I had been prowling around endless nooks and crannies in central London, sniffing out the territory for possible office space re John’s new venture, VOLANS, when, without so much as a ‘gardez-loo’, one of those unpredictable and vicious April showers targeted me, threatening to leave me like a drowned rat, upended with the entrails of my pink rose umbrella, in the gutter. And initiating a ‘bad hair’ day to boot…rah…

I ran for cover, bounding through the back door of Stanford’s travel bookshop in Floral Street, where there is a small and welcome café and a feast of travel literature on the shelves beyond. I had a day or so to make up my mind as to where we could go for a week at short notice.

Istanbul appealed. I had never been but one of our daughters had had a fabulous time there at this time last year. I even had the name of the hotel she had stayed in, in my bag. At the same time I was aware that John had had to cancel a board meeting with a company he liked a lot in Paris. They were working on sustainable supply chains and were keen to have his input. I picked out a book from the shelves by Sandra Gustafson called Big Sleeps (probably because I was feeling exhausted, not just because of pounding the streets looking at estate agents’ boards but also because I was weighed down by John’s workload, forever bursting at the seams). Additionally, he wanted to take on an enormously problematic project on energy, which was in its infancy, so it was very possible that a number of sleepless nights and an equivalent to ‘the terrible twos’ would be in the pipeline. This project did not appeal to me except for the fact that retirement on the Riviera was fading as an option, given the increasingly desperate state of the planet.

I am by nature pleasure seeking and romantic but have probably survived this far because of a seam of pragmatism and common sense, which is shot through the glamour of soft velvet and pearls like a scouring cloth – a gift from my Scottish aunts, no doubt. Give me glamour every time but I’m stuck with the rest whether I like it or not.

Anyway, this book was about places to stay in Paris and my brain started to put two and two together. We could go by Eurostar, John could meet with Pierre-François one morning and the rest could be holiday… probably with Wi-fi, broadband or whatever, as the third person sharing our hotel room. That was fine by me, as I would have the chance to do some exploring on my own.

To have a whole week in Paris would be such a treat … the title of this piece has the extra ‘the’ because I remember as a child reading some magazine which put words down in triangular ‘puzzle’ diagrams, so that the eye would miss the repetition of ‘the’ – and I remember thinking – when I was just ten – that Paris in the springtime sounded very desirable. The word ‘desirable’ wasn’t at that point part of my vocabulary and I actually didn’t make it to Paris until I was sixteen, when my mother sent me to a summer language course at a lycée. At that time, you went to London and got the boat-train at Victoria, which was unbearably exciting. I didn’t find my group at the station but got on the train anyway and found them later on the ferry. It turned out that we weren’t well supervised and after classes we could spend evenings running wild around the city as long as we got back before the gates closed at 11 pm. Paris lived up to all my expectations – and more.

Sandra Gustafson’s book is well laid out, written in her very informative and idiosyncratic style and I got very caught up with reading her personal descriptions of recommended hotels. It wasn’t until later that I came upon various apartment lettings towards the back. This was how we ended up renting our first apartment in Paris, a stone’s throw from the Place des Vosges.

I chose this apartment for several reasons. I liked the sound of the two men who ran the company, the prices seemed reasonable, the website was very easy to use and well laid out with plenty of photographs. And the ‘Marais’, as a location, appealed. In the early seventies, John had been invited by the son of a close friend of his grandmother to stay in Paris for a few days. The man’s name was Gavin Young and he was a foreign correspondent on The Observer. John stayed with him in a vast apartment in the Place des Vosges, which belonged to a branch of the Rothschild family. I thought he would like this trip down memory lane!

As it turned out, he couldn’t remember exactly in which part of the square the apartment was. But the Place des Vosges is very beautiful and the Marais is a treasure trove of narrow streets, spilling over with interesting shops, many delicatessens, cafés, restaurants and art galleries. There are also some delicious green, hidden courtyards behind massive wooden doors. Doors which make you feel you are just six inches high and the knocker is far out of reach. Alice in Wonderland, bien sûr. They are private and hard to penetrate…but I like these sorts of challenges…

It was all arranged (by me) in a flash. We left London on a cold, wet, grey morning and found ourselves two and a half hours later at the Gare du Nord, bathed in sunshine. All augured well and my spirits were on the ‘up’.

Our apartment was on Rue de Turenne. It was warm, spacious, light and comfortable. In a word, divine. Often, places you see advertised are a disappointment but this was the opposite. Below, was a delicious ‘boulangerie’ on the corner. I felt adopted by our surroundings immediately. We suited one another and I fell asleep, happy and content.

DAY 1

I awoke early in the morning to the smell of baking and ran downstairs to buy fresh croissants, a jar of blood orange marmalade and other delights for breakfast. Along the road, there was a little G20 supermarket, which supplied yoghourt, juice, coffee and a large bunch of grapes. I noticed that there were a lot of young men around, dressed in a ‘bon chic, bon genre’ – civilized sort of way, most of them accompanied by well groomed little dogs.

Meanwhile, back at ‘home’, John had plugged his computer into broadband. This last thing was so important because it meant our holiday was stress free as long as he was in communication with the wider world.

We were about ten minutes walk from Place de la Bastille and after ‘le petit déjeuner’ we decided to go and look for Le Chemin Vert or La Promenade Plantée, which is a former railway ‘en haut’, which used to run round Paris and is now a green path planted with flowers, shrubs and trees on either side and takes you all the way to the Bois de Vincennes. On the way we dropped in at a bookshop, La Belle Lurette, on the Rue St. Antoine. John bought a book on ‘cerfs-volants’ – spectacularly wondrous kites, which appealed to his sense of line and design and reminded him of kite flying in Nicosia in the 1950’s.

As we climbed up the steps to Le Chemin Vert, the air was full of dampness after a showery morning, but there was a faint scent of witch hazel on the breeze and the box hedges were very green and fragrant after the rain … it was quite warm, too, and we enjoyed strolling under the arches of clematis. Lots of graffiti here and there, but John made good use of their lurid offerings and got some rather amazing photos to show on his blog. I didn’t take any pictures of the graffiti.

We didn’t get as far as the Bois de Vincennes because pangs of hunger took over and I remembered that the brasserie, ‘Bofinger’, was just by the Bastille, off the Rue de Tournelles. We were soon fabulously ensconced under the amazing ‘coupole’ of coloured glass inside. There is wisteria in the glass pattern while fronds of real blue and white wisteria fell down around it. The restaurant was humming with people all enjoying their Sunday lunch, surrounded by wood panelled, mirrored walls, paintings, and gleaming brass rails and lamps. It all adds up to a terrific ambience and it was such a pleasure to be able to walk in and not be turned away for three months ahead. We were made to feel very welcome as soon as we walked through the door – and that, for me, makes a huge difference.

First, we had a dozen ‘huitres clairs’ between us, which came on ice with lemon and tiny squares of very dark brown bread with delicious salted, Isigny butter, accompanied by half a bottle of Chablis. I followed these with a bowl of rich onion soup with a topping of grilled cheese while John had salmon and vegetables steamed ‘en feuillete’.
My eyes were too large for my stomach, which was by now ‘heavy’ and so we shared a delicious dessert of ‘Agrumes avec Beaumes de Venise’. Blood oranges with a ‘citron vert’ sorbet in sweet wine. After this, I needed a little rest before a MOKA coffee, which turned out to be a good ‘digestif’. We decided it would be a good idea to walk home.

North up the Rue de Tournelles and then, after a while, turning left towards the Rue du Foin. I’m fitting more and more pieces of my jigsaw of the city into place. One of my ongoing problems is orienteering, as I often walk up a street the wrong way unless I have landmarks remembered from the time before. ‘Merde’, etc…

Anyway, ‘Bofinger’ was much enjoyed. We shall definitely return on our next visit to Paris. No supper needed. I just sipped hot water (does wonders for the middle-aged system), and after fantasising a bit greedily about the bars of chocolate in the fridge – dark chocolate with a ‘fourrure’ of caramel inside – I dozed off. John played music and wrestled somewhat with his project, I think.

DAY 2

Woke to the soft, comforting smell of bread and patisserie warming the apartment. I lay and looked at the intricate white cornices of the ceiling, which reminded me of thick cream as the sun lit up the soft apricot bloom of the curtains. I felt very domesticated and made a delicious breakfast with yoghourt, fruit and the ‘sac à chien’ rolls, which were left over from yesterday’s lunch. I had put them in my bag, much to John’s disapproval. Have also worked out how to use the coffee machine. John wrote and tussled with the energy crisis while I planned the day ahead. Lots of things are shut on a Monday.
But first of all, there was John’s meeting at EcoVadis and we made our way by métro to the Rue de Varenne. Musée Rodin is nearby. The road is always full of ‘gendarmes’ as a lot of government officials live and work here. It was great to meet everybody – three charming men – and I was happily included in the lunch plans. We were taken to ‘Le Bon Marché’ department store for a special rooftop view lunch. After fond farewells, John bought a shirt downstairs. He’s bought one here before of the same make. I like them because they iron easily, besides looking nice of course.

Meanwhile, I needed to find the loo. It’s in an obscure corner on the next floor, hidden by designer dresses. It turned out to be rather grand with huge mirrors and old fashioned, rather lovely washbasins but I think the space could be better used in installing more loos, as there was quite a queue.

We bought a bottle of Château d’Arcines red wine from Nicolas on our way to the Musée Maillol, our next stop. Maillol’s muse, Dina, was statuesque (and could have been called Thunder Thighs, I thought). However, she did have glorious breasts and a ripe cherry bottom and she obviously appealed enormously to him, as there are countless sculptures, drawings and paintings of her naked, in many positions. The upside was it made me feel quite slim. And John took some stunning photos of a spiral staircase.
Then on to the Boulevard St. Germain, past Sonia Rykiel and down the Rue St. Benoit, which is the small street between ‘Café Flore’ and ‘Les Deux Magots’. ‘Brasserie Lipp’, on the opposite side of the boulevard, makes up the famous old triumvirate. Lots of ‘flâneurs’ were sitting outside, looking stylish, some wearing berets – definitely arty ‘philosophes’ taking the air alongside the inevitable tourists.

But John and I slipped down the Rue St. Benoit, peering in at a restaurant where I’d once had a very delicious, traditional dinner with an idiosyncratic waiter in attendance. It looked just the same with the red and white check tablecloths and tables placed convivially close to one another. I was trying to track down the ‘atelier’ of Eugène Delacroix but it was closed when we got there. This was the fourth time I’d come with no luck. No wonder I then went AWOL and found we had managed to walk down the Rue de Seine the wrong way and ended up at the Luxembourg Gardens, instead of the Seine.
On the way we passed a man’s clothes shop, where John got some summer cotton trousers. The button came off immediately. “They are Italian”, said the proprietor, who buzzed around us like a bluebottle. Then he buzzed off up the street and came back with the button fixed.

