Mountain too high

Apologies for the gaps between reports recently, but I'm in a wild country; a mysterious forgotten world of dial-up modems and powercuts.

Now I've finally got onto the internet I've been greeted by some more bad news from home. An old school friend of mine, Andy Hindle, collapsed and died for no apparent reason on Thursday. He was a sporting chap, in every sense of the word, who loved life and was a devoted father to his two children. He had recently been made deputy head of a school in his native Worcestershire, and was he last person who could ever deserve such an early departure from this world. He was fit, healthy and had no particular vices. I'll never forget his amazing dry sense of humour - he had the rare gift of being able to cut like a knife without being cruel. He was always brilliant with kids and it's so sad to think that his own will miss out on growing up with such a great dad. Rest in peace, mate.

I also heard that my great friend James' mother has succumbed to the cancer that she has bourne with such bravery and dignity for the past few months. She was a lovely lady, and along with all of her family, the way she faced up to her terrible challenge was nothing short of inspirational.

I'm writing this entry on the island of Ometepe in the middle of Lago de Nicaragua - and it is every bit as tropically exotic as it sounds. But back to where I left off in the Great Sultan, Grenada . . .

Sarah, Lydia and I decided that although it was a lovely picturesque city, we had had enough of colonial gems with Leon, so we headed off to San Juan de Sur on the Pacific coast. This is a lovely little seaside place (it reminded me of Cornwall a bit) with a wide sandy beach and pleasantly delapidated boarding houses. The only scar on the landscape was a cliff to the left of the town that was being scooped by a fleet of diggers. We were told that the Japanese were preparing a base for their drift-net fishermen, who plan to drag up everything living under the waves along this coast. At the moment it's famous for its marine diversity, so if our information was correct this represents a real global tragedy in the making.

We were told about these naughty Japs by a Canadian bloke we met and spent the evening with called Ralph. On the face of it he should be one of the coolest blokes alive - he owns ski resorts in the Rocky Mountains and uses helicopters to give people the ultimate off-piste experience. But, somehow, he wasn't at all cool - he seemed a bit lonely and lost, so we invited him to come along with us to our next port of call, a remote beachside village Majagual. This is a little traveller hang-out with a bar, dormitories and places to sling hammocks in front of pristine white sand. We had decided to go there on the advice of Jeremy and Alex (the Canadians from Leon) who told us we would see phosphorising algae.

We did, and it was quite amazing. After dark we had a moonlit swim, and as you disturbed the water it would glow and sparkle like stars all around you. But better was to come when we walked back along the beach and discovered our footprints were glowing brightly beneath us. We spent a happy couple of hours doing Tina Turner dances up and down the beach leaving a bright trail in our wake. Moonwalking didn't work so well, we discovered. As we were doing this an American lad came up and said "awesome", before informing us that they were much better in Thailand and then going off to listen to a half-witted compatriot with a bongo. It's strange with young North Americans - everything can be awesome, from scrambled eggs to painted fingernails, but when they actually see something capable of inspiring awe they don't seem to be very interested.

The next morning Sarah and I both woke up early and went for a walk around the bay. She told me that in the middle of the night Ralph had arrived steaming drunk at the hammocks and started shouting at us all to get up and join the party. I slept through it all even though, apparently, he was shaking me and shouting and shouting in my face: "C'mon, get up, you're missing the party man. Hic. It's - hic - awesome". I had no idea. The walk was lovely and we were lucky to see a family of howler monkeys at very close quarters. We could even make out how the male inflated his neck with hacking sounds before unleashing his hellish roars. There was also a couple of babies gingerly feeling their ways through the trees. Another lovely moment was finding a dozen or so tiny fish who had somehow got washed up on the beach. It felt nice to scoop them all up and return them to the sea - even though in their dazed state they would probably be easy game for bigger fish.

Despite being drunk Ralph had also managed to surface and was determined to come with us, but the girl's experience of the night before meant that they had no desire to have him along. Somehow, without words, they made this plain. The last time I saw Ralph he was standing on the side of the road looking all forlorn with his surfboard saying: "I'd've loved to have come along with you guys. But I guess I was a bit of a jerk last night. I just don't want to go to Ometepe by myself. I'm such a jerk." I felt sorry for him, but he was one of these ultra-competitive types who can't hear anything you say without trumping it with something from his own experience. Like the lad who'd seen better phosphorising algae in Thailand.

The journey to our destination in Ometepe involved four bus journeys, one taxi trip and a boat ride, but it all went very smoothly. We're staying in the Finca Magdalena - 'finca' being 'farm' and 'Magdalena' being the Son of God's bit on the side. It's a lovely spot, a working farm with big rambling buildings surrounded by well-kept gardens - complete with humming birds. It's also the starting point for trips up the Volcan Maderas, the lower of the two volcanoes at more than 4,573ft.

Foolishly, as it turned out, the girls and I decided to sign up for the next day.

I had expected a leisurely climb, with frequent stops to admire the abundant flora and fauna that abounds in the luxuriant rain forest. I imagined that upon surmounting the crest I would find myself looking down at an emerald blue lake full of cool water with shaded spots for a picnic. Well, there was a rainforest full of plants and creatures, and there was a crater with a lake - but there was also a silent guide who obviously wanted us up there and back as soon as possible so he could get home in time for lunch. Things weren't helped by the fact that the other people in our group were a pair of Swiss blokes determined to prove to the guide that when it came to running up mountains nobody could outdo the sons of the Alps. It was rather unpleasant at first, until, by unspoken rebellion, we started taking the climb at our own pace - leaving the guide and the cuckoo-clock-making-cheese-heads to stand around tutting as we caught up. Our rate of progress wasn't helped by the fact that the girls only had strappy sandals and I had no footwear at all - I didn't even try to use my flip-flops. This became a particular problem when we reached the level of cloud cover and the rough and rocky path became a quagmire of volcanic mud, which was about the colour and consistency of baby vomit. I don't want to relive the details - but it was a four-hour climb up and a four hour slip and slide back down. The lake itself was shrouded by mist, so you could only see the edge of the water. Because of the low temperature you could easily imagine yourself on the side of any Welsh river in the middle of March. Except at least there you would only be a gentle stroll away from a pub. And it's true what they say about walking downhill being more difficult than walking uphill. It's particularly true when you have cut and bruised feet and are trying to make your way down a 45-degree slope of baby vomit concealing sharp rocks and spikey twigs. The day was so arduous that when we made it back I cracked open the hipflask of Sloe Gin that I'd been saving for the Inca Trail and the three of us, all battered and bruised and aching, toasted our survival.