... down and out in Paris and London

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Paris and London

After a few weeks of meticulous planning, booking and utmost secrecy, the plot was almost ready but required a few additions to link things together. Hence the following e-mails to Boyfriend’s brothers.

 ‘Boys

I would be most grateful if you could help me out with a few logistics for Boyfriend's birthday. I know that his birthday isn't until September, but we're all very busy people so I thought lots of notice would be no bad thing.

I have arranged lots of stuff as a surprise for him which is basically as follows:

Friday 19th - get up very very early, take taxi to Southampton and fly to Paris - spend day and night in Paris.

Saturday 20th - fly to Heathrow from Paris arriving at Heathrow at 8.30am (9ish by the time we're out of customs etc), head into London and go on the London Eye, up Big Ben and then off to the Ritz for Tea along with a birthday cake and the pianist playing him happy birthday resulting in suitable embarrassment etc., then come home where Boyfriend has inconsiderately got a gig booked with his band.

My teeny problem is this:

- transport from Heathrow into London and subsequently back home,

- you can't take much more than a wallet into the Houses of Parliament (so need somewhere to dump luggage)

- and we need smart stuff for the Ritz as there is a dress code.

I have talked over some of the problem with Boyfriend - without giving too much away (although I did tell him about Paris, partly b'cos I'm really bad at keeping secrets, partly b'cos I was very drunk at the time and partly b'cos he knows Paris much better than me and as we only have a day there it would be sensible if he had been able to pre-plan what to do and where to go to make the most of the day - and restaurants).

He suggested that I approach you boys to see if it was at all possible, with large amounts of grovelling, to get you to drive his car (which will have smart stuff in for us to change into) and one of your cars to Heathrow on Saturday morning, leave us with his car which we will then use to go into London, leave luggage in, and come home in while you trundle back in the other car you brought up - if that makes any sense at all.

If you give away any of the planned stuff for Saturday - which Boyfriend knows nothing of - then obviously I will have to do nasty things to you.

If some, more or fewer of you can help in any way that would be smashing and much appreciated and you might even qualify for a piece of freshly made Ritz raspberry and mango birthday cake as I’m sure we won't be able to eat all of it.

And just be thankful that it's not a significant birthday, when I really will go over the top.’

After all of them came back with offers of assistance where required, the plot thickened as follows: 

‘Cheers chaps for offers of help all round.

Basically what I will need is:

Someone who is happy to drive Boyfriend's car  - hereafter called driver 1 - to drive this up to Heathrow terminal 2 to be there at approx 9am on Saturday 20 September to meet me & Boyfriend, who will be heavily laden with sensibly priced alcohol, French lingerie and well considered gifts. We can arrange nearer the time to leave his car with driver 1 on the evening of Thursday 18th if this makes things easier, rather than having to get to our place to pick it up.

There will then need to be another person, preferably inside a car and imaginatively called driver 2, following driver 1 to Heathrow to bring back driver 1 once we have been re-united with Boyfriend's car and driven it off.

Naturally the X chromosome in me means that I want to be incredibly bossy, dictate where each of you is to be at any particular moment, give you itineraries and code names, maintain radio contact at all times and synchronise watches etc.

However, as I am reliably informed that you're all grown up people I will leave it to you boys to sort out who wants to do what.

Boyfriend is aware that I have asked for your assistance with travel arrangements, so it is ok to discuss finer details either with him, or when he's around.

We will be free on his actual birthday which is on Sunday, and will have Stepchild the Elder & Stepchild the Younger that day - and probably more birthday cake so that the girls can make themselves sick - so if any of you were particularly wanting to see what he looks like at 42 you are more than welcome to pop round on Sunday.'

The day arrived. At 4.00am the alarm went off and at 4.30 Middle Bro arrived to take us to the airport. So far the plan was going with military precision. We arrived at Southampton airport much in need of coffee and breakfast but were to be thwarted in any plans to address this need. Nothing at the airport opens until 5.30am – including passport control. We were due to board at 6.00am, so when the passport control opened we decided to go straight through and use the airside café, which we assumed also opened at 5.30am. The tiny flaw with this plan is that we were wrong. The airside café was not yet open.

Fortunately, after a wait of a few minutes, it did indeed start up business for the day and Boyfriend and I plied ourselves with coffee and sandwiches.

For reasons that were never explained, the plane was delayed by about half an hour, which meant we had given ourselves indigestion quite unncessarily.

After an uneventful flight – during which I woke Boyfriend up to show him the French coastline – we arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport. The plane then proceeded to taxi for about 15 minutes to the terminal. For a moment Boyfriend and I wondered if it would be kind enought to keep going and drop us off at the hotel.

We had decided to get a taxi from the airport to the Eiffel Tower – and the vehicle we ended up was a black Mercedes. And every time we went through a tunnel I got a bit nervous (that whole speeding Mercedes-tunnel-dead Diana situation crossing my mind). The driver was flashed by a speed camera, and Boyfriend engaged in a very complicated conversation – in French – about the difference between the English and French speeding penalties. From the very little that we understood, it seems the French are penalised a lot more.

Seeing the Eiffel Tower ahead and realised we must be nearly there. We then inadvertently over tipped the driver – the fare was around €39. I gave the driver a €50 note, but Boyfriend – thinking I had given him €40 – told him to keep the change. Now feeling rather flush, and with some of his speeding penalty already covered, the driver then leapt forth to open the doors for us before proceeding on his merry way in the hope of finding more foolish English people.

We joined the queue for the Eiffel Tower, which so far included a just about tolerable amount of Americans and vast numbers of Orientals – one of whom was wearing more check than should really be seen at any one time on one person.

 

 

The Eiffel Tower has three levels, number 3 being the top. The lift took us up to level 2 from where we needed to change lifts. While there, however, we wandered around level 2, admiring the view.

 

 

All around the edge of Paris was a thick layer of smog, and I remembered that on the taxi ride we had passed signs advising drivers to slow down because of pollution levels. Apart from that, it was incredibly clear, a beautiful blue-skied hot day, and we could see all across the city, and all the things we hoped to see.

