All the gardens around here abound with bluebells – the rather fat and fleshy ones, known as ‘Spanish’ bluebells rather than the more elegant, woodland type. It would be interesting to know the history behind this, as my neighbours complain about the fact that however many of these bluebells you pull up, they return in force the following Spring. Because they are so luxuriant and strong they look marvellous for about three weeks and then comes the task of putting all the spent stalks and the largesse of leaves into the green bin, so that other plants can thrive.
Southernwood, sage, sweet cicely and Spanish bluebells …

Besides the daffodils, narcissi and other spring flowers in their various shades of yellow, cream and white, there is the ‘wire netting’ bush – a native of New Zealand – so called because its tiny crooked, zig zag twigs look like wire netting, studded with tiny, star like, scented flowers in late Spring. This is ‘corkia cotoneaster’. It is very hardy and only needs the occasional trim to stop it looking ragged.
Faithful and hardy perennials …

I found a jewel like, blue cineraria. Some of the plants in this family prefer to be indoors but most of these I find just too frilly and fussy and overblown, reminding me of ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. This more simple style, yet intense in its blueness, is happy in the garden. I put it in next to a ‘rosa rugosa’ – a wild rose – and you can also see the deep crimson paeonies about to bloom. These plants were in the garden when we came here and must be forty years old. I would like a lipstick in this shade. They seem to do better than ever with each passing year. I would like to be like that too! The lacy green fronds of the sweet cicely make a perfect backdrop to their opulent crimson beauty. And they seem to be impervious to slugs and snails. Maybe they hold some secret re happy longevity!
There are also quite a lot of bees around of all sizes and different colourings. I don’t use any insecticides and this is especially to create a safe haven for bees and other insects to flourish. That doesn’t mean I am kind to them all. I hunt down mosquitoes relentlessly and there is a dark gold green beetle the size of a ladybird, which attacks lavender. ‘Tis pretty but deadly. The gorgeous looking red lily beetle also needs a quick sharp squashing should you want to enjoy your lily blooms. Keep an eye out for vine weevils and the robin, thrush and blackbird will appreciate a few squashed slugs and snails underfoot. No good being too sentimental in the garden… I have also made the mistake of trying to cram too many plants in together. Plants need space as well as sun and rain to do their best.
Blue, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue … (Madoc) by Robert Southey (1774-1843)

‘It is not Spring until you can plant your foot upon twelve daisies’ – mid nineteenth century proverb. It wasn’t until the 28th April, when we arrived at Bellagio on Lake Como, that I was able to do this. And here, the mists over the lake were beginning to be chased away already by the heat of the sun.

‘But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed,
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white – then melts for ever’.

‘Tam o’Shanter’ (1791) by Robert Burns

But the seasons return – and the pleasures with them – may they long continue to do so …

END

I’m not quite sure of the date but it was around this time. I walked into our garden and looked up to see this balloon, which seemed to be just skimming our neighbour’s chimney pot. Luckily, my camera was on the kitchen table and I managed to get this shot. It wasn’t until afterwards that I saw what was written on the side of it.
Dropping in for tea?

