Let there be light...

The entire day has felt like we've been heading towards the light. 

The grey whisps of sealight were the first as they entered through the salt encrusted porthole. Some idiot hadn't shut the blinds after the ungrateful driver's late night navigation class. The flashing greens, occluding reds, and steadfast whites were now a distant darkening memory. 

The low lying murky cloud town of Le Havre gave way to a road of continuous ascent, endless tiny villages and beautifully elegant stone and brick houses and farmsteads. As we went up past chalky white cliffs, trees surrounded us, giving frame to the sky. 

Then the lights went out. 

In a small connurbation outside Lillebonne someone had said fiat nox. Not Renault Clio. But whatever had happened the head lamp bulb on the driver's side had blown. No wonder we'd been flashed. We assumed it was the traditional French welcome to the English lady driver. After some dramatic mechanics, and flourishing of magic light boxes, we were all fixed and on our way again. 

It really did feel like we were taking a drive to the sky when we crossed the graceful cable-stayed fan Pont de Brotonne. It is apparently a great engineering feat, and in 1977, it was one of the first bridges of this type in the world. We headed out into the huge flat landscape of windmills and crops. 

The sun came out as we sat having a coffee at a convenient loo spot. There was a machine where if you waved your bank card, it dispensed madeleines and coffee. Clearly the light buttery cake and caffeine worked wonders on my research abilities and I was able to regale the driver with tales of the city of Dreux. Of Louis the Fat and Odo of Blois; the French wars of religion; and the Orleans royal family. 

Finally as we started our descent from the agricultural plateau, we saw the towers of Chartres in the distance. I'd read about these spires when I was young, so to see this massively influential piece of architecture was a dream come true. Still, business before pleasure and a necessary lunch was enjoyed before we headed up to the older part of town. 

She was waxing lyrical about the spiral car park Like the swirls of mayonnaise on my eggs, and the strange works of spiral art just outside Le Havre, it had a deceptive simplicity which clearly appealed to her inner engineer. 

The narrow archway which led to the area around the cathedral glistened in the sunshine. The smile of the chap speaking to everyone who passed him welcomed us warmly. All this time we were being prepared for the extraordinary interior of gothic spectacle - and more engineering genius. 

The soaring space above combined with the vibrant stained glass had as much an effect on us as if we were unlettered medieval farmers. Stupified, we looked up to continue reading the stories in the gothic illuminated windows; the biblical and canonical cast of characters had been introduced to us as we entered the building. 

The rococo marble ecstasy of the virgin was bathed in natural light. Although the restoration of the interior has caused outrage, the difference between the before and after is incredible. The whole point of gothic architecture is light and space - the complicated exoskeleton gives it the support without getting in the way. Therefore as the marble and stone is revealed, the true intentions of the architect are being revealed. It is truly inspiring. I hope to return to the stained glass in the future. 

So from the hesitant grey to the exuberant blues and reds glinting in the sunlight, we had reached the brightest point of the day. We knew we had many miles to cover to reach our halt, and as night arrived we hit the roads through the darkening forests, all we could only think of was the sunshine tomorrow. Southwards. Towards the light. 

Sleep-travelling

Over our first proper French lunch in Chartres earlier - the foodie will be blogging that - I was trying to think of international journeys which had happened whilst I slept.

You know the type; proper going to bed in one country, and waking up in another. There was a memorable train journey across a tiny part of Russia in 2006 but I couldn't think of any traversing of borders like yesterday's overnight ferry crossing. 

For the past week or so I've been waking up thinking of this trip. The alarm would go, and my automatic reflex was 'where am I?'. An odd feeling when you're in a static comfy bed, yet clearly I was on the move mentally - crossing some mental thresholds. 

Connected with this alertness is a recent development borne out of Clare's Marvellous Medicine. For whatever reason I need less sleep than I used to, which frankly is a relief. I seem to be consistently staying up later, and awake and actually running around much earlier. 

