Sunday, the day of rest. Except of course, the neurotic gardening doctor can’t resist swabbing the non existent floors. Still, given his tardy entrance to the day, the other doctor and I merely chuckle and return our attention to Amitabh’s outrageously screaming ensemble in Don and blush at Helen’s overt seduction of the hapless Vijay. A delicious pub lunch later, we retire for a bonus run on the starship Enterprise and more lounging around, pnpc, Simon Cowell, Raj and Simran and music galore in the Den.
All too soon, it’s time to gather my few possessions, and as always, I leave with goodies, this time an obscenely massive courgette (Vinod’s suggestions shall remain just that!) and a bonus take away of a funky orange tin that once held some allegedly exotic ginger and chilli biscuits procured as a visiting windfall from Fortnum and Masons. I have no clue what I’ll do with it, but it really is such a gorgeous tin! Maybe a few strands of spaghetti..
Thankfully, this time, the train is there and on time, and after a romantic farewell, I tuck myself into my seat and in less than five minutes, feeling like Simran leaving her Raj as the clouds catch the edge of the sun, the rumbling of the train a poignant counterpoint to the evocative strains of Paya Maine echoing in my ears.....
Rule Britannia...
Clearly, London just can’t compete with Yorkshire. Dire warnings of thermals and unpredictable weather make me contemplate staying at home, it’s that time of year again. Time for the BBC Proms. This time, an exotic incursion towards Castle Howard in Yorkshire with my two favourite men. Man 1 and I forage for snack type items and wind up with a serious excess of dips and chips and fixings for many glasses of Pimms. Man 2, with military precision puts together the rest of the gear. Folding chairs, blanket, paper napkins, glasses, cutlery, lanterns, alcohol, waterproofs, brolly (since I incompetently presumed the sunshine would stay). I’m scrutinised and found wanting (and this is well before I found out the German had his thermals on), but I’m betting on my layers and trusty fleece to protect me from the ravages of the evening. We load up the fire engine red Merc and pack ourselves in. The rest of dinner is likely to be late as Ranjit’s drumsticks and W’s sausages are still hot apparently…
The picturesque drive takes us through rude moments as we drive through Wetwang and Lund and are thanked by the village signboards for our efforts at not disturbing the peace with our excessive innuendo led sniggering. Miraculously, we’re directed to parking close to the Castle and trudge up lugging our spoils to the somewhat disconcerting discovery that there is no mobile signal to be had. Hmmmm. This poses a bit of a challenge as it is imperative that we find the rest of the retinue as they’ve got the real food! The grounds are already packed and we plod up towards the Castle and I’m mesmerised by the sight of men in full cavalry uniform, tables laid with pristine white tablecloths, bedecked with china, gleaming silver, champagne flutes, opulent candelabras and delectable eats. My word. These English are crazy! The Rolls and Bentley negligently parked in front of the mansion adds a certain je ne sais quoi and I cast my eyes over the impressive vista (1,000 acres as I understand it, carefully crafted to look like natural wilderness – all the water bodies are artificial and apparently peacocks strewn about for decorative flooflah).
We stake our territory between a grand table of bedecked officers (their spurs had nothing to do with our choice!) and another smaller table, but ensure we are flanked by candelabras on either side. The umbrella is driven through the ground and we mill around in turns trying to find the rest of our party. Miraculously, we do! And its shakes and hugs all around as our presence swells to 10 and after some debate we arrange ourselves in a less than posh fashion around our picnic blanket. Our lack of accoutrements is more than made up for by the unending unpacking of food. Angelica has outdone herself and soon enough, we’re swilling back white wine, pimms to the tandem scarfing down of rather sophisticated blinis topped with guacamole and shrimp, barbequed drumsticks, parma ham and melon, strawberries, chips and dip, quiche, sausage rolls and think we actually miss the start of the concert. The sound system is not spectacular, but the general hilarity and merriment in the stunning setting more than makes up for it. The few drops of rain that threatned our exuberance evaporate and the clear sky in the distance heads towards us as we applaud the Spitfires as they come past, the Union Jack waved with patriotic fervour (not by us, we just confined ourselves to sniggering at the Germans instead).
