Granny Gin

I remember walking at the house, tucked away on a pretty lane outside the village of Barford, Warwickshire. Stepping out of the white doors of the living room with the hand of my grandmother, past the smell and rows of lavender, down the endless beds of roses before reaching the greenhouse, climbing carefully over the precipices of paved stones. Tucked under a tree, I would be propped up onto the second fence in my wellies and there would be the donkeys, Phoebe and Clover. If I was lucky, they would come gamboling over to us, so I could almost reach my hand over and touch the rough tuft of hair that stood between their alert pointed ears. Sometimes, we even gave them a carrot or two. And I remember being plucked off the fence once more and with the safety of my grandmother’s hand, toddling back to the house.

A picture stands on the family’s notice board in the kitchen, well worn, of my grandparents standing next to me as a baby. I wear pale pink and two happy fresh young faces look straight down the eye of the camera, beaming and proud. Being the oldest, I have been lucky to have a vague memory or two of Little Grandpa when we were young, our favoured name for him, but this picture stirs something in me - of his gentleness and a twinkle in his eye. The hard grip he would clasp you with. He was the apple of everyone’s eye. I still remember my mother coming home, having held his hand before he died. She fiercely adored him and I remember how important it was to her, to make her parents proud. That is something I will always carry with me.

I remember when I put my face close to her, the feel of my Granny Gin’s skin, soft and velvety and the smell of talcum powder mixed with perfume hits my nose. Now I enjoy coming home at Christmas, seeing the tree stacked up, heaving with trinkets in a glowering cascade of colour; feeling the smack of Granny’s pursed lips on my cheek welcoming me home. As a teenager, I would work hard to be naughty - the stern look occasionally being replaced by her irrepressible rocking laughter. It shakes off any awkward atmosphere - and we often had those with the coming together of relatives on Christmas Day. 

At parties in Barford, Granny would make canapés of smoked salmon sandwiches served with swathes of butter on soft brown bread cut into squares with the crust kept on, sprinkled with black pepper and always, always served with a slice of lemon. This was the only fish I could enjoy for eighteen years, my despairing mother would disguise a fish pie with ketchup in the mashed potato and a mountain of peas. I would succumb to fish and chips easily, usually only eating the batter. And the chips. Now I’m an adult, I eat fish now and again. But I absolutely love smoked salmon.

She could sing sweetly - ‘Oh what a beautiful morning’ from Oklahoma and when I was little, learning to play the piano, I would open the top of the piano stool and lift heaps of papers down onto the carpet, exploring her sheets of music and matinee programmes from when Grandpa had directed, and she had performed. Whenever we visited Stratford upon Avon, she would take us to the RSC - Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, a Midsummer Night’s Dream. Later, when I would start acting professionally and read reams of Shakespeare with my speech therapist, I would remember sitting in the blacked out theatre:

“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.” 

I fell in love with Shakespeare five years ago, but the root of that most certainly came from Granny.

The intrepid granny, as our family also call her, always used to go on these grand holidays, occasionally taking us along as well - but always separately. Egypt and the Nile, the heart of Africa and safaris with elephants. She took me to New York when I was coming into my rebellious streak as a teenager, and I remember standing in awe at buildings that you could not see the top of, the yellow taxis honking in deadlock traffic, the blurred faces of people walking past and the strange smell of rubbish, fast food, the foreignness of it all. Even though I had been to London a few times, I had yet to grasp the sense of a city - to stand in awe at a 360 panorama of vivacity and I will never forget those few days - seeing musicals, getting lost in FAO Schwartz, climbing to the top of Empire State Building and waiting for ages to come down again, the pleasure of meeting a most remarkable man - Edward Finch and his wife Polly. His building had a doorman standing outside. I still have the bright pink boots with heels that Granny let me buy. I could stride right down Fifth Avenue in these, but it didn’t have quite the same effect in Harrogate. I know I was difficult on that trip and probably didn’t show much appreciation, but it was an unforgettable experience.

