My wife and I travel a lot--I was hiking in the Alps (S.Hrg.108-234)

I found it funny that on our trip to France, where TJ would run 40 miles using the power of his own feet, we had to take four different forms of motorized transport to get there. Because our flight left early in the morning, we couldn't use the Tube, which opens at 5 a.m., to get to the airport. So we took a bus to a train station, from which we rode to the terminal where we would board our plane to Geneva; upon arriving in Switzerland, we hopped on a minibus to get to downtown Chamonix, which lies at the base of Mont Blanc (left). The Arve River runs through the town (right), which attracts outdoorsy types of all kinds: climbers, skiers, and paragliders, to name a few.

We knew we had some walking ahead of us to get to our hostel, but we certainly didn't expect to be wandering around as much as we did. Based on the address from our booking, we headed toward the adjacent town of Les Praz (left). We wandered around the streets close to the town's central chapel based on the directions from our booking. But nothing got us to the right place, so a kind stranger looked up our place on her phone. Luckily, we were only a short walk away from the destination shown on her screen. However, we were too early for our prearranged check-in meeting, so we stopped for some beers at Hotel Eden, which had a good backdrop of Mont Blanc -- by eye and by telescope (right).

When the check-in time arrived, no one was to be found at our place -- or what we thought was our place. We decided to wait another hour and try again, in case there was some confusion about the time difference. Still no one was around, so we started hunting for help at nearby properties. We stumbled upon an unlocked room, which we thought might be ours, so we started charging our own phones in an attempt to contact the number listed on our booking. That cell number didn't work (because the owner was running in a 75-mile race at the time, as we later found out). As we continued to try to track down someone, the people staying in the room next door got spooked and called the owners of their place. 

The owners responded with shock yet sympathy when they found us trespassing on their property. Luckily, they knew the purveyors of our actual hostel, and we finally managed to make contact. We were so far off track that our host picked us up to drive us to Runner's Refuge. As it turns out, there are two properties named Runner's Refuge on two different streets of the same name. Despite all the runaround -- well, walkaround -- I preferred ours: a classic chalet rented out as a whole house during the winter skiing season but broken up hostel-style for the summer running season (left). Our room had a great view of the surrounding mountains and hot tub, which we unfortunately didn't have time to use (right).

 

We had to scramble off to find some supper for TJ, so he could get to bed at a reasonable time in order to get adequate rest before catching a 5 a.m. bus to his Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc race. Because of the series of five runs happening over the long weekend, every place was packed with race participants and fans, but we managed to get two pies from Pizzeria des Moulins before it started turning away customers because the chef suffered a severe burn (left). TJ didn't get as much sleep as he should have, but somehow he managed to get everything ready in time for the OCC (right).

The O in the race name stands for Orsieres, the sleepy little Swiss town where the race started. Everything in the town seem slow-paced, even the river bisecting the center right next to the main square (top left) and the woman cheering on the racers from her balcony (top right). But it definitely woke up and sped up when the runners streamed out of town along its narrow streets (bottom left). I was absolutely astounded that among the throngs I was able to spy TJ heading out (bottom right).

The first C in the race name stands for Champex, a Swiss ski resort. There was a rest stop in the town, but it was only 5 miles from the start, so even if I had rented a car, I would've been hard-pressed to beat TJ there, considering the winding uphill roads. Instead, I opted to follow TJ by way of the fan bus, whose first stop was in Trient. While I waited on the walls atop the hill of the Swiss town (top left), with a pretty pretty princess pink chapel behind me (top right), I took in views of the entire Trient Valley (bottom).

 

The town was at the 14-mile mark, so I had time to enjoy some apple cake and coffee as I watched the leaderboard from the concessions tent (left). I didn't linger there long, though, because I was worried I would miss TJ pass. As soon as the leaders came through, I settled into a good vantage point, where I could see him climb the stairs up to the rest stop (right).

Seven miles later, in another country, I found a perfect picnic table where I could eat my sausage and frites (top left) while keeping an eye on the precarious path down into Vallorcine, France (top right). It felt very strange not to have anything else to do but watch the runners come by. Usually, I crew TJ by trading out supplies along the way, but this race didn't allow any outside assistance besides that provided by the event, so all I could do was watch as he re-laced his shoes (bottom). I was even a little scared that giving him a good-luck kiss as he headed out for the final stretch would get him disqualified.