END

I hadn’t spent much time exploring the north coast of France, except for lovely Dinard – (see Dinard film festival entry). Usually, it was ‘à travers La Manche’ and then full speed ahead for the autoroute to the south. But I was about to find out what I had been missing, when my sister and her husband invited me to go with them to Wimereux, on the Côte d’Opale. A name that conjures up beauty and mystery swathed in the misty appeal of opals. (Bognor sadly doesn’t elicit the same reaction.)
Early morning, a nip in the air and a blackbird carolling on top of one of the branches of the eucalyptus. The tree has been savagely lopped but now acts as a brilliant lookout post for the birds. They see themselves very much the king of the castle and I’m expecting a vulture to materialise any day, which could put paid to our local yapping dog! Mmmm… dark thoughts abound …
I hate packing and leaving home but having shut and locked the door behind me, the ties are severed, giving way to a frisson of excitement and anticipation, a quickening of the pulse, an air of expectation …
I arrived at Strawberry Hill station on time with my small case and there they were, Christine and Mickey, parked up, waiting and ready to go. In a couple of minutes we were off and on our way to the Channel tunnel. It was what I call a grey goose day with a soft down of cloud above and the wind ruffling the trees. The roads were fairly clear going our way but there was a mile long weary jam towards London on the other side.
We arrived at the tunnel in good time. There are lots of hoops to get through, where robot machines offer the only assistance but Christine sailed through the reefs of Scylla and Charybdis successfully by pressing the right buttons and we drove onto the waiting train. Mickey was now with his nose in his newspaper, having bought coffee all round. He looked benign and content in his own little kingdom in the back of the car. Outside, there was a frisky little chalk pony etched into the hillside.
At the Channel tunnel – Au revoir Angleterre!
Aaargh – I am suddenly aware of being in a metal box, which is in another metal box and now under the sea. Somehow the Eurostar protects one from the knowledge of where you really are. People with their books and laptops or convivially chatting to one another give an easy ambience, as the waiters pass up and down and the anticipation of lunch blots out any incipient fishy anxieties i.e. fine dining, rather than being offered up as fishfood.
Sitting in the car is more basic. There is grey metal all around you, accompanied by various clanging noises and you are encouraged not to walk around. Walking around is not an attractive option anyway but opening the car door is a good idea to warn off claustrophobia. And après tout, the time passed so quickly and soon we were in the french fresh air, bowling along empty rural roads in a rolling agricultural landscape.
When the Eurostar reaches France, I’ve always noticed a corrugated iron shed in a field on whose side, in giant letters, are the words ‘Beer and Wine’. I don’t know quite how but I’ve always read it as ‘Beer and Swine’ and imagine the interior with lots of plump, snorting porkers off their trolleys/trotters. Alcohol is meant to tenderize, n’est-ce pas? As we drove off towards Boulogne, there it was, in the selfsame field. I mentioned it to Christine, and she said she had had the same experience! Meanwhile, Mickey dispensed his favourite mints from the back seat. Being slightly hard of hearing, our merriment was a mystery to him and anyway, he was otherwise engaged.
We didn’t stop to check out ‘Beer and Swine’ but carried on our seaside route past Cap Gris Nez with Napoleon’s statue in the distance, his back towards England – the country which evaded him. There are stretches of impeccable, long and sandy beaches but a chilly outlook kept us in the car until we arrived at a small square in Audresselles to find a cosy simple restaurant offering ‘soupe de poissons’ with rouille and warm baguettes. Christine had hoped to go to ‘La Marie Galante’. It was closed but ‘Le Retour des Flobards’ revived us for our onward journey to Wimereux.
There was a stiff sea breeze but as we got to Wimereux the sun came struggling through and having offloaded our luggage at the Hotel du Centre, which was in the middle of a grand redecorating session inside and out, we made our way to the seafront through small streets of picturesquely nautical houses. I expected to find M. Hulot doing his funny walks along the sea front.
Wimereux is blessed with a wonderful ‘digue’ or promenade wholly for pedestrians – or roller skaters. No cars, just a long stretch of sandy beach below the promenade, which also acts as a very well and beautifully constructed sea wall. A few small cafés offer super delicious ice cream and pâtisserie with the plus of stunning views. On a clear day you can see the white cliffs of Dover across the water.
Mackerel sky, Wimereux
Seaside houses, Wimereux
A coastal cornucopia of colours…
The Hotel du Centre is known for its ‘belle cuisine’ and the dining room is redolent of a different era ‘à La Coupole’ but the restaurant isn’t open on Mondays. So, after a walk around the town, in the early evening we repaired to a small place on the sea front, which had a bar in the shape of a boat. Kirs royales were followed by fresh grilled fish along with salad and scrumptious ‘pommes dauphinoises’. Meanwhile our view over the sands featured men on galloping steeds, followed by a spectacular sunset, where we looked in vain for ‘le rayon vert’.
Three kirs royales conjure up …
les trois mousquetaires
as ‘the lone and level sands stretch far away’ …
‘Le Rayon Vert’ was initially written about in a book by Jules Verne in 1882 and a film of the same name was made by Eric Rohmer in 1986. The film is about a young girl who wants to meet somebody she can share her life with but has no idea how or where to look for him. She finds herself alone in Brittany, where everybody else is on the beach enjoying ‘les grandes vacances’ and she is alone. She eavesdrops on a conversation about ‘le rayon vert’.
The ‘rayon vert’ is an atmospheric, optical phenomenon, very rarely seen as the weather has to be very clear and at the right temperature. If you watch the sunset over the sea, just as the sun slips below the horizon there is sometimes a green flash as it disappears – the selfsame ‘rayon vert’. When you see it apparently you can read your own feelings and those of others too. You can imagine the romantic film Eric Rohmer came up with. Worth watching!
Shades of Eric Rohmer …
The sunset in Wimereux was sumptuous but there were traces of cloud just above the sea and we looked for ‘le rayon vert’ in vain. However, as we walked along the seafront we came upon this house – so maybe in the right circumstances it is possible that the green flash occurs in Wimereux!
‘Digue’ at Wimereux, towards sunset
Blue grey and gold …
A lone kite surfer pays homage to the setting sun …
Time for a nightcap …
The rich satisfaction of crême brulées kept the cold night wind at bay as we tottered over to the Hotel Atlantique for a nightcap, finally picking our way home through the twilight to our comfortable hostelry.
My room was well set out, with pretty nasturtiums garlanding the tiles in the bathroom. There was an old fashioned loo, which seemed to work on a piston like arrangement and flushed extremely violently but efficiently. I made a note not to flush it during the night, should I need to get up! Outside, there were filmy muslin curtains blocking off the passage at the far end where the workmen were doing renovations. At night, they shivered in the wind and put me in mind of ghosts. I had a hot shower and compared notes in bed with Michael Palin on hotel rooms. I am reading ‘Full Circle’ – his journey around the Pacific Rim.
Under the covers… bonne nuit!
The next day dawned grey and stormy but we set off to explore the Fish Market and ‘vielle ville’ in Boulogne. Although I’d been to Boulogne several times before, I didn’t know it well. Most times were in the car, which we put on the train to go to Nice or Brive-la-Gaillarde, so saving us time and avoiding danger on the long roads south or west. On one return journey to the channel ferry, we were woken in the middle of the night by a huge jolt, followed by the train stopping. It was some time before the guard made an appearance to let us know that seven cows had wandered onto the line in the night and two were dead, having met with the train head to head. ‘Bifteck, bifteck’, he shouted excitedly as he spread the news. We arrived home very late.
At Boulogne the wind was trying to tear off our clothes as we got out of the car and made our way to the fish market by the harbour. It was now raining and the boxes of cold, wet fish looked rather doleful. Boulogne has special memories for Mickey, as long ago it was here that he docked, having come over from England in a very small boat with his friend. This is also the first place in France that he and Christine came together. They stayed in a two star hotel overlooking the port. It was because of his love of railways and train travel that Mickey came upon Wimereux, just a little way down the coast. The railway survives!
We left the poor cold vendors of fish and climbed up the hill to the ‘vielle ville’, where the ‘hôtel de ville’ was looking impressive, heralded by a garden of multi coloured flowers.
Hôtel de ville, vieille ville, Boulogne
Still contending with a biting wind but the rain having let up a little, we walked around the ramparts, which must be very agreeable when the sun is out. Built into the ramparts is the castle, which looks formidable and even more menacing in bad weather. In the central yard there is a plaque to a citizen of Boulogne who risked his life during the second world war to take a platoon of Canadian soldiers through a secret passage into the castle and surprise Nazi soldiers. The Germans had taken it over as their headquarters. Today there is an exhibition of Matisse but we are too early for opening hours. Critics sometimes accused Matisse of not being politically aware/radical enough in his work. His reply was that he wanted his audience to feel that they were sitting in a comfortable armchair when looking at his paintings. And why not? A little respite from life in the raw can do wonders for revitalising good energy and positive thinking.
Crossing for visually literate dogs …
Afterwards we made our way back down the hill – the rain began again in earnest but it was too windy for umbrellas. Mickey dove into a tabac to buy a newspaper and then we carried on, feeling very knocked about by the vicious gusts of freezing rain. When we got back to the fish market, Mickey found himself a little shelter in which to wait, while Christine and I raced back along the shoreline for the car.
Next stop, Le Touquet. I’d never been. It has one of the longest beaches I’ve seen in Europe. There are some very grand hotels and big, decorative, well-to-do villas. But the town was empty and many of the shops were closed. Obviously, the ‘season’ had yet to start. I can imagine it in summer, alive with a welter of chic and not so chic tourists. More chic than not, however….. le Touquet is upmarket and even has its own airport.
As we were wandering along the pavement, a restaurateur came out and invited us into his – well, equivalent of a ‘diner’. He treated us a bit like a sheepdog herding sheep! As we only wanted a bowl of soup and there seemed to be nowhere else open, we soon found ourselves sitting at a somewhat greasy table. However, the soup was good and hot and we had a large dinner to look forward to in the evening, having made a reservation at the hotel before we left.
I should mention that we drove through Étaples, where there is a fish restaurant in an octagonal building on the sea front, which is owned by a co-op of fishermen and renowned locally. Somewhere to make for next time.
The sky had cleared and we went on to Montreuil, which is a pretty town on top of a hill, a little bit inland. It is called Montreuil-sur-Mer – and I haven’t yet found out why. There is a lovely château, now a rather grand hotel and down a little snicket at the back we found a very comprehensive wine shop, tasting included! Mickey had opted to find a café and was sitting happily immersed in his paper. It was still cold and windy so we decided after a short exploration of the town to make for home comforts and dinner.
Central square – Montreuil
We got back to Wimereux with plenty of time to spare and Christine suggested that she and I went to the local supermarché – Le Carrefour – in Wimille, which is just on the outskirts of the town. I had some requests to honour. Jars of ‘confit du canard’ and some good ‘boxes’ of wine, where you can just pour yourself a glass of an evening, (the wine stays fresh for six weeks approximately,) instead of opening a whole bottle. This last comment probably doesn’t sound very exciting but it’s practical and means you can drink on your own without temptation – maybe it’s my Scottish genes but I can never open a bottle of wine just for myself. And I’m sure the French keep the ‘best’ boxed wine for themselves and export the rest. Anyway, that’s what you think when you are of a suspicious nature!
I’ve always loved going round French supermarkets with their names that conjure up unaccountable visions. e.g. Mammouth and Sodiprix are two I find extraordinarily wonderful. And we all love Leclerc – ‘yes, it is I, Leclerc’ has us dissolving into laughter every time but it’s quite difficult to explain if you don’t ‘get’ it! And why would you? Stephen Fry would though.
The upshot of it all was that I collected the ‘canard’ and saw that the boxed wine was piled up on an ‘island’ in the middle of the store. I was puzzling over which one might be best and reached up to have a closer look. There was that moment of silence followed by a huge crash. The wine box was in my hand but the crash of broken glass had been quite close. I stood transfixed with horror. Christine came up and said, ‘Oh dear, some poor person has had an accident’. I felt rather sick inside. ‘I think it was me’, I said. I realised there must have been a row of bottles behind the boxes, hidden from view. Christine went round the back of the island to find pieces of shattered glass lying amidst a large pool of red wine.
Time stood still. Nobody came. Then I remembered seeing somebody filling shelves and went to find him. I spoke in French. ‘Monsieur, je suis vraiment desolée mais j’ai eu un désastre. Malheureusement, j’ai cassé une bouteille de vin’. The man looked at me and did not seem at all perturbed. He told me not to worry and then went off to get a floorcloth. What a relief! I didn’t dare go back to see how expensive the wine was that was lying broken and bloody on the floor. The French for a floorcloth is ‘la serpillière’ – a word I had learned in my French class just before coming to Wimereux! Rather chastened, we made for the till. I had bought quite a lot, so felt a bit better. Thank you, Carrefour, for being so laid back and sympa!
The hour for dinner approached – and not a moment too soon, as I was ravenous. We were ushered into the dining room by Monsieur (le propriétaire) and went to bed two hours later – replete and completely and utterly satisfied! I won’t go into detail. Just to say much recommended and you should go and try for yourself. Back home tomorrow.
The dining room first thing in the morning …
Detail of mosaic floor in foyer
I could hardly believe it was time to go but our train wasn’t until the afternoon and the morning was as blue skied with radiant sunshine as yesterday had been dark grey and a tempest of freezing rain. After breakfast we packed our things into the car and then went for a walk along the beach. A blast of ozone and the crying of seagulls greeted us. While Mickey took himself off to the Atlantique for hot chocolate and to do some writing, we enjoyed an invigorating walk along the beach. The tide was out and there were some schoolchildren poking about in rock pools and the scene could easily have been in the 1950s. We were in no hurry – we could see windmills in the distance at Boulogne, where there is a long jetty, at the end of which is a lighthouse. I’d bought a few postcards and one was of brightly coloured air balloons which are set off from the beach at Wimereux in summer time.
Windmills, lighthouse and ferry
on the beach … microcosm
Time to leave this pretty town and make our way back along the sunlit coast. The weather was perfect – quite unbelievably summery after yesterday. Barometers measuring the temperature must have been quite puzzled, lurching from extreme to extreme! I’m always surprised how the light and warmth of the sun and blue skies, reflecting blue seas lift the mood so incredibly quickly. Anxieties are spirited away as if you’ve taken off a bulky, heavy knapsack. There must be a happy medium which I have yet to find as the weather affects me enormously. But how dread it would be to just have, say, a black sky all the time. Or a sky without all the different types of clouds. I love rain (sometimes), I love storms (sometimes), I love sunshine and warm balmy evenings. I loathe humidity because it changes me into a wet gibbering rag. I suppose it’s all to do with ‘infinite variety’.
Au revoir, Wimereux…
There are a lot of concrete bunkers and pill boxes from the second world war strewn along the coastline and there is an especially impressive one on the way to Wissant, just along the coast. As we had plenty of time, Christine and Mickey said I ought to see it as it was both a gun emplacement and a bunker and the whole now houses a museum. We should definitely keep these relics of wartime on show and this bunker certainly keeps the realities of war alive. It was a chilling experience to go round the museum, with the thought that not so long ago we would have been shot on sight. Concrete is an unforgiving material and here it helps to enhance the grisliness of what went on.
A blot on the landscape – now a museum
Concrete bunker from another angle …
The ugly face of war…
Inside the bunker 1
Inside the bunker 2
chillingly elegantly crafted …
This museum is well worth a visit – or even two, because there is so much to see. And the men in charge were charming … should you be so inclined, there are original souvenirs of life in wartime on sale.
We went outside to examine the huge gun that was used to bombard England. It did enormous damage to some Channel ports like Dover. Its reach was unbelievable. The noise must have been shattering.
I’ve put in a lot of photos here but the ‘lest we forget’ phrase comes to mind. And I want to remember all the very many who died for their respective countries, giving up their lives that we might enjoy the freedom of ours. It’s a sobering thought.
A snarling dog of war …
As we were leaving, much to our delight we saw a tiny bird surveying the scene from its impressive new home! It just made you think … quite a lot.
Free as a bird … a perfect nesting place
Time was moving on and we had stayed longer here than we meant to. When we arrived at the small town of Wissant there was a huge market blocking the whole street. Christine and Mickey said that they always had moules-frites when they came over. Last chance. We parked the car and walked down to the square and found the perfect place – sitting outside in the sun with a cool beer and a bucket full of moules each, with a pile of (unfortunately) very crispy, unctuous, unputdownable frites! Children came by on bikes, old men hobbling with sticks and families with baskets of food to take home from market.
Wissant – memories of moules-frites …
The journey home was without trauma. It’s good to know what delights lie just across a narrow stretch of water – there’s a whole new world to explore – a different culture which I appreciate! Merci à vous deux, Christine et Mickey!
END/FIN

