we needed a break from mountain driving Picos style – i.e. narrow, steep, hair-pins, sheer drops, no parking places, no passing places and no turning places. Certainly not motor-home friendly. But very, very beautiful. We did some fabulous hikes and had equally fabulous weather.
We called our first hike “walking with choughs” because both Alpine and common choughs accompanied us most of the way. We also saw some chamois and the usual griffon vultures. We certainly got to some very remote, isolated spots in the Picos.

We decided to follow the coast west towards Galicia, the northwest tip of Spain. Unfortunately, now that October is here there are even fewer campsites open, so we are having to drive further than we would sometimes like in a day. After Picos our next halt was at a place called Luarca, where our pitch looks out over the pounding breakers along a rocky coast somewhat reminiscent of Cornwall. We stayed here 2 nights to have our rest day on Sunday, when we did some local walking along the coast. Excellent sightings of goldfinches and redstarts and black redstarts, and stonechats, and we think a Dartford warbler.

Tuesday 5th October
Yesterday was a lovely day, leisurely driving round the north Galician coast. We managed to find some very unspoiled fishing ports and some gorgeous empty beaches. We also tried “fried fish” (rough translation) which turned out to be large “whitebait”, and actually surprisingly tasty, heads, tails and all.
We ended up at Santiago de Campostella, destination of many pilgrims, some of whom hike long distances to get here.
We ventured in to the city by bus today, I have to say, in heavy drizzle this morning. However, as the day wore on, it brightened up and the city became somewhat less depressing than it had seemed at first. Not only were there the genuine pilgrims, toting huge backpacks, 4’ long walking sticks with scallop shells and gourds attached, but there were also coachloads of mostly Spanish tourists, all intent on going to the cathedral. Away from the cathedral we found pleasant maze of cobbled and arcaded streets to lose ourselves in. Lunch today cost 6 euros (about £4) for starter, main course (paella) and dessert, plus bread and one third of a litre of wine or mineral water.
On returning to the motorhome back at the campsite, we were disturbed to find that the remote wouldn’t unlock the cab doors and put off the alarm. So upon entering through the side door, of course the alarm went off. Whatever we tried, it kept going. Panic. We had to phone the alarm company to tell us how to deal with the problem, which apparently was caused by being parked right beside a transmission mast which we hadn’t noticed before. We have now moved elsewhere on the site and won’t risk putting the alarm on again whilst here.
Off in a southerly direction tomorrow, hopefully getting into Portugal.

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Newsletter 6 Wednesday 6th October to 13th. Into Portugal

Travelling with only an outline plan pencilled on a sheet of A4 is a continuous adventure built upon expectations and reality, and shaping memories; new, exciting, revealing – and sometimes even disappointing. This week has not failed us as we journey south from Santiago de Compostella towards Lisbon.

Come then weary pilgrim, sit beside me; waggle your toes in the cool sand and close your eyes. Picture out there beyond the Atlantic breakers of Baiona, the tip of the white sails of the Pinta on the horizon as Christopher Columbus returns from the Americas, a new land of hope and toil for the lost souls of Europe. Cup your hands to your ears and listen to the sound of mighty canon as the Spanish fleet is routed by Drake for its rich cargo a little way along the coast. Open your eyes now and look behind you as chatting promenaders stroll the walkway along the beach at Praia de America and joggers pound the pavements on this bright sunny morning. We leave today for Portugal.
There is something magical about seeing another country across the river. A little way south, the Rio Mino divides Spain from Portugal along this rugged west coast and the estuary is overlooked by the sanctuary and little church of St Francis at Castro de Santa Tegra and the remains of a fascinating bronze-age settlement. Across the bridge into Portugal there are still elderly ladies in cardigans and aprons, headscarves and wellies, carrying the tools of the day; scythe, hoe or spade and a green plastic bag which seems to be compulsory. They are off to do their daily chores in the fields of hay, potatoes, beans, brassicas, and pumpkins, chestnuts, walnuts and grapes. There is something more obvious about this border crossing, marked by the transition from a half finished country to a more orderly, elegant one where things get finished eventually. They have taken their time to put the right pieces in the right places and then draped them with exquisite balconies and ornate tiles in bright attractive colours.
The lure of the mountains drew us east into the Serra do Geres National Park where wolves and wild boar are said to roam. We didn’t see them, but the chances are that they saw us. We stopped in lovely Barca on the way, with its decaying old, and prosperous new town, where two coffees and two muffins cost 2.20 Euros, about £1.50! The road rises out of Barca into the National Park through tiny self-contained hamlets, their vines on pergolas around the edges of the fields now turning blood red as the crop matures, and the sweet smell of smoke from vine-pruning fills the air along the roadside. This is the Portugal we came to find, where the trees crowd over the road forming green tunnels of moss covered oaks and lichen speckled birch, bronzed bracken the first sign of autumn, carpets the forest and clear granite strewn streams flow from the mountain tops. It is not so much the seeing, the touching, or the hearing, that memories are made of, but the feeling deep inside. The pull of the mountains extended our stay here and we turned north for a while up a narrow road in fine misty rain. The thin autumn sunshine broke through by mid-morning to display beautifully kept white houses on the hills, their terra cotta roofs stark against the trees along the valley walls. The granite mountains shone pearl white, peach, buttery cream and milky chocolate against a leaden sky.
We have not seen a TV or read a newspaper for six weeks. Time has little meaning anymore. We lost a day somewhere last week, thinking it was Friday when it was Saturday. Hunted in all the cupboards and turned out our pockets and eventually found it in Spain somewhere. Nobody told us that Portugal was one hour behind Spain when we arrived here earlier in the week, and it was 24 hours before we discovered it! We used the extra hour to walk a mile or two along the wide sandy beach as the sun set over the crashing Atlantic breakers along this amazing western coast. It must be Europe’s best-kept secret, so promise not to tell anyone, please.
A short way east of Braga is the neoclassical church of Bom Jesus, standing atop a forested hill overlooking the town. The church with its imposing granite pillars, is reached from a baroque statue lined staircase. Bom Jesus is impressive, and a must apparently for those on the pilgrim trail.

If you like big dipper rides, then you should visit the summer resort of Madalena on the coast and take the bus into Porto. This is big-foot country and we had been warned about the young handsome bus driver by our Australian motorhome owner Brian, both with big feet; the bus driver, and Brian. The narrow roads and the high-speed hair-raising journey are enough to frighten the moustache off your granny. But the ride is worth it, if only for the visit to the cellars of my favourite port maker, Ferreira. The bottle, - hic- bottles, will be empty before we return. Found a great fish restaurant and an interesting bus-top tour of Porto, but it’s not a city we would rush back to. This city, and much of the rest of Portugal no doubt, is a bit like most of northern Spain that we have seen, where the decay outweighs the regeneration to such a degree that it will be almost impossible to catch up. For all that, there is an attractive air of gentle softness to the place and the people. Here in Portugal we get friendly waves from the locals as we drive at a leisurely pace through towns and villages lost in time.
The heavens opened up on Sunday and ruined our chances of good birding on the salt marshes and inland waterways of the Ria de Aveiro along the narrow peninsular between the 50km of wide sandy beach and the maze of lagoons just a few hundred metres to our left. By evening we had reached Costa Nova do Prado, its fish market heaving with people at 6pm and astonishingly lovely candy striped wooden houses, green, blue, red and yellow, with balconies on two levels, that would put Southwold quite in the shade! Here too, they have beautifully painted, flat bottomed seaweed harvesting boats with high pointed prows; for which Kodak film was invented.
For us, a visit to the salt pans is always hard to resist, and we were rewarded further south at Figueira da Foz with good views of flamingos (most unexpected and always exciting) and black winged stilts, swifts heading south for the winter (like us), and a marauding peregrine.
By early afternoon we reached Batalha, home to the astonishingly flamboyant Gothic Monastery de Santa Maria de Vitoria, completed in 1434 and built from ochre limestone with a most beautiful, unfinished chapel, alive with ornate carvings. What a wonderful day. This area has a wealth of notable monasteries, but we will take home a memory of just this one to avoid diminishing its glory.
We have started to talk to Todd; now renamed El Toddo for the duration, which is probably one of the first signs of madness. “Are you having a good day, El Toddo?” “Yes, thank you,” comes the reply from the passenger seat, and he doesn’t even move his lips. Smiley also gets the occasional ‘pat’ on the dashboard after a particularly hard days work.

The clear blue skies returned on Tuesday and another pearl turned up when we walked into Obidos early in the afternoon. This magnificent walled town is a true picture of Portugal at its very best; the sort of picture that you would want to put in your back pocket where no-one else can find it. Narrow cobbled streets and tiny houses line every hill and the three churches stand proudly at the turn of a corner in this biscuit-box little town. We are reminded of an apartment we once owned in the Old Town, a mile inland from Villamura on the Algarve. Magic! But then it is October, and the tourists are long gone.
Heading south, the wind of change in the fortunes of Portugal becomes evident. Beyond Sao Martinho do Porto; that beautiful, smart resort with 350 degrees of beach and its’ eyes on St Tropez. The buildings along the coast shine bright in the sunlight of Lisbon money and the signs of decay have vanished. We are heading down towards Sintra and Lisbon over the next few days, now that we have had a quick a round of golf at Porto Novo on a course designed by Walt Disney, I think. But it was fun and we needed the break. There are another 12 spectacular courses between here and Estoril!
We have travelled 3,800 miles through France, Spain and Portugal since the 1st September, and we are nearly half way through the first part of our journey through Europe. (av 115 miles per day). From Lisbon we will head inland to the Extremadura to try to catch the tail end of the autumn migration to Africa.

Birders note: Exceptional sighting of hen harrier yesterday on the reed-beds, plus gannets, shearwaters off the point at Peniche, crested lark (on top of Smiley), purple heron, egret of course, and hoopoe on the golf course.

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Newsletter 7 Wed 20th October 2004 Portuguese palaces

We checked out the golf near Lisbon around Estoril. “Are you in the hotel? No? That’ll be 150 euros for a round. Best to book on the internet, then it’s only 130.” We gave it a miss.
Besides, there were too many other things to see.
Having stood at the most westerly point in mainland Europe, at Cabo da Roca, we found a good site near Cascais, which we used as a touring base for a few days. From our pitch we could just see the sea at a nearby surfing beach beyond the dunes.
Smiley was badly in need of new front tyres (having done 34000 miles) so one of our first outings was to arrange for those to be fitted the next day. Not quite soon enough, as you will see….

The weather became showery, but most of the time it didn’t bother us. We headed to Sintra, a beautiful small, busy historical town set up in the hills inland from Cascais. There are several palaces at Sintra; the royal family liked the area for holidays. We did the 15th century National Palace and then dived into a café during a particularly heavy shower. Remember this for later ….
Tourist Information reliably informed us that the Pena Palace was accessible to motorhomes, there would be parking, no problem. So although most people were walking up from the town, because of the ominous clouds we decided to drive up in Smiley. We discovered that the road was one way, and cobbled. A bit bumpy but not too bad. Happily we observed that even young folks hiking up were looking decidedly puffed and we patted ourselves on the back for being sensible enough to drive. We were a mere 400 yards from the top when the wheels started going round but we were going sideways. Even in first gear we couldn’t get up the hill on the wet cobbles. We couldn’t go back; bus drivers shook their fists at us; we waited for the cobbles to dry; we emptied all our clean water out to reduce the load. Eventually, daring driver David gave it another go, and we made it – just. Then we couldn’t get through the entrance to the car park, which was full anyway. So it looked as if all our efforts had been in vain and we would just have to drive on down again. But fortunately, we squeezed into a roadside parking space and hiked back up the hill to the palace – which was well worth visiting. Described as “a bizarre architectural confection which rivals the best Disneyland castle” it was built in the 19th century and is full of the royal family’s furniture, left behind when they fled on the eve of the revolution in 1910. We really enjoyed our visit.
We then went and got new tyres fitted on Smiley.
Next day, Smiley had a complete rest as we ventured into Lisbon by bus, train and tram. We visited another amazing monastery built in memory of Vasco da Gama’s discovery of a sea route to India; he is buried there. Again, the cloisters were especially ornate with unbelievable detail in the carving. We also visited the Castelo de Sao Jorge where we had fantastic views over the city. Otherwise there were no particular monuments to visit; we just ambled around enjoying the pleasantly relaxed ambience of squares, chic shopping streets, cafes, stately buildings, trams and a bit of peeling paint and plaster.
We liked Cascais very much, but by Sunday it was time to move on again, as we headed slightly north east back into Spain and Extremadura. We began with a visit to one last royal palace nearby (admission free on Sunday morning) at Mafra. This one was 18th century and HUGE, built extravagantly with money from Brazilian gold. It wasn’t particularly cosy and seemed better suited to its present use as a military academy than a royal palace.
We’d had enough of buildings for a while and changed into bird-watching mode. Out came the binoculars and telescope and we found our way into a remote part of the Tagus estuary where we passed a pleasant afternoon hunting the elusive little bustard (really) and spotting collared pratincoles, goshawk, loads of black shouldered kites, hen harriers and marsh harriers, egrets, glossy ibis and common waxbills, ruffs, kingfisher, etc. We finally left the green coast and found ourselves in the arid interior – dry sandy soil, cork oaks, olives and not a lot else.
On Monday it rained, heavily, most of the day, so we decided to make it a driving day. We said “adios” to Portugal and arrived at Monfrague National Park in Extremadura. En route we did manage to spot white storks, azure winged magpies and pied flycatcher. No little, or great, bustards.

On Tuesday it continued to rain off and on all day. However, we visited the National Park and did manage to see hundreds of griffon vultures, azure winged magpies, black vultures and a Spanish imperial eagle. And another kingfisher. The vultures flew really close when we climbed up to the top of a ridge where they hunt. We also had excellent sightings of red deer and wild boar. But no bustards.
Tuesday night it rained constantly and very heavily but Wednesday was much brighter. We watched vultures galore again, but decided most other species have already migrated south. No bloody bustards.

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Newsletter 8. 22nd October

Further travels of a grey haired nomad. Heading south from Extremadura into Andalucia.

Yesterday’s rain provided a welcome boost to the many local reservoirs, quenching for a moment the thirst of the Costas to the south.
The blue skies of morning were peppered with fluffy clouds as we left Merida and the Monfrague National Park. Our road rose from the cork and holm oak slopes of the river valley, to fertile groves on top hat hillsides and beyond to the open plains; a wide panorama of Fenland proportions, rolling like the swell of a heavy sea in a chequered display of olives, vines, fruit trees and maize stubble grazed by black pigs; vast fields stretching seemingly a hundred miles to the mountains, a misty purple in the autumn sunshine.
A stop at Villa Franca de los Barros brought commission free American Express exchange amid a maze of streets hiding their shops along residential streets of terraced white homes bordering the road. How would the Brits live here with no garden, back or front, and little evidence of even a back yard between the grid of streets? For all of that, the streets are clean, tidy and well cared for. Our site that night just west of Aracena was somewhat rustic, amidst acres of sweet chestnut trees dripping with huge clusters of prickly husks, bursting with bronzed nuts. Within minutes an open fire was lit and supper began with the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts rising through the trees on a windless balmy evening and a bottle of Tinto Castello de Monfrague 2001. We try all of the local wines where we can, but don’t expect to find this one on the shelf at Tescos.
Saturday was to be a special day for Smiley. After seven weeks of continuous work, we gave him (or is Smiley a her?) a day off, and walked from our camp-site into the village of Fuenteheridos, expecting a handful of houses and one small shop with three cans of sardines. This seemingly insignificant village, tucked away in the crease of the map is home to several thousand people and it’s buzzing on Saturday. It nestles here amongst the chestnut groves, its white walled terraces of tiny houses crowding the narrow cobbled streets from the church with the stork’s nest in the tower, down to the busy market square where we ‘people watched’ from under red umbrellas outside the corner café over coffee. Here, in this clean and tidy village, renowned local ham is served with tomato, cheese and oil on toast for breakfast; and locals, smartly dressed as if waiting to be presented to the Mayor, abandon their cars in the middle of the road to visit the ‘supermercados’, just coming to life at 11.30 to greet its’customers. Sonia's friends, Tony and Irena, told us of their love for this area of Andalucia and we could be tempted to explore some more. This was to be a day of rest for us too; we lunched beside Smiley in the shade of the chestnuts trees and watched the grass turn green around us in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun amidst falling chestnuts like prickly hand grenades, bouncing off the ground in all directions. Newton would have had a field day here – or perhaps just a very sore head.
We fell for the charm and warmth of these small knots of the community, perched on hillsides and swathed in white beneath the church and castle. Almonaster la Real is one of those rare gems, high on its’ fortified hilltop, white as a cluster of diamonds; engulfed by the clear sparkling air scented with Jasmine and captivated by a hypnotic stillness. In the valley below the fort the steady rhythm of far-off goat bells breaks the silence, a farm dog barks at the gate, the cockerel crows; late again, and traditional high-volume Spanish voices echo through the trees as the church bell rings 13 at 12.30 on this spring like morning. Above the square, the blue and white chequered church tower topped by the nest of the lucky stork, now home to squatting sparrows for the winter, and, in the shade of leafy planes a group of contented old men do what they do every day; mardling, whilst the brown dog sleeps with one eye open. Cortegana, a few miles to the west, bears similar characteristics though it is larger and bears the scars of a lesser quality of respect and pride. Higher into the Parque Natural de Aracena do Picos to the north, the sallow green hillsides in a long line waiting to be counted, lay heavy with cistus (rock-rose) for as many miles as the eye could see. What a picture this must be in the spring!
Autumn has been following us since we left the Dordogne, and now at last, the bracken has turned to copper and the poplars shimmer gold along the valley applauding the welcome breeze. We were so close to Portugal at one time that we could have reached out of the window and touched its’ warm shoulder. We have fond memories of our days along the Algarve many years ago.

We have all heard of the giant RTZ, but we previously had no knowledge of the scale of mining in the Rio Tinto valley a few miles south of Aracena. Here is a craterous moonscape of Texan proportions, stepped like a jelly mould deep to the dark pools hundreds of feet below, reflecting grey skies pattering with rain, and wide as the jaws of Moby Dick. This is a spectacle as great as any Guy Fawkes night, ribbed as a paint box, rich with ochres, umbers, greys and creams: the source of copper, silver and iron. The last of the hills to the south gave way to the bright green tops of stone pines standing like guardsmen in green bearskins on Horseguards’ Parade, and the first sighting of vast orange and lemon orchards, fig plantations and grape vines and fields of black plastic heralding a spring harvest of strawberries for Sainsbury’s shelves. The afternoon brought with it brighter skies and an afternoon of ‘birding’ on the marshes near Ayamonte where the river divides Spain from Portugal. (White stork, great grey shrike, avocet, black winged stilt, common-tern, stunningly pink flamingos, etc.) We watched the sun set as we walked, short sleeved along the beach near our site at Isla Cristina. The moon shone on the water as the lights of Portugal twinkled like warm stars west of the long sandy shore.
Like golf, birding is often an excuse for a good walk, but there the similarity ends. Birding for us is perhaps more akin to fishing; where it doesn’t matter if you catch anything or not: there is the satisfaction of having tried – or, at the very least, been exposed to the risk of some success.
A misty start to Tuesday heralded sunshine before eleven, and we headed for the Donana National Park which runs alongside the coast to the east of Huelva (as soon as Smiley was washed and spruced up after so many weeks on the road). This is Europe’s most important wetland, and a paradise for birds throughout the seasons. It lies beyond a 35km ridge of magnificent sand dunes stretching several km inland, stabilised by stone pine, ericas and cistus, to the inland horizon. There are military establishments providing protection for this stretch, but we did find access along a well-maintained boardwalk, 1.5 km to the shore. As we were to discover later, there has clearly been a big investment locally to limit access, and control this very special environment, doubtless funded by World Heritage money. By mid-afternoon we were at the Park Information Centre, a beautiful building with details of walks and limited access, and boardwalks through the lagoons. Here we met a few Brits; conspicuous with binoculars and scopes, and enjoyed a short stay in the hides. Suffice to say it was a good day, the highlight; three purple gallinule (swamp hens in some books), a truly magnificent bird which we have only seen once before; in Australia.
Before going into our site at El Rocio, we briefly visited the town, seen on the horizon as a dazzling white row of church towers and low-level houses. It is indeed a surprising and wondrous spectacle. This is the one-horse town of all good cowboy films; a grid of long rows of houses, cafes and bars and the white church with the bell at the top, set astride wide dirt roads. And as Smiley entered the ‘high street’ at a trot, a rider crossed the road ahead and vanished behind the church. I’ll swear to my dying day it was John Wayne.

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Newsletter 9 – from 28th October to 5th November 2004 Cadiz, Jerez and Old Tangiers

First of all, I have to add a footnote to the last newsletter, which omitted one particular birding day. When heading south from Monfrague to Aracena, we spent a whole day driving along potholed narrow back roads, hunting for bustards. We saw loads of red kites, buzzards, black shouldered kites, great grey shrike, hoopoes and EIGHT LITTLE BUSTARDS – yes, they really do exist!

More recently, here on the south coast of Spain, our usual bird sightings are of flamingos, egrets, stilts and more kingfishers. We’ve found wetlands on the border between Portugal and Spain and again in the Donana National Park, around the estuary of the Quadalquivir River, between Huelva and Cadiz. Aren’t these some lovely names? Add Seville, Jerez, Tarifa and Tangiers to those and you have an overview of the area where we are now.

We liked Seville, immensely. We did a lot of walking there so we got a good feel for its different districts. Notable visits included the most amazing cathedral, huge and stuffed full of art treasures, and the alcazar, which is a palace built in a mixture of styles but predominantly mudejar (or muslim) with wonderful plasterwork, arches and tiles and lovely, cool gardens.

After a bit more birding, we spent a day discovering the delights of Cadiz.
The sun shone, the white buildings gleamed and the sea reflected the azure blue of the sky. Cadiz is on a headland and the sea views all around are fabulous. There were many grand buildings, narrow, balconied alleyways, a domed baroque/neoclassical cathedral, two castles, palm trees and flat-roofed houses echoing nearby North Africa.

We also discovered that the coast just south of Cadiz suited us rather well. It wasn’t too developed, had an excellent campsite and offered the chance of golf that didn’t require a mortgage. So we stayed there for three days. In addition to the golf, we just walked on some more deserted beaches and made the pilgrimage to Cabo de Trafalgar. This completed the hat-trick of visits this year linked to Nelson – we went with Aussie friends Brian and Kathryn to Burnham Thorpe, his birthplace; whilst in Portsmouth en route for St Malo we visited the Victory, and now we looked out on a tranquil sea that had once witnessed the great battle in which he was killed. Apart from a rather nondescript lighthouse, there is nothing at Cape Trafalgar; no plaque commemorating the battle, or souvenir shops, or museum. I suppose you don’t celebrate defeats. There were numerous sanderling and ringed plovers dodging the waves and some interesting rock formations. Perfect. Also the hazy view of Africa in the distance.

Before leaving this area, we had to go to Jerez, where the sherry comes from. This time, we gave the bodegas (sherry factories) a miss and headed for the Andalucian Riding Academy. There we watched a display of dressage type horsemanship which demonstrated enormous control and teamwork between riders and horses. It was quite something to see, even though we’re not riders ourselves. We needed enormous control and teamwork to get both in and out of Jerez. The centre was being dug up, so was closed, as were numerous other streets, with no diversions; the signing was appalling and it took us about an hour and a half to find the riding school and then the same again to get out.

Moving on to Tarifa, we were at the point where Europe is closest to Africa, Morocco to be precise and Tangiers to be exact. So we had to go, didn’t we? Our day trip was everything we hate about organised tours, but nevertheless it was an experience and an eye-opener. Suffice to say that within about four hours we witnessed everything from camels to the royal palace, from snake charmers to mosques, spices to carpets, couscous, kebabs, mint tea and endless “hawkers” trying to get us to buy bags, bracelets, baskets and brass camels. I now know what is meant by “Come with me to the Casbah” and I also understand what is meant by “shopping” in North Africa. They don’t have Tescos or M & S. Having had our senses battered by the arabs in Tangiers, we were battered by the huge waves on our crossing back to Tarifa. The hills around here are covered with wind farms because it is a notoriously windy area and at present there’s quite a gale blowing outside. It’s Guy Fawkes Night and Todd is missing the fireworks. C’est la vie. I wonder if they will be having them in Gibraltar, our next port of call.

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News 10 7th November 2004 Return to British soil

Our journey this week has taken us from Tarifa, the southernmost point of mainland Europe, eastwards to Gibraltar, fast (in an hour or so) along the Costa del Sol beyond Estepona and northwards to Ronda in the mountains. We then headed east and north through Alora and Antequera with Cordoba in our sights. A week of walking, stunning scenery, wildlife, and just a small pinch of culture. Well, you can only take so much, can’t you?

Gibraltar 7th November

We left Jimena, 30km north of Algeciras, heading for Gibraltar in the hope of seeing it in sunshine after yesterday’s rain delayed our trip. I guess we were going mainly because you can’t just drive past, can you? Gibraltar came into sight as we came down from San Roque; a huge cardboard cut-out camel, grey on the horizon, its vertical ends erect and severe. It’s out of place, stuck out here where the Atlantic meets the Med, but it’s a friendly place; just across the runway past curt Spanish and English Customs; white, but as English as Brighton. We parked at Safeway’s for the day and filled up with tea bags, pork pies, real sausages and pickled onions - and diesel at 43.9p per litre! The cable car doesn’t go up on Sundays, so we took the taxi tour to the lookout point to see the Straits across to Africa, to the massive caverns where they hold concerts amongst the ‘tites and ‘mites, then a quick stop to meet the famous apes from a point overlooking the hundreds of ships in the harbour. M & S was closed! This year is the tercentenary of British rule here. Next year, 2005, it’s the turn of Nelson and Trafalgar; celebrating the bicentenary of a memorable victory and a true Norfolkman. Many of his men who also gave their lives for our country in this fierce battle are buried here in the Trafalgar cemetery.
Spanish customs took a cursory look in Smiley for contraband on our way out before we left for a long fast drive along the Costa del Sol as far as Marbella, then north, climbing the winding road up to Ronda against the nose-to-tail weekend traffic, off home to the coast for another weeks’ work.

Ronda
It’s just a mile or so from this great campsite to the fortified town of Ronda, famous for its bullring, the great ravine running through its centre, and flamenco. Those who have seen it, rave about it, including Orsen Wells and Ernest Hemmingway and Michael Fossey, to name but a few. Ronda is two towns for the price of one; the old Muslim town to the south of the river, divided from the new by a huge gorge 100m deep, joined by a single road bridge at the top. The old town is rich in churches, a convent, lovely balconies and twisting streets. The ‘newer’ town is built on a grid, with fine shops, a grand square and a memorable 18th Century bullring. I’m not certain that I would go; but if you’re interested, bullfights are held here in September. It’s a lovely experience to stand in the centre of the ring and shout, “Ole!” By the way, Todd has a new friend called Ron (from Ronda) to talk to now.
Don’t miss Ronda if you’re ever this way. (Real sausages from Gib for tea and still reading Sunday’s Times [£2.35!])

Grazalema Natural Park
A hazy sky bode well for the day and we headed for the Grazalema Natural Park to the west of Ronda, with the promise of vultures and spectacular scenery. We were not to be disappointed. This is the Spain we came to see; away from the ever popular and crowded coastline to the hilltop villages high in the mountains, where most of the houses are still in Spanish hands, the cafes and bars belong to the locals and the church is still alive. This is a popular destination for Spaniards and visitors alike, a picture book far from the mad, incessant rush of modern life. The road climbs through the rolling agricultural valleys now flecked with golden poplars, to the wild and rugged grey limestone of the hills, planted precipitously with cork oak to the very top, where griffon vultures, twenty and more seen at one time, and one lone black vulture circle overhead; and where bandits famously once roamed.
Our journey took us first to the beautiful village of Zahara de la Sierra, perched on a hillside above a blue reservoir, cool and serene in the bright sky nearly 2000 ft above sea level. This sparkling village is squeaky clean, set on the very edge of the natural park and whitewashed this very morning in readiness for our visit. We sat in the tiny square drinking coffee and watched the world go by, surrounded by steep narrow paved streets, immaculate white porches, ornate balconies bedecked with flowers, and fountains in the tiny square with a church at either end. We spoke in whispers as we walked through the town, the way that you do when entering a church. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that before. They are putting new electrical cables to all of the houses, and re-cobbling part of the main street and an announcement over the town Tannoy from the top of the church probably said something like, “We apologise to David and Janice for any inconvenience this work may cause.” They make their living from tourism today, supplementing their income from woollen scarves and shawls, olive oil, apricot liqueur, cheese and cork of course. The properties here would suggest a high standard of living, but it might be hiding behind tourism investment from the government or the EU.
The fig trees are now bright yellow alongside the steep winding roads, against the grey-green broom, the shimmering gorse, the rare Spanish Fir and the stark outline of the mountains. Sparkling goldfinches sweep across the treetops before us in huge flocks, heading for Gibraltar and the North African coast. We sneaked a second look at the slightly larger town of Grazalema before the sun set in a dazzling display of orange across the whole sky against the deep blue backdrop of a summer’s evening in November. This lovely town reflects our experience in Zahara, spotless and shimmering white, but with proportionately wider streets and squares – and a garage, to support its 2,500 population. This is a truly lovely area and I suspect we may be here for a little longer.

The sun rose early on Wednesday, sizzling the ants by 9.30 through a crisp blue backdrop beyond the mountain frieze. The Sierra de las Nieves rises to the east of Ronda through a barren and desolate landscape; but beyond the ridge, as though passing to Act 1 – Scene 2, the landscape turns to green; wall to wall olive trees dotted across the hilltops like dominoes shuffled on the table. I’m now confused about olive green. Here we have dusty green olive, blue green olive, bright green olive, dark green olive – in broad brushstrokes on the canvas. Our walk of the day took us from the tiny town of Tolox (30 km north of Marbella), high into the afforested mountains on the lookout for vultures and the elusive blue rock thrush – our latest challenge now that the bustards are in the bag. We did see a thrush, and it is the only one likely to be here now, but we can’t be certain enough, so we’re still looking! The Sierras are not of Alps proportions, but for all that, the eagle eye view across to the Sierra Nevada 120 km to the east is breathtaking. We love the mountains and we had this one to ourselves for nearly three hours.
There were places on our route northwards towards Antequera where there were so many olive trees it is seemingly impossible that there are enough people in Spain to pick them all, yet more fields are being planted across vast areas here in the south. The growth in demand for ‘healthy’ fats is doubtless helping to boost demand, but we have to hope that fashions don’t change too fast for this country of great hope. Our journey ended today at Laguna de Fuente de Pietra. We just had to come here, it’s second only to the Camargue for breeding great flamingos in Europe, though they are not likely to be here in any numbers until January. Still, we’ll see in the morning.

It’s morning; early. We’re the first off site, the sun is up there doing its work and the clouds have gone off somewhere else for the day. There is a chill wind sweeping across from the plains to the east and we’re wearing our jackets for the first time, but there are flamingos here, about 200 of them, playing croquet with Alice in the shallow brackish water. We’re always thrilled by the sight of this ungainly bird, though nothing will ever match the spectacle on Lake Naivasha in Kenya, where close on a million of them gather in a pink line a mile long! We were not to be kept waiting long for another stunning surprise, as a hundred or so cranes took flight ahead of us as we drove around the lagoon! This is one of J’s top 10 birds and this has ‘made her day’.
There were three or four families of Brits on the site last night. They seem to have been here for some time and there are ‘Se Vende’ signs on their caravans suggesting that they have bought properties here and are now ready to move in. It’s a nice enough town, but I’m not sure I would want to live up here in a town much like any other. They’ve brought their kids too. I suppose they will learn how to pick olives at school. It’ll soon be a bit like living in Essex.

The olive fields stretch to the horizon to the north, interspersed with vines for our Christmas bottle of Sherry, now bright yellow in the autumn sun. This is the agricultural belt of the south and our road leads us on through endless shades of brown ploughed fields blanketing the hillsides, rolling without trees or hedges to the mountains beyond. They were ploughing on almost vertical slopes with caterpillar- tracked tractors yesterday! The impact of the ever-changing panoramas here will stay with me forever. This inner Spain I could not have imagined if I had dreamed forever, and it will be treasured.
We had planned to seek out another ‘birding’ spot today looking for the rare white-headed duck, but it looks as though the local farmer has removed the sign to the lagoon whilst olive picking is in progress, and we can’t find it! There’s a realistic chance that we could make Cordoba tonight, so we’ll head for the mountains to the north before tea. Can’t wait; we’ve got real Yorkshire tea now!

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News 11 20th November 2004 – Cordoba, Granada, Sierra Nevada and Almeria

Where have we been this week? Cordoba, Granada and the Sierra Nevada. Superlatives all the way!

Cordoba wasn’t originally on our route, but we’d heard from several people that it was not to be missed, so we made a detour of a hundred miles back north again. Although the weather was clear and sunny, there was a definite nip in the air and it was time for jumpers. Cordoba campsite was very convenient, just half an hour’s walk from the historic centre. We spent a couple of days there, enjoying the “small town” feel.

The highlights included the Mesquita, a huge mosque which somehow also houses a cathedral. [The muslims ruled this area until ousted by the Christians from the 13th to 15th centuries when many muslim buildings were converted to Christian usage.] It is memorable for its forest of slender pillars supporting semi-circular red and white striped arches. Friday gave us free admission to another bullfighting museum and another Alcazar , with gardens “among the most beautiful in Andalucia”. It is always a joy to see roses, geraniums and other summer bedding still in bloom here, along with bougainvillea and hibiscus. The 14th century synagogue and the maze of narrow streets in the Jewish quarter were also interesting.

After Cordoba we had a day in the hills just outside the city, in a forest park, which is a green playground for the Cordobans, with hiking trails and a campsite amongst the pines, which we had entirely to ourselves. We liked Cordoba, apart from its nightmarish road system, but we eventually found our way to the Granada road and headed south east.

