A Costa De La Luz Christmas

Costa De La Luz fronts the Atlantic Ocean in a more laid back fashion than the resorts of Costa Del Sol. The coastal landscape is flatter and scattered with low-rise towns and villages that lie lazily along the beaches; no noisy mountainous apartment blocks here. There is a hippy ambience in places where the surfers have moved in and beach front businesses, mostly closed as this is low season, promise languorous lunches and lively evenings in summer time.

The sand here is soft and golden. The inland landscape undulates gently unlike the craggy backdrop of Costa Del Sol. The hills are encrusted, not with snow, but with Andalucia’s traditional white towns, and broccoli-like pine woods provide shady cover.

We came here after a night’s stay in old Cádiz. What a lovely old town! Seville, grand and polished as she is, displays her touristy credentials expensively, whereas a wander around the sea wall and the streets of Cádiz felt more authentic somehow. It’s an old sea-faring town with its Moorish heritage evident. Its geography is intriguing, being out on a spit of land and fortified from the sea and invasion. We hadn’t intended to, but we parked up for the night near the port and in the evening went back into the old town for a meal and a chance to people watch. 

We have been most amused by the way Spain (except Seville, like most big cities, I guess) runs its day. It’s December, and dark until about 8.30 in the morning (I say ‘about’ as we’ve given up looking at clocks, falling in step with the rhythm of the day instead). Spain starts to wake up as the sun rises. The nights are generally quiet and it’s rare to hear a dog bark, unlike our experience of Italy where dogs and mopeds are insomniac....in June at any rate. Spain seems to go about its business through the morning, until around 1.00 when everyone stops for lunch. Bars are unshuttered, chairs and tables spill out onto cobbled streets and plazas, the air fills with animated Spanish chattering and with smells that make your saliva prickle under the tongue. Then, at around 4.00 pm, all goes quiet again. Doors close and the street furniture is tidied away. At around 6.00 pm, when it’s dark, the town flowers fully into a blooming wonderland of bars, cafes, restaurants, and brightly lit little shops that weren’t visible during the afternoon, and everything spills its enticements into the now crowded chattery streets and alleyways. 

That was our experience of a Christmassy Cádiz, at any rate. That night we ate fried fish and pizza, watching the Christmas bustle, bought some sweet treats for our Christmas cache and then at 9.00 pm everything suddenly went quiet again. Later, back at the van, we got ready for a night’s sleep hoping that the port conformed to Spanish sleepy-time rules, which fortunately it did. But.....we hadn’t taken account of the nightclub that suddenly burst open alongside our car park and ambling carousers serenaded the night with cackling revelries. Well, it IS Christmas, so what could we expect?

We headed south from Cádiz, looking for a proper campsite to pitch up in for Christmas. An area near Conil de la Frontera promised a few ACSI sites so we made a booking, called in at a Mercadona supermarket (I love Mercadona!) to stock up on some more Christmas tit-bits and made for the site. Nice.

Pinar San Jose offered us all of the necessary facilities for 19 Euros a night underneath some strange Spanish pine trees that, as I said before, look like sticks of broccoli. The sleepy village of Zahora is one of three along the coast of Trafalgar in an area called Los Canos De Meca. The beach is peaceful and beautiful so it’s hard to imagine the sea battle that Nelson fought out in the bay there. The mainly dirt streets of Zahora are confusing to navigate, in spite of our little map, so inevitably, each time we walked to the beach we got lost coming back by what was each time a longer route. Fiendishly clever, these Spaniards.

Washing done, our Christmas lights draped in the trees and in the van, we made ready for Christmas. We were curious about a note in the window of another British van asking for Christmas lunch bookings. Dawn, the ‘lady in the van’, told us that it’s a tradition amongst the winter site residents to have a communal Christmas lunch in the restaurant. She invited us to join in, so we agreed and we also accepted an invitation to join in with the ‘settlers’ for afternoon drinks and nibbles on Christmas Eve. It was a delightful, sunny, camp-chaired gathering outside the van of another British couple, Joy and Andy. 

