True to form we begin our holiday in extreme weather conditions. It is 1^O and thick frost. I am poised to freeze at the coach stop for an hour, surrounded by luggage, whist my travelling companion takes the car home and trots back down the hill. I attempt to quell the anxiety that he will not accomplish the fifteen minute walk in the forty five minutes we have allowed by researching for my next novel. I must apologise that writing news has been somewhat eclipsed by other matters in these blog posts but I will just say that Barefoot on the Cobbles is finished and is currently being read through for typos, repetitions and inconsistencies by several kind souls. Anyway, back to travelling. Apart from the effects of sitting on a metal seat I escape the worst consequences of the cold and we board the coach. Nobody bothers to check our ticket or hard won coach card.

The journey to Heathrow is uneventful. I remind myself the hard way that I really shouldn’t read on a coach but manage to stop before any dire occurrences. Once at the airport, we skim along the travellators until my shoelace, which, I hasten to add, was tied, is inexplicably eaten by the escalator. Fortunately I manage to jerk myself free and the shoelace gives way before I get sucked into the workings. I’ve watched CBBC’s Do you Know, with the slightly irritating Maddie telling us about how escalators work. In fact I have watched it several times. I emerge with a twinging ankle but otherwise unscathed. New hurdle is check in. I have done this online so there is just ‘bag-drop’ to negotiate. It is still nearly five hours until we take off and I worry that our bags will be whisked away on some earlier flight but it seems not. For some reason we have been guided to the ‘special assistance’ lane designed for the pregnant, disabled and elderly. I know I have put on weight but I don’t think anyone could believe that I was pregnant and my travellator incident induced limp is not that pronounced. Maybe my stress is showing! The stress levels were not helped by encountering a television programme whilst channel hopping last night. We alighted on The World’s Most Dangerous Roads. This depicted a coach travelling on a twisty road a couple of cms wider than the axles, with a sheer drop on one side. The cliff below the road was seriously undercut and bits seemed to be falling off the edge of the road with alarming regularity. Would you know, it turns out this was in Peru. One of our days involves ten hours of driving – oh dear! I am assured that our bags will magically find their way to Peru unaided, I am just a tad concerned that labels marked for our connecting airport in Brasil have been affixed to them.

We repair to a food outlet for sustenance. It is ten hours since we have eaten. News of our ‘special’ status has obviously preceded us as we are whisked past the tall bar stools to a table of a height more suitable to our aged forms. Then we run the gauntlet that is security. We try very hard to obey all the instructions. You obviously need to be an octopus or a whizz at Crackerjack (now I am showing my age) for this. I have to hold my hand luggage (if I let go of the handle it falls over), my bonus item laptop bag, my coat (I have two of these – I was equipped for the long cold wait), my passport and boarding card and then my laptop out of its bag. Thank goodness we don’t have any liquids as we prepared for this by putting them all in the cabin luggage. Then it turns out not only do I have to take my Kindle out and hold that (other e-readers are available) but my cardigan is allegedly a coat, so I have to carry that as well. My belongings, once I can start to let go of things, take up three trays. We don’t bleep and arrive safely at the departure lounge. Whoopee, free wifi, except my anti-virus security keeps telling me I shouldn’t use it. Unlike previous anti-virus software, there doesn’t seem to be a ways of telling it firmly that I don’t care, I want to communicate with my nearest and dearest and download today’s 100 emails. Randomly, the only website I can access is Twitter!

Once through security I attempt to refill the water bottles. The ridiculous fountain means that you can only fill them 1cm at a time, by decanting them from a cup, which fortunately we have. I return to my companion, ‘Make sure the top is on properly,’ I say, handing him his flask. It wasn’t. He now looks as if he has had an unfortunate accident. On the plane, we are provided with a superior looking set of headphones. They require a two pin socket. Cue a plane load of people fruitlessly searching for said socket. Turns out you sort of twist them sideways and just use one pin!

Image used under Creative Commons, via Wikimedia Commons – in the public domain

As promised, here is the sorry tale of my attempts to survive my forthcoming trip in search of Paddington Bear. Firstly, I should point out that a trip to Peru has long been on my bucket list. I blame those distant days of standing on a table in the school drama studio declaiming Atahuallpa’s lines from Shaffer’s Royal Hunt of the Sun. There was also an inflatable green rabbit involved in this performance somewhere but that’s another story. Regardless, Peru was a destination of choice. Not so for my hapless travelling companion but he somehow got bludgeoned into the plans. Then our intrepid Australian friends got in on the act and we agreed to meet them there to share the trip.

