On Remembrance Sunday I drove down to Wiltshire, to meet up with my elderly dad in the village where he, and his fathers family before him, were born and lived.

My grandfather Walter was the youngest of eleven, and three of his brothers were killed in the first world war. Along with their names on the war memorial in the little church on the hill are the names of the other young men from the village who also died , including another trio of brothers, and two further pairs, bringing the total to twenty three.

Losing one child in the most horrible and savage of circumstances must have been unbearable, to lose two or three is beyond comprehension. I cannot begin to imagine how it must have been for the families, living with the constant dread of a telegram arriving with bad news, or perhaps even worse, no news at all because there must have been many who just disappeared in the mud.

To commemorate the 100th anniversary of the end of the war, the village had gathered together and organised a tree planting ceremony in the water meadows leading down to the river Kennet, the same meadows that my brother and I used to play in as children, the same meadows that no doubt these young men walked in and rode through, perhaps fishing for brown trout by the weir, or hunting for birds nests in the woods. And through the trees you could glimpse the big house, the house that my great uncles called home.

We wandered through the field and gathered in bright sunlight, my father sitting on a folding chair in the front, frail and stooped, immaculately dressed with a starched handkerchief in his top pocket and matching tie. In his hands he held a family photograph of his three uncles, flanked on either side by their eight siblings, sitting on a summers evening in the rose filled garden. I imagine this was taken just before they went off to France.

There were at least 200 people there, locals, families, people my father remembered, people who remembered him, some had brought photocopies of gravestones from France, others carried medals, all were there to remember.

We stood in front of the twenty three saplings in silence

A jolly man with rosy cheeks stood up and read out the names, as my father sat upright clutching his photograph, tears streaming down his cheeks. He struggled to get to his feet as the local music teacher played the Last Post on his trumpet. I put on my sunglasses and thought of Lucas and tried to imagine him going off to war

Afterwards we all walked back to the village hall for tea and cake. There were noticeboards with photographs and historical references, my father showed people his photographs and I met someone who remembered my grandfather giving her and her brother liquorice ” in a twist of brown paper” from his pocket before church. Some children from the same village school that my father went to, stood up and sang, reading out poems they had written.The trestle table , groaning with cakes and scones collapsed with a loud crash as people scurried around rescuing squashed sponges and flapjacks. My father is so deaf that he didn’t notice.

And then it was time to leave. As I stood in the car park blinking back the tears a rainbow came out. And as the rooks made their way home to roost on the larch lawn , and the setting sun shone golden on the roof of the house that smells of cooking apples and woodsmoke, I got in the car and headed back to London.

So we had five days driving down to the Dordogne for a wedding and back again, avoiding motorways and wiggling our way through villages past pumpkin patches, acres and acres of dried maize and the remains of sunflower fields, brown and shrivelled. Like here it is apple season and everywhere you looked there were trees laden with fruit alongside neat rows of vines, the grapes black and squat in the golden sunlight.

One of my favourite pastimes ever is visiting a French hyper market, preferably when there is no time or cash limit in place and I can wander up and down each aisle at leisure, gathering up delights such as spotty cutlery, bowls, drinking chocolate, cornichons, shower gel, lemon verbena tea, jars of mustard ( dijon, honey and tarragon) and bags of mustard crisps, (possibly the best flavour of crisps ever invented, sadly not available in the UK) and of course endless amounts of cheese.

Why is it that everything looks and tastes more exciting simply because it’s abroad? Because in some cases it is. The fat buxom tomatoes and melons in the local market were exquisite, and the peaches, white and firm, bursting with juice were to die for. Then again, that far south, they have been grown in rich hot soil with sunshine to ripen them to bursting point, a recipe for delight. And just as well because you needed some consolation for the fact that thanks to the exchange rate you had just parted with the best part of a tenner for a small bag of fruit for the journey home

Ever since I was little I have always had a bit of a fantasy about French food, probably because I have always had a bit of a fantasy about cheese.. but I love things like French onion soup , cheese omelettes, steak frites, pork Normande ( with apples and brandy) and gallettes/crepes, creme caramel, plus obviously baguettes and croissants galore ( ideally with proper apricot or cherry jam) and hot chocolate preferably from a bowl.

Despite the wedding feast and our b and b breakfasts being delicious, the main theme of our culinary tour seemed to feature pizza. It seems that in France everyone loves pizza, and why wouldn’t they? Its just that somehow I felt a bit cheated. The first night we got away with it because it was the first night sort of thing, the second night it was more because we needed something to soak up the pre wedding Aperols and white wine, but frankly by the Sunday night we were only being polite.

