Part Three: Tiptoe Through the Poo Bits
I stood in the dark, in the pouring rain with mounting disbelief as my French friends pointed out that not only had our tent got a great rip in it, but the voleur had also grabbed one of our bags, the contents of which were now scattered about the ground. Damn. This was the bag which had all our paperwork in, I hoped to god it wasn't some refugee after a free boat ticket. This was also the bag we had used for the passports on the journey, but luckily Spouse had been carrying them around with him in his money belt. Luckier still, said money belt was in our section of the tent, as was mine - thankfully I had thought to pick it up from the middle section where I had carelessly left it earlier on. I realised I was being slightly reckless, but the campsite had seemed so peaceful it didn't dawn on me we could get broken into here. Ironically Spouse had been telling us about a similar incident which had happened to him in the south of France, but we all agreed the Loire was a less likely venue for such happenings.
Having ascertained that nothing was missing (there was a certain grim schadenfreude from realising that our burglar must have been somewhat thwarted by the contents of our bag - it was full of the children's puffers, my lipstick and nail polish remover, the cover of my mobile phone, the charger for my phone, but no phone itself. I do hope he was mighty pissed off) - our friendly informants told me there was an anglais next door to us who had also been robbed. Damn, that was our friend. I assured them I would let him know, and they went on their way before telling me that the thief had taken the bag from under the head of one of them as he slept. Phewee! You have to admire the nerve of the guy if nothing else...
I found our mate's bag and woke him up. The news for him was not so good - helas our friendly robber had made off with all his credit cards and his cash, and more worryingly his keys. Luckily, I found them underneath his car. By this time Spouse was up, and he asked me where our spare keys were. Damn, they were in the bag I had already been through, and I hadn't found them. There was no chance that the thief could make off with the cars as the campsite had a barrier, but he might decide to come back and take the dvd player (let's face it that would have been a disaster). After much searching during which we discovered, our friend's daughter's bag had been rifled and she had lost her mobile phone, the keys turned up, and after standing around in the pouring rain while he contacted the relevant credit card companies, we eventually repaired to bed. Spouse and I were now so twitchy we woke to every sound, and slept for the rest of the holiday with our moneybelts in our sleeping bags.
In the morning we tried to make light of the incident so as not to spook the children, and then as the only French speaker, I accompanied our friend to the police station, where it transpired our voleur had been through about seven other tents. He was eventually found out by a Dutch woman, who rather scarily heard breathing in her tent, and unzipped her sleeping compartment and came face to face with the bastard. Unfortunately she didn't see his face, and he dropped his knife and ran off, but the poor woman was pretty spooked (as was I when I got back to the campsite and discovered the inside of our friend's tent had been slashed right above where his younger daughter and no2 were sleeping - fortunately they thought this rather cool and didn't have the angst about it I did).
The French police station experience was a lot more stressful then the German hospital, as I was conscious that we should be as accurate as possible, but was about two steps behind the police officer who interviewed us. The bureacracy was unbelievable and we were there for hours. They were evidently bored rigid because on asking if we had witnessed anything suspicious and our confirming that there had been a rather odd bloke who appeared with his caravan rather late and was gone in the morning, they got very excited and decided he must be our voleur. Chances are he wasn't,but he had caught our attention the previous day, mainly because we were all appalled that he let his dog shit on the ground, ready for the next occupant. (We were feeling a bit sore about this kind of thing as people kept walking their dogs by the river and allowing them to go anywhere - a bit trying when the kids were wandering off down there. Mind you, little did we know that we hadn't seen anything yet...)
Eventually we got back to the campsite. The weather wasn't bright enough for the swimming we had promised the children, so we headed off for another castle at Usse - also known as the Sleeping Beauty castle, as Charles Perrault allegedly used it and it inspired him to write the story. It is not hard to see why - the turrets of the towers all look the part, and the wood was pretty magical. The children were not unnaturally entranced, though really there wasn't a lot to see (we were more excited by the dungeons we found later, but hey, you can't expect children to get thrilled by the things that thrill us...), so the trip was a reasonable success. By the time we got back to the camp, the sun had come out, so we all got in the pool, barring no 2, who stoically didn't seem to mind, and then we were able to have a barbie in reasonably good conditions. We actually sat comfortably outside for the first time in the holiday. Hell, we'd only been away for ten days. We had better weather in Poole, where it seemed to rain endlessly...
That night we none of us slept too well, I jerked awake to every sound and had dreams in which faceless men appeared with knives. I love camping, but for the first time I felt really vulnerable. No matter that I was sure the voleur was only after petty cash and was long gone, the fact that we had all slept through it and none of us heard a thing was unsettling to say the least...
Still I had learnt a valuable lesson - always keep your money belt with you and have your bags with the zips facing towards you (I had only done so as it was easier to get to them, but it also meant the voleur couldn't reach inside easily either). Our friend's idea is to hang everything up from the middle of the compartment, that way any potential thief actually has to come in and get you, which isn't so likely.
The next morning our friends left to go back home, but we visited one last chateau with them, before they left. The rain came down once more and we waved them off, rather wishing we were going with them. We dripped our way to a pizza restaurant, where miraculously for the first time someone actually understood what we were after and they provided two pizzas cut in half for the children, and they ate the lot. Then, as we got a sudden burst of sunshine we went to look around the chateau. No 3 suddenly announced she had a sore throat, and went all pale and wan on me. Great. Yet another invalid. So I sat with her and no 2 while Spouse and the others explored the grounds.
The chateau was called Azay le Rideau and was really interesting. I was excited to discover it had been owned by Francis I of Cloth of Gold fame, and tried to similarly excite no 1. Alas, she was all castled and historied out and really didn't want to know... Can't say I can blame her really. She used to like history. I do hope we haven't put her off. As we came out of the castle, we had another set to in the bloody gift shop with all of them demanding things which were either a) too expensive or b)weren't worth having. Spouse managed to get a couple of French history books, but the children left empty-handed and sulking, and the faustian pact had still not been sated.
On the way back to the campsite, Spouse decided to detour up the old castle keep, or Donjon, which was nearby. He had visited it alone a couple of days earlier and thought it was fairly derelict. The children by this time were rebelliously not wanting to go to another castle ever, so we wandered up to the gate and Spouse realised he had made a mistake. Not only was it not derelict, it was open and there was a man selling tickets at the gate. An Englishman as it turned out with an incredible story to tell. The Donjon is in fact the first stone keep in Europe, built by a chap known Fulke de Nerra, or the Black Falcon. Fulke was not a nice chap - he had his first wife burnt as a witch in order to marry the second, and did endless wicked deeds, but hey he went to the Holy Land four times on pilgrimage to make up for it, so that's ok then - but he was a remarkable man. In the late tenth century when he was operating most folk had wooden castles, which meant warfare was a seasonal occupation. You fought in the spring and summer, then went back home for the autumn and winter before resuming normal operations the following spring. Fulke, being pretty much surrounded by his more powerful enemies, the dukes of Blois, decided his best bet was to build a series of stone castles or keeps, the Donjon at Montbazon being the first in 991. He was thus able to build up his powerbase in the region leaving his heirs, the Anjevins a wonderful legacy, from which thanks to Henry II, the English people later benefited.
The castle is thus of huge importance, not just to French history, but to our own. But no one is interested in its upkeep. So its current owner, is restoring it himself at huge cost. If you want to know more, visit: http://www.donjon-montbazon.net - but I reckon a French version of Restoration deserves to be made for such an incredible project, and the owners deserve a knighthood at least...
Going back to the car we managed to get the kids interested - the notion that the man who owned the castle actually lived their really awakened their curiosity, and we had a happy half an hour wandering around. Feeling we couldn't leave without making some kind of donation, we allowed the children a toy at the gift shop, and hurrah, this time no 2 found something she liked, but dammit, no 3 didn't. So now no 2 was saying that she was still owed for not getting something in the first gift shop and no 3 was saying she was owed for not getting something in this one... I swear next time we go anywhere if they don't sodding well like anything they don't get anything AT ALL. EVER...
The following day we packed up and headed for the coast. We still had five days left, and we fancied finishing with a bit of beachy holiday. Surely, surely by now our luck would turn and so would the weather?
We had toyed with going to Normandy, but I figured that Pas de Calais might be better as it was only a quick slog up to Calais from there, and we had stayed there a few years earlier and at least knew there were some decent beaches. I tried to ring some campsites the day before we left, but for some reason couldn't get connected. Oh well, I thought, there were bound to be plenty, it wasn't such a long journey, and we should be up there around 4ish.
As if.
First off, packing up the tent of course took longer then expected. Secondly we were in mid pack, when some Dutch people whom we had been chatting to earlier in the week asked (for the second time) if Spouse could help jump start their car. On the previous occasion our friend has used his car, and Spouse was rather embarrassed that as we had only had our car for less then a month he didn't actually know where the battery was. Coupled with the battery was intense irritation, as we had sat incredulously staring over at their tent the previous night, as it was brightly lit, by their car's headlights. I know that I am not tecnnically minded as far as cars are concerned, but even I know that you don't leave your headlights on all night...
Jumpstarting the car set us back by half an hour, so it was gone eleven when we set off. I decided the best route to follow was to go straight through Tours and pick up the road to le Mans. It looked a little complicated on the map and proved even more complicated in practise, partly because the road signs I was following kept disappearing and suddenly we were heading east out of Tours towards Chenonceaux (a chateau I had rather hoped to visit because of its Catherine de Medici connections, but not today). Spouse who was still suffering badly with a sore throat was not impressed by my vain attempts to find the right road again, but after about an hour I managed it. Great. We had been driving for an hour and were about ten miles from where we started... We narrowly avoided missing the right road again, and soon were heading to le Mans where Spouse was most pleased to have the opportunity to drive down the Mulsanne Straight, or at least part of it.
However the next couple of hours were long and tedious as the roads were slower then anticipated. It was only somewhat belatedly that I picked up that running parallel to the road we were on was a spanking new peage - our map being c 1998 the peage didn't feature. Whoops we could have saved ourselves an hour.
Eventually we pitched up at Pas de Calais at about 6pm. We headed for le Crotoy first, but couldn't find the campsite we were looking for. Never mind, let's try Fort Mahon I said. In Fort Mahon the two sites mentioned were both full, so we headed further up the coast, via a few wrong turns as the roads mentioned in our guidebook seemed to bear little correspondence to our map...
After much grumping on both our parts, and a fruitless journey down a country lane, we eventually stumbled across two more campsites, which bore the dreaded words complet. Bugger, bugger, bugger. We then found ourselves following every camping site sign going, which is how we ended up in the middle of nowhere after seeing a sign for Camping Quatre Plages (four beaches) - a misnomer if ever there was one as the campsite in question was miles from a beach and had clearly been created from the owner's back garden.
By now marital relations were severely strained and our offspring were rapidly turning into four terrified rabbits. Which is how we came to drive into Berck Plage with a sense of increasing desperation. By now it was eight o'clock, everyone was hungry, we had to put up somewhere for the night. Having a choice of left or right, we followed a campsite to the right as it was at least near the beach. Big, big mistake, as it turned out, but the first signs were reasonably auspicious.
The campsite was not complet, it was wooded and at first glance seemed pleasant. I was still struggling with the French however, and as I alway find translating money when abroad (and have particular problems with euros - how freudian is that?), being two steps behind this time proved bloody disastrous. I had understood that the campsite was 38 euros a night(a mere snip after our much more reasonable 20 euros in the Loire), and foolishly said we were planning to stay five nights. She asked for some money and not completely understanding I assumed she wanted a deposit. Had I not been two steps behind the fact that she asked me for 190euros should have been enough to ring alarm bells, particularly as I didn't have enough cash on me. Pas de probleme says my cunning friend when I suggest going to ge some more money of Spouse, vous avez carte credit? Naturellement, I have a carte credit , and like a bloody idiot, I give it to her. (I am now panicking I will be a victim of identity theft). It was only when I got back to Spouse I realised that I had just paid for five days up front. Oh bollocks. Now we were stuck here. We could only hope that it was ok...
Our first impressions were soon dashed. We were taken on a rather wild tour of the site by Mr Campsite Owner before he deposited us at a pitch which seemed to be full of dogs. Oh great, I muttered, they'll have shat all over our pitch. Not only that we had an audience as a large (in more ways then one) French family were sitting at some tables opposite our pitch with a menagerie that included several fat children, three dogs and a kitten. For all I know they'd probably brought their sodding hamster.
Still, at least there was a play area. That should keep the kids occupied while we put the tent up. Spouse and I frenzied about trying to get it up as quickly as we could - not easy when marital relations were at Cold War type ice levels - and had just about done it when no 3 came hopping over in tears. She had taken her shoes off in the play area which was covered in sand, and also, as it so happened, some dog shit. Some bloody sod had let their dog crap all over the kids' play area. Cursing loudly I took her to the rather unsalubrious cleaning area which consisted of a few rather dirty outside sinks and taps from which cold water poured. Bloody hell. How much worse could it get. Fing and blinding without a care to my six year old's sensibilities I set about the grim task of cleaning her up, snarling at the others to bugger off when they came near me, before it dawned on me that no 3 who was sobbing all the while thought I was cross with her. Not at all. I was incandscent with rage that anyone could be so selfish to let something like that happen - and lest you think I was overreacting, I have a very good friend who lost her right eye to an infection caused by dog poo, and I was damned if that was going to happen to my daughter.
Eventually after using two lots of toilet roll and two flannels which got chucked, I had managed to get it all off. By now it was really late, and the kids were all starving and knackered. The town was only a stone's throw away so we walked out to get yet more pizza. I had never been anywhere like it. It was so tacky it made Blackpool look posh. In fact it was rather like going to Blackpool on a bad acid trip. And to make our cup of happiness complete, there was dog's shit on all the pavements. Doesn't anyone in France clean up after their dogs? I thought they invented the pooper scooper. I thought the French were supposed to be sophisticated, was no 1's response when we circumvented yet another pile of poop. Hmm, you do have a point there...
Still at least we got everyone fed before midnight. We went back to the campsite feeling glummer then at any point on our trip. We had discovered by this time that the toilets were grim beyond belief. They even had a female squattie, something I've never seen anywhere and the toilet they did have had no seat. So my daughters got a quick lesson in that age old technique perfected by drunk females in nightclubs everywhere of pissing when you stand up. You're never too young to learn...
By the morning no 1 was refusing to go near the toilets, it was raining again so we couldn't face breakfast on the campsite, so we headed for town and found a cafe which did hot chocolate and bring your own croissants, purchased bizarrely from the patisserie next door.
The rain held off enough for us to get on the beach, which was so windy we indulged in some kiteflying. At least Spouse and I did, the kids barely seemed interested - making sandcastles being more fun. As we went back for some lunch the rain came down once more. I've had enough, said Spouse, I want to go home. I did too, but I was also desperate to get some beach time Shall we see if it gets better tomorrow I said in desperation. Surely, surely our luck must change...
The afternoon seemed brighter, so I began to feel more hopeful, and we got back on the beach for a bit. But Spouse was desperate for the loo, and he and nos 1&2 disappeared for hours looking for one. Tripping through yet more dog's poo on their return Spouse came up with a song, to the tune of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, they all came back singing, Tiptoe through the poo bits, the Doggy Doo bits, in France. Never a truer word...
That evening we had an indifferent meal in an indifferent restaurant, the rain held off, but it was cold and windy. I lay awake that night listening to the wind roaring through the tent and hoping that we wouldn't be blown away. In the morning we got up to a grey and cloudy day, but at least it wasn't raining. Spouse bravely went off to have a cold shower in the grim toilet blocks - I couldn't face it I felt I'd end up filthier then when I started. I was beginning to fantasise about how to get everyone clean - my initial thought had been to get them in the sea and shower off on the beach, but the sea was miles out and there weren't any showers. We visited the municipal showers, but they looked grimmer then the ones on our campsite. Spouse had found a swimming pool, but it looked the kind of place where you might pick up legionnaire's disease.
Spouse had set up breakfast and I started pouring the kids cocopops. As they sat down to eat, the heavens opened again. By the time he came back they were sitting sheltering under the car, eating their breakfast. Sod this for a game of soldiers, I said, let's go home. I rang the travel company and for the mere sum of £7 we were able to exchange our tickets and go home that afternoon. Never have I parted with seven pounds more gladly. We packed up as quickly as we could - the tent was soaking but it couldn't be helped. The children were happily ensconced in front of a dvd and didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered about going home. We'd been away for a fortnight anyway. Enough was enough.
Nobody could face the toilets at the campsite, and despite my efforts with Mrs Campsite Owner to get our money back, it turned out of course that there were no refunds available. I complained about the dog shit and the filthy amenities and got a gallic shrug and Desolee, Madame. I'll give you desolee I thought, but decided I didn't want to compound our problems by committing murder and ending up on remand in a French prison...
We left Berck with happy hearts and set off for Calais. Ten minutes out no 1 announced she needed the toilet, and it took us nearly an hour to find one in a McDonalds outside Boulogne. Poor kid was red in the face and clearly in pain by the time we got there, but luckily there were no disasters. And ordering McDonalds in France proved somewhat easier then in Germany, where they got the order completely wrong.
We got to Calais in plenty of time and were able to get on the three o clock ferry. Just as we came into Dover the rain came down in sheets, but as we got in the car and headed for the M20 the sun came out. We looked back across the channel where a huge black cloud was louring like some ugly ogre, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least tonight we weren't going to be sleeping under canvas.
Boy was it good to be home.
Friday, September 08, 2006
We're All Going on a Summer Holiday
Part Two: Vive la France!
A little belatedly (I have been caught up with end of holiday/backtoschoolitis, of which more later), here is the next scintillating story of our summer holidays. Or the tale of how things got worse...
Actually, after our grim day in the caravan, the following day dawned a little brighter and we set off with high expectation on a trip to Neuschwanstein, one of several castles built by mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria in the nineteenth century - more commonly known for being the castle they used in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spouse has always wanted to go there and though it was a two hour schlep we thought we couldn't come all the way to southern Germany without visiting. And having watched the film on the way through France the kids were reconciled to the fact that their irritatingly castle obsessed parents were going to take them to a slightly more unusual one.
The journey though long, passed without incident. It was only when we came into Hohenschwangau, the little town that sits below Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castle (built by Ludwig's dad, Maximilian II), that things started to get a little on the stressful side. Our Rough Guide to Germany had promised that this was the most rampantly commercial place in Germany - I'd happily concur with that. In fact, barring Lourdes, I think it is possibly the most rampantly commercial place I've ever visited. So naturally, it is rather busy. And our first taste of quite how busy was the traffic jam we joined in Fussen, a little town to the south of Hohenschwangau. We had set off at 9.30 - Spouse wanting to get there as soon as possible - and arrived at Fussen just before 11.30. We then spent an hour queuing to go about three miles. When we finally hit Hohenschwangau itself, we were rewarded with spectacular views of both castles and a nightmarish trawl around the car parks, till we finally found somewhere to park. The weather had been a mixture of sun and showers on our journey, but as soon as we got out of the car the heavens opened (natch), and there was a mass chorus of I need the toilet, which was all very well, but not ones to miss a moneymaking opportunity the good folk of Hohenschwangau charge for the privilege, and our scrabble for change nearly had very dire consequences...
Nature thus satisfied, we set off for the tourist information office, which was uphill. Actually, pretty much everywhere in Hohenschwangau is uphill, so it is fortunate that my children are used to walking. The queues for the castle proving massive, I took the children into a restaurant to get some lunch. By now I was feeling quite confident in German (hey I've coped with a hospital, I can cope with anything) so I ordered pizza for them and what I thought was chicken breast for us. As it turned out my confidence was somewhat misplaced, as we ended up with chicken schnitzel, but you can't get it right all the time. Actually we got it wrong pretty much in every restaurant we went into, as I was always trying to ascertain quite how large the portions were so we didn't over order, but nine times out of ten I didn't make myself understood, or they pretended to ignore me and we ended up with twice as much food as the kids could eat. However, at least the very cheery waiter thoughtfully kept Spouse's aside till he had returned with the tickets. Presumably the queues outside his restaurant are pretty good for business...
