30 April 1997
My dear folks,
It’s a strong contender for most perfect day of the year, a real beauty. I saw it beginning to dawn early, as I completed the 2nd of two not-too-trying night shifts on the 7th floor of TV Centre. Welcome it was too after unsettling Tuesday winds that thrashed around the patio, slamming the door & whipping the climbers every which way. It’s the final day of the election campaign & the serenity of the afternoon contrasts with the turmoil in political tummies as party leaders deliver their final impassioned appeals to the electorate.
Whatever their appeals, the election which will surely deliver the country its first Labour PM in nearly two decades. The result is so widely anticipated as to be discounted by my colleagues, especially as – they point out -- it’s essentially a choice between two conservative parties. Not here the uncertainties of a Mandela replacing a PW; the age of ideological conflict between the main players in Britain is past. It’s merely a question of whom you most trust to drive the car down the middle of road. Be that as it may, I shall be trotting down to the polling booth in the morning to cast my vote (Irish citizens enjoy the franchise in Britain) & sitting up tomorrow night to watch the TV coverage of the outcome. There are several candidates whose defeat will bring me particular satisfaction. Both the Beeb & ITV are planning all-night shows. BBC World is doing its own thing which I’m relieved not to be part of.
Last week’s Portuguese trip is just a memory. I’ve long since acclimatised to Quinta commutes. What did strike me though was how easily I slipped back into old habits – not exactly a boozy lifestyle down there, but certainly an enjoyment of life’s good things. The scale complained on my return but I have since readopted the regime I’d embraced here, lost the unwelcome gains & reset my sights on 80kgs.
I spent several hours last Sunday preparing, slightly mystified, for the BBC board I was expecting on Monday……mystified because there were no details awaiting me of where & when it was to take place. I eventually got hold of a managerial type who explained that the dept had a new boss & all the boards had been cancelled until such time as the boss had sized things up. I was not pleased. The words “useless” & “wankers” came to mind. But having since worked on reports showing children dying horribly of starvation & disease in Zaire, I’m trying to keep things in perspective.
Beyond this I’ve little to report other than several hours of kip today & the usual round of bank, bread & fruit shop visits. A man wearing a mauve blazer in the bank was ranting at the clerks because they didn’t have the fivers he required each week, when would they learn? I longed for them to tell him to take his custom elsewhere and wished them all loudly a very good day. Mave has been sunning his snow white tummy on the landing. The only complications in his life are getting in & out of the flat & getting fed proper goo when he wants it. Thank you Jones for your fax – I’ll call later - & Cathy for your call.
Blessings ever
T
Monday, 23 August 2010
21April1997
Monday 21 April
My dear folks,
We are seated in Jones’s little kitchen. She is catching up on the pile of mail I brought down with me. The World Service is keeping us abreast of international evils. Noite is sunning herself outside, having consumed the extra helping of goo she won with piteous miaaws. The Quintassential is warming up after a chilly start to the day. The garden is soaked. The heavens opened on Friday, sending down steady, heavy rain that filled the pool, the wheelbarrow (& anything else that presented itself) to the brim. There were still showers about when I landed on Sat. p.m.
They returned again on Sun, causing several interruptions to the social gatherings Jones had arranged, a brunch & a barbecue – designed to get all our socialising over & done with. Some 20 locals rolled up to the former while the latter – in the evening – was for the SA contingent. The highpoint of the brunch was the huge bowl of punch we prepared. Jones didn’t know that I’d poured a flagon of red wine into it & I didn’t know that it contained a generous helping of gin & martini. “Mainly lemonade & fruit juice with a little wine,” I assured our visitors who consumed every last thimbleful before proceeding to tuck into my reserve supplies of red wine. This is thirsty country.
In the evening, I made a fire in a stand-alone barbecue that I could whip under cover as soon as it began raining, which it did in due course. I settled my debts with Bernie Basson who has reroofed the carport & Piet Maeyer (a valuable find) who has installed a new shower & painted out several of the casas. Piet is a big fellow in his mid sixties (with a handshake like a mechanical shovel) who has proved invaluable to us. He & his wife, Hettie, are living here for as long as the fancy & money takes them. They have an apartment in one of the coastal developments & finance their trans-European travels with sundry labours. I liked them both. Bernie (a human barrel) does general repairs in the “colonies” along the coast. He’s married to a charming ex-Mozambique Portuguese wife. Also with us were Andries, our resident retired diplomat, and Lo, the mother of media friends of ours. It was a useful day as well as a sociable one. It finished outside on the patio where, passing the binocs from person to person, we peered at the Hale-Bopp comet trailing through the western skies. What a beauty!
Our celebrations actually began on Saturday evening with dinner at the new café-bar on the road just below us. It has replaced the previous den at which locals gathered for gossip & refreshments until it was shut down by the authorities. The new place, Casa do Pasto (which is really just a generic name for an inexpensive eating house) is a vast improvement but you wouldn’t know this unless you’d been into the den. It’s run by a couple who work from 0730 to midnight seven days a week to service a dozen tables & the groups who cluster about the bar. The place is filled with dark-featured peasants, loud conversation & a halo of smoke. All important football matches play themselves out on the TV set affixed to the wall, a distraction from the serious card games at the corner tables. The place serves snacks rather than serious food but Senora Odette is only too happy to whip up dinner for those who want a meal & ours was excellent – for the price of what the bottle of wine alone would have cost in London.
Tuesday morning:
We are breakfasting in Casa 4 which is empty for a few days. Lord knows how we’d have managed without it during our parties. Jones’s little casa, however delightful, is designed for one or possibly two. We supped here last night as well, enjoying an excellent bottle of wine & the luxury of a fire. I was about to note the label when I recalled that I’d poured the remains of several bottles together after our brunch.
It’s remained damp. In fact, it’s been decidedly wet at times. A large black cloud arrived overhead at lunchtime & started a serious downpour mid-afternoon, just as we were completing a visit to Loule. Jones remarked that the rain seemed wetter than usual & I had to concur. It was very wet indeed, the kind that has people scurrying for cover & creates instant pools & rushing streams down the side of the road.
The little umbrella we were sharing was not up to the task of sheltering the pair of us & I left Jones sheltering under a shop canopy while I went to fetch the car. The rain continued as we drove to Cin Paints to buy a special green paint for the inside of the carport; & for another hour as we chatted to Sherri Wiltshire, an expat with whom we stayed on our first visit to the Algarve. It was her mini-development that gave us the idea of taking guests. Her garden is one of the wonders of the Algarve. Once the rain had eased off, we inspected her latest cottage & wandered around the acre of garden in true admiration of what she has achieved.
Having said that, I must add that the Quinta itself is looking pretty good. The many trees & shrubs have grown to a respectable size, offering a lot more shade & private nooks than we’ve had. The rockery beds are rejoicing in the showers; the aloes have thrown up glorious red flowers; there are clusters of red & pink & white roses & little celebrations of colour dotted everywhere. Not that it’s a disciplined garden; there are also great ranks of grasses & daisies & all the vegetation that the Algarve throws in for free. But the general sense remains of a Eden, a very nice place to be. Maria came up to say hello. I found my Portuguese vocabulary much shrunk since my last visit & rued my lack of words. I haven’t been doing any homework during my months in London.
Andries met us on our return from Sherri to say that there’d been a lightning strike & the electricity was down in the smaller cottage (where Lo is staying) & apartments. Lightning strikes have been very bad news indeed in the past. But this one – glory be – had merely tripped the mains which I promptly untripped with a muttered hallelujah.
Tuesday:
We met Maria at the bottom of the drive at 9.30 sharp & set out down the motorway to Makro. It’s a useful place for laying in wholesale supplies but indulges in the wretched practice of celebrating special occasions by importing 2 disc-jockeys who scream at each other over a tannoy while offering customers “free” gifts. My pleas to the management to reduce the racket fell on deaf ears. Having plundered the store, we made a grateful exit with our loot. This filled the boot & what remained of the interior to the brim. In fact, Jones had the ends of two drying racks resting on her head for the return journey.
Wednesday:
Piet arrived to begin tackling the long list of tasks I’d drawn up for him. While I painted the interior of the carport, he set about patching the drive. It’s ten years old & beginning to show its age. Mid morning, Lo’s youngest daughter, Afra, pitched up with her partner, Richard, to spend a few days in Casa 2. They’d hoped to bask in the sunshine but the day was cool with more promise of rain than sun. I hoped with them that the weather would improve but I don’t think I sounded very convincing. Back at the carport, I found that the drawback of painting the underside of a roof is that the paint drips in your hair & runs down your hand, no mater how frugally you apply it. After several hours, the carport looked much improved while I started to resemble the Green Gome. In fact, my fingers are still tinged with green as I type.
After lunch, Piet joined me to build a new path from Jones’s cottage to the drive. We are thinking of patenting our drive building method which is very quick & easy. You roll out an underlay of plastic to discourage weeds, wack down a couple of barrows of river sand & level it off & then you plant cement squares on the sand. Finally you make a border of stones to prettify the path & prevent all the sand from running out. Path done! In this instance, we made an extended border from the old tiles which had once adorned the cottages & it looked very good indeed. Jones was pleased. So was I.
Late p.m. we went for a walk through the hills, stopping at Casa de Pasto for a restorative. The grasses were started to break through the earth, no doubt much to the relief of the shepherdess whose charges had been having a hard time of it.
Thursday:
Piet tackled the pool where 2 of the coping stones had come adrift & a section of the patio had lifted off the cement base. I blessed him while he patiently chipped the old concrete away & resecured the stones; it was finicky, time-consuming work. To enjoy the assistance of such a willing & able worker is a blessing indeed. The number of things that need fixing at an establishment like ours simply boggles the imagination. I stopped varnishing at 1800 when our guests came around for a chat & drinks. Afterwards, we went down to the Orange Grove with Andre for a chicken supper. We’d no sooner arrived than the heavens opened, sending down streams of water that bounced back a foot into the air. I thought of the dry months ahead & breathed another thank you to the rain god. We must have had a good inch, to judge by the level in the wheel barrows on our return. You simply can’t take water for granted in the Algarve. It’s a precious resource, all the more so because most of the tourists take it for granted.
Friday
was a national holiday, April 25, when the Portuguese celebrate the 1974 revolution & it was also our off-day. It began with a brisk shower but that soon blew away to reveal a lovely morning. Barbara was expecting two French guests, a couple who had wintered with us previously. The gentleman is in his early seventies, his partner – a charming woman undergoing a long drawn-out & messy divorce – is much younger. We settled them in & drove down to Faro beach & parked ourselves in a favourite café where we paged through the pile of newspapers that Andre had donated. Outside, a motley collection of dogs had fun with just an occasional bottom sniff to establish who was who. Jones wanted to go to the loo but the café owner couldn’t find the key, a bit of a problem. Jones said “it” had gone away. But “it” was clearly going to come back again with a vengeance. So we decamped to a public loo down the road – & another café where we had more coffee & bagaco. We stopped to look at stone tables & benches for the patio below MCP. There was a set that took my fancy but Jones wanted time to think about it. She doesn’t like rushing decisions about these things.
Friday was also the day we decided to fetch the rock with the big fossil from the bank where it lay about a mile away. It was a prize that had first been spotted years ago by our geologist visitor, Ian, & one that had immediately captured Jones’s heart. The problem was how to retrieve the rock as it was far too heavy to carry & too big to manoeuvre into a motor car. So Jones & I set out down the track with a wheelbarrow, a length of rope & two poles to use as levers. Ten mins work saw the rock levered to the top of the bank & another ten mins had it in the wheelbarrow, all this to constant warnings from Jones against straining my back or worse.
It took us the best part of an hour to get it home, Jones pulling & I hefting the barrow, with frequent pauses to gather our breath & rest my arms. Getting the barrow up the drive was the real test of our endurance. We made it with only four stops, pausing breathless to explain to a descending Maria what we were about. Whatever Maria thought of her employers hauling rocks up their drive way in the middle of the afternoon she was too polite to say – although I’m sure she shared her thoughts with her family later. Our visitors greeted us with awe as we arrived in the garden. Lo immediately regretted that we hadn’t told her of our plans, saying she would have volunteered Richard who was “immensely strong”. I think it was probably as well for Richard that he was not aware of the many tasks for which Lo wanted to volunteer his services.
Afterwards, we cracked a bottle of Portuguese champers which we took with us on our walk through the fields, down past Herman the German’s house, past the ruins which are up for sale, & past the house where a Dutchman (named Portugies) committed suicide. There was a spectacular sunset underway against the backdrop of the hills which undulate in pastel folds into the distance. We brought the empty bottle back home for disposal in one of Loule’s bottle banks.
Saturday:
Faro airport. The plane’s an hour late getting in from London & an hour late getting out again. I’ve found a hole in the wall in which to plug in my computer & half bottle of Vinho Verde for solace. There’s a large & largely unfrequented self service area overlooking the arrivals hall which is just perfect for these occasions. I left our guests rejoicing in the sunshine & Jones in Loule where she goes to take coffee for consolation.
My dear folks,
We are seated in Jones’s little kitchen. She is catching up on the pile of mail I brought down with me. The World Service is keeping us abreast of international evils. Noite is sunning herself outside, having consumed the extra helping of goo she won with piteous miaaws. The Quintassential is warming up after a chilly start to the day. The garden is soaked. The heavens opened on Friday, sending down steady, heavy rain that filled the pool, the wheelbarrow (& anything else that presented itself) to the brim. There were still showers about when I landed on Sat. p.m.
They returned again on Sun, causing several interruptions to the social gatherings Jones had arranged, a brunch & a barbecue – designed to get all our socialising over & done with. Some 20 locals rolled up to the former while the latter – in the evening – was for the SA contingent. The highpoint of the brunch was the huge bowl of punch we prepared. Jones didn’t know that I’d poured a flagon of red wine into it & I didn’t know that it contained a generous helping of gin & martini. “Mainly lemonade & fruit juice with a little wine,” I assured our visitors who consumed every last thimbleful before proceeding to tuck into my reserve supplies of red wine. This is thirsty country.
In the evening, I made a fire in a stand-alone barbecue that I could whip under cover as soon as it began raining, which it did in due course. I settled my debts with Bernie Basson who has reroofed the carport & Piet Maeyer (a valuable find) who has installed a new shower & painted out several of the casas. Piet is a big fellow in his mid sixties (with a handshake like a mechanical shovel) who has proved invaluable to us. He & his wife, Hettie, are living here for as long as the fancy & money takes them. They have an apartment in one of the coastal developments & finance their trans-European travels with sundry labours. I liked them both. Bernie (a human barrel) does general repairs in the “colonies” along the coast. He’s married to a charming ex-Mozambique Portuguese wife. Also with us were Andries, our resident retired diplomat, and Lo, the mother of media friends of ours. It was a useful day as well as a sociable one. It finished outside on the patio where, passing the binocs from person to person, we peered at the Hale-Bopp comet trailing through the western skies. What a beauty!
Our celebrations actually began on Saturday evening with dinner at the new café-bar on the road just below us. It has replaced the previous den at which locals gathered for gossip & refreshments until it was shut down by the authorities. The new place, Casa do Pasto (which is really just a generic name for an inexpensive eating house) is a vast improvement but you wouldn’t know this unless you’d been into the den. It’s run by a couple who work from 0730 to midnight seven days a week to service a dozen tables & the groups who cluster about the bar. The place is filled with dark-featured peasants, loud conversation & a halo of smoke. All important football matches play themselves out on the TV set affixed to the wall, a distraction from the serious card games at the corner tables. The place serves snacks rather than serious food but Senora Odette is only too happy to whip up dinner for those who want a meal & ours was excellent – for the price of what the bottle of wine alone would have cost in London.
Tuesday morning:
We are breakfasting in Casa 4 which is empty for a few days. Lord knows how we’d have managed without it during our parties. Jones’s little casa, however delightful, is designed for one or possibly two. We supped here last night as well, enjoying an excellent bottle of wine & the luxury of a fire. I was about to note the label when I recalled that I’d poured the remains of several bottles together after our brunch.
It’s remained damp. In fact, it’s been decidedly wet at times. A large black cloud arrived overhead at lunchtime & started a serious downpour mid-afternoon, just as we were completing a visit to Loule. Jones remarked that the rain seemed wetter than usual & I had to concur. It was very wet indeed, the kind that has people scurrying for cover & creates instant pools & rushing streams down the side of the road.
The little umbrella we were sharing was not up to the task of sheltering the pair of us & I left Jones sheltering under a shop canopy while I went to fetch the car. The rain continued as we drove to Cin Paints to buy a special green paint for the inside of the carport; & for another hour as we chatted to Sherri Wiltshire, an expat with whom we stayed on our first visit to the Algarve. It was her mini-development that gave us the idea of taking guests. Her garden is one of the wonders of the Algarve. Once the rain had eased off, we inspected her latest cottage & wandered around the acre of garden in true admiration of what she has achieved.
Having said that, I must add that the Quinta itself is looking pretty good. The many trees & shrubs have grown to a respectable size, offering a lot more shade & private nooks than we’ve had. The rockery beds are rejoicing in the showers; the aloes have thrown up glorious red flowers; there are clusters of red & pink & white roses & little celebrations of colour dotted everywhere. Not that it’s a disciplined garden; there are also great ranks of grasses & daisies & all the vegetation that the Algarve throws in for free. But the general sense remains of a Eden, a very nice place to be. Maria came up to say hello. I found my Portuguese vocabulary much shrunk since my last visit & rued my lack of words. I haven’t been doing any homework during my months in London.
Andries met us on our return from Sherri to say that there’d been a lightning strike & the electricity was down in the smaller cottage (where Lo is staying) & apartments. Lightning strikes have been very bad news indeed in the past. But this one – glory be – had merely tripped the mains which I promptly untripped with a muttered hallelujah.
Tuesday:
We met Maria at the bottom of the drive at 9.30 sharp & set out down the motorway to Makro. It’s a useful place for laying in wholesale supplies but indulges in the wretched practice of celebrating special occasions by importing 2 disc-jockeys who scream at each other over a tannoy while offering customers “free” gifts. My pleas to the management to reduce the racket fell on deaf ears. Having plundered the store, we made a grateful exit with our loot. This filled the boot & what remained of the interior to the brim. In fact, Jones had the ends of two drying racks resting on her head for the return journey.
Wednesday:
Piet arrived to begin tackling the long list of tasks I’d drawn up for him. While I painted the interior of the carport, he set about patching the drive. It’s ten years old & beginning to show its age. Mid morning, Lo’s youngest daughter, Afra, pitched up with her partner, Richard, to spend a few days in Casa 2. They’d hoped to bask in the sunshine but the day was cool with more promise of rain than sun. I hoped with them that the weather would improve but I don’t think I sounded very convincing. Back at the carport, I found that the drawback of painting the underside of a roof is that the paint drips in your hair & runs down your hand, no mater how frugally you apply it. After several hours, the carport looked much improved while I started to resemble the Green Gome. In fact, my fingers are still tinged with green as I type.
After lunch, Piet joined me to build a new path from Jones’s cottage to the drive. We are thinking of patenting our drive building method which is very quick & easy. You roll out an underlay of plastic to discourage weeds, wack down a couple of barrows of river sand & level it off & then you plant cement squares on the sand. Finally you make a border of stones to prettify the path & prevent all the sand from running out. Path done! In this instance, we made an extended border from the old tiles which had once adorned the cottages & it looked very good indeed. Jones was pleased. So was I.
Late p.m. we went for a walk through the hills, stopping at Casa de Pasto for a restorative. The grasses were started to break through the earth, no doubt much to the relief of the shepherdess whose charges had been having a hard time of it.
Thursday:
Piet tackled the pool where 2 of the coping stones had come adrift & a section of the patio had lifted off the cement base. I blessed him while he patiently chipped the old concrete away & resecured the stones; it was finicky, time-consuming work. To enjoy the assistance of such a willing & able worker is a blessing indeed. The number of things that need fixing at an establishment like ours simply boggles the imagination. I stopped varnishing at 1800 when our guests came around for a chat & drinks. Afterwards, we went down to the Orange Grove with Andre for a chicken supper. We’d no sooner arrived than the heavens opened, sending down streams of water that bounced back a foot into the air. I thought of the dry months ahead & breathed another thank you to the rain god. We must have had a good inch, to judge by the level in the wheel barrows on our return. You simply can’t take water for granted in the Algarve. It’s a precious resource, all the more so because most of the tourists take it for granted.
