A quick trip to the south of France

It seemed an awful irony to be travelling in the south of France with a gastric upset. But there we were, in the land of cassoulet and tarte tatin, and I couldn't eat! We were there for just two days of meetings, and it was still a pleasure, despite the stomach turmoil.
Our first meeting was on Monday near Carcassonne, so we spent Sunday night in that marvellous medieval city. Our hotel was an elegant chambre d'hote, our host a most accommodating man who recommended several restaurants in the walled city - but it was a Sunday night in January and we were two of perhaps a mere 6 tourists in town. Not much was open, so we settled for a cozy little bistrot and Gary tucked into the cassoulet while I watched, sipping a glass of the local red.

Tuesday's meeting was at Goult  in Provence, so we drove east again on Monday afternoon, stopping in pretty Roussillon for the night. Another lovely hotel, le Clos de la Glycine, and an upgrade to a beautiful room, in classic provencal style, with simple painted furniture and a truly wonderful view down the valley over the ochre cliffs for which Roussillon is famous. We didn't have time to explore, sadly, but have made a note to return. Instead, we strolled through the narrow streets of the village just after sunset, when the ochre glow was fading from the walls and houses, and then returned for another solitary dinner in the hotel's superb restaurant. Gary was happy with his five course meal - mine was a bowl of lentil soup...
Our meeting in Goult was at the famous Cafe de la Poste. Famous, apparently, because Peter Mayle ate there - but fortunately on this January Tuesday, there were only locals, celebrating the cafe's re-opening after the Christmas break. We joined them, drinking endless cups of espresso (for once grateful that French espressos are so terribly weak) and then finally the plat du jour, a hearty portion of chicken breast, fries, and pureed vegetables - washed down, of course, with a bottle of Luberon red.

Lauterbrunnen in the new year

The third day of the new year - a heavy blanket of fog over Küssnacht and the Vierwaldstättersee. We packed ski boots and snowshoes and plenty of warm clothes into the car and drove toward the hidden alps. Friends had rented an apartment in Lauterbrunnen, and we were to join them there for a few days.  We'd skied from Grindelwald some years before, and had done a few summer hikes above Interlaken, but we'd never ventured into the Lauterbrunnen valley, so this was an adventure for us.

We arrived at midday, hired snowshoes for our friend Richard, and went in search of snowshoe trails. No fog here, deep in the valley - just towering, gleaming mountains, trees heavy with snow. The trails above Sulwald looked promising, so we drove up the narrow, twisting road to the tiny village of Isenfluh, where we joined a queue of tobogganers and hikers awaiting the little cable car to take us up to Sulwald. At 1533m, Sulwald perches on the mountainside above the valley, with glorious views across to the Eiger and Jungfrau, and the vast ski slopes below. We left Rose at the cafe with a hot apple punch, and set off on our hike, climbing steeply through the forest, following a snow trail forged by skis and snowshoes. It was Richard's first snowshoeing experience, and like us, he was exhilarated by the freedom these cumbersome looking appendages provide, in deep snow as well as on slippery close-packed icy trails. On the return journey we went cross-country, through knee-deep virgin snow, running down steep hillsides, tumbling, rolling and laughing to the cafe, and bowls of thick, hot, barley soup.

Monday was cold and grey, definitely more snowshoeing weather than skiing. This time we took the cable car up to Gimmelwald and walked up to pretty Mürren, and from there another breathtaking (literally) vertical haul up to the skifields, and a wonderful lunch of goulash soup and alper macaroni. Eventually we found our way to Gimmeln, and from there took the off-piste trail back down to Gimmelwald, another adventure that ended with us sliding, hilarious human snowballs, down steep hillsides.