On Spouse's return it transpired that the only way of seeing both castles was a guided tour. Our first was at 2.45, but we couldn't get into Neuschwanstein till about 5.45, which was rather later then we wanted, but given that the whole point of coming was to see it, we didn't have a lot of choice. The sun had been out when we were eating, but of course decided to pop behind a big black rain cloud once we got going, so we got everyone's kagoules back on (apart from mine as no 1 had left hers behind, so I just got wet), and set off up the hill to Hohenschwangau. It was a pretty quick stroll up to the top and after we had visited the king's rose garden (into which he would emerge from his rather over the top bathroom), we stood waiting for the tour, while the rain came down once more. Luckily, the rather wild thunderstorm that followed took place when we were inside the castle.
The tour itself was great - though rather ott for my tastes, you have to admire these Bavarian kings their vision. The grand dining room was huge, but apparently never used - this was Maximilian's hunting lodge, and he tended to keep his parties for his main residence. When Ludwig took over he dedicated a lot of the rooms to the Lohengrin myths and being Wagner's patron had a music room dedicated specially to him - apparently Wagner only came twice though, so the piano made specially for him and meant only to be played by him, was only used a handful of times. Ludwig spent seventeen years building Neuschwanstein, and every day looked at how the building was coming along through a telescope in the music room. He never finished the castle, being declared insane by his physician, and two days later both men were found dead in mysterious circumstances by Lake Starnberg. The story goes that they both committed suicide. Hmm, doesn't sound all that likely to me... Or that he was that mad. He apparently had a lot of political enemies, who appear to have got him in a very effective way. I felt quite sorry for him by the end. And boy do you have to admire his vision. While not to my taste, Neuschwanstein is still an incredible place and well worth a visit.
We still had time to kill when we had finished the tour, so as we were all wet and a bit cold we headed for a cafe for that German necessity, Kaffee and Kuchen or in the children's case Heisse Schokolade and Kuchen. No 1 was after black forest gateau, and we followed suit. Once again our language skills weren't enough to ascertain how large the portions were so the other three got masses of cake at vast expense, which none of them liked particularly...
Heading back up the hill, we decided we'd stroll to the top of the castle, rather then waiting in the rain with the crowds for a horse and trap (which no doubt cost a fortune anyway). And we were very glad we did. Despite the steepness of our climb, the views, particularly over the lakes, were spectacular. And though even I found it hardgoing at times, when we eventually got to the top, it was well worth it. Ludwig built a bridge over an incredibly steep gorge from where you can look back at the castle. I'm not normally too wussy about heights, but this was - high very very high. And springy. And there seemed to be rather a lot of people on it. Knowing the way our holiday was going, I wasn't at all sure we would get across and back unscathed, particularly as Spouse was suggesting we have a go at reaching the resonant frequency... Had I seen the view of the bridge you get from the castle I doubt I would have gone on it all...
The castle itself was a bit disappointing to me. It was built on a grand scale it's true, but so much of it is unfinished, there isn't a whole lot to see. And while I can admire the ambition of the King's courtroom, which is decorated in gold leaf and very splendid, it's a bit ornate for my tastes. However, the views from the castle itself are stunning and that was the highlight for me.
The kids of course loved it all, and though it transpired that only one staircase in the castle was actually used for the film, they couldn't get over the fact they had visited the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang castle - even if their legs were aching.
As we left, via the inevitable giftshop, my faustian pact with no 2 resurfaced as she started demanding the gift we hadn't bought her at Meersburg. The giftshop being full of really expensive tat, we promised something when we got back to the town. There were several giftshops on our way down, but they were all packing up, and offered yet more tat. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill, it was so late there wasn't a gift shop open and no2 was throwing a major sulk. Never mind, darling, I rashly promised, I'm sure we'll find something in France.
France was our destination for the following day. We had arranged to meet some friends there and camp together. However, being as we were so busy before we left, and being as Spouse was incredibly difficult to pin down and make the arrangements, and I was very distracted and got my dates muddled, our friends were coming to France a week earlier then I had realised. This meant that rather then go to our intended destination of the Loire in two days, we had to make it across in one. Oh thank the Lord for in car DVD players.
By dint of several emails sent via the internet cafe at our Bodensee campsite, followed up with phone calls via Spouse's mobile (mine had died and I couldn't recharge it) we managed to find a campsite between us to the south of Tours in a place called Montbazon. The distance from where we were was roughly 700km, which is a very very long way... And had we packed and set off early it would have been just about manageable. However, having promised to get up early and finish the packing as Spouse was driving, I managed to sleep in, and everything took much longer to sort out then we had bargained for. It is amazing how easy it is to unpack from a car, and how much harder to pack it all up again. Particularly as four children can scatter their belongings all over said car taking up all available neat little spaces for shoving that last vital object in place.
However, eventually we were ready and off we set for the next stage on our journey. The sun at this point proceeded to blaze forth with glory and for the first time since our arrival we could properly see the mountains in Switzerland. Grr....
We had planned to go via Germany to get to our destination, but taking a wrong turn, and discovering that Switzerland had motorways while our German route did not, we decided we'd go that way instead. Which may or may not have been a mistake, given that we don't know how long the German route would have taken. However, we were charged the privilege of 30 euros for driving on some frankly indifferent motorways and having no idea of the speed limit, and not fancying a trip to a Swiss police cell to cement our happy family holiday memories Spouse took it nice and slow.
As it turned out we didn't have a lot of choice with our speed, particularly when we got to Basle and discovered that the whole of the motorway system had been turned into one ginormous set of roadworks. Spouse, who doesn't have a great deal of faith in my map reading at the best of times (most unjustified I might add, as I don't often get us lost, and when I do, I usually get us out of trouble fairly quickly) wouldn't believe me when I told him we hadn't gone off the motorway. Well, we had, but we weren't on the wrong road. It's just to get to the road we wanted, we were diverted through tramlines, and down tiny tunnels which spiralled downwards in ever decreasing circles, getting lower and lower until we were in fear of the roofbox being ripped off...
It was only when we got to the French border and came right out onto the motorway that he actually admitted I hadn't led us wrong.
It was with great relief that we finally got onto the peage and started putting some miles behind us. By now though it was nearing four o clock and we had only put five squares of the map behind us - we had another nine to go and were getting slightly twitchy about what time we might arrive. The sun was still shining - dammit!- and we both felt frustrated that today of all days the rain hadn't set in again. But at least the kids weren't making too much fuss. An entire series of the original Dr Who seemed to help.
By seven o clock we were nearly at Orleans, but we were on a two lane motorway in which we encountered some of the most stressful driving I have ever witnessed. Namely cars whizzing in and out of the overtaking lane leaving the barest minimum gap, but all going at a speed at which you really didn't oughter be doing when you're behaving like that. I was white knuckled all the way, but Spouse's coping mechanism was to make jolly little jokes. Sadly I didn't feel like laughing.
We rang our friend at Orleans to say we were about an hour away, but in reality it turned in to nearly two as the motorway disappeared here, and though the road was good, it wasn't that good. Still, at least we had lost the maniacal overtakers.
We eventually arrived at the campsite at about 9.30, and it was time for me to shift gear and switch my brain into French mode. Which, after a week of German and years of no practice in French took some doing I can tell you. Still, I understood sufficiently where we needed to park our tent, and that we had an electronic key to open up the barrier, which was all I really needed for now.
We put up the tent while the children ran down to the river, conveniently behind our camping spot, and wonderfully idyllic. By this time it was getting dark, and Spouse was desperate for some liquid refreshment. Sadly in our haste to get to the campsite we hadn't purchased any alcohol en route, the cafe attached to the campsite had just shut and we were left sipping cans of warm beer. Time for bed, said Zebedee, rather grumpily, tomorrow had to be a better day.
Tomorrow, as it happens, was. Or at least to start with...
The rain held off long enough for us to visit Chinon - a wonderful ruin where Henry II made his court. It was amazing, and all the more spectacular for me, as I had recently read Elizabeth Chadwick's The Greatest Knight, which makes mention of the place, and thanks to her brilliant descriptions I could really picture how a mediaeval castle might be.
The highlight though was discovering that Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master was actually imprisoned there and had inscribed his name on the dungeon wall. I know diddly squat about the Templars, but they are one of Spouse's passions (and well before The Da Vinci Code made them trendy) and he had told me Jacques dramatic story. Imprisoned by Philip IV of France (basically to steal all the Templars' money) and accused of heresy, Jacques spent some eighteen years in prison before his eventual death at the stake. He apparently cursed both Philip and Clement V and promised they would both be dead in a year, which they were. So it was very exciting to discover that he had actually been imprisoned here... another frisson of touching real history moment.
As was the discovery that Joan of Arc also had her first meeting with the Dauphin here (and you realise what a damned long way she travelled - Reims isn't exactly a stroll away). There was a whole tower dedicated to Joan which was fascinating, although a little tricky to ge the gist of what was going on, as most of the information was in French.
The sprogs by now were getting all castled out, so we wandered down to the town and got some lunch at a pleasant little cafe in the square. I do love the way the Europeans, particuarly the French do cafe culture. Whenever we try it in England it is never quite the same. And it's not just the weather - we just aren't relaxed enough for it. Me, I could sit all day and watch the world go by at a cafe, but Spouse finds it too tedious for words.
We headed back home intending to have a barbie that evening, but by now the weather had changed, and though we managed a quick swim in the pool, the rain was soon coming down in droves. We did manage our barbie, but ate it under the tent door which serves as a porch when propped up on sticks. Spouse and I were now beginning to feel as though the weather gods had really got it in for us, and went to bed feeling glummer then ever. The rain continued to pour down, and I woke intermittently through the night, fretting about the proximity of the river and ever mindful of the dire warnings all over the campsite that in the event of flooding we would be roused by a siren and would have to leave all our belongings behind.
So it was with some anxiety that I woke at around four to the sound of a siren in the distance. Thinking I had imagined it, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. There it was again. And there appeared to be several people talking outside our tent in excited French.
Bugger off! was Spouse's grumpy response, and would have been mine probably but I heard them say, Anglais? Oui, I replied. Voleurs! Voleurs! Came the urgent reply. I leapt out of bed, shoved on some shoes and emerged from the tent into the dark teeming rain, to be met by two Frenchmen who were pointing at my tent. Someone had slashed the door.
Oh shit. We'd been burgled.
(to be continued...)
A little belatedly (I have been caught up with end of holiday/backtoschoolitis, of which more later), here is the next scintillating story of our summer holidays. Or the tale of how things got worse...
Actually, after our grim day in the caravan, the following day dawned a little brighter and we set off with high expectation on a trip to Neuschwanstein, one of several castles built by mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria in the nineteenth century - more commonly known for being the castle they used in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spouse has always wanted to go there and though it was a two hour schlep we thought we couldn't come all the way to southern Germany without visiting. And having watched the film on the way through France the kids were reconciled to the fact that their irritatingly castle obsessed parents were going to take them to a slightly more unusual one.
The journey though long, passed without incident. It was only when we came into Hohenschwangau, the little town that sits below Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castle (built by Ludwig's dad, Maximilian II), that things started to get a little on the stressful side. Our Rough Guide to Germany had promised that this was the most rampantly commercial place in Germany - I'd happily concur with that. In fact, barring Lourdes, I think it is possibly the most rampantly commercial place I've ever visited. So naturally, it is rather busy. And our first taste of quite how busy was the traffic jam we joined in Fussen, a little town to the south of Hohenschwangau. We had set off at 9.30 - Spouse wanting to get there as soon as possible - and arrived at Fussen just before 11.30. We then spent an hour queuing to go about three miles. When we finally hit Hohenschwangau itself, we were rewarded with spectacular views of both castles and a nightmarish trawl around the car parks, till we finally found somewhere to park. The weather had been a mixture of sun and showers on our journey, but as soon as we got out of the car the heavens opened (natch), and there was a mass chorus of I need the toilet, which was all very well, but not ones to miss a moneymaking opportunity the good folk of Hohenschwangau charge for the privilege, and our scrabble for change nearly had very dire consequences...
Nature thus satisfied, we set off for the tourist information office, which was uphill. Actually, pretty much everywhere in Hohenschwangau is uphill, so it is fortunate that my children are used to walking. The queues for the castle proving massive, I took the children into a restaurant to get some lunch. By now I was feeling quite confident in German (hey I've coped with a hospital, I can cope with anything) so I ordered pizza for them and what I thought was chicken breast for us. As it turned out my confidence was somewhat misplaced, as we ended up with chicken schnitzel, but you can't get it right all the time. Actually we got it wrong pretty much in every restaurant we went into, as I was always trying to ascertain quite how large the portions were so we didn't over order, but nine times out of ten I didn't make myself understood, or they pretended to ignore me and we ended up with twice as much food as the kids could eat. However, at least the very cheery waiter thoughtfully kept Spouse's aside till he had returned with the tickets. Presumably the queues outside his restaurant are pretty good for business...
On Spouse's return it transpired that the only way of seeing both castles was a guided tour. Our first was at 2.45, but we couldn't get into Neuschwanstein till about 5.45, which was rather later then we wanted, but given that the whole point of coming was to see it, we didn't have a lot of choice. The sun had been out when we were eating, but of course decided to pop behind a big black rain cloud once we got going, so we got everyone's kagoules back on (apart from mine as no 1 had left hers behind, so I just got wet), and set off up the hill to Hohenschwangau. It was a pretty quick stroll up to the top and after we had visited the king's rose garden (into which he would emerge from his rather over the top bathroom), we stood waiting for the tour, while the rain came down once more. Luckily, the rather wild thunderstorm that followed took place when we were inside the castle.
The tour itself was great - though rather ott for my tastes, you have to admire these Bavarian kings their vision. The grand dining room was huge, but apparently never used - this was Maximilian's hunting lodge, and he tended to keep his parties for his main residence. When Ludwig took over he dedicated a lot of the rooms to the Lohengrin myths and being Wagner's patron had a music room dedicated specially to him - apparently Wagner only came twice though, so the piano made specially for him and meant only to be played by him, was only used a handful of times. Ludwig spent seventeen years building Neuschwanstein, and every day looked at how the building was coming along through a telescope in the music room. He never finished the castle, being declared insane by his physician, and two days later both men were found dead in mysterious circumstances by Lake Starnberg. The story goes that they both committed suicide. Hmm, doesn't sound all that likely to me... Or that he was that mad. He apparently had a lot of political enemies, who appear to have got him in a very effective way. I felt quite sorry for him by the end. And boy do you have to admire his vision. While not to my taste, Neuschwanstein is still an incredible place and well worth a visit.
We still had time to kill when we had finished the tour, so as we were all wet and a bit cold we headed for a cafe for that German necessity, Kaffee and Kuchen or in the children's case Heisse Schokolade and Kuchen. No 1 was after black forest gateau, and we followed suit. Once again our language skills weren't enough to ascertain how large the portions were so the other three got masses of cake at vast expense, which none of them liked particularly...
Heading back up the hill, we decided we'd stroll to the top of the castle, rather then waiting in the rain with the crowds for a horse and trap (which no doubt cost a fortune anyway). And we were very glad we did. Despite the steepness of our climb, the views, particularly over the lakes, were spectacular. And though even I found it hardgoing at times, when we eventually got to the top, it was well worth it. Ludwig built a bridge over an incredibly steep gorge from where you can look back at the castle. I'm not normally too wussy about heights, but this was - high very very high. And springy. And there seemed to be rather a lot of people on it. Knowing the way our holiday was going, I wasn't at all sure we would get across and back unscathed, particularly as Spouse was suggesting we have a go at reaching the resonant frequency... Had I seen the view of the bridge you get from the castle I doubt I would have gone on it all...
The castle itself was a bit disappointing to me. It was built on a grand scale it's true, but so much of it is unfinished, there isn't a whole lot to see. And while I can admire the ambition of the King's courtroom, which is decorated in gold leaf and very splendid, it's a bit ornate for my tastes. However, the views from the castle itself are stunning and that was the highlight for me.
The kids of course loved it all, and though it transpired that only one staircase in the castle was actually used for the film, they couldn't get over the fact they had visited the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang castle - even if their legs were aching.
As we left, via the inevitable giftshop, my faustian pact with no 2 resurfaced as she started demanding the gift we hadn't bought her at Meersburg. The giftshop being full of really expensive tat, we promised something when we got back to the town. There were several giftshops on our way down, but they were all packing up, and offered yet more tat. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill, it was so late there wasn't a gift shop open and no2 was throwing a major sulk. Never mind, darling, I rashly promised, I'm sure we'll find something in France.
France was our destination for the following day. We had arranged to meet some friends there and camp together. However, being as we were so busy before we left, and being as Spouse was incredibly difficult to pin down and make the arrangements, and I was very distracted and got my dates muddled, our friends were coming to France a week earlier then I had realised. This meant that rather then go to our intended destination of the Loire in two days, we had to make it across in one. Oh thank the Lord for in car DVD players.
By dint of several emails sent via the internet cafe at our Bodensee campsite, followed up with phone calls via Spouse's mobile (mine had died and I couldn't recharge it) we managed to find a campsite between us to the south of Tours in a place called Montbazon. The distance from where we were was roughly 700km, which is a very very long way... And had we packed and set off early it would have been just about manageable. However, having promised to get up early and finish the packing as Spouse was driving, I managed to sleep in, and everything took much longer to sort out then we had bargained for. It is amazing how easy it is to unpack from a car, and how much harder to pack it all up again. Particularly as four children can scatter their belongings all over said car taking up all available neat little spaces for shoving that last vital object in place.
However, eventually we were ready and off we set for the next stage on our journey. The sun at this point proceeded to blaze forth with glory and for the first time since our arrival we could properly see the mountains in Switzerland. Grr....
We had planned to go via Germany to get to our destination, but taking a wrong turn, and discovering that Switzerland had motorways while our German route did not, we decided we'd go that way instead. Which may or may not have been a mistake, given that we don't know how long the German route would have taken. However, we were charged the privilege of 30 euros for driving on some frankly indifferent motorways and having no idea of the speed limit, and not fancying a trip to a Swiss police cell to cement our happy family holiday memories Spouse took it nice and slow.
As it turned out we didn't have a lot of choice with our speed, particularly when we got to Basle and discovered that the whole of the motorway system had been turned into one ginormous set of roadworks. Spouse, who doesn't have a great deal of faith in my map reading at the best of times (most unjustified I might add, as I don't often get us lost, and when I do, I usually get us out of trouble fairly quickly) wouldn't believe me when I told him we hadn't gone off the motorway. Well, we had, but we weren't on the wrong road. It's just to get to the road we wanted, we were diverted through tramlines, and down tiny tunnels which spiralled downwards in ever decreasing circles, getting lower and lower until we were in fear of the roofbox being ripped off...
It was only when we got to the French border and came right out onto the motorway that he actually admitted I hadn't led us wrong.
It was with great relief that we finally got onto the peage and started putting some miles behind us. By now though it was nearing four o clock and we had only put five squares of the map behind us - we had another nine to go and were getting slightly twitchy about what time we might arrive. The sun was still shining - dammit!- and we both felt frustrated that today of all days the rain hadn't set in again. But at least the kids weren't making too much fuss. An entire series of the original Dr Who seemed to help.
By seven o clock we were nearly at Orleans, but we were on a two lane motorway in which we encountered some of the most stressful driving I have ever witnessed. Namely cars whizzing in and out of the overtaking lane leaving the barest minimum gap, but all going at a speed at which you really didn't oughter be doing when you're behaving like that. I was white knuckled all the way, but Spouse's coping mechanism was to make jolly little jokes. Sadly I didn't feel like laughing.
