Jeff

Well you have looked at the photograph below, and guessed it, Jeff is a lizard.    A bearded dragon  lizard.    But first we must not confuse the name with Geoff, the gold fish, that belongs to Donna and Patrick, and who is soon to find a home in the Palmer's gold fish pond.   

No this Jeff, spelled differently, is a lizard, and he belongs to the Palmer household.   We are currently lizard sitting while they are on holiday.   And he is so cute.   He likes to sit and watch the world outside his box, which is called a vivarium.  And already we are talking to him, as we walk past.   He also likes to paddle in his water bowl and eats cut up dandelion leaves, lettuce and pieces of carrot.   

 But most of all he loves crickets, live of course, which have to be dusted with vitamin powder or calcium powder.  The idea is to shake the crickets from their box, into a plastic bag, tip some powder into the bag, and shake it a bit, and then release the crickets into the vivarium.    I feel cruel and heartless when I do this, but of course Jeff loves the crickets, and quickly catches them, and chomps them up.

Jackson has typed a list of instructions for me to follow, and it all seems very clear so far.  

Which brings me onto the subject of lizards.   Scott once owned a bearded dragon lizard called Pogo and he out grew his first vivarium very quickly, so a larger one was bought, and still Pogo kept growing.   Pogo grew to about 60cm long, which apparently his a normal length.   He ended up eating locusts instead of tiny crickets, and once they got out of their box and were found in all corners of the house.   One was found on Donna's pillow, which did not impress her.    Pogo was eventually given to another family and lived until he was about 8 years old.  

And the photograph below was not a pet, and now I realise it was not a bearded dragon.   It does not have the pointed scales around the neck and face, and the markings are different.   So now I do not know what type of lizard it was, but it was sunning itself outside Darren's back door in Adelaide, Australia.    I did not go too near it case the thing bit me.    Coward that I am.     

The bearded dragon lizard does come from the deserts of Australia, and is a very docile lizard.   But Australia has some pretty large and fearsome lizards.

Darren has suggested I catch some live spiders for Jeff.    You must be joking, Darren.

Les Miserables

What is this?    A film or a book review!  It is obvious that I have too much time on my hands.   But I would like to share with you an achievement.  I have read Les Miserables.   Yes the whole book, in English.   I cannot claim extra praise by reading it in French, unlike my friend Kathy, who read it in French as part of her A Level French studies.

I spent seven weeks reading Les Miserables, not constantly of course, and sometimes I managed only a few pages at a time.  Heavy reading.  And heavy to hold, that is if I was reading an actual book.   But luckily it was in digital form, on my tablet, and on my telephone, so I could pick it up as I went along..   And much lighter to hold.  My digital version said 959 pages, but it was strange reading a small section of each page on the telephone.   Lots of flicking over there.

I started reading Les Miserables when I left the UK mid May and finished it at the end of June.   I read it as I travelled through the Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Czech Republic Slovak Republic, Hungary, Slovenia, Italy and France.   I must admit, for my own sanity, I also read brochures, maps and some much lighter literature.  Just for a bit of light relief.

The fascination with Les Miserables and Victor Hugo started when I saw the musical in 1989 in Adelaide.    And renewed again when I watched the film version of it on the plane coming back from Australia this year.   On a small screen, you might say!  But yes, it was captivating, and perfect really, as there was no chance to hear all the imperfections in the singing.   And it took one's mind away from being up in the air, miles from anywhere.

I also once visited a Victor Hugo museum, at a place called Villequier, Normandy, on the banks of the Seine River, not far from the river mouth.   We were not really looking for the museum but stopped because it looked a nice spot for lunch.    I was with Aaron, Kylie and Emma, on a five day visit to Normandy, in 1996, in our small car, laden down with luggage and goods bought from the hypermarket.

To be truthful I had to recently do some research on the internet in order to find the name of the town we visited, as the museum is not as well known as the two main main museums, the Maison de Victor Hugo in Paris, where Victor Hugo lived from 1832 to 1848, and Hauteville House, in Guernsey on the island of Jersey, where he lived in exile for fifteen years from 1851.    His crime was his political leanings, very vocal.   and he opposed Louis Bonaparte. But the museum in Villequier is the departmental museum of Victor Hugo.

