We're All Going On A Summer Holiday...

I’ve battled with some hard languages over the past month but there can’t be any weirder dialect than Welsh. Every word seems to begin with “Ll” and usually includes the letters “cyr”. What’s worse is that none of those combinations are pronounced remotely like what they look like - your best bet is to grunt like you’ve got a bit of coal stuck down your throat. All of this and I didn’t even need to pack my passport for my first official British summer holiday.

The destination was the South West of Wales and the goal was to spend some time on a beach reminiscent of those in New Zealand… that is beaches that aren’t pebbly like Brighton; but gold and sandy like New Brighton. The holiday consisted of four days, four nights, and four people: myself, Hayley, her sister Stephanie, and Steph’s boyfriend David – who not only owns the most dilapidated yet charismatic caravan in all the United Kingdom but for the purposes of visiting Wales shall hereby be known as Dafyd. It was the Summer Bank Holiday Long Weekend and everyone seemed thrilled to get out of frenetic London and take some much needed time off. Except for me, of course, as I’m currently undertaking the longest long weekend in history; and having been amongst the hustle and bustle of London for just two months I hardly felt the need to escape such a vibrant city.

Having crossed a few rivers (the Thames, the Avon, and the Severn) we finally hit Wales. It was kind of exciting thinking about all these Welsh cities and towns I had read and heard so much about from various All Black tours. A brief stop for lunch on the outskirts of Newport soon killed the romance. I can now understand why the Welsh live for rugby… a valley full of brown houses is a pretty grim sight to wake up to every morning. But two more hours of driving saw the scenery change dramatically as we arrived at Milton Village, the locale of our campsite.

With the tent pitched it was off to partake in a great Welsh custom… drinking at the pub. It says a lot about British culture that in a pub as quaint and uniquely Welsh as the Milton Brewery Inn - where the staff speak in an accent so think you may as well be in Eastern Europe - that you can still order five different types of curry from the menu. As weird as that seems what happened later that evening was something straight out of a Stephen King movie. In Britain you can be lucky enough to be part of what’s called a “Lock In”. I figure it must have spawned from the fact most bars and pubs close at around midnight or 1 o’clock. So come closing hour everyone gets booted out… except for those behind the bar, their friends, and a few fortunate patrons who’ve befriended the bar staff. The doors get locked, the lights are dimmed, and the alcohol flows until everyone’s passed out. Now, a Lock In, as you’d imagine, is a pretty cool thing to be party to in a swanky town like London; but on the Western most point of mainland Britain; in a pub, where the average age is 65; it’s down right scary. As soon as 11 o’clock struck the blinds were pulled; the door was latched, bolted, and locked; the music went up; and the barman forced open the cigarette machine and grabbed a packet for everybody. We made our excuses and marched off into the night.

The next morning we loaded up the caravan in search of what we came for – a pebble-less beach. Somewhat oddly the beach in question was called Freshwater West which didn’t fill anyone with confidence; but sure enough we were in luck. Salt water, sand dunes, and miles and miles of golden, pebble-less beach. And, as an extra bonus, Britain had turned on the sunshine for the long weekend. Without a second to spare we headed straight for the water – unfortunately I obviously didn’t learn my lesson from that dip in the Alpine river in Switzerland. Just ‘cause this beach looked like a New Zealand one didn’t mean it was as warm as one. One head-freeze later I retired to dry land to warm up.

With our mission accomplished and two days to spare the next morning we decided to go sight-seeing. Heading south to Tenby we stumbled upon an archetypical British seaside town. Thousands of beetroot-red Poms lay on multi-coloured beach chairs while their children lined up for donkey rides – it was a scene straight out of a 1960s holiday brochure. The town of Tenby had a little more class – that’s if you call having the No. 1 Fish & Chip Shop in Britain classy. If you’re going to line up for 30 minutes for the award winning fish and chips I don’t know why you’d want to drown them in mushy peas or gravy… the Brits have a sauce for every occasion. To be honest, the fish and chips weren’t all that bad but I could’ve done with some crab sticks and a battered banana.