Tuesday was a perfect skiing day, bright sunshine, fresh snow. So we took the train up to Wengen, picked up our rental skis, and clambered into the large, crowded cable car for the trip up to Männlichen. The first day of the season is always a scary one for us later-in-life skiers; hence our procrastination. But this one was great, well-groomed pistes, not too many people - and of course, those glorious mountains! We ended the day, exhilarated and exhausted, with the long, lovely run down to Wengen, a vast rösti dinner at the Hotel Oberland in Lauterbrunnen, and then a quiet stroll to the Staubbach falls at the southern end of the village. Magically lit, the falls drop from the sheer cliff-face around 300m above the valley. On these frozen nights, the falls appear frozen too, until suddenly an avalanche of water roars out of the rock, the spray forming tiny icicles in the light.

Our last day in Lauterbrunnen was another monochrome one, so we took our friends to lunch in pretty Thun, and then on a tour of the Thunersee and back through Interlaken, stopping for a late afternoon walk in the forest.

Christmas in Anzère

For the first time since we moved to Switzerland we had no visitors over Christmas! So we headed for the mountains of the Valais, in the French part of Switzerland. Our destination was Anzère, a small purpose-built resort town above Sion, and we arrived there, with our friends Ruth and Roger, as the sun set on Christmas Day. We unpacked, took a little walk around the village, prettily and pristinely dressed in a 10cm thick coat of fresh snow, and settled into the serious business of Christmas cheer. The hotel's dinner wasn't quite as good as our Christmas dinners past - but not having to cook or clean up was a gift!

Then followed two glorious days of snowshoeing the many high trails above the village. The days were clear, crisp and beautiful, the snow thick and powdery and the further up and away we walked, the less populated the trails. On our second day out we walked towards Crans Montana, a 16km round trek climbing over 500m (some of it seemingly vertical!) across valleys and up into magical mountain passes. We got lost a couple of times, as happens on our mountain walks, when suddenly the markers end or the trail diverges without warning. But getting lost on a Swiss mountain is never particularly terrifying - there's usually a trail somewhere nearby. This time, we found a solitary skier's trail and followed it down until we spotted the marked hiking trail again.

On Monday we left again, fitter if not fatter than when we arrived, mentally refreshed and physically exhausted - though more from the disco that kept us awake every night than from the snowshoeing! Why do these resort towns have discos in their centres? We love the Valais - but we won't be returning to Anzère - or to any other town that features a disco...

Lambs in the snow

I went out running this morning, tiny snowflakes spinning in the chill dry air, barely forming a film on the surface of the trail. A hungry flock of black crows pecked at the frozen dung spray on a field, and opposite them a flock of sheep grazed silently. There's still some greenery peeping through the hard mud, and they seemed happy enough - but, daughter of a North Canterbury sheep farmer that I am, I can't understand the Swiss way with sheep. Cows are tucked warmly away in barns, but the poor sheep, freshly shorn for the winter, are left outside in temperatures well below zero - and they're still lambing! I spotted a tiny lamb, bits of its birth membrane still frozen on the little white body, probably no more than a day old and looking thoroughly bewildered by its rude entrance into this chilly world.

I always used to suffer for the ewes and their lambs back home on the farm, as the lambing season began in early September when the North Canterbury frosts were still pretty severe. But my father brought the struggling ones into the warmth of the barn, and soon the onset of summer had them frolicking outside again. These poor little Swiss lambs still have the worst of the winter to face. Will they get to go into the barn eventually with their pampered milk-giving companions? I'll have to continue running up there in the hills to find out...

Snowshoeing in the Unterschächental

The first snow of the season fell at the beginning of last week. By Sunday it had all but disappeared around us, but high up in Canton Uri at the end of the road going over the Klausenpass there was still deep, pristine snow. We took our friend Elaine, visiting from London, up to the Untershächental for her first snowshoeing experience. The valley is famous for its overhanging ice wall, a mecca for extreme sport lovers, but there was no sign of it this early in the season. Just a few skiers coming down the trail from Brunni, another snowshoeing group, and us, enjoying the peace and grandeur of the snow-filled valley. The other snowshoers had blazed a trail for us so, although the snow was past our knees, the going wasn't as tough as it might have been. We went deeper into the valley than we'd been in the past, passing a summer farmhouse with a whimsical collection of lifesize wooden sculptures, and a wooden plaque with a beautiful forest prayer, as well as the ubiquitous and sometimes eccentric forest shrines. How lovely it is to live in a country whose beauty still makes us marvel...