At Granada we camped just outside the city and bussed in. The first day there we just got our bearings, did a bit of shopping, had a beer. The next day was time for serious sightseeing as we hit the Alhambra, Spain’s most visited attraction. We were somewhat mystified by the huge array of different places to visit inside the walls of the Alhambra, or “red castle”. Part is a castle, part a muslim palace, part a renaissance palace, part gardens. There are museums, viewpoints, archaeological excavations, shops and even an hotel. It offers a mixture of architectural styles as it has been occupied since Roman times. We got there as early as we could to try to beat the hoards of tour groups that descend daily. We went straight to the Palacio Nazaries, “the most brilliant Muslim building in Europe”, dating from 12th to 15th centuries, and we did manage to look all round it before too many tour groups arrived. Then we went round again, because there is so much to take in and so much magnificent detail to see. We were impressed by the intricate decoration; tiles, plasterwork, arches, patios and water features. We were also freezing, because the palaces were designed to offer a cool retreat in summer. We had coats but really needed gloves and scarves despite the blue cloudless skies and brilliant sunshine. For the rest of the day we wandered around the gardens, the 11th/12th century castle, the renaissance palace of Carlos V, a couple of museums and the café.

Feeling the need for a change from buildings, we next headed for the hills, or the Sierra Nevada to be precise. A wide road twists up for 35km from Granada to the ski slopes and the highest mountains in Spain. We followed the road as far as we could and then hiked up for 3 hours, amongst the patches of snow left by a recent snowfall and beside the ski runs where the artificial snow blowers were at work getting ready for the ski season. Being prepared for the cold, we found it was actually very much warmer than it had been in the Alhambra palaces! Todd enjoyed playing in the snow.

The scenery up in the mountains was beautiful but more reminiscent of the Cairngorms than the Alps. Apart from a few choughs and a very friendly Alpine Accentor we didn’t see any wildlife. But maybe a few ibex saw us. Our most bizarre encounter was a Brazillian woman with two nuns, striding up the mountain looking for snow because they had never seen any before.

After the barren ski area of the northern Sierra Nevada, the southern valleys, or Alpujarras, were a complete contrast. Here we found autumn, with a vegetation very similar to the UK, punctuated with brilliant yellow poplars; and mulberry trees, a relic of the silk trade from Muslim times. We hiked again up towards the summits from the south a couple times, at Capileira and Trevelez, about 30km up from the coast. The footpaths, or mule tracks, rose above the whitewashed, flat-roofed villages, following the deep river gorges on wooded slopes in the warm sunshine, past tiny grazing meadows cut into the hillsides and abandoned dry-stone shepherd’s huts.

Our route then took us to the east for about 50 miles into the dry and arid wastelands of Almeria Province and south to the coast. From here, below the hills, the area flattens to Almeria on the coast across barren salt marsh towards the sea. This is spaghetti western country and we hope to see more of it over the next few days. Our campsite just a few miles along the coast, is not exactly to our liking at first glance. There are Brits, Germans and Dutch here for the winter in their caravans and motorhomes, Spanish families settling in for the weekend and a general sense of Essex in the sun. Not our scene! But, a short walk to the beach with the binoculars at sunset and we’re a little happier. This is some of the best birding we’ve had in the whole trip, with a few spectacular finds, amongst them; white-headed duck (got ‘em at last!), red-crested pochard, black wheatear, red-rumped swallow, flamingo, avocet, black-winged stilt, Dartford warblers, Sardinian warblers, great grey shrike, etc. Now, we’re happy bunnies!

Let’s end with a few statistics.
We’ve now been on the road for 80 days. For the past 14 days we have had cloudless blue skies and sunshine. In fact we have only had 2 rainy days in the last month. Overall, it has rained or showered a bit on 11 days, but only continuously for 2. It has become very cold at night, but it’s very dry so no dew or damp grass or condensation on the windscreen. Today’s temperatures certainly felt like August.
We have stayed at 55 different places.
We have filled up with diesel 22 times, the cheapest being Gibraltar at 43.9p(UK£)/litre. Normally, diesel is 0.81 – 0.84 euros per litre here; i.e.two thirds the cost in GB. We are averaging about 26 mpg; not bad for a 2.8 litre towing 3 tons plus.
And despite all this, we’re heading home on 1st December. Smiley is going to rest up near Almeria, while we fly back.

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Newsletter 12 – 30.11.04 Robinson Crusoe and a fist-full of Euros

The town of Almeria is just ten miles to the west of our campsite on the coast at El Cabo de Gata, where we are keeping company with many others doing much the same; not a lot, enjoying the sunshine, taking a drive out into the countryside, or walking along the coast and generally taking it fairly easy. We have been here for eleven days now, that’s the longest we have ever been in one place, but there is plenty to do and it’s convenient for the airport on Wednesday. Our site is about a mile from the Mediterranean, smooth as a huge lake and reminiscent of our first view of Lake Huron on a hot summer’s day, and close by a nature reserve with a long fresh-water lagoon, home to hundreds of wonderful birds. Flamingos, blue throats, white headed ducks, marsh harriers, black necked grebes, egret……., the list is endless. We’re loving every minute. It’s like having Minsmere (the best of RSPB reserves), on your doorstep.

We are in good company here in Cabo de Gato. It takes all sorts to break the mould, and this particular one, travelling light in caravans and motorhomes, seems to attract the Germans and Brits in particular. The washroom here is like the railway station in Berlin at 08.00, when they all line up in front of the mirrors with their shaving gear in posh leather zip-ups. ‘Morgen, Wolfgang’.
‘Morgen, Fritz’.
‘Morgen, Kurt’.
There is a point at which we must consider whether we might be better off learning German, rather than Spanish. Germans here seem to outnumber us by about 2-1. Where are all the French and Dutch?

Pete and Jackie across from us, have been living in their motorhome for twelve and a half years; more than two of that in the USA. They have a house at Watton, just 20 minutes from us would you believe, and Jackie was born in Old Buckenham where we lived until 1993. When they return to the UK as they do from time-to-time, they live on a campsite near Kings Lynn. They are here on this site for a month or so before heading north for skiing in Andorra.
Rodney and Julie are recently retired too. They are from Worthing and come out here each year for six months in the winter and travel about a bit in their caravan. They left on Sunday morning to go home for Christmas. They were swimming in the sea nearby on Friday whilst we were up in the hills along the coast just north of here.
John and Jenny have recently given up work and travel in their motorhome for long periods each year. They are keen ‘birders’ like us and can’t tell one end of a little brown job from the other – a bit like us. But we have shared news of some of the best spots to visit, from the tip of Spain to the far side of Croatia, Bulgaria, Sardinia and Greece. They are off for three weeks in Morocco next week. They are fascinating travellers, with the sparkle of excitement in every word they say. They hail from Derbyshire.
I have wondered for some time why people migrate here with the birds from the UK as autumn passes. It is surely the warm sun and the daylight; it’s light here by 07.30 and not dark until 6.30pm. We are not yet sure what they do to amuse themselves all day. The Spanish arrive on Friday night from their apartments in the cities, swelling the population and chatting at high volume into the night. They vanish just as quickly before sundown on Sunday.

This is a fascinating area, with a wild and rugged coastline, high arid hills and intensive horticulture. There was a red sky when we opened the windows on Sunday morning which was a bit ominous; we have not seen a cloud for more than two weeks, but the sun came up once again to give us bright blue skies for the days’ walking. The salt pans nearby gave us some good views of more new birds before we headed up to the lighthouse, set high on the steep rocky point of Cabo de Gata overlooking the placid Mediterranean. Viewed across tiny sandy coves from the pink sandstone cliffs further north at San Jose, the sea appeared as a silver horizon on a carpet of sparkling stardust, the sun high and bright in the early afternoon. San Jose, (yes, we do know our way to it), is a tidy little town, neatly painted, in white, cream, pale pink, and pastel blue, with shallow buildings set behind a broad curved beach. There is little sign of commerce here yet; a few restaurants and bars, though it is out of season of course. At a guess, I’d say it’s about a million miles from Great Yarmouth! There is a little round windmill at the top of the hill above the town, and over the ridge the landscape changes dramatically to a broad open desert plain sweeping down to the sandy deserted shore and backed by sombre mountains. Here, the plain is planted with prickly pear and agave (they make tequila from it): a strange crop and quite unexpected. The cool breeze of a winter’s day was most welcome, sweeping in across the bay from the east and we shared it with four or five other people and a small flock Kentish plover in the balmy sunshine.

Beyond San Jose at Las Negras, we walked to San Pedro along a high and rugged pass. San Pedro can only be reached on foot, or by sea, and hippies are the only inhabitants. It’s about an hours walk up the rugged hillside to the ruined 12th Century castle where washing hangs on a line from the turrets and there are a couple of chairs outside the 16th Century tower. By the beach a small cluster of Robinson Crusoe shanty shacks bear similar scars; and the soft grey sandy beach is a dream. What more does one want in life?

It’s only a short drive north into the hills of the Sierra de Alhamilla to the north-east of Almeria, through the ocean of plastic greenhouses like Bebouin tents against the sand coloured background of the mountains. They grow all kinds of things here, tomatoes, courgettes, peppers, cucumbers, squashes etc., seemingly supporting quite large communities. The narrow, poorly surfaced road took us northwards through sparse hillsides with outcrops of rock, cream, grey, a hundred shades of brown and raspberry red, to Sorbas, a cluster of flat roofed houses perched precariously on a plateau with steep cliffs of sandstone dropping away on all sides into the valley below. To the west, to Tabernas and beyond, it’s ‘wild west’ country, the home of spaghetti westerns. There are touristy film sets here with live shoot-outs; if that’s what turns you on! The scenery here is quite unique to Europe, more reminiscent of Nevada and Texas, and we will surely look more closely at the scenery when next watching A Fistfull of Dollars, The Magnificent Seven or The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, which were all made here.

In a day or so, we’ll be home; left with just memories of thirteen weeks on the road through France, Spain and Portugal. We have a fondness for France, its language and culture. We will be back in Spain in January to continue our quest, and for the moment we leave with memories of sunshine and short-sleeved shirts, plump olives, snow-capped mountains, flamingos, seas of plastic, soggy chips, loud voices, shiny chestnuts fresh from the tree, soaring vultures, wide sandy beaches, the sound of gulls over the cliffs, hillsides alive with the smell of rosemary and thyme, discarded plastic bottles, lush green hillsides and desert landscapes

Some of this week’s birds: White headed duck, black wheatear, red-crested pochard, blue throat, black necked grebe, great grey shrike, Siberian warbler, avocet, rose-ringed parakeet – and bird of the week, the serin, which I have known from my first book of birds when I was perhaps 12 years old and which I have waited all these years to see.

Jan-March2005

2005-12-11T01:29:00.000-08:00

Newsletter 13 13th January 2005
A touch of frost – and we’re chasing great bustards again.

After a few weeks at home for Christmas, it was good to be getting on the plane again to pick up Smiley once more at Almeria on Spains’ arid south coast. Ron and Todd were delighted to see us of course and especially pleased to be let out of the cupboard.
We’ve been back around ten days now, and we are looking forward to a holiday in Mallorca later in the month. We’ll leave the motorhome in Valencia, pack a bag and catch the ferry.
It was going to take a while to break back into a routine of walking in bright sunshine, exploring new beaches and living in each other’s pockets again, but we started as we intended to go on; with a day to the west of Almeria looking for new birds and enjoying a typical Spanish lunch at a local’s bar in the mountains. It was the 7th of January and yesterday was Epiphany, a public holiday here and the day that all good children get their Christmas presents. The whole of Spain had taken an extra days holiday and making a long weekend of it – and most of them were there in the bar enjoying themselves!
Despite the warmth of the mid-day sun, the mornings and evenings are quite cold here in the desert. We have electricity connected overnight and our heater works pretty well, giving us a snug little home, despite a considerable variance in temperature throughout the day. I noticed our German neighbour sitting outside in the cold reading a book at 9am yesterday.
“What are you doing out there in the cold at this time of day?” I asked. “The sun’s not up yet.”
“I’m waiting for it,” he replied, quickly.

The site was quite full on our return. Many more Brits arrived over Christmas and I guess that there are probably equal numbers of Brits and Germans here now. They had 1 ½ cm of rain here a few` days after we left in December and some of the long timers with awnings full of gear were flooded out. We are told that this is more than they expect in a year! There were fewer birds on the lagoon alongside the camp as the storm-water broke through the sand shelf to the sea and I guess it’s now too brackish for some of them. Out at sea, we spotted a raft of razorbills and several Mediterranean shearwaters; and water rail in the reeds.
Four miles down the beach, there is the growing town of Retemar. On the first Sunday following Epiphany they celebrate the event by bringing a heavy silver figure of Our Lady from Almeria and carry it shoulder high by a dozen strong men behind the local band and into the tiny circular church on the beach. About 20,000 turned out for this occasion, to set up their family barbecues, prance about on their horses and generally enjoy themselves. A few even sat through a 2 ½ hour service on the beach amongst the funfair and market stalls. Most of them will have left their litter for the wind to blow into the sea. It was quite a spectacle, topped by a very professional display of Flamenco dancing – and all for free!
Monday was our last day to savour the beauty of the volcanic landscape before heading north and we decided to return to San Jose for a walk, this time southwards close to the coast towards the sun over rocky scree, brown, red and grey, treading the thyme and lavender sending wafts of perfume into the warm air. It was another fine day, circles of thin cloud brushed the bright blue sky and a pair of the elusive trumpeter finches pecked at the scrub a few feet away. We can go now.

The route north took us through ‘cowboy country’ once again, to the north of the snow capped Sierra Nevada (Snowy Mountains), en route to Cazorla, across the high plains. The almond trees are not yet in flower and I’m sad about that. There will surely be other opportunities as we go north. We stopped for a while in the high town of Guadex to see the hundreds of troglodyte houses carved into the hillsides surrounding this plains town with its bold sandstone castle and cathedral. Narrow circular chimneys poke their heads through the mountainside, the sweet smell of wood-smoke rising into the pastel blue sky. Gone now are the Arab flat roofs. Here in the town, they are grey/beige pan-tiled and gabled.
The road from here climbs through arid desert, now some 120 km from Almeria, and before long we were driving through dry river beds lined with bamboo and fields of poplar and olive. We were back in Griffon vulture country now, circling above us, waiting for us to run out of diesel! At Pozo Alcon further north there was snow on the road and the facing hills and here we returned to the mountains at 3-5,000 feet. It was going to get cold, very - very cold. Ben Nevis stands at 4,800 ft and there’s an awful lot of snow there in January!

Here we saw wild boar and three beautiful fallow deer in the valley below us near Cazorla, though we weren’t lucky enough to find ibex which roam hereabouts. By morning, our gas and water had frozen and the waste tap was solid. No problem!

We planned a long drive for Thursday, north from Coto Rios beyond the reservoir, shimmering and steaming in the early morning sun and on up to Alcaraz. This is a fabulously beautiful area, the steep sided mountains tree-lined to the very top with pine and oak. We are so pleased not to have missed it.

They are harvesting the olives now, casting their nets and whacking the branches with long sticks. It’s going to be a long harvest. There are olive threes across the whole of Spain! We have experienced many rapid changes of scenery in our time in Spain, but none more than that at Puerto del Barrancazo where the steep winding narrow road cuts its way through the sharp sided hills swathed in pine, bright green and bright in the sun. Suddenly, at the top, the trees vanish – completely, to open out on to a broad plain, stark white and rocky, barren except for a few roughly cultivated fields. There, perched on top of a pile of rocks, sat a little owl; the first we had seen on this trip. We were to see five more the next day and had even more delights to behold.
We drove slowly from our campsite at Penacosa just outside Alcaraz the following morning. There was ice everywhere on the roads – and we were looking out across the plains for great bustards once again. After 4 hours of hunting, criss-crossing wide open fields, now turning pastel green as new crops take life, we saw them. Seventeen of them in a group set against the brick red of the farrowed field. Wow! We have seen great bustard before; in Queensland, but never in Europe. These proud Prairie turkeys stand about 3ft tall and have a wingspan of more than 6ft. They hold their grey heads erect, their brown chests puffed out and their tails held straight behind or fanned like a domestic turkey.

We spent a night on the town car park in Alcala del Jucar, a tiny town of tiny white houses built up the sheer side of a limestone crevasse, carved like a great scar some 200ft deep in the middle of the plain. A sandstone castle sits proudly on the crest defying invaders and a tall square towered church uniting the townsfolk rises from the river at the bottom. We watched a hundred or more choughs swoop to roost in the tower, calling and diving with their wings folded back like falcons as the sun fell below the skyline. We had planned to stay at the local campsite, but it was closed for the winter contrary to the advice in the book. We wouldn’t have missed this lovely village for the world.

Saturday saw us heading for Alicante in thick fog to go to the salt-pans along the coast for some birding, but a phone call to friends John and Anne Swain who have a home a little further south at Pilar de la Horadada, changed all that. We were invited to lunch and arrived at around 3pm as arranged to discover that they thought we would be arriving tomorrow! (Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance). All turned out well of course. It was lovely to see them. We had a great time, the sun shone on our short walk to the beach, we were well fed, and after a few too many glasses of wine, we went to bed in Smiley, parked just outside on the road.
Birding here in Spain is usually pretty good. We try to be armed with all of the books and guides which increases our chances of success. Two ospreys spotted over the pans at Santa Pola just to the south of Alicante made our day, hundreds of flamingos of course, shelduck, 17 herons, spotted redshank, curlew sandpiper; and lots of others!
Continuing north, we dropped down off the motorway into Benidorm just to say that we’ve seen it. OK, there are hundreds of towering apartments and hotels, but apart from the obvious Brits walking about with their white legs and gold medallions, it’s a bit like Torbay really, with lots of winter sunshine and certainly less tatty than Great Yarmouth. You wouldn’t want to admit that you had been there for a holiday though, would you?
North of here the shop signs are in Spanish, German and English in that order. Here, the villas are gently spaced around the bays and smart restaurants abound. Our campsite at Punta de Moraira just north of Alicante is outstanding. Undoubtedly one of the best we have experienced so far.
Tomorrow, Monday, we plan to head slowly up to Valencia and have a day poking our noses in and around the museums and art galleries. It’s been a while since we ventured into a town of any size. We really do prefer the wild open spaces – and we have certainly found our share of those!

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News 14 Sunday 23rd January 2005
Snow on the beaches in Palmanova, Mallorca

This week has been much warmer, with constant sunshine and daytime temps of up to 24degrees. Night times became warmer north of Alicante, contrary to everyone’s predictions that we were heading in the wrong direction and it would be cold further north.
The coast south of Valencia yielded loads of excellent birding, with rocky headlands, marshes and flooded rice fields. Significant new species for the list included red breasted flycatcher, tree sparrow, water pipit and osprey.
Campsites are beginning to be empty again. After the bustling coastal sites in the south, this is quite surprising. Perhaps it’s because they’re also quite expensive near Valencia. The site we settled on was full of permanent caravans owned by the Spanish for the summer but deserted now. There were just 2 touring motorhomes and one tent occupied. Very peaceful. We bussed into the city (Spain’s 3rd largest) past empty rice fields which stretch for miles south of Valencia, home of paella.
Previously knowing little about this city, we were pleasantly surprised to find a vibrant yet friendly place, full of interesting places to visit.
We began by popping into a travel agent, to enquire about ferry prices to Mallorca. We came out having booked a January bargain package holiday to Palmanova. It was totally contrary to our normal choice, but was too good a deal to be fussy. Anyway, two days later we would leave Smiley at Valencia, fly to Palma and hire a car to see the picturesque parts of the island many of our friends had told us about. The flight would take 35 minutes as opposed to 9 hours by sea. It made sense. More later…

The Central Market in Valencia was fabulous. I think it is probably the best food market I’ve ever been to. Local oranges, hams, huge cheeses, sausages, spices, shellfish, fish, meat, bread, dried pulses, olives, all looked really appetising. The only stall not so appealing was the offal stall, selling sheep’s heads, pigs’ trotters, tripe and all those other unmentionable innards we’d rather not think about, let alone eat. And I can’t say I fancied the snails much, either.
But D says you can learn a lot about people by the food they eat. I’m not sure what this says about the Spanish. I do know we had the best paella we’ve tasted so far in Spain here in Valencia.

Our wanderings in Valencia took us to the unremarkable cathedral, a couple of exceptional churches, the Fine Arts Museum, and the stunning new arts and science complex.

Mallorca

We negotiated a deal with the campsite, to leave Smiley for a week in the care of Todd and Ron, while we flew off to sunny Mallorca, just 35 minutes away. We would hate it here in the summer, but it’s lovely in January. Many hotels, bars and restaurants are shut with “closed for holidays” signs on the door. We have acquired a little rental car called Grinny (it’s green) that copes admirably with the hairy mountain roads. Our first 3 days have been mild and sunny and have taken us to the west and north of the island, with plenty of splendid scenery, beautiful turquoise sea, and charming villages. Spring is almost here and the almond trees are beginning to blossom.
Wed 26 Jan. 05
Yikes! Arctic air arrived bringing snow to the island. We had three lovely warm days and then “Pow!” temperatures plummeted and gales arrived. At first there was no snow just heavy cloud so we drove as normal and even found some sun.

The next day there was snow on the mountains, and the Mallorcans went slightly crazy, many of them seldom having seen snow before. Mountain roads were closed. We continued as normal and visited our second monastery here, where we had our very own Chopin piano concert; he had stayed at the monastery in 1838 and composed some of his music there. We also visited more rocky coves where the sea was attacking with violent waves.

Today has been different again. Today it has snowed heavily everywhere on the island. As we drove through Palma this morning, and again this evening, there was a white out. But in between we have had sunshine, though very cold temperatures. We are unsure what the weather is doing elsewhere in Europe at present but hope to get a paper tomorrow. We return to Smiley in Valencia tomorrow and will have to see what the weather throws at us as we continue north. This little holiday in Majorca has been a good break, partially like a Mediterranean sun holiday, but also a bit like a snowy winter one!

Friday 28th January
Back to mainland Spain and the weather is sunny though rather chilly, with NO SNOW – yet. Smiley, Todd and Ron were pleased to see us again, having had an uneventful time without us. We are now in the Ebro Delta, between Valencia and Barcelona. Back to bird-watching again, over extensive coastal marshes and flooded rice fields. There are thousands of herons and egrets here, not to mention hundreds of lovely pink flamingos. Today’s excitement was seeing squacco herons for the first time. They were very patient and close enough for D to photograph.

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News 15 Adios Spain, Bonjour France

Beyond the Orange Blossom Coast we camped for one night on the Ebro Delta; a dire site with electrics to make your hair stand on end and facilities to match, but we were here for the birding along the salt marshes and the beautiful beaches looking out towards the east. We saw no new birds, but the real excitement was a regimented line of over 100 herons sunning themselves along the bank like white ten-pins, five marsh harriers in the air at one time, and red breasted pochard yet again.
We sneaked into Tarragona and drove both ways along the Ramblas but found nowhere to park; well, it was Saturday. With our sights set on reaching Sitges on the coast, we ventured onto the expensive toll motorway (Peatje, or Peaje; they spell everything twice here, in Spanish and Catalan) with windsocks to warn of high winds stretched out horizontally making driving a motorhome quite an experience. Smiley is about as aerodynamic as a wardrobe in these conditions.

Alongside the roads here, the buildings are salmon pink in contrast to the stone and white of those further south. Here too are the ‘urbanisations’, the coastal developments stretching north. The orange trees stop at the Ebro, the countryside becoming more open, with vines, apricots and some almonds in evidence.

Suzanne had told us about Sitges and we could see why she liked it so much. The Old Town, with the church of St Bartholomew atop a small rocky promontory dividing the two sandy beaches. Sitges is smart and chic with a culture leaning towards the young-set; there was an open-air concert in practice for later that night. The mile-long promenade was full of week-enders, strolling, cycling, roller-bladings walking the poodle; and generally showing themselves off! A great place to be seen, for sure, with some fabulous houses facing the sea-if you’re very rich indeed. And not a neon light or a stick of rock in sight.

We have many fond memories of Barcelona from our visit some five or six years ago. We fell for its artistic wealth in particular, but it is the one place where we have experienced pick-pockets at first hand, so this time we skirted the City and drove inland for the spectacle of the Monastery at Montserat. The road up twists and turns for 12km, rising 3000m towards the ragged mountain-tops. The Monastery is a huge utility looking building of square lines in austere stone, the local conglomerate, sitting near the top of the ridge, in stark contrast to the strange wind blown forms of the granite coloured mountains. The Basilica is lovely, and a brief performance by the choir and the opportunity to see The Black Madonna made the visit very enjoyable. The Museum next door houses one of the most magnificent art collections that we have seen. In one room alone, perhaps fifteen feet square, there are works by Picasso, (a portrait) Ribera, Rubens, Soler, Monet, Pisarro and Renoir! I could almost have forgotten art amongst the list of passions that drive us to do what we do, but it is there somewhere, along with, walking, birds, architecture, photography, writing, golf etc..
Our plan was to drive on to Vic, some 30-40km to the north-east and we arrived shortly before dark to find it closed! There was no option but to camp outside the gates for the night. Nice and quiet, and we could be off early in the morning.

By morning the temperature had dropped dramatically. Both our water and our gas had frozen! The last time this happened was in Cornwall one February at around -6C, It’s not really so much of a problem. The answer is to get dressed quickly and make a run for the nearest café for breakfast. Washing can wait until the sun comes up. Disasters like this don’t often hit us twice in as many days, but there was yet worse to come.
We drove north to Manlleu, up to Olot and east to Santa Pau, en route to Manyoles and Girona. (Gerona) This is such a beautiful stretch of winding road though extremely slow driving, but who would want to rush such a heavenly experience. The white peaks of the eastern end of the Pyrenees could be seen away in the distance, topped with strawberry pink clouds in the morning sunshine. Suddenly, as can only happen in Spain, the evergreen oaks, the olives and the almond trees were left behind, for here on chalky ground the hillsides are spread with deciduous trees, beech and oak, and hedges divide the cultivated frost tinged fields. By mid-day we were sitting beside the motorhome having lunch, scorching in the sun, with the temperature hovering around 20 degrees. That’s a change of about 26 degrees in five hours!

Disaster number two struck later the same day when we discovered the campsite at Girona was closed. Fortunately it was still early, and we set off for the warmer climes of the Costa Brava (Brave Coast) just to say that we had seen it, arriving just before dark at Platja d’Aro. The following day, we took the road of 365 bends south along the well preserved and under-developed coast as far as Tossa de Mar: a smart resort this, with a small but good beach and lots of fashionable shops. We were truly impressed and pleasantly surprised. This area is surely a reflection on Catalonian pride, though it is probably not a true picture of the Costa Brava.
Disaster was to strike once more. We had hoped to meet Catherine and Tony in Girona this week, but business, as it often does, got in the way. However, we didn’t want to miss this City, voted the most desirable place in Spain to live. It’s our usual practice to stay at sites near major towns and take the train or bus in, but our objective was to travel north later that afternoon and we parked in the City whilst we walked the narrow streets and lunched in a small café. Our motorhome was broken into whilst we were away. We lost very little however and we have now learned the lesson to follow our pattern and our instincts. We made a long list of all the things the robbers missed and felt better for that. The police were helpful, though not hopeful and after a delay of perhaps an hour we set off for the Bay of Roses.
Thursday was Dali-day. There is only one road into Cadaques; up the winding road high above the semicircular golden beach of the Bay of Roses, Rhodes as the Greeks named it, over the oak and pine studded hills and down past the long forgotten dry-stone terraces. Cadaques is the home town of Dali and a must for those of us who hold a strange fascination for this even stranger man of art. Patterned cobbled streets ascend to the church on one side of the bay and through narrow passages in the fishing quarter at the other, somewhat reminiscent of Whitby. Dali’s statue stands with its back to the sea, facing an arc of smart cafes, restaurants and low-level hotels. There are no boats bobbing in the harbour in winter and it looks a little unloved, losing some of its summer flavour.

Dali’s house that he shared with his second wife, Gala, was a few miles to the west, at Port Lligat. It is now a museum, though not open at the time of our visit, but it was wonderful just to walk in his footsteps, to look out from the neat olive groves above the house towards the islands dotted across the shimmering seascape. The light here is wonderful, highlighting the passion of Dali, Miro and Picasso for this area. They are pouring concrete at it still of course, but this area is still pleasantly underdeveloped. The coast north towards el Port de la Selva (note the ‘de la’ influence of French in the Catalan) is delightful; beautiful blue bays with shallow white houses lining the shore. It almost needed a team of horses to drag us away from the Dali Theatre Museum in Figueres just inland. Whilst most of his better-known works are displayed across the world, those here are enough to sharpen the mind of everyone, even those without the slightest interest in his work. We were enthralled as you can imagine.

We finally left Spain after 98 exciting days and headed north on the motorway towards Beziers and entered France beside never-ending fields of vines. There were thousands of people at the border town of Le Jonquera; half of France buying up Spanish produce and filling their tanks with cheap fuel. Diesel in Spain was costing us around .83 euro/litre, and in France it’s around .93 to 1.04 now; up from .88 when we left in September. We joined them! I have never seen so many petrol stations and lorries in my life; they lined the highway and a mile of parking lots, along with hundreds of car transporters, seemingly going in both directions.
We knew we were in France as soon as we arrived at the campsite just to the west of Beziers. Whilst the French have the edge on all other European countries for serving the needs of the motorhomer, they have still to learn a few things about quality and standards. In these respects, they are well behind the rest. Spanish sites have all been superb, though in general, more expensive than in France. I guess the French don’t expect any more.
The temperature had risen to just above freezing when we left Beziers the next morning, ambling alongside the Canal du Midi, calm as a millpond with mile upon mile of majestic plane trees reflected in the mirror of its dark waters. The ‘Flamingo trail’ started along the coast to the east at Marseillan Plage and we followed the road all the way up to Saintes Maries de la Mer on the southern tip of the Camargue, with the sea shining in the bright winter sun on our right, and shallow inland lakes to our left. This is the land of the stunningly pink greater flamingo, their prime breeding site in Europe-and black bulls and wild white horses of course. It’s strange to look out on water through 360 degrees for a whole day, and it’s even flatter here than the Norfolk Fens!
We’re having a little difficulty remembering to say “Bon Jour” instead of “Hola”, but we are happy to be back in France. It’s also good to be back in the Camargue, (we were last here 20 years ago) sharing a couple of days with our Australian friends Brian and Kathryn who travelled across from the ski-slopes of Italy in their motorhome to meet us for as little birding. The weather broke on Sunday and heavy cloud set in for the day, blown by a chill wind. The birds were all tucked
up somewhere warm and we didn’t see a lot! Things improved over the next 24 hours and we had a worthwhile list eventually. B & K are avid walkers and their keen observation skills and enthusiasm will quickly make them good birders. It was great to have some special company and it gave us all a holiday from travelling. We left them early morning at the mouth of the Rhone, at Port St Louis, where they headed north for Arles and Avignon and we set the compass for the coast east of Toulon and Hyeres.
Our journey took us back to Provence and the medieval town of
La Cadiere d’Azure where we stayed more than 20 years ago, high on a hilltop
above the vast fields of immaculate vines, black now they are pruned, standing like echoes of military graveyards in Normandy. We had forgotten how lovely this area is, and will enjoy the coast from here beyond St Tropez, Nice and Monte-Carlo to the Italian border over the next few days.

Monte Carlo

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News 16 – Sunday 20th February
Au revoir France, buon giorno Italia.

Since entering Italy over a week ago, the weather has not been kind. We have had a great deal of cloud, very low temperatures and, today, snow. We are currently near Napoli, and had hoped for warmer weather by now. But tomorrow we head for Sicily and as we’re nearing the end of February, spring can’t be far away.

This has been a week of medieval architecture and art. Cities visited have
included Lucca, Pisa, Florence, Siena, and little places with enchanting names
such as Barga, Fiesole, Casciano, St Antimo, Monte Amiata and Pitigliano.
As you might deduce, we have been “doing” Tuscany. We have found it
beautiful, with its huge butterscotch-coloured villas guarded by sentries
of cypresses, perched atop rounded hills of early spring grass. Also it has
proved surprisingly varied, with much oak and chestnut woodland, deep
ravines and snow-capped mountains.
Thanks to Brian and Kathryn, we have a book listing all the “sostas” or
free-camp sites provided in many Italian towns. There are relatively few campgrounds open so we are taking advantage of the sostas from time to time.

At both Lucca and Pitigliano we found car-parks assigned for motorhomes where
we camped alongside several Italians. (Brian and Kathryn take note – they have
been quiet with no handbrake turns or church bells). At both Florence and Siena we found campsites; the Florence site had classic views across the roof tops, domes and towers of the city, while Siena had marvellous views across the Tuscan hills and the best showers we’ve encountered in 136 days.

Lucca

Florence was mostly remembered as being freezing. The cold outdoor temperatures seemed even worse when inside churches lined with marble; and we spent a lot of time inside churches. We both ended up with dry heels and chapped legs from the cold. Having visited Florence before, and ranking it up amongst our favourite European cities, we were disappointed on this occasion that we were unable to appreciate the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries as both were closed. We even got up extra early to beat the queues, but for some reason best known to themselves they both decided to open at 10.30 instead of 8.15 and close at 4.00 instead of 6.30, so we gave up in disgust and did the Medici Chapels (more marble) instead.
We had managed to get Smiley serviced before we moved on, but we then had another headache – the leisure battery packed up, which meant we were without lights and water pump for two nights. (Thanks again to Brian and Kathryn for the halogen heater they’d given us, as not only did it keep us warm but it also gave us light.) We drove around for miles trying to find first of all someone to check it over, then someone who could provide a replacement as it soon became clear that the battery had died. After much persistence, asking the way at garages where no-one spoke English, the third place had a suitable match. Yipee! Now we could leave Florence behind and head for Siena.
Siena has a fabulous cathedral, with many unique features. For a start, it looks a bit like a humbug, with black and white stripes of marble covering the outside. Then it has the most amazing inlaid marble floor. There are mosaics, statues, an immense unfinished “new” nave, vividly coloured frescoes and beautiful illuminated manuscripts. Being marble, of course it was cold; perhaps this and Florence contributed to D’s present delicate state of health. We warmed up with a cappuccino (80c standing at the bar instead of 3.50euros sitting in the Piazza del Campo). The Italians do know how to make coffee. Actually, the huge fan-shaped Piazza del Campo in Siena is one of Italy’s most memorable Piazzas, surrounded as it is by wonderful buildings. We did play “hunt the Tourist Information Centre” here; it’s not considered sporting to put a sign outside that anyone could actually spot.

