Over the Pyrenees

          It was near the end of September. Night was falling in the tiny Navarran town of Olite and I was running on nervous energy. Ahead of us, just fifty metres down an impossibly narrow street, lay our destination, the Casa Zanito. The way was, however, blocked by a phalanx of voluble local women and their children, none of whom showed the slightest desire to get out of the way. One or two wagged their fingers at us. Their disapproval and a total lack of traffic convinced me to leave the confines of the old town, and I reversed ignominiously through an arch in the town wall. 

          After an inconclusive chat with a friendly local man, who even offered to carry our luggage, I illegally stationed the car near the wall and walked to the hotel. Upstairs, through a spacious and elegant restaurant of muted lights, polished wood floors and white tablecloths I found the receptionist, a laid-back ginger-haired man of about thirty. He explained in Spanish that I might park behind the castle. And so, below a tree on the edge of Olite, our memorable journey ended.

Carcassonne

          It had begun eight hours earlier in the storied French city of Carcassonne. The sun was out, it was pushing thirty degrees, and the traffic was fairly light as we drove north west towards Toulouse. As we made our way further west a shadowy ridge of high mountains came into view to the south: the majestic Pyrenees. This jagged and breathtaking wall of peaks became more perceptible as we neared Pau, where we left the autoroute and changed direction towards Spain.

          A little beyond Oloron-Sainte-Marie, the last settlement of consequence on the French side of the border, we turned off the main route south and entered a landscape of trees and meadows. Here livestock was more prevalent than humans, and cars and houses were a rare sight. I felt the excitement quickening within me as the road steepened then transformed into a series of hairpin bends, the engine of my Alfa Romeo screaming as I dropped to first gear to ascend.

          We stopped briefly in a high valley, where my wife went in search of mushrooms, returning with blackberries. It was wonderfully tranquil, the only sounds coming from the birds and the rocky brook beside the road. Eventually we attained the forlorn summit of the Col de la Pierre St Martin, 1760 metres above sea level. No sign of a border was evident, nor were there any people, but we did encounter a herd of mountain cows and calves spread out across the pass. I had paranoid visions of them charging us, so I pulled in close to the low stone parapet which marked the cliff edge, cut the engine, and listened to the clanging of their bells as they ambled by.

          Signs in Spanish revealed that we had exited France, and we drove into Navarre, the mountainous terrain quickly giving way to softer valleys. Pedestrians outnumbered motorists as we continued on the deserted roads of the Valle de Roncal, where white buildings with sloping brown and orange roofs could be seen alongside the River Esca. After an empty stretch of new and incomplete motorway we turned south for a final time and were tailgated, and overtaken, several times prior to arriving in Olite, my first real taste of Spanish driving.

Roncal

           It was eight thirty; time to eat. We walked through the labyrinth of corridors to the restaurant. The receptionist, who doubled as a waiter, smiled at me.

          “Una mesa para dos”, I said.

         Seeing that I hadn’t caught his answer, he added in English, “From nine”.

          It was my turn to smile. We had definitely arrived in Spain.

   

A Crossing

     Santander looked better by night, from the deck of our departing ferry. We had explored the city in the sultry afternoon, venturing beyond the waterfront, climbing many steps into the down-at-heel neighbourhoods up the hill, an exhausting and sweaty endeavour. Now it was cooler and the streets and buildings were illuminated, as were the striking towers and gables of the Palacio de la Magdalena, which marked the mouth of the bay.

     My fellow passengers on this twenty hour crossing with Brittany Ferries were overwhelmingly English, retired and white. An assortment of accents could be heard: Sussex, Yorkshire, West Country. A minority might be described as 'posh'. Conversations were struck up by strangers, the result of proximity and shared nationality. Some concerned the most mundane of topics: pensions, careers in the civil service, health care. Sometimes a soupcon of petty one-upmanship was detectable. ‘Oh, but you did miss a wonderful summer’, or ‘You didn’t go to Salamanca? It was be-yoo-tiful’.  

     A sizeable minority of bikers was also on board, as well as a smattering of Spaniards, some of whom were in their twenties and seemed to have crammed everything they owned into their cars; presumably they hoped to find work in the UK. I saw a total of two Asians, one of whom was my Chinese wife.

     An hour after we left port I walked out on deck once again. Lights were visible along portions of the shore, the largest cluster indicating what I assumed was Santander. I was mesmerised by a thunderstorm in the distance, which pierced the black sky with brilliant flashes of lightning. The storm seemed to be in the mountains, for once or twice I discerned jagged silhouettes in the light. Thunderclaps were faintly audible above the sounds of the ferry. All around the ship was darkness and my mind turned to the fear that must engulf those who find themselves in the open water on such nights.

