Holiday Writings from 2008

More stuff from the past.  My first summer holiday without The Absent Father was a difficult affair.  But very fortunately my Uncle invited me to stay on his house on an island off the coast of west France.  I took the laptop my father gave and wrote quite a lot.  I have edited the two holiday pieces and offer them up for you here.  The first piece, Bicycles and Beaches, tells of my recovery during the holiday, whilst somewhat confusingly, the second piece tells of my journey to the island.  DN2 was already there, having travelled with my Uncle and his girlfriend and her family who had then returned to Paris after a ten days.  Re-reading  and editing, I stand by the order in which they are presented.


Bicycles and Beaches

As the days pass you get the hang of a holiday, the rhythms of the day fall into a pattern that seems comfortable. You get to a point where not everything is new and suddenly it becomes less exhausting, less stimulating, and then the relaxation starts. I’ve got to that point on The Island. But how did it happen?


When I first got here off the boat, it was bewildering. True, I was tired after a day driving across France in very hot weather with a leg in a knee brace, but I was also nervous. My Uncle had been very keen that I come to here, and actually I hadn’t any other options, but in reality I had been able to find very little out about the place and although the idea of an adventure seems a good thing, in practice it was terrifying. I knew very little about My Uncle too, the only bit of information I held onto was DN2 seemed quite happy here.


My Uncle and DN2 met me at the port and they took me to an old Renault 4 which reminded me of my prep school run years ago. The moment I got in, it felt oddly familiar, I even knew where the door handle was, and it’s more than 30 years since I’ve sat in a Renault 4. My Uncle batted along, every inch the son of his father, remonstrating at the bicycles that seemed to be everywhere, careering up lanes that seemed hardly more than footpaths until we pulled up onto a tiny drive.


I had enormous reservations about a two week holiday with an unknown and perhaps unconventional uncle. DN2 seemed to be content, and I set great store by DN2’s instinct in these matters. So I arrived, tired and sore, to this strange place. Unfortunately the searing hot weather that accompanied my journey west and south vanished, and it rained the next day. For the last year and a bit I have been unbothered by the weather. Last summer, I understand from others, was a washout. I have no memory of it, it rained a bit, there was some sun but it was of no relevance to me as I battled in vain to save my marriage. Perhaps it is an indication of stability when the weather becomes as issue. You can’t change it and when everything else moves in predictable ways, then the dynamic human nature craves a bit of flux, so people worry about the weather.


The day after I arrived was a bit dull and slightly chilly. My Uncle was being very assertive, and mindful that it was probably better to do as I was told, I accompanied him to the beach in the afternoon. He assured me that this beach was lovely and quite warm. The beach in question was not that large, an expanse of sand bordered by rocks at the sides and fringed with pine trees that should have made the whole thing delightful. Was it my tiredness, my nerves fraying to breaking point with the stresses of the last year, my sore leg throbbing in agony as I tried to bend it, or the stiff breeze blowing across the sand, but I have rarely seen a more uninviting prospect than a beach filled with lightly tanned families playing happily and chatting companionably. My Uncle, who I think was not unaware of my predicament, bustled on chatting constantly, assuring me it would be lovely once I was in. It wasn’t, and even My Uncle had to admit that the beach that day wasn’t up to much. The journey back from the beach in the Renault 4 was slow because we kept coming across lines of cyclists. They seemed to be in family groups and only the very tiniest of individuals was not mounted aboard a bike. These small people were catered for in bike trailers, two wheeled litters, covered in tent material with windows to peer out on the world, wherein the petit prince ou petite princesse resided. There was room enough for two tiny royals but more often than not, the second seat was loaded with beach gear, and often you see a parasol sticking out through the canvas, alongside buckets, towels and inevitable beach bats and ball. I have detailed elsewhere the composition of the tribes processing up and down the lanes, but just to repeat myself, they usually had some bossy French woman in Capri pants, a selection of children of all ages, boys carrying backpacks, girls chatting with other girls, and sometimes men largely unbothered about the world around them. Small children either wobbled precariously on their own bikes largely unwatched by their extraordinarily calm parents, or attached at the back of a parental bike by a long bar. Fathers tended to do this last job, so a two size tandem was created and the child on the back could believe that he or she was doing the work to get up the hill. Perhaps there is something deeply significant about the emotional development of children laid down in these two courses of action that the parents take; let them get on with it and the children may wobble precariously but eventually learn that they are masters of their own destiny, or strap them onto the back of your bike thus protecting them from potential problems but teaching them nothing of real use and value. Some children even wear helmets, something considered an essential item for British parents, but most do not. They chat loudly with their parents and so far all I have seen is car drivers giving a wide berth and driving slowly past. Not on The Island the irritated zoom that someone as important as a car driver has been held up by a bicycle. People don’t get irritated, not even My Uncle, who remonstrates a bit at the unbelievable stupidity of the cyclists to stop, turn and move without thinking there is anyone else to consider. French arrogance at its worst? Perhaps, or perhaps it’s the force of numbers. There are hundreds of bikes. So get heated about one little band, and blow me down round the next bend there is a similar mob. And where are you going on the Island that’s so important? The Island is about 11km long and 2 ½ km wide, has 35,000 residents in the summer months and 5,000 in the winter, so most of us are on holiday and not going terribly far. With the exception of the bars and the supermarkets all the shops close from 12.30-3.30. The main employment for the residents used to be tuna fishing, but the EU has stopped all that so from what I understand most of the employment on the island is to do with supplying the visitors with what they want.


