Thursday July 29th.
Only a third of our trip left and so much to process in my mind. Hopefully this blog will provide signposts for me when I can look back and find out, as Bacharach and David said "what's it all about, Alfie?"
We’re incredibly tired and spend most of the day dozing….. Back to the bedroom every couple of hours. Perhaps it’s the driving - or the disappointment. Or maybe we’re depressed that the money is running out at an alarming rate. I thought we had plenty, but Barcelona is very expensive and our 3 day trip ended up costing almost 700 euros instead of the 400 I budgeted for. My worst fear is that we will have no money left for Paris - and there’s still another week here and the journey by road to Paris with a stopover to be paid for. No matter how carefully you budget, things always cost more.
We manage a trip to the supermarket between sleeps and stock up on essentials, but mostly we are content to spend the time between the terrace and the bedroom and we don’t fight sleep when it comes. I seem to have been bitten alive in Barcelona by midges or mosquitos…I’m not sure which. But right now I don’t care. Even the flies dive-bombing us doesn’t raise much of a reaction. We are silent together - but it’s a good silence. We need to be alone with each other. The weather is cooler since our return and we take turns spooning each other as we sleep. A nothing day really - but one that is much needed. There’s a very light shower in the afternoon and the earth smells sweet and musty.
The sunflowers have been harvested while we were away and are the fields are now just golden stubble. The harvest is early, because of the intense heat, so the cooler weather is welcomed by all.
In the evening we curl up on the couch and watch the athletics. Christophe Lemaitre is the darling of France and the games. He’s only 20, looks like Jude law, and is the second fastest sprinter on earth at the moment. Tony says he has up to 7 years left as a sprinter. Obviously, when Bolt retires, he will be the natural successor. If I were his agent I would get him into acting school NOW!!! He’s a huge star in the making.
It’s pouring with rain in Barcelona….bucketing down, and we can’t help but feel smug here in France. By 10pm we are ready to sleep AGAIN. But each day now I am more conscious of missing family (especially Allie) and my furkids back home.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
44/23 The Long and Winding Road
Wednesday 28th July
“Happiness is Barcelona in a rear view mirror.” So says Tony as we drive off the next morning. Whilst I was pretty non-commital about Barcelona, Tony openly disliked it. We programme the GPS for France and take off. Fussy Felicity has no way of knowing of course which roadworks will tie us up, or what streets are closed for markets, so we drive around in circles for over an hour before hitting the toll road, which actually starts just a hundred metres or so up the road from where we were staying!
A friend told me of a place he visited many years ago, and suggested we had to see it. At the northern end of the Costa Brava, peaceful and serene Cadaques was once home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. I looked it up months ago on the net and the little promenade was bursting with ambiance, the sand was pale gold and the Mediterranean a rich blue in all the photos. So that is where we are heading. I love the water, love to swim and here I’ve been in a European summer for 6 weeks without a swim. I have my swimsuit on under my skirt and blouse…..lead me to the sea!
When we leave the tollway the route becomes frightening, across mountains via narrow winding roads. There’s a crisscross pattern of old stone walls and tiny abandoned stone huts all across the mountainsides, as though some ancient civilisation has left behind its calling card - or maybe it’s just the local shepherds.
The winding road seems endless but suddenly there is the Mediterranean below us and I can see Cadaques….. All whitewashed buildings with clay roofs. It’s like a dream.
But dreams turn into nightmares quite quickly on this adventure. When we descend the mountain to go into the town, we are trapped in a terrible traffic jam. There are police trying to ease the congestion by directing everyone to a large and garish carpark. I can’t see the promenade or the beach at all. And I never will! This time it’s me who suggests we give up. Hiding our disappointment we find a place to turn the car and brave the halted traffic and polizei and we beat a quick retreat.
Instead of a swim and lunch in Shangrila - we buy a loaf of bread and stuff it with what is left of our cheese and charcuterie - but it’s hard to swallow with a lump in your throat.
It seems that everything that man does in the name of progress leads to the destruction of something that was simple and beautiful. Cadaques was once an idyllic spot - now it is simply a tourist Mecca that you have to queue to even reach. Whatever it was 30 years ago is gone - and will never come again.
We feel an overwhelming sense of relief when we finally cross the border back into France and instantly we relax again. We’re going home. The old farmhouse welcomes us as if it’s truly glad we’re back; there’s a light breeze to temper the late afternoon sun and, tired from the drive and disappointed with the trip, we find smoked salmon and melba toast and make a kir with cassis. The TV has the opening of the European athletics championships in Barcelona so we watch until we really need to lie down and sleep. Barcelona looks spectacular. Were we actually in the same city? So much of our perception depends on our state of mind.
“Happiness is Barcelona in a rear view mirror.” So says Tony as we drive off the next morning. Whilst I was pretty non-commital about Barcelona, Tony openly disliked it. We programme the GPS for France and take off. Fussy Felicity has no way of knowing of course which roadworks will tie us up, or what streets are closed for markets, so we drive around in circles for over an hour before hitting the toll road, which actually starts just a hundred metres or so up the road from where we were staying!
A friend told me of a place he visited many years ago, and suggested we had to see it. At the northern end of the Costa Brava, peaceful and serene Cadaques was once home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. I looked it up months ago on the net and the little promenade was bursting with ambiance, the sand was pale gold and the Mediterranean a rich blue in all the photos. So that is where we are heading. I love the water, love to swim and here I’ve been in a European summer for 6 weeks without a swim. I have my swimsuit on under my skirt and blouse…..lead me to the sea!
When we leave the tollway the route becomes frightening, across mountains via narrow winding roads. There’s a crisscross pattern of old stone walls and tiny abandoned stone huts all across the mountainsides, as though some ancient civilisation has left behind its calling card - or maybe it’s just the local shepherds.
The winding road seems endless but suddenly there is the Mediterranean below us and I can see Cadaques….. All whitewashed buildings with clay roofs. It’s like a dream.
But dreams turn into nightmares quite quickly on this adventure. When we descend the mountain to go into the town, we are trapped in a terrible traffic jam. There are police trying to ease the congestion by directing everyone to a large and garish carpark. I can’t see the promenade or the beach at all. And I never will! This time it’s me who suggests we give up. Hiding our disappointment we find a place to turn the car and brave the halted traffic and polizei and we beat a quick retreat.
Instead of a swim and lunch in Shangrila - we buy a loaf of bread and stuff it with what is left of our cheese and charcuterie - but it’s hard to swallow with a lump in your throat.
It seems that everything that man does in the name of progress leads to the destruction of something that was simple and beautiful. Cadaques was once an idyllic spot - now it is simply a tourist Mecca that you have to queue to even reach. Whatever it was 30 years ago is gone - and will never come again.
We feel an overwhelming sense of relief when we finally cross the border back into France and instantly we relax again. We’re going home. The old farmhouse welcomes us as if it’s truly glad we’re back; there’s a light breeze to temper the late afternoon sun and, tired from the drive and disappointed with the trip, we find smoked salmon and melba toast and make a kir with cassis. The TV has the opening of the European athletics championships in Barcelona so we watch until we really need to lie down and sleep. Barcelona looks spectacular. Were we actually in the same city? So much of our perception depends on our state of mind.
43/24. If it's Tuesday it's Spain.
Tuesday July 27th.
But I don’t! - sleep well, that is. Throughout the night I am awoken by the clattering of something falling on the floor. Not once, but FIVE times. It turns out it is the bed falling apart! No….really. It’s one of those Ikea type jobs that has a lengthways central batten that the wood slats slot into. If two people move to the middle of the bed the batten flexes….and the slats drop out! We look under the bed and see all the slats and realise we’ve been sleeping on half a bed! It takes us about an hour to completely fix it.
Anne knocks early to say that she and Eric are going to take the same bus and go to the Gaudi garden….it’s a must see for everyone ( unless you’re in a wheel chair or have a bad hip/knee - there are literally hundreds of steps). We arrange to meet at lunchtime and then take the second route of the tourist bus in the afternoon.
We potter for a while and, since the bus changeover point doesn’t look that far on a map, I suggest we walk it. It’s midday in Barcelona heat and I am wearing Crocs! And the bus point is a little over FIVE KMS ( around 3 miles for those of you on the old system). I’m certain I won’t make it, or I’ll die of a heart attack , or the heat, or both! But somehow I do and it gives us a chance to have a closer look at Gaudi-land.
Tony wittily, but quite cruelly, describes Gaudi as a frustrated wedding cake decorator and there’s an element of truth in the tag. What’s fascinating is that his buildings and designs are all curves….there isn’t a corner or a sharp angle amongst them. They are hauntingly bizarre and beautiful - or ugly - it’s hard to say which - but certainly outside the realm of anything seen before or since. Gaudi inspired many others and the whole Modernista movement has given Catalania a claim to fame it might otherwise never have known. I don’t take pictures…… every one of the Modernista buildings has been photographed from every angle and there seems little point in me making inferior copies. Tony hates the mosaics but concedes it’s one way to recycle broken teapots. He’s a very simple man in some ways. Simple….and sarcastic J
None of us has been very specific about where we are meeting and I’m suffering from blistered feet and dehydration plus some aching muscles. I haven’t walked that far in one hit since our last trip to Europe five years ago. We stop about halfway and have a cold beer at a little bar called the Re:Public house. We like the clever name, and the owner - a young Brit from Birmingham, chats to us about his eleven years in Spain and the economic state of the country. To see the way people are spending money it’s hard to believe the predictions that Spain will be the next country to declare bankruptcy. I find I can manage about 20 words of Spanish….which is about 15 more than I thought I knew. Tony asks me why the Spaniards look confused when he greets them with “Cameron Diaz” and it cracks me up!
There seem to be no flies in Barcelona - but the Bourdiquet flies have sent messengers ahead to brief the mosquitos and midges who have clearly fasted before our arrival so they feast on peaches and cream! With the red bites all over me I look like the winner of the polka dot jersey in the tour de France.
When we finally find E&A we have a hurried sandwich for lunch, climb on board the tour bus and make our way upstairs to the open top deck and the blistering sun. This tour takes in the south of the city and is even longer than yesterday’s - 3 hours. Within an hour I am burnt….even my scalp is on fire.
Barcelona is a beautiful city made up of many different styles, though almost all of its distant medieval past has been eradicated in the name of progress. It has wide boulevards and public squares and churches galore - much older and less threatening than the Sagrada Famiglia. It still basks in the glory of the 92 Olympics and it hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to be yet. But places either speak to you or they don’t - and you know it instantly. Barcelona doesn’t speak to us - it doesn’t want to know us and couldn’t give a toss if we stay or go. We look at the buildings and fountains, the old palace and the remnants of the Olympics without ever being emotionally engaged. There are no “oohs” and “aaahs” or wishes to come back here and spend more time. We’re observers, nothing more. It simply isn’t “our” place….not like Paris.
Anne and Eric get off at some gardens to ride a cable car to the top of a mountain with an old castle on it. We beg off and stay on the bus down to the Port Vell and Christopher Columbus territory. I hadn’t realised that Barcelona has 5 kms of beach on the bay - not unlike St Kilda….no, really! The downtown part is more interesting and I wish we were going back to La Rambla and the Gothic quarter tonight - my mother was part Spanish gypsy and maybe that is what is calling me. Instead we have a last dinner with Anne and Eric. They’re leaving early in the morning for Canada via Geneva. Anne says she finds Barcelona overwhelming - just too much to take in. Maybe that’s the problem for us - yet some part of me feels I have taken in all I want to. We find a nice place for dinner and the paella is good…but still no churros. Perhaps I’ll have to wait until we get back to Melbourne. We say our goodbyes and, despite them being good company, we are glad we will be on our own on the way back. We are in desperate need of together time.
But I don’t! - sleep well, that is. Throughout the night I am awoken by the clattering of something falling on the floor. Not once, but FIVE times. It turns out it is the bed falling apart! No….really. It’s one of those Ikea type jobs that has a lengthways central batten that the wood slats slot into. If two people move to the middle of the bed the batten flexes….and the slats drop out! We look under the bed and see all the slats and realise we’ve been sleeping on half a bed! It takes us about an hour to completely fix it.
Anne knocks early to say that she and Eric are going to take the same bus and go to the Gaudi garden….it’s a must see for everyone ( unless you’re in a wheel chair or have a bad hip/knee - there are literally hundreds of steps). We arrange to meet at lunchtime and then take the second route of the tourist bus in the afternoon.
We potter for a while and, since the bus changeover point doesn’t look that far on a map, I suggest we walk it. It’s midday in Barcelona heat and I am wearing Crocs! And the bus point is a little over FIVE KMS ( around 3 miles for those of you on the old system). I’m certain I won’t make it, or I’ll die of a heart attack , or the heat, or both! But somehow I do and it gives us a chance to have a closer look at Gaudi-land.
Tony wittily, but quite cruelly, describes Gaudi as a frustrated wedding cake decorator and there’s an element of truth in the tag. What’s fascinating is that his buildings and designs are all curves….there isn’t a corner or a sharp angle amongst them. They are hauntingly bizarre and beautiful - or ugly - it’s hard to say which - but certainly outside the realm of anything seen before or since. Gaudi inspired many others and the whole Modernista movement has given Catalania a claim to fame it might otherwise never have known. I don’t take pictures…… every one of the Modernista buildings has been photographed from every angle and there seems little point in me making inferior copies. Tony hates the mosaics but concedes it’s one way to recycle broken teapots. He’s a very simple man in some ways. Simple….and sarcastic J
None of us has been very specific about where we are meeting and I’m suffering from blistered feet and dehydration plus some aching muscles. I haven’t walked that far in one hit since our last trip to Europe five years ago. We stop about halfway and have a cold beer at a little bar called the Re:Public house. We like the clever name, and the owner - a young Brit from Birmingham, chats to us about his eleven years in Spain and the economic state of the country. To see the way people are spending money it’s hard to believe the predictions that Spain will be the next country to declare bankruptcy. I find I can manage about 20 words of Spanish….which is about 15 more than I thought I knew. Tony asks me why the Spaniards look confused when he greets them with “Cameron Diaz” and it cracks me up!
There seem to be no flies in Barcelona - but the Bourdiquet flies have sent messengers ahead to brief the mosquitos and midges who have clearly fasted before our arrival so they feast on peaches and cream! With the red bites all over me I look like the winner of the polka dot jersey in the tour de France.
When we finally find E&A we have a hurried sandwich for lunch, climb on board the tour bus and make our way upstairs to the open top deck and the blistering sun. This tour takes in the south of the city and is even longer than yesterday’s - 3 hours. Within an hour I am burnt….even my scalp is on fire.
Barcelona is a beautiful city made up of many different styles, though almost all of its distant medieval past has been eradicated in the name of progress. It has wide boulevards and public squares and churches galore - much older and less threatening than the Sagrada Famiglia. It still basks in the glory of the 92 Olympics and it hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to be yet. But places either speak to you or they don’t - and you know it instantly. Barcelona doesn’t speak to us - it doesn’t want to know us and couldn’t give a toss if we stay or go. We look at the buildings and fountains, the old palace and the remnants of the Olympics without ever being emotionally engaged. There are no “oohs” and “aaahs” or wishes to come back here and spend more time. We’re observers, nothing more. It simply isn’t “our” place….not like Paris.
Anne and Eric get off at some gardens to ride a cable car to the top of a mountain with an old castle on it. We beg off and stay on the bus down to the Port Vell and Christopher Columbus territory. I hadn’t realised that Barcelona has 5 kms of beach on the bay - not unlike St Kilda….no, really! The downtown part is more interesting and I wish we were going back to La Rambla and the Gothic quarter tonight - my mother was part Spanish gypsy and maybe that is what is calling me. Instead we have a last dinner with Anne and Eric. They’re leaving early in the morning for Canada via Geneva. Anne says she finds Barcelona overwhelming - just too much to take in. Maybe that’s the problem for us - yet some part of me feels I have taken in all I want to. We find a nice place for dinner and the paella is good…but still no churros. Perhaps I’ll have to wait until we get back to Melbourne. We say our goodbyes and, despite them being good company, we are glad we will be on our own on the way back. We are in desperate need of together time.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
42/25 - Barf a Loner!
Monday July 26th.
The problem with my anger is that I can never sustain it. When it’s done it’s done and as far as I am concerned we just move on ( and tend to the wounded.) So I am quite surprised to find I am still in a mood this morning. Most unlike me. Maybe it’s the strain of never having a minute alone with my husband. This morning Tony gets a text that Philly….my youngest stepdaughter, is flying to Rome and will then join us in Provence. It will be wonderful to see her but bang goes our last few days in Provence, and she will probably come to Paris with us. C’est la vie. It is what it is. Adapt!
Tony and I are not really the “see the sights and snap pictures from the top of a tour bus” type but with limited time we opt to accompany Anne and Eric and do just that. Somehow I swallowed my better judgement...which hasn't been too great of late .... and convinced myself it would be FUN! The fellers buy fresh bread and I make crusty rolls with the charcuterie we brought with us. Eric makes his and Anne’s as they are bit fussier than us about food. So it’s off to get the Barcelona city tour bus and sit on the open top deck in scorching heat. The tour takes 2hours and there's plenty to see, but we don't get off at any of the stops....even though you can hop back on the next bus....and there's ALWAYS a next bus. We stay on and we sit through another half hour repeat to get off and go to Mount Tibidabo, where we plan to have lunch. Except I am starving and my blood sugars are falling - and Anne is already eating her roll. Why? Because she’s hungry of course! But Tony doesn’t want me to eat mine because it will spoil the picnic! I eat it anyway and by the time we get off at Tibidabo Im VERY EDGY!!!!! Hissy fit approaching at the speed of light. I need a cold drink and a bathroom and at least there’s a little square with an open air café and some public toilets which I point out to Tony. But he has set his mind on a café across the road and steers me in that direction. And then I lose it! I am NOT going to be taken somplace else where I don't want to go. Like a hild I tell them to go without me as I don't want to be anywhere near my controlling husband right now. All of them....Tony especially, are shocked and taken aback. Not pleasant…but it has been a while coming. I storm off to the park, Tony storms off to the flat, taking Eric’s lunch with him and poor Anne and Eric are caught in the middle of a nasty domestic.
I sit for half an hour in the park and compose myself and drink a lemon Granita to get my sugars up. Then I go on the little blue tram which has run for over 100 years and join Anne and Eric halfway up the mountain where we take the Furnicular to the top. They’re embarrassed and annoyed….rightly so. When I see at the top that there are hundreds of steps up to the church, I give up and take the furnicular back down and catch the next Barcelona tour bus. I’m tired…half eaten by mozzies, and sunburnt! It’s a fair walk from the bus-stop and I just want to collapse and rest. But I don’t have a key to the flat and I hammer and bang for 20 minutes before Tony wakes up and lets me in. We talk about what happened and I explain why, to me, this trip of a lifetime is rapidly turning to crap. Neither of us wants that. We love each other and we’re usually so in sync with each other. But when we are out of sync….we are WAAAAAAAAAAAY out of sync. But at least we talk, and we’re honest, and there’s no name calling or nasties. I nap for an hour and Anne and Eric still aren’t back. So we shower and dress and head for La Rambla and the Gothic area.
And guess what? That’s where Spain has been hiding all the time! Yjis is more our scene....we're mixing it with the people...not observing it from afar. We watch some great Flamenco - have food in a sports bar and then head downstairs to a GREAT jazz cellar with an awesome band called……wait for it….”What The Fuck?” very appropriate given the last few days. Great line-up, fine musicians and a terrific drummer - the best we’ve seen in many a long year. We walk hand in hand across the Placa Reial and savour the joy of just being alone together. It’s been a great night and my faith in both Spain and my husband has been restored. When we get home we discover Eric has finally found Churros ( Churros bars are plentiful in Australia - but it’s hard to find them in Barcelona) and has left them in a bag hanging on our door. Yummy - but lousy for my sugars. Still, I’ll sleep well tonight.