     Few people were outside to share my wonder at this awesome display. The majority were drinking in the bar or enjoying meals served by the French crew, who appeared determined to use English even when addressed in their own language. It was only the next day that the decks became cluttered with passengers. They stared listlessly at the sea, read paperbacks or Kindles, or just sipped wine. A handful of die-hard sun worshippers stood out; they had removed their shirts and were using this last chance to make their leathery chests just that little bit browner.

     The great expanse of the sea extended to the horizon, with rare interruptions provided by the occasional fishing boat, seagulls, lighthouses and land. At last, after almost twenty hours, there was a dim suggestion of land to the north. Three grey ships of the Royal Navy were manoeuvring offshore, and the landmarks of Plymouth came into view: tower blocks and a big wheel. I had spent well over half the trip supine, sometimes beset by waves of nausea, but I was in no doubt I would do it again. This was the way to travel. 

Practicalities 

We paid 319 pounds for a one-way ticket from Santander to Plymouth; our four-berth 'outside' cabin was included in the price. Finding the ferry terminal in Santander is simple: head for the city centre then follow the signs for 'ferry'. The service runs from March to October. 

Ben Hope

“Are you lost?”

               The man who asked me this question was, I guess, in his late forties or fifties. He had a barely comprehensible accent that sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scottish, and was supping bottles of Budweiser with a couple of friends. I was sitting to his left at the bar, nursing a pint of Red MacGregor, which wasn’t cold enough. It was a Friday night, and I’d just arrived in the remote coastal village of Tongue after a six hour drive from Edinburgh.

               “No, I’m checking the route for tomorrow”, I said, brandishing my walking map.

               “Where you goin’?”

               “Ben Hope in the morning and somewhere else after that.”

               “Ben Hope?” He nodded and returned to his conversation with his companions. 

Ben Hope

               Yes, I was going to climb Ben Hope, Scotland’s northernmost munro, which rises to a height of 927 metres south west of Tongue. I had first seen this peak mentioned in my Lonely Planet Scotland guide many years before. There was a sense of romance about it: an isolated mountain located deep in the far north, dominating its desolate surroundings. The emptiness of this part of the country had indeed made a strong impression on me that Friday evening, as I drove the final 35 miles north along a single-track road through a dramatic landscape of stark moorland. I passed unknown mountains and lochs as the light failed, with the most striking sight of all coming at the end of my journey: Ben Loyal, whose startling shape provides a fabulous backdrop to tiny Tongue.

               The massive, craggy bulk of Ben Hope was unmistakable as I drove over early the following morning. The mountain rose awesomely to my left, sometimes partially sheathed by cloud, at other moments almost perfectly visible. I turned onto a single-track road beside beautiful Loch Hope, stones rattling against the bottom of my car as I drove slowly south along its eastern shores. Twice I stopped to check I hadn’t gone too far, before an obvious parking place finally appeared before me and I saw a sign that said “Way Up Ben Hope”. By now the sky was quite clear and the air mild.

               Commencing my walk, I was almost instantaneously attacked by a colony of midges, which left me regretting my decision to forego the use of repellent. They homed in on my calves, hair, neck and ears as I walked uphill, following a steep and rocky path that doubled as a watercourse, indicating there had been a lot of rain recently. As I ascended further the path alternated between rocks and soft, peaty turf, and the terrain was at some points so sodden that my boot sank a foot into the ground. 

Waterfall

               Forty five minutes into my hike I was feeling shattered and several times I was obliged to stop for a few seconds. The gradient was mostly unrelenting, although the ground at least became firmer as I got higher. The peaks around me gave an indication of the considerable height I had reached, but it was scant consolation as I struggled to deal with the sharp incline. At one point it even occurred to me that I would really like to lie down for a while. On another occasion I thought I was in danger of toppling over as I turned round and saw dizzily that I was a long way up a pretty steep mountain. Cairns began to appear above me like mirages. I knew they couldn’t mark the summit, because several surrounding mountains still loomed above me, and so it proved. At last, after about an hour and a half, I attained the ridge that led to the top and descried a triangulation pillar to my left. A staggering view opened up ahead of me: innumerable lochans, magnificent Ben Loyal to the east and the shimmering water of the Kyle of Tongue. I felt truly elated, and quickly covered the rock-strewn ground between me and my objective. It had taken an hour and fifty minutes, and I had not seen a single walker. 

 

The view over to Ben Loyal

               The wide summit plateau provided a sweeping vista, which I enjoyed for about two minutes before heading back down. Foolishly I opted to avoid the ridge, which looked wearingly long, and headed for the gentle valley between Ben Hope and Creag Riabhach, where I found myself walking over boggy terrain covered with heather, moss and long grass. No path was discernible, although I did catch sight of the odd gaping hole in the ground. The wave of euphoria that had swept over me as I neared and then attained the top of the mountain vanished as I dragged myself along the banks of a watercourse. I cursed myself for having bothered to tackle the mountain. After some more miserable scrambling I eventually rediscovered the path and soon reached the bottom. 

