High attitude!

Less energetic than the ascent of the volvano, but still exacting, were the ten days we spent in Lauca National Park and then Bolivia's salt flats, both at around 3-4000 metres. Altitude sickness is not great - it feels like a bad hangover without the memory loss or the fun. It makes walking particularly hard work because you get breathless and dizzy, but even so, we saw tons of wildlife including flamingoes, llamas, alpacas, vicunyas and an andean fox, albeit often from the comfort of a 4x4.

Many silly photos were snapped during our 3 days at the Salar de Uyuni (salt lakes) in the south of Bolivia. The area is pure white and covers a land mass the size of Belgium. It is 120m deep at the deepest point. We also visited some amazing lagunas (lakes) full of flamingos. One was a deep, deep red. The highest point of the journey was 5000m and on the second night we were 4300m above sea level. We have just come to terms with the high altitude. We shared the tour with 4 young Irish girls, a young Scots couple, 2 blokes from south London (with the surname MacDonald!!) a Belgium couple and an Aussie. Everyone was great fun. All the youngsters got very drunk on the last night on 7% Bolivian beer called Special... sorry Bock, and a bottle of Bolivian grape brandy. We all had to get up at 5am the following day. There were one or two sore heads, believe you me.
On our last night in Uyuni we had a wee bit of a scary adventure in the local cemetary. To be exact, we got locked in behind 10m high walls and spiked gates!
We had taken an early evening walk to build up an appetite for some more beef, egg and chips and came across a large cemetary at the edge of town. There were families outside and inside there were about 3 people doing various things around the site. A young lad at the gate warned us not to take photos. Or so we thought...
Very soon we were completely absorbed in the various styles and decorations of the graves. This contrasted between elaborate family graves to graves of broken concrete with only a crude metal cross to mark the spot. Behind us the sun was setting and the place was becoming increasingly eerie and quiet. We made our way to the gates, noticing 2 dogs that weren´t there when we entered, and, to our horror, the gates (all of them) were closed and padlocked. The place was deserted. A Bolivian Hammer Horror! Looking around we found a plank of wood that we propped between a bench and the wall. Getting up was easy but getting down... Me, the big lump, scraped my belly and arms clambering over the wall and dropping over the other side. Ouch! Kathy, the athletic Jemima Bond, skipped on to the wall and cleared the other side with a dramatic double somersault - completing the routine with a triple toe salco to finish. Dix point!!!
Then we scarpered. Thankfully, the dogs were as big lumps as myself.

Bolivian tasty treats include the biggest ice-creams we've ever eaten, (yes that does include Italy) which Bolivians like for breakfast, llama steak (chewy but good) and, the biggest revelation of all: quinoa. Just because Gillian McKeith recommends it, I had always assumed it was revolting. Not so. The impact of this diet is particularly obvious in Bolivia. Women and men alike here are chubby. There is no other word for it. Kids are little butterballs and it's not unusual to see them chomping their way through an entire packet of chocolate biscuits, usually given to them by their parents to distract them. (Incidentally, I find the same trick works well with Athole on long bus journeys, of which there are plenty.) Women also like to layer themselves in numerous quantities of skirts, petticoats, woolly jumpers, aprons, cardigans, coats, tights, legwarmers (I kid you not), blankets and hats - so much so that getting down the aisle of a bus can become quite an operation. We passed a strip club today and wondered how many hours it took to get down to just their undies?
High altitude also burns extra calories, or at least that's what I'm hoping. La Paz is the highest capital in the world at 4,000 metres above sea level and as a result, its footie teams are made of iron. (Incidentally, the Scottish cyclist Chris Hoy trains here for the same reasons. Wonder if he eats ice-cream for brekkie.) We have yet to see a match live, but we watched one in the pub in Chile, which was almost as exciting, although the screen was hard to see for the fog of cigarette smoke. (Remember that?) Footie is definitely the first sport in South America, but snogging comes a close second. Everywhere you turn there are couples, not just teenagers mind but middle-aged ones too, absorbed in the close examination of each other's face in public. How they manage to find anything through the layers of clothes is another matter.