We rang our friend at Orleans to say we were about an hour away, but in reality it turned in to nearly two as the motorway disappeared here, and though the road was good, it wasn't that good. Still, at least we had lost the maniacal overtakers.
We eventually arrived at the campsite at about 9.30, and it was time for me to shift gear and switch my brain into French mode. Which, after a week of German and years of no practice in French took some doing I can tell you. Still, I understood sufficiently where we needed to park our tent, and that we had an electronic key to open up the barrier, which was all I really needed for now.
We put up the tent while the children ran down to the river, conveniently behind our camping spot, and wonderfully idyllic. By this time it was getting dark, and Spouse was desperate for some liquid refreshment. Sadly in our haste to get to the campsite we hadn't purchased any alcohol en route, the cafe attached to the campsite had just shut and we were left sipping cans of warm beer. Time for bed, said Zebedee, rather grumpily, tomorrow had to be a better day.
Tomorrow, as it happens, was. Or at least to start with...
The rain held off long enough for us to visit Chinon - a wonderful ruin where Henry II made his court. It was amazing, and all the more spectacular for me, as I had recently read Elizabeth Chadwick's The Greatest Knight, which makes mention of the place, and thanks to her brilliant descriptions I could really picture how a mediaeval castle might be.
The highlight though was discovering that Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master was actually imprisoned there and had inscribed his name on the dungeon wall. I know diddly squat about the Templars, but they are one of Spouse's passions (and well before The Da Vinci Code made them trendy) and he had told me Jacques dramatic story. Imprisoned by Philip IV of France (basically to steal all the Templars' money) and accused of heresy, Jacques spent some eighteen years in prison before his eventual death at the stake. He apparently cursed both Philip and Clement V and promised they would both be dead in a year, which they were. So it was very exciting to discover that he had actually been imprisoned here... another frisson of touching real history moment.
As was the discovery that Joan of Arc also had her first meeting with the Dauphin here (and you realise what a damned long way she travelled - Reims isn't exactly a stroll away). There was a whole tower dedicated to Joan which was fascinating, although a little tricky to ge the gist of what was going on, as most of the information was in French.
The sprogs by now were getting all castled out, so we wandered down to the town and got some lunch at a pleasant little cafe in the square. I do love the way the Europeans, particuarly the French do cafe culture. Whenever we try it in England it is never quite the same. And it's not just the weather - we just aren't relaxed enough for it. Me, I could sit all day and watch the world go by at a cafe, but Spouse finds it too tedious for words.
We headed back home intending to have a barbie that evening, but by now the weather had changed, and though we managed a quick swim in the pool, the rain was soon coming down in droves. We did manage our barbie, but ate it under the tent door which serves as a porch when propped up on sticks. Spouse and I were now beginning to feel as though the weather gods had really got it in for us, and went to bed feeling glummer then ever. The rain continued to pour down, and I woke intermittently through the night, fretting about the proximity of the river and ever mindful of the dire warnings all over the campsite that in the event of flooding we would be roused by a siren and would have to leave all our belongings behind.
So it was with some anxiety that I woke at around four to the sound of a siren in the distance. Thinking I had imagined it, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. There it was again. And there appeared to be several people talking outside our tent in excited French.
Bugger off! was Spouse's grumpy response, and would have been mine probably but I heard them say, Anglais? Oui, I replied. Voleurs! Voleurs! Came the urgent reply. I leapt out of bed, shoved on some shoes and emerged from the tent into the dark teeming rain, to be met by two Frenchmen who were pointing at my tent. Someone had slashed the door.
Oh shit. We'd been burgled.
(to be continued...)
Thursday, August 24, 2006
We're all going on a summer holiday...
Part One: Auf Wiedersehen, Pet
You may have noticed (if you're still out there that is) that I have been rather quiet for the last month. That is because we have been on our summer holidays. I was going to blog before I went about a fabulous evening Spouse and I had seeing Texas at our local race course, but ran out of time before I went, so helas the moment has passed. (But to the four annoying pissheads who insisted on dancing wildly in front of us for the duration, may you rot in hell, you irritating gits).
Anyway, moving swiftly on...
As the tale of our holidays this year is somewhat epic - eventful doesn't quite cover it somehow - I have broken it up into a two parter, so as not to bore you interminably...
Our tale starts on a sunny Saturday in August, when I ran round all day house cleaning/last minute packing etc, while Spouse tried to work out how on earth we were going to fit all the luggage in our shiny new MPV, bought specially so we could go on said epic holiday. As it was the first day of the holidays, he not unnaturally woke up with a raging sore throat - picked up from me no doubt, as I had been suffering earlier in the week. Given that we had rather a lot of driving to do, he decided to dose himself up with antibiotics to stave it off. Which turned out to be a somewhat optimistic hope...
Last year we went camping in Poole and the weather was dire, so this year Spouse had the bright idea of going camping in Europe. The weather surely had to be better there. And given that we had such a hot July and the weathermen were predicting an even hotter August, we set off with high hopes of tres relaxing vacances.
As if.
This being OUR family, of course the weather in Europe decided to play up.
Though we left England in the sun, and caught a little bit en route to our first night destination of Metz, and it stayed with us on our arrival in Germany on our second day, by day three the rain had set in. And boy how it set in.
However, first things first. We had decided to break up our journey as though we have DVD players in the car (thank the lord!) we thought 6-7 hours might be too much for the sprogs. En route we took a break at Rheims and had a fabulous hour wandering round the cathedral. We were fascinated to discover that Clovis and all subsequent French kings were crowned there (including one called Dagobert - remember that name, he crops up all over the place) - and it was also where Jeanne d'Arc ended up (before the English nabbed her, obviously) and the dauphin was crowned.
From Rheims to Metz wasn't too far, so we arrived comfortably about 5.30pm. What was not quite so confortable was a) finding the Novotel we were staying in (we ended up driving three sides round a square and rather a lot of marital stress ensued as a result) and b) when we got there realised that at a height of 1.8m we weren't going to be able to get into the car park as our lovely MPV though large isn't large enough to take all our luggage sans roofbox. I hopped out, ran into reception, which bizarrely was a floor up from where the entrance of the hotel was, and explained the problem in my halting French. Pas de probleme, says my French maitre d', I will open the gates. I go back and explained this to Spouse, illegally parked as he was on a Metz side street. He looked doubtfully at the entrance to the car park, and sent me up to check again. Eventually after much gesticulation and me saying over and over again, ma voiture est trop haut, we got there and he told me we could park in front of the hotel.
Our next bit of excitement was sorting out the sleeping arrangements. I had booked online and found a great deal on a room for 74 euros. It said it had a double bed and a sofabed, so I thought that would be plenty of space for six. I couldn't find any mention of a family room, but I had emailed and explained there would be six of us, and no one had written back to say there wasn't a problem. However, when we went to check in, it transpired that no more then three people could stay in each room. I explained that the children were pretty small and we could all share, but he was adamant, that we had to have two rooms - next to each other? I said, Oh yes, was the response. Which is why of course they were nowhere near each other, on opposite sides of the corridor...
After some debate, and realising there was more then enough space for us all to sleep in the one room, I went down and argued the toss with him, as I had also twigged we were about to be charged an extra 150 euros for the other room. He argued it back but I stood my ground, he spoke to his manager, and voila! We were back to one room for 74 euros. It was only when we went to bed that we discovered that the sofa bed in the corner was a very very small single. So while the children snored in the double, Spouse and I elbowed each other all night long. In the morning we declined the offer of breakfast at 12 euros ahead, instead finding a lovely cafe on a square where we got hot chocolate and croissants and felt (despite an ominous burst of rain) that our holiday had really begun. We managed a quick swim in the hotel when the sun came out briefly and then were on our way again.
The sun followed us through Germany to just outside Tubingen where we staying with Spouse's cousin and family. It was lovely to see them, and they couldn't have made us more welcome. After a very jolly evening, when the wine flowed (and after it had so did my German conversation - amazing how fluent one feels after a bottle of red...) we retired to bed looking forward to visiting the mediaeval town the next day.
Tubingen was (as we'd been promised) beautiful and very picturesque. The main square, with it's huge Rathaus (town hall) had amazing buildings, many of which were ornately decorated in a way you just simply don't ever see in England. We visited an ancient seminary, where Spouse's great aunt was the sometime cook, and his cousin's father trained as a vicar, and the outside of the castle (it was shut - for which, given the number of castles we subsequently saw was probably a great relief to the children). We did get to hear the bat colony who have taken over one of the towers - being a protected species no one can move them, even though they have taken up residence next to an ancient 80 000 litre wine barrel, which is one of the castle's key attractions. If you press your ear against the door, you can hear them all scratching and screeching away... very Count Dracula....
In the evening Spouse and I went on a jolly trip to the Max Planck Institute. Sorry that should have been prefaced by World Famous - except I had never heard of it, being a total ignoramus in the science department. Spouse being somewhat cleverer then me couldn't let the opportunity of being in the vicinity of such a world famous place pass without going to visit, and his cousin kindly offered to babysit to allow us to go on an open day.
Now I don't like to stereotype other nationalities, but I was always under the impression that our Deutsch Kusine were much better then we are at organising things. Not on the evidence of this particular evening... Spouse and I queued up to get tickets (having been told earlier in the day we just had to turn up), for ages before it transpired that it wasn't going to be possible to attend all five of the different programs on offer - having a simulated helicopter ride, going for a light and sound show, etc. - and people were being limited to one ticket each. Of course, all the good programs had gone (unless we wanted to hang about until eleven thirty, which we didn't particularly), so we ended up going to hear a lecture (conducted entirely in German natch - given that I can't grasp most of the concepts when I hear them in my own language, I was lost after the first minute) on senses and how they can be tricked. However, we did get to play on a neat machine which I presume has some kind of industrial use, where you think you are picking something up, but actually it's an illusion and you are getting an electronic hand to pick the object up for you. We also spent a merry half an hour wandering around looking at different optical illusions till our eyes went screwy and we decided enough was enough.
The next day took us to Wildbad, a spa town in the Black Forest which Spouse had visited as a child. Of course memory being a fickle thing and the times having a-changed somewhat, things weren't quite as he remembered. However we went for a lovely walk by the river, the children all ate their lunch without grumbling (always a worry when we're abroad) and we then took a mountain train to a place called Sommer's Berg where there were fantastic views of the valley. The rain held off, the sun came out, we sat at a cafe eating Black Forest gateau (of course) and I fulfilled a longheld ambition to visit the Black Forest (if only a small part of it), which was just as beautiful as I had imagined.
Our third day in Germany took us to Lake Constance, where our wonderful hosts have a caravan, which they generously lent to us for a few days. At this point, we started to get a taste of things to come. Spouse having got rid of his sore throat, came down with it again, and no 1 also began to suffer - unusually for her she stopped eating and wandered around looking pale and wan. Oh well, we thought if we get some sunshine, everything will seem much better.
Hmm...
Our first night in the caravan was spent listening to the rain pounding on the ceiling. Being of far too imaginative a nature, I lay awake half the night wondering a) how much rain it would take to make the Bodensee flood and b) whether we would end up being one of those families you see on the news who get flooded out on their holidays.
The next day the rain stopped momentarily while we set off to explore the Bodensee. I had of course entertained fond hopes of running around the lake and then practising my swimming. But as we looked over at Switzerland - barely visible in the grey fog across the lake (we were assured there were mountains to see, but we only ever glimpsed them) - my hopes receded rather rapidly. This really wasn't the weather for swimming in lakes, even for me, who likes to swim wherever I am.
However, there was plenty to see in and around the lake, so we spent a pleasant morning in a place called Langenargen, and then when the rain, really set in, we drove up the coast to a place called Meersburg.
Now that turned out to be really worth the effort, as it has a wonderful old town and a fabulous castle which dates back to about the 9th century. It is perched on top of a pinnacle and there is only one way across (luckily it is not possible to appreciate quite how high up and precarious you are walking across the path to the castle, till after you have been in it.) The entrance still has buckets hanging up in it in case of fire, and the first part of the castle is decorated with wonderful old murals dating from god knows when. In the first room we went into the names of the various owners were inscribed on the wall, including dear old Dagobert, whoever he was (an early Frankish king, I think.) He certainly got about a bit. We were all impressed with the Knight's Hall which had tapestries on the wall, and real boar skins on the window seats, and a fabulous drinking cup resting in an elk's foot. I don't know how accurate it was really, but you certainly got a great idea as to how bleak life in a mediaeval castle must have been, and thanks to its lack of accessibility the castle was never taken, so there is a whole lot more to see then in its English equivalent.
I particularly liked the great trough we passed which apparently in olden days was filled with wine by the lord, for the villagers to drink on feastdays. And there was also the scariest largest oubliette you've seen in your life. Talk about throwing away the key...
So much there to capture the imagination. And also for me it was like touching history somehow. I studied sixteenth and seventeenth century European history when I was at school, and it is a period which still fascinates me. So to walk into the armoury and see not only a picture of General Tilly ( a particularly nasty and brutal leader in the Thirty Years War) but an example of the armour some of his troops wore, gave me that frisson of excitement I always get when I encounter something real that I have read about in a book. At times like this I always want to jump in a time machine. The enduring disappointment of my adult life is knowing that time travel actually doesn't work... It would be so neat if it did.
The children on balance were pretty interested in the castle, but once we got to the gift shop and offered them the chance to get something things went slightly pear shaped, as no 2 insisted on having a cuddly toy - which as Spouse rightly pointed out she could get in England and refused to buy her. Thus thwarted she went into a huge sulk until I took her to another shop to see if we could find her something she liked. Helas, there was nothing, and she sulked pretty much all the way home. In the meantime I indulged in a faustian pact and promised her that she could have something else the next time we found a gift shop...
The rain was still coming down in sheets as we set off for home. We had promised the children swimming, but there was no way we could swim in the lake, so instead we found an indoor pool on the outskirts of Meersburg. It was 6.30pm - a mad time to take them swimming, but it seemed a better alternative then going back to the caravan and listening to the rain coming down. The pool had a lovely outside section, which must be great in the sunshine, so we swam out to it and had the surreal experience of looking over at the grey grey lake, while the rain came down and the steam poured off the pool. We were probably wetter getting into the pool, then we actually were coming out, but at least we had time to dry off and the rain slightly eased as we made our way home. It was late when we got back and everyone was tired and fractious. But still, tomorrow was another day, and we had been told that the weather was about to improve...
Contrary to such predictions, the next day dawned grim and grey, so we set off fully armed with fleeces and kagoules and our first stop was the Zeppelin museum at Friedrickshafen, which we reached by boat. Ignoramus that I am I had no idea, that Zeppelins were originally made here, and there was some fascinating stories to uncover, though I have to confess, looking at bits of metal that came out of various zeppelins does nothing for me.
Our next stop (at my suggestion - and oh, dear reader, how I rued it!) was Romanshorn in Switzerland.
"We've never been to Switzerland," said I merrily, " it seems a pity not to go."
We should have twigged really as none of the guidebooks we had mentioned much about Romanshorn, which rather implies there isn't much to say...
Which is about the size of it. Romanshorn is basically a through station. People get off the boat and get on a train to go somewhere more interesting. There is NOTHING THERE of any interest, WHATSOEVER. I've never been to a more boring place.
Still at least the sun came out for a bit, so we took our fleeces and anoraks off and wandered fruitlessly round a park that bordered the lake, before coming across a rather neat play area. Dragging the children off to have lunch in a very indifferent cafe (but at least it was dry as the rain set in once more), we promised them we would go back after lunch.
Mistake. Big mistake.
I was returning from taking no 4 to the loo, when I heard no 2 screaming the place down and found Spouse cuddling her on a bench. It transpired that swinging on some bars like a monkey, as is her wont, she had missed one and fallen and hurt her arm. Nothing seemed swollen and after getting her to wriggle her fingers and move her hand from side to side (having had nos 1 & 2 break their arms on previous occasions, we are veterans now) we hoped that we had got away with it, and it was just a bad sprain. However, she was clearly in a lot of pain, and we didn't fancy getting stuck in a Swiss hospital, so we thought the best thing to do was to head home and find out where we could get help in Germany.
En route home she took a rather long time to perk up - reminding me of the time no 1 had had a green stick fracture to her radius. Hmm. That hadn't looked lumpy either... By the time we were back at the caravan I was convinced it was broken (but then, I always think the worst), and when she lifted her jumper off and screamed the house down I decided to find out what our options were.
There was as it turned out a doctor on the site, but not on a Saturday, so we decided the best thing to do was to head for the nearest hospital. So I got instructions (in German - always a bit worrying as you might not have exactly understood what's been said to you) and was assured it was ten minutes up the road.
Half an hour later, we finally found it, and no 2 and I trotted off inside. By this time she'd had some calpol and was beginning to feel rather proud of herself. I had (with foresight) fed everyone before we went, just in case we were a long time. I had taken a chance with feeding no 2 as I figured that it was unlikely that she'd need an operation (last time she broke her arm in two places and needed an op to fix it).
The hospital we went to was very quiet and out of the way. There seemed little sign of activity apart from a bored looking chap behind a desk. I explained in my halting German what had happened, and he sent me in a rather disinterested way towards some stairs. The trouble was when we got there I couldn't work out whether he had said go upstairs or downstairs. Neither looked very preposessing and I went back to ask him again. It was upstairs as it transpired, and we were met by a friendly middle aged chap who spoke no English. Luckily the words for broken arm in German aren't so dissimilar - gebrochen Arm, just about does it, and with a leap of imagination I hazarded at GrunStuck Fraktur - which as it turned out was also exactly the same as English. Then we were back to safe subjects like discussing the weather, and agreeing that yes, Germany had had the hottest July ever and now it was raining...
After not too long a jolly young medic appeared, who it transpired spoke some English. He decided, as I thought he would, that it needed an x-ray so we were sent back to the basement of the hospital to the Rontgen department. There was me thinking the word would be Radiografie or some such, but Spouse told me afterwards that Rontgen is the chap who discovered x-rays so that explains that then.
The Rontgen department was down a dark and dimly lit corridor where all the doors were locked. No 2 and I felt like we'd been left in the oubliette. Eventually a lady pitched up, also very jolly, who spoke no English either. So after saying Grun Stuck, and talking about the weather, and yes, wasn't July sunny?, she took the picture and within minutes my worst fears were realised. It was indeed, a Grun Stuck, but luckily no more serious.
So we were back upstairs to meet our jolly friends up there, and be told what we already knew that no 2 needed to be plastered up.
Plastering done, we were sent on our way, I enquired about a letter for our local hospital, but the doctor reckoned (probably rightly) that no one in the UK would be able to decipher a German treatment plan, so he just told me to go and see someone in three weeks.
So it was back to the car, with no 2 proudly waving her pot, and then on to the caravan, where we all went to bed and listened to the rain pounding the roof.
The rain didn't let up in the morning, Spouse's throat was still killing him, the children seemed bored and listless, so we spent a long day in the caravan watching Germans on holiday in the pouring rain, being entertained by men in lederhosen and those funny little hats they wear. In desperation, in the afternoon we thought we'd go to visit Lindau, an attractive sounding island not too far away. We went into Lindau, which looked lovely, but parking was hard to come by, the rain was coming down in sheets and the little ones had gone to sleep. So we didn't even get out of the car, and just drove off further round the lake. We went into Austria, just because we could, but there wasn't a lot to see in the rain, so we came home.
We put the kids to bet that night, feeling glum. We had a child with a broken wrist and after a summer of burning heat, and fighting with a hosepipe ban at home, we were stuck here in a caravan while the rain came down.
It could only happen to us...
Still, we had another week and a half to go, we were planning on visiting Neuschwanstein and then heading up to the Loire with friends, the weather was set to improve the following week.
Things could only get better....
You may have noticed (if you're still out there that is) that I have been rather quiet for the last month. That is because we have been on our summer holidays. I was going to blog before I went about a fabulous evening Spouse and I had seeing Texas at our local race course, but ran out of time before I went, so helas the moment has passed. (But to the four annoying pissheads who insisted on dancing wildly in front of us for the duration, may you rot in hell, you irritating gits).
