Emirates Air Line in London

As some of you may know it was my birthday on Saturday, and to celebrate it, (after lunch with family, of course) The Englishman decided to ignore (!) his fear of heights and take me on the cable car which crosses the Thames. Since it opened for the London Olympics last year, The Emirates cable car has been criticised for being expensive, and for going 'from nowhere to nowhere'. Papers like The Standard have also been writing that no-one ever goes on it.

Well, on Saturday there was a queue! After waiting for about 20 minutes in the sunny but windy quayside, we paid our £3.20 fare on our Oyster cards and got onboard. (I didn't think that was too bad a price).

Once inside it felt a bit as if a ski lift had been put in the wrong place. I must admit that while the Englishman had been apprehensive, I felt real fear once the glass cubicle began to climb up into the air. Somehow a ski lift seems safer - or perhaps on a Nordic skiing holiday I have more adrenalin flowing through my veins?

The views were fantastic, though, especially on such a sunny day. Below us the river snaked towards the sea, with the Thames Barriers to the East and The Millennium Dome - or O2 as it's now called - to the West. In the distance, the glass fronted skyscrapers of Canary Wharf glinted in sun.

In the end The Englishman wasn't at all bothered about the height. Typical, when he's OK, I'm not...It wasn't as if I didn't enjoy the ride, but I was mighty glad to be back on Terra firma and later on a river boat going back into town.

Not skiing in Åre and 'old' friends

This pretty mountain train terminus is one of my favourite buildings in Åre village.

I've just come back from a skiing holiday to Sweden, where we'd planned to spend most of the time on the beautiful pistes of Åre. In the event I got only a few days on the mountains, because unseasonably warm weather brought rain, strong winds and melting snow.

It looked hopeful at night when we had a fresh covering of snow...

But in the morning the snow had turned into rain.

Each day more of the snow was disappearing off the mountain and down streams towards the Åre lake in the valley.

But the point of the holiday really wasn't the skiing alone. My ten day stay in Åre ended with a long weekend with my 'old' girlfriends.

I consider myself very lucky in that I have loyal group of friends from school who over the years have made the effort for us all to keep in touch. In the first years when I lived in England I was very bad at this, and things got even worse when my children were born. But my friends are a determined bunch (particularly one - you know who you are!) and didn't give up on me.

I love this home ware and clothing store.

There are five of us and in the last few years we've managed to meet at least once per year. We've had lunches in Helsinki, weekends in London, Paris, Rome, Athens and Åre in Northern Sweden, but to name few of our 'girly trip' destinations. It's rare that all five can make a 'meet', but this year, first time in four years, we were all re-united for a skiing holiday with no skiing...

Instead of spending the days on the pistes, we laughed much, watched some silly DVD's (Bridesmaids), and shopped together in the chic shops in the little village of Åre. We swam in the nearby hotel pool, bathed in my friend's genuine Finnish sauna (something not always available in Sweden) and lolled in her hot tub afterwards - giggling like the girls we were when we met at sixteen - while enjoying a glass (or two) of champagne and ignoring the cold drizzle falling on us. We talked about everything and anything. At times I had to remind myself that we were no longer teenagers and at school; that we were serious grown-ups with some of us having grown-up children ourselves.

And last weekend as I came home to the summery London weather from a wet non-skiing holiday, I felt incredibly refreshed, but not in a way one usually does, with aching legs and the feeling that you've really done some serious excercise. No, this time it was my mind and soul that had had the holiday.

Thank you dear, dear friends. I cannot wait for our next outing.

My Nordic Adventure - Skiing the Åre way

The sky was brilliant blue against white snow when we arrived in the Swedish ski resort and mounted the Jämtland flag. I was staying in a ski lodge close to the centre - and to the lifts - with my oldest friends, 'girls' I've known since school and who, as the years pile on, I realise know me rather too well...

