Family reunion

We spent our final day in the UK having a family lunch.

Here is me with my uncle (my mother's extremely eccentric brother), my aunt (lovely lady with the patience of a saint) and my two wonderful cousins Mark & Allen.

20 years ago, when my cousins were in their late teens, I lived with the family for two summers. It was a new experience for them having a sister-figure and my aunty was thrilled to have a surrogate daugher.

So it was great to be together again for our final day away. 

The pied piper of children

Our last weekend in Britain was memorable, for all the wrong reasons.

Two of my aunty's grandkids (2 & 6) stayed the weekend while their parents (my cousin Mark & wife Helena) went off for a weekend alone. Mark tried to convince us they were looking at local historical sights so I figure they spent most of the weekend getting laid and sleeping. Lucky them.

My aunty has enough to deal with looking after my uncle (who has Alzheimers & cancer) so we pitched in to help.

Steve's a marvel with kids - thank god. They adored him within seconds. They looked at me very suspiciously. Kids can tell instantly I'm not a kid person. Excellent. Just how I like it.

I learnt all about how to bath kids, how to ride a scooter, how to push a kid on a swing, how to stop a fight, how to negotiate with a child wielding a jagged biscuit. Under Steve's supervision I completed a crash course in "Babysitting 101 for Dummies". I think I failed. (I hope I failed!!)

As kids go they were pretty good. Reasonably well trained. So it wasn't complete chaos but it wasn't exactly relaxing either. The kids were ecstatic to see their parents arrive back for Sunday lunch. But not as much as we were!!!

Steve's adventure in Montenegro

Montenegro? Where's that???  Yeah, just what I said. 

It's a tiny place in an area of the world that was originally Yugoslavia.

Steve flew over there from London, for the sole purpose of seeing his handsome son who is crewing on a 184ft super-yacht called Huntress.

The yacht is in Montenegro awaiting the arrival of the owner (an American billionaire) before embarking on a two week cruise in the Med.

There are 14 crew and Blair is working as Sous Chef / Steward.  He's having a great time. Working hard but loving it.

They had a great 36 hours together. Steve came back grinning from ear-to-ear, with a slight hangover and his "happy daddy" smile.  Awww cute.

Push harder luv!

Saw a funny sight at the Stratford lock. We were watching two guys - and their wives - trying to negotiate the lock with their hired houseboat.

The blokes were on the boat looking important.

The women were on the dock pushing the lock doors open.

(A good analogy for corporate life I thought!)

The only unusual part of the scene was the audience of three monks travelling incognito in English rain coats.  I guess even monks go sight-seeing.

My hero

Steve kept me going during the flu-from-hell so here I am hugging my hero beside the Stratford lock. How lucky am I?

And check out the woman behind us. She's relaxing on her house barge. Nice spot for a bit of a read.

Accents-Upon-Avon

After York, we drove to Stratford-Upon-Avon. We picked up the car in Birmingham, took a wrong turn after a debate with the GPS, and ended up in Pakistan. It was amazing. One street was Britain. The next street was downtown Pakistan. All the women were wearing letterboxes. All the signs were in Urdu. Gosh.

We didn't stop. I felt rather under-dressed.

In contrast, Stratford-Upon-Avon was chocolate box England. Punting on the Avon. The Royal Shakespeare Company. All very British what.

And in the middle of it all, we met up with our kiwi friend Carolyn. With a very plummy accent. Rather! I kept feeling like I had to behave myself. Then I remembered it was Carolyn, and I relaxed again.

We stayed the night with her and John and their two sproglets. Hadn't seen C&J for years but it seemed like we saw them just last month. The mark of good friends.

Their children were very well trained. Steve was most impressed with the good manners on display and I was just amazed. (I'd forgotten what well behaved children look like). In fact, I was so impressed I did my best not to give them all the flu.

Tantrums in York

We travelled to York purely to have lunch with Steve's Mum, who was on holiday with her brother.

Steve last saw his Mum two years ago in Adelaide (where she lives). Since then she's survived uterine cancer and regrown her hair. So it was an emotional meeting for them both.

Happy Stevee. Happy Mum of Stevee.

We walked through the gorgeous old town of York (my god!!! how cute is that!!!!) and had a nice lunch. York is amazing - old buildings, remarkedly intact city walls, lots of history we didn't have time to see.

