Category: We’ve Been There

I have the distinct memory of standing high above Thulo Syabru, a ridge village in the Langtang region. The sun was highlighting the magnificent Langtang range we had just trekked through and it had turned into a good day, after a somewhat shaky start. Kay, Hori and I had just walked up 500m of steep mountainside, with over 600m to go.

The Langtang region is considered one of the most accessible trekking regions from Kathmandu, a mere 11 hours of a bottom-numbing bus journey away. Travel by public transport itself is an experience well worth the airfare to Nepal, from the early morning chaos of the bus station to the moment of realisation that you will be spending most of the day with 94 other passengers on a bus that has a maximum capacity of 45. There is a certain thrill to having your head out of the window, watching as the bus crawls mere millimetres from the edge of a 300m drop. It was a sobering moment when, two days after our arrival back in Kathmandu, we heard that a bus on the same journey went off the road, killing six Nepalis and injuring 14 trekkers.

Kay and I had resolved to complete a route encompassing the Rhododendron trek up the Langtang valley to Kyanjing, backtracking partway before heading up to the sacred Gosainkunda lakes and onwards into the Helambu circuit. All in 17 days, which apparently, was plenty of time. To this end we had hired a guide called Hori, partly because we felt a guide was necessary, partly to provide some input into the economy and partly because we wanted a Nepali involved in our exploration of Nepal.

The trek up the Langtang valley is one of the easier of the Nepal treks, climbing from Syabru Bensi (1,450m ) passing through various lodge villages to the next true village of Langtang (3,480m), over the space of three to four days, depending upon time restrictions and fitness. I would recommend that you take an additional day or two to experience the environment and to acclimatise to the altitude. From here it is a relatively easy trek to Kyanjin (3,950m) and beyond. The trek is magnificent, with ancient forests, steep climbs and, of course, the fabulous rhododendron flowers. Not mentioning the deer, monkeys, chuffs and mountains.

Being dependent upon trekkers for their income, various lodge villages have sprung up, catering for the hot and sweaty walker with solar showers, a basic but varied menu and genuine hospitality. Having a guide who knows the trek is definitely essential, as they can make your stays comfortable and entertaining.

The trek down the valley is easier, although we split off from the main trail, heading towards Thulo Syabru up what has to be the most mentally and physically ascent/descent/ascent stages of the whole trek. The village is a mixture of lodges and proper homes, most having an unrivalled view of the surrounding mountain ranges. From here there is another challenging ascent to Sing Gompa, through terraced fields, orchards and peaceful forests.

Sing Gompa has two main points of interest, an ancient and abandoned gompa on top of the peak, filled with beautiful Buddhist and Hindu wallpaintings, and a somewhat uninspiring cheese factory. Due to the early onset of the monsoon, the weather had become somewhat variable, and it was a wet and unnerving walk up to Laurebina Yak, assailed by an extremely heavy hailstorm and snow swiftly following our arrival.

Time and weather got the better of us, and forsaking our much anticipated visit to Gosainkunda, we headed back down to Sing Gompa. This was followed by a steep 1500m descent to the regional capital Dhunche, where we caught our bus back to Kathmandu.

Nepal is a fantastic country to visit, and to trek in. The people are almost universally friendly, often in spite of the changes wrought by tourism. Kathmandu and Bhaktapur are both highly intriguing cities, and each deserves a few days exploration. For new trekkers, the Langtang region is fairly strenuous but not overly so, requiring a decent level of fitness and some flexibility of time. It rewards with varied scenery and challenging treks. It is well set up for trekkers and although guides aren’t necessary, it is advisable for the reasons given earlier.

We took with us David Reed’s Rough Guide to Nepal, which is extremely well researched and contains some hair-raising and bloodthirsty tales from the history of this small nation. For the trek use the Langtang, Gosainkund & Helambu guide from Cicerone which, although slightly out of date, is accurate in the more important areas. We used the Himalayan Map House maps of the Langtang regions which was excellent and evoked envy in some fellow Japanese trekkers.

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Author: Jose Kilbride

Rivers are one of our planet’s natural highways. They can also provide a jolting, roller-coaster ride through a very big bathtub, an exhilarating tussle with the forces of nature. You don’t have to be experienced, you just need a healthy appetite for adventure, don’t mind being wet all day, have a sense of humour and the desire to experience something new.

Nepal is a river runner’s paradise. Rightly famed for its trekking credentials, Nepal is also renowned for its wilderness rafting. No other country has such a choice of multi-day trips, away from the roads in magnificent mountain settings, with warm rivers, a temperate climate, exotic cultures and friendly people.

