31 January 1998
My dear folks,
Hi on a grey Saturday morning. Jones is in the front room reading. Mavis has taken himself downstairs for a change of scene. Music is from the “Baroque Collection” by the King’s Consort. We’ve just read the latest emails from Chris in Trinidad & the Joneses in Cape Town. I have a mild cold; explosive sneezes have given way to an irritating drip. But it’s not interfering unduly with my life.
Bevan joined us for supper last night, fresh from his latest trips to Poland & the US. He had a hard time of it, especially after being assured by the Polish embassy that he didn’t need a visa & then finding that he did. He also has a lingering & bothersome cold. He suspects that living much of his life in aircraft is partly to blame. He is still commuting to London from his apartment in a little town half way to Brighton. But he will be moving to central London shortly, initially to occupy the mews house of friends of ours whose current tenants are moving out at short notice. Jones is acting as go-between. We plan to drive out to meet Bevan tomorrow and ferry some of his few belongings back into town.
As for us, Valmorel is history. I had the luxury of 3 days off before returning to work. The first thing I did was to drive 30 minutes out to north London to retrieve my computer from “Dan Computers”. The tape drive, instead of backing up files as it’s meant to, had been gobbling up tapes. Happily the computer is still under guarantee & Dan, as well as repairing the fault, replaced the shredded tapes. At the same time, I received in the post a long-awaited new connection for my scanner but the appliance still refuses to work off either of the computers. The suppliers have tested the scanner and assure me that the machine itself is not at fault. In short, it’s a pain!
Jones spent last Monday preparing a special dinner for two media friends. Our combined schedules are so complicated that we’d had to make the arrangement months in advance. Jones was a little nervous because, she said, she hadn’t really entertained for a long time. You wouldn’t have known it. The couple had just returned from a visit to RSA where they not only avoided being mugged but also had a superb time, with lots of photos to prove it.
On Tuesday I took the car around to Sam, the Lebanese proprietor of a pokey little garage beside the BBC. Sam has been doing the Rocket’s annual service & MOT test (required to re-license a car in Britain) ever since I moved out to TV Centre. We have a good understanding. Sam doesn’t like paperwork & prefers to take payment in cash. His office is a tiny cubicle strewn with invoices & notes. But I don’t have to pay for his receptionist & his customer relations executives & his shareholders’ profits & all the other extras I used to dread at the official V.W. dealer up the road. We got the car back, duly serviced & tested, that evening after walking to Shepherd’s Bush to fetch it, an easy hour’s stroll. The next day I renewed the licence, the parking permit & my AA membership. January is always my painful month for the car. But since the old lady goes for the rest of the year with hardly a murmur I can’t complain.
My other appointment was with a nice man at Equitable Life, the financial group that manages our modest investments for retirement. I spent an hour trying to get my head around the various options ahead of us and left hoping that we’d win the lottery first.
On Wednesday, I walked in to the dentist with Jones who needed to have a tricky tooth peered at. We found our elderly dentist in a state of some distress as his nurse & universal aide, Sharon, had just broken her ankle & he was having to cope alone. He was happy, at least, with the work he’d done on the tooth. Jones & I repaired around the corner to the Canadian muffin shop where we celebrated on low fat muffins & skinnicinnos (low fat cappuccinos). Jones is her normal slim self. I’d put on a couple of kilos since my big purge last year & am busy trying to take them off again. We’ve gone back on the wagon after our skiing holiday (although we do get off it from time to time). Jones prepares a large Tupperware container of fruit salad, topped with fromage frais, each day (or night) for me to take into the Beeb. It is the envy of my colleagues.
Thursday was back to the news desk. The dept. is still trying to come to terms with the cutbacks announced just before we went away. We had a letter from management expressing regret for the elaborate circus of decimating the dept. instead of announcing the wave of promotions we’d all been waiting for. There’s an underlying sense of gloom as the crew look around for vessels that appear to be more seaworthy. As it happens, I shall be moving temporarily to another vessel myself. I begin an attachment on Monday with OnLine, the BBC’s Internet arm, situated in the adjacent office. I’d applied for a permanent position there last July but have had to content myself with a letter from personnel saying they hoped to give me an answer in the autumn. I haven’t written back to ask them which autumn as I don’t think it would be helpful. Meanwhile, I’ll be filling in for a pregnant woman.
One blessing of my schedule is that I have been spared the task of carrying reports on the condition of the Queen Mother following her hip operation. For days we were confronted by royal reporters telling us breathlessly, “live” from the steps of the hospital, who her latest visitor had been. For better or for worse, the old bat remains on the list of 5 royals whose demise brings virtually all other BBC broadcasting to a dead halt as the nation goes into official mourning. (There were 6 until the death of Diana.) We have a large box of obit cassettes & backgrounders at the ready, just in case. What I haven’t escaped has been the turmoil of Zippergate, a circus that defies sensible comment. Maybe Americans have seen the funny side for they’ve just given Clinton his highest poll rating yet! In-between reports on his sex life we’ve been following Madeleine Albright as she tries to convince the world of the desirability of zapping the intransigent Iraqis. Could be a bumpy week!
Thinking of you lots!
Blessings
T
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
16January1998
Valmorel: 16 January 98
My dear folks
The Introduction:
(This is a long letter, as much a diary of a special holiday as a communication. I apologise to non skiers for more skiing descriptions than they will want to read. But I console myself that you are all familiar with the delete key & will not suffer unnecessarily.)
Here we are in our little French resort on an “Inghams” ski holiday. I moled away at the Beeb all last week, working 7 night shifts in a row to help the roster organiser fill a hole. It wasn’t a bad week & towards the end of it I was getting a lot of sleep. We’d ordered a taxi for 1315 on Friday, which gave me time after my return from work to find & pack the little odds & ends one generally ends up going without - & then regretting. The taxi arrived promptly & loaded our bags, 5 of them. I’d wanted to take a 6th but Jones put her foot down. The ski bag held both pairs of skis & poles; the boot bags were stuffed with socks & underclothes as well as the ski boots & we each had bulky backpacks. I agonised about bringing the computer as it’s so heavy. Finally, with Jones’s encouragement, I compromised by leaving the computer bag behind & squeezing the computer itself into Jones’s rucksack. That’s a fair compromise. Jonesy staggered a little when she was loaded but then so did I.
Friday:
This is the first time we’ve travelled to a ski resort by train & we were eager to persuade ourselves of the benefits. The taxi driver tried to take us to Kings Cross instead of Charing Cross, which was a little alarming. But we made it in good time, loaded our gear in the guard’s van, found ourselves seats & set off to Dover. I dozed intermittently between eating the scrumptious rolls that Jones had prepared & drinking malt whisky. At Dover, we clumped with all our gear into a waiting shuttle bus that took us a mile to the docks. There, in a large hall we joined the tail-end of a pilgrimage of skiers, all sweating inside their winter gear & weighed down by luggage. Clearly, the first thing we’d need on arrival was a shower.
The crowd edged forward past reception desks, where ski-reps checked them in, before heading in a tightening scrum for the door that gave egress to the line of coaches waiting outside. Just before the doors, caught up in the melee, were officials checking passports. Trying to find your passport when you’re buried under bags & wedged into a scrum is no easy matter. I began to entertain doubts about the venture. It took us easily an hour before we scrambled hot & breathless on to a coach & another 30 minutes before we were offloaded, together with some 600 other skiers, in the maw of a waiting ferry.
The voyage compensated us for any little sufferings. We secured a nook in a quiet lounge & enjoyed a picnic supper over a bottle of claret from the Duty Free. 90 mins later we clambered back on to the coach at Calais & drove to the station. There we retrieved our gear & staggered down the platform to our carriage at the far end of a long train. In the carriage was a tiny storage compartment where another knot of bodies was fighting to cram in luggage & skis. Having finally stored our own, we collapsed into our compartment. The seats had already been turned into three bunks on either side. We made brief conversation over drinks with our companions for the night, another couple & two guys, before they headed for the lounge car & we headed for bed. I was very tired & so, I suspect, was Jones.
I woke in the early hours as the train roared through the night. After much lying around, I stumbled past the litter of beer cans strewn along the aisles to the buffet car where coffee was served at 0630. I took some back to Jones. As our companions remained fast asleep we returned to the buffet car where some miserable- looking guys were swallowing disprins. A big moon lit up the clouds. The train wound its way beside a long glittering lake as dawn broke, passing through little towns with scant sign of life. The French do not appear to be early risers. Albertville arrived at 0845 & Moutiers, our destination, soon after. There was the reverse scrum to unload our goods. An Inghams rep directed us to a van that we had to ourselves. We were, it appeared, the only people going to Valmorel. It was much better than packing into a coach! Life was looking up.
Valmorel lies 15 kms up the usual steep, winding mountain road. It’s a lovely ski village, all chalets, spread out along a kilometre of road beneath a vast, tree-clad massif. The trees are all ghostly white, the conifers drooping under loads of snow, others sculpted in ice. Cars had all but disappeared under snowy mantles, with just their wipers & wing mirrors visible, as if in a mute plea for rescue. Our driver wondered where were we staying. We didn’t know. An Inghams rep was supposed to meet us. The driver made various enquiries without success. He got on his mobile phone. Eventually, “Jayne” appeared, apologetically. She’d sent our “welcome pack”, to Moutiers, she said, where it had clearly evaded us.
She took us to the reception lounge of our chalet where the 2 receptionists were nearly as frosty as the trees outside. They do not give one the impression that they are grateful to have guests. Our apartment would not be ready till 1500 at the earliest, we were informed. Meanwhile, they wanted immediate payment of the local tourist tax of £3.50 per person per week & a deposit of £100. We could leave our bags in the storage area & ourselves in the lounge until the apartment was ready. I was not pleased. Apart from anything else my body was telling me that it was the middle of the night & my head was telling me that I’d been silly, after two weeks on the wagon, to have that last whisky.
Jayne assured us unhelpfully that the brochure warned guests of the access time for the apartments. So it did, in small print. She walked us down into village centre – an attractive pedestrian area - to organise our ski passes. (These are now barcoded & read by small meters at the approach to the ski lifts – high tech stuff). Overhead a cable car runs people between the village & their chalets. We walked back up through the Saturday sunshine to the lounge where I went to sleep while Jones went for a walk. Then we took our skis to be waxed & edged; & when we came back our apartment was ready!
We are in Apartment 31 on the second floor of a large chalet right at the foot of the slopes. If one ignores the cardboard finish & cheap fittings, it isn’t a bad little apartment, not for 2 people anyhow. It wouldn’t be much fun with 4. It’s an odd arrangement. You are given your own linen at reception to make the beds. There are pillow cases but no pillows, other than large rectangular bolsters. There’s a tiny but welcome bath but towels are not provided. (We later discovered that these could be hired separately.) The loo is not exactly spacious either; lean forward & you bang your head on the wall. There’s very little cupboard space. The kitchen doesn’t run to a kettle or sensible cups although it does have a fridge & dish-washer. The furniture is solid pine & fine. The balcony overlooks the ski school assembly area where kids spend the afternoon tobogganing down the slope. All in all, it’s okay.
