The BCT Day Four - Salgesch to Andermatt

Camels!?

Not a promising start to our biggest day so far, as we took a wrong turning along the riverside and had to scramble back up onto the main road. And then, first mishap of the tour, I flew over the handlebars in a misjudged attempt to catch a travelling photo opportunity. However, only a few colourful bruises ensued - even the camera miraculously survived! On through farm roads we travelled, past a couple of camels happily ruminating in their Swiss field, traversing verdant river flats, with a stop for coffee in on of the many charming Walliser mountain villages, church and castle ruins perched on a rock, ancient wooden storehouses on stilts. The second mishap of the day as we set off again: Hilary's tire fell off - puncture or faulty valve? We couldn't tell, but in the time it would have taken Hilary and I to work out how to remove the wheel, Mary had the new tube in, wheel back on, and tire pumped up in a handily placed mechanic's garage.

Soaking the feet after the hill climb

So on to Brig and the train up the mountain to Lax and our first real hill test. It was a slow grind up to Ernen, feeling every gram of our heavy panniers, and finally we were on the tough but beautiful Gommer route to Oberwald. It was a mountain bike trail, a little too bumpy for our unsprung road bikes, but at last we approached the source of the Rhine, and the end of part one of our journey. The final few kilometres were a struggle into a fierce headwind, almost enough to blow us off the trail into the turbulent waters alongside. But at last we arrived at Oberwald, and the train to Andermatt - showers, laundry, and a long quiet sleep...
71.5km, 2010 calories. 6 hrs 30

The BCT Day Three - Vernayaz to Salgesch

We strolled through the gorges of Vernayaz before getting back on our bikes this fine Sunday morning. Sometime, we agreed, we'd come back and hike up the old diligences route towards Chamonix.

Cycling alongside the Rhone again, we stopped for coffee in Fully, and for a swim in the very popular lake of les Iles. In Sion we feasted on pizza and beer, and farewelled Gary and Scott, off home to Küssnacht by train.

Sierre's ode to cycling

The remaining three of us now rode on to Sierre and up through little country lanes lined with vineyards to Salgesch, our destination for the night. Plenty of caves for the degustation of the famous local wines - but it was Sunday! So instead we took the train and the vertically challenging bus ride up to Leukerbad, where we wallowed in the thermal baths under threatening clouds. Heavy rain eventually cooled our heads as our skin wrinkled in the 30°water. Limited opportunities to eat on this sleepy Sunday night saw us eventually being served a meal of sorts by a linguistically confused but friendly Albanian. And then it was back to Salgesch and our quaint but noisy hotel, about a metre from the busiest railway line in the country.
56km, 1174 calories, 4hrs 30.

The BCT Day Two - Montreux to Vernayaz

Our night in Montreux happened to coincide with the first day of the Jazz Festival, so it wasn't an early night. But at 8.30 next morning we gathered for breakfast. Now numbering 5, with the addition of Richard, and minus Scott and Mary, who had been sick all night (the prawns?) set off on an already hot morning, stopping to admire the pretty Chateau de Chillon, perched over the lake. We declined an offer to swim at the chateau's private beach, a decision we soon regretted, and rode on to the Rhone delta, all shady lanes and birdsong.
And suddenly we came across the seething, brown mass of the Rhone. No swimming opportunities here. But the cooling breeze from the water followed us as we cycled along the bank of the river whose path we were to follow for the next 3 days.

A suggested detour took us across the river and up to the pretty village of Aigle, and a gorgeous little chateau set amongst the vineyards. A degustation offer at one of the many caves was too hard to resist, and we left with a chilled bottle of Aigle Trois Tours to go with the bread, cheese and fruit we'd picked up at the market stall.
Lunch was in Saint-Maurice, under the shady trees of the village park. With the temperature now up to 36°, we were grateful again for the cooling waters of the ubiquitous village fountains, and, closer to our destination, the deliciously icy spray from the Vachepiss waterfall. And on we cycled to Vernayaz and our hosts at Reves Gourmands, who brought out a succulent platter of local meats and cheeses to accompany a bottle of wonderful Paien wine, from a grape grown only in this region.
Day Two: 52km, 812 calories, 3 hrs 20

The BCT (Big Cycle Trip) - Day One

The plan was conceived some time ago, but planning began over Christmas drinks in December. Three of us: Hilary (British), Silvana (Australian), and I (New Zealander), each celebrating a big birthday in 2010, a total of 160 years between us, would cycle around Switzerland, this beautiful country we now called home. In recent years we've hiked many a mountain together, but this was a different challenge, nine days on a bicycle, over 600 kilometres, carrying panniers with all necessities - and a little dress or two, just in case.