 

 

We were starting to discover an rather irritating feature about the French. In all the countries Boyfriend and I have visited, everyone has seemed very pleased when you try to speak their language – even if this actually makes it harder to understand one another than if you spoke in English. Here, however, the French stubbornly refused to understand anything you said in French. After query made in perfectly competent French They would ask in English what it was that we wanted with a tone of ‘I can speak your language far better than you could ever speak mine’. This was probably the place where I shouldn’t be verbally rude about the French. Boyfriend had said that it would be ok if I did it in English, but I pointed out to him that actually I would probably be less understood if I insulted them in French. They were now confirming that view point.

We continued on up to the 3^rd and top level, fighting our way through the crowds around the viewing platform before taking the lift back down to the 2^nd level. From here we walked down the steps to the 1^st level (during which we passed a young man re-painting, and a drop of Eiffel Tower paint fell onto Boyfriend’s shirt which never ever washed out).

Having seen all that really can be seen of the Eiffel Tower we crossed the Seine and ambled up to the Arc de Triomphe, built in honour of the French victory at the battle of Austerlitz.

We wanted to go to the top, but Boyfriend said he only would if there were lifts – and we reckoned there probably would be. Having bought the tickets and thereby committed ourselves, we went to the entrance where a sign announced the number of steps we would climb to get to the top. There was, in other words, no lift. We started the climb up the spiral staircase. This opened out a couple of times into rooms, fooling you into thinking you were nearly there. But round the corner the steps carried on again.

 

Eventually we reached the top, and again admired the views. We got our breath back, and cooled down a little – a very little as it was still incredibly hot, even in the breeze on the top – then came back down again and proceeded to walk along the Champs Elysees. We paused at a café mid way along for a cool drink beneath the trees.

Continuing our perambulation, we walked down to the Place de la Concorde – the site of hundreds of executions during the French Revolution. The lives of royalty still don’t seem to be all that safe in Paris, although the method of despatch has changed.

 

 

The square itself is surrounded by huge, ornate buildings that were once the Royal residences. Now it is little more than a large roundabout, a reminder of the hustle and bustle of city life before you enter the calm tranquillity of the Tuilleries Gardens. There was an ice cream kiosk in the gardens where Boyfriend and I treated ourselves to a vanilla cone – real vanilla, with the black bits in. None of your Wall’s nonsense here.

The gardens were wonderfully peaceful. Parisians were sitting in chairs around a pond, sunning themselves, others wandered around the sculptures that littered the gardens, or sat in cafes for a drink and a snack.  At the end of the gardens was another Arc – again to celebrate the French victory at Austerlitz, which was designed so that the main arch faced that of its big brother – L’Arc de Triomphe – a couple of miles away.

 

 

Across the road was the Louvre. The building was built in the 12^th century as a fortress, but now houses thousands of pieces of art. The courtyard in front of the building contains the most recent addition – a large glass pyramid.

 

 

While waiting to cross one particular road I wondered whether in France you waited for the 'petit home vert' to light up.

From there we crossed the Seine again, and walked towards the Pantheon – our plan now being to obtain some lunch, although it was well passed lunch time. The streets of the south bank of the Seine were filled with booksellers and art prints. This part of Paris – the Latin Quarter – was a bit off the tourist track and merged into university zone, which was largely responsible for the maintenance of a relaxed, Bohemian feel to the area. There were street cafes filled with locals, and charming back streets with accordion players. At one point, across the Seine, I saw a topless young man sitting in the sun on the steps down to the river playing guitar.

 

Ahead of us was Musee d’Orsay which had been a railway terminus in a previous life. Apparently the inside of the museum has retained the railway look, even down to the clock. Unaware of this marvel, however, we didn’t venture inside at all, and walked off in the opposite direction.

We saw a sign for a post office, and needing stamps to accompany our postcards, followed where it pointed. Here Boyfriend scored a significant victory. He asked – in French of course – for some stamps. And the chap behind the counter had to ask him what country they were for, and actually asked the question in French – America? Italy? Boyfriend very proudly said England.

The streets whereh we were walking had bookshops every few paces and the reason for this soon became clear as we stumbled upon the educational heart of Paris. In a square there were students sitting around while another group of students had formed a string ensemble and were playing Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik – extremely well. It seemed an almost impromptu performance. We stopped for a moment to listen, and rest our legs.

We went to the Pantheon, and popped our head inside it for a moment. This was the burial place of, among others, Victor Hugo and Voltaire. The Pantheon itself was built as a gesture of thanks by Louis XV, so relieved was he to recover from illness in 1744. Ironically he was long dead by the time it was completed, and shortly after its completion it became a temple to the Revolution. It has been reconsecrated twice but is now a state monument.

 

 

Part of the reason we had come to this part of the city was that there was a basement 'cave' restaurant that Boyfriend particularly wanted me to see. It was, in the event closed, but we were able to peer through the doors and see the steps down the restaurant grotto.

With the original plan foiled, instead we settled for a café halfway down the hill which seemed to be still serving food, and had a large area outside in which to sit. The waiter bounded over to us – Boyfriend ordered two beers. Knowing that in France there is no such thing as pints and half pints (the French insisting on being metric), he ordered two large beers.

For a moment we were unsure if the waiter had understood – but then we realised he had understood perfectly, and we had in fact not understood his acknowledgement of the order – a very fast and very French ‘Oui Monsieur’.

A few minutes later he appeared carrying two glasses of beer and put them down with a flourish and yelp of excitement as if to say, 'Yippee here’s your much needed beer' It was a stein! I could barely lift it up.

The waiter was a character. Dressed in blue check dungarees and with short, fluffy blonde hair he looked like a 6 foot baby and bounced around with the same sort of energy that you would expect from a toddler. Boyfriend referred to him as Andy Pandy. From then onwards, this cafe was referred to by as Andy Pandy's.

 

 

We perused the photographs that had been taken so far on the digital camera – a small gift from me to Boyfriend, who was making considerable ingress into the capacity of the memory card. And also getting through a lot of batteries.

Anticipating a large dinner, we ordered a couple of salads for lunch. Boyfriend even managed another stein of beer, practising for the Munich beer festival a couple of weeks hence. We didn’t have dessert, but did look at the menu. It included crème caramel which was translated as 'egg pudding baked in the oven until brown', which didn’t make it sound nice.

