Haapsalu and the Jahta Hostel
Read about our lovely little hotel at Haapsalu on the Estonian coast.
We had sunshine filled days in our lemon yellow wooden building on the bay
Click here to read the article
The Adventure begins. Into Estonia
My next adventure is underway. The starting point is Helsinki – the end point…who knows!
And from the very beginning it appeared that things were going to be a bit challenging.
Drama #1 occured as soon as I arrived at the airport. I was met by my fellow traveller who handed me the keys to his large (left-hand drive) transit van and he announced that, due to certain circumstances I had to drive.
Out of Helsinki during the rush hour. Along the motorway which was being dug up and like a slalom course. And directly into the low setting sun and with the sand which had been laid on the icy roads during the winter whipped up into a swirling sandstorm.
The only thing that I can say about that white knuckle ride was that the sky ahead of us resembled nothing that I had seen before – it was pure molten gold and more beautiful than any sky that I had ever seen.
I had been in Finland during winter once before when I had visited Tampere – you can read about that experience here
The frozen fjord at Espoo, Finland
But we survived the journey and the next day we spent a half a day walking around Helsinki which is an OK sort of a city, but it is very spread out. The highlights are the Uspenski Cathedral with its red brick and green onion dome roofs and the fantastic-from-the-outside-but-plain-inside white Cathedral.
Helsinki Cathedral
Drama #2 began after we had booked a night in an apart-hotel in the dormitory town of Espoo over the internet. The hotel had no receptionist present at any time. When you are sitting in your vehicle and you have very intermittent internet access and no Finnish SIM card and you have paid for the night over the internet but cannot open the email which contains details of your room and the key code, you cannot even begin to express your frustration. But eventually we sorted that problem out and got into the hotel.
On day 3 we were back in the van for another white knuckle ride back into Helsinki for the ferry port. Dodging the trams I was quite proud that I only managed to jump one red light – I didn’t notice the junction let alone the traffic lights – but I was just relieved to reach the terminal in one piece.
And then there was drama #3. Two very large border guards were cruising around the queue of cars when they pulled up alongside us and studied us intently. We KNEW that they would be interested in us and then they were asking for our papers. While everything was in order things were not straightforward (but not my story to tell at this stage here) and then I was being asked to blow into a breathalyser and I had the cells from my tongue scraped for a roadside drug test.
When everything came back negative (alcohol, marihuana, opiates and amphetamines) the border guards lost interest in us, allowed me to take a photo of the drug test and decided that they didn’t need to pull everything out of the van. And so I drove us onto the MS Finlandia for the 2.5 hour trip across the Gulf of Bothnia to Estonia.
Beach huts on one of the islands as we leave Finland
Estonia
If driving in Helsinki was nerve wracking I almost had a complete meltdown in Tallinn. Driving off the ferry I was horrified to discover that here there were trolley buses, which instilled fear into me as unlike trams they were perfectly capable of veering off their tracks and EVERYBODY was driving at twice the speed limit (at least) and they are, I think, probably the second most aggressive, fast drivers in the world – after those in Bahrain.
We tracked down our hotel for the night which was in an old stone building that was once a sauna complex for the town, and from which we could see the large castle which dominates Tallinn.
Part of the castle at Tallinn, Estonia
On Sunday morning we set off on foot to explore, wandering around the little winding streets although it was next to impossible to get lost as the tall spires of the various churches which rose above the walled city acted as good orientation points. Tallinn has an incredibly well preserved wall surrounding much of it and little streets which are a charming mix of the traditional wooden houses and the modern. The old town square was picture postcard perfect in the warm winter sun and we were lucky enough to bag a table outside one of the little bars and rest for a while.
The town hall in the Old Town Square, Tallinn, Estonia
We visited the Orthodox cathedral which is up near the castle complex. The inside was atmospheric with the smokey haze and scent from the candles and the incense rising high up into the onion dome. Pillars were painted with flowers and swirls and there was constant movement as people flowed between the various icons and altars, many stooping to touch the floor and some even kneeling to kiss the floor in front of some of the relics.
The Orthodox Cathedral, Tallinn, Estonia
I had really enjoyed learning Spanish when I was travelling in South America and now on this trip I want to learn a musical instrument. Many travellers have guitars or drums but as I desperately need to reduce the weight that I carry, I opted for the harmonica. Back at the hotel that evening S, my fellow traveller who can play many instruments very well gave me my first harmonica lesson. I thought that it went rather well, and rather easier to learn that Spanish but some of the other hotel guests may argue otherwise.
