The Mendip Way

The Mendip Way

We bought a book.  It was entitled ‘The West Mendip Way’, and it was by a man called Moyes.  Therapy perhaps, for a beleaguered Man U manager?  No, this was by Derek, not David.  After reading it, we were not under-informed about the West Mendips, but the route directions might be considered something of an afterthought.  Mr Moyes has not so far as we know put his thoughts on paper about the East Mendip Way.  Maybe he’s leaving that to brother Dave during his possibly forthcoming gardening leave...  The guide to the entire Way is out of print, though having made it as far as Wells we did managed to find one in the Tourist Information Office, despite the ‘assistance’ of the venerable shopkeeper and his wife.  “Mend and weigh?”  “Why would you want to mend something in the shop?”  Or similar.  Mr Wright, appropriately named, has written a better book on the route, though with less history.  He is something of a geology buff however.  He has entitled his offering ‘Uphill to Frome’, perhaps not an encouraging title.  But it’s true, the route does begin at Uphill, just to the south of Weston-super-Mare.

On a chilly overcast March afternoon (24.3.2014) in Uphill, there’s not much to detain you.  The restaurant, La Cucina, is closed, and we discover that it’s run by Dimitri, whose central Weston restaurant is fortunately open year round.  The route detours around the steep hill with the Norman church of St Nicholas on its summit, and follows the levels inland to cross the A370, up a short steep old drove road, through the village of Purn, and into Bleadon, where the Queens’ Arms allows a first reacquaintance with the local Butcombe bitter, an excellent drop.

Uphill Harbour - the start of the Mendip Way

A moderate climb up Hellenge Hill and onwards to Bleadon Hill is followed by a gradual descent in a SSW direction into the Lox Yeo valley, an idyllic and remote valley until 1972 when the M5 was routed through it.  In consequence the descent into Loxton and the ascent of Crook Peak on the opposite side of the valley are accompanied by incessant traffic noise.  As the drizzle intensifies, it’s time to call it a day for the first afternoon, and our friend Karen Wynne, from nearby Hale Farm in Winscombe picks us up in Webbington.

It’s a beautiful though chilly morning after our pleasant stay in Uphill Manor and a visit to Dimitri’s for dinner.  Even Weston-super-Mare looks attractive, perhaps because it’s empty.  From Hale Farm we come back to tackle Crook Peak, the hillside above the woods dotted with fresh washed yellow of gorse, and an auditory backdrop of the Easterly wind, the rumble of the M5 traffic, the low pitched ‘baa’ of the sheep, and the pathetic sounding bleating of the new-born lambs, nestling in the hollows.  The West Mendip way now goes due East along the summit of Wavering Down, and descends to another valley intersected by the A38.

Despite appearances we didn't get lost here

Lambs near the top of Crook Peak

Descending toward Winscombe

Ascending along Winscombe Drove, the way is churned up by farm vehicles, and apparently there is a problem with illicit four wheel drive vehicles.  The Mendip Way was first created for the Silver Jubilee in 1977, and suffers from some lack of attention by Somerset County Council, so it seems to be inevitable that one will go wrong.  Farmers in particular, whom one would have thought might be keen to mark the routes around their property so as not to have walkers where they are not wanted, are unenthusiastic about maintaining waymarks and rights of way.  So at Blackdown Farm, after the village of Shipham, we go wrong.  Shipham is an ancient village which has suffered from casual mining for some thousands of years.  It is said that one should not grow vegetables in Shipham because of contamination, and our friend Karen apparently lost one lamb to lead poisoning near here.  Beyond Shipham, therefore, is an area of rough pasture, pitted and pocked, now overgrown with grass, which displays this evidence of former open cast mining.  It is called ‘gruffy ground’.  Exiting from Blackdown Farm, following what is marked as a footpath, we miss the Mendip Way and thus the walk along Lippiatt lane through Rowberrow Warren.  Our route takes us on another footpath over the fields to Longbottom Farm, and a detour to reach the remote Tyning’s Farm.  The route then follows the road for a short way, past some more gruffy ground, and south to Charterhouse Farm.  Well over 800 feet up at this point, a long descent takes us into Long Wood, and a classic dry valley past Black Rock quarry, crossing the Cheddar Gorge well up in the gorge itself and ascending and now passing South West to Bubwith nature reserve.