Apart from anything else, it’s far away from the BBC which is not in my best books. Since the end of November dozens of journos including myself have been waiting for the outcome of the boards to which management devoted a full week of expensive time. By the end of December there was not a word of explanation although there were a lot of rumours. In the 2nd week of January the bosses called a staff meeting at which they announced that the dept had far exceeded its budget & was cutting back severely on programming & jobs. This also meant that the results of all the boards were cancelled. There would be no promotions. Indeed, quite the opposite. A lot of people who, like me, had been acting up, would return to their previous grades. Another dept would take over most of our overnight programming. Everybody was horrified. The place has the air of a graveyard & I’m pleased to be far away.
Sunday:
There’s a detailed weather forecast available in the ticket office & it said the day would start fine but would soon cloud over & get very windy. And so it was. We fetched our skis from the ski shop at 0900 sharp & were first in line for the adjacent lift. Up we went between the trees. The piste was hard to read without the sun but so wide were the slopes & so immaculately groomed that I was able to indulge my fantasies of being quite a stylish skier. We drifted over to a chair that was headed into the sun-lit mountains above us where again we swooped down virgin pistes. We’d thought we’d start the week slowly but in the event we merely went from one lift to another, trying every slope that looked within our ability. It was glorious. For a fairer start than that, one can’t ask.
Then Jones & I got separated & took all of an hour to find each other. It’s a bit unnerving, especially when you don’t know the ski area - & it’s huge. You can go for miles from valley to valley. We found each other again near our chalet & consoled ourselves with a cup of coffee. By this time the cloud was hazing out the sun & we could see the wind whipping clouds of spume off the mountain tops. The ascents became windier & it began to snow. We tried a few more runs but it was impossible to read the slopes & I was reduced to survival descents, my style fled with the winds as I lurched over invisible moguls & ploughed through deep snow. So we called it a day, leaving the slopes to hardier souls. Instead, we took ourselves down through the snow storm to the village centre.
All the way down, motorists were digging out cars. Buses were loading skiers & setting out down the steep descent. Tyres slithered as drivers tried to free their vehicles. I was doing a good deal of slithering myself as my Nike sports shoes proved themselves totally unsuitable for the conditions. I cursed myself for not having brought more sensible footwear. Having inspected all the sports shops, I tried to persuade Jones that I should invest in an inexpensive pair of snow boots displayed outside one of them. She reluctantly went along as she regretted the expense & found them monstrously ugly – black with thick white edging. I offered to let her try them but she said she would rather break a leg. They looked, she said, like a mobile pedestrian crossing. This was a bit cruel, I thought, although they’re certainly distinctive. Jones was also sceptical about whether they’d be much more stable but her doubts vanished as I pulled her securely back up the hill. What a relief!
Monday:
We woke early & I gave Jones coffee & toast in bed, a rare treat for her. Through the window I could see the lights of snowcats setting out up the slopes. The valley echoed to explosions as avalanches were triggered up in the mountains. The avalanche risk was rated very high. The local authorities set off minor ones to avoid major ones (although a party of French schoolchildren & their teachers were to die in an avalanche before the end of the week.) Dawn brought with it the sight of the snow bucketing down.
After breakfast, with the snow still falling, we set out for the village, this time to buy Jones suitable footwear. Her leather boots simply didn’t shape. We returned to our shop of yesterday, to the surprise of the proprietors. After a little trying-on, & with a little persuasion from me, Jones made an excellent purchase. Thus equipped, we set out on a walk around the village. It’s much larger than it looks at first glance, with chalets tucked around every bend. I’d just explained to Jones what a pleasure it was to have a large pair of secure soles under me when I fell flat on my back on the ice – as it happened, right at the feet of a young French woman. She asked if I was okay but – maybe sensing a foreigner - didn’t stop to hear the answer. My leg pained & my dignity was in tatters.
I limped back up the road where big machines were scooping up snow & dumping it over a parapet. There were lots of people about, some walking dogs, some pulling babes in toboggans. The dogs love the snow & go wild chasing snowballs. We checked the weather forecast (more snow) & came home in the cable car. Through the murk we could see skiers going up on the lifts although visibility was wretched. By midday we felt impelled to try the slopes ourselves. So we togged up & took another cable car to the top where we found a white-out. We couldn’t see a thing – other than a few other skiers in the gloom. Even so, the glare off the snow was so strong that my glasses turned dark brown. In spite of the conditions we managed the descent, slowly & with lots of stops, & went back for more.
Then the cloud cleared on the upper slopes, offering spectacular views of the misty valley below. Jones said that she was “all over the place” but she looked okay to me. Every so often the sun would appear briefly & we’d sail down the slopes till it went away again. The skis slid effortlessly on the soft new snow. Then we lost each other again. I couldn’t believe it. I went back up a chair-lift, looking out for her on the piste & failing to notice the end of the ride, & damn near fell off the chair. When I did find her, we called it a day & went for a long walk around the resort. We like it a lot. Jones says she thinks it’s the nicest she’s ever stayed at & I have no problem with that.
This evening Jones spotted a second cupboard in the apartment. It’s behind a door that has stood open ever since our arrival. It contained the missing pillows & a great deal more space to hang things.
Tuesday:
Dawn came complete with a blizzard. Through the window we watched the most perfect table cloth of snow build up on our patio. The place seemed strangely subdued. Even the dog walkers were late & didn’t stay out long. It was noticeably colder. After breakfast, we walked down to the village to check the weather forecast at the tourist office. Intermittent snowfalls all day was the outlook, starting to clear on Wednesday. We thought we’d better go skiing regardless. The lifts were running & there were plenty of people on them.
It wasn’t bad; at least there was no mist although the light was flat. The sun came out briefly before vanishing for the day. Jones said she was having a hard time of it. She’s generally neat & efficient. At one point she skied up beside me with her face & outfit covered in snow. She’d fallen, she informed me miserably, flat on her nose. I took several minutes to brush away the snow & restore her spirits. By the end of afternoon, we were coming to regard skiing in a snow storm as normal. The pistes were wonderfully soft in powder snow even if the moguls were invisible. We watched with amusement from the chair-lift as one skier tried to dig herself out of a snowbank. Then Jones tumbled in the deep snow & I nearly followed her. At least she made a feather bed landing. We skied on, taking the last lift of the day.
It was after our usual walk down to the village, baths & supper that the day’s real drama unfolded. Jones looked for her wristwatch, a gold one that Mum gave her. She couldn’t find it beside the bath where she remembered taking it off. We scoured the bathroom, we looked under the beds, we searched all her pockets, we emptied the rubbish! All in vain.
The watch had vanished. Maybe she hadn’t taken it off in the bathroom after all but had lost it during a tumble. I reflected philosophically that what was gone was gone. Next moment Jones gave a great hoot. The watch was on her wrist, not her left wrist where she always wore it but on her right wrist where she never wore it, as she insisted several times.
Wednesday:
The weather forecast promised us a sunny day but the snow was still drifting gently down when we woke. The temperature was -6C, quite chilly. A long chair took us right to the top of the nearest mountain where there were alluring patches of sun. Jones wanted to take a red run down. I preferred to follow trails that followed the mountain around to a small resort 2 kms away. We did the trails first. They were glorious – smooth & wide, & the sun finally came out to warm us. You could forget about your skiing & just breathe in the beauty of the mountain side as you drifted effortlessly along. Small birds darted about in the trees. The trails dipped around the final bend into the ski hamlet of Doucy Combelouviere. It boasted half a dozen shops & about twice that number of chalets. We found the café-bar & warmed up over mulled wine & a sandwich. We could see right down to Moutiers where we’d got off the train. A bunch of ski school instructors came swaggering in for lunch – good looking fellows if I say so myself. We’d clearly picked the right place to eat.
The return journey required 40 cold mins of chair rides & button tows in the shade. We landed up at the top of red run that we pondered over. Okay, I said to Jones, let’s do it. It was a mistake. The run was a bugger, steep, with wicked moguls. And to make matters worse, we ran into mist that simply blanketed out the slope. Jones fell first; I came down three times in the space of the next few minutes. Nothing painful, just a bit disheartening & very mushy – with snow stuffed up my jumper & down my pants. Still, as Jones pointed out, it was the first really challenging skiing we’d done. It made our usual runs look easy. We sailed nonchalantly down the latter in the mist after lunch where we’d crept down two days earlier. The mist certainly didn’t bother the tots being groomed on the baby slopes. Some of the little figures could hardly walk but they still snow-ploughed down on their miniature skis. We watched them from the chair lift. Jones has a favourite tree which she greets from the chair each time we pass it. I’ve taken to saying hello myself. It can’t do any harm.
In the evening we went for our usual walk. After raiding the supermarket, we dropped in on the tourist office where the “girls” promised us sun tomorrow, & then the news agent. The Herald Tribune is our main contact with the outer world as we can’t pick up any English radio stations. We shared the paper over drinks at a little bar on the foot of the slopes. This resort has 2 big plusses which are worthy of mention. It’s not chic; people come here to ski, not to be seen. And it’s not noisy. The night life is limited & it’s down in the village. That’s the way we like it, far away from us. We like to sleep at night.
Thursday:
“Out with the first lift & back with the last,” said Jones as we got back to the apartment this evening, & that’s just about the size of it. It was as near a perfect skiing day as I can recall. I woke at dawn instead of my usual 0500 & I woke to a cloudless sky. For once I made breakfast, the usual porridge with molasses & ultra low fat fromage frais. It’s quick & easy & considerably tastier than you might think. We set out just after 0900. Our aim was to reach the distant hamlet of St Francois Longchamp for lunch. That means crossing 3 mountain ridges & 3 valleys. It’s at least 6 miles – before you count the zigzags.
We left the crowds behind in the first valley. Crossing the 2nd ridge reveals a vast bowl of ski runs with few skiers in sight. It took us 2 hours to reach the resort of Longchamp, much smaller than Valmorel, but less pretty. I made a rush for the loos which were signposted in large letters. Maybe, the good people of Longchamp know that bursting bladders are the order of the day. For once, there were separate toilets for men & women but, to my amusement, there was nothing on the doors to indicate which were which. It was only when you entered one or other door that you were confronted with either sighing men leaning over the pissoirs (as in my case) or whatever the ladies were doing next door.
Thirty minutes more took us to the hamlet of St Francois, a straggle of buildings on the road side. It’s so small that we weren’t even sure whether we’d arrived. We sought guidance from a helpful lift operator sitting beside an otherwise deserted drag-lift who recommended a restaurant. It was a good recommendation. Jones & I sat inside at a table warmed by the sun pouring through the window, & dined on soup & omelette. We approve of the chilled (red) gamay wine & loved the local liqueur (Mont Corbier), a herby tummy settler. Our friendly lift operator warned us not to tarry on the way home as the key lifts connecting the valleys closed early. We took his advice & were home in time to get in another 3 runs down our favourite slope. Afterwards Jones said she was gonnered. So was I.
Friday:
This has been as perfect a day of skiing as either Jones or I can remember. It began with a dazzling yellow sun rising in a deep blue sky & lighting the mountain far above us. The lower slopes nearest the resort get very little sunshine which is great for spring skiing later in the year. But when the temps are -7C down below & -13C on top, skiers head for the sunshine like fleas for a dog. There are rows of deckchairs outside one of the mountain restaurants where the sun worshippers simply collapse in mute adoration. Jones has to stop at the top of each lift & shake life back into her frozen hands.