Küssnacht's Klausjagen

Whips, bells, horns, mitres, and St Nikolaus - Küssnacht's cacophonous Klausjagen has to be seen (and heard) to be believed. Usually held on St Nik's day, 5th December, this year the famous Klausjagen was brought forward to Friday the 4th. The reason for this, we're told, is in order that the celebration can go on all night, including a full replay at 6 a.m., and disturbing the Sunday peace is not an option.

Preparations for the event begin well in advance, but the most visible (and audible) to the innocent bystander, is the whip practising, which is permitted for a month prior to Klausjagen. This means that at any time of day or night, traffic can be stopped while youths take over the middle of the road to throw enormous bull whips into the air, where, if done correctly (and of course this requires a lot of traffic-stopping practice) they produce a resounding crack. Then, about a week prior to Klausjagen, teams of young boys begin to wander the streets, again at all times of day or night, practising their bell-swinging. And these are not small bells...

The big day is heralded with a cannon shot from the hills at 6 a.m. And then another at 7, followed by a 5 minute chorus of church bells. The first parade is a children's version of the Klausjagen in the afternoon. The children, mostly boys, though some girls are allowed in this event, parade in a miniature version of the evening's adult event. Dressed in their white hooded shirts, they crack whips, swing bells, and dance with mini mitres on their heads, all in pursuit of Sami Klaus. The tiny boys in their oversize white shirts and bells are seriously cute, some chewing sticks in imitation of their dads' crooked cigarettes.

The real thing begins at 8.15, with the dimming of the village lights and yet another cannon shot. The fierce whips come first, their lashes missing spectators by millimetres. Next, in an eery silence, come about 200 men in white robes bearing their candlelit "Iffele" or mitres, some higher than two metres, and all beautifully crafted, resembling church windows. The men dance in circles, their mitres dipping and spinning, and as the last of them silently passes, the trumpets arrive, playing the repetitive Klaus melody and leading St Nikolaus and his black companions, who hand out goodies to the crowd. And then the sound of 900 cowbells begins to clutch at the diaphragm. These men walk four abreast, swinging their giant bells from right leg to left, their white hooded shirts briefly gleaming in the light of the myriad camera flashes. They're clearly mesmerised by the rhythmic and deafening sound, and soon we, the spectators, are too. And as they pass, another 200 men arrive with cow horns, blowing short monotonous blasts.

The official parade continues in this fashion, with a pause for refreshments, until close to midnight. But it's not over yet. The hardy ones continue all night, ringing their bells and cracking their whips, and next morning at 6 those still standing come together again for the final parade. And behind them, naturally, the street cleaners, so that soon the only reminders of the previous day's huge party are the occasional white-coated, exhausted, and slightly inebriated stragglers returning home.

West Yorkshire

Next stop on the journey was Wood Hall, near Wetherby in West Yorkshire. With another rapeseed oil farm to visit in the area the following day, we'd decided to drive the 200 miles or so in order to have a more relaxed start in the morning. So I'd found Wood Hall, an 18th century country estate set in a hundred acres of wood and parkland. It was another great find, peaceful and quietly luxurious, with an excellent bar and good food. After another hearty English breakfast next day, we walked the grounds and nearby bridle paths for an hour or so, fighting the blustery wind again. We were just south of the floods that had hit the northern parts, fortunately, but it was wild!

And on to Banbury, on the way back to our return flight from Luton. This time we stayed at Wroxton House Hotel, an old manor house in the pretty little village of Wroxton. We arrived after dark again, and wouldn't actually have realised just how pretty the village is, had our GPS not taken us for a tour of it in the morning. I've no idea why we were lead through the narrow lanes of the village, and I hope it doesn't happen often, but we were grateful for our glimpse of an England not too different from the way it was a couple of centuries ago.