Afternoon ran into evening as the wine flowed generously, and we all sang along to Phil King’s guitar. This guy has written books on his experiences of travelling around Europe as a retiree with a caravan. He and his (fifth!) wife, Hazel, upped sticks, rented out their house and headed into the relatively unknown without an agenda, as so many of the older generation have done and are still doing. I count myself, now, as one of them, of course. European Union has made it so easy, but with Brexit looming, many are wondering how they can sustain this easy, bohemian lifestyle. 

Tarted up a bit for Christmas lunch we joined the throng in the restaurant around a huge table set with all of the Christmas novelties and enjoyed lively conversation, jollification and a Spanish offering of Christmas fare (several courses of fish followed by tasty sweet treats). I sat next to a Swiss couple and conversed for ages in spite of my having no Swiss-German and she having no English or French. We drew numbers and diagrams on the paper table cloth to communicate information about places to see, our families, our travels and even our countries’ different pension arrangements. Admittedly her husband, who spoke some English, was consulted when we got stuck. 

It always fascinates me how well people can communicate in spite of language differences. Gareth has only English but seems to do well enough with hand gestures. Our “Gracias”, “Buenos Dias” and “Hola” and “No hablas espagnole” get us by sufficiently....so far, anyway. We have both, however, resolved to make more of an effort to learn Spanish. I have to admit, again, that mother was right; my reluctant study of Latin along with my old-fashioned education in French, have really helped in my interpretation of both Italian and Spanish - in the written form, at least. I am stuck when it comes to understanding the spoken word though. Mind you, modern technology is brilliant! Our Google-Translate app is a life-saver! Without it the Christmas pudding I succeeded in making in our thermal cooker would have contained a large helping of salt instead of flour.

We had intended leaving the campsite on Boxing Day, but Diana, a lady who lives in a big old fifth wheel rig, had invited everyone for nibbles and mince pies on Boxing Day. The promise of mince pies did it for Gareth so we stayed and once again enjoyed the easy acceptance of us into this community of ‘snow birds’. Eventually we said our goodbyes and the disappointment expressed about our leaving was warm and genuine. We ourselves began to wonder why we were going. Where were we going anyway? We had no agenda, really, but the site did harbour a sinister threat and it was the deciding factor for our departure.

High up in the pine trees we were all camped beneath were some gossamer covered balls of something that we learned are the nests of a killer caterpillar. They are becoming a pest all over Europe, we were told. They are quite large with poisonous hairs that cause toxic reactions and swelling and respiratory problems on contact. We heard some gruesome tales of rare but nevertheless scary mishaps; dogs being particularly vulnerable. The trees in the area had apparently been treated but the creatures remain toxic even when dead so if they are lying around on the woodland floor they can still be lethal. When they hatch from the ‘nest’ they are ‘processional’ - numbers of them walking along nose to tail, and news had gone out that they are hatching earlier than usual. The settled snow birds weren’t especially concerned, but we weren’t sad to leave the threat of poisonous infestations behind, that’s for sure!

Next blog to follow very shortly, folks, but I could go on and on here, so that’s it for now.

A report of our new wanderings

December 16th

This morning I woke to a Mediterranean dawn, red along the African horizon. Standing on the gravelly shore, west along the coast the big Rock of Gibraltar looms out of the sea. Eastwards the resort towns of Estepona and Marbella glisten like wedding cakes. We are parked up on a large sandy beach with a few other ‘wild’ campers (i.e., camping fee avoiders). This spot at San Diego is surprisingly undeveloped; a pocket in an otherwise thoroughly developed coastline. This is Costa del Sol. Today we will rest a bit, drifters that we currently are. Today we are Flotsam and Jetsam with our two dogs Piddle and Poo (aka Bess and Pwdin). It looks to be another beautiful December day in southern Spain.