On our way back to the campsite we had a snoop round Manorbier Castle – described by Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald the Welshman) as “the pleasantest spot in Wales”. Gerald was a famous Welsh author but I’m not convinced “pleasantest” is an actual word. Originating in the 12th century it was a pretty basic castle compared to some of the more modern structures you can visit around Britain but it was interesting all the same to walk up the stairwells and back down into the dungeon. Dipping and bobbing about the place everyone came to the conclusion that people back then were considerably smaller – the fact that I had to duck to get into certain rooms suggests I could’ve been a heroic knight if only I was born 983 years earlier.

Monday dawned and we packed up just before the rain arrived and made our way back over the Severn Bridge into Mother England. We had just enough time to stop for lunch in a place outside of Swindon called Avebury where they had a smaller version of Stonehenge – smaller in reputation only, because this stone circle was actually bigger than its famed southern neighbour. Then it was back to London to contend with broken-down trains and a million people making their way home from the Notting Hill Festival. I sure can’t wait till the next long weekend to get out of frenetic London.

One Night In Zurich...

There’s an old saying in sport that “what goes on tour stays on tour”. And I’d like to preface this entry with that remark to ease the minds of those concerned and protect the good (looking) people of Zurich.

Our final night on this adventure was spent - as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now - in Zurich. Those that have been paying attention over the previous weeks will know Switzerland is a multi-lingual paradise; and Zurich is a stronghold of the Swiss-German dialect. I’ll fess up now and say that my German is worse than my French. I know a little Afrikaans but German… well, every word seems to be a dozen consonants broken up by one of those vowel things with an Oompa Loompa above it. One word I now recognise in German is “fetische” – that’s because our hotel was in the red light district of Zurich.

There was little time for my favourite hobby of watching American TV shows over-dubbed in foreign languages but I should quickly mention that Schnipp/Tuck was hilarious and German Big Brother makes British Big Brother look like Australian Big Brother if ya-know-what-I-mean? If you don’t I know a German word to describe it.

Having dumped our bags and discovered our hotel was a whips crack away from Switzerland’s version of K Rd it was off to a traditional beer hall for a Bavarian feast and, you guessed it, beer. Whilst struggling with some sort of sausage omelette which was more meat than egg we were harassed by a Hen’s Night that offered a rare insight into another Swiss-German tradition. The poor bride-to-be had spent her afternoon baking phallic shaped biscuits which she then had to sell to innocent bystanders on her final night of freedom. The catch being she was not allowed to buy her friends a drink with money from her own pocket but instead get her mates suitably sloshed with her biscuit-baking profits.

I should have bought a biscuit because it would’ve been the cheapest thing on sale in all of Zurich. One of two lasting memories of Zurich is that it’s the most expensive city you’ll come across. 20CHF (Swiss Francs) will buy you a gin and tonic – that’s over $20NZ! A five minute taxi ride to the other side of the lake to Club Aqua cost 15CHF and it was 30CHF just to get in! If Zurich is the most expensive city I’ve come across it’s also the most beautiful… or more precisely the women are the most beautiful in world (that being the second lasting memory of my 18 hours in Zurich). I figure the only way the locals can afford to live in Zurich is by becoming a chiropractor, thus earning a small fortune from tourists who put their necks and backs out from repeatedly turning to look at girls. Alas, a good majority of Zurich girls were in said club and at over 30CHF a pop there was no way Mal and I were paying to go in. My only hope was to play the “DJ Bobo” card. But fearing the bouncers may ask me to speak German or, worse still, dance like Captain Jack Sparrow we turned around and walked all the way back from whence we came.

Walking 10 miles through the dark, medieval streets of Zurich isn’t that bad. It’s a good chance to relearn your Roman numerals whilst playing “Guess How Old The Building Is…” Fun as that was it didn’t compare to hanging grimly to a bank manager on the back of a scooter, racing from club to club through Zurich’s back alleys, with Mal trying to run alongside. Malcolm and I have been in some pretty hairy moments on golf carts before but with all due respect to the Ngamotu Links in Taranaki this mode of transport had a Continental charm all of its own.