London, a yellow-grey, clammy cold. Cloud, like heavy piles of damp, seeping cardboard. But the holiday week I had booked last November was coming around and Switzerland beckoned. I searched in the back of the cupboard for our walking boots. John’s finally came to light and looked still serviceable. Annoyingly, mine seemed to have disappeared, so I ended up having to buy another pair in Kensington High Street, along with some very comfortable socks, padded in all the right places. The latter were on offer, two for one. I found our ‘nordic’ walking poles lurking somewhat dustily behind the hot tank. Mine just fitted into my case diagonally – for some unknown reason, John’s didn’t, so he put them in his knapsack.

I don’t know Gatwick very well but was geared up to loathe the time I spent in it. Things started badly. John was told that he couldn’t take his walking ‘poles’ on the plane and petulantly offered to donate them there and then to whoever wanted them. ‘I will sort it out’, I said authoritatively, putting on my neutral, no worries, pleased to see you face. The man at the desk smiled back, looking relieved to be shot of ‘grumpy man’, reluctantly going on holiday. Later, I pointed out the sealed rubber stops on the ends at the x-ray – no sharp points whatsoever to skewer people with. Eventually, they were accepted. Much later, in Switzerland, the local sports shop showed me how to unscrew them in half for the journey.

For the record, Gatwick South Terminal was distinctly uncrowded and we got on to our ‘flybe’ propellor plane without hassle. These planes are like buses and work really well for a smaller number of passengers not going very far. And the staff were well organised and pleasant. So no complaints about Gatwick this time round!

I brought three books with me, two by Paul Theroux. I realise I am a big fan of travel writing from an individual’s point of view. But not every individual. I like Paul Theroux’s insatiable curiosity which must be linked to his perseverance plus love of a challenge in the often dire situations that come his way. Given that, he never seems to take the easy route but he does justify this by saying he prefers to travel alone, so he doesn’t have to think about the other person’s needs that he’s with. I understand that so well but I would get lonely at times – he does too – I would also need a better class of bed for peace of mind. He doesn’t mind flea ridden, flyblown lodging houses. He even revels in them. But I’m happy to experience them only as a voyeur through the pages of his books, as he is both good at description and conveying atmosphere. And there are one or two luxury sojourns too, especially on boats. He’s very good at fitting into whatever the circumstances offer – no stars to five stars – low life to high life – and there’s no holding back on the frustrations of travel in general, whatever the level. All that is grimy and wretched is held up to the light and described in joyous detail. This last trait of Theroux travel tales definitely put me off ever visiting some places that I might have considered before but also made me appreciate the good times I’ve had. It’s sobering to see the reality of your dream even though you might have guessed about the rubbish on the beach, the no go areas, etc.

I also like his general knowledge of history, coupled with his perceptively ironic descriptions of how people manage, or mainly don’t manage, their daily existence. He doesn’t have the mind of a historian but fitting in both historical and up to date facts around seedy tales of the underbelly of life in various countries adds a piquant taste for learning why we are as we are and why history explains quite a lot of it. Life is not the utopia of the travel brochures, even though we might long for it to be so and Paul Theroux bursts that bubble, somehow without casting us into eternal gloom and doom.

I like his general take on things, even though I sometimes find myself quite at odds with him. He can be arrogant and infuriating but he has the supreme advantage of not being boring. By the time I got home again, I’d travelled round the coast of Britain and the Mediterranean, mostly enjoying his company, getting tetchy at times, as well as making off to have ‘time out’ in a ‘speakeasy’ Dashiell Hammett crime detective novel. I was minded to buy it partly because the author’s name appealed. Over the week, I also managed to acquire some fabulous photos and the forthcoming travel brochure tells no lies whatsoever!

Planes with propellors fly lower than jets and it was fun to look out over the miniature map of Europe. As I had a window seat, this kept me busy and content. Bern airport is tiny and onomatopoeically named Belp. There is one small glass walled café, so you can keep an eye on the comings and goings of the planes, which look like friendly hover flies buzzing good humouredly around the airfield.

Some kind of transport was meant to be meeting us outside and driving us the forty minutes to Kandersteg. Cases having arrived in double quick time, we walked expectantly out of the exit and there was a white minibus waiting. And that was where chaos began and my French and rusty German came to hand. Eight of us were all going to the same hotel but there was one too many for the minibus and to boot, as it were, the driver couldn’t fit in all the cases. He stood there, a crumpled figure, completely bamboozled.

Next, a taxi driver joined the fray and offered his services. I explained to him in German that we had already paid for the bus ride, it being included in our hotel reservation, so we didn’t want to pay again. The minibus driver spoke French. I translated between him and the taxi driver. Impasse. Finally, I asked the French driver to phone the hotel for instructions, which he should have done himself in the first place.

Meanwhile, a typical tiresome, pipe smoking, middle Englander had managed to leap on the minibus like lightning and was now waving his ticket around, grumbling ‘not good enough’ and insisting on his rights. I ignored him. The French driver, not filling one with any confidence, suddenly began to order the Englishman off the bus. John and I decided enough was enough. We would rather wait for forty minutes for a replacement car than continue with this farce. We then watched with relief as the jalopy and its inmates juggered off into the far distance. Best decision we thought, as we sat in the café with a warming cup of hot chocolate. Forty minutes later, Vorsprung durch Technik came through the door to our five star rescue! It was the owner of the hotel himself who had turned up and we purred off in the luxurious comfort of a large Mercedes to The Victoria Ritter hotel. Things were looking up again!

This personal service inevitably cheered John’s blue mood. The hotel was an old Post House. The whole place had a hospitable and welcoming feel as you walked through the front entrance out of the snow and into comfort and warmth. I felt I had made a good choice as I looked out of our window at the immensely high, snow covered mountains close at hand. And dinner was yet to come…

The Swiss are very good at preparing crisp, fresh, mixed salads. And that was what we started off with, helping ourselves to a mix of green leaves, radicchio, rocket, mange-touts, tomatoes, cucumber pickle, sweet corn, grated celeriac in mayonnaise, sweet carrots, grated onion, beetroot, beans, pumpkin seeds and sultanas. While John was helping himself to a few croutons I sneaked in some tiny morsels of bacon… and chose one of the three dressings.

This was followed by roasted salmon, balanced on an onion confit with steamed fennel and boiled new potatoes. An Argentinian Malbec wine turned out to be a great choice and dessert was various cheeses accompanied by grapes and figs, a juicy tangerine and walnuts.

Exceptionally plump, light coloured and juicy walnuts, it must be said!I noticed that the waiters seemed to be able to speak in German, French, English and Italian. Our waiter hailed from Portugal. He said it was important to speak lots of languages here and I noticed that the owner of the hotel was fluent in English but as well as Swiss, he spoke in Italian and French, switching back and forth as smoothly as skiing down a mountain piste. Why are we as a nation so reluctant to learn to speak other languages? I can’t help but feel that it puts us in a bad light with other countries. Even if you think that there’s no need to learn anything but English because it’s the dominant universal language, that could change. I also read that learning another language could stave off dementia . I wonder if a study has been done on the EU countries? Or people who do/don’t speak more than one language? Pause for thought! The dinner was very good…

Replete, I began to feel waves of weariness surging through me but had to go and check out the heated indoor pool on the way upstairs. It looked deliciously enormous, inviting and tranquil. Not a soul to be seen. There was an old fashioned glass cabinet by the door, full of freshly laundered, lavender coloured towels and I thought I would be up first thing in the morning to try it out.

At supper, John suddenly noticed the unpleasant man who had insisted on his rights at Bern airport. He was sitting with his back to us. Perhaps we will have an Agatha Christie type murder in the hotel in which he gets his comeuppance, skewered on a ski stick! I go to sleep, dreaming of giant snowflakes falling upon me as light as the feather duvet I am snuggled under for the night. I am so seduced by comfort!

I woke early. The swimming pool was open at 7am, so I tiptoed down in the white towelling dressing gown I found in the wardrobe. Joy – I had it all to myself. Snow was falling outside and I found it very therapeutic to swim in a warm pool with glass walls giving views onto the mountain peaks. John was still asleep when I got back but on waking his ‘black dog’ had lifted and we enjoyed breakfast of birchermuesli and fresh fruit salad with black coffee, juice, and rolls with homemade marmlade and blackberry jam.

It was snowing quite heavily as we set off on a walk towards the end of the valley. Kandersteg is surrounded on all sides by high mountains and the end of the valley is impassable except for the train, which carries both cars and people through the Lôtschberg tunnel. That is, unless you take the cable car up the mountain and walk over the Gemmi Pass, then take another cable car down to Leukerbad, which would take almost the whole day. The air was fresh and the deep snow everywhere lent a muted silence to the landscape. I liked being here and felt in my element.