Ibiza on summer holidays is another place inundated with memories of Granny Gin and Jack the Crack. Jack the Crack was the first bald man to come into our lives, a long-time friend of Granny’s. He had perhaps one or two hairs on his head, and my sister and I would make the most of this by putting our vast collection of hair bobbles on his head. Long before Ibiza became the hotspot for clubbing-fuelled adrenaline, we would sit in this restaurant above the sea, jumping off the cliffs and learning to play bridge with Granny Gin. We would also meet the infamous Auntie Jean - always greeted with one finger on the side of the nose and a low bow much like the Thai welcome. Auntie Jean was famous in my mother's youth for a television programme with two koalas - Tingha and Tucker. 

Nowadays, I don’t see my Granny Gin all that often, though she comes home to Yorkshire more than I do. When I try to imagine her, I picture her on the sofa watching cricket with my brother - this being one of her most favourite pastimes as the Warwickshire cricket club well know. Or I picture her with a gin and tonic, standing staunch and proud as the Queen, the same age as Granny, reads her speech on the television on Christmas Day. At first, this would make us giggle but it’s always a lovely moment when we, as a family, stand with my grandmother still and silently on this chaotic day. 
When I was little and Granny was sixty three, she was always thirty six when I asked her. Now at eighty six years of age, reversing the numbers is probably not quite so flattering but I can and will say she looks and acts remarkably younger than her age. All six of her grandchildren are counting on having her genes.  

Three days short of my own birthday, Granny’s birthday always brings about a reflection into the past - into my own achievements, memories and trepidation about the next year. If I have accomplished the things that she has, and continues to, then I will be a happy woman by the time I reach thirty six and sixty three. 

Happy Birthday Granny, from 6196.31 miles away, your loving and oldest granddaughter,

Genevieve

My last day at 28

"When I was one, I was just begun.

When I was two, I was nearly new.

When I was three, I was hardly me.

When I was four, I was not much more.

When I was five, I was just alive.

But now I'm six, I'm as clever as clever,

So I think I'll be six now forever and ever."

By A.A Milne, 'Now We Are Six'

As age always seems to go up and never stays still, it was with a little irony that I recalled A.A Milne's poem which was at the back of the hardback poetry book about Winnie the Pooh that I had been given for winning the Maths Prize in Primary School. (Not so good at maths now.)

Tomorrow I turn 29 and, if you read the earlier blog, you will know that I get nostalgic, melancholic, (even tenebrific - what a great word) around my birthdays. A little bit disquieted. Part of this is the fear of growing old or wanting to stay young forever. Peter Pan was for a long time my hero, at least before I studied the darker meanings behind J.M. Barrie's words at university, the boy who never grew up. 

It is a bit of a nuisance that your birthdays creep up on you so quietly. As Dickens said "Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!...his factory is a secrety place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes." What a con artist.

Suddenly you're scratching your head, having no idea of what you have been doing for the past year. Pondering. 

To be realistic, my memory is still remarkably intact and I am young enough still to get away with an immature sense of humour. I am still tickled by this old Pashtun song I came across last week - 

"There is a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach,

  But, alas, I cannot swim!"

This blog is starting to sound very melodramatic.

But, 28 years old holds some precious memories - some concrete, others stirring repetitions of daily life - the renovations of Alex's new house; seeing the new skylights in the loft, sanding wooden stairs so they brighten anew, sloshing acres of white paint over the hated magnolia, black slates on the bathroom floors. Bacon sandwiches with Annabel, every week, in cafes around Holborn, Covent Garden, Crouch End or beers in local pubs that brew Yorkshire Ale - sitting on sunny steps on an empty afternoon. Parties after the rugby, every Saturday, at the Big Brother House that some of the boys rented living in Great Gatsby style. Watching a young blind man play the piano in Nottingham, in his own solitude, at the end of a course I ran for students with disabilities. Similarly, the captivation in a single moment when a young African man stood up and read a poem thanking us for sponsoring another programme in London. 