And with that it was time say so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight… oops - arrivederci, and au revoir. Next week: something a million miles away from the sassy sophistication of Switzerland. Obviously not literally a million miles away but tenting on a Welsh beach hasn’t quite got the allure of la Suisse.

The Italian Job...

There aren't too many countries in the world where you can be ferried away to eat raviolli with a quartet of men named Rolando, Sergio, Fabio, and Flavio. You'd be forgiven for thinking we were dining with the front four for Inter Milan; but these men were in fact head honchos in Switzerland's Tourism and Hotel Industry. Once again the complexities of Switzerland were at work... here we were inside Swiss borders but you couldn't get more quintessentially Italian: Mini Coopers zipping past vegetable stalls, olive -skinned men throwing buckets of waste on cobbled roads, 600-year-old architecture, Hitler even surrendered a million Italian troops in Ascona.

But to get to the Swiss-Italian border Phil, Mal and I had to make the journey over the famed Nufenen Pass. It's Switzerland's highest pass open to motor vehicles and I was promised snow. Instead it was a nauseating crawl up the mountain in the slowest Voyager to come off Ford's production line. At one stage I spotted Lance Armstrong overtake us on his victory lap. I may not have got summer snow but I did get a rather snazzy photo of which I'm quite proud.

Ascona wasn't all about being wined and dined in a haunted hotel on a botanical island... we also got to eat Italian pizza with equally stunning scenery. No Cheesey Stuffed Crust Hawaiian on the menu here so I went with the Quatro Stagioni. Set along Lake Maggiore, Ascona is a popular summer tourist town; there are countless restaurants, bars, and cafes along the lake front (think Auckland's Viaduct but five times bigger and without the Epsom-girls-who-should-know-better). Each night eating becomes a spectator sport as everyone turns their chairs around to face the Lake for an instesive session of people-watching. Bettering the voyeriusm is the half dozen street performers who entertain you while you pick the olives off your pizza. From mimics to a family of circus acrobats, this was quality busking. Proving a good case for irony was a slightly retarded man who juggled a beach ball from side to side with his crutches. Kinda cruel, I know, but set against this back-drop of world class street performers and wealthy Italians it was like a scene out of There's Something About Mary.

Despite befriending the Sopranos of the hotel world our accommodation was a little out of Ascona which wasn't too bad as our hotel was set in the shadows of a bombed bridge with an amazing river that run underneath it. This wasn't you typical hotel swimming pool (especially considering it was a nudist bathing area) but seeing as this was the hottest day of the year I certainly wasn't going to resist a refreshing dip in this readymade watering hole. But if there's one thing I learnt from my trip to Switzerland is that no matter how hot the day if you're gonna chuck yourself head-first into a Swiss river remember that the water has run straight off the Alps and is essentially melted snow. One head-freeze later and I had sufficiently cooled off.

Now, throughout my journey I become more conscious that people were looking at me funny... this isn't all that uncommon for me but these looks lingered slightly longer than I've become accustomed to. It was then brought to my attention that I had a strong resmemblance to Switzerland's most famous musician. This thrilled me no end and I just couldn't wait to check out his website and marvel in the similarity. The superstar in question calls himself DJ Bobo which didn't fill me with confidence and if you'd kindly head to www.djbobo.ch you'll realise my shock (click here for an instant photo). With an act called "Pirates Of The Dance" he's not so much a rock star but more of a cross between Meatloaf and Ireland's toe-tapper Michael Flately. No wonder people were looking at me funny... I'm surprised I got past customs at Geneva Airport.

Anyway, cast your votes on if you think I look remotely like DJ Bobo and log on next time to find out if I could fool the people of Zurich with my pirate dance.

High On A Hill Lived A Lonely Goat...

“Ode-lay, ode-lay, ode-lay-ee-oo!”