We skied over the top & down via a long panoramic trail to Longchamp where we took tea in the sun. Then we headed back over the top for lunch at home. We pleased ourselves no end by coming home down a red run without mishap & we later tackled another long, steep red, absolutely ridden with moguls. We threw style to the winds & concentrated on survival. At least the sun was out & we could see where we going. We both made it down without falling, no small achievement. Jones & I are roughly equal in ability. It’s just about the only sport that we can share & it gives us both great enjoyment – most of the time. We both have good & bad days – skiing like a piggy is how Jones describes herself when she’s struggling.
At lunchtime, the youngest of the ski-school groups – I guess aged 3 & 4 – were having their end-of-week test in the area beside our apartment, cheered on by proud parents. The instructor had planted three flags several yards apart on a fairly steep bank & each youngster had to slalom down between them. Few made it without a topple or a tumble but their were helping hands to haul them up & aid them on their way. The greatest cheer came for a tiny tot who made it safely to the bottom but missed the middle flag in the process. He knew he’d got it wrong because he immediately burst into tears in his mother’s arms & it took all of five minutes to console him. We stayed out until the last lift. Jones groaned as we ended our last run & muttered something about an old body. She lacks my facility to take a reviving post prandial nap.
Saturday:
The day dawned cold & clear. We packed most of our goodies. We had to vacate the apartment by 1000 & leave our possessions in the baggage room while we took ourselves off for a day’s skiing. Jones likes to leave such apartments as we found them & we went to some trouble to do so. I told the receptionist (a much warmer person than the ice maiden we’d first met) that there was no need to clean the apartment; she could simply let the next guests in – & it was true.
Then off we went, up into the bowl where the sun was glinting off the pistes. Our aim was to lunch at the hamlet of Combelouviere. Meanwhile, we simply swooped down whatever slopes took our fancy. The snow was just fabulous. Shortly before lunchtime we found ourselves at the top of the red run that had demolished us earlier in the week. It was time to regain our pride, I told Jones, who agreed just a little hesitantly. Down we went, all the way on our skis this time. In the bright sunshine it was far easier. Nevertheless, it gave us a great sense of accomplishment.
Thence to lunch, along the dreamy trails that wind along the ridge to the hamlet. We sat outside in the sunshine with the world spread out at our feet. I ordered the local rose wine & Jones ordered the regional speciality, roblochan, a dish topped with melted cheese. Around us, the locals were tucking into fondues & other specialities. We had long rides & easy slopes to negotiate back home. We finished the week trying a long course covered in powder snow, with mixed success. With the mist creeping up the valley again, we sadly rode our favourite chair up for the last time, bade goodbye to our tree & gently skied down.
A bus was meant to pick us up from reception 90 mins later. In the event, it was a Mercedes 2 hours later, just as we were getting worried. Back down to Moutiers we went, inching past the tour buses wending their way up the mountain. The driver dropped us at the station. The snow train rolled up an hour later. We found ourselves back in our same compartment with the same companions & fell to the inevitable comparing of holidays as the train rattled through the night.
Calais arrived at 0700 on Sunday. The coaches were waiting to transfer us to a ferry for a choppy Channel crossing. After a frustrating wait for shuttle bus from the docks to Dover station, we caught a train to London. At Charing Cross we opted to take the underground rather than a taxi & we staggered back the final kilometre from Warwick Avenue to find Mavis & mountains of mail awaiting us & our flat in good order. It was a wonderful holiday; we’re sorry it’s over, but life must now continue.
Blessings
T
My dear folks
The Introduction:
(This is a long letter, as much a diary of a special holiday as a communication. I apologise to non skiers for more skiing descriptions than they will want to read. But I console myself that you are all familiar with the delete key & will not suffer unnecessarily.)
Here we are in our little French resort on an “Inghams” ski holiday. I moled away at the Beeb all last week, working 7 night shifts in a row to help the roster organiser fill a hole. It wasn’t a bad week & towards the end of it I was getting a lot of sleep. We’d ordered a taxi for 1315 on Friday, which gave me time after my return from work to find & pack the little odds & ends one generally ends up going without - & then regretting. The taxi arrived promptly & loaded our bags, 5 of them. I’d wanted to take a 6th but Jones put her foot down. The ski bag held both pairs of skis & poles; the boot bags were stuffed with socks & underclothes as well as the ski boots & we each had bulky backpacks. I agonised about bringing the computer as it’s so heavy. Finally, with Jones’s encouragement, I compromised by leaving the computer bag behind & squeezing the computer itself into Jones’s rucksack. That’s a fair compromise. Jonesy staggered a little when she was loaded but then so did I.
Friday:
This is the first time we’ve travelled to a ski resort by train & we were eager to persuade ourselves of the benefits. The taxi driver tried to take us to Kings Cross instead of Charing Cross, which was a little alarming. But we made it in good time, loaded our gear in the guard’s van, found ourselves seats & set off to Dover. I dozed intermittently between eating the scrumptious rolls that Jones had prepared & drinking malt whisky. At Dover, we clumped with all our gear into a waiting shuttle bus that took us a mile to the docks. There, in a large hall we joined the tail-end of a pilgrimage of skiers, all sweating inside their winter gear & weighed down by luggage. Clearly, the first thing we’d need on arrival was a shower.
The crowd edged forward past reception desks, where ski-reps checked them in, before heading in a tightening scrum for the door that gave egress to the line of coaches waiting outside. Just before the doors, caught up in the melee, were officials checking passports. Trying to find your passport when you’re buried under bags & wedged into a scrum is no easy matter. I began to entertain doubts about the venture. It took us easily an hour before we scrambled hot & breathless on to a coach & another 30 minutes before we were offloaded, together with some 600 other skiers, in the maw of a waiting ferry.
The voyage compensated us for any little sufferings. We secured a nook in a quiet lounge & enjoyed a picnic supper over a bottle of claret from the Duty Free. 90 mins later we clambered back on to the coach at Calais & drove to the station. There we retrieved our gear & staggered down the platform to our carriage at the far end of a long train. In the carriage was a tiny storage compartment where another knot of bodies was fighting to cram in luggage & skis. Having finally stored our own, we collapsed into our compartment. The seats had already been turned into three bunks on either side. We made brief conversation over drinks with our companions for the night, another couple & two guys, before they headed for the lounge car & we headed for bed. I was very tired & so, I suspect, was Jones.
I woke in the early hours as the train roared through the night. After much lying around, I stumbled past the litter of beer cans strewn along the aisles to the buffet car where coffee was served at 0630. I took some back to Jones. As our companions remained fast asleep we returned to the buffet car where some miserable- looking guys were swallowing disprins. A big moon lit up the clouds. The train wound its way beside a long glittering lake as dawn broke, passing through little towns with scant sign of life. The French do not appear to be early risers. Albertville arrived at 0845 & Moutiers, our destination, soon after. There was the reverse scrum to unload our goods. An Inghams rep directed us to a van that we had to ourselves. We were, it appeared, the only people going to Valmorel. It was much better than packing into a coach! Life was looking up.
Valmorel lies 15 kms up the usual steep, winding mountain road. It’s a lovely ski village, all chalets, spread out along a kilometre of road beneath a vast, tree-clad massif. The trees are all ghostly white, the conifers drooping under loads of snow, others sculpted in ice. Cars had all but disappeared under snowy mantles, with just their wipers & wing mirrors visible, as if in a mute plea for rescue. Our driver wondered where were we staying. We didn’t know. An Inghams rep was supposed to meet us. The driver made various enquiries without success. He got on his mobile phone. Eventually, “Jayne” appeared, apologetically. She’d sent our “welcome pack”, to Moutiers, she said, where it had clearly evaded us.
She took us to the reception lounge of our chalet where the 2 receptionists were nearly as frosty as the trees outside. They do not give one the impression that they are grateful to have guests. Our apartment would not be ready till 1500 at the earliest, we were informed. Meanwhile, they wanted immediate payment of the local tourist tax of £3.50 per person per week & a deposit of £100. We could leave our bags in the storage area & ourselves in the lounge until the apartment was ready. I was not pleased. Apart from anything else my body was telling me that it was the middle of the night & my head was telling me that I’d been silly, after two weeks on the wagon, to have that last whisky.
Jayne assured us unhelpfully that the brochure warned guests of the access time for the apartments. So it did, in small print. She walked us down into village centre – an attractive pedestrian area - to organise our ski passes. (These are now barcoded & read by small meters at the approach to the ski lifts – high tech stuff). Overhead a cable car runs people between the village & their chalets. We walked back up through the Saturday sunshine to the lounge where I went to sleep while Jones went for a walk. Then we took our skis to be waxed & edged; & when we came back our apartment was ready!
We are in Apartment 31 on the second floor of a large chalet right at the foot of the slopes. If one ignores the cardboard finish & cheap fittings, it isn’t a bad little apartment, not for 2 people anyhow. It wouldn’t be much fun with 4. It’s an odd arrangement. You are given your own linen at reception to make the beds. There are pillow cases but no pillows, other than large rectangular bolsters. There’s a tiny but welcome bath but towels are not provided. (We later discovered that these could be hired separately.) The loo is not exactly spacious either; lean forward & you bang your head on the wall. There’s very little cupboard space. The kitchen doesn’t run to a kettle or sensible cups although it does have a fridge & dish-washer. The furniture is solid pine & fine. The balcony overlooks the ski school assembly area where kids spend the afternoon tobogganing down the slope. All in all, it’s okay.
Apart from anything else, it’s far away from the BBC which is not in my best books. Since the end of November dozens of journos including myself have been waiting for the outcome of the boards to which management devoted a full week of expensive time. By the end of December there was not a word of explanation although there were a lot of rumours. In the 2nd week of January the bosses called a staff meeting at which they announced that the dept had far exceeded its budget & was cutting back severely on programming & jobs. This also meant that the results of all the boards were cancelled. There would be no promotions. Indeed, quite the opposite. A lot of people who, like me, had been acting up, would return to their previous grades. Another dept would take over most of our overnight programming. Everybody was horrified. The place has the air of a graveyard & I’m pleased to be far away.
Sunday:
There’s a detailed weather forecast available in the ticket office & it said the day would start fine but would soon cloud over & get very windy. And so it was. We fetched our skis from the ski shop at 0900 sharp & were first in line for the adjacent lift. Up we went between the trees. The piste was hard to read without the sun but so wide were the slopes & so immaculately groomed that I was able to indulge my fantasies of being quite a stylish skier. We drifted over to a chair that was headed into the sun-lit mountains above us where again we swooped down virgin pistes. We’d thought we’d start the week slowly but in the event we merely went from one lift to another, trying every slope that looked within our ability. It was glorious. For a fairer start than that, one can’t ask.
Then Jones & I got separated & took all of an hour to find each other. It’s a bit unnerving, especially when you don’t know the ski area - & it’s huge. You can go for miles from valley to valley. We found each other again near our chalet & consoled ourselves with a cup of coffee. By this time the cloud was hazing out the sun & we could see the wind whipping clouds of spume off the mountain tops. The ascents became windier & it began to snow. We tried a few more runs but it was impossible to read the slopes & I was reduced to survival descents, my style fled with the winds as I lurched over invisible moguls & ploughed through deep snow. So we called it a day, leaving the slopes to hardier souls. Instead, we took ourselves down through the snow storm to the village centre.