Sitting with Sophie, in the humidity of Mumbai, at a bar devoid of people with the exception of a group of Indians celebrating their drivers' birthday - the driver aforementioned, eating a sandwich in the car and waiting for them outside. At home with the family, watching Mrs Doubtfire, after Robin Williams passed away. Walking down the aisle as a bridesmaid, behind my beautiful Vicky - behaving immaculately then climbing trees with Annabel behind the marquee. The accomplishment of doing a single chin-up unaided, after months of punishing gym workouts with my personal trainer and friend, Matt. Skyping my sister in Turkey, to only see her hand pop up with a sapphire engagement ring, blinking at when she had become a grown up. Packing up to travel, then delayed by a wonderful part in 'Call the Midwife' - a tremulous moment after months of no acting work. Dinner with my girlfriends, at Broadway Market, then sitting in a heap on the bed with red wine and overcome with laughter. Going on this adventure with Alex, seeing Vietnam - so many memories with this boy to mention. 

A singular lowlight in my life this year, was my mum getting cancer. When I woke up this morning, on this pre-birthday, it took me a while to lift all good memories out of the box when there is this dull haze of pain around six months of seeing my mum so sick and fragile, feeling so helpless. The 25th of June will stand alone as a marked shift in my life forever - a thumping sense of how precious my family is. Skyping my mum from Thailand last week, she bravely announced "I am now as bald as a coot. Just like Yul Brynner," sharing how she had asked my father to shave the rest of her head and how he practiced on his own armpits before fulfilling her wish. It's a grin with the shaking of a head - right there - as I write this recent memory, but one that requires me to blink back tears too. 

Moving past that, it has given me some of the most precious memories of my family this year, because of the weight of their meaning. Pain mingles in a cocktail with Joy - the chemathon episode with the hedgehog, the Freda wig - "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match", making Hugh Grant lorgnettes to read over your cold cap, performing 'When Harry met Sally' - the infamous episode which I was to reproduce with Channel 4, cooing over pictures in the bridal magazines (even though Mum would say even now, "I never coo"), Antonia saying no to every single one of them. As the hundreds of well-wishers that Mum is fortunate to call friends rally around us, we too as a family have weaved a tighter knot together with Mum standing, sitting or lying in the middle. 

So 29, what beckons for me? The great adventure, backpacking around Asia - Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, India, Burma, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Phillippines and New Zealand all waiting for us alongside many others. I will be strong as the cancer treatment goes on, so far away. That book, that has been waiting beyond my grasp for so many years, I now will write. A film job or two, throwing myself into the rigours of transformation and emotional turmoil that is required. Coming home to see my beautiful red-headed sibling walk down the aisle. Figuring and facing destiny, or the future, hand in hand, with Alex. Come what may.

As I grow one year older, much more yet to come, I will remind myself of this saying, which I came across whilst bemoaning growing old.

"It's important to have a twinkle in your wrinkle" 

Unknown

A wry grin that makes of me now, as I go on to face a new day.

   

Hanoi - je ne sais quoi

Climbing to the Northern buttes of Vietnam, I have wondered whether weighing Hanoi against Saigon would be of a similar outcome to my reflections of Barcelona and Madrid. However, Alex and I have visited both cities of Spain separately and reached entirely different conclusions.

                                                    

Not at all culture vultures in real life (i.e. when we are not travelling), Alex and I seem to reach a similar conclusion about cities - judging their merits on ambience, authenticity and adventure. So why he thought Madrid was a better spot than Barcelona, I have absolutely no idea.

For me, a city needs to be steeped in history - you should be able to walk the walls and simultaneously turn back the clock to a different age. Be graced by architecture which celebrates that passage of time. Enjoy the promise of hidden walkways where unexpected local pleasures can capture the eye. Eclectic cafes are a must - where one can watch the world go by at one's feet and lastly, there has to be a sleepy buzz about the place but with a compelling lilting hum rising above it. Hanoi scored full marks on all fronts, from both of us.