The bouncy waiter took a photo of us and, when returning the camera, dropped it – the look on our faces for the seconds until we realised he was holding the cord must have been incredible, and rather amusing.

We sat there for a while, enjoying the rest and the late afternoon sun, soaking up the atmosphere of what could be called ‘real’ Paris, away from the tourists. The other customers were in fact all French, many of them local students. It was quiet and peaceful and romantic. At the time I nearly got quite emotional about it.

The dungareed waiter seemed to have vanished, and been replaced with a black trouserered, white shirted man who was very dour. But then emerging into view, pushing a shopping trolley, up the hill, bulging with 2 litre coca cola bottles was our man.

We wrote our postcards before getting too drunk and then decided to move on, wandering back down the hill to the river.

On the way we found a post box. Like many European post boxes, it had two slots – one for the city, and one which quite literally translated as ‘other strange places’. Into other strange places went our postcards.

 

According to our plan for the day, all that remained was to see Notre Dame and then head towards the hotel. I was very surprised that we had achieved so much already. We had walked a few miles, but as we weren’t pressing on (the heat alone prohibited that) we were stunned at the amount of ground we had covered, and the number of things we had seen.

We crossed onto Ile de la Cité – settled by Celts around 250 BC who were subsequently pushed out by the Romans. The Romans fortified the island which remained the seat of French political power until the 14^th century when Charles V moved his court to the Louvre. On this island stands Notre Dame. Much of the exterior stonework must have been replaced judging by the very different states of ageing and general decay.

 

 

Although a service was in progress, the church was open and there was no queue. The high narrow nave was suitably impressive, as well as the sombre tone due to the incense and candlelit interior.

In order to avoid too much papism being absorbed we scuttled out again.

 

 

Our next destination was a Metro station to take us to the hotel. On the way I reached into my bag to consult the map. I never heard the doorman we passed calling to us. But Boyfriend did. And turned round to see what it was about. It seemed we had dropped something. Not overly concerned, I let Boyfriend go back and see what I had accidentally pulled out of my bag. It was my passport. I realised at the time how lucky I had been and how I would have felt when I discovered its loss later on.

Having negotiated our way onto the Metro without any trouble we relaxed until it was our stop. In one moment of sub terranean semi drunken playfulness Boyfriend held the camera above his head to take a picture of the carriage behind him. The resulting shot does include a rather startled young lady in the seat behind us.

Our hotel was in Villiers. We walked from the Metro through incredible street markets, selling food that you would struggle to find in any shops in England – a meat and fish paradise, if you are really into meat and fish that is.

Once again we were managing to stray from the tourist trodden path and imbed ourselves into local life.

We found the hotel and lay down for a rest before showering and venturing out for dinner.

Boyfriend already knew where he wanted to take me for dinner – Julians in Rue de Faubourg St Denis. The potential problem with this was that the street it was in was very long, and Boyfriend couldn’t remember whereabouts along it the restaurant was.

So, aware we needed to potentially walk the length of the road, we took the Metro to a station near the bottom of Rue St Denis and walked along to the end of the required street. Eyes peeled for Julians, we made our way along the road. It was now dark. As we were walking I noticed a couple of girls hanging about. And then a couple more. On the opposite side of the road an occasional man lurked in the unlit doorways of shops that had closed for the day. At exactly the same moment Boyfriend and I realised that these were prostitutes. And the men were their pimps. There were loads of them. Every few paces. Each with their marked out spot. Some of them were chatting to their pimps, a few were talking to potential business. Most of them were young, and very few of them pretty. They were dressed in anything from jeans to incredibly short skirts and tops that did gravity defying things with their breasts. One girl had her chest lifted up to such an extent that her nipples were sticking out above where her clothes actually started.

It was interesting and strange – I am not aware of ever having seen a prostitute before, and to see so many women – many of whom would have sex that night with complete strangers whom they probably held in contempt – was a peculiar feeling.

In the middle of this street was another huge Arc. We didn’t find out what it was for, but it was just there, unlit and ignored in this semi residential/semi red light area. The streets were lined with refuse bins, so full that their overflowing contents spilled onto the ground, with kebab shops and take away pizza places every few yards and a reasonable proportion sex shops - now closed for the day.

Just beyond the Arc was Julians.

A black, smartly dressed man opened the door for us, and we went in – passing miraculously into another world. It was like something from the 1920’s. The ceiling was patterned glass which, during the day, would let in natural light. Now, in the evening, it was gently lit by a line of miniature street lamps and round globes running down the centre of the restaurant. There were hooks on the side of the lamp posts, from which hung old fashioned hats and scarves.

 

 

The tables were crammed in, red velvet seats and floor length tablecloths. The waiters were dressed in black waistcoats and bow ties, with crisp white aprons that went down to their shins. Immaculate aprons, in which you could still see the fold lines. They carried huge silver trays of food and empty plates on their shoulder. The noise of customers and service was incredible. And wonderful.

We ordered some wine and nibbled the bread and olives that were on the table.

Understanding very little of the menu, we opted for starters of Fois Gras and some terrine thing – that turned out to be something very tasty and resembled pate.

For main course I had duck (I knew what canard meant) and Boyfriend had steak. It was in fact a mini joint, succulent and bleeding. Both meals were absolutely delicious. It has been said that French cuisine is not what it used to be. Whoever thinks that should eat at Julians. The food is to die for.

Determined to do this properly, we opted for dessert. And now we really had a problem. They were all too nice. I was erring towards crème brulee, but was also a little tempted by crepes suzette. Boyfriend was torn between a chocolate tart, something that sounded like it would be chocolate cheesecake, and crepes suzette with Grand Marnier.

Fatally, he asked my opinion. I told him to pick the crepes. ‘That’s just so you can try them’, he told me. ‘No it isn’t’, I replied. ‘Well why shouldn’t I have either of the others?’ he continued. ‘Well I don’t like chocolatey puddings’ I said. And immediately wished I hadn’t. This response, it seemed, only confirmed that I wanted to eat his. What in fact I meant was that as I don’t like chocolaty desserts I wouldn’t necessarily recommend them for someone else.

But it was no good. Boyfriend had fallen about laughing. And I was also laughing to the point of tears.

