First Ice cream by Kate

So here we are in beautiful Cornwall and beaching is an absolute must when it comes to appreciating the Cornish experience in full.

Rosie's enjoyment of Perranuthnoe Beach was a bit mixed today - the tide was right out displaying a magnificent expanse of damp sand washed with gentle breakers and somewhat windswept - which was the bit Rosie didn't like at all. Nor did she like Mummy and Daddy trying to steer her away from the deeper sandpools, not quite understanding that we had her own best interests (and height of diminutive wellies) in mind. And she was very displeased about the saturated sand's annoying habit of sucking at her boots when she was trying to walk.

Luckily, a comparatively sheltered corner with shallow pools and decent digging sand restored her good temper, as did the promise of an ice-cream.

Rosie's maternal grandmother generously supplied this last to the assembled company and Rosie had the initially baffling, but increasingly enjoyable task of working out how to best consume her lolly.
It took Rosie a good ten minutes to confidently apply her tongue to the lolly, but once she got the hang of that, there was no stopping her. Theo meanwhile, who was holding her at the time, was becoming increasingly twitchy about the length of time and the mess the process involved and resolved never to allow Rosie another ice-lolly until she was old enough to make a more efficient job of it.
GM pointed out that mastery of this skill would necessitate plenty of practice. They didn't reach a point of agreement. I suspect Rosie will be amply supplied with holiday ice creams in the future despite Daddy's prohibition.

the joys of living in Barcelona

What with the stunning architecture, vibrant nightlife, cosmopolitan vibe, shops, monuments, parks, the football club, the festivals, and the state of the art public transport, it's easy to forget that one of the attractions of the Catalan Capital is the 2kms of sandy sea front.

Taking a break from our lesson planning this afternoon, we strolled the 500 yards or so from Ilse's flat in Pouble Nou down to the beach, past busy skate ramps and basketball hoops. While not as packed as it must be in the summer, the seafront was still well populated with family picnics, courting couples, cyclists, rollerbladers, fishermen, strollers, surfers, sunbathers and swimmers.

Yes you read those last three right. Here in Barcelona the typical weather for November is cloudless blue skies from dawn til dusk. Water temperature a balmy 18 degrees. It's strange to think that while our Northern European neighbours are shivering under slate grey skies, Barcelona is basking in sunshine and it's warm enough for us to go swimming. Which we did.

the big send off

It was very nice of the French to arrange not one, but two, huge firework displays to mark our departure from the continent. So sweet of them! The first, at Courseilles-sur-Mer, was on the Sunday night and was preceded by some psycopathic amateur attempts by local teenagers on the beach - throwing bangers, firing mortars and rockets at odd angles, often narrowly missing each other. Seeing as the beach in question was Juno beach, stormed successfully by Canadian troops during World War II's D-Day landings there was a strange echo to such antics. Then, at about 11, the municipal offerings kicked in, firing off from the town pier over the water for a good ten minutes. It was impressive, not least because we'd only decided to come here the day before, seeking some sun after overcast Paris skies, so they didn't have much time to put the show together! Indeed, we nearly missed it ourselves, catching it only after electing to take an evening stroll along the beach after a day of lazing about reading, playing games, swimming and sun bathing.

We took the scenic route to Cherbourg and followed the coast past the other D-Day beaches of Gold, Omaha and Utah and various memorials and cemeteries. Seeing these long stretches of sand that would have provided the allied forces with no cover at all from enemy fire as they disembarked from their pontoons was a sobering moment for us both.



However, after a beer in the fishing port of Barfleur and a crepe in Cherbourg, we were more than ready to appreciate Cherbourg's firework display before we made our way to the Ferry car park to await our passage home. Our ferry back to England from Cherbourg was early on the 15th and had been booked for some time, so the port town had had plenty of warning to plan their cordite reception for us and the send-off fireworks didn't disappoint. We have grown very fond of France, and it would seem France has grown fond of us - unless we're missing something.

Vive La France!


(Note: July 14th is Bastille Day and is celebrated across France with public firework displays. Mere coincidence, of course.)

the potted version (just for joe)

The Ladybird Abridged Version (just for Joe).

Theo and Kate get married and then leave in their campervan Sheena. They arrive in France but it's too cold to go the beach so go to Kate's mother's instead, where they eat well and have fun.

Next they go to Spain where they drink beer and have fun. They see lots of storks but don't go to the beach. Then they go to Portugal and drink Port, ride trams and hear fado, but it's still too cold to go to the beach.

So they go back to Spain and see some Flamenco and more lovely buildings. Theo breaks Sheena's rear windscreen and then Sheena sulks and wont start; a sulky electrician fixes her. Kate and Theo go to an ace festival, meet some ace people, then an ace campsite and meet some more ace people. They finally go to the beach. They go on a big drive to another festival, which isn't quite as good but they do meet some friends so it's all ok.

They go back to France and meet more friends. They try to get Sheena's rear windscreen fixed but they can't so they go to the beach instead.

east of eden

Before we left we picked fresh lemons from the trees and gathered windfall avocados to take with us. That's how much of a paradise Patty Pan's place was and is. A more characterful campsite and friendlier host would be hard to find. It's not ideal if you don't like animals (Patty has three dogs, Lika, Charlie and Norman and two cats, including a certifiably insane black moggy with three legs called Tripod. Theo was very taken with her in particular - I think it was the vigour with which she attacked him that attracted him) and I can't imagine it being favoured by the efficient Netherlanders in their spotless motorhomes (although they might get the washing machine working) and the roaming retirees, who tirelessly cross the continent in their shiny Winnebagos. Nope, it's definitely one for the more alternative type of traveller, who's more interested in making new friends and a lifestyle which contains a few quirks. One other thing about our genial hostess which particularly pleased Kate: she whooped Theo's arse at Scrabble. Yes! Anyway, the time has come to move on, so this morning we got back on the road.

The Spanish are in the wrong time zone. In a line North to South with the UK and thus on the same longitude (or is that latitude?) with London, Spain should, geographically speaking, be on GMT like Morocco and Portugal. Instead the Spanish use CET - Central European Time - and so share their hours with Germany, France, Italy et al. This is a masterstroke as it means the Spanish get long summer evenings, with sunset around ten, and can catch the dawn, even in May, at a not inhuman hour.

So, after spending a warm evening bathing in fresh water rock pools in the hills behind Estepona, we hit the road early to be greeted with a spectacular sunrise over the Med at 6.30am as we rounded Marbella heading east from Patty's eden.

We are heading to Barcelona, to the Primavera Sound Festival to see, among others, our good friend SJ Esau. It's a long drive, over a thousand kilometres from Estepona, so we're doing in it two days - after nearly 12 hours in Sheena today we made it to the Costa Blanca near Valencia. There is such a huge variety in Spain's landscape - we're seen nothing like the Basque country or the plains of Castile since we left them - and today was no different. Almeria was just a maze of polythene, each hill rounded bringing yet another series of plains and terraces of long, low, industry greenhouses. Murcia was dry and dusty, with unattractive bungalows sprawling across arid plains. Valencia, so far, seems beautiful and picturesque, full of orange trees and striking hillsides, with even the high rises of Benidorm appearing (from the road at least) attractively built and well laid out - a huge contrast to the usual, unthought out apartment block monstrosities we've found on the fringes of most Spanish cities.

Tomorrow Barcelona - if we have half as much fun as we did last time we were there we'll be in for a treat.