Day 8 – Self-portrait with wedding guests and favourite nephew, originally uploaded by ronet.

What can I say about the day I got married?

I could tell you about the way I rugby-tackled some overzealous tourists to make sure my dress made it safely up on the train to the highest hotel in Europe.

I could talk about the flowers and the dress and the chapel. I could tell you about drinks on the terrace, and later, the 6 course meal topped off with two coloured Toblerone mousse.

I could talk about the ride on the little train, the only free ride I’ve ever taken.

I might mention the ink that exploded from the pen when we signed the register (even fountain pens need time to acclimatise), or the heart we cut out to show what a team we make (I held the scissors, Ron had control of the card).

I could thank the tourists who stood at the back the whole time and watched two strangers putting the final touches to a knot that had been tied years ago.

And there’s so much more I could say.

But no, dear reader, I know what you want: it’s the bridal self-portrait, with Vlad and guests.

You must have known that if I took one shot that day, this would be it.

I do have to mention that it’s no easy task to get 11 guests and a husband to line up the way you want them. There were grumbles. Surely it should be tallest first, not shortest, and other complaints. I had a hard job get some of them to get in line at all.

And then Alex, who will tell you he’s my only nephew and I’ll reply that it makes no difference, he’s my favourite nephew, asked to squeeze the bulb.

Normally there are rules about these things. In this case rule #4 is particularly important, but the general idea of self-portraits is that you take them yourself.

So is it a self-portrait if the bride doesn’t press the shutter even if she has put Vlad in place, herded the guests and given careful instruction to the person controlling the bulb?

Maybe you’re a stickler for the rules, but even if you’ll disagree I hope that on my wedding day you’ll allow me this one indulgence.

We headed up to Findeln to take a few photos and grab a quick lunch with Dumbfunk and keksofant who had agreed at the last moment to be our best man and best woman. (We hadn’t asked before because we didn’t realise it was going to be that sort of wedding either).

They had burgers, I went for the hay soup, washed down with a glass of Dole Blanche.

“How come you’re not nervous?” Keks asked as we nibbled and sipped and I set Vlad up for a self-portrait. We were leaving in a couple of hours for the registry office, where we’d sign some forms and become legally married.

“It’s not our wedding – it’s just the paperwork,” we said as we set off down the trail for Zermatt.

How wrong we were.

The registrar told us that it was only the second service he’d conducted in English. He was more nervous than we were.

“I’m not going to tell you about love,” he said, “you already know about love, but I am going to tell you a story about a fox and a rose and a little prince.”

And as he read the story I thought about my copy of the book on our bookshelves at home, and just what that book means to us. We have a history with the Little Prince. It’s not the first time he’s taught us something.

And though that registrar had never met us before and didn’t know anything more than some bald facts written in black ink on the application forms, he couldn’t have chosen a better story for us about love, about our life together so far.

So do you know what I did? Of course you do.

I cried.

Day 6 – rainy days and ring cushions, originally uploaded by ronet.

Back in January my future mother-in-law asked if we needed a ring cushion. She’s handy with a needle and a bit of gold thread. She’s won competitions for it.

But still we turned her down. “It’s not going to be that kind of wedding,” we said.

Though we’d set our hearts in a wedding in the highest chapel in Europe, we didn’t want a church service.

We didn’t need to declare our commitment in front of any sort of god. It was our families, our friends, and us that we were doing it for.

But then we met the sweetest, kindest, funniest vicar in the entire world and she asked for a cushion so that she could bless the rings.

How could we refuse?

So on a rainy Thursday after a quick trawl of the shops, followed by a picnic and a glass of wine in the shelter of our rented chalet, a plan was hatched. Fabric was bought, fonts were chosen. We had the thread and the cushion. All we needed was an award winning needlewoman.

Luckily it poured with rain all afternoon and into the evening. Otherwise the guilt would have been too much as we met up with Dumbfunk and Keksofant, ate strudel and rösti washed down with a glass or two of beer.

And in a hotel room, just across the way from our chalet, a goldwork expert sewed into the night.

By Wednesday our wedding guests were starting to arrive and we wanted to be there to welcome them, but in the mountains you have to make the most of every good weather day. We were torn.

Then we worked out if we got up early we could strike out for the Schönbiel hut, grab a quick lunch and head back in time to meet them for drinks in the last of the afternoon sunshine.

There was only one problem with that plan – it’s 11 km and a 1,200 metre climb to get there and once you’re there, there’s only one way back. But we were fitter than we’d ever been so how hard could it be?

We grabbed some food from the bakers while they were still opening up and set off.

It was cold, the clouds hung low in the valley, and when we arrived at a chalet an hour and a half into the climb, hoping for a warming cup of something, they turned the “open” sign to “closed” and slammed shut the serving hatch. We headed on.

Now and then the clouds would part and we caught a glimpse of the Matterhorn, just enough so that we knew it was still there.

But we made it up to the hut for morning coffee and watched as the clouds rolled away and left the mountains clear. We stayed for an hour or more eating our lunch as the clouds rolled in and out, skies clearing and clouding, hanging on as long as we could in the cold clear sunshine.

And the way down? We stopped to take some photos, had beer o’clock in a café in Zmutt and were scrubbed up and ready to meet the guests for cocktails on the terrace at 5:30PM.

Day 4 – Cry me a river, originally uploaded by ronet.

On Tuesday we headed off to Lausanne to see a vicar about a certain wedding.

From the moment we arrived and she asked us what music we wanted for the service, it started. “We’ll walk in together to The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams,” we told her.

And I cried.

I always cry. I told her that too. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad.

I just cry.

So pretty much all the way through the discussions about readings, ring cushions and candles I cried. “I’ll cry my way through the service,” I warned her.