Cheddar Gorge

Entering Black Rock Quarry

More confusion and new building going on at Bradley Cross means we miss the proper way, and walk down the road into Draycott.  Instructions from Karen are to meet her at the Cider Barn, which is a very welcome hostelry on the outskirts of town.  Cider seems to make people very cheery (remember Adge Cutler?) and a drop of the Roger Wilkins dry cider (see the cider blog at: http://theciderblog.wordpress.com/2011/04/26/wilkins-dry-cider-review/) goes down very well.  Sitting on a stool at the bar is the Landlord of the Queen Victoria Inn at Priddy.  We tell him we will be passing his door tomorrow.

Driving to Wells, and failing to get in at the Fountain Inn, we eat at ‘The Old Spot’ in Sadler Street, which is good but expensive.  Karen and her husband nearly bought a farm just above Cheddar, and the man who did found a spring on the land, so it would have been galling for her to have the ‘Cheddar Spring Water’ which is served here.  Wells Cathedral is quiet and deserted, a powerful presence across Cathedral Green.

Liquid refreshment at The Old Spot

Wells Cathedral - West Front

Finding a quiet lane downhill in Draycott, we start up what the locals call Draycott Steep, and the map labels ‘Draycott Sleights’ (to rhyme with gates).  This is a strenuous climb, from 100ft of altitude to nearly 900.  There are fine views of Glastonbury Tor and even the sea to the West.  Across many fields, sometimes losing our way again (must write to Somerset Council) to Priddy.  As a local would say, this is a ‘priddy’ village, the gaily painted old phone box now housing an AED (automated external defibrillator).

The Phone Box at Priddy

A macabre wall plaque on a cottage at Priddy

At the Queen Victoria nearby, it’s warm enough to sit outside, which is fortunate.  We’ve arrived by 1130, and the lady cleaning up outside sounds dubious about serving drinks when they usually open at 12.  So I follow her inside.  She says to the barman ‘this gentleman met Mark in the cider barn yesterday and promised to come in for a drink’.  The barman looks dubious.  ‘Yes I helped to lift him back on his stool when he fell off’, I say, and this breaks the ice with laughter, and we get served.  On now to Ebbor Gorge, less spectacular than Cheddar, but without a road, and deserted.  Lunch sitting on the edge.

Ebbor Gorge

Selfie at Ebbor Gorge

Then on down to Wookey, with its tawdry attractions, and finally via Arthur’s View (did he pop up here for a quiet pint of scrumpy and a check up on how building was going over at Glastonbury?) and down into Wells, walking through the Bluecoat School and past the Cathedral School.  Picnic in front of the Cathedral – rather late, it’s well after 2pm – and then around the Bishop’s Palace and across the road into the woods at Tor Hill, on past the Wells Golf Course into King’s Castle Wood, and on across fields until we are on Thrupe Lane above Croscombe.  Down the steep hill into Croscombe where we miss the only bus for two hours by one minute.  No matter, the helpful girls in the village stores ring Silverline taxis, and soon we are away to Draycott, ferried by Mati, the only Israeli in Wells, who curiously enough we met at Wells bus station the same morning.

The West Front of Wells Cathedral

The Bishop's Palace and moat

Back to Dulcote, and our comfortable B&B.  Dinner in Wells at the Fountain Inn, which is good.  Girls’ night out on the table next to us... entertaining subjects of conversation.  Our distances so far are approximately as follows:  Day 1, 8 miles, Day 2, 13 miles, Day 3, 15 miles.  The features that come to mind on the Way are:

Daffodils, wood anemones, sparrow hawks being driven away by crows, mud, baby lambs, skylarks between Draycott and Priddy, Ebbor and Cheddar Gorges, cider, sun, rain, and views of Wales across the Bristol channel.

