Andes Horse Ride

With the Andes on my door step it seems foolish not to get into the great out doors after a week being bound to the office. I found a website with the promise of a days riding in the mountains, so Saturday at 8am found me looking for the metro to take me to the stables.

Santiago’s metro is a modern affair, clean and safe. The trains run on rubber tires like the Paris metro, all very efficient, and ticket cost 50p to anywhere you want to go. I had one change then I took line four (4) to the penultimate stop. It took an hour and was all very pleasant and at 50p excellent value. The next part of my journey was to catch a “collectable” hand over the written address of the stable and pay another £2.

A collectable, is a taxi which the passengers share, along a predetermined route. You just request the driver to stop and out you jump. If there are more passengers along the route he will stop and let them on board. Many interesting people can be met during this form of transport.

40 minuets later I was deposited out side the stable, not bad for a couple of quid ready to meet my mount.




The horse was a rodeo trained horse which at the slightest touch short of in one direction or another. It took a couple of minuets to get used to, much the amusement of the stable staff and guide.

Off we went up the mountain, to some of the most beautiful views of the Andes. These horses walked along paths I wouldn’t have dreamed of walking on foot. We went along a ledge not a foot wide with a near vertical drop of in excess of 100ft. Not for the faint hearted.

We carried on through gorges and up mountains for a couple of hours only once meeting another guide and riders. We stopped for lunch by a small beck, watered the horses and my guide even produced a can of beer. Idyllic.

Well, yes the scenery definitely. But I had come to ride horses not walk them through though leafy glen and up dale. As we returned to the stable after a four hour walk I was bored. It reminded me of taking my girls pony trekking in Wales four (4) years ago. Charlie was just learning to ride, while George looked very good on a horse. But after three days of walking horses around the Gower every body was bored. Just goes to show it doesn’t matter what the view is without the excitement of a gallop it is just another walk with a horse!

Odile: The Black Swan

As I look out from my hotel room I stare straight at the magnificent Andes mountains. They truly are magnificent, and this from a man who was born in the Rocky Mountains of Canada, raised in the English Lake District and owns an apartment in the French Alps. I know mountains and these are magnificent.

I am in Santiago the capital of Chile, to climb the highest mountain in the Andes? No for business, but that doesn’t take away the view.

I walked through a local park and came face to face with a lama, which is unsurprising when in the Andes. But it reminded me of my mother coming face to face with a lama when in the Sussex country side.

My eldest daughter Georgina and my mother were collecting daffodils in the woods behind my parent’s house in Sussex. George was 4yrs old, and my mother was trying to entertain her. They were off to see the sheep and the donkeys, however once in the wood my daughter wanted to see the lamas. My mother dismissal was absolute. But you know the way little girls have of getting there own way, especially George or is that only with me? So off they scampered through the wood to a field containing four (4) lamas.

Georgina continued to surprise and entertain my mother; witness both their delight watching a television programme below, priceless.



The last time I saw my mother conscious we were attending a school production of Swan Lake. Georgina now 15yrs old was playing Odile the black swan and as the script describes “she is radiant and proceeds to dance with the prince ...” which as her father I can confirm she looked gorgeous and very talented.

Not known for giving compliments easy my mother was beside her self with her talented grand daughter “Just think that beautiful, wonderful person came from me” if I remember her words correctly.

A week later I was awoken by the police asking me to ring the Royal Sussex hospital as my mother had been admitted. My mother never regained consciousness and died 48hrs later as I held her hand.

It’s strange how memories are interlinked, and what comes to mind as you walk through a park in the Andes. As to Aconcagua the highest mountain in South America we’ll see how the work goes!

Penguin Plunge

Back on my beloved Whale Coast after an absence of what seems like a year. It is ten (10) months, all but a short trip during the Easter period. Also arriving back after their summer break were the Southern Right Whales. On my first day back I saw one breach in front of the restaurant I was having breakfast in. Were they welcoming me back, I like to think so.

Also welcoming is the village of Stanford where the locals are raising money with a Penguin Plunge this Saturday in aid of local disadvantaged children. As 8 month pregnant Jami Yeats-Kastner is leading from the front, literally. It seems a bit churlish not accept their gracious invitation to join them. It has been gales rain and more storms than I have ever seen in the Cape of Storms this week, well it is middle of winter.