Since Siena, we have spent a couple of days touring around the delights of Tuscany and “Chianti-shire”. We can see why Brits would want to holiday or buy here. It’s very nice - neat, tidy, pretty, expensive. As usual, we wouldn’t care to be here in the height of summer, but it’s probably rather pleasant in May or September.
So that just about rounds up our past week. Last night it poured with rain and as we headed for Rome we found ourselves driving through fog and snow. We changed plans as we drove and have settled for the night at Paestum, south of Salerno.

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News 17. 28th February 2005
A week in Sicily visiting the land of wine, lemons and the Godfather

We didn’t get to the ferry for Sicily on Monday,but camped that night a few miles short, having been delayed by an unfortunate accident shortly after leaving Paestum on the coast where we had spent the previous night. Stopped in traffic in the main street of Agropoli, a lady in the car behind fell asleep (or was she on the telephone which most of them are, most of the time?) and drove straight into the back of us. A local policeman helped with the exchange of details. “Buon Giorno”, Buon Giorno”, Buon Giorno”, he said, rocking gently on his heels. “Wassa goin on ere-a eh?” We later discovered he had worked in London for a while and clearly knew the police language for such circumstances. Anyway, no great damage that can’t be put right back in the UK, mostly fibreglass and nobody hurt, but we lost a couple of hours of the day and ended up on a site at Palmi on the west coast around Italy’s instep, in the early evening.
It’s just 25 minutes by ferry from San Giovani across the water to Messina in Sicily.

You know when you have arrived in Sicily; the roads are blocked with hooting traffic and parked cars, street vendors and crazy road-signs. It was hell getting out of Messina, but by the time we reached the beautiful hillside town of Taormina on the eastern coast, with its smart shops, and a spectacular Greek Theatre with views across the bay to the beaches of Giardini Naxos and the snow-capped peaks of Mount Etna, the sun was shining and our spirits high. The Greeks were here some time ago; around the 8th Century BC and evidence of their presence and the Romans who followed, is abundant.
J eventually picked up my cold, the result of living in confined circumstances, and she’s going to need looking after over the next few days. Our campsite is set in the shade of the lemon trees just 100 metres from the sea. It was warm enough for us to walk along the sandy shore in short sleeves, sharing a mile of sand with just a couple of fishermen. The lemon groves were awash with the primrose yellow of Bermuda buttercups alongside fields of potatoes and broad beans.
Mount Etna follows you around along this easterly coast and ultimately it lures every traveller into its trap. There is a road that traverses its base and we chose this ‘safe’ route to avoid the obvious perils of the snow at this time of year. But by lunchtime we were bored with the monotony of the untidy winter landscape of lava- stone walls and vine, olive and lemon terraces, and derelict houses lost forever, the population set to dwindle as youth sets sail for prospect and prosperity. And Etna; above the broad vista of lava, black and sombre, home only to the Sicilian genista, and small copses of pollarded beach, grey smouldering clouds puffing gently from the summit as the dragon sleeps, and the smoke from a wood-fire sails northwards on the cool Sicilian breeze over the snowy wasteland. We finally succumbed to the spell of Etna and drove through the single track snow-ploughed road to the base of the ski-lift, to join the few other revellers with the same spirit of adventure. The roadside snow was higher than smiley at times, still pristine white from the nights’ snowfall. You don’t get this sort of experience sitting in an armchair! Hair raising, but deliriously exciting.
Bypassing Catania and Sircusa to the south, we followed the road out to C Murro di Porco, a scruffy lighthouse with a good record for passing birds. It was hellishly windy and overcast, but we did get to see our first ever, blue rock thrush! We searched for days to find one of these in Spain without success – and this one sat on a fence waiting for us. A little further south there is a superb bird reserve at Stagno di Vendicari. We had read about this in our book, and were met at the gate by an elderly warden and we chatted for a while, he in Italian and me in English, I signed his book to say we were from the RSPB and off we went to investigate the shallow pools and hides. A great couple of hours and sadly insufficient time for more. Spoonbill, Rupell’s warbler, Pintail, Flamingoes, Pochard, Teal, Shoveller, a couple of Kingfishers – and lots more. Each and every day has its silver lining and we held on to the moment.
That particular moment didn’t last for long, as yet another campsite was closed that evening, and too late to move on to the next site a further 50 miles along the coast. On the way out of town J spotted three other campers, 2 German and 1 Italian, on a huge car park and we joined them for the night, elated by our good fortune. From time-to-time, we feel we need a bit of that.
The south coast here is very reminiscent of Almeria in southern Spain with area under plastic producing early fruits, salads and vegetables. But here, the greenhouses and cloches are neat and well finished, of good design and, in particular, there is no litter to be seen beside the roads here. The fields along the coast form a carpet of small plots, of oranges, lemons, almonds, olives, artichokes, vines and fruit trees; there are huge prickly pear hedges and patches of tall reed along the bottom of the valleys and in ditches. Here too, the grass is green, the soil rich and brown, supporting a wide range of agriculture.

There is more evidence of the Greek presence at Agrigento, where the Valley of the Temples stretches along a narrow limestone ridge between the town of Agrigento and the sea. This is a fantastic extravaganza of ancient temples, ten in all, high on the skyline; and it ranks amongst the most impressive complexes of ancient Greek buildings outside Greece. These Doric temples date from the 5th Century BC, and today nine out of ten of them are still visible.
It rained on-and-off for most of Sunday, but it didn’t spoil our enjoyment to any great degree. We have had remarkably few rainy days on our travels and at least it’s warmer now on North African latitudes. The Sicilians tell us that this is their worst winter for years, but who are we to complain? We hear it’s snowing at home! The angry sea was hammering the narrow sandy beach by our campsite in the morning as we left and headed inland from the wine region of Menfi, crossing the island towards Palermo and the northeast coast. Just a mile from our campsite the winding road up the hill had subsided leaving a gaping hole and a 12inch drop across the middle of the road. We closed our eyes and kept going! Half a mile on, there was a sign saying, ‘road closed’ but facing in the opposite direction.
Inland we crossed the broad fertile hills, their folds ribbed with a hundred shades of green, yellow and brown in a huge checkerboard of immaculate vineyards on a treeless landscape. Such is the pleasure of taking to the minor roads across the countryside, where the land is a living tribute to the labours of man and the character of the people. It’s Sunday and groups of men are on the fields pruning the vines in readiness for another vintage. There are no women in Sicily. At least, they are not evident in the countryside.
Our plan to visit the Nature Reserve at Zingaro in the hope of seeing Bonelli’s eagles was thwarted by yet another landslide on the road just before the entrance, the stricken road subsided and threatening total collapse over the edge. Here, the sign said ‘2.5ton limit’, which by then was too late of course, as we had nowhere to turn round. We took a run at it OK, (we’re 3.0 tons plus), but then decided to turn back to keep within the law. You can tell by now I guess, that we are none too pleased with Sicilian signing! Along the north coast, the sea was calm, blue as blue and the long sandy beaches deserted where the magnificent limestone hills erupt steeply from the sea; a long high ridge, patterned in black and white like the scaly back of an angry iguana.
J’s cold has much improved and there’s a smile on her face once again. Life’s tough for someone who doesn’t fall ill too easily! We’re now just outside Palermo resting for a day and doing the washing. Tomorrow, we’ll be venturing into town by bus to see the sights and enjoy the sounds and smells of the capital city. There’s the odd guy in the black suit, the dark glasses, the white tie and the wide brimmed trilby on every street corner, but apart from that, you wouldn’t know the Mafia existed.

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News 18. Sunday 13th March 2005 Sicily & southern Italy

We moved to a campsite near Palermo where we stayed for 4 nights. The first day was a rest day, catching up with the laundry and shopping. The next day it rained heavily non-stop so we got to know the neighbours.
Then came the day to visit Palermo. Suffice to say that we spent about eight hours either on buses, waiting for buses or walking because the buses had got stuck in traffic jams; we spent about 3 hours having lunch and waiting for the duomo at Monreale to open. And we spent about an hour visiting the amazing cathedral of Monreale. Because of very limited opening times and traffic hold-ups, we didn't manage to visit any other sites in Palermo, although we did see several from the outside. However, Monreale glittered with mosaics over the entire interior and in the cloisters, so we felt glad that we'd managed to see it. We were also too exhausted to contemplate risking Palermo's public transport system again, so we moved further east along the north coast to Cefalu. At last we found a pleasant side of Sicily. The scenery inland that we drove through was spectacular and Cefalu was a very pleasant, friendly little town. We enjoyed 3 days driving in the mountains and 1 more day staying "at home" while it rained heavily again. We came to Sicily hoping for sun and warmth. It has been the wettest winter they can remember. C'est la vie. Enough of Sicily, we returned to the mainland and headed over to the east side of the "boot" and the Ionian coast. The sea and beaches were lovely, but this area remains poor and undeveloped touristically. It was hard to find a campsite open. We did find a few towns which were absolute gems, however. We found ourselves on the Byzantine trail, looking at tiny 9th century churches, with 9th century Byzantine frescoes, and even a 6th century Byzantine manuscript complete with illuminated Greek script. Then it was back to a 7th century BC ruined temple at Metapontum , before finding the strange town of Matera, with its "sassi" houses. Bet you don't know what they are. Modern Matera is on the top of a hill, overlooking a deep ravine cut through the limestone rock. In this ravine, people used to live in houses carved out of the rock and a huge area is covered by these ancient houses. They are mostly empty now due to their slum conditions and the area is rather a ghost town; except for a German film crew when we were there, with about 30 huge lorries and 100 film-crew. From Matera we headed back west to Pompei, through some magnificent snow-capped mountains. We're hoping to visit Capri today, bucket and spade at the ready, and there will likely be an internet café there, so David will finish this newsletter, bringing you right up-to-date. We have all read something about Pompei and the mysteries that it evokes. They are all there still today. As we sat on the horseshoe marble seat by the grand gate on Via Consolare where Romans considered the days politics, we could imagine this City of 20,000 people, wealthy traders, peasants, slaves and gladiators, theatres, baths, brothels, shops and centurions, politicians, bakers, fullers and wheelwrights. We could hear the rattle of cart-wheels on rutted stone streets, see the women carrying casks of water from the corner fountain, stroll through the Forum by the Temple of Apollo with its formidable marble pillars, and experience the cheers of 20,000 Romans seated around the Arena as Gladiators fought to the death and lions roared in the ring. And Vesuvius ever there in the background, a friendly smile today
in the sunshine, capped in snow; but threaten it does still for those in its
shadow. If you've not been, the sheer scale of this place will amaze you. It's truly mind-blowing. 66 hectares of streets, roofless buildings and temples, a living monument to the 2,000 who lost their lives here in 79 AD.

A hard act to follow this, but we travelled the next day by train to
Herculaneum which suffered the same fate at the same time. But Herculaneum was covered in a sea of mud and remains better preserved, with magnificent frescoes and mosaics; complete bath-houses their roofs, baths and mosaic floors intact. Herculaneum lacks the splendour and scale of Pompei and its temples perhaps, but it holds some wonderful treasures. The picture still incomplete, we fought our way through the crowded station to get to Napoli (Naples) to see the best preserved artefacts from the area at the National Museum on Archaeology. Here, the wonders truly come to life. Magnificent frescoes from the grand houses, superb mosaics beyond belief, bronze figures and busts galore, marble statues, and coins - huge collections. There is Roman glass in mint condition, vases` and vessels, terracotta pottery in all shapes and sizes, silver gold and bronze figures and jewellery; and an interesting collection of rather erotic objects in a special room - entry by request only.
Napoli was a culture shock, though we had read much about it prior to our visit. Crowds of people, manic traffic, three-up on a scooter, motorbikes haring down the narrow streets horns blaring, queues for busses, taxis everywhere, litter everywhere, fly posters on everything that stands still, West African traders lining the pavements with their wares- leather belts and bags, cheap jewellery, peaked caps and counterfeit cigarettes at 2.50 euros a pack. The narrow streets are lined with high, high, buildings, four, five and six storeys, roads without kerbs or pavements, washing hanging from every balcony; often strung to the other side of the street. It’s Sunday - and clearly it's washing day for this apartment city. Motorbikes and scooters are everywhere, many riders without crash-helmets, and even kids of 8 or 10 riding small machines in the main square, Piazza Dante, and another on an ATV racing around between the frightened pedestrians. You take your life in your hands on a zebra crossing here!

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News 19 19th March 05 Amalfi, snowchains and Assisi

Capri is everything you could possibly ask for. Take away the tourists and you are left with the most wonderful and romantic destination imaginable. It’s just half an hour by ferry from Sorrento, rising steeply from the Med on the edge of the Bay of Naples. It was busy at the portside; in the summer they expect around 5,000 visitors each day, but once off the beaten track we saw few people. The coastline is truly spectacular, the emerald sea meeting the steep cliffs at every viewpoint and white flat- roofed buildings spread like strings of pearls along the hillsides. We walked for hours through the tiny shaded streets where the only traffic is battery-operated vehicles and beautiful villas nestle amongst the pines. Yes, I could live here. Gracie Fields had a home on the Island I’m told and she sang about it! Emperor Tiberius also made his home and palace here, high above the town overlooking the sea, but that was a long time ago and the palace is in ruins now. The walk took us up; and down, hundreds of steps, until, exhausted, we returned to Capri to ogle at the designer shops and expensive hotels and restaurants, smart and tidy, getting their final spit-and-polish before the tourists come in numbers at Easter. We’ll be in Venice by then if all goes to plan.
Sorrento sits atop the vertical cliffs in a long line of fine shops and grand hotels. It swarms with Americans and Japanese even at this time of year, perhaps with fond memories of the many songs written, and films made, about this clean and pleasant town facing into the bay.

From our campsite ‘Nube Argento’ at Sorrento, we took the local bus along
the fabulous Amalfi coast road clinging precariously to the edge of the mountainside hundreds of feet above the sea. We walked through the tiny farms and villages of flat roofed houses perched on the hillside from the lovely town of Ravello high above Amalfi. Just a couple of hundred metres from the town centre the only route into the mountain villages is along tiny paved mule tracks where everything still travels by mule or horse. There was a thriving paper industry here alongside the rushing mountain stream a century ago, and many of the old mills now stand forlorn, roofless and crumbling, leaving the village people dependant on their vines and lemons.
We were joined on our walk by a couple from Cornwall on a walking holiday, and everywhere we went the locals greeted us with a friendly smile; often toothless, and a few words of greeting in broken English. The Italians in this area are truly welcoming.
True to plan we travelled northwards on Wednesday to visit the Benedictine Abbey at Montecassino before heading into the mountains of the Abruzzo National Park for some walking with bears and wolves - if they haven’t shot them all yet. (There are even holes in the road-signs hereabouts!) Our route took us through miles of virgin snowfields along the valley floor between snow-covered mountains.
I am compelled to visit military graveyards at places like Motecassino. Here lie 30,000 young men; sons, fathers, brothers and lovers, who gave their lives in the last war for this mountain top monastery, a German stronghold, now rebuilt, overlooking the endless neat rows of white gravestones. And here we met a mother, her son, his daughter and a friend from Brandon, our home-town. Mother was there to visit the grave of her father who died at Montecassino when she was just seven years old. That was enough to bring a tear to the eye. It happens that the two men are traffic police and we got news of our great friend Andy, who we are told is now a radio celebrity. We’re proud of you boy!
True to form, we later discovered thirty miles on, that our route into the Abruzzo Park was blocked by an avalanche higher up in the mountains. We phoned the campsite to check on access and the owner said, “We’re a metre deep in snow. You can try to get here, but you will see the problem if you do!” We opted for another site and a 50mile detour and arrived in Roccaroso in the heart of ski country at nearly 4,000ft. Yes, you guessed it - this one had a metre of snow too, but they had cleared an access and there were three other motorhomes already parked. We managed to get stuck on the ice on the way in, but after half an hour and with help from a few non-English speaking campers we eventually parked for the night, exhausted and up to our ears in mud. Thursday morning came with bright blue skies burning the snow-bound hills, temperatures touching zero and very slippery ice on the incline out of the camp-site. There was no way that we were going anywhere without chains! So it was off on the long walk into Roccaraso in the remote hope of finding a set to fit Smiley. The Cavalry came to our aid on the way down the long hill when two soldiers gave us a lift into town in an army mini-bus in response to a nonchalant thumb. The local tyre merchant hunted through his stock without success, but promised to come to the site at 1pm to help us. Ten minutes later he caught us up with his van as we were walking back, waving a brand new set of chains in his hand and with a big smile on his face. 100 euros lighter and an hour or two later, the chains were fixed and we were able to wave good-bye to this nightmare site! Lesson learned – ‘Be Prepared’ (Dib dib, dob dob, etc.)

There was too much snow around to even consider walking and no other campsites open yet in the area so we headed north again to Assisi, the home of St Francis, (‘poverty, chastity and obedience’), now showing little sign of the devastation caused by the earthquake in ’97. Assisi takes your breath away; its medieval mellow stone houses and churches, broad paved squares, glistening fountains on stunning squares and tasteful shops along every street. It is one of those special places where it’s natural to talk in a hushed voice and there’s a smile on every face. Some might say that it’s manicured, but for me, this is part of its passion. The tourists are few here now, but there are large numbers of student groups. Italy is 90% Catholic and doubtless this pilgrim town is an important part of the Country’s heritage. This has to be one of the Italian tourist hot-spots, but there was only one other motorhome on the campsite and somebody in a tiny tent lower down the hill. We camped looking directly out over the wide fertile valley below Assisi and, in the evening, we ate ‘al fresco’ listening to the birds staking claim to new territory. The shorts and sandals came out for an airing today too. It has been around 25 degrees with clear blue skies for the past week and we’re loving it!
A few miles to the west lies Perugia, a medieval city of much greater size. The motorhome car park is at the bottom of the long hill up to the old town, but in Perugia you get escalators like the London Underground to get you to the top. We had expected funiculars! The wide panoramic streets and piazzas, and endless incredibly beautiful buildings have made this town a great rival for Sienna over the centuries. Like Assisi and Sienna though, this town is clean and tidy with lovely shops and friendly people. They should ship a few coach-loads of Napolitanos here to see what a nice place they could have with a brain and a bit of TLC – and probably a lot of money too. We’re learning our way around the bars now. Two coffees and two custard doughnuts can be bought for as little as £3 if you really try!
J loves Umbria and I can understand why. It comes extremely close to Tuscany for the beauty of the countryside, the culture of the people and the warmth of its buildings. There is little graffiti here, what posters there are, are generally tidy, and we feel less threatened here than in the towns further south.

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News 20 29th March 05 – Somewhere in the Dolomites

It’s been another busy week for the grey haired nomads. After leaving Perugia, we continued our tour of historic towns with visits to Gubbio and Urbino.
Gubbio is, like Assisi and Perugia, an Umbrian hill town with grand piazzas, palazzos, fountains and churches. Despite it being a Sunday, the town was almost empty of tourists. The only crowds seemed to be attending a local football match. We found an excellent “sosta” [dedicated parking and overnighting area for motorhomes, often with water and waste facilities and usually free] in Gubbio, but decided to head on to Urbino. We drove mainly on minor roads in Umbria finding the scenery beautiful with its neat, rolling, wooded hills.
Urbino is in the adjacent province of Marche, slightly more rugged than Umbria, but still all hilly or mountainous. Despite the land being sloping, in Marche they seem to want to cultivate as much of the land as they can, to grow cereals. So it was looking very green with all the young crops.

Urbino is touted as “one of the best preserved and most beautiful hill towns in Italy”. We managed to find a campsite with a fantastic view over the town. As we breakfasted, we watched the towers and spires appear and disappear in the thick white mist which hung below us in the valley. Urbino has quite a different feel to Assisi, Perugia and Gubbio. It is a “Renaissance” town, so the architectural style is more refined and less rustic. The town is dominated by the enormous Palazzo Ducale which houses a gallery around which we were escorted, not guided, by a guard. Raphael’s “La Muta” made the visit worthwhile, although there were many other gems as well. We also visited Raphael’s house in Urbino; not quite as good as Leonard’s house which we visited in Amboise, but similarly giving the feel of the 15th century and the presence of the great man.
After Urbino, we wound our way through the beautiful Marche countryside to the tiny principality of San Marino, perched on a very high rugged mountain. Unfortunately the mist obliterated most of the views. Twenty minutes’ driving took us up and down again and through the entire “country”.
Next along the road we hit Rimini, resort heaven, amazing to behold but certainly not our cup of tea. The beach (40km long) was lovely and sandy, but divided into sections, each charging for sun umbrellas and loungers in season. Of course, we’re still way too early for there to be anybody here on holiday and all the many campsites remain firmly closed for another couple of months.
So we continued to “sosta” heaven, Ravenna. Ravenna has at least three sostas, one of which we found easily and decided to join the other 15 motorhomes parked there for the night. We realised afterwards that only 1 of the 15 was actually occupied; the rest probably belonged to local flat-dwellers.
Ravenna was a surprisingly attractive town. In addition to the numerous churches, mausoleums, baptisteries and basilicas that all feature amazing mosaics, it was neat and tidy, and preferred bicycles to cars in the centre. So much so that you can actually borrow a bike for free, and are trusted to return it whence it came. We also found a church with a crypt which has a lovely mosaic floor, but it is flooded and has goldfish swimming about in it.
North of Ravenna, we headed towards Venice, passing through the Po Delta en route. After the deltas of eastern Spain and the Camargue, the Po was disappointing. But this is Italy. We’ve seen very few birds anywhere, hence the lack of bird reports recently. We did have some good sightings of marsh harriers and loads of avocets, the usual egrets and herons and grebes, but nothing to get too excited about. The only reserve that we found was firmly shut. In our meandering about the delta, the most exciting event was a trip across one arm of the Po on a pontoon bridge, supported by boats lashed together. We hoped that Smiley wouldn’t exceed the 5ton weight limit and sink midstream! Knowing our luck, this is just about the only disaster that hasn’t happened to us.
We survived and wound up in Venice, or at Punta Sabioni at the end of the Jesolo spit to be precise. This spit, between Lido di Jessolo and Venice boasts an astounding 30 or so campsites, all but 2 still closed, awaiting the sun. Camping Miramare was just 500metres from the waterbus to Venice, and it was packed with Germans and Italians. Since we left Almeria in southern Spain, we have not encountered busy campsites. Often we have been the only residents. But now it’s Easter holiday time, and families with motorhomes have suddenly emerged. The site was almost full. The sosta next door (that belonged to the campsite and charged 16 euros) was full. There were another 30 or so motorhomes (illegally) parked along the road and yet more parked in the carparks by the ferry terminal. We could find no other Brits though until our second night, when old motorhoming friends Kathy and David turned up. We first met them in Valencia, then bumped into them again in Florence. While we’ve been to Sicily, they’ve been to Greece.
We were in Venice a few years ago, also during the Easter holiday, but we don’t remember it being quite so jam-packed with tourists. The waterbus was laden with dozens of French teenagers on a school trip. I felt very sorry for their longsuffering teachers. Of course the waterfront and St Marks Square were also seething with people (and pigeons), but away from this main hub, it was easy to lose the crowds. We visited Venice three days running, walked our feet off, and enjoyed all the art and architecture, glass, masks and fabulous fashions; not to mention the pizzas, pasta and ice-cream.

After St Marks, the Doges Palace and about 12 churches, we couldn’t take in any more Tintorettos or Veroneses, so we rode up and down the Grand Canal on the waterbus. Unfortunately, the weather remained fairly grey for the duration of our visit, but that’s what you have to expect in Venice.
We both knew by Easter Day that we’d had enough of cities, so we took the opportunity of lorry-free roads and headed north to the Dolomites. Names recalled from “Ski Sunday” suddenly appeared on the map. The flat Veneto gave way to soaring, jagged limestone peaks and we found snow again. The spectacular scenery prompted us to stop at Cortina d’Ampezzo, where we had breath-taking mountain views all around. This is definitely where the rich and famous come to pose on the slopes or in their fur coats in the high street, even when the sun is shining and it is 20degrees as it was on Easter Monday. There is still enough snow for skiing, but we found a hiking trail through larch woods which was mostly snow-free and gave us some stunning views. Cortina was very pleasant, but after a couple of days we dragged ourselves away as there are a lot more mountains to see. Overnight it rained constantly, which left a frosting of new snow on the peaks. As we drove west the road climbed higher and higher up to about 6000 feet passing dozens of ski slopes, all busy with skiers enjoying the fresh snowfall.
We are camped tonight at Canazai, at just 5000 feet (a little higher than Ben Nevis) and it’s raining again. The mountains are temporarily lost in cloud, but I’m sure it will clear soon, giving us the opportunity to explore the snowy peaks of the spectacular Valle de Gardena in sunlight tomorrow.

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News 21. From Dolomites to Lakes Thursday 7th April 2005.

OK, so you already know we like the mountains; but the Dolomites are something else. Previously, I could find them on a map of course, but I really have no idea what my expectations were. Suffice to say, we have both been truly captivated by their charm.
We are in Italy of course, but the Austrian border is no more than an hours drive away and whilst the local language is Italian, many of the signs are in German. Every town here has at least two names, sometimes three, just to make travelling that bit more difficult.
Temptation struck last night when we saw a couple walking along the road sharing a bag of chips. We tracked down the source to a mobile burger and pizza bar in the centre of town. At the top of the list it said, ‘Pommes frites.’ Without further ado and, confident as ever, I placed our order. “Due pommes frites, per favore.” The vendor responded with, “Zwei?” “Yes please,” I replied without thinking. We have been in Italy for eight weeks and we’re still trying to shake off the Spanish without all this. The chips were wonderful, cooked to order!
Overnight rain gave way to a bright sunny morning on Wednesday and we decided to delay our departure from the ski-resort of Canazai for a last hike in the midst of the mountains. Seven hours later we were back at Base-camp 1, exhilarated but extremely weary. Our path rose steeply from the town and continued upwards until lunchtime through woods of spruce, ancient pine and juniper, on good tracks with dappled sunlight on the forest floor. The going got tough at the snowline, knee deep at times, until, as we turned for home, it started to snow and our track descended at an alarming angle on slippery virgin snow with little more than overnight deer and fox prints to follow (or were they wolves?). Thank goodness for the walking poles; we would not have chanced it without! There were black squirrels everywhere with huge bushy tails, tufty ears and a flash of pure white under the belly. Nutcrackers made their first appearance for us on this trip, squawking overhead, and a buzzard circled over the valley below.
The vistas were fabulous; those jagged peaks so unique to the Dolomites, across to Mt Marmolada, spectacular in the sunlight at 11,000ft and mantled in snow. It was raining by the time we arrived back in town, and somewhat soaked, we settled for hot chocolate and apfel strudel at the café in reward for effort in the face of considerable hardship. Here in Italy, the hot chocolate is precisely what it says. Thick melted chocolate that sticks to your ribs! Yes, we’re happy here. J is always a happy bunny when there’s chocolate about!

The book suggested that the road through Val Gardena should not be missed and we ventured forth up the 25 hairpin bends (tornantes), from Canazei to join the road stretching westwards towards Bolzano and our next stop in the National Park dello Stelvio. The skiers were already on the slopes enjoying the fresh snow and warm sunshine, queuing at the lifts and waltzing and gliding gracefully across the miles of downhill tracks still available here. The road dropped steadily into the valley, the grass turning green now on the pastures responding to the warmer temperatures and the trees showing the welcome mist of grey-green that heralds spring.
Spring suddenly arrived on the 31st March at the foot of the valley in Bolzano. The verges magically awoke to the bright yellow of forsythia, the pink and white of cherry blossom, the first flush of flower on the magnolia and bright red quince. Here, along the narrow lanes and picture-card villages the beech woodlands sparkle with blue hepatica, and pale mauve crocuses carpet the meadows. The broad plain that runs up from Bolzano to Merano is one huge fruit bowl, 25km long and 3km wide between the hills, with fruit trees; mostly apple we suspect, neatly pruned in tidy rows on every spare metre of fertile soil. I have never noticed Italian apples on our supermarket shelves. Do they all go to the Italian market perhaps?
Just south of Merano we followed the road-signs; all in German now, and turned southwest along the Val di Sole into the National Park for our next overnight ‘sosta’ stop by the Peio Terme (spa) ski-lift at the base of the magnificent 12,500ft Mt Cevedale. That night we were surrounded by bears, high up in the Park on a rough track between the dense spruce and larch. We tried so hard to find them, but we only saw Todd. (Please read that passage again in your best quiet David Attenborough voice).
Morning brought low cloud and we turned towards the Swiss border through the high pass where the skiers were already out and we saw bus-loads of English school kids preparing to take on the slopes for the day. The skiing season is almost over now, though there was a fresh fall of snow overnight, exposed as the cloud lifted to display the mountain peaks at their best. The roads cleared by mid-morning as we passed through the beautiful hillside meadows, beach-woods and red tipped willow and birch on the hillsides near Aprica.
Now, I’m only the driver of this snail on wheels and I don’t get to see the map or the contours as we travel; that’s J’s domain. Imagine my surprise as we drove out of Aprica (where I thought we were at the bottom of the valley), to see yet another valley nearly 1000ft below over a sheer drop. The mountains also changed along this road, from the ragged dramatic peaks of the Dolomites clothed in trees and dotted with alpine chalets, to the wide-open valleys and formal mountains bare above the tree-line and totally devoid of habitation that make up the Southern Alps. That’s the wonder of travel; there’s another surprise around every corner.
We were soon to be amongst more dramatic scenery, climbing up across the Italian-Swiss border, majestic fir dripping with cones clinging to the mountainsides and manicured meadows sweeping down to ice blue rocky streams. That’s the magic of Switzerland.

But this was to be but a brief visit on Swiss soil. We were heading for the
Italian Lakes and were tempted by the opportunity of a minor diversion to take a look at St Moritz and walk the route up to the glacier at Morteratsch. We parked Smiley at the beautiful Plauns campsite at Pontresina just before St Moritz, beside a crystal stream in full view of the mighty glacier in the early afternoon and trudged our way in glorious sunshine through heavy snow to the foot of the glacier; two steps forward and one back, and arrived back at Smiley in time for tea – utterly exhausted once again. “No pain, no gain”, J reminded me – as she often does. We had not anticipated the snow and we forgot the walking poles - and the ‘Factor 25’. Big mistake. Were we red! The glacier has receded 1.3km since 1970 leaving a fascinating wide rocky moraine and narrow riverbed as natures’ historical record. Where has all that water gone?
At the exit of the Plauns campsite there is a sign saying ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Gute Fahrt.’ I understand the first part, but can anyone translate the second for me please? This lovely site was at 1870m (about 6,000ft), which can get a tad cold at night, but with the appropriate action we managed to avoid freezing our water supply, though the waste-water tap froze solid. We can let that out later! We drove the 10km into St Moritz, surprised to find it a commercial town meeting the demands of the wealthy tourist, with Armani shops and suchlike, and smart hotels along the main drag – and a Coop supermarket built like a five star hotel beside the frozen lake. There was no snow there any longer and the skiers had turned to hurling, leaving the deep blue skies and bright sunshine for us to enjoy on our own.
Our route since passing Trento more than a week ago, has taken us through verdant valleys and high snow-bound passes, moving constantly from winter to spring and back, sometimes several times each day. High up in St Moritz the grass was still harvest gold awaiting the first warmth of spring; the muck-spreaders were busy on the meadows, nurturing what nature provides to ensure good fodder for the sheep and cattle. The cattle are still shut in their dark sheds producing today’s milk and next year’s fertiliser until the hillsides turn green once more. Here the farmers’ wealth lies in the quality of his grass; there are no cereal crops in the mountains.
The first swallows of the year passed over Lago Piano the tiny lake between Como and Maggiore where we camped directly beside the tranquil lapping water, with courting grebe, coot and mallard as our neighbours and a pair of rough-legged buzzard soared overhead in the late evening. There were two ladies in charge of this site, Agata and her mother, made us extremely welcome with hearty handshakes and cheerful smiles. Apart from us, there was just one other couple, Germans, in a static caravan. It’s two weeks since we last met any British motorhomers, our friends David and Cathy in Venice and before then it was in Palermo in Sicily at the end of February. Where are all the Brits?

I have passed through Lombardy before on business, but have never ‘stopped to smell the roses’. We set off to walk in the hills above the lake with the sun threatening to break the morning mist, along ancient mule tracks between dry-stone walls through tiny summer meadows alive with cowslips, violets, cyclamen and hellebores, wood anemones, hepatica and primroses, orchids and shrubby milkwort. Dappled sunlight shone through the wayside woods of coppiced hazel, birch, sweet chestnut and hornbeam; all draped in the delicate green lace of early spring. There were few birds; the summer visitors have still to arrive, but the resident great tits were calling – that sound of pumping up the bicycle tyres ready for a long summer, a red kite skirted the trees and green woodpeckers laughed at us from the valley below. How close to heaven can you get?

