Hong Kong

The Luxe Guide to Hong Kong, which was written by one of the guests at this rooftop barbecue, starts something like this: “Don’t start planning a holiday to Hong Kong on a budget. If you’re already on Holiday in Hong Kong with a budget, start crying”. Thankfully, some exceptionally kind friends of my cousin whom I’d never met before were very understanding when I rang the bell of their apartment on the 37th floor, dropped my rucksack and flopped down on the sofa. The view is awesome; it’s the picture you’d see next to an article about Hong Kong in the Economist. It is certainly better than the view from the room I looked at on Nathan Road, global microcosm with an extra helping of backpackers and disarmingly honest “copy-watch” salesmen. The view there was either a wall or someone’s laundry. Here I can see the lightshow that is the Hong Kong skyline at night, the dazzling, incredible, multi-coloured, flashing carbon footprint. In the daytime the carbon footprint is a more conventional browny-grey or greyey-brown making the view a lot less dramatic than it might have been. I have to say, after Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou and here I have come to appreciate that air pollution is not a problem to be sniffed at. I’d thought wearing a mask seemed a little effete, why couldn’t you just manfully suck in a few noxious vapours? The problem in Asia is on a different scale. The moment I was truly convinced was in one of the interviews on the train. A Chinese guy had been to Sheffield for work experience and so I asked him what he liked about England. The weather, he replied. I searched through my phrasebook, sensing I must have misheard. But no, he meant the weather. OK so it is often windy and rainy, he conceded, but at least the air is clean. I can think of no better illustration. If people are going to start coming to England for the weather, surely people must recognize that change is necessary.

Amazingly though, 75% of Hong Kong is actually green. I had heard that before but thought perhaps it was one of those statistics which prove you can prove anything with statistics. But its true, even the addition of the sugar coated plastic trees of Disneyland caused only a small dent in the figure. I headed over to Lantau Island, home of a monastery with a big bronze Buddha. I was joined by Babu, a delightful retired Indian bus driver from Leicester. He told several very humorous anecdotes on the bus from the port, all with a distinctly Indian flavour. For example, one joke set in a restaurant next to a Spanish bull fight had the protagonists eating bull testicle curry and rice for one pound a head. I decided not to quibble. Up through dense forest we drove until we arrived at the Tian Tan Buddha as it is properly known. It is the tallest outdoor sitting Buddha in the world apparently. I have to say I’m becoming a little cynical about these Buddha records. I have seen various Buddhas that have claimed to hold various obscure records. This seems slightly childish and I can’t help think that this is another aspect of the rather overblown modern Buddhism that probably has Siddhartha turning in his Nirvana, if there is anything to turn and anywhere to turn to when you’re in a heavenly state of peace and nothingness.

Talking of records one other thing I was really keen to see while I was in Hong Kong was the Central to Mid-Levels Escalator, the world’s longest. Except it’s the World’s Longest Outdoor Escalator System. So that means its not 800m of intense, heart-pounding diagonal action but several quite long sections strung together. It is still heart-fluttering even though it turns out the really long single span ones are actually on the Moscow and St Petersburg Metro systems. For heart-pounding try arriving in a rush at the wrong end of the (One way) escalator when it changes direction and take the stairs instead. Babu enjoys it as it saves on his taxi fare. He doesn’t enjoy the walking bits in between as he feels we have already walked enough today.

After the Buddha we ate at the monastery's vegetarian restaurant, where Babu regaled me with more stories, some about curry. Then we took a taxi to the stilt village of Tai O. It may be only a few miles by boat but Tai O a whole world away from the skyscrapers of Hong Kong. The residents are propped up above the river by ramshackle balconies, boats tied to the stilts that are sunk deep into the mud below. Others are selling fish, fresh from the boats on the water or dried from the shops on dry land. Puffer fish with plastic teddy bear eyes spin mournfully, alongside some rather striking but tatty auditionee's who failed to make the grade for Hirst. The longer you spend in China the less strange shark fin soup seems. Crossing a bridge we encounter Mr Le, a thin, effusive man carrying too many bags. He takes us to another monastery where here they are celebrating a big feast held in honour of their generous donors. As with many institutions donations are recognized with names and photographs. These are then prayed over by the monks, ensuring you more good fortune, some of which may be able to fund a bigger photograph. At the moment the monks are chanting before an altar, with their voices amplified by a mic and speaker for the benefit of the crowd. Nearby stacks of prayers are being burnt on a small fire, watched over and blessed by the abbot, who in turn is watched by the two-abbot-high, glaring papier mache statues that are doing an excellent job of scaring away evil demons, as there are none to be seen. There are terrapins however. Actually, the stuff about donations reminds me of a sign I say at the monastery earlier. The monks there had a long explanation next to the cashier’s desk about how donations would be matched, not by the government, as with GiftAid, but by karma. Seriously, the sign said that any donations would result in corresponding karmic gains. I’m still not sure its what Buddha would have wanted. Mr Le says he wants to have his picture up there some day, but I think he is joking. It starts to rain. Babu is walking slowly, because we have walked a lot today and he is talking to his son on the phone. I offer Mr Le the umbrella I bought in Shanghai. He says he will walk under it but he does not want it, as he hates umbrellas. I decide not to delve too deep.

Acupuncture in Shanghai

There's alot of things that are just how you expect them to be. For example in Mongolia I had Aaruul, which is yoghurt that has been dried over the summer months. This tasted what I'd expect yoghurt that has been dried over the summer months to taste like and there is a reason I haven't tasted that up until now. Actually what surprised me was how hard it was, I met a missionary who'd broken a tooth on it, so in fact it was perhaps even worse than I expected. Acupuncture felt a lot like I'd expected needles in the flesh to feel like, the electric shocks were another unexpected negative point. Another negative was the location. Not far from the centre of Shanghai, the Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine is a tall glass fronted building, full to the brim with the emergency room bustle. It takes several stabs to find the acupuncture department, from the dispensary, which has one window for Chinese and one window for Western medicine, to the reception, the cashiers, another waiting room and finally Dr Wu on the fourth floor, a short man with not very much bristly hair, large glasses and a lot of needles. He tells me I need an appointment and for that I must go to the eighth floor. Here I fill out the forms that allow me to be registered into the Chinese medical system, then I receive my card and details of my appointment. I say I'm registered in the Chinese medical system, in fact it is EDVNCAD GRELO who is going to be the lucky recipient of this treatment, this being the receptionist's imaginative interpretation of my handwriting. I guess the problem is that Chinese writing is all about the look of the whole, rather than these boring individual characters, so I guess the name is close enough.