He did order the crepes. They were made by the waiter on the dumb waiter behind us using a huge frying pan over a small gas flame. Once ready, the crepes were taken out of the pan, folded and put onto a plate. The juice remaining in the pan, which contained Grand Marnier, was then poured over the top, set on fire and then put down in front of Boyfriend. I immediately tried a small piece. 'Bloody Hell', I exclaimed. It was neat Grand Marnier. The French people on the table next to us giggled. They had heard me swear. They looked at Boyfriend and said ‘I hope you’re not driving tonight’.

This dessert alone would put you several times over the limit. There was no way I could have eaten it and I was feeling a little guilty that I may in some way have pressured Boyfriend into having it. However, he assured me he loved it, and did in fact devour all of it, including the strong Grand Marnier sauce.

We returned to the Metro via other streets – mainly because I needed to find a post box for our remaining postcard. Nothing to do with vast quantities of prostitution.

Back at the hotel we collapsed into a tired and drunken state of unconsciousness, aware of the 5.00am alarm due the following morning.

We had had a perfect day.

The following morning I think it is fair to say that we both felt quite rough. Primarily due to too much alcohol and not enough soft drinks during the hot preceding day.

We went downstairs where we woke the Porter, and let in the taxi driver who arrived very promptly at 5.30am – and very well turned out too.

At the airport, we checked in, breakfasted and settled down for a sleep until we needed to board the plane. The return flight was to Heathrow, and the plane was consequently much bigger.

The shy and saggy faced girl at Southampton appeared to have made some error when she allocated seats for our return journey, as Boyfriend and I had been put at opposite ends of the row,. The confusion seems to have arisen because she asked we wanted a window or aisle seat. We had replied 'window', assuming there would be one window seat and the one next to it. But in the event, we both had a window seat. I suppose it was our fault  for both saying 'Window'. So we upset the whole system by insisting on sitting together, and therefore taking other people’s seats instead - which shouldn't really have been a problem as the plane wasn't very full. But for a minute or two it got quite complicated.

We didn’t particularly need to sit together given that we both slept for the duration of the flight anyway.

Despite leaving Paris a few minutes late we arrived in London half an hour early. Middle Bro was already there, waiting to meet us.

We drove into London and parked up in an NCP car park that I had already taken the time to locate. Having changed into clean, and Ritz acceptable clothes, we walked past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge, discovering that you can’t cross this bridge in less than half an hour due to the vast numbers of people taking pictures of each other on it, with either the London Eye or Houses of Parliament as the back ground.

We arrived at the London Eye early. It looked like it would be a clear day, but was still a little hazy. So we had a coffee and shared a sandwich before joining the queue for our flight. I have been on the Eye before, on a November evening. I was impressed then. And was still impressed now. The views over London are incredible, and the sheer size and feat of engineering involved is also awe inspiring.

 

 

Once we ‘landed’ from our flight we went back over the bridge and sat in Victoria Gardens until it was time for our tour round the Houses of Parliament. Boyfriend put his head in my lap and slept. It was another baking hot day, but we were sitting in the shade of the large tree, overlooking the Thames.

 

 

At the allotted time we joined the queue for the Houses of Parliament. I had hoped the tour would also include going up Big Ben, but it seemed unlikely – and indeed it would seem that trips up Big Ben don’t appear to happen anymore, or are at least very very badly advertised.

The Houses of Parliament tour itself was very interesting. The original Palace of Westminster, dating back to the time of Edward the Confessor, burned down in 1834 leaving only Westminster Hall and the Jewel Tower. The current building was constructed from 1840, and in true Victorian style, was designed with magnificent, sumptuous processions in mind. The throne in the House of Lords is based on the Coronation Throne in neighbouring Westminster Abbey.

The wing which contains the House of Commons was in fact hit by a bomb during WW2 and Churchill commissioned a rebuild of this part of the palace.

Heading out from the central crossroads of the palace was an area that copied the St Stephen’s chapel that had once been on that site – although not actually used as a chapel after the dissolution.

The tour finished in Westminster Hall, a wonderfully preserved medieval building that had seen the trials of Thomas More and Charles 1, to name but two. It was huge, dark, cold and smelled of the wood timbers which supported the roof.
 

In the corner was the golden coach which was used for weddings and coronations.

 

 

Now running late for the Ritz, Boyfriend and I hurried out and dived down to the tube.

We went into the Ritz, having been greeted outside by a hatted and coated doorman, and once inside, were directed to Palm Court, and shown to our table.

Palm Court is pale yellow colours and the ceiling is decorated glass – like Julians – that lets in the daylight. In the corner a harpist played continual lilting music. The waiters were dressed in tails and red waistcoats. We were given the tea menu offering a choice of six teas.

The tea arrived in huge solid silver teapots, with silver tea strainers and silver tea strainer holders.

There was also a silver pot filled with hot water – more to weaken the tea as it progressively brewed than to refill the pot, although this was largely unnecessary as the pot was regularly refreshed with new tea. Also provided were Ritz emblemed things to hold the teapot handle with as it gradually warmed up from the hot tea inside.

Every detail had been considered.

A three tiered stand of food appeared. On the bottom plate were fingers of sandwiches – naturally with the crusts cut off. There was salmon, cucumber, prawn, ham, egg mayonnaise and cream cheese. There was also flavoured bread – sundried tomato and a green herb bread as well. Boyfriend and I, ravenously hungry, devoured the sandwiches with not very graceful speed. We moved rapidly onto the middle layer – shortbread, fruit cake and scones. Oh yes, on the table we had jam and clotted cream. I have no idea what flavour the jam was, but I have never had jam like it.

 

 

Halfway through our cream tea, the waiter came round to re-stock the sandwich layer. Of course we accepted his offer, determined to get our moneys worth.

So we returned to the sandwiches, and once again, polished them off. By now we were feeling a little full. We were also drinking a cup of tea every three minutes.

The top layer of the stand consisted of hugely rich cakes, a couple of which were topped with a square of chocolate on which was written Ritz London.

We managed only three of these cakes – a  mini chocolate cheesecake, and raspberry mouse topped with strawberries and raspberries, and custard layer. We couldn’t manage the mini lemon meringue, glazed peach tart or raspberry tart.

