Dancing with Bats

Yesterday I found myself outside in the early evening with some friends.

One had a mobile phone with good speakers, and was playing some music. He started to dance, and one by one, we all got up to join in, waving our arms around generally jigging happily.

Some bats live under the eaves of the house, and they started to dive out, just swooping below head height.  They flashed between us, and sometimes at us, changing course at the last millisecond to avoid collision. It was quite odd, but also quite 'funky' to dance with the blue bats.

The wildlife here in Malawi is astonishing.  Brilliantly coloured birds, with bright scarlet plumes and frogs that look like they would be better suited to life on Mars, with their 'melted alien' faces.  Today I also saw a chameleon, making dainty progress across some plants in a field.

I also saw a maternity unit in a rural village, and met some of the one day old babies - they were very beautiful.

Malawi

Malawi is a friendly country.  It's also very green at the moment, as it is the rainy season.

I am staying in a suburban area, which has tarmac roads with wide green verges, mowed so you can walk easily.  The houses have a wide variety of trees in their gardens.  Unfamiliar trees with twisting trunks and feathery leaves.  Huge succulents, giant versions of the ones you can cultivate in the UK, make jagged shapes along some of the walls.  People amble along, some cruise past on bicycles with bundles loosely tied on the back.

The town centre is a hustling, bustling place.  Market stalls, with brightly patterned fabric strewn across them, line the street.  Cars and vans hoot each other and jostle for position on the road.  Some of the broken pavement is covered with wood carvings.  Behind the brick built buildings are avenues of shanty shops, lopsided canopies and tired, plastic chairs.

The weather is clammy.  It starts of pleasantly warm, like a beautiful summer day.  Then it builds in humidity
 until the sweat is running off your forehead and your glasses steam up.  It holds this point until finally, after hours, it cracks and the rain starts.  Lightning flashes across the horizon and there is a blissful draft, and you feel cool again.

Wonderfully cool.

Battle of Agincourt

Archery was going on down at the farm today.  It was great fun shooting at the target, once I realised the sheep in the field behind were going to be OK and not skewered on my arrows.

The target was a bit annoying, it kept moving out of the way, and most of my arrows ended up scattered behind it. They stuck in the ground demonstrating the 'acute angle' as seen in geometry text books.  One wise cracker said it looked like the Battle of Agincourt had just taken place in Surrey.

After a bit more practice and remembering lessons in the past, my arrows started to hit the outer rings of the target, and it was more fun.

Once the rain set in, we had to retire to the hut and console ourselves with bacon butties and lemon drizzle cake.

At least my bruise from the clay pigeon shooting wasn't bothered by the bow.  Arrows are much more fun than noisy shotguns.

My friend taking a shot

Bacon butties on the way.

Not sure which bird these feathers came from, but you wouldn't miss it in the dark.

Old Stuff

The British Museum is full of it!  Old stuff!  Yay to old stuff!

There was a hand axe made by Homohabilis from 1.8 million years ago.  That's a long time ago.  It's so long ago I can't even start to think how long.

There were lots of hoards on display, that made me want to go and start digging outside.  The Sutton Hoo treasure was amazing, some of it looked like it had been made last week - intricately crafted jewels.

The poor bog man from Lindow Moss, lying in such an uncomfortable position for all those years, and his leathery stomach.  I imagined him giving it a scratch in happier times.  It always seems a bit wrong to have dead people in museums.  I think they should be reburied and laid to rest, although being 'exhibit A' in a world famous museum might be considered immortality of sorts.

So many items in each room, a Roman floor found under the Bank of England that feet must have walked on and someone might have scrubbed with a bucket and brush daily.  Combs that would have run through hair belonging to all types of people.  One item that really stood out was a saucepan sieve - so like our own kitchen utensils, but this one would have had a Roman person giving it a shake before tipping out the vegetables for someone's supper.  It is these personal items that really make you think about the hand that held them, the room they were kept in.

Seeing how many things were in the museum, and thinking about the number of lives they represented, was awe inspiring.  How lucky we are that all this stuff is available to see, just by walking off the street and wandering in.

2014

While waiting to set off on the next stage of my adventure, I have been floating on the love and goodwill of family and friends.  Christmas was wonderful and new year good fun.