Friday
was a national holiday, April 25, when the Portuguese celebrate the 1974 revolution & it was also our off-day. It began with a brisk shower but that soon blew away to reveal a lovely morning. Barbara was expecting two French guests, a couple who had wintered with us previously. The gentleman is in his early seventies, his partner – a charming woman undergoing a long drawn-out & messy divorce – is much younger. We settled them in & drove down to Faro beach & parked ourselves in a favourite café where we paged through the pile of newspapers that Andre had donated. Outside, a motley collection of dogs had fun with just an occasional bottom sniff to establish who was who. Jones wanted to go to the loo but the café owner couldn’t find the key, a bit of a problem. Jones said “it” had gone away. But “it” was clearly going to come back again with a vengeance. So we decamped to a public loo down the road – & another café where we had more coffee & bagaco. We stopped to look at stone tables & benches for the patio below MCP. There was a set that took my fancy but Jones wanted time to think about it. She doesn’t like rushing decisions about these things.
Friday was also the day we decided to fetch the rock with the big fossil from the bank where it lay about a mile away. It was a prize that had first been spotted years ago by our geologist visitor, Ian, & one that had immediately captured Jones’s heart. The problem was how to retrieve the rock as it was far too heavy to carry & too big to manoeuvre into a motor car. So Jones & I set out down the track with a wheelbarrow, a length of rope & two poles to use as levers. Ten mins work saw the rock levered to the top of the bank & another ten mins had it in the wheelbarrow, all this to constant warnings from Jones against straining my back or worse.
It took us the best part of an hour to get it home, Jones pulling & I hefting the barrow, with frequent pauses to gather our breath & rest my arms. Getting the barrow up the drive was the real test of our endurance. We made it with only four stops, pausing breathless to explain to a descending Maria what we were about. Whatever Maria thought of her employers hauling rocks up their drive way in the middle of the afternoon she was too polite to say – although I’m sure she shared her thoughts with her family later. Our visitors greeted us with awe as we arrived in the garden. Lo immediately regretted that we hadn’t told her of our plans, saying she would have volunteered Richard who was “immensely strong”. I think it was probably as well for Richard that he was not aware of the many tasks for which Lo wanted to volunteer his services.
Afterwards, we cracked a bottle of Portuguese champers which we took with us on our walk through the fields, down past Herman the German’s house, past the ruins which are up for sale, & past the house where a Dutchman (named Portugies) committed suicide. There was a spectacular sunset underway against the backdrop of the hills which undulate in pastel folds into the distance. We brought the empty bottle back home for disposal in one of Loule’s bottle banks.
Saturday:
Faro airport. The plane’s an hour late getting in from London & an hour late getting out again. I’ve found a hole in the wall in which to plug in my computer & half bottle of Vinho Verde for solace. There’s a large & largely unfrequented self service area overlooking the arrivals hall which is just perfect for these occasions. I left our guests rejoicing in the sunshine & Jones in Loule where she goes to take coffee for consolation.
17April1997
17 April 1997
My dear folks,
I have done lots of things today but not many of the things I’d planned to do. The day started badly, with a persistent buzzing sound interrupting my deepest dreams at what turned out to be 0745. It was the man who’d come to mend the washing machine downstairs. I couldn’t complain too loudly since I’d been out the last time he called. So I staggered downstairs & let him in & staggered back upstairs & awaited his advice on the problem. Turned out that the machine needed lots of new parts. The previous tenants had worn it to a frazzle. They will have to be ordered & installed at some future point.
Since I couldn’t get back to sleep, I staggered downstairs a second time, turned on a telly election discussion & I set about ironing the shirts that had been piling up steadily. The election discussion tried even my patience. I enjoy following the daily developments but the liturgical exchange of accusations & denials – & the point blank refusal of the candidates to answer questions with a yes or no – drives me to distraction. I’m aware that the public holds journalists in the same low esteem as it holds politicians. God, are we such a low form of life? I suppose that if you judge by the tabloids, we are. Anyhow I got the shirts done & then set out on foot to the bank, health shop, fruiterer, and dry-cleaner. I think you know that tune well enough by now. I paused in the stationers to inspect - & purchase – a couple of computer mags.
Another ring at the door proved to come from the electricity meter reader, come to check the meters in the hall. He was clutching an appliance that took a reading straight off the meter, which I thought was very clever. He had a good moan though because it seems that as a full time employee, he’s only allowed to read the landlord’s meter (for the common parts of the house). His bosses have determined that it’s cheaper for part time meter readers to come around & read the other three meters for the individual flats. Thus our man goes from house to house reading a single meter & ignoring all the others. No wonder he’s pissed off. Every now & then I get singular insights into why some workforces would dearly love to cast management into boiling oil & I had one such this a.m.
It was once again the loveliest of days. I’d picked up a couple more plants during my Maida tour & I stuck them into the bleaker pots & troughs. My new climber is going great guns, much to my satisfaction, as I’d broken off a couple of the shoots while planting it & trying to train it up the trellis. Which reminds me, Jones. The forecasts show ominous black clouds heading for Iberia. It’s going to be a wet weekend down there. You’d better make plans to hold any reception indoors.
After an hour long scrutiny of the computer mags, I decided that I’d take a look at the third of 4 computer manufacturers whose models I’m interested in, Dan. They’re situated 30 mins away but the location proved both wretchedly difficult to find & equally difficult to find a way out of….in the middle of a small industrial estate surrounded by ring-roads. I got lost in both directions. But the hour I spent there was a satisfying one & I think I might well opt for one of the their models. I dealt with a crisp salesman who had a full quote waiting on the fax by the time I got home. There are all sorts of options one can go for & I’d asked him to price several of them either in or out.
I’ve sworn to get my correspondence baskets in order this evening & to do a quick vacuum. I work tomorrow & I’m off to the quinta on Saturday. So I’ll leave you in peace for the next week, probably.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
I have done lots of things today but not many of the things I’d planned to do. The day started badly, with a persistent buzzing sound interrupting my deepest dreams at what turned out to be 0745. It was the man who’d come to mend the washing machine downstairs. I couldn’t complain too loudly since I’d been out the last time he called. So I staggered downstairs & let him in & staggered back upstairs & awaited his advice on the problem. Turned out that the machine needed lots of new parts. The previous tenants had worn it to a frazzle. They will have to be ordered & installed at some future point.
Since I couldn’t get back to sleep, I staggered downstairs a second time, turned on a telly election discussion & I set about ironing the shirts that had been piling up steadily. The election discussion tried even my patience. I enjoy following the daily developments but the liturgical exchange of accusations & denials – & the point blank refusal of the candidates to answer questions with a yes or no – drives me to distraction. I’m aware that the public holds journalists in the same low esteem as it holds politicians. God, are we such a low form of life? I suppose that if you judge by the tabloids, we are. Anyhow I got the shirts done & then set out on foot to the bank, health shop, fruiterer, and dry-cleaner. I think you know that tune well enough by now. I paused in the stationers to inspect - & purchase – a couple of computer mags.
Another ring at the door proved to come from the electricity meter reader, come to check the meters in the hall. He was clutching an appliance that took a reading straight off the meter, which I thought was very clever. He had a good moan though because it seems that as a full time employee, he’s only allowed to read the landlord’s meter (for the common parts of the house). His bosses have determined that it’s cheaper for part time meter readers to come around & read the other three meters for the individual flats. Thus our man goes from house to house reading a single meter & ignoring all the others. No wonder he’s pissed off. Every now & then I get singular insights into why some workforces would dearly love to cast management into boiling oil & I had one such this a.m.
It was once again the loveliest of days. I’d picked up a couple more plants during my Maida tour & I stuck them into the bleaker pots & troughs. My new climber is going great guns, much to my satisfaction, as I’d broken off a couple of the shoots while planting it & trying to train it up the trellis. Which reminds me, Jones. The forecasts show ominous black clouds heading for Iberia. It’s going to be a wet weekend down there. You’d better make plans to hold any reception indoors.
After an hour long scrutiny of the computer mags, I decided that I’d take a look at the third of 4 computer manufacturers whose models I’m interested in, Dan. They’re situated 30 mins away but the location proved both wretchedly difficult to find & equally difficult to find a way out of….in the middle of a small industrial estate surrounded by ring-roads. I got lost in both directions. But the hour I spent there was a satisfying one & I think I might well opt for one of the their models. I dealt with a crisp salesman who had a full quote waiting on the fax by the time I got home. There are all sorts of options one can go for & I’d asked him to price several of them either in or out.
I’ve sworn to get my correspondence baskets in order this evening & to do a quick vacuum. I work tomorrow & I’m off to the quinta on Saturday. So I’ll leave you in peace for the next week, probably.
Blessings
T
16April1997
16 April 1997
My dear folks,
Wednesday evening it is & a lovely one too. The washing is churning around in the washing machine & Don Williams is crooning away to his gypsy woman on the CD. The expression “made in heaven” went through my mind earlier but it occurred to me simultaneously that what we need right now is a little rain made in heaven. Britain is slowly scrunching up in a drought that is turning quite nasty. Be that as it may, it’s been a lovely day. I spent the 1st part of it working (till 8 a.m.), the 2nd bit sleeping (till noon) & the rest running around. I’m still trying to decide on a new computer & I cycled into the Strand to look at a display of Gateway models. I liked what I saw but nothing sufficiently to make a decision. There was nothing that absolutely fitted the bill at the exactly right price. It’ll wait.
Stops on the way home for bread & soup from the health shop, hoummos & tarama for Jones from the grocer & fruit from the usual. There was a selection of plants outside the greengrocer & I sought the advice of one of the cockney youths who work there as to what he recommended for the patio garden. Everything would grow on the patio, he reassured me nonchalantly; none of their plants was fussy as to outlook or treatment. I took a few of the plants along while keeping my doubts about his expertise to myself. The various packages filled my backpack & swung from both sides of the handlebars.
The patio garden is coming along. I’ve planted another climber to replace one that succumbed to the cold, stuffed a hanging basket with some gay little items & tried to raise a little colour in the troughs. It makes the place feel ever so much cheerier. Mavis likes nothing better than having the patio door open on a sunny day so that he can sprawl across the threshold in the sunshine & avoid the necessity of squeezing himself – like a hairy ribbon of toothpaste – through his catflap. He’s had a quiet day after a night on the tiles. He was determined to go outside when I left for work last night, standing up against the door & looking around pleadingly. It was fine by me. It’s his fat skin. He came bounding in as I arrived back this a.m., squealing for breakfast.
I’m off Thursday – praise be - & back at work for a dayshift on Friday before flying to Portugal for a week on Saturday. As always, I’ve overflowing baskets of correspondence to reply to & the flat with its tongue hanging out for a vacuum. Someone stuffed a flier for a maid-service through the door a few days ago but I haven’t yet got past the answerphone. The workmen have finished redecorating the ground floor flat. It looks good. The new tenants move in this weekend. The folks in the basement flat say their life has been transformed since the old – none too quiet – tenants moved out. There was more than a little friction there. There’s also been tenant warfare between the two girls sharing the first floor flat, threatening to sue each other after a bad fall out. I’ve been the middle-man, listening to both, trying to pour a little oil on troubled waters. One has now moved out, swearing vengeance. Never a quiet moment.
If you’ve heard this all before, it’s because my life chases its own tail around in circles. I’m not sure what to do about it, other than win the lottery. Last night, I counted the flights of stairs I climbed – either up or down – on my innumerable trips down to the VT suites or the studio. It was 48. I confess I thought it would be more.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
Wednesday evening it is & a lovely one too. The washing is churning around in the washing machine & Don Williams is crooning away to his gypsy woman on the CD. The expression “made in heaven” went through my mind earlier but it occurred to me simultaneously that what we need right now is a little rain made in heaven. Britain is slowly scrunching up in a drought that is turning quite nasty. Be that as it may, it’s been a lovely day. I spent the 1st part of it working (till 8 a.m.), the 2nd bit sleeping (till noon) & the rest running around. I’m still trying to decide on a new computer & I cycled into the Strand to look at a display of Gateway models. I liked what I saw but nothing sufficiently to make a decision. There was nothing that absolutely fitted the bill at the exactly right price. It’ll wait.
Stops on the way home for bread & soup from the health shop, hoummos & tarama for Jones from the grocer & fruit from the usual. There was a selection of plants outside the greengrocer & I sought the advice of one of the cockney youths who work there as to what he recommended for the patio garden. Everything would grow on the patio, he reassured me nonchalantly; none of their plants was fussy as to outlook or treatment. I took a few of the plants along while keeping my doubts about his expertise to myself. The various packages filled my backpack & swung from both sides of the handlebars.
The patio garden is coming along. I’ve planted another climber to replace one that succumbed to the cold, stuffed a hanging basket with some gay little items & tried to raise a little colour in the troughs. It makes the place feel ever so much cheerier. Mavis likes nothing better than having the patio door open on a sunny day so that he can sprawl across the threshold in the sunshine & avoid the necessity of squeezing himself – like a hairy ribbon of toothpaste – through his catflap. He’s had a quiet day after a night on the tiles. He was determined to go outside when I left for work last night, standing up against the door & looking around pleadingly. It was fine by me. It’s his fat skin. He came bounding in as I arrived back this a.m., squealing for breakfast.
I’m off Thursday – praise be - & back at work for a dayshift on Friday before flying to Portugal for a week on Saturday. As always, I’ve overflowing baskets of correspondence to reply to & the flat with its tongue hanging out for a vacuum. Someone stuffed a flier for a maid-service through the door a few days ago but I haven’t yet got past the answerphone. The workmen have finished redecorating the ground floor flat. It looks good. The new tenants move in this weekend. The folks in the basement flat say their life has been transformed since the old – none too quiet – tenants moved out. There was more than a little friction there. There’s also been tenant warfare between the two girls sharing the first floor flat, threatening to sue each other after a bad fall out. I’ve been the middle-man, listening to both, trying to pour a little oil on troubled waters. One has now moved out, swearing vengeance. Never a quiet moment.
If you’ve heard this all before, it’s because my life chases its own tail around in circles. I’m not sure what to do about it, other than win the lottery. Last night, I counted the flights of stairs I climbed – either up or down – on my innumerable trips down to the VT suites or the studio. It was 48. I confess I thought it would be more.
Blessings
T
14April1997
14 April 1997
My dear folks,
I don’t much like getting phone calls & am never better pleased than when I arrive home to find the little red light on the answering machine unlit. That’s because most of my phone calls come from someone who wants me to do something & isn’t going to pay me for doing it. Today however I had a welcome phone call, from a secretary at the Beeb who called to say that the On Line Board would convene at some point on Monday 28 April especially to accommodate me. That’s welcome news indeed! It means that I can fly down to Portugal on Sat without either having to resign all hopes of the attachment or spending a great deal of effort & money to fly back & forth.
Since Jones has been waiting on exactly such news, I have elevated it to the very top of my letter. Jones I have also emailed R&P to thank them for the book. And while I’m at such things, Cathy the full address of University College London is:
Gower Street, London, WC1E 6BT.
Mother, thank you for your fax a few hours ago. The erratic delivery of the SA Times has nothing to do with the renewal, which only takes effect from July & which I’ve already seen to. Re the charges you ask about, I’m not sure but suspect the answer is yes. As for my report on the unfortunate Hutu refugees in Zaire, I’m pleased you had the satisfaction of it. They are truly unwanted people, paying the price of their tribal leaders’ evil 3 years ago. I frequently reflect how horrible a world it is for most people – I don’t mean comfortable westerners - & wonder what sense starving mothers & children make of it in the hellholes of Zaire. At least, it puts my only tiny frustrations into perspective. Thank you also Bevan for your chatty account of your doings which I shall fax down to Jones.
I worked Sat & Sun, long, unrelenting days with a 30 minute bulletin to fill every hour. That’s hard over a weekend, even a fairly newsy weekend, especially with the skeleton teams we’ve been reduced to. I arrived at work eightish on Sun a.m. to find the editor cursing because a live inject of the pope’s meeting with Bosnia’s rotating presidency was fast outdating the report which our ovenight in-house correspondent had just compiled. So the first thing I had to do was a package on the Pope for 9 a.m. I watched the pix come in till 8.30 & then sat down to do some fast scripting, voicing & cutting with a tape editor. Putting a package together in 30 mins is a bit like running a 4 min mile….doable, but tough going. We got it into the transmission suite with two mins in hand. That’s considered quite generous. I’ve often heard the gallery producer asking the presenter to try to read the cue to lead story slowly as the package they’re waiting for hasn’t arrived in tx yet! That’s hairy!
I’m back again tonight & Tues night. I wasn’t due to work again until Thurs but one of my colleagues begged to swap his night shifts with me as a neighbour was having building work done & it was quite impossible for anyone to sleep in the neighbourhood during the day. That suited me quite well; means that I could get off the Sunday after my return from Portugal on the Sat evening & use the day to prepare for my board.
I’m starting to crack the fundamentals of setting up web-sites, to my considerable creative satisfaction. I added two pages last night, both advertising the holiday home of a BBC colleague which is situated quite close to the Quinta. I have also put up Jones’s write-up on all the restaurants in the area. Now I must find some pix & info about Loule & the Algarve, fancy them up a bit & weave them in. The tricky bit is making the pages look good & setting up the links that enable one to move between the various pages on the site. I feel like someone who has managed to daub a recognisable scene on a canvas. All I need to do now is cover the ground which separates such a dauber from Michelangelo.
My dear folks,
I don’t much like getting phone calls & am never better pleased than when I arrive home to find the little red light on the answering machine unlit. That’s because most of my phone calls come from someone who wants me to do something & isn’t going to pay me for doing it. Today however I had a welcome phone call, from a secretary at the Beeb who called to say that the On Line Board would convene at some point on Monday 28 April especially to accommodate me. That’s welcome news indeed! It means that I can fly down to Portugal on Sat without either having to resign all hopes of the attachment or spending a great deal of effort & money to fly back & forth.
Since Jones has been waiting on exactly such news, I have elevated it to the very top of my letter. Jones I have also emailed R&P to thank them for the book. And while I’m at such things, Cathy the full address of University College London is:
Gower Street, London, WC1E 6BT.
Mother, thank you for your fax a few hours ago. The erratic delivery of the SA Times has nothing to do with the renewal, which only takes effect from July & which I’ve already seen to. Re the charges you ask about, I’m not sure but suspect the answer is yes. As for my report on the unfortunate Hutu refugees in Zaire, I’m pleased you had the satisfaction of it. They are truly unwanted people, paying the price of their tribal leaders’ evil 3 years ago. I frequently reflect how horrible a world it is for most people – I don’t mean comfortable westerners - & wonder what sense starving mothers & children make of it in the hellholes of Zaire. At least, it puts my only tiny frustrations into perspective. Thank you also Bevan for your chatty account of your doings which I shall fax down to Jones.
I worked Sat & Sun, long, unrelenting days with a 30 minute bulletin to fill every hour. That’s hard over a weekend, even a fairly newsy weekend, especially with the skeleton teams we’ve been reduced to. I arrived at work eightish on Sun a.m. to find the editor cursing because a live inject of the pope’s meeting with Bosnia’s rotating presidency was fast outdating the report which our ovenight in-house correspondent had just compiled. So the first thing I had to do was a package on the Pope for 9 a.m. I watched the pix come in till 8.30 & then sat down to do some fast scripting, voicing & cutting with a tape editor. Putting a package together in 30 mins is a bit like running a 4 min mile….doable, but tough going. We got it into the transmission suite with two mins in hand. That’s considered quite generous. I’ve often heard the gallery producer asking the presenter to try to read the cue to lead story slowly as the package they’re waiting for hasn’t arrived in tx yet! That’s hairy!