“I don’t expect you’ll be the only one,” she replied.

We left her and went off in search of lunch, a ring cushion, a candle and some photographs.

Down by the lake, where we grabbed a ham filled baguette and sat under the shade of a line of sycamore trees, there are boats and seagulls and sculptures.

And a huge C in the middle of the lake. Like it was telling my something.

Do you know what?

Of course you do – I cried.

The weather in the mountains is pretty predictable.
At some point there will be sun, at another there will be rain. And there will be thunder and lightening.

It’s all a question of when.

With the skies changing every moment, so did our plan for the first day. And when we ended up here in the pretty mountain village of Zmutt in a hanging valley an hour’s stride above Zermatt, all wild flower meadows, cows chewing the cud and cute wooden chalets, we took one look at the sky and decided to take a break.

We ordered beer and soup and the heavens opened, so we huddled closer under the sun umbrella and listened to the thunder rumbling somewhere overhead.

Then as we drained our glasses and mopped out the soup bowls with the last hunks of bread, just as abruptly as it arrived, the skies cleared and the sun came out. We picked up our rucksacks, heavy with all that camera gear, and strolled on savouring the smell of rain on pasture and sun sparkling on glistening roof tops.

We lived two years in France when we were both vegetarian – getting anything to eat was a challenge at the best of times. At motorway services it was almost impossible.

And even if you eat meat, if you indulge in a huge lunchtime meal when you’re on the road, it just means you’ll have to hang around the hotel getting bored instead of eating out in the evening.

You can sometimes get a cheese sandwich which is edible, just about, but the bread has the consistency of decaying foam (think old sofas with the stuffing hanging out and you’ll get the idea.)

But if stop at a petrol station with Croq’Malin sign, you’ll find fresh baguettes, creamy Camembert, ham and salami. Even tubs of carrottes rapées and celeriac remoulade if you’re that way inclined.

So this time, getting the food was a snap. Finding a picnic table where we could assemble our meal was a little tricky. (Note to self, try to bag a table by 12:30 or be prepared to wait until after 2pm).

But after a couple of tries we found the perfect spot and then all we had to do was construct our picnic, set up the camera and croq away to our hearts’ content.

After a journey that should have taken 4 hours but lasted twice as long we had to admit defeat and change our plans. So instead of taking Ron to Whitstable to share a fish and chip supper and a fistful of childhood memories, we checked straight into the hotel that we’d booked way in advance.

It was the first night of our wedding holiday but the bed was supposed to be a place to lay our heads, not the start of our honeymoon.

Funny the things that life throws at you.

I’m not saying it was worth the 1 1/2 hour queue to cross the Thames, but it was the perfect setting for a self-portrait before a pint and a pub meal.

I dumped my rucksack, attached Vlad to my tripod and set off, wading through the cotton grass, one eye on the lodge, calculating where would be the best place to set up my shot.  I was half way there when  just a footstep ahead something began to move, slithering  into view. An adder.

Even if I hadn’t yelled and jumped back, I’d never have got my camera to focus in time, let alone taken a light reading and set the aperture and shutter speed, so you’ll just have to go with me on this one.

But if you close one eye and engage your imagination maybe you’ll be able to see it sliding lazily behind a clump of cotton grass, heading off to find a grouse chick in the nest just out of shot to the right. You’ll have to look closely to see its zigzagged camouflage amongst the heather shoots. It’s out there all right – but as long as you don’t get too close, there’s no need to be afraid.

As to what’s inside the spooky lodge, I can’t tell you. I’d had enough excitement for one day.

Here’s my top 5:

Familiarity

Far from breeding contempt – it brings a sense of wonder to every walk I undertake.  Last year’s soggy tromp through peat sucked my at feet with every step and the water pooling on the surface meant that every yard was a complicated dance to avoid ending up  knee-deep in mud – it took me a while to work out that the stream snaking its way through the peat actually is the path. This year the ground is tinder dry and the surface is transformed into a giant trampoline that springs you forwards with each step. And everywhere the white fluffy heads of cotton grass nodding in the breeze.

Wildlife

There is always something, from the curious cows that stand firm and stare to the sensitive sheep that bleat and run away. Curlews crying out and circling above, their impossibly long curved bills silhouetted against the sky. Rabbits hopping away, a flash of white in a drab brown field. Mountain hares, sleek and white in winter, invisible until the snows melt. And the sound of the lark cruising skywards in crescendo.

Clouds

With all day to stare at the clouds, it’s impossible not to notice how fast they move across the sky. How the shadows fall like a curtain across the ground just as you’re ready to take that shot. They make you wait, make you watch before the curtain is swept aside and the view is bathed in light again.

The madding crowds

Even on the hottest day of the year in the Peak District it’s easy enough to get away from them and contemplate the landscape without the babble of chatter from the hiking clubs. And unless you’re really unlucky they pass you in a moment, which just makes you appreciate the regained serenity all the more. When they’ve moved on the sound of the wind rustling the long grass is still there, the skylark hovers above and sheep call across steeply sloped fields.

Smelly

I’m not talking about cattle, though sometimes it is all you can smell. But I’d like to draw your attention to the sweet smell of a hay meadow, the earthiness of a river in full flow, the spiciness of heather, the intoxicating citrus of elderflower. And though we haven’t experienced it for quite some time now, the fresh, clean smell of rain.

Here’s a gallery of the route where all the above can be found (though you might be lucky to spot them all in one trip). The Kinder horseshoe, not a toy found inside a chocolate egg, but an exhilarating 18 mile hike around the Kinder southern edges and the Great Ridge. And as it turned out, an immeasurably better alternative to staying at home and watching the World Cup.