Okay, the first thing you should know about Switzerland is that The Sound Of Music is from Austria. It’s Heidi that’s from Switzerland. Suggesting that the Von Trapp family is Swiss is like suggesting to a Kiwi that Bonecrusher is an Australian horse. Here’s what Switzerland is famous for: chocolate, watches, Swiss Army knives, dairy cows, St. Bernard dogs, the Alps and melted-cheese with potato. Yup, melted-cheese and potato is the Swiss national dish! More on that later but the saga continues…

Phil, Malcolm and I made the drive from Evian, across the border, through Geneva, skirting around Lausanne, by-passing Montreux, through the Rhone Valley and 1,500 metres up to Crans-Montana. Now, for anyone that’s done the drive through Hamilton, skirting around Cambridge, by-passing Tirau, through Putaruru and on to Tokoroa this drive is nothing like that… but it does take roughly the same amount of time. “Are we there yet?” is a universal road-trip cry. So to is: “Can we stop for ice-cream?” but in Switzerland it’s also a tourist attraction because in this country stopping for ice cream means stopping for Movenpick.

Our next official stop was Crans-Montana a famous ski town half way up the Swiss Alps. Roger Moore is a regular to Crans and many years ago famed New Zealand author Katherine Mansfield spent a couple of seasons in Montana where the altitude helped her tuberculosis. The Swiss even have a plaque and fountain dedicated to Mansfield, honouring the great stories she wrote during her time in Crans-Montana. Now, wouldn’t it be nice if the Aussies put a plaque on the steps of the Sydney Opera House honouring New Zealand band Crowded House and the farewell concert they preformed there?

New Zealand connections aside, we were about to be given the full-on Heidi-styled Swiss treatment. It began another thousand metres up the mountain with an alpine-horn serenade. And then we travelled to something like 2,500 metres, nearing outer-space, to get up close and personal with a herd of dairy cows. The Swiss and the Indians must be the only cultures to hold livestock in such high regard. And in Switzerland “high” is the operative word because a farmer with his herd of 70 odd cows will have one queen… and the queen is the cow that stands on the highest point of the mountain. The queen cow gets to wear the biggest bell round her neck and generally gets treated by the farmer as, well, a queen. To further illustrate this point your average cow in Switzerland is worth around 4,000 Swiss Francs; but the queen would never, ever get sold… but the calf of the queen is worth 40,000 Swiss Francs! So when tennis star Roger Federer returned to Switzerland after winning the 2003 Wimbledon title and the Swiss gave him a queen cow he actually landed the golden goose. The million dollar Wimbledon winner’s cheque is nothing to be sneezed at but neither is a dairy cow that produces you 40,000 Swiss Francs each spring.

And what of this melted cheese and potato I hear you ask? Well, the dairy cows eat the grass from the Alps, they then produce milk, which is churned into cheese, the cheese is salted each day for two months, and then it makes its way to the dinner table for the finest Swiss meal – raclette. Raclette is simply the local farmer’s cheese which is melted and then a thin slice is scraped off the block onto your plate and served with a potato. So the nation that gave the us the world's most intricate watches, the world's most delectable chocolate, and the most world's efficient banks has basic ol’ cheese and spuds for dinner.

Cows, cheese and altitude… if you wish to experience the picture-postcard Switzerland I suggest you go to Crans-Montana, point your nose in the sky, drive a little higher, take a right at the space shuttle Discovery, and keep driving towards the sound of the cowbells. Failing that you could always go to Heidiland. Yup, Switzerland has a theme park based around their most famed movie character. Just don’t go there asking for Leisl, Gretl, Briggita, Marta, and Louisa Von Trapp… it’s all about Heidi.

I should end it here as I’m struggling to resist the urge to use an “udder” pun. Our next destination is the Swiss-Italian border… it’s a long drive but thankfully we stop for gelato.

Naive Is Evian Spelt Backwards...