I pass a couple crying on the stairs. This is not a holiday spa, an alternative therapy retreat for tourists. This is a real hospital. This is probably not a good idea. It is not in fact Dr Wu who will be seeing me today; it is a female colleague of his. I smile encouragingly to those stoically imitating hedgehogs with patchy steel prickles, while I wait. No one looks like they are having fun. There is a pot of needles in a dusty wooden cabinet by the door, soaking in alcohol, alongside some of those glass suction cups that I last saw being used to treat mad King George III. I tell myself that these must be the used needles and that somewhere there will be one of those sterilizing ovens. The doctor comes in. I was a little worried that I would have to make up some ailment and while this is largely the case I do still have a fair amount of residue backache from the Mongolian horse riding. I try to explain. Thankfully a lady wearing a red sweater and a white mac tied loosely at the waist with the sleeves rolled up, which I assume must just be a very informal gown favoured by hospital interpreters, comes in to translate. To lighten the mood, I ask in Chinese: Does it hurt? Blank looks, mood stays the same. Minor headaches and tiredness get thrown by misunderstandings into the symptomatic mix but I veto ringing in the ears. Eventually I am told to lie on the bed and pull my shirt up. I was wrong about the pot needles. The good doctor selects some of the least rusty and begins to jab them in my back. People can’t die of this very often; so many people are still using it. This is China though; there are quite a large number of people, probabilities work differently here. Oh shit. Another needle goes in. The lady in the mac asks: Does it hurt? I struggle for the blankest look I can manage. Then the crocodile clips are attached and the electricity is switched on. Does it hurt? Err… Well. Perhaps a little stronger? The doctor fiddles with the dial. This has the same effect as someone flushing the toilet while you’re in the shower, except with needles and electricity instead of relatively tame water. I think I let out an ooof of pain which seem to satisfy the Doc. Half an hour, says mac lady. She then takes off her mac and the Doctor starts sticking needles in her ears and head. She has tinnitus apparently.

The time passes, pulse after pulse, shock after shock. I hold on to my bear Fydor for comfort. I try to take a photograph of him and my back. This is ridiculously painful. If you ever find yourself with needles in your muscles, try first to remove them. If this is not possible, try to use these muscles as little as possible. If you’re not sure whether a particular movement will exercise a particular muscle all I can say for sure is that muscles in your back are definitely required if you try to lift a camera over your head to photograph them. Beyond this you’ll have to work it out yourselves. At the end of the session my needles go back in the pot of alcohol.

Times of the signs

Another radio programme I would enjoy making is a quest through China to find the worst sign, for the competition is fierce. If anything gives the impression that the rest of the world is only an afterthought here it is the signs written in Chinglish. True Chinglish should not just be wrong; it should be completely incomprehensible to anyone. Occasionally some lateral thinking may allow you to divine the meaning, with the possibility for humour or a sense of satisfaction. However, for a true connoisseur the most sought after works seem like a random jumble of words, or even letters. In a small village in the North West this might be forgiven, but in fact official government signs in the major cities are some of the worst offenders. In many cases it seems churlish to point out the mistakes, not to mention the fact that the signs are, if not set in stone, already quite permanent and on top of that, a brief stroll is enough to convince you that the task of correction would be something of a Sisyphean labour. However, I have always wondered about the design process of these signs. If there was some helpful language input at the crucial planning stage would it be possible that a sign might go up error free? Having walked past so many stunning examples I was lucky enough one day to stumble upon a shop that was being fitted out for a grand opening the next day. And wonder of wonders they were in the process of putting up their sign. Less surprisingly, there was indeed a mistake. This clothes shop was catering for more expensive tastes, located as it was near Beijing’s Russian district. The Cashmere was all present and correct but unfortunately the second half of their range was currently scheduled to consist of Sheard Sheep Skin, making it sound more like a restaurant than a clothes store. In the absence of a phonebooth in which I could turn my underwear inside out, changing from a mere man to EnglishMan, I content myself with pulling out my phrasebook and attempting a daring rescue. The mistake with Sheard was easily explained but when I searched among the wooden letters that were to define this establishment, there was not a spare ‘e’ to be found. I try anagrams but the best I can come up with is SkinheadS herpeS. I tell them about wool, and how really this is an altogether more palatable description of sheep’s clothing, one that the more squeamish wolf will have less trouble in donning. However, I think I have arrived too late, I am talking to the sign writers, who would prefer that the errors were not pointed out. The owner seems grateful, perhaps only because whenever a Westerner engages in any activity other than walking on a Chinese street they will almost always draw a crowd in a matter of minutes. The heels of his attention are constantly nipped by his two mobile phones however, so I leave written copies of the two correct possibilities and head on my way.

One evening, Pekka the Finn and I head to a small back alley restaurant. For some reason we take a the mouldy torso of a clothes dummy with us which then so terrifies one of the waitresses that she screams loudly, runs out and doesn’t return until we have nearly finished our Lemon Chicken. Seemingly without reason, a man in his pajamas shuffles in, from the door through which the poor waitress swiftly exited, grabs some chopsticks and shuffles on. For another reason, possibly because I politely pointed out/guffawed at a mistake on the current menu, the manager decides we should work for our meal and brings out the secret new menu. I point out a few mistakes on the first page. He proffers a pen. I make the corrections. He proffers some paper and indicates page two. I get to work. Shamefully, I probably did more writing in an hour to correct this menu than I have done in any single hour while working on this blog. It isn’t because I don’t care; I guess it just helps to have food incentive. Some of the entries are pure Chinglish so I have to look at the original Chinese which is helpfully placed beside it. Unfortunately, my phrasebook tells me that the menu is now going to have several sorts of “Rape” on it. I search for another solution but to no avail. Amazingly there is also a prototype Finnish menu for Pekka to peruse. This also yields some classics, at least I deduce they are from Pekka’s uproarious laughter. The best example of “FinnChin” (You saw it here first language fans) was the name of the menu itself, "mokalista" which Pekka reliably informs me is "the list of things that are screwed up". There is a pleasing irony there for Finnish speakers, along with disbelief for English speakers that the Finns even have a word for this.