Touching the volcano: Villarica

Villarica is in the Lake District of Chile; lots of beautiful fishing lakes surrounded by snow capped volcanos and treks through lush wooded forests. It has a very European feel and the hostel we stayed in was run by a Swiss German couple. Claudia and Beat opened the Torre Suisse after touring the world for 2 and a half years on bicycles. Yep, my bum hurts too thinking about it. They really did it the hard way and there is some incredible photo evidence of them around the world posing alongside their bikes. They have been in Villarica now for 12 years. Claudia is quite a character. She tends to shout nicely at you and stomps purposefully around the place like a wound up toy. She prepares homemade yogurt, homemade bread and jam for breakfast. It is the best we have had in South America. They even have a genuine cuckoo clock on the wall. She is lovely, if a little scary. One night we asked her if she would like to join us for some wine. "No, no... thank you!" She barked in clipped English. "If I drink the red wine then I dancing!" I believe it!
Also at the hostel was a retired American guy called Frank who disappears from his home in Ohio to Argentina for about 7 months every year to go fishing. He had a wiley old hermit charm about him. He has spent his life climbing volcanoes and working as a ski instructor. These days he enjoys the simple joys of fishing. When he found out our Scottish roots, he cited Hamish McInnes as a personal hero and one óf the original hard men of ice climbing´, and of the Spey river as the spiritual home of fly fishing.

Dominating the landscape is the active Villarica Volcano. Its height is just under 3000m and it last erupted in 1984. We set out to conquer it. We signed up with a local mountain guide and set off at 7am to begin the journey to the foot of the slope. Our companions were a great couple of girls from New York, a Brazilian couple, a lively young Italian and two Frenchmen humping skis and a snowboard that they intended to descend the volcano on. The rest of us were planning to slide down using a cheaper method; our bums and a plastic tray.

The ascent had actually been cancelled the previous day because of high winds.
But today was still and graced with blue skies. Armed with ice pics and multiple chocolate bars we set off. The Brazilians didn´t last long. After 30mins we never saw them again. One of the guides said it was because there are no volcanoes in Brazil and they never know exactly what they are letting themselves in for. But there no volcanoes in Scotland either, I thought. Climbing up to Edinburgh Castle really isn´t the same thing at all. Oh, dear! It wasn´t long before the French skiers lagged behind too, the weight of their load too much to cope with on the steep, slow ascent to the top.

The rest of us were making good pace and began overtaking other groups on the way. The biggest problem was the sun that reflected off the snow with blinding strength and also made you perspire badly. 3 quarters the way to the top, Kathy started suffering from wobbly legs and then my weaker left arm started grumbling from the strain of putting pressure on the ice pic. But exactly 4 hours from the start of the climb we made it to the top. It was amazing, what a feeling. The whole world was literally at our feet and directly beside us was the grumpy moans, groans and great puffs of sulphur clouds belching from the crater. (It was later that we learnt that our guide holds the record for the quickest ascent to the top, an incredible 1 and a half hours...)

However, the best was still to come. Using only a plastic tray, a cushioned backside and the mysterious force known as gravity we raced our way back down the mountain. What a laugh it was! Kathy and I had about 5 wipouts between us when lost control and flipped over and over through the deep snow until we stopped. During one extra fast section we both lost our ice pics almost similtaneously ( we were using them as a tiller and break) but the canny Italian saved our bacon from the rear by scooping up the ice pics en route and smoothly delivering them to us in one sweeping motion as he continued down the slope. Nice! The next minute, however, he came off the tray and half his body disappeared under the snow line. He was stuck , wedged in to a crevasse, his legs dangling beneath him. It was time for Kathy and I to come to the rescue. We got close and held out our ice pics for him to pull himself up with. After a couple of minutes of tense struggling he was free and back on top of the snow. The top part of the volcano is a glacier. It was lucky that the crevasse was nowhere near as wide as it was deep!

By the time we got to the bottom we were all exhausted, soaken through but completely exhilerated from the experience and on an absolute high.

Back at the hostel, Frank was very complimentary with our achievements. We celebrated with a slap up self-cooked feast of steak, garlic mushrooms, roast tatties and Maipo Valley Chilean red wine. Then we were joined by a Aussie called Trish. Our planned early night quickly evaporated amongst another 2 fine bottles of Chilean red. Eventually we hit the sack. We slept like babies too. Kathy snored but for once I didn´t mind a bit!