All the way down, motorists were digging out cars. Buses were loading skiers & setting out down the steep descent. Tyres slithered as drivers tried to free their vehicles. I was doing a good deal of slithering myself as my Nike sports shoes proved themselves totally unsuitable for the conditions. I cursed myself for not having brought more sensible footwear. Having inspected all the sports shops, I tried to persuade Jones that I should invest in an inexpensive pair of snow boots displayed outside one of them. She reluctantly went along as she regretted the expense & found them monstrously ugly – black with thick white edging. I offered to let her try them but she said she would rather break a leg. They looked, she said, like a mobile pedestrian crossing. This was a bit cruel, I thought, although they’re certainly distinctive. Jones was also sceptical about whether they’d be much more stable but her doubts vanished as I pulled her securely back up the hill. What a relief!
Monday:
We woke early & I gave Jones coffee & toast in bed, a rare treat for her. Through the window I could see the lights of snowcats setting out up the slopes. The valley echoed to explosions as avalanches were triggered up in the mountains. The avalanche risk was rated very high. The local authorities set off minor ones to avoid major ones (although a party of French schoolchildren & their teachers were to die in an avalanche before the end of the week.) Dawn brought with it the sight of the snow bucketing down.
After breakfast, with the snow still falling, we set out for the village, this time to buy Jones suitable footwear. Her leather boots simply didn’t shape. We returned to our shop of yesterday, to the surprise of the proprietors. After a little trying-on, & with a little persuasion from me, Jones made an excellent purchase. Thus equipped, we set out on a walk around the village. It’s much larger than it looks at first glance, with chalets tucked around every bend. I’d just explained to Jones what a pleasure it was to have a large pair of secure soles under me when I fell flat on my back on the ice – as it happened, right at the feet of a young French woman. She asked if I was okay but – maybe sensing a foreigner - didn’t stop to hear the answer. My leg pained & my dignity was in tatters.
I limped back up the road where big machines were scooping up snow & dumping it over a parapet. There were lots of people about, some walking dogs, some pulling babes in toboggans. The dogs love the snow & go wild chasing snowballs. We checked the weather forecast (more snow) & came home in the cable car. Through the murk we could see skiers going up on the lifts although visibility was wretched. By midday we felt impelled to try the slopes ourselves. So we togged up & took another cable car to the top where we found a white-out. We couldn’t see a thing – other than a few other skiers in the gloom. Even so, the glare off the snow was so strong that my glasses turned dark brown. In spite of the conditions we managed the descent, slowly & with lots of stops, & went back for more.
Then the cloud cleared on the upper slopes, offering spectacular views of the misty valley below. Jones said that she was “all over the place” but she looked okay to me. Every so often the sun would appear briefly & we’d sail down the slopes till it went away again. The skis slid effortlessly on the soft new snow. Then we lost each other again. I couldn’t believe it. I went back up a chair-lift, looking out for her on the piste & failing to notice the end of the ride, & damn near fell off the chair. When I did find her, we called it a day & went for a long walk around the resort. We like it a lot. Jones says she thinks it’s the nicest she’s ever stayed at & I have no problem with that.
This evening Jones spotted a second cupboard in the apartment. It’s behind a door that has stood open ever since our arrival. It contained the missing pillows & a great deal more space to hang things.
Tuesday:
Dawn came complete with a blizzard. Through the window we watched the most perfect table cloth of snow build up on our patio. The place seemed strangely subdued. Even the dog walkers were late & didn’t stay out long. It was noticeably colder. After breakfast, we walked down to the village to check the weather forecast at the tourist office. Intermittent snowfalls all day was the outlook, starting to clear on Wednesday. We thought we’d better go skiing regardless. The lifts were running & there were plenty of people on them.
It wasn’t bad; at least there was no mist although the light was flat. The sun came out briefly before vanishing for the day. Jones said she was having a hard time of it. She’s generally neat & efficient. At one point she skied up beside me with her face & outfit covered in snow. She’d fallen, she informed me miserably, flat on her nose. I took several minutes to brush away the snow & restore her spirits. By the end of afternoon, we were coming to regard skiing in a snow storm as normal. The pistes were wonderfully soft in powder snow even if the moguls were invisible. We watched with amusement from the chair-lift as one skier tried to dig herself out of a snowbank. Then Jones tumbled in the deep snow & I nearly followed her. At least she made a feather bed landing. We skied on, taking the last lift of the day.
It was after our usual walk down to the village, baths & supper that the day’s real drama unfolded. Jones looked for her wristwatch, a gold one that Mum gave her. She couldn’t find it beside the bath where she remembered taking it off. We scoured the bathroom, we looked under the beds, we searched all her pockets, we emptied the rubbish! All in vain.
The watch had vanished. Maybe she hadn’t taken it off in the bathroom after all but had lost it during a tumble. I reflected philosophically that what was gone was gone. Next moment Jones gave a great hoot. The watch was on her wrist, not her left wrist where she always wore it but on her right wrist where she never wore it, as she insisted several times.
Wednesday:
The weather forecast promised us a sunny day but the snow was still drifting gently down when we woke. The temperature was -6C, quite chilly. A long chair took us right to the top of the nearest mountain where there were alluring patches of sun. Jones wanted to take a red run down. I preferred to follow trails that followed the mountain around to a small resort 2 kms away. We did the trails first. They were glorious – smooth & wide, & the sun finally came out to warm us. You could forget about your skiing & just breathe in the beauty of the mountain side as you drifted effortlessly along. Small birds darted about in the trees. The trails dipped around the final bend into the ski hamlet of Doucy Combelouviere. It boasted half a dozen shops & about twice that number of chalets. We found the café-bar & warmed up over mulled wine & a sandwich. We could see right down to Moutiers where we’d got off the train. A bunch of ski school instructors came swaggering in for lunch – good looking fellows if I say so myself. We’d clearly picked the right place to eat.
The return journey required 40 cold mins of chair rides & button tows in the shade. We landed up at the top of red run that we pondered over. Okay, I said to Jones, let’s do it. It was a mistake. The run was a bugger, steep, with wicked moguls. And to make matters worse, we ran into mist that simply blanketed out the slope. Jones fell first; I came down three times in the space of the next few minutes. Nothing painful, just a bit disheartening & very mushy – with snow stuffed up my jumper & down my pants. Still, as Jones pointed out, it was the first really challenging skiing we’d done. It made our usual runs look easy. We sailed nonchalantly down the latter in the mist after lunch where we’d crept down two days earlier. The mist certainly didn’t bother the tots being groomed on the baby slopes. Some of the little figures could hardly walk but they still snow-ploughed down on their miniature skis. We watched them from the chair lift. Jones has a favourite tree which she greets from the chair each time we pass it. I’ve taken to saying hello myself. It can’t do any harm.
In the evening we went for our usual walk. After raiding the supermarket, we dropped in on the tourist office where the “girls” promised us sun tomorrow, & then the news agent. The Herald Tribune is our main contact with the outer world as we can’t pick up any English radio stations. We shared the paper over drinks at a little bar on the foot of the slopes. This resort has 2 big plusses which are worthy of mention. It’s not chic; people come here to ski, not to be seen. And it’s not noisy. The night life is limited & it’s down in the village. That’s the way we like it, far away from us. We like to sleep at night.
Thursday:
“Out with the first lift & back with the last,” said Jones as we got back to the apartment this evening, & that’s just about the size of it. It was as near a perfect skiing day as I can recall. I woke at dawn instead of my usual 0500 & I woke to a cloudless sky. For once I made breakfast, the usual porridge with molasses & ultra low fat fromage frais. It’s quick & easy & considerably tastier than you might think. We set out just after 0900. Our aim was to reach the distant hamlet of St Francois Longchamp for lunch. That means crossing 3 mountain ridges & 3 valleys. It’s at least 6 miles – before you count the zigzags.
We left the crowds behind in the first valley. Crossing the 2nd ridge reveals a vast bowl of ski runs with few skiers in sight. It took us 2 hours to reach the resort of Longchamp, much smaller than Valmorel, but less pretty. I made a rush for the loos which were signposted in large letters. Maybe, the good people of Longchamp know that bursting bladders are the order of the day. For once, there were separate toilets for men & women but, to my amusement, there was nothing on the doors to indicate which were which. It was only when you entered one or other door that you were confronted with either sighing men leaning over the pissoirs (as in my case) or whatever the ladies were doing next door.
Thirty minutes more took us to the hamlet of St Francois, a straggle of buildings on the road side. It’s so small that we weren’t even sure whether we’d arrived. We sought guidance from a helpful lift operator sitting beside an otherwise deserted drag-lift who recommended a restaurant. It was a good recommendation. Jones & I sat inside at a table warmed by the sun pouring through the window, & dined on soup & omelette. We approve of the chilled (red) gamay wine & loved the local liqueur (Mont Corbier), a herby tummy settler. Our friendly lift operator warned us not to tarry on the way home as the key lifts connecting the valleys closed early. We took his advice & were home in time to get in another 3 runs down our favourite slope. Afterwards Jones said she was gonnered. So was I.
Friday:
This has been as perfect a day of skiing as either Jones or I can remember. It began with a dazzling yellow sun rising in a deep blue sky & lighting the mountain far above us. The lower slopes nearest the resort get very little sunshine which is great for spring skiing later in the year. But when the temps are -7C down below & -13C on top, skiers head for the sunshine like fleas for a dog. There are rows of deckchairs outside one of the mountain restaurants where the sun worshippers simply collapse in mute adoration. Jones has to stop at the top of each lift & shake life back into her frozen hands.
We skied over the top & down via a long panoramic trail to Longchamp where we took tea in the sun. Then we headed back over the top for lunch at home. We pleased ourselves no end by coming home down a red run without mishap & we later tackled another long, steep red, absolutely ridden with moguls. We threw style to the winds & concentrated on survival. At least the sun was out & we could see where we going. We both made it down without falling, no small achievement. Jones & I are roughly equal in ability. It’s just about the only sport that we can share & it gives us both great enjoyment – most of the time. We both have good & bad days – skiing like a piggy is how Jones describes herself when she’s struggling.
At lunchtime, the youngest of the ski-school groups – I guess aged 3 & 4 – were having their end-of-week test in the area beside our apartment, cheered on by proud parents. The instructor had planted three flags several yards apart on a fairly steep bank & each youngster had to slalom down between them. Few made it without a topple or a tumble but their were helping hands to haul them up & aid them on their way. The greatest cheer came for a tiny tot who made it safely to the bottom but missed the middle flag in the process. He knew he’d got it wrong because he immediately burst into tears in his mother’s arms & it took all of five minutes to console him. We stayed out until the last lift. Jones groaned as we ended our last run & muttered something about an old body. She lacks my facility to take a reviving post prandial nap.
Saturday:
The day dawned cold & clear. We packed most of our goodies. We had to vacate the apartment by 1000 & leave our possessions in the baggage room while we took ourselves off for a day’s skiing. Jones likes to leave such apartments as we found them & we went to some trouble to do so. I told the receptionist (a much warmer person than the ice maiden we’d first met) that there was no need to clean the apartment; she could simply let the next guests in – & it was true.
