Feeling dreadful — a Brazilian bug and jet lag I think. Burst pipes in the house have now been repaired. Lots of stories and photos. See you all soon.

What a way to entertain a traffic jam! This guy was seriously good. We could do with him on the North Circular!

Now, that’s what I call a bookshop. Just for Humph!

I gather it is cold and snowy up there in North Wales Land. These are for you Steve!

Happy New Year from Brasilia; we’ve moved inland now.

Brasilia is something of a weird place in the way that many manufactured capital cities are. Brasilia is perhaps weirder than most in no short measure due to it being founded as an exercise in showing that Brazil could do order! As a result you have to pinch yourself to remember that you are, indeed, in the country of the Samba. But more about Brasilia later.

We’re staying with relatives who have a four month old baby, so a big night a revelry was out of the question. We enjoyed a lovely meal instead.

It no way was it a quiet evening though. The Brazilians love their fireworks, especially the loud ones. From midday on it sounded as if we were living in a war zone. Dogs hated it and in this area ever house has a big dog to guard it. This dog chorus added to the sense of impending chaos.

As midnight approached the fireworks exploded with increasing regularity. They rang out for a full 360 degrees. Each massive explosion was preceded by a lighting up of the sky the looked for all the world like the effect of mortar fire. All that was missing was the tracer bullet streams.

At midnight the explosions became so prolific that their sound blended into one. Suddenly we had moved from a war zone to an earthquake zone. There were some pretty fireworks on the horizon though it is quite clear these are not first preference. Given 100 Reals to spend on fireworks it’s clear that Brazilians would rather spend another 25 on just noisy versions rather than buying anything of any artistic merit. I did wonder whether this was a kind of ironic statement against the all too recent memories of military dictatorship. There are no chimes here just more would be explosions. As the earthquake subsided clouds of explosive drifted across an otherwise cloudless sky.

As I write it is early afternoon on New Year’s Day. The silence of the day is still being perforated by the occasional heavy arms fire.

It all seems a long way from Snowdonia. But I’m reminded that a few years ago we moved our New Year campsite from Nant to Capel precisely because the huge quarry had become a venue for all night raves.

It still seems odd not to be freezing to death. But I’m getting used to it. The weather here is like that of a perfect, English, summer day.

Long haul flights are mind-numbingly boring not least because of those predictable routines: take-off; meal; enforced sleep time; B movies played over tiny screens with appalling sound; and another dreadful meal. (If you’re really lucky — on really long flights you may be able to cram in a third really terrible meal — for the record my worst ever was a dish of boiled meats that a Quantas flight picked up in Bahrain — Bahrain is not a place I’ve ever had the subsequent desire to see).

Yet, there are occasional delights, wonderful sights glimpsed often more by luck than judgement. On one occasion I was on a flight to Hong Kong and met a rather disorientated Glasgow man at Gatwick — have you ever noticed how it is that wherever you go in the world there is a Glasgow man? Anyhow, this chap was on his first really long flight and spent most of the time at the back of the 747 looking out of a port hole window. The good thing about these 747s is that you can relieve the boredom by having a walk down to the port hole. Each time I strolled down there my friend and I would gaze out of the window and my job would be to estimate where we were. On one occasion I was invited to look out onto a wonderful looking delta. “Where’s that then?” I reckoned it was the Ganges delta. It was certainly a magical, mystical sight from up there. Well, I thought it was. My Glasgow friend just shrugged.

There have been other great sights like that as well. Once my flight made its way East, following the line of the Danube as dusk fell. The landscape below was flattened by the low contrast of the evening, hues and shades of dark blues. Every now and then a great city would shine radiantly from the gloom and beyond them industrial sites and plants would give off a different light. Most wonderful of all was the sight of the giant river discharging itself into the Black Sea the lights of settlements following the unmistakable form of fishing villages the world over. On another flight I found myself flying right down the East coast of Africa, gazing out on a landscape that belied the stereotypes of a draught torn continent, all lush green canopies and rivers (of course, the reality was probably very different).

The last time I came to Brasil I flew from Heathrow, the jet following the western line of the Europe to the Canaries before heading of SW towards South America. Not too much to get excited about there. But this flight simply hopped to Lisbon for its connection and was all together more interesting.

We left Heathrow in morning darkness and arrived in Lisbon as dawn was breaking. A sky of pinks and vermillions glowed with a seasonal splendour. All around tree lined hills floated on early morning clouds. It was a landscape the cried out for a tiny pied-a-terre in the city or villages. I’d have been quite happy here. At that moment Porto looked the most romantic place on the earth.

But it was Africa that was the star of the trip — as it so often is in life. Our plane crossed to Morocco had then flew south before turning west somewhere around Senegal. Thousands of feet below me the wonderful beaches of North Africa stretched out for miles on end and behind them sat the famous red earth of the continent. At first the ground was covered for hundred of miles with what seemed to be polly-tunnels. I guess when we buy fruit labelled Maroc it comes from here. Quickly cultivation gave way to rugged, rocky, hills, their sandy hollows and ravines festooned with tracks — animal or vehicle it was impossible to tell. The horizon was punctuated by the snow covered peaks of the Atlas mountains. Civilisation on the ground was sparse now and soon the rugged high ground gave way to the windswept sands of the Sahara proper. This was one of my best arial sightseeing trips yet.

As the plane set itself to fly over the Atlantic Ocean the blinds on on the windows were lowered so that we could pretend it was evening. I suppose this is partially to help nervous flyers forget that they will be flying — for hours — over deep, open, ocean.

