Sunday under the Eiffel Tower

My brother’s mate (Thanks Pete!) was kind enough to put us up on the Sunday night and for the Monday night we managed to find a 4-bed room in a not-quite-one-star hotel. Our thinking was that we’d be able to sneak an extra body in without anyone realizing. Having sorted our accommodation and changed our tickets to leave Paris on the Tuesday, we now had some time to see the sights of La Belle Paris

In the meantime we still had all our luggage with us. As we were still close to the youth hostel we’d stayed in two nights before, we decided to try and see if we could leave it there. We were in luck as a shift changed meant there was someone different on reception. One little white lie later and we were rid of the bags and heading for the Eiffel Tower.

After losing and then re-finding one another at possibly THE biggest tourist attraction in Paris we sat on the grassy area in front of the tower with our daily picnic of ham, bread cheese and wine. Here we passed another chilled out, inexpensive afternoon watching the infinitely fascinating characters that were attracted to the area.

There was the obese American lying on his side, his swollen belly making and all-too-visible escape from his shirt whilst he took photos of his slender porn star/prossy wife/girlfriend, the wannabe rapper gesticulating frenetically whilst walking amongst everyone and rapping what appeared to be the alphabet in French, a couple who really ought to have got a room, and the man selling 3 mini Eiffel Towers for 1 euro who made a speedy escape with an unsuspecting tourist’s handbag whilst the police stood on and watched.

By 8pm we made our way back to the hostel to pick up our bags and 2 hours, 1 bomb scare, 2 jumped metro barriers, and 8 checks of the map later, we arrived at the metro stop close to my brother’s mate’s house. Finally we had somewhere to sleep! Pete’s flat was an uber trendy, open-planned flat more suited to housing a couple than 5 homeless strays. Pete was extremely welcoming and we each soon had floor, sofa and sofa-bed (the three girls shared a double!) for the night.

Four nights in Paris

So, Paris! As we’d only done 4 days work we had just over 200 euros in our back pockets. Most of us were already out of pocket having paid the hefty registration fee to the agency we used and transport to the farm. Now we had to head to one of the most expensive cities in the world. We got the train to Paris (50euro) then, after much phoning around to find a youth hostel with a spare dorm, we had to fork out a hefty 29 euro per person.

None of us had the money to spend 29euro a night on accommodation so we resolved to find somewhere cheaper the following night. If only it hadn’t been a Saturday! We looked into hostels, we checked out hotels and even did a ring found friends and family but, having drained the batteries of our laptops and with little battery left on our phones we were still homeless. Sleeping rough was now our only option.

We left our kit at the youth hostel and headed out to see the sites and scope some places out to kip. After losing each other at the Louvre and walking up Les Champs Elysees we grabbed a bite at a Swiss restaurant then stockpiled bread, cheese and wine (we found bottles at €1.30 a pop) to get us through the night.

Looking at the map we noticed the Bols de Bolonges ­­­­- a large grassy area about the size of Hampstead Heath. This we decided would be our place to kip so we walked there to check it out. At first sight, we thought we’d hit gold. It was wooded with grassy areas and families cycling around. ‘\perfect!’ we thought. But then as we cut through a wooded area, all wasn’t quite what it seemed. \In a very small area we came across an unusually high number of condoms and wrappers. Some were neatly knotted at the end; others, not so.

It was time to consult the ‘Book of lies’ (aka the Lonely Planet) which we’d indefinitely borrowed from the youth hostel. All became clear. Whilst the Bols were a great family day out by day, by night they were, I quote, ‘an adults playground where male, female and transvestite prostitutes tout for work’. Hmmm…maybe not such a great place to camp after all.

After spending the afternoon at the park we resolved to head back to our youth hostel to pick up our bags. The plan was to be as discreet as possible so that we could spend as much time as we could in the warmth of the reception. It worked! We walked in, told the guy at reception we were just picking up our bags, then managed to subtly sit at a table round the corner from reception drinking wine and eating bread, ham and cheese until 1am. Unfortunately it was lock-up time and the guy found us. We explained that we were being picked up in half an hour giving us a little time to prepare for a night out on the streets.