The Rue de Seine fiasco had a happy ending as we went into the Luxembourg Gardens, which were very tranquil in the evening light – people walking through the trees and dogs bounding about. Very Seurat – ‘La Grande Jatte’. I love that painting. We sat ourselves down at a little café (where once, in the past, we had had a huge quarrel, which I won’t go into here, but where I realised that one way of getting John out of a sulk was to feed him immediately). Our waiter was cheerful and charming and we ended up with two cups of hot chocolate and slices of prune tart. And Monsieur got a large tip.
Getting back to the Marais from here is not straightforward but I wanted to walk awhile to get my bearings. We ended up trekking along the very crowded and noisy Boulevard St. Michel. When we crossed the river I thought we might get the métro but John was in walking mode, so we walked the whole way by the river. Quai des Gesvres, Quai de Hôtel de Ville and Quai des Célestins, finding the little village area of St. Paul with its pretty artisan shops on the way up to the Rue de Turenne.

On Rue St. Antoine we came upon a takeaway of spicy ‘gambas’, salt fish and noodles with broccoli and prawn crackers, which we took home and had with the red wine we had bought earlier in the day. All for 16 euros (wine not included!).
Ah, bed! My feet and legs totally traumatized with the weariness of the long distance trudger! But now I am happy and comfortable and Paris is becoming more and more familiar. Dormir, c’est bon!

DAY 3

I was awake early and popped down to the ‘boulangerie’ to buy croissants and rolls. I have become a familiar customer already and am greeted with delight! My French is improving by leaps and bounds because of it. John wanted to go and see the museum of ethnography, opened in 2006. It’s a newly built structure by the river on Quai-Branly. We went to Invalides on the métro and then walked along the Seine. It was airy and sunny and there were lots of boats to look at and many of the buildings are very grand and interesting architecturally.

The museum was conceived by Jean Nouvel and promoted by Jacques Chirac. A large garden surrounds it, full of exotic plants, which are the perfect foil to the exhibits inside. The entrance is up a long, serpentine upward path with moving video pictures projected on to the floor. It’s a great idea but some of them – crashing waves, for example, underfoot – made us feel giddy and somewhat unbalanced! Everything is in half light, I assume for preservation purposes. The building is divided into Africa, Asia, the Americas and Oceania and the collections are enormously impressive.

There is so much to see and while John bounded about in his element, I got a bit overwhelmed after a while. John helpfully said that I was suffering from Stendhal’s Syndrome, when I said I wanted to lie down on the floor. It was just sensory overload. I needed to choose part of it and then come back another day. It is the same with the Louvre, where I get backache. But this is a real triumph for a new museum.

On the way back we walked to the Pont d’Alma – there is a shrine to Princess Diana on the opposite side of the bridge – and then took an RER train to St. Michel Notre Dame, where we attempted to find that bookshop of celebrated fame – ‘Shakespeare & Company’.

First of all, we walked along Rue de Huchette but we were tired and after fumbling around for a while, loathing all the tourist hordes, we ended up at a branch of ‘Paul’ with an excellent cup of coffee each, a tuna baguette, a ‘tarte au saumon et épinards’ and two tartines – one ‘aux fruits rouges’, one ‘aux myrtilles’. We ate this upstairs with the place almost to ourselves: a little bubble of peace and calm so we could gather our spirits together again. This revived us somewhat; at least it gave us whatever we needed to plunge back into the overcrowded street scene below.

We made our way to the métro and then I asked a man where I would find ’Shakespeare & Co’. We’d missed it by a whisker. Once again, we walked along Rue de Huchette and this time crossed the road at the end and there it was in its own special enclave, facing the river. It is an extraordinary phenomenon and worth persevering in order to find it.
John bought three books there, all stamped inside as an authentic buy from ‘Shakespeare & Co’. One was the sequel to Catch 22, another was about the human brain and called Proust and the Squid and the third was a novel with rather a beautiful jacket called The Reserve by Russell Banks. There were quite a lot of Americans around – it is a place of pilgrimage. I noted the makeshift bed arrangements upstairs. A lot has been written about this bookshop so I will leave it at that but encourage anybody who likes books and stories and a totally ‘one-off’ experience to spend an hour or two there.

We walked back past ‘les bouquinistes’, across the river, then took the métro back to Châtelet/Les Halles, walked again down the rue Rambuteau, which becomes the rue des Francs-Bourgeois, ‘tout droit’ to the Place des Vosges and home. It was such a joy to get back. I had to rub oil into my poor battered feet and lie down for one and a half hours. John made a very welcome cup of tea.

Recovery had me looking at my book of bistrots and then I remembered that Fréderic had recommended ‘Les Vins des Pyrenées’, a little place near the apartment. I noted it was also in my book. So we trundled off and had a very delicious two course dinner. The restaurant has a warm and rustic atmosphere – the sort of place where you could eat happily on your own and still feel included. I took one of their cards – very old-fashioned with a wavy edge and showing a loving couple from the past – ‘le petit bistrot où tu me souris pour la première fois’ – I’m sure the same sentiments apply today! It’s romantic and traditional. And who knows who you might meet, if dining alone? The French think nothing of signalling their interest, something I like very much about them.

The weather was good today – mostly sunshine, with a breeze. It did become overcast in the afternoon, but no rain. Bed was now top of my list of things to do.
As I felt sleep stealing upon me, I thought of things still on my list. ‘Le Jardin des Plantes’, a drink of mint tea at the mosque opposite the gardens, a visit to the grumpy ‘femme’ who sells lovely chiffon scarves for ten euros … and then I floated off into oblivion …

DAY 4

We were up early as John had a meeting with a work colleague at Le Café des Musées, about two minutes walk away. It was a coincidence that she was great friends with Pierre, one of the men who rented us the apartment and was talking to him on the phone when we arrived. Lovely that we were then able to get together. John and she go back quite a way – she runs a small outfit along the lines of SustainAbility, in Paris. It’s called Utopies.

Afterwards we went back to the apartment and I left John in the clutches of his energy project and went off to explore le Marais on my own. I remember once getting lost here with Hania. We walked up the rue Croix de la Bretonnerie so many times we nearly fainted with exhaustion. I think I’ve finally cracked the street system now. I saw a really lovely coat made of silk and cotton but it was almost 600 euros – Bof!

I also rediscovered the wonderful ‘glaces’ emporium on the corner (rue Vieille du Temple), which I committed to memory and then went back to fix lunch for John. Ficelles, goat cheese, tomatoes, juice – very simple. I then went off again on another little foray and came back to find John asleep. This project is very challenging and today was a gloomy and moody time for him. If it wasn’t so crucial, I’d make him give it up. However, I tried to be encouraging and decided on a little place to eat just five minutes away on the Rue Jarente – called L’Auberge de Jarente, which serves Basque food.

There was a boy there who seemed slightly alarmed to see us and he didn’t speak French or English but managed to let us know that ‘le patron était parti’. We ordered a particular bottle of wine but he brought a different one. I tried to change it but gave up and it turned out to be quite a nice red burgundy. We didn’t know whether he’d understood when we ordered our food but he had and it was amazing.

John had a wonderful fish soup with ‘rouille’, followed by tuna in a ‘marmitekon’ – (a deep dish) with a tasty sauce while I had ‘escargots’ in a ‘haricot blanc’ sauce, followed by heavenly ‘confit du canard’ with spinach and lots of small, fried potatoes, which John helped me eat (one of his favourite things). The whole dinner cost just 40 euros, including the wine. This was outstanding value and truly top quality.

We had started arguing again – probably the fault of this project hanging over John, so I suggested we take an evening constitutional around the ‘Place des Vosges’, which now had fairy lights twinkling in the trees and looked inviting and romantic. There are lots of interesting art galleries here under the arches, which are illuminated at night, and look very dramatic.

By bedtime, John had sorted out the latest worries with his work and I felt relieved but also annoyed. It had cast an all-enveloping blanket of gloom for most of the day and John had been sulky. Tonight my feet still ached from all the walking and then John said my French should be much more fluent, given the amount of lessons I had had – however, I had not gone to bed in a sulk. I actually think sulking has some genetic component. I seem to be without this gene, which is probably fortunate. I wrote my journal and listened to music and felt very much at home. Will banish tiresome project from my thoughts and think of Matisse, who said he painted for the pleasure that other people would get from what he produced. A pleasure like returning to a comfortable, well loved, armchair.

DAY 5

I didn’t get up until 8.30 am and only had yoghourt for breakfast with a cup of lemon verbena tea. The teabags were actually some I have had in my bag for ages. I tend to carry a few around with me, just in case – and so now we are having them. John doesn’t realize they are almost antique! The tea tasted fine.

John worked on the report for an hour. The sun came out and the weather looked fairly settled so I thought it a good day to explore ‘La Cimetière du Père-Lachaise’. I had been here once before so knew the way. We took the métro from Chemin Vert (about seven minutes walk), and changed at République for Père-Lachaise. When we came out, I recognized the long wall. You have to walk almost the length of it to the main entrance, passing all the ‘Pompes et Funèbres’ establishments with their offers of marble headstones, which face the wall on the opposite side of the street.

The news vendors sell maps of where the famous tombs are, for two euros. I don’t know how detailed they are but you can get a free one at the little house inside – up the main drag and turn to the right. In my pocket I had my Everyman Mapguide, which I find invaluable. I don’t think I can put a sentence about Père-Lachaise more succinctly than the one in this book. “With its shaded avenues, undergrowth, winding paths and esplanades, this cemetery is like a miniature world”. It is a wonderful place to walk in, airy, tranquil and surprisingly uplifting.

In parts, it is very hilly with out-of-the-way, overgrown corners, which turn out to have elaborate tombs waiting to surprise you. John always needs to climb to the highest point, and here was no exception. On the way we tried to find Jim Morrison’s tomb (The Doors). I found it first in the end but John had meanwhile wandered off. It’s a very small, flat grave and people have thrown flowers and cigarettes on it. There was, as ever, a motley crew hanging around. Last time I was there, it was awash with whisky bottles (empty).

Ever onward, we then climbed endless, meandering steps, and John started to get enthusiastic and took some good shots. Oscar Wilde’s tomb is very impressive, but the sphinx is now covered with lipsticked lips, where hundreds of people have kissed it. I felt it was rather tacky but John said O.W. would have thrived on all the attention he was getting. Next door to him is a bust of a very cheerful, good-looking chap – I noted his name was A. Vigneron. On balance, I think I would have preferred his company to Oscar’s.

