Snow had been forecast but I didn’t believe it until I drew the curtains back on a white world. But good – no need to drive anywhere this weekend. John would continue writing his book and I would only venture a paw or two outside. It was cold enough to keep the heating on. All the same, it was as if the snow was in my head too, numbing my brain.

On Sunday I decided to venture out further around the neighbourhood, still transformed into a white and muffled landscape. There was an eerie silence everywhere – as if I was wearing ear plugs as I tramped and crunched along the pavement. I see the joy of watching a snowy landscape from inside – even walking in snow – but the latter has to be somewhere up in the mountains like Switzerland!

Dogs love the snow – they were happy chasing and rootling around with one another while children rolled along huge snowballs. Meanwhile, I tramped on with a red nose, wondering if all this exercise was doing me good! I learned recently that the more walking about you do in the day, the better – you don’t have to go to the gym or buy lots of equipment to go running, cycling or whatever. If you do cycle at top speed (you can use an exercise bike) for three minutes a week in 20 second bursts – that will do. Or was it even just three bursts of twenty seconds? This is favourite music to my ears if it works! And I do lots of walking too – not just for the sake of it – but to get places. And I’m happy also walking in all weathers, except for humid heat – when I quickly expire. Exercise for exercise’s sake I find extremely tedious. Walking in the rain makes me sing. Running for the bus and managing to catch it is a ‘double whammy’. This is helped by the Barnes bus drivers, who often kindly wait as they see you puffing along, out of breath – yet nearly there! That’s my ‘Shanks Pony’ top gear cycling burst taken care of three times a week – I like to think!

The scientists interviewed seemed very well informed re lots of experiments and surveys on all of this! Keeping moving during the day – it’s apparently sitting too long without moving that does the damage! Great programme about all this on BBC2 Horizon with Michael Mosley. What was most interesting was that your individual metabolism needs an individual exercise programme. For instance, aerobics does wonders healthwise for some and nothing for others. I always knew deep down that I was in the latter category. But I’d love to live near hot thermal waters bubbling out of the ground … and swim in them regularly. Because I love it – and not only because it’s good for me.

‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good’ and that wind was just waiting to upstage the snow some days later, when even dustbins were blown along the street in the middle of the night! And the wind brought the rain and vice versa until ‘bad hair’ days were the norm. Hats became orphans and many umbrellas lost their lives.

I recommend Lyall Watson’s ‘Heaven’s Breath’ (A Natural History of the Wind). He is one of my favourite non fiction authors. This book is out of print but available via Amazon.

‘A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time’ (D.H. Lawrence).

January has been a cold, grim, sometimes freezing, wet and windy month – reflecting the economy. I don’t hold out much for the better in February, so I’m ending this entry with a picture of mimosa – known for its early appearance in February with a beautiful colour and habit and a fragrance which brings some hope of Spring and a better world ahead.

When a friend rang suggesting a walk together, I thought of the somewhat ‘rural’ towpath leading from Barnes to Hammersmith. But then I remembered the day before… as I crossed the bridge into Barnes by bus, I noticed that high tide was way up over the path. The thought of deep mud put me off that idea – and yet a river walk still appealed. We ended up meeting at Hungerford Bridge. But a bit more history unfolded before we began our walk.

I have a book called ‘Secret London’ – ‘An Unusual Guide’ by Rachel Howard and Bill Nash. On my way to the Cartier-Bresson photo exhibition at Somerset House the day before in the pouring rain, I had come out of the underground at Embankment. There’s an old fashioned, baroque carved stone archway with iron gates just inside Embankment Gardens. It didn’t seem to have any connection with the buildings around it and the book told me why.

The Thames used to be much wider and shallower. The water used to come up to this arch, which was the river entrance to an impressive building on the bank called York House, then belonging to the Duke of Buckingham. This is all that remains. Most of the grand villas that were built along the former bank of the Thames are gone. At the back of Somerset House, what was once the entrance to the river is now prosaically separated from it by the busy road.

Underneath Embankment Gardens runs the large sewer designed by Bazalgette – along with the more recent District Line. Joseph William Bazalgette (1819 – 1891), was the grandson of Jean Louis Bazalgette, a Protestant from Ispagnac, Gorge du Tarn, where his family had been based for a thousand years. He emigrated from France to England in the eighteenth century. His grandson became famous for building the sewerage system for the whole of London, most of which is still in use today.