The cyclists were out on Sunday as usual. When I was a lad (a long time ago) it was OK to wear a short-sleeved shirt, a pair of shorts and cycling shoes. Today, it appears, it’s not possible to ride a bike without outrageous coloured clinging Lycra carrying hordes of advertising. I presume they get paid to wear it. The motorcyclists were haring around the corners as usual too; dressed in their multi-coloured leathers on their beautiful machines, Ducatis, Hondas, Triumphs and Harleys; all highly polished. Now, that’s macho!
The voters were out on Sunday, too, trying to select their preferred candidate from the long list of contestants. The advertising hoardings have been covered; and uncovered by vandals or the opposition, with election posters for weeks throughout Italy. We will doubtless get news of the results in due course along with news of the Pope’s state of health. The local church bell rings on the hour and half hour every day of the week. Between 7am and 11pm they also ring a tune on the hour in addition to the hourly chime. Sadly, we can’t identify any of the tunes and some of the bells are surely cracked!

Sunday was a very sad day. I ran out of ginger wine for my whiskey. But this is a good life. We have not seen TV for 12 weeks and haven’t missed it. We have read just two newspapers, the Telegraph each time, and I have not had a haircut for thirteen weeks. Just call me Curly. Who cares? My shoes will need a polish sometime next week.
Before moving on, we ventured briefly into Switzerland once more on the northern shores of Lake Lugano. The small lake has a special feel about it; steep mountains surround its still waters, blue and white boats bob in the breeze and pastel villages nestle close to the water’s edge. Lugano itself has a certain charm too. There is a different Bank on every corner, there are hundreds of fabulous fashion shops, desirable designer watch shops, delicious chocolate shops, exclusive jewellery shops, and scrumptious delicatessens. Not the place to let your wife loose with your credit card!
Monday morning brought news that the Pope had died. We had noticed that the flags were all at half-mast and presumed that to be the case. Unusually though, there was no other sign of grief in evidence amongst the population here, no specific church bell chimes or massed people around the churches.

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June-Sept2005

2005-12-11T01:20:00.000-08:00

Newsletter 22 From Norfolk to the outskirts of Oslo in a week.

1st June 2005
Yesterday, the last day of May, we ‘cast a final clout’, looked forward to a June, ‘bursting out all over’ and planned our departure from Norfolk for phase three of our motorhome tour of places that previous European holidays have failed to reach. We set off in fine drizzle for a leisurely 200mile drive to get a quick glance at the puffins at Bempton Cliffs in East Yorkshire before leaving for far away places. A few puffins sheltered from the driving rain amongst the red campion at the top of the chalk cliffs, guillemots were busy nesting, along with a good number of razorbills and thousands of gannets and kittiwakes; all battered by the wind and clinging desperately to the sheer face. We were never this cold or wet on our winter tour of Italy. I don’t know about you, but we’re off! There’s a ferry from Newcastle to Kristiansand at 3pm tomorrow and I think we’ll be on it.

DFDS Ferries make regular crossings to Krisiansand on the southern tip of Norway, en route to Gothenburg in Sweden. We decided to jump ship here and drive round to Gothenburg over the next week or two. Our fare, including a ‘basic cabin for two’ and Smiley was just £108, one hell of a deal for a 17hour cruise. OK, ‘basic cabin’ is a loose term for a box with a couple of bunks, but who’s complaining? A battleship had arrived overnight off Whitby where we camped last night, presumably to protect us from pirates, and an aircraft-carrier complete with a flock of Harrier jump-jets was moored at Newcastle just behind our ferry, The Princess of Scandinavia. Perhaps it’s all part of ‘Sea Britain 2005’ to celebrate Nelson’s greatest hour. (We did Nelson a few months back, in Norfolk, Portsmouth and Trafalgar, but we won’t be home for the summer celebrations)

The fine drizzle travelled ahead across the North Sea and greeted us on our arrival in Kristiansand, grey and overcast. This is Norway’s fifth larges town; population 57,000, though you wouldn’t know it. There were a few cars around the broad tree-lined streets, all driving leisurely, and politely stopping to let us cross the road. What a change from Italy! The pace of life here appears even slower than that in Norfolk and the still harbour waters and white timbered houses in the old quarter are more reminiscent of Canada or New England. There are similarities with San Francisco too, though the tolls are on every road as you enter, rather than when you leave. We felt very welcome Kristiansand. It’s pretty despite the rain and extremely friendly. The town 1km square, is built on a grid, bounded by sea on two sides, the river on another and the parks to the north. Strange, but true, (well, almost), every other shop is a hairdressers!

The weather improved as the day progressed and we ventured to the beautiful Baneheia park on the edge of town to take a stroll through the birch woods amongst the pink granite rock and dark mirror pools where a pair of golden-eye dived for us. Spring is late here in Norway this year; the cherry trees are still in flower, their bright pink blossom somewhat forlorn in the morning’s puddles. We learned in the hiking shop that there is still a lot of snow on the hills. That’s good news for the skiers but not so bright for us walkers.

Our first taste of Norway suggests that it will be somewhat expensive, but we’ll reserve judgement for a few days. The two Public loos we’ve tried so far have been 1Dkr, (9p), and 5Dkr (45p). Whatever happened to ‘spending a penny’? I think I’ll wait! There is VAT on food here, which adds considerably to the cost of living and meat is around twice the price that it is at home. Perhaps it’s time I invested in some new fishing kit. There are salmon in the rivers hereabouts, I’m told, and trout in the lakes. It’s possible to buy whale steaks here in Norway, but I’ve not seen any harpoons for sale yet, so I might just leave that to the experts – and I don’t approve anyway. We made a start today with the purchase of a self-contained gas cooker for use outside on warm evenings and particularly for cooking fish, which is not recommended inside campervans!

Rather than set off along the coast towards Oslo, we headed due north for 60 miles along route 9 as far as Evje to get a feel for the river valleys and the hundreds of beautiful lakes nestled amongst the pine forest. We camped in the early evening overlooking the lake just beyond Evje, surrounded by Scots pines, red above the soft grey lichen line (around 6ft) in the spring sunlight. We learned a little about the Norwegian Saturday night yob culture here; racing their noisy cars in the street, horns blaring, wheelies in the road and much drunken shouting long into the night and not a copper to be seen.

From Evje, we headed southeast into the sun and back to the coast, through endless spruce forest softened with swathes of birch draped in the fresh green of spring. The charming white wooden buildings and bobbing boats in the sea towns of Lillesand and Grimstad, and the intriguing rocky coves between the hundreds of tiny wooded islands typify the wonders of this lovely Skagerak coast. Grimstad was the home of Henrik Ibsen (Peer Gynt, Pillars of Society, etc.) and it is also renowned as the sunniest spot in Norway, with an average of 266 hours of sunshine in June. That’s nearly 10 hours each day, and it didn’t disappoint us. (The huge soft-ice-creams were rather special too!)

The white wooden buildings with their picket fences and neatly turned out gardens, tiny coves and wooded islands characterise the whole of this coast, up through Arendal, Lyngor, Risor and on to Kragero. As we travelled northwards there were more ‘English red’ and ochre houses. English red, as it is known, is a redder version of terra cotta. Here too, away from the rocky outcrops, there is more agriculture, onions and leaks, fields of rye, potatoes, strawberries and neat rows of lettuces and cabbages. Houses here hug the shoreline, their stark outlines reflected in the still waters of the fiords. Along the coast, we spotted eider, wheatear, linnet, yellow hammer and arctic tern. Before settling in for the night, we wandered through the woods beside the rocky beach amongst wild lupins, water-avens, marsh marigold, bloody cranesbill and, a new one for me; swathes of bright pink ‘sticky catchfly’.

It doesn’t seem to get dark here at night – at least, not when we’re awake. In a few weeks we’ll be in the land of the midnight sun, but I don’t think we will notice the difference. It’s 11pm now, it’s still light and the sky is just getting pink to the west.

Tuesday brought more sunshine and we opted for the longer inland route to Oslo, northwest via the locks on the Telemark Canal to the great stave church, Norway’s biggest, near Nottodden in Norway’s ‘Blue Grass’ Country. Whilst heavily restored, many of these wooden churches date back to the 13th Century and they are really quite magical, like fairy-tale castles. This road is on the Oslo to Bergen road and it’s a honeypot for German and Dutch motorhomers. We’re the only Brits about for some reason.

There are some bigger farms in this area below the snow-capped mountains and the tree lined hills. Their white houses and huge red cattle and hay barns stand out against the gently rolling pasture and arable fields. The cows and sheep are in the meadows now, enjoying the lush buttercup and dandelion enriched grass.

Tomorrow, the 8th June, is J’s birthday and we should be in Oslo to celebrate. Our first week, travelling from Norfolk across the sea into the south of Norway has been rewarding to say the least. There are fresh horizons every day and each day we learn something new. Life is too shore to miss such opportunities. J will be a year older tomorrow and we’ll make the most of the next one too!

Special birds of the week:
1 Red-legged kittiwake at Bempton and Puffins of course!
Black woodpecker at Kongsberg
Eider, Goldeneye, Linnet, Goosander, Redwing + lots of others!

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News 23 Oslo and on into Sweden 8th – 14th June 05

To the best of my knowledge, I have never seen a photograph of Oslo, so I had little by way of expectations when we arrived at the campsite overlooking the city, mid-morning. The E18 motorway runs straight into the City, through the tunnel under the centre and out the other side. Consequently, there is little traffic in the centre and it has a peaceful air, with wide streets and green parks everywhere. The pedestrianised main street, Carl Johans Gate, runs straight as an arrow about one and a half km from the railway station to the Palace, between smart shops, cafes and restaurants. Nothing like our chaotic Oxford Street!

We left Smiley at the campsite and took the bus into town, planning to have half a day walking some of the sights to get our bearings. Oslo is a fine city, it’s very cosmopolitan, and though it has little of architectural merit the tidy modern ‘small town’ feel makes it rather friendly. There are regular, clean and un-crowded buses, trams and underground trains and hardly a car to be seen near the city centre.

This week in Oslo was rather special for two reasons. Firstly, it was Janice’s birthday and she was under strict instructions to enjoy herself, and secondly, this particular week the City was celebrating the 100th anniversary of the dissolution of the union between Sweden and Norway. To mark the event, there was a festival with a number of special events. We were able to get a taster on our first day there.

The changing of the guard at 1pm was spectacular; more than an hour of precision marching with the band playing, post horns sounding, bayonets flashing and the crowd, all 200 of us, smiling and applauding with gusto! The brochure also mentioned a Naval event in the harbour at 2pm, so we rushed off across the park in time to see a Galleon sailing into the dock! The ‘Gothenborg’ is a full size replica of an 18C wreck discovered in Gothenborg, Sweden, (or Goteborg as it is shown on our map), and it moored alongside six or seven other tall-masters including some from Sweden and Poland, motor torpedo boats, a submarine and a destroyer of the Norwegian fleet. As if that’s not enough excitement for the day, we celebrated our special birthday with a fine meal and a few glasses (or was it more?) of the red stuff in the evening. Doubtless Sweden and Norway will both celebrate their Centenary of independence this year. The Swedish King and Queen were guests at the opening of the new Nobel Centre in Oslo this week.

All of Oslo’s museums are on a promontory just out of town and easy to get to by bus, or ferry which makes a lot of sense. The Norwegians are justly proud of their prowess at sea and for their feats of exploration. Amundsen, the first to the South Pole, (a month before Scott), features in the Fram museum, where this egg hulled wooden ship
ship holds pride of place for its incredible journeys close to both poles. The Kon-Tiki exhibition has Thor Heyerdahl’s papyras Ra 11 and the original balsa Kon-Tiki, both quite remarkable. But most amazing of all, for me, was the Viking Ship Museum; these magnificent 22m wooden boats were rowed and sailed as far as the Mediterranean and the USA between the 9th and 11th centuries! I hear that some Norwegian tour operators are planning pillaging and raping holidays by Viking ship to the Suffolk next year; (oars and funny hats supplied).

All the newspapers here are in Norwegian of course. It really does look incredibly complicated and I’d be quite surprised if anyone can actually read it. Perhaps that’s why they all speak English. There are some similarities between English and Norwegian. For example, skule, is school and it’s probably a better way to spell it. Likewise, syklist, resepjon and buss.

The road south from Oslo into Sweden runs alongside the coast and whilst we know we’re a bit late for the migration of birds from the south for which this area is renowned, we took a look at one or two of the hot spots mentioned in our ‘Where to watch birds in Scandinavia’. Disappointingly, the hot spots were only luke-warm, but that was to be expected. There were a few eider on the still water inside the hundreds of ‘bowler hat’ granite islands just off shore, a pair of mergansers, shelduck, common terns, a pied flycatcher, red-backed shrike, great spotted woodpecker and a few others, but nothing yet of ground-breaking significance. Never mind; a bit like golf, it’s always a good excuse for a walk in the sunshine. We have seen one or two golf courses on our travels here and several practice ranges, but we have no regrets at leaving the clubs at home this time. On second thoughts, perhaps a seven iron would have been good for practice on the range!

There is a shopping centre for Norwegians just across the border into Sweden. Our first visit to a Swedish supermarket suggests that food is a bit cheaper, around the same as at home. Also, diesel in Sweden is around 72p per litre compared with 81p in Norway. By my reckoning, that makes the UK at 89p the most expensive place for diesel in Europe, so I’ll stop complaining about prices in Norway until we get back across the border sometime around the end of July. Our plan at the moment is to head across Sweden towards Stockholm, and then turn northwards, up the east coast, into Suomi Finland just below the arctic circle. After exploring Finland’s northern National Parks we will continue northwards, possibly as far as Nordkapp, where we turn southwest once again through Norway down as far as Bergen. We depart Bergen by ferry for Lerwick in Shetland on the 23rd August if the sea’s not too rough!

Both countries fly their flags and pennants with pride from flagpoles and rooftops in towns and villages. There is so much here that reminds us of Northern Ontario. The maple leaf is important there too and alongside minor roads, mail boxes collect like ants, awaiting collections and deliveries for unseen houses hidden somewhere deep in the forest. Here, too, there are hundreds of pine fringed lakes and there was a group of about ten black-throated divers on the lake by the campsite at Ed, about thirty miles inland, right in the north of Sweden. These spectacular birds are now referred to as ‘loons’ in the bird books; the common name for the great northern divers across North America.

Outcrops of ice-worn granite known as rock slab extend like giant boulders inland some miles along this coast, up into the birch and spruce covered hills rising gently from the cultivated valleys. On the Norway side of the border there are burial mounds and stone circles from around 500AD; one in the shape of a Viking ship with 3m high stones fore and aft. Farther south, in Sweden, we visited one of many sites with carvings on rocks amongst the bilberry and juniper bushes dating back as far as the Bronze-age; 1000-500BC. We have seen Maori rock paintings in Kakadu and cave paintings in Lascaux in France and in Spain, but whilst there are many wonderful stone circles and suchlike in the UK, I don’t recall much artistic representation of this nature.

The classic picture-book image of Sweden is probably a brick-red farmhouse set on a hillside of buttercup meadows. Well, it really is true and it’s a common sight here! With little topsoil other than in the open valleys, most of the open land and ample rainfall supports lush grasses rich in wild flowers for the livestock. The houses in the countryside here in northwest Sweden are painted brick red, unlike the traditional white of the Norway coast we left behind.

Our first visit to the wilderness regions took us into the Trestiklan National Park on the border with Norway where we walked for more than four hours on rocky paths through rich pine and birch forest without seeing another soul. It rained off and on, but we enjoyed the exercise in an environment where we are both at home. A lesser-spotted woodpecker greeted us with its magical call above our heads, crested tits darted through the trees and a golden eye dabbled in the water in front of us as we sat on the bank having our lunch. We walked on carpets of grey-green lichen and swathes of fresh bilberry through bright tipped spruce and cotton grass beside the streams. Elk are said to be around in the park but they stayed out of sight – or we had our heads down in the rain! The following day we had better luck and in addition to our first Swedish elk at Vanersborg’s ‘Algens Berg’, we also saw a pair of cranes striding gracefully across a cultivated field beside the road. Such an elegant bird. I must go and lie down. I’m not sure I can take all of this excitement!

Early one morning we left Smiley for a while and walked through the woods around the lake by the campsite at Vanersborg to look for birds. To our surprise and oil tanker appeared in the middle of the lake! The massive Lake Vanern is on the Gota Canal that runs across Sweden from Gothenborg to Stockholm.

Driving south through the countryside along the west coast we saw more horses than cows feasting on the luscious grass. From this we can make a couple of assumptions. Either there are a lot of riders in this country (perhaps there aren’t many buses), or, more likely, the cows are all locked up in the massive barns for most of the summer. Clearly grass is a valuable commodity and the white plastic rolls of summer’s first cut of hay lining the fields around the farms indicate expectations of another harsh winter ahead.

En route to Gothenborg we passed through the town of Trollhattan. We didn’t stop there, but Trollhattan is the home of Saab motor cars. Volvo also have a presence in town, but it might be aeronautics and not motors, I guess, otherwise they would be forever pinching each other’s staff! Every other car in Sweden appears to be a Volvo, whatever the age or condition. This is another country like Norway, where motorists are very courteous and generally they drive passively within, or just around, the very slow speed limits.

The picturesque island of Marstrand is a short ferry ride off the coast just north of Gothenborg and we deposited Smiley in a secure car park and slipped over for a brief visit whilst the sun was shining. Across the short stretch of water it has the trappings of a remote nineteenth century whaling town somewhere off the west coast of North America. Tourists and sailors obviously come here in droves in the summer to enjoy the atmosphere amongst the smartly painted houses, pastel pink, sky blue, dusty purple and white, with fancy picket fences and many flying the Swedish flag. The harbour was full of fast yachts from Germany, Norway, Sweden, Finland and Denmark. Also there was the tri-maran, Nokia. We’re very taken with this piece of coast, but there’s a lot more to see and as Janice reminds me, we’ve a long way to go!

Tomorrow morning, the 15th June, will see us in Gothenborg from where you will hopefully receive this missive. For now, we’ll say our farewells. We spent all of last week learning Norwegian and now we’ll have to learn Swedish. What’s the Swedish for goodbye?

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News 24 15th – 21st June 05
Goteborg (taking the time to smell the roses), to Stockholm and beyond

Gothenborg, as we know it, is one of those places you pass through when you arrive in Sweden by ferry; but we had been led to believe that there is more to this western port. The city was just a fifteen minute tram ride from our camp and with the promise of a bright sunny day, we set forth to find out more.

In Swedish, Goteborg is pronounced; ‘Yut-te-boy’ apparently, so you might guess that we are going to struggle just a wee bit with the language. That’s only a minor problem for seasoned travellers like us of course, particularly, as in Norway, the younger locals all speak good English! There are not a lot of ‘sights’ to see in this, Sweden’s second city, but it truly bristles with stunning architecture. Grand merchant’s houses with beautiful facades, influenced by trading links with the Far East and the Swedish East India Company, adorn every broad airy street across the whole city; four, five and six storey, balconied, Neo-classical buildings, set amongst beautiful parkland. Neat people stroll the streets in the sunshine and relax with their newspapers in smart cafes at tables overflowing onto the street, and mums and dads wheel pushchairs through the parks. We’ll long remember the sweet scented rose garden café in the Tradgardsforeningens Park by the river, with its tropical glasshouse on the lines of our long-lost Crystal Palace. Gate Lodge could well be getting a new secret rose garden sometime in the future! Ten out of ten here too, for the free internet at the University Library from which you received our last newsletter.

Just now and again we strike it lucky. A short detour south off route 49 beyond the E20 at Skara as we headed east towards Karlsborg on Lake Vattern, we found a fantastic bird site. Lake Hornborga is home to ten thousand migrating cranes during March and April, stopping off to feast on potatoes left in the ground after the schnapps harvest, on their way north to their breeding grounds. They fly in from Spain and just a few stop to breed here. We were lucky enough to see three pairs with young on the wetlands which teemed with birds: osprey, marsh harrier, hundreds of greylag geese, nesting black tern and black headed gulls, and stunning displaying ruffs which we had not seen before. Here too, we met Jan Lundegren who leads the Baltic Sea Region wetland development project ‘Birds’ for the member countries, Sweden, Estonia, Finland, Germany, Latvia and Lithuania. He’s an agronomist and a keen birder who has found his ideal job. A most interesting guy, he gave us a one-hour lesson on the geology, history and natural history of the area! Jan had stopped off to see the birds on his way to the office following a meeting in Germany the day before and before he left us, he told us about the impressive onion-towered church at Varnhem where very early Swedish kings were buried when this now tiny village, was the capital of Sweden.

North of the 49 here, the narrow road weaves through hilly countryside of Lake District proportions, fields of sheep’s parsley like lace tablecloths in the afternoon sun, a few arable farms and squeaky smart villages, their houses surrounded by spacious manicured gardens amidst broad leaf woods, logs piled high in wait for another hard winter. It would be all too easy to drive past on the main road and miss all this. This country is so green. The mighty oaks, avenues of lime, elm and alder, luxuriant grass meadows, moss covered dry-stone walls; forest, more forest and yet more forest on every horizon.

The same applies to Tiveden National Park. Created a National Park in 1938 to enable the forest to naturally revert, it is but a short way off the main road to Stockholm north of Karlsborg. We made an overnight stop there to give us the chance of a hike through the silent ancient pine forest early the following morning. This area houses a world famous ‘outdoor survival school’ and we soon learned how easy it would be to get lost! We expected to see Ray Mears pop up behind a moose at any moment, but he must have been making one of his survival programmes somewhere else. Fortunately, we found the well-marked trail through the high granite outcrops on uneven rocky tracks bound with tree roots like writhing snakes. Deep green moss graced the huge boulders lining the path and reindeer lichen, firm to the touch as silver coral, made a beautiful foil for the emerald green ferns. It’s just 10,000 years since the ice sheet receded here and there is little soil to support plant-life and many trees have fallen, slowly decaying, their roots torn from the ground. This, the blanket of pine needles and decaying vegetation from bilberry, scrubby salix, the mosses and the lichen, is all that provides the nutrients for tomorrow’s trees.

Smiley was in desperate need of a wash and polish during the week after many hours of off-road driving getting to some of the parks. These un-surfaced roads can get pretty mucky after a good downpour - and we’ve had one or two of those. The roads in general are extremely good and un-crowded and all drivers are extremely courteous and unhurried. But then, there aren’t many roads and with a population of just 9 million and all this space (this is Europe’s third largest country after France and Spain), there’s plenty of room to spread them all out! 4million of them live within a few miles of Malmo, Gothenborg, or our next stop, Stockholm. Some of the road junctions are a bit of a mystery. We came across one with so many traffic lights I was not sure where to go. I could see nine green lights. That’s one for straight on, one for turn right, one for turn left, one for up and one for down and one for backwards, but I still don’t know what the rest were for!

Finally, we arrived on the Baltic coast at Stockholm late on Friday evening and J started planning for our flying visit to the capital. We don’t stay long in cities; just long enough to get the flavour and add a bit of culture to our lives. Stockholm enjoys its space. There are 24,000 islands here making it a just competitor for Venice, and the shimmering water creates dazzling skylines in every direction; beautiful buildings, parks and spire-topped terraces. The Swedes love their space; their houses are all well spread out, the streets are broad and airy; and everyone has a seat on the clean and light Metro, quietly and efficiently getting the job done in a ‘feel safe’ environment. It was warm on the day of our visit but we’re told that Lake Malaren which feeds into the Baltic here, freezes over in the winter and people can skate to work! I suspect that the small population has something to do with the weather and the long dark winters, though if I had to choose a Capital to live in, Stockholm would be worthy of considerable consideration. Traffic jams are unheard of; there is no litter and no beggars.

There’s a museum for everything in Stockholm of course; some in staggeringly beautiful buildings, but after a ‘sightseeing cruise’ and a stroll through the old town, Gamla Stan, we headed past the sunbathers gathered in the park to the Vasa Museum and yet another fantastic boat. The Vasa was built in 1628 and, as it left the harbour on its maiden trial before going into battle against Poland, it fired its 64 canons in salute, then promptly keeled over and sank. Many attempts were made to re-float it but it was not until 1961 that the Navy finally hauled it from the bottom of the harbour, all in one piece! At 67metres long, it’s an impressive sight. 90% of it is original, preserved evidently by the brackish waters of the Baltic.

Lupins grow beside the roads at this time of the year, accompanied by thrift, purple cranes bill, red campion and sticky catchfly. Marsh Hawksbeard and Goatsbeard were growing in bright yellow swathes by the path on our walk across the marshes at Lake Hjalstaviken a bit further north and Yellow Irises there reminded us of Ireland in Spring. An Osprey treated us to a diving display there; not the piercing dive of a kingfisher or a gannet, but with a huge splash as it entered the water, feet first; unlucky on this occasion, the fish living to tell the tale! This magnificent bird has a wingspan of over five feet. There were several Swedish ‘birders’ there with their telescopes, drawn to the lake by reports of the great white egret; a rarity here, this was about 1000 miles north of its range, doubtless due to a sat-nav error.

A hundred or so miles north of Stockholm, we visited Sweden’s fourth largest city, Upsalla. It was Sunday and a rather special, peaceful experience. Churchgoers in their Sunday finery were leaving the Cathedral taking the time to chat in groups in the sunshine, there were numerous lady clerics, families picnicking by the river; lively street cafés and a youthful air; a touch of Cambridge perchance, without the magnificence of the colleges.

Monday. Lake Farnebofjarden (‘Have you got your teeth in mother?’) – Gysinge. 120 miles NW of Stockholm.
Imagine, if you will, our view from Smiley across the lake in the early evening after dinner. There’s a willow warbler singing its’ heart out, a black throated diver just fifty metres from the shore and the mellow evening light is shining on the forest of pines on the far shore. Our neighbour has just taken his boat out for a spot of fishing on the still waters, there’s a pleasant cooling breeze coming off the lake and the sun will be there, smiling over us until well after eleven o’clock. Earlier we watched five ospreys soaring over the water; a truly memorable experience; and a mother goosander fishing in the fast flowing river with her thirteen young. It sure beats work!

Our week ended along the Voxman river inland from Soderhamn on Sweden’s east coast where we were greeted by the site owner, a big man with the huge beard and the smile of a giant. There were canoes and climbing walls beside the fast flowing water, but the Swedish holidaymakers have yet to break loose and crowd us out. It was Midsummer night and the crowds will start to arrive after this weekend’s celebrations.

Other birds this week: Female Capercaillie & young, spotted, pied and red-breasted flycatcher, tree pipit, bullfinch, long tailed tit, lesser-spotted, great-spotted and black woodpecker.

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News 25 Heading north along the Baltic coast 22nd – 28th June 2005

The eight hotels in the small town of Tallberg (pop 400) on Lake Siljan fill up with tourists each year for the few weeks of summer. Even the Japanese come here on their four day tour of Europe we’re told! Hans Christian Andersen came here once too, in 1850, (did he come by horse drawn carriage?). It was his record of the beautiful hilltop views across the lake and the charismatic traditional dwellings that put the village on the map - though it’s my belief that it comes nowhere near Stow-on-the Wold or Bourton-on-the-Water in the Cotswolds! Nice though, and the craft workshops were fascinating. They were busy cutting the grass and dressing the Mid-Summer pole for this weekend’s celebrations.

Bright red Dala wooden horses, richly decorated in high gloss paint, are a symbol of rural life here in Sweden and most homes sport one or two on the mantle-piece. They are hand carved in the village of Nusnas on our route north so we made a detour to see the men at work. You can buy blanks in the gift shop, in a kit that comes with a knife and plasters! I chatted a while with the grey haired carver, retired early from the defunct shipping industry and now enjoying the easy creative life in his wife’s home town. We talked about whittling and soon Baden Powell and the Scouts came up in conversation. Before long we were into the first verse of ‘Ging gang goolie goolie goolie goolie watcha, ging gang goo, ging gang goo,’ and dib-dibbing and dob-dobbing!

I think the last time we went to a zoo where the animals lived in their natural surroundings, was way-back-when in Darwin with our Aussie friend Joe. The temptation to see native animals here in Sweden got the better of us and we stopped off at Jarvso in time to see them feeding the wolves. Despite living in captivity and doing the daily show for the visitors they were extremely skittish, showing all the characteristics of animals in the wild. It was good to get to see those animals which we are unlikely to find even in some of the remote areas we hope to visit in the coming weeks. The 3km boardwalk through the forest at Jarvso Zoo was a great experience: owls, eagles, wolverine, elk of course, lynx, bear, musk-ox and reindeer. We are tourists really, aren’t we!

J recently remarked that we had not heard a motorist sound his horn since we arrived in Sweden. This further reinforces our view that this is a nation of patient and courteous people. Almost immediately we heard one of course, but surely it was sounded in greeting! The roads here are well maintained despite severe weather conditions. Main, E roads all have snow lanes; useful for overtaking in the short summer, and even the minor un-metalled roads are pretty good; just the occasional feeling of driving over corrugated iron! There are no road tolls here in Sweden and I like that in a country. It’s my contention that any government should provide the infrastructure to support efficient travel and transport systems without additional taxation. If you sneeze in Norway of course, they’ll put a toll on it and our Gordon Brown, Mr “if it moves, tax it”, is heading Britain that way.
There is little arable land north of Stockholm. Just 8% of the country could be considered farmland and this is mostly in the south. As we turned back towards the sea, there were a few small lowland fields shimmering with grey-green rye; pastures, bright with buttercups and a whole field of purple cranesbill. The sight of a huge white Smiley coming down the road startled a red fox and a buzzard competing for mice and voles in a field of newly mown hay.
We met a grey bearded sea-captain wheeling a barrow in the remote fishing village of Kuggoren on the island of Hornslandet and the subject of trees came up. He works four weeks on, and four weeks off, on a freighter shipping wood by-products to London. An amazing 54% of this country is covered with forest. “The world need never run out of matches whilst Sweden exists,” I commented. It was eleven o’clock on a Bank Holiday and we were the only visitors in town. I guess we could have chatted all day without being disturbed. Kuggoren has a tiny wooden church with a standing bell-tower and a couple of dozen beautifully kept brick-red wooden houses, edged on the corners and around the windows with white, nestling amongst pink granite rocks and stunted pines around the fiord. A few small boats bobbed on the calm waters, heath pinks and harebells poked their heads above the lichen-covered scree and the heady perfume of rowan blossom and lilac mingled with wood smoke on the fresh Baltic breeze. Any other country and this charm filled Shangrila would be full of gift shops. Here the only shop sells fresh salmon and ice cream. “Wacha-wantluv, fish or ice cream?”
We spotted a lovely church at Rogsta, a few miles north-west of Hudiksvall and couldn’t resist a peek inside. The church was pastel pink, tiered in three steps topped with an onion dome and rather like a wedding cake. The plain interior was graced with padded green pews a grand spiral pulpit and the most beautiful deep organ loft supported on pillars above the entrance. The flag outside the vicarage was at half-mast which suggested something of a morbid nature, but we didn’t reckon on the white coffin and flowers before the altar - and not another poor soul in sight. The empty hearse arrived as we left!
The first Friday after mid-summer’s day is a Public holiday in Sweden. To celebrate the long summer days to come, homes and villages across the country gather their children together to sing and dance around a birch-dressed pole, rather like our Maypole, but with two birch wreaths, one either side; and without the ribbons. We were a bit too shy and a bit too old to join in the celebration in the village near our site and I think we had been expecting some great excitement. It was fascinating, but it didn’t exactly cause a riot! A young lad called at our door in the early evening with a plastic bag and spoke to us in Swedish. We thought he might be asking for sweets, so we obliged from our sticky assortment in the front glove-pocket. The thought occurred to us afterwards, that he might have wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. Is there some possibility that it’s like trick-and-treat on Halloween? Answers on a post- card please.

There were about three hundred caravans on our campsite that night in Norrfallsviken on a promontory north of Harnosand, and we were the only Brits! The drinking started at around eight o’clock as youngsters gathered in groups and some vanished into the forest with their ghetto blasters and cans of beer. There were a good few drunks weaving around by nine o’clock and some were returning from the forest when we were having our breakfast the following morning. A couple of police cars passed through around nine in the evening and a helicopter flew around once or twice, checking on fires in the forest, I guess. It was all good humoured and evidently it’s what you’re expected to do on Midsummer night! The more mature Swedes drink schnapps apparently and use the night as an excuse for a good barbeque.
There are many National Parks along the coast providing good hiking opportunities and we try to walk a few miles each day, on the look-out for birds and wildlife. In the past few days we have visited some wonderful forests and coastal areas along this Baltic shoreline, an area where the land has risen more than 480 metres since the last ice age, some 5000 years ago; more than anywhere else in the world. There are large shingle beaches of lichen covered boulders spread in broad sweeps amongst the pines, high, high up in the forest. It was pretty tough walking; boulders and dense tree roots covered the tracks, but the scenery was worth every weary step. Pools of sunlight filtered through the trees on bright bilberry, delicate ferns and lily of the valley. The air is pure up here, there is little industry and the land is snow covered for seven or eight months each year. Boulders and trees are covered with lichen, silver, yellow and white, and reindeer moss amongst the trees like bubbles in the bath. The land here on the ‘High Coast’ between Harnosand and Ornskoldsvik, is still rising by as much as one metre each year. How little we know about this lovely country; and how little I know about geology!
The dense forest is home to many very special birds, but we are late for the nesting woodpeckers, the undergrowth has grown above the heads of the grouse and capercaillie and whilst we can hear the warblers, they are hidden in the trees before May is out. We also missed the migrating birds going north and we’ll miss them on the way back! Somewhat easier to find are the wild flowers, here in plenty! J is the plant expert on this trip. Big sister Ann would also love it here, but she has just returned from the Dolomites where she will have seen her share and everybody else’s! In case you have a book handy, I’ll list a few at the end for you to look up if you’re so inclined.