This week I have been helping out with a friend's horse and spending a lot of time at a farm.  It's a bit of a treat for a townie like me, I don't even mind collecting horse poo from the field, although pushing a wheelbarrow through thick mud is tiring on the arms.

A satisfying haul!

This morning, my arms were given another going over while clay pigeon shooting.  The recoil from the shotgun is quite bruising if it isn't being held properly.  I got off to a good start, hitting the first clay and feeling very satisfied when it smashed to pieces mid air.  I also took turns in flipping burgers in the catering van.

On Monday we will be participating in a more genteel form of shooting, with bows and arrows.  I think my arms will be pleased about this.  The alfresco eating situation will continue with a gas bottle and burner for bacon butties to keep our energy going.

I am becoming something of an animal lover too, and being surrounded by dogs, cats and horses seems rather wonderful. 

A new friend

I've always been fond of sheep

The clay pigeon shoot from the catering van (apres shoot entertainment)

Back in the UUUK

Travelling back from the south of France today was an interesting experience.

Marseille airport was uninspiring.  I was looking forward to a hot drink and a quiet sit down, but found myself in what felt like a concrete bunker, with some vending machines.  Oh well, life is like that sometimes.

I queued up, and my suitcase, which I had decided was under 20kg based on the fact I could lift it (and I know I have trouble over 20kg from sacks of coal).  Well, I don't know if I've got stronger while I've been away, but my bag was a traumatic 27kg when it landed on the scales.  The lady with lots of pancake make up and an over-orange outfit said it was going to cost me 12 euros per kg over 20.  I nearly fainted.  I didn't want to have to queue again or sort through my belongings in the concrete bunker in front of everyone, so decided to pay.  She offered to let me off 3kg, so I went to another desk to queue up to sort it out.  The overly made up person in blue spent ages with my card, then asked me if I knew what 'code 4' was.  'No' I replied, a bit grumpy.  It turned out that code 4 meant that Easyjet owed me 4 euros.  This happy state of affairs meant THEY COULDN'T TAKE ANY FURTHER PAYMENT FROM ME.  So I had a 'get out of jail free' pass for my suitcase.  Hooray.

As it was a short flight, I hadn't bothered to book a seat, so was a bit dismayed to find I was in the centre seat in the centre of the plane.  There was a woman with a bad cough on my left, and a strange, panic stricken looking man on my right, who was reading a book about the Columbine school massacre.  He looked anxious, fidgeted a lot and tried to keep his very large rucksack on his lap.  His complexion went a bit waxy and grey, and I was worried he might have been getting some ideas from his book.

The seats on Easyjet seem even smaller than I remember them (unless that is the French bread and pastries talking), and I battled a bit with keeping any claustrophobia at bay.  After a while, me and the man got chatty, and it turned out he was wearing a bright yellow, plastic watch.  I decided mass murderers probably don't wear that sort of wrist furniture.  They would have a camouflage patterned Swatch (if they do those).  

I perused the 'Bistro' menu (although the ambience was rather far removed from the bistros I had been in recently), and chose a sandwich.  The stewards spent an age getting the trolley into the middle of the plane, and as the woman in front of me asked for a sandwich, I was dismayed to hear the steward say they had run out.

Hmph.

There was also a bit of chaos as the trolley approaching from the rear of the train met the trolley approaching from the front just at our row.  

Apart from that it was a rather nice flight.  There were some amazing cloudscapes, which I had to peer past the coughing woman to see.  She didn't look out of the window, she was busy reading celebrity cellulite magazines, which I thought was a shame.  One cloud formation looked just like a breaking roller, and I half expected to see some surfing dudes come crashing past at any minute.

I wondered what Cezanne or Turner would have made of the view, it's a shame they couldn't get the Easyjet experience to give them some inspiration, although it would be sad if their paintings ended up with too much bright orange.

'What's the pointilism of orange?'

Aix en Provence - the cathedral

It's Sunny! It's Warm!

It's not 'The Bleak Midwinter' here!  Hooray!

Tea Crisis

It is a bit of a shock being in France.  People don't seem to own kettles here.  Hot drinks don't seem to be the involved after the 'Bonjour'.

I have been coping well, in spite of this situation.  I can order coffee or chocolate chaud when I'm out.

