Weather patterns are bizarre at the beginning of this year – blowing hot and cold – somewhat like the menopause, when hormones go awry before settling down into a new phase of life. Is the planet middle aged, I wonder? Or are we, as a species? Unsettled Nature is not particularly pleasant to experience but it was encouraging to see some Spring flowers emerging nonetheless – even if only to get their heads cruelly bitten off before time by another unexpected cold front …

But these rich-yolk-coloured tulips had the benefit of a roof over their heads!

Golden herald of sunshine to come …?

Self-seeded forget-me-nots …

The forget-me-nots must have come in as hitch hikers in a pot of something else. They are sturdy and prolific and have now spread very prettily all along the edge of the lawn. They look so innocent.

Rain washed clematis montana, sweet cicely, bluebells, sage, southernwood and a blue shirt left out on the washing line …

I am pleased that our next door neighbours also hang their washing out – but for the rest, it seems to be a custom of a bygone age. Luckily, it would be difficult for someone to steal, say, knickers, off my line because there’s no easy way into our garden. Once, John ‘lost’ a lovely forest green cashmere scarf. I had put one of Gaia’s nametapes on it, as he is prone to losing good quality clothes, which might end up with somebody who doesn’t appreciate them for what they are. And some kind person might even try to track him down to return said lovely coat, gloves, hat etc.

Some days later, I noticed a man with this colour scarf in the bus queue in front of me. I spent a long time trying to manoeuvre, in the hope of turning up the nametape. It was difficult not to cause suspicion. I just thought it might be more difficult to do that with knickers.

Narcissi – pheasant eye …

A Spring bouquet …

Flowers lift the spirits, especially on a cold wet day in Spring. You don’t need an expensive bouquet – look for flowers in season and profit from two-for-one offers. I added the rosemary myself from the garden and the white jug was quite a bargain too. Expensive bouquets have their place but you can still enjoy flowers on a shoestring. Be inventive.

Though blue with cold yet an encouragement to the garden to grow and blossom …

A royal flush of ancient paeonies …

These paeonies are at least forty years old and probably sixty. They have lived here much longer than we have and still come up every springtime with no encouragement at all – just room to flourish and no pesticides. Like having a faithful retainer. I would like one of those too!

Close up of ‘clematis montana’

One of my more successful buys – from a Duchy plant nursery in Cornwall about seven years ago – it goes from strength to strength.

Anemones – the flower of Adonis

The symbolism of the anemone is of transience. Venus apparently transformed Adonis into one of these flowers. The word ‘anemone’ comes from the Greek meaning ‘wind’ and white anemones, which come out later in Autumn, are also known as windflowers. The reddish purple anemones here, reminiscent of lifeblood, do not last very long once they have opened and suggest passion and inconstancy – easily blown away by the winds of change – but strong in spirit while they last. The colour is intense and draws you to them as to life in general with its inevitable transient nature.

END

We drove up to Marylebone to collect a painting and three photographs, framed by Railings. They are to be highly recommended as framers. The day was unsettled and on the way home we were racing against a stormy sky on our left, whereas out to the right, brighter weather beckoned. Driving westward, we were chasing the setting sun.

Going west out of London …

Westway 2

Westway 3

Westway 4

As we sped along the Westway towards Shepherd’s Bush, I took these photos. The sky promises somewhere exotic like canyon country in Arizona but the cars and then the English church tower give it away. Quite dramatic for a usually grey February in London though …

I had to include this atmospheric blur of the 33 bus on Hammersmith Bridge! I was chatting on the bus with a neighbour recently. As we crossed the bridge over the Thames into Barnes, he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I like the centre of London’, he said, ‘but I’m always so relieved when I cross the bridge back into Barnes’.

Part of the charm of Barnes is that it’s so easy to get into central London – within 45 minutes or less – but at the same time we’re somewhat hidden in that bend in the river without a tube line. And with plenty of greenery, the common, the pond and the Wildfowl and Wetlands centre for camouflage, plus the tow path, we seem to enjoy the best of both worlds! A sort of garden city. Barnes used to be one of the market gardens for London and our house is built on former apple orchards. We saw physical evidence for this when we built an extension and unearthed broken bits of white irrigation pipes in the garden. We do still have one ancient apple tree.

Crossing Hammersmith Bridge …

Home high and dry with all the pictures intact. This is one of them. An illustration by Darren Hopes – which, given our love of both books and bees, puts them together in odd but pleasing symbiosis.

Books and bees – ‘The intellect is a dioecious plant and books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind’. J.R. Lowell: 1849

END

John was off to see ‘The Three Musketeers’ in Paris. They run a company called Ecovadis. The meeting was on a Thursday – perfect, I thought, to extend to a weekend exploring the city. But I never find it easy to combine work and leisure, partly because I’m only in charge of the latter and communication between the two often falls between two stools.

Still, we had the Eurostar booked. It was only at the last minute that I was told no hotel had been decided upon. Frantic searching on the Internet and in my various files followed. I should have rung the hotel direct but I went through one of those many internet sites which seem to offer discounts – I would have done as well cutting them out. The more people you deal with, the more mistakes seem to be made – partly due to misinterpretation. And then I was told John had to travel earlier as the meeting had been put forward. My ticket was not interchangeable.

However, now being used to this kind of chronic chaos and therefore somewhat unfazed, I decided to travel with John up to King’s Cross. He would go on the 7.30am and I would follow an hour later. His train was delayed but luckily only by fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I was able to buy museum passes and a carnet of metro tickets before boarding mine. I was finally in control and found I had a table all to myself. Just as it should be! Quelle joie!

The statue of John Betjeman views the Eurostar …

This is one of the best ways to travel. I am a great fan of the Eurostar. It is warm and quiet and comfortable, the ‘petit déjeuner’ comes with as much coffee as you like, the service is excellent and there is a wealth of free magazines on offer at the end of each carriage. The UK line has now been buzzed up to speed. Immersed in my book, I hardly noticed when we slipped under the waves.

Reflections – an arty photo – or alternatively – a glass of water …

But I did notice we were in France already when I looked up from my reading and saw the electricity pylons racing across the fields. They are far more personable than ours. The ones I like best remind me of waitresses pirouetting between tables, their hands full. ‘Estelle’ attracts attention by her downcast and demure eyelashes which flutter and flirt seductively with her gastronomically seated – and then hopefully sated – clientèle.

The first picture shows a Tarzan type bearing down upon the waitress and the second shows a landscape in which menacing Dalek type creatures seem to have taken over the world. Ah well, we would soon be at the Gare du Nord and the Daleks hadn’t invaded the city yet – not being quite ‘au fait’ with the concept of steps re universal domination. The train whooshed by these robotic aliens, leaving them rooted to the spot in the frozen ploughed fields.

Gaston makes advances – Estelle outsmarts him with twinkling toes and twirling ‘assiettes’ …

Intimidating landscape of exterminating aliens …

The metro system is easy to figure out and I was soon on my way to ‘la rive gauche’. The first time I came to Paris, when I was a schoolgirl of sixteen, I was struck by the all pervading smell of garlic in the metro – the description would be ‘gluant’ – it hung heavily in the slightly stale air, infesting my nose and my taste buds and finally everything else until ‘French’ – and all that goes with it – throbbed in my veins. I can’t say the same of the metro today but it is packed solid. I hang on to my new, stylish grey four wheeled case with its jaunty organza pink ribbon. So easy to manoeuvre. John scoffed at it when I first brought it home but nearly snaffled it for this trip!

I hop off at Odéon. The hotel is very near to the Medical School. It’s welcoming and warm but too early to go up to our room. I leave my case at reception and have the whole day in front of me. John has presumably got to his meeting.

The air is crystalline with blue skies and sunshine. I decide to walk along the Boulevard St. Germain towards the triumvirate of Brasserie Lipp, Café de Flore and Aux deux Magots. We once had dinner at a little restaurant on Rue St. Benoit, close by. The tables were covered in red and white gingham and convivially nudging up to one another. Our waiter was like Rowan Atkinson on speed and it was a memorable evening – the food rustic and tasty.

Rive gauche – by Rue du Dragon …

I am tempted to take a look down the Rue du Dragon on the other side of the road – mainly because of its name. There’s an inviting stationery shop – a small version of Paperchase but a few doors down I see an ‘affiche’ for ‘Les Soldes’. A sale – irresistible. It’s a special shoe shop whose shoes are comfortable but stylish – difficult to attain but ‘Arche’ have succeeded. In the window are a pair of sea green, suede ankle boots. They beckon. I go in. I have a lively conversation in French with the sales assistant, who is charming. The boots are my size and there is only one pair left in the sale. I can’t decide. I prevaricate, leaving them dangerously on show in the window. OK, if they are meant for me, they will be there tomorrow, I think. But sometimes tomorrow never comes…

Off to the shops …!

A pride of jeroboams …

At the bottom of the street I get a shock. At Carrefour de la Croix Rouge
there’s a statue of a centaur which is very ‘in your face’! I hadn’t seen it before. It’s very spiky and punky, showing all its ‘bits’ with nonchalant pride. However, the French housewives with their shopping baskets seem rather oblivious to its ‘look at me’ stance. They are more interested in ‘les soldes’, I think.

Juggling balls … will those green suede shoes draw me back?

I come upon the ‘Rue Cherche-Midi’, home of the bakery, Poilâne. Lots more shoe shops here but the more I look, the more I think of the sea green suede temptation. And to some extent, it’s the ‘marshmallow’ experiment! But I carry on too because I want to find a little café where we once had a simple lunch on the Rue de Babylone. I have my Paris A-Z (essential) and just keep walking, fitting arrondissements together as I go. I am curious by nature, so I’m in my element.

Bookshop ‘vitrine’ near Café Flore

Suddenly, it’s four o’clock. I’m very tired and need to get back to have a little siesta. The black and white cat is already having one in the armchair at reception. ‘Monsieur est déjà là’, says the receptionist when I ask for the key. He is. Sitting at a table with his computer and various accoutrements spread around him. He enjoyed his meeting and so is in good spirits.

The room is at the top of the hotel, under the eaves and has a pretty sitting area and a newly refurbished bathroom, which I love. Lots of space, fabulous shower, gallons of hot water, heated towel rail, full length mirror. They have thought it out well. So many hotels don’t.

Under the eaves …

The windows look out onto the inner courtyard of the medical school. It is tranquil and I feel like a bird, secure in my eyrie.

Faculté de Médecine – from our window …

Later, we try and find the restaurant recommended by the hotel but get lost. To save the day I suggest repairing to ‘Le Petit Benoît’, with the red and white gingham table cloths. The mad waiter is no more but the food is still rustic and tasty and the atmosphere ‘chaleureuse’. Bon, bien, bonne nuit!

Next morning we make for the Musée d’Orsay on foot in bright sunlight and have breakfast when we get there. Then to the top floor to look at the Impressionists. There are so many paintings here I don’t know and so many familiar ones. The whole space is being renovated, so there’s quite a squash on the walls. The Monets remind me that his Water Lilies are on show separately at Musée de l’Orangerie in Les Tuileries, so rather than get paintings overload, we make our way across the river by the footbridge (Passerelle Solferino) and cross the road into the Tuileries gardens.

Barges on the Seine, Paris

Paris – romance in the air – I had just been thinking of Woody Allen’s take on it. ‘Midnight in Paris’ – his latest film – was very enjoyable and a great success. As we crossed the river, I was intrigued by the latest craze. Lovers have attached padlocks to the sides of the bridge with their names on. Have they thrown the keys in the river in the spirit of ‘forever together’ or – should things not work out – will they return to set free their other half? I don’t know what future generations might make of a river bed lined with rusty padlocks!

Paris in the spring …

But looking on the bright side, we were approaching La Musée de l’Orangerie and this would be the first time I had seen the Monet ‘water lilies’ paintings since they were installed here. There’s a small foyer, which Monet insisted should be painted white and left bare – so that you enter the gallery with a blank page in your head. I am not going to show photos of the water lilies because you really have to be there to appreciate the colours and also the setting. Suffice it to say it’s really mindblowingly glorious.