My first two or three days were, I suppose unsurprisingly, a bit miserable. The weather wasn’t warm or even dry, my leg throbbed and I wasn’t going to be freewheeling through the next two weeks, but sticking to a timetable of another’s devising, grateful for what I was given. Yes, even writing it now, a week later, I feel a tinge of embarrassment at the childish ‘Camp Granada’ attitude that I tried hard to hide, but I didn’t see how this holiday was ever going to be what I needed at this desperate and sad time in my life. My Uncle, being a sophisticated and subtle sort, probably realised that too, and I think putting me in The Sheep Shed was a master stroke. The Sheep Shed is the little cottage at the end of the garden, and although the garden isn’t that big, the Sheep Shed does give me autonomy and space. I have my own kitchen, bathroom, television and dvd player. My Uncle also didn’t impose a routine on me. He likes going swimming in the sea in the early morning, but I think he likes to do that alone. Much as the solitude of sleeping alone continues to feel like I’m serving my sentence, there is no way of changing that for the moment, so I resolved to make the best I could of this opportunity. It would be churlish to sulk, and whilst I don’t dwell on what waits me when I get home and in the next twelve months, nobody would say it’s a future to eagerly anticipate so a chance to rest has to be made the best of.


The continual frustration was my leg, or rather the area around my knee which hit the concrete road at the Boulogne pèage with such force on my way down. The bruising wasn’t awfully nice, and clearly a lot of the damage was caused because my leg hadn’t properly healed from its trampling by the horses a couple of months ago. Try as I do to write this in a light and casual way, it fills me with desolation that I hurt myself so much and with such frequency. If only I could do something that would change this accident prone streak in me. I probably can, and the psychotherapist or some such other expert will no doubt tell me it’s something to do with how I look at life. I’d love it to be just a simple physical problem with a quick tweak would put right, not some complex or emotional deficit, but whether it’s my outlook or reality, everything with me comes back to this mind and how I process the world around me.


The practical upshot of this further damage I caused myself was thinking I couldn’t cycle. This did frustrate me, because it seemed what everyone did, and doing what everyone does, is something I like to achieve. Not for me the maverick status, the one against the crowd, oh no. The ‘look at me, I’m different and I’m wonderful’ can be immensely liberating, but you need self confidence to carry that one off if you aren’t going to look a bit Archie Rice, and even before my marriage failure I was hardly the world’s most secure individual. Being 5’10” has never really helped, how I spent my teenage years wanting to 5’5”, with shiny dark hair, preferably with a bit of a curl and a neat organised figure and life. Even writing it now I revisit that longing for being ordinary and attractive, not a big, blonde, ungainly girl. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken the divorce so badly, that almost everyone I know is still married to the man they met years ago. I’ve had difference imposed on me yet again. Nobody has had to sacrifice their home and life so someone else can spend their time with the man they loved. Do I still love him? Depends what you think love is, and maybe that’s for another day. I know that I will feel enormous release when I am finally rid of him, sadness too I acknowledge, but as much as I want an ‘I will survive’ moment, it probably won’t come. I won’t be allowed my chance to have reparation for the incomparable hurt he has caused me. My soap opera friends like to tell me there will come a moment when he regrets what he has done, but I won’t see it, he wouldn’t allow that; too much of a bully, too much of a coward to stand and say sorry and really mean it. He’d only say sorry if he wanted something, and he’ll never want me again.


So did I sit there and watch everyone else? Well of course I didn’t. One of the benefits of being here down at The Sheep Shed is I got lots of time to lie around, not bustling round keeping people happy. My mornings have developed into a slow start, waking between 6 and 8, making a cup of tea and having a glass of orange juice, thoughtfully left in the fridge for me, and returning to bed. In the early days I read a bit, but then I worked out how the DVD player worked, and the fact that My Uncle had a selection of films lying around. I’ve seen very few films during my adult life compared with the numbers made, then this is something I might do when I get home: try and see a new film every week, not a new release you understand, but just something I fancy and I missed when it was released, or maybe even something from the past that everyone has seen, and has passed me by. Quite a lot has passed me by during my marriage, very much a person who stood and watched as people lived, or at least that’s how it feels now. So I either stand alone or I get out there and find my way. Films are a start, a way forward I suppose.


