Paris in the Wet

by Rachel Kruft Welton

In a fit of madness, we booked a trip to Paris. Whilst the destination in itself is not so unusual, we felt it to be a challenge as we were taking our 15 month old twins on the Eurostar. My husband Nick and I booked it, then looked at each other and said ‘Aargh! What have we done?’ In fact, the travelling itself was not a problem. 

The Eurostar was notable only for the impressively overpriced food they served. I queued 20 minutes for the tiniest box of wafer-thin ‘fries’ you can imagine. It worked out that each ‘fry’ cost 1 Franc (about 10p) and a box wouldn’t satisfy one, let alone two hungry toddlers!

My French friend Steffie collected us from the station and gave us the first of several unguided tours of every side street in the vicinity of the hotel. Often, we would see the hotel at the wrong end of a one-way street, only to pass it again some minutes later from a different direction, this time viewed down a pedestrian only access. We did get there eventually and the Hotel Campanile near the Bastille was friendly and quiet. They provided two cots at no extra cost and the room was en suite - an essential with mobile and inquisitive young children. Breakfast consisted of an extensive buffet, with two handy high chairs available.

We buggied for miles. The first stop was a delightful square called the Place des Vosges where the kids had a go on the slide and I enjoyed the fountains and fantastic architecture that is the trademark of Paris. I love the white stone buildings and the beautiful mix of balconies and shutters.

Next stop was the Notre Dame, which we passed without entering. The square was busy and the steps (with a double buggy) were daunting. Les jumeaux were the centre of attention wherever we went. They even had their photo taken by a Japanese tourist! Shortly after this, the twins fell asleep, so we raced off to the Louvre whilst things were quiet!

The Louvre is a large museum housing a wide collection of art of all types. Of course we had to see the famous Mona Lisa, but we didn’t stop. I was much more taken with the statues, and particularly smitten by the statue of the Three Graces, which has long been a favourite. The children (once again awake) also enjoyed the statues. My daughter liked a life-size one of a whippet, and my son liked squeezing into the small space between a plinth and the wall. They had a great time.

The onset of heavy rain meant that our walk up the Champs Elysees was more like a trudge up the Damp Elysees. Whilst Paris may be romantic in the spring, a sou’wester is recommended. We ended up at L’Arc de Triomphe, which is always impressive, though hardly accessible under the circumstances. The Tour Eiffel beckoned wetly in the distance with its head in the clouds, but we were all tired and decided to attempt the return to the Bastille by Metro.

The Parisian Metro, unlike the London Underground, has no barriers for letting large items like bicycles or buggies through. This means, in effect, that you have to give your active toddler to a complete stranger whilst you try to lift your folded buggy over the barrier. Believe me, it is neither easy nor fun and I suppose the locals just don’t use it when they have anything larger than a handbag to carry.

We decided on a small pizzeria for dinner. My son slept through the entire proceedings whilst my daughter flirted with the waiters and charmed them all. One thing that can be said for the French is that they love children. Taking toddlers into a restaurant in England usually leads to disapproving looks as the kids explore and experiment. Here they were the stars.

The following day we took a taxi to the Sacre Coeur, which was of course spectacular for both its white stone frescoes and also for the view over Paris. We did go inside to the cool quiet interior, with the majestic vaulted ceiling, and I was glad we had made the effort. Outside the church is an artist’s market where painters offer their creations for sale and sketchers try to persuade you to have your picture drawn. Only a handful of the pictures stood out and these were retailing from 650F, which, though reasonable, was outside our budget.

We took a long and enjoyable walk back to the Bastille, past the ornate buildings of the Gare de l’Est and the Gare du Nord, and around the Place de la Republique. Nick said they rebuilt the roads so wide after the Revolution because they wanted to make them too large to erect barricades. In a city designed before the car, where no-one has a garage, this has allowed Paris to remain relatively unspoilt by the exponential rise in car ownership. There is plenty of room for parking bays on both sides of the street. Parking and driving are still manic, though, and we did see one smash whilst we were there.

Outside our hotel, there was a Sunday morning street market which seemed to sell everything from fruit to clothes to saucepans. We took a wander down it and then on to the Bastille, where the Parisian marathon was underway. It was an inspiring sight, not just because people twice my age could run for four hours when I can’t run for the bus, but also for the devastation left behind in the wake of the marathon’s passing. The floor was littered with empty water bottles, gnawed oranges and half banana skins.

We were first class on the way back, which is to be recommended as there is much more room and free food. The waiter rashly gave my daughter plenty of chocolate cake and she ended up dancing on the tables. I think the over excitement took its toll on the kids and the train journey back home from London is in my top five worst ever. Still, we survived and I would do it again. We are better prepared for what we will need to organize when we go off to Canada later in the year.


First published in VISA issue 41(summer 2001)

Egyptian Interlude

by Neil Harris

A two week 'package tour' to Luxor, fourteen days of glorious African sun, seemed like a great way to avoid winter for a while. Situated 650km south of Cairo, on the east bank of the Nile, Luxor has a surfeit of ancient tombs and temples. A short hop across the Nile to the west bank takes one within a short taxi or cycle ride of the Valley of the Kings and numerous other antiquities.

While the tomb of Tutankhamun is a disappointment, almost empty, the treasures in the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities in Cairo, the tomb Amunherkhepshep, a son of Ramses II who died at the tender age of nine, is decorated with pictorial splendour, the freshness of the artwork belying its age of over 3000 years. My choice, as a keen photographer, is the above ground temples and tombs built on the grand scale. The great Temple of Karnak, constructed over many centuries by various walls, is covered with carvings - hieroglyphs, cartouches and various types of relief depicting the life and times of the honoured Pharaoh. In the low winter sun these are highlighted and cry out to be photographed.

In Luxor and its immediate surrounds, there are enough monuments to fill a week of viewing, although 'temple fatigue' could well set in before then. Using a service taxi, I took the 215km trip south to Aswan, staying two nights. The main reason for this excursion was the chance of an early morning dash by minibus, across 300km of barren desert, to the incomparable temple of Abu Simbel. It is best seen in the early morning sunlight. The scale of the four cotossi of Ramses II fronting the tomb can only be appreciated when standing close by. The same can be said for the interior. The UNESCO funded project to move the temple away from the rising floodwaters of Lake Nasser in the sixties, can only be marvelled at. There are no signs of any 'joins' between the dismantled blocks that make up the reconstituted temple.

