Old Gits Gap Year

The decision

2009-07-19T04:48:00.020-04:00

Although the hotel outside Rome airport looked remarkably similar to a 60’s tower block in Skelmesdale; the restaurant, where we sat pondering our future, was very good. The suggestion of ending our travels after 6 months had snowballed from a whisper to a clear decision…, we had thoroughly enjoyed the adventure but we both felt it was time to go home; two realities had transpired over the last 6 months. Firstly we are never going to ‘retire’ and secondly travel is much more acceptable in five star accommodations and in smaller bursts!

We left Rome at nine o’clock on Monday morning and arrived in central London 24 hours later…the Mercedes which had taken so much ‘stick’ in the snow & ice of the Alps and struggled on the ferries of the Mediterranean, now proved its worth. The journey went smoothly and even in the dead of night she was a joy to drive. Naturally we discussed at great lengths our decision to halt OGGY but with our home rented out…what were we to do?

Our first task was to assist our siblings who had found a property and needed help with further research; plus it did seem as if the worst of the recession had passed and we felt it was time for us to go back into the ‘market’; what or where this will mean for us, only time will tell. I never thought the day would come where I had tired of travelling but living out of a suitcase for 6 months had started to take its toll.

We are regularly asked the same question; “where was the best place you visited?” Frankly there is one day that really sticks out above all others.

No, it wasn’t the paradise island of Bequia in the Grenadines…

Bequia's clear waters

and as usual the sunset...

Nor the stunning and peaceful Sardinia where the excellent food and wine was the norm and not the exception…

Valleys and beaches of Sardinia

Or the breathtaking views of snow clad mountains on Pont du Soleil

FOG skiing in Les Gets

Not forgetting the boys visit...

But we are getting close…

Even the day we skied 60 km, with our Italian friends, to Champoluc.

FOG in Alagna

It may have been -25oC at the peaks and the pistes tested our skiing ‘skills’ to the maximum but watching my friend skiing with his daughter and grandson under the back drop of the Matterhorn. Unfortunately there is no photograph of this moment as it was too cold to take my gloves off to retrieve the camera…, but this image has been imprinted on my memory forever…

However the memory that will remain with me forever was the Sunday Service at Sandhurst Military College with our two sons; no words will ever give justice to the feeling that cascaded through my mind that day…

FOG dressed to the 9's for the Sandhurst Ball

We were returning anyway this week for the Sandhurst Ball, which before the days of PC used to be the Father’s dinner. A scare of Swine Flu had put the event in doubt but our journey across Europe was not in vain and we booked in our ‘usual’ hotel just outside Camberley. It was now half way through their course and the change in these young men was remarkable. Although confident, fit and maturing, the experience had not affected their ‘core’ character, nor had the thought of leaving these shores for Afghanistan…, their morale was high. The dinner was a fantastic experience for us ‘Civvies’ and we didn’t let our son down…, we were the last guests in the bar, much to our son’s approval!

MOG and youngest awaiting drill...

However the funniest moment was at 07.00 hours the following morning being ‘drilled’ by a Colour Sergeant and then ‘marching’ to the chapel to the stirring sound of the Military Band…, we did try our best but the cadets humbled us by showing us how it really should be done, or should I say, humiliated us! Dear old FOG managed it in high heels and was rewarded with a blister for her efforts…!

Our son was captaining the Sandhurst 11 against an invitation MCC side and sitting in the pavilion, with Old College as a backdrop, hearing the sound of cork on willow…; well it doesn’t get much better than that…

Youngest in action with bat and ball...he hit his first half century...

Proud Mum...

I suppose this should be the best moment of the trip but our eldest was missing and it was that occasion of all being together that made the Sunday Service in February so special.

We had stayed in 46 different places, driven over 12,000 miles; skied for 10 weeks virtually non stop, seen the unknown part of the Caribbean but guess what…? It just re-emphasised what we already knew…, it didn’t match up to our little bubble in central Cheshire…

Cheshire Plain...our home is here!

It seems we’re home birds after all!

The Facts-Old Gits Gap Year will be undated shortly with our experiences and where we stayed.

However if nothing transpires well maybe OGGY 2?

Avanti, Ischia

2009-07-08T12:19:00.017-04:00

Firstly, sorry for the long delay between posts, but internet connections have been limited and at such slow speeds it was not possibly to upload a posting.

We had ambitions to ‘live’ in a hilltop town in Italy and Laureana Cilento was certainly that. A fantastic view over Agripoli, the Sorrento peninsula and the Mediterranean, with tiny streets and that air of tranquillity you only find in the mountains.

View from a hilltop town

Sunset highlights Amalfi coastline

Our apartment was typically Italian, the entrance through a very old heavy door into a courtyard and very large rooms with one metre thick walls with high ceilings helping it to keep cool in the summer; I would imagine very cold in the winter! The higgledy piggledy rooms had a rustic Italian charm about them.

MOG at apartment doorway

Mimmo, the owner of “Blu di Prussia”, was a true eccentric. We tend to think this is a very British phenomenon, well Mimmo is in a league of his own; but he does have two very good reasons form his character. Firstly he is a painter, and a very good one at that: we all know about artists! Secondly he’s married to an Australian…, no more said… (Sorry Teresa!)

Mimmo and ‘his’ painting

This small business is a café, shop, furniture restoration, art gallery, residence and B&B all rolled into one. Fortunately as MOG was looking for a job Mimmo allowed me to work behind the bar on election night… not for wages, just free drink…it cost him dearly!

MOG being paid, in kind

and entertaining the customers. ..

Mimmo, Teresa (Keeping her eye on the till – you can’t trust a Pom!) and MOG.

Mimmo with "Alba"...FOG to us.

We used the apartment as a base to explore this unspoilt region of Italy. Most of the roads we travelled weren’t even on our Sat-Nav, so we reverted to the ancient art of map reading! This area was inhabited by the Magna Greeks in 500 BC. Paestum especially was a real delight to visit. The temples and ‘ruins’ were in a remarkably well preserved condition and surprisingly there were few tourists; which enabled us to wander through the ancient streets being transported back in time 2,500 years. We were still in mud huts when this civilisation was erecting temples that we would struggle to construct today, even with all our mechanical know-how…

Paestum

Velia was even older and had been lost in time until rediscovered a couple of hundred years ago, but even here the mosaic swimming pools and under floor heating meant we are only just catching up technology wise!

One evening we were invited down to the local church for a Saint’s Day feast and in very English style the heavens opened. It didn’t just rain, it poured and all the preparations were soon abandoned as the place turned into a mud bath…

MOG outside 'chiesa' with the goldfish won by Mimmo’s daughter

We enjoyed the hilltop experience but there is very little to do except walk…, so it was time to move on. We had envisaged staying for longer periods in such a place but we now found out you must have a purpose for a long stay and we had seen enough culture to keep us going for awhile... However we did experience a lot of excitement on the final night. We retired early, as usual, when suddenly all hell broke loose in the little square. Tanoys were blaring, music thumping and the piazza was suddenly filled with cars and people. Quickly we dressed and entered the fray where a sparkling wine was thrust into our hands by Mimmo who informed us they were celebrating the election result. Suddenly, just as quickly as they had arrived, they piled back into their cars and were gone leaving Mimmo, Teresa and the Old Gits to clear up the mess. MOG was just getting into the mood for a party but Mimmo was shutting up the bar and FOG marched her protesting husband away…

Our drive through Naples for the ferry to Ischia was nowhere near as bad we had feared. Yes, there were still many cars that looked as if they had spent the last weekend at a stockcar racing circuit, but the driving was possibly no worse than London… You never indicate in this part of Italy and when you enter the main road you wait until a host of cars are nearly upon you then slowly pull out in front of them. Horns are obligatory and must be tested every 30 seconds and used at every occasion, especially when a pretty girl is walking down the street. MOG did oblige with this particular local custom!

The ferry to Ischia was full of Germans and, we were soon to discover, so was the whole island. I do have a resemblance to our German cousins, having a very square head, but if I hear one more ‘Bitte’ from an Italian thinking I am ‘Un Tedesco’, I’ll go barking…

I always had an image of Ischia as a quiet island with small villages and a few scooters bustling around. This came from a film starring Jack Lemon called (I think), “Avanti”. If you want to understand the culture of the Neapolitan then this film will explain all; it is hilarious. On reflection I suppose this film must have been made 30-40 years ago and there has been considerable development of the island since then. We are only just at the beginning of the season and the island was heaving! It is a beautiful island but the roads are full of manic Italians or bumbling tourists…this combination led to a few waving arms and, of course, horns blaring as we toured around the island.

Naples and yet another volcano...plus the ferry

Ischia Castle

We were the only English in our hotel; Germans being the main contingent. One morning I couldn’t sleep so as dawn broke I wondered up to the pool area to watch the sun rise only to be trampled by the horde of Germans, towels and novels in hand, all bagging the best sun beds; then they all promptly left for a day’s excursion!

Departing Ischia was a truly nightmare ferry journey. Stupidly we had decided to leave on a Saturday…change over day. The port was jammed solid. An officious little Italian screaming at everyone, only managed to compound the chaos…men like that are the same the world over…give them an ounce of power…

Over the last couple of weeks there had developed a new sense of unease on the Old Gits travels; it is difficult to exactly pin point the shift in emphasis. Discussions had switched from our travels to what we would do when we returned home. The constant ‘battle’ with hotels trying to obtain a ‘fair’ deal had become, to say the least, irritating. Our two siblings had called as they had found a property that really interested them and required some help with the research. A business opportunity had also transpired so our planned short return trip, for a Sandhurst Ball, was duly extended with flights altered; at some cost of course. Then the two Old Gits looked at each other and a long silence filled the stifling hot, cramped hotel bedroom outside Rome airport which, incidentally, was in an area that resembled Basra…

Finally MOG whispered, ‘Is it time to go home? Shall we drive back tomorrow…?’

Una lunga strada a Laureana Cilento

2009-06-04T09:48:00.018-04:00

All good things must come to an end, we finally packed the car and said goodbye to Pinetrees at Cardedu and our hosts, Carlo & Rita, who even went to the trouble of taking us to a fabulous restaurant in the next bay..., we were truly sad to leave: we will return that is for sure.

Carlo & Rita with MOG

Our next island was to be the rugged and historic Island of Sicily. Sometimes situations and circumstances blend in such a way as to give you a negative and often wrong impression of a place…we experienced this with Sicily. The ferry was old, knackered and very cramped. The lounge was heaving and Female Old Git (FOG) had quite a tussle with a small French party who had commandeered a huge amount of seats and had spread their belongings over a wide area while the rest of the passengers stood and jostled for space. FOG politely asked for a couple of seats, which were empty of course, for a few minutes while we finished our drinks… Well, you would thought she had mentioned Agincourt, Trafalgar and Waterloo in the same sentence…b******ds! (Incidentally FOG bought a children’s history book of France…Trafalgar wasn’t mentioned; now that’s brainwashing).

The next morning we awoke with frostbite, only to find that we had the aircon on full blast all night…we hadn’t noticed the large knob on the grill saying “off”…our sight must have still been impaired by the red mist in our eyes caused by our Gallic friends. The exit from the hold of the ferry resulted in running over a large rubber ‘chock’ which totally ripped the underneath of the Mercedes. A rather loud grinding noise accompanied our departure from the dock and necessitated MOG lying underneath the car to implement some temporary repairs, fortunately the damage was superficial but it would require yet another visit to a garage.

Even docking in Sicily wasn’t straight forward

The roads in Sicily are heavily ridged so our route eastwards was unpleasant and noisy but what disappointed us both was the amount of rubbish strewn along the waysides, scarring the countryside. In addition the skips were all overflowing with rubbish and clearly had not been emptied for some considerable time. We had an appointment with an owner of an apartment in Fondacello near Tiaromino, on the coast, or as the brochure said, 3 minutes drive from the beach. It was also meant to be nestling underneath Mount Etna and boasted some stunning views of this active and largest volcano in Europe. As we approached the Catanian area and Mount Etna, so the black clouds appeared and the rain started. We met the couple just off the autostrada and they showed us the way to Cell Block H, opps sorry, the apartment. The road to the ‘gated complex with swimming pool’ could only be described as an ex-WWII runway which had been abandoned since 1945…except for the fly-tippers, who had clearly been out in force.

Cell Block H (On the right is the swimming pool, empty of course and clearly hadn’t been used for some time)

The Beach…easy 3 minutes drive away…you wouldn’t want visit here even if it was 3 seconds walk…

Why we didn’t just turn around and find somewhere else to stay is a mystery, but old English manners prevailed. We nodded politely, handed over our money and, when alone, sank into depression still trying to encourage each other with remarks like; “Well it is very cheap…”; “It may look better in the sunshine…”

In order to escape this dingy place we decided to take a sight seeing trip to Taormina which had been highly recommended.

Typical Taormina street & lemon stall

Despite the continuing rain and dark clouds this was a beautiful town, but a real tourist trap and the consequential high prices; however it did have a real charm about the place. MOG found an old Roman amphitheatre which had just been discovered…under some old houses!

Roman amphitheatre…not a bad cellar

We sat in silence on our return to Cell Block H, but things were about to deteriorate further. The whole complex was empty, with over grown gardens and an atmosphere of complete desolation. We suddenly realised that when they described a gated community it meant that the ‘gate’ must have been trying to keep people in!

The only other apartment being used was, of course, the one directly below us and its inmates were the family from hell; this included all grand parents, uncles, aunts, cousins…you name it they where there in force and their vocal cords were on full volume and in constant use. Upstairs, the Old Gits sat in a total and stunned silence. The next day we managed to manoeuvre our car around the howling kids and ventured south to Siracusa.

On leaving the Etna region the dark clouds diminished and the sun appeared and we spent a pleasant day strolling around this ancient city with its origins not in Romans times but the Greeks 500 BC! Dear old Archimedes lived and worked here only to be so engrossed in his work that he failed to hear the warning shouts that the Romans were attacking and was promptly run through by a legionnaire…he didn’t shout “Eureka!” that time…

Siracusa’s Duomo

Modern art flourishes here, as well as the ancient, but is this someone else who might have stayed at Cell Block H?

Conversation diminished as we returned northwards and encountered the black clouds and rain and as we opened the gate to our self made prison we could see the other inmates hadn’t escaped and their numbers had if anything increased. On our ‘terrace’ constructed of ‘ancient’, or more accurately crumbling, breeze block we sat gazing upon where Mount Etna was suppose to be, while trying to ignore the pandemonium that was unveiling below us…it was nearing feeding time. Etna, as a young virgin bride, had coyly kept herself veiled in her clouds only occasionally revealing a glimpse of her shoulder… Suddenly MOG snapped and jumped up, grabbed his mobile, proceeded to the noisy terrace, and called the owner, who could clearly hear the pandemonium from the apartment below. A few minutes later he had negotiated the release of the Old Gits and the balance of our payment…, we couldn’t wait for the morning.

Morning did finally arrive to a watery sun and for a few short minutes the clouds cleared to reveal the snowed capped Mount Etna…, in her glory…it gave us pangs to go skiing!

Mount Etna reveals herself…at last

MOG drove swiftly northwards heading for the islands off the north coast of Sicily only to experience yet more rumbling from underneath the car and even more dark clouds and bad weather ahead. A brief discussion resulted and we decided to cut our losses and we found our selves, not on the ferry to the Isole Eolie, but on a ferry to Villa San Giovanni, on the mainland. We had always wanted to take a serious look at the National Park of Cilento and Vallo di Diano, south of Salerno, a reputedly unspoilt area of Italy. After an overnight stop in a lovely hotel in Marina di Maratea, and even more stunning coastal views…, some quite scary especially for FOG, we moved towards our goal.

FOG will be up dating the sister blog:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

in the next few weeks…

Coastline around Sapri: (note where the road goes!)

The next day we had found a house, owned by an Englishman, in Laureana Cilento. Our ‘sat-nav’ had been ‘off the mark’ in Sardinia and Sicily, and she wasn’t doing too well in the south of Italy. She had real problems trying to find this remote hill top town and had us going down tracks that farm vehicles wouldn’t have attempted!

Signposts weren’t that clear!

Finally, with the engine nearly overheating, we stumbled into a tiny piazza and there in front of us was “Blu di Prussia Café”, where we were to pick up our key.