Peering into the L’Orangerie …

Waiting for John, I peer into the museum and take a photo of the vase of flowers in the reception. I only notice now from the photo that I was being studied from behind by a rather shady looking man in sunglasses and a leather jacket. I could have photographed all sorts of goings on behind me via the reflection in the glass – maybe the man was just sitting there, enjoying the sunshine – maybe he was waiting for an accomplice?! I was reminded of the film ‘Blow Up’ (1966 ) when a photographer, based on David Bailey, finds that when he enlarges his photos, one of them is witness to a murder. The director was Antonioni and the actors included David Hemmings, Sarah Miles, Vanessa Redgrave, Jane Birkin and the stunning model, Veruschka. The film won the ‘Grand Prix’ in Cannes (1966). Very much of its time!

We come upon the old and the new attended by a conflab of chairs. A lone individual consults his mobile phone while the rather languorous and dissipated statue above seems to be holding up the equivalent of a giant ice cream or ‘horn of plenty’ in his hand! I suppose you could describe a mobile as a ‘horn of plenty’ … getting in touch on Twitter could even be described as an ‘excess of plenty’ – no criticism implied here of course!

Ancient and modern …

The sun is blazing down as we walk through Les Tuileries towards the Louvre. John encounters a lonely chair but his shadow is more reminiscent of a spaghetti western. He will have to pretend that his camera is a six shooter!

Strange rendezvous with a chair …

Exit picture right … and cut

Strolling down the avenue …

And we finally make it down to the Louvre. I have been recommended a restaurant near here but I haven’t found it yet. Meanwhile, John is forging ahead …

John forges ahead …

and is rewarded by the glass pyramid waiting for him through the archway – the fountain in front is frozen solid …

A glass pyramid – a frozen fountain …

I couldn’t resist putting in this rather indulgent arty picture of light and shadow! It reminds me of a painter, Hugh Buchanan, whose work I like a lot.

light and shadow …

However, my creative powers were dwindling – we needed to find lunch. I wished I could remember where this place was. We walked out through yet another archway. I looked across the road and my eye took in an orange awning. This was it! Oh happy day! John followed me across the road, looking hungry and somewhat sulky when he saw the restaurant was full.

But buoyed up by my discovery, I marched in and joined the expectant queue. We only had to wait about ten minutes and then were given a table at the back of the restaurant, which was in a separate room, full of paintings and books and chic parties of Parisians, sitting at round mahogany tables, enjoying déjeuner. And we got to join them! I could have imagined Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda sitting here looking glamorous or Ernest Hemingway surrounded by manuscripts, a whisky by his side. In fact, there was a tall young man with wild black curls (aka Byron) sitting alone at a table for four, his coat carelessly thrown across the back of a chair and papers scattered all over, which he was annotating. A journalist perhaps – or a philosopher? In any case, he was obviously a regular and treated the restaurant as home from home.

The restaurant by the Louvre …

Nearby is the Tour St. Jacques (1523) – all that now remains of a church. Because of a fire, the bells fell through the floors of the tower and it’s now hollow inside. It’s also known as a departure point for pilgrims making their way to St. Jacques de Compostella. I was fascinated by these stone carvings and couldn’t help thinking that one of them resembled a famous French politician of today – or an ageing rock star! Clue: Not Johnny Hallyday!

The gremlins of yesteryear foretell the future …

Revived, we set on a course for Shakespeare & Co – a bookshop by the Seine which I have mentioned before and which is always a port of call on our ramblings. A much loved landmark.

This time John bought a copy of ‘Pure’ by Andrew Miller, a story set in 1785 in the heart of Paris about the clearing of a graveyard. It was the winner of the 2011 Costa Novel Award. I have now read it too. It is, as one newspaper puts it, ‘irresistibly compelling’, but not for the faint hearted! Each book you buy from Shakespeare and Company gets a special stamp in the front of it, which is an added bonus. A bit like having had it signed by the author, I suppose. Personalised – always a good feeling! I’ve stood in a queue only three times to get a book signed. And the writers are William Boyd, Catherine Deneuve and Will Self. An eclectic mix – Gaia also got me a signed copy of Tony Curtis’s autobiography. And I wish I had a signing by David Niven of ‘The Moon’s a Balloon’ – but I don’t!

John looking cold … brrr … but mission accomplished.

Time to make our way back to the hotel and put our feet up. It’s been a good day all round.

Evening on ‘la rive gauche’

The next day is bright and frosty with clear blue skies. I came upon an exhibition notice for Safet Zec, an artist who we’d seen once before in the Galerie Jean-Jacques Dutko in rue Bonaparte. This time he is showing somewhere in Ile St. Louis. We were bowled over by his work. He was born in 1943 in what is now Bosnia-Herzegovina and had started painting seriously by the age of twelve. He is a central figure in the movement called ‘réalisme poétique’, which explains to me how much I am drawn to his view of the world. He is truly very gifted and I wish I could afford an original painting.

We set off early so as to enjoy the empty streets. John had also gone crazy about Safet Zec the last time and was looking forward to seeking him out again. Unfortunately, the gallery was closed and much as we tried peering through the windows, there was nothing to be seen. I must look him up when I get home to see if he ever exhibits in London.

There was another exhibition on by the celebrated illustrator, Sempé. If you have read ‘Le Petit Nicolas’ by Goscinny you will know – and love – his work. However, there was a long queue already to get in and a notice to say there was at least an hour’s wait. Dommage!

A cartoonist with a wry sense of humour re the human condition …

Crossing over to the Ile St. Louis

Ile St. Louis is charming and we just decided to walk around and imbibe the atmosphere now we were here. It does feel like a small village and I thought it might be a nice place to stay another time. Why is it that although we live in cities – and personally I wouldn’t want to live in the countryside all the time – we want to see where we live as ‘villagey’? I notice how residents in our own part of London refer to where we live as ‘the village’. Maybe we have the best of both worlds?

A la mode – Ile St. Louis

We had almost covered it all and breakfast was uppermost in my mind. John was up at the far end of the street and came upon the perfect place. It turned out to be an experience in itself. Enough said. Just go!

Ile St. Louis – a must for ‘le petit déjeuner’ …

I’m aware I often take pictures of what I eat but eating good food is one of my favourite things to do, viz.

Petit déjeuner parfait …

An emporium of sweetness …

L’Ile Flottante is a wonderful dessert too …

The ‘sat nav’ – in other words ‘me’ – now pointed north towards the Pompidou centre. En route we were diverted by various interesting shopfronts, designs and eccentrics taking the air.

Bathrooms with a Parisian twist

Poodling along with the new baby …

Incognito?!

Putting pizzazz into housework!

toujours pillow fights …

Enlightenment …

I began to recognise the streets of the Marais and the Pompidou Centre was now in my sights. It was heralded by a wall painting which covered the whole side of a tall house and as we made our way towards it, it reminded me more and more of Will Self. Whoever it is, he is very striking and edgy is the word that comes to mind.

Up against a wall …

Having expected to see the Matisse exhibition, we were disappointed. We were only two weeks too early. There is a lot to see nonetheless and we spent some two hours exploring. The contemporary art is well laid out and the mix of styles stimulates.

View from moving escalator – Pompidou Centre

Guess who’s not coming to dinner …
The layout lends itself to spaciness, which offers time to reflect. I find the Pompidou quite a philosophical experience in which I’m allowed to take things in at my own pace. I often feel like lying down full length in galleries but it might cause concern I suppose.

Flying coathooks ou araignée en vol?

Blue and gold together – always irresistible …

On our way out, John tells me to lean over the banisters in the foyer. I am transfixed. What I see must be done with lights and mirrors. There’s an illuminated maze on the floor, inhabited by giant slinking ‘virtual’ white rats, who appear to be chasing the ‘non-virtual’ children around and pinning them down. Their bodies actually just envelop the Lilliputians who run around shrieking wildly. Originality is an intrinsic element of the Pompidou!

Giant white rats on the rampage …

I am slightly biased against rats having (for the only time in my life) struggled to make a pair of curtains which were savagely nibbled by a pet white rat, who had the run of the place. It had an exciting life, even spending Christmas camping on the beach on Lindisfarne with its owner. Nonetheless, a rat is not on my list of favourite pets but these ones certainly made an impression of sorts. A very macabre one.

We left clutching a carafe and four glasses – a present for a friend, found in the stylish gift shop. The glasses were in the retro ‘Duralex’ design – shades of school and the fifties – and the top of the carafe was also shaped like a glass. Clever thought – or in today’s terms – ‘cool’ … and they were well received!

Now we were in Rue des Rosiers, feeling hungry and a little faint. There’s a wealth of good places to eat but we found ourselves, rather appropriately, at ‘Café des Philosophes’. The meal was good, as far as I can remember; the wine was deliciously reviving. The place was a bit like being one of twenty people in a Mini but the waiter managed us all with complete sang-froid. Opposite, there’s an excellent ‘glacerie’.

Winging our way in blue and gold …

Bonbons of the Marais …

Tea time must be at the emporium ‘Mariage Frères’

If you like tea, you must seek out ‘Mariage frères’ – you won’t be disappointed. If you climb the narrow and rickety wooden stairs, you’ll see all the old boxes and tins that the tea was exported in from the East.
Weary footsteps back to ‘la rive gauche’. The hotel cat is doing exactly what I feel like. Tomorrow we’re homeward bound. I fall into bed.

Sweet dreams …

Next morning, we have time for another early stroll to the river for breakfast and then it’s time to pack up and make our way to the ‘Gare du Nord’. And there’s still a lot of Paris left to explore. That makes me feel good. It turns out we were near to the passageway where Dr. Guillotine invented ‘the nation’s razor’. It’s said he practised on newborn lambs.

On a happier note, Alain Fournier (writer of the classic, ‘Les Grands Meaulnes’) lived nearby and it’s also home to La Procope, which, dating back to 1686, is said to be the oldest café. Among its customers were Voltaire, Rousseau, Balzac, Verlaine and Hugo. It is also where the slogan ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’ was coined.

And then there’s Hemingway. I’m reading ‘A Moveable Feast’ by him, published posthumously in 1964 and just brought out in a new edition. Here, he relates his time in Paris after the First World War. He and his wife didn’t have much to live on. He describes eating tangerines and roasting chestnuts to keep himself writing during the day. At night, he had to put the tangerines in his pocket; if he left them out in the room, they would freeze overnight. It’s a very intimate portrait of his day to day life in the city. His writing is clear, spontaneous, deceptively simple and pulses with life. Some of what he says, especially about the nuts and bolts of writing and wanting to write and delaying writing, touches me as though I am a violin, picked up after a long time of disuse and vibrating to a well loved piece of music.

If you are a writer, or a would-be writer you will truly benefit by reading ‘A Moveable Feast’. The new edition by Arrow Books (paperback) published in 2011.

Une fois de plus, ‘au revoir’ Paris …

With the pink organza ribbon riding high, we arrive at the ‘Gare du Nord’. Always a bit of a kerfuffle but our train is on time, as are we. Soon we’re settled – warm and comfortable. John with ‘The Economist’ and myself with ‘Psychologies’ and ‘Grazia’ (en français) purloined gratis from the end of the carriage.

Just one thing to add. When did I find the time? If you want something enough, you make the time! And luck had something to do with it too … happy days!

Waiting patiently for me … !