Bonjour,

I’m back in London after two weeks in France and Switzerland. It was quite the adventure where I ably assisted Phil Leishman (the golf one… not the dog one) and our ever-hungry cameraman, Malcolm Clement. Switzerland is a mind-boggling country in that sharing its borders with France, Italy, and Germany (and some other nation called Liechtenstein) the people speak a fair few languages. Apparently 60% of the Swiss speak German, 30% French, and 10% Italian… but the vast majority of the people we came across spoke all three, plus English – putting my ability to count to ten in Maori to shame. Therefore travelling through Switzerland is like travelling through four countries; so instead of bombarding you with the entire multi-lingual escapade in one story I’ll, instead, drip-feed you the saga over the coming weeks.

I should preface the story by mentioning my French is really bad. This is due my Form Two French teacher walking through the class and clipping anyone ‘round the head if they couldn’t pronounce the most basic of sentences. This wasn’t my idea of fun so I stopped taking French after two weeks and instead joined the Extra English class (whatever that is). So when I say my French is really bad what I meant to say is that I know two French words: “merci” and “boeuf”. Meaning I spent the entire week eating beef meals and enthusiastically thanking the waiter for them.

The week began in sunny Evian, France… yes, I too did not realise that such a place existed. But it stands to reason they name the water after the very town from whence it came. In fact one of the back roads of Evian has a small pipe coming out of the hillside where you can freely fill your bottle up with the actual water that makes it way to the Evian bottling plant. We discovered this water source on a Sunday and it appeared to be a weekend tradition for the locals to bring along dozens of 1 litre “empties” and fill them up. My guess is that they were local restaurateurs and the bottles of Evian would make their way onto the tables of their restaurant over the coming week.

The town of Evian itself is at the foot of the French Alps and on the edge of Lake Geneva, or Lac Leman as the French call it. It’s an hour’s drive along the lake to Geneva and a 30 minute ferry ride to Lausanne. Meaning if you were that way inclined you could hold down a job in Lausanne, Switzerland and live in Evian, France. The border control is the stuff that the Corby family must dream of – as you come and go between the two countries there’s no one to check passports let alone your 4kg body-board bag.

We were in Evian to cover the Evian Masters – the richest women’s golf tournament in Europe. A lot is said in jest about the women’s golf tour being full of lesbians. That is probably an overplayed cliché but on first impressions I could’ve sworn I was at a European Tomboy Convention. When I said earlier that it was “sunny” Evian that was for the entire week except 30 minutes on Monday afternoon when I bore witness the second greatest storm of my life (the greatest being at Glastonbury 4 weeks earlier). Some local town elders claimed it to be the worst storm they’d ever seen in Evian: 150km per hour winds and hailstones the size of golf balls. Now “hailstones the size of golf balls” is also an overplayed cliché but when the greenskeeper suggests that the hailstones are the size of golf balls it’s fair to say he knows what he’s on about. Alas, the hail destroyed all the flowers that were blossoming just in time for the golf tournament; so organisers had to truck in 40,000 replacement pots of flowers from all over Europe.

Now I may not be able to speak French but what I was able to do quite well on the French-Swiss border was indulge in their desserts. And when you combine Switzerland’s world famous chocolates and Movenpick ice cream with France’s profiteroles, crème brulee, and meringues I ended up eating enough dessert to feed all of Liechtenstein.

So aside from eating, golfing, fireworks, and ferry rides to Lausanne there wasn’t time for much else; which is why I shouldn’t dedicate a paragraph to French television but I, like a few others, have a strange fascination in watching American and English shows dubbed into foreign languages. Particular favourites were The Simpsons, Sex And The City and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation which the French call Les Expertes. Of their local programmes my curiosity was aroused by an early morning aerobics show (think Aerobics Oz Style but French Style). I really struggled with the questions on France’s version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And from what I could tell their take on The Weakest Link seemed really nasty (“Jean-Paul tu are tres faible. Au revoir!”)

That’s probably more than enough for this edition. Log in next time when I’ll regal you with stories about the Von Trapp’s long lost boxer shorts; a traditional German sausage-roll that wasn’t the wurst; and find out which Swiss rockstar I was mistaken for.