As usual we had forgotten the rigid closing times of pretty much everything, meaning that a bustling market square can, as soon as the clock strikes 12.30pm transform itself into a deserted ghost town within minutes, as everyone shuts up shop, closes their shutters and retreats indoors leaving a bevy of slightly bemused and peckish tourists wondering where their lunch went.

It’s the same in the evenings too. On the Sunday evening the (only) village bar was teeming with customers enjoying a glass of wine in the golden sun and were in it for the long haul, though the owner had other ideas. . At precisely 6pm the manager announced that she was closing and promptly started taking in the chairs and closing the umbrellas. Though she had probably been on her feet since the early hours and no doubt was fed up with feeding and watering endless customers all day, given that in a months time or so there would be about 5 customers all weekend instead of 50 in one evening with money to spend, it did seem a little short sighted

On our drive back on Monday we determined that we would manage a good lunch stop somewhere. Our first attempt was greeted with astonishment by the rather large owner who greeted us by asking if we were there for the conference. When I said we were actually there to have lunch he looked incredulous and said ” Non! Ferme!” Three ( closed) cafes later we decided to buy a picnic in the supermarket next to a petrol station. Interestingly the petrol station ( which was a self service machine) also closed at 12.30pm. Do petrol pumps have to have a lunch break too? While T was filling up I went into the supermarket. I had literally managed to load one baguette, two tomatoes and some peaches into my trolley when the shutters went down and a rather fierce woman marched up, took the trolley off me and said very firmly.. yes, you’ve guessed it..the F word…and showed me the door.

By evening, we were pretty hungry and with the help of Google maps identified some nice looking places for supper, making sure we arrived in plenty of time. An hour and half later we had walked past every single one of them and every single one of them was closed. The only option was Burger King by the cinema, full of giggling teenagers on dates and wafts of Lynx. Luckily before giving ourselves over to onion rings and chicken Royale we spotted a tiny place that had lights on. Ok, it only served moules frites ( which as you know I won’t eat) and it smelt of an old people’s home but frankly in the greater scheme of things this was a mere blip. The chef even took it upon himself to rustle me up something that resembled a deep fried Findus frozen pancake full of wallpaper paste but hey, the chips were hot and the wine was cold.

And I already miss it as I sit at my kitchen table munching mustard crisps and brie accompanied inevitably by a pair of perfectly formed cournichons.

Vive la France !

So, the active get up and go bit of my holiday came to a halt with a thump ( literally) when I tripped on the two ( yes, two) steps getting out of my van and broke my wrist. I knew I had done something bad because I felt it break ( sorry if you are eating, it made me want to vomit too) and in my shocked state I remember thinking that perhaps if I got back into bed it would click back into place. However my howling alerted everyone to the fact that all was far from well, so I was bundled into the car and we set off for A and E wearing an assortment of hastily thrown together clothes including  two inside out and back to front jumpers and a full set of pyjamas. 

A and E departments are strange places at the best of times,  hot and airless, a bit like an airport, but without any of the shops or the fact that you going somewhere, and with a bunch of travellers who have obviously missed several days worth of flights. It got off to a promising start as there were only four people in before us, two of whom ( one was called Liam Spink, a marvellous surname) had been in a fight and the one who wasn’t Liam was snoring it off sprawled on the plastic bench with blood spattered down his front. Sadly,it turned out that  four people equalled four hours of waiting time, with a brief nip of morphine in between for me and some unspeakable ploughman pasties for the others, washed down with something that was wrongly labelled as tea. Eventually I got seen by a lovely consultant who cheerfully announced he was going to manipulate my wrist ( which did look rather wonky) back into position using ” conscious sedation”. Frankly, “unspeakable torture”would have been more accurate,  but I appreciate this may not have had such a calm response from me, who at this point was a bit off with the fairies having been hooked up to an intravenous drip of morphine.Looking back , if we had been playing the “would you rather..” game and there had been a choice of manipulation or eating fish every day for the rest of my life,  fish would have won hands ( or at least one hand) down. Anyway,  at the end of this,  with me gulping gas and air as if it was going out of fashion,  and having  hallucinations and  convinced I was driving my car through a tunnel, I opened my eyes and realised I was actually in hospital in Devon. Half an hour later I was plastered up, given several packets of painkillers, an appointment to return four days later, and put back in the car being driven back to camp where I was greeted with hugs, love and a cup of proper tea in a beautiful mug that had been taken form the camping box and decorated by my niece,  so that instead of just saying ” welcome to Canterbury” it now also said “get well soon”. 