Inland is the ‘High Coast’ Tyrolean landscape; hillside meadows and cows, tiny farmsteads with huge barns, hundreds of lakes large and small and buttercups; buttercups everywhere. The cows must surely by-pass the milk stage and gush pure double cream straight from the udder. Every town and village has its own Information Boards on the road in and out and these present the history of the area and things of interest, in Swedish, English & German, tempting the visitor to stay awhile.
There was a time when church attendance was compulsory in these parts. It was recognised that it was somewhat difficult for those living long distances from their churches to get there each week, so some were allowed to go fortnightly or three weekly and special log cottages were built near the churches for them to stay overnight. There are five long rows of these 18th Century cottages still surviving in Skelleftea, though these days serve as weekend cottages. The proud Neoclassical church bears the same lovely characteristics as the one at Rogsta, but this one was particularly grand.
As we neared the top of the Baltic on the Gulf of Bothnia, we headed inland once more, northwest from Skelleftea to Arvidsjaur. Along this ‘gold and silver mining country’ road, the 95, we saw our first forest reindeer as we entered the Swedish Lapland; hilly forests of spruce and Scots pine stretched far to the north ahead of us, and the sun cast diamonds on the lakes and rivers.
Our campsite at Arvidsjaur was particularly good value. For 14Skr; around eleven pounds, we had a good pitch for Smiley, free sauna, free use of the sports hall, free internet and free hot showers.
Tomorrow we will cross the Arctic Circle; where I’m told it’s compulsory for everyone to skinny-dip in the ice-cold waters, before turning southwards again into Finland for the next stage of our journey. Until next week then,
Lots of love, D, J, Todd, Ron and Erik……….. (Who the heck is Eric?)

Birds not mentioned above: Marsh tit, Curlew, Hobby, Siskin, Wheatear,
Flowers: Labrador tea, Common cow wheat, Dwarf cornel, May lily, Arctic bramble, cloudberry, Bog bean, common spotted orchid.
Quote of the week: “I don’t have to teach today!”

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News 26 29th June – 5th July Across the Arctic Circle – twice; and into Finland

If I asked you to paint me a picture of Lapland, it would of course have to include reindeer, wouldn’t it? It would also probably show Lapps in reindeer-skin coats, hood covered heads down, pulling a sleigh in a snow and wind-lashed landscape. Things have changed a bit. These days Sami, the indigenous people of Saapmi go about their business un-noticed and herding on foot is almost a thing of the past. The reindeer live freely in the forest and they are now only gathered together for separating and marking of new calves. Many Sami herd their beasts by snowmobile, 4 X 4 or helicopter nowadays and their traditional costume is generally reserved for special festive occasions.
About 20,000 Sami live here in northern Sweden in normal homes and their ‘church houses’; pyramidal log buildings set amongst their store houses, are rarely used except for family gatherings, christenings and funerals when some might travel long distances to the church. The houses are not open to the public, but we wandered amongst these strange but practical buildings and visited their pastel painted 17C wooden churches at Arvidsjaur, and Jokkmokk in the land of the midnight sun, a hundred miles further north. (We just had to visit a place with a name like that!)
The Arctic Circle is marked with a large sign by the roadside just before Jokkmokk and, of course there is the obligatory gift shop and café. Todd collected his certificate there (couldn’t resist it!). We opted out of the skinny dipping ritual by the way.
Bosch, BMW and Audi all have winter testing facilities in Arvidsjaur where they have special tracks on the ice-covered lakes. Temperatures have been known to reach 42 degrees below freezing and the military have a presence here, with special units operating in extreme conditions. All of the car parks in town have car plug-in facilities for the winter. As we filled up with diesel, a local doctor, a Brazilian, drew up behind us in a brand new motorhome. “I’ve only had this two weeks,” he said. “We’ve been to Nordkapp and back. It rained every day.” What a great start! He went on to tell me how many Km to the litre he gets from his new machine but it didn’t mean much to me. “We don’t have any of those in England,” I replied. “We only have miles per gallon.” The garage was beside the town lake, where we saw our first red throated diver of the trip, (more fond memories of Scotland).

Endless spruce line the winding roads to the north, pointing their spindly tops skywards like a medieval army of lancers going into battle. It’s 100km from Jokkmokk northwest into the wild-blue-yonder, along the lonely road to Stora Sjofallet and beyond to Ritsem, only 70km as the golden eagle flies from the Norwegian border. You might ask why anyone would want to drive there when the only way out is back the same way! Perhaps it’s the glow of the sun on the snowy mountain tops reflected in the deep blue waters of the vast hydro reservoirs, the thousand feet of sheer rock-face, dark and sombre as we approached; the squeaky pure air at 5000ft, the dipper in the fast flowing stream, the capercaillie with her chicks, the boulder strewn landscape or just the fact that the crystal light sparkles on every stone and every leaf, or the silence; the total silence. This is pure wilderness indeed; more Cairngorms than Alps perhaps, but big; really, really, big. In an hour of driving we passed just three cars, and we played spot the vehicle and spot the reindeer! (Cars 3, reindeer 12) Intrepid fishermen come here by helicopter we’re told, bringing valuable income to the local Sami.
The campsite restaurant provided a superb dinner that evening, prepared by the larger-than-life chef in his blue and white striped apron. We shared a meal of smoked char and generous servings of reindeer and elk stir-fry with Marie-Anna and Henning from Denmark, our neighbours, and thoroughly enjoyed the evening, watching arctic tern dancing in the sky as the sun dropped behind the mountains. They have been here before, and like others we met on our walk, they will come back again, and again, and again. Visitors are welcome here in the winter too, for cross-country skiing and jet-skiing along the illuminated trails. I know a couple of very special Aussies who would love it here. There’s a walk of 425km with strategically placed mountain huts along the trail. The Kungsleden path is tough in parts, but the views from the short stretch that we walked were stunning indeed. Now, there’s a challenge for you, Brian and Kathryn. I also know a few people at Thetford Golf Club who would like it here. They play golf on the ice-locked lakes in winter. Red balls are compulsory, (you get them as soon as you arrive here).

Our count of reindeer is quite impressive, but then they do tend to be easy to spot. Mostly, they walk in drunken fashion along the middle of the road, their heads down, a vacant expression on their huge appealing eyes, their comical oversize feet padding along the tarmac and totally oblivious to any danger. Oddly enough, we have not seen any accidents with these strange beasts; indeed ‘road kills’ of any sort are almost non-existent, an indication of the shortage of wildlife up here. Remind me, reindeer can fly, can’t they? We haven’t seen Santa or his sleigh yet either.
Gallivare, along the road 150km to the east, is an iron-mining town. The train passing through the station was all of a mile long with wagon after wagon of ore. For a mining town it’s amazingly clean and tidy. It was market-day. The market appeared to be there in readiness for the 2nd July bicycle race along the 190km road all the way from Ritsem, which we had left just two hours before. It looks like a marathon race with many of the entrants going along for charity, as the promotional picture shows a family on mountain bikes. We clearly managed to leave our lovely valley before the crowds marred the image!
This is certainly not the place to run out of diesel. It’s sixty miles between towns up here which could be mighty inconvenient: “I’m just off to do the shopping, love. I’ll be back on Wednesday”. We had some rough plans for the day, but as navigator for the morning, I changed the route for something more scenic than trees and more trees, and we ended up at the end of the day three hundred miles to the southwest, down through the Arctic Circle again and into Finland! Driving beside the beautiful Kalixalyen river, white fluffy clouds guided us, seemingly pinned on a Mediterranean blue backcloth and the birch trees shimmered in the warm breeze by wide green verges splashed with buttercups and cranesbill.
The currency in Finland (or ‘Suomi’ as the Finns like to call it), is the Euro and we spent our leftover notes from Italy on paying for the “rather rustic campsite” as J so nicely put it, at Kemi just across the border. Campers were all fishing for their tea and cooking their catches on the wood-stove by the fast flowing river, shining gold in the evening light. Our second night gave us a better catch; a superb campsite in the lovely town of Oulu, on the east of the Baltic Sea, where Norwegians and Swedes from further north come for the sun and sand. It’s a strange mixture of young technical town (Nokia have a factory here) and resort. The sea is clear and brackish, fed by numerous broad rivers flushing fresh water into the bay from the mountains, the sun shines a lot and there are lots of exciting things to do, but the sand leaves a little to be desired! The couple in the caravan next to us had travelled down from Harstad in the north of Norway with their two daughters. They recommended that we should watch the sun go down over the sea at midnight. Now, how romantic can you get? It really is light all night here.

‘Where to watch birds in Scandinavia’ came up trumps again with coastal wetlands at Liminka where the Temmesjoki and Lumijoki rivers enter the Bay of Bothnia. Amongst our sightings (or was it ‘excitings’?) were white tailed eagle, a hundred or more cranes, red-backed shrike, whooper swans (note: blue and white marking rings – watch out for these Finnish birds at Welney next year!), yellow breasted bunting, reed bunting, willow warbler, reed warbler, curlew, and a pair of marsh harriers stealing black gull chicks from the nests. We were joined by Evan, a hitch-hiking American student at the end of his exchange year in Finland and we were able to take him with us to three local hides. Evan recommended the Oulu campsite; thanks Evan! (One hide was well splattered with guano and pellets. We think the evidence points to the white tailed eagle using this as a roost).
The Finnish language is a little more difficult that Swedish. It has little of any European origin, being perhaps closer to Russian in many respects. Evidently the grammar is similar to Korean which should help us a lot.
There are so many images of Finland in the memory bank already. Whole fields of cotton grass, white as the first snow of winter; mile after mile of empty roads; birch fringed forests; trees and more trees, turning purple at the last distant fold in the landscape and vast pine bordered lakes, calm and restful, inviting the evening swimmer.

Just five million people live in this huge country. Every now-and-again there would be a road-sign showing the name of a town or village, but more often than not no houses appeared. Imagine Olde England when there was that much space. It was like that when the first Vikings arrived in Britain and I guess they liked it so much, they stayed there instead of going home! The rest of Finland went to the USA in 1890 along with a few Norwegians and Swedes. An impressive seven percent of their GNP is spent on education, we’re told, more than any other country in Europe and they are the world’s largest exporter of paper outside of Canada.

From Oulu, we turned towards the north-east, crossing the country to Kuusamo less than 20Km from the Russian border. It is 600 Km south to Helsinki and it is trees and lakes all the way we’re reliably informed. Better we thought to leave the south of Finland for another day. We have a ferry to catch in Norway on the 23rd August and Lapland to the north is calling, though with diesel at 70p per litre, I think we might stay in Finland for a while longer!
You knew it would happen of course, and remember, you read it here first. Yes, we now have yet another new member joining us on our travels. Erik (the Viking) Elk, rescued from his boring perch on the shop shelf, comes with big brown antlers and a white knitted sweater emblazoned with the Swedish flag.
We’re hoping to get to see a few local festivals over the coming months. There’s the Air guitar world championship, midnight golf competitions, wife throwing competitions, (or is it carrying?) hay cutting challenges, country music, folk dancing festivals … and lots more.
But, for now, it’s “nakemiin” from Finland. D, J, Todd, Ron and Erik. (Please reserve two places in the mental home).

Birds: Even a few swallows get this far, house martin, swift, curlew, shoveller, redstart, lapwing, black tailed godwit, redstart, cuckoo - still calling on the 1st July, fieldfare as common as our native blackbird, lesser white fronted geese.
Flowers: Mountain heath, globe flower, agrimony, meadow sweet, water avens, round leaved wintergreen and tufted loostrife.
And ………red squirrel, smooth snake!

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News 27 Finland. 12th July 2005 A visit to Santa, north into Finnish Lapland and snowchains

It’s my birthday on Thursday and we have a wager. J says I’ll get 3 emails-worth of greetings and I reckon I’ll get about 15!

Page 77. Where to watch Birds in Scandinavia. ‘Valtavaara. This 10Km sq area of taiga is world famous as a site for red flanked bluetail’.
Page 281 Lonely Planet Finland. ‘Valtavaara Hill is the best place in the region for birding: some 100 species nest here’.
Now, is that tempting, or what? After a successful 6 am start at the hides in Kussamo town, we set off for Valtravaara Hill full of hope. We walked on spongy peat paths reminiscent of the Norfolk Fens for two hours, through some of the most beautiful woodland imaginable in anticipation of some really special sightings: but we saw only three birds, all redstarts! There you go; you win some, you lose some. With 24 hour daylight the birds start singing at 2.30am and, like us, they’re knackered by 10 and fast asleep! The walk though was superb, the views were absolutely amazing and the temperature soared towards 30 so it was all worth getting up early for.
Nearby Ruka is a resort and prime skiing centre with a couple of magnificent ski-jumps and a good choice of moderate ski-runs on somewhat modest slopes. The Good Lord didn’t deal out many mountains to Finland; perhaps he just forgot. Most of those that were here have eroded over the last few billion years to what we might term large hills. Many of the older generation of women were wearing headscarves and frocks, getting another airing as they have each short summer since 1965. Others, tucking into the irresistible ice creams, were clearly in training for the next ladies Olympic hammer-throwing championships.
As many of you will know, I’m a founder member of the ‘expose yourself to the risk of something happening’ club. With this in mind and conscious of our disappointing bird day earlier in the week, we took on a five-hour hike in the Oulanka National Park a bit to the north. Our reward was an excellent hike through ancient Scots pine, Siberian spruce and birch forest beside mirror still lakes, across rope bridges over thundering rapids, steep rocky canyons and marshes rich in orchids (we photographed one which we have been unable to identify). Parts of the trail were quite busy. The holidaymakers had crept out of the woodwork at last! However, there were some birds about and rather special ones at that: crossbill, magnificent waxwing foraging in the birch tops, Siberian jay at last, and Siberian tit to name but a few. The sun gave us another scorcher, around 30 again, I guess. It’s still too hot to sit outside in the direct sun at 9.00 in the evening. Oh! for a bit of snow! Apart from one almighty thunderstorm whilst shopping at the market in Kuusamo a few days back, we’ve had a great few weeks. They were selling peas in the pod by the litre on the market: very expensive, but the memory of real peas was wonderful!

If you don’t like walking, forests, fishing, wildlife, local culture, wilderness or lakes, then Finland is not for you. We love just all that of course, but there is little else for the casual holidaymaker. We particularly loved Finland’s National Parks.
Oulanka National Park lies very close to the Russian border and notices in the Information Centre recommend that you stay out of the ‘Frontier Zone’, marked with suitably coloured poles. There appears to be no love lost between Finland and those across the red line and diplomatic confrontations are to be avoided. Martin Greenwood from Bedford visited the park at the beginning of the season. His name was the only other English one in the Visitors Book when Todd and Ronnie Foster from Norwich (as we are known in al visitors books) signed their names. The main attraction there was Finland’s most spectacular falls on the river Kemijokki, chasing its way through the red dolomite canyon towards the White Sea in Russia. We loved this area for its gentle hills, its botanic splendour and the walks in ancient forest. The Finns love it too; they were there in good numbers, many in family groups, making the most of their brief summer.
Red clover and rosebay willow herb were coming into flower accompanying buttercups and white campion alongside the road in a blaze of colour as we headed west later in the day. There were two good reasons for our traipse across the country all the way to Rovaniemi. The 7th July was our last chance to observe the Midnight Sun at the Arctic Circle (66’34”) and we were able to camp right on the banks of the mighty Ounaskoski river to watch the spectacle in the company of martins excitedly fly fishing, skimming the surface on outstretched wings. The whole blazing red sun remains above the horizon, having worked a full 24hour day, though from our vantage point there were a few buildings in the way spoiling the ultimate view. I sat outside under the awning, reading Tom Clancy’s ‘Mirror Image’; not his best by any means, in broad daylight. In the north the sun doesn’t set for 66 days, from the 20th May to the 24th July.

The other reason for travelling to Rovaniemi is that old man, Father Christmas. Sometime, soon, I must finish my book, ‘Santa’s Seven Secrets’ and I’m in need of some serious research. Santa’s Post Office is manned by elves, of course, merrily taking money from the tourists. Cards posted there are stamped with Santa’s special Arctic Circle postmark. There must be at least a dozen souvenir and gift shops in Santa’s Village, full of quite tasteful odds and ends nobody really needs, but they were all doing good business. There were a few Americans and Japanese buying everything from reindeer socks to reindeer hides! I can’t imagine a tour route that would bring them here, but then the same goes for Tallberg, the village miles from nowhere mentioned a week or two back. At this time of the year, all you get is gift shops, but it must be a real picture in winter, up to its ears in snow, with husky rides, reindeer sleds, jingling bells, snow-mobiles, pretty lights everywhere, louder Christmas music and dark for most of the day. Then, there’s Santa Park, the fun bit for children, which must be magic to see. I believe in Father Christmas, don’t you? Of course you do. Silly me.
Rovaniemi is a modern City, rebuilt in 1944 after it was totally destroyed along with most other towns and villages in the north of Finland and Norway, as the Germans retreated. “Time is a great healer,” I suggested, to the middle-aged lady who had imparted this information. “We don’t forget,” she responded. “And in Norway, they will never forgive.”

Shopping here in Finland is a bit of an experience. Little or nothing is in English and it’s left for the pictures on the tins and cartons to provide the clues. We have tried Reindeer steaks, though we thought they were pork initially; (it was the horns that gave it away). One of our coups was a pack of kitchen roll – made, printed and packed in England, doubtless from Finnish wood-pulp. That’s coals from Newcastle isn’t it?
They say that the mosquitoes are a bit of a pest here. And often they’re right, but we manage to keep them at bay with sprays and roll-ons and we don’t sit outside for too long when they’re about which is a bit of a shame in all this sunshine.
Some campsites in resort areas further south had restaurants, swimming pools, tennis courts, showers and toilets, saunas, elaborate games areas and hundreds of cabins as well as space for motorhomes, caravans and tents; making huge complexes. As a general rule we try to give such sites a wide berth and head for the rural areas where the facilities are somewhat less but usually excellent. Every site in Finland has its sauna and on occasion, the opportunity to leap straight into the lake starkers afterwards. We have yet to try it!
News of the London bombing reached us during the week when a Finnish lady stopped to talk to us on one of our hikes and later confirmed in an email from Brian and Kathryn in London - via Australia. At that time there were thought to be just two dead though we have now checked the full horror on http://www.bbc/. As we have no television, we cannot get English papers, we still haven’t found our new Roberts short-wave radio, (which didn’t work in Spain or Italy anyway) and we can’t read the Finnish headlines on the news-stands, we have no idea what’s going on from one day to the next. This particularly pleasant lady also suggested it was associated with the London getting the 2012 Olympics. We didn’t know that either! Hopefully the London incident will not escalate into anything even worse. We’ll probably never really know, but my guess is that it’s as a result of Tony’s escapades with his pal George in Iraq. I really don’t like England too much these days.
It’s a long way between towns in this neck of the woods and there are few brick-red wooden houses visible en route. 120 Km north and a lot of trees from Santaland we finally reached the first big town, Kittila; population 3000. There was a four-day market going on; the most exciting thing to hit town for a year! Judging by the crowds, some people must have travelled miles to be there. Here, we were back in the centre of winter skiing, husky sledding and snowmobile wilderness territory, though it serves also as a hiking, river rafting and fishing resort throughout the summer.

We had to get the snow-chains out again during the week. Poor old Smiley sank up to the front axle in soft sand at a turning spot on a remote track whilst birding and it took us an hour or more to extricate ourselves. It was made worse by the fact that we were half a mile off the deserted main road where we might get help and there were millions of horse flies about. My legs looked as though I had measles for a day-or two! Thank goodness for the on-board shower. It was really hot there; around 37 degrees, and I just might be tempted to join the singlet brigade if it continues. Those who know me well, will know it’s taken an awful lot of years to get me into sandals – without socks, I hasten to add - and I still don’t own a pair of jeans!
Saturday evening saw us camping by the river at Muonia looking across into Sweden, just 100 metres away. We gave the river rafting and quad bike safaris a miss, at prices only the Finns can afford!

Some days on our journeys are really rather special. “I think this hike rates amongst our best ever,” J remarked, on our long climb above the tree line on the barren hills of the Pallas-Yllastunturi National Park to the summit of Talvaskero. At 37 degrees this was our hottest day yet, but cooled by a stiff southerly breeze we walked for four hours across the peaks over rocky tundra blazoned with luminescent citrus-yellow lichen along granite strewn mountain tracks. The craggy landscape brought new birds for this trip. A raven hung on the wind above us, a yellow wagtail perched on a stunted birch, a blue throat sang for us, wheatear and snow bunting flitted past, several dotterel with chicks stopped to admire us just a few feet away, a cuckoo called on the wind and a rough legged buzzard swept across the ridge. Fantastic!
There’s a little café by the roadside in ‘Goldrush Country’ on the road north from Sodankyla where we stopped for coffee and doughnuts. Its presence was heralded some 10Km before by neat signs by the roadside. The first said, ‘Smoked fish-10Km’ which gave a clue to the only possible excitement along this 60Km stretch of road. The second sign, announced, ‘Café-9Km’. The third said, ‘We speak English 8Km’. The fourth said, ‘We speak German 7Km’, the fifth, ‘We speak Swedish’, and so on. We just had to stop! The coffee was good, the doughnuts OK and the birding from their front porch outstanding: osprey nesting in the tree on the opposite bank of the river and bullfinches by the dozen feeding at the bird table by the kitchen door.
Our week ends at Inari (pop 550), in Lapland to the north of Finand. Norway is just 100Km to the north and 60Km to the west. Russia is around 60Km to the east. By the time you receive next weeks’ news, we should be in the wild wastelands of Finnmark at the most northerly tip of Europe. If we miss it, we should hit the North Pole about Wednesday week. Watch this space!

Enjoy the summer,
The grey-haired nomad, J, Todd, Ron and Eric.

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News 28 Out of Finland into the wastes of Norway’s Finmark. Inari – Northern Finland

13th – 19th July 05.

There is not a lot in Inari at first glance. It’s one of those places you could just pass through on your way to somewhere else and there are, after all, few roads from Finland through to Norway in the north. For most people Inari is on the way to, or from, Nordkapp, (North Cape) on the island that claims to be the most northerly point in Europe. We were on our way there too, but first we wanted to visit the outstanding Sami (Lapp) Museum, built since J’s last visit to Inari umpteen years ago. There are many such museums in Scandinavia, but this one should rank amongst the best, for not only does it truly value these special people but it also superbly reflects the nature and wildlife of the vast northern region of Finnish Lapland.
Inari was the first place in Finland where we encountered more than a handful of people, a number of coaches and a car park full of cars. In addition to all of the usual nick-nacks, there were fox, reindeer and bear-skins on sale in the souvenir shops; doubtless the fox are farmed purely for their fur, though we did also see bear meat along with the elk and reindeer cuts in a supermarket. We met our first English couple since we left Stockholm four weeks ago when we pulled into the campsite. Mike and Ronnie left home on their retirement in their new caravan the day after us, and they have no planned date to return. Like us, they have rented their house and their furniture is all in store; which goes to prove that there are other people as daft as us.
To celebrate my birthday, we travelled southwest along the Menesjoki river, anticipating an adventurous boat trip into the park, ten miles up-river and inaccessible by road. Unknown to us, there was only one boat that day – and it left ten minutes before we arrived! Never mind, we had a good hike and returned for a traditional lunch (lounas) at the Sami restaurant near the quay.
The road runs due north out of Finland, long and monotonous between the gentle tree covered slopes. It was easy driving; set the throttle at 55mph and watch as every ten minutes or so we would pass a car or motorhome going in the opposite direction. Gone now, the purple cranesbill and summer buttercups beside the road, replaced with bright yellow alpine ragwort and the subtle mauve of the understated rosebay willow herb; a colour contrast of nature at its best. Gone now, the spruce forests, leaving pine and birch in a blanket of green stretching to the horizon.
Cost conscious as ever, we stopped for groceries and diesel at Finnish prices in Utsjoki at the Norwegian border, using the opportunity to pop into the library, (in the school; how sensible) to access the internet. Utsjoki has a fine school, a gravel football pitch (how painful) and an outdoor winter ice-hockey rink. It has a population of about 20 at a guess and 40 of them were in the library! Prices in Finland are generally a little lower than in Sweden or Norway. That said, vegetables and fruit, all sold by the kilo, are extremely expensive. (You even have to weigh your cucumber. How painful!) The area is famed for its very long hiking trails into the Nature Park which we declined and it is serious salmon fishing country. The tackle shop – a marquee, was the busiest place in town after the library!

You all know the result of the ‘email me for my birthday’ competition of course; and a special ‘thank you’ to all 15 who kindly responded, too many to mention here! Sadly all of our email sessions in libraries and internet cafes are somewhat restricted; usually to half an hour or less, often only sufficient to read incoming mail and send the newsletter, leaving little time to respond. We’ll make up for it on our return to the UK – promise.
The Finns are said to be a shy and retiring race. English is spoken widely, particularly amongst the younger set, but it was hard to get a nod of greeting or a ‘hei’ from passers-by or even a ‘thank you’ for stopping to let them pass on as narrow bridge. But, perhaps I’m being too British! Unlike the Swedes, they will overtake you on the roads though their driving is generally very polite and reserved and not rally style as one might imagine. Mind you, with only 5million of them and all that space why rush about anyway? We have learned to love Finland, her great National Parks, her deserted roads and wilderness, her clean air, sparkling lakes and passive rivers. From here on it’s back into Norway, the land of trolls and tolls, mountains and fjords, and breathtaking scenery unlike anywhere else in Europe. It’s easy to tell when you are in Norway: by the continuous gasps of ‘Wow!’ and the big hole in your pocket.
There was a light-switch in Norway just across the bridge. In the flash of a Sami arrow, the grass was greener on the northern side of the river, the hills turned to mountains, the pine trees vanished in a sea of birch and willow groundcover, and mountaintops gleamed with the last winter snow in the gullies. The roads were narrow and winding as we turned northeast, following the salmon-rich river Tana (Tenojoki in Finn) towards the sea, clusters of houses and Sami boats lined the sandy banks and patient fishermen up to their waists in water cast their lines amongst the rocks in the fast flowing waters. There were more farming homesteads visible along the valley than we have seen for some days and the first cattle for many weeks. We saw wild mountains with deep valleys, great craggy gorges, upland moors straddled between high scree and fast flowing mountain streams akin to the best of Scotland.

Gas is a serious problem on this journey. We use it for cooking, the fridge when we free-camp, and heating and hot water if we have no electricity. The plan was to use one UK cylinder of Propane and two French Camping Gaz bottles. We need to keep some UK gas for our return to Lerwick on the 24th August and replace the now empty Camping Gaz, but despite advice to the contrary, it’s not obtainable here. We now also discover, that despite assurances from the guy who sold us a very expensive new cylinder in Sweden, that our Scandinavian Aga gas cylinder can’t be exchanged anywhere in Norway or Finland as they have different bottles! That’s called ‘up the creek without a paddle’. We were also using our portable one-ring cooker to help eek things out. It was beginning to look like we would have to buy a new Norwegian cylinder and take the old one back into Sweden when we next crossed the border to get our deposit back.
It had not occurred to me before that Norway spreads its wings across the top of both Sweden and Finland all the way to the Barent Sea where you have to stop if you travel by road! That’s where we were headed first, to the remote wastes of Gamvic; Nordkapp and its commercial wonderland will wait. There is a lighthouse at Slettnes directly to the north and it claims to be the most northerly lighthouse in the world with some good walking and rather special birds. That night we free-camped just two hundred yards away across the rocky moorland with a dozen other motorhomes, surrounded by barren moorland and dramatic rocky outcrops; and more than two hundred screeching arctic skuas!
This area is wilderness indeed and there are insufficient words to describe the fascination of this wondrous peninsular. The narrow winding road ran in for 83 miles past tiny brick-red farmhouses, hay being gathered in and sunlit snowy mountains across the fjords where rafts of goosander gathered in the shallow silver bays. Graceful arctic terns swept the blue-grey skies as we drove the lonely road until the trees ran out and we entered rolling arctic tundra; mile after mile of grey-green and brown lunar landscape dotted with boggy meres. It’s also 83 miles out of this place; back down the same road!
Deep inside the Arctic Circle at latitudes on a line with northern Alaska, we were prepared for cold winds, sleet and even snow, but the weather stayed dry for us and surprisingly mild. A red-throated pipit posed on a twig in front of us on our walk along the Gamvic coast that first evening, a red-necked phalarope preened in the water just twenty feet away, a Steller’s eider herded her brood at the water’s edge, arctic (parasitic) skua chased everything in sight including our heads! Long-tailed skua fled through the skies on leaden wings, a great skua skulked amongst the black backed gulls, a whimbrel sat atop the wind-vane of the bird observation hut and black guillemot bobbed up and down on the gentle Barent waves. Now, that’s what you call a fantastic day, one we shall remember for a long, long, time. Somebody, somewhere, had definitely sprinkled some magic powder on our trail.

Our coffee stop at the nearby fishing town of Mehamn brought home the reality of living on the edge of the earth when we joined the locals for coffee and strawberry waffles with cream. The ‘hotel’ lounge was decked out in black and maroon with 1960’s furniture and fittings; only the stainless steel teapot was missing. It’s a long way to the nearest furniture shop and most things arrive by boat, small aeroplane or the specially fitted bus with a cargo store on the back.
The dry little old dear in Gamvik Museum at the northernmost point of mainland Europe (71’5”N) gave us a personal tour of the artefacts on show. “It’s never summer in Gamvik,” she told us. (It must average 10 degrees for it to be classed as summer.) “And every day has five different types of weather.” I’m not sure I could live in a town with 24/7 darkness for several months and snow ploughs operating 237 days of the year as they did in 2003. The Germans were here too and left their mark by burning everything standing as they retreated in 1944. The museum shows photographs of the before and after. We did notice a comment from a German in a visitor’s book when we (Todd and Ronnie) signed in. It read: ‘We are so sorry for what Germans did to your country. God bless you all.’ I’ll drink to that.
It’s a 300 mile trip from the Gamvik peninsular all the way round to Nordkapp though it’s probably only about forty miles as the fly crows. We paid the outrageous sum of 186NOK (about £20) for the tunnel toll to reach the island after some discussion over the length of Smiley. I claimed that we were only 6m (a bit of a fib, we’re actually 6.48m) and the cashier asked to see the vehicle registration for proof. UK registration documents don’t show this important detail and he eventually gave up looking. We managed to avoid the ‘lorry length’ charge; more than double for a vehicle over 6m! As far as we could tell, you have to pay the same again to get out!

Rather than hitting the commercial route straight to Nordkapp we headed to the west of the island to Gjesvaer and with the money saved on the toll we took a birdy boat trip around the many tiny islands just offshore. That was yet another wow! The bright evening sky was full of puffins, guillemots, kittiwakes, razorbills, gannets and fulmars – and ten, yes ten, white tailed eagles! There were as many birds again on the cliffs in secular groups and in huge rafts on the sea. In all our birdwatching years we have never seen so many birds. It would be a while before J stopped grinning and I, too, can’t believe we have witnessed such a spectacle. The Fred Olsen cruise liner ‘Braemar’ was moored at the quay in the port of Honningsvag on its way around the fijords. They won’t get to live our experience though they may get a coach trip to Nordkapp.
Monday brought good news on the gas front. Without any nonsense a young lad at the Shell garage exchanged our empty Swedish bottle for a Norwegian one - a different size but the same fitting. We took it and fled before he could change his mind! Panic over – and we can get our deposit back in Norway.
At midnight the sun was still high in the sky shining bright as an acetylene blowtorch on the harbour in front of where Smiley parked us for the night. There is little concept of time when the sun shines all day and all night. Ten year-olds were still playing in the street at midnight, teenage girls with shiny plastic handbags cycled home from the disco at one, a crane hoisted a boat into the harbour shortly afterwards and people were still walking past chatting quite loudly at 2am.
It’s a bit late for us oldies, so “Good night,” until next week, from D, J and the cuddly things.

Some other birds: Siskin, brambling, redwing, arctic warbler, great black-backed gull, common tern, common gull, cormorant, shag, black, and red-throated divers, turnstone, ringed plover, redshank.
Some we forgot from before: Marsh sandpiper & smew (both at Ruka), bullfinch, dipper, teal, golden eye, tree pipit, common sandpiper, curlew, house martin, swallow, brambling, tufted duck, hooded crow (of course), mistle thrush, greenfinch.

Seals in the bay and reindeer on the beach!
And flowers: Harebell and white clover, Siberian chive, false helleborine, dwarf saxifrage, dwarf cornel, euphorbia (sea spurge), grass of Parnassus, common butterwort, mountain avens, ?Thistles, Alpine ragwort, tansy, spiked speedwell, marsh lousewort (it’s actually rather pretty), an unidentified orchid, northern milk vetch, white campion.

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News 29 20th – 27th July. Europe - From the top down.

Nordkapp. The most northerly point of Europe, on the island of Magoya.

Picture a magnificent cliff, ragged peaks and tiny dark islands. Picture a knot of people bent into the wind at a lookout point high above a raging sea, gazing north to the distant horizon, dreaming of snow and ice, polar bears, brave explorers, and the pole, just 1,100Km distant. Then, dream on. As David, a young Polish hitch-hiker plucked from the roadside in the bitter arctic wind described it, “It was a bit like MacDonalds.”
We had already put the 1989 built Visitor Centre in the Mickey Mouse category of Disney World, but it serves well to bring tourists and their money to this remote island from the many cruise ships and Arctic coach tours. The Centre is huge and seemingly underused at present. There is a vast, overpriced souvenir shop of course, an impressive video presentation, a Thai Museum (very strange), a small and very lovely chapel, and an echoing empty subterranean bar. The sun was still shining when we arrived in the early evening, though the sea mist was swirling across the fjords and rushing like steam from a boiling kettle through the valleys near the headland. A bright white cruise liner passed behind the 1000 feet high cliffs on a ray of sunlight heading south into the port at Honningsvag and we were able to gaze out to sea and walk a while in the cutting wind before seeking the “delights” of the Centre. The visitors arriving by coach an hour later saw only thick penetrating mist, low cloud and zero visibility for their money, by which time we were tucked up nice and warm inside Smiley having tea! There were still no other Brits on site, even at the hottest (and coldest) spot in the north! Of worthy note, we sank the odd German battleship in these waters. The Scharnhorst finally went down to Allied bombardment close-by with the loss of nearly 1,500 crew.
The north coast is dotted with tiny fishing villages, somehow still gleaning a living from the sea. They have been eating fish for thousands of years, but like meat here, it’s just too expensive now, so how long will the industry last? One local teenage girl told us she plans to go to university in Trondheim to study maths and science, but there are only fishing related jobs in the village and she is unlikely to find work here. This all smacks (no pun intended) of our own coastal fisheries; tomorrow’s ghost towns where challenged youth has no place and governments throw money at tourism.