We stayed the night so we could get some much needed sleep before catching the train early the next morning.

The hotel was 'interesting'. Apparently they pride themselves on excellent customer service. In order to prove this, the hotel receptionist rang after we checked in to see if the room was ok.

Fine. Good idea. If she had rung within 5-10 minutes. She didn't. She rang 1 hour after, by which time I was sound asleep having an afternoon nap, trying to ignore my flu.

I woke with a start to a sing-song voice saying "How is the room?". I was furious. "It was fine until you bloody woke me up!"  I hung up and tried to get back to sleep.

I was nearly back to sleep, and there was a knock at the door. It was the hotel housekeeper asking if the room was ok. "Oh for pete's sake, go away!!".

I think the manager needs to re-write his customer service policy manual (which I duly told him).  And I think I'm sick of hotels now.

But I got my revenge. I probably gave them all the flu.

Hugging and blubbing

We drove over to Waltham-on-Thames to have lunch with my godmother. Pat was Mum's best friend in Timaru many eons ago. She lives in England but has been a constant visitor to NZ over the years.

She keeps promising me a religious education but so far the education mainly involves drinking wine. My kind of religion...!

We had a wonderful catch-up and a gorgeous pub lunch. Oddly, some of the best food we've had this trip has been the two meals we've had in British pubs.

We talked about Mum (and cried). We talked about Pat's cancer (and cried). We talked about the weather (and almost cried). The rest of the pub was very polite and pretended not to notice the two people hugging and blubbing in the corner.

I was wiped out with exhaustion by the time we got back. But it was so worth it.

To the tower with you

After four days of being sick in bed we decided to attempt a trip into London.

We managed to do a very quick tour of the Tower of London (noice), the crown jewels (choice!), and London Bridge opening up for a ship (ooo).

Then it poured with rain.

So we escaped the tower for the dryness of the underground, had a quick lunch at Covent Garden, where a random stranger shouted in my ear that Jesus loves me (really?). I gave him the flu in return.

My immune system clearly wasn't coping so Steve took me home early, but at least I got to see London again, briefly.

Jubilee fever

When we arrived in England it was obvious from first glance that they were in the grips of Jubilee fever. Union jacks on every surface. Bunting on pubs, houses, offices. Even a patriotic hot chocolate.

The flags make England look almost festive. I say 'almost' because it has been overcast and drizzly most of the time we've been here.

Good old England.

Typhoid Mary

After 12 days of hankies I am (almost) well again. It was the longest most annoying cold I've ever had. After blowing my nose on trains, in cafes and on buses across Oxfordshire, London, York and Stratford, I've probably infected half of Britain. Floods and pestilence: my farewell gift to the UK.

Blubber

This morning, I made the mistake of standing on my auntie's bathroom scales. Oh my god!!!  I knew I had put on weight. But it was worse than I imagined. The last time I was this heavy I was living in the UK. I'm clearly allergic to the northern hemisphere. Or maybe it was the daily diet of gelato and wine in Italy?

OK girls! I need your help...

Sue C - I will expect no mercy from you during our cycling expeditions.
Deb - I hope Bella has her walking paws ready
Olwyn - Maybe I should get off Sam the pony and walk beside him up the hills. I'm sure he'd prefer that.

It's the gym for me five nights a week when I get back, until this extra baggage is gone. Oh ow it's gonna hurt!

A bag of germs

That’s me. Two days after arriving in England I came down with a bloody cold. Sniffing, coughing, sneezing, whining. Lovely. 

My uncle and aunt have taken great pleasure in reminding me this is all very déjà vu. When I arrived at their house 20 years ago I was a health disaster zone. They picked me up from the gutter (literally) in Earl’s Court where I had been deposited after finishing a three month overland from Kathmandu. Riddled with ugly bugs from India and Turkey, I was a mess.

Even the stiff-upper-lip local GP couldn’t hide her look of disgust when a disease-ridden colonial entered her rooms. She immediately put on rubber gloves. (Don’t blame her. I’m sure she would have preferred a breathing apparatus suit if she’d had one handy.)

No need for a doctor this time though. I have Steve, the super hero husband. He’s made a mercy trip to the local stores to pick up the usual healing supplies – earl grey tea (jumbo box), fresh raspberries, kiwifruit, crackers, cheese, tissues, pharmaceuticals.