All that can be said at this point is, after a superb lunch and several carafes of wine later with the owners Mimmo (a renowned artist and quite eccentric, more on him later!) & Teresa, his beautiful Australian/Italian wife, that we have fallen on our feet again… I can’t wait to write the next posting…; I’ve just got a feeling this is going to be bit of a crazy week…

View from Laureana Cilento towards Agripoli

Mimmo & MOG – Two artists…one uses a paint brush…!

Mi piace moltissimo, Sardegne

2009-05-27T07:44:00.019-04:00

I brought a dictionary but not the Thesaurus; a bit of an error on Male Old Git’s (MOG) part, for I have run out of adjectives and superlatives to describe this fascinating island. I cannot try and describe the rock formations…

The vast open valleys…

The flora…

The fauna…

A rare breed of visiting bird from England…!

The majestic cliffs…

To be woken by a cuckoo and the local pigeons in our villa, (They have an Italian accent as well; for their sentences end in ‘oo’), which apart from the occasional noisy dog, is very tranquil.

Our apartment within the Villa, Pinetrees, whose owners Carlo & Rita have been the most hospitable hosts anyone could wish for…every time we have been to play tennis at their house Carlo has a cold beer at hand…now that’s hospitality MOG style.

It has been a joy to stay still for a couple of weeks although we have ventured out locally, one day MOG drove for seven hours down to the South West of the island and back. We did encounter what is reputed to be some of the best beaches in the Mediterranean. I’ll let you be the judged of that…

Who needs to fly all the way to the Caribbean…?

As we had quickly made up our mind to stay here for 2 weeks we went down to the ‘supermacato’ and stocked up accordingly. MOG bought a huge quantity of minced beef which was not only good quality but a real bargain to boot…however we are sick of the sight of Bolognese, home made beef burgers, chilly…, 4 kilos (9lbs in real money) goes a b*****dy long way! We have however also taken the opportunity to do a lot of walking, playing tennis and explore this quiet part of Sardegna…, mainly to work off all that meat!

Dawn with local ‘guard dog’, Scruffino with the usual back drop of Vine Yards…

We also went around our area visiting some of the old towns and more Italian seaside areas. The ancient town Osimi Antico was abandoned due to flooding and mud slides from the towering cliffs that stand menacing over it….there are some good bargains for that holiday home though…

Old ruins – may need some attention!

However with all this peace and tranquillity we have sat down and started to plan what we will do when we return home…we’ve not reached 6 months of the Gap Year yet!

FOG will be updating the Facts-Old Gits Gap Year shortly…

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

But, for MOG, the best visit was to the local wine producer…MOG’s ‘barrel’ is on the right…however no such luck…the car suspension just wouldn’t take it…there again I could get rid of FOG…now that’s a thought!

Island hopping…again

2009-05-19T05:13:00.007-04:00

First let’s talk about taps… Male Old Git (MOG) is starting to believe there is a conspiracy…! Every tap producer and designer have conspired to produce taps that are totally unfathomable to use and takes the traveller ages and several gallons of water to fathom out exactly how to extract hot or cold water. Even more confusing are how on earth the plugs work… I suspect the tap designers are more interested in obtaining some award than producing a tap which is user friendly…, what ever happened to two taps with plug and chain?

Enough of the whinging… Our last night in France we stayed in Nice and after a brief stroll along the promenade, which could have been anywhere in England, except for the weather of course, we entered the old town; all very charming. The Marina and old harbour area is definitely worth a visit and great for people watching…some of the yachts are mind blowing. Now here is an admission: the people were also friendly…, we must be in the ‘nice’ part of France! (Sorry!)

Typical street scene in Nice

The drive to Genoa was a delight for the road is unbelievable Italian engineering at its best, comprising of numerous tunnels through mountains and bridges over 500 metre gorges…the only problem is whipping off your sunglasses quickly enough on entering the tunnel: or you really would be driving blind. Thank heavens for the SatNav; for we would never have found our ferry terminal, there are so many in Genoa; it is a little bit of a lottery. Of course the OGGY tradition lingers on and we arrived so early we could have knitted a jumper in the time that we had to wait. The GNV ferry to Porto Torres was huge (we hardly felt it move the entire night) and the boarding very organised, but due to it being quiet and off-season, only the self service canteen, serving school dinner type meals was open, not very Italian. Well, at least the beer was cold and the barman a real character, who took a shine to FOG…, feeding her with warm sausage rolls! Disembarkation was, on the other hand, back to the usual Italian chaos but you just can’t get worked up about things somehow…it’s all done with charm, a lot of smiles and, and of course, the arm waving.

Sardinia is, quite simply, a beautiful island. After the congestion of the Riviera, the vast emptiness of this island, especially in the central mountain region, is a pleasant change. The North East of the island around Palau and Baia is the most touristy and expensive but certainly worth a visit. We stayed near San Teodoro, just south of Olbia, and the beaches with the stunning rock formations took your breath away.

View from our beach apartment

The wild life is everywhere…

A Heron finds his dinner

The local beer has quite a punch and can affect one’s eye sight:

Before After

FOG commented that the scenery was as good as the Caribbean and as our little apartment was only 20 yards from the beach we trotted, bare footed, down to the water’s edge looking forward to a cooling swim…, where upon the first encounter with the freezing water melted our enthusiasm for a dip… no, we certainly weren’t in the Caribbean.

FOG has now updated our Caribbean travels in the sister blog – Facts- Old Gits Gap Year:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

On our way south down the East coast to our next destination (an apartment in a villa in a more traditional part of Sardinia) we felt compelled to stop on several occasions to take pictures. The natural beauty of the countryside, carpeted in wild flowers, the chorus of bird song provided us with utter tranquillity. Some of the rock formations, similar to those found in one of the North American deserts, left one expecting to see a posse of cowboys, led by John Wayne, riding hell for leather over the next ridge… The road down to Cardedu was an extremely steep gorge and had FOG gripping tightly to the dashboard: no more impromptu picture taking now…

Valley scene in Sardinia

Our villa, Pinetrees, did not disappoint…, and it didn’t take us long to decide to hang our hats here for two weeks. If you are looking for a place to chill out then this is it. This may sound very precious, but we have found the constant travelling very tiring; plus I had to remain stationary enough to complete our tax returns! The old adage is true; “The two certainties in life are: Death and taxes!”

My Italian language is not really improving here as most of the people are speaking a very different local dialect called ‘Sardo’. I can liken it to being back in Abersoch with the locals!

The few days we have spent here have been blessed with gorgeous weather but it is the people that make this area special. The surly grunts from shop keepers, which we have become accustomed to, have been replaced by pleasantries and an almost embarrassing helpfulness. Our hosts, Carlo and Rita, have also been very accommodating, so much so that when I crunched the car on a hump in the driveway, leaving a very loud and worrying rattle, we were immediately escorted to the local garage to access the damage… Having found such a haven, I am really looking forward to the next few weeks; except for completing those blessed tax returns…

Typical coastal scene in Northern Sardinia:

From Barbados to Avignon via Abersoch and....Miss England

2009-05-13T12:43:00.007-04:00

The long night flight from Barbados was tempered by being upgraded to a Traveller World Plus seat which meant a little more room...but sleep still avoided us. We arrived at Gatwick ‘knackered’, looking like we hadn’t had a wash in our entire 6 weeks away in the Caribbean. MOG was still dressed in sandals and shorts not quite suitable for a crisp early spring morning taxi drive to Ockley. Undeterred by some surprised looks we drove back to Cheshire in a daze, only to ‘face’ eleven nights of socialising and catching up with old friends, family and found ourselves busy sorting out a few problems at our home, shopping and of course trying to plan the next section of OGGY.

This was interrupted by a ‘holiday’ at a friend’s cottage in Abersoch. Our elder son joined us at Chester and the drive down with an already heavily loaded car must have looked comical as the exhaust system sat barely above the tarmac. FOG loved his company but what a shame the younger one couldn’t come...he then turned up that evening unannounced! Naturally the provisions dried up within a few hours but a happy FOG was first to bed with a smile only a contented mother can muster.

The two boys cooking breakfast

The last of the food was devoured in the morning and was followed by one of those special days walking down beaches followed by tea and clotted cream scones, (have gone soft in the head)! Despite a whole day of continual catching up on everyone’s recent events; many stories remained half told, if at all.

FOG & offspring on beach

The weekend ‘break’ rushed by and we found ourselves preparing for the journey or more accurately ‘tour’ to Sardinia, Sicily and then back to Rome for Mid-June. On our last morning in Cheshire a call from a neighbour, who owns the farm next door, saw MOG dash back for a champagne breakfast…it was ladies day at Chester Races. There he stumbled upon Miss England, dressed resplendent for the occasion. She was not however prepared for the ignominy of being photographed with the one of the OGGY’s...she clearly had not heard of us... and didn’t really comprehend my request for her to become FOG2!

Miss England, or FOG2, meets an ‘unknown’ celebrity...

Rushing back and chatting about my recent encounter, to the somewhat stony faced FOG1; we drove back to France. Then MOG had a spate of forgetful moments. Maps and notes for the forth coming trip were packed away, never to be found; overnight bags left in hotels and MOG found staring aimlessly at the car wondering where he had put a certain vital document. Was this age playing a nasty game or had Miss England bewitched him…

Once again the Channel Tunnel was a dream and we arrived in Troyes with no hotel booking...a bit of an experiment for us... yes, yes, yes we did finally find a tiny annex to sleep in but we weren’t to know it was a French Bank Holiday weekend. This was then compounded by our experience in Avignon. FOG still has a lot more sympathy for the Frogs..., sorry French, than MOG, but for our cousins across the channel that was all about to change.

The next day we arrived in Avignon a lot earlier only to be sucked into the one way system of this delightfully attractive and ancient walled town...for over an hour. We had that afternoon established a hotel right in the heart of the city that did have rooms available at a ‘fair’ rate...well fair for the robbing French b******ds…, sorry, no more insults. Stuck in a one way street the wrong way, but with the hotel frustratingly in sight, FOG leaps out of the car to book-in and ask for help in parking the car. At reception she was informed the room rate had effectively doubled and when she protested she received the Gallic shrug...she returned to the car in a fury; her comments are unprintable. By this time our car had managed to cause almost total gridlock but undeterred MOG called and speaking his best Italian, booked a room at the original rate! MOG then leapt out of the car and ran to the hotel leaving FOG to try and placate several irate French drivers. MOG managed to charm the reception staff telling them all about OGGY and was promptly up-graded to a superior room! However the atmosphere did change when FOG entered the reception…, now if she had been Miss England!

The ancient city of Avignon

Avignon is actually a stunningly beautiful old city and the hotel in question was, in the end, first class...but the lasting memory for MOG was two men kissing, not once, not twice but three times as they met in a bar...will this ever catch on in Cheshire? I HOPE NOT…

I am finding it difficult to find an internet point so please be patient...

The Facts-Old Gits Gap Year Blog hasjust been updated:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Hey, we’re going to Barbados...

2009-04-30T06:17:00.012-04:00

Sitting on the deck of the Bequia Express we watched the hustle and bustle of the quaint Port Elizabeth. I was quite sad to leave as we had enjoyed being stationary for 2 weeks! Vehicles were reversed onto the old boat and pallets of building blocks and cement were disgorged at a leisurely pace only found in typical Caribbean style; finally the warps were released and ramp raised as the engine vibrated nosily beneath us. However rather than pulling away from the dock the ferry slammed violently back onto the jetty sending deck hands and dock workers scattering in all directions...so they can move quickly! It transpired the gears had stuck in reverse! Twenty minutes later we finally pulled out of port straight into a very rough sea...we didn’t spy any life jackets and sat quietly, slightly stony faced, as the boat rolled and pitched alarmingly. In case you think we were over reacting we had been told the previous night that one of the ferries had gone down only last year..., well I suppose it is important to know the local history.

I will say it straight and no caveats: Sorry St.Vincent. A few postings ago I lambasted St.Vincent quite mercilessly. Well this time we had a great taxi guy, super hotel room and a dinner whose food and service was second to none... Opps! The next day saw us travelling to Barbados and despite the good press I had been giving LIAT they finally started to live upto their reputation and lost FOG’s bag. Well, it might have been worse...it could have been mine.

One of the interesting aspects of travelling the Caribbean is the diversity between the islands; Barbados was no exception. It seemed quite populated, not only with people but cars. After the tranquillity of Dominica and Bequia the first experience of Barbados was a traffic jam. Saying this, Barbados has a ‘buzz’ which you feel immediately on arrival. We took the new highway up the West coast and had our first experience of a Caribbean dual-carriage way...seemingly you overtake any way you can and there isn’t a designated slow lane: daunting for the first time driver. Finally we found our hotel in Mullins a few yards from the beach but secluded by a lush garden. Well all I can say is that we have been very fortunate with our accommodation on this trip and Bayfield House really was the cherry on the cake.

Bayfield House with owner and son.

Trevor had us settled in (to a rather palatial room); sitting at the bar by the pool with a rum punch quicker than you can say “oh, I shouldn’t really...alright then!” The only description for Bayfield is a boutique hotel and for once the old cynical MOG was silenced. The next three days we toured the island, in the south is the tour operator type resorts, to the West are the ‘exclusive’ places and of course the calm Caribbean sea. The East coast of the island has a totally different feel about it with rollers smashing into the rocks send plumes of salt spray high into the air; causing my camera flash to jam later on that day... We did manage to get hopelessly lost but actually it was rather enjoyable driving down old tracks and seeing the real Barbados.

East coast

We were recommended a visit to the Waterside Cafe in the centre of Bridgetown as the live music is a Dixie Jazz band...this was MOG type of music. We set about tackling infamous one-way system; as usual we spent an age going round in circles. On reaching the town centre we spotted the bridge we were told to cross...yes, you can predict the outcome. Mounting the pavement we headed for the bridge over a pedestrian area, down a four lane highway the wrong way, only for a few yards, causing quite a lot of excitement from the oncoming cars and a host of locals who were banging on the car roof gesticulating frantically at us. We were then confronted with market stalls blocking our way…, no means of escape. Taking a deep breath and spying an approaching crowd, the window was wound down and with profuse apologies and the explanation: “sorry we’re English”, (In a ‘plum’ Surrey accent), promptly traversed the 4 lane high way over the pedestrian area, again, and skidded onto the other carriage way like something out of a scene from ‘The Italian Job’. Finally parked, and seated at the Cafe, MOG was desperate for a beer only to be reminded he had to drive home...well at least the food was good and music excellent...

Jazz band at the Waterfront

We met up with the family we had become friendly with on Bequia and had a very special relaxed evening at their house right in the centre, and highest point, of the island. Unfortunately we have no idea where this is as we followed the son from our hotel, who is a rally car driver, say no more, and took us the back roads in the very non-touristy areas of Barbados...in fact, we were possibly the only English to have been to these parts since Nelson’s time!

Our final evening in the Caribbean was spent quietly at the hotel. The owner, who normally specialises in good quality English home cooking, produced a more local dish of salt fish and bread fruit..., all I can say is wow. It was, however, followed by the lightest bread and butter pudding we have ever tasted. Then we were initiated in the new after dinner task that has become the rage in Barbados over the last year or so...snail hunting. No, it’s not a spelling error...snails; big horrible looking ‘African Snails’ that arrived, without a visa, 3-4 years ago. In a very short time they have infested the island and can devour a garden quicker than MOG can take the top off a bottle of beer. There is one advantage of this strange ritual, the host ploughs rum punch down you as a thank you; well it is exhausting chasing those snails...

‘Jammin n’ liming’ in schooners from Tobago Cays to Mustique

2009-04-20T12:12:00.002-04:00

The longest we have stayed at anyone place has been in Bequia, I think that alone demonstrates the rather special feeling about the place...but it’s not all a bed of roses: I’ll come back to that later. The island is so small you continually bump into the same people; which actually gives a somewhat comforting feel. Our apartment at the Gingerbread was proving to be an excellent choice as we were right in the thick of the activities; especially over the Easter weekend

Gingerbread hotel and apartments:

Ours is the one on the right...not far to the beach or the bar!

Meeting fellow travellers can sometimes be a humbling experience. One young French couple already have an 18 month old toddler, with another due in a few weeks, are intending to sail a repaired 27’ hurricane wrecked boat..., circumnavigating the world! Another Polish couple have a similar plan in a 30’ yacht and just stop to find work when they run out of money ...now that’s free living; but not for Old Gits!