Still should be nothing to the adventurer who as part of a relay team swam the English Channel in September 2008. The water temperature should be about the same as when five of us set off from Dover docks at 4am on a blustery dark morning. The training had gone well and we had all been immersing ourselves in the cold water of Tooting Beck Lido at 7am each Sunday morning so we thought we were acclimatized for our little swim to France.

The rules of relay swimming the channel are simple. No wet suits and each relay member must swim for an hour before he is replaced by the next. Once the order has been set there can be no change. There are to be a maximum six (6) member in each team. We only had five (5) as were unable to find another lunatic who would join us. Pete swam first and I was straight after so I had no briefing. In I jumped with my racing trunks, goggles and a light glow, one in my suit and the other behind my head. It was still dark so I didn’t see the water coming up to meet me. The next thing I recall was the cold, the utter mind blowing freezing temperature, the belt across my chest as I struggled to breath, the darkness of the water all round me. The boat I had jumped off had stopped to pick up Pete and would catch me up as I swam off. If I though the other four ex rugby buddies of mine would have let me back on that boat I would have gone back. Knowing that was not an option I started to swim. One arm over the next. One stroke at a time. No need to think where you are or how long you had to endure the cold.

Dawn in the English Channel, 8th September 2008

The hour past and I lived. My finger had gone blue and I had lost the feeling to my hands, but I had made it. Back on board shaking and shivering, quickly stripped off towelled and clothed. I was beginning to get warm when the nausea hit me.

Swimming along side a diesel engine boat for an hour, a swimmer swallows or breaths in a substantial amount of fumes. The result was me hanging over the side of the boat bring up breakfast. Each of my friends did the same as soon as they got back on board. Nobody could hold down any nourishment.

It took an hour plus to get warm. The next two hour I tried to feel normal, enjoy the dolphins, the porpoises, the raw sewerage that floated by. The last hour was the worst. My body was screaming at me not to go in the water again. I would not let my friends down. One more into the deep, in this case quite literally.

The hour went smoothly, after getting the initial shock of the water, I actually started to enjoy myself. I was hearing clicking noises in the water – the porpoises had come to play, the sun albeit briefly was also out. When I came out my fingers weren’t blue and I could feel my hands. This swimming lark wasn’t so bad after all.

Then the nausea hit me again. I was hanging over the rail unable to pull my pants up bring up gods know what. Why did I have to come back on board, I was happier in the water. Again no nourishment could be consumed, the retching had taken its toll, once I was warmed sufficiently I lay on the engine cover and fell into a deep sleep. I slept for a full three hours. I was awoken by Pete who was next in. The captain was for turning round as we were going to fail in our bid to swim the channel. Pete had told the captain that I was fine, he had seen me in a lot worse states. He asked me if I would be returning to the sea for another hour. I answered I’d rather be in the sea than on the boat.

When my turn came we were within four (4) miles of the French coast. But the tied was on the turn we had possibly three (3) hours before we would be swept out to sea and would be out there for another 12 hours. I was told not only did I have to swim for my hour but I also had to make a good two mile distance. I used all my will power to jump back into the sea and swam. It was not the easy swimming of the second hour, my body had started eating itself. I required nourishment but was unable to take it on board. Each stroke was an effort. I was back to putting one arm in front of the other, but this time I had to do it quickly.

The hour passed, as I got back on board the usual happened and I eventually got warm. Billy had taken us to within a few hundred yards of the coast. Nick swam the last seven (7) minuets to the beach to greeted by three young ladies who smothered him with kisses. The beer was cracked open backs were slapped as we headed back to Blighty and the white cliffs of Dover.

Am I looking forward to driving into a freezing cold river this coming Saturday? Of course not I’d be a bloody fool. Will I be joining the others, you bet, its all in a good cause, did I mention me and the Guy’s Buoys raised £11,000 for prostate cancer.

Mongolian Derby Second Time?