The return follow up visit to hospital was a little depressing. My right wrist is quite badly broken and I need an operation to put a metal plate in it. As we were a long way from home and as I can’t drive there was a two day window of operation opportunity before my fellow campers had to start taking days off work in order to ferry me home, if things took longer. Which inevitably they did. Though I was told there was a chance of it happening it didn’t.   Two mornings of “nil by mouth ” action were brought to a halt each morning by a phonecall saying I hadn’t made that days shortlist. But luckily the doctor there did speak to my doctor here so when I finally got back to town and went to hospital they had actually seen my notes. So once again I am on the waiting list. I am resigned to this fate but it is very frustrating and painful, as my wrist cannot heal properly without the operation, so it feels a bit like running against the tide, and its amazing how little I seem able to do with one good left arm.  However today I managed to wash my hair ( with the aid of my rather scary looking plastic arm protector which looks a little like an elephants condom, if you can imagine such a thing) and to put on some deodorant, which I’m sure must bring pleasure  to those around me.

The joy of our camping holiday each August is that we are all old friends, a tribe of family and kindred spirits who have gathered together in the same field for the past 25 years or so, people coming  and going through the years, kids who we brought as babies now bring their friends, friends bring other friends, families come back after not coming for a while, old faces re appear like rays of sunshine, absent loved ones are remembered and toasted around the fire, all joined by the common thread of family, friendship, fresh air and a love of waterproofs. And my goodness there is no one else in the world I would rather be around when the chips are down. 

You know who you are. You have cooked and washed up for me, dried my tears, done up my trousers, cut up my breakfast, my lunch, brought me presents from the car boot sale, driven me to and from hospital ( and beyond) hugged me, made me laugh, opened the marmite jar and spread butter on my toast as I struggle to learn to be left handed.You have cleaned and sorted the camp, packed my van, packed my car, driven me home, done my seat belt up for me, unpacked at the other end, rolled up my bell tent and mattresses ( and fitted them back in the bag). The only thing you havent had to do for me is to wipe my bottom, a fact that we are all heartily grateful for. But the thing is, I know any one of you would have done so if needed.

Thankyou for all you did for me. I love every single one of you, and even though the pots and pans are still in the crate in my kitchen and my bedding still smells of woodsmoke,  I am already looking forward to next August. And being able to play my recorder again. 

After a long and sweaty night of tossing and turning in what felt like an oven ( attic bedroom) I got up and went for an early lido swim which was gloriously cool and sparkling. Even at that hour there were lots of people, in particular my favourites, mums and kids who swim before school. Though how on earth they manage this is surely a testament to perfect parenting, as  there would have been no way on earth we would have ever got this together AND got to school this side of lunchtime. 

There have been many re incarnations of cafes at the lido through the years, some good, some mediocre and some I have forgotten. The current beach hut kiosk  is  a lesson in how not to run a cafe on a hot bustling morning. Anyone in their right mind can see how easy it would be to rake  in the pennies with minimum effort by serving hot ( not luke warm) teas and coffees and fresh croissants that didn’t taste of dried cardboard like the leftover wizened specimens that were on display today. All this would be forgiven in a trice if distributed with anything resembling a smile or a hint  of warmth but this was unavailable in both the coffee and the customer service. 

There was a lot of muted mumbling and grumbling as we all queued in our towels in typically British fashion, while the man in the kiosk scowled at us. In the end I gave up and came home to make myself my very own piping hot cup, but it does make you wonder why they bother in that sort of “I am doing you a favour even being here…and what??? You actually want a coffee?” kind of attitude. Oh God I sound like an old person. 

I know some people love this heat but I find it very challenging, and have even been perusing the Argos catalogue to see if we really could fit in a swimming pool between the chicken house and the roses. Its all very well if you are by a beach or under a tree in the shade, but a journey on the tube yesterday was torture, even compared to the number 68 bus which seems to have reversed its inefficient ventilation system so that the heating is full on in summer and dead as a doornail in winter. Seven stops on the northern line with my nose pressed into a selection of fellow passengers armpits was an experience to be missed at every possible opportunity. Why on earth can’t we even sort out proper air conditioning? I feel sorry for the poor souls who have to endure this nightmare at the start and end of each day because its grim beyond words. 

The allotment is bearing up, but the ground is like concrete, making it impossible to plant much out without the aid of a pneumatic drill, but the sweetcorn is growing apace and the artichokes were magnificent. Each year they get better and better and we enjoyed numerous suppers at their expense, so all is well in our small oasis of vegetable heaven at the bottom of the garden. Even the bees have decided not to swarm again and the beds around their hives are rich with flowers and herbs, perfect forage for their sweet honey.

For the last couple of weeks I have been helping out with the Refugee community kitchen London outreach team ( some of you may  remember my blogs after cooking with them in Calais). There is a group of volunteers who turn up  to cook, prep and serve hot meals three times a week in North and East London. Serving supper from a trestle table outside designer shops and restaurants, to people who are hungry and vulnerable is a stark reminder of how incredibly lucky we are to have choices and privilege, and each time I come home humbled and angry  that this is happening in 2018. I am hoping to get something up and running in Southwark with the RCK in the autumn so watch this space. 

