BON VOYAGE jokes

BON VOYAGE!



by Trevor Whitton





Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton



This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be sold or reproduced in any way without the author's explicit agreement.



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1. The ‘Eighty Kilometre’ Rule and Other Abnormalities of Physics



‘Always ask about everything in your rented car.

As soon as you’ve got your rented car, ask the nearest person what, and (more importantly) WHERE everything is. You may find that – for some weird reason - your CD

player is in the boot, or that the seatbelts are in the pockets of the front chairs.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





May 2003:



‘Where’s the car key?’

‘Locked in the house.’

‘Where’s the house key?’

‘With the car key!’

My wife Lindy and I looked at each other with a terrible sinking feeling. This was the unpromising beginning of our holiday as we prepared to leave for the airport.

It was a long way from being our first trip to Europe, and the third with our two children, James (14) and Thomas (12). This time we had decided to take my wife’s 66-year-old mother Enid along with us as well. For her it was a dream come true, although she’d taken quite a bit of persuading. She couldn't believe that she wouldn't be a burden – bless her little floral apron – but she eventually gave in to our sustained pressure and was now eagerly (if a little anxiously) looking forward to sharing the adventure. Little did any of us realise what a roller coaster of an adventure it would turn out to be!

Locking the keys in the house before we’d even left must have made the Aged Relative wonder what she’d let herself in for! But as far as we were concerned, she couldn’t have been in safer hands. We’d begun our preparations twelve months earlier, with hundreds (well, dozens – I’m a little prone to exaggeration, as you’ll see) 2



of emails backwards and forwards to sundry hotels and prospective hosts. We had the logistics of managing the travel of five people driving around Europe for six weeks planned to within a centimetre of its life, and confidently dismissed any qualms with a nonchalant wave of our souvenir berets.



Looking back, we should have had an inkling of our fate a month earlier, when I opened a message from Lucia – the owner of our Tuscan villa.

‘Where is your deposit? I was expecting it several weeks ago. Are you no longer interested in staying with us?’ Gripped with panic, I replied urgently reassuring her that we were, and that I would look into the delayed remittance straight away. I spent a sleepless night constructing the conversation I intended having with my bank the next day – each moment bringing a new and better way of destroying some unsuspecting clerk's life and self respect.

You know how it is. You run through the scenario a hundred times in your head, always concluding with an argument or sarcastic comment to devastate your foe and has them admitting defeat and tearfully promising to rectify your problem with minimal fuss and no cost (perhaps even offering to compensate you for your inconvenience?). In reality – and it seems as inevitable as poo – the problem stretches on for days and days, then weeks, and in the end you’ve reduced your life expectancy by at least a dozen years, and the problem is only marginally resolved (at best).

This lesson was to be repeated over and over again in the weeks to come.

I can’t recall the exact conversation with the bank clerk in this circumstance, of course – but it ran something like this:

(Me) ‘Where the bloody hell has my deposit gone?’

(Clerk) ‘Which deposit would that be, sir?’

(Me) ‘The one I asked you to send off to Italy two months ago!’

(Clerk)‘I’ll just check for you and call you back in five minutes.’



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(Me – calling back two hours later) ‘Well?!’

(Clerk) ‘Well what?’

(Me) ‘Where’s that bloody deposit gone?’

(Clerk) ‘Which deposit would that be, sir?’

- you get my drift. Multiply the above by the number ten, then factor in the need to eventually follow this up with an Italian bank (no – whatever you’re imagining isn’t even close), and you can see that we were well up against it. But, in my innocent naivety, once this matter had been resolved I dismissed the whole episode with hardly a second thought.

‘You don’t think it’s some kind of omen, do you?’

asked Lindy apprehensively. It wasn’t just the children she was concerned for, remember – there was the fate of her mother to take into consideration, as well.

‘Don’t be so pessimistic!’ I replied confidently. ‘This was our one piece of bad luck. Now we can look forward to our holiday, confident in the knowledge that we’ve already dealt with our disasters.’



Anyway – back to that first day - after squashing young Thomas through the only window we’d left open, we retrieved the house and car keys and were eventually on our way.

There were no other incidents en route to warn of what was to come – in fact, the flight to Paris was relatively pleasant (as far as twenty-four hours of medieval torture can be). The movies on offer were particularly appealing – the only drawback being that I foolishly forced myself to stay awake in order to watch them all. As the other passengers dozed and snored all around me, I was using matchsticks to keep my eyelids open. Unfortunately, I was so exhausted by the experience that I couldn’t remember a single detail afterwards. Months later when we ended up borrowing the DVDs, it was like seeing them for the first time.

Nevertheless, the issue for me was – and shall always remain – to make the most of free offers.

Especially from airlines.

When I did finally get to sleep, Enid (who’d drawn the short straw and was sitting next to me) was kept 4



awake for the remainder of the journey by my gentle, fairy-like snores. Such sensitivity to tiny noises did not hold her in good stead throughout the trip, although it has been suggested that the experience was perhaps a little worse than I’ve described.

The highlight for Lindy was when the cabin crew distributed the mini-Magnums. Her face lit up like a startled rabbit before the headlights, and her smile nearly split her face in two. Fortunately for me, she’s always been impressed by the simple things in life.

James and Thomas watched a few movies, pushed every meal about their plates suspiciously without tasting a crumb, and were only truly happy when the plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle and we were on terra firma once more. The Aged Relative and Son-in-Law embraced excitedly, and within a reasonably short time we’d collected our bags (Burke and Wills set off with less luggage than us!) and car, and were on the road.



We now confronted our first real challenge of the trip. I suppose I should mention at this point that Lindy was to do all the driving – we had a manual car, and I can only drive the wind-up kind (i.e., automatics). It was therefore very important that our journey on that first morning be as short and stress-free as possible. No one wants to drive much after a twenty-four hour plane trip (let’s face it, breathing in and out is almost too much to be bothered with), and we’d booked somewhere that was only about eighty kilometres from the airport.

Eighty kilometres.

This figure became a sort of numerical jinx throughout the trip. It’s probably some strange kind of dimension-warp thing, but every time we estimated that we were about eighty kilometres from somewhere, it ended up becoming a lot further – and I mean, a lot further!

On the morning in question it became two hundred kilometres.

I remember seeing the car’s mileage meter tick over the eighty kilometre mark, then looking out the window and feeling the tears stream down my face as I watched a 5



plane landing at Charles de Gaulle airport, a couple of hundred metres away on our right.

Have you ever tried driving around Paris without using the ring-road (Peripherique)? That particular highway has a justifiably bad reputation, and I maintain to this day that it’s not a bad idea trying to avoid it when picking up an unfamiliar car after a twenty-four hour plane trip – especially if you’re still trying to get used to driving on the other side of the road! But, let me tell you, it beats the hell out of trying to negotiate your way around the poorly signed country roads of the Ile de France. I expect wartime Britain was much the same after they took down all the signs to confuse the invading Germans. I, for one, can guarantee that it’s terrifically effective. An invading army wouldn’t have stood a chance, and the Whittons-plus-one were like lambs to the slaughter.



The trip was so long that we were forced to stop for some refreshment. Enid craved a hot chocolate, and I was looking forward to my first cup of French coffee. Lindy needed a break, and the boys were happy just to have something to stick in their mouths.

First, let me go back a little to explain that we’d gone to great lengths before setting off to tell the boys that this holiday was going to be different – we weren’t going to be constantly stopping at McDonalds like we had in previous trips. In fact, we probably wouldn’t even stop there at all!

Not once! In the entire trip!

Half an hour after landing in Paris we pulled into McDonalds for coffee and hot chocolate.

The thing with McDonald’s in Europe is that the few advantages it usually offers – quick service and the opportunity for a cheap, hot meal – have been stripped away. It took a good twenty minutes for our humble order to arrive, and it cost a bomb! My first coffee of the trip wasn’t worthy of the name.

Many hours later, we finally arrived at our destination, (after stopping at the wrong town and conducting a – not surprisingly - fruitless search for our hotel). I was able, at last, to advise the concierge – in 6



word-perfect French - that we had a reservation. Six months of rehearsal had prepared me for this moment, and imagine the disappointment I felt when my speech was met with indifference. I suspect Olivier would have felt the same after hearing crickets in response to a masterful performance of Hamlet. To add to my humiliation, he did something I had never expected – he replied in French! In a mad panic, I responded with

'Comment?' – which (for those of you who don't know) is roughly the equivalent 'Huh?' in French. Unfortunately, this only encouraged the fool to spout more French. The torrent of incomprehensibility gushed again from his mouth. Totally lost on me, of course. I tried smiling helplessly and – believe it or not – it worked. 'Do you need help with your bags?' he asked – in English. I was shattered after only my first conversation. Well, I say conversation, but it was hardly that. A conversation requires a two-way dialogue. Once we'd switched to English, though, I was fine. Quite fluent, in fact.

(Although Lindy would say that English is only my second language – drivel being my first). I could have chatted all afternoon if need be, but that wasn't the point. After a brief shake of the head to indicate that I could carry the bags myself (the thought that he might say something else in French – a distinct possibility, given that he was French - filled me with terror), I was directed up fourteen levels of staircases and along twenty miles of corridors to our rooms.

This being our first night, we were forced to endure this monumental trek accompanied by our entire collection of baggage. By level twelve I was beginning to regret my pride. It was intriguing the way the hotel seemed to stretch on forever on the inside, but from the outside it looked quite small. Just like Doctor Who’s Tardis. Another one of those dimension-warp things, I guess.

Eventually, after ensuring the madams were comfortably secure in their own room, the boys and I collapsed on our beds and began to doze. Just as blissful sleep descended upon us, we were awakened by the sound of foreign syllables (presumably French) being 7



bellowed from a public address system outside our window. For a moment I had a vision of the Concierge standing below and attempting to carry on our earlier conversation, but soon realised it was coming from further away. The boys and I exchanged bewildered looks, and eventually summoned the strength to get out of bed and take a look.

At first I thought I must have been dreaming. It seemed like the entire town had assembled on the banks across the river and were fighting each other with wooden swords, while the woman on the PA tried futilely to somehow choreograph the mayhem. We watched with a mixture of amazement and horror, until it suddenly dawned on me that they were rehearsing for one of those son-et-lumiere productions that every town in France seems to put on for visitors over summer. This particular entertainment seemed to be recreating some long forgotten battle. From what we saw that afternoon, the battle of Moret-sur-Loing was one of the silliest in history!

In fairness, I suppose the fiasco would have looked more impressive if they’d been decked out in their period costumes – but it was difficult to suspend my disbelief when they were dressed in jeans, t-shirts and runners.

James and Thomas found the spectacle hysterical, and vowed never to attend a son-et-lumiere. A bit like having the magic trick revealed, I guess – all the mystery and romance had been destroyed.

Our journey had begun in earnest. We looked forward to it as an adventure and an opportunity to bond as a family. Well, looking back it certainly was an adventure, and every adventure shared is a bond strengthened, but the process was not quite what we had planned.



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2. Tips, Traps, and Words of Wisdom How much should you plan a holiday, and how much should you leave to chance? I’ve always leant more towards the former, but I understand the attraction and benefits of the latter. In our circumstance – needing to find accommodation for five people every night – we had no choice. On our previous visits with the children we’d sometimes spent hours looking desperately for someone to take us in, usually ending up in the most miserable flea-pit and paying an exorbitant price for the privilege.

Add an extra adult to that equation and it spelt potential misery - so this trip we opted for pre-booking as much as we could.

There are two risks involved with booking your accommodation. First, the gorgeous looking abode whose picture you had examined minutely on the Internet, nevertheless turns out to be a week short of being condemned. Second, it leaves you with little flexibility in your itinerary. This means that the adventure is a little less adventurous, and that mishaps which cause delays in your schedule take on greater proportions – but more about that later.



The next couple of days were spent travelling south at a steady rate into the Dordogne area of central/southern France. That first morning we stopped down the road from Moret at the great Abbey church of Saint Benoit sur Loire. Being a Sunday, we got to witness a service (accompanied by the famous Gregorian Chant of the monks of Saint Benoit), followed by a short organ recital of Bach. Nice start, thought I. Afterwards, we picked up some provisions in the village shop and headed off into the temporary sunshine.

As we left the town, Enid asked when the church of Saint Benoit had been built.

‘Between the 12th and 13th centuries,’ I replied –

happy to show off my knowledge.

‘Would that be the oldest church in France?’ she asked.



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‘No.’

‘Where is the oldest church in France, then?’ she persisted. Just then, I looked up from my map at the sign on the village we were approaching. It said ‘Germigny-des-Pres – Oratoire Carolingian: circa 806AD’.

‘Would you like to see it?’ I asked nonchalantly.



For Lindy and I, one of the delights of travelling in France is the pique-nique. Not only is there a wide variety of choice available (not the least of which is the humble but unsurpassed French baguette!), but the countryside is liberally strewn with meadows, forests, rivers, streams, lakes, and picnic tables to ensure that the whole eating experience is as pleasant as possible.

Unfortunately, whilst it looked nice from inside the car, for that first week (it was early May) the reality was near-hypothermia – particularly for the suffering Aged Relative. Enid braved the cold with fortitude – an invisible mouth devouring food as if by magic from under the deep, all-enveloping folds of her blanket. The rest of us (the mother and father, anyway) pretended it was all jolly good fun, whilst sawing away at the frozen Brie with the carving knife.



Our second day was devoted to the more popular chateaux of the Loire. As we passed through the trees and Enid caught her first glimpse of Chambord – all bristling with towers and chimneys, and dripping white like a gigantic, renaissance wedding cake – there was an audible gasp from the back seat.

We lunched in the surrounding parklands (carefully choosing a spot that would best protect us from the arctic winds), dreaming of southern sunshine and balmy Tasmanian winters. Enid still resembled an overdressed Eskimo, but soldiered on despite the frostbite.

The icicles had melted and the sun made a brief appearance late that afternoon as we arrived at the romantic Chateau of Chenonceau. The gardens sprang to life in the sunshine – as if they’d been given a nudge and told to wake up and get their act together – and (some of us) began peeling off layers of protective clothing. The 10



palace cast picturesque reflections in the river across which it was built, but the boys remained unimpressed.

Thomas, in particular, was more intrigued by the water rats which populated the fetid waters of the nearby canals!



One of my great ideas (and I had more than a few) included the car games devised during quiet moments at home over the preceding year. Infused with my inexhaustible-but-not-always-(well,

never)-appreciated

humour, they were intended to be the saviour of long hours on the road. Did they work? Well, yes and no.

They certainly achieved their aim of occupying time, but also served to polarise personalities in the car.

For example, there were a number of progressive stories that required each person to add their own contributions to a set beginning. They’d start out with a rather bizarre or macabre situation, then Enid would invariably invent a beautiful princess who needed rescuing. Thomas would immediately have her devoured by a dragon, only to have the poor maiden resurrected (or worse – regurgitated) during Enid’s next turn. This created some friction – which was not helped by James’

insistence on introducing Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy to every story. Then, as if to pour petrol onto the flames, we had the appalling idea of scoring the contest. I think we imagined at the time that it would introduce an element of healthy competition, and provide another dimension of interest. What we failed to take into account was that Lindy had brought along her own, personal lobbyist. At first it was quaint as Enid awarded her daughter the highest points for each game – but over six weeks (and as she drew further and further ahead) it wore very thin indeed.



We spent our second night in a bed and breakfast (chambre d’hote in French). We had deliberately left this night unbooked because we wanted to stay in a French B&B again, and they were difficult (back in 2003) to reserve in advance. When the time came to settle down for the night, it was simply a matter of following the signs.



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Our hosts that evening turned out to be an elderly couple, the male of which was apparently hard of hearing.

I make this presumption based on the fact that, when we first arrived, the television was turned up so loud that it could be heard by aircraft passing several kilometres above us. Their house was very comfortable, though, and they had a swimming pool!

It must have made a curious sight for our hosts with Lindy and Enid huddled beneath a blanket, whilst James and Thomas frolicked in the water. Tasmanian children are made of strong stuff, and, once a hole had been carved through the surface ice, there was no stopping the boys enjoying the luxury of a swim. From their perspective, it might have been their last opportunity for the whole trip. Enid was heard to mumble something about it having to come from my side of the family.



The true benefit of staying in a chamber d’hote, however, was only truly appreciated the next morning. Upon entering the dining room, we were assailed by the delicious odour of freshly baked baguette, the most sublime, fresh coffee, and a plethora (is it plethora – or perhaps a gaggle? Or pride?) of home made jams. We gorged ourselves unashamedly, and utilised what little French we knew (or could invent) in chatting with the owners.

‘Bonjour madame, monsieur. Comment ca va?’ I said, to which our hosts replied in eloquent French. I understood the words ‘bon’ (good) and ‘café’ (coffee) only. Naturally, I smiled and nodded knowingly – looking askance at Lindy to indicate that I needed her assistance.

Fortunately she’d understood enough to make some sort of reply, and our reputation was saved.

Eventually, the friendly couple went off to enjoy their own breakfast in private, whilst we finished at our leisure.

As the last of us stumbled to their feet and waddled off towards the car, I went looking for madame in order to pay. I was devastated to find her seated with her husband at a tiny, plastic covered table before a humble bowl of corn flakes and – I shudder to write it – a cup of instant coffee. The spell was broken – the magic was 12



gone – and the scales fell from my eyes. I realised in that one, horrendous moment, that many French people don’t sit down every morning to breakfast banquets, but have to slum it like the rest of us. It took days of grieving before I could come to terms with this revelation, and it is a scar I’ll carry with me forever. I can only be grateful that the others were spared this devastating spectacle.



The morning was spent in the city of Bourges. We headed straight for the medieval palace of Jacques Couer, and discovered that we were to be subjected to that terror of Europe – the guided tour not-in-English! For myself, I was happy to just look around and let the music of the words wash over me, but the children were counting the seconds like prisoners awaiting parole. The guide rambled on and on, oblivious to their misery.

We also visited the great gothic cathedral of Saint Etienne with its huge, overwhelming nave and beautiful medieval stained glass. But the highlight, for me, was when I bought the postage stamps for Enid. Call me shallow, but I strutted like a peacock after successfully negotiating the transaction without having to resort to English! The youthful, pleasant postal clerk looked impressed (or perhaps he was just relieved), and Trevor inched up a few notches in mother-in-law’s esteem.



When we hit the Auvergne later that day the countryside really became spectacular. The sun was shining (albeit weakly), the leaves were freshly open on the trees, and the green, grassy meadows swayed under a gentle breeze. I swear that even the cows were smiling as we sailed past, accompanied by theatrical oohs and ahhs from within the car.

Naturally, this trip was planned with the interests of the children in mind. On our previous visit they’d been impressed with ruined castles, and the Auvergne offered one with a bonus – live, period-dress entertainment. The guidebook said that it’s a “must” for the children. Well, perhaps for some – but our children certainly didn’t see it that way. For a start you have to climb a short rise (or, as James and Thomas described it, a high alpine pass) to 13



get to it from the car park. That set them against the project from the outset. Then came the entertainment.

Mother, father, and granny were enchanted by the mock King, Queen, Princess (no dragons for Tom to feed her to) and guards who greeted the new arrivals as they passed through the ancient gateway and approached the tumbling remains of the keep. We snapped away happily with our cameras - behaving as embarrassingly as only the parents and grandparents of teenage children can -

whilst James and Thomas looked desperately for disguises.

The only spark of interest for the boys was kindled when Thomas went exploring behind one of the ruined walls on the hillside. His excited shouts brought us running, and he proudly showed us a small plot with five grave markers basking in the late afternoon sunlight.

‘Count them.’ He said. ‘Five. That’s the same number as us.’ (And they say our public school system isn’t effective!). With a shudder of disquiet, the grownups smiled indulgently and went back to the entertainment, leaving Thomas taking his first photographs of the trip and James rechecking his brother’s mathematics.



After a beautiful drive across the mountains of the Monts Dore – snow-capped on its peaks and flower-strewn in its meadows - we arrived in the tiny village of Orcival. Our hotel for the night was located right next to the glorious Romanesque church – Lindy and Enid’s room enjoying a first-class view of the belltower.

After mother- and son-in-law shared a short, pleasant walk along a remote, sun dappled lane above the town, we rejoined the rest of the family and entered the hotel restaurant with not a little trepidation. The only table available for five people was occupied by what appeared to be the village lout - a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cloud of foul smoke engulfing the room from his epicentre. We looked confused for a moment – not knowing where to sit – before he smiled and stood up to let us have the table to ourselves. We mumbled our thanks, then watched in horror as he donned his apron and went into the kitchen to begin cooking – the smoke 14



following him like the wake of a funnel from an ocean liner.

Well, this was France and you should never dismiss a cook – or a restaurant, for that matter – by his, her, or its appearance. No doubt you’ve heard claims in travel books before that start out saying ‘the food was simple, but delicious’ and then go on to describe something both exotic and complex – bison roasted in aardvark jelly with a truffle marinade, for example – but I won’t let you down. I’m talking omelettes (no, without the truffles), and trout (caught fresh that morning in the local stream) -

pan fried in a simple cream and almond sauce. The glory of this dinner was not just the quality of the cooking (how do you make a humble omelette taste so special?), but the fact that it satisfied everyone – including the two gastronomic philistines! Later, we washed it all down with lashings of home-made strawberry ice cream.

This was our first introduction to that astonishing product – the European strawberry. It was a revelation.

Moses experienced the same sort of thing as he glanced over the Ten Commandments after descending from Mount Sinai and putting his feet up in his favourite chair next to the fire. ‘Mon Dieu!’ I expect was his reaction, as was ours.

Now, I’m afraid that this is the point in my story where I’m going to disappoint. I know it’s expected that I describe the wine we enjoyed during this meal, but I’ve got to break the news to you that I was the only member of the expedition that touched alcohol, so bottles of wine were rare and, when indulged, inexpensive. Sorry, I know I’m breaking a fundamental rule of travel books, but there you have it. Take your purchase back to the shop and see if you can get a refund if you feel strongly about it.



That night I was enchanted by the centuries-old bells ringing in the church outside our hotel window, and it was then that I discovered that not everybody found this experience as romantic as me. It was to be a constant source of irritation to the rest of the party for the remainder of the trip, and one of my most pleasurable memories. It was not to be the last time that my happy, 15



early morning, smiling face was greeted by bleary-eyed scowls. To add insult to injury – or injury to injury –

Lindy and Enid had found that their room was designed with Chinese water torture in mind. The shower dripped incessantly all night, and absolutely nothing they could do would stop it. On the positive side, they did discover that they'd have made lousy spies – having been willing to give up the most closely guarded secrets in a nanosecond in exchange for a peaceful night's sleep!





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3. Towards Catastrophe


‘There’ll be another hotel just around the corner.’

Mum, three hours before we found a hotel.



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





Before we began our trip, Lindy’s sister had lent us her video camera to record our journey and, naturally, we all took our own cameras as well. The result was that every photo stop resembled the shooting of the latest epic from Steven Spielberg. Birds couldn’t hear each other over the clicking. Night skies were lit by our flashes like London during the blitz. Japanese tourists would gape in awe and point. Our coverage of the terrain of Europe was more complete and comprehensive than the most detailed aerial surveys. Google earth offered to sub-contract us. Stocks in Fuji and Kodak soared. When all flashes were in operation, the temperature of the immediate surroundings jumped by ten degrees (Celsius).

We took a lot of photos.

But - you’ll be astonished to know - not all of this exposed film was of high quality. Our first video experiments weren't enhanced (or perhaps they were) by the fact that Lindy constantly forgot to stop the camera, replacing the lens cap and leaving the blessed thing running in the back of the car. But they say every cloud has a silver lining, and this error did provide us with another record of our trip – a darker, more sinister record.

You see that camera - whilst you couldn’t actually see anything – did record our candid, unedited conversations.

Some of it wasn't very pretty.

This document provides an opportunity to catch the Whittons-plus-one

during

unbuttoned,

unguarded

moments. Confident in the knowledge that what we were saying couldn’t be heard by anyone else, it gives an insight into life’s uglier side. One such memorable moment was when Lindy was busy looking for a toilet.

‘Why didn’t you go before we left the Hotel?’ says the helpful husband.



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‘Because I bloody-well didn’t need to go then!’ says the little woman through clenched teeth.

Definitely adults-only viewing.



The third morning of our holiday was one of those marvellous driving experiences. The roads were relatively empty, the countryside glorious (even though the weather wasn’t perfect), and the distance to be covered in the day modest. We left very early and had to wait an hour before the patisseries opened. We bagged our gross of fresh croissants and several baguettes in a pleasant, quiet little town, then – sated and happy – headed south.

Not far down the road, we came across a particularly bucolic scene, and the paparazzi began harassing the local livestock, each of the older contingent trying to capture that

perfect,

cow-in-foreground-rustic-farmhouse-in-

middle-ground-and-forested-hill-in-background photograph. Satisfied with our efforts, we jumped smugly into our car and took off down the road.

Now, to effectively explain what happened next I’ll need to carefully put our situation into perspective for you.

We had a hatchback Renault, and, because of the large number of cameras being transported, had to store them in the back and retrieve them from the ( very full) boot every time we stopped. So, on this occasion – as with hundreds of others - we stopped, took out our cameras, took our photographs, then placed the instruments back in the boot before climbing into our respective places. The last one in closes the boot.

Okay, got the picture?

How was it that we travelled nearly a kilometre with the windows closed, yet no-one remarked on the fact that the wind was blowing through our hair? I don’t know –

it’s a mystery. And who was the last in the car and therefore responsible for closing the boot? Again, nobody can say for sure. Some say this person, some say another. If we’d felt particularly strongly about it, I suppose we could have referred it to forensic experts - but to date the matter remains unresolved.



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The issue for me was – how could at least fifteen cars pass us in both directions, and not one thought to flash their lights or sound their horns to indicate that our boot was wide open? Coats, baggage and croissants were strewn behind us like confetti at a wedding. And yet, remarkably - even though they were sitting on top of the pile - not one camera was lost to the asphalt.

Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as the paranormal!



Toilets. Things have improved out of sight since my first trip to Europe, when public toilets were rare enough to be awarded stars in a modestly sized Michelin guide. But there are still isolated parts of the Continent where the old challenge awaits the tourist willing to put in the effort required to find them. Some local councils see it as a community service, I’m sure, to resist the corrupting change sweeping the rest of the country and maintain a standard that they see is a major contributor to the building of character.

The satisfaction felt in overcoming that challenge is impossible to put into words. Sure, for the male of the species it’s easy – many now just aim it out the window as they drive along (and I’m not just talking about the passengers!). Ever wondered why the wildflowers are so lush along the side of much of Europe’s roads? Well, regular watering and fertilising is the secret to any garden’s success. But, no - I’m not talking about satisfaction gained from simply peeing by the side of the road. To be honest, in many countries (France and Italy, for certain) I think it’s an actual offence not to have done so at least once a day. I’m talking about getting your actual bottom onto an actual toilet seat. With the added burden of catering for five, comes additional pleasure at overcoming almost insurmountable odds.

I can recall several occasions on this trip when I sidled into a restaurant/café/bar and respectfully asked if I could use their facilities. The waiter would shrug in a superior manner that bespoke of his pride in possessing such marvellous technology, and my spirits soared as I waved to the hordes waiting eagerly outside. His smug 19



manner would disintegrate like ice from a heated windscreen.