The problem with my anger is that I can never sustain it. When it’s done it’s done and as far as I am concerned we just move on ( and tend to the wounded.) So I am quite surprised to find I am still in a mood this morning. Most unlike me. Maybe it’s the strain of never having a minute alone with my husband. This morning Tony gets a text that Philly….my youngest stepdaughter, is flying to Rome and will then join us in Provence. It will be wonderful to see her but bang goes our last few days in Provence, and she will probably come to Paris with us. C’est la vie. It is what it is. Adapt!
Tony and I are not really the “see the sights and snap pictures from the top of a tour bus” type but with limited time we opt to accompany Anne and Eric and do just that. Somehow I swallowed my better judgement...which hasn't been too great of late .... and convinced myself it would be FUN! The fellers buy fresh bread and I make crusty rolls with the charcuterie we brought with us. Eric makes his and Anne’s as they are bit fussier than us about food. So it’s off to get the Barcelona city tour bus and sit on the open top deck in scorching heat. The tour takes 2hours and there's plenty to see, but we don't get off at any of the stops....even though you can hop back on the next bus....and there's ALWAYS a next bus. We stay on and we sit through another half hour repeat to get off and go to Mount Tibidabo, where we plan to have lunch. Except I am starving and my blood sugars are falling - and Anne is already eating her roll. Why? Because she’s hungry of course! But Tony doesn’t want me to eat mine because it will spoil the picnic! I eat it anyway and by the time we get off at Tibidabo Im VERY EDGY!!!!! Hissy fit approaching at the speed of light. I need a cold drink and a bathroom and at least there’s a little square with an open air café and some public toilets which I point out to Tony. But he has set his mind on a café across the road and steers me in that direction. And then I lose it! I am NOT going to be taken somplace else where I don't want to go. Like a hild I tell them to go without me as I don't want to be anywhere near my controlling husband right now. All of them....Tony especially, are shocked and taken aback. Not pleasant…but it has been a while coming. I storm off to the park, Tony storms off to the flat, taking Eric’s lunch with him and poor Anne and Eric are caught in the middle of a nasty domestic.
I sit for half an hour in the park and compose myself and drink a lemon Granita to get my sugars up. Then I go on the little blue tram which has run for over 100 years and join Anne and Eric halfway up the mountain where we take the Furnicular to the top. They’re embarrassed and annoyed….rightly so. When I see at the top that there are hundreds of steps up to the church, I give up and take the furnicular back down and catch the next Barcelona tour bus. I’m tired…half eaten by mozzies, and sunburnt! It’s a fair walk from the bus-stop and I just want to collapse and rest. But I don’t have a key to the flat and I hammer and bang for 20 minutes before Tony wakes up and lets me in. We talk about what happened and I explain why, to me, this trip of a lifetime is rapidly turning to crap. Neither of us wants that. We love each other and we’re usually so in sync with each other. But when we are out of sync….we are WAAAAAAAAAAAY out of sync. But at least we talk, and we’re honest, and there’s no name calling or nasties. I nap for an hour and Anne and Eric still aren’t back. So we shower and dress and head for La Rambla and the Gothic area.
And guess what? That’s where Spain has been hiding all the time! Yjis is more our scene....we're mixing it with the people...not observing it from afar. We watch some great Flamenco - have food in a sports bar and then head downstairs to a GREAT jazz cellar with an awesome band called……wait for it….”What The Fuck?” very appropriate given the last few days. Great line-up, fine musicians and a terrific drummer - the best we’ve seen in many a long year. We walk hand in hand across the Placa Reial and savour the joy of just being alone together. It’s been a great night and my faith in both Spain and my husband has been restored. When we get home we discover Eric has finally found Churros ( Churros bars are plentiful in Australia - but it’s hard to find them in Barcelona) and has left them in a bag hanging on our door. Yummy - but lousy for my sugars. Still, I’ll sleep well tonight.
41/26 - Hi ho, hi ho - it's off to Spain we go.
Sunday July 25th.
Ola! After practising our French for the past few weeks we are acutely aware that we don’t know any Spanish at all! Armed with this worrying information we pile in the car for the 5 hour journey to Barcelona. There’s so much food in the fridge I pack a cold pack with stuff for the three days. We’re all excited….. Tony and I have been to Majorca ( not together) but never to the Mainland. This should be the most amazing part of our whole trip.
The motorway is fast, and expensive. Although Tony won’t let me drive ( I’m a great driver but I do drive too fast) Tony relinquishes the wheel to Eric and sits in the back with me - where Woodstock helps him out by reading the map ( yep I do have a picture - LOVE the boy in my man!) We stop at Figueres for lunch. The Dali museum looks spectacular and we take photos, but there’s nowhere to park so we don’t go in. Okay….this is sounding familiar! We then have lunch in McDonalds!!! McDonalds in Spain! And it’s AWFUL - but I am the only who isn’t happy and was expecting something more….er…Spanish! Warning Will Robinson!
Tony takes over the driving and manages to navigate, with the help of fussy Felicity, right to the front door of our “Guest House”…which is in fact a shared guest Flat!!!!!!! We wait an hour to be let in and shown around. WTF!???? The flat has a kitchen and five bedrooms! That’s it. And we all ( eight people in total) have to share the two bathrooms. I chuck a massive hissy fit and tell the manager we will stay tonight but leave in the morning, even though he‘s talking about a discount ( I always love a discount). Then I go on line ( at least they have Wi-Fi) and find some fantastic deals in good hotels. Easy peasy! Except no-one else wants to move. They’re quite happy to stay in a shared flat with strangers in the bathroom as if they were in their teens and backpacking!! I am mortified and pissed off. I do NOT want to be in this place but I’m outnumbered 3 to 1 - just like in McDonald’s. It’s true - I’m turning into my mother and sharing a bathroom is not on my list of things to do….neither is camping. I’ve earned my right to creature comforts!
When we go out to eat I am in a foul mood - especially when Tony wants to choose the restaurant! We end up going to the one I originally wanted. And it’s awful!!!!! The Tapas is the pits…. Obviously designed for people who know no better. Where is the chorizo? The Garlic? The red peppers? The octopus? What’s with the potato salad and the Woolworth’s deli crab sticks? I’m stunned. Especially when Beloved drinks a litre of beer to wash down his lousy Paella. No-one else complains - though Anne did think the tapas was awful. I figure there will be churros ( Spanish donuts) on the desert list but Nooooooo! Tirimasu ( what’s with that then???) or even CHEESE CAKE. Even the Sangria is LOUSY….I have my darling Peg’s recipe and it ROCKS! Get me out of here. And to make things worse it’s the most expensive meal we’ve had in Europe. Were my expectations too high? Am I just being a difficult bitch? Tony obviously thinks so. ( And it has been known to be true) He tells me to “adapt”! Not even the night view - under a still full moon- of Gaudi’s Sagrada Famiglia can make me feel better. I don’t sleep….I’m too pissed off at my first taste of Spain.
Ola! After practising our French for the past few weeks we are acutely aware that we don’t know any Spanish at all! Armed with this worrying information we pile in the car for the 5 hour journey to Barcelona. There’s so much food in the fridge I pack a cold pack with stuff for the three days. We’re all excited….. Tony and I have been to Majorca ( not together) but never to the Mainland. This should be the most amazing part of our whole trip.
The motorway is fast, and expensive. Although Tony won’t let me drive ( I’m a great driver but I do drive too fast) Tony relinquishes the wheel to Eric and sits in the back with me - where Woodstock helps him out by reading the map ( yep I do have a picture - LOVE the boy in my man!) We stop at Figueres for lunch. The Dali museum looks spectacular and we take photos, but there’s nowhere to park so we don’t go in. Okay….this is sounding familiar! We then have lunch in McDonalds!!! McDonalds in Spain! And it’s AWFUL - but I am the only who isn’t happy and was expecting something more….er…Spanish! Warning Will Robinson!
Tony takes over the driving and manages to navigate, with the help of fussy Felicity, right to the front door of our “Guest House”…which is in fact a shared guest Flat!!!!!!! We wait an hour to be let in and shown around. WTF!???? The flat has a kitchen and five bedrooms! That’s it. And we all ( eight people in total) have to share the two bathrooms. I chuck a massive hissy fit and tell the manager we will stay tonight but leave in the morning, even though he‘s talking about a discount ( I always love a discount). Then I go on line ( at least they have Wi-Fi) and find some fantastic deals in good hotels. Easy peasy! Except no-one else wants to move. They’re quite happy to stay in a shared flat with strangers in the bathroom as if they were in their teens and backpacking!! I am mortified and pissed off. I do NOT want to be in this place but I’m outnumbered 3 to 1 - just like in McDonald’s. It’s true - I’m turning into my mother and sharing a bathroom is not on my list of things to do….neither is camping. I’ve earned my right to creature comforts!
When we go out to eat I am in a foul mood - especially when Tony wants to choose the restaurant! We end up going to the one I originally wanted. And it’s awful!!!!! The Tapas is the pits…. Obviously designed for people who know no better. Where is the chorizo? The Garlic? The red peppers? The octopus? What’s with the potato salad and the Woolworth’s deli crab sticks? I’m stunned. Especially when Beloved drinks a litre of beer to wash down his lousy Paella. No-one else complains - though Anne did think the tapas was awful. I figure there will be churros ( Spanish donuts) on the desert list but Nooooooo! Tirimasu ( what’s with that then???) or even CHEESE CAKE. Even the Sangria is LOUSY….I have my darling Peg’s recipe and it ROCKS! Get me out of here. And to make things worse it’s the most expensive meal we’ve had in Europe. Were my expectations too high? Am I just being a difficult bitch? Tony obviously thinks so. ( And it has been known to be true) He tells me to “adapt”! Not even the night view - under a still full moon- of Gaudi’s Sagrada Famiglia can make me feel better. I don’t sleep….I’m too pissed off at my first taste of Spain.
40/27 - To market to mark it!
Saturday July 24th
You’ve got to love a man who takes the folded map of France and turns it into an accordion and sings La Vie en Rose over breakfast!!! You’ve got to love him or hit him in the head with a cricket bat! But it’s hard not to smile at Beloved when he‘s in form.
We decide to hit the market today in Uzes since we are off to Barcelona in the morning. Unfortunately the market hit back. People are parked on the pavement, on roundabouts, anywhere they can find. There’s a lamborghini parked on a traffic island, a lotus on the centre nature strip….and BMWs and Mercs fighting to squeeze into a space made for a Fiat!
Everyone who isn’t watching the tour de france is in Uzes for the market.
Not that it’s not a good market, but I mean …is it really worth the traffic hassle? Tony drops us off and has to park more than a kilometre out of town and walk back. In the traffic it takes him 40 minutes.
The produce market fills the square….the general market fills the street. We can barely move. In the square a Django Reinhardt tribute and are playing gypsy jazz to commemorate his centenary. It’s a warm and lovely sound….but doesn’t quite sound the same with the use of all your fingers. We have escargots in the fridge and Tony has been trying to find the funny little clamp spring holders that used to be available in every shop in France ( except the pharmacies) 30 years ago. No luck, but at least he finds two pronged tiny picker outerers…..that’s a technical term. We both love escargots but they are virtually impossible if you don’t have the right hardware. But they’ll have to wait till we get back from Barcelona as A&E are not Snail lovers ( unless they’re the pastry kind of danish!)
At the farmhouse we batten down for the time trial - in which Andy Schleck’s chances go out the window for this year and Contador adds to Spain’s reasons to celebrate…Wimbledon, The world cup and now Le Tour. Tomorrow’s ride through Paris will be just a formality.
We all take a nap now that the excitement for the tour is finally over….then I make a VERY swish dinner and top it off with a framboise tart.
Ann and Eric have to pack and the Provence part of their trip is over all too soon. They’ve been terrific company and I’ll especially miss Eric’s kitchen cleaning skills…. A man who loves to wash up even when you have a dishwasher is a rare breed indeed! Tony and Eric talk Jazz….with Tony the professor as always. It astonishes me how much he knows….a perfect candidate for Mastermind! I struggle off to bed. The Sugars are punishing me for forgetting I’m a diabetic this week…but it has been lovely to surrender to temptation.
You’ve got to love a man who takes the folded map of France and turns it into an accordion and sings La Vie en Rose over breakfast!!! You’ve got to love him or hit him in the head with a cricket bat! But it’s hard not to smile at Beloved when he‘s in form.
We decide to hit the market today in Uzes since we are off to Barcelona in the morning. Unfortunately the market hit back. People are parked on the pavement, on roundabouts, anywhere they can find. There’s a lamborghini parked on a traffic island, a lotus on the centre nature strip….and BMWs and Mercs fighting to squeeze into a space made for a Fiat!
Everyone who isn’t watching the tour de france is in Uzes for the market.
Not that it’s not a good market, but I mean …is it really worth the traffic hassle? Tony drops us off and has to park more than a kilometre out of town and walk back. In the traffic it takes him 40 minutes.
The produce market fills the square….the general market fills the street. We can barely move. In the square a Django Reinhardt tribute and are playing gypsy jazz to commemorate his centenary. It’s a warm and lovely sound….but doesn’t quite sound the same with the use of all your fingers. We have escargots in the fridge and Tony has been trying to find the funny little clamp spring holders that used to be available in every shop in France ( except the pharmacies) 30 years ago. No luck, but at least he finds two pronged tiny picker outerers…..that’s a technical term. We both love escargots but they are virtually impossible if you don’t have the right hardware. But they’ll have to wait till we get back from Barcelona as A&E are not Snail lovers ( unless they’re the pastry kind of danish!)
At the farmhouse we batten down for the time trial - in which Andy Schleck’s chances go out the window for this year and Contador adds to Spain’s reasons to celebrate…Wimbledon, The world cup and now Le Tour. Tomorrow’s ride through Paris will be just a formality.
We all take a nap now that the excitement for the tour is finally over….then I make a VERY swish dinner and top it off with a framboise tart.
Ann and Eric have to pack and the Provence part of their trip is over all too soon. They’ve been terrific company and I’ll especially miss Eric’s kitchen cleaning skills…. A man who loves to wash up even when you have a dishwasher is a rare breed indeed! Tony and Eric talk Jazz….with Tony the professor as always. It astonishes me how much he knows….a perfect candidate for Mastermind! I struggle off to bed. The Sugars are punishing me for forgetting I’m a diabetic this week…but it has been lovely to surrender to temptation.
39/28 - The Tourist Game - a lot of Bull
Friday 23rd July.
Today is our big tourist day - we’re taking Eric and Ann to Arles and we are going to see what the provenencals call the Bull races. No slaughter and dead carcasses - just young blokes (Razoulets) plucking strings and rosettes from the bulls ears for points and money. I’m excited - but there’s a lot to see first.
Tony takes us to Beaucaire for lunch….it’s a pretty little town at the mouth of the Rhone and we found it by accident on our last trip. There's a wonderful statue of a rampaging bull - for all of the Camargue is bullfighting country. Wild and beautiful in the country....the towns provide welcome contrast.
Stopping alongside the river we find an auberge. We have the plat du jour menu….steak and chips….and meet the lovely owners of the bar who worked for years in London - so not much chance to try our rusty French. We walk along the side of the river and there is the spectacular long barge with its deck garden in flower and shade sails to lounge under. It was moored in the same place five years ago and I doubt that it has moved in all that time. Somehow that is uplifting, as if an indication that we will return in another five years to check her out.
WE’re relying on the GPS navman to direct us. Tony has named “the voice” fussy Felicity…. A snooty private school tosser! Mostly the navman is spot on, but every now and again she goes berserk and takes us round in circles ….still we get to see Remoulins and St Remy de Provence ( very pretty but touristy) and a few other villages we didn’t expect to. We head up to Les Baux…. A huge rock outcrop ( it’s where the name bauxite comes from) with a medieval fort and village on the plateau. It is supposed to be sensational but we drive the car as far as we can and……there are over a hundred steps to climb. There’s no way, even hanging on to Tony, that I can make it - and A and E seem equally daunted by the prospect. So we turn around and go back. On to Arles.
We loved Arles so much 5 years ago, and it has only lost a little of its appeal to our love affair with Uzes. To go into the old city and up the windy streets to be confronted by the Arena is nothing short of amazing. To think we are going to be sitting in that same arena where gladiators fought 2,000 years ago is simply mind blowing. Anne and I buy tablecloths and other provencal goodies and the guys walk ahead so as not to be dragged into shops….as guys do. They queue for the tickets for the bull races….8 Euros each and Tony takes them to the ancient amphitheatre while I beg off and sit at the café we frequented 5 years ago and drink water and test my sugars which have been so good but are now going haywire.
At 5 o’clock a very good local band starts to play and we all pile into the arena and find seats in the shade. The late afternoon sun is blisteringly hot and there are some English tourists ( idiots?) who have chosen to take off their shirts and sit in full sun. Young and stupid….. I think it’s a pre-requisite for English boys. By the time we leave they are looking very much like lobsters!
And so the Bull races begin. The Razoulets are young and dressed all in white. They parade much as the matadors would and are greeted by cheers. The big heavy gates are drawn aside and in comes the bull. It looks fierce and paws the ground, but then 12 youths start shouting at it and running backwards and forwards. Oh dear. The bull doesn’t want to play. It’s bewildered. It makes some half hearted attempts to charge and the razoulets do their thing….. plucking strings from its horns. They are remarkably athletic and leap over the arena walls and cling to the sides of the audience barricades. Spectacular….for about five minutes. The bull jumps out of the ring and runs around in circles in the outer ring. They prod it and taunt it, but each time they get it back in the ring it jumps out again, sometimes catching its back legs. Anne can’t bear to see it tormented and she quickly leaves. The bull is eventually taken out and replaced with one apparently more willing to make mincemeat out of french youths. Ultimately though, the whole spectacle is a one trick pony and by interval we have had more than enough.
A &E don’t appear to be Van Gogh fans so we skip the art history of Arles which had so dazzled Bernie and instead we make our way back to Uzes. The square is full of Friday night tourists and locals….little children, old people walking their dogs, slightly mangy looking cats. You name it….. It’s all there. The accordion players are hard at work…it seems La Vie en Rose is the only song they know…..but it’s summer in France. Who needs more?
Today is our big tourist day - we’re taking Eric and Ann to Arles and we are going to see what the provenencals call the Bull races. No slaughter and dead carcasses - just young blokes (Razoulets) plucking strings and rosettes from the bulls ears for points and money. I’m excited - but there’s a lot to see first.
Tony takes us to Beaucaire for lunch….it’s a pretty little town at the mouth of the Rhone and we found it by accident on our last trip. There's a wonderful statue of a rampaging bull - for all of the Camargue is bullfighting country. Wild and beautiful in the country....the towns provide welcome contrast.
Stopping alongside the river we find an auberge. We have the plat du jour menu….steak and chips….and meet the lovely owners of the bar who worked for years in London - so not much chance to try our rusty French. We walk along the side of the river and there is the spectacular long barge with its deck garden in flower and shade sails to lounge under. It was moored in the same place five years ago and I doubt that it has moved in all that time. Somehow that is uplifting, as if an indication that we will return in another five years to check her out.
WE’re relying on the GPS navman to direct us. Tony has named “the voice” fussy Felicity…. A snooty private school tosser! Mostly the navman is spot on, but every now and again she goes berserk and takes us round in circles ….still we get to see Remoulins and St Remy de Provence ( very pretty but touristy) and a few other villages we didn’t expect to. We head up to Les Baux…. A huge rock outcrop ( it’s where the name bauxite comes from) with a medieval fort and village on the plateau. It is supposed to be sensational but we drive the car as far as we can and……there are over a hundred steps to climb. There’s no way, even hanging on to Tony, that I can make it - and A and E seem equally daunted by the prospect. So we turn around and go back. On to Arles.