The spitfires gave way to a brilliant sunset, tingeing the clouds a mystical gold against the blue background and the lights on the stately home sent the crowd into photogenic orgasms. Tugging the fleece more closely around me, I breath in the clean air, and cast my eyes over the marvellous green and blue panorama in front of me, as birds streak across the sky in perfect harmony, the sunset hanging off the edge of the clouds. If this was enough, the grey clouds that have moved away are slashed by a rainbow off the side of the mansion, lending a super surreal air to the proceedings. Time for the chocolate cake, lanterns, glow sticks and rude games with the glowing eggs, all topped off by more alcohol and a grand finale of the fireworks display. I’m overcome and belt out Rule Britannia with the rest of the crowd and flying lanterns are let loose like a dog walkers unruly brood. My Man 1 points out the irony of my warbling and I realise that we are probably the only expatriate group in the 1,000 acres – 2 Indians, 2 Germans, 1 Dutch, 1 Spaniard, 1 Iranian and a couple of Irish….
Man 2 makes an executive decision, and we’re packed and ready to run before the party ends and amazingly, make it out of the car park in under 7 minutes. Bliss. I feel sick with the vast quantities consumed and can only pay limited attention to the animated discussion about the natty men in uniform and their spurs, the tuxedos and evening gowns, champagne glasses, candelabras, chiffon dresses with Wellies, tartans, stiff upper lips, Pimms…. Rule Britanniaaaaa, Britannia rooooles the waves…… !!
The picturesque drive takes us through rude moments as we drive through Wetwang and Lund and are thanked by the village signboards for our efforts at not disturbing the peace with our excessive innuendo led sniggering. Miraculously, we’re directed to parking close to the Castle and trudge up lugging our spoils to the somewhat disconcerting discovery that there is no mobile signal to be had. Hmmmm. This poses a bit of a challenge as it is imperative that we find the rest of the retinue as they’ve got the real food! The grounds are already packed and we plod up towards the Castle and I’m mesmerised by the sight of men in full cavalry uniform, tables laid with pristine white tablecloths, bedecked with china, gleaming silver, champagne flutes, opulent candelabras and delectable eats. My word. These English are crazy! The Rolls and Bentley negligently parked in front of the mansion adds a certain je ne sais quoi and I cast my eyes over the impressive vista (1,000 acres as I understand it, carefully crafted to look like natural wilderness – all the water bodies are artificial and apparently peacocks strewn about for decorative flooflah).
We stake our territory between a grand table of bedecked officers (their spurs had nothing to do with our choice!) and another smaller table, but ensure we are flanked by candelabras on either side. The umbrella is driven through the ground and we mill around in turns trying to find the rest of our party. Miraculously, we do! And its shakes and hugs all around as our presence swells to 10 and after some debate we arrange ourselves in a less than posh fashion around our picnic blanket. Our lack of accoutrements is more than made up for by the unending unpacking of food. Angelica has outdone herself and soon enough, we’re swilling back white wine, pimms to the tandem scarfing down of rather sophisticated blinis topped with guacamole and shrimp, barbequed drumsticks, parma ham and melon, strawberries, chips and dip, quiche, sausage rolls and think we actually miss the start of the concert. The sound system is not spectacular, but the general hilarity and merriment in the stunning setting more than makes up for it. The few drops of rain that threatned our exuberance evaporate and the clear sky in the distance heads towards us as we applaud the Spitfires as they come past, the Union Jack waved with patriotic fervour (not by us, we just confined ourselves to sniggering at the Germans instead).