Hanoi means the 'city inside rivers', however its historic and formal name Thang Long, has a more bad-ass meaning 'ascending dragon'. One sees the two come together in the beautiful surroundings of Hoam Kiem Lake, striking in the centre of ancient Hanoi and where the Turtle Temple almost rises out of the lake in splendour.

Unlike Saigon, Hanoi is more of a phrontistery - a thinking place, though it is slightly harder to ponder when wading through its hazardous traffic, where bikes run amok. The Temple of Literature, built in honour of Confucius, celebrates this with a series of courtyards hosting porticos and pavilions with the usual dog and dragon statues standing at each entrance. The botanical gardens are splendid - serene beauty with water fountains; it was a bemusing contrast seeing soldiers practising their parade march through the middle.


               

The 'Hanoi Hilton' - as known by American soldiers or the Hoa Lo Prison (Hoa Lo roughly translates to 'Hell hole' - so you should appreciate the sarcasm here) was another highlight, in my opinion, saturated in the history of both the Indochina and Vietnam Wars. A French guillotine stared down on us in one room, the sewer drains that were the means of two successful escapes in another. A moving tribute stood in the walled gardens, with emaciated prisoners carved out of rock extending three metres high. On the upper levels, away from the doom and gloom, was an cockamamie exhibition displaying photos and placards detailing the excellent treatment of American POWs whilst away from home. Beautifully ironed pyjamas hung and a bed with a soft mattress, duvet and pillow - (nicer than some of the beds we have slept in) helped hammer the point home. Interestingly, the senator John McCain was a POW here.

                      

                                   


The Old Quarter, where we stayed, remains true to the architecture of Hanoi from the early 20th century. Storekeepers in the Old Quarter were taxed according to the width of their shopfronts, the long and narrow buildings often called 'tube houses'. Typical measurements are 3 metres wide by 60 metres long. The Old Quarter is made up of 36 streets, each dedicated to a different skill or trade, and so we wandered down Hang Giay (stationary), Hang Quat (coffins), Hang Ma (decorations), Hang Be (bamboo), Hang Ga (chicken) and Gia Ngu Street (underwear). We also renamed these, for our own entertainment - Jotter Junction, Dead Man's Drive, Tinsel Town, Bamboo Boulevard, Chicken Run and the Bra Bazaar. I think we might have done better. I claim all proprietary rights to the 'Bra Bazaar'.

                                                          
                                 

Every alley, path and street corner has cafes where one can pull up a plastic chair and dine on whatever the daily special is. Particular lautitious feasts were enjoyed at the Tasty Restaurant, where we ate Bun Cha Ha Noi - a dish of grilled pork burgers and noodles, served with greens and a bowl of light dipping sauce. Nem (spring rolls) are also served with it, and the meal should be savoured alongside a large Tiger beer. At the Green Lizard, we got barbecued spare ribs, fried rice and greens served in a plastic tray all for 40,000 dong (£1). Pho fans out there, nothing is better than sitting out in the open with locals, any place will do, served alongside the cheapest beer in the world - Bia Hoi (25p per litre).

 

 

For those in favour of adventure, walking down the train tracks, you will come to Ray Quan - a restaurant where the trains pass so close, you can almost chink your beer against its metal carriages. One of our favourite images of Vietnam which was given to us by the lovely Deb Bakker, who supports Deaf Craft - an organisation run by deaf orphans in Hanoi and who we met on the train up to Sapa. Deb also brought us to meet the people who work at Deaf Craft and we spent a wonderful afternoon seeing them work and attempting rudimentary sign language with them.