We loved Arles so much 5 years ago, and it has only lost a little of its appeal to our love affair with Uzes. To go into the old city and up the windy streets to be confronted by the Arena is nothing short of amazing. To think we are going to be sitting in that same arena where gladiators fought 2,000 years ago is simply mind blowing. Anne and I buy tablecloths and other provencal goodies and the guys walk ahead so as not to be dragged into shops….as guys do. They queue for the tickets for the bull races….8 Euros each and Tony takes them to the ancient amphitheatre while I beg off and sit at the café we frequented 5 years ago and drink water and test my sugars which have been so good but are now going haywire.
At 5 o’clock a very good local band starts to play and we all pile into the arena and find seats in the shade. The late afternoon sun is blisteringly hot and there are some English tourists ( idiots?) who have chosen to take off their shirts and sit in full sun. Young and stupid….. I think it’s a pre-requisite for English boys. By the time we leave they are looking very much like lobsters!
And so the Bull races begin. The Razoulets are young and dressed all in white. They parade much as the matadors would and are greeted by cheers. The big heavy gates are drawn aside and in comes the bull. It looks fierce and paws the ground, but then 12 youths start shouting at it and running backwards and forwards. Oh dear. The bull doesn’t want to play. It’s bewildered. It makes some half hearted attempts to charge and the razoulets do their thing….. plucking strings from its horns. They are remarkably athletic and leap over the arena walls and cling to the sides of the audience barricades. Spectacular….for about five minutes. The bull jumps out of the ring and runs around in circles in the outer ring. They prod it and taunt it, but each time they get it back in the ring it jumps out again, sometimes catching its back legs. Anne can’t bear to see it tormented and she quickly leaves. The bull is eventually taken out and replaced with one apparently more willing to make mincemeat out of french youths. Ultimately though, the whole spectacle is a one trick pony and by interval we have had more than enough.
A &E don’t appear to be Van Gogh fans so we skip the art history of Arles which had so dazzled Bernie and instead we make our way back to Uzes. The square is full of Friday night tourists and locals….little children, old people walking their dogs, slightly mangy looking cats. You name it….. It’s all there. The accordion players are hard at work…it seems La Vie en Rose is the only song they know…..but it’s summer in France. Who needs more?
38/29 - Vive Le Tour
Thursday 22nd July.
The tour is back! So there’s no prizes for guessing where we are from midday to 5pm. The living room - with its huge fireplace ( hard to believe its ever needed) is cool with the shutters closed but we have also bought an electric fan which we’ll leave in the house. Remarkably the seering heat has gone since A&E arrived and it’s quite bearable.
We load the coffee table with charcuteries and bread and cheese and potato chips and there is beer and Rose wine and cider. And there we sit, gob smacked at the skill of the riders. How can one possibly go up the Tourmalet mountain and still have the energy for tactics and sprints…..? It’s beyond comprehension but somehow Schleck and Contador manage it? On drugs? The general consensus seems to be that our Cadell Evans is one of the few who DOESN”T use drugs….but he’s riding in agony with a broken elbow and is not in contention this year. Even Lance Armstrong, 38, is riding like a demon. It truly is a punishing sport.
I make a spectacular salad nicoise for dinner - it looks so good we take pictures of it! How silly! I’m drinking far too much wine for someone with Diabetes - so I start cutting it with mineral water, which is ridiculously cheap here. After dinner we watch the awesome sunset. The little disused chapel on the farm ( probably built for the farm labourers hundreds of years ago) stand out in full relief against the hills and the crimson streaked sky. The bed still squeaks, the flies still divebomb - and now the mozzies ( tiny, silent, deadly) begin their stealth mission. But I manage to sleep anyway.
The tour is back! So there’s no prizes for guessing where we are from midday to 5pm. The living room - with its huge fireplace ( hard to believe its ever needed) is cool with the shutters closed but we have also bought an electric fan which we’ll leave in the house. Remarkably the seering heat has gone since A&E arrived and it’s quite bearable.
We load the coffee table with charcuteries and bread and cheese and potato chips and there is beer and Rose wine and cider. And there we sit, gob smacked at the skill of the riders. How can one possibly go up the Tourmalet mountain and still have the energy for tactics and sprints…..? It’s beyond comprehension but somehow Schleck and Contador manage it? On drugs? The general consensus seems to be that our Cadell Evans is one of the few who DOESN”T use drugs….but he’s riding in agony with a broken elbow and is not in contention this year. Even Lance Armstrong, 38, is riding like a demon. It truly is a punishing sport.
I make a spectacular salad nicoise for dinner - it looks so good we take pictures of it! How silly! I’m drinking far too much wine for someone with Diabetes - so I start cutting it with mineral water, which is ridiculously cheap here. After dinner we watch the awesome sunset. The little disused chapel on the farm ( probably built for the farm labourers hundreds of years ago) stand out in full relief against the hills and the crimson streaked sky. The bed still squeaks, the flies still divebomb - and now the mozzies ( tiny, silent, deadly) begin their stealth mission. But I manage to sleep anyway.
Day 37/30 - A perfect Hump day
Wednesday July 21st.
There is something so special about being woken up by a little swallow/swift ( the jury’s still out on which) flying into your bedroom via the open terrace doors and seeing the hills in the background - it’s incredibly peaceful here - except for the flies who never give up. I’m still not sleeping well though - the knee and hip are agony and I’m thinking I can’t put surgery off for much longer when we get back to Oz.
It’s past 10 o’clock when we finally get around to breakfast. I think Anne and Eric are a little fazed by the croissants and Parisien Pain and apricot jam and orange juice and lashings of coffee. Their style is much healthier….cereal and yoghurt and half a banana, so we add those to the shopping list and after a lazy morning we head for Uzes….somehow managing to MISS the farmer’s market. Not that it matters….there is more than enough food in the house to feed a small army ( of flies.)
Anne and Eric love “our” little medieval town, I think I would have been mortally offended if they hadn’t. It’s their first ever trip to Provence and they seem to love it. During the day beloved gets three text messages from B….she really is missing us. It’s a rest day in the tour today….so no more men in lycra for 24 hours and Tony’s attention is finally with us. He and Eric chat like old friends and tell silly jokes and it’s all very relaxing. The even do “man stuff” - like fixing the shower bracket and putting raw plugs in walls…..the kind of things beloved wouldn’t do at home.
Tonight we take them to our Auberge - to savour the oilcloth tablecloths and pink plastic chairs. The meal is fabulous, as before, Tony and I have the duck and we just pull the bones straight out. WE play round robin with the deserts…..crème brulee and tiramisu - but alas, no fig tart. An ALMOST perfect evening.
There is something so special about being woken up by a little swallow/swift ( the jury’s still out on which) flying into your bedroom via the open terrace doors and seeing the hills in the background - it’s incredibly peaceful here - except for the flies who never give up. I’m still not sleeping well though - the knee and hip are agony and I’m thinking I can’t put surgery off for much longer when we get back to Oz.
It’s past 10 o’clock when we finally get around to breakfast. I think Anne and Eric are a little fazed by the croissants and Parisien Pain and apricot jam and orange juice and lashings of coffee. Their style is much healthier….cereal and yoghurt and half a banana, so we add those to the shopping list and after a lazy morning we head for Uzes….somehow managing to MISS the farmer’s market. Not that it matters….there is more than enough food in the house to feed a small army ( of flies.)
Anne and Eric love “our” little medieval town, I think I would have been mortally offended if they hadn’t. It’s their first ever trip to Provence and they seem to love it. During the day beloved gets three text messages from B….she really is missing us. It’s a rest day in the tour today….so no more men in lycra for 24 hours and Tony’s attention is finally with us. He and Eric chat like old friends and tell silly jokes and it’s all very relaxing. The even do “man stuff” - like fixing the shower bracket and putting raw plugs in walls…..the kind of things beloved wouldn’t do at home.
Tonight we take them to our Auberge - to savour the oilcloth tablecloths and pink plastic chairs. The meal is fabulous, as before, Tony and I have the duck and we just pull the bones straight out. WE play round robin with the deserts…..crème brulee and tiramisu - but alas, no fig tart. An ALMOST perfect evening.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
36/31 - Goodbye Hello!
Tuesday 20thJuly.
In one month we will be winging our way home to Oz. We’ve heard now that a general election has been called for August 21st and we’ll still be in the air. Tony thinks he will have to register an absentee vote at the embassy in Paris. Another adventure we haven’t had before.
Today though, it’s the turn of M and B to head home and we have coffee with them after a sightseeing drive through Nimes. The three family members are still swapping “remember when” and “whatever happened to?” stories. I it quietly and drink my coffee. The reality is this is the last time these three will see each other…. Age and distance are now great barriers. It probably means I will never see them either. As we walk into the station and they hug and thank me I am overwhelmed with the pent-up emotion of the last few weeks and my eyes fill with tears…. Which of course makes them emotional too. We hug again and again. Tony shows no emotion for them. Even as I point out to him that he will never see them again he pragmatically reminds me that Death is a natural resolution to life and they all have memories of each other so what does it matter. I find that infuriating…..even though I know he’s right! Damn that man!
We decide to go for a swim in Uzes at the public pool, which is actually empty though there are some kids in the kids pool. Tony has on fully lined swim shorts but they won’t let him in! You have to wear budgie smugglers! Tony Abbott would be welcomed with open arms even though speedos are not everyone’s idea of a fashion statement.
An afternoon of Le Tour - a nap in the heat of the day and then it’s off to Avignon to pick up Eric and Anne. They were our friends in Perth, we’d hang out together, go for dinner, catch a movie etc. We so miss having a couple like that in Melbourne.
The TGV station in Avignon is a work of art….more like an airport than a train station. We have a beer and wait in the reception lounge and suddenly they’re there….about as different to M and B as is possible . We take a quick drive through Avignon and then straight on to the Pont Du Gard to give them their first taste of sightseeing. Neither has been to Provence before but they instantly love it. We don’t arrive home until 9.30 but it’s still daylight. Salad and charcuteries fill us up and we sit and talk and laugh and catch up over a bottle of wine ( Everything in France is done over a bottle of wine!). It’s so good to see them again.
In one month we will be winging our way home to Oz. We’ve heard now that a general election has been called for August 21st and we’ll still be in the air. Tony thinks he will have to register an absentee vote at the embassy in Paris. Another adventure we haven’t had before.
Today though, it’s the turn of M and B to head home and we have coffee with them after a sightseeing drive through Nimes. The three family members are still swapping “remember when” and “whatever happened to?” stories. I it quietly and drink my coffee. The reality is this is the last time these three will see each other…. Age and distance are now great barriers. It probably means I will never see them either. As we walk into the station and they hug and thank me I am overwhelmed with the pent-up emotion of the last few weeks and my eyes fill with tears…. Which of course makes them emotional too. We hug again and again. Tony shows no emotion for them. Even as I point out to him that he will never see them again he pragmatically reminds me that Death is a natural resolution to life and they all have memories of each other so what does it matter. I find that infuriating…..even though I know he’s right! Damn that man!
We decide to go for a swim in Uzes at the public pool, which is actually empty though there are some kids in the kids pool. Tony has on fully lined swim shorts but they won’t let him in! You have to wear budgie smugglers! Tony Abbott would be welcomed with open arms even though speedos are not everyone’s idea of a fashion statement.
An afternoon of Le Tour - a nap in the heat of the day and then it’s off to Avignon to pick up Eric and Anne. They were our friends in Perth, we’d hang out together, go for dinner, catch a movie etc. We so miss having a couple like that in Melbourne.
The TGV station in Avignon is a work of art….more like an airport than a train station. We have a beer and wait in the reception lounge and suddenly they’re there….about as different to M and B as is possible . We take a quick drive through Avignon and then straight on to the Pont Du Gard to give them their first taste of sightseeing. Neither has been to Provence before but they instantly love it. We don’t arrive home until 9.30 but it’s still daylight. Salad and charcuteries fill us up and we sit and talk and laugh and catch up over a bottle of wine ( Everything in France is done over a bottle of wine!). It’s so good to see them again.
Day 35/32 - Adieu, au revoir, farewell
Monday 19th July
The kids are up early, all packed and ready to go. Croissants and orange juice - pain and apricot jam and coffee galore. French eating is so civilized - and even breakfast is so much more interesting than a bowl of cornflakes.
Into Uzes and we nail a hotel reservation for Venice and are able to make the aborted trip around Uzes and have coffee before setting off for Nimes. Nimes is bigger and noisier but boasts a fantastic ancient Roman arena…better than Arles, and some other antiquities - including what Tony calls some ancient roadworks! It’s well worth a visit. We say our goodbyes and hug and kiss and then they are off on the train to Marseille where Tony has told them to eat Bouillabaise within 400 metres of the seafront!
Back in Bourdiguet we wonder what to do for the sisters last day. We’re all tired when we should feel rested - so we opt for a gentle day. We hit the 1900 Belle Epoque museum and are genuinely delighted by the displays and the charming way the huge Olive mill that houses it has been made into a little town with shop fronts and streets. We spend a lovely two hours there and take lots of pics. Then, just a few more kilometres to the stunning hilltop village of Castillon Du Gard. In 2005 Tony and I were caught in the floods outside Nimes. Castillon was the village we headed for as it was on higher ground, but a wall of water came down the hill and completely smothered us. If I had been driving the result could have been tragic….but Tony stays so calm and steered blindly through it. Then we stayed at the old castle…now a 4 star hotel. It was Monday night and the restaurant was closed. The village was in flood control mode and there was no food to be had anywhere. The two rooms we were given in the hotel both had leaky roofs and drenched the bed and it was the most expensive lousy night we have ever had. It was wonderful to return in gorgeous weather and explore how beautiful this little place is, and to sit and drink beer on a café terrace right next to the middle ages church with a huge iron crucifix watching us. Family memories are exchanged and Tony’s almost total recall of everything he has ever experienced helps to fill in some gaps in the sisters’ memories. I am starting to see how these three aged people were when they were kids and close to each other.
Despite the tensions it’s good to know that some lost ground has been recovered in this trip and that they will leave knowing their brother - and me - a little better. We go into Uzes for a farewell dinner….just our second meal out since we’ve been here. The little square is a delight - with a fountain in the centre, beautiful trees and cloisters on all four sides. There are restaurants everywhere but we choose one called the Renaissance. BAD MOVE! I am reminded of all those things which give the impression that the French are arrogant. They really DON”T want to serve us - until they find out we are ordering A la Carte. The food is good but the service is terrible. The evening is saved by a friendly conversation with two chic French women sitting at the next table who, upon hearing the sisters’ ages, declare them to be very stylish! When I tell M and B they blush like schoolgirls and I can’t help but wonder how long it is since anyone has complimented them.
Tony goes off to bed. I am really worried now. Despite the amount of sleep he’s getting he’s just not bouncing back and he’s constantly exhausted. I stay up and talk to the sisters and fill in some of the blanks of his life in Australia for them. I realise that they have accepted me entirely and feel quite emotional about it. They’ve nearly driven me crazy but - in some strange, perverse way - I have grown fond of them and I shall miss them. Did I actually say that????
The kids are up early, all packed and ready to go. Croissants and orange juice - pain and apricot jam and coffee galore. French eating is so civilized - and even breakfast is so much more interesting than a bowl of cornflakes.
Into Uzes and we nail a hotel reservation for Venice and are able to make the aborted trip around Uzes and have coffee before setting off for Nimes. Nimes is bigger and noisier but boasts a fantastic ancient Roman arena…better than Arles, and some other antiquities - including what Tony calls some ancient roadworks! It’s well worth a visit. We say our goodbyes and hug and kiss and then they are off on the train to Marseille where Tony has told them to eat Bouillabaise within 400 metres of the seafront!
Back in Bourdiguet we wonder what to do for the sisters last day. We’re all tired when we should feel rested - so we opt for a gentle day. We hit the 1900 Belle Epoque museum and are genuinely delighted by the displays and the charming way the huge Olive mill that houses it has been made into a little town with shop fronts and streets. We spend a lovely two hours there and take lots of pics. Then, just a few more kilometres to the stunning hilltop village of Castillon Du Gard. In 2005 Tony and I were caught in the floods outside Nimes. Castillon was the village we headed for as it was on higher ground, but a wall of water came down the hill and completely smothered us. If I had been driving the result could have been tragic….but Tony stays so calm and steered blindly through it. Then we stayed at the old castle…now a 4 star hotel. It was Monday night and the restaurant was closed. The village was in flood control mode and there was no food to be had anywhere. The two rooms we were given in the hotel both had leaky roofs and drenched the bed and it was the most expensive lousy night we have ever had. It was wonderful to return in gorgeous weather and explore how beautiful this little place is, and to sit and drink beer on a café terrace right next to the middle ages church with a huge iron crucifix watching us. Family memories are exchanged and Tony’s almost total recall of everything he has ever experienced helps to fill in some gaps in the sisters’ memories. I am starting to see how these three aged people were when they were kids and close to each other.
Despite the tensions it’s good to know that some lost ground has been recovered in this trip and that they will leave knowing their brother - and me - a little better. We go into Uzes for a farewell dinner….just our second meal out since we’ve been here. The little square is a delight - with a fountain in the centre, beautiful trees and cloisters on all four sides. There are restaurants everywhere but we choose one called the Renaissance. BAD MOVE! I am reminded of all those things which give the impression that the French are arrogant. They really DON”T want to serve us - until they find out we are ordering A la Carte. The food is good but the service is terrible. The evening is saved by a friendly conversation with two chic French women sitting at the next table who, upon hearing the sisters’ ages, declare them to be very stylish! When I tell M and B they blush like schoolgirls and I can’t help but wonder how long it is since anyone has complimented them.
Tony goes off to bed. I am really worried now. Despite the amount of sleep he’s getting he’s just not bouncing back and he’s constantly exhausted. I stay up and talk to the sisters and fill in some of the blanks of his life in Australia for them. I realise that they have accepted me entirely and feel quite emotional about it. They’ve nearly driven me crazy but - in some strange, perverse way - I have grown fond of them and I shall miss them. Did I actually say that????
DAY 34/33 - TOUJOURS UNE MERE
Sunday 18th July.
Today is Peg’s birthday. My wonderful, infuriating and unique Mother would have been 88 years old. She died less than two weeks before Tony and I got married in 2004, but not before she gave us a fashion parade of potential outfits she might wear to the wedding. I still miss her terribly and kick myself for spending the first 45 years of my life arguing with her. Missing Kelly too.....I have so little contact with Liza it's hard for me to miss her, but Kelly is such a big part of my life, and Allie too of course, and there is a part of me that needs to be filled by them...and the cats of course......Missing Oliver especially.
I slept badly, despite my hopes the night before - the stairs are crippling my bad knee and hip and I am in horrible pain at night. Katie and Sam sleep in and Tony takes his sisters to Mass…( it’s the third time he’s been in four weeks after a 45 year break). The Catholic church in France is in dire straits and many of the parishes can’t afford to keep the churches going. So Mass is said at different villages each week, on a roster system. This week the sisters fluke it for St Quentin du Poterie. The little village is known as the main area for potters in Provence and the church is a genuine 12th century delight. Both of them are thrilled and in a good mood when they get back….though a little Christian charity would go a long way - as B refused to embrace Tony ( he’s a sinner!!) when everyone else was greeting each other.
