by Jane | Nov 20, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
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.
by Jane | Nov 12, 2013 | My journey, My travels |
Whoop whoop! I am about to begin the next stage of my adventure.
In less that a week I shall be jetting off to Peru. The plan (Plan A of probably several) is to spend three nights exploring the capital Lima before heading up the coast to the second/third largest city that is Trujillo.
I have been warned to watch out for and avoid the hoards of pickpockets and bag snatchers who will be waiting for me in the arrivals hall, I have totally confused myself about which cab, bus or colectivo is the safest way to travel to my hostel and, oh dear, that reminds me, I don’t have a hostel booked yet either.
Havana
When I wake up in a cold sweat at three am I have to remember that I negotiated Havana by myself, and I call up images on Google to remind myself that Lima is quite the cosmopolitan city, not some Dickensian slum, albeit with a tendency for gatherings of riot police. I have decided to stop reading the guide books for now and just see for myself.
I have spent the last five weeks catching up with friends and family, sorting out mundane yet vital things such as backpackers insurance and I have had a lost filling replaced at the dentist. There are still a myriad of jobs to complete before I depart but I am not quite so stressed about them now.
I shall be spending my first three months in Peru working as a volunteer for an NGO (non-governmental organisation/charity), and then after that: who knows! Plan A (still) is to visit Machu Picchu, go see Lake Titicaca (that one is for my mum) and then explore South America whilst blogging and hopefully picking up travel writing commissions.
I need to write. I can’t think of any worst punishment that not being allowed to write, other than not being permitted to read. In my old life I had written sixty thousand words towards my novel and countless short stories and articles, most of which were shoved in the back of a drawer but since I have started out on my journey with Scarlet, I have become more focused.
Last weekend I accompanied my friend – herself a published author – to the Festival of Romance Book Festival. We stayed at a great Bed & Breakfast with a lovely host who cooked possibly the best full English that I have ever had in the Bedford Park Hotel, and I had some time to explore the market town of Bedford. I have never written romance in my life, but I was totally blown away by the people that I met and the camaraderie and support amongst the group of writers and readers. There was nobody at the event who underestimated the dedication and hard slog that it takes to get your words out there. After the awards ceremony I met some of the winners of the new talent awards who are about to realise their dreams and who have been awarded publishing deals. I saw agents and publishers supporting their prodigies and engaged with the whole host of writers who were networking and supporting each other. People described themselves in various ways; authors, writers, hybrid authors, self-published, bloggers or readers, to name just a few titles which were bandied around. When I talked to people I struggled to describe myself as I am just setting out on this journey, but then somebody else summed it up perfectly.
She described herself as a ‘new writer – not yet published’ – a description which I am more than happy to adopt. And I blog – therefore I am a blogger.
I shall go to Peru and I shall raise the profile of my alter-ego Scarlet Jones by reinstating my Twitter and Facebook sites. Attending the Festival has given me a timely nudge and it has reminded me why I resigned from my job, gave up my flat and left my life as I knew it
South American posts will take priority and I will update them frequently, sliding my European Adventure posts in amongst them.
So bear with me whilst I rebuild and launch Scarlet’s public face.
I am a new writer, not yet published and a travel blogger just setting out on the journey of a lifetime
by Jane | Nov 5, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
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.
The Post Office
The older buildings nearer to the town centre set a precedence when they were built. The Post Office is housed in an imposing mustard yellow stone building, designer shops jostle alongside a huge array of delicatessens and the market place has permanent stone tables tiled with pretty mosaic all ready for the traders to set up their stalls.
Le Touquet
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..
The beach is MASSIVE. And windy. Land yachts nip along the huge expanse of sand and the wind whips up the fine sand, blasting it into bare legs and stinging the eyes. A few resilient souls lean into the gale force wind clutching their coats and jumpers tightly around them and strongly suspecting that no matter what time of the year they were to visit, the wind would still howl along that particular stretch of coastline.
