The Yorkshire Tales

After spending time in both Cheshire and Wales we embarked on a brief visit to York, a city I visited when I was about eight and from where my main memory is of taking a rather embarrassing horse-drawn carriage ride around the town.


York is comfortably north of my comfort zone, in fact, prior to this weekend it was the most northerly place I'd visited in the UK, but that didn't stop me loving it. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, York is yet another city that feels like Bath - probably because they're both Roman. And this similarity means that it also takes up a position on my 'would like to live there' list. A list that's now getting scarily long and wide.

It was great to find old streets that weren't filled with chain shops and department stores, even the StarBucks was so understated as to look like a little independent coffee house. It's actually a real pleasure to shop in a shop that you haven't been in elsewhere and I for one feel more likely to buy something in a place like that knowing I can't get it somewhere else, even if it does cost a little more.

But York really is beautiful, full of genuinely old buildings and a general sense that the people who live there appreciate it for what it is. Perhaps it helps that the whole city is dominated over by the impressive Minster, a constant reminder of the city's heritage, but there were plenty of signs about 'taking pride in York' which I can't remember seeing in any other comparably city. The fact that the old city walls are still largely intact is wonderful too. I'd take city walls over a ring road any day.



Beyond this though, York is just a tremendously atmospheric place, something that I can only guess comes with the age of many of the buildings and the history they know. It's a shame that there's always a tendancy to compare cities to other cities, but with the exception of Bath I can't really think of another city that comes close in terms of the intimacy of the atmosphere in York, and even Bath falls short here as in a way, it's just too big and spread out. York feels much smaller and there's a genuine sense of friendliness amongst the people there.





In fact, the steam train gave rise to one of the more bizarre conversations had in York. We discovered that the train went to Scarborough, a place we hadn't visited, and so we considered going for a ride. Until we found that it was £30pp. We then questioned why we didn't just drive to Scarborough, before asking why we even wanted to go to Scarborough in the first place. Realising that we would only be going because it was a steam train, we came to the decision that when you're on a steam train it feels much like any other train and that its best to see it from the outside - which we had when it steamed past out B&B window. So we abandoned both the steam train ride, and Scarborough. Next time perhaps.

York is just the sort of place that it's great to wander around without a purpose, so it was a little unfortunate that one evening, devoid of anything to do, we went to see a play at the theatre advertised on the basis that it starred the actress who played Sue Ellen in Dallas (an actress primarily famous for not shooting JR). This turned out to be a bad decision (the lady next to us commented that, not being able to hear anything Sue Ellen said, she thought she'd gone deaf since entering), and rather than killing time, it seemed instead to flog it, then kick it while it was already quite far down and out. York could do better.

But for a city with such heritage there wasn't any of the grandeur that can be a little overwhelming at times, as there can be in Cambridge. In fact, sometimes you'd see something that could only suggest a little mischievous on the part of the people living there that nicely stood out.


After spending two days admiring York we detoured via Castle Howard, about 30 minutes north-east of York in doing so took myself further north within the British Isles than I've ever been before. I don't usually go a bundle on these country estate type places, but Castle Howard was actually something else. For starters it's absolutely huge, I imagine it would take at least a day to walk around all the grounds open to public (it does have four lakes), but it's also quite a captivating place.



Unfortunately time constraints preventing speeding more time there, but it is a place that I would recommend a visit to should you ever be in the area. On the way back to Cheshire we decided to have a further stop over in Harrogate, a place that I knew little of other than it sounded like a nice place - primarily because I seem to remember knowing someone from there who said so - and so it proved. Almost. It's a little hard to describe, it had a certain Llandudno quality to it in the Victorian adornments abound, but it didn't have the same 'pride' that York had. York seemed to be a smart town proud to be so. Harrogate seemed to be a smart town trying not to realise, or at least, promote it. But nonetheless it was still a nice place to spend a few hours with some really outstanding gardens around.

And so came to end two weeks of travel and visitations around Cheshire, Wales and Yorkshire, and perhaps the busiest August I think I've ever had.

Bala, Bread and Baking in Bethesda

In a world where it's strictly forbidden to even think about meeting up with people you've met on the Internet, getting into a car and driving to Bethesda, a remote village in northern Wales, to do just that might seem just a little bit silly.

But that didn't stop me and a number of other intrepid people from doing just that, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we all had a fantastic time baking bread, having fun and exploring a truly beautiful area of the country at event dubbed Bethesdabakin'.