Now that’s the kind of achievement even astronauts can only dream about.



I’ll never forget the moment in the Dordogne town of Argentat when I casually – almost indifferently – placed that first strawberry in my mouth. Yes, we’d enjoyed the strawberry flavoured ice cream in Orcival, but this was our first experience of the actual fruit – raw and unadorned.

How do I describe it to you? It sounds trite to say that it tasted like strawberry – but that’s exactly what it was like. Not the bland, tasteless fruit you get from supermarkets, but the real McCoy. Sun-drenched sums it up for me – like the strawberry had absorbed the full blast of the sun as it grew, concentrating the flavour, only to be released at the first bight of the lucky consumer.

After the first effects of the shock wore off, I looked at Lindy and Enid, and saw that they, too, had tasted of the Fruits of Paradise. The sort of far away look in the eyes and reverent motion of the jaw is unmistakable, once experienced. We thought we’d just been lucky, finding the one grower who’d just happened to stumble on perfection. Well, it did turn out to be the best we tasted, but we were relentless in our efforts to deplete the Continent’s supplies of strawberries for the remainder of that Spring - and the others we sampled weren’t very far away from that first batch.



The French are a much maligned people. Many casual travellers – and those who’ve never been to France –

maintain that they’re rude and arrogant. I’ve made it my Crusade to disabuse the world of this misapprehension.

The “Dordogne Picnic” event will help illustrate my point.

We were following the Dordogne south-west from Argentat - boxes of strawberries squeezed into every spare space in the car and occasionally tumbling from the inexpertly tied supplies on the roof – looking for a picnic spot. The weather had warmed, the sun was shining, and at last we came upon the perfect setting. Located on a grassy lawn between the river and the road, surrounded 20



by a shrubbery and devoid of other picnickers – it beckoned to us seductively. There was, however, a fly in the ointment. Or, to be entirely accurate, three flies.

It was lawn-cutting and hedge-trimming day in the municipality to which this slice of heaven belonged, and the workers were not those half-hearted fellows often associated the world over with such labours. No, our men were getting stuck into their task with gusto – and they had the machinery to do it justice! Drowning out all but the loudest lorry thundering past on the road, they were attacking the vegetation as if it were personal. Our spirits waned and we prepared to depart, when one of the workmen spotted us and signalled to his comrades. After a moment’s hesitation and a rueful sidelong glance at the temporarily reprieved grass, the mower grew silent.

Seconds later the hedge trimmer did the same. The three men packed up their tools, and stood by their truck, waving us towards the now vacant picnic area with a sad resignation. They stood watching, enjoying a leisurely lunch, and didn’t recommence the slaughter until we’d packed up and left, half an hour later. True gentlemen!



The market town of Sarlat is one of those peculiar towns that hides its attractions extremely well. Colmar in Alsace is the same - you wonder what on earth has brought you to such an uninteresting (nay, hideous) destination as you park the car. It’s only when you’ve negotiated their forbidding exteriors and enter the old part of town that you look around and say to yourself, ‘Oh, so that’s what all the fuss is about.’ Sure, there are countless other places where you have to travel through ugly outskirts to get to the good bits, but the attractions are usually evident well before you dispense with the car.



We struggled through the traffic, followed the signs to the tourist parking, and finally found a small vacancy into which we could just about squeeze the beast. Lindy was just about to pull in when a little Citroen came from nowhere and beat her to it. As we stared out of the window in shock the driver turned his aged, beret-clad head towards us and – scowling furiously – waved his fist!



21



We were all too stunned to respond, but I - for one – had learned a lesson which I was later to put to good stead.

As we finally disposed of the automobile, I could tell that Enid was wondering what we were doing in such a place. Walking down the frenetic main street - dodging traffic from the six inch-wide pavement - I saw that, if anything, this pessimism was growing.

I suppose a lot of Sarlat’s attraction is that you turn directly from its traffic-congested, uninteresting main road, directly into the attractive, historic pedestrian-only zone. The difference is startling and impressive. The sound of traffic abates, the pace becomes more relaxed (despite the hordes of tourists), and the old stone buildings, narrow alleyways and mysterious cul-de-sacs begin to weave their enchantment. The adults had a ball exploring these attractions, as well as the craft and art shops, and ended up feeling that the effort to visit the place was well and truly worth the effort.

James and Thomas – despite the usual ice cream bribes - just saw the town as a necessary evil that had to be endured before they got to the swimming pool at that evening’s accommodation!



Two years earlier – on our last trip with the boys – we’d chanced upon the chambre d’hote from heaven whilst touring through the Dordogne near le Bugue. We’d followed an insubstantial signpost through a remote, unsurfaced forest road to a farmhouse whose outbuildings had been converted into discrete, characterful and comfortable accommodation, run by an Englishwoman and her husband. Naturally – for no self-respecting chambre d’hote from heaven would dare be without one – it possessed a swimming pool, as well as acres of meadows, forests, and even a small lake. We stayed there only two days, and it rained for most of the time, but we retained extremely fond memories of the place.

Les Sarazzines – the Saracens? The owners themselves weren’t quite sure where the name had come from, but it dated back many centuries to a time before the house was built. Intending to pass through the area again, we’d booked it for a couple of nights and hoped 22



desperately that we’d be able to find it again. This was made all the more challenging by the fact that we were approaching from the opposite direction this time, and we knew there were no signposts at all on the road by which we intended to arrive.

We got very close at our first try, but - it must be admitted - did get a little lost. Lindy (with urging from the AR) insisted on stopping beside a couple of farmers and forcing me to ask directions. I mean – how? Even if you manage to ask the question, how on earth are you going to understand the bloody answer? Flushed with embarrassment, I wound down the window, smiled and offered them a hearty ‘bonjour’. Like all decent Frenchmen, they returned my greeting with a smile and waited. Broadening my smile, I asked:

‘Ou est les Sarazzines?’ which, I think (in retrospect) means ‘Where are the Saracens?’ Fortunately for me, they tactfully ignored the fact that I was obviously a congenital idiot, and pointed into the distance. This was followed by a string of words, which included a lot of

‘gauche’s’ (lefts), ‘adroit’s’ (rights) and ‘tout adroit’s’

(straight aheads). I continued smiling and nodded –

always a sure sign that I haven’t understood a word –

while Lindy thanked them and began backing up the car.

‘You understood them?’ I asked in awe.

‘Most of it,’ - was the not-altogether-reassuring reply. Nevertheless, I was impressed. I suppose we understood more French than the average tourist (and we’ve improved over the years since then), but this was scaling new heights. I may have whispered ‘my mate’ or

‘my hero’, but the boys were reserving judgement until we’d actually arrived at our destination.



I remember the first time I heard my wife speaking French. It was on our first trip together, and - after several days in France in which she’d given no hint that she possessed anything beyond ‘bonjour’, ‘merci’ and ‘au revoir’ - we stopped at a petrol station and I heard her string out a whole sentence – complex and word perfect (or so it seemed to me). As she got in the car I stammered ‘What did you say to him?’



23



‘I told him I couldn’t speak French.’



Les Sarazzines was under new management – but still British. Lindy and Mike greeted us like long lost friends, and we basked in the luxury of being their only guests.

We unpacked the car, settled ourselves in, and made the most of the fine evening by dining al fresco. Lindy (my wife, not the owner – I’ll call her Lindy One to save confusion) produced a veritable feast of fettucine alla carbonara,

mixed

green

salad,

baguettes,

brie,

camembert, strawberries and (luxury!) a bottle of red wine for the father. The children wolfed down their dinner with minimal ceremony, and ran off to play in the pool.

As the sun set and evening descended, not a sound could be heard but for a quiet, persistent ‘cuck-oo, cuck-oo, cuck-oo’ from the surrounding woods and the occasional splash and quiet, secret conversation of the boys - invisible behind the nearest wall of the swimming pool.



James and Thomas opted out of our excursion the next day, deciding instead to spend some time playing table tennis, swimming, and generally relaxing. The adults had a terrific time exploring castles, enjoying the forests, fields and isolated hamlets of the Dordogne countryside, and nearly buying a painting in the hilltop town of Domme. Unfortunately, the artist didn’t take traveller’s cheques or credit card, and none of the banks were open, so his masterpiece remained in France. Seeing our disappointment, he told us where the scene in the painting was located, presumably so we could go and paint it ourselves!



Our hosts had invited us for a drink that night.

Consequently, there was much discussion over what we should do during the course of the day - there being a little reluctance on the part of Lindy One and Enid because they were teetotallers. I’m usually a bit of a social recluse myself, but I liked and felt comfortable with Lindy Two and Mike, so eventually I convinced Lindy One to be polite and join me in accepting their hospitality.



24



The amazing thing was that we were only staying two nights, yet they treated us like regular visitors who’d come to stay for weeks. There were about half a dozen bottles of wine lined up on the table when we arrived (not to mention the complimentary bottle presented to us upon our arrival the previous day) – and we were rude and ignorant enough to come without so much as a packet of peanuts!

Mike was the voluble one, and we chatted animatedly while I shamelessly swilled his alcohol. After much discussion and drinking, Mike decided to open his heart and admit his deepest secret – he was a Francophile!

Lindy One and I, being very fond of the French ourselves, became interested.

‘That’s why you bought this place?’

‘Of course. And particularly because it was in the Dordogne – I just love the castles.’ He then went on to tell us about his adventures exploring the nooks and crannies of the area, and the obscure ruins he’d run to ground over the years.

‘We went to Bonaguil castle today – it was terrific!’ I replied, getting into the swing of things. Bonaguil is a very popular tourist destination, about eighty kilometres away (or one hundred in our case, due to the eighty kilometre rule).

‘Where?’ he replied, blank faced.

‘Bonaguil.’ I replied, spelling it in case my perfect French pronunciation had thrown him.

‘I don’t know that one.’ he admitted. Now it was my turn to look blank.

‘How do you get on with the language, living here?’

asked Lindy One, quickly changing the subject.

‘I don’t do too bad.’ admitted Lindy Two. ‘But Mike doesn’t speak a word of French.’ I exchanged a nonplussed glance with my wife, our mouths hanging open in the vain hope that our minds would find appropriate words to fill them.

So – not really a Francophile, then, we thought.



When I look back on the following day, I’m reminded of butterflies flitting peacefully in the sunshine from fragrant 25



flower to fragrant flower, oblivious to the napalm about to be unleashed from the low flying plane above them.

We spent the day travelling the gorgeous Aveyron valley. The sun was shining brightly, and the countryside alternated between forests, meadows, streams and isolated medieval, hump-backed bridges. And those beautiful, honey-stoned villages and their spectacular castles! Najac – strung out along a wooded ridge with its ruined castle sticking up like an exclamation mark; Saint Antonin with its spectacular backdrop of cliffs; Penne with its impossible finger of rock, which upon closer inspection turns out to be a castle; and Bruniquel, where the horror began to unfold.

Gradually, during the course of the day, the tourist numbers had steadily increased from virtually none, to hundreds. Still oblivious to what was to come, I entered the tourist office in Bruniquel and casually asked if they could find us a chambre d’hote in the area that could accommodate five. The woman behind the counter looked dismayed.

‘I’ll try,’ she promised – not very encouragingly. ‘But it will be very difficult.’

It was a valiant effort. Despite her scepticism, she persevered for a good 40 minutes (calling everyone within a twenty kilometre radius) before surrendering to the inevitable.

‘Je suis desolee,’ she said (I’m sorry) - then those dreaded words: ‘C’est complet!’

‘Full? Everything?’ I asked, amazed.

Still we remained unaware of the true horror of our situation.

‘Not everyone will be listed with the tourist office,’

said Lindy confidently as we left. ‘If we just keep driving, we’ll come across something.’

Three hours and eighty kilometres later (there’s that distance again!) we arrived in Moissac – exhausted, desperate and beaten. We’d stopped at every hotel, chambre d’hote, and bus shelter along the way – but always the same response:

‘C’est complet!’



26



But for some reason the tourist hordes had stayed away from Moissac. The place was a magnet for those travelling the popular pilgrimage route to Santiago in Spain, but they all seemed to be staying in the pilgrim’s hostel. I sighed audibly as the concierge of the hotel admitted that they had a vacancy. The price was affordable, and the rooms comfortable and clean. I left to break the glad news to the eagerly awaiting family (their expectant, anxious faces pressed up against the car window as I approached brought a lump to my throat), just as the heavens opened. To this day I believe it was an omen.

We rushed through the rain into the hotel, and I went to reception to sign the registration forms.

‘May I have your credit card number please, Monsieur?’

‘Of course. I’ll just……’ Ten minutes later I was standing in the hotel room with Lindy – all the colour drained from my face.

‘I’ve lost my credit card.’





27



4. The Saga of the Lost Credit card Prepare yourself for a story so tragic, so epic in its scale, that your view on life may very well change forever.

Compared to us, Job (you know, from the bible) was a whinger who was prone to moaning over the slightest setback and Jean Valjean (the pessimist from Les Miserables) was a man blessed with indescribable good fortune, but tended to dwell too much on the few negatives in his life.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d eventually found my credit card. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a simple matter to contact the Credit card people to organise a replacement. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d been able to organise a replacement quickly and easily. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if the replacement itself hadn’t gone astray. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been pelting with rain that morning in Moissac when Lindy and I wandered the streets trying to find a telephone service that would allow us to call the free call numbers provided by our Bank for just such an occasion. But for all these circumstances to have occurred all at once betrays evidence of celestial planning on a massive scale.

Which was the worst bit? Getting soaked to the skin while we went from telephone to telephone? Enid and the boys waiting in the car in the pouring rain for two and a half hours not knowing what was going on? No, I think it was the endless phone calls on the mobile trying to get a number we could actually use. You see, the mobile service was provided from Australia, so the dollar signs rolled around like tumblers in a poker machine for every frustrating minute spent battling the bureaucracy. The trouble was that France didn’t allow you to access free call numbers through a public or mobile telephone. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s another one of those character-building things. Nor would the operator connect you – not for all the begging, pleading, bribing or threatening in the world. But could the Bank grasp this simple – though inexplicable – fact? No they could not. We’d call them 28



up, explain our predicament, and they’d produce another, miraculous telephone number. We’d try it, only to hear yet another recorded message beginning with the dreaded

‘desolee’. So we’d call the Bank back, only to get a different person to whom you’d have to explain the whole situation all over again. After several minutes of explanation, they’d just try and give you the standard phone number again.

‘But we can’t get through on that one,’ Lindy explained. So she got another one. That didn’t work, either. Back to the Bank and a different operator. Explain it all over again. Get the same contact number. ‘No, that doesn’t work.’ Get the second number again. ‘No, that doesn’t work, either.’

‘Well, try this third number.’

To this day I’m convinced they had a jar of telephone numbers, into which they randomly dipped their hands every time they got a phone call. But we were desperate

– we kept calling back. Eventually they promised to get the credit card company to call us on our mobile. Two hours later we rang them back.

‘The credit card company hasn’t called us.’

‘You’ve lost your credit card?’

‘Yes!!!’

‘Then call this toll-free number……………’

Earlier that morning I’d gone alone to visit the church of Saint Peter. Like I said, Moissac is an important stop on the pilgrimage route to Santiago, and has been for centuries. The tympanum of the church and the carvings in the adjoining cloisters are justifiably famous, but I found them difficult to appreciate.

I wandered the cloister with a definite air of distraction, before being stopped by a doe-eyed British pilgrim.

‘You’re from Australia?’ she ventured. I shook myself out of a dark reverie and looked at her quizzically.

‘How did you know?’

‘I heard you say so in the ticket office.’ (They ask where you’re from for their survey.) ‘Are you on a pilgrimage?’ she asked. She was pleasant enough, I 29



suppose, but I’m afraid I was in no mood for her flakiness that morning.

‘No. Just on holiday,’ I replied somewhat curtly. She looked me up and down thoughtfully, then seemed to come to a decision.

‘You will – someday,’ she pronounced. A hundred replies clambered for life, and the one I chose was:

‘No I bloody won’t!’ and stormed off. Not something I’m very proud of, but at least I’m being honest. You get all the story, you see - warts and all.



The car games took on a sinister aspect during the course of that day. Each story beginning or movie title invariably ended up with a bank clerk being decapitated by a credit card. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can step back and see the silver lining in that dark, ominous cloud.

The fact was that our frustration with the telephones distracted the others from the real cause of our misery –

me. For it was I, dear reader, who lost the damned thing in the first place, but we were all so preoccupied with trying to redress the situation that this simple fact had escaped our attention. Who knows what would have happened otherwise? The newspaper headline ‘Father torn to shreds by maniacal family’ swims before my eyes each night before I go to sleep.

You’ll think I’m exaggerating, but I promise you it’s not the case. I'm giving you the abbreviated version. My therapist has succeeded in getting me to block the worst excesses of that day, but I can tell you that this fiasco lasted until we arrived at our destination in the Pyrenees later that evening. As we pulled up outside the hotel, our phone rang at last. It was the credit card company – they did exist!

‘I understand you’ve lost your credit card?’

‘Yes. Can you arrange a replacement?’

‘Nothing could be simpler. Just call this toll-free number…..’

We were a sorry bunch of campers as we tramped, sodden and miserable, into our hotel. The rain was still falling, but the one bright speck which had kept us going all day was the thought that at least we had our rooms 30



booked and didn’t have to repeat the misery of finding accommodation.

The five of us filed up to the front desk nonchalantly

– almost arrogant in the knowledge that we had a booking. In fact, I told the concierge as much:

‘I have a booking,’ I said.

‘What name?’ he replied.

‘Whitton,’ I said. He frowned. He scanned, then rescanned the page before him. ‘W-h-i-t-t-o-n.’ I repeated – spelling it out. I was growing agitated. The man shook his head.

‘No – no booking for Whitton.’ I swallowed hard. I delved deep and somehow summoned the strength to ask:

‘Do you have accommodation for five people tonight, anyway?’

‘Desolee – c’est complet,’ he replied, shaking his head emphatically. I staggered, and my lips began to tremble. Let’s go back to the beginning, I thought.

‘But you must have a booking for me – Trevor Whitton.’ His eyes suddenly grew round with comprehension.

‘We have a booking for a Monsieur Trevor, ’ he said, happy to throw me a lifeline. I threw my arms around the astonished man and sobbed uncontrollably.



Out of adversity comes a fuller appreciation of our blessings.

As we were settling into our room later that afternoon the mobile phone rang – it was the credit card company.

‘We have arranged for your card to be sent to Avignon in a week’s time, as you requested,’ said the delightful little soul.

‘That’s perfect,’ said Lindy, visibly relaxing (she may have even smiled a little).

‘Simply present yourself to the Banque National de Paris in the Rue de la Republique, and ask for Monsieur Masoni.’ This must be the real thing, we thought – they’d even given us a name! Well, I’ll leave that story untold 31



for the moment – but remember that name – you’ll hear it many more times in the course of my narrative.

Lindy and I embraced with delight once she’d rung off, then we collected the others and headed downstairs to dinner.

You remember me telling you not to judge French restaurants by their appearance? Well the Hotel d’Ossau was a perfect illustration of what I meant. As we entered the smoke filled room it resembled something out of “The Den of the Secret Nine”. Not at all what we were hoping for that night! Men sat alone in corners, casting furtive glances in our direction while they waited for their drug dealers, arms shipments, biological weapons, or whatever.

James turned to leave, muttering something like:

‘This never happens in McDonalds.’ Lindy caught him by the collar.

‘It’ll be fine,’ she said soothingly. But James wasn’t having a bar of it.

‘No it won’t – it’s horrible.’ he said – loudly. As the sweat broke on my brow I was sure I could hear the subtle click of switchblades being opened surreptitiously beneath the tables around us. Then the waiter-cum-concierge arrived and showed us to our table – and the entire atmosphere changed.

He led us into the back of the restaurant, where there were no smugglers, drug addicts, assassins or serial killers. But – more importantly – there was no cigarette smoke! Other families filled the premises and waved to us

encouragingly,

and

the

waiter

smiled

good-

humouredly.

That meal was one of the most wondrous events of my life. From unpromising beginnings (to say the least), we soon relaxed and ended up thoroughly enjoying ourselves. The food was quite good – trout a-la crème (again, fresh from local streams), fettucine in a salmon and cream sauce, the ubiquitous (but still outstanding) omelette, and chicken cordon bleu – just to give you a sample. Nothing particularly fancy, but just what was needed after the day we’d had. Once again, even the boys found something they enjoyed, and I ingested the muscle relaxant (a large, cold glass of beer).



32



But the true accolades must be reserved for the waiter. He knew just when to bring each course, he was attentive and flattering to the ladies (Enid talked casually about the benefits of late-life marriages and toy-boys at one stage), and he treated our attempted French with the dignity it never deserved. Most of all, he was just good company! The relief we all felt after the day we’d endured was indescribable.

Viva la Hotel d’Ossau!





33



5. A Mother’s Day to Remember



‘Why isn’t there a sign saying the pass isn’t open?’

My parents at the top of the mountain, with a sign at the bottom saying the pass isn’t open.



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries)





I’m not a huge fan of chickens. I certainly don’t mind them – and as a species they’ve never done me wrong.

But after our holiday in Europe, I now have the reputation for being something of a danger to their kind. Farmers hustle them into the safety of their pens when they see me coming, and mother hens cast a protective wing over their brood.

It all began in the town of Laruns, the day after the episode with the credit card (or ‘CC Day’, as it came to be known).

We took our time leaving the town, as the weather was still overcast and there was an enticing market in operation. We did some shopping, and Lindy – inspired, no doubt, by our experience of the previous day – bought the largest umbrella in existence. Not only was it big, but it didn’t fold up like its more practical brethren. It was proud of its bigness. ‘Be Big – Stay Big’ was its motto.

(Naturally, it hardly rained again during the remainder of the trip!) Anyway, we were strolling leisurely about the stalls investigating the vegetables, cheeses, patisseries and racks of clothes - when It happened.

At first the sensation was subconscious. Then, slowly but inexorably, I became aware of the smell. It grew more pronounced, and my senses began to react to it. My mouth watered like a Saint Bernard puppy happy to see its owner. My tongue lolled about my navel and I began to scan the horizon for a Sign. Then I saw it.

A rotisserie chicken van.

As my body was screaming for me to get over to it and begin securing a couple of carcasses, my mind was studying the phenomenon. ‘Wait a minute,’ it said, ‘I’m 34



not that fond of chicken.’ ‘The hell your not!’ replied stomach. ‘Now get moving.’

When I arrived at this gastronomic Nirvana, I found that, sadly, the corpses were raw and still several hours away from being edible. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ urged stomach. ‘Get transacting!’. Fortunately, I was able to resist – vaguely recalling something about salmonella, which related somehow to poultry. But those gorgeous chickens basting in that golden, glistening oil was all I could think about all day. And for some reason, this addiction stayed with me for the rest of the holiday.



The supreme optimists – we drove up into the mountains later that morning, hoping that the weather would clear, or that we could rise above the clouds. Every piece of blue sky or lightening of the greyness was met with words of encouragement from the older contingent – the boys blissfully ignorant and their noses buried deep in the Gameboys.

‘That cloud over there seems to be getting lighter,’

said Enid - about every five minutes.

‘Let me know when we reach Venice,’ said Thomas, without looking up.

About half way to the Pass summit we noticed a commotion on one of the hairpin bends. A young adolescent was remonstrating with a man in his car. As we approached, the boy disappeared down a shallow gully, then reappeared seconds later carrying a rock the size of the Matterhorn high above his head. We watched in silent horror as he launched the missile at his adversary’s car, then ran as fast his legs could carry him into the forest. Not knowing whether he was escaping or going to get more ammunition, we put our foot on the accelerator – leaving the poor man to his fate.

Even the boys looked up - briefly.

The view at the top of the Pass was – of course –

virtually non-existent, so we decided to make the most of the journey by passing ever-so-briefly into Spain. As we crossed the border and pulled to a stop, Enid’s mobile beeped to let her know she had a text message. Looking 35



at us with a puzzled frown, she pushed the appropriate buttons.

‘Welcome to Spain.’ - it read.

As a little postscript to this part of the journey, on the way back down the road we came across the man and his adolescent antagonist sitting calmly by the side of the road, deep in cheerful conversation - for all the world as if nothing had happened. Spooky!

We’d deliberately taken our time that day, as we weren't expecting to travel far. Near the bottom of the road another road led east over another Pass and on to our night’s destination. Lindy took the turn and we ascended again, remarking positively on the lack of traffic.

It was a long, torturous road, and the view was (again) limited. When we finally reached the summit, Lindy needed a break and we all welcomed an opportunity to stretch our legs. I crossed the wide saddle in order to commune with nature in solitude, when I suddenly heard raised voices behind me.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as I ran over to Lindy and James.

‘The Pass is closed,’ replied the not-so-little woman, her breast heaving with fury.

‘What do you mean closed?’ I asked, searching for clarification.

‘She means closed, Dad,’ said James helpfully.

‘How can you close a pass?’ I asked.

‘There’s a ruddy great gate with a padlock on it,’

explained Lindy. I didn’t believe her. I had to see for myself. I followed her over the rise and looked down in disbelief at the offending barrier.

‘Why would they close the Pass?’ I screamed.

‘There’s no snow!’

The trip back down the way we had come was not a happy one. We kept asking the same two questions over and over again.

‘Why would they close the Pass?’ and ‘Why isn’t there a sign at the turnoff telling you it’s closed?’

As I sat looking forlornly at my map, I noticed -

almost too small for the human eye to detect – a small 36



note written beside the name of the Pass: ‘Open July –

September’.

I kept the news to myself.

As we reached the turnoff back onto the main road, we all looked across at the ‘Pass Closed’ sign. As the navigator, everyone looked at me. I buried my head in the map and tried to count the extra kilometres we now had to travel to that night’s hotel.

The original distance had been – eighty kilometres!

Now we were looking at several hundred.



The drive to Saint Bertrand de Comminges was magnificent, particularly the latter part after Lourdes. The village of Saint Bertrand itself lived up to the splendour of its approaches. The setting is perfect - located on a hill surrounded by fields, with the Pyrenees in the distance.

The village is pleasant, without being spectacular, but the church (and its cloisters in particular) is superb. We booked into our hotel in what was becoming the usual way – Enid sharing with James and Thomas in one room, and Lindy and I in another. You may think it impressive that our sons enjoyed sharing a room with their grandmother, but there was a less than altruistic reason behind their generosity. You see, on previous trips they’d been generally forced to share with their parents, and had thus been exposed to the Curse of the Whittons. To put it bluntly, I used to snore a little bit. Sometimes more than a little bit. I remember one morning receiving a petition from the town council, signed by the entire populace and demanding we quit their town – or else. It seems that their buildings had not been constructed to withstand moderately-sized earthquakes, and I was considered both a danger and a menace.

Not surprisingly, James and Thomas were happy to be relieved of this burden.



The next day was Mother’s Day (in Australia, anyway), and we’d planned to spend it exploring the Cathar castles of the eastern Pyrenees. But the day turned out to be so beautiful, and the boys had been so indifferent about castles so far, that we decided to backtrack a little the 37



way we had come and head back into the High Pyrenees.

(‘It’s only about eighty kilometres away,’ I told the groaning children.)