Day 4.  27^th March.  Drive to Croscombe, up the Thrupe Lane, and park at the side of the road near the point where the Mendip Way crosses.  Then we slog, mostly across fields, to the Poachers’ Pocket and Chelynch where we meet friends Mike and Hilary Weaver for lunch.  They return to pick up our car while we slog on for another 4 hours to Great Elm where they live.  We get lost in Battlefield Woods, near Cranmore Tower, according to Wikipaedia at 280 metres the highest point on the Mendip Way.  Perhaps it means the East Mendip Way.  Scarily there are notices in the woods warning that the Cranmore Company of Archers may shoot here.  In the middle of the wood is a lifesize artificial deer.  It doesn’t seem wise to venture near.  Oh dear, I didn’t mention Shepton Mallet.  Never mind.

A magnificent railway viaduct from the old Somerset & Dorset railway, located in woods north of Shepton Mallet.  The 'S&D' according to locals stood for 'Slow and Dirty'.  A victim of Dr Beeching in 1962.

Finding our way at last, we wind down to some attractive wooded fields where a multitude of springs gurgle down to the East.  Perhaps this is what becomes the river Frome.  The miracle of the internet tells me that indeed the Mells Stream and the Egford Brook do join the Frome, but the Frome itself rises at Witham Friary, between Bruton and Frome.  In fact there are many rivers called the Frome.  Its name comes from a Saxon word – ffraw, meaning fair, fine or brisk, describing the flow of the river.  There is a Welsh word ‘ffraw’ which also carries a rather similar meaning.  The Dorset Frome which we know and love from navigating it up to Wareham arises near Evershot.

Woodland West of Frome

Before we reach the enormous Whatley Quarry, there is the magnificent Asham Wood to negotiate.  Over a mile of deep mud... but it is indeed very beautiful woodland.  We are trudging through the now darkening woodland West of Great Elm when we both hear a rather extraordinary mechanical noise.  It grows louder and louder.  There is a vast and mechanical ring to it.  It sounds for all the world like a train.  It is a train.  Coach after coach of closed wagons, reminding Lindsay of the trains carrying their loads to Auschwitz, rumbles by.  Heading for the quarry.  The remarkable thing about this train track (some of the carriages bear the logo ‘Mendip Rail’) is that the leaves on the trees conceal it perfectly from the path, only a few feet away.

The extraordinary vastness of the complex at Whatley Quarry

The train that you never knew existed

Eventually we reach Great Elm at 5.10pm and Mike Weaver picks us up.  Time for high tea, then drop our bags at Trudoxhill B&B before heading to the Merlin Theatre for ‘An evening with Sunny Ormonde’.  If you have followed me thus far, I confess that this is the entire reason for our trip to the Mendips.  Sunny plays Lilian Bellamy in The Archers.  The audience is full of die-hard Archers fans, and the evening is so-so; but I admit that we were very tired having done roughly another 15 miles.

Friday 28^th March.  A more relaxed start.  Knoll Hill Farm is run on a rather commercial basis, though the rooms are good.  For instance there is no sign of the owners at breakfast time, just the hired help.  We drive back to Great Elm, walk through the sylvan valleys down the Mells Stream, then upstream along the Egford Brook.  With plenty of time to spare we pick a huge quantity of wild garlic which we later turn into pesto and into soup.  Leaving the brook we strike East up the Leys Hill and down into Frome.  Only three and a half miles.  Time for a celebratory drink at the Archangel.  The local Frome brewery ale is excellent, though for most of the Way I have opted for the wonderful Butcombe Bitter, which is also a Somerset beer.  Photo at the end of the route – the Boyle Cross in the centre of Frome...