The spitfires gave way to a brilliant sunset, tingeing the clouds a mystical gold against the blue background and the lights on the stately home sent the crowd into photogenic orgasms. Tugging the fleece more closely around me, I breath in the clean air, and cast my eyes over the marvellous green and blue panorama in front of me, as birds streak across the sky in perfect harmony, the sunset hanging off the edge of the clouds. If this was enough, the grey clouds that have moved away are slashed by a rainbow off the side of the mansion, lending a super surreal air to the proceedings. Time for the chocolate cake, lanterns, glow sticks and rude games with the glowing eggs, all topped off by more alcohol and a grand finale of the fireworks display. I’m overcome and belt out Rule Britannia with the rest of the crowd and flying lanterns are let loose like a dog walkers unruly brood. My Man 1 points out the irony of my warbling and I realise that we are probably the only expatriate group in the 1,000 acres – 2 Indians, 2 Germans, 1 Dutch, 1 Spaniard, 1 Iranian and a couple of Irish….
Man 2 makes an executive decision, and we’re packed and ready to run before the party ends and amazingly, make it out of the car park in under 7 minutes. Bliss. I feel sick with the vast quantities consumed and can only pay limited attention to the animated discussion about the natty men in uniform and their spurs, the tuxedos and evening gowns, champagne glasses, candelabras, chiffon dresses with Wellies, tartans, stiff upper lips, Pimms…. Rule Britanniaaaaa, Britannia rooooles the waves…… !!
Coffee, Tea or me?
Another weekend up North with the boys, this time with a promise of culture courtesy the BBC Proms. A cancelled train, 30 minute delay and lost water bottle is more than compensated by the sight of one of my favourite men heading towards me. The heaving skip has less of an impact than the bright blue of the portaloo… definitely a construction site! A quick tour of Chez M. les Docteurs reveals that my timing is impeccable. The kitchen might not be operational yet, but even sans flooring, it’s swoon worthy, and that’s before Jan has me open the sneakily sliding oven door! I feel like I’m on the bridge of the Enterprise, and bombard him with questions about the inbuilt coffee machine and applaud the plate warmer under the microwave, and stroke the sushi bar. This is just so cool. The house now looks like it belongs with the chalet and I can’t wait to come back in a years time to lay claim to the Med room with it’s bright orangey yellow warmth. Delicious. Dr. V. joins us, looking as tasty as the new décor all suited and tied and I try my level best to contain my amusement at the apologetic look that accompanies the announcement of dinner that is Sainsbury’s best microwaveable takeaway.
Stardate 21.8 and I’m given the helm after a quick briefing. The coffee machine is plugged in and our early rising captain has already imbibed three cups. I’m loath to ask for tea, and throw caution to the winds. A cappuccino to start the day. Uh oh. Milk. New equipment needs to be installed, and the stainless steel canister is brought into play.. The touch of a concealed button, and the machine smoothly pulls away from the wall, revealing the stash of coffee beans and subtle storage for a coffee spoon and rubber tubing. Ta – Dah! Spontaneous applause follows, and I’m compelled to do an encore. The milk is now in place, with the tube hooked up to the nozzle. My fingers dance over the control panel, heady with power and I twist my way to a medium, regular cappuccino. Steely glances are exchanged, and I engage. A gentle jab, rumbling sounds that are a prelude to the spotlight hitting the cup zone as milk is heated, frothed and emptied into the mug followed by the grinding of the beans distilled into a shot of coffee. In my excitement (and theirs), we toast each other and my taste buds are assaulted by the bitterness of pure coffee. Ugh! Sugar! A couple of over heaped spoons turn authenticity into dessert, and I spend more time sniffing it than drinking it. Mercifully, the machine understands Continental measures, and a medium is rather petite. Still gloating from the triumph, we now head for the hob, discreetly invisible on the central island counter, the extractor foofah directly overhead the only give away. It’s like gazing upon the navigation system on board the Enterprise, the shiny surface reflecting our keenly avid faces. Hmmmm. Ignition fails, and a scrabble about the discreet placed mains yields little by way of instant gratification and we’re forced to abandon ship.