The following day I went out alone to explore Tallinn. I found the ‘Knit Market’ where rows of stalls are set into arches underneath the town walls and ladies sit knitting and selling their woollen socks and jumpers. I found the ‘Cat Well’ where in the olden times people would throw the stray cats (dead and often alive) as a sacrifice to ensure that the water to the town wouldn’t run dry – never mind about the risk to the public health from the decomposing bodies.
And I saw St Olaf’s Church with its slender spire and which was once the tallest building in the world, although it and all of the other museums were closed, either because it was Monday or the ‘wintry season’ or both so I was unable to climb the tower and look out over the red roofs of Tallinn.
Castle and town walls in Tallinn, Estonia
I was stood in the street studying a map when two young men approached me and asked if I needed any help. Forty five minutes later we were still chatting by the side of the road. Andri, smart as a pin in his blue suit and Gunner a teacher, both spoke excellent English and had a cracking repartee of anecdotes and observations on life. They were hilarious and I was sorry to have to move on and to say goodbye to them. And a little later in the day they emailed me to tell me that just after we had separated they had been fined for jay-walking!
Andri and Gunner
Estonia, like many places that I visit, has surprised me. I try to travel without any pre-conceptions and always with an open mind, but you can’t help but absorb information which the media decide should shape your view of the world. I have always thought that it is so important to watch the news and to be aware of what is going on in the world, but as I travel, I am more and more disillusioned, not by the news itself, but by the spin which is placed on the stories and which distances us from other people, countries and cultures.
Estonia is spotlessly clean – from the streets without litter to the clarity of the air. For all of my first week I was blessed with brilliant blue, cloudless skies, crisp cold mornings at freezing point, but with temperatures rising rapidly in the sun during the daytime. Most people can speak many languages – English, Russian, Finnish and Swedish seemed to predominate and they are friendly and keen to chat.
The cat well
I love to travel and to see things. Old buildings, modern towns, forests or beaches are all fantastic but for me, it is the connection with people who make my travel so special. Andri and Gunner were a chance meeting by the side of the road but they made my day in Tallinn, so for this journey as I travel down through the Baltic States I intend to delve a little bit deeper into the lives of the people that I meet and bring you some of their stories.
I hope that you will follow me and accompany me on my adventures as I head south.
Where am I now?
I have a plan of sorts.
Today I will be flying from Barcelona to Helsinki where I will begin a road trip south.
I plan to travel through Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania learning about the culture and history of these countries as I go, and I will try to get a little side trip into Russia – did you know that there is a little area called Kaliningrad marrooned off to the west and sandwiched in between Lithuania and Poland?
The idea is to continue through Poland and Germany – and see where I end up, depending on what takes my fancy.
So sign up to follow me and see where I end up
You will laugh about this later
You will laugh about this later
sunrise over the Andes
Those words were supposed to comfort me, but I just wanted to pull the duvet tightly around me, snuggle deep into the wonderful bed and never surface again.
My adventure had begun. I had booked my coach to Heathrow and I was looking forward to my treat of a night at the Thistle Hotel where I had planned to enjoy a leisurely evening meal with a couple of glasses of wine, check out their roof terrace which overlooks the runway and Terminal 5 and experience their new Pod transfer system.
Instead of a fluttering of anticipation and excitement I began to feel quite queasy on the coach and before I even reached Heathrow, I was in the throes of a fully fledged vomiting bug. Somebody up there must have been looking out for me because at least I had one of the better coaches with a decent clean toilet. The bus deposited me at Terminal 5 and feeling dizzy and more light-headed by the minute I struggled with my backpack and my rucksack and staggered off to find to the Pod, the state-of-the-art transport system to my hotel.
the ‘station’
clean lines
I have to admit that when the hotel had phoned me to enquire whether I had heard of the Pod I thought that it was an expensive sounding gimmick, but boy, was I glad of it now. At the futuristic little station tucked away in Terminal 5 consoles rather than ticket officers waited, their screens glowing invitingly in the muted light, lined up alongside little docking stations behind a glass screen. As I followed the very simple instructions on the screen an unmanned electric cart trundled into view. Parking up next to the waiting business man standing at the next station I watched as he stepped in. My Pod was not far behind and I gratefully collapsed onto the wide seat, whilst a soothing recorded voice welcomed me to the experience and advised me to remain seated. Smoothly and almost silently we whizzed along a little roadway, up and down ramps and bridges, crossing over main roads packed with cars. The journey took just five minutes and I very quickly found myself in the car park of the Thistle. Check in was luckily speedy and hassle free, no doubt hastened by my very odd grey complexion as I just needed to get to my room and collapse in a heap.