December 18th

Yesterday afternoon we left the Costa del Sol and headed up into the Sierra Bermeja and parked up for the night in a little aire above a Pueblo Blanco town called Caseres. On the recommendation of another Brit with a camera we scrambled along the top of a ravine so as to see the curious and well populated vulture eyrie on the cliff opposite. Gareth was able to take some photos of them and of the vertical town as it started to glow in the early evening sun and I sat to catch my breath after the headiness of the drops on either side of us. We hadn’t dared let the dogs walk off the lead, and surprisingly, they seemed to recognise the dangers to us of pulling. We could have broken several limbs if they had towed us across those rocks.

Today we continue our journey towards Seville, a Christmas see-treat we are informed. I had suggested last night that this morning we first hike down into the ravine and up into Casares, the town. The suggestion was met with nil enthusiasm, understandably, I guess, from a man with a still-healing hip and another one plaguing him for a replacement. Looking at the place from our lofty viewpoint in the aire, realistically I would also struggle to get to the remains of the Moorish castle that has pride of position atop the cliff opposite, tempted as I am to poke about in the little streets and alley ways of this picturesque white town.

We arrived in Spain two weeks ago after a couple of long driving days through France to meet Owen in Biarritz. Gilet Jaune protesters had slowed us up at a number of large intersections but we got through, parked up at a very nice beach-front aire that Owen had found us and had a great evening with him, dining out on his expense account. I think he quite enjoyed being able to indulge his mum and show us where he conducts his sales meetings. And I was impressed. He had his work head on, for sure, and our being there was a bit of a distraction, but I now have a clearer picture in my mind of what that part of his working life is like.

The highlights of our trip to the south thereafter were Olite in Northern Spain, where we parked up first, and Medinaceli. Olite is an impressive walled town that was once the stronghold of the king of Navarre. The town boasts Roman remains too.

From there we drove doggedly across the generally rather uninteresting high plateaus until we came across Medinaceli, another walled town, high on a plateau of its own, and surviving, it seems on tourists stopping at the little artisan food shops, and again boasting a few Roman remains.

The entry to Andalucía was breath taking, with the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada ahead and olive plantations covering the land as far as the eye could see. Immediately the quality of the light caught my attention and I could almost feel my skin drinking in the vitamin D.

Arriving in Granada, I thought we might visit the Alhambra. However, we’d arrived in the middle of a Spanish public holiday and campsites were making the most of it price-wise, so we headed east instead. The Sierra Nevada gazed down on us as we traversed its northern slopes on another of Spain’s really good roads and next day, after a lay over in a shabby, neglected looking, but quiet little town, Abla, we drove into the Alpujarras on the Sierra’s southern slopes. The scenery is spectacular, the roads, even the winding and narrow, are well paved and make for smooth driving; apart from the swinging around all the hairpins, that is. The geography east-side is arid and used apparently as the location for many of those Spaghetti Westerns. I could easily imagine John Wayne and Clint Eastwood sitting horseback there and looking as rugged as that scenery.

It took us two days to get through the Alpujarras before we dropped down to the coast and holed up at a little seaside town, Castello Ferro. Being used to the golden sands of Gower we were a bit disappointed to find that the shoreline along the Costa del Sol is grey gravel, but the light is a real tonic and it’s easy to see why so many Brits, Germans and other Northern European folk settle in the south-facing white and red-tiled villas that scramble above one another on the hillsides. They are fed handsomely by local fishing and Mediterranean deliciousness (including cheap Spanish wine!) and have given the area a thoroughly cosmopolitan air.

December 20th

After a beautiful drive from Casares through the mountains we came to Ronda. Now Ronda......well! A large white town with a beautiful mountain backdrop, scrambling right up to the edge of a deep, deep gorge. The views from the balconies provided for tourists to absorb the awesomeness are knee-trembling. We gazed anyway, soaking it all in as a young harpist from the town’s conservatoire added to the blue-aired ambience of our visit. The town has its horror stories, though, like any other. Ernest Hemingway reported that in Franco’s day prisoners from the civil war were thrown into the gorge. What a horrific way to go!