Santiago

It was hard to leave New Zealand behind. It had become to feel like home. So much so, that you had the feeling that Glasgow was only a couple of hours down the road... And in one sense it was; at our last stop the wonderful Irvine family in Auckland had fed us, washed our clothes, reminded us of our table manners, been our tour guide and allowed us to sleep soundly in a proper bed. Thank you! And sorry Max for rushing off before you finished your picture. Please send it to us!
Then it was time for Scott Bakula to jump into our skins and quantum leap back in time on our way to Santiago, Chile. It took us a few days to get over the shock but then we discovered that the national dish in Chile is an empanada - a cheese pie. And boy are they tasty. Of course, there are lots of regional varieties, so we felt obliged to try quite a few. Most of the restaurant food here is based around meat and carbohydrate - not much in the way of greens, salad or really any veg at all. This is a bit of a mystery as whenever we go to a market they are stocked high with amazing veg, pulses, fruit and enough advocadoes to drown Scotland in guacamole. So what do they do with it all? They definitely don't feed any of it to tourists. Still, it hasn't detered us from searching out the best, and cheapest, meals we can.

On our first day in Santiago, we met a couple of students who told us some good places to eat, and mentioned a few good dishes to try. Unfortunately, with our Spanish being less than basic at this time, and their English reasonable but not wide in vocabulary, we went away with the impression that Chile was famous for its chocolate mice. Strange, we thought, but we should probably try some. Luckily, before we pestered too many sweetie shops, we discovered that in fact they had been talking about a pastel de choclo, or maize: a corn pie. It is also yummy - a sort of shepherds pie filled with mince, chicken, some veg if you are lucky and then topped with corn mixed with egg and sometimes cheese.

My dad has recently made an attempt to outgrow my beard and moustachio. Well, that wouldn´t be difficult. I´m not quite sure what side of the family I´ve inherited my body hair genes from but there certainly isn´t much to go round. Fortunately, where the hair does grow on my face, it grows in the right places to look okay. The closest I ever came to sideburns was the stage makeup I needed for playing Fagin at school! Kathy has mastered the art of trimming my beard with the scissors from my Swiss army knife. She takes it all very seriously. I, in return, have been allowed to practise my best Nicky Clarke impersonations and have been licenced to tame Kathy´s mullet. Kathy got a magnificent hair cut in Vietnam but the haircut you get tends to reflect the trend in the country where you are. In Vietnam they dig sexy bobs but in Chile they wear the chico mullet. It wasn´t bad, just a little bit out of proportion around the neckline. That´s hairdresser lingo-technical, in case your wondering, for the bit at the back. Swiss army scissors and comb at hand, I wrestled, captured and tamed the mullet with gusto. By the time I had finished, I was already suggesting possible hair products to suit the client´s hair condition and a follow up appointment to have a go round the front of the head. It has to be said that the client was suitably impressed!

P...p...p...pick up a penguin

I was thinking today that Scotland´s Autumn colours will be looking their best at the moment. I bet the Perthshire hills and lochs are just ablaze with gold, bronze, amber and red. Lots of things about New Zealand kept reminding us of home. In the north island of NZ there was lots of heather planted around the hills of the 3 active volcanoes of Mount Ruapehu, Tongariro, Ngauruhoe. The plants were all imported from Scotland years ago and they are apparently very popular for wedding photo backdrops when they are resplendent in their proud purple bloom.
The scenery of the south island is really like Scotland. Everything just seems a bit bigger than normal! But some of the native species of animals are very different. In Scotland, you won´t find any penguins or sea lions outside of Edinburgh zoo. We made it our mission to see a penguin in the wild and in NZ there are lots of opportunities for catching sight of them.
On the east coast of the south island we drove to the town of Oamaru, famous for its Whitestone cheese factory and blue penguins. I hadn´t realised how shy penguins are. They have built a grandstand for enthusiasts to watch the penguins come ashore at dusk but also to keep onlookers at a safe distance. Sadly, it was a bit expensive and we didn´t fancy the idea of watching penguins from a grandstand. That wasn´t how we envisaged our first experience of encountering penguins in the wild. David Attenborough doesn´t build grandstands, now, does he? So, we spent all our money at the cheese factory instead. Undoubtedly the best cheese we tasted in the whole of NZ. They also make a delicously tangy lemon cheesecake.
In Oamaru you can also buy genuine NZ whisky. A warehouse specializes in bottling from casks of the now defunct Wilson´s Distillery of Dunedin. Pretty good it was too with a sea saltiness not unlike Old Pultney. Penguins vs. cheese and whisky was always going to be a tough one. This time the penguins lost..

