Gone to the dogs

I’m trying to be helpful by taking the dogs out. Actually, altruism isn’t really to the fore: sharing a lead with a greyhound is the only means of having a cigarette in these parts. The dog has sprained its ankle and is not keen on walking far. Fortuitously though, it pees every five seconds so there’s time to light up. That is until it forgets it is a large skinny beast with long legs and surprises itself by falling off the bank whilst engaging in yet another crouch. Up goes the pitiful paw and a whine is emitted that in dog-speak translates as put that thing out and take me home.

The next evening I plump for the grumpy black dog thinking there’s more chance of a decent walk and more nicotine. In the former, I am not wrong. We walk up hill and down dale and Patch, who is too cross to go on a lead, has a joyous time fiercely chasing a passing jogger. The athlete appears to know Patch and shouts personalised abuse. I pretend I have nothing to do with this dog and wonder when I might regain enough breath for the fag that was the initial reason for this jaunt. After some weeks, we reach the end of the track and hit a road. What road? I haven’t yet succeeded in getting out of my lodgings or back in again without going wrong. Keep bearing right they say. Patch and I walk miles. And miles. We see tractors and trailers and a steam roller and once a standing stone. After an hour, we meet Lynn and Mary from New Milton walking along the lane with a lot more confidence than we possess. They take us home. I still haven’t had a smoke.

Trailing round Falmouth I wonder how it might be possible to distinguish between the multitude of pasty emporia. I haven’t yet had a Cornish pasty and feel that I should make the effort. I don’t want to eat it walking along the road or sitting on a bench as that would be rather common. I don’t really want to eat one at all. I decide to go to the pub on the quay where we all spent the only rain-free evening last year and where they sell allegedly homemade pasties. I pick a sunny table over-looking the water and order a coke and a tortoise pie. The gods are watching me: the pub has sold out of pasties. The landlady says she is not averse to me purchasing one from a shop and eating it at the pub table. I am very grateful for her kindness but decline the offer and upgrade to a fresh crab salad.

The bridge looms

Back on that well-worn road to Swansea once more, we are momentarily distracted at Beckington by an alarm. I won’t bore you dear reader with the details of packing the Fiesta although, should you be looking for a car that can accommodate two adults, three large crates of books, a lap-top computer, a duvet, two pillows, a bin bag full of assorted bed-linen and towels, a sheepskin under-blanket, a thirty-two inch television, a bag of shoes, a suitcase, an overnight bag, my overnight bag, one of those unwieldy items that holds a suit and two packs of bacon, look no further. No problem. Unless the alarm is emanating from said luggage. Can you hear that asks the man-child? I can’t hear anything…I’m too busy trying to have a serious conversation about his future. Why do you always try to have serious conversations the minute we go to Swansea he asks earlier? When else are we sat in close proximity for three and a half hours I say to the captive audience?

The bells, the bells. I look at my watch. Did you set your alarm clock for 10.0 clock I ask as we traverse a road conspicuous by its lack of a convenient lay-by. I pull alongside a handy bus-stop in the middle of nowhere. You can’t stop here he says; a bus might come. I point out that even if we happen to have reached this god-forsaken, isolated spot at the very time, on the very day that the annual bus appears, there is no-one waiting in the monsoon that is currently taking place. The alarm continues. It seems fortuitously close at hand so the rain-fearing, double-jointed man-child climbs over the seat in search of the dreaded clock. It’s too tricky for me so I open the door, which narrowly misses being de-hinged by a passing truck, and pull the driver’s seat forward. What did you do that for asks the man-child who was supporting himself on said seat and is now in a messy heap. We push the outsized TV back, locate the alarm clock and switch it off. Job done and we set off. Except now the giant TV is moving noisily around. We make another stop, readjust our packing and continue our discussion.