Anyway, moving swiftly on...
As the tale of our holidays this year is somewhat epic - eventful doesn't quite cover it somehow - I have broken it up into a two parter, so as not to bore you interminably...
Our tale starts on a sunny Saturday in August, when I ran round all day house cleaning/last minute packing etc, while Spouse tried to work out how on earth we were going to fit all the luggage in our shiny new MPV, bought specially so we could go on said epic holiday. As it was the first day of the holidays, he not unnaturally woke up with a raging sore throat - picked up from me no doubt, as I had been suffering earlier in the week. Given that we had rather a lot of driving to do, he decided to dose himself up with antibiotics to stave it off. Which turned out to be a somewhat optimistic hope...
Last year we went camping in Poole and the weather was dire, so this year Spouse had the bright idea of going camping in Europe. The weather surely had to be better there. And given that we had such a hot July and the weathermen were predicting an even hotter August, we set off with high hopes of tres relaxing vacances.
As if.
This being OUR family, of course the weather in Europe decided to play up.
Though we left England in the sun, and caught a little bit en route to our first night destination of Metz, and it stayed with us on our arrival in Germany on our second day, by day three the rain had set in. And boy how it set in.
However, first things first. We had decided to break up our journey as though we have DVD players in the car (thank the lord!) we thought 6-7 hours might be too much for the sprogs. En route we took a break at Rheims and had a fabulous hour wandering round the cathedral. We were fascinated to discover that Clovis and all subsequent French kings were crowned there (including one called Dagobert - remember that name, he crops up all over the place) - and it was also where Jeanne d'Arc ended up (before the English nabbed her, obviously) and the dauphin was crowned.
From Rheims to Metz wasn't too far, so we arrived comfortably about 5.30pm. What was not quite so confortable was a) finding the Novotel we were staying in (we ended up driving three sides round a square and rather a lot of marital stress ensued as a result) and b) when we got there realised that at a height of 1.8m we weren't going to be able to get into the car park as our lovely MPV though large isn't large enough to take all our luggage sans roofbox. I hopped out, ran into reception, which bizarrely was a floor up from where the entrance of the hotel was, and explained the problem in my halting French. Pas de probleme, says my French maitre d', I will open the gates. I go back and explained this to Spouse, illegally parked as he was on a Metz side street. He looked doubtfully at the entrance to the car park, and sent me up to check again. Eventually after much gesticulation and me saying over and over again, ma voiture est trop haut, we got there and he told me we could park in front of the hotel.
Our next bit of excitement was sorting out the sleeping arrangements. I had booked online and found a great deal on a room for 74 euros. It said it had a double bed and a sofabed, so I thought that would be plenty of space for six. I couldn't find any mention of a family room, but I had emailed and explained there would be six of us, and no one had written back to say there wasn't a problem. However, when we went to check in, it transpired that no more then three people could stay in each room. I explained that the children were pretty small and we could all share, but he was adamant, that we had to have two rooms - next to each other? I said, Oh yes, was the response. Which is why of course they were nowhere near each other, on opposite sides of the corridor...
After some debate, and realising there was more then enough space for us all to sleep in the one room, I went down and argued the toss with him, as I had also twigged we were about to be charged an extra 150 euros for the other room. He argued it back but I stood my ground, he spoke to his manager, and voila! We were back to one room for 74 euros. It was only when we went to bed that we discovered that the sofa bed in the corner was a very very small single. So while the children snored in the double, Spouse and I elbowed each other all night long. In the morning we declined the offer of breakfast at 12 euros ahead, instead finding a lovely cafe on a square where we got hot chocolate and croissants and felt (despite an ominous burst of rain) that our holiday had really begun. We managed a quick swim in the hotel when the sun came out briefly and then were on our way again.
The sun followed us through Germany to just outside Tubingen where we staying with Spouse's cousin and family. It was lovely to see them, and they couldn't have made us more welcome. After a very jolly evening, when the wine flowed (and after it had so did my German conversation - amazing how fluent one feels after a bottle of red...) we retired to bed looking forward to visiting the mediaeval town the next day.
Tubingen was (as we'd been promised) beautiful and very picturesque. The main square, with it's huge Rathaus (town hall) had amazing buildings, many of which were ornately decorated in a way you just simply don't ever see in England. We visited an ancient seminary, where Spouse's great aunt was the sometime cook, and his cousin's father trained as a vicar, and the outside of the castle (it was shut - for which, given the number of castles we subsequently saw was probably a great relief to the children). We did get to hear the bat colony who have taken over one of the towers - being a protected species no one can move them, even though they have taken up residence next to an ancient 80 000 litre wine barrel, which is one of the castle's key attractions. If you press your ear against the door, you can hear them all scratching and screeching away... very Count Dracula....
In the evening Spouse and I went on a jolly trip to the Max Planck Institute. Sorry that should have been prefaced by World Famous - except I had never heard of it, being a total ignoramus in the science department. Spouse being somewhat cleverer then me couldn't let the opportunity of being in the vicinity of such a world famous place pass without going to visit, and his cousin kindly offered to babysit to allow us to go on an open day.
Now I don't like to stereotype other nationalities, but I was always under the impression that our Deutsch Kusine were much better then we are at organising things. Not on the evidence of this particular evening... Spouse and I queued up to get tickets (having been told earlier in the day we just had to turn up), for ages before it transpired that it wasn't going to be possible to attend all five of the different programs on offer - having a simulated helicopter ride, going for a light and sound show, etc. - and people were being limited to one ticket each. Of course, all the good programs had gone (unless we wanted to hang about until eleven thirty, which we didn't particularly), so we ended up going to hear a lecture (conducted entirely in German natch - given that I can't grasp most of the concepts when I hear them in my own language, I was lost after the first minute) on senses and how they can be tricked. However, we did get to play on a neat machine which I presume has some kind of industrial use, where you think you are picking something up, but actually it's an illusion and you are getting an electronic hand to pick the object up for you. We also spent a merry half an hour wandering around looking at different optical illusions till our eyes went screwy and we decided enough was enough.
The next day took us to Wildbad, a spa town in the Black Forest which Spouse had visited as a child. Of course memory being a fickle thing and the times having a-changed somewhat, things weren't quite as he remembered. However we went for a lovely walk by the river, the children all ate their lunch without grumbling (always a worry when we're abroad) and we then took a mountain train to a place called Sommer's Berg where there were fantastic views of the valley. The rain held off, the sun came out, we sat at a cafe eating Black Forest gateau (of course) and I fulfilled a longheld ambition to visit the Black Forest (if only a small part of it), which was just as beautiful as I had imagined.
Our third day in Germany took us to Lake Constance, where our wonderful hosts have a caravan, which they generously lent to us for a few days. At this point, we started to get a taste of things to come. Spouse having got rid of his sore throat, came down with it again, and no 1 also began to suffer - unusually for her she stopped eating and wandered around looking pale and wan. Oh well, we thought if we get some sunshine, everything will seem much better.
Hmm...
Our first night in the caravan was spent listening to the rain pounding on the ceiling. Being of far too imaginative a nature, I lay awake half the night wondering a) how much rain it would take to make the Bodensee flood and b) whether we would end up being one of those families you see on the news who get flooded out on their holidays.
The next day the rain stopped momentarily while we set off to explore the Bodensee. I had of course entertained fond hopes of running around the lake and then practising my swimming. But as we looked over at Switzerland - barely visible in the grey fog across the lake (we were assured there were mountains to see, but we only ever glimpsed them) - my hopes receded rather rapidly. This really wasn't the weather for swimming in lakes, even for me, who likes to swim wherever I am.
However, there was plenty to see in and around the lake, so we spent a pleasant morning in a place called Langenargen, and then when the rain, really set in, we drove up the coast to a place called Meersburg.
Now that turned out to be really worth the effort, as it has a wonderful old town and a fabulous castle which dates back to about the 9th century. It is perched on top of a pinnacle and there is only one way across (luckily it is not possible to appreciate quite how high up and precarious you are walking across the path to the castle, till after you have been in it.) The entrance still has buckets hanging up in it in case of fire, and the first part of the castle is decorated with wonderful old murals dating from god knows when. In the first room we went into the names of the various owners were inscribed on the wall, including dear old Dagobert, whoever he was (an early Frankish king, I think.) He certainly got about a bit. We were all impressed with the Knight's Hall which had tapestries on the wall, and real boar skins on the window seats, and a fabulous drinking cup resting in an elk's foot. I don't know how accurate it was really, but you certainly got a great idea as to how bleak life in a mediaeval castle must have been, and thanks to its lack of accessibility the castle was never taken, so there is a whole lot more to see then in its English equivalent.
I particularly liked the great trough we passed which apparently in olden days was filled with wine by the lord, for the villagers to drink on feastdays. And there was also the scariest largest oubliette you've seen in your life. Talk about throwing away the key...
So much there to capture the imagination. And also for me it was like touching history somehow. I studied sixteenth and seventeenth century European history when I was at school, and it is a period which still fascinates me. So to walk into the armoury and see not only a picture of General Tilly ( a particularly nasty and brutal leader in the Thirty Years War) but an example of the armour some of his troops wore, gave me that frisson of excitement I always get when I encounter something real that I have read about in a book. At times like this I always want to jump in a time machine. The enduring disappointment of my adult life is knowing that time travel actually doesn't work... It would be so neat if it did.
The children on balance were pretty interested in the castle, but once we got to the gift shop and offered them the chance to get something things went slightly pear shaped, as no 2 insisted on having a cuddly toy - which as Spouse rightly pointed out she could get in England and refused to buy her. Thus thwarted she went into a huge sulk until I took her to another shop to see if we could find her something she liked. Helas, there was nothing, and she sulked pretty much all the way home. In the meantime I indulged in a faustian pact and promised her that she could have something else the next time we found a gift shop...
The rain was still coming down in sheets as we set off for home. We had promised the children swimming, but there was no way we could swim in the lake, so instead we found an indoor pool on the outskirts of Meersburg. It was 6.30pm - a mad time to take them swimming, but it seemed a better alternative then going back to the caravan and listening to the rain coming down. The pool had a lovely outside section, which must be great in the sunshine, so we swam out to it and had the surreal experience of looking over at the grey grey lake, while the rain came down and the steam poured off the pool. We were probably wetter getting into the pool, then we actually were coming out, but at least we had time to dry off and the rain slightly eased as we made our way home. It was late when we got back and everyone was tired and fractious. But still, tomorrow was another day, and we had been told that the weather was about to improve...
Contrary to such predictions, the next day dawned grim and grey, so we set off fully armed with fleeces and kagoules and our first stop was the Zeppelin museum at Friedrickshafen, which we reached by boat. Ignoramus that I am I had no idea, that Zeppelins were originally made here, and there was some fascinating stories to uncover, though I have to confess, looking at bits of metal that came out of various zeppelins does nothing for me.
Our next stop (at my suggestion - and oh, dear reader, how I rued it!) was Romanshorn in Switzerland.
"We've never been to Switzerland," said I merrily, " it seems a pity not to go."
We should have twigged really as none of the guidebooks we had mentioned much about Romanshorn, which rather implies there isn't much to say...
Which is about the size of it. Romanshorn is basically a through station. People get off the boat and get on a train to go somewhere more interesting. There is NOTHING THERE of any interest, WHATSOEVER. I've never been to a more boring place.
Still at least the sun came out for a bit, so we took our fleeces and anoraks off and wandered fruitlessly round a park that bordered the lake, before coming across a rather neat play area. Dragging the children off to have lunch in a very indifferent cafe (but at least it was dry as the rain set in once more), we promised them we would go back after lunch.
Mistake. Big mistake.
I was returning from taking no 4 to the loo, when I heard no 2 screaming the place down and found Spouse cuddling her on a bench. It transpired that swinging on some bars like a monkey, as is her wont, she had missed one and fallen and hurt her arm. Nothing seemed swollen and after getting her to wriggle her fingers and move her hand from side to side (having had nos 1 & 2 break their arms on previous occasions, we are veterans now) we hoped that we had got away with it, and it was just a bad sprain. However, she was clearly in a lot of pain, and we didn't fancy getting stuck in a Swiss hospital, so we thought the best thing to do was to head home and find out where we could get help in Germany.
En route home she took a rather long time to perk up - reminding me of the time no 1 had had a green stick fracture to her radius. Hmm. That hadn't looked lumpy either... By the time we were back at the caravan I was convinced it was broken (but then, I always think the worst), and when she lifted her jumper off and screamed the house down I decided to find out what our options were.
There was as it turned out a doctor on the site, but not on a Saturday, so we decided the best thing to do was to head for the nearest hospital. So I got instructions (in German - always a bit worrying as you might not have exactly understood what's been said to you) and was assured it was ten minutes up the road.
Half an hour later, we finally found it, and no 2 and I trotted off inside. By this time she'd had some calpol and was beginning to feel rather proud of herself. I had (with foresight) fed everyone before we went, just in case we were a long time. I had taken a chance with feeding no 2 as I figured that it was unlikely that she'd need an operation (last time she broke her arm in two places and needed an op to fix it).
The hospital we went to was very quiet and out of the way. There seemed little sign of activity apart from a bored looking chap behind a desk. I explained in my halting German what had happened, and he sent me in a rather disinterested way towards some stairs. The trouble was when we got there I couldn't work out whether he had said go upstairs or downstairs. Neither looked very preposessing and I went back to ask him again. It was upstairs as it transpired, and we were met by a friendly middle aged chap who spoke no English. Luckily the words for broken arm in German aren't so dissimilar - gebrochen Arm, just about does it, and with a leap of imagination I hazarded at GrunStuck Fraktur - which as it turned out was also exactly the same as English. Then we were back to safe subjects like discussing the weather, and agreeing that yes, Germany had had the hottest July ever and now it was raining...
After not too long a jolly young medic appeared, who it transpired spoke some English. He decided, as I thought he would, that it needed an x-ray so we were sent back to the basement of the hospital to the Rontgen department. There was me thinking the word would be Radiografie or some such, but Spouse told me afterwards that Rontgen is the chap who discovered x-rays so that explains that then.
The Rontgen department was down a dark and dimly lit corridor where all the doors were locked. No 2 and I felt like we'd been left in the oubliette. Eventually a lady pitched up, also very jolly, who spoke no English either. So after saying Grun Stuck, and talking about the weather, and yes, wasn't July sunny?, she took the picture and within minutes my worst fears were realised. It was indeed, a Grun Stuck, but luckily no more serious.
So we were back upstairs to meet our jolly friends up there, and be told what we already knew that no 2 needed to be plastered up.
Plastering done, we were sent on our way, I enquired about a letter for our local hospital, but the doctor reckoned (probably rightly) that no one in the UK would be able to decipher a German treatment plan, so he just told me to go and see someone in three weeks.
So it was back to the car, with no 2 proudly waving her pot, and then on to the caravan, where we all went to bed and listened to the rain pounding the roof.
The rain didn't let up in the morning, Spouse's throat was still killing him, the children seemed bored and listless, so we spent a long day in the caravan watching Germans on holiday in the pouring rain, being entertained by men in lederhosen and those funny little hats they wear. In desperation, in the afternoon we thought we'd go to visit Lindau, an attractive sounding island not too far away. We went into Lindau, which looked lovely, but parking was hard to come by, the rain was coming down in sheets and the little ones had gone to sleep. So we didn't even get out of the car, and just drove off further round the lake. We went into Austria, just because we could, but there wasn't a lot to see in the rain, so we came home.
We put the kids to bet that night, feeling glum. We had a child with a broken wrist and after a summer of burning heat, and fighting with a hosepipe ban at home, we were stuck here in a caravan while the rain came down.
It could only happen to us...
Still, we had another week and a half to go, we were planning on visiting Neuschwanstein and then heading up to the Loire with friends, the weather was set to improve the following week.
Things could only get better....
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I've finished! I've finished!
I have mentioned on and off that I have been writing a romantic novel, and it is with great relief that I have finally finished it. I have been attempting to write novels for the last eight years, but between childrearing, freelancing, running marathons etc, writing always gets a back seat. So I tend to write in spurts, and my poor heroine has spent most of the last two years being left languishing all over the place - either the hero's about to her kiss her and she's standing there waiting, or he's just disappeared off on holiday without a by your leave and it's taken me six months to get back and sort them both out.
Actually, considering everything else that's been going on, I suppose two years in the telling isn't too bad. Goodness, I might be able to manage a book every six months if I had the time... OTOH, knowing me, procastinator extraordinaire that I am, if I had more time, I would probably wittle it away somehow and end up taking longer.
I set myself a rather knotty problem with this book as well. I took my inspiration from some allotments at the back of our house, and it's where my hero and heroine meet and spend most of their time. I also took inspiration from Radio 2 which I have on constantly, so a kind of recurring theme is that the radio is like a friend in the kitchen.
I started off heavily using radio references, but cut them back because as in all contemporary fiction, things date so quickly. And I nearly came very badly unstuck as my heroine was dancing to the Cruisin' tracks on Drivetime at one point (something I used to do when I was cooking the tea), and then to my consternation the wonderful Johnny Walker left and Chris Evans took over, and Cruisin' was axed. As my heroine dancing in the kitchen was a fairly pivotal moment for her making up with the hero again, I was loth to lose it. But luckily Chris Evans has come up trumps with You Choose the Tracks on Friday evenings. Phew...
Another difficulty I had was that I've always found music really inspiring and helpful in the creative process something common to lots of my writing friends. One in particular, Elizabeth Chadwick uses rock music to great effect when writing her wonderful mediaeval historical novels. (For a great explanation of how she does it go to: http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com/2006/05/greatest-knight-soundtrack.html)
I decided for this novel I wanted to use six songs to reflect the themes of each section of the book.
The first was easy. Forever Autumn by Justin Hayward. My heroine arrives in a new town, heart battered and bruised by the death of her partner in a bike accident. She thinks she can never love again, and that for her it will always be forever autumn. It was relatively easy to work in references to golden leaves/walking in the woods etc (quoting verbatim from songs is very costly and to be avoided), but getting across her sense of loss/generating the emotion the song provokes in me was much harder, and I have no idea if I have succeeded or not.
The second part is entitled Such A Winter's Day. My heroine has now met the hero and several other characters, and California Dreaming is the theme tune here. My hero is being pulled back to his past lover who has gone out to California, while being attracted to the heroine, but will it always be a winter's day for her? She meanwhile has developed a chink in her armour, and is starting to see the sunlight poking through. For the first time since I've been a writer, my characters took control at this point and insisted on kissing each other at the end of the section, which wasn't quite what I had in mind for them.
Part three is called Soak up the Sun, from a Sheryl Crowe song of the same name. The hero/heroine have a misunderstanding as he disappears off skiing without telling her, just at the point where she has decided Sheryl is right and she should lighten up. The point when they make up is when he finds her dancing to Sheryl Crowe in the kitchen. There is such a brilliant line about not having what you want, but wanting what you've got which is perfect for my heroine's tentative steps towards her new life.
Part four is based on a Texas song, Here Comes the Summer's Son, and again, it was listening to a specific line (about reconsidering before the lover takes the singer's heart, and opening a door and going through) that just naturally slotted in to what I was thinking for my heroine. She is on the verge of entrusting her fledgling new heart to the hero, and then his ex pitches up out of the blue and causes trouble. By the end of this section, the hero and heroine are at odds, as she thinks she can't trust him.
Part five - is possibly the least successful, so I may change it. This was again because my characters didn't do things the way I wanted them to. I needed a major character, who the heroine is very close to, firstly to be ill (as a means of bringing the hero and heroine back together again) and then die, but he persistently refused to die till part six! The song I've chosen is Sing by Travis. The singer talks about the love he brings meaning nothing, unless she sings. He also talks about her being so low/crying etc and it seemed to me about those times when however much you love someone, you can't help them when they are in pain. My heroine isn't quite into the height of her suffering here, so I may have to rethink it!
