. . . . . sunrise at Long Key in the Florida Keys:
. . . . . and no I did not pop over there this morning. Photo taken December 2009. I knew, of course, that it would eventually come in handy for the WP photo challenge this week of Early Bird.
It wasn’t difficult to rouse myself for this photo op. I had the beach to myself, a lovely cup of tea and a spectacular show to watch put on by Mother Nature. The only problem was that the heat and humidity kept fogging my camera lens having just stepped out of the air-conditioned RV. Have you experienced that? It was a new one on me.
It was actually four weeks ago that we went but I couldn’t replace go with went and make it rhyme.
On the verge of giving up on my French lessons, I remarked to himself before the trip, ‘I’m hopeless at French, I can’t remember anything. What’s the point of learning if you can’t remember?’
I’m the dummy in my ill-advised advanced class who tries to keep a low profile and goes home to look up the same words and phrases over and over again, then crams for the next week and writes little cheat notes I hide in my notebook. I was going to give my brain one last chance to redeem itself on a five day trip to the French coast, not far from where the train spits us out in our car.
I got on surprisingly well at hotel check-in leaving himself dumbfounded as I spoke in secret code with the receptionist.
‘I’ve got the key, the lift is over there and we’re on the third floor, room 307,’ and I strode off self-importantly. I gained confidence with each shop and restaurant encounter, even responding in French when I was spoken to in English.
My only disappointment was at tourist information where I asked about local walks speaking politely in French. The assistant threw a stream of unintelligible gobble-de-gook at me even after I asked her – in French – to speak more slowly. I grabbed the map she’d been jabbing at for reasons only known to her and left, bemused at her insensitivity working as she was at a seaside holiday resort close to the tunnel and ferry port of Calais, one of England’s main entries to France.
Perhaps she just doesn’t care for les anglais. Not that I’m English but she wouldn’t know that as we didn’t chit-chat and exchange pleasantries. I wasn’t able to tell her that my father had served in the American Army, landed at Normandy, fought for and was wounded for her country and she had better buck her ideas up.
On the lookout for stamps on our last day I popped into a likely looking shop and asked. Himself stood by as I showed off my language skills. When we stepped out onto the street he said, ‘She said to go to the tabac. It’s just down here on the right,’ and he pointed it out to me. Hmm.
The tabac was only able to supply stamps for Europe but I was directed to the post office for stamps for the U.S. Feeling pleased with my French conversation I stopped to browse some English language newspapers for a bit of light relief before leaving the shop. Himself looked up from The Times and said, ‘She told you to go to La Poste, back to the church and turn right.’
Well! He dredged that up from two years of schoolboy French *! years ago!
I wasn’t feeling so clever then so went for a little nap on the promenade. Can you see me? Look closely:
Do you see that blob with her arm out under the rear stripey sail? That’s me at the helm of ‘Nightwind.’ The photographer was Walter Cronkite.
It was the late 70’s and I was crewing on the charter yacht ‘Nightwind.’ Walter came down from New York with his wife, son and friend to spend some down time cut off from the world as this was before the days of mobile phones.
We were ghosting along under a light wind and Walter and the skipper hopped into the dingy to take some rather splendid souvenir photographs of ‘Nightwind’ under sail, some of which he posted to us later after they’d been developed (remember doing that?). Sadly, this one is now faded, scratched and blotched.
An enduring memory of THE Mr. Walter Cronkite was that he would ascertain our destination for the next day and read aloud about it from the cruising guide after dinner. Washing up, tinkering and tidying would halt and the other five of us on board would gather round to listen. I knew the guide off by heart and the islands were completely familiar to me but his sonorous voice, relaxed by his vacation, was mesmerizing. It was his news voice tuned down to a lullaby. What a treat.
I lived Afloat on this boat for two years cruising with charter passengers between Martinique and Grenada. And am still drifting.
If you are interested, or my terminology offends you, the rear stripey sail is the mizzen staysail.
