The House Husband

We rather like the Hotel Chateaubriand but I’m not that keen on the way they organise their wifi. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very pleased they have it and it’s free (actually, if they didn’t have it we’d stay somewhere else) but there’s one thing that is really, really stupid.

Like most places, they have a login and passcode to access the Internet, which is fair enough. They change these every day (given the format I assume the selection is completely random) which is very good. There is then a limit to when these details can be used. Again, this is an excellent idea.

It is possible to check-in at 3pm and the latest you can check out is midday so, something that I’m wondering is why the Internet codes work from midnight to midnight. What this means is that for someone staying one night, if they want to use the Internet in morning (say they need to check and address or a phone number or just an important email) they will need to go down to reception and get the new codes. This strikes me as just silly.

Anyway, apart from that little bit of strangeness, the hotel was very nice and we slept the sleep of the innocent and woke, first to sun and then to rain. The day doesn’t appear to be improving.

We had a lovely (as expected) breakfast In the Unicorn (discovering that fromage blanc isn’t actually white cheese, as one would expect, but extremely basic yoghurt) then went to the station to pick up our hire car, a little black Peugeot, whatever that means.

Why does it always take so long when you pick up a hire car? When I organised it, I supplied them with all the information they could possibly want but when we arrive, they then spend half an hour asking the same things. I find that quite annoying so you can imagine how much Mirinda enjoys it.

Anyway, we eventually managed to get the car, hooked up Linda and set off for Mestre, our halfway stop. It didn’t take long for us to realise two things about Linda. Firstly, she is a bloody good navigator which makes my holiday that much more enjoyable and, secondly, she has a weird way of pronouncing French names when there’s actually an English equivalent.

Take the word ‘avenue’. For humans, it’s the same in French and English but Linda seems to think it sounds something like a constant stream of bubbles coming out of a plastic straw. It’s like she’s trying to show off her French accent skills. Sadly she has none and, in fact, then has problems with her English. Very odd. Still, I’m not that bothered because she’s so good at what she does.

I’d planned our trip to include a stop in a place called Chateau Gontier but we decided to stop in a village just before it. The village was called Quelaines Saint Gault and was very sleepy. Actually it was totally asleep except for a boulongerie/patisserie the owner of which I’m certain forgot to lock her door.

We had a lovely break beside a pond, complete with ducks. As we sat eating our bread and missing cheese, a French woman approached with a child and an older woman who I assume was her mother. Mirinda was reading but I caught the mother’s eye and said “Bonjour” which she answered with a stream of rapid French.

I shrugged and said “Non parlez Francais” which is “No speak French” which she responded with “Parlez vous Anglais?” to which I said “Oui” and nodded vigorously. She then started speaking to me in rapid French again. Interesting response. I don’t think she was mad.

Opposite the pond, in a small area obviously reserved for it, sat a small travelling circus which would not be leaving any muddy reminders, given that it had been sited on gravel – note Waverley Park rangers. In the front of the small area set aside for such entertainments was a very odd looking, even Picasso-ish statue. It’s enough to give kids the screaming hab dabs. This is what it looked like but I have no idea what it means, who it is or why.

The plastic surgeon wasn't very good

After our rather odd lunch, we wandered back to the car, via the local church (of course), where I found a very telling stained glass window. I have often spouted off about the origins of Easter eggs and what they have to do with Jesus and, now, my questions are answered. Voila! Feast your eyes on the evidence that Jesus loved his boiled eggs in his own special egg cup.

This is my egg cup, so bugger off and get your own.

We eventually left the church, just in time to get wet from a sudden downpour, predicted quite strongly by the very black cloud that had been following us up the hill. This wasn’t the first deluge we’d been through on our drive south but it was almost our last.

As we drew closer to our target (the small Domaine Mestre just outside Fontevraud) the weather improved no end. The temperature shot up by 5° and the clouds scuddered away to visit lonely families in southern England.

The farmhouse in which we were staying was lovely, secluded and without phone signal or Internet connection of any kind. The latter is not exactly true. The lady on reception told Mirinda that I could plug my netbook into her office socket if I liked but I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen.

We settled in, rested up and then popped into Montsoreau for an extremely necessary coffee given I hadn’t had one for the last six hours and was feeling a bit dangerous.

Montsoreau sits on the bank of the Loire and has its own Chateau on a hill. It’s very cute.

The littlest chateau in the Loire

Montsoreau also has quite a few bars. We chose one and sat outside to enjoy our drinks to the accompaniment of traffic and a lovely view of the river.