Of the trips available, a popular, medium length river descent is the one that travels the length of the Kali Gandaki river, combining exhilarating white water and spectacular scenery. This is one of the famous names of Himalayan rivers. The Kali Gandaki rises in Mustang, an enclave of Nepal that pokes into Tibet. Initially a flat river, it soon drops off the edge of the world and cuts one of the deepest gorges in the world between Dhaulagiri, height 8167m to the west and Annapurna, 8091m to the east. These two peaks are only 38km apart, providing a vertiginous gorge. Once an ancient trading route to Tibet, it is now a favourite with thrill seekers.

The river passes through an area where until fairly recently, tourists were virtually unknown. There are few villages on the riverbanks – most are located on terraces perched hundreds of metres above. Named after the Goddess Kali, the river is considered particularly holy and an auspicious place to be cremated. Consequently many of the river confluences are dotted with cremation sites and burial mounds – do not be tempted to investigate the contents of these cairns!

Most days begin in a similar fashion, usually with something hearty to eat (or to throw up later…). Gelatinous eggs are a favourite. Following a briefing on the day’s route, the river is then tackled. You are then free to paddle, raft, admire the view, see villages, eyeball rapids, spot wildlife and await the carnage! The Kali Gandaki has some 60 rapids within 60km of river, most of moderate difficulty / Class 3. (There is an accepted international standard for grading rapids, rated 1-6, based on various conditions. 1 is slow moving water with a perceptible current, 5 is challenging, technical whitewater and 6 is unsafe to run commercially.) Over the course of the trip you’ll be forced to contend with “Little Brother”, “Big Brother” and “Rafters’ Refund”, all of which are quite big enough to flip a raft. The biggest rapid on the river lies at the end of the descent. “Walk in the Dark” is a sizeable rapid, graded 4+. These should provide gut-wrenching, adrenaline fixing whitewater rafting. You’ll be twisted, turned, shaken and basically hurled all over the place. Admittedly this is not everyone’s idea of fun (so that’s just me then?), but it is undeniably a once in a lifetime experience. The sense of achievement in taming the river is tremendous. Hanging onto a piece of rope attached to a raft, whilst on spin cycle in one of the world’s largest washing machines is not the easiest thing in the world. However, you should discover that fear and determination will combine to help you develop a grip of Olympic proportions! Sodden and shaking, the adrenaline rush is enormous.

This is a classic trip, which offers the best of the Nepali rafting experience. Passing through beautiful unspoilt scenery, via dramatic gorges and wilderness you’ll encounter copious wildlife and numerous temples and palaces. Many of these buildings are now derelict, eerie shells, which look as if they belong on the set of Indiana Jones. Once full of life, they are now the redoubt of ghosts. All the while, a snow clad Annapurna looms in the background, intimidating and awe-inspiring.

For those wishing to plan an itinerary themselves, the recommended guidebooks are the Lonely Planet Nepal, and the Rough Guide to Nepal. More specialised information can be obtained from the excellent White Water Nepal, by Peter Knowles.

Himalaya Map House produce maps of the rivers Sun Kosi, Bhote Kosi & Balephi Khola and Trisuli but an overview of the whole country can prove very useful, especially if it comes in the quality of the Nelles map of Nepal.

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Author: Alex Stewart

I can’t recall London’s weather conditions in February with any greater clarity than I could describe my prevailing mental state, but suffice it to say things were cold, damp and grey as usual and thus not very interesting – and the weather was little better. However, I had a solution.

My perverse logic told me that if I were to go somewhere where the weather was more severe, conditions might not seem so uncomfortable back here by comparison and I would experience some more exciting weather into the bargain. Of course a few days camping atop the Brecon Beacons with a leaking tent could achieve this objective, but a man’s got to know his limitations. After some consideration it seemed more sensible to opt for the North Atlantic.

I had always wanted to go to Iceland so I made some enquiries. I learned from the Iceland Tourist Board that there had been relatively little snow over the winter to the extent that the snow-mobile rental business was feeling a bit left out in the cold, so to speak. Furthermore, a contact in Reykjavik told me that it was warmer than usual for the time of year, at a sweaty 1ºC. Not as cold as I had imagined, but I assumed that she hadn’t included the all-important wind-chill factor. I decided upon a short break in Reykjavik, once a deal had been found which wouldn’t haemorrhage my bank account.

We touched down at Keflavik airport under a familiar looking grey sky. There wasn’t much snow around but something told me it wouldn’t remain so. As the shuttle bus to Reykjavik pulled away from the airport’s wacky sculptures and proceeded along the straight road north-east through the stark lava fields of the Reykjanes Peninsula, I was comforted by something I had read about Iceland’s capricious weather. It goes something like – ‘if you don’t like the weather now, give it five minutes’.

