60 million years BC the Indo-Australasian tectonic plate crashed into the Eurasian plate and gave birth to the Himalaya. The Tethys Sea was pushed up which is why you can find sea shells on top of Mt Everest and fossilised ammonites in the Kali Gandaki Valley.
563BC (give or take) Siddhartha Gautama was born into royalty in Lumbini and lived as a Prince before gaining enlightenment as the Buddha – and gave birth to Buddhism, a philosophy centred, not on a god, but on a system of thought and a code of morality which is as relevant today as it was then.
1856 – Peak XV was declared the world’s highest peak and was later named Everest after the head of Trigonometric Survey who actually pronounced his name Eve-rest.
1914-18 – Around 100,000 Nepalis fought in World War I. Over 10,000 lost their lives. Thirty years later over 200,000 Gurkha served in WWII.
1934 – a huge earthquake killed over 8,000 Nepali in under a minute and destroyed a quarter of all homes.
1953 – Everest was summited for the first time by Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay on the eve of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.
credit: National Geographic
1996 – May – eight climbers perished descending Everest’s peak on a single day, including two summit tour leaders.
2001 – A Prince from the Nepali Royal Family indiscriminately opened fire at a family gathering murdering his parents and eight others before shooting himself. His brother was crowned King.
2008 – Parliament abolished the Nepali monarchy, ending 240 years of royal rule.
2015 – April: a massive 7.8 magnitude earthquake struck central Nepal, killing nearly 9,000 people, injuring over 22,000 and leaving hundreds of thousands homeless. Rebuilding continues to this day.
Nepal’s culture and history is rich and its people, made up of over 60 ethnic and caste groups speaking over 120 languages, are extremely diverse. I have always, always wanted to go there.
Sandwiched between the disputed lands of Tibet and the steamy plains of India, Nepal is the hallowed ground of Sherpa, Gurkha, monasteries, prayer wheels and yetis; a spiritual sanctuary of towering mountains, glacial lakes and, of course, home to the highest mountain on earth. And finally I get to go there this weekend, embarking on what will surely be the adventure of a lifetime in the Annapurna and the Himalaya mountain ranges.
I can’t believe this time has come around so quickly; I’m chomping at the bit to lace up my boots, put on my puffa, breathe in the mountain air and absorb, wonder and marvel at some of the most spectacular views I will ever get to experience in my life.
Part of me is also a little bit nervous; thanks to thrice-weekly Crossfit sessions along with kite surfing, swimming and walking Tiggy, I’m really fit. Yet…the average altitude for my high pass Himalaya trek is 4,300m where the air is 50% less than most of us are used to in our everyday existence.
credit: Exodus
So I’m also prepared for it to be tough, everyone suffers at that altitude; sleep is elusive, headaches are to be expected, and the mere act of walking is physically draining. At night, sleeping in tea-houses and tents, the temperatures go as low as minus 30 degrees Celsius, which is a bit of a worry for someone who hates the cold as much as I do.
It’s not just a physical challenge either, it’s a packing one too as I can only take 7kg of luggage with me. Once you’ve considered a five season sleeping bag, a first aid kit, walking poles and a pair of crampons, this basically boils down to three pairs of knickers, two pairs of trousers, two t-shirts, a midlayer, a fleece, a Gore-Tex jacket and a very, very warm puffa…I doubt I’ll be hugging many people by the end.
I also have a whistle (in case I fall down a crevasse) a new fancy watch that boasts an altimeter, pedometer, compass and a storm alarm along with a very clever water bottle with a filter that means I could drink water out of a puddle and not fall foul of traveller’s tummy.
And all of these will be lugged around in my snazzy new red Osprey Transporter bag, which Tiggy has sussed means adventure is on the horizon, although sadly, she can’t come with me this time.
My first trek is the full 21 day tour of the entire Annapurna circuit; as well as views of the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri this offers an amazing variety of five different types of climates ranging from sub-tropical through alpine peaks to an arid semi-desert. The climax of the tour is crossing the iconic Thorong La Pass glacier at 5,416m.
I then have five days to rest, recuperate and wallow in plenty of bubble baths in Kathmandu before flying to the Himalaya to take on a quieter and more challenging, high pass 19-day Everest Base Camp trek; from the heart of the Sherpa homeland via the less trodden trails of the Goyko Lakes valley, traversing the icy glacier of the Cho La Pass and on to Basecamp where I hope to stand on the Khumbu glacier – the highest glacier in the world – at the foot of mighty mount Everest on November 14th.
Then plan is to then summit the Kala Patthar (The Black Rock) whose jagged peak stands at 5,643m and, clear skies permitting, offers spectacular close-up views of Everest.
By the end of the two treks I will have walked over 514 kilometers and, as I understand it, eaten a lot of dahl baat (rice and lentils).
The luxury of free time on my eternity leave means I’ve been able to read so much about the region. First I devoured Jon Krakauer’s harrowing and moving Into Thin Air, his account of the 1996 Everest disaster which cost eight climbers their lives along with the lower leg, both hands and nose of fellow climber Beck Weathers.
I moved on to Chamonix native Maurice Herzog’s Annapurna – which he dictated from his recovery bed as the brave and heroic leader of the first team to ever successfully summit an 8,000 meter peak in 1951; in the book he eulogises over their new, advanced “nylon” coats and casually describes having his toes amputated in the carriage of a Nepalese train.
Finally, I’m just finishing native Yorkshire-man Joe Simpson’s gripping and engrossing The Beckoning Silence in which he faces up to the dangers of extreme climbing and mountaineering and the quiet acceptance of the loss of the lives of many friends.
Should I have harboured any desire to summit an 8,000 metre peak (I didn’t) then these books would most certainly have dissuaded me.
I feel a raft of strong emotions writing this. I feel grateful to have such an incredible opportunity to visit this magical land. I feel humble at the path that stands before me, knowing there will be moments that will test me to my limits. And, of course, I feel wretched at leaving Tiggy behind – adventures without her are never quite the same.
I do know I’m as ready as I can be for the adventure that awaits. And if there’s one thing my gap year has taught me, it’s that the biggest adventure you can take is to live the life of your dreams. It’s the most liberating, exhilarating and wondrous feeling – I feel that I finally know what it means to be ‘me’.
Updates to follow, wifi permitting.
Choose happy, never stop exploring and remember travel is the only thing you spend money on that will make you richer.
During a well deserved and delicious supper with Melody at Canteloupe where we feasted on a particularly tasty dish of feta cheese swathed in delicate sheathes of filou pastry and drizzled in local honey and cashew nuts, she told me about a remote lake, complete with its own refuge, high above a village called Fionnay and a walk you could do there via the track from La Chaux. I decided it would be our destination for the following day’s excursion.
After bidding Melody a fond farewell and after an extremely nail biting and stressful never-to-be-repeated blind reverse out of her driveway, Tiggy and I drove up to Verbier and checked into Hotel de Poste. We were staying there as our lovely host was heading back to Newcastle for a wedding.
By 11am we were back again in the Medran bubble, ascending up to Fontenay once more where we warmed our legs up with a gentle stroll down the hill to La Chaux. The rain that had fallen yesterday had settled as snow on the higher ground – we were below the snow line, but the high mountain crests looked very wintery considering it was the end of July.
The emotionally draining drama of marmot-gate from the previous day was firmly etched in my mind and so, much to her bewilderment, Tiggy remained firmly attached to her lead and was thus rendered physically incapable from disappearing off in high speed pursuit of any bushy tailed creatures.
Today I had two walking poles with me – further practice for Nepal trekking, and a first for me as the more forgiving and gentle inclines of the Isle of Wight have never required me to use more than one, if any at all. Having been taken aback by how cold it had been, I also had a couple of extra layers with me, some biltong and a snack bar, plenty of water and Tiggy’s collapsible drinking bowl.
Two walking poles and an energetic dog at the end of a lead were actually a bit of an exasperating handful, so after attempting more than a couple of fruitless dog lead/walking pole combinations, I threaded the lead’s handle onto the waist strap of my rucksack which left my hands free to ‘pole’ without being tugged whilst ensuring Tiggy remained steadfastly tethered.
Consulting both the signs and the walking map at La Chaux revealed two potential routes to Lac De Louvie. The track, as recommended by Melody, was a lower route and a ‘blue’ on the walking map. The other route, which already had a few hikers on it, was a red route on the walking map, a path that appeared to zig zag round the side of the mountain to reach the lake.
Quite why I ignored Melody who has lived in Verbier for most of her adult life is, with hindsight, something I’m slightly embarrassed about, (hubris perhaps?) but I did, and duly set off following the other walkers along the red route.
We soon caught up and passed the two hikers who were having difficulty with the rocky terrain which had slowed them down to a snail like pace– apart from having to concentrate on where to put your feet the path was pretty horizontal and not particularly challenging at all.
A little further along, at a fork in the path, we bumped into a couple with their Labrador who were taking a breather. The view was so lovely that I stopped and asked them to take a photo of Tiggy and I. The lady kindly obliged, I enquired if they had come from Lac De Louvie – ‘mais non’ she replied, looking slightly startled and alarmed, ‘on a faisait une petit promenade’. Oh, I replied, “nous allons la”. She looked even more startled, saying she’d never done it, and that it was ‘tres dificile’, which she repeated a number of times, glancing at her husband to back her up, which he did by nodding slowly and sagely.
I smiled confidently, ‘ca va’ I said, emboldened by the ease of the path thus far and confident in the fact that we were on a route clearly marked on the map. Pleasantries concluded, we started on our way.
The path wound on a gentle incline around the side of the mountain and we soon rounded the corner leaving the civilisation of Le Chaux and the Mont Fort cable car behind us. In the distance I could see two hikers, one with a bright red rucksack clearly making their way. The air was cool, but I had all my layers on and the effort of slowly rising upwards kept me warm. Low hanging cloud meant that the top of the mountain was shrouded in mist, but I could still see the snowline above us.
It wasn’t long before I caught up with the red-rucksacked hikers who were two young Danes called – I kid you not – Hans and Christian. They politely smiled at my fairy tale quip, but I couldn’t work out if they were bored of similar digs or they simply didn’t understand. They were on a ten day hike of the haute route, the infamous walking trek taking in high pass routes in Switzerland and France.
The boys were making way more slowly than us as they were carrying all that they needed with them. They, like Tiggy and I, were also bound for Lac de Louvie, except they wouldn’t be descending to Fionnay to bus it back to Verbier, they were going to spend the night at the lake in the refuge.
Lashed to their rucksacks they had carabiners, ropes and a harness each – which I remember thinking was probably a bit overkill for a hike, but I assumed they maybe perhaps needed to use them on other routes of the haute route.
The gentle incline soon turned into a steep uphill slope and we were all, with the exception of Tiggy, breathing heavily (the boys especially so with the weight of their rucksacks); the effort arrested our amiable chat. I was glad of my double pole strategy, it definitely made navigating the challenging gradient a bit easier. It was certainly excellent practice for Nepal.
We feel into a natural cadence and order – Tiggy and I in front and the boys behind – Tiggy taking every boulder and slope in her stride, remaining absolutely resolute in her determination and desperation to err from the path in the hope of a chance to chase marmots.
We walked in silence, up and up, and higher still; the snow line and clouds getting closer with every switchback. Looking ahead I could see some steep crevasses, covered in rockfall and scree, slicing deeply into the mountainside. My heart sank slightly when I realized that the path wasn’t traversing the side of the mountain all, but in order to successfully navigate the crevasses, we were going to have to go high enough so that we could cross either above them or at their narrowest point. This ‘red route’ was beginning to feel more like a black.
The air temperature cooled further still and after about an hour and a half we found ourselves in the snow line – clouds rolling up the side of the mountain towards us, either enveloping us completely in its chilly cloak or dancing around us offering tantalizing glimpses of what was to come. Over a vertical mile down below in the valley floor it looked lovely and warm – I began to appreciate the appeal of the blue route.
At times the path was confusing, but for the most part it was pretty clear, flags painted on rocks along the way helped us, indicating that we remained on the correct route.
We came across our first major challenge, a landslide, after about two hours.
It was at the point in the walk when I was beginning to get a bit irritated, just as we turned another switchback and I thought, we must be at the top now, there was another one, and another and yet another. Mountain hikes are devilishly cunning in that way. I placated myself with the reassurance that this was, indeed, a great Nepal warm up.
I was slightly concerned about Tiggy, who had never been at altitude before, but she continued to bounce along, leaping like a bunny rabbit up over rocks and boulders and waiting patiently for me at the top of every one before trotting on ahead, pulling at my waistband with her lead.
The landslide was at the top of the first crevasse we had to cross (yes, there was more than one). The unseasonal rain must have caused the path to slide away leaving a slippery slope of hazardous wet mud; it was a very, very steep gradient and a very long and extremely sheer drop to the side.
The boys, nonplussed, slipped off their rucksacks and quietly went about the businesses of attaching their harnesses and started to lay out one of their ropes.
“I go first” announced Hans, “Tiggy” he said, pointing at her “will go next, then you, and Christian will go last”. Ok, I said, smiling on the outside and feeling rather anxious on the inside, I thought I could just about manage, but how would Tiggy cope? Should I put her in my rucksack I wondered?
Hans clambered like spider-man up the scree to the left of the mud slide, it was about one and a half storys high. He was clearly a competent climber and made it look marvelously easy. He lowered the rope with a carabiner on the end saying “this is for Tiggy”. I attached it to her harness and, keeping hold of the lead so she was tethered above and below, I bent down to pick up her to lift her as high as I could (not very high as it turned out, being only 5ft 3”). This was to try make it easier for Hans to winch her up – rather like someone being rescued by the RNLI helicopter from the sea.
Tiggy wriggled which made me nervous, and before I could even say ‘ok’ for Hans to take up the slack and start pulling, she’d managed to get all four paws onto the scree and, completely non-plussed, bounded up the sheer face like a little mountain goat. Once at the top she peered back over the edge as if to say ‘come on mummy, what’s taking you so long?’. We were all rather incredulous at how easily she’d sprung up such a tricky and steep incline.
The carabiner was unclipped from Tiggy and lashed around my waist, a hefty tug from Christian made sure all was secure. Heart in mouth (I’m strong and fit, but am no climber and have no experience at all) I took my time to secure each foot and hand as I made my way methodically up the scree to the sound of encouraging comments from Hans above and Christian below.
A few of the rocks skidded beneath my feet, but I made it without needing assistance from the rope. Shortly afterwards Christian arrived and we sat down for some water and a bit of a breather whilst the rope was coiled.
“I definitely owe you guys a beer at the refuge”, I said. They smiled and explained that the walking route they were doing shouldn’t need harnesses, but they bought them to be on the safe side for moments such as these. They were only in their early twenties, I was so impressed at their maturity and how well prepared they were and extremely conscious that I was there – alone with a small dog – and whilst not ill equipped, I was certainly guilty of not having researched my route at all.
Therefore, I had no idea whatsoever what was coming up next.
After about another half an hour of further ascent a triangular sign with a red boarder stood out brightly in the mist; the image was of a rockfall and the warning was written underneath in four languages. Poorly translated into English it said: “For the following 300m of the trail there is a risk of falling rocks. It is prohibited to stop on the trial and deviating from the path is not recommended”.
A sneaking thought entered my mind that perhaps I should turn back – but I was now over halfway to the lake, and I thought it would be safer and more sensible to keep going with the boys than to turn back alone. Plus the idea of going down the mudslide/scree without a rope as a failsafe in case Tiggy or I slid was not one worth entertaining.
Out came the harnesses again – this part of the path, which was no wider than two footprints had a sheer drop down the mountainside to the right, a Via Ferrata style chain to hold onto at waist height to the left, whilst whatever sinister danger hovered above was covered in clouds and impossible to see.
We all stashed our walking poles in our respective rucksacks. I made a makeshift harness out of a shorter piece of rope, impressing the boys with my nautical knots – who knew that a bowline would come in handy at 2500 metres in the Swiss Alps?
The safety rope went from Hans’ harness, to a carabiner which was attached to Tiggy, then to me and then to Christian. Slowly yet with an unspoken sense of urgency to get across promptly we inched our way along in silence– I kept my eyes firmly ahead, hand over hand holding the iron chain and taking up the slack in Tiggy’s lead. Clouds kept rolling up and over us, making the visibility very variable, that didn’t bother me too much, but the moisture in the air made the path, particularly the rocky parts, quite slippery. This was not a place to be less than very sure of foot.
Every now and again Tiggy peeped over the edge – a swift yank on the lead from me ensured she didn’t go any further, I think she was just being inquisitive – I couldn’t imagine this was a particularly hospitable dwelling place for any mountain animal, let alone a marmot who requires the ability to burrow into soft ground.
We crossed in about fifteen minutes and on the other side we all breathed a sigh of relief. Then the clouds cleared and we looked back and caught sight of the perils that had been looming above us – a menacing overhanging cliff of granite from which spewed a tumbling ravine of rocks of all sizes. It was easy to appreciate how a landslide might happen – it was vulnerable, exposed and appeared somewhat unstable.
