Lakes, Peaks & Mr Darcy's Pad

It was a weekend that almost didn't happen. With the Eyjafjallajokull (just trying to pronounce that word hurts my brain) volcano throwing giant plumes of ash into the skies over Europe, most scheduled flights into the UK were cancelled or seriously delayed. My visitor, Mel, was due to fly from Australia, via Abu Dhabi and Dublin, to Manchester. I didn''t hold much hope for her.

She was one of the lucky ones, though. Mel arrived on time, and we packed in a whole lot of good stuff into 2 days.

First up was drive to the Lakes District. After a short stop to watch sailing boats on Coniston Water (see photo) we drove on to Ambleside via tiny, single-lane roads. We wandered around the streets and shops of Ambleside for an hour or so before returning to the car and heading over to Great Langdale, where I knew some of my friends were camped for the weekend.

My friends weren't at their tent when we arrived - a phone call earlier in the day revealed they were, in fact, enroute to the summit of Scafell Pike - the highest mountain in England. In a major stroke of luck, when I called was the only time they had been able to get mobile reception all day. They gave me an estimated time they would get back to camp, so for Mel and I - who had arrived a touch early - it became a matter of occupying ourselves until they turned up. It was a lovely afternoon, so we took some photos, watched lambs playing in the fields, soaked up the sun and waited...and waited...and waited!

Eventually, it reached the point where, facing a long drive back to Manchester, Mel and I had to leave - but I was concerned of the whereabouts of my friends. Thankfully the next morning they texted to say they got off the mountain OK, but having underestimated the technical nature of the descent (lots of rock scrambling) they reached their camp over two hours late and in total darkness! When you consider that they had experienced delays in good weather, it is easy to see why the mountain rescue service is always busy in that part of the world.

For the second day of Mel's visit we ventured over to the edge of the Peak District -  a national park much closer to Manchester and host to the Lyme Park estate. The estate - owned by the wealthy Legh family for many generations, is now managed by the National Trust, who maintain the buildings and grounds for Trust members and the general public, see http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-lymepark . Lyme Park happens to be the place where the film version of Jane Austen's novel, Pride and Prejudice, scripted Mr Darcy (Colin Firth) as first laying his eyes on Elizabeth.

Having now visited the estate, I can appreciate the decision to film Pride and Prejudice there - it is indeed prime habitat for the cultured English gent. The main building is magnificent, particularly viewed across the lake, and the formal gardens are exquisite. Deer lounge around the rest of the estate, blending easily into the beige and brown palette of hillside moors. Now, if only I owned a long cloak, a pocket watch and a monocle...

Skiing on the Roof of Europe

I'm not sure what Kellie said to, or offered, the travel agent in Didsbury. It may, or may not, have involved the exchange of a brown paper bag and promises of early retirement. Alternatively, Kel may have brandished a blunt instrument and made threats of physical violence (she can have a remarkably short temper, you know). Whatever my wife did do, it worked a treat. She walked out of that travel agency with flights to Geneva, transfers and a week's mountainside accommodation in the French Alps for two people. All for the princely sum of £400 ($800 Australian). To put that haul into perspective, you'd struggle to get a property in Thredbo for anywhere near $800 a week. You go girl!

The catch (I know you were waiting for it) was that our accommodation was designated as "allocation on arrival". That's travel industry-speak for making you spin the hotel and resort 'roulette wheel' when you clear customs at the airport. To avoid disappointment, we hoped (and prayed) for the penthouse suite at Val D'Isere or Meribel but envisaged a cold concrete shoebox with fold-out bed situated across the road from an indoor ski slope. The other catch (I failed to mention there were two catches, didn't I?) was we had to travel the next day. Actually, a 'day' is too generous, it was more like be at the airport in 10 hours. Just enough time to pack, borrow some ski clothes and grab a couple of hours of poor quality shut-eye.