The Mells Stream near Great Elm

A beautifully preserved lime kiln

Catherine Hill, Frome, in the rain

Flowers brighten the view in central Frome

The Blue House, Frome

A final 'ussie' in front of the Boyle Cross, Frome

The fruits of foraging.  Wild garlic.  There's plenty more where that came from...

So that’s the Mendip Way.  The West contrasts with the East.  Wilder and higher, with the limestone plateau and the gorges.  The East more undulating, with hidden stretches of woodland and the lovely secret river valleys towards the end.  Sitting in the centre, like a jewel, is Wells.  Oh, and we could have been in Wells Cathedral listening to Carmina Burana instead of asking important questions about the key characters in the Archers...

Val d’Isère – a renewed acquaintance

A ‘corner of a foreign field that is forever England’.  Or so it seems.  Where would Val d ‘Isère be without the English?  In general we ski in a resort where never an English voice is heard, a little resort in Graubünden, Switzerland.  It has a certain Alpine charm, a gemütlichkeit of its own, and even the Swiss have had to at least try to become friendly.  The forbidding wood leading to the See from the village is now entitled ‘Wilkommen in Zauberwald’, and smiles sometimes even replace grunts as one gets on a skilift.  But the Espace Killy, as the vast area around Val and Tignes styles itself is certainly in a different league, more cosmopolitan, and even the French sometimes seem to be outnumbered by the English.  Boris Johnson, our Mayor of London, has recently added to the debate on ski instructors in France.  I quote:

I’ve just got back from the French Alps and the place is just as beautiful as it was when I first went there 30 years ago: the air like champagne, the sky blue, the snow like gulfs of icing sugar wafting over your skis – and the mind-numbing beauty of those high white landscapes, silent except for the soft clank of the lift. Yes, it’s still the same, the French skiing experience – and so is the great ski-school scandal: a complete, naked, shameless and unrepentant breach – by the French – of the principles of the European Single Market.

It is still the case that if you want to find someone to teach your kids to ski, that teacher will have most or all of the following characteristics. His face will be deeply tanned and handsomely creased; his eyes will twinkle roguishly at his female charges; he will say “HOP!” as he plants his pole to turn; he may or may not have a paunch, a hip-flask of cognac and a smell of cheroot.

But one thing is for sure: he will be dressed in an all-in-one red ski uniform emblazoned with the logo of the École du Ski Français – and he will be French, mes amis. And only French.

In defiance of every basic principle of the Common Market – free establishment, free movement of services, you name it – the French continue to make it virtually impossible for a UK national to set up a ski school, in the French alps, to cater for the vast numbers of English speakers who flock there every winter – and who think dérapage is something to do with a woman’s cleavage.

There are certainly a number of deeply tanned instructors with the ESF uniform, just as Boris says.  But  on the slopes, the Sophies, the Piers’s, the Charlottes and the Sebastians all vie with the French for piste-room.

So after an absence of nearly 30 years, what do I make of the French experience?  First, I would urge you to be very very cautious about walking.  I am reliably informed that the Mayor of Val d’Isère prefers that in the winter it remains a ‘white town’.  This means that the sidewalks are uniformly covered in ice, and extremely dangerous.  The rond-point des pistes in particular is very hazardous.  The Swiss, for whom the village where we ski is still a Swiss inhabitants’ village, would never tolerate the risk to their residents’ health in this way.  Second, in the cleanliness stakes, there is little to touch the Swiss.  Toilets remain an afterthought in France, and though there are more in Val than there used to be, they lag behind other nations in convenience and maintenance.  Perhaps it’s not surprising that the residents don’t have a bigger say in the town – in the winter there are approximately 2000 permanent residents and approximately 3000 ‘Seasonnaires’, many of whom will be British.

But it is the skiing that is the big draw.  Located in what must be one of the most remote, hardest to access valleys in the Haute Tarentaise, Val d’Isère is a Mecca for skiers of all abilities.  The resort is served by a good bus service from Geneva airport – but it does take forever to get there.  Returning on a Sunday evening it was four and a half hours, compared with less than two from Zurich to our own little resort.  This does mean that it suffers less from weekenders that many, indeed, Saturday which is the main changeover day is a pleasure to ski on unlike more accessible resorts.