And it is almost time to start getting the camping stuff out and to make lists. I have put the recent photos of N Devon looking like Greece with turquoise sky and exquisite jade green sea to the back of my mind,  because I cannot allow myself that tiny spark  of hope that this year, just for once, it might not start raining as soon as I reach the turn off to Barnstaple… 

Have a happy heat filled weekend everyone 

Hearing of the tragic suicide of Anthony Bourdain last night made me think of his wonderful book ‘Kitchen confidential” which I remember devouring one summer  in North Devon. To me, having a good book on the go  is up there with cooking on the beach, outdoor swimming, Earl grey tea, Japanese rice crackers  and cheese. 

I didn’t finish  a book for about two  years after Tim died. For some reason my mind just couldn’t focus long enough as I hopped   from title to tile , hoping desperately that one would hold my imagination long enough to untangle my jumbled mind and soothe me into a vestige of calm in order to contemplate sleep. 

There  are certain books that stay with us, much loved dog eared copies sitting on the bookshelves that have seen us through childhood, adolescence to middle age  (yes, I said it)  and all that comes between, like a favourite coat or a pair of boots. 

When I was young,  Moomintroll  and Mrs Pepperpot were my bedtime companions, along with Pippi Longstocking, Uncle ( an elephant who lived in a castle), Grimble ( a story about a latchkey kid which combined story and recipes), and What Katy did ( I can’t for the life of me remember), CS Lewis and E. Nesbit and Little House on the Prairie. Even younger adventures were with  Babar, Ant and Bee, Dr Seuss ( green eggs and ham) Topsy and Tim and Janet and John from  the Ladybird series,  which are better known these days for their very funny re written editions.

However, the ones I remember the most were the  books about ponies ( such was my love for them). I have just found one of these, smelling slightly of woodsmoke with yellowed pages. ” Horse in the house” a spectacularly badly written story about a very smug child called Melanie  and her palomino stallion Orbit. While  her parents are away she decides to move Orbit into the house with her. You can imagine.This theme came back to me about 15 years ago on meeting my birth dad for the second time, the first having being 30 years before  that when I was a newborn baby. We went into his kitchen to make a cup of tea, and I noticed that each of the terracotta tiles on the floor had regular cracks in each corner. His reply when I asked how they got there was ” Oh, that’s when I had the horse living in the house”. And you can bet your bottom dollar that if he had written about it his story would knocked Melanie and Orbit out of the water in the bestseller list

The first books I started  reading for myself were ‘Swallows and Amazons’, sadly now so dated that my own children just couldn’t understand the appeal , with the characters now seeming stuffy and priggish. But seriously, who could not want to be Nancy?  Or Jo from ‘Little women”? 

At boarding school books were a bit like albums, some you had because they were cool, like  ‘On the road’, though I always preferred the book written by Kerouacs then girlfriend Joyce, or’Catcher in the Rye’, again I found his’Franny and Zooey’ more accessible, or others simply because you loved them and would fiercely  defend their presence on your  book shelf. . As a teenager I read voraciously, everything written by Daphne du Maurier, Edna O Brien and HE Bates, and pretty much every book Gerald Durrell ever wrote, to the point that I decided I wanted to ‘work with animals’ ( along with everyone else) .  I loved the way he wrote, with such rich descriptions and humour, even though the ‘pigeon  english’ in the ‘ Bafut  Beagles ‘might be considered unacceptable nowadays. Jane Eyre and The Ginger man  fuelled my love of words, and Thomas Hardy became, and still is, a favourite and ‘Far from the madding crowd’ would be a contender in my top ten. 

Travel books have always been my stalwart,  my go to section in the bookshop, guaranteed to satisfy. If pushed, one of my all time favourite travel writing authors EVER is Dervla Murphy. Anyone who hasn’t  read ‘Full tilt’ needs to take themselves off to Waterstones without delay. Similarly Eric Newby and Alexandra David Neal. 

Reading this back has made me realise that there is so much more , so many more books that I have loved, that have made me think about things, have influenced me, have sowed the seed in my soul. I couldnt  go on without mentioning’Midnights children’ or “100 years of solitude’, Margaret Atwood, Isabelle Allende, Barbara Kingsolver.. I could go on and on and on.

So I will end with a qoute  from JP Donleavy , quite the most brilliant of writers, author of ‘The Ginger man’ one of the funniest books I have ever read and a reminder of youth and love . He is trying to avoid his landlord, the unpleasant weasel of a man Mr Skully

Dear Mr Skully,

I have caught my neck in a mangle and will be indisposed for eternity.