In the supermarket B is attacked by a HUGE flying monster! It turns out to be a cicada. The cicada is the symbol of Provence and is used everywhere as a decoration. But the real thing is far more spectacular. About 5cms long with heavy wings - they come in every colour and pattern you can think of, and the cacophony at sunset is something which has to be experienced to be believe. They are harmless but, nevertheless, one attacked B….. I like to think of it as a cicada hitman! Once over the shock though, B describes it….like everything else….as amaaaazing!
The afternoon was supposed for the kids and us to tour Uzes. We almost think of it as “our” town now and want to show it to everyone and listen to them ooh and aah! But somehow we get stuck in the town’s one and only internet centre where Sam and Katie argue because they haven’t booked their three night stay in Venice and now they can’t read the websites in French and there’s nothing available that they can afford. Very harsh words are exchanged - and I put in my two cents worth and call Katie to order. To her great credit my step-daughter listens to my diatribe on the thinks you DON”T say to a man you love without telling me to mind my own business, Add to that the frustration of a Non-Qwerty keyboard and tempers are ready to explode - mine included. What a topsy-turvy, up and down holiday this is turning into. I don’t know where I am from one day to the next. I am very re-active to other people’s moods and all I really want to do is relax.
We end up doing nothing and driving home in silence. It’s after 7pm and we have wasted nearly three hours. I am making pasta with Chorizo and an artichoke salad….B asked before we left if she could help so I asked her to wash the lettuce. She did…thoroughly! One leaf at a time! And dried each leaf thoroughly too. I have never known lettuce to take two hours to prepare before. I could have plotted a half hour of television in about the same time. It’s infuriating when I know I should be grateful to her for wanting to help. But I have never been one to appreciate “help” in the kitchen….. Except when someone clears up the rubble of the bomb site I generally leave after preparing a meal.
The pasta is average, I’m over looking after everyone - the kids are still not speaking and are drinking way too much - The fabulous apricot tart doesn’t get the glory it deserves, and all in all I am TOTALLY over Tony’s family at this moment. We play some stupid card game and then relive our youth by playing Beetle, a silly dice game where you draw a beetle. Strangely enough it’s therapeutic. Sam’s beetles look so ridiculous that before we know it we are laughing and Katie and Sam are in love once more and we all let out a sigh of relief. Tomorrow they leave - and the day after the sisters will be gone. If I can just hang on till then.
Today is Peg’s birthday. My wonderful, infuriating and unique Mother would have been 88 years old. She died less than two weeks before Tony and I got married in 2004, but not before she gave us a fashion parade of potential outfits she might wear to the wedding. I still miss her terribly and kick myself for spending the first 45 years of my life arguing with her. Missing Kelly too.....I have so little contact with Liza it's hard for me to miss her, but Kelly is such a big part of my life, and Allie too of course, and there is a part of me that needs to be filled by them...and the cats of course......Missing Oliver especially.
I slept badly, despite my hopes the night before - the stairs are crippling my bad knee and hip and I am in horrible pain at night. Katie and Sam sleep in and Tony takes his sisters to Mass…( it’s the third time he’s been in four weeks after a 45 year break). The Catholic church in France is in dire straits and many of the parishes can’t afford to keep the churches going. So Mass is said at different villages each week, on a roster system. This week the sisters fluke it for St Quentin du Poterie. The little village is known as the main area for potters in Provence and the church is a genuine 12th century delight. Both of them are thrilled and in a good mood when they get back….though a little Christian charity would go a long way - as B refused to embrace Tony ( he’s a sinner!!) when everyone else was greeting each other.
In the supermarket B is attacked by a HUGE flying monster! It turns out to be a cicada. The cicada is the symbol of Provence and is used everywhere as a decoration. But the real thing is far more spectacular. About 5cms long with heavy wings - they come in every colour and pattern you can think of, and the cacophony at sunset is something which has to be experienced to be believe. They are harmless but, nevertheless, one attacked B….. I like to think of it as a cicada hitman! Once over the shock though, B describes it….like everything else….as amaaaazing!
The afternoon was supposed for the kids and us to tour Uzes. We almost think of it as “our” town now and want to show it to everyone and listen to them ooh and aah! But somehow we get stuck in the town’s one and only internet centre where Sam and Katie argue because they haven’t booked their three night stay in Venice and now they can’t read the websites in French and there’s nothing available that they can afford. Very harsh words are exchanged - and I put in my two cents worth and call Katie to order. To her great credit my step-daughter listens to my diatribe on the thinks you DON”T say to a man you love without telling me to mind my own business, Add to that the frustration of a Non-Qwerty keyboard and tempers are ready to explode - mine included. What a topsy-turvy, up and down holiday this is turning into. I don’t know where I am from one day to the next. I am very re-active to other people’s moods and all I really want to do is relax.
We end up doing nothing and driving home in silence. It’s after 7pm and we have wasted nearly three hours. I am making pasta with Chorizo and an artichoke salad….B asked before we left if she could help so I asked her to wash the lettuce. She did…thoroughly! One leaf at a time! And dried each leaf thoroughly too. I have never known lettuce to take two hours to prepare before. I could have plotted a half hour of television in about the same time. It’s infuriating when I know I should be grateful to her for wanting to help. But I have never been one to appreciate “help” in the kitchen….. Except when someone clears up the rubble of the bomb site I generally leave after preparing a meal.
The pasta is average, I’m over looking after everyone - the kids are still not speaking and are drinking way too much - The fabulous apricot tart doesn’t get the glory it deserves, and all in all I am TOTALLY over Tony’s family at this moment. We play some stupid card game and then relive our youth by playing Beetle, a silly dice game where you draw a beetle. Strangely enough it’s therapeutic. Sam’s beetles look so ridiculous that before we know it we are laughing and Katie and Sam are in love once more and we all let out a sigh of relief. Tomorrow they leave - and the day after the sisters will be gone. If I can just hang on till then.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Day 33/34 - Halfway to Peace.
Saturday 17th July.
Solitude! A day to myself! And it is the halfway mark of the holiday! Or is it? I think my counting is out of whack.Tony is taking oldies and youngies first to Arles - a fantastic town which pays hommage to Ancient Rome and Vincent Van Gogh…it truly is amazing but I DON’T want to see it again with B and M. We have oodles of time….so they set off for the day. They plan to leave B in Arles while Tony takes Margaret and the kids down to the Mediterranean for a swim, through the Camargue - an area famous for it’s wild white horses. It’s been a very dry summer, and the horses have been rolling in the dust, so they’re anything but white - but the drive is beautiful and they reach the southern tip of the Mediterranean where Sam and Katie swim in the warm sea and M and Beloved find a shady bar and cold beers and watch an hour of the tour before returning to Arles to pick up B.
While they are gone I sit in the shade and watch the hills, do sudokus, daydream, and catch up with some writing. My company is Bill Evans….playing beautiful piano which reminds me of my friend Alan Slater. I just put the Bill Evans trio on repeat - a jazz mantra for centre-ing myself again. In the afternoon I start preparation for a family dinner. Melon with Proscuitto; pork cutlets marinated in peche liqeur with fresh figs and chopped garlic….I brown them off after a couple of hours, then into the oven….leaving the marinade to caramelise and be cut with some white wine and crème fraiche. There will be sautee potatoes with French shallots and fresh rosemary, and courgettes frittes with butter and herbes provencal. A Tarte Tatin and ice cream for dessert with the table set with napkins and candles and champagne glasses….champagne goes so well with melon. I love dinner parties but have only held one since leaving Perth…. I just have no-one to invite.
Between preparations I watch snippets of the tour de France and think of the sacrifice Tony is making….days and days of missing his beloved tour to amuse his family. When we first met he told me he went on holiday for two weeks every July. What he meant was that he sat in his tiny flat and watched Le Tour on TV, accompanied by French Beer. I knew that to love the man meant to love Le Tour….and what’s not to love about 180 young athletic guys in lycra? Drool factor 10! Over the years Beloved has taken the time to explain the rules and tactics of just about every sport to me and I LOVE the Tour de France. It’s a chess game on wheels.
When the wanderers return they are tired but happy and are content to be waited on. The food is a great success and we all stuff ourselves and tear off pieces of bread to wipe the dish clean of the wonderful sauce ( wish I could remember exactly how I made it). We add two bottles of white wine to the bottle of champagne and sit silently sated for half an hour after the Tartin. Life is good and we don’t finish dinner until 9.30pm. Beloved is exhausted after all the driving but keeps thanking me for the trouble I went to with the meal. The grump has gone and the loving man with the child in his eyes is back! YAY! He soon excuses himself for bed and the rest of us, too full to play cards, rifle the children’s DVD’s and watch the 70th Anniversary edition of Pinocchio. To think that this was before CGI where all you need is computer skills. Every movement, every expression is a hand coloured cell created by someone totally committed to the same vision. Now THAT’S art! There are three generations of people in the room and we ALL love it, and I am filled with regret that so few films now have high concepts, or charm, or art. The storytelling is wonderful….. The moral themes are universal; A lie, once spoken, continues to grow: and bravery, love, and sacrifice entitle you to be human! Try as I might - I can’t find anything as profound in Alvin and The Chipmunks - The Squeakwel! By midnight we have had cups of tea and little Madeleine cakes and are ready for bed. It’s a cooler night, and I know we’ll all sleep well. Provence is working her magic at last.
Solitude! A day to myself! And it is the halfway mark of the holiday! Or is it? I think my counting is out of whack.Tony is taking oldies and youngies first to Arles - a fantastic town which pays hommage to Ancient Rome and Vincent Van Gogh…it truly is amazing but I DON’T want to see it again with B and M. We have oodles of time….so they set off for the day. They plan to leave B in Arles while Tony takes Margaret and the kids down to the Mediterranean for a swim, through the Camargue - an area famous for it’s wild white horses. It’s been a very dry summer, and the horses have been rolling in the dust, so they’re anything but white - but the drive is beautiful and they reach the southern tip of the Mediterranean where Sam and Katie swim in the warm sea and M and Beloved find a shady bar and cold beers and watch an hour of the tour before returning to Arles to pick up B.
While they are gone I sit in the shade and watch the hills, do sudokus, daydream, and catch up with some writing. My company is Bill Evans….playing beautiful piano which reminds me of my friend Alan Slater. I just put the Bill Evans trio on repeat - a jazz mantra for centre-ing myself again. In the afternoon I start preparation for a family dinner. Melon with Proscuitto; pork cutlets marinated in peche liqeur with fresh figs and chopped garlic….I brown them off after a couple of hours, then into the oven….leaving the marinade to caramelise and be cut with some white wine and crème fraiche. There will be sautee potatoes with French shallots and fresh rosemary, and courgettes frittes with butter and herbes provencal. A Tarte Tatin and ice cream for dessert with the table set with napkins and candles and champagne glasses….champagne goes so well with melon. I love dinner parties but have only held one since leaving Perth…. I just have no-one to invite.
Between preparations I watch snippets of the tour de France and think of the sacrifice Tony is making….days and days of missing his beloved tour to amuse his family. When we first met he told me he went on holiday for two weeks every July. What he meant was that he sat in his tiny flat and watched Le Tour on TV, accompanied by French Beer. I knew that to love the man meant to love Le Tour….and what’s not to love about 180 young athletic guys in lycra? Drool factor 10! Over the years Beloved has taken the time to explain the rules and tactics of just about every sport to me and I LOVE the Tour de France. It’s a chess game on wheels.
When the wanderers return they are tired but happy and are content to be waited on. The food is a great success and we all stuff ourselves and tear off pieces of bread to wipe the dish clean of the wonderful sauce ( wish I could remember exactly how I made it). We add two bottles of white wine to the bottle of champagne and sit silently sated for half an hour after the Tartin. Life is good and we don’t finish dinner until 9.30pm. Beloved is exhausted after all the driving but keeps thanking me for the trouble I went to with the meal. The grump has gone and the loving man with the child in his eyes is back! YAY! He soon excuses himself for bed and the rest of us, too full to play cards, rifle the children’s DVD’s and watch the 70th Anniversary edition of Pinocchio. To think that this was before CGI where all you need is computer skills. Every movement, every expression is a hand coloured cell created by someone totally committed to the same vision. Now THAT’S art! There are three generations of people in the room and we ALL love it, and I am filled with regret that so few films now have high concepts, or charm, or art. The storytelling is wonderful….. The moral themes are universal; A lie, once spoken, continues to grow: and bravery, love, and sacrifice entitle you to be human! Try as I might - I can’t find anything as profound in Alvin and The Chipmunks - The Squeakwel! By midnight we have had cups of tea and little Madeleine cakes and are ready for bed. It’s a cooler night, and I know we’ll all sleep well. Provence is working her magic at last.
32/35 - Who Murdered Swing
Friday July 16th.
We let the kids sleep and we go into Uzes for morning coffee and so that the sisters can see The Medieval Garden. I catch up with some work and we shop for lunch. I’m making a salad Nicoise since Nice is the next place the kids are going to. It’s a triumph. The tuna is gorgeous - the eggs just hard enough. The green beans are fresh and tiny, the black olives are marinated in hers and garlic and the potatoes are yellow and waxy. YUM. Beer and wine and a crusty loaf….it’s simple but perfect and we have Savarins de fruit for dessert. In OZ we call them Rhum babas and they are deliciously decadent. I know it will mess with my blood sugars but, oh God, it tastes soooo good.
Tension flares again when the afternoon plans seem to fall in a heap. Tony is annoyed that he’s missing The Tour de France and plans for him to take both oldies and youngies to the Pont Du gard and then come back to pick me up seem suddenly not to suit him. I stay home. There is to be a tapas food market and live music….but I would rather miss it than be eaten up with frustration.
At 7.30 they return…. The food stalls that were to have been operating from 6pm are only just being put up….the music hasn’t eventuated, and they’re all hot and exhausted. Worst of all, Margaret just isn’t up to the concert (or perhaps has had enough of B for the day.) We leave her to play gooseberry to Katie and Sam’s romantic evening. They’re great kids and don’t seem to mind too much.
Tony, B and I head for Ales and the big band concert - and the air conditioning isn’t the only thing chilling the car. But it’s a spectacular sunset with the sky a rosy gold and the hills looking like various shades of grey paper cut out and glued against the sky - a collage of Universal beauty. Just magic.
The concert starts at 9.30pm. The setting is spectacular….a wonderful 14th century building towering above the stage and auditorium in a beautiful park. The programme is a tribute to Glen Miller and Duke Ellington…. So how bad can it be? Well…. It’s MERDE, Merde, merde! So awful it’s funny. The band leader drones on from his notes on Glen Miller, clearly copied from Le Wikipedia! The instruments are out of tune with each other, the drummer can’t keep tempo so each number gets exponentially faster, and - with no clarinet lead and two AWFUL trombone players- the sound is nothing like Glenn Miller. But the piece de resistance is when “Henri” is introduced…. A chanseur with a tribute to Frank Sinatra….singing Billy Joel’s Just The Way You are in the style of Elvis Presley!!! WTF????? This isn’t just bad- it is gobsmackingly, hilariously AWFUL and we are in hysterics, trying to hide muffled laughter. It’s clear Henri has attempted to learn the lyrics in English from the record, without having a clue what they mean. Coupled with the Elvis impersonation, it’s difficult to interpret what he’s singing….but these are some of the words we heard
Dumbo chain ring, tribal pee pee
Mumble mumble darn de floor.
Tony reaches for my hand and pulls my head down into his shoulder to muffle my laughter….B has turned her hearing aids OFF - and we desperately look for ways to get out. But not before we are treated to an Andrews sisters medley sung by Natalie and Henri - in which they implore “Buy beer, Mister Shane”.
That’s it!!! We scramble past the legs of people, knocking chairs as we go, and get out before the end….The Duke Ellington tribute never eventuates ( thank God) and as we reach the car we can hear that the band has moved on to decimate Perez Prado and the crowd is loving it!!!
When we get home we discover Margaret got a second wind and has been playing cards with the kids and drinking champagne and has only just gone to bed. Katie and Sam are happily playing blackjack, B disappears muttering to herself, and I go to bed and sleep in Beloved’s arms once more.
We let the kids sleep and we go into Uzes for morning coffee and so that the sisters can see The Medieval Garden. I catch up with some work and we shop for lunch. I’m making a salad Nicoise since Nice is the next place the kids are going to. It’s a triumph. The tuna is gorgeous - the eggs just hard enough. The green beans are fresh and tiny, the black olives are marinated in hers and garlic and the potatoes are yellow and waxy. YUM. Beer and wine and a crusty loaf….it’s simple but perfect and we have Savarins de fruit for dessert. In OZ we call them Rhum babas and they are deliciously decadent. I know it will mess with my blood sugars but, oh God, it tastes soooo good.
Tension flares again when the afternoon plans seem to fall in a heap. Tony is annoyed that he’s missing The Tour de France and plans for him to take both oldies and youngies to the Pont Du gard and then come back to pick me up seem suddenly not to suit him. I stay home. There is to be a tapas food market and live music….but I would rather miss it than be eaten up with frustration.
At 7.30 they return…. The food stalls that were to have been operating from 6pm are only just being put up….the music hasn’t eventuated, and they’re all hot and exhausted. Worst of all, Margaret just isn’t up to the concert (or perhaps has had enough of B for the day.) We leave her to play gooseberry to Katie and Sam’s romantic evening. They’re great kids and don’t seem to mind too much.
Tony, B and I head for Ales and the big band concert - and the air conditioning isn’t the only thing chilling the car. But it’s a spectacular sunset with the sky a rosy gold and the hills looking like various shades of grey paper cut out and glued against the sky - a collage of Universal beauty. Just magic.
The concert starts at 9.30pm. The setting is spectacular….a wonderful 14th century building towering above the stage and auditorium in a beautiful park. The programme is a tribute to Glen Miller and Duke Ellington…. So how bad can it be? Well…. It’s MERDE, Merde, merde! So awful it’s funny. The band leader drones on from his notes on Glen Miller, clearly copied from Le Wikipedia! The instruments are out of tune with each other, the drummer can’t keep tempo so each number gets exponentially faster, and - with no clarinet lead and two AWFUL trombone players- the sound is nothing like Glenn Miller. But the piece de resistance is when “Henri” is introduced…. A chanseur with a tribute to Frank Sinatra….singing Billy Joel’s Just The Way You are in the style of Elvis Presley!!! WTF????? This isn’t just bad- it is gobsmackingly, hilariously AWFUL and we are in hysterics, trying to hide muffled laughter. It’s clear Henri has attempted to learn the lyrics in English from the record, without having a clue what they mean. Coupled with the Elvis impersonation, it’s difficult to interpret what he’s singing….but these are some of the words we heard
Dumbo chain ring, tribal pee pee
Mumble mumble darn de floor.
Tony reaches for my hand and pulls my head down into his shoulder to muffle my laughter….B has turned her hearing aids OFF - and we desperately look for ways to get out. But not before we are treated to an Andrews sisters medley sung by Natalie and Henri - in which they implore “Buy beer, Mister Shane”.
That’s it!!! We scramble past the legs of people, knocking chairs as we go, and get out before the end….The Duke Ellington tribute never eventuates ( thank God) and as we reach the car we can hear that the band has moved on to decimate Perez Prado and the crowd is loving it!!!
When we get home we discover Margaret got a second wind and has been playing cards with the kids and drinking champagne and has only just gone to bed. Katie and Sam are happily playing blackjack, B disappears muttering to herself, and I go to bed and sleep in Beloved’s arms once more.
Day31/36 - Birthday of the blues.
Thursday July 15th.
It’s Margaret’s birthday and we’re all determined, after the debacle last night, to make it a great day for her. We go through a silly plan to rid the house of any negative thoughts. We choose a word for the day which we will keep up for their visit….and try to work it into the conversation as often as we can (today’s word is indubitably) and we giggle over stupid things and stuff ourselves with juice and fruit and croissants and coffee. If there’s a niggling resentment in the pit of my stomach I push it away - we have France at our fingertips. It will be as special as we make it.
