An incident yesterday has made me look at what wonders there are in the world so I thought I’d share with you a true story, which happened to me.
There are a few things that I have seen in the course of my travels that have made me sit up and wonder. The pilot whales in the Atlantic and the French man who waved his hands and took my pain away to name a couple I have encountered, but it’s the story of two little birds who had the hearts of eagles I want to acquaint you with today.
My partner and I were living in a small village in Western Provence; South Africa with three cats and a beautiful view over the river to the mountains beyond. It had a stope to the front of the house with a large table and chairs with a braai attached to the wall of the house. Our outside inside room as my partner used to describe it.
We would sit outside in the evenings watching the sun go down and throwing shadows over the mountains. I’d light a fire and have a laker chop and a dop “Life don’t get much better.”
One spring morning, a couple of years ago I came out to find the beginning of a swallow’s nest being constructed on the braai chimney. Swallow’s build their nests out of mud which they carry in their mouths all chewed up then spit it out onto the wall they mold it into a round shape with a funnel at the end, probably so their chicks don’t fall out when their away from the nest.
After some discussion regarding the placement of the nest with the three cats, they don’t like poached eggs, I thought it best to discourage the two swallows from building it on the chimney and scraped the beginnings of their home off the wall.
A day later I had a visit from the two swallows. They both perched on the top of one of the high backed chairs opposite me and gave me what can only be described as “a rite good tongue lashing”. Well the bloke just stood there. If I understood her correctly she was telling me she was pregnant and this was the best place for their home and why couldn't they build their home on this stope, you don’t own the place. The bloke just stood there totally embarrassed and looked away with a stance that said “look mate, see what I have to put up with, have a heart”
I first explained about the cats; “Cats can’t fly” she tweeted. “Ok Ok” I agreed “but you can’t build your home on the chimney your chicks would cook.” “We will build it off the wall” she conceded “we’ll start tomorrow” she stated “OK” I agreed.
The bloke look at me nodded his head as if to say cheers mate and they were off.
The following day they started building their home again and this time they left an inch of space between the chimney and the back of their nest.
That is ridiculous; you can’t have had a conversation with two swallows regarding the construction of their nest. Why did they leave an inch between the chimney and the back of their nest, the nest I destroyed was on the chimney. I don’t believe you can have a conversation with two birds either, but it happened to me, so what can I say.
They built their nest and raised two chicks that year and they came and showed them off to us prior to going overseas, we named them Poached and Boiled.
The following spring they were back, said hello and when straight into their home, watched intensively by the pussy cats licking their lips.
We left that house soon after, they were right we didn't own it, we were renting.
It’s their home now I will visit the house at Christmas and see if they returned to their home for a third year?
Hi, My name is Paul Chew and I'm an adventurer, or it is how I was described and introduced in South Africa where I returned from on the 12th July. Follow the link to read of my Past Adventurers
Friday, 21 November 2014
Saturday, 7 June 2014
The Jungles of Panama
It’s been a while since my last blog and I have done a fair bit of travelling since
I thought I would let write down what it’s like for me living in a third world country in the tropics. Not the usual type of adventure I write about but an adventure none the less.
I am in the jungles of Panama working on the construction of a dam. The construction site employs nearly 1,000 people on a daily basis, seven days a week. There is a small town build up around the camp offering the usual services you find where a 1,0000 single men away from home. Not that I live in the camp. The dam is the sixth dam on a river which runs very close to the border with Costa Rica where on occasions I have pop over for lunch.
I have been housed on a beach in a condo with all the modern first world amenities, air conditioning, dish washer, fridge, range etc. It has three bedrooms and I have an on suite bathroom with the king size bed. The most famous sportsman in Panama is a baseball player who plays for the New York Yankees it’s his condo that the company rents for me. It is in a beach club complex with a 4/5 star hotel next door with heliport, where I have an account.
At weekend the rich and famous come to play in the hotel. There are lots of beautiful young ladies with older gentlemen, whom I can only assume are their fathers. I tend to have breakfast there on a Sunday, which is my day off to admire the view. It is no more than 50 yards to the sea and less than 10yds to the 25mt swimming pool from my balcony which has a big gas fired BBQ on it.