We console ourselves with checking out the rinse function on the miraculous Neff machine, grinning with glee as the clear water is sucked up through the tubing washing out the residual bits of milk. The simple pleasures of life soon turn to more S&M gratification as the poor tubing is whipped against rock hard thighs in a poor excuse to get rid of the last of the water before and unobtrusive touch opens her up to restore the tubing in its rightful place. Only now, we know what it’s really there for …. !!
Stardate 21.8 and I’m given the helm after a quick briefing. The coffee machine is plugged in and our early rising captain has already imbibed three cups. I’m loath to ask for tea, and throw caution to the winds. A cappuccino to start the day. Uh oh. Milk. New equipment needs to be installed, and the stainless steel canister is brought into play.. The touch of a concealed button, and the machine smoothly pulls away from the wall, revealing the stash of coffee beans and subtle storage for a coffee spoon and rubber tubing. Ta – Dah! Spontaneous applause follows, and I’m compelled to do an encore. The milk is now in place, with the tube hooked up to the nozzle. My fingers dance over the control panel, heady with power and I twist my way to a medium, regular cappuccino. Steely glances are exchanged, and I engage. A gentle jab, rumbling sounds that are a prelude to the spotlight hitting the cup zone as milk is heated, frothed and emptied into the mug followed by the grinding of the beans distilled into a shot of coffee. In my excitement (and theirs), we toast each other and my taste buds are assaulted by the bitterness of pure coffee. Ugh! Sugar! A couple of over heaped spoons turn authenticity into dessert, and I spend more time sniffing it than drinking it. Mercifully, the machine understands Continental measures, and a medium is rather petite. Still gloating from the triumph, we now head for the hob, discreetly invisible on the central island counter, the extractor foofah directly overhead the only give away. It’s like gazing upon the navigation system on board the Enterprise, the shiny surface reflecting our keenly avid faces. Hmmmm. Ignition fails, and a scrabble about the discreet placed mains yields little by way of instant gratification and we’re forced to abandon ship.
We console ourselves with checking out the rinse function on the miraculous Neff machine, grinning with glee as the clear water is sucked up through the tubing washing out the residual bits of milk. The simple pleasures of life soon turn to more S&M gratification as the poor tubing is whipped against rock hard thighs in a poor excuse to get rid of the last of the water before and unobtrusive touch opens her up to restore the tubing in its rightful place. Only now, we know what it’s really there for …. !!
Rainbows and Moomins
They say you learn something new everyday. They were right! Last night, my blonde bombshell discovered that my full name rolls off the tongue as easily as an overpriced Merlot, my weakness for large, alpha males and that my anger towards a certain male still hasn’t abated and what actually happened at that hotel reception. I learnt about her reluctance to go home, her weakness for men who dance well and that a rummage around various bags can yield a ta-dah moment with a rush of love and affection and not to scoff at the popular Americanism of a happy place. The smile a stripey rainbow card wallet brings lingers long after the thought.
Today, was another day of learning. I learnt Moomins make for delicious biscuits as I mercilessly chomp of one’s head. Actually, I just like to say Moomins. Little Finnish-Swedish trolls brought to life by Tove Jannson. Unlike any trolls I’ve seen, Moominpappa, Moominmamma and Moomintroll and the rest of the Moomins look like fashionably clad hippos. Perhaps that is what cooler climes does to one.
I've also learnt that in the euphoria of an excellent summer, I’ve forgotten how inclement the English weather actually is, that eating one pasta salad will take the edge off the hunger but two will make you feel thoroughly sick (despite assurances to the contrary, crunching another Moomin will NOT fix anything) and that my blogmoaning elicits some very peculiar feedback....