Easter weekend brought many day-trippers from St.Vincent, ferries stuffed full of weekend revellers.

Easter Ferry...

The quiet town of Port Elizabeth suddenly vibrated to the thumping heavy beat of a sort of modern reggae, FOG did try to enlighten MOG but he just grunted! Stalls were erected all over the town and in grounds of the municipal building and churches. Barb-a-ques, beer tents, coconut vendors, arts and crafts gave the place a Caribbean version of a village fete atmosphere.

Maypole dancing & locals enjoy Easter festival

Alcohol abounded but there was no loutish behaviour and we saw why...

MOG should be careful, mixing his drinks!

As the original plan had been to charter a yacht we did find ourselves with time on our hands. FOG took the opportunity to find a ‘decent’ hairdresser...

Dawn & hair – She should have saved her money... (Opps)

MOG on the other hand went diving an old German tug boat that was sunk in 1996. It sits upright on the seabed and diving down to it is a thrilling experience. Already the boat is encrusted in plants and coral and an abundance of fish...oh for an underwater camera!

Friendship Rose under full sail

You don’t come all this way and not venture out into the Grenadines. The ‘Friendship Rose’ is a 90’ schooner built on Bequia in the 60s.

Skipper eyeing the camera with suspicion

The skipper had built it with his brothers and working such a large boat with no winches required a large crew and all hands on deck...

MOG tries to show them how it’s done!

Way anchor!

Our destination was the marine conservation area of Tobago Cays. These uninhabited cluster of islands is truly something out of a film set, and that is exactly what it has been...the most recent being the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’.

Boat on the reef at Tobago Cays

We snorkelled with turtles and one particular ‘old fella’, we were told later could have been a hundred years old, just grazed on the sea grass quite oblivious to the ecstatic flapping of tourists floating on the surface above him. We then moved onto the reef itself which is reputed to be one of the top 7 in the world. The wind had started to increase and made snorkelling on the reef quite precarious as we floated very close to stinging corals and large black sea urchins lurked menacingly in crags their spins waiting for a carelessly placed foot or knee.

Lunch on the old schooner was first class and washed down with a cold beer made life seem very pleasant..., this is what ‘liming’ is all about then? However the long sail back tacking into the wind did have FOG eying me with her ‘look’...”you were going to bring me out here in a small yacht.” Maybe it was fortunate we never did manage to charter a yacht; I’m not sure the marriage would have lasted! It took a while before we entered Admiralty Bay with a few sighs of relief from some passengers...

Waves over the bow...

The next day we were on another schooner, ‘Passat’ heading towards Mustique...definitely FOG country. Snorkelling was once again on offer but FOG firmly shook her head: tropical celebrity spotting was the order of the day...

Both the Passat & Friendship Rose travel to Mustique

We were tendered to shore and in true tourist mode we took a local taxi. Our guide turned out to be quite a character with a good sense of humour. Tommy Hillfiger’s house he particularly recommended for rent...a bargain at $125,000 per week! We ventured down to a beach and caught sight of Gerry Hall, ex-husband Mick Jagger and Bryan Adams’ houses.

Mick Jagger’s House on left

It was one of those special moments you rarely experience in life. As we stood in awe of the houses in front of us, Mick and Bryan were engrossed in a ‘jammin’ session. They saw us and hailed us over asking whether we would mind joining them...we were obliging of course; I mean it would be rude not to. Mick particularly loved the OGGY idea...; then a loud horn woke me from my day dream and we clambered back into the taxi...!

Of course we had to stop at the Firefly for a drink; the bar had an incredible view of the bay below. MOG gulped at the prices on the drinks menu and nearly fainted as FOG ordered a champagne cocktail... A sharp look and “If you add up all the beers you drink...” MOG sat back and closed his eyes muttering for a local beer. Unfortunately it seemed the tropical celebrity hunt was not going well, we suspect they retreat back to their houses when the schooners are spotted on the horizon. FOG sighed heavily as she spent most of the trip explaining to MOG who all the celebrities were! He actually thought Shania Twain must have been an American author... We walked down to the infamous Basil’s Bar and FOG sat in anticipation her head swivelling round like an owl...but Mick and company remained firmly entrenched in MOG’s daydream...

After a week we had become accustomed to the Bequia way of life, especially shopping. When the doleful lament of a conch shell sounded early in the morning we all hurried to the fish market for our day’s supply.

Real fresh fish...

The fruit and vegetable market had numerous vendors and despite a huge sign stating customers would not be ‘harassed’ that is exactly what happened. In the process of purchasing vegetables from a quiet lady we were harassed by her neighbouring stallholder; but we held our ground..., our confidence was growing!

A disappointing aspect of this island is the attitude of the vast majority of Bequians. They do not have any concept of service. Examples are too numerous to mention but MOG especially became exasperated when entering a bar to be totally ignored, even when it was empty. The worst part is the resigned shrug of the shoulder as the barman finally shuffles reluctantly over and raises his chin in a questioning manner; no enquiry or pleasantries. MOG did lose his cool with one particular obnoxious barman and when paying asked him if he understood what charisma meant... A blank stare, then that “look”..., I think he finally cottoned onto to sarcasm!

But you just can’t beat the sunsets here...

Yet another sunset!

The soothing effect of Bequia...

2009-04-12T14:31:00.001-04:00

On the ferry to Bequia the dark cloud of St.Vincent receded into the distance. We chatted to the two British secret service guys we had met at our hotel; they may not be ‘00’ status, but spies none the less. They had some cock’n’ bull story that they were headmasters from the UK working with the West Indian University on modern teaching practises...as if any educational authority would fund two of their top people to go on a jaunt to the Windies...I don’t think so. They did attempt to play the part in the evenings by pretending to prepare lectures; all I can say is, it had better be about the inside of a beer bottle...! We also caught them taking pictures as the quay side...definitely up to no good. (Only joking lads!)

The two 'British spies exchange information while two ladies discuss life on the ferry

When the ferry tugged into the small town of Port Elizabeth you noticed people’s shoulders relax. It was so picturesque that no photograph would do it just, but I’ll try...

I said I’d try...

We were staying at the Frangipani Hotel and once again we found we were rip-off by a local taxi, $15 for 200 yards! We do seem to attract them...;however nothing could dampen our spirits as we entered the cool shade of the bar and reception area; right on the beach where all the ‘yachties’ moored their tenders.

Tenders in the sunset

Shown to our room, slightly elevated on the hillside, we opened the doors onto the veranda and there was the whole of Admiral Bay spread out in front of us. The bay was filling up rapidly in preparation for the Bequia Easter Regatta. Boats from all nations mingled with the locals and their fishing boats...

Submerged fishing boat. At first glance you would imagine this boat is in trouble...not so. It is being submerged to allow the timbers to expand in readiness for the regatta.

The first afternoon and evening on Bequia was, not to put too fine a point on it, magical. Boobies dived into the water all around us fishing for their supper, as we ambled contently into the town.

Frigate Birds, locally known as ‘Boobies’, dive for fish in the harbour.

We sampled a few of the bars before walking back to our hotel along the beach and waterfront. Our two lost friends had returned; no, not the spies, but laughter and smiles. A good meal and a bottle of wine boosted the Old Gits morale and resolve. A healthy discussion on the finances resulted in a few changes which, on reflection, may even enhance the OGGY experience... Some appropriate cost cutting, without killing the ‘spirit’ of OGGY, would accompany MOG having to find a job when we tour and stay in Italy for the summer. (Why just MOG?). We were real Gap Year travellers now...

FOG settling in to Bequia life.

We met many people in the first few days mainly due to the relaxed atmosphere and almost a comradeship between all inhabitants, local or otherwise. Only the larger groups of Americans remained aloof as did the ‘locals’ from St.Vincent. Bequia is a small island and it was surprising how you kept bumping into the same people, normally in the bars. We did experience a small problem in where we were going to stay. The charter boat idea had now totally faded and a lot of apartments were booked over the Easter period. Eating out all the time was starting to become expensive and a little tiring, the service locally is slow to say the least, but eventually we found an apartment in the Gingerbread Hotel with a well equipped kitchen...right on the water front. With our accommodation assured we then booked a day’s sub-aqua diving. Dive Bequia were virtually next door to the hotel and ensconced there was the irresistible Charlie. Although Charlie is over 40 years old he still has quite childish tendencies..., one of them is stealing your pen while you fill in the dive forms...

Charlie... enough said

The two Old Gits however didn’t do themselves justice. Both hyperventilated on the surface before the dive started only to realise the ‘STAB’ jackets were so tight neither of us could breathe! However the two dives were great fun with beautiful coral of all types and a multitude of fish, crustaceans and turtles. Oh, for an underwater camera...!

MOG scrabbles up, and FOG looking more composed

Our second excursion was to rent a car and see the island...which only took a morning! MOG was determined to have his ride in a Mini Moke; his wish was granted..., but in PINK! I had forgotten how bad the old Morris gears had been..., it was akin to stirring porridge!

MOG & Moke...Checking the engine: The 35 year old Morris 850cc engine was true to form and broke down!

The ‘locals’ here are very friendly and we bumped into two brothers, John & David with their wives and some of the brood. John & his wife Jenny live on the island and took pity on us having to eat in restaurants every night(!); we were invited to dinner . When they saw our Mini Moke they insisted on picking us up and thank heavens they did. The house was perched high up on the hillside, with an impressive view of the bay and the drive up would have challenged even the most hardy of 4*4...the Pink mobile would have ended up down a ravine! It was so nice to chat around a dinner table and MOG made a pig of himself with the excellent home cooking. (Yes, I forget my camera again, but not quite the thing to do snapping away in someone’s home!) They had designed themselves and had the main wooden house pre-built in Brazil. All went well as the two containers were offloaded and the wood man-handled up the mountain side, until they discovered the instructions were all in Portuguese!

Typical sunset in Bequia

Over the Easter weekend the amount of boats increased quite startlingly and the buzz of the place was electric...so were the occasional free sponsored bars...hurray for Heineken & Mount Gay Rum.

Frangipani’s beach bar on race night...!

FOG became embroiled in an argument (discussion she says) between a local and the Irish barman..., but it all ended happily!

Eye ball to eyeball...but FOG to the rescue and all ‘friends’

The sunsets in Bequia did have that quality that would sooth any troubled brow...

Off to see the rest of the Grenadines...as I keep saying: life’s a bitch!

Girls relax in the clear blue Caribbean sea...

The facts blog has been updated to include Dominica:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Disappointment and a sting of financial reality. Time to bail out...?

2009-04-06T13:02:00.000-04:00

We decided to leave Dominica three days early as in our original itinerary it would have meant arriving in Bequia on a Sunday; not advisable as everything is closed! We also had intentions of trying to broker a deal on a bareboat yacht charter; most of the companies were based in St.Vincent, so this was our first port of call.

We say a sad farewell to Jose, the manager of Harmony Villa

(More details coming on: www.oldgitsgapyear@blogspot.com )

I had hoped for some funny stories to tell about LIAT, the West Indian airways, which has a reputation of really knowing how to foul things up... Well, so far they have been on the ball, dead on time and managed not to lose our bags...BA take note!

We arrived at St.Vincent and we both immediately felt uneasy; nothing specific just a bad feeling about the place. We only saw a small fraction of the island during our short stay but what we did see of it, and some of its people, meant we would not be returning in a hurry. We did also receive some rather stark financial news on our arrival; which may have coloured our opinion. The taxi ripped us off for the five minute ride to a rather tired looking hotel, which lay on Indian Bay. (I’ve not mentioned it by name, yet!) The service matched the decor...minimalistic. The pool was so ‘long’ if you stretched out you touched both ends and the sea was clear but the beach had an ‘unpleasant odour’...of rotting fish. Opposite, proudly sat the very exclusive Young Island, if only the budget would allow us...

Indian Bay & the 'exclusive' Young Island

Our first priority was to establish if we could charter a yacht. A local company ‘Barefoot’ had been recommended and close to them were Sunsail. Despite a long walk to both establishments, follow up calls and e-mails, we never received any reply. The manager of Barefoot was as elusive as a ‘British Bobby’ on the beat. We had been told that boats were available, but could we obtain a quote..., they must have viewed the old gits as incapable...wrong mate, we’re English and have sea water cascading through our veins!

MOG gazes enviously at some of the yachts; a means to get away from St.Vincent?

Our only experience of our hotel's cuisine was lunch on the first day. We asked for a snack and we were told the only dish available was Samosas at a price that would be more appropriate in a top London hotel. The six overcooked triangles arrived just as the only other residents were shown the menu of fresh fish salads etc, at roughly the same price! Disappointed, we finally tracked down a small shop and bought bread, ham and processed cheese. Frustration mounted as we tried to link to the hotel’s Wi-Fi ... When we did finally connect to the internet we were presented with our 2009 1st quarter’s financial statement. We knew it was not going to make pleasant reading but..., for those of us who have saved and tried to be prudent, it still came as a shock how badly our income had fared. Thank you Gordon Brown for ensuring that those of us, who have put some cash away, not only live in fear of our savings disappearing into a bankruptcy black hole, but we now see little return.

Furthermore those who have tried to invest in the stock market we see that due to the banks’ unregulated greed, encouraged by the Government, our portfolio is now a shadow of its former self... I am glad any pension statements are still laying un-opened back in the UK; we dread to think what state they are in. A silence envelopes the Old Gits as the financial implications sink in. We sat in our room chewing on tough ham and stale bread when the inevitable happened... a row ensued. We eventually retired to the thumping beat of the $1 taxis screeching round bends on the road just above us. The warm cloak of the Caribbean evaporated replaced by the more familiar ‘fret and worry’.

We awoke tired; the thick atmosphere of tension still surrounding us. So what do we do? We take one of the music thumping $1 taxis to Kingstown. It was a strange decision but brought the Old Gits rapidly closer together again. If we had been in Dominica or St.Kitts when we entered the taxi, there would have been smiles and some banter, naturally about cricket. (Well we did finally win the one day series...well done lads!). The suspicious sideways glances and lack of communication from the locals was to say the least, a little intimidating. Kingstown was another disappointment. However what was more worrying was to experience, for the first time in the Caribbean, ‘the stare’; the head remains still but the eyes follow you menacingly: you don’t actually know what people are thinking, but we had a b****y good idea..., I don’t think it involved a friendly chat and cold beer... come back St.Kitts, Nevis and Dominica...

Kingstown market

So then what do we do next? We return in another $1 taxi...well money is tight... (Things are that bad MOG is contemplating becoming ‘T’ total...hey, now that’s a saving!) The music was so loud FOG had her fingers in her ears and MOG was experiencing palpitations. In our travels the driving in Naples had to be the worst we’d seen until, that is, we visited Beijing... well now we have a new champion. The eleven seater ‘taxi’ had 21occupants and the driver clearly thought he was in the F1 at Monte Carlo. He would even have made the ‘nerves of steel’ Lewis Hamilton shake in his boots...

Vibrating out of the taxi we clutched to each other muttering a prayer of thanks for our ‘safe’ return and even our hotel seemed welcoming. Another night of stale bread and dry cheese was accompanied by a ‘discussion’ on whether we have to admit defeat and head for home. Plan A to charter a boat, at an advantageous rate, had back fired and we now faced the prospect of having to use hotels for the next 3 weeks. We assumed that Bequia, highly recommended by many, would be even more expensive; costs could escalate out of control... another fretful night’s sleep.

The next morning the stony faced Old Gits sat quietly at the breakfast table contemplating our options. Has the long cold tentacles of the credit crunch finally wrapped themselves around the windpipes of the Old Gits?

Is OGGY doomed...?

The daring, intrepid travellers encounter waterfalls and fairies...

2009-04-01T06:52:00.000-04:00

After our week on Nevis we returned to St.Kitts for a couple of nights, back at Rock Haven, and then took the early morning flight to Dominica via Antigua and Guadeloupe. (We actually didn’t land at Guadeloupe; no-one pressed the stop bell!). The view over our recent host islands highlighted their volcanic origin, especially Nevis...and as a true professional (!) didn’t have my camera with me, when will I learn. Male Old Git (MOG) took stock of the people we had met, the great food and the fact that tourism hasn’t really taken hold as yet..., may it remain that way.

Marriott & beach: future tourism?

