Challenge Number One – Climb Snowdon (By Train Is Allowed)

I set myself this challenge simply to give us an excuse to visit North Wales, where I had never been. I don’t know why I hadn’t managed to go before – I suppose we always ended up going to visit our family in the Lake District whenever we felt a need for northern hills. Obviously, the real challenge would have been to actually walk up Snowdon, since my grandfather of the tarn-bagging and mountaineering fame would have skipped up it before breakfast, then probably gone on to do Scafell Pike and Ben Nevis before dinner. But this year I have bad knee on top of the bad knee I’ve had since I was a teenager, and I also have a Charlotte, who currently won’t even go upstairs without insisting on being carried. So by train it was.

Discovering (via Facebook) that I had a long-lost school friend who owned a B&B in North Wales spurred us on to make a reservation and arrange ourselves a long weekend in the vicinity of Snowdon. My friend advised us to book the train trip up the mountain in advance, as it is understandably popular. This meant a gamble with the weather, since I had to choose a day based on a long-range forecast. So what the heck, I thought. Given that it’s chucked it down all summer, we might as well pick St Swithin’s Day.

Miraculously, the gamble paid off. Having driven over to Wales in torrential rain on Friday, we had very low expectations. Saturday also brought huge black sodden clouds over Snowdonia, which thankfully we were stood watching from the coast and were nowhere near. But Sunday dawned beautifully sunny in Clocaenog, where we were staying. As this was about an hour’s drive from Llanberis, the Snowdon Mountain Railway’s base station, we didn’t dare get our hopes up too much, but the weather was also fine over there when we arrived. (“Fydd hi’n braf?” “Bydd. Mae hi’n mynd i fod yn sych”, the locals would have said. Oh, yes.) We collected our tickets, and then the most challenging part of the challenge began.

Living in York, I spend every single day trying to persuade Charlotte that we DON’T need to go to the National Railway Museum AGAIN, and that really once a week is more than enough, especially if I throw in a trip to the station to meet Daddy from work in between. She adores Thomas the Tank Engine, and Chuggington even more. She reads her Freight Train book over and over. She makes a beeline for the train set at playgroup and snatches the tunnel off anyone who dares pick it up. In short, she is a choo-choo fiend. But not, it transpires, when faced with a real-life huffing, puffing, whistling steam train. Thirty seconds on the platform waiting to board and Charlotte had gone ballistic. The compartments on the tiny train are also very cramped, as they ram eight people in a space that would only be properly comfortable for six, with knees touching opposite knees. 

Suddenly, we faced the prospect of an hour with a kicking, screaming, arched-back monster, who was so distraught that she kept bringing up bile. The train guard was incredibly kind and let us get off the train until a few seconds before its scheduled departure, which also gave Daddy enough time to run back to the car to pick up Stripey, Charlotte’s now really quite manky snuggle monkey, who she grows ever more worryingly obsessed about, and who normally isn’t allowed out in case we lose him.

Thankfully, the presence of Stripey and about a hundred readings of Theo Learns To Roar calmed Charlotte enough for us to be able to relax and finally start to enjoy the view. We could see for miles, out to the coast and beyond, and the peaks and valleys all around us were simply gorgeous. The train crept up the mountainside, working the same rack and pinion way it always has since the railway was completed in 1896, though apparently the carriages only got roofs in the 1950s.

When we finally got to the top, the summit itself was encased in swirling cloud and freezing cold. The train pulled in to Hafod Eryri visitor centre and we then had half an hour to nip up to the very top and warm up in the cafe. (You have to get the same train back down or walk.) It was such a different experience to other mountains in the UK – in the Alps it’s normal to scale huge peaks by cable car or train and then have a cup of tea when you arrive, but we’ve never really gone in for that sort of thing over here, preferring our hills au naturel. The summit is just a short scramble up from the station, and as we didn’t trust Charlotte on the verge of a precipice, Dave and I took turns to head up. So thank you to the poor woman clinging to some steps with vertigo who I made take a photo of me to prove I was there. Though not with the same sense of achievement I’d have felt if I’d used my legs all the way of course.