Le Touquet
The market at Le Touquet
I visited two establishments on my visit this time. One rather posh bar cum coffee shop which doesn’t deserve a name check here and the English Bar called Le Globe Trotter. On entering both places I checked that I would have access to Wifi (as I needed to work on my laptop). In the posh, lets charge silly money for a hot chocolate place in which the fawning proprietor assured me that I could use his Wifi, the waitress looked extremely puzzled when I complained that I couldn’t access the net and informed me that they had never had Wifi for customers. I didn’t feel quite so bad when I managed to throw the contents of my hot chocolate over their pristine linen table cloths and I certainly did not tip. Le Globe Trotter in contrast, had a lovely atmosphere and despite being themed as an English bar was really quite French. There was the old lady sat in the corner with her little dog and drinking her coffee, the men reading their newspapers with their beers and the bar man polishing glasses and listening to the radio. I sat there in my booth for nearly two hours, taking my time over a couple of beers, working on my computer and watching the wind howl up and down the street outside.
by Jane | Oct 22, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
Flying into Madrid and with my instructions clamped tightly in my hand I negotiated passport control, the metro and the Cercanias train system to arrive at my destination for the next week . Senorio de Illescas is a dormitory town which lies bang in between Madrid and Toledo, just 35kms to either on a train or a bus and with the journey costing an amazing two and a half euros. I had discovered the family who were to be my hosts on the Workaway website – but unlike working on the farm in Portugal my remit here in Spain was to speak English. And to play with the adorable seven month old baby who I shall call Garban (Spanish for something small like a tadpole or a chickpea)
After the structure of the farm where we had a specific (though flexible) timetable to follow, here there was no such structure. The timetable was dictated by Garban, but with his ready smiles that was no hardship.
the familiar symbol of Madrid
I began writing this account of my experiences in Madrid intending it to be factual and objective but as I leave, heading south to Estepona, it is hard to remain composed.
The family that I lived with for three weeks took me into their home and into their hearts. I have met both sets of parents, brother, sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and the amazing grandmother. We have prepared meals together and swapped recipes, cycled, walked, shopped and chatted late into the night.
Dyana and Hunter have been the ultimate hosts, tour guides and friends and there were tears all around as we said our goodbyes. They have ‘met’ my parents via skype and they extended an invitation to them to visit them in Madrid which was reciprocated by my parents should Dyana and Hunter return to the UK.
Since my arrival, Garban has sprouted two new teeth, he has begun to crawl and he has started at his nursery. It was difficult to watch the anguish on Hunter’s face as he walked away from his crying son leaving him with the nursery staff, and it brought back many memories for me with my children. Perhaps if I could turn back the clock and I had the benefit of hindsight I would maybe do some things differently – but there is no point regretting what I did or didn’t do – they were the right things at the time.
tapas dish of pig’s ears
Anyway, I digress. It was easy to love Garban and I loved every minute of my time in Illescas – even when challenged to eat tripe (pigs intestines). With ten pairs of eyes watching me, and the family holding their collective breath, I struggled gamely to chew and swallow. Feeling rather like a contestant on ‘I’m a Celebrity’ I regret to say that I failed miserably, although thankfully Mario gallantly reached me with a bucket in time! 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 with Dyana and Hunter translating, I felt very much a part of things.
The economic situation in Spain is bad – but Dyana (named after an actress) and Hunter (so called following his wild antics one evening when he chased a massive bug around the kitchen with a tea towel) have good jobs. Dyana was enjoying her last two weeks of her maternity leave when I rocked up at their door, and then during my third week Hunter took annual leave and stayed home while she returned to work and little Garban began his gentle introduction to the nursery.
I was impressed with Dyana and Hunter’s standard of English and also that of their brother and sister. It made me keen to persevere with my Spanish lessons. I know that my understanding did improve over the three weeks although I still lack confidence when trying to speak. Learning a language is a pleasurable pain – or should that be a painful pleasure – for people who want to be stimulated and love learning, and I know that forthcoming experiences will be greatly enhanced if I can understand and make myself understood in Spanish.
So what exactly did I get up to?
Well, no two days were ever the same.
sleepy tigers
To begin with, I usually rose at eight-ish most mornings and after breakfast I would usually entertain the baby and chat to Dyana. We would often go out for a walk or we would go to the shops. We went once to the weekly market set up in the shadow of the futuristic looking bull ring, where they sold local produce, stopping to study a pair of tigers who were sleepily sprawled out in a trailer which was parked on the street. They were not a permanent feature of the town but were part of a travelling circus which was in town. We stopped several times for beer or a coke and tapas in some bars and as the temperature was a toasty thirty degrees for the majority of my stay, I often lay in the garden on a sun lounger or I dipped in and out of the little pool.
Garban is 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 was ready with his smiles and cuddles. Dyana’s brother and Hunter’s sister showered him with affection and it never ceased to make me laugh when either set of grand parents arrived and the battle to cuddle and hold him began between the couples. He was so content and happy to be with me and I earned the nickname Mary Poppins.