Yesterday though, tea in France dipped to a new low.

I was in a cafe, and ordered my chocolate chaud (hot for those of you without knowledge of French), and the person behind the counter said that as the machine had broken, she could only offer me tea.  I understood the bit about the machine, mainly because she was pointing to a deconstructed technical item lying on the draining board that looked like it once might have made hot drinks.

I assumed she must have had a kettle behind the counter, so said yes, tea would be fine (or 'oui merci').

You can only imagine my absolute horror as she turned to the hot tap, ran it for a few moments AND FILLED A MUG WITH IT.  She then put it on a tray, with the teabag next to it.

I was charged 2.8 euros for this.

My jaw was still hanging somewhere near the floor, and when I managed to bring it back in unity with the rest of my face, I questioned whether it would be hot enough.  If it wasn't, she said, I could bring it back and she would run the tap for longer (I think this is what she was saying).

It was with deep melancholy that I sat down to my miserable beverage, which wasn't hot enough, and tasted pretty grim.  It didn't seem worthwhile to try again, so I did the British thing and kept quiet.

I think I need to add 'tea therapist' to the 'dessert therapist' as new career options for those with a keen sense of right and wrong in the tea and dessert worlds.

A confusing bit of trompe l'oeil in Marseille

Deconstruction and Construction

On Masterchef I always giggle when someone presents a 'deconstructed crumble' or similar.  The fruity bit is on one side of the plate, and the crumble on the other.  There will usually be some decorative garnish at a jaunty angle, or at least some spun sugar of nebulous character to 'bring the plate together'.

Today, I realised that living out of a suitcase for seven months has left me feeling somewhat 'deconstructed'.  My clothes are tatty now, and I have just thrown away a pair of shoes as the soles had split.  I must have walked hundreds of miles in them.  I do have some smart work clothes, but in Bristol, I have better shoes, but in London, I have wonderful family and friends, in the UK (and around the world).

So here I am, deconstructed me.

On the good side, my French is improving from virtually nothing to being able to sort of converse with a real French person for FORTY MINUTES.  I went for a charity ride in a 4x4 up a mountain with one of the mountain rescue volunteers.  It was just me and him in the vehicle, and he spoke no English.  I managed to make small talk in appalling French the whole time.  I think at one point I accidentally told him I loved him (rather than a cathedral I had seen the day before), but fortunately realised my mistake and was able to apologise.  He was very polite and we were good chums by the time we got out.  I even knew how many grandchildren he had and that his son was a fireman.  Hooray!

Get multilingual me!

I am thinking of deconstruction and construction lately, having seen an art exhibition called contraction and expansion (or similar).  It was very good, with a Renault squashed into a cube, and other things squished together very tightly, along with expanded polysomething that looked like large beetles crawling along the floor.  There was also a giant thumb, which I rather liked, as it was about the same height as me.  It is very funny looking into a thumb nail that big.  It was golden too.

Some of the art I have seen has been brilliant, some of the funky, weird stuff has made me laugh, some has made me happy because of the jolly colours.  Some of it is awful though.  I have decided I really hate modern art where the colours have run on the canvas and they are left there.  It reminds me of when I was in infant school, painting with one of those long wooden handled brushes at an easel, and the colours cried tears down the paper.  I was always cross about this.  I think that's why I'm cross when I see 'proper' art doing the same thing.  Grown up painters should know to either have less runny paint, or paint on a horizontal canvas.  It can't be that hard to do.

Another strange thing I saw was a wedding dress with an embroidered and sequinned uterus and foetus on it.  I think it was for a man to wear, as it was next to a matador outfit for a woman who also cooks casseroles (presumably beef).  It's a bit much to expect the women to a) kill the bulls and b) cook them afterwards.  Let the woman be the matador, but have a man holding the saucepan please.  One job each is better equality surely?

Matadors are confusing in France, makes me start to wonder where I am.

The 4x4

Aix en Provence

I braved another bus route today.  I went to Aix en Provence -8.9 Euro, bit pricey for a bus, but it was a comfy one, and I sat at the front so had good views.