Some days you make inspired choices – and this was one of them. We went to the Cirque du Gavarnie, which is a stupendous amphitheatre of cliffs that loom over a flat, fertile valley. I thought Enid was going to faint when we first arrived. She’s always been a great lover of mountains, and these were the first serious one’s she’d come across in the splendour of a sparkling, sunny day.

And didn’t they sparkle! All that rain of the previous days had translated into snow on the peaks, and they glistened gloriously against the deep blue of a clear sky.

There’s usually only one drawback to walking in the mountains – no matter which direction you go, you invariably have to deal with going uphill at some stage.

That’s one of the reasons why Gavarnie is so appealing –

the track runs beside a gurgling little stream along only the slightest of inclines. There’s a short (and I do mean short) climb onto the remains of a terminal moraine at one point, but I’ll happily put up with that when the view at the top is as rewarding as this was. A broad, flat valley fanned out beneath the cliffs, dotted with pine forests and a meandering stream snaking carelessly amongst the meadows.

After frolicking like lambs in springtime across the sunny meadows, we returned to have a picnic in the car park at Gavarnie. I went off to get a few extra provisions, when I became aware of being followed up the road by a series of wolf whistles. When I returned from my short expedition, I found that the incidence had – if anything – increased. Now, though it pains me to admit it, I am not the sort of person who normally attracts wolf whistles – particularly in the multitude I was now experiencing. It was baffling. A little bit of investigation revealed the culprit – a souvenir donkey that let out a whistle every time it detected movement. Goodness knows how the stallholders maintained their sanity during high tourist season! (By the way – I can quite categorically deny the rumour that I actually bought one 38



of these animals and pull it out when my ego needs a bit of a boost. Absolutely – it didn’t happen!) Enid and Lindy enjoyed a wonderful Mother’s Day!



39



6. To the Sublime and the Ridiculous





The next few days were just glorious. I realise now that it was fate preparing the ground for a monumental letdown, but it’s stupid to endure the bad and not enjoy the good -

so we did.

We left our bed and breakfast near the Pyrenees early (a comfortable farmhouse, but breaking with tradition in providing stale bread and croissants for breakfast, and trusting its guests to leave their money on the table when they leave!), and travelled east across the face of the distantly gleaming mountains.

‘They seem to go on forever,’ said Enid for the hundredth time.

We were reluctant to head north when the time came, but that was one of the drawbacks of having our accommodation booked – we had places to be that day!



The town of Mirepoix has the most interesting market I have ever seen. For a start, the setting is perfect - a town square surrounded by gaily painted, half-timbered facades. The stalls are dominated by beautiful, brightly patterned fabrics, which compliment the buildings around them. Then there are the animals. It’s one of the few markets I’ve come across that sells a wide range of live produce. Chickens, of course. And Rabbits. And pigs.

And caged birds. And snails.

And then there was (of course) the food. Sausages and salamis; naked – almost obscene – chickens and geese; pigs’ and sheep’s heads that looked out at the world - unblinking and accusing; pates of every combination known to man; aubergines; cauliflowers; asparagus tied and trussed in small, green bouquets; bright, yellow melons; artichoke hearts; Pyrenean goat and sheep’s cheeses; walnuts, almonds, cashews and peanuts; tiny quails eggs and huge, white goose eggs; pastries, flans and tarts guaranteed to send your cholesterol levels

soaring; mushrooms

(from

tiny

champignons, to huge, brightly spotted exhibits which could have sheltered a small family); breads, baguettes 40



and rolls; honeys dyed improbable colours (like bright blue lavender); and……..strawberries!

But the real attraction was the people. Stall owners, locals, visitors and farmers mingled in an animated discord of conversation and commerce. Bereted old men with girths that betrayed their love of food and wine, and faces like dried, knobbly apples talked and gesticulated ceaselessly to one another – whilst their wives stood by and smiled indulgently. Everywhere we looked there were straw shopping baskets stretched to breaking point, and even someone wheeling a small trolley! Tourists (identifiable by their cameras) were few, and the air was filled with the sales pitches of stall owners.

While the rest of the contingent soaked up the atmosphere, I went off to cash some traveller’s cheques.

This apparently banal task (now, thankfully, largely unnecessary) had often turned out to be a monumentally complex undertaking in the past – particularly in France and Italy. I remember one experience during an earlier trip when I went into a bank in Paris wanting to cash a couple of these curious bills. The teller looked dubious.

‘What currency?’ she asked, pursing her lips sceptically. I smiled confidently.

‘French francs,’ I replied. She looked sad and shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t cash them.’ Stunned and perplexed at this news, I wandered around the Bastille area for about a quarter of an hour looking for another bank, before examining my earlier conversation carefully.

An idea – a bizarre, outrageous idea – presented itself. I went back into the same bank.

‘May I help you?’ said the teller (a different one).

‘I’d like to cash some traveller’s cheques,’ I admitted

– cautiously.

‘What type?’

‘Deutschmark.’ (We had taken two currencies.)

‘Yes, that’s fine. How much would you like to change?’

But even that pales in comparison with Italy. Like France, I’ve found that – for no apparent reason – some banks will do business with you, and some won’t.



41



Sometimes I’ve had to take my query to several tellers for the one transaction. Occasionally you meet the dreaded pursed lips.

‘What’s today?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Today – what day is it?’

‘Wednesday,’ I reply, not a little confused. The teller looks sad and shakes his head.

‘I’m sorry. I’m the Monday, Tuesday and Thursday traveller’s cheque teller.’

Or –

‘Yes, I can cash traveller’s cheques. May I see it?’ I hand over the item as requested. Pursed lips and another shake of the head. ‘I’m sorry, you’re in the even serial-number line. You need to go over to the odd serial-number line.’ I look in the direction he’s pointing at the line of people snaking out the door and down the street -

like the queue at a Grand Final - and realise why some people turn to bank robbery.

To this day I can’t work out why some banks displaying Change signs will cash traveller’s cheques, and some won’t. Yet another mystery!



Having filled you in on the background, so to speak, you can appreciate my joy when the Banque Agricole people in Mirepoix conducted my transaction without the slightest problem, and with a minimum of fuss. It had a significant bearing on my opinion of that town! Collecting the family and their hundredweight of provisions, we waved a fond farewell to Mirepoix and recommenced our travels.



The Cevennes is one of my favourite areas of France. It’s wild, relatively untouristed, and, in some places, downright isolated. On a previous trip we visited the Templar village of La Couvertoirade. Surrounded by the desolate landscape of one of the limestone plateaux for which the Cevennes is renowned, the atmosphere couldn’t be more effective. Unfortunately, when the boys I went off exploring the castle ruins I managed to slip and fall into a sort of chasm between the crumbling walls. I lay there for a good five minutes – unable to move – while 42



the boys shrugged their shoulders and kept exploring.

Eventually Lindy noticed that one of us was missing.

‘Where’s your father?’ she asked.

‘He fell down a hole,’ replied the unconcerned offspring.

At least they didn’t laugh…..

This trip, a highlight was the wonderful village of Saint Guilhem le Desert. In high tourist season, I understand that the place is intolerably busy. In the late afternoon sunshine of a perfect Spring day, with hardly a tourist to be seen, it was sublime. We wandered the old stone streets and explored the geranium-bedecked courtyards and alleyways, totally enchanted. At one point I came across a pot devoid of plants. On closer inspection I found a black cat curled up inside, sound asleep.

Thomas (who is a cataholic – or is it catatonic?) was in seventh heaven.

Lindy and Enid came across a marzipan shop, sparkling with all the colours of the rainbow and mimicking more fruit and vegetables than you’d have thought possible.

‘Do you like marzipan?’ I asked the enchanted ladies.

‘Hate the stuff,’ came the prompt reply. ‘But it looks wonderful.’

Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay in the town because it was Tuesday and every hotel and chamber d’hote was closed. I’m not kidding. Back then they closed every Tuesday.

I love the French!



The next day was spent travelling through the gorges of the central Cevennes. The Gorge du Tarn was truly magnificent. We’d planned to drive through it in an hour or so, but found ourselves stopping every hundred metres. We clicked like we’d never clicked before – even James and Thomas took photographs!

The site of our picnic was ideal. We lunched on a white, shingle beach which was almost blinding in the bright sunshine, next to a cool pool formed by the momentarily still waters of the River Tarn. High above us was the single spanned bridge linking the main road to 43



the town, and on all sides were the forested slopes of the gorge. Ahead, through the arch of the bridge, the old stone buildings of the town clung desperately to the side of a precipice, which plunged fifteen metres or more.

From under one of the houses ran a stream, which fell as a waterfall into the emerald green river below.

It was a nice picnic spot.



The afternoon was spent travelling down the Gorge of the Ardeche River into the broad plain of the Rhone. We stopped briefly at the spectacular Pont d’Arc – a great, natural arch above a large, inviting pool. For a minute it looked like Lindy might realise her trip-long fantasy of canoeing along a beautiful river, then the place was inundated with about a thousand school kids. Dwelling sadly on what might have been, she led the way back to the car – the happy laughter of children in the background simply lending more poignancy to the tragedy.

It had been a very long – albeit rewarding – day, made more stressful by the ladies’ desperate need for a toilet as we drove above the snakelike meanderings of the river far below. In fact, the situation became so dire that Lindy was heard at one stage to scream into the hills - ‘I wish I had a penis!’.

It was one of those unbooked days, so we were very keen to find somewhere quickly, particularly as we were getting very close to Provence – a notoriously difficult place to find accommodation on spec. Fortunately, we were successful after only two goes.

Our chambre d’hote was in a chateau that had seen better days. There were two corner turrets (one of which we occupied), a swimming pool (that was frustratingly closed – even though it was about 25 degrees!), and a railway track not twenty metres from the front door!

A busy railway track.

A very busy railway track.

The elderly lady who was our host spoke not a word of English, but was friendly and patient with my awful French. Between us, we somehow worked out what we wanted and what she could offer, came to an agreement, and settled ourselves in.



44



Madame suggested we picnic on the table in her front garden – an offer too good to refuse. Sitting in the sun before the ivy-clad façade of the old chateau – our picnic spread out luxuriously before us - we felt like royalty.



Lindy and I – our bedroom located at the back of the building - slept peacefully that night. Enid, James and Thomas counted trains the way other people count sheep, and didn’t fare so well.

Breakfast the next morning was an unforgettable experience. Madame sat with us and chatted – oblivious and undeterred by our ignorance of her language. Lindy struggled manfully (or, rather, womanfully) and, through her, we were able to follow some of the conversation. All part of the obligation for running a chamber d’hote (apparently), but nonetheless charming for that.

The breakfast itself was a curious affair, with various unusual homemade jams and conserves – kiwi fruit, grape, cumquat, pear and nectarine spring to mind - but the highlight was when Madame’s granddaughter entered.

She greeted us all with the most formal and polite

‘bonjour’, and then gave us each a kiss on the cheek.

James and Thomas nearly dropped out of their chairs in horror! She must have been all of 6 years old, with a charming, toothless smile.

Eventually – and reluctantly - we said goodbye to Madame (Enid embarrassing herself with her first stab at French, calling her ‘Monsieur’), and headed off into disaster.



Remember the lost credit card? Remember Monsieur Masoni?

We had dismissed ‘CC Day’ totally from our minds over the previous few days, confident in the expectation that a replacement was waiting for us in Avignon. We entered the city with a debonair nonchalance – without even an inkling of what was about to befall us.

Lindy went off to the Bank to collect the card with her mum, James and Thomas, while I visited the Pope’s Palace (they weren’t interested – believing they’d seen 45



enough Palaces for a while). We were all to meet in the quiet gardens located on the hill above the city an hour or so later. I arrived early, sat down comfortably, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, the disenchanted group appeared. I know you won’t believe my naivety when I say that, even then, I had no idea that there was a problem.

‘The card wasn’t there,’ said Lindy. Poor, innocent fool that I was – I was shocked.

‘But it must have been there. They even gave you a name. Did you ask for Monsieur Masoni?’

‘No, I asked for Mr Smith!' she growled. 'Yes I asked for Monsieur Masoni. Of course I asked for Monsieur Masoni. Why wouldn’t I have asked for Monsieur Masoni?’

Apparently, an apologetic Monsieur Masoni had suggested that our precious card might turn up by lunchtime. He’d promised to phone us on our mobile when it arrived.

We had lunch. A miserable, indigestible lunch.

Lindy and I went back to the Bank. ‘No. It has not arrived yet. Perhaps later this afternoon.’

We drove to Arles (an eighty kilometre round trip!) to kill time. We had a reasonably pleasant visit, given the circumstances, but it was impossible to relax. Now, at last, a germ of doubt began gnawing at my optimism.

We walked around the Roman amphitheatre, and I visited the church of Saint Trophime while the rest of the family ate ice cream. Then Lindy and Enid went shopping in an enticing-looking ‘fabricerie’ (as its name suggest, it sells fabrics), coming out some ten minutes later having chosen a vibrantly coloured cloth of yellow, blue and green, with a lemon, barley and sunflower motif. I suppose for many it would have epitomised Provence -

but not in the mood we were in. Black would have been more appropriate.

When we got back to our car, Lindy telephoned Monsieur Masoni – still no credit card.



46



We drove back to Avignon. We negotiated the horrendous traffic for a second time and went through the rigmarole of finding another car park. We trooped back to the bank.

No credit card.

This time we rang the credit card people.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I want to enquire about a replacement credit card.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ring this toll-free number……’

I can’t repeat verbatim what Lindy said to the operator, nor the genealogical description she offered in regard to her heritage and offspring, for this is a family book. Eventually, she found someone willing to investigate the matter.

‘The card has been held up in French Customs for twenty-four hours. It’s normal procedure.’

‘But we reported it lost days ago!’

‘Did you? Um, it will be there tomorrow. Just be patient.’



That night we had a hotel booked in Bonnieux – in the Luberon just east of Avignon. We did battle on the roads once more – this time with the added interest of peak hour traffic – and silently made our way to our night’s accommodation.

‘Please God, make it nice,’ I prayed (I felt we’d earned it!). Perhaps they’d even have a swimming pool, if there was any justice in the Universe.

It was a flea-pit.

No, it was worse than a flea-pit. I saw fleas standing outside shaking their heads in disgust and moving on to the building next door!

Wearily, we dumped our bags and wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat. By now I’d abandoned all hope and optimism, and had resigned myself to the fact that we were going to have a miserable dinner to go with our miserable day. The pizza bar we eventually decided on looked guaranteed to deliver my expectations.



47



Do you remember me telling you – not a few times –

not to judge a restaurant or café by its appearance?

Somehow – and if you tied me down, poured honey on my eyelids and released ants over my face, I couldn’t tell you how – it all came right.

The atmosphere – despite the constant fighting between the husband and wife who ran the establishment

– was congenial. The food was very simple (I’m talking pizza and spaghetti), but it turned out to be just what we all needed. I asked for a beer. ‘Une tres grande biere’.

The boy’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when it arrived. It had two handles just so you could pick it up!

‘We want a lemonade that big.’ James and Thomas demanded. But Lindy was feeling financially vulnerable.

‘Just the normal-sized lemonades, boys.’

Daddy drank the beer (at a gulp), then ordered another. I’m not normally a beer drinker – but that day was special.

The children revolted. Lindy stood firm.

‘I can’t control your father, but I can control you,’

was her reply. Oliver Twist probably experienced the same sensation as James and Thomas. I tapped Lindy on the shoulder and motioned for her to join me at the parapet of the terrace. The sun was getting low and the view was splendid.

Enid, James and Thomas watched eagerly as David faced Goliath. The two antagonists seemed calm and strangely rational from a distance. Soon they finished their discussion and returned to the table.

‘Have as much as you want, boys,’ said Lindy with resignation.

‘How do you say bucket-full in French, Mum?’ asked Thomas excitedly.



After dinner, Lindy and I went for a walk through town, climbing the streets and lanes towards the church on the summit, and watching the approaching sunset. After a while, Lindy decided she’d go back to the Hotel ‘Pit de Flea’ – but I couldn’t quite face it yet, and continued to the top of the hill.



48



The tiny, ancient, dilapidated church was beautifully serene in the late evening light, and the sunset over the plains below was spectacular. I leant on the crumbling, vine-covered wall overlooking the town and countryside, breathing in deep the scent of jasmine, and for a few brief moments I was allowed some respite from the stress of our ordeal.



The next morning dawned sunny and bright. I awoke thinking that, if our credit card arrived that morning, we’d have lost nothing and all our worries would have been over nothing but a slight inconvenience.

Poor, poor innocent fool!

We drove through the hills of the Luberon. Lindy, Enid and I went for a short walk through the thyme-and-sage-infused cedar forest, before ringing Monsieur Masoni once more.

‘I’m afraid Monsieur Masoni isn’t in today,’ came the calm response. Devastation! Lindy explained our position, and the clerk – who’s name was Carole –

promised to look into the matter. After a few minutes she came back: ‘I’m sorry, your credit card still isn’t here.

Try again later.’ Lindy rang off, close to tears.

We visited the hill town of Oppede-le-vieux and had lunch in an outdoor restaurant that delivered its food from a kitchen across the square. We called Carole on the way back to our car, but still no credit card.

We drove across the valley to the beehive dwellings above Gordes, and when we found that you had to pay to get in, I decided that enough was enough. I revolted against fate. A man can only take so much – and I took the phone and began dialling.

‘It’s time for some action. Let me deal with this,’ I said in my deepest Clarke Kent voice. I called the credit card company number. I ranted. I raved. I demanded.

I threatened. I berated. Eventually, I got on to the shift supervisor.

‘I can appreciate what you’ve been through sir, and I mean to fix it for you.’



49



‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,’ I replied, puffing out my chest and throwing a look of triumph at Lindy.

‘If you’ll just ring this toll-free number…….’

Again you’ll think I’m exaggerating, and there’s nothing I can do about it except assure you that – without a word of a lie – I’m giving you the abbreviated version of this catastrophe.

Eventually, after reverting to the good ol’ tried and true method of bursting into tears, I got the credit card people to look into the matter and call me back. Then we went looking for accommodation.

The cosmic puppeteers must have decided that they’d better give us a reprieve or risk wholesale slaughter, because we found – virtually first pop – the most fantastic chamber d’hote I’ve ever seen. The hostess was enormously friendly and helpful; the accommodation bright, welcoming and spacious; the kitchen opened out on to a magnificent pool; and our English neighbours were friendly and sympathetic to our plight. I dived into the pool and stayed underwater for as long as I could, hoping my troubles would simply wash away. Lindy, Enid, James and Thomas expressed their resolve to spend the remainder of the holiday there.

Then the phone rang.

‘We’ve located your credit card!’

‘That’s marvellous. Where is it?’

‘Marseilles.’

Stunned silence.

‘Marseilles? What’s it doing there?’ - ominously calm.

‘The courier took it to the wrong place,’ chirruped the happy official, imagining in her warped condition that she was sharing a humorous anecdote with me.

I told her I did not intend to go to Marseilles for my credit card and demanded she arrange things so I could pick it up the following morning from Avignon.

Much argument back and forth – promises to ring back.

When she finally called back a little later: 50



‘Good news, Mister Whitton. Your card’s not in Marseilles.’

‘Excellent! Is it in Avignon?’

‘No, Montpellier.’

Stunned silence.

‘Montpellier.’ - ominously calm.

‘Yes. Apparently, it went to the Bank in Avignon, who instructed the courier to take it to their branch in Montpellier.’ – again that attitude insinuating that we were sharing a joke over something affecting another family entirely.

‘Who told him to take it to Montpellier?’

‘A Monsieur Masoni.’

I tossed the phone into the rosemary hedge and sank below the welcoming waters without a trace.



The next morning we rang the bank.

‘Monsieur Masoni, please.’

‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Masoni is not in today.’

‘Then can I speak to Carole?’

‘I’m sorry, Carole isn’t in today, either.’

Taking a deep breath and squeezing a nearby bread roll into a pulp, Lindy proceeded to narrate our little story for the hundredth time – utterly devoid of anything resembling hope. Having caught the gist of her conversation, I once again disappeared beneath the serene waters of the swimming pool – hoping for oblivion and a quick, blessed release from this mortal world.

When the clerk eventually informed her several minutes later that the credit card had arrived, Lindy found herself asking for the catch.

‘‘Catch’, madame?’

‘Trap – snare – trick,’ she explained, with trembling voice.

‘No trick, madame. I have it here – you can pick it up any time.’ But Lindy was taking no chances.

'You're actually holding it, are you?'

'Oui, madame.'

'In your hand, I mean?'

'Oui madame.'

'And you're in Avignon?'



51



'Oui, madame.'

'France?'

After spending a rather extended spell in the pool in way of celebration, we dragged ourselves reluctantly back to Avignon and the Banque Nationale de Paris. Eventually we triumphantly held the little plastic wonder tightly in our hands and kissed it repeatedly, before disgorging ourselves from that city for (hopefully) the last time in our lives.



It was only later that we put two and two together and realised that Monsieur Masoni and Carole were in cahoots, and that they’d obviously gone off together - living the high life on our original replacement credit card. It explained why they were both absent from work that day, and allowed us to maintain our sanity!

As a postscript, I often wonder why the replacement of the replacement credit card - which was also sent overnight to France from America - was not required to wait the twenty-four hours in Customs which it’s predecessor had been forced to endure.

Yet another unexplained mystery.





52





7. The Worms Turn




‘If you book accommodation before you go to Europe, don’t expect it to be good just because it’s expensive. It could turn out to be a horrible, over-priced place that just has a lot of lies on its website.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





I love the Provencal hinterland.

We drove through miles of not-quite-ready-to-flower lavender fields, and past meadows of red poppies and sundry other wild flowers (or weeds – depending on your perspective). The sun was still shining - but not too hot –

and the roads were comparatively empty. We headed up into, then over the mountains, through gorges, and eventually stopped near the medieval town of Entreveux –

our last night in France (for a while).

For the second night running, Enid had the luxury of a room to herself. Well, not so much a room, as a cupboard. Nevertheless, she was able to have a break from the boys, and vice-versa. Our hosts were friendly, and the rooms clean, comfortable and quiet. The male of the species spoke excellent English, and joined us the next morning for breakfast. Or, not so much joined us, as stood over us and watched.

It was a peculiar experience.

He stood behind Enid and chatted away happily, but I could see the Aged Relative getting more and more uncomfortable by the minute. After a while, her discomfort turned to anger, and her lips became one thin, straight line of disapproval. We ate the bare minimum and got out of there as quickly as we could.

It was a miserable, rainy morning. I hate the Riviera Corniche at the best of times, but the dull weather made it even more miserable that day. We drove without stopping along that interminable motorway, until we reached Riomaggiore on the Cinqueterre, around 2pm.

Lindy shaved several years off her life expectancy in 53



negotiating the torturous, winding road down the cliffs to the town, and was stopped at the barrier.

‘You can’t drive in to Riomaggiore,’ said a guard.

‘It’s alright,’ I said dismissively. ‘We have accommodation booked.’ You’d have thought by now that I’d have learnt! The guard simply shook his head.

‘No-one may drive in to Riomaggiore.’

‘But the Apartment has parking. Look it says so here.’ But the guard wasn’t interested in the fluttering piece of paper I was waving under his nose.

‘You must park in the public car park,’ he insisted.

By now, we just wanted to get where we were going and settle in, so we did as we were told. Lindy drove up and down and round and round the car park until she found an empty spot (left vacant by a bicycle which had only just managed to squeeze into the space itself). After an eternity of backwards-and-forwarding, she managed to squeeze in (we all had to get out beforehand as there was no room for the car doors to open). Leaving the rest of the contingent to gather our bags and pack the necessities, I went on ahead to find Roberto.

Riomaggiore had been the first place we’d booked when organising our trip. The information I’d read said that our apartment was only fifty metres from the beach and, although it was far from cheap, it had seemed comparatively inexpensive for the famous Cinqueterre. I had communicated many times with the manager over the course of the months (I’d even sent him a Christmas greeting!), and was looking forward to meeting him in the flesh.

I strode into his office and held out my arms like a long-absent friend. I was met by a blank look.

‘Signor Whitton – from Australia,’ I explained.

‘Ah, S…S…Signor W…W…Whitton.’ By now I had become a little uneasy. The way he wouldn’t look at me, but glanced furtively from side to side – and that nervous stutter. I began to have misgivings.

‘Where can I park, Roberto? That fool at the road barrier said we’re not allowed to drive in to town.’

‘P…Park? In the p…p…public car p…p…park, of course. You can’t p…park in Rio…m…maggiore.’ I 54



swallowed. It had been a long, tiring day, and the heat was taking its toll.

‘But your website says the accommodation comes with parking,’ I replied, trying to remain calm. Roberto’s face lit up.

‘Ah yes, of c…course it does! Stupido! Sure. I’ll g…give you the k…key to the g…g…garage after I have taken you to see the apartment.’ This was more like it.

Now we were getting somewhere. You just have to be assertive, I thought – congratulating myself.

He led me outside and down the street. After a while we went up some steps into a lane and began climbing.

We kept climbing. Up and up we went above the town –

above the clouds. The atmosphere thinned and I was in need of an oxygen mask. At last we came to a door and Roberto blew softly – it crumpled like paper. He motioned for me to enter, and waited outside – unable to face the horror within.

After the initial shock, I tried to be positive. Well, okay, so the kitchen was awful – but it was usable.

Probably. Maybe. Anyway, there were plenty of nice restaurants in town. But at least the bedrooms were tolerable. Well, bedroom and hallway. A hallway with three beds in it.

I couldn’t speak. I gazed out the window to admire the view and buy some time to think. It looked out upon a small courtyard. Well, a narrow space between the dilapidated walls of the surrounding apartments. With clotheslines strung across it.

I pulled out the picture I’d downloaded from the Internet and studied it. I looked around at our apartment. I looked back at the picture. I looked at Roberto, who was still standing on the doorstep with his back to me, whistling nervously.

This was too big a decision to make on my own. I took the keys and decided to bring Lindy down to have a look. Perhaps my view was somewhat jaundiced? As Roberto and I parted company back at his office, I asked:

‘Where’s the garage for our car?’

‘In the p…public car p…park – second floor.’ I tried to glare at him, but he refused to meet my eyes. I 55



climbed the hill back to the car park, sweat pouring off me, and my mind in turmoil. I stopped off to look at the private parking on my way, and wasn’t surprised to see that it was already occupied.

I gave my opinion of the apartment to Lindy, and suggested she come with me to assess the extent of the damage for herself. We trudged dejectedly down the street past Roberto’s office, and eventually stood before the mighty climb. Enid and the boys stayed at base camp, while Lindy and I – declining the use of Sherpas -

scaled the North Face. When we reached the top, she took one look at the monstrosity, swung on her heals and stomped out.

‘Let’s go.’

‘But what will we tell Roberto?’ I asked. By now we’d rejoined the family. We both looked at Enid, then each other.

‘We won’t be staying here, I’m afraid,’ Lindy announced to the disappointed crowd. ‘You all go back to the car and meet us there.’ – then we went to do battle with Roberto.

We entered his office a little nervously, pushed past the crowd of backpackers, and confronted our nemesis.

‘The apartment is no good for us,’ I said without preamble. Roberto looked at me for the first time – his eyes round with disbelief.

