writing, not drowning

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?

Back . . .

Our Madeiran spot by day:

and by night (courtesy of a Loved One):

We had the happiest and most relaxing of weeks; it is more than five years since I last had a proper holiday and many more since I had a holiday where I simply let go. (For the record, I relished every moment of my three weeks in India in 2008 and long to return but my Friend on the Road and I covered many hundreds of miles and I was, on that particular trip, a woman with a specific mission . . .)

Madeira was good to us: the sun was as generous as I hoped that it would be and, for a few days at least, our world was a warmer place. (Flying back into gales-force winds and cold, biting rain was most unwelcome.)

On our last evening we took a taxi to a hillside overlooking Funchal to eat at Z'Arcos, a restaurant that the Loved Ones had discovered on a previous visit. We ate outside on a wide verandah, surrounded by deep troughs of herbs - fat bushes of fragrant basil, rosemary, fennel and oregano. And we talked, among other things, of politics - national, European and international - as we often do and how we feel and see ourselves as Europeans and have done for as long as we can remember. (The UK faces the prospect of a referendum about our continued membership of the European Union; we agree that the community has many faults but faults can be put right. Better, surely, to make things better rather than to turn and walk away, without a clue of where we might be heading? We have no desire for the clock to be turned back. A Loved One remarks that, if the vote goes the wrong way - that is, to leave the EU - he will leave the country. We nod in agreement.)

Looking out across the pantiled roofs, with the Bay of Funchal just catching the last of the soft, evening light, we had a sense of being part of what we saw, not simply visitors. Something that none of us would wish to lose.

Call me Marigold

I know when I am beginning to run on empty and it's right now so tomorrow I am flying off in search of the sun, which I am told is shining brightly here:

I'm going to Madeira for a week, courtesy of - and to spend time with - the Loved Ones. The Edinburgh Boy and Miss P are going to stay with the best dog-carers in the world and my Dear Friend, the Only Blonde in the Village, will be taking care of Mr C, my elderly tabby cat. 

The Loved Ones are not taking laptops (a first) but I must as I have two courses starting the week after I return and I need to be able to respond to queries and handle bookings. No free WiFi where we are staying but it's only a short trot to the nearest cyberspace zone for a quick daily check. Apart from that I intend to give myself up wholly to the joys of swimming, sunbathing, yoga, walking, reading, a bit of writing, and general unwinding - and reflecting, occasionally, on the meaning of life. But not too deeply. I really just want to be in the moment, basking in those golden rays, in the manner of the Marigold Fairy:

'Look down, great Sun, and shine on me!'

Autumn is already making its presence felt here in Devon and I don't want to have to think about shorter days, colder weather and winter on the horizon, at least not for a while. I wish I could embrace the seasonal change but I always feel myself shrinking inwardly as summer begins to slip away, especially when we have had a good one. So I'm going to make this summer stretch just a little further . . .

Dog days, French style

Despite frequent reminders from my fellow singers that I was supposed to be having a break from dogs while in France, I found it almost impossible to ignore les chiens of La Ciotat - they were everywhere.

Resting in the shade opposite his owner's shop:

refusing to pose for the camera:

ignoring passing feet in market:

and working. This is Maya, the French bulldog, who is first mate on the boat that took us on a morning visit to see les calanques, the rocky inlets for which this part of the coast is famous. A true sea dog.

Even the rock formations in this part of France pay homage to man's (and woman's) best friend. This one is known locally as la tête du chien:

The dogs of La Ciotat have their own beach, small . . .

but much appreciated when temperatures soar:

This van, parked outside our hotel, proudly proclaimed its international credentials in canine toilettage. But, after all, this is France, where the importance of keeping up appearances applies equally to our most faithful companions.

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.