“I think I owe you two beers,” I said, laughingly.
On we plodded – still ascending, until out of the mist we suddenly were standing on the narrow ridge of Col Termin (2,648m) – we had reached the top of the route! And from there, once round the narrow corner of the Col we could see down the other side of the mountain to the inky blue depths of Lac de Louvie (2,214m).
It was a breathtaking view – probably made all the more so because it was because it was such an unexpectedly arduous a climb to get there. It’s so true the harder you have to work for something, the better you feel when you achieve it.
We descended fairly rapidly – I was starting to become a bit twitchy and conscious of the time – the last bus from Fionnay left for Verbier at 5.20pm, it was already 3pm and it was at least an hour’s descent into Fionnay from the lake itself. Of course the boys were staying at refuge so it didn’t matter to them.
We wound down and around, and around and down. It’s a cruel trick of hiking that the uninitiated may be fooled into thinking that going up is the hardest part – and we’d been ascending steeply, non-stop for nearly four hours – but the reality is, it’s three times harder on your thighs to go down.
Gravity may keep us on terra firma and stop us from flying off into outer space, but it makes going down hill a lot harder as it accelerates the forward movement of your body, meaning your quads have to work terrifically hard to keep you at a controlled speed. Someone once told me it’s rather like driving your car with the handbreak on.
We were descending 434 vertical metres to the lake below, which would take only an hour – conversely it had taken four hours to ascend a mere 388 vertical metres via 4 miles of torturous switchbacks and taxing traverses.
We skirted round the edge of the lake – the snowy peaks from whence we came looming high above. I was fairly relaxed by now, it wasn’t far to Fionnay and we were on the homeward stretch.
One of my many regrets of the day was that I didn’t have time to treat myself to a wild swim in the lake. Oh how invigorating it would have been to toast our arrival with a bracing plunge into its icy cool depths, I longed to float on my back, gaze up at the peaks above and take a few moments to bask in the contentment, and relief, of safe passage. I’m sure it would also have been great cold-water therapy for my muscles too, which weren’t aching…yet.
I made a mental note to return another time with a swimming costume and an overnight bag and treat myself to a night’s stay at the refuge although, of course, it was not without some chagrin that I wouldn’t be guaranteed the company of two disarmingly handsome young Danes.
We collapsed euphorically at the refuge (2,214m) and I kept good on my promise of an extremely well deserved round of beers. I can’t begin to tell you how good they tasted! Tiggy had a little paddle, a long drink from the fresh water trough and some of my biltong. I wolfed down my snack bar. Glancing at my watch I saw it was already 4pm and time for us to go.
The signpost said it was 1 hour 10 minutes to descent to Fionnay, nestling snugly in the bottom of the valley a reasonably hefty 724 vertical metres beneath us.
After a slightly smelly but very warm and heartfelt hug with the boys and a tickle for Tiggy, we waved goodbye to our walking companions and unassuming heroes. Whether it’s sharing a connection over poorly dogs, as I’d experienced in Spain when Tiggy swallowed a stone, or bonding over a challenging hike, my gap year really has reaffirmed my view that the majority of human beings truly are kind, generous and good, and that we share far more in common with each other than we have differences dividing us.
I’d like to say it was a pleasant and meandering stroll down to Fionnay – but actually it was an hour and fifteen minutes of extreme thigh burn and screaming knees, even the magnificent views of lakes, dams and glaciers didn’t and couldn’t make up for how much my legs and knees hurt. We’d been walking for five hours by then and, all in all; the top of Col Termin to Fionnay was a total descent of 1,158 vertical metres (0.72 miles). Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.
I reckon we must have been about half way down when the striking blue lake of Fionnay came into view. The stunning turquoise colour comes from glacial flour, created when rock underneath the surface of the glacier is ground into very fine sediment that runs off with the melt water in spring into rivers and lakes. Glacial flour is so fine and light it stays suspended in water for a long time and, when the sunlight reflects off the floating flour on a lake, it creates a dazzling turquoise hue. It really has to be seen in person to fully appreciate the richness of the water in all its glory; photographs, even with an Instagram filter, don’t do it justice. I ran out of time to even take even the hastiest of snaps, so this photo is borrowed from one of Melody’s portfolio.
(c) Melody Sky photography
Looking at my watch it was 4.50pm, we had only 30 minutes to get down and find the bus stop – we were cutting it more than fine. I reckoned just by eye-balling the path, we were only about half way down.
Tiggy was still attached to my waist strap, but now instead of striding out in front, she trailed behind me. Her short legs must have been absolutely spent at this point. Picking her up, I put her in my rucksack and hoisted her onto my back – her little head sticking out and resting on my shoulder. And then, with an extra 8 kilos of load, I started to jog down the hill. If my thighs were burning during the first half of the descent, they were now absolutely screaming and my knees were extraordinarily painful.
It got warmer and warmer as we descended – a drastic difference from the icy cool snowy and misty peaks above – sweat streamed down my face. We must have been quite a sight – me, as pink as my t-shirt, puffing and panting and Tiggy’s foxy face peeping out of the top my rucksack. I’m sure she would have been ok to keep going on all four paws, but I was worried she might implode if I made her run down after already having walked so far – Tiggy is super fit, but also such a loyal and devoted companion, she’d keel over and die before she would give up and stop following me.
Of course, if we missed the bus from Fionnay I could have arranged a taxi I’m sure, but I’m reasonably confident that a 20k winding trip in a Verbier cab would have more than blown my daily budget. I was pretty jolly keen to get on that bus.
Given that we were out of the clouds, it would have been wonderful to be able to saunter slowly down, stop and admire the view – the impressive glaciers, the intense blue hues of the lakes, the richness of the foliage and the vast variety of alpine flowers. Not today! Twist after twist and turn after turn, I kept on jogging, very thankful for having ‘double poled’ as at least they helped take some of the impact from my poor quads and knees.
I could see a small group gathering on the roadside beneath us, I assumed that must be the bus stop – my watch said seven minutes to go and I could see that I wasn’t going to make it if I kept to the snaking path. Jogging more rapidly I ignored the switchbacks and took the direct line of flight straight to the gate – the steep incline wreaking even more agony on my creaky knees.
The bus came into view at the far end of the village. I waved my poles in the air to the crowd at the bus stop and puffingly shouted ‘Arretez le bus, s’il vous plait’. No one even lifted a hand to acknowledge my plea, at this point, I was pretty sure I was stuffed.
The ground finally flattened out, my jog turned into as fast a run as my knees would allow, Tiggy bouncing uncomfortably in my rucksack behind me. The bus pulled up, the small crowd jostled to get on.
My lungs burned. I tripped over my feet but managed not to fall. I caught the eye of the driver as the last person was getting on – he held the door open for me as five seconds later I arrived. Totally spent and unable to speak, I nodded a grateful thank you as I heaved my tired limbs up the steps onto the bus. I flopped into the front seat and gulped down all that was left of my water, saving a mouthful for Tiggy who, as soon as she was freed from the confines of my rucksack, curled up on my knee and went straight to sleep.
I leaned my forehead against the window as the bus wove its way down the valley. I looked up to the dizzying heights of where we had come from – still blanketed in cloud, it was almost unfathomable to believe how cool it had been up there, it was so scorching hot down in the valley.
The bus deposited us in Le Chable then, as the bubble had already shut, we waited for another bus to take us up to Verbier. I finally opened the door to our hotel room just before 7pm, I was wrecked and boy, was I smelly! Tiggy was fed a very generous portion of kibble for supper whilst I wallowed in a bath until the water started to go cold. Post bath I stretched my legs out in a variety of gentle yoga poses, hoping beyond hope that this would help reduce the almost certain onslaught of stiff and sore muscles the next day.
We had walked over 11 miles, taken 27,784 steps and climbed 163 floors. Distance wise, that’s longer than any single day I’ll be doing in Nepal – except there the challenge will be the altitude and not just the distance. In Nepal I’ll be averaging an altitude of 4,200m where the air has 50% less oxygen than at sea level; the highest point I’d been to in Verbs was 2,650 where oxygen levels are just over 70% of that at sea level.
Melody had, thankfully, fed me a substantial breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs – so I had been well fortified for my unexpectedly challenging and long hike – but apart from that, the only things I’d had eaten all day were a snack bar and half a packet of biltong. I was ravenous.
It was a pleasant and blissfully short stroll out of the hotel and up the hill to Verbier’s infamous Fer a Cheval, scene of many boozy apres ski adventures. There, I perused the menu whilst gulping down more water and sipping on an ice-cold glass of dry white wine.
Tiggy curled up on my puffa on the bench next to me and continued her restorative snoozing. A friendly, local ex-pat couple on a neighbouring table came over to fuss over Tiggy and enquire what bought us to Verbier. I explained the rationale behind vising friends and getting my legs fit for Nepal. That naturally took us onto converse about the day’s hike – when I told them what we’d done they were really impressed. They couldn’t believe Tiggy had managed it, I was both pleased and relieved we’d done it, but still had an internal niggle of guilt that I had risked stretching little Tiggles beyond her physical capabilities.
I asked them what they’d recommend to eat. ‘The lasagne’ the chap replied ‘but you only need a half portion’ the lady added ‘it’s really big, we’ve just shared one’. I didn’t have the energy to explain that I hadn’t eaten for eleven hours – so I just said thank you and ordered a full portion along with a token side salad. I ate every single delicious morsel, if licking the plate was socially acceptable, I probably would have done that too.
It can’t have been more than fifty steps downhill from the Fer a Cheval back to the hotel – every single one was agonizing.
Getting out of bed the next day was somewhat of a comedy affair; I commando rolled like a beached whale onto my tummy and shuffled my legs off first, face down and with my torso still on the bed, I pushed myself up to standing so that I could try a few tentative steps. Actually it wasn’t bad at all! Walking out of my hotel room I was hugely relieved that my legs definitely felt weary and a bit stiff but not nearly as bad as I had thought they would be.
And then I attempted to descend the three flights of stairs from my bedroom to reception; a meager three steps down proved so painful that I had to turn around, come back up and somewhat shamefacedly push the button to call for the lift.
A hearty breakfast of crepes and coffee was thoroughly enjoyed on the sunny terrace of the Milk Bar, and then we could dawdle no longer.
Time to climb back into The Beast to commence our long drive back up through France. As a regular reminder of the prior day’s escapade, clambering down and hobbling round to the passenger side to pay the toll at every peage was utter agony.
The five hour drive back up through France offered plenty of time for musing and rumination; it was an arduous hike but not impassible or impossible. If I hadn’t been up against the clock it would have been a lot easier, and the walking map was scant in details as to the difficulty of the route. It was demanding, but certainly far from the hardest trek I’d ever done. I’m usually a cautious and careful person when it comes to matters of safety, so whilst we were never truly in grave danger, I was definitely a little bit unsettled by the escapade.
Why had I ignored the route Melody had recommended, as well as not heeding the advice from the local couple walking their dog?
On reflection, the beginning of both the blue and red run looked beguilingly similar and un-taxing. A subsequent conversation confirmed Melody had recommended the blue route more for Tiggy’s sake than mine. I’m a very contrary person and when the local couple said that the red route was very hard, the obstante part of me looked at them (they were quite a lot older than me) and assumed that their yardstick for ‘hard’ was different from mine. I’m particularly of the mindset that when someone tells you something shouldn’t be done; it’s more a reflection of their limitations and not yours.
Hmmmm.
In Nepal, thankfully, I will be led by guides who are always to be obeyed and I’ve read enough about disasters at altitude and in the Himalaya to gladly acquiesce any decision making to those far more knowledgeable and experienced than I.
The Alps have taught me a number of important lessons before heading out on much more challenging adventures. As Sir Edmund Hillary so aptly said
“It’s not really the mountains we have to conquer, but ourselves.”
Chapeau, Sir Ed, chapeau.
Choose happy – heed the advice of locals (except for portion sizes on lasagna) and always befriend handsome young Danes.
Love, Sophie, Tiggy and The Beast XOX
La Chaux 2,260m to Col Termin 2,648m = 388metres (0.25 vertical miles up)
Col Termin 2,648 to Lac Louvie 2,214m = 434m descent (0.27 vertical miles down)
Lac Louvie 2,214m to Fionnay = 724m descent (0.45 vertical miles down)
Col Termin to Fionnay = 1158m descent. OUCH (0.72 vertical miles down)
Isn’t it funny how you can go away for ages, come back and only five minutes later feel as if you’ve never been away?
Tarifa and our beach-based life seemed a world away by day two of being tucked back up in my little Cowes cottage. Tiggy immediately found her way back to her favourite snoozing sunny spots and I swam a number of times off Cowes beach. There had been a heat wave in the UK and the water felt ten degrees warmer than the goose-bump inducing briny shallows of Tarifa harbour.
Water temperature aside, I certainly preferred swimming in the ‘Reefa as, even though the Solent is super clean, the water visibility was really poor. I couldn’t even see my hands in front of me and I kept swimming into giant clumps of seaweed, bringing me to a sudden, shuddering stop. It was an inefficient way to swim as each encounter meant I trod water and spluttered madly whilst trying to work out the optimal way to navigate past my free-floating obstacle.
Either that or the seaweed would brush past my body, making me jump with its tickly fronds and getting loosely tangled in my legs, like an octopus lazily wrapping its long tentacles around me. This resulted in mild panic and for my legs to involuntarily kick, rather violently, in my attempt to free myself from my aqua captor. It was all a bit stress inducing. The tide was strong in Cowes too, I could swim vigorously for ten minutes and only cover about ten metres in distance – of course the upside was, after such an energetic exertion to go nowhere slowly, I could float back, suspended by saline and carried by the current, to return to my starting point whilst making zero effort at all.
Two weeks quickly passed by and we were on the road again. This time driving down through France, via a Portsmouth – Le Havre overnight ferry, with my friend Sammy and her son Joey. I’m not sure whether it was Joey or Tiggy who was more excited about sleeping on the ferry – but Tiggy certainly was thrilled to have been upgraded to a pet friendly cabin rather than be locked up in a chilly, stainless steel gaol. It was a late night crossing and we plonked her basket on the cabin floor before flopping into our bunks (Joey on top, Sammy and I below). Less than ten minutes after lights out, the temptation of a cosy bottom bunk with me in it clearly proved too much, and as the ferry gently eased out of the harbour, I felt a little warm ball of fur bounce onto the end of the bunk and wriggly around to make a toasty nest where Tiggy stayed, pleasantly warming my toes and snuffling contentedly, until we all fell sound asleep.
Disembarking the following morning at 8.30am we then drove 500 long, hot and noisy miles to Chamonix, where we arrived, absolutely shattered and almost too tired to speak, precisely twelve hours later. I slept the sleep of the dead that night – to be fair, I always sleep well in the Alps, although I may have been aided and abetted by copious glasses of chilled white wine and fine food from our lovely hosts.
Chamonix (or Cham to those that know) was our first destination because I have decided that’s where Tiggy, The Beast and I will spend the ski season component of our gap year, and I was keen to secure my accommodation for the winter. I haven’t actually been to Chamonix for about twenty years, but I’ve chosen to spend a winter there because it’s a “proper” town, in fact it’s the Alps’ largest, and (so my theory goes) will be less claustrophobic than a smaller, or more remote resort. It’s also driving distance to resorts frequented by my friends – so I would hopefully be in easy reach of company should I feel the need for it. And finally, Chamonix boasts a good reputation for ski touring and cross country skiing – both of which I’m a complete novice at, but keen to conquer, particularly if Tiggy can come along too.
I would have loved to be in Verbier where I both love the skiing and have some lovely friends – however I decided that I’d probably end up both an alcoholic and bankrupt if I even began to attempt an entire season there. Epic fun though it might be, becoming a Farinet and Farm Club regular with my name emblazoned on a bottle behind the bar is not one of the strategic objectives for my gap year, although I think I may have been guilty of that during one particularly prolific winter in my twenties. Some things are certainly best left in the past, and I’m far more of a late, long, luxurious lunch and early to bed vintage now.
In Chamonix a teeny-weeny, picture-perfect mazot was located, on the sunny side of the valley, with views of Mont Blanc and in the gardens of a far grander chalet. I concluded that, although small, it was perfectly formed and would be a snug little sanctuary for Tiggy and I. A wincingly huge deposit secured it for us for the season.
Our host’s house also offered stunning views of Mont Blanc (or Monte Bianco if you’re looking at it from Italy). Towering above Chamonix at 4,808m, it’s the highest mountain in the Alps, and the highest in Europe if you exclude Russia’s Caucasus peaks. It was strange, and slightly scary, to think that the second part of my upcoming trip to Nepal would average walking at about that height for nineteen days.
A little below the peak at 4,260 metres, Mont Blanc is also home to Europe’s two highest toilets – they were delivered there by helicopter in 2007 as excrement from the 30,000 annual skiers and mountaineers was turning Mont Blanc into Mont Marron during the annual spring thaws. Apparently, during busy times, they are also serviced daily by chopper – I bet those pilots have great dinner party chat.