Then off we went, up into the bowl where the sun was glinting off the pistes. Our aim was to lunch at the hamlet of Combelouviere. Meanwhile, we simply swooped down whatever slopes took our fancy. The snow was just fabulous. Shortly before lunchtime we found ourselves at the top of the red run that had demolished us earlier in the week. It was time to regain our pride, I told Jones, who agreed just a little hesitantly. Down we went, all the way on our skis this time. In the bright sunshine it was far easier. Nevertheless, it gave us a great sense of accomplishment.
Thence to lunch, along the dreamy trails that wind along the ridge to the hamlet. We sat outside in the sunshine with the world spread out at our feet. I ordered the local rose wine & Jones ordered the regional speciality, roblochan, a dish topped with melted cheese. Around us, the locals were tucking into fondues & other specialities. We had long rides & easy slopes to negotiate back home. We finished the week trying a long course covered in powder snow, with mixed success. With the mist creeping up the valley again, we sadly rode our favourite chair up for the last time, bade goodbye to our tree & gently skied down.
A bus was meant to pick us up from reception 90 mins later. In the event, it was a Mercedes 2 hours later, just as we were getting worried. Back down to Moutiers we went, inching past the tour buses wending their way up the mountain. The driver dropped us at the station. The snow train rolled up an hour later. We found ourselves back in our same compartment with the same companions & fell to the inevitable comparing of holidays as the train rattled through the night.
Calais arrived at 0700 on Sunday. The coaches were waiting to transfer us to a ferry for a choppy Channel crossing. After a frustrating wait for shuttle bus from the docks to Dover station, we caught a train to London. At Charing Cross we opted to take the underground rather than a taxi & we staggered back the final kilometre from Warwick Avenue to find Mavis & mountains of mail awaiting us & our flat in good order. It was a wonderful holiday; we’re sorry it’s over, but life must now continue.
Blessings
T
Monday, 8 November 2010
31December1997
31 December 97
My dear folks,
Jones has gone for a walk while I sit down to doff my cap to you & 1997. We are staying at “our” guesthouse in the village of Diedesfeld in the “heart of the German Winelands”. That’s what it says on Frau Ehmer’s card & it’s perfectly true. It doesn’t add that her guesthouse is supremely comfortable but one soon discovers that for oneself. We have stayed here often enough to stake an interest in the place & have grown fond of its kindly proprietor in spite of being barely able to exchange two words with her. Behind the house, farmers are busy pruning the vines which vanish in serried ranks into the mist flanking the hills. Atop the nearest hill – like a crenelated nipple - is the impressive bulk of Hambacher Schloss which encapsulates much of German history. One km up the road is the village of Maikammer where the best cakes in the world are sold. Three kms down the road is the village of Hambach where (my sister) Cathy & family live. If you were to see only this region of the country, you would believe Germany to be the neatest, most orderly, most prosperous land in the world & with the best constructed houses. Indeed, it may be all of those things though we have glimpsed other uglier urban faces.
Each morning, we compliment Frau Ehmers on her breakfast & wend our way towards Hambach which is a brisk 35 minutes away - through the vineyards, through the new suburbs, down the village cobbled streets, past the ancient wineries, below the church that still tolls each hour, to the door of 24 Am Hauselberg where the Gohdes family live. It is a modern 3-storey house, shared with an adjoining family, with a view down over the vast Rhine plains. Like all houses around here, it is built to last a thousand years. Apart from being home to Rolf & Cathy Gohdes & their daughters, Erica (14) & Anita (nearly 12), it is the domicile of Knoedel the rabbit & Louis the guinea pig, as well as the sanctuary of Mauser & Mauli, rival cats from neighbouring houses which are always imploring to be allowed in.
Rolf & Cathy sleep upstairs in a section designed to serve as a separate apartment. On the middle floor you find Erica’s bedroom (the one with the Bon Jovi posters) & Anita’s (with the posters of rap artists). The one without any posters is the spare bedroom where Mum is staying. The living rooms are downstairs together with everybody’s favourite room, the winter-garden. On the patio are the two life-size sculptured ducks which have also become part of the family.
Now you may be thinking that this is all fine & well but a letter ought to say something about what all these characters have been doing. The problem is that they have been doing very little other than eating & drinking, walking & talking & playing cards. The eating & drinking bit is easy to deal with. At regular intervals, scrumptious dishes of food appear from the kitchen where the plates return & wash themselves in preparation for the next round. It is a wonderful arrangement which I can strongly recommend to any of you who may be thinking of visiting Germany. Walking is more individual affair although the whole family did wander into Neustadt for an hour’s browsing through the extensive shopping malls. We made various small purchases, including a haul of discounted marzipan chocolate & a book of the rules of poker. The girls love the game; Anita’s chuckles of sheer glee at winning & pleasure in counting her loot are something to behold. Mother made a slow start but then came up with a textbook hand at the same time as Anita & I couldn’t for the life of me remember which was the stronger. Hence the urgent need to get a book of rules.
The highlight of our visit has been dinner at Mughler’s Kutchler, a small, family-run restaurant on the outskirts of Neustadt. It’s a familiar venue, one to which we have repaired on special occasions down the years. It is very popular & Cathy had taken the necessary precaution of booking well in advance. We obtained our favourite table, in the nook downstairs beside the blazing fire. Mother led us to understand that Kevin had insisted on being our absent host at the feast & we toasted him & his future good fortune with such a ringing cheer as must have been heard half way to Canada.
My dear folks,
Jones has gone for a walk while I sit down to doff my cap to you & 1997. We are staying at “our” guesthouse in the village of Diedesfeld in the “heart of the German Winelands”. That’s what it says on Frau Ehmer’s card & it’s perfectly true. It doesn’t add that her guesthouse is supremely comfortable but one soon discovers that for oneself. We have stayed here often enough to stake an interest in the place & have grown fond of its kindly proprietor in spite of being barely able to exchange two words with her. Behind the house, farmers are busy pruning the vines which vanish in serried ranks into the mist flanking the hills. Atop the nearest hill – like a crenelated nipple - is the impressive bulk of Hambacher Schloss which encapsulates much of German history. One km up the road is the village of Maikammer where the best cakes in the world are sold. Three kms down the road is the village of Hambach where (my sister) Cathy & family live. If you were to see only this region of the country, you would believe Germany to be the neatest, most orderly, most prosperous land in the world & with the best constructed houses. Indeed, it may be all of those things though we have glimpsed other uglier urban faces.
Each morning, we compliment Frau Ehmers on her breakfast & wend our way towards Hambach which is a brisk 35 minutes away - through the vineyards, through the new suburbs, down the village cobbled streets, past the ancient wineries, below the church that still tolls each hour, to the door of 24 Am Hauselberg where the Gohdes family live. It is a modern 3-storey house, shared with an adjoining family, with a view down over the vast Rhine plains. Like all houses around here, it is built to last a thousand years. Apart from being home to Rolf & Cathy Gohdes & their daughters, Erica (14) & Anita (nearly 12), it is the domicile of Knoedel the rabbit & Louis the guinea pig, as well as the sanctuary of Mauser & Mauli, rival cats from neighbouring houses which are always imploring to be allowed in.
Rolf & Cathy sleep upstairs in a section designed to serve as a separate apartment. On the middle floor you find Erica’s bedroom (the one with the Bon Jovi posters) & Anita’s (with the posters of rap artists). The one without any posters is the spare bedroom where Mum is staying. The living rooms are downstairs together with everybody’s favourite room, the winter-garden. On the patio are the two life-size sculptured ducks which have also become part of the family.
Now you may be thinking that this is all fine & well but a letter ought to say something about what all these characters have been doing. The problem is that they have been doing very little other than eating & drinking, walking & talking & playing cards. The eating & drinking bit is easy to deal with. At regular intervals, scrumptious dishes of food appear from the kitchen where the plates return & wash themselves in preparation for the next round. It is a wonderful arrangement which I can strongly recommend to any of you who may be thinking of visiting Germany. Walking is more individual affair although the whole family did wander into Neustadt for an hour’s browsing through the extensive shopping malls. We made various small purchases, including a haul of discounted marzipan chocolate & a book of the rules of poker. The girls love the game; Anita’s chuckles of sheer glee at winning & pleasure in counting her loot are something to behold. Mother made a slow start but then came up with a textbook hand at the same time as Anita & I couldn’t for the life of me remember which was the stronger. Hence the urgent need to get a book of rules.
The highlight of our visit has been dinner at Mughler’s Kutchler, a small, family-run restaurant on the outskirts of Neustadt. It’s a familiar venue, one to which we have repaired on special occasions down the years. It is very popular & Cathy had taken the necessary precaution of booking well in advance. We obtained our favourite table, in the nook downstairs beside the blazing fire. Mother led us to understand that Kevin had insisted on being our absent host at the feast & we toasted him & his future good fortune with such a ringing cheer as must have been heard half way to Canada.
25December1997
25 December 1997
My dear folks,
Christmas Day is dawning slowly here in London. It’s mild but windy. The wind was blowing in the right direction last night & I let it bring me home. Amazing how much difference it makes on a bicycle. It was less kind in the west of the country where gales toppled electricity pylons & uprooted trees overnight, as well as bringing death & destruction to the roads. Jones & I have woken early, having retired early. Not that we had much choice in the matter; His Nibs conducted his usual brief 0600 struggle with the spring-loaded bedroom door before tumbling noisily into the room & depositing his considerable bulk on Jones as he likes to do.
I begin the third of four consecutive shifts in a couple of hours. I found a message from the editor on the answer-phone when I got back last night advising me to come in late & look after the latter part of the day when he hoped to allow others to leave early. There’s seldom much work to do on Christmas Day other than finding something to report. The formula is to move from Bethlehem to Rome & to sprinkle the bulletins with Christmas messages & features. However Christmas started out – presumably as a mid-winter festival long before Christ was born – it’s conquered the world, which simply closes down for the occasion; the planet seems almost to stop in its orbit. We’ve been doing a series of programmes on how the festival has invaded Asia. Even Chinese have begun sending out Christmas cards. With a view to filling air time today, I spent several hours yest putting together a fat feature on the astonishing lengths that truck owners go to in Pakistan to decorate their vehicles.
We entertained our neighbours to refreshments on Tuesday evening, the two girls from the flat below us & a third from the ground floor flat. They all greeted Mavis fondly. The fat feline, who visits them all regularly, was on his best behaviour on the new settee, something to which he has taken a sudden strong fancy. Another (departing) tenant dropped in with a deposit from her boss (who is taking over her flat). Two more neighbours arrived later, filling the room. Jones had prepared platefuls of Christmas goodies that vanished nearly as quickly as the mulled wine & my best port. It was a pleasant get-together of the sort that is both useful to have & nice to get out of the way. Our neighbours include several smokers. I opened the windows wide after they’d left to blow the stale fumes away.