Part Six's theme is Fix You, a wonderful achingly haunting tune from Coldplay. My character dies here instead, and my heroine takes it as a sign that everyone she loves dies/leaves her and so she runs away from the hero, who has taken the view that life is too short and they should get married. He wants to fix her, take her pain away, but can do nothing. Until the end of course, when (using the song again) he guides her by candlelight to where he is waiting for her, and finally she can let go of her past.
It was damned hard work trying to convey the emotions I was after, and I have no idea whether or not it's worked, but at least I've done it. And now it's with my agent and I have to bite my nails till I find out if this will be another one to bite the dust or not...
Still, while I'm waiting I am thinking out the plot of my next book: about a dentist who gets sued by a Z list celebrity. (No prizes for guessing where that inspiration came from - though the suing bit I got out of listening to the Jeremy Vine show - yes, yes, I know, I am sadly obsessed with Radio 2, but I need something to keep me out of trouble).
And I have my first theme tune already: The Miracle of Love by the Eurythmics, for when my hero and heroine get it together for the first time. I have a whole scene playing out in my head, like watching a film at the moment.
Sometimes, it is so great being a writer. Even an unpublished one....
Actually, considering everything else that's been going on, I suppose two years in the telling isn't too bad. Goodness, I might be able to manage a book every six months if I had the time... OTOH, knowing me, procastinator extraordinaire that I am, if I had more time, I would probably wittle it away somehow and end up taking longer.
I set myself a rather knotty problem with this book as well. I took my inspiration from some allotments at the back of our house, and it's where my hero and heroine meet and spend most of their time. I also took inspiration from Radio 2 which I have on constantly, so a kind of recurring theme is that the radio is like a friend in the kitchen.
I started off heavily using radio references, but cut them back because as in all contemporary fiction, things date so quickly. And I nearly came very badly unstuck as my heroine was dancing to the Cruisin' tracks on Drivetime at one point (something I used to do when I was cooking the tea), and then to my consternation the wonderful Johnny Walker left and Chris Evans took over, and Cruisin' was axed. As my heroine dancing in the kitchen was a fairly pivotal moment for her making up with the hero again, I was loth to lose it. But luckily Chris Evans has come up trumps with You Choose the Tracks on Friday evenings. Phew...
Another difficulty I had was that I've always found music really inspiring and helpful in the creative process something common to lots of my writing friends. One in particular, Elizabeth Chadwick uses rock music to great effect when writing her wonderful mediaeval historical novels. (For a great explanation of how she does it go to: http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com/2006/05/greatest-knight-soundtrack.html)
I decided for this novel I wanted to use six songs to reflect the themes of each section of the book.
The first was easy. Forever Autumn by Justin Hayward. My heroine arrives in a new town, heart battered and bruised by the death of her partner in a bike accident. She thinks she can never love again, and that for her it will always be forever autumn. It was relatively easy to work in references to golden leaves/walking in the woods etc (quoting verbatim from songs is very costly and to be avoided), but getting across her sense of loss/generating the emotion the song provokes in me was much harder, and I have no idea if I have succeeded or not.
The second part is entitled Such A Winter's Day. My heroine has now met the hero and several other characters, and California Dreaming is the theme tune here. My hero is being pulled back to his past lover who has gone out to California, while being attracted to the heroine, but will it always be a winter's day for her? She meanwhile has developed a chink in her armour, and is starting to see the sunlight poking through. For the first time since I've been a writer, my characters took control at this point and insisted on kissing each other at the end of the section, which wasn't quite what I had in mind for them.
Part three is called Soak up the Sun, from a Sheryl Crowe song of the same name. The hero/heroine have a misunderstanding as he disappears off skiing without telling her, just at the point where she has decided Sheryl is right and she should lighten up. The point when they make up is when he finds her dancing to Sheryl Crowe in the kitchen. There is such a brilliant line about not having what you want, but wanting what you've got which is perfect for my heroine's tentative steps towards her new life.
Part four is based on a Texas song, Here Comes the Summer's Son, and again, it was listening to a specific line (about reconsidering before the lover takes the singer's heart, and opening a door and going through) that just naturally slotted in to what I was thinking for my heroine. She is on the verge of entrusting her fledgling new heart to the hero, and then his ex pitches up out of the blue and causes trouble. By the end of this section, the hero and heroine are at odds, as she thinks she can't trust him.
Part five - is possibly the least successful, so I may change it. This was again because my characters didn't do things the way I wanted them to. I needed a major character, who the heroine is very close to, firstly to be ill (as a means of bringing the hero and heroine back together again) and then die, but he persistently refused to die till part six! The song I've chosen is Sing by Travis. The singer talks about the love he brings meaning nothing, unless she sings. He also talks about her being so low/crying etc and it seemed to me about those times when however much you love someone, you can't help them when they are in pain. My heroine isn't quite into the height of her suffering here, so I may have to rethink it!
Part Six's theme is Fix You, a wonderful achingly haunting tune from Coldplay. My character dies here instead, and my heroine takes it as a sign that everyone she loves dies/leaves her and so she runs away from the hero, who has taken the view that life is too short and they should get married. He wants to fix her, take her pain away, but can do nothing. Until the end of course, when (using the song again) he guides her by candlelight to where he is waiting for her, and finally she can let go of her past.
It was damned hard work trying to convey the emotions I was after, and I have no idea whether or not it's worked, but at least I've done it. And now it's with my agent and I have to bite my nails till I find out if this will be another one to bite the dust or not...
Still, while I'm waiting I am thinking out the plot of my next book: about a dentist who gets sued by a Z list celebrity. (No prizes for guessing where that inspiration came from - though the suing bit I got out of listening to the Jeremy Vine show - yes, yes, I know, I am sadly obsessed with Radio 2, but I need something to keep me out of trouble).
And I have my first theme tune already: The Miracle of Love by the Eurythmics, for when my hero and heroine get it together for the first time. I have a whole scene playing out in my head, like watching a film at the moment.
Sometimes, it is so great being a writer. Even an unpublished one....
Little Creatures
Some months ago, if you were paying attention, you may remember me waxing lyrical about the joys of growing our own veg. That was of course before we had a heatwave, a hosepipe ban and I got tied up with end of term itis.
As a result Spouse has nobly been watering our produce for months now, by dint of connecting four waterbutts in a line he has managed in the main to keep on top of things but it has been hard going at times. There has been many an evening when he has emerged from the bottom of the garden, black with grime and dust, muttering imprecations against Thames Water, snails, slugs and yours truly for being the inspiration behind the garden, but never doing any of the work. The latter part is true, but the trouble is when I get involved in the garden, everything else goes to pot.
Witness the other week, when I decided that as it was so hot and we can't have the paddling pool out, I would water the garden by dint of getting the kids to have a water fight in the vegetable patch. So I got them all lined up in their swimming cossies and they spent a happy hour chucking buckets of water at each other. Not much got watered, but at least they were cool. I then spent another hour or so watering everything properly, before I realised everyone was now so filthy that they had to go in the bath, and the louse problem is still so huge I then had to nit check heads. I also picked three lettuces which were about to seed, and lots of fruit. So by the time Spouse arrived home, I was still in the middle of tea, the sink was full of lettuce and all hell was breaking loose.
Not least, because now the fruits of his labours are coming good, I am discovering the downside to growing your own, is that you inevitably bring some friends in from the garden with you. I am not generally squeamish about little creatures, but there's something about soaking the raspberries and watching the insects swimming for their lives, not waving but drowning, that fills me with horror. I was equally aghast, when I turned round to wash the lettuce and nearly jumped out of my skin to see a snail sitting on the tap looking at me. I found a caterpillar making a break for it across the cooker the other day, having had a narrow escape from Death by Drowning in Boiling Broccoli.
Not only that, but thanks to the headlice problem, I have to do a daily check of the little creatures living in my children's heads. There too, I am not too wussy till a get a big one...
On the other hand, the upside of all this gardening malarkey means we have been dining of our own lettuce for weeks, we have managed to grow heaps of broccoli which I am blanching and freezing as quick as we can pick it, so we should have a steady supply in the winter, and for the first time ever we seem to have produced some reasonable carrots. Our potatoes are nearly ready for digging, our beetroot is about to be pickled, and the tomatoes are bursting forth with ripeness. We have made blackcurrant and plum jam, and I have loads of raspberries and loganberries frozen for use in the winter. When I was younger I would have sneered at such industry, but I have to confess, while I doubt I'll ever be a full blown member of the WI, I do find something immensely satisfying about cooking with food we've grown ourselves, especially as it tastes so good.
All I need now is a few chickens and a pig....
As a result Spouse has nobly been watering our produce for months now, by dint of connecting four waterbutts in a line he has managed in the main to keep on top of things but it has been hard going at times. There has been many an evening when he has emerged from the bottom of the garden, black with grime and dust, muttering imprecations against Thames Water, snails, slugs and yours truly for being the inspiration behind the garden, but never doing any of the work. The latter part is true, but the trouble is when I get involved in the garden, everything else goes to pot.
Witness the other week, when I decided that as it was so hot and we can't have the paddling pool out, I would water the garden by dint of getting the kids to have a water fight in the vegetable patch. So I got them all lined up in their swimming cossies and they spent a happy hour chucking buckets of water at each other. Not much got watered, but at least they were cool. I then spent another hour or so watering everything properly, before I realised everyone was now so filthy that they had to go in the bath, and the louse problem is still so huge I then had to nit check heads. I also picked three lettuces which were about to seed, and lots of fruit. So by the time Spouse arrived home, I was still in the middle of tea, the sink was full of lettuce and all hell was breaking loose.
Not least, because now the fruits of his labours are coming good, I am discovering the downside to growing your own, is that you inevitably bring some friends in from the garden with you. I am not generally squeamish about little creatures, but there's something about soaking the raspberries and watching the insects swimming for their lives, not waving but drowning, that fills me with horror. I was equally aghast, when I turned round to wash the lettuce and nearly jumped out of my skin to see a snail sitting on the tap looking at me. I found a caterpillar making a break for it across the cooker the other day, having had a narrow escape from Death by Drowning in Boiling Broccoli.
Not only that, but thanks to the headlice problem, I have to do a daily check of the little creatures living in my children's heads. There too, I am not too wussy till a get a big one...
On the other hand, the upside of all this gardening malarkey means we have been dining of our own lettuce for weeks, we have managed to grow heaps of broccoli which I am blanching and freezing as quick as we can pick it, so we should have a steady supply in the winter, and for the first time ever we seem to have produced some reasonable carrots. Our potatoes are nearly ready for digging, our beetroot is about to be pickled, and the tomatoes are bursting forth with ripeness. We have made blackcurrant and plum jam, and I have loads of raspberries and loganberries frozen for use in the winter. When I was younger I would have sneered at such industry, but I have to confess, while I doubt I'll ever be a full blown member of the WI, I do find something immensely satisfying about cooking with food we've grown ourselves, especially as it tastes so good.
All I need now is a few chickens and a pig....
Friday, July 07, 2006
Remembering 7/7
This blog is usually quite light-hearted, but I felt I couldn't let today pass without some comment.
This time a year ago I was on a school trip with no 2. We had set off to a nature reserve not far from home, and the talk among the mums was of how fantastic it was that we had won the Olympics.
I had forgotten to take my mobile and had made rather a complicated arrangement with my then nanny to pick no 4 up from nursery. Wanting to check that she had got into the house ok, I rang home at 11.30, which was the first I heard about the trouble in London. I can't say I was surprised - something was bound to happen sooner or later, and I think it is only by the grace of the security services that we haven't had more attacks - but I was shocked. I have lived in London most of my life, growing up with the threat of terrorism from the IRA, but this, this felt different. Bombs in the underground must be everyone's worst nightmare, and a year on, all I can think is how lucky it was that more people weren't killed, although, of course, every person who died is one too many.
My nanny's second words were, You're sister's ok. As the sister in question lives in Derbyshire and I hadn't known she was even in London, so it was a bit of a shock. It took me all day to track her down, but at least I knew she was safe.
I was the first to hear about the bombs, so discreetly told the teacher who rang the school. At lunchtime the adults huddled together in subdued groups, ringing husbands to check where they were. Living so close to London, everyone had someone who could potentially be caught up in the day's events. But fortunately, we were all among the lucky ones.
On 9/11 I watched the whole thing unfold, which was horrid and ghastly, but at least I knew what was happening. Being stuck in a wood with a bunch of seven year olds and knowing nothing was worse.
We got back to the playground eventually, by which time I was clocking all the people I could possibly think of who could have been in London that day, and thankfully, I saw most of them at school. I couldn't believe what difference a day could make. We had been so elated about the Olympics and now people were shocked, frightened, worried.
Even on the very fringes - my sister was at Liverpool Street and chucked off a mainline train just before one of the bombs went off - it was a scary and terrifying experience. And unfortunately, though my instincts are usually to stick two fingers up at the cowardly bastards who do this kind of thing, I did find myself avoiding London last summer. Had I been working there I would have had to go in, but risk my children? I don't think so.
A year on, and we seem no nearer to solving the problems that seem to breed this kind of unreasoning brutality. Sometimes I wonder if we ever will.
But we should always remember those who died, and work towards building bridges in our communities, so the actions of the few don't scar the lives of the many. And so that the victims haven't died in vain.
This time a year ago I was on a school trip with no 2. We had set off to a nature reserve not far from home, and the talk among the mums was of how fantastic it was that we had won the Olympics.
I had forgotten to take my mobile and had made rather a complicated arrangement with my then nanny to pick no 4 up from nursery. Wanting to check that she had got into the house ok, I rang home at 11.30, which was the first I heard about the trouble in London. I can't say I was surprised - something was bound to happen sooner or later, and I think it is only by the grace of the security services that we haven't had more attacks - but I was shocked. I have lived in London most of my life, growing up with the threat of terrorism from the IRA, but this, this felt different. Bombs in the underground must be everyone's worst nightmare, and a year on, all I can think is how lucky it was that more people weren't killed, although, of course, every person who died is one too many.
My nanny's second words were, You're sister's ok. As the sister in question lives in Derbyshire and I hadn't known she was even in London, so it was a bit of a shock. It took me all day to track her down, but at least I knew she was safe.
I was the first to hear about the bombs, so discreetly told the teacher who rang the school. At lunchtime the adults huddled together in subdued groups, ringing husbands to check where they were. Living so close to London, everyone had someone who could potentially be caught up in the day's events. But fortunately, we were all among the lucky ones.
On 9/11 I watched the whole thing unfold, which was horrid and ghastly, but at least I knew what was happening. Being stuck in a wood with a bunch of seven year olds and knowing nothing was worse.
We got back to the playground eventually, by which time I was clocking all the people I could possibly think of who could have been in London that day, and thankfully, I saw most of them at school. I couldn't believe what difference a day could make. We had been so elated about the Olympics and now people were shocked, frightened, worried.
Even on the very fringes - my sister was at Liverpool Street and chucked off a mainline train just before one of the bombs went off - it was a scary and terrifying experience. And unfortunately, though my instincts are usually to stick two fingers up at the cowardly bastards who do this kind of thing, I did find myself avoiding London last summer. Had I been working there I would have had to go in, but risk my children? I don't think so.
A year on, and we seem no nearer to solving the problems that seem to breed this kind of unreasoning brutality. Sometimes I wonder if we ever will.
But we should always remember those who died, and work towards building bridges in our communities, so the actions of the few don't scar the lives of the many. And so that the victims haven't died in vain.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Summer Term Blues
If you're paying attention (and let's face it, why wouldn't you?), you might have noticed that my posts have been a bit sporadic of late. The reason for this is doublefold, I have been in the process of finishing my wip. And finally - two years after I started, I have got there. Allotted Time is done and dusted. Well, sort of. I have lots of revisons to do before sending it to my agent, but I should get it off this week.
The second reason, and really the more overwhelming one is that this is the summer term. And life has just been - well - mad...
After half term I thought I had seven lovely weeks in which to plough through all the work I have to get through before the summer holidays, including aforementioned novel. Seven glorious weeks, to work I thought. I couldn't wait. It was going to be fabulous.
As if.
Week 1 was my own fault, as I made the mistake of launching my book then, and it took over rather.
Week 2 I was still busy post-launch, plus overtaken by sudden inertia and suddenly Week 3 was upon me.
Week 3 I lost a day to a prior engagement made eons ago back in the mists of time when I thought that I had a long lazy summer to look forward to. I also got hit by a stinking cold/cough which wiped me out.
However the good news was I got a weekend off, as Spouse took the sprogs camping and I had a blissful day at the Sanctuary with my mad twin, which was my birthday present from last year. Our birthday is fast approaching and we hadn't got round to organising it before. I wonder why not...
Week 4 is when it started to get interesting. No 3 had Sports Day on the Monday - which was also her birthday. Was mightily relieved when a downpour meant it was cancelled and I had time to get on and make her birthday cake etc. However, this meant that Sports Day was now on Tuesday, at lunchtime necessitating a half day's work for me. 1pm seems a daft time to have Sports Day to me, particularly in the heat we've been having of late, and no 3 was flaking most of the way round. Not least because her team was pretty rubbish (always the way with my offpsring), and they lost every event.
Sports Day at her school is severely non-competitive. Two opposing teams, split into groups of ten go round the field in opposite directions, attempting ten events. Each group that wins gets ten points and the loser gets five. Miraculously, year after year even when one team is storming ahead, there is a draw at the end. We were fully expecting the same this year, but the other team (who by all accounts were well in the lead) won by 5 points. Hmm, a fix methinks???
At the end I severely disgraced myself by jumping up and down like a looney as no 3's team just managed to win their last event, much to the amusement of a mum I didn't know (I do now though - the shame) who has evidently labelled me as Competitive Mum of the Year. Just as well Spouse wasn't there, he would have been mortified.
On Friday I had to remember to pack a packed lunch for no 3 as she was going to Hever Castle. I should have attended her birthday assembly at school, but no 2 had a class assembly which I had to go to instead. I therefore rearranged no 3's birthday assembly for the following week only to discover that no 4 was doing a play at 9.30... aagh.
As we were getting ready for school no 1 wanted to know if she could have a friend back to play. Given that I was preparing both for No 3's birthday party the next day and I had to get up at 7 to get to Guildford to be interviewed on Southern Counties Radio, the answer was a resounding no. Which was just as well as five minutes later another mum rang me to ask what time the school quiz finished. What school quiz? The one they're doing after school today....
Saturday was just about one of the maddest days of my life. I got up at 7 with a raging hangover, and feeling knackered as the heat had meant I hadn't slept. I don't know why anyone wants to be famous, if it means getting up this time on a Saturday, muttered Spouse. I drove down to Guildford and did my piece (huge thanks due here to the wonderful Sally James and Fred Marden who made me feel very at home and gave me a lovely plug for my book), before setting off home at breakneck speed to ice a mermaid cake. Nothing like keeping your feet on the ground...
Then it was the usual ballet run mania. I escaped home at 11.30am - in a monumental piece of bad planning I had originally arranged the party in the middle of the footie, so had to pull it forward to 1pm. Which if you have children you will know is horribly early for a party, particularly when you've organised a radio interview the same day...
I was still writing clues for the treasure hunt (the theme was pirates and mermaids) as people arrived, but it all seemed to go well. You know it's a success when at the end of the party the four pirates have to be physically manhandled off the fort/climbing frame...
Then it was a case of knuckling down to watch the football. I couldn't stand the tension so went upstairs to find things to do. One of the things I found to do was time to read an email my brother had sent round predicting Beckham would get injured, and Rooney would get sent off. Which is of course just what happened next. I am sure he cursed the match. You heard it here first.
No 1 who had been soooo certain we were going to win belatedly worked out what I had been telling her since the start, it's always a roller coaster with England and the downs are usually more frequent then the ups... We watched the penalty shoot out in disbelief (I mean, that Portugese guy, saving goals???? It could only happen to England...) I know they played crap most of the time, but that second half was valiant and it always makes penalties seem even more unfair.