It was a grand project, together with the pumping station at Cross Ness, also planned and built between 1855 – 1865 by Bazalgette and another civil engineer, Charles Henry Driver. This has recently been renovated in all its Victorian glory of intricate design and bold colours. I see it as a monument to the joy of a sewerage system – Bazalgette is a great hero of mine along with Michael Faraday (1791 – 1867). There’s a statue of Faraday at the far end of Embankment Gardens. And there is a monument which commemorates Bazalgette’s genius on Victoria Embankment. He not only built the sewer system but had the foresight to double the diameter of the pipes needed, thinking ahead of the expanding population of London. At the time he said he was aware that this was a one off project. If he hadn’t done this the sewer system would have overflowed in the 1960s. All our lives have changed enormously for the better because of the inventions of these two men and their colleagues.

Alongside the pumping station, is an area called Erith Marshes, now a nature reserve, where water voles, small amphibians and various moths flourish. I mention this because the health of frogs is a strong pointer to a healthy environment for all biological life – including us. Sickly frogs = the beginning of the end.

I digress from our walk ahead but as I was reading about ‘York House Watergate’ I had a phone call to say my companion had been held up and would be twenty minutes late. This gave me time to think more about Bazalgette and his solution to ‘The Great Stink’ (1858), when the river overflowed with sewage to the detriment of all. I pursued this when I got home and this is why I came to find out about a man called John Martin (1789 – 1854).

He was so interesting – I had never heard of him before but I fell completely under his spell – so I wanted to include something about his life here. He actually deserves a whole book. There are two in print as far as I can see. One by Christopher Johnstone written in 1974 called ‘John Martin’ and a more recent one by Barbara Morden called ‘Apocalypse Now’ and written in 2010.

John Martin could be best described as a Renaissance Humanist. He was interested in so many different subjects and made practical contributions to many of them. He was very well known as an artist – look up ‘The Great Day of His Wrath’, ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’, The Fall of Nineveh’ – big epic paintings ahead of epic disaster Hollywood films. There was an exhibition of his work at Tate Britain in 2011 and Laura Cumming of ‘The Observer’ wrote an excellent review of it. At the time he was appreciated much more by continental Europe than the Art Establishment in England.

But besides art, he was interested in engineering – his brother was an inventor – and John anticipated the theory of Bazalgette’s new sewage plan twenty five years beforehand. It was difficult even for Bazalgette to get backing for it – only ‘The Great Stink’, when MPs could stand the smell no longer of sewage in the Thames, turned the tables in Bazalgette’s favour. Another idea of Martin’s which he was unable to fulfil at the time was of a circular railway around London. He once said to his son, Leopold, that he would really have preferred to be an engineer rather than a painter. He rose from humble origins, the sale of his paintings helping him to achieve the means to follow his other interests.

At one point he gave up painting altogether to work on health and safety on sea and inland waterways and in mines. In a way he was one of the first environmentalists, being interested in clean air and sewage systems. And town planning in general. He wanted to find ways of making safe fertiliser for farmers by treatment of sewage, so recycling came into that. He was also thinking along the lines of Darwinism.

One of the things he loved doing was hosting parties at his home in Marylebone, so that artists and writers could meet up with well known scientists, thinkers and entrepreneurs. I wish I could have been there – probably just handing out wine and sweetmeats – but having the chance as I did so to eavesdrop on fascinating conversations. John Martin’s life is well worth exploring. For me, it was a door I opened almost by mistake and it took me into a whole new universe.

David had suggested that we make our rendezvous on Hungerford Bridge – west side. This took me under the arches and past a marine sports shop. Oh dear! A lady selling small antiques rents one of their windows and I couldn’t help buying a small Edwardian silver brooch – at a fair price it must be said! David was waiting to show me the glorious view over the river.

And then we walked over Hungerford Bridge, sharing the space between east and west with the familiar, clanking noises of the trains snorting inbetween the walkways. The sun was out, the sky was crisply blue and I was ready and curious to see what lay ahead.

I don’t remember seeing sand by the Thames before but sculptures were being made of it here at Gabriel’s Wharf. There were also a couple of ‘mudlarks’ searching for ‘treasure’ along the shore line.