Here’s a funny thing: conversation flows naturally until the bridge is in sight. I have taken copious quantities of Rescue Remedy in preparation and now want him to start talking to me so I can get across the dreaded thing preoccupied with an interesting debate. Talk has dried up. On the way back I am alone in a gale. I sit on the hard shoulder for a while in the beating rain whilst lorries rush by with a venom that threatens to plummet me into the depths of Chepstow. I put on the afternoon play, breathe deeply and sail back into England. Back in beloved Dorset I find the car has been successfully emptied of everything except the bacon. Bodmin Moor looms on Sunday.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

A week of bon voyages draws to a close at the St Peter’s Finger quiz evening where it’s also the last night for MC Wilco who, along with the man child, (and yours truly) returns to academia later this week. A triple celebration as it’s also the birthday of Wareham quiz-master extraordinaire, Taffy Adler. Thankfully, no Tom Jones questions but rather too many with a football theme for my liking. We plummet gracefully on the so-called connections round by which time we’ve lost the will to live anyway.

Last week I participated in one of the great train journeys of the world: the infamous Poole to Brighton run where the most exciting thing is trying to catch the connection at Southampton on another platform in three minutes. Most of the three hour trip is spent catching up on the pre-reading for my course. I reach the renaissance at Fareham and struggle onto East Sussex in the company of Milton and Ben Johnson. Good job I’m trapped on a train, otherwise I might succumb to a burning desire to wash the kitchen floor. They’re a laugh a minute that pair.

Bev is waiting for me at Brighton with Vicky who is sporting yet another broken ankle. It strikes me that these two are about as far removed from Marge Simpson’s sisters as it’s possible to be. We are in the tea-rooms, of which Bev is a world-class expert. Vicky mentions that this particular establishment has gone to the dogs….she’s spotted someone chewing gum. I am glad I threw mine away before we started out. We have cakes; a concession to the fact that Bev doesn’t eat. I realise this when we go a whole day with only the promise of a fish-cake somewhere in the distant future. I feel faint. Bev says she’d like to be a fly on the wall when I recount this. I’d like to see a fly on the wall so I can eat it.

A wedding party and yet another farewell to ex-work colleagues. Eight hours after the actual ceremony, which I missed due to entering the post-Elizabethan period at Burley, Carole still looks like a beautiful porcelain doll. We arrive at the country house hotel in a pale blue stretch-limo, already soaked in wine and free bubbly. The private guests are temporarily worn out from the wedding breakfast but we are looking for the action. An unexpected star turn from Paula’s belly dancing troupe goes down a storm. Then we take to the dance floor. It’s a suitably memorable finish to ten years with these friends as we stagger out into the Dorset air and fall into the world’s biggest taxi.

Last night sees a quiet meal with Sue and me on the point of exhaustion. We share a glass of wine and the talk is of Christmas. It’s only a blink away and I still have two hundred years of reading left.

The study support tutor has left the building

There was a gathering of friends in Chaplaincy today to mark the passing of time. Teas and coffees were available accompanied by the previously mentioned Chocolate Biscuit Cake, the infamous Sue Brown Banana Cake and the pretentious new kid on the block…Tony’s Dorset Apple Cake. In honour of the old kid finally making the great escape there was a heart-warming speech by an ex and sorely missed line manager who was delighted to offer a reference for future employment; and initially thrilled to learn that a request for said reference was already winging its electronic way towards him. The discovery that the position in question was as a life model initially threw him but I know he’ll think of something appropriate to write. Cards with thoughtfully scribed messages were presented along with a generous variety of gifts. Then there were the partings. When will we see you again? Ummm, 7.30 at Carole’s hen night?