Aswan is more laid back than Luxor, less touristy and arguably more picturesque, with views across the Nile to Elephantine island and on to the rock tomb-strewn hills of the west bank. The Old Cataract Hotel, featured in Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie, has retained the feel of Thirties elegance. Tea on the Terrace provided a relaxing view towards the ruins of the Temple of Khnum on Elephantine Island.

I returned to Luxor with three days left before returning to the English winter. What to do? I hired a bike to look around the back streets of Luxor; this almost proved a costly mistake! The cycles for hire in Egypt could loosely be described as death-traps - brakes NOT an optional extra! Whilst innocently riding along a crowded side street, I suddenly realised that a pair of donkeys, pulling a large cart, had bolted and were bearing down on me at a great rate of knots. I braked! Not a lot happened, except a sideways skid, which sent me under a wheel of the cart. The bike had changed shape! Luckily, apart from a little grazing, I was in one piece. A spectator grabbed the cycle while muttering 'repairman, repairman' and hurried off down an alleyway - I limped in pursuit. After about 20 minutes of feverish hammering, the bike had returned to something like the correct shape, but with one slight hiccup; the chain wouldn't stay on. Thanking them for their help I offered some baksheesh - they refused to take it!

Egypt, by western standards, is incredibly cheap, even though tourists pay prices well above those paid by locals - a policeman earns just E£40 a month, that's £8 sterling, plus baksheesh of course. As a destination for a winter sun break, I can highly recommend both Luxor and Aswan, but only if Third World standards can be accepted. The Egyptians themselves are very friendly although many have become tainted by the lure of the tourist dollar.

First published in VISA issue 22 (autumn 1996).

Pixies, Ponies, Trolls and Goblins

by Rachel Kruft Welton

The flight from Gatwick took about 4 hours. We picked up the hire car and drove up from Reykjavik to the northern coast of Iceland. We had booked a cottage for 2 weeks in a village called Blonduos. As we soon found out, no-one had ever stayed that long in Blonduos before, and we quickly became local celebrities recognised wherever we went.

Local houses with turf roofs

The wooden cottage we stayed in was small, but warm and comfortable. The warmth was particularly useful when the day after we arrived the temperature dropped to minus 10C with a minus 10 wind-chill and it started to snow. I felt particularly betrayed by the sales brochure which had promised the June temperatures in Iceland to be around 13 - 15 degrees. I bought a thick woolly green scarf, and we drove off around the coast to look at the scenery. Northern Iceland is spectacular. There are virtually no trees so the bones of the country are exposed. The way the clouds move and light changes across the land catches your attention, and there is an incredible sense of space. There are snow-capped peaks at every turn rising starkly out of the lava bedrock. I fell in love with it.

There is only one main road. It circles Iceland and is tarmacked most of the way round. The rest of it is packed dirt. Shaggy sheep and wanton ponies wander at random across the road, daring you to hit them (compensation is payable by the driver to the farmer). There are no edges to the road and frequently there may be a drop of several hundred feet on one side, with nothing to tell you where the edge is in the fog except for widely spaced reflectors on small poles. There are other numbered roads too, and if the sign says "4-wheel drive only" then it really means it. The better roads are deep gravel and stone, with potholes you could lose your car in, and often have streams or small rivers running across them.

The weather improved after the first few days and it stayed at around 11 -15 degrees C for the rest of our stay. The locals came out in daring T-shirts (we carried on wearing our coats) and some of them asked us if we'd been about for the unusual snowstorm the weekend before. I forgave the travel brochure for its weather misinformation, and Nick and I went horse riding.

Riding Dimmi

Nick had not been on a horse since an unfortunate incident in Finland the year before, so he was particularly nervous. It didn't help when the horses were introduced as Dimmi (translating as Dusky) and Krappy (which apparently means Slushy Snow). Nick's feet nearly met under the pony's belly (Nick is 6'4") and his riding hat had to be tied on with string as his head was too large. Nick's plaintive cry to let him get off was ignored by our cheerful guide who didn't speak English. This may have been a good thing in the long run as once again the scenery was spectacular.

We rode down along the river Blonduos between two towering mountain ranges. Icelandic ponies are sure-footed and hardy, and wonderfully patient. Nick trailed behind, wary of encouraging Krappy to move faster than a walk. Krappy didn't seem to care, happy to go at Nick's pace. Nick slowly regained his confidence, and we both enjoyed ourselves.

In general the tourist industry hasn't really got the idea yet in Iceland. It takes a fair amount of courage to drive up to what looks like an abandoned warehouse, under the eyes of all the local children, knock on the door, and ask if there just happens to be an ancient shark-fishing vessel in there. As it happened, there was a whole museum of artefacts, from the first car in Iceland to shoes made out of fish-skin. Iceland does that to you a lot - you thought it was just an isolated petrol station on an empty road, but underneath it there is a whole shopping centre where you can buy sweets, woolly jumpers, travel maps, works by a local painter and some postcards to send home. It is incredibly expensive though. Nearly everything is imported and the prices are through the roof - take plenty of spending cash.

Up in a town called Husavik there are whale watching tours out into the Arctic Sea. They claim to have a 96% success rate, which naturally I didn't believe until we got out into the far reaches of the bay. There is something magical about seeing the giants of the ocean. I have seen, with my own eyes. We saw about 6 minke whales before we were honoured by a display of the collective talents of a school of dolphins. They threw themselves out of the water racing in front of the boat, showing off, twisting and turning. I honestly think they were having more fun than the watchers. The boat staff provided warm mittens and hot coffee towards the end of the trip, just when we needed it. I came away feeling as though nothing could top the experience.