Every day of our stay there, the sounds of helicopters could be heard, flying to rescue mountaineers and climbers who had got into difficulties. Over 100 people die on Mont Blanc every year and Wikipedia tells me that Mont Blanc’s summit is ascended by an annual average of 20,000 mountaineers. This means a very sobering one in every two hundred people who set off to conquer the summit won’t make it off the mountain alive. Better odds than Everest, but just demonstrates how technically difficult a climb it must be (the summit is 800m lower than both Everest Base Camp and Kilimanjaro).
We didn’t climb anything, our contribution as Chamonix tourists was to stay safe, shop (a skateboard for Joey, some Arcteryx shoes for me – I avoided Chanel as that’s definitely not on my eternity leave budget), eat pizza and burgers and drink beer. After a fun filled couple of days being spoilt by our hosts, whose little sausage dog, Herbie, became utterly besotted with Tiggy, it was time to move on to Morzine.
Morzine was the location for the wedding of one of my best girlfriends. It was a whole weekend affair with guests flying in from all over the world to celebrate the occasion and this entire trip had been planned around it. Sammy and I were both somewhat cheekily titled “Maids of Dishonour”, Tiggy was invited too and even The Beast had an official role as back up wedding car. Adorned with flowers and ribbons, he looked magnificent, although unfortunately he blotted his copybook by getting oil on Sammy’s dress, about which I was terribly upset and she was marvellously decent, as only a truly kind and generous friend would be. This was the only dark cloud to an otherwise wonderful weekend, full of love, joy, vats of wine, yards of trays of tartiflette, hours of energetic dancing and heaps of chatting and catching up with friends old and new – many a happy memory was made.
Morzine was very busy – full of mountain bikers who take advantage of the vast ski lift infrastructure and use it to transport them and their bikes skyward and then hurtle back down the mountain via paths of varying technical complexity at an alarming speed. Just the kit alone was enough to put me off – anything that requires full body armour, an ice-hockey style caged helmet to protect your face along with knee and elbow pads is definitely not for me.
Purposefully choosing to ignore the many tantalising offers of paragliding and mountain biking, I took advantage instead of Morzine’s amazing outdoor Olympic sized swimming pool. Nestling in the valley floor there’s something breathtakingly special about swimming along and seeing a jagged sea-saw of mountain ridges every time you lift your head out of the water to take a breath.
This was my first fresh water swim for a long time, in fact, since before I’d been to Tarifa. I had clearly become very accustomed to salt water swimming as I very nearly sank when I took my first few strokes. I was really surprised by the marked difference in buoyancy from the sea – not only did it require significantly more effort to stay afloat, let alone actually propel myself along, but the water felt really different too; the pool water had a far more slippery sensation in my hands, like liquid silk caressing my fingers as they glided and slid with each stroke; when I exhaled, the bubbles of breath resembled silvery, shimmering beads of mercury, rising to the surface before escaping to freedom into the mountain air.
I’ve read before that, because the skin is our largest organ, some people regard swimming as a sensuous sport. This was the first time I’d ever really appreciated that; I really did feel caressed by the water. Open air swimming – whether sea, lake or pool – is quite simply one of my favourite pleasures in life. And as I floated on my back, gazing up at the mountains, I made a vow to myself to still swim regularly when I’m eighty – compete with a Barbara Cartland-esque pink flowery swimming cap and a robust, ruched swimming costume
It didn’t take too long to get accustomed to the less buoyant water and lap after lap, turn after turn, I soon fell back into my familiar cadence and enjoyed the peaceful tranquillity of a rhythmic, restorative, hangover curing dip in the mountain air. I swam two kilometres, a pretty standard swim for me in the ‘Reefa, but I was certainly more weary after completing that in the fresh water pool.
Of course my weariness had nothing to do with the fact that we had danced, non stop, for five hours at the wedding the previous night – pausing only at 10pm to quickly wolf down some tasty tartiflette and wedding cake before, re-energised by stodgy carbohydrates and on a sugar high from buttercream icing, we energetically threw ourselves back around the dance floor until the DJ ceased spinning his digital decks at 1am. As one of our friends wryly observed on Sunday it was rather like attending an international Zumba convention with a particularly smart dress code and a more even balance of male to female delegates.
After round three of the nuptials on the Sunday which consisted of a delicious barbecue and bottle after bottle of fine, chilled rose, the guests started to scatter and wove their way back to airports, transfers and trains to leave the magic of the weekend behind and resume their normal lives once more.
For Tiggy, The Beast and I, it was time to move onto yet another adventure. And early on Monday morning we waved goodbye to Morzine and drove slowly, in the pouring rain, along the valley floor and out of the resort before climbing up a series of aggressively steep switchbacks to Chatel (which we normally ski to from Morzine) over the Bec Du Corbeau (1,992m) and through an un-patrolled border into Switzerland, which would have nearly passed un-noticed had it not been for a flurry of Swiss flags adorning the chalets that lined the road immediately after.
The weather was truly awful, relentless rain and low hanging cloud, not only was it damp and miserable, it was pretty chilly too. All in all, it was a bit disappointing. It should have been a delightful drive – the sort that would have Jeremy Clarkson et al foaming at the mouth as we zig-zagged down the mountain – but it really was pretty dismal driving conditions. Although I’m proud, pleased and relieved to report that the windscreen wiper replaced by me, without any external assistance, coped admirably with being used in anger for the first time (it’s predecessor had flown off, unexpectedly, mid way through a particularly blustery drive in Tarifa).
The final stop of our trip was Verbier, where we stayed with Melody who lives in a beautiful chalet with huge picture windows, perched precariously half way up a very steep switchback between Le Chable below and Verbier above. Parking at Melody’s required nerves of steel, and great driver dexterity – including stopping and reversing up a near vertical incline combined with outstanding spacial awareness.
These are not skills I profess to have in abundance: I’m not a particularly competent driver; The Beast is really heavy and hard to manoeuvre, particularly in small spaces, and his hand break isn’t great, meaning that steep, hill starts (particularly in reverse) are far from easy. After a particularly stressful attempt on our third day where it smelt as if I’d burnt The Beast’s clutch to a cinder, I decided I would avoid parking at Melody’s again until I had an automatic car complete with parking sensors, a better turning circle and a boyfriend who would park it for me.
Melody, who originally hails from Scotland, is really a Verbier native having lived there for over eighteen years where she runs a very successful film and photography company. Her life is a bit like a North Face advert (one of her many clients in fact) and rather than living an adventurous, adrenaline filled life in the mountains vicariously through her Instagram feed, I was very keen to explore some of her pictures in person. Also, my upcoming Nepal trip is only two and a half months away, so I needed to knock out a few miles in the mountains and start to get my legs fit.
Tiggy and I bubbled up to Verbier for our first day’s hike. Compared to the hustle and mountain bike bustle of Morzine, it felt very quiet. Although I have to say, it felt incredibly luxurious to not have to queue for the bubble or share it with strangers. Mind you, I did miss my friend Damian, with whom I’ve shared many a glass of fizz whilst bubbling up from Le Chable to Verbier for a Big Night Out.
Tiggy was rocking her doggles and, as per usual, we had to stop for more than a few selfies with everyone from the lift operators to a gaggle of tourists from South Korea. If I ever run out of travel funds, I shall simply set up a pop-up photo-booth and pimp Tiggy out.
We took two bubbles and disembarked at Fontanet (2,485m) where the air temperature was noticeably a lot cooler than down in the valley at Melody’s where it remained unseasonably cool. I was glad I’d packed my down vest and immediately put it on along with my gore-tex jacket, a quiet, little voice in my head wondered if I should have packed gloves and a hat.
The mountains look so different when they’re not covered in snow and walking on the runs was a very interesting, unpredictably mixed experience. Some of the easy-peasy, smoothly groomed blue runs that I have hooned down so often were, as expected, lovely alpine meadows, carpeted in flowers and soft, mossy grass whilst other blue runs were covered in ankle-twisting, inhospitable scree and the jaunty little off-piste side runs that we love to take so much were far too steep and a definite no go on foot.
From Fontanet we started to climb the winding blue run up to the top of the Attelas chair lift (2,733 metres). Every now and again Tiggy stopped to stick her head into the entrance of an enticing hole, I wasn’t sure what they were home to as they were definitely too big for a rabbit, but, to a dog bred for ratting and hunting, they clearly smelt extraordinarily good. Tiggy does love to roll in fox poo, so I kept ushering her away, just in case they were a fox’s lair, as the last thing I wanted to do was return to Melody’s stinking of ‘eau de renard” – that would probably have ensured we would never have been invited back. We walked up past a flock of mountain sheep, whose bells we heard before they came into view, grazing away on the lush alpine grasses. As the life of a sheep goes, theirs must be pretty good, I bet they taste good too…
Sunny and hot, it was not, fog kept drifting in and out and at the top I was slightly perturbed to find we were in a total white out. I pulled the hood of my hoodie and jacket up, my hands were freezing so I tucked them inside my jacket arms, and the helpful little voice that wondered if I needed a hat and gloves became a little bit louder. Thankfully, having skied it often, I knew where to go and we walked down a surprisingly steep blue run, mercifully out of the clouds, to the two lakes of Lac Des Vaux (2,543m).
I’ve never seen these lakes before as they are always frozen and covered in snow in the winter, they were a very pretty and enticing tanzanite blue; a gap in the mountains enabled me to see far down into the valley, as stunning in summer as in winter – it was a quietly, contemplative moment. The little voice in my head, back in helpful mode, reminded me how lucky I am to have this gap year and to make sure I remember moments like this. I smiled and gave Tiggy a little tickle. Alluring though the colour of the water was, it was far too chilly to even contemplate dipping a toe in and my hands still hadn’t warmed up, so I didn’t even test the water with my fingers. However, the air felt cooler just standing by the water so I think it’s safe to assume that temperature of the lakes was on the “f**k me it’s freezing” side of cold.
Turning around, I scrambled and Tiggy bounced back up the steep blue run, back through the freezing fog and descended down the winding blue run. The plan was to head beyond Fontanet following a leisurely descent to La Chaux (2,260m) to enjoy a late lunch – and then potentially take the cable car to the summit of the glacier at Mont Fort (3,330 metres), the highest peak in the Verbier valleys.
Let me rephrase that – this was the plan until Tiggy discovered her first marmot.
It didn’t occur to me to keep Tiggy on a lead – no matter where we go, Tiggy is always within eyesight of me and, even though I don’t need to watch her every bounce, I always instinctively know where she is. In fact, she panics if she can’t see me, and if she ever pauses too long to linger over a particularly tempting scent, all I have to do is turn around and shout ‘left behind’ at which point she will always abruptly stop whatever she is doing and run towards me at full pelt. Being ‘left behind’ is no laughing matter for anyone, but particularly not to a little doggy who was often abandoned by her previous owners outside in a cage with no shelter for long stretches of time. Separation anxiety means Tiggy is nearly always in my shadow.
But not today. It turns out the tempting little hole that Tiggy found so enticing was actually a burrow belonging to a marmot. I now know this because I saw one, bushy tail and all, scampering through some long grass to the side of the walk on our way down. I also now know that the Alps are riddled with marmots and that they are related to squirrels, another irresistible animal if you’re a Jack Russell terrier. And they hibernate in winter, which is why you never see them when you’re skiing.
We were nearly at the bottom where of the piste where we were going to take the left fork towards La Chaux and lunch. I was beginning to get hungry (it was the cold, I’m sure). I heard Tiggy stop behind me, head down yet another hole. “Come on Tiggy, left behind” I called. She lifted her head up and started to trot obligingly towards me. At that moment a furry creature with a long tail shot out of the hole and, without a moments hesitation, Tiggy darted after it at top speed. The marmot scurried into the long grass and Tiggy hurtled after it, not far from its tail.
Tiggy, I hollered, and was met with silence. I couldn’t even hear her running in the grass. I kept calling her name along with ‘left behind’ – I scanned the grass for moving strands to give away her presence, there wasn’t a whisper of wind – the grass was motionless. I kept calling her name, in a cheerful voice, so she wouldn’t think she was in trouble. Nothing. The mountain was eerily quiet. I realised that since we left Fontanet about four hours earlier, we hadn’t encountered another soul.
All of a sudden I wasn’t cold anymore. In fact I was really rather hot and clammy. I ran down through the long grass calling her name. There was no sign of life anywhere. The helpful/unhelpful voice in my head was on full ‘imagination gone wild’ mode; I saw pictures of Tiggy with her head stuck down a hole, unable to get out; I saw pictures of Tiggy running round an unfamiliar mountain, frightened trying to find me and confused by strange smells; I saw pictures of Tiggy bleeding having been badly bitten.
A mind out of control will play interesting tricks on you; directed it’s your greatest friend.
I don’t know who said that, but it certainly couldn’t be truer.
Running back up to the spot where I last saw her, I told myself to calm down and get a grip. Should I call for help I wondered? If they send helicopters for lost climbers in Chamonix would they do the same for a dog? (The answer is no, of course, but I did seriously consider it as an option.)
Fifteen long and extremely anxious minutes went by. My tummy was gnawing, my hands were shaking, the only reason I wasn’t crying was because I knew I needed to keep my voice calm so she could hear me and not be scared to come back.
I kept calling and calling and calling and calling and calling. Not a murmur of noise, not the slightest of movements. The minutes crept by. I took long, deep breaths to keep myself calm(ish).
I don’t know precisely how long it was, I think thirty minutes, and then I lost it. No longer was my voice measured and friendly. I screamed and screamed and screamed her name until I couldn’t scream any more. And then I screamed again and again and again.
I saw the grass move first, out of the corner of my right eye, and then I saw a scared little face with frightened eyes, huffing and puffing with all her might and running at full pelt towards me. I attached her lead before I even hugged her. Sitting down with a thump, I pulled her closely and then gave her some water whilst I composed myself.
Who knows where she was or what happened. My guess is she chased after the marmot and didn’t realise how far she’d gone, and then when she stopped and couldn’t see or hear me, she got scared and started running, probably in the wrong direction. Women’s voices don’t carry well in the air (I know this from sailing) – so perhaps she didn’t even hear me until I started screaming.
With still slightly shaky knees, I stood up and we walked calmly down to La Chaux, Tiggy’s lead firmly attached to my wrist. I had a huge glass of wine with my 27CHF bowl of spaghetti. Tiggy nonchalantly gnawed on a chewy – it was as if the previous hour had never happened.
We were too late to do the Mont Fort cable car, which was shut anyway because of fog. Still a bundle of twitching, nervous energy I decided to walk down to Verbier to meet Melody. It’s quite a long walk. Longer than I realised in fact. I think it took us two hours. Lower down as we walked along the road it started to rain. By the time we got to the bottom – via two very steep red run short cuts – we were drenched, it was a good way to break in my new walking boots and a great test run for Nepal.
We arrived in Verbier (1,500m) and bubbled back down to Le Chable to collect The Beast and drove back up to Melody’s where I had a bath and Tiggy fell sound asleep. We had walked 9.7 miles and climbed the equivalent of 102 floors.
It’s easy to forget how small we are sometimes, but out here, the mountains sure find a way to remind you.
I have a list as long as my arm of things I want to and will do during my eternity leave: learn to kitesurf; do a handstand at Everest Base Camp; learn to play the guitar; write this blog; go ski-touring with Tiggy; have a lot of fun with friends old and new; keep an open, curious and playful mind – and so it goes on.
I’m also conscious that there are a barrel load of cliches that I could fall into if I’m not careful. I’m sure you know what I’m mean – middle aged woman goes travelling and comes back having found the Meaning of Life whilst cleaning toilets ten days into a silent retreat at an ashram in India (with humble apologies to any of the toilet-cleaning ashram goers amongst you).
Now, this list of ‘Shan’ts, Can’ts and Won’ts’ is clearly completely and utterly subjective – one girl’s trash is another girl’s treasure and so forth. So do take the list below with a pinch of proverbial salt, although I hereby grant you complete permission to keep me honest on them.
Get a tattoo
I’m writing this on the assumption that you, like me, are a staunch believer that David Beckham is one of the most beautiful people on the planet. But even he, I fear, is in danger of becoming over-inked. (And isn’t it interesting how VB appears to be zapping hers as fast as DB is adding his.)
It’s not that I’m against tattoos, far from it in fact, some are undoubtedly incredible works of art. It’s just whenever I think of middle aged women and tattoos, images of Pamela Anderson’s barbed wire, Cheryl Cole/Tweedy/Whatever’s bottom and Sporty Spice’s crucifix all pop into my mind. Please don’t tell me that none of them have had buyer’s remorse. I change my mind five minutes after a cut and blow dry, so heaven only knows what I’d be like after acquiring a permanent fixture.
I’m also totally squeamish, a complete wimp and hate the sight of blood. Ergo, I think I’m pretty safe on this one. I had a lovely gold foil one in Ibiza once which lasted a perfectly perfunctory three days.
Hire a vespa
And ride it in shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops. I had a Vespa once, it was lovely; in dashing plumb (I know, surprising, not pink), with a top box and hand warmers (I feel the cold). I used it to commute when I worked in north London. At the time it was very practical, my daily scoot took 25 minutes compared to 40 minutes on my bicycle and an hour on the tube – it was a no brainer really.