Stef & Herman were the only absentees; they’re away for a fortnight. We’re looking after their stout Pupu in their absence. Bevan Jones was meant to join us for the Christmas break but heard at short notice that he was to travel to Turkey on business. He’ll hopefully be back in London in time for a belated Christmas dinner with us & in time to attend to the needs of both Pupu & Mavis in our absence. We go to Germany for a week on Saturday. Thank you for your own news updates. Robbie, you have exceeded yourself. Canadians I heard with great interest of Alan’s selection for a racing team & would love to hear more.
Our own news is limited. Jones has been walking London – sometimes with me. She’s been visiting the dentist & the optician. We both walked into Tottenham Court Road on Monday, first to take my scanner back (yet again) as it needs a part which the manufacturers are temporarily out of & the guarantee is about to run out. We went on to visit the big bookstores in the area to look for a CD-ROM Portuguese course for Jones. There was none available. They seem to be limited to German, French, Spanish & Italian. I later found one advertised on the Web & emailed the US manufacturers who emailed me back with details of a British supplier. I may yet get Jones to use the computer! Meanwhile, I (& numerous others) have had yet another letter from BBC Personnel saying the outcome of November’s boards was being further delayed. It would appear that the corporation’s money people have to get together with its management people to discuss what’s affordable. I’ll keep my comments to myself, as they don’t belong in a Christmas letter.
The radio chimes out the start of the 0800 news bulletin as a grey dawn reveals the familiar roofs of Maida Vale. Let me wish you a happy Christmas. Our thoughts are much with you.
My dear folks,
Christmas Day is dawning slowly here in London. It’s mild but windy. The wind was blowing in the right direction last night & I let it bring me home. Amazing how much difference it makes on a bicycle. It was less kind in the west of the country where gales toppled electricity pylons & uprooted trees overnight, as well as bringing death & destruction to the roads. Jones & I have woken early, having retired early. Not that we had much choice in the matter; His Nibs conducted his usual brief 0600 struggle with the spring-loaded bedroom door before tumbling noisily into the room & depositing his considerable bulk on Jones as he likes to do.
I begin the third of four consecutive shifts in a couple of hours. I found a message from the editor on the answer-phone when I got back last night advising me to come in late & look after the latter part of the day when he hoped to allow others to leave early. There’s seldom much work to do on Christmas Day other than finding something to report. The formula is to move from Bethlehem to Rome & to sprinkle the bulletins with Christmas messages & features. However Christmas started out – presumably as a mid-winter festival long before Christ was born – it’s conquered the world, which simply closes down for the occasion; the planet seems almost to stop in its orbit. We’ve been doing a series of programmes on how the festival has invaded Asia. Even Chinese have begun sending out Christmas cards. With a view to filling air time today, I spent several hours yest putting together a fat feature on the astonishing lengths that truck owners go to in Pakistan to decorate their vehicles.
We entertained our neighbours to refreshments on Tuesday evening, the two girls from the flat below us & a third from the ground floor flat. They all greeted Mavis fondly. The fat feline, who visits them all regularly, was on his best behaviour on the new settee, something to which he has taken a sudden strong fancy. Another (departing) tenant dropped in with a deposit from her boss (who is taking over her flat). Two more neighbours arrived later, filling the room. Jones had prepared platefuls of Christmas goodies that vanished nearly as quickly as the mulled wine & my best port. It was a pleasant get-together of the sort that is both useful to have & nice to get out of the way. Our neighbours include several smokers. I opened the windows wide after they’d left to blow the stale fumes away.
Stef & Herman were the only absentees; they’re away for a fortnight. We’re looking after their stout Pupu in their absence. Bevan Jones was meant to join us for the Christmas break but heard at short notice that he was to travel to Turkey on business. He’ll hopefully be back in London in time for a belated Christmas dinner with us & in time to attend to the needs of both Pupu & Mavis in our absence. We go to Germany for a week on Saturday. Thank you for your own news updates. Robbie, you have exceeded yourself. Canadians I heard with great interest of Alan’s selection for a racing team & would love to hear more.
Our own news is limited. Jones has been walking London – sometimes with me. She’s been visiting the dentist & the optician. We both walked into Tottenham Court Road on Monday, first to take my scanner back (yet again) as it needs a part which the manufacturers are temporarily out of & the guarantee is about to run out. We went on to visit the big bookstores in the area to look for a CD-ROM Portuguese course for Jones. There was none available. They seem to be limited to German, French, Spanish & Italian. I later found one advertised on the Web & emailed the US manufacturers who emailed me back with details of a British supplier. I may yet get Jones to use the computer! Meanwhile, I (& numerous others) have had yet another letter from BBC Personnel saying the outcome of November’s boards was being further delayed. It would appear that the corporation’s money people have to get together with its management people to discuss what’s affordable. I’ll keep my comments to myself, as they don’t belong in a Christmas letter.
The radio chimes out the start of the 0800 news bulletin as a grey dawn reveals the familiar roofs of Maida Vale. Let me wish you a happy Christmas. Our thoughts are much with you.
20December1997
20 December 1997
My dear folks,
This is just a little letter to say a Yuletide hello. Jones says she has been finding it difficult to get into the Christmas spirit this year. She has retrieved our little folding Christmas Tree from the cupboard beneath the stairs & decorated it; but it fell over, spilling its baubles & breaking a plastic leg. So she put it up again, this time in a safer spot. She also hung up our circular Christmas card holder & stuck our cards in it but this also fell down & had to be remounted. You might think these were not auspicious omens. But, whatever they betoken, they have not upset my own plans for Christmas which are to carry on life as normally as possible. I hope I do not sound churlish if I confess that it is not my favourite time of year.
I said to Jones as we walked along the canal to Sainsburys yest. that my least favourite Christmas thing was those blaring buy-more carols in stores bustling with bad-tempered, last minute shoppers. They bring me out in a metaphorical rash – if that is permissible. Jones urged me to sit down with the paper in the coffee shop while she obtained the groceries. But I declined her kind offer & insisted on doing my bit. There was no sign of the Christmas Eve scramble &, after all, a man has to show a little backbone. We returned along the canal with our rucksacks full. Jones likes the walk along the canal in spite of the cyclists who annoy her. They are not meant to ride there but they do, to avoid the traffic on the roads. I have a sneaking sympathy for them. I deviated on the way home to show Jones the petshop where one could obtain special low-calorie cat-biscuits for his nibs.
Now it just happened that there was a second hand furniture store on our way. And we just happened to peep inside & see a two-seater brown leather settee residing in the entrance. We asked the proprietor if we might try it. He didn’t mind at all. Jones found it very comfortable. It was just her size. I found it quite comfortable. It wasn’t sufficiently high backed for me to snooze in but it was delightful to sit in. The proprietor explained that he’d got it from a fellow who’d paid a £1,000 for it at Harrods, & he pulled up a cushion to show us the Harrods stamp on the label. “How much?” I enquired cautiously. “£300,” he replied. We aahed & ummed a bit & sat down & stood up a bit & indicated that we were interested but not in a position to give the proprietor an immediate answer. We needed to confer. That would be in order, he indicated. On the way out, I asked him for his best cash price? Well, he said, he could knock £50 off if push came to shove.
Jones wasn’t sure & I know better than to push her, believe it or not. So we talked of other things. But when she got home, she looked at the space where the settee would go - if we bought it - & thought it might fit quite well. And then she thought no more of it. We had a last little walk, to the bank to deposit a Quinta cheque & to the greengrocer to stock up. We do lots of walking, as you know. Jones was in the bath with a whisky when the man came to deliver the settee. I explained to her that I couldn’t hop in the bath myself because I expected the doorbell to go any moment - & it did that very instant. The deal was that the man & his assistant would carry up the settee. Very sensible of me because it proved hard work. They puffed & panted as they tried to negotiate our two flights of narrow stairs. I threw in a fiver as a thank you. Mavis promptly tried the couch but didn’t much like it. Leather isn’t his thing. On the other hand, we grew ever more pleased with our acquisition, especially as we sat on it to watch Clint Eastwood escape from Alcatraz. It really fits the bill.
Today we went walking out at Waterperry, our 2½-hour walk that starts from the back of the gardens & winds for miles along back roads, through villages & across fields. We took a little nourishment first at The Pear Tree, the scrumptious restaurant at Waterperry. Then we put on our wellies & set out. We needed them. The fields were soft underfoot & in many places the sheep had churned them into mud baths through which we squelched ankle deep. Even so, it was a lovely walk. Now we’re about to sit down to supper. I have one last bottle left of 1982 Avery’s Fine Red Burgundy from the case Jones gave me as a gift in the middle of the last decade. I think it would be a fitting libation. Let me get this off, especially as it’s about very little; as I said, it’s really just a hello.
XXXX
T
My dear folks,
This is just a little letter to say a Yuletide hello. Jones says she has been finding it difficult to get into the Christmas spirit this year. She has retrieved our little folding Christmas Tree from the cupboard beneath the stairs & decorated it; but it fell over, spilling its baubles & breaking a plastic leg. So she put it up again, this time in a safer spot. She also hung up our circular Christmas card holder & stuck our cards in it but this also fell down & had to be remounted. You might think these were not auspicious omens. But, whatever they betoken, they have not upset my own plans for Christmas which are to carry on life as normally as possible. I hope I do not sound churlish if I confess that it is not my favourite time of year.
I said to Jones as we walked along the canal to Sainsburys yest. that my least favourite Christmas thing was those blaring buy-more carols in stores bustling with bad-tempered, last minute shoppers. They bring me out in a metaphorical rash – if that is permissible. Jones urged me to sit down with the paper in the coffee shop while she obtained the groceries. But I declined her kind offer & insisted on doing my bit. There was no sign of the Christmas Eve scramble &, after all, a man has to show a little backbone. We returned along the canal with our rucksacks full. Jones likes the walk along the canal in spite of the cyclists who annoy her. They are not meant to ride there but they do, to avoid the traffic on the roads. I have a sneaking sympathy for them. I deviated on the way home to show Jones the petshop where one could obtain special low-calorie cat-biscuits for his nibs.
Now it just happened that there was a second hand furniture store on our way. And we just happened to peep inside & see a two-seater brown leather settee residing in the entrance. We asked the proprietor if we might try it. He didn’t mind at all. Jones found it very comfortable. It was just her size. I found it quite comfortable. It wasn’t sufficiently high backed for me to snooze in but it was delightful to sit in. The proprietor explained that he’d got it from a fellow who’d paid a £1,000 for it at Harrods, & he pulled up a cushion to show us the Harrods stamp on the label. “How much?” I enquired cautiously. “£300,” he replied. We aahed & ummed a bit & sat down & stood up a bit & indicated that we were interested but not in a position to give the proprietor an immediate answer. We needed to confer. That would be in order, he indicated. On the way out, I asked him for his best cash price? Well, he said, he could knock £50 off if push came to shove.
Jones wasn’t sure & I know better than to push her, believe it or not. So we talked of other things. But when she got home, she looked at the space where the settee would go - if we bought it - & thought it might fit quite well. And then she thought no more of it. We had a last little walk, to the bank to deposit a Quinta cheque & to the greengrocer to stock up. We do lots of walking, as you know. Jones was in the bath with a whisky when the man came to deliver the settee. I explained to her that I couldn’t hop in the bath myself because I expected the doorbell to go any moment - & it did that very instant. The deal was that the man & his assistant would carry up the settee. Very sensible of me because it proved hard work. They puffed & panted as they tried to negotiate our two flights of narrow stairs. I threw in a fiver as a thank you. Mavis promptly tried the couch but didn’t much like it. Leather isn’t his thing. On the other hand, we grew ever more pleased with our acquisition, especially as we sat on it to watch Clint Eastwood escape from Alcatraz. It really fits the bill.