On a hot and sunny Friday in early July we piled bikes and panniers onto the early morning train to Geneva, and so began our BCT. Spouses were allowed to accompany us for the first couple of days, and a couple of superfit cycling friends came along too. So we were six as we cycled through the streets of Geneva, past the flag-bedecked UN building, past the American Embassy preparing for its July 4th garden party - marquees, white tablecloths, armed marines - past lakeside mansions and finally lakeside ourselves. Lunch at a busy lakeside cafe exercised long-dormant French vocabularies (though we all knew what "trente minutes" meant). Finally back on our bikes, we cycled through the pretty towns and villages lining the Swiss side of Lac Léman. Sleepy Saint-Prex's fountain filled our water bottles, and then the trail took us a little above the lake, through vineyards and past hillside chateaus.
In Morges we stopped to buy a helmet for Gary (his misplaced during the winter), and then we jumped on a train to Vevey, as advised by our route guide, (supposedly to avoid a busy road, though Mary and Scott, who cycled on, reported easy lakeside roads the entire way). From Vevey an easy last 7 km took us to Montreux, our hotel, a refreshing dip in the lake, and a bottle or two of prosecco to celebrate the beginning of our BCT!
Day One: 68km, 1382 calories (as measured on my Suunto watch) and around 4 hours in the saddle.

The Cretan Oil

Back home for less than 24 hours, just time enough to unpack the suitcase of Andalucian oils, do the laundry and pack again, this time for sunny Crete. Our Air Berlin flight took us from wet, cold Zurich to baking Heraklion. We stood gasping in the heat as we were introduced to our rental car, a battered Hyundai with barely functioning air conditioning, and made the first of many drives along the oleander-lined highway to our hotel in Rethymnon. The Mythos Hotel had been highly recommended, and when eventually we located it, in the heart of the pedestrian old town, it was indeed a gem, a cool haven of peace. But we were here in search of oil, and our search had us crisscrossing the island, from Rethymnon to Ierapetra and Kolymbari to Avgeniki. The oil, from the tiny koroneiki olives for which Crete is renowned, is delicious, smooth and sweet, and the producers we visited were as enthusiastic as their Andalucian counterparts, lamenting, like them, the damage done to the reputation of their oil by the large producers who label their cheap refined stuff "extra virgin".
But with temperatures soaring as high as 44 degrees, we made time as we travelled to languish in the shade of beachside tavernas, sipping icy ouzos and eating fresh Cretan salads and seafood, cooling off in the clear sparkling sea. In Kalives we found the best taverna of our trip, a heavenly shady refuge from the blistering heat, where we ate cheese pies with honey alongside a huge plate of the local salad, fresh leaves, crumbly goats cheese, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes...

Further on in Georgiopoli we stopped again for another cooling dip (and a beer). The long stretch of beach in the town was busy, but we found a sparsely populated cove between two river outlets, a tiny chapel perched on the rocks at either end. As we drank our beers, I was intrigued by the activities of an independent bare-bottomed toddler in a red dress, playing on the beach while her parents chatted in the taverna. As we went into the water she was there, on a toddler-steeply sloping shelf of gravel. Some long-dormant maternal instinct made me turn to check her, and
when I did the little red-dressed body was face down and weakly struggling in the water. I ran and plucked her out, wide-eyed and spluttering, and she toddled back up to the taverna. I still don't know if her parents realised how close they came to losing their little cutie.