Aldeburgh

From London we drove to Aldeburgh, a journey of some four hours. We were visiting a rapeseed oil farm in Suffolk the following day, about half an hour from the coast - and I can't resist the seaside. The sea is, apart from my children, what I miss most about New Zealand.  East Anglia's wild coast is a little different from our sandy beaches, but ah, that ozone! We stayed at the Wentworth Hotel, an enchanting Victorian pile right on the seafront. This was November, so it was dark well before we arrived at around 5 o'clock. But there was a welcoming fire in the lounge, so I settled down with my book and a glass of merlot, while Gary, still struggling with jetlag, took a nap. We were amazed by the hotel's restaurant - wonderful food, with the freshest fish I've eaten since Auckland's fish market. And to further impress us, there was avocado oil on the menu! Sadly, it wasn't a good avocado oil, lacking flavour and colour, but nevertheless it was featured. We left the chef a bottle of the real thing - Olivado's Extra Virgin version - when we checked out next day. After breakfast, another feast of smoked haddock and poached eggs, we ventured out to the seafront for a walk to the next village. There'd been gale warnings the night before, and indeed there was a gale. Great with the wind behind, a mission on the return journey. We loved it! And what a gorgeous little town Aldeburgh is, all ancient seaside cottages, fishing boats and stone lookout towers. We'd have loved to spend another day there, wandering on the fens and hunkering down by the fire. But the oil farm called...

London and the MasterChef Live Food Show

A mere week at home and I was off to London, loaded up with posters and other trade fair materials I'd brought back from New Zealand. We'd been to the BBC Good Food Show in Birmingham in June, and I (foolishly) thought it might be a good idea to do another. Well, indeed, it was a good idea. But it's such hard work! Fortunately, our dear friend Elaine offered to help out, so she and I and her nephew did the setup on Thursday - posters on the wall, stock stashed away under and on tables. Gary arrived directly from New Zealand and helped too, spaced out though he was. And on Friday it began - three long days of hustling Olivado oils. It was fun - but so, so hard on the legs and feet. A surprising number of punters already knew our avocado oil, but this sort of event is definitely worth doing. Once people have tasted it, few of them don't buy, or at least ask where they can get it. One satisfied customer gave us a glowing review on her excellent blog: http://weekendcarnivore.com/2009/11/19/weekend-carnivore-goes-to-masterchef-live/

By 7.30 Sunday it was all over and we gratefully hobbled back to our hotel. And our last 24 hours in London was all pleasure, catching up with friends and a night out at "War Horse" at the New London Theater. What an amazing show! I could never have imagined that I would weep over a horse constructed out of wood and leather and manipulated by three actor/puppeteers. Joey, both as foal and fully grown, was just so real. Intriguing that the actors' listed roles were "head", "heart" and "hind". That three people could portray such pathos through a huge horse puppet was extraordinary. We had read Michael Morpurgo's beautiful book before we went to London, so were ready to be moved- and moved we were!

Despite my best intentions, it's been hard to keep up with the blogging! No real excuse, other than a lot of travelling. In October to New Zealand for two weeks - Gary was working, so I went over as well, mainly to see my kids. And I did, and we had a great time. New Zealand in spring is all sun and wind - lovely if you can find some shelter from that cold bluster. Two weeks was far too short though - barela enough time to get over the jetlag and I was back on the plane. It's such a loooonnnnggg flight! Singapore Air is about as easy as it gets, about 22 hours in the air, and, on the way over, a brief stopover in Singapore. Coming back was tougher, with a 7 hour stopover. I filled in the time in the transit lounge - an hour or so in the gym, another hour at the laptop, then a massage, some lunch, and I was almost ready for the next leg. Painful - but, like pregnancy, the pain is soon forgotten. Next trip, March...