A more typical view – Windward Beach (Below)

The places we stayed are interesting and value for money but you have to accept the Caribbean, like the pistes in the Alps, demands a premium. We met several Brits living out here and the consensus of opinion is you have to keep interests back in the UK or you’d ‘crack-up’; ending up where the ‘live music night’ is the highlight of the week!

I am now known as “one shoe Philip”. I had just ‘broken in’ a new pair of Timberland boat shoes and stupidly left them out side with the old pair. Next morning one of the ‘new’ pair was missing (The dog wasn’t totally stupid!), and despite vigorous attempts to locate it I now only have the old, sad looking pair...if anyone is going to Mo-Zi-Mo’s in Chester could you reserve me a size 9 ½ ..., dark brown please! I had to take off the said old shoes at the airport for security and pleaded that they didn’t lose them, sending all the security staff into fits of laughter when I told them my predicament...I am finally getting into Carib mode!

I’ll admit that we have had a little wobble again when we realised we still have 440 days left of travelling to do; living out of a suitcase..., yes I can hear the comments now...”He’s not actually whinging about it, is he?” OK, I’ll shut up!

Then we arrived in Dominica..., well, where do I start? It has taken us a couple of days to ‘adjust’; this is no ordinary Caribbean island. The landing was fantastic; that is if you’re not a nervous passenger. The runway is short and runs out to the sea at one end and has tall mountains at the other. The plane literally skims the tops of the tree canopy and dives down to the runway whereupon breaks, anchor and anything else available is applied; or it’s an early swim... Dominica is abundantly lush and, fighting against the ever encroaching rain forest, nestles pockets of banana plantations, fruit trees and coconut groves, in profusion.

Jeep and Banana plantation

The scenery however is simply stunning:

The old bone rattler of a Suzuki Jeep we hired has seen better days but an absolute must for the roads, or more accurately, tracks. The drive to our villa did make us both gulp a few times. We took the wrong turning down into a small fishing village where people, mainly male, of all ages just sat staring at us. Our obvious tourist ‘look’ made us especially open to curiosity and initially we found it quite intimidating. Once again after a couple of days you realise they are fervently more willing to help than do any harm, but usual caution is advised, you never really know. It is possibly the poorest country we have visited and some of the ‘shanty’ type homes make you really appreciate our own living standards.

However once again we saw nothing but smiles and heard laughter everywhere. On Saturday we noticed many people in the rivers (there are 365 on Dominica) washing their clothes; not just one or two but large groups, joviality and ‘horse-play’ abounded. I would have loved to stop and take a picture but we had been cautioned that such actions can be demeaning and to tread very carefully. I suspect that, like in parts of southern Italy where this practise still goes on, it may also be a social occasion. We have become quite insular in the UK and such sights pose the question that more communal activity could bring us closer together. I am not sure I’d want anyone to see my undies...well at least I won’t be washing my long-john thermals! (See Post 28th January!).

We rounded one corner to be faced with a fast moving pick-up truck almost pushing us off the road, waving an old rag vigorously. We stopped and he pulled up beside us, shouting a warning which neither of us could understand. Bemused we nodded politely and agreed to be careful, carriing on blissfully innocent only to be faced at the next bend with a huge wide tanker hurtling at break-neck speed directly towards us. I had been struggling with the Suzuki’s gears until this moment...well, I had it in reverse and manoeuvred off the road faster than you could say “Be garn, mon...”

Talking of languages once again English has been used as the base language here, as well as French, and meanings have changed, occasionally causing some misunderstanding. I was filling the car with fuel and when the young attractive attendant arrived, it wasn’t self-service but we have learnt if you want it done, do it yourself. I said to her as I finished off filling the jeep up, “She’s nearly there; I’ll just squeeze a little more in her...” “What’d you say?” demanded the girl, angrily. I was confused and re-iterated that it was almost full. She smiled and laughed realising I was some crazy Englishman so heaven only knows what she thought I had meant; I’m not sure I want to find out. FOG, on another occasion, also had asked at a hotel whether any of their rooms were free. “No, you have to pay...!” came a confused rely.

Harmony Villa

We are staying at Harmony Villa right in the heart of the island, up in the mountains carpeted in rainforest. We are lucky to be the only guests here and we can relax and unwind. As usual the manageress and the housekeeper are very welcoming and helpful. We needed food but the road to Roseau was closed for road works and meant a very long detour. “Not a problem,” the manageress said, and told us to follow her and her husband; they were local residents and were allowed through. All I can say is I am glad we had four wheel drive and were following the locals, FOG kept her eyes tightly closed, I wish I could have; we returned by ourselves the long way! Intrepid? Daring? I’m not so sure...

We have looked at many other hotels, lodges etc, mainly for the blog:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Most are very quiet (meaning nobody around!); some are almost like ghost towns. We certainly can’t claim to have seen all and we did stumble on Beau Rive, half way up the West coast which was delightful; so far it is the only place that matches up to Harmony. We pulled into an ECO village where upon FOG insisted we drive to the centre...not exactly ECO friendly! We expected to see a grey pony-tailed, Jesus wellied, khaki short wearing ageing hippy to greet us. We were disappointed to be confronted with yet another ghost town...; the credit crunch is reaching everywhere.

FOG in Sun silk advert...., so what happened to the hair! (oophs maybe this is an ageing hippy, clout around the ear holes coming!)

We toured the island in typical OGGY gusto and after 3 days had covered every road, so maybe nine days on Dominica is, for us, a fraction too long, but sod’s law all flights out of Dominica are fully booked...hope there isn’t a hurricane coming...

We then ventured out to explore one of the famous Dominican waterfalls on our own. We didn’t need a guide..., yes, right again, we should have taken a guide. Not only did we venture out alone but we chose one of the hardest to get to. Sari-Sari falls are on the South East corner of the island and as we were becoming adept and more at ease driving on the narrow roads we breezed there without a care in the world.

The guide map said it was only 30 minutes to the falls but it would be rough and strongly recommended a guide. We only read this last sentence after half an hour into the trek..! Fortunately we stumbled on a small camp where two men were preparing some lunch in a large metal pot...it smelt good, but there are limits even MOG wouldn’t ask for!.

Al fresco Dominican style: The ‘pinny’ doesn’t do a lot for him!

They helped us over the river and bestowed fresh grapefruit juice upon the weary travellers, plus allowed us to take a photo of him.

FOG with rope...

On reaching the falls, rounding the last bend in the river, one gasps at the spectacle; it is a heart stopping moment. MOG stripped off (another heart stopping event, but for the wrong reasons!), and tried to reach the pool underneath it but was forced back by steep, slippery rocks and squadrons of mosquitoes. The water was exquisitely cool and so pure it seemed to cleanse the soul as well as the body.

Sari-Sari waterfalls and MOG

We then moved onto the Emerald Pool, a lot more ‘touristy’ but it did allow MOG to shower under a real waterfall...and it hurt!

MOG & Waterfall

One aspect of Harmony Villa is the abundance of wild life. We have parrots cawing in the morning and dusk; frogs that make a din all night (!); bats that hunt in the house at dusk; the veranda ‘rat’ (well, we think it is) and our guard dog who is a real cutie..., he doesn’t frighten me or I suspect anybody else! Make no mistake we are ‘lovin it’... I will finish with a magic moment we experienced here. Naturally it rains a lot in the ‘rain’ forest but the other night it was still and not a cloud in the sky. I have not seen such a canopy of stars for many a year but the highlight were the fireflies darting around like fairy spirits...; yep, the rum is good in Dominica!

I’ll sign off now as the bats have started to ‘chatter’ above my head which must mean it’s nearing cold beer time.

(Once again, apologies for the quality of the photos. They will be properly edited etc when we return and I have my photo-software available)

Don't forget http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Off to Dominica

2009-03-26T18:02:00.001-04:00

Oh, how I wish...!

I have just posted all the details of St.Kits and Nevis on:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

We are just about to leave for Dominica and we understand that we may have difficulty in finding internet access, so it may be a week or so beofre the next posting. However

a few pictures to wet the appetite...

FOG on a very busy beach...

The sunsets were spectacular... they kept going on about seeing a green flash when the sun finally goes down. Gee, the rum must be stronger than I thought.

The seating does comply to all health and safty standards...here!

Travelling the Caribbean is truely child's play...

The island hopping really begins with smiles, waves and an ATM machine

2009-03-21T16:51:00.000-04:00

A typical scene...!

Brimstone castle...quite formidable

FIRE...

Phone boxes still in use...

After three days on St.Kitts we had seen most the sights and spent a staggering £7 on fuel! Not the biggest island in the world.

One of St.Kitts little ‘quirks’ are the signs along the roads. Ever so often there is a huge poster: “Disaster, swift, sudden death: BE READY” I didn’t realise Corporal Fraser from ‘Dad’s Army’ had been at work out here...”We’re all doomed Captain Mannering”.

FOG with a typical sign on the beach: no comments please!

We then planned to venture on the ‘Sea Bridge’ ferry to Nevis. This always resulted in raised eyebrows from the locals and would always be followed by the same question, “Has your car hire company agreed to using the Sea Bridge?” We now understand their concern. One piece of standard advice given by all: Never let a deck hand park it for you.

Sea Bridge ferry with Nevis Peak in distance:

The ferry can only be described as a copy of the landing craft used in WW11. We arrived so early we saw the previous ferry still making the crossing; some things never change. Boarding the ferry has to be done by reversing your vehicle onto the boat. As the quayside is uneven, planks are laid out to ensure you don’t disappear down the yawning gap and into the drink. FOG (Female Old Git) surveys the scene and her worried frown brought back dear old Corporal Fraser again... Another piece of advice had been to never follow the deck hands instructions as they take pride in ensuring you leave a layer of paint work as a souvenir. FOG then starts gestating to me as I reverse down the ramp but all I could now see were her ankles.., she finally turned away in disgust as she thought I was totally ignoring her desperately flaying arms; I had no alternative I had to take instructions from a deck hand. The directions of this man were somewhat bemusing to say the least. My assumption is he had the DTs or was just taking the p**s: I think the latter as I had firmly told him I was driving the car...

We did finally park without a scratch and but just as we were about to leave an oil tanker arrived and, after a lot of effort and manoeuvring, did manage to park, inch perfect, without damaging it or the superstructure... The exit onto Nevis soil could only be described as downright perilous and has left a tinge of fear about our return journey.

Oil tanker next to wheel house

Nevis is a beautiful island and we immediately took to it. Charlestown is the classically Caribbean with a kaleidoscope of colour, smiling faces and laughter everywhere. I stood in the middle of town, checking my map for a particular bank, when a security guard from one of the local branches came over and asked if I needed help. (This is very typical of these islands and my natural scepticism had embarrassed me on several occasions when a genuine offer of help would be answered with suspicion and a defensive grabbing of wallet or rucksack. The problem is one day I’ll drop my guard and I’ll be robbed blind!). I answered that I was wondering which bank to rob but quickly showed my Debit card. A huge smile and friendly clenched fist hand shake accompanied “That’s lime mon; be garn.” The local dialect is difficult to understand but our security friend was saying, ‘that’s fine sir, I’ll see you later...’ I just love it!

We stayed at the Banyan Tree B&B and our hosts Anne & Jonathan Rose kindly put us in the Bamboo House. The breakfasts were as good as we had experienced on St.Kitts...

Bamboo House, Banyan Tree B&B

I know we have only been here a week but the essence of the trip is to find interesting places at good value for money well both Rock Haven and the Banyan Tree fall squarely into this category.

We will be updating the blog site shortly: www.facts-oldgitsgapyear@blogspot.com

Monkeys are treated as pests out here, similar to our opinion of rabbits, for a troop can strip a vegetable garden in minutes. I laid out a banana as bait and let the camera do its stuff...

A bit of monkey business:

Nevis is a lush green island and we experienced a wonderful walk on the upper ground trail under Nevis Peak. It would have been perfect except for the distant roar of huge trucks thundering down the only major road on the island in their efforts to build a by-pass for Charlestown. Why by-pass it...?

MOG in the tropics

OK, let’s get it over with..., why an ATM machine? The ATM fiasco proves two things first I haven’t really managed to ‘lime’ into Caribbean mode yet, and secondly I am truly becoming an old git. In this part of the Caribbean most people still like US dollars but the ATM machines will only dispense Eastern Caribbean dollars and the local banks charge an earth to exchange US$, especially the state the sterling is in.

Then I was told that there was an ATM machine at the Marriott Hotel. So on our way to the ferry for Nevis we pulled in at the main reception and MOG headed into the main lobby; which was about the size of two football pitches. I was told the said machine was in the casino and after having to remove my sunglasses, the security guard pointed to the far corner with a grunt which I took as being where my quest lay. The room was so large I had to have my shoes re-heeled half way across and then I found the machine ‘guarded’ by a 6’7” giant. Feeling very conspicuous in shorts and sandals I quickly rammed my card into the slot. I waited for what seemed an age and the screen still just kept flashing adverts so in frustration I pulled the card out just as a “welcome Mr. P.R.Jordan” came on the screen. Quickly pushing the card back in, I entered the PIN and duly completed the instructions to withdraw $400.

A whirl of notes being counted preceded my card being dispatched and a receipt...but no cash. Fortunately the giant standing menacingly beside me had seen the whole episode and, to be fair to him, he immediately radioed the maintenance department and told me to go to the cashier to report the incident, with my receipt that that was so faint it was unreadable. The people in front of me where arguing with the cashier about who had won what, but as time was getting on and I still had to hike back to the car, my patience snapped and I pushed forward thrusting the receipt at the cashier garbling my story. She calmly turned the receipt over where upon the vividly clear print proclaimed the transaction had been void. “Had I interfered with the card during the transaction?” retorted the disdainful look opposite me. “Err, no, well actually...” She had already returned to her previous clients.

The second attempt was successful and the giant made the point of talking very loudly into his radio that the machine was in fact not broken, just some English guy... I found a worried FOG waiting by the car when my phone rang; a very rare occasion lately. It was my bank asking me where I was as a rather strange transaction had just taken place in a Casino in St.Kitts at 10 o’clock in the morning... “I know; everything is in order” I bellowed testily down the receiver.

Still not quite into the Caribbean mode yet!

A Caribbean welcome..., live de life.

2009-03-17T16:59:00.000-04:00

First a few typical views:

The weary travellers fell out of the arrivals hall at St.Kitts airport to be greeted by a dazzling smile and an infectious laugh. Judith Blake and her husband Keith, our hosts for a few days, ushered us away and in a blink of an eye we were sitting in their lounge discussing our forthcoming trip. Their home overlooks Frigate Bay and the views were stunning but the most interesting aspect was the glassless louvered windows. It wouldn’t have been practical in Les Gets... However, they were experiencing unseasonal windy conditions and it wasn’t long before FOG had her fleece on; yes, she did bring one with her!

View from the Gardens at Rock Haven.

A quick freshen up and we were escorted to the local beach where we found ourselves sitting with our toes in the sand, sipping the local Carib beer and eating spare ribs and spicy rice. I wasn’t missing the ski boots at all... It was good to chill for the last week had been hectic culminating in two days at our very ‘sociable’ friends in the East Midlands.

Our East Midlands friends in full flow

It wasn’t all frivolity for we visited the new war memorial outside Alrewas. It is an incredible place of 150 acres and although the trees and landscaping are still in its infancy there is already a very ‘moving’ atmosphere. One area is dedicated to those ‘Shot at Dawn’, some as young as seventeen years old, shell shocked from enduring the most terrible carnage at Ypres and the Somme, were shot for just not being able to go on. I have to admit being angry and ashamed at our own cruelty, but the good news is that they have all been recently pardoned; hence their inclusion at the memorial site. Over 16,000 service personal have died in active service since 1945; their names chiselled into stone by hand and accompanying them are some very ‘compelling’ statues.

However, before we visited the Midlands, we very nearly upset Jeremy Clarkson. We had been looking at some land which backed onto a large caravan showroom near Delamere Forest in Cheshire. We had parked up and pretended to look at the caravans, when really we nosing at the accompanying land, when a new style touring caravan caught our eye. Two hours later we were mulching over the pros and cons and finances in the cafe, when reason prevailed..., so Clarkson you can rest easy we won’t be joining the dreaded caravan clubbers. Driving quickly away, shaking our heads in disbelief, we pondered on what made us so nearly make such a foolhardy choice. It would not have matched the ethos of OGGY and I couldn’t see us towing it around for months on end around Italy. Now in the Caribbean, and our sanity restored, we came to the conclusion we were missing a base we could call our own. Our friends have been generous to a fault and we had started to worry if were over stepping the mark..., but even so, a caravan!