For instance when that same afternoon of our arrival I was with one of my friends in the Tott Hotel ski hire shop, I disappeared round the corner to look at a sales rack (once a shopaholic...). Wondering where I'd got to she (naturally!) went to look for me in the adjacent bar where a noisy after-ski party had just started.

These pictures were actually taken in the bar the following afternoon after we'd been up on the mountain.

Oh well...guess I'd rather be known as the party girl than the party pooper, but all the same, I've always maintained that apres-ski can only be enjoyed if you've actually done some skiing.

Which we did indeed do over the next two days. Not that we were fanatical about it;  since most runs in Åre end up or go past a 'kaffehus' - cafe/bar/restaurant - we took advantage of the amenities and had lots of lovely breaks for resting those rarely used thigh muscles need for skiing (ok, I know they're used for other very important activities too but not for hours on end...?), chatting and generally admiring the scenery and people watching. You can tell I'm not a very energetic slalom skier, something the Englishman has never quite understood, but for me being on the Swedish or Finnish Alps means more than just the actual activity of skiing or the wonderfully fresh mountain air. I'm also at home, with friends or family, as well as getting the all-important snow fix that I so crave here in London.

Here are some pictures of Åre this time around.

View from my bedroom window - not bad?

A view from our balcony - the pale yellow building is Tott Hotel

Another balcony view. 

A view later on in the evening as the sun set over Lake Åre.

Loungers on the balcony covered with local, organic lamb skins.

One of the pistes in Åre - not exactly crowded...

Early in the morning when we feared a snow storm would stop play. It didn't - the weather cleared up later.

There was even sun in the afternoon on the pistes.

Oh, how I wish I was still there!

My Nordic Adventure: Part Three - the rest of it (almost)

It's taken me all day to write this blog post about my wonderful, luxuriously long break 'at home' in Finland and Sweden. The words just haven't flown today, on my first day back in London. Even the internet has been intermittent - something to do with the large full moon, perhaps?

Or it may be that I am mourning leaving my home again, although last night I couldn’t wait to get back to London and my home here. One of these days I have to really decide what to call 'home'…

Then there's just too much to describe: the deadly freezing conditions on top of Yllästunturi on the fourth day of my holiday, when the weather at the ski centre was gorgeous, sunny with a slight breeze, but which on the top of the mountain turned into a bitterly chill, biting wind. It had its advantages as no-one, including me who is prone to some soul-searching (and praying - I'm not a natural slalom skier), wanted to linger by the ski lift before starting the down-hill glide.

Then there was the bliss of the sauna after each day's efforts on the mountain, the heat soothing the aching muscles. Followed by some delicious food: Arctic perch baked in the oven followed by frozen wild berries covered in hot fudge.

Top of Yllästunturi

Another top of mountain view

Ski centre

The sun was trying to get through

An expert skier who I was trying to follow

Not sure what I was trying to do here - at least it was a little warmer further down the piste.

On the condola

An empty one on its way down

A coffee house /bakery in Ylläs - not quite a Starbucks! 

A sign inside which says, 'Cold coffee makes you beautiful but your stomach won't be able to stand the quantity needed for it to work.' Finnish humour. 

The first week flew by. My body and soul mended by the calming effect of the Lappish air, there was a complete change of scene. I travelled down (and across) to Stockholm where the Englishman joined me for a weekend. We both flew into Arlanda airport from opposite sides of Europe, keeping in touch with texts and emails. Looking forward to the rendez-vous took me back to the many airport reunions we’d had. We held hands like young lovers in the taxi on our way into the city.

The following day Stockholm was hit by the same cold winds that we'd tried so hard to escape on the slopes in the North. Temperatures plunged and there was a constant threat of a snow storm. This was nothing compared to the awful catastrophe in Japan. While we tried to follow events on the other side of the world through various mobile devices, newspapers and TV, we walked around the city, me reminiscing (as always when here) about my childhood in the Swedish capital. It takes me just about a weekend to get acclimatised, to find my way around without a map, something I hate referring to in a place that I used to know like the back of my hand.