Today, was another day of learning. I learnt Moomins make for delicious biscuits as I mercilessly chomp of one’s head. Actually, I just like to say Moomins. Little Finnish-Swedish trolls brought to life by Tove Jannson. Unlike any trolls I’ve seen, Moominpappa, Moominmamma and Moomintroll and the rest of the Moomins look like fashionably clad hippos. Perhaps that is what cooler climes does to one.
I've also learnt that in the euphoria of an excellent summer, I’ve forgotten how inclement the English weather actually is, that eating one pasta salad will take the edge off the hunger but two will make you feel thoroughly sick (despite assurances to the contrary, crunching another Moomin will NOT fix anything) and that my blogmoaning elicits some very peculiar feedback....
Accident or Design
Is life a nebulous but organised series of predestined events or the result of a random happenstances? Was being accosted by a large Kiwi diver/rafter/alternate lifestyle liver part of a cunning plan by destiny or was my decision to take the right a random choice? Naturally, there's the fence sitters option, perhaps our being in Interlaken at the same time was part of a larger map, but the running into each other and the flirting was totally random (well, yes, it was, but I meant the other random!).
There are so many times when things happen in your life, or rather, when people happen in your life that give you pause, make you wonder... accident or design and change the flow of your life. Sometimes good, sometimes bad and sometimes, even ugly, but always touching you, infinitesimally changing you. Sounds like destiny, but I believe we make our own. At the end of the day, it's not about what life throws at you, but how you respond to it that decides the direction of your life.... that's neither written nor indiscriminate.
There are so many times when things happen in your life, or rather, when people happen in your life that give you pause, make you wonder... accident or design and change the flow of your life. Sometimes good, sometimes bad and sometimes, even ugly, but always touching you, infinitesimally changing you. Sounds like destiny, but I believe we make our own. At the end of the day, it's not about what life throws at you, but how you respond to it that decides the direction of your life.... that's neither written nor indiscriminate.
Crazy Kiwi
“Well, if you’re not going to go rafting with us, then you should at least have a drink with me after”. I blink at the big man in front of me. What an outrageous flirt, taking advantage of my lost status… My “I could do that” barely leaves my mouth before eight o’clock at Hooters is proposed and reiterated. I gently point out that he has yet to point me in the direction of my hotel, and I would give his invitation due consideration once I was headed in the right direction. He does, and I find my way easily enough, the smile still on my face. I do like audacious men.
Wetsuit on, I wait for Biff to hand me the rest of the gear, but he’s interrupted by a colleague who hands him a mobile. He listens, nods and says, “She’s standing right in front of me”. I look right back at him, a tad bemused. Bright blue eyes crinkle as he informs me, “The venue’s changed… it’s the Brasserie at 8 tonight, not where you were going earlier”. I gape at him, feeling my face heat up, “What?!”. He repeats himself much to the interest of the gaggle of young girls around us and I frantically nod my understanding. Change of plans. Check. Brasserie at 8. Check. Can we please get on with it?! Of course not, and I mumble something about being accosted and taken advantage of while being lost and we head out.