So off to a Chinese restaurant for a charming soiree where nice things like redundancy and marriage were celebrated. New beginnings and life changes all round. And more to come on Saturday evening when the merry band will take an evening cruise in a limo before arriving at a luxury hotel to partake of a little toast or three to the newly-weds. All of us are in our fifties and none of us have any intention of behaving as if we are. I’m glad to say I won’t miss that place one iota and not so much as a backward glance was passed as I drove out of the car-park for the last time. Neither will I miss my friends because I’ll still have them. The future’s bright. Carpe Diem and all that jazz.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUugQoxS8_o&feature=related

0% Fat

A long and mixed weekend of family, hangovers and treats is on its way out of the door. It finishes with the construction of a chocolate biscuit cake. Which is to say, not chocolate biscuits but a chocolate cake with biscuits. I am not known for my cakes so, being charged with making one for my leaving do, I opt for the oven-free variety. The chocolate biscuit cake rekindles my childhood memories. It contains Golden Syrup, still from a green tin, that I had all but forgotten dripping off hot buttered toast. And my chocolate biscuit cake also contains marshmallows which, on reading the packet, I am astounded to read are fat free. How can that be I wonder as I pop a spare one into my gaping mouth?

Daughter number two has the nerve to turn thirty this weekend. In preparation, aged parents rearrange golf, bowls, landscape gardening, go-karting, house renovations and forego haute cuisine in order to drive south for the celebrations which commence with an excellent fish supper in town. Friday is the birthday and Raclette has been requested but before that, we must take the train to Weymouth for ‘a trip out’. The train ride is lovely. Weymouth is not. Trip Advisor claim that Weymouth is fourth on the list of emerging popular destinations. Has anyone from Trip Advisor been to Weymouth? And where are the other three on their list? Milford Haven? Actually, it’s quite nice on the quay but it flashes past in the blink of an eye to be noted only as a possibility for a future visit by those who like craft shops. We yomp along the sea-front back to the station and manage to accomplish the ‘day out’ in precisely two hours. I recall my father saying they’d done the Camargue by 11.30am.

We are nine for the Raclette; three more than anticipated. Gradually, the old and young fall by the wayside and the hard core drinkers, who had no intention of drinking so much, remain to mix their intake and watch Winnebago Man on YouTube. The next day, having double-booked, I miss the actual party and zoom off reluctantly with daughter number one to Southampton. We have tickets for the 25th anniversary production of Les Miserables prior to its appearance in the West End on Tuesday. I do not want to go. I have a headache and I have discovered that the show is three hours long. We emerge from the theatre at 10.30. It has been simply amazing. I can’t remember being so transfixed and I have run out of adjectives. It was quite wonderful.

The man-child falls in the door at 6.45 this morning. He’s not looking well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDQQfBrSUs0

No hope

In the dining room of the Green Lawns Hotel, I find myself trapped in a 1950's novel. Fuzzy, muffled musak, possibly of a foreign origin, plays irritatingly in the background of this vast and empty expanse of white linen. Two elderly waitresses dressed in regulation black and white hover impatiently. It's the first week of September so no children but where are the Saga folk? Two couples who dare not speak in loud voices are present plus a solitary German who is trying to explain the origin of his name to the disinterested lady who only wants to know whether he requires coffee. I have a sea view from my table for four. Clearly, the other three are not turning up. I must move my chair some distance from the table in order to enjoy the panorama which means I cannot see the lights of Falmouth Bay whilst eating. There is no sea view from my bedroom despite the fact that I had to climb a staircase akin to the north face of the Eiger. The food is so bad that I dare not venture back into the dining room for the breakfast I have paid for the following morning. I write some notes on a spare piece of paper in th hope that they will think I am an hotel inspector.

En vacances

With propellers creaking in anticipation, the Noddy plane is in full throttle for the departure from Southampton when the pilot’s charming voice comes over the intercom. He wishes us a pleasant flight but feels it necessary to advise us of the potentiality of some minor turbulence at Avignon; only to be expected at this time of year he suggests pleasantly. Those of us in the know immediately decode this kindly meant euphemism as a warning that a full-scale mistral is in evidence at our destination and that those seated in that little triangular bit at the front of the plane are currently on def com three.