We go to Ales(not to be confused with Arles of Van Gogh fame) - about 25kms away - to check on a free big band swing era concert that I think is on tonight. It seems like a fitting finish to Margaret’s birthday and the right era for her. Ales is a lot more industrialised and touristy than Uzes…. The cafes are more typical of those in Marseille, but it has its own charm. I buy M a heavily reduced periwinkle blue and white pure silk long scarf in the Monoprix - everywhere has sales on. Much like Britain, France is for sale at bargain prices! We stop for coffee and Tony checks out the concert - which turns out to be Friday night…not tonight. A case of me suffering premature speculation!
So we start re-arranging tomorrow’s plans, because there’s so much B wants to see and they only have a few days. Katie, my beautiful stepdaughter, arrives with her bloke Sam this evening and we’re going out for dinner. We wait patiently and crack a bottle of Champagne when they arrive - courtesy of Margaret. The next village is called Aigaliers, an arte-ville de Provence. It’s not much bigger than Bourdiguet but it does have impressive ramparts and nestled in them is a little family Auberge. The terrace is crowded but they find a place for us. There’s an oil cloth table cloth, a string of rope lights, and hot-pink plastic chairs. A middle aged hairy legged woman, smoking a cigar and dragging a toy poodle along on a lead, wants to share our table but she seems to understand my …”Pardon madame, ilya trois autres personnes qui arrivent a bientot.” She walks away puffing on her cheroot….dragging the poodle behind her. I order another bottle of Champagne as the surroundings don’t look very promising. Aaaaah, but the food is superb as it usually is in these little family run restaurants. Daughter manages and Mum cooks….the duck sheds its bones with ease, the legumes are to die for, and I get the last piece of home made apricot and fresh fig tarte…..not usually on the set menu. It is heaven…. Hard to believe anything can top it. Despite B undergoing a mood swing during the evening and becoming petulant for half an hour the celebration is a triumph and Tony doesn’t even mind running a shuttle service home. Margaret stays up until after midnight and declares it the best birthday in a long time. Why can’t all family gatherings be like this? The tension isn’t gone, but at least it’s masked by goodwill.
It’s Margaret’s birthday and we’re all determined, after the debacle last night, to make it a great day for her. We go through a silly plan to rid the house of any negative thoughts. We choose a word for the day which we will keep up for their visit….and try to work it into the conversation as often as we can (today’s word is indubitably) and we giggle over stupid things and stuff ourselves with juice and fruit and croissants and coffee. If there’s a niggling resentment in the pit of my stomach I push it away - we have France at our fingertips. It will be as special as we make it.
We go to Ales(not to be confused with Arles of Van Gogh fame) - about 25kms away - to check on a free big band swing era concert that I think is on tonight. It seems like a fitting finish to Margaret’s birthday and the right era for her. Ales is a lot more industrialised and touristy than Uzes…. The cafes are more typical of those in Marseille, but it has its own charm. I buy M a heavily reduced periwinkle blue and white pure silk long scarf in the Monoprix - everywhere has sales on. Much like Britain, France is for sale at bargain prices! We stop for coffee and Tony checks out the concert - which turns out to be Friday night…not tonight. A case of me suffering premature speculation!
So we start re-arranging tomorrow’s plans, because there’s so much B wants to see and they only have a few days. Katie, my beautiful stepdaughter, arrives with her bloke Sam this evening and we’re going out for dinner. We wait patiently and crack a bottle of Champagne when they arrive - courtesy of Margaret. The next village is called Aigaliers, an arte-ville de Provence. It’s not much bigger than Bourdiguet but it does have impressive ramparts and nestled in them is a little family Auberge. The terrace is crowded but they find a place for us. There’s an oil cloth table cloth, a string of rope lights, and hot-pink plastic chairs. A middle aged hairy legged woman, smoking a cigar and dragging a toy poodle along on a lead, wants to share our table but she seems to understand my …”Pardon madame, ilya trois autres personnes qui arrivent a bientot.” She walks away puffing on her cheroot….dragging the poodle behind her. I order another bottle of Champagne as the surroundings don’t look very promising. Aaaaah, but the food is superb as it usually is in these little family run restaurants. Daughter manages and Mum cooks….the duck sheds its bones with ease, the legumes are to die for, and I get the last piece of home made apricot and fresh fig tarte…..not usually on the set menu. It is heaven…. Hard to believe anything can top it. Despite B undergoing a mood swing during the evening and becoming petulant for half an hour the celebration is a triumph and Tony doesn’t even mind running a shuttle service home. Margaret stays up until after midnight and declares it the best birthday in a long time. Why can’t all family gatherings be like this? The tension isn’t gone, but at least it’s masked by goodwill.
30/37 - Where's the Guillotine?
Wednesday July 14th
Joyeux quatorze Juillet! It’s Bastille Day - the French National holiday….as big here as July 4th is to Americans. Ever since I knew we were taking this trip - this has been the day I looked forward to most. Not to celebrate Bastille Day is tantamount to treason and punishable by the guillotine. The plan has always been to go into Avignon ( yep…the same Avignon of “Sur Le pont D’Avignon”. There will be fireworks and music and confetti and a full dance orchestre beside the river with an enormous area for dancing. Could anything be more more special than dancing under the stars on a hot night in celebration of a country’s freedom. Magic - something to last a lifetime.
The sisters beg off going…it will be too much for them. I make all the appropriate noises but secretly I am glad they have decided not to come. We spend a lovely morning in Uzes and, after Tony glues himself to the Tour de France, we have an early dinner of French tart with Onions, smoked bacon and Crème Fraiche….kind of a cross between a quiche and a pizza. Tony and I discovered it in Alsace on our last trip. Cheap and wonderfully tasty. Then I ask what time we are going - and Beloved acts as if this is the first time he has heard anything about this - despite the many months we have discussed it. He stars to give reasons why it’s a bad idea. Traffic, drunks, no parking, an expensive hire car, the festivities don’t start till late. All of them are valid and I don’t give a shit about any of them. The truth is, he doesn’t care what I want…he just doesn’t want to go. English decorum means we don’t fight in front of the ladies - so he sulks and I seethe. We sit on the terrace and make small-talk with the sisters…not easy as one is very deaf and the other relates every experience to her time with her husband - but even they wonder why we are not going out to celebrate as planned. Our neighbour Robert calls up to us…The celebrations in Uzes start at 10.30 and there is a big firework display. I can’t argue with Tony when he says fireworks are the same anywhere and Sydney has the best in the world. I can’t explain that the girl inside wants to dance and be held in the moonlight. I wish I didn’t still feel like I’m 25. I wish I knew how to temper passion for everything into something more age appropriate. I wish I didn’t feel cheated, and betrayed, and used. I cry myself to sleep, because I know the chance will never come again and although it is a small thing in the greater scheme of things, it was important to ME! My husband has two distinct personalities, one of which I love more than life. The other man, the stranger sleeping next to me, is a selfish son of a bitch!
Joyeux quatorze Juillet! It’s Bastille Day - the French National holiday….as big here as July 4th is to Americans. Ever since I knew we were taking this trip - this has been the day I looked forward to most. Not to celebrate Bastille Day is tantamount to treason and punishable by the guillotine. The plan has always been to go into Avignon ( yep…the same Avignon of “Sur Le pont D’Avignon”. There will be fireworks and music and confetti and a full dance orchestre beside the river with an enormous area for dancing. Could anything be more more special than dancing under the stars on a hot night in celebration of a country’s freedom. Magic - something to last a lifetime.
The sisters beg off going…it will be too much for them. I make all the appropriate noises but secretly I am glad they have decided not to come. We spend a lovely morning in Uzes and, after Tony glues himself to the Tour de France, we have an early dinner of French tart with Onions, smoked bacon and Crème Fraiche….kind of a cross between a quiche and a pizza. Tony and I discovered it in Alsace on our last trip. Cheap and wonderfully tasty. Then I ask what time we are going - and Beloved acts as if this is the first time he has heard anything about this - despite the many months we have discussed it. He stars to give reasons why it’s a bad idea. Traffic, drunks, no parking, an expensive hire car, the festivities don’t start till late. All of them are valid and I don’t give a shit about any of them. The truth is, he doesn’t care what I want…he just doesn’t want to go. English decorum means we don’t fight in front of the ladies - so he sulks and I seethe. We sit on the terrace and make small-talk with the sisters…not easy as one is very deaf and the other relates every experience to her time with her husband - but even they wonder why we are not going out to celebrate as planned. Our neighbour Robert calls up to us…The celebrations in Uzes start at 10.30 and there is a big firework display. I can’t argue with Tony when he says fireworks are the same anywhere and Sydney has the best in the world. I can’t explain that the girl inside wants to dance and be held in the moonlight. I wish I didn’t still feel like I’m 25. I wish I knew how to temper passion for everything into something more age appropriate. I wish I didn’t feel cheated, and betrayed, and used. I cry myself to sleep, because I know the chance will never come again and although it is a small thing in the greater scheme of things, it was important to ME! My husband has two distinct personalities, one of which I love more than life. The other man, the stranger sleeping next to me, is a selfish son of a bitch!
Day 29/38 - Flying high
Tuesday 13th.
Oscar Hammerstein 111 wrote these lines in Oklahoma “Every night my lovey dove and I, sit alone and talk, and watch a hawk, drawing lazy circles in the sky.” LOVE that image. Cut to:- Morning, Provence, and the scenario is the same…. The swallows are keeping a safe distance from a large hawk. We watch it catching the updrafts and gliding in circles. Jimmy Webb has a song called Asleep On The Wind which talks about the same phenomenon, for we’d swear that the hawk is actually asleep, with no fear of the wind taking it wherever it chooses. I don’t know how long we watch - time is irrelevant. One of us replenishes the coffee, the other brings more bread and apricot jam. It’s tiring work….so we crash out for an hours nap only two hours after getting up.
If there is one thing that stops this experience from being idyllic - it’s the flies. They are everywhere, in their hundreds. They send out scouts to discover what you’re doing and what is the best way to ruin it and then they return in swarms. You can’t leave your coffee to cool…. The flies will turn it into a lido holding a swimming regatta. They’re friendly enough to want to taste the bread or the pate right before you put it in your mouth, and will even offer to clean your teeth for you if you leave your mouth open for longer than a few seconds. French fly sprays have been developed as a form of entertainment for the flies. They scatter and make loud noises which sound uncomfortably like laughter, and then resume what they were doing until the next round of the game. WE have already used a full can of fly spray and I have yet to sight a single dead fly. The alternative to the flies is to keep and windows shut and shutters locked. There’s a rumour that this keeps the house cooler. Such rumour was obviously written by the Lord of the Flies. The house becomes unbearably hot without access to the delightful breeze which blows through the house all hours of the day and night, providing welcome relief from the searing heat.
So, unsuspectingly, you open up the doors and windows - and there are the flies, waiting patiently. Some may have been picnicking on crumbs -some are lurking in the shadows. But within minutes they have taken over the house again and buzz around the fly spray can zzzzing “play the game….play the game.”
I develop my own game. I leave a plate of scraps on the table for the flies to swarm over so they will leave us alone. It works for all of ten minutes….. Then they’re angry that I tried to fool them and form squadrons to dive bomb me. There’s no escape.
In the afternoon we locate the clean linen and make up the beds - deciding to let the sisters choose their own rooms since we know they don’t want to share. Individually they are lovely old ladies….but they don’t get on and never have. At 77 B has always lived alone and is used to doing things her way. M is 81 in two days and still trying to find out who she is after losing the husband who took care of her for 55 years. Tony loves them both - but is also short on patience with them and uses every chance to leave me to entertain them. Already tension is building and they haven’t even arrived yet.
Tony picks his sisters up at Nimes station. I stay home to prepare a special welcoming supper. The table is set on the terrace and the wine is chilled and, despite the fact that they’ve been travelling for 8 hours, both of them are in fine form. We eat chicken so tender it falls off the bone, with lots of salad and bread and fresh fruit and white wine. Both of them love the house and the surroundings and there’s no dispute over rooms. Phew! Perhaps I was worried over nothing. But Tony excuses himself to go to bed early and I am left to entertain the guests, and there’s a growing sense of foreboding as I finally say goodnight. Beloved is happily snoring - oblivious.
Oscar Hammerstein 111 wrote these lines in Oklahoma “Every night my lovey dove and I, sit alone and talk, and watch a hawk, drawing lazy circles in the sky.” LOVE that image. Cut to:- Morning, Provence, and the scenario is the same…. The swallows are keeping a safe distance from a large hawk. We watch it catching the updrafts and gliding in circles. Jimmy Webb has a song called Asleep On The Wind which talks about the same phenomenon, for we’d swear that the hawk is actually asleep, with no fear of the wind taking it wherever it chooses. I don’t know how long we watch - time is irrelevant. One of us replenishes the coffee, the other brings more bread and apricot jam. It’s tiring work….so we crash out for an hours nap only two hours after getting up.
If there is one thing that stops this experience from being idyllic - it’s the flies. They are everywhere, in their hundreds. They send out scouts to discover what you’re doing and what is the best way to ruin it and then they return in swarms. You can’t leave your coffee to cool…. The flies will turn it into a lido holding a swimming regatta. They’re friendly enough to want to taste the bread or the pate right before you put it in your mouth, and will even offer to clean your teeth for you if you leave your mouth open for longer than a few seconds. French fly sprays have been developed as a form of entertainment for the flies. They scatter and make loud noises which sound uncomfortably like laughter, and then resume what they were doing until the next round of the game. WE have already used a full can of fly spray and I have yet to sight a single dead fly. The alternative to the flies is to keep and windows shut and shutters locked. There’s a rumour that this keeps the house cooler. Such rumour was obviously written by the Lord of the Flies. The house becomes unbearably hot without access to the delightful breeze which blows through the house all hours of the day and night, providing welcome relief from the searing heat.
So, unsuspectingly, you open up the doors and windows - and there are the flies, waiting patiently. Some may have been picnicking on crumbs -some are lurking in the shadows. But within minutes they have taken over the house again and buzz around the fly spray can zzzzing “play the game….play the game.”
I develop my own game. I leave a plate of scraps on the table for the flies to swarm over so they will leave us alone. It works for all of ten minutes….. Then they’re angry that I tried to fool them and form squadrons to dive bomb me. There’s no escape.
In the afternoon we locate the clean linen and make up the beds - deciding to let the sisters choose their own rooms since we know they don’t want to share. Individually they are lovely old ladies….but they don’t get on and never have. At 77 B has always lived alone and is used to doing things her way. M is 81 in two days and still trying to find out who she is after losing the husband who took care of her for 55 years. Tony loves them both - but is also short on patience with them and uses every chance to leave me to entertain them. Already tension is building and they haven’t even arrived yet.
Tony picks his sisters up at Nimes station. I stay home to prepare a special welcoming supper. The table is set on the terrace and the wine is chilled and, despite the fact that they’ve been travelling for 8 hours, both of them are in fine form. We eat chicken so tender it falls off the bone, with lots of salad and bread and fresh fruit and white wine. Both of them love the house and the surroundings and there’s no dispute over rooms. Phew! Perhaps I was worried over nothing. But Tony excuses himself to go to bed early and I am left to entertain the guests, and there’s a growing sense of foreboding as I finally say goodnight. Beloved is happily snoring - oblivious.
Day 28/39 - It's a tough life.
Monday July 12th
The sun rises at about 5 am. WE open our eyes, acknowledge its presence, and promptly fall back to sleep until 7.30.
A new week is beginning and we have just 36 hours before the elderly sisters arrive and the family mayhem starts all over again.
We’re finally over being totally brain dead and can examine our surroundings in full, with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons accompanying our treasure hunt.
What a marvellous old place this is. Parts of it date back to the 9th century and even the newest part ( with the exception of the gleaming whitegoods) seems to be dated 1777. It’s a three and a half floor rambling building full of nooks and crannies with beamed and terracotta tiled ceilings. The upstairs lounge has a huge medieval looking fireplace and a feature has been made of an old stone sink around 1,000 years old with deep grooves in the rock worn by the water.
The walls are around 3ft or 90cms thick, and all the windows have thick wooden shutters in various states of decay which lovers of shabby chic would kill for.
The terrace is in shade in the morning….pointing NW to the hills in the distance. In the afternoon it is unbearably hot, but by dinner time (8-9pm) the sun is low enough to have dinner outside and watch the sun set and twilight set in. The swallows make their last pass of the dusky sky to munch on a few midges before returning to their nests, and the cicadas provide a background score which owes more to Stockhausen than Debussy.
Everywhere the colours are those of Provence….shades of yellow and French/lavender blue. Everything is slightly dilapidated…which only adds to the charm….though I am sure Beloved would prefer a simple, modern and minimalist apartment in the city. This old house has all the same elements which I love and Tony hates about our Melbourne house - With the exception of the trees. There are miles and miles of open skies here without many trees - though there is a fabulous tree in the garden with leaves that look like a Poinciana - yet it has blossoms like pink feather pompoms. That, and an orange trumpet vine and a pink Oleander, provide the splashes of colour, and some pink and white wildflowers have grown in the neglected garden. Since the house is only used sporadically during the year (when we leave in August no-one will be here until Christmas) there is no-one to care for the garden, but still you can smell the last remnants of the herb garden….mint and oregano waft on the breeze to fill your nostrils.
What is sad is that the ancient grape vine - which totally covered the lower terrace and the iron balustrade of the upper terrace and captivated me in the early photos I saw - is now no more. It has been eradicated, no trace remains except a new telltale paved area on the lower terrace. I don’t know the reasons for its removal… but I suspect I would have chained myself to it…or quoted the poem from school “Woodman, spare that tree” if I’d been here when it was obliterated. It survived 1,000 years but was no match for a chain saw. How depressing.
The bathroom has stone floors, an open shower like a wet room, and a deep clawfooted bath. Thankfully the hot water service is NOT medieval and I luxuriate in a long shower where no-one is checking on my 155 litre a day ration.
Off to Uzes - and once again the words charming, medieval, myth-like, evocative get to draw overtime for having to work so hard. It truly is a breath-taking little place and parts date back to 419AD. You can taste the history everywhere. A stunning town which hasn’t grown into a monstrous industrial estate with a medieval core, like so many of the French towns. This was the heart of the Duchy that three French lords fought over - each building their own castle or tower. It was the first Duchy in France and the premier town in the region du Gard - (being only a few kms from the Roman aquaduct - the Pont Du Gard). It’s built in a circle, and laneways provide shortcuts through narrow cobbled streets to a town square, ringed with ancient buildings and picturesque cafes. It is so pretty that I desperately wish I could paint - or at least draw well enough to do it justice.
“Deux grands Café Crème”in a little café - and I practise my French which actually goes down well - they understand me and I them as we chat about using the internet and I get the directions to the town’s one and only internet centre discreetly hidden down a side street where its presence will not offend. No McDonald’s (thank God) to provide free WiFi; I’m happy to pay 3 Euros for an hour of catching up. All the cats are well, Kelly has a broken wisdom tooth; there are bills to be paid ( thank God for internet banking) and Melbourne is freezing. I am days behind with the blog, but Provence seems to operate in a different time continuum.
I drag myself away and we return to the supermarket at Montaren…(which really DOES sell everything except for electric fans!) and arm ourselves with new supplies…including 18 litres of Eau Mineral avec Gaz!
Home to our “Mas ancien” and finally we discover the laundry….in a stone cave underneath the house. Fortunately the washer and dryer are anything but medieval so we get some housekeeping done.
