writing, not drowning

On pesky viruses and perfect companions

Hmm; no sooner do I take to the blog again than I am knocked almost hors de combat by a virus that has been unpleasantly similar to the one that arrived last September and took nine months to shift. And I don't mean a computer virus. This time, however, I have taken homeopathic action sooner rather than later and, three weeks on, I think the virus has got the message.

So where were we? A month ago - the last time I posted - I was about to fly to Madeira, courtesy of the Grown-Up Children, which I did. It was a delightful, happy week, with the sort of temperatures I love (35 degrees Celsius or thereabouts), and much swimming, a huge amount of reading, and generally relaxing in the sunshine. It was just what we all needed.

We did a memorably unenjoyable all-day mountain trek; unenjoyable owing to the weather (it was the one bad day, rain and mist, so no views) and a rather strange guide, who made us listen (more than once) to his birdcall impersonations in the pouring rain, and who told off-colour jokes. We knew the experience would eventually turn into a family joke, as these things tend to, but at the time . . . 

When I left Funchal, I was still warm and glowing from the sun; I arrived at Bristol Airport in the middle of the night, to be greeted by howling winds and torrential rain. Oh, British weather, what would we do without you to take the shine off things?

As a result, I have been doing only the essentials, that is, walking the dogs twice a a day and trying to remember to keep up my intake of fluid. It was while I was sitting around doing not very much that I found myself missing my dear old cat, Mr C. I didn't write about it at the time but he died of heart failure in March of last year and I still miss him, not least because this has been almost the first time in my life that I have not had a cat or three as part of the family. I thought how comforting  it would have been, when I was at my most under the weather, to have had Mr C sitting on my lap, purring away. He was the most affectionate of cats.

I was very taken with the resident hotel cat in Madeira - a tabby, like Mr C. He (or she) was very popular with the guests on the sun terrace, overlooking the sea where the Walnuts (a term coined by the Son-in-Law) could be found stretched out on loungers every day. (I was with the Walnuts; the Grown-Up Children preferred the more exotic palm tree shaded Garden Pool area.) Hotel Cat was very savvy and absolutely knew how to work a sun terrace. Every evening, one of his (or her) band of devoted admirers would appear with a dainty dish of sardines. Hotel Cat would scoff the lot, lick his paws, then execute a rather fine curl of the tail and stroll off.

At least there were two very special dogs waiting for me when I got back to England; I never under-estimate their importance in my life. As all my viral symptoms have been better in the fresh air and even better by the coast, we have done plenty of walking and, for a few days, when the sun shone last week, we even managed long walks by the seashore.

These days, only one of my dogs, Miss P, does long walks. The Edinburgh Boy is now the Venerable Old Edinburgh Gent and he is 13 today. He is taking it easy, as befits a very elderly Labrador, but there have been a few extra treats. He spends many, many hours asleep and  I often see him doing that doggy dreaming thing, his paws moving as if he is running, accompanied by a series of quiet, breathy 'woofs'. Perhaps he is remembering what life was like when he was in his prime and he too could run along a shoreline and race in and out of the waves. He is the very dearest of dear old boys and I love him more than words can say.

Break, Break, Break . . .

 

I cannot tell a lie, it was not Tennyson's rather gloomy poem that came to mind when I stood on the South West Coast Path and looked across the rocks and the sea into the distance to this - the lighthouse (yes, that one). Godrevy, off the coast of North Cornwall, is said to have inspired Virgina Woolf, although she chose to set To the Lighthouse in the Hebrides.

The only sort of break that I was thinking about was my own - an almost spur of the moment affair, travelling solo and on a very tight budget (which is far better than not travelling at all). I simply slipped across the county border from Devon into Cornwall, with the aim of visiting places new and others that are close to my heart. And I had the most excellent time, of which more anon.

But Godrevy captured my heart and mind; I could quite see why it had done the same for Virginia.     It's a little off the beaten track but, if you are driving as I was, there's a National Trust car park and then it's just a short walk to the South West Coast Path - and all this natural beauty. Below me: rocks, crashing waves, seals splashing in a turquoise sea . . .

and there, across the water, cloud white in the sunshine - Godrevy Lighthouse. I spent, oh, who knows how long, just sitting on a flat stone at the highest point of the coast path and looking. With time out for the odd photo. It was the perfect spot in which to be absolutely still and in the moment; designed by nature for Buddhists.

Which made me wonder why so many of the people in the car park had set up their folding chairs and picnics in the car park, looking away from the sea towards . . . all the other cars. Why would you?

Le shopping, silver and the sea

The weather here has returned to its normal, unremittingly grim pattern, although the grimness does not begin to compare with the horrors of Superstorm Sandy. (Sending good wishes to all of you who are affected by it . . . take care.)

