2006 - ENGLAND

TRAINS AND BOAT TO ENGLAND . . .

The day began a bit dodgy . . . I woke up at 4 a.m. and packed my bags, had some coffee, checked my email, and then went out to wait for the taxi that was to arrive at 5:30 a.m. to take me to the train station to catch the 6 a.m. train to Brussels. At 5:45, still no taxi. I rang the doorbell trying to roust out Robert, hoping to use his phone or find out why the cabby hadn’t arrived, but Robert must not wake so easily. Neither one of them responded to the doorbell or the frantic knocks. So, I figured I’d better shift to plan B and try and find a bus that would take me to the train station. I knew no taxis would be out and about that early. And it was too far and too difficult to walk to the train station at this point.

Pulling two bags over cobble stones is not the easiest trick to pull off. The sound alone was enough to wake up the neighborhoods through which I traveled. Finally I saw a bus coming along a canal and waved him down. He said yes he goes to the train station, but I would have to go to a bus stop to catch the next bus, said he couldn’t pick me up in the middle of the street like that. He pointed me in the direction of the nearest bus stop. I thanked him and he must have seen my desperate look because he felt pity and said, “Okay, I’ll take you this time.” I wanted to say, “don't worry, there ain’t gonnna be a next time,” but I smiled instead and said thank you.

So, I missed the train I was supposed to take and got there just in time to take the one leaving at 6:30 a.m. And of course, that threw me off schedule for the next train out of Brussels to Paris. When I got to Brussels there was another train leaving for Paris at 7:40 which was in 10 minutes. But I couldn’t just get on with the ticket for the train I’d missed, I had to go to the ticket counter and have them change it. That left me with 6 minutes to get to the train in time to leave for Paris. And of course the train platforms are always on another level, they’re never on the level where you are. Lucky for me, this one had an escalator to take me up a level, or else I wouldn’t have made that train. And they don’t wait for you. I made it, exactly at 7:40.

I think the most difficult part of traveling by train and the most distressing for me is getting from one train to another in the stations. Especially if luggage is involved. If I were traveling with just my purse, it would be a breeze. But since that’s not the case, it isn’t a breeze at all. It’s distressing. Once on the train, I’m all right, of course. I love the ride on the trains. It’s relaxing and neat to see the countryside. But I do not like the in-between segments. I need a baggage handler, I do.

I'm writing this on the train, by the way. And I'm thinking about when I get to Paris now. I have to take the Metro from the station I arrive in – Nord – to Montparnasse station where I’ll then board a train to Dol, wherever that is. Then in Dol I change trains to board the one that takes me to St. Malo. So, you see, I’ve some more distressing moments ahead of me today. It would be all right if all the stations had elevators and escalators, but they don’t. And it’s two flights of concrete stairs from one level to another. So that means if it’s up, I have to take one case up at a time. If it’s down, I carry one and drag the other on its wheels as it bumps down from one step to the next. So far the wheels seem to be sturdy enough. If they break, I’m @$##%@# out of luck.

When I get on the final train to St. Malo, I am really going to relax. I just hope the alteration in the times because I missed the first two trains doesn’t effect the next two trains.

This all would happen on a day that I’m fighting a cold. It hit me yesterday, Sunday, and I stayed in most of the day. Thank goodness I brought my Advil Cold & Sinus med. After the horrible experience I had last time in Paris with illness, I came prepared this time. And actually I feel pretty good right now.

Oh, just saw a beautiful manor house or chateau. Wow! Now that’s living! And all the green countryside around . . . beautiful. There’s a few rolling hills in this area. I’m not sure if we’re in France or still in Belgium. It’s hard to tell. I would think that someone would ask me for my passport going from one country to another, but no one has. Interesting. Lot of churches dotting the landscape, their steeples being the first thing you see.

No billboards or signs to let you know where you are. Fancy that. lol lol It’s grey today and cloudy. I wonder if it’s raining in Paris. I’ll be coming back to Paris in a week to stay for a week and I’m looking forward to that for sure. But first to England to revisit the sites of my first novel. I’m excited about that too. And after that my bags will be lighter, the books will hopefully be gone by the end of the week. Except I must keep one for Bob on the Simpatico in Paris.