A few days later I am walking past the clothes shop and I see that they have gone with “Cashmere & Sheard Sheep Skin”. I am a little disappointed but not entirely surprised. Perhaps they will get more custom with this slightly quirkier moniker. Perhaps most of their customers will be looking at the Chinese characters anyway. Perhaps I should have tried an anagram of the whole sign. In the face of Chinglish might I now feel a sense of futility and “a Sharp & CheriShed meeknesS”.

Beijing

As you can imagine, after walking up several hundred steps, the view from the top of Longevity Hill should be excellent. Unfortunately, imagine is all you can do, because in Beijing pollution is so bad that on a clear day you can just about see your hand. OK, so that's an exaggeration, but you certainly could not see far beyond Kunming Lake that occupies the majority of the gardens. As such a large percentage of the gardens was comprised of water I decided that it would be a waste of my entrance fee if I didn't take a quick swim. The water was not exactly crystal clear but I thought I'd be fine as long as I avoided swallowing. Now I'd left a trail of wet footprints and bemused Chinese people all the way through the Long Corridor and the Cloud Dispelling Temple and up to the Tower of Bhuddist Incense, to be confronted by murk. I'd never really been to bothered about smog until now, but this view demonstrated not only the speed with which China has grown but also how tough solving the pollution problem will be. As is often the case however Beijing does have a novel solution to make sure there'll be blue skies over the Bird's Nest Stadium come August 8th. To reduce pollution the Party has decided traffic must be halved. But rather than some roundabout disincentive route like a Congestion Charge, they've fashioned a policy of delightful simplicity. Half the cars can drive on one day, while the other half can drive on the next. And how can they police this ambitious scheme? Simple, it'll be number plates ending in odd numbers on Monday, even Tuesday, odd Wednesday and so on. Simple, effective and I'd wager completely unworkable anywhere else.

The thing is China is not like anywhere else. The reason a scheme this blunt could work here becomes apparent at 5 o'clock every morning in the streets surrounding Tiananmen Square. People are running, not too quickly so as not to appear undignified but they are running all the same. I am running with them, trying to get in front of a huge tour group, all wearing red caps, following their leader's up-stretched umbrella. What could possible draw so many people out of their beds at such an early hour? It is the dawn flag raising in Tiananmen and thousands upon thousands are in attendance. There is nothing that would get this many Britons up so early in the morning, save perhaps a World Cup final, but people have traveled from all over the country to see the immaculately turned out soldiers of the PLA march in perfect time up to the impressive pole and raise the red cloth to the top, where it hangs disappointingly limp in the still morning air. Perhaps in advance of the Olympics, or perhaps because many Chinese now have cameras too, photographing the army no longer earns a stern frown. There are many opportunities to snap the impeccably drilled squads marching through Beijing's tree lined avenues or standing to attention to wait for the Metro.

As I stand up to look inside the lady's barrel the audience starts applauding and I realised I have made a mistake, perhaps a terrible one. I am eating in a restaurant as the guest of John Bee, whose father I gave some help to when we met in Lithuania and later in Moscow. The lady on stage is a World Record Holder, able to spin a larger barrel with her feet while lying on her back than anyone else. Or at least anyone else who has tried. After seeing her spin a barrel that apparently weighed eighty kilos I felt I must check and when John said to stand up and go to the barrel I thought he meant just to look. Unfortunately my slender grasp of Mandarin had not alerted me to the fact that the preceding speech made by the hostess, who had already undergone more costume changes than an incontinent panto dame, was in fact a call for volunteers. I realise that the lady is not going to stop at spinning 80 kilos tonight and is keen for a bigger challenge, a challenge very much the same size as me. It had taken four of the waiters to lift the last barrel into spinning position and now two more join them. They usher me to the barrels opening. I peer in, it does not look comfy even stationary but before I can request a cushion I am firmly maneuvered inside. Don't move, don't move, is their urgent and oft repeated refrain. I must look mentally unstable if they think I'd do anything to further destabilse this already precarious position and crush their star and possibly the front row of the audience. The six men take the strain and then I am lifted atop the woman's feet, the cries of Don't move losing none of their urgency. Then the spinning starts, thankfully round and round, not over and over. I have enough time to flash a couple of terrified glances from the mouth of the barrel to the watching diners and in a fit of daring I even flick the peace sign, which is well received by the almost exclusively Chinese crowd. After making it back to terra firma, the slight dizziness is not helped by the large number of Chinese men who want to down congratulatory shots of Bai Jiao with me. It looks like my alcoholic albatross will be with me throughout this journey.

Ulaanbaatar

Today has not been a good day for Babu, Temujin's cousin. He has been driving me around Ulan Baatur but we keep running into trouble, despite the fact that he took so much time spinning the prayer wheels at the Gandantegchinlen Khiid Monastery monastary this morning. First, with the prayer wheels still spinning, he offered to take some photos on my behalf of the huge golden statue of Migjid Janraisig, a Buddhist deity. This led to him being forcibly ejected from the hall housing the statue. Later, at the new tomb of Sukhbaatar, the revolutionary hero, we reversed over a low wall and got the car stuck. The Axe Hero used to be housed in Sukhbaatar Square in the centre of the city but has been moved out of town as the country slowly starts to distance itself from its Communist past. To get to the National Cemetery, where he is now housed, we pass through streets of auto shops, that are really just cargo containers full of car parts. A gigantic wood yard sits close to the gates of the cemetery, outside three men struggle for a bottle of vodka, their fight causing them to fall dangerously in front of the car. Behind the cemetery are 14 simple monuments to those who died in the tragic helicopter crash almost a year ago, volunteers trying to help put out a fire in a nearby village. This is a much more touching tribute than the square block of Sukhbaatar's (possibly now) final resting place.

The worst incident of the day comes when we are driving along Peace Avenue, the main street that is just as congested as most of the other roads in Mongolia's capital. Combined with the factories, Ulaanbaatar's traffic problem is meaning that the blue sky Mongolian's worship is becoming harder and harder to see. We stop at a junction and I think I see a policeman pointing at us with his dreaded white stick. However, when we begin to cross the intersection he seems to be wanting the car behind us so we breathe a sigh of relief. At the next junction the signal is unambiguous, we must pull over. This policeman asks for Babu's licence then walks back to directing traffic. Despite the reputation of traffic police in Russia I avoided any run-ins with them by sticking to trains, which don't get caught in speed traps. However the Mongolian police are apparently just as bad, though amazingly the Mongolians do not have a rude nickname for them as the Russians do. After waiting for about ten minutes I suggest that the Russian label, Moosara, meaning garbage, might well be appropriate. Babu asks what's happening and the policeman says he must go to the first policemen at the other intersection as he is busy taking money from another poor motorist. Babu asks what he has done wrong, the policemen says that he ignored a signal to stop and must pay a fine of 10,000 Mongolian Tugrugs. Why? Babu asks. OK, 5000 responds the policemen, losing considerable credibility. But why? says Babu. OK, 4000, that's final, says the policeman. We pay the 4000 but I am quite happy because I get some excellent photos of the whole process. Babu signs something and the policeman hands us our two reciepts, with 2000 tugrugs of bribe on each.