I spent so much time skiing in a long weekend, that opportunity for photography was limited, but here are some views, and delightful pictures of a chalet girl (who happens to be my daughter), and I hope that you too will have the opportunity to ski there...

Restaurant Les Clochetons

Above Le Fornet

Above Le Fornet

Above Tignes

Les Clochetons

Katie on La Grande Motte

Above Le Fornet

The Drowned Man: a Hollywood Fable

The Drowned Man

By: a Browned Off Man

Please, please, please don’t waste your time and money on this dreadful ‘con’.  If you’re interested in dance then it might have something for you – stay in the Tavern on the top floor and watch the show repeat at least a couple of times.  Then just before the end make your way to ‘Studio 2’ for the dance finale.

This show is put on by ‘Punchdrunk’ productions in association with the National Theatre.  By the end of the show you may be punchdrunk too.  They have hired out an ex-post office sorting warehouse just round the corner from St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington.  There is a portentous story line that there are two different versions of the Woyzeck (Georg Buchner) story going on.  As one enters it feels a little bit like the Tower of Terror in Disney World, but unfortunately the excitement pretty well ends there in the lift (elevator).  The story is happening in simultaneous vignettes in a number of rooms in this four storey warehouse.  It’s mostly rather dark and one is compelled to wear a mask.  Hints are to follow a cast member from scene to scene, but since there seem to be about 15 principal cast members and at a rough guess some 600 to 900 admittees, you can immediately work out that there is likely to be a minimum of 40 people trying to rush along behind the actor up the narrow stairs and along the passages in the dark to the next scenario.  We paid extra to be ‘premium’ guests which gained us entry to a control room which was supposed to add light to the proceedings but didn’t.  A pretty girl in the control room thrust a note into my hand which suggested I make my way two floors up to the tavern, and that I ‘come back and see me very soon’.  The tavern is the scene of the best set-piece dance in the show, and fortunately we saw it twice.

Don’t expect any dialogue – there isn’t any.  Another reviewer has questioned why this wasn’t billed as a dance event.

In fairness, there have been a number of reviews posted on sites such as Trip Advisor, and writers seem to be polarized one way or another, but my view concurs with several others which use the phrase ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ to describe this event.  If this is Immersive Theatre, I’ve been fully immersed and I’ve had it up to here.

At Christmas 2013

At Christmas 2013

Swan Creek Road by Fern Isabel Coppedge, US Impressionist School

With some hesitation I venture a few words at Christmas.  The newspapers at this time of year are full of columnists giving magnificent ‘send-up’ examples of the Christmas ‘Round Robin’, the trumpet of triumph we might call it.  Those impossibly bright children, the exotic holidays, the unexpected £100,000 bonus, the purchase of the idyllic holiday hideaway cottage, the list is endless.  As a Times columnist once wrote, emphasizing that these achievements are also matched by a never ending stream of banalities, ‘it is a matter of polite indifference that a dog you never knew has died’.

But technology moves on.  The Christmas industry means that however well meaning the purchase of cards to support a charity, that other self-aggrandizing institution, the Royal Mail, will attract a substantial portion of your Christmas card spending, and an electronic blog with a few photographs will allow us to donate the money that we might have spent on cards, printed pictures, and postage to charity.

So, mostly I will let our pictures tell the story...