This trip involved heights, considerable heights. I had already run the gamut of the travel insurance, a feat in itself and paid heavily to ensure that I would be recovered regardless of how many metres above sea level I was. The received wisdom was that we needed medication to ward off the likelihood of altitude sickness. Several weeks ago we set off in pursuit of the recommended drugs. It didn’t seem to warrant taking up an appointment with our hard-pressed GPs so we began by telephoning the surgery. ‘Put your request in writing.’ That was the easy bit. A few days later, the receptionist calls. ‘You will need a telephone appointment with your GP.’ She offers a date ten days hence. ‘Oh and make an appointment with the travel nurse.’ At this point I should say that my travelling companion received his medication after the telephone call. We are of an age to qualify for free medication but this counts as a private prescription so he needed to part with money but no suggestions of travel nurses for him. To be fair, I am glad my GP is cautious but each appointment was a few more days down the line and what started as being ‘in plenty of time’, was now less so.

I arrive for my appointment armed with a not very detailed map of where we are scheduled to go. I had already read the NHS advice, which mentions Hepatitis A (tick – had that to go to Russia), rabies, yellow fever and the altitude thing. So first rabies.
‘I promise not to go close to any animals that are foaming at the mouth.’
‘Ah,’ replies the nurse ‘but they may go close to you.’ It seems that, as long as I am within 24 hours of a hospital I will be fine(ish), so rabies is not needed.

Yellow fever is up for debate. There is conflicting advice as to whether where we are going is risky. The doctor is of the opinion that I should have the vaccination anyway. Forewarned is forearmed or some such.
Nurse: ‘You are on the borderline of the yellow fever area on this trip.’
Me: ‘Ok but there’s a vaccination.’
Nurse: ‘We caution people over sixty against having the injection.’
Me: *smiles winningly* ‘I am barely over sixty.’
Nurse: ‘It is a live vaccine, there are side effects.’
Me: (thinking, ok so I get a bit of a temperature) ‘What are they?’
Nurse: nonchalantly ‘Paralysis, inflammation of the brain and death.’
We resolve to forget the Yellow Fever vaccine.

Cue doctor to discuss the advisability of altitude with my slight heart issues
‘It is like everyone else is going at 50 in the slow lane of the motorway but for you it is 90 in the fast lane.’
Arggghhhh. I don’t even drive on motorways, not in any lane, not at any speed, well once by accident but no. I have to confess that I have spent the past few weeks seriously weighing up whether to abandon the whole thing. I have so many exciting things lined up for later in the year, should I be content with those? Oh and erm, well, staying alive a bit longer would be good. Next minute, I’d be chiding myself for being such a woose. Thousands of people do this trip and survive. Ok, most of them are twenty-somethings on gap years but hey. What happened to my ‘grasp every opportunity’ philosophy? I rather think it has been subsumed by my risk adverse gene.

An appointment with a private travel clinic is advised. A 90 mile round trip and the best part of a day is involved but as yet, I have no medication, as my GP feels he lacks the necessary information to prescribe. It turns out that the nurse I am scheduled to meet is local, he knows people I know and more to the point, numerous people of my travelling companion’s acquaintance. While all the ‘Do you know x, y and z?’ chit chat is going on, I am looking at the eclectic range of books on the mantlepiece. An ancient tome A History of the British Nation, probably left behind by the previous occupants of the office, think I. I am somewhat disconcerted by the presence of The Fatal Shore, a excellent book, I have a copy but I hope it is not prophetic. Eventually we get to the purpose of my visit. To be fair, I am now as reassured as I am ever likely to be (not very). No need for Yellow Fever, hurrah, one risk down. I am prepared to ‘feel like I am having a heart attack.’ Immediately, my mind is thinking, ‘But what if I AM having a heart attack?’ As for, ‘You will probably stop breathing at night’, slightly more scary. I have my prescription, which cost five times that of my travelling companion (not allowing for the petrol and parking to visit the clinic). Now to try to look forward positively to what everyone assures me will be a trip of a lifetime. I just need it not to be THE trip of a lifetime.

I will be blogging the adventure, should I survive, so stand by!

And in the next installment, exciting writing news.