Poo, said No 1 when it was over, and I couldn't disagree. OTOH, watching the remaining matches has been curiously restful...
Week5
I was out on Monday because of the twins day, and supposed to be playing tennis on Wednesday. (I know I shouldn't really organise things I want to do). Fortunately, as I have so much to do, it rained, so tennis was off, but it meant I got to finish my allotments. Finally, after two years. Now I've done it I think it's a pile of crap, but am hoping my agent might think otherwise. What is certain Spouse is never going to look at it unless I have a contract and a copy in my little sticky paw!
On Tuesday, I remembered belatedly it was no 3's Open Day. I could arrive early if I liked to pick her up (highly inconvenient as I was trying to work) - so I thought I'd whizz in at about 2.45, have a quick shufti round her class and then go and get no 4. It was only when I arrived, that I discovered there was a quiz to do, which involved visiting every single class. Now, as I have been going back and forth from the school for the last six years, there ain't a lot to discover about it, my only interest in going is to look at my daughter's work, and to please her obviously... So I ended up leaving her there, rushing off to get no 4 and then coming back and very bad temperedly doing the quiz...
On Thursday I foolishly offered to help with a pedestrian training day for year 3. No 2 was desperate for me to come and I never do anything like that, so I said yes. Oh dear oh dear. I had wanted to have a swim (the triathlon training is slowly improving, but I really need to get in the pool), but then discovered I needed to be at school at 9.20. I didn't escape till 11am, which left just enough time to get to the bank before nursery pick up.
Training was total nightmare. Getting eight year olds focussed on answering the questions you want them to answer rather then telling you everything they know (randomly) about road safety being somewhat trickier then envisaged. Also the idea was to get them to take responsibility for crossing the roads (not much pressure there, then). As the roads round their school are really hazardous (so much so when this scheme was first set up the person running it said she couldn't find anywhere safe to cross the road!), getting them to even get to the middle of an island took forever. Consequently a walk of say ten minutes took nearly an hour, and my tolerance levels were rock bottom by the end, I can tell you.
After lunch I took no 4 to tennis, before picking the others up and going back to the club where nos 1 & 3 then have their lessons. This is followed by no 1 going out to Guides till 8.30. I got everyone in the bath while she was out and then did the dreaded nit check. I am usually scrupulous about this, but of late have been a bit lax. Which is of course why I have just had a lesson in why you should never ever take your eye off the ball...
I found some eggs in no 3's hair, several small live ones in no4's and about 100 in no 2's... Aaggh! It's going to take me forever to get rid of them. Turns out no 2 has been sitting next to the class equivalent of Nitty Nora for the last few weeks - a fact I only picked up on yesterday when I went in her class...
By ten pm the children were all deloused and in bed and I was itchy as hell.
On Friday I went into no 3's assembly to watch her blow out candles on the cake they bring out for the purpose. Usually they do this first, so I was planning a quick escape and meeting a couple of other mums who had to be in the Junior school for their children's assembly. I should have been out by 9.15, if it hadn't been for the deputy head changing the order of events. I watched in desperation as child after child came up to display their good work and the clock was ticking unremittingly towards 9.30. In desperation I asked her to interrupt the praise fest, and managed to finally escape by 9.25. I raced across the playground, realised my friends had already gone and ran up the hill just as the children were about to go on stage - phew!
The show was a triumph of ambition over sense. You have to hand it to the nursery leader, she doesn't let a little thing like the fact she has a bunch of 3/4 year olds stop her from going for broke. The theme of the show was the jungle, so we had groups of tigers/monkeys/snakes/elephants etc. and a small band of explorers who had a phenomenal amount of words to remember. No4 was a tiger, and also had some lines, which I was amazed to hear her deliver loudly. She actually seemed to do rather a lot (which makes a change - normally I sit through the tedium for my child to pop up for two minutes) - dancing/singing with the other tigers/playing the drums/and having one little solo bit where she had to brush her teeth. The funniest thing about the show, though, was not the children, but the nursery leader, who enthusiastically encouraged them from the back, leaping up and down and pulling all manner of funny faces as she tried to get them to stick with the programme. It would have been worth videoing her alone...
We still have two and a half weeks to go and I have to endure two more sports days and give a talk to no 3's class about making books. Not only that, I seem to be met daily with requests for things I don't have: cardboard boxes, silver foil, cotton wool - all to make piles of crap that I will have to find space for at the end of term. Some day I would really love to swap places with some of the teachers, then they might have a slight clue as to what they are asking of us mums...
I don't know why people moan about the summer holidays - quite frankly, I can't wait....
The second reason, and really the more overwhelming one is that this is the summer term. And life has just been - well - mad...
After half term I thought I had seven lovely weeks in which to plough through all the work I have to get through before the summer holidays, including aforementioned novel. Seven glorious weeks, to work I thought. I couldn't wait. It was going to be fabulous.
As if.
Week 1 was my own fault, as I made the mistake of launching my book then, and it took over rather.
Week 2 I was still busy post-launch, plus overtaken by sudden inertia and suddenly Week 3 was upon me.
Week 3 I lost a day to a prior engagement made eons ago back in the mists of time when I thought that I had a long lazy summer to look forward to. I also got hit by a stinking cold/cough which wiped me out.
However the good news was I got a weekend off, as Spouse took the sprogs camping and I had a blissful day at the Sanctuary with my mad twin, which was my birthday present from last year. Our birthday is fast approaching and we hadn't got round to organising it before. I wonder why not...
Week 4 is when it started to get interesting. No 3 had Sports Day on the Monday - which was also her birthday. Was mightily relieved when a downpour meant it was cancelled and I had time to get on and make her birthday cake etc. However, this meant that Sports Day was now on Tuesday, at lunchtime necessitating a half day's work for me. 1pm seems a daft time to have Sports Day to me, particularly in the heat we've been having of late, and no 3 was flaking most of the way round. Not least because her team was pretty rubbish (always the way with my offpsring), and they lost every event.
Sports Day at her school is severely non-competitive. Two opposing teams, split into groups of ten go round the field in opposite directions, attempting ten events. Each group that wins gets ten points and the loser gets five. Miraculously, year after year even when one team is storming ahead, there is a draw at the end. We were fully expecting the same this year, but the other team (who by all accounts were well in the lead) won by 5 points. Hmm, a fix methinks???
At the end I severely disgraced myself by jumping up and down like a looney as no 3's team just managed to win their last event, much to the amusement of a mum I didn't know (I do now though - the shame) who has evidently labelled me as Competitive Mum of the Year. Just as well Spouse wasn't there, he would have been mortified.
On Friday I had to remember to pack a packed lunch for no 3 as she was going to Hever Castle. I should have attended her birthday assembly at school, but no 2 had a class assembly which I had to go to instead. I therefore rearranged no 3's birthday assembly for the following week only to discover that no 4 was doing a play at 9.30... aagh.
As we were getting ready for school no 1 wanted to know if she could have a friend back to play. Given that I was preparing both for No 3's birthday party the next day and I had to get up at 7 to get to Guildford to be interviewed on Southern Counties Radio, the answer was a resounding no. Which was just as well as five minutes later another mum rang me to ask what time the school quiz finished. What school quiz? The one they're doing after school today....
Saturday was just about one of the maddest days of my life. I got up at 7 with a raging hangover, and feeling knackered as the heat had meant I hadn't slept. I don't know why anyone wants to be famous, if it means getting up this time on a Saturday, muttered Spouse. I drove down to Guildford and did my piece (huge thanks due here to the wonderful Sally James and Fred Marden who made me feel very at home and gave me a lovely plug for my book), before setting off home at breakneck speed to ice a mermaid cake. Nothing like keeping your feet on the ground...
Then it was the usual ballet run mania. I escaped home at 11.30am - in a monumental piece of bad planning I had originally arranged the party in the middle of the footie, so had to pull it forward to 1pm. Which if you have children you will know is horribly early for a party, particularly when you've organised a radio interview the same day...
I was still writing clues for the treasure hunt (the theme was pirates and mermaids) as people arrived, but it all seemed to go well. You know it's a success when at the end of the party the four pirates have to be physically manhandled off the fort/climbing frame...
Then it was a case of knuckling down to watch the football. I couldn't stand the tension so went upstairs to find things to do. One of the things I found to do was time to read an email my brother had sent round predicting Beckham would get injured, and Rooney would get sent off. Which is of course just what happened next. I am sure he cursed the match. You heard it here first.
No 1 who had been soooo certain we were going to win belatedly worked out what I had been telling her since the start, it's always a roller coaster with England and the downs are usually more frequent then the ups... We watched the penalty shoot out in disbelief (I mean, that Portugese guy, saving goals???? It could only happen to England...) I know they played crap most of the time, but that second half was valiant and it always makes penalties seem even more unfair.
Poo, said No 1 when it was over, and I couldn't disagree. OTOH, watching the remaining matches has been curiously restful...
Week5
I was out on Monday because of the twins day, and supposed to be playing tennis on Wednesday. (I know I shouldn't really organise things I want to do). Fortunately, as I have so much to do, it rained, so tennis was off, but it meant I got to finish my allotments. Finally, after two years. Now I've done it I think it's a pile of crap, but am hoping my agent might think otherwise. What is certain Spouse is never going to look at it unless I have a contract and a copy in my little sticky paw!
On Tuesday, I remembered belatedly it was no 3's Open Day. I could arrive early if I liked to pick her up (highly inconvenient as I was trying to work) - so I thought I'd whizz in at about 2.45, have a quick shufti round her class and then go and get no 4. It was only when I arrived, that I discovered there was a quiz to do, which involved visiting every single class. Now, as I have been going back and forth from the school for the last six years, there ain't a lot to discover about it, my only interest in going is to look at my daughter's work, and to please her obviously... So I ended up leaving her there, rushing off to get no 4 and then coming back and very bad temperedly doing the quiz...
On Thursday I foolishly offered to help with a pedestrian training day for year 3. No 2 was desperate for me to come and I never do anything like that, so I said yes. Oh dear oh dear. I had wanted to have a swim (the triathlon training is slowly improving, but I really need to get in the pool), but then discovered I needed to be at school at 9.20. I didn't escape till 11am, which left just enough time to get to the bank before nursery pick up.
Training was total nightmare. Getting eight year olds focussed on answering the questions you want them to answer rather then telling you everything they know (randomly) about road safety being somewhat trickier then envisaged. Also the idea was to get them to take responsibility for crossing the roads (not much pressure there, then). As the roads round their school are really hazardous (so much so when this scheme was first set up the person running it said she couldn't find anywhere safe to cross the road!), getting them to even get to the middle of an island took forever. Consequently a walk of say ten minutes took nearly an hour, and my tolerance levels were rock bottom by the end, I can tell you.
After lunch I took no 4 to tennis, before picking the others up and going back to the club where nos 1 & 3 then have their lessons. This is followed by no 1 going out to Guides till 8.30. I got everyone in the bath while she was out and then did the dreaded nit check. I am usually scrupulous about this, but of late have been a bit lax. Which is of course why I have just had a lesson in why you should never ever take your eye off the ball...
I found some eggs in no 3's hair, several small live ones in no4's and about 100 in no 2's... Aaggh! It's going to take me forever to get rid of them. Turns out no 2 has been sitting next to the class equivalent of Nitty Nora for the last few weeks - a fact I only picked up on yesterday when I went in her class...
By ten pm the children were all deloused and in bed and I was itchy as hell.
On Friday I went into no 3's assembly to watch her blow out candles on the cake they bring out for the purpose. Usually they do this first, so I was planning a quick escape and meeting a couple of other mums who had to be in the Junior school for their children's assembly. I should have been out by 9.15, if it hadn't been for the deputy head changing the order of events. I watched in desperation as child after child came up to display their good work and the clock was ticking unremittingly towards 9.30. In desperation I asked her to interrupt the praise fest, and managed to finally escape by 9.25. I raced across the playground, realised my friends had already gone and ran up the hill just as the children were about to go on stage - phew!
The show was a triumph of ambition over sense. You have to hand it to the nursery leader, she doesn't let a little thing like the fact she has a bunch of 3/4 year olds stop her from going for broke. The theme of the show was the jungle, so we had groups of tigers/monkeys/snakes/elephants etc. and a small band of explorers who had a phenomenal amount of words to remember. No4 was a tiger, and also had some lines, which I was amazed to hear her deliver loudly. She actually seemed to do rather a lot (which makes a change - normally I sit through the tedium for my child to pop up for two minutes) - dancing/singing with the other tigers/playing the drums/and having one little solo bit where she had to brush her teeth. The funniest thing about the show, though, was not the children, but the nursery leader, who enthusiastically encouraged them from the back, leaping up and down and pulling all manner of funny faces as she tried to get them to stick with the programme. It would have been worth videoing her alone...
We still have two and a half weeks to go and I have to endure two more sports days and give a talk to no 3's class about making books. Not only that, I seem to be met daily with requests for things I don't have: cardboard boxes, silver foil, cotton wool - all to make piles of crap that I will have to find space for at the end of term. Some day I would really love to swap places with some of the teachers, then they might have a slight clue as to what they are asking of us mums...
I don't know why people moan about the summer holidays - quite frankly, I can't wait....
Seeing Double
It having been National Twins Day this week and Mad Twin and I (her ephitet, not mine) having trogged down to St Thomas' for a Twins Party at the Twins Research Unit (sorry for the tongue twister), I thought it an appropriate moment to take stock and share some of the more interesting things about being a twin.
People often ask us what it's like being a twin. As we have no experience of anything else, it's quite a toughie to answer. My instinct now is to respond with, What's it like being a singleton? There you can't answer that either can you...
I can only go on my only experience here, but for me the best way of describing being a twin is to say that it is like looking at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection is you, but slightly off. That's kind of the way it is.
My sister and I share many characteristics: we are open, warm, friendly, passionate, impatient, stubborn and bad-tempered. We hate criticism and can be deeply oversensitive, imagining hurts and slights that don't exist, but that does make us quite sensitive and empathetic with others. (We're Cancerian you see - tough exterior, soft insides). We're also insanely competitive - especially with one another.
Somewhere along the line we must have come to some unwritten agreement that we would take some characteristics and make them more our own - so my sister tends to be more passionate then I am, whereas I tend to control my emotions slightly more. She is probably more focussed and disciplined then I am, whereas I have a tendency to fire off at random. She is the unconventional one - in marriage she chose a peace activist, I chose a dentist - and at school was the one most likely to be in trouble. She has a keen sense of injustice and is the first to leap up and say, it's not fair, whereas I am more inclined to shrug my shoulders and take a pragmatic response. And yet, I have a strong sense of fair play to, and when she chooses to she can be pragmatic.
I like to think we're the opposite sides of a circle, and together we make a whole. In fact, my favourite poem, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, by John Donne sums it up pretty well. In it, he compares two lovers being joined together like a set of compasses (bit odd, I know, but hey, he was a metaphysicist) - but he could equally be describing twins, when he ends the poem:
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’other foot, obliquely run,
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne
Being a twin is not without its difficulties sometimes.
There's the obvious one of being mistaken for one another. Time out of number I've been on a train or a bus somewhere and a complete stranger has claimed to know me. I usually just cut to the chase now and say, I think you must know my twin. (If it is a case of mistaken identity and they know neither of us, people tend to think I'm making it up!). Very often they do. But the problem can then arise that they think they know you. Which they don't. I'm not her, I want to scream, I'm me.
So reclaiming your identity can sometimes be tricky. Our brother used to drive as mad as children by claiming we were one person really. No, we're not, we would shriek before hurling ourselves on top of him. As he is six years older, this really wasn't a fair contest, and we always came off worst. But it set alight in me a strong desire for independence, and my mother thinks I spent a lot of my childhood trying to escape being a twin.
I can't remember that really, but I do remember the irritation of my sister always beating me (only marginally, but she did always do better) academically. I was always slightly better at English, and eventually she beat me at that too. I was an absolute cow about it, but fortunately she forgave me. Did I mention the great thing about being a twin? No one else will ever be as forgiving of your sins - what you do to your sister/brother you also do to yourself...
We very rarely fall out - we've only done it twice in our adult lives - and when we do it is cataclysmically awful. Until we make up, neither of us feels quite whole. Not something that those around you can understand too easily, but I'm sure other twins do. It is like the world is out of kilter and nothing fits or feels right. To be at odds with your twin if you are close to them is a pain beyond description. The relief when the argument is over cannot be overstated. It feels like you've come home.
All of this stuff is something non-twins may well have with other siblings, but we have other siblings too and the twin-bond is deeper. We were there at the start together, and I sometimes wonder what happens at the end - I was born half an hour later, do I pop off half an hour later too? I never like to dwell on that one too long. A world without my other half in it doesn't bear thinking about.
We also have shared memories in common - sometimes I know something happened to one of us, but can't remember which one. Or I look at a photo and I don't know if it's me I'm looking at.
The fun side of it is pretending to be each other, which we did a lot as children but now of course we're all grown up and don't do that kind of thing anymore...
But we do share a tendency to ring people up at the same time/send similar cards or presents. I'm not sure if that counts as being psychic, but we certainly think along similar lines and come up with similar conclusions. I guess that is something that other twins can relate to, too...
I'm not hung up on being a twin, and now we have families we don't often get together, but to go and spend a whole day with other twins felt like something of a treat. Several of us stood chatting outside the hospital while waiting for our other halves, who were incredibly easy to spot. Although even for a twin there was something slightly spooky about seeing hordes of identical couples walking up to St Thomas'. I felt at times as though I was in a very bad SF movie. I don't think I'd have been all that surprised if Shaun of the Dead had turned up...
Scary SF experiences aside, it was actually a great day. We all had our picture taken in the blazing sunshine (yay! fame at last), before heading off to lunch. All the twins were met were very jolly and convivial and chatting with them, it is quite apparent there is a huge commonality of experience amongst us. And for once in our lives it was nice not to feel like the odd ones out.
I am also hugely grateful to the lovely people at the TRU for letting Mad Twin and I talk about our experiences running the marathon.
One good turn deserves another, so....
The work the TRU unit does in using twins to research different diseases is hugely important and they are always looking for more twins for their database. If you're a twin/know of some twins and want to find out more:
ring: 020 7188 5555
or email: twinrecruitment@gstt.nhs.uk
With huge thanks to Ursula and Lynn at the Twins Unit for a wonderful day and to Professor Tim Spector for getting the unit going. It is a huge privilege to be part of the database!
And to my mad twin for being the other half of my whole.
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—
cannot admit Of absence,
'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
People often ask us what it's like being a twin. As we have no experience of anything else, it's quite a toughie to answer. My instinct now is to respond with, What's it like being a singleton? There you can't answer that either can you...
I can only go on my only experience here, but for me the best way of describing being a twin is to say that it is like looking at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection is you, but slightly off. That's kind of the way it is.
My sister and I share many characteristics: we are open, warm, friendly, passionate, impatient, stubborn and bad-tempered. We hate criticism and can be deeply oversensitive, imagining hurts and slights that don't exist, but that does make us quite sensitive and empathetic with others. (We're Cancerian you see - tough exterior, soft insides). We're also insanely competitive - especially with one another.
Somewhere along the line we must have come to some unwritten agreement that we would take some characteristics and make them more our own - so my sister tends to be more passionate then I am, whereas I tend to control my emotions slightly more. She is probably more focussed and disciplined then I am, whereas I have a tendency to fire off at random. She is the unconventional one - in marriage she chose a peace activist, I chose a dentist - and at school was the one most likely to be in trouble. She has a keen sense of injustice and is the first to leap up and say, it's not fair, whereas I am more inclined to shrug my shoulders and take a pragmatic response. And yet, I have a strong sense of fair play to, and when she chooses to she can be pragmatic.