My orienteering skills let me down again and I couldn’t find Apollinaire but we managed to track down Delacroix’s black basalt tomb, which is very stylish – as befits him. We sat for a few minutes on a bench in the sun – everything was very green and vibrant and the birds were singing. There are a lot of sparrows (des moineaux) in Paris, which is good to see as there is now a great dearth of them in London – I am not sure why. I do know that a colleague of John’s did a survey on this – his name was Max Nicholson.

Our next stop was at ‘Arts et Métiers’ – to look at the science museum there. This was worth it just to see the last bit where Blériot’s biplane and various vintage cars and an amazing working model of Foucault’s pendulum are all in the ‘Chapelle’. This is an old church and the use of the space is hugely dramatic and unbelievably clever. I complimented the guide on it as we left. People in general always seem to be complaining so at the moment I am going out of my way to say if things are well done or to thank people for being kind and considerate. It lifts my spirits too.

I was desperate now for a drink and some reviving food but we started walking again – I didn’t think I could go that far without sustenance but we went down the Rue Réaumur and passed a small park before turning into the Rue du Temple. This street is jam packed with costume jewellery shops and accessories like hats, hairclips and bags – it just goes on, shop after shop after shop. My jackdaw genes turned me into a ‘lèche-vitrine’.

Suddenly, things looked familiar after my explorations of yesterday and, even though dead on my feet, I managed to propel John into the ‘Café des Philosophes’ on Rue Vieille du Temple’ – right next to the cul-de-sac, Rue du Trésor, which is a little, flower-filled haven.

It was 4pm. My legs were like jelly as we sat down. I ordered scrambled eggs and an orange pressé – John added salmon to his eggs and had a glass of white wine. Twenty minutes later I was feeling so revived that we left and bought a delicious tub of icecream at the gelateria on the corner. It was a mix of crème caramel and coffee. We ate in the relative peace of the Rue du Trésor. I couldn’t sit down on the pavement as I was wearing my new caviar-coloured summer cotton coat. I imagine it looks very ‘chic’, but I could be wrong.

Finally, we trudged the last lap homewards, checking out a possible restaurant near the Picasso museum and poking our noses into some contemporary art galleries. At No. 8 Rue du Foin there is a big blue door and I managed to get a glimpse of what seemed to be a wondrous ‘jardin’ with exotic palms as an old woman made her way in. How I longed to slip in invisibly after her.

Couldn’t wait to snuggle up in bed. So exhausted, we only had chocolate for supper which was in the fridge.

DAY 6

This morning after breakfast I left John to the joys of his project and went down to the Rue St. Antoine where I’d seen a china outlet. It’s incredibly cheap with some lovely, plain white dishes. I would carry things home if they weren’t so heavy. I did buy a very pretty white porcelain lemon squeezer with its own little jug for Hania’s flat, which cost six euros. I love white china. This was really simple, yet stylish.

It was spotting slightly with rain and became quite heavy by the time I got back. I felt anxious about getting on with the day and not being squeezed by John’s work. There was a notice in the lift, which said ‘Tranquillisez-vous’, so I tried. It was actually explaining what to do if you got stuck and telling you that somebody, somewhere was there 24/7 to come to your assistance. That would be nice.

Buoyed up, I decided we would go to the Musée de Parfum by the Fragonard shop, suitably frivolous to counteract the general state of the world. We set off by métro to ‘Opéra’, which is where the famous department stores, ‘Galeries Lafayettes’ and ‘Printemps’ are, next to one another.

The perfume museum is small but exquisite. We ended up in the shop buying soap – one bar was made with oil of apricot and smelled so wonderful that we ended up buying a number for presents.

Outside, I took a photo of a man with a barrel organ. On top of it in a basket, two cats were snuggled up together. They had feral, baleful stares. Another man was selling painted plates but people were attracted to him mainly by his very sweet looking brown dog and her two puppies.

John took photos of the ‘Printemps’ window dressings, which were fabulous. I took one, too (see below). Round the corner, we found Fnac – the large store which sells records, books etc. In London, I had looked in HMV for the film music CD of ‘ Quand j’étais Chanteur’, a film I fell in love with. Many of the songs are sung by Gérard Depardieu himself as he plays the singer in the film. HMV said it was ‘on order’, but had never arrived. And lo and behold, I found it here, almost immediately.

I also bought a ‘roman policier’ about Père-Lachaise by Claude Izner in French. It has been translated into English and is proving very popular but I thought it would be great to have them both and see how good I thought the translation was. It might help my French as well. And on the way out I saw a small book on where to get a good massage in Paris – cheap and not so cheap. Felt like going to the nearest one on offer!

The soap being rather heavy, we struggled back to the métro at ‘Opéra’. Just then, I espied ‘Café de la Paix’. I had never been there but knew it was famous. I said to John we should at least go and have a cup of coffee. The ‘brasserie’ part is all glass and a perfect place for ‘people watching’, both inside and out. And we got the perfect table for this, right by the window.

 

There was an old but very well preserved gentleman, tanned by the Riviera sun no doubt, who was dressed in that laid back but sophisticated way. He kept staring at me. His companion was blonde and very soignée. She was wearing a pale green suit – if I had to guess, probably Chanel. They looked made for one another – I looked back at him and raised one eyebrow. This sort of thing is much more fun to do in France than it is in England. I don’t believe I even do it in England.

We ended up having lunch, both opting for a most delicious Roquefort and walnut salad. John had a small glass of red wine (10 euros – yikes!) and the espressos were six euros apiece. I took a photo of mine (very dreadful and naff but nevertheless…) and slipped the wrapped sugar cubes into my pocket. Everything was beautifully laid out and I enjoyed myself enormously.

As we were leaving, the waiter checked our table and found John’s camera left on the floor. What a disaster that would have been! Thank you, thank you, Shoyeb, S. (His name was on the bill). Je t’aime.

After this, we took the métro to Jussieu, so I could visit my ‘femme des chiffons’. There was a man in our carriage playing the accordion rather well. I wanted to give him something but he jumped out before I could find my euros. Must put some in my pocket to be ready for these occasions. Yesterday in the métro, we had to move seats as an incredibly smelly man got on and moaned to everybody about the state of his life. Not inspirational. On our various walking marathons, the smell of drains is quite frequent, although it used to be much worse. When I came to Paris aged sixteen, this smell and the palpable one of garlic oozing out of skin in the métro were overwhelming – and quite exciting.

My ‘femme douloureuse des écharpes’ wasn’t at the shop, but it was open. Unfortunately, they only had two scarves left of the type I like and neither appealed. However, the ‘vendeuse’ said she was expecting a new delivery. Ah well, next time …
John, meanwhile, had made off. We met up and did a little turn around the Jardin des Plantes but saved our energy (and our feet) by taking the métro to Mabillon, which is close to Delacroix’s atelier. Fifth time lucky! This time it was open and it was definitely worth persevering. There is an enchantingly small, enclosed garden reached by an outdoor staircase. It had box trees and red, black and yellow tulips. And there is a very clean and welcome loo. I took a great photo of John, sitting in the garden. Delacroix loved his atelier and I can see why.

When we came out I was careful not to walk the wrong way down the Rue de Seine again (!) This time we got to the river, crossed at the ‘Pont des Arts’, walked over to the Rue de Rivoli and then all the way back to the Place des Vosges and home. It was quite a hike and never was a cup of tea so welcome. I lay on the sofa recuperating while John got ready for his conference call with various people at 6 pm. It was going to take over an hour so I went out again and roamed around. I am getting to know this arrondissement quite well.
I passed a café where an old man was sitting. His paper-thin face looked like ‘The Scream’ by Munch but it was also bright yellow. I couldn’t think how he could be still alive, sitting there staring into space, apparently oblivious to all around him.

This was our last night and we decided to eat in. I had noticed a tiny wine shop – ‘Au Mois’ – which specializes in South American wine, just a few doors down from our apartment. We bought a lovely shaped bottle of Argentinian wine on the proprietor’s recommendation and for 10.90 euros it turned out to be velvety and smooth. I bought bread and two walnut tarts at the ‘boulangerie’ and cheese and tomatoes round the corner. It was just what I felt like for supper. The walnut tart was extremely generous, piled high with ‘noix’, all held together with melt-in-the-mouth thick brown icing sugar.

Afterwards, while John carried on working, I listened to my CD of the film music I had bought. It is music to dance to, so I did and felt romantic while John arranged his photos of the day to put on his blog.

LAST DAY

I woke at 6 am. Sunny again and very warm already. I had brought many too many winter clothes. Breakfast was rather a scrappy affair, as I had to clean the apartment, put out the rubbish and pack. Pierre was arriving at 9.45 am and the taxi at 10 am. It’s only fifteen minutes to the Gare du Nord and if our cases weren’t so heavy we could easily have got the métro. The downside of the métro is that there are lots and lots of stairs, which is bad news when you have heavy bags.

At the Gare du Nord, you get out of the taxi and beggars fall upon you like a flock of rabid pigeons, wanting your change. I didn’t give them any. I was busy enough trying to find the right amount for the taxi driver. I remember once, a long time ago, in Leather Lane in London, giving a beggar a bag of apples I had just bought in the market and he threw them with an oath into the gutter. I suppose this has always rankled, so he didn’t do his fellows a very good turn, as they have had nothing from me since. I know I shouldn’t hold grudges but sometimes I think it’s justified – and, yes, sometimes not…..

In the queue for the Eurostar we saw Trevor Nunn and Imogen Stubbs. She once came to the girls’ school and gave a talk about her career. She still has long, blonde hair.

Just before we dived into the tunnel our taxi driver in London sent a text to say he would be waiting for us at St. Pancras. Great news, as we are horribly weighed down. The tunnel is a bit like Alice through the Looking Glass. When you come out on the other side the apartment can now only be reached by looking at images on the internet. It will soon ring to the dulcet tones of the next inhabitant, who will make it her own. Pierre told us she was an opera singer.

We have had a fabulous week … and writing things down holds the memory of it.

Au revoir Paris – et à bientôt.

FIN

The wind was very blustery this morning. So fierce at times that as I was buying a box of organic eggs from the Somerset farmers, the stallholders had to hold down their flimsy tent coverings, two of which were buffeted mercilessly to the ground….. the eggs survived. I also replenished our apple juice store from Ringden farm orchards. A husband and wife team come up every Saturday from the Kent/Sussex Weald to sell both apples in season and juice all year round. I bought two bottles of ‘Russet’ and one of ‘Discovery’ for £5.00. They do a great variety, including Worcester, Cox and Bramley, Red Pippin and Grenadier. Large green glass bottles, great value and truly delicious.