‘But I have b…booked it for you!’ I glanced around at the line-up of customers outside, snaking away into the distance, and didn’t feel guilty.

‘I’m afraid my mother-in-law has a bad hip, and can’t manage all those stairs,’ I lied. Brazenly. Not a twinge of conscience.

‘But you hadn’t t…told me this! It’s not my f…fault.’

Well, we could have stood there all day arguing over what his advertising promised, what we had expected, and what the reality was - but I knew time was getting on and we still had to find somewhere to stay. And – my stomach reminded me – we hadn’t even had lunch yet.

Then I had an inspiration.

‘I left my credit card details as deposit – use that.’



56



I’m ashamed to admit that we ran up the street.

With squealing tyres we left the car park and Riomaggiore

– every second expecting Roberto to realise that it was our credit card and not his machine that was the reason behind the continual transaction rejections, and come racing up the street after us calling for the police.

With our pulses racing, we eventually pulled over to a spot overlooking the ocean and the Cinqueterre, and ate our lunch by the side of the road. It was the first time we’d been forced to eat in this way, and we were at our lowest ebb (amongst many low ebbs!) as Lindy, Enid and I struggled to make sandwiches from out of the boot of the car.

The sweet scent of frangipani that accompanied our meal and the glorious view over the ocean and villages seemed somehow obscene, given the circumstances.



Italy. Lindy and I have this passionate love-hate relationship with the country and its people. We find it charming and infuriating in equal measure. On the negative side, when it’s frantic and hectic, you feel in imminent danger of either being robbed or wiped out in a car accident at every moment. But – on the other hand –

our most magical moments have been spent there.

On the occasion of our last visit in particular, I remember renting an apartment on the shore of Lago d’Iseo (one of the lesser known Italian lakes) and enjoying a couple of glorious, relaxing days swimming, eating, and walking in the hills high above the lake. On our last evening, we fed the children early (pizza –

naturally), and dined in the hotel restaurant. James and Thomas decided to go for a swim, and the proprietor gave us his premier table – on a small balcony overhanging the water. Enjoying a candlelit meal, watching the sun set crimson behind the foothills of the Alps, and listening to the happy chatter of the boys paddling around us in the dimming twilight, was not only one of the highlights of our holidays – it was a highlight of my life. And – whilst this was the best – it was in no way an isolated incident amongst our experiences in Italy.

On the other hand…



57



I also remember hotels that were so stuffy, noisy, uncomfortable and expensive, that it was sheer misery for the intrepid holidaymakers. And now we had Riomaggiore to add to the list.

Whilst we ate our lunch, Lindy and I pondered our options. Personally, I was just about ready to cut our losses and head north to Switzerland. We were all feeling very negative about Italy, but we had a lot of bookings and there was little room for flexibility - one of the drawbacks to our choice of travel, unfortunately.

We’d booked our apartment in Riomaggiore for two nights, so were due in our Tuscan Villa in two day’s time.

I decided to call Lucia (remember Lucia?) to see if we could arrange two extra nights at Podere Pietrata.

The others held their breath as I dialled.

‘Hello? Signora Ceci?’

‘Si.’

‘This is signor Whitton.’

‘Ah! Trevor. Are you still coming? Nothing has happened?’

‘Yes, we’re still coming. But I was wondering if it was possible to extend our booking for tonight and tomorrow night as well?’

‘Well, tonight is not possible. But tomorrow is fine.

What time will you be arriving?’ Upon reflection, this was probably the best outcome. It was going to be a long drive into southern Tuscany from where we were, anyway, so I was happy to rough it for tonight. I looked at the map. We wanted somewhere that wasn’t too big and intimidating, but big and/or popular enough to provide a good choice of accommodation. No matter what it cost, we were determined to stay somewhere comfortable!

We ended up heading for Lucca, but there was some concern amongst the boys when I told them it was eighty kilometres away. James hid his head in his hands and groaned, while Thomas tried to get me to consider somewhere closer – say, a hundred and fifty kilometres.

Fortunately – inexplicably, given our run of bad luck - the

‘eighty kilometre rule’ didn’t apply on this occasion, and we arrived at our destination without incident less than an hour later.



58



After a minimum of fuss, we found a suitable spot close to the city centre and Lindy parked the car. I left the family with some trepidation in order to pound the streets to find the impossible – reasonable, comfortable accommodation for five people in Italy at short notice!

In the car, the boys became restless. A long, hot day had become longer and hotter over the past few hours, and they became understandably impatient. Lindy reasoned with them:

‘Look, I know it’s hard for you, but think of your father. He’s walking the streets, knocking on doors and trying to communicate and negotiate in a foreign language. Spare a thought for him and be grateful.’

In the small square next to the car park I found a sign: “Accommodation – Vacancy”. I stepped in and introduced myself to the young man behind the counter.

He spoke excellent English.

‘Call me Marco.’ he said pleasantly.

‘Do you have a nice room for five people?’ I asked, confident of his negative reply.

‘Just a minute, I’ll call my uncle.’ he said. I waited impatiently. After much discussion that I couldn’t follow (my Italian is only a little bit better than my French), he rang off and beamed. ‘Yes, I have an apartment for you.

But I will need to take you there. It’s about five minutes’

walk from here.’ But I knew better. I knew what to expect.

‘Look, I don’t want to waste your time unnecessarily.

I’m looking for somewhere very nice. It’s been a difficult day for my family, and I’ve promised them somewhere comfortable.’ To his credit, Marco was unoffended.

‘It is very nice. I guarantee you will like it.’ What can you do? I had to at least go and look at it.

Meanwhile, time was ticking on.

He led me through the streets and markets, chatting all the while. Apparently, he’d lived with is brother in Chicago for a while.

‘America is great. Especially at Christmas. It’s not like here – Christmas is a big deal in America.

Decorations everywhere. Lights everywhere. Lots of presents. Lots of food.’ Then he went on to tell me about 59



the market in Lucca. It was a special market, he said as we squeezed through the throng. ‘Very historic.

Continuous since the Middle Ages.’ Just then, our conversation was cut short by a moped winding its way through the crowd. Marco was outraged. He threw his hands in the air and shook his head in disbelief. ‘He’s not supposed to be driving here – there are signs saying so.

Italian drivers are terrible!’ he said. I tried to look non-committal. ‘Have you seen the way they drive on the motorways? They never obey the speed limits. Just like that moped – they never obey any rules. I get scared just crossing the road!’ I couldn’t help feeling that Marco didn’t belong in Italy. His naivety astonished me. Anyone who was still surprised to find that Italians were dangerous drivers after having lived here for most of their lives was destined to die a frustrated, bitter man. It was like an Australian being disappointed to discover that there were kangaroos in the outback – the one virtually defined the other and the two were inseparable.

After a few minutes’ navigating through the crowd, we entered a quieter side street. Marco took out his keys and began preparing me for a letdown. ‘The entrance way is awful,’ he admitted. ‘My uncle keeps trying to get someone to fix it up, but no one ever does. It deters some people.’

We stopped at a doorway and he began doing battle with the locks. Eventually the door swung open and we stepped inside.

He hadn’t lied. The entrance was awful. It was dark and dingy, with plaster peeling off the walls and papers strewn about the floor. I wondered whether the stairs leading up to the second story would hold our combined weight. We climbed gingerly to the next landing – each step creaking and straining as we ascended. Another battle with the keys, then he threw the door open.

It was magnificent.

Well, perhaps not magnificent. But very nice. Clean, spacious, quiet – and with a lovely kitchen and generously proportioned bathroom. Heck, it even had an ironing board!



60



Meanwhile, back at the car, life was quickly ebbing from the long-suffering occupants. When I returned after about three quarters of an hour and told them I’d found somewhere nice first pop out of the can, they nearly strangled me.

‘The least you could have done was suffer like the rest of us!’ snarled Lindy. ‘Why did you take so long?’

‘Well, first Marco….’

‘Marco?’

‘He runs the place. You see, first he had to call his uncle, then we had to walk across town through the market – it’s a great market, by the way – then we nearly got run down by a moped, then he couldn’t get the door open…’

‘Alright, alright. Just take us there.’

We had a terrific stay in Lucca. After we’d unpacked and settled in to the apartment, Lindy and I decided to go for a walk. The late afternoon light was golden as the market was packing up, so the streets were lively and animated without being too crowded. We came across an Asian man making grasshoppers out of reeds, and were so impressed that we bought one. The detail was exquisite.

We stepped into an alimentari-cum-macellaio (a kind of cross between a general store, delicatessen, butcher and wine shop), and started to drool. We were so overwhelmed, we could hardly decide what to order. We ended up buying fresh pasta (naturally), salami, Parma ham, Gorgonzola cheese, a pasta salad, spiced potatoes, and a veal ragout. Swooning, we took our haul back to the apartment, and began cooking. As the aroma from the rosemary, garlic, thyme and tomatoes filled the apartment, we all began to salivate.

It was one of the finest meals of our holiday.



Later, we joined the townspeople in that most Italian of pastimes – passegiatta. Or – in English - wandering around the piazza eating gelato. Young, smart looking couples promenaded aimlessly, showing off the latest fashions and sneaking the occasional sidelong glance at themselves reflected in the shop windows (and I’m not just talking about the women). Girls strolled arm in arm 61



and boys experimented with macho poses – each casting furtive glances at the other in the hope that they were attracting attention (which they invariably were). But where were all the old people? Or adults, for that matter?

The place resembled a huge schoolyard. I suppose the parents and grandparents were inside watching television or reading – having had their surfeit of promenading in their own youths. We looked very much out of place.

As we licked our gelato and tried to look inconspicuous, I remember thinking how improbable this pleasant evening had looked earlier that afternoon, as we’d made our escape from the clutches of the redoubtable Roberto.



My attitude had changed, but as we negotiated the industrialised Arno valley on our way south the next day, I could see that Enid, for one, was far from convinced about the attractions of Italy. Then we left the Arno behind, and Tuscany embraced us. The factories disappeared, the ugly towns disappeared, the countryside became empty and green, and the roads became clear and traffic-free.

San Gimignano was sparkling under a clear, sunny sky, and the crowds weren’t too horrendous. The trek up the main street was a long, slow one, as Lindy and Enid were drawn to each and every souvenir stall. What was the attraction, I wonder? They all sold the same postcards, after all. I wandered on ahead and enjoyed looking into the picturesque alimentari. The Italians have a flair for presenting food, there’s no doubt about it -

particularly fruit and vegetables. The best way I can find to describe it is to say that they present their food with the same style that they dress themselves.

I waited at the top of the hill with James and Thomas as the two ladies caught us up. As they did so, Enid’s phone rang. It was her granddaughter, Emma, who was house-sitting for us.

‘Hi, Emma.’ she began. ‘Everything okay?’ A frown quickly crossed her brow. ‘I’d better put you on to Lindy,’

she replied at last - and I began to worry. What now?!

‘Hello Emma. What’s the matter?’ said Lindy. I started to relax as she smiled maliciously. ‘No, you did 62



right. Don’t do anything. How is the cat?’ Lindy was obviously relaxed about whatever it was Emma had called about, but I was still a little uneasy.

‘What is it?’ I asked – breaking into the conversation.

‘Hold on a sec, Emma,’ she said - then, turning to me: ‘We got an email from some hotel saying they’d tried to charge our credit card last night, and it didn’t work.

They wanted the new credit card number.’

‘Roberto?’ I asked.

‘Who else could it be?’ Not leaving anything to chance, I asked if I could speak to Emma.

‘Who was the email from?’ I asked.

‘I

don’t

exactly

remember.

Something

like

“Accommodation on Line”,’ said Emma. A memory stirred within me.

‘Can you have a look again and give me the whole message?’

‘It’s in front of me now. It’s from someone called Nada Liboskova.’ I breathed deeply at the thought of how close we’d come to another catastrophe.

‘Is there any reference to something called

“Adalbert”?’ I asked.

‘Just a minute.’ There was silence on the other end as she read the message carefully to herself, then, ‘Yes, next to something called a “Cesky Krumlov”.’ I sighed with relief and reached for the new credit card.

‘Can you send them a reply, tell them we’re still interested in the bookings, and give them this new credit card number, please.’ Once I’d rung off, I explained to the others, ‘It was our two bookings for the Czech Republic. If they’d cancelled our hotels, we would have arrived

in

Cesky

Krumlov

and

Prague

without

accommodation. That’s not a good thing in June.’

‘Thank God she phoned,’ said Lindy.

‘Thank God I realised it wasn’t Roberto.’

‘What a coincidence that they emailed the day we’d had that run in at Riomaggiore!’ There was a moment’s silence as we reflected on this latest brush with disaster, then Lindy asked:

‘Did she say how the cat was?’





63



We wandered around the old town, revelling in the occasional distant view of pleasant, gently rolling hills again. We eventually relaxed somewhat - but by now I was wiser, and wasn’t to be led into a false sense of security so easily. In the back of my mind lingered concerns over Podere Pietrata – for we had booked our Tuscan villa for five nights, and had just added another.

Six nights in a dump did not appeal. I was also concerned about that errant deposit I’d spent so much fruitless time chasing up from home.

After stocking up on a few rations and sampling the local gelato, we climbed back into our car and motored south towards the val d’Orcia – expectations and anxiety rising in equal measure. After a while James, Thomas and Enid asked to see the photographs of our villa.

‘It will have a pool, won’t it Dad?’ asked Thomas anxiously.

‘It says it does, doesn’t it?’

‘Well yes, but…’

‘Then I’m sure it does.’

The countryside became progressively prettier as we approach Radicofani, where our villa was located. We found the turn-off easily, and began trundling down the rutted dirt road. We approached a gorgeous looking villa

– immaculate gardens, magnificent views, beckoning, glistening swimming pool and attractive, old stone farmhouse. Our hopes soared - but it wasn’t Podere Pietrata. Then we approached a run-down, dilapidated old shack, with weeds for a garden and untidy, half-dead trees blocking the view. Our hopes plummeted - but that wasn’t it, either. A car approached from the opposite direction. It slowed down. A woman leant out of the window.

‘Trevor?’ she queried.

‘Yes. Lucia?’ We all piled out of our cars (Lucia was travelling with her husband and some friends) and greeted each other like long lost relatives. I think some of us embraced. I found myself hugging complete strangers, but we were all swept away by the spirit of the occasion and didn’t care. After much happy chatter and repeated

‘welcome’ ‘s and ‘it’s lovely to meet you at last’ ’s, we 64



piled back into our cars and continued down the road. At last Lucia turned into a driveway and we had our first sight of Podere Pietrata.

It was beautiful.

The photographs on the Internet hadn’t done it justice. It was one of those delightful old stone farmhouses, surrounded by an immaculate garden and overlooking a vista of valleys, ploughed fields, isolated hilltop villages and distant mountains.

Then we were shown into our apartment.

Apparently, a podere is a farmhouse with stables on the ground floor, and living quarters above. We were located in what used to be the stables. There was a large, modern kitchen, which looked directly out on the pool and the hills beyond, and had everything we could have possibly needed. There was a dining room next to the kitchen, a large family room with a generous scattering of comfortable chairs, and two large bedrooms with their own large bathrooms.

And there was a laundry.

At the sight of the latter, Enid’s eyes lit up like a starving man spotting a sirloin steak, and she began collecting all the clothes in sight and stuffing them into the washing machine. She was heard to whisper

‘Nirvana!’ with awed reverence, as the water began to fill the tub.

Then there was the swimming pool.

The empty swimming pool.

James and Thomas cast an angry look in my direction.

‘It’s not my fault!’ I pleaded, but it was no good. I’d been tried and found guilty. After enquiring, Lucia promised that it would be ready ‘domani’ – tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. She introduced us to Mauro and Anna – the housekeepers.

‘When will the pool be ready?’ she asked them.

‘Domani.’ Or perhaps the day after.

At last the time had come to broach the subject I’d been dreading ever since leaving Australia.

‘Did you find out what happened to my deposit?’ I asked. I’d already made up my mind to wear the loss if it 65



hadn’t been found - this place was too good to waste time over worrying about money. But I needn’t have troubled myself.

‘Oh yes. That was my bank’s mistake. It’s all been sorted out.’

The price structure was such that it was so much per night for up to five nights, with a reduced rate if you stay for six or more. Consequently, our generous host offered to let us have our extra night for a pittance – the difference between what we were going to pay for five nights and the reduced cost for staying six. The place was inexpensive as it was, and I almost felt like we were taking advantage of Lucia’s generosity. When she presented me with a complimentary bottle of wine from her cellar, my happiness was complete.





66





8. Tuscan Paradise


For the next few days we were in heaven. When we visited the little convenience shops in Radicofani we were at first put off by the interminable conversations that kept you waiting ten minutes for even the most minor of purchases. But after a while we got into the swing of things and realised it was part of the reason we were there – to enjoy the relaxed, friendly lifestyle of Toscana.

Despite our lack of Italian, we were made feel welcome and offered unsolicited advice about our purchases (‘No, not that one! This one is much better!’).

On one occasion, I went to the butcher’s to but some ice cream. Yes – you heard right. The butcher’s. What’s wrong with ice cream in a butcher’s shop? I proudly demonstrated my limited Italian, and the owner made a friend for life by flattering my pathetic efforts.

One small, general store was reached through an archway in a little courtyard swathed in pot plants of endless colours and combinations. No one ever seemed to buy anything, because it got in the way of conversation. Half way up the hill was a simple, medieval church with a little shady piazza overlooking a vista that stretched halfway to Rome. On top of the hill was a ruined castle, dating from the 10th century and successively occupied by monks, the Papacy, and even the infamous Medici.

It doesn’t figure largely in many of the guidebooks, but Radicofani was perfect for us.



Lucia and her entourage had left the evening we arrived, so the housekeeper and groundsman were left in charge.

Mauro and Anna were terrific. They spoke English worse than I spoke Italian (no, it’s true – but at least it improved over the years, whilst my Italian…), but every morning Mauro and I would hail each other happily.

‘Piscina giorno, Mauro?’ (Pool today?) I’d ask hopefully.

‘Domani.’ – would come the inevitable reply, accompanied by an apologetic shrug. Eventually, we 67



worked out that the full, beckoning blue water had just been chlorinated and needed a day or two to dissipate.

As far as the Whittons-plus-one were concerned, we were willing to take the risk, but I suppose our hosts had a sort of duty of care – as well as a genuine concern for our health. So we grinned and tried to be patient.



I discovered one day that Mauro collected foreign coins. I was happy to give him some of my Australian shrapnel, but he thought I was doing him a huge favour. His eyes became round like saucers and he dragged me off to the cellar.

‘Pick a bottle,’ he said (in Italian – I suppose that was what he said), with a wave of his hand.

‘No, Mauro. It’s nothing really,’ I insisted - but an Italian isn’t deterred from offering hospitality as easily as that. He chose a bottle himself and thrust it into my hand. I handed it back, repeating my protests.

‘Not good enough? Well have this one!’ he said, thrusting another at me. Resigning myself to my fate, I took the gift and thanked him warmly.

I wouldn’t have felt so bad if the cellar had been his.



When the pool eventually opened, we were quickly joined by our neighbours. They lived in Belgium, but the husband was from Denmark and the wife from Alsace.

The former worked in the European Parliament in Brussels, and spoke English. And Flemish. And French.

And Italian. And (of course) Danish.

Fluently.

If his other languages were as good as his English, he spoke them without a trace of an accent. It was humiliating! But he and his family were really easy going, and we thoroughly enjoyed their company. Their young son and daughter had haunted the swimming pool as frequently as James and Thomas over the preceding days, and now there was no dragging any of them away.

I spent the entire day frolicking (you know, the way hippos don’t) with the boys, and by nightfall the radiation emanating from my body made lighting redundant. It seemed unfair to me. I was red raw, and the boys were 68



just lightly tanned – the benefits of having a mummy to apply the sunscreen, I suppose. The sad fact was that, after days of harassing Mauro to let us have a swim, I had shot my bolt and was now unable to enjoy that little pleasure for at least a week.



We ate al fresco every breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.

We discovered that nearby Montepulciano had a market, so decided to do our shopping there. We parked near the top of the hill and walked up to the main square

– marvelling at the glorious view over the surrounding fields and hills, and the curious lack of people. We reached the piazza and found it empty. Fortunately, the tourist office was close by, so we went to ask what had happened to their famous market.

‘It’s held in the piazza beside the bus station – at the bottom of the hill,’ the official replied. Muttering under our breath we headed down the main street, past the renaissance and medieval Palazzi, past the strange metal carnival figure that stands on top of one of those Palazzi and beats an old, untuned bell every hour, and through the town gate. We reached the bottom of the hill, crossed the main road, and entered the fray.

It wasn’t a pretty market. Okay, it had plenty of food vans selling fresh fish, eels and sundry other creatures plucked from nearby Lago Trasimeno; fresh cheeses of all shapes and types; fresh fruit and vegetables; and fresh meats - all direct from the fisherman/farmer. But the vast majority of the stalls resembled a flea market – including racks second hand clothes, coins (did Mauro come here, I wondered?), indecipherable rusted metal paraphernalia, and even a hot dog van. A trash and treasure, without the treasure.

Although we were far from inspired, we had enough choice to do some more-than-decent shopping, so we got stuck in. Whilst Lindy and her mother were occupied with the fruit stall, I was attracted to the ‘porcetta’ van, where the local farmer was selling slices of warm, delicious, seasoned porcetta – fresh from his farm to the customer, and cooked on the premises.



69



He gave me a taste, and I reeled. I’d never tasted anything like it! I ordered eight slices. The generously proportioned gentleman sliced away happily – holding up each one for my approval.

‘Si! Si!’ I kept saying, encouragingly. He weighed and wrapped the little parcel, and beamed at me.

‘Otto Euro, por favore.’ I did a double take directly from Charlie Chaplin. That was fifteen Australian dollars!!

‘No, no, signor. Il troppo!’ I tried to explain that I wanted eight slices, not the entire pig. He unwrapped the parcel and showed me the contents.

‘Si – otto!’ Then he showed me the price per kilo hanging from the back of the van. There were more zeros than I could count! Just then Lindy and Enid arrived.

‘What are you buying?’ asked the former. I tried to smile.

‘I wanted to get some porcetta, but….’ and I pointed guiltily to the figure on the cash register. Lindy’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged – just the way they do in cartoons.

Eventually I beat the poor man down to six slices, and – declining to transport the precious cargo in an armoured van - took our purchase home carefully nestled on my lap. When we set the table for lunch, I placed the parcel on a tray by itself – away from the riff-raff – and stared.

We paid appropriate homage to the precious thing (Saint Peter’s bones were less venerated than the remains of that amazing pig), but nobody could bring themselves to eat the stuff. Then, reluctantly and with great ceremony, I took a slice. It was magnificent. But, of course I’d have to say that. It had come from the most expensive animal in existence.



Tuscany is pretty amazing – from a multitude of perspectives. Those clouds, for a start. No matter what time of year I’ve visited – and I’ve been there in spring, summer and autumn – they always billow against the horizon like miniature atomic explosions. It creates a backdrop to the distant hills so picturesque that it’s almost clichéd. And then there’s the art! I could bore you ad 70



nauseum with a discourse on the art of Florence, Sienna, Pisa and co., but I’ll spare you the agony. Suffice it to say that you could spend a month exploring the treasures of the region, and not even scratch the surface. It makes travelling there difficult with children. I usually rush about Florence, madly ticking off the sights and artefacts as quickly as possible, while Lindy fills in time with the heirs of the Whitton Estate as best she can.

We have tried to engage their interest in art – but quickly learnt the error of our ways. During earlier trips, the leaning tower at Pisa got short shrift (‘It’s not leaning that much!’), as did the various medieval, hilltop villages (‘Oh no – not another one!’). Somehow, Sienna succeeded in getting better Press (the cynic in me puts it down to the gelato).

Talking about Tuscany and our boys puts me in mind of one of the difficulties facing people travelling with children – peculiar to that land of unbridled passion.

During one visit we stayed in quite a nice hotel in the city of Pistoia (it was a three star affair, I think). James and Thomas were only 8 and 10, and were consequently sharing the room with us. Late in the evening Lindy and I were awoken by the most blood-curdling screams we’d ever heard. Sitting up in alarm, we tried to work out what was going on.

‘Oh, oh. Ooooooooooh,’ – came the sound once more. We looked at each other.

‘Oh, ahu, ahu, ahu – oooooooooooooooh! Si! Si!’ –

continued the poor, suffering wretch. Then it hit us. She wasn’t suffering at all!

‘Oh

si,

oh

si,

oh

si…..ooooooooooooooooh!’

Unfortunately, writing isn’t like music – you can’t insert ppp’s or fff’s to indicate very soft and very loud, so I can only explain to you that this racket appeared to be coming from the floor above us, and was of the magnitude of your louder-than-average rock concert. The time she must have been having! It made me feel quite inadequate.

She went on for half an hour unabated – without a word of exaggeration!

It’s amazing how these things can affect people. We were just wondering how we were going to explain this 71



phenomenon to the boys if they woke up, when the sound of creaking bedsprings began emanating from the room next door. It seemed that this woman was acting as a sort of beacon – an inspiration to others. Fortunately –

miraculously – James and Thomas didn’t wake, and we didn’t have to think of an explanation. Nevertheless, I feel it acts as a warning to those travelling in Italy with small children…



Leaving our Tuscan Paradise was very difficult. Given the stresses of the days leading up to our arrival we were reluctant to leave the security of our apartment and head back into the wide, uncertain world. Mauro and Anna said goodbye, presenting us with a tiny, painted ceramic scene of Radicofani – done for us by their daughter. We left a note thanking Lucia and praising her wonderful Villa (I neglected to mention that she and her husband lived and worked in Rome, driving up each weekend to Podere Pietrata), and took to the road once more.





72





9. Venice




‘If you go to Venice on your travels, don’t expect it to be cool just because it’s built on the sea. You’d think that it always has a nice sea breeze, but it’s actually quite hot.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries)





Is Venice just a contraction of VEry NICE? In all probability. The view from the top storey of the car park the afternoon we arrived certainly suggested that this was a plausible explanation. The sky was cloudless, the light golden, and a gentle sea breeze ensured that the air was perfectly clear.

Annalisa met us at the Vallaresso ferry stop about an hour later, and led us to our apartment. The only time we’d previously lashed out to pay the fortune required to actually stay in a hotel in Venice, we found that all we’d secured was a stuffy, dirty cupboard drawer. This time we’d

scanned

the

Internet

to

find

our

own

accommodation, rather than restrict our options to the overpriced and poor quality rooms available through Travel Agents. The pictures, location, and friendly communications

with

the

owner

had

been

very

encouraging. But the memory of Roberto still lingered...

We held our respective breaths as we marched up the stairs to what was to be our home for the next few days. As we stepped into the room, there were five sighs of relief and smiles all round. The value for money was astonishing. For a large, comfortable apartment, with a nice kitchen, cooking facilities, two bedrooms, air conditioning, laundry, dining room and a small terrace, we were paying almost half the price of something awful in a two star hotel. And if I opened the window and tossed Thomas hard enough, he would have flattened a pigeon in Saint Mark’s square, just a hundred metres away!

As Annalisa chatted with us (‘Why are they culling kangaroos in Australia?’ she demanded) and showed us the various facilities, the bells of Saint Mark’s began 73



tolling. It couldn’t have been a more perfect welcome to Venice – especially as it was Enid’s birthday!



