Tag Archives: travel

OF CREAM TEAS & PARADISE

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My husband and I, spent a wonderful three days in South West Cornwall last week at a self-catering cottage located just outside Porkellis.

Ruby Farmhouse Cottages were simply stunning both in their location and standards of comfort. We stayed at the quirky named “Dingley Cottage” which is their smallest property on the farm. Whilst it was not expansive it was pretty, well equipped and perfect for us as a couple to use as a base to explore the area.

We arrived at around 3.45pm on Wednesday afternoon with the ubiquitous Sat-Nav having guided us door to door at the end of some very narrow lanes that were great fun to drive on. The cottage was lovely and the photos from the website don’t really do it justice. There was a wonderful cream tea with fruit scones left out by Arran, whom we had arranged the booking which was a very thoughtful touch.

The cottage was fitted out with all the modern amenities that you could wish for and yet still retains an old world charm. There was a pretty table with chairs in the kitchen area and the lounge had a T.V with satellite Freeview that we studiously avoided during our stay. The wardrobe in the main bedroom had lots of hangars and space for storage and the double bed was extremely comfortable. There was a small bathroom en-suite with shower that had both the decent water pressure you want and seemingly un-ending hot water.

Outside, there was a log built table and chairs in the secret garden which was a great  spot to enjoy a glass of wine and look up at the stars coming out in the evening. In the same area, a barbecue was provided but we chose to eat out and took full advantage of the excellent traditional English pub called The Star Inn that is a five-minute walk-up the hill on our first night.

We spent Thursday exploring and made it to the Lizard which is the most southerly point in England. There is a cove and some interesting café’s and tourist type shops. A top look-out is the fake Gorilla sat in someone’s front garden as you drive down the little lanes towards the point. As with everywhere around this part of the world the views were spectacular.

We also went to Falmouth with its surprising combination of the traditional and modern. One end of the town centre is all quirky art galleries and seafood restaurants and the other a typical modern town centre. The harbour is great for a walk, to watch the boats speeding across the bay and enjoy the sea air. We also made it to St Ives and one of the best known landmarks of this part of Cornwall – St Michaels Mount.

I thoroughly recommend brown sign chasing as we spent a couple of wonderful hours following them to interesting places that we would never have found otherwise. We loved the Tremayne Chocolate Factory with it’s resident llamas in the next field along (I am not making this up) and spent a fortune on handmade chocolates.

On Friday we had booked something a bit special through Dingley Cottage –  a morning of sketching the landscape with a local artist Greg. We arrived at the Eco Project in Sancreed after thoroughly enjoying a scenic drive through traditional Cornish villages at the appointed time. I will be doing another post on this little excursion as it was absolutely brilliant and far removed from the usual beach and sand castles, you expect in this part of Cornwall.

Saturday saw us very sad to say goodbye to Dingley and leave the beautiful area behind;  we stopped off at the River Cottage Restaurant and Deli in Axminster, Devon (run by the celebrity chef Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall). The food was superb and lessened the blow, a bit.

I think when we next visit Cornwall we will choose “Dingley Cottage” again. The scene was so well situated that nowhere was out of reach. It was secluded yet central at the same time and the special trip we made with the local artist was just the icing on an otherwise already overflowing cake. Three days was definitely not long enough and I am hoping to return.

We found our own little slice of English heaven.

Comments, as always, welcome.

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PERFECT MOMENTS

There are periods of your life, where the smiles come easier and a feeling of calm and wonder pervades. Do not let these moments go, hold on with both hands if necessary, because you are blessed. How much of life passes by in a blur of forgotten small stresses? The shoes you can’t find. The train or bus you miss. The child that will not get dressed and is late for school. Being passed over at work. There are a thousand tiny things that fill us with thoughts of our own powerlessness and inadequacy and yet…

There are also the small times that shine a light on all the goodness and the greatness. They rarely involve mountains of cash or trophies, but they make you feel like you are exactly where you should be. That it really is, a wonderful and interesting world. That you can meet your dreams if you just reach out open-handed.

I call these the “perfect moments” and they last a lifetime. My life is made up of these small wonders; the bits in between – often fuzzy and out of focus. There is often a graininess to other memories, almost as if they begin fading out even as we’re making and storing them. A perfect moment can be recalled in a heartbeat, its freshness, the smells and sounds, retained in perfect Technicolor detail. I like to think of it as life in HD.