After Ronda we arrived yesterday in Seville. It isn’t at all what I pictured, having been encouraged to visit by one of our BnB guests a couple of years ago. He had shown me a hill top town looking out over a vast plain. Seville centre (old Seville), however, is on the banks of the ambling Rio Guadalivir and perfectly flat to walk around. We took a walk around the old town yesterday and I have resolved to come back one day and stay in one of the hotels there. It is a labyrinth of picturesque alley-ways that are presumably in Summer cooler than being out in the open. Seville is reportedly one of the hottest places in Spain, and I do remember having a family from Seville staying with us at Bay View, escaping 50 degrees and lapping up the Welsh drizzle. 

The Alcazar and the cathedral (the biggest in the world apparently) are among sights worth seeing here, and we planned to do just that today. However, Sevillers don’t apparently sleep; certainly not in the area we were parked up in for the night, so our enthusiasm for another long walk and another stay over is rather dimmed. Gareth read a British Seviller’s account of how to fit in here: you breakfast at 11.00, lunch at 3.00 dine at 10.00, and go for drinks well before dinner. I don’t know where they fit in their work hours, unless it’s during those hours last night when we were trying to sleep. 

We were a bit disappointed not to have found in Seville the Christmas markets we were expecting. Nativity scenes, the more extravagant the better, are the main attraction it seems, and the big day for celebrations is around January 6th.

So today we left for Cadiz and I don’t have any photos of Seville. None of my photos do justice to what we’re seeing here in Spain, though. Gareth’s work is obviously far superior but his phone has given up the ghost and all of the apps he had for transferring files from his camera have been lost. My meagre offering of sub-standard shots is all you’ll get then, folks. Sorry.

A Day Out

A capricious October this, but yesterday the sun coaxed us out for a day trip and we followed our instincts West. Living on the western tip of Gower, it’s 15 miles going north east before we can leave the peninsula, and after following the coast road right the way round to the other side of the Burry Inlet, after about 30 miles we could stand and look right back to where we had come from. Standing on the soft blonde sands at Burry Port we could look south over the water to the soft blonde sands of Broughton where we we would normally be strolling along and gazing out to where we are now. Gower lay across our horizon like a cat on a sunny windowsill.

To say that Burry Port has risen like a Phoenix from its industrial past wouldn’t really convey its gentle hatching into the budgie coloured community it is now, with its little harbour tinkling with leisure boats and its ribboned streets of terraced houses holding their little faces to the sun. The place doesn’t bustle; it ambles, smiles and quietly prospers. It is like a jewel that is gradually appearing out of the sand and its glinting has been spotted. People are moving in from elsewhere. The Milennium Coast project has made the beaches a draw for holidaymakers and the coast path an easy cycle ride all the way from Loughor to Kidwelly. Last winter we were able to park up in the Hymer right on the beach front with a handful of other motorhomers. Now a new lifeboat station is nearing completion and the parking area is being redeveloped. It’s not clear whether motorhomes will have the same access to the harbour that we were so privileged to have earlier in the year. Hey, ho, all things change.

We continued West, heading for Ferryside, another sleepy little Carmarthenshire village snuggled into the hilly coastline on the Towy (Tywi in Welsh) estuary. The West Wales train line passes through here giving passengers a gorgeous view of the sea and of Llansteffan castle on the other side. The tiny station ensures that the community has an easy link to the bigger towns; Carmarthen, Llanelli, and Swansea. 

There is a haunting connection to this area for me, looking across the water to where my Jones ancestors originate. My father used to tell us the story of a boyhood outing with his grandfather, by train from Swansea to Ferryside, my great-grandfather carrying a bag of cement, then across to Llansteffan on the ferry ending with a couple of miles walk uphill to Llanybri. There, they would make repairs to the family graves; graves which in future years we, their descendants, would take the pilgrimage to visit and reflect on our origins. Apparently we still have relatives there somewhere.