James, in particular, loved Venice. He’d been before, but relished the fact that on this occasion we were situated in such a central location and – most importantly – had air conditioning. It wasn’t overly hot - just humid - but he really enjoyed being able to cool down after going for a walk.

Normally, both sons were reluctant to come for walks

– regardless of the circumstances – but, in Venice, they were happy to come wherever and whenever the opportunity arose. My fondest memory was of taking a walk one evening alone with James. We took no map, and didn’t much care where we went. We explored the mysterious, narrow calles, fondamenti, campi and sotoportegi (all variations on the theme of street or alleyway) of the district, pretty well at random. Naturally, we stopped for gelato, got lost, and generally just soaked up the atmosphere and enjoyed the experience.

But I think he and Thomas would have preferred a gondola to themselves.

They’d been harassing us for a gondola trip since our first visit, but by now they were 12 and 14 respectively –

hardly an appropriate age for two self-respecting boys to be sharing a gondola with their parents and grandmother.

Still, they tolerated the experience with fortitude. Tom even became positively enthusiastic after he saw a dead dog floating in one of the canals, from then on keeping his eyes peeled for more local wildlife – camera poised like David Attenborough.

As for Enid - well, she certainly liked the idea of a gondola trip, but objected to the fact that the event took place on water. We explained that the two things were inextricably linked, but still she demurred. Eventually the lure of the romantic got the upper hand, and she closed her eyes, held her nose, took the arm of the gondolier, and stepped in. Then she relaxed.

And never stopped talking.

The poor man was assailed by a never ending barrage of questions. ‘How many gondoliers are there in 74



Venice? How many bridges? How many canals? How long have you been a gondolier? How long do most gondoliers gondoleer? Is insurance difficult to get? Do you own your own boat? How old are you? Are you married? What did you have for tea?’ And, eventually,

‘How much did your gondola cost?’ I swear she was considering buying her own!

As for the gondolier himself, I could tell he was anxious about his boat sinking under the combined weight of our photographic equipment, only recovering his equanimity after we’d unloaded our cargo at the completion of our ride. As the Plimsoll line popped up above the water once again, he mopped his brow and relaxed for the first time in half an hour.



Lindy and I awoke early one morning, and decided to treat ourselves to one of the world’s rarest sights – Piazza San Marco devoid of people. The view as we passed under the loggia of the Correr museum was unforgettable.

Pigeons fluttered about in the foreground, and Saint Mark’s (silhouetted in the soft light of the newly risen sun) formed a perfect background. After strolling across the deserted piazza, we turned right into the piazetta, which looked out across the arched, candy-like façade of the Doge’s Palace; past the twin columns proudly holding aloft the winged lion of Saint Mark and Saint Theodore with his dragon (which I had always thought – and still suspect -

was actually a gondolier riding on the back of a dolphin!); and out over the glistening waters of Saint Mark’s basin.

Palladio’s church of San Giorgio floated serenely above the waters of the lagoon like a mirage, and the air glimmered in anticipation of another warm, humid day.

We strolled contentedly across to the Molo, where the water lapped against the embankment and the moored gondolas rocked gently up and down. To our right, the great dome of that most theatrically perfect of churches (Santa Maria della Salute) arose majestically –

offering its eternal protection to the entrance of the Grand Canal. To our left, the Riva stretched in a great arc into the distance, it’s palazzi providing a colourful backdrop.

All this, and hardly a soul in sight!



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One morning Enid and I visited the Basilica San Marco.

We’d just been passing, and the line that usually snaked around the piazza for hundreds of metres was, for once, relatively short. We stepped over the threshold and into the ancient narthex, and entered another world. We gaped at the first mosaic – the story of Noah. Next to it, adorning the dome to the right, was the story of genesis, with God separating the firmament from the water, followed by the story of Cain and Able. Discovering that we were causing a blockage at the doorway, we passed quickly into the main body of the church.

The effect was overwhelming, and we didn’t really recover until we’d travelled the length of the nave.

Then we heard the choir.

They were obviously practicing – possibly for a concert, possibly for a recording. It was quite a small ensemble, and their unaccompanied, unamplified voices easily filled the church from their position above the crossing in one of the galleries. As their voices floated about us, we entered the sanctuary and passed behind the altar to view the famed Pala d’Oro. This altarpiece –

one of the most precious works of art in existence –

started life in Constantinople in the 10th century, before being lifted by the Venetians during an aborted Crusade (rather than return empty handed, they convinced the rest of the forces to sack Christian Constantinople – just so the enterprise wasn’t a complete waste of time!). A phantasmagoria

of

gold,

enamel,

rubies,

pearls,

sapphires, emeralds and other precious stones, the piece is not to all tastes, but would be a compelling conversation piece in any home!



One evening, after the throngs had again deserted the streets, we all took a relaxing stroll around Saint Mark’s square. Being a high tide, water gurgled up through the drains dotting the piazza. Shallow pools reflected the spotlit façade of the basilica, as well as the fairy lights adorning the surrounding arcades of the Procuratie Vecchie and Nuove.



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As usual, the various musical ensembles were vying for supremacy. In an impulsive fit of romanticism, Lindy and I embraced and attempted a vague approximation of a waltz. After I’d flattened her toes, I found I was still unsated and reached for the horrified mother-in-law. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.



One morning I went out on my own to visit a couple of churches and museums. The crowds were growing as I crossed Saint Mark’s square, then almost immediately thinned to a trickle as I headed east. Past the delicious smelling little forni (bread shops); past the tiny alimentari with their customers and owners endlessly chatting and gossiping - seemingly oblivious to time and impervious to haste – and past the mysterious little trade shops with their dark interiors. I was heading for the Scuola di San Giorgio to see the Carpaccio paintings. I admire Carpaccio and don’t mean to trivialise his work, but the paintings in the Scuola have always amused me. Saint George Slaying the Dragon is almost like a Stephen King movie, with its extremely graphic, grotesque and brutal depiction of half-eaten and decaying corpses, and the lance of the knight piercing the mouth of the monster and coming out through the back of its head – accompanied by generous lashings of blood. Saint Jerome Leading the Tamed Lion to the Monastery is downright hilarious. The monks are unaware (or unconvinced) that the animal has been tamed, and scatter in terror as the fearless (or stupid?) frail old man brings his new pet to meet his friends.

On the way back to our apartment, I visited the Ca d’Oro Palace. Originally sheathed in gold leaf, the façade on the Grand Canal is one of the loveliest gothic creations in existence. Now a smallish art museum, I eventually climbed to the second floor and stepped onto the balcony.

As I looked through the traceried arches at the rows of palaces stretching both left and right, a ferry passed and some of the passengers waved.

I felt like royalty.





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10. Of Picnics and Lakes





Before I go any further, I want to talk about picnics.

For Lindy and me, picnics have always been an integral part of any European vacation. Not only is it an inexpensive way of eating, but it provides an opportunity to enjoy your food in the sunshine. Most of all, it’s an enjoyable experience because the food in Europe is so suited to it. The only trouble is, our family is cursed. No, really!

We discovered this disturbing fact on our first trip with the boys, when we found that the three essential elements of a successful picnic – means, opportunity and motive (i.e., food, picnic spot and sunshine) – never seemed to coincide. One day we’d have the food and an endless supply of picnic spots – but the weather would be dreadful. The next day we’d have sunshine and an endless supply of picnic spots – but no food. But most common of all was the third occurrence: food, sunshine –

but no picnic spot!

It happened over and over and over again. We’d drive on for miles, determined to tough it out - but of picnic spots, there’d be none. To be honest, this happens less frequently in France. But the signs were ominous as our car climbed into the mountains the day we left Venice.

First, we stopped at a supermarket to stock up on supplies. As we were heading into the wonderful Dolomites, none of us at first suspected that we’d have trouble finding somewhere to do our food justice. Noon came and went, and Lindy remarked on the fact that she hadn’t seen any picnic spots all day.

‘That’s just because we’ve been in the plains,’ I said reassuringly. ‘The Dolomites are prime picnic country – it won’t be long before they start popping up everywhere.’

It got to 12.30 – still nothing. I began to worry.

James and Thomas began to worry. But Enid was uninitiated into this phenomenon – she reprimanded us for being so negative.

‘You

just

need

to

be

patient,’

she

said

condescendingly.



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1pm approached. The minute hand crossed the hour hand and headed towards the half hour. Stomachs rumbled. Now even Enid was admitting that we might have to do without a proper picnic spot. As it got close to 2pm we threw up our hands in defeat and stopped by the side of the road.

Lindy and I did one of those appalling out-the-back-of-the-car jobs with our lunch, and we sat eating squeezed uncomfortably together, with cars and trucks zooming past within inches of collecting us. As we packed up and headed off, the Whittons were all aware of what was happening, but Enid was still in blissful ignorance.

‘How far up the road will we find a perfect picnic spot?’ I asked the car in general.

‘Ten kilometres,’ said Lindy, without a second’s hesitation.

‘Five kilometres,’ I countered.

‘Two kilometres,’ said Thomas.

‘One kilometre,’ said James – always the pessimist.

I could tell mother-in-law was getting quite cross with this negative attitude, and wasn’t going to put up with it.

‘Well, I think we simply aren’t in the area for picnic tables and…’ – she hardly had the words out of her mouth when we passed a sign denoting “Picnic Spot Ahead”, and there – in all its glory – was a magnificent, grassed terrace with a deserted picnic table set back from the road and sitting under a shady tree next to a babbling river.

Enid’s jaw dropped.

‘Five hundred metres,’ said Lindy, referring to the distance meter.

‘I win!’ announced James joyfully. ‘What do I get?’

Then we passed another one. Then another one.

Then another.

We passed ten picnic spots within the next ten kilometres. After that we stopped counting – it seemed too much like self-flagellation. We’d driven for a hundred and forty kilometres and over two hours without finding a single picnic spot. Then - after giving in to the inevitable and suffering our lunch in the car – there was an average of one every kilometre!



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No amount of rationalisation can explain that.

And this happened time and time again over the next few weeks. I remember once in Germany, we drove beside a river along a wooded valley for three and a half hours – determined we were just going to keep going until fate threw in the towel and we could break this curse once and for all. Three and a half hours! In the end it was eat or perish.

Somehow, we knew that Carole and Monsieur Masoni were behind these phenomena, but couldn’t find any evidence to support the theory. Or perhaps it was Roberto exacting his revenge?



Our car stories were becoming increasingly bizarre. With James introducing Miss Piggy and Kermit into every story, they were inevitably married. Have you ever imagined life for a pig married to a frog? We did. Have you explored the ramifications of a union ‘twixt these two creatures?

We did. We conjectured what the child would look like.

We speculated on life with such a disability. We imagined the difficulties of finding a partner for the child. We even gave it a name – a prog.

Then the stories got weird.

Aardvarks (called Pongo) went looking for special family heirlooms down drains. Aliens managed to infiltrate every story. Seals were talking on mobile phones. And princesses continued to come and go under more and more macabre circumstances – usually involving a dragon called George.

I can categorically deny that we were using any illegal substances (well, I wasn’t, anyway).



We hit Domaso on Lake Como in brilliant afternoon sunshine. To the north, the snow-clad peaks of Switzerland beckoned, and Enid kept casting her gaze in that direction, like a desert traveller wondering why the caravan was avoiding the oasis. When we eventually tracked down our elusive hosts (after a lot of mucking around), we discovered that, due to burst pipes in the booked apartment, we’d been transferred to another -

replete with a swimming pool.



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After a brief but refreshing dip, the evening was spent promenading along the waterfront, armed with the ubiquitous gelato and admiring the pastel facades of the town strung out above the sparkling water. In the intensity of the late afternoon light, the lake was deep blue and the forested hills and mountains emerald green beneath cotton-wool peaks. Lindy and I chose a bench beneath a spreading plane tree while Enid continued to stroll – immensely satisfied with our lot.



The next morning we negotiated the narrow roads, traffic and continuous tunnels of the western shore of Lake Como, before taking a short pass over the hills and into the less hectic countryside towards Switzerland. It can be a confusing experience touring the northern shores of the Italian lakes - particularly for the elderly. In the twinkling of an eye you pass from one country to another and back again.

Lake Lugarno is very underrated. Being surrounded practically on all sides with hills, it’s much more sheltered than the better-known Italian Lakes. This means that its waters are usually calm and still, and its reflections often mirror-like. The only thing is, there’s hardly anywhere to stop and admire the view.

We entered Switzerland.

I had a marvellous plan, meant to save us many kilometres of travelling and reduce stress for the poor driver. We’d cut across the northern shore of Lago Maggiore, then take a mountain pass directly to the west to link up with the road over the Simplon Pass. We fulfilled the first part of my plan without a hitch, but couldn’t find the turn-off to the mountain pass.

Inevitably, Lindy and Enid did their double-act thing and got me to ask a passer-by.

Have you ever tried to ask where the turn off to the road leading to the Simplon Pass is, in Italian? It’s not easy – particularly when the person asked replies in Italian. Nevertheless, we worked it all out (more or less) and headed in the direction of his waving arms.

We re-entered Italy.



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An hour and a half, three hundred hairpin bends and a dozen near-accidents later, we reached the “Pass Closed” sign. With growing dread I looked more closely at the map:

‘Open July – September.’

I felt sick.

But this time there was a benign purpose to the disaster – although it wasn’t apparent for some hours.

We backtracked to Lago Maggiore in fuming silence, while I recalculated distances.

‘At least we can have a nice picnic lunch beside the Lake,’ said the Aged Relative – trying to see the silver lining. Lindy and I looked at each other sceptically.

We re-entered Switzerland.

We hit the shoreline and turned south, looking desperately for a grassy park by the water. After thirty minutes driving we could find absolutely no public access to the lake, and our spirits began to sink.

We re-entered Italy – and Enid gave up trying to remember which country we were in.

We found a gravel car park by the side of the road (no, not the lake side) and decided it would have to do.

We spread a blanket and had a tolerable lunch, but I was angry that we couldn’t enjoy the benefits of being beside a beautiful lake on a gorgeous, sunny day.

Naturally, less than a kilometre down the road we came across a great swathe of lightly wooded parkland, with free parking, ice creams, picnic tables, and a beach.

But fate gave us a reprieve – because it also had pedalloes (paddle boats to the uninitiated).

We’d been able to get Enid onto a gondola, but she drew the line at the pedallo. So James, Thomas, Lindy and I boarded the poor, straining vessel and waved farewell to the AR as we manoeuvred our way into the middle of the lake. It was glorious! I can think of no better way of killing an hour than by drifting on an Italian Lake in one of those marvels of invention – particularly if you have two strong, keen children who are willing to do all the work while you and your wife lie on your backs watching a flawless sky and majestic mountains drift lazily 82



by - your feet dangling refreshingly in the cool, cool water…….ahhh!

After our hour was up, we replenished our depleted energy reserves with yet another round of gelato, and reluctantly piled into the car. The ensuing drive down the shore of Lago Maggiore was magnificent. Unlike Lakes Como and Garda, there are few tunnels, and the view is virtually uninterrupted for the entire length of the trip.

We passed glorious vista after glorious vista, and marvelled at some of the spectacular villas we could see by the shoreline.

Then we turned north towards the Simplon Pass –

and re-entered Switzerland.





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11. Into the Mountains




‘If you go on a walk in the mountains in Europe, don’t be fooled by people saying it’s only a short walk. A short walk can range from 6 minutes (highly unlikely) to 6

hours (much more likely). Also watch out for people saying it’s a flat walk. That just means there are flat parts on it (but not much).’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





As we climbed the road to the summit of the Simplon Pass and the mountains and waterfalls began appearing, Enid started becoming restless with anticipation. I spotted the signs and offered to change seats (you could see a lot more from the front seat, but normally I needed to be there for navigating) – an offer she readily and gratefully accepted.

We pulled up at the summit next to the peculiar cylindrical hotel (someone must have thought it was a good idea once) and piled out of the car. Enid – it was her hour - gasped and clapped her hands like a schoolgirl at the sight of the surrounding snow covered mountains.

James and Thomas stretched their legs and went looking for some wildlife to annoy, and Lindy and I took a well-earned break from driving and navigating.

A little further on – just after we began our descent towards Brig – we stopped again. The view of the peaks of the Bernese Oberland and Aletsch ice field across the valley was even more stunning than what had gone before

– and the AR became visibly moved. She was in serious danger of pulling a muscle in her neck.

When we arrived in Tasch (just north of that most soulless of places, Zermatt), we were greeted by a friendly, but bewildered hostess.

‘You have a booking? For tonight?’ she repeated, sceptically.

‘Mister Whitton – from Australia,’ I reassured her.

‘Okay, if you say so,’ she shrugged. It was an unpromising beginning, but her house was inviting (one of 84



those huge, typical Swiss chalets) and perfectly located between wildflower-strewn meadows on one side, and the village on the other. As it turned out, there was no one staying there and we had our choice of rooms. Lindy, the boys and I chose the two bedroom apartment and Enid had the luxury of a place to herself.



What a marvellous welcome to Switzerland.



We had a fair bit planned for the next day (making sure we made the most of the good weather while it lasted), so made an early start.

Zermatt was deserted in the early, pre-season morning, and (out of the range of choices on offer in getting above the town) we decided to take the so-called

‘metro’. We purchased our tickets and walked down a long tunnel (just like in a metro) to the train – waiting on its almost perpendicular track inside the hill.

Being the only passengers, we had our choice of seating, so the boys and I chose one at random, while Lindy and Enid walked up and down the platform unable to decide which one was the best. At last they urged us to join them on the top carriage:

‘The view will be better from up here,’ said Lindy.

At last the train slid gently off (the way only Swiss trains can) and we were on our way – up and up through the tunnel. And still in the tunnel. After a few minutes it dawned on us – metros stay underground, even when that ground is almost vertical. We sat back and enjoyed a superb view of the darkness, James and Thomas providing the predictable sarcastic accompaniment.

Within minutes we were stepping out into the blinding sunshine. The Matterhorn hit us right between the eyes – dominating the higher peaks surrounding it.

Its distinctive wizard’s/night cap shape looked almost contrived, and I found it difficult to tear my eyes away.

We headed off to a small lake, which provided perfectly reflected mirror images - followed by curiously reluctant children. You’d have thought they’d welcome an opportunity to run free like Bambi – or do I mean Elsa the lioness? – after all that time cooped up in a car, but they didn’t.



85



Accompanied by the peaceful tinkle of sheep bells (no, not cow bells), we wandered around the high alpine meadows, stumbling upon the occasional frolicking marmot, yet always having our gaze drawn back to the huge slab of snow-encrusted rock dominating the skyline to the south-west. Lindy tried her umpteenth panoramic sweep with the video camera (accompanied in the background by the usual groans from her offspring), then we strolled lazily back to the metro.



We’d decided to save several hundred kilometres of driving that day by catching the car train link from Goppenstein to Kandersteg, on the other side of the Bernese Alps. I admit to having been more than a little apprehensive about the prospect, but the benefits appeared to considerably outweigh the risks.

As it turned out, it was one of the more disturbing experiences of my life.

After gliding efficiently onto the back of an open wagon (along with a few dozen other adventurous spirits), the train slid off and we hurtled into the pitch black tunnel like the damned being transported into hell. Forcing my mind to dismiss the delusion that I could detect a faint whiff of brimstone, I tried concentrating on the benefits of this option.

‘We’re shortening today’s trip by a good three hours,’

I told myself.

‘You’re shortening your life by a good three years!’

replied the pessimist within.

‘Think of it as character building,’ said self.

‘More likely to come out the other side a gibbering lunatic,’ responded the pessimist.

‘But what an experience – look at that bare rock, whizzing past just a metre from the car roof! It’s something you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren!’

‘Unless there’s one of those terrible Swiss tunnel accidents where all the victims are charred beyond recognition, and the conflagration consumes everything so that..…’ – I suddenly broke off from my reverie and tried to think of bunny rabbits and sunny fields, with Lindy beside me trying to free her hand from my terrified grip.



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Just as I thought I couldn’t take any more and was about to open the car door and step into oblivion, the darkness began to abate and a light appeared up ahead. Curiously

– but not altogether surprisingly – I thought of near-death experiences which describe very similar incidents. My relief was palpable when we finally spewed out into the sunshine and pulled up at Kandersteg station.

Into paradise.

On our left was an enormous waterfall gushing over a hanging valley, with snow-clad peaks soaring above. In fact, snow-clad peaks surrounded us on all sides. But the reason this little village and its valley were so special were the acres and acres of wildflower-choked meadows, and the constant tinkle of cow bells. If I can’t have church bells, give me cow bells! Why is it that they’re so calming and relaxing? We stopped by the side of one particularly spectacular field so the grown-ups could play “skipping through the wildflowers” (while the children cringed), but they grew too thick (the wildflowers, I mean – not the grown-ups). On one side was a little, stone church, with the waterfall and towering mountains in the background, and the field of wildflowers in the foreground. You couldn’t have improved on the scene if you’d designed it!

Now, I know I should describe these wonderful wildflowers, but I’m afraid I can’t. Meadowsweet –

certainly. Columbines? Probably. Buttercups? Cowslips?

I’m afraid I’m guessing now. Nevertheless, it was breathtaking.

After much discussion, we decided to take the chairlift and walk to Lake Oeschinen above Kandersteg.

James and Thomas took one look at the exposed contraption, and refused to go – and Enid took some coaxing as well. In the end she accepted that the threat to her life was probably worth the risk, so we packed a picnic, threw the boys some money for ice creams, and threw caution to the wind!

As we ascended, the entire valley was revealed -

spread out below us. Massive cliffs on one side revealed a multitude of waterfalls and a large expanse of pine forest.

The walk from the top of the chairlift was a little longer than we’d anticipated, but was well worth it. Alpine 87



wildflowers spread across the high meadows in all directions, and neat paths beckoned the walker on towards the lake.

At one stage Lindy and her mum lingered behind to photograph some colourful hang gliders, while I walked on ahead. Soon they were accosted by a couple of middle-aged Englishmen who fancied their chances.

‘Don’t worry about waiting for them to take off; take the picture now – it’ll look better,’ said one of them.

‘This is classic Swiss scenery, you know,’ said the other, informatively.

‘Oh yes,’ agreed his friend. ‘ Much nicer than Grindelwald.’

‘Too touristy.’

‘Absolutely. But Kandersteg is perfect. Just the right amount of tourists.’

‘You’re from Australia, aren’t you?’ Meanwhile, the besieged women had caught up with their protector and took his arms possessively in theirs. The two men shrugged as if to say, ‘Oh well, there’s plenty of other fish in the sea.’ and passed by without so much as a greeting to your’s truly.

It was my one and only experience of being a knight in shining armour.



Gradually the path descended, the trees parted, and there before us was the lake - its backdrop of cliffs and snow-clad mountains picture-perfect. We chose a grassy knoll on the edge of the pine forest and picnicked on our rolls, fruit and cheese - soaking up the view, peace and solitude as birds twittered and darted around us.

Afterwards, I took a brief walk around the shoreline.

Along the path were scattered various wood sculptures set in small clearings and at particularly spectacular viewpoints overlooking the lake. Although unusual, they succeeded in blending in with their surroundings and in adding to the enjoyment of the experience.

The walk back to the chairlift was all too quick, although we were keen to rejoin the boys. From all over the valley we could hear the ubiquitous tinkling of bells as we slowly returned to the land of mortals.



88



Back at the car, sitting in the blazing nearly-summer sun, James and Thomas were still clutching their ice cream money, arguing over who should go and place the order with the shopkeeper. Well might you say that they were in a foreign country and it was understandable, but the fact was that the shopkeeper spoke perfectly good English, and the same would have occurred even if we’d been on holiday in Australia.

C’est la vie!



Driving along the banks of Lake Brienz towards Grindelwald, we turned off the highway to visit the little village of Iselwald. There were no historic buildings, city walls or other such attractions, but it was nevertheless picturesque and enjoyable. We parked a little above the town, and I waited by the “No Unauthorised Vehicular Entry” sign (in German) at the entrance to the village, while the family completed the usual ablutions. A car pulled up and an elderly lady leant out.

‘Is it allowed to drive into town?’ she asked, in German simple enough for even me to understand.

‘Nein,’ I replied, pointing to the sign. ‘It ist verboten.’ – not confident in my grammar, but certain she could get the gist of it.

‘Danke!’ She smiled cheerily, then put the car into gear and drove in anyway. I was still scratching my head in bewilderment as the others arrived, trying to work out how she’d mistaken me.

We followed a footpath through a couple of paddocks (yes, more wildflowers), past bucolic, masticating cows –

their bells echoing throughout the village – to the waterfront. At times it was impossible to tell where the public thoroughfares ended and personal property began, but it didn’t seem to matter. Thomas stopped at a fountain in the small square fronting the ferry-stop, and took a long drink from the cold, clear water. It was a warm, lazy afternoon. A family of swans swanned around as the sun sparkled off the lake, and hardly a soul stirred in the sleepy little hamlet.

Strolling along the narrow waterfront promenade, we came across a tiny terrace with a table and a couple of 89



chairs set right above the lake – a latched gate signifying it was private property.

‘A pretty good place for summer dinners,’ said Lindy.





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12. Grindelwald




‘’You see, I have this thing about being on short planks of wood suspended high above a gorge.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries)





After such an incredible day, Grindelwald came as a bit of a disappointment to Enid. The cloud cover had increased during the course of the afternoon, and our booked accommodation didn’t look particularly appealing. Taking a gamble, we decided to try the apartment we’d stayed at during our last visit. When we finally tracked it down there was relief all round when we discovered that the large apartment was, in fact, vacant, and delirious excitement from James and Thomas when they found that the television received the cartoon channel – in English!



Bushwalking with children! Two years previously, Lindy and I had taken the boys on a walk above Grindelwald.

We’d caught the chairlift up, up, up to Mannlichen, and then walked all the way back down. At an estimated three-and-a-half hours, the walk was a little ambitious -

but it was downhill all the way, and we’d brought a picnic lunch to break up the ordeal. The weather was fine and not too warm, and we all enjoyed the first few hours to our lunch in sun-soaked, wildflower-strewn alpine meadows. Unfortunately, from there on the walk blew out somewhat, and as we limped exhaustedly into the car park five-and-a-half hours after leaving the chairlift, the boys (struggling for breath) swore they would never go on one of our walks again.

They’ve maintained that resolve to this very day.

I mention this to explain why they were allowed to stay in our apartment while Lindy, Enid and I caught the gondola above Grindelwald in the glorious sunshine early the next morning. The mighty peaks of the Bernese Oberland sparkled about us as we sat back in and watched the vista unfold. The Aged Relative’s terror was kept largely in check as long as she didn’t look down -



91



although she didn’t like it when we went over the cable supports.

At the top there was a generous covering of snow, still left over from winter. Grindelwald lay far, far below us, looking like tiny dots of multicoloured paint on a huge, green canvas. Above it and across the valley, the Eiger, Munch and Jungfrau loomed menacingly – their icefields and glaciers threatening to sweep down and engulf the valley at any moment. Accompanied by a continuous stream of oohs and ahhs from the AR, we climbed higher into ever deepening snow, setting a new record for photographing – even for us. At one particularly lovely viewpoint, I heard a familiar accent coming from behind us.