The practical upshot of all this lying about in the dull weather is that my leg has been healing quite fast, far faster than I could have thought possible. Saturday was a very wet day, but I spent the afternoon ironing linen bed linen. Yes, I know it sounds completely insane, but I have come to find ironing as very soothing, and it appears that My Uncle likes his bed linen ironed. There is a steam generator iron in the room that is to be a study, so I set to work on a vast duvet of the thickest linen and quite contented myself with this repetitive yet satisfying job. My Uncle and I chattered about, I’m not sure what, but chattered companionably as he washed and re-hung some curtains. In a way it was a bit like being here with My Grandfather, his father. The projects, the generosity, but not the endless run of people. My Uncle is more solitary than My Grandfather, perhaps more balanced, doesn’t appear want the companionship of acquaintances. Quite how I fit into all this I’m not sure, but I seem, for the moment, to fit in fine.


Gradually I was feeling more secure here, more adventurous and on Sunday I suggested we try a bicycle ride to the beach. The weather had improved, and I was getting a little stir crazy. We had eaten out once, there were just the three of us here. I had been to the market and the supermarket, but this hardly seemed enough. My Uncle told great stories of the beaches, and there was a reproduction of a big old map of the island in the hall showing miles of little coves and beaches to explore. My leg was definitely improving and I thought with the knee brace on and a dose of painkillers I may yet make the journey. My Uncle wasn’t sure, you could tell, but did his best to humour me. I had seen his bike and DN2’s bike, splendid blue affairs, a gents and ladies upright, and had seen a gaggle of bikes by The Sheep Shed. Holiday projects can be joyous affairs, and so it proved with getting me on a bike. My Uncle seems to have everything you would need in this little house, and lo and behold there was another smart ladies bike. My Uncle made a big fuss about how it had awful gears, but after my bike a home, an ancient Peugot Ladies 10 speed tourer with the worst gear change in the world, it seemed like I’d got a Porsche, such was the build quality. Yes, it was entirely mad to even try and cycle with a knee with unknown and possibly serious damage, but I wanted to be like everyone else, free to potter, take in the air, get a bit of exercise in my sludgy limbs. I had a little practice by myself up and down the road outside the house, tentative, in case the pain shot through my leg like it had been doing. Ok it was a bit stiff, but essentially I could cycle. The need to be out overwhelmed everything, worst came to the worst, My Uncle could go and get the car, but I didn’t tell him that, I didn’t want anyone to doubt my ability to do this, then maybe I wouldn’t doubt it too.


We set off in the afternoon sun, My Uncle leading the way dressed unlike the chic Parisians that make up most of the holiday clientele. He had an ancient linen shirt on, a pair of denim shorts over his trunks, deck shoes and a battered straw trilby. My Uncle has skin cancer of some form or another so cannot go out in strong sun, especially without his factor 45 on. The ancient linen shirt was a great sun barrier and also useful to mop up any leftover factor 45. True the baggy pyjama like trousers he put on to cycle home in did rather reinforce the ‘artiste’ look, but again I can see the pragmatism in the clothing. But again I run on, where did we go?


The Island is cris-crossed with endless lanes and tracks, some are made up, some are little more than cart tracks with loose road metal on them. All are named with smart blue labels, so even the least prepossessing little path is a ‘Chemin’ or a ‘Rue’. Some have houses dotted along them, some are bordered by scrub, something like the Suffolk coast, but all lead somewhere, and mostly they lead to the coast. My Uncle wound his way through these paths until we came to the sea, and cliffs, and a ruined castle. Yes, I was reminded of Enid Blyton, in fact the whole holiday is very Enid Blyton, except we drink Petit Punch cocktails and baguette in place of the jam sandwiches and lashing of pop. The road, such as it was, ended and we cycled past the beach and ruined castle, past french beach huts (which are not arrayed neatly next to each other, but much more higgledy piggledy and, of course, nowhere could I see a pot of tea) and onto a shingle track at the top of the cliff. On My Uncle pedaled without explanation, and so DN2 and I followed. It also reminded me very much of County Kerry and the Blaskets, but a fair bit warmer. We stopped finally by a large gang of bicycles and looking down I saw the most beautiful beach I could imagine. Rich, golden sands bounded by cliffs, and a little path down. There was a bit of a breeze but not much. The only thing that slightly spoilt this idyll was the number of people about. The beach wasn’t over crowded, but it was quite busy. However the French don’t seem to need much personal space, not for them ‘My Kingdom’ mentality and grim glances at anyone who strolls into an Englishman (or woman’s) hypothetical fiefdom upon the sand, so you can put your towel down quite close to people and no-one is disturbed.


DN2 and My Uncle had been swimming together a number of times, and I have to say, it was lovely to see her confident, if a little quiet. My Uncle of course, suggested we swim straight away, I’m not sure he’s capable of sitting on a beach, and I rather nervously pattered towards the sea. We had put our towels down in My Uncle’s favourite bit of the beach, a little cove, where the sea funnels in past rather big rocks. This funnel action created something of a drag, and it was soon apparent that this was a difficult place to stand up. Quite unlike me in previous lives, I didn’t worry, for some reason, release maybe, it made me laugh, and with that DN2 laughed, and My Uncle laughed. My confidence had been enormously bolstered by being able to cycle, but when I tried to swim, I’m afraid the pain shot through my leg, so discretion being the better part of valour, I left the swimming to My Uncle and DN2 whilst I bathed on the beach. They were gone quite a long time, and I’m in great admiration for DN2’s ability to buckle under and swim such a long way with My Uncle in such chilly water. She seems to enjoy it as well, a far cry from screaming through her swimming lessons at the Essex Golf Club all those years ago.