Apart from that sense of historic connection to the place, Ferryside draws Gareth and me at least once annually to the little Ferry Cabin cafe which serves fresh, and when available, locally caught fish, and the most delicious homemade fruit tarts (our favourite is blackcurrant). Paul has cleverly retained the simple vinyl table-cloth ambience of the cafe that he has taken over from his mother. It’s a great little business and a rare survivor in a world where sophisticated rustic dining is replacing simple, honest, unpretentious local style and cuisine. A plate of Paul’s fish and chips, followed by his mother’s homemade fruit tart with custard or ice-cream, is unrivalled in my experience. Harry Ramsden eat your heart out! 

Tummy’s satisfied, we took the short walk across the railway line onto the beach to watch the newly reinstated amphibious ferry boat drive up onto the sand bringing passengers over from Llansteffan. A strange looking vehicle, Gareth learned that it was partly designed in New Zealand, and now, built in Pembrokeshire, through a funding project aimed at providing employment for coastal communities, it runs 15 minute crossings back and forth across the river mouth. Drawing in day trippers it will hopefully boost the tourism credentials of the area. I just hope, fervently, that Paul’s Ferry Cabin doesn’t change.

I sat, soaking up the sun as it slowly made its way down behind the castle and Gareth took photos of the ferry boat. The dogs cavorted happily on the sands while I thought about my great-grandfather, his migration as a boy from Llanybri to Swansea to find work in the foundries and how vital the original ferry had been for visiting his relatives back in the little hamlet above Carmarthen Bay. The communities either side of the Towy estuary have been cut off from each other for many years after the ferry stopped operating in the 1950’s when I was just an infant and he was an old man. Now the ferry is back, and I can plan an outing with my own grandchildren making the same journey by train along the coast and across the Towy to the land of our fore-fathers. Maybe I can make memories for our little ones that will pass down the line to new generations; memories that will evoke feelings of connection to their Carmarthenshire ancestry and ‘calon lan’ (Welsh for ‘strong heart’). My great-grandfather was strong-hearted for sure, in his efforts to repair those graves, but there’s no way I’ll be carrying a bag of cement with me, I’m afraid! 

Purposelessly Purposeful

Lying on my back the other day, gazing up at a clear sky, I watched a plane zip open the gossamer blue leaving a fraying white gash. Where was it going, vandalising the atmosphere like that as it made its purposeful way? 

My horizontal perspective was a luxurious one at that moment. While others laboured, I reclined in the sun, it’s warmth a salve for my ageing bones. I could calmly reflect on all that is going wrong in the world while enjoying my little part of and time in it. Daily I celebrate my own good fortune, count my blessings and am deeply grateful for them; but I’m unsettled too.

It’s September. Seven years ago I was relishing the fact of not having to do Enrolment Week. While my colleagues who had not been made redundant or ‘early retired’ worked to get new students’ bums onto college seats, Gareth and I took off like birds to Pembrokeshire. The weather was glorious, as it is so often in the first weeks of September when kids and teachers go back to school and college staff have to work from dawn to dusk to fill up their courses. Wow, it was a nice feeling to be free of all that!

Seven years later I still have that ‘Back to School’ association with September. The end-of-summer feeling now includes the relief of a quieter caravan park (nice!) but there are still the residual feelings of anxiety that hang over, probably from my earliest years, of having to step back into the educational labyrinth. My little grandsons seem to be taking it in their stride, but who knows what their associations with it all will be when they are in their sixties.

I have lots of nice early associations, of course, like the smell of a new leather satchel, shiny new shoes and a smart gabardine coat. Going back to school when I was a child wasn’t traumatic; at least not until I moved up to secondary school, but that’s another story.

Now, in retirement, September, for me, is a month like any other. It’s almost a year since we sold Bay View, packed up our stuff and set out on our new lifestyle. It has been delightful, with travel and with lots of time for me to dabble in new things. (I like the word ‘dabble’. It conveys very nicely the idea of someone like me just playing, not very seriously, with a novelty of some sort) But, I haven’t mastered anything new and my days are becoming increasingly aimless. I’m wondering whether I miss the kick-into-action that was September and without the B&B business either I no longer really have a routine. “Freedom, then to have much of, yes?” (a bit of Yoda, there, ahem) The lovely summer that we’ve had is starting to give way to grey skies, the evenings are closing in and even my walks with the dogs are starting to feel a bit monotonous.