The temperature had dropped to 9 degrees by morning and we resisted the temptation to hike the 18Km trail to the next headland. Instead we headed south for Hammerfest. Nordkapp was our turning point on the Scandinavian tour; you can’t go any further north on dry land, and in turning southwards we had that feeling of being ‘on our way home’. The drive back down the peninsula was a palm-print of where we were amongst the skuas a few days earlier, but the terrain had little of the wild remoteness that made the Gamvik route so special for us.
In his book about Europe, Bill Bryson visited Hammerfest (pop 6500) and stayed for weeks hoping to see the Northern Lights. One town or one fishing village is much like any other on the northern reaches of Norway, but Hammerfest, in addition to being Europe’s most northerly ‘town’, has the feature of being a terminal for Statoil liquid gas.
North Norway’s bitterness over its devastation in the dying days of the last war is evidenced by a highly emotive archive film at the Museum of post-war reconstruction. The German scorched earth policy in 1944 flattened every building with the exception of some churches. As a result there is not a house standing today that is much more than 50years old and they were all built to a standard format, many in prefabricated form. They are coming to their useful end now, and the dilemma is whether to save them or to start all over with a fresh pencil. There are tens of thousands of these look-alike two storey box-houses across the top of Norway, Finland and Sweden, differentiated here only by their colour; they were shining in the sunlight that morning, yellow ochre, dusty blue, brick red, English racing green – and white of course. We liked Hammerfest. The cruise ships make short stops; about three a day, with just enough time for passengers to visit the lovely 1961 church, a quick whiz round the museum or to join the Royal and Ancient Polar Bear Society – they were signing up by the dozen at £18 a time! There were a number of Brits from a Page and Moy ship, followed by a boatload of Swedes and finally the French hopped ashore (as they do).
One sunny afternoon we stopped at an empty picnic site in a lay-by for lunch. The kettle boiled and the tea was poured, when a coach-load of Germans arrived and commandeered all the tables, with enough food to feed a Panzer division! Now, why didn’t I think to put our towels out when we arrived?
There were male eider on the fjord, the first we had seen on our journey. They obviously leave the females to look after the brood and go off to sea with the boys to talk about their conquests.
We haven’t seen any Trolls on our travels yet. I’m told they turn to stone if exposed to sunlight, so we presume they’re still hiding under bridges and in caves awaiting the darkness of the coming of winter. We’ll keep an eye out for them anyway; just in case – and of course, we’ll let you know as soon as we catch sight of one. A few miles out of Hammerfest we spotted three people playing the worlds northernmost golf course. At the time of writing it was six holes, par 20. We didn’t even touch the brakes!
Norway runs along the western seaboard of Scandinavia in a thin line like the rind on a rasher of bacon, its high-rise mountains, arms wide, welcoming the warm breeze from the Gulf Stream which keeps the ports open throughout the winter.

There were many Sami in traditional costume with their tented stalls beside the road, selling reindeer skins, horns and handicrafts. We had not seen this in Finland or Sweden.
The trees returned around Alta, birch mostly, with a few sparse willow along the river. Meadowsweet the colour of buttermilk, mingled with a blaze of rosebay willow herb, posies of harebells and banks of orchids by the road. Newly mown pocket- handkerchief meadows beside the water were dotted with bundles of white plastic, whilst here-and-there, hay was hanging out to dry, forlorn as unwashed hair, on long wooden racks. The lilac was still out in the gardens, about two months after ours at home. (Home? Where’s that?)
Alta stretched along the A6 for more than 5km, its centre a square of ‘60’s buildings, spacious and bright. I visited the Tirpitz museum outside of town on my own, to get a picture of the sinking of this vast war machine. For all the steel on the seabed, the museum could only find an eclectic selection of photos, swastika stamped cups and cutlery, and a few uniforms of the era. Not to be recommended, but a brief history lesson none-the-less. 1944 was the beginning of the end here.

There were signs-posts for Well-being Centres and Psychiatrists along the road. They’re all happy bunnies in the summer, but the SAD syndrome must kick in pretty hard come winter. And to be sure; winter returns each year as sure as eggs are eggs. Eggs here are all white by the way, just out of interest. They taste just the same.
The “OO’s, Ah’s and Wow’s” became more frequent as we moved south. The grand hills turned to soft purple snow-clad peaks, erupting like living volcanoes from vast stretches of glistening fjords. Tiny fishing boats bobbed in sheltered bays and small harbours showed little sign of decline in the fishing business, with often dozens of boats at their moorings. Nowhere was there evidence of surfboarding, water-skiing or sailing – only small fishing craft – everywhere. I guess it’s too cold and the season too short for other sports.
Smiley looked a bit smart following a much needed two-hour shampoo and set to celebrate 50 days on the road. So far Smiley has averaged 24mpg and we’re hoping we can get home before the next 12,000mile service is due. The last one was in Italy! Miles clock up very fast here, as it’s sometimes 30 miles or more around a fjord to reach a point just a km or two across. We passed many fjords on the way south: Langfjorden, Burfjorden, Reisafjorden, Oksfjorden, Solbergefjorden and Jokelfjorden, its glacier now sadly receded from the sea. Our last glacier visit was Morteratsch near St Moritz, a long hard walk through knee-deep snow I seem to remember!

J noticed a picture in a leaflet of some children holding aloft the letters of the alphabet. The letter C was missing, so she ticked it and gave it a mark of 25/26. We then discovered there is no C in the Norwegian alphabet! Now, that’s rather sad because that being the case, you can’t buy cheese in Norway; and we like our cheese. (Cheese is ‘ost’ - of course; usually that funny brown stuff, Gudbrandsdalsost; like soft toffee. If that had a C it would be Cost; which everything does a lot here). We’re still looking, but we can’t find a W or a Q in the alphabet either.

The brochures all talked about the island of Senja off the west coast beyond Tromso as the place to relax, walk and enjoy the scenery away from the crowds. That sounded like our kind of territory and we headed off in search of peace and tranquillity. We did find our best campsite yet in Norway, and the best freecamp, and toured around for a few days; in and out of little fishing villages hugging the rocky shore, over high, winding mountain passes, through long dark tunnels and scattered birch woods on the lowland slopes. The island has great variety, with small farms and shallow hills in the south and a skyline of jagged saw-toothed mountains and dazzling fjords in the north.

Sunday night saw us camped by the sweeping sandy shore of a Senja fjord enjoying dinner at the picnic table, looking west over the Arctic Ocean in glorious sunshine. There we awaited the midnight sun and listened to the gently lapping waves as oystercatchers and redshank called for their young. ‘Sprinkle a few coconuts on the beach, stick a palm tree or two around the fringe and bring out the grass skirts. This surely is paradise!’ Further north, another sandy beach with crystal clear waters tempted us into the Arctic Ocean for a brief, very brief, swim. It was certainly warmer out than in. We have only seen three people swimming in the sea on our journey; and two of them were us! At 70 degrees we were further north than Iceland and most of Alaska, but we enjoyed some extremely good weather; very occasional showers at night and sun most of each day, with bright crisp afternoons and evenings. It is still light all night and most disconcerting to wake up to bright sunlight only to discover it is only 3am. We are fortunate indeed to have witnessed the beauty and serenity of the mountains and fjords in the heart of summer with so few people about, but the drama and spectacle of raging storms, sub-zero temperatures and blinding snow will surely have its own glory.
The Lofoten Islands were our next major objective, but before that we decided to divert back into Sweden for some serious walking; south towards Narvik then westwards across the border into the Abisko National Park, only about 50 miles north of where we were in Sweden a month ago. Northern Norway was not ideal walking country, the hills too steep and few recognised tracks.
We’re about ready for some strenuous exercise and we’ll tell you all about it next week!

Best wishes, D and J

Quote of the week:
“What day is it today?” J asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter?” I replied.

And, for those who might be in the slightest bit interested:
Birds: Great bird-hide near Alta, with candles, visitor’s book and complete with dustpan and brush. More skuas, whimbrel, bullfinch, good close-up and several more white tailed eagles + lots we’ve seen before on this trip, plus - yellow wagtail, greylag geese, heron – surely at the northern extent of its range? and a twite on the wire!
New flowers: Hemlock, water dropwort, rattle, marsh valerian, alpine sow thistle, sneeze wort, sea mayweed and sea rocket. We needed expert help to identify the common ‘melancholy thistle’ (what a lovely name).

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News 30 27th July – 2nd August 05
Abisko in Sweden and west to Norway’s beautiful Lofoten Islands

There is a chair lift in Sweden’s largest National Park at Abisko. Rising to about 3,000ft, the Linbana lift ferries skiers to the top in winter and tourists in the summer. We took the easy way up and hiked the five-hour trail across wild hill-bog rich with flowers, down to the dense birch forest and scrubby willow deep in the valley below. We went there for the walking and to see the birds of course; and we were not disappointed. Even as we ascended in the cable car a hawk owl flew across our path and perched on a tree below, and willow grouse with their young looked up as we passed. A golden eagle soared overhead on the descent and a rough legged buzzard screeched as it circled the trees close above us. Neither of us had seen a hawk owl in the wild before and, believe it or not, that’s exciting, a real buzz! The mountain was totally deserted; which is how we like it, allowing us exclusive viewing and hours of immense pleasure.

This area is said to be the driest in the whole of Sweden, sporting just 300mm of rainfall per year. The young lady lift attendant shrugged her shoulders when we pointed to the ominous black clouds over the hills to the north. “It’s been like that all morning. It never rains here,” she told us with great confidence. A few minutes later, at the top of the mountain it rained, though it did clear up after a while and we shed our wet gear for the warm and sunny walk the rest of the way down. It rained again that night – all 300mm of it I think; a whole year’s supply! The 450km Kungsleden hiking trail begins – or ends here, depending on which way you plan to take it on. We decided to leave that to the youngsters, some of whom would be getting awfully damp out on the hills that night.
Abisko is renowned for its fishing. A Norwegian couple parked next to us were on their way home from a successful salmon fishing holiday and planned to fill up their caravan with ‘cheaper’ food at the border. They told us they come here with friends in April each year for ice fishing. We had noticed the tiny aluminium cabins along the shore of the 70km long Lake Tornetrask, equipped with skis to allow them to be tugged onto the ice. I’m not sure I fancy that!
The railway comes through these remote parts thanks mainly to a British company that went bust in the process. Completed in 1903 with money from the government, the line connects Narvik in Norway to Lulea in Sweden on the Gulf of Bothnia and serves to bring iron ore to the ice-free western ports. Our road back into Norway followed the railway towards Narvik and then to the islands of Vesteralen and Lofoten off the west coast. A short-eared owl followed us along the road across spectacular limestone wasteland dotted with smart tiny fishing huts and seemingly abandoned cars, their owners somewhere on the marshes picking cloud berries (a National pastime in July and August), or fishing (the other National pastime), on the lakes.
It is not always necessary to camp on official sites anywhere in Scandinavia, and Sweden caters for this cost efficient travelling need rather well. The 24hour picnic site near the Visitor Centre on the main route between Norway to Sweden was full, with half a dozen caravans and a similar number of motorhomes ‘overnighting’. We couldn’t believe the most superb public toilets this side of the North Pole - stainless steel accessories, soap and paper towels, automatic hand-dryers and hot water on tap! Three lads appeared with a caravan around six o’clock and cleaned and polished the whole shebang whilst we were there. There were toilets at all picnic places and even the remotest of beauty spots right across the region. We could learn a thing or two from that in the UK.

Talking of toilets, as one does, I now only shave one side of my face. It’s the corner mirrors in our en suite bathroom, you know. If I stand in front of the mirrors and put the razor on the left hand side of my face looking into the left mirror, my right hand follows on the other side in the right-hand mirror; which explains why the left side of my face gets shaved twice each day and I’m growing a beard on the right. It’s no wonder I keep getting funny looks. If you don’t believe me, try it. Smiley’s superb bathroom incidentally, was our key purchase feature. Whilst it’s only 4ft X 7ft, it has a compact WC, a good-sized hand-basin and a separate shower cubicle. As a consequence we rarely use site facilities other than occasional electricity.
Campsites vary a bit in terms of facilities and outlook, but we have certainly had some great ones in the past few days. One gave us views over the fjord with diving terns and a red fox hunting for voles in the rosebay willow-herb by the water; another was on a white sandy beach surrounded by mountains on three sides, and at yet another, we watched an otter silently fishing for a herring breakfast in the fjord, swirling the still waters with sparkling bubbles and ripples of silver. “What view would you like tonight, darling?”

After all the hype in the books and brochures we were prepared to be disappointed by Vesteralen and Lofoten.. Surely the whole of Norway would be on the beaches, crowding the roads and wearing out the footpaths. Not that it would matter a lot; we could go sightseeing in the middle of the night here, it still never gets dark. But no, the roads were as empty as all other roads in northern Norway, the beautiful sandy beaches were deserted, the ‘touristy’ things were certainly not busy and anyway; there is so much space for so few people. Our first port of call was on the island of Vesteralen, to the northern tip at Andenes. They do whale watching trips from here, but at £65 each we’ll live with our wonderful memories of whales in Australia. There were museums for everything and anything that might take a shilling from the unsuspecting tourist, but to be honest, they were all a bit naff and many subjects are repeated in every other town. As a point of interest, Andenes is on the same latitude as the north tip of Alaska. The longest day there is 1,608 hours; from the 21st May to the 26th July!

The western road to Andenes swept along the rocky coast, with narrow silver-sand coves on a calm bottle green sea out towards Iceland and the Shetlands, and backed by jagged mountains, rising steeply to knife-edged ridges. ‘Bird Island’ off the coast at Bleik where the trees gave way to a bleak moorland landscape, provided the spectacle of the day with the help of our telescope; white tailed eagle, skuas, and tens of thousands of puffins, guillemots and razorbills filled the air: fabulous! They still take puffins’ and gulls’ eggs from the first clutches each year, sharing the spoils across the village in line with their tradition of self-sufficiency. We took the liberty of collecting ripe cloudberries for our tea along this road; soft sweet yellow berries like our blackberries at home, but on short stems close to the boggy ground, their leaves a little like those of strawberries. Cloudberry is a wonderful accessory to salmon we’re told, but we chose to savour it as a sauce, stewed with a little sugar, with our first taste of Norwegian fishcakes (at least that’s what we think they were!).

Further to the west, we found the little village of Hovden, a fishing community stuck out on a peninsula miles from nowhere, with its enclosed harbour, ghostly fish drying racks and silver sand, whooper swans poking their long necks and yellow beaks above the reeds like periscopes and kittiwakes nesting on the rocks by the road signalling our presence with their incessant cry of ‘kittiwake, kittiwake, kittiwake.’ We had fabulous views of endless mountains bursting through the rain-clouds on Lofoten to the southwest and Hinnoya in the east.

There are tiny fishing villages right the way down the coast from Nordkapp; detached wooden houses all smartly painted, neatly trimmed lawns, a few flowers, no fences or hedges to fight about, and generally half an acre or so. The top end of Norway gets its prime living from the sea, selling two thirds of its dried cod (stockfish) to Italy, Spain and Portugal. We never knew that before and assumed as we travelled through those countries, that it was all local. Norway is not a member of the EU and if the northerners have their way, it never will be. For them, it makes sense to keep the Spanish out of their waters. Along the narrow strip of land between sea and mountain, small meadows support the many dairy farms hanging on to a living without the benefit of enough topsoil to grow anything other than grass. The only trees are birch and willow with little commercial value, scrubby along the peaty marsh beside the fjords, rising with more growth to the tree line on the mountains.
The weather was a bit iffy during our few days on the islands, with rain on and off and overcast skies. We could have done with better to see such spectacular scenery, but we’ve done well and can’t complain.
With only three weeks before our ferry out of Norway, we’re running out of time on our schedule and we were conscious of this some time back. Every diversion has taken us many miles out to far away places and back, and there are some special areas that we haven’t been able to get to. One such missed delight is the Jules silver gallery in Kautokeino, sadly out on a limb in the direction of nowhere in particular. We did, however, get to see some of his wonderful work at another silversmiths.
Our last newsletter came to you courtesy of the local council offices in a rather small village on a fjord somewhere. We stopped to ask where the local library was.
“I’m sorry, it’s closed for the summer,” the lady behind the glass doors at the front desk told us.
“Can you tell us where the nearest internet might be then, please?” I asked.
“You can use this one, if you like,” she said with a friendly smile after a brief consultation with a colleague. We sat in her office for twenty minutes whilst she went off for her coffee break!

We have seen some great Zimmer frames in these parts and Janice has promised to put one on order for me. They have four wheels and you hang on to the handlebars as you walk along with your feet in the middle. The great bit is the steps either side for you to stand on like a scooter as you go whizzing down the hills! (I hope it arrives soon).

There was a repeat of the ‘Smiley length’ fiasco when we arrived at the ferry terminal between the islands, from Melbu to Fiskebo. “How long is the motorhome?” enquired the handsome young guy with the portable ticket machine.
“Twenty two feet,” I replied. “That’s within a gnats’ whisker of 6metres.”
Unsure what a gnats’ whisker might look like, he continued; “May I see the documents please?” A short pause while he looked unsuccessfully for this minor detail on our license.
“Is it more, or less than 6metres?”
“It’s a very tiny bit more,” I demonstrated between finger and thumb.
“Are you English?” J nodded politely, trying not to laugh.
“OK. That’s 109 Kr,” he said, holding his hand out, resigned to failure.

Being English must either indicate being very poor, or else very much liked by the natives. A vehicle over 6m is charged more than two cars for some reason and having now consulted the price list, it appears we were charged for a car and two pensioners. J was not pleased, but if that’s the price of success, I’ll take it. The next problem would be to work out a strategy for the next long ferry (3 hours plus) from Lofoten back to the mainland in a couple of days! Failure there could cost us over £60 extra on the fare. It’s not that important, it’s only money, but it’s fun trying to buck the system!

Cloudberries. Yummy!

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News 31 The Lofoten Islands and back to the mainland

3rd –10th August 05

The Viking Gods were against us as we arrived by ferry on the island of Lofoten. Our dreams of dazzling fjords and sunlit dramatic scenery vanished in a haze of damp mist and drizzle as soon as we landed at the dock in Fiskebol. But we have never let a small thing like rain spoil our day. The outline of grey mountains rising at 60 degrees from windswept fjords and dark clouds masking a determined sun were still dramatic and exciting. That day was also a day of magnificent rainbows; great arches of brilliant colour casting pots of gold on rocky outcrops and mountain peaks. The magic of the Arctic Circle is a light that changes with every second of every day, with every passing cloud above a mountain and every flash of sunlight on water.
Lofoten is Northern Norway’s holiday hotspot and for the first time we felt the weight of traffic, busy car parks, coach-loads of tourists and bustling shops. Holidaymakers with upturned collars jostled in the streets and sat bedraggled outside cafes in the new square or tinkered about in the gift shops. We stopped in Svolvaer for essentials, TI for maps and guides, the Co-op for a few groceries, and a brief look at the visiting yachts and cruisers before heading west away from the crowds to Henningsvaer, a working fishing harbour with great charm. Were this Cornwall, the streets would be heaving, the shops full of tacky souvenirs, and overpriced car-parks, but in Henningsvaer there were few shops, selling very little, and very few people! The return drive to join the main E10 road was something to be remembered however; layer upon layer of austere craggy mountains, dusty grey and green with moss, erupting, dark and sombre into a dark damp sky; the stuff of picture-story books, fairies and witches. None of the mountains on Lofoten is much more than 2,500ft, but they are truly spectacular, steep, peaked and jagged as an alligator’s back. Wow factor 98!
Very early on in our travels we recognised that we would have to be selective when it came to touristy things like galleries, pleasure trips on land or sea and museums. We have seen a string of war museums of one sort or another in the north and a bevy of Sami and local culture museums; we passed on the whales and a second bird trip, and sure, we have probably missed the best one somewhere, but that’s life! One we weren’t going to miss was the Lofotr reconstruction of a Viking Chieftain’s long house and ship on an archaeological site at Borg. The 83m long timber-framed building is quite magnificent, with log fires and cooking pots, Viking paraphernalia and many of the original ‘site finds’ on display. Our guide was incredibly well informed and the ‘Kentwell’-style actors and craftsmen helped to create a moving atmosphere to remember. (Some of you will know Kentwell Hall, near Long Melford in Suffolk for its wonderful Elizabethan events in the summer - particularly Esther!)

Around every corner there was yet another fishing village. That certainly goes for the bit at the westerly tip of the island, at A, (yes, that’s the name of a village though it does have a little ‘o’ over the top and it’s pronounced ‘or’), and Reine (which it didn’t that particular day). As fish is a prime product of the country, we were interested to know more. ‘A’ had a matching pair of museums; one all about fishing and the other about, well,…. fishing. The first was a whole village of fishing associated buildings, each with its own exhibits and in parts still a working community. The other was all about stockfish, mostly cod, which is caught in January and February each year as the fish come in to spawn and then dried in the open air on racks (or “stocks”) until May or June. Both were interesting and we are now better informed about the Vikings, cod fishing, cod-liver oil production, whaling (they still do that here), and stock-fish. Three museums in two days must be a record for us; we are in danger of becoming tourists!

We didn’t see a white-tailed eagle on Wednesday.

The weather turned for the better mid-week, the skies brightened and the cameras started to get back into top gear. Trevor, from Down Under, recently asked about our photos and what we do with them all. We’re both digital now of course and our photos are downloaded onto the laptop after tea most evenings. The theory is that we transfer them on to CD now and again, but that hasn’t happened as yet on this trip (I’ll do it tomorrow). Goodness knows when we’ll ever get time to look at them all. We probably have a couple of thousand between us and sorting the best from that lot will be a mammoth task on our return. Now, if I were clever like our Trevor, I’d put them on a website for you to peruse at your own convenience!

There were peregrines flushing meadow pipits out of the long grass and Arctic skuas chasing screeching terns for their catch at our campsite on the sand dunes at Flakstad. The mountains, the sheep and classic U shaped valleys reminded us very much of Mid Wales, one of our favourite spots for walking and birds of prey. Suffice to say, the Lofoten Islands came up to our expectations despite the inclement weather and we’ll always remember the images of spectacular mountains, of light and rainbows, of sandy beaches on sparkling fjords, fishing boats, smartly painted matchbox houses, bus shelters with gingham curtains and peaceful panoramic campsites.

Our ferry off the island left at ten in the morning and, after checking our strategy for ensuring reduced fares for the elderly (and Smiley with two feet cut off the back), we appeared at the booking desk ready for action an hour ahead of departure time. “Two people and a motorhome to Bodo, please,” I asked with confidence.
“How long?” the young lady enquired.
“Eighteen feet nine inches. Under six metres, I think,” I fibbed a little.
“567 Kroner.”
And I’d expected the Spanish Inquisition at least. The real fare should have been 1,252Kr – all that extra for two lousy feet! They don’t sting cars with caravans like they do motorhomes; and they are all longer than us! [Make a note to write to the Norwegian Tourist board about it - 1252Kr is more than we paid to get from Newcastle to Kristiansand!] And there we were, on the ferry with our books, coffee and sandwiches, ready for the four-hour trip to the mainland.
Back on the mainland we headed south on the tree lined ‘Tourist Route’ along the coast, past round-topped glacier-worn mountains clothed in birch and juniper with low cloud swirling up the deep valleys like steam from a boiling kettle. The Svartisen Glacier came into view across a Caribbean blue fjord and proved too inviting to miss. It is reached on this side by a short ferry ride and an hours’ walk along a tree-lined track past an isolated farm, to the accompaniment of cow and sheep bells. There is something magnetic about glaciers. It really doesn’t matter how many you have seen, the next one is equally magical. Svartisen is huge, with fingers reaching some 50 km across the mountain-tops; an enormous powerhouse of ice, sky blue in the sun, bringing a cool breeze over the rock strewn moonscape. A lovely experience.
Once more we crossed the Polar Circle on our way south. The ‘Globe’ marking the spot could be seen from the ferry as we passed in glorious evening sunshine at around 8.30; late for us and a campsite to our liking was proving difficult to find. Finally we parked for the night with an international group of motorhomers at a viewpoint overlooking the ‘puffin’ island of Lovund, twenty or more miles off-shore, rising like a volcano to two thousand feet from a sparkling sunset sea.

With a mean sun in the blue, blue sky to tempt us, we took the two and a half hour ferry to Lovund the next day, travelling as foot passengers to see the last of the puffins before they headed back to sea at the end of the breeding season. Lovund boasts 200,000 puffins at breeding time and the islanders have a special festival called Lundkommerdag (Puffin Day?), celebrating the puffin’s return on the 14th April each year. Needless to say, most of the puffins had heard we were coming and were already miles out on the ocean waves laughing at us, though a few were still around feeding young in the pepper-pot of burrows on the northerly slopes; a tempting meal for the sea eagles scouring the mountainside from the cloud caped peak above. The bird spectacle of the year might have eluded us, but we did enjoy the ferry ride, the endless sun and the uphill walk!

There are thousands of islands off the western coast road. We took several days to travel this stretch, savouring the last of the sunsets before heading inland. With the salesman’s ‘assumptive close’ technique we managed to get away with only paying full fare for Smiley once on the eight ferry crossings which linked this otherwise inaccessible coastal route. You will all have experienced the assumptive close: “Shall I wrap it for you, Sir/Madam?” pushing you into making a positive decision. In our case, J took the driving seat just to throw some confusion as to who was driving, J or the collection of teddy bears, whilst I handed him the correct money for a 6m motorhome from the nearside window. Only one guy failed to take the bait, stepped out the length of Smiley in one-metre strides and promptly shook his head. You can’t win ‘em all!
Norway doesn’t have the colour of Spain, the dramatic contrasts of mountain and desert, of olive groves and orange orchards, of ripe chestnuts and grand forests, amazing art, the seemingly excessive indulgencies of Catholicism and long golden beaches; or the plastic bottles, rubbish, pickpockets, vandals and thieves. In Norway, you don’t need eyes in your back, your hand on your valuables or the nervous twitch of an English tourist. Norway is extremely beautiful. It’s like the Alps without crowds. The air is crystal clear, its people are enlightened with a high standard of living and they have a culture of respect for others and their possessions. It is unusual for people to lock their doors or cars here. I could write a good thesis on the ‘economic cost of culture’ in a Nation.

One question we are often asked, is, “Have you found anywhere on your travels you would like to live?” I guess the answer is, “Yes, there are possibilities,” but it is not in the north of Norway. However wonderful it might appear on a bright summer’s day, it does get terribly dark and cold in winter and it is also very expensive. I would certainly be happy to rent a cottage with a fjord view to the west for the summer, to write and contemplate. (I’m still reserving judgement on where I might live if it were not Gate Lodge, but at the top of my list to date would be Capri, or perhaps the Queensland coast).

Memorials to world war two are plentiful throughout the north, acting as a poignant reminder of the tragedy of German occupation. A pleasant stroll along grassy tracks through open farmland revealed a German gun emplacement by the coast, with concrete bunkers and rusty remnants of heavy guns facing the strategic entrance to the fjords. A short ride away, there was a memorial garden commemorating the deaths of many thousands of Russian and International Prisoners of War along these shores during the last war. Many died on board a prison ship destroyed by allied bombing in 1944. It is all too easy to forget the part that Russia played in freeing Europe from the grip of Nazi Germany during those traumatic years.
The Germans were back in large numbers as tourists in motorhomes of all shapes and sizes, outnumbering even the travel wise Dutch. There were still few Brits, though following our walk, a larger than life Englishman with a huge smile stopped by for a welcome chat. J D and Martha were also motorhoming and parked in a lay-by back along the road. We made them tea, as one does when one is from the little island, and later joined them for a snack, a welcome game of chess and a few Vodkas back at their mammoth wagon; fixed king-sized bed, twin rear axle, garage; the lot. J D and Martha live in Portugal and he commutes to London bi- weekly to take his seat at Westminster. We have been invited for lunch in The Lords in November. It’s just amazing the lovely people you meet when ‘on tour’.
At the end of the coast road, we turned inland once more, journeying the main E6 road south from Mo I Rana, the worn limestone mountains marbled-grey as a string of elephants, trunk to tail for 100miles, with spruce and pine on the hills and broad shining rivers reminiscent of BC. The valleys widened and larger farms emerged, rye and some oats ripened in the late days of summer sun. The clover was turning brown, buttercups long gone and many campsites scheduled to close on the 15th August, eight days before we leave for Shetland.

It was our wedding anniversary on Monday and I took Janice out to dinner. There was no restaurant within a days’ drive of our camping spot that night, so we ate at the table outside Smiley’s Cafe at the edge of the fjord in the evening sunset. We’ll celebrate in style when we get back to civilisation. [“I want fish and chips,” declared J] Just to put Norwegian fjords into perspective, that particular night we were 60km (36 miles) from the coast and the fjord was all of half a mile wide, salt water and tidal, and flanked by precipitous mountains.
The best of scenic Norway was saved until last. Shortly we would be near Trondheim, on known territory amongst the breathtaking fjords and mountains where ‘wow’ meters were invented. It’s ten years or more since we travelled a circular route from Bergen that far north in the old Volvo 480 and it’s also on the ‘Grand Tour’ route for holidaymakers doing Norway in a fortnight.

We have been travelling now for 10 weeks and covered 6,956miles on this trip so far – that’s even more in kilometres! With good fortune and the continuing good cooperation of Smiley, there will be more travel news from the Nomads again next week.

Flowers: sea rocket, bog rosemary, mountain avens, self heal, tormentil, alpine ladies mantle, devil’s bit scabious, the dwarf cornel now turned to red berries.
No new birds!
Sun now sets at 10pm.

Understatement of the week: It’s nice ‘ere init.”

J on ice!

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News 32. Norway. Around about the middle

10th - 17th August 05

The school holidays have come to an end here and fields of buttercups have been sacrificed to the hay barns for the long winter ahead. Martins and swallows are heading south, and the sun now sets at night as we prepare to travel with them for our migration across the seas, from Bergen to Shetland on the 23rd August. But there is still much to see and do before we leave these shores.

Our campsite host at Stjordal, the local farmer and entrepreneur, had many strings to his bow, a carbon copy of our good friend Roy at Little Lodge Farm. In addition to the 80 static caravans by the beach, he had a few fields of barley on the summer farm awaiting harvesting in the coming week, he had work as a house builder in the local town and a house on the rocky foreshore rented out on long contract. His parents farmed the land for many years before him, he told me in broken English.
“Now, I have one house for me and one for my wife since my mother died.” He pointed out to sea with a red painted finger. “In the winter the sun rises over there at eleven and goes down over there at two. Most people here have a house in town for the winter months, but my wife and I prefer to stay put - the only person we see for three months is the postman.”
“That sounds fun,” I ventured.

The year’s main task on the farm was to scrape and paint the enormous timber barn, more than 100ft long, 50ft wide and two storeys high for hay on top and cattle below. He was on the first tier of scaffolding scraping off the old terracotta paint. He had managed about half of one side to date.
“And that’s a bit like the Forth Bridge.”
“I’ll not paint it again in my lifetime,” he said with a happy grin. “This paint will last for 5-10 years and by then my son will be converting the barn to a home.”

Norway is principally rock and water in the north. The only other viable natural resource is birch, though it is not ideal for building. There is no pine to the north but with very few exceptions the houses are timber-built in pine. I am prompted to ask why the houses are not built in stone, though the need for speedy rebuilding post-war might be one answer, and low cost another.
By-passing Trondheim, we headed southeast from Stjordal, to the mountains of the interior, across bleak and treeless fells and high passes to the copper-mining town of Roros. Sadly, with 3,000ft passes and cloud cover at 2,000 ft, we didn’t get to see a lot of the view, driving for most of the day through mist and rain. That’s also the problem with mining towns like this one – it rains, as if to render Gods’ punishment for taking the earth’s worldly goods. We have memories of rainy days in mining towns, Rio Tinto in Spain and Bute in Montana, to name but a few. Like Bute and its tin, this one ceased to be a viable copper mine in 1977 and both of these towns are now a pale shade of grey.

Roros was a bit grey too at first glance in the rain, but after a morning at the copper mine museum with a memorable personal guided tour of the 50m deep mine, we went back for a second look at the town and its wealth of history. In thin sunshine already hinting of autumn the town came to life, its craft shops were busy and cafes and old log houses along the main street bustled with tourists. Perched within an elk’s leap of Sweden, Roros has smelting works and slag heaps at its core - they have been mining here since 1644, but it is protected under UNESCO ‘World Heritage Site’ status and wears its recognition with pride and a certain elegance on a par with Lavenham perhaps. Tourism is all that’s left now in recognition of centuries of toil and sweat at the rockface, now just misty photographs, museums and guided tours.

Most campsites in Scandinavia have at least a few cabins for casual travellers. These are small huts, some of log construction and others in traditional style in keeping with the surrounding houses and farms. Cabins provide beds for 2 – 5 people, usually cooking facilities and generally rather rustic. In the ‘hot’ fishing and tourist areas, there are also a number of static caravans on every site. The caravans are all normal tourers as we know them, not the long holiday jobs we associate with ‘static’ sites in the UK. Here their caravans have wooden extensions, patio decking, fancy picket fences, outside lights and flower boxes. They are generally owned by flat- dwellers visiting at week-ends and holidays with the family and they can be used 12 months of the year using the van for cooking and sleeping and the shed as the lounge. I’m told on good authority that it all started with sheds to keep the skis and spare kit in when the awning was full up. I can hear the conversation now.
“Where are you going for your holidays, Edvard?”
“I’m taking the family to the garden shed again this year.”