What to do, therefore, but think back to the beginning of the month and reflect on the joys of that brief window of sunshine in France? The day after our choral exertions at Notre Dame in La Ciotat was free to do with it what we liked and someone mentioned the town's Sunday morning market. Several of us were off like a shot. After all, even if one cannot summon up much interest in everyday shopping for essentials, the lure of a good market is hard to resist.

La Ciotat's market snaked around the harbour and was rather wonderful. There was, of course, the best of local produce:

There were olives and hummus

teas and spices

bread

pottery in hot, southern colours

and these . . .

Parisian chic doesn't really cut it in this small corner of the Beautiful South, where there is a penchant for figure-hugging frills, glitter and ornamentation, albeit in neutral colours - black, grey and taupe. I spotted these in the main shopping street that runs down to the harbour:

But the bright, monochrome straw hats said yah boo sucks to neutral.

I was feeling rather proud of my restraint by this stage, just taking photographs and not actually buying anything. And then I noticed a jewellery stall, covered with silver rings, bracelets, earrings, all presided over by the impressively named Mohammed Ahmed Almoctar Dit Hamada, a Touareg silversmith and jeweller from Nigeria. Game up.

Wherever I have travelled, but especially in India, the Middle East and Latin America, I have bought locally crafted silver jewellery, mainly rings and earrings. However, I had recently lost one of the rings from India and the finger that it had graced was looking a little bare. I'm never quite sure how this jewellery thing works, why one piece appeals more than another, but my eye was drawn to a wide silver band, with traditional Touareg engraving.

'Do you have this in my size?' I asked Mohammed, pointing to the middle finger of my right hand. His eye was as accurate as those of the amazing fitters at Rigby and Peller, who can tell someone's correct bra and cup size at a mere glance. He plunged his hand into a large bag under the stall and produced a ring, which, just like Cinderella's slipper, was a perfect fit. We engaged in some good-humoured bargaining, settling on a mutually agreeable price, sealed with smiles and nods.

It did mean that I'd blown the money intended for a prix fixe three course Sunday lunch at a harbourside restaurant but that didn't bother me. Three of us, who have known each other for years, since long before we joined the choir, decided to have a budget picnic lunch instead, courtesy of the market. We sat on the steps of the harbour, looking out to sea, talking easily as old friends do, tucking into savoury fougasses and enormous, juice-dripping crimson tomatoes and giant peaches. 

Now, in the depth's of England's autumnal gloom, all I have to do to conjure up that day is to glance down at my hand, look at my Touareg ring as it catches whatever light it can, and remember bright sunlight dancing across the Mediterranean.

Oasis

On Sunday, the sun shone - a remarkable event this year, here in the South West. One of my closest friends is staying for a week and we had arranged to take my two dogs (and one guest dog) to Sidmouth on the South Devon coast to meet the Young Friends, S and A, who used to live in the next village. I had looked after their Patterdale terriers for two and a half years until S and A, who by this time had become my friends, moved to another part of the county, having found the cottage they had been searching for since they first moved here from London. 

It was a glorious day: sunlight glittered on the sea, the Patterdales raced along the shore, Miss P, my Saluki-collie cross, hurled herself in and out of the breaking waves, and the older dogs, the dear old Edinburgh Boy and the guest Westie, went beachcombing, rootling around in the driftwood and the flotsam and jetsam that the waves had cast ashore overnight. We humans, walked, talked, did a bit of beachcombing ourselves, and then found a spot to sit on the warm stones where we could soak up the sun and enjoy our surroundings.

We could not quite believe that, on an autumn day, which felt like a long overdue gift after more than a year of rain, chill and grey skies, we had the beach to ourselves. 

But we did.

Afterwards, we went back to the Young Friends' cottage for a delicious lunch - Indian, vegetarian, in honour of our travels, future and past, theirs and ours. It is a truly special place and although they have been there only since August, it is now unmistakeably theirs. And in the garden, S has already converted the summerhouse into the studio he has always wanted.

The dogs had eventually run themselves ragged and stretched out, comatose, on the floor, while we ate - and raised our glasses to friendship.

The beautiful south

I am in the south of France, at La Ciotat, to be precise . . . to sing. And I am loving every minute, not least the joy of being bathed in sunshine and light and to be away from the torrential rain, mud and grey skies of England for a few days. We have had no summer, whatsoever, and now it is autumn, bringing winds and chilliness and ever more rain.

More of the music in another post but for now, just a hint of the warmth and the colour and some of the things that remind me how happy I am to be back, once again, in the land of (some of) my forebears.