‘Excuse me, are you Australian?’ I asked the couple as they joined us. They pleaded guilty to the accusation, and we chatted amiably. They were a young couple working temporarily in London, and taking every opportunity to visit the Continent when they could.

‘And you three are just travelling around?’ they asked.

‘Actually, there’s five of us – we’re here with our two sons as well.’ I replied. They looked around for the absent children, a little bemused.

‘We left them back in the apartment,’ said Lindy, feeling guilty. The couple looked around at the beautiful day and superb view, and tried not to look disapproving.

‘Watching the cartoon channel,’ I added, thinking it might explain things a little better.

‘In English,’ said Lindy, digging the hole deeper. By now we were in an untenable position, and our explanations were making us look even more pathetic.

‘We’d better get going,’ I said abruptly, cutting our losses.

I could feel their censorious gazes boring into the back of my skull as we tried to put as much distance between us as we could.



By the time we’d reached the place where the lake was supposed to be, the snow was several metres thick.

‘Where’s the lake?’ asked Enid.



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‘Over there, I think,’ I said, pointing over to a particularly flat area of white.

‘Ah! No reflections today, then.’

Feeling like a cross between Scott of the Antarctic and Nanook of the North, I decided to head across country for a better view. Lindy – suggesting that the impression was more like an abominable snowman – fished out the video and attempted another panoramic sweep. If any more proof were needed that fate was watching for every opportunity to torment me, then Lindy captured it as she swept the camera in my direction. She caught me at the exact moment when I broke through the ice and sank up to my waist - as elegantly as a floundering rhinoceros wading into a vat of ice cream.

We had our picnic lunch in the gondola on the way back to Grindelwald, which doesn’t sound very nice, but was actually extremely pleasant. Watching the mountains rising above, the waterfalls roaring beside us, and the meadows passing below – with the occasional tinkling cow or struggling walker – we enjoyed our sandwiches in comparative luxury.



One afternoon we went for a short drive to neighbouring Lauterbrunnen. The valley looks like someone came along with a giant knife and sliced a perfect ‘U’-shaped gash into the mountains. We spent the entire trip trying to crane our necks out of the car in order to see the waterfalls plunging from the heights above. Somehow, the wildflowers were even more prolific here than in Kandersteg, and we ended up stopping about a dozen times to enjoy the views.

One sobering aspect to the valley was the danger sign next to the river. On closer inspection it warned the unwary that the water was so cold, you’d literally die of shock if you fell in.



One day we managed to drag the boys away from the cartoon channel to visit the Grindelwald glacier gorge.

About a hundred metres into the walk, we noticed a group of bungie jumpers high above being coaxed into playing Russian roulette with their lives by a sadistic instructor.



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His current victim was having none of it.

I suppose when he’d first contemplated the enterprise, the bungie jumper had thought it would be a bit of a lark. Something to tell his grandchildren. Now that he looked literally into the abyss and saw the folly of his ways, he realised there was a real risk that - if he jumped - he’d never have any grandchildren.

The instructor was trying to appeal to the man’s masochistic side, but common sense had locked this aspect of the man’s personality firmly away in a dungeon somewhere, making him impervious to any coaxing.

Spectators at the bottom were trying their best to help the instructor by shouting encouraging phrases, such as:

‘Coward!’

‘Come on stupid - jump!’

- and so forth, but it served only to strengthen his resolve. After ten minutes of watching the poor guy tip-toe to the edge in a semi-determined sort of way, then jump back as he was reminded why his brain was saying

‘don’t do it!’, we decided that the entertainment was over and continued on our walk.

The track along the Grindelwald glacier gorge is a combination of a path cut into the rock and boarding suspended from the side of the cliff about ten metres above the raging river. At times the cliffs just about come together and shut out the sky above, and it’s not generally recommended for those afraid of heights or susceptible to claustrophobia. After about five minutes, James and Thomas indicated that they’d had enough.

They could hear the cry of the television beckoning like a lighthouse to a shipwrecked sailor, and felt that they’d had their fill of nature.

When we returned to the car park, I took one of those “funny” photos you sometimes see in people’s holiday snaps – this one specifically being of Enid milking a plaster cow. As I took the photo, some of the bungie-jumpers walked by, eyebrows raised and a kind of disturbed look on their faces. I’m sure I heard one of them mumble:

‘Another victim of mad cow disease!’





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Some of my pleasantest memories of Grindelwald were the evenings and early mornings spent on our balcony. It looked out over flowery meadows directly onto the enormous cliff faces of the Schreckhorn and Wetterhorn mountains, which seemed to rise abruptly from the fields just a stone’s throw away. We ate our meals al fresco admiring this unsurpassed view, watching the shadows recede from or climb those enormous cliffs with the sunrise and sunset - the peaceful chatter of birds providing a suitably relaxing background. At one stage we were surprised to hear a cacophony of bells clanging up the road, and looked out the window to see a herd of cattle meandering along, driven from behind by the cowherd. We concluded that such encumbrances (the bells I mean) must be extremely annoying for the poor beasts – albeit pleasant to we tourists.





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13. Roots


Heading north through Switzerland, James was suffering from a cold and was given some tablets to make the journey more comfortable. Unfortunately, his body rebelled and we were forced stop by the shore of Lake Thun to allow him to recuperate. Later events make us a little suspicious about the real cause of his upset tummy, but at the time we put it down to a reaction against the medicine.

Like many things in life, this setback also provided an opportunity. It was a magnificent sunny morning, and sailing boats bobbed contentedly as we strolled lazily around the lakeside parks. The mighty peaks of the Bernese Oberland provided an impressive backdrop, and an hour later we all admitted that circumstances might have been a lot worse.

We clambered into our car and decided to break the law.

You see, as a consequence of his condition James was extremely sensitive to jerky movements, so it was necessary for us to use the motorway in order to provide him with the smoothest trip possible. Unfortunately, Switzerland, rather than having tollways, has a Pass system – valid for twelve months. As we intended to use the thing for only a couple of hours, we decided we’d run the risk of being caught.

It was two of the most stressful hours of our holiday.

The most frustrating thing was that we really didn’t want to be on the motorway, anyway. Glorious countryside stretched in all directions, and all we could think about (apart from the fear of being caught without a Motorway Pass) was how nice it would be meandering through that countryside along the quiet back roads.

Eventually we reached Basel, on the border between Switzerland, France and Germany, and our anxiety escalated.

‘What if we’re stopped at the frontier?’ I said anxiously.



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‘We won’t,’ said Lindy. ‘This is the year of the Euro –

a combined, frontier-less Europe. We haven’t seen a border post all trip.’

‘But what if this is different. They’ll see straight away that we don’t have a Pass, and that’ll be that - the rest of the holiday spent in chokey!’

‘Stop worrying.’

We inched through the city, along overpasses, underpasses, crossovers and detours, until we finally approached the border. We all wore our broadest, most innocent smiles as we passed the guards, then hit the accelerator as they waved us through. Seconds later we were safe – back in France at last!



We were heading for Alsace, which Enid had been looking forward to all holiday. You see, her ancestors came from Alsace, and we were on our way to visit some of the small tourist towns of the area, as well as the home of one of those ancestors in a place called Gerstheim.

‘Can you feel the pull of your roots yet?’ I asked as we passed the vine-clad hillsides. She didn’t reply, but I could tell by the faraway look in her eyes and the contented smile that she did. The only drawback to her feeling entirely at home was the fact that she couldn’t speak the language!

We stopped briefly at gorgeous Eguisheim. The village is very small, and the hanging baskets were like little explosions of colour in the narrow streets. There was one particularly pretty corner where the half-timbered-lined street split into two around a high gabled, almost triangular house. We took photographs of every possible combination of the Whittons-plus-one, and then made our assault on the food shops. We replenished our supplies with quiche Lorraines, Alsatian ham, pate, grapes, baguettes, the usual assortment of patisserie treats, and

– of course – chicken. A few kilometres down the round we found a nice picnic spot – confirming (if confirmation were needed) that we were back in France. The sun was shining brightly, the aroma from the still-warm quiches was intoxicating, and the surrounding grape-vined hills provided the perfect accompaniment to the meal.



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We spent the afternoon absorbing the sunshine, and enjoying

little

walled

villages,

countless

bubbling

fountains, acres of neatly planted grape vines, stork’s-nest-topped roofs, hilltop castles, and flower-bedecked houses and streets. That evening we took our food (we’d accumulated quite a lot of it by now) to the park across the road from our hotel, seated ourselves at a table under the shade of a tree (kindly shared with us by a local lady), and enjoyed one of the nicest picnics of the holiday.

Later, Lindy, Enid and I took a stroll around the town. The colourful facades, geranium-clad fountains, and maze of streets and secret courtyards were even more enchanting in the magic of early evening. The day had been a wonderful welcome to Alsace, and Enid was excited with the prospect of visiting Gerstheim tomorrow.



After some superlative navigating by your’s truly, we arrived in Gerstheim early the next day. It was a beautiful, quiet, sunny Sunday, and Enid’s anticipation was like that of a schoolgirl at Christmas. After taking a photo of her and Lindy standing next to the town sign (in case there was any controversy later that she’d actually been there, or had gone to the wrong town or something) we parked the car and placed our footsteps in those of the AR’s forefathers.

So far, so good.

The next bit of the visit has to be censored.

Nevertheless, I’ve been authorised to provide the following account.

As Enid danced about like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, Lindy suddenly needed to go to the toilet

– urgently. And it was not one of those simple jobs, if you get my meaning. It required urgent and private attention.

As I followed Enid with the video camera – tyring not to miss a second of this momentous occasion - Lindy disappeared into the distance trying to find someone in the deserted streets able to point her in the direction of that most blessed of buildings – the public toilet.

At last she found a stray body and – legs pressed together and hands desperately trying to stem the growing tide – she asked for directions.



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‘Ou est les toilettes publique, s’il vous plait?’

‘Behind the town hall,’ came the reply – or words to that effect. Muttering a prayer of thanksgiving, Lindy waddled uncomfortably in the direction of Mecca.

There is no greater torture known to man (or woman) than a locked public toilet.

The secured gate leered at her mockingly. She rattled it a few times – but (curiously) it stayed locked.

She yelled at it. She withdrew her prayer of thanksgiving.

The gate was unmoved. At last she had to admit defeat.

With relief just metres away, she was turned back like a pilgrim at the gates of Jerusalem. Now she had no choice.

It was time to get back to nature.

Enid had been exploring a little church nearby, within quiet, secluded grounds. This seclusion now drew Lindy like a bee to a flower. She stole surreptitiously into the garden and discovered a short flight of steps leading down to a sort of neglected underground storeroom. The details from here on have never been shared with the broader populace, but suffice it to say that Lindy hopes that the little neglected nook remains neglected for quite some time.

Back at the car, we waited impatiently as Enid left no street unexplored, nor stranger un-accosted. She proudly boasted to anyone who’d listen (and even those that wouldn’t):

‘Je suis un Helm!’ (Helm being the name of her ancestor) – which I hadn’t the heart to tell her probably translated to something like ‘I am a hat.’ Regardless, Lindy had had enough. Nature had called and she’d responded as best she could, but it hadn’t been enough.

Apparently there was still a little work left undone, and she was ready to leave toilet-less Gerstheim in order to pursue this mission. She had tasted of its fruits and found it wanting. She felt that her forefathers had abandoned her. She’d left a little part of herself there for posterity –

and that was going to have to do. ‘Germany, here we come!’ was her cry.

I could tell Enid regretted having left stones unturned and doors un-knocked as we sped out of town, but Lindy in that mood is not to be gainsaid. Once she’s convinced 99



that it’s time to leave, then a place is as good as left. We waved goodbye as we sped over the Rhine and into Germany.

I could hear the little town of Gerstheim letting out a collective sigh of relief in our wake.





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14. Of Impromptu Choirs, Oom-pah Bands, and Lederhosen



‘If you’re visiting lakes in Europe, don’t expect them all to be great. Some might have had strange, weird things happen to them – like almost all the water disappearing!’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





We meandered east through the hills and woods of the Black Forest, and the fields and meadows of the Swabian Alps under a cobalt, cloudless sky. At a tiny hamlet called Steinhausen we visited the baroque pilgrimage and parish church of Saints Peter and Paul. After a brief look around, I went to get a coffee, leaving the two ladies to have a bit of a browse (the boys had stayed in the car). Seconds later Lindy came across the road to the café.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘A choir’s started singing – you should come and have a listen.’

‘Damn. I’ve just ordered a coffee!’ I said, looking ruefully at the departing waitress.

‘I’ll wait for your coffee,’ she offered, proving that love was still alive.

‘Thanks – I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’ Giving her a grateful peck on the cheek, I went to have a look.

Inside there was an all male a capella choir (I wondered if they were doing the rounds of German churches and testing the acoustics, or something), and they sounded great. I took a seat next to Enid, thinking that they were just performing the one song – but they kept going.

As the performance progressed, I felt more and more guilty that Lindy was missing out. I could have left at any time, but it was if I was hypnotised. Yes, I know. It was disgraceful. After about a quarter of an hour the choir finished, and I was left with some apologising.

I found Lindy sitting next to a cold cup of coffee.





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The Bavarian Alps stood resplendent with their icing-sugar coated peaks marching along the southern horizon as we approached Fussen later that afternoon. A couple of small, turquoise lakes beckoned enticingly as we drove through the early summer heat, and I suddenly had an inspired thought (it happens sometimes).

‘How about a picnic dinner by the lake tonight, followed by a paddleboat ride?’

‘Do they have a lake there, Dad?’ asked Thomas.

‘Yep.’

‘And paddle boats?’

‘Bound to, if there’s a lake.’ Everyone became excited at the prospect and – whilst they didn’t physically pat me on the back – I could tell they wanted to.

After arriving at our enormous apartment and settling in, we gathered the food and headed off with visions of sparkling waters reflecting majestic peaks and grassy lawns stretching gently down to an alluring foreshore.

But the lake was empty.

Well, when I say empty, I exaggerate. Way out in the middle of the enormous, muddy ditch was a small pond in which several ducks were fighting for space.

Sludge stretched for miles in all directions. I could feel several pairs of eyes burning holes in the back of my neck. I turned with a smile:

‘McDonald’s anyone?’

Well, my suggestion placated die kinder, but Lindy and Enid were far from satisfied. We went back to our hotel, and Lindy and I took a stroll through town to look for a likely restaurant. Soon we found ourselves standing on a bridge watching the water rush beneath us. There was a lot of water. It was a big river.

‘Where does it go to, then?’ I asked suddenly. Lindy looked confused.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This river - where does it go to?’ I repeated. Lindy looked as if she thought I was being deliberately stupid.

‘Where does it go? Where do you think it goes?’

‘The lake,’ I replied.



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‘Exactly! It goes to the…’ and then it hit her. ‘But the lake’s empty!’ We looked down at the engorged river and frowned.

‘Where’s it go to, then?’ asked Lindy at last.



In the end we decided that the best looking deal in town was being offered in the restaurant of our own hotel, and consequently booked five places. Frankly I must admit that – whilst being a fan of the country in many respects –

I’m not usually very big on German cuisine. It uses too many parts of an animal (particularly pigs) that are better left for compost for my liking. However, having prefaced my remarks accordingly, I must admit that dinner that evening was far and away the best meal of the whole trip.

We had roast pork with dumplings and apple sauce, sauerkraut, artichoke hearts in a light batter, a delicious goulash, pork medallions in a rich plum sauce, and apple strudel. Father was in trouble again for the size of his beer – but I explained that it was a German custom, and that it’d be considered rude to have ordered anything smaller. Unfortunately - I added - children were expected to be restrained when ordering soft drinks.

The meal was well complemented by our friendly, attentive hosts – although I could have done without the old gentleman’s faded, well-worn lederhosen, and a constant view of his knobbly knees and varicose veins.



The next morning dawned bright and sunny once again. I asked everyone how they slept, and Enid admitted to being disturbed all night by the castle clock chiming the quarter hours, and the trains passing by her window.

‘Trains?’ I looked out the window. Below was a narrow cobblestone street, and behind the buildings opposite rose the hill upon which the castle stood. I looked puzzlingly at the AR.

‘They must run through the hill,’ she said, a little bemused. We patted her hand sympathetically and agreed that it must be the case, then went down to breakfast.





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15. Lakes, More Lakes - Then the Car Breaks!





As we tootled through the Bavarian countryside that morning, the Alps stretched majestically from horizon to horizon, the fields and meadows were green and luxuriant, and the cows were amongst the happiest and most contented I’ve ever seen.

Remember the strawberries I mentioned in France?

Well, we encountered them in their thousands in Bavaria.

Lindy and Enid insist that they weren’t as good as their French counterparts, but I’m not so sure. Mind you, I admit to being biased because of the Erdbeeren (which is German for strawberry) Stalls. Strewn throughout the countryside like bird droppings in an aviary are these giant, plaster strawberries, which open miraculously every summer to dispense their sun drenched, delicious tasting produce. The stall owners all seem to wear red and white laced sleeved Gingham dresses – presumably in keeping with an image of quaintness. I’m afraid it was beyond our meagre abilities to resist stopping whenever our supplies ran low - and our supplies seemed to run low about every five kilometres.

That afternoon we picnicked on strawberries and roast chicken (yes, the chicken had reappeared as well) on the sandy shore of a small, forest-encircled lake near Reit im Winkl. Lindy, Tom and Enid couldn’t resist the green, enticing water, and cavorted gaily amongst the trout and other fish. As Granny went behind a bush to change into her bathers, Trevor played the clown and pretended to film her. What I didn’t know was that Lindy had left the video camera running from an earlier session.

This video is now available for sale to those over 18

years of age.

At Konigsee - in the far south-east corner of Germany and just a stone’s throw from Austria - we decided to hire a rowing boat for something a bit different.

We drifted under the huge, looming cliffs, each of us having a go at trying to row the thing in something resembling a straight line. Despite our best efforts, our 105



wake resembled the trail of a sidewinder snake trying to win a prize for the biggest zig-zags.

Later, Enid and I went for a cruise up the lake to the little onion-domed, clover-leafed Saint Bartholoma church.

On the way, the boat stopped in the middle of nowhere and the ticket collector pulled out – of all things – a trumpet. We looked perplexed.

‘Echo wall,’ he explained briefly, then began to play.

I’ve heard plenty of echoes in my time, but this was something else. The man played a duet with himself, the echo so perfect that we could have sworn there was someone posted on the cliff face faking it.

The boat back from Saint Bartholoma was crowded and uncomfortable, and our reception when we got back to the car icy.

‘I thought the boat trip only took half an hour?’ said Lindy.

‘Each way,’ I explained.

‘That’s not what you told me,’ she snapped. In fact, it was what I had told her, but the look in her eyes warned me that it was best that I leave the discussion for another time.

The clouds began rolling in for the first time in a week, and we could tell a storm was brewing. We reached our farm house apartment in Bicheln just before the heavens opened, and began winding down after a long day’s travelling.

You’d be hard pressed to find Bicheln on any map, let alone a guidebook. It’s so small that there are no signs either directing you to the village or even welcoming you when you arrive! If I said that it consisted of half a dozen farms clustered together, I’d be exaggerating – there were only five. We were all very happy to be staying there for a relaxing couple of days.

But the real attraction for Thomas was the kitten.

Tom – and he’d never admit this – is a sucker for cats. We have our own at home, but she’s not very companionable. Perhaps it’s because we called her Fluffy (no, really – I’m not making it up). When we’re on holiday, Tom seeks out the species at every opportunity, 106



pretending all the while not to be the slightest bit interested.

‘Oh, what do you know - there’s a cat. Well, if you insist on being patted, I suppose I can spare a minute -

just don’t get any ideas that I might be enjoying it!’ – just about sums up his attitude.

The kitten at our farmhouse in Bicheln kept the youngest Whitton occupied for hours on end. When called for tea, there’d be a sort of a blur, followed by a gulping sound, then another blur, and he was gone – back outside with the kitten.



The following morning Lindy, Tom and I went for a short trip into Austria, and spent the day by a small lake north of Salzburg. It was still overcast, but warm, so we hired a paddleboat and had our lunch drifting in the middle of the lake watching the sailboats and slowly rotating scenery.

Eventually the sun came out and we were tempted into the water for a swim, followed by a game of table tennis on the public facilities near the beach. The latter was an interesting experience as the table was made of rough cement, and the ball bounced at odd angles at every shot.

Why would anyone design a table tennis table that way?

It’s another mystery.

Thomas was later heard to admit that this was his favourite day of the vacation.



The tiny road into Bicheln continued on past the small hamlet, swung around the hill behind us, and continued up through the fields of pasture and barley. It enticed the adventurous to explore – which I did late in the afternoon of our last day. As I climbed, Salzburg became visible just fifteen kilometres away (as the crow flies) – its spires and domes beckoning in the bright, late afternoon sunshine. I passed through a small copse of oak and beech, and came to a turn off which led down to an even smaller settlement (three farmhouses clustered together).

Continuing up the hill, I came to a crest where there was a dilapidated old house with chickens and cows wandering about inside, and the mountains of the Bavarian Alps dominating the southern horizon. A little further on, I 107



entered a largish sort of forest, with various signs of woodcutting – tied kindling, stacks of firewood left out to dry over summer, and so on. A couple of walkers greeted me with a friendly ‘gruss gott’, and I sat down to enjoy the solitude, listen to the birds, and contemplate life.



The Austrian Lakes were supposed to have been one of the highlights of our trip. The idea was to take a quick detour into Salzburg, where we’d enjoy the luxury of a carriage ride to give our feet a break, then on to the Salzkammergut. Our night’s accommodation was booked in a town close to the Austrian border in the Czech Republic – so it was a pretty full day we had planned.

Salzburg is one of my favourite cities, but it was curiously uninspiring that morning. For a start, we couldn’t find a single, usually-ubiquitous fiacre (an open-air carriage). After about a quarter of an hour, Thomas and I went looking for the tourist bureau to enquire into the mystery.

‘They should be all over the place,’ we were assured.

Then, as we left and were returning to where we’d left the rest of the family, I spotted him. Thomas went off to collect the others and I collared the guy. We climbed aboard excitedly (I know it sounds a little kitsch, but it seemed a real treat at the time) and sat back to enjoy the passing scenery.

It was awful.

For a start, the damned driver insisted on rabbiting on pointlessly. We tried to follow what he was saying, but quickly discovered that it was either unintelligible, or uninteresting, or both. He’d point vaguely to the left and mumble something like:

‘Building.’, then point to the right and mumble: ‘Big building.’, then back to the left and: ‘Bigger building that’s old.’ and so forth. The annoying thing was that we felt obliged to concentrate on what the fellow was saying and tried to seem interested by making appropriate replies, like:

‘Yes, it is big, isn’t it,’ or ‘It certainly looks old.’.

Once I made the mistake of asking a question. The fellow mumbled on for about 5 minutes, and I didn’t understand 108



a word he said. When he eventually stopped the contraption, we jumped off with some little urgency, wishing to get as far away from our tormentor as we could in the shortest amount of time possible. Unfortunately, in my haste I caught the leg of my shorts on a hook or something, and ripped them almost to the waist. It was an unceremonious end to our Salzburg sojourn.

Then we got lost on the way out.

Have you ever noticed how some cities are very generous with their signage on the way in, but leave you to your own devices on the way out? We found Salzburg to be just such a place. Of signs to the castle and cathedral there were plenty – but of an exit there was none. Eventually – having taken gradually greater and greater concentric rings away from the town centre – we stumbled upon the motorway, and heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Well, that’s today’s disaster out of the way, anyway,’

said Lindy.

Such naivety is pathetic rather than amusing.

We turned off the highway at Mondsee and stopped to fill up the car. Suddenly, my nose began twitching. I looked around and saw – a rotisserie chicken van!

Without even being aware that I’d opened the door, I found myself standing by the vehicle with my tongue lolling out and a glazed look in my eyes. With shaking fingers I made my purchase and, clutching it lovingly to my chest, returned to the car with a kind of idiotic smile playing on my face. Today’s picnic promised to be special.

As we glided slowly down the road beside the lake, the sun came out, the temperature rose and the water sparkled invitingly. It was going to be a glorious day paddling in the lakes, slurping ice cream and picnicking on grassy banks watching the swans.

Then the car spluttered.

A slight frown creased our foreheads, but the hiccup was only brief and we were soon running smoothly once more. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Lindy had become thoughtful, and wondered what was the matter. After a few minutes we turned away from beautiful Mondsee and headed into the forest separating it 109



from Wolfgangersee – a matter of only ten kilometres away.

We were halfway between the two lakes, in the middle of the forest, when the car lurched and stopped.

The passengers were silent. Lindy grew bright red and turned a guilty face in our direction.

‘I think I accidentally filled the car with petrol instead of diesel,’ she stammered. There was a stunned silence.

‘I wondered why you were using the petrol bowser,’

came a cheery voice from the back seat. ‘But I presumed you knew what you were doing,’ said the AR. I looked at Lindy long and hard, and thought of all the wonderful times we’d had together over the years. I thought of our two innocent children sitting in the back. I weighed the negatives and the positives. Slowly – reluctantly – I made up my mind: I wouldn’t kill her. After all, who’s fault was it about the lost credit card?

‘What do we do?’ I asked calmly.

‘I’ll call Renault to see if this is covered under insurance,’ she said decisively – relieved to be still alive.

Moments later:

‘Hello, Renault? I’ve leased a car from you and accidentally filled it with petrol instead of diesel. Now we’re stuck in the middle of a forest in Austria, and were wondering whether I was covered by insurance?’ We held our collective breaths as Lindy stood patiently with the phone pressed to her ear. The reply seemed to be taking a long time.

‘What’s he saying?’ I asked, eventually.

‘Nothing,’

‘Nothing?’

‘No. He hasn't stopped laughing yet.’

When the operator eventually regained control of himself, he advised that the fault and problem was ours, but was able to point us in the right direction.

‘Just dial this toll free number,’ he said.

The thing is, if we’d been stranded on one of the lakes it wouldn’t have mattered so much. We would have feasted, romped and swum happily until the car was fixed, and all would have been reasonably hunky-dory. The fact that we were stuck in the middle of a forest exactly 110



equidistant between two lakes betrayed evidence – yet again - of meticulous planning. It then took three hours for the tow-truck to come. As it arrived we cheered as if welcoming Royalty.

‘You’ve got some trouble with your car, I think?’ said the driver. He was a young, pleasant looking fellow with a chatty, outgoing manner.

‘We put petrol in it instead of diesel,’ said Lindy. Our new friend pursed his lips and shook his head.

‘But it’s a new car! Who did this thing?’ I’m afraid we all took a step backwards and pointed at Lindy. ‘Why did you do this? It only takes diesel, you know. You can’t put petrol in it!’ I wondered if he’d attended some sort of tow-truck driver training school to attain this degree of insight, or whether it was an instinctive gift.

After eventually quenching his curiosity, he squashed us all into the front cabin of his truck, and headed off to the nearest garage. It was a tight squeeze, and we looked like so many Garfields splayed up against his windowpanes as he began assessing our situation out loud.

‘You might have to get a new motor. For a Renault, that’s many hundreds of euros. Or maybe they can flush out the petrol – that’s possible. But probably a new motor I think. That would take many weeks – it would have to come from France, you know. Renault is French company.’ Just as I was seriously contemplating opening the truck door and ending my misery there and then, we came over a rise and gazed upon the sparkling blue waters of Wolfgangersee spread out below us.