We passed people ‘landlaufing’ silently through the trees – like watching an old-fashioned, silent film. Somebody came by on a horse, its hoofs muffled. A snow plough came up behind us and left a path which we just followed. John came upon two tiny igloos on a hummock. The cable car at Sunnbuehl takes you right up over the mountains and you can walk on to the Gemmi Pass and take another cable car down to the spa town of Leukerbad on the other side of the mountains. It’s an all day walk, for us at least, and we needed better weather to attempt even a part of it.

Although the sun had been trying to peer through the clouds, heavy mist now came rolling in, the sky darkenened and the snow started again in earnest. So we turned tail back to the village in the hopes of lunch in the cosy Ritter bistro.

My nose was an unbecoming red but it was worth it striding back, enormous snowflakes battering our faces and the mountains all around blanked out by curtains of grey mist.

Lunch was followed by a snooze. Then some reading. Paul Theroux paints a rather devastating but amusing picture of the country by the sea. He lists a selection of names he comes across. Here are a few of them. Cockpole, Mould, Witherslack, Trubshaw, Gussage, Doggett, Puttock, Spackle (call me Ida), Wheeker, Custis, Shottery and Crapstone. A delightfully motley crew showing how mongreloid the English language is. There was just time for a swim before dinner to trounce that delicious but hip enhancing Swiss rösti. We are sleeping well here.

We woke up to brilliant sunshine and looked forward to seeing some friends who were coming over from Basel for the day. John has managed to get a ‘Guardian’ newspaper, which waits invitingly for him at the breakfast table. I had the pool all to myself again at 7.00 am but have yet to introduce John to its delights! The sun was shining on the snow, which twinkled like a million diamonds. I could feel the clear air like icicles crackling through my veins.

With a Japanese friend, we took the cable car up to the frozen lake, the Oeschinensee. We had lunch sitting outside at the small café overlooking the lake, while watching a fisherman, who had dug a hole through the thick snow and ice and was intent on catching what I would imagine to be very cold trout! I don’t usually drink beer but it’s just the thing to have in a tall glass while breathing in mountain air and capturing that pétillant feeling. I feel I have the eyes of a hunter with twenty twenty vision and the spring of youth in my step. Being high up in the mountains gives me a buzz of high octane energy. I know what it feels like to get a ‘second wind’. I like it and I want more!

At dinner we talked with Makiko about her life in Switzerland and her family in Japan. As ever, the Blackberry made up the party of four but passed on dinner. There is Wifi in our room, which it obviously prefers as nourishment and is generally advantageous in keeping the status quo in equilibrium… I keep my personal feelings to myself! At some future point technology will be able to read our minds – but not yet!

The next morning was hopeful – a blue bowl of sky – and after breakfast we got on our walking gear and complete with nordic walking poles, sunglasses and hats we set off towards the Sunnbuehl cable car – a twenty minute walk – passing an enormous ginger cat on the way. We arrived to find there were other walkers and a few skiers and some excited dogs waiting to be transported up the mountain.

It was near there, some summers ago, that we climbed the Lötschenpass with a small group. It’s 2,690 metres high. At one point we had to cross part of a glacier and pull ourselves up over some rocks with iron rings sunk into the mountain. At the top is a small hut, which offers refreshment. I remember being so exhausted when we reached it that I had to lie on my back on the ground for half an hour.

There’s a fabulous view of the Santa Rosa mountains in Italy from there. They look like turrets on a castle, covered with pinkish icing. But reality overtook my dreams and it was a mad scramble to get down the other side of the mountain in time to catch the last train going through the tunnel back to Kandersteg. We just made it and I felt like a monstrous wobbling jelly all evening.

The tunnel is 14.6km long, connecting Spiez and Brig at the northern end of the Simplon tunnel. Its ends are at Kandersteg and Goppenstein. The journey time is approximately twenty minutes and people can travel inside their cars on open carriages. It’s strange to see them for the first time as the train comes out of the tunnel, with the cars and people in full view. I saw a man eating a banana. There is also, opened in 2007, a (second) Lötschberg base tunnel which is 34.57km long. The Swiss rail system is a really amazing feat of engineering.

As the cable car got higher and higher the sun came out and at the top, by the small café, I could hardly believe the beauty of the landscape.

The sun was dazzling and hot on our heads and the sky a deep azure as we started off towards the Gemmi Pass. The path starts on a downward trail for a while before crossing the ski slopes and then evens out into a flat plain. You are always told to beware weather in the mountains as it can change very quickly and dramatically. And so it was. After about an hour, the mist, which had been clustered romantically around the mountain peaks began to swirl down slowly into the valley, which held it like an overflowing jug and within about twenty minutes we could hardly see in front of us. Luckily, the path was well marked and there were a few other walkers. They seemed unperturbed by the enveloping mist. But the temperature was falling fast and we decided to make our way back. I suspect the Gemmi Pass will survive until next time and long after I have gone!

Trying to find your way back without familiar landmarks along a route is quite difficult. However, it was easy to keep to the path here. If you had strayed to either side you would have found yourself flailing in deep drifts. I can imagine the danger of snow blindness and the panic that follows when you believe yourself lost. We trudged on doggedly, watching ghostly figures disappear and reappear from time to time until finally, at the top of the hill, the café hove into view. And a hot glass of glühwein was quickly followed by another. And I felt a warm sensation of satisfaction and love of my fellow companions, including the big dogs sitting under the tables.

We are over half way through the week already. I wish I had this swimming pool at home. Swimming every day makes such a difference to my flexibility and energy levels. Of course, it’s utter luxury to have this beautiful pool to myself every morning. John has come once to date. He doesn’t seem to be very rapturous about it though. Afterwards, I stretch out on one of the loungers and relax in the warm air for a few minutes. Complete bliss!

John wanted to do some work the next day, so I decided to do a walk on my own. I passed some outlying farms, trying to ignore the large hounds that snarled through the railings. It was a slightly overcast, damp day but I was in no hurry.

This last photo is of a small stream running through a field but it very much reminded me of an installation at the Tate Modern some years ago called ‘Shibboleth’. A huge crack, wide enough to fall into, stretched the length of the Turbine Hall and was very dramatic.

On my way back I came upon this cat. Her name is Hausfrau. She is not amused and would not like to be my friend on Facebook. Miaow. Well, you can’t win them all.

I found such a pretty path by the river that I had to go back with John the next day. And there was one more long walk before we left – to the Blausee.

And then it really was the last day and we crossed the railway line and went to the Blausee through the forest.

Many years ago, huge rocks bounced down the mountainside and the one behind John is wedged into the bank but many fell even further into the river below. They are an awesome sight. The path through the forest was very picturesque but it was easy to slip on the ice. Later on, we had to pick our way along a frozen muddy track, walking in the deep ruts. We came upon an enormous ant heap which was very active. I remember finding lots of them by the side of the path walking up from Grütschalp to Mürren in the Berner Oberland, which is only a mountain range or two from here.

My feet had started to hurt because of my new boots rubbing a bit but the walking poles came to my rescue. They also take a lot of pressure of the knees, especially when going downhill. And that means you can walk for longer! But we did sit down and have a welcome bar of chocolate too and I was very relieved when we finally got to the Blausee. It is a small lake, hidden like a crystal blue turquoise jewel glinting deep in the forest. It apparently never freezes and is packed with trout, who are no doubt delighted by its magical properties – until they are eaten in the picturesque restaurant overlooking the clear water.

We followed a winding path through the woods, ever onwards, stumbling over vast tree roots and then suddenly the lake was there in front of us.

If the above photo was a painting, it would probably have been done by a travelling artist in the 1800s. It has that old fashioned feel about it. Yet look below at the photos of the trout and the water. I just thought that if I was a painter they would make stunning abstract paintings! I owe the phrase ‘crystalline streams’ to Shelley’s poem ‘Ode to the West Wind’ and Coleridge’s poem Kubla Khan also came to mind as I looked into the clear depths of the Blausee.

There’s a story of a beautiful girl who died of a broken heart here and her memory is kept alive by a submerged statue in the lake.

We explored a bit further and then sat on a large striated boulder for a while, watching the trout who cleaved through the water, looking like mini submarines. In the light they shone red gold and in the shadows they lurked, sinister black silhouettes. It made me think of biomimicry and how fascinating that whole field of science is.

At one end of the lake there was an old wooden hut which seemed to be full of gardeners’ tools but on one side of it there was a big window and this is what it held. It was an extraordinary sight.

I looked across at the restaurant and wondered if it was open and whether we could become trout eating monsters. We could and we did and they were delicious.

It would have been a long walk back through the forest and so I decided that taking the bus back to Kandersteg was a better bet. As this was our last day I used up the last of our Swiss francs paying for lunch. On arrival, we had been given ‘free’ bus passes at the hotel and I thought we could use them now. I felt I had done well, choreographing the last day to perfection, with the help of the weather.

The bus arrived on time (naturally) and I presented our ‘passes’. Disaster! They were not for this bus apparently and I didn’t have quite enough money left for our fares. John, in proper English mode, got off the bus immediately, somewhat horrified and dismayed that I hadn’t the wherewithal to pay and moreover, we were holding up the bus. ‘Verwünscht’! ‘Was für Unglück’, I managed to say. The driver looked at me. I looked crestfallen. He smiled. “Special price, six francs”, he said in English, looking at the meagre coins in my hand. John was persuaded to get back on the bus. It wheeled its way up the hairpin bends, climbing the mountain with familiar ease, while I sat in comfort, thinking how dreadful it would have been to walk all the way back. The bus stopped right outside the hotel.