Finding a place to sleep on the streets is surprisingly difficult. The good spots we found (quiet, out of view) were all already taken. When we came to a bridge over the river (just down from Notre Dame) we thought we were in luck and headed down to see if we could kip beneath it. Unfortunately it was already taken, and given it had the aroma of a rather potent urinal, we decided it be best to give our new found neighbor a little space and move a little further along the path.

Here we set up camp. Initially we sat around drinking the final few bottles of wine, watching rats scurry about and entertaining fascinated passersby but then it was time to crash. Attaching our bags to ourselves and putting valuables at the bottom of our sleeping bags, we lined up in our sleeping bags and snuggled up for warmth. Surprisingly, we slept, waking up at 8am. What’s more, despite being in full view of a main road, we were left to sleep in peace without being moved on.

Having spent the evening festering by the river in Paris, we decided that freshening up was in order…and where more appropriate than the local McDonalds. Taking up the entire corner of a newly renovated McDonald’s café we ate, showered with baby wipes and began our daily search for accommodation.

Grape expectations!

Sat in my favourite café in Jersey, I’m about as far removed from grape picking as I can get. And yet, every now and then I catch myself grinning at one of the memories or events of the last couple of weeks. What a great experience!

A ‘motley crew of randoms’ is the easiest way to describe us. There was west country Charlie aka ‘Chopper’, Ben, Triso, Tone, Laura, Paul, Vicky, Josef, Harmen and the obligatory ‘weird’ Will. Add in the French team of ‘Arthur beard’ (as in ‘half a beard’), Bruno, Uncle Knob Head (middle-aged, letchy butcher), Lesbos and Bruce (as in Willis), and we were about diverse as you can get. Mixed in with hard work and more wine than you can imagine, we had ourselves a good recipe for great times.

The grape picking itself was arduous, backbreaking stuff (at least for the first few days) interspersed by song and jovial vulgarities. ‘9’s’ out in the field (a veritable feast of wine, meat, cheese and bread) were a great morning pick up. This was followed by wine stops every hour or so and a three course lunch (with wine!) so we were usually grape picking half cut making it an altogether more pleasant experience J

Everyone had their own techniques when it came to actually picking the grapes. Paul took on the ‘1,2 miss-a-few’ technique, Charlie was all about speed, everyone looked out for the shortest rows with the fewest grapes, whilst Ben always landed the longest rows with the most grapes (that was his excuse for lagging behind anyway!)

At the farm we were housed in dorms: a small 4-bed ‘girl’ dorm and a larger dorm for the lads. At first, we ‘the girls’ thought we had the better of the two dorms. That was until 11pm on our first night when we had our first ‘enlightening’ introduction to the French team. 

We’d just settled to go to sleep (in preparation for the 6am wake-up call) when our peace and tranquility was rather rudely disturbed by the arrival of the ‘boys next door’ – a bunch of middle-aged men who’d been out for a couple of drinks at the  local bistro and were residing in the room next to us.

Half an hour of belching and farting ensued, made worse when we laughed and they realized they had an audience on the other side of the paper-thin walls. And so it continued. This was our affectionate wake-up call every morning.

Key highlights of grape picking:

-       Will-isms – “did your past boyfriends ever hit you?” (random question when asking Laura about her upbringing), “how do you say ’obviously’ in French with a really sarcastic undertone?” (his second question to me after ‘What’s the word for bucket?”) 

-       The blackbird song (sung at full pelt in the middle of the vineyard)

Where be it blackbird to?

I know where he be,

He be up yon wurzel tree, and I be after he!


Now I sees he, and he sees I,


Bugger'd if I don't get 'en


Wit a girt big stick I'll knock 'im down,
Blackbird I'll 'ave he!


La la la la la la
La la la la la la


'Ow's 'e, Fadder?
[Audience Answer] Alright!