A very high percentage of the 4.5million Norwegians have holiday cabins somewhere in the country, beside lakes, around the ski slopes or out in the wilds on mountains or deep in the forests. Forest covers some 23% of this vast country providing an essential resource and space - space for everyone, everywhere.

From Roros we headed west to Oppdal, through wide valleys with rushing rivers and lush pastures bordered by great banks of rose-bay willow herb. Prosperous dairy farms with old log barns and grass roofed timber buildings brightened the high rolling hills, sombre in the misty rain, stretching to the tree line and the barren mountain fells above. Along the route we stopped for a short hike in dense birch woodland and a second sign of autumn’s stealthy approach. There were mushrooms everywhere, a veritable feast for fungi foragers, and one of J’s favourites, the beautiful but deadly fly-agaric, the stuff of fairies and elves. Love ‘em as we do, we’re not very good at identifying mushrooms and they’re better left alone! A gold finch, beyond its northerly range, reminded us that we had journeyed a long way south since Nordkap, and a young moose amongst the trees put yet another special Scandinavian memory in the bank.
Oppdal is a serious ‘outdoor pursuit’ town, with skiing, fishing, river rafting, canyoning, climbing, hang gliding, hunting and hiking all together at the top of the list. It lies at the centre of some of Norway’s most important National Parks. Our first hike was to the high hill farms to find a farm serving Norway’s famous but elusive sour-cream porridge and the second, further south into the Dovrefjell National Park in search of the secretive musk ox. We didn’t find the farm or the porridge, but the walk was wonderful, through mountain farmland and peaty bog where an army of visitors with white buckets picked the last of the cloudberries. A thorough search of the wild high fells below Snohetta mountain (9,000 ft) proved fruitful, however, and we were able to get reasonably close to two groups of musk ox – fifteen in all, from a total of 80 thought to be in Norway. All thanks to J’s meticulous research, I must add. The desolate snow-topped mountains around Doverfjell stretch to the horizon in all directions, clothed in creamy white lichen crunchy underfoot, dwarf birch and stunted willow not more than a foot high, heather, bilberry and moss – and not a dwelling in sight.
We saw musk ox when we were at the zoo in Jarvso in Sweden some weeks back, but we never really expected to see them in the wild. They are also found in Greenland, Canada and Alaska and they are famous, of course, for their head-banging exchanges during the rutting season. Fantastic is the word! “Anything else on your list, Janice?”
There were black- throated divers on the water, cranes and bluethroats in a vast marshland nature reserve just to the north of Dombas. The marsh is an important site for breeding birds, great snipe, ruff and the divers, but once again we were late in the season and many were already on their way to warmer climes. Our planned two-hour walk took us nearly twice as long, as walks often do when we’re enjoying ourselves.
Dombas was another of those winter ski and outdoor recreation towns, humming with posers with sunglasses pushed up on their sweatbands and eating ice cream at the cafe tables. We joined them, with our rucksacks and walking boots, enjoying ice cream in the warm sunshine – on the last day of Norwegian school holidays. Evidently the weather here had been uncharacteristically atrocious over the previous two weeks –and we had seen the tail end of it. Central Norway has a lot to offer and whilst it’s not on the ‘foreign’ tourist trail it is worthy of a month’s holiday on its own. (It’s a bit like Norfolk. ‘Don’t tell anyone how good it is, they’ll all want to come.’)
National Parks are a magnet for us. They are not all easily accessible, but each has its own character and specific interest. Rondane Park, a little further south, gave us the best part of a day’s walking over raw landscape at 5,000ft, miles and miles of barren mountains fading into the distance, set against a blue but cloud-threatened sky.
There’s a long distance path or two running through the park and we walked as far as a remote climber’s hostel for a welcome coffee and waffles with sour cream – to make up for the treat we missed earlier in the week! Waffles have appeared on our menu around mid-afternoon a few times since our arrival in Norway, prompting the possibility of another electrical appliance when we return home. I had always previously associated waffles with Germany.

Towards the end of our week we joined a route taken on our previous visit to Norway, passing through the village of Vagamo, its lovely stave church set at the end of a long lake, its jade water the combination of glacial flour and warm weather. The rivers along this stretch of road were all a similar colour, bringing back memories of Lake Louise. The Tourist office recommended a drive up to a lookout point to the north of town with views over the three National Parks and with a spare hour in our schedule we set forth to sample the goodies. Now there’s roads and there’s roads, but this one would make the Blackpool big dipper look like a Sunday afternoon in a rowing boat. For a modest toll of £3 in English, it is possible to start your training as a rally driver on the hairpins on tarmac, moving quickly to single track un-surfaced road climbing up to 5,000 ft on slippery shale. A Dutch couple on a motorbike gave up a mile before the TV mast perched atop an incline a 4X4 would be pleased to tackle. Smiley made it over the corrugated track, though how, I don’t know. Our problem was that there was nowhere to turn round, there were sheer drops at every bend and we had to go for it! The dramatic yellow-lichened rocks and vast panoramic views from the top were magnificent, the sun punched holes through the clouds, and the wind whistled in our ears; it took a while to pluck up the courage to drive down! A memorable drive that we would not be in a hurry to repeat, but the added bonus of a golden eagle soaring and a ptarmigan flushed from the roadside left us exhilarated and excited.
There’s another stave church at Lom which we had seen before, though memories fade with time. We had also forgotten the next stretch of narrow road as Janice drove us southwards, up and up beside the blue river, into the rain over the high winding Leirdalen Pass and Sognefjell, through snow clad bleak mountains boiling with black clouds chasing the sun, steep ravines and rushing blue rivers tumbling down deep crevasses. A hundred Lakeland passes together would fail to match the spectacle. Two drives like that would turn some into nervous wrecks! Janice has stopped shaking now.

This time next week we’ll be in Shetland. It is said that Norway still lays claim to both Shetland and Orkney, but Scotland’s not having any of that – the noo, or any other time.

A few of the week’s birds: Jay at the northern extent of its territory, Siberian Jay at its western. Wood warbler, willow warbler, chiffchaff, wheatear, flocks of brambling, black throated divers and cranes again. Blue-throats everywhere and snow bunting. Disappointed not to have seen a Lapland longspur yet, but we keep trying.

Flowers: Jacob’s ladder, marsh bedstraw, valerian

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News 33 Travels along the big fjords to Bergen

17th – 23rd August

It was ‘Turn up the Wow-Meter’ time as we pulled on to narrow winding roads edging steep mountains cascading dramatically into the fjords, with J at the wheel. We were entering the spectacular deep cut fjords for which this country is famous and its fruit growing centre where cherries, raspberries, strawberries, apples and plums abound, where roses grow around cottage doors and new trees carpet the hillsides; horse chestnut, ash, hazel, lime, sycamore, elm, rowan bright with regal berries, and pine and spruce climb gracefully to the tree-line. Time to sample a few raspberries with sour cream for tea.

There is a certain magic about the fjords of Norway without equal in Europe. It is the magic that has inspired poets and painters, writers and musicians for many centuries. Elsewhere, there are taller mountains and mountains with more snow. There are bigger lakes and lakes with more sunshine. But there will never be that special amalgam of sparkling water, steep mountains and crystal light as crisp as a freshly cut cucumber that exists in this fairytale land. This land of tiny farmsteads on grassy plateau nestling at the bottom of vertical cloud-clad mountains rising majestically from sparkling blue waters; in a land where people are rarely seen or heard. J described Norway’s fjords quite succinctly. “They are as spectacular as Italy’s Amalfi Coast, with the bonus of mountains on both sides of the water.”

The origins of surnames came up in conversation the other day, prompted by the many towns and villages bearing names we might associate with known acquaintances, like Holmen, Lunde and ….Fossoy. Along the Jostedal valley lie fertile plains and brightly painted wooden farmstead communities each with a few patches of meadow, prim lace curtains and pots of flowers on the windowsill, and a small shaded light in the window as a reminder of summer when winter clothes the land in darkness and the sun so rarely gets above the mountain. The creamy blue river churned its way south from glacier to fjord through a steep sided gully cloaked in trees already tinged with the yellows and browns of autumn, to the hamlet of Fossoy; a Foss being a waterfall -and there are lots of those Norway, and many other places come to that. Later in the week we also stopped off at Fossli, to see the roaring waterfall, a great bath-tap sending wave after wave of water tumbling 590ft in a freefall flight of mist and spray crashing to the valley floor below.
Our goal that day was a short way beyond Fossoy, to an arm of the Jostedal Galcier at Nigardsbreen. The glacier was looking blue but rather sad, edged with grey as if in need of a good dust, but grand and tantalizing as glaciers always are. We chose just to stand, stare and wonder, but others were unable to resist getting closer. The Mortimer family were there, all the way from Taunton. They had been on our campsite the previous night, father, mother and the three children all under nine in a small, rather old, caravan. Their new caravan was stolen two weeks before they were due to leave the UK! They were coming to the end of a six-month tour of Europe and looked very well on it. Father was a Project Manager in the construction industry taking six months leave for his family to enjoy themselves and for the children to learn some of the important things in life.

A day at the glacier can be expensive for a family. It’s a fiver each to get into everything here, even the not very good glacier museum at the tourist office. To save the 6km walk to the ferry there’s a road toll for three pounds, then three pounds for a ferry across he lake to the bottom of the glacier and another ten pounds for a guided walk on the glacier. The Mortimers did all that! If we were to be critical of Norway, it would be to complain about tolls, particularly those around major towns, and what amounts to tourist taxes. Touring brochures are informative, free and plentiful and I’m the first to applaud that, but if you want a map of the area it can cost as much as £3 for a flimsy piece of A4….very strange.
We were just across the glacier from here on our last visit to Norway, aiming to visit another museum at Fjaerland. We didn’t get to see that one. Having travelled 11km through a tunnel and in sight of the museum we were faced with a horrendous toll which we considered outrageous at the time, so we turned around and enjoyed another 11km drive back through the tunnel in the opposite direction – a bit dark, but all for free. A little later in the afternoon we took a five-seater seaplane flight over the top of the glacier for the same money! Whilst complaining, it’s 80p - £1.30 for a fairly ordinary postcard and another 90p to post it; but then, our own card shops are a rip-off, aren’t they? Books and print here and in Sweden and Finland are all terribly expensive which is strange considering the number of trees they harvest each year. A loaf of bread costs anything from £1.60 to £2, a cucumber £1.60, diesel nearly £1 per litre, a bottle of fairly ordinary whisky £28 and a similar wine around £8. All the essentials in life! I think I’d shtop drwinking if I lived here. With this in mind, we had the foresight to buy up large quantities of good Australian wine on ‘special promotion’ at Tescos before we left home and somewhat surprisingly there were still one or two in the cupboard, hidden from Norwegian Customs on our arrival some twelve weeks ago.

You might know of Flam. Flam is the place where the Japanese and Americans arrive on coaches and cruise-liners before being stuffed on to electric trains and sent for a short compulsory ride up over – and under, the mountains on the Bergen to Oslo line. We’re told it’s a spectacular ride in the long tunnel under the glacier! The station car park was packed with coaches, cars, zimmer-frames and German motorhomes. The liner Marco Polo was in port there too, disgorging some of its 1,000 passengers; we last saw it at Honningsvag near Nordkapp on the 20th July. Twice round the car park looking for somewhere to park without success was enough and finally we gave up trying. We don’t do crowds anyway. Instead, we decided to circumnavigate the Hardanger Glacier by road, east along the ‘Snow Road’ on its northern shore and then west again, back towards Hardanger.

Our drive up the Snow Road followed a high pass through raw landscape, treeless snow topped mountains and leaden lakes set against blue skies; a brittle contrast of light and dark, with no town, village or shop for 90km. This place is truly desolate even in summer and surely chillingly horrific in winter. It is comparable to the remotest barren Highlands on a huge scale, strung with menacing power-lines from the Hydro installation at the dam. I could be miserable here.
The road to the south was much greener and more welcoming, through narrow valleys and a dramatic pie-bald landscape of mountains patched with snow; a contrast of light and shade across the endless grey-green scree and upland fell to the stunning white cap of the Hardanger glacier in the distance, a shining beacon in the sunlight. The 10ft snow poles beside the road were a further reminder of how bad it gets here in winter at 5,000ft.
I get the feeling that Norway is a nation of moles. There are road and rail tunnels everywhere here in the heart of Norway, either through mountains or under fjords. In one day we travelled more than 80km in almost total darkness on a day’s journey of 170km. Laerdalstunnelen, at 25km (15 miles) is the longest tunnel in the world and to make sure drivers are awake, they have light shows every 6km, a UV blue and yellow light extravaganza covering the walls of wide galleries. Very pretty. For some unknown reason the tunnel isn’t straight all the way, it goes up and down, to the right and to the left, though I don’t know why – it would have been so much easier to go straight and come out the other end at the right point, surely? Todd loved it of course.

It’s not that we don’t have anything left to talk about, but almost since we started serious travelling we have taken to talking to the animals on board. Todd is regularly asked for his opinion on the day, a view, or a particular event. He will always reply in a squeaky voice without even moving his lips. We talk to Smiley too, words of encouragement when the going gets tough, appreciation after a good day’s travelling and that sort of thing. We’re both too young to put it down to senility. Could it possibly be insanity?

Down the eastern edge of Sorfjorden, a narrow branch of the Hardanger fjord, there’s a long road running due south through beautiful Kinsarvic, a peaceful ‘Lake District’ village without crowds you could retire to. Beyond that we travelled to Lofthus where we took a short walk through hillside plantations spread with apple trees, plums, pears, Morello cherries and soft fruits. The cherries were just coming to an end, many months later than in the UK and gardens in the village were alive with dahlias, blue hydrangeas, deep red roses and colourful shrubs, reflecting the mild climate on the west facing slopes. It was good to find this little piece of ‘Old England’ off the main tourist route and to relax in the sun over dinner by the fjord in the late evening. We couldn’t recommend Norway if it’s a suntan you want, but the weather has been very pleasant, rarely too hot and never too cold – at this time of year!

With just a few days before our ferry we turned west again in glorious sunshine, skirting Bergen and out to the islands off the west coast for a final bird walk at Herdla on the northern tip of the islands. There, we chanced to meet a Norwegian ‘birder’ complete with scope and bird lists and eager to show us around ‘his patch’.
“You want to see King eider?”
“Yes please!” we chanted in unison.
“You want to see Eagle owl?”
“Wow! Yes please.”
Then the fog closed in.
Never mind, we ticked a list of twenty-five species and we did get a good lesson in birding Norwegian style. Erik had a great deal of technical kit with him. His company give him a tax-free ‘gadget’ allowance. We followed him to a patch of recently cleared spruce where he pulled a hard-drive matchbox from his pocket and proceeded to play nutcracker calls through a pair of sophisticated speakers on top of his car. Within seconds, an inquisitive nutcracker appeared, looking for a mate!

Nothing had changed in Bergen since our last visit. Picturesque Bergen, Norway’s second City, is surrounded by ski-mountains, fishing lakes and fjords, stiff walking country and endless forests, making it an attractive place to enjoy life. It also rains a lot, though we did have a pleasant stroll through the back streets, a leisurely café lunch and a nose around the shops amongst the cruisers and other tourists before the rain started.
The gas saga continued on our final day in Bergen as we attempted to get some of our money back on our Norwegian Aga gas cylinder. It’s not compatible with anything in the UK. Despite assurances from Statoil that we could get most of our money back ‘at any Statoil petrol station’, it proved impossible. Even the Agas gas agent refused our ‘buy it back at half price’ offer as our receipt was from a Swedish company. Crazy! After half a dozen attempts across town, we eventually gave up. Our next option will be to try to sell it at the Caravan Centre in Lerwick when we get there, Norway being a popular holiday destination for Shetlanders.

We arrived at the dockside two hours ahead of sailing time with fond memories of Norway tucked neatly into our pockets and full of anticipation and excitement for the next phase of our journey. The gaggle of motorhomers on the quay smiled knowingly and came to our open window with the latest news from Smyril Line. Our sailing to Lerwick was cancelled because of severe weather warnings off Shetland.
“The next boat will be in one week; next Tuesday.” The lady at the ticket desk advised without blushing. “To avoid the worst of the weather we shall be sailing direct to Faroe as soon as possible. If you like, you can travel via Faroe and Iceland to arrive in Shetland on Friday on the return journey.”

We had shared a glass or two with Ernie and Morag from Shetland at the campsite the previous night and they were in the same boat – so to speak, along with several others trying to get back to Shetland with work biting at their heels. Our decision was instantaneous, but for some it was rather more difficult. Shetlanders are evidently well known for their inability to make decisions, probably because ‘tomorrow will do,’ when you live on an island and much debate ensued for more than an hour in a dialect totally beyond our comprehension. Morag was keen to see Iceland having never been there, but Ernie was not a good sailor apparently, despite having spent much of his working life as a fisherman.
There is only one boat plying these waters. The ‘Norrona’, a sizeable cruiser -cum ferry, does the weekly round of Bergen, Shetland, Faroe, Iceland, Faroe, Shetland, Denmark and back to Bergen - weather permitting. On Tuesday, it didn’t.

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News 34 Castaways

24th - 30th August 2005

Given the choice of staying in Norway or travelling on the ‘Norrona’ to Faroe and Iceland at the Ferry-Line’s expense, what would you do? When opportunity for adventure knocks we’re not known to be slow on the uptake!
I had some idea where Faroe and Iceland were from hours of pouring over my World Atlas as a lad. Still being relatively young, I also remember the fascination of daily shipping forecasts at 5.55am. “Rockall, Malin, Bailey, Hebrides, FairIsle, Faroes, S E Iceland, Viking, force ten gales, 1014mb, some precipitation, clearing later; North Utsire, South Utsire, force five, easing westerly, visibility 3miles etc.” Incidentally, this journey has also revealed where Utsire is!
The ‘Norrona’ sailed from Bergen for Faroe at 3pm in fair weather with all passengers originally bound for Shetland, several of us with motorhomes. Frantic phone calls to Lerwick confirmed fine weather there and no sign of the forecast storms, leaving Shetlanders somewhat perplexed. We soon learned that the forecast for the onward leg from Faroe to Iceland was for heavy seas and we were given the option to stay over in Faroe for two days and be picked up on the return journey. Common sense prevailed though the chance to visit Iceland was tempting and by morning we were preparing to disembark at Torshaven, Faroe’s capital, for a two-day, all expenses paid extension to our holiday.
The hotel meals offered us the opportunity to share some time with Shetlanders Ernie and Morag, and Douglas and his wife, Agnes, also motorhomers. Between them they have more than 60 years of motorhome and caravan experience, putting our meagre three and a half years properly into perspective! Norway is a regular destination for both couples; it’s almost easier to get to Norway than to Scotland – and anyway, Shetlanders would like us to believe they are more Norwegian that Scottish. Indeed, many would say they’re not Scottish at all.
“We feel more at home in Norway,” Agnes told us. “The Scots have a rather cynical view of us Islanders.”
“And we can always be recognised in the streets by the way we walk,” interrupted Ernie in his inimitable way. “As if we’re still on board the fishing boats with our feet pointed outwards.”
These days, with fishing in decline they’ll have to teach the walk in schools in order to maintain the image. Meanwhile, I’m practising, to avoid being mistaken for an Englishman – or a Scotsman come to that.
What the hotel menu lacked in creativity, the ship’s restaurant made up for in spectacular form. The dinner menu included Puffin breast and whale, neither of which took our fancy I hasten to add. “Coward!” I hear you call.
The following day, a weather report print-out showed a cyclonic force-ten to the north of Shetland and we learned that the ‘Norrona’ had arrived in Iceland five hours late overnight! The edge of the storm had passed us quite close by, a howling wind buffeted Smiley throughout the night and rain lashed at the windows until sunrise. The wind had brought the sea-birds inland and we watched storm petrels, Manx and sooty shearwaters, fulmars and gannets hugging the angry waves from the shelter of the motorhome door in the morning.
It rains on The Faroes. I had read somewhere that annual rainfall exceeds 5ft, which is a lot of rain, even in Danish – or Faroese. With all that rain a mental picture was forming in my mind of an island peopled by rusty skinned fishermen dressed in bright yellow oilskins.

I was interested to know more about these islands and enquired at the Tourist Office for more details about population, industry and so on.
“We have no publications in English, I’m afraid,” the lady told me apologetically. “Only in Danish or Faroese.”
“How long do you think it would take me to learn?” I asked.
“About two years if you put your mind to it,” she retorted with a knowing smile. Like the rest of Faroes’ inhabitants, she looked just like you or me. Perhaps more like you, ‘cos I’m a feller as you will have realised by now. Most islanders speak good English, in addition to their native Danish and Faroese. We did eventually find a leaflet with lots of facts and figures, helping to paint a picture of the island’s economy, climate and culture.
Short, but sweet, we enjoyed our stay in the self governed Danish Faroes, an unexpected bonus to brighten the lives of this pair of castaways. Torshaven is a light and airy town, bordered by its busy port on one side and brightly coloured buildings and houses on the other. The harbour was filled with fishing boats, many of them traditional brightly coloured craft with high pointed bow and stern, and the modern little town offered a good range of shops, hotels and cafes. Just a short step from the edge of town were treeless moorland hills, mossy greens, greys and yellows, granite outcrops, gushing mountain gullies, tiny flat meadows freshly mown in a patchwork quilt and miniscule paddocks for the peculiar black and white horned sheep.
Torshaven gets its name from the God ‘Thor’- and I can understand why; it didn’t stop raining until late afternoon. A short drive to the north brought romantic pictures of steep cliffs and narrow North Atlantic fjords, meandering rivers, lakes and waterfalls; and new-mown hay fighting a losing battle in the rain. Tiny settlements of concrete and corrugated aluminium houses huddled in sheltered bays; freshly painted red, blues, browns, bright greens and yellows set to cheer the darkness, their shallow roofs awaiting the coming of winter winds. Our brief visit to Faroe will long be remembered for its spontaneity and our gracious benefactors, the Smyril Line.

The Norrona sailed from Faroe for the twelve-hour journey to Shetland on calm waters, followed all the way by fulmars, gracefully soaring the waves, their stiffly braced wings glinting on every turn in the bright sunlight. By early evening the sight of gannets signalled the coming of land and soon, over dinner in the ship’s restaurant, the welcome sight of Foula, Shetland’s westerly outpost, rose before us from the windblown spray, great grey cliffs topped with green pastures like a huge tortoise. Foula has a total population of 42 people, 1,500 sheep and 500,000 seabirds - that sounds like heaven! We would soon be in Shetland, just three exciting days behind schedule.
It was dark when we arrived at the campsite, courtesy of our guides Morag and Ernie and it was not until morning that we were able to fully appreciate the neatly paved hard standings complete with water, electricity and waste disposal to hand. The site was beside the Loch of Clickimin in the town’s amazing sports complex, with room for twenty or more vans and a similar number of tents on manicured lawns. We would put this site in our top three for quality on this trip – by far the best value and one of the cheapest.
The port of Lerwick is also Shetland’s capital. Just 7,600 of Shetland’s 22,000 population live in this, Britain’s most northerly town. About half of them speak Italian – or so it seemed on our first visit. The ‘Costa Allegra’ was moored in the harbour and half of Milan was ashore in furs and pointed shoes trying to buy fish and chips. Perhaps they didn’t feed them too well on board!

Lerwick had that grey look we associate with much of Scotland; grey stone Victoriana at its centre, grey slated pebble-dashed shoe-box houses on the outside, the sad mewing of equally grey gulls and the damp feel of misty rain – but for all that we loved it. Even at the end of the summer season, tourism and the friendly spirit of community added warmth to lively, pedestrianised Commercial Street, adequately served with its Boots and Mackays, jewellers, furniture shops, a multitude of banks, fish and chip shops, cafes, souvenir shops - and charity shops, since the coming of the shopping mall and ring-road supermarkets. You can buy most things in Lerwick, but how do all the ladies manage without Marks and Spencers? The Co-op supermarket was manic compared to anything in Scandinavia and we queued for the first time in three months.
Our plan was to spend a week or more on Shetland to ‘feel’ the Islands’ spirit and history before setting sail once more for Orkney. As we headed for the west coast the road rose slowly across open moorland in a watercolour picture of pastel green rolling hills, silver sea lochs, broad brush-strokes of lilac heather in its prime, treeless landscapes dotted with white fluffy sheep-like lawnmowers you could cuddle - and remote churches busy on a wet and windy Sunday morning. Miles and miles of beautifully maintained single-track roads meandered beside freshwater lochs and seals (selkie) bobbed their heads to watch us pass from the sea lochs, or ‘voes’, as they are known here. All that on our first day of driving on the left for three months!
Smiley was in need of a 10,000 mile service which allowed us time to get J’s three months of curls seen to and to wander through the town in storm-force winds on a day unfit for anything else.

Going out in the evenings is not generally on our agenda, but we were tempted by a Shetland evening at the Islesburgh House Community Rooms. Teenagers were playing pool on the ground floor and up the Baronial stairs on the first floor there were local crafts on sale and groups of ‘mature’ ladies quietly spinning and knitting, some fascinating archive film from 1934 showing family life on the Islands and, best of all, an hour or more of foot-tapping, finger-drumming Shetland and Norwegian fiddle music, superbly played by highly talented youngsters from local schools. I get the impression there are lots of people on the fiddle hereabouts! We danced all the way back to the campsite!
The links with Norway are very strong here, going back as far as Viking times of course. We are reminded of Norway at every turn. With a third of the 22,000 population living in Lerwick, the hill and valley villages are thinly scattered across 60 miles of broad grassland and fells with functional cottages and crofts, leaving space: space for the wind, space for the broad skies, space to dream… and space for sheep. Scandinavian links express themselves in names, too: Anderson, Robertson, Williamson, Jamieson, etc.
I am just reading a book recommended by Ernie, called ‘The Shetland Bus’. It recalls the saga of Norwegian fishing boats used during the last war to ply the winter seas between Shetland and Norway, carrying arms and agents into Norway and returning with refugees. Another Shetland story reminds us that the first bomb to fall on British soil in the second world war, landed at Sullom in Shetland. The sole casualty was a rabbit, allegedly giving rise to the wartime song, ‘Run Rabbit, Run’. There are thousands of rabbits on Shetland, many of them rather flat on the roads. Their numbers reflect the inability of raptors to nest on these windswept, treeless shores and there are no other predators. There are no foxes on the islands and few dogs.

Tuesday brought better weather, with sunshine and the prospect of some coastal walking around West Burra and Kettle Ness, a few miles southwest of Lerwick. Shallow green hills rose gently from rocky shores and silver-sand beaches of a blue-green sea, rolling gently towards the clear sky. Dry-stone walls and roofless, deserted, crofts scattered the landscape, rabbits scattered before us on velvet grass and sheep gazed in wonder at this strange couple from a foreign land. Flocks of birds reeled across the wind-blown grasses; curlew, redshank, turnstone, ringed plover and starlings, oystercatchers cried aloud and lapwing sparkled white as they turned in the sun over the shimmering lochs. We walked the sheep tracks to the cliffs where kittiwakes were still nesting, where fulmars soared below us chased by hungry arctic skuas, and cormorants snorkled the water for their lunch. Never before have we seen so many Great skuas; they were everywhere, and wheatear – enough to make a decent loaf for the whole family! That’s our sort of day.
The sandy beach and rocky foreshore at Meal Beach bore evidence of the previous day’s storm. Flotsam and jetsam littered the tide-line; fishing nets and buoys, a doll’s leg, plastic barrels, rubber rings, knee-deep kelp, the sad sight of many dead gulls and sea-worn logs from another land. There are few trees to be seen anywhere on Shetland. A small group is referred to as a ‘plantation’ and these are generally sycamore, some horse chestnut and an occasional elm, now so rare in the south.
There was still one motorhoming trick left in our bag learned from other long-term travellers in Spain. We had been told that restaurants are often pleased to let motorhome customers park on the premises overnight. With a wedding anniversary still to belatedly celebrate, we booked a table for dinner at the Herrislea House Hotel on their ‘Shetland Experience’ evening and confirmed an overnight stop in the car park would be OK. Dinner was to be ‘traditional Shetland fare’, and traditional it was; lamb soup, mutton with tatties and neeps, and rhubarb and custard. “Just like my Granny used to do for Sunday lunch,” J suggested. The décor was traditional too; somewhat reminiscent of many bars in Ireland, lost in a 1960’s time-warp. The music was in similar rustic style, with a few fairly talented locals out for a free beer or two on the house and a good practice, oblivious to an audience waiting with baited breath for the excitement to start! A few elderly ladies sat huddled in a dark corner spinning and knitting until their free dinner arrived, courtesy of the hotel. A truly memorable, if not particularly satisfactory evening!

Tomorrow, we’ll be heading into Northmavine, to the breathtaking rugged cliffs of Eshaness and the land of the ‘Rain Goose’, my favourite bird, the red-throated diver. Tomorrow, the 31st August, is the last day of our first year ‘on the road’. And tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives.

Some of the week’s birds. Gannet, arctic skua, eider, black backed gull, turnstone, oystercatycher, black guillimot, goosander, rock pipit, fulmer, manx and sooty sheerwater, puffin, great skua, knot, sanderling, turnstone, storm petrel, wheatear, cormorant, red throated divers galore, great northern diver, mute swan and little auk.

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News 35. The Vicar and Sweeney Todd

Shetland enjoys weather. Not good or bad weather particularly, but mostly wet or windy, and, more often than not, very wet and very windy. In our brief affair with these Islands we have experienced only the ‘very’ bits so far, curtailing much of our planned walking excursions somewhat. ‘It’s been a bad summer this year,’ they all cry!
The best way to find out about the weather is to listen the BBC forecasts. They don’t usually include these islands of course; the presumption being that the UK ends somewhere just north of Glasgow. It’s no good asking a local either - unless you’re a local of course. Damp or rainy weather is ‘weety’. ‘Dag, grop, raag, shug, skub and smush are different kinds of drizzle. Slashy and speet are heavy showers and vaanloop is a downpour. We still had hopes for better to come. It would be sad to leave this heavenly place with a vision of Shetland as seen through a pane of frosted glass.
Fine weety eventually gave way to a stiff but warm westerly breeze in time for our arrival at Eshaness lighthouse to the northwest of the mainland. The Atlantic waves thundered down the wind, crashing and churning against the spectacular high, black cliffs. The picture of these majestic cliffs will remain with me forever, topped by mile after mile of beautiful fine Cumberland turf swept by the salt air, nibbled by rabbits and chewed by sheep over centuries and white heads of thrift a reminder of summer days past. We were too late for the puffins. Nesting over, they were way out at sea bobbing on the waves somewhere, but a merlin crossed our path on pointed wings and a pair of red-throated divers sheltered on a remote loch, enough to make our day. The sight of these magnificent birds has always been so special to us, perhaps a poignant reminder of loons on the lake in Northern Ontario. The red-throat is known locally as the rain goose, for the folklore interpretation of its call; ‘We’re wet, we’re wet, worse weather!’ Very appropriate.

Shetland is well known for its tiny ponies. Kids love ‘em and Thelwell characterised them so beautifully for us all to recall. They are seen at their best on the moor wandering beside the narrow roads, piebald ones, black ones and chestnut brown ones, their long scruffy manes blowing over their eyes in the wind. Any road, north or south, will eventually lead you to a remote moor, where curlew call, cotton grass dances in the wind on black bog creased like a crusty dumpling and purple heather embraces the scars of a thousand years of peat digging. The leaves of yellow Iris and lichen-covered sycamore were tinged with brown by the ravages of the wind. Across every hillside lie derelict stone buildings, white painted crofts with a chimney at each end, dry-stone walls from as far back as the Picts, … and a thousand inquisitive sheep. Indeed, on Shetland there are 400,000 sheep, that’s 20 per head of population and 6,000 cattle, enough to make the island self-sufficient in milk. There are no hedges on Shetland, the wind has seen to that and any dedicated gardener will have left the island for warmer climes, long, long ago.

Much of the joy of Shetland is in its open space, its narrow, endless horizons and big skies. Muckle Roe, (what a lovely image this conjures up) is one such remote place. It was shrouded in thick sea mist when we arrived for a six mile ‘easy circular walk’ (according to the brochure), over high heather moor to the secluded beach of North Ham. With fine rain wet on our faces, we made our way to the sea. The horizon was lost to a sea mist, but slowly the air cleared, exposing folds of green meadow sweeping gently into the sea like the curved edges of a jigsaw and to the south, high cliffs of red sandstone set on a wide bay. At the top of the cliffs the path disappeared, the hills steepened, the rain started, mountain streams became increasingly boggy and deep rocky gorges criss-crossed our path at every turn. We were thoroughly wet and exhausted by the time Smiley eventually came into view over the brow of another hill, another near vertical drop, another fence to climb, another headland to circumnavigate. There would be a few words with Tourist Info about signing footpaths when next we ventured to Lerwick!
At the southern tip of the mainland lies Sumburgh Head, where another lighthouse stands atop a high rise beyond the shallow peninsula that accommodates the island’s airport. Below the headland stands Sumburgh Hotel. This magnificent Victorian stone building overlooks the Atlantic and Jarlshof. It was undoubtedly particularly nice, until somebody built a very nasty square extension to it in the ‘60’s. Hopefully the local planning officer was fired shortly afterwards, but what is done, is done, and not likely to be undone. Jarlshof is just a minutes’ walk away. It is an archaeological site with an amazing history. Excavations followed a violent storm in the late 19th century which exposed several layers of dwellings on the same site through the ages; Stone, Bronze and Viking, through to the 17th Century, all on the one site. Isn’t it wonderful how scintillating history can be when you can tread the boards?