We also walked all the way up to the Chateau to discover that it had closed five minutes before we arrived. We were philosophical. We hadn’t known it was there and had stumbled upon it accidentally. It’ll still be there for any future trips we’re never likely to take to Montsoreau so we can save it’s pleasures for later.

Something else we found which may be visited shortly was the Diana Merri, or something unsimilar, restaurant. It reminded Mirinda of the Merridiana in East Horsley which force fed us 15 tiramisu desserts because the waiter kept making mistakes.

But dinner for our first night was courtesy of our hosts at the farm. And what a meal! It was very big and featured many different dishes including a very nice cheese and lettuce dish. The meal was so good, it left us feeling full enough for eight so there was nothing for it but to retire for the night and dream about our day ahead.

Last Christmas, Mirinda & I were in different Australian states, missing each other. It was the first Christmas we had spent apart in 19 years of marriage. While it was great to spend it with our families, we both missed each other a lot. What made it worse was that we’d planned to go away, just the two of us, to somewhere on the continent.

Of course, all our plans were quickly altered with Claire and dad in hospital and Mirinda was in Sydney while I sweltered on Kawana Island.

Well, we were discussing what we’d like to do this Christmas today and, before we knew it, we’d booked the dogs into the kennel, booked flights and a hotel, and booked airport transfers. It didn’t take very long and, seemingly on a whim, we are now going to Prague for Christmas.

We are now getting quite excited about it. I need to remember to get the Rough Guide tomorrow.

Behind the church

Mirinda went looking for a seamstress today. Rather than stand around looking like a one-armed moron, went for a wander through the churchyard on my way to Starbucks. As you can see, the sky was very blue.

The weather this morning was horrendous. Too much rain, very windy, humid. Not at all pleasant. For some reason known only to the rain god, I was spared a drenching when I went for my hairdressing appointment.

Gordon, my hairdresser, is one of those people who has either just done the same thing that you’re excited about or has done something better. What he does, without realising it (or maybe he does and is just evil) is to denigrate what you are about to do by not spurring on your excitement. I’m not really bothered by him – after all, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever fly a helicopter or perm old ladies’ heads – but today made me laugh.

“Going on holiday soon?” He asked.
“Err, yeah,” I answered. “New York, this afternoon.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I was in New York three weeks ago. Great place.”

And so it went. He told me all about skateboarding in Central Park (not him, I hasten to add), how to get cheap accommodation (top hotels, apparently, reduce their prices significantly on a Saturday after 4pm). This latter one was pretty useless advice if you think about it. I mean who is going to go to New York for a holiday and not have any accommodation booked, hoping the hotel you want to stay at will have reduce price rooms when you get there? And it’s not just him – he has a wife.

Anyway, Gordon did a great job on my hair, which is all I really care about and I headed back home under a gradually darkening sky.

There was more rain and more wind and I was beginning to think I’d need to order a taxi to take me to the station but, half an hour before I was due to leave, the clouds parted and the sun blazed away any remaining damp. Perfect timing. I grabbed the suitcase and left the house.

As I crossed the road I felt a few drops and grimaced. But this was just a joke and no more rain fell on me. All the way to Heathrow, in fact.

As my coach crawled along the M25 I had a text from Mirinda saying she was already at terminal 4, at Café Rouge. It was a long time early!

While I gave myself two hours to travel the 15 miles, I still managed to take longer. This was mainly because the coach no longer services individual terminals but (apart from Terminal 5) drops everyone at the central bus station. From here, it’s a very long walk (about 20 minutes) to the Heathrow Express train station where you can board a train to Terminal 4 for free.

When I finally arrived the station indicator told me I still had 15 minutes to wait for the next train. When it arrived and I boarded, the doors closed, it went for three minutes (I timed it) then stopped at Terminal 4. So – 35 minutes in order to travel 3. You’d think there’d be a better way, wouldn’t you.

I met up with Mirinda and we transferred some items to the suitcase (how on earth does ‘two blouses’ become the entire contents of the Canary Wharf flat, is something I want to know) before checking it in at the desk. We’d already checked in online so it was just a matter of walking through security. We then headed for Gate 22.

When the sign at the airport says that a gate is 15 minutes walk away, believe it! You’d think I’d walked enough already but no, I still had the hike to Gate 22. We reached it with enough time to sit and chatter away, distracting Mirinda from the prospect of flying before boarding. I kissed her goodbye in the galley after which I headed towards the pleb-end of the plane.

And joy of joys (though not for the airline) the plane was half empty up the back and I had an empty seat next to me. Comfort and bliss. I could enjoy the window and still have an aisle seat. Oh, the simple things in life can still work their magic on me.