FAST FORWARD TO ENGLAND - May 10, Wednesday

The remainder of the train trip to St. Malo wasn't as bad as I expected. In Paris it was easy to get to the Metro, I just took it in my stride, bumped up and down the stairs. Usually there was someone on hand to help with the heavy one. And of course once on the Metro it was easy to get to Montparnasse. Paris does have the best subway in the world, as far as I'm concerned. The routes make it very easy for you to see where you're going. And after I got to Montparnasse, it was two levels up to the main train station, then two more levels up to the train to St. Malo. As it turned out, I didn't have to change trains in Dol, that was just a ticketing situation.

I arrived in St. Malo, France 2 1/2 hours before I was to board the Condor so I didn't venture out into the city. Although I would have liked to. St Malo is very interesting. I must return there sometime. Maybe next time I'm in Weymouth I'll take the Condor over and spend the day. They do day trips to the islands of Guernsy (sp?), Jersey, and St. Malo. Any or all three would be worth the trip. Beautiful places. The Condor Ferry was enjoyable. I think it was a four hour trip across the channel. Of course all you could see was the sea all around you. The boat runs very smoothly on the water. A huge modern vehicle. Take a look at them on the Condor Ferry website.

And now here I am in Weymouth. And it has been a delightful, lazy couple days. I'm sitting at my window this very moment looking out over the beach and sea. The sounds of the waves lull me to sleep each night. I've a wonderful room with en suite this time, although I do miss my tiny little cubicle of three years ago with the toilet one floor up. Has it been three years? Oh my. Or four? I definitely have lost track.

Today we go to Abbottsbury to walk the village of thatched-roofed cottages and will have a cream tea before driving to Portland-Bill for lunch. I'll bypass the Abbottsbury Swannery this time, and the gardens. Just want to experience the village, didn't really do that last time. Those of you who've read my novel will remember that Paul and Belinda were married at the Swannery. Abbottsbury is one of those very peaceful small villages that would be a perfect place to live if one could find a cottage off the beaten track. But there's so much traffic through the center of town, you wouldn't want to live that close in.

I met a chef who is on holiday to see his mother in Portland Bill. He's originally from Weymouth and was having a pint at the pub where I was waiting for Ali and Martin before going to dinner last night. I love hanging out at the Weymouth Quay. Here the fishing boats dock and upload their catch of the day. It was lobsters today. Big ones. Then the trucks from Portugal arrive and truck them home for their populace. Funny that they would come all the way from Portugal to Weymouth for lobster.

Anyway, the chef I had a conversation with at the George's Inn on the docks, is the head chef at the derby (he pronounces it as the Darby). . . you know, the famous horse race track here in England. Where the women and men come out in all their finery and hats once a year. Like in "My Fair Lady." It was interesting talking with him, a huge man, obviously a lover of food. He may meet us for lunch today, depending on the schedule. Told us where to go for the best food. Ali and Martin are acquainted with the place, so that should be nice. I'm looking forward to the afternoon spent with the newly-wed Wallers. This time they've taken the day off to show me Portland-Bill, a town just a little west of Weymouth. They say it's very different. In fact I can see its cliffs from my window through the haze this morning. It'll clear up by the time we go, though.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Penzance on a coach. A bus. Decided to do something different once again. I did the train last time, so I'll do the coach this time. It's a 7-hour trip. Trains go through sections of hedges and trees on both sides as they amble through the country, and you do miss some of the sights. At least the buses are traveling the roadways that autos travel and you might be able to see more. Especially when traveling through the villages.

I'm still struggling with the darn cold at the moment, have been taking vitamin C and cold tablets as well as a healthy dose of Echinacea every few hours. I certainly do not want a repeat performance of the Paris of last year.

Well, off to have my morning coffee and maybe some toast.

It's 8 a.m. and the day's already begun.


NOW IT'S . . .
. . . my last couple hours in Penwith, the region of Penzance, Newlyn, Mousehole, etc., the southwest corner of England. In a couple hours I’ll be boarding a train for London, then will board the chunnel train to Paris.