About 30 miles later, we were installed in the hotel. The room had a splendid north-facing view across a building site, some suburbs and the sea. The twinkling lights of the town of Akranes about 13 miles away were beginning to illuminate as the evening approached and almost all of the 2,982ft high Mount Esja was in view to the north-east. The suicide-proof window wouldn’t open very far but if I squeezed my head far enough out through the gap into the chilly breeze and looked west down the main road I could just see the spire of the Hallgrímskirkja and the town centre, just under a mile away.

An initial excursion into town soon followed. The town centre and Laugavegur, the main shopping street which leads to it, were quiet, with just restaurants, bars and a couple of supermarkets still open. At £5 a pint, pubs were unfortunately off the agenda and anyway I’d visited the duty-free shop earlier, so the alcohol issue had been taken care of.

The town looked very pretty with white fairy lights illuminating the trees in the streets and Austurvöllur, the square in front of the parliament building. I don’t know if these were maintained throughout the year, or were just the remnants of Christmas festivities, but it felt a million miles from tacky London. We wandered around some of the local landmarks for a while and noted the popularity of what appeared to be stuffed puffins in curio shops, and then it happened – snow, loads of it, driving near-horizontally through the streets, getting in my face, getting in my pockets. This was what I had come here for – it just doesn’t happen in London anymore.

Turning a corner we found a hot-dog vendor and had our first taste of Icelandic fast food. My experience of the local cuisine wasn’t to get much more sophisticated, frankly, but it suited the moment. Intent on not forking out too much for food, I had brought with me biscuits, pistachio nuts, peanuts, vodka and a firm intention to pig-out at the hotel’s breakfast buffet. It had everything one needed to keep the carbohydrates and caffeine level up. No putrefied shark meat or puffin, but plenty of pickled herring which, once tried, didn’t form a significant part of my intake, it has to be said. We supplemented this diet by making sandwiches with various cheesy and fishy sandwich spreads from the supermarket. I’m not sure how long we could maintain this thriftiness as we were only there for four days, but impoverished low-budget travellers take note – you don’t have to spend an obscene amount of cash to maintain your basic metabolism.

From the hotel room, when I wasn’t distracted by the telly (a disappointing selection comprising CNN, MTV, porn etc.) there was a perfect view of the snowstorm and its limited consequences for traffic on the main road below, compared with the chaos we’re used to here. Nobody appeared to slow down significantly, but then the roads were being cleared and much of the traffic seemed to consist of off-road vehicles. The scene outside was complemented by the constant howl of wind resonating through the ventilation system in the bathroom.

The following morning brought no change in the weather and as the dawn progressed we could see the various landmarks appearing and disappearing as banks of snow-bearing, low cloud swept in from the ocean. The day’s excursion got off to a false start when I had to come back in and put on my thermal long-johns. Once the situation was rectified, progress could be made in comfort.

Struggling along Sæbraut, the main road along the bay towards the harbour, it was hard work trying to stay upright in the face of the gale. The locals had a mountain goat-like tenacity which we outsiders couldn’t match, and seemed to be unperturbed by comparison. Didn’t matter though – it was fun and it wasn’t going to end quickly, unless I were to drop my guard and let the wind fling me over the sea wall or across the road into the path of a snow-plough. The only problem was freezing fingers within a few minutes of taking off my gloves to use a camera. The general temperature was 0ºC and the wind was near gale-force from the west, so with that wind-chill factor it worked out at something like a buttock-clenching -12ºC.

The high point of the day was going up to the 245ft-high viewing level in the spire of the Hallgrímskirkja, the distinctive church on a hill overlooking the city centre. Having struggled across its forecourt to the main entrance, we found it closed due to the weather and we were directed to the entrance at the opposite end. This took us through a room which appeared to be hosting a keep-fit class for some of the local senior citizens, but they weren’t bothered by the intrusion. A lift took us up to the viewing level just below the belfry. It was open to the elements and produced an almost unbearable, deafening wind-tunnel effect. The view over the city was great but I wasn’t too confident about how steady my photos would be. The old folks were still there when we left but had settled down to something less strenuous, presumably to conserve energy for their inescapable journey home.

I could go on, but space doesn’t permit it. Anyway, I think you get the picture. By the way, I took the Insight Guide to Iceland which was informative and adequate for a short stay. I took no street map as nothing was published at the time. Now we have the Iceland Insight FlexiMap which includes a Reykjavik street plan and is waterproof, which is appropriate given the conditions you may encounter. Also interesting for portraying the bigger picture is South-West Iceland map published by Landmælingar Islands, the Icelandic survey organisation. It is centred on Reykjavik and includes all of the Reykjanes Peninsula, and extends east to the highlands through which many organised excursions pass. In the town hall at Reykjavik there is an enormous raised relief map of Iceland on display and well worth a look. It’s a one-off, so don’t ask if we can get one.