Aix en Provence was buzzing with a Christmas market.  I thought, 'Oooh, a Christmas market, I must buy things', but although the stalls were very pretty, and the wares attractively displayed, at the end of the day it was all stuff you didn't really need.  Anyone you gave it to, wouldn't need it either.  Such is the way with Christmas.  It's like that in the shops in the UK too.  As soon as November starts to age, the shops fill up with decorative tat and it is harder than during the rest of the year to buy something anyone wants.  The stalls I saw today were all about pot pourri, lavender, decorative glassware, ceramics and lots and lots of short figurines.  The figurines look great en masse, but take one out of context, and stick it on a shelf and it would just look a bit lost.

In the end I went round an art gallery.  I wasn't expecting much as it was fairly unprepossessing from the outside.  As I went round, my jaw was dropping with the exceptionally wonderful pieces on display.  The gallery was called Museum Granet, and the paintings by Granet were stunning.  There were also several Cezannes, looking as if they were illuminated from behind the canvas, so wonderful were the colours, some Matisse and a gallery of full body sculptures that you could walk among.  One was pointing a finger at me and staring very hard.  It was quite spooky.

Something quite annoying about the gallery was that they had interspersed the 'old masters' with works from a modern photographer.  The photos were rather self conscious, mainly featuring the photographer with no clothes on in strange poses, or dangling fairy lights, or wearing a shaggy wig over his face.  They might have worked well together in a separate gallery (or maybe not, I'm being polite here), but putting them up against such well honed talent seemed to detract from both the old masters and the modern work.  Rather like listening to a Bach track, quickly followed by Kylie Minogue.  They do not sit well together.

Sitting in a smoky cafe made me realise how good the no smoking legislation is in Britain.  I had forgotten what it was like to be in a haze of exhaled nicotine.  It puts you off your food for sure.  I wondered how I managed growing up in a house with a chain smoking father for all those years.

Apart from all that, there were the lovely, traditional buildings to admire, with shuttered windows and little balconies.  It felt very French.

France smells nice too, lots of ground coffee and baking bread.

 Figurines in the Christmas market

Photos that remind me of illustrations in French text books at school all those years ago

Martigues

Today I went on a bus to Martigues.   I fancied a swim, and had been told there was a pool there.  After negotiating another bus, (using a map to point out where I wanted to get off to the driver) I made it to the right town.  I was just struggling to remember what the French for swimming pool was (last French lesson circa 1977) when I saw a sign saying 'Piscine'.  Hooray!

I was very pleasantly surprised that a swim costs only 1.5 Euros - REALLY cheap.  My local pool in Surrey costs £4.45.  Not only was it cheap, it was spotlessly clean, and had good quality facilities.  The staff were very helpful, the woman on the cash desk actually walked me round the changing rooms to show me where everything was.  The only draw back was that I had to wear a 'bonnet du bain' (I think that's what it was).  I haven't worn a swimming cap since before my last French lesson, in the days when they had chin straps and the height of fashion was to have big, floppy daisies on them.  The cash desk person helped me out again by lending me one.  I didn't have the knack of putting it on, so I would be half way down the pool, and feel a strange pulling and sliding sensation over my skull as the 'bonnet' worked its way into a peak and threatened to pop off.  I tried to master breast-stroke with one hand on my head, but that is quite tricky.  It's also quite tricky pulling a rubber cap back on while treading water.  Apart from all that I had a very nice swim.  On the way back, I got too close to the bus driver while trying to work out which coins he needed, and my ski jacket, which is adorned with a huge number of velcro patches, stuck to the driver.  We exchanged Gallic rolling eye expressions as he tried to pick me off his jumper.

To warm up while waiting for the bus back, I wandered round the local library.  Again, it was a facility that put any of ours to shame.  It was a magnificent, modern building, with a piano to play, room after room of books, machines dispensing coffee (nice coffee too) and lots of people waiting to help.

So I am impressed with France, especially as the buses run on time too, and are warm!

The rather nicely named 'Birds' Mirror'.

The South of France

I haven't been on Eurostar before, so I was quite excited on Friday, embarking at Ashford International.  I was due to travel all the way down to Marseille, changing only at Lille.  It all went well, we were underneath the sea sooner than I expected, and I fought off the slight feeling of claustrophobia thinking of all that water above me.