Later, after a trip to the "Naran Tuul Market" (Formerly known as the Black Market) to interview "cross border tradesmen" (Formerly known as smugglers), we headed to the Zaisan Memorial. Next to the hill on which this sits is another large gold statue, this time of Buddha himself, that was paid for by the Koreans. Babu spends a long time praying because today has been so full of bad luck.

Terelj National Park

By the end of the game of cards everyone there has either cried, thrown up or screamed like a girl. I have done all three. I am staying with a Mongolian family in the middle of the Terelj National Park near Ulan Baatur. I ended up here after meeting Temuchin at the station while I was trying to record announcements. Temuchin aided my cause greatly by going up to the station announcer and just telling her what to say. She plumped for "Welcome to Mongolia", which wasn't something she's ever said before or since over the tannoy but it worked fine for me. The family that Temeuchin knows do not live in one of the tourist camps that sprawl over the park with fancy restaurants, toilets, walkways, street lighting and even golf courses. Instead they just have their summer and winter gers. The ger is that round tent with a gently sloping roof that you've had some weird flavoured herbal tea in at a music festival. In fact, true to their nomad credentials, the family were not where they were supposed to be when we arrived and we drove backwards and forwards for a while in our tiny Japanese car to find the location of the camp.

The we rode horses. Quite a lot. We very rarely went on any actual expeditions, just shopping or to drop in to a friend's for a cup of tea. However, this being Mongolia, these involved several miles riding each time. Once we cantered out across a pale yellow plain between pale yellow hills, the grass not yet recovered from winter. A herdsman threw an expertly aimed rock at one of our dogs that had followed us out there, keen to protect his large flock of goats, then he galloped off in a cloud of dust to round up some strays. It was all very dramatic and then I realised we were just there to check on some cows. They were OK, so we went back again.

Mongolian shamans used to worship the sky, explaining the tall hats that bring the wearer closer to heaven like a television aerial. This is also the reason behind the ovos, piles of rocks stacked at high points throughout the country. Anyone passing an ovo should put three rocks on it, one for the past, the present and the future. This will bring you luck and ward off evil spirits. In the slightly faster paced modern Mongolia, people sometimes don't have time to find rocks (All the nearby good ones have already been put on the pile anyway) so it has been decided that honking your car horn three times is a fair substitute, a practical if noisy adaptation of traditiion. You can see why the sky here is revered, a clear blue heavenly roof soaring over the massive granite pillars. On one ride, after a long climb through a forest, we reach a ridge overlooking a valley with the awesome sky above. The horses are tired though, mine is particularly grumpy and twice sits down under me to be contrary. By the end of a day my thighs are aflame, having struggled to adapt to the somewhat basic saddle set up, that has meant some radical changes to a riding technique that was not so radical to begin with. The horses belong to Namchat's mother and father so in the evening we go and visit them, the epitomy of life in a Mongolian ger. We then stop off at various other friends and relatives on the way home, always being given a bowlful of whatever is on the stove. I only found out later that I was not expected to eat all of this, not before several evenings feeling incredibly full having forced down a big helping of liver noodles or some other delicacy.

After one such evening, Namchat suggested that she, her sister, niece, a friend and I should play cards. This seemed like a relatively tame proposition, so I agreed and we played several rounds of a civilised game until the niece emerged as the winner. Then we were joined by several young men and I was told we would now play a card game "for fun". This simple yet frantic game was harmless enough but the forfeits for losing were vicious. The first time I lost I was told I had to smoke a cigarette. Having resisted peer pressure for 23 years (Yes, 23 years, I'm sure I remember being offered a smoke in the post-natal unit at North Allerton Hospital) I decided this was as good a "First Puff" story as I was going to get. It didn't make me want to rush onto my second puff. Other dares included drinking several litres of water, eating an unwashed raw potato and having toothpaste and soot smeared all over your face. If you felt like it was all too much you could take the "easy" way out and put your hand, palm down, on the table. Then every other player would slap it as hard as they could. After cards had finished, this developed into a fully fledged game, where we went round slapping hands on top of each other, creating a never-ending hand pile. In some pain, I asked when this game would finish. The answer was apparently only when someone gives up. Not wanting to spoil whatever fun was being derived from this I gitted my teeth and kept quiet. Although the desciption of this slightly brutal sounding use of free-time may seem to suggest otherwise, the family was incredibly friendly and well balanced.

Babushkin - Ulaanbaatur

I actually took the same train all the way here to Ulan Baatur but I needed to buy four different tickets. Well, three tickets and one small bribe. I left Babushkin at 3 in the morning and spent a restless night talking to the teenagers who were sitting on the end of my bed. My plan had certainly been to sleep for the three and a half hour journey but I was only able to lie down and close my eyes after I'd bid the teens a cheerful farewell at their stop. Unfortunately the moment I found a comfortable position the lights came on, signalling our imminent arrival in Ulan Ude.

In the ticket office I wasn't really in the mood for Russian queuing, which requires a degree of bloody mindedness and guile that I was certainly lacking at present. Still I made it to the front and said I wanted the train to Ulan Baatur. The harassed lady with harassed hair behind the counter regretfully harrumphed and then informed me that I would need to go to a different counter for a ticket for the train from Moscow. I let out a resigned sigh and prepared to move on but then Tatiana said I would in fact be best to board the train to Naushki and get an onward ticket there. When is the train to Naushki? Its that one about to leave on the platform. Scrabbling for the money, rushing out and around the station building and jumping aboard I watch Ulan Ude gradually peter out into rolling hills, forgetting any plans I'd made for a day touring the town. When I open my chunky Russian dictionary the first phrase that catches my eye is "This will lead to disaster" but thankfully I'm not a big believer in portentious phrases.