So much for our visit to London, Bath and Colchester. All that is on hold until my immune system catches up with the germs.

Sniff.

Ol Blighty

My nursing pal from Dunedin Hospital (the one in Reading UK, not NZ) took us on an outing to a quintessential chocolate-box English village.

Bourton-on-the-Water is so twee you expect an AA Milne character to jump out at any moment.

There were ‘tat shops’ lining the streets selling every kind of knick knack and crafty thing you can imagine.

Ann and I were just getting into the swing of some serious browsing when we heard a whoop of joy.

Ah. Steve had discovered the town's motor museum and he happily fled to the relative safety of all things mechanical.

Chicken.

Pinky

Steve's nickname in the Australian navy was "Pinky".  No surprise considering his surname.

And he was delighted to find his namesake on the Thames...

Demented on Thames

We are staying with my (insane) uncle and (sane) aunty in Lower Shiplake - a village near Henley on Thames in England. 

John has alzheimers, like my mother and grandmother, so we have very repetitive and odd conversations. My genes are obviously dodgy as my mother's family all go demented at 70 years of age.

Steve's very good with him. Which is reassuring, considering he will be feeding me with a plastic spoon and reminding me what my name is in about 23 years or so.

Steve's latest love affair

In Henley in Thames, Steve found yet another car he wanted to fondle... 

A blast from his past I suspect.

Travel fashion

The latest in travel fashion for 60 year old Brits, as seen at the Eurostar terminal in Paris...

Hmm, the sci-fi tinfoil look. Very 70s!

Dinner or fashion show?

Dinner at Georges Restaurant on the top floor of the Pompidou centre in Paris was an eye opener.  The decor is a sci-fi minamalist urban chic inspired by Stanley Kubrick's 2001. Apparently. 

Anyway it was pretty wierd. Lots of stainless steel, big bean like pods and white furniture.

But the best part was watching the waitresses do their job. OMG. I don't know how they do it.

The highest heels. Higher than I could ever imagine balancing on - let alone wearing all night while serving tables. Skinny model-like bodies. The most amazing clothes. All while carrying heavy trays loaded with wine and food.

It was like watching a live fashion show everytime they served a table. Or auditions for "France's next top waitress".

And yes, the food was great. It had better be when the bill comes to - gulp - 300 euro!!  (I hope they give some of that to the staff as a clothing allowance.  I can't imagine what it must cost them to get dressed for work.)

The amazing loo at the Louvre

Even the loo at the Louvre is stylish. You pay 1.50 euro for the privilege of peeing in style, but you get a visual feast in return.

First, you wait beside walls and walls of specialty bog roll (that you can of course buy in expensive six-packs for your own stylish Parisian home).

Or you could buy the trendy wall holder to hold your colourful bog rolls in suitable style.

But hold on - you can't actually pee yet. After each person exits a cubicle, the attendant rushs in to wipe down the loo and spray air freshener.

After which, you get a 'madame may enter now' wave.

Then there is a sales pitch IN the loo - as the shelves behind the cistern are arrayed with a variety of toilet inspired knick knacks you can - of course - buy from the front desk for an exorbitant fee.

Oh yes, the French take style very seriously. Too bad if you were in a hurry to pee.

The best ads on the Paris metro

Eurostar (the train that goes from Paris to London) is running a billboard campaign to inspire the French to take the train over to the London Olympics.

There are two ads, both featuring the best of British culture in marble scupture. 

In one, an old fat pommy bloke (with a small willy) is playing pool. In another he is playing darts. Brilliant.

The agency deserves a medal. I love these ads. They made me laugh every time I saw them.

The chaos that is the Mona Lisa

She's in there, somewhere. But you have to elbow past every nationality in Europe to get close...

Ooo that's a big fruhstucksplausch...

Just noticed this fantastic advertisement in a brochure from Switzerland. Sensational. And here I was thinking they seemed so politically correct.

A Dame on the Seine

20 years ago I stood alone, at twilight, on this bridge behind Notre Dame and stared in wonder at the view. And wished I was able to eat at one of the fancy French restaurants nearby.

This time around, I had the money and the man, so my wish came true. The Coq au Vin was great. The man was even better.

Ooo la la

The Paris metro is very entertaining. Last night, a tall, curvy, young, blonde French women got on the train wearing short (very short!) black lace shorts.

