Iceland introduced extra variables. Isolation, conflicting information about driving conditions and fatigue from long drives on dirt roads pervaded most of an otherwise varied and scenic living geography lesson with a fear of unknowns.  In particular the feeling of insignificance inspired by Dettifoss and the Vatnajokull ice cap out wash all but overwhelmed me.  On a more positive note, apart from whilst driving down one particularly steep hill, panic attacks were conspicuously absent.  I realised that the trick was achieving a balance with being brave.  Pushing boundaries without putting the whole trip in jeopardy by expecting to deal with too many new things all at once.

Winter Wonderland (Easter 1987 & 89)
Norway remained number one destination, a winter wonderland for Easter 1987 and 1989.  Even a white out experienced while crossing a frozen lakebed near Geilo failed to fill me with any real fear (though the danger was probably more immediate than any experienced in the air).  The old exhilaration began to return and, compared with my initial foray, I was relatively untroubled by a return visit to Austria in March 1988.

Amid my own tumultuous laughter I tumbled into snowdrifts at every turn of the langlauf tracks around the charming village of St Michael in Lungau.  Instead of worrying about locals looking down their noses we Brits revelled in being the only people to eat sandwich lunches beside ski runs.

Wild & Windswept (Summer 1987)
In the throws of moving house, Scotland seemed like a safe bet for a trip closer to home although the outer islands can be almost as alien as some foreign destinations.  However hopping the between the Hebrides by Calmac ferry from Oban to Stornoway via Barra, North and South Uist, Lewis and Harris held no fear.  To camping, sometimes wild, in a desolate and windswept wilderness, I adjusted well.  In fact I loved the peace and tranquillity of the expansive seascapes although I imagine that, for some, isolation could easily be an issue.

"You Can't Possibly Be The Nervous Passenger!" (Sept. 1988)
Sampling Switzerland for the first time the four stage, half hour, cable car ascent of the Schilthorn (9744 ft) freaked me far more than the flight.  Slender cables strung across a yawning void between rock pinnacles seemed singularly more suicidal than a substantial aircraft.  Trains rarely trouble me and Swiss rail services are superb in every way but I nonetheless experienced some claustrophobia as the tiny train racked its way slowly up through the tunnels inside the north wall of the Eiger.

Standing on the spine of Europe while madmen supported only by flimsy paragliders launched themselves into the void destination Interlaken some eleven thousand feet below I swayed in response to the old "vertigo".  My unsteady legs might give way and topple me over the edge or the mountain might crumble carrying me in its wake.  Steadied by a seat with a substantial back the fabulous glacial vista sparkling under a cotton wool clad blue sky refocused my attention back to the intrinsic magic of the mountains.  Tension between fear and fascination, that far too familiar conflict.