Yours in death 

Sebastian  Dangerfield 

So we seem to have had the driest couple of days on the Kennet and Avon, while the rest of the country seems to have had the wettest. I have to admit feeling a little cheated when hearing  of torrential monsoon like showers, when all around us the skies were heavy and grey, it was unbelievably humid, and the storms never really got off the ground, apart from a bit of lightning. I did manage a swim in the river which was deliciously cold enough to chill the blood,  but it really was  very very hot on the water 

At this time of year the canal is full of ducklings, impossibly sweet with their little fuzzy heads and frantic peeping. I was constantly on the lookout for an orphan to adopt and bring home ( though getting this past the Captain would have been challenging). The banks are brimming with yellow irises, water mint, purple thistles, cow parsley and mounds of grasses which reminded me of a scene from one of the Babar  books. The swifts are in full force swooping for flies and vibrant blue dragonflies perch on the railings as we trundled past and it really is very beautiful indeed. 

On the second day we ended up going through the locks with a couple we named Peter Perfect and Penelope Pitstop. Its always quicker to go through locks with another boat and makes for a pleasant bit of a natter and chit chat as you wait for the levels to  change so the gates can be opened. Often you happen upon people who you can have a laugh with and you do meet some very interesting fellow boaters en route of all ages and types, some who live on their boats full time, some like us who move every two weeks, and others who have hired a boat for a holiday. It’s also a great way to find out what is going on in boat world and ideal for someone like me who is always up for a bit of a gossip. 

Peter Perfect and Penelpoe Pitstop were of the smarter boating variety, all brass and gadgets,  and they wore matching gloves,  with Penelope sporting a pair of safety goggles. Their boat was polished and shiny and even had air conditioning. The only comment they could think of in praise of Rusty B was that they liked our ropes ( which indeed are rather splendid, bright red and new, though their newness does rather emphasises the oldness of everything else). We were secretly relieved when they moored up in order to do some shopping and we made our way onwards without them 

As we get nearer to Reading and towards the start of the Thames,  the canal merges with the river,  causing very strong currents and at one point we had to be very careful because one false move, or engine failure, would have meant being swept down the weir that went off to one side of the river. A half sunk boat was a reminder of how powerful the torrent of water is. As we approached this particular stretch we passed a boat which had a chicken house on the top, with several happy lookingchickens  pecking about inside. Well you can imagine the conversation that followed. All I can say is it ended in a very loud very firm ‘NO’. Though to be honest, although  they looked fine, keeping chickens on anything other than grass/earth/dirt isn’t great for them in the long run, but anyway those of you who know me are no doubt aware that this is not the end of the chickens on boats conversation..

We ended up going further than originally planned,but this is the joy of boating. You can’t ever be in a rush so you may as well just go with the flow if you’ll pardon the expression. A lot of  each days journey depends on where we can leave the car and how far I feel like cycling down the tow path to meet the boat, but yesterday everything fell into place and we just carried on. Until we went through a swing bridge ( which is always quite exciting when they are electric ones and you put a key in and barriers come up across the road with sirens blaring and the traffic has to wait until the bridge swivels open, then shut). I left the keys in the lock , a fact that I only realised when we were off again. T attempted to reverse  so we could tie up again and I could retrieve them. Unfortunately at this moment the gear box decided to break and the current forced us across the river and straight into a large wide beam that was moored on the other side with a loud bang. We then floated along trying to steer the nose of the boat into the bank,  until we got near enough for T to jump off into the knee high grasses and nettles as between us we managed to pull the boat in . At this point ( obviously) it began to pour with rain.

So once again Rusty B is indisposed and awaiting the arrival of T’s  trusty boat mechanic,  who no doubt had no idea how well acquainted he would become with us in such a short period of time. But as we said last night, as we laughed and trawled through the internet looking for a taxi to take us back to the car, things could always have been worse. Rusty B will live to fight another day and we will be back on the water soon, of that there is absolutely no doubt. 

There is a bird who lives in the hawthorn tree outside the bedroom window, who wakes me up as it gets light,  with its piercing and intermittent  song, which sounds exactly like someone blowing up their air mattress ( a sound I used to associate with the first day of our summer camping in Devon, before we all graduated to swanky but essential self inflating ones). This is before all hell breaks lose when the bin men arrive with their banging and crashing and slamming of garden gates.

One of my favourite early morning sounds used to be those that my chickens made  when I let them out first thing, before Mr Fox made off with them ( or ripped them to pieces before leaving them lying around the garden to be more precise). There was something soothing and rhythmic about their gentle pootling and chirruping as they rooted about for worms and picked through leftover pasta and greens. Early mornings in the garden with the first cup of tea of the day do not feel quite the same these days without them. 