Now I’m aware that some of you might be thinking, “You contrary mare! Not long ago you were singing the praises of your new lifestyle and now, apparently, you’re bored!” Well, I can’t help it if I have the sort of personality that is up one minute and down the next. It’s my Celtic DNA.

Yes, I am a bit bored, or at any rate feeling somewhat aimless, or Purposeless.  I use a capital ‘P’ there because beyond the obvious day-to-day purposes I haven’t found my Passion (note the capital ‘P’ again). A quote from someone who recently died, has stuck with me - “Don’t ask someone what they do; ask what is their passion”. He has left this world with that thought firmly implanted in others, Gareth and me included.

Trouble is, I don’t know how I’d answer that question. What is my Passion? I’m not sure I’m a passionate person. I’ve had my moments of passion (we won’t go there!) but as for ‘having a Passion’, well…………..

The other day I read a short article about the importance of doing nothing. It was dealing with the culture of having to be (or at least appearing to be) busy. In the working world the culture is endemic. The writer was making the point that the biggest and best ideas usually come to us when we are relaxed or doing something completely different; disengaged from the ‘big machine’. And this is true; Eureka moments often happen in the bath as they did for what’s-his-name…….? Archimedes, was it? But when you’re ‘retired’, what is there to have Eureka moments about? Maybe it’ll come to me…… (lol)

Well, we don’t have a bath in the caravan, so I have to hope that a nice shower will inspire me instead. As it happens I now recall something else I read recently. It was something along the lines of NOT having to have big ideas or do big things to feel purposeful. Perhaps it’s a delusion to feel that individually we are important and here on this planet to fulfil a purpose. And while I admire those who are so passionate about something that it’s all they live for (let’s face it, even passionate stamp-collectors are an insurance against historical losses of the postage stamp kind), some passions are more like that plane I watched; tearing up the atmosphere and leaving toxic fumes behind. Terrorists are passionate, after all! 

But without being sarky, not everyone can find something to be passionate about. While there are some remarkable people with amazing passion and drive - the world changers - an awful lot of us are passengers. Some of us may be back-seat drivers, I guess, but there are pedestrians too and hitch-hikers……… ok, you get my drift. Without labouring that analogy, some of us, maybe most of us, help the world to keep going by just getting on with the mundane; being unremarkable and stoic rather than passionate.  

So Instead of worrying about what big Purpose I should be following, and whether I will have the passion for it I should just get on with loving life, trying to be kind, passing on love and smiles, living lightly and humbly, peaceably, gratefully and with whatever small meanings I can attach to each day. But if in the meantime I have an epiphany of some sort…..I’ll let you know.

By the way, my mother used to enjoy a quiz programme on TV called Pointless. A couple of times recently I have seen a version of it in which the contestants are ‘celebrities’. The programme’s title is “Pointless Celebrities”. I love the irony in that! 

Talking Trash

m

Crutches, mothers-in-law, and the onward journey

Yes it’s a while since I posted anything on this blog of mine. A lot of the time since we returned from our Italy trip has been taken up with the practicalities of servicing the day-to-day, spending time with family, (which included a fabulous hen weekend for my niece), delighting in grandchildren, catching up with friends and organising the stuff that we still have left over from our house move. We’ve looked at it and decided to thin out our possessions even further; to lighten the load and live more simply. We don’t want a cluttered life - a litter of things getting in the way and obstructing the view out. 

The weather has been incredible! So many weeks of warm, even hot, sunshine. It’s a bit scary from a global warming (global warning?) point of view but what a gift for our first whole summer of freedom, living full time in our caravan - between motorhome trips, that is! 

