Postscripts

Not much I can usefully add this Hogmanay: domestic politics have followed the chaotic course that inevitably and predictably began in 2016, and Russian foreign policy has gone back centuries.  

But I must post a postscript about the Post.  Our lovely postie Marcin knocked on the door yesterday to say that he’d brought our mail to us after work the day before it was due, so as to get our mail to us before Christmas and get in before the strikes.  He’s such a nice fellow, and politely tolerates my three or four mangled words of Polish.  So I called the Royal Mail yesterday and told them to discontinue the complaint I’d put in, apologising and explaining that we had in fact had exceptional service in the circumstances.

It has been very wet this week, yet one day was fine enough to get laundry dry outside on the line, and as I mentioned, the garden bin is getting rather full.  The severe frosts earlier in the month have really hammered the penstemons - the drought followed by rain led to a late burgeoning of tender foliage - so I’ll need to get them chopped down next time we have a good day.  The apple tree needs pruning too, so maybe I’ll get a bit of fresh air and exercise if we get a decent day or two.  The bin will be full and supplemented by black bags when the toon cooncil finally resumes collections.

Talking of bins, the local fauna are taking an interest in the food waste bin.  Before we went away, I’d had to throw out some rotting apples, and a couple of mornings came down to find them scattered across the paving at the back door.  The other day in the small hours I heard sounds of plastic boxes on the move.  This is not unusual when it’s windy, but as it was pretty still, I took a look out.  When the security light came on, I saw a huge badger having a stroll round the garden, then crawling through the fence to Annie’s next door.  It hadn’t managed to get the food bin open, so I didn’t have to sweep up this time.

We’ve been well entertained this week: lunch with Claire and Richard and their son David, and supper yesterday with Martyn’s niece Fiona and her partner and son: both Alexanders.  A brief visit to the scales last night confirmed the worst: twelve days of Cunardry followed by festive meals at home and away have taken their toll.  I had to lean forward to see the readout.

Gluttony

Far from tapering down from the Cunard induced excesses in the run-up to Christmas, we haven’t exactly been missing at mealtimes since we got back.  We enjoyed our chicken on Christmas Day, and made inroads into a leg of lamb on Boxing Day.  I’d spotted said joint in Fortnums, short-dated hence greatly reduced in price, and couldn’t resist it - it was delicious, and will set us up for a couple of shepherd’s pies.  I’ll gloss over the Mary Berry mince pies, and the sausage rolls made from leftover cipollatas…. We’re behaving ourselves today: soup for lunch, and a chicken Caesar salad for supper.  

The weather is fine off and on today (though quite chilly) so I’ve done a spot of gardening.  The hellebores are pruned back, revealing lots of healthy buds.  The bitter cold while we were away finished off the geraniums and fuchsias in sundry containers, so they are now in the garden waste bin ready for when collections resume.  I’ve hacked down some extremely leggy rudbeckias and made a start on the hardy fuchsia at the front.  So all in all, we’re looking a bit tidier out there.  There isn’t a whole lot of colour, but the winter jasmine has plenty of buds, the polyanthus are showing a few timid flowers, and the bulbs are coming through in places.  This time of year the cornus are at their best.  All the colour is from this year’s growth, of course.  I didn’t massacre the orange one in the back garden last spring, preferring to give it a chance to get established: John had given it to us us a cutting the year before.  It has therefore been a bit dull this year, but I’ll prune it properly in the spring and hope for better results.

Home

A pleasant last evening in the floating care home.  We didn’t win any more quizzes, but had won enough to qualify for another picture frame and a 4-way USB adaptor.  Dinner was up to scratch, and we had a quick chat afterwards with pianist Matthew before heading down for an early night.  

Disembarking was a little better than in previous trips: we didn’t have to gather in the theatre, but were just told to head out from our cabins at a given hour.  There was a bit of a queue at the gangway, and we’ll enquire why the airbridge wasn’t in operation: as on boarding, we had to brave the elements along the quay.  From there on, it was the usual hunt for the bags, and quite a long schlepp to the car.  The drive home was pretty wet, but we got here safely.  

It was disappointing to find that the Royal Mail had failed to keep back our mail, as per contract, so we shall be looking to get our £19 back.  If they can be persuaded to answer their phones without a long delay.  [Later: they did, and we’re expecting a refund]  As it was, a lot of cards were squashed into the box, and a neighbour had to take in a small parcel.

After lunch, we collected the Christmas chicken and things from the farm shop, which was a bit of a scrum.  Fortnums, on the other hand, wasn’t too bad, so we’re reasonably well set up for the holidays.  Once again, we shall be Darby and Darby at home.  

Much laundry yesterday and today, so we’re pretty well up to date.  The chicken is stuffed, the piggies are blanketed, and I’ve even dared to prepare some sprouts: not that I expect enthusiasm in this respect. 

Heading for home again

The forecast for our last day in Lisbon was pretty dire: indeed, I’d had a flood warning message on my phone.  It was dry but dreich when we started out, so we thought a mooch round the shops might be best.  We went up to the Amoreiras mall, wandered around for a while and bought nothing.  But we did make a trip to the 18th storey roof terrace, which must be spectacular on a fine day.  Since we were on the necessary bus route, we took a ride across the bridge, then a tram down to Cacilhas and a ferry back across.  At this point, the weather took a turn for the better, and later in the afternoon it was warm enough for us to sit out on the balcony for a while.  Not bad for 20 December.  

Lunch at the Mercado da Ribeira was interesting if expensive.  You place your order, and find somewhere to sit, armed with a pager that buzzes and flashes when your order is ready.  Interesting place, and very  busy, I gather, in the small hours with clubbers in search of a midnight snack.  That’s probably why the music is so loud.

I won’t bore you with the details, but our travels were rather expensive.  I clearly haven’t grasped the details of ticket purchase hereabouts - and it didn’t help that the machine at the tram stop gave me 55c change when I bought an 85c fare with a tenner!  Still, we’ve now left Euroland with a little left and enough for tips for the steward and waiters.

Two sea days now, and on the first we’ve heard the third of Matthew McCombie’s piano recitals. Excellent as always, though the piano is in grave need of tuning.  We got a couple more stickers on our quiz card yesterday, thanks to an inspired guess that the original home of the Cirque du Soleil was Canada, so we ought to qualify for a key ring or something.  

Back in wonderful Lisbon

We didn’t disembark in Gibraltar: we hadn’t signed up to go there in the first place, and were a bit fed up when it was substituted for Cartagena, which we were looking forward to.  True, the view from the rock is fantastic, but having seen it in summer, there was little point in visiting in December, particularly since the summit was in cloud for much of the afternoon.  So we spent a bit of the late morning up in the Commodore Club, watching the few aircraft movements at the airport.  The road to the border crossing at La Linea crosses the runway, so has to be closed to allow arrivals and departures.  It was fun to see the flood of traffic - cars, trucks, motorbikes, buses, cyclists and pedestrians - each time the gates were opened.  