Further round the coast from Husavik and a few miles inland is a valley in the shape of a horseshoe. It goes by the name of Asbyrgi and it is said to be a hoof print of Sleipnir the 8-legged steed of the Norse God Odin. It has hundred foot cliffs, a haven for nesting seabirds. Their calls echo around the valley. It is also one of the rare sheltered places in Iceland and consequently it is full of dwarf silver birch trees, undergrowth and mosses. That and the constant calls of the birds create a magical atmosphere where trolls and goblins might find shelter. It is a truly unforgettable place.

Reluctantly we drove further inland along a cinder road only just reopened after the winter. They must get through a lot of hire-cars in Iceland, that or there's a hot trade in new suspension systems. Eventually we got to Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe. It thunders down between the sheer sides of a gully. You can feel the vibrations in your chest. In some respects it puts Niagara to shame - maybe because the Icelandic token towards tourism was a couple of organic looking toilets, and a flattish bit of rock to park on. There were no souvenir shops or restaurants, not even a kiosk to buy postcards from. It was genuinely unspoilt, and I appreciated that.

We struggled on down the road, occasionally getting up into third gear. I was glad to reach the main road again. The next stop was a volcano just outside the famous area of Myvatn. Myvatn means 'midge lake'. It is a green and beautiful area, with mounds of moss, and spiky boulders of lava sticking up out of the lake. The volcano caught my imagination though. It is supposed to be dormant, but the steam rising from the vents (fumeroles) makes you wonder. From the top you can see just where the black lava flowed last time it erupted, complete with flow marks like setting chocolate or icing-sugar on a cake. On the side of the mountain there are pools of boiling sulphurous mud, with cute little signs telling you not to stick your foot in there.

One word of warning: if you ever come to Iceland, all the heating and hot water is powered by geothermal energy. In practise this means the water smells faintly of sulphur, which adds an interesting counterpoint to tea and coffee, and turns all your silver jewellery black. The tarnish does wear off eventually, but the Gods only know how Thor kept his hammer shiny!

We experienced another reason why geothermal energy is so convenient when we went white-water rafting down one of the glacial rivers so common in this part of the world. The rafting was fairly exciting without being too challenging. The water, as with all glacial rivers was a luminescent turquoise colour. Half way down, just as we were starting to get cold, we pulled the rafts over to the bank and the guides pulled a box out of a small cave in the ground. It had all the equipment for making cocoa in it, and the hot spring nearby produced near-boiling water, to provide the last ingredient. Set up for the rest of the journey, we accepted the challenge of leaping off a cliff-face into the river. It looks a lot further down from up there. I was sorry when the trip was over.

Back in Blonduos we walked on the black basalt beach and saw the midnight sun hanging in the sky with the full moon on the summer solstice. It never did get dark the whole time we were there. It was time to go. We waved goodbye, filled up with petrol, and pulled out of the petrol station up to the roundabout. With a sudden shock I realised I was on the wrong side of the road. A puzzled looking local drove past, recognised us and waved. I pulled out on to the roundabout, and Nick pointed out that I was also going round the roundabout the wrong way. I wobbled merrily onto the right side of the road, and with this final piece of excruciating driving we left Blonduos and headed for Reykjavik.

Reykjavik looks like pixie town from a distance. All the roofs of the houses are a different colour - red, green, blue - dotted about on the slopes. There are a couple of shopping streets in Reykjavik, which makes it a veritable metropolis in Icelandic terms. The prices as everywhere were extortionate. A pint of beer or glass of wine cost about £5. Rumour has it that Icelanders take weekend shopping sprees to Glasgow, which cover the cost of their flight. I can believe it. Having said that, I liked Reykjavik. It was relaxed, the people were friendly and went out of their way to help us. We dropped off the car and were picked up early in the morning by the transfer bus, which took us to the airport.

We left Iceland with the feeling that we'd not seen the half of it. I think we'll go back one day, and try to see some more of it. I would not choose to stay in one place for the duration next time, rather I could move from one guesthouse to the next. Whether I do make it back or not, it was a place I shall never forget.

First published in VISA issue 31 (winter 1998)

Cape Town to Victoria Falls

By David Gourley

 

This was a holiday that took my wife Cathy and me to five countries in all: South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana and Namibia. The highlight was a five-day trip on the luxury train Pride of Africa (run by Rovos Rail) between Cape Town and Victoria Falls.

We flew out to Cape Town with Air Namibia. We were pleasantly surprised by the high standard of the in-flight service but it did involve a rather circuitous route via Frankfurt, Windhoek (where we changed planes) and the Namibian coastal town of Walvis Bay. On this latter stretch we had splendid views over the Namib Desert.

The bridge across the Zambesi,
connecting Zimbabwe with Zambia

In Cape Town we had a three-night stay, based at the Vineyard Hotel, located fairly close to the SA Cricket ground in the district of Newlands. I felt whacked after our long overnight flight and just wanted to crash out, but Cathy was determined to go straight away to Table Mountain. I do hate saying this - she was right! The rule when visiting Cape Town is: if the cablecar to the top of Table Mountain is running, go for it. For all too often it is closed. This is nothing to do with the cloud - the "Tablecloth" - which frequently covers the Mountain. The authorities don't mind if people go up and don't seeing anything. The problem is the frequent strong winds, the "Southeasters". We got to the top successfully and enjoyed superb views over what is undoubtedly one of the loveliest cities in the world. But a strong wind blew up even while we were up there; they'd closed the cable-car by the time we got down and it didn't run again for the remainder of our stay.

We had a city tour the next morning and in the afternoon took ourselves off to Robben Island, now preserved as a national museum. There were two tours: of the Island itself and of the actual prison, where one is shown inter alia the cell where Nelson Mandela was kept. We were guided round the prison by a former political prisoner and were struck by the conciliatory attitude that he had towards his former political enemies (it is even the case that some ex-warders have joined the former prisoners in working to preserve this monument).

He had been sentenced in 1988 to a 25-year term but said he'd inwardly laughed because he knew the system wouldn't last that long. He was out after four years. Any worries we had that we were being voyeuristic were put to rest when we purchased a book about the Island: it is described as a place of hell, true, but of heaven as well. It is prized in the new South Africa as the place where apartheid was finally defeated.