I’m back again tonight & Tues night. I wasn’t due to work again until Thurs but one of my colleagues begged to swap his night shifts with me as a neighbour was having building work done & it was quite impossible for anyone to sleep in the neighbourhood during the day. That suited me quite well; means that I could get off the Sunday after my return from Portugal on the Sat evening & use the day to prepare for my board.
I’m starting to crack the fundamentals of setting up web-sites, to my considerable creative satisfaction. I added two pages last night, both advertising the holiday home of a BBC colleague which is situated quite close to the Quinta. I have also put up Jones’s write-up on all the restaurants in the area. Now I must find some pix & info about Loule & the Algarve, fancy them up a bit & weave them in. The tricky bit is making the pages look good & setting up the links that enable one to move between the various pages on the site. I feel like someone who has managed to daub a recognisable scene on a canvas. All I need to do now is cover the ground which separates such a dauber from Michelangelo.
11April1997
11 April 1997
My dear folks,
It has been a perfectly pleasant day, thus far at least. The highlight was a visit from Freglet who came up from Brighton to inform himself about what’s desirable in a multi media computer. He hopes to invest in one soon. I gave him the benefit of my advice and a couple of computer mags to peruse. Then we went out for a light luncheon at Le Cochon(?), a wine bar around the corner. We ordered large salads (I didn’t say we ate them Anita, just that we ordered them.) I thought I might allow myself a glass of wine under the circumstances. And when I’d downed it, I thought I might allow myself another. You have to know when to make exceptions, don’t you. Too religious & you wind up a fanatic; too undisciplined & you get to be a slob. The art of living successfully lies in walking the fine line.
It’s been a much cooler day, as the weather man promised. Mainly grey! There’s a bright spot where the sun is ill concealed behind the clouds. Before Fregs’ arrival, I cycled off up the canal to Sainsburys for a raid. I got several items on your list Jones & will get the others closer to the time. Only half the groceries fitted in my canvas knapsack. I filled two plastic bags with the rest, slinging one over the handle bars & the other over the saddle before heading unsteadily back down the canal path. I also popped in to the nursery to buy a new climber. A most helpful man listened to me needs before taking me around to an area where he said we should find exactly what I needed. Unfortunately, the plant he recommended was sold out – unless, that is, you wanted a semi grown model for £30. I thought of Jones & declined. I’ll look again next week. There was time for a wee nap in the TV chair after my outing to Sainsburys & another after lunch. Mavis joined me for both. He likes nothing more than a companionable kip.
The highlight of my day was watching a motorist absolutely determined to get away from traffic lights ahead of the black cab beside him. He gunned his motor, spun his wheels & had the satisfaction of getting into the queue of cars for the next lights in front of the taxi. The taxi driver merely pulled into the left lane & forced his way back into the queue two cars ahead. I laughed so much I nearly fell off my bike. I laughed especially loud as I passed the silly motorist on my bike. It’s never a good idea to mix it with a London cabbie. They’ve got their own rules & they don’t take any crap.
The evening news is playing on telly. As always, we are saturated with election minutiae & the daily trade in accusations. At the moment, the leader of the Natural Law party is promoting its virtues. It believes in transcendental meditation & bumping up & down on mattresses in the national interest, an exercise it calls Yogi Flying (I kid you not). Its members ought to be put in a large, leaky, rudderless boat & pushed out to sea. Instead, because this is a democracy, they are given the opportunity to promote their weird ideas together with oddballs of the Referendum Party & the eccentrics of the Independence Party & lunatics of every other persuasion. There will be no such nonsense when Bobo and I rule the world, I can assure you.
Also in the news: an IRA active service team on trial, house prices going up in southern Britain (& down in the north) & firemen in Kent going on strike. This is a bad time to be a fireman, a fire officer, more correctly, since girls are now allowed to join – although by all accounts the firemen are dreadfully chauvinist! No such nonsense at the Beeb where I’m fated to spend the weekend, plus Mon/Tues nights.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
It has been a perfectly pleasant day, thus far at least. The highlight was a visit from Freglet who came up from Brighton to inform himself about what’s desirable in a multi media computer. He hopes to invest in one soon. I gave him the benefit of my advice and a couple of computer mags to peruse. Then we went out for a light luncheon at Le Cochon(?), a wine bar around the corner. We ordered large salads (I didn’t say we ate them Anita, just that we ordered them.) I thought I might allow myself a glass of wine under the circumstances. And when I’d downed it, I thought I might allow myself another. You have to know when to make exceptions, don’t you. Too religious & you wind up a fanatic; too undisciplined & you get to be a slob. The art of living successfully lies in walking the fine line.
It’s been a much cooler day, as the weather man promised. Mainly grey! There’s a bright spot where the sun is ill concealed behind the clouds. Before Fregs’ arrival, I cycled off up the canal to Sainsburys for a raid. I got several items on your list Jones & will get the others closer to the time. Only half the groceries fitted in my canvas knapsack. I filled two plastic bags with the rest, slinging one over the handle bars & the other over the saddle before heading unsteadily back down the canal path. I also popped in to the nursery to buy a new climber. A most helpful man listened to me needs before taking me around to an area where he said we should find exactly what I needed. Unfortunately, the plant he recommended was sold out – unless, that is, you wanted a semi grown model for £30. I thought of Jones & declined. I’ll look again next week. There was time for a wee nap in the TV chair after my outing to Sainsburys & another after lunch. Mavis joined me for both. He likes nothing more than a companionable kip.
The highlight of my day was watching a motorist absolutely determined to get away from traffic lights ahead of the black cab beside him. He gunned his motor, spun his wheels & had the satisfaction of getting into the queue of cars for the next lights in front of the taxi. The taxi driver merely pulled into the left lane & forced his way back into the queue two cars ahead. I laughed so much I nearly fell off my bike. I laughed especially loud as I passed the silly motorist on my bike. It’s never a good idea to mix it with a London cabbie. They’ve got their own rules & they don’t take any crap.
The evening news is playing on telly. As always, we are saturated with election minutiae & the daily trade in accusations. At the moment, the leader of the Natural Law party is promoting its virtues. It believes in transcendental meditation & bumping up & down on mattresses in the national interest, an exercise it calls Yogi Flying (I kid you not). Its members ought to be put in a large, leaky, rudderless boat & pushed out to sea. Instead, because this is a democracy, they are given the opportunity to promote their weird ideas together with oddballs of the Referendum Party & the eccentrics of the Independence Party & lunatics of every other persuasion. There will be no such nonsense when Bobo and I rule the world, I can assure you.
Also in the news: an IRA active service team on trial, house prices going up in southern Britain (& down in the north) & firemen in Kent going on strike. This is a bad time to be a fireman, a fire officer, more correctly, since girls are now allowed to join – although by all accounts the firemen are dreadfully chauvinist! No such nonsense at the Beeb where I’m fated to spend the weekend, plus Mon/Tues nights.
Blessings
T
10April1997
10 April 1977
My dear folks,
The most exciting thing I’ve done today is to have my hair cut. And that suited me just fine. It was the last hair-cut I’m likely to get from Sue, the wee Scottish lassie who’s been trimming my locks at His & Hers across the road for the past few years. Indeed, I’ve seen so many lassies come & go from His & Hers as makes me feel quite elderly. Sue was one of the nicest. She & her Greg are going back to Dundee from whence they came. She says she never liked it before she left it. There’s a moral there of course, but not one that you’ll need me to draw for you.
Before I retired last night, I made a long list of things to be done. It vanished first thing this a.m. but I reckon I got about half way, which isn’t bad. The day began with a cycle tour of the banks, health shop & fruit shop. Then I motored 15 mins down the road to Viglen to inspect more closely two of their computers which I’m interested in. Although I must have spent an hour examining the two models & talking to a saleswoman, I came away as irresolute as I’d arrived. One costs more than I’m willing to pay, the other lacks certain features that I want. I’m not in a hurry & am content to bide my time until I can get exactly what I want at the right price.
It’s been the most glorious sunny day, more deserving of June than of April. Indeed, I feel guilty sitting in the study instead of out on the patio although it’s all of 8 p.m. I took a good hour to water the flowers & cut back some dead winter foliage. One creeper (Jones would know what it’s called) has leapt from its half barrel & is scrambling most satisfactorily up the wall. Another, sadly, has perished, after being nipped by frost. I shall replace it tomorrow.
I took the opportunity as well to water the window boxes left behind by the departing tenants on the ground floor. The painter is nearly finished redecorating the flat. I got told off by Zanussi who sent a repairman around yest. to fix the flat’s ailing washing machine only to find me out. I’d clean forgotten & was most repentant. The repairman is due to call again next week. I was able to hand the keys over to the new tenants this evening. They are young couple whose excitement at the prospect of moving into their own flat brings back distant memories.
Freglet is coming tomorrow to talk computers. He is interested in getting one. He was interested in getting mine but we’ve both thought better of it. It’s worth more to me than I can honestly sell it for.
We continue to suffer all the indignities of a mean-minded election campaign. I guess all election campaigns are mean. Like divorces, they’re full of high emotion & finger pointing & hard to focus on the issues at hand. The degree of “you did”, “no I didn’t” is getting beyond a joke. When one considers that these are our leaders squabbling like brood of bad tempered siblings, it’s quite depressing. I’m heartened only by the reflection that it’s the least worst form of government. Indeed, after reporting on what passes for government in many other parts of the world, I shall not complain at all.
The news of the day: the National Trust has banned stag hunting on its extensive properties after a “scientific study” established beyond doubt that stags really hate being hunted. According to the study, they suffer severe distress when they’re chased by slavering hounds anxious to tear their throats out. This finding has been angrily denounced by the “animal loving” stag hunters who face the loss of their favourite sport. They are going to conduct their own counter study to prove that stags get at least as much of a kick out of it as the hunters do. Am working Sat, Sun days and then Mon, Tues nights.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
The most exciting thing I’ve done today is to have my hair cut. And that suited me just fine. It was the last hair-cut I’m likely to get from Sue, the wee Scottish lassie who’s been trimming my locks at His & Hers across the road for the past few years. Indeed, I’ve seen so many lassies come & go from His & Hers as makes me feel quite elderly. Sue was one of the nicest. She & her Greg are going back to Dundee from whence they came. She says she never liked it before she left it. There’s a moral there of course, but not one that you’ll need me to draw for you.
Before I retired last night, I made a long list of things to be done. It vanished first thing this a.m. but I reckon I got about half way, which isn’t bad. The day began with a cycle tour of the banks, health shop & fruit shop. Then I motored 15 mins down the road to Viglen to inspect more closely two of their computers which I’m interested in. Although I must have spent an hour examining the two models & talking to a saleswoman, I came away as irresolute as I’d arrived. One costs more than I’m willing to pay, the other lacks certain features that I want. I’m not in a hurry & am content to bide my time until I can get exactly what I want at the right price.
It’s been the most glorious sunny day, more deserving of June than of April. Indeed, I feel guilty sitting in the study instead of out on the patio although it’s all of 8 p.m. I took a good hour to water the flowers & cut back some dead winter foliage. One creeper (Jones would know what it’s called) has leapt from its half barrel & is scrambling most satisfactorily up the wall. Another, sadly, has perished, after being nipped by frost. I shall replace it tomorrow.
I took the opportunity as well to water the window boxes left behind by the departing tenants on the ground floor. The painter is nearly finished redecorating the flat. I got told off by Zanussi who sent a repairman around yest. to fix the flat’s ailing washing machine only to find me out. I’d clean forgotten & was most repentant. The repairman is due to call again next week. I was able to hand the keys over to the new tenants this evening. They are young couple whose excitement at the prospect of moving into their own flat brings back distant memories.
Freglet is coming tomorrow to talk computers. He is interested in getting one. He was interested in getting mine but we’ve both thought better of it. It’s worth more to me than I can honestly sell it for.
We continue to suffer all the indignities of a mean-minded election campaign. I guess all election campaigns are mean. Like divorces, they’re full of high emotion & finger pointing & hard to focus on the issues at hand. The degree of “you did”, “no I didn’t” is getting beyond a joke. When one considers that these are our leaders squabbling like brood of bad tempered siblings, it’s quite depressing. I’m heartened only by the reflection that it’s the least worst form of government. Indeed, after reporting on what passes for government in many other parts of the world, I shall not complain at all.
The news of the day: the National Trust has banned stag hunting on its extensive properties after a “scientific study” established beyond doubt that stags really hate being hunted. According to the study, they suffer severe distress when they’re chased by slavering hounds anxious to tear their throats out. This finding has been angrily denounced by the “animal loving” stag hunters who face the loss of their favourite sport. They are going to conduct their own counter study to prove that stags get at least as much of a kick out of it as the hunters do. Am working Sat, Sun days and then Mon, Tues nights.
Blessings
T
7April1997
My dear folks,
My computer keyboard scraped on the glass desktop as I pulled it towards me & Mave, who’s been kipping in the afternoon sunshine, shot up with all alarms ringing. The sound clearly registered in the “red alert” bit of his brain. Having established that all is well, he has resumed his slumbers. Clearly, no harm done.
The Grand National, disrupted on Saturday, is happening as I write. Lots of people are talking on the telly about king & country & the importance of showing the IRA what for. True British grit, one trainer insisted, adding mysteriously that many people had come from nowhere to see the race. Viewers were left to make of this what they might. If I only knew now what we’ll all know shortly, I could retire next week.
It’s the most perfect day. It’s been quite a useful one too. I did the usual grocery & bread runs this a.m. & dropped in on cousin Judy to return a scarf & fetch some computer magazines that I’d left for her house mates to peruse. I’m not sure where the rest of the day has gone other than the usual phone calls & correspondence. And I did spend two hours sorting out problems I’d had getting material on to the Internet & updating my website. It’s only a single page & I’ve replaced the awful graphic of the view with an equally awful one of the cottage (but it refuses to display itself.) There’s a lot more work ahead but meanwhile – for the nerds among you -- the page url is: http//dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/ac864/
I spent an hour registering the site with the main search engines so that other viewers can reach it. Will be most interested to see what response I get, if any.
Still on the technology front, I was pissed off to receive junk fax mail on my (unlisted) fax line from people trying their luck with some kind of scanner. One lot were estate agents to whom I faxed back pages of nothingness as a hint. Another lot were a bunch of scammers allegedly carrying out a survey on people’s views about joining a single currency. Please fax back, they requested, on a number which would have cost a pound a minute, most of it going straight into their pockets. That, no doubt, would have been the end of the survey. I didn’t both to send them my views, although I did wonder how many fools had. I resent cold faxing as much as I resent cold calling!
On the other hand, I’ve lots of welcome faxes to thank you for Jones & Mum and Cathy! Jones I do hope that your weather’s a mite improved. Cathy, I saw Mavis curled up in the corner with a pen, trying to get a note off to Anita without attracting my attention. Will be interested so see what he had to say. I’m going to take a cup of coffee on to the balcony and listen to the evening news in the warmth of a spring afternoon while I’m watering the flowers.
My fixer has just dropped around to give me an estimate for repainting the newly vacated flat downstairs. The new tenants are hoping to come around tonight to sign and seal the lease. Re your query Mum, agents charge 10% of the annual rental plus 17.5% VAT for finding tenants. If your flat is bringing in a typical £750 a month, that’s as close as damnit to £900. And they will seek a slightly reduced payment for renewing the lease each year. Easy money! It’s no wonder they all drive BMWs & take lots of holidays. If you want the agents to “mind” the flat as well, you’re talking 15% plus VAT plus charges. The moral is not to use agents if at all possible.
My computer keyboard scraped on the glass desktop as I pulled it towards me & Mave, who’s been kipping in the afternoon sunshine, shot up with all alarms ringing. The sound clearly registered in the “red alert” bit of his brain. Having established that all is well, he has resumed his slumbers. Clearly, no harm done.
The Grand National, disrupted on Saturday, is happening as I write. Lots of people are talking on the telly about king & country & the importance of showing the IRA what for. True British grit, one trainer insisted, adding mysteriously that many people had come from nowhere to see the race. Viewers were left to make of this what they might. If I only knew now what we’ll all know shortly, I could retire next week.
It’s the most perfect day. It’s been quite a useful one too. I did the usual grocery & bread runs this a.m. & dropped in on cousin Judy to return a scarf & fetch some computer magazines that I’d left for her house mates to peruse. I’m not sure where the rest of the day has gone other than the usual phone calls & correspondence. And I did spend two hours sorting out problems I’d had getting material on to the Internet & updating my website. It’s only a single page & I’ve replaced the awful graphic of the view with an equally awful one of the cottage (but it refuses to display itself.) There’s a lot more work ahead but meanwhile – for the nerds among you -- the page url is: http//dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/ac864/
I spent an hour registering the site with the main search engines so that other viewers can reach it. Will be most interested to see what response I get, if any.
Still on the technology front, I was pissed off to receive junk fax mail on my (unlisted) fax line from people trying their luck with some kind of scanner. One lot were estate agents to whom I faxed back pages of nothingness as a hint. Another lot were a bunch of scammers allegedly carrying out a survey on people’s views about joining a single currency. Please fax back, they requested, on a number which would have cost a pound a minute, most of it going straight into their pockets. That, no doubt, would have been the end of the survey. I didn’t both to send them my views, although I did wonder how many fools had. I resent cold faxing as much as I resent cold calling!
On the other hand, I’ve lots of welcome faxes to thank you for Jones & Mum and Cathy! Jones I do hope that your weather’s a mite improved. Cathy, I saw Mavis curled up in the corner with a pen, trying to get a note off to Anita without attracting my attention. Will be interested so see what he had to say. I’m going to take a cup of coffee on to the balcony and listen to the evening news in the warmth of a spring afternoon while I’m watering the flowers.
My fixer has just dropped around to give me an estimate for repainting the newly vacated flat downstairs. The new tenants are hoping to come around tonight to sign and seal the lease. Re your query Mum, agents charge 10% of the annual rental plus 17.5% VAT for finding tenants. If your flat is bringing in a typical £750 a month, that’s as close as damnit to £900. And they will seek a slightly reduced payment for renewing the lease each year. Easy money! It’s no wonder they all drive BMWs & take lots of holidays. If you want the agents to “mind” the flat as well, you’re talking 15% plus VAT plus charges. The moral is not to use agents if at all possible.
6April1997
6 April 1997
My dear folks,
I have just spoken to Jones. It is raining in the Algarve. And as much as the Quinta needs the rain, Jones is not pleased. Her guests are not there for the rain. In particular, the two children are not best pleased. They’ve been in & out of the pool for several days. Loule’s indoor pool is opening at lunchtime & may provide some relief. I have faxed down to Jones CNN’s weather satellite map of Europe & its forecast for Faro for the next four days. The forecast is for showers. Jones says her worst fears have been realised. I opined that if those were her worst fears, she was doing okay. She reminded me that all things are relative. And so they are.
Saturday was a day of minor achievements & frustrations. On the achievements side, I took a deposit from two prospective tenants for the ground floor flat. That was the culmination of six hours of phone calls, visits & interviews. I also made phone calls to two delightful people who wanted the flat, to tell them that they couldn’t have it & that I was very sorry – which was true. That was the hardest thing I had to do. It was on my mind going to bed the previous night & waking up in the morning.
I also got the washing done. It’s been piling up all week. I wandered around to the health food shop for a loaf of three seeds bread & called in at the greengrocer on the way back for some more fruit. On impulse, I also got a couple of geraniums from him & planted them in the window boxes which have been looking rather bare. Most important, I replaced a washer in a tap whose dripping has been driving me to the edge for weeks. What sweet relief it was to turn the tap off & witness the instant disappearance of the flow – like an obedient servant. You say “go” & he goes!
In the afternoon I got down to some serious computing but it was a mistake. I have recently discovered a marvellous programme for creating Web Pages (AOLPress for those who might be interested) but I inadvertently loaded too many graphics on to my computer. It responded by launching a “go-slow”, taking an hour to digest them until, in despair, I had to resort to drastic measures to shut the thing down. I then spent another hour ruthlessly weeding my hard disk. Finally, after updating my Quinta site, I failed to persuade the software programme to put the new page on the Internet. So by midnight, I was very frustrated & irritated. Five hours of work & nothing to show for it.