I like to think we're the opposite sides of a circle, and together we make a whole. In fact, my favourite poem, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, by John Donne sums it up pretty well. In it, he compares two lovers being joined together like a set of compasses (bit odd, I know, but hey, he was a metaphysicist) - but he could equally be describing twins, when he ends the poem:
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’other foot, obliquely run,
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne
Being a twin is not without its difficulties sometimes.
There's the obvious one of being mistaken for one another. Time out of number I've been on a train or a bus somewhere and a complete stranger has claimed to know me. I usually just cut to the chase now and say, I think you must know my twin. (If it is a case of mistaken identity and they know neither of us, people tend to think I'm making it up!). Very often they do. But the problem can then arise that they think they know you. Which they don't. I'm not her, I want to scream, I'm me.
So reclaiming your identity can sometimes be tricky. Our brother used to drive as mad as children by claiming we were one person really. No, we're not, we would shriek before hurling ourselves on top of him. As he is six years older, this really wasn't a fair contest, and we always came off worst. But it set alight in me a strong desire for independence, and my mother thinks I spent a lot of my childhood trying to escape being a twin.
I can't remember that really, but I do remember the irritation of my sister always beating me (only marginally, but she did always do better) academically. I was always slightly better at English, and eventually she beat me at that too. I was an absolute cow about it, but fortunately she forgave me. Did I mention the great thing about being a twin? No one else will ever be as forgiving of your sins - what you do to your sister/brother you also do to yourself...
We very rarely fall out - we've only done it twice in our adult lives - and when we do it is cataclysmically awful. Until we make up, neither of us feels quite whole. Not something that those around you can understand too easily, but I'm sure other twins do. It is like the world is out of kilter and nothing fits or feels right. To be at odds with your twin if you are close to them is a pain beyond description. The relief when the argument is over cannot be overstated. It feels like you've come home.
All of this stuff is something non-twins may well have with other siblings, but we have other siblings too and the twin-bond is deeper. We were there at the start together, and I sometimes wonder what happens at the end - I was born half an hour later, do I pop off half an hour later too? I never like to dwell on that one too long. A world without my other half in it doesn't bear thinking about.
We also have shared memories in common - sometimes I know something happened to one of us, but can't remember which one. Or I look at a photo and I don't know if it's me I'm looking at.
The fun side of it is pretending to be each other, which we did a lot as children but now of course we're all grown up and don't do that kind of thing anymore...
But we do share a tendency to ring people up at the same time/send similar cards or presents. I'm not sure if that counts as being psychic, but we certainly think along similar lines and come up with similar conclusions. I guess that is something that other twins can relate to, too...
I'm not hung up on being a twin, and now we have families we don't often get together, but to go and spend a whole day with other twins felt like something of a treat. Several of us stood chatting outside the hospital while waiting for our other halves, who were incredibly easy to spot. Although even for a twin there was something slightly spooky about seeing hordes of identical couples walking up to St Thomas'. I felt at times as though I was in a very bad SF movie. I don't think I'd have been all that surprised if Shaun of the Dead had turned up...
Scary SF experiences aside, it was actually a great day. We all had our picture taken in the blazing sunshine (yay! fame at last), before heading off to lunch. All the twins were met were very jolly and convivial and chatting with them, it is quite apparent there is a huge commonality of experience amongst us. And for once in our lives it was nice not to feel like the odd ones out.
I am also hugely grateful to the lovely people at the TRU for letting Mad Twin and I talk about our experiences running the marathon.
One good turn deserves another, so....
The work the TRU unit does in using twins to research different diseases is hugely important and they are always looking for more twins for their database. If you're a twin/know of some twins and want to find out more:
ring: 020 7188 5555
or email: twinrecruitment@gstt.nhs.uk
With huge thanks to Ursula and Lynn at the Twins Unit for a wonderful day and to Professor Tim Spector for getting the unit going. It is a huge privilege to be part of the database!
And to my mad twin for being the other half of my whole.
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—
cannot admit Of absence,
'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Happy Father's Day
It was Father's Day on Sunday. So not unnaturally the offspring all had to do make cards for their dad.
No 1's bore the legend, Daddy and doggy (wishful thinking or what) were walking in the park, when out of a bush leapt four little girls (how alarming) and they shouted, Happy Father's Day. Which coincidentally is also what they shouted in the recordable card I got for them. (Boy did I regret that!)
No 2 wrote Spouse a poem, which went like this:
Father's Day has come at last,
Your trying to hide it by wearing a mask,
Sitting in a room with a glassfull of beer (out of the mouths of babes!)
Now close your eyes and come right here...
No 2 is demonstrating an alarming propensity to show huge discernment about her parents - at her Open Day yesterday I came across a piece of writing in which she declared that her mother would watch Love Films if left to her own devices, while her dad would watch Scary Films. Which is just about right... though I do have a penchant for clever horror flicks...
No3 had drawn a picture of Super Dad. Look it's Super Dad, ran her caption. Wiat a minute I wonder who's dad it is... Wow it's my dad.
I was pretty impressed by this effort considering she isn't quite six yet, until I found no2's birthday offering which more or less said the same thing...
No 4 can't write (in fact I am beginning to wonder why I have sent her to a posh nursery - oh yes, it was so I could work - given that all the others who were deprived at preschool could write their names by now.) so no 2 kindly drew her card and wrote Happy Father's Day on it for her. Inspired by this no 4 then trogged off and came up with her own version, which had a picture of a purple creature on it. Is that me? asked Spouse brightly. Oh no, was the reply. It's an alien. Hmm... Wonder what Freud would have made of that...
Fortunately all of this activity kept them from coming in too early on Sunday morning (I hastily shoved them all downstairs at seven thirty with strict instructions that Dad really didn't want breakfast in bed just yet...)
It managed to stave them off for an hour, after which a little cohort appeared at the door bearing bowls of muesli, bread and cold tea. When no 1 learnt to make tea last year, I felt that at last my years of parenthood had been to some purpose. It will have been to good purpose once they learn to make a hot cup of tea...
Which brings me neatly on to my dear old dad, for whom the sole reason for having as many children as he did (I have seven siblings) was so he never went short of a cup of tea. I can't actually recall having made him cards for Father's Day as a child, as I don't think people went in for it much then. In fact, I think when he did start getting cards around the time I was in my teens he used to moan about it being commercial nonsense. Although, I suspect we'd have known about it if he hadn't had any...
Sadly my dad is no longer with us. He is in fact my dear departed old dad. Or DDOD for short. It's ok, it's been a long time now, and I am quite used to it. But on days like Sunday, it does suddenly strike you with a pang. There is a space which used to be inhabited by him, which will always be a vast chasm. And no one else will ever fill it. I suspect Spouse feels something similar. We lost his dad three years ago (I know very careless of us). And while for both our dads, it was in many ways a release, and they had both had what they would have termed a good innings... still. There is a poignancy now in the only dad in the family being Spouse. And while our children celebrate having him, we mourn still the loss of ours. And I suppose we always will.
The DDODs met on more then one occasion and alcohol was usually involved (that's where we get it from then). The first time they met, just before our wedding, in honour of the fact they were both WW2 vets (mine in the navy, Spouse's in the army), my father decided to bring in some rum to celebrate. He also did the cooking while we were out. By the time we got back most of the rum had gone, the dinner was cooked, and my dad was slightly squiffy to say the least. As mil is German we then had a Don't Mention the War kind of evening, except that's all they could talk about as it was all they had in common. Mil usually is sanguine about it, but after a few drinks she does tend to get a bit teary when she recalls having to flee her home. My dad, a sensitive soul, kept whispering to me sotto voce, Oh Dear, I think I've upset your mother in law. It wasn't too long before Spouse and I escaped to the pub...
On another, equally memorable occasion, the two mums had gone to bed and Spouse and I sat chewing the fat with the dads. By about midnight, both dads were well in their cups and my DDOFIL started telling vaguely risque jokes. My DDOD looked like he wanted to respond, but I could see I was cramping both their styles, and they were horrified that I knew what they were talking about... So I did the decent thing and slid gracefully off to bed. All night I heard a murmur of voices, which would suddenly get very loud and animated and then tail off into a mumble.
Spouse eventually left them to it, at about 2am. He had been sitting acolytelike at their feet, while they imparted the wisdom of their years, which as the evening wore on became somehwat more questionable. As he was there, he had to take the lackey role and keep refilling their glasses. In the end he poured my dad a large glass of brandy, his a large glass of whisky and then left them both to it.
In the morning my fil appeared bright and breezy about 9 am, but my dad didn't get up till lunchtime, when he appeared looking pale and wan and proceeded to drink water for the rest of the day. It was only many many years later that fil admitted to me that he had got up at 6am to sneak a quick whisky which kept him going for the rest of the day...
Which is why, much as I miss them both, I feel ok about it all really. Because I have this vision of my dad sitting on his cloud, his harp beside him, halo slightly slipping, a glass of claret in hand, tossing his head and saying, Father's Day, what a lot of nonsense. And sitting next to him, with a glass of whisky in his, fil, nodding wisely and responding with , Couldn't agree more old boy! Chin! Chin!
So I raise a glass to my two dads, wherever they may be. It was great to have them as long as we did. And I know they'll both appreciate the fact that we no longer have to waste our money on them...
For my two dads with all my lovexxxx
No 1's bore the legend, Daddy and doggy (wishful thinking or what) were walking in the park, when out of a bush leapt four little girls (how alarming) and they shouted, Happy Father's Day. Which coincidentally is also what they shouted in the recordable card I got for them. (Boy did I regret that!)
No 2 wrote Spouse a poem, which went like this:
Father's Day has come at last,
Your trying to hide it by wearing a mask,
Sitting in a room with a glassfull of beer (out of the mouths of babes!)
Now close your eyes and come right here...
No 2 is demonstrating an alarming propensity to show huge discernment about her parents - at her Open Day yesterday I came across a piece of writing in which she declared that her mother would watch Love Films if left to her own devices, while her dad would watch Scary Films. Which is just about right... though I do have a penchant for clever horror flicks...
No3 had drawn a picture of Super Dad. Look it's Super Dad, ran her caption. Wiat a minute I wonder who's dad it is... Wow it's my dad.
I was pretty impressed by this effort considering she isn't quite six yet, until I found no2's birthday offering which more or less said the same thing...
No 4 can't write (in fact I am beginning to wonder why I have sent her to a posh nursery - oh yes, it was so I could work - given that all the others who were deprived at preschool could write their names by now.) so no 2 kindly drew her card and wrote Happy Father's Day on it for her. Inspired by this no 4 then trogged off and came up with her own version, which had a picture of a purple creature on it. Is that me? asked Spouse brightly. Oh no, was the reply. It's an alien. Hmm... Wonder what Freud would have made of that...
Fortunately all of this activity kept them from coming in too early on Sunday morning (I hastily shoved them all downstairs at seven thirty with strict instructions that Dad really didn't want breakfast in bed just yet...)
It managed to stave them off for an hour, after which a little cohort appeared at the door bearing bowls of muesli, bread and cold tea. When no 1 learnt to make tea last year, I felt that at last my years of parenthood had been to some purpose. It will have been to good purpose once they learn to make a hot cup of tea...
Which brings me neatly on to my dear old dad, for whom the sole reason for having as many children as he did (I have seven siblings) was so he never went short of a cup of tea. I can't actually recall having made him cards for Father's Day as a child, as I don't think people went in for it much then. In fact, I think when he did start getting cards around the time I was in my teens he used to moan about it being commercial nonsense. Although, I suspect we'd have known about it if he hadn't had any...
Sadly my dad is no longer with us. He is in fact my dear departed old dad. Or DDOD for short. It's ok, it's been a long time now, and I am quite used to it. But on days like Sunday, it does suddenly strike you with a pang. There is a space which used to be inhabited by him, which will always be a vast chasm. And no one else will ever fill it. I suspect Spouse feels something similar. We lost his dad three years ago (I know very careless of us). And while for both our dads, it was in many ways a release, and they had both had what they would have termed a good innings... still. There is a poignancy now in the only dad in the family being Spouse. And while our children celebrate having him, we mourn still the loss of ours. And I suppose we always will.
The DDODs met on more then one occasion and alcohol was usually involved (that's where we get it from then). The first time they met, just before our wedding, in honour of the fact they were both WW2 vets (mine in the navy, Spouse's in the army), my father decided to bring in some rum to celebrate. He also did the cooking while we were out. By the time we got back most of the rum had gone, the dinner was cooked, and my dad was slightly squiffy to say the least. As mil is German we then had a Don't Mention the War kind of evening, except that's all they could talk about as it was all they had in common. Mil usually is sanguine about it, but after a few drinks she does tend to get a bit teary when she recalls having to flee her home. My dad, a sensitive soul, kept whispering to me sotto voce, Oh Dear, I think I've upset your mother in law. It wasn't too long before Spouse and I escaped to the pub...
On another, equally memorable occasion, the two mums had gone to bed and Spouse and I sat chewing the fat with the dads. By about midnight, both dads were well in their cups and my DDOFIL started telling vaguely risque jokes. My DDOD looked like he wanted to respond, but I could see I was cramping both their styles, and they were horrified that I knew what they were talking about... So I did the decent thing and slid gracefully off to bed. All night I heard a murmur of voices, which would suddenly get very loud and animated and then tail off into a mumble.
Spouse eventually left them to it, at about 2am. He had been sitting acolytelike at their feet, while they imparted the wisdom of their years, which as the evening wore on became somehwat more questionable. As he was there, he had to take the lackey role and keep refilling their glasses. In the end he poured my dad a large glass of brandy, his a large glass of whisky and then left them both to it.
In the morning my fil appeared bright and breezy about 9 am, but my dad didn't get up till lunchtime, when he appeared looking pale and wan and proceeded to drink water for the rest of the day. It was only many many years later that fil admitted to me that he had got up at 6am to sneak a quick whisky which kept him going for the rest of the day...
Which is why, much as I miss them both, I feel ok about it all really. Because I have this vision of my dad sitting on his cloud, his harp beside him, halo slightly slipping, a glass of claret in hand, tossing his head and saying, Father's Day, what a lot of nonsense. And sitting next to him, with a glass of whisky in his, fil, nodding wisely and responding with , Couldn't agree more old boy! Chin! Chin!
So I raise a glass to my two dads, wherever they may be. It was great to have them as long as we did. And I know they'll both appreciate the fact that we no longer have to waste our money on them...
For my two dads with all my lovexxxx
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Busy, busy, busy...
Have been quiet this last week because all of a sudden I've been too busy to breathe. Not that I'm complaining, just that things all happen at once in this house.
After the excitement of the party last week ( I sold 38 copies, more then Eamonn Holmes did, when he visited our Ottakars the other week! - I've blogged about it in more detail at the party: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com), we had an incredibly busy weekend. We were knackered from the start as our local council had inconveniently decided to dig up our road last week - in the middle of the night...
Monday/Tuesday we were kept awake till 2am by lorries trundling up the road. This wasn't too bad, and was to a point almost soporific. The crunch came when said lorries reversed back down again, usually just at the point when you were dropping off. Naturally in these health and safety conscious days they bleeped as they reversed. Plus they had nice bright orange flashy lights which turned our bedroom into a disco. Great. On Tuesday I rang up the council to complain and was put onto our local councillor. I clearly wasn't the only person who had made a fuss, as he told me he was working his way down the list.
By Wednesday it looked as though most of the work had been done, so we foolishly presumed it was all over. How wrong we were. At 9.30pm the drilling started. And not any old drill you understand, but a huge f***off, drill to end all drills. And it didn't stop till 4.30am. The house was shaking at times. If we made that much noise pollution we would get served with an asbo.
On Thursday, we really really thought it was all over. But no. At 10pm the drilling started again, and this time stopped at 4am. By this time Spouse and I were incandescent with fury and fruitlessly rang every number we could find to complain: our local council emergency number (a man in the Midlands who simply logs your call and tells you to ring tomorrow), the police (no one can help till tomorrow), the emergency number provided by the diggers (unobtainable), the local county council (where Spouse left an uncharacteristically rude message), and finally our poor benighted councillor, who really earned his money last week...
On Friday the police rang back and told me that it wasn't their responsibility (I had been told they had authorised the work), so basically everyone was passing the buck. I did eventually hear from the county council who said, did I want to lodge a formal complaint? You bet I did!!! The woman concerned did at least say they would look into it, so I await further developments with bated breath... At least they seem to have finished now.
Friday night, we had arranged to go out for a drink as I wanted to see one or two people who hadn't made the party. But being so exhausted from all this exciting activity chez nous, we didn't stay out late and were in bed by eleven, as Saturday was full of our usual ballet run shenanigans. We had also been invited by some friends to a barbecue to watch the footie.
No 1 has developed a great interest in the footie - so much so that I spent Sat morning finding her a fantasy football team - I keep trying to gently bring her down to earth by suggesting that we might not win. But she won't have it. She is sure we will. I wish I shared her optimism. I did tell her she's going to have her heart broken and she looked at me baffled. Well she is only ten. She doesn't yet know the agony of a penalty shoot out...
The barbie was lovely - we sat in the sunshine while the sprogs played. I also reencountered my doggie friend, Toffee, who I've written about in my book (it's on my website, www.marathonmum.com if you're interested). Basically Toffee managed to get me lost in a tiny village in Spain - and on meeting him again I realised why. When his mistress told him to go left, he went right. I was running with a dog with no sense of direction... It all makes perfect sense now.
Our life being what it is, we were not only invited to the barbie, but also a fiftieth later in the evening. So we had to dash back home with the sprogs, settle them down, get spruced up and head off out again at about 9.30. It was a glorious evening and we didn't end up leaving till 2. We pretty much danced all night, which was fun - though our dj mate would keep playing our favourite tracks as I was trying to shoe horn Spouse home. I was driving so was stone cold sober, but I did have to get up early as no 2 was getting all togged up in her Holy Communion glad rags to have a party to celebrate the occasion. And we had the school summer fete... oh joy.
So I took the sprogs to church in the morning, while Spouse did men's things in the garden. All apart from no 4, who got up complaining of a headache, and then keeled over in her bedroom as she was getting dressed. I think she had mild sunstroke... Fortunately it didn't last long. Luckily no one fell in the font at church this time either...
Then it was home for a quick lunch before dashing out to school.
I must have MUG written on my forehead. I really hate school fetes. And I really hate helping on stalls. And yet I always find myself both attending them and helping. As I have two children in the juniors, I had two stalls to help on. And no1 was taking part in a dance display so I had to rearrange both stints so I saw her perform. When I got there I discovered that the dance routine was taking place later then I was told, so I arrived twenty minutes late for the putting I was supposed to be helping with.
The first stall I was meant to help on turned out to be overstaffed, so with great relief I took the kids round and they quickly liberated me of nearly all the money I had. Nos 3&4 insisted on queuing up for tatoos, only for them to decide they were too itchy so I had to rub them off. An hour later they wanted more... Nos 1&2 had their hair dyed - no 2 declared that she'd never do it again when she realised how difficult it was to wash out.
It was very hot, I got heat rash, and was very bad tempered. However, the kids loved it, no 1's dancing was great and one of her teachers had a very fine band which played my kind of music all day long.
So it wasn't a complete washout....
I got home, sorted out tea, left Spouse to put the kids to bed and headed out for a very welcome game of tennis.
I was so knackered when I got back I was sure I would sleep the sleep of the dead.
The only problem is our bedroom was so hot I found it rather difficult to sleep.
I think I need a holiday....
After the excitement of the party last week ( I sold 38 copies, more then Eamonn Holmes did, when he visited our Ottakars the other week! - I've blogged about it in more detail at the party: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com), we had an incredibly busy weekend. We were knackered from the start as our local council had inconveniently decided to dig up our road last week - in the middle of the night...