On leaving Gibraltar we had fine views of the African coast for a long time after we sailed.  At one point I counted fifteen other vessels in view as we headed out: this is one extremely busy sea lane.  The sea got a bit lively at times in the night, but was calm as we came into the Tagus this morning, and it was mild enough for us to stand on the balcony as we passed under the roaring bridge.  As we came through, a train was also coming over, so we were reminded of how grateful we are not to live near it.

The sunrise was spectacular.  (Unfortunately, the rest of the day didn’t live up to it, and we learn that tomorrow’s forecast threatens a repeat of last week’s flooding.  We may just stay afloat.)

Buying a day tourist ticket is no longer the simple matter it once was.  We went to Sta Apolónia station as before, and bought a 1-day tourist pass apiece, only to find that it was valid only on trains.  By the time we discovered this we were under way towards the Cais do Sodre in a bus, which fortunately lacked an inspector.  The CdS metro station sold us the more versatile ticket we were used to, so we took the N°15 tram along to Algés and hopped on a train to Cascais, enjoying views of a lively sea breaking on the rocks and beaches.  It was chilly and windy, so we didn’t hang around, and instead returned to Belém for lunch in the Pastéis de Belém shop.  After some dialogue with the waiter, it turned out that we had to read the menu by getting our phones to read a QR code on the dispenser of silly little napkins.  The sandwiches and pastéis were fine, but we didn’t linger.  The next table was occupied by a couple with small children, one of whom, though shrieking and running around for much of the time, could still be pacified - briefly -  by a session at the breast.  When a school party arrived to fill three or four other tables nearby, we decided it was time to pay up and push off.

I won’t detail the rest of the day’s adventures: suffice to say that we failed to realise a plan to catch the bus across the river, and eventually came back to the ship by metro from Pombal to Sta Apolónia, a new line that I hadn’t realised existed.  All of this shows that I hadn‘t researched the public transport network sufficiently.  I used to be good at this kind of thing, dammit!  We were joint runners up in the afternoon quiz, and had dinner in very pleasant company.  

It only took a few bars of the evening show to establish that it would be grotesquely over-amplified (as was the solo flautist’s show a couple of nights ago), so this time we we didn’t even warm our seats.  Such a shame: the accompaniment of last night’s amazing acrobatics show was much more restrained. 

Málaga, eventually

 On our second day in Cádiz, we thought we’d take the tourist bus for a final look round, so went out and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  When the rain came on, we gave up, and went back on board for tea.  Earlier, we’d watched one of the divers being winched out of the water, while the new propeller blade continued to sulk on the quayside.  It turned out that the old one wouldn’t budge, so after two days of work, they just had to tighten up the bolts again and carry on unrepaired.  We left shortly after midnight (instead of 18:30-ish), but made good enough time to Málaga to allow a decent day ashore.  

It’s a handsome, prosperous city with many fine buildings and lots of well-tended green space.  The pedestrian streets in the centre were full of interest (and fancy designer-label shops), but paved in very slippery, shiny marble or ceramics.  I managed to stay vertical, but it was a nervous business.  The tourist bus was no more reliable than that in Cádiz, but there was at least someone there with a walkie-talkie to tell us there would be a 40-minute wait (this after three had passed in quick succession while we were eating nearby - so it isn’t just London where this happens).  But it’s a good way to see a lot of the city in a short time.

Our cabin is on the port side, so as we run into Gibraltar, I imagine the lights I see are in Tetuan, or perhaps one or other of the Spanish exclaves on the Moroccan coast.  I’ve also seen the lights of several vessels passing in the opposite direction.  Busy stretch of water, this.  As we curve round to the right to enter the harbour, Orion is just visible above the bright lights of La Linea.  And there’s a new moon.

Fings ain’t quite wot they used to be

The ride down from A Corunha was pretty sporting for much of the two nights and a day that it takes, but we fortunately have decent sea legs.  Matthew McCombie’s recital yesterday was excellent (though he deserves a better-tuned piano): we were delighted that his programme included the Grieg Wedding Day at Trollhaugen that we heard him play once before in the same place.  

We went to a rather disorganised basic Spanish lesson yesterday afternoon: I have extremely basic Spanish, and picked up a few tips: Martyn (who doesn’t) found the pace far too hurried.  OK, it’s over 40 years since I did a little Spanish at school, but I was surprised to hear no reference to the formal second-person pronouns usted and ustedes, with only tú and vosotros in evidence.  I read that in Colombia and Venezuela, the polite forms are now wholly archaic.  I think the same is happening in Portuguese, with você/s replacing the over-formal o Senhor/a Senhora formulas, though tu still raises eyebrows except in close relationships - and social media.

The ship is comfortable, we hear no mechanical noise in the cabin, the linen is good and the steward service impeccable as always.  But there are signs of cost cutting here and there, which is hardly a surprise, given the hit the industry took during the worst of the pandemic.  More worrying is a bit of a slide in the restaurant service.  We’ve no complaint about the food, but our stated preference for a fixed table assignment (so that we can get to know the neighbours) was not honoured until we stamped our little feet, and then with surprisingly poor grace.  Our waiters are rather surly, and reluctant to accommodate requests for anything slightly out of the ordinary, eg bread rather than biscuits with cheese.  I think there’s a morale issue: I can’t imagine the waiters like the snotty Maître d’ any more than we do.

Whereas on our earlier cruises we were provided with stationery and imitation Mont Blanc pens, we now get a pencil and an A6 note pad.  Complimentary slippers are a thing of the past.  And our itinerary has been curtailed: we are no longer visiting Cartagena, going no further than Málaga.  This has partly to do with the need to replace a propeller blade on one of the Azipods, hence an overnight stay in Cádiz, where there’s the necessary expertise and infrastructure.  But I think it may also be relevant that much fuel oil will be saved….

But here we are in Cádiz, with a thin drizzle and thunderstorms rattling round in the distance.  We have decided against our planned rail trip to Seville: as Martyn puts it, we’ve already had one soaking this year, and aren’t up for another.  We narrowly avoided one during our stroll in Cádiz this morning: the heavens opened just as we’d sat down in a café.  We’re a bit footsore, so shall probably just do another quiz with old and new friends (we won both quizzes yesterday, and the first one today).

A Corunha/La Coruña/Corunna

Our first port of call following a fairly sporting crossing of the Bay of Biscay.  Quite a treat to be able to stand on the balcony in my dressing gown as we docked.  The berth is very central, alongside the marina, so the outlook from the cabin is pleasant.  We walked about 5 km round the town, taking in the main sights and some quirky ones, such at the whimsical sculpture square, and went across the neck of the isthmus to the beach.  We needed a bit of help from Google maps as we traced our way along some none too lovely back streets.  