END/FIN

It’s like being at the eye of the storm. When I am lying looking at her, she dissipates my anxieties and while I know that the storm rages all around me, I am in a safe haven where I can just ‘be’ for a while. I love her calm, graceful pose and elegant dress sense and I like her companionable silence. She is inscrutable, imperturbable, impervious to the ‘noise’ of everyday existence. In some way, without trying, she enhances who I am and leaves me untroubled …

 

She has been with me a long time and, unlike me, does not seem to age or have a ‘bad hair’ day which is cheering! She has been variously glued together – before I knew her – and has been through the dishwasher and survived – which, I think, only adds to her charm …

END

John had to leave for Banz Abbey, near Nüremburg, early on Sunday 20th November. I opened the curtains to find everything shrouded in fog. Although he got to Heathrow on time, there was a very long wait on the tarmac, and he was to miss his connecting flight from München to Nüremberg. Luckily, he managed to get a later one. He told me he was met by a delightful man who drove him to the enormous and impressive abbey. (See his blog).

Meanwhile, I got cabin fever after lunchtime and decided to brave the unseeing fog and walk up the river for a while. Everything was muffled and ‘sourd’, runners came shooting out of the mist at intervals and I couldn’t see the water, even though I was walking along the bank. But there were people about with young children, who definitely needed a run, like dogs, on this ‘blind’ Sunday afternoon.

A foggy walk through Barnes …

I then found myself at the top of Barnes, where various roads collide, set to rights by a concatenation of traffic lights. If you want to cross, you have to continue to keep looking every which way, like being cautious in a foreign country, where people drive on the right. And danger always appears where you least expect it. I once crossed a very busy road in Amsterdam, congratulating myself on success and was almost immediately squashed flat by a speedster on his bike, whizzing along the separate cycle lane, which I had failed to notice. The devil is often in the detail. And how often do most of us read ‘the small print’?! We don’t have many separate cycle lanes in Britain, although I wish we did. We should. Can you come up with an answer, Boris?! (Boris Johnson is currently Lord Mayor of London).

If you’re thinking ahead of me, I didn’t have to cross the road this time!
I tried to take a picture in the fog, so I could show John how thick it was all day here, meanwhile hoping he had made it to Nüremburg. This turned out to be such a strange photo. John says it has to do with pixels but I had just been reading an article in ‘The Guardian’ by Alok Jha investigating various doomsday scenarios, in which the human species could be extinguished, sometimes in a split second.

Invasion of the nanorobots or strangelets …

He has written two books, both published by Quercus. One is called ‘The Doomsday Handbook:50 Ways to End the World’ and the other is ‘How To Live Forever and 34 Other Really Interesting Uses for Science’. He seems to be both a pessimist and an optimist. Or maybe just a scientist. I am not a scientist but am fascinated by the workings of the universe and how we evolved.

My thoughts re my photo are related to the author’s notes on nanotech disaster and ‘strangelets’. The first concerns nanorobots, which are apparently self replicating and could run amok and turn the world into a grey goo. I’m not sure where they came from but I secretly think I have caught them conferring in my photo. Strangelets are to do with quantum mechanics, which seem to act in a very similar way to nanorobots, rendering the planet into a fate of grey gooeyness also. This is previewed by a danger sign, where everything around you starts cooking and releasing heat. Not that that is a very comforting warning, given that you yourself will also be slowly roasting in this scenario, I assume …

If you are reading this you have been spared the nanotech disaster for now and maybe I just somehow took a photo of foggy globules … but no doubt danger lurks in a place you haven’t noticed …

With these doom laden thoughts lying heavy on my mind, I trudged home and consumed a large bar of chocolate – ‘Green and Blacks’ organic – which I am sure did me some good and was fatly delicious.

John, on his return, was not entranced by either nanorobots or strangelets. We were walking in Richmond Park the next weekend and the contrast in the weather couldn’t have been greater. The sky was crystal clear, throwing birds, trees and water into sharp relief. John often gets new ideas when walking or cycling and this was one of those weekends, no doubt also stimulated by his stay in the abbey. The clarity of everything around me seemed as if I had invested in superwoman XXX contact lenses.

Blue sunlit tree in November

Parakeets now rule the roost in Richmond Park but the ravens know their strength and there was incessant noisy squawking and cawing as they swiped at one another overhead while we scrunched our way through the now dry and brittle bracken fronds.

On guard – raven in Richmond Park

Pen Ponds and a dog, Richmond Park

I managed to take a photo of our shadows – in the late afternoon sun we look like Giacometti figures … well, John does – I look rather lumpy!

Giacometti John in the late afternoon …

We walked up the woodland path towards the ballet school, black outlined silhouettes of birds and branches on either side – evening was signalling in the breeze. A self important, plump little bird, singing its heart out, the witchy fingers of a storm damaged tree. Tree trunks on the ground left to rot are often havens for stag beetles and even some kinds of bats – and of course, plenty of ‘rongeurs’. The last is a very beautifully onomatopoeic word …

A portly twitterer in full flow …
Witch fingers …

The postscript to this entry is that I put it up on my blog, only to find that half of it had disappeared by the next morning. How could that be? ‘ Definitely your fault’, said John on his return but he wasn’t taking into account the existence of strangelets or nanorobots. In Alok Jha’s book I read that in the future these nanorobots will be able to break down oil spills by eating hydrocarbons. This seems a great idea but should one of them suffer an error in its programming, it would then start to eat anything with carbon in it. The end of life in general might happen quite fast as nanorobots appear to be very greedy, despite their minuscule size.

Anyway, I’m sure they are far too clever to get themselves photographed by a rather old camera used by an amateur photographer, whose computer skills are no doubt below average?! But I did just wonder whether they had done a bit of airbrushing…

END

The average temperature has been so mild this Autumn. There are yellow Welsh poppies and primroses flowering in the garden and the magnolia stellata’s buds are very fat already. I hope they won’t be frosted. It would be sad to lose those delicate white flowers in the Spring. My neighbour gave me a pot of purple pansies last April. I finally put them in the garden, hoping they might flourish a little longer and to my surprise, there is now a whole carpet of them under the rose tree, far more than in the original pot and in full bloom. Somehow, it’s a little disquieting when the plants get confused about the seasons … climate change is definitely on the march.

Spider’s web – herald of Autumn

Confusing times …

Windfalls …

I’ve been buying a wealth of Kentish grown apples from the Farmers’ Market. Braeburn and Cameo are my favourite at the moment. Jonagold are good too. Ringden Farm, where they come from, also have wonderful pears. My favourite are Comice. I was watching a programme recently where Michel Roux was promoting the English pear. To tell if they are ripe, don’t go by the colour – just press them lightly at the top and if they are a little soft they are ripe – I never knew that! Sliced pear with walnuts and some mild blue cheese, white Stilton or even a Cheshire with hints of honey and lemon or a fresh Wensleydale is just such a treat. We are lucky to be able to buy this excellent fruit along with apple juice every Saturday. I like the mix of Cox and Bramley but having a sweet tooth means that I adore the Russet. And there are many more juices to choose from.

A Comice pear no more. It was delicious …

The other delights in Autumn are fresh hazel nuts, known as cob nuts when you buy them in their shells just off the tree. And that made me think of the best English poem to describe an English Autumn time, written by John Keats … the first verse …

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun,
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run:
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.

Rooks gathering at sunset – 6 November 2011, Tangley

We went to see some friends in the countryside for Sunday lunch. Eleo gave me some windfall apples from ancient trees. We don’t know the name of them but they taste so fresh and crunchy and sweet. They also cook well, turning into an apple snow. I add honey and right at the end, pour in a little Calvados, brought back earlier in the year from Normandy. We eat it with crême fraîche. Eleo baked hers on top which caramelised them a little. Who needs a Michelin star with that on offer?!

A bowl full of apples …

Except for the fact that it isn’t full because I ate the rest!

Complementary pink and green …

Below is one of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It is rather melancholy but although it conjures up the dying side of Autumn and life in general, Spring may just bring a new dawn and that’s what we need in Europe right now! So read it but be optimistic!

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceivs’t, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

We had cider with our supper last night. The rich golden colour matches well with ‘mellow fruitfulness’. Today is a first for scarf and gloves alongside a coat. John had a brainwave on the bus. I expect it is to do with the cold stimulating his brain cells!

Getting ready for Autumn …

This is just a small entry as I am ensconced in writing up our trip along the Lycian coast of Turkey, which is a travelogue unto itself. I just wanted to hail the arrival of cooler weather!

Fallen leaves at The Aldwych, flattened by the traffic …

END

I was on tenterhooks about this trip. We had booked it almost a year before to ensure getting a place, even although I was doubtful about my inclination to seasickness and my lack of any sort of thermostat as the barometer rose above 25degrees. I need not have worried as these paled into insignificance when three weeks before leaving I had an attack of extreme stiffness and pain around my hips, inner thighs and knees. I couldn’t bend down at all. Both the doctor and the physiotherapist boosted me enough to keep me going but it was touch and (excruciatingly) go and I did think I would spend most of the trip lying on my back, missing out on all the archaeological sites and trips.

A month beforehand, John had been knocked down in the street (see his blog) and that caused extra stress and worry as with a head wound he would not have been able to swim – though I expect he would have anyway, knowing his disregard for good advice re his wellbeing. Even with a good recovery, there were deadlines to meet before we left re his finishing his new book and a ground breaking new report called ‘The Future Quotient’. We arrived at Heathrow in a somewhat ragged state of mind. There was a long queue for Turkish Airways. I noticed two elderly ladies some way in front of us and wondered if they could they be part of our group? I didn’t have the energy to enquire but we were to regard Maureen and Janet with great affection by the end of our trip!

Arriving in Istanbul you need ten pounds in sterling to pay for a visa – no change given – then we followed our leader, archaeologist and Graeco Roman historian, Andrew Wilson, to ‘inland flights’. Looking out of the plane window, the sky was now dark velvet blue with a yellow band and a fiery horizon. When we got to Dalaman airport it was past 10.00pm but the air was still warm and heavy. We had an interminable wait for our minibus to Göcek. I was exhausted – as much by my stiffness as by the long drawn out day. When the minibus finally showed up I needed to grab my leg and lift it up the shallow step. Whatever could be wrong with me? However, I’d managed to get here and the general feeling of not knowing about anything ahead overcame otherwise dire thoughts. Curiosity kept me from despair.

We arrived at the boat about midnight and the cook had prepared a welcome supper. Ian and Ann from Australia, who had arrived much earlier, were already nursing glasses of wine, happily ensconced on deck at the beautiful wooden varnished table for twelve. I felt myself swaying from side to side with weariness and thought I might just keel over. John told me it was because I was on a boat in the water – on reflection, he was right and had meanwhile managed to find himself a bottle of wine.

Our cabin is all varnished wood – small but perfectly formed, with the most beautiful round, rough hewn marble basin. I manage to have a hot shower, take two painkillers and put the ‘seasick’ bands on my wrists, just as my head falls onto the pillow. I am happily in dreamland until the morning.

The highlights of breakfast are the best yoghourt ever, honey, cheeses, fruit. Then bread and butter with an array of delicious jams. My favourite is cherry. Whole sticky cherries which I pile onto my slice of bread. Heaven! I have always been quite greedy in the food department.
Our boat is berthed between two ‘gin palaces’ – modern, rather vulgar, white monstrosities . One of them has an impressive looking bar and two middle aged women are already making full use of it. Leopard skin is obviously in fashion. But leopards are lean machines. Enough said. We do not catch one another’s eye. We are a different species.

Göcek

Göcek – Boats galore …

Göcek – fruit and veg …

We have time to go and explore – buy a newspaper, postcards … the sun is bright and so warm, the sky deep blue against the pink of the bougainvillea . We pass a fruit and vegetable shop and I want to buy the tiny, purple sweet grapes and the ripe yellow figs and the green pistachio nuts. I buy the ripe and juicy figs. We make our way back to the boat past hibiscus bushes with red flowers that remind me of ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’. I feel I have stepped through the mirror and the Lycian coast beckons. The stiffness continues but I am now optimistic.

Our boat – walking the gangplank …

Göcek – hibiscus in flower …

Lovely Maureen, flier of Tiger Moths, painter of watercolours with a wry sense of humour and a big heart …

Our boat sets off against a dry, limestone, mountainous landscape with small habitations scratched out of the scrubby green hillsides. It’s sort of ‘Good Samaritan’ country. Forgetting your bottle of water here would end in disaster – unless, of course, he turned up in time.