I’m planning to meet cousin Judy in 45 minutes & go off for a long walk down the Thames to get some of the frustrations out of my system. It’s dull here but expected to show “bright” patches rather than turn to rain. England, in fact, is undergoing a rather nasty drought. The Thames is dangerously low & all kinds of water restrictions are waiting to pounce on us.
You will be aware that the Grand National wasn’t. All week the TV brought us pictures of alert looking policemen standing around Aintree with automatic weapons at the ready. Two phone calls was all the IRA needed to disrupt the security preparations & the race, forcing tens of thousands of people to abandon the course and their cars parked within it. Kinda rough & very expensive. I was grateful not to be an ardent racing fan. Mavis was not bothered at all. He’d been out on the tiles the previous night & spent the whole day kipping on the couch to recover. He didn’t even bother to come over & inspect the new tenants. Poor exhausted little beast!
Blessings!
My dear folks,
I have just spoken to Jones. It is raining in the Algarve. And as much as the Quinta needs the rain, Jones is not pleased. Her guests are not there for the rain. In particular, the two children are not best pleased. They’ve been in & out of the pool for several days. Loule’s indoor pool is opening at lunchtime & may provide some relief. I have faxed down to Jones CNN’s weather satellite map of Europe & its forecast for Faro for the next four days. The forecast is for showers. Jones says her worst fears have been realised. I opined that if those were her worst fears, she was doing okay. She reminded me that all things are relative. And so they are.
Saturday was a day of minor achievements & frustrations. On the achievements side, I took a deposit from two prospective tenants for the ground floor flat. That was the culmination of six hours of phone calls, visits & interviews. I also made phone calls to two delightful people who wanted the flat, to tell them that they couldn’t have it & that I was very sorry – which was true. That was the hardest thing I had to do. It was on my mind going to bed the previous night & waking up in the morning.
I also got the washing done. It’s been piling up all week. I wandered around to the health food shop for a loaf of three seeds bread & called in at the greengrocer on the way back for some more fruit. On impulse, I also got a couple of geraniums from him & planted them in the window boxes which have been looking rather bare. Most important, I replaced a washer in a tap whose dripping has been driving me to the edge for weeks. What sweet relief it was to turn the tap off & witness the instant disappearance of the flow – like an obedient servant. You say “go” & he goes!
In the afternoon I got down to some serious computing but it was a mistake. I have recently discovered a marvellous programme for creating Web Pages (AOLPress for those who might be interested) but I inadvertently loaded too many graphics on to my computer. It responded by launching a “go-slow”, taking an hour to digest them until, in despair, I had to resort to drastic measures to shut the thing down. I then spent another hour ruthlessly weeding my hard disk. Finally, after updating my Quinta site, I failed to persuade the software programme to put the new page on the Internet. So by midnight, I was very frustrated & irritated. Five hours of work & nothing to show for it.
I’m planning to meet cousin Judy in 45 minutes & go off for a long walk down the Thames to get some of the frustrations out of my system. It’s dull here but expected to show “bright” patches rather than turn to rain. England, in fact, is undergoing a rather nasty drought. The Thames is dangerously low & all kinds of water restrictions are waiting to pounce on us.
You will be aware that the Grand National wasn’t. All week the TV brought us pictures of alert looking policemen standing around Aintree with automatic weapons at the ready. Two phone calls was all the IRA needed to disrupt the security preparations & the race, forcing tens of thousands of people to abandon the course and their cars parked within it. Kinda rough & very expensive. I was grateful not to be an ardent racing fan. Mavis was not bothered at all. He’d been out on the tiles the previous night & spent the whole day kipping on the couch to recover. He didn’t even bother to come over & inspect the new tenants. Poor exhausted little beast!
Blessings!
4April1997
4 April 1997
My dear folks,
It’s a thank God it’s Friday afternoon, going on 1700. The next two hours will be spent in showing potential viewers around the ground floor flat. I find this as much of a pain as the tenant who is moving out. But it’s the least worst option. At least, this way I get to choose the new tenants. And I’m only too well aware of the luxury of being able to choose one’s neighbours and to lay down the ground rules from the start.
It has been a very busy few days and nights, one of those times when one has to concentrate on essentials to survive, pushing everything that can wait to the periphery. “Prioritising” in management-speak! I put ads for the flat in the paper on Wed & Fri, catching most of the calls on my answerphone with a “sorry, I’m asleep; please call back after three”. There’s been a big response, although twice as many people arranged to call around last night as came, and twice as many came as showed any interest. An estate agent told me I was undercharging madly but it seems not. I must have had a half a dozen agents trying to muscle in on the act – an easy £1000 pounds to be made for an hour’s work. Several more couples are due this evening when I hope I can get the affair signed & sealed.
That’s been merely on the sidelines however. I got called in to the Beeb on Tuesday night for an extra shift - the first of three nights. The new schedule is very demanding, especially for the first few hours. On top of this, we’ve had the misfortune of working with one of the bitchiest presenters one could hope to avoid. There’s hardly one of us that hasn’t had a row with her – false, pushy, vain, ambitious & not particularly talented. In short, she’s a pain in the arse, typical you might think of the television industry. Maintaining any semblance of cordiality proves a heavy tax on one’s resources. I don’t make any pretence of enjoying her company. Fortunately, she is loathed by one & all and at least we have the relief of using her as the butt of our humour.
In-between, I took a lot of effort with the OnLine application that I completed yest & left on my boss’s desk this a.m. for him to initial. I can’t say I enjoy the process of trumpet blowing & career hyping – not that there was a great deal to blow or to hype. Applications closed today. Boards are to be held mid-month. We shall see what we shall see. The days have suddenly got much longer. I no longer have to cycle to work in the dark. As always I appreciate the exercise while I detest the busy roads. My little plastic bag of “diet” goodies hangs over the back of the saddle. My colleagues are astonished at the amount of bread that goes into my diet, especially as the diet seems to be working. It’s the delicious health shop bread that Jones introduced me to, cut thick with lashings of health shop vege goo! Seldom has a dieter eaten so well. I guess it’s going teetotal that makes the big difference, & staying away from fats. I have 85 kgs in sight, a weight that’s eluded me for at least a decade. I took some long-last-worn pants around to a dry cleaner today to have his alterations man put in a new zip.
I’ve had brief chats to Jones. She has a full house – ten people – including a former NBC colleague and family. The two children ignored the tradition that April is not considered a swimming month & promptly plunged into the pool. I gathered things have been going well. The most exciting development is the appearance of a new café-bar on the corner 100 yards from the bottom of our drive. In a little hamlet, such news is the main talking point for weeks – not merely the talking point but also the gathering point. It has been much tried & seems to have passed most tests. I’ll be there in two weeks.
My dear folks,
It’s a thank God it’s Friday afternoon, going on 1700. The next two hours will be spent in showing potential viewers around the ground floor flat. I find this as much of a pain as the tenant who is moving out. But it’s the least worst option. At least, this way I get to choose the new tenants. And I’m only too well aware of the luxury of being able to choose one’s neighbours and to lay down the ground rules from the start.
It has been a very busy few days and nights, one of those times when one has to concentrate on essentials to survive, pushing everything that can wait to the periphery. “Prioritising” in management-speak! I put ads for the flat in the paper on Wed & Fri, catching most of the calls on my answerphone with a “sorry, I’m asleep; please call back after three”. There’s been a big response, although twice as many people arranged to call around last night as came, and twice as many came as showed any interest. An estate agent told me I was undercharging madly but it seems not. I must have had a half a dozen agents trying to muscle in on the act – an easy £1000 pounds to be made for an hour’s work. Several more couples are due this evening when I hope I can get the affair signed & sealed.
That’s been merely on the sidelines however. I got called in to the Beeb on Tuesday night for an extra shift - the first of three nights. The new schedule is very demanding, especially for the first few hours. On top of this, we’ve had the misfortune of working with one of the bitchiest presenters one could hope to avoid. There’s hardly one of us that hasn’t had a row with her – false, pushy, vain, ambitious & not particularly talented. In short, she’s a pain in the arse, typical you might think of the television industry. Maintaining any semblance of cordiality proves a heavy tax on one’s resources. I don’t make any pretence of enjoying her company. Fortunately, she is loathed by one & all and at least we have the relief of using her as the butt of our humour.
In-between, I took a lot of effort with the OnLine application that I completed yest & left on my boss’s desk this a.m. for him to initial. I can’t say I enjoy the process of trumpet blowing & career hyping – not that there was a great deal to blow or to hype. Applications closed today. Boards are to be held mid-month. We shall see what we shall see. The days have suddenly got much longer. I no longer have to cycle to work in the dark. As always I appreciate the exercise while I detest the busy roads. My little plastic bag of “diet” goodies hangs over the back of the saddle. My colleagues are astonished at the amount of bread that goes into my diet, especially as the diet seems to be working. It’s the delicious health shop bread that Jones introduced me to, cut thick with lashings of health shop vege goo! Seldom has a dieter eaten so well. I guess it’s going teetotal that makes the big difference, & staying away from fats. I have 85 kgs in sight, a weight that’s eluded me for at least a decade. I took some long-last-worn pants around to a dry cleaner today to have his alterations man put in a new zip.
I’ve had brief chats to Jones. She has a full house – ten people – including a former NBC colleague and family. The two children ignored the tradition that April is not considered a swimming month & promptly plunged into the pool. I gathered things have been going well. The most exciting development is the appearance of a new café-bar on the corner 100 yards from the bottom of our drive. In a little hamlet, such news is the main talking point for weeks – not merely the talking point but also the gathering point. It has been much tried & seems to have passed most tests. I’ll be there in two weeks.
31March1997
My dear folks,
‘Tis Easter Monday, a lovely afternoon. I have arisen from my bed where a little restorative sleep has soothed the gritty edges of a vile overnight shift. The night saw the launch of a new schedule & it brought out everything that was worst about reorganisations. There is nothing, sadly, that the Beeb has to learn about bad management & ours would be frying in hell if our curses had any sting to them. I gave some thought to emigrating to Albania. Anyhow the night’s over &, as I say, it’s a lovely day. Mave has gone walkies. A youthful Sean Connery is making short work of James Bond’s foes in “Diamonds are Forever”. Bond, at least, is forever & Connery was the definitive Bond as you know. I am due to walk into town a little later to join Richard & Penny for 4 hours of Hamlet. I fear that I shall need the odd nap to see it through.
What’s to tell? Not much! I eventually succeeded in getting a page up on the Net where I checked that it was for real. But I didn’t much like what I saw & thought a little more work was in order before I revealed it to the world. At least I can say it’s there when I try to justify my application for an Online job in a couple of weeks. I’ve been scouring my various magazines for the appropriate thoughts & phrases to sprinkle around the application form, over which I’ve been taking a lot of trouble. It requires applicants, among other things, to describe in less than 300 words their favourite Web site AND the likely development of the Web over the next year. Even Bill Gates might find that a tough nut.
The doorbell rang lunchtimish to reveal the new sub-tenant for the flat below mine, together with a useful looking boyfriend. I’d promised the girl who leases the flat – who’s away for the Easter weekend - that I’d let the new arrival in. The lessee is forever looking for someone to share the flat, which she can’t afford to rent alone, but the sub-tenants either prove unsuitable after a short while or go off & pursue their lives elsewhere. I sympathise.
Did you watch the Brazilian Grand Prix? I woke in time yest to settle down for what I’d hoped would be a closer race, but the boy Villeneuve ran away with it. I glanced at my watch as it finished to find myself due at work in 30 mins. The bloody time change had extended a sunny afternoon & fooled me something wicked. Mavis & Poopoo – who’ve both been unwilling dieters along with me – found their dinners even more curtailed as I took off for the office. For once in my life, I didn’t mind the night being shortened by an hour.
As you can see, it’s all trivia. My thoughts are very much with you. Easter blessings shower down (or is it up?) upon you!
T
‘Tis Easter Monday, a lovely afternoon. I have arisen from my bed where a little restorative sleep has soothed the gritty edges of a vile overnight shift. The night saw the launch of a new schedule & it brought out everything that was worst about reorganisations. There is nothing, sadly, that the Beeb has to learn about bad management & ours would be frying in hell if our curses had any sting to them. I gave some thought to emigrating to Albania. Anyhow the night’s over &, as I say, it’s a lovely day. Mave has gone walkies. A youthful Sean Connery is making short work of James Bond’s foes in “Diamonds are Forever”. Bond, at least, is forever & Connery was the definitive Bond as you know. I am due to walk into town a little later to join Richard & Penny for 4 hours of Hamlet. I fear that I shall need the odd nap to see it through.
What’s to tell? Not much! I eventually succeeded in getting a page up on the Net where I checked that it was for real. But I didn’t much like what I saw & thought a little more work was in order before I revealed it to the world. At least I can say it’s there when I try to justify my application for an Online job in a couple of weeks. I’ve been scouring my various magazines for the appropriate thoughts & phrases to sprinkle around the application form, over which I’ve been taking a lot of trouble. It requires applicants, among other things, to describe in less than 300 words their favourite Web site AND the likely development of the Web over the next year. Even Bill Gates might find that a tough nut.
The doorbell rang lunchtimish to reveal the new sub-tenant for the flat below mine, together with a useful looking boyfriend. I’d promised the girl who leases the flat – who’s away for the Easter weekend - that I’d let the new arrival in. The lessee is forever looking for someone to share the flat, which she can’t afford to rent alone, but the sub-tenants either prove unsuitable after a short while or go off & pursue their lives elsewhere. I sympathise.
Did you watch the Brazilian Grand Prix? I woke in time yest to settle down for what I’d hoped would be a closer race, but the boy Villeneuve ran away with it. I glanced at my watch as it finished to find myself due at work in 30 mins. The bloody time change had extended a sunny afternoon & fooled me something wicked. Mavis & Poopoo – who’ve both been unwilling dieters along with me – found their dinners even more curtailed as I took off for the office. For once in my life, I didn’t mind the night being shortened by an hour.
As you can see, it’s all trivia. My thoughts are very much with you. Easter blessings shower down (or is it up?) upon you!
T
28March1997
My dear folks,
It’s Good Friday. Puffballs of cloud are drifting across a blue sky. The view through the study window is important to my day. It sets the tone somehow, either inviting me to be out & about or encouraging me to stay gratefully put. The fact that it’s Good Friday has no bearing on my schedule. I’m working today till midnight & go on to night shifts on Sat/Sun, part of a deal with the rota lady to facilitate a week at the Quinta in April. And to be honest, I don’t mind at all. The lemming pictures of the queues at the country’s airports & the logjams on the roads don’t tempt me.
The application forms for a job with BBC OnLine were delivered to me yest. Appropriately, they arrived as email files which I brought home on a floppy disk & to which I shall turn my attention later. They ask questions about favourite Internet sites & how Internet journalism differs from other media. The subject turns my thoughts to the 39 members of the Higher Source Cult who, after making a living designing web sites on the Internet, went off to meet their UFO on a poisonous cocktail of drugs & vodka. Poor crazy bastards! I doubt they’ve found their higher plane. The story led yest.’s output & was part of the current affairs programme I was working on.
The cult was not the only community to turn its hand to computing. One of my computer buff colleagues was telling me about a group of monks who now earn their living in just this fashion. It makes perfect sense to me. It was the monks after all who laboured away in their libraries down the centuries, copying manuscripts & keeping the store of knowledge intact. As I write, the Benedictine monks of the monastery of St Dominic of Silos are chanting away in the background. They fit the mood of the day. Not that Easter means much here other than a welcome break.
I’ve been able to make some progress towards a modest Web site myself. There’s a programme integrated into Office 97 that provides idiot-proof templates for people like me. I’ve set up a simple one which I hope to install on the Net shortly. At least I shall be able to tell any BBC OnLine inquisitors that I have done so. I doubt that they’ll want to look.
At last I’ve mustered the resolution to vacuum clean the flat. I don’t know why I find it so hard to get down to. It’s a job I always leave till last. With the fat hairy sausage sprinkling his hairs liberally around the flat, it needs doing at least once a week. Less successful were my efforts to remove a wicked ink stain from the pocket of a good shirt. I tried my best immediately after the accident a week ago, to no avail. Then the laundry across the road had a go. Finally, I got a sachet of “colour run” from a pharmacy & dunked the shirt in that for an hour while I cycled off up the canal to raid Sainsbury’s. It was all a total waste of time. I shall have to hunt around for a badge that I can sew over the offending stain as it’s clearly there for the life of the shirt – a favourite shirt too. The episode has irked me all week, more especially as it is not the first of its kind.
At least my diet continues satisfactorily. I’ve been waiting for weeks for anyone to say: ”Hey, but you’ve lost weight!”. And yest someone did for the first time, & so I have, getting on for 20 lbs. I no longer wince when I catch unexpected sight of myself in the bathroom mirror; my jeans are flapping around my waist & I’ve reintroduced myself to two splendid pairs of trousers that had long since given up hope of another outing. I feel much happier, as if I’ve tunnelled the real me out of some alien envelope. I never liked myself bulging in the middle, even though I’d learn to look on the bulge with forgiving eyes.
Having written which, I must add that there’s still some way to go - & I’m only too aware of the sad fate of most dieters. Somehow I feel though that this one marks a lifestyle change for me. I’m joining Jones’s club, as a moderate member mind you!
Barbara has been hard at it down in Portugal, overseeing the painting of the casas & the spring-cleaning ahead of the arrival of a full house of guests next week. It continues hot & dry & windy there. (It’s windy here too – I struggled to work on the bike yest.) Jones is hoping for rain but not immediately as it’s the last thing that our guests will want. (Jones, the latest Quinta schedule follows. It looks fine for the proposed new guest. I will make “Sky card “enquiries on Bernie’s behalf – after the Easter weekend.)
Our election campaign continues somewhat despairingly for the government whose agenda has been hijacked by continuing tales of sleaze & sexual stupidity. And, if the latest reports are to be believed, Tony Blair is now so far ahead of John Major in the prime ministerial stakes that Blair has lost all enthusiasm for the TV debate he’s been demanding for months. The rationale is apparently that he has nothing to gain from a debate while a creditable performance from a desperate Major might just start to even the odds. What a funny old world!
Thank you Llewellyn & Jane for your welcome letters. My thoughts are with you over Easter, as with the other folks in SA & in Canada & Germany.
Blessings ever,
It’s Good Friday. Puffballs of cloud are drifting across a blue sky. The view through the study window is important to my day. It sets the tone somehow, either inviting me to be out & about or encouraging me to stay gratefully put. The fact that it’s Good Friday has no bearing on my schedule. I’m working today till midnight & go on to night shifts on Sat/Sun, part of a deal with the rota lady to facilitate a week at the Quinta in April. And to be honest, I don’t mind at all. The lemming pictures of the queues at the country’s airports & the logjams on the roads don’t tempt me.
The application forms for a job with BBC OnLine were delivered to me yest. Appropriately, they arrived as email files which I brought home on a floppy disk & to which I shall turn my attention later. They ask questions about favourite Internet sites & how Internet journalism differs from other media. The subject turns my thoughts to the 39 members of the Higher Source Cult who, after making a living designing web sites on the Internet, went off to meet their UFO on a poisonous cocktail of drugs & vodka. Poor crazy bastards! I doubt they’ve found their higher plane. The story led yest.’s output & was part of the current affairs programme I was working on.
The cult was not the only community to turn its hand to computing. One of my computer buff colleagues was telling me about a group of monks who now earn their living in just this fashion. It makes perfect sense to me. It was the monks after all who laboured away in their libraries down the centuries, copying manuscripts & keeping the store of knowledge intact. As I write, the Benedictine monks of the monastery of St Dominic of Silos are chanting away in the background. They fit the mood of the day. Not that Easter means much here other than a welcome break.
I’ve been able to make some progress towards a modest Web site myself. There’s a programme integrated into Office 97 that provides idiot-proof templates for people like me. I’ve set up a simple one which I hope to install on the Net shortly. At least I shall be able to tell any BBC OnLine inquisitors that I have done so. I doubt that they’ll want to look.