With encouragement and plenty of hints and tips from Dyana and Hunter I set off on some mini-adventures and I explored Toledo, Madrid and Sergovia – and you will get in-depth reports from these amazing places in the future I met some lovely people including a lady from New Zealand, travellers from Colombia and Poland and of course from Madrid itself, and amazingly I also met up with friends from the UK who happened to be in the area.
the local bull ring glows under the sunset
As I now bowl south on the coach I can see an intriguing looking castle on a distant hill which is flanked by a row of old fashioned windmills. The rain that accompanied our departure from Madrid has stopped and the windmills gleam in the sun. The plains of Spain are truly enormous. Stretching for as far as the eye can see, crops and dried grasses wave golden yellow in the sun and with far away mountains propping up the sky on the horizon this is certainly no place for the agoraphobic. I have loved every place that I have visited so far on my travels and Pollyanna-like, I always try to find beauty or something of interest. Madrid felt very special to me. The centre is compact – even more compact than Lisboa and contains a diversity of sights all within walking distance to each other. The metro system is sleek, modern and inexpensive and there is a range of eating and drinking places to suit all tastes and budgets. Most importantly of all for me, it felt safe. When the lights come on at night it takes on a whole new persona but still envelops and welcomes its inhabitants.
I am very excited to be moving on and to be meeting up with friends at a wedding in Estepona but I am also very sad and truly sorry to leave an amazing family. I know that I have made some friends for life.
by Jane | Oct 14, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
What constitutes home?
Is it where you were born or raised? Is it where your family or friends live? Is it bounded by bricks and mortar or is it simply where you are at now?
Over the last four years I have lived in a variety of houses and flats, depending in many cases on the generosity of friends and family who have provided me with safe havens. Yet once I have gone out of my front door in the town which I had called home for nearly thirty years I have not felt safe and I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I realised quite how edgy I had been feeling when I was walking through the streets of Havana on my own in the dark. I felt a lot safer walking down the middle of the road where nobody knew me (or to be precise, where I was confident that AW would not be around) than walking around my home city in the UK in the daytime.
A Cuban woman watching the world go by
Pedestrians keep to the centre of the road because there are no streetlights in the suburbs of Havana and dangerous potholes lie in wait on the pavements – the roads too but they are more visible – all due to the economic situation there.
But people live their lives outdoors. Partly due to the heat as very few people can afford air con, often due to overcrowding in the homes – a side effect of the government policy of ensuring that nobody goes without a roof over their heads and also because for the Cubans people-watching and communicating with friends and neighbours is a free activity and there is a massive sense of community. Cubans sit on their front porches and watch the world go by so in the main, you are very visible and crime is low.
Since giving up the tenancy on my flat and setting out on my adventure I have no physical home of my own. I have a few small items which travel with me and constitute my ‘home’.
Rather like the lyrics in that song which compares a pack of playing cards to a Bible, my little treasures link me to friends and family.
I have my owl key ring which is attached to my smaller rucksack, my lucky Buddha whose size does not correlate to its leaden weight, a couple of pairs of earrings, a red bangle and a friendship bracelet, my silver thumb ring and my worry ring, a couple of cards and letters which I carry, a 5 rupee Indian coin, a green mosaic tile from a swimming pool and my St Christopher necklace. I also have my phone with music and photos of friends on, my netbook with the same and memory sticks loaded up with pictures too. It’s actually no wonder that my rucksack is so bloody heavy! These items were all given to me or bought by me for different reasons. I have other items stored away which I would love to have with me, but short of upgrading to pushing a supermarket trolley around with me (and THAT would be the slippery slope to shuffling around and have kids yell ‘mad bag lady’ at me) those things will have to remain safe in the UK for now.
My treasures
I have endowed some of my treasures with multiple meanings. I am not superstitious and having previously lost many valuable and sentimental possessions I try not to get too emotionally attached to items, but perhaps a little bit of me wants to remain rooted to what, or more specifically who I have left behind.
by Jane | Oct 1, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
Scarlet and the Golfers
The Cast:
Snow White – played by Scarlet Jones
The Seven Dwarfs – following the tradition of my blog they have been given alibis – which will also avoid the little problem of who should be allocated the name of Dopey.