I’ve walked along the Thames from Waterloo to the Tate Modern many times and once or twice onwards to The Shakespeare Globe Theatre but now my knowledge was getting slimmer and it was such a surprise to come upon ‘The Golden Hind’. This was also the first time I’d visited Borough Market. In the week it’s not as busy as Saturdays but it was still an inspiration. A wonderful array of onions and funghi, cheeses and meaty treats. I ended up buying some crispy, custard filled ‘natas’ from a dark eyed, handsome French boy.

‘Do you want to see inside Southwark cathedral’? said David. I’m not an avid church visitor but a Canadian friend had told me about a sculpture she loved there. I couldn’t remember what it was but a lady guardian of the church gamely joined in the search and I think this must be it. A modern sculpture of a Virgin and Child in wood and slightly ‘gilded’ by Peter Eugene Ball. The extraordinary thing is that it is carved out of a railway sleeper. it must have been surprised at its novel yet tranquil surroundings after years of being pounded by trains… it’s sort of like having two lives in one in a way … not many of us are that lucky! On second thoughts, being run over by umpteen trains every day isn’t much of a life.

Looking at it from the opposite end of the spectrum … it’s now possible to take a trip to the top of The Shard – at a price. The view must be spectacular if you manage to choose a clear day.

We arrived at the HMS Belfast, at rest like a huge camouflaged sea creature supine in the middle of the river, opposite City Hall and with a view onwards towards Tower Bridge.

‘Well’, said David – ‘we can either walk to Tower Bridge and get a bus, or walk on further along the river’ … but I wanted to get back before the golden rays of the sun were extinguished and so we decided to retrace our steps a little and then cross the Thames at the Millennium Bridge.

Does the clarity and serenity of Vermeer come to mind looking at this view?

We parted ways at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. He was going to Farringdon and I was making my way back via Fleet Street as twilight overtook us. People were hurrying homewards. I was about to cross the road when I noticed a bunch of withered yellow roses tied to a post. It was from somebody called Julian. The accident happened ten years ago, said the note but he would always remember her with love. I waited soberly for the green light.

Fleet Street is one of those places where the atmosphere of historical London lingers as strong as garlic on your fingers.

The chill of evening drawing in encouraged me to hop on a bus to the Strand. Unfortunately I hadn’t noticed that it would be going over the bridge to Waterloo and my heart sank as it swung blindly round the corner after Somerset House. There’s a stop near the Waterloo end of the bridge and I jumped off – to be rewarded by some magnificent river views. I stopped to try out some photos in the dark, despite the cold draught coming up from the water.

Then it was down a few alley ways, slipping through John Adam Street, the home of The Royal Society of Arts and ending up on Villiers Street with Embankment station beckoning me at the bottom. I saw a sign on the left – appropriately telling me to ‘Wrap It Up’. And so I did, happily finding a seat on the District Line back to south west London.

PS I put on the television when I got home to find Michael Portillo sailing down the Thames, following the selfsame route as us. An aeriel view was a satisfying pointer along the riverbank we had so recently followed. I saw we really hadn’t walked very far in the larger scheme of things. MP carried on further than us (by boat) and got a chance to be shown round the sewage treatment pumping station at Cross Ness, continuing on to the Thames Barrier, which has been used recently to keep London from flooding.

That morning before leaving I had read an article by John Kay in the Financial Times entitled ‘The lesson of Victorian London’s rise from sewer to spectacle’. Were these coincidences all an example of ‘synchronicity’ ? And what, if anything, was I meant to be doing about it? It would be a great honour if I could sit down and listen to Bazalgette, Martin, Faraday et al right now because I’m sure they would have some fascinating ideas and inventions wherewith to solve some of today’s problems. It would be wonderful to see them enjoying the advantages of finding information at speed on the Internet. Ah well …. that isn’t likely but we owe it to them to get results like they did, which massively benefited future generations … we have to succeed in spite of adversity, just like them! Sweet dreams …

END

After the waterworld of Christmas, New Year’s Day was inspiring with blue skies and brilliant sunshine, which we toasted with a walk across Barnes Bridge followed by a sparkling glass of champagne.

Boats out on the river and everybody and his dog tramping along the muddy banks of the Thames with smiles on their faces. A promising start to 2013 …

And then we went home and toasted the New Year in with our best bottle of champagne.