At last I’ve mustered the resolution to vacuum clean the flat. I don’t know why I find it so hard to get down to. It’s a job I always leave till last. With the fat hairy sausage sprinkling his hairs liberally around the flat, it needs doing at least once a week. Less successful were my efforts to remove a wicked ink stain from the pocket of a good shirt. I tried my best immediately after the accident a week ago, to no avail. Then the laundry across the road had a go. Finally, I got a sachet of “colour run” from a pharmacy & dunked the shirt in that for an hour while I cycled off up the canal to raid Sainsbury’s. It was all a total waste of time. I shall have to hunt around for a badge that I can sew over the offending stain as it’s clearly there for the life of the shirt – a favourite shirt too. The episode has irked me all week, more especially as it is not the first of its kind.
At least my diet continues satisfactorily. I’ve been waiting for weeks for anyone to say: ”Hey, but you’ve lost weight!”. And yest someone did for the first time, & so I have, getting on for 20 lbs. I no longer wince when I catch unexpected sight of myself in the bathroom mirror; my jeans are flapping around my waist & I’ve reintroduced myself to two splendid pairs of trousers that had long since given up hope of another outing. I feel much happier, as if I’ve tunnelled the real me out of some alien envelope. I never liked myself bulging in the middle, even though I’d learn to look on the bulge with forgiving eyes.
Having written which, I must add that there’s still some way to go - & I’m only too aware of the sad fate of most dieters. Somehow I feel though that this one marks a lifestyle change for me. I’m joining Jones’s club, as a moderate member mind you!
Barbara has been hard at it down in Portugal, overseeing the painting of the casas & the spring-cleaning ahead of the arrival of a full house of guests next week. It continues hot & dry & windy there. (It’s windy here too – I struggled to work on the bike yest.) Jones is hoping for rain but not immediately as it’s the last thing that our guests will want. (Jones, the latest Quinta schedule follows. It looks fine for the proposed new guest. I will make “Sky card “enquiries on Bernie’s behalf – after the Easter weekend.)
Our election campaign continues somewhat despairingly for the government whose agenda has been hijacked by continuing tales of sleaze & sexual stupidity. And, if the latest reports are to be believed, Tony Blair is now so far ahead of John Major in the prime ministerial stakes that Blair has lost all enthusiasm for the TV debate he’s been demanding for months. The rationale is apparently that he has nothing to gain from a debate while a creditable performance from a desperate Major might just start to even the odds. What a funny old world!
Thank you Llewellyn & Jane for your welcome letters. My thoughts are with you over Easter, as with the other folks in SA & in Canada & Germany.
Blessings ever,
26March1997
My dear folks,
The artist who painted this a.m.’s sky was a single minded guy. Just a sweep of grey from end to end. We are promised “bright” intervals this p.m. Not sunshine, mind you, just a hint of luminosity….. if we are lucky. And all we get from Calgary is whinging, while the lucky devils are basking in spring sunshine & revelling in the glories of the thaw! As for references to “thin” Canada geese in your skies, Ann, you’ll find no sympathy for the bastards in England where most of them now live. They arrived some years ago pleading refugee status & promptly took over the parks where they stalk the pathways, exacting tribute & mugging anyone who fails to hand over sandwiches.
The jobs with BBC OnLine have at last been advertised & I’ve declared an interest. There’s no indication yet of when the boards will be held. Meanwhile, I’ve been spending a lot of time surfing the Web sites of rival institutions with a view to being able to talk intelligently about them. I have also been working on a web site for the Quintassential (some info/pictures posted on the Internet). I spent four hours last night downloading a couple of trial Web authoring programmes to try to improve on my fairly primitive efforts. But one programme told me it had expired & I couldn’t work out how to use the other one. Finally, I crashed my computer & retired gloomily to bed. No doubt Einstein had his bad days as well.
I have been considering the purchase of another computer, a desktop model that will sustain me into the new millennium. You will be aware that the only good times to buy a computer are yesterday & tomorrow. I have scrutinised the reviews of those I’m interested in but without being able to make up my mind, especially as the reviewers seldom concur. I have to be able to feel that I’ve settled on a model that perfectly suits my foreseeable needs at an affordable price, no easy matter. Before your heart sinks, Jones, let me add that I’ve been thinking about the subject for months. I had a word with Nancy yesterday (when she phoned to get directions for the Quinta) & she thinks the family has now settled on the purchase of one I recommended to her. (Her flight arrives at Faro mid a.m. & they should be with you by midday.)
As usual, breakfast has comprised a wodge of microwaved porridge laced with black molasses, looking vaguely like a fresh cowpat. It’s not a dish that you would find on your typical menu but I am led to understand that it is good for me. Last night I watched a TV programme on a group of Mormons, a polygamous community that was guided by revelation. As hubby explained, surveying his 5 wives (& 13 children), God had not explicitly told him to marry them, but He hadn’t raised any objections either. The routine was 2 nights with each wife in strict rotation. The ladies admitted that they had found some difficulties with the sharing process but insisted that most of these had been resolved through prayer. The Mormons have clearly got more going for them than I’d realised. I’ll have a word with Bobo who, happily, is a broad-minded deity himself.
This a.m. I have the plumber & another handyman calling to attend to minor problems in “my” apartments. They both agreed to call between 9.30 & 10.00, meaning that with luck they’ll be here before lunch. But since there’s still lots of work to be done on my Web page, I don’t really mind. I’ve also several letters & emails to re-read, as well as the latest chronicle from a former SABC colleague living in Zimbabwe who doesn’t feel happy until he has related every glimpse he has caught of every animal in the game parks where he seems to be spending most of his retirement.
Blessings ever
T
PS. The English Patient sure creamed the Oscars, didn’t it?
The artist who painted this a.m.’s sky was a single minded guy. Just a sweep of grey from end to end. We are promised “bright” intervals this p.m. Not sunshine, mind you, just a hint of luminosity….. if we are lucky. And all we get from Calgary is whinging, while the lucky devils are basking in spring sunshine & revelling in the glories of the thaw! As for references to “thin” Canada geese in your skies, Ann, you’ll find no sympathy for the bastards in England where most of them now live. They arrived some years ago pleading refugee status & promptly took over the parks where they stalk the pathways, exacting tribute & mugging anyone who fails to hand over sandwiches.
The jobs with BBC OnLine have at last been advertised & I’ve declared an interest. There’s no indication yet of when the boards will be held. Meanwhile, I’ve been spending a lot of time surfing the Web sites of rival institutions with a view to being able to talk intelligently about them. I have also been working on a web site for the Quintassential (some info/pictures posted on the Internet). I spent four hours last night downloading a couple of trial Web authoring programmes to try to improve on my fairly primitive efforts. But one programme told me it had expired & I couldn’t work out how to use the other one. Finally, I crashed my computer & retired gloomily to bed. No doubt Einstein had his bad days as well.
I have been considering the purchase of another computer, a desktop model that will sustain me into the new millennium. You will be aware that the only good times to buy a computer are yesterday & tomorrow. I have scrutinised the reviews of those I’m interested in but without being able to make up my mind, especially as the reviewers seldom concur. I have to be able to feel that I’ve settled on a model that perfectly suits my foreseeable needs at an affordable price, no easy matter. Before your heart sinks, Jones, let me add that I’ve been thinking about the subject for months. I had a word with Nancy yesterday (when she phoned to get directions for the Quinta) & she thinks the family has now settled on the purchase of one I recommended to her. (Her flight arrives at Faro mid a.m. & they should be with you by midday.)
As usual, breakfast has comprised a wodge of microwaved porridge laced with black molasses, looking vaguely like a fresh cowpat. It’s not a dish that you would find on your typical menu but I am led to understand that it is good for me. Last night I watched a TV programme on a group of Mormons, a polygamous community that was guided by revelation. As hubby explained, surveying his 5 wives (& 13 children), God had not explicitly told him to marry them, but He hadn’t raised any objections either. The routine was 2 nights with each wife in strict rotation. The ladies admitted that they had found some difficulties with the sharing process but insisted that most of these had been resolved through prayer. The Mormons have clearly got more going for them than I’d realised. I’ll have a word with Bobo who, happily, is a broad-minded deity himself.
This a.m. I have the plumber & another handyman calling to attend to minor problems in “my” apartments. They both agreed to call between 9.30 & 10.00, meaning that with luck they’ll be here before lunch. But since there’s still lots of work to be done on my Web page, I don’t really mind. I’ve also several letters & emails to re-read, as well as the latest chronicle from a former SABC colleague living in Zimbabwe who doesn’t feel happy until he has related every glimpse he has caught of every animal in the game parks where he seems to be spending most of his retirement.
Blessings ever
T
PS. The English Patient sure creamed the Oscars, didn’t it?
23March1997
My dear folks,
I write with a somewhat heavy heart as yesterday’s post brought news of the death from cancer of a friend & former neighbour, Les Bitner. He’d returned from Britain to his native California some years ago, although he continued to visit Europe, generally bringing me a book on layman’s cosmology. He had a great interest in the nature of things & was only too happy to talk over a good glass of wine at dinner about the variety of sub-atomic particles & Heisenberg’s “uncertainty principle”. RIP.
Cousin Judy had accepted an invitation to go walking on Sat a.m. The day was perfect. We drove out to Cookham, a favourite haunt of Barbara’s & mine, & set out along the Thames path to Maidenhead. The daffodils were out in their glory, the trees in blossom; the Thames itself was more populated by birds than boats. The season usually begins at Easter & I guess that next weekend the river will resemble a motorway. We stopped at a lock to watch the water boiling in until it settled level with the river, allowing the lock gates to swing open & two river cruisers to continue their upward journey. We continued ours to take tea at our traditional stop on the fringes of Maidenhead. Only the stop, a wooden cabin that for years had leaned alarmingly to one side, had vanished, together with its proprietors. In its place was a smart Swiss chalet tea-room. The tea & cakes, at least, were much the same, as were accents of middle England all around us.
There was a message at home from Richard & Penny – with whom I’d spoken earlier in the week -- to say that they’d got tickets for an early evening showing of “The English Patient” & to come on over. It’s a stunning film; no wonder that it’s picked up such a host of Academy Award nominations. Jones hoped, when I rang her this a.m., that it wasn’t too sad. I suppose that depends on how sad you like your films. Certainly, the tears were flowing freely from one mightily afflicted soul behind me. I do recommend it to you but not when you want a light hearted evening. We dined at a Turkish restaurant around the corner.
The one person whose life has taken a decided turn for the better is the fat hairy sausage. He accompanied me downstairs yest & followed me into Stef’s flat where Poopoo was waiting anxiously for breakfast. Stef’s flat was previously Mave’s favourite place in all the world for Poopoo gets special cat nosh which Mave otherwise never sees. (Previously that is to the arrival of the Jessie, the dog, with whom Mave failed to hit it off.) But Jessie, like her owners, is away this week & Mave was able to saunter in with impunity. Poopoo was not pleased with her visitor & retreated, hissing loudly, into the corner. Let me say no more, other than that I swear that I can see Mavis smiling.
To my disappointment, I discovered that I return to work on Monday rather than Tuesday as I’d thought. That means that the washing, ironing & cleaning that I’d been putting off must be done today, together with a pile of correspondence. It’s a grey day – suitable for such matters – which I shall tackle without further ado.
Blessings ever
T
I write with a somewhat heavy heart as yesterday’s post brought news of the death from cancer of a friend & former neighbour, Les Bitner. He’d returned from Britain to his native California some years ago, although he continued to visit Europe, generally bringing me a book on layman’s cosmology. He had a great interest in the nature of things & was only too happy to talk over a good glass of wine at dinner about the variety of sub-atomic particles & Heisenberg’s “uncertainty principle”. RIP.
Cousin Judy had accepted an invitation to go walking on Sat a.m. The day was perfect. We drove out to Cookham, a favourite haunt of Barbara’s & mine, & set out along the Thames path to Maidenhead. The daffodils were out in their glory, the trees in blossom; the Thames itself was more populated by birds than boats. The season usually begins at Easter & I guess that next weekend the river will resemble a motorway. We stopped at a lock to watch the water boiling in until it settled level with the river, allowing the lock gates to swing open & two river cruisers to continue their upward journey. We continued ours to take tea at our traditional stop on the fringes of Maidenhead. Only the stop, a wooden cabin that for years had leaned alarmingly to one side, had vanished, together with its proprietors. In its place was a smart Swiss chalet tea-room. The tea & cakes, at least, were much the same, as were accents of middle England all around us.
There was a message at home from Richard & Penny – with whom I’d spoken earlier in the week -- to say that they’d got tickets for an early evening showing of “The English Patient” & to come on over. It’s a stunning film; no wonder that it’s picked up such a host of Academy Award nominations. Jones hoped, when I rang her this a.m., that it wasn’t too sad. I suppose that depends on how sad you like your films. Certainly, the tears were flowing freely from one mightily afflicted soul behind me. I do recommend it to you but not when you want a light hearted evening. We dined at a Turkish restaurant around the corner.
The one person whose life has taken a decided turn for the better is the fat hairy sausage. He accompanied me downstairs yest & followed me into Stef’s flat where Poopoo was waiting anxiously for breakfast. Stef’s flat was previously Mave’s favourite place in all the world for Poopoo gets special cat nosh which Mave otherwise never sees. (Previously that is to the arrival of the Jessie, the dog, with whom Mave failed to hit it off.) But Jessie, like her owners, is away this week & Mave was able to saunter in with impunity. Poopoo was not pleased with her visitor & retreated, hissing loudly, into the corner. Let me say no more, other than that I swear that I can see Mavis smiling.
To my disappointment, I discovered that I return to work on Monday rather than Tuesday as I’d thought. That means that the washing, ironing & cleaning that I’d been putting off must be done today, together with a pile of correspondence. It’s a grey day – suitable for such matters – which I shall tackle without further ado.
Blessings ever
T
14March1997
Friday 14 Mar. 97
My dear folks
Jones has gone to Portugal. I drove her out to the airport this a.m. & joined her in the terminal while she waited to check in. There was a problem with an American couple at the front of the queue which led to an outburst from the guy concerned – they’d apparently been waiting for an hour to check in for a plane about to take off – that led to the eventual appearance of management. The rest of the passengers grew restive & impatient as well they might, Jones included. But the problem was ultimately resolved, or at least the couple went away, & Jones checked in.
For the 1st time that I can remember, she actually didn’t much feel like going back. I put that down to the end of holidays in London rather than any underlying reservations. But it does mark a little mile post. We had discussed once or twice whether we should approach our estate agent merely to look at the property & give us an idea of how much it might (one day?) fetch & how long it might take to sell. We’ve come to weigh up the pleasure we take in the Quinta against the cost of long separations & much hard work for little financial return. I’m not sending you coded messages. Jones isn’t sure what she feels other than wanting the best of both worlds – i.e. the Quinta without the separations & the hassles. I guess that I’m fairly pragmatic. If someone offered me the right price, I’d take it, much as I love the place.
We mused over last cups of coffee upstairs before she vanished off through passport control. I drove home doing lots of gear-changing with the new gearbox to see how well it performed. It’s still a bit stiff but seems to be okay. I got the bike back yest as well, with new back tyre & tube plus new chain. So I’m mobile again.
For once, I will keep this really short and sweet. I must go out for a walk & then get my head down for a couple of hours before the start of the night shift. Thank you Cathy for your fax. Education plays a huge part in the news over here for much the same reasons as it seems to do in Germany. And Mum, I reread your poem (about the folks who get into heaven) plus the article about the two SA union guys. Thank you for those. Think of you lots.
Love
T
My dear folks
Jones has gone to Portugal. I drove her out to the airport this a.m. & joined her in the terminal while she waited to check in. There was a problem with an American couple at the front of the queue which led to an outburst from the guy concerned – they’d apparently been waiting for an hour to check in for a plane about to take off – that led to the eventual appearance of management. The rest of the passengers grew restive & impatient as well they might, Jones included. But the problem was ultimately resolved, or at least the couple went away, & Jones checked in.
For the 1st time that I can remember, she actually didn’t much feel like going back. I put that down to the end of holidays in London rather than any underlying reservations. But it does mark a little mile post. We had discussed once or twice whether we should approach our estate agent merely to look at the property & give us an idea of how much it might (one day?) fetch & how long it might take to sell. We’ve come to weigh up the pleasure we take in the Quinta against the cost of long separations & much hard work for little financial return. I’m not sending you coded messages. Jones isn’t sure what she feels other than wanting the best of both worlds – i.e. the Quinta without the separations & the hassles. I guess that I’m fairly pragmatic. If someone offered me the right price, I’d take it, much as I love the place.
We mused over last cups of coffee upstairs before she vanished off through passport control. I drove home doing lots of gear-changing with the new gearbox to see how well it performed. It’s still a bit stiff but seems to be okay. I got the bike back yest as well, with new back tyre & tube plus new chain. So I’m mobile again.
For once, I will keep this really short and sweet. I must go out for a walk & then get my head down for a couple of hours before the start of the night shift. Thank you Cathy for your fax. Education plays a huge part in the news over here for much the same reasons as it seems to do in Germany. And Mum, I reread your poem (about the folks who get into heaven) plus the article about the two SA union guys. Thank you for those. Think of you lots.
Love
T
1March1997
1 March, 1997
My dear folks
Saturday evening:
We have come to a special place, a cottage converted from a barn on a Lake District sheep farm. All around us are soft velvety brown hills, like the backs of sleeping bears, newly rid of winter’s snow. The valleys between are wet & green, dotted with sheep, ribbed with dry-stone walls. Slate-grey farm buildings snuggle up against the hillsides, as if they have too have evolved here in the natural course of things. Our own cottage is snug & warm, equipped with every appliance, full of floral carpets & curtains. One has that rare sense in England of being far away from everything & everyone.
We have met Mark the farmer (a part-time Anglican priest who looks the Wizard of Oz & is into computers), Maggie his wife, Tara the black Labrador & Aggie (short for Agnus Dei) the pet ewe who has just produced her first lamb. We have been for a walk down the valley, water seeping everywhere. Rivulets trickle into babbling brooks that burble into busy streams that tumble into the river below. Mark says one of the wettest Februarys on record followed one of the driest Januarys.
We tramped along an old railway embankment, now the graveyard of rusting farm implements. In the cuttings, water streams from rock walls turned into fern & moss gardens. The tracks have gone but the rugged stone bridges look good for a thousand years. I feel a sense of waste at the enormous effort that went into building the line with its viaducts, bridges, embankments & cuttings. Now sheep graze there.
Sunday evening:
It’s 4 meandering miles down the valley to Sedbergh, the nearest town, a place of 3 miniature banks, 2 minor petrol stations (all closed on Sundays), one shopping street, 2 pubs & lots of houses. There is also a school (founded in the 1500s according to an inscription on the gate) & a cattle market. The car park was full of cars & the town of walkers. This is serious walking country. Sedbergh also has good public loos, which were much in demand. In this weather, every mug of tea or cup of coffee wants out ten minutes after it’s downed. Even a miserly few drops produce a tingle which demands instant attention or else!
We carried on down the road towards Dent, stopping at a craft-shop cum tea-room which we had all to ourselves. As we’ve left our knick-knack phase behind, we merely admired the paintings & contented ourselves with coffee & toasted hot cross buns in front of the fire. (I didn’t say that we ate them Anita, I merely said that we contented ourselves with them!)
Jones wanted a good walk in the afternoon. So, after consulting the ordnance survey map we’d acquired in Sedbergh, we set off up the hill behind us in the teeth of a wind that was intent on blowing us down again. We were both of us zipped into anoraks & we needed them. It’s a long time since I’ve felt physically threatened by the elements but yesterday was a reminder of how wild & woolly it gets in this part of the world. The wind is both fierce & cold & comes armed with icy showers.