Opposite us on the metro was a middle aged married guy who was mesmerised by her assets. His eyes were on stalks. Come to think of it, he looked a bit like Jyro.

After three stops she had every man on the train  staring at her in a lust fuelled frenzy (except Steve of course).

When she got off the train, the blonde met her friend - a brunette with a very shapely bottom in an extremely tight mini skirt. I'm sure I heard one of the men on the train explode. Sensational. Better than any comedy show.

Yes, you do look like an idiot

The best activity at the Eiffel Tower is watching other people...

Hello Paris

We got to the Arc de Triomphe just as all the military was leaving. We wondered what the hell was going on when the metro stairs were suddenly filled with army soldiers (complete with machine guns) and old men (weighed down by rows of medals and antique guns).

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was decorated with flowers and candles so he had something to do with it.

Goodbye Roussillon

After five peaceful days we reluctantly left the ochre coloured village of Roussillon.  Here are some photos from rush hour...

The pressure is on

Steve has cooked dinner for the past three nights. (The pork fillet tonight was particularly nice.) As a reward, I'm giving him the night off tomorrow so he can take me out for a romantic dinner. I'm generous like that.

There are four restaurants in the tiny village of Roussillon so this evening we went for an evening stroll to study the menus and ambience of each. 

Steve is feeling the pressure to choose the right one.

Yes, that's right dear - the most expensive restaurant - the one with the view over the valley - and the extensive wine list - good lad.

Would you vote for this man?

The local elections in Roussillon are heating up now that 'Vianney' has entered the fray.  He is betting on the 'gay accountant' look leading to a landslide.

Either that, or he will fire his stylist.

My money is on the latter.

And a scenic carpark

I can imagine the real estate sales pitch...

"Your hillside cottage comes complete with its own private garage and storeroom, carved out of solid rock by peasants in the Middle Ages". 

Not something we are ever likely to read in NZ Property Press.

Scenic loos of europe - continued

Here's another toilet block competing for the title of "most scenic loo in Europe". 

In a cave at Les Baux. 

Noice.

Peasants' revenge

Another hill village. Another castle. Another insanely gorgeous view.

It occurred to me while standing on top of the ruins of the Les Baux chateau that there must have been a lot of exhausted peasants in the Middle Ages with all that trekking up and down from the fields to the village. 

The consolation I guess was the ability to throw flaming projectiles at enemies; and a lump of bread every day or so for your efforts in dragging food from the fields to the chateau. If you were lucky.

No wonder they pillaged the rich guy's castle for building materials after the revolution.

Local real estate

Got any spare change to buy this...?

The antidote to Marseille

The lovely quiet peaceful sleepy town of Lourmarin, in the late afternoon. Ahhh that's better...

In the footsteps of Rick Stein

Steve's ongoing love affair with Rick Stein was consummated yesterday with a bouillabaisse soup in Marseille.

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The soup was nice. Marseille was a dump.

It might be almost nice in late 2013 after they finish the roadworks that have taken over the entire 5km waterfront area.

And if they scrub the graffiti off.  (The photo was carefully framed to omit the roadworks, graffiti, crowds of people, street beggars and bumper to bumper traffic).

The graffiti over here is horrible.  It is invisible in some places (Switzerland, Austria) and ubiquitous in others (Italy, Germany).  On the train last week, we knew we had crossed the border from Austria into Germany because the railway stations were suddenly covered in graffiti.

Un blue door

In Provence they like blue doors.

And the hoards of visitors who come to Provence like taking photos of blue doors.

So - here I am - living the cliche...

Les rules for le ochre walk

They missed one.

"No shagging on the ochre cliffs".

No point. You would come back all red. Everyone would know.

The VERY friendly neighbourhood wine store

Urgent - we need wine!!

Luckily the wine store is only five doors away. (Such a slog). The shopkeeper gave us recommendations on champagnes and reds. She was so delighted to find out we were staying in the village - in the house of a friend - that she lent us a decanter and champagne classes to ensure the wine would taste right. She then insisted that we take a full box of six champagne glasses - just in case we met any friends between the wine store and home.

I thought the French were supposed to be rude and unhelpful???  I wasn't expecting this.

The other neighbour

The next village wasn't too shabby either...

One movie set location after another. I'm starting to see why Provence is so famous.