In the old town there are lots of handsome buildings with glazed verandahs, but over on the beach side of the isthmus we saw a lot of new buildings.  Must look up the civil war history of the city.  Thinking further back in time, the big square near the cruise port celebrates Maria Pita, who rallied the townspeople to see off English invaders in Elizabethan times, spurred on by the fact that her husband had been killed by a bolt from an English crossbow.

 

On the water

12 December

Bitterly cold start to Sunday, so we’d to run the Altea to help defrost the windows before putting it away in the garage - one broker scraper later.  A rather unpleasant drive to Southampton with temperatures rarely rising above 0°.  Fog, spray and as we approached Southampton the low sun was so dazzling that I couldn’t read the instruments.  But on the way we scrounged a splendid lunch from John at Fleet, where his grandchildren had been staying overnight.  This was to let Rick and Anna out for an evening with friends, and they had just arrived to collect Tom and Toby just before we got there.  What a lovely family they are!

Boarding was a little less slick than in the past.  We had to trolley our bags to a loading dock: on previous cruises they have been collected straight from the car.  But as usual the check-in staff were lovely.  On boarding, we’d to leg it along the quay rather than take a covered bridge from the terminal.  Once aboard, there were no lifts to be had, since the crew had nabbed them for schlepping bags up to the cabins.  We’d to climb five flights, back packs and all.  At dinner time, our request for a pre-assigned table had not been registered, and we weren’t alone: one dame d’un certain age was getting quite aggressive, with the manager.  Anyway, our random assignment was a good one with window seats, and we had nice companions at the next table.  But all told, it is not quite the well-oiled machine we remember.

Dinner, however, was no disappointment - and they still do Picpoul de Pinet at a merely eye-watering price.  We rounded off the evening with a visit to the Commodore Club, then a cup of tea back in the cabin.

As I scribble in the insomniac small hours, the sea seems to be flat calm, in welcome contrast to our last cruise, when storms kept us in Southampton overnight. We’ll see how things are once we’ve rounded Cap Finistère.

First frost

See my first 1 December post for the lavishly illustrated annual ramblings 

We emptied out the hanging baskets the other day, and put the fuchsias and geraniums in the mini greenhouse to take their chances over the winter.  The local garden shop provided some decent looking pansy plants, so they are variously installed in the hanging baskets and pots on the steps out the back.  This morning when I came down (after allowing the house to warm up a bit after a cold night), the goat willow at the top of the garden was shedding leaves like snowflakes.  A breath of wind, and it’ll be bare.

When it has been a little less cold we’ve done a modest bit of gardening, and Martyn has set about last year’s hydrangea heads with spray paint to make a decoration for the fireplace.  They had largely lost their colour, so it was a good move, and the result is more than pleasing.

We woke to a white world this morning, following the sharp overnight frost.  Egg2, which is standing outside, has remained frosted all day.  Maybe we should have left the other one out, since it does at least defrost its windscreen.  We shall take it to Southampton, just in case we return to frost after our forthcoming stay in the floating care home.  

A propos, I learn from Matthew McCombie that he will be on board.  Excellent pianist, and a thoroughly nice chap. We look forward to his Queen’s Room recitals, and hope they’ve tuned the Joanna this time. 

December again

See my other 1 December post for the lavishly illustrated annual ramblings

I’ve been having fun with the bank again.  When I tried to register my credit card for on board expenses on the forthcoming cruise, the bank suspected fraud, and blocked it.  It took 25 minutes to get the fraud desk to answer my call, but the helpful woman at the Indian call centre said she’d unblocked the card.  My next two attempted transactions were refused.  So it was back on the dog to customer service, and another 25-minute wait.  That advisor was unable to resolve the issue, so she put me on hold for the fraud desk, and that took another half hour.  In times past, I’d have gone to the branch and camped there till they sorted it.  Our nearest branch is now in creepy Crawley, 45 minutes’ drive away.  I sat down and composed a praise sandwich e-mail to the CEO of the bank: 1. day-to-day service now flawless, 2.  the loooooong wait on the phone: is this normal? and 3. appreciation for the courtesy of all the advisors I spoke to.  Next day I’d an apologetic call from the top-level complaints office: evidently they’re having trouble filling call centre vacancies, and would £75 make me feel better about things?  Bloody right it would, but more importantly, I have since made a successful purchase with the card.

It’s a bit worrying that one has to take the top-level complaints route to get things sorted: I’d to do so to get some action from Benenden back in the summer.  But at least my polite-assertive drafting is getting a bit of practice.

My elderly iPhone is showing its years: the screen is parting company with the body.  I’ve treated myself to a slightly more recent model, and spent hours yesterday transferring the contents from the old to the new - or at least watching while the miracles of technology silently did the job (at the second attempt).  It then took an age to discover how to bring up the telephone keypad!  Telephony seems to be a rather secondary function these days.  

Talking of ancient technology, Martyn’s car has been at the garage for an oil change and MoT, and as is common, said garage came up with a long list of other things wot wanted doing.  It took fully three quarters of an hour to drive to the garage, which is three miles away, so we missed the slot in the MoT inspector’s diary.  We’re hoping that they’ll have managed to slot it in later in the day, but will find out later this morning when we go and get it after its overnight stay.  We shall not start out in the rush hour this time.  [Later: MoT not done, but at least the new appointment, next Tuesday, is for late afternoon.]

Annual ramblings, 2022

Alive, if not kicking...

Year after year, I seem to start the ramblings with a good grizzle about the year past.  This year is no exception.  The good news is that we have so far avoided the pandemic, and have arms like pin cushions to show for it.  Unfortunately, Martyn developed shingles, diagnosed the day of the jubilee Bank Holiday back in June, and is not out of the woods almost six months later.  My old joints are complaining as usual, and cutting a long story short, none of which reflects terribly well on Benenden, the orthopod tells me to go home and get a walking stick.

The year began with a couple of irritations.  On Boxing Day, the central heating boiler went on strike.  When I went to report it to British Gas, I found that the phone wasn’t working either.  British Gas were worse than useless - as usual - and failed to fix the problem at all, let alone promptly, but charged us £60 for each call-out, in addition to the monthly subscription.  My respected and generous pension payer did rather better.  Although the fixed phone line stayed out of action for some time, broadband service continued, and a helpful Indian chap at the call centre quickly arranged for incoming calls to divert free of charge to my mobile.  It took about ten days to fix the fault, but we were amply compensated for the break in service.  British Gas hasn’t even replied to my letter of complaint, so guess who no longer has our boiler maintenance business?

Domestic tribulations continued in March, when I came down one Sunday (of course!) morning to find a damp patch on the carpet.  A glance upward showed a dripping bulge.  Our insurers sent a fellow all the way from the Surrey-Hants boundary to misdiagnose the problem.  Next morning as the ceiling continued to drip,  I got on the phone to Deb, who adjusted plumber husband Jez’s schedule, and got him to us next day.  As we thought, the hot water cylinder was leaking, and had to be replaced.  That wouldn’t have been covered by the insurance, the plastering and DIY redecorating would have been, but cost less than the excess on the insurance, which LV wanted paid up front (at this point I told them to take a hike).