I haven’t ridden it since 2008 after I fell off going three miles per hour on the pavement outside my house and hurt my leg. And there it stayed, mainly functioning as an adventure playground for spiders, until it was uprooted to star in a Jack Wills autumn window display.
So, after an ‘ouchy’ in the form of a badly bruised thigh, I’m Captain Sensible when it comes to all things scootie now. Bare skin and gravelly tarmac at speed are never going to be friends, and for us, it’s two feet and four paws or four wheels on terra firma all the way.
Obsess over what I miss from England and whinge about foreign alternatives
The only allowable exceptions are: Tetley tea (I’m safe on this one as I bought 500 bags with me) and my friends (again, also safe as that’s what Facebook, What’s App and Insta are for). Although I do like a splash of milk with my tea – WTF is it with foreign milk?
Try to be ‘cool’
I’m 45 years old, I’m really quite square and I’ve never, ever been cool. Personally I don’t think there’s anything more cringe than someone trying to be something they’re not.
Examples in my list include: braiding my hair, taking hallucinogenic drugs, getting anything other than my ears pierced and wearing any of the below:
a) dungarees
b) indigenous knitwear from Nepal
or
c) tie-dyed, floaty kaftans from Tarifa (with accompanying jangling necklaces, bracelets, toe rings etc).
Buying lots of stuff
I love shopping – especially clothes and shoes – and even after a huge clear out I probably still have more anyone really should and certainly more than I need. I really hope my god-daughter grows up to have size five and a half feet, otherwise there’s a beautiful collection of eye watering-ly expensive footwear going to go to waste. So, my golden rule is – only one thing a month – no local tut and no going over my weekly budget. The only exceptions are purchases genuinely required for my pursuits – kitesurfing, hiking in the Himalayas, guitar paraphernalia and ski gear.
This is just my list, I’m sure everyone’s would be different. Have I missed anything? Remember, at the end of the day, the world’s going to judge you no matter what you do, so you may as well live life the way you want to…
Choose happy!
Love, Sophie, Tiggy and The Beast X
P.s Paws for thought Tiggy has added two criteria: no going on the beach when the Sand in Eye factor is above 5/10 and when the wind is gusting over 30 kts can everyone please stay on their leads so they don’t get blown away. Thank you 😊
I am only leaving Tarifa for nine weeks – we’re back at the beginning of September for one more month of magical adventures before I head off, sans Tiggy and The Beast, to Nepal. But still, the time to depart had come round far too fast.
I hate packing, I always have far too much stuff. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live life as a minimalist person, a floaty existence, unencumbered from clutter. I often marvel at ‘all white’ interior photo shoots in designer home magazines and try and always fail to imagine myself existing in a home like that.
I suppose our personal possessions are a reflection of our true characters – mine certainly is – busy, busy, busy, always doing something, my own special version of organized chaos, a high-energy life strewn with umpteen different things going on at once. I think it’s why swimming, walking, kite-surfing etc. are so good for me, they either lull me into a dream-free state or force me to concentrate and think of only one thing (where is my kite, my board, the waves, the wind).
I’ve done really well on avoiding retail therapy during my time in Tarifa – I haven’t gone over my designated budget and the only really big ticket purchases I’ve made are for kite surfing. On packing, I reaffirmed my vow to keep de-cluttering and to stop purchasing anything unnecessarily. I say all of this, yet a secret, small part of me still hankers after a rose-gold Rolex yachtmaster…I am nothing if not a creature of conflict and contradiction.
The weather for my final week was amazing – clear blue skies and glorious sunshine. A Poniente breeze blew in from the Atlantic, allowing for blue-bird kite-surfing and serene sea-swimming conditions. And I managed to cram in as much of both as time allowed.
It’s a long and lovely pilgrimage home, taking in some of the finest cities Spain has to offer on a four day voyage; Tarifa to Sevilla, Sevilla to Salamanca, Salamanca to Portsmouth (via ferry) and one last ferry from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight. All in all, 633 miles of driving, 622 miles on a Brittany ferry and a short hop home to Cowes.
After The Beast’s meltdown only the week before, the hero farmer who rescued us had already checked the oil and water and decreed them good. And, bribed with an eight pack of Cruzcampo beer, the local mechanic had agreed to bump The Beast up his one-week waiting list and fixed our frazzled blinkers and headlights in under a day for a refreshingly thrifty thirty euros.
I spent a lot of time sorting through all my things, putting aside one bag of clothes for September and taking four more large bags home with me, along with some books, my half-finished painting canvas, picnic basket and a plethora of other belongings that had hardly been used since my arrival.
Given that I was now the proud owner of three new, beautiful kites (two pink, one blue), a kite-board (pink and blue) and wetsuit (merely blue), I was actually coming home with more than I took out. So, after a not insignificant amount of effort, I was shipshape and prepared to cast off from Tarifa and weave our way home back to the Isle of Wight.
The Beast (thankfully) was sound and ready, I was sound albeit not quite emotionally ready, it was Tiggy, unfortunately, who turned out to be little under par. After my last, best and most enjoyable kite surfing session thus far, I returned home to be welcomed both by Tiggy and a little pile of luminous yellow vomit. These things happen, Tiggy isn’t often sick, and it always passes quickly so I held off feeding her any supper and kept my fingers crossed she’d be ok in the morning.
A lovely Last Supper with the boys came and went, Tiggy survived the night without producing any more radio-active surprises and we rolled into Thursday ready to rock and roll from the Reefa and commence our journey up to Sevilla. At lunchtime Tiggy was fed with her usual post-upset tummy dish of chicken-and-rice which was gobbled down in a flash and the bowl pushed round the floor of the apartment like an ice hockey puck as she licked out every last drop.
The boys came round to help me strategically pack The Beast. And after a slightly stressful incident of puffing up The Beasts tyres (30 PSI for those of you who care about such things) during which the boys were very kind and patient and I was somewhat impatient and unintentionally ungrateful, we all headed out to one of our favourite chiringuito for an ice cream and a bit of a decompress before the journey began.
Tiggy enjoyed a bouncy and fun game of catch while I, for one last time, absorbed the arresting sight of hundreds of kites careering through the skies attached by a tangle of 25 metre lines to the surfers carving through the waves.
Time to go, we said our goodbyes and headed inland from the coast to Sevilla – officially the warmest city in Europe and which, for those of you who believe in mythology, was founded by non other than Hercules.
Fittingly, it was somewhat of a Herculean drive: scorching hot and very dusty. The Beast’s fresh-air conditioning vents were cranked open to the max, my window and the passenger window were both wide open and still it was sizzling. The road was hilly, although not particularly winding and the vistas of the rugged hills of Los Alcornocales National Park, carpeted with one of the largest cork forests in the world, made for a visually impressive and interesting drive.
The Beast is perfectly capable of averaging at 60mph, but it’s far from a comfy cruise, once the speedo needle has tipped beyond 55mph the whole physical experience moves up an exponential notch and he becomes uncomfortably bumpy, bouncy and deafeningly rattly, something one has to endure as opposed to enjoy. As we all know that life is about the journey and not the destination, I therefore chose to cruise at a slightly (although not much) more serene average speed of 55mph.
Comfort factor aside, this meant that absolutely everything overtook us – lorries and buses travel at 60mph so we avoided getting stuck in their wake and as the roads weren’t busy, we could drive along in solitude without having to worry about complex and stressful manoeuvres such as overtaking or driving too close to anyone.
Tiggy always travels up front, next to me in the middle seat. She loves a journey in The Beast, I don’t know if it’s the vibrations or the sounds that she likes the most, but something about it is clearly very comforting to her, as she always curls up in her basket and goes sound asleep for hours at a time. Every now and again she’ll stir, wriggle to a new spot if the sun has moved and then go straight back to sleep. It’s not a bad life she leads.
About forty-five minutes into our journey, she stirred, stretched, squinted at me dozily and then opened her mouth and projectile vomited half digested chicken and rice all over the dashboard. She gave me a look as if to say ‘sorry mummy’, and then proceeded to attempt to eat the bits that hadn’t made it onto the dashboard and had landed on the side of her bed.
Aghast, but trying to remain calm, I saw a sign that said ‘Camino de Servicio’ which was the next exit and so I took it. Just as I was approaching the exit ramp, a wasp flew in via the open air front flap, stung me in the arm and then got sucked out of my driver’s side window before I could personally ensure it’s early demise. I howled loudly both in pain and exasperation. It really, really hurt.
Taking the service road, I looked, but couldn’t see the garage that I expected to be off the roundabout from the exit ramp. I followed the Camino de Servicio signs thinking perhaps it would be a garage in a small village – oftentimes in Spain the garages are about half a kilometer from the motorway, presumably located on what was once the main thoroughfare. But no, none was forthcoming.
After a couple of minutes the TomTom realized the error of my ways and re-routed us, telling us to go straight for five more miles before we could get back on the motorway towards Sevi-R (TomTom’s mis-pronunciation of Spanish towns is worthy of a blog post in its own right).
By the time I realized that the service station was going to be but a mirage in my mind, my arm was really starting to throb and the car was filled with the pungent and nauseating aroma of warm chicken vomit, with chunks dropping off the dashboard onto the floor.
I pulled over and used up half a packet of wet wipes cleaning the dashboard, the floor, Tiggy’s basket and the seat. The one time to be grateful for plastic seating in 35 plus degrees heat is when your dog has just been sick all over it, and you need to clean it up.
There wasn’t much I could do about my arm, which had gone a bit numb and was properly painful. There wasn’t much more I could do about Tiggy being sick either – we still had two and a half hours to go and we needed to get there.
Back on the motorway once more, I saw a Repsol garage on the side of the road, so I pulled in to take stock and gather my senses. Tiggy had some water; I had a small coffee and rubbed my smarting arm.
I bought some Haribo Starmix to cheer myself up and splurged 1.5 euros on a lemon scented car freshener which proclaimed ‘reir es la major vitamina’ – ‘laughter is the best vitamin’, clearly the Spanish version of ‘laughter is the best medicine’. It made me smile, but I was still some way off being able to chuckle about what had happened. Projectile dog vomit and baking hot car interiors do not make for a fun nor happy partnership.
When we finally arrived at 7pm it was still a punishing 36 degrees.
The Novotel where we were staying thankfully had an underground car park, although the corners were really tight, so I had to navigate three fifteen-point turns to get us into the hotel’s parking section – The Beast’s turning circle is diametrically opposed to that of a London Black Cab. If they had offered valet parking, I would have thrown the keys to the bellboy, Hollywood style, and legged it.
Once checked into our room, with the air conditioning on maximum cool and Tiggy tucked up in her basket on top of a beach towel in case of any more chundering, I ran a bath and soaked in peace and solitude for a good half hour.
After getting dressed, Tiggy and I wandered out into the very warm evening – it was still 30 degrees at 8.30pm – somewhat frazzled by the unexpected events and fried by the heat, we circumnavigated the impressive, enormous cathedral and bullring in a slightly lack-luster fashion.
The cathedral is awe-inspiring, dwarfing the likes of St Pauls Cathedral, it took over one hundred years to build when it was started in 1401. Standing defiantly on the former site of the city’s mosque, the spot was chosen two hundred years after the Castilians had successfully booted out the Islamic ‘invaders’ who had only spent the previous 770 years living there. I find the history of this region absorbing, fascinating and horrifying with unnerving and unsettling parallels to the world we find ourselves living in today (what is it they say about history repeating itself…).
Too tired to explore much more, I had a distinctly underwhelming and overpriced tapas supper along with two medicinal beers. We were both tucked up in bed and basket respectively by 10.45pm.
The next morning, we were up early as Sevilla to Salamanca was the longest leg of our journey – a bottom numbing five hours plus. Thankfully there had been no unwelcome mid-night deposits from the depths of Tiggy’s tummy (Tiggy remained nil by mouth to reduce any risk of that) and my arm had finally stopped aching.
I carried our bags down to the car and opened the passenger door to be greeted by an overwhelming onslaught: a stomach churning smell of stale chicken vomit mingled with synthetic lemon air freshener. My heart sank, my wet wipe clean up had clearly missed some nook or cranny where slowly decomposing chicken had made its home.
I still needed to check out of the hotel, so tucking Tiggy under my arm, we got the lift up to reception where, with my best game face on and trying to make Tiggy look as cute and innocent as possible, I asked if I could please avail myself of some disinfectant and a cloth because ‘my poor little doggy had been car sick yesterday’.
I explained that we had to drive all the way to Salamanca in my very old and slow car, at which point the kindly manager picked up the phone to housekeeping and garbled something unintelligible to whomever was on the other end.
He told me to go down to the car which I did, where I was promptly met by not one, but two housekeeping ladies, with a trolley full of cleaning products, along with a bucket and a mop. I repeated the ‘pauvrecito perrito’ (poor little doggy) web of half-truths to the ladies, who shook their heads sympathetically and insisted on doing the job themselves.
One of them took such a shine to Tiggy that as well as vigorously mopping out the foot-well, even The Beast’s dashboard received an efficient spritzing of lavender furniture polish and an energetic buffing. They then wanted their photo taking with Tiggy in front of The Beast, which I was more than happy to oblige (although annoyingly I forgot to take one of my own).
And under a cloud of lemon and lavender scent we executed three more fifteen point turns to exit the underground car park and leave the blistering heat of Sevilla behind us.
There’s not that much to embellish about our journey really – it was long, you basically go straight on for 125 miles, hang a right and then stay on the same road for another 125 miles; the countryside was green and vast and a joy to behold; The Beast was mechanically flawless; Tiggy wasn’t sick and no unwelcome insects invaded or stung.
The further away from the stifling heat of Sevilla we got and the closer to Salamanca, the more pleasant the journey became (although my bottom got a bit numb towards the end).
We stopped to refuel, twice – the first time I bought some Jamon flavor Ruffles – unequivocally the best flavoured crisp in Spain, the second time I topped up on the previous day’s Haribo Starmix (large bag). Whilst neither snack could come close to claiming they were of any nutritional benefit whatsoever, I thoroughly enjoyed them both and scoffed them down in an embarrassingly short space of time.
We arrived in Salamanca at about 3pm, once in our room Tiggy was fed for the first time and as soon as the last mouthful was digested, I took her for a long walk, just in case the dodgy tum decided to make a reappearance.
Thankfully the food stayed down and we returned back to the hotel for a siesta and for me to wallow in another luxurious bath (lots of bubbles) before heading out for yet more underwhelming and overpriced food. I’m really not good at choosing where to eat, and must do more research next time (adds Lonely Planet Salamanca to shopping basket on Amazon).
Tarifa aside, Salamanca is my favourite city in Spain (although I do still have to visit Cadiz and Grenada). To many people, Sevilla is the most beautiful city in Spain, and it really is extraordinary, but for me it’s no contest that Salamanca pips it to the post. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that it’s smaller, so the incredible architecture feels more immersive and accessible or perhaps, because of the university, there’s a higher concentration of ancient buildings to admire than Sevilla.
It’s such a vibrant city, mainly thanks to the large population of both local and international students, stunningly floodlight by night or illumined with soft warmth when bathing in the afternoon sun. The facades of the spectacular buildings make for a visual feast, bursting with mythical heroes, impressive religious scenes and exquisite coats of arms, bestowing the whole city with a magical quality and mystical feel.
Its history is equally as fascinating as Sevilla; the university is the oldest in Spain and one of the oldest in the western world, Christopher Columbus lectured there; the ‘new cathedral’ was only built in 1512 (restoration work in 1992 saw a faun eating an ice cream and an astronaut carved into the façade!); and the city was also Franco’s headquarters making Salamanca the de facto Nationalist capital and centre of power during the entire Spanish civil war.
Take my word for it, just go.
A late breakfast more than made up for my disappointing dinners from the two previous evenings. Outside on the terrace, I over indulged in a smorgasbord of bucksfizz, yoghurt and homemade compot followed by scrambled eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes and a petite pain au chocolat to round it all off. Only when travelling is chocolate ok for breakfast. Somewhat stuffed, dazed and confused from an inevitable food coma, I took Tiggy for a long walk, ready for our last three and a half hour drive to Santander and the ferry that night which would carry us back across the Bay of Biscay and down The Channel into Portsmouth.
As we were leaving, I risked life, limb and the wrath of the Spanish drivers of Salamanca by parking The Beast diagonally across a pavement to get a ‘money shot’ of him in front of the cathedral and another of us going through an ancient tunnel. And then, still satiated and most content, we were off once more.
The lemon scented freshener had already run out of smell, which made it one of my poorer 1.5 euro investments, but thankfully the eau de chicken-sick had definitely gone too, so I didn’t really feel it was my place to grumble.
The road to Santander was hilly and The Beast drank a lot of diesel – we traversed viaducts, zoomed through long tunnels and were in the queue for the ferry in no time at all. There’s not much to say about Santander that’s really of interest (that I saw), it’s headquarters to the bank, it’s ugly as sadly much of the town was destroyed by a fire in 1941, and the port is very big.