So no nice meal or drink on the terrace. I couldn’t even take advantage of the tea and coffee making facilities in the room, but I did come very close to experiencing the on-call doctor. Luckily by four in the morning my symptoms had eased and I felt more confident about taking two consecutive flights and travelling for close on twenty four hours.
the pod
As I checked out, I was able to experience the Pod transfer system a little better. The little vehicles reminded me of some of the better bubble lifts at ski resorts, clean and nippy with stacks of room inside for up to four passengers and their bags. The station was just a short walk from the hotel reception and whilst marginally more expensive that the Heathrow Hotel Shuttle Bus, it was certainly worth the extra. I still come out in a cold sweat when I think how I was intending to catch the shuttle bus and I am not at all sure that I would have managed that journey.
Anyhow the day picked up and the adventure truly got under way.
The British Airways flight to Miami airport passed smoothly despite the American man to my left pointedly refusing to be drawn into any sort of conversation at all but he insisted on spilling over into my seat. The British man on my right did chat away but he also kept falling asleep and snuggling in against my shoulder.
Customs at Miami was more interesting. I had to go out through customs and then re-enter. It was very busy and at the head of my queue there were two men joking with each other about who was to go first. Well, the customs officer wasn’t having any nonsense at all and bounced out of his booth, got right into their faces and bawled at them, insisting that they tell him what was so funny. He really was quite menacing and was tapping his belt as if itching for them to give him an excuse for a good beating or a shooting. Torn between being nosy and trying to shrink down behind the man in front I really wished that I could have taken a photograph but that was a definite no-no. After my turn of being photographed and finger printed I automatically drifted forward to lean on the officer’s desk – and was promptly ordered in a very loud voice and in no uncertain terms to stand right back IMMEDIATELY. To lull me into a false sense of security, the official allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch in what was possibly a tiny smile, and when I responded with the same he yelled at me again – he was certainly revelling in his power and also managed to snigger at my passport photo too, but he did ‘ma’am’ me and wish me a good onward flight.
over Peru
There then followed an extremely boring seven hour wait at Miami for my next flight which would take me down to Lima in Peru. I have to admit to getting a little nervous at this stage, worrying about the imminent taxi ride and simply locating my hostel. A couple of airplanes later (they kept breaking) and three gate changes we boarded two hours late but had another uneventful five and a half hour flight to Lima. I managed to doze for most of it but woke to a magnificent sunrise whilst below the plane, the sharp jagged peaks of the Andes pierced the fluffy magicalness of the clouds, running all along the horizon on the left as far as the eye could see. I was momentarily confused as the captain announced that landing was imminent and the clouds were still far below us, but all became clear as we suddenly descended and landed in thick fog know as garua. Carmen, the dinky little Peruvian to my right explained that for much of the year. Lima is rather cruelly cloaked in a grey mist, not like any normal mist but one which bathes the city in a luminescent ghostly pale glow. It lifts briefly for a few short months during the summer and is due to do so any day now and when it does the people of Lima will rejoice
My adventure did not have the auspicious start that I had hoped and planned for but I will certainly not forget it and Sis was right – I am in the southern hemisphere, I am in South America and I can laugh about it now
Disclaimer: I received complimentary tickets for the Pod by the Thistle Hotel: but this did not, in any way influence my comments in this article, which are my own, personal views.
11. Just call me Poppins, Scarlet Poppins – and some epic language fails!
Just one day after my week in France with the lads I was back at Stanstead airport and flying into Madrid. In this rewritten article from 2013 you will learn more about the Workaway scheme, meet the amazing family near Madrid and hear about some of my more epic language fails.
Senorio de Illescas is a dormitory town which lies bang in between Madrid and Toledo, just 35kms from either on a train or a bus and with the journey (in 2013) costing just an amazing two and a half euros. With my instructions clamped tightly in my hand I negotiated passport control at Madrid airport, the metro and then the Cercanias train system thanks to a lady who helped me with the ticket machine and who also advised me how to spot the pickpockets on the train from the airport.