The Anglo-Swiss Trekkers reach Petra

In the spirit of carpe diem, we have tried to achieve some things which, with the passage of a few years more, we may not be able to do.  Our ‘awfully big adventure’ this year was a trek through the Sharah mountains in Jordan to reach the Nabatean city of Petra.  This is a very remote area.  Although thousands visit Petra every day, the Ma’an Governate of Jordan which includes the Sharah, has a population density of less than four people per sq km.  In the first four days of walking we saw only one goatherd and a small Bedouin family sitting by their tent.  The picture captures the moment that our group of eight (seven from Dorset and Marina Bergamin from Switzerland) reached the ‘Monastery’, the largest rock cut building in Petra.  Our guide was the amazing Yamaan Safady, who pioneered this trek, now voted one of the National Geographic’s 15 Great Hikes of the World.  See www.adventurejordan.com.  Yamaan was deeply touched to receive our picture taken in Moreton churchyard, Dorset, of T.E. Lawrence’s grave.  Despite revisionist history, it seems the memory of Lawrence is still respected in Jordan.

Moreton Churchyard, Dorset

As another attempt to turn back time, Marina, Lindsay and I, together with our guide Yan, spent Hallowe’en night climbing in the dark up the volcanic cone of Mount Agung, Bali’s highest mountain, to see the dawn rise over the sea towards Lombok.  Our ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ was ended by a spectacular sunrise, and wraiths of mist rising over the paddy fields below.  Does anyone remember the ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ sequence in Disney’s Fantasia?  No procession of novitiates singing Schubert’s Ave Maria on the way down the mountain.

Early light at the summit of Mount Agung, Bali

Lindsay, Andrew, Wayan, Marina on Mount Agung

After the last picture, I attach my (failed) entry to the Telegraph’s Just Back competition, the 500 word review of a travel experience, which will give you a more detailed flavour of the climb.

In the early part of the year, we spent a wonderful sunny day in Lenzerheide, with our friends, Richard and Rita.  I think Rita took the picture. Congratulations to her on recently completing a very arduous trek around Dhaulagiri in the Nepal Himalaya, during the course of which she was frequently at 5000 metres plus, and spent three or four days entirely on crampons.

Richard Horden, Lindsay, Andrew in Lenzerheide

At the conclusion of our Jordan trip, we returned just in time for a small party organised by Natalie for Lindsay's 60th birthday.  I attach a photo of the birthday cake and the main protagonists.  We had at least had time for a night's sleep and a bath, but as Yamaan says, you can never get rid of Jordanian sand, so there are probably a few grains in there, not visible on camera...

Natalie, Trudi, Cake, & Lindsay

Sadly, on April 5^th, Lindsay’s mother, Marjorie, known to everyone as Marnie, died peacefully in Bird’s Hill Nursing Home, Poole.  We would sincerely like to thank the kind and caring staff at Bird’s Hill.  The picture shows Lindsay and her dad Norman, with some of the flowers from the funeral.

On a happier note, we attended Lindsay’s cousin’s son Jeremy's wedding in Lancaster, Pennsylvania on the 1^st of June.  The picture shows the Stump family group at the reception.

Annie, Chris, Jeremy & his sister Isabella

Andrew, Lindsay, Alex, Howie.  Franklin Marshall College chapel, June 1st 2013.  A kilt perhaps not ideal when the temperature is in the high 90s

Also a happy occasion, Katie graduated in Business with Economics with a 2:1 degree from Leeds University.  Lovely weather in Yorkshire, so the graduands were extremely hot in their heavy gowns and hoods.  She is currently cleaning chalet toilets in Val d’Isère, working for a ski company, but hoping to spend her free time on the slopes.

Talking of proud parents - Andrew & Katie, Leeds University Graduation Day

Another happy week, this time in Marsascala, Malta.  We were able to host Lindsay’s cousin and her son Dermot, Ben and Natalie, Nicholas and Joelle.

Natalie, Nicholas and Joelle, Marsascala, Malta

Lindsay, Joelle, Nick, Dermot, Natalie, Ben, Andrew, Caroline

Anna has been working for the charity Sported, based in central London.  She loves her work, and is doing some higher level qualifications in marketing.  She is shown in her favourite habitat, London’s South Bank.  She currently lives in Brixton, but likes adventure, and has recently been to Nicaragua.