I'm sitting opposite Elena, who is doing a Skanvort, a sort of crossword hugely popular in Russia. I manage to get one of the clues which helps break the ice. The answer is Russell Crowe. She doesn't want to do an interview, and neither do any of the many people I ask, including two railway engineers. One forgets his gloves but I grab them and pass them to him as the train is pulling out. I bet he feels bad about not doing the interview now. Denis initially doesn't want to do an interview either but after seeing my vain attempts up and down the carriage he agrees to talk. He's a security guard who lives in Naushki and the interview is a good one. However as soon as I switch off the recorder he reveals what it is he guards: a vodka distribution plant. Apparently, although it only supplies the region between Krasnoyarsk and Chita it ships out an incredible 70,000 bottles an hour, over half a million a day. I ask whether I can record these statistics but he says no. He has been employee of the month recently and perhaps feels letting these details slip would jepordise his chances of retaining his title.

When I get off in Naushki I am told by the lady at the ticket office that she has no tickets left to get to Ulan Baatur on the next train. Also she can't sell any tickets for the train after that because she says she won't know if there are spaces until it gets here. Left with very little else to do I go to find the toilet. The attendant is watching Bollywood movies. There is now just a solitary carriage occupying the platform, occupied by several Mongolian familes and a large English speaking tour group. After spending a while chatting in one of their cabins, the time comes for immigration procedures and I prepare to leave. As I am getting off I take a chance and ask the the Mongolian provodnitsa whether she might save me a further seven hour wait. We agree a price, her palm is greased and I get back on. Immigration thankfully don't ask to see a ticket but they are looking for a visa registration stamp. I paid for one in St Petersburg but didn't get it, a fact I only realised when the lady in uniform turned my departure card over and started tut-tutting, never a good noise at any border, let alone a Russian one. Thankfully I was able to supply a plausible story about having not stayed more than 72 hours (After which you must register) anywhere in Russia, along with a winning smile and this proved to be enough. Real traveller's tip though: Get a stamp and save a pair of underwear.

The customs checks were not too concerned about the tourist cabins, Mongolian "cross-border traders" their primary concern. Their efforts were also hampered by the intense heat, which meant they all seemed keen to get off as soon as possible. Conversation about the weather eased the tension that considerably.

Having past the disused tanks and dog kennels of no-mans land, the Mongolian border is considerably more relaxed: photos are fine, smiles all round. Sukhbaatur is the first station across the border and here I must buy another ticket. Many Money-changers ply their trade, one man is refused entry to the carriage, still the only one that the train consists of. He fights with the provodnitsas who corageously keep him at bay. I help push him off and shut the door, wondering why the large local policeman has walked onto the platform for a better view, yet seems intent not to interfere.

Babushkin

Babushkin is not a tourist trap. Three people get off the train from Irkutsk at the station where a revolutionary was shot there in 1906. It is this man who the town is now named after, though the station retains its original moniker of Mysovaya. The reason I am in Babushkin is to Lyuba and Anatoly, freinds of Andrey and Sasha in St Petersburg. This meeting had been beset by problems however, largely geographical. In St Petersburg I had mentioned I was stopping at Listviyanka and Sasha had mentioned that I should stay with some friends of hers who lived there. Unfortunately the e-mail that had their number went astray so I only got this when I was in Irkutsk. This number didn't work but I figured I could ask around in Listviyanka. Unfortunately, no-one there knew a couple called Anatoly and Lyuba, even though the town is fairly small. Slightly more worryingly no-one seemed to know about the village of Babushkin. I assumed I'd got the name wrong, as I was repeatedly asked whether I was trying to visit my grandmother (Babushka), or that the village was so small and so close that people assumed it was part of Listviyanka. Then I recieved a text with Lyuba and Anatoly's mobile which I tried. Lyuba asked when I would be arriving. I said as soon as I knew their address I would pop straight over, this evening perhaps? She sounded sceptical and asked where I was. Just nearby in Listviyaka was my blithe reply. A short silence.

"You need to take a bus to Irkutsk, then it is five hours by train. Head to Mysovaya."

This was confusing but I took it in my stride. Maybe not this evening, I said, actually it might be better if I come in a couple of days. I went to the infamous tourist office, though this was back when I thought they were right about everything. I'd asked about Babushkin before but had drawn a blank, this time however I knew I was looking for something a little further away. Relative to St Petersburg, Babushkin is actually quite close. However, here at Baikal "quite close" becomes 70km directly across the ice. No one is driving across that distance now, not with the lorry lying on the bottom so close by. So after returning to Irkutsk for a night, long enough to see the bizarre Sinn Fein graffiti on one of the advertising boards, was on my to Mysovaya/Babushkin.

Watch Update: Yesterday my watch gave up the ghost and the screen went blank, perhaps after the intense sunshine. I was philosophical and began making plans for my fifth one. However, while today I am still feeling the effects of yesterday's weather on my sunburnt nose the watch has miraculously come back to life again. While mentioning strange and trivial occurences, the penny that has been in my right boot since December has disappeared. But weirdly it has been replaced by a rouble in my left boot. No word of a lie. It may be the work of the same pair who left some notes in my bags in Krasnoyarsk. Who knows...

Did a couple of interviews on the train but perhaps the most interesting story on there was that of Kyrie, a Russian orthodox monk and he didn't want to speak on tape. His journey is an awesome one all the way from a monastery near Volgograd in the West all the way to his home on Sakhalin Island in the Far East, beyond Vladivostok. Kyrie is the name he took after becoming a monk, before he was called Alexander. He buys some squid strips and offers them to me. I share them because the conversation is interesting, not because I'm a massive fan of the taste. He also enjoys a very unmonastic beer but I think this must be allowed in the Orthodox Church as no-one bats an eyelid. He has been a monk for 7 years and this is the second time he has travelled home. It will take a week for him to get there, he will stay a month and then he will return. We talk about a wide variety of subjects, the differences between the different branches of Christianity and other religions, the Iraq War, squid strips but he speaks no English and sometimes his long but subdued Russian speeches are hard to comprehend. He has unbelievably piercing blue eyes and a long wiry black beard, streaked with grey. If I'd been making a Russian language movie about Rasputin I'd have cast him on the spot but I think the genre has probably been sufficiently covered. I want to take a photograph but he doesn't want this either.

Now I'm in Babushkin, waiting by the statue of the town's namesake for Lyuba to arrive. Anatoly wanted to drive but one of his friends had a birthday lunch, largely liquid, and now driving has become a little hazardous. When we arrive we sit down for kalbasa (Like salami), soup, gerkhins and cheese. I thought that with this old couple I might avoid vodka but even though its not long past noon Anatoly and share a bottle, while Lyuba sips wine. After lunch Anatoly unsurprisingly falls fast asleep.