January marked the fiftieth anniversary of my starting work, and March the twenty-first of stopping it.  Though there were good times, my warmest feelings about my years with BT result from the arrival of the pension each month.

All that said, we've been out and about again after a couple of years living like hermits, and have taken a couple of trips away, of which more anon.  

As for the world of politics, some might say that our country continues to reinforce its image as the laughing stock of Europe, changing increasingly incompetent and miscellaneously immoral, self-serving, lying, dogmatic, thick and/or hopelessly weak Rt Hon First Lords of the Treasury about as often as some change their socks.  Not that I could possibly express a view.

We’re gradually working down the home projects list.  This year's main job was the refitting of the bathroom with a drive-in shower, and not without a couple of months of ach und Krach, we are content with the result.  

Garden

The new bed at the top of the garden is beginning to mature as the subjects we've planted get their roots down into the clay.  Transplanted roses have not done well, so are on the transfer list this winter - to the garden waste bin.  Unfortunately, kneeling makes things worse with the knees, so we're having to GSI for the gardening.  But the S is our old friend Ben with his sidekick Duncan.

The box tree moth caterpillars devastated the little hedge at the front, together with a couple of globes that I had raised from cuttings.  All went up in smoke, together with many hundreds of caterpillars.  Oddly enough, the cuttings we planted at the back didn't attract the little blighters.  We had toyed with getting Ben to dig the lot out and replace them with dwarf yew, but now that much of the box hedge is growing back from the roots, we'll leave it for a season and see what happens.

Spuds and tomatoes did very well this year, so we plan next year to grow charlottes in bags as usual, but also to expand our tomato repertoire to San Marzano, which will cook down well.  Our Sweet Olive seed packet contained exactly six seeds, only four of which were viable.  Nothing daunted, we propagated a few dozen side shoots, and got a good crop.  Great for bruschette and caprese salads, but too small for cooking on a larger scale.

Arrivals

We had an enjoyable family lunch in September with seven of us round the table: Pip and David, John, Canadian cousins Susan and Jack and yr obed servts.  Celia and Andy came round one lunch time for a plate of broth, charcuterie and a cheeseboard (which we're still finishing - we like cheese, but only a little at a time!)  

My old friend from Switzerland days Thierry and his son Vincent came down one rather wet evening while the latter was installing himself for his Bachelor year at Imperial College, following two years at the Lausanne Polytechnic.  (And there's a heart-breaker in the making: a chip off the old block!)

Departures

We love Switzerland and train travel, but have had to review things lately.  We'd planned a week in a hotel in Luzern, but the weather forecast persuaded us to head south of the Alps, and Martyn found a flat in Bellinzona with much more space and a better price.  We decided to take the old railway route up the Rhine from Cologne.  On the day we left, the taxi didn't turn up, so once again we'd to drag our bags to the bus stop.  We only just caught our last-resort train to London, and did not enjoy the crammed waiting area at St Pancras.  The rest of day one went perfectly: an easy connexion in Brussels to Cologne: we stayed a night in the Ibis near the station (not cheap, and at best ausreichend).  Day two, however, was ill-starred: the Swiss train from Hamburg to Basel arrived an hour late, and took us no further than Karlsruhe.  Cutting a long story short (changes in Karlsruhe, Offenburg, Freiburg im Breisgau, Basel (twice) and Zürich) we arrived at our flat in Bellinzona five hours late and soaked to the skin.  The Swiss railways did the job for the tail end of the journey, but Deutsche Gründlichkeit seems to be a thing of the past, certainly where the railways are concerned..

Though the weather remained mixed, we had a fine time in the Ticino, enjoying Bellinzona and visiting Lugano (v. infra), Locarno and Ascona. 

We took a day trip to Luzern in fine weather, and enjoyed exploring the city (not to mention a rather decadent fried fish lunch).  The Kapellbrücke has been well restored after the awful fire, and this year was finely adorned with begonias.

We then took the boat to Flüelen to catch a train over the Gotthard, and enjoyed watching kite surfers at the windy end of the Urnersee.  As always we enjoyed the wonderful scenery of the north ramp, and all three views of the church in Wassen.  Soon after emerging from the tunnel, the train stopped in Lavorgo because of signalling problems further downhill.  Absolutely no information on what next, but someone spotted that there was a Postauto a bit later heading south.  Said bus took us to Bodio, where a train was waiting, so this time we got to Bellinzona with only an hour's delay.  

Another day, Martyn planned a trip to the Monte Generoso, and it went perfectly to plan, despite my surfacing too late for the train he'd intended us to get.  Excellent trip, with fine views down to the lakes, and a bit of entertainment from hang gliders and fixed-wing gliders swooping round the summit.  Not cheap, but our rail passes got us 50% off, making it merely eye-watering.

Perhaps the nicest day was in Berne, where we got together with Pam, Geoff, Lesley and Carlo for an alfresco lunch, followed by tea and cakes at Pam's.  We dined at the same restaurant as Pam had booked for Geoff's 80th, only this time we sat outside, watching the honey bees on the hedge at the end of the table.  And we'd a faultless train ride back to Bellinzona.

The return trip was the mixture as before.  No problem as far as Basel, where we had a nice lunch in a pitta shop on a gallery spanning the station platforms.  The TGV ran late, not helped by heavily armed gendarmes arresting a skinny kid from our carriage in Besançon.  Another stressful, sweaty episode later in the grisly Gare du Nord, we got standby tickets on the Eurostar an hour later than the one we'd missed, and had a pretty uneventful ride home.  So Bellinzona to Disgustedville can be done in a day, if a tiring one.

We aimed for some sunshine and warmth for Martyn's birthday, so booked a villa in the Algarve for a week, and gritted our teeth for the airport experience, hoping to make it more bearable with Club Europe tickets.  True, the BA lounge at Gatwick was pretty good, but the cabin of the ancient A320 was cramped and grubby, though the free seat between ours at least made a bit of elbow room.  BA has taken to leasing old aircraft first bashed about in the third world: our rides to and from Faro had started in service in Brazil decades ago.  The catering on board was mediocre, and the Faro airport lounge, when we found it, was cramped, and offered next to no catering.

But grizzling aside, the villa was clean, spacious and well equipped (once we'd swapped a kettle that tripped the power supply).  The terrace was generous - enough space for a dining table and chairs, a barbecue and a couple of loungers.  And there were a couple of evenings when we could enjoy it.

The Algarve is grotesquely over-developed for tourism, but there are relatively unspoiled places to visit, such as Silves.  There we watched an archery competion in the castle grounds, and saw dozens of storks flying over the town, and clack-clacking their bills in the nests that adorn many chimneys in the town.