The history of the event and how it was set up is quite long, so I'll spare you all the details, but it came about through an Internet forum and was the idea of a Bethesda local, Mick. The idea gathered steam and unusually for things like this, actually took place last weekend with 17 people descending from all walks of life and all sorts of places. People came from Denmark, Switzerland, France and even Australia and America as well as places closer to home to make friends and bake bread. And that's exactly what happened. The event was organised via the forums on a baker called Dan Lepard's website, and he himself came along to join in and give some invaluable advice and encouragement.


Highlights had to be the building of a wood fired brick oven on the patio outside the rugby club kitchen where the event was held which, courtesy of its 500C plus heat managed to turn out pizzas in around four minutes, Otto, Alex and Kathy's dog who quickly became our mascot, and the innumerable trips to the local Tesco to shop for the five-thousand.




Unfortunately I wasn't up to the standard of the others and had to take a more backseat role for the weekend, although one of my contributions, a barley flour soda bread, turned out to be the one disaster of the weekend, burning on the top, not cooking in the middle and sticking to the pan on the bottom. But what can you do? I even burned my elbow taking it out raising the number of cooking related scars I currently sport to four.

But despite the bread-related theme, there was more to the weekend than dough and flour. I was quite taken aback by how ignorant I was about the whole area. Not only did I fail to appreciate how widely Welsh was spoken by everyone from the people in the Rugby Club to the teenagers working in the Londis store, but I never realised just how beautiful Snowdonia was, nor indeed that places like it even existed in this country. Welsh is quite unlike any language I've heard this year, not even that similar to the little bits of Cornish I know, and it's no wonder that the Welsh parts of the bi-lingual road signs seem unpronounceable to English speakers. But the odd thing is that this wasn't so even 50 years ago when Welsh wasn't that widely spoken, even my great-grandfather who was Welsh born-and-bred didn't speak the language, so to hear little children conversing in it with their parents was really ear-opening and really did make me feel like a stranger in my own land. But I thought it was great, so why stop at Welsh? It stands to reason that people in Scotland, Ireland and even Cornwall should be able to speak the 'local' language, especially when people note how beneficial it is for people to be able to speak a second language.

The Youth Hostel where I stayed has to be located in one of the most scenic places I've ever stayed in. Located at the top of the valley with a lake on one side it was a truly stunning location to wake up and in and retire to, so much so that I'd love to go back and explore the area properly.




It's odd that when you're in the mountains the only thing you have to judge scale to are the other mountains, so it doesn't matter if they're all 1000m or 3000m high, they all look equally impressive, so for a time it really felt like being back in the Alps, and that's something I didn't realise this country could offer. Even seeing things on TV doesn't quite bring it home, and it's made me wonder just what the Scottish Highlights are like in the flesh.

So here's saying a huge thankyou to Mick and Sue, and to everyone else who came along and made the weekend the huge success that it was. Here's looking forward to next year.

Life in the slow lane

My auntie's house in Cheshire is pretty unconventional in the transport connections it sports. In one direction there's a railway line about two metres beyond the garden boundary, and in the other there's a canal about one minute away. Unfortunately there's no way to board the former without some serious acrobatics, but fortunately the canal is punctuated by a lock, so when the weather looked good we hired Rosie for the day and set off on a long slow cruise along the Cheshire waterways.



Unfortunately the fact that it was such a lovely day resulted in me ending the day with a rather red nose and that burning feeling, but it was worth it. It's hard to describe just how tranquil canal-boating is. We did it when I was younger, but I wasn't really old enough to steer the boat, so this was the first time that I had a chance to pilot for myself, affording some good opportunities for some rather embarrassing photos of yours truly.


Apart from one scrape along the bank, one bang when attempting a three point turn, and one beaching incident when hit by another boat's wash, the day went off without a hitch (although the last one did threaten disaster and took about ten minutes of heaving and shoving to get us free).

Everyone's so friendly as well. All of the boats you pass say hello and exchange pleasantries and so do the people on the bank. In fact, often you're motoring no faster than they're walking, so on one occasion I had a conversation with a couple of walkers lasting several minutes. Unfortunately though some are so engrossed in what they're doing that they don't notice as you motor on past.


