Floating Leaf, Pitlochry
Kite Flying, The Meadows, Edinburgh
Douglas Fir, The Hermitage
Rocket, Hopetoun House
Crocuses, The Meadows, Edinburgh
Rock Tower, Pitlochry
Daffodils, The Meadows, Edinburgh
Waterfalls, The Hermitage
Tantallon Castle, Seacliff Beach
Snowdrops, Hopetoun House
Detangled from the mountain bikes, we barely had time to retie our boots before striding out, the whir of the cable car motor and hyperventilating camera shutters left behind us. After negotiating snarly shepherd dogs, who rose from their lazy stations in the shade to reveal their powerful physiques beneath ragged coats, we didn't meet another person. We dropped down from the unforgiving terrain to our path on the el lomo del toro; the spine of the bull. The track lay on a small ridge surrounded by steep green pastures which stooped away towards the slopes of the real, towering beasts either side of us. The grass was like paint running off to reveal the bare rock beneath. The spine of the bull slowly descended through the valley, negotiating its way between herds of horses and sheep, twisting to reveal a dramatic crag. The air was still and the sound of silence was calming yet there was something slightly sinister in the solitude: there was a crucifix silhouetted on an altar in the middle of a pasture. The mountain ridges around us lay dormant like the crested backs of prehistoric beings.
In the distance a cluster of buildings surrounded the path as it traced the basin of the valley. Ready for a break and curious to meet the souls living here, we slowed our pace and approached. The village seemed to morph into the landscape. To our left a wooden fence met the walls of a cave, creating a pen or enclosure. There was nothing inside. The terracotta roofs nestled in amongst the pastel colours of the valley, the dry stone walls as old as the limestone around them. A hand plough lay rusting against a wall. There was no one here. One building stood without a roof. Inside, the weeds and nettles had grown tall in the sunlight. Amongst the jungle a figure lay partially visible, dominated by the leaves. Its ashen bone reflected the midday sun, hollow sockets open, and two unspoiled, curved horns were tangled amongst everything. The skeleton lay disjointed, its limbs at peculiar angles, head slumped. We sat with our backs against the stone wall but the hostage remained inside. I imagined the village bustling and prospering during a spring harvest and wondered exactly what had happened here.
Dazed, with our sugar levels in need of replenishing, we slumped ourselves on our packs and picked at the remnants of the bread, cheese and tomatoes we had rationed. The tomatoes from local markets were so red, succulent and foreign to me that I felt embarrassed to have called the pale, turgid things in Britain by the same name. The cobbles cooled my feet and with my eyes easily shutting they were the only indication that we had stumbled into a village – everything else was still except for the stream’s persistent chuckle. Only the shutters of one café were peeled back and crates of the local sidra (cider) were stacked behind the bar, against every wall and under tables. One bottle between the three of us was all our budgets and exhaustion could handle. We let the barmaid do the honours of pouring it traditionally from above her head into a glass held below her waist. It was rough and dry but refreshing and delicate as if bottled from a spring in the mountainside.
Until recently Bulnes had not been accessible by road, although we saw no evidence of motors as we searched for a spot to pitch our tent. Even the men constructing a stone dwelling across the river relied on donkeys to transport materials. Our tent, although concealed amongst foliage, looked out of place amongst the dry-stone walls and spluttering hand pumps; it was like taking a step back in time. After the perpetual trudge of hillwalking, heavy breathing and footsteps on the path, it was time to adjust to a new pace of life. An odd horde of goats, geese, chickens and an intimidating rooster gathered in a semi-circle around as we set up camp. Like a surreal story-time we contemplated each other, wondering what the other was doing there. By dawn the mist hadn't lifted, but had accumulated in the trees above us. Droplets launched an attack from the leaves onto our tent, eventually permeating through to our foreheads that peeped from the sleeping bags. Denied of any more rest we rose with a chorus of birdsong, roosters and hungry goats and prepared for the next leg of the journey.
As we walked out of the village and dropped below the mist, the river emerged beneath us, surging over rocks and propelling itself over waterfalls in rough, foaming shapes. The path narrowed and plunged precariously down to the river’s banks. The spray greeted us at the bottom and at ease walking on level ground, we crossed wooden bridges and negotiated stepping stones in the calmer bends of the river. In one sweeping curve a shallow pool had been created in the shelter of some boulders. Every pebble on the riverbed was visible and radiated in the reflection of the thick moss that smothered the rocks. Sheets of limestone rose above us and a ceiling of mist engulfed us as we floated in the cool water. Our aching limbs were soothed and our lack of showers alleviated. It would have been easy to let the flow carry us further down the valley but I'm glad we didn’t. The river eventually met the Carnes gorge - a domineering, fast flowing river. Where the two courses of water merged we picked up a road in pursuit of the next town. The spluttering fumes of locals abusing their accelerators came as quite a shock. We joined a sparse caravan of walkers, all appearing on the road from behind the folds of various valleys, some of whom we had walked alongside before reaching the cable car. It was as if we had all entered a fantastical land where any sense of time and place, altitude and distance, emotion and reason were suspended. Protagonists in our individual fairy-tales we reconvened in a silent awe, not quite sure what we had all just experienced. The rigid march of boots on tarmac brought us back to a reality we weren’t quite sure we liked.
Written by Ettie Shattock
Ettie's full profile can be found here.