Bread and pate and Roquefort and Brie washed down with a local white wine ( expensive at almost 3 euros a bottle….yes…we bought SIX!) and some fresh figs and we crash out for a siesta - luckily it’s a rest day in the Tour de France. The rest of the day is a blur….when you’re “In the moment” you really have no memory of what that moment is. You are just BEING.
The sun rises at about 5 am. WE open our eyes, acknowledge its presence, and promptly fall back to sleep until 7.30.
A new week is beginning and we have just 36 hours before the elderly sisters arrive and the family mayhem starts all over again.
We’re finally over being totally brain dead and can examine our surroundings in full, with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons accompanying our treasure hunt.
What a marvellous old place this is. Parts of it date back to the 9th century and even the newest part ( with the exception of the gleaming whitegoods) seems to be dated 1777. It’s a three and a half floor rambling building full of nooks and crannies with beamed and terracotta tiled ceilings. The upstairs lounge has a huge medieval looking fireplace and a feature has been made of an old stone sink around 1,000 years old with deep grooves in the rock worn by the water.
The walls are around 3ft or 90cms thick, and all the windows have thick wooden shutters in various states of decay which lovers of shabby chic would kill for.
The terrace is in shade in the morning….pointing NW to the hills in the distance. In the afternoon it is unbearably hot, but by dinner time (8-9pm) the sun is low enough to have dinner outside and watch the sun set and twilight set in. The swallows make their last pass of the dusky sky to munch on a few midges before returning to their nests, and the cicadas provide a background score which owes more to Stockhausen than Debussy.
Everywhere the colours are those of Provence….shades of yellow and French/lavender blue. Everything is slightly dilapidated…which only adds to the charm….though I am sure Beloved would prefer a simple, modern and minimalist apartment in the city. This old house has all the same elements which I love and Tony hates about our Melbourne house - With the exception of the trees. There are miles and miles of open skies here without many trees - though there is a fabulous tree in the garden with leaves that look like a Poinciana - yet it has blossoms like pink feather pompoms. That, and an orange trumpet vine and a pink Oleander, provide the splashes of colour, and some pink and white wildflowers have grown in the neglected garden. Since the house is only used sporadically during the year (when we leave in August no-one will be here until Christmas) there is no-one to care for the garden, but still you can smell the last remnants of the herb garden….mint and oregano waft on the breeze to fill your nostrils.
What is sad is that the ancient grape vine - which totally covered the lower terrace and the iron balustrade of the upper terrace and captivated me in the early photos I saw - is now no more. It has been eradicated, no trace remains except a new telltale paved area on the lower terrace. I don’t know the reasons for its removal… but I suspect I would have chained myself to it…or quoted the poem from school “Woodman, spare that tree” if I’d been here when it was obliterated. It survived 1,000 years but was no match for a chain saw. How depressing.
The bathroom has stone floors, an open shower like a wet room, and a deep clawfooted bath. Thankfully the hot water service is NOT medieval and I luxuriate in a long shower where no-one is checking on my 155 litre a day ration.
Off to Uzes - and once again the words charming, medieval, myth-like, evocative get to draw overtime for having to work so hard. It truly is a breath-taking little place and parts date back to 419AD. You can taste the history everywhere. A stunning town which hasn’t grown into a monstrous industrial estate with a medieval core, like so many of the French towns. This was the heart of the Duchy that three French lords fought over - each building their own castle or tower. It was the first Duchy in France and the premier town in the region du Gard - (being only a few kms from the Roman aquaduct - the Pont Du Gard). It’s built in a circle, and laneways provide shortcuts through narrow cobbled streets to a town square, ringed with ancient buildings and picturesque cafes. It is so pretty that I desperately wish I could paint - or at least draw well enough to do it justice.
“Deux grands Café Crème”in a little café - and I practise my French which actually goes down well - they understand me and I them as we chat about using the internet and I get the directions to the town’s one and only internet centre discreetly hidden down a side street where its presence will not offend. No McDonald’s (thank God) to provide free WiFi; I’m happy to pay 3 Euros for an hour of catching up. All the cats are well, Kelly has a broken wisdom tooth; there are bills to be paid ( thank God for internet banking) and Melbourne is freezing. I am days behind with the blog, but Provence seems to operate in a different time continuum.
I drag myself away and we return to the supermarket at Montaren…(which really DOES sell everything except for electric fans!) and arm ourselves with new supplies…including 18 litres of Eau Mineral avec Gaz!
Home to our “Mas ancien” and finally we discover the laundry….in a stone cave underneath the house. Fortunately the washer and dryer are anything but medieval so we get some housekeeping done.
Bread and pate and Roquefort and Brie washed down with a local white wine ( expensive at almost 3 euros a bottle….yes…we bought SIX!) and some fresh figs and we crash out for a siesta - luckily it’s a rest day in the Tour de France. The rest of the day is a blur….when you’re “In the moment” you really have no memory of what that moment is. You are just BEING.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
days 26/27 - 41/40 - Vive La France - mais ou est elle?
Sat July 10th.
WE rise at 5.30 and make George Clooney Nespresso coffees. Gotta get one of those machines! St Pancras is such an imposing building and only the new library separates it from our hotel….so we walk, dragging our cases, and join the mayhem that is Eurostar. Bacon Baguette and more bad coffee provide some sustenance as the trains are all in at the same time and boarding is chaotic. But only four coaches go all the way through to Avignon so it’s less stressful for us. We’re in couch 4, in Pullman type seats facing two others with a table between them. The English couple opposite us sit in deafening silence and, through the six hour journey, Tony and I individually create the same scenario from their body language…. She’s anal and anxious; he’s withdrawn and non communicative. Much of his time is spent staring into space and withdrawing if she so much as touches his arm. It’s poignant in a heartbreaking way. She wants France to fix everything between them….to give them a fresh start; he knows it’s hopeless - the love is gone and he doesn’t know how to bring it back, and he’s stuck on this fatal trip, wishing he were somewhere else. It’s so very sad. Meanwhile Beloved and I touch and giggle and listen to Jazz on the walkman disc because we have one headphone each as we did when we were in Paris 7 years ago and he proposed. No MP 3 players then…so he has kept his in his case while we share.
Six hours goes quickly but we’re not prepared for the chaos of Avignon. It’s stinking hot and we have to queue for tickets and then for the transfer bus to TGV where we’ll pick up our car. A young well to do Englishman jumps the queue without a ticket and I name and shame him, furious that he of privilege should behave so dishonourably. At first he tries to defend himself but quickly realises I have his number. We have to stand on the bus and are thrown all over the place - but when we alight at the TGV he comes to me and apologises and is genuinely ashamed. There is perhaps hope for the human race.
The car hire places are in turmoil with roughly 300 customers arriving at the same time. Our car has been pre-booked for months but it’s still a 2 hour wait. The one joyous thing is that they are all out of automatic Vw Golfs and have no more small automatics so we are upgraded to a Mercedes….OH MY GOD…it’s beautiful, it’s big, it’s new, it’s AIRCONDITIONED! I want to live in this car for the rest of the summer!
We follow Mal and Christine’s instructions and find our way to Bourdiguet - but make three false attempts to find the house. The fact that our stay is a gift from someone I’m mentoring makes it doubly special, and I remember that when we finally arrive, open the bottom terrace door and are delighted by the bedroom….. Then climb the stairs to a dark and musty smelling lounge area with no kitchen to speak of, and further up the stairs to a huge bedroom with a tiny bathroom. This can’t be all, surely? No it isn’t! We’ve seen less than half the house. Unlocking a little blue door, the rest is revealed to us in all it’s rustic charm and we love it. We choose the upstairs bedroom because it’s opposite the bathroom with its claw foot bath and it has French doors to the balcony.
We cut back on the road to the supermarket and arm ourselves with Vin, Eau Minerale, Fromages, pain, jambon et terrine du pays, ack home we stuff ourselves with food….find what bedding we can ( the cleaners have apparently not been doing the laundry - or their job) and fall into bed. The sun is just setting…an amazing buttery yellow. The light in Provence is so like our beloved Perth. We are asleep before the sun disappears. We are in France - and we have six weeks to revel in the wonder of it.
Sunday July 11th.
It’s my beautiful eldest daughter’s birthday today and there’s no way I can reach her. Everything is closed and there’s no reception on the mobile. I guess it’s not that important to call - she knows how much I love her.
We sit on the terrace and drink coffee and eat French bread with butter and apricot conserve. We are knackered from lugging our baggage backwards and forwards in the heat. Tony especially is aching all over and looking quite ill. I am in pain with my leg hip and knee from all the stairs. We really are a couple of old crocks this morning. But the spirit is still young.
It’s hot already by 8.30 am. July/ August is not the most sensible time to come to Provence!
From the terrace we can see the distant hills - the pencil pines, the ancient red tiled roofs of the barn next door and beyond it the little chapel….no longer used. We watch a huge flock of swallows ducking, diving, gracefully soaring. We’re happy to do nothing today except just BE!
The house is part of the original farmhouse and it’s previous owners live next door. Robert speaks very good English but I practise my French on him anyway as he fixes the TV so that we can watch the Tour de France. I am determined to speak French like a native - of New Guinea!
We catnap and graze on what is left of the food and finish the two bottles of mineral water which have lasted less than 24 hours. Next time I’ll buy in bulk. Somehow we manage to stay awake for the world Cup Final but it’s a shocking match and we fall into bed once more completely exhausted. WE’ve done so much the past three weeks and it’s finally catching up with us. Sleep…… always the best medicine.
WE rise at 5.30 and make George Clooney Nespresso coffees. Gotta get one of those machines! St Pancras is such an imposing building and only the new library separates it from our hotel….so we walk, dragging our cases, and join the mayhem that is Eurostar. Bacon Baguette and more bad coffee provide some sustenance as the trains are all in at the same time and boarding is chaotic. But only four coaches go all the way through to Avignon so it’s less stressful for us. We’re in couch 4, in Pullman type seats facing two others with a table between them. The English couple opposite us sit in deafening silence and, through the six hour journey, Tony and I individually create the same scenario from their body language…. She’s anal and anxious; he’s withdrawn and non communicative. Much of his time is spent staring into space and withdrawing if she so much as touches his arm. It’s poignant in a heartbreaking way. She wants France to fix everything between them….to give them a fresh start; he knows it’s hopeless - the love is gone and he doesn’t know how to bring it back, and he’s stuck on this fatal trip, wishing he were somewhere else. It’s so very sad. Meanwhile Beloved and I touch and giggle and listen to Jazz on the walkman disc because we have one headphone each as we did when we were in Paris 7 years ago and he proposed. No MP 3 players then…so he has kept his in his case while we share.
Six hours goes quickly but we’re not prepared for the chaos of Avignon. It’s stinking hot and we have to queue for tickets and then for the transfer bus to TGV where we’ll pick up our car. A young well to do Englishman jumps the queue without a ticket and I name and shame him, furious that he of privilege should behave so dishonourably. At first he tries to defend himself but quickly realises I have his number. We have to stand on the bus and are thrown all over the place - but when we alight at the TGV he comes to me and apologises and is genuinely ashamed. There is perhaps hope for the human race.
The car hire places are in turmoil with roughly 300 customers arriving at the same time. Our car has been pre-booked for months but it’s still a 2 hour wait. The one joyous thing is that they are all out of automatic Vw Golfs and have no more small automatics so we are upgraded to a Mercedes….OH MY GOD…it’s beautiful, it’s big, it’s new, it’s AIRCONDITIONED! I want to live in this car for the rest of the summer!
We follow Mal and Christine’s instructions and find our way to Bourdiguet - but make three false attempts to find the house. The fact that our stay is a gift from someone I’m mentoring makes it doubly special, and I remember that when we finally arrive, open the bottom terrace door and are delighted by the bedroom….. Then climb the stairs to a dark and musty smelling lounge area with no kitchen to speak of, and further up the stairs to a huge bedroom with a tiny bathroom. This can’t be all, surely? No it isn’t! We’ve seen less than half the house. Unlocking a little blue door, the rest is revealed to us in all it’s rustic charm and we love it. We choose the upstairs bedroom because it’s opposite the bathroom with its claw foot bath and it has French doors to the balcony.
We cut back on the road to the supermarket and arm ourselves with Vin, Eau Minerale, Fromages, pain, jambon et terrine du pays, ack home we stuff ourselves with food….find what bedding we can ( the cleaners have apparently not been doing the laundry - or their job) and fall into bed. The sun is just setting…an amazing buttery yellow. The light in Provence is so like our beloved Perth. We are asleep before the sun disappears. We are in France - and we have six weeks to revel in the wonder of it.
Sunday July 11th.
It’s my beautiful eldest daughter’s birthday today and there’s no way I can reach her. Everything is closed and there’s no reception on the mobile. I guess it’s not that important to call - she knows how much I love her.
We sit on the terrace and drink coffee and eat French bread with butter and apricot conserve. We are knackered from lugging our baggage backwards and forwards in the heat. Tony especially is aching all over and looking quite ill. I am in pain with my leg hip and knee from all the stairs. We really are a couple of old crocks this morning. But the spirit is still young.
It’s hot already by 8.30 am. July/ August is not the most sensible time to come to Provence!
From the terrace we can see the distant hills - the pencil pines, the ancient red tiled roofs of the barn next door and beyond it the little chapel….no longer used. We watch a huge flock of swallows ducking, diving, gracefully soaring. We’re happy to do nothing today except just BE!
The house is part of the original farmhouse and it’s previous owners live next door. Robert speaks very good English but I practise my French on him anyway as he fixes the TV so that we can watch the Tour de France. I am determined to speak French like a native - of New Guinea!
We catnap and graze on what is left of the food and finish the two bottles of mineral water which have lasted less than 24 hours. Next time I’ll buy in bulk. Somehow we manage to stay awake for the world Cup Final but it’s a shocking match and we fall into bed once more completely exhausted. WE’ve done so much the past three weeks and it’s finally catching up with us. Sleep…… always the best medicine.
Day 25/42 - Trains and other journeys.
Friday 9th July
Off to London this morning - France is just a day and a train ride away. It still blows me away that you can get on the train in London, and get out in Paris, having travelled under the English Channel. But there are more joys before that.
Margaret drives us to Winchfield station. She’s sad to see us go - even though she will join us in France in four days time.
We wait on the platform, surprised at the number of people with cameras poised. What’s going on? We are answered within minutes as a marvellous old steam train pulling 12 carriages pulls in to the platform opposite. Click go the cameras - all the train and photography enthusiasts are out in force. I am so gob smacked I almost forget to take a picture myself. This is how I remember travelling, in the days when we toured with my Mum and Dad. Early morning train calls, checking out of digs…the noise of the steam, the smell of the coal, the grey smut all over us. Oh, it was truly wonderful in a way that those who don’t remember steam trains could never understood. Rod McKuen has a great poem called The Art of Catching trains which starts “I came through the clothesline maze of childhood…….” Love that. My childhood maze was props and skips and band calls at every theatre - but the train was ever constant.
Margaret tells us that last year the Flying Scotsman stopped at Winchfield. This locomotive is called Sir Lamiel in royal fashion. I wouldn’t have missed this for quids.
Once in London we check into the Novotel ( another online special at less than 50%) where we are upgraded to an executive corner room with a lounge area. Maybe it was my smile or our easy going response when told the room was not ready.
We dump the bags and head off to meet my cousin Sue…who swears we have not seen each other since I was twelve. We’re meeting at a swish Nouvelle Cuisine ( didn’t know it still existed) restaurant in Primrose Hill….very swank, but all style and no substance - and horrendously expensive even though we are splitting the bill.
Aaah, but the company is worth any price. Sue and Ivan fit so well into our life it’s as if they have always been there. Ivan works in Feature films…an Academy Award winning sound engineer. He and Sue met on Ring of Bright Water back in the sixties. Love that film and book…. It has fostered in me a deep affection for otters. Sue and I pick up where we left off 50 years or so ago. Ivan and Tony hit it off immediately. He’s a sweetheart and, like beloved, looks younger than his years…..he has a childlike enthusiasm, wears a panama hat and drives a soft top E type jaguar with the top down. Heads turn as they drive down Regent’s Park Parade. More surprises are in store. Ivan is from Newquay…I discovered that about three years ago. And we went to the same ( but separate and non co-educational) school But I now learn that he also lived in Bonython Road, just a few doors from me….AT THE SAME TIME Yet we never met. What’s more, his dad built the house I lived in and where I first started writing.
And they tell me the story of how Ivan knew his way to Sue’s parents’ house the first time he drove there. It turns out he was there, at the bottom of their driveway years before with a boy scout jamboree. Sue even took a photo of him when she was a girl….and discovered it still in the attic of her parents house. Serendipity? Fate? Or some divine plan? If you plotted that in a storyline people would groan and think it corny - truth is more cliched than fiction - and almost always more interesting.
We hate to part….the promise of real friendship is so tantalising - and I say “Come to France ….stay a few days.” Sue hesitates but Ivan says “Why not? We could drive down.” So perhaps we will see them in a week or two. Fingers crossed.
Tonight we took Tony’s sister Bernardine to the theatre. The Arts theatre is in the centre of the west end just off Leicester Square. It has introduced some brilliant shows over the years. This was NOT one of them. Lilies of the Land is about the girls who fought the war by helping the farmers in the Land Army. It got rave revues but is doing lousy business. Sometimes the public IS right. It should have been moving and endearing but was neither. My one piece of theatre in London and it was totally forgettable. Such a shame. Supper in the Spaghetti House across the road and home for a few hours sleep. Tomorrow ……France. J’espere qui ce vacance est le plus meilleur du monde!
Off to London this morning - France is just a day and a train ride away. It still blows me away that you can get on the train in London, and get out in Paris, having travelled under the English Channel. But there are more joys before that.
Margaret drives us to Winchfield station. She’s sad to see us go - even though she will join us in France in four days time.
We wait on the platform, surprised at the number of people with cameras poised. What’s going on? We are answered within minutes as a marvellous old steam train pulling 12 carriages pulls in to the platform opposite. Click go the cameras - all the train and photography enthusiasts are out in force. I am so gob smacked I almost forget to take a picture myself. This is how I remember travelling, in the days when we toured with my Mum and Dad. Early morning train calls, checking out of digs…the noise of the steam, the smell of the coal, the grey smut all over us. Oh, it was truly wonderful in a way that those who don’t remember steam trains could never understood. Rod McKuen has a great poem called The Art of Catching trains which starts “I came through the clothesline maze of childhood…….” Love that. My childhood maze was props and skips and band calls at every theatre - but the train was ever constant.
Margaret tells us that last year the Flying Scotsman stopped at Winchfield. This locomotive is called Sir Lamiel in royal fashion. I wouldn’t have missed this for quids.
Once in London we check into the Novotel ( another online special at less than 50%) where we are upgraded to an executive corner room with a lounge area. Maybe it was my smile or our easy going response when told the room was not ready.
We dump the bags and head off to meet my cousin Sue…who swears we have not seen each other since I was twelve. We’re meeting at a swish Nouvelle Cuisine ( didn’t know it still existed) restaurant in Primrose Hill….very swank, but all style and no substance - and horrendously expensive even though we are splitting the bill.
Aaah, but the company is worth any price. Sue and Ivan fit so well into our life it’s as if they have always been there. Ivan works in Feature films…an Academy Award winning sound engineer. He and Sue met on Ring of Bright Water back in the sixties. Love that film and book…. It has fostered in me a deep affection for otters. Sue and I pick up where we left off 50 years or so ago. Ivan and Tony hit it off immediately. He’s a sweetheart and, like beloved, looks younger than his years…..he has a childlike enthusiasm, wears a panama hat and drives a soft top E type jaguar with the top down. Heads turn as they drive down Regent’s Park Parade. More surprises are in store. Ivan is from Newquay…I discovered that about three years ago. And we went to the same ( but separate and non co-educational) school But I now learn that he also lived in Bonython Road, just a few doors from me….AT THE SAME TIME Yet we never met. What’s more, his dad built the house I lived in and where I first started writing.