Monday/Tuesday we were kept awake till 2am by lorries trundling up the road. This wasn't too bad, and was to a point almost soporific. The crunch came when said lorries reversed back down again, usually just at the point when you were dropping off. Naturally in these health and safety conscious days they bleeped as they reversed. Plus they had nice bright orange flashy lights which turned our bedroom into a disco. Great. On Tuesday I rang up the council to complain and was put onto our local councillor. I clearly wasn't the only person who had made a fuss, as he told me he was working his way down the list.
By Wednesday it looked as though most of the work had been done, so we foolishly presumed it was all over. How wrong we were. At 9.30pm the drilling started. And not any old drill you understand, but a huge f***off, drill to end all drills. And it didn't stop till 4.30am. The house was shaking at times. If we made that much noise pollution we would get served with an asbo.
On Thursday, we really really thought it was all over. But no. At 10pm the drilling started again, and this time stopped at 4am. By this time Spouse and I were incandescent with fury and fruitlessly rang every number we could find to complain: our local council emergency number (a man in the Midlands who simply logs your call and tells you to ring tomorrow), the police (no one can help till tomorrow), the emergency number provided by the diggers (unobtainable), the local county council (where Spouse left an uncharacteristically rude message), and finally our poor benighted councillor, who really earned his money last week...
On Friday the police rang back and told me that it wasn't their responsibility (I had been told they had authorised the work), so basically everyone was passing the buck. I did eventually hear from the county council who said, did I want to lodge a formal complaint? You bet I did!!! The woman concerned did at least say they would look into it, so I await further developments with bated breath... At least they seem to have finished now.
Friday night, we had arranged to go out for a drink as I wanted to see one or two people who hadn't made the party. But being so exhausted from all this exciting activity chez nous, we didn't stay out late and were in bed by eleven, as Saturday was full of our usual ballet run shenanigans. We had also been invited by some friends to a barbecue to watch the footie.
No 1 has developed a great interest in the footie - so much so that I spent Sat morning finding her a fantasy football team - I keep trying to gently bring her down to earth by suggesting that we might not win. But she won't have it. She is sure we will. I wish I shared her optimism. I did tell her she's going to have her heart broken and she looked at me baffled. Well she is only ten. She doesn't yet know the agony of a penalty shoot out...
The barbie was lovely - we sat in the sunshine while the sprogs played. I also reencountered my doggie friend, Toffee, who I've written about in my book (it's on my website, www.marathonmum.com if you're interested). Basically Toffee managed to get me lost in a tiny village in Spain - and on meeting him again I realised why. When his mistress told him to go left, he went right. I was running with a dog with no sense of direction... It all makes perfect sense now.
Our life being what it is, we were not only invited to the barbie, but also a fiftieth later in the evening. So we had to dash back home with the sprogs, settle them down, get spruced up and head off out again at about 9.30. It was a glorious evening and we didn't end up leaving till 2. We pretty much danced all night, which was fun - though our dj mate would keep playing our favourite tracks as I was trying to shoe horn Spouse home. I was driving so was stone cold sober, but I did have to get up early as no 2 was getting all togged up in her Holy Communion glad rags to have a party to celebrate the occasion. And we had the school summer fete... oh joy.
So I took the sprogs to church in the morning, while Spouse did men's things in the garden. All apart from no 4, who got up complaining of a headache, and then keeled over in her bedroom as she was getting dressed. I think she had mild sunstroke... Fortunately it didn't last long. Luckily no one fell in the font at church this time either...
Then it was home for a quick lunch before dashing out to school.
I must have MUG written on my forehead. I really hate school fetes. And I really hate helping on stalls. And yet I always find myself both attending them and helping. As I have two children in the juniors, I had two stalls to help on. And no1 was taking part in a dance display so I had to rearrange both stints so I saw her perform. When I got there I discovered that the dance routine was taking place later then I was told, so I arrived twenty minutes late for the putting I was supposed to be helping with.
The first stall I was meant to help on turned out to be overstaffed, so with great relief I took the kids round and they quickly liberated me of nearly all the money I had. Nos 3&4 insisted on queuing up for tatoos, only for them to decide they were too itchy so I had to rub them off. An hour later they wanted more... Nos 1&2 had their hair dyed - no 2 declared that she'd never do it again when she realised how difficult it was to wash out.
It was very hot, I got heat rash, and was very bad tempered. However, the kids loved it, no 1's dancing was great and one of her teachers had a very fine band which played my kind of music all day long.
So it wasn't a complete washout....
I got home, sorted out tea, left Spouse to put the kids to bed and headed out for a very welcome game of tennis.
I was so knackered when I got back I was sure I would sleep the sleep of the dead.
The only problem is our bedroom was so hot I found it rather difficult to sleep.
I think I need a holiday....
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Party on down...
The good news is, the books arrived. Phew!!! And I still have some fingernails left.
The better news is, that my online launch party is now officially open.
So get your dancing (or should I say running) shoes on and come on down.
Eat drink and be merry - the great thing about an online launch party is that you won't end up with a hangover or putting on weight.
I'm just off for a run to help me thrash out my speech tonight, then I'm going to be dashing about sorting things out for tonight.
Hope to see some of you later in cyber space!
And thanks for the support.
I seem to have had a few new readers in the last couple of weeks - so hope you enjoy the blog!
The better news is, that my online launch party is now officially open.
So get your dancing (or should I say running) shoes on and come on down.
Eat drink and be merry - the great thing about an online launch party is that you won't end up with a hangover or putting on weight.
I'm just off for a run to help me thrash out my speech tonight, then I'm going to be dashing about sorting things out for tonight.
Hope to see some of you later in cyber space!
And thanks for the support.
I seem to have had a few new readers in the last couple of weeks - so hope you enjoy the blog!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
We have lift off - kind of...
I am delighted to report that if you go on to Amazon you should now be able find my book by keying in the title: Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum by Julia Williams - I found it by using Quick Search. Apparently it can take 4-6 weeks via Amazon, but if you can't wait (and I'm sure you can't!!!) Drop into my launch party and order the book at a discount of £5.99 plus p&p, by going to: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com.
Am currently suffering from last minute nerves as books still not with me owing to technical difficulties. They are allegedly printing as we speak, so fingers crossed I should get them in time. Otherwise I will be holding a bookless launch party. But as a woman who had a wedding without a wedding ring, I suppose that follows a pattern rather. And as my sister remarked it is rather postmodern....
See you in cyberspace on Thursday when I hope I'll have some books to sell...
Am currently suffering from last minute nerves as books still not with me owing to technical difficulties. They are allegedly printing as we speak, so fingers crossed I should get them in time. Otherwise I will be holding a bookless launch party. But as a woman who had a wedding without a wedding ring, I suppose that follows a pattern rather. And as my sister remarked it is rather postmodern....
See you in cyberspace on Thursday when I hope I'll have some books to sell...
Monday, June 05, 2006
Ein Gutes Fahrt Nach Deutschland
Well at least I think that's the right way of saying we had a good trip. The children of course find the word Fahrt - which sounds like the word you think it does hilarious. And were on the floor to discover that the word for Daddy is Vati - pronounced Farty. Oh such larks.
Being as I am a big wuss about flying, I usually get myself in a lather before getting on a plane. Since the advent of children I have found they keep me busy enough to calm the nerves a bit, but at the same time I also have to work quite hard to keep the panic out of my voice on the take off and landing - the bits I really really hate. Nerves not helped this time by the sight of machine gunned cops patrolling Heathrow, nor by the rather bumpy landing in Hamburg - apparently it's very windy there and always like that. But we had the two littlies screaming that their ears hurt (lucky Spouse was dealing with them), no 2 lay dramatically across my lap, having twigged I think( despite my best efforts) that I was none too keen on events, and no1 apparently clutched my mother's hand so tightly she thought it would break...
Still we landed in one piece and then it was off for the adventure that is finding a hire car in a foreign land. On one trip to Spain Spouse disappeared for nearly an hour as the hire car place was two miles up the road from the airport, and I was left with four rather restless children and lots of luggage...
This time we were helped by the fact that though mil needs assisted passage and walks very slowly with a walker she calls her Steel Horse, my mother is still pretty able, so we deposited the grannies (or the Omis as they are known in Germany) with the offspring and set off in search for the Avis office. We had arrived at Terminal 1, so of course the Avis office was in Terminal 2. We eventually found it, got the keys to our car - or rather bus, it was really a Mercedes van that seated nine - to discover that said bus was on the fourth floor of the furthest carpark. After debating whether to let the grannies know what was going on or just get the car, we opted for the latter and then spent a merry half hour getting lost in the one way system in Hamburg. Once we had found the right route and picked everyone up, we spent another merry hour or so driving through Hamburg in the pouring rain before eventually finding the right motorway. Normally we fly to Hannover which is only an hour away from our destination of Wolfsburg, but this time we couldn't get flights when we wanted so now we were a further two hours away, and we had arrived at six pm. The hotel we stay in is rather quiet so they don't actually have any staff on on Sundays, and we had to pick up the keys from my mil's rellies, who luckily live just down the road. Once unpacked and children happily deposited with grannies, we headed across the road for a quick drink in the very freundlichen gasthof before bedtime - originally we thought we might get a meal there, but it got so late we ended up feeding everyone from a rather dodgy looking bratwurst vendor at a fair that we happened to past.
The gasthof was just as it had been on our previous visit and the owner came over to greet us like longlost friends which was rather nice - as was the mindblowing schapps he also offered us on the house. So Spouse and I staggered our way home in preparation for an earlyish start with the rellies up the road who were coming for breakfast.
Actually the rellies up the road aren't really, or rather one of them is of a kind in that his mother was step great aunt to my mil, but the family connection has gone on so long now we all treat them like family. They are very jolly and kept us highly amused at breakfast although the Kindern spent most of their time in a fog and hadn't a clue what was being said to them. After breakfast it was off to visit mil's rather fearsome sister, who has MS and has lived in a home for the last thirty years where she merrily bosses everyone about and gives everyone merry hell. She is a splendid example of a difficult aunt. Every family ought to have one. We did, but ours has popped off now. However, we were in trouble the moment we arrived because we were late, so you can't have everything.
We left mil with her and headed for the rather splendid pool that graces the outskirts of Wolfsburg, where we all machen vielen spass mucking about with the wave machine and going on rides round the jet stream which takes you outside. Although it rained the whole day luckily the sun came out for that bit.
Then it was back to pick up mil and have dinner in the hotel with mil's best friend and husband. Sadly best friend now a bit Alzheimerish, so I spent the whole meal confirming that Ja, Spouse was Mein Mann, and er she had actually come to the wedding. Still she seemed pretty happy and certainly hadn't forgotten mil, which was great. Plus another school friend had tipped up for the party so that was good too. And the bonus for me was that for the first time ever in Germany I found myself understanding a four way conversation. Maybe now they're all old they speak slower...
The week progressed in similar vein - we had two visits to different farms, and luckily this time mil didn't arrange so many things that we clashed appointment times with people (one year Spouse and she went to tea witn one friend while I waited with fil and the children at another, and everyone was offering the inevitable Kaffee and Kuchen that you get in Germany). We were also able to show the children again the fabulous Wolfsburg Castle where their Great Granny grew up - well technically she lived in a little house in the corner of the grounds which is now part of the building which houses the castle museum. Her father was the Riding Master to the Count von Schulenberg, and his job in World War I was to make sure the Count made it back from the Somme in one piece. My family is dead boring by comparison, so I find it all fascinating.
Spouse also dragged us all around the Volkswagen works and this time we took a tour of the works themselves. Personally I think I've seen all I need to know about robots making cars from those Picasso car ads, so I took the opportunity to have a little snooze, but the others seemed to enjoy it...
We also had a fabulous day at the house of the non-rellies. They live in an old farmhouse which has been in the house for generations and have the most magical garden with a beautiful pond, tons of wonderful plants, the neatest lawn imaginable and lots of nooks and crannies for the kids to hide in. It's also full of wonderful old stone memorials they've picked up on their travels and a water feature to end all water features made of an old stone mill. Charlie Dimmock eat your heart out...
So we had a jolly meal with them, followed a day later by an equally jolly meal with some of mil's rellies who own a farm in what used to be East Germany. By dint of sheer hard work and determination they have built up their milk farm from scratch again since the Wall came down. The kids were wowed by the cows and the two little pigs they saw (we didn't let them know that the piggies weren't likely to make it to adulthood for fear of turning them vegetarian), although unfortunately for me they all took a shine to the dog we took for a walk. Oh dear. With the demise of Georgie I feel my dogless days maybe numbered...
We then had a fabulous walk around the town walls of Gardelegen, the mediaeval town where mil grew up, before a short trip out to Isenschnibbe, the estate she lived on as a child (her father was an estate manager for the Prince of Lippott-Detmolt - I told you her background was interesting...) before heading home to eat with our friends across the road.
Our final day was spent with mil's sister and another trip to the pool, before a final very jolly meal in a restaurant owned by rellies of the non rellies.
All in all it was a great trip, made infinitely better by having an extra pair of hands in the form of my capable mother, the fact that the children are now older, and my sudden whizzy ability to speak German. And I was only marginally terrified on the way home when I spotted a man with a beard carrying a suspicious looking computer case. I thought he'd checked in and then left the airport, but then he popped up in Duty Free. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted him on the plane, or of it...
Luckily my fears were groundless and we had a smooth trip down, and though I still shut my eyes, I did manage to peep out and see the millenium wheel on the way down. And now I can breathe a sigh of relief as it will be a year or so before I have to go on a plane again...
Fur unser erlebtetes Familie und Freunden in Deutschland, die haben uns ein gutes schones Besuch gemacht.
Being as I am a big wuss about flying, I usually get myself in a lather before getting on a plane. Since the advent of children I have found they keep me busy enough to calm the nerves a bit, but at the same time I also have to work quite hard to keep the panic out of my voice on the take off and landing - the bits I really really hate. Nerves not helped this time by the sight of machine gunned cops patrolling Heathrow, nor by the rather bumpy landing in Hamburg - apparently it's very windy there and always like that. But we had the two littlies screaming that their ears hurt (lucky Spouse was dealing with them), no 2 lay dramatically across my lap, having twigged I think( despite my best efforts) that I was none too keen on events, and no1 apparently clutched my mother's hand so tightly she thought it would break...
Still we landed in one piece and then it was off for the adventure that is finding a hire car in a foreign land. On one trip to Spain Spouse disappeared for nearly an hour as the hire car place was two miles up the road from the airport, and I was left with four rather restless children and lots of luggage...
This time we were helped by the fact that though mil needs assisted passage and walks very slowly with a walker she calls her Steel Horse, my mother is still pretty able, so we deposited the grannies (or the Omis as they are known in Germany) with the offspring and set off in search for the Avis office. We had arrived at Terminal 1, so of course the Avis office was in Terminal 2. We eventually found it, got the keys to our car - or rather bus, it was really a Mercedes van that seated nine - to discover that said bus was on the fourth floor of the furthest carpark. After debating whether to let the grannies know what was going on or just get the car, we opted for the latter and then spent a merry half hour getting lost in the one way system in Hamburg. Once we had found the right route and picked everyone up, we spent another merry hour or so driving through Hamburg in the pouring rain before eventually finding the right motorway. Normally we fly to Hannover which is only an hour away from our destination of Wolfsburg, but this time we couldn't get flights when we wanted so now we were a further two hours away, and we had arrived at six pm. The hotel we stay in is rather quiet so they don't actually have any staff on on Sundays, and we had to pick up the keys from my mil's rellies, who luckily live just down the road. Once unpacked and children happily deposited with grannies, we headed across the road for a quick drink in the very freundlichen gasthof before bedtime - originally we thought we might get a meal there, but it got so late we ended up feeding everyone from a rather dodgy looking bratwurst vendor at a fair that we happened to past.
The gasthof was just as it had been on our previous visit and the owner came over to greet us like longlost friends which was rather nice - as was the mindblowing schapps he also offered us on the house. So Spouse and I staggered our way home in preparation for an earlyish start with the rellies up the road who were coming for breakfast.
Actually the rellies up the road aren't really, or rather one of them is of a kind in that his mother was step great aunt to my mil, but the family connection has gone on so long now we all treat them like family. They are very jolly and kept us highly amused at breakfast although the Kindern spent most of their time in a fog and hadn't a clue what was being said to them. After breakfast it was off to visit mil's rather fearsome sister, who has MS and has lived in a home for the last thirty years where she merrily bosses everyone about and gives everyone merry hell. She is a splendid example of a difficult aunt. Every family ought to have one. We did, but ours has popped off now. However, we were in trouble the moment we arrived because we were late, so you can't have everything.
We left mil with her and headed for the rather splendid pool that graces the outskirts of Wolfsburg, where we all machen vielen spass mucking about with the wave machine and going on rides round the jet stream which takes you outside. Although it rained the whole day luckily the sun came out for that bit.
Then it was back to pick up mil and have dinner in the hotel with mil's best friend and husband. Sadly best friend now a bit Alzheimerish, so I spent the whole meal confirming that Ja, Spouse was Mein Mann, and er she had actually come to the wedding. Still she seemed pretty happy and certainly hadn't forgotten mil, which was great. Plus another school friend had tipped up for the party so that was good too. And the bonus for me was that for the first time ever in Germany I found myself understanding a four way conversation. Maybe now they're all old they speak slower...
The week progressed in similar vein - we had two visits to different farms, and luckily this time mil didn't arrange so many things that we clashed appointment times with people (one year Spouse and she went to tea witn one friend while I waited with fil and the children at another, and everyone was offering the inevitable Kaffee and Kuchen that you get in Germany). We were also able to show the children again the fabulous Wolfsburg Castle where their Great Granny grew up - well technically she lived in a little house in the corner of the grounds which is now part of the building which houses the castle museum. Her father was the Riding Master to the Count von Schulenberg, and his job in World War I was to make sure the Count made it back from the Somme in one piece. My family is dead boring by comparison, so I find it all fascinating.
Spouse also dragged us all around the Volkswagen works and this time we took a tour of the works themselves. Personally I think I've seen all I need to know about robots making cars from those Picasso car ads, so I took the opportunity to have a little snooze, but the others seemed to enjoy it...
We also had a fabulous day at the house of the non-rellies. They live in an old farmhouse which has been in the house for generations and have the most magical garden with a beautiful pond, tons of wonderful plants, the neatest lawn imaginable and lots of nooks and crannies for the kids to hide in. It's also full of wonderful old stone memorials they've picked up on their travels and a water feature to end all water features made of an old stone mill. Charlie Dimmock eat your heart out...
So we had a jolly meal with them, followed a day later by an equally jolly meal with some of mil's rellies who own a farm in what used to be East Germany. By dint of sheer hard work and determination they have built up their milk farm from scratch again since the Wall came down. The kids were wowed by the cows and the two little pigs they saw (we didn't let them know that the piggies weren't likely to make it to adulthood for fear of turning them vegetarian), although unfortunately for me they all took a shine to the dog we took for a walk. Oh dear. With the demise of Georgie I feel my dogless days maybe numbered...
We then had a fabulous walk around the town walls of Gardelegen, the mediaeval town where mil grew up, before a short trip out to Isenschnibbe, the estate she lived on as a child (her father was an estate manager for the Prince of Lippott-Detmolt - I told you her background was interesting...) before heading home to eat with our friends across the road.
Our final day was spent with mil's sister and another trip to the pool, before a final very jolly meal in a restaurant owned by rellies of the non rellies.
All in all it was a great trip, made infinitely better by having an extra pair of hands in the form of my capable mother, the fact that the children are now older, and my sudden whizzy ability to speak German. And I was only marginally terrified on the way home when I spotted a man with a beard carrying a suspicious looking computer case. I thought he'd checked in and then left the airport, but then he popped up in Duty Free. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted him on the plane, or of it...
Luckily my fears were groundless and we had a smooth trip down, and though I still shut my eyes, I did manage to peep out and see the millenium wheel on the way down. And now I can breathe a sigh of relief as it will be a year or so before I have to go on a plane again...
Fur unser erlebtetes Familie und Freunden in Deutschland, die haben uns ein gutes schones Besuch gemacht.
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