I have started drinking a very small glass of russet last thing at night while sitting at the kitchen table, looking out at the night sky with the aeroplane lights winking overhead on their way to Heathrow while I am illuminated by the taste of sweet, liquid, golden sunshine.

This afternoon I made my way through the stormy winds and rain to watch the Boat Race. This sort of weather makes me feel very alive and vital for some odd reason as most people moan and groan about it. I managed to squeeze into the crowd just across from ‘The Bull’ pub at Barnes. I held my rose coloured umbrella aloft just in case my brother in Lancashire could see it as he was watching on television!

The water was rough and choppy in contrast to the Monet-like willow trees, protected from the wind and languorously draped on the Chiswick bank opposite. They looked very green against the treacherous grey of the river.

It’s thrilling to see the posse of boats wheeling round the bend from Hammersmith and into full frontal view of the crowd. A cheer went up. Drinking beer in the rain with jostling umbrellas is a very British scene, except that the two people behind me started to speak in German! After Sarkozy’s visit on Wednesday to the Queen at Windsor I wondered whether we are on the way to more than an ‘entente cordiale’ with the rest of Europe.

I had been to the video shop earlier in the day and John took two hours off from his permanent report writing to watch ‘Michael Clayton’. I did well with this choice. He loved it and said that the faultless photography and atmospheric lighting put him in mind of the ‘films noirs’ of the 1940’s like ‘Key Largo’. Great acting.

 

 

 

 

Cyprus. Not a number one choice for me, but John had talked about revisiting his childhood haunts there since I met him in 1968, so when I saw Northern Cyprus scheduled for early March in the ACE brochure, including many castles, I thought I would make it happen.

The tour leader is Curator of the British Architectural Library at the V & A museum. That sounded good, too, and when I managed to book the last two places, I was cautiously optimistic. John was thrilled.

The interminable queue at Heathrow for Turkish Cypriot airlines began to cast doubts. I whiled away time trying to guess who our companions might be. Then we came upon somebody we hadn’t seen for almost 30 years, who used to work at the Ministry of Defence with John’s father. An amazing, welcome coincidence.

When we finally climbed down onto the tarmac at Ercan airport it was past midnight. The faint smell of mimosa on the cool night breeze made me sniff the air like a wild animal, taking stock.

We are staying at the Dome Hotel, (shades of Lawrence Durrell), in Kyrenia. Room 404. We are so near the sea that, were I to fall from the balcony, it would be straight into the water. But, instead, I fall into bed and am asleep as my head touches the pillow.

Day 1

Wake up to blue sky and sunshine with the castle of St. Hilarion in full view from our balcony. I track down cherry and mandarin juice at breakfast. Lots of food but I opt for yoghourt, figs and carob syrup. There is a tempting sponge cake, elliptically shaped like a flying saucer and soaked in honey with cream inside. My sweet tooth manages to resist – just. Instead, I concentrate on the Turkish waiters who bring us coffee with wild-eyed flourishes.

At midday, we are whisked off to Bellepais abbey, set in a small, verdant, tranquil village on a hill, overlooking Kyrenia. Tall cypresses guard the abbey ruins and there is that ‘out of time’ feeling, intensified by the humming of bees. They are cruising above the swathes of Bermuda buttercups, reminding me of the beekeeper we met this morning, cleaning out the frames of his beehives under the castle walls in Kyrenia.

This morning we had strolled along the stone jetty which curls around the harbour and out to sea. The monumental castle walls dominate the entrance, flags flying. A group of Turkish boys were swimming. Boats, large and small, old and new, one being built, made for a busy and picturesque harbour scene with the old houses and waterside restaurants curved around the water in a horseshoe shape.

The downside was the amount of tins and bottles floating around and some communistic bloc(k) style monuments, whose angular and unappealing pools were home to plastic bags. A dismal scene but easy to clean up and replace I would have thought.

Later, we returned to explore the castle inside. The ramparts abound with giant fennel and asphodel and Charles, our guide, fills us in on the very bloody history as we watch the sunset turning the sky a film set golden pink over St. Hilarion, finally staining it deep red as it drops behind the horizon. I think of Eric Rohmer’s film ‘Le Rayon Vert’. Tomorrow it will be ‘The Green Line’ in Nicosia.

Before supper, Charles gives us a talk about the history of Cyprus and our itinerary for the next few days. We are now sitting at a long conference table on chairs swathed in white with apricot silk bows. Set up for a U.N. conference, taking place tomorrow. I doubt they will get complimentary ‘brandy sours’ like us, which are much appreciated.

Day 2

Early start, as we are off to Nicosia. ‘I am happy to be a Turk’ is emblazoned (in English) on a banner strung across the road as we approach the city. Charles points out the ‘Green Line’, beyond which is the Greek part of the island. It consists of a double row of white barrels, which seem to snake in and out, past pockmarked buildings and the bottom of peoples’ gardens. They remind me of old recycled barrels that people use as water butts on their allotments. John says they are oil barrels. Some of the streets in the city are closed off at one end with high wooden gates.

We have coffee in the pretty internal open courtyard of the Arts and Crafts centre, which John remembers as having been a prison. I am beguiled by the Whirling Dervishes museum: a calm, harmonious space with a small garden filled with white blossom, high walls protecting it from the busy street outside.

The cathedral, now a mosque, is deeply carpeted in salmon pink and we take off our shoes before entering. The sweat from my stockinged feet on the stone flags makes perfect footprints. The essence of my DNA has sunk and faded invisibly, in seconds, into the stone and so part of me is there ‘forever’, whether I like it or not. Inside, the carpet is soft and yielding and I fight the urge to lie down on it. We then leave to buy halva and Turkish delight, directed to the best shops by Senol, our Turkish Cypriot guardian and guide.

Outside another small mosque, someone has thrown a red and blue patterned carpet over the graveyard wall and in its folds, suspended hammock-like, a tabby cat luxuriates, fixing us with an impassive stare.

In a church, almost dead from war damage and neglect, its skeleton propped up with scaffolding, John pointed out a graffito on the wall and asked me what I thought it resembled. To me, it looked like a water jar. But no, it was a grenade. An example of how misinterpretation can cause so many ongoing problems.

On the way home, we pass endless casinos and nightclubs with English names, e.g. Lipstick Nightclub, Sexy Lady Nightclub, Galaxy Casino, Casino Rocks and I wonder how they survive, there are so many cheek by jowl. I don’t think that’s a question for Charles but maybe Senol will fill me in.

Day 3

I notice that the elaborate chandeliers in the hotel dining room are doing a balancing act as all the wiring is sticking out somewhat alarmingly from holes in the ceiling. Today we are off to Buffavento castle. It’s a long, steep climb up many steps but the weather is perfect and the path edged with blue pimpernels which resemble small, sparkling jewels, presented on green tussocky cushions. At the top we have eagle eye views of the island and the ruins themselves are very atmospheric. Barrie takes an ‘exclusive’ photo of us all being kings and queens of the castle at the top.

Meanwhile, Senol has prepared a picnic for us under the trees below. Then a walk through the woods leads us to a Herbarium, where we identify a lot of the wild flowers we’ve seen. Further on, we arrive at a ruined Armenian monastery, set in a deep valley. There’s a tree, heavily laden with oranges, at the entrance. There is also mandrake, a poisonous plant whose root can look like a human figure and is said to shriek when pulled out of the ground. It was once used as a narcotic and anaesthetic and for treating snakebites. Low lying, with blue grey rosettes of leaves and heavy, slightly hairy, dowager blue flowers at the centre. It looks slightly sinister, as do the many spent shotgun cartridges littering the ruins. There don’t seem to be many birds. But the setting is glorious and the sense of history has entered my veins.

Day 4

We are up and away by 8.30 a.m. I love the monastery garden at SS Paul and Barnabas. Martins are swooping here and there and we stand under a great tree shading a small square of blue, red and cream flowers in front of the entrance to the chapel. There is a desiccated cactus in an impossibly small pot, which has managed to creep up the wall all the way to the roof. Unbelievably enduring and resilient – as many of the poverty stricken people who live here continue to be. As I get onto the bus, I buy half a kilo of rough, white sugared almonds from a woman eking out a living from a makeshift stall.

Salamis is an archaeological site that everyone who goes to Cyprus should visit. Today, the mosaics and pillars and headless robed statues are enveloped in waves of yellow daisies and oceans of soft and bouncy fennel stretch away to the water’s edge. Barrie – he of the fez, bought in Nicosia – and I, miss a bit of Charles’s commentary as we are watching giant, foot long, dragon lizards with ridged backs peering out of large cracks in the blocks of stone. Hypnotic. Back at the bus, Senol is handing out juicy, fresh oranges and tangerines, brought from his own garden. I am feeling so footloose and fancy free. I think this is partly because I have no responsibilities and at the same time we are being so well looked after every step of the way – just so relaxing.

Lunch is in view of the sea at Famagusta. For some reason, Senol then takes us to a modern, five star beach hotel. I realise why when he points to a flag about fifty yards down the beach where similar buildings abound but no people. It is No Man’s Land, occupied by the military. Definitely a ‘no go’ area, unless you have decided to ‘end it all’, in which case it will, presumably, be effectively handled for you. The central square in Famagusta is pedestrian only (bar the odd rogue motor scooter). It is partly shaded by very old, tall, elegant trees. There is also a George VI ‘red’ pillar box, except it is painted yellow. John’s mother later tells me that they were all painted blue (in defiance of the British) in the fifties.

 

The ruins of the castle overlook the docks. It is impressive and standing on the ramparts I see the spirit of John’s father’s pale blue Jaguar being lifted by a crane into the boat, which would take them from Cyprus to the mainland and the long drive home to England.

We end up in a wonderful café, sitting by a central fountain, where small turtles and goldfish swim in a blue mosaic patterned pool. We order Turkish delight and it’s so more-ish that we end up buying boxes of it from a grand array on sale. For years I thought the phrase was ‘Moorish’, which conjured up pictures of bejewelled, flowing robes, secrets of the harem, sherbets and sweetmeats. I shall continue to spell it that way.