Mid way through this process Boyfriend noticed over to his left that the waiters were putting candles on a selection of cakes. On his right he noticed the head waiter signal to the harpist, whose music changed, without a break, to Happy Birthday as the waiters marched forth with their wares. It was only then that he suspected one might for him – as indeed it was. The whole room broke into applause once the birthday tune had finished and Boyfriend was momentarily embarrassed – and very surprised.

The cake was freshly made by the Ritz and was three layered, with cream and fresh mango in one layer and cream and fresh raspberries in the other. The writing on the top was nothing short of art.

 

 

The sittings at the Ritz are at 1.30. 3.30 and 5.30 and as your alloted time nears its end, you are encouraged to go. It was getting towards 3.00 and I wondered what the procedure was about asking for the bill.

The waiter, anticipating our every need, and also aware that they needed the room vacated within about 10 minutes, came round to ask if we wanted anything else. Replying in the negative, the cake stand was removed – and to my horror we were brought tiny vanilla crème brulees.

Having forced this down – it would have been rude not to – the bill was discreetly brought over, and the sordid business of paying dealt with quickly and unobtrusively.

Before leaving we used the facilities – in my case, called the Powder Room. There was mineral water and ice provided, velvet chairs and mirrors for attending to your toilet, and piles of fluffy white flannels with which to wash and dry yourself – not a hand drier or paper towel in site.

Feeling suitably replete, we made our way out – now carrying a rather fancy Ritz bag containing rather fancy Ritz cake. We left, walking past people waiting for the next sitting, and made our way back to the tube, the car and the long drive home.

After two early mornings I slept most of the way back. More worryingly, Boyfriend almost did too.

Overall we had a fantastic couple of days – Boyfriend graciously admitted it was the most memorable birthday he had ever had. He has also decided that we ought to go to Paris for his birthday every year from now on.

The weekend was in fact a double celebration – my divorce and house sale both reaching their respective conclusions. It was an ending and a beginning. And every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.

 

... in Islay and Ben Nevis

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Islay and Ben Nevis

 

It was at Christmas that Boyfriend and I discovered that not only did we both drink Laphroaig, but were also the only people we knew – other than family – who had heard of both it, and its originating island of Islay.

Back then we had tentatively decided that one day we would go to Islay. We were both Friends of Laphroaig – which meant we had a lifetime lease of one square foot of Islay land, and were entitled to annual ground rent from Laphroaig, in respect of this one square foot, of one dram of whisky - provided this was collected in person.

We had been planning to climb Ben Nevis at the end of August with my training group, but this trip was cancelled due to not having enough people to go. So we decided to do the climb ourselves try and include this in the same 4 day trip to Scotland that would take in Islay.

As I had a birthday imminent with a zero at the end, and had been making various subtle murmurs about getting a big present, Boyfriend decided that I could have an early present of a GPS device, having rather envied the one Rod had for our Bavaria trip. This is a Global Positioning System and uses satellites to locate your position with a 10 digit grid reference, which basically pinpoints your position on the globe to 1 square foot. The GPS can also direct you to a destination if you enter a grid reference to go to, or simply pan the map to find, and mark, where you want to head for. It includes an altimeter and barometer, gives details of your moving and stationery time, distance travelled and speed. It can even draw pictures of your route and height changes.

We flew from Southampton to Glasgow and collected our courtesy car – a silver Vauxhall Astra – before driving to Tarbet for the night. This was only a few miles up the road from Kennacraig port where the ferry to Islay sailed from but is reached from a long a circuitous driving route.

Quite early on we needed to cross the Erskine Bridge, which has a toll. As we had to pay to go over it, I commented that it had better be a good bridge. The drive took a couple of hours along windy roads that hugged the shore line of lochs. When going through Inverary we went passed the old jail as well as a rather spectacular castle and wished we had longer to look around.

We wound our way on, arriving at Tarbet at around 7pm. We quickly found the hotel (there awas only one street and about 8 buildings in the town) and settled in. Dinner was a high priority. As it was raining we fortified ourselves with a drink at the bar, and then headed off round the harbour to find food. On the other side of the harbour was a restaurant that we had read about – The Anchorage. Apparently the food was excellent, and feeling that we well deserved this, we went in.

 

It was a small and wonderfully cosy restaurant with very pleasant and attentive service. Boyfriend had herring with wholegrain mustard to start followed by sea bass. I started with smoked salmon served with crème fraiche and horseradish. This actually compliments the salmon remarkably well – but is probably a combination that would never normally occur to you to try. Although on the banks of Loch Fynne and therefore heavily into fish, I veered away from this for the main course to indulge in mignons of fillet beef instead. The food was indeed superb. We also had wonderfully tasty and fattening desserts. And this is how the problem began. On the back of the dessert menu was a list of available whisky.

It included several single malts we had never heard of, as well as some Islay whiskies that we had never heard of.

A small tasting session was in order. We started with the two new Islay ones – Lagavulin and Bunnahabhain. They were very different. The Lagavulin, like Laphroaig, is a south coast whisky with a very strong peat flavour. The Bunnahabhain was unbelievably smooth and gentle. Now feeling like connoisseurs, we moved on to a taster of Springbank and Talisker.

At this point we discovered that the man on the table next to us was also working his way down the list. His wife, however, didn’t like whisky at all. Between us, we then started comparing notes.

We had already had the Islay whisky Ardbeg, but decided to have some a shot anyway and, based on a recommendation from our host, Highland Park. This wasn’t even on his list, and was reputed to be the best whisky in the world. It was certainly an incredible drop, mixing the familiar warmth and kick in the back of the throat associated with whisky with a smoothness like silk. It was an Orkney whisky, and we felt a trip to the Orkneys coming on. The host, presumably with one eye on the increasing bill, was bringing bottles out of the cupboards, brushing off the dust that had settled on them as they hadn't been requested or on the menu for such a long time.

While we were still capable of reading, he produced Michael Jackson’s malt whisky companion. This man has tried every malt there is – and, judging from the picture on the cover, certainly looked like a man who had drunk a lot of whisky. He gave intimate details of each whisky, even for each age that was available.

After a few more samples of our favourites, we staggered back to the hotel where Boyfriend had the enlightened idea of a nightcap.

We went up to the room, and I woke up some time later with the lights and TV still on, and both of us lying on the bed in a state of partially undressedness.