Journeying south down the east coast, the good weather and beautiful scenery trapped us in the Otago Peninsula. Once again I was reminded of home. The high cliffs, rolling green fields and golden sands transported me back to the north east coastline of Scotland.
At Sandiford Beach we went in search of the shy yellow penguins that can be spotted there. Instead, we found a colony of not-at-all shy sea lions and a fully naked batch of young lads running in and out of the cold waves. And the sea lions were by far the scariest of the two. As we walked along the beach, we got too close to one sea lion, who sneezed at us with contempt, reared up on its hind and then charged towards us with ungainly but frightening speed. I´m sure there is a whole list of sensible things that you should do when this happens but we just panicked and ran as fast as we could. Picture an angry Sumo wrestler plunging across a beach on their belly at what seems a physically impossible velocity and you have a fairly accurate idea. Scary. As hell. Maybe the naked men had some method to their madness? The group of girls situated on the hillside overlooking the beach, who made good use of our binoculaurs, certainly thought so! The penguins stayed well clear. With all that going on, who can blame them?

Our luck finally changed after a wee walk to the islolated Munro Beach on the west of the south island. A boulder marked the point where it was best to stop so as not to disturb the Fjordland penguins who were currently breeding. A few sets of footprints in the sand beyond this point was evidence of some foolish human visitors who obviously felt they knew better. Void of grandstands, the temptations of cheese or whisky, naked men or sea lions; we waited patiently with the binoculaurs. 15 mins past and I spotted a black shape bobbing and weaving in and out of the waves. Was it just a piece of drift wood? It seemed to be letting the tide do all the hard work of bringing it to shore. When the shape reached the sand, stood up on its feet and flapped its wings, I nearly screamed with excitement. No, not another naked man, a real live penguin. Our very own. It stopped to look our way for a few seconds and then waddled off to the safety of the rocks. Eat your heart out David Attenborough!

Abel Tasman: perfect water in NZ

One of the best days we have enjoyed in all whole time away was sea kayaking in the Abel Tasman National Park in the north-east peninsula of the south island.
The charm of New Zealand is that it is full of crazy outdoor adventures. I kept telling myself I was working up to the bungy. Kathy was having none of it. The closest we had come so far was the luge in Queenstown. It was actually my belated birthday present. The cable car takes you to the top of the hill and then you charge down on a 3 wheeled pastic engineless cart. It was tremendous fun, the five times that we each raced down the steep track just wasn´t enough.
But Abel Tasman was a different kind of adrenalin rush. The slow, thoughtful kind. It was beautiful day for starters. The sky was blue, the water still and the 3 kayaks in our group were the only people out there. One of the pleasures about being somewhere off-season is that when the weather is right it feels like you are the only tourists in the world and you don´t need to share your experience with anyone else. In China, that had been almost impossible but on that day it was just perfect.

Our kayak was a tandem version with myself at the front and Kathy steering from behind... as always! After we got in the water and started to paddle, there isn´t much to tell. It just felt amazing to gently work our way round the coastline. We spotted oyster catchers, shags and seals and our guide, Josh, told us tales of the early Maori settlers in the area.
Lunch was had in an idyllic little coved beach. Kathy and myself wasted no time to strip down to oor dookers and charge into the sea. ´JESUS!!!´ It was c c c c frEEZING! I lasted about a whole ten minutes but Kathy, never one to shy from a contest, endured the baltic waters for at least another 10mins. One of the English lads with us, was inspired by our fine example and raced into the chill in his pants. The 2 young Swiss lads didn´t seem impressed. They stayed marooned and bored on their rock. It was obvious that they had still to reach the overgrown kid stage yet!
After lunch we left our party behind and followed a short trek around the rest of the peninsula. Later we were picked up by the sea taxi and taken back to base. I spent the time on the journey back calculating how I could afford to buy a kayak. It is really very similar to a campervan. You store all your provisions in the body of the kayak and are free to roam wherever you like. Weather permitting, Scotland is perfect for it.