The company supply me with a 4x4 SUV to get to work and back which takes 50mins. The office is in the jungle at the site of the construction project.
I live 30 minutes outside the second biggest city in Panama called San Jose David where there is a Western supermarket pick up supplies for the following week. In the supermarket I found cans of Boddingtons which I bought the last eight, I do hope they get some more, life will me hell with a can of English beer.
San Jose David and the road I take to the site, the Pan American highway is the main route for the drug cartels use carry their drugs to their main market in the USA. There are regular patrols and stops at random by lots of police, soldiers or custom officials, I am never sure which. While my Spanish is improving I tend not to use it when speaking to young men with guns.
There was a long traffic jam one evening heading home when I arrived at the cause the police were there in force as there had been a gang land shooting on the highway. They had dragged the body of the “hit” off the road and left it laying by the side so all the rubber necker’s were having a good look, which was the cause of the delay. In typical London style I thought it was a little inconvenience for them to go shooting and killing people during rush hour.
The Construction Union called a national strike last month so it was very peaceful once I got to site. There was the minor irritation of driving through the picket lines but the security staff always turned out carrying pump action shotguns so there was never any serious trouble. The security men all carry shotguns as I said the site is very close to the boarder and occasionally during the night people and mules wonder through the area to cross over the boards. I think they must be after the duty free.
As I write this a tropical down pour is falling from the sky. It’s the rainy season, which means a tropical storm of gigantic proportions appears every afternoon between three and four o’clock. I have never witnessed a deluge of this magnitude before It can mean not leaving the site until it stops. The owner of the dam was in my office last week and the rains started and he couldn’t leave as a river was running outside the front door and his office was only 10mts away. Of course the electricity and internet goes off for a while during the storm.
However in Panama there is no need to worry about a little water from the sky. It’s the earthquake’s that make the place interesting. I always like a good knee trembler and here you just never know when the next one is coming!
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
A ball at the back of the line!
A meeting with a couple of old rugby buddies started me reminiscing of past glories on the field. There’s an old saying the older I get the better I was. So a little story from my past.
I played rugby league U18 for Cumbria and received international honours for Norway at rugby union. I played most of my rugby for Guy’s Hospital RFC who were just losing their status as a first class cub when I joined. That said we still had half the fixture list from the golden days, when one Saturday the club’s first team walked out onto the pitch with 15 internationals with the two sub’s on the bench both current international for England.
I remember playing Cambridge University at Grange Road against the likes of Hastings, Smith, Bailey, to name but a few. Marcus Rose the resident English full back was aliened against us. Not that he saw the end of the game. Docs, all nine stone tackled him as he came thumping through the centres. The stretcher came on and off he went, not a bad claim to fame Richard Docker.
My claim is I took a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner at the back of the lineout. He is known as one of the hard men of English rugby. The blind side flanker received legendry status during the 1991 world cup finals for his tackle on Marc Cecillon of France. Truly one of the great back row forwards!
On a murky Tuesday evening in south east London we were playing Blackheath – The Club, the oldest fixture between two rugby club’s in the world. For reason’s I don’t recall I was asked to be the third jumper at the back of the lineout. Don’t worry I was assured “We wont throw the ball there.”
The first lineout was a while in coming, when it did I tried to look all of my 5ft 113/4in. as I walked up to the line. I took a look at my opposition and my heart sank. He was 6ft 5ins, although known for his flowing locks; this evening he had a skin head hair cut, muscles bulging through his rugby shirt and was speaking with a Geordie ascent. Mick “The Munch” Skinner. I was in for a pleasant evening.
As planned the ball was thrown straight over the heads of the number two (2) and four (4) jumpers. A quick decision, do I try to contest? Of course not, this was the cream of England, the red rose, he flew into the air as I watched, took the ball cleanly in two hands, perfect. As he returned to terra firma my arm shoot through taking his legs away. He landed on his coccyx, presenting the ball perfectly, but that had to hurt.
Smiling I was off, chasing down the fly half.