Wheels

Egg 2 has passed its umpteenth MoT, and buzzes along like a new car.  The Ateca passed its fourth test in September.  We doubt whether we need to keep two oil-burners, but the amount we consume doesn't really justify going electric on environmental grounds - between them, the two cars have covered fewer than 2000 miles between their annual tests.

We booked a 'C4 auto or equivalent' in the Algarve and got an Audi A3.  I was quite impressed with its refinement as we left Faro, and its performance was what I'd have expected from a 1.6 VW.  When I pressed on a bit, I could hear a three-cylinder beat, and so it proved to be: a whole 999cc coupled to a 7-speed DSG box.  Pretty economical too, but low-slung and thus a bugger to get in and out of.  It was rather short of the refinements we expect of lesser VWs, eg a reversing camera and satnav.  And I blame the blind spots for nearly crashing us twice!  

Talking of shunts, we had a real one, if minor, a couple of months back.  When we were collecting Susan and Jack from the station the day of our family lunch, I saw the car jump a little as we approached it.  A man in a red BMW had swept into the next space a bit too sharply and biffed the front of mine.  Not a big deal, since the damage was slight, and the fellow paid up the moment I told him the repair cost.  Not wishing to tempt fate, it's worth recording that, of late, the only damage to our cars has been at the hands of others.

Food and Drink

Forget the Hotel du Vin here in Disgustedville unless you're feeling assertive.  Although my birthday dinner there, Martyn's treat, was very good, our dinner with Thierry and Vincent was embarrassingly awful.  Had I been feeling better (I had a cold), I'd have made a serious fuss.  Lunch at the Veranda in Berne was OK, and the company was a delight.  Schnitzels at Gaffel am Dom in Cologne were excellent - almost as good as home-made. 

We are into the soup season, and as I write, a pot of soup is simmering: chicken stellette, using stock I made earlier from the carcass of the Sunday chicken.  Martyn’s latest soup creation used broccoli, spinach and sundry other healthy ingredients.

We have started making more use of the air fryer, if only for things like sausages, chips and (less satisfactorily) scampi.  It’s handy and a shade more economical for small tasks than heating the oven.

Arts

Not a lot to report this year.  We've knocked out a couple of pieces for the Christmas cards.  But as I scribble, Martyn is composing at the clavinova, so the house is not lacking in creativity.  Our friend Kate's play Mayflower was performed in the summer at the Hen and Chickens at Highbury Corner, so we made a trip to London for the first time in ages.  Good piece, well performed by the Historia Theatre Company, made up of some familiar and some new faces.

2023

We hope the new year brings us peace and health, though I doubt very much whether it'll bring prosperity for many.  With index-linked state and occupational pensions, we think we can keep the wolf from the door.  But the main source of our wellbeing is the friendship of lovely people like you.  Thank you!

Climate

The leaves are still falling, but the weather was good enough a few days ago for yr obed servt to get out with the mower.  With a lot of wet grass and some chopped down rudbeckias and sedums now populating the garden waste bin, it’ll take a bit of schlepping to the front when the toon cooncil deigns to empty it.  

We have finally got round to the images for the Christmas card, rather later than usual.  Nothing spectacular this time, but they’ll do.  We’ve had to replenish supplies of envelopes, labels and card (though the printer ink is holding out so far…).  Finding labels compatible with our address list was a real struggle, and we were finally obliged to buy from the generous and altruistic Mr Bezos.  We've largely finished writing the cards (pending fresh supplies of card), and are reminded (notably by my arthritic knuckles) how rarely we need to write these days.  

Correction

In my last blog I said 50% of Sainsburys was held by a Qatari institution.  I had misheard: the correct figure is just short of 15%.  Think I’ll still stick to Fortnums.

Apologies for absence

No dramatic reason for the long gap since my last posting.  We’ve been bumbling along much as usual, spending a lot of time watching the torrential rain.  Some places near us were getting a month’s worth of rain in a single day.  It has improved over the past few days, so we have been out and about a little.  On Wednesday we were guests of Chris and Jon for lunch: great company, and a splendid lunch in sensible portions.  (We find we can’t shovel it down the way we once could: just as well, given our circumferences.)

Meanwhile, having discovered that a Qatari institution is a 50% shareholder in J Sainsbury, we emptied our on-line shopping order, and shall not be buying from them in future if we can help it.  Now that we’re out and about again, we’re concentrating our regular shopping on Lidl, and saving a fair bit in the process.

Today we finally got round to spending a garden gift voucher on some bedding plants to give us winter colour.  

 

I can’t remember whether it was a birthday or Christmas gift, and if the latter, which Christmas it was, but thank you, Marion and John, nonetheless.  Quite a pleasant drive out to our nearby garden shop, though the low sun and a none-too-clean windscreen made for a slightly testing drive!  Anyway, the pots on the steps are top-dressed and re-stocked, and we hope the pansies will do as well as last year’s.  Some of the geraniums are now potted up and stashed away in the greenhouse: cuttings in the spring, perhaps.  

Elsewhere in the garden things are a bit confused: the penstemons are growing as one expects them to in Spring, and we have a clematis in flower that we don’t expect to see blooming until later in the autumn.  The acer ‘Garnet’ is in its autumn colours of bright scarlet.

It won’t be long before it’s as bare as the dogwood behind it.  (And the observant will notice some leeks growing nicely in the rose bed.  Well, why not?).  

I think we have a couple more fine days in prospect, so perhaps I’ll sort out the baskets at the front.  The fuchsias and geraniums need to be under cover soon if they’re to stand a chance of a safe dormancy over the winter.  The one on the wall by the door is still doing pretty well, so as it’s well sheltered, I’ll leave it a bit longer, and settle for chopping back the trailing ivy, which threatens to take over the world.

Not sure about travelling

The villa was very good: spacious and well equipped, with a big, reasonably private terrace with a barbecue, a dining table and chairs and a couple of loungers.  And a sea view.  The walls were a little on the thin side, so we were keenly aware of tantrums from the child next door.  But as ours was the last villa in a row of twenty, we only had one party wall.  We were some distance from the pool and the noise that comes with it, so the most noticeable sounds were the sea breaking on the rocks and beach a few hundred meters away, and bird calls: mostly sparrows and azure winged magpies.  The place felt rather damp, though, but probably because of the high humidity of the air.  All in all, a good experience: we got a bit of exercise and saw some interesting places on the fine days, and it’s always a pleasure just to sit and read when outdoor activities aren’t possible.

We ambled along to Faro on Monday at a pretty decent hour, and turned the car in without (so far) any nasty surprises.  We’d checked in on line, and saved our boarding cards as photos on our iPhones (perhaps we should get an ungifted child to show us how it should be done properly).  Long queue for passport stamping as on arrival, and it was a sweaty experience again.  I hate to think what Faro airport is like in high summer.  BA Club Europe tickets got us into the CIP lounge at Faro, which takes a lot of finding.  And when you find it, it’s marginally better than the general waiting area if a bit quieter.  Small, and with a miserable catering offering, sweaty plastic chairs, and no information on flight departures.  