After overnight rain, it is a beautiful day so we decide to tick off one of our guide book’s ‘must see’ sights and visit Moulin Huet Bay. We drive to Jerbourg and start walking eastward so we can say we have been to the easternmost point of the island – St, Martin’s Point. Today we are better equipped for walking, although I still have the wrong glasses and the new boots are digging into my ankles, or rather one ankle, in a weird way. Easternmost point reached, we turn round and head off along the coast path in a westward direction. I was of the opinion that Moulin Huet meant windmill and Google Translate agrees (must be right then) but not a one in sight. What we do have is spectacular scenery and all the clichés about white sands and azure seas really do apply, although the photographs do not do them justice. Everything is newly washed from last night’s rain and again the butterflies are out in force. We also see birds of prey wheeling that we think are peregrine falcons.

The terrain and the many inlets make this a rather longer walk than I and my new boots had anticipated but we make it to Moulin Huet bay and stop at a very welcome café there. We scramble down the cliff path and across the rocks to the bay below. Apparently Renoir walked two miles from St Peter Port each day to paint here during his stay in 1883. Apart from a solitary swimmer, the bay is deserted and we rest on the rocks and ease our feet in the sea. In a similar way to Scotland, the weather changes quickly here and I am soon sheltering from a very short shower under my handy saved-from-the-Victoria-Falls plastic poncho. At this moment, a bride and groom are attempting to get atmospheric beach photos. The bride has taken the precaution of changing into flat shoes but she is still trying to surmount the rocks with a train and bouquet, whilst holding the wedding shoes. It is a shame that the rain, which lasted no more than five minutes, coincided with the photo call, especially as the wedding dress was silk. The rain and an incoming tide prompt us to start to retrace our steps. To the relief of my ankle, we find a short cut along the road and return to the car.

There were glimpses of fishing boats in the distance when we decided our feet needed us to turn round. This is a great temptation for a fisherman of my acquaintance and I attempt to navigate to the distant bay by road. At this point I should point out that the antiquated sat-nav we have in this car does not cover the Channel Islands so we have me instead. I was a girl guide. I am actually quite good at map reading, even though I do have the annoying habit of turning the map round the ‘right’ way. There are a couple of drawbacks. Even with the varifocals I am unable to read the map easily with my glasses on, so I take them off. This means that a) I can’t see where I am going and b) I can’t read the road signs. In addition, the most detailed map we have is forty years old and anyway I have left it in the apartment. We do make it to Saint’s Bay. It is a good job that we are used to very narrow, steep roads. There is allegedly no parking at Saint’s Bay but this is obviously to fool the tourists. There were a few local cars parked there. Obediently though, we just go down to the harbour in order to turn round. With a very quick glance at the boats, we drive back towards St Peter Port.

We stop at Sausmarez Manor and yes it really is spelt differently from where we went yesterday. The guide book tells us the manor house is open. It isn’t. The lovely wooded trail through the sculpture gardens is however. There are huge, impressive stands of bamboo and the trail reminds us of New Zealand. We are a bit ambivalent about the sculpture. Are we admitting to being Philistines when we say we don’t really ‘get’ some of it, despite it being worth, according to the catalogue, thousands of pounds a piece? Although there were some ‘organic’ (technical term alert – to try to sound like I know what I am talking about) pieces that I quite liked, in general, I preferred the pieces that actually looked like something. Randomly, one path labelled ‘Way out for Wheelchairs’ is barred by a pole stretched right across the path, some two foot six from the ground. Clearly all those pushing wheelchairs have to be limbo dancers.

Also onsite is a copper smith and we spend some time chatting about his trade. Like most people we have met, he is very friendly. He did a traditional apprenticeship in the 1970s, primarily to make traditional Guernsey cans. These originated in Normandy a thousand years ago and the cows were milked directly in to the larger sized ones. The design allows for the most efficient use of the metal, giving a maximum capacity per square foot. The shape also reduces the likelihood of loss by slopping. Sizes vary from half a pint to ten pints but the standard ‘pot’ contains four pints. The craftsman we were speaking to is now the only person on Guernsey who knows how to make these cans. He is passing the technique on to his sons. They will not be taking up the craft professionally but at least the knowledge will not die out.

There was a minor incident involving an invisible tree as we left the car park. I probably won’t get thanked for mentioning this but I wish to report that no back bumpers or trees were harmed in the process.