The family who were to be my hosts had advertised on the Workaway website for a native English speaker to live in their home, speak English and to play with their adorable seven month old baby who I shall call Garbanzo (Spanish for something small like a tadpole or a chickpea).
After the structure of the work on the farm in Portugal where there was a specific (though flexible) timetable to follow, here there was no such structure. The timetable was dictated by Garban, but with his ready smiles and giggles that was no hardship.
I began writing this account of my experience in Madrid intending it to be factual and objective but as I left, heading north to Catalunya, it was hard to remain composed!
The family that I had lived with for three weeks took me into their home and into their hearts. I met both sets of parents, brother, sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and their amazing grandmother. We prepared meals together and swapped recipes, cycled, walked, shopped and chatted late into the night.
Patricia and Roberto were the ultimate hosts, tour guides and friends and there were tears all around as we said our goodbyes.
During my time with them, Garban sprouted two new teeth, he began to crawl and he started at his nursery. It was difficult to watch the pain on Roberto’s face as he walked away from his crying son leaving him with the nursery staff, and it brought back many memories of my children. I had yet to discover Mindfulness and I was navigating my own pain and heartbreak in the best way that I could, but what I was rapidly learning was that human connection and validation was healing me. As I crawled around on the floor with little Garban I was instinctively learning how to practice Mindfulness. I was determined to focus solely on him and his family. I immersed myself in the ‘Now’ and only later in my bedroom did I allow my thoughts to wander back to a different time.
It was easy to love Garban and I loved every minute of my time in Illescas – even when I was challenged to eat tripe (pigs intestines). That challenge came about at a family birthday party. We were all seated around a large table in the courtyard when Patricia had to slip away for five minutes. As soon as the door closed behind her, her brother offered me the first plate to try, announcing with a mischievous gleam in his eye that it was his grandmother’s famous signature dish of `callos`. With ten pairs of eyes watching me, and the family holding their collective breath, I accepted some of the stew. I struggled gamely to chew and swallow, really not wanting to offend granny who was keenly waiting for my verdict but I regret to say that I failed miserably. I frantically looked for a napkin and then just as I was rising from the table to leave the room Mario presented me me with a bucket in which to spit! I was mortified but I really had no option. Patricia returned to hysterical laughter and as she took her seat besides me she whispered a warning – not to try her grandmother’s callos under any circumstances!
I felt honoured that despite many of the family not speaking any English they included me in the family birthday celebrations and with sign language and both Patricia and Roberto translating, I felt very much a part of things.
Patricia was enjoying the last two weeks of her maternity leave when I rocked up at their door, and then during my third week it was Roberto’s turn to take leave from work and to stay home while little Garbanzo began his gentle introduction to the nursery.
Both Roberto and Patricia had a very high standard of English and it made me determined to persevere with my Spanish lessons. Learning a language can be a tough challenge but I love to hear peoples’ stories and I was frustrated not to be able to communicate. Later on during my travels I would always attempt to learn the basics of each language as I changed countries, but it was much later after deciding to settle down in Spain that I made a concerted effort to learn Spanish (and the very different Catalan). I certainly never wanted to be one of those immigrants who can just about order a coffee and I am proud that now I can for the most part understand and be understood. If you want to read about a couple of my epic language fails, CLICK HERE , and for the price of a cup of coffee you can find out how I dropped my trousers in front of a physiotherapist and how, in a separate incident I traumatised a Spanish farmer!!
Anyway, apart from the family party what exactly did I get up to in Spain? For a start, no two days were ever the same.
To begin with, I learnt about the Spanish routines and way of life. Each day would begin and I would usually entertain the baby and chat to Patricia over breakfast. Garban was only seven months old and not talking, however research has shown that if a tiny baby is exposed to different languages they will find it much easier to pick them up later and to speak with the correct accent if spoken to by someone of that mother tongue; which was why I was there living with the family. Patricia and I would often go out for a walk with the pram, go to the shops or to the weekly market which was set up in the shadow of the futuristic looking bull ring. On one of our walks we came across a big trailer containing a couple of sleepy tigers They were not a permanent feature of the town but they were a part of a travelling circus which was in town. Several times we went out for beer or a coke and tapas in a bar and as the temperature was a toasty thirty-plus degrees for the majority of my stay, I would often lay in the garden on a sun lounger or dip in and out of the little pool.