The journey down was uneventful, apart from the summit cloud suddenly lifting when we were about halfway down. But we weren’t going to complain – given what most of the summer has been like, we were truly grateful that we hadn’t had to spend £50 on train tickets to only be able to see mist and downpour. We’d seen plenty en route. The pictures speak for themselves. We had more space in our compartment on the way back too, as four of our original fellow travellers had obviously decided that walking down would be preferable to spending another second with our bawling toddler.

The summit finally visible!

Although the purpose of the weekend was to climb Snowdon, being in North Wales gave us plenty of bonus activities – a trip to Conwy Castle, a quick spell in Llandudno, and a visit to another island for challenge number 26, Anglesey. We also spent the wettest day imaginable in Chester Zoo during our return trip to York on Monday, when the rain had set back in with a vengeance. It’s a telling sign that Charlotte has started referring to outside as simply “pouring down”.

Conwy, looking towards Llandudno

Conwy Suspension Bridge

Conwy Castle

Plas Newydd, Anglesey

Looking towards Snowdonia from Anglesey

Bridge over the Menai Strait to Anglesey

Wet elephants at Chester Zoo

This blog entry would not be complete without a shameless plug for my friend’s B&B, the Old Rectory in Clocaenog. It is a beautiful house overlooking rolling hills, and is immaculately clean and light and airy. The cooked breakfasts are superb. You get greeted with chocolate cake. They had left toys in the room for Charlotte. It had a lounge where we could hang out once Charlotte was in bed, rather than being confined to the bathroom or lying on the bed in silence. There was a play park at the end of the drive. Charlotte’s strops and appalling table manners were tolerated with good grace. We had a lovely time.

But given Charlotte’s reaction to the steam train, it looks like I’m going to have to rethink challenge number 31, Take Charlotte On The North York Moors Railway. All suggestions for a replacement challenge welcome!

Challenge Number Twelve: Get Our Attic Fixed

Ever since we moved into this house nearly five years ago, the dormer window on our top floor has leaked. Quite why the crazy people we bought the house from had never noticed this lies probably in the fact that they were crazy, or too busy installing the crazy kitchen sink, crazy window blinds, crazy bathroom sink, crazy lack of splashback tiles, and crazy decking with no drain access in the back yard. The builder who did all this for them had their number programmed into his phone as “the crazy people”. (We know this because he’s been to service our boiler a couple of times.) What seemed quirky and original when we viewed the property quickly became annoying.

But not as annoying as the leaky window. Obviously we tried to get it fixed. A pair of cowboy roofers turned up and charged us £700 to do everything to our roof and chimneys other than repair the leak, which was caused by a bad seal against the lead flashings down the side. We tried several other roofers. They either didn’t return our call, or came to have a look to give a quote and then disappeared. One said it was too big a job and that he would pass on our number to a bigger roofing company, who then never contacted us. We tried joiners instead but as we couldn’t afford to replace all the windows in the house and therewith give them a 20-grand project, they weren’t interested in a small but complicated job. We were well aware that to replace the window, scaffolding would have to be erected, adding to both the hassle and expense of the work. The landlord of the student house next door, a local property baron and developer, offered to have a look when I was moaning to him about the behaviour of his latest tenants, but he quoted a total of £8,000 to do the work. I think he only came round because it was his mother who used to own our house and sold it to the crazy people, and he was curious to see all the crazy things that the crazy people had done. It seemed ridiculous that nobody wanted the work when there’s allegedly a recession on.

Once Charlotte arrived, we just gave up, as we had more important things to worry about, and simply made sure that we regularly emptied the buckets stashed under the eaves to catch the drips and stop the water soaking through our bedroom ceiling. It’s amazing what you get used to. Realising we lived in a crazy house meant that we were minded to look for something for practical for life with a toddler and so we just thought we’d put the house up for sale with the work still needing doing and price it accordingly. However, as time went on, we decided we’d be better off selling a watertight house, crazy or not.