We’re on our way to the Island of Gemiler, once a thriving Byzantine holy island, now only ruins of churches remain; and a vaulted processional way, which is very impressive, despite its dilapidated state. We dock in the narrow straits between the island and mainland. A tiny boat starts to make its way towards us, somewhat like a ramona fish titivating a shark; we are being offered fresh pancakes from a mother and son team. John and I choose honey and lemon; the pancakes are cooked before our very eyes before being hauled up into our boat.

After lunch (on top of pancakes!) Taifur, our ever helpful steward, whizzes us over to the shore in the Zodiac dinghy. I’ll get the hang of climbing in and out of it in time but meanwhile, Andrew is there with a helping hand for all of us. I feel excited and unreal.

Leaving Göcek

Pancakes with lemon and honey …

Remains of vaulted processional way …

On the island of Gemiler – perfection!

Evening sun from the top of the island …

The path is steep and quite rough with loose boulders. We pass a vast empty cistern. If you fell in here you would need strong men and a rope to get you out – if you were still alive that is. So maybe not the best place for a romantic midnight stroll … a few minutes later we come upon some coffin shapes cut out of the living rock. The sun is blissfully warm and the air slightly muzzy and my senses somewhat drowned in the soothing sound of cicadas all around us.

On our way back to the boat …

Towards the end of a perfect day

Dinner time on the boat. A treat of freshly grilled fish and lots of vegetable dishes. I rather like the spinach cooked in yoghourt or curd cheese which is bursting with garlic. And the aubergines are perfect. I think the ones they grow here must be different from the ones we get at home. They just melt in your mouth and are smoky and unctuous.

Goodnight Gemiler …

We had our first swim today and in the water all my aches and pains vanished. Maybe I should turn into a sea otter. I forgot to put on my acupressure bands after swimming and felt ghastly when I woke next morning as the boat set off early at 5 am. The open sea was challenging enough to take a anti seasick pill but then I decided I should just get up and have a shower. I was covered in soap when the water ceased and I had to persuade John to find one of the crew, who disappeared into the bowels of the boat with a screwdriver and put everything to rights. Things got much better when I was up on deck and we found ourselves in a quiet cove where swimming was top of the bill. The group is settling in and we are getting to know one another’s foibles.

It’s very hot. Andrew says it’s going to hit 40 degrees. I say to John that if he finds a small putrid pool in the bathroom he will know I have melted!

A relaxing day sailing to Kas

The hornet that stung Ken …

We’re on our way to Kas, a small town which turns out to be unbelievably picturesque. I would like to stay here longer. Andrew takes us to see a tomb in the middle of which is a tree full of pomegranates. We then follow him along a dusty road, which has enticing glimpses of seaside restaurants down small alleyways. There’s an Ali Baba Car Hire shop which I thought should really be ‘Pots for Hire’ and there are a lot of scrawny cats on the lookout for a tasty morsel as we arrive at the impressive Roman amphitheatre.

Arrival at Kas

Harbour wall – Kas

Illustrated harbour wall …

On our way to the amphitheatre …

Maureen and Janet at the amphitheatre

A wealth of pomegranates …

Inviting table for two …

Andrew then informs us that there is also a special tomb to be investigated.. Unfortunately, this means climbing up to the top of the amphitheatre. The tomb is guarded by a toothless crone, who apparently used to be found there at all times with her fierce hound – who has since departed this life. She is wearing a grimy headscarf and sits bowed over, leering and muttering. She reminds me of Gagool in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ (Rider Haggard), as the cave door comes smashing down to trap the poor victims with a background chorus of victorious cackling. The tomb is Doric and very smelly inside, used for various nefarious purposes. It has blackened, sooty walls re fires people have made and is not inviting.

Outside is a mass of empty drinks cans, paper bags, old bits of wool and matting, cigarette cartons and other discarded detritus. The crone crouches amongst it all, unseeing. We have left Maureen at the amphitheatre, being guardian of our bags, and looking stylish in her ubiquitous red panama hat. I have to say that for the most part there is very little rubbish when we visit sites that are outside of towns. This place was by far the worst.

On the way back we visit an orthodox church, now for some reason changed into a mosque and guarded by two sinuous, wraithlike cats who look at us with malice aforethought and weary, flyblown eyes.

Pathway to church/mosque

We finally retrace our steps to see another very splendid tomb in the middle of the prettiest street in the village and I am tempted by the shops. Andrew loves Kas and I can see why. I find the tiniest yellow post box and stuff in the cards I have written – which arrive about a month later in the UK. Perhaps it wasn’t a post box after all and a kindly person saved them but time has a very different dimension here. It’s very relaxing!

A house in Andrew’s favourite street – Kas

John at the shops – Kas

A tempting sight …

Sunlit …

Sunlit 2 …

and a dog …

Towards the end of the day …

Farewell Kas

At supper time we are served chicken with numerous colourful salads and potatoes, followed by water melon, grapes, bakhlava and Turkish coffee. I like the atmosphere of Kas. Let’s hope I get to come back one day. I sleep like a log and wake as stiff as a board!

There’s a powerful smell of the bilges this morning. It can’t be helped but best to get up on deck as soon as possible. There’s no hot water but that’s just as well as it is so hot that I sweat as I shower. I’m at the limit of my comfort zone! At breakfast a huge hornet pushily investigates the jams. Ken is ready with his antihistamine cream and has a small pocket fan to cool himself down – which works!

The honey is very dark in colour. It obviously comes from the resinous pine trees that crouch low to the rocky islet sides. Not too sweet – much in demand.

Time for another swim via the wobbly ladder. Norman and Jim help John sort out his brand new snorkelling equipment and he’s soon out there pursuing pipefish.. The sea is not brimming with marine life here but it’s amazingly clear and clean. The water is ‘Monet’ blue shading to sparkling turquoise with ‘La Grenouillère’ ripples – so warm and so easy to slip into.

Lunch is spaghetti and tomatoes with okra, peppers and a cornucopia of salads with a golden light beer. We sail by Kekova, now underwater and pass by the site of a famous Bronze Age wreck, the remains of which we will see in Bodrum Museum at the end of our trip.

Passing by the ancient site of Kekova …

The ship comes into Kaleköy, a small Turkish village overhung by the ruins of a crenellated castle high on top of the hill. This is the site of the ancient town of Simena. It’s a long climb up and we are accompanied by two old dogs – just for company, I think. Half way up and we have a great view of the sarcophagus which is now in the sea, near an island of flat stones which were once ancient baths.

Arrival at Kaleköy

Carpets for sale down by the harbour …

View of our ‘gulet’ from the castle walls …

Good companions …

King of the castle …

Castle walls and tombs …

We walk down into the valley and find dozens of tombs strewn over the hillside, all of them broken into long ago. We spend some time exploring before making our way back to the café where Andrew said they would serve us freshly squeezed orange juice – and he was right!

Ancient olive, ancient tomb …

Remains of looted tombs …

John amongst the tombs …

Tree and tomb – long term embrace …

Precarious both in life and death …

There is a feeling of heavy somnolence here in the shimmering heat of the day. It’s a cliché but the silence is golden. You could drink it and goodness knows what would happen – just like Alice in Wonderland. There were times of terror and bloodshed on this very spot, as civilisations were invaded and put to the sword. There is also a sense of waiting and mystery – of souls long gone who have left their mark – tombs which have secrets but no voice to relate them.

John takes more photos while I turn tail and hurry down the many steps to look at the shops before we have to return to the boat. I also walk down to see the sarcophagus which now lies in the sea. The path leads through peoples’ back gardens full of hibiscus, bougainvillea with ducks and cats with their kittens, and lurking curs. At the water’s edge there are casbah type restaurants with low sofas, floor cushions and lamps. And huge pots of flowers everywhere which are dazzling.

An enticing emporium …

On the way back to the boat

Harbour stores …

Ducks and drakes

Flowers opposite our jetty …

We are finally all gathered together on the jetty and Taifur arrives in the Zodiac (dinghy) with a flourish. This village is very poor but ablaze with colour and panache at every turn. Small boys swim amongst the boats, people have welcomed us. Life is so different here – it makes me wonder about my own and question what the good things in life really are. I am to think about this many times during our trip.

Supper time. I feel I shouldn’t drink too much alcohol as I’ve been both mentally and physically challenged by the heat today. Taifur suggests a shandy, which I haven’t had since I was a student. It turns out to be very uplifting – as sparkly and buoyant as the salty sea.

After supper, Ken challenges Ian to a game of cribbage. Ken is obviously an old pro. Ian will have to up his game. I haven’t ever learned to play cribbage but Janet gets out the cards to play Racing Demon. ‘ She always wins’, Maureen says rather mournfully, so I bow out and watch. Maureen turns out to be quite an amazing person. She doesn’t win at cards but she was once in charge of seven London hospitals at the same time and John finds out that she flew Tiger Moths during the war. She and Janet are also great water colourists and if they can’t make it to the top of every acropolis, they paint pictures of it instead. They are an impressive pair and Maureen’s sense of humour carries us along and is a joy.

In the night I am woken by the wind and then very heavy rain. I hear a noise in the bathroom and when I go to investigate I find the roof is leaking and a puddle getting bigger by the second. I fly upstairs in my white nightie looking like a banshee and find Taifur. He silently hands me a large bucket which goes into service. All good except that it isn’t in some of the other cabins. Maureen’s bed has been soaked and some of her watercolours damaged.

Next morning the sun is out and soon everything is dry again. Ishmael is the youngest of the crew and looks after our cabins. He has gorgeous dark lemur like eyes and a winning smile and seems to love us all! I want to put him in my pocket and take him home. Except I prefer being here with him on the boat. It’s interesting that I was so nervous of sailing and now I could go on for ever. The Mediterranean is quite calm here though and the boat very comfortable. And I have no responsibilities. It’s good to look at our captain, Taifun (pronounced Typhoon!), at the wheel. He is the image of self confidence, square and heavy in stature, and serious looking until his face lights up with a smile. As Andrew says, ‘He’s a good man’. He surely is!

Andrew with our captain, Taifun …

Andrew has a large chart which he spreads out over the table after breakfast to show us where we are and where we’re going. Next on the list is Myra and the Church of St. Nicholas.

Arrival re Myra

It is very hot. After negotiating the ladder to a smaller boat we arrive on shore. A minibus takes us to the site. This is an area called Demra, famed for its tomatoes and we see rows and rows of greenhouses, shimmering in the heat. At the entrance there are some roofed over stalls, selling clothes, jewellery and postcards. Felicity and I both buy white shirts, made from thin cotton lawn in the hopes of cooling down a little. I am given a lucky charm with mine. Let’s hope it works!

We are the first at the site (well done, Andrew, for chivvying us along because it’s awe inspiring) – and even more so to be without crowds of people wielding cameras – except for ourselves of course! This area has been flooded at various times and Andrew points out the layers of earth which show where the tsunami reached to – well above our heads!

Myra – morning glory on a glorious morning …

John is first at the site …

joined by Andrew …

Faces 1

Faces 2

Face 3 in the heat of the day

Transfixed …

Transfixed too …

In the amphitheatre

John and Norman exploring the amphitheatre

Reach for the sky

Farewell Myra

We just had time to sit down and drink a very astringent but refreshing pomegranate juice before being spirited away in the minibus to the church of St. Nicholas. Otherwise known as Nöel Baba Kilesi (Church of Father Christmas). It was built by St. Nicholas when he was bishop. This was in the nearby town and was overflowing with Russians who had come here to touch the sarcophagus. There was a serpentine queue for this but I found the rest of the church more interesting.

Part of the ceiling – church of St. Nicholas

Mosaic floor tiling – church of St. Nicholas

Remains of intricate stonework sculpture outside the church …

blurred vision!!!