It was slightly complicated at Lille, as all the announcements were in French.  I sort of expected that there would be English translations, but once off Eurostar, I was truly on foreign ground.  I soon learnt that 'retard' meant delayed.  There was a helpful man in the information booth who translated all the announcements for me, and assured me I was indeed at the right station.  The ticket had confused me, as it said I needed to change stations.

Once on the train I settled in to enjoy the landscape flashing past the windows.  After a while, I started to become alarmed at quite significant snow on pine trees, in the foothills of what I thought might be the Alps.  For a short time, I was seriously worried I had managed to get on the wrong train and was heading north.  What was weird was that within the space of about half an hour, gleaming sunshine returned.

There is a special quality to the light in the south of France, I can see why artists gravitate towards this part of the world.  Everything looks sparklier.

Thirty minutes after arriving at the French Club, I was assisting with two classes.  It was a bit of a whirlwind, as I hardly had time to unpack my bag.  Sunday was a day off, so I took the opportunity to go back to Marseille on the bus and explore.

I fell in love with the place.  The old port is wonderful to explore, with Fort St Jean being an example of modern architecture fused with ancient architecture.  The place was designed so you could walk for miles, up staircases, along terraces, high up with contrasting views at every turn, or low down along the water's edge, where you could listen to the waves lapping up against the stone.  There were newly planted gardens and benches scattered around, and exhibits in some of the rooms off the walkways.  One amazing exhibition was of puppets from many years ago, all displayed imaginatively to their best advantage.

After taking in some coffee outside a cafe further along the port, I decided I really needed to climb the huge hill to see Notre Dame de la Garde.  An imposing cathedral overlooking the city.  I spurned the mini tourist train (8 Euros), the open topped bus (18 Euros) and had just missed the regular bus (50c), so walked.  It was quite exhausting, but worth it for the views.  The cathedral was also beautifully decorated with lots of gold leaf.  There were strings hanging from the ceiling with model boats dangling down, and many sea scape paintings around the walls.  After such a long hike, the best bit was actually the tea room, where I managed enough French to order hot chocolate and an eclair.  The waitresses were very friendly, and later on, burst into song.

Marseille station was fun too, they had a piano rigged up for anyone to play, so people were chatting and taking turns.  I'm not one to miss the opportunity for a bash of the old ivories (or plastics in this case), and it made waiting for the bus back quite jolly.

All in all a great day out.

View from Fort St Jean

Cathedral ceiling with dangling boats

Sofa Surfin' UK

Since I left Iona at the end of October, I have been sofa surfing across the UK towards my next destination, France.  I am no longer friends with my beast of a suitcase, and on the train yesterday decided of the many things I have learnt, one that shouts louder than the others is to TRAVEL LIGHT.  However, my faith in humanity has been strengthened by the extreme kindness of strangers.  Men see me hauling The Beast up station stairs one by one, grab the handle and race to the top (even in one case where they weren't going in that direction).  They do sometimes give a little grimace when they feel how heavy the bag is.

Coming down stairs isn't as bad, as I have developed a surfing technique - tilt the bag to the angle of the decline and almost let go.  Sometimes I nearly dive after it, but generally it works well.  The bag is looking rather worse for wear, and I am not sure Marks and Spencer will take it back, when I eventually go to point out the broken zip to them.

The train ride yesterday was interesting.  I was reading a bit of PG Wodehouse (Jeeves), and pleasantly immersed in 'merry japes' and the wonderful, elegant English of that era.  Behind me sat two men in high visibility jackets, speaking loudly to each other, with every other word being f**k or c**t.  I was wrestling with the contrast between what I was reading, and what I was hearing, when a very brave woman approached the men and berated them for swearing in front of her four year old son.  'He'll be swearing himself when he's twenty' the man helpfully said, then added 'we weren't swearing anyway'.  She replied, 'you was swearing, you used the c word a lot'.  Feeling Jeeves-ish, I wanted to interject and correct her with 'you were swearing'.  Fortunately I thought better of it and bit my tongue.

Back to sofa surfin' (sorry, couldn't resist the Beach Boys influence there).  I feel amazingly lucky to have such a wonderful family and wonderful friends.  Everyone has made me feel very welcome and they have gone out of their way to help.  I am feeling warm and fuzzy inside with all the love (there is evidently a strong hippy vibe happening here), and I am now looking forward to the next part of my adventure.