A special place found down one back alley was the Shot Cafe, one of the most comfortable and architecturally pleasing buildings I have ever been in. Spread over two floors and made nearly entirely out of wood, with an entresol level garden, a piano to play and beanbags and rocking chairs to lounge in under the high ceilings. If you come in the early evening, musicians come to borrow the guitars and piano, taking it in turns to perform local Vietnamese songs. As a pastime, for simple enjoyment - not for performance. It's difficult to describe it to justice. Alex spent hours drawing townhouses that could reflect the design of it.

Vietnam, in its beauty and meandering pace, has enchanted us for a month. A month into our year of travelling and we are refreshed,  feeling creative in abundance, able to absorb and appreciate the smaller things in life in the midst of looking at the bigger picture. The frugality of our budget means we have cherished every penny spent. One could go on, endlessly soaking, Vietnam up - the vitality of Saigon, the charm of Hoi An, the ancient Citadel in Hue, the coruscating hills of Sapa, the soaring karsts of Lan Ha Bay and the seductive bustle of the streets of Hanoi. A special adventure to be remembered, as we go on to places new.

The right way to Halong Bay

As the sun rises, we are finishing our breakfast on Cat Ba island - omelettes served with a fresh baguette on the side and strong black filtered coffee. Our hotel on the harbour front grants us views of the limestone karsts emerging in the horizon. Fishing boats are just sailing out - round coracles with flat bottoms made of bamboo and the carvel style junk boats which are usually used to ferry around tourists making a short trip of Halong Bay.

We opted to do something different with the famed Halong Bay - which was to linger longer than the standard dash-in-and-out tours arranged in Hanoi but the cost of cruising around on a boat for more than 24 hours was substantially higher than our £30 a day budget. Like most backpackers and tourists, we conferred to the same old cliche -  wanting to find ourselves 'off the beaten path'. We also grappled with the mixed reviews of Halong Bay - the scams, constant traffic of likeminded others and the environmental problems - pollution of the waters from the rubbish thrown out at sea. And so we faced the other direction - towards the smaller and lesser frequented sibling - Lan Ha Bay. We stayed for four days, under budget, on the largest of 366 islands in the archipelago - Cat Ba island.

Cat Ba means 'Sandy Women' - and the tale goes that three women of the Tran Dynasty were killed with each of the bodies washing up on three different beaches. Fishermen built temples on each beach in honour of them and so is how the island thus became named. It is preserved by UNESCO, largely for the national park that protects one of the most endangered primate species in the world - the langur monkeys. There are only 68 left in the world and all of them reside here with us on Cat Ba.

The town itself is not pretty, captivating, bustling but its lack of pretence holds a charm in itself. The locals do not overexert themselves in plying for trade, the buildings are hacked and modern. There is a plentitude of beauty to be admired about the island but it is not thrown in your face. A quiet place, to come and go as one pleases, enjoy what one will - just what we needed and glorious warm weather after the constant chill of Sapa.

We hired a motorbike (that I am alive and kicking, Mum, should reassure you that Alex can handle one pretty well) and explored every road on the island. Butterflies float everywhere and in all colours, goats with bells round their necks skirt nervously past, a rocky path takes us between mangrove trees hovering just above the sea level. A smell of pine as we dip beneath trees, a bend of awesome valleys and limestone cliffs around every corner. Holding on to the man I love as the wind rushes through and everywhere.

        

Cat Ba Island is also steeped in a little history, heavily influenced by both the French Indochina and Vietnam Wars. As a bombing hotspot, there are caves dug into hills that acted as hideouts for the locals and for the Viet Cong soldiers stationed here. We stopped by the Hospital Cave, used all the way up to 1975 - reaching it by climbing a steep ladder made of bamboo and welcomed by large cavernous spaces. Rooms have been carved into the rocks and I was entertained by its echoed recantation of my singing the Who, much to the puzzlement of a couple of German tourists who were also having a look around.

           

Cannon Fort - a strategic look out point with bunkers and yes, cannons, was where we watched the sunset. This granted us a panorama of the karsts around us and with use of binoculars, a giggle at a few fat nudists on beaches miles away.