END

Not much seems to have improved on the economic front this year but the Christmas lights in central London, though still not quite as elegant as the Champs-Elysées, do have their own special aura. Whoever decides on what lights to choose has themselves been well chosen. I shudder at remembrance of times past and much appreciate the present offerings!

John and I did a whistlestop tour of central London to buy a few gifts before heading off for the Cotswolds. We both mourn the demise of Tower Records at Piccadilly but the helpful and cheerful assistants at the beleaguered HMV still make a journey there worthwhile. I am still not an Amazon fan but no doubt that internet tsunami will swallow us all in time. And cheerful, helpful and well informed assistants will be replaced by robots. On the other hand I love finding things out and the Internet is amazing on that front. But continuing human contact is essential for a life worth living and for the world as a whole.

Next stop, Marylebone, where I have a print waiting to be picked up at Railings Gallery. It’s of a dog (by Helen Fay), which I bought at the RA Summer Exhibition. The frame cost as much as the print but it looks fabulous. Railings are excellent, quality framers. I keep thinking about having a dog but this one will keep me satisfied for the moment. He is called Louis and has lovely lines. And I don’t need to feed him or wipe his muddy paws. But I’d like his company in person on a long walk.

The picture was heavy but we stopped off at Paul Rothe delicatessen in Marylebone Lane to revive ourselves. Established in 1900, Paul Rothe and Son is now into its fourth generation behind the counter. It is run with old fashioned politesse and has the friendliness of a village shop but in upmarket, stylish Marylebone. Look them up – why are the chairs bolted to the floor, for instance?! Don’t pass it by – it’s a real find!

We had homemade hot minestrone soup and tuna sandwiches, surrounded by a ceiling to floor selection of delicious looking jams, pickles and sweets. I remembered Newbery fruits from my childhood. My father’s colleague, Dr. Gilchrist, always brought a box over on New Year’s Day. We now bought two boxes, along with chilli sauce, a favourite of John’s father.

Glitz was to be had in Bond Street but austerity measures were kept up and we made our way home to wrap up Newbery Fruits and the like for the Cotswold contingent. And I looked out my long, cashmere cardigan, bought last year in the sales. An Eileen Fisher – quite special! It’s always colder in the countryside. I must remember my hot water bottle too.

But sadly, not for us. We are expected in the Cotswolds …via a quick visit to Fortnum’s.

The next morning was grey and threatened rain. We got as far as Chiswick Bridge and had to go back for various ‘things forgotten’. However, the roads were passable and not too busy. I spent some time in cloud contemplation and taking photos of water meadows and plain flooded fields at speed. The bypass at Oxford must have been built above the general level as we passed interminable ‘lakes’ on either side, with the tops of hedges sticking out like old toothbrushes.

I had a feeling of ‘déjà vu’ – we’ve done this journey so many times and now we are on the cusp of major change … John’s parents are now 92 and 90. Taking photographs appeals to one’s sense of self … keeping memories of things past while looking towards the future – and meanwhile enjoying what the present has to offer keeps one sane to an extent. Bad weather but good skyscapes today … I wonder what Samuel Johnson or Shakespeare would have taken pictures of… we are so enormously privileged today with all these inventions – yet many people often behave like spoilt three year olds, not realising their good fortune.

And we finally arrive – the steep road into the village resembles a waterfall as we descend but at least the water makes its way onwards – elsewhere …

And the rain continues to accompany Christmas festivities. However, there is good food and jolly company, a nonagenarian dowager dressed in glamorous tartan and a fur hat, a charming black labrador, white Christmas flowers, a sparkling tree and a warm stove.

It’s late afternoon as we make our way home next day. No traffic jams, a break in the rain as we climb the hill out of Burford. An accident at the Burford/Witney roundabout where a car has smashed through the central reservation and ended up on top of the bank opposite. The police wave us round. Then it’s only dramatic pictures of flooded fields, a few 100+ mile an hour drivers – mainly seem to be BMWs – and we’re on the home straight.

It’s very quiet back in Barnes. The house is warm and cosy and I’m looking forward to the holiday with reading, writing, walking and wine. And John will be writing his new book. I will press for a glass of really good champagne on New Year’s Day. I hope 13 will be lucky for once!

