Saturday, 23 January 2016

Skis and Flurries

The world high up, the world that sits above the clouds, where the land carries on, is like something I'm not entirely convinced I could have even painted in a dream. Up there, craggy hillocks and snow-littered conifers jut out of the wispy nimbus like desert islands in a world where the sea is made of cloud (I suppose well and truly, that the sea is made of the same stuff as cloud if you want to get pernickety, just in a different state :P) 

Tuesday, 19 January 2016


We were foolish in hindsight; the pathways were slippery and the mud was glistening with dew from the morning rain but undeterred, we ploughed on over the rocks and up the winding, narrow path ways that burrowed into the sides of the ravine. I thought of the people who had dug out and made those paths years and years ago and dilly-dallied on day dreams of what the ravine may have looked like then; rogue and unadulterated by the foot steps of generations of hikers. I was silly enough to look down, overpowered by my masochistic curiosity and I realised at that moment how one misplaced foot might send any of us tumbling down into the Cascades. But the French (Clementine and Alban) ploughed on and I realised how mountain rambling felt so far from our own rambling.  Here I felt challenged, out of my comfort zone, wary. But coastal cliffs? Alpine ravines? Is there really a difference? I swallowed my apprehension and ignored the unpleasant, damp mossiness on my hands from gripping the hooks and bars placed into the rocks to help you climb and followed my friends to the true prize buried at the other end of the pathways; the falls. 

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

Middle of the Mountains

As the airplane descended, rocky, wintery hills emerged and our game of "who can spot the mountains first" became pointless. We fell silent, in awe of the countryside beneath us that was utterly different from our rolling, patchwork farms of southern England. Lights twinkled and the quaint and quirky city in the middle of the mountains that was Grenoble, welcomed us with its little red roofs and sprawling tram cables and I could almost smell the French bread waiting for me in the boulingeries. But forget the french bread, somebody was waiting for me, and that somebody was one of my oldest, favourite friends Clementine who I hadn't seen in over a year. There was a lot of  hugging and squealing in Grenbole's teeny tiny airport, and we received many strange looks from the large groups of students who had travelled to these parts for the skiing. 

Wednesday, 6 January 2016

Wooden Boats

Welcome to my neighbourhood everybody, it's about time I showed you all around! The truth is, if you've been reading my blog long enough... you will have already had a few snippets of where I live as the Kennet and Avon canal system is a regular haunt of mine and a place I will truly miss when I graduate at the end of this year. 
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