Back to our boat …

Ship ahoy! Lunch ahead …

I was beginning to wilt in the heat and see everything with blurred vision so was incredibly happy to get back to the boat where lunch was waiting for us. And Taifur was at the ready with a cool shandy. It couldn’t have been better.

Lunchtime!

After lunch I lay and read, finishing Bill Bryson’s book ‘The Appalachian Trail’, lying full length under the shady blue awning on the cushions. Later on we went swimming – the water is incredibly buoyant – John even drinks it because of his love of salt as he pootles off looking for marine life via his snorkel. Deeply satisfactory! I am still struggling with my stiff and painful parts but all is lissom and light and pain free in the salty sea.

I did some washing and hung my nightdress up to dry on deck. I completely forgot about it until Ann came to tell me next morning that she had just saved it from a watery grave. The boat had started early and the wind was blowing quite hard. The nightdress meanwhile was dry and had the fresh smell of sea air when I put it on. Laundry as such is difficult to achieve, except that the sun and wind dry everything quickly. Dorothy tells me that Jim washes his shirts by ‘treading’ them in the shower – like grapes! At Kas I saw a small building on the quayside offering ‘Laundry’ but we were only there overnight. However, the crew always look shipshape in well pressed white shirts and shorts. The captain must have a special service – he did go off in the dinghy one night at dusk and return late. Could that have been to pick up laundry, I wonder?

Our next port of call is Kalkan. A sort of sister town to Kas. Until 1923 it was a Greek village. Tourism has meant that the bar has been lifted and the old cottages are restored and refurbished in a good authentic way. There are many shops and restaurants but this place hasn’t on the whole been spoilt by being ‘discovered’. It is only above the original village on the hillsides that there is a sprawl of new and not very pretty apartment blocks. It seems to be somewhat of an English enclave.

John was walking down the gangplank when his sunglasses slipped and fell into the water, having bounced once or twice on the gangplank and then the side of the dinghy. He decided to go in after them but in the end the water was too deep and the light was fading. These were special sunglasses that fitted onto his own glasses. People were very kind and an English lady in the tourist office directed us to an optician’s shop.

Meanwhile, we came upon Andrew drinking white wine at a small bar and he invited us to join him. The optician couldn’t have been more helpful. He had something that could work and asked us to give him half an hour to fit the new sunglasses. Perfect timing for a glass of wine with Andrew.

Next morning we all climbed into a minibus and set off inland. First to Letoön, with temples to Leto, Apollo and Artemis. John and Norman were fascinated by part of the site which was flooded – I think it is permanently like this – as the waters were full of large, black fish, terrapins and vast dragonflies hovered above the reedbeds. But the real highlight was the croaking of hundreds of frogs, which all leaped into the water as we approached.

Croaking of a hundred frogs …

The legend is that the goddess Leto fled here from Mount Olympus in order to protect her twin children, Apollo and Artemis from Hera, Zeus’s jealous wife. Shepherds tried to drive her away but she was defended by wolves and that is how Lycia was named – after ‘lykos’ meaning ‘wolf’. Leto then changed the shepherds into frogs. I remember Letoön more for its aquatic life although there is a fine amphitheatre and a hidden tomb – a favourite one for Andrew. It is one of the prettiest sites we visited – I could have sat watching the wildlife all day.

Andrew at the amphitheatre – Letoön

Andrew’s favourite tomb, Letoön

We continue on to Xanthos which has a Byzantine citadel on an impressive large and open site, high up, overlooking a river. The amphitheatre has been damaged by earthquake activity and in some parts the stone wiggles like a wave formation. A lot of slaughter went on here and the proud citizens of Xanthos committed mass suicide rather than submit to a conqueror. Today there’s a lot of archaeological digging in progress.

Tombs and earthquake stone waves at Xanthos

This man is ‘dusting’ the stones!

An erstwhile rather splendidly laid out shopping street

Midday and the hot sun burns down relentlessly. Just as well I brought my umbrella which has flipped into a beautiful sunshade!

At Xanthos …

The heat! The heat! Tomb of the Nereids – (dancing ladies)

Tomb of the Nereids – opposite side, with Andrew and John in attendance …

Leaving the archaeologists in charge …

Next on our list is Patara, which has an eleven mile stretch of white sands. Andrew is more interested in showing us Vespasian’s monumental Roman gate and the rather lovely amphitheatre, which has a romantic quality as the site has never been wholly excavated and the constantly shifting sands mean that the theatre continues to be half buried. There is lots of renovation going on here, sometimes maybe not for the best. It’s getting towards the end of the day and I am thinking about the boat – and dinner!

Vespasian’s gate – note the flora …

I’ve got used to not being able to bend down and found ingenious ways of dressing in the morning! But I am very slow compared to John who is always up on deck in a trice! Still. I am looked after very well by Ishmael and Taifur and could wish for nothing better.

Next day we travel inland from Kalkan to Pinara, an exquisite site in a valley full of pine trees. It is tranquil and beautiful with only a couple of goats wandering around who peer at us suspiciously. There is a real ‘sense of place’ here, with the elegant asphodel plants as guardians. We spend some time clambering up to look at ‘lost’ tombs and John goes off on his own to explore. On the way back we turn off the main path and make our way up by a small splashing river to vast, silent, rather extravagent looking tombs, which must surely remind everybody of the Indiana Jones films! It’s a difficult, boulder strewn, tortuous uphill trip through the woods to get there – perhaps that is why the photos are slightly blurry – my head was whirling and it was a welcome relief to be handed out cooling packs of orange juice by Andrew at the café afterwards. He is always solicitous of our comfort! But the tombs were well worth the climb. And Pinara was voted five stars by us all!

Tombs cut out of the rock face

Pinara: a sole asphodel – guardian of the site

View of amphitheatre – Pinara

Audience of one in favourite T-shirt …

Jim and an asphodel survey the amphitheatre, Pinara

An Indiana Jones moment … Pinara

Jim ventures in …

Respite at Pinara

Refreshment at the guardian’s small café fuelled us for Tlos, its baths and citadel and the unforgettable Tomb of Bellerophon – which John risked life and limb to see, while I sat in the local café, drinking fresh orange juice and chatting to a small boy who might yet become ruler of Turkey in the years to come. I bought a small carving done by his father of St. Nicholas for nine lire. It is made from a ‘black’ stone found in the hills here.

But before all of this, we were whisked up into the hills above for an extraordinary fish lunch in tree houses. Waterfalls streamed down the mountain side into pools and open wooden platforms, decked in carpets with low tables and cushions were dotted through the trees above the ground. A succession of wooden ladders led one up and we had a whole platform to ourselves. There was a selection of vegetable dishes to go with the fish, which came crisply grilled together with a long glass of sparkling beer. After the heat, the sound of splashing water, the cool air and protection of the tree branches just added to a perfect lunch date! I don’t know where all the water came from in this dry landscape but there were fountains and pools and rushing streams all around us. John took some good photos – see his blog.

The next port of call were the ruins of the baths at Tlos, which had a panoramic view over the valley floor. After our lunch I had found a young Turkish girl selling honey and bought a few jars, some of thyme, some of flower. I will have to wrap them up in my old swimming towel and make sure they are in the middle of my case. Got rather over excited and now not sure this was a sensible idea! Incidentally, the outcome happened to be successful – amazingly, the jars got to England in one piece!

Remains of bath house with panoramic views …

Another part of the bath house site …

On the way to the citadel we came upon a smallholding where red peppers were drying in the sun and hens were roosting in the hedge.

Sun dried chilli peppers …

A Turkish ‘little red rooster’ …

I don’t quite know how I opted out from climbing up to the citadel but I found myself at a table with Ann in the small café that welcomed travellers to the site. A boy of about ten years old, the son of the owner, engaged us in conversation. He knew some English, was a fast talker and I don’t doubt he will make a great success of his life unless he is tempted by the bad side. We ended up with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice while John and the rest tackled the citadel on the skyline opposite. We could watch their progress from where we sat. Maybe I didn’t join them because we had been sitting on floor cushions at the restaurant and I found it impossible to get up without help afterwards, I was so stiff. I must be nicer to people on the street who hobble along painfully – it’s a bad feeling not to be able to do what you once did without thinking. Will I recover?

A future Prime Minister perhaps …

I feel sorry now that I missed the citadel but maybe it was as well. Afterwards, just four of the others went to Bellerophon’s tomb which is sited in a steep cliff face. Apparently, there was a ladder that hung out over the void in order to get to the tomb. Health and safety measures are not too much in evidence here – something I find quite a relief. We have too much of it in England. As long as the ladder was safe, then the responsibility to survive is yours. And, thankfully, they all did!

Meanwhile, I enjoyed looking at the rather good carvings which the owner of the café had made and am pleased I chose St. Nicholas. Perhaps he prevented the intrepid four from falling into the gorge below. I had a fleeting glimpse of the tomb as we passed by it downhill in the minibus. It looked impressive. So did the gorge!

Saint Nicholas carving …

This has been a long and glorious day. I feel unbelievably lucky to be here. Meanwhile, the gulet had left Kalkan without us and we caught up with it at Fethiye. I expect the crew enjoyed a bit of ‘time off’ from us today but we got a big welcome on our return and joy – the bar was open!

Tangerine moon

Fethiye is a large town compared with Kas and Kalkan. It is also a busy port. Its name was changed in 1923 in memory of a local pilot, Fethi Bey. There was earthquake damage here in 1957 and so the town is quite modern. A small museum near the waterfront is very well worth a visit and our steep climb up to the tombs was worth it also – made sweeter by refreshment at the local café afterwards. The Turks here are very welcoming and exceeding civil. It’s a joy to sit and chat, even without sharing a language. I really don’t want to go home now, which I find astonishing. I would be interested to find out where my ancestors came from, as I feel a sense of belonging, even though I can’t speak the language. I felt the same way when we came to Istanbul for the first time – a sort of homecoming. Of course, it could be because of our excellent guides, Peter and Jamal in Istanbul and Andrew with his love of Asia Minor which he is good at passing on!

Our ‘gulet’ moored at Fethiye

Boat variations – Fethiye

Small boats, Fethiye

Staue to the man Fethiye is named after …

Explanation …

By the waterfront, Fethiye

Climbing up to the tombs – Fethiye

Tomb at the top …

Yet another steep climb up to more tombs. Our ancestors must have been very fit, given that when they got up here they then carved the tombs out of the rock. It’s always rewarding to make it to the top – more so when we are welcomed on our descent by the local café owner, offering cool refreshment. Orange juice for me – the oranges squeezed before our very eyes by a charming girl. Then we made our own way back to the boat. John wanted to read and so I wandered off to look for a post office, which I was fortunate enough to find quite near at hand. And then I just meandered through the streets on my own, overjoyed to be here and free to explore.

Sun on bright water – fountain at Fethiye

Turks play backgammon in cafés everywhere. I saw four men engrossed in a game and stopped to watch. After a while, they looked up and I asked them if I could take a photo. Three of them looked as if they would say ‘No’ but the fourth (on the left in the photo) was a jolly type, who gave me a big smile and suggested I join them. No English spoken – just hand signals. I offered to buy them all a drink but tea was brought for me instead. This was a cultural exchange!

A game of backgammon and a glass of tea …

Suddenly, I saw Andrew approaching, looking around for his protégés – perhaps the boat was about to leave. I called out to show him where I was. There was a slight double take, he asked me if I was alright and I nodded reassuringly. But it was time to go, so I thanked all the men and bid them farewell. I have good memories of Fethiye and only hope they don’t have another earthquake in the near future. All these men were retired – one had been a surgeon – and they would all have remembered that last earthquake in 1957.

Café life with ducks and drakes

I wish I’d had time to go to the baths but Andrew – like a kind llama, had herded his little flock back onto the boat. Once again it was time to move on.

Sunset at Fethiye

I love being out here on the boat, watching the sun go down, hearing the muffled sounds of oars, distant conversations carried across the water and the possibility of a little nightcap administered by Taifur. How can I possibly adjust to living on land again?!