You´re probably wondering why I´ve not yet mentioned anything to do with food yet. Well don´t worry, here it comes. After another heavy day of exercise we were more than ready to eat. A take away was on the cards. In town there was all the usual suspects: fish n´chips, curry, Chinese. No, not tonight. Our take away tea was from somewhere that specialised in roast lamb and all the trimmings. It was New Zealand after all and it tasted just like mum´s home cooking. Roast lamb, roast tatties, carrots, peas, pumpkin, kumara (sweet potato), cauliflower cheese and a massive ladleful of gravy on top. We forced it down with a bottle of L&P, which is NZ´s answer to Irn Bru. We´re thinking of opening a chain when we return home.

A gentle paddle followed by a roast tea; now that´s my kind of day. The bungy doesn´t even get a look in...

"Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies,": living the fishing dream in NZ

The Tongariro river is world famous for its trout fly fishing. The closest I remember ever coming to holding a fishing rod was scooping for minnows with a green net and cane in the rock pools at the edge of the North Sea. But as you know ´proper´fishing is unbelievably expensive at home. In New Zealand you can buy an annual licence for just over a $100 that allows you to fish in any river anywhere in NZ for no extra cost. Not bad, eh!?
Unfortunately, we seemed to be starting the sport at the deep end. Fly fishing is apparently the highly skilled end of the sport. Like sword fighters, the skill of fly fishing is considered to be more of an art form. By the end of our afternoon we clearly understood why!
Our guide was a lovely old fishing veteran called John Sommervell. He had big rough hands full of cuts and large patches of callous skin from standing waist deep in running water holding on to his tackle for years on end. (Sorry, mum!) His jacket had tens of pockets, all full of essential fishing gear and ´stuff´. He had recently returned from a trip to the rivers in Mongolia fly fishing for taimen, a long distant cousin of trout. He was one of only 3 to catch one. We knew he was good.

He was adamant that we learnt the basics of fly fishing properly. Other guides apparently showed people how to cast off and then took over form the client and caught the fish for them. Waders on, we were READY TO FISH! It was a lot to take in. We learnt all about loading the rod and casting off, then about the ´presentation´of the fly on the water. After about 1 and a half hours of practise we were ready to give the real thing a go. The problem now was trying to coordinate all the things he had been telling us. My mind was a blur. No wonder it takes years to learn and become good at it. He teased us with tails off people who had caught a fish on their first cast. We weren´t to be so lucky. The real difficulty is that you don´t actually feel when you have got a fish on the fly. You have to watch the floating guide like a hawk. If it moves, dips or does something strange, chances are you have a strike. Then, you yank the rod with your right arm and pull the line with your left to hook the fish on the fly. What followed was about 2-3 hours of us both concentrating really hard and then desperately yanking the rod to see if we had a strike. John stood behind us and watched over us, occassionaly screaming ´STRIKE´as an indication that we needed to react. Unfortunately, the reaction time between a strike and reacting with the rod is less than a second. After 5 hours standing in the middle of a fast moving river, neither of us had caught anything. We hadn´t even come close. But John was very complimentary about our casting style and presentation. We both really enjoyed it (I would love to have another go) but today wan´t to be our day.

Fast forward a couple weeks to a boat drifting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in the Bay of Island in the North of NZ. This time we were fishing for red snapper. No fancy technique this time, just a rod, a very long line and a bucket of sardines and mullet. More of a waiting game than an artform, we started hooking up some smaller snappers after about an hour. Unfortunately, they were too short at under 30cm to keep and we had to throw them back. Goldfish, the skipper called them!