Villequier was also important, for tragic reasons, as this was where his daughter Leopoldine, 19 years old, drowned in a boating accident.   She was in a boat, with her husband, and newly married, when it capsized.    Leopoldine was dragged down into the Seine river by the weight of her skirts and her husband drowned trying to save her.  And this affected Victor Hugo greatly.   So much so he wrote a poem about her, and if I remember correctly from my visit there, he used her as a model for one of the characters in Les Miserables, but I have forgotten which character, and the internet did not tell me that.

Les Miserables is a very difficult word to translate into English apparently (The Miserable Ones, The Wretched, The Poor Ones, The Victims - Wikipedia).  But I think all these translations are pretty correct, as this is definitely not a happy book, about happy people and happy places.  Dark, dark, dark!

As well as being exhaustingly depressing, Les Miserables is extremely complex, with its exacting historical content, character analysis, sub plots, and sub sub plots.  The book also depicts architecture, politics, moral philosphy, justice and religion.   Many, many chapters are devoted to the Battle of Waterloo, and to the priest that befriended Jean Valjean and to explain moral points.  Intertwined with the history and character analysis there is a story of romantic and familial love.

And the end of the story is just as dramatic and emotionally packed as in the film version.   It takes quite a few chapters for Jean Valjean to die, and by the end you feel emotionally drained.    The words display a fair bit of imagery, so one does not need acting, singing and visual imagery to obtain the very strong emotions Victor Hugo is portraying in his book.

Victor Hugo was a very powerful and brilliant writer.   There was no doubt about that.    Also the book is free to download from Kindle books, if you have plenty of time to spare.   Or you can read the abbreviated version on Wikipedia.  Much quicker, but you miss out on all the detail, and sub plots.  And feel less drained emotionally and mentally.  

All in all I am pleased I made the effort to read Les Miserables, and feel richer for the experience.   An achievement, I say!

Houten - a short visit

A short trip to Houten.    Mainly to have a girly few days together with Kylie, but with the added bonus of being able to see Aaron, Mia, Abi and Raphy too.    And the weather was glorious.   What a difference sunshine makes, to a country.    On my last visit the weather was bitterly cold and wet.

We flew from Southend on an Easy Jet plane which I am sure was only held together with rubber bands and string.    A noisy take off and landing with rattles and shudders thrown in.    I had forgotten how strict  cheap airlines are over luggage, and how pedantic the small airports are with security.   The process involved taking belongings in and out of my suitcase, measuring it, taking off jewellery and watch, losing my passport, setting the buzzers off, taking my shoes off, being searched (body and bags), and then having all my belongings sent through the scanners again, all in different trays and at different times.    After all that I finally retrieved my belongings, checked that I had everything, gave a sigh of relief, and then someone asked me if I now felt safe to fly, knowing that there were such rigid security checks in place.   It is good to see that some people do not lose their sense of humour. 

We arrived safely in Schiphol, and after a cup of coffee, recuperative of course, we caught the train to Utrecht, then Houten, without any further problems.

  The Rond, Houten set up as a beach, minus the sea.  This is a relief as the sea, which once lapped the edge of Utrecht, is now some distance away, and hopefully that will always be so.   The area is currently being used for beach volley ball games, football, and general relaxation, with seating and a bar.   A very creative idea.

We managed to obtain bikes for us all, by using Kylie's old English bike, a bike from their friends, and I hired one from the office at the railway station.  The hiring of the bike was not without a bit of hassle as I had to use my limited Dutch, use cash, and in the end received the oldest and most dilapidated bike there.

A few notes on travel in the Netherlands.  It is a great cycling country, but not set up for bicycle hire from railway stations unless you are a resident with an OV Travel Card.   It is the same when purchasing a ticket from machines in railway stations that do not have a ticket office.  Tickets can only be purchased using coins, as the machines will not accept notes or credit cards.  And while I am on the subject of difficulties for tourists, you must have an OV Card to use the trams in Amsterdam.   Obviously not very tourist friendly.