It’s good to record and remember small kindnesses. That is the sort of thing that stretches across cultures and is the clue and glue to getting on with one’s fellow human beings. And Kandersteg will have many happy memories for me, rounded off by this one, which will make me want to go back. ‘Thank you, driver’, as all the old ladies of Barnes say, when they get off the 209 at Hammersmith. And it probably brightens the driver’s day!

It was a good week, just relaxing in a beautiful landscape and in the comfort of a welcoming and hospitable hotel. It’s true that exercise lifts your energy levels. Next morning we were transported back to Belp and the transition to home was seamless. All had gone to plan. And what hadn’t, was satisfactorily sorted!

END ENDE FIN FINE

I mentioned that John and I had joined The Cloud Appreciation Society, set up by Gavin Pretor-Pinney. There is, on the website, a photo gallery of weird cloud formations, taken by people from all over the world. Some of the cloudscapes are astonishing. I have always been fascinated by the different types of clouds and what they forecast weatherwise. We used to have ‘nature’ class at school and that’s where I learned all the different names of clouds, like ‘cumulus’, ‘cirrus’, ‘cumulonimbus’, ‘lenticular’, ‘cirrostratus’ etc. There are many more names put to clouds now than the ones I learned. And, it seems, a greater variety of clouds!

I have always loved the poem by Shelley, called ‘The Cloud’, which is written in his romantic style but if you look at it closely, it shows that he was very aware of the science of climate and weather conditions. He wasn’t just a ‘Hello, clouds, Hello sky’ kind of a guy! He had a keen intellect. Here’s the last verse but I recommend you look up the whole poem. It’s not only brilliant because of the words but the cadences of the rhythm are freewheeling and go bowling along with life giving energy – just like some types of clouds!

‘I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky,
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley, born 4 August 1792 in Sussex, England.

Shelley died, aged only thirty years old, in Italy. He had been fond of sailing and built a boat, which was overtaken by a sudden storm near Leghorn. The boat went down instantly and he drowned, along with his companion. There was a law in Italy at the time which decreed that bodies cast up on the shore should be burned there and then, as a precaution against plague. And so it was that this happened, with Lord Byron, Leigh Hunt and Mr. Trelawney, among others, in solemn attendance. Shelley was much beloved by his friends in spite of the eccentricities and peculiarities of his character.

Another short poem of his, lines of which are often quoted today to illustrate certain circumstances which come to pass at regular intervals, is ‘Ozymandias’. It will only take a minute to read but it is enormously atmospheric and the lines very well worth remembering. Take note, any dictators reading this! Your time is limited.

END

Our Canadian friends, Doug and Margot, had decided to leave their comfortable flat in Kensington after five years and return to their roots. Doug wanted a change from city life too, as he had various projects in mind. They ended up finding a farmhouse with some land, three hours drive north west of Toronto, in a lovely rural setting near Georgian Bay.

I felt very excited to be going out to see them on my own. John had been working at full tilt for most of the year and now it seemed that we were racing towards Autumn with very little in the way of vacation. Unfortunately, his schedule wasn’t going to be able to fit in two weeks in Canada but he very generously suggested I go and have some real ‘time out’.

I got to Heathrow with a feeling of both dread and anticipation. The girl at the desk wasn’t able to find my booking. She spoke to somebody on the telephone and the happy outcome was that I had been upgraded to business class. From then on, I felt very well looked after and enjoyed chatting to my neighbour, a Canadian widow in her late eighties, who came to England every year and was – besides being a rabid Anglophile – an expert on Agatha Christie’s life and books.
Fortunately, I had read most ‘Agatha Christies’ over the years. I was first introduced to them by the sanatorium ‘library’ at school. I had been laid low in the ‘san’ for a week. It was a single storey building, located in an isolated part of the school grounds, amongst trees. Ailing girls were supervised by a very no-nonsense but kind-at-heart ‘Sister’, who wore a white hospital uniform with cap to match at all times. As I got better, I was finally allowed out of my room and found the small library, which seemed to consist mainly of Agatha Christies or stories about missionaries in Africa. The latter didn’t appeal in the least. Too many of our teachers at school were ex-missionaries.

I found that reading Agatha Christie was much more riveting than revising for my exams and managed to get through about ten of them. In the past couple of years, I have read the interesting story of her life – and loves – so my companion and I were well suited for the eight hours trip to Toronto. We could lie back and relax, and enjoy all the drinks and meals brought to our comfortable seats.

I am not now a great lover of ‘crime’ novels in general but another writer of that time that I like, whose books have just been reprinted, is Eric Ambler. His are about espionage. And then there was Josephine Tey and Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Marjorie Allingham – all of an era. Connie, my new found ‘bookish’ friend liked John Grisham, who I haven’t read. He is contemporary and probably more gritty. I also like the Maigret books by Simenon, which are better read in French and which encouraged me to go back to that language and improve it. So it turns out that I haven’t read any modern crime novels (bar the irrefutable Ian Fleming) – and, of course, he is only revived into the modern age by the James Bond films. It’s not that I’m against contemporary crime novels. I just prefer other genres of modern literature.

We arrived in Toronto on time but when I came through customs there was nobody waiting to meet me and I began to wonder whether I had told Margot the wrong day. Suddenly, a flurry in a purple jumper erupted like a small tornado and there she was with her straight blonde bob and warm, husky, welcoming voice, fizzing with energy and enthusiasm!

The car was large and was obviously not a city slicker, being coated half way up the sides in white mud. I was looking forward to this rural idyll already! We sailed out on a twelve lane highway due north west and after about forty minutes we met up with the beginning of the vast tracts of rural Canada.

First stop was at a roadside place selling all manner of fruit and vegetables. It was the season for orange pumpkins and festivals wound around Hallowe’en. Canadians really go to town celebrating the wealth of ‘mellow fruitfulness’ at this time of year. Margot bought a bagful of Honey Crisp apples – so delicious that we ate them all and had to buy some more later on for Doug. Honey Crisp was definitely the name to go for over the next two weeks – crunchy, juicy, and full of flavour – I developed a very sharp eye for barrels of apples by the roadside and Margot would do one of her magnificent swerves on empty roads and then we would continue on our way with the renewed bag of apples between us. And the other stop off point was for doughnuts… the less said about that the better except that what I would never buy in England I could become addicted to in Canada!

The traffic thinned out markedly as we bowled along through small villages and past isolated farms and then the road ran out. In fact, it became an unmade white track as we ploughed on deeper into the land of the coyote. Now I could see why the car was covered in a layer of white mud. The weather was mild and the beginnings of a spectacular sunset lit the distant horizon as we finally rolled up the long drive to a welcoming, illuminated farmhouse.

We were met by the resident farm cats, now household pets. Beans and Annie were to be constant companions in the days ahead, sometimes even coming on walks with us as if they were dogs. They were insatiably curious, playful, and fiercely persevering in getting what they wanted. Above all, they were hunters born and bred, whose prey lay scattered on the mat in the mornings; mouse parts ripped joyfully to shreds, tiny shrews, their paws stretched heavenwards and, inevitably, small, softly feathered birds not quick enough to fly out of reach. I rather dreaded that a gift might be brought up to my room but although they both tried desperately to creep under the door at night, I was spared the honour of being presented with a tasty morsel. They had no idea what a paradise for cats they inhabited!

As I fell asleep that first night, I heard the coyotes howling up on the ridge. I was glad to be in my bed with only semi-feral creatures flashing their paws under the door.

Next morning the sun and clear blue sky tempted me out of bed to walk across the fresh, dewy lawns around the house and after breakfast Margot and I went on a forty minute exploration of the property, taking in the two pools, fields around which Doug had mown green pathways, a clearing where there were over thirty beehives and finally a walk towards the ridge, where we sat for a while at a look out point on comfortable chairs, gazing out towards the blue waters of Georgian Bay, There was also a brand new eco building which was Doug’s country office and conference centre. He also hopes to use it for art exhibitions and informal discussion gatherings – the first of which was in session on my arrival.

I just managed to snap Doug one day on his green lanes itinerary – it’s not a very clear photo but Margot said how much he enjoyed zooming round, checking everything out as he went. So I just wanted to record it!

Doug’s new eco building is very modern, light and spacious, with a view onto the pools in front and solar panels behind, which are working very well to date. I think he hopes eventually to be ‘off grid’.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the ‘egg lady’ at a nearby farm. We were met by fiercesome barks but when I opened the car door a trifle nervously, the dog was just a friendly giant who wanted to lick you all over. The hens were scattered around, as happy as Larry, and seemed to like living under the hedges. I am impressed at how many people Doug and Margot have befriended in the short time they have been there as houses and farms are very spread out and you need to make an effort to find your neighbours!

The nearest towns – about half an hour’s drive away in opposite directions, are Meaford and Owen Sound. I will remember Meaford for the café that sold the best butter tarts – a Canadian speciality – and a department store which seemed to be in a 1950s timewarp, run by two sisters – formidable dames! At least, they looked like sisters, in similar bunched floral skirts and voluminous, all embracing ‘tops’, padding doggedly between the narrow aisles of tall, slightly wobbly shelves in sensible, open-toed leather sandals. They knew their stock and nothing would escape their gimlet eye. I departed with postcards of the store, whose façade is exceptionally fine.

The main street was full of straw stuffed scarecrow figures in orange and black, wrapped around lamp posts to celebrate Hallowe’en. We visited an art exhibition at the Town Hall depicting beautiful, wild landscapes. Following that, our search for best butter tarts and chicken pie for supper was top of our agenda. Later on, Doug told me that local politics are quite contentious and fiery. The tranquillity of Meaford by the water on a weekday afternoon belies the strong currents flowing beneath the surface. He has dipped his toe in the water and is an authority on the uncontrollable rip tides of local government.