Like the puffins, the storm petrels had gone too. They were already way out at sea. The petrels nest each year in the crevices of the great Pictish broch on the island of Mousa where it’s possible to watch them during the summer as they return to roost around midnight. We took the ferry out to the island anyway; a hairy boat-ride to say the least on a heavy swell, and walked the shore to see the hundreds of very fat harbour seals that bask there, looking more like inflated balloons about to burst! The sandstone broch stands more than forty feet high and has a circumference of some 158ft. It dates from the iron-age (around 100BC – that’s before I was born) and is in remarkably good condition, with a climbable dark staircase between its inner and outer walls.
Smiley went in for his service early in the week, a little overdue, but in good hands. I’m told that Angus, the garage proprietor, later asked our local celebrity and friend, Ernie, if I was a Minister. Now, that’s either my angelic face or the fact that I was wearing a white polo-necked sweater. I think it’s the former.
The Queen has been here many times and her picture appears in many of the local museums, opening memorial halls and the like. The next time I see her I’ll ask her if she knows Ernie. Everyone else on the island seems to.

Shetland’s remoteness is not only noticeable in its natural elements. The Islands are 700miles from London and were it not for radio, television and the press, you might be in a different country. Here they are remote from suicide bombers, wars and politics, traffic fumes and daily murders. The media revelling in all that’s bad in our society could be reporting on happenings on the other side of the world as far as the islanders are concerned. It is indeed a different world. Being an island, there is little crime of any sort. There was little graffiti or vandalism there. There were no burnt out cars or litter-strewn pavements. Wherever we travelled on Shetland the locals greeted us with a smile and they would happily chat all day like old friends. Time is of such little importance.
Oil came to the islands some years ago and an act of parliament secured revenue from the land and oil that has seen vast investment in roads, community projects, schools and social amenities beyond belief for such a small population. Shetlanders enjoy exceptional social facilities and a great cultural heritage. It’s no wonder that most would have no wish to live anywhere else. The people of Shetland have shown themselves to be friendly and humorous, and generous to a fault. We have been fortunate to meet many and to have time to enjoy their fine hospitality and warm company.
There is a special pride in Shetland. Their own flag, a white cross on blue background, gained official recognition this year and it is now a common sight across the islands. I discussed pride and the flag with a local dignitary, having admired the Shetland flag pin in his lapel. In true Shetland fashion, he removed the pin and presented it to me. It wasn’t quite like being knighted, but it was much appreciated. I think that makes me an honorary Shetlander, doesn’t it?

Most maps of the UK show Shetland and Orkney misplaced, tucked in a little box in the top right-hand corner, as if in after-thought. For Shetland, the links with Norse ancestors are more in evidence than those with Scotland. There are no tartans here and no kilts. Presumably the Clans bear little importance. Fairisle knitwear, however, features high on the list of visitor attractions. Fairisle sweaters were apparently helped to fame when the then Prince of Wales wore one at St Andrews. Perhaps it was his smart jumper that first attracted Mrs Simpson’s attention.
Other quaint Norse traditions are apparent here, one of which has not gone unnoticed – a motorhomer’s delight. Every village here has its public loo, clearly signposted and brick built – as the expression goes. A special map has even been produced showing all the public toilets on the islands. They are all well maintained, with stainless steel fittings, soap and paper towels a la Norway. We do have all our own facilities, of course, but there are some things better left in other people’s back yards.
Like Smiley’s service, a visit to a gent’s barber was also long overdue and Sweeney Todd’s seemed the ideal place for a quick haircut before leaving for Orkney.
“What will it be, Sir?
“Short back and sides, please.”
What I actually got, was a Van Gogh. By the time I departed, my hair was neatly trimmed – and my left ear was bleeding profusely from a misplaced snip! Janice has sown it back on and hopefully it will be OK. (I daren’t look in our corner mirrors. I might have two left ears!)

We have been ‘on the road’ now for 12 months, travelling 27,000 miles through 14 different countries. Shetland will be remembered for its warm and welcoming people, its strong sense of independence and community, its variable climate (to be kind), its magnificent birds and walks, the wild wide landscapes, the enigmatic fiddle music, the dialect – some of which we understood and, most of all, for light and water an artist would die for.
Thank you Shetland. We can’t promise to come back in this lifetime, but at least now, we can dream.

Our ferry departed Lerwick for the six-hour journey to Orkney on Monday evening in calm seas. Dinner, ‘a la carte’ helped to pass the time until our arrival in darkness in Kirkwall. We had been told by Shetlanders that Orkney is wonderful in daylight and our expectations were high. But more on that next week.
A few of the birds: Twite, snipe, skylark, Shetland wren, merlin, hundreds of bonxies (great skuas) and shags.
Flowers: Touch-me-not Balsam, ragged robin, tormentil amongst the heather, devilsbit scabious.

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News 36 7th – 13th September Orkney – Isles of History

The morning sun shone in greeting as we approached the grey exterior of Kirkwall, Orkney’s capital. But once inside the town we were stunned by an unexpected air of affluence. The red sandstone Cathedral of St Magnus stands proudly above Broad Street, bright with hanging baskets on smart Victorian buildings and elegant modern shops. Shrubs, trees and flowers adorn the town’s gardens and mature sycamores surround the ruins of the Earl’s Palace behind the Cathedral. The shops portray immediate evidence of Orkney’s successful craft tradition; it is famed for its jewellery, knitwear, glass, art and textiles.
At first sight, the mainland of Orkney is a green continuation of the shining sea, with broad fertile pastures, cows and sheep and fields of barley rising and falling like the swell of a rising tide. Rarely is there a landscape more than a line on the horizon, the highest peak being Ward Hill on Hoy, weighing in at a mere 1,577ft. Here and there, it is possible to find true wilderness, the remote heather moor on shallow hillsides where short-eared owl and hen harrier roam.
Orcadians are said to be crofters with boats and it is not difficult to see why. Orkney is a fertile land with agriculture at its roots, supported by oil, fishing, tourism and crafts. Many farms breed and rear beef cattle and keep dairy cows and sheep. The hills and valleys are rich in fields of barley (“bere”) awaiting harvest, combine harvesters, big John Deere tractors, green meadows and hay still for turning. Beside the roads the last traces of ragwort, meadowsweet and ferns, and rosebay willow herb in the ditches, last seen in Norway. There are just a few trees elsewhere on the mainland, mostly leaning down the whistle of the wind, offering scant protection for farm dwellings scattered like corn across every shallow skyline. But, like Shetland, there are no hedges to be seen; just dry-stone walls - and post and wire fencing, shipped in of course, like everything else.
Shetlanders, on the other hand, have always been known as fishermen with crofts. Shetland, fifty miles further to the north, still wears a rich Viking heritage with its fishing, music, its unique dialect and its strong communities born of deep inlets and many fishing villages around its coast. They enjoy high standards of social and cultural facilities, but have yet to fully exploit the potential of their excellent craft industry, in desperate need of new design and commercial flair. The poor soil and windswept lands of Shetland support little more than sheep, but Orkney cannot match the awesome bleak moors and wild landscapes that make it so rich to the eye, and strong and determined in spirit.

Stromness, Orkney’s second town, was grey and sombre, quaintly Victorian, with flagstone streets not at all suitable for the likes of Smiley, as we would discover! The town has a history of merchant shipping in the 17th and 18th Centuries, whaling late 18th and herring (silver darlings), in their hey-day before the first world-war. Somehow it has become lost in the middle of the last century, though strangely it has a certain fascination. On our first walk through the town from the harbour we were convinced they were having a competition for the best 1960’s shop window and wouldn’t have been surprised to see men in flat hats and fisherwomen in headscarves.
The campsite at Stromness proved irresistible and we stopped there for four nights, travelling around the west of the mainland and taking the ferry out to Hoy from the jetty. Our front window faced directly to the shore, a picture frame for a pearl-grey sky on a silver sea as the dark outline of fishing and diving boats headed out to Scapa Flow in the morning light. From there we could watch the skuas chasing fulmars and gulls and shag, terns and gannets diving for their breakfast.

Orkney is just six miles off the Scottish coast. It is made up of the mainland and seventy or so other islands, many of which are uninhabited. The total population is a little over 19,000. 450 of them live on the island of Hoy.

‘Hands up those who have heard of ‘The Old Man of Hoy.’
‘Hands up those who could tell me it’s in Orkney.’

Well, that’s where it is, on the island of Hoy and it’s well worth the walk if you haven’t already been there. Basalt at its base, this imposing ‘skyscraper’ stack rises from the thundering sea to a peak of old red sandstone 137m high. First climbed in 1966, the Old Man featured on television when Chris Bonnington and his team climbed it in front of millions of viewers. To the north are Britain’s highest cliffs at St John’s Head; 351m of perpendicular red sandstone, pounded by the Atlantic and beautiful indeed in the early autumn sunshine.
Hoy at its most northerly appears as an island of two halves. In the west, the rugged cliffs rise high above the surging Atlantic to rolling grassy plains. In the east, the hills climb gently from the sea across shallow pastures before ascending abruptly to Cullags and Ward Hill, with the appearance of a pair of hump-backed whales. We crossed the Island from the Linksness ferry on the east coast by rickety bus to the remote village of Rackwick and walked the last couple of miles out to the ‘Old Man’. Our journey back on foot took us over the pass between the hills in glorious sunshine along seven miles of spongy peat footpaths knee deep in purple heather. There were more than 30 great skuas on the Loch at the top of the pass and more soaring in the air above the hills, making the most of the blue skies and fluffy cumulus clouds. Great skuas were a common sight on Orkney. A flock of a hundred or more crossed the bay in front of us as we had breakfast one morning. I don’t need to say how much we enjoyed Hoy.

Orkney was great for walking, with some well-marked trails. It turned out to be a Janice and David walking paradise. As you know, we’re very keen downhill and flatland walkers and there are plenty of those on the islands. The walk on Hoy was pretty spectacular, but we also managed a few others between sightseeing trips.
Yesnaby on the north-west coast provided a magnificent cliff-top walk around jagged inlets and windswept headlands. This one would be worth a return visit in the spring when thrift and scabious and the rare Scottish primrose, Primula Scotica, could also be seen in flower. There was a monument to Lord Kitchener (‘Your Country Wants You!’ – his mother never taught him not to point at people) along the coast nearby; a huge granite column, erected just inland from where he died when his ship hit a mine in 1916 as he headed for Russia.
Mull Head, as far east as you can go on the Orkney mainland, was also good, though particularly tough walking into the stiff northerly wind on our chosen day! This was another cliff walk amongst the ling, bell heather, cotton grass and crowberry, out to the Covenanters Memorial, where, in 1679, 200 Presbyterian prisoners from the Battle of Bothwell Brig drowned. They were being shipped to America as slaves when the ship foundered. The crew survived, but the prisoners were unable to break free from below decks.

Whilst out walking one day, we met an elderly Orcadian gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard who had returned to see his homeland with his friend Rodney after an absence of thirty years.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I said, looking southwards into the sun across the shimmering sea to the coast of Scotland six miles away. He shaded his eyes with his hand following my gaze and smiled.
“We say that if you can see the mainland, the weather is going to turn bad.”

Our evidence would also suggest that if you can’t see it, it already is.

For the tourist, much of Orkney’s richness is the wealth and accessibility of its history. It was time for us to become tourists and enjoy some of Scottish Heritage’s better sites.
Of particular note was Skara Brae, a well-preserved Neolithic Village dating back to 3,000 BC, its stone houses huddled together along narrow passages. That’s older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids!
On the same site was Skaill House, built for Bishop George Graham in 1620 and lived in until very recently. We found Skaill House and its contents fascinating; even Captain Cook’s dinner service in the china cabinet! Somehow, I can relate to the romantic image of things of that period.
Maes Howe, a little way down the road was an amazing burial mound, also dating back to Neolithic times. It was covered with windblown sand and remains in wonderful condition. We reached the tomb by bending low through a very dark narrow passage into a 15ft square chamber containing relics from 3,000 BC through to the Vikings. We particularly enjoyed that one; and the humour of our local guide who held the torch!
One of Orkney’s most famous sights is the ring of Brodgar. Thought to be of a similar period, the ring is a large circle of 30 standing stones, some up to 5m high.
I really had no idea that there was so much wonderful history on Orkney and Shetland.
The list of historic sites is almost endless. J’s favourite was the Broch of Gurness, surrounded by a Pictish (BronzeAge) village. Perhaps the lucky “groatie buckie” which she found on the adjacent curving sandy beach added to the magic of this site. If you’re into diving, you can get to see the rusty hulls of the German war fleet scuttled there after their internment in 1919. If you’re not, you might prefer the lovely Italian Chapel, built by Italian POW’s during the last world war from two Nissen huts, whilst building the ‘Churchill Barrier’ defences into Scapa Flow.
Fascinating stuff history, isn’t it? If that’s your passion, then get yourself on the ferry. You’ll enjoy the walks, the endless pencil-thin landscapes, the friendly people and the flora and fauna as we have.
We left Orkney on the spur of the moment. There was a ferry going to Gills Bay, a couple of miles from John O’Groats, at 5pm and it just seemed to fit the moment. By 6.15 we were back on the Scottish mainland on the next stage of our journey.

I am left with the feeling that I have seen Orkney, yet not fully discovered it, not felt its pulse nor uncovered its secrets. There is more, though I doubt I shall return to find it. J is shell shocked to be back on mainland Britain, following the swallows towards home and a little sad to think that this chapter is coming to a close after 100 days across the oceans. But there is more to come. Perhaps a little of the Highlands, the Isle of Skye, a few days in the Lake District, who knows? We’ll let you know when we’ve made up our minds!

The ear is healing OK, by the way, (I knew you’d ask). We expect to be able to take the stitches out in a day or two.

Some of the birds: Merlin, gadwall, pintail, little grebe, wigeon, golden eye,
New plants: Red hempnettle, meadow vetchling

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News 37. A Royal Welcome to The Highlands

There is a strange fascination with mountain-tops, places of legend and mystery and various ends of the earth that us Britons find difficult to resist. One such extremity is John O’Groats.
Having arrived back on the Scottish mainland rather late in the evening, we chose to stop at the nearest and most convenient campsite, a mile or two from the ferry, and probably the worst campsite experienced since we left home on the 1st June. Welcome home to the British mainland!
Contrary to popular belief – and mine too, J O’G is not the most northerly point on the mainland. That claim goes to Dunnnet Head, a pleasant walk over windy heather and bog from the car park few miles to the west. John O’Groats’ honour comes from being at the top end of the longest distance between two points on the British mainland, measured from Lands End, around 850miles. Those of you who have taken the exhaustive trouble to get there will recognise it if I describe it as an eclectic gathering of souvenir and craft shops dumped higgledy-piggledy on an acre of land beside a car park for a hundred cars and twenty coaches, and an uninspiring harbour with a hotel in need of a lot of TLC. That’s it, in a sentence. To be fair, the walks either side of John O’Groats, at Dunnet Head and the dramatic cliffs off Duncansby Head, made the trip worthwhile.
We had been within half an hour’s drive when visiting Scotland on two previous occasions and managed to resist the temptation both times. Now I know why. Half a mile away there is an equally uninviting village, but it does sport a friendly post office stores where we managed to change our UK gas bottle and get some cash. Any offers for a surplus Norwegian gas bottle?

Shortly after King George V1 died, the Queen Mother bought a small castle nearby as a retreat from the public gaze. She visited The Castle of Mey every year since its purchase and renovation in 1952. The property is now in Trust for the benefit of the people in the area and it is open to the public throughout the summer months. It would be difficult to compare the ‘Castle Mey’ experience with almost any other stately home visit. We were met at the door by a member of the Queen Mother’s staff who had lived there since she moved in. Her father had managed the farm on the estate, with its prize Aberdeen Angus herd and Cheviot sheep.
“Do come in,” she said, as though we were invited guests. “And where are you from?” She then told us all about ‘Her Majesty’s’ corgis, her visits to the house and about her last visit in 2001, shortly before she died. Goodness knows how she managed the steep spiral staircase to her bedroom at 100 plus!
This was indeed home for The Queen Mother. The furniture came either from some of her other properties, local antique dealers or the sale- rooms and much of it had an air of the 1950’s: loose-covered squashy armchairs just like mother had, a rusty fridge with a broken handle, a stereo player and an ancient TV. As we passed from room to room we were greeted by yet another ‘guide’ with a personal association with the castle, willing and enthusiastic to share their recollections and Her Majesty’s personal secrets; most respectfully of course. The house was full of so many personal items: presents from friends, family and the staff, packs of cards, fluffy pigs, Boggle and Cluedo for after tea, a new carpet from The Queen for her 90th Birthday, paintings by local artists, some watercolours by Charles and even an oil by Prince Phillip. All in all it was a lovely experience, an opportunity to meet the real person. She could just have been there, in front of the fire, doing her knitting and chatting to the dogs.
OK, we’re both Royalists – at least I shall be until Lizzie2 retires. Charles is President of the Castle Hey Trust and he now comes here with Camilla for a week or so each summer to support the local Highland Games and the village art show, which I guess was grandmother’s wish. We weren’t invited to stay for dinner.

With two previous visits to the area over the years it was somewhat difficult to find new routes to take us south. We struck lucky yet again as we headed inland from the east beside the River Shin, just above Dornoch Firth, through beautiful valleys, lush with ferns, bracken and gorse, broad bands of trees; birch, pine, larch and willow, rowan aflame with Regal-red berries and hillsides clothed in purple heather. It was many weeks since we last saw trees and suddenly we realised how much we had missed them. Lairg, en route, was an obvious place for a coffee stop along the road and enquiries brought us to The Bookshop, a purveyor of Christian books with pretty tables laid for tea in the back parlour. I know it’s a long drive, but if you want value for money you should give it a try. Two coffees and two delicious home-made cakes for £2.40 was the cheapest fare we had experienced for many months and the seat by the fire was most welcome.
It was the second Tuesday of the month and the day of the monthly Parish meeting in the Church Hall. The committee turned up for their lunchtime soup and rolls whilst we were there. The Minister was there too, so I asked him about falling audiences, thinking Scottish churches at least would be holding their own against Coronation Street, mobile phones and computer games. “It’s certainly an uphill struggle,” he told me with a knowing smile. In my day, the Church ran the Youth Club, the local football team and most of the social events in the Church Hall, but I suppose that’s all gone now. I guess it will take another catastrophe, another stock market crash, another world war or another 9/11 to bring us all back to the fold.

Europe’s biggest sheep fair is held in Lairg every August. We chanced to miss that of course, but we did find the ‘Annual Lairg Art Exhibition’ in the Community Hall. There were many lovely paintings and photographs on display by local artists with a wealth of talent. Our favourite painting was already sold, which is just as well; we have nowhere to hang it anyway.
There we met a young lady with her husband and young son who had moved into a local croft with 20 acres just two weeks before. Cindy was an artist and art teacher, and her husband planned to keep a few cattle and get work where he could. They were there sussing out the local talent and looking for opportunities. May all their dreams come true.
The following day we visited a craft show at the Community Hall in Ullapool where I admired some wonderful bird pictures in acrylic ink, painted by an artist approaching retirement who had recently taken up residence on the east coast. “My wife writes a bit, and I paint,” he told me. “It’s been our living for the past 30 years.” They sold their Shropshire house last year and bought a cottage outside of Brora on the east coast where they have friends, putting ‘a pile in the bank’ for their old age.
Clearly, with low house prices and despite the inclement weather and spiteful midges, it will not be long before the area becomes the centre of the art world.
No report on Scotland would be complete without at least a brief mention of the weather. We could certainly be accused of bringing weather with us from Faroe, Shetland and Orkney, for the rain persisted for several days, following us to Ullapool where the winds reached gale force throughout Tuesday night and Wednesday and flood water closed local roads. The atrocious weather also robbed us of the much longed for fish and chip supper planned. It was just too wet and windy to venture out. We battened the hatches and spent the evening looking through some of our photographs on the laptop: Tuscany, Sicily, Pompei, Sorento, Umbria, ….. they all seemed so long ago. How lucky we have been to find this window in life to enjoy such experiences.

There can be few sights more enigmatic than a stand of Scots pine on the rocky foreshore of a shimmering lake. Indeed, every Saleroom has a copy of a Victorian oil painting, set in a grand gilded frame, depicting a lonely cowherd tending long-horned highland cattle beneath stately dark pines on the shore of a Scottish loch, with heather clad hillsides climbing to sun-drenched mountaintops. It’s still like that in some very special places, though the colours may have faded a wee bit.
It certainly came close on our chosen road from Ullapool down the west coast through Kinlochewe, following close to the sea across the high fells and mercury lochs that are the Highlands at their best. The route was a blanket of vast green and brown moors rising to rocky peaks, with pines and ancient oaks, bracken tinged with autumn brown, golden deer grass leaning in the wind, narrow lanes walled with rhododendrons, and migrating flocks of geese, blown across marshy meadows as green as the day they were first painted. The area was thinly scattered with white-stone crofts and over-subscribed with B & B’s and family hotels on windswept lochs, many for sale, as another poor summer passes and yet more dreams of happiness come to an unhappy end. There can be few places of more outstanding beauty than this. If you have not yet travelled to these parts, be sure to put it on your list.
From the west coast we ventured in the footsteps of Betty Burke across the seas to Skye. These days you don’t have to speed by bonny boat to Skye since they built a bridge some years back. The Toll for the bridge, contentious from its early beginnings, was finally laid to rest on December 23rd last year after Islanders discovered that the cost of the bridge had been more than recouped in tolls and a legal loophole made further contributions unnecessary. Betty, for those like me who had forgotten, was none other than ‘Bonny Prince Charlie’ (Charles Edward Stuart, the Jacobite), in drag, who escaped from the Hanoverian army under the guise of Flora MacDonald’s Irish maidservant in 1746.

Little is made of The Bonnie Prince association on Skye, though there is a memorial to Flora in the churchyard at the north of the island. Clans have played their part in Skye’s history and there is a fine castle at Dunvegan, the home of the MacLeod family for over 800 years. The MacDonalds also had a castle further south at Armadale, where we saw the wonderful gardens, the ‘Clan Donald Trust Museum’ and what’s left of a more recent castle on the site. Thousands of Mac’ visitors from all over the world come to Skye each year to get a handle on their ancestors. It’s still possible to encounter the occasional gentleman wearing his plus-fours, Harris jacket, tartan tie and Tam-O’Shanter in the supermarket, though kilts seem to have died a death except for traditional festivals. I’m not surprised. The winds here are enough to make even the toughest Jock’s eyes water.
Gaelic is still spoken in many of the villages. It is actively encouraged and the road signs are all in both languages. The gentleman at our campsite told me that until the age of five he had never spoken a word of English. He was born on the island of Benbecula, between North and South Uist in the Outer Hebrides and when he started school every lesson was in English only. His first recollection of school was learning to say, “Please, Miss, may I leave the room?” before it was too late!
Unlike Shetland and Orkney, little is made of any Pictish or Viking presence-or anything in between. There are a few remnants of brochs, but they are overgrown and generally uncared for. More recent events are remembered though, particularly the ‘clearances’ of the 18th and 19th Centuries which did so much to change the landscape and culture of Skye. Thousands left their crofts for Canada, Nova Scotia, North Carolina and New York as crofters were squeezed dry, crops failed and sheep took over their land. Ruins of abandoned crofts litter the countryside, some of which were still in use up to the 1950’s. The population today is less than 9,000, which, on an island some 50miles long, still leaves many living in remote corners across the landscape. It would be difficult to put a finger on the present economic substance of Skye, other than its obvious dependence on sheep and tourism.
Portree is one of just two ‘villages’ on the Hebredian Island of Skye. The approach from across the water was reminiscent of lovely Tobermory on Mull further south; rows of white cottages reflecting on the loch like a string of pearls in the thin afternoon sunlight. We liked Portree and returned on another rainy day later in the week for a bit of shopping and morning coffee. The other village is Broadford, hardly worth a mention – so I won’t.
There are also two ranges of mountains. The Trotternish divide the peninsular in the north, where we enjoyed a great walk between the showers to a disused diatomite mine at the foot of the moss-green mountain. Diatomite, as you will all know, is a silica rich clay used in face powders and …. fire-proofing? You’ve heard the expression, ‘Blow you Jack. I’m fireproof!’ That’s where it comes from.
The other, and more stunning mountains, are in the south. The Cuillin Hills dominate the skyline on Skye, rising like a row of camels from green meadows and heather moorland to peaks over 3,000ft, hidden from view under leaden clouds. Here it was serious mountain walking with 20 or more Munros, knife-edge ridges, jagged pinnacles and scree-filled gullies. Sadly the winds rose to gale force throughout the day and overnight, putting paid to our plans for a stroll around the easy bits! Janice likened the Cuillins to slag heaps and certainly that could be a justifiable first impression, but, in reality, their greyness was a reflection of the ever-threatening skies that plagued us throughout our stay. Our campsite looked out over the dark hills across the river and campers huddled together in their tents, held down with rocks around the edges and soaked by the thrashing rain and racked by the wind. We’re thinking of trying to contact Noah to see if he could do a conversion job on Smiley. The Island’s name is derived from the Norse word for cloud, skuy, which explains a lot.
Off the main ring around the island, the roads are virtually all single-track with passing places…. and sheep. One of the wonders of Smiley driving, is the Canute syndrome. Oncoming vehicles see this massive white wardrobe heading towards them and stop in the first passing place they see, to let us by. It’s like parting the sea!
Continuous rain and high winds finally drove us off Skye earlier than previously planned, with deep regret that the weather had robbed us of its true magic, the walks across heather moors, the glory of the mountains and the views over sunlit seas to the outer islands. Perhaps we shall return.

We leave you this week as we journey south, through the Glens towards England – and St George!
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News 38. 20th – 30th September 05 Heading Home - Over the sea from Skye

One day, perhaps, we will get to visit the Outer Hebrides, nowadays known as the Western Isles, stretching from Lewis and Harris in the north to the Uists and Barra in the south. Whilst this was never included in our ‘big picture’ it would have made sense to cross that tiny stretch of water from Skye, but rough seas and the ‘inclement’ weather put the thought out of our minds on this trip. I have to admit to having a vested interest in Lewis in particular, as the owner of an Isle of Lewis chess set – sorry, two Isle of Lewis chess sets, if you include the new one purchased on Orkney!

Our departure from Skye followed a stormy night, leaving light rain to mark our road over the bridge. The Isle of Skye surely laughed behind our backs as sunshine welcomed our return to the mainland. It stayed dry just long enough for us to visit the intriguing castle of Eilean Donan, built in 1290 (before my time) to defend the area from the Vikings, later destroyed by King George when he sorted out the Spanish supporters of James Stuart in 1719, and then rebuilt as a home in the early 1900’s. That’s British history for you. Unlike beautiful Lindisfarne in the Farne Islands which has a warm homely feeling, this one is pretty and romantic on the outside, but cold and grey on the inside.
Dark clouds gathered overhead once again as we ventured south, following the weather forecast and trying, with little success, to outrun the rain, on through beautiful Glen Shiel, brushed by the Gulf Stream and lush with ferns and rhododendrons, stands of beech, larch and pine. Great folds of hazy grey mountains soared above Glen Garry as we climbed the pass to the summit for breathtaking views across the loch below. The sense of space and wilderness was stunning, even on such a wet and overcast day. It’s strange, isn’t it, that many such beautiful and remote places are plagued by something or other? If it’s not too wet, it’s too cold, too hot, too windy, too dry, or plagued with midges, mosquitoes, thugs or bandits. On the plus side, we haven’t been troubled with midges at all this year. That’s a first for Scotland! Our last encounter with mosquitoes was in Finland, more than three months ago.
The tourist busses stop a bit further down the road at Spean Bridge Mill, to disgorge their passengers for a comfort stop and a ten-minute shopping spree. J had read about its famous whisky shop with row upon row of whiskies from every corner of Scotland and she was soon smiling happily, probably, nay, undoubtedly, as a result of the many free samples available. She settled for a bottle of her favourite malt, Bunnahabhain, first tasted on Islay many years ago on another of our famous very wet walks, with friends Penny and Roger. After a few samples the rain becomes less important as the Spirit of Scotland takes over.
Ben Nevis was shrouded in cloud as we arrived in Fort William and, after some discussion (about three seconds), we decided not to climb to the summit, but took the road out to Glen Nevis instead. There we hiked the six miles through the spectacular tree lined Nevis Gorge, following the rushing stream to the high falls. Left behind were the ribbons of green-brown landscapes, the purple heather and winding streams of Skye and the northern Highlands. Here, awesome mountains dominated the view from the valley floor, green with grasses, salix and bracken, bright in the secretive sun and dotted with birch, a million golden dots sparkling in the dappled sunlight as it escaped through sparse breaks in the cloud.
We camped overnight near lovely Inveraray, a gathering of white cottages and village shops on the tree-lined shores of Loch Fyne, bronze kelp swelling to-and-fro in tune with the lapping tide. Inveraray Castle, with its towering stone walls and fairytale corner turrets, has been the seat of the Dukes of Argyl and the Clan Campbell - since the 15th Century.
Misty morning rain - and more forecast, finally forced our hand that morning and reluctantly we set forth on the long journey south, past Loch Lomond to Glasgow, for the 225 mile drive to The Lake District in the hope of finding at least a little sunshine. We were somewhat unprepared for the volume of traffic through Glasgow - our last sight of a motorway was in Oslo, in June, more than three months before!

It can hardly be necessary for me to talk about the Lakes, you will all have been there at some time and fallen in love. The English Lakes have inspired the likes of Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge and Beatrix Potter for good reason.
For this is the land of rolling hills, lost in the mist of a summer morning, bright in the warmth of a mid-day sun, sombre under the dark clouds of a late summer afternoon, hidden by the curtain of a rainy autumn evening or stark on the horizon against the chill yellow of a harvest moon.
This is the land of glorious trees, the great oaks, the mighty sycamores, the stately beech and the hardy ash; every one a picture in its own right, a study in light and shade, proudly presented on a green baize, dotted with sheep.
This is the land of sparkling water, high in the hills and deep in the valleys, the land of rippling streams, tumbling becks and thundering falls. This is the land of rich green pastures, grey dry-stone walls, white cottages on tiny lanes, booted walkers on high ridges and lakeside tracks, bed and breakfast signs by the roadside and friendly ale houses serving tasty food.
And this is the land of dreams; dreams inspired through the ages by names such as Borrowdale, Friars Crag and Langdale Pike, Scafell, Dungeon Ghyll, Buttermere and Sourmilk Gill, Skiddaw, Troutbeck and Hawkshead.

We were fortunate to be able to share a few days around Keswick with our friends Brian and Kathryn, holidaying in The Lakes in their motorhome. They are experienced hill walkers and whilst they took to the high ground we ambled the shores and valleys, more to our liking and ability. By sheer coincidence they were celebrating their wedding anniversary on the same day as our 300th day on the road since we left for France in September 2004 and we celebrated together in some style at the Borrowdale Gate Hotel. (We were careful to avoid the subject of cricket. Australians seem to get a bit touchy about such things for some reason!)
Keswick was still the honey pot I remembered from previous visits, with its tourist crowded streets, tempting outdoor-wear shops and discrete tourist offerings. The diggers were at work finishing off new paving along the length of the main street, making it fully pedestrianised at last, but the town is still far from motorhome friendly with tight car parks and traffic coming and going in all directions. It struck me there that we were on our way home at last; back to regimented society, crowded streets, queues, double yellow lines, car park charges - and an elderly couple (not us) horrified at getting a parking ticket for unwittingly being ten minutes late. Another holiday spoiled.
In two or three weeks The Lake District will shed its cloak of green and dress for autumn in a fine outfit of gold and bronze. The serious walkers will still be here enjoying the spectacle, whatever the weather, in what is undoubtedly the most accessible walking country to be found anywhere in the UK. Walking is the mainstay of Lakeland tourism, supporting local farming, B&B and arts and crafts now that mining is all but gone from the area. Mines once produced coal, iron and lead, and later, valuable graphite or ‘black lead’, a great temptation to local thieves - from whence the term ‘Black Market’ originated.

This chapter on Scandinavia and the Viking Islands fills just a tiny part of our merry jigsaw, that magnet for the fulfilment of knowledge, experience and wonder which tempts every traveller to peer around the next corner or to cross the brow of the next hill. Norway tempted us back for more – and it rewarded our resolve with sufficient spectacles and experiences for us to sleep and dream forever. It lured us willingly into Finland and Sweden, for wonderful walks, new friends and the sights, smells and sounds of some of Europe’s most scenic National Parks. And it brought us to remote islands where Vikings once ruled, where communities still thrive and peace still reigns.
All too soon we would be back at home in Thetford. Strangely, I have to admit that I was not looking forward to being home. There is something of the ‘inevitable’ and routine about conventional living that no longer relates to our lives of daily exploration, and every new day offering the fascinating or unexpected.
Smiley performed outstandingly on this trip, plodding away over mountain passes, down narrow lanes and bumpy tracks, through torrential rain and dust clouds and many, many, thousands of miles. Smiley has been our home and we’ll doubtless find it difficult to settle to life in a house once more after thirteen months of travel.

There is much planning to do before we take off again for places much further afield, probably early in the New Year, and we’ll have to think about Smiley’s future. Sadly, Smiley can’t go where we’re going and it doesn’t make sense to abandon a motorhome for 12 months or more. We’ll probably want to buy another on the other side of the pond, for the next chapter of ‘The ramblings of a Grey Haired Nomad.’

NOTE
Sadly this blog has become somewhat unstable, possibly it's overloaded with pictures, so you will have missed a few of the wonders of Scandinavia and the Islands to the north of Scotland. Never mind; the next chapter will begin in late January 2006 from Arizona, the start of a year in North America. Someone has to do it!

Get the up to date news on:http:/www.travelblog.org/bloggers/grey-haired-nomads/