And they tell me the story of how Ivan knew his way to Sue’s parents’ house the first time he drove there. It turns out he was there, at the bottom of their driveway years before with a boy scout jamboree. Sue even took a photo of him when she was a girl….and discovered it still in the attic of her parents house. Serendipity? Fate? Or some divine plan? If you plotted that in a storyline people would groan and think it corny - truth is more cliched than fiction - and almost always more interesting.
We hate to part….the promise of real friendship is so tantalising - and I say “Come to France ….stay a few days.” Sue hesitates but Ivan says “Why not? We could drive down.” So perhaps we will see them in a week or two. Fingers crossed.
Tonight we took Tony’s sister Bernardine to the theatre. The Arts theatre is in the centre of the west end just off Leicester Square. It has introduced some brilliant shows over the years. This was NOT one of them. Lilies of the Land is about the girls who fought the war by helping the farmers in the Land Army. It got rave revues but is doing lousy business. Sometimes the public IS right. It should have been moving and endearing but was neither. My one piece of theatre in London and it was totally forgettable. Such a shame. Supper in the Spaghetti House across the road and home for a few hours sleep. Tomorrow ……France. J’espere qui ce vacance est le plus meilleur du monde!
Monday, July 12, 2010
You can't go home again
Wednesday July 7th.
They say you can’t go home again…but that’s precisely what I’m doing today. Tony has made his pilgramage in the past few weeks….this is mine.
So, after another sumptuous breakfast….this time in the long family kitchen or day room (It’s grey day with light drizzle….the first we’ve seen in almost three weeks) we load the car and feel as if we are leaving real friends.
We’re off to Newquay - once a quiet and beautiful Cornish family seaside town - now a holiday mecca and venue for schoolies week ( Think The Gold Coast!) I am told to expect Blackpool, so I am armed and resilient.
From the ages of eight to fourteen Newquay was my home and everything I remember that was good about my childhood is linked to that one place. WE first went there when I was only 5 ½ and my Dad was the young comedian in a show which actually starred two west end performers. They were a dud - my Dad was a huge success; they were fired and he was made the star of the show. It was the first summer I remember spending with my Granpa Charlie and Granma Ella, my Mum’s parents - who were also a well known act in the variety theatres and played the Palladium, London’s premier variety theatre. ( My Mum played it while she was only 11). We lved in a big white house overlooking Porth beach and it was an endless summer.
Two years later we returned - my Dad as the star of the summer show Gaytime at a little theatre called The Cosy Nook, right on the beach in the centre of town. Once every season Kevin and I would perform with my Dad in a midnight matinee for charity. He became the town celebrity and locals bought up the last night tickets of the season months in advance. He always ended the season with a parody of These Foolish Things pertinent to the town. Later I copied it for my own Act.
It was the town where I had my first crush on a teacher - graduated to high school, was sexually abused by the husbands in TWO separate families paid to look after us (thank god it was just hands under the covers) Received my first French kiss from a boy called Michael Cornish, kept a hedgehog as a pet, drank milk straight from the cow with a warm froth of cream on the top; ate the best Cornish pasties on earth ( until my Mum learned to cook them) from a shop called Hooper’s; walked the mile and a half up the tree shaded path to St Columb Minor Primary school with my brother Kevin - the hedgerows were full of blackberries and we would stuff ourselves with Fruit as we walked. It was where Adrian, my first boyfriend, played drums for Dad’s show, and I wanted him to notice me because he was always looking at one of the chorus girls who didn’t like me It was where the theatre company played beach cricket every week with one of the major hotels on Lusty Glaze beach….toughly 200 steps down from the top of the cliff. The hotels would bring staff laden with tea urns and scones and cream and climb all the way down and all the way back up again. We had a beach hut for the summer and virtually lived there till it was time for dad to go to work. I can still taste the cold pork sausage and HP sauce sandwiches! My parents were happy then and all who knew her in the following fifty years were regaled with stories of Newquay, It was a magic time of innocence and love - and I was going back there to say one final goodbye.
We stopped at Taunton for a quick visit with the last of Tony’s nephews and his bohemian wife…. We shortchanged them I’m afraid as I was impatient.
Then we drove, and when the signs started to show Newquay, I felt queasy in my stomach. The signpost said St Columb Minor and I thought I saw my old school. I remembered Jimmy Rushton was the teacher I idolised and Mister Golly was the headmaster ( I had to convince Beloved I wasn’t joking). Then down a road I didn’t remember and there’s the gorgeous manor hotel…. We check in, drop the luggage in the attic bedroom, and drive to Newquay. So much is new…but the Barrowfields are still there, and so is the Kilbirnie Hotel and I remember Ken and Eva Barlowe and the fancy dress nights and Beetle Drives they threw for guests ( Does anyone except me remember what the game of Beetle is?) This was the fifties….life was simpler - yes, in many ways it was better. Into Newquay itself, driving round the streets - so many of the beautiful grey stone buildings with their distinctive French look are there - but now the facades are garish and lit with neon signs. The average age seems to be about 17 and all are in wet suits with surfboards….not like the days when we had curved woorden body boards and wet suits were a thing for cissies.
My old high school has gone, and so has the Cosy Nook Theatre and the Rep Theatre and there is no summer season any more - but there’s the entrance to the Newquay Football club where I would go with my whole family to support the team and mostly because I lusted after the Pollard twins David and ???? (Adam? Alan?) Identical blonde blue-eyed twins - Cornish Gods, too beautiful to be real. God, how I wanted to speak to them, but I was too shy. I remember my address - 51 Bonython Road. I was in High School by then….an all girls’ school. The headmistress was an old hawk called Miss Wood. In the lunch break we girls would dance to Gramaphone records in the assembly Hall. Mrs Davies cultivated my lifelong love of history by getting the form to act out Hannibal crossing the alps. The teachers wore black academic gowns and I won the form prize for both Form 1A and 2A - Leather bound books with the school crest on them. I still have them. It caused a furore when I - at age 12 - chose Edgar Alan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination!
The memories come flooding back, and I have no need to see anymore . We head for the hotel and a wonderful dinner and then watch the World Cup in the bar. It’s friendly and jovial but something is niggling in my head. Where is Porth House? Where is Miss Spence’s sweet shop and post office? Why don’t I remember this very grand house? And then I remember….. I’m in the wrong road - and this is the house that used to be largely hidden from sight where the film star Anne Todd and her husband Nigel Tangye summered with daughters Francesca and Lucinda…. Lucinda was the first girl I ever knew to own a horse and I so wanted to be invited into that house but I never was. Now I’m sleeping here - courtesy of a special rate through Late Rooms.com. Tomorrow I’ll find Porth Bean Road. The past is waiting just around the corner.
Thursday 8th.
And there it is - it hasn’t moved…it hasn’t even really changed, not like Newquay or so many other places in my life. Only I am different.
We fortify ourselves with a great breakfast looking out on the croquet lawn and the bay below….golden sand and the little bridge leading to the island where so many lovers trysts took place. I say a silent prayer for my friend Martin, who brought his wife back to this special place where they fell in love, just months before her death. We get in the car - drive to the beach - and running parallel to Porth way we find Porth Bean Road.
There’s Porth House, looking nowhere near as grand as I remember - and a sign indicating the site of the old post office… All Cornish white wash and slate. I recognise the leadlight bay window and realise the connection to the leadlight bays in my house now in the hills. It was the post office and a sweet shop and Kevin and I spent sixpence each a week on lollies there. What was her name - The lady who ran the shop who seemed old to us but was probably in her thirties. Was it Miss Spence? I remember I loved Bullseyes that were kept in a big glass jar on the counter. Porth would be a worthy location for Doc Martin, except it’s smaller and a more eclectic mix. I take photos…. Though I know I will never look at them. Then up the road that Kevin and I travelled each day. We stop at what I thought was my old school…..but it isn’t…though there’s a new primary school next to it. “New” meaning 40 years or so old. Bitterly disappointed I tell Tony to drive on. Then…only a hundred yards or so on - there is is - in all it’s Victorian Austerity- St Columb Minor Primary School - and there’s the window to my classroom - and a parking area ( it’s now business units) that used to be the sports field where Kevin excelled at everything while I had my head stuck in books and tried to ignore the boys teasing me because I already wore a 36C bra at age 11.
I take more photographs…and then I start to cry - I cry because I can’t bring back my dead brother or parents - and I barely know that girl any more. And because, finally, this really is goodbye. I cry all the way to Truro and beyond as we travel back to Hartney Witney - and Beloved silently sends waves of love to me. Mission accomplished. Don’t look back.
They say you can’t go home again…but that’s precisely what I’m doing today. Tony has made his pilgramage in the past few weeks….this is mine.
So, after another sumptuous breakfast….this time in the long family kitchen or day room (It’s grey day with light drizzle….the first we’ve seen in almost three weeks) we load the car and feel as if we are leaving real friends.
We’re off to Newquay - once a quiet and beautiful Cornish family seaside town - now a holiday mecca and venue for schoolies week ( Think The Gold Coast!) I am told to expect Blackpool, so I am armed and resilient.
From the ages of eight to fourteen Newquay was my home and everything I remember that was good about my childhood is linked to that one place. WE first went there when I was only 5 ½ and my Dad was the young comedian in a show which actually starred two west end performers. They were a dud - my Dad was a huge success; they were fired and he was made the star of the show. It was the first summer I remember spending with my Granpa Charlie and Granma Ella, my Mum’s parents - who were also a well known act in the variety theatres and played the Palladium, London’s premier variety theatre. ( My Mum played it while she was only 11). We lved in a big white house overlooking Porth beach and it was an endless summer.
Two years later we returned - my Dad as the star of the summer show Gaytime at a little theatre called The Cosy Nook, right on the beach in the centre of town. Once every season Kevin and I would perform with my Dad in a midnight matinee for charity. He became the town celebrity and locals bought up the last night tickets of the season months in advance. He always ended the season with a parody of These Foolish Things pertinent to the town. Later I copied it for my own Act.
It was the town where I had my first crush on a teacher - graduated to high school, was sexually abused by the husbands in TWO separate families paid to look after us (thank god it was just hands under the covers) Received my first French kiss from a boy called Michael Cornish, kept a hedgehog as a pet, drank milk straight from the cow with a warm froth of cream on the top; ate the best Cornish pasties on earth ( until my Mum learned to cook them) from a shop called Hooper’s; walked the mile and a half up the tree shaded path to St Columb Minor Primary school with my brother Kevin - the hedgerows were full of blackberries and we would stuff ourselves with Fruit as we walked. It was where Adrian, my first boyfriend, played drums for Dad’s show, and I wanted him to notice me because he was always looking at one of the chorus girls who didn’t like me It was where the theatre company played beach cricket every week with one of the major hotels on Lusty Glaze beach….toughly 200 steps down from the top of the cliff. The hotels would bring staff laden with tea urns and scones and cream and climb all the way down and all the way back up again. We had a beach hut for the summer and virtually lived there till it was time for dad to go to work. I can still taste the cold pork sausage and HP sauce sandwiches! My parents were happy then and all who knew her in the following fifty years were regaled with stories of Newquay, It was a magic time of innocence and love - and I was going back there to say one final goodbye.
We stopped at Taunton for a quick visit with the last of Tony’s nephews and his bohemian wife…. We shortchanged them I’m afraid as I was impatient.
Then we drove, and when the signs started to show Newquay, I felt queasy in my stomach. The signpost said St Columb Minor and I thought I saw my old school. I remembered Jimmy Rushton was the teacher I idolised and Mister Golly was the headmaster ( I had to convince Beloved I wasn’t joking). Then down a road I didn’t remember and there’s the gorgeous manor hotel…. We check in, drop the luggage in the attic bedroom, and drive to Newquay. So much is new…but the Barrowfields are still there, and so is the Kilbirnie Hotel and I remember Ken and Eva Barlowe and the fancy dress nights and Beetle Drives they threw for guests ( Does anyone except me remember what the game of Beetle is?) This was the fifties….life was simpler - yes, in many ways it was better. Into Newquay itself, driving round the streets - so many of the beautiful grey stone buildings with their distinctive French look are there - but now the facades are garish and lit with neon signs. The average age seems to be about 17 and all are in wet suits with surfboards….not like the days when we had curved woorden body boards and wet suits were a thing for cissies.
My old high school has gone, and so has the Cosy Nook Theatre and the Rep Theatre and there is no summer season any more - but there’s the entrance to the Newquay Football club where I would go with my whole family to support the team and mostly because I lusted after the Pollard twins David and ???? (Adam? Alan?) Identical blonde blue-eyed twins - Cornish Gods, too beautiful to be real. God, how I wanted to speak to them, but I was too shy. I remember my address - 51 Bonython Road. I was in High School by then….an all girls’ school. The headmistress was an old hawk called Miss Wood. In the lunch break we girls would dance to Gramaphone records in the assembly Hall. Mrs Davies cultivated my lifelong love of history by getting the form to act out Hannibal crossing the alps. The teachers wore black academic gowns and I won the form prize for both Form 1A and 2A - Leather bound books with the school crest on them. I still have them. It caused a furore when I - at age 12 - chose Edgar Alan Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination!
The memories come flooding back, and I have no need to see anymore . We head for the hotel and a wonderful dinner and then watch the World Cup in the bar. It’s friendly and jovial but something is niggling in my head. Where is Porth House? Where is Miss Spence’s sweet shop and post office? Why don’t I remember this very grand house? And then I remember….. I’m in the wrong road - and this is the house that used to be largely hidden from sight where the film star Anne Todd and her husband Nigel Tangye summered with daughters Francesca and Lucinda…. Lucinda was the first girl I ever knew to own a horse and I so wanted to be invited into that house but I never was. Now I’m sleeping here - courtesy of a special rate through Late Rooms.com. Tomorrow I’ll find Porth Bean Road. The past is waiting just around the corner.
Thursday 8th.
And there it is - it hasn’t moved…it hasn’t even really changed, not like Newquay or so many other places in my life. Only I am different.
We fortify ourselves with a great breakfast looking out on the croquet lawn and the bay below….golden sand and the little bridge leading to the island where so many lovers trysts took place. I say a silent prayer for my friend Martin, who brought his wife back to this special place where they fell in love, just months before her death. We get in the car - drive to the beach - and running parallel to Porth way we find Porth Bean Road.
There’s Porth House, looking nowhere near as grand as I remember - and a sign indicating the site of the old post office… All Cornish white wash and slate. I recognise the leadlight bay window and realise the connection to the leadlight bays in my house now in the hills. It was the post office and a sweet shop and Kevin and I spent sixpence each a week on lollies there. What was her name - The lady who ran the shop who seemed old to us but was probably in her thirties. Was it Miss Spence? I remember I loved Bullseyes that were kept in a big glass jar on the counter. Porth would be a worthy location for Doc Martin, except it’s smaller and a more eclectic mix. I take photos…. Though I know I will never look at them. Then up the road that Kevin and I travelled each day. We stop at what I thought was my old school…..but it isn’t…though there’s a new primary school next to it. “New” meaning 40 years or so old. Bitterly disappointed I tell Tony to drive on. Then…only a hundred yards or so on - there is is - in all it’s Victorian Austerity- St Columb Minor Primary School - and there’s the window to my classroom - and a parking area ( it’s now business units) that used to be the sports field where Kevin excelled at everything while I had my head stuck in books and tried to ignore the boys teasing me because I already wore a 36C bra at age 11.
I take more photographs…and then I start to cry - I cry because I can’t bring back my dead brother or parents - and I barely know that girl any more. And because, finally, this really is goodbye. I cry all the way to Truro and beyond as we travel back to Hartney Witney - and Beloved silently sends waves of love to me. Mission accomplished. Don’t look back.
Day 22/45- Farliegh Awesome
Tuesday July 7th.
It’s 5.10am, but already it’s daylight and a clear blue sky beckons through the open velux skylight in the sloping roof/wall of our timeless room. One of the loveliest things about waking up in England is the welcoming chorus of the songbirds. Australian birds are fabulously colourful, but for the most part their songs are raucous and squawky, discordant and confronting - much like Australia itself. That’s part of the attraction.
But in England songbirds are just that. They serenade you….thrushes, nightingales, blackbirds create oratorios for your delight. Two blackbirds are sitting on the roof and singing to me like a Lennon/McCartney composition…..and it’s time to get up.
The ONLY thing to complain about in this magical barn in Farleigh Wick is the water pressure in the tiny shower. It trickles out as if afraid of bruising your skin. But I manage to wash my hair ( which has looked like a fuzz ball the whole time in England) and hurry downstairs because I can see a charming table set for breakfast in the garden with its deck, and water feature ponds and big summerhouse filled with slightly Moroccan couches and an old gramophone - the whole scene is like something from a Merchant/Ivory production.
Carol…..our wonderful hostess…has offered a feast of fresh fruit, juices, cereals and a full English breakfast so we stuff ourselves with bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast from a little silver toast rack. It’s sublime. We’re so relaxed we want to sleep again. Is it time for bed yet?
There are two exuberant liver and white springer spaniels who are not allowed in the house. They’re hunting dogs for when Peter goes to shoot pheasant or even rabbits I guess. They’re desperate for a game and so I get conned into throwing their tennis ball for them. Dutifully they bring it back, tails wagging furiously. When it is temporarily lost in long grass they bring me a crab apple from the old gnarled tree instead and it bounces just as well as the tennis ball - perhaps a hint for Wimbledon next year!
We head off into the little town of Bradford on Avon. Tony says the patron saint of travellers always watches us. If we’d stayed in Bath itself we would never have known about this stunning little town on the river. But because Bath was full we had to go further afield.
Through winding streets, some of them cobbled, we ooh and aah at everything from Tudor to Georgian buildings, wondrous old pubs, and laneways with names like The Shambles ( Previously saved as a name for my side of the bedroom!) filled with leadlight windowed cottages and shops and geranium filled window boxes. We have morning tea - stilled stuffed from breakfast - in Britain’s oldest tearooms, and also its best - awarded for the last seven years. There are 32 different kinds of tea on the menu - not counting the blends you can request. Bliss.
The afternoon is spent lazing on big leather couches watching the tour de France in REAL time instead of 2 am. Then we head for Bath again - knowing that there is still at least six hours of daylight ahead of us.
Bath tugs at our heart strings even more strongly this time…and I KNOW I could live here happily if it weren’t for the bloody English weather ( the fantastic summer is trying to fool us). We walk through the parks and admire the Georgian and Victorian bandstands and fountains…. Oak and Rowan trees line our paths…and the chestnut are starting to appear on the chestnut trees; and of course there is always a silver birch somewhere in the background. It’s warm…and the breeze is lyrical. We meet up with Rachel and Mike and the kids….such a joy to see them again…. Ben has grown so tall. It’s Graduation day and so most of the restaurants are full but we manage some pizzas and a bottle of BAD Argentinian wine before parting, promising to see each other again…but who knows when.
Then we are off to The Roman baths - splendidly Georgian on the surface, ancient and Roman below….full of secrets and ambiance and ghosts of antiquity. We are seeing it at twilight - 9pm - and the baths are lit by huge open flamed torches. It’s a heart stopping experience. One can almost feel the presence of the Ancient Romans gathering to socialise. The main bath is strangely green and eerie - the hot spring bubbles at it’s source and the water runs through a stone channel cut by its path for over 2,000 years. It’s quite late now and the bath is deserted, so I dip my toe in it and am surprised by just how hot it is. For a moment I half expect a Roman official to order me from the place - but the silence is more eloquent than any roman could be.