On our many forays out and about, we kept passing little wooden huts at the side of the road, built near to the school bus stops. Margot told me that these protect the children from the vagaries of wild weather as they wait. The bus system must be a lifeline in rural Ontario, as the distances between things are vast. And it’s also a way of families keeping in contact with one another, especially those on outlying farmsteads.

Margot had recently joined a choir at Owen Sound, the other ‘local’ town, which is bigger than Meaford. My sister sings in a choir in London even now but I wasn’t even chosen at school to join. This had always left me with the feeling that our choir mistress, Miss Roadknight, just took against me and my lovely voice! None of us liked to sit in the front row in our weekly class singing lessons because in her zeal to get us to pronounce things properly, her sibilant efforts at emphasis would inevitably cause a shower of spit to fly through the air and hit one or other of us in the eye. In comparison, Margot’s teacher was sweet, encouraging and patient. I realised however that, after all, I was not a natural asset to any choir. Nonetheless, they gave me a very warm welcome and I shall continue to sing in my bath!

Owen Sound has a pretty park with a river running through it and a wonderful bookshop in Main Street, which is run by friends of Doug and Margot. At the far end is a café, where you can browse and the couple who run it are opening up a huge extension further back still, which has until now been a warehouse space. They are creating a bar with food and tables to bring people together for conversation and discussion evenings on various books, authors and interesting subjects. It will definitely be a sought after meeting place for readers and thinkers to exchange views in convivial company and a great asset to the town. Although the Internet brings people closer together virtually, there’s no comparison with face to face encounters – with food and drink on offer!

On our way home from town, we stopped off at the Post Office at Annan – a tiny hamlet. Margot said she always had to be sure to have a spare half an hour, as the postmistress expected a chat. It gave me pause for thought of the post offices in London, some of which are so busy that you are often standing in a queue for half an hour, unless you choose your time carefully. And there’s no time or even inclination for a chat! Turning the corner at Balaclava on the home straight I saw some large birds wheeling overhead. They are turkey vultures and very common here. Another unusual animal which keeps an eye on flocks of sheep is the llama. Farmers have brought them in because they are both of a maternal nature and chase away predators. I noticed that farmers in the Swiss Alps keep them too. On our return home this was waiting for us on the ‘stoop’.

There are lots of farmers’ markets dotted around the countryside. We visited one which is near a Mennonite group, who are somewhat akin to the Amish. They dress in a significantly different way, drive horses and carriages and are apparently marvellous at building houses. Their carpentry is of the highest quality. We came upon some of them while searching for honey and maple syrup and watching the cattle auction. There were so many things for sale, including rabbits and ducklings – and butter tarts!

Margot had signed up for some courses and one morning when she was away, I went with Doug to Owen Sound to hear a lecture about the European Union by Dr. Michael Johns of Laurentian University at Georgian College. The auditorium was vast and surprisingly, I thought, full, mainly with retired people, all of them obviously really interested to hear what the lecturer had to say. His talk was so clear, first of all explaining the history of the EU, stating its advantages and disadvantages and finishing by suggesting the pros and cons of various other countries joining it. I made notes because there was an enormous amount I didn’t know. How strange it was to learn all about something very important to the U.K. but being talked about so far away in rural Ontario to a rapt audience! At first glance, one is aware of a sparse, somewhat isolated, population but there are a lot of clued up people living here, somewhat hidden from view, in them thar woods!

And, indeed, we were invited to a musical evening down a muddy track in the woods by a couple who had travelled a lot to extreme venues in their life. A huge polar bear skin stretched up the staircase on one wall and the house was full of interesting artefacts and paintings. The couple who owned it were writers. Doug and Margot had invited some friends up from Toronto and before the concert, we had a hearty meal at Ted’s Diner. This was a shack, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, decorated with fairy lights, very rustic but offering the very best of meat and fish in the region. It is enormously popular. A delicious place to remember and return to.

Margot’s friend’s husband had died some years ago and now she had a new partner, who was a physicist, a man endowed with huge energy and enthusiasm for life in general. He was never still – he danced around both in body and spirit like sparks from a bonfire. I had heard an interesting theory about ‘dark matter’. It doesn’t weigh as much as it should. Some scientist had suggested that it could be ‘thoughts’ that were missing – that ‘thoughts’ had a weight! This seemed totally unacceptable in scientific terms – more in the realm of romanticism and poetry I would have thought – but I broached it and Ian said it was a possibility, and something had even been written up along those lines in scientific journals.As well as ‘dark matter’, there is mysterious ‘dark energy’. I couldn’t develop this further as we had to leave but I continued to mull it over during the concert. Heavy and ponderous thoughts indeed! Accompanied by a Dolly Parton voice!

Margot said she wanted to take me further afield and thought we should spend a day at Southampton and Port Elgin, still on Lake Huron but on the other side of the Bruce peninsula. The roads are good and heartwarmingly empty but for me, in my head, it still takes a very long time in Ontario to get to anywhere else! However, it was worth it and we walked along the beach and bought some additions for the new bathroom in an antique shop in Port Elgin. And we also looked up real estate because there were some beautiful houses on the lakeside, some of which were for sale. A fair proportion of them are holiday homes.

We then had a very tasty lunch at a small restaurant in Southampton, run by a couple who were about to shut the place down for the winter and travel to Turkey. Their food was organic and healthy and you wanted more of it. I was thinking how much they would love the fresh, grilled fish in Turkey served on the beach with lemons and fresh, green salad. We had that memorable lunch by the sea at the Princes’ islands, a forty five minute ferry trip from the Galata bridge in Istanbul. I hope, one day, to go back there. I hope they went there too!

Then it was time to walk a little more, shop a little more and enjoy some exploring round and about.

I couldn’t leave Canada without a picture of a big Mack truck! I think they are rather beautiful but I certainly wasn’t born to be a big Mack truck driver. The colour of this one is especially appealing.

There’s a frisson of fear about them too. They do remind me of that early film of Spielberg’s called ‘Duel’, which is a masterful example of continued suspense, involving you totally, as if you were the car driver yourself. Look at the little chimney rising on the left hand side … the terror awaits…

Back we drove, lickety split, across country. At a certain point we veered off track to see an old water mill at Walter’s Falls. There are a lot of waterfalls in Ontario. This one is picturesque rather than dramatic and conjures up a world not far into the past but probably obsolete. It now attracts tourists rather than being a working mill.

The Inglis Falls, near Owen Sound, are much more dramatic. Lots of fallen boulders and tree trunks give it an atmosphere of virgin terrain. And it’s good to hear the noise of the water splashing down into the river below. Reviving negative ions!

Margot had to do her homework for the course. She had set up a small desk for me outside my bedroom and next morning, while she was away, I set about reading my novel for the Autumn term at the Institut Français. ‘Le Temps des Secrets’ by Marcel Pagnol. I love his writing and this is the third novel I have read of his. Luckily, there was a Robert/Collins large French dictionary in the house, so I was on my way, with no interruptions, except for the solicitations of Annie and Beans, who performed some trapeze tricks for me on the stairs, followed by a few yowls denoting that treats were in order.

I had wanted to take Doug and Margot out for a special meal one evening and mooted this to them. Doug had an idea and soon after we were on another roadtrip, tracking down dinner beyond the horizon. We sort of followed the Niagara Escarpment, which stretches high above the property and apparently goes on for eight hundred miles and has been designated a ‘World Biosphere’ site. It’s possible to walk along it for the most part and Doug has already trekked along bits of it. The odd bear has been seen from time to time!

We drove ever onwards and I became totally confused as to which part of the country we had ended up in but was thrilled as the restaurant finally hove into view. In fact, the cooking was divine but due to one thing and another I only seem to have a picture of the very moorish (more-ish) bottle of wine and that isn’t very much in focus either…….. but it was a great evening and fabulous to be sitting down, having such a convivial time with good friends.

… as far as I can remember!

We had taken to watching the very amusing, trenchant Anthony Bourdain in the evenings, who is the high priest of ‘haute cuisine’ though we love him more as the man who loves to eat. In his book ‘Kitchen Confidential’, he says ‘Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride’. He’s very funny and we enjoyed his forays into different restaurants around the world. Rural life was good and getting better.

Then came a suggestion. ‘How about going to Toronto and staying the night’? I looked at Margot and tried to get my head around a trip to the big city. Where would we stay? We decided to go for this website, where you suggest an area and then you are offered a hotel – but the rub is you don’t know which hotel until you agree to stay in it. Well, it was only for one night and you could specify three or four stars – and it was a great deal, financially. Doug was rather against it and thought we should go for a good, traditional place – and suggested one or two. One had no vacancies and then we thought we’d just go for the mystery one. Margot wasn’t totally excited by what came up but I was looking forward to it all by now, despite the three hour drive ahead of us.

Au revoir, cats! Happy hunting! Doug was now fully ensconced in his new office and was often down at Owen Sound by 8 am for a swim in the pool at the sports centre before starting work. He waved us off and we were once more on the road to somewhere new! We stopped off at a little antique shop in Markdale run by a gentle artistic couple, where I bought a small, pale purple bubble paperweight with pink flowers trapped forever inside. Margot bought a delightful little bottle, made out of resin and scrimshawed with oriental type fish. It has a multicoloured jewelled stopper and was, I think, used for keeping perfumed oils. This was later slipped into my bag as a homegoing gift. It is a lovely thing and a fitting memento of our time together. It sits above my desk here but I have no knowledge of its provenance.