Another hour passed and still we had caught nothing. The skipper decided to move the boat and change the bait from sardines to the more expensive mullet. Within 5 mins I could feel a much bigger wait on the end of the line. This is the feeling I had been wondering about and waiting all this time for. My mind rushed away with images of the catch and pictures of me arms fully stretched holding the prize. As the hook got near the top of the water, the skipper wondered if it could be a John Dory. When it flipped and splashed itself out from the waves it showed itself to be a a a.. a... SHARK! If only a smallish school shark. Still, I had caught a shark. Cool!. "I think we´re gonna need a bigger boat!" (and more quotes from Jaws sailed around my foolish head). Sadly, the spritely youngster caught itself in Kathy´s line and twisted and jerked itself into such a mess that it took the skipper ten minutes of cursing, swearing and bopping the poor shark on the nose to release it.

Not long after we started getting lucky with some gurnard (they have colourful fins and look more like butterflies). Thankfully we were allowed to keep them. Our dinner tonight was banking 100% on this trip! The skipper dismissed them as carrots. Although it was unusual to catch them, he still wasn´t impressed. His trip in the morning had proved very fruitful for nice large snappers, he felt he was letting us down. The truth was that Kathy and I were overjoyed to catch anything at all after our last trip. We didn´t care. We felt like true seadogs at last!
By the end our total catch between us was 3 goldfish (snappers), 5 carrots (gurnards) and 1 great white (school shark)! The skipper sent us packing with our freshly filleted gurnard and the wings off the snapper he had caught in the morning.
Dinner that night in the camper van was sensational. Mashed tatties, mushrooms and spinach tossed in garlic and pan fried fish (tossed in seasoned flour).
Breakfast was almost even better! The leftover tatties and fish were transformed into fishcakes. With a big dollop of Watties (made by Heinz but spicier) tomato ketchup we scoffed them overlooking the waters where we had done our hunting the day before. I felt amazing, Kathy looked amazing, the fish tasted amazing. Sometimes life does not get any better.

Breakfasting like a tramp: NZ

New Zealand feels like one massive outdoor playground for big kids. It is the home of the bungy jump and the home of the zorb; a giant plastic ball filled with water, that you climb inside and then roll down a big hill. The dramatic, achingly beautiful landscape is plastered all over Peter Jackson´s Lord of the Rings. Opportunities are endless for trekking (or tramping as Kiwis call it), camping, fishing, sailing, kayaking, rafting, skiing, snowboarding, swimming with dolphins, whale watching, penguin spotting or, as I already mentioned, flinging yourself off a bridge with a thick elastic band tied to your ankles. It was time for Team Kathole to wise up, get active and say "NO TO CHEESE!" But New Zealand also makes really good cheese and wine!! Well, after all that exercise you do need to unwind of an evening...

Our home for the next 3 weeks was to be a bright orange vehicle called a Spaceship. Half people carrier, half campervan, it had been cleverly fitted out with a DVD player, gas stove, double bed, fridge and plenty of storage space. We loaded up the van with a trip to Pak n´Save. It is the supermarket equivalent to Ikea. All the goods are stacked high for cheapness. The branding brought back distant memories of Fine Fare - I loved their smelly cheese n´onion crisps in the canary yellow bag... Kathy loaded up on oats for brekkie...

Cooking for ourselves for 3 weeks was a real luxury, even if it was in a camper van with only 2 burners and 3 pots. In between all the eating we did a fair amount of walking and hiking, (and swimming - it's a very cheap way to get clean as well as a bit of exercise) so we didn't quite turn into the flumps you'd expect after that ingredient list. Camping burns lots of calories, that's what I always say.
Of course, it´s always worst at breakfast time, which is the meal I have struggled with the most while we´ve been away. It´s not so bad for Athole - he can go till 1230 quite happily without much more than a cup of tea and a biscuit. But if I haven´t been fed by about 10 o´clock, I can become grumpy, unwilling and very, very stroppy. Poor Athole!

I think the least inspired breakfast we encountered anywhere was in Russia - pink, wet, limp hot-dog sausages with no skin; boiled to oblivion and then served semi-tepid with a choice of spaghetti or something unidentifiable that may or may not have been semolina or grits. On the side: tasteless cheese and raw onion with bad coffee and tea (8 spoonfuls of sugar obligatory). China wasn´t too bad so long as we were in hotels, although rice porridge with egg is singularly unappealing at 8am. Here in South America it is an unvarying diet of white bread, sticky, incredibly sweet jam, tea, coffee and relentlessly over- or under-cooked eggs. Yoghurt is an option, but it usually consists of sugar, powdered milk (milk dust as Athole calls it) and flavourings and e-numbers. What wouldn´t we give for a Markies fresh fruit greek yoghurt!