Lyuba and I take a walk through the town. I'd had a nap too but when I woke Anatoly was still snoring peacefully. This side of of the lake is not quite so impressive, perhaps because I have seen alot of the ice in the past few days. We walk to the lighthouse, the bottom of which is covered with artlessly scrawled graffiti. Lyuba met Anatoly when they were working at the mining town of Talnak in the far North of Russia. They moved down here two years ago, as it is Anatoly's hometown and it makes a pleasant change from the months of darkness and cold that characterised winter within the Artic Circle. They have a book about the town, that was created in 1965 and in the summer it does look quite beautiful but though these photos dominate the book, its only for one short month of the year. Perhaps a better illustration of life there is a photo of children standing in goggles and pants in front of a sun lamp while at school, to simulate, for one lesson at least, normal daylight in the winter. As we walk through the train yards and on past the station to the village centre, Lyuba talks very frankly about the plight of pensioners in Russia and of her dislike for the current regime. Much of this I get later in an interview. Past many sad looking buildings, we pass the cinema. On the ground is an unrolled spool of film, torn and dirty. The near identical frames are all of David Bowie singing. Lyuba is surpised when I pick up a piece and I feel that under her gaze I can't take it to her house and keep it as souvenir. I wait for a bin and throw it away. Lyuba suggests we walk on the pavement, because of drink drivers. A woman was killed here last month she says. The road parallel is the ubiquitous Utilitsa Lenina. This is part of the road that runs all the way to Vladivostok. Many people buy cheap Japanese cars and drive them back to Moscow through here. Anatoly is very proud of his new SUV, also bought in the East but brought here on the train. At three in the morning he is wide awake and alert, a different man to the one I had seen up until now. He drives us to the station in his pride and joy. We wait a while in the cold then the train rushes in, pauses only briefly so I and a several others can scramble on and then it is leaving. I wave goodbye to the elderly couple on the platform and promise I will return when it is summer so I can appreciate Babushkin at its best.

Circumbaikal Railway

Never believe the tourist office. When it comes to train times its sometimes only the driver who really knows whats going on. When the two Finns and I arrive at Port Baikal Station, bright and early on Thursday morning we realise that we were wrong to take the nonchalant assurances of the girl in the Listviyanka information centre without a handful or two of something salty. I'd woken early to see a sunrise that never really materialised and catch a ferry that fortunately did. The ferry, named the Angara after the river it crosses, docks at a stone jetty right on the edge of the ice. It was here that yesterday I'd taken my much anticpated dip in the lake. I'd been inspired by a group of divers who were donning their drysuits, some of them preparing to go under the ice. I didn't have a dry suit, so instead I stripped off, donned some garish swimwear and jumped in. In all honesty, I have paraphrased a little here. In fact there was about an hour of thinking and talking time before I took the plunge, my main concern being that I was quite a long way from the nearest towel and further still from the nearest radiator. In the end though, I had to do it, having tried so hard and failed four years previuosly. This ill-fated attempt, combined with local promises of longevity for those who submerge themselves in the lake's healing waters gave me the necessary will to gingerly remove my clothes, modestly hidden behind a rock then tip-toe through the snow to the water's edge. I sat down, took a deep breath and jumped in. Unsurprisingly it was very, very cold but really no worse than the plunge pool at banya, and here I was sharing with far fewer naked men. On the quay a guy was trying to subtly snap pictures and the divers' girlfriends were laughing. I swam a few strokes away from the shore, dipped my head under then turned back. Donning my clothes proved a little difficult, my trousers especially and I was keen to talk with the guy who'd taken photographs, wanting some record of the event. However, the sight of a mumbling, pale, wet, half naked Briton shivering towards him was too much and he turned tail and fled. If by some slim chance you are reading this, sir, then I would be very grateful if I could have some copies of these pictures, or at the very least free membership to www.nakedwhiteboys.com or whichever other tasteful site they've been published on.

Having made absolutely sure that there was in fact not going to be a train until two o'clock the next morning the Finns decided to return to Irkutsk. The information the tourist lady had given us applied only in the summer. I ask the security guard, who guards the Circum-Baikal Railway Museum, what my options are. He says I should set off walking. When I see the train from Slyudyanka coming towards me I should wave, the train will stop, I get on and I then return to Port Baikal. If I miss it I must wait until about four in the morning for the train coming the other way, or three days if I want to catch a train returning to Port Baikal. This seems a little risky, I vividly remember the scene in the Railway Children where the one with boy's name nearly gets run over trying to stop a train crashing into a landslide, however I doubt many Russian engine drivers are familiar with the film or the book. However, I must try to act like a train buff for the duration of this trip, and no train buff would ever miss an opportunity to see the magnificent Jewelled Buckle of the Tsar, as this stretch of railway was known. I can't see the museum because the guard doesn't have the right key. He says it will open soon but I feel I have to get going. So I head to the battered old shop, buy some chocolate and a drink and set off along the tracks.

I am soon joined by Ivan, a dark haired local who I last saw trying to make love to a Dachshund at Port Baikal station. His attempts at romance appear to have been in vain however and, perhaps sensing a kindered spirit, he has decided to follow me on my foolhardy walk. One of the first things Ivan does upon catching up with me is to take a piss into a beer bottle. I thus christen him Ivan Sonnovavitch Tuborgsky after the beer brand that he has desecrated. He has considerable selection of discarded bottles to choose from because on a Russian railway although you are never more than a few hundred metres from the nearest marker post, you are almost always closer to an empty bottle of vodka or beer. Ivan discovers and thoroughly sniffs many other strange items that have found their way to the middle of nowhere including pair of wellington boots and a lacy pink thong. For the sake of clarification I should probably mention that Ivan Sonnovavitch Tuborgsky is a dog.

The Circumbaikal is famous because it was an incredible engineering acheivement requiring the construction of many tunnels and bridges. Ivan is a great help through these, often descending off the track to nose around interesting bridges and accompanying me through tunnels that, I am not ashamed to admit, did worry me slightly. Often completely black, so I can't see my own nose let alone my hand, full of icicles and snow and who knows what else. My imagination comes up with several unhelpful suggestions, including cliches such as escaped convicts and bears. I figure that Ivan will alert me to both of these though and thus boldly make my way into under the carefully sculpted masonary arches almost fearlessly. After several kilometres Ivan is still nearby, jumping after butterflies and nosing at beer cans in bushes. At one point he runs off the track and starts digging frantically. I imagine that he has, Lassie style, discovered a small boy trapped under a landslide. Ivan is no film star though and his excavations uncover nothing more than a rabbit hole.