An Andalucian aceite experience

We're looking for a good European olive oil to add to our brand,  in our continuing effort to educate the consumer on the wisdom of using only the best extra virgin oils. Andalucia was a likely prospect, its 165 million or so olive tree producing a large proportion of Europe's olive oil. And after weeks of miserable weather here in Switzerland, it seemed a good idea to head for the land of sunshine.
So early on a cold wet Tuesday early in June we flew out of Zurich for Madrid, and on into the city to catch the AVE down to Cordoba. The AVE, with its guarantee of getting you to your destination on time,  seemed like a good plan - but we hadn't taken into account the rolling strikes in Spain. For an hour, we and our fellow passengers staggered from platform to platform until finally a train was found for us and our trip began. In Cordoba we picked up our rental car and raced to Ubeda, where we were to meet our first olive oil producers.
A relatively new company, Gran Insignia had that very day won a contract to supply Carrefour, so were celebrating. And so began our olive oil education. We returned to our hotel in Ubeda, too exhausted to explore that old hilltop town until the following morning. Even then it was a quick tour, culminating in a great coffee in a little bar, and then we were on the road again, this time down to Pegalajar and the Melgarejo family's impressive operation. Like most of the oils we were to see, the Melgarejo family produce their oil solely from their own olives, and those of family friend and olive oil researcher, Dr Marino Uceda. They are passionate about their oil, and willing to share their vast experience. Here we learned the art of tasting oil, a serious business indeed. A small amount of the oil is poured into a small blue glass tasting cup, which is immediately covered with a crystal lid. The cup is then held in the hand to warm it, and the lid lifted and replaced until the oil has reached a temperature such that the aromas and flavours are fully released. And what aromas! Fresh cut grass, round sweet flavours, and that delicious peppery bite at the back of the throat. We tasted oil from the four  different varieties of olive grown by the Melgarejos: Frantoio, Arbequina, Hojiblanca,and the Andalucian staple, the Picual. Much maligned because it is so often poorly produced, the Picual, we learned, produces the most stable oil and is high in polyphenols. The Melgarejo Picual is labelled "Seleccion" to differentiate it from its less salubrious cousins, those mass-produced late pressings in their large plastic bottles. The real extra virgin oil, in this particular part of Andalucia at least, we were told, is produced only in the period between the 19th October and 20 November. The olives are hand picked and pressed the same day, the oil then stored in vast stainless steel tanks to preserve their quality. The production process is very similar to that we use to produce our avocado oil, and we were familiar with the equipment, the malaxers and centrifuges and tanks, but this was oil production on a massive scale. These family companies pride themselves on their extra virgin oils, but their bread and butter comes from the bulk oil produced from the latter stages of the harvest.
Back in the little rented Seat, we drove on down through rolling hills, carpeted with olive trees as far as the eye could see, to Tabernas and the "Olivar del Desierto" estate, a huge plantation of olive trees in the sun-drenched desert around the tiny town of Tabernas. Famous also as the location of a number of western movies, this area is purported to have the highest number of sunshine hours in Europe. And the oil produced here has a delicious sweet and fruity flavour.
Laden with bottles and samples, we drove on down to the coast, to a somewhat faded but still comfortable hotel where we slept to the sound of the sea crashing onto the beach. Because this wasn't the best week of Spain's summer. We managed to avoid the floods that plagued parts of the country, but it was cold, windy and occasionally wet as we traversed the province of sun. But we'd come for the oil, and we were delighted with our newfound knowledge.
Thursday's destination was Granada, but there was no time to visit the famed Alhambra. We joined the throngs of early evening flaneurs and found the tapas bar recommended by our new friends in Pegalajaro. No room inside the tiny bar so we shivered through a feast of tapas and wandered back to our hotel, preparing for Friday's full day of oil exploration.

Back up to Jean province we drove, this time to Sierra de Seguda, a starkly beautiful natural park of olive and pine trees. Here a cooperative of growers and producers has established an impressive oil production facility, producing both organic and conventional oils. At 900m and above, the trees yield only a fifth of those on the lower lands, and they're not irrigated, relying instead on the water-retention of the limestone. But the organic olives alone come from an area of over 2000 hectares and produce some 500,000kg, with a polyphenol and vitamin E count 50% higher than the lower-lying olives.  And the oil was delicious. The Oro de Genave, from organic piqual olives, smells of apples and grass, and has a smooth rounded green flavour.