I very quickly learned how the Spanish (generally) take their time over meals and prioritise their friends and family. Lunch would be served as late as 15:30 or even at 16:00hrs, followed by a light dinner at about 22:00hrs. There was very little ultra-processed food eaten or even available to buy (although that is sadly beginning to change) and a gazpacho was prepared from scratch just about every day using the stale bread left over from the previous day’s dinner. Roberto would bring a fresh baguette (barra) home every day with him, always broken at the table with hands not cut with a knife and a snack could be a small canned tin of sardines eaten straight from the can rather than a packet of potato crisps. There was no quick clearing away of plates after dinner and settling down on the sofa to watch TV. Life in Spain generally revolves around the family chatting together and it seems to be totally unrushed. It is still very very normal to see groups of neighbours outside their houses and apartments in Spain in the evenings sitting on little plastic chairs and simply spending time together rather than shut away in their individual houses. During the hot summer months the play parks are alive with children playing and running around while their parents stand and chat at MIDNIGHT! That one certainly took some getting used to, although now, after many years of living in Spain I rarely eat my dinner before 21:30 and I am very used to getting dressed to go out to a party or to watch a music band at midnight.
Garban was totally doted on by his entire extended family and I never once witnessed any irritation or impatience with him. If he couldn’t sleep then not to worry, it just meant more time with him. If he refused to eat, no matter, still more time with him. Perhaps because of the devotion that he received, he had little need to cry or grumble and he was always ready with his smiles and cuddles. He was showered with affection and it always made me laugh when either set of grand parents arrived and the battle to cuddle and hold him began! He was so content and happy to be with me and this is when I earned the nickname of Mary Poppins.
I have since learnt that this obsession with babies is the norm in Spain where children are generally adored and included in every event. There is rarely any need for a babysitter here because to include children is such a big part of the culture and society. If you go into a bar or a restaurant you will often see small children playing with their dolls or toy cars in the corner under a table or little ones fast asleep in pushchairs oblivious to the noise around them. I am convinced that this is one of the reasons why so many Spanish children grow up uninhibited around adults and why and how all age groups tend to mingle at the bigger events. It’s not uncommon to see teenage boys entertaining smaller children or dancing with their grannies. Unlike in the UK where it would be very un-cool and most teenagers wouldn’t be seen dead playing with a four year old in front of their friends, here in Spain it continues to be the way of life.
Aside from being with the family and with encouragement and plenty of hints and tips from Patricia and Roberto I also set off on some mini-adventures of my own and I went off and I explored Toledo, Madrid and Sergovia.
Toledo
Toledo is one of those towns where its picture-postcard beauty is replicated and enhanced in real life. It was built on a hill and as you approach the city from the plains below you can see the solid alcazar brooding over the narrow streets of the old town which huddle at its base. Impenetrable medieval walls with towers and turrets surround the town, apart from the along the parts where cliffs and ravines drop steeply to the Tagus river below.
Toledo was first a Roman city before it was taken over by the Moors who invaded most of the Iberian peninsula. During that period, Muslims, Jews and Christians co-existed peacefully side by side, exchanging cultures and traditions. After the Crusades this all changed and life for anybody that wasn’t Catholic became impossible during the cruel period of the Inquisition. Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the streets in Toledo are for the most part peaceful (if crowded) as throngs of tourists poke around the narrow streets, explore the cathedral, the mosques, the synagogues and the museums.
I took an open-top bus tour which went outside the walls offering fantastic views of the city walls and the portals and bridges from below. I looked around the shops selling souvenirs of knives and swords (Toledo was famous for its steel bladed weapons) and I ate rather too many marzipan sweets for which the city is also famous.
I stayed in a backpackers’ hostel in the centre of the old town and I was woken in the early hours of one morning by a group of men who were dressed in flamboyant costumes of capes and leggings and who were singing and playing in the street below. The following day I learnt that these are traditionally groups of students called ‘tunas’ who play for tips in the streets or at weddings. I was still unused to the all-night Spanish culture where it seems that anything goes and at any time, day or night, but it certainly added a bit of colour and noise to my visit.
Segovia.
I took a separate mini-excursion to Segovia on the bus from Madrid but this time I didn’t travel alone. I joined Valerie and her friend Guadaloupe. As I have explained before, one of the best things for me about travel is the people that I meet and the stories that I hear. I had met Valerie a few years before on a small group holiday with the travel company Explore when I went on a two week tour of Turkey.