Evidently, somebody really likes us, or Kel gave that travel agent a real working over. We were allocated a plush one bedroom apartment at the Manoir Savoie - a tastefully designed alpine resort (an oxymoron?) with all the trimmings (spa, sauna, gym etc) at Les Arcs 1950. By the way, the 1950 refers to the elevation in metres, not the year the resort was built - I was most relieved when I found this out. The website http://www.ultimate-ski.com/Directory/Arc_1950_Le_Village/index.html has a good overview of our accommodation and the purpose built village that surrounds it.

In the three days that have followed (I am typing this entry from our apartment), Kel and I have been lapping up the sun (our second day was entirely cloudless) and finding our ski legs. There's 452km of ski-able terrain available to us on our six day Paradiski lift pass (it includes the neighbouring resort of La Plagne) and we're trying hard to cover as much of it as we can. It is something of a coincidence that we are directly above the town of Bourg Saint Maurice, which was host to the first Tour de France stage we visited last year. The snow is good quality and there's plenty of it. Yesterday we skiied on top of a glacier at over 3000 metres elevation. It was beautiful and, at the risk of sounding cliched, probably something we will never have the chance to do again.

Of course, being back in France we are loving the trips to the boulangerie for baguette and pain au chocolat! Kel is shattered that she cannot be gobbling up the cheese as she usually would, but it is a small sacrifice that pales in comparison to the many wonderful things we are experiencing (she may argue otherwise). For example, lunch today was the plat du jour (beouf bourginon) at a mountainside restaurant...life is tough

Au revoir from Les Arcs!

A Norwegian Christmas

It was the 23rd of December - almost Christmas. In 6 hours of constant snow showers we drove from Oslo to Kvinesdal, in some cases on roads so blanketed by snow they were completely white; faint tyre tracks were the only clue of a through path. Sitting quietly in the back seat, I marvelled at scenes briefly illuminated by the car's headlights. Pine tree saplings bent over with the weight of snow-laden foliage. Dark tunnel walls glistening with ice and condensation. A brief glimpse of a frozen lake. Cottages with decorated windows projecting warm amber light.

We were travelling with Even and Eirunn, our good friends from Norway, to Eirunn's parents house. They had generously invited us to share festivities with both their families. Who could argue with the prospect of a truly white Christmas?

We learned several things during our week-long stay. First, Norwegians exchange gifts on the 24th, not the 25th. This is hardly a huge problem; in fact, it frees up all Christmas Day to 'play' with (or eat, drink, wear) your presents. Second, Norwegians tend to have two meals a day at this time of the year: a smorgasbord-style 'brunch' that is eaten around 10.30am and then a large dinner in the early evening. Third, Kellie likes herring. I mean REALLY likes herring. Fourth, and finally, Norwegians like drinking aquavit - a sort of whiskey-like spirit made from potatoes and flavoured with spices, particularly caraway. Skol!

Eirunn's parents, Kurt and Jette, own a mountain cabin in a place called Knaben - about an hour away from their home. At Even's suggestion, everyone headed up there for a few days just after Christmas. To be honest, it was hardly a cabin, at least in the way I had envisaged it. This place had four bedrooms, a deck and, wait for it, a hot tub! In the short hours of daylight, we squeezed in a wander around the village, dug a snow cave, went tobagganing (if you call a small disc of plastic under your arse a tobaggan) and checked out the old mining complex.

When the hot tub eventually reached 40 degrees, and with the air temperature sitting at minus 10 degrees, all eight of us made the dash from the house in slightly ridiculous outfits. Put it this way, never before had I thought of matching a beanie with just boardshorts and socks (thankfully used only for the shuttle run between house and tub). But with a few drinks under the belt, our fashion crimes became the height of sartorial elegance.

The few drinks might also explain why we took up the 'snow dive' challenge issued by Eirunn's dad, Kurt. As you can probably guess, a snow dive involved removing yourself from the sanctuary of the tub and leaping off the deck into a drift of snow, then scrambling back to the tub as fast as you can, with no concern for dignity or personal safety. Kurt thought it was hilarious fun. I, on the other hand, lost feeling in my nether regions for several hours.

A Christmas to remember for a long, long time - for many reasons!