Another amazing stroke of luck is that Gareth was called in for his hip operation, conveniently in time, hopefully, for him to recover before we go off to Ireland at the end of September. It’s a trip I’m so looking forward to as it’s my eldest niece, Roz’s, wedding and it will be a lovely family gathering. Not only is this a convenient time for Gareth’s op but he has had the luxury of a private hospital, compliments of the NHS! We’re a bit conflicted about the need for the NHS to do that, but he’s now recovering nicely at the caravan, everything within easy reach and all on one level. It’s a lovely summer, and this is a great place for convalescence. We couldn’t be any luckier.

Counting my blessings is a regular practice of mine. When I was a small child my paternal grandmother taught me how in a little song: “Count your blessings name them one by one……”. It meant more to me when Ma sang it than it did at Sunday School. These days walking with the dogs every day in this beautiful place I contemplate my own good fortune and am humbled by it, realising how other people’s fortunes are in so many cases much, much less happy. Recent sad news of a death in the family brings that fact into sharp focus. We hadn’t seen each other for many years and the news has me thinking about how time can make strangers of those who were once close to us.

Recently I have been thinking a lot about female relationships. I don’t know why, but thoughts about my two, now departed, mothers-in-law have particularly occupied me, and what it means to be a mother-in-law, particularly now that I am one myself. The title of ‘mother-in-law’ gets a much more negative press than ‘father-in-law’. There are far more jokes, horror stories and unflattering stereotypes of mother-in-law. 

Example: A woman goes to her boss and asks for a day off to visit her mother-in-law. “Absolutely not!” Is the reply. “Thank you so much for your understanding” says the woman, feeling relieved. 

I had a much closer relationship with Gareth’s mother but I had by then learned how to be a better daughter-in-law in relating to her. Having three boys of my own had given me reason to think about how a woman has to part from her son when he finds his life partner. The little rhyme “A son is a son till he takes him a wife, a daughter’s a daughter the rest of her life” stuck with me from the time my mother first recited it to me and has made me envious of my sisters who have both. I can see, now, how thoughtlessly I sometimes behaved towards my first mother-in-law when I was a young woman. She chastised me very gently for my thoughtlessness on just three occasions and her words have stayed with me down the years. “I know he’s yours now” she once said to me, “but let me keep just a little bit of him, please”.

Now that my sons all have homes and family of their own, I know just how she felt. My three daughters-in-law are exceptional, talented, strong women. It’s hugely satisfying to know that each of my boys is settled and in a loving relationship though of course, my concern for their welfare and happiness will stay with me always. The challenge for me now, as an older woman, is how to take a back seat. When my boys were little, an older mother with grown up sons said she’d had to learn to “wear grey and stay in the background”.

Q. What’s the difference between outlaws and in-laws? A. Outlaws are wanted!  (By the way, has anyone come up with a suitable equivalent title where the couple are not married? ‘Mother-in-common-law’ is a bit of a mouthful)

I tend not to wear much grey and I’m not good at keeping thoughts to myself by staying in the background. As grandmother I do, of course, have my uses, but I am as alien an individual in the world of the younger women’s experience as they are in mine. I’d like to think that I have more to offer them now that I have 65 years under my belt, and I wouldn’t dream of chastising them in the way I was years ago when I was overwhelmed with new baby. I was told that I needed to learn how to cope and not to look to my husband for support. That may say more about my mother-in-law’s own experience now I think about it and it’s taken all this time for that thought to surface. Anyway, just as the passing of time can make strangers of those who were once close, so can it also cement and deepen relationships. In my role as mother-in-law I hope that’s what happens. In my rear view mirror I can see the distance I’ve travelled, and it was a good journey on the whole. We all have our own journeys to make but it’s good to share our experiences. I’m not too old to learn, and I’m still working at being a better person so I look forward to the coming years. I hope that, as mother-in-law, grandmother, as well as in all the other roles, I will have performed well.

Later:

Crikey, that was a bit heavy, wasn’t it? But I guess that’s the nature of a journal and if (when?) I get dementia it will help me remember who I was. 