We sat up last night to watch the 3-hour production of “JFK”. Jones got about half way before her eyes starting closing & she took herself to bed. It’s a fascinating film that leaves one with deep misgivings about the enquiry into John Kennedy’s assassination. The trouble is that the film is said to have taken liberties with the facts, something that leaves one with further misgivings about the film itself.
Monday evening:
Jones wanted to walk down the route of the old railway. We saluted the sheep that sometimes followed us & sometimes fled, stopping often to climb over or through the fences that now criss-cross the route. 30 mins down the line we spotted a footbridge across the river below. Our map showed a footpath that passed through a farm & linked up with the old Roman road that runs down the far valley to Sedbergh. We took it. It was a 2-hour hike into Sedbergh, a lovely one as the sun came out & painted the hills with glory. There was little traffic on the narrow road, fortunately, for we had to press up against the hedgerows to allow vehicles by.
Above the road, the valleys lead up to the extensive range of round hills known hereabout as the fells. Mark tells us that many of the farms are small – his is only 25 acres – & some farms have fell-grazing rights. The sheep may spend weeks up there but apparently, like salmon, know instinctively where they were raised. The sheep themselves, mainly ewes, are black-faced with white muzzles & grey patches around their eyes. They are not endearing creatures – unlike their lambs -- unlikely to win support from fur campaigners or other supporters of cuddly rights.
We fuelled up in the local pub & sandwich shop, then varied the return journey. Jones hoped to follow the old railway but we found the viaduct had been fenced off to protect walkers from the big drop into the river. Instead we squelched back along the bank, squeezing through the fences & admiring the views until we got back to our footbridge. I thought 5 hours a sufficient walk for the day but Jones was tempted out again by the sunset. She’d twisted her (ski-injured) leg slightly while climbing over a style. I’m still battling a bit with my back. The one weakness we’ve discovered in the cottage is the mattress on the double bed which sags, tipping sleepers into the middle. I have reluctantly retired to the single bed in the adjacent room.
Tuesday evening: It takes 45 minutes to walk from the main road to our farm, The Bower. If the walk palled slightly, it was only because we’d already got enough walks under our belts to last us the day. More of that later. The day started out as the loveliest of the week, bright sunshine beating down on a hoarfrost so heavy that Jones thought it might have snowed. I’d probably have thought the same thing had I been awake. We breakfasted – porridge & molasses (sorry Anita) with the sun streaming through the window. But by the time we set out on a lake land drive, the skies were already clouding over.
First to Kendal & thence to a resort named Grange over Sands. We were 2 miles from Grange when I spotted a VW dealer where I could get new wiper blades - & pulled in. A helpful VW spares man selected the blades & fitted them. I thanked him & tried to start the Rocket! No luck! Back into the garage to seek help! While they attended to the problem, Jones & I set off down the road on foot to Grange on Sands. When you arrive, you understand the name. The sands begin at the promenade & run out, as flat as a baking board, to the horizon (when the tide’s out). There were signs warning visitors of quick sands & dangerous tides.
Our one stroke of good fortune was to find the Tourist Office in Grange still open & run by the most helpful woman in the county. She spent 15 minutes sorting out the bus schedules necessary for our return to the farm – should the car not be ready. Indeed it was not. We gathered from the VW garage that they had to order in the new “relay” required. Come back tomorrow! We caught a double-decker bus – which we had all to ourselves – back to Kendal & then a smaller bus which dropped us off at the bottom of our road (3.5 kms from the farm). The rest you know. Except that we allowed ourselves a rather more generous Armagnac & coke than usual.
Wednesday evening:
(You can tell this is England because a bishop is marrying a divorcee in a registry office with the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury; or, if that doesn’t convince you, because a bloke who was nearly killed by a ton of frozen faeces dislodged from an aircraft (landing at Gatwick) lost his claim for compensation when he failed to note the offending plane’s registration. While off the subject, let me add that I saw a wicked interview with the PM in which one of television’s sharpest questioners quoted from a new autobiography which accuses Major of “hanging around Chequers, imitating the curtains”. Major himself found it hard to suppress a smile! I hooted aloud. Trouble is that the book is written by the Tories’ former chief fund raiser, Lord McAlpine, who has now deserted the cause for James Goldsmith’s screwball Independence Party.)
Our host dropped us on the main road in time to catch the mid-a.m. bus to Kendal. He’s just got his recently acquired Land Rover Discovery back after a clutch replacement job. Very nice! The day was grey; no sign of the sun. Apart from 3 old dears set for a day’s shopping, we had the bus to ourselves. We browsed around Kendal for 90 mins, then took another bus to Grange. The part was just being fitted to the Rocket. Joy! So, bill paid, we took off for the hamlet of Crossthwaite where Jones was keen to have lunch at a highly recommended pub called The Punch Bowl. This was to be our special occasion. We needed the brolly to get from the car to the pub door. It was a very good lunch, served at just the right pace in the nicest way in front of a cheering fire. In deference to Anita, let me say no more.
After lunch, we drizzled around Lake Windermere, passing through chocolate boxy resorts without ever mustering the resources to go for a good walk. This time, the gearbox played up. Over the years, the Rocket’s 1st gear has grown increasingly notchy & reluctant to engage – to the point where it’s sometimes impossible to slip into gear. There are bad days & worse days. Today was a worse day.
Mark & I had a chat before supper about the state of the Anglican Church & about my own spiritual path, if it can be described as such. Interesting! He comes into the lounge morning & evening to fire up the coal heater that drives the heating system.
Thursday evening:
Kirkby Lonsdale has to be as close to the idyll of an English village as it’s possible to come by. It’s 15 mins south of us & it’s where we chose to start our walk this a.m. on as perfect a day as ever God created. Jones wanted to explore a geological feature known as the Limestone Link, an elevated 13 mile table of rock shelves. It took an hour’s squelching through paddocks where angelic lambs stared at us in-between thumping their mums’ udders. The route was often vague & hard to ascertain from the map; we spent a lot of time looking for the reassuring arrows which are supposed to be attached to each gate or style along the Right of Way. The effort was well worth while for the rocks are quite extraordinary. They are huge, forming rough layers up to 2 metres high & hundreds of metres long. They’re also contorted every which way, crazy works of ancient art, riven with holes & fissures where softer limestone has apparently been washed out. We clambered up for a view across the fells as far as the eye could see!
As on previous days, our tranquility was interrupted by the frequent shriek of low flying fighters whose fleeting shapes had to be sought in the valleys below the horizon. Even so, the outing seemed to us as perfect as they come. From start to finish it took us 15 miles & 5 hours. Tomorrow, rain is forecast.
Friday evening: Not rain, but heavy cloud, heavy enough to persuade us to stay in this a.m. & finish the new Quintassential guides that Jones wants to take back to Portugal with her next week. These out of the way, Jones expressed a need to visit a craft shop & go for a walk. We drove first to Hawes where Wensleydale cheeses are made. I didn’t know them but a tasting of the various offerings at the visitor centre was impressive. We lunched in the restaurant attached to the Creamery & then drove high over the hills to the village of Dent to follow a walk that had taken our fancy.
Dent is a remarkable place, a village which has somehow resisted the onset of the 20th Century, whose narrow cobbled roads make little compromise with the traffic crawling through it. It was once famous for the woollens knitted there & trekked by packhorse over the surrounding hills. We followed the packhorse route for the first mile up a steep, stony path to the top of the fell. A 2-mile traverse along the fell went according to plan; so did the equally stony descent. But then it went wrong. First Jones & I failed to co-ordinate when trying to shut a stubborn gate. It trapped my finger against the post & my hand flew up, whacking Jones in the eye! Took us a couple of minutes to recover.
Then we somehow managed to follow the wrong river out of the valley. Eventually we reached the main road & set off back to the village. We’d covered about a mile before doubts began setting in. A passing motorist put us right. We were three miles out of Dent & heading briskly in the wrong direction. So we turned around & walked back the way we’d come. It was a long walk that ended in the gloom of evening & not a moment before time. It’s not often that Jones gets as much walking as she likes. Today she did. Early beds all round.
Saturday evening:
Home to an “about time” welcome from Mavis who promptly lay down to have his back scratched. Heaps of mail & faxes from family (thank you), tenants (don’t need it) & Quinta enquirers (always useful). We’ve missed the wretched lottery, yet again! Didn’t get a single number. Yikes! Jones’s ticket is here. She’s off to Portugal next Friday. Her nephew, Bevan, is coming to lunch tomorrow.
I begin a solid week of nightshifts on Monday, having been done over by the rota lady who was desperate to fill vacancies. Her name is Sue Heaver & she has given rise to the verb, to be “heavered”, i.e. press-ganged just when you were looking forward to a day off. I sense that my complaints do not fall on sympathetic ears. As I explain to my colleagues, I don’t ever really take holidays. I just manage to slip away from time to time.
Let me get on with the Quinta letters & the heap of things that wait to be done.
Greetings ever from London.
T
My dear folks
Saturday evening:
We have come to a special place, a cottage converted from a barn on a Lake District sheep farm. All around us are soft velvety brown hills, like the backs of sleeping bears, newly rid of winter’s snow. The valleys between are wet & green, dotted with sheep, ribbed with dry-stone walls. Slate-grey farm buildings snuggle up against the hillsides, as if they have too have evolved here in the natural course of things. Our own cottage is snug & warm, equipped with every appliance, full of floral carpets & curtains. One has that rare sense in England of being far away from everything & everyone.
We have met Mark the farmer (a part-time Anglican priest who looks the Wizard of Oz & is into computers), Maggie his wife, Tara the black Labrador & Aggie (short for Agnus Dei) the pet ewe who has just produced her first lamb. We have been for a walk down the valley, water seeping everywhere. Rivulets trickle into babbling brooks that burble into busy streams that tumble into the river below. Mark says one of the wettest Februarys on record followed one of the driest Januarys.
We tramped along an old railway embankment, now the graveyard of rusting farm implements. In the cuttings, water streams from rock walls turned into fern & moss gardens. The tracks have gone but the rugged stone bridges look good for a thousand years. I feel a sense of waste at the enormous effort that went into building the line with its viaducts, bridges, embankments & cuttings. Now sheep graze there.
Sunday evening:
It’s 4 meandering miles down the valley to Sedbergh, the nearest town, a place of 3 miniature banks, 2 minor petrol stations (all closed on Sundays), one shopping street, 2 pubs & lots of houses. There is also a school (founded in the 1500s according to an inscription on the gate) & a cattle market. The car park was full of cars & the town of walkers. This is serious walking country. Sedbergh also has good public loos, which were much in demand. In this weather, every mug of tea or cup of coffee wants out ten minutes after it’s downed. Even a miserly few drops produce a tingle which demands instant attention or else!
We carried on down the road towards Dent, stopping at a craft-shop cum tea-room which we had all to ourselves. As we’ve left our knick-knack phase behind, we merely admired the paintings & contented ourselves with coffee & toasted hot cross buns in front of the fire. (I didn’t say that we ate them Anita, I merely said that we contented ourselves with them!)
Jones wanted a good walk in the afternoon. So, after consulting the ordnance survey map we’d acquired in Sedbergh, we set off up the hill behind us in the teeth of a wind that was intent on blowing us down again. We were both of us zipped into anoraks & we needed them. It’s a long time since I’ve felt physically threatened by the elements but yesterday was a reminder of how wild & woolly it gets in this part of the world. The wind is both fierce & cold & comes armed with icy showers.
We sat up last night to watch the 3-hour production of “JFK”. Jones got about half way before her eyes starting closing & she took herself to bed. It’s a fascinating film that leaves one with deep misgivings about the enquiry into John Kennedy’s assassination. The trouble is that the film is said to have taken liberties with the facts, something that leaves one with further misgivings about the film itself.
Monday evening:
Jones wanted to walk down the route of the old railway. We saluted the sheep that sometimes followed us & sometimes fled, stopping often to climb over or through the fences that now criss-cross the route. 30 mins down the line we spotted a footbridge across the river below. Our map showed a footpath that passed through a farm & linked up with the old Roman road that runs down the far valley to Sedbergh. We took it. It was a 2-hour hike into Sedbergh, a lovely one as the sun came out & painted the hills with glory. There was little traffic on the narrow road, fortunately, for we had to press up against the hedgerows to allow vehicles by.
Above the road, the valleys lead up to the extensive range of round hills known hereabout as the fells. Mark tells us that many of the farms are small – his is only 25 acres – & some farms have fell-grazing rights. The sheep may spend weeks up there but apparently, like salmon, know instinctively where they were raised. The sheep themselves, mainly ewes, are black-faced with white muzzles & grey patches around their eyes. They are not endearing creatures – unlike their lambs -- unlikely to win support from fur campaigners or other supporters of cuddly rights.
We fuelled up in the local pub & sandwich shop, then varied the return journey. Jones hoped to follow the old railway but we found the viaduct had been fenced off to protect walkers from the big drop into the river. Instead we squelched back along the bank, squeezing through the fences & admiring the views until we got back to our footbridge. I thought 5 hours a sufficient walk for the day but Jones was tempted out again by the sunset. She’d twisted her (ski-injured) leg slightly while climbing over a style. I’m still battling a bit with my back. The one weakness we’ve discovered in the cottage is the mattress on the double bed which sags, tipping sleepers into the middle. I have reluctantly retired to the single bed in the adjacent room.
Tuesday evening: It takes 45 minutes to walk from the main road to our farm, The Bower. If the walk palled slightly, it was only because we’d already got enough walks under our belts to last us the day. More of that later. The day started out as the loveliest of the week, bright sunshine beating down on a hoarfrost so heavy that Jones thought it might have snowed. I’d probably have thought the same thing had I been awake. We breakfasted – porridge & molasses (sorry Anita) with the sun streaming through the window. But by the time we set out on a lake land drive, the skies were already clouding over.
First to Kendal & thence to a resort named Grange over Sands. We were 2 miles from Grange when I spotted a VW dealer where I could get new wiper blades - & pulled in. A helpful VW spares man selected the blades & fitted them. I thanked him & tried to start the Rocket! No luck! Back into the garage to seek help! While they attended to the problem, Jones & I set off down the road on foot to Grange on Sands. When you arrive, you understand the name. The sands begin at the promenade & run out, as flat as a baking board, to the horizon (when the tide’s out). There were signs warning visitors of quick sands & dangerous tides.
Our one stroke of good fortune was to find the Tourist Office in Grange still open & run by the most helpful woman in the county. She spent 15 minutes sorting out the bus schedules necessary for our return to the farm – should the car not be ready. Indeed it was not. We gathered from the VW garage that they had to order in the new “relay” required. Come back tomorrow! We caught a double-decker bus – which we had all to ourselves – back to Kendal & then a smaller bus which dropped us off at the bottom of our road (3.5 kms from the farm). The rest you know. Except that we allowed ourselves a rather more generous Armagnac & coke than usual.
Wednesday evening:
(You can tell this is England because a bishop is marrying a divorcee in a registry office with the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury; or, if that doesn’t convince you, because a bloke who was nearly killed by a ton of frozen faeces dislodged from an aircraft (landing at Gatwick) lost his claim for compensation when he failed to note the offending plane’s registration. While off the subject, let me add that I saw a wicked interview with the PM in which one of television’s sharpest questioners quoted from a new autobiography which accuses Major of “hanging around Chequers, imitating the curtains”. Major himself found it hard to suppress a smile! I hooted aloud. Trouble is that the book is written by the Tories’ former chief fund raiser, Lord McAlpine, who has now deserted the cause for James Goldsmith’s screwball Independence Party.)
Our host dropped us on the main road in time to catch the mid-a.m. bus to Kendal. He’s just got his recently acquired Land Rover Discovery back after a clutch replacement job. Very nice! The day was grey; no sign of the sun. Apart from 3 old dears set for a day’s shopping, we had the bus to ourselves. We browsed around Kendal for 90 mins, then took another bus to Grange. The part was just being fitted to the Rocket. Joy! So, bill paid, we took off for the hamlet of Crossthwaite where Jones was keen to have lunch at a highly recommended pub called The Punch Bowl. This was to be our special occasion. We needed the brolly to get from the car to the pub door. It was a very good lunch, served at just the right pace in the nicest way in front of a cheering fire. In deference to Anita, let me say no more.
After lunch, we drizzled around Lake Windermere, passing through chocolate boxy resorts without ever mustering the resources to go for a good walk. This time, the gearbox played up. Over the years, the Rocket’s 1st gear has grown increasingly notchy & reluctant to engage – to the point where it’s sometimes impossible to slip into gear. There are bad days & worse days. Today was a worse day.
Mark & I had a chat before supper about the state of the Anglican Church & about my own spiritual path, if it can be described as such. Interesting! He comes into the lounge morning & evening to fire up the coal heater that drives the heating system.
Thursday evening:
Kirkby Lonsdale has to be as close to the idyll of an English village as it’s possible to come by. It’s 15 mins south of us & it’s where we chose to start our walk this a.m. on as perfect a day as ever God created. Jones wanted to explore a geological feature known as the Limestone Link, an elevated 13 mile table of rock shelves. It took an hour’s squelching through paddocks where angelic lambs stared at us in-between thumping their mums’ udders. The route was often vague & hard to ascertain from the map; we spent a lot of time looking for the reassuring arrows which are supposed to be attached to each gate or style along the Right of Way. The effort was well worth while for the rocks are quite extraordinary. They are huge, forming rough layers up to 2 metres high & hundreds of metres long. They’re also contorted every which way, crazy works of ancient art, riven with holes & fissures where softer limestone has apparently been washed out. We clambered up for a view across the fells as far as the eye could see!
As on previous days, our tranquility was interrupted by the frequent shriek of low flying fighters whose fleeting shapes had to be sought in the valleys below the horizon. Even so, the outing seemed to us as perfect as they come. From start to finish it took us 15 miles & 5 hours. Tomorrow, rain is forecast.
Friday evening: Not rain, but heavy cloud, heavy enough to persuade us to stay in this a.m. & finish the new Quintassential guides that Jones wants to take back to Portugal with her next week. These out of the way, Jones expressed a need to visit a craft shop & go for a walk. We drove first to Hawes where Wensleydale cheeses are made. I didn’t know them but a tasting of the various offerings at the visitor centre was impressive. We lunched in the restaurant attached to the Creamery & then drove high over the hills to the village of Dent to follow a walk that had taken our fancy.
Dent is a remarkable place, a village which has somehow resisted the onset of the 20th Century, whose narrow cobbled roads make little compromise with the traffic crawling through it. It was once famous for the woollens knitted there & trekked by packhorse over the surrounding hills. We followed the packhorse route for the first mile up a steep, stony path to the top of the fell. A 2-mile traverse along the fell went according to plan; so did the equally stony descent. But then it went wrong. First Jones & I failed to co-ordinate when trying to shut a stubborn gate. It trapped my finger against the post & my hand flew up, whacking Jones in the eye! Took us a couple of minutes to recover.
Then we somehow managed to follow the wrong river out of the valley. Eventually we reached the main road & set off back to the village. We’d covered about a mile before doubts began setting in. A passing motorist put us right. We were three miles out of Dent & heading briskly in the wrong direction. So we turned around & walked back the way we’d come. It was a long walk that ended in the gloom of evening & not a moment before time. It’s not often that Jones gets as much walking as she likes. Today she did. Early beds all round.
Saturday evening:
Home to an “about time” welcome from Mavis who promptly lay down to have his back scratched. Heaps of mail & faxes from family (thank you), tenants (don’t need it) & Quinta enquirers (always useful). We’ve missed the wretched lottery, yet again! Didn’t get a single number. Yikes! Jones’s ticket is here. She’s off to Portugal next Friday. Her nephew, Bevan, is coming to lunch tomorrow.
I begin a solid week of nightshifts on Monday, having been done over by the rota lady who was desperate to fill vacancies. Her name is Sue Heaver & she has given rise to the verb, to be “heavered”, i.e. press-ganged just when you were looking forward to a day off. I sense that my complaints do not fall on sympathetic ears. As I explain to my colleagues, I don’t ever really take holidays. I just manage to slip away from time to time.
Let me get on with the Quinta letters & the heap of things that wait to be done.
Greetings ever from London.