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Author: Chris English

Ladakh, also described as Little Tibet, is an expanse of high, arid otherworldly mountains, devoid of vegetation, made of infinite shifting shades of brilliant brown and grey, dotted with the most colourfully dressed people I’ve ever seen.

Only two roads penetrate the region, each only open for a few months each year. These are some of the most arduous and demanding in the Himalayas, both taking at least two days by bus. From Srinigar the road passes ancient gompas (monasteries) and relics dating back to the first century BC, offering majestic views over the main Himalaya range and the Indus Gorge – that is if you can keep your eyes off the bits of road dislodged by the bus wheels tumbling down sheer thousand foot drops.

From Manali you cross one of the highest road passes in the world, the Taglung La Pass, just under 5,300m. I descended into the upper Indus valley via this route. A local woman next to me started moaning quietly and vomited. She passed out, but thankfully reawoke later. It was a ‘white-out’ outside, not from blizzard but from vertical light on a seemingly endless, near vertical, perfect incline. At one stop I went for a ‘walk’ in the snow up the mountain side. All sense of distance dissolved and suddenly I was floating in a white void. I returned to the bus, eager to be free to roam once we arrive.

Leh is the capital of Ladakh, last main stop before the actual highest road in the world, the Kardung La (5,600m), and Chinese occupied Tibet. It shelters in one of the Indus’ tributaries, the Zanskar, looking out into the immense Indus valley and across it south to the Stok mountain range. It is impossible to convey the mind-expanding sensation of passing through this landscape. Sitting in a café in Leh, a peak (over 6,000m high and 60km away) appears to be just the other side of the fence. The air is so clear that unfeasible detail is visible and the size is so vast that normal concepts of proportion and distance are just not up to the job. Things get a bit more real when the piece of mountain you’ve walked towards for four hours has stubbornly refused to get any nearer.

Preparation is minimal: hire a tough tent and sleeping bag, buy a Primus stove and a map, and get a brolly to wear on the rucksack (cheaper and safer than sun cream). Socks double as gloves at night, and I found a pair of old army issue sun goggles for few rupees. Laughable, but this was serious budget trekking. Later, on the mountains we met a distraught couple whose state of the art Goretex tops had worn through and whose bivouac bags had ripped and leaked.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at the first stream crossing. By this time it was flowing with melted glacial ice, and what was a narrow stream was now bordering on rapids. (This was to be recurring feature, proving that enjoying a lay in when in the mountains can make things difficult later on in the day – but I’ve been told a number of bridges have recently been built to ease this problem).

The only way to cross is to leap from a large rock, hurling the sacks. They both made it but the primus stove, cunningly strapped to the outside of my sack, suffered a fatal blow. No problem, we’d use local methods and cook using wood. But by the time the sun set, we had found three twigs between us. This is the rain shadow of the Himalayas. Any vegetation that could be burnt had already been snapped up by teams of roaming Khampa (nomadic) women, to be frugally used at home. Fortunately we met some incredibly friendly, colourful sherpas, who shared some strange alcohol with us whilst teaching us the skills of cooking a whole meal with three twigs and selected donkey dung. Their methods worked perfectly, and the animal skins they wrapped up in under the stars seemed to keep them warmer than our western made tents and sleeping bags.

Fast-forward a few days and a few thousand feet, and we’d reached the highest pass of the route, one of many around 5,000m. With only a dusting of icy snow, I had an unstoppable urge to reach a peak well above the snow line, a seemingly reachable 1,000- to 1,500-foot more. Touching the ceaseless arid expanse was the incongruous blue green snout of a glacier, dragged out from the snow by gravity, to melt in the dust. The easiest route to the snow line appeared up the edge of this frozen serpent, so I started the climb. Every ten minutes or so there was an eerie deep groan, as the pressures within the ice tore at its insides. Then, much higher pitched glassy explosions, as immense chunks of ice shattered into thousands of shards, which then rained down on the rock below. The movement of this beast was audible if not visible, and whilst pouring over a ledge, colossal, four-storey chunks of ice had been thrown up at improbable angles, frozen in time as well as temperature. They were amazingly suspended directly overhead, and gravity formed a straight line between them and me – time to find another route.

A different approach further up the path met with different problems. Within 20 minutes of leaving the trail, I found myself consumed by waves of tiredness, but with such breathtaking scenery I was compelled to continue. However the waves got progressively greater until I was having to count my footsteps to maintain my concentration, and then sit down to rest. Ignoring all the signs I continued at this pace – 20 steps then resting. Once my progress became ridiculously slow I decided to return down. Not so easy though. My stops had become involuntary, and the urge to sleep was overwhelming. Only with every ounce of will power did I stay awake and now with hindsight I realise how important it was that I did.