The canyoning is fun, culminating in a monsoon that’s a perfect end and we head back. I’m now seriously considering my position. A drink at Hooters was not a big deal… if I’d felt like it and it hadn’t been raining, I might have meandered over into town to see if I did run into the boys from Swissraft. But the Brasserie sounds serious, and given the man’s effort in tracking me down to convey the message, I feel the least I could do is show up. Still, there’s time to think about it…. Towelled dry and ensconced in dry clothes, we gather around toasting our adventure with beer, tea, bread and cheese, when this blonde cycles up and starts chatting with the team. “Are you Apra?”. Curious, I reply in the affirmative. “You did get the message about the venue changing for tonight, didn’t you?” Jesus Christ! Does the whole town know I’m out on a date tonight??? She hastens to assure me it’s only her, but the rest of the pack now levels a barrage of questions at me! “He’s getting all spruced up”, she winks. I’m betting people can actually tell I’m blushing under my colour and I blurt out, “I don’t even know his name!”. Ok, maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to say, but it’s a communal date at this point. David. That’s who I’m meeting at 8. At the Brasserie. Naturally, I have no clue where it is, and Julie (the blonde) blithely tells me it’s easy enough to find on a map – just get one from the hotel and you can pick up an umbrella from them as well…
Shit. Now I have no choice. The man has put in way to much effort to ignore. But I have nothing to wear! This was a weekend of travel, canyoning and river rafting. Period! No dating! Track pants and sneakers. Fine for a quick drink at Hooters but the Brasserie? Dammit! I make a dash for the hotel as soon as there’s a lull in the rain and hit the shower. A quick rummage through the rucksack yields black track pants and jumper that could pass as a tad more. But bare toes. I can’t wear sneakers! I feel stress! The lady at the reception gives me directions to the brasserie, but naturally has no map. Brilliant. I figure I should leave early given my proclivity towards getting lost in this village. The direction takes me past the Swissraft office of the first encounter and as I get closer, I can see a bunch of men seated, shooting the breeze and hope they won’t recognise me. Before I even draw abreast of them, the last one makes eye contact and smiles, nodding in acknowledgement. I give up and grin back at him not really wanting to catch all the other eyes, but lo and behold, one of them jumps up, and it’s our hero! I give up!
I discover that the Brasserie was Julie’s idea and that he actually has no idea where it is…but it’s nice and the hours fly by… diver, rafter, graphic designer, Kiwi, divorced, film assistant, guide, Scottish descent, suggests Central America as an inclusion to my rafting on every continent list, actually had dinner with Hugh Jackman (with 10 others), did a photoshoot for the BBC for ice diving, thinks there’s more joy when you can share the things you want to do… bizarre. He also lacks umbrella carrying skills. Still, an interesting man.
The next morning, a fabulous run of the black Lutschine…! The water is fucking freezing at 3 degrees, and my left hand is soon familiar with frostbite, but the exhilaration of the white water is unbeatable! Despite two reluctant oarswomen, we make great time, and don’t need to resort to plan B (whisk me off before the run culminated in the natural conclusion on the lake, in time to make my train). The mountains dotted with wooden houses, wispy smoke from a chimney wafting into the low hanging clouds remind me why I feel in love with this strange country, despite my now numb hand. We make it back with enough time for me to grab a cup of tea and then off to the station. I’m packed off with four others headed towards Interlaken West, with the assurance that we had loads of time… I certainly hope so! The guy driving me slows down as he’s flagged by this other chappie on a bike, “Have you dropped off…ah, there you are”. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! “Was that your hot date?” the driver pipes up. My yelp of “Does everybody in this frigging town know I had a hot date last night?” elicits a smirky, “Yep. There’s a hoarding up in the square”. “He’s really keen though.. he’s following us”. No way! I twist in panic, but don’t see the bike. He has the gall to snigger. Rude man!
I take the steps two at a time, wondering what platform I’m on and what do you know… I’m on the same platform as the grinning man with the bike. Crazy Kiwi.
Wetsuit on, I wait for Biff to hand me the rest of the gear, but he’s interrupted by a colleague who hands him a mobile. He listens, nods and says, “She’s standing right in front of me”. I look right back at him, a tad bemused. Bright blue eyes crinkle as he informs me, “The venue’s changed… it’s the Brasserie at 8 tonight, not where you were going earlier”. I gape at him, feeling my face heat up, “What?!”. He repeats himself much to the interest of the gaggle of young girls around us and I frantically nod my understanding. Change of plans. Check. Brasserie at 8. Check. Can we please get on with it?! Of course not, and I mumble something about being accosted and taken advantage of while being lost and we head out.