END

I was waiting for a friend outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square – clouds were scudding across the sky – the weather was fitful, fretful, undependable. A gust of wind flung a spit of rain across my cheek and pulled at my hair. The exhibition we were about to visit was about the man who would have become Henry IXth. He was much loved and deeply mourned by the English people, dying of typhoid at the age of eighteen. His younger brother became Charles I.

It’s quite a small exhibition and worth a visit, especially if you are the sort of person who thinks about what might have been, should nature have taken a different course – as happened here.

The lost prince was about to be revealed to us inside the gallery. Outside, meanwhile, Nelson was choreographing the cloudscape while I watched both him and also the aeroplane passing overhead.

Our lunch at Browns in St Martin’s Lane amongst the potted palms and gleaming brass was very satisfying, the equivalent of a good French brasserie. The bar is long, impressive and inviting, with a pianoforte of sparkling glass. This Grade II building was formerly the location of the Westminster County Court. Upstairs are the judges’ rooms, now used for various private functions. It’s worth exploring – both upstairs and downstairs, before you leave.

I’m aware now at my age that there is so much that I will never know. Probably for the best, in some cases. But I feel the need not to lose what I do know and to keep expanding it – not in a linear way but instead, like three dimensional printing.

I seem to remember reading that the weight of ‘dark matter’ in the universe could be partly made up of thoughts. Are deeper thoughts weightier than shallower ones? How do we measure what we know and don’t know when we are not sure how much there is to know in the first place … ah well, Trafalgar Square and The National Galleries are a good place to expand what I already know. And Nelson keeps busy, with his head in the clouds.

END

It’s really worth looking ‘up’ from time to time as you beetle about your important business … no more so than standing on the opposite side of the street at Haymarket, where the horses jostle each other on the corner. Raise your eyes and leap into the blue. As ever, the clouds provide a perfect backdrop …

If I had been shown these photos some months ago and asked in which city I might find them, I wouldn’t have guessed they were in London. Maybe you would – but, just in case, I’m asking you to look up from all your gadgets from time to time! It may be to your advantage … the body beautiful awaits you … and much else besides.

END

I don’t belong to Twitter… am happy not to tweet … but this ‘poem’ came to mind on the Piccadilly line … short but haiku sweet.

On the tube at Kensington
I saw a man so smartly dressed
Staring at his stylish garb
Embarrassed (for I stared too hard)
Then at Green Park he flew away
Umbrella’d on that rainy day.

END

We were passing the Odeon Shaftesbury Avenue, near to the market on Earlham Street when we had this – well – surreal experience. A sparky Irish girl came by – you can spot her legs in one of the photos. She stopped and got off her bike to join us in this fishy encounter.

The streets of central London are never dull – and then those Irish legs jumped onto her bike and she disappeared at top speed. All of a moment captured in time …

END

I tend to think that sunsets must always be best in exotic places. Here are two which prove me wrong!

This also gives me the opportunity to quote one of my favourite speeches in Shakespeare’s Henry IV Pt. 1. This play was part of the ‘The Hollow Crown’ series which was on BBC 2 earlier this year, produced by Sam Mendes. Jeremy Irons was faultless as the old king and Tom Hiddleston shone out as his son, Hal. This is spoken by him …

‘Yet herein will I imitate the sun
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
that, when he pleases again to be himself
Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.’

We have had more than enough of those vapours of late but tempered by some glorious open skies. The sunset below is taken from the top window of our house.

The colours remind me of the leaves described by Shelley in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’ – ‘yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red’ – worth a look for that and the rhythm of the poem. I must sweep up those Autumn leaves now!

END

We took the train to Lausanne in August. John and I had been invited to stay with a colleague so they could discuss ideas about a book they are writing together. It’s a pity continental train travel is so expensive as opposed to the plane but later in the year, when I explored the possibility of going to Aix-en-Provence by TGV, it was a lot cheaper than to Lausanne. When I asked why such a difference in price, I was told it was because of crossing borders! I think SNCF might work on getting that sorted out because if we go to Switzerland again it would have to be by plane re cost – even though the train was preferable. You do have to make the change from the Eurostar (Gare du Nord) to Gare de Lyon – and signposting is not very clear – but it’s only two stops on the RER. The Gare de Lyon could do with more seats in the waiting area – we ended up sitting outside the station – which wouldn’t be possible in cold and rainy weather… here endeth a paragraph of ‘nuts and bolts’ for those so minded with practical detail!