Ladakh heaps unforgettable experience on you, whether you’re just absorbing the views or clinging to precipitous mountain faces. Next day, as evening arrived, we stumbled upon some men working on an exquisite stupa. They appeared to have finished for the day, and on seeing us invited us into a nearby hut. There they gave us a drink consisting of fermenting millet in large mugs, with hot water poured on top. The resulting warm alcoholic liquid is drawn up from the bottom with a straw and is a welcome cousin of beer. It was warming to see that even in remote cultures in the most distant lands, after a hard days work on a building site, the workers liked nothing more than few pints.

There are numerous treks you can safely conduct yourself. It is actually hard to get lost in such a vast landscape, as, without ropes, you can only travel in one direction. If it is culture and not trekking you are interested in, the stunning Gelukpa monastery at Thiske, the masked Tantric festivals of Hemis, the ‘fakir’-like behaviour of the monks at Matho Gompa, the wolf-pits higher up in the valley, all with this vast lunar backdrop, simply enthrall.

For an in-depth excellent trekking guide try Trailblazers guide to Trekking in Ladakh. As for maps, Leomann map series sheet 3 – Leh, Zanskar, and Nubra Valley is the best option.

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Author: Alex Webb

With our hemisphere spinning inexorably into winter, it was time to ‘fill the boots’. Having overspent the month already, a cheap local destination seemed prudent, with a chance to test a friend’s theory that often what is searched for far away can be found in the local. Thus the much unpublicised two-day coastal flanner from Calais to Bolougne seemed ideal.

Along the Cote d’Opale, Opal Coast, stretches the GR du Littoral, covering a stunning stretch of coast moving from expansive, flat, tidal washes edged with dunes to high, sheer cliffs, under constant attack from the south-westerlys. These winds carry with them the strange weather conditions forming the Opal in the name, a beautiful opalescent light which dissolves the horizon, merging the sea and sky. The tidal flats are the playgrounds for the region’s obsession with sand yachting, whilst the cliffs form two promontories, Cap Griz Nez and Cap Blanc Nez (the first ascent of the 2001 Tour de France) between which is some of the best windsurfing conditions in this part of Europe (sandy, no groynes, regular winds and tough waves around the two points, though with some strong currents – damn, I didn’t have my board on me!).

Punctuating the coastline are the once menacingly poised blockhausers (concrete bunkers), some the size of the Dutch barns nearby. Now their hulking smooth concrete bodies slide gracefully down the dunes, like some crashed otherworldly craft. One at Audinghemn could launch its shells at England, whilst another inland at Eperlecques, topping a vast subterranean network was to breed V2s and spit them at Britain, thankfully halted before completion.

The coast out of Calais has some cute enclaves of stylish house sized beach-huts fronting the expanse of dunes, which gradually rise into the cliffs. Sangatte is your last chance to decide whether to make it under the cliffs past Cap Blanc Nez (2.5km) before the tide gets you, or to take the high path. Having ascended Cap Blanc-Nez the Dover cliffs, lit from the south, seem almost reachable by lilo while the Flemish fields stretch eastwards. After this places to stop are beachy: Wissant (also a good base for windsurfing) and Audresselles, avoiding the lifeless Ambleteuse. Just before the cranes of Boulogne materialise is Wimeroux, whose northern beach is covered in large, disc-shaped rocks that must be scaled if the tide is rising.

For maps, the superbly accurate IGN TOP25 map of Calais 2103ET and IGN TOP25 Boulogne-sur-Mer map 2104ET are indispensable, whilst the Michelin Green Guide to Northern France & the Paris Region covers this region thoroughly.

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Author: Alex Webb

Rio de Janeiro has long exercised a magnetic lure for travellers. Escaping to Rio is a travel fantasy – unless you happen to be a Great Train Robber. The city is photogenic, passionate and exuberant. Its vibrancy is matched only by its inhabitants’ lust for life. The locals, known as “Cariocas”, are as romantic as Parisians, as animated as Italians and as nocturnal as the residents of Spain’s 24-hour cities. They personify the phrase “carpe diem”, embracing the present.

Life here is to be consumed, not observed and the bigger the appetite, the better. The city is possessed of a potency, which frightens many, but affects all. The solution is to abandon your preconceptions of efficiency, rationality and timekeeping and give yourself over to the vibrant rhythm of a city whose many attractions are shorthand for exotica.