T
Monday, 16 August 2010
28February1997
28 February 1997
My dear folks,
I shall have to take more care with my letters. Jones points out that the film we saw was about Richard the Fourth, not Richard the Third as reported in my last missive; and that we “whiled” away the time rather than “wiling” it away. It just goes to show the limits of infallibility. More seriously, she thought the letter a mite short of humour & I gathered from a little bird in Germany that a certain niece had remarked on how often I reported on what we ate! However minor, these criticisms have been noted!
So, although we have little new to report, I shall try a different sauce on the food (if my niece will allow the metaphor). We have just returned from a long walk through Hyde Park to Kensington. It was a showery, blustery day following a night of gales. Jones & I took it in turns to visit loos en route, the penalty of drinking numerous cups of tea & coffee. Happily, there are several public “conveniences” located along the route. Our regular is the stop-off at Hyde Park (where the gents has a notice pinned to the wall with a list of do’s & don’ts which one can peruse while seeking relief. The maximum penalty for disturbing other peers is £500.)
Our destination was a sports shop where we hoped to obtain wax to protect our skis. There were no skis on view although a large range of snowboards was visible – the writing on the wall! We were served by a gentleman with a silver ring through his lower lip & more silver dangling from his extremities. In spite of his odd appearance he was perfectly pleasant….no reason why not, I suppose. He could supply us with snowboard wax, he said, if that would do for skis as well. We were sure it would. Our list of things to do includes rubbing down the skis & putting them & the rest of the gear away in the loft.
Forgive a small diversion on matters of diet & health. I was delighted this a.m. to find my blood pressure reading down to normal, as much as I’m aware that these things go up & down. There is clearly much to be said for a week’s skiing. I’d hoped that the scale would be equally positive about my weight but in spite of standing absolutely still on it for half a minute, I couldn’t persuade it to dip fractionally to the mark I’d set myself. I am not discouraged; it will come in time. We are back on the straight & narrow, at least until our trip to the Lake District next week. Jones’s twisted knee, I’m pleased to say, is much improved. This business of mortality is really a pain. I’ve meanwhile had an email from Judy who’s back in London and also creaking – and a long email from Bernie who says Jonathan is back working half days after his heart attack. We count our blessings!
Canadians, I have been checking airline schedules & prices for July. I need to have a word with our roster lady & I would hope to come back to you shortly. The charter flights that offer best value for money assume either six-night or 14-night stays. The question is whether I can fit in a trip to Portugal in July as well as a trip to Canada. I’d love to do both but I’m dubious.
Let me call it a day. I’m back to work Wed, Thur, Fri. Saturday we are off for a week! But I hope to be in touch before then.
Blessings.
My dear folks,
I shall have to take more care with my letters. Jones points out that the film we saw was about Richard the Fourth, not Richard the Third as reported in my last missive; and that we “whiled” away the time rather than “wiling” it away. It just goes to show the limits of infallibility. More seriously, she thought the letter a mite short of humour & I gathered from a little bird in Germany that a certain niece had remarked on how often I reported on what we ate! However minor, these criticisms have been noted!
So, although we have little new to report, I shall try a different sauce on the food (if my niece will allow the metaphor). We have just returned from a long walk through Hyde Park to Kensington. It was a showery, blustery day following a night of gales. Jones & I took it in turns to visit loos en route, the penalty of drinking numerous cups of tea & coffee. Happily, there are several public “conveniences” located along the route. Our regular is the stop-off at Hyde Park (where the gents has a notice pinned to the wall with a list of do’s & don’ts which one can peruse while seeking relief. The maximum penalty for disturbing other peers is £500.)
Our destination was a sports shop where we hoped to obtain wax to protect our skis. There were no skis on view although a large range of snowboards was visible – the writing on the wall! We were served by a gentleman with a silver ring through his lower lip & more silver dangling from his extremities. In spite of his odd appearance he was perfectly pleasant….no reason why not, I suppose. He could supply us with snowboard wax, he said, if that would do for skis as well. We were sure it would. Our list of things to do includes rubbing down the skis & putting them & the rest of the gear away in the loft.
Forgive a small diversion on matters of diet & health. I was delighted this a.m. to find my blood pressure reading down to normal, as much as I’m aware that these things go up & down. There is clearly much to be said for a week’s skiing. I’d hoped that the scale would be equally positive about my weight but in spite of standing absolutely still on it for half a minute, I couldn’t persuade it to dip fractionally to the mark I’d set myself. I am not discouraged; it will come in time. We are back on the straight & narrow, at least until our trip to the Lake District next week. Jones’s twisted knee, I’m pleased to say, is much improved. This business of mortality is really a pain. I’ve meanwhile had an email from Judy who’s back in London and also creaking – and a long email from Bernie who says Jonathan is back working half days after his heart attack. We count our blessings!
Canadians, I have been checking airline schedules & prices for July. I need to have a word with our roster lady & I would hope to come back to you shortly. The charter flights that offer best value for money assume either six-night or 14-night stays. The question is whether I can fit in a trip to Portugal in July as well as a trip to Canada. I’d love to do both but I’m dubious.
Let me call it a day. I’m back to work Wed, Thur, Fri. Saturday we are off for a week! But I hope to be in touch before then.
Blessings.
16February1997
16 February 97
My dear folks,
Gatwick Airport: Sunday a.m. very early: The words from the song “If you could see me now” keep echoing through my head. I wonder what might you think if you could; the pair of us striding bleary-eyed through the terminal, knapsacks on our backs; skis, boots & bags clasped in our hands (& the computer strung like an albatross around my neck!) I sense that we are past package holidays. Jones confides that she is thinking the same. By the end of the week, we’ll know. At least we are on vacation & gradually coming to believe it, even if it is 5 a.m. & we have neither of us laid head upon pillow.
Saturday had just sufficient time in it for the accomplishment of all we had to do. I visited outgoing tenants before heading for Waterperry for tea & conversation with friends. Several couples, all involved in education & based in Oxfordshire, have become regular guests at the Quinta, having spread the word among themselves. We enjoy their company & are grateful for their custom. The weatherman had promised us a lovely day & he kept his word. It was glorious. After tea, we took our usual ramble through the fields.
We were home in time to meet an incoming tenant & complete the formalities surrounding her lease. She’s an interesting case, a woman in her twenties who works in the fashion trade & combines hard sell with soft-soap. Then we set off for town where we’d arranged to meet Penny & Richard for an early film, “Looking for Richard”, a production by Al Pacino based on Shakespeare’s Richard the Third. The film is as much about Al Pacino’s enthusiasm for the play & how he sets about producing it as it is about the play itself. I enjoyed it between dozes of which I took a great many. I’m still getting over my recent bout of night shifts.
We fought our way out of the cinema & through the evening crowds in Piccadilly, hailed a taxi & retreated to Camden where Penny treated us to supper. It was midnight by the time we got home. It took us two hours to bath & finish packing. Then we crept downstairs as silently as we could, having booted a reluctant Mavis back upstairs, stuffed the Rocket to the gunwales with ski gear & set out for Gatwick. We had envisaged getting our heads down at the airport but by the time we sorted ourselves out, the check-in desk was opening. There are youngsters around, obviously going skiing in Andorra too! Jones wonders why we chose the half term break! So do I!
Sunday evening:
Pas de la Casa, Andorra: So here we are. Britannia (charter airline) flew us over on a mini-jumbo to Toulouse. Sunrise at 5000-metres was crimson & glorious, unlike Toulouse. The glimpse we caught through the coach windows was all we needed. Utter confusion at the airport where Thompsons were trying to divide 500 passengers from 2 planes among a dozen coaches. We found ourselves at the back of a coach among an assortment of pimply youths & pubescent maidens, not company we’d have chosen. It took half an hour extra to sort out the luggage & find some missing passengers. I blessed my blow-up cushions, which saved me from a seat headrest that was doing its best to dig a hole in my back.
The next 3 hours were divided between head-wobbling snoozes & brief glances at the stunning scenery as we entered the foothills of the Pyrenees. We crawled up a twisting mountain road where the bus unloaded us at the top of the little town spread around the lower pistes. I asked Jones to oversee the conveyance of the luggage from the bus to a mini-van while I hurried down the hill on foot to book us in.
It was a mistake, a bad mistake. In my haste, I hadn’t listened to the directions & I missed the nameplate on the apartment block where we were due to stay. I spent the following hour wandering dismally around the depths of Pas de la Casa. Few souls there spoke English & not one had heard of the Monzano apartments. By the time I had retraced my steps & found the place, I had nearly lost my sense of humour & Jones had entirely run out of plausible reasons for my disappearance. We threw my diet out of the window and retired to a bar for a couple of serious snifters.
At least the apartment looks perfectly serviceable & the views of the surrounding mountains are glorious. The Pyrenees rise up from the French countryside much like the Rockies from the plains of Alberta. We could see them from Toulouse airport as we landed. There’ve been good falls of snow. The problem is an unseasonable sun, which has tempted people to sunbathe in their shirtsleeves at pavement cafes. There’s also a heavy thaw in the streets. The moment the sun goes down, everything freezes over again. A television set in the apartment gives us Sky News & Sky Sport, aimed at Surrey rather than the world but useful for its weather forecasts & for staying in touch with the world.
We went around to Thompson’s group introduction to organise our lift tickets & the like. Most of the party are in their 20’s, apart from a few parents & children. The occasion consisted of some sensible advice & much hard sell of boozy outings. Andorra is tax-free; goods are cheap, especially tobacco & alcohol. It becomes clear that what Thompson’s don’t make on the sale of holidays, they try to make up on the side. There’s not an evening that they don’t endeavour to fill. We weren’t tempted, except by an afternoon visit to the capital, Andorra Velha, on our last day.
Monday evening:
The alarm clock woke us at 0800. Porridge laced with treacle for breakfast! Then downstairs to fetch skis & boots from the lockers. It’s a 100-metre tramp down the road to the piste. I confess that I had my doubts! It’s several years since we last skied. We clipped the skis on & set off across the icy piste towards the lifts. The skis felt like slippery tree trunks with a will of their own. Jones fingers promptly froze up. And I initially I couldn’t find the lodge which supplied the arm-bands for our passes – it’s underground! Serious misgivings began to set in!
Then the sun came out & our day improved. The pistes are broad & reasonably manicured, reminding me of Sunshine near Banff. The first run went okay. We came down the second with some aplomb. Then we took a high lift to the summit. From there, half a dozen runs twist & turn down both sides of the mountain. On the adjacent mountain we could see more lifts & more skiers. There are two resorts sharing three mountains with a great variety of skiing! We had a wonderful afternoon, skiing a medley of runs in both valleys & in some style. It was bliss. The sun was high; there was barely any wind; Jones, incredibly, was warm; the views were superb; there were no queues on the upper slopes.
For all our exultation, we called it an early afternoon, disinclined to tempt fate. Instead, we took a 10-minute walk into town & found seats on a pavement café in the dying sun. A variety of languages sounded in our ears. The local tongue is Catalan. The French border is within spitting distance -- at the entrance to the town -- & most people have no difficulty switching between French & Spanish. The weekend brought an influx of Brits & there are occasional Dutch & Portuguese visitors.
Central Pas de la Casa is clustered around the foot of the ski slopes, with low-rise apartment blocks & hotels creeping up the sides. It clearly lives on tourism; cheek to jowl restaurants, clubs, cafes & ski shops line the main streets & spill on to the pavements. Prices are generally very reasonable, given the easy access to France & the absence of taxes. You can pay any bill in either French francs or Spanish pesetas; cash registers give the total in either currency at the touch of a button.
Tuesday evening:
Jones sits on the couch pouring over one of the papers we brought with us. No need to tell you what I am doing. We have both of us had hot baths in the tiniest tub, Jones first, then me. Not even an adoring honeymoon couple could share this one. It’s just big enough to immerse either legs or torso. I’m heading for an early bed. Last night, the guests above us got back late & promptly set about rearranging the furniture before settling down to some enthusiastic bonking. When I did fall asleep, it was to be beset with anxiety dreams. It wasn’t a good night.
There was quite a lot of cloud on Tuesday a.m. The absence of shadows hides the undulations in the snow & makes skiing difficult. By the time we’d had coffee & our skis waxed & edged, the sun had come through. We embarked on a series of runs to the furthest of the 3 valleys. By now we’d found our feet & we skied the blue (easier) runs in some style. On the red runs (more difficult), we displayed our style when we could & concentrated on survival when we couldn’t. The black runs (most difficult) we avoid. Much depends on the quality of the snow. The newly groomed pistes are icy & brittle in the mornings, mushy & mogully by mid-afternoon. We try to pick & choose our slopes. So does everybody else! Skiers outnumber snowboarders by several to one but there is great interest in snowboarding – surfing as they call it -- & the numbers are expected to even out towards the turn of the century.
We spent an hour afterwards exploring the town. The lower part is a huddle of supermarkets specialising in cut-price tobacco & liquor. I priced cigarettes at between £5 & £10 for a pack 200. In Britain, that would set you back by up to £30. Little wonder there’s such a demand. I wanted grilled chicken for supper & we found a small restaurant that provided just the thing. At the same time, we ordered paella for lunch tomorrow.
Wednesday evening:
A minor correction. We do occasionally ski black runs. We did today, after taking a turn that left us no option. It was a freshly groomed & very gentle black run, fortunately. We’ve been looking out for the new narrow-waisted skis, said to assist turning, but seen them only in the shops. People seem to be in no hurry to get them, here at least. It’s probably a different story in your champagne resorts. We also wandered over the main road to inspect a huge round metal building that looks a bit like an alien space ship. It turned out to be an indoor sports & cultural centre – very smart & totally out of character with the rest of the town. We gathered later that smart sports centres had been built in most Andorran towns for the “small nations Olympics”, a competition limited to mini-states like Andorra.
There’s a young Pyrenean mountain dog that’s chained on the patio of a neighbouring hotel. He sticks his head through the railings as I pass & I give him a leisurely head scratch & general love session. Brings back old memories!
Tonight’s news is the death of Deng Xiaoping, China’s paramount leader. Sky News had the sense to put it ahead of their usual rape & murder stories. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not been on duty at the Beeb which would have gone into frantic mode for most of the day. RIP Deng!
Thursday evening:
The drawback of staying in a ski apartment, especially one near the games room on the 1st floor, is the noise one has to endure at night. Jones pointed out to me that we could have asked for an upper floor apartment if only I hadn’t wandered off & got myself lost on arrival. I did not find this useful information. I drew the problem to the attention of the tour organisers who were not unaware of it. There are notices everywhere asking guests who are returning late to be quiet. But since the tour organisers spend a lot of time arranging entertainment that entails lots of boozing & since inebriated people are not considerate, the notices are largely ignored. (We did get one moment of amusement from the games room where one irritated small boy was heard telling another small boy. “Leave me alone. I’m English; you’re French. I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you are talking about!”)
After we’d both soaked away the evils of the day, I took Jones to dinner. We peered dubiously into dozen restaurants before finding one we both liked. So did many other people. It had just the right ambience - fire burning in the grate. We chose paella again. It’s a great dish. The meal wasn’t improved by the cheroots of the Frenchman sitting across the way from me. But this is smoking country! It’s the norm, sadly. Messrs Benson & Hedges would be delighted to see the youngsters sitting around the resort restaurants, all puffing away fashionably. Silly things!
Friday evening:
The pair of us creaked home mid-p.m. after 6 hours on the slopes. It was too much to hope that we’d end the week without a tumble or two. Nor did we. Our troubles began on the second run of the day when we chose a broad, smooth black run for our descent. Although it was steep, we reckoned we could do it. I was following Jones down in broad turns when she lost her footing & shot off, head first, down the slope on her back, leaving a spume of snow in her wake. She must have covered 50 metres before the slope eased off & she slid to a halt. She was covered in snow but none the worse for wear. So great was my amusement that I was barely able to follow her down & offer her assistance. Once she’d found her feet, we returned to the slope a second time, just to prove to ourselves that we could do it.
Rather more serious was a second tumble she took when her ski hooked on another skier’s as they both exited a chair lift. The accident left Jones sprawled in the snow for several minutes, as she nursed a painful hip & knee back into use. She was eventually able to carry on skiing but had a shaky descent to the nearest restaurant where we had a bite of lunch & I poured a couple of brandies into her. I thought it right to pour a couple into myself at the same time.
The third & final tumble of the day fell to me, so to speak. I was determined to tackle a tricky section aggressively instead of just surviving on it - & was doing very nicely until I suddenly lost it completely - it being my balance, a ski & a pole. Jones showed more sympathy than I had done earlier in the day. The initial impact left such a dent in the snow, she informed me, that she feared for my well being. Happily, once again, no damage was done other than to my dignity. For some reason, though -- I suspect the dubious mattress -- I’ve had an aching back all day, and Jones’s knee continues troublesome so the pair of us are looking a mite crotchety.
Very early Sunday morning:
The Bar of the Olympiades Hotel: This is the downside of a package holiday. Guests are required to clean & then vacate their apartments by 0230. Luggage is left at the ski entrance to the apartments from whence it is taken to the church where we are to collect it & load it on our bus in an hour or so. Travellers from several hotels are meanwhile gathering in the bar of one of them where we are instructed to wait.
Jones has found us a small table in the corner of the room where I can plug in my laptop. All around us families are whiling away the time with games of cards. At least refreshments are available. It’s hard to believe that our holiday is over. We were on the slopes early Saturday; yet another perfect day! The frequent weather reports on Sky TV made it clear that most of northern Europe – especially Britain – was being visited by gales & storms for much of the week. The worst we’ve suffered has been a gentle breeze & occasional high cloud.
Saturday p.m.
we took a coach outing to Andorra Velha. It lies an hour away at the heart of a valley surrounded by steep, high mountains. The views are spectacular but we came away sensing that the place lacked a heart. I was tempted to ease our aches & pains in the spa – a palace with a shimmering glass facade - but Jones wasn’t. So we walked instead. The main streets are lined with glitzy shops & hotels. After passing the umpteenth window stuffed with clothing, sports gear, watches, radios & cameras, one’s eyes begin to glaze over. There are far more cars & buses than roads to cope with them, especially on a Saturday p.m. when the hordes are returning from ski outings (there are several resorts along the road). Above the town are rows of expensive-looking stone houses. Many of the hotels are also constructed of finely-cut stone that comes in a variety of browns. Jones resents their creeping invasion of the mountain slopes but they do blend in & look superb.
Our guide informs us that twice as many visitors come to Andorra in summer as in winter. We are grateful that we came in winter. We remain puzzled as to how the principality raises sufficient money for its needs. We are told that taxes are levied only on petrol. There are apparently no other direct or indirect taxes. Sounds too good to be true. Whatever the case, the place reeks of money.
Sunday afternoon:
Home! The buses pulled out of Pas de la Casa at 0500. We arrived at Toulouse airport at 0800. I dozed much of the way, in spite of being cramped into a tiny seat. We couldn’t find trolleys & staggered into the terminal dripping with bags & ski gear. On the other hand, the check-in was swift, the in-flight service was surprisingly good & we were back to a blustery Gatwick by late a.m., passengers gasping as the plane yawed & lurched down on to the runway. The Rocket awaited us; started at the first turn of the key & brought us home. Mavis shot out of the flat as we entered. He’d clearly had enough of his own company to last him a lifetime. But he soon returned to dose on affection.
Your letters & faxes awaited. Thank you Mother & Cathy & other authors for all your news updates. I had a brief word with Conal after hearing your Witbank news, Mum. Bren had taken Micaela riding. Our thoughts, too, are with the Witbankers. I do hope things have turned the corner. They are also very much with the Calgarians on such a big day! Many, many happy returns, brother! Don’t worry. You’ll never look back & your skiing gets even better! And greetings to Hambach too. You will have gathered that we have had a splendid holiday & we have returned fit & well with fresh zeal to keep up our skiing. We also have the good fortune of yet another week away to look forward to – in the Lake District for the 1st week of March. But that’s for another letter!