Once they were back, full of tales of the bay and rocks, it was soon time to go home. I was out, the wind in my hair, the sun on my back. I cannot express the feeling of release, it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve had such sensual satisfaction. I’ve decided to let my hair grow long again, and pedaling along with a wrap around my bikini so that I’m bare shouldered, and hair thrown back and sunglasses on, for the first time in many, many years I’m enjoying the sensation of my own body, a sense of being at peace with myself. These tiny moments of serenity are all the more exquisite because they have been so rare in recent years. Any calm was always bought at a price, earned and therefore had a worth to be appreciated. These moments on the bicycle were unforeseen joys, contentment that no-one expected me to pay for in duty or gratitude, mine for free.



Of course, being something of a greedy soul, I wanted to get out on the bike again. Is it greed, wanting to be happy and content? It is perhaps how I have been conditioned over the years by those around me that too much personal happiness has to be paid for by somebody else and I have to be rationed lest others suffer. The irony of these words is not lost on me as the main proponent of this way of being decided that his personal happiness was the only thing he really cared about, and maybe he didn’t ever want to me to be happy, just it was convenient if I was happy whilst making him content. When my age, condition, skin colour and demeanour fell outside acceptable levels, it was of course my fault that I had caused him suffering and discontent. There was nothing wrong in him, I was just too needy and whilst I was nice to look at and not too old then it could be excused, but not now. For me to be happy was of no value to him, and when all I could do was cook and keep house and I was no adornment to his ego anymore, indeed, I was a constant reminder of the passing of time, and it was of no importance to him whether I was happy or not, he found another to reinforce the image in his head, to listen, smile a wrinkle free smile and care.



So it was with guilty thoughts of private pleasures I contemplated the bike again. It was just too much that I should strike out by myself, no, pleasure should be shared, although lying in bed watching old movies had been a solitary contentment, even the heart breaking ‘Brief Encounter’, I asked DN2 to come with me into the Port to use the WiFi at a bar on the front. DN2 is a very good sort, only occasionally getting fed up with her lot. Still, the thought of catching up with her pals on Facebook was enough of a bribe to get her on her bike. The bikes have a marvellous locking system on the back wheel, so we don’t have to worry about taking chains with us. People do steal, or borrow, bikes I understand, some of the biggest shops in the port are the bicycle hire shops, but if you put the back wheel lock on, then your bike is safe, no-one would just ‘lift’ a bike, so My Uncle assures me. I do take my removable basket off the front though, as that is very ‘liftable’. Oh the joy of a basket on the front, it’s quite one of my childhood dreams come true, isn’t that silly? As much as my purple childhood bike was lovely, it wasn’t quite the right sort of bike. Yes, it was fashionable, but it had very small wheels and no gears. And of course, it wasn’t a Chopper, it was the Halfords imitation of a Chopper, but I had a box on the back and got round the roads of my childhood at a bit of a distance behind my brother on his racing bike, partly because he had the gears and wheels, partly because he pedalled harder than I did. But I always wanted a real girls bike, with a basket on the front. My bike I bought in London secondhand from someone at the boat club was nearly right, but not quite. It had drop handlebars, and space for panniers on the back, but not something you could sit up and enjoy the view. Maybe that’s what redeemed my childhood bike, you could at least look at everything. Now these bikes on The Island seemed to combine all that was excellent from my previous bikes.



So I was gaining courage, independence, strength from the little trips out on my bicycle with DN2. Trips to the beach by bicycle continued, at my insistence. I cannot imagine why you would want to go by car, when all the hills are small ones, and from the saddle you can look in every window of the small town of San Sauveur, the ‘town’ on the ‘hill’. The streets are tiny too, much more suited to pedalling, or if you must, a scooter. My Uncle has two scooters as well in his stable of vehicles, but mindful of my ability to fall off anything, I really don’t want to add gravel burns to the cuts and bruises that make up the topography of my legs.