He’s right: it is a pleasant flight until the ten minutes to landing buzzer sounds ominously. On cue, we suddenly drop a few hundred feet and the crowd gasp before laughing in consensual embarrassment verging on hysteria. Down we lurch once more and, as if we have practised beforehand, all grab armrests or the back of the seat in front in perfect synchronisation. This time, no-one laughs as we embark on a period of rhythmic swaying which sends the baby in row twenty into a deep coma. The runway is in sight when the acrobatic dare-devil driving the plane decides to swoop back up into the heavens. With dread in our hearts, we realise that the first attempt to land has been aborted. The second descent is akin to bumping step by step down a never-ending staircase. Leonie passes me a handy plastic bag. One unfortunate piece of information that those familiar with Avignon airport possess is the knowledge that the ground staff charged with dealing with emergency landings do so by bicycle. Eventually, of course, we arrive and the company disembark, not sporting the usual shade of pale English skin but, this time, with a shared green pallor.

Leonie gets her own back

Tuesday night in casualty at Henri Duffaut hospital is much like that infamous Friday night two years ago: grown men in hysterics, small children trying to break the sweet machine, 500 hangers-on on the smoking balcony and a general escargot-like air of laissez-faire on the part of the administrative staff. Last time, I was the damaged one on the inside and dear Bev was the kindly soul waiting with the walking wounded on the other side of the door. They don’t allow for any possibility of cross-infection in the world of French medicine. It doesn’t matter who you are, who you’re with or what’s wrong with you: the ill or damaged person goes in one door and all the kids, drunks and other assorted friends and family wait elsewhere. Last time, Leonie hopped onto the Noddy plane and flew faster than a gnat to be with me. This time, she was on the inside. Last time, I was ten months into my sabbatical. This time, we’d been in France five hours. That’s what comes of trying to be financially prudent: in the supermarket, we’d opted for the cheaper olive oil contained in a killer bottle with a lid fixed for all time. From the corner of my eye, I’d noticed her attacking it with a serrated-edged kitchen knife but, being scared of this efficient school-teacher, thought it best to keep my own counsel.

Snippets

At last the awkward 14 year old boy has arrived poolside. Ten days in and he’s finally off the phone, off Facebook and off the balcony.

Two things that make baked aubergines a disappointment: emmental cheese and an oven door that requires a patio chair propped under the handle to retain the heat.

Overheard in Provence at 8.30pm when the temperature is still 30C and the evening cicadas are chattering pleasantly amongst themselves: Have you ever been to Blackpool? My God, it’s awesome.
Flip-flop over the gravel. Guess who’s back? Only yesterday we were discussing that business with the wasps last year and here he comes again, replete with the world’s largest blue flippers, enormous yellow goggles and a snorkel. He’s looking even more like Dougal from Father Ted and his dad’s still telling him to stop obsessing about insects.

Hangover

In Arles, whilst the newbies are scouring the market for souvenirs or following in the trail of Van Gogh, we find a previously undiscovered shop in which we pass a happy hour or so. It’s full of things that no-one needs such as beautiful note-books and such-like and has been designed especially for us. I am paying the price for sitting up late last night drinking with a woman who works with famous comedians – she shares my view of Ricky Gervaise – ‘a one-trick’ pony. I stumble around unenthusiastically with a large bottle of water waiting for two cups of expresso to take effect. Subsequently, we search relentlessly for a favourite clothes shop which we have misplaced but give up and head for lunch only to walk straight past it. Today, there is nothing inside that we want except for a very expensive handbag made from red net and lace. Leonie says I can make a similar one from an old skirt of hers. It could be my winter project.

Leonie quotes

You can drive – it’s only up the road. (Is this all I’m capable of?)

Is the waist elasticated enough? (The diet starts Monday)

Mummy!! Get it off me (A large grasshopper)
I hate it when you use that voice. (Trying to warn her that big insects are in close proximity)

Are you struggling? (Arles market with a hangover)
I can’t even ******** well reverse my own car! (Having a row with herself at Les Baux)

You’re too near the edge! (Heard constantly throughout the holiday)

The mouse

It’s fast becoming an annual pilgrimage to Les Baux. Other people go there to see the amazing Cathedral of Images and wander the ancient fortified streets of this hill-top splendour. We go to look for a mouse and have a row.