In Rio it’s best to play the Carioca and simply hang out in one of the world’s most exciting cities. Maybe it’s strolling the length of Copacabana beach, surrounded by examples of all human life. Then dropping into a local boteco to try some pastel de palmito (pastry with palm hearts in) or pao de queijo (cheese filled balls of pastry), whilst an aged accordionist, attended by a wrinkly groupie who’s been a little slapdash with the Grecian 2000, practices on his rheumatic instrument. Perhaps it’s hanging out “Baixo” style at one of the concentrations of bars in the zona sul. Enjoying a Chopp beer at an outdoor table or while standing on a street corner, people watching and chatting idly.

It could be dining on coxina de galinha at one of the many Churrascarias, Brazil’s traditional barbecue houses. Or it can happen whilst sipping a cafezinho during the day or later a shot of Caipirinha – Brazil’s potent national drink, made of lime, rum and sugar – at one of the suco bars frequented by Rio’s bright young things. It could be whilst visiting a feira or outdoor market, where the bold pedestrian can amble between stalls selling food, drink, handicrafts and even magic potions, accompanied by groups of guitar and tambourine players.

It could be whilst gambling on bingo, a deadly serious distant cousin of the version played sedately by blue-rinsed grannies in the UK. Perhaps it’s sipping lethal aguardiente beneath signed photos of Great Train Robber Ronnie Biggs. Or maybe it’s just being in a city which dozes in the sun all afternoon only to wake up refreshed for a sultry night’s bar-hopping followed by dinner at around 10pm and dancing into the small hours. Whatever it is, everything about Rio is exciting and on a grand scale.

It’s a place overlooked by the giant statue of Cristo Redenter, perched atop the Corcovado. Here the inquisitive can stare disbelieving across the spectacular panorama that is Rio’s backdrop. Elsewhere in the city is the Parque Nacional de Tijuca, the world’s largest urban forest, where you can walk between Jacaranda and Ironwood trees searching for Golden Lion Tamarin monkeys. The botanical gardens at Jardim Botanico offer an exceptional insight into the tropical world of the Amazon. Lose yourself on a walking tour of old and new Rio. Drop in on an evening Samba school rehearsal and allow yourself to get caught up in the compelling rhythms. Even hang-glide off Pedra de Gavea, some 500m above the seashore. Or simply sunbathe on Copacabana or Ipanema beach.

But Rio has a seedy side too. The good life and the city’s natural gifts collide with the harsh realities of a modern metropolis in an unevenly developing nation. As you fly into the city, you can see the famous granite outcrops of Sugar Loaf Mountain and Corcovado, presiding over the towering buildings on Rio’s beachfront. Yet once you have landed, the taxi to your hotel has to drive from Low Town, where the airport is located, to Upper Town. The journey takes about half an hour and involves travelling from one extreme of wealth to the other. Low Town is cloaked in poverty and the trip is deeply affecting. There is a chronic lack of housing, health services and jobs here, which has resulted in the creation and spread of favela (slum) districts. This in turn ensures that Rio has a history of crime and violence.

Everyone told me what to expect, I was travelling with more advice than luggage – “Watch out for the muggings. They’re so violent in Rio.” Which is terrific. Just the sort of advice to inspire confidence and open-mindedness, when visiting a place. The vast majority of people in Rio are warm, friendly and tolerant, but street crime is a problem here. So the attack, when it came, wasn’t really a surprise. It was, after all, exactly what I’d been told to expect. My assailants weren’t violent, just fast and opportunistic. The embarrassment was there none the less.

Despite the obvious rift between those who have and those who have not, Rio is one of the most exciting cities I have ever visited. As long as you take sensible precautions you should enjoy every minute of your stay. Do venture out and do mingle, just leave any obviously flashy jewellery and cameras behind.

Rio’s most famous event is the annual Carnaval, which runs from the Friday before Ash Wednesday to the following Thursday. The mayor of Rio hands the keys of the city to Rei Momo, The Lord of Misrule, and five days of debauched, surreal, erotic festivities begin. Rightly renowned, the Carnaval is the world’s finest manifestation of unbridled hedonism. Fireworks, processions, floats and cross-dressing neighbourhood bands vie for your attention in a sensory orgy.

Rio is much more than just a legendary annual party though. The state of Rio de Janeiro is the size of Switzerland and contains a host of fascinating destinations. Day trips east and west along the coast take you past sleepy seaside towns and reveal truly paradisical stretches of beach. Lush vegetation and mountains meet perfect white sand beaches and transparent waters. The best of these are the easily accessible island of Ilha Grande and the town of Parati, which is a well preserved Colonial relic. Elsewhere, the resort city of Petropolis provides an idyllic mountain retreat.

Cariocas describe Rio as the Cidade Maravilhosa (Marvellous City) and, like New Yorkers, can’t understand why anyone would want to live anywhere else. Once you’ve been seduced by the city’s assault on your senses, I suspect that you too won’t want to leave the most inviting playground in the world.