Not that it's made a difference to my ridiculous ability to hear a gnat fart three miles away. It's still a trial to stay asleep if there is the slightest ripple in the air around me. 

Therefore this trip means pushing my new energy to the limits because, as one night on the road - ok sea - shows, sleep is going to be elusive. Although the sway and rumble of the ferry would probably act as a large cradle to most, I was alert to everything. 

I admit I was also excited to simply be on board. Leaping up to peer out of the porthole at 4am to see how big the waves were was both comforting and exhilarating. 

However the physical and mental exhaustion of travelling so far - no matter how comfortable the car or how often the coffee breaks - will clearly be a challenge. But this slow over-land and over-sea journey really matters. The distance seeps into your sleep and slowly into your consciousness, making you appreciate how far you've come. 

The destination is never as important as the journey; an unoriginal saying, but true, nevertheless. 

All at sea...

Incredibly we left on time. Just. And if you ignore the fact that I missed a go-straight-on so had to tiddle around attempting to get where we were going and also ignore that we went sailing past the ruddy great ferry port it all went swimmingly.

Except that it was way beyond my current driving range so I was struggling a little. Not to worry.

The important thing is we got here, sat and cackled in the car for a bit and finally we made it through to the inner sanctum. Which meant I could finally spend a penny. My middle aged bladder really wasn’t built for this sort of abuse.

Oh, and I got tea. And a toastie. So I’m not complaining.

In fact if you must go on a ferry then do it in the middle of winter on a Sunday at the end of half term week. So quiet!

If you ignore the screaming baby in the next cabin. Which will be joined by the screaming flatmate. I’ll just keep telling her there are sailors on board, that should keep her interested.

Anyway, it’s a sweet little cabin and…

We’re moving!

Skipper watching progress

Which means I’m getting a running commentary that a) we are doing 2 knots, b) that we have a heading of 294 degrees and c) she is reading all the navigation lights.

Oooh, a South Cardinal Buoy!

How many hours will I have this?

At least Monty the Bear is happy.

Adieu England, see you in a few weeks…

4 knots. If you’re interested.

Ready set parp

It's going to be a long two hours down to Portsmouth for the driver. As we calmly and elegantly slid into the excellently packed Contrary Clio, I announced that I had tummy ache. Rather concerned, she enquired if I was ok. Concern then turned into hysterics when I clarified the nature of my tummy turbulence. Yes. We are setting off on our 2000 mile trip with a burst of old fashioned windy-pops. 

Still. I'm sure by the time we've been buffeted by mild cross Channel gales later this evening, a force 2 in the car will seem harmless by comparison. 

To dive right in and immediately start talking nonsense about the road trip seems a little bit previous. Maybe even a little frivolous. I can't even begin to describe the enslaught of emotion that I've experienced this past few weeks. The stationary journey to reach this well organised juncture has been relentless,  and has left me wordless in the face of such changes. 

Unsurprising, being sat in this passanger seat and watching the miles flash by is the first time I've had the leisure to meditate and jot. To be honest, being too busy to think has been a blessing because whenever I've started to process the enormity of this step, I've only ever managed to get my head around the small things. 

Like where heck I was going to get Croatian wine for the leaving party. Or Boots having an offer on sun cream. Or how beautiful Tower Bridge looks in the early morning sunlight. Enjoying drinks and lunches with friends and work colleagues. Giving some of my reference books to the lovely neighbours opposite And finally how helpful the bank lady was when dealing with my rather hit and miss finances. 

Each small thing has been dealt with obsessively. Anything to avoid the rather large matter of being jobless, linguistically challenged, and anticipating and embracing a completely different lifestyle. Ultimately there must be a lesson here; look after and appreciate the small things, and the big things will take care of themselves. I hope. 

Speaking of small things. For as long as there is giggling about Dido going down on this ship; place names such as  Burpham; speeding past the queue of cars at Cobham services; calculating the number of murray mints to the mile; and flatmates with unfortunate tummy timing, our resultant cackling will make the next 1900 miles go by as fast as the first UK stretch of the trip.