This past six days have been full of memories and reminders of visits past and have even opened up new adventures and introduced new people into my life. More writing fodder, no less. Of course my serial lead character “Rachel” lives in Cornwall, so this region will most certainly be revisited in future books adding possibly some new people to the “cast of characters”. For instance Tom Ellery, who just so happens to be a past creative mate of Jim’s (hubby Jim), and lives in Mousehole with his significant other Peter Collier who is a painter and London physician. Tom comes to the cottage they’ve refurbished every other week, then returns to London on Sunday. He says he loves living in Mousehole. Loves tending his garden with the fish pond at the base of the fountain set in the center. Tom and Peter were having a disagreement as to how to tend the pond and the fish. Tom had added water and now the pond was all cloudy and muggy looking. Peter told him it was the way he’d added the water, and not to do it again. They were quite entertaining and interesting.

Their next door neighbor is one of Dean Koontz’s editors and is herself a children’s author. From what I understand the area is becoming full of successful artistes and I’m hoping to become one of them. Yes, Jim? We’re going to find a cottage in Mousehole to refurbish and come to whenever we can? There’s a direct train to and from London. This area is a great investment, so I hear. Anyway . . . back to “characters” . . . Tom and Peter will be excellent characters for my novels. Part of Rachel’s core group in Cornwall. Definitely.

I also visited the rock shop just a few steps up the lane from them to see if Ken Millward was in, the owner. He’s “Dudley” in my Trafalgar book. I wanted to give him a copy. Wasn’t there, but Tom and Peter know him. I would imagine everyone in this tiny village knows everyone else.

You know, there is something about England that completely captivates me, there’s a draw that holds me fast, a magnet. Other than the fact that I feel very comfortable here and feel as if I’m at home, I’m not quite sure why it appeals to me as much as it does. Could be the countryside that is so beautiful (in Cornwall – very dramatic), maybe it’s the fascinating stone houses, the oldness of them, the crudeness of them, and I love the stone fences and walls that separate gardens and land from one’s neighbors. The people are friendly, they speak my language, they look you in the eyes when they talk to you, the culture is absorbing, the books by British authors and the films by Brits hold my interest moreso than any others. The list goes on. Maybe it’s because I’m of British lineage. Maybe it’s because I may have lived here in another lifetime. Whatever it is, I’m spellbound.

Well, I hear Simon and Susan, the young owners of the Penzance Camilla House B & B stirring in the dining room, so I’ll wander in and have some fruit and juice and settle my tab for this 3-nite visit. My small single accommodation is just off the dining room. The cab will be picking me up at 8:45 a.m. because I want to get to the station to change my train ticket to a direct fare - no train changes. Hopefully I can do that. There is such a train, I’m told. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the departure time of the Eurostar chunnel train for Paris, I’ll make the change. I purchased all my tickets before I left the States. Did it all over the internet. But at the time I wasn’t able to find a direct route from here to London.

Yesterday, after taking it easy during the morning, shampooed my hair, lazed around watching TV, read . . . I walked to the bus station and boarded a bus for Marazion and St. Michael’s Mount. I’d been looking forward to that, wanted to walk back into the village farther than I’d ventured before. As it turns out, it’s a very small village, not much there. Quite a few B & B’s, a few shops, a couple pubs. Not much else. The main attraction is St. Michael’s Mount. When I arrived and while I was there, the causeway was covered with the sea, so I couldn’t hike up to the Mount. Only when the tide is out can you traverse the causeway out to the Mount, it’s an island with a medieval village at the base and a castle on top. I’d wanted to journey out to the gift/book shop and leave a couple of my books there. Maybe place them on the shelf next to Daphne DuMaurier’s. (sure) I know I spelled her name wrong, but have no way to look it up right now. She wrote “Rebecca” and several others that were made into movies by Alfred Hitchcock. She lived in Cornwall and most of her books are set here. In fact I noticed there was a lecture given this weekend in a town nearby about the relationship between her and Hitchcock, called “Daphne and Hitchcock.” Fancy that. Daphne’s father was a British film producer also.