I do enjoy a good train ride, so the prospect of crossing most of France by train is something quite exciting.  Last week I realised that although all my thoughts are currently on Europe, I need to start planning for Malawi in January.  I had a good chat with the practice nurse about injections, and she was keen to start puncturing my arm then and there.  Being a bit of a coward with these things I said I would go back in the new year.

So, I'm off to get my Euros, think about Christmas presents and also have a minor worry about mosquito nets and so on.  It's all a bit confusing!

Tudor Times

This week has been one of immersion in all things Tudor.  It started with a visit to the Mary Rose Museum, which was brilliant, one of the best museums I have ever visited.  The crew's personal artefacts were astonishing, especially considering they were over 500 years old.  It was a bit odd though, that the curators had put the skull of, say, the master carpenter, in a display cabinet along with his tools and clothes.  They repeated this idea with some of the other tradespeople and it made a slightly spooky scene.  You get all involved in looking at the jacket and tool bag and contents thereof, and then have the skull to consider.  It didn't really work as a concept.  I think the human remains deserve a different treatment (or should even have been left on the seabed to continue their eternal rest in peace).  One chilling item was the trepanning instrument, for those sailors brave enough to complain of a migraine, or of fits.  I am not convinced drilling a hole in someone's skull would cure a migraine.

The Victory was good to visit too, but with all these things, you wonder whether repeated conservation and replacement of bits and pieces mean that the ship isn't actually the original any more.  I felt a bit confused and spent some time pondering the broom question (whether changing first the brush, then the handle of a broom counts as having the same broom).

The Weald and Downland Museum was full of Tudor delights, including staff in full authentic dress (much of which was similar to the Mary Rose crew).  The houses were being warmed with fires and one kitchen was handing out samples of Tudor cuisine.  It was so inspiring, that as I write this, there is potage on the stove, bubbling away.

Tudor toilets are drafty:

  but the toilet in the car park in Portsmouth was rather good in comparison:

Some of the views in the houses looked like Dutch interiors:

Also this week I have sat in a Harrier Jump Jet (I think that's what it was) and driven on an F1 simulator.  I am not sure what a Tudor person would make of those.

The Kindness of Friends and Strangers and Walking in my Dreams

I have now left the busy rush of Glasgow where thanks to someone I had never met before, a small dream came true.

About fifteen years ago I watched a documentary on 'The Arlington Club', a private members' club in Glasgow.  It showed elderly gentlemen swinging on trapezes over a swimming pool, and the most beautiful, Victorian steam room.  I knew I had to go there, and have had it in mind ever since.

Feeling a bit cheeky, and coming from a family where 'the wild e-mail' is a bit of a 'thing', I sent a note to the manager of  'The Arlington Club', explaining I had seen the documentary and this was a bit of a dream of mine.  I was delighted to get a response saying I was welcome to go and have a look round.  'Can I bring my swimming costume?' I asked.  He was fine with that and said I could have two hours to enjoy the facilities.

So, off I went, with a friend, to walk around in another dream (this year out seems to be full of opportunities to walk in dream sequences).  It didn't disappoint.  The manager was really welcoming and friendly and we put our cossies on and went for a dip and a sauna.  Sadly we couldn't steam as it was mens' day, but we were able to have a look at the steam room and appreciate the ambiance.

Over the swimming pool, the trapezes looked really tempting.  I was feeling bold as I had heard that the elderly gentleman who had featured in the film still frequented the club.  I climbed the ladder and held the end of the stick you use to reach the trapeze, but my nerve drained out of me.  Made me realise how brave those circus people are, and the gentleman in the documentary.

It was a good day, as we also had a full Scottish breakfast in the Willow Tea Room, which is a Charles Rennie Mackintosh building which would have been in my dreams if I had known about it in advance.  Come to that, so would the breakfast have been - very yummy.

After Glasgow, I headed south to Carlisle where I am staying with a good friend and about to go and meet some good friends of good friend, who have been resident members of staff on Iona in the past so are keen to hear about my trip.

I am being constantly bowled over by how kind friends and strangers are.

I have also realised, by writing this, that dreams can be catagorised in various ways - small ones, big ones, possible and impossible ones, silly ones and sensible ones, although I am not sure it is worth having a sensible dream.