The beaches continue to be a delight. They fringe the island both on the Leeward and windward sides. Of course they all have their own character, amazingly you can find two beaches not fifty yards apart enormously different in layout, water depth and sand. The only thing that doesn’t change is the temperature of the water, despite My Uncle’s protestations. It is always bracing. Sometimes very bracing, sometimes refreshingly bracing, but bracing is the constant. My Uncle likes this as he is a great swimmer and seemingly swims whenever he comes to The Island, about four times a year from what I can work out. The bracing nature of the water does mean if you can get into the sea, then you have it to yourself, by and large. This has been quite difficult for me, but daily paddles at the various little coves round the island, the steady bicycling and plenty of rest have had a great effect on me. Yesterday afternoon I fancied another trip to the beach, and always leave the choice of beach to My Uncle. I think we’ve done five out of the available twelve or more, but this was a gem on the Leeward side. A big, sandy beach, well big by The Island standards, without too many rocks to catch your feet on, and a large bay dotted with rather understated sailing boats. I have seen a few gin palaces, but in keeping with the somewhat discreet nature of The Island, sailing boats predominate. There were plenty of people on the beach, but it was getting on for five o’clock, so the worst of the days’ rush was over. Once we plonked our towels down, it was time to wade into the sea, and it was, I’m pleased to report, merely refreshingly bracing. My Uncle tells great tales of swimming out to the boats, and such is the force of his personality, or perhaps it’s my spirit of adventure, I thought I’d see if I could swim. Yes, I’m sure you’ve guessed where this is going, but dear reader (and other Jane Eyre phrases) I swam. Not anything that will get me into the Olympics, but steady reliable strokes that gave me pleasure and a sense of freedom. Of course it was never going to stop there, and supported by DN2’s smiling encouragement, I decided to see if I could reach My Uncle’s goal of going out to the furthest buoy and back again. About 700 yards in total. Yes, of course I did it, easily as it happens and without too much strain, although it has to be said, I didn’t exactly strain myself. My Uncle went on round the bay once we got to the big buoy and DN2 and I would not be bullied into going further. I was thrilled with my achievement, so much so, I’ve even had my photo taken in a bikini and I think that hasn’t happened since Portugal in 1997, and I burnt those photos when I saw them. Actually if you could look you would see that DN2 looks better partly because she is raising the leg nearest the camera and lying back more, which is a much more flattering angle and maybe that should be my metaphor for life, stop worrying about the small dark girl I’ve always wanted to be and celebrate my own life for what it is, a bit of a mixture of good and bad, but any person who can be revived riding a bicycle to the beach on a small island in the Atlantic, is someone that has more to enjoy, more to experience, more to give and receive than anyone has even thought and despite the knocks and scars, will one day show the better leg to the camera without a worry.


Thelma without Louise

It didn’t occur to me that using Speedferries to cross would have been emotionally difficult. But, boy it was. I hadn’t given it much thought, but once I’d driven on and walked into the main area, it all came flooding back. The fact I needed to sit in the middle even on a calm day, I didn’t even need to look for the sign to the loos, where the best seat for me was, what the little stall that did sandwiches and tea would sell. And so, I took a deep breath, ordered my tuna baguette and cup of tea, indulging myself with a packet of malteasers and a small coca cola, which The Absent Father would have disapproved of, and finding my favourite seat. Who can believe it, the last time we crossed was the ski holiday, no it was before that, the autumn of 2006 when The Absent Father, DN2 and I went to stay with J&M in Pas de Calais, and DN1 was in Africa. Before it all started. Or was it? We always had the downstairs spare room at J&M’s, with single beds, and The Absent Father had always pushed the beds together and moved the table, but this time he didn’t. Was he already talking to His Woman, certainly he was quite happy not to sleep with me, or even touch me much. I remember feeling disappointed, alone, failing. But never did I doubt him. Never did it occur to me that I had crossed the line into unacceptable. So we were in a bit of trouble, but I never doubted The Absent Father, doubted myself, yes, that I was good enough, and had these awful nightmares and dreams of never feeling.



But what am I meant to do with the time, how is the passing of time meant to ease the pain? So there I sat on ferry, the only lone person on the ferry. Young fathers with children, older couples walking together, everyone with someone. I sat in the seat I know works for me, and I turned and looked at three empty seats next to me, and if you could have got me off that ferry I would have jumped. The tears ran down my cheeks. I was surprised. Ambushed yet again. Was this too much? I wiped the tears with my paper napkin as quietly as I could, leaning forward so no-one would see, but no-one was looking. I was invisible. Everyone was just looking out for their parties, everyone else were just bodies. When you travel alone and everyone else is in groups your invisibility is most obvious. So I gulped the tea and didn’t the offer the Malteasers to anyone, telling myself a lone traveller can be very greedy and it doesn’t matter. I dug my Alan Bennett book out of my bag told myself it was a great opportunity, a chance to grow, and I’d need the rest before I drove to Rouen. It worked, or more or less, but partly because the crossing is only 50 minutes, and when I next looked up, the French coast was close at hand. The next bit was much like all the others, except of course, I chose the wrong queue for the passports, the left hand lane, but the passport officer was very sweet and learned forward to look at my horrifying Rosa Kreb-like photo, didn’t noticeably shiver and I made it into France unhindered.