Today’s moment was walking in the sunshine at a hot air balloon festival.  My husband reached out to take my hand and pull me just a little closer. It wasn’t a statement of undying love or an expensive piece of jewelry. There were no diamonds and rubies in tissue paper. But that moment was one of the most romantic of my life. Because he wanted me in his space, to touch me in front of a thousand other walking spectators and he wasn’t even thinking about it.

The Albuquerque, New Mexico International Ball...

The Albuquerque, New Mexico International Balloon fiesta. (October 2007) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It made me feel loved, wanted and content. I’ll cherish it and put it away in a box of memories reserved for the not so perfect times.

Comments as always, welcome.

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ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

airport

Airports are beautiful and unique places with a mystique all of their own. If you are a seasoned business traveller, you are probably scoffing at this statement. After all, who hasn’t been stuck in a place when we desperately need somewhere else, a life delayed, on hold (road-sick and life weary and separated from kin by events outside our control) we are paused for a few hours waiting on the all clear – the planes fixed (don’t panic), the baggage handlers have decided to go back to work or the freak weather has suddenly departed and we continue homeward bound – with a story to tell.

Put aside your disbelief for a moment and see the scene through my eyes. I am in Heathrow Terminal Five departures land-side waiting for a client meeting to start. I sit taking in a few quiet moments to write this blog and I can’t help but feel small in this large open space.

Across from me are travellers – business and pleasure, who sit quietly sipping overpriced caffeine bombs with fancy names, staring at electronic readers (a few still holding paperbacks newly purchased, spines un-creased) or on laptops and notebooks. There is a family almost bricked into their chairs by a superfluity of luggage and essential domestic necessities. You just know that this is their one annual holiday – having scrimped and saved, they will go and make memories somewhere.

Raw, honest emotions saturate these places. The walls seem to drip with the feelings of families saying goodbye or hello to loved ones, foreign exchange students arriving (excited) or going home (older, wiser?) and lovers stealing a final passionate kiss before they part or as they re-unite.

Then there’s the musical 1, 2, 3, tannoys, announcing disasters and departures, “Will Mr Smith, please report to Gate 69 or we are going without you.” I can almost see the collective groan of passengers on the flight as the captain informs them that they need to take Mr Smith’s luggage off (it was the first bag on). If he makes this flight there will be some serious tutting.

I love the electronic boards displaying memories in the making with exotic names. I wonder where these places are and who lives there? What’s the climate like? Will it be hot, cold or temperate? What would you pack? It’s the possibility and opportunity. They feel like stories in the making: beginnings, middles and ends.

I think I might need a holiday…..

THREE THINGS I HAVE WRITTEN THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

1. A short story.

2. A love letter.

3. An apology.

1. A short story.

Most daughters believe that their relationship with their fathers is special and I am no exception to this rule. Knowledge, stability, laughter and tears have all come from the man, I measure all others too – My Dad.

Though he was absent for a great deal of time during my childhood with the forces overseas (as a Royal Navy Diver) – he had a profound effect on me, complex and amazing; he reads trashy thrillers, the classics and unfortunately Jeffrey Archer – let’s not hold that against him. He does Tai-Chi. He likes wild flowers and geology. He transferred to me his curiosity and knows stuff about everything in that God-like way that dad’s do. He also gave me a nuclear grade sarcasm gene.

I woz ere.

The Island off the coast of southern England where I grew up was surrounded by shipwrecks. Dads’ passion for being underwater extended past his job and when home he was often out leading a dive enthusiast group.

For anyone who has dived you will already know that the Holy Grail is finding the Ships Bell as these are one of the first items that get recovered on any discovery of a new wreck. Sitting on Priory Bay waiting for the little diving party to return from the “Wheat sheaf”, I was lucky enough to witness my dad emerging from the water triumphant.  Made even more unusual because the wreck had been regularly dived for over seventy years.

I wrote a short story about this dive and how the ship ended up a wreck in the first place – looking back I think the theme was about moments of time and physical objects waiting for discovery by the right person. I gave it to my Dad in a self-conscious thirteen year old way.

“S.J, I was there when the boat got wrecked, I stood on the prow. This is excellent.”

Now, all (good) fathers are encouraging and supportive but I mentioned the nuclear grade sarcasm, right? I have never received anything but constructive feedback from my Dad; I can always do better, try harder and learn more. It is also the only time except for when my grandparents died I have ever seen him cry.