This is a sort of roadside store out of town which will sell a cornucopia of gifts, crockery, vases, paintings and prints, jars of gourmet food, kaftan type clothes, fudge and sweetmeats, bathroom and kitchen accessories and garden ornaments. I bought myself a beautiful bag at a knock down price. The smell of joss sticks pervades and the whole adds up to a glorious Aladdin’s cave.

After Orangeville, the highway opens up and we were soon speeding into the city centre. There is an amazing Indian temple in a very peculiar location right by the freeway. This picture makes it look rather like a blancmange that has come out of a complicated jelly mould. That is only because I took it at speed as we passed. Indians were brought over to build it specially and it’s a fantastic piece of architecture but so oddly located!

I was surprised to find that the city was quite car friendly. We drove around a bit to give me an idea of the layout and then we made our way to the apartment of Margot’s newly wedded son. Toronto is a mix of hi-tech skyscrapers and imaginative modern buildings but between them are what I suppose are the original buildings, which are small and villagey. Robin lives in one of these streets. He and his enormous dog came with us on a tour of the city via the university, the ‘Bond Street’ posh area and the art galleries – then swooping down to the shoreline, where huge banks of condominiums probably cost a fortune for the magnificent views on offer. There’s something of a pioneering feel about Toronto – a little like Seattle – but I would need more time to have a strong opinion about it as a city to live in. Robin is obviously very happy living there and there’s plenty of green space to keep the dog in trim and happy too!

Now we had to make our way to the Grand hotel. Margot had been slightly grumbling about it but it looked impressive enough when we got there and there was parking underneath. The lobby was spacious and full of enormous urns of flowers. I thought we had fallen on our feet – this certainly wasn’t a pig in a poke. And there was more … joy! We found the most wonderful swimming pool and, even better, we had brought our costumes. Hurrah! Our room was spacious with two vast beds and a well set out bathroom with good lighting, bath and shower. We seemed to be on about the twentieth floor and as twilight set in I took a photo of the rather stunning view!

Then we went looking for supper and ended up at an old favourite of Margot’s. Golden Thai. Sleep came easily and I woke early, excited about our swim, which proved to be perfect. The huge pool was empty and the water warm and inviting. Afterwards, we drove past the house where Margot, Doug and their three sons used to live, near the covered market.

On the way out of town we stopped off at the place she had lived in as a child growing up, which was a suburb – but a suburb which gave easy access to a hilly, wild green area where they were free to wander at will for miles. She hadn’t been back for a long while and it was a great shock to find that the house she had been brought up in had been knocked down and a totally different one built on the lot. It was rather a sobering experience. But the green hills where they had roamed wildly as children were still the same.

We stopped near Orangeville and investigated a large store called Winners. And so it turned out to be, as I found a pair of wonderfully comfortable raspberry coloured sheepskin boots for a fraction of the price they would have been in London. I would probably have to wear them on the way home as my case was already bulging, but it was worth it to have that toasty feeling as winter approached. And I have to add that they have lived up to expectation – and have been the recipient of many compliments! I expect raspberry to be the next fashion colour!

I felt quite exhausted when we finally zoomed up the drive to Heroncroft. Doug had pulled out all the stops and rustled up something for supper. I don’t quite know what it was but it was very tasty and he was impatient for us to sit down and eat it! The cats were thrilled at our return and threw themselves upon us after supper as we lay on the squashy sofas, watching a rather sleazy but hypnotic biography of a Hollywood producer at the height of his powers in the 1960s. I appreciated the charm of being back home on the range! Doug had his second informal discussion group and we heard the cars making their way up the drive but we couldn’t quite extricate ourselves from the sofas and box of chocolates to join them.

The end of the two weeks was nigh and we would soon making tracks to the city once again. At least the airport was this side of it. In the time I’d been here the trees had been turning and I was astonished at the intensity of the fall colours.
The clock was ticking inevitably onwards. We set off early for the airport, so we could have a leisurely lunch and a mooch around various places en route and this made farewells somewhat easier to come to terms with. But it was still quite a wrench to leave.

This last picture brings to mind Shelley and his ‘Ode to the West Wind’. Those leaves of ‘yellow and black and pale and hectic red’ are still on the trees, yet to be blown away by that ‘wild west wind’, to become ‘like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing’. And one cannot but continue those thoughts along the lines of Shelley’s ‘Adonais’ – ‘Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass’…Ontario could certainly subscribe to that, decked in Autumn colours… this had turned out to be a very special trip for me.

As ever, Margot knew the most delicious lunch spot, just a swerve off the main drag. Mrs. Mitchell’s restaurant at Shelbourne is in a quiet haven of pretty, flower bedecked buildings, only a hop and a jump from the road, yet sheltered and peaceful. The restaurant is quaint and picturesque with wooden wainscoting and even more, the food is wonderful. I would be a constant customer if I lived here! One more stop along the way found us at the amazing and impressive McMichael art gallery in Kleinburg but time was getting short. A return visit here is a must.

Parting of the ways. Margot came with me as far as she could, then we embraced and I got my bags together and made my way through passport control. I turned to look back and the last I saw of her was a small figure waving wildly…

END

John and I were invited to a wedding at Monteviot, in the Scottish Borders. I thought it might be a good idea to make a long weekend of it, so we could do some exploring. We took the train from Kings X to Berwick-on-Tweed. Gaia had found us a wonderful car hire firm, East Coast Rental Ltd., owned by a charming man called Steven, who was waiting for us on arrival. I wish all car hire firms were like his! He is much recommended for a fine service.

I had also booked us into a bed and breakfast from the tried and trusted Alastair Sawday travel books and about forty minutes later, we arrived at Lessudden, a historic tower house just outside the pretty village of St. Boswells. Apparently, the writer, Sir Walter Scott, used to come here frequently to see his aunt and uncle. Their rather formidable portraits are on the wall and they seemed to look somewhat disapprovingly over our shoulders as we tucked into a delicious breakfast next morning. We could hear the comforting clucking of hens outside as we ate our scrambled eggs. Angela is a wonderful and inventive cook. The hens are a very special breed that like their independence and wander off to forage at leisure in the woods. She has trouble finding them as they don’t respond to a call like the dogs.

Everything, including the bed, was of grand proportions. We had a very comfortable sitting room to ourselves next to the bedroom and the view down to the river was full of promise. Even more so after a cup of tea and home made fruit cake, delivered by Angela. The sun was sparkling on the water as we made our way down to the river’s edge via the golf course. I felt the air fresh and sweet on my face and it was a joy to be away from the swarm of city life. I also love arriving somewhere totally new and having the feeling that maybe I am on the brink of falling in love with it.

The wedding wasn’t to take place until early evening on the next day and so we had time ahead. We set off first to Jedburgh to look at the abbey. It was windy (blowy, as my Scottish aunt used to say). The town is attractive and parking was easy. There’s a small museum at the abbey which gives its history and then you walk across a wooden bridge to the impressive ruins.

My Scottish aunt’s shade seemed to be flitting through ‘the bare ruined choirs’ and up the deeply worn stone spiral stairs, concealed in the pillars of the abbey. But the sandstone is so soft and mellow and not in the least likely to harbour ghosts. The reason I kept thinking about her is that when I approached the wall below, it reminded me of a trayful of the tablet she used to make for us as children. It was the epitome of glorious sweetness. Unlike fudge, when tablet is cooled from the oven it has a slightly crunchy top. She would offer you a square – all of us children having waited impatiently for ever until it had cooled. You put it in your mouth and felt the top crack, fragile as an eggshell or like thin icing on top of a millefeuille, and in an instant your mouth would be filled with the exquisite melting mixture of sugar cooked with condensed milk. I looked at the wall and my mouth watered, although now as an adult I would find that level of sweetness overpowering. But the memory remained delicious. I wondered if there might be a cake shop in Jedburgh.

On our way out, I espied a large building advertising Jedburgh woollen mill and despite John’s reluctance, I just had to go in and look. We returned to the car with a very pretty scarf – for John! I can’t remember the name of the tartan but it was in soft cashmere blues and oranges with green and brown tones against a heather coloured background mingled in. Very understated and beautiful! Next stop, Dryburgh abbey, which is close to where we are staying. When we got there, all was in full flow for a wedding taking place with pipes and drums and full regalia but we still got to go and have a look at the ruins, which are in a fantastic and tranquil setting in a loop of the river Tweed. The monks had a wealth of water and fish on their doorstep.

Not wanting to interrupt the wedding party, we disappeared amongst the greenery – the lushness and variety of healthy looking trees was heartwarming . Back in the car, we followed the signs on a ‘B’ road winding up the hill to the William Wallace monument. William Wallace, the ‘Guardian of Scotland’, stands an impressive 31 feet high. It’s worth the ten minute leafy stroll through the woods to come upon this giant red sandstone figure, staking his claim on an outcrop overlooking the river Tweed below.

With muddy feet, we hurried back to Lessudden to get dressed for the wedding, where we were greeted as ever by a cacophony of fiercely barking but sweetly good natured dogs, whose primary aim was to get you joyfully muddy all over! I must just mention our lunch time stop in St. Boswells, which is a bookshop with antiques and a café, offering imaginative and delicious lunches and teas. It’s called ‘The Main Street Trading Company’ and is run by a husband and wife team. Rosamund de la Hey used to work at Bloomsbury Publishing. Between them they have created ‘A kind of dream bookshop and small town café’. I quote from their brochure here (Neil Gaiman). This is a jewel of a place that is well worth taking a detour to visit – and it won the Children’s Independent Bookseller of the Year’ award in 2010. There are many books for adults also! May it thrive – it deserves to.