I’m rather proud I made it through Boulogne without getting lost.  The Absent Father and I always got lost. In fact when I was talking to The Absent Father at a service station about 80kms from Rouen (when I panicked about oil pressure, and he was the person I knew would be able to help, in fact that’s the problem all the way really, he has been my other half in so much, the person I depend on, the fact I don’t have to know everything, and I know what The Absent Father knows, he was always there, and now he isn’t) he was impressed I hadn’t got lost coming out of Boulogne. But life had its sweet revenge. The first peage, when I needed to get a ticket. The autoroutes round Calais and Boulogne have right hand peage machines, but, of course, there were all closed so I had to go to a left hand peage, and was in a bit of fluster. Would the barrier stay up, would I drop the ticket, were the rational, organised thoughts running through my head. So I tried to park close to the machine, but no, I couldn’t reach the ticket so I had to nip out and lean over the car and get the machine. I was in a right panic now, holding up the traffic, or so I thought, so my accident prone nature took over. I got the ticket and more or less running round the car I tripped and went ‘splat’ with a complete bonk on the corrugated concrete. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t drop the ticket, apologised to the driver of the enormous lorry behind me with Play School like gestures and got into the car. I cried for the next 5 kilometres or so, big angry, desperate tears that even when I was trying to be brave, trying to have a future, I couldn’t. I hated The Absent Father with every fibre of my body then, and I have to admit I don’t continue to have good thoughts about him, which isn’t good, for the goal is just not to think about him. I have done something really quite horrid to my knee, and although the time has eased the first grim symptoms, it isn’t right. So I’m awfully pleased I can ride a bike and swim again, but time will tell if it really heals properly. It’s the injustice of my own stupidity that frustrates me.



So back to Thelma without Louise. I made it to Rouen, and had a map of the Centre of Rouen printed from the laptop with the location of my hotel marked on it. Oh and 2 or 3 car parks and the railway station marked on the piece of A4 for good measure. Unfortunately this must be the only town in France where there is one sign in the whole town for the railway station. But I managed, and I found a car park. Then I tried to get out of the car. I did it because I had to but don’t ask me to do it again when I’m that much pain in a hurry. I even found the shabby Hotel Celine, and managed in rough school girl French to confirm my booking when it appeared the concierge was having trouble and seem to think I could be a Dutchman called Peter. Now I know I hadn’t got the full warpaint on, but I don’t think I look a Peter, even on a bad day. It had been very hot all day, so hot that I hadn’t been able to have the hood down on the MX5, so much for Thelma without Louise, and now I seemed more Andy without Lou limping my way through the capital of Normandy. However the Hotel Celine boasted lots of hot water and clean sheets, so I could have a good shower and change before off to find a beer.



I took my book with me to the bar, good old Alan Bennett was seeing me through some very unsettling times. If The Absent Father had been with me, I knew exactly the form, find a bar for a beer and then off to find an affordable restaurant. Unfortunately I was so busy navigating round Rouen I hadn’t been able to do my usual function of mapping the area in my head, working out where the good places were, so I was a bit at sea. So I headed towards the Cathedral where I saw nice looking families out for a stroll, and young couples and other non-threatening real people. I followed these people, who all seemed to be going the same sort of direction and lo and behold, I came to a nice small square with lots of young people drinking chatting and smoking outside a selection of bars. It took a while for the waiter to work out I wasn’t waiting for anyone, but I got my beer in the sunshine. Ok, so I said to no-one ‘Well this is nice’, and no-one said to me ’Well done for finding this and getting us through Rouen, it is surprisingly pretty, what a good place to stop’ but I thought it to myself, briefly, so my eyes didn’t fill with tears again, and turned to the adventures of the Queen reading books I’d never heard of courtesy of the ever present Mr Bennett.



Sadly for me, The Absent Father’ rules about over indulgence still ring in my head, and so one beer was enough before supper, besides I didn’t know where to go. I had seen some reasonable looking places down by the river, but I couldn’t walk that far, my leg was seizing up, and the Hotel Celine was uphill from here, so I had to be practical. Using my ‘following real people’ rule I set off but only found pizza restaurants advertising their food in pictures and one rather quaint but a bit grand restaurant right by the cathedral. But it did a table d’hote for €26, all four courses of it, and whilst it was rather more food than I needed, pictures of pizza was just too much of a down market move even for a non-person.



The Restaurant Dufur was a little gem of the old style. In an ancient timbre framed building, with starched linen and silver candle sticks on each table, it was about half full when I arrived, but I think I was the last guest they had that night. In for a penny, I thought to myself, and ordered a kir, a bottle of Pelegrino, and half a bottle of their cheapest claret, which was extremely nice. I disciplined myself not to touch the red until after the first course, moules Normandy style, i.e. with cream. They were delicious, plump and moist, but really rather a lot of them, but I did my best and the plate was soon empty. This was followed with escalope de veau, Normandy style, i.e. with apple and cream, and the best frites I have tasted for ages. I managed about half the second course, oh with the bread basket came little puff pastry delicacies which went beautifully with my kir. The cheese course was cheeses of the region, but no camembert. A really good pont l’eveque, and I’m afraid the other two I’ve forgotten, but again, I managed half because I needed to save myself for profiteroles. Exquisite light and fluffy, with excellent dark chocolate and tons of cream, and by this time it really was greed, but I did manage a couple. I definitely needed the strong coffee that came last after which I stumbled out into the night, limping up to the Hotel Celine to spend a night waking with every turn as the pain shot through my leg, then having trouble getting back to sleep as a man in the next room seemed to transform into a pig at night was having a go at celebrating his porcine status with every enthusiastic breath. Thus I awoke not terribly refreshed and slightly worried what might be served for breakfast.