The next line out came and I stood against the England hero. To plan once again the ball sailed over the number two (2) and number four (4) jumpers as Mick rose, a splendid sight. I turned, and was hit, I was sailing through the air and then I hit the ground. That hurt! I was lying 10yds from the line out. The Blackheath blind side had come through and knocked me for six. He never said a word as he stood over me, but I got the message, if I tried it again I wouldn’t see the end of the game.
I took the warning. I like to think I am fairly tough, but I have no death wish and I am certainly not suicidal. These boys meant business and had the strength and character to follow it through. No more illegal movement in the air.
Still one has to compete!
Mick took another couple of line outs, with only little opposition. The flank forwards once again became laxest. Mid way though the second half, up he went leaping like a salmon, taking the ball in two hands. As he was returning to earth I jumped. I managed to get my arm though under his armpit and ripped the ball out. I turned and passed it to Docs who was waiting. Mick came down, no ball in sight wondering what had happened. Not robbed more pick pocketed. He went wild; thankfully not with me but with his flankers. I can still here his Geordie curses if I close my eyes.
We came second that evening to Blackheath, not by a huge score, but well beaten. However it is one I will always remember. The night I stole a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner!
I played rugby league U18 for Cumbria and received international honours for Norway at rugby union. I played most of my rugby for Guy’s Hospital RFC who were just losing their status as a first class cub when I joined. That said we still had half the fixture list from the golden days, when one Saturday the club’s first team walked out onto the pitch with 15 internationals with the two sub’s on the bench both current international for England.
I remember playing Cambridge University at Grange Road against the likes of Hastings, Smith, Bailey, to name but a few. Marcus Rose the resident English full back was aliened against us. Not that he saw the end of the game. Docs, all nine stone tackled him as he came thumping through the centres. The stretcher came on and off he went, not a bad claim to fame Richard Docker.
My claim is I took a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner at the back of the lineout. He is known as one of the hard men of English rugby. The blind side flanker received legendry status during the 1991 world cup finals for his tackle on Marc Cecillon of France. Truly one of the great back row forwards!
On a murky Tuesday evening in south east London we were playing Blackheath – The Club, the oldest fixture between two rugby club’s in the world. For reason’s I don’t recall I was asked to be the third jumper at the back of the lineout. Don’t worry I was assured “We wont throw the ball there.”
The first lineout was a while in coming, when it did I tried to look all of my 5ft 113/4in. as I walked up to the line. I took a look at my opposition and my heart sank. He was 6ft 5ins, although known for his flowing locks; this evening he had a skin head hair cut, muscles bulging through his rugby shirt and was speaking with a Geordie ascent. Mick “The Munch” Skinner. I was in for a pleasant evening.
As planned the ball was thrown straight over the heads of the number two (2) and four (4) jumpers. A quick decision, do I try to contest? Of course not, this was the cream of England, the red rose, he flew into the air as I watched, took the ball cleanly in two hands, perfect. As he returned to terra firma my arm shoot through taking his legs away. He landed on his coccyx, presenting the ball perfectly, but that had to hurt.
Smiling I was off, chasing down the fly half.
The next line out came and I stood against the England hero. To plan once again the ball sailed over the number two (2) and number four (4) jumpers as Mick rose, a splendid sight. I turned, and was hit, I was sailing through the air and then I hit the ground. That hurt! I was lying 10yds from the line out. The Blackheath blind side had come through and knocked me for six. He never said a word as he stood over me, but I got the message, if I tried it again I wouldn’t see the end of the game.
I took the warning. I like to think I am fairly tough, but I have no death wish and I am certainly not suicidal. These boys meant business and had the strength and character to follow it through. No more illegal movement in the air.
Still one has to compete!
Mick took another couple of line outs, with only little opposition. The flank forwards once again became laxest. Mid way though the second half, up he went leaping like a salmon, taking the ball in two hands. As he was returning to earth I jumped. I managed to get my arm though under his armpit and ripped the ball out. I turned and passed it to Docs who was waiting. Mick came down, no ball in sight wondering what had happened. Not robbed more pick pocketed. He went wild; thankfully not with me but with his flankers. I can still here his Geordie curses if I close my eyes.