Our first day in the Caribbean started with an excellent breakfast (they are particularly good at Rock Haven) and we were to encounter two contrasting styles of life on these islands. We had been asked to the St. Kitts tennis club next to the Warner Cricket ground. There was a St. Patrick’s Day lunch and we ate copious amounts of beef and Guinness pie. Only local beer and a rather strong rum punch were behind the bar, which certainly livened up proceedings, but no sign of any stout. We met an array of real ‘characters’ from the Honorary British Consul (who had to leave early as two British drunks were cooling off in the local slammer) to business men and women, many retried and from many nationalities; there was, however, a very strong British ‘presence’.

The beer arrives...

Then we were to see the ‘real’ Caribbean. As MOG had refrained from the rum punch we drove to the far south of the island and parked up at Cockleshell Bay.

FOG made for the nearest sun lounger and lay prostrate absorbing the late afternoon sunshine.
FOG on sun...opps sorry wrong photo!

This is Bobby. A 600lb pig that roams the beach. Thank heavens he's asleep...

FOG on the beach...

I wandered over to the ‘Reggae Beach Bar’ and, fighting the sonic wind from the thumping loudspeakers on the beach, I sat at the bar sipping a cool beer absorbing the sights and smells of the Caribbean, reliving our first full day at the Caribbean. I then wondered what would happen in the next forty one days to go, most of it totally unplanned, gulp! I looked up and saw the logo underneath the bar’s sign: “Live de Life”. Yep, I’m up for that...

Note to all readers! Due to new ‘Notebook’ type computer the pictures are as taken. They will be updated and edited when we return and software restored!

Don’t forget the sister site with full details of where we are staying and more specific comments can be found on:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Home sweet home…?

2009-03-08T08:17:00.000-04:00

We left Camberley with more than a lump in our throats and headed home…; home being our car parked in Milan airport. We were finding the ‘vagrant’s’ lifestyle a touch strange, especially as our packing of the car was haphazard to say the least. We could never find anything. In addition to this frustration at our new situation we had some trepidation in our hearts as we would be visiting our rented ‘home’ in a short while. How were we going to feel?

The experience of the Gap Year did show a marked change in our attitude, due mainly to the fact that our budget is now ‘tighter’ than in the past. We had now become very proficient in using the public transport and finding ‘economical’ places to eat. We even managed to keep to budget when in London: not an easy feat.

We arrived at Milan airport fairly late in the evening and sped towards the Mont Blanc tunnel. Our arrival in France was heralded by the flash of a speed camera, on a very windy section of road, where the speed limit signs litter the side of the road ranging from 50-110 kph. I never did figure out exactly what this profusion of signs really meant as under most of them would be a tiny silhouette of the vehicle they were referring to; not easy to spot at over 110 kph in the dark. I predict we’ll definitely be receiving the fine…; no I am not going to comment about the French; robbing b*****ds.

We had two days in Les Gets before heading north and couldn’t resist one more day on the slopes. It was a real joy as we knew the area so well, and the pistes which two months ago had seemed precariously steep, were conquered with almost disdainful ease. Congratulations to our instructor; the penny had finally dropped.

While we had been away the Portes du Soleil area had experienced even more snow. Our hosts had asked us if we could dig out their car buried under a snowfall from the chalet roof. Keen to be of use we set about the task with gusto.

Car under snow

Despite all our efforts the car would not budge and it was then we realised logs had been put under the front tyres to prevent it rolling up-hill! Strangely nobody is admitting to this illogical health & safety action… Thirsty from all the exertion we walked down to the local bar to meet our old landlords and another couple who had taken ‘our’ apartment. They had also embarked on a gap year; we were not alone. However they don’t really qualify as one is still working as an airline pilot on long haul, but he does manage quite long periods off; sounds like a ‘bobbies’ job to me! Fly for 20 minutes to 33,000 feet and flick on autopilot, then occasionally elbow the co-pilot to make sure he stays awake for 10 hours; tough life…? It was then our bubble was well and truly burst. We were comparing our itineraries and our newly acquired ‘comrades in arms’ stated they were organising a float plane to fly over Alaska; this did seem to have the edge over island hopping in the Caribbean; but horses for courses!

View from the chalet

The next day, as we sat sipping a coffee on the veranda admiring a magnificent view of the Alps, we had the opportunity for a few moments of reflection.

At the outset we had laid out three main objectives:

Firstly to keep to a fairly tight budget. Our personal target would be to ensure the cost of the trip would not exceed the cost of just ‘staying at home’. The weakening Sterling was making this very difficult but we were actually enjoying the challenge. No more jumping into taxis; it was the number 137 bus and an Oyster card!

Secondly, we wanted to experience three habitats. To live in the mountains, by the sea and finally in an ancient Italian city; each for a reasonable period of time. We had now experienced the mountain life; it had been better than we could ever have dreamed. The crisp air, sunshine, constant breathtaking views and the feeling of well being countered the ‘harder’ life style.

Finally we were seeking “places of interest but value for money”. We have also been very fortunate as we believe, so far, we have experienced more than our fair share.

Visit our sister blog: http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

However we still have a lot to do…

A typical example of “places of interest but value for money” came from an excellent website for B&B’s called Alastair Sawday. On our drive back to the UK we stayed in a French “Family House” in a small village to the West of Verdun. If ‘La Montgoniere’ is anything to go by then we highly recommend this website. Our ‘room’ was more like a suite at the Dorchester, the house was decorated in an exquisite French style and the food was home cooking at its very best. While we sat alone in the family dining room we noticed the wine had the same name as the owner…, it turned out the family own the vineyard in Bordeaux: now that’s having one up on the Jones! The village is very typical of the area where the farms seem to be an integral part of the main street.

Harricourt: A one horse town?

The local fire engine was in need of updating!

Not all the houses were grand and we were informed one was up for sale, but it might need a little bit of work doing to it…

For sale: may need some attention…, the French Estate Agents are not that different to the UK!

One aspect that strikes you when driving through this part of France is the number of war graves; from both World Wars. The sight of so many cemeteries, full of youth, evoked some sobering thoughts and makes one appreciate being from a generation never having to experience a major war.

Again the Channel Tunnel service was excellent. We did experience an eerie moment, however. The sunshine had made the automatic booking-in screen unreadable. When I pressed the help button I was answered by, “Good Morning Mr.Jordan, how can I help you?” How do they do that?

We drove to Cheshire where we had to ‘endure’ one week meeting and catching up with all our friends and family; we thought the après-ski was bad for the liver… Our visit to our ‘home’ to switch suitcases, and meet our tenants, turned out to be a real pleasure and our fears of regret or being homesick were ungrounded. To say we are lucky to have such a lovely family looking after our ‘home’ is an understatement.

We once again struck lucky as some friends lent us a small cottage in their grounds, which over looks the Cheshire Plain and the Welsh mountains in the distance. (Yes, the same ones with the Chalet…there will be a huge sigh of relief when we leave Europe!)

View across the Cheshire towards the Welsh hills

We didn’t however totally fritter our time away socialising and we have been updating the sister Blog:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

We hope this website will give others, mad enough to undertake a similar adventure, a taste of our experiences, some assistance in their plans and maybe a few ideas.

The UK weather hasn’t been too bad, but we are already hankering for the mountain air, blue skies, the swoosh of skies on powder snow and of course the après-ski environment. Oh well, will just have to put up with the Caribbean. We are not sure when we will be able to find an internet connection but hopefully our next posting will be from St.Kitts; life’s a bitch…

A dash to Camberley

2009-02-25T10:10:00.000-04:00

We had known for some time that we would need to be at Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst (RMAS) for an Old College Sunday family service. We guessed wrongly on the dates when we fist planned our trip, many months ago, which then necessitated a dash for Camberley; we weren’t going to miss this for anything. Our last night in Alagna did however prove to be quite exciting as we dined in a mountain restaurant with access only by Ski-Doos. (Don’t ask me how to spell this! MOG nick named it the snooter…). Meeting our driver he advised us to have a ‘ molto forte’ drink…we would need it! He was right; especially on the return journey as our driver had also had some ‘forte’ drinks! The food was typically mountain style and Male Old Git (MOG) had to brush up his Italian as “not a lot of English was spoken up there”.

FOG on Ski-Doo with Stafano...

We left Italy in clear blue skies and sunshine to arrive at Gatwick under a thick carpet of cloud. It’s good to be home! Two nights with the elder sibling comprised of dashing to the shops and collecting suits etc from friends to ensure we looked smart for the main event. We booked into the hotel and spa and a few hours later the younger sibling and now budding officer arrived…, much ‘slimmer’ and looking tired but sporting a broad and warm smile of someone enjoying themselves. The etiquette lectures at Sandhurst had obviously left an impression as he stood up when his mother came to the table! He issued us with our clearances and ‘orders’ for the following day and then had to depart for more preparation for the Sunday service.

We couldn’t wait for the following morning and apart from MOG leaving his camera in the guardroom, all went well. The taxi was taking us up to the Royal Memorial Chapel when marching down the road, (They don’t walk around Sandhurst) came a young man who looked vaguely familiar…it turned out to be our son. The transformation was breath taking; even his ever cynical elder brother was impressed.

Attention! Out side old college in ‘Blues’ (Notice the boots!)

The day passed quickly and after a demonstration of their newly acquired drill skills we enjoyed the morning service in the chapel.

On parade...

The service was very moving, with the turning of the page in the “Roll of Honour” and a full military band accompanying the organ. The highlight for me was the hymn “O Trinity of love and power”, which has the same tune as “For all those in peril on the sea”…, I had more than a lump in my throat and FOG had a tear in her eye. A short silence preceded a deep drum roll causing the young man by me to brace, as did all the other 270 cadets. The national anthem was sung with a fervour that would have quelled Twickenham on a Saturday afternoon…

FOG and younger offspring: her "little one"!

The elder sibling admitted to feeling a bit of a ‘shortie’, or words to that effect, as all the cadets, especially in our son’s platoon, seemed to tower above us.

Who's the big brother now?

After lunch and a tour of RMAS he was allowed to ‘fall out’ and we headed back to our hotel.

In front of Old College in ‘suit dress’

The young man chatted for awhile about his experiences and especially an exercise called ‘Long Reach’; which is the toughest challenge of the whole course. 60km in 24 hours with a heavy burgher...; carried out on the week Britain was paralysed by the snow. It meant hiking waist deep in snow so the route had to be shortened…it is now called ‘Short Reach’ or ‘Within Reach’ by the other intakes! There is no quarter given inside the army; not for the sensitive! Finally he fell into a deep sleep in a lounger by the pool; the chance to relax overtook him and he was spark out for several hours. After a good meal and glass of wine it was time for him to return to Sandhurst and the elder son back to London; embraces and a little bit of the stiff upper lip came into play: it will be a day the Old Gits will never forget. My lasting memory will always be of seeing a young officer cadet standing ram rod straight, sporting a confident smile; with the tear jerking last line of the hymn “O Trinity of love and power…” ringing in my ears:

“…Thus evermore shall rise to thee,
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.”

Excursion to Champoluc: A challenge but worth it…

2009-02-24T11:26:00.000-04:00

Our hosts came up for the weekend and we were informed that an early night was needed as we would leave early in the morning; it apparently would be a long day. Champoluc was three valley’s away and about as far at the edge of the piste map as we could go. We arose to bright blue skies but bitterly cold at -14oC in the village and -20oC on the mountain which would feel chillier as wind was forecasted…gulp. We were however equipped with extra clothing such as balaclavas and the party set off well before the madding crowd have surfaced. The problem with Alagna is you have to walk to the lifts and this causes a considerable increase in your body temperature but as soon as you alight from the cable car at the top of the mountain the sweat freezes to your body; not a pleasant experience for us 'softies'.

We first of all skied over the Passe Salati and down into Orsia, just outside Gressoney. Then we climbed again to Colle Bettaforca, where the majestic Cervino, or we would know it as ‘the Matterhorn’, stood guard, sinisterly surrounded in a thin layer of swirling mist. This was when the wind hit us and my eyes watered so intently, despite the goggles, that I could hardly see and one of the contact lens ‘floated’ out; I never did find it. The sight of the Matterhorn made me take off my gloves to extract my camera, much to my host’s surprise who pleaded with me to put them back on quickly. However in those few seconds I realised the camera was still lying on my bed, so I had broken the cardinal sin of every budding photographer; never go out without your camera. Cursing at my forgetfulness, well I am an old git; I just managed to pull on my gloves before the frost bit had eaten into my fingers. Fortunately FOG had brought her mobile phone…which has a better quality lens and pixels than my camera!

Male Old Git (in foreground) attempting yet another black

The skiing down to Frachey was so beautiful I was glad our host had the habit of taking many breaks due to a broken rib. (Yes, he skies with a broken rib and I have to give him over 15 years…humbling). One sight that did warm my heart was our host gliding gracefully, seemingly effortlessly, down the piste, shadowed by his 7 year old grandson. He is a lucky man indeed especially as his daughter, who always came up the rear just in case one of the Old Gits hit a problem, made up the middle generation and is very close to her father. Real Italian life as we know it …..

Our hosts accept the intrusion of an English photographer

We arrive at Champoluc, which is yet another pretty village snuggling into Monterosa’s side. After a well earned coffee we start the trek home, and although the original idea was to have lunch there, the winds were picking up and, as we had already experienced, the weather can change within minutes. Tiredness started to nag at the thighs but we skied on regardless hoping the wind would not stop our lift or it would be a three hour bus ride home! Finally descending towards Alagna we pulled into a mountain restaurant, known by our hosts…cold and hunger was now starting to take the edge off the scenery! We fell into the crowded room, but as our hosts knew them they basically helped the struggling staff and in a few minutes table was laid and Ilaria was organising drinks. As she came back towards the table with a laden tray she slipped on the tiled floor and glasses, carafes and bottles flew everywhere. Fortunately she was tough and it was her pride that had been dented, but not for long for the flooded floor saw many more nearly follow the same fate.

Glad to see Alagna again

Our host had enjoyed the day, that was evident, and we donned our ski wear for another tour of around 250 metres…to another bar; where I had a Grappa, with tiny strawberries. Grappa normally feels like drowning the remains of paint thinners left after you’ve cleaned the brushes, but this…well, we just had to have another! Weaving home on an icy piste stretched the skiing ability to maximum…but MOG made it with a smile on his face. Our hosts then treated us to a cold beer and after much ‘fiddling’ with mobile phones informed us we had skied over 40 kilometres that day…, there are some days you’ll never forget.

Alagna: Pistes, bells and hospitality

2009-02-18T07:41:00.000-04:00

Typical ‘street’ in the old part of Alagna.

Alagna is not for the feint hearted; serious skiing goes on here. Our boys, with their passion for off-piste, would love it. We often saw skiers gliding through virgin snow in remote ‘vales’ almost to themselves… It must be a very special experience, but you need to know what you are doing as the danger of avalanches in this area is very real. So much so they have a helicopter on some days which goes up and drops ‘bombe’ on the vulnerable areas before the skiers arrive.

Snow’s a bit thick in places…; this is actually a three storey house in the summer!

After a day’s skiing we often saw many professional skiers strip off a few layers to sit and relax with a beer. It is then you see how much equipment they have had to carry. The backpacks are stuffed with spare clothing and enough rescue equipment to start a shop; they all wear body armour, helmets and radio transceivers strapped to them. There was MOG moaning about having his pockets full chocolate bars…!

One day our venture over the mountain resulted in a rapid change in the weather. Once again we found ourselves in high winds but this time they were so cold our eyes were streaming; inside the goggles. The trusted “il grande pompon nero”, well we are in Italy now, was not sufficient to prevent my ears suffering from severe frost bite! At the top of the mountains the chill factor can be as much as -20˚C; if you add that to the ‘real’ temperature of -5-10˚C…that’s ruddy cold by anybody’s standards. One problem MOG has had to overcome is the thought of a ‘cioccolata calda’ laced with some other warming substance is now off the menu; it needs every bit of concentration to ski..., ohh for the gentle slopes of Les Gets!