A bus ride away from the capital, Nan Shan (which means South Mountain) is a popular and expensive ski resort for wealthy Beijingers and ski-deprived foreigners like myself who will do anything for a fix. To understand what I went through at this resort, you must know this: in China, social rules do not apply. I am not passing judgment; I am simply stating the fact that what we consider normal social behavior does not exist in their culture. Therefore, a westerner like myself could only qualify this ski resort as completely chaotic. Within the 23 kilos Air France allocated me on the flight over, I didn't think of bringing ski or snow boots and so my friends and I had to rent all of our gear directly at the station. By the time I'd explained that I needed men’s ski boots for my larger than size five feet, ignored the snickering of the Chinese people around me, tried the boots on and realised they were from two different pairs, got my rented ski poles snatched while I was trying to correct the error, went back to get new ski poles, got on the slopes and fell a lot because the ski latches didn't fit the boots, I was more exhausted than if I had competed in the Winter Olympics. And all of this speaking Chinese! Don’t get me wrong; this was probably the funniest skiing experience of my life.
In Chinese cities, where pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and sometimes donkeys try to coexist on the road, rules become arbitrary. On the slopes, the same situation applies. I was brought up with two very important ski rules: you don’t cut in front of someone at full speed and the person bellow you on the slope always has priority in the turn. I forgot about all of that in Nan Shan because once you're on the slope it becomes survival of the fittest. This carelessness probably makes Nan Shan the most dangerous ski slope and this is coming from a person who jumped off a ski lift. I also have to rank Nan Shan as the most idiosyncratic place. I saw a huge variety of curious things while there: one woman was casually skiing with her baby in her arms while another had brought her pet dog that ran after her as she nonchalantly worked her way down. Couple that with the broken English on their safety signs and I really was expecting the sky would fall on my head.
Written by Camille Soulier
Camille's full profile can be found here.
If Val d’Isère gives the ultimate skiing experience in terms of quality and high standard (and fear), I believe the most beautiful place I have ever skied was San Carlos de Bariloche, in the Argentine Andes. It's located close to the Chilean border, in the southernmost region of Patagonia, which meant I was skiing in August! It may be hard to wrap your head around August being a full blown winter season but if half of the world does it then so can I. This was during my university year abroad in Buenos Aires and three of my friends and I decided to go skiing for a weekend. We were young and adventurous and didn't mind the 24 hour ride to get there, plus they served us champagne (or champán as they say) so it went pretty well; even when my camera was stolen aboard the bus. Thankfully, the weekend in Bariloche made up for this material loss and I’m terrible at taking pictures anyway, so really it was a blessing in disguise.
San Carlos de Bariloche is a quaint little town built first by the Swiss and German settlers. The architecture reminded me so much of the Alps and the chocolate was a-ma-zing. But to the slopes: as I have said, I've never been so baffled by the splendour of mountains in my life. We were lucky enough to be there on the best weekend of the season and a coat of fresh powdery snow had just covered the wooden housed resort. It looked exactly like a winter wonderland. I felt like I was in Narnia or in the Nutcracker’s enchanted kingdom. We admired the sunshine and the grand lake from the peek of the mountain and I felt extremely privileged to have laid my eyes on such magnificence. For these two incredible days, we stayed in a lovely hostel where our hosts were adorable; the Argentines are a very welcoming people, mostly because they are so proud to show the richness of their country. We ended up sharing our skiing and chocolate eating experiences with people from all over the world.
I’ve skied in a total of three places in the Americas: The Rockies, the Andes, and the Quebecois station of Mont Tremblant – don’t even ask me how they pronounce it. French is my mother tongue, yet the Quebecois accent sounds even more foreign to me than any accent in English I’ve ever encountered (and if you’ve been to Singapore you know what I am talking about). The Quebecois are a very proud people, and especially of their French, which distresses me because I have a laughing fit every time I hear them. Quebecois TV shows are actually subtitled if they are broadcast in France. It’s not just the accent but the vocabulary as well, and the slang, and the direct translations from Canadian English into French which make absolutely no sense to a born and raised Parisian like me. I thought I could just speak English the whole time, and that my American accent would hide the fact that I was French (the Quebecois get very vexed if you are a francophone but don’t speak French to them). As it turned out, in the little town of Mont Tremblant the residents didn't speak a word English! Fortunately, I was with my friend Nelson (a bilingual like me) who was studying at McGill University and had long ago come to terms with the challenges of the Quebecois dialect. He even learned to mimic it quite convincingly, at least to my novice ear. Aided by his local expertise, we embarked on the two hour journey from Montreal.
Mont Tremblant is the most famous of the ski villages around Montreal. Purists say that the really good skiing is in British Colombia in the Canadian Rockies but it takes a little longer than a two hour bus ride, so we opted for the closer option. Mont Tremblant is located in the Laurentian mountain range and, to be perfectly honest, is not very impressive when it comes to ski slopes. The summit of the Mont Tremblant Mountain is 875 meters high, not very high for someone who has skied at 2000 meters. I'd recommend this station to beginners or good skiers in search of a relaxing time. You can’t be in a hurry in Mont Tremblant: riding up the ski lift takes three times longer than it does to plummet down the hill and all of this sitting around doesn't help when you realise what's for dinner.
Quebec has many specialities, the most famous being maple syrup and any of its derivatives. In addition to this is reindeer meat and many surprisingly good microbrewery beers but the one dish that kept my trousers unzipped for days was poutine. Poutine consists of a generous layer of thick French fries covered in melted cheese curds, then drowned in dense, rich, gravy. No amount of skiing in Mont Tremblant will ever make your body forgive that decision but I admit that poutine is the most delicious guilty pleasure fatty food I have ever had in my life. And when it's as cold as it is in Canada, it makes sense that this is their national dish.
Written by Camille Soulier
Camille's full profile can be found here.