My passport was scantily checked, Tiggy’s passport was thoroughly checked and a new yellow “Pet On Board” sticker was affixed to The Beast’s windscreen. And that was that, our time in Spain was up, we were ready to board and commence the penultimate leg of our long journey home.
Once on board, Tiggy and I bundled into the lift up to the doggy deck. It’s a pretty slick and efficient service, except that Tiggles, much to her utter horror, has to go in a kennel that somewhat unfortunately – thanks to its very hygienic stainless steel casing and bars – looks very much like a jail. The nice thing is that dog owners can visit their precious pups any time of day and night, and because the weather on the crossing was stunning, we spent most of the day on the outside doggy deck, Tiggy toasting in the sunshine on my knee, and me writing this blog.
I started to write something about how eccentric, quirky and possibly downright bonkers, the other the dog owners were and then realized that, really, I was more than probably simply verbalising what they all thought of me. Contemplating and chuckling inwardly over this self-realisation for a short time, I stopped typing and sheepishly tapped the backspace button to delete what I had written. We fellow travelling dog owners need to stick together.
Long, lolloping waves greeted us head on as we left the shores of Spain behind and the ferry gently rocked over and slid down the back of them as we headed out into the Bay of Biscay. I looked down onto the waves and thought what fun it would be to kite surf out there on them – a watery, wind powered roller coaster, oh how I do love the sea.
Yet one more unsatisfactory supper later (should have stuck to Jamon Ruffles and Haribo) gave me the excuse to go via the shop after tucking Tiggy into bed that evening and, along with a cup of lukewarm PG tips, I gorged on a whole bar of Dairy Milk Fruit and Nut in bed whilst reading my book. Some crumbs of chocolate dropped and melted onto the sheet, I felt both guilty and naughty – it was rather like being at a pyjama party except I was the only guest. Satiated (and a bit sickly if I’m really honest), I turned off the light and, suddenly feeling utterly shattered, settled into my narrow bunk for a good night’s sleep.
Lying there I thought about Tiggy, up at the bow where it’s way more bumpy, and hoped she’d be ok with the waves that continued to roll towards us as we crossed Biscay. My cabin was towards the stern and, as I’d chosen the cheapest (yet still reassuringly expensive) cabin available, I was only one level above the car decks; I could feel the ship’s propeller shudder and judder beneath me.
Once I’ve got used to the vibrations and the constant noise of the engine, I find sleeping on a ferry really peaceful but annoyingly, despite being really tired, it took me ages to get to sleep that night.
My mind kept wandering – how did I feel about heading home? Would I miss the ‘Reefa? How can the time have flown by so quickly? Am I still doing the right thing? Am I keeping busy enough? Is there anything I else I should be doing that I’m not? I was all at sea; already homesick for Tarifa, and, at the same time, homesick for home. I don’t know how it’s possible to miss two places (or the people in them) at once, but it is.
Everyone keeps asking me what I will do when my gap year is over – the truthful answer is, I don’t know yet. I’ve been in touch with a few headhunters, but the opportunities that would be right for me (and I right for them) are really few and far between. There was one utterly amazing job, it would have been a dream job five years ago, and the interviews involved having Skype meetings with some of the most powerful people in fashion – but it was 50% in New York. I’ve more than been there, done that, got the t-shirt, along with the sweatshirt, cap and shoes – no amount of money or bragging job title in the world will induce me to spend half my life on an aeroplane ever again.
I trust myself well enough now that I will know when I find the right opportunity (or the right opportunity finds me) and when it does, I shall seize and embrace it.
Eventually my mind stopped whirling, I fell sound asleep and, unusually, didn’t wake up until my alarm sang softly in my ear. After showering in what must be the smallest bathroom known to mankind, I dashed upstairs to release Tiggy from jail, give her breakfast and a leg stretch on the doggy deck. Once she realised that food was on the cards, she quickly got over her umbrage at having been incarcerated all night, along with fifteen other howling and wailing four legged friends, and leapt around as much as one can on a gently ducking and diving deck.
It was a blissful day of quiet contemplation, writing, reading and soaking up the sun in the lee of the doggy penitentiary. I considered going for a swim in the open air, postage stamp, roof top pool, but it was closed due to the ‘sea state’ which was causing the swimming pool’s water to slop rather violently from one end to the other as the ferry rolled up and down the waves. I was gutted, it would have been fun I imagined, rather like swimming in a washing machine on a slow cycle.
It’s a long passage from Lands End (which we couldn’t see, but Google maps told me we’d passed) along one of my favourite coastlines in England – past the pretty little seaside towns of St Mawes, Dartmouth and Fowey; where I have spent many a happy summer, pottering around on the water. Seagulls squawked above us in the clear blue sky and a warm breeze puffed gently from the west.
After countless tummy tickles for Tiggy, many cups of tea and a plate of soggy chips for me, we eventually passed Portland Bill, a point around which I have sailed so very often, but never in such glorious conditions. A small shiver of anticipation ran through me.
Sliding Tiggy off my lap, I stood up and we ambled over to the ship’s railings, Tiggy bravely peering at the sea below, me peering out to see if I could spot the Isle of Wight. Squinting into the bright light, far away in the distance, out beyond where the sunlight bounced off the waves and the wind made patterns on the water, I could just make out the outline of a small, dark mound and instinctively I knew; I was home.
Why do the wheels always fall off the bus when you’re nursing the hangover from hell on the hottest day of the year so far?
It all started with an epic night out on Friday with Ellie who had come for a flying visit to Tarifa and some much needed R&R. This happily coincided with my last weekend here in the ‘Reefa before Tiggy and I traverse back home across Spain in The Beast and prepare to embark on the next chapter of our eternity leave adventures.
Prior to coming, Ellie had already advised me that she wasn’t up for a big drinking weekend or having much of a party. Tarifa is just as good for relaxing as it is for going out and tying one on, so I was totally cool with that and just really looking forward to seeing her.
I realised a few weeks ago, when I was starting to get a sort of twiddly thumb and itchy feet feeling, that I’ve really missed my girlfriends since I’ve been here. Tarifa is a great place to make friends easily and everyone here has been super friendly and welcoming…yet my close circle of friends is entirely male. I love them all dearly, I can’t even begin to imagine enjoying Tarifa without them and they are utterly fab beyond words, but it’s just not the same without a girly BFF too.
To illustrate, in planning my upcoming two months trekking in Nepal, I have had to come to terms with the idea of using a Moon Cup as you can’t leave anything behind on the mountain that isn’t bio-degradable and tampons rate about as highly as a nappy on the global pollution crime scene. Every year over 45 billion feminine hygiene products are disposed of globally and, in one day alone, Ocean Conservancy volunteers collected a truly shameful 27,938 used tampons and applicators from our world’s beaches. Girls, save the whales and stop flushing your tampons down the loo!
They say it takes three cycles to get used to a Moon Cup, so I’ve had to order one already which brought, in itself, a myriad of enigmatic issues. First of all they come in different sizes, so you have work out if you are size A or B (at least they’ve wisely avoided calling them small, medium and large); you need to “trim the stem” to get the best fit, yet who knows what the best fit means? And what if you trim too much? To top it all off, they have a troubleshooting section on their website which made my eyes water.
Conundrums such as these require close girlfriends and vast quantities of wine in order to be cogitated, speculated and digested. They are not really something I can drop into conversation with three other blokes talking about kite gear, Tinder dates and the election results, no matter how worldly, metrosexual and lovely they are.
Anyway, back to Friday night, where if I’m being totally truthful I don’t recall everything Ellie and I discussed, but Moon Cups certainly did come up, vats and vats of wine were definitely drunk and we were the first people through the door of Mombassa, one of the local hotspots that doesn’t even open until 2am. It’s a good job Ellie only wanted a quiet weekend, I’m not sure I could have coped if she had really wanted to paint the town red.
So, you can imagine how we felt on Saturday morning. It was a full-fat-coca-cola breakfast kind of day. It was also a belting hot day – 30 degrees by 10am with Tarifa’s notorious winds not even rustling up the very smallest of cooling puffs. It was so hot that there was a unique and stunning cloud formation which sank low and deep over the Mediterranean leaving Jebel Musa, the southern pillar of Hercules (Gibraltar is the northern pillar) in Morocco rising mysteriously and wondrously from the cloudy depths.
The plan was to drive to Cadiz and spend the late morning and afternoon exploring the wonders of one of the oldest cities in Western Europe having been founded by the Phoenicians in 1104 BC. N.B. that’s the Phoenicians not the Venicians, which I rather embarrassingly got terribly confused over for a while – “Founded by the Venetians? Huh? What were the merchants of Venice doing in Cadiz?”.
Anyway, fortified by the twelve secret ingredients of full fat coca-cola, scrambled eggs, jamon de serrano, coffee and two fizzy waters, Ellie, Tiggy and I scrambled and flopped into The Beast and set off, already behind schedule, at about 11.30am.
The Beast’s 1969 air conditioning is a, usually efficient, two mechanical flap open-air mechanism, controlled by two handles underneath the windscreen. Like little windows to the world on the front of the car, they force air through as you drive along. Even when it’s hot, they usually work remarkably well. We’ve often commented that all cars should have them to save on fuel efficiency.
But not today, it was like sitting in front of a fan blowing hot air on you when you’re already sweltering. And because The Beast remains true to his original condition, his black, plastic seats only exacerbated the sauna-esque environment. Black plastic seating is nobody’s friend on a blisteringly hot day, I felt as if we were being bar-be-queued by different heat sources from all angles.
Having already made a two minute detour via the Carrefour garage to stock up on San Pellegrino, iced lollipops and Haribo in a (failing) attempt to keep the hangovers at bay, we left Tarifa behind us and set out on the coastal road up to Cadiz. TomTom said we would get there by 1pm, Cadiz’s not-to-be-missed market closed at 2pm, so I put my foot down and let rip.
I’m sure it was the hangovers, but The Beast felt more jiggly and bouncy than usual, and the TomTom kept falling off the windscreen into my side of the footwell by the handbrake. It was an added irritation I could have done without.
About thirty kilometres out of town I got a little whiff of a oily-burning smell. Three seconds later it was more than a whiff, I thought The Beast was on fire.
Attempting and no doubt failing to remain calm, I looked at Ellie “I smell burning, that’s not us, is it?”
“Yes it is” she replied “we need to pull over”
The stretch of road we were on had no hard shoulder, and cars were hurtling down on us at a terrific rate of knots. So we needed to find a lay by. The Beast has no hazard lights so one has to be extra thoughtful and considerate about doing an emergency stop at any time, but particularly on a busy road.
The burning smell got stronger and stronger and I started to have alarming visions of us bursting into flames and Tiggy, Ellie and I being literally rather than merely metaphorically burnt to a crisp. There was a turn off to a local farm track – I pulled in quickly, I unbuckled Tiggy and I, and we all got out rather sharpish. I was half expecting to have to run, James Bond style, as The Beast spontaneously combusted behind us. But, thankfully, he just sat there.
Ellie, Tiggy and I gingerly returned to the car. I cautiously opened the bonnet, mercifully no flickering flames or anything else looked seemingly untoward. And then, like gourmet chefs inhaling the aroma of their latest pungent, gastronomic creation, we tentatively sniffed The Beast from top to toe. We sniffed his wheels in case it was the brakes. We sniffed the engine from all sides and angles. We sniffed the exhaust. We sniffed in the back. We sniffed in the front. Tiggy, naturally, sniffed along in unison.
Ellie concluded it smelt a bit stronger by the front left wheel. We sniffed in harmony together and agreed. But we still didn’t know WTF had happened and were none the wiser.
It was decreed I would restart the engine. I clambered back in, sweaty legs sliding on the burning hot seat. I turned the key in the ignition and absolutely nothing happened. No starter motor kicking into gear. No coughing or spluttering. Thankfully, no exploding or bursting flames. But it was quite eerie. Like a dodgem car when the ride has run out, no matter what over-ride switches I flicked, there wasn’t a spark of life left in him. “Oh Beastie”, I thought “I hope you haven’t gone and died on us, we need you”.
By this point Ellie and Tiggy were sheltering from the scorching sun in the lee of a bush at the side of the road and I was still poking things randomly, along with a few sensible measures like checking the oil and water under the shelter of a brolly I’d (ahem) borrowed many moons ago from The Dean Street Townhouse. It made for an excellent parasol, I can highly recommend borrowing one too, should you ever have the occasion to go there. Whoever says crime doesn’t pay hasn’t broken down in 35 degrees at mid-day in Southern Spain, in a car with no A/C and only half a bottle of San Pellegrino and some melting Haribo to sustain them.
I called International Roadside Assistance, who, after asking me a mystifyingly large raft of questions for over ten minutes (including did Tiggy have her passport on her, did we have any luggage and what time was the ferry that we were due to depart on) determined that I was covered and they would send someone out to help. Personally I felt that ‘I’ve broken down, I need roadside assistance, it’s very hot, there’s no shade’ would have more than covered it, but, hey, what do I know.
I was told someone would call us within half and hour and tell us when they would be able to get to us. As you can imagine, that didn’t exactly make my heart sing with joy.
Time to call in the cavalry I thought and, thankfully, as we were only half an hour and not an hour and a half out of Tarifa, I called my friend Rowan who is always brilliant in a calamity. I filled him in on what had come to pass.
Even though he’s one of the cleverest people I know, disappointingly, he wasn’t able to diagnose The Beast’s condition from 20k away. I explained that I had called International assistance, but could he please come and pick up Ellie and Tiggy who, by this point, were crouching under the bush as the sun was directly overhead and there was very little shade at all.
Rowan pinged me a couple of things he’d google’d and set out in his modern, air conditioned, 4×4 with a giant bottle of water. His ETA was thirty-ish minutes away.
And then, just because it was one of those days that decides to kick the dirt in your eyes when you’ve already been tripped up, a ginormous tractor trundled round the corner right into the path of The Beast, who was completely blocking the farm track. My bottom lip had a little, involuntary wobble.
The Farmer looked at me – standing there in a sundress under a black umbrella next to a Landy with the bonnet and all doors open – it must have been quite an arresting sight. He hadn’t yet spotted Ellie and Tiggy crouching under the bush.
I looked at him. I attempted a smile and pointed at The Beast and then made the international sign of death by pretending to slice my throat with my finger.
He descended from his huge tractor – it made The Beast look like a minnow, a tiddler of vehicles compared to this monster of a machine with a massive digger on the front and some indiscernible plough or farrow trailer on the back. I thought he was going to shout at me for being in his way.
My Spanish is getting better all the time with practice, but given that I don’t even do ‘car speak’ in my native tongue, I knew it would be a bit of a battle to communicate what had come to pass in a foreign language.
Many charades and made up words later, he got the gist of it all. I turned the key in the engine, I showed him the override switch. He looked at the fuse box and checked the fuses. I showed him the battery – he pulled it out and checked the connections, all good.
We looked under the bonnet together. I sniffed and showed him where the smell was. He looked at the oil and declared it was new, I said it was, he said it was good. He checked the water and said it was cold and that the level was correct, which was also good. I’d already done those checks, but let’s face it, it was helpful to have someone who actually knew what they were talking about corroborate this view.
And then he spotted something I had not. A pipe had come away at it’s joist. Given the bumpy roads and all the shaking and vibrating that’s part and parcel of owning a vintage landy like The Beast, it’s amazing that anything held together by a mere screw would stick. And this was one that had come unstuck.
The Farmer, now totally in the swing of Spanish Charades, put his hands around his neck and made a choking noise and then stuck his tongue out and did a ‘dead’ face’. I deduced this was, therefore, the air intake pipe. So the burning smell made sense, as once it had come away we would have smelt the engine combusting, and even I know that engines make power by burning oxygen (air) with fuel.
The Farmer put the air intake pipe back into its socket. He got out his Swiss Army Knife and started to tighten the brace round the neck of the socket. I told him to wait, that I had a toolkit. I knew I had a ratcheting screwdriver with different shapes and sizes of attachments, given to me in a neon pink bag along with an assortment of other useful tools and some Refresher chews by a kind petrol-head friend who had been to stay previously and was underwhelmed by my lack of appropriate equipment.
It was kept in the locker under the passenger seat – so I took the seat apart and triumphantly handed the pink neon bag to the Farmer who looked speechless and rather aghast as he rifled through it to retrieve said screwdriver and confidently secure the air intake pipe. We both smiled.
But still The Beast would not start. Dead as a dodo. Not a flicker of life. My heart sank. It was impossible not to let my mind run ahead to how on earth I was going to get Tiggy and I home with no wheels. Would I have to buy a new car here in Spain?
I was just beginning to imagine the “I told you that car was a mistake” lecture I was going to get from Daddy Neary when the Farmer, who was ferreting about on the drivers side emerged, proudly holding a large, red, plastic key. It’s the sort of key you have on a boat battery. In The Beast, it lives down on the left, on the driver’s side, in the footwell by the handbrake. In fact, it’s exactly where the TomTom had fallen off into, twice in a row.
It was on the floor, said the Farmer. I immediately clicked that the TomTom must have knocked it and it worked loose and, by sheer coincidence, when we had come to a halt and we’d all made a sharp exit from The Beast I must have knocked it out with my foot.