Today we went walking out at Waterperry, our 2½-hour walk that starts from the back of the gardens & winds for miles along back roads, through villages & across fields. We took a little nourishment first at The Pear Tree, the scrumptious restaurant at Waterperry. Then we put on our wellies & set out. We needed them. The fields were soft underfoot & in many places the sheep had churned them into mud baths through which we squelched ankle deep. Even so, it was a lovely walk. Now we’re about to sit down to supper. I have one last bottle left of 1982 Avery’s Fine Red Burgundy from the case Jones gave me as a gift in the middle of the last decade. I think it would be a fitting libation. Let me get this off, especially as it’s about very little; as I said, it’s really just a hello.
XXXX
T
18December1997
18 December 1997
My dear folks,
It must be pretty close to mid-winter. Dawn didn’t arrive till close on 0800 this a.m. & it wasn’t much of a dawn when it did arrive – grey & damp. Now the time has just gone 1600 & it’s nearly dark again. Jones has gone to town to meet a friend. She left the cosiness of the flat reluctantly as it was pouring. Since her own wellies were in the car, she thought she’d try mine instead. They were a just bit big; I have small feet. Apropos of nothing, I read a while ago that biologists had discovered that the same gene controlled the size of men’s feet & their genitals. As a rule, it was said, guys with small feet would have small widgets & vice versa. Like all rules, it had its exceptions (I can assure you) but was nevertheless a good guide. I did wonder for a moment about women who were meant to cast their eyes down modestly. If Cousin Trish has anything biological to add on the subject, I shall pass it on. But, as I say, this is not apropos of anything. It just cropped up.
I have two long hard days behind me & the joyful prospect of several days ahead to recover my energies. My commutes on both days were made in the teeth of a Siberian gale that blew the bike to the Beeb & tried to blow it back when I returned home. The wind stung my eyes, froze my ears & flapped by reflective jacket around like a sail. But at least the sleet storm that whipped around the Beeb yesterday arrived after I did & left before me. The twin flagpoles in front of the stage door were bending over backwards. Other parts of the country were covered in snow & pictures showed traffic slithering all over the show. Not that it takes a lot of snow to sow confusion in Britain where winter tyres are unheard of. I’m only too well aware, as I write, of the vicious freeze that has gripped eastern Europe & the pettiness of any complaint from here. We had a report from our Moscow correspondent describing life at minus 30 in a capital where vagrants still litter the streets at night.
The opposite extreme was evident in a (welcome) email from Robbie talking about 40 temps in Ulco & the need to wait for the boiling water from the cold water pipe (which passed through the roof) to cool down before taking a shower. (His son) Bevan joined us for supper yest. & spent the night with us. Mavis approved. After draping himself all over Bevan after supper, he followed him into the study. I suspect that Mavis, at least, had a very comfortable night. He is not encouraged to spend the nights upstairs, not only because he likes a lot of room but also because he snores. I had my earliest night in weeks after finding myself falling asleep in the TV chair. There’s something about that chair that sends me off in minutes. Barbara is trying to persuade Bevan to give up his flat in the country & find one in London to avoid a three-hour daily commute. Bevan likes his flat but not the commute!
My day has passed effortlessly amid a welter of little things. After leaving my computer turned off for an unprecedented two days, I took an hour to catch up on email, bank statements & the like. I dialled into the Beeb to see if there was any announcement of the outcome of last month’s boards but not a word! Mid-a.m. I took myself over the road to His & Hers for a trim from Elaine, my worldly-wise, tender-twenties hairdresser. We discussed Christmas plans, hers to celebrate (hangovers are regular guests of hers) & mine to work. There was a new trainee, Carly, who made light conversation while she washed my hair. I thought her jolly good. What does a teenager say to a greybeard whom she’s tending? Mind you, the pair of them chatted away gaily to the several old ladies whose heads had vanished under nets & goo in what was clearly going to become the Christmas hairdo. I like His & Hers. It’s down to earth in the nicest way. The girls speak in high cockney accents. Carly confessed she was “ayh-een” (her idea of news was discovering what the celebs had been up to! She thought I must have a lovely job), Elaine “tweh ee-one”. They’re a hoot.
Lunchtimish my fixer arrived, handyman & plumber in tow, to sort out an electrical problem in one flat & a leak in another. I had them mend a minor problem in our own loo at the same time. Thereafter, I trotted up in the dusk to the bank. It’s warmed up & stopped raining but the roads were still shiny……….Jones is home. Supper’s on the hob. A hot bath & quiet evening in prospect; what more could one ask.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
It must be pretty close to mid-winter. Dawn didn’t arrive till close on 0800 this a.m. & it wasn’t much of a dawn when it did arrive – grey & damp. Now the time has just gone 1600 & it’s nearly dark again. Jones has gone to town to meet a friend. She left the cosiness of the flat reluctantly as it was pouring. Since her own wellies were in the car, she thought she’d try mine instead. They were a just bit big; I have small feet. Apropos of nothing, I read a while ago that biologists had discovered that the same gene controlled the size of men’s feet & their genitals. As a rule, it was said, guys with small feet would have small widgets & vice versa. Like all rules, it had its exceptions (I can assure you) but was nevertheless a good guide. I did wonder for a moment about women who were meant to cast their eyes down modestly. If Cousin Trish has anything biological to add on the subject, I shall pass it on. But, as I say, this is not apropos of anything. It just cropped up.
I have two long hard days behind me & the joyful prospect of several days ahead to recover my energies. My commutes on both days were made in the teeth of a Siberian gale that blew the bike to the Beeb & tried to blow it back when I returned home. The wind stung my eyes, froze my ears & flapped by reflective jacket around like a sail. But at least the sleet storm that whipped around the Beeb yesterday arrived after I did & left before me. The twin flagpoles in front of the stage door were bending over backwards. Other parts of the country were covered in snow & pictures showed traffic slithering all over the show. Not that it takes a lot of snow to sow confusion in Britain where winter tyres are unheard of. I’m only too well aware, as I write, of the vicious freeze that has gripped eastern Europe & the pettiness of any complaint from here. We had a report from our Moscow correspondent describing life at minus 30 in a capital where vagrants still litter the streets at night.
The opposite extreme was evident in a (welcome) email from Robbie talking about 40 temps in Ulco & the need to wait for the boiling water from the cold water pipe (which passed through the roof) to cool down before taking a shower. (His son) Bevan joined us for supper yest. & spent the night with us. Mavis approved. After draping himself all over Bevan after supper, he followed him into the study. I suspect that Mavis, at least, had a very comfortable night. He is not encouraged to spend the nights upstairs, not only because he likes a lot of room but also because he snores. I had my earliest night in weeks after finding myself falling asleep in the TV chair. There’s something about that chair that sends me off in minutes. Barbara is trying to persuade Bevan to give up his flat in the country & find one in London to avoid a three-hour daily commute. Bevan likes his flat but not the commute!
My day has passed effortlessly amid a welter of little things. After leaving my computer turned off for an unprecedented two days, I took an hour to catch up on email, bank statements & the like. I dialled into the Beeb to see if there was any announcement of the outcome of last month’s boards but not a word! Mid-a.m. I took myself over the road to His & Hers for a trim from Elaine, my worldly-wise, tender-twenties hairdresser. We discussed Christmas plans, hers to celebrate (hangovers are regular guests of hers) & mine to work. There was a new trainee, Carly, who made light conversation while she washed my hair. I thought her jolly good. What does a teenager say to a greybeard whom she’s tending? Mind you, the pair of them chatted away gaily to the several old ladies whose heads had vanished under nets & goo in what was clearly going to become the Christmas hairdo. I like His & Hers. It’s down to earth in the nicest way. The girls speak in high cockney accents. Carly confessed she was “ayh-een” (her idea of news was discovering what the celebs had been up to! She thought I must have a lovely job), Elaine “tweh ee-one”. They’re a hoot.
Lunchtimish my fixer arrived, handyman & plumber in tow, to sort out an electrical problem in one flat & a leak in another. I had them mend a minor problem in our own loo at the same time. Thereafter, I trotted up in the dusk to the bank. It’s warmed up & stopped raining but the roads were still shiny……….Jones is home. Supper’s on the hob. A hot bath & quiet evening in prospect; what more could one ask.
Blessings
T
13December1997
13 December 1997
My dear folks,
I have only bits & pieces to report after two weeks of intermittent night shifts. I sneaked into a music shop a few days ago & bought a couple of cheapie CD-packs of oldie favourites, the kind that are periodically recycled for the shrinking band of old swingers. I’ve been working my way through them, listening to some with nostalgic affection & zapping others with the “next-track” button. They were all allegedly once at the top of the hit parade – which doesn’t say a lot for the hit parade. The third of four pop CDs has proved disappointing. “Throw it away,” Jones urged me & I shall. At the price I paid, I can do so with a clear conscience. I indulged in a John Denver (RIP) double album at the same time. It wasn’t going cheap but they’re great songs. Jones says I’ve got too many CDs but that’s because they’re spilling off the shelf behind my desk. They work hard for a living.
The last of my night shifts for 97 ended on Friday morning. We were just winding down when news broke of the fire at Heathrow. It was a story that leapt in 15 minutes from “a small fire in the roof of Terminal One” to diversions, gridlock & chaos. Members of the incoming news team were trapped on the paralysed freeways & hadn’t appeared when we finally got away an hour late. I had a last glimpse of a hassled airport spokesman saying no planes would be going anyway for hours, if only because the aircrews, like most of the passengers, were hopelessly stuck in the frozen traffic. It could have been two weeks later with Jones & me on our way to Germany & we breathed grateful sighs before I hit the bed. The only people who rubbed their hands appreciatively were Eurostar who suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with requests for the last available ticket through the Chunnel.
Friday p.m. Jones came with me to St Thomas’s hospital across the river from Parliament for my biannual visit to the dermatologist who zaps the little nasties that are the price of growing up in the South African sunshine with a sensitive skin. It was one of those rare perfect winter days with tourists snapping one another on Westminster Bridge against the stunning skyline. The palace of Westminster is impossibly lacy & delicate, a glorious creation. We walked halfway there & all the way back, stopping in St James Park for a cup of coffee, in Belgravia to bank a cheque, & in Hyde Park to admire the full moon. We passed some of the elegantly discreet hotels & plush hairdressers where no one would stoop to display prices. It was all you could do to find the name of the establishment. But judging by the line-up of Jags & Mercedes, this was not a problem for the people who patronised them. I promptly fell asleep in the TV chair on my return; out like a light for an hour. We joined Stef & Herman for supper. He’s a gifted cook & prepared a pasta & fish supper that would have graced a five star restaurant.