I remember waking up on my first day  in Arizona, and standing on the balcony in that hazy heat soaked early morning, looking out over the wide avenue below my bedroom with palm trees and blurred silhouettes of the hills  in the distance, and listing to the dawn chorus. It simply couldn’t have been more different than the familiar sounds of early morning Camberwell with all the exotic cawing and screeching that was going on below, and some weird deep honking and booming sound as if someone was pressing an old and rather tired car horn. Later that week I went to stay in the mountains, and as I feel asleep I could  hear coyotes howling in the night sky, the blackest night sky I have ever seen,  with sparkling silver swathes of stars strewn across the blackness as if someone had thrown a silver necklace up into the air. 

When I was little, the sound I associated most with early mornings was the swish and hiss of the sprinklers which were timed to go on and off, waging war against the searing summer Tokyo heat in an attempt to bring the scrubby sharp grass to heel, taming it to resemble that of an English country garden, a reminder of home, when home was very far away. 

And to counteract the theme of early summer mornings,  and for a reality check there is always the gentle pitter  patter ( or not so gentle) sound  of rain on the roof of the van or my bell tent in August before I get up,  accompanied by the raucous sound of the sheep in the next field, impatient for their breakfast. 

This weekend  has been very hot, hot enough to imagine that in fact I am in Spain or India, rather than South London. On Saturday I was up and in the lido by 8am, early enough to escape the hoards, already hot enough to dry my wet footprints  in minutes, and the water cold enough to chill my bones at the same time as fuelling my soul. In my world nothing beats an outdoor swim, particularly at the quay, but the lido comes a pretty close second. And coffee, a croissant and Saturdays Guardian were the perfect companions. 

The park at the end of the garden where I am writing this,  is a hive of activity, a cacophony of noise, the noise of of kids shouting as they run up and down the slides and on the swings,  footballs being flung against the railings, dogs barking and the rhythmic clip clop of balls  on  tennis rackets,  as everyone comes out in the cool of the evening to play. 

Like every other street in London tonight,  the smell of barbecues is wafting through the golden evening, mingling  with the thick heady scent of the May tree and the sweet sickly orange blossom that clings to the branches like candy floss by the garden wall. 

And as I have just remembered that there is some salted caramel ice cream in the freezer, and an episode of The Bridge to watch I wish you all sunshine and love and hope that this time next week we aren’t all sitting at home with the heating on. 

If you look up ‘canal boat holidays’ I can guarantee that somewhere there will be a photo of an idyllic boating  scene, as a quaint narrow boat chugs slowly up the canal, alongside ducks and swans,  the golden evening sun casting long shadows over the rolling hills in the distance, a sun kissed and relaxed looking couple at the helm, chatting and waving cheerily at passing boaters, glasses of wine in hand, watched by friendly locals who lean over old brick humpback bridges with dogs frolicking at their heels. 

Let me offer you the reality, the real, no messing, no frills,  mud and rain filled alternative that was us last weekend. If you are looking for some kind of endurance challenge  , and fancy being in ” It’s a knockout” without the costumes then look no further. 

Usually we have the transport logistics of car and boat pretty sorted. We work out where we are going to finish up, I drive the car there, park up ( without any problem unless trying to do this in the middle of a large town). Then I get my bike out of the boot and cycle back down the towpath until I meet the boat. Bike gets slung on roof and we carry on our way. 

I love cycling down the towpath, particularly as Spring approaches as there  are tiny lambs hopping about in the fields and the woods are full of wild garlic. The other day I saw a large mink swimming in a leisurely fashion across the canal. A woman walking her dogs said that they often see them and they aren’t frightened of attacking and killing ducklings and moorhens. Another walker  told me that swans have been known to pick up small dogs and drown them if they were foolish enough to venture too near their nests or cygnets. As someone who was brought up on the Ladybird books I am under no illusion that swans can break your arm, so stay well clear at all times, though those large Canada geese are really scary and sometimes waddle after my bike hissing. Some of the ducks are really tame,  and one even clambered up the gangplank the other morning  in search of scraps and was rewarded with muesli  and bacon rind. Sometimes you see herons, standing like statues until the absolute last minute when they take flight, huge wings creaking as they swoop out of sight. And we often see kingfishers, a flash of shimmering blue, blink and you miss them.

The boat averages a brisk walking pace,  and we usually end up leaving the car around 5 miles or so up the canal each day , which is a respectable and at times invigorating,  bike  ride. We do this every morning we are boating, and gradually meander our way up ( or down) the relevant canals, in this case the Kennet and Avon. It works pretty well mostly. As there are segments of the canal that we have gone up and down several times it can get a bit confusing and there have been times that I have started off cycling  the wrong way,  though usually realise before wasting too much time and energy.