The following morning, feeling a little worse for wear, we went down for a full Scottish breakfast. The table was wooden and rather cleverly built so that there were gaps in which starfish and shellfish had been put in Perspex. The dining room overlooked the harbour, which was being beaten by the rain.

We devoured our fried breakfast, which included the obligatory black pudding, and prepared to head off to the ferry port. Finding someone to pay was unnecessarily arduous and Boyfriend wandered all over the place trying to locate someone, anyone. Eventually a lady appeared who was willing to relieve us of some money.

As we drove to Kennagcraig it was still raining. Hard. The ferry port was tiny – not much more than a conveniently placed outcrop of land. The rain eased, and we watched the ferry approach.

 

I took my GPS onto the boat – the ferry crossing is two hours long and I decided that it would kill some time to learn how to use it. We also purchase a couple of books about Islay and its whiskies which also helped to fill the time. Despite the changeable weather the crossing was remarkably smooth and uneventful.

 

We went outside as we saw land approaching. During the crossing you can always see land, but it’s going past rather than coming to you. The ferry was going to Port Askaig which is at the top end of the island. We had decided to land at this one and return from Port Ellen on the south coast in order to force ourselves to travel across the island, rather than just park up in a distillery for the day. The arrival and departure ports was also slightly dictated by the limited sailing timetable - which was currently the more frequent summer service.

 

Having tasted Bunnahabhain the previous evening we decided to visit their distillery. We accidentally took a wrong turn and visited Caol Ila distillery instead, but corrected ourselves and moved on.

 

The Bunnahabhain distillery is in a beautiful location at the end of a tiny, windy, single track road that is only maintained so well because of the regular tanker traffic. We visited the shop and parted with vast amounts of money on a bottle of whisky as well as a few novelty products.

Islay has two ‘legs’ to the shape of the island and we decided to go down the non distillery side to Portnahaven just because it would be rude not to. The Bruichladdich distillery is part way down this road. According to our information it was no longer in production. Driving past, we saw that this information was out of date.

Beyond the distillery the road deteriorated incredibly - a clear indicator that there were no more distilleries beyond. As all that lay at the end were a couple of struggling fishing villages, for which maintaining the road was not an island priority. Islay’s population has decreased considerably, and many houses and villages contain several derelict, crumbling properties as people left to seek their fortune on the mainland. These twin villages had many such buildings. It made the quiet towns seem somehow more remote, more desolate.

On the way back we drove past cows wandering in the road and calves suckling. We decided that we would have to pop in to the Bruichladdich distillery. It was a little difficult to find the shop from where they directed us to park, but we did eventually stumble across it.

The distillery was bought several years ago by a large conglomerate that almost immediately closed it. But when they locked it up, they left all the casks of whisky there. For seven years it was mothballed. Then the local people emptied their piggy banks and bought it. The lady in the shop was married to the former - and now current - master distiller who had had a wonderful time re-discovering all the old whiskies that had been locked up for all these years.

We asked if we could sample some of the product. She gave us a 10 year old, which was very nice, and very different to the other Islay whiskies we had tried. She then said we must try the 15 year old. She was mindful of the fact that Boyfriend was driving, but still gave him a hearty helping. The 15 year old was wonderful. In support of the local distillery, we parted with yet more money as the crowds of tourists came in.

I should perhaps mention at this point that we were bunny hopping around the distilleries with the whisky drinking populations of Japan and Sweden.

I should also mention that just for fun, the whole journey was being clocked by the GPS.

We headed for Bowmore where there was a whisky shops that we wanted to visit.

There was also, of course, Bowmore distillery. As we had never tried Bowmore we only bought a miniature, just in case we didn’t like it.

 

The whisky shop turned out to be a Spar that happened to sell spirits. It was cruelly disappointing.

As it was well passed lunch time, we bought a couple of pasties and flapjacks from a local baker and wandered in the sun along the harbour eating them. But time was pressing on. Our ferry back was at 6pm and we still had three distilleries to visit.

The road from Bowmore to Port Ellen is long and straight. According to our Islay book there is a temptation is to put your foot down. However, it advises against this as the road is built on peat, and has several areas of subsidence, which seriously tests the suspension of your vehicle. As it was not our vehicle, Boyfriend thought it would be fun to see just how bouncy the road was. Let’s just say, the book was right.

There were occasional swerves to dodge sheep that had wandered into the road, but quite soon, shaken and also rather stirred, we arrived at Port Ellen and followed the road round to Laphroaig.

Our purpose here was simple. We wanted to visit our respective plots. We went into the visitor centre to claim our rental fee of a dram of whisky, and were given instructions about how to find the plots. There was also a box of national flags so that you could plant a flag on your designated spot.

The plots are in a field opposite the distillery. The basic principle is that you go to the top left hand corner of the field. This is plot 1. If you take a step back toward the distillery this is plot 2, but if you took a step into the field away from the distillery this would be plot 1001.

 

My plot was 187944. I therefore had to take 187 paces towards the distillery, followed by 944 into the field. It was not an exact science. I also ought to mention that the field has possibly never been mown and was full of knee high grass. Slightly damp grass.

The whisky drinking populations of Sweden and Japan were also wandering about the field, taking very precise steps and with very serious expressions. They were obviously more concerned than we were about getting the exact spot.

It was hot and the field was full of flies and midges. Eventually we both found what we thought were our plots. I have since discovered that Friends of Laphroaig can look on the website, put in their plot number and as if by magic an aerial photo will appear with an arrow marking the exact spot. Had we known this before it would have saved a lot of trouble. It also showed that we have planted our flags in the wrong place in the field.

 

We returned to the distillery to collect the certificates acknowledging that we had claimed our ground rent for that year, and headed off to the next distillery, Lagavulin. At this point I realised that a midge had bitten me on the forehead resulting in a large, red, hugely swollen lump which quite naturally bothered me enormously.

We arrived at Lagavulin to discover that it was closed. We felt cheated. Boyfriend was particularly disappointed as he rather liked this whisky and was hoping to avail himself of a bottle.