The worst was definitely Laos though - on our 3 day trek in the jungle we were treated to hand-caught frogs, boiled with land crabs and eels and served in a spicy soup. It is, of course, immensely rude not to try the food in that sort of situation, especially as our guide was the one who had been out at 3am in the fields catching the frogs. Athole and I cautiously nibbled at the legs of the frogs, peeling off the skin (they were boiled whole) and nodding enthusiastically. Meanwhile, our guide casually picked one up and bit its head off, chewing even more enthusiastically. Watching him chomp through the rest of the amphibian whole, we realised we were going to have to eat frog guts for breakfast. Eating the insides of something that lives entirely on flies is never appealing - at 0730 less so, but we both managed a bite or two before putting down our frogs. At which point our guide asked: "Are you finished?" and proceeded to eat our leftovers.

Luckily in New Zealand, we were self-catering, although trying to live as cheaply as possible. That meant one thing only for brekkie - porridge. I could eat it every day and not get sick of it, but Athole was ready for some cocoa pops after about 2 weeks. You should have seen his eyes light up when I figured out a way to make toast. Boiled eggs and soldiers was never such a treat!

Of course porridge gets you properly fuelled up for a big walk, of which we had plenty in NZ, so I think really we were very glad of the oats. Especially on the colder mornings where we had to turn the car around and wait for the sun to melt the frost on the windscreen while we had our porridge in the mornings! One of those mornings came before one of the best walks we had; in the ski-ing area on the north island. We set off around 9 and took about 3 or 4 hours, including a scramble up a steep, steep slope of shingle, to get to the most spectacular lookout across two extinct volcano craters, now formed into perfectly round and crescent shaped greeny-blue lakes. In the distance, we could see bigger and bigger volcanoes, all capped with shining, sparkling snow glinting in the sunlight. The sky was blue, we had great sarnies and biscuits at the top and we really felt like we had conquered the world. ( The only thing that could possibly remind us of our inferiority was the 60-ish man who jogged casually past us as we were huffing and puffing our way to the top. Bloody Kiwis.)

I think our other hardest walk was the Pinnacles, also in the north island, which was really tough - mostly because we had to climb stairs rather than walk alot of the way. The Pinnacles themselves are incredibly high, grey towers of rock, not far from Auckland. We set off to go half way up one of them, and found that the track we were following was originally made for timber-workers who invented a system of pulleys to harvest the enormous Kauri trees that were found in the area. They cut stairs into the rock in order to make the many trips up and down easier going in the rain and mud. We were getting puggled going up with just our daypacks holding water and a few mars bars - these guys must have been made of iron dragging all sorts of heavy equipment and tools up there! (Actually, it turned out they had horses and mules, but still.) Once we had reached the top, we could still see the Pinnacles above us, but it felt as though we were walking through the tops of the forest below, we were so high up.

There were many others - the scenery and landscape of NZ makes it impossible to go anywhere without discovering another lovely walk around the corner, and those two were the longest ones we completed. But I think Athole´s favourite was the Rob Roy valley, where we stomped our way up above the tree line in a really narrow valley to reach a mountainside that was just perfect - trees, snow, blue skies again and waterfalls cascading all over the sheer, rising cliff opposite ours. The only thing that was missing was a slug of rusty nail at the top!

See the stars under the stars

After Perth´s cool climate, it was a shock to land in the tropical heat of Broome in the North West of Australia. Fortunately it was a dry heat; not like the soggy conditions our peely wally Scottish bodies waded through in Asia. A mere sniff of the nose was enough to bring you out in another flood of sweat, gushing unstoppably from every pore in you body. Sure, Linx? Don´t make me laugh! If I had protected my body in two layers of tightly wrapped clingfilm, the sweat would still have found an escape route in less than a minute.

The plane journey to Broome was a spectacular bird´s eye view drifting across the Australian outback. The red, arrid landscape defined by stunning shapes, tones and blended colours; stretched out below like an infinite Aboriginal canvas. The plane does a final low acrobatic turn and sweep over Broome´s perfect white beach and emerald Ocean waters before skimming the shore on its way to touch down.