The next day saw us on an all-day trip to Cape Point, through fine coastal scenery. The following day was the start of our rail trip. First-class meals, and as much South African wine as one wanted, were included - I think I'll have to up my visits to the gym as a result! (As one tour guide said: people always complain about the food in South Africa - they eat too much of it and put on weight!)

We stopped en route at Kimberly, where an ancient electric tram took us to the Big Hole, the world's largest manmade hole, where diamonds were once mined. The next evening saw a break in the train journey, with an overnight stay in Pretoria. This was preceded by tours of Johannesburg and of Pretoria itself, both with the same guide. She was excellent but we were rather thrown when she asked us where we wanted to go in Jo'burg. Surely she knew best where to go, we thought.

Tentatively I enquired about the possibility of going to Soweto, expecting her to say it was too far, or simply that, as a white South African, she didn't want to go there. But she was happy to take us there and it was a fascinating visit. One has an image of Soweto as a place full of miserable shacks and there are indeed plenty of these, but much of the housing is decent and well-maintained, and there is even a local "Beverley Hills", where Winnie Mandela lives in her mansion. There are so many BMWs that they are known as "Soweto bicycles". There is now a university - and somehow we did not expect to see a KFC outlet in Soweto!

The place has, of course, its problems and no sensible visitor strays far from the beaten track. But we felt safe enough and were moved by our visit to the area that has been set aside as a memorial to Hector Pieterson, the first schoolboy to be killed by the security forces in the 1976 uprising, the trigger for which was the protest by black schoolchildren about being taught in Afrikaans, which (unlike English) is regarded as an alien language. This really marks the definitive start of the final struggle against apartheid. We were told that parents were somewhat ashamed that it was their kids who were making the running, when they themselves had been passive. Some estrangement between generations resulted, a cause perhaps of the present degree of lawlessness in Soweto, which local community leaders agree is a problem. We also visited Nelson Mandela's former house, which is now a museum; Archbishop Tutu still lives nearby, when he's in town, making this particular street the only one in the world to have housed two Nobel prizewinners.

Soweto has at least one and a half million, and maybe as many as four million, inhabitants, and by any standards is a city in its own right though it has yet to acquire all the trappings associated with big cities. It is by no means a place without hope and maybe it is not fanciful to suppose that one day Soweto will be the dynamic heart of the metropolis with Jo'burg just a rundown suburb. Downtown Jo'burg is seriously crime-ridden and ranks as the grimmest city we have yet visited; previously we'd given that accolade to Lima, which we've now promoted a notch! Pretoria on the other hand is an attractive city.

We rejoined the train the next day and had another two nights, continuing into Zimbabwe, where we had a tour of Bulawayo, a pleasant city with a very good museum (the best in Africa, we were told by our possibly biased guide - apart, he conceded, from the one in Cairo). In Victoria Falls we stayed at the eponymous Hotel, one of the finest anywhere. From our room we had an excellent view into Zambia and the spray from the Falls can be seen from the gardens. The Falls are every bit as spectacular as we had imagined. We visited them four times in all, once from the Zambian side, and also had two helicopter flights over them.

Tours in Zimbabwe included an elephant trek and a visit to the Hwange National Park. Like the name of the country itself, many towns in the former Rhodesia have different post-independence names. Salisbury to Harare is the most well-known change whilst Essexvale Man is now Esigodoni Man. In the case of Hwange the change is very much for the better - it was formerly known as Wankie.

Our foray into Zambia took us not just to that country's side of the Falls, but also to an authentic African village (which benefits financially from such tours and welcomes visitors), the city of Livingstone (a pleasant city still, though this former capital has known better days) and a game drive. To get from one country to the other, we had to walk across the Bridge over the Zambezi. In the middle, precisely on the boundary, bungee jumps take place and we paused to watch a couple of them. For four days the Zimbabweans do the necessary organizing, then the Zambians take over for the next four, and so on ad infinitum. We decided to forego the pleasure of doing a jump!

A young boy struck up a conversation with us as we walked across; learning we were English he came up with what must be the standard patter: "ah, England - Tony Blair, John Major [John who?], Michael Owen, Alan Shearer". I gave him an old baseball cap of mine and he seemed well pleased with it. It had started its life in Petra, Jordan!

We had six nights in all in Victoria Falls, punctuated by three nights over the border in Botswana in the Cresta Mowana Game Lodge, close to the Chobe National Park. President Clinton had stayed here during his tour of Africa earlier in 1998. The Lodge is on the banks of the Chobe River. On the other side is Namibia and we went across there in a dugout canoe and were shown round the village there by a local lad. For this short excursion, there were four lots of forms to be filled in by both of us - exit from Botswana, entry to Namibia etc. We went on game drives in the Park and on boat trips along the River and saw plenty of game, including lions, elephants and hippos. We had seen giraffes, zebras and wildebeests in Zambia and Zimbabwe, which was as well as we saw none in Botswana.

As well as viewing game, I also ate a fair bit of it, both in Botswana and in an African-style restaurant in Zimbabwe. Warthog is recommended, also zebra. To anyone who objects, I would say that, if one is not vegetarian, there is no difference in principle between eating a sheep, say, and eating game. The killing of game for food is the result of a strict culling process and in no way threatens the eco-system.

Our flight home from Victoria Falls was in two stages, with an overnight stay en route in Windhoek. The first stage constituted just about the strangest flight we have been on. The plane was tiny - even the shortest in our party had to lower their heads as we boarded and, in the absence of any in-flight personnel, snacks were handed to us by the pilot as we boarded. This was hardly a comfortable journey but, not to worry, I thought, the flight will only be an hour or so. We duly flew over a city, which I assumed to be Windhoek. Cathy says my face was a picture when I saw the sign welcoming us to Lusaka International Airport. Unexpectedly we were back in Zambia, having travelled in precisely the opposite direction to the one expected.

A German chap in front of us got his word in first - yes, the pilot assured him, the plane was going on to Windhoek, but we'd have to get out here whilst the plane was refuelled. We had a second stop in a remote part of Namibia and again we had to get out for refuelling. To round off our day, we landed in Windhoek in a thunderstorm. In all we'd been in this uncomfortable plane some six hours, on and off, but the journey had been so enjoyably bizarre that somehow we didn't feel we had grounds for complaint! Our flight back to London the next day seemed positively tame by comparison.