Saturday also dawned cold & bright. We took a two-hour tramp around Hyde Park - lots of kids running around, rollerbladers flashing down the avenues, dogs chasing squirrels, swans gliding past in flotilla, Canada geese grazing the lawns, pigeons flocking around picnic tables. It’s like a Lowry painting come alive. On the way home I dropped into Oddbins for some wine while Jones peered into the next door boutique which was proclaiming reductions of up to 50%. She’s been looking through the window for weeks at the attractive range of cotton clothing inside. Jones is a great peerer but a reluctant buyer. Unlike me, rather than pounce on what she likes, she’d rather go back five times, even if it means finding the item she’d set her heart on, gone. So I gave her every encouragement to get a pair a trousers that she liked & that looked good on her. So did the matching top that the owner was only too pleased to provide. The woman spoke in the strangest accent. We guessed at Eastern Europe but she turned out to come from Oporto; we were as surprised at her confessed origins as she was at our smattering of Portuguese.
Earlier in the week I spent an afternoon with two colleagues who have just acquired a PC. They were as mystified as I so clearly remember being myself not very long ago. So it was a very useful afternoon, for them at least. For my part, I’ve finally received a software patch from the manufacturers of the Oxford Compendium & am delighted to be able to use the updated version that I bought six months ago.
For months, I’ve been exchanging emails with them about the problem. They tried emailing the patch but it appeared as pages & pages of computer code. I had absolutely no idea what to do with it & said so. Finally they sent a floppy disk that did the trick. The programme hovers in the background & leaps to whatever word you type in. Jones & I had been wondering about the differences between a few similar words (tolerance & toleration, admission & admittance, candidacy & candidature.) In an instant, the distinctions are revealed. The programme contains a dictionary, a thesaurus & two books of quotations & is a constant handy reference. I haven’t yet been able to tempt Jones near the computer but she says she wants a CD ROM version of a Portuguese language course. That may be the carrot to help her overcome her aversion.
Monday Evening:
It’s cold. There’s a wicked blowing all the way from Siberia. So we are very grateful to be living in a cosy flat. We arrived back from Brighton mid-afternoon after celebrating an early Christmas dinner with Gary & Fregs. Jones had gone to enormous trouble to prepare it, spending much of Saturday p.m. in the kitchen & rising again early on Sunday to continue her labours while I slept late. The back seat of the car was covered with baskets & pots, which we unloaded in Freg’s 2nd floor flat, just off the sea front before parking the car in the adjacent underground park.
Fregs & Gary took us around to the local, a pub run by two gays & patronised by a great many more, as well a fair sprinkling of “straight” customers. The place was packed. I reckon those guys have themselves a gold mine. They certainly earned their money, doing the rounds, making sure customers were happy while a couple of waitresses tried to keep up with supplies. Having stocked up, we took ourselves on a long walk down the promenade. It was the loveliest afternoon, warm enough in the thin sunshine to entice dozens of couples on to the shingles. The west pier, just below Fregs’s flat, is derelict, awaiting restoration. The east pier is filled with amusement arcades and we took ourselves several hundred metres out to the end where a roller coaster was busy hurling passengers around its spidery coils. Jones speculated that I needed my German nieces to entice me on into the funfair but I quite content to watch.
Fregs had booked us in at a sea-front hotel right beside his apartment. It was very low season, which suited us fine. Apart from two cats & a cigarette smoking assistant who didn’t know how to operate the credit card machine, there was little sign of life. We were given a big room with a view over the sea. I tried to read the Sunday paper but promptly fell asleep. Jones woke me for a bath, with the water just hot enough to be comforting. Then we strolled around to the bar at the Grand Hotel, a block away, scene of the IRA bombing in the early 80’s that nearly did for Maggie Thatcher. The place has been restored within an inch of its previous appearance. It remains “the” hotel to visit in Brighton. We sipped our drinks slowly because a round cost a whisker under £20 & we reckoned one round would have to do.
Thence back to the flat for the Jones culinary experience, smoked salmon & shrimp starters, magic duck for the main course, a salad interlude & an ice-cream wind up. The cheese platter remained untouched. We took ourselves on a 30-minute circuit along the deserted beachfront afterwards. We needed it. It was our third “grand dinner” in three nights. On Saturday Penny & Richard had done us proud. We’ve got in the usual walks in-between times, around Brighton’s “Lanes” (ye olde shopping arcades); to the bank, the fruit shop, the nursery – Christmas trees being sold on every second corner. The season bears down on us. So does a huge blizzard that threatens to embrace much of western Europe over the next couple of days. Enough from me. Tomorrow I work.
Blessings
T
My dear folks,
I have only bits & pieces to report after two weeks of intermittent night shifts. I sneaked into a music shop a few days ago & bought a couple of cheapie CD-packs of oldie favourites, the kind that are periodically recycled for the shrinking band of old swingers. I’ve been working my way through them, listening to some with nostalgic affection & zapping others with the “next-track” button. They were all allegedly once at the top of the hit parade – which doesn’t say a lot for the hit parade. The third of four pop CDs has proved disappointing. “Throw it away,” Jones urged me & I shall. At the price I paid, I can do so with a clear conscience. I indulged in a John Denver (RIP) double album at the same time. It wasn’t going cheap but they’re great songs. Jones says I’ve got too many CDs but that’s because they’re spilling off the shelf behind my desk. They work hard for a living.
The last of my night shifts for 97 ended on Friday morning. We were just winding down when news broke of the fire at Heathrow. It was a story that leapt in 15 minutes from “a small fire in the roof of Terminal One” to diversions, gridlock & chaos. Members of the incoming news team were trapped on the paralysed freeways & hadn’t appeared when we finally got away an hour late. I had a last glimpse of a hassled airport spokesman saying no planes would be going anyway for hours, if only because the aircrews, like most of the passengers, were hopelessly stuck in the frozen traffic. It could have been two weeks later with Jones & me on our way to Germany & we breathed grateful sighs before I hit the bed. The only people who rubbed their hands appreciatively were Eurostar who suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with requests for the last available ticket through the Chunnel.
Friday p.m. Jones came with me to St Thomas’s hospital across the river from Parliament for my biannual visit to the dermatologist who zaps the little nasties that are the price of growing up in the South African sunshine with a sensitive skin. It was one of those rare perfect winter days with tourists snapping one another on Westminster Bridge against the stunning skyline. The palace of Westminster is impossibly lacy & delicate, a glorious creation. We walked halfway there & all the way back, stopping in St James Park for a cup of coffee, in Belgravia to bank a cheque, & in Hyde Park to admire the full moon. We passed some of the elegantly discreet hotels & plush hairdressers where no one would stoop to display prices. It was all you could do to find the name of the establishment. But judging by the line-up of Jags & Mercedes, this was not a problem for the people who patronised them. I promptly fell asleep in the TV chair on my return; out like a light for an hour. We joined Stef & Herman for supper. He’s a gifted cook & prepared a pasta & fish supper that would have graced a five star restaurant.
Saturday also dawned cold & bright. We took a two-hour tramp around Hyde Park - lots of kids running around, rollerbladers flashing down the avenues, dogs chasing squirrels, swans gliding past in flotilla, Canada geese grazing the lawns, pigeons flocking around picnic tables. It’s like a Lowry painting come alive. On the way home I dropped into Oddbins for some wine while Jones peered into the next door boutique which was proclaiming reductions of up to 50%. She’s been looking through the window for weeks at the attractive range of cotton clothing inside. Jones is a great peerer but a reluctant buyer. Unlike me, rather than pounce on what she likes, she’d rather go back five times, even if it means finding the item she’d set her heart on, gone. So I gave her every encouragement to get a pair a trousers that she liked & that looked good on her. So did the matching top that the owner was only too pleased to provide. The woman spoke in the strangest accent. We guessed at Eastern Europe but she turned out to come from Oporto; we were as surprised at her confessed origins as she was at our smattering of Portuguese.
Earlier in the week I spent an afternoon with two colleagues who have just acquired a PC. They were as mystified as I so clearly remember being myself not very long ago. So it was a very useful afternoon, for them at least. For my part, I’ve finally received a software patch from the manufacturers of the Oxford Compendium & am delighted to be able to use the updated version that I bought six months ago.
For months, I’ve been exchanging emails with them about the problem. They tried emailing the patch but it appeared as pages & pages of computer code. I had absolutely no idea what to do with it & said so. Finally they sent a floppy disk that did the trick. The programme hovers in the background & leaps to whatever word you type in. Jones & I had been wondering about the differences between a few similar words (tolerance & toleration, admission & admittance, candidacy & candidature.) In an instant, the distinctions are revealed. The programme contains a dictionary, a thesaurus & two books of quotations & is a constant handy reference. I haven’t yet been able to tempt Jones near the computer but she says she wants a CD ROM version of a Portuguese language course. That may be the carrot to help her overcome her aversion.
Monday Evening:
It’s cold. There’s a wicked blowing all the way from Siberia. So we are very grateful to be living in a cosy flat. We arrived back from Brighton mid-afternoon after celebrating an early Christmas dinner with Gary & Fregs. Jones had gone to enormous trouble to prepare it, spending much of Saturday p.m. in the kitchen & rising again early on Sunday to continue her labours while I slept late. The back seat of the car was covered with baskets & pots, which we unloaded in Freg’s 2nd floor flat, just off the sea front before parking the car in the adjacent underground park.
Fregs & Gary took us around to the local, a pub run by two gays & patronised by a great many more, as well a fair sprinkling of “straight” customers. The place was packed. I reckon those guys have themselves a gold mine. They certainly earned their money, doing the rounds, making sure customers were happy while a couple of waitresses tried to keep up with supplies. Having stocked up, we took ourselves on a long walk down the promenade. It was the loveliest afternoon, warm enough in the thin sunshine to entice dozens of couples on to the shingles. The west pier, just below Fregs’s flat, is derelict, awaiting restoration. The east pier is filled with amusement arcades and we took ourselves several hundred metres out to the end where a roller coaster was busy hurling passengers around its spidery coils. Jones speculated that I needed my German nieces to entice me on into the funfair but I quite content to watch.
Fregs had booked us in at a sea-front hotel right beside his apartment. It was very low season, which suited us fine. Apart from two cats & a cigarette smoking assistant who didn’t know how to operate the credit card machine, there was little sign of life. We were given a big room with a view over the sea. I tried to read the Sunday paper but promptly fell asleep. Jones woke me for a bath, with the water just hot enough to be comforting. Then we strolled around to the bar at the Grand Hotel, a block away, scene of the IRA bombing in the early 80’s that nearly did for Maggie Thatcher. The place has been restored within an inch of its previous appearance. It remains “the” hotel to visit in Brighton. We sipped our drinks slowly because a round cost a whisker under £20 & we reckoned one round would have to do.
Thence back to the flat for the Jones culinary experience, smoked salmon & shrimp starters, magic duck for the main course, a salad interlude & an ice-cream wind up. The cheese platter remained untouched. We took ourselves on a 30-minute circuit along the deserted beachfront afterwards. We needed it. It was our third “grand dinner” in three nights. On Saturday Penny & Richard had done us proud. We’ve got in the usual walks in-between times, around Brighton’s “Lanes” (ye olde shopping arcades); to the bank, the fruit shop, the nursery – Christmas trees being sold on every second corner. The season bears down on us. So does a huge blizzard that threatens to embrace much of western Europe over the next couple of days. Enough from me. Tomorrow I work.
Blessings
T
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