The final stretch was the longest. Not only were there 19 miles left, but TJ had to climb to La Flegere before descending to the finish line, which we had checked out the previous day (top). I could've tried to take a cable car to meet him at the top of his last ascent, but it was likely that the lift would stop running before I had a chance to get back down -- and I wasn't geared up for a steep downhill run. But I did, literally, run back to our hostel to pick up a bag of goodies with which to greet TJ at the end in Chamonix, the final C of the race (bottom left). After a few post-race snacks, I snapped a shot of TJ posing as a mountain guide at the Maison de la Montagne (bottom right). After all, he had conquered quite a few mountains that day.

To toast TJ's achievement, we headed to Micro Brasserie de Chamonix, so we could try some more of the microbrewery's offerings. After drinking the Blanche des Guides at the Hotel Eden the previous day, I decided it one of the best wheat beers I had ever had. The Biere du Inois amber ale at the hotel as well as the Plato Belgian blonde and Magnum IPA at the restaurant were equally delicious. We over-ordered two burgers, one beef and one lamb, along with a big bowl of poutine on the side, so we had to save half of the sandwiches (along with some leftover slices from our pizzeria meal) for the next day (left). To toast my encouragement, TJ graciously gave me the medallion from Chocolatier 4810, which the hostel gave us to make up for our trials and tribulations of finding the place. Oh, did I mention they didn't charge us for one night's stay? So really, I'd say we won this vacation all around -- and it was only half over.

In my own backyard of Brighton beach (141Cong.Rec.S13995)

After getting him some beer in Bermondsey, I made sure to get TJ the beach in Brighton. But after the two-hour train ride from London, it was nigh time to find some suds again. Straight down the hill from the train station, we fortunately found the Fortune of War pub, tucked under the seaside promenade (left). It's not much to look at from the outside, especially after a rainy morning, but the interior, decorated like an upside-down boat, was a cozy place to dry off (right).

By the time we got to the bottom of our pints, the clouds were clearing, opening the skies on the boardwalk seafood stands (top left). At one shack, TJ got a snack of anchovy-wrapped olives, whiled I munched on some shrimp and crab mayonnaise (salad). We didn't really need any more at the moment, but we couldn't pass up the smoked mackerel pate advertised on a sign outside Jack and Linda Mills Traditional Fish Smokers (top right). Luckily, by lunchtime, our stomachs were ready to receive classic fish and chips from Fish + Liquor. The haddock, cod, and potatoes were more than enough, but we couldn't resist ordering a Brighton sausage on the side (bottom).

The food was obviously a big draw for us, but most people come to the Southern English shore for its centerpiece, Brighton Pier (left). The deck is basically a carnival above the sea, packed with lots of salty and sweet treats on offer between two entertainment halls full of games for kids and adults alike. I watched some grown-ups play multi-puck air hockey while TJ tried out the slots (right).

At the end of the pier is a small amusement park, the main feature of which is the Crazy Mouse, a small-car roller coaster (left). There is a traditional ferris wheel for kids on the pier, but it is puny compared to the Brighton Wheel back on the beach (right). TJ and I didn't go on any rides; instead, we got our thrills by people-watching from the beer-garden deck at Horatio's Bar.

I'll admit that the water was warmer than I thought it would be, but that couldn't make up for the chilly wind you faced upon exiting the waves (left). So I was quite content taking in the sun -- and some champagne-ginger gelato -- from the shore, but TJ braved the waters of Brighton beach just below the pier (right).

As the sun went down, and it started to be time to think about catching a return train, we wandered through The Lanes on the way back to the station (left). The narrow alleyways opened up to the vast grandeur of the Royal Pavilion, King George IV's seaside pleasure palace (right).

A banjo-playing busker in the park out front didn't seem to match the style of the palace spires (left). But even more out of place to me was the production currently showing at the city's Theatre Royal: a stage adaptation of the famous movie filmed in my hometown, The Shawshank Redemption (right).

We didn't have time to take in a show, but we did have time for one more pint before boarding the train. We headed first to the oldest pub in Brighton: The Cricketers, where Jack the Ripper allegedly once spent the night (left). It was quaint but a bit cramped, so we headed next door to the back-yard garden of the Black Lion (right), where TJ could take in some last breaths of salty air before heading back to his land-locked home.

Six much smaller parcels located nearby (10-11555-Brewery Park Associates)

Two criteria that make a good vacation for TJ are beer and a beach, so when he came to visit me in London, I tried my best to get him to both. In terms of beer, the ultimate destination in London is Bermondsey, home to the Beer Mile, a collection six microbreweries and two beer outlets within walking distance. (With no sand in sight, the beach would have to come later.)

