Furious Rivers in Fluted Gorges

It had rained heavily overnight, water poured off the crags and mist lurked over a river that looked furious at being constrained by its gorge walls. Towards the end of our guide’s spiel about rafting, he got to the bit about capsizing. ‘Conditions are difficult today’ [it was too dangerous for hydrospeed] ‘and we will go straight into the rapid. We’ll have no time to practise. You must pay attention and paddle strongly if I tell you. If we capsize I cannot save you all. I will save the children and perhaps the women....’

We – our family of four – had to paddle furiously through each of the rapids as the river tried to throw itself at us, spun us and up-end the inflatable but in the calmer stretches we gazed up to the mountain tops and marvelled at the Boka waterfall that seems to just issue directly from the living rock.

This was our second day based in Kobarid. The previous day we’d donned wetsuits and followed the amiable Dejan (from www.xpoint.si) up a long scramble through cyclamen-dotted beech forest, our feet disturbing fallen leaves and brought the rich smell of moulder to our nostrils. We were breathing hard by the time we reached the spot where we could begin our first taste of canyoning. Much of Slovenia is carved out of limestone, and although the rocks seem immovable, they are slowly dissolving. There are chutes and slides where the limestone is water-smoothed which are better than any swimming pool flume.

The idea of the activity is to slide, slither and scramble along in the course of a river, down at the level of dippers and pond-skaters. In places there are cliffs to leap off. The delight is that the guide knows the terrain intimately so he knows which inviting green pools are deep enough for a high-dive and which you can slide headfirst into. Wetsuits kept us warm as well as buoyant so often family members bobbed to the surface feet first after some head-first plunges or dare-devil jumps. Our descent – which was said to be a good one for cannoning virgins – ended in a 5m drop through a little waterfall. Alarmingly a guide just ahead of us kissed the rock goodbye before he launched himself over the edge. My confidence was further undermined by a comment from the guide that people sometimes break their backs on these long plunges. I decided not to look before my turn. At the bottom – invigorated as I waded out of a puddle that was barely waist-deep – Dejan said, ‘Even Mummy did it!’

Lake Bled, a centre for tourism and rowing

The landscape is superb throughout the country with the meadows peppered with cornflowers and other lovely plants; even the steepest ravines are covered in trees. There are plenty of castles and other signs of the country’s tumultuous past. The extreme north-west of Slovenia and in particular the upper Soča Valley is spectacular and varied. There’s scope for kayaking, hydrospeed, paragliding, horse-riding and fine forest walks. More sedate canoeing is possible on the tranquil Bohinj Lake where mountain bikes are also on offer and there are views of the country’s highest peak – Triglav. Or you can chill in one of many excellent open air restaurants overlooking Lake Bled, where the turquoise water is so clear you feel you could reach in and touch the fish. Menus were interesting. It took us a while to work out that Malice = Snacks in Slovene and we’re still unsure whether we should have tried the young horse cheek or morels and eggs. ‘Waiter, do you have morels?’

Slovenia is small but diverse and there is plenty to do while based in the capital. Ljubljana itself is a beautiful open city with excellent dining and a lively nightlife. We did a day trip to board the underground train (at 27€) that goes deep into the Postojnska Cave system (www.turizem-kras.si); this is home to the unique blind white cave salamander that lives to 100 and can fast for several years. It never really grows up but its whole life looks like an overgrown bleached newt tadpole. My sons concluded that these creatures needed to get out more.

Something Massive

I suspected something was happening. There were notices on the cycle racks outside the Co-op on Mill Road saying that bicycle parking was been suspended for the day. Something massive about to happen in Cambridge...

Mill Road, Cambridge

Cambridge can feel like one big cosmopolitan village sometimes, and today – perched out on the rim of the bay window of my surgery – it certainly felt friendly and comfortable. The police on motorbikes fired up their sirens mainly to delight the children and offered high-fives to the little-‘uns lining the street. And it was unbelievable just how many people I recognised amongst the throng.  



The Wilds of East Anglia

Driving ESE from Cambridge last night, heading through that corner of East Anglia where you randomly pass in and out and in again of three counties, I glimpsed something ahead on the dark horizon. It radiated a warm glow. The skies were almost clear after the day’s terrific rainstorms. The only clouds were misty streaks.

Cottages, trees and hedgerows obscured the glow, and I wondered if it had been some trick of reflected light from within my car. Then I caught another glimpse. This time I could see it was an orb, easily three times the size of the full moon.

I thought of nuclear powerplants, early warning installations or even some ghastly illuminated erection to celebrate the Olympics. The next time I saw it, I made out the mottling of craters of a not-quite full moon glowing a gorgeous orange as it rose with astonishing beauty to light up the night.

Then on the River Cam this morning, the rain that we’ve all cursed so long and loud has given life to the creatures we share this planet with. It’s cleared the water so that terns come spear-fishing, plunging down from on high. Damsel-flies of jewel-brilliant emerald and sapphire cavorted and dipped along the luxuriant grassy banks doing amazing nuptial dances, in-flight insemination, while a humourless sentinel heron batted not an eye.

Live shows are always more atmospheric than anything recorded but am I alone in thinking that nature in all its glory still surpasses anything that TV or the film industry can show us?