The canyoning is fun, culminating in a monsoon that’s a perfect end and we head back. I’m now seriously considering my position. A drink at Hooters was not a big deal… if I’d felt like it and it hadn’t been raining, I might have meandered over into town to see if I did run into the boys from Swissraft. But the Brasserie sounds serious, and given the man’s effort in tracking me down to convey the message, I feel the least I could do is show up. Still, there’s time to think about it…. Towelled dry and ensconced in dry clothes, we gather around toasting our adventure with beer, tea, bread and cheese, when this blonde cycles up and starts chatting with the team. “Are you Apra?”. Curious, I reply in the affirmative. “You did get the message about the venue changing for tonight, didn’t you?” Jesus Christ! Does the whole town know I’m out on a date tonight??? She hastens to assure me it’s only her, but the rest of the pack now levels a barrage of questions at me! “He’s getting all spruced up”, she winks. I’m betting people can actually tell I’m blushing under my colour and I blurt out, “I don’t even know his name!”. Ok, maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to say, but it’s a communal date at this point. David. That’s who I’m meeting at 8. At the Brasserie. Naturally, I have no clue where it is, and Julie (the blonde) blithely tells me it’s easy enough to find on a map – just get one from the hotel and you can pick up an umbrella from them as well…
Shit. Now I have no choice. The man has put in way to much effort to ignore. But I have nothing to wear! This was a weekend of travel, canyoning and river rafting. Period! No dating! Track pants and sneakers. Fine for a quick drink at Hooters but the Brasserie? Dammit! I make a dash for the hotel as soon as there’s a lull in the rain and hit the shower. A quick rummage through the rucksack yields black track pants and jumper that could pass as a tad more. But bare toes. I can’t wear sneakers! I feel stress! The lady at the reception gives me directions to the brasserie, but naturally has no map. Brilliant. I figure I should leave early given my proclivity towards getting lost in this village. The direction takes me past the Swissraft office of the first encounter and as I get closer, I can see a bunch of men seated, shooting the breeze and hope they won’t recognise me. Before I even draw abreast of them, the last one makes eye contact and smiles, nodding in acknowledgement. I give up and grin back at him not really wanting to catch all the other eyes, but lo and behold, one of them jumps up, and it’s our hero! I give up!
I discover that the Brasserie was Julie’s idea and that he actually has no idea where it is…but it’s nice and the hours fly by… diver, rafter, graphic designer, Kiwi, divorced, film assistant, guide, Scottish descent, suggests Central America as an inclusion to my rafting on every continent list, actually had dinner with Hugh Jackman (with 10 others), did a photoshoot for the BBC for ice diving, thinks there’s more joy when you can share the things you want to do… bizarre. He also lacks umbrella carrying skills. Still, an interesting man.
The next morning, a fabulous run of the black Lutschine…! The water is fucking freezing at 3 degrees, and my left hand is soon familiar with frostbite, but the exhilaration of the white water is unbeatable! Despite two reluctant oarswomen, we make great time, and don’t need to resort to plan B (whisk me off before the run culminated in the natural conclusion on the lake, in time to make my train). The mountains dotted with wooden houses, wispy smoke from a chimney wafting into the low hanging clouds remind me why I feel in love with this strange country, despite my now numb hand. We make it back with enough time for me to grab a cup of tea and then off to the station. I’m packed off with four others headed towards Interlaken West, with the assurance that we had loads of time… I certainly hope so! The guy driving me slows down as he’s flagged by this other chappie on a bike, “Have you dropped off…ah, there you are”. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! “Was that your hot date?” the driver pipes up. My yelp of “Does everybody in this frigging town know I had a hot date last night?” elicits a smirky, “Yep. There’s a hoarding up in the square”. “He’s really keen though.. he’s following us”. No way! I twist in panic, but don’t see the bike. He has the gall to snigger. Rude man!
I take the steps two at a time, wondering what platform I’m on and what do you know… I’m on the same platform as the grinning man with the bike. Crazy Kiwi.
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