An excellent coffee house/bar near Slussen

I'm happy when in Stockholm

Another restaurant on the south side

Östermalsmhallen - the best market in central Stockholm 

Östermalmshallen from the outside

I had far too many of these - semla - a seasonal treat.

We were both a little under the weather, me with a nuisance of a cough. To escape the cold we flitted from one coffee place to another (of which there’s no shortage in Stockholm). We did manage to visit the Strindberg museum on Drottninggatan 85, which was as fascinating as I thought it would be. It’s housed in the great Swedish author's last home and has been painstakingly recreated to look exactly as he had it when he died in 1912.

Entrance to the Strindberg museum

The Blue Tower as Strindberg called his house

Strindberg's desk

Strindberg on his balcony

Since writing an essay about August Strindberg in sixth form in Helsinki, I’ve had a strange obsession with the author. He’s known for being a misogynist. He married three times and after each break-up wrote bitter accounts of the relationships. He thrived on controversy – writing offensive remarks about anything and everything. This in itself is highly ‘un-Swedish’ and must be part of the reason why I find Strindberg’s work and life so arresting.

The rest of the week in Stockholm I spent with my mother, milling around the old places again. We went to the newly hip Södermalm, the southern part of the city, made even more famous and popular by Stieg Larsson who set all his Millennium novels here.  I go there mainly to buy jeans from Gul och Blå, but also because this is part of Stockholm that I don’t know very well. It was definitely out bounds for me when I was a teen. Then Slussen, the first tunnelbana (underground) stop on the south side of the city, was populated by (Finnish) drunks brandishing a knife, or prostitutes brandishing scant clothing and red lipstick. Now it’s the start of the trendy, arty part of town. How things change?

Slussen today

Bellmansgatan where the character Michael Blomqvist lived in the Stieg Larsson books

Another view from the old part of Söder

The last – but by no means least – leg of my Nordic adventure took me to Åre, the Swedish ski resort near the Norwegian border. But more about that tomorrow.

My Nordic Adventure - Part Two: Snow and more snow

I have a strange need for snow. When I try to explain, I usually say how snow can light up the darkest of wintry days, how a blanket of newly fallen snow is like a rebirth of a landscape: everything looks new, clean and fresh. Of course snow also reminds me of my childhood.

Growing up in Tampere, central Finland, I couldn't wait to lie down on newly fallen snow and make angel shapes with my outstretched arms and legs. When I got my first pair of skis for my 4th birthday I decided to try them out on a field where just a few patches of slush remained on a sunny spring morning in late April. I think I would have ruined them, had  my father not stepped in to save the birthday present. As a school child, I'd cross country ski every weekend in the winter with my friends to a coffee hut near our home. We'd spend our pocket money on a cinnamon bun and a mug of hot berry cordial and ski back home. Cross country skiing was the one sport I was ever any good at - for once my long limbs were of some use.

So it's no wonder I was quite emotional when I was saw these beautiful wintry scenes on my first morning in Äkäslompolo in the Finnish Lapland.

As you can see the weather was gorgeous. Sunny and barely below freezing (-4 C). I was staying with my Finnish friends who are as mad about skiing as I am. As soon as we'd had breakfast of rye bread with ham and cheese and coffee (naturally!), we decided to start the holiday week with a cross country hike on a nearby track. The first leg of about 7 km took us to one of the many huts that the system of ski tracks has scattered around the area of Ylläs.

I was kitted out from my friend's more than adequate ski store. She even had a suitable ski suit and boots to match for me to borrow. I looked the part but once on the track felt anything but a pro.

When used to the old feeling of the narrow skis, I could appreciate that the kit she'd lent me was of outstanding quality. It didn't, however, make up for my lack of fitness. It'd been over two years since I'd cross country ski'd.

This is me two years earlier - spot the narrowness of the skis.