Sunset over the Fens at Welney

Spinning and slashing

The slashing is going really well. My Nepal memoir which started out with a wordcount of 141,000 is now down below 130k. We did, sadly, decide to cut out an entire trek which seemed harsh, especially as it means removing staring roles by close friends, but much of the cutting has been through trimming unnecessary verbiage and over-writing. The great thing about having slimmed the book down is that I've managed to sneak in a little new material and even a splendid waxed moustache, owned by a retired Gurkha Regimental Sergeant-major.

There is an unconventional forward, we'll print some of the many reviews and there will be colour photographs too. I'm also pleased that we'll have Nepali translations of the chapter titles in the attractive Devanagari script. So we're getting closer to sending the whole thing off to the printers. The latest big big challenge is the blurb to go on the back cover - something you might imagine your could dash off in two minutes. But how to condense the essence of hundreds of thousands of words, several life events, six years in two continents... into a mere 100 words. Yes indeed how? We have been batting ideas and many versions around and are still not happy with the result.

A slightly tidier-than-usual desk and playing with Nepali lettering

English wildlife

I've been out on the Cam a lot recently - rowing - in the lead up to the annual 'bumping' races. I love the glimpses we get of our wildlife during these several-times-a-week outings. Last night on the stretch of river that passes underneath the busy A14 trunk road, I caught the silhouette of a hunter... flat-faced profile, absolutely silent flight... clearly working the rough ground at the road edges and the embankment for the bridge. The barn owl rose up effortlessly and glided across the setting sun, to plunge into scrubby vegetation and out of sight -- before our cox noticed I wasn't concentrating.

About a week ago we were turning our 'eight' around down by Bait's Bite Lock while mallards laughed at our ineptitude. Movement drew my attention to a very different river-user. Their numbers are in decline in Britain partly because so many of Britain’s rivers are being trained and contained with concrete. I'd already guessed though that there must be a reasonable population of them locally because in several stretches of the river -- in the jungly area opposite the Cambridge Museum of Technology and also along the water meadows near Fen Ditton -- the river bank is pock-marked with their burrows.

The evening sun made his fur look an attractive chestnut-colour, despite a recent dunking in a turbid, fast-flowing river. He had a rounded face that made him look so much more handsome that other rodents, and I could see why friends with a passion for conservation feel it is worth fighting to conserve these water voles. He was shy and soon bolted for cover but it was a lovely encounter, even if this time I earned a stern -- if deserved -- reprimand from our cox for allowing my attention to wander outside the boat. It is fortunate someone was concentrating. We were broadside to the flow. We weren't far from the lock, the river was in spate and we wouldn't have been the first eight to get into trouble by being washed onto the weir.

The Power of Words

I’d perhaps almost forgotten just how powerful words can be, but I had a reminder at the end of last month. I was invited by a good friend to give a talk in the fine market town of Hadleigh in Suffolk. The subject was the Crocodile Caves expeditions to Madagascar. It is quite a while since I revisited those experiences, and this time thought I’d read a couple of snippets from LEMURS OF THE LOST WORLD. One was light-hearted, capturing the Malagasy capacity of games and laughter, while the second was the sting in the tail. Reading it out loud brought back some really nasty feelings of an agonising 36 hours, and I was surprised just how powerfully the emotions affected me. I’ve heard it said that people don’t remember pain – maybe that’s true, unless you write about it.

You’ll be pleased to discover that the scorpion didn’t kill me although the sensation in my stung finger STILL isn’t normal. I also survived the experience of the reading and, more importantly, so did my audience. What made them squirm more, in fact, was a story contributed by Claire Verlander who was in the assembled company; she described an unfortunate ring-tailed lemur being swallowed by a boa constrictor. The saddest part was that the victim was a mother, and her infant was left screaming in the treetops.

This weekend I have returned to editing A GLIMPSE OF ETERNAL SNOWS. My new editor at Bradt is helping me to tighten the original writing a bit – reducing word-count is almost always A GOOD THING but this too is a painful process. A local GP colleague who is also an author, Mary Selby (aka Joanna Bell) describes the process as like scooping teeth out with a spoon. It really hurts. So far I’ve managed to cut 6500 words from what was a 141,000 word book, but I suspect more must go. The problem is that this memoir covers our years in Nepal and this was the time when I’ve experienced the very best as well as the very lowest points in my life. The challenge as an author though is to entertain my readers. Glimpse is a joyous book and what I’m working towards is making it even more uplifting than the original read.

Keepsake book

Long before I had any pretentions about getting published I kept a book of quotes that amused and inspired me and - in searching out some moving prose to celebrate a life - I opened this book for the first time in many years.

This is how I rediscovered the wonderful lilting Norman MacCaig (1910 - 1996)....

Sounds of the Day

When a clatter came,

it was horses crossing the ford.

When the air creaked, it was a lapwing

a lapwing seeing us off the premises

of its private marsh. A snuffling puff

ten yards from the boat was the tide blocking and

unblocking a hole in the rock.

When the door

scraped shut, it was the end

of all the sounds there are.

You left me

beside the quietest fire in the world.

I thought I was hurt in my pride only,

forgetting that

when you plunge your hand in freezing water,

you feel

a bangle of ice round your wrist

before the whole hand goes numb.