Its Friday and my favourite afternoon past time is sitting in Hermanus on the West Coast of South Africa. I eat oysters, drinking white wine and watch the Southern Right whales feeding their calf’s in Walker Bay. Add the company and it’s idyllic.

Unfortunately ‘the adventurer’ is not in South Africa but Horsham, West Sussex, England, staying with my father. Not that visiting ones father is unfortunate. However after being here for two weeks I am pulling at the bit to get away for the weekend.

Off to London and the bright lights this afternoon, meeting my good friend Nick. Those regular readers will remember that the last time I met Nick and his friends in the city a £500 wager was placed and duly won by yours truly. This evening event is only a prelude to the real reason for going to the city, although who knows what will materialise from this evening shenanigans.



On Saturday morning I shall be going horse riding. I have entered a competition, the prize, the entrance fee to the 3rd Mongolian Derby a not unsubstantial $10,000. To win, I need to make a video being interviewed sitting on a horse.

Why? You are asking would I want to enter the same race I came third in two years ago. Where I had four unofficial dismounts and took six stitches. Where I lost feeling in three toes due to hyperthermia. Where I lost so much weight I looked like this at the finish line



The Mongolian people are one of the most generous races of people in the world. They are fun, and they laugh easily. Their hospitality shows no bounds. I entered a camp one evening, using only sign language. I asked if I could stay the night. I was shown to a tent, where they showed me a bed. I was then shown to another tent where a wedding party was in full progress. I was given food, strong drink and a seat next to the bride. Two aunties, who had also taken strong drink, proceeded to teach me naughty words in Mongolian, much to the amusement of all present.

It was amazing, songs, speeches, and laughter. In my old age I intend to tell the tail to my grandchildren, of the day I attended a Mongolian wedding.

Is this my reason to enter the longest and toughest horse race in the world? Not a chance.

Third place is only the second of those who came last. As you know ‘the adventurer’ is nothing if not competitive.

I want to enter the race TO WIN.

New Years Skiing

New Year was spent in Le Grande Terche, a ski village south of Morzine in the French Alps where this Adventurer happens to be lucky enough to own an apartment.
It is part of the Porte Du Solaire one of the most expansive ski regions in the world. However Le Grande Terche is a small family resort consisting of one black, three reds and three blue ski runs. In the village it has three bars and three restaurants. A friend Gavin and his girlfriend came to visit for the New Years festivities.

The evening started badly, I had roasted a chicken for dinner prior to tearing up the village at midnight. Even Gavin a kick boxing coach could not beat the toughest bird any of us had ever encountered. Not to be deterred Champagne was opened and the EFS (French ski school) set off the evening with a touch lit descent followed by an early fireworks display. The fireworks were set off early due to health and safety reasons, i.e. nobody could be trusted to be sober enough at midnight to light the fireworks. Now that is the kind of health and safety I agree with.

The last time I was out with Gavin he had worn a ‘Morph’ outfit to the public house we were visiting, much to the amusement of all patrons. It was no surprise therefore that after the Champagne he produced face paints explaining he could not get the Captain America outfit into his luggage. Once suitable attired we went off to paint if not the town, then the New Year revellers red, green, yellow and blue.

At 4am after a night of partying where at one time we had a cue of revellers waiting to have their face painted we decided to call it a day and slopped off to bed.

For the next few days paint was found on sheets, table clothes, towels etc. people we met that night came up to us shaking our hands wishing us Happy New Year, or shaking their heads and running in the opposite direction. What a couple of pounds spent on face paint can do is truly remarkable.

New Years day, a little jaded we approach the pieste for the real excitement of the holiday. Gavin and I set off to teach the debutant girls how to snow plough on the green slope before lunch. To our great delight both girls seemed to pick up the basics quickly leaving us to try a little more difficult slope in the afternoon.

Now I am quite a reasonable skier as one would expect of the Adventurer who owns an apartment in the French Alps. I was taught by my cousins who were in the Canadian ski team. So I had a quick look at Gavin’s style told me he was an intermediate skier with lots of fitness and upper body strength to get him out of trouble. I took him straight off pieste and watched him slip down the mountain on his back side.

Tough chicken? If there is one thing that annoys me, its people who criticize my cooking!