So I resolved to try again. One brilliant thing about having a baby is that you get to meet loads of new people who all live near you, which means it’s far easier to get recommendations of local tradesmen. So all it took was a visit to a friend’s house and an admiring comment of her windows, and lo and behold, the magic phone number fell into my hands. I then just had to make one phone call.

But then there was the minor obstacle of my phone phobia to overcome. I hate ringing strangers, particularly when I need to ask them to do something for me. I usually nag Dave to do it instead. Or send an e-mail. But making this one of my challenges meant I had to ignore my cowardice, pick up my phone, sit on the front step and, hands trembling, dial the magic number. Then a few days later we had a quote within budget, and a couple of months after that, the new window was delivered and installed. The joiner was brilliant, the decorator he employed less so. The buildings inspector was nonetheless thoroughly impressed and gave the new window a big tick.

We still live in a crazy house, and we still have leaks elsewhere. And other things to fix in the attic, like the fact that it has no insulation and a big crack in one of the bedroom ceilings. But the challenge I set myself has been completed.

The old window

Water damage

No view thanks to the seal having gone in the glazing

Mould

One of many water catchers under the eaves

Work in progress

Terry's and the Knavesmire grandstand visible again

Millennium Bridge visible again

The finished window

Challenge Number Seven – Eat lobster

One marvellous discovery about Jersey was that seafood is incredibly cheap there. It’s just normal to have shellfish on a restaurant menu at affordable prices. After a delicious crab sandwich in Durrell and scallops in a cafe overlooking St Brelade’s Bay, I realised that this was going to have to be my week to eat lobster.

I’ve been slow to come to molluscs. A bad experience with crab at a wedding buffet when I was 14 convinced me I was allergic, and I’ve always taken seriously Anthony Bourdain’s advice in Kitchen Confidential to avoid the fish special in restaurants on a Monday and mussels at all other times. One of my uncles went into anaphylactic shock after eating shellfish, which further led me to err on the side of caution. But slowly, once I started being able to afford to eat in better places, curiosity got the better of me and I started to try seafood out, realising what I had been missing. I now have a passion for scallops and prawns. A langoustine at Tom Kitchin’s restaurant in Leith was part of the best meal of my life. However, I still don’t do mussels or clams. Or whelks or cockles. And I’d never tried lobster. It’s a hangover from my days of paranoia – it’s always so expensive and so I was scared of spending a small fortune on something I didn’t like or which might cause an allergic reaction. But nearing 40 and remembering that langoustine, it just had to be done.

In Gorey, in the shadow of Mont Orgueil, there’s a restaurant on the main road called the Bass and Lobster Food House, which seemed a fitting title for my first taste of lobster. First we had to check that they’d let us in with Charlotte, and had suitable food and a high chair for her, which they thankfully did. (Pasta in tomato sauce – always a winner with our Charlotte. And this was actually made fresh for her. In fact, in my forthcoming book “Nice Places To Eat With Kids”, the Bass and Lobster will get 10/10 for customer service and attitude to little ones, since they treated us as politely and respectfully as an apparently eminent local politician sat at the next table.) Thus we relaxed and settled down to their lunchtime set menu – a snip at £13.95 for three courses of fabulous fine dining. And lobster thermidor as one of the mains (sandwiched between a starter of blue cheese and wild mushroom risotto balls with pumpkin puree, and a white chocolate and orange cheesecake and blood orange granita for dessert) Mm-mm. It was delicious. But there wasn’t enough of it. I’ll be having lobster again whenever I can. But I’ll maybe ditch the cheese sauce next time.

Challenge Number 26 – Visit an island

It could have been a Canary. It could have been a Balearic. It could have been a Caribbean. It could have been one in the middle of a lake only accessible by rowing boat. It could have been a bit of a cheat since we live on an island in the first place. But it ended up being Jersey.

Actually, it couldn’t have been any of the first three since we decreed that we weren’t prepared to spend more than an hour on a plane with a wriggling, writhing, wrestling oversized toddler on our laps. And once she turns two and we have to pay full fare for her to have her own seat, we’ll be too poor to fly anywhere.