The summit of Ben Hope

               Having made it down without injuring myself my mood swung completely the other way. Now it all seemed worth it. I recalled the sense of exhilaration I had experienced when I saw the top of the mountain, and the thrill of achieving my goal. I’m fairly sure, however, that I’ll never go back.

         
Practicalities:

Accommodation: Ben Loyal Hotel, Tongue. Single rooms start at 40 pounds, doubles cost 90 or more, depending on the season. There is an awesome view of Ben Loyal from behind the hotel. 

Restaurant: Ben Loyal Hotel. Try the very substantial fish and chips: when I ordered it the haddock didn't fit on the plate.  

Getting to Tongue: The nearest train station is in Thurso, 43 miles away. To put it another way, you should go by car. 

              

The Lama Temple

    
       Beijing has to be one of the world's most stressful cities. Its sheer size can be overwhelming, while the volume of people and traffic defies belief. Crossing one of the city’s immense avenues amounts to taking a leap of faith: you need to look in about eight different directions, and there’s a fair chance the drivers won’t stop when the light turns red. Taking the subway, while preferable to a taxi ride, can involve a no-holds barred battle to get on and off the train. Shoving your way past old women appears to be perfectly acceptable behaviour.

       In light of the above, first-timers may well feel there is no escape from

Yonghe Gate Hall

the mind-blowing stress that pervades life in China's capital. Happily, this is not the case, for those seeking a respite can head to the Lama Temple. 

          This famous lamasery is located in the city centre, close to Yonghegong Station, which sits on subway lines 2 and 5. The subway ride there will set you back just 2 RMB (roughly 20 pence). Once outside the station, the route to the temple takes you along a street which is an experience in itself. On either side of the road there are countless tiny shops where you can purchase incense sticks, miniature Buddhas, bead necklaces and other curios. Shabby street vendors peddle similar items, and you may well encounter someone playing the erhu, a two-stringed traditional instrument.

          Having paid 25 RMB for your ticket, you enter the temple grounds through a multi-coloured memorial gate, replete with images of yellow dragons. Beyond lies an avenue bordered by gingko trees, sadly denuded in winter, but yellow and strikingly beautiful in autumn. A handsome second gate (the Zhaotai Gate) is situated at the end of the avenue. Its vermilion walls are surmounted by a sloping roof of cylindrical yellow tiles; with the passage of time the paint is flaking away, leaving patches of grey. Among the wonderfully detailed mythical creatures that adorn the ridges of the roof are phoenixes and dragons. These can be seen on buildings throughout the temple complex.

          Beyond the Zhaotai gate lie dim prayer halls housing Buddhas and other fascinating statues, including one beaming, bald-headed figure known as the Cloth-bag Monk. The visitor can also enjoy peaceful courtyards where the air is redolent with burning incense and the flagstones are sprinkled with

Zhaotai Gate

ash. Shaven-headed monks in brown robes can be seen sweeping the floors, and you can even hear the chirruping of birds in the trees.

      There are drum and bell towers, handsome cypress trees, bamboo gardens, copper lions, and a five hundred year old bell. If you are willing to part with 10 RMB, the bell will be struck three times, supposedly bringing you good luck. Most famously of all, at the far end of the temple complex soars the giant, eighteen metre high statue of Maitreya, or Future Buddha, which was carved from a single piece of sandalwood. 

 

Copper cooking vessel

         Another curiosity to look out for is an ornate and oversized copper cooking vessel, fashioned in the 18^th century, which features carvings of dragons and devouring lions, and stands amid a sea of coins thrown by visitors in search of good fortune. (A message in Chinese instructs people to refrain from such behaviour, but no one batted an eyelid when a young couple chucked some silver at it during my last visit.)

          While the Lama Temple is not Beijing’s greatest tourist draw, it is nevertheless my favourite place in China’s capital.  A couple of hours inside its walls can restore your faith in humanity, and you may even forget you're in one of the world's most colossal and over-populated metropilises. 

 Practicalities: 

Accommodation: I've never stayed in a hotel in Beijing. 

Restaurants: The food in Beijing is the best I've ever had. My favourite place is Yu Xiang Ren Jia in Parkson department store, which serves explosively flavoursome Sichuan cuisine. The oil-boiled fish, Chongqing style chicken and fish fragrant pork are highlights. Parkson is right next to Fu Xing Men subway station, which is 11 stops from Yonghegong station on line 2. 

Getting to the Lama Temple: There's only one thing for it: take the subway. A ticket costs next to nothing (2 RMB) and while it's often crowded, it beats a taxi ride.