I could have just re-posted Put That Back, a photo of Floating Islands desserts for this challenge, but that seemed a bit lazy.
‘We’re homeless. Intentionally. What planet was I on when I agreed to this?’
Do you see where it says that up there beneath the title? When I wrote it all those years ago, I thought it was funny. I had no idea it would go on for so long.
As I said in my About page ‘ours is not the tragic homelessness of poverty or extreme weather, but the ridiculous homelessness of an Englishman who wanted to live in America with freedom and an Anglicized American who wants to live in England with family.’ And so we’ve wandered.
Well we’re back in the UK now. And still homeless.
We have spent in total five years in an RV (one-and-a-half years in Europe and three-and-a-half years in the USA) and four years (one-and-a-half in Washington State and two-and-a-half in Arizona) in an apartment as temporary accommodation before taking the next step. After six months in England in a rental house we are still floundering. Himself is keeping an eye on France with a view to fleeing the UK after the next general election but I won’t air our political views here.
Ingrid asked me if I missed ‘it.’ I’m not sure if ‘it’ is Arizona specifically , warm weather, RVing or possibly all three.
No. I don’t.
With the greatest respect and best wishes to all of you off on your adventures and photographic journeys – and you all look like you are having a whale of a time – I’ve had enough of meandering. I need a base. And I’m happy in damp England. It’s where I belong despite not wanting to give up my navy blue passport.
We toured the Suffolk and Essex countryside on Easter Sunday, initially to look at a house, and saw thousands, nay millions, of daffodils. Each new field of dancing yellow blooms took my breath away. Quarter mile driveways of stately homes were lined with the yellow darlings. What a treat to come home to that. What a treat to come home at all.
Is living the gypsy life a guy thing? He’s already bought another caravan/travel trailer/RV long before a sticks and bricks house. In fairness to him he spends a lot of time online researching houses to buy (and cars, trucks, motorcycles, race meetings, campsites, channel crossings – tunnel vs. ferry, flights to Arizona and Australia and reading just enough news to make him angry). But mostly he looks at house sale sites.
Himself would go back to the itinerant lifestyle in a shot. I would not. Himself is lamenting leaving Arizona. And if you could pick it up and drop it in southern England, so would I. I just can’t bear the thought of all the long haul flights and the accompanying aggravations I seem to attract with the airport gestapo. He takes it all in his stride. It was beginning to drive me bonkers.
Beginning? Don’t kid yourself, you’re thinking.
I would be interested to know from all you full timers:
Do you get homesick for somewhere that no longer exists?
Do you at least have a family base where they put you up or plug your RV in in the driveway and offer you showers and laundry and meals?
Do you fly there or drive there?
Do you see much of your family?
I also put it to you people of a home loving persuasion – would you sell up and store your present existence in order to fund travel?
We’ve traveled through 47 states and seen glorious U.S. State Parks and National Parks, Sites, Recreation Areas, Monuments and Historic Sites too numerous to mention. We’ve RVed east to west and top to bottom of England and Scotland and traversed France and Spain. We’ve camped all along the three U.S. coastlines as well as the interior and visited most major cities. I have thousands and thousands of photos and have written over 300 blog posts.
Now I want a house. A home base. I don’t want to go anywhere. At least for a while.
Too quick for me, Maya is this week’s photo challenge subject of Blur. Little Maya was too excited to keep still for long. We thought she would insist on being the wedding celebrant but she reluctantly decided to let her grandfather conduct the ceremony before taking her seat.
Frothy, floaty, silky deliciousness. Îles flottantes. Floating islands. Mounds of lighter-than-air meringue, drizzled with caramel, floating on a sea of custard. Could you resist?
“Dont’ touch it! I want to take a picture.” Himself’s hands retreated slightly.
“Move your hands. They’re in the frame.” Click. And the hands moved back to the dessert.
“Wait! I want to take one more.”