The sound of church bells is synonymous with Italy as cappuccino and spaghetti. Alagna is graced with a fabulous church, the north facing wall being decorated with some impressive murals.

Church & Mural

The priest here is described as a ‘character’ and, from the stories I have been told, sounds more like an English eccentric; but make no mistake this man is truly admired and an important corner stone for the local community. I had the pleasure of meeting him after the service and his eyes revealed everything you needed to know; sincere but full of mischief! Our apartment overlooks his house where he has converted the small courtyard into a volley ball court; with flood lights, and netting to stop the ball from crashing into the surrounding apartments. The other story goes that he happens to support Juventus football club, (whoever they are…! I did refrain from telling them I support Liverpool!), and when the team wins an important match he can’t resist “peeling the bells”. On one such occasion he rang them so loudly, and for so long, people up in the surrounding hills thought something was amiss and made their way to the church post-haste; only to find the priest still smiling with delight at ‘una vittoria di Juve’.

Another small church, almost ‘chapel like’, on the outskirts of the village

To say the people here are hospitable is an understatement. Last Thursday morning we awoke to find a small local market parked outside the apartment. We kitted ourselves up for skiing and stomped out and through the stalls being careful with our skies…well we are not in France anymore. FOG, of course, couldn’t resist examining the stalls and her head was swivelling around like an umpire at Wimbledon when, crash, she didn’t notice some ice and she went one way and her skies went flying into a stall laden with flower arrangements, or they were arranged before the skies hit them. La signora comes round and helps FOG and despite my beloved apologies and offers to try and clear up the mess she was shooed away with smiles and reassuring, “Niente, niente…”

Likewise in the local bars owners and locals alike are genuinely interested in you. I have had a problem in trying to explain OGGY, especially the “old gits” part. They have insisted the strict translation is “vecchi pensionati”. Pensionati! Not on your life, we’re keeping the gits, well something very similar. There is an old Italian adage that says, “Why use one word when two will do”. This is actually a fact. One of our hosts was trained as a translator and she estimates Italian takes three times as long to say something than English. Well here goes OGGY in Italian:

“Il anno di pausa durante il quale ‘vecchi giti’ viaggiano o lavorano”

IADPDIQVGVOL, doesn’t quite have the same ring to it… Plus what’s all this lavorano; isn’t that something to do with work?

The family hospitality has been so immense the Old Gits are sometimes lost for words, but were treated to a special surprise the other night.

View of Alagna from the balcony

We were asked to dinner by the youngest son and his girlfriend. We met in one of our local bars “Mario’s” for a pre-supper drink, apparently essential for the journey to the house, we folded ourselves into a Fiat Punto and proceeded up a tiny track covered in a layer of ice…the snow ploughs don’t reach these parts. The snow was so thick we had two walls of solid snow both sides and all I could remember was our host informing us of the constant danger of avalanches in these parts…, however we made it. A hamlet of four ancient houses crouched in the snow, the scent of log burners mingled with the aromas of cooking.

Raclette was being prepared as we settled into a room that could have been the film set for Hansel & Gretel. We wined and dined the night away in surreal surroundings. I was grateful our host had a responsible job and was flying in a couple of days so he had volunteered to drive us all the way home which meant it was MOG doing most of the ‘wining & dining’. On the journey down the mountain a young deer jumped into the road in front of us; the walls of snow each side preventing her escape. Our host slowed down until an opening appeared and the animal could escape ‘the run’; it may look idyllic here but it a harsh life for man and beast.

La Dolce Vita

2009-02-11T10:31:00.000-04:00

We left Portes du Soleil in another snow storm and the journey back to the motorway took an age. Old Gits, or more accurately, MOG was suffering from a self afflicted headache after an excellent night with our landlords. Firstly I must apologise to Mercedes. A good friend of mine, who is a much better driver than I, told me to disenable the ESP system. I have no idea what this is, or what it does, but I did find the button and the car behaved very differently and responded well to the conditions. We only just made the Mont Blanc tunnel by the skin of our teeth as the motorway was becoming snow bound and at one point being coned off, but €33 later we found ourselves in Italy. The cloud cover was so dense we could not call in to Courmayeur as it would have been pointless and MOG was becoming anxious as he had heard snow was falling at our destination point of Alagna.

We did call into a large ‘supermercato’ well before we ascended into the Monterosa area. The displays of fresh fruit, vegetables, meats and fish sent the Old Gits into a buying frenzy. Why we bought enough food to feed a battalion of troops is still a mystery to the both of us, but we did. Alagna is a good hour’s drive and although the roads were clear the snow was piled up so high that at times it felt as if you were driving on a bob-sleigh run. The family with whom we were staying had for many years bemoaned the lack of snow, well God must have heard the Old Gits were coming and made sure snow was aplenty.

The hospitality on arrival was typical of our hosts and soon we found ourselves with ski passes in hand and settling in for a few days ‘serious’ skiing. The first night we frequented a local bar with our friends and the first people we met came from a village only a few miles away from our home in Cheshire. It is a small world… We had an early night as we knew the next day would test our new found skiing skills, especially as the family who would guide us around had now informed us they had all been skiing since the age of four.

The next day brought bright sunshine and powder snow. We ‘warmed up’ on a couple of long reds and then took the cable car right up to Passa Salati, at nearly 3,000 metres.

FOG and stunning backdrop

FOG and hosts start a day’s skiing

The views were breathtaking and this was a factual experience as well as descriptive as both the Old Gits were totally out of breath. It wasn’t only the altitude but the long walks between pistes and cable cars swathed in layers of thermals... We skied into the next valley of Gressoney, and it must be said here, before the post lunch disaster, that it was not only the most beautiful scenery we had encountered but the best skiing we had ever experienced.

Lunch was taken at a restaurant, which I have to confess I forgot to obtain its name…I was too shattered when we arrived! Any way it is on Col d’Olen, right on top of the mountain and the one right at the edge of a steep drop! The only way to this restaurant is via a tiny and very uneven ‘ski-path’ which to the Old Gits was effectively ‘off-piste’ skiing.

The route to the restaurant

This ‘path’ may not look much but MOG managed to fall over and as the snow was possibly 5-10 metres thick I was up to my waist before I knew it. Fortunately a friend of the family, who is one of the top mountaineers in the world, waited just in case I ‘dug myself into a hole’. The things MOG does for a beer.

The view from the balcony of the restaurant:

Customer escaping ‘il conto’

The lunch was excellent but maybe the grappa to finish with didn’t turn out to be one of MOG’s best ideas. The runs in Alagna are very long (the vertical drop alone is 2,000 metres), and we had to tackle a black to reach the village…there was no choice. Unfortunately everyone else was now heading home, and with the sun warming the snow the run had turned to moguls. It was a steep, narrow black teeming with skiers and the result was predictable…MOG went ‘arse over tit’ on more than one occasion. All the training evaporated as did the confidence. FOG helped by shouting that I shouldn’t have had the beers and Grappa; very useful advice as MOG dragged himself out from yet another snow drift… We did make it home but not without the aide of our hosts who looked a touch bemused at the level of deterioration of MOG’s skiing.

A hot shower revived the damaged pride and as our hosts left for their home we were left to fend for ourselves. Fending is however hardly a word I would use. The apartment is right in the centre of the village and with 5 bedrooms and fully equipped with everything you would ever need, we felt rather pampered. MOG decided that a walk around the village in the remaining evening light would be beneficial. FOG knew the real reason and she was right we fell into the first bar; An Bancher Win Bar…excellent. Try the Miacci, a thin pancake with cheese…too die for. Two things struck us. First was the village itself was not only charming and attractive but the bars and restaurants were of a very high standard and excellent atmosphere. Secondly the prices were half of Les Gets / Morzine and the quality twice as good. I will refrain from any further comment as France has already been given a tough grilling by the Welsh Rugby team…my heart bleeds!

The next day saw more sun and the Old Gits ventured up the mountain. Our first run was the notorious black from the previous afternoon, and to our surprise it had been pisted and we sped down with our confidence increasing with every turn. Then we also skied into the next valley despite the wind starting to increase…only to return to see our run home roped off due to high winds! It transpired that this was to prevent people going down to Alagna and wanting to return as the cable car had now had to cease. Although the run home may not have had the moguls and was all but empty, we had to contend with some biting winds. FOG fell this time while MOG continued obliviously unaware whilst struggling with the blinding conditions caused by the snow being whipped up in the ever increasing winds. FOG’s comments on this MOG's indiscretion were, again, unprintable…

That night we cooked a huge chicken, (we don’t know why we decided to do this, especially as we were in Italy!), and although very tasty, it did leave a scent of roasted chicken through out the apartment; FOG urgently trying to dispel the unfamiliar aroma… The English have arrived!

Carving & Goodbye to France, for now…

2009-02-06T09:47:00.000-04:00

If I had been asked if I could carve 8 weeks ago I would have assumed they were talking about the Sunday roast. On our last day skiing I finally had, as our ski instructor would call it, a light-bulb moment. Carving on skis necessitates the body to bend sideways like a banana; not easy for a stiff old git. Yesterday the body creaked and the banana shape happened but then I put my arms out and looked like a 5 year old pretending to be a plane. To skiers of note they would be rolling on the floor slapping their thighs in hysterics, but finally I felt the edges of the skis carve through the snow at a rather alarming speed but, and this is the crux, I had total control. It only took 20 lessons and 2 months of constant skiing: Female Old Git (FOG) on the other hand had been doing this weeks ago…; I’ll refrain from further comment.

It wasn’t just Male Old Git (MOG) that was full of hot air in the Alps!

We come to the end of our stay at Les Gets / Morzine and there is a tinge of regret at leaving as it has been exactly the type of area that suits intermediates like us.

Good memories of the boys' visit, as seen during a quiet après ski...

Despite the sibling rivalry they're good friends…!

The food bill dropped remarked after they left...

There are the lively bars for the siblings and ‘oldie’ bars but a thoroughly enjoyable experience all round, except of course the weak £, but I can’t blame the French for this… well not yet anyway, I’ll wait until I’ve crossed the border. I suppose having the best snow conditions and gorgeous weather in living memory helped!

FOG reflecting on the stay with a glass of something.

We were blessed with the most stunning views:

Luckily we move out of France just before the Six Nations Rugby tournament starts and, with England’s recent performances, I think we stand little chance against any of the Celtic countries let alone France. However let’s hope the new guns like young Ben Foden will change England’s fortunes…; I’ve had to mention that as we know his parents! We move into Italy on the day they make a visit to Twickenham; I just hope I am not tempting providence, but we should win this one…; come on Foden!

Fortunately the Old Gits didn’t need one of these which is surprising but am I tempting providence again?

We are staying in Alagna in the Monterosa ski area and I had better state now I have a very soft spot for Italy. I suppose when you work for the Italians for over 12 years you just can’t help but love the country. Is it the culture, fashion, food, wine, weather or the language that I find so appealing…, I suspect it is everything rolled into one.

Future Blogs will become a little more difficult so we will endeavour to post one at least once a week and then we may have to edit them and add photographs when we have a proper internet connection…

Old Gits have moved on… spot the MOG’s bent pole, caused by one of the many 'wipe-outs'!

For more details visit:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Getting out and about...

2009-02-05T04:46:00.000-04:00

During our stay in Essert Romand we have been visiting other ski areas. In hindsight we possibly should have visited more but the Portes du Soleil area is so suited to us. At our level of skiing, especially as we have had excellent snow, it almost felt as if we had ‘lost’ a day when we weren’t on the slopes.

Our first major excursion was to Chamonix. Nestling under the largest mountain in Europe, the village is large and purpose built, but although the sight of Mont Blanc is truly ‘awesome’, it leaves the town in a dark shadow. We decided to head for the south facing slopes and catch some sun so we headed for the Planprez cable car, recommended in the guide book. It was well signposted until we hit the centre of town but then, as often seems to happen in France, it seemed to disappear. We ended up well outside the town and stumbled onto the Flegere cable car which the guide book had described as “inadequate”, but Male Old GIT (MOG) didn’t care for it was the spitting image of the cable car used in ‘Where eagles dare’, and he had to be on it. We then found out that if we had asked for a ticket when we had bought our seasonaire passes we could have a day pass for €1…as it was we had to pay €66 for an afternoon! Robbing b*****ds.

We scrambled into the cable car with Female Old Git (FOG) looking bemused as I kept humming the theme tune to this famous film and couldn’t help muttering, in my best Richard Burton voice; “Danny Boy to Broadsword, do you read me, over.” FOG’s look turned more to concern…maybe the altitude had started to affect the old buzzard.
The slopes were bathed in sun but the pistes were very scratchy and to our dismay this wasn’t ice but stones and rocks peeping through the snow.

FOG with Mont Blanc behind.

We persevered but finally we succumbed to using the piste map where we discovered we could move onto another ski area via a cable car (Liason), which ran horizontally across the mountain. This meant attempting a very nasty looking red, steep and narrow, but as our confidence was high we bravely skied forth. The first half of the piste really challenged us but then it opened out into a wide valley with a breathtaking view of Mont Blanc and Chamonix. Pulling over to absorb the ‘buona vista’ we suddenly realised we were the only people on this vast piste…the silence was almost deafening! Our confidence started to waver as we asked ourselves why we were the only people here; surely there must be a reason. To our relief a small party of youngsters suddenly spilled over the top ridge; it has been the only time I have welcomed the sight of snowboarders!

MOG with the steep ‘red’ behind him!

We arrived at where the Liason Cable Car should have been only to be greeted by two concrete plinths and a pile of rusting gantry metal work. Gulp; the only way back was down the mountain on what was described as a challenging black for experts…fortunately with the aide of reading glasses, (it’s not that we need them it is the very small print…honestly!), we did manage to find a chair lift not too far away.

On the last run back down to the cable car over confidence was evident and resulted in skiing at too fast a speed; well above MOG’s ability. He hit an unseen path and MOG, his skis and terra firma were not as one; he was truly airborne. Just over the lip were several yellow and black hazard poles warning skiers about bare rocks below. MOG landed on the hazard fair and square, sending skis, poles and most anything else that was loose in all directions. MOG continued his journey down the piste, on his back and head first, for over 100 metres. FOG, who had completely missed the spectacle of skiing and aerobatics, stood on the piste muttering as to where the old git had gone. Then she spied his poles and saw the familiar figure, and of course the pom pom noir, in the distance below her, staggering to his feet tottering like a drunk late on a Friday night. A Dutchman, who was still supporting a broad smile, brought over one ski and an 8 year old girl, who couldn’t control her giggles, found the other. We slowly descended to the cable car where MOG still attempted more Richard Burton impersonations. We returned home, after a well earned drink in the quiet and almost deserted village of Les Houches, 3 kilometres from Chamonix.

Megeve was an entirely different prospect. It had a ring of Les Gets about it with a similar open aspect, but this is a place for the very wealthy, and I mean very wealthy. Struggling once again to find the original cable car we were looking for in the centre of town, we followed a ski bus and ended up at Mont D’Arbois cable car, which was quite a way up the mountain. It did however allow us, or more accurately, allow FOG to nosy at the exquisite chalets, standing proudly for all to see. One however was owned by someone who valued their privacy and actually had its own cable car to the chalet. Now that is how to keep ahead of the Jones! I can hear it now over the après-ski; “Oh, you have a chalet here do you. How do you find the maintenance of the cable car? What, you don’t have your own cable car…oh, how strange…”
Utilising our free ski passes, we had now obtained the correct tickets; we skied all afternoon for next to nothing. The slopes weren’t challenging but very enjoyable and we skied both Mont d’Arbois and Mont Joux areas in style with not so much of a skid from MOG.

FOG on the Megeve slopes; once again stunning views.

Descending into this quaint and charming town for our après ski, we found horse and traps for the tourists, and several streets stuffed with shops you would be more likely to encounter in the centre of Milan or Paris. We found a crêperie, ‘hidden’ down a small alleyway in the centre of town and despite the excellent service paid over £20 for two beers and crepes; then to top it all the waiter made an error with the change…, he’s not getting a mention on the ‘Facts-Old Gits Gap Year’ Blog!

For more details visit:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

Facts-Old Gits Gap Year

2009-02-01T12:37:00.000-04:00

Just a very quick information posting.

A 'sister' Blog has now been set up for more detail and information on the Old Gits Gap Year.

Visit:

http://www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com/

The facts are laid out and MOG has refrained from his usual banter!