Thankfully our boat was only about 30 feet long, and I'm filled with tremendous respect for those who pilot the normal 70 feet behemoths and who manage to make them so nimble. At times it felt like I was driving a barge without brakes and with a mind of its own, and the whole 'left to go right' mentality took a great deal of getting used to, but it was tremendous fun. I didn't appreciate quite how extensive the British waterway network was and how well connected the various canals are so I'm now filled with a desire to charter a boat for longer and make a proper go of it. Anyone keen?

The Connah Conundrum

Genealogy has always interested me, perhaps because Connah is an unusual surname, so it's always intrigued me that there's a town in North Wales called "Connah's Quay". A little internet research suggested that it might have been named after the local inn-keeper, part time smuggler and suspected murderer, James Connah. So buoyed on by the prospect of having someone so exciting in my past, and the thought of visiting my 'homeplace’ and having some sort of revelation, that's exactly what I did.

I was warned before I left, and I should have guessed from the rather lackadaisical use of the apostrophe in the name in the various signs around, but my undisguised optimism clouded rational thought. What I found was pretty grim, even the local Somerfield had an air of deep seated resentment about it. I’d hesitate to say that it was a northern version of Camborne, but Redruth would be a good and sadly valid comparison. But the town did at least provide a number of good opportunities for passing motorists to wonder why on earth some bloke was posing to have his photo taken next to the sign of the place they were getting out of.


So while Connah's Quay might well be in my family’s past, a rather large part of me has trouble thinking of it as being part of my future, which is a shame really.

Fortunately the same is not true of all of northern Wales. Admittedly, after the disappointment of Connah’s Quay we lurched straight into another at Colwyn Bay where, after walking a mile in search of a place to eat, I practically suffered from a near-life experience of rigor mortis waiting for perhaps the greasiest toasted sandwich I’ve ever had the fortune to consume. But things looked up afterwards when we motored on to Llandudno, a not-seaside town on the seaside. It’s a place that we used to visit each time we went up to Cheshire when I was younger, but one that seemed to give an entirely different impression to my ten-odd year older eyes. Unfortunately having squandered time in Connah’s Quay and Colwyn Bay we only had time to drive through the lovely Victorian town centre complete with old awnings and paved streets, and drive up the best bit about the place – the Great Orme. When I was younger, the best bit about this rather large hill (or maybe mountain) was that you could take a cable car or tram up it. Now, the best bit is the staggering view from the top where you can see right across the bay to Anglesea, or inland beyond the town to the mountains beyond. It was just a shame that there wasn’t more time to appreciate it all properly.



Just have to go back one-day I guess.

A trip up memory lane (aka the M6)

When I was younger, every Summer a trip up to the little village of Bunbury in Cheshire was practically guaranteed to spend some time with my Gran and the rest of my mother's family. Unfortunately in 2001 my Gran died, and so did the tradition. But this year I decided that it was time to go back and so embarked upon a rather tortuous 10 hour journey with an average speed of about 36mph to revisit (note, don't try and drive out of Cornwall on a Saturday in August).


I've always had something of a fascination with the family, and I think living close to everyone in my dad's family, along with having an unusual surname helps that, but I've also felt a little neglectful of my mother's side of the tree.

Going back to a place you haven't been too for a while is always a little odd, but it can be fascinating what you remember. Obviously I wasn't that young the last time I went up, but six years is enough time to see things differently. For me, it was the little white metal fences around the fields, the signs designating the different cattle herds, and rather peculiarly (and a little scarily) my aunt's TV remote control that triggered memories.

But Cheshire really is a lovely place, full of rolling hills and lovely little towns. It really does feel a world away from the place I live in down here, and I guess with it being so far away, it could be. Chester for instance is a really beautiful city, and Tarporley is such a tranquil and friendly little village that I wonder why I'm not living there now.



In fact, even the wildlife in Cheshire seems tame. I drew open the curtains on the first morning to be greeted by a family of rabbits looking at me from the garden, all of whom seemed entirely unmoved by my appearence in my boxer shorts. Squirrels would have eaten out of my hand had I had anything to feed them with, and even flies posed for their photo to be taken. A far cry from the seagulls in Cornwall.


There's one sentiment that seems ubiquitous when meeting people you haven't seen for some time, namely "Oh, haven't you grown!" And there's no proper answer, but an encounter with my 43 year old cousin got me thinking. While he remarked that he wouldn't have recognised me, I spotted him from some distance off. This leads to the worrying conclusion that at some point in the next 22 years I'll reach the stage where I won't have grown and altered when people see me again, which also means that I'm approaching the stage where my adult features are set - leaving precious little time for the bits I don't like to ebb away!