I used the Lonely Planet guide to Rio de Janeiro. As maps go, try out the Rio de Janeiro map by Falk and if you are planning excursions in the Rio State, rely on the Quatro Rodas map of Rio de Janeiro State.

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Author: Alex Stewart

Last summer six cousins and I squeezed into a large estate car with all our camping gear and spent a few days pottering down the coast of northern France. We stayed at the many well-appointed campsites along the way (eg les Dunes at Plage St Gabriel – you can get a listing from the French Travel Centre).

We spent the mornings devouring large numbers of patisserie, the days on the beach and the evenings cooking moules marinière over the campfire. Quite by accident, we stumbled across the resort town of Le Touquet. Within an easy drive of either Boulogne or Calais, Le Touquet is definitely worth aiming for as a destination in itself, as we found out.

In the early part of last century, it became so popular among the Parisian elite that it acquired its extended name Le Touquet-Paris-Plage, or Paris-on-Sea! Nowadays, it remains a favourite resort for locals and visitors alike. The centre of the town retains many of the original buildings, although apartment blocks have spoiled the beachfront somewhat. There is a large swimming pool complex with water slides and fountains which is a great place for kids (of all ages).

The town boasts a wonderful covered market in the middle where you can pick up local seafood, plus some very chic shops – strictly for window-shopping given the prices! Restaurants in the town tend to cater for all budgets ranging from ‘not cheap’ to ‘extremely expensive’. Of course, as with anywhere it is possible to eat out cheaply if you look around. The nightlife is buzzing with a real party atmosphere.

Le Touquet has many hotels, mostly on the dearer side. For the more adventurous, there is a great campsite right at the mouth of the river with access to the extensive dunes. We camped there and it turned out to be really convenient for the town centre – being well within ‘staggering home’ distance after a night on the tiles. However, if you do choose to camp there, don’t be surprised by the light aircraft passing overhead every few minutes – the town is so popular that there are scheduled flights from Biggin Hill in Sussex! If you can’t afford to fly and don’t have a car, you can still get there by train from Calais – just alight at Étaples and get a taxi across the bridge into town.

Inland from the town, the extensively irrigated and wooded valley of the Canche is fascinating to explore by car or bike. Going south, meanwhile, the coast offers extensive dunes, great camping and lots of little resorts.

For touring in northern France I used the yellow-covered Michelin road map Pas-de-Calais – Somme (Sheet 301). I would also recommend taking the relevant IGN Blue map – in this case IGN Blue map Le Touquet – Berck 2105ET – as this will allow you to explore the smaller roads without getting lost. The pick of the guides is by Michelin – Picardie, Flandres & Artois. One of the Green Guide series, this book gives information on where to stay, what to see and what to do. Malheureusement, it is only available in French at the moment. The AA pocket guide to Channel Hopping [now out of print] is worth a look, especially if your time is limited. It contains a useful overview of the highlights of the area.

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I gathered my seven words of French, my French dictionary, my maps and guidebooks – like every good journey this one started at the shelves of Stanfords – and set off for the forgotten southern corner of France.

The TGV train – what a brilliantly fast way to cross a country – rolls into Toulouse station and discards me into a throng of very lively French youths. Welcome to the student capital of France – only Paris has a higher number of students, which is rather unfair competition since its population is many times larger than that of Toulouse.

The books call Toulouse the pink city, supposedly referring mostly to the pink colour of the buildings, rather than to any political or other connotations the word might carry. We did indeed find many of these pink facades, but being a lover of variety I am happy to announce that brown and grey are just as common. It is easy to lose your way in Toulouse among the great little alleyways of superb townhouses, churches and squares with student pubs everywhere. Eventually you will make it to the banks of the Garonne river. Don’t miss the main square – Place de Capitole – dominated by the town hall and ringed by the more elegant cafés.

Time to move further south into the Ariége valley, an area visited more by French holidaymakers than by their international counterparts. This does make for a more authentic France, if you will excuse the cliché. Thermal baths, forgotten villages, castles on hilltops, caves with ancient cave paintings and lush forest – we even excused one day of rain as an essential element for lush vegetation – all of this provides plenty of attractions for the visitor. I still can’t understand why this is such a forgotten corner of France, but I am not complaining.

For us, though, this was not far enough. We were heading higher up the Pyrenées. We were well stocked with maps, but for once I spent more time choosing maps than studying them in detail in advance. My 1:25,000 IGN map shows 10m contours but I assumed them to be 5m intervals. The result: The foothills were exactly twice as steep as expected, making the target for the day downright absurd.

Peaks of around 3,000m steeply towering above us on the following days confirmed the 10m contour interval as a rather sensible move by the French cartographers who also impressed me immensely with the accuracy they use to mark even the tiniest streams and ponds. My advice: do not enter here on foot without one.