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
Gatwick Airport: Sunday a.m. very early: The words from the song “If you could see me now” keep echoing through my head. I wonder what might you think if you could; the pair of us striding bleary-eyed through the terminal, knapsacks on our backs; skis, boots & bags clasped in our hands (& the computer strung like an albatross around my neck!) I sense that we are past package holidays. Jones confides that she is thinking the same. By the end of the week, we’ll know. At least we are on vacation & gradually coming to believe it, even if it is 5 a.m. & we have neither of us laid head upon pillow.
Saturday had just sufficient time in it for the accomplishment of all we had to do. I visited outgoing tenants before heading for Waterperry for tea & conversation with friends. Several couples, all involved in education & based in Oxfordshire, have become regular guests at the Quinta, having spread the word among themselves. We enjoy their company & are grateful for their custom. The weatherman had promised us a lovely day & he kept his word. It was glorious. After tea, we took our usual ramble through the fields.
We were home in time to meet an incoming tenant & complete the formalities surrounding her lease. She’s an interesting case, a woman in her twenties who works in the fashion trade & combines hard sell with soft-soap. Then we set off for town where we’d arranged to meet Penny & Richard for an early film, “Looking for Richard”, a production by Al Pacino based on Shakespeare’s Richard the Third. The film is as much about Al Pacino’s enthusiasm for the play & how he sets about producing it as it is about the play itself. I enjoyed it between dozes of which I took a great many. I’m still getting over my recent bout of night shifts.
We fought our way out of the cinema & through the evening crowds in Piccadilly, hailed a taxi & retreated to Camden where Penny treated us to supper. It was midnight by the time we got home. It took us two hours to bath & finish packing. Then we crept downstairs as silently as we could, having booted a reluctant Mavis back upstairs, stuffed the Rocket to the gunwales with ski gear & set out for Gatwick. We had envisaged getting our heads down at the airport but by the time we sorted ourselves out, the check-in desk was opening. There are youngsters around, obviously going skiing in Andorra too! Jones wonders why we chose the half term break! So do I!
Sunday evening:
Pas de la Casa, Andorra: So here we are. Britannia (charter airline) flew us over on a mini-jumbo to Toulouse. Sunrise at 5000-metres was crimson & glorious, unlike Toulouse. The glimpse we caught through the coach windows was all we needed. Utter confusion at the airport where Thompsons were trying to divide 500 passengers from 2 planes among a dozen coaches. We found ourselves at the back of a coach among an assortment of pimply youths & pubescent maidens, not company we’d have chosen. It took half an hour extra to sort out the luggage & find some missing passengers. I blessed my blow-up cushions, which saved me from a seat headrest that was doing its best to dig a hole in my back.
The next 3 hours were divided between head-wobbling snoozes & brief glances at the stunning scenery as we entered the foothills of the Pyrenees. We crawled up a twisting mountain road where the bus unloaded us at the top of the little town spread around the lower pistes. I asked Jones to oversee the conveyance of the luggage from the bus to a mini-van while I hurried down the hill on foot to book us in.
It was a mistake, a bad mistake. In my haste, I hadn’t listened to the directions & I missed the nameplate on the apartment block where we were due to stay. I spent the following hour wandering dismally around the depths of Pas de la Casa. Few souls there spoke English & not one had heard of the Monzano apartments. By the time I had retraced my steps & found the place, I had nearly lost my sense of humour & Jones had entirely run out of plausible reasons for my disappearance. We threw my diet out of the window and retired to a bar for a couple of serious snifters.
At least the apartment looks perfectly serviceable & the views of the surrounding mountains are glorious. The Pyrenees rise up from the French countryside much like the Rockies from the plains of Alberta. We could see them from Toulouse airport as we landed. There’ve been good falls of snow. The problem is an unseasonable sun, which has tempted people to sunbathe in their shirtsleeves at pavement cafes. There’s also a heavy thaw in the streets. The moment the sun goes down, everything freezes over again. A television set in the apartment gives us Sky News & Sky Sport, aimed at Surrey rather than the world but useful for its weather forecasts & for staying in touch with the world.
We went around to Thompson’s group introduction to organise our lift tickets & the like. Most of the party are in their 20’s, apart from a few parents & children. The occasion consisted of some sensible advice & much hard sell of boozy outings. Andorra is tax-free; goods are cheap, especially tobacco & alcohol. It becomes clear that what Thompson’s don’t make on the sale of holidays, they try to make up on the side. There’s not an evening that they don’t endeavour to fill. We weren’t tempted, except by an afternoon visit to the capital, Andorra Velha, on our last day.
Monday evening:
The alarm clock woke us at 0800. Porridge laced with treacle for breakfast! Then downstairs to fetch skis & boots from the lockers. It’s a 100-metre tramp down the road to the piste. I confess that I had my doubts! It’s several years since we last skied. We clipped the skis on & set off across the icy piste towards the lifts. The skis felt like slippery tree trunks with a will of their own. Jones fingers promptly froze up. And I initially I couldn’t find the lodge which supplied the arm-bands for our passes – it’s underground! Serious misgivings began to set in!
Then the sun came out & our day improved. The pistes are broad & reasonably manicured, reminding me of Sunshine near Banff. The first run went okay. We came down the second with some aplomb. Then we took a high lift to the summit. From there, half a dozen runs twist & turn down both sides of the mountain. On the adjacent mountain we could see more lifts & more skiers. There are two resorts sharing three mountains with a great variety of skiing! We had a wonderful afternoon, skiing a medley of runs in both valleys & in some style. It was bliss. The sun was high; there was barely any wind; Jones, incredibly, was warm; the views were superb; there were no queues on the upper slopes.
For all our exultation, we called it an early afternoon, disinclined to tempt fate. Instead, we took a 10-minute walk into town & found seats on a pavement café in the dying sun. A variety of languages sounded in our ears. The local tongue is Catalan. The French border is within spitting distance -- at the entrance to the town -- & most people have no difficulty switching between French & Spanish. The weekend brought an influx of Brits & there are occasional Dutch & Portuguese visitors.
Central Pas de la Casa is clustered around the foot of the ski slopes, with low-rise apartment blocks & hotels creeping up the sides. It clearly lives on tourism; cheek to jowl restaurants, clubs, cafes & ski shops line the main streets & spill on to the pavements. Prices are generally very reasonable, given the easy access to France & the absence of taxes. You can pay any bill in either French francs or Spanish pesetas; cash registers give the total in either currency at the touch of a button.
Tuesday evening:
Jones sits on the couch pouring over one of the papers we brought with us. No need to tell you what I am doing. We have both of us had hot baths in the tiniest tub, Jones first, then me. Not even an adoring honeymoon couple could share this one. It’s just big enough to immerse either legs or torso. I’m heading for an early bed. Last night, the guests above us got back late & promptly set about rearranging the furniture before settling down to some enthusiastic bonking. When I did fall asleep, it was to be beset with anxiety dreams. It wasn’t a good night.
There was quite a lot of cloud on Tuesday a.m. The absence of shadows hides the undulations in the snow & makes skiing difficult. By the time we’d had coffee & our skis waxed & edged, the sun had come through. We embarked on a series of runs to the furthest of the 3 valleys. By now we’d found our feet & we skied the blue (easier) runs in some style. On the red runs (more difficult), we displayed our style when we could & concentrated on survival when we couldn’t. The black runs (most difficult) we avoid. Much depends on the quality of the snow. The newly groomed pistes are icy & brittle in the mornings, mushy & mogully by mid-afternoon. We try to pick & choose our slopes. So does everybody else! Skiers outnumber snowboarders by several to one but there is great interest in snowboarding – surfing as they call it -- & the numbers are expected to even out towards the turn of the century.
We spent an hour afterwards exploring the town. The lower part is a huddle of supermarkets specialising in cut-price tobacco & liquor. I priced cigarettes at between £5 & £10 for a pack 200. In Britain, that would set you back by up to £30. Little wonder there’s such a demand. I wanted grilled chicken for supper & we found a small restaurant that provided just the thing. At the same time, we ordered paella for lunch tomorrow.
Wednesday evening:
A minor correction. We do occasionally ski black runs. We did today, after taking a turn that left us no option. It was a freshly groomed & very gentle black run, fortunately. We’ve been looking out for the new narrow-waisted skis, said to assist turning, but seen them only in the shops. People seem to be in no hurry to get them, here at least. It’s probably a different story in your champagne resorts. We also wandered over the main road to inspect a huge round metal building that looks a bit like an alien space ship. It turned out to be an indoor sports & cultural centre – very smart & totally out of character with the rest of the town. We gathered later that smart sports centres had been built in most Andorran towns for the “small nations Olympics”, a competition limited to mini-states like Andorra.
There’s a young Pyrenean mountain dog that’s chained on the patio of a neighbouring hotel. He sticks his head through the railings as I pass & I give him a leisurely head scratch & general love session. Brings back old memories!
Tonight’s news is the death of Deng Xiaoping, China’s paramount leader. Sky News had the sense to put it ahead of their usual rape & murder stories. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not been on duty at the Beeb which would have gone into frantic mode for most of the day. RIP Deng!
Thursday evening:
The drawback of staying in a ski apartment, especially one near the games room on the 1st floor, is the noise one has to endure at night. Jones pointed out to me that we could have asked for an upper floor apartment if only I hadn’t wandered off & got myself lost on arrival. I did not find this useful information. I drew the problem to the attention of the tour organisers who were not unaware of it. There are notices everywhere asking guests who are returning late to be quiet. But since the tour organisers spend a lot of time arranging entertainment that entails lots of boozing & since inebriated people are not considerate, the notices are largely ignored. (We did get one moment of amusement from the games room where one irritated small boy was heard telling another small boy. “Leave me alone. I’m English; you’re French. I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you are talking about!”)
After we’d both soaked away the evils of the day, I took Jones to dinner. We peered dubiously into dozen restaurants before finding one we both liked. So did many other people. It had just the right ambience - fire burning in the grate. We chose paella again. It’s a great dish. The meal wasn’t improved by the cheroots of the Frenchman sitting across the way from me. But this is smoking country! It’s the norm, sadly. Messrs Benson & Hedges would be delighted to see the youngsters sitting around the resort restaurants, all puffing away fashionably. Silly things!
Friday evening:
The pair of us creaked home mid-p.m. after 6 hours on the slopes. It was too much to hope that we’d end the week without a tumble or two. Nor did we. Our troubles began on the second run of the day when we chose a broad, smooth black run for our descent. Although it was steep, we reckoned we could do it. I was following Jones down in broad turns when she lost her footing & shot off, head first, down the slope on her back, leaving a spume of snow in her wake. She must have covered 50 metres before the slope eased off & she slid to a halt. She was covered in snow but none the worse for wear. So great was my amusement that I was barely able to follow her down & offer her assistance. Once she’d found her feet, we returned to the slope a second time, just to prove to ourselves that we could do it.
Rather more serious was a second tumble she took when her ski hooked on another skier’s as they both exited a chair lift. The accident left Jones sprawled in the snow for several minutes, as she nursed a painful hip & knee back into use. She was eventually able to carry on skiing but had a shaky descent to the nearest restaurant where we had a bite of lunch & I poured a couple of brandies into her. I thought it right to pour a couple into myself at the same time.
The third & final tumble of the day fell to me, so to speak. I was determined to tackle a tricky section aggressively instead of just surviving on it - & was doing very nicely until I suddenly lost it completely - it being my balance, a ski & a pole. Jones showed more sympathy than I had done earlier in the day. The initial impact left such a dent in the snow, she informed me, that she feared for my well being. Happily, once again, no damage was done other than to my dignity. For some reason, though -- I suspect the dubious mattress -- I’ve had an aching back all day, and Jones’s knee continues troublesome so the pair of us are looking a mite crotchety.
Very early Sunday morning:
The Bar of the Olympiades Hotel: This is the downside of a package holiday. Guests are required to clean & then vacate their apartments by 0230. Luggage is left at the ski entrance to the apartments from whence it is taken to the church where we are to collect it & load it on our bus in an hour or so. Travellers from several hotels are meanwhile gathering in the bar of one of them where we are instructed to wait.
Jones has found us a small table in the corner of the room where I can plug in my laptop. All around us families are whiling away the time with games of cards. At least refreshments are available. It’s hard to believe that our holiday is over. We were on the slopes early Saturday; yet another perfect day! The frequent weather reports on Sky TV made it clear that most of northern Europe – especially Britain – was being visited by gales & storms for much of the week. The worst we’ve suffered has been a gentle breeze & occasional high cloud.
Saturday p.m.
we took a coach outing to Andorra Velha. It lies an hour away at the heart of a valley surrounded by steep, high mountains. The views are spectacular but we came away sensing that the place lacked a heart. I was tempted to ease our aches & pains in the spa – a palace with a shimmering glass facade - but Jones wasn’t. So we walked instead. The main streets are lined with glitzy shops & hotels. After passing the umpteenth window stuffed with clothing, sports gear, watches, radios & cameras, one’s eyes begin to glaze over. There are far more cars & buses than roads to cope with them, especially on a Saturday p.m. when the hordes are returning from ski outings (there are several resorts along the road). Above the town are rows of expensive-looking stone houses. Many of the hotels are also constructed of finely-cut stone that comes in a variety of browns. Jones resents their creeping invasion of the mountain slopes but they do blend in & look superb.
Our guide informs us that twice as many visitors come to Andorra in summer as in winter. We are grateful that we came in winter. We remain puzzled as to how the principality raises sufficient money for its needs. We are told that taxes are levied only on petrol. There are apparently no other direct or indirect taxes. Sounds too good to be true. Whatever the case, the place reeks of money.
Sunday afternoon:
Home! The buses pulled out of Pas de la Casa at 0500. We arrived at Toulouse airport at 0800. I dozed much of the way, in spite of being cramped into a tiny seat. We couldn’t find trolleys & staggered into the terminal dripping with bags & ski gear. On the other hand, the check-in was swift, the in-flight service was surprisingly good & we were back to a blustery Gatwick by late a.m., passengers gasping as the plane yawed & lurched down on to the runway. The Rocket awaited us; started at the first turn of the key & brought us home. Mavis shot out of the flat as we entered. He’d clearly had enough of his own company to last him a lifetime. But he soon returned to dose on affection.
Your letters & faxes awaited. Thank you Mother & Cathy & other authors for all your news updates. I had a brief word with Conal after hearing your Witbank news, Mum. Bren had taken Micaela riding. Our thoughts, too, are with the Witbankers. I do hope things have turned the corner. They are also very much with the Calgarians on such a big day! Many, many happy returns, brother! Don’t worry. You’ll never look back & your skiing gets even better! And greetings to Hambach too. You will have gathered that we have had a splendid holiday & we have returned fit & well with fresh zeal to keep up our skiing. We also have the good fortune of yet another week away to look forward to – in the Lake District for the 1st week of March. But that’s for another letter!
Blessings
T
11February1997
11 Feb. 97
My dear folks,
This has been quite a bad day & quite a good one, fortunately, in that order. The bad bit began last night when I had a call from the people in the basement flat to say that water was coming through their ceiling from the flat above, one I’m responsible for. I recalled it having happened before, because the builders who converted the flats simply poked the overflow pipe from the upper loo cistern through the floor & left it to flow gaily into the flat below. But I thought it had long since been sorted out. Bad mistake!
It was as I suspected. The whole loo mechanism was coated in calcium & leaking madly. Neither could I find a way of stopping it, other than flushing the loo every ten minutes! In 90 minutes of hunting around, I found two taps controlling the cold water flow but neither of them made the least bit of difference. I was in a bad mood by the end, I can tell you. So was the tenant, a woman who suffers from MS & recently broke her hip. She wanted to call emergency plumbers. I resisted, knowing the bastards would charge a fortune. Eventually, I found a way of making the water overflow into the loo - & retired hot & bothered for the night.
The first bit of good news was that the plumber was due to call today to service gas boilers – something required annually of landlords. He actually arrived on time, too! to be directed thankfully into the flat. At that moment, the electricity in Maida Vale went down – first time I can remember it happening. As the bathroom has no windows, I went out to the car to find torches & we carried on. He effected temporary repairs & is to return tomorrow. From there, I took him around to the other flats.
Jones took herself out for a morning walk but came over all funny with hot flushes & came home again. She was recovered by lunch & we took ourselves out for a long trek around Hyde Park through the wind & the rain, trying to hold the big brolly against the gusts that pulled it every which way. En route, I peered at the two trucks which have been arranged as industrial works of art & was relieved to find them just as posy & silly as I’d expected. There was a blurb about the artist written by someone who had worked more fancy bullshit into a paragraph than I’ve managed in a lifetime – someone really gifted.
We stopped for tea in a French café that Jones likes. It has atmosphere as well as excellent scones & real coffee. Little old men sit reading or talking or doing crosswords & nobody minds if they take a long time doing it. We had a hunt for some Spanish currency on the way back but didn’t like either the rates or the queues & will do it later. Jones has taken out the ski gear. It’s so long since last we went. Felt quite strange to see it all lying there.
Home again for a couple of hours of tenant phoning & interviewing. The good news is that I think I’ve got one & can go & ski in peace. She’s put down a cash deposit &, subject to suitable references & payment of the balance, will move in over the weekend when the other tenants move out. What a relief!
I got a large email file from Rolf – two logos designed on the computer by his daughters, based around Cathy’s name. Very good! I also managed 27 consecutive successful games of Free Cell. Not all at once; it took a couple of weeks. I think it’s probably a world record.
That’s enough. Back to work tomorrow night.
Blessings…..
My dear folks,
This has been quite a bad day & quite a good one, fortunately, in that order. The bad bit began last night when I had a call from the people in the basement flat to say that water was coming through their ceiling from the flat above, one I’m responsible for. I recalled it having happened before, because the builders who converted the flats simply poked the overflow pipe from the upper loo cistern through the floor & left it to flow gaily into the flat below. But I thought it had long since been sorted out. Bad mistake!
It was as I suspected. The whole loo mechanism was coated in calcium & leaking madly. Neither could I find a way of stopping it, other than flushing the loo every ten minutes! In 90 minutes of hunting around, I found two taps controlling the cold water flow but neither of them made the least bit of difference. I was in a bad mood by the end, I can tell you. So was the tenant, a woman who suffers from MS & recently broke her hip. She wanted to call emergency plumbers. I resisted, knowing the bastards would charge a fortune. Eventually, I found a way of making the water overflow into the loo - & retired hot & bothered for the night.
The first bit of good news was that the plumber was due to call today to service gas boilers – something required annually of landlords. He actually arrived on time, too! to be directed thankfully into the flat. At that moment, the electricity in Maida Vale went down – first time I can remember it happening. As the bathroom has no windows, I went out to the car to find torches & we carried on. He effected temporary repairs & is to return tomorrow. From there, I took him around to the other flats.
Jones took herself out for a morning walk but came over all funny with hot flushes & came home again. She was recovered by lunch & we took ourselves out for a long trek around Hyde Park through the wind & the rain, trying to hold the big brolly against the gusts that pulled it every which way. En route, I peered at the two trucks which have been arranged as industrial works of art & was relieved to find them just as posy & silly as I’d expected. There was a blurb about the artist written by someone who had worked more fancy bullshit into a paragraph than I’ve managed in a lifetime – someone really gifted.
We stopped for tea in a French café that Jones likes. It has atmosphere as well as excellent scones & real coffee. Little old men sit reading or talking or doing crosswords & nobody minds if they take a long time doing it. We had a hunt for some Spanish currency on the way back but didn’t like either the rates or the queues & will do it later. Jones has taken out the ski gear. It’s so long since last we went. Felt quite strange to see it all lying there.
Home again for a couple of hours of tenant phoning & interviewing. The good news is that I think I’ve got one & can go & ski in peace. She’s put down a cash deposit &, subject to suitable references & payment of the balance, will move in over the weekend when the other tenants move out. What a relief!
I got a large email file from Rolf – two logos designed on the computer by his daughters, based around Cathy’s name. Very good! I also managed 27 consecutive successful games of Free Cell. Not all at once; it took a couple of weeks. I think it’s probably a world record.
That’s enough. Back to work tomorrow night.
Blessings…..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)