Packing too early...

This might raise an eyebrow of incredulity from many that know us, but Clare is bleating on about "this is why it's bad to pack too early". Just to add some context as I write we are less than 22 hours from the point where the ferry leaves Portsmouth.

Still, it's amusing watching someone pack wearing an evening dress. More so when I remember that I've done bugger all and I'm currently reclining, a glass of red in hand and marvelling that this is the last night we'll be bugging each other in Contrary Towers.

Oh and playing music.

At least it's not as loud as the gits that now live next door. There is no real point to this post other than to say that I have little to say, more to the point I don't want to dwell too much on how I feel that this little adventure is about to end but a new, more sparkly and more chaotic is about to begin.

Bring. It. On.

A very Contrary Roadtrip

We’re going on a road trip

It’s going to be a big one

We’re not scared…

What a beautiful day!

But first...

So picture the scene, me laying on my flatmate’s bed, glass in hand, her lounging on her chair, glass in hand, both of us quite squiffy. A typical Wednesday in late January you might say. Inevitably conversation turned to a) the road-trip and b) how the last four years had been which meant c) how much we loved the place and by slurred exclamation how much Clare was looking to being back…

Did I mention we were going on a road-trip? No? More on that later.

Little did we know that the impish gods were listening and they'd really had quite enough of our contrary tendencies. It was time to teach us a lesson.

Which they did the very next day. I was off to lunch with a dear friend when I received the message: “okay, we need to have a natter when you get back”…

Err, but we natter continuously throughout the day. Oh bugger.

Which I then duly put to the back of my mind as I had lunch to enjoy. Little did I know…

…little did I know was that a few minutes after I left she’d received a call from the property agent saying that the landlord wanted to sell the apartment. Our home. My sanctuary. CONTRARY TOWERS! Noooooooooooooooooooooo…

I was a little unsettled.

Whilst you ponder that understatement I’ll continue. We found another place, same building, and we went in all purses blazing, I saw, I made an offer, I even agreed to putting all of the required cash in the agent’s mitts to show how keen we were. All looked good.

Until Thursday. The very next Thursday.

I received the call from the agent this time. The new landlord had changed his mind. He was selling. I might have been cross. I might even have used a word I rarely use when I finished the call. I might have been ready to kill.

But none of that mattered, I now also had to find somewhere to live. Again.

I should mention that I had before the first Thursday nominally secured a new flatmate for whilst Clare was away. Needless to say we’d warned him of the crisis but had kept him in mind if the right place came along, similarly if he found a suitable place I was ready to agree. After all at this point we were 23 days away from the road-trip.

The one that would last best part of three weeks.

Limehouse Basin. So shiny...

A date was agreed to go and look at a place with the potential new flatmate, the thing is I realised that it was probably one of the places that we had been offered so I decided, being a) impatient and b) terrified of losing somewhere for the sake of waiting until Saturday. So on Tuesday morning I squeaked at the agent and within an hour I was standing in Limehouse Basin waiting to view. Again.

Fortunately I loved it.

And again being impatient/nervous/pragmatic/foolhardy I put in an offer there and then with the reasoned view that if said potential flatmate didn’t like it I would surely be able to find someone that would want to live so close to Limehouse DLR.

This is my actual hopeful face.

Rather scarily I had another Thursday to get through, by this point I’m a little angsty about them and I know how Arthur Dent felt now, but all was well and by Saturday things were looking good after multiple changes to the draft lease and a healthy dose of champagne. And on Monday…

…we signed.

But don’t get too excited as there was one further change made so we all had to sign again on Tuesday but that - as they say somewhere or other - was that. Crikey.

So where was I, oh yes…

We’re going on a road trip

It’s going to be a big one

We’re not scared…

What a beautiful day!

When I say big I mean quite big. Croatia, via France and Italy and needless to say we aren’t going the direct route. In fact the plan we have is at best an indication of intention. The sort of thing that’s useful to tell banks so they know which country we’ll be in. The route advertised may change etc., etc., etc.