I was looking forward to this TGV trip to Aix. We had to change at Lille – easy – same station, downstairs platform. Orange and brown continue to be the colours of Belgian choice. The loos are, in mood, like the old Parisian pissoirs. Inside, one’s private parts are enclosed but otherwise it’s draughty and I’m clutching onto my bag at the same time. John says I clutch onto my bag with such paranoia that I begin to look like one! Afterwards, I can only get a squint at my anxious face, as the mirrors are tiny designer slivers.

John is ensconced in the waiting room with some women clutching their dear ‘petits chiens’ to their ample bosoms. The dogs are very well behaved and look as if they offer comfort to their owners. I think I may also have one in due course.

The seats on the TGV are black and white striped, with burgundy antimacassars. That is such an antiquated and mysterious word, conjuring up Victorian moustachioed men using pomade and leaving unsightly, greasy marks on the backs of armchairs – hence the need for an antimacassar. Today it probably fends off the unwashed and maybe a stray louse. We have a stylish lamp at our table for two. It’s dark yellow, the colour of my orange juice.

The landscape outside Lille continues flatly with rows of spindly trees flanking the autoroute. The agricultural taming of the countryside is both comforting and dispiriting. We pass the name ‘Arras’ on the faded side of a building and just tucked in behind in a small field, shaped like an unfurled scroll of paper and enclosed by trees, are lines of small, white gravestones, presided over by a cross.

Huge lorries (‘camions’ is a good word) roar along parallel to the train, with names emblazoned across them – Petrus, de Kraker, Parex Tanko, Kôkez, LeuLeu, Roussel, Charbonnier, Cobelfret, Peyrot, Gokbora … they are following signs to Cambrai, Valenciennes and the Somme.

The mournful sound of a mobile phone similar to that of the old black, bakelite telephones, reminds me of being brought up in a doctor’s house – that sound often signified illness. News of death, victory, defeat – something extreme and often bad. So I began to think of the soldiers in both world wars and their remains here – some of them left in the trenches – and how the countryside must have looked then. The trenches are dug in now but there are lumpy banks here and there and mute remains of DNA along with rusty ironmongery – all resting in the same mud.

And we, the survivors, are speeding through it on our way to the soft warmth (‘châleur’) of the south – pour chercher un petit séjour doux et ensoleillé contre la réalité de la vie humaine. We have a lot to thank those soldiers for who lost their lives that we might enjoy ours. Are we worth it? We have a duty to try, at least. ‘Tristesse’ is the word for ‘sadness’ in French.

We have now arrived at the airport – Charles de Gaulle – the station is a totally grey and metal landscape with walls of ‘waffelled’ concrete. Each square contains sixty four ‘waffles’ – so you can see how exciting it is to be here … ‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” – probably not. Where is the coffee trolley?

I see an orange and white Easyjet flying in at the end of a field of cabbages. I was contemplating the lugubrious face of one of my co-passengers. He resembles a bloodhound – a smartly shorn bloodhound with a moustache – and glasses. He is looking at the girl opposite with timid but intent interest. I listen in to the phone call of an American who is going to miss his plane connection and will be late for his operation. Then he finds out the surgeon’s plane has been cancelled. He is speaking in English but using a lot of ‘mercy buckets’ so obviously talking to a Frenchman. His bowel will have to wait.

Another man, reading ‘Science et Vie’ or similar – with very thick glasses and very thick black straight hair, cut pudding bowl style, disappeared for a time and his place was taken by a tall, bony, melancholy looking robot. Inexplicably, the first man has now reappeared – no sign of M. Melancholia. The girl opposite the bloodhound is playing cards with herself. I think the bloodhound would like to join in and try his luck but she is not cooperating – she is listening to music on her headphones.

It’s warm and comfortable in the carriage. ‘De quoi pensez-vous, Monsieur?’ Granny takes a Trip. ‘She always turns up to auditions in Hollywood town – she always turns up and she’s always turned down … (John lent me his I-Pod for a minute) …

I find reading on the train much easier than on the plane but as I was really excited about this trip from north to south, I spent lots of time gazing out of the window. I should really call this piece ‘Moi on the TGV’ – because I was interested in how my photos came out at speed. Also, John wrote a blog on the birthday festivities, so mine has to be a bit different.