First published in VISA issue 32 (winter 1998)

Five Peak Mountain

by Rachel Kruft Welton

My Mum and I boarded the bus to Wutai Shan at 6.30am as Mr Wang suggested we should, in order to ‘get the best seats’. The bus drove around town for well over an hour picking up passengers. An old bloke, with formidable garlic breath, sat behind us and changed into Buddhist robes and a yellow padded hat. The driver sat under the no smoking sign and took it in turns with the passenger opposite us to chain smoke his way across China. Occasionally, he spat noisily onto the floor to relieve the boredom. The woman on the front row vomited neatly into a plastic bag.

The route as far as the Hanging Temple is fairly flat and dusty. After that and the welcome toilet stop, it climbs up into the mountains, before crossing another plain with the longest queue of lorries I have ever seen. We must have been driving past them for over half an hour.

Finally, six hours into the journey, we started to climb the really big mountains. The Wutai Shan mountains rise to over 2700m. We went up on hairpin bends with precipitous drops on one side and the remains of 8 feet of snowdrifts on the other. At one point we passed a snow plough trying to break up the pack-ice on the road. I clutched the seat in front and prayed that I wouldn't die on a Chinese mountain.

We stopped at the checkpoint where everyone had to buy three day passes to the Wutai Shan Scenic Spot. The cost bore no relation to the advertised price on the outside of the checkpoint. It was unsurprisingly significantly more expensive. I think we were done for about a tenner there.

On arrival in the village, we were immediately pounced on by a local family and dragged into their compound with the promise of a cheap room. To be fair, it was cheap, at just £3 per person, per night. There were three beds in a small room. At the back was a smaller room, with a sink, toilet and shower. The owner said the shower was only cold water, but we reckoned we could handle that for a couple of nights if we had to.

Once we had paid, however, we discovered the bathroom had no running water at all. In addition, the toilet didn't drain, let alone flush, rendering it unusable. We had inadvertently taken a room in the Hotel from Hell, with an en suite full of dysfunctional, smelly, pointless bathroom furniture.

Some hours later, when the toilet overflowed, through no fault of ours, they moved us to a new room on the upper storey. This also had a toilet that didn't work and no running water. The smell from this one was so bad that it woke me up in the morning when the door accidentally drifted ajar, letting the fumes into the sleeping area.

The owners had provided incense sticks, but it did little to alleviate the pong. Mum was all for crapping into a plastic bag. We high-tailed it at dawn to a four star hotel up the road and had a shower. It was so nice to see a bathroom where the toilet had a sign on it saying ‘Sterilized’ as opposed to the one we had just left, which should have been labelled ‘Unsanitary’.

The village of Wutai Shan sits in a valley between the mountain peaks. The name itself means five peak mountains and they do rise above the main road, dwarfing everything. It is an important site of Buddhist pilgrimage and the devout come to worship at the many temples here. Maroon robed lamas walk alongside mustard and grey-robed monks.

We visited several temples on the first afternoons and we had an impromptu course in Buddhism, courtesy of a local girl wishing to improve her English. We saw the gilded temple of Xiantong and the smiling Buddha of Guangren Si. Mum's legs were tired, so we sat on a rock where we were given some beads by an ancient, grey-clad man.

A friendly couple also started talking to us and helped us order food at our hotel from Hell. The food was surprisingly good. We swapped phone numbers and arranged to meet Li Wen Li (Lily) and her husband Wong Tai Long the next day.

They met us at the bottom of the cable car lift to the Dailuo Terrace. It was a peaceful ascent, giving excellent views over the village and the surrounding mountains. We took a look round the temple at the top and caught the cable car back down. There were actually sedan chairs available, but Mum declined. They were made from a metal framed deck-chair attached to a pair of wooden poles. I don't know that I would have fancied it either.

Lily and Wong treated us to lunch, then we went to the Pusa Temple, where everyone was gathering for a ceremony. We wedged ourselves into a spot on the concrete floor in amongst the crowd. It was immensely packed, cramped and uncomfortable.

The monks were lined up on either side of the temple. They chanted some prayers as the main head lama came in, accompanied by drums, cymbals and a blast on a seashell. The elderly lady next to me showed me how to make a lotus flower pattern with my fingers, the way the monks were doing.

There was a fair amount of rice throwing into the crowd. That was fine, I understand that, after all, we throw rice at weddings. Then the crowd started throwing bolts of golden or white cloth towards the front, one of which clobbered me round the back of the head. I have no idea what that was about.

After an hour, my bladder couldn't wait anymore and we crept out to try and find a loo. A friendly monk, called Suma, directed us to a WC. This was a communal affair involving us and a ten Chinese people squatting along a plank with holes in it. It was still an improvement on the one at the Hon Yon Hotel.

Mum’s knees are not really up to squatting, but, not to worry, in this open-plan facility, there were several willing helpers, who raced over to help her stand up again afterwards, seemingly completely unembarrassed by her knickers round her ankles!

Finally, we took a wander round the Tayuan Temple with the large white Dagoba in it. I turned the prayer wheels that surrounded it: once for health, once for happiness and once for longevity. I like prayer wheels. There is something good about turning them. More religions should have them, I think.

First published in VISA 92 (Aug 2010)

Witches, Cheese and Other Curiosities

by Rachel Kruft Welton

We had the car loaded to the roof, ready for a sprint start. We raced for the boat at Harwich, stopping only for something to eat at Kettering. Despite the panic, we arrived in comfortable time and only spent 10 minutes in the car park before boarding.

Being a family of six, we had to split cabins. Nick took the girls to the four berth at one end of the boat, while I went off with Mel to the two berth, at the other end of the boat, on a lower deck. They couldn't have been further apart if they had tried. The cabins were good quality, comfortable and smart, with a nice duvet. Stena Line I commend you! On the down side, the ship's tannoy was piped into the cabin at 180 decibels, whether you liked it or not. We snuggled down.