We started our tour on foot at Kernel Brewery, whose Mosaic beer I had added to my top 10 of all time after a try on a previous outing (left). The brewery, whose offerings have become so popular that they will soon close their cramped tap room, bases -- and names -- all of its beers on hop combinations. Sure, they're a bit beer snobby -- the note says, "Please do not put average beers that no one will drink in this fridge" -- but they appreciate Virginia's own Mad Fox Brewing Co., so they can't be all bad (right). And seriously, the beer isn't bad either.

Kernel is known for its plain, brown-paper labels, a simplicity that is a far cry from Fourpure Brewing Co., which had a high-tech computerized screen showing the availability of its beers, including the amount left in each barrel (left). Among the choices on tap was the summer ale I won for completing a scavenger hut during the London City Beer Festival. The only seating is outside, so we sought some shade among the industrial buildings to enjoy our beers with some mac and cheese from the food stand beside the garage (right).

 

Partizan Brewing is situated in an even smaller space; like many London microbreweries, it has retrofitted a former warehouse railway arch (left). But it has kept the same industrial touches. We leaned against a stack of wooden pallets as we sampled some beer (right). I had their Rasperry Lemon Saison at the London Brewers' Market, so I went with a non-fruity option, a straight-up pale ale.

 

By the third brewery, the lines were getting long, which made the name of Brew by Numbers particularly apt. The numbers on the chalkboard didn't refer to the quantity of customers, however; each BBN beer is given a four-digit name, with two digits each based on the style and recipe of the beer (left). Another unique number at the brewery was the pounds paid for the deposit on the peculiarly shaped glasses, which I can imagine go missing quite often (right).

By the time we got to Anspach & Hobday, the crowds seemed to be thinning out, maybe because the Saturday Druid Street market was shutting down (left). TJ managed to bag some Asian dumplings from one of the closing stands, while I snagged two beers and seats on the sidewalk. I was excited for this stop because A&H had put up a solid series of beers at a tasting I attended previously, but TJ was more interested in the decaying Marquis of Wellington across the street, where more daring drinkers than we were co-opting the picnic tables left among its weeds (right). (If you read the comments in the link, you'll get a good sense of why the pub is now shuttered.)

It seems we might've walked the mile backwards, as the last stop, at Southwark Brewing Co., was the least inventive (left). The beers weren't bad, but they came off as basic compared to the other flavors of the day. Luckily, we were able to revive our tastebuds with a spicy and delicious dinner at Ma Goa, where TJ found another form of grain he had been craving: roti (right).

A few weeks later, with TJ again exiled from London, I headed to another locale with barrels of booze within walking distance, the Green Man's Courtyard Welsh ale and cider festival (left). The festival was tucked away behind King's Cross train station, but the gastropub sponsor kindly built an actual "green man" to direct the way (right). 

 

I went on the the last day of the festival, so some of the selections were already spent, but even with the remaining choices, I had trouble deciding. So I started with a brewery I had stumbled across when I was planning a trip to Wales for TJ and me (We ended up not being able to take the trip, but hopefully, we will in the future). Brecon Brewing's Orange Beacons wheat saison didn't taste much like citrus, but it was still a refreshing choice for a sunny September afternoon (left). Indeed, there was a bit of an Oktoberfest feel on the benches as I tried third-pints of Pixie Spring Brewing's Devilfish Ink black IPA, Cwrw Ial Community Brewing Co.'s The Volunteer English bitter, Tudor Brewing's Skirrid traditional Welsh ale, and the Williams Brothers' Splanky medium cider (right).

 

My sixth and final choice, to make for two full pints in total, was inspired by the powerful lead singer of the first musical act of the day. The namesake of Rozi Plain had the voice -- and fringe -- of Jenny Lewis (left), while the band had the instrumentation of Bright Eyes, including a saxophone, and I am always a sucker for brass. I honored another strong woman by sampling Glamorgan Brewing Co.'s Jemima's Pitchfork, named after Jemima Nicholas, who captured 12 drunk French soldiers with only a pitchfork during the 1797 Battle of Fishguard, often called the "last invasion of Britain." The second act of the day was led by a man, Wesley Gonzalez, formerly part of the band Let's Wrestle but now performing "with guests." His opening song, "I am a Telescope," sounded like a mix between Belle and Sebastian, with no girl vocals, and They Might Be Giants, with more punk notes (right).