Splice the mainbrace – we’re off again …

John enveloped by the Turkish flag …

He looks very happy!

John and Ken

Stopping for a swim in a small cove …

We then got to stop at Cleopatra’s baths, which are now six feet deep in the sea, owing to earthquakes and rising sea levels. Andrew said it would be best if we swam to them as our boat couldn’t get too near the shoreline. Ken took the canoe and we all took to the water. The ruins were rather mossy and slimy but I managed to climb up from the waves after a few tries. Later on, Taifur arrived with the dinghy and I thought I’d take the easy option back to the boat but found that it’s incredibly difficult to climb into a dinghy from the water. Having tried to heave myself up a number of times, I imagined myself as a dolphin, threw myself out of the water and luckily landed right bang smack in the dinghy. Andrew said he would never forget this moment! It was good to get back and subside on the cushions – Taifur in attendance with a shandy … eat your heart out, Cleopatra!

On our way to Cleopatra’s baths …

Cleopatra’s ruins …

Our next adventure is extraordinary. We arrive at Lydae and there’s an uphill walk along a path strewn with boulders for about forty five minutes. Finally, we arrive at two ruined mausolea on top of a hill. On the other side the valley stretches down, hot and dry. There are some buildings at the bottom and Andrew says he knows the couple who live there but isn’t sure if anybody is at home. They have a small child, who now goes to school on the mainland. We can see the red flash of a Turkish flag, waving in the breeze and then Andrew notices a movement. ‘Let’s go’, he says, ‘I think someone may be there’.

It’s quite a trek. The heat is pitiless but then we come upon a semi-circular building, which turns out to be a well. John’s blog shows some wonderful pictures of it inside but I stumble on, encouraged by Andrew’s promise of a cup of tea.

What an astonishing place. Out in the middle of nowhere, no facilities, yet there is a feeling of peace – of two people who wanted to live a different existence. Only the wife is there. Her husband has gone to fetch their daughter from school, which is on the mainland. I think she lives with her grandparents during the week.

There’s a donkey, sheltering under a tree, beehives, and various wooden structures and suddenly, tea for all of us. I don’t know how Andrew knows this couple but we feel very honoured to be here. There are wooden spoons and small rugs for sale, made there by husband and wife. Every time I stirred porridge during these past winter months, I used one of their spoons and it gave me a happy memory of that day. As I stir, I imagine wishes could come true and one I have would be to go back there one day and take the spoon back to its birthplace.

Arrival at Lydae …

Donkey and flag …

Beehives …

Verandah …

That welcome cup of tea!

and farewell …

Ancient and modern …

As we made our rather weary way back to the boat, I noticed this ‘gin palace’ parked up in the most romantic of coves. The contrast between where we had been and what we had seen gave pause for thought. I thought we could do without the ‘gin palace’ but I do love our own most elegant ‘gulet’. To see these wooden ships plying up and down the coast is a great joy. I will relegate this last photo to ‘lap of luxury bling brochure land’!

And the next great treat which awaits us is Kaunos. Here, the shoreline stretches out flat as rivers flow into the sea. This landscape makes me think I could be somewhere in Latin America. Ian is lying out on one of the cushions at the front of the ship with his headphones on, playing an imaginary guitar. Janet, Maureen’s companion (and a Reverend) comes up to me and says ‘Bonkers’ – ‘completely Bonkers’ and with a rather judgemental shaking of the head makes off to find her walking shoes. Maureen will defuse the situation, I am sure. Ian, oblivious to the outside world, continues his role as rock star guitarist.

Arriving at the mouth of the river, Kaunos

Istuzu beach – a long sandbar where turtles lay their eggs …

It’s time to change boats so that we can go inland and soon we are all aboard a very particular river craft, of which there are many making their way up and down the inland waterways. Our boat has a very special feature – a throne! And our man in charge is called Vulcan …

Our riverboat – throne included!

A turtle …

and a blue crab …

The medley of river boats we pass is bizarrely attractive. This place is also a nature reserve to various birds and marine life as well as turtles. Our main aim was to see the ruins and rock tombs but further inland, there are also thermal springs and mud baths. I wish we had longer here.

Small river boat …

A river boat, sultan style …

Rowing boat and tombs

Ann, Diana, Norman, Ken and John …

The boat pulls in to the side and we continue our journey on foot. Norman, as ever, is up ahead, Ken not far behind and the rest of us follow in dribs and drabs, Jim and John with cameras at the ready. I keep thinking that when I look at my photos, I will hardly believe I was here! Andrew has really made this a fascinating trip and not only because of the archaeological sites. He is well organised yet flexible and makes sure we all feel included, yet at the same time gives us independence to explore. ‘He’s a good man’, a phrase he uses in describing Taifun (Typhoon), our impressive captain. I want to sail on forever with this crew!

An impressive outpost

Andrew in full flow – John at far left …

Sunspot

Digging up the past …

A handsome dog

A quiet moment (with the camera!)

A hound in matching surroundings … and it’s hot!

It’s a long way back to our riverboat from the site but a treat is in store. The local farmer has found an extra use for his tractor. He’s made a sort of charabanc, which is attached. It’s very ornamental and we enjoy the trip back down the hill, passing lots of wild flowers and fruit bushes on either side. When we get down to the water’s edge I can’t help but take a pretty photo of John amongst the oleanders, though, on reflection, he should have taken that photo of me! The boat is waiting and off we set again, through the reed beds towards our supper (I hope)! Nobody has fallen by the wayside. And I think we’ve done quite well amalgamating as a group – without really trying. We are quite tolerant and supportive of one another but I don’t know what we all really think – bar Janet’s Bonkers comments. It will be sad to disperse in a week’s time so I shan’t think that far ahead.

Our welcome charabanc

An oleander moment …

and the boat looks pretty too!

The river boat took us all the way back to the gulet and soon our captain was behind the wheel, spick and span in his freshly laundered ‘whites’. Here he is, looking in charge, as he always was!

Taifun, our captain

It was Dorothy’s birthday and the chef had devised a substitute cake – a huge watermelon had had pink caves gouged out of it from which were pouring delicious bunches of grapes. A bottle of wine made a good foil. Dorothy was given a very attractive blue bowl and was thrilled to have her birthday celebrated. She’s ploughing her way through ‘Wolf Hall’ at the moment. I confess I haven’t read it – at the moment I’m reading ‘The Thin Man’, a thriller by the American writer Dashiell Hammet and ‘London Under’ by Peter Ackroyd, which is fascinating. And I’ve got Michael Palin’s ‘Around the World in 80 Days’, for when the going gets tough!

Our anchorage for the night is very quiet – we can only see one other boat. On the shore there is a house – old but very large – surrounded by trees and with gardens sloping down to the shore with a jetty. Jim snorkels off to investigate but I just swim around the boat, looking for fish and notice some pretty marine vegetation. The house looks well managed and ‘moneyed’ but discreetly so. I notice one dim light on as night rolls across the ocean and envelops us and the silent darkness gives the house a rather spooky air. I expect a ‘guardian’ lives there and keeps an eye on comings and goings.

My backache continues but the ginger tablets that Ann gave me have kept it under control. The ginger is strong and even if they are only palliative or just a placebo, it’s a great help because I feel able to cope. And her kindness and concern helps too.

Cribbage continues during the evening – Ian is wily and getting better as he susses out Ken’s gameplan. I am reading ‘The Submission’ by Amy Waldman, which is fascinating. It’s a novel based on the idea of constructing a ‘space’ e.g. a building, a garden, in New York as a remembrance to 9/11. The judges have to decide on the winning entry without knowing the names of the contestants and the winner gives much pause for thought. A brilliant idea, well executed.

Andrew and John in pensive mood …

Ken – all in blue!

Next morning we cruise down the Loryma Peninsula, whose mountain tops are heaving with impressive fortresses and we finally make anchor in the ancient harbour. This consists of Taifur roaring off in the dingy with a rope, which he secures to a suitable rock on the shoreline, while Ishmael keeps hold of the other end on the boat. They are experts at this manoeuvre! The sea was quite rough today and I was pleased to arrive in a sheltered spot.

Rougher water …

Another place to explore, where we come upon more donkeys in seemingly inaccessible rocky outposts. The sense of history makes me aware I am walking where there are layers of different dimensions. They are hidden from me in my three dimensional 21st century world but the feeling is palpable. I could hold out my hand and be dragged through a time warp into another era. However, I need a hand up over some rough boulders and Andrew kindly obliges.

Safe harbour …

Complementary colours …

Explorateur 1

Explorateur having a rest …

Bubble wrap!

Andrew pointed out the plant above which grows everywhere. It was used as the equivalent of ‘bubble wrap’ to pack clay amphorae securely together in the holds of ships. I don’t remember the name of it but we noticed it again in the museum at Bodrum, doing its useful job.

We clambered up to the top but the donkeys had got there before us. They are much more sure footed than me and we found them eating dried thistles with evident enjoyment! Andrew was looking for some quotation carved aeons ago into a rock and Jim managed to find it by hanging upside down in a rather alarming fashion.

Contemplative …

I got here first …

Keep off! The thistles belong to us …

Time to clamber down and leave the donkeys to crunching their sunlit supper in peace.

Turquoise waters and a contemplative hat …

and back along the jetty …

Sunset from our cabin porthole

Our cook is amazing. He produces a cornucopia of tasty dishes from a tiny galley down below three times a day. Ian, who is a well known chef in Australia, went to investigate and told us there was only room for one person down there. Turkish food uses a lot of vegetables – and the best aubergines ever. I remember a dish called ‘The Imam Fainted’ (with delight!) which uses aubergines and I can see why he was so overcome. Okra is also prepared here in a very delicious way and at the front of the boat there is a barbecue for grilled fish, chicken and lamb.

Andrew tells us that there’s a problem with the dinghy’s motor and that we’ll have to make an unscheduled stop at Marmaris, which is retracing our journey a little way. But we have plenty of time in hand and while John reads on deck, I go for a wander, fending off carpet sellers but finding some small, Turkish bowls showing a traditional design of tulips in red, blue and white, which will make lovely presents.

Marmaris is a tourist resort and although it isn’t hugely busy at the end of September, it’s much more commercial than the other places we’ve visited. There are a few formidable looking walnut coloured German Hausfraus trawling the bazaar but the holiday season is definitely over. The carpet sellers will soon shut up shop and go home to Cappadocia to make more rugs for next year.

Our boat on arrival at Marmaris

Marmaris – waterfront

John engrossed in his book, Marmaris

The small, rather squat fortress was originally built by the Knights of St. John and taken over by the Ottomans. There is now a small museum – worth a visit. The problem of the dinghy is very soon sorted and we’re on our way to Knidos. We have a friend who is aboard a small yacht called ‘Beringo’ and she tells me by text message that they are also on their way to Knidos. Let’s hope we have a chance to meet up! I don’t know the origin of the name of the yacht but it rather reminds me of the pretty French word, ‘berlingot’, which can be a pyramid shaped carton but also a boiled fruit sweet. I remember as a child those flat, semi- transparent sweets of different jewel like colours, with a slight dip in the middle – perfect for putting clandestinely in your mouth in Maths and Latin lessons.

The wind is up – it’s still sunny but a change is in the air. We pass the hydrofoil that buzzes between the Greek islands and the Turkish mainland; it looks like some exotic, blue and yellow flying fish. In the distance we can see the Greek island of Kos on our left.

The hydrofoil passes by

Ken reading Simenon (en français)

Lion of Knidos, British Museum

There is a sheer cliff on our right as we navigate into the double harbour of Knidos which is on a narrow, isolated peninsula, best visited by boat. Andrew tells us that the settlement was built in 360BC. There used to be a stone lion on top of the cliff, looking out to sea. It is now in the British Museum, just to the left as you come in from the main entrance and is ponderously impressive. I expect it misses the view! Come to think of it, you might say it has a ‘faraway’ look in its eyes.