‘The Bureau de Change is open on deck seven.’

We turned out the light.

‘Would Mrs McKenzie please collect her keys from reception.’

We dozed for half an hour.

‘In case of emergency, please put on all your warm clothes.’

I unplugged the phone. It didn't help.

‘Slumdog Millionaire will be starting in five minutes.’

Aargh! Eventually they shut up, but not until long after midnight. With the time difference, it was 5.30 English time when we had to get up for breakfast. Passport control took forever, but we finally hit the road and headed for Oudewater in the province of Utrecht. Thanks to detailed scrutiny of Google Earth, we found the right house virtually straight away, positioned on the corner of two roads, backed by a canal. I phoned the owner, Godie, to say we had arrived, and he said he would be right over.

The kids climbed out of the car and started exploring the garden. At this point, the irate owner of the house came out and pointed out that although this was number 5, it was not on the right road. We needed to be on the adjacent road i.e. two houses away. Godie arrived by bike and walked us over. Apparently this mistake happens fairly frequently. Presumably the irate owner finds it less funny each time.

The house we stayed in is a huge, thatched, picturesque farmhouse, surrounded by shallow dykes. Eight people could sleep there comfortably. Godie lent the kids his dinghy to play about on the water in. The kids loved it, and we got through all their changes of clothes in record time. Mel seemed to be a natural at rowing. Donny prefered to push the oars instead of pull, but got the idea. The younger two girls spent a lot of time going round in circles, hitting the bank.

Anyway, we dropped our bags off and drove up to Maarssenbroek to visit my aunt Tonny and uncle Peter. They had just picked Mum up from the airport. We spent the afternoon eating and talking (you get to do a lot of that in Holland) and generally being overtired. I popped out to the local shop too. Last time we came to the Netherlands (four and a half years ago), we arrived around 6pm on a Saturday. All the shops were shut and we ended up having Chinese takeaway for tea. Even worse, we ended up having cold Chinese takeaway for breakfast the following morning. I didn´t want a repeat of that experience!

We got back to our farmhouse in the early evening. The kids put their pyjamas on without being asked so we took the hint and all sank gratefully into bed.

The next day started foggy but cheered up as the sun burnt through the clouds. We walked into Oudewater, keen to explore the old town. The town centre is full of old buildings dating from the 15th and 16th centuries. They have stepped gables and little windows with shutters. They are all made from the tiny bricks that give Dutch houses their distinctive look. We paused to admire the lock gates and the town hall, before arriving at the Witches Weigh-house or Heksenwaag. This building was constructed in 1595 to weigh people accused of sorcery. The idea is that those practitioners of magic would need to weigh less than ordinary people in order to be able to fly. The innocent could obtain a certificate proving they were not a witch.

These days, just being heavy enough does not absolve you from witchcraft accusations. We were weighed and quizzed on our likes and dislikes. We now have certificates proving we are a family of four witches, one princess and one ferry. Donny is not all that impressed about being a certified passenger ship instead of the next Tinkerbell. If you say it softly, with a Dutch accent, it sounds right. The rest of us thought it was funny.

Next stop was the rope museum, Touw Museum, which showed us the difference between lots of different sorts of rope and how they used to make it. Not much more to say about that, really. Worth a visit if you are a fan of rope, probably.

We stopped at a cafe for lunch, which blew my entire eating out budget on four pancakes. The exchange rate really sucks at the moment. Everything is about twice the price it should be. After lunch, we wandered round the rest of Oudewater before heading back to the farmhouse so the kids could mess about on the water more.

The kids took up their oars in the rowing boat, sometime around first light next morning. We were expecting Tonny and Peter and Mum over so I drove off to look for a supermarket to get supplies. Without a map or clue, I found one on the first side street I ventured down. It was delightfully peaceful and empty.

Tonny and Peter and Mum arrived and admired our spacious abode. After coffee and cakes, Tonny and Peter left to sort out some building work they were having done. The rest of us loaded into the car and headed for Gouda to see what it had to offer. The town centre is old and suitably Dutch. The houses and shops are beautiful and in the traditional style. The stadthuis in the centre is an imposing building with blue spires and a hundred windows with red shutters. It stands in the market square, although there was no market happening that day.

Dutch shopkeepers like to have large signs in the shape of models outside their shops. The kids wanted their picture taken with a six foot fish, while Nick tried to disown us. Then Nick got into the spirit of the thing and had his picture taken with a large troll. We stopped for a coffee at the Stroopwaffel Bakkerij. Usually, you can see the stroopwaffels being made, but this week the baker was on holiday, so we had to make do with coffee.

We got back to the car to discover we had a parking ticket. We hadn´t paid for parking because we hadn´t managed to find a machine to put money into. If Gouda city council wants 61 euros off us, when they hid the parking meters in the first place, then they can chase us to England to collect it.

We headed north to my cousins´ house. Tino and Hellen have two boys, Ivo and Rick, and my other cousin GJ spends a lot of time at their house too. We had a lovely afternoon talking and eating. The kids bonded reasonably well with their cousins by getting covered in sand and dripping ice lollies down themselves to aid the process of glueing the sand to their clothes. We left around the time the kids starting rolling tiredly on the sofa. Somehow we negotiated the Dutch road system and left Mum at the right house, before taking the sleepy children home.

Next day, we picked Mum up and headed out of the rain towards Arnhem. The Openluchtmuseum is a collection of old buildings from all over the Netherlands. They show life at different times from 300 years ago to the present and they range from the wealthy farmer to the peasant's turf hut. There are also various trades shown and it is a working museum in that sense. There is a blacksmith and a weaver; an oil mill, a cheese dairy, as well as a brewery and a bakery amongst others. There are a number of windmills and old-fashioned shops. The shops line a square where there are mini penny-farthings and go-karts for the kids to play on, whilst the grown-ups have a coffee.

The kids had a great time. There are plenty of things for them to have a go on. They pulled themselves across a river on a ferry attached to a rope, getting somewhat wet in the process. They had a go at grinding coffee in one farmhouse. They milked a wooden cow, used a mangle, sat on a tractor and drove a fibreglass horse and cart. They negotiated a maze and tried out the playground.