                              

      

      

The unmissable part of visiting this part of Vietnam is, of course, going out on the water and seeing the limestone karsts up close. With Asia Outdoors, for £16 each, we booked a day's kayaking trip. A pickup by minibus and a motley crew of tourists, mostly ignoring one another, climbed on the boat at the harbour and onto the upper deck to lounge on cushions as the boat weaved around hundreds of little islands dotting Lan Ha Bay.

           

Around one corner, we were greeted with the sight of floating fishing villages, one of which held the kayaks we were to use. Half of the group separated to go 'deep water soloing' - the term describing one who rock climbs as high as they can go and then, being able to go no further, throwing themselves into the sea. This had looked like fun, but we were being frugal, happy to enjoy ourselves at lower levels.

              

Alex and I, being as competitive as we are and not at all sportsmanlike (with each other), did not make an agreeable coxless pair on the tandem kayak. This is especially as I, without my hearing aids, had opted to go up front at first and was unable to have any two-way conversation for all of three hours. Grumpy and inhospitable to his attempts to steer, we made way through tunnels, caves and explored lagoons in a dogged effort at a straight line weaving through the water. The American guide with the big beard laboriously showed us how to climb in and out of the kayaks safely in order to swim in the lagoon and Alex managed to capsize it. Twice. He takes the prize for being the only one to do it unaided, but as he says "if you aren't capsizing you aren't trying hard enough." It was slow working back to the boat, with a kayak mostly submerged in water.

After lunch, the groups reversed except for us, choosing to stay on the kayaks. This meant that I was granted with the company of tall, toned and topless men from Bulgaria, Australia, Canada, Italy. And one fat American. Oh, and Alex.

                                          

The kayaking was more successful this time around, with my black mood having dissipated and with our tandem now much more in sync with me at the back. We all stilled to watch monkeys chattering on a cliff, rattling trees to send down a scatter of leaves from hundreds of metres high. We climbed out of our kayaks to wade through 'Spider Forest' (thankfully we did not see any) and to climb through sea grass back around the other side to our kayaks. By the time the sun was getting mellow, we were diving off the boat and clunking beers with our newfound friends on the upper deck.

As the sun sets, and the boat sailed back to Cat Ba, conversation stilled as everyone sunk in the majestic sights under the glow of the horizon. We were gloriously stiff, with sore arms and limbs, cheeks red from the warmth, hugging our damp knees in the breeze with one hand clasped onto a beer. Following the same route we had taken that morning, the length of the day and the sights we had seen stretched before us and we sat contented, people from near every continent, knowing that the money spent had been worth every single penny and more for the unforgettable Lan Ha Bay.

Sapa's hills through the eyes of Me

As we fell asleep on the rocking train, Summer quickly moved to Winter, marching past Autumn in a huff. To fall asleep in a tangible, humming humidity and wake up in a blanket of heavy fog and swirling mists by the highest peak in Vietnam, was like setting ourselves as characters in a time-travelling fantastical adventure, and remaining perpetually dazed by the experiences before us.

The town, Sapa itself, is akin to a ski resort but without the snow. Hotels and Northface shops sit cosily on hills set in every direction, though one cannot see further than a few metres ahead to know that this is the case. Restaurants proclaim the promise of a woodburning fire, few actually delivering, and the Hmong tribespeople in their wellies shout 'Where you from' loudly as we pass by. Hot chocolate is the drink of choice, usually served with the sugary condensed tinned milk favoured by Vietnamese over that of the cow.

One afternoon, a Mancunian and a Scouser sat at a sofa, blowing hot air into their hands and shrugging off the fierce cold.