Breakfast passed in solitude, the usual French repast of strong coffee and selection of bread dishes, but I have to be honest, I really only had room for the coffee. By now I was quite proud of my ability to know ‘my bit’ of Rouen, and could get back to the underground car park where the MX5 was parked without worry. The only thing that did cause me anxiety was how to pay for the parking, as I’d taken a ticket, seen the rates, which were fine, but nowhere did it indicate where I should pay. I approached a lowly looking young black man with a broom and tried my school girl French. He replied in immaculate English, which I have to admit was something of a surprise, and I set off for the exit and the machine. However my ticket was ‘invalid’. What do I do? My French is sufficiently poor that I do a lot of my understanding by watching gestures, so pressing the ‘assistance’ button was always going to be difficult. My short term memory is rough at the best of times, but commands barked over a speaker in French, I was onto a loser. The temptation to sit on the floor and cry was overwhelming, but as I couldn’t actually sit down as my leg hurt so much, I had to revert to plan B. A knight on a white charger appeared, well actually a small, dapper, middle aged Frenchman with lightly balding, slightly grey hair and an equally sensible little car pulled into a bay opposite mine. Nothing for it, I had to do the school girl French again. And what do you know, he spoke English. Not immaculate English, but enough to see my problem. And enough of a gentleman to help me in my hour, or rather lifetime, of need. He walked me to the command centre, going a long way out of his way, and stayed until he could see I was going to be alright, shook my hand solemnly as I thanked him effusively in English and a bit of French. If I was being fanciful I suppose I should say I could hear the hooves as he mounted his charger and sped off to another damsel in distress, but I didn’t, just my limping stride clattering through the underground car park.



Rouen was quite empty at 9am on a Wednesday morning, and I had a feeling the rush hour hadn’t started rather than finishing hours ago. I had dosed myself up with painkillers and made it out onto the autoroutes. There are quite a lot of autoroutes in that part of the world, and I suppose it is unnecessary pride that I didn’t have to turn round. There was another British car running very close to me through the autoroutes, a family, of course, but they didn’t cut me up like quite a lot of other cars were doing. Or maybe the other cars were just being positive and French. Mind you I was talking to the radio, or rather the CD player so perhaps not zooming as fast as I could have done.



To try and counteract the loneliness of driving by myself, I’d hired some CDs from the library, story tapes, and I’d started with a Paul Temple mystery, which was really 8 episodes of a radio drama. These were excellent as at the start of each episode there was a little summary so if I’d been diverted reading signs, I could catch up. However I did get quite involved in the story and found myself in Cairo with Paul and his terribly irritating wife oddly called Steve. She was a ‘jolly good sort’, just slightly put out by the attempts on her life that seemed to happen daily and only mildly bothered with the number of horribly mutilated bodies she and Paul seem to come across. Never seemed to stop her going shopping, the time I really did shout at the air was after she’d found some terrible body and then went onto buy very high heels which she rather smugly announced (to rather a butch sounding girl, called Sydney of all things and who by her own admittance didn’t seem to attract the opposite sex) she could easily walk in them. This didn’t help my mood as every time I pushed the accelerator down my leg hurt, and it was a long way to Fromentine and the ferry.



First stop was about 30kms out of Rouen, with the British car I’d been with through the town. There were a number of us Brits at the Aire, and of course we all got chatting, there was no coffee to be had there, just picnic benches and very good loos. The family in the car were off to St Jean de Monts in the Vendee, and it rang bells with me. ‘Going Eurocamp?’ I enquired. ‘Oh yes,’ the husband replied and it all came back to me. I’d been to St Jean de Monts when I was a real person. We had spider crab and laughs, with our small children playing in the sunshine, and met some nice people. It’s when I first discovered Pineau des Charentes, or rather The Absent Father introduced me to it, he already knew about it, his father used to import it. If I’d only known what was to become of me, I think I would have walked into the Atlantic there and then, in past the big rollers that frightened us so much I feared for the children. There was this nice family doing nice family things, and here was me, the oddity, the failure, the one who didn’t make sense.



I put the hood down after that, tying my silk scarf round my head, and sped off onto the road. I didn’t see the family again, even though we were going exactly the same way for hundreds of kilometres, and I’m quite relieved. It isn’t their fault they are happy and together, it isn’t my fault, but it hurt me, just being near real people causes me pain. I feel so much of a non-person it’s hard to carry on a lot of the time. I seem to have lost my entitlement to life, failed, and as long as I spend my life in the reject bin with all the other odd-balls I’ll be alright. But trying to do things that real people do, like go on holiday in France, will inevitably show me up for the throw out I am.



I stopped for coffee somewhere in the heat, and had one of the best cups of coffee I have ever tasted from a franchise called ‘Paul’. Strange isn’t it? French service stations can deliver the most amazing standards sometimes. I had to put the hood up, it was just too hot and I could feel my skin sizzle. My nose is still peeling a bit, which is a really good sophisticated look amongst all the Parisian holiday makers, I can tell you.



On I ploughed, listening to Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus, so from Cairo to Glasgow, but it kept me company and my thoughts didn’t drift too much toward The Absent Father and how utterly grim this independence really is.