Another downfall of being financially careful on holiday, apart from slicing your thumb in two, is the tendency in our family not to buy the thing you’ve seen and really want just because you don’t need it. In 2007, trudging unhappily amongst the gift shops of Les Baux, my father saw a little metal mouse working on a computer….get it? He forever rues the day that he failed to make the purchase so now my daughter and I religiously yomp up the steep lanes in search of said rodent. Three years on and still no sign of it.
Talking of hills, for the uninitiated, Les Baux is located in the middle and at the top of Les Alpilles; a small range of olive grove laden mountains. The road from St Remy is tortuous: just a blur of zig-zags on the map. Finding a space in the miniscule car-park at the Cathedral of Images is almost a lost cause. Leonie has a row with herself and says she’s leaving me there. It only takes two seconds to realise that we’re not on a handy bus route and she’s back with her own unique blend of expert parking advice. I look forward to moving the hire car, on which the damage liability is 800 euros, up to the village car-park situated on a sheer cliff drop.

Assumption

Having decided it would be a nice idea to watch the torchlight procession to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, we find ourselves sitting by candlelight in the stunningly beautiful basilica of the Abbey of St Michel of Frigolet. On entry, we decline the option of long, thin candles. However, as it becomes apparent that we are about to be more than mere bystanders, and will be the only participants without a light, I go back outside to exchange all of my end-of-holiday coins for a couple.

At 9pm, the church is packed and the abbey bells ring out to welcome in the chanting white-robed monks. All the locals join in the refrain of Joyeuse Lumiere and it is, of course, quite wonderful. Incense is spooned into an apparently very hot large golden bowl and smoke rises in huge plumes. We remain standing for the first part of the service until the monks light their own candles before moving amongst the congregation to light ours. So, far from being privileged to simply watch the spectacle, we now process with everyone out of the basilica and into the dark night. About two hundred of us walk slowly up this little footpath in hidden Provence singing and clutching our candles. The emotion is overwhelming. Finally, we reach the foot of the illuminated statue of the Virgin where the service recommences. I look upwards to the vast star-filled sky that hangs over this small and perfect mountain.

Apero Dinatoire

On our last night we are kindly collected by John who executes a spectacular ten point turn in front of the gites during which he manages to wedge the front right wheel in the rock garden under the plane tree. Having engaged the attention of all the al fresco diners who were not expecting cabaret this evening, he then escapes and narrowly misses a parked car before knocking down three large potted shrubs. The audience do not clap.

We have been invited for the legendary aperitif and pass a few convivial hours at Karil’s converted stable block which is situated in stunning countryside in the middle of nowhere. We are eleven in number: a very cosmopolitan bunch comprising Brits, Swiss, Indian and French. And largely due to the inclusion of the latter, the singing commences as soon as is politely appropriate i.e. when it becomes clear that no more food is available. An interesting rendition of ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’ is undertaken simultaneously in three different languages. All have different meanings so whilst John and I are going with the least bawdy of the English versions Ganesh is apparently singing a famous Indian love song. Naturally, ‘sur le pont d’Avignon’ receives a rousing inclusion and to further add to our cross cultural soiree, we play that old favourite – who can sound the least like Edith Piaf? Pieter, who is an artist, is obviously appalled at the disintegration of the apero dinatoire and slips quietly away. Later I spot him: a solitary figure walking purposefully through the orchard. I ask Karil if he is leaving home. She says she thinks he is looking for cats. As you do.

On our return, I suggest to John that he drops us on the road to save the dangers of the car-park. Instead, he decides to make his exit by turning in the pitch black of the heavily wooded junction at the end of the drive. We disembark and watch his manoeuvres through finger-covered eyes. He is literally between a rock and a hard place. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that the phrase originated at this very spot: between what we know to be the edge of an orchard, a deep ditch and three large boulders strategically placed to mark the sharp turn and drop in the road. The front left tyre now matches its opposite number in disrepair and the boundary once marked by the stones has moved some distance. Bon nuit.