You know how it works.

The only definite things are…

• We leave Blighty on the 21st of February
• We leave Ancona for Split on the 29th of February
• I, with a new co-conspirator, return to Blighty on the 11th of March

The rest is, well, open to interpretation.

Roughly speaking we will never travel for more than six hours in a day. Maybe. With most hops between places being less than 90 minutes, the exception being Limoges to Toulouse, but I’m sure there will be somewhere to stop in all that green, which will please Monty. The bear. But he’s coming with us so it’s clearly not a bear hunt.

Something to ignore!

• Day 1
• Le Havre as this is where we invade France
• Chartres
• Étampes because that’s where my family came from 
• Chambord
• Bourges
• Day 2
• Aubusson
• Limoges
• Toulouse
• Day 3
• Carcassonne
• Montpellier
• Marseilles
• La Seyne-sur-Mer
• Day 4
• Saint Tropez
• Nice, where we will say adieu la France and head over the border to Italy…
• Ventimiglia
• Savona
• Day 5
• Acqui Terme
• Piacenza
• Cremona
• Brescia
• Peschiera del Garda
• Day 6
• Este
• Chioggia near Venice
• Ravenna
• Day 7
• San Marino
• Ancona…

And the eighth day, as Hazel O’Connor would have sung if she’d realised, we land in Split. I hope somebody has warned them. Actually, scratch that, maybe it’s better if it’s a surprise...

So the question is: are we prepared? Probably not. But how hard can it be?

I think what sums it up best is when a friend of ours said…

2000 miles. In a Clio. With Clare. WCPGW.

On forgotten remembrances

My dad is gone and not gone. The only way I deal with this is forgetting. If I was the drinking sort, this would be a bit of a problem. If I was the career driven sort, I'd be a millionaire. Given that I'm the studious sort, it's a slightly more worthy way of making stuff go away. When I was at university originally, my old life and family in Hereford were gladly and thankfully lost at the back of the mental cupboard. 

As I get older it occurs to me that there is so much else I've forgotten. Not just some of the unreally traumatic bits, but the valuable too. Whether it is a family holiday, an old family friend or even just a pet I used to have, I'm not sure why, whether it's a normal part of age or life. Or whether it's something more perniciously psychological. 

Do people who live in the same village they grew up in, surrounded by physical manifestations of memory retain more? Is my emotional amnesia due to a combination of a thirst for knowledge and the inevitable grief caused by loss.  By looking for connections, have I lost the obvious ones? And by trying to distance myself to avoid being vulnerable, I've actually lost myself. Or are some people hard wired to keep the stories alive and I'm simply not like that?

I've spent so much time avoiding or hiding from family I think I've forgotten it's importance in the cultivation and maintenance of what made me, me. It's not that I want to sit there with a notebook and pen and write my family stories but when I'm with them, they jog so many distant images, its almost unbearable. The sounds of my fathers' friends enjoying themselves is the sweetest music. To sit and listen and simply be is to revert to being twelve. 

I was touched by the memory of my father today in an unusually visceral way. I'm used to my wonderful aunt, and she keeps my dad and grandparents alive in her own unique way. She is so like him in presence. Her voice encapsulates all that I love about them all. The pattern of speech is my grandad and the laugh is pure grandma. She is inspeakably special to me. 

But it was dad's old motorbike police partner that did for me today. I didn't remember the gentleman but inevitably he remembered me. 'Bob's daughter'. I've not been called that for many years and it was like being a kid when I went to meet dad at the police station. His Wirral humour was suitably and familiarly macabre on recounting the usual decapitation/body parts stories, so beloved by ex police officers. I genuinely wish I could run back and ask him everything that he could tell me about dad. God I hope we meet again. 

I am becoming cautious about my year away because I'm sure it's just an escape from negligible responsibilities and an avoidance of an empty familial ache. But in the meantime I'm determined to see everyone more, appreciate and remember how they helped shape me. When I get back, I want to be the best aunt I can me, after all, I have the best role model!