Though Saturday was mostly a steady but inoffensive drizzle, I had underestimated the days and days of rain that had preceded it and it soon became apparat that the towpath was a sea of thick, gloopy and black mud. In some places you cycle right along the edge of the water and it would take a second to skid, slip and end up with an undignified splash in the canal. Having done this once ( one night when I got up to go to the loo, mis judged the gang  plank and went in ) I have no desire ever to do it again, mostly because on pulling myself out I got very stung by stinging nettles but also because the canal is the colour of stew and filthy. Plus I’m not sure I would be able to get the bike out on my own. 

After  a mile or so of stopping,  starting , slithering, wheels clogged up with mud and grass , like pushing a dead horse through slime  I gave up and carried the bike. For about four miles. And obviously it was a four miles with absolutely no sign of a shop, or a pub or indeed a phone signal. And I had left my bike lock in the car even more obviously before one more of you asks” why didnt you just lock your bike up somewhere and walk?” All I can say is that I was not laughing when I was finally reunited with the boat and the bike remained tied to the roof for the rest of the weekend

Sunday didn’t even pretend to be brightening up and because we had to, we set off, first in raincoats and by lunchtime in full waterproof outfits, mud spattered boots , damp sweaty faces as we jumped on and off into the mud, struggling with ropes and locks that hadn’t  been greased  since time began, with broken paddles and huge heavy gates that did their best to swing back against you and knock you flying. 

Somehow we managed it unscathed and with humours intact, with only one incident when one of the plastic glasses got knocked over and when I turned to look for it almost drove into the bank. We rewarded ourselves for all this effort, with a full roast Sunday lunch when we finally moored up, roast beef with all the trimmings cooked in the remarkably small but efficient boat oven. 

And then, because we had go back to where we had started from that morning and get the car,  we walked across the fields to the village pub where we were certain we would be able to call a cab to take us back to it. Wrong. The pub was very firmly closed. There was not a soul around. Even the noticeboard on the village green yielded nothing apart from details of the sewing group and community meal in the village hall,  though we could possibly have caught a bus in the right direction if we felt like waiting till the following Tuesday. We sat on a bench outside the ( closed) post office in the rain and googled various cab companies. It didnt go well. The recipients seemed genuinly astonished that anyone in their right minds would want to be out and about on such a night, let alone might have the audacity to be calling a cab company  for a cab. One ancient sounding gent actually said he was on his way to bed ( at 8.30pm). By this time we were completely soaked through ( again) and laughing hysterically. ” we have come on a narrow boat holiday by mistake” / Withnail and I moment. After an hour or so we managed to find someone who didnt think our request was unusual. I met her in the pitch black car park by the bridge. I put pages of the Observer in the passenger footwell so as not to cover her immaculate car in mud and left the over ripe Brie hanging on the fence to collect on my return. On the way we drove through the forest, it reminded me of other journeys that way in my youth, to collect my dad from the station, and the time when our car hit a deer. Past the beautful house that Pete Doherty rented and trashed, past the place where I used to go riding. She dropped me off at the car and I returned to the bridge to collect T, the bike and the Brie and we drove back to London, to hot baths and cool clean sheets.

And even though it was an outward bound challenge, and I still feel as if my entire body has been put through a mangle, now I am back at my kitchen table with clean hair and dry socks I rather miss it. Perhaps after all I really need to move back to the country. 

I have just been watching a Netflix documentary about a totally gorgeous small boy who travels the world with his parents who in turn are effortlessly beautiful and ( obviously ) fantastic surfers, though his dad could also double up for James Taylor so I immediately loved him. 

 The blonde five year old  ( whose name is Given) narrates the film throughout as they  hop from Mexico to Morocco, Africa to Alaska, in search of waves, living in shacks on the beach or the inevitable old bus ( I’m not bitter or envious or anything), ending up in Fiji where his grandparents live in a house with a roof made from woven palm fronds , his grandfather looking like Robert Redford with blond hair down to his waist and a scarlet sarong. So Given and his little sister live this seemingly idyllic life, barefoot and tousled hair, necklaces of shells and flowers in their hair, learning to fish and hunt and swimming like seal pups. And what an extraordinary childhood.  It reminded me of the film ‘Captain Fantastic’ which if you havent seen, do so. 