In fact, while I was there I felt oddly compelled to engage in the sort of activities that my younger self would have done - from visiting the local ice cream parlour, to buying gingerbreadmen from the bakery, and waving to passing trains. In fact, I did engage in such activities in what I can only assume was some sort of nostalgic desire to regress to my childhood for I think that I will forever associate Cheshire with childhood holidays, no matter how long ago they were.

Zip It Up

This blog isn't about social commentary (well, not entirely), but I've been so incensed recently that I've decided to make an exception.

The subject of my ire? Climate Change? Global poverty? No, something far more close to home... the button fly. I ask you; has something so pointless, so fiddly, so unnecessary, ever been inflicted on the human population? Can any designer who makes the conscious decision to equip a perfectly decent pair of trousers with such a useless appendage even be (a) a bloke, or (b) sane? I've lost count of how many times in the past month I've seen a pair of trousers that seem 'just right' only to go and try to zip up the fly and find myself confronted with an array of buttons that repel all attempts to button up without supreme effort, concentration, and some pretty unflattering contortions. When a zip can be mastered in less than a second, this new found 'fashionable' obsession with buttons utterly confounds me.

Designers take note - not only have you lost at least £30 in lost sales because of your thoughtlessness, but you've also dangerously increased one young man's blood pressure.

When Emma and Laura came to town

There are some things in this life that we tend to take for granted, like the fact that the sun will rise the morning after it sets (which perhaps explains why sunsets seem monumentally unappreciated). Also in this category are friendships. Facebook has made it easy to be 'friends' with people whom the term wouldn't apply in the traditional sense.

But I'm pleased to say that after Emma and Laura came to visit Penzance, some nine months after we last saw each other and they left Holland, some Internet friends are just as good friends in real life.



So after an oddly short amount of time getting reacquainted following our separation we settled into the routine we left in Holland like little had happened - only I'd acquired a car and tan lines, and lost an obscene amount of hair. In only four days we managed to cover a large amount of ground, from the Eden Project (which finally managed to impress me after two previous visits ended in me vowing not to return), to St. Ives (a marvelous place that succeeds in being both the quintessential tourist trap, and quintessential Cornish coastal town simultaneously), and the Minack Theatre (where even a truly bad performance is made good due to the fact that the mind pays just as much attention to the (a) view, (b) discomfort and (c) cold, as it does the performance - but it's still a fantastic place).




It's amazing just how much you can learn about the place you live in when you end up showing other people around. Things that I take for granted, and things that seem unremarkable suddenly seem exicting again, like going for BBQ's on the beach at sunset. In fact, there's a whole side to Cornwall that I never knew existed - there's a whole lot of fudge and ginger biscuits around these parts. Tourist Cornwall, and the people it attracts, comes in for an awful lot of stick locally, but the truth is that the economy depends on both. Not only that, but I love Cornwall so much that I equally love the fact that people travel from all over the UK, and indeed from Europe, to visit it. Sure, they clog up the roads and the nice places to visit, but then I've spent the majority of this year doing the same in the places that I've visited. And sometimes I wonder whether the locals who do the complaining actually bother exploring the nicer areas in Cornwall that most tourists don't get too. A quick walk out to the Celtic stones at the Men an Tol or the ruins of Ding Dong mine reveals an unspoilt and authentic side of Cornwall that most people, local or otherwise, don't often see.

So I guess what I'm saying is simply, come to Cornwall and enjoy what's on offer. Sure, it's not Spain, but isn't that what makes it so attractive?

An awful lot of hot air

Several years ago I resolved that I'd visit the Bristol Balloon Fiesta, I then promptly forgot until the following year, when the pattern repeated itself. So it has been for the past three years, until this year when I finally remembered and worked in a visit on my way back to London, making a special detour via Bristol.

Bristol's an odd city. It likes to think that it's part of the South-West, when any self respecting Westcountryman will tell you otherwise and possibly shoot you for even suggesting so. It also has, I think, an unfortunate name that rather like Uttoxeter (what were they thinking?) conjures up less than appealing images. However, it's actually a surprisingly nice place which surprises me every time. I didn't have any time to walk around the city itself this time, but the youth hostel was located down on the riverside by the old docks, an area that seems to have been extensively redeveloped recently and it's become a really lovely area such that I feel a little guilty about my previous misgivings about the place.