Lunch was taken at a service station just outside Angers. I was making really good time, but heck I was fed up. Again everyone was with someone, and my leg was really throbbing. I must have looked very strange with my knee brace over my jeans (no way it was going under my black jeans), something like a James Bond baddie I suppose, especially in the zippy black car, but not the glamorous one who bonks James and gets killed soon after, more likely an also ran slightly butch one (I hadn’t bothered with make up) who dies earlier doing something stupid like trying to outdrive James and shoot at him and getting the full force of Q’s clever adaptations.



I really felt I was in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t of course, but I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in hours and hours, and knew I had a long way to go before I got to DN2. It’s funny, the thought that DN2 would be waiting for me was oddly comforting, I pictured her smiling face, gulped and winced my leg back into the car.



Nantes was always going to be difficult, and so it proved. There is a ring road round Nantes and for some reason it was full of giant lorries chasing each other and honking their enormously loud horns at intervals, making whole cars leap in fright, or at least that’s what it felt like. Taking your eyes off the road for even a second to check the number of my turn off was lethal, and predictably I missed my turn. According to a thermometer on a building it was 36 degrees, but I don’t think it was that hot, the thermometer was probably in the in sun, but still black jeans in a black car weren’t awfully comfortable. I got off the ring road and got quite lost getting on the right road to Fromentine. Or rather I didn’t get on the right road to Fromentine, but as I had several hours until my ferry I could afford to potter, listening to John Rebus be rude to anyone important in Scotland, my mind in peace camps in Edinburgh, far from the vines and dust of the Vendée. I suppose this is where I need to admit it was actually better not having The Absent Father with me. Yes, really. Although the ring road was hellish, did it really matter I was two junctions off the ideal? I can read a map quite well, as I’m sure you’ve worked out I did the whole thing across France with the minimum of mistakes, can think on my feet and have quite a good sense of direction, so I knew I wasn’t going to get that lost. So I took small lanes that might have been a bit longer, it didn’t really matter at all, because I was fine, as I knew I was going to be. If only I could generalise that confidence to the rest of my life, but for the most it only resides in my belief in my navigating skills. It’s a start I suppose.



I found the car park in Fromentine that had been booked for me, and found the ferry terminal. I was about 2 – 2 ½ hours early and again, not having The Absent Father was a bit of a bonus. I didn’t have to plan for anyone else’s happiness. There was no earlier ferry, so I’d just have to wait. I repaired to the nearest bar, or rather the only bar I saw, and sat down. It took a while, again, for the waiter to come and take my order, but he did, bringing me une grande bière. I got out good old Alan Bennett and took a large gulp of the drink. What is it about French beer on a hot day, nothing tastes quite like it, that taste, unlike lager at home, is it just the heat, or something else. Anyway, it was wonderful, but I thought I’d better pace myself, don’t want to arrive lashed on The Island, not quite the right impression. So with the help of Mr Bennett I made une grande bière last until 6pm, getting on for ¾ of an hour, which was actually quite circumspect.



So what of my life on The Island? I think I’ve written in quite a lot of detail about how I have slowly fallen in love with this little place. There isn’t much for a single, middle-aged woman to do, true the port becomes quite lively in the early evening, and groups play in the bars. I’m told there are nightclubs, but they cater for the teenagers and twenty-somethings who seem to emerge in the late afternoon but not much for me. Still, I have found peace and rest, and can deal much better with the solitude. I only hope I can take this with me back to England, because it is the solitude I find most difficult, but then My Uncle is always around for a chat and cup of tea. My Uncle has tried very hard to make our stay happy. We’ve eaten out a couple of times, other than that, we stay here at night, which is ok, My Uncle has great intelligent conversation, and he’s replicated a good cocktail, a petit punch, rum, lime juice, sugar syrup and mint, and the early evenings are spent in light conversation about such delights. It has been a serious bonus to hear about his parents, my grandparents, connecting with my past, and I feel it’s a bonus for My Uncle too. His own children barely remember his parents, and with the exception of MC and my brother, I’m the only one left who can validate his memories. And he validates mine. At a time when I am re-writing my adult life to include the belief that The Absent Father lied for years, it is strangely consoling to hear about things I remember, to examine my childhood’s memories and put them in an adult context. There is a consistency that I can’t have with my memories of The Absent Father. All the time I feel the slipping sand of dishonesty, I was happy, but he wasn’t, he couldn’t have been, people don’t change that much, do they? And if they change that much, so that The Absent Father was honest then and is now, how on earth do I ever know anything ever again. Reality has become paper thin and My Uncle’s chattering about what my grandfather would have done in situations is actually quite vital.



Even though The Island has been so reviving, it is time to go, well in two days time. DN2 and I together will be braving The Island ferry, finding the car and the road to Nantes. Thelma and Louise, no, I’m not running away from anything, but returning to my life with hope and vigour that whatever the future holds for me, and most of it isn’t going to be good or fun, or even very cheerful, I have the strength to see it out. Until I get my chance to rest again, maybe here, maybe in another place, but always with the knowledge that I made it this far, and it was worth the journey.