One imagines the sharing of backgrounds could mean a shaky start, for the famed rivalry between the two cities is second to none. Both would also insist that this history of animosity runs deeper than the Battle of the Reds. When away from home, however, whether in London, Sapa or Timbuktu, Northerners are a tight clan, who put local grievances aside and claim one other as brethren, bantering ruthlessly against the South. Such solidarity is only tossed off in a pub on Saturday afternoon.

Northerners being a rare breed amongst the Hmong tribe village of Sapa, we agreed to catch up that evening with Phil and Hoa, the Mancunian-Vietnamese couple who run Ethos Travel, somehow finding ourselves in an Egyptian Shisha Bar decorated as a Bedouin tent with a full-on decor of Valentine's Day. The world around us was pink and red, with rose petals scattered everywhere including in the toilet bowl.

The main attraction of Sapa is the trekking and for that reason, the very next day I found myself in a brand new hot pink Northface jacket and some snug fleece-lined black leggings ready to strut up a mountainside or two. On a serious note, this was one of the best experiences I have had and the highlight of our trip to Vietnam.

My (pronounced "Me") was our guide for the trek, a thirty year old woman with a gold front tooth dressed in the distinctive colours that the Black Hmong wear. Black baggy velvet shorts that reach to the knees, black linen cloths are wrapped around the calves with colourful ribbons strapping them on followed by sturdy walking boots. T-shirts and hoodies are covered by a dark blue overgarment with hand-stitched fluorescent strips of swirling shapes and flowers adorn the arms, shoulders and collar. A similarly decorated sash wraps the coat and a blue, green, pink and purple checked scarf is wrapped bandana style around the head. My has black hair reaching close to the floor which she has not cut for over 20 years. She wraps this round her head like a halo and affixes it with a comb at the front. The Hmong wear massive chains round their necks and two or three dangly earrings to a lobe, the more you wear - I'm told, the more beautiful you are supposed to be.

When I was seventeen, I cut a knee length checked skirt into a minuscule skirt and a boob tube. I also once tried to go clubbing with a pashmina wrapped around me instead of a dress. My sister would tell me now that with such similar fashion sense, I must have been a Hmong orphan cast away from the tribe.

A trip into the local market, where buffalo legs, chicken feet, pig oesophagus and dried squid are delicacies hotly contested over, found us laden with meat (normal), rice paper, coriander, carrots, spring onions, eggs and bananas. My holds my hand on a regular basis already and laughs loudly and jostles us along, much to the amusement of the numerous family members we pass.

An hour's climb up hill and we can still see no more than our breath evaporating in front of us and hemp and indigo growing beside our feet. The fog is never ending. We hear a bell and some kettle drums and a school comes into sight. Young children are dancing in rows, synchronised claps above and below whilst old women watch, wrapping hemp around their hands, fingers stained blue and green.

My's house is humble, walls of bamboo and a corrugated iron roof.  There is no electricity, nor light. The home is split into three rooms, and the eaves hold corn to feed the animals, rice to feed the family. Traditional marriages mean that the wife will live with the husband's family - so before long, mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, cousins and children flock into the house to eat with us. For with the exception of when trekkers come to visit, they all eat plain boiled rice three times a day, every day. It is a celebration, a feast when we come and I am so glad that we provide the opportunity to feed so much of the family a hearty meal.

                                


The fire sits in one of the rooms, smoke blowing everywhere and low wobbly stools sit close to the floor. The food is prepared on the mud floor or in metal bowls. Nothing is spared and the fat of the meat is melted down to use as oil. Everybody sits close by as the fire is the only source of heating and it is effing cold. We are served stir-fried chicken with carrot and onions, pork and greens with rice. Rice wine is poured out into shot glasses out of a plastic water bottle. This was to be consumed in large quantities over the next three days. No English is spoken, but the constant chatter of the females around us is captivating.

Another five kilometres we walked that afternoon which was all downhill. The mud was wet and there were few footholds to stop the ungraceful slithering and sliding act which was our only way to climb down the hill. A child ran down the hill past us in a pair of sandals, putting us to extreme shame. Terror creeps up on you slightly when you peer over the edge and see how far you could fall if the mud sent you flying in that direction. Mist everywhere meant that one would suddenly find themselves staring into the black beady eyes of a buffalo with no prior warning.