One of the things they did during one of their many evenings on the beach reminded me of an afternoon  in Camberwell, an episode still laughed about all these years later. The Mongolian pit oven supper. Ok, there wasn’t a Mongolian in sight but the method remains the same.  I had seen this somewhere and decided it was a very good idea,  so after a lot of build up and feverish anticipation ( I stopped just short of putting an advert in the South London press) we invited friends over  for a feast one sunny Sunday afternoon. We  dug a pit in our garden and then filled  the hole with very hot coals which then create a sort of outdoor oven. Having seasoned and wrapped some chickens in banana leaves ( that looked like something out of a hipster recipe book such was their beauty) we then placed them in the hole and covered them over with the coals. I seem to remember someone even took a photo of this momentous and exciting culinary exercise such was our great excitement. Three hours later we were all quite hungry ( and a large amount of  alcohol had been consumed) Again, the camera came out for the great digging up moment as we removed the coals to reveal two completely raw chickens. Obviously the damp soggy earth of South London was no incentive to anything with an ounce of dignity to even consider cooking itself,  and we ended up putting them in the kitchen oven.  Finally we ate at about 9pm by which time we were past sensible speech,but it was very funny. 

 I have since refined the art of cooking outdoors,  and indeed cooking over and in the fire with the aid of my trusty Dutch oven known with great affection as Ronnie Sunshine. Nothing phases Ronnie, chickens roast in an hour, succulent, bursting with flavour and fresh herbs, baked potatos bake properly with none of that burnt flavour ( forget the ” it doesnt matter, I love the taste of charcoal”) you can even bake bread and cakes. You just get the fire to a perfect stage ( we have in house fire boys who fight for this job) place the glowing coals around him, put the lid on and hey presto. Nothing better to revive the spirits after a hard day of sitting on the beach in the rain. 

I am trying to remember if I have ever actually camped in the snow and seem to remember that yes, one Easter we camped in the orchard and woke up certainly to a very heavy frost, if not actual snowfall . I have loved the snow we have just had, but its time for it to go. Now there is no more snow forecast in London everything is slippery and grey and so cold. I would like to be able to get back on my bike without falling over and to be able to scamper up my front steps without worrying about breaking my leg on the black ice. They don’t seem to have remembered that you are meant to grit the roads around here. Then again we have had it very easy compared to those who have been stuck in their cars and on unheated trains for hours on end,  and our corner shop is well stocked and less than a minutes slither away. 

The boat is currently stuck in the ice ( Kennet and Avon, not Antarctic as I know the term” stuck in the ice ” sounds rather over dramatic) but  as temperatures start  to rise it will start to thaw out. You have to be quite careful moving boats  in the ice (though it would probably be rather exciting), as it’s so easy to damage them. As I sit in my warm bed writing this I am trying not imagine the state of our duvets which we left on board, probably now stiff with frost and damp and extremely unappealing. 

Whatever you are up to today, do it safely. And stay warm. 

So, my lectures and workshops are cancelled for the next four weeks, which is pretty much up until the end of term. I suppose it might get called off and not go the whole time but who knows ? 

It’s a tricky one. I wholeheartedly support the strike action because they are protesting  against an unjust and unfair system, which as usual means that those at the top get all the cake,  leaving everyone else to the crumbs. 

But, I am also very disappointed that I have had precisely one workshop this half of term and that’s it. Now I know I am only in the first year,  and a part timer and it doesn’t affect me in the way that it will impact on many others, like the lovely young woman who was here having tea the other day and is in the final year of her degree , at the stage when a month of no tutorials/lectures or support is pretty devastating. Or T with her PHD commitments. But the management MUST be held to account, and strike action is the best way to go about this,   because if we let them get their own way there will be even less lecturers willing or able to afford to be here at all , which will in turn have a knock on effect and everyone loses out. Already it feels as if students get the absolute bare minimum of contact hours anyway and its impossible to imagine how further education will survive unless we make a stand. About 300 years ago when I was at Camberwell we saw our tutors pretty much all the time plus it was FREE. Something has gone very wrong indeed with our system and it is vital that we nurture our young people and that universities operate in a fair and transparent manner so that they and tutors  feel valued and respected. 

On a completely different subject, today I took  the bus from Camberwell to Paddington. As in the way of things,  despite it being very cold, the bus seemed to be fully functioning on air conditioning , just as when on the rare occasion there is a heat wave in London the heating is always on  ( particularly on the 68 for some reason). Anyway, in an attempt to divert myself from slipping into a hypothermic coma I started noticing that there seemed to be a collection of random objects on top of the bus shelters that we passed. They were as follows

Large selection of bin liners

Two pairs of trainers

One pair of wellies

Newpapers and assorted mags

A traffic cone

Window box with dead pansies

Dustbin lid

Broom ( 2)

Books

Cardboard boxes

And the most interesting …about 20 spring onions all laid out in a pattern…perhaps some kind of weird onion cult?

Goodnight all