The 'sexy' sport of skiing

2009-01-28T06:07:00.000-04:00

Skiing has a reputation for being a ‘sexy’ sport and where all the beautiful people meet. I agree with this statement, certainly with regard to Female Old Git (FOG) as the picture shows she could be a princess from the Romanov dynasty:

Male Old Git (MOG) may not, however, be classified in quite the same bracket. First there is the process of donning the layers of ski gear. A glance at the mirror this morning in my full length ‘long john’ thermals, made me ponder why my grandfather and old man Steptoe had never been sex icons… There is then the morning visit to the bathroom to insert the dreaded contact lenses. Why I have to gape at the mirror with my mouth wide open is a mystery…
Then there is the most excruciating event of the day… pushing your feet into ski boots that plainly have shrunk in the night. The person who invents a really comfortable boot will be wealthy; that is a guarantee. Everyone who has just undertaken the task then proceeds to walk around as if performing in an audition for next Frankenstein movie.

Finally there are the gloves, the now infamous pom-pom, neck warmer, goggles, walkie-talkie, camera, sandwiches, chocolate bar, bottle of water, handkerchiefs, suntan lotion, keys, piste maps and wallet, all stuffed in the pockets of my already over sized jacket; it makes Michelin man look positively athletic. Meanwhile FOG looks rather peeved as she has to fit her lipstick into her figure hugging attire.

You enter the slopes to see an array of skiing styles. There is the “mincing” French style, which looks graceful but actually is technically out of date. There are carvers, racers, ploughers and then the two year olds, who only learnt how to walk last week, passing you at 200 kph almost lying on their backs…a cardinal sin for any adult. I haven’t mentioned the MOG style.

Despite the superb attempts by our excellent ski instructor, he’s done a wonderful job with FOG and everyone else, (and actually me: I’m only joking).

Graham Simpson of Easy2Ride looking relaxed on the slopes...

I start at the top of the slope looking reasonably competent. However gravity takes over and the 16 stone frame plunges down the hillside where only a desperate parallel stop can prevent an accident: this does tend to leave rather large ridges of snow scattered all the way down the nicely pisted slopes. (I’m still blaming the snow boarders for these abnormalities!) The chocolat chaud respites are actually a reason for the females to take a nature break, but the men soldier on in a manly fashion. More attempts at skiing ensue with FOG, and most passers-by, giving me advice on how to stop wrecking the pistes. Then the blessed relief of lunchtime.
You enter the restaurant to find hundreds of people waiting for a table and staff running around looking startled and bemused muttering, “Why does it always get so busy every lunchtime?” After half an hour you are shown to a table so crammed into a corner that Twiggy in a bikini couldn’t squeeze into, never mind the Alps’ version of Billy Bunter and his coat... You are now sweating profusely and after two well deserved pints of beer realise you can not hold nature back any longer. All the toilets are down long flights of steps with tiles and metal edges…excellent conditions for a wet, smooth ski boot to grip to! They of course only have one hand rail, which always seems to be on the wrong side of the stairs, but I now know why there are so many injuries on the mountains…it’s not being challenged by near vertical black moguls, but people just simply going for a ‘leak’. Nearly all restaurants have the men’s urinal in the corridor where the ladies are waiting for their cubical. You then have to fight through five layers of clothing to…well, all I am prepared to say on this subject is; it is very cold outside. You then stomp up the stairs feeling and looking like Herman Munster only to be greeted with the ‘l’addition’: I now know how Gordon Brown will feel when he goes to the IMF cap in hand.
The afternoon skiing always seems better as the pistes are empty; anyone with any sense is still wedged back in the restaurant. The last run of the day is down to the village where the après-ski is the highlight of this sport. You take off your skies and although the Old Gits would much prefer to go and change first; this is simply not done. You must shoulder the skis and walk in the middle of the road; ensuring traffic comes to a standstill and attempt to clout at least three people on the back of the head before you clomp, as nosily as you can, into the bar. Once again all the best bars are buried deep under ground and the potentially lethal stairs have to be encountered once more. The bars have one major advantage; they are so packed if you fall over, or faint from the heat, you’ll never hit the floor. Finally rubbing shoulders with the beautiful people has to end and MOG turns and, grabbing his beloved, stomps heavily and painfully back to the chalet.
The moans and sighs of relief of Old Gits unbuckling their boots is more akin to a blue movie, and, as usual FOG grabs the first bath: MOG sits and fidgets patiently concerned by the loud creaking noise from his joints. Finally she surfaces and the layers of MOG’s thermals and undies are quickly discarded on to bedroom floor as he plunges effortlessly into the soapy paradise. I didn’t see FOG’s disdainful look at the steaming pile of garments on the bedroom floor but I did hear her mutter something totally unprintable. As I said, ‘Skiing is a really sexy sport…’

For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

A Typical OGGY day

2009-01-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

Since our arrival here over 5 weeks ago the old gits haven’t taken that many days off skiing and the tendons, ligaments and muscles are now creaking with the strain. (I am not expecting any sympathy!). We have also been blessed with some fabulous weather and stunning views.
We had decided to take a rest day but then our friend, who owns a chalet nearby, asked if we would like to join her in exploring a new ski area a few miles away. In usual OGGY style we had collected her in a matter of minutes and headed for the Grande Terche, St-Jean d’Aulps. It was a little disappointing with a long and very uncomfortable button lift and quite stony pistes. Our friend would normally have sought out a good restaurant but she hadn’t reckoned with the budget obsessed Old Gits… we ended up perched on a deck chair munching very cold and squashed sandwiches. Lunch was over in a blink of an eye and we hit the slopes again before finally retiring to a welcoming bar at the bottom of the mountain for a chocolat chaud. It shows how used you become to the costs out here when FOG (Female Old Git) comments on how reasonably priced the hot chocolate was... €4.50 for a small cup!
A benevolent mood hit MOG and I volunteered to take our friend to the garage to collect her car, also to undertake the food shopping and wash my own vehicle; it was so caked in salt the paintwork hadn’t been visible in weeks. Collecting our friend we found the garage on the side of the busiest road in the area, naturally, there wasn’t anywhere to pull in or park: that would have meant a sense of customer service. I finally managed to edge into a large doorway and my passenger hurried off to see if her car was ready. The large doors were suddenly flung open and I was faced with four Frenchmen pushing a car towards me. Reversing rapidly back into the main road, all hell broke loose. The road was now completely blocked with my car and our four Frenchmen with their unmanned vehicle careering down the road. The traffic was virtually backing all the way to Paris by this time and I did manage to edge over a little, accompanied by a multitude of horns; I could just about understand what the other drivers thought of me. Well, they do say the best way to learn a language is to live in the country. Her car, of course, wasn’t ready so we returned to the chalet and turning into her road (it was now dark) was greeted by the sight of an old Renault hurtling towards me with no lights on. A rapid acceleration meant I just avoided the oncoming car, only to collide with another coming up from the side road, also with no lights on: it must be a French way of saving energy. My friend, whose French is infinitely better than mine, jumped out and took the hapless driver to task. We agreed on knock for knock and he limped into the road, still with no lights, his rear bumper dragging along behind him. My German tank had only had a few layers of salt scrapped off. I dropped off my ashen faced friend, who I suspect headed straight to the drinks cabinet…
I returned to the supermarket and now, adept at shopping, had scooted round in no time at all and stood in the ever present check out queue. Suddenly I realised, as I started to empty the goods onto the conveyor belt, I must have inadvertently swapped trolleys half way round. Reversing out of the queue I caused yet more chaos and spied a very angry looking lady in the distance checking every trolley that passed her. Keeping well out of her way I discovered my trolley and, hauling both of them into a quiet alleyway, exchanged the goods just in time as the irate woman rounded the corner. I ambled off, nonchalantly studying the shelves, only to realise I was in the female hygiene section…
My final chore was to wash the car. I entered the booth and clambered out and slid several yards away. A huge slab of ice covered the entire area, which was made more treacherous by a layer of soapy water. Slipping over to the high pressure washer I pushed in my €2 coin, whereupon the ‘gun’ activated itself (there was no trigger to operate it) and grabbing the cleaner like a rifle, advanced towards the car only for the pressure to force me backwards and out of the booth… All attempts to clean the car failed miserably…
Frustrated, and now a touch angry, I did resist the urge to stop at the local bar but righteously made my way home. As I entered, laden with shopping, I was greeted by the sight of FOG trying to iron with the ‘family heirloom’. My mother had bequeathed her travel iron to us, which was about the size of a credit card and well over forty years old. A pang of guilt and concern stung me. When we had rented out our home everything electrical had been tested and checked to unbelievable lengths.
There was my nearest and dearest trying to iron my shirts with an old machine that I wasn’t sure was even earthed. I squeezed passed her, tripped on the flex and the iron did find earth but, unfortunately, via the FOG’s foot.

My benevolence wearing thin and dumping the bags made straight for the local bar, but it’s not quite the same as the Dysart…!

Now let’s discuss, the French… vive la difference

2009-01-18T06:58:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I said I wasn’t going to write about the French, but I can’t resist the urge; it’s just too a perfect subject to leave untouched.

It may be better to focus on a few subjects (10 to be precise) between the old rivals:

1) Bread: France takes a very early lead 1-0.
Male Old Git (MOG) still rises early and takes himself off to the local patisserie just to stand there inhaling the wonderful aroma of ‘real’ bread… however don’t tell the Female Old Git (FOG) that the reason he only returns with one loaf is one has already been consumed… that’s why I don’t eat breakfast… (She thinks I’m dieting…!)

2) Cheese: France looking dominant and score again 2-0.
Sorry guys (especially to my cheese producing friends from Cheshire) they have the upper hand. Their pre-packed section would knock the socks off (pardon the analogy) most of our cheeses. There are, however, 2 exceptions: Stilton and, of course, Appleby’s Cheshire…

3) Roads: France take a huge 3-0 lead… Their roads are superb, despite the fact they are highway robbing b******s! (€60 from Calais to Les Gets, an equivalent of £600 road tax p.a., but hey you travel well).

4) Service: A convincing return to form for England, 3-1. The spotty, rude check-out lad in W H Smith (who has just graduated from Accrington University, reading Enid Blyton) could show the French a thing or two on service.
Even the snow melts slowly here…

5) Meat: A close call but England claw backs another goal, 3-2. The main reason for England’s goal is the Sirloin Joint and of course a leg of Spring Lamb. Some of the stuff they offer is… well positively…AGH!

6) Press & Media: Goal disallowed. Both nations are fixed on the principal that bad news sells newspapers and TV time. A Western disease… A business opportunity for one of our two UK Media moguls to report actual facts and not just the editor’s morbid view on the world.

7) Drivers: England scores an easy equaliser, 3-3. All the pensioners in my nearest town must have come out here to teach the French to drive. No concept of where they are, how to operate the car and, of course, do not show any respect to any other road users on foot or in a vehicle.

8) Cars: Beckham picks up the ball outside the French penalty area, turns and takes it all the way to the England goal and shoots into his own net. An incredible and unbelievable own goal. It is equivalent as our own successive governments destroying our manufacturing base, we don’t produce any cars, or for that matter precious little else, and then relying on the greedy City who finally showed their true colours…opps politics again. France takes the lead 4-3.

9) Hospitality: England bounce back strongly, 4-4. I have visited a lot of European countries: The Dutch, Germans and Italians, to name just a few, receive us with a smile and a touch of friendship. Driving in France with British number plates is a nightmare: I am not alone in this comment. When you finally break the ice the French are a very gracious and friendly people, but my heavens you really have to work at it. Walk into any bar around here frequented by the locals and you know how the Yorkshire Ripper would have felt if he had ever been released.

10) Quality of Life: Hell and damnation… France score a dramatic winner in the dying seconds…, let’s put it this way, buy a place in Provence and be one and half hours away from both the Med and the Alps with a ruck of French bread, French cheese and , oh I forgot, not bad French wine either… (I’m not totally biased…I didn’t put queuing, or real beer on the list!).

MOG relaxing French Alpine style…

For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

Je suis un grand pom pom noir

2009-01-14T09:33:00.000-04:00

Yes, its official…, I have been called a large black pom pom, by a Frenchman, not in malice, in fact quite the reverse. Sliding down the piste clutching perilously onto the belief that I have any sort of control, out from the woods appears one of the mountain rescue team pulling a stretcher-sledge. A brief glance confirmed the sledge was empty and nodding at him I enquired if I could ‘cadge a lift!’ The man had one of those fabulously gnarled weather beaten faces that ooze with character: unlike mine where after a day’s skiing I can stop the traffic when back in town (no it has absolutely nothing to do with the occasional beer on the slopes; I just have a ruddy complexion).

His broad smile made his teeth gleam and that was when he nodded back to me acknowledging my headwear. I know he skied off at break-neck speed thinking that only an Englishman would wear such an apparition… well he’s wrong. What our mountain friend failed to realise was “grand pom pom noir” is a navigational beacon. Female old git has skied this area for nearly 5 weeks plus a further 2 weeks last year. She must have missed the queue for the navigation gene or, more likely; she grabbed a pair of jeans instead. There is however one exception and that is when her intuition tells her that a toilet is in the vicinity; she can be absolutely on the mark then… I once took off the said head garment, when it was hot, and she sailed right past me anxiously scanning the piste below for her “grand pom pom noir” like a lookout desperately searching for a lighthouse in a Force 10. So I may look like a complete jerk but it is all for a good cause…

And then there were two…

2009-01-12T16:58:00.000-04:00

The apartment seems so quiet. The siblings and their friends have gone, while our friends, who are "potential old gits", left after a long weekend’s of great skiing. Bright blue skies and near perfect snow was only marred, well on Saturday anyway, by hordes of French day trippers…anybody would think they own the place. The newly arrived “potential old gits” did enjoy the empty pistes on Thursday and Friday and we found a quiet restaurant hidden away on a piste that had been recommended. Outside, ‘poulets’ were being spit-roasted and the good intentions of a hard day’s skiing evaporated as our mouths watered at the sizzling sight roast chicken; the aroma was heavenly. A glass of wine and the sun beating down on us meant all urgency had left us, only to be told when we asked for ‘l'addition’ we had to ski ‘off-piste’ to the nearest chair lift. No wonder the place was quiet! Actually the wine had once again bolstered our resolve and the short run through the trees had us wondering what all the fuss was about in “off-piste” skiing…, piece of cake. ( I have a feeling I am going to regret this remark).
It is important to listen to locals and glean their knowledge. “Saturday and Sunday are the best days to ski,” we were told; well I have never skied with so many people last Saturday. We made the mistake of visiting Avoriaz and it was shoulder to shoulder skiing in quite narrow and lumpy pistes. In the areas where pistes merged it was a life threatening task to cross them to your chair lift, actually it’s wasn't too bad, a bit like crossing the road here… The après-ski was a real necessity that evening.
On Sunday we visited the small self contained ski area near Les Gets called Mont Chery. It turned out to be a good move as it was relatively quiet while we could see Morzine and Les Gets were absolutely packed. Later we drove our friends back to the airport via Lac Leman and a small French equivalent of Portmeirion called Yvoire. If we thought drinks on the mountains were expensive then this place made them look positively economic. However it was the most charming walled ‘fort’ style village with a view straight to Geneva itself. I don’t think property prices are dropping here. Driving back to our empty apartment, we encountered 20-30 kilometres (notice I am going native) of traffic; fortunately coming the other way. How the two small towns of Morzine & Les Gets could take all these visitors is a mystery.
I was going to write a little blurb on my experience with the French, and before you think it would be typical English tirade at, you would be wrong. I have found one positive aspect to living in France, the bread: do they know how to cook bread… However I won’t follow in Price Harry’s footsteps and allow a bit of friendly banter be used against me. (Oops a little political…sorry).
After four weeks of tireless but very enjoyable “holiday”, the task in hand to seek out and find places“interesting and good value” begins in earnest. Several trips are being planned and in order not to clutter up this BLOG I will set up a sister site, linked of course, with more details and information on the places we have visited; watch this space…

New Year’s Resolutions and costs of skiing…

2009-01-05T11:13:00.000-04:00

The youngest of the siblings has left but two friends of the oldest one have replaced him. Provisions are continuing to be demolished at an alarming rate…time to bring out the low loader and forklift truck again. New Year’s Eve started with an attempt at skiing but the snow and thick cloud made it very slow progress and we refrained from any visits to the mountain hostelries as a long night lay ahead. We were sitting on a balcony over looking Morzine and Avoriaz, watching the firework displays, when 2009 arrived, well it did in France, actually it was still 11.00 pm in the real world..., haven’t they heard of Greenwich Mean Time? Our ever tolerant friends had a full chalet and the evening had whiled away with excellent wine and food. Eventually as the cold bit into us we wandered back into the warm chalet, the log burner ensuring that global warming continued…

As with every New Year we discussed our resolutions, plans, hopes and fears for 2009. (This year the fear element seemed higher than norm). The usual resolutions were evident: must lose some weight, sort out the garden, try and get fit plus my annual joke: “I’m not drinking any more…, I’m not drinking any less…, but I’m not drinking anymore.” Then the two old gits looked at each other; we are homeless, jobless and if the £ continues to drop, penniless! (I should say centless but it is too close to senseless for my liking). So we didn’t make any resolutions except we will endeavour to undertake our travels to find interesting places which are good value; come what may and blow the consequences. {If my bank manager happens to be reading this…I’m only joking}.