The flight back was in an ancient A320 that started its life decades ago in Brazil.  The service on board was adequate at best, and the food in Club Europe was unimpressive.  There was a time when British Airways could be relied on to provide good service: not this time.  Back at Gatwick, the airport experience was not too bad: long, long walks as usual (all told, we walked over 3 km on Monday in airports alone), but a fairly brisk passport clearance process.

It’s hard to know what our travel policy should be.  We no longer do long trips by road, and our recent experience of international rail and air travel is not encouraging.  Maybe it’s back to the floating care home, and to hang with the expense.  

Trip coming to an end

Lazy day on Saturday, when the weather was again mixed.  Sunday we took a ride up to Silves, the ancient capital of the Moorish Algarve.  The town is dominated by a red sandstone castle of ancient origins, but what we see today dates largely from the 1940s, when it was rebuilt following damage from numerous earthquakes.  

We stopped at the viewpoint in the outskirts (v. supra) where Martyn noticed some large black and white birds.  Storks: they used to migrate to Africa in winter, but with plentiful food to be had hereabouts, they are tending to stay here year round.  (One commentator suggests adding McDonalds to their usual diet of small vertebrates, fish and large insects.). Looking down from the castle, many chimneys have nests on them, and the clacking of the storks’ bills was clearly to be heard.  At one point, several dozen took to the air and gave us a nice little display.  In the castle (where lethal drops from barrier-free parapets abound) an archery competition was in progress with scant attention to ‘elf’n syfety.  The archers - long- and crossbows - were done up in period costumes, so we were well entertained.

Anyway, Silves joins the long list of Portuguese towns we’ve got lost in: Faro, Albufeira, Lagos, Pêra and all the rest.  The map we got at the motorway rest stop challenges the chocolate teapot for the uselessness championship title.  Memo to self: take Dotty next time.  But Silves is modestly attractive for being authentic, and not devoted to the tourism industry.  There is a lot of modern development in the outskirts, but the centre is cobbled and labyrinthine.

After getting lost (yet again) down by the coast, we elected to return to familiar ground, and had lunch at the Pedras Amarelas at the Praia de Galé Leste, where we’d gone on Martyn’s birthday.  Excellent lunch, and the somewhat more lively sea provided good views as we dined.  The surfers appreciated it too, and some experts were out there showing off to the entertainment of all.

We have the joys of Faro and Gatwick airports tomorrow, plus a ride in another 21-year-old A320.  I’ll reflect on the overall experience once we’re safely installed at Forges-l’Evêque.

Rain

It poured down all day yesterday, so we did a lot of sitting around reading and doing puzzles on the iPads.  Thank goodness we have decent wifi at the villa.  We made it no further than to the nearby supermarket.

We were consequently determined to get out and about today, since there was some blue sky to be seen first thing.  We picked up a map at the Silves motorway services: not in the filling station shop, but in the restaurant.  Someone’s missing a trick there, eh?  The map was helpful in some degree, but we still got lost on the way back to base.

We had a pleasant stroll round the old town of Lagos, where I spent a short holiday back in 1986.  36 years later, the centre is recognisable from the narrow streets, the castle and the coastal fortress.  I don’t remember the square with the jacaranda trees, though.  The development has continued, however, to a grotesque extent.  We continued to Praia da Luz, where we had a decent lunch.  The restaurant overlooked the beach, where the surfers were putting on quite a good show.  

Thence to Cape St Vincent, which has become rather more of a tourist trap than I remember from last time.  But that means that there were were more viewpoints towards the cliffs of the south-westernmost point of continental Europe.  No sign of the fish and chips van, but Die letzte Bratwurst vor Amerika was doing a respectable trade.  The rain began just before we left Cape St Vincent, and we were quite wet before we got back to the car.  On the way home, it rained pretty well all the way, including one episode when I had to lift off the throttle and put on the hazard flashers.  

The car worked well.  Given that the engine is 2 cc bigger than that of a 105E Anglia, and has one fewer cylinder, its progress to a quiet 120 km/h motorway cruise was impressive.  A seven-speed automatic box helps, as does a hefty turbo-charger.

Memo to Monarchs and Politicians

It was while we were in the Ticino that we learned of the death of her late Majesty.  Skulking indoors in the wet, windy Algarve, we’ve been watching the resignation speech of our latest Rt Hon First Lord of the Treasury.  Perhaps we should notify our future travel plans to the Palace and N°10.

Yesterday being Martyn’s birthday, we went out to lunch at a nearby hostelry overlooking the beach and some dramatic sandstone rocks.  A good skewer of big prawns and dollops of monkfish, served with fries and some sautéed vegetables.  As we dined, we watched the local surfing school practising with varying degrees of success.  We had an enjoyable stroll earlier round the boardwalk at the nearby bird sanctuary in warm but overcast weather.  By the time we were at lunch, the rain had begun, and has continued on and off ever since.  The weather forecast threatens showers (at best) for the rest of the holiday.  

Our shopping yesterday included a vitally necessary bath mat: the bath is extremely slippery, and showering scared us both.  I don’t want a repeat of a trip to Barcelona a few years ago, when I slipped and fell in the bath.  Luckily, my arm made contact with the marble edge of the wash basin: had it been my head, I don’t think I’d have been reporting the episode now!  That too was a trip to celebrate Martyn’s birthday, so a repeat performance would be highly unfortunate.

The garden here is beautiful: lots of bougainvillea, strelitzia, oleander and other subjects that enjoy the sub-tropical climate.  The geraniums hereabouts have obviously overwintered many times, judging by the thick woody stems.  As for the fauna, a couple of sparrows come and make off with whatever we leave for them, and I’d a good view from the roof terrace this morning of azure-winged magpies.  Unmistakeably magpies in flight, they lack the awful machine-gun call of their northern relatives that disturbs our peace at home.

I did a spot of research earlier into our rental car.  It spins along happily enough, but lacks a lot of the refinements of less pretentious VWs.  Mechanical refinement is there in spades, however: I had wondered about the sound when I put my foot down: it turns out to be a turbocharged 3-pot of just 999 cc.  I’ve yet to try it on the motorway, and have no great expectations.

Another day, another country

We had to present ourselves at the departure gate by 07:00 so that meant leaving home before 05:00, which in turn meant that I couldn’t get back to sleep after the 01:00 bladder summons.  Martyn kindly drove to Gatwick, and we spent a pretty bearable hour or so in the lounge, enjoying bacon rolls etc.  I was surprised how noisy the aeroplane was.  I suppose it’s a long time since I’ve flown, and in the meantime, BA has been buying up old hacks from the third world: this one spent its first eighteen years in Brazil, and although the cabin has obviously been refreshed, the chiottes showed their age: really grimy, and with a basin that was very slow to drain.  There was even an ashtray on the back of the lavatory door, and a sign saying not to put cigarette ends in the towel disposal chute.  But the cabin crew showed some of the old BA values, even if they didn’t volunteer to bring us tea.  I went up to the galley and asked for a couple of cups, which they were happy to provide (having asked me ‘have you been good?’)  