When I was a child we used to travel by train from Manchester to Edinburgh every summer with my Scottish aunt for our ‘grandes vacances’ three week holiday by the sea. I only realise now how much my parents must have enjoyed waving us off from Manchester Piccadilly station! One of my favourite poems probably dates from that time as Auntie Jenny used to read to us as well as handing out all sorts of puzzles, guessing games e.g. how many cows would be in the next field? – first person to see John of Gaunt (a statue by the railway) – followed by the ‘Welcome To Scotland’ sign, which was not far away from a glimpse of the sea, leading to heightened hysteria as we ran up and down the corridor outside the six person railway carriage. Fellow passengers unamused, no doubt!

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches:
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever.

What would Robert Louis Stevenson have made of the TGV? Maybe faster but still very much the same experience. Somehow, I managed to capture a few of those glimpses as I sped by them at over 300 km/h. We’re certainly on our way south now…

This first photo turned out to be something quite different from what I thought I’d taken!

We’ve arrived and Mont St. Victoire is a powerful presence as we take an evening stroll through the vineyards.

The swimming pool looked inviting even at night time. This part of Provence was exceptionally hot during July and August and I think everyone is relieved that the temperature has fallen. For me, this is perfect as I struggle in the heat. Now it is cool both morning and evening and still about 25C during the day. By the field of spent lavender are thousands of tiny white snail shells which you can’t help but crunch underfoot. The grapes are already harvested.

Breakfast and dinner happen at a long table under the mulberry. There is a tree frog which we hear as we drink the local wine in the evening and an enormous and splendid spider outside the kitchen window. I will remember these days and the special light of Provence when the grey city rain brings me low.

As soon as I get back to London, I must buy a colourful umbrella. I did have a Japanese one covered in red roses and dewdrops, which I, very sadly,left on the bus. It was never handed in. Whenever I am in Richmond and it is raining I keep my eyes open for it – it was quite unusual. I would have to make enquiries, should I see it! Unfortunately, it could not bark or miaow in recognition …

As we walk through the vines, I am struck by the real darkness of the countryside at night. There are covert rustlings in the bushes, the chirrup of a late-to-bed, lone cricket. The air is soft as velvet on my face, the night sky is infinite and starry – I am glad to be here. Enter left, a charging, full blooded ‘sanglier” (wild boar). This is the sort of thing that happens when I am in a communing, meditative state with ‘nature’. Luckily, I am only hallucinating this time but next day we hear shots of ‘la chasse’ up in the hills.

Rested and much revived we meet up with our Norwegian friends next day for breakfast. A friend of John’s, Jørgen Randers, had a book come out about the same time as ‘The Zeronauts’. It’s called ‘2052’. I am determined to read it after the mesmerising talk he gave to us at dinner one evening. John has brought some copies of his own book too. Jan-Olaf has meanwhile devised an extraordinary trip for us all.

We drive over to another village. This disused railway track has been taken over by a French entrepreneur with an original idea – and cycling on rails means you don’t need to balance. Luckily, in our group there is a very sporty Norwegian chap who kindly takes over from me for the uphill part. Even the vertiginous viaduct we had to cross didn’t put me off! It was enormous fun.

Time for lunch at the French Foreign Legion. Mont St. Victoire is still with us! And then it’s home to the mas for some relaxation in the garden and by the pool before dinner appears – as if by magic! This is especially appreciated by me. All I have to do is anticipate what turns out to be a delicious repast – what could be better?!

The mountain does seem to be always in our sights. No wonder Cézanne painted it so often! It’s very powerful – like a large supine lioness that could flex its muscles at any moment.

There’s a small museum which we visited – mainly of men in different army uniforms. But I was taken by this dragon – the colour and the weave of the material …

The battle of St. George and the dragon shown in paintings, symbolizes the ongoing struggle of good and evil. Dragons always remain a threat, a powerful force ready to fight any new invader.

Late afternoon – and we are back at the mas discussing the state of the world by the swimming pool.

a dreamless sleep and our little gecko, who inhabits the ceiling …

A trip to the market in Aix is on the agenda. My camera was in my pocket and now I find it missing – just as I was about to take a market stall full of different types of mushrooms and fungi. I feel downcast but I buy a bag of ceps to take home. We find that the English bookshop, just a few steps down a side street off the Cours Mirabeau (almost opposite ‘Les Deux Garcons’ restaurant) – has expanded into two shops – the English one now being further down on the opposite side. I don’t see the cat that used to sit like royalty in the window but perhaps she is on mouse patrol.