Ivan is not a hit with the local dogs. There are only one or two tiny settlements along the way, most are just one log cabin but there are always several dogs. I walk past to show Ivan its OK, even though I'm not so sure myself as leashes attached to flimsy posts are strained at by madly barking hounds. After some encouragement he follows. At one point we see a van driving past on the ice. Ivan runs down the slope, along the wall, down onto the lake and then across the ice. He then chases after the van for about three hundred metres, barking manaiacly. I watch dumbfounded until he returns with sheepish expression and we resume our hike.

After about 20 km Ivan does make an interesting discovery, a party of French (One of them is actually Swiss) skiers enjoying un petit peu de relaxation on a piece of shingle at the ice's edge with their Russian guides. They very kindly offer me a cup of tea and some biscuits. It turns out the van was theirs, taking their clothing and other equipment to the lodge where they will be staying the night. They had prepared for Spring in Baikal with lots and lots of thick clothes, down jackets, the works but today is another fantastic day, the hottest yet and everyone is in shirtsleeves and the van therefore has alot to carry. Ivan has lots to eat then falls asleep on the beach. I am amazed that he has followed me this far and I am sure that he won't come any further now. I am little worried that he won't come any further now but the skier's Russian guide assures me that he knows the way home. At first Ivan follows them along the ice but then I call him and he returns to the tracks. We pass some workers constructing some log structure on the lake. They have a dog who doesn't like Ivan and I can't really understand the explanation for their labours above the noise of his barking. Ivan behaves very well.

The skiers are excellent company along the rest of the route. When there is a big inlet they can cut across and gain some time, while I can catch up through the tunnels. At Ulanovo I speak with the charming staion manager Dimitry, who says that I can keep going for another hour before I meet the train from Slyudyanka. I am now a little worried that I will encounter the train in a tunnel, as there are several long ones looming. While it would be an interesting experiment to see whether the train would stop if flagged down in the dark, the price of failure would be fairly high. At one point there is an interesting fork where the old route used to circle around a promintory. However the danger of landslides led engineers to build a tunnel instead so the old track now just goes straight into the sea. I explore this quickly, nervous that if the train comes while I am the old route I am never going to be able to make it back in time. When I do return to the main tracks the skiers confirm that the train has not in fact sneaked past, which is a relief. Soon afterwards the skiers arrive at their destination, a tiny little settlement in a beautiful frozen bay. Ivan just flops onto tracks and falls fast asleep in the sun, oblivious to the interest he has aroused in the local canine population. I quickly interview the skiers, connected as they are to the railway and then the train pulls up. Two others, an old man and an old woman are catching the train here too, making it one of the most biggest stops of the day. The skiers want to explore the carriages and I want to get Ivan on board. However, as soon as he is inside he jumps back over me and rushes under the train to hide. The provodnitsa looks relieved, I am worried. Maybe he will enjoy life here at Shumikha or I hope he will be able to retrace the 30km back to Port Baikal and finally successfully make love to the station Dachshund.

The train back to Port Baikal is much quiker than I expected because we have to make fewer stops than usual. There are very few people in the one open carriage, the other is locked. The temperature inside is banya-esque and I just slouch and watch the scenery go by in reverse. In the tunnels the lights are not turned on so we travel in slowly through inky blackness. Sometimes I am standing when we reach the entrances and then I bump into the platskart beds trying to find my place. We arrive about three quarters of an hour earlier than the timetable suggested but the eight o'clock ferry, the one that the tourist office and the guidebooks talk about does not run until the summer time. I was told this by the same security guard who had told me about the train not running this morning. The museum has been open all day but is now shut again, meaning they have successfully excluded their only potential visitor. I look at the exhibts through the windows but feel I have done better by seeing the real thing. Then I set out across the edge of the ice to Listviyanka.

Despite increasing confidence in the soundness of this frozen desert the ice here, right by the river might not be the most secure but I know if I don't return soon I will have little chance of getting a lift to Irkutsk. I follow the path of some bikers who recently crossed coming the other way. I pass a sign that has fallen over. I pause to look up the words on it in the dictionary. Stopping is a good move because it turns out the sign says "Danger Holes" and if I'd carried on I would have found this out the hard way. Almost at theopposite shore I come to a cracked section made up of several small rafts of ice. I could walk round but can't face the thought of the delay costing me a ride back to the city. So I jump from one jagged piece to the next, often causing them to say terrifyingly. A mother and her daughter in a pink hat watch my progress from the safety of the shore. Finally I make the last hop and then I grasp the hand rail of the steps that will take me off the ice, very relieved to have escaped a cold soaking. A delightful family, who have stopped to admire the statue of a Russian writer and see me pass then pull up and pat their spare seat. I need no encouragement and the grandmother and I chat together in as merry a manner as I can in Russian.

Snowkiting

I thought I'd seen all the best ways of getting around on Baikal today, but after wandering through the market, eating some ormul, and picking up a couple of small souvenirs I find a rundown area of warehouses and old boats. Inside I find the large group of iron smoking ovens where the ormaul is preapred. Two ladies are just putting on the day's batch, coating the fish with a brush covered in some sort of oil then stacking them onto racks. The oven is then opened, smoke billows out and then the racks are hurriedly placed inside. I move on to photgraph the rusty boats, for some reason they are one of the most photogenic things I know. Just look in any photography collection and I guarantee they'll have a rusty boat in there somewhere. While taking possibly the best rusty boat shots I 've ever taken I notice a figure a long way out on the ice, somewhere between here and the mountains that are just taking on a reddish tinge as the sun goes down. He seems to be moving or maybe dancing round and around a pole and I think I might have stumbled on a shamanic ritual. My curiousity is piqued so I set out across the ice.