But I had a bicycle, and it worked.   On Monday morning we set off for morning coffee at Vroeg, Bunnik, which is an upmarket cafe/restaurant about half an hour away from Houten.     As it was such a beautiful day we sat outside in the sunshine, and drank coffee and apple cake (for us) and cheese and vegetable sticks (for Kylie).

After coffee, and a look at the very strange hand basins in the toilets, which were red plastic buckets attached to the tap, we set off to tour the cherry orchards.    About ten minutes down the road, and a stop at the first cherry farm,  I remembered I had left my jacket behind so we had to go back.  Sorry girls.

Then we decided to ride into the park in Bunnik, instead of looking at cherry farms, and were delighted with the park, which was absolutely beautiful.    What a setting for a picnic, on a sunny day of course.

A photo opportunity here, on a bridge.   A good excuse to rest the bottoms for a minute too.   

On Tuesday we set out for Utrecht, about forty five minutes away.   This time Raphy came with us, in the Bakfiets, as he did not have nursery.

First stop, coffee, at a specialist coffee shop called Brandmeester.   The aroma in there, coffee of course, not the other substance, was unbelievably divine.   We also purchased coffee beans, and leaf tea, before setting off to explore Utrecht, or at least the shops.

Everywhere we went there were tables and chairs outside, cafes and restaurants taking advantage of the warm sunny weather.

Only one bicycle photograph this time, a hand painted green and yellow one, looking very smart.

Another photo opportunity, Emma and Donna looking happy and relaxed.

Lunch in a small park.   A healthy lunch too, bought from the Greek takeaway.   Salad, cheese, spinach pie.   Healthy.   No chips with lashings of mayonnaise for us.

After lunch, it was off to the sales, for a spot of retail therapy.   

A coffee shop!  Perhaps not!  For those people who have not visited the Netherlands, cafes are for coffee and coffee shops are for something that has a bit more substance.   It is possible to become happy just standing around the entrance, sniffing the smoke that hangs around the shop.  And for anyone that is keen to partake in such delights in one of the coffee shops, the law now states that you must prove you are a citizen of the Netherlands.   Nothing for the tourist anymore.   Sorry folks.

And off home again.    Now which bike is mine? The three of us managed to find our way back to Houten, without any difficulties, thanks to a co-operative effort.  It is best not to mention who took the wrong turning and who took us on an extra long loop into Houten.  All part of the trip home. But we did get caught up in peak hour bicycle traffic, which was very scary for us novice cyclists.

Card evening.    We very kindly invited Aaron to join us, and then when he realised he was in the lead, he played an underhand trick and caught us all with high numbers in our hands, and we all went out the back door, so as to speak.  The photograph was taken when before we lost, badly!   So of course we still look happy.

The last day, and I handed back my bike so it was time for doubling, that is, Emma doubling Donna.  No one trusted me.   A very bumpy ride, according to Donna, in between the laughter.      

And then we said a reluctant goodbye and caught the train back to Schiphol, where we boarded the plane without any fuss.    No hassles with security or baggage, thank goodness. This time the plane appeared to be sturdier, or maybe I was feeling more relaxed.    I must say Southend looked very good from the air, as did the surrounding areas.   Back home to England.   In the sunshine.

Waddeson Manor, Buckinghamshire

Last weekend we travelled to Tring to stay with Donna and Patrick.    It was lovely to see them after our seven weeks away.   The weather was also glorious.   What more can one wish for.  

On Sunday we decided to visit Waddesdon Manor, which is a country house in the village of Waddesdon, in Buckinghamshire.   Some country house!   We thought we were in the Loire Valley.   Then I found out that the house was built in 1874-89, in the Neo-Renaissance style of a French chateau.   The owner, a man called Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild, used the house to display his outstanding collection of art treasures and to entertain the fashionable world.   Lots of money!   

The house and gardens now belong to the National Trust, but as we had Poppy, the dog, with us we decided to just visit the gardens.   But it turned out that dogs were not allowed in the gardens, so poor Patrick had to walk up and down the road, while we had a quick look at the gardens.    Welcome back to England.

Donna and I posing in front of the fountain.

And again in the summer house, by the bird aviary.

The artistic display of flowers and plants was quite remarkable.