But still, this time I wasn't there for the city, but instead for the annual Balloon Fiesta, or more correctly the International Balloon Fiesta, presumably to make it seem more important. I wasn't really sure what to expect from the event, and was a little surprised that (a) it was massive,(b) it felt more like a fairground with balloons than the other way around, and (c) you could buy food from about 100 vans, but if you wanted something healthy you were out of luck bigtime.

There are really two highlights to the event, the mass balloon launch and the night glow event, although there were other acts going including motorcycle stunts and plenty of parachute jumps and paragliding.


People say that trams have an ability to revert even the most serious bloke into his inner child, and they're probably right, but for me, balloons, especially those of the hot air variety, have a similar effect, so the launching of 72 hot air balloons within the space of 60 mins was a pretty spectacular sight to behold. I hadn't appreciated just how much work goes into getting a balloon blown up an airborne before.





After the balloons had all taken off and floated serenely away over the trees to a presumably less serene landings near the Avon gorge, I bagged what looked like a good spot and pulled out the Newsweek I purloined from the train and waited for the night glow. The night glow is the sort of thing that the local news station gets all excited about each year, and in line with most other things the local news gets excited about, I was expecting to be a little disappointed with it, but as it happened, I wasn't. After it got dark (and colder) they reinflated the balloons and equipped them with liquid fuel, and let rip in tune with the music to create a rather impressive music and light show, followed by an equally impressive fireworks extravaganza. Although some of the music choices were a little dodgy, I thought that '99 Red Balloons' was an apt choice.



Alas, there was no opportunity for me to actually go up in a balloon, a feat that I've been chasing ever since I was robbed of such a chance when I was about five at a previous local balloon fete due to 'adverse weather conditions'. Never mind that I could have died, I'm still a little bitter. But if it's taken me three years to get to the Fiesta, then I guess I may have to wait a little while longer to actually venture far enough to go up, up, and away.

Old Faces, New Places

Being about to start my fourth year at University is an odd feeling, especially as most of the people I know have just graduated after their third year, have spread out over the country, and are about to enter the big bad world of working.

I'm not sad about postponing the latter, but I am a little sad about postponing the former. One of the reasons I went to Holland was that I didn't feel ready to graduate as I didn't know what I wanted to do afterwards. Having now been to Holland, I'm a little more sure of what I want to do after finishing University, but I'm 100% certain that I'm ready to graduate and get on with things, and that's a feeling that's only been exacerbated by spending a few days visiting friends who've now done just that.

After getting back from France I visited Jon who's moved up to Norwich to live with his sister and brother-in-law. I'd never been to Norwich before, and I didn't know what it was like, but I feel it worthy of being classed as a thoroughly nice place. In fact, it wasn't dissimilar to Bath (possible my favourite place on earth), just a little bigger and more cityish. It also provided a good opportunity to see the Simpsons Movie (itself a slightly missed opportunity). On the second day there we all went to Pleasure Wood Hills, a slightly oddly named family-friendly pleasure park just outside Norwich with Jon's little sister. Now, I've known Jon for 10 years, which means his sister was 3 when I first new her and alas, not having a little sibling myself I tend to still think of her as that age, so it came as a little surprise to find her being 13 - a surprise that triggered one of those "we're so old" exchanges that tends to leave everyone depressed for rather longer than it should. Although I have noticed that the young prodigies in the news have gone from being a few years older than me, to being several years younger over the past couple of years.

The pleasure park was an odd cross between fairground and theme park, and Jon and I seemed to occupy an awkward age range, being slightly older than other groups of kids, and younger than the groups of parents. However, this provided some fun. After noting that Jon and Lauren went further at the bottom of the water slide than Lauren and I did, and that Steve and Lauren went further still, Jon and I decided to see what we could manage and so we pushed their two-to-a-dinghy rule to the limit and got up some impressive speed before launching off the bottom jump and sliding to a halt quite some distance away. Maybe getting old in age, but still apparently young at heart.

After the excesses of the day I boarded a train for London to visit Stef, Stuart and Joe who've just graduated from Selwyn and moved to the big city in the Docklands area. Unfortunately owing to the day at the pleasure park I didn't have that long there as I had to catch a train early the next morning, but it was great to see them again and to hear about how they were getting on post-University.