‘This may not be so bad, after all,’ I thought as I let go of the door handle. If we were lucky and there was no damage to the car engine, we could have a relaxing afternoon by the lake – riding on the paddleboats and eating ice cream, perhaps. We might even knock our bookings on the head and stay here for a couple of days.

I think I might have even smiled.

Then we turned away from the lake to a garage stuck in the middle of nowhere.



111



There was more doubling over with laughter, smacking of knees, pursing of lips, and shaking of heads as the tow-truck driver explained our predicament to the Renault mechanic, and when he eventually left we felt somewhat

abandoned.



The

mechanic

hardly

acknowledged our existence, let alone explained what was happening. For an hour we wandered back and forth in the dusty driveway – hungry, thirsty, frustrated, and dying for a toilet. We asked several times:

‘How long?’ pointing to our watch to indicate our meaning, but our enquiries were met with a shrug. We presumed that the man spoke no English and was uncomfortable talking to us, and made allowances for his lack of communication. Eventually the car was driven back out into the yard and the mechanic approached us to declare the verdict.

‘You were very lucky. I was able to siphon out the petrol before any damage was done to the motor.

Otherwise you’d have been liable to pay for a replacement.’ he said.

In perfect English.



The plus side of such catastrophes is that little things afterwards are savoured with much greater appreciation.

Feeling totally stressed and miserable, we left the garage at about three-thirty, with a two hour drive and a tricky border crossing to negotiate before we reached our night’s destination. In a moment of inspiration, and despite the ordeal ahead of us, Lindy said:

‘Let’s go down to the lake for an ice cream. It doesn’t matter if we’re a bit late to our hotel – it’s booked anyway.’

Her initiative salvaged something from the day. We turned off the road leading back to the motorway, and took the short detour to Saint Gilgen on the shores of Wolfgangersee. We parked under the trees and wandered around the lakeside promenade to the ice cream shops, then sat out on one of the piers, with our feet dangling in the cool, refreshing water. The forest-clad hills and mountains surrounding us shimmered in the reflections of 112



the lake, and that half hour of paradise almost made the previous four hours pale out of memory.

It was with extreme reluctance that we eventually tore ourselves away, mindful that we still had to get to the Czech border and negotiate customs. It had been a memorable day in Austria, and we hoped and prayed that we had survived our last disaster of the holiday.



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16. Crossing the Czech Point




‘If you are going to go to a maze, make sure that you know it really is a maze. You don’t want to spend a long time walking to it and find it’s just a long, winding corridor.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries).





It was about 6pm when we pulled up behind a long line of lorries and began hunting for passports and visas at the Czech border. Time passed. There was no movement.

Every now and then a car would speed past in the empty lane, and we presumed they were Czech nationals returning home.

‘Lucky buggars.’

‘Just be patient,’ said Lindy.

Five minutes passed and we still hadn’t moved.

Several more cars whizzed by.

‘You don’t think….’ began Lindy.

‘Think what?’

‘Never mind.’

Another ten minutes passed.

‘Um…we’re not stuck in a “trucks only” lane, are we?’

asked Lindy. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Stepping out of the car, I looked down the length of the queue. Trucks stretched to the horizon –

and not one car (besides us).

‘Could be,’ I said as I got back in. We pulled out and drove cautiously along the empty lane, watching expectantly for the inevitable line of traffic. There was none. We’d waited unnecessarily for twenty minutes while border control officers picked their noses or filed their nails, waiting for customers to break the monotony of their evening.

It wasn’t the greatest of introductions to the Czech Republic, that day. We went backwards and forwards with a variety of forms, before eventually being waved through. Then, when we went looking for somewhere to change money, we found that they all charged a bomb for 114



the privilege, and were housed in the most depressing, run-down,

communist-era

buildings

imaginable.

Nevertheless, in less than half an hour we’d passed through customs and had changed enough money for us to feel satisfactorily cashed-up for the next couple of days, at least.

We drove off into the countryside and noticed an immediate difference. On one side of the border - bucolic beauty. On the other - scrubby wasteland. This was not the Bohemia of my dreams. After passing the fourth group of roadside prostitutes, we were wondering why we’d torn ourselves away from the Salzkammergut lakes that afternoon.

As we eventually passed through the drab outskirts of Cesky Krumlov, we were all in the most miserable of spirits. I pulled out my map and prepared to navigate our way to the hotel. Soon we came to an “Authorised Entry Only” sign blocking our way to the centre of town. We turned down a dusty, dingy street to a dusty, dingy car park surrounded by dusty, dingy buildings, and the temptation to turn around and head back to Austria became almost irresistible.

‘Now what do we do?’ growled Lindy. Somehow –

don’t ask me how – I was feeling as if it was all my fault.

‘You wait here. I’ll go and find the hotel,’ I said.

‘And if it’s a dump, we’re going back to Austria.’

I swear that smoke was curling from my ears as I stomped up into town. The buildings about me were dilapidated and ugly, and all I could think about was how I was going to tell the hotel to shove their room when I saw what a dump it was. It had not been a good day, and it was going to take a lot to turn it around.

As I neared the centre of town - a study in petulance

– I gradually became aware of a subtle change. I looked around at some of the pastel-coloured facades and thought; ‘Not bad.’ – but the effect was very much superficial. Then I passed under a sort of painted archway, and my attitude began to change rapidly. By the time I’d descended to the bridge over the youthful Moldau River, I was a transformed man. Above me loomed the huge castle complex, dominated by an 115



enormous, bizarrely painted watchtower. Along the river were colourful, renaissance facades and medieval church towers, and the cobble-stoned street leading from the bridge into the historic town centre was like something out of a movie-set.

Our hotel was located very close to the bridge, and was full of character from the outside. The friendly hotel assistant showed me our rooms – I was still determined to cut up rough if they were no good – and they were superb. I believe I may have actually skipped a trifle as I made my way back to the others. They were waiting like hounds impatient for the go ahead to rip apart the hare. I scoffed at their pessimism!

‘The town is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,’ I said. ‘The hotel is terrific, and apparently it’s okay for us to drive into town. There’s a parking place reserved outside the hotel.’ My reassurances eased tensions a little, but I could still see a healthy scepticism existed amongst the populace.

‘Just get me to the hotel,’ said Lindy. ‘And it had better have a bathroom!’ By the time we’d parked the car and settled into our rooms about ten minutes later, the relief was almost palpable.

After a brief shower - and despite my weariness from the day’s ordeals - I was enticed back into the magical streets of the town. I exhausted an entire roll of film that evening,

fascinated

by

the

countless

medieval,

renaissance and baroque houses, palaces and churches.

Lindy joined me as the sun set, and we had the most romantic of strolls through the various courtyards and along the banks of the Moldau, before dragging our weary legs back to the hotel. We stopped briefly in the bar to share a cup of coffee and hot chocolate – and found that they didn’t dispense the latter. Feeling that breakfast the next morning was likely to be a rather Spartan affair (the availability of hot chocolate being the universal gauge for such things), we climbed the three flights of stairs to our rooms. After saying good night to Enid, James and Thomas in their room across the hall, we sat by the little dormer window in our room and gazed out at the floodlit 116



castle across the river and the lamp-lit, cobble-stoned lane below.

It was spectacular.

That day had seen us swing backwards and forwards from the depths of misery to the heights of ecstasy. I was emotionally as well as physically exhausted, and slept like the dead.



As it turned out, the breakfast was great. Very much in the style of German breakfasts, there were boiled eggs, rolls, jams, meats, sausage, cheeses, fresh coffee, juice, yoghurt, cereals and fresh milk. After eating our fill, we brazenly prepared a packed lunch from what was left, and paid the pittance of a bill – thoroughly satisfied with the value and quality of our accommodation.

Then all five of us did the rounds of the town together. In the quiet of early morning, watching the children heading off to school and enjoying the streets devoid of photo-spoiling parked cars, the town was – if anything – even better than I remembered.

As a side note, we came across one museum proclaiming an exhibition of Tasmaniana (I’m still not sure what it was they were exhibiting, but I think it had something to do with photography). Intrigued, we entered the open, welcoming doors.

‘No. Closed,’ said the young man behind the counter. I looked around at all the Welcome and Open signs with some bemusement, then back to the young man. ‘Sorry, closed,’ he repeated. By now I was desperate. Revealing what I thought was my trump card, I puffed out my chest and announced – as pompously as I could:

‘But I’m from Tasmania!’ I could actually feel my family cringe behind me, and the young man was strangely unmoved.

‘Sorry, closed,’ he said, totally disinterested in my heritage.



Before leaving Australia, an acquaintance found out that we were intending to visit the Czech Republic.



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‘You’ll love Prague.’ he promised. ‘But spend some time in the small towns and countryside as well. It’s really cheap and there are some terrific undiscovered treasures.’ Based on our experience in Cesky Krumlov, I was inclined to believe him. We left that morning looking forward to all the discoveries we were going to make en route to Prague.

But it was miserable.

We couldn’t find anything of interest. I’d expected to stumble upon quaint little Bohemian town after quaint little Bohemian town - but we didn’t find one. We travelled along the main road. Nothing. We turned off onto back roads. Nothing. Not only were the towns totally devoid of even the most cursory interest, but the countryside was empty and depressing as well. It was almost surreal to travel on roads without any other cars (except in the villages and towns), and to pass through fields without any livestock. And road signs? Forget it.

Eventually we arrived in Kutna Hora, which, whilst not a Cesky Krumlov, certainly had its charms. The bizarre cathedral – which looks like a sort of medieval circus tent

– was particularly interesting, and the town went some way towards making up for the disappointments of the morning. But we left for Prague feeling that, whilst we’d made a valiant effort to discover the other, secret and underrated Czech Republic, we had somehow missed it.

Later trips were to confirm that it certainly did exist – you just had to know where to look.

We were a little anxious about negotiating our way around a large city like Prague. It was to be by far the biggest we were to visit that holiday, and we had the added challenge of trying to find our accommodation, as well as the dreaded parking. I’d organised for David – the owner – to meet us at the apartment around 4pm, so we had the pressure of time just to keep things interesting.

As we got nearer I examined every map I could find to ensure that we were prepared for all eventualities.

Gradually the traffic increased and the suburbs began, and soon we were hurled into the maelstrom of Prague’s peak hour. I checked the map desperately, trying to find a street name that I could recognise, and 118



eventually I found it. Moments later I’d identified a cross street, pinpointed our exact location, and planned a route that would take us around the one-way and dead end streets to our destination.

Trembling, I began counting down the intersections to busy Wenceslas Square, where the tricky part began. I had it all sussed – no need to panic, I told myself. Three intersections – two intersections…

‘After the next intersection,’ I announced. ‘Go straight ahead through Wenceslas Square, then first on you right.’ The traffic slowed a little, and then we were there. ‘Okay, now straight ahead.’ I said triumphantly.

Except the road was blocked off.

By a tank.

‘What’s a tank doing there?’ I screamed.

‘Which way do I go?’ said Lindy.

‘I mean – a tank! Not a barrier, not a sign – but a tank!’

‘Which way, Trevor?’

‘If it had been a…’

‘WHICH WAY?’ My mate for life was not being unreasonable, but I’d totally lost it and was temporarily of use to neither man nor beast.

‘Um…left?’ I said, eventually pulling myself together.

Unfortunately, by now we’d gone right and were being dragged along by the traffic like a ping-pong ball over a waterfall. Utterly confused, Lindy continued with the flow, screaming for me to give her directions. Still muttering inanely about tanks, I worked desperately to find another route. When I eventually found an alternative, I had no idea where we were.

‘Call David and ask for directions.’ said the AR.

‘But….’

‘Go on. We can’t just keep driving around in circles,’

said Lindy. Their combined strength was too great. I was too weak to withstand their onslaught, and took the proffered phone and began dialling. I had spotted the flaw in their plan, and wondered why they hadn’t.

‘Hello – David?’

‘Trevor! Are you nearly here?’



119



‘Not exactly. We’re lost. Can you give me directions?’

‘Certainly. Where are you?’ And here – if you follow me – was the crux of the matter.

‘I don’t know. Like I said, we’re lost.’

‘Well I can’t very tell you how to get here, if I don’t know where you are,’ he explained reasonably. I knew that. I had always known that. I wanted to tell him it was those damn silly women’s idea that I call him, but knew it would be a fatal mistake.

You see, when I’ve got my act together, I’m not a bad navigator. I knew that once I’d found a street name or landmark, I could pinpoint us once again on the map and get us where we were going without too much difficulty. The drawback was that we kept moving – a necessity in peak hour traffic – and that all the bloody street names were in Czech (most unreasonable!). And all the time I wasn’t sure whether we were getting closer or further away from the apartment.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a name I recognised and was able to locate our position on the map.

‘Take the next right,’ I said triumphantly. We approached the intersection, and the “No Right Turn” sign

– inevitable though it was - nearly ended things for me.

But we were on the right track and, after what seemed hours but was actually only about 30 minutes, we were standing with our bags outside our apartment – stressed, but all in one piece (well, five pieces).

But where was David?

I called him again, confident that - this time – I could tell him exactly where we were.

‘Trevor? Where are you?’ he said, sounding desperate.

‘I’m here,’ I said unhelpfully. ‘Outside the apartment.’ From the end of the street I saw a little head holding a phone to its ear peer around the corner –

followed by a waving hand.

David was American, but nice. He’d settled in Prague after the fall of Communism, had bought up all the real estate he could afford, and had been here ever since

- raking in the money like leaves on an autumn day. He 120



shook our hands warmly, and showed us into our home for the next few days.

The apartment was in one of those turn-of-the-century Secessionist buildings, with ceilings high enough to generate their own weather patterns and attractive mouldings on every window, door, and archway. It was furnished with what looked to me like antiques – wasted on run-of-the-mill tourists, I felt – and fitted out with a microwave, dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer (not antiques). And he had enough tourist information to keep you well fed and entertained for a month! Enid even had her own bedroom.





One curiosity about the area was the guard across the road.

He’d accosted us briefly when we were standing outside the apartment waiting for David, asking if we needed any help. We watched him for two days from our apartment window, and he appeared to be standing guard over an empty office block. No one came or went, and the foyer of the building seemed to be totally empty.

Strange though the circumstance was, it made us feel secure – particularly as David had gone to great pains to warn us about pickpockets. From his description, it hardly seemed safe to step outside.





It started raining the moment we hit Prague, and didn’t stop for two days. I awoke on the first morning to the pitter-pattering of raindrops on the cobblestones, and immediately felt depressed. I’d been so looking forward to Prague, but was not prepared to get saturated while I did my sightseeing.

As we waited for the deluge to subside, Lindy and I went to do some shopping at the nearby supermarket. It was well stocked – a far cry from when we’d last visited during the Communist era – but the cashier appeared to be one of those solid, dour women who longed for the good old days when cashiers were Queens of their own little kingdoms, and tourists were Capitalist scum who were considered fair game under a just and right-thinking regime. She added up our items with reluctance, and was 121



not averse to indicating what she thought about some of our indulgent, decadent Western purchases with an eloquent squint of her nose or shake of the head.

It’s a sad consequence of democratisation that these treasures of a bygone age are fast disappearing.

We returned to the apartment with the celestial sprinklers still in operation, and I began to get edgy.

Soon the rain slowed to a light sprinkle and I decided I’d brave the elements rather than bear the torture of wasting our only full day in Prague. I donned the raincoat, packed my umbrella and lunch, and stepped out into the world…

The boys aren’t very keen on cities. Whilst I was confident Prague would have plenty to keep everyone else interested, I worked hard to find something that would make them happy. Flicking through various guidebooks back in Australia, I eventually thought that I’d found it – a mirror maze. James and Thomas have always enjoyed mazes, so a mirror maze would not only satisfy that interest, but offer something different into the bargain.

So, while I did my sightseeing-of-a-hundred-churches bit (which no-one else was interested in), Lindy and Enid took the boys across the river to the Petrin Maze.

Wanting to see something of Prague themselves, they decided to walk from our apartment to their destination. The boys were not pleased. They hadn’t realised that part of the deal involved serious exercise, and complained long and loud. They protested at every detour and every hill, and it was with some relief when the goal was finally in sight.

Before I go on, I must explain that we had this little competition going. You know, points for spotting things (fishermen, fountains, gondolas, and so forth), and the one who finished the maze first got five points – and with this day being bonus points day for mazes, it was worth a whopping ten points to the lucky winner! As Lindy began negotiations with the money, Thomas flew into the entrance like a ferret down a rabbit warren.

Then flew out the other side.



122



Lindy hadn’t even finished paying for the tickets!

James stepped out seconds later, and the women could tell that all was not well in Wonderland.

‘It’s just a single corridor with mirrors,’ he growled.

‘We came all this way just for a single corridor with mirrors!’

Then it began to rain.

Looking back in hindsight, I actually don’t begrudge the rain. Whilst it was inconvenient at the time, just a little over a month later the Moldau River broke its banks and most of old Prague was flooded. At one stage there was a serious threat of the historic Charles Bridge being washed away.

Like I said, it could have been much worse for us.



I found Prague a very different city from the one I’d visited twelve years earlier – and I don’t mean just in the obvious ways. The advertising, souvenir shops and renovated facades were anticipated, but (supermarket cashiers aside) the attitude to service was not. Officials and attendants at the various historical sites and monuments couldn’t have been more helpful.

I visited the peculiar looking Church of the Crusaders near the Charles Bridge, for example, and the ticket salesman went to great lengths to explain that my ticket allowed me access to the church’s little museum. I didn’t want to visit the place, but that’s beside the point. After receiving such devoted attention, I felt I couldn’t decline the offer – so I followed his directions to the old crypt, which was reached by going outside and descending the stairs beside the church, then passing through a basement restaurant (no, seriously!).

When I got there, the attendant looked like he’d seen his first tourist in months. He was all over me. He explained - in broken English – the history of the museum, it’s main exhibits, and gave me a laminated guide to take with me on my tour.

‘Please – if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask!’ he beseeched, desperate for the chance to show off his knowledge (as well as being a little lonely, I suspect).



123



Three minutes later I’d finished my visit and sidled up to him. His eyes lit up and he smiled expectantly.

‘You….you have a question?’ he asked – hardly believing his luck.

‘Yes. Where are the toilets?’





That night Lindy and I explored that beautiful, romantic city on our own. The rain had stopped temporarily and we enjoyed the quiet of Prague with a minimum of crowds.

We got lost in the various courtyards, squares and lanes of the old town, admired the countless floodlit towers and spires, and just enjoyed being out without the encumbrance of a camera.

As we turned up our street at around 9pm, the clack-clacking footsteps of the street’s mysterious guard pacing his strange beat reassured us that we could go to sleep safe in the knowledge that our neighbourhood was secure.



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17. German Karaoke




‘Don’t expect little village church festivals to be little village church festivals.’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries) The journey west through the Czech Republic in the pouring rain was even more uninspiring than the journey north to Prague. We crossed the border into Germany about mid morning, and the countryside became more interesting almost immediately – as did the weather. Our spirits began to pick up, and the car stories became less Edgar Allan Poe-like, and more akin to Lewis Carroll.

Then we saw the tanks.

At first there were just the two of them, then a few kilometres down the road there were a few more – then an entire convoy. We were only about twenty kilometres from the Czech border, and there were no turn-offs along the way.

‘Where are they going?’ I wondered out loud.

‘Germany’s invading the Czech Republic,’ said James excitedly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.

‘Yeah – like they’ve never done that before,’

responded the eldest son sarcastically.

‘What, they’re invading with a dozen tanks?’

‘The Czech Republic’s a pretty poor country; they wouldn’t have much of an army. That tank we saw in Prague’s probably the only one they’ve got. I bet if we watched the news tonight, that would be the headline –

“Germany Invades Neighbour”’.



We had a pleasant picnic on a rise overlooking acres of freshly ploughed fields and almost-ready-to-be-harvested barley, with a few copses of forest dotting the countryside and the hills of Franconia punctuating the horizon. Early that afternoon we arrived at the tiny village of Voordebach (bigger than Bicheln – but not much) and our booked accommodation for the next two nights.



125



The Gasthaus was pleasant, without being great –

although Enid did score another room by herself. There was a common kitchen downstairs, and the most peculiar looking garden ornaments I’ve ever seen. They consisted of a big coloured bauble sitting atop a long spike, which was stuck in the ground and stood about a metre and a half high.

‘What are they?’ I asked our host as we unloaded the car.

‘They decorate the garden.’ he replied proudly – if erroneously. I was too polite to tell him that they didn’t work, and looked the most frightful, incongruous eyesores. I just smiled and nodded. In his defence, I must say that these things were common throughout the area, and must have been all the rage.

‘Vive la difference!’ say I.

‘By the way,’ our host added as an afterthought,

‘tonight there will be a church fete. You are all welcome to come, if you wish.’ I was almost excited at the prospect.

‘It’s just a fete,’ said Lindy later.

‘But it won’t be like those boring things at home,’ I assured her – instantly becoming an expert in such matters. ‘There’ll be folk dancing, and traditional dress, and traditional music – you know, with fiddles and shawms and hurdy-gurdies and things. It might be fun.’

‘You go if you want to,’ said Killjoy. ‘I’m going to have an early night.’



Now, as I mentioned, the village of Voordebach was very small. I would have said no more than a hundred people populated the place (including the pets). But as we returned from dinner in nearby Pottentstein early that evening, there seemed to be twice that number assembled in the marquee in the paddock below our Gasthaus - and it was growing.

By 8pm the place resembled Woodstock.

And they weren’t wearing quaint, traditional costumes. And there was no folk dancing. And there was no traditional-instrument, neo-renaissance band playing folk music.



126



But there was a karaoke machine.

A very loud karaoke machine.

The mother of all karaoke machines, in fact.

And the more these denizens of Sodom and Gomorrah guzzled from the vast vats that had been trucked in for their satanic orgy, the more popular did that mother of karaoke machines become. Clearly, the dear old population of Voorderbach had been bred over the centuries as reliable stayers. Not for them the fate of a quick skin-full, followed shortly after by blessed oblivion.

These people had been training for weeks – months –

years! – for this night.

You know, it’s not so bad if you can share such misery as I suffered with loved ones. But as I paced the balcony outside our bedroom at 3am that morning, listening to the contented snores within and the frenzied racket without, I must have been the loneliest, most isolated sod on the planet!

I suppose Lindy was just paying me back. I remember many years ago when we were on our honeymoon, staying at a hotel on the Rhine near Koblenz.

I was awoken by the sound of a fierce fight between the owner and his wife, and became concerned that it might turn violent. I shook Lindy awake.

‘What’s the matter,’ she said through bleary eyes.

‘The fighting – can’t you hear it?’

‘I was asleep!’

‘Yes, I know. But can you hear it now?’ She cocked an ear – followed by an eyebrow.

‘Now that you mention it, I do. Boy, it’s pretty serious isn’t it? Trevor? Trevor?’ Unfortunately, by then I was fast asleep. Just because she sat up for the rest of the night in a state of abject terror, she’s never forgiven me. I call it petty.

Meanwhile – back in Voorderbach - was it my imagination, or did I recognise those two tone-deaf voices singing (and I use the term very loosely) “Ninety-nine Luftballoons” for the twentieth time running? Was it?…could it be?…..surely not!

I’m positive it was Carole and Monsieur Masoni!





127



I realise now that Satan had taken over the village of Voorderbach. He’d captured the souls of the populace and turned them into the living dead. I know this, because I had become one of them by the morning. My eyes were bloodshot and vacant; the colour had drained from my body, and the only thing I could mutter was a low groan that seemed to emanate from the very bowels of the earth.

The children jumped back in terror when they first caught sight of me.

We tried to contact our hosts to tell them that we wouldn’t be accepting their kind hospitality for another night after all, and can you believe they had the audacity to be at church?! For a start, it seemed almost blasphemous after their blood-curdling efforts of the previous night, but – more astonishing still – when did these people sleep?

I scribbled a note saying something like my mother-in-law’s hip was bad and she was having trouble with the stairs (why change a story if it works?) and we fled that inspiration-for-a-Stephen-King-novel as quickly as our car could carry us.



In fact, the day turned out to be very pleasant. I took Tom and James with me for a walk around medieval Regensburg, freeing Lindy and Enid to enjoy their own company and paying them back for the numerous times they’d done the same for me. From my own perspective, I welcomed the opportunity to spend some time ‘bonding’

– man to man - with the boys. They’re always better behaved for me, anyway (no doubt thanks to the constant beatings) and I’m convinced that the ice creams played no role in their good behaviour – despite Lindy’s contentions!

That night we ended up staying in the beautiful (if largely reconstructed) medieval town of Rothenburg. The sun had come out during the course of the day, and the early evening was now sunny and warm. The half-timbered facades glowed under the strong sunlight, and we enjoyed just walking around. That evening was magical as we explored the churches, streets and squares in the solitude of late evening. The little streets and 128



medieval towers took on an air of mystery at night, with the echoes of our own footfalls on the cobblestones adding to the atmosphere.

At one stage we came across a pigeon sitting on the bonnet of a car. The owner gestured for us to watch as he climbed in and started the engine. The bird didn’t budge an inch as the car took off and did a circuit of the square. Eventually the man honked his horn and the animal flew away, then the car sped off into the night – its driver shaking with laughter.





129



18. Taking the Waters in “Bad” Towns -

and Taking the Piss in Worse Towns





It was with serious difficulty that we dragged ourselves away from Rothenburg the next morning, feeling that we’d only just scratched the surface. We headed west through glorious, green, undulating countryside in freezing conditions (it was only twelve degrees) until we reached the outskirts of the town of Bad Wimpfen. We found a nice looking picnic area in the fields beneath the town, and decided to try our luck (who knew when we’d find another?). The wind blew straight off the arctic icecap and soon Lindy and I were the only two left trying to pretend that conditions were at all tolerable.

Eventually, even we gave it up and dashed for the relative comfort of the car – our fingers and noses numb and frostbitten.

Thank goodness it was summer!

Bad Wimpfen beckons with its bristling medieval towers and rooftops strung out along a ridge above the River Neckar, and from within it’s a maze of geranium-hung half-timbered houses, small squares and passages.

For our short visit, the sun had come out, the wind had dropped, and the place was totally devoid of tourists (apart from us – who don’t count). Even the boys enjoyed walking around and exploring the town.



At this stage of our holiday, everyone was getting pretty tired, and we were hoping for another nice place that evening so that we could relax, wind down, and prepare ourselves for the last stage of the journey. I must admit that - for some reason - I was feeling a little pessimistic as we drew closer to our destination.

The miracle was that we ever found the place. The directions we had were vague - and in German - and the location was a single farmhouse far from the main tourist route. I was just starting to get worried when I recognised its sign ahead. I could hardly believe my eyes.

‘That’s it,’ I cried as we cruised on past the entrance.

Lindy slammed on the brakes, and we turned around to 130



see what we were in for. We parked the car next to the huge farmhouse, which also served as something called a

“natural-hotel” (were they all nudists?). It took a few minutes for someone to reply to my knocks, and I could see four faces pressed anxiously and impatiently against the car windows as I waited on the doorstep. At last a voice hailed me from above.