On the way to bed I feel my wrist throbbing. Disaster. It is inflamed and swollen. Luckily, I have my ‘splinter’ tweezers with me. I manage successful surgery but it takes me almost thirty minutes and when I finally emerge from the bathroom, John is asleep. Tomorrow, it’s St. Hilarion, the focus for John’s trip in the first place. When we went to Syria, the equivalent was Krak des Chevaliers. We nearly missed that because I was taken ill and only a mouse squeak from hospital. Can disaster strike so specifically once again? Well, yes, I’m sure it can but I have hopefully managed to thwart it. I fall asleep to the sound of the sea.

Day 5

Blue skies and sunshine prevail. We could call ourselves the lucky 21 club, that being the number in our group. St. Hilarion is a real fairytale castle, growing out of the rock with the jousting ground set out in front, part of it now a rifle range. Plus que ca change, plus que c’est la meme chose. The castle is on many levels, like a hill top village. The most impressive part for me is the royal apartments. The views and elegant proportion of the rooms puts it on a par with the ultimate penthouse suite by today’s standards.
360-degree views of the island from the topmost point just speak of mega power driven crusader knights. On the way down we pass a mysterious cistern, full of green and froggy water. Then we drink homemade orange juice made by the guardian of the site and buy a jar of carob syrup. I hope we get it home in one piece! The driver has parked our bus with three feet of its back end over a steep drop so Barrie is sitting on thin air. I avert my eyes until the bus moves off safely.

Next stop, St. Mammas monastery, ablaze with icons, carvings and delicately engraved sanctuary lamps. There are also wax effigies of babies, ears and limbs by a sarcophagus, which apparently has healing powers. A brownish looking liquid seeps out of the bottom of it. I prefer the holy men riding on lions in the paintings. Senol gives us special dispensation to enter the ‘male’ sanctuary. It promises much but is rather basic on the other side of the elaborate façade and needs a good dusting.

Next door is a museum with many ‘died’ animals, among them eight legged lambs and horribly viscous, preserved, poisonous snakes coiled up in jars. Upstairs is a many-breasted statue of a fertility goddess? I remember seeing one at Fontainebleau too. Fascinating, but I am content with two breasts myself.

The palace of Vouni looking out to sea from its cliff top is a welcome antidote. I can imagine being a princess spending my summers here. Lots of large, heavy bodied cicadas and pretty butterflies. I peer down the grid-covered cisterns and muse about whether they all join together into a large, underground reservoir.

It’s good to get back to the Dome. Am tired but also fired up by all we have seen and go off to track down a ‘brandy sour’ before dinner.

Day 6

Last day. It’s a 7.30 a.m. breakfast and then off to our fifth castle. Kantara. It’s a long, slow haul in the bus up narrow, winding tracks over steep drops. Luckily, I am not on that side of the bus today. Instead, I am studying the wild flower book Senol brought for us.

To date we have seen anemones, asphodel, blue pimpernels, Bermuda buttercups, cyclamen, giant fennel, iris, mandrake, narcissi, poppies, yellow daisies and almond and cherry blossom along with smaller alpines. I have pressed a few in my book. I thought I would like to press one or two of my companions as well, so I could take them out from time to time for a chat. I have enjoyed meeting all these new people.

The castle is breathtaking, strung out along the mountain top in a way which reminds me of Peyrepertuse, a Cathar castle in south west France. In six weeks or so all this green landscape will be dry and brown with temperatures in high summer approaching 50 degrees centigrade.

John and I explore all the anterooms along the cliff top to the annoyance of nesting birds, until we come upon a cistern, hidden in the last room. It would be easy to fall into if you’re not taking care as you enter the darkness out of the blinding sunlight. It’s quite a way down to the deep, clear water. Cool and pleasant.

Charles told us that last year an over enthusiastic member of the group did fall into a cistern and ripped his trousers in an awkward place. The waiter at the restaurant lent him a pair over lunchtime while his own were spirited away to be mended and cleaned before the bus left. This could serve as an example of how we’ve been treated all week. Nothing has been too much trouble. Conversely, none of us has fallen down a cliff or into the sea. There’s still time though.

After Kantara we have a pit stop. Senol has prepared elevenses, which include some crunchy biscuits rolled in sesame seed. We have them with red wine and raki. Our next stop is the Panhandle, a long strip of land at the north east corner of the island, where there are turtles, donkeys and ruined monasteries. Lunch is at a simple fish restaurant by the sea, built out over the rocks. We then go on to see a small ruined basilica overlooking the sea and come upon more dragon lizards. John takes a wonderful photo of them with the moon behind. The next stop is an archaeological site which is only partly uncovered, where there are weather worn mosaics, including a picture of a pair of sandals. Kind of domestic and nostalgic. Small girls bring us bunches of flowers. An idyllic scene but I think a bit of money changing hands enters the equation somewhere. However, this is not allowed.

The last supper is at the sophisticated Bellepais Gardens Hotel. The choice of restaurants has been very good. I think this may have been Senol’s brief. I have collected money from the rest of the group to give tips to both Senol and our driver. Sir Robert, a retired government private secretary, does the honours and presents the envelopes after dinner. I hope they are full of enough money to make a worthwhile tip. I didn’t count it.

Homeward bound

And so we’re all packed and ready to go at 7.30 a.m. We are shepherded for the last time by Charles and Senol into Ercan airport, named after a pilot who was killed by EOKA terrorists in 1974. I don’t like goodbyes and am aware that the camaraderie that has gradually built up between us during this week of being 12+ hours together every day is about to fall apart and be lost as we return to our daily lives. It has been a hugely enjoyable and unforgettable week.

I don’t know how the differences can be smoothed out in Cyprus but I do hope some sort of balance can be achieved so that Turks and Greeks can live together peaceably. In Northern Cyprus, tourism and real estate are seen as up and coming money-spinners but I am not sure if it is the best thing to rely on. It would be disastrous, for example, if Kyrenia were unwittingly to host guests of the type who descend into drunken brawling.
If trade embargos were lifted, at least it would help people to get back to living lives of opportunity. For instance, the citrus groves could be properly harvested. It is a land sorely in need of sustainable development and expertise in planning this.

There is also an enormous water problem. Not enough water on the island means that some has to be brought by tanker from Turkey. We saw a huge orange-red balloon collapsed and floating on the sea yesterday. Senol pointed out that it had been full of fresh water but had not managed to make the trip across. (Was it dragged behind a tanker? I don’t know). A low water table also means that seawater begins to seep into the aquifers, causing disruption to agriculture.

We were shown much kindness and hospitality by people here, who have needed endless resilience and perseverance to survive. I hope a better future lies in store for them, although the bitter feuding is entrenched and needs something radical to happen to put it into some sort of perspective. I suspect there is no easy answer.

The End

I have an ongoing crisis of confidence whenever I have to be in sole charge of choosing where to go on holiday. This doesn’t happen too often, as we hardly get the chance, (moan), but eight precious days at the end of September had been tortuously squeezed out, like the last bit of toothpaste in the tube and I had to make the most of it, while John, as usual, seemed disinterested in the whole prospect. I used to feel upset about this but looking at his family habits, going on holiday is not top of their list of things to do, so I’ve put it down to genes. He does usually enjoy himself after a two day acclimatisation process – input from his camera and computer are an important part of this…

On the other hand, I love taking trips. Sometimes I just want to play safe and go somewhere we’ve been before. I have actually done this in the past but it has been in summer and then winter, second time round. This was in Wengen, near Lakes Thun and Brienz, the region of Switzerland known as the Bernese Oberland, which is famous for mountains such as the Eiger, the Mônch, and the Jungfrau. Wengen is a car free village half way up a mountain and very special in many ways (see another article I have written for further info.).

But it was now late September. Although I am always seduced by mountains and lakes, we were so paper thin and exhausted that we really did need the southern warmth of the sun to slowly soothe, warm up and relax our bodies and transfuse us with that intangible glow of energy. This promotes a specific ‘look’, which I remember on the faces of my schoolmates being back for the first day of school after the summer vacation. You usually only notice this ‘look’ after you get home from holiday and it doesn’t last for long. But when you have it, you look a million dollars.

For ‘luxe, calme et volupté’, I ended up choosing the Hotel Orselina, on Lake Maggiore – in the Ticino/Italian part of Switzerland. It was with a mixture of excited anticipation and dread that I opened the envelope containing the tickets. John, meanwhile, packed his case, not knowing where Locarno was. I was happy not to discuss it, in case it proved to be a disappointment.

We set off from home by taxi to Heathrow at 6.30 am. Mortlake Cars is now the favoured local service, John having had a set-to with an East European driver from another company, who went through a red light and acted as if he was in a dodgem car. John was right but as fisticuffs almost ensued I didn’t want to run the risk of getting the same guy. The taxi driver that came spoke very little English but all went well – and he got a good tip! Since then, we have been happy with this car company.

Heathrow was quite quiet but the plane was delayed by an hour. However, we got to Zürich in plenty of time to get the train and buy a sandwich. As we flew down to the airport the clouds looked just like extravagant scoops of vanilla ice cream. They were lit up from behind by the sun, which gave them a three dimensional, solid status, slightly golden at the clumped edges, suggesting clotted cream. I took a photo but don’t expect it will come out. John described the clouds to me in almost the same words I’d used, writing in my book…..so we do think alike sometimes – more not than often – but diversity is the spice of life…

Continental trains are quite massive and usually long, with signs on the platform to point out where your coach will stop. Some of the trains are ‘double decker’. The station at Zürich airport is just down one escalator. I had bought first class tickets, so we had lots of space.

Our destination was Bellinzona, via the St. Gotthard pass. Swiss rail is very smooth and the views were scenic, via Brunnen, Lake Lucerne and the Zugersee. A fine rain was falling, which made everything look green and misty and magical around the wooded borders of the lakes.

As we climbed slowly up the pass, there were a lot of cement works and gravel heaps on either side, with temporary buildings which made the villages look ugly and despoiled. These huts were low lying – rectangles with mean, small square eyes. However, I seemed to be the only person looking at the landscape. The trains all have plugs for computers and people were tapping away industriously with their brown paper bags full of lunch beside them. Comfort stations de luxe. If you are stressed, you can blow out and then breathe into a paper bag…..after a few times, you begin to feel relaxed. This is a tip I got from Dr. Thomas Stuttaford in ‘The Times’. I tend to keep a paper bag in my pocket now.

As we came over the top of the pass and left the tunnel, the trees became much more varied. The colours of the buildings changed to soft terracotta and ochre. Warm sunshine took the place of the mist and cast an atmosphere of increasing indolence. I could see that in the height of summer the sun could be pitiless, drying out the fields of sweet corn, which were now burned to brittle, jagged, brown sticks. But this September sun was lazy and pleasantly soporific.