Back then, Valerie was in Madrid attending an intensive Spanish language course. We met up first in Madrid for dinner and drinks and then we arranged to go to Segovia for a day, accompanied by her friend, I tend to not do too much homework about a place that I am to visit. I would rather have a surprise rather than feel that I know a place before I set foot there, and Segovia certainly delivered a huge surprise!
Walking towards the town from the bus station we turned a corner and I stopped dead in my tracks with my mouth wide open. Plonked right in front of us on and straddling the main street was a gigantic arched Roman aqueduct.
It has over 160 arches, stands a colossal twenty eight metres high and was constructed nearly 2000 years ago to bring water to the city from the mountains. Perhaps even more impressive are the precise, massive granite blocks that rely on balance and engineering to stand up without any mortar and it still functions as intended.
We also saw the beautiful fairytale alcazar (castle) which is reputed to be the inspiration for Disney’s Snow White castle with its towers and turrets and we had lunch in a traditional restaurant which served the local delicacy of ‘tostón or ‘cochinillo asado’ (which is golden suckling pig) and ‘ponche cake’. The piglets are tiny, never more than three weeks old, and are served up whole on individual plates. The cake consists of layers of custard and marzipan and topped with caramelized sugar.
Leaving Madrid
After my time in Madrid with Patricia, Roberto and Garban I had another first experience when I travelled north towards Tarragona, not on public transport but using a car share scheme.
I was a little bit nervous as I met the driver in a back street of Madrid but Bla Bla Car has a good system of reviews and vetting its users and I was determined to give it a try.
Roberto hung around with me whilst I waited for the driver to arrive just to check that everything was above board. It turned out that the driver/car owner was an ex-priest and apart from myself who would be a passenger as far as Zarragoza, two other people would be travelling with us and going further north.
It was a fun trip with three of us chatting as they all spoke excellent English and because we were all running a little late and I had a bus to catch in Zarragoza, Pedro asked the others if they would mind taking a little detour and dropping me right at the bus station. They all agreed and I caught my onward bus to Tarragona by the skin of my teeth.
Since then, I have used Bla Bla Car many times – both as a passenger and as a driver. It is a brilliant system which enables the car driver (who is taking a specific journey anyway) to have company and to receive a contribution towards the fuel and for the passengers for whom the journey is usually cheaper than public transport and is often much more flexible with regards to pick ups and drop offs.
If you have enjoyed reading this article you might like to read about a couple of my epic language fails for the price of a (very cheap) cup of coffee over at this link and sign up to make sure that you don’t miss the next article which will be coming out very soon.
If you would like to read about a couple of my embarrasing language fails then you can click on the link below which will take you to my Buy Me A Coffee site. https://buymeacoffee.com/scarletjonestravels/e/495262
10. Scarlet & the Golfers in Le Touquet
The following article has been updated since it was first published in October 2013. It tells the story of a week in France with seven guys on a golfing holiday. Make sure that you read to the end because I will also tell you how and why I changed my name and how that change was influenced by my friend Gary a couple of years prior to this French trip.
Gary Clements is sadly no longer with us, having suddenly passed away in 2024.
Early one morning, just a couple of days after travelling back to the UK from Portugal I was introduced to the six guys who were huddled in a driveway in the drizzle in Kent by my friend Gary. Cupping mugs of hot tea the group re-established old acquaintances with insults and jibes. They were about to set off on their annual golfing trip but this year I would be joining them. I had been kicking around at a loose end whilst waiting for my upcoming South American adventure and Gary had suggested that I might like to join the group and act as cook and cleaner for them.
I already knew four of the men and I was relieved to discover that the other three were just as nice with the same crazy sense of humour. Downing our mugs of tea we piled into three cars and we set off for Dover and the cross-channel ferry and then we drove through the foggy French countryside to the tiny hamlet of Manninghem near Montreil-sur-Mer which was about an hour’s drive from Calais. Normally the guys would choose to stay in the UK but this year was Gary’s 50th birthday and he wanted to do something a little bit different.
Gary had struck gold finding the gite that we were to rent (a gite is a French farmhouse which has been converted for tourism). Sleeping up to sixteen there was ample room for the eight of us in the rabbit warren of rooms, which included a games room with table football and a billiards table, four bathrooms, a huge kitchen and large gardens. We explored the farmhouse with much shouty-swearing as we repeatedly bashed heads and limbs on the low beams, narrow staircases and the sticking out chimney breasts.