The red key was reinserted. The immobiliser switch on the dashboard panel was flicked on. The Farmer and I looked at each other, hesitantly and expectantly. He nodded. I turned the ignition key. And, resuscitated by juice in his veins and air in his lungs, The Beast roared and shook back into life.
I jumped down from the driver’s seat and gave the Farmer a huge, huge, huge hug. Ellie said she wished she had taken a picture of his face, that it was quite a sight to behold. A million times thank you, I said. In return he smiled and shook my hand. With hindsight, the hug may have been slightly OTT.
So, that was that. I immediately got on the phone to the Cavalry that was Rowan – he was, by then, only five minutes away – and Cadiz now clearly off the menu, we decided the sensible thing was for him to take Ellie and Tiggy in the air conditioned cool of his modern 4×4 and The Beast and I would follow back to his house to decompress and exhale.
I also called International Roadside assistance to tell them I’d met a Farmer and that he’d fixed us. Oh good, said the lady, because I was having real trouble getting through to anyone to help you. How reassuring to have spent £250 on that then, I thought.
Back at Rowan’s house, Ellie and I revived ourselves by taking it in turns to stand in front of his giant fan and gulp down even more water.
Clambering back into The Beast we were merely one short, sticky legged drive back home. Gosh it was good to be back in one piece.
Via a banana milkshake and yet more water, we headed out for a revitalising swim. The water was refreshingly chilly – the sea breeze had finally kicked in, and meant we swam in the Atlantic Ocean, on the Phoenician port side of Tarifa’s Isle of Doves. The winds and tides have shaped and honed the ancient walls over time – it’s one of the most beautiful tidal pools I’ve ever swum in, even if the Phoenicians didn’t quite intend it for that purpose all those centuries ago.
That night Ellie, Rowan and I jubilantly headed out to Vejer De La Frontera, to my favourite restaurant in the region, Corredera 55 where, perched on the hillside looking over the valley, we enjoyed a delicious, delectable and divine dinner as the sun went down on our day of adventures.
And then, the drive home in the pitch black was a total nightmare, because none of the lights on the Landy would come on. And, yet again, we had to call on the Cavalry that is Rowan to help us once more. I can’t face reliving it by writing about it, but suffice to say we made it back alive and on Monday morning The Beast will be marched straight to the garage to get his fuses fixed.
It will be bittersweet to leave Tarifa. Time has flown by, having made many precious memories and learnt so many new things from kite surfing and playing the guitar to the importance of a little red key.
Even though I really have missed my girl-friends back home, I am fortunate to have forged the strongest bonds of friendship here too. At some point in the coming year we will be scattered across all four corners of the world, each on our own adventure, from Japan to Nepal to Chile and South Africa. And the wonderful thing about friendship is that it doesn’t matter in the slightest whether I return to Tarifa or not. Good friends are the family we choose for ourselves and they are like the sun, the moon and the stars – you may not always see them, but you know they are always there.
A curious turn of incidents has led to a very emotional week for the Tarifa arm of the Neary family.
It all started, I think, with an extra enthusiastic bounce from Tiggy onto the sofa one evening which ended in a squeal and a sore back leg. The next day when I left to go kiting she cried a bit – hindsight being 20:20, I now realise she was trying to tell me her leg was properly sore and not just an ‘ouchy’.
A few hobbling walks later, I started to get worried as it didn’t seem to be getting any better. But I knew it wasn’t broken as she could, when required, still bounce up the steep steps to our apartment, run after her ball or jump onto my lap for a cuddle.
Was it worth a vets visit, I pondered on Tuesday. Having prevaricated and then decided yes, an appointment was secured for 1pm on Thursday.
In the meantime one of the Tarifa Tribe lent me his ‘red light’ therapy lamp – which, he explained, enhances and promotes the body’s natural healing powers. I can’t confess I understood the science behind it, but when he mentioned it was used by NASA to treat injuries in outer space, I concluded it would be good enough for Tiggy to try on terra firma.
Tiggy adores warmth be it a glorious sunny spot, a toasty wood burner and she is especially fond of underfloor heating (let’s face it, who isn’t?). Unsurprisingly then she utterly adored being placed strategically into position and basking in the red light glow for a restorative twenty minutes at a time.
Thursday came and we ambled along the road to see our vet, Eva. Eva was already firm friends with Tiggy as, quite soon after we arrived, Tiggy contracted an infection in her lady-bottom. Quite how remains somewhat of a mystery – although my friends all took great pleasure in concocting stories as to how this had come to pass – each one more outrageous and revolting than the next. One (i.e. me) was not amused. My theory is it was something to do with the sweet yet slobbering boxer who lives below us and who licked her bottom like a lollipop every time we entered or left our apartment.
Anyway…I explained the potential source of the sore leg to the lovely Swiss German, fluent Spanish and English speaking Eva. Tiggy was duly walked around the waiting room like a little show pony so that her limp could be seen from all sides and then hoisted onto the table in the examination room where her leg was manipulated in every angle conceivable (and some that seemed pretty inconceivable to me) whilst being bribed with biscuits.
“I’m sure it’s not broken” said Eva, “but it could be a torn ligament which will show if the bones are misaligned, so we need to do an X-ray.”
That almost worried me more as if Tiggy had torn the equivalent of her ACL, I wasn’t quite clear how well it would heal – you can’t exactly get a knee brace for a little back leg.
Tiggy obediently tottered behind Eva into the x-ray room to be papped at a number of different angles. More than a smattering of the eight thousand plus photos I have on my phone are of Tiggy – so fortunately she’s very used to striking a pose. Tiggy was returned to me for a tummy tickle and yet another treat whilst we waited for Eva to examine the X-ray.
After a while Eva came back and showed me the X-ray results. It was good news, the leg bones were ever so slightly misaligned, which probably meant a strained, not torn, ligament – rest and recuperation were the order of the day along with an injection of pain killer. I also showed Eva a picture of the red light lamp of love and she concurred it was good to keep that treatment going too.
Then there was a pregnant pause and just as I was about to scoop Tiggy up and take her home, Eva told me, hesitantly, that something else has showed up in the X-ray. An unexpected, slightly skewiff, solid triangle shaped ‘foreign object’ in, what seemed to be, her tummy. Not a growth, not a tumour or anything else that would conjure a myriad of consequences – but, all the same, an unwelcome intruder, lodged inside where it ought not to have been.
There then followed a lengthy discussion as to what the alien object actually was. I went through the options – most likely a pebble, possibly a remnant of bone or a bit of plastic from an old ball were the most obvious ones I could come up with. One of the other vets suggested tin foil, which was also entirely feasible.
I wasn’t at all bothered. Hoppity leg aside, Tiggy was in more than great health. Wet nose, waggy tail, shiny coat and no change to her eat-everything-in-sight appetite or digestion.
“It’s probably a stone”, I said, “and I bet it’s been in there for ages”.
When I first got Tiggy, seven years ago, she had just come out of being on heat. She’s a rescue dog having been hideously treated by her cretinous previous owners. The RSPCA recommends all rescue dogs are speyed as, I’m guessing (although I don’t know for sure) if you don’t know what they’ve been through, then you should avoided breeding from them. You have to wait a while after a dog has been in season before you have them spayed and during this time poor little Tiggy developed a phantom pregnancy.
It was a nightmare. She became very territorial over her basket, she’d growl at the boys at work when any of them came into my office and, most heartbreaking of all, she ‘adopted’ some large pebbles from my garden and treated them like her own newborn puppies.
When it was sunny, one by one, the pebbles would be picked up and carried outside and placed in the warmth of the sunshine.
When the sun went in, one by one, the pebbles would be picked up, carried back inside and tucked into her basket.
An injection of hormones at the vets put paid to the phantom puppies and pregnancy and Tiggy buried her own demons from the past to become the much adored and happy, bouncy dog she is today.
So I wondered if the stone could have been an unintentional left over consequence from the puppy-pebble saga.
The other reason I felt there was more than a fighting chance it was a stone was because Tiggy also loves nothing more than a game of throw and catch with anything that resembles a ball. Given that a fair few beaches where we’ve played catch for years on the Isle of Wight are pebbly ones, it seemed entirely plausible that one had been accidentally ingested.
So, as I said, I was entirely unbothered – Tiggy was in fine fettle, it clearly wasn’t causing her any issues at all and I assumed it could therefore just stay put.
Unfortunately, Eva did not share this opinion. She was quite firm, it needed to be dealt with before it became a problem. It absolutely could not stay put, it had to come out. Some more X-rays on an empty tummy were required in order to properly determine the next steps and we were sent home, Tiggy to be nil by mouth until 1pm the next day.
Back we went on Friday, this time with my visiting friend, Gretchen, also in tow. We had an ultrasound to start with. Good news! The object had vanished. I breathed a sigh of relief. It must have been some tin foil stuck to a piece of left over steak brought home from a restaurant for Tiggy on Tuesday.
I felt as if I had exhaled properly for the first time in twenty four hours.
Eva said we should do one more x-ray to be on the safe side. Fine, I said, already looking forward to a restorative gin and tonic and toasting the demise of tummy-gate on the beach with Gretchen.
But no, those plans were quickly thwarted as lo and behold the x-ray showed the pesky little blighter was still there. In exactly the same place, it just hadn’t showed up in the ultrasound for some strange reason.
“What happens now?”, I asked Eva. I was given two options. Either drive up the coast to a pet hospital in Chiclana where they could perform an endoscopy, or have an operation here, which that would mean cutting directly into her tummy, i.e a big operation.
I was still struggling to grasp that my seemingly, healthy, happy little dog was going to have to undergo a major procedure, when, to all intents and purposes, she clearly was feeling perfectly chipper.
“What would you do if she was your dog?” I asked Eva, “I would go to Chiclana for the endoscopy”, she replied. Although she made it clear there was no guarantee the foreign object could or would be excavated by the endoscopy, and then there would be no option but to cut her open.
At this point the enormity of it all hit me and I put my head in my hands and burst into tears. I didn’t want Tiggy to have a general anaesthetic. Even though I’m ridiculously squeamish, the idea of the endoscopy didn’t bother me at all. But the idea of her having a general anaesthetic filled me with an overwhelming gnawing, clawing anxiety.
The vet in Chiclana had already been contacted and an emergency appointment was made for Saturday (the following) morning.
In the meantime I messaged my friends at home who have far more experience in this area than I, having owned not one but five spaniels (at the same time) over the past thirteen years, one of whom had a particular penchant for eating toy soldiers and dinky cars. Get a second opinion, they counselled whilst sending lots of love to Tiggy.
In the end, four vets all concluded that, whatever it was, it had to come out.
There was little more we could do, so Tiggy, Gretchen and I headed off to the beach for a few hours and a much needed beer. My head was still reeling that an initial visit over a sore leg had turned into such a significant incident. I hadn’t had time to brace or prepare myself for this at all.
Tiggy, who already hadn’t eaten for twenty four hours, was now nil by mouth both food and water. Hunger aside she was still full of bounce and fun and was ecstatic that, as a rare special treat, she was allowed upstairs to sleep on my bed that evening.
She started the night curled up in a puffed up part of duvet at the end of the bed. By about 3am I felt the warmth of her body tucked into the small of my back. By 6.30am, when it was time to get up, she’d managed to commando crawl on her tummy and ended up nose to nose with me on the pillow, somehow sensing that she wouldn’t be told off for doing so.
This was the first “early getting up” deadline I’d had since being made redundant. And I didn’t enjoy it at all. Having washed, fed and watered myself whilst Tiggy looked on hungrily it was time to leave.
I packed her bed and her blanket so she’d have some security from familiar surroundings when she came round the from the anaesthetic and it was time to hit the road.
The destination of the pet hospital was tapped into the TomTom and The Beast roared into life, ready to transport his precious cargo up the coast.
It’s a bit of a standing joke in our family that I’m a fairly rubbish driver. I don’t enjoy or like driving and I certainly don’t like going fast. My usual modus operandi is far more Driving Miss Daisy than Speedy Gonzales, I tend to tootle along, very content to be overtaken by all and sundry whilst we amble bumpily to our destination.
It’s partly why I like driving on the Isle of Wight – no motorways or dual carriageways, the sat nav in my old Fiat 500 would often report an average speed of 25mph. For the past ten years my total annual mileage has been under 2,000.
Not today though. We pulled out of Tarifa and onto the main coast road and with a purposeful sense of grit and determination, I totally floored it.
The Beast charged and roared loudly (and rattled) like a raging bull – I think he has something like a 2.5 litre engine, and trust me, it was put to good use.
On any given day it’s an impressive drive – we left the beautiful beaches of Tarifa and Bolonia behind us and turned the corner to stampede through the national park and thunder past the enormous wind farms.
In 2016 Spain was impressively the fourth biggest producer of wind power in the world (after China, the USA and Germany) and 20% of the country’s total electricity comes from the wind. When the conditions are right (i.e. windy), wind has surpassed all other power sources in Spain – the record being November 21, 2015 when 70.4% of electricity consumed on the mainland came from the element. Capitalising on its exposed location, fifty eight giant wind farms power the entire region of Cadiz, a truly arresting sight as you’re driving along.
Not much happens in Spain at 7.30am on a Saturday morning and the wind farm was no exception. The windmills were completely stationary, like an army of mammoth, slumbering triffids, row after motionless row, heads bowed as if to respectfully let us pass through unfettered.
This must have been the first time in my life that I’ve ever broken a speed limit as we arrived in Chiclana at 8.50am, a full fifteen minutes before the TomTom’s estimated arrival time. (Usually we are fifteen to twenty minutes behind its ETA.)
Navigating the many roundabouts in Chiclana, I drove on the principle that anything getting in the way of us would come off far, far worse. It’s amazing how quickly cars get out of your way when they see two and a half tons of noisy, shaking and vibrating Land Rover with a wide eyed woman at the wheel, hurtling down on them at speed.
We pulled into the car park of the pet hospital – a reassuringly clean, modern and clinical looking building. I turned off The Beast’s ignition, the vibrations juddered to a stop and for a few moments I just sat in stillness and silence hugging Tiggy on my knee.
Plastering a brave smile on my face that tried and failed to mask my true emotions, we walked towards the main door, carrying Tiggy’s bed and blanket, where the Vet and his assistant were already waiting for us.
We were immediately ushered into a consulting room – Tiggy who clearly still felt right as rain, was totally oblivious to what she was about to be subjected to. The vet was calmly and clinically efficient. Instructing me to hold Tiggy’s head, he took some blunt ended scissors and started to snip a patch of fur away on her right leg.
Tiggy, at this point, sussed that something untoward was up and started to tremble. She looked at me as if to say ‘what’s happening mummy?’ as she shook from head to tail. I kept talking to her to reassure her as a huge needle was inserted into her little leg and she was given a tranquilliser prior to the anaesthetic.
Then it was time to hand her over to the professionals. The vet picked up her blankie and told me to put her in his arms which I did with a big kiss and ear tickle. Then I looked up at him and said “Por favor ten cuidado, ella es mi bebé” (please take care, she is my baby) and I stifled a sob as he nodded brusquely and walked out of the room.
The lovely, kind assistant squeezed my arm as tears streamed down my face. There was a cafe at the beach I could go to, she explained, and they would call me when the operation was over. “How long will it be?”, I asked, “we don’t know” she said, as it would depend on whether the endoscopy was successful for not. Clearly it was going to be a fair few hours and I was in for a long wait.
By now I was shaking as much as Tiggy and I drove, super slowly, towards the beach where there was a street dotted with small cafes and cervicerias. I plumped for the one that was busiest and, with my book, sat outside waiting to be served.
The waiter approached and I asked for the menu. He smiled and said “Solo tenemos café, chocolate caliente, té, zumo de naranja y churros” (we only have coffee, hot chocolate, tea, orange juice and donuts). Somewhat dazed I decided I needed some sugar and went all out ordering a hot chocolate, orange juice and churros.
On the table next to me was a Spanish couple about my age with a giant Great Dane who came over to say hello to me. Sitting down my eyes were level with his, he was huge. I patted him on his head and explained, haltingly, to the couple that my little dog was currently having an operation at the hospital down the road. They cooed appropriately over a picture of Tiggy and were fittingly sympathetic, saying they had heard it was an excellent hospital, she was in good hands.
I eeked out eating my breakfast, savouring the sweetness of the churros whilst attempting to read my book. After reading the same page twenty times, I gave up and sat simply staring into space, alternately checking my watch and my phone every five minutes. The Great Dane couple left, wished me good luck and farewell and I was alone once more.
Time crawled torturously by. First one hour. Then two. I kept the small family of friends who knew what was going on updated by text and also filled my sister in on the situation. My heart hurt, my tummy ached, and I had to concentrate really hard on not letting myself fall into the trap of “what if” fear-mongering.
Just as I was coming up on the three hour mark, I texted “I’m flapping now. It’s been three hours, I’m getting really worried”.