There were even living sculptures, bird shapes covered in plants, sedges I think.

I loved the lace effect in this garden bed, which was created by using curry plants.    

A group of gardeners were cutting and gathering the grass, using traditional methods.   Fascinating.

A shady refuge, where many people were having picnics.   No dogs of course.

And then it was off to a town that was more realistic, more down to earth, and very tatty around the edges,  Aylesbury.  Aylesbury has plenty of history, but during the 1960s it was selected as an overspill town for Londoners and a massive housing expansion took place.   At the same time, the centre of Aylesbury was extensively renovated and modernised, unfortunately not with a lot of imagination.    But I would still like to take the Heritage Walk, as the history is very interesting.  

Last weekend there was much activity in the market square, with bands, and activities and rides for the children.    We had a very good cup of coffee at a cafe in the square.   Always a good start.

On Saturday evening we sat on the new patio and enjoyed a delicious barbeque dinner.    Patrick had spent most of the day building the wooden deck, and we were very impressed with the result.   Well done Patrick. Top marks.

We left unwillingly on Sunday afternoon, and travelled back on an empty motorway, while Murray successfully played in the tennis finals at Wimbledon.   I think everyone was at home, watching the match.  Well timed journey.

Home again

Home again, and the weather is perfect, just like being down in the south of France.   After spending two days in the garden, cutting back all the overgrown shrubs, weeding the garden, mowing the long grass, and then feeding our fruit trees, it is time for relaxing in the sunshine.

The small patio, well shaded with an awning and a large umbrella.  A perfect setting for our morning coffee, and our meals, outside on the terrace.   

The chair awaits long sessions of sunbathing and reading in the sunshine.  Perfect.

And I can also sit on the cushioned bench and gaze at the view across the shrubs and trees, all in bloom, and listen to the hum of bees and the twitter of birds.  

No sounds of lawnmowers or children playing or people having barbeques, to disturb the perfect harmony of the garden.  Everyone around us is at work and school.  

Bliss.   I love retirement.   Especially when the weather is glorious.

The long road home to Calais

We left Condrieu, early in the morning, and followed the directions that the satnav gave us, which in this case was on a very narrow winding road, over the hills.   Luckily there were only cyclists on the road, as we would have had difficulty passing any oncoming cars.     

We finally arrived at the free motorway by St Chamond, without hitting another vehicle, or damaging our side mirrors, or knocking a cyclist off a bike. 

Before I go further, we have gone back to the voice of Ken, the softly spoken Australian, who featured on our last satnav.   He has a comforting voice, well known, and used to us complaining every time he took us to places not expected, such as to the square by the statue of David, in Florence.  As our road atlas was inadequate for the purpose, we really had to rely on Ken this time, and mostly he was okay.  

The view in the photograph below looks down towards St Chamond, which we saw twice as we did a loop here, due to Ken wanting to take us onto a toll road.   The satnav reverted to the original instructions after we stopped for coffee.   Luckily we realised the mistake before we drove too far.

We drove around St-Etienne.  On the main motorway (A7) we always made comments that it must be an important town as every side road appeared to lead to St-Etienne.   So now we have seen the town, or rather the city, close up, and it certainly had a great many high rise apartment blocks rising up on the hillside.     

After St-Etienne we basically followed the N7 all the way to Paris, sometimes on free motorways, but mostly on single lane roads.   The speed limit of 110 kmh (free motorway) and 90 kmh (single lane roads) suited us in our motor home.   As it was Sunday there were no trucks on the roads, which also made driving pleasurable.  We passed many motor homes though, who were also avoiding the toll roads.

We drove through Moulins, Nevers, Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire, Montargis, Fontainebleau (such a pretty wooded area) plus many small villages and towns.  We did notice, however, that the houses in some of the villages were in very bad repair, as were the roads, and a great number of shops were boarded up, even a supermarket in one town was permanently closed.  Obviously a sign of the current economic climate.    We felt very sad about this.   

We stopped in this small town (not sure of the name) for a quick cup of coffee, and a chance to photograph the local church.  

We drove around the eastern side of Paris, on busy roads, trying in vain to find familiar landmarks.   We saw the sign for EuroDisney, passed over the A4, and drove behind Charles de Gaulle airport.    By now we were looking out for camping ground signs, but there were none to be found.