Broome is expensive. Our accommodation is the overpriced and sketchy Cable Beach Backpackers, which we share with lots of stewdent travelers and a smattering of aging hippies in worn tie-dye skirts. Including the men. To save on money, we stuffer a 3 day self-inflicted stint of tuna and pasta. And here´s me thinking our impoverished student days were behind us. But the landscape around Broome is stunning. At Gantheaume Point, Ospreys nest in the top of the lighthouse tower and beneath the orange rocks dinosaur footprints can be glimpsed at low tide. A lot more is on show at the nudist beach adjacent to the main Cable Beach. We almost dared but I´m not sure the rest of the world is ready for quite that size of shock. "Just fine where we are, thank you!" The sands were pure and the water crystal clear.

One evening, after yet another mouthwatering feast of cold, limp tuna pasta, we headed for the Sun Picture´s screening of The Dark Knight. Sun Pictures, founded in 1916, is the world´s oldest outoor cinema. The wood panelled interior and rows of metal framed deck chairs are all original. They even project films on 35mm film and not some crappy knock-off DVD that their mate brought back from Bali . It has lots of history. In the early days, the local Aboriginals (black fellas) were segregated from the rest of the white fellas. These days it struggles to attract many locals away from their recent import of Bali DVDs. Which is a travesty. The atmosphere is superb. "See the stars under the stars," is their poetic slogan. The atmosphere is also unique. Directly underneath the airport flightpath, a Quantas jet flies inches over the audience´s heads, literally tickling the tops of their ears during the early evening screening; and scaring the life out of any innocent newcomers!
Before our screening, we had been held transfixed with eery amazement at the spectacle of massive flocks (packs?) of flying foxes (fruitbats) silhoutted against the fading dusk sky. The film itself was tense, unsettling and truly excellent. Midway through the film a wayward, lone flying fox flew directly passed the screen, casting a huge batmanesque shadow across the picture. The audience shrieked in unison, then giggled collectively with nervous excitement and appreciation. You can´t scriptwrite that sort of thing. Movie magic!

Broome was also our point of entry into the Australian Outback, the largely unpopulated land that covers nearly 70% of the whole of Australia. Tim was our guide. He has had many previous occupations: former jockey, blcacksmith, diamond miner, taxi driver and more. He was also complaining of recovering from a cold as the Broome temparature had dared drop below 25C! Wimp! Our vehicle was a 4wd battle bus / tank that left little in its wake. It had a quaint basket of fruit positioned at the front, as if to show it was in touch with its feminine side too.
Our tank powered its way first of all to the sacred Boab Prison Tree. Boab trees (help ma Boab!) grow into adults of an awkward bulbous shape. As they grow they leave an empty chamber inside the trunk. In the dark days of the Colony many trees were used for imprisoning Aboriginals.
At Wijana Gorge we stood incredibly close to lots of shy freshwater crocs. I learnt that it is infact the saltwater versions that are the bad muthas of Crocodile Dundee legend. Tim says that him and his mates have been swimming here before. We were able to test out that theory at Tunnel Creek where we walked through shallow water containing freshwater crocs. Tim told us all about the Aboriginal folk hero Jandamarra who used Tunnel Creek as his hideaway. After initial violence, he adopted a campaign of non-violent protest with the police, against the treatment of local Aboriginals. He was able to trick, confuse and scare the white fellas for so long that local Aboriginals began to decribe his actions as magical and treated him like a living God. A fascinating story.

Our last 3 days in Oz were spent enjoying the chilled out European vibe of Melbourne. We messed around on the fabulous trams, visited art museums, walked in the botanic gardens, watched an historic AFL match on the telly (Dave would be SO proud) and purchased some very nice bottles of skinless wine. The main highlight, predictably, was food. In St. Kilda, the shore district of Melbourne, we found a very strong contender for the ´best fish and chip shop in the world.´ At ´Clamm´s´we devoured a blue whale´s helping of fresh fish, scallops, squid and Kathy´s favourite - the pineapple ring (I´m sure blue whale´s love pineapple rings too). With chips and a bucket of tartar sauce.