Well, the old bus got us here, unprepared for the 25-minute wait for passport clearance in under-performing air conditioning.  Thank you, Brexit.  I had not rehearsed routes as thoroughly as usual, so we got thoroughly lost in the outskirts of Faro.  The car, for all its Audi pretentiousness, lacks satnav, reversing camera, and other toys to which we have become used, but spins along nicely enough, and eventually Via Michelin helped us home on the iPad, hooked up to my phone.

We had lunch at a chicken piri-piri joint near the villa, and spent rather a lot of time navigating round the lethal little bones.  But they supplied a decent glass of white wine, and the service was pleasant and obliging.

Our little house seems really nice (even if the electric kettle supplied tripped the power: the replacement works fine).  It is spacious, quite well equipped and has both a large barbecue terrace and a balcony off the front bedroom.  The shower (for I stood in great need thereof when we arrived) was oddly adjusted, and flooded the bathroom floor.  Now readjusted.  The bath is lethally slippery, so we’ll need to find a non-slip mat tomorrow.  But we had a picnic supper out on the terrace this evening: bread, cheese, ham, pâté and modest amounts of Portuguese rosé, watching the sun melt into the Atlantic.  The weather may take a dip later in the week, but so far, we’re pretty happy.  

Where do I begin?

Inflation is  running in double figures, food banks are running out of supplies, more and more people are facing the heat/eat dilemma as we move into winter.  Posties, nurses railwaymen and many others are striking or planning to.  The Truss/Kwarteng budget proposed a tax cut for the wealthiest, a deferral of the planned increases in corporation tax, the abolition of a cap on bankers’ bonuses.  Brilliant timing, guys!  The money markets have reacted as would have been predicted if T&K had troubled to do their homework and take the necessary independent advice.  On the contrary, the calculations seem to have been done on the back of a fag packet, and the dynamic duo have been forced into what the media describe as ‘screeching U-turns’.  Well, to stick with the tarmac theme, Kwarteng has been thrown under a bus, and the normally ruthless Tories are plotting to do the same with Truss, whom a majority of Tory MPs didn’t want in the first place. 

It took the Tories far too long to get rid of what some have described as the immoral, dishonest, narcissistic oaf.  I wonder if they’ll take as long to get rid of what some might now describe as the dim, lightweight, dogmatic idiot foisted on them by the party membership.  

As for events at and around Forges-l’Evêque, the local tin bashers finished the job on the car in two days rather than three, and red BMW man paid up promptly.  We had our flu jabs and Covid boosters on Wednesday, so far with no worse side effects than slightly sore arms.  Today’s entertainment was a ride to the tip with the contents of the dustbin: it was due for emptying after we leave tomorrow for the airport.  On checking the toon cooncil web site, I discovered that we’re now allowed to dispose of part-heard cans of paint in the household waste skip, so we have dumped three large bags of the same, much to the relief of the sagging shelves in the garage.  I was a little anxious as we drove there: a rear-end impact could have had pretty spectacular consequences! 

As for the coming week, we’re not looking forward to the airport and aeroplane experiences, but it surely can’t be as bad as our railway travails last month.  (Famous last words.)  

Rites of Autumn

The leaves are falling, the nights are lengthening and we are starting to ache for sunshine and warmer weather.  That said, today has (latterly) been pleasant enough for a spot of gardening: dead-heading the roses and rudbeckias and suchlike fiddling.  

First thing it was a different matter: when we took the car down to the tin bashers this morning the rain had just begun, and I was glad of my waterproof.  (Ruined my hairdo, however).  Anyway, the car is hors de combat for three days, but since we have a spare, I won’t be stinging red BMW man for a rental.  I’m tempted to suggest that a case of Picpoul de Pinet would be suitable compensation for the inconvenience.  Said car romped through its MoT last Friday, having done scarcely over 1000 miles since the last one.  I managed to persuade the garage to do a minor service rather than the major one indicated by its age.  

Another rite of autumn, of course, is Martyn’s birthday next week.  Since our German/Swiss jaunt was not an unalloyed triumph, we’ve booked a week’s rental in the Algarve, staying in a villa a safe distance from the rather unattractive centre of Albufeira.  I doubt if we’ll be troubling the swimming pool that serves the complex: rather, we’ll be loading up the kindles and relaxing, and taking the odd trip into the hills and along to places I haven’t seen since 1986, such as Cape St Vincent and Lagos.  (I remember being amused and faintly cross at being asked at the hotel I used in Lagos whether I was signed up for the Saga excursion.  I was 35 at the time.)

Thinking back à propos swimming, the year before my last Algarve trip I had only recently learned to swim, so used the hotel pool in Sousse in Tunisia to build up some stamina.  Until a bunch of Bulgarian water polo players thought it was fun to bounce the ball off my head when I came up for air.  Some years later, the hotel complex I’d stayed at was victim of a dreadful terrorist attack.  

In Lagos, the hotel pool had a springboard from which I taught myself to dive.  Alas, all now in the past.  I did swim briefly in Jan and Mark’s pool a few years ago, but apart from a quick dip in the Queen Victoria pool during our Medi cruise, have not swum at all.  (I’ll pack my cossie, but suspect it’ll home unused.)

I thought I’d given up despairing…

 …and yet the latest régime just goes from bad to bloody awful.  It’ll be interesting to see whether the latest Rt Hon First Lord of the Treasury survives her party conference.  

It helps, in a way, that the garden is looking a bit better: Ben was here this week and has hauled out some stumps, and hacked down and divided some of the irises: I’ve distributed clumps to friends and neighbours.  We’re thinking about planting spring bulbs where we can enjoy them from the kitchen window.  

We had an unexpected visit on Friday from my old friend Thierry, a colleague back in my Swiss days, and his son, Vincent.  The latter has completed two years at the Federal Polytechnic in Lausanne, and is about to start his Bachelor’s year at Imperial College, returning to Lausanne next year for his Master’s.  Delightful young man.  We took them for a rather disappointing meal at the Hotel du Vin in town.  Had I been on top of my game, I’d have sent my overcooked meal back.  (As it was, I was feeling pretty lousy with a lingering cough following a recent cold, and my assertiveness circuits weren’t firing as they should.).   The restaurant was not busy, though, and it’s a good environment for socialising.  Last time we were there was on my birthday, and we sat in the garden for our meal.  Friday’s torrential rain kept us gratefully indoors.

Autumn

Some welcome autumn colour in the garden, notably the colchicums and cyclamens.  The annual rudbeckias have been less enthusiastic this year, but most are in their fourth years.  A few of the old ones have given up the ghost.  The heat and drought of the summer can’t have helped.  The perennial one, however (readers will remember that it arrived a couple of years ago labelled ‘aubergine’) has really excelled itself.