We saw the sign for Parc Asterix so knew we were near the A1, the main motorway into Paris from Calais.  We then drove into the town of Senlis, in order to look for an aire, but all we heard were horns blasting us as we drove slowly around the city.   Senlis had a beautiful church and monastery, and was very picturesque, but no camping ground or aire.

Walter finally saw a camping ground sign, and we followed it, only to find the camping ground had closed, according to the guests at a wedding party that Walter gatecrashed.   I sat in the motorhome and took a photograph of the cars in the carpark, with a small church behind them.

So, as we left our camping and aire books behind in the UK, we decided that we would give in and book into a hotel for the night, a Premier Classe (cheap) hotel, and ate dinner at the restaurant in the Campanile Hotel next door.  So much for saving money on tolls.

In the morning we set off again, and stopped at the edge of a village in order to have breakfast, which consisted of left over baguettes from the previous day.   Baguettes are designed to be eaten on the day they are made, so the next day they are either chewy or very hard and dry, depending on the weather.   Ours were chewy.

We followed a series of small roads towards Rouen, then Dieppe, and then finally we found ourselves on the outskirts of Abbeville.   We really had to rely on Ken, as we found it difficult to pick up the numbers of the roads on our limited map.

The villages, certainly more prosperous than the northern ones, were fascinating.  The wooden beams, with plaster in between, reminded us of villages in England.

The poppies in the fields were in full bloom.  Swathes of them.

And finally we arrived at the port of Calais, and lined up to catch the 3.20 p.m. ferry, which was an hour late leaving, due to the volume of vehicles travelling to Dover.

And amongst the hundreds of cars, trucks, and coaches there were thirty VW cars, campervans and small trucks who had been on a rally in Belgium.   They were certainly attracting much attention, while we all waited on the ferry to arrive.

We really enjoyed our alternative route from Lyon to Calais, and are determined that we will find an alternative way down to the south of France in August.    While it is certainly quicker to belt down the main motorway, the slower alternative routes are more interesting, require less concentration, and in the case of the motorhome, provide a huge saving on fuel (driving at a lower speed) and toll charges.  

After three years of retirement we finally realised that we do not have to rush, and can take our time!

Camping Condrieu

On Saturday, we said a temporary goodbye to Camping Manjastre and set off towards Lyon.  The sun was shining brilliantly.   

The final view of Camping Manjastre, as I dropped off the rubbish in the recycling area.    

I drove the motorhome very carefully on the narrow road from the campsite to the corner of the main road, in order to avoid another broken side mirror.  No repeat performances of  last year were needed.   Very costly. Then I picked up Walter who had dropped off the rental car to the airport office.   And off we went on the motor way north, a slow process as it was very busy.   

We realised  after the first toll booth that we will always have to pay Class 3 tolls for the motorhome from now on, due to all the toll booths being automatic and the cameras record the height of our vehicle (the luton at the front) rather than the length (less than 6 metres).     So we are therefore classed as a small truck (Class 3) rather than a van (Class 2).   The charges are double the amount, than if we were in a car.   The toll charge from Aix to Vienne was a whopping 56 Euros.  We drew our breath in a bit over that one.

When we arrived in Vienne we drove along the Rhone River and found a lovely aire/camping ground which also catered for cyclists who were on cycling tours.   Quite a contrast in vehicles.  There were also mobile homes beside us as well.

The view from our motorhome was lovely, even though there were heavy clouds, and mist.

We were camped beside the bar, which was very convenient, but there was no one drinking there, and we were still recovering from the shock of the high price of tolls so did not feel like drinking either.   Perhaps a drink would have helped ease the pain.

 When we woke up the next morning there was not a cloud in the sky, and the world around us sparkled.

 Our motorhome looked really white in the sunshine, and clean.   Only it was not really clean, just an illusion caused by the bright sunshine.

 We decided over breakfast that we would cut across country, so programmed the satnav for the quickest way back to Calais without using toll roads.   An interesting venture as we did not have detailed maps to check the progress of the satnav, which was not always to be trusted, as we have found in the past.