The Woman on the Stairs

How wonderful it has been to spend nearly three months on my favourite, very small, island.

Coming back to the mainland has been an interesting transition.  City life is sirens and traffic and bar code bleeps.

It's noisy and crowded and jarring.

My hotel, although comfortable, is without soul.  There are quietly carpeted corridors going on for miles.

I passed a woman on the stairs.  She was wearing jewellery - I noticed her sparkling.

I hoped she didn't notice the dried cowpat on my walking boots.

I tipped some white sand out of my rucksack into the bin in my en suite bathroom.  It looked better on the beach.

Little grains of pure Iona sand, out of place in this anonymous place.

I listen to cars and buses in the street below my window, and remember hearing the waves of the ocean on stormy nights from my little shared bedroom.

The television is bright and busy and peculiar.  I turn it off, it doesn't seem to make sense any more.

I smell the pollution in the air, and remember the delicious, salty breeze of the sea.

As I walk around the city, I find I'm humming the chorus to Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'.  I imagine the friends I made singing the harmonies.  It doesn't sound so good as a solo.

I have experienced something enchanting.

I have been sparkling on the inside.

I don't need the jewels.

Puddingy Problems

It has come to my notice that in this world of complimentary therapies of every sort and shade you can think of, there is a gap.

A big gap.

A yawning gap.

What has happened to dessert therapy?

'Dessert therapy?' I hear you ask,

'Who needs therapy for something so wonderful?'.

My only answer to that is, 'everyone'!

Take, for example, the torturous decision between being offered both banoffee pie and cheesecake to follow the main course of a meal.

Incredibly, this is a real life situation that happened to me only a couple of days ago.  My eyes cast around for a clue as to which dessert I should settle for.  Could I find fault in the banoffee pie?  A meanness in the cream topping, a lack of banana submerged in the toffee filling?

Perhaps the cheesecake would be too thick around the base?

But no, both desserts looked perfect.  My torture was to continue.

'Therapy' I shouted, 'I need therapy'.  Luckily a kind hearted soul at the table offered to have a go at dessert therapy.  As she quickly and expertly uncovered a lifelong yearning for banoffee pie, I was relieved to realise I could select this with ease.

However, more trauma was to follow.

The base was TOO CRUNCHY.

'Help' I shouted, 'the base is too crunchy!'

I was struggling to get my spoon to crack through the compacted crumb.

My amateur therapist again came to my aid, uttering soothing phrases and suggesting that next meal time I start on soft puddings, and build up my confidence before attempting a biscuit base again.

It was good advice.  I have just successfully eaten some chocolate ice cream, alone and without the need for counselling.  

More photos

Bored of Dolphins, Bored of Life

Life here is so amazing, that it has actually got to the point where, when someone points out some dolphins frolicking in the Sound, you feel a bit bored and annoyed you have to turn your head to look!

The weather (up to today) has been so wonderful we have all been swimming most days.  Last week, the sunlight made the sand shimmer with a mauve tint, which I could admire all the better as my feet sank into it, up to my ankles.

The sun now rises at around the time I go to work, so a standard day starts with watching the sun rise from outside the abbey, and might include a walk, a party, home made scones and bread, games, chat and oh, a bit of work here and there.

Last week a few of us were treated to a trip up the abbey tower, and were able to walk around the top, taking photos.  It was fun to see the bell I ring for services, where the doves are kept, and all the ancient stones from the original abbey which are stored in the lofts.

Also last week I saw a poster advertising a 'Grand Piano Recital' in the abbey.  I was just thinking that I must go, as that is the sort of thing I like, when I realised, with some horror, that I was playing in it.  I had foolishly agreed when asked by the abbey musician.  Luckily the piece I played is one I am very familiar with, so when the time came, even though my fingers were shaking badly, I was still able to hit the right notes.  My main worry had been that I would embarrass everyone by dithering over mistakes, but all went well and I even had a few compliments.  It has given me a new lease of life with my playing, and I happily spent an hour going through my 'back catalogue' of music recently.

Time is passing faster than I ever remember it doing before in my life, which is rather worrying.  There is so much going on.  I am looking forward to taking some time soon to think it all through and what I can take from the experience.

 Sunrise through the Sacristy window

 My favourite place on the planet

View from the tower