These same towering peaks on the borders with Spain and Andorra also confirmed that we came to the right place for some solitude in magnificent nature. The Pyrénées offer a wilderness that is not easily rivalled in Europe. That there are still supposed to be a few remaining brown bears certainly adds a touch of excitement while wandering in the evening mist! They are supposed to be good-natured and non-aggressive, a theory we were unfortunately not given an opportunity to test.

Spirit and mind revitalised – and feet a bit worse for wear – saw us on the train back to Toulouse. Here they had decided to hold a festival with live music on the main square and fireworks above the river to mark our return to town… or some other momentous occasion – does 14 July or Bastille ring any bells?

Toulouse is a bit under-represented in the abundance of regional France guidebooks, being lesser known and not quite part of the Mediterranean coast around Provence or south-western France around Bordeaux. But countrywide guides like the Insight Guide to France or the Cadogan Guide to France have extensive informative sections that can be recommended.

The Pyrenées are covered by excellent practical books: the Rough Guide t The Pyrenees covers the French and Spanish side in one book and for the serious walker I recommend the Cicerone Guide Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees.

And do not forget your IGN 1:25,000 Toulouse map for mountain walking or the IGN Top 100 map of Toulouse – Albi (1:100,000) to cover slightly larger areas of those forgotten villages. Stanfords staff can help you choose the ones you need using map grids.

Author: Gerhard Buttner

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The further south you go in Italy, the more scooters dominate the motor population. The variety sharing the roads and streets is immense: the new generation of motorcycles next to the older models, the classy Vespas and the 50ccs that the young ones modify to go faster, at the same time succeeding in creating a powerful eardrum-breaking device. Scooters are the ideal means of transport in the narrow streets of old medieval town centres or on winding coastal roads and in the long southern summers, they are better than air-conditioning. Continue reading Amalfi Coast

The only cigarette shop that stayed open till late in the whole of Venice was inside the café next to La Fenice theatre. In June, during the summer exams session Silvia, my inseparable friend and study pal, and I would go on studying and revising till late. We would stop at midnight and go out for a walk.

This was the best time of the day. Venice was empty. The only sounds were those of our steps and of the water lapping against the sides of the canals. Every now and then the sound of a night Vaporetto broke this balance, only to increase the silence when its shape faded in the darkness.

It usually took us half an hour to walk to the Fenice. We lived in the Jewish Ghetto area and usually stayed on the same side of the Canal Grande. It was a longer route but the view of Strada Nuova without the daylight bustle was worth the extra time. Strada Nuova is one of the largest streets in Venice. During the day it is just a large street, lined with shops and crowded with tourists walking towards San Marco Square and Venetians food shopping or busily passing by. At night it becomes a long empty corridor dimly lit by the street lamps and it has always reminded me of an empty stage. The play is over but the place still retains some of the magic of the performance.

Another highlight of the walk to the Fenice was to look up at the large windows of public buildings or the gothic-shaped biphoras of elegant private houses. When the lights were turned on some revealed the most beautiful interiors – frescoed ceilings and twinkling chandeliers or alternatively, contemporary canvasses covering the whole of a wall.

What a relief it was not to find the crowds in Campo San Bartolomeo and Campo San Luca. The former a meeting place for any age group, the latter strong amongst local teenagers. After work or school, what is better than meeting and catching up with some gossip? At one o’clock in the morning the buzzing noise of a few hundred voices talking at the same time was missing, leaving just our steps.

A game we used to play sometimes, even while talking and apparently not paying attention to it, was to choose a row of tiles and try to follow it till the Campiello della Fenice, the small square in front of the theatre.

Finally we’d get to the shop, buy the cigarettes from the grumpy man at the counter (would you blame him?) and head home again, this time going over the wooden Accademia bridge.

The Fenice theatre burnt down on a tragic night in 1996 and when I was in Venice in May this year, I didn’t go past its ruins but could see cranes above the roofs of the buildings that surrounded it. It is some sign of the long awaited reconstruction – the Phoenix is going to rise again from its ashes.

Cigarettes and breaks from Dostoevskij and Achmatova are excuses I can’t use anymore, but I still enjoy wandering around Venice’s empty stage nearly as much as its daily performance.

I would be tempted to suggest not to take a map at all and just lose your way in the labyrinth of Calli and Campielli. There is always something new around every corner. But… it is always wise to carry a map in case time or finding a particular location become an issue! The ideal map is the street plan of Venice by TCI and the guide I find most reliable is the Time Out Guide to Venice. I also like the format of the Companion Guide to Venice which has less practical information, but is a thoroughly researched title organised around specific themes.

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Author: Marina De Santis