At Knidos

Flowers by the seashore, Knidos

John saw a snake here but I looked in vain …

Exquisite tracery and a lost gnome …

There’s much to explore here, a lot of it still unexcavated, which adds to its beauty. Andrew has written a Greek play that he wants us to act out in the amphitheatre – John, Felicity and I are the audience but we are also visited by others, intrigued as to what we are doing!

A single asphodel and John’s shadow …

Drama group arrive at the amphitheatre!

John captures high drama with Ian and Maureen …

Wow! Ian’s performance attracts the paparazzi!

The die is cast and the tragedy played out and we all repair happily to the café for an ice cold beer. There is also a rather special, tiny shop, where I buy a bracelet with stones and glass beads which echo the deep blues, indigos and clear turquoise colours of the sea.

Blue, turquoise and indigo …

Cat at Knidos

Ox head at Knidos

Time to go. Taifur arrives in the dinghy and ferries us back to the boat where Ishmael is on hand to help us up the wobbly ladder. I’ve got the hang of it now. Janet sometimes needs a bit of a shove from behind – but she’s a determined lady!

Ishmael awaits our return to the boat …

Noses …

We’re just negotiating our way out to the open sea when a yacht appears around the corner and it’s ‘Beringo’ – carrying our friend who we had hoped to meet up with at Knidos. We rush to the side of the boat and start waving and shouting like madmen – and we pass within yards of one another but can’t stop. Later on at home Kate tells me she was very seasick, so I felt fortunate that the gulet had kept me in good heart, despite my other problems. I continue to be as stiff as the proverbial board and although the ginger helps, there is definitely something wrong. But it hasn’t stopped me being totally entranced by the trip. And when I’m swimming I could be ten years old – completely flexible. A weird state of affairs …

We’re on the home run now, heading for Bodrum. It’s time to try out the sails and I managed to take a not very good photo of Ishmael aloft – however, here it is.

Ishmael setting up the sail …

Sail ahoy!!

blue waters …

A distant view of the island of Kos …

Most of the time on the boat we go barefoot and our walking shoes are kept in a cupboard on deck. Peoples’ feet are quite odd – partly because at home they are often tightly packed into elegant shoes or hefty boots, so you don’t see the lumpy bits. My feet are definitely not my best asset but they work pretty well. I was looking here at Taifur’s feet and I suddenly got goose bumps. His legs and feet are so reminiscent of those in Piero della Francesca’s paintings. Just look at the angels in ‘The Baptism of Christ’ for example. Taifur is an angel in disguise!!

Taifur’s famous feet à la Piero della Francesca

The gulet was scenting its home ground as we ploughed on through the lively waves … the captain lives in Bodrum and everybody got quite excited when we could make out the castle, which stands right by the shore.

Arriving at Bodrum

I don’t know how Taifun manages to moor us between two other boats – it’s always a tight fit and it always works against the odds! And now we are doing it for the last time.

Mooring needs skill!

Shoes on and we’re ready to explore the delights of Bodrum and its castle. Even though Bodrum is known for its rumbustious and lurid laser flashy nightlife, it’s very much worth a visit – just to go around the castle. When we arrived, there was an enormous cruise ship almost dwarfing its walls.

Later on, I noticed some visitors walking around with labels on which had numbers – e.g. 1452. Andrew explained that they were from the cruise ship and it was a way of checking that everybody had returned! So yes, there were lots of people but even so it was worth breaching the castle walls. The inside is magnificent with lots of interest and wonderful, open courtyards. And a great maritime museum, which is famous for collections retrieved from wrecks around the coast. Don’t miss it!

Fish market, Bodrum

Entrance to Bodrum castle

Ali Baba pot guarded by ox heads …

A shady looking character!

Sssssss …

View from the castle 1

View from the castle 2

Inscrutable …

Fashionista visitors …

The next few photos show some of the beautiful indoor courtyards, where you can sit and enjoy looking at the trees and plants and listen to the birdsong all around.

Scents of green citrus …

Amphorae

Amphorae with donkeys, potters and water carriers …

I spy pomegranates through green fanned leaves …

I’m watching you …

Cool spot in the heat of the day …

How do I look?!

Curiouser and curiouser …

John was all for making off by this time so that we could explore more of the town and Andrew had flagged up a visit to one of the seven wonders of the world. On the way out I was intrigued by a store of ancient lavatorial sculpture and descriptions of various denizens who inhabit the castle.

Varioous designs of a lavatorial nature …

Denizens of the castle 1

Denizens of the castle 2

Denizens of the castle 3

John makes off …

A moment of largesse on the waterfront before turning inland to explore the town.

A moment of largesse on the waterfront …

I always like being let loose in a new place – and Bodrum looked enticing with its outdoor markets and small alleyways behind the main street. I felt John would rather have gone back to the boat to read in comfort but he would get to see the seventh wonder of the world later on, so I encouraged him to explore.

‘When I am old and grey and full of sleep’ … an old chap dreams in the heat of the day …

A picturesque cottage hidden down a tiny alley way …

Cool blue …

Not even a miaow was forthcoming here … siesta time

Bollards and the butterfly bush …

We wandered slowly back boatwards. I recognised the butterfly bush I had at home but mine filled one pot and here there were swathes of it!

We passed a hibiscus in full bloom and I was thinking what a good job John Singer Sargent would have made of painting it in his illimitable free style with those glorious shades of colour. Then I took a photo of John taking a photo of motor bikes. It came out in what I think is John Singer Sargent style – I don’t know why – it just happened. No doubt John would say I’d moved the lens when taking it – and maybe I did!

Painterly hibiscus red, white and pink …

John with motor bikes – John Singer Sargent style? Maybe, maybe not …

And yet there’s definitely something of JSS to that photo – and it also seems to be of a bygone era – despite the motor bikes. We pressed on towards the waterfront again to be in time to catch the group going to the Mausoleum with Andrew. Every moment is precious now as the egg timer runs out.

Pink bicycle enveloped in a riot of gypsophila

Nearly there!

I think we all made it to the Mausoleum, except for Ian and Ann. There had been somewhat of a drama while we were away, as Ian had fainted and had to go to the local hospital to be checked out. They will be going back to Istanbul for a few days before leaving for Australia, which is good as he’ll be able to relax before that long flight.

Bodrum used to be called Halicarnassus and the king’s name was Mausolus. His wife built the Mausoleum in his honour around 350 BC. It was 120 feet long and 100 feet wide and Pliny describes it in detail. On arrival, there’s a slight Ozymandias moment. In the thirteenth century an earthquake felled it to the ground so not very much remains. The site has a ‘lost’ air about it but there is some wonderful bas-relief in a small glass walled building to one side.

Bas-reliefs in the grounds of the Mausoleum, Bodrum

John in study mode …

In profusion – above our heads!

I think this is a type of acacia tree – it’s really beautiful and sort of softens the blow of the missing Mausoleum! Andrew encourages us onwards and upwards to see the amphitheatre, which is now used for musical evenings. Unfortunately, it’s now right up against a very busy road, which we have to streak across. It’s impressive but we leave in a straggly line, the tone somewhat melancholy.

However, on the way down we buy some dry, salted almonds to take home. Turkish ones are the best. John set back to the boat but I leave the group to wander around a little and come upon a small jewellery shop. It’s run by a Turk who has married an English girl he met in Marmaris and he makes the necklaces and bracelets himself. I buy a pretty turquoise and crystal bracelet for my sister-in-law.

By the jewellery shop …

Next I make for the bazaar where I find lokhoum (Turkish Delight) – an authentic brand, I am told. The old man who has run his shop for fifty years also sends out for ‘real’ saffron and I find some olive oil soaps in painted tins. A goodly lot of small gifts. And a nice man to buy them from! I make my way slowly back to the boat, wondering how I will fit everything into my case. But I surely will.

On the waterfront …

The Three Graces

Home to the boat for the last time …

And it’s farewell all round. Ian seems to have recovered and we thank our cook for all the delicious meals he has prepared for us in the last two weeks. Andrew has a quiz for us on what we’ve seen and done – good thing it wasn’t an important exam but between us we’ve remembered a fair amount.

Bodrum’s night life is now in evidence – the only time we’ve been kept awake by thrumming music and high as kites holiday makers the whole two weeks. But next morning dawns clear and bright and calm again.

Cases are packed and taken down by Taifur and Ishmael to where the bus will meet us and take us out to the hubbub of Bodrum airport. Then we all line up and embrace Taifun, Taifur, Ishmael and our chef one by one. I do so like seeing men embrace one another! I love our crew – I hope things will go well for them all. They have been fabulous. I’m sad to leave and can’t help but shed a tear but so happy to have been part of this tremendously enjoyable voyage along the Lycian coast.

Bowing out in glorious technicolour! Au revoir …

END

I was waiting impatiently at the bus stop by the river, mulling over the French homework I’d just finished at speed before leaving home. You can see the bus’s progress from far up the river road. There is usually an enormous youth in baggy pants standing waiting at this time, so I know I haven’t missed the bus if he is there. He seems to talk endlessly to himself but maybe there is some sort of mobile around his person that I haven’t seen. But he does have an odd manner. I leave him to it and idly contemplate the river, the bridge and the boathouse on the opposite side of the road.

The bus is late. I look up at the sky and am confronted with an enormous feather. Does this augur well or badly? If you were a farmer who owned a flock of geese it might be significant. It looks softly white and benign and it’s phenomena like this that led me to becoming a member of The Cloud Appreciation Society. A feather in French is ‘une plume’, a tail or wing feather being ‘une penne’. Our proverb, ‘birds of a feather flock together’ is much more visually satisfactory than the French equivalent, which is ‘(des gens) à mettre dans le même sac (de la même farine)’. A much less satisfactory image somehow. Being scrunched up together darkly in a bag or made out of the same type of flour doesn’t really appeal, however similar one’s ideas may be! But twittering with other likeminded birds sounds fun!

The little red roof of the bus suddenly hoves into view. The enormous youth starts waving his arms around and hitches up his baggy pants. An old woman hobbles along, waving her umbrella above her head to tell the bus to wait for her. She smiles in thanks as I let her get on first. The enormous youth sees his pal on the back seat of the bus. He approaches him with a lumbering gait and adolescent grunts of awkward greeting. I have a double seat to myself. We are all content. And the feather is already changing and dissipating into nothingness as we speed off to our chosen destinations.

Birds of a feather …

END

Another foray into France via the tunnel. Christine had been singing the praises of ‘lovely’ Dieppe for months. The last time I’d been there was as a schoolgirl of seventeen, taking the boat train from Victoria via Newhaven/Dieppe and then onwards to Strasbourg. In my mind, Dieppe remained gloomy with heavy seas and bleak buildings hunching together around the harbour, damp, salty and sodden under a flat slate grey sky. I just remember feeling anxious of the unknown – and this feeling is shot through with the smell of the French lavatories on the train – harsh, hitting the back of the throat with a mix of dark urine and spent cigarette smoke, the flush onto the tracks sounding like an old man hawking spittle – raw and rasping. Why would I return to Dieppe?

Who knows? Yet I found myself on Barnes station on the 28th June with my small case, packed and ready to go.

Next stop – Strawberry Hill – to meet up with Christine and Mickey. And then the three of us were speeding along once again to the tunnel and beyond. I had chosen the hotel from the Internet. Our rooms should have balconies with a view of the sea. The pictures on the Internet didn’t tally with my memory of Dieppe. Just as well! But all the same, my hopes were not set high.

full speed ahead …

It’s a longer drive than to Wimereux on the French side (see my blog Côte d’Opale). Christine said that the alternative would have been to come by ferry – Newhaven/Dieppe – the times are usually inconvenient due to the tides and shallow harbours both ends but you do arrive almost at the door of your hotel. The happy surprise was that Hotel de la Plage lived up to expectations, as did the sea views. The only way I could jog my memory of old was when I saw the remains of the railway that used to run from the harbour, where the boat train picked up the passengers for onward destinations! No longer. I was cautiously optimistic …

The day was bright, flags were flying in the breeze and the cafés, companionably clustered around the port, welcomed crews from the hubbub of boats in the harbour. Dieppe was abuzz and yet two minutes around the corner on the seafront our hotel was gracious and tranquil. And the whole promenade was a riot of hollyhocks which complemented the long stretch of calm blue sea. All of it gloriously unexpected!