Five of us then squashed into a car for what should have been a twenty minute jaunt to the supermarket but which turned into an epic hour and a half tour of the area because we got ourselves spectacularly lost. My sides were aching from laughing as we hurtled up French lanes only to find ourselves coming back on ourselves ten minutes later and we even ‘lost’ one of our gang who popped into a church to ask the priest for directions but disappeared for a good ten minutes ‘for a chat’! We finally found a supermarket where we bought our provisions for the week, including lots of nibbles and crates of beer and wine to keep us all going until I cooked the dinner that evening.
The next morning Tango Man produced an amazing breakfast which set the bar very high for subsequent days cooking. They then took ages loading the cars with all of the paraphernalia that goes with golf and they eventually set off to their first golf course of the week. I was disappointed to discover that there was no internet access at the farmhouse, but after tidying the farmhouse and prepping the dinner I settled down to my writing. Later in the afternoon I welcomed them back with cold beers at the ready as they hi-ho’d their way home after a long day on the greens. It only needed bluebirds and butterflies fluttering around my head to complete a scene from Snow White.
After dinner on that second evening the living room resembled a nursery school with the guys fighting and jostling for place in front of the TV because England were due to play football. If anybody dared to go and fetch another beer or pop to the loo, their seat was taken as everybody dived for better viewing positions. Eventually, fed up of being relegated to the corners, The Professor, Gary and Sneezy moved the table out of the way, picked up one of the sofas and plonked it right across the middle of the room. Now with the room bearing a loose resemblance to a cinema, they were all happy. Fast Car Driver and The Jezter cosied up in the back row and they all settled down with their beer and nibbles to jeer rowdily at the screen, breaking at half-time for snacks of cheese, crackers and more beer.
The following day I set off with them on their journey to the golf course near Le Touquet. I had visited the town a couple of years before, having rented a gite in the same area one Christmas and I wanted to take another look.
Le Touquet
To the British, who are brought up on a culture of home-ownership and with a continuous supply of DIY and gardening programmes which are drip-fed to them via a plethora of television channels, many European towns may appear bland and characterless. With properties which often front straight onto pavements and windows shuttered tightly against prying eyes and either the sun or the cold, houses can appear austere and foreboding.
I am always curious (or perhaps that should be ‘downright nosy’) to know what goes on behind the facades and a quick peep or a more resourceful strain of the neck will often reveal pretty courtyards with colourful plants and tinkling fountains, ultra-modern designer kitchens or rabbit runs of corridors and polished wood or marble. Unlike the British who often feel the need to parade their accomplishments and possessions, the Europeans are generally not too concerned with displaying their homes and instead focus inwards.
Le Touquet bucks the trend. Sitting on the coast to the south of Calais this town is jam-packed full of beautiful buildings. I defy you not to gasp as you approach the town along long tree-lined avenues. Tantalising glimpses of the most amazing homes can be caught between the trees, or for an even better look, get out of the car and walk. Away from the edge of the road, smaller secondary pavements weave and dodge between shrubs and trees and swoop past manicured lawns. From these inner paths you can gaze freely at verandas, swimming pools, statues and turrets. Just as you think that you have found THE dream home, an even grander property comes into view.
Even the smaller properties boast little wooden verandas or arched windows with multi-coloured shutters. On the promenade these quaint little buildings are being elbowed into the shadows by the inevitable rectangular apartment blocks, but if these bring holiday makers and money into the town we must forgive this minor intrusion…..Anyhow, the guys dropped me off on the side of the road to walk the three kilometres into the town. I felt more like Little Red Riding Hood than Snow White as I wound my way along a little path through the forest to the town whilst the lads drove onwards to their golf course.
Avoiding the wolves I arrived safely at Le Touquet where I reacquainted myself with its little shops and the enormous expanse of beach where land yachts were racing around in a howling gale and then I went and found myself a bar where I ordered the first of several glasses of wine. Pleased to have found free wifi I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon writing and chatting to the barman who wanted to practice his English. Unfortunately, wine on a (mostly) empty stomach got the better of me so when I got my phone call telling me that the guys were ready to come and collect me, I had totally forgotten how to get back to the path through the forest. Luckily they finally tracked me down wandering aimlessly around the streets and they bundled me into one of the cars and we headed back home. They weren’t too hopeful of me cooking a decent evening meal but luckily I managed to amaze them by holding it together until after the meal and I vaguely remember being fleeced of my euros as they took advantage of my lack of concentration during the card game Chase the Ace. At bedtime they apparently had a debate about the best place to leave me to sleep until they decided in their wisdom to attempt to get me up the ladder to my room. They obviously suceeded because I woke the next morning in my own bed, fully clothed and sporting some impressive bruises where they had hauled my dead weight upstairs!