After a long lunch at a welcoming restaurant in the local village, we drove back towards Cordoba and our final appointment the next day, in the area known as Los Pedroches.  Our contact there had recommended a hotel in the tiny town of Dos Torres and it was perfection. The Hotel los Usias is a lovingly restored building in the central square of the town, which was celebrating the feast day of its patron saint on the day we arrived. So we joined the inhabitants, strolling the streets and admiring the flower-strewn displays in doorways and parlours, before returning to the hotel and the best meal of our Andalucian odyssey.
Olivarera los Pedroches was our final destination, another vast organic production facility with a high quality oil, but our palates had been conquered by the Seguda oils. So we drove our carefully packed bags of oils back to Cordoba and the AVE, this time thankfully running without a hitch, on to Madrid and home. Briefly...

Spring in Finland

Last time we were in Helsinki (in February) the temperature hadn't risen above zero for two months. On our last morning there we woke to a chilling -24 degrees! But now, in early May, the snow and ice was gone, there were tiny greenish buds emerging on the trees - but it was still very cold. We were there for another "Meet the Press" day organised by our PR company. And as in Stockholm, the visiting journalists loved our avocado oil. Let's hope we get plenty of good press!
We were going to Copenhagen the following week, so we spent the weekend in Jakobstad, in the Swedish north of Finland. Our friend Sirkka has a house there, and as we flew up we marvelled at what appeared to be salt flats out at sea. Not salt, we later discovered - it was pack ice, left over from that frozen winter. Fortunately, we hadn't counted on any early summer swims  though we'd been told by our new Helsinki media friends that this is what Finns do at the weekend, ice notwithstanding. We did go out to see Sirkka's summer cottage, but the water wasn't yet connected to the sauna, and without a sauna to recover from the cold, we were spared the true Finnish experience of sauna and ice-swim.
So we just walked on the sand beaches, well wrapped up against the invigorating wind, and went for runs around the harbour, and took a boat to the island of Maskäar to join the locals for a Mother's Day lunch, and read a lot of books - a perfect weekend.

Summer returns - and so does the hiking

A glorious April weekend loomed, so, temporarily spouseless, three of us decided to celebrate with a two-day hike in the Graubünden, selected from many on the very useful wandersite.ch website. With snow still at around 1600m we chose a low route, the first day following the Burgenweg Domleschg, and the second the "Via Spluga".
The Burgenweg, famous, as its name suggests, for its proliferation of castles, was a gentle start to our hiking year, a three and a half hour wander through pretty villages, blossom-covered trees and flowered fields. We took a couple of detours upwards to stretch the limbs, and to continue our habit of getting "lost" on our hikes. And then we arrived in Thusis, to the welcoming and very comfortable Hotel Weiss Kreuz, in time for a beer or two on the sun-drenched terrace.
Our helpful hostess next morning explained that there were in fact two routes we could take to our next destination, and the two vertigo-sufferers in the group, paling merely at the photo of the famous Traversiner-Steg, opted for the easier western route through the Viamala gorge, on a narrow road between touring cliffs far above the Hinterrhein, famed for its Verlorene Loch, a tunnel cut through the rock in the early 19th century which opened up the trade route. We spotted the 60 metre long Traversiner-Steg from across the gorge and agreed that, for Rebecca at least, it would have been an impossibility. I'm tempted to try it next time - another test for the vertigo that seems to be improving slightly with age.
The rest of our walk followed the Via Spluga, through the pretty village of Zillis, famed for the 153 wooden paintings on its ceiling, depicting life in the middle ages. We ate our nuts and chocolate beside a pond broiling with tadpoles, and then made our way towards Andeer, crossing the covered wooden bridge leading into the village, stopping to buy cheese from a farm, and finally to the thermal pool, where we luxuriated in the warm waters and the stunning vistas.
We'll be back later in the summer, I think, to continue the hike across the Splügenpass and into Italy.

Turning 60 in Muriwai

The party was at Muriwai, at our friend Bo's amazing place, on one of those glorious late summer days that New Zealand does so well. But I'd been practising (the party thing, that is) since I arrived in New Zealand several weeks before. Sixty seemed such a milestone that it was impossible to let it pass unnoticed.
So daughter Sarah and I made a long-overdue pilgrimage to the South Island, visiting the whanau in Christchurch and Culverden, seat of the family for a number of generations, but now home to only one farming cousin. In the years since I was last there (not so long ago) an extraordinary transformation has taken place. So much so that, gazing out of the plane window as we flew over the Canterbury plains, I didn't recognise the farmland I grew up on. Those dry pastures that used to nourish thousands of sheep and grow crops that varied according to the vagaries of the infamous nor'westers have turned into lush green dairy farms; and the once rushing, tumbling, beautiful Hurunui river, which waters those monstrous farms, is little more than a stream. I guess it's progress, in a rather regrettable way...
Dinner with old school and university friends in Christchurch, parties with the cousins, it was a busy time in the south. And then we headed up to Wellington, and another gathering representative of another decade. What fun we had in the capital city during those wild 80s - and what fun we had reminiscing during a lengthy and raucous dinner party.