We came second that evening to Blackheath, not by a huge score, but well beaten. However it is one I will always remember. The night I stole a ball off Mick “The Munch” Skinner!
Saturday, 23 July 2011
San Fermin Festival
San Fermin Festival
I switched on the television earlier this week to find the San Ferna festival being shown. A more familiar name is the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona made famous for the English by Hemmingway.
The format is simple, each morning the bulls are run from the outskirts of Pamplona through the streets to the Bull Ring in the centre of the town in preparation for the bull fights in the evening. I assume the organisers thought it best to bring them through the streets early in the morning when most self respecting Spaniards would be tucked up in bed after the festivities of the previous night.
However the Spaniards like to come out late and party to the early hours of the morning. It being no surprise therefore that when the bulls were first run through the streets there were numerous inebriated young men showing off to the fair young ladies. So a tradition began.
Years later and there are hundreds of inebriated young men who race through the streets showing off to their young ladies. There have been deaths a plenty a couple of years earlier to my participation, someone had fallen in the tunnel entering the bull ring, seven (7) people died. It is just as dangerous as it sounds.
Amongst the small group of twenty some things that set out upon the quest were Docs, the Mighty Finn and I. We travelled down in a coach full of antipodeans who had the beer flowing before we left Earls Court and were determined to prove that Pohms couldn’t drink. We were young and it seemed like a good challenge.
36hrs later saw us drinking in Pamplona square looking forward to the following morning. Another full night of drinking and the sun rose, we bleary eyed revellers were ready and waiting as the canon announced the bull were lose. The adrenaline in my body kicked in, I was no longer drunk but alert and running. Where were the bulls? I jogged slowly letting other runners team pass me. The crowds safely on the other side of the fences were roaring, but still no bulls.
Then I saw it ‘the tunnel.’ A double helping of adrenaline, and I ran if my life depended on it, which with the crowd roaring in my ears, I believed it did. Into the tunnel, no stopping now, every man for himself! I ran, Lyford Christy would have chassed my dust. Into the day light and the centre of the ring with hundreds of others, cheering with relief we had made it and were grateful to be alive.
When eventually the bulls arrived a good ten (10) minuets later, the roar from the stadium was deafening. A young man had been speared by a horn from a bull and was been dragged into the arena. A shake of his mighty head and the body of the young man was thrown clear like a doll thrown from a pram. The boy was picked up by the surrounding crowd and taken off to hospital. The bulls carried on straight through the ring and disappeared through a gate at the far side.
My blood was really pumping, I felt I had let the side down, I had not even seen a bull until they arrived in the ring.
The crowd inside the ring were moving towards the gate, I joined them. A chant began Torro, Torro, Torro, I joined in Torro, Torro, Torro. We were standing in front of the gate the bulls had disappeared into and were chanting.
The strangest thing you could ever imagine happened, the crowd sat down!
In front of the gates the bulls had disappeared into the crowd sat. Not wanting to look scared I too sat in front of those gates and chanted. Yelling for the bulls to come out!
Then they did! The gate was opened a bull charged into the seated crowd. Its horns were ploughing through the sand nose in the dirt of the bull ring and charging straight at me.
In the tunnel my imagination gave me tempo. But here in the ring, this was the real thing. That bull charging towards me gave me more adrenaline than I have ever had before or since kicking into my body. I rolled to my right and the bull continued, people behind me were thrown from its path as it charged through. On my feet I watched as the bull decimated the crowd behind me.
Then I was hit. I was somersaulting. I was in the air, I landed, the air knocked from my lungs. I was lying on the sand in a bull ring in Pamplona, at my feet were two big black eyes, two flaring nostrils, snorting and staring at me was an enormous bull. A second bull had been let into the ring!
I learnt later you should lie still and wait, the bull seeing you as no threat would leave you alone. As I said I learnt later. I did what any righteous Barrow boy would do. I kicked it as hard as I could in its big black face! In return it promptly gouged my legs. If the Spanish boys had not grabbed its tail and distracted that animal I would not be walking today. They drew its attention away from me, but not before I took some savage mauling my legs. Bloody was seeping everywhere fortunately they were just flesh wounds.