Attempting to produce a full English breakfast for eight with a storming hang-over was not the wisest move but I made it without the vodka making a re-appearance and I quickly packed them all off out so that I could have some peace and quiet and I could go and lie down in a dark room.
This day was to be Gary’s pretend birthday (his official one was to be the following week) so I hung some balloons up and stuck some candles into some little buns on a plate. Once they had all arrived home from golf we decided to go to the local motel/pizzeria for a meal. My choice of fashion – a maxi dress and flowery baseball boots was met with complete derision by the dwarves as we set off down the road but I was pleased with my choice when we had to stumble back home along the lane in the pitch black.
The dwarfs’ final day on the green started off quite damp and drizzly. I remained home, cleaned the gite and made a warming beef stew for their dinner. The following day we set off in convoy for the ferry port and after the hour´s crossing and following a group hug we all got into our respective cars for the final leg home in the UK. I had a brilliant week with a fantastic group of blokes and I was very sorry to leave them as we said goodbye, but after just one night in Kent I would be setting off for Stanstead airport and another flight and another adventure early the following morning.
A change of name, a change of luck.
In loving memory of my friend Gary.
A couple of years previously when I was going through a really rough patch and I couldn’t face Christmas in the UK without my children in my life, I decided to head off to the French countryside. I had booked a cute little gite in the middle of nowhere but then my friend Gary asked if he could join me. I warned him that I planned to take lots of books, listen to music and eat chocolate and do little else and he said that sounded perfect. I decided that company might be fun and so a few days before Christmas we set off together. The little farmhouse that I had reserved was in a tiny hamlet with about seven houses and where the shop doubled up as a bar. During that Christmas week we did read lots of books, listened to music and ate chocolate but we also had a day out at Le Touquet and a trip over the border to Bruges in Belgium. I remember navigating us back through a snow storm and that evening, chatting to Gary about setting up a new phone account but needing a new name for my account.
The reason for the name change was because I had been on the receiving end of some bad stalking and harassment but I wanted to go back online, this time anonymously so as not to invite attention from my narcissistic ex. Sitting in comfy chairs in front of the log burner Gary and I joked around with my name but nothing really sounded good. I then matched Jane to his surname which was Clements and bingo, it just sounded right. Hmmm, Jane Clements. Can I please adopt your name, I asked. Yes, of course you can use it, replied Gary and that was when Jane Clements was born. By the time that my divorce was official and my solicitor asked if I would like to revert to my family name I opted to continue with Clements. I had married at the tender age of twenty and going backwards to my family name seemed to be going back to a time when I was naive and innocent. I had been through so much and I had grown so much stronger whilst I had been referring to myself as Jane Clements that I decided to keep it and I changed it officially by deed poll.
On that Christmas morning we woke to a fairytale picture outside the windows. During the night, soft snow had fallen and had blanketed the countryside. The church bells rang out as the snow sparkled in the morning light and we prepared to cook our Christmas dinner in the cosy warmth of our little French farmhouse.
A couple of years later when planning his annual golf trip with his friends, Gary hoped to emulate some of that time and instead of booking their usual week in the UK he persuaded his friends to join him in France to celebrate his 50th birthday. I had just resigned from my job and I knew that I would be at a loose end that week so I offered to join them and to cook and to clean whilst they went out and had fun on the golf courses. That is how I ended up in France with six men and how I ended up with my surname of Clements.
I believe that many people come into your life for a reason and/or for a lesson. I hardly knew Gary when he first rocked up at my house for a short stay at the suggestion of a mutual friend who knew that I was struggling and who thought that a visitor would help me to focus. I had just had an emotional breakdown and I had also moved into a new apartment and I was finding it tricky to move forwards. It was a perceptive suggestion and very well timed and Gary and I became firm friends over the years. I would often visit him and his beloved cats whilst I was passing through the UK and I used to tease him about his often gloomy outlook on life. It was with immense shock and sadness that I learnt of his sudden passing just earlier this year because we had been chatting about him coming out to visit in Spain this summer; as lessons go it was a hard reminder that things should never be put off because we just never know what is around the corner.
Rest in Peace Gary Clements. 2024.