A little gem of a boozer!

Upon returning from South Africa, I have been residing at my sister’s apartment in Hove, on Second Avenue, 50mts from the beach on the top floor of a converted Victorian House. It is a beautiful spacious two bedroom flat. No I am not trying to sell it has already been sold. My sister is waiting for the sale to be completed, and while she is waiting, she very kindly offered me the use.

Hove is next door to Brighton which is a holiday resort for wealthy Londoners. London being only an hour away, it is also popular with day trippers, and has very active night life. All very good, bright lights, loud music, lots of twenty, thirty some things enjoying the sea air, and partying the night away, but where do you go to find a good pub which to have a beer after work?

In my wanderings in search of such an establishment, I came across a little gem of a boozer with a unique past. The landlady, Sue gave me a warm welcome, and the regulars were just as friendly.

The Bow Street Runner

In Brighton people know the story of Brighton Pavilion. George 1V, the Prince Regent built it as a discreet location for him to enjoy liaisons with his long-time companion, Mrs Fitzherbert. The Prince had wished to marry her, and did so in secrecy, after his divorce from Queen Caroline for her adultry.

Another story is told by the locals who drink in the Bow Street Runner. An urban legend true or not, has grown and is told by the regulars a friendly lot, it has to be said. They tell me the pub was originally a police station, looking back in records I found it did indeed change its name from the Station Inn. Aparently it was getting too many telephone calls requesting the time of the next train to London.

Landlady Sue and a few of the regulars

According to the locals the police station came into being because of the ammerous advances of a royal who had taken a lover across the street. The police opened a small police station to keep an eye on the royal and his late night wanderings. Once his lustfull ways had been fulfilled the police station closed and turned into the fine public house it has become today.

Nobody could tell me which royal or who he had liaisons with. Not surprising as the pub had been in excistance for over two hundred years, and I have had trouble remembering what happened last night on occassions.

The pub is in Brunswick Street coincidentally Queen Caroline’s title prior to her marriage to George 1V was Caroline the Duchess of Brunswick. Perhaps it wasn’t a he, having an affair but a she? Has the story has changed down the years? Could it be that Caroline was the one having an affair? After all she was divorced for her adultery. Was the police station opened for her protection!

I’ll have to pop down and inform the locals in the Bow Street Runner of my pontifications. Not that I need an excuse to revist such a friendly establishment.

Brighton 100

A 100 mike bike race which starts in Preston Park at 8am, a quick 100 miles (approximately 160km) and finishes back in Brighton’s Preston Park. In between a lot of leg work and one of the most talked about climbs in the world of bikes, Devil’s Dyke!

A good contingent should be taking part. The idea of a few beers, and fish and chips on Brighton’s famous promenade after some mild excursion is bound to bring the faithful out for one of the last rides of the summer.

Just before we start to think that 100 miles on a bike is a hard day’s work. Gill and another of her friends has decided to complete the shorter course, 50 miles on skates. There is always somebody, somewhere making what we do look like an infant schools sports day.

To race day and the good contingent had fallen dramatically with cry off’s for various reasons, from a believable “I’m going to see my kids” to Nick’s “I’ve got to work!” ‘Fess up my buddy your girl friend was doing a half marathon and you got told to cheer her on. Gill had gone to a party on Saturday evening and was having difficulty in finding …. well anything!

Tim and Dora set out on their sea side excursion alone on the 6.30 train from Victoria. Arriving in Brighton to a cold dawn, rain in the air and a 25 mph wind straight in your face no matter which way you are heading. After numerous set backs and adding another three miles onto the route due to a sign which had blown away they completed the 50 mile course in 4hrs. In the conditions not too shabby!

A disappointing 750 riders turned out for the ride, may be it is held too late in the season to attract a better number.

So it was off to Kemp Town for a few well earned beers and to the promenade for fish and chips twice in Tim’s case.

Gill eventually arrived in Brighton at 10am and was last heard from saying “Just finished my 50 mile skate after two falls, two blisters and 8 hours of continual skating.” Hat’s off well done!

As for the Adventurer; I went to see my kids. But I made it to Brighton to enjoy the beer and fish and chips!