And then back to Auckland, and an unforgettable birthday party, Gary bringing all his producer skills to bear on a production that I at least won't quickly forget.
The day began with a hike, 15 of us taking the stunning Te Henga trail from Bethells Beach to Muriwai: an 8km meander along bush-covered cliffs with views down to hidden coves and rocky outcrops and the wild waters that separate us from our Australian neighbours.
A few beers and a civilised rush for the showers later, and the party began, the other, less-exercised guests arriving in time for sundowners. And in what a setting! A magic carpet-land, courtesy of Ellie and Phil and Talk of Turkey Carpets, on which we lounged drinking delicious cocktails of Gary's invention, and eating the first round of a vegetarian feast which continued through the evening, a couple of local musicians serenading us with saxophone and guitar.

Dinner continued upstairs as night fell and then we danced, our DJ working through the decades. Champagne and speeches - and the cake! Gary totally excelled with this one - or rather, the City Cake Company did, under his direction. My all-time favourite, their gin and lemon cake (they remembered it, eight years on from those days when we were retail neighbours in Mt Eden Village - indicative of their good memories, or the amount I used to eat?!) And iced in lime-green, naturally, topped with a cyclist struggling through the Swiss alps. It hurt to have to cut through that amazing picture! This was Gary's homage to the circuit of Switzerland that three of us hiker/cyclists are planning, to celebrate a total of 160 years of birthdays.
An incredible evening - thank you Bo and Gary. And the party continued next day, with Malcolm and Hayley's famous Mexican breakfast and more friends who hadn't been able to make it the night before.
And back in Switzerland, yet another party with the girls - turning 60 has been a huge amount of fun!

The Sennechilbi

It happens once in every six years, so Küssnacht's Sennechilbi (farmers' fair) is a big event. Last Sunday it began - heralded as these events always are, by a firing of the cannon at 6 a.m. Then came the first of the marches, a brass band marching through the streets. The real action for the tens of thousands of spectators started at two, with a huge parade through the Hauptplatz and along the main street. Amazing floats paraded past, with such extraordinary detail in their decoration that they'd need the entire six years to prepare. Between the floats strolled hordes of men, women and children, all in their festive costumes, handing cups of schnapps and apple juice to the happy punters, and further along a flock of goats, festive bells around their necks and flowers in their horns, then a herd of similarly festooned cows. It was pleasantly cacophonous, each of the floats representing some working element of farm life, with accompanying noises, and scattered throughout the parade a number of groups of musicians, from brass bands, to alphorn players.
And meanwhile, back in the Hauptplatz, young men (and some not so young) were climbing a 41 metre pole. This is another Sennechilbi tradition, though it's not clear to me how pole-climbing relates to alpine farming. But it was certainly awe-inspiring. No spike are involved in this mammoth climb - instead, contestants wear rubber gumboots and rubber gloves, coating themselves with sap to help their grip. At the base the tree's circumference was far greater than the length of the contestants' arms, so the first 30 metres weeded out the weaker men (no women tried it, not surprisingly - though I doubt they would have been invited!) Two resting places were provided on the way up, iron bars set into the pole, and most who made it to the first managed to get to the top. There, they were rewarded with a red handkerchief, 12 of which began the day fluttering from a ring of branches.
Four flags remained as the second day of the Sennechilbi began. This was a quieter day ("a day for Küssnachters", we were told), with a smaller parade, though all the magnificent floats returned for another outing. In the Hauptplatz, as the last of the contestants gave up his attempt to climb the pole, it was auctioned, fetching an extraordinary 11,000 francs! And so the party continued, as the free schnapps continued to flow, and the bread and sausages were followed by bowls of pure cream.
Today it's all over for another 6 years, the streets swept and washed, the stage and street bars dismantled, the pole gone to its new owner. And we feel privileged to have been part of this unforgettable event in our little village...