Daylight ‘returned’ when we reached the landmass of South America. Africa’s red soils were still here but this landscape was green, lush and vibrant. It was the end of the day when we landed and we were greeted with one hell of a lightening display which led into one hell of a tropical storm. Africa and this part of the world were once joined together of course. How the West of Africa could do with all of this water.

It seemed to take hours to get out of the airport. There were long queues for the baggage, long queues for immigration and long queues for customs. Inside the concourse non of the ATM machines worked. Having just 300 Reals on me I plumped to hire a taxi from a booth festooned with VISA, American Express and Master Card signs. Cash only I was told! The journey on the highway from the airport to Leblon seemed to take hours. The roads were buffeted in driving rain and hundreds of vehicles on each hundred metres of road seemed to compete with each other for the accolade of Rio’s aquaplaning champion of the day. As we got closer to Copacabana grid lock struck. It was Sunday evening, goodness knows what it will be like with a World Cup and an Olympics!

With rather surprising ease the taxi driver simply pulled up outside of our small apartment block. A wonderfully friendly concierge was ready for us, introduced himself as Francisco and struck me as a real friend in the making.

The storms of the evening carried on into evening, washing away the humidity of the day. I write this at 8.00 am the next morning and already the heat and the humidity is beginning to climb

Today will be a day of orientation and local exploration. I shall adopt the pose of a colonial brit, striking out with North Face sandals, Paramo shorts and a Philosophy Football T-Shirt (Trotsky No. 4 Humph). I shall top it all off with my trusty, worn, Tilly Hat. I shall make my way to Mike Pitt’s favourite bar, the Café Jobi, which is also the favourite of the relative who owns this apartment!

But that’s a story for another day. Have to rush. My skin isn’t half red/pink enough yet!

A few of my more attentive readers have realised that it has been a bit quiet around here recently. I’m rather flattered that you noticed!

Things have been quite busy and — shock horror — I kind of really haven’t had anything to say. I’d rather stay quiet than to trouble you with loads of rubbish. Anyhow, I doubt this state of affairs will last for too long; it normally doesn’t.

Christmas is coming of course — yes it is, it will be here before you know it! Opportunities for wilderness exploration will be more limited, unless you are Colin Ibbotson who is planning to to celebrate Christmas by cooking his turkey on a Bushbuddy and watching Doctor Who on a lightweight mobile media player while drifting down the Spey in a packraft.

I shall have my usual pre-Christmas escape walk to concentrate on (I can’t survive without this) and then I shall be quickly into different territory. On Boxing Day I’m off to Brazil for a couple of weeks, not trekking but visiting friends — I suppose there may be a bit of urban trekking. At the moment I’m thinking of taking the laptop so be prepared for a sudden switch into urban mode.

A package arrived through the post from Bob this week. It is one of his new pole extenders.

One of the strange thing about the new Golite shelter that replaced the Hex (Shangrila something or other) is that the company decided to do away with the adaptor thingy that allowed you to pitch it with a walking pole. They now prefer you to use their own pole which of course is quite heavy.

Bob’s solution is this thing which is a pole section but with the same mechanism at each end meaning that you can link together the top sections of two poles. A light and cheap way of gaining height with your trekking poles.

It seems a simple but very effective idea. Anyone needing a long pole for a hex type shelter or indeed a tarp might be interested.

Pole Extender

A few weeks ago I related how Phil, Colin and I had eaten a really bad meal in Aviemore and subsequently suffered for days after. I also mentioned this on the Challenge Notice Board and somebody called Doreen had a go at me about it ….

The main that came out of much of the discussion was when and how to complain. The food was so poor (taste wise) that there seemed little point in complaining there and then. Anyone with that amount of contempt for customers would be unlikely to take any complaint seriously.

I did take it further though and spoke to a nice Environmental Health Officer based in Kingussie. I explained that we could not produce sample evidence for prosecution but that I just wanted him to know what had happened so that he might take this into account in the normal course of his work. (I know how councils work).

Anyhow, there has now been a formal inspection of this restaurant and, surprise, surprise, they found a lot of dodgy practices relating to the warming, storing and refrigerating of food.

A public notice has been issued which concludes:

It was apparent during my inspection that the level of food hygiene awareness amongst your staff was inadequate. You must ensure that all food handlers engaged in your food business are supervised, instructed and/or trained in food hygiene matters to a level commensurate with their work activity.

You can read the full report here.

Why am I going on about it? Well, I dislike people that try and kill me. But on a wider note, the Cairngorms are a popular stomping ground and curry is one of our favourite foods. It is quite likely that one of my readers will find themselves up in Aviemore over the coming months wanting something to eat.

Usually these notices lead to quick improvement, not least because they are followed up. But you might want to leave it a month of two and go somewhere else in the meantime.

I hope people like this begin to understand the power of the internet. I had a reply to the original post from a company in India. When I checked them out they ran tours to Scotland. They simply thanked me for the information.

Aviemore is, of course, a place with a year-round season and for a restaurant slap bang in the middle of town I guess marketing isn’t much of a problem. I hope they raise their game.

The message is clear. Don’t mess with us hillwalkers, specially those who come down after days in the hills and are very hungry !!!

Autumn in Glen Tilt

Walking high

The ridge again

Looking down Glen Tilt at twilight from on high

This is the pole that Phil used. Scary.