Bellinzona lies on a fertile, alluvial plain at the top end of Lake Maggiore, full of orchards, sweet corn and vines. It looks as if the lake just didn’t quite manage to stretch into the last flat bit between the mountains, some of which have snow on top. The summits glinted pink in the sunlight.

We arrived and everybody spilled out onto the platform. The smaller train to Locarno, which is at the end of a branch line, was waiting. It’s a short journey and Italian was being spoken all around us. As we got off the train in Locarno, a procession of cars passed by, all hooting, with ribbons hanging out of the windows and on the radio masts… a wedding party.

There was meant to be somebody to meet us but nobody appeared. We waited. I then tried to phone the hotel from my mobile but it wouldn’t work. It was now about five o’clock and John was tired and impatient and said we should just find a taxi and pay for it. Plagued by my Scottish genes, I felt we shouldn’t pay for what was part of the package. I had Swiss coins, so went to the phone box. Joy – I got it to work! The hotel reception were very apologetic and within ten minutes a lovely, plump lady called Rosanna arrived. She was quite flustered, saying that she hadn’t had the message to pick us up. All good now, though. We walked through the door of the Hotel Orselina and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was fabulous.

A dear old-fashioned retainer took us to our room. He spoke German and was very proper. There seems to be a mix of languages… danke schôn, grazie, but anyway, all benissimo as the room is spacious with a sofa and armchair sitting area and an enormous, tiled balcony with loungers, table, seats and the most beautiful view of the lake.

The water was sparkling against the backdrop of the mountains on the other side, which are a series of green wooded slopes, slashed by dark ravines, the whole ruched like a pine forest green velvet evening dress; the slopes look mysterious and softly seductive as if they are holding a fabulous secret. John says they look like ash heaps and are very fractal. Ah well, to be fair, he’s totally exhausted and just threw himself on the bed. I used a photo of this view from the balcony at the beginning of this site. You will definitely recognise it from this description and can decide for yourself.

I walked out onto the balcony. There were big window boxes with red acer and geraniums on one side, oleanders on the other. Apparently, you should never make a fire with oleander bushes as the smoke is poisonous and could kill you. Am not planning to make a fire on the balcony however.

Our room is called ‘Le Tigre’. So now we have French in the mix. The furniture is mahogany with dusky pink cushions. The bed is kingsize with offwhite striped satin duvets and huge pillows. It is very comfortable. The curtains are thin cotton in pale blue with an impressionist white flower pattern – like batik. They are very restful to look through from the bed as dawn breaks. Later, John took a photo of me on the balcony with a towel on my head – behind said curtain – so I looked like an indistinct Arab sheikh. The pictures on the walls have walnut frames and seem mostly to be of men on horses in nineteenth century battle mode.

There are two long mirrors and, in the bathroom, yet another vast mirror behind the marble basin, with oceans of space for bottles and make-up and one of those illuminated, magnifying mirrors which are at the same time horrifying and intensely satisfactory. They are great for eyebrow plucking.

Somebody with a harmonious eye has put a pretty little vase of flowers with white dahlias and lavender daisies with yellow centres on the coffee table. There is a wealth of hooks for clothes as well as two built-in wardrobes. A small pull-out clothes line in the bathroom for drying bathing costumes and smalls. I dwell on these details because most rooms in hotels haven’t been thought through properly, even though it wouldn’t take much to improve them. Two of the worst mistakes that hoteliers make are bad lighting and lack of a full length mirror. Even in the smallest room you can find space for a long mirror. And hooks on the backs of doors are so useful, especially when space is at a premium.

The carpet is a dark, smoky blue with tiny, yellow flecks, reflective of the boats on the lake. There is a complimentary umbrella in the hallway and we can borrow sticks and a backpack for hiking. All in all, it’s well nigh perfect!
Time for dinner, which could be described along the same lines. We finished off with warm, white pudding bowls holding ripe cherries and fresh cream………

DAY 1

Slept very heavily. I woke with the feeling that I’d been unpacked from being folded in a plastic bag in a dark cupboard for months. So I ache, I’m stiff, and I feel shaky and unbalanced. The quality of light here is fabulous but a shock for cupboard dwellers!

After a shower, I lay on the balcony for a minute or two soaking up the lifegiving warmth of
the sun, which started my muscles popping and relaxing. John is immersed in his book, “A Reed Shaken By The Wind”, by Gavin Maxwell. He is totally overwhelmed by the writing. He has also lost my soft rubber ball for massaging my feet by unwittingly kicking it under the partition to the next balcony.

Maybe I will climb round and get it later as I can see it on the floor there if I crane my neck – but it would be embarrassing if they were in their room and I appeared rather hazardously clinging to the edge of their balcony! Same as if one hung one’s knickers out to dry and they fell over the balcony to the one underneath. I wouldn’t really like to own up to my old knickers….. maybe I should indulge in some Italian lingerie while I’m here. But I’m afraid comfort always seems to win out in the end. Mind you, it has to be the comfort of delicious silk or sea island cotton.

Today was spent mainly in recovery but I did take lots of photos from the balcony of the lake, with all the boats plying to and fro. And John fiddled with his computer plugs and got in touch with the outside world before reading and sleeping.

DAY 2

Breakfast is a huge buffet of temptations. Half of the tables are set outside on the semi-circular terrace and half inside. We came down at 9.30 am and all the outside tables were taken. However, I did notice that they were being dive bombed by flocks of sparrows, swooping down on any stray crumb.

I had birchermuesli with black grapes, prunes, apricots and slices of apple soaked in Calvados (just the fillip!). There was plain yoghourt, pumpkin and linseeds, viscous pear juice, which was very sweet but delicious and pink grapefruit juice. And all the continental cheesy and meaty treats.

The waiter came and presented us with varieties of tea to choose from, which then arrived in a pot together with a small egg timer which told us when it would be ready to drink.

Afterwards we explored the gardens, which are on steep terraces, with wonderful exotic trees and flowers. There are two swimming pools. It’s a bit cool now for the outdoor one but there’s a Hallenbad – an indoor ‘mineral’ pool, which I will explore later.

We sat on the balcony reading for a while then decided to walk to Locarno, which takes about fifteen minutes down a long, steep path made up of over 600 steps. There’s a lot of overhanging greenery, including a very strong and invasive Kiwi fruit climber. Lots of lizards skittered down the walls and under the ivy. As we came out into the sunshine, we saw a contented looking cat licking its paws. It stared at us with a closed, Mafiosi face.

Then we found ourselves walking under old stone arcades where there were stalls selling jewellery, scarves and rather lurid souvenirs. We explored various alley ways, one of which brought us out to the church, where John took some photos. They reminded me of the artist, Hugh Buchanan’s, work. He shows his paintings at the Francis Kyle Gallery in London.

We meandered back to La Piazze Grande where we had coffee and ice cream. There were lots of people and it was noisy but a companionable sort of noise…. the buildings are old, many of them painted in pastel colours – faded yellows and verdigris, washed out blues, yellow ochre, white and greyish pink with beautiful, intricate filigree iron balconies and scrolled gateways.

We found a shop which sold John’s favourite Moleskine notebooks and bought an elliptically shaped glass vase, which is very graceful and magnifies the stems of flowers.

The top resembles the open mouth of a fish. It had been in a MOMA design exhibition in New York and cost us £43.00. Also, John bought himself a very stylish black backpack.

It’s just big enough for his notebook, camera, reading material and a sandwich. I was happy, as I won’t have to keep carrying around all his stuff in my bag.
On the way back we stopped off at the jetty, where the steamers leave from, to get a timetable. The town is full of tall palm trees and Japanese sago palms and generally seems to have a microclimate beloved by all sorts of plants which grow vigorously. Apparently, the lake acts as a giant storage heater which warms its banks in winter. Except for a plague of graffiti, the old town is very picturesque. As we made our way up the hill another wedding party passed us with car bonnets full of bouquets of apricot and yellow flowers. We can see the hotel from the boat jetty but it’s a long walk up. There is also a funicular for future use!

I now thought it was a good time for a swim. The ‘mineral’ pool was very warm and smelled fresh and inviting. We were alone. I swam some lengths and did some exercises and realised I was beginning to feel much less stiff and fragile. I wish there was a pool just like this one at home. There’s a lift from the pool right up to our room and as I came out of it I ran into our next door neighbours – happy recipients of the ball – and managed to explain in German what had happened. It was joyously returned! I expect they wondered what I did with it. I massage/exercise my feet, curling them round it while trying to pick it up. Oh yeah!

We sat on the balcony enjoying the view. There’s a surreal Magritte cloud loitering on its own above the mountain opposite. and it’s now time for dinner No. 2 – perfetto.

A wonderful spread. The food is fabulous and this is endorsed by 5* John. Our waiter’s name is Angelo. He is dark haired, olive skinned, chubby and delightful. One of the dishes that tempted us tonight was giant prawns skewered and roasted with saffron rice and broccoli.

We returned to our balcony as dusk gathered. John was watching the moon and said he could see it move quite plainly as it rose over the mountains. It did look quite luminous and wonderful, especially when a dark green wisp of cloud trailed across it like a veil and nestled around its edges. The sky is very clear and full of stars.

It’s strange how much of an effort you have to make to learn to swim or ride a bike but when you’ve learned you never forget. I hadn’t been swimming for a very long time but it has done my body such a lot of good already… I feel very freed up.

DAY 3

We added scrambled egg to our breakfast this morning. Although we are fish eating ‘vegetarians’, I couldn’t resist a morsel of very tasty bacon. John looked on disapprovingly but I had to say how much I enjoyed it. He compared me to the cat of yesterday who had obviously felt the same after his lizard snack. John said he could feel the loud thrumming of my purrs!

There are lenticular clouds above the mountains this morning, which look like a school of large tuna fish, their backs just above the ocean. It is cooler but the air is very soft and I hear the gentle sound of the fountain in the background. We got to sit on the terrace at breakfast and were beset by the greedy, marauding sparrows. They are plump and very self important. I was thinking that the Hotel Orselina should invest in a marmalade coloured cat with a name like Scatellina. She would be statuesque and very fierce and chase the sparrows at every opportunity. Pauvres petits moineaux – but they do well… there are a lot of crumbs.

John was getting very excited about the cloud formations and we decided to take the funicular right up to the top of the mountain above the hotel. Half price tickets were to be found at reception. John put on his new backpack and kindly carried our water bottles. We flew up the mountainside to where there is a viewing platform strung out rather precariously over a gorge. I got excited as I could see the Monte Rosa range of mountains through the binoculars, which look as if they are heavily covered in damp icing sugar. They are beautiful and savage, and tinged with pink.