This validated that there is something in my writing that can move people and every time, my bitch of an inner critic goes off. I think about this short and the impact it had and as a complete narcissist – the way it made me feel to move someone I love.

2. A Love letter

I know I love you

When I was dating my husband there was a lot of stuff going on; it was an extremely complicated time. We came to a point as some relationships do; where it was either “Give it All” or “Give it Up”. Convinced that I was worthless and undeserving of being loved, I put him through hell. Every time he tried to love me and support me, I would rail against it. Alone is better, alone is safe and secure.

But, I took a risk and wrote him a letter explaining why I loved him. He still has it and he also cried. Now, I don’t want you thinking that I get a sick pleasure from making people miserable but I’ve always thought that tears are more honest than words, when it comes to emotions. You can’t switch them on and off. They show not tell.

3. An Apology

I penned a letter that apologized for all the messed up and stupid things I had done during the time when I wasn’t quite myself. This lasted from eighteen to my late twenties. I put my family through pain and fear. There are no excuses that can take away the sheer wilful stupidity of some of the things that I did.

Let’s call them the dark years.

I spent a night sleeping in a graveyard with all of my earthly possessions in bin liners – that can probably show you better than I can tell you.

It was important to me that I said “Sorry” and meant it. That letter started my family’s (and my) healing process and a week after I sent it via post (it was a proper letter). – I got a call from my Mum,

“We are just glad we got our S.J back.” – And there was some crying. (Again…)

So, Reader – those are the three things I have written that have changed my life.

Is there anything you have ever written or said that with that most glorious of all educating tools “hindsight” has been pivotal for you?

Go on, share, I dare you!

WRITING – AND WHY IT RUINS READING

sad-child

I have always loved books and there are several rafters in the loft that are bearing the weight of this obsession.  One day – next to the bricks and plaster, a lone copy of some once loved story staring up from the grass, the onlooker will explain to the nice policeman that there was a groan and then boom, the house just collapsed.

I partly hold my mum and grandma responsible, they taught me to read at a ridiculously early age.

At six, my mother probably regretted both her efforts and my aptitude as I got sent home from school for throwing a tantrum (and a book).  The teacher had tried to force me to read one of the “Peter and Jane” series aloud to the class. I didn’t want to read this “baby” book and pointed to the story-time books designed for the educator to read (in my feverish six-year-old opinion these looked much more interesting).

“You can’t read those dear, try these first”

“I can read them..”

“Don’t be ridiculous, now stop making a fuss”

Regrettably my frustration got the better of me (as I was already reading the “Famous five” series by Enid Blyton) so poor “Peter and Jane”" went airborne.

My dad should share some of the responsibility, he used to read me bedtime stories and often over seas for months, the only way I was going to get to the end was by reading them myself.  As another bibliophile, he also supplied a childhood home which had bookcases and shelves in every room overloaded with every type of book imaginable.

Third in the dock, are my two older siblings (who also have the reading bug) for leaving a supply of forbidden horror books laying about. It was the Eighties  – what can I say? – Stephen King, James Herbert, Dean Koontz, Shaun Hutson and the list goes on, these fed my wish for anything in print, with the added bonus of “naughty” bits.

On discovering my secret reading of  adult themed books, (I was eight) my dad asked if I understood the content. Sheepishly, I remember replying that I couldn’t understand some of the longer words. He walked out of the bedroom and I thought – wow, now I am in big trouble, he’s gone to get mum.

Returning, sitting on my bed and handing over a dictionary he said “if you don’t know something then look it up. There’s always a book that can teach you what you want to know and if anything in here scares you, please come and talk to me. Remember, these are only stories.”

I handled the dictionary and nodded sagely.

“Dad there are some things I don’t understand?” – I quickly point out one of the naughty paragraphs. My Dad turns bright red, kisses me on the head and replies:

“Ask your mother in the morning.”

But now, dear reader, I am writing. I still read but it is in a different way - I look at structure, clunky language, did they show or tell? This gives me insight into how the author achieves his/her aim of telling a story, how they put things together but I also find it difficult to switch my critical eye off. No more, am I simply reading and escaping into my imagination. I am conscious of the words on the page or the text on the screen.

WRITING is ruining my READING.

I’d love to hear if you’ve experienced something similar?