I was just about to lose it when two seconds after I’d hit send, the phone range. A Spanish number. The hospital. My hands were shaking so much I nearly dropped the phone. The vet’s voice spoke to me “Todo es bueno, puedes venir a recoger a tu perrito” (everything is fine, you can come and collect your little dog). My voice caught in my throat, I couldn’t speak, all I managed was a squeaky ‘Gracias’.
I asked the waiter for the bill, he explained it had been paid by the couple with “the big dog”. I was touched beyond words – a timely reminder that no act of kindness, regardless how big or small, is ever wasted. Dog people really are the best.
The Beast and I sped back to the hospital. And, once again, the vet and his assistant were waiting at the door. I was whisked upstairs this time and taken into a different room. The endoscopy had been a success. There was no need to slice Tiggy open. She would be sleepy and dozy for the next twenty four hours – but she could have some soft food this afternoon. I just kept saying ‘gracias’ and nodding. I didn’t even really feel relieved which was strange, I think I was still numb from it all.
And then, before being reunited with little Tiggy, I was ceremoniously handed over the mysterious alien object and the root cause of all this trauma and emotion. It was a large pebble – smooth on all sides, shaped like a duck (he said). I’ve kept it of course, although I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do with it.
We left the consultation room and went next door, and there, in a tiny cage, in her basket, wrapped in her blankie was Tiggy. The door was opened and she teetered out, like a little drunk, tottering about on jelly legs, still clearly feeling the after affects of the anaesthetic.
I scooped her up and covered her little face in kisses before carrying her out to the car and clicking her into the middle seat. She gave me a look as if to say ‘what was that all about?’, closed her eyes and dozed off to sleep.
Heading back to Tarifa I reverted to “Driving Miss Daisy” mode once more – although clearly the stress and worry of the morning was wreaking havoc on my mind, as we went round a roundabout three times having missed the exit that was extremely clearly communicated both verbally by the TomTom and visually by the road signs.
I drove home at half the speed of the early morning journey, The Beast, far less noisy and rattly now he was not being pushed to the max – a much quieter and calmer ride. Every now and again Tiggy would wake up, lift up her head and snuffle at me, and then plonk her head down again and go back to sleep.
As we closed in on the approach to the national park, I could see in the distance that the wind had picked up and the triffid army of windmills had awoken, their arms twirling in their endless and relentless march to power the region.
The road was busier now too – and we were peeped at and overtaken many, many times as we bimbled along, back home to Tarifa. Once safely ensconced in our apartment, Tiggy dozing contentedly on the sofa, I lay down next to her and, totally shattered, fell fast asleep.
For the next few days Tiggy was definitely out of sorts, very clingy and always wanting to sit on my knee – which isn’t really like her at all as, like me, she’s a very independent little thing. Her throat was clearly sore – although she very much enjoyed being fed home-made chicken stock along with poached chicken and rice instead of her usual crunchy, scratchy kibble.
Little by little she’s got her mojo back, the fur is growing on her leg, and even though her back leg is still a bit wonky, day by day she is reverting back to the fizzing, bouncing bundle of energy we have grown to love so much.
Gosh life can be cruel with its twists and turns – a lost job, a broken heart, an unexpected illness…sometimes we are fortunate enough to be able to take the cards that fate has dealt us and throw them back into the dealer’s deck and select some more.
And other times we have no choice but to deal with the cards we’ve been handed, to make the most of a situation which, particularly when our hearts and emotions are involved, can seem to take on a magnitude all of its own.
Sitting now writing this, with Tiggy snoozing contentedly, sandwiched between the warmth of my lap and the heat from my laptop I can’t help but think, no matter what happens, how lucky we are to have the luxury of this gap year together.
With Tiggy by my side I am never alone and our home, wherever that may be, is always full of love. She waits for me at the bottom of the stairs when I wake up in the morning. She’s right by the door with a little waggy tail to welcome me home. She is Piglet to my Winnie the Pooh, and, as that oh so clever bear of very little brain once said;
“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart”.
This week, along with two friends who were over from the UK, I hiked Gibraltar Rock via the Mediterranean Steps. It was a stunning, steep and sweaty climb up a narrow, rocky and winding footpath which hugs the south eastern side of this 1,398 feet high limestone British territory, previously known as one of the Pillars of Hercules.
I left The Beast on the Spanish side and walked, with my friends, through border control onto British soil. And there commenced our day of unanticipated, remarkable moments. The first frisson of excitement came as we realised that the road and walkway into the town was actually the runway for Gibraltar airport – basically it was a level crossing, but for aeroplanes and not trains.
We were the last to cross before the barriers came down and, nipping at our heels, followed a dustman vigorously sweeping the path behind us, no doubt to ensure that no errant discarded cigarette butts or other debris could cause issue to the planes about to taxi down the runway.
Two minutes later the ground shook and the air reverberated with the roar of a Monarch aeroplane taking off, transporting the very creme de la creme of Brits abroad back to the motherland.
And then we were thrust into the hustle and bustle of Gibraltar’s Main Street, a place which surely can appeal only to those with a penchant for grimy and grotty looking pubs and the chips-with-everything brigade or those who can’t survive a holiday abroad without something from Marks and Spencers (handy though, I suppose, if you’ve forgotten to pack your knickers).
Why on earth would anyone come here for a holiday, I wondered, as we made our way through the throng of tax free shoppers. It felt as if we were on the set of Phoenix Nights and I half expected a Peter Kay ‘Is this the way to Amarillo’ flashmob to spring up on us at any moment.
Amongst the melee though, if you looked closely, there were little, precious gems of quintessential British cultural icons all along the way: an original red telephone box; an extremely rare Queen Victoria Royal Mail pillar box which, post-walk research revealed, dated back to circa 1874 when all pillar boxes were painted red to stop people walking into them; a Game of Thrones-esque cannon that could fire at a steeply downward facing angle, invented by the British military and a huge strategic success against the Spanish and French during the Siege of Gibraltar in 1782.
And then, turning a corner on the far side of town as we began to climb up to the National Park, we chanced upon Trafalgar Cemetery – where those who died from wounds post the battle of Trafalgar in 1805 were buried. All except Nelson himself, that is, who was pickled in brandy aboard HMS Victory by a sharp thinking surgeon before undergoing a two month journey back to England for a suitably fitting state funeral and burial at St Paul’s Cathedral.
Somewhat underwhelmed by Gibraltar thus far, we started to climb and leave the town behind us – along residential roads lined with high rise apartments, a crumbling, rusting and tumbledown casino, a quietly chic looking Art Deco hotel that must have been something to behold in its heyday and, just like across the border in Spain, roads bearing startlingly fast drivers, particularly considering the narrowness of the streets.
Finally we arrived at the entrance to the National Park and a steady incline up to Jews Gate and the start of the Mediterranean steps. It cost an exorbitant 50p per person to enter the National Park, I can hand-on-heart say it’s exceedingly good value for money.
And there we stepped into a different world – one where we replaced the waddling protagonists from the high street with a sanctuary of solitude and silence, save for our puffing breath and the mis-identification of many an indigenous plant and flower by me. “Oh is that the Gibraltan narcissi?” I pondered out loud, looking at a pretty pale purple flower. “No, I think it’s bindweed”, my friend answered.
The Mediterranean steps were originally constructed by the British Military as part of the fortification of the Rock. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to build the steps in the searing heat with the inhospitable terrain but I hope they took some small solace in the breathtaking views across the Straits to Morocco, we certainly did.
Half way up we passed pre-historic caves which were once at sea level, it took a while to get our heads round that one. We explored countless look out bunkers from World War II and marvelled at how the unfathomably heavy machinery, still in place and perfectly preserved had been hoisted up there, and we even spotted a peregrine falcon swooping below us.
Wild poppies lined the rocky path – which, on reflection, seemed very apt given the provenance of Gibraltar’s military significance in British history.
It’s at this juncture that I could become a total history bore – many of the stories from the Rock are such stuff that Hollywood blockbusters are made of. But in an attempt to keep you interested (spoiler alert: there’s a cute picture of a monkey-eating-a-magnum to come), I’ve boiled down my potted knowledge to the following fascinating facts.
The Rock is famous for the Great Siege Tunnels – a series of passages and tunnels that were excavated in circa 1780 and formed the basis for what turned into an underground fortress in World War II, housing guns, hangars, ammunition stores, barracks, kitchens and hospitals. To put this into context; Gibraltar is 2.6 square miles yet the tunnels are a whopping 34 miles long. During WWII, this stronghold accommodated 16,000 men along with all the supplies, ammunition and equipment needed to withstand a prolonged siege – some of the soldiers often would go without seeing broad daylight for over two months.
Fifty two years after the Second World War ended in 1997, it was discovered that we had a highly classified plan called Operation Tracer to secretly seal six men into a specially drilled out tunnel with radio equipment to report enemy movements, should the Germans have captured the Rock.
The operation was so covert that only a select few in Whitehall knew about it. A six-man team underwent rigorous psychological and aptitude tests for being entombed alive in an underground bunker (although heaven only knows how you test for that?). Provisions for a seven year sojourn in the “Stay Behind Bunker” were amassed.
The team waited, top secret and under cover, in Gibraltar for two and half years. Thankfully, despite being completely surrounded by occupied territory, Gibraltar remained under British power and, after the war ended, the cave was closed off, still top secret, and the team were disbanded to resume civilian life.
Rumours of the Stay Behind Cave apparently swirled around for decades in Gibraltar, until discovery of the chambers in 1997 by the Gibraltar Caving Group. The authenticity of the site was confirmed by the last surviving member of the Tracer team who died in 2010 – imagine keeping that a secret for fifty two years?! Clearly they chose its potential inhabitants well.
Finally – when World War II broke out, the majority of the civilian population, some 22,000 people, were evacuated to Morocco, the UK, Jamaica and Madeira so that the military could fortify Gibraltar. Many lived in camps in awful conditions and were passed from pillar to post, the last of the evacuees weren’t able to return until 1951 – an astonishing six years after the war had ended.
The civilians were evacuated so that 30,000 British soldiers, sailors, and airmen could move to the Rock to defend the vital shipping routes to the Mediterranean and so that six carefully selected men could be sealed alive in a Stay Behind Bunker should Gibraltar have fallen to the Nazis.
So, all in all, we owe quite a bit to Gibraltar and its people.
During the last ascent of the walk, we came across the Macaque Barbery Apes which infamously reign over the top of the Rock. They’re not actually apes at all, they are tail-less monkeys, and the only population of wild monkeys in Europe.
Despite a £500 fine for feeding the monkeys and signs everywhere saying that they are not to be fed, we encountered monkeys eating Digestive biscuits and remnants of a Magnum ice cream….*rolls eyes*. No wonder they were a bit mental.
I wasn’t a big fan of the monkey – and neither was Tiggy as, unbeknownst to her, they were the reason she’d been foisted on a kind friend for the day back in Tarifa. We all felt that the odds of one feisty Jack Russell Terrier vs two hundred and thirty monkeys may not be in our favour.
Finally we came across the medieval steps which we both tentatively and hurriedly descended as they were patrolled by some rather possessive looking monkeys who ‘may become aggressive if cornered on the steps’.
We meandered back to the national park entrance via the large chimneys of the now-defunct military kitchens – and braced ourselves to face the sights, smells and sounds and the onslaught of the High Street once more.
I don’t feel my description has done justice to how stunning the walk was – the amazing views made the glute-toning, challenging steps all worth while and it felt special to be able to cherish the magic of the Rock far from the madding crowds who ascend it via cable car, take a selfie with a monkey, scoff an ice cream, turn around and go straight back down again.
Thirteen miles, 99 floors and 30,214 steps later we crossed the border once more to our cars (this time we had a near miss with a military plane landing on the runway). And with a big hug and very fond farewell I parted with my friends who returned back to the splendour of their 5* hotel (with the luxury of a bath!) and The Beast and I wound our way back through the spectacular views of Spanish National Park to Tarifa.
Driving back I thought about my first, instinctive impression of Gibraltar – were one to judge it by its cover – a tacky kind of Blackpool with guaranteed sunshine and marauding monkeys instead of donkeys – but as Tolkien said, ‘all that is gold does not glitter’ and to uphold that impression would be a great dis-service to both the Rock itself, the history it holds, as well the Gibraltarians and their extraordinary lives.
Plus, trust me, once you’ve climbed those steps for an hour and a half, navigated and negotiated with hangry monkeys and walked back down again, a plate of double-fried egg, sausage, chips and beans with lashings of HP sauce for £5.99 and all polished off with a pint of lager top might not seem quite such a bad idea after all…
It takes a long time to grow old friends and this was the most perfect of adventures with the oldest of friends. Our lives are a tapestry made up of occasions such as these, special moments to be stitched into memories.
Tolkien continued his beautiful poem with ‘not all those who wander are lost’. I love wandering – and our Gibraltar expedition proved that it doesn’t matter where you wander, on cliff tops, on beaches, in cities, in mountains, down rivers or canals – there’s always something interesting out there to learn and discover, wherever you are – all you have to do is go and look for it.
A few weeks ago Tiggy, a friend and I went for a walk on the giant sand dune on the western most tip of Tarifa’s golden, crescent shaped beach. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sea was sparkling turquoise and crystal clear and the beach was dotted with local families enjoying a glorious Saturday in April.
I lamented the fact that I hadn’t bought my bikini, as it was a lovely day for a refreshing dunk in the sea (in fact, that was the very day Tiggy learnt to swim). “No problem”, my friend replied, “You don’t need one, if you keep going round the point towards Bolonia there are lots of secluded coves you can only get to on foot where the nudes hang out”.
We didn’t end up going that way, I didn’t get my swim and my clothes remained firmly on but a little nugget of a thought began to germinate in my mind.
Nudist beaches are tantalisingly un-British – in fact I’m so boringly middle class that I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I’ve ever sunbathed topless. In my defence this is in part due to the fact that whilst I’m certainly not a delicate English rose when it comes to my character, I most certainly am a delicate English rose when it comes to my complexion and therefore my predisposition to burn.
For this and other unimportant reasons I’ve never been bothered about getting my boobs out on the beach – but, for me, going totally bare feels more than mischievous, it feels deliciously naughty – the sort of naughty that people would gossip about.
“Sophie’s gone completely off the rails on her gap year. Nudist Beaches? Her reputation will be in tatters. She’ll never get another job now”, is what I suspect my parents will think when they read this, but hopefully be sensible enough to avoid vocalising out loud.
Sunbathing bare, to me, is so very different from merely skinny dipping – choosing to nonchalantly lounge around in the buff all day on the beach strikes me as the louche sort of thing that Europeans do very well but us buttoned up Brits do not.
Therefore in the spirit of my Eternity Leave along with embracing, nay rejoicing in my European residency while I still get to claim EU citizenship, I decided it was an adventure worth trying and that I would Give It A Go.
Casting my mind back, I believe the last time I voluntarily took off all my clothes and merrily cavorted around naked in front of a group of people before running into the sea, was when I was playing strip Twister on the front lawn of our house in Aberdovey with my friends.
That was when I was in my mid twenties. All I remember was the next day someone’s boxers were hanging from the lampshade in the sitting room, which I hadn’t spotted when I was clearing up the aftermath of the impromptu party, but my parents immediately did when they arrived later that afternoon.
I do recall getting into an awful lot of bother over that, along with the fact that half of Poppa Neary’s ‘good’ wine had mysteriously evaporated…
So that was a circa twenty years ago, and whilst I didn’t plan to “cavort” naked on the beach here, let alone play Twister, it certainly felt like going bare on the beach was somewhat overdue, except this time I wouldn’t be drunk and I would be alone (apart from Tiggy) and not with friends.
Going it alone was a slightly double edged sword. I didn’t feel emboldened enough to say to any of my (mainly male) friends, hey come hang out on the beach with me whilst I try out this nude sunbathing thing. Plus it felt like dragging someone else along was somehow cheating – this was an achievement to be accomplished on one’s own.
But then being alone was a slightly unnerving and intimidating thought. I certainly felt vulnerable, and with no one to chat to would my ultimate fear of a naked human being coming up and actually attempting to converse materialise?
Tiggy, I concluded, would be my protector. Mirrored sunglasses would act as our deflectors.
I approached our excursion with military precision. The weather and wind direction charts were poured over (no-one needs their nether regions exfoliated by wind-blown sand), friends were consulted for a second opinion and it was determined that Saturday looked promising – no clouds, low wind and lots of lovely sunshine all day long.
Indeed, Saturday dawned bright and clear as promised, time to put the plan into action. I slowly and meticulously pre-applied factor 50 to my never-previously-exposed-parts and got dressed. I methodically quadruple checked my bag and panic-packed an emergency back up pair of sunnies. I got undressed and re-applied even more cream. And then, finding nothing else to procrastinate over, Tiggy and I eventually hit the road.
The route to Bolonia was stunning, winding along a quiet road for 7k, it really was a peach of a drive, spoiled only by the kamikaze, death-wish local drivers who nailed overtaking on blind corners with a faith I’ve never before encountered. Rolling hills and lush, green grass stretched to the horizon, we saw herd after herd of baby goats bounding along playfully before Bolonia beach came into view and arced round in a graceful curve – Roman ruins at one end and nudist beaches off the beaten track at the other.