Ever onwards… a chair lift took us right to the summit, where there’s another viewing platform, 360 degrees circular this time, with the names of all the mountains. The whole hillside was alive with giant crickets, so many of them that it was difficult not to step on one. When they jumped and whirred you could see their ‘petticoats’, some of them ruby coloured and others in differing shades of blue. They were two inches long and enormously fat. From the top you can see how the rivers have made their way down through the mountains and met up to make a huge fan shape of flat land as they come into one and flow into the lake. The fan is the sediment and Locarno is on one side and Ascona on the other. Far away on the opposite side, looking down towards Milan, there is a tiny lake, high up, sparkling in the sun.

We started our descent. Initially, we meant to walk down half way and then take the funicular back to Orselina. However, the café where we planned to eat had been taken over by a hearty group of men having a celebration – the long tables were groaning with rösti and meaty treats and, no doubt, trifle for afters.

We decided to go on and we did go on and on and on downhill through the forest until our knees shook. It was beautiful and tranquil, except for the knees! From time to time, we came upon tiny chapels, with painted backdrops. A signpost hove into view, which pointed to the funicular and Monte Bré. When we got to the funicular, which took about fifteen minutes, there was a sign to say it wasn’t stopping. We walked the ten minutes on to Bré but could only find a rather dismal hotel restaurant, which was very smoky. We retraced our steps until we found the signpost to Orselina, which was a ‘sentiero panoramico de Noce’ – a path which kept leading us under the unreachable funicular until we started down another steep path through the forest.

I called this the Fru-Grain trail because, in the seventies, there was a breakfast cereal of this name. They were about an inch long, dark brown and looked like pieces of rotting wood – or like flattened, treacly milk flakes. They tasted malty, strong and sweet. The path looked as if it had been made out of hundreds of them but there was nothing to eat and I was getting hungry and tired. There was nothing else for it – we had to go on. The signpost had one hour marked for Orselina and we arrived at the paved road almost to the second – which was a satisfactory feeling! But the whole of Orselina is on a steep slope and we couldn’t quite work out where the hotel was.

We walked down the hill, past lots of well-to-do villas. Pictures of mastiffs adorned the heavy, wrought-iron gates. “Io sono gardien di qui” the notice says as the dog bears its teeth menacingly. The gardens are full of banana and monkey puzzle trees, bougainvillea, rambling creepers and large palms. Garages have grass roofs, covered in trailing nasturtiums. The only thing I found beautiful now was the sight of our hotel, which we didn’t have! We came upon another long flight of steps and walked down, while trying to work out where the Orselina was by memorising the view from our balcony. After yet another steep flight, we came out practically opposite the hotel. My legs were like jelly but we repaired to the terrace for a cappucino and an hour later felt able to go for a swim.

There was a woman of about sixty in the pool, with heavily blonded hair and a red ruched swimming costume. Her legs seemed to be made up out of flocons of cellulite. I was glad I hadn’t given in to eating a large tart on the terrace…..When she got out she was replaced by a very heavy, hairy man with a square head. I found I could swim two lengths to his one – but he could have been going slow on purpose. I also swam two lengths holding my breath. This wasn’t an Olympic size pool(!). John managed that too, while I did a lot of arm, leg and feet exercises.

Finally, back to ‘Le Tigre’ – room 503. Looking forward to dinner. which included a potato and mushroom pudding. The potato is liquidised and has the consistency of grainy blancmange and the mushrooms, fresh from the forest, are laced through it. It went well with a red Merlot from the Ticino.

Angelo is still our much loved waiter but we’ve now been upgraded to a seat by the window from where we can see the moon’s antics.

Before bed, I went out onto the balcony to look at the lake, which is silver blue in the moonlight, and a steamer, illuminated by lights that look like beads from a necklace, is offering music and dinner to those on board. I am going to bed to read ‘The Lover’ by Marguerite Duras. My white cotton nightdress with lacy top and pearl buttons has been laid out by the maid on the bed – drawn in lovingly at the waist and looking very welcoming (for the husband), his T-shirt being more prosaic.

DAY 4

We’re really chasing the last of the summer sun now. After breakfast, we strolled through the gardens and lay in hammocks under a vine heavy with grapes and visited by very close-up and personal wasps! Noble rot.
Today we did the 600+ steps again down to Locarno, scattering alarmed lizards at every turn. The signpost allows twenty five minutes and we came out with flying colours – twenty!

John bought an International Herald Tribune to read on the steamer on our way to Isola di Brisaggio, where there is a botanic garden.
We sat at the front of the boat and it was quite chilly on the water. We stopped at Santa Nazare and Ascona. Ascona has a pretty waterfront with an avenue of trees and lots of restaurants but is somewhat spoiled by toy trains and tourists dressed in ill-fitting clothes and comfort shoes, hauling around lumpy bodies and feasting on ice cream. Of course everybody isn’t like that but it’s depressing to see how many are.

The island is a joy with huge eucalyptus trees, exotic plants and multi-coloured parakeets.

There were lots of enormous black fish patrolling the shoreline – we could see them from above as we looked down on the deep blue of the lake water. I think people must throw bread for them as it seemed to me they were following us.

The old house in the middle of the island is very picturesque and we sat under the faded rust coloured awning, covering the wide arched, stone flagged verandah, to have lunch. John had spaghetti al pomodoro and I went for a mixed ceps salad – both delicious. Some time later, we returned to the small beach by the jetty and waited for the boat back to Locarno. The silvery, sandy shoreline was full of tree roots – like so many Anthony Gormley figures.

The boat finally arrived but everywhere on it smelled of stale smoke and it stopped at nearly every place on the lake. We were relieved to get back, nipping up the 600 steps in a trice.

When we got to ‘La Tigre’, I fell asleep on the bed. Then I had a shower and made a call to have a massage tomorrow.

I’m now reading ‘Late Season’ by Christabel Kent – a novel set in Italy. I enjoyed ‘The Lover’ but it was sad. John told me a very sad true story about Max Planck and his family, which he read about in Bill Bryson’s ‘A Short History of Almost Everything’. His wife died, his two sons were killed in the war, one of his twin daughters died in childbirth, the other one brought up the child and fell in love with the husband. They got married and then she also died in childbirth. And something else horrible happened too but I’ve now overdosed on tragedy and can’t remember. We went for a swim before supper.

DAY 5

I woke up at 7am. I am certainly less stiff but still bad (cattivo), so looking forward to having a massage.

It was misty outside this morning and being under the duvet was luxuriously warm and comfortable. The fibromyalgia in my shoulders, neck and middle back is irritable. I imagine it being like thin slices of hard water residue, which you find at the bottom of a kettle, lurking between the connective tissue and the bone. The masseur arrived and started pulling the slivers out through my skin. After a while, he soaked my vertebrae in something equivalent to vinegar which melted or loosened the flakes remaining. He then told me to concentrate on the back of my neck and the connection to my shoulders. I could feel my shoulders widening and relaxing. I was defrosting. Then I was in my head and looking at how my face was put together from the other side. He gently rubbed around my ears, which was very relaxing – my stomach murmured happily.

The masseur then said I should think of being under a waterfall, breathing in all the negative ions while he flushed out all the remaining residue from my niches and crevices.

I woke up flexible, footloose and fancy free. This was my semi-drowsing dream….. I hope the real massage this afternoon will be as good.
This may sound a bit mad but there must be a build up of ‘stuff’ in the body over the years, just like in the kettle (if you live in a hard water area), so trying to dissolve it one way or another seems to me to be quite a sensible solution except it’s not quite as easy as popping in a sachet to fizz the stuff away. But it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that somebody will find a way …
Breakfast included some wonderful Seville marmalade, full of huge slices of orange. It is made here in the hotel to an old family recipe.

I finished ‘Late Season’ by Christabel Kent which was well written and enjoyable. I have two books left. ‘South of the Border, West of the Sun’, by Haruki Murakami and ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ by Douglas Coupland. We read all morning on the balcony and then decided to go and see the neighbouring church/sanctuary of Madonna del Sasso, which was a nunnery – and perhaps still is. There’s a small footpath through the woods behind the hotel which takes you there. I had to encourage John to come because of his aching calf muscles.

The day was warm and a little overcast, one of those afternoons which ‘breathe’ siesta.

The path took us down past a jungle of greenery and some deep ravines. Suddenly, John stopped. We had disturbed a three foot long black snake, sunning itself on a ledge. It moved so quickly, coiling itself up and making off into the undergrowth. I missed seeing all of it but it was the highlight of the day.

The church/sanctuary/nunnery was a bit of a mish-mash of designs and very cluttered with unexceptional paintings. We walked around for about ten minutes but my thoughts were elsewhere….. would we have a repeat encounter with the fabulously terrifying, long, black, poisonous? reptile on our return along the path?

Sadly, this was not to be and my massage, though ok, was slightly disappointing. I got back to ‘Le Tigre’ to find John asleep. I managed to shoehorn him down to the Hallenbad for a swim before dinner.
Dinner was an ‘Italian’ buffet with about twenty dishes to choose from. I can’t remember any of them because I was so greedy but we did have a fabulous wine from Sardinia – Terre Brune 1997 – which was made from Carignan grapes. The other wine which has been exceptional, is called ‘Planeta’ and it’s from Sicily.

Tonight is a full moon and John spent some time on the balcony watching bats. It’s been a lazy day and I must try and find out the name of the long, black snake.

DAY 6

I woke up in the night to find I’d been attacked by a vicious mosquito. My wrist had swelled up enormously. Aaargh! I tiptoed off to the bathroom and bathed everything with TCP, then put on insect repellent and stumbled back to bed. John woke up to the pervasive smell of disinfectant, which made him get up and escape to the terrace for breakfast.

Today, there were small green offerings of sweet, ripe melon. I had scrambled eggs with mushrooms and smoked salmon with horseradish mousse. Then I spread a rose-coloured, darkly fragrant, luminescent quince jelly on fresh, nutty bread. This should take me through the day!

We decided to explore the contemporary art gallery at Casa Rusca in the town but it was mainly uninspiring, although I did buy a postcard of an old man called ‘Le Vieillard Debout’ by Rusconi (1946). It is a simple, fluid drawing of an old man with a slightly melancholy, abstract expression…. looking at me quizzically. He’s wearing an old beret set at a comfortable angle and an open coat with a substantial shawl collar, his hands in the pockets. There is a dark scarf around his neck, folded over his waistcoat. I just wish I could knock off a drawing like that. It would be so satisfying. The other card was of a black bear, which looks very top heavy as if its feet would have trouble propping it upright. There are certain middle-aged women who look like this too.