                                

A night at My's sister's house led to much merriment and a few sore heads the next morning after several litres of rice wine was consumed. Much the same as lunch, we ended up eating with around 10 relative-in-laws and children and watching some bizarre Korean vampire show on television under the single lightbulb that was in the house. We slept in the open, on a low bed under a mosquito net, with a thick blanket.




Twelve kilometres the next day, mainly by road, took us down the valley and as we climbed the mist slowly rose giving us the famed view of rice paddies that Sapa is known for.

My has never been to the city. Nor has she seen the sea. This is the case for the majority of people that surround us in the hill tribes. It's curious. How can one imagine a world, a life, having not seen a sprawling metropolis in glinting sunlight, the ferocious blaring of horns in deadlock traffic, the concerted faces as swarms of people walk to their offices, the gym, meetings, restaurants, cafes, shops? The observation of urban culture as it passes you by? Or the expanse of an ocean, where your eyes search the horizon for where the sky meets the sea? The vivid colours of the sunset - gold vermillion, shades of fuchsia, violet and periwinkle dancing with the clouds? The salt spray, the roar and ebb of a tide, grains of sand between your toes as you sink beneath the surface? The joy to see fish and coral beneath pellucid waters.

But My has seen the changing seasons over the hills of Sapa. The ornate finery in the rice paddies as they dip down the valley. They look like steps for God to ascend down from heaven. My has seen children chasing their father's bike with glee across a corrugated iron bridge, with no hesitation at the cracks that reveal the gushing river below. The breaking backs of men building the foundations of a house, together and with no payment except a hearty meal. A family of twenty sitting together round a fire with a simple spread. Buffalo, pigs, chickens, goats, dogs and cats roaming together and doing their bit.

Whilst we sit humbly, at times abhorrent at the poverty that many of them live with, respectful of the endless toil we see around us, sorrowful that most children may never see the sea, develop a love/hate relationship for the city and all of its meddlesome quirks, may never go to university and see a full education, will marry and stay in the village they grew up in, next door to the house they were born in. They will face most, if not all, of the hardships of the earlier generation for whilst the tourist trade in Sapa has reaped benefits, it is part of their culture to live exactly the way they are and always have been. It takes reminding that the lessons in life taught here are no better nor worse than the ones taught of the children who see the city and the sea. Like us. My does not miss what she has never known and we are not right to perceive the quality or the richness of life as poorer than what we have. She certainly doesn't think that way. And I have learnt to believe her.

My's biggest challenge at the moment is saving money for a chimney. Her children suffer from the cold, smoke inhalation. She worries for a bad harvest which will mean that there is not enough rice for the family. Sapa's rice paddies have been exhausted and there are few minerals left in the soil, which means that they can only harvest once a year. Her husband works in the summer in the fields, for no pay, simply for the food that they can bring to the family table. Any excess is traded in the village for other basic necessities. My does not have a bank account where she stashes her earnings from the treks. She has never learnt the concept of saving nor is quite bought into the long-term benefits of an expensive chimney. One day she came across a glimmering rainbow trout in the market, and in her delight - having never seen or eaten one before, spent a lot of her cash to be able to carry the rainbow trout proudly 5km uphill to her family to feed them for one night. That is My. She has the biggest heart.

Heavy breathing, slipping and sliding up and down muddy tracks, stopping to enjoy the views, staying in local villages with families suckling their babies, fetching water from bamboo poles that run down the mountain, poking the fire, preparing simple yet delicious food for the people who come to stay and themselves. Learning from the generosity of My and others who, in English oftentimes broken, share pictures of their rituals, routines and culture. All in a glorious landscape surrounding us, unbroken beauty and the never-ending horizons of green hills.