At this point the wet weather we'd left behind started to catch up with us so we caught the circular tram (at a gnome-infested station) that took us back to the entrance. We'd spent five hours there and not seen it all. I was pretty tired, let alone the kids.

The rain didn't ease as we sped towards Leiden the following day. Once again, we were negotiating the inner city roads using a map that showed the whole of the city of Leiden as a grey block, less than a centimetre wide. Amazingly we found our target without annoying too many Dutchmen. My old friend Rob was waiting for us, his Welsh dragon flag proudly displayed in the window, despite having lived in the Netherlands for the past 17 years. Rob talks pretty much non-stop, which saves anyone else the trouble of doing so.

We had planned a trip round the bulb-land area, followed by a visit to Linnaeushof, the largest children's playground in Europe. Unfortunately, the weather was worsening, if anything and the grey drizzle looked distinctly unappealing. We had a cup of tea and considered our options. A quick search on the internet revealed a kids indoor play area, not far away. We loaded everyone into our giant car and headed off.

Leiden seems to be in several phases of reconstruction. There were new building sites everywhere, which kind of spoilt the sense of Dutchness. It could have been inner-city anywhere. The play area was called BubbelJungle and was comfortably large, with a pirate-ship motif. We settled at a table and the kids pretty much vanished for the next five hours, reappearing only for food, drink and attention for minor injuries. I have to point out, just in case you are considering going there and eating, that the food was some of the worst I have encountered. OK, so maybe the fact that the cuisine to be found in a kids' fun-house situated on an industrial estate is not all that good, is hardly a shock, but...

Meanwhile, Rob entertained us by talking incessantly for the whole five hours. All too soon it was over and we had to take Rob home and say goodbye again. Time is always too short when you spend it with friends.

Alkmaar, our next place to visit, was an hour north of our base. It dates back to 1366, when it was little more than a refuge for wayfarers. The main square holds a cheese market every Friday as it has done for the past 500 years. Dutch cheese comes in huge round blocks covered in red, yellow or black wax. The market square was filled with rows of stacked cheeses. At one end there was a cheese weighing station. The white-clad, straw-boater wearing carriers raced up and down to it, bearing stretchers loaded with cheese between them. The stretchers were hung from harnesses they were wearing, rather than being carried. The men moved at quite a pace. The place was heaving with visitors. We struggled through the tourist market and decided to try to escape the hustle and bustle by taking a rondvaart.

Rondvaart literally translates as ‘round trip’ and in this country it is usually on a boat. The kids naturally had a giggle at rondvaart, as you do. My favourite Dutch Name of the Day had to go to a bed shop which translates loosely as Bed-Experts. It is actually called Bedweters. Would you buy a bed from them?

I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the boat trip. This lasted about 45 minutes and took us around the canals of Alkmaar, pointing out the historic buildings as we went. It turned into an adventure trip as we passed under 22 low bridges. When I say low, I mean not just ‘mind your head’ low, but ‘mind your back and shoulders’ and ‘squat right down on the floor, or else’ type of low. Great fun.

The market shut at 12.30 and we still had half of a beautifully sunny day. We decided to head south, away from the crowds.

Kasteel de Haar started off as a farmhouse with a tower about 900 years ago. Successive generations added to it until it was abandoned and fell into ruin. Around 100 years ago the wealthy de Haar and van Zuylans families restored it. They thoughtfully rebuilt the local village (which they named after themselves), having demolished it in the first place to make room for a park around the castle. The village of Haarzuilens is decked out in the castle colours of red and white.

We wandered around the gardens and water features, taking a brief look at the church. The kids checked out the beech tree maze and squeezed back through the hedge when it all got too complicated. It is a pretty place.

In order to go inside you have to sign up for the tour, in Dutch. It lasted an hour and (due to half the castle being under renovation) it didn't take in all that many rooms. It was pretty slow. I'm not a great fan of organised tours at the best of times and the kids were already tired.

Inside it is richly decorated, mostly in a neo-Gothic style. I can't say that blood-red carpets and black walls do all that much for me. The ladies’ bedrooms were lighter and more airy, being more of a Renaissance style, but altogether I think I would have to redecorate if I moved in.

Tour over, we headed back to Oudewater for something to eat. We were very tired. The kids were so tired that they slept through the loudest thunderstorm I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing. One crack was so sudden and close that we checked outside the house, once our hearts had stopped racing. We half expected the car to have been replaced with a burnt crater, but it seemed to have escaped the lightning strike this time.

First published in VISA 86 (Aug 2009)

Three Go Adventuring in Scotland

by Rachel Kruft Welton

Lagangarbh Mountain Hut is situated in the Highlands at the foot of Buachaille Etive Mor, an imposing mountain surrounded by purple heather, blue Devil's bit scabious and vicious Scottish midges.It is one of those places so remote that I wasn't given an address by the custodian, merely a grid reference. The water supply has a brown tinge and tastes of peat. All drinking water needs to be boiled, and the warning sign inside the hut suggested we should be careful not to swallow water whilst showering. We like to live dangerously, however, and managed to live through the week unscathed, despite brushing our teeth in the unboiled bog-water that came out of the tap.The hut is separated from the track by a brook with a footbridge and a short hike through the heather. Everything had to be carried up to the cottage in several trips. We had the place to ourselves, apart from the odd hiker peering through the window as he or she passed. (We usually caught a glimpse of their rapidly retreating form, legging it away down the glen in an embarrassed manner, once they realised the hut was occupied.)The Met Office had threatened rain for Tuesday. The cloud obscured the top of Beinn Bheag opposite, despite it being half the height of Ben Nevis. We hung around the hut, barricading ourselves in against the blackfly. There was a lack of toys for the kids, which probably precipitated the building of Stonehenge out of Jenga bricks before venturing out.Glencoe, the valley, is amazing - sheer mountains rise almost vertically from the flat bottomed valley floor. It is nearly a perfect U shape, carved by glaciers over 10,000 years ago. We stopped at several scenic parking spots to take photos in the mist. There was a waterfall, which was pretty, but the stars of the show were the mountains. The colours seemed intense in the damp air - green, brown, grey and white. A highland piper serenaded multi-national tourists with his bagpipes. Tour buses from all over the world stopped in the lay-by disgorging their cargo to look at the scenery. The drone from the bagpipes carried down into the valley, where we and just a handful of others were walking. Most tourists stopped only long enough to take a photo of themselves standing next to the strange musician in his kilt, before leaping back into the safety of their cars and tour buses. I see the hills and want to walk on them, to really experience them. Others see a pretty view. 'Snap' and it is stored away in digital memory. Experience over.