It's odd to think that had things happened differently, had I not filled in the Erasmus form, that I'd have been part of it all, moving on from home and university to start something new, but I've no idea where I'd have been. Going to Holland may have made me desperate to graduate and 'grow up' while postponing the event by a year, but it's also made me much more prepared for doing so and I'm continually glad that I did it. I'm not wanting to graduate to get away from University, in fact I'm pretty sure that I'll come back to it at some point, instead it's that I'm wanting to graduate to move on and get on with what my life will bring, whatever that may be.

An Alpine Amble

After spending exactly one-month doing precisely nothing since returning home from the flatlands of Holland, two weeks ago I found myself onboard a train heading for the south of France and to the Alpine village of Meribel-Mottaret to spend the week hiking in the mountains with Sacha, Colin, Lottie and Jon. And jolly good fun it was too - the snow blindness incident aside.

My previous visits to the Alps have all been in Winter for skiing holidays, but I'd always been curious as to how things looked when the snow had melted and the skiers had moved on in the Summer. So I've finally been able to answer my curiosity - and the best I can say is that there's a whole new world out there.




The white snow has a habit of hiding not only what it covers, but of obscuring distances as well. I remember being struck by the beauty of the mountains when I got off the coach on my first skiing trip, but after this week I think they really come alive in that regard in the Summer.

Meribel-Mottaret was a lovely little village at 1700m in the middle of the Trois-Vallées, between Courchevel and Val Thorens. I imagine that it would be a fantastic place to ski from, but it proved to be an equally excellent walking base too. Now, those who know me will attest that my physical fitness levels are not high, and hence, with hindsight it might have been a grand idea to get into shape before setting off. But alas, I didn't, so spent quite a lot of the week rather tired, but if there's something worth getting tired for, it's what we did. Unfortunately the weather wasn't entirely on our side, but after some pretty fantastic thunder-and-lightning displays we set off on a three-day hike from Meribel. The dissapointing thing about walking in the mountains is that while you cover only about 4-5km as the crow flies, it still takes about 8 hours owing to the irritating habit that mountains have of being just a little undulating. But then it wouldn't be any fun if it was just like walking into town. Over three days we rose up to 2900m, walked alongside a glacier, hitchiked, swam in a mountain lake, sang songs, taught Colin to speak English in both Gansta' and Chav, learnt about magical paintings, and had a snow ball fight - all without killing each other in the process.





In fact, aside from Colin's blisters, Lottie's ankle and my giving myself snow blindness (tip: always wear sunglasses in the mountains unless you want to end up wearing sunglasses even in the darkest room and feeling like you're always looking into the sun for a couple of days), things went really well. We stayed in mountain refuges, which I had visions of being places that only welcomed you if you practically fell through the door after running out of water in the dead of night. However, I was quite wrong and they were basically youth hostels at altitude which seemed to specialise in mammoth dinner portions. The second required us all to sleep on one giant bunkbed, which provided a good opportunity for Sacha to smack my forehead throughout the night and for Lottie to proclaim, to my eternal pride, that I was the only one of the group who didn't snore.

We also had a lot of fun. When you're walking for so long that a little entertainment was practically obligatory, but unfortunately I was ruled out of the best part - the swimming in the lake - by virtue of my snow blindness which turned the lake into one big mirror for the sun, but still, I could never have beaten Jon's effort to frighten the mountain goats.


Something that I'll never see in the same way again are hitchikers. We've all driven past them standing at the side of the road, and truth be told, I'd never thought anything about it. But having now been a hitchiker myself I can confidently say that there's little more dispiriting than standing by the side of a road for more than 40 minutes while countless cars, with ample space inside, drive on by. Eventually though we did get picked up, so a big thankyou to Mr. Bernard Vissoud, Savoyard wine specialist and qualified moutain guide who gave us a lift on one occasion. One very generous gentlemen squeased Lottie, Sacha and myself into a three door hatchback stuffed full of suitcases by getting his little son to ride atop one of the suitcases in the back, sandwiched up against the roof. People are apparently helpful like that in the mountains.

And that's only one of the reasons that I love them and why I can't wait to go back. There's something about the isolation that you can feel in the mountains that's incredibly refreshing, and the fact that we were in France where the boulangerie rules supreme, only made things even better. Of course, my continuing lack of language skills still grated and ensured my Englishman abroad persona survives, especially seeing as everyone else spoke French. But that didn't detract from a really great week that's convinced me to get myself into a little better shape to be able to appreciate what we did even more.

Vive la Montagne indeed.