The tomatoes are now chopped down and binned, and the roots and compost dumped at the top of the garden.  The kitchen wall pots went on the morning of our lunch party, and the row of pots beside the sitooterie followed today, between the showers.  They’ve done very well, and we have a few left in the fridge for a final lunch of bruschette in the coming days.

We are both grizzling our way through a rather nasty dose of man flu, and I’m finding that energy levels are low, even by my usual modest standards.  By the time I’d shuffled round Fortnums this morning and schlepped stuff home, I was more than ready to flop into my armchair.  But I’m certainly on the mend, and just need to summon up some rare patience.  We were due to have our Covid boosters tomorrow, but decided to postpone rather than spread the colds.

As for car repairs, our local tin bashers came in with an estimate that Mr Red BMW didn’t quibble at, so it’s booked in for the work a couple of weeks hence.  It’ll have had its MoT (I hope) and a fresh pan of oil by then.  Martyn is steeling himself to getting the timing belt replaced on the Egg.  After fourteen years it’s a bit of a time bomb, so although the replacement and the annual service will cost somewhere like the current value of the car, the damage a broken belt would cause would certainly lead to our scrapping the car, which still has some years’ life left in it.

I wish I were surprised at the state of the economy.  As it is, it looks as if the Bank of England will act to protect the pound, whatever our so-called government says.  The latter cannot have long, it seems to me: its policies are doctrinaire and illogical, and I wonder sometimes if its aim is to leave Labour with an impossible recovery task.

Lunch party: first for years.

Pleasant lunch for seven here yesterday: Canadian cousins Susan and Jack, bro John and cousins Philippa and David.  Simple fare: Prosecco and canapés outside on the terrace, a chicken casserole with ratatouille sauce and the last of the home-grown spuds; apple and blackberry crumble.  Though we’ve seen Susan a few times in recent years, it’s ages since I saw Jack, and we had a good catch-up.

Small excitement at the station when Susan and Jack arrived.  Just as we were walking to the car, I noticed it jump a little.  A fellow had swept into the next parking place in a red BMW and clipped the corner of my car.  Very limited dents and scratches, but he made no bones about giving me his business card, and asked me to send him an estimate.  I’ve been down to our local tin bashers this morning, and expect a quote in the next day or two.  

Meanwhile, I’ve had a poorish night with the beginnings of a cold.  I hope I didn’t give it to all the lunch guests.  I did a lateral flow test this morning and it turned out negative: just as well, since J&S embark tomorrow on a cruise ship…

Home, and recovering

It has evidently rained quite a bit while we were away, and the garden is looking better than when we left it.  I took five boxes of cuttings off the grass yesterday, and things that had been sulking are coming back to life, notably Tony's fuchsia and the magnolia Susan, which we feared we might lose.  Far from it: it is flowering, and leafing up nicely.  Plainly somewhat confused.

M

The downside of holidays is that the laundry piles up.  We’ve done three lots over the last couple of days, so are pretty much up to date.  Gosh: the fun we have!

Martyn’s had another session of acupuncture, and thinks he’s feeling some benefit.  We are booked in for our Covid boosters ten days hence at a practice in Crowborough: there was nothing on offer in Disgustedville, which seems odd. 

I had a chat with the orthopaedic surgeon on the phone today, and we’ve agreed that we should sit on our hands for the time being.  The change in my knees continues, but the advice is not to load the knees more than can be avoided: avoid carrying heavy bags and wearing back packs.  Hence, no doubt, why the knees are misbehaving, given our recent trip, which involved both.  Consider walking with a stick.  Auld age disnae come its lane.

NEVER AGAIN

Today’s journey began well enough: we got an earlier than planned train from Bellinzona to Basel, which has the advantage of requiring no change.  It also allowed a bit of ‘just in case’ recovery time, and the delay in leaving Bellinzona was made up in Luzern, where the train changes direction.  That gave us time for lunch in a nice little pitta joint in the long gallery that runs over the middle of Basel SBB station.  

Our TGV to Paris arrived just about on time, but had to make extra stops in Besançon, Montbard and I forget where else.  In the station in Mulhouse, a glance to my right lit on a SIG automatic pistol.  The gendarmes were on board, and in due course a sad-looking skinny kid was ushered off between two hefty flics.  I guess that must have added a good ten minutes to our journey (and doubtless subtracted a lot more from the kid’s liberty).  We consequently arrived 45 minutes late at the Gare de Lyon, to find a long taxi queue and one about as long for the sole working ticket machine in the RER. 

Surprise, surprise, we missed our Eurostar, and could not get bookings in either of the next two.  Fortunately, there were no-shows, so we got seats (some distance apart) on the train that left an hour after the one we were booked on, but only after a long, nerve-wracking wait.  The ride home was mercifully without incident, and we got straight into a taxi at the station, arriving home about fourteen and a half hours after leaving the flat.  

The main and best memory of our trip is the wonderful scenery of the Rhine valley and Switzerland.  But the worst is the awfulness of the travelling experience.  True, we had chosen a pretty challenging itinerary, and one can’t anticipate people throwing themselves under trains - the explanation for our dreadful journey from Cologne to Basel.  But Deutsche Bahn could have done much better by re-routing our original train via Freiburg.  And the legendary efficiency of the Swiss Federal Railway seems to be a thing of the past.  Of course, our last trip to Switzerland was spoiled by our Zürich to London City flight having to return to Zürich when the pressurisation system failed.  We then had to wait hours before returning to Heathrow, and almost missed the last train home.  We no longer do long trips by road, so, unless we stick to cruises, I guess we’ll just have to grin and bear the airport experience.  As Martyn said just now, the waiting areas at St Pancras and the Gare du Nord are just as bad as the airports.

A good last full day in Switzerland

After a long day yesterday, and with a longer one in prospect tomorrow, we decided to have an easy day today.  So we had a leisurely morning, and were only out the door moments before midday.  We took a ride down to Lugano for a suitably unhealthy lunch at the Ristorante Mary.  Our view of the lake was obscured by outside broadcast trucks, but watching them set it all up was quite entertaining.  Having eaten pretty correctly yesterday, and finished off the salad this evening, we don’t feel too guilty about having dined on microwave chicken stroganoff from the Lugano City co-op.  And we didn’t buy any of the vast salamis hanging outside the charcuterie near the funicular!

We have had a lazy afternoon as well: Martyn had a siesta, and I got stuck in to Bill Graham’s latest Dundee whodunit, Love Hurts.  Good stuff, and it deserves to find a publisher soon. 

We have a pretty early start tomorrow, so have done all the packing we can.  Let’s hope the railway experience is as good as it has been yesterday and today.  I’m hoping the next bulletin will be from Forges-l’Evêque…