This brings me onto the sport of skiing. Without doubt, for an old git anyway, it is one of the finest past times that one could enjoy. Strangely enough I’m not talking about the après ski but the sport itself. If you ignore the snow boarders, (one day they will be banned…it’s only a matter of time!), the whole experience is exhilarating, especially queuing with the French for the lifts. The views are quite frankly unbelievable and the bowl of soup, (when it eventually arrives), tastes about the best thing that has ever passed your lips; mind you it should do at the price you’ve probably had to pay for it. The old gits acknowledge it is an expensive past time but it is still excellent value for the money and that is the issue. It can however be done on a reasonably tight budget. You can find yourself sliding into a hot bath with the ice clinking in your Gin & Tonic. The sound of creaking joints are interrupted by a long moan of utter satisfaction as the bubbles surround your neck and the glass rim caresses your lips as your favourite music soothes your troubled brow. Yes, you can go down to the bars and spend €5 on a small beer and be jostled for your troubles, but old gits have found a better solution. Go self catering and you can buy all your food and drink for the entire evening for the equivalent of a round of drinks in the village centre. Oh my Lord, I really have become a very, very old git…

For more facts and information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

The surprises kids spring on you...

2008-12-30T12:27:00.001-04:00

Sitting in a deep snow trench in -10oC with bright sunlight that made the sky so ‘azzuro’ blue it was breathtaking; the old gits were actually as warm as recently roasted chestnuts soaking in a magical moment. The two boys, (actually they are in their mid-20s and now men; but it is difficult to appreciate that being an old git!), had behaved a touch strange in the morning with a lot of ‘furtive’ rummaging taking place behind our backs. As usual old gits think something is wrong and try and to stick their noses in places they shouldn’t, resulting in frustration from the young bucks.
A shovel placed along with the skis was a touch hard to disguise so we knew something serious was up! We were then ordered to go off and ski which we duly did, although as the New Year week had started and our once quiet pistes looked, from the mountain top, as if several ant nests had been disturbed. The old gits had forgotten what poor skiers they had once been and we mumbled under our breath as novices would suddenly turn right in front of you. If only they knew how much danger they were in as male old git thundered down upon them; parallel stops were still a relative novelty and far from perfected.

My newly acquired French mobile phone rings (thereby another tale but not now) and we are instructed to a rendezvous point. We eventually reach the boys after standing in queues for what felt like hours and for a few hundred yards we skied to the edge of a busy piste. Unclipping skies we are escorted to a dining table, in a quiet clearing among trees, made from a huge snow drift; a bottle of Dom Perignon (The gift to the eldest for passing his final exams) cools smugly in the snow.

Laid out were four sandwiches, well to be truthful they looked more like ‘Dockers’ butties’, but nobody was complaining. We sat in relative quiet sipping the champagne, absorbed by the situation and surroundings: all too soon the champagne had slipped down quickly and we all agreed we should have bought another!

One lasting memory is younger sibling skiing down at full pelt with a shovel over his shoulder; you should have seen the looks!

Well done lads you knocked the socks off us with that one…

What a time for a weak £...

2008-12-28T08:02:00.000-04:00

I’m going to start on a serious note. If you are thinking of coming to enjoy the excellent snow out here in the Alps, bring plenty of cash…, namely Euros. It is not just the weak £ but prices here have rocketed since last year. I have seen even locals sharing dishes on the slopes and this has compounded the situation where restaurateurs are trying every trick in the trade to up the bill. I went to the local bar last night for a quite drink with my son and it nearly cost me an arm and a leg. Some friends popped in and the next thing we were in quite large rounds but of course this is only settled at the end and it is a licence to rip the customer off. So from now on I’m doing it the English way and buying one round at a time!
Anyway enough of the old git whinging for the weather here is sunny and cold; very cold -9oC. However it is that dry mountain cold and for some reason does not seem to affect you as much. It may of course be something to do with the regular “vin chaud” en route… The views are unbelievable and many days you can see the cloud in the valley below looking like a gigantic cotton wool lake from a mystical tale.

The boys are still with us and old female git is in her element where the banter and laughter rarely stops, except first thing in the morning. Old gits bedtime is 5 hours early than the youngsters and we awake bright eyed and bushy tailed only to hear mutterings from the other bedroom; something to do with keeping the volume down. It is amazing how much noise you can make in a small kitchen.
Christmas day was quite frankly unbelievable. We had planned to have dinner at a friend’s chalet with all of us sharing the workload. But up on the slopes of Mont Chery with sun and brilliant white snow we all agreed to eat later and enjoy the day. The long day skiing, far too much wine and food meant it was the earliest retirement ever on Christmas day as nobody, including the youngsters, could keep their eyes open any longer. However it didn’t prevent a few rounds of “Balderdash”. This game needs the ability to lie and bullsh*t and the standard despite the fatigue was remarkable…

The boys arrive...

2008-12-23T17:20:00.001-04:00

The relative peace has been shattered. The old gits took a day off skiing with the intention of stocking up with food and booze. The result was a full scale fight with the French (& a lot of English) in the supermarket. Trolleys were used to batter down French resistance as we endeavoured to cross off products from the shopping list that stretched over two full pages of A4. Sorties by male old git to the fresh bread counter and, of course, the wine cellar managed to reduce the time a little, so by mid-afternoon we had the apartment heaving with goodies. This normally would have kept us going until we were due to leave in 6 weeks, but sadly, we knew that when they arrived it would only last 4 days at most.

Total confusion with flight times and the taxi meant younger sibling arriving several hours late. As he hadn’t eaten all day the stock pile had reduced to 3 days in a matter of minutes. However this was countered subsequently by a very successful day skiing with the youngster and we came home exhausted at trying to pace with him, although he wasn’t tired…he was hungry. 2 days of supplies left.

The eldest son also had confusion with the taxi and he didn’t arrive until the early hours; also very hungry. As he had a friend in tow who needed to kip down for the night some light refreshments were called for… We are now on bread and water rations for breakfast.
Old male git made a desperate dash to the supermarket and this time took the precaution of hiring a 40 foot low loader and fork lift truck to stock up. By the time I had returned the boy’s neat and tidy bedroom had looked like the aftermath of the first day of the January sales at Harrods; but this wasn’t all, they had started to spread throughout the apartment. However it is nice to see they still believe in Father Christmas and the magic of the festive time. Well, maybe not Farther Christmas and maybe not the festive season, but magic, yes. They leave used cups, plates, glasses all over the place knowing that the magical Mary Poppins will arrive and order dirty crockery to the sink, wash themselves and jump neatly back on the shelf…bless them.
Actually the sarcasm is not founded, for on the whole the family actually, by some miracle, does all pull together. That day after the supplies had been replenished we skied as a family and ended up with friends for a late lunch. It must have been altitude sickness that possessed us afterwards to head off to one of the hardest reds in the area. It had absolutely nothing to do with three bottles of Rose and a ruck of beer…
Strangely we felt quite gung-ho and enjoyed ourselves so much we only just made it back to the bottom of the mountain just before the lifts and pistes closed. Naturally after having such a wonderful day and with the family together, plus the added bonus of good friends, it meant that to miss the après ski would have been rude. Budget? What budget…?

Snow, more snow and chains

2008-12-18T05:29:00.000-04:00

We spoke too soon. After 3 days of fabulous skiing we thought nothing could go wrong. The skiing was turning out to be the best we had ever done and the pregnant ducks were starting to look a touch more classy and adventurous. All good things come to an end and yesterday our luck ran out. Heavy snow over night, continuing during the morning, had made the roads virtually impassable. So we dug the car out, loaded up and ignored the conditions, or male old git did. Venturing off to the slopes we had to encounter a particularly steep and windy road.
“The car will never make it without the chains on,” nagged the female old git.
“Rubbish, its all down to technique…”
Several minutes later we were attempting to reverse the Mercedes saloon down the hill with traffic sliding all around us, the air blue with curses. “Good job I can’t speak French,” muttered the driver, as tension mounted in the car.
We turned round and headed down the hill towards the main road.
“I really think you should pull into the Chalet to put the chains on…” continued the nagging
“It’ll be alright,” as we slid past our chalet and onto the first serious bend.
An hour and a half later with the car straddled across the road the chains refused to fit round the tyre. (Even a person who knew chains gave up!)
By this time the snow ploughs had started to make some progress in clearing the snow and slush and every time they past all I heard was angry Gallic abuse. Friendly bunch really. I then inched my way down to the main road and back to the chalet where the car stands in a good foot of snow and as useful as a chocolate poker. (We had left our perfectly good Freelander back at home…bloody German cars!)
The landlord turned up as the white knight and gave us a lift to the slopes. Snow was falling and cloud had now enveloped the mountain; there weren’t many people about on the slopes, but we continued on our way to the top, regardless!
Bent double against the wind and our newly acquired goggles misting up we ventured, virtually blind, down the slopes. Within minutes the two white figures sat shivering alone on a chair lift still wondering where everyone had gone. At the top we saw virgin snow: wow, wouldn’t it be fun to ski in that! Undaunted by flat light and thick mist we continued our quest to ski, no matter what. Several skiers did pass us but clearly very experienced…pregnant duck territory had returned. Parallel turns seemed almost impossible as the skies buried themselves into the thick snow.
Eventually two hours later we realised we were a little out of our depth but the long ski back to the village did see some improvement and spirits rose.
‘Let’s try it again,’ cried the gleeful male, happy not to have broken anything. The answer was a withering glance and ‘chocolat chaud’ won the day…

For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

The Trip South

2008-12-17T12:20:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the delay in posting but difficulty in loading up the web, so here goes:
Well the car did turn out to be the Tardis and with the Old gits finally finishing the packing & clearing, we tested the car suspension by driving down to the local pub; a mile away. Relief mingled with farewells, and far too much beer and wine was consumed, certainly as we had a five o’clock start. As usual I had to be at the Euro Tunnel several hours earlier than needed, (a habit that incenses my family), but it all turned out well as we were boarded on the earlier train. This was fortunate as our first night was in Epernay a lot further away than I had thought.
Our Sat Nav managed to find this small old chateau, a stones throw from Epernay’s Avenue De Champagne, still owned by Mr Chandon. In typical OGGY (Old Gits Gap Year) style we threw the bags into the room and headed into the old town. The continuing gloomy economic news at home meant we needed to deaden the pain so we found a champagne bar. We were of course just tasting the wine so we could buy a bottle or two, but with little food all day the result of a few sampling glasses must have looked quite amusing. Male old git knocked over a glass cutting himself and female couldn’t remember which ones we had tasted so we had to start again. Eventually we fell into the crisp night air which compounded our condition and we entered the nearest restaurant to try and soak up some of the wine…
The next morn we were walking down the Avenue de Champagne when we received a call from our eldest son to announce he had passed his final exam and was now qualified. We took the call standing out the Moet & Chandon Champagne House and we just had to go in and buy him a present…bang went the budget for the day, well actually nearly a ruddy week.
A pleasant three hour drive to Beaune saw a remarkably similar story as the previous night, only the colour of the wine was darker…
The weather was still very cold and the next day we made our way to Essert Romand, near Les Gets. Once again bags were hurriedly thrown into our apartment and we changed into ski wear and onto the slopes to meet our ski instructor. Not many slopes were open at this time of year and the incredible fall of snow had caught everyone by surprise, I had been lucky not to have used the infernal snow chains; but only just. One can never tire of an Alpine view; it really was a chocolate box scene. As you skied down a slope and with bright blue skies, white mountain peaks and wooden chalets clinging to the mountain sides, immersed in a shroud of white it took your breath away. You could hear the silence except when a group of noisy snow boarders descended past you to promptly sit in the middle of the piste, blocking your way.
Our instructor had expected a little better from us since we had last met, but we skied like tired pregnant ducks. He gritted his teeth as I announced I would hope to be carving down black runs after two lessons. He was too polite to comment. We returned to the chalet to unpack, via a supermarket and blew another week’s budget on food and drink, only to be faced with a power cut. Fortunately our landlord fixed the problem and the task of unpacking made the old gits mutter and curse as tiredness took over.
The next morning was sunny and crisp cold another ski lesson beckoned; we were here at last…

For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

The hour approacheth...

2008-12-10T13:09:00.000-04:00

The Deadline express train is now rumbling down the tracks towards us and there is nowhere to hide! Walking has ceased and we are constantly on the canter but there is a very small light at the end of the tunnel…
My last job is to pack the car. The stack of cases and half the contents of the house that my wife has left by the door is enormous. “Did you know we are taking our car and not a long wheel base transit van?” came a begrudging moan from male old git struggling with kitchen sink, dining table, etc. “Oh stop your harping,” came the understanding reply as she trotted off to fetch some more. “It’s not the ruddy Tardis…” I shouted after her, only to be interrupted by my mobile phone.
It was our landlord in Les Gets. “Have you bought snow chains?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“Well you’ll need them, its madness out here. Make sure you try them out before you come… You won’t get here otherwise.” I stopped packing the Tardis and quickly went to fetch the chains. They were in the spare tyre wheel compartment; quite useful to extract when the car is empty! Fifteen minutes later they were still lying limply around the wheel. I have come to the conclusion this exercise should be one of the main criteria for entering Oxford or Cambridge. However I convinced myself that they would be OK, only then to spend half an hour trying to get them back into the container…

The raison d'etre for the trip

2008-12-08T10:53:00.000-04:00

To say that clearing out the family home is stressful is an understatement. Nerves are frayed as the endless list refuses to become any shorter and the fateful hour is closing in on us like an express train. The darn house never looked so good...even all the light bulbs work! A tearful farewell to our old retriever who has been homed at the neighbour's farm, which is being converted into horse racing stables. She has never had it so good with all the attention...

There are panic attacks and occasionally questions are asked why we are undertaking this trip, but then you spend 10 minutes chatting to some one in the West Indies and the adventurous spirit returns. But why are we leaving our home?

The main reason was a desire to travel and find places where one can enjoy the local culture but offer good value for money. Not 5 star, in truth our budget wouldn't stretch to this, but quality and an abundance of character. The trip has now extended to skiing in Alagna, Monterosa Italy and then 6 weeks island hopping around the West Indies. After this we are undertaking the 'Grand Tour' of Italy. Something I have always wanted to do since being taken down the Autostrada del Sole in a Ferrari as a 14 year old. Unfortunately we don't have the sports car but we can dream...

Introduction

2008-11-28T09:34:00.000-04:00

Here are the Old Gits in question: It was taken in Les Gets in France in the Christmas of 2007. During this holiday we started the concept of the 'Old Gits Gap year'.

In short a window of opportunity was emerging whereby Dawn & I could finalise a dream to have our gap year. We had funded our two sons gap years and as neither of us had had the chance when we were young we thought it was time for us to take the plunge. The scale of planning such a venture has taken us a little by surprise but we are now edging ever closer to the 11th December 2008 where we finally leave for the Old Gits Gap Year. The house is rented out, we have our money which is devaluing at an alarming rate, but blow it we are on our way.

The first port of call is back to Les Gets for 8 weeks skiing but then after this we have only a few vague plans of where we will be going. Many ideas and lots of suggestions (some unprintable!) but phase 1 is to become 'proficient' at skiing. As we only started last year and the legs weren't what they used to be, this could be quite a feat of human endurance...