John buys a large paperback containing 100 of Ray Bradbury’s short stories and I buy this. It looks good for the train ride home. There’s a small café in the bookshop and I console myself with a lemon and ginger tisane and a warm scone with jam. I need comforting! We meet up with the others for lunch and then decide to go and seek out Cézanne’s atelier, which I’ve never managed to get to before.

It’s uphill but worth the effort – the atelier has been left almost as it was when he died. There is a huge north facing window and various familiar objects are scattered around. One of his paintings, which is in The Courtauld Institute in London, features a rather podgy, swaggering, self important cherub with a number of various fruits lying on the floor around him – he stands here on a table, now looking rather grubby and a bit forlorn.

It is a strange feeling to think that many of our possessions outlive us – yet without us they have no validity in a way. Unless, of course, they are worth something financially and take on a new persona, are attractive or useful enough to be taken up by somebody else or strike a memory for those who were close to us. I remember going into a house where a much loved cousin had died and his pairs of glasses were on top of the piano he played every day. I found myself near to tears for a minute or two. Still, sentimentality aside, they would probably benefit somebody in a developing country, who would never know of their past life. Our optician collects unwanted pairs of spectacles to send them off to people who need and can’t afford to buy them. And the grubby cherub is doing a good job on the memory front. However, it is not one of my favourite paintings. The bombastic ‘putto’ has had his day.

Cézanne was a strange man. I think he was mostly in love with Mont St. Victoire, which he painted over and over again. He also loved Provence, where he was born – one of the paintings I like is a landscape to be found in The Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. A vast pine tree frames the foreground with a gaggle of provençal red tiled houses in the distance. The colours are vibrant and true and you feel the warmth of the red, dry earth reflected on your skin. And it has that magical ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ feel of being able to step through and into the painting. I have only seen reproductions but hope the original might come closer to home in an exhibition one day. It would also be nice to have it on my wall …

John lent me his camera but I only took one picture in Aix as I was devastated by the loss of my own small, battered one. We ambled slowly back to the car park. I climbed in to the back seat and there it was. It must have slipped out of my pocket as I got out.

The birthday festivities that evening were full of warmth and friendship. Twenty six of us sat under the mulberry tree and many heartfelt speeches were made and we all joined in the rousing Norwegian songs. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ was added for ‘the British’ (two of us) and for the Frenchman we had ‘Chevaliers de la table ronde, Goûtons voir si le vin est bon’ – un chanson I had last sung with gusto in our French classes at school! Surprisingly, I remembered it, word for word. It’s a good song to roll out. We ended up eating enormous slices of birthday cake and drinking whisky (not me!) by a roaring fire. Our Norwegian friends were off next week to the forest to shoot moose – an annual event.

We made our way for the last time through the vines well after midnight. A kind friend had offered us a lift to the station in the morning.

The TGV whooshes in right on time from Marseilles. We are on the top deck at a table for two. The train is busy, so we soon settle down with our books. This time we are bound for Paris.

These photos are not as dramatic as when we came down to Provence but they give a feeling of the lie of the land and that was one of the reasons that I wanted to come by train.

‘I should like to spend the whole of my life travelling, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend at home’. (William Hazlitt – Table Talk 1824).

‘If you look like your passport photo, then in all probability you need the journey’.
(Earl Wilson – Ladies’ Home Journal 1961) How very rude!

‘They say travel broadens the mind, but you must have the mind’ (G.K. Chesterton – ‘The Shadow of the Shark’1921) This is also rather rude but definitely hits the bull’s eye!

or could it be a giant caterpillar?

And, finally, some blue sky!

We are at the Gare du Nord with two hours wait before the Eurostar leaves. And what better than to cross the road to the ‘Terminus Nord’ restaurant – I love this brasserie where the waiters are adept at dealing with peoples’ luggage with no fuss, treat you royally, the food is delicious, eaten in ‘art nouveau’ surroundings and you don’t want to say ‘au revoir’ but you know you’ll be scampering back to Paris in no time.

Happy Birthday – Happy Days – When can we do it again?

END