After thanking the boys I intended to get somewhere the imminent possibility of death was not so high on the agenda. I was hobbling to the edge of the ring with blood running down my legs when I spotted a youth in denims, ripped t-shirt and long hair looking seriously out of place.
The dress code for bull running is white trousers, white dress shirt with a red sash around your waist and a red neckerchief around your neck. With the odd accessory 95% of the crowd adhere to it. I watched this young man wonder around the ring’ looking with intent, until he caught the bull’s eye. The bull charged and man stood.
20yrds, 10yrds, 5yrds and still the youth in jeans the ripped t-shirt and the long hair stood. With the bull only 1yrd from him he jumped. With each hand he grabbed a horn of the bull and he balanced himself over the bulls head as the bull charged through the ring.
The bull was confused! The crowd were confused! I was confused!
After travelling the length of the bull ring balancing on the head of the bull he jumped off to the side. The silence was deafening. Had we all witnessed what we saw?
As one the crowd went into raptures, they cheered the boy. He waved, smiled and left.
Unbelievable! Yes I too had watched in amazement and wonder at what the boy had just completed. I had however failed to watch the bull which was still in the ring charging up behind me. Run? I had just seen a performance on how to handle a bull! I took one look at the bull and for the third time that day I ran as if my life depended on it, and the bull chased. The fence around the ring must be 8ft tall. I got to the top in a single bound and rolled into the arms of the crowd. I was shaking with fear but now I was safe.
That evening as I was having my cuts attended to, I watched myself somersaulting on Spanish national television. No sign of the long haired boy with the ripped t-shirt. I have no idea who he was but he has balls.
The festival lasts for seven (7) days so we returned the following day and the day after but never saw the youth again. When the week was over, awaiting the coach at Calais Docs, Finny and I were having a quite beer, at 8.30am. A couple of the antipodeans walked past looking dejected drinking coffee shaking their heads. We were young and had proven ourselves foolish but there’s nothing like a good challenge.
I switched on the television earlier this week to find the San Ferna festival being shown. A more familiar name is the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona made famous for the English by Hemmingway.
The format is simple, each morning the bulls are run from the outskirts of Pamplona through the streets to the Bull Ring in the centre of the town in preparation for the bull fights in the evening. I assume the organisers thought it best to bring them through the streets early in the morning when most self respecting Spaniards would be tucked up in bed after the festivities of the previous night.
However the Spaniards like to come out late and party to the early hours of the morning. It being no surprise therefore that when the bulls were first run through the streets there were numerous inebriated young men showing off to the fair young ladies. So a tradition began.
Years later and there are hundreds of inebriated young men who race through the streets showing off to their young ladies. There have been deaths a plenty a couple of years earlier to my participation, someone had fallen in the tunnel entering the bull ring, seven (7) people died. It is just as dangerous as it sounds.
Amongst the small group of twenty some things that set out upon the quest were Docs, the Mighty Finn and I. We travelled down in a coach full of antipodeans who had the beer flowing before we left Earls Court and were determined to prove that Pohms couldn’t drink. We were young and it seemed like a good challenge.
36hrs later saw us drinking in Pamplona square looking forward to the following morning. Another full night of drinking and the sun rose, we bleary eyed revellers were ready and waiting as the canon announced the bull were lose. The adrenaline in my body kicked in, I was no longer drunk but alert and running. Where were the bulls? I jogged slowly letting other runners team pass me. The crowds safely on the other side of the fences were roaring, but still no bulls.
Then I saw it ‘the tunnel.’ A double helping of adrenaline, and I ran if my life depended on it, which with the crowd roaring in my ears, I believed it did. Into the tunnel, no stopping now, every man for himself! I ran, Lyford Christy would have chassed my dust. Into the day light and the centre of the ring with hundreds of others, cheering with relief we had made it and were grateful to be alive.