Thinking that we had approached distillery closing time, we hurried along to Ardbeg – the last unvisited distillery on the island. The sign outside said it was open from 10.00-4.00. It was now 4.15. We wheel span into the car park – and saw the door was open. Determined to get there before they shut we catapulted ourselves into the shop before they had time to say 'och no'. The day had been saved.

 

We drove back to Port Ellen to wait for the ferry where I also wrote out some postcards. While waiting we arranged our collection of whisky, glasses and water jugs in the car to prevent breakages. It was at this point that I wondered how exactly we would fit all this in the suitcase for the flight back. The thought had also not previously occurred to Boyfriend.

The weather had been very kind to us all day – having rained that morning, our day on Islay had been warm and sunny. As we waited for the ferry the rain started again.

 

On the ferry ride out Boyfriend photographed the three south coast distilleries from the water. We were due to drive up to Fort William as soon as we arrived back at Kennacraig. As the ferry crossing was two hours we decided to eat on the boat to both get it out of the way and save time on the onward journey. Boyfriend opted for the fresh fried fish. He had to wait for this and when it arrived, although very nice, realised that it was freshly fried rather than fresh fish.

We retired to the bar for a drink and wrote some more postcards.

The crossing went quickly and we were soon back at Kennacraig. Looking at the map to decide on the best route up to Fort William we opted for the most direct way, straight up the coast. We had also reasoned that this would be scenic. According to the GPS sunset was not due until 10.12pm so we would even get most of the journey completed in daylight.

The journey along the coast was beautiful, and did not in fact take as long as expected.

We arrived at Fort William and found our hotel. As we had changed our plans shortly before leaving for Scotland to include Ben Nevis, I had tried to find a hotel in Fort William rather last minute. Everywhere I tried was either fully booked, or could only do one of the nights that we needed. Finally one place came back with availability. It was horribly expensive, but having little other option, I accepted.

July is obviously a peak walkers month – you can never guarantee good weather in Scotland, but have a slightly better chance of it in July.

We were shown to our room which had the most enormous bed I have ever seen. There was an adjoining bathroom which had a sealed letter box on the door for reasons which Boyfriend and I could not fathom. There were also several lamps, and in order to create some ambience, we decided to turn some of them on.

The first one I tried had a switch and I assumed that one way would be off and the other way would be on. In fact, in the middle was on, but the switch wouldn’t stay in the middle. I passed the problem to Boyfriend expecting him to also struggle with this, but he turned it on without the slightest problem. And even grinned slightly at his achievement.

I then attempted the standard lamp. I turned the switch – nothing happened. Boyfriend’s grin became a slight laugh. I sighed and slumped slightly. This was an easier problem to solve – the switch at the plug was turned off.

I refused to try and create any more lamp ambience.

We ventured into town to force down a few drinks, and get our bearings for when we finished our climb up Ben Nevis. I tried to find the pub we had gone to when I last climbed Ben Nevis in October. We went to the wrong one first, but eventually got to it – it was called The Ben Nevis, which really should have been all the clues I needed.

It was here that Boyfriend discovered Lagavulin 16, and we were therefore pleased that the distillery had not been open as we might have bought a younger Lagavulin instead.

On the way back to the hotel we found where the whisky shops were, our plan being to shop first, then mountain climb as this would ensure that we weren’t being rushed for time on Ben Nevis.

We breakfasted early in order to make the most of the day, opting for a full Scottish breakfast which included both white and black pudding. We also had scones, and I had porridge while Boyfriend had cereal. Boyfriend had been reading my Monroes book the previous evening, as a result of which he had selected the route up. The chosen route was up the back of the mountain, rather than the usual ‘easy’ path up. This also had the added benefit of bagging another Monroe on the way.

We headed into town to stock up on whisky, postcards and gifts before driving to the foot of the mountain at 10.20am. We had decided to do the initial part of the walk quite briskly in order to get some time under our belts. We therefore went at an unnecessary speed up to the loch, just over 540 metres up. The walk starts at about 45m above sea level, so this was quite a pacy hike.

Once at the loch our path separated from the main track. As navigation was required for the rest of our climb, I put in the grid reference of the point where we needed to cross the river. We then headed off down the ravine, losing over a hundred metres in height which we knew we would have to make up and tried to keep our eyes off the very sharp, steep hill on the other side of the ravine. We were walking in particularly boggy terrain, boggier than usual following recent rain. The ground was covered in red moss that was beautiful but also very strange looking.

We got to the river and quickly discovered that the stones we needed to walk across were extremely slippery, not helped by our boots being very wet already and therefore having less grip than normal. Boyfriend managed to slip into the water up to his knees. We were a little further up stream than the grid reference suggested in the Monroe book for crossing. So we went downstream a bit and did in fact cross very successfully at the advised point.

Once over we both attended to calls of nature next to the stream before filling our water bottles from it. In hindsight this was probably all done in the wrong order.

I also took advantage of the stop to apply some lip gloss, a glittery one no less – not because of any particular desire to look good while mountain climbing, but because my lips were getting dry and I had forgotten to bring any lip salve to Scotland. Boyfriend laughed.

Having crossed the river, we were now faced with the very steep up on the other side of the ravine to get onto the ridge.  I put in a new grid reference and we headed up into the rain and mist.

The ground was this side was equally wet and marshy. Occasionally you could hear torrents of water passing through peat channels underneath your feet, and could sometimes even find a gap through which this could be seen. We had seen some people going up stream at the level of the river, but had seen no one else on this side of the mountain. Vast numbers had been climbing up the normal path.

 

The grassy slopes soon became rocks, which were actually easier to climb, although there was the risk of them being slippery. We both agreed to be careful and not break any ankles. Ben Nevis is a very poor mobile phone signal area. For such expeditions there should really be three people as minimum, the theory being that if you have a casualty one person can stay with the casualty while the other goes to get help. We did however have a hip flask of  Laphroaig. We decided that in the event of injury, the injured person downs the whisky, their wound is bound and they keep going – although we did also have a well stocked first aid kit with us.

At times we must have been close to the top of the cloud, as there were moments when it was still misty, but also sunny at the same time. A very curious, ethereal light. We got to the grid reference which indicated that we were now on the ridge, and I put in the reference for the top of the first Monroe.