Inchree

We'd booked an experience through Vertical Descent in Inchree. We signed up for canyoning down Inchree Falls. This involves scrambling and sliding down numerous waterfalls and clambering over rocks for a couple of hours. The biggest challenge for me, however, appeared to be how to get into a neoprene wetsuit designed for thin people with no boobs (skinny men, in other words). I felt trussed up like a chicken, and once the life-jacket was added, I could hardly breathe, let alone swim. Bending to scramble seemed virtually impossible. I was puffing like an old horse and about as graceful as King Kong on the dance-floor. I thought I was going to faint - and that was just on the walk in.Once in the cold water, the suffocating feeling eased, but the inability to move fluidly didn't. Neoprene plus life-jacket = cushioning from rocks when sliding down a gully, followed by floating instead of swimming. This then leads to a flailing and floundering exhibition, instead of positive graceful swimming, and a kind of beached whale event upon arrival at the far bank.Despite this, it was excellent fun. Donny and Mel were up for everything - jumping in off the side from three metres up, sliding down 16 feet of waterfall and inching their way across the face of the falls whilst the spray drummed on their helmets.The final hurdle is a zip-wire above a 37ft falls. It is one of those zips that drops you about three metres before catching your weight and sliding you into the water. I was last, of course -I'd been bringing up the rear all along - so I'd watched everyone else do it. Anticipation is a terrible thing! In the end, I just jumped as though I was going to land in the water, and it wasn't too lurchy. The fear of the drop is what puts you off jumping. I landed inelegantly, backwards, with a massive splash. I surfaced to see one of the leaders taking photos of me. Hmm.

Kinlochleven

Tendrils of cloud wrapped themselves around buttresses high on the mountains. Fingers of mist probed the gullies and gorges, not quite willing to let go, but unable to hold on for very long. The sun broke through in patches.We set off from the very eastern end of Loch Leven, where the town of Kinlochleven nestles. The path is waymarked and promised waterfalls. It weaves up through a witchy forest, between silver birch and aspen, crusty with lichen and damp with multicoloured moss. The path is stony and shifted underfoot.The waterfall remained tantalisingly elusive. It is called the Grey Mare's Tail Falls, and the glimpses of it through the trees showed a long streak of white water, which could, with a little imagination, resemble a horse's tail. There was no clear stunning view of it though, and this felt somewhat frustrating, given it was signposted as the Waterfall Trail.
After crossing a few fords, and putting the steepest section behind us, we passed a large group of teenagers with matching orange rucksacks and glowing red faces. The race was now on to reach the top of the hill before them. We headed up, across the bare slope. The path didn't rise above 350m, so we barely hit the hill-fog. We did spend the whole day putting our waterproofs on and taking them off again, as the weather changed every ten minutes.The teenagers passed us while we were having lunch, but we soon caught up and overtook when they stopped for theirs. After that, I think they must have taken a different route, as they didn't pass us again. Either that, or they are still sitting there, looking bewildered.Loch Elide Mor finally came into view, blue and shimmering. We stayed on the pebbly shore for quite some time, skimming stones and throwing in big ker-plunk ones. Mel managed to step off a rock and flood his boot, in what is starting to feel like a family ritual part of any day out now.The route back took us down the far side of the valley, a little higher than we had been, but a little shorter too. Both the kids were getting tired. Donny manifests this as whining for food. Mel expresses it by sitting down and refusing to move. I dosed both with chocolate and Hula Hoops. We took frequent diversions to investigate mushrooms and cranberries, and to pick wild raspberries. We even saw some pyramid orchids in the heather.Mallaig

Tickets were virtually sold out so we arrived at Fort William station by 8.25am and stood in the queue. We were the third family. Half an hour later, the steam train puffed into the station and we got the last but three tickets. By this time the queue was maybe ten families long, so not everyone was successful. We had tickets, but we didn't have seats. We got the little half-bench bum-perches in the buffet car, meaning we had to assume a kind of tortuous stress position for the two and a half hour journey each way. We took a quick look round Fort William before the train left at 10.20am. The scenery is the big draw on this route and, despite the occasional shower, the views were stunning. I tried to take pictures through the window, but they weren't very good. They varied between 'look at my lovely reflection' and 'oops, I missed it and photographed a bush instead'. The engine was called The Great Marquess, and the train was known as the Jacobite, but the kids were only interested in the Hogwarts Express. It crossed the Glenfinnan Viaduct, as seen in the flying car scene in the second Harry Potter movie. Then there was a half hour stop at Glenfinnan station to allow the tourists (i.e. us) to look round the tiny museum, buy a souvenir and give their loose change to the young bagpiper trying to raise cash for his university education. Back on the train, we got some more scenery on the way to Mallaig. We did see Eigg and Skye through the mist, their shapes phantasmal on the horizon. Mallaig is a fishing village, famous for kippers. We stood on the dock and ate our sandwiches in the rain. The kids bought some gifts and I got to check my e-mails. There wasn't much to do. In the end, we found the fisherman's mission and their secondhand bookshop, which certainly kept Donny amused on the journey back.The scenery was just as scenic on the return journey, if not better in the occasional patch of sun. Donny read her book, and made herself more and more comfortable, until she was actually lying down on the bum-perch. I stared out of the window and wished I had a seat. Mel informed Neil, the chief caterer, that his price-list was all wrong because he had labelled it all as p instead of £. He tried to buy a very cheap bottle of champagne for 25p but Neil pointed out that he was underage.

First published in VISA 96 (Apr 2011)