Spot the difference between the photo above and the one below:
The Ephemeral nature of a yummy dessert is this week’s entry for the photo challenge. Short-lived is one definition of ephemeral. I dispute that. Those French desserts (and dinners and croissants and wine and cheese and baguettes and . . . . ) are still making themselves known around my waistline.
See more entries for the WordPress Photo Challenge here: Ephemeral
Better late than never, eh? Life seems to be getting in the way of blogging. What’s up with that?
Flowers, flowers and more flowers! I was happy, happy, happy!
Festival of the Patios, Cordoba, Spain, 2006
Tantalizing glimpses through wrought iron gates of bountiful patios are all one gets throughout the year until May, when private patios – central open-air ‘rooms’ in houses – are opened to the public.
Originally plants and water features were a way of keeping the patios cool in the hot dry summers but in 1918 Códoba City Hall began sponsoring the patio contests. As you can see the residents go all out.
How would you like a whole wall of flowers?
To view more walls in the photo challenge, click: Wall. That’s all!
One grey and misty day, long, long ago – at least three months ago – I convinced himself that we should revisit Tintagel Castle, the site of the legend of King Arthur. Since our first visit ten years ago it has lived on in my over-active imagination as a land of mystery and magic.
Centuries before King Arthur was a twinkle in a movie producer’s eye a tale emerged through Celtic lore and French medieval poetry of the adulterous love of a knight and a princess.
On a windswept strategic promontory with a history dating back 1700 years to the dark ages I felt the presence of King Arthur – a myth that has been perpetuated for 900 years.
Steps down to the bridge to the island
Steps up to the island
Steps back up to the mainland
The castle once stretched over a narrow isthmus of land but wild Atlantic weather has swept the isthmus away leaving half of the castle isolated on a jagged island. All that is left of the castle are foundation stones outlining rooms but enough to lure a stream of tourists since the end of the 1600’s. And me. Twice now. The guide book will direct to you to Merlin’s Cave and Excalibur rests in the lake not far from the cafe and the ticket booth.
Then . . . .
. . . . . . now.
Then . . . . .
. . . . . . now.
As I stood on the windy promontory, taking in lungfuls of salty Atlantic air, legs astride, arms akimbo I could see the Knights at the Round Table. I could hear Guinevere. I could picture myself holding Excalibur aloft, the plastic replicas on sale in town firing my imagination. I felt touched by the presence of King Arthur.
How better to finish the challenge than with a photo of yours truly!
I must credit my father with taking this photo. Do you remember the old box cameras? Dad’s had a flap on the top that you lifted for the viewfinder. You held the camera against your chest to steady it and looked straight down into the viewfinder to find your subject with some difficulty with your whole body getting in on the action – was the image upside-down? The film was advanced manually and there were 12 images on your black and white roll. Six to twelve months later when you’d taken your twelfth photo, you’d take the film into a camera shop to be developed and wait two weeks for your photographs, which mostly came as a surprise as you’d taken them so long ago.
Now I take a photo and send it halfway around the world in an instant. Who would have believed that?
Jude of Travel Words and the earth laughs in flowers has invited me to join in with this challenge. Jude is an accomplished photographer/traveler/garden enthusiast so while out and about stays grounded and records everything with wonderfully entertaining results.
There are only two rules for this challenge:
On 5 consecutive days, create a post using either a past or recent photo in B&W.
Each day invite another blog friend to join in the fun.
Today I would like to nominate Cindy Knoke of cindyknoke.com to take part in the challenge. Cindy lives in a mythical place in California she call ‘The Holler’ and travels extensively. Her photos are just . . . they’re just so . . . so very . . . . . absolutely . . . . ummm. It would seem they are indescribable. You’ll have to have a look for yourself. Go on.
(Note to Cindy – I shouldn’t have paired you in this post with the faded, scratched, photo of a photo above. But then there is no comparison between your photos and mine.)