-       Robojob (as performed by Charlie…don’t ask!)

-       Pocket Sausage (sausage stored in pockets after 9’s for a mid-morning snack)

-       Cupboard Clothes (old clothes found in a cupboard in the boys’ dorm which were worn out in the field to great comic effect J )

In four days we all (bar ‘weird’ Will) became very close. Unfortunately, our grape picking experience came to an abrupt end just when we’d finally got over the back ache from bending over all da. At the end of the third day we were told by Jean-Pierre that there was only one more day left of grape picking. The rains had arrived so he’d hired more people than usual to get the grapes picked before they rotted. We were left in a bit of a pickle as we’d all booked tickets for the following week. The agency we’d used were useless and offered us no help at all. Charlie, Vicky and Paul managed to get a lift from a friend, Josef and Harmen headed back to Holland, Will….who knows, and Ben, Triso, Tone, Laura and I decided to head to Paris to try and change our tickets. And so our next adventure began…

A farmer called Jean-Pierre

Armed with just a phone number and my backpack, I arrived at the small train station of Belleville Sur Saone. I’d been told by the ‘grape picking’ agency to call ‘Jean-Pierre’ when I arrived. Well, as is the usual case when travelling, nothing ever goes quite as planned. The number didn’t work, it was getting dark and I had absolutely no idea how far the farm was from the station. I decided to sit it out and see if he would turn up of his own accord.

10 minutes later a pickup truck rocked up and out jumped a farmer type. A guy stood next to me asked in French whether he was Jean-Pierre, to which the farmer replied yes. ‘Great’ I thought, ‘Sorted!’

I introduced myself but the farmer drew a blank. My heart sank thinking bureaucracy had gone wrong somewhere along the line. Consulting my little black book I asked whether he was Jean-Pierre ‘Desmolle’. The confusion vanished. He explained that he was a different Jean-Pierre but that Jean-Pierre Desmolle was his neighbour and asked if I wanted a lift. I didn’t have to be asked twice...I couldn't believe my luck!

Chucking my rucksack into the back of the pickup, I thanked the God  of travel who was looking down on me once again!

The first few faltering steps to global travel...

I'd managed to pack my life into 3 boxes and a reasonably sized backpack. I'd done the paperwork and booked the flights. I'd finished work after a long three-month notice period. All I had to do now was get in the air and head to Jersey for the first stop on my RTW trip.

Easier said than done it appears. The train was on time, security at Gatwick was relatively stress free (although why they need to x-ray flip-flops is still beyond me) and I'd made it to the departure gate in very good time. All was well and good. Until we'd taxied out to the runway that is.

The nose of the plane was virtually touching the runway when we came to an abrupt stop. 30 seconds later and we were surrounded by 4x4s with flashing lights. Fortunately, they weren't police cars or the anti-terror squad but a bunch of engineers who'd been dragged away from their morning bacon butties and tea to get to the bottom of why the steering had failed on the plane.

15 minutes later they were non the wiser so we were towed back to a stand. 30 minutes later and they'd worked out what the problem was and were on the hunt for a replacement part. As you'd expect, said spare part was currently 'out of stock' on the airfield.

Plan B came into force: how to move 150 people from one plane to the plane next to it...a distance of about 15 metres. Easy...you'd think! But then there's airport security to contend with. The Captain's initial idea was for us to leave the plane, enter the departure lounge and walk across to the next gate to board the new plane. A good idea...until the security boffins pointed out that it was an international departure lounge and we, as domestic passengers, weren't allowed to mix with them.

Plan B.2. The Captain arranges a bus to pick us up and transport us 15m to the next plane. It first had to remove 3 business passengers who were likely to miss important meetings in Jersey. They were put on any available plane that was heading that way. It then returned to transport half the crew so that they could start setting up the new plane, and then shuttled between our plane and the new plane to transfer us and the remaining crew.