The mist was very thick in places, so I used the compass to confirm our direction of travel. We then picked a visual point a few metres ahead, go to that and then repeated the process. We were aware that on either side of us were increasingly high and sheer drops and that confident navigation was vital.

The GPS is better than a normal compass in one major area. You can quite easily set a bearing on a normal compass. However, if you stray off the direction of travel, even slightly, the bearing given by the compass immediately loses accuracy.

Furthermore, you need to be very sure about where you are on the map in order to get an accurate in the first place. With the mist obscuring your view, this can be very hard to do. The GPS gives you a 10 digit grid reference so you can find exactly where you are on a map. Also, as the altimeter gives your height, you can locate yourself quite well up the contour lines. Once you have put into the GPS the grid reference you want to go to, the compass will indicate your direction. But with the GPS if you do move away from the straight line between the two points, the compass will re-adjust to take you to the destination grid reference as the device always knows exactly where you are currently are, as well as where you want to go and can therefore constantly re-adjust your direction of travel.

Boyfriend and I were very good at continually checking the direction given by the compass, and sticking to that. One of the major reasons for people getting lost is that they don’t believe the compass, and go in another direction.

As we headed up towards our first Monroe the mist lifted for a few minutes showing us the path ahead. It was up hill, but with quite a sheer drop down one side. On we went.

 

We had bought a couple of pies in Fort William and planned to have a pie on the summit of each Monroe. The hill we were climbing was one of those disheartening ones that has several false summits. We got to a cairn and stone shelter that we were sure marked the top of the Monroe, but on checking the altimeter, we were 100m short. We settled in the shelter, and ate one of the pies anyway, needing a change from jelly babies before heading onwards and upwards.

Now and then we saw the slightest suspicion of a path, which we would follow until it ran out. There were also occasional cairns, which helped to confirm that we were going the right way. I headed towards one of them only realising at the last minute that it indicated the edge, and that in fact we needed to take a sharp right hand turn to stay on the ridge.

We did at last reach our Monroe and rewarded ourselves with a sip of Laphroaig.

 

It was slightly unclear where the onward path was. We were on the top of a spiky mountain. All around were steep down hills. However, the compass ruled, and we also saw another slight hint of path and headed down it.

Here the ridge really did start to become a ridge. Although the ridge was reasonably wide, the bit that could actually be walked/climbed over was considerably narrower.

We were losing more and more height, knowing full well that this implied an unpleasant amount of steepness at some point in the future in order to get up Ben Nevis.

 

The ridge obviously became too impossible to continue over the top, and the path directed us onto the outside edge of the mountain. This was an incredibly dangerous part of the climb, and it was probably a good thing that the valley below us was full of mist. The slope was very steep and there was no path. We had to clamber along over slippery grass and equally slippery boulders. We kept heading round them, aware that any slip down the hill could be very serious.

We also had no idea where the ‘path’ was meant to get back onto the top of the ridge. As were taking the alternative way up Ben Nevis there is no clear path either on the ground or marked on the map. Eventually we did come back round onto the top of the ridge and saw on the route ahead a very narrow, sheer sided ridge linking our current mountain to Ben Nevis. For a moment we were unsure if that was where we were heading, but soon realised that was going to be the way.

 

This ridge was only a couple of metres wide with the ‘usable’ part very narrow. Nor was it flat on top, but quite bouldery, and we needed to clamber across it was best we could. Again, the mist frequently lifted affording us a clear view of the mountains, and drops around us. We sat in the middle of the ridge and ate our other pie being much in need of sustenance.

 

We were soon over the ridge and on the back of Ben Nevis. According to the GPS, the summit was not far away. It was however, 200m up. And the way ahead was a wall of huge boulders. We crab-climbed up them and had gone some way when I noticed that there was a path next to us. We needn’t have been excited, as this soon petered out again. There were way occasional poles as well, and we followed those thinking they might also indicate the way. We passed a pole on the edge with a notice to say that there were abseil poles running down the mountain at that point.

The mist was thick, and again we were working from the GPS, trying to locate a visual point to head towards. The climb was steep and we were tired. The boulders were huge, as were the gaps between them so care was required to ensure that we didn’t break any bones.

 

At 6.30pm we got to the top. I have been up Ben Nevis before, but was quite disorientated about where the summit point was from where we stood. The mist was very thick so you couldn’t simply have a look. We could hear voices, so walked towards the sound of them and there indeed was the summit, where we had another sip of Laphroaig.

 

We mooched around for a few minutes, and then began the long walk back down the main path which soon started making our knees ache. The GPS was drawing us a picture of the route we had taken, and showed us when we reached the point at which we had left the main path. There were a number of people still going up the mountain as we came down.

We filled up the water bottles again at one of the many steams going down the mountain, and eventually got back to the car at 8.20pm. Fortunately we had not lost the car key on route. We were very achy.

We had been walking for 6.5 hours, stationary for 3.5 hours, climbed a total of 1840m and travelled over 12 miles.

We returned to the hotel and showered, stretched, and changed before heading into town for some much needed dinner. This was a curry, mainly because there was virtually no one serving food by time we got into town. It was perhaps not the best move given the effects the black puddings had already had on our systems.

While we were there two chaps came in and were given a table next to the window. The manager closed the blinds – it seems that he does that at about this time every evening. One of the men opened it again. The manager came over and closed it again. The customer then said that if the blind was going to be closed, then he would go. He muttered various things about shutting out God’s daylight. I wasn’t sure that God’s creations would be a huge priority to a Muslim owner, but that was beside the point given that very little of the Omnipotent’s daylight was left.

Anyway, he did indeed leave the restaurant meaning his friend rather reluctantly had to aswell.

Virtually asleep, we finished our meal and went back to the hotel. I packed as much as possible that evening. It was quite a struggle to get all the whisky and glasses into the suitcase in such a way that would ensure no breakages. The suitcase was certainly a lot heavier now.

The next day we drove the long drive back down to Glasgow, through the highlands, and passed Loch Lomond. At Glasgow airport our suitcase got a special ‘heavy’ label which included an image of a man with a bad back, by way of extra warning.

We arrived back at Southampton airport where Boyfriend could not find his car park ticket. I remembered Bavaria, but fortunately, after emptying our luggage we did locate it.

We had enjoyed it so much that we intended return each year to do a few more Monroes.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.