We followed the road east along the beach until it ran out and parked The Beast by the gate to the coastal path, where he could keep a lookout and stand guard until we returned.
We walked along the coastal path for about a mile – it was simply breathtaking, both rugged and inhospitable yet peaceful and tranquil and, apart from the odd military lookout from WWII, untouched by human hand.
It’s hard to imagine that this coast once witnessed the shock and awe of the combined forces of the thirty three ships of the mighty Spanish Armada and French Navy take on and lose to the invincible nautical battle strategy of Lord Nelson and a smaller British fleet of only twenty seven ships.
Nelson may have sacrificed his life onboard HMS Victory some two hundred years ago, but not a single British ship was sunk, while the Spanish-Franco fleet suffered a crucifying and crippling loss of twenty two. I wondered how many brave souls and spirits had been sacrificed within these waters and now lie, stories and horrors untold, in the shadows and shallows of this vast stretch of sea.
We wandered round cove after cove on a headland carpeted with wild flowers, the air delightfully perfumed by the aroma of the pine trees above and, apart from the grazing cows and spirited song birds, without encountering another living thing. Was I going to end up doing this in total solitude I pondered?
And then, on the next headland, we spotted a man walking towards us. He passed at a respectful distance and gave us a little wave. One quick glimpse informed me he was sporting a sarong which didn’t look like he had anything on underneath – I concluded I was heading in the right direction.
We rounded that headland and there, down on the beach, I spotted no more than half a dozen bodies dotted around, already having made their nests for the day. All were couples, no soloists. ‘There’s safety in numbers’ I decided, and so I scanned the beach for a suitable spot for us.
Descending from the path to the beach, Tiggy sensed that something exciting was on the cards and was being particularly bouncy and boisterous, hurtling along at top speed and running up to show off her doggles and check out if fellow bathers were friend or foe.
The doggles have been an uncontested success but her peripheral vision is definitely now slightly skewif and I had a last minute flap about her mistaking someone’s schlonger for a sausage. You may laugh, but once terriers latch onto something, it’s terribly hard to get them to let go. Much to her distain then, it was back on the lead pretty sharpish and no more untethered exploring for her.
I found what seemed to be a perfect spot – in the lee of some old, weathered, wooden fishing boats that had long since been discarded to naturally decompose. With conviction, I took my towel out, I shook it and purposefully lay it down.
Tiggy, sensing some unusual, inherent weakness on my part, decided to take complete advantage and promptly lay bang slap in the middle of the towel, refusing to budge. Ignoring her for the time being, I set about the task of undressing.
I had already decided before arriving that I would de-robe standing up and not half-heartedly and shamefacedly attempt to wriggle out of my clothes sitting down. I may be a buttoned-up Brit, but I absolutely embody the quintessentially British bulldog mentality that if something is to be done, then it’s worth doing properly.
“Stand up straight, you’ve got this”, I told myself determinedly – I squared my shoulders and attempted a nonchalant stance that certainly did not convey the trepidation I felt. I slid my t-shirt over my head and un-pinged my bikini top. Half way there!
Not permitting myself to pause, I promptly unbuckled my belt, took off my shorts, folded them neatly and placed them carefully in my bag along with my tops. This was it. Time for the big reveal. I stood back up and with a deep breath I pulled down my bikini bottoms with both hands in one smooth and swift movement.
Ta dah! For the first time in my life, I was standing totally, completely and utterly bare, in broad daylight, in public. I stood there for a nano-second with my bikini bottoms dangling from my hand being gently buffeted by the breeze.
In my imagination, I whooped out loud and twirled them round my head in gleeful yet coquettish kind of victory dance, a sort of glorious combination of all the best bits of a “Carry On” Barbara Windsor mixed with the dignified burlesque of Dita Von Teese.
Thankfully for us all (especially my dignity), decorum and Britishness prevailed and I remained totally stationary.
With a nervous yet triumphant smile to myself, I glanced around and then, exhaling and shoving Tiggy out of the way with my foot, I sat down with a bit of a thud.
I started to cross my legs and then, with a gasp, realised that was absolutely not a position to be adopted for today, so hugging my knees to my chest instead, I put my hat on firmly, made sure my sunnies were secure and then rolled over, bottom up first of course.
Giggling to myself, I felt somewhat giddy. The wind was both a bit tickly as well as chilly on my bottom and by my ribs where my bikini top would normally go. And then the sun’s rays warmed my skin, the headiness subsided and it all felt really rather sublimely and delectably divine.
Tiggy got over her huff of having been ejected from pole position and plonked herself down beside me. Contently snuffling, she stretched out sphinx like, and snuggled in for a snooze.
Tickling her ears in her special spot and cuddling her closely, waves of contentment and happiness washed over us both.
After about forty five minutes of reading, I decided it was time to go for a dunk. Plus I didn’t want my bottom to be burnt to a crisp. “Poco a poco”, as they say here in Spain, was my strategy for browning my botty.
Skinny dipping doesn’t bother me in the slightest – so I strode out and immersed myself in the refreshing azure blue waters – I felt like I was in the setting of a Tom Ford perfume advert. Swimming naked is invigorating, I love it, I think there must be something truly embryonic about the whole experience.
Floating along in the shallows I tried and failed to persuade Tiggy to come and join me, instead she teetered at the water’s edge and barked convincingly if she thought I was going in too deep and therefore in grave danger. No one even took a second look at me as I ambled back to my spot.
It was time flip to bum side down and boob side up. In doing so, I definitely felt more exposed and a tinge of self consciousness and self-doubt crept back in. I suppose, if nothing else, face side up you can see more of what’s going on around you and there’s a greater chance of the dreaded eye contact and unwittingly encouraging unwanted human communication.
Tiggy, sensing she needed to be on watch, sat on my hand and kept lookout whilst I started to relax. I pulled my hat down further on my face and let the sun heat up my chilly post-swim-skin.
The sun was hotter now, I was worried Tiggy would overheat and that I would start to sizzle. It was time to call it a day and seek some shade, so not without a tinge of regret I got dressed and gathered my things. Before leaving our secluded little spot I looked around to make sure the view was etched firmly in my memory. I don’t think I could have chosen a more perfect spot for my first nudist experience.
With Tiggy chasing the odd butterfly and finding then immediately abandoning sticks along the way, we meandered back to the strong and sturdy sanctuary of The Beast. We hopped in and carefully navigated home singing along to the melodic and harmonic sounds of Simon and Garfunkel.
Back home, bare again and checking myself in the mirror once more, my newly bronzed bottom felt toasty and warm to the touch, yet thankfully and happily all my hitherto white bits had turned pale golden brown and not burnt.
It dawned on me then, that after all of that flapping and insecurity, all of that unnecessary procrastination and over-preparation, I had uttered not one word to a single person all day long.
Why is the idea of something so often nothing like the reality? How do we know if we are going to like something or not unless we actually get out there and try it?
The only way to ensure failure is to not even try in the first place. Perhaps we should all stop thinking about what might go wrong and, instead, think of what could go right.
Sometimes I worry about whittling my life away with not enough to show for it. How’s this for a sobering wake up call; before they were twenty five, Michaelangelo had created Pieta, Mark Zuckerberg was a billionaire and Keats was already dead.
“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did so. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbour, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Go Bare.”
That’s my favourite quote from the masterful pen of Mark Twain. I’ll leave it to you to decide which bit I edited.
Will I do it again, I hear you ponder? Maybe, some day, should you wander round the fifth cove to the far east of Bolonia beach you might stumble across a little, bare, blonde English rose sporting a straw hat with pompoms, lying on a pink stripey towel with a small Jack Russell tucked in cosily alongside her – and that, most likely, will be us.
Should you see us, just smile and wave and on the off-chance that we’re feeling brave and not bashful, Tiggy might bounce over for a ball throw and I’ll give you a little, shy smile and a wave back as you walk by.
Choose happy, and remember, it’s not really the time in your life that counts, it’s the life in your time. What are you waiting for? Get out there and do whatever it is you’ve always wanted to do, but been too afraid to try.
Forward: Don’t read this unless you want to find out the best private members clubs to swim in London, what it’s like to share a mixed sex changing room at the Serpentine Swimming Club or why open water swimming is so wonderful…it’s not a short post, perhaps put the kettle on, forearmed is forewarned!
So…there is swimming in public pools with chlorine, verucca plasters floating past your face, pubic hairs in communal showers, draughty and cold changing rooms and hair dryers that don’t have enough puff to blow out a candle.
And then there is swimming in pools housed in the exclusive enclaves of London’s private members clubs. In my experience the best private pool in London for actually enjoying a long and therefore decent swim is the RAC Club on Pall Mall. Built in 1911 on the site of the old War Office, hidden four storeys below the pavements above, with Grecian columns, lofty ceilings, a marble clad surround and Turkish baths, it’s surely the forefather of the bourgeoise basement extensions belonging to its modern day neighbours in the mansions of Kensington and Mayfair.
It can be a bit stuffy though and any club that has a men’s bar, ladies’ lounge (oh come on, join the 21st century please) and very strict dress code (jacket and tie, no denim) is never going to be top of my hit list. I also find their iron-clad dress code slightly ironic as, back in the very earliest of days when it was a gentleman’s only club, my father tells me that the men used to swim naked. The mind boggles, clearly it was ok to be bare below the stairs, but fully suited and booted above. Oh if those Grecian columns could talk…
The coolest pool in London I have swum in is the stainless steel rooftop pool of Shoreditch House. There isn’t a dress code there, except that ties specifically are not allowed, but if you’re a bloke and don’t sport a beard, skinny jeans and the latest stan smiths then you might feel a tad out of place.
Personally I like swimming in the ‘Ditch best in the winter evenings – the skyline of London twinkles around you, the air outside is cold, the pool is consistently maintained at a pleasantly warm 26 degrees, almost always empty, and the showers and cocktails are heavenly (if in doubt, go for an Eastern Standard).
The only downside is that even though it’s twice the size of the postage stamp pool at Soho House New York – which I tried to swim in once and gave up after it took only to two strokes to go from one end to the other – it’s really not long enough to have a truly decent swim.
Poncy private club pools aside – there is then the grand-daddy of them all – Open Water Swimming. The modern day version of open water swimming is said to hark back to May, 1810 when Lord Byron swam across the Hellespont, (or Dardanelles) from Europe to Asia.
Born with a club foot, it is said that Byron found a freedom in the water that he could not experience on land. Doing breast-stroke, he swam the Hellespont in an impressive hour and ten minutes – it’s now the busiest (and one of the most polluted) shipping lanes in the world, ergo it’s sadly lost its poetically romantic appeal to me.
From a health point of view, open water is claimed to be the best type of swimming for you, it boosts your immune system, gives you an endorphin high, increases your libido, reduces stress and improves your circulation.
From my point of view, swimming in open water turns the activity from a somewhat dull and tedious exercise into a mellifluously meditative and memorable experience, with each swim as unique as the weather, flora, fauna, sea-life and water patterns permit.
Yes, it can take your breathe away when you first get in, but if you exhale slowly and lower yourself gently and gradually into the water, then it soon goes. Remember, everything is temporary, and all things shall pass.
Once I’ve set off, an almost somnambular sensation sets in as I slide, glide, pull and gently weave my way through the water. As soon as I’ve dropped into the rhythmic breath required for a steady stroke (which must be no different to yogic or mindfulness breathing exercises), combined with the feeling of weightlessness, my consciousness expands, and either ideas float out of no-where or my brain empties of all thoughts apart from an awareness of what is above, beneath and around me.
Swimming is my meditation, my breath is my mantra, and many a problem has been solved as I’ve slipped through the water in silence.
Pre-eternity leave (PE) and back in the day when I had a proper job, I used to swim in the Serpentine two or three times a week. Wetsuits were frowned upon, so I wouldn’t go if the water was colder than a bone chilling and hypothermia inducing 8 degrees celsius. This meant I was mainly confined to the months of March to late October, or the occasional balmy day in November.
There’s something very unique and special about swimming in the Serpentine – it’s the oldest swimming club in Great Britain, you’re surrounded by the peace and tranquility of Hyde Park in the centre of the loud and bustling metropolis that is London, and what’s more, you swim amongst the fish, ducks and swans (and rats too, I suppose, although I never saw one, so took the approach of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ ). Imagine looking up to take a breath of air and seeing a swam majestically take flight alongside you – it really is breath-taking.
My favourite time of year to swim there is spring: the daffodils, snowdrops and crocuses are out, the birds are chirping and tweeting in the trees and importantly, it’s also before it’s warm enough for the algae to grow; the water is clear, you can see the pike swimming below you and you don’t get an itchy rash from the grim, green slime that somehow manages to work its way into every crease and crevasse as well as sticking to your swimsuit during the summer months.
It’s not just the cold water and itchy algae that one has to come to terms with at the Serpentine Swimming Club though, it’s also the challenge of the Changing Room. NB: that’s not a typo, the noun ‘room’ really is singular and not plural and size wise it’s about 10 feet wide by 15 feet long – with no shower or cubicles of any kind. There are just pegs to pop your clothes on and a kettle in the corner for a restorative and much needed post-swim cup of tea.
You might think that swimming in eight degrees cool water is a pretty intimidating thought, but imagine walking into a room at 6.30am to be faced with the reality of having to take your clothes off in front of ten to fifteen semi naked men.It’s certainly not for the prudish or faint of heart, unless, of course, you’re a nudist in which case you’d be right at home.
There tend to be two types of changers in the clubhouse, those who hide demurely behind huge towels, turning their backs to the room and doing everything possible to keep accidental intimate flashes to a minimum and then there are the posh old boys I nicknamed the “Free Willys” (always the men, never the women), who put one leg up on the bench to towel off their nether-regions and all the while chortling loudly ‘wouldn’t it be easier if we just all went in naked’.
I suppose you’ve got to admire their confidence, as no man’s manhood looks particularly impressive after a twenty minute dunking in icy water. My technique was huge towel, eyes down at all times, easy pull on/off clothes, and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.
The Serpentine Lido is open from May to September, do put it on your bucket list, you won’t be disappointed (and, unlike the clubhouse, the Lido has hot showers and single sex changing rooms).
Other open water swimming experiences I’ve loved have been: from the beaches of the Isle of Wight, that little upside down triangle of magic I call home; in the stunning fjords, caves and grottos of Montenegro; a 7am swim in the remarkably icy June waters of Martha’s Vineyard (home to Jaws, the movie); and from the beautiful beaches and in the tidal pools surrounding Sydney – sharks and jellyfish aside – probably my favourite place in the world to swim so far.
It will come as no surprise for you to read that I am sea swimming regularly here in Tarifa. The water is currently a cool and pleasant 16 degrees and curiously, although I have yet to find a local who can explain why, the Mediterranean side of the harbour is cooler than the Atlantic side.
The sea is crystal clear, I see shoals of fish, both big and small along with the occasional crustacean scuttling back to safety in the nooks and crannies of the rocks that line the harbour walkway.
The walkway wall provides much needed shelter from the prevailing winds and the current there is a mere gentle tug as opposed to any dangerous rip – getting sucked out to sea here would not be good idea as the next landfall west is North Carolina and you’re bang slap in the middle of the migratory path of great white sharks, killer whales and orcas.
The lovely thing here of course is that post swim, I can soak in the sun on the beach to warm up (16 degrees still means you emerge with goosebumps) – the case of a dose of vitamin sea ensuring I get my vitamin D.
The golden sand is warm, and lovely and soft to lie on, and midweek I’m often on the beach on my own. I bask in this post swim solitude, as I slowly drift back into the real world from my swimming-semi-conscious-state.
Once I feel the warmth of the sun on my bones, I have a big stretch, gather my senses along with my clothes and head back for a cup of tea and a cuddle with Tiggy.
This week I swam on both Tuesday and Thursday at noon. As I warmed up on the beach afterwards my mind wandered to what I would have been doing if I was back at home working now. Oh how easy it would have been to tread the well trodden path, find another job and continue on the treadmill of career ascension.
I reminded myself that there’s a reason only dead fish go with the flow, it’s the same reason birds take off against and not into the wind – it gives you greater control to steer to your destination, or perhaps even your destiny.
Why then, do so many of us spend so much of our lives always going with the flow? Of course, there’s always a time and a place for everything and running with the tide can oft provide much needed respite, life certainly needs to be more than just one long battle.
For now, I’ve decided it’s best not to argue with mother nature, and I’m winning as I swim with the fishes against the flow. My unexpected redundancy has taught me that sometimes you need to be bold and strong, to strike out on your own, take a deep breath and swim into unchartered waters. And I have never before felt with more certainty that I’m doing exactly the right thing.
Choose happy.
Love, Sophie, Tiggy and The Beast X
p.s Paws for Thought
Tiggy has had her first swim – it was completely accidental – but all four paws definitely left the sand! Until now she’s always been utterly petrified of water, so even little Tiggy is making great strides and learning new things on her gap year, but she’s says to tell you that she’s fed up of naughty local dogs pinching her bouncy balls on the beach.
Live The Life You Love 