OK, I’m going to have a moan now so some readers may want to skip to the end.

An announcement came over the tannoy asking for the owner of a green rucksack to come forward and remove it from the overhead locker because it was too big. A short while later the call was repeated with the additional information that if someone didn’t claim it, someone would throw it off the aircraft. I’ll admit that I felt slightly apprehensive.

There was a guy who was sitting across the aisle from me. He was yabbering away on his mobile, cradling a guitar and not paying the slightest bit of notice to anyone but himself. He clearly had not heard the call and, you guessed it, owned the green knapsack.

I have no idea how they tracked him down but the two biggest, toughest stewardesses on board, wrestled him to the ground, ripped his head off and started playing football with it…

I wish! They merely told him to go and get it and bring it back to the pleb-end of the plane. Of course, it wouldn’t fit in the overhead locker but that was ok, of course, because he packs plastic bags for just such occurrences. He distributed all manner of things from backpack to plastic bags and spread them all through a large number of overhead lockers. He’s rather fortunate that half the plane is empty otherwise he’d be wearing everything instead.

What I want to know is, how did the grey backpack get by security? Surely the maximum size is slightly less than the capacity of an overhead locker. But what do I know. I just have my man-bag.

Of course, we had to sit in the plane for half an hour longer than scheduled because the control tower didn’t want us to leave but eventually we were off – up, up and away.

As we headed off, southern England looked gorgeous until being obliterated by murky grey clouds which eventually became all white and fluffy.

White, fluffy clouds somewhere above the Atlantic

At JFK, it was rainy and humid. According to Mirinda it was one of the worst landings she’s ever lived through. I’m pretty sure I’ve experienced worse and didn’t think it was that bad. It did seem a bit slippery though. Standing in the queue for a yellow cab, however, was definitely no picnic.

We had a lovely taxi driver who eventually dropped us at the Holiday Inn, Wall Street and we collapsed into the very big bed.

Up and out of the hotel by 9 and at the ferry terminal by 9:30. We checked in and waited then queued and waited then went through security, just missing the bus to the ferry and so, we waited.

The bus returned for the second half of the foot passengers and we duly drove off for the three minute trip to the gangway. As soon as everyone was off the bus with their luggage, a woman with a scanning device told us all something in French and we all returned to the bus with our luggage. It was all a bit frantic and I wondered whether we were being taken back to the terminal for interrogation. Then, as the bus reversed, I spotted the gangway being taken away and realised we were going in the big entrance where the cars go.

This was the scene of more consternation as the bus driver attempted to reverse his vehicle. He eventually gave up after a lot of Gallic swearing and frustrated gesticulation and did a huge u-turn in front of the cars that were waiting to drive onto the ferry. We were unceremoniously dumped halfway up the ramp and made to drag our heavy bags up the corrugated surface meant to stop cars and trucks from slipping.

I was in something of a panic when I thought our only way to the top of the ferry was via the stairs until I spotted the lift. Normally I’d not worry but my injuries were starting to act up a bit with the constant heaving up and down of luggage and the lift was an essential rather than a luxury. It deposited us on the 6th floor where we dumped it for the duration of the trip.

After the first awful coffee since leaving the ferry many days ago, we found our reclining seats and reclined. We should be home in about 9 hours.

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The best bit of a holiday is getting home. After a long and uneventful ferry ride, we docked at Portsmouth Harbour, climbed aboard our waiting taxi and were driven home.

The house was still there (though silent without the poodles) and the mail was high, the grass has grown and the Verbascum banana custard is STILL growing!!!!

I have had no access to the Internet for the last 10 days but will update with my journal entries over the next few days.

Woo hoo! This is my 200th post! Amazing. Just think, I’ve been writing my blog now for 200 days. Of course, the more blog entries I make, the harder it is to stop. Not that I’m going to stop. I just love the sound of my own words. Even when they’re digital.

We WERE going to Bristol yesterday but, for various reasons, we didn’t. I shall go into these reasons another time. Suffice it to say that Mirinda is not going for the job at UWE.

Posts may be a bit few and far between for the next week or so but, rest assured, I’ll soon be heading for my second 200!

Today we returned from a week on the Isle of Wight and the garden has gone mad. It has been sun, sun, sun! The grass is ready for its first mow of the year, and the tulips are starting to open.

Tomorrow I shall try and get some photographs on the site of our holiday. Though we are collecting the poodles tomorrow so they might just demand a bit of attention.

Oh and Chelsea beat Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi-final today.