Anyway, I wasn’t able to go to the Mount so I sat in the Godolphin Restaurant (in my book, also) and had a chocolate mousse. How’s that for soothing one’s disappointments? Then I walked through the village, looked in the real estate office windows at the properties for sale, saw one in Newlyn for £160,000 . . . now that is really inexpensive, equivalent to almost twice that in dollars. $1.80 to the British pound. Speaking of, it’s much less expensive to be in the Euro governed countries. So, I’ve held off buying much here. Will pick up what gifts I have left to buy in Paris, where it will be more in line with the American buck. $1.20 to a Euro.

I wasn’t able to find the spot from where the painting of St. Michael’s Mount was done that hangs in my kitchen at home. I was really hoping to stand in the same spot and see it for real, but it was too difficult to remember the view. I should have taken a photo of the painting and brought it with me. I know, it’s not all that important, but it’s those simple things that excite me. Knowing I was right where that English artist painted that landscape. He was an early 19th century artist I believe, and his name escapes me, but he was well known in Britain. I can’t believe I found it in a dusty corner of an antiques/used furniture/accessories shop on East Main in Visalia. Lots of neat shops there, by the way. I love browsing those on a Sunday afternoon. Of course my house is so full now, I’ll have to have another house to add any more. Lol lol It’s time to work on my English garden, and I notice there’s lots of great stuff in those shops that would be wonderful in a garden.

A FEW THINGS I FORGOT TO SAY ABOUT WEYMOUTH - DORSET
The day Ali & Martin Waller, the delightful owners of the charming Channel View B & B where I stayed, took me for an outing . . . we first went to Portland-Bill. Just a tad south west of Weymouth around the bay. It was originally a naval base, or at least was for quite a few years, I don’t know what it was before then. It’s a stone village, gray in colour, very drab and sterile looking, and has a much visited lighthouse and restaurant on the point and a rock formation called the Pulpit. Evidently going back to Biblical times, used then. And the entire region is not only built of stone, it’s built ON stone . . . there are working quarries there producing Portland Stone and shipping it all over the country as well as to other countries. I’m wondering if they’ll ever run out of stone and whether or not the village might fall off into the sea someday because of all the stone removal around and beneath.

The 2012 sailing portion of the Olympics is set to be held in its bay and they’re in the process of building to accommodate the event already. In fact, Martin said the entire region will be filled with people during that segment. He said it should be a boon to the real estate business, people buying and selling, readying for the event. He said if anyone offers him a mil for his place, he’ll take it. Says that does happen during those times.

We had a very tasty lunch at The Cove before we left the village. It was absolutely fantastic. The best meal I’d had so far. I had scallops and veggies and a salad. It was a very old pub on the pebble-filled beach. In fact, the night before, the chef I’d met at the George in Weymouth had recommended it. Remember? He was there that day, while we were at the Cove, with his mother . . . planning his own menu for the famous Ascot event coming up in England. I’d love to go to that. Martin and Ali said to come during the Ascot next time, and we’d go. They’ve been before.

Then we went to Abbottsbury and had dessert in one of the most quaint tea gardens ever. Abbottsbury is the village north of Weymouth with the thatched roofed cottages. If I can’t find a place in Mousehole, then it’s got to be Abbottsbury. Hey, maybe both. Lol lol Anyway, the tea garden is on the main street and was displaying an art exhibit as well as home-made cakes and pies. Oh boy! I had a coffee cake; I mean literally a coffee cake. The thick frosting was made from coffee and the cake was flavored of coffee, too. Wow! I wish I had some right now. The owner had a multi-tiered English garden – where everything appears to grow wild, untamed and untrimmed – with seating areas in hidden areas. We found a wonderful spot nestled in some flowering trees and plants at a table made from an old iron Singer sewing machine trestle, a marble top. The chairs were wrought iron with padded cushions. We sat and had our desserts and coffee and watched the birds and bees visit the flowers, a bumble bee or two got a bit too close, and we chatted about living in such a solitary town in the country. Marvelous way to live.

NEXT . . . OFF TO PARIS!