Home calls

We’re homeward bound, booked on a 9.15 ferry tomorrow, Calais to Dover. The sound of seagulls and a more temperate heat remind me of home. We’ve been travelling slowly north-west-ish and have spent a few nights next to the Loire, near Amboise. Realising that my nodding off in the passenger seat was a symptom of travel weariness Gareth had picked up on the need for a break. Chateau visiting isn’t his style, but he magnanimously went along with a visit to one and a three day rest stop to “keep me happy”. 

In spite of the mozzies at our campsite by the river it was a nice break doing what tourists usually do on their holidays. The chateau Chenonceau may well have been Disney’s inspiration for his fairytale castles and its story is what fairytales are made of. The one that stuck with me, though, is its part in WW2 and the French Resistance. The chateau grew over a bridge on the river Cher. The river divided occupied and unoccupied France during the war and the chateau was used to smuggle people across into free territory. Bravo to that lady of the Chenonceau! I’ve  misplaced the brochure so I can’t tell you her name. Make sure you visit if you’re ever in the region.

A particular feature of the Loire is the use of caves, natural and man made, for all sorts of purposes - wine storage, restaurants, cafes, mushroom growing and habitation. A visit to the village of cave homes in Troo (cite des troglodytes) was intriguing. In English the term troglodyte conjures up a rather different image from the rather hip and cool residences we saw in Troo. One home was an Airbnb and a stay there would be quite a novelty. Gareth has dreamed of building an underground house but living in a cave, even one with UPVC patio windows, is something to contemplate. 

Since then we have trundled along on long straight roads through enormous wheat fields, watching what seem to be the most inadequate machines gathering the harvest. We’ve been getting into an end-of-holiday stupor. We’ve overnighted in different aires each night as we’ve trekked northwards. They are very often serviced with, at the very least, water. There are different systems across France, one of which is Flot Bleu. Sadly most of the ones we came across were not working or had actually been vandalised. We wondered whether travellers are becoming a nuisance to localities; there are a lot of us about, whether in posh or less glamorous rigs. Certainly maintenance of services wasn’t in evidence. A motorhome has needs - water and somewhere to dispose of waste. Mind you, we haven’t liked the way in which drinking water taps are often situated too close to the chemical toilet disposal point. Our antibac spray and kitchen roll have been well employed.

By the way, if there’s anyone out there taking up on my need for a Gareth/Alison translater app (Richard?) a useful extra feature would be a repeater or an amplifier. Gareth and I are no more than a few feet away from each other most of the time and yet the most frequent phrases that go between us are. “Did you say something?”, “Sorry, I didn’t get that”,“Say again” “What did you say?”, “Uh?”, “stop muttering” and “SPEAK UP!!” I’m convinced that he still has his ear plugs in (a necessary item if you are to get any sleep in some places). 

We both have trouble understanding Ms Satnav. She has an impeccable English accent; one that you’d expect to reflect a good education, but we have had many a giggle at her French pronunciation of towns and villages.

The Park for a Night app is a very popular French development. It has been most useful in finding aires and motorhome parking. I imagine it has significantly increased the use of aires; several times we have arrived at one to find it full. Vans squeeze in anyway and in some places we’ve wondered how people have room to open their doors. And so many motorhomes here in France are HUGE! We’ve wondered what the owners intend them for as it must be a challenge to get them some places. We spent one night in a large beach car park that was reached through a little village. There must have been at least fifty motorhomes parked up there for the weekend and of those, ours was the smallest. Picturing the convoy of homes on wheels getting through that village and past people’s windows made me sympathise with those municipalities that no longer service their aires.

Anyway, we’re now in a campsite in Calais. I’ve done some laundry, we can get a decent shower and maybe we’ll be allowed back into our homeland tomorrow. Today we’ll be doing what all Brits do before going back across the channel - shopping. We’ll be heading to one or two of the huge supermarkets to stock up on wine. Gareth has been diligently wine tasting and has his list of those he likes. I’m no connoisseur so I’ll be off in the sweetie aisles. See you soon, my lovelies!