Anna, South Bank, London

On September 4^th, memorable for being probably the last day of a hot and enjoyable summer here in Dorset, we were reunited with ‘The Horsewomen of the Mendips’, the girls who trekked on horseback over the Salkantay trail in Peru in 2012.  We rode on Shanks’s pony...  The picture is in Philippa and Xerxes’ garden.

Lizzie, Philippa, Karen, Julie, Xerxes, Andrew

For the record, Natalie has gained promotion within Barclays.  She is working in Canary Wharf, and lives in Maida Vale.  Nicholas continues to be very ‘hands on’ as manager at Salterns Marina.

Finally a few oddities:

Andrew gets in touch with clan members in Dunkeld...

Dunkeld, Perthshire

On the beach at Lyme Regis.  No sign of Meryl Streep, but with 2,275 other guitarists participating in the UK’s largest guitar ensemble playing Buddy Holly’s ‘Rave On’ on what would have been Buddy’s 77^th birthday.

The beach and Cobb, Lyme Regis, September 7th 2013

Two happy trekkers on the Globi-Wanderweg, Lenzerheide.

September in Lenzerheide

American Impressionist Art:  a painting by Edward Redfield in the Philadelphia Museum of Art

A lotus flower, Bali.  A symbol of purity and a suitable motif to wish you all a very peaceful and happy Christmas and a healthy and fulfilling New Year.

Mount Agung in 500 words:

How to spend Hallowe’en in Bali

A thin line of exquisite pink appears in the Eastern sky, towards Lombok.  A strip of turquoise lies above it.  Above this again, the implacable blackness of night weakens.  The Milky Way, a mass of tiny pearls, so luminous an hour ago, begins to fade.  As we climb, the rock at our hands changes from an inky black in the light of the head torch to... inky black, for this is volcanic basalt.  A gossamer veil of mist below becomes visible, hiding the green of the rice paddies behind it.  Silhouetted against the now golden glow over the sea, the rocks of Mount Agung, Bali’s highest and holiest mountain look sharp and unwelcoming.  It’s perhaps just as well that our climb has taken place in the dark, concentrating only on the next metre or two of rock ahead.  Approaching the rim of the volcanic crater, a pungent aroma of sulphur lifts over the edge to greet us.  Little wonder that this peak is revered, but the early populations of these islands could not have known that it is the very pre-eminence of their mountains that guarantees the rain that fills the rice fields.  As we savour the dawn at nearly 3000 metres, the gradually lifting mists remind me of the cessation of the satanic activities in the film Fantasia, at the end of the Night on Bald Mountain sequence, as the wraiths disappear.  Now that it is November 1^st it would be entirely appropriate to hear Schubert’s Ave Maria, but there is only the soughing of the wind.  Our memorable Hallowe’en begins not with pumpkins but papaya, jack fruit and mango; then vampire-like a sleep during the afternoon and evening before rising at midnight.  We leave Bali’s Eastern coast to drive to the temple, Pura Pasar Agung, from which most climbers start.  The lanes are deserted except for a hundred sleeping dogs, but the small towns are alive with midnight markets in preparation for the religious feast of Kuningan which is to commence next day.  We reach the temple at 1.30am.  Before the climb there are Gods to propitiate, which takes another twenty minutes, and fills the night air with incense.  There are only four personal names in Bali, so it’s not hard to remember our guide’s name – Wayan (the first child).  To be distinctive he calls himself Yan.  Even at 1500 metres the temperature is about 25°C, but Yan has a beanie and an enormous padded jacket.  The climb is not difficult, but the steps and hands of thousands have clutched at these rocks, which in places is worn to a shiny black mirror.  In consequence, our ascent takes four hours, and the descent almost as long.  In the morning heat and broad daylight the peak seems distant and remote.  Were we really there a few hours ago?  Returning through villages bedecked with palm frond gewgaws, the temples swathed with cloths in the holy colours of yellow and white, the population is ready to celebrate, and so are we.