The big bathroom is nice and warm and we were soon ready. I wore a blue velvet coat dress with a brooch of filigree silver and blue ‘sapphires’ – costume jewellery but nonetheless, original from the 194Os with a price tag of under £20. Monteviot is only a few miles away, so we didn’t hurry but somehow only arrived with a pipsqueak of time to spare. The wedding took place in the Great Hall and all went well, minus a few unrehearsed attacks of boredom from the little page boys. The gardens extend to about thirty acres and the lawns spill down to the river Teviot, which flows along behind the house. Later on, we were ‘bouleversé’ as we stood on a high terrace overlooking the water, being treated to a truly mindblowing firework display, which we heard later on was the talk of the Borders – and probably all the fish and fauna too! I just pointed my camera and clicked over and over. These are a few of the images it caught but of course they don’t really merit the full fantastic show!

Although it was very chilly for August, the rain had mercifully stayed away and the evening had been very enjoyable. The bride even sang a love song to her newly wedded husband as we sat at dinner.

However, Sunday morning looked stormy with clouds rolling in and the threat of rain heavy and brooding. I had wanted to drive across the causeway to the island of Lindisfarne; it is closed at high tide. High tide wasn’t until 4pm. So we set off. It took a while and we arrived to find a very choppy sea. However, cars were going across the causeway, so we followed. The further we got, the more the sea was pouring onto the road, partly swept up by the furious gale, which buffeted the car mercilessly. We got to the car park on the island but could hardly stand up because of the wind speed and as we didn’t have weighty waterproofs and hats, we decided to drive back and ended up with slightly less rain but continuing fierce gusts of wind at Bamburgh castle. The wind was screaming like a banshee. A banshee that has a particular grudge against you. John had to hold his glasses on and I was blown flat to the ground in the courtyard, as it howled viciously in my ears and prowled the battlements in search of more victims.

We finally made it inside, which was quite a relief. There was also an art gallery showing contemporary artists and we bought a print of a shoal of blue fish swimming in a circle with one orange one going the other way. It very much echoed John’s notepaper that he designed with Rupert Bassett and it now sits on the wall at Volans in a rather fabulous frame – which cost more than the print!! Afterwards we did walk along the beach and through the dunes. The sun even tried to show its face from time to time but it struggled. However, it was exhilarating to breath in gulps of sea air and watch the waves crashing into shore.

Extraordinary! As we climbed up over the dunes to go back to the car the sun came through strongly and the change in the colour of the sea and the sudden warmth in the air was weird but very welcome. We took a long way round to do some more exploring and found Walter Scott’s favourite view towards the Eildon Hills – known as Scott’s View – naturally! His own home, Abbotsford, is not far from here. We haven’t time to go but it may tempt us back to Border country, along with countless other castles and fortified houses. It is a beautiful part of Britain with a bloody history. I am fortunate to have enjoyed it in peaceful times!

Back at Lessudden, we were invited to join Alasdair and Angela and their guests for supper, which was very hospitable. Afterwards we read for a while in the upstairs sitting room but soon nodded off with all that sea air and galeforce winds. My hair stuck out because it was full of sea salt. We didn’t really want to leave next morning but when we got back to Berwick, Steven was there to greet us at the station and all we had to do was give up the car keys and hop on the train home.

I’m just adding one or two images that appealed to me and which leave me with good memories of a fabulous wedding party, an exciting weekend and a wish to return to Border country.

END

This bush – a relative of the more exotic Hibiscus and called Common Mallow – has lived outside our house in the front garden longer than we have lived inside its walls. It started off pink but for some strange reason it diversified, first to pure white and then to white with a burgundy coloured centre, all blossoming happily together. I think these may all be separate shrubs or rogue shoots from the same roots. We certainly didn’t plant any of them. The bush is now quite old and gnarled but it still gives the blossoms of youth in massive abundance. I sometimes feel at this time of year that we are in an enchanted castle, surrounded by a wall of magic blooms! The postman has to fight his way to the door but at least there are no thorns!

I took these photos the day before we left for a wedding in the Scottish Borders.

END

This photo is just to show the pleasures of leisure in the sunshine. Perhaps the title of the book isn’t as recreational as it could be but it’s good to see John enjoying ‘time out’, although I’m not quite sure what he is reading. It looks suspiciously like a report of some nature. Maybe the wine makes up for it! And, for once, I don’t see the Blackberry …. oh dear, no, I think I do! Banish it to a flower pot!! Rah!

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I used to think it wasn’t worth going ‘on holiday’ for three or four days but our recent foray into Sussex proved otherwise. My Alastair Sawday choice of bed and breakfast suited us very well and the location near Midhurst was perfect for exploring. As we drove into the town centre we espied on our left the Cowdray ruins, reached by walking along a broad, raised sandy path with water meadows on either side and cows grazing by a deep pool in the river at the far end.

Even in ruins, this former Elizabethan mansion impresses. It belonged to the Viscounts Montague and was a place of great national importance for many years. Both Henry VIII and Elizabeth I stayed here. Capability Brown was in charge of the landscaping. The Dissolution of the Monasteries brought wealth to the Montagues but also a curse. One of the disenfranchised monks prophesied that ‘By fire and water thy line shall come to an end, and it shall perish out of the land’. The 8th Viscount drowned in the Rhine and the carelessness of workmen led to a great fire in 1793, when many treasures were destroyed, including paintings by van Dyke, Rubens and Holbein. I got a lump in my throat and had quite an ‘Ozymandias’ moment when I read this. I then took some photos – there seemed to be a ghostly figure looking through the empty ruined windows. John pointed out that it was the top of a chimney! See for yourself! He may be right… but those Viscounts lived in troubled times…..

Now desperately in need of a cup of tea, we investigated the outbuildings. Not only was tea and a freshly baked slice of Victoria sponge waiting for us in a delightfully flower filled dining room but there was also a hidden garden, full of lavender and marigolds and buzzing with many contented bees.

The first evening we were recommended to try The Hollist Arms, a cosy watering hole in the village of Lodsworth – the sort of place you could arrive on your own and be chatting within five minutes. We sat outside and had battered fish, chips and peas, with a half of draught cider. Very unlike me – but a delicious treat! We were served by a young man with an extraordinary hairstyle, bleached so that it stood up in an enormous quiff, like the bow wave of a ship. I saw him a day or two later in Midhurst with a pretty girl. He was unmissable.

There are lots of expensive cars zooming around the narrow country lanes in Sussex. Our car was rather outshone by a beautiful, bottle green MG roadster with yellow trim and open roof, cuddling up to it in the carpark. Ah well, back to our comfortable resting place deep in the woods. No bears to be seen. I say this because a Canadian friend of ours is hiking the Bruce Trail on his own at this very moment. It is well known for bears and rattlesnakes. We have seen a badger, a fox and two rabbits – sadly, all roadkill.

Next day, we planned to find the field where John’s father’s plane nosedived after he had bailed out over the sea at West Wittering during the war. We drive to Chidham and then start walking along the pretty coastal path.

We ended up doing a two hour circular walk along the coast and pinpointed the field where the plane met its end. We were alone for almost all the way except for a myriad of butterflies, bees and wild flowers, which reminded me very much of childhood seaside holidays. But we didn’t have a picnic basket. Instead, we drove to Bosham and had lunch in a small pub on the shoreline. The tide was out but you have to keep an eye on it if you park down by the sea as the shore road gets flooded as the tide comes in. Everything operates at a much slower pace here and the day seems to be as stretchable as elastic.

Bosham has a beautifully spacious, cool and picturesque church. And the sea air is very invigorating.

Next stop, West Wittering. A blue flag beach at the entrance to Chichester harbour. This is a very special place. Don’t be put off by the enormous car park. If you like being close with other people, the beach is a minute’s walk, with an edging of pretty coloured wooden beach huts. If you want to walk and enjoy the sand, sea and dunes in comparative peace and solitude, make for East Head. A haven for birds, with a few boats and sand dunes. My favourite moment was taking off my socks and shoes and running along the sand before paddling in the sea. The salty water worked miracles on my feet. I can’t remember when I was last at the seaside but it was too long ago.

We loved West Wittering so much that we went back twice. Inbetween we went to the Sculpture Park at Goodwood, which is difficult to find but worth the grumpy car conversations about women having no sense of direction. We also fitted in a visit to the remains of the Roman Villa at Fishbourne and the other smaller one at Bignor. Housing now covers some of the Fishbourne site, so I imagine lots of enthusiasts are digging away in their gardens with something other than horticultural joys in mind.

All I could think of now was dinner. Our kind host, who had been off for the day in his boat, had suggested ‘The Halfway Bridge’, not far from Lodsworth. This is a comfortable, cosy inn where you can also stay the night. The food was excellent and feeling happily replete after a perfect day, we stopped off at the Cowdray ruins for a walk at sunset.

We enjoyed chatting with our hosts over breakfast. At one point we realised we had lived within a stone’s throw of one another in London, some forty years ago. I am sure there are many more coincidences that one is never even aware of. Sitting in a crowded carriage on the underground I often think that somebody will know someone I know. Not that I want to pursue this!

Next day we were back in Barnes in under two hours, driving via the pretty village of Lurgashall and on to Haslemere. Astonishing to be so near the sea and the centre of London at the same time. We’d done a lot of walking and my feet felt somewhat like this.

Maybe just a teeny weeny bit exhausted! But my head was still in the clouds, lying in the sand dunes and staring up at the sky at West Wittering.

END