So Jersey it was. I’ve always wanted to go, ever since I used to watch Bergerac on Saturday nights in the 1980s with my mum. It’s the only island in the world that actually turns into John Nettles’ face when tipped on its side. True fact.

But Jersey was a wonderful holiday choice. It really is the most beautiful island. It has beaches to rival any of the world’s best, from sheltered coves, steep cliffs and vast expanses of sand perfect for castles, some of which are actually overlooked by real castles. It has a spacious sense of light, narrow country lanes framed by green foliage, rustic French-style architecture and its own vineyard. It has Waitrose.

Normally, Jersey has good weather. I wouldn’t say that it did the week we were there, but frankly anything short of a blizzard or tornado would have been a vast improvement to what we had left in Yorkshire’s crap summer of 2012. We had sunshine at some point on most days, and only one morning of torrential rain. And with a little one in tow, sunbathing’s not really an option any more anyway.

Jersey also has German bunkers. Everywhere. Now, these aren’t pretty, but are an important part of the island’s history since the Channel Islands were the only British soil occupied by the Nazis in the Second World War. Hitler decided that Jersey had to become an impenetrable fortress that he wouldn’t have to hand back so bunkers and concrete walls were built all round the coast. One of the bunkers houses a small military museum telling the story of the Occupation. This is done to greater show and fuss in the Jersey War Tunnels in the centre of the island, but this tiny bunker had a far greater effect on me than all the sound effects, idiot-proof explanations and video diary gimmicks of the tunnels. It was just jam-packed with Nazi memorabilia: newspapers, crockery, uniforms, guns, flags. Even an Enigma machine. You just never see this anywhere else. For obvious reasons, Germans don’t put it on show, and in most places where the Nazis invaded, anything they left behind was destroyed by those who had suffered under their rule. It is in fact telling of itself that all this stuff survives in Jersey today: its native citizens, through collaboration, luck and a general holiday atmosphere about the place, got off relatively lightly. British people who stayed behind, members of the resistance movement, Jewish people and slave labour imported from the East didn’t, of course. What hit me was the fact that all the stuff on display was (for want of a better word) real. We’ve all seen bad and better war films, photos, reconstructions in documentaries. But I’d never seen a genuine swastika that was actually on display during the 1940s before. (Not that I’d had a desperate desire to do so, I hasten to add.) There were also footprints in the concrete on the floor made by jackboots of German soldiers going about their daily business. And it all sent a creepy shiver down my spine.

Jersey also has Durrell, named after its founder Gerald, which has shaped how zoos today look all over the world. Durrell focuses on rescuing and breeding endangered species – orang-utans, fruit bats, gorillas, chicken frogs, lemurs. They are all about as free to roam as you can get whilst still living in an enclosed space. It’s a wonderful place.

Jersey is covered with beautiful coastal flowers at this time of year. There are many gardens to visit, and we called in at one belonging to Reg. Reg’s Garden was very pleasant, yet with serious touches of the surreal on its borders. There was a nice koi carp pond and waterfall, some caged birds and colourful flowerbeds. But then there was a mini amphitheatre, which every year pays host to “Regstock”, Reg’s own music festival. And then there was the fairy grotto, which had miniature cottages and glass angels on trellises. And a greenhouse absolutely stuffed full of Barbie dolls dressed as fairies. Ee-gads. It was time to go.

We stayed in a self-catering holiday park called Les Ormes. Accommodation is stupidly expensive on Jersey and this was all that was left and all that we could vaguely afford by the time we got round to booking. We were slightly concerned that a map clearly showed that it was situated right beside the airport runway, but actually it was fine. Besides, for a toddler “plane-in-sky”s are quite a novelty, and there were no night flights. And it’s not like any Jumbos fly into Jersey. Plus our lodge had its own hot tub, which sorted our evening entertainment and would make me forgive anything.

Oh, and Dave saw Jim Bergerac’s vintage car on display in a park that he took Charlotte to while I went round the War Tunnels. Of this I was very jealous.