As the sun was out, we decided to walk along the lakeside and join the river, where a ‘planet’ walk takes you along the bank. There are sculptures of all the planets at various points and also a higher path for bicycles only, which is a brilliant idea.

Down by the river we could see huge, dark fish circling around slowly – they looked quite menacing, as if they were on the prowl for something. The path was silver sandy against the green grass and lots of people were promenading with their dogs. We came out in a new part of the town which had some buildings that I thought were very ugly. The Civic Centre, for example, is a muddle of sharp rectangles without windows. The light must come in from the glass in the roofscape. The blank walls make it look like a prison.

In the end, we came back to the old town and took photos of the old Castello, while waiting for it to open after lunch. The only loo had no lock on it, no paper and smelled rank. The reception was manned by two ancient chronic smokers, who grinned at me toothlessly. I then went back to investigate the mens’ loo in case it was more usable but as I was peering in, a man came out, buttoning up his flies. He gave me a nasty look, so I just gave up.

The 1925 Geneva convention was signed here and the photos of the groups from the different countries who attended were wonderfully idiosyncratic. For example, the English (Austen Chamberlain, etc.) all look slightly stiff, with an upright, moral tone, the Italians, well, very Italian, the French look somewhat louche, the Belgians all look like Hercule Poirot with hats and lorgnettes, pass on the Germans, while the Czechs look very cheerful and include women and the Poles look rather hearty and happy too.

We made our way back to the Piazza Grande and sat in a café for a while. I like doing this but John soon gets bored and is impatient to move on. Under the arches I bought a tiny, silver necklace, which I have worn ever since. Then we went into a bookshop and found the snake in a book on reptiles. It’s an ‘Orbettino’ – long, black and smooth, with a head indistinguishable from its body. It exudes a poisonous liquid but isn’t harmful to humans.
It’s the shrews that get it in the neck then!

We climbed the 600 again! It’s getting easier by the day. Past the morning glory plant at the bottom and the bird twittering in its cage in the crone’s garden, then lizard pandemonium and ever upwards, until we are out of the ravine of jungle plants where the wild things are and back in the hotel garden. We passed by the corner shop, having not eaten lunch and bought a bag of mixed nuts, a tranche of Fontal cheese and a bunch of black Ticino grapes, which we ate on the balcony.

Much refreshed, I went for a swim while John stayed behind to do email. I did lengths walking through the water, which is quite an effort – I am on points as I get to the ‘deep’ end and feel it’s good exercise for my feet. I wonder if it would be possible to do a successful underwater ballet…
John was very pleased that he had saved the new cover of RADAR (magazine brought out by the office at SustainAbility) from looking ‘tacky’, and, having finished his email, he conveniently forgot about swimming and is now heavily into Bill Bryson (the book on science) -which he loves.

My mosquito bites are still vilely swollen and suppurating – John does not want to discuss them. This evening there is a blue haze on the lake and in half an hour it will be dinner time! There was a potato and brie tart and ‘fera’ – fish from the lake – among the many delicious offerings.

I am now very much enjoying ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ by Douglas Coupland.

DAY 7

I pulled back the curtains to find the sun was up and burning off the mist. The sky and the lake make a pale blue pastiche, with sparkles on the water in between. Joyful.

We decided we’d go to Ascona and explore the town and art galleries. It took about half an hour to walk there, round the lake and river route. There are lots of tiny, picturesque alley ways which are full of galleries and stylish clothes boutiques. John came upon a wonderful little restaurant tucked away down one of these crooked alleys. Outside they had water running down a glass wall, which looked and sounded very refreshing.

We went in and sat in a room with white tablecloths and black, frilly ironwork tables and chairs. The ceiling was made of yellow, opaque conservatory glass, which cast a shade of dark sunlight – very Italian. The name of the restaurant is The Hostaria San Pietro.

We started off with fabulous fish soup. Then I chose a mixed salad of lettuce, rocket and endive with beetroot, butter beans, sweet corn and tomatoes. It could not have been fresher. John had marinaded smoked salmon which arrived laid out in narrow, crescent shaped strips like a fan. It was accompanied by small squares of what appeared to be essence of lemon in a jelly like mould. It was a great choice of restaurant with the best cappucinos around! And a delicious bottle of Sicilian vino nero. Wholly recommended.
After buying a few small presents, all beautifully wrapped, we walked back to the esplanade and jetty, which was bathed in sunshine. The lake was smooth as silk. There were a few old fishing boats around, a pedalo or two and a very graceful yacht. The scene was quite old fashioned and romantic. Three old men stood together in the shade, under the avenue of trees, enjoying playing violin and double bass- Eine Kleine Nacht musik-. I gave them some money. I thought their wives would be pleased that they were happily engaged and not under their feet at home.

We sat on a bench by the water’s edge, watching the various comings and goings, until the steamer arrived to take us back to Locarno. It was quite crowded but we got seats. We could have walked back but it’s nice to be out on the water, pulling in to various small villages en route.

As we were making our way across the road to the funicular, John lost his footing because there were two steps instead of one from the pavement. He fell and twisted his ankle very badly. We sat there for a moment, wondering whether it was broken but he decided it was just an enormously appalling sprain. Luckily, there was a pharmacy near at hand. We slathered arnica cream all over it and put on a sock support.

Poor John! He very bravely hobbled back to the funicular and we were soon back at the hotel. I think we’ve done all that the doctor would have recommended. I put on a cold compress when we got back and he lay on the bed and did email. I hope he will manage to travel home tomorrow. A slightly melancholy tinge to the end of the holiday.

The dinner was a self-service buffet and unfortunately our table was the one furthest away from the food! The centrepiece was a wall of dramatic flames, where meat was being roasted by chefs, dressed all in white with tall hats. Others were stirring things in vast copper cauldrons, which reflected the light of the fire. The queue for meat was long but the one for fish was short. The fish was a huge salmon trout which had been encased and cooked in a salted pie crust (which you didn’t eat). It was removed to reveal the succulent inside.
Desserts included a bombe glacée with bitter amaretto cherries and a passion fruit sorbet, which was deep indian yellow and tongue prickling, like sherbet.
A pianist, who was the spitting image of Placido Domingo (he sang as well, with much rolling of the eyes and expansive hand movements), made the dinner into something of a soirée. The songs were a mixture of the traditional, with Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra playing leading roles. We made off quite early to look after the poorly foot but I kept the door open and could hear almost every word, as the crescendos of music vibrated the heartstrings! I really have to say that I rather like those sorts of evenings!

Tonight is cool and I managed to kill the mosquito that had attacked me! I dreamed then of being bitten on the foot but it was only a dream. Maybe in sympathy for John’s swollen ankle…?

DAY 8

The lake is very misty and there are coils of cool air reaching my feet now, which I have stuck out of the duvet. I put on a dressing gown and go out onto the balcony. Everything is seen through a fuzzy blue lens and the noises of boats are muffled.

In my mind, Lake Maggiore has always been a soft, light blue colour. Lake Garda is blue like delphiniums, Lugano is violet and Como a blue green. The other three are still a treat in store, I hope. Colours are one of the great joys of my everyday existence.

Last breakfast and I insist on taking it out on the terrace as it’s the last time we’ll be able to eat outside this year. Once we’re packed, we go and sit downstairs in the lounge, where a log fire is crackling cheerfully. There are some postcards and stamps on hand, so I sit down and write a few. I always think it’s nice to get postcards from abroad. Does that sound like a comforting Joyce Grenfell aunt?… well, I suppose I could end up being someone much worse…

Then our lady taxi driver appears to take us to the station and the owner of The Orselina, Alberto Amstutz, shakes our hands as we leave. We’ve had a good, restful time and done enough not to have been lazy! I give Rosanna a large tip – I also left one in our room for Carmen, our cleaner, who made my nightdress look so inviting! The warm, mineral pool has been one of the high spots of the week, as I think we both feel a hundred times better for it – except for the poor, swollen ankle.

There are three castles at Bellinzona – must look up its history. The station is very busy – huge freight trains pass through about every eight minutes. We find ourselves on the platform with a lot of young, Swiss army men in their combat gear. There are also large groups of schoolchildren – all cheerful and well behaved. On the train back to Zürich, we eat oatcakes which are emergency rations I found in the bottom of my bag and I finish ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ by Douglas Copeland, which is brilliant. Thanks to Gaia for recommending it.

The St. Gotthard pass is pretty today, with mist wreathed round the top of the mountains, from which pour masses of waterfalls. It’s a long way up and as we get higher I can see the road, which is supported on vast, tall pillars careening into the void below. It makes the cars look very brave at attempting the ascent.

The carriage is quiet until we get to Gold-Arthau, which is by a lake. Then it fills up with people going to the city and the airport. I noticed a rather wild looking, middle-aged hippy, with silvery locks and an earring, carrying a very battered, silver ridged ancient metal case, which looked as if it had been round the world a few times. I saw it again on the carousel at Heathrow. I would have made a good spy because it’s always the small details you have to be beady eyed about…..

Zürich airport has been expanded and there’s a lot of trekking with the cases. Then I recognise the place where John lost the tickets coming back from Davos last January. I was wondering how many times this had happened to other people and at that moment I looked up from our place in the queue to see a group of Russian men. One of them was frantically emptying his briefcase and hand luggage, totally panic stricken. He’d lost his passport. His colleagues looked anxious. I looked away. We got to the front. I looked again and was rewarded by smiles all round. Phew!

We checked in our bags and then followed a series of countless corridors and escalators, before boarding a small train which swooshed along like a mole underground. Long queues for the x-ray machine and it was a relief to get to the gate for boarding. John seems to have managed with his ankle. He is very stoical about these things. I’m utterly exhausted.
Still, I have some lovely presents to give. Beautifully packaged boxes of florentines, done in parchment coloured paper, with a score of music across it and decorated with red ribbons.

The flight home was fine except for an enormous amount of circling above Heathrow, which always makes me feel anxious. We finally landed with a big bump into the real world, where it was grey and raining and very autumnal.
The house smelled closed and airless – I ran round opening the study, bedroom and bathroom windows even though it was cold. And, before bed, there was an enormous spider, trapped in the bath, to put out of the window.
This holiday should have been longer but we did have a very happy and relaxing week.

P.S. I should mention that most of the photos in this article were taken by John. I did not have a digital camera then and although I dearly love some of the ones I’ve taken, the quality of them on the computer is not good. I did have some of them on disc but one of the discs turned out to belong to somebody else and instead of views of Locarno and Ascona, they seem to have been taken by an ‘anorak’ trainspotter. I have had to discard them. Oh, woe!
ENDS