When eventually the bulls arrived a good ten (10) minuets later, the roar from the stadium was deafening. A young man had been speared by a horn from a bull and was been dragged into the arena. A shake of his mighty head and the body of the young man was thrown clear like a doll thrown from a pram. The boy was picked up by the surrounding crowd and taken off to hospital. The bulls carried on straight through the ring and disappeared through a gate at the far side.
My blood was really pumping, I felt I had let the side down, I had not even seen a bull until they arrived in the ring.
The crowd inside the ring were moving towards the gate, I joined them. A chant began Torro, Torro, Torro, I joined in Torro, Torro, Torro. We were standing in front of the gate the bulls had disappeared into and were chanting.
The strangest thing you could ever imagine happened, the crowd sat down!
In front of the gates the bulls had disappeared into the crowd sat. Not wanting to look scared I too sat in front of those gates and chanted. Yelling for the bulls to come out!
Then they did! The gate was opened a bull charged into the seated crowd. Its horns were ploughing through the sand nose in the dirt of the bull ring and charging straight at me.
In the tunnel my imagination gave me tempo. But here in the ring, this was the real thing. That bull charging towards me gave me more adrenaline than I have ever had before or since kicking into my body. I rolled to my right and the bull continued, people behind me were thrown from its path as it charged through. On my feet I watched as the bull decimated the crowd behind me.
Then I was hit. I was somersaulting. I was in the air, I landed, the air knocked from my lungs. I was lying on the sand in a bull ring in Pamplona, at my feet were two big black eyes, two flaring nostrils, snorting and staring at me was an enormous bull. A second bull had been let into the ring!
I learnt later you should lie still and wait, the bull seeing you as no threat would leave you alone. As I said I learnt later. I did what any righteous Barrow boy would do. I kicked it as hard as I could in its big black face! In return it promptly gouged my legs. If the Spanish boys had not grabbed its tail and distracted that animal I would not be walking today. They drew its attention away from me, but not before I took some savage mauling my legs. Bloody was seeping everywhere fortunately they were just flesh wounds.
After thanking the boys I intended to get somewhere the imminent possibility of death was not so high on the agenda. I was hobbling to the edge of the ring with blood running down my legs when I spotted a youth in denims, ripped t-shirt and long hair looking seriously out of place.
The dress code for bull running is white trousers, white dress shirt with a red sash around your waist and a red neckerchief around your neck. With the odd accessory 95% of the crowd adhere to it. I watched this young man wonder around the ring’ looking with intent, until he caught the bull’s eye. The bull charged and man stood.
20yrds, 10yrds, 5yrds and still the youth in jeans the ripped t-shirt and the long hair stood. With the bull only 1yrd from him he jumped. With each hand he grabbed a horn of the bull and he balanced himself over the bulls head as the bull charged through the ring.
The bull was confused! The crowd were confused! I was confused!
After travelling the length of the bull ring balancing on the head of the bull he jumped off to the side. The silence was deafening. Had we all witnessed what we saw?
As one the crowd went into raptures, they cheered the boy. He waved, smiled and left.
Unbelievable! Yes I too had watched in amazement and wonder at what the boy had just completed. I had however failed to watch the bull which was still in the ring charging up behind me. Run? I had just seen a performance on how to handle a bull! I took one look at the bull and for the third time that day I ran as if my life depended on it, and the bull chased. The fence around the ring must be 8ft tall. I got to the top in a single bound and rolled into the arms of the crowd. I was shaking with fear but now I was safe.
That evening as I was having my cuts attended to, I watched myself somersaulting on Spanish national television. No sign of the long haired boy with the ripped t-shirt. I have no idea who he was but he has balls.
The festival lasts for seven (7) days so we returned the following day and the day after but never saw the youth again. When the week was over, awaiting the coach at Calais Docs, Finny and I were having a quite beer, at 8.30am. A couple of the antipodeans walked past looking dejected drinking coffee shaking their heads. We were young and had proven ourselves foolish but there’s nothing like a good challenge.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
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!
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!
Friday, 8 July 2011
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!
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!
Friday, 24 June 2011
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.
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.
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