I feel quite over-awed as we drive back to the long barn. Tony lived his first forty five years in Britain yet had never been to Bath….though it’s only 60 miles, or 100 kms approx from London. How tragic that we take so much around us for granted. He is as overwhelmed as I am. Back at our wondrous B&B Carol and Peter and their son Zac with his girlfriend Claire are in the summerhouse lit by candles as the last trace of light is finally dying. They’re listening to music and drinking wine and ask us to join them….not something they generally do with guests. We spend a delightful hour sprawled on the big Moroocan couches, laughing, talking, drinking. Forget the poo bah military types….these are the English that made Britain great: adventurous, generous, witty and welcoming. We all speak the same language of the mind and heart. If we lived here, they and Rachel and Mike would be people we would want as friends. Although we both love Australia, there is no-one there except family whom we have connected to in such a way . When we climb the stairs we are truly happy….but also sad that such a special day has come to an end.
It’s 5.10am, but already it’s daylight and a clear blue sky beckons through the open velux skylight in the sloping roof/wall of our timeless room. One of the loveliest things about waking up in England is the welcoming chorus of the songbirds. Australian birds are fabulously colourful, but for the most part their songs are raucous and squawky, discordant and confronting - much like Australia itself. That’s part of the attraction.
But in England songbirds are just that. They serenade you….thrushes, nightingales, blackbirds create oratorios for your delight. Two blackbirds are sitting on the roof and singing to me like a Lennon/McCartney composition…..and it’s time to get up.
The ONLY thing to complain about in this magical barn in Farleigh Wick is the water pressure in the tiny shower. It trickles out as if afraid of bruising your skin. But I manage to wash my hair ( which has looked like a fuzz ball the whole time in England) and hurry downstairs because I can see a charming table set for breakfast in the garden with its deck, and water feature ponds and big summerhouse filled with slightly Moroccan couches and an old gramophone - the whole scene is like something from a Merchant/Ivory production.
Carol…..our wonderful hostess…has offered a feast of fresh fruit, juices, cereals and a full English breakfast so we stuff ourselves with bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast from a little silver toast rack. It’s sublime. We’re so relaxed we want to sleep again. Is it time for bed yet?
There are two exuberant liver and white springer spaniels who are not allowed in the house. They’re hunting dogs for when Peter goes to shoot pheasant or even rabbits I guess. They’re desperate for a game and so I get conned into throwing their tennis ball for them. Dutifully they bring it back, tails wagging furiously. When it is temporarily lost in long grass they bring me a crab apple from the old gnarled tree instead and it bounces just as well as the tennis ball - perhaps a hint for Wimbledon next year!
We head off into the little town of Bradford on Avon. Tony says the patron saint of travellers always watches us. If we’d stayed in Bath itself we would never have known about this stunning little town on the river. But because Bath was full we had to go further afield.
Through winding streets, some of them cobbled, we ooh and aah at everything from Tudor to Georgian buildings, wondrous old pubs, and laneways with names like The Shambles ( Previously saved as a name for my side of the bedroom!) filled with leadlight windowed cottages and shops and geranium filled window boxes. We have morning tea - stilled stuffed from breakfast - in Britain’s oldest tearooms, and also its best - awarded for the last seven years. There are 32 different kinds of tea on the menu - not counting the blends you can request. Bliss.
The afternoon is spent lazing on big leather couches watching the tour de France in REAL time instead of 2 am. Then we head for Bath again - knowing that there is still at least six hours of daylight ahead of us.
Bath tugs at our heart strings even more strongly this time…and I KNOW I could live here happily if it weren’t for the bloody English weather ( the fantastic summer is trying to fool us). We walk through the parks and admire the Georgian and Victorian bandstands and fountains…. Oak and Rowan trees line our paths…and the chestnut are starting to appear on the chestnut trees; and of course there is always a silver birch somewhere in the background. It’s warm…and the breeze is lyrical. We meet up with Rachel and Mike and the kids….such a joy to see them again…. Ben has grown so tall. It’s Graduation day and so most of the restaurants are full but we manage some pizzas and a bottle of BAD Argentinian wine before parting, promising to see each other again…but who knows when.
Then we are off to The Roman baths - splendidly Georgian on the surface, ancient and Roman below….full of secrets and ambiance and ghosts of antiquity. We are seeing it at twilight - 9pm - and the baths are lit by huge open flamed torches. It’s a heart stopping experience. One can almost feel the presence of the Ancient Romans gathering to socialise. The main bath is strangely green and eerie - the hot spring bubbles at it’s source and the water runs through a stone channel cut by its path for over 2,000 years. It’s quite late now and the bath is deserted, so I dip my toe in it and am surprised by just how hot it is. For a moment I half expect a Roman official to order me from the place - but the silence is more eloquent than any roman could be.
I feel quite over-awed as we drive back to the long barn. Tony lived his first forty five years in Britain yet had never been to Bath….though it’s only 60 miles, or 100 kms approx from London. How tragic that we take so much around us for granted. He is as overwhelmed as I am. Back at our wondrous B&B Carol and Peter and their son Zac with his girlfriend Claire are in the summerhouse lit by candles as the last trace of light is finally dying. They’re listening to music and drinking wine and ask us to join them….not something they generally do with guests. We spend a delightful hour sprawled on the big Moroocan couches, laughing, talking, drinking. Forget the poo bah military types….these are the English that made Britain great: adventurous, generous, witty and welcoming. We all speak the same language of the mind and heart. If we lived here, they and Rachel and Mike would be people we would want as friends. Although we both love Australia, there is no-one there except family whom we have connected to in such a way . When we climb the stairs we are truly happy….but also sad that such a special day has come to an end.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Day 21/46 - Bath is a four letter word - so is Love.
If it's Monday ( and it is) it must be Bath.
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to go to Bath. It's an old Romqan town originally called Aquaeus Solis ( Bath is so much more catchy!) I am impatient in the car - like a little kid really. Fortunately Tony has never been either and is equally on edge. Sometimes things, people,places, just don't live up to expectations. But this isn't one of those times.
We drive through through the wiltshire villages, then past stone henge, looming against the clear blue sky. Somehow we miss the white horse carved into Salisbury plain but we manage to find the Park and Ride.
Park and ride is a fantastic idea which would work in Sydney and Melbourne. You just park your car in a large free car park on the outskirts of the city and you catch a non-stop bus to the city centre at a nominal fee. Brilliant - innovation you don't expect from 21st century Britain.
And suddenly, after a painless 10 minute ride, we are there......and all the waiting has been worth while.
The city has an aura which is not like any I have experienced before. It's a little like Brigadoon in that it's perfect and you expect it to disappear back into the midst without warning. A little like a film set, or a landscape painting, and a whole lot like a history lesson..... Bath exists, as my friend Rachel says, in a bubble. It's untouched by what happens in the rest of Britain....no homeless on the streets, no gangs, no street kids, no traffic, no litter - it's white bread middle class through and through. That ought to annoy me with shades of The Stepford Wives But it doesn't. It's beautiful and something to aspire to. It's also full of divine Georgian architecture and Roman ruins, though parts of it look very french with grey slate roofs and attic windows.
I am charmed......worse:- I'm in love! The likelihood of moving back to Britain is about the same as winning Miss World 2012 - but if the former were to happen I would live in Bath. If the latter happens I will die of the shock and have no need to live anywhere.
For hours we just wander the streets, filled with their hanging flower baskets, and ogle the buildings and take countless pictures.
We meet Tony's youngest nephew at a lovely pub and say yet another hello/goodbye. There is nothing morbid about this. We expect to live another hundred years...give or take a few.... ut it's wonderful to let people know what they mean to you....just in case.
The famous Roman Baths....fed by the same spring for more than 2,000 years, are beckoning us...but we want to see them at twilight by torchlight so content ourselves with the Abbey and The Circus and The Royal Crescent....then catch the Park and Ride back to our car and head for our B&B.
We are staying at the Bath Long Barn in the tiny village of Farleigh Wick, which lies between Bath and the little town of Bradford Upon Avon. The satnav takes along a range of single file farm roads so we see far more than we expected - but finally we find the long barn. It'sdelightful,...words like quaint, eccentric, slightly wacky and character filled come to mind. We fall in love with it instantly from the moment we see all the glass cased military uniforms in the entry hall and climb the stairs into the roof space where our four poster bed awaits in a little room with a huge skylight window overlooking the summerhouse and the fields beyond. It's magic!
Carol and Peter look younger than their years - though they are still far younger than either of us. This is their home, but they welcome us like long lost rellies from the Antipodes. We just have time for a quick cuppa and then it's off to meet Mike L....a relative by marriage and an all round great bloke - for a beer, all very civilised.
Later we go to a recommendation of Carol's for dinner. The Kings Arms is a 16th century stone Inn which serves exquisite food in gorgeous surroundings. It's a Monday night and we don't arrive until 9.30pm...but there's no suggestion that we are too late. We stuff ourselves on trout (me) and sausages and Mash...Wiltshire pork sausages made just down the road. Tony is determined to sample pork sausages in every county in Britain. They really are delicious. One thing we DON"T do well in OZ is a good pork sausage.
When we leave it is quarter to 11 and the sun has set but the long twilight still casts its eerie light across the skies.
Home via the country road and the smell of wildflowers and honeysuckle. We fall asleep in each other's arms...the way it's meant to be; the way we promised it would ALWAYS be when we first met.
Was ever a day so perfect? France will have a lot to live up to. And we have another whole day and night here. Bliss!
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to go to Bath. It's an old Romqan town originally called Aquaeus Solis ( Bath is so much more catchy!) I am impatient in the car - like a little kid really. Fortunately Tony has never been either and is equally on edge. Sometimes things, people,places, just don't live up to expectations. But this isn't one of those times.
We drive through through the wiltshire villages, then past stone henge, looming against the clear blue sky. Somehow we miss the white horse carved into Salisbury plain but we manage to find the Park and Ride.
Park and ride is a fantastic idea which would work in Sydney and Melbourne. You just park your car in a large free car park on the outskirts of the city and you catch a non-stop bus to the city centre at a nominal fee. Brilliant - innovation you don't expect from 21st century Britain.
And suddenly, after a painless 10 minute ride, we are there......and all the waiting has been worth while.
The city has an aura which is not like any I have experienced before. It's a little like Brigadoon in that it's perfect and you expect it to disappear back into the midst without warning. A little like a film set, or a landscape painting, and a whole lot like a history lesson..... Bath exists, as my friend Rachel says, in a bubble. It's untouched by what happens in the rest of Britain....no homeless on the streets, no gangs, no street kids, no traffic, no litter - it's white bread middle class through and through. That ought to annoy me with shades of The Stepford Wives But it doesn't. It's beautiful and something to aspire to. It's also full of divine Georgian architecture and Roman ruins, though parts of it look very french with grey slate roofs and attic windows.
I am charmed......worse:- I'm in love! The likelihood of moving back to Britain is about the same as winning Miss World 2012 - but if the former were to happen I would live in Bath. If the latter happens I will die of the shock and have no need to live anywhere.
For hours we just wander the streets, filled with their hanging flower baskets, and ogle the buildings and take countless pictures.
We meet Tony's youngest nephew at a lovely pub and say yet another hello/goodbye. There is nothing morbid about this. We expect to live another hundred years...give or take a few.... ut it's wonderful to let people know what they mean to you....just in case.
The famous Roman Baths....fed by the same spring for more than 2,000 years, are beckoning us...but we want to see them at twilight by torchlight so content ourselves with the Abbey and The Circus and The Royal Crescent....then catch the Park and Ride back to our car and head for our B&B.
We are staying at the Bath Long Barn in the tiny village of Farleigh Wick, which lies between Bath and the little town of Bradford Upon Avon. The satnav takes along a range of single file farm roads so we see far more than we expected - but finally we find the long barn. It'sdelightful,...words like quaint, eccentric, slightly wacky and character filled come to mind. We fall in love with it instantly from the moment we see all the glass cased military uniforms in the entry hall and climb the stairs into the roof space where our four poster bed awaits in a little room with a huge skylight window overlooking the summerhouse and the fields beyond. It's magic!
Carol and Peter look younger than their years - though they are still far younger than either of us. This is their home, but they welcome us like long lost rellies from the Antipodes. We just have time for a quick cuppa and then it's off to meet Mike L....a relative by marriage and an all round great bloke - for a beer, all very civilised.
Later we go to a recommendation of Carol's for dinner. The Kings Arms is a 16th century stone Inn which serves exquisite food in gorgeous surroundings. It's a Monday night and we don't arrive until 9.30pm...but there's no suggestion that we are too late. We stuff ourselves on trout (me) and sausages and Mash...Wiltshire pork sausages made just down the road. Tony is determined to sample pork sausages in every county in Britain. They really are delicious. One thing we DON"T do well in OZ is a good pork sausage.
When we leave it is quarter to 11 and the sun has set but the long twilight still casts its eerie light across the skies.
Home via the country road and the smell of wildflowers and honeysuckle. We fall asleep in each other's arms...the way it's meant to be; the way we promised it would ALWAYS be when we first met.
Was ever a day so perfect? France will have a lot to live up to. And we have another whole day and night here. Bliss!
Day 20/47 - And uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Sunday - July 4th.
I am an orphan. Well, practically. I have a half brother whom I never see and one cousin whom I last saw 48 years ago. I am used to it now, though it hit me hard when my younger brother died four years ago. Tony, on the other hand, has relatives appearing out of the closet at the rate of a bad case of chickenpox. It's alarming how many of them there are - large catholic families are not more randy than their counterparts, just less careful. Worst of all, chickenpox goes away....families don't.
Today is a family reunion, and I am thrilled! (not)
So after 4 days of one on one family with M - today we head for Dunstable - which is famous for being close to many far more interesting places.
It's a reasonable 1 1/2 trip up one of the motorways beginning with an M or an A.......they all look the same to me. The countryside is pretty though, and Margaret has brought packets of polo mints and Glacier ice mints. Not sure if they are to refresh me or finish me off, since she knows I am a diabetic. But we reach a neat little house with a sweet English garden and we hurried un-necessarily since we're the first to arrive.
I'm a very in your face person. (NO? Really? I find that hard to believe!) But I dread joining a group of people where I don't know anyone. Tony, on the other hand, is quite happy to hold court to 25 strangers....most of whom he knows from Facebook, and all of whom are charmed by him. (Well if I am, why wouldn't they be?)
It seems they are all cousins but I can't fully work out who belongs to whom. And I'm still full of flu/hayfever. It's a triple celebration.....family welcome to us, Val and Mario (who is Argentinian...not Italian) 40th wedding anniversary - and Erin ( who stayed with us in Australia) is having her 28th birthday!
I meet all these charming people but when Tony mentions Home and Away and Neighbours I am suddenly inundated with questions and followed around by fans wanting to know what has happened to their favourite characters - even though it's some years since I wrote for either show. I find a place to hide and sit in the sum but it does occur to me that what I do is actually of great importance to people whose lives I would not normally cross.
The entertainment is to watch six adults attempt to put up one of those Bunning type Gazebos with a polythene roof. Ideally it needs an architect or a project manager. They manage to make it stable just as the sun decides it's had enough fun at their expense and goes in for the day.
There is so much food we could feed the starving masses of Africa....Lasagna, sausages, salads, a brilliant dish of artichoke hearts, cheese and Creme fraiche which is to die for.....huge pavlovas ( which the Brits still quaintly refer to as "Pudding") and fruit salad and birthday cake and....and....and......
It's a joyful celebration which ends with promises for us all to stay in touch. It's the right thing to say even we know we probably will never meet again. There are people in the group that I would really like to get to know...... Sass, a wildly eccentric lady of 73 going on 30...cut from the same cloth as beloved, promises she will come to Australia and stay with us.....but we both know she won't.
Val, the hostess, feeds me an antihistamine designed for children from a platic spoon. Most of it spills down my boobs - but that's nothing new. When i get a chest cold it never wants to leave. The women in my family are all very booby, whilst the men are - for the most part - booby prizes! Remarkably it does make me feel better for a little while at least.
The fond goodbyes and hugs are quite moving. These are just family by proxy for me - but they are blood for Tony and I know he doesn't expect to see any again. It's poignant and my eyes fill with tears.....or maybe it's the hayfever returning.
On the way back to Hamstershire Margaret fills us in on some of the background....things I wish I had known BEFORE meeting them.
It's now only six days till France and tomorrow we head off to Bath which we are both longing to see.
Now the holiday really begins!
I am an orphan. Well, practically. I have a half brother whom I never see and one cousin whom I last saw 48 years ago. I am used to it now, though it hit me hard when my younger brother died four years ago. Tony, on the other hand, has relatives appearing out of the closet at the rate of a bad case of chickenpox. It's alarming how many of them there are - large catholic families are not more randy than their counterparts, just less careful. Worst of all, chickenpox goes away....families don't.
Today is a family reunion, and I am thrilled! (not)
So after 4 days of one on one family with M - today we head for Dunstable - which is famous for being close to many far more interesting places.
It's a reasonable 1 1/2 trip up one of the motorways beginning with an M or an A.......they all look the same to me. The countryside is pretty though, and Margaret has brought packets of polo mints and Glacier ice mints. Not sure if they are to refresh me or finish me off, since she knows I am a diabetic. But we reach a neat little house with a sweet English garden and we hurried un-necessarily since we're the first to arrive.
I'm a very in your face person. (NO? Really? I find that hard to believe!) But I dread joining a group of people where I don't know anyone. Tony, on the other hand, is quite happy to hold court to 25 strangers....most of whom he knows from Facebook, and all of whom are charmed by him. (Well if I am, why wouldn't they be?)
It seems they are all cousins but I can't fully work out who belongs to whom. And I'm still full of flu/hayfever. It's a triple celebration.....family welcome to us, Val and Mario (who is Argentinian...not Italian) 40th wedding anniversary - and Erin ( who stayed with us in Australia) is having her 28th birthday!
I meet all these charming people but when Tony mentions Home and Away and Neighbours I am suddenly inundated with questions and followed around by fans wanting to know what has happened to their favourite characters - even though it's some years since I wrote for either show. I find a place to hide and sit in the sum but it does occur to me that what I do is actually of great importance to people whose lives I would not normally cross.
The entertainment is to watch six adults attempt to put up one of those Bunning type Gazebos with a polythene roof. Ideally it needs an architect or a project manager. They manage to make it stable just as the sun decides it's had enough fun at their expense and goes in for the day.
There is so much food we could feed the starving masses of Africa....Lasagna, sausages, salads, a brilliant dish of artichoke hearts, cheese and Creme fraiche which is to die for.....huge pavlovas ( which the Brits still quaintly refer to as "Pudding") and fruit salad and birthday cake and....and....and......
It's a joyful celebration which ends with promises for us all to stay in touch. It's the right thing to say even we know we probably will never meet again. There are people in the group that I would really like to get to know...... Sass, a wildly eccentric lady of 73 going on 30...cut from the same cloth as beloved, promises she will come to Australia and stay with us.....but we both know she won't.
Val, the hostess, feeds me an antihistamine designed for children from a platic spoon. Most of it spills down my boobs - but that's nothing new. When i get a chest cold it never wants to leave. The women in my family are all very booby, whilst the men are - for the most part - booby prizes! Remarkably it does make me feel better for a little while at least.
The fond goodbyes and hugs are quite moving. These are just family by proxy for me - but they are blood for Tony and I know he doesn't expect to see any again. It's poignant and my eyes fill with tears.....or maybe it's the hayfever returning.
On the way back to Hamstershire Margaret fills us in on some of the background....things I wish I had known BEFORE meeting them.
It's now only six days till France and tomorrow we head off to Bath which we are both longing to see.
Now the holiday really begins!
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