I struggled with the efforts of the uphill 'giliding' (instead I crawled up the snowy banks) and once fell over on a downhill track. Taking on a descent on the narrow planks could not be more different from slalom where all the control is in your legs and skis. Here you just have to keep to the prepared downhill cross country track, bend your knees, keep your balance (!) and hope for the best.

Drenched in sweat and panting, I made it to the first hut and was able to pretend I'd have no problem with the return trip. To my surprise this turned out to be right - fortified by the coffee and laskiaspulla (a cream filled bun served around Ascension Day in Finland and Sweden) I got into a stride and even got up some speed. Still, I was glad when I spotted our turning and could look forward to a hot sauna and a well deserved glass of white mulled wine.

Later in the evening over a delicious supper of 'reindeer temptation' (stewed reindeer steak, onion, carrots and potatoes cooked with cream in the oven), our hostess said, "That was good. Shall we try a longer tour of 20 km tomorrow?"

Just one more post about skiing in Åre

You may have noticed that I'm fairly partial to skiing. Most people think I've been doing it since I was a toddler, learning to ski between the legs of my father or mother like those cute little things you see on the slopes nowadays. But no, I didn't learn to do downhill until I was in my twenties. And then it was the Englishman who introduced me to it. Quite fitting as it was the English who started this slalom lark in the first place. (OK my Swedish, Finnish and Norwegian friends, I know you've been doing it for centuries too but commercially speaking I do think it was the British who thought of it first...no hate mail please...)

But of course I've been skiing - that is cross country - since I was four. In Tampere where I grew up it was almost the same as learning to walk, you did it as soon as you were able. I had my first own skis for my fifth birthday, which is in late April. The fact that all but a few specs of snow had melted on the field outside our house didn't stop me from wanting to try out my new lovely bright red skis (my very favourite colour when I was little). My father agreed but my mother worried I'd ruin them on the mud. Of course there was no stopping me then.

At seven I was so good at skiing I won competitions at school, unless I waited for my friends to catch up with me, which I often did. I was really uncompetitive. Or plain stupid. (I'm blonde). I've been working hard on developing a competitive streak since, but that's another story and involves another favourite sport: golf.

But back to Åre and downhill. We've been coming here for over ten years, ever since we were introduced to the place by our very good friends. The children learned to ski here. The place has grown a lot during this time, new lifts have been added, new transport routes developed between the different areas and many more cafes and restaurants built. The 2007 World Cup was hosted in Åre and for that the centre was almost entirely revamped.

Because of its latitude, the best skiing here is in March when the pistes are open later. In December the skiing time is short and in order to catch the best conditions you need to be up for the first lift at 9.30. By three o'clock in the afternoon the light starts to fade. It's therefore vital to plan your return journey to avoid skiing in the dark (dangerous and not so much fun) or end up taking an expensive taxi to the (ski-in) chalet. If you're skiing with some-one it's quite a good idea to communicate your plan to the other party before you set off.

Of course I knew all this.

But planning ahead and communication with a partner has always been a tricky thing for me. Especially when you're feeling a little fractious from a late night, missed the best of the snow due to a very late start and enjoyed your wine a little too much during lunch....

I have to take my hat off to the Englishman who actually complained very little when I missed our planned rendezvous at the ski bus stop and carried onto another lift further down, which meant we had to then cross a few pistes, find a uphill gap between another two pistes, walk with our boots and skis down a road and uphill to the ski chalet. Not only did he not complain (much), he also carried my skis most of the last bit. All I'll say in my defence is that I thought we'd decided to ski all the way back in spite of the fading light and lift closures, and that there was a person with the same colour ski jacket as the Englishman, who started down the wrong piste, only to disappear when I got to the lift.

Thank goodness for mobiles, how did we ski (or communicate) before they were invented (by Finns - only joking)?

I leave you with some more pictures, the last one of the Englishman (I think).