There is nothing like a loud crack and the sensation of your foot disappearing downwards to set the heart racing, especially if you're on a frozen lake. Fortunately I have just fallen through the thin top layer that has formed from melt water from previous days. As I prepare to fix my attention firmly footwards in case of a more serious break the man stops moving and then suddenly starts again, towed by a large orange kite that suddenly ascends into the evening sky. I love kites, having enjoyed immensely the small time I've spent kitesurfing in sunny England, so I increase the speed of my tentative shuffle to a slow walk, determined now to speak with the owner of what is undoubtedly the coolest way of crossing Baikal. His name is appropriately Hardy. He is from Austria and has been preparing for two years to snowkite from one end of Baikal to the other. He has specially modified skis that carry him over the ice and a sled on which he can tow all his equipment. He has just been doing some preliminary filming of the kite and his skis in motion, so that he can concentrate on the interesting stuff while he's actually out on the lake. He's preparing to take some photos too, using his camera and a remote. This sounds like an incredibly difficult operation, despite Hardy's assurances to the contrary, so I offer to take some for him, which is a lot of fun. He then does a few runs for his own enjoyment so I use the opportunity to grab some pictures of my own, Hardy kiting into the sunset. He'll be setting off in a couple of days from Severobaikalsk and he reckons he'll take about 8 days to cover the distance. On good ice he says he can manage 60 km/h with the sled. His site for those who are interested is http://www.stormrider.at and there's more information about snowkiting at http://www.snowkiting.at. If you're not interested then I'm shocked.

Naldina

I hope that the voiceover artist on my first Russian television interview will take considerable license with my cold induced ramblings, standing on the edge of the ice at the source of the Angara river. I am confident that he will, having seen some exceptional translation last week on the news in a piece about Prince Charles. The reason for the media frenzy is the Naldina festival that takes place every April 1st here on Baikal. The premise is that two teams take chain saws and cut rafts out of the ice at the river's edge and then make their way downstream to a hotel about a kilometre away. I'm the only foreigner here, having tagged along with Alek, the chief dog sled rider. Together we waited for one of the local hovercrafts, then loaded aboard a dog, two inflatable rafts and some oars before setting off to the where the television cameras were beginning to gather. I think it was my first time in a hovercraft but I was concentrating on looking Russian so I didn't have to pay the high fees that they charge for tourist trips in these things.

The ice's edge is abuzz with activity and chainsaws. I felt foolish having been so nervous elsewhere on the ice when here people are jumping from one edge to other. The TV crews are a little more tentative then the locals, with expensive equipment to consider, especially after one ambitious jump from a Baikaler ends up with him falling in. Thankfully he grabs hold of something and avoids getting his top half drenched but even so I expect there to be more of fuss, instead he just carries on with preparations for the voyage. I stand on the rafts and they feel quite stable but a few inches of water is already lapping around all the equipment as waves break over the edges. To add to the confusion a guy arrives in his airboat and starts buzzing around the ice, also doing interviews and taking camera crews for a differnet perspective on the action. I ask him for a ride and it is incredible. I feel priviledged to have had a crack at so many forms of transport across the ice in one day but I feel dog sledding may still have the edge. Finally, having set up a radio mast on one raft and an ice kitchen on the other the race is technically underway. However, there is a strong wind blowing onto the lake so the rafts, instead of sailing into the distance, are pushed sideways. The locals might just have stoically accepted this but its not good enough for TV, so the hovercrafts are called in to push the rafts out into the river. My batteries have given out because of the cold so I just watch from the hovercraft as presenters are filmed lounging on chairs. They appear to float gently down the river, giving the report they were sent to give, but meanwhile the hovercraft engines are working hard to maintain the illusion, while the raft's crew are working hard to stop the hovercraft upsetting their patch of ice. Tea is prepared in the large samovar on the other raft, along with some sandwiches on the ice kitchen. On our raft the radio presenter shouts into his mic above the noise of the many engines. Eventually television has taken its fill and the rafts ground on the river bank not far from where they started. Alek and I take an airboat halfway to our truck but then bizarrely we are stopped by the traffic police and our driver must go and sort out a fine/bribe for an air boat related driving offence the details of which I can't ascertain.

Lake Baikal

We hit a bump and take off, landing moments later on the ice. I am holding on for as tight as my gloves will allow but know I'm a small slip away from going crashing onto the ice. I am dog sledding across Baikal and I have to say the it is certainly a thrilling way to explore the frozen wasteland. Training had been brief. From the description I had pictured a safety briefing, followed by demonstration from the instructor, a dry for me on a stationary sled and then a slow start before building up to a full blooded sprint. What I got was 10 seconds, plus an extra 5 for questions. It went as follows: "When I say left command, lean left (Andrei leans) We say right command, lean right (He leans again), when I say stop command you use brake." My questions were: "That's really the brake? I have to unhook it to stop?" Andrei's answer was "Yes, stand, we go". I stood, the sled was unhooked from its anchor and BANG! we were off. I was so surprised I very nearly stayed behind, the dogs had been raring to go and we were absolutely flying. I concentrated on staying on, ever so slightly nervous that I didn't know what the left, right and more importantly the stop commands were. After a few kilometres I started to settle a little but I noticed that we were having some issues with the lead dog, the one that Andrei had said was the clever one. Unfortunately Yazik was determined to prove him wrong and refused to go right, only left, taking us through some patches of ice that Andrei clearly did not want us to go on. I am usually very patient when training an animal. We have a dog at home called Fly who has exactly the same problem with sheep. She'll only go left meaning we often have to take them the whole way round a field, even if they were standing just to the right of the gate we want to lead them through. This is frustrating but if Fly were taking me across a fozen lake in April I'd really prefer her to be sticking with the route plan, in fact I'd prefer her not to be in charge. We stop a couple of times, a difficult and terrifying process. First I must unhook the brake, which is a piece of skidoo track with bolts screwed into it. I then have to leave the relative safety of the runners to stand on this. When we eventually stop my weight is all that is preventing the dogs taking off again, though in fact if they wanted they could easily go and leave me on my backside in the middle of the lake. Andrei explains to Yazik the gravity of the situation. We set off again. Strangely we occasionally pass Christmas trees that have been stuck in the ice. I thought they had perhaps been the sites of drunken festivities, though I later find out they are to designate thin sections of the ice. I'm glad i hadn't known this at the time, only the night before I had seen a lorry underneath the ice that had gone through the previous week. Police divers were working to recover it but I saw this morning that they hadn't suceeded. On the return leg we went a slightly more subdued pace and thankfully Yazick stayed the right side of the Christmas trees. The sun was beating down and Admiral and Adamant, the two strong male dogs at the back of the team kept dipping their heads to scoop up ice to drink. I felt secure enough to take some photos and then the edge of the lake loomed and I stamped on the brake for the final time.