- Golfer Number 1
- The Professor
- Gel
- The Jezter
- Sneezy
- Fast Car Driver
- Tango Man
Once upon a time, early one morning, huddled in a driveway in the Kentish drizzle, Scarlet was introduced to the Seven Dwarfs. Cupping mugs of hot tea the group re-established old acquaintances with insults and jibes
I already knew four of the dwarfs and I was relieved to discover that the other three were just as nice, all with the same crazy sense of humour. Downing our mugs of tea we piled into the cars and set off at a rate of knots for Dover and the ferry. The duo in the fastest car with the satellite system promptly ignored directions, separated from the convoy and set off along the wrong motorway in what was to be the norm for the whole week. Despite having the satellite system they continuously sped away from the convoy – not so bad in the UK but it would be a bigger problem in France with no road maps between the group.
We managed to meet up at the ferry port and got ourselves on-board for the crossing and the subsequent drive down through the foggy French countryside to the tiny hamlet of Manninghem near Montreil-sur-Mer – about an hours drive from Calais.
our little pad in the French countryside
Golfer Number 1 had struck gold with the gite. 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 billiards table and table football, four bathrooms a huge kitchen and large gardens. We excitedly explored the farmhouse accompanied by much swearing as we repeatedly bashed heads and other parts of our anatomy on the low beams, narrow staircases and jutting chimney breasts.
Five of us then piled into the fast car for what should have been a twenty minute jaunt to the supermarket but turned into an epic hour and a half tour of the area. My sides were aching from laughing as we hurtled up lanes only to find ourselves coming back on ourselves ten minutes later. The Professor disappeared into a church for ten minutes – claiming he went to ask the priest for directions but we reckoned that he popped in a quick confessional whilst he was in there, he took so long. I would like to know how ‘go straight along this road’ computed as ‘turn right’ to Fast Car Driver but myself, Gel and The Jezter who were all squooshed into the back couldn’t speak for convulsing with laughter, whilst in the passenger seat The Professor tried to hold it together as kamikaze oil tanker drivers attempted to shave off layers of paint as they hurtled past us. We finally found the supermarket (the wrong one as it later turned out) and bought provisions of milk, bread, nibbles crates of beer and wine to keep us going until I cooked the dinner.
That first meal of chilli, rice and nachos was surprisingly edible and to my surprise they wolfed down the lot. Maybe they were just starving after a long day but I shall credit it to mine and Tango Man’s cooking skills. The guys all settled down for an evening on the Wii – until The Professor realised that he had left a small but vital piece of kit home. Personally I reckon his kids hid it from him in retaliation for him taking their Wii away for a week but without the Wii everybody settled down, dotted around the huge living area in groups, listening to music, chatting and playing card games. Tango Man who towered above everybody else and was very much a man’s man commented on the work of art that was the lace curtains and provoked a conversation among some about the art of lace-making. I felt as if I had been dropped into a surreal parallel universe.
Tango Man – his identity has been preserved
The next morning with Gel announcing that the monsters in the shower were not spiders but housemates, Tango Man, much to my disgust, produced an amazing breakfast as he set the bar very high for subsequent days. They took ages loading the car with the paraphernalia that goes with golf and eventually set off to their first golf course. I was disappointed to discover that there was no internet access, but after tidying the farmhouse and prepping the tea 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 the scene.
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 as England were due to play. 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, Golfer Number 1 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. Bearing a loose resemblance to a cinema, they were now all relatively 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 halftime for snacks of cheese, crackers and more beer.
The following day I was allowed out of the house and I went with them to the golf course at Le Touquet. I had visited the town a couple of years before, having rented a gite in the same area one Christmas, so I walked the three kilometres into the town from the golf course, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood rather than Snow White as I wound my way through a little path in the forest to the town.
The beach at Le Touquet
Avoiding the wolves I arrived safely at Le Touquet and reacquainted myself with its little shops and the enormous expanse of beach where land yachts were charging around in the howling gale and then after spending fifteen minutes in the street stealing wifi from a butcher’s shop I went and found myself a bar. Following the example of the French, I ordered a beer and sat at my laptop, pleased to have found free wifi, and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, beer on a (mostly) empty stomach got the better of me so when the dwarfs finally tracked me down after their game of golf they were not too hopeful of a decent evening meal. I think that I managed to amaze them by holding it together until after the meal but I vaguely remember being fleeced of my euros as they took advantage of my lack of concentration during the card game Chase the Ace, however it is best to gloss over the rest of the evening!
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 could lie down in a dark room.
This was to be Golfer Number 1’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 and once they had all arrived back 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 these obviously not so men’s men as we set off down the road but I had the last laugh 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. We received our security deposit back the next morning and we set off in convoy for the ferry port – making a detour via Wimeraux to collect a refund of some golf fees which had been overcharged earlier in the week.
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 early the following morning.