Then there was the catering issue: apparently for 'security reasons' it's not possible to merely transfer the trolley from one plane to the next so you have to order a whole new trolley of drinks and nibbles for the new plane. Bearing in mind it's a 30minute flight it was an awful lot of fuss for a dodgy cuppa and a packet of weird nutty things crammed with E numbers and preservatives.

Three hours and one slightly nerve wracking flight later and I finally arrived home in Jersey to commence my trip.

Globe trotting!

So here is the first post of my global travelling extravaganza. The plan for the trip is as follows:

14th September: 10 days on a vinyard near Macon in France grape picking

3rd October: fly to Nairobi then travel down through East Africa as far as Jo'burg

1st December: fly down to Cape Town then spend 10 days in South Africa

12th December: fly to Auckland New Zealand. I'll be travelling around the north island for a month spending Christmas with my fella's family and New Year with my friend Vicky

8th January: fly to Hong Kong and spend a couple of days visiting the city

11th January: fly to Kuala Lumpur and spend a day having a look round

13th January: fly to Tiruchirapalli, Tamil Nadu, India. From here I travel to the south coast and then up the west cost as far as Goa. Here, I plan to spend a relaxing few days before flying up to Delhi to travel around Rajasthan

27th February: travel to Nepal. There i'll spend 21 days walking the Annapurna Circuit and completing Everest Base Camp

24th April: meet my parents in Kathmandu to travel to Tibet for 16days

10th May: fly to Bangkok and travel around Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia with my fella

Early July: fly to Sydney to put down my rucksack and find work as a copywriter once again!

kayaking in the 4th wettest place on earth

After a night spent in Kaikoura it was up early for the drive down to Lake Tekapo in central south isalnd. The drive was (as is usual in NZ) surprisingly simple and laid back. If acting as the map reader the instructions are usually 'drive 200km on this road then turn right'!

We arrived at Lake Tekapo around 5pm and put up the tent. We had it down to an art form and had both tent and airbed up within half an hour. The town of Tekapo is uber tiny so we had a quick drink at a bar then headed back for an early night in the tent. The following day we drove down to Manapouri. A long drive but no less stunning than the previous few days. One of the amazing things about NZ is how the scenery changes constantly. From the relatively dry flat land around where Tim's parents live we experienced stunning coastal roads to moutainous roads spotted with beautiful clear blue lakes to hilly almost rainforest-like flora.

We stopped by in Queenstown for lunch and had a look round. In the winter this is one of NZ's main ski resorts. It certainly had the alpine feel although there was no snow on the slopes. Definitly a place to return during the ski season.

We arrived in Manapouri in the pouring rain. As in torrential pouring rain. We decided that maybe putting a tent up was not the best idea so we asked if there were any dorm beds available. Thankfully there were which meant we could dump our stuff, head to the only cafe in town to pick up a hot choc and then return to cook dinner in the kitchen. We were wacked after our drive and had to get up early the following morning so we headed to bed early.

The following morning we were at Fijordland Adventure Kayaks at 7.30am with coffee in hand. nine of us were gathered on a coach and driven just down the road to Pearl Harbour. Here we boarded a boat for a 20 minute trip across Lake Manapouri. It was still raining. In fact it was pouring. We arrived at a small bay where we were layered up with micropore fleece, wetsuit, cap and paddle jacket then we picked up a coach to cross over a high pass to a small bay on the edge of Doubtful sound. Here we were layered up with a 'skirt' and full waterproof. We climbed on board a boat and were carefully negotiated onto kayaks.

Despite the rain the kayak trip was awe-inspiring. Dificult to describe in words in fact. I have never seen such beautiful scenery and would recommend everyone to pay a vist. The fijords are absolutely stunning. high rock formations jut out of the water covered in lush rainforest-esque forna with waterfalls cascading off the top of them. No postcard could do the view or experience justice. We spent four hours kayaking and Vix and I were frequently lost for words. Just amazing!!!!!

In the evening we headed 20km up from Manapouri to Te Anau for a dinner of pizza and a drive through torrential rain back to the campsite. no wonder this place is the fouth wettest place on earth!