‘Flower Power’ parking – Dieppe

A riot of hollyhocks and a castle – Dieppe

“Reach for the sky!”

The hotel was perfectly placed both for the sea and for exploring the pedestrianised centre of the town behind, reached by following small ‘ruelles’ – alley ways. My room was large, airy and comfortable and I had a bath as well as a shower – I’m happy with either but I was feeling stiff after the long drive and looking forward to a soak later on. There’s something very pleasurable and liberating about having a large hotel room all to oneself.

I unpacked and then went and stood out on the balcony. The sea air was mild and balmy. My eyes appreciated the wide view of blue sky, white clouds and the darker blue sparkling sea. Two yachts with white sails towards the horizon and two seagulls, swooping and mewing, above my head. And the stress of life in general being gently washed away. Then Christine and Mickey came out onto their balcony next door.

out into the blue …

Mickey flagged up interest in tea and soon we were off to find the Café des Tribunaux, at one time a ‘hangout’ for some of the Impressionists- Pissarro and Renoir among them – and English painters of that time like Sickert – also the exiled Oscar Wilde. It did not disappoint.

Café des Tribunaux, Dieppe

A peek inside …

Spoilt for choice …!

Knitted into Dieppe …

Sox box – Dieppe

Madame, entrez s’il vous plaît … irresistible …

Don’t take any notice of the ghost in the machine – just do what it says and thank the Minute Maid …

We retraced our footsteps back to the hotel. The Restaurant du Port was recommended to us for dinner. Grilled fresh fish and salad followed by a crême caramel and a comfortable bed just ahead.

I had a dreamless sleep and woke early.

Walking the dog – balcony shot, early morning

Round and about Dieppe are some fabulous gardens. After breakfast Mickey decided to repair to Café des Tribunaux with his notebook. He’s busy writing a play. I went upstairs to get ready for a drive to ‘Le Parc des Moutiers’ – an Arts and Crafts house and garden, designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens and Gertrude Jekyll. It’s just along the coast towards Varengeville. A lot of what follows is about gardens – this is just a warning to non-garden lovers!

Before leaving, I went to close the french windows onto the balcony and just had to take a photograph of this ‘green man’, making his picturesque way along the seafront, satchel over his shoulder, obviously with a destination in mind.

The mysterious green man on the seafront …

It didn’t take us long to find the house whose gardens sweep downhill to the sea. The trees are majestic. We came upon an artist, who had set up his easel in a secret walled garden. The house can only be visited by special appointment. it was designed by Lutyens before he became famous. He and Gertrude must have had fun here.

Artist ‘en plein air’ …

Great balls of … box

Astilbe among the trees …

Though I say it myself, I find this picture enchanting. It is a pity I have tried and failed to grow astilbe of any colour. I was just reflecting on these gorgeous plants in their romantic setting and wondering why they wouldn’t do the same for me, when suddenly we walked around a corner and I was confronted by the unexpected.

Surprise surprise …

How did he get here, my mysterious green man sitting on a garden seat? He may have been writing but I think he was drawing. I was quick enough to take a snap of him but too shy to approach and see what he was up to. We continued our walk around the gardens and on the way back towards the house – green vistas spread out before us – there he was again. A Poirot mystery for sure … ! I hoped we wouldn’t come upon him dead in the secret walled garden – Christine said I was being melodramatic – well, it turned out we could have just as easily been the victims, as somehow we got locked in the ‘toilettes’ on our way out. Nothing more sinister than a rusty key which needed a joggle.

On the trail of the “Panama Hat Mystery”, featuring Monsieur Green …

I thought maybe we could find somebody to let us have a look at the house on the way out but there was nobody in sight … except for

Mad Hatter on the prowl…

It was time to pick up Mickey and find some lunch. In this case, Mme. Poirot wasn’t able to solve the mystery and we left the green man to the charms of Gertrude Jekyll. He certainly fitted perfectly into her design and enhanced it – for me, anyway!

Homage to Gertrude Jekyll

Yews – guardians to yet another secret walled garden …

The fernery

Mickey was in good form and pleased to see us and we were soon driving up to the flower gardens of ‘Clos du Coudray’. No inviting hostelries anywhere along the route so we had to make do with a cold drink and home made banana cake offered by the girl at reception. But that was enough to appreciate the flowers here. Mickey sits in the back of the car and has a stash of chunky kitkats and mint imperials to stave off hunger pangs.

La vie en rose …

Rural idyll, Clos du Coudray

Rah! I’d better move to France if I want to grow perfect astilbe!

Getting slightly obsessed here!

but blue is glorious too!

Mellow yellow

Enveloped by giant gunnera

who could not be enchanted by this red queen

After that riot of colour we were mentally sated but ravenous hunger propelled us back to Dieppe and the delight of choosing among many small and enticing restaurants along the harbour front. In the end ‘The New Haven’ won out. The waiters looked wonderful in their long white aprons and dinner was excellent – and très bon marché – I’d come back to Dieppe just to eat here!

Goodnight goldenball …

We had been told that we must visit ‘Agapanthe’ — a garden created by the ‘architecte-paysagiste’ Alexandre Thomas. He is an elegant magician. Of all the gardens we saw, this is really special. It’s at Grigneuseville – make sure you check out the opening times before you go though.

The second house – Agapanthe

Elegant curves

a joy to explore …

There are two houses and two gardens, separated by a small road. The second house was bought later and the gardens extended around both houses. The whole is exquisite.

Bienvenue!

Complementary companions …

In contemplation at the old well ….

Spot the large buzzing insect …

At this point a rest was required. We left Mickey in a comfortable sunny spot while we kept our ears open for the tinkling of teacups.

Now you see him …

now you don’t!

Enjoying a quiet respite – John Singer Sargent style!

We listened in vain. No dormouse in a teapot to be found but Mickey had meanwhile found himself an even more tranquil spot, well off the beaten track. It took us ages to find him again!

hide and seek with Ali Baba …

The next photo is bad but I had to put it in, despite the poor little caged birds, just to show the quality of the light coming through the doorway.

Let there always be light!

Finding the way out …

past a deep pool …

Au revoir et bonne journée …

I could ‘witter on’ about ‘a day to remember’ but what we needed now most of all was a cold drink, followed closely by dinner.

Welcome drinks all round!

LAST DAY

We hadn’t got to the castle yet, which sits on top of the cliffs at the end of the beach. Quite a climb! First of all we explored the town a little more. Christine and I found a shop by the harbour selling a French line of clothing called ‘Mat de Misaine’. We were tempted and not disappointed with our purchases! The colour of mine is that special French ‘blue’.

There are lots of grand villas along the seafront. Dieppe suffered badly in WW2, so these are interspersed with modern buildings, such as our hotel. They do fit together quite well but the old villas are obviously much more picturesque. The Grand Hotel has now been made into apartments.

in the pink …

Meanwhile Mickey,left to his own devices, seemed to have made the acquaintance of a seafaring chap – maybe slightly unsuitable but we’ll stand him a drink all the same …

Mickey meets up with a young sea-dog and contemplates life on the ocean wave!

Denizen of the deep …

We keep passing this unsettling sculpture. I wonder what it signifies …

Makes it difficult to get a divorce!

The castle – third photo in behind the hollyhocks – is worth the visit. Rooms full of paintings and objets d’art. It is well maintained and they do have special exhibitions. The dry moat is full of wild flowers and there’s a king size ‘bellevue’ over Dieppe.

Mickey outside the castle walls …

Children are swimming in the sea today and also the olympic size outdoor pool. It’s reviving to walk along the sea front watching the boats and breathing in the sea air. Every other year (the even ones), there’s a kite festival. It must be an amazing sight. There’s also a ‘herring’ festival each year, following the weekend after the 11th November.

Spirit of Dieppe!

Swimmers, Dieppe

Packing up time and ready to go. We’ve only been here four days but it seems much longer because we’ve done so much. I’ll have to come back and just sit on the balcony and gaze out to sea! You could even come without a car as a foot passenger on the ferry with a five minute walk to the hotel. I think I am a flâneur at heart!

Annual herring festival – Dieppe. Illustration Brigitte POPE. Magasin VAGUE – rue de la Rade, Dieppe76200

On the way back to the tunnel, we stopped off at a small seaside resort called Le Crotoy. Colette used to spend some summers here with her daughter and near her house we found a perfect little place by the sea to sit outside and have ‘moules frites’ with fresh lemons. Utterly delicious. And then it was time to head for home.

On the road again … to Le Crotoy

Poppies shot at speed, Le Crotoy

Onion seller, Le Crotoy

Three geese, homeward bound …

And so I was proved wrong re my memories of Dieppe – it was a long time ago! It’s an easy place to get to and I recommend it as somewhere uplifting to recharge your batteries. I shall go back.

FIN

I am not one to rave on about restaurants – best to leave that to the biting wits of A A Gill et al but I really wanted to flag this special birthday evening up as it turned out to be a huge success. I must also (modestly!) note that I had cut out something from the paper about this new restaurant about a year previously and given it to Hania. Both girls are the put upon recipients of articles I cut relentlessly from various places that I think may be of interest! It is in my nature to find things out and they gracefully accept my offerings – sometimes with enthusiasm. In this case, Gaia had suggested we go to Bruno Loubet’s bistrot and I was delighted to have a chance to try it out.
Many years ago John used to work in Bowling Green Lane in Clerkenwell and the restaurant is not far away from here. We decided to walk there from Holborn as I’m not very ‘au fait’ with the whole area and I wanted to connect it up with bits I did know, like Farringdon and Exmouth Market. John soon began to recognise it all and Gaia was waiting for us in St. John’s Square, just off the Clerkenwell Road.
We were in for a great treat and I loved the atmosphere of the restaurant as soon as we walked in. It’s said that when you meet somebody new you make up your mind about them in the first few seconds as to whether you will get on with them – or not. That is, if you are a person who works on instinct. I felt like that about Zetters – I immediately felt welcomed, that they were pleased to see us and not just as customers …
I’m not going to discuss the dinner in detail, which was wonderful, or the service, which was a mix of professional and warmly personal. You have to try it for yourself. However, we all started with a delicious aperitif – one of Bruno’s infusions. We chose Provence, which consisted of lemon/orange/lavender and rosemary served with vermouth and bitter lemon. The glasses arrived with two stems of lavender in each. Conjuring up images of Cézanne, Bonnard, Van Gogh, lavender fields and sun scorched hills. And those silent, sun steeped afternoons, the Dentelles de Montmirail etching a filigree lacy limestone edge against the brilliant blue of the sky. We imbibed the essence of Provence. Then I ate the lavender stems.
You can buy salt infused with lavender – I can imagine it would be good with ‘agneau salé’, lamb that lives in the Camargue. Provence is a land of plenty with some very good wines.
Above the restaurant, there are bedrooms and also another Georgian townhouse near at hand, which offer accommodation. Quite expensive but I am sure there are ‘offers’ from time to time. The interesting thing is that when the hotel side of things was being built, sustainability and environmental awareness were high on the agenda. Zetters (the name of the hotel/restaurant) is a founder member of the Sustainable Restaurant Association, which supports restaurants in their quest to purchase from sustainable and local suppliers as well as advising on waste reduction. There continues to be a Green Team monthly meeting.
They also have their own borehole for clean water and have used environmentally sensitive building materials. The whole building is controlled by an intelligent building management system re the use of electricity which is recycled in some complex way. And the lights go off as they see you leaving the room.
There’s an inviting cocktail bar too!
This is a special place and a great treat.
Nightlights in Clerkenwell …