‘Guten abend,’ said a middle-aged, pleasant looking woman, sticking her head out of the second storey window.

‘Guten abend,’ I replied. ‘Ich bin Herr Whitton.’

‘Ein minuten,’ said the head before disappearing inside. I waited. The family waited. I could tell they were getting restless. Lindy threw me a dirty look. Enid threw me a dirty look. Lindy frowned and shrugged, as if to say ‘What’s happening?’. I smiled irritatingly, and everyone’s frown deepened. At last our host appeared.

‘I speak not good English,’ she admitted, shaking my hand warmly.

‘Ich sprachen deutsch nicht gut, also,’ I replied. We hit it off like pork and apple sauce. We chatted happily for a few minutes – her in broken English, me in appalling German – and she introduced herself as our host. Just when I thought the family were going to have apoplexy in the car (they could have been polite and joined us, I thought) Cornelia offered to show me to our apartment.

As we walked back along the driveway (carefully avoiding the cow pats), I waved for Lindy to follow.

She showed us to a beautiful, recently constructed little wooden chalet, with kitchen, bathroom and sitting room downstairs, and two bedrooms and a balcony upstairs. It was just what we needed. We thanked our host warmly, and Lindy and I went off to do some shopping at the nearby supermarket while the others unpacked and made themselves comfortable.

As we said our Walton’s-family goodnights later that evening, I suffered the ignominy of climbing into bed and having it collapse from under me. Lifting the mattress, we found that the slats on the base were pretty weak, and decided that the best place for me was on the floor.



131



I went to sleep promising myself to go on a diet as soon as I got home.



Bruhl - home to one of northern Europe’s most beautiful baroque palaces and site of a brief visit by the travelling Whittons-plus-one.

The nightmare began as we approached and the signs began redirecting us around the town. Soon they seemed to lose interest and gave up entirely. Eventually, we travelled right around the outskirts and entered from exactly the opposite side from which we’d approached.

Strike number one.

Then we travelled through town to within a couple of kilometres of where we’d started, and followed the signs to the palace parking area. This ended up being located next to the train station and, with Cologne not twenty kilometres away, the place was – not surprisingly – full.

Strike number two.

We then drove right around the complex to the shopping precinct, and began looking for a car park between the palace and the shops. After much navigating, reversing and manoeuvring, we finally came across someone backing out of a space right next to where we wanted to go. As we waited courteously for the driver to vacate his spot, the car behind us squeezed past and began to pull into the precious site – like gas occupying a vacuum. Strike number three and I’d had enough.

Oblivious to Lindy’s protestations, a primordial urge had come over me. For thousands of years my ancestors had been driven by an instinct to protect their parking spaces, and I was powerless to resist. I jumped out of the car, knuckles dragging along the ground and steaming mad. Language was no barrier – I simply let him have it in English. I’m quite certain that – although he may not have been able to quote me word for word – the gentleman in question got the general drift of my conversation. There were the natural references to the question of his parentage, polite enquiries as to the nature of his education, and some sound advise as to the most appropriate location for his automobile.



132



I returned to the car and a silent reception. I expect they were all trying to memorise my speech for future use.



Eventually we parked the car and walked the kilometre or two to this most elusive of palaces. It took us a good fifteen minutes to find the front door, and I was in a rare mood by the time we reached the ticket office.

‘The next tour will be in half an hour,’ said the lady carelessly. I bridled.

‘Half an hour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have to take a tour?’ I asked.

‘Yes. In German,’ she replied cheerily. Lindy and Enid could read the signs – they backed away carefully towards the door.

‘In German,’ I said, with ominous calm.

‘But for a few extra Euros you can have this nice pamphlet in English,’ she smiled. By now there was no mistaking the signs – to any who knew me. I didn’t return her smile.

‘Can you take photos?’ I asked – knowing the answer already, but wanting to make sure that I was fully justified when I tore the place apart. The ticket-lady looked shocked.

‘Photos? Of course not!’

I won’t offend you with the details of what followed –

I realise there could be children reading this. Suffice it to say that a few minutes later Enid and Lindy were dragging me out the door, foam dripping from my mouth and the smell of unshed blood in my nostrils.

I don’t expect to ever be offered the key to the city by the Mayor and Burghers of Bruhl!



133



19. Low in the Low Countries





The afternoon was spent hurtling through pouring rain along the motorway towards the Netherlands. In the distance, the glowering smoke stacks and industry of the Rohr valley stood silhouetted against the rain and clouds like something out of a gothic horror movie, and I think I can speak for us all when I say that our spirits were pretty low.

No, now that I think about it, that’s a lie. In the back of the car came the happy clicking of Gameboys, as James and Thomas played their recent purchases from Bruhl.

‘That was a nice town,’ said James.

‘Yes – a pity we couldn’t have stayed longer,’ said Thomas.

Now I knew how Americans felt about Benedict Arnold.

Gradually, as the rain eased, the industrial areas abated, and the Dutch countryside grew more and more bucolic, our moods improved and we turned off the frantic motorway to begin searching for the farmhouse that was to be our next two night’s accommodation.

By the time we’d found the road leading to our destination, we were almost happy again. Well, I say road – but it wasn’t anything of the sort. When I tell you that it had a sign advising against bikes passing each other, you’ll get an idea of what I’m talking about. And it was supposed to be two-way!

Our hosts’ house was set in fields amongst criss-crossing canals and a garden that was (literally) a tourist attraction in itself. The owners were very friendly and relaxed, and – all in all – it promised to be a wonderful couple of days ahead of us. Then someone – I’m not sure who, it may even have been me – had an idea.

‘Let’s go to Gouda for tea.’

In the main square of Gouda is an Italian restaurant that serves the worst minestrone soup in Europe. Did I say Europe? I meant the world. The Galaxy. The Universe. The place should have been displaying awards!



134



At first I thought it was simply the muck dished up from the washing-up water – but I soon discovered that the secret of its awfulness was much more complex than that.

I dare not dwell on how they achieved such depths of accomplishment, but its effect was as impressive as it was devastating. We just had enough time to wander the canal-lined streets of the town and return home to bed before the cataclysm descended.

All that night and the next day I struggled to purge my body of every ounce of solids and liquids not essential to keeping me alive. And such an undertaking wasn’t possible for a single outlet – I soon discovered that all resources had to be called into action for this operation, and began spraying liquid like a fire engine at a parade.

Needless to say, the following day was ruined. Of greater concern, however, was the threat of someone else in our party coming down with the contagion, either before or (worse) during our flight home in two day’s time.

Fortunately, I was satisfactorily recovered by the time we were due to leave, and, as we headed into Belgium, the sun emerged for the first time in days and the weather became milder. As we negotiated the narrow, traffic-light-absent streets of Ghent, it became positively warm.

Never the easiest of cities to drive around in, that day Ghent offered the added challenge of market day.

The national football team had also just won one of its World Cup matches, and there were countless drunken revellers in red and yellow fool’s caps (appropriately enough) staggering along the footpaths and streets, generously sharing their joy with the rest of humanity.

Lindy had to swerve the car several times, but still didn’t manage to hit any of them.

We wandered through the Friday market, which – by a curious twist of logic – is held in the Friday Market Square, before heading off to the picturesque Graslei area by one of the city’s canals. Enid, Lindy and Tom decided that the boat tours looked an attractive option, and I was amazed when James said he’d prefer to come with me to visit the Cathedral of Saint Bavo and see Van Eyck’s

‘ Adoration of the Lamb’. It was only as we headed into 135



the main square that I realised why – he had remembered the nearby location of McDonalds’ from a previous visit!



The afternoon produced a mixed bag. From Ghent it was but a short drive to our evening’s destination in Bruges, but the challenge wasn’t so much getting there, as finding our hotel. You see, the city’s attraction is it’s medieval buildings and streets – and you don’t get that by providing

long,

broad

avenues

and

generous

thoroughfares. And maps aren’t a whole lot of use, either. My marriage was sorely tested that day.

‘Turn left at the next intersection,’ said I at one stage.

‘”No left turn.”’ read Lindy from the street sign.

‘Oh.’

‘Well, where do I go now?’

‘Um, next left.’ But by the time there was a next left, the road had swung around and we were heading in the wrong direction. ‘Better make it right,’ I corrected.

‘Well – which is it? Right or left?’

‘I told you – right,’ I said, trying to sound confident.

After five minutes of random turns, Lindy stopped the car

– stressed and looking for a victim.

‘Where are we?’ she demanded.

‘Bruges,’ I replied unhelpfully. She snatched the map from me and began perusing it. The thing looked like a dozen spiders had got to work to try and design the world’s most complex web. After a minute she tossed it back to me.

‘Where are we on the map?’ she asked.

‘Um….here,’ I said, waving my finger vaguely over an area close to our hotel.

‘Ask someone,’ she snapped.

‘But…’

‘Ask someone,’ she repeated with ominous calm. I headed for the nearest pedestrian. It was lucky that she spoke English. It was unlucky that I disagreed with her directions. No way was I going to go back to the car and admit that she’d told me which way to go, but that I knew a better way.

So I lied.



136



‘Well?’

‘Turn left up ahead.’ You’ll never guess what happened next. When we got to the intersection, there was a sign saying “No Left Turn”. They all turned to look at me like piranha eyeing a drowning lamb. ‘Or right,’ I said, with a forced smile.

When we finally found our bed and breakfast, there was some considerable difficulty in finding a parking place. This was because there were none – despite the promises of the website printout I was clutching. Lindy dropped me off outside and waited as I knocked on the door.

‘There’s parking nearby - do you have a map?’

replied our unsmiling hostess to my enquiries. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I sure do,’ I said, handing her the document in question.

‘Turn left here, drive to the end of this road, then turn right and left again,’ she explained. I looked at the map in disbelief. This gave a whole new meaning to the word “nearby”. Feeling not a little peeved, we dropped Enid, the boys and our luggage, and I began directing Lindy to the promised parking space.

‘We could have parked in Ghent – it would have been closer,’ she grumbled.

As we stomped back through the streets to rejoin the rest of the family, we began to prepare ourselves for what lay ahead. It was to be our last night in Europe (or so we thought!), and we weren’t going to tolerate being stuck in a dump – and the evidence so far indicated that all the promises on the website might not necessarily turn out to be entirely accurate.

Well, as it turned out the rooms were better than Bonnieux – but not by much. Lindy and I took one look at the transparent shower in the middle of the room, the lumpy beds and peeling wallpaper, and scowled.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Lindy, almost at the end of her tether. I puffed out my chest and hardened my jaw.

‘I’ll find us somewhere else.’



137



‘But how will you find rooms for five people in Bruges at short notice in the middle of June?’

‘Dunno,’

I

replied

confidently.



With

grim

determination, I stomped out of the room, down the stairs, and out onto the street below. Then, when I was sure no one was looking, I slumped against the nearest wall and sobbed like a baby.

It was then that the miracle occurred.

I can’t say for sure, now – it being a long time since the incident occurred – but I seem to recall a star sitting over the hotel across the street, beckoning me like the Wise Men to Bethlehem. I crossed in a kind of daze. I entered the building. It was nice, I noticed. Welcoming, clean and comfortable. Surely such a nice hotel would be fully booked? I approached the receptionist anxiously.

‘Excuse me. Do you have any rooms available for tonight?’

‘I’m sorry sir,’ she replied – my faint hopes fading.

‘We only have one room free tonight – but that’s for five people.’

I must admit that I’ve never heard of a hotel having a room for five people – which made this incident even more miraculous than it already was. I asked if I could see this phenomenon – not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, you understand, but nevertheless needing to make sure we weren’t being sold another lemon.

I have never seen a more wonderful sight in my life.

Within ten minutes we’d vacated Chez Dump and were ensconced in our new room. I’d successfully progressed from zero to hero, and stood in the middle of the room with my hands on my hips like Superman after rescuing the planet. Lindy sidled up to me, batted her eyebrows, and whispered:

‘My man!’



I spent the afternoon walking the magical old streets of Bruges and visiting the museums, before rejoining the family for dinner. Afterwards, I went for another stroll with Lindy and Enid in the quiet evening – exploring the canals, lanes and courtyards of the town, sans crowds.



138



The

night

was

dominated

by

a

dramatic

thunderstorm, which must have been a portent of things to come. We all slept fairly badly, and, in the morning James declined breakfast in favour of more sleep. He missed one of the best breakfasts of the whole trip – with everything from bacon and eggs to fresh rolls and patisserie treats as far as the eye could see. Thomas would have still been there slurping hot chocolate if we hadn’t dragged him away, but at last the time had come to pack our belongings and begin our trek to the car.

When we got there, James started vomiting.

You can’t imagine the misery we felt that day, driving 300 kilometres to Paris in order to catch our flight, with James throwing up every inch of the way. First there was the guilt we felt because the motion of the car made him sick, and then there were the hours spent lying in the park at the town of Senlis (because it was preferable to killing 8 hours at Charles de Gaulle airport until our plane left). And lastly there was the anxiety we felt over the health of the number one son, not to mention the prospect of pouring him onto a twenty-four hour flight back to Australia.

It was truly awful.

When we finally arrived at the airport and ditched the car, it was obvious that something had to be done and that James couldn’t board the plane the way he was.

Lindy and I sought out the airport Medical Centre and waited anxiously as the doctor examined our little boy.

Eventually he looked up cheerfully.

‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to allow him to fly. I suspect he has appendicitis!’ he announced triumphantly.

Lindy and I walked back to the others with heads bowed and features drawn.

‘Appendicitis? But any fool can see it’s gastro,’ said the Aged Relative helpfully.

‘Anyway, he can’t fly in this condition,’ said the mother of the Wounded Little Soldier. ‘And at least we’re covered by travel insurance.’

There ensued a serious discussion as to who should remain with James and who should escort Tom and Enid back to Australia. It quickly became apparent that, 139



whichever way we looked at it, Lindy’s hospital background (she’s a radiographer) was an advantage not to be dismissed lightly. She drew the short straw.



Twenty minutes later, I’d bundled my wife and eldest son into a taxi, and was on my way to seat allocation with Tom and Enid. I was feeling pretty frail and vulnerable as I stepped up to the ticketing counter.

Believe it or not, fate still had one, devastating card left to deal us.

‘One of your tickets is missing, sir,’ said the flight attendant. ‘But it’s not a problem.’ I sighed with relief.

‘Thank God for that! You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’

‘It’ll only cost you forty euros for a replacement,’ she smiled. My jaw dropped. My eyes popped. I gasped like a fish out of water.

‘But I don’t have forty euros!’ I croaked. ‘I’ve just given the last of our money to my wife, who has to take my son to hospital!’ After a couple of minute’s unproductive debate, I asked to see the Supervisor. I could tell she was a bureaucratic prig the moment I set eyes on her.

‘I’m sorry. If you don’t have the money, your son can’t fly,’ she said (it was Tom’s ticket that was missing).

I explained my very peculiar circumstances, but the Nazi was unbending. I pointed out that it must have been the airline’s fault when removing the previous leg’s ticket –

and she asked me to prove it! I begged – but the fascist was unmoved. I threatened – and the glint in her eye warned me that this was what she’d been wanting all along. I asked if I could be invoiced for the price of the ticket so that I could pay when I got home – but my tormentor merely chuckled at the naivety of such a scheme. She tried telling me that it was the law that required the airline to charge me for a replacement ticket, and repeatedly insisted that it was not possible for the charge to be waived.

In the end (after forty-five minutes of bargaining, pleading and negotiating) I got her to goose-step over to 140



the telephone, call someone more senior at the airline, and at least ask if a waiver was possible.

When she came back ten minutes later expecting me to thank her for securing a waiver after all – I wanted to punch her in the nose! To this day I can’t conceive of a mind so strictly regimented and bureaucratic that it would callously put me through what that woman put me through, without the slightest interest in helping me find a solution until I had badgered her into it.

May she die a lonely old woman in a nursing home at Bournemouth (there, I’ve given you a hint which airline she belonged to!).



When we finally climbed onto our plane late that night, I was emotionally devastated. I hated the entire world and just wanted my problems to be all over and done with.

There were fireworks over the River Seine as we took off above Paris and banked south-east towards home.





141



20. ‘Appendix’



‘Don’t get appendicitis!’



(Excerpt from the James Whitton diaries) Earlier, I’d left Lindy about second in line on the taxi rank as I went back to rejoin the others. She’d thought that, as it was only ten minutes from the airport, she could just about get James to the hospital, have the surgeon give him the once over, and still have time to catch the homeward flight with the rest of the family. After all, it was only 7pm and the flight didn’t leave until 11. How long could it take for the doctor to diagnose gastro, give James a shot and send them on their way?

Warning bells should have begun ringing when they got to the front of the line. They were in a rush -

unfortunately, the taxi driver wasn’t. He looked perplexed as Lindy cried:

‘l’hopital, vite, vite.’

‘Non. Non. N’est pas possible,’ he replied doggedly.

Repeating the request didn’t seem to get them anywhere, as it just didn’t seem to fit in conveniently with the driver’s afternoon schedule. He had a date in Paris and wasn’t going to be sidetracked by flippant, self-indulgent trips to any hospital! He kept looking behind them in the queue for a more lucrative fare, as Lindy became more and more desperate. She cried and shouted, gesticulating wildly to the other people in the queue. Eventually the taxi supervisor took an interest and came over.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘He refuses to take my fare!’ said Lindy – still fuming.

‘Is this true?’ she asked the driver. There followed an explanation in French which Lindy couldn’t understand, but probably ran along the lines of:

‘I’ve got children to feed! I can’t waste my time on miniscule fares.’ But the supervisor was singularly unmoved by his protests. No doubt because she was a mother herself and felt a stronger bond with her gender 142



than her nationality, she began feasting on his entrails –

figuratively speaking.

The conversation was an animated one, and full of interest for those whiling away their time in the queue.

The advantage leant first one way, then the other. In the end the female of the species prevailed (as they usually do), and the reluctant man bundled the unwanted passengers into his vehicle. They shot out of the airport at a 100kph – the driver hell bent on getting to their destination in as few nanoseconds as possible so he could get back for one of those desirable Paris fares.

James looked greener and greener as they careened around the corners, and the little group arrived at the hospital just in time for the taxi driver - though a little too early for the unfortunate emergency receptionist. While Lindy was wondering how to say ‘my son has been diagnosed with appendicitis, but I think it’s gastroenteritis and we’re scheduled to be flying home in a few hours time, so could you please fetch the doctor quickly so we can settle this misunderstanding as soon as possible’ - in French, James decided to substitute her words with a demonstration. It was a rather drab counter, and he was able to provide it with a little colour.

The distraught mother and the receptionist looked down at the spreading, green mess in horror. Suddenly, there was more action than an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, and James was ushered through the doors and onto a trolley in seconds.

Feeling more optimistic than ever with the speed of events, Lindy began making plans for the trip home later that night. She should have known that getting onto a trolley is just the first step in a long drawn out process.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Time passed and the deadline for departure approached like a runaway train towards a level crossing.

It was curious, really. From one perspective, it was passing too slowly, and from another too quickly. People with heads swathed in bandages, wrists in slings and 143



blood dripping from gaping wounds carried on long French conversations around them.

Finally, someone appeared and wheeled James away into a nearby cubicle. As Lindy came in behind him, a doctor who looked like he was fresh out of high school appeared. After squeezing a pimple or two, he devoted his attention to the note written earlier by the airport doctor. By this stage of the holiday, Lindy was heartily sick of people who pursed their lips and shook their heads

– but it didn’t deter the young Doctor.

‘Appendicitis,’ he mumbled, nodding his head sagely.

I suppose he was trying to show that he knew both a medical term and a word of English.

‘Appendicitis,’ said Lindy, shaking her head and struggling to explain herself. ‘Gastro,’ she added, nodding and rubbing her tummy. The fool man promptly looked concerned.

‘You’re feeling sick?’ he asked (in French).

‘Not me, you fool – him!' said the increasingly frustrated mother.

‘Non, non. Appendicitis,’ said the Doctor, thinking he was being reassuring. Throwing her hands in the air, Lindy placed their fate in the hands of the Gods and took a seat.

They took James’ blood pressure, a specimen of urine, and a blood sample - and then sauntered off to x-ray. Lindy explained to the radiographer that she was a brother-(or sister)-in-profession, but he was singularly unimpressed – she wasn’t allowed in the room. It was astonishing, given that the man spoke no English and James couldn’t understand French. To not take advantage of a mother who knew what was expected and could interpret for a worried child was beyond belief.

After a lot of trips back and forth along corridors and up and down lifts, it was 10pm and obvious that they weren’t going to make the plane. Lindy decided it was time to ring the fortunate father on the mobile and let him know where things stood.

I guess by now you can guess what happened.

Inexplicably, the hospital’s public telephone wouldn’t accept Lindy’s credit card. Anyone else’s – yes. Lindy’s, 144



no. The receptionist was polite but unable to help with her impassioned pleas for a phone book or the directory assistance number.

‘Mon homme – par avion d’Australie,’ she explained in clear, concise French. ‘C’est tres important!’ she added

– feeling this would clinch the matter. Unfortunately, the only response she got was a bewildered;

‘Comment?’ and (oh no, not again!) ‘Desolee.’

English didn’t work, French didn’t work - perhaps the international language of women might? As Lindy began crying, a mother from the waiting room patted her on the back and offered her a pack of tissues. Perhaps this shamed the receptionist into making a greater effort, and

– astonishingly - she found herself talking to me within minutes.

‘Hello?’ said a trembling voice on the other end of the phone. (I’d just been daydreaming about garrotting airline officials).

‘We’re stuck here,’ said Lindy. ‘They still haven’t confirmed whether it’s appendicitis or not. I’ll call you tomorrow at home and let you know what the prognosis is. I expect we’ll be home in a day or two.’

It was to be nearly two weeks before we saw each other again!





At eleven thirty, James and Lindy were at last ensconced in their hospital room. Having been reassured that the surgeon would come in the morning, they settled down to sleep as best they could. An hour later a nurse arrived carrying a mysterious bottle with a curious looking nozzle.

‘Pour la derrière,’ she explained. Lindy was wondering how to break the news to a bewildered James, when the nurse placed the abominable instrument in her hands. ‘Au revoir – bon chance!’ she twittered happily, and then left the room.

Have you noticed throughout the course of my narrative how people delighted in giving us bad news? I can’t recall a single incident where someone didn’t accompany this information with a light laugh, smile, or friendly slap on the back. Thank God they’re not all funeral directors!



145



Lindy looked at the apparatus, then at James, then back to the apparatus. What were the options? Did he really need it? Was death truly the worst scenario, or was there something that could trump it? Having weighed the pros and cons carefully, she said;

‘Just roll over and think of me as a nurse, not your mother’.

‘Forget it.’

‘It has to be done!’

‘Says you.’

‘And the doctor.’

‘It won’t happen! Get over it – move on – come to terms with your disappointment!’



The next morning’s visit with the surgeon was an interesting experience. For a start, the concept of informed consent before a medical procedure appeared to be a mere technicality. After a quick check of the notes, a swift prod in the abdomen, and a muffled cry from James, the surgeon announced ‘Appendix. Operation. Later.’ -

and promptly disappeared amongst a cloud of white-coated students.

It was left to Lindy to explain pre-operative procedures as best she could.

‘Do they give me something before the operation?’

asked James, shakily.



‘Don’t worry. They’ll give you a needle beforehand.’

His face fell.

‘A needle?’ After this less than reassured response, Lindy made the decision to lie about the matter of post-operative pain.





Against all expectations, James survived the operation.

Surviving recovery proved to be another matter, however

- particularly when he was presented with “the bottle”.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Um, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Going to the, um, toilet,’ said Lindy, casting her gaze out the window. There was a tense silence.

‘It’s not going to happen.’ he said at last.



146





Meanwhile the rest of us had arrived home. I telephoned Lindy the moment I walked through the door.

‘We’re home! How’s James? How are you?’

‘James is recovering from the operation. I’m okay.’

‘Operation?’

‘Appendix.’

‘Not gastro, then?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can I do anything this end?’

‘Well, there’s some insurance matters to get cleared up…’ Oh no! Not more battles with the bureaucracy? I reeled. When will this nightmare be over? Later – like, the next day – I plucked up the courage and energy to begin doing battle with the insurance people over a multitude of different issues, snags and hitches.



Back in Paris, Lindy had discovered that patients were supposed to bring their own towels. After much pleading, she did manage to secure something resembling a large handkerchief, which was supposed to serve both mother and son.

It quickly became clear that some shopping would have to be done soon, since they’d arrived at the hospital armed only with two backpacks equipped for the flight home. James had his laptop for entertainment, but had carefully deleted all games in order to create enough memory to load a new game – which he hadn’t had an opportunity to buy. Now what he craved was electronic entertainment. Clothes – towel – toothpaste: all these were frivolous indulgences!

So, leaving James to his own devices for a few hours, Lindy made her way into the nearby town. She tried to ask directions to a shop where she could buy pyjamas, and thought she understood the reply. After a few blocks she realised her mistake – but it was too late and too hot to start all over again (the temperature had climbed into the mid thirties).

She found a small dress shop (women have built in radars for this kind of thing) and decided to try on a top.

There were a few clothes in the plus model sizes, so she 147



took a selection into the change room and emerged with a little white number just perfect for a hospital stay.

‘Cette blouson s’il vous plait,’ she said as she handed the assistant the top.



‘Visitez-vous notre ville madame?’ he asked politely as he wrapped up the article.

‘Oui, mon garcon est dans l’hopital avec le appendicitis. Mon homme est dans Australie.’

Perhaps the assistant felt sympathy for her, as he then tried to give her two dresses as well, insisting there was no charge.

As you can imagine, she wasn’t greeted with much enthusiasm on her return to the hospital.

‘What did you get?’ said the suffering lad.

‘A couple of nice blouses,’ said Lindy, pulling the offending items out of her bag. ‘What do you think?’

I’m sure the reader can imagine perfectly well what James thought. Lindy says she’s never heard him speak so eloquently. To make amends and stem the tide of abuse, she investigated the possibility of renting a TV.

Feeling her luck might be starting to change, she was assured that there was a TV available for hire, and that there was even a cartoon channel in English.

Of course, it wasn’t to be.

The channel didn’t show cartoons in any language and the only English speaking channel was CNN News!

Over the next twelve days they became the best informed people on the planet in respect to current affairs and the Soccer World Cup. They watched the “breaking news”, the “just–broke-yesterday” news, the “I’ve–been-around-for-a–week” news, and all those human interest fillers until they could have sat an advanced test on the subject.





The second day after the operation was a stifling thirty-nine degrees. The hospital didn’t seem to have any air conditioning, there were no fans, and James vomited non-stop. Lindy spent the whole day trying to get someone to give him a shot.

‘Oui,’ said the nurse reassuringly as she left the room. After thirty minutes, Lindy realised that she must have just been pretending to understand her.



148



Later that day a nurse’s aid came to take Lindy to Administration in order to sort out the insurance paperwork. As she trailed after her along the corridors something snapped at last and the tears quietly ran down her face. When they reached their destination the clerical assistant looked at her quizzically.

‘Why are you crying?’

‘Why am I crying? Because I don’t understand the doctors, no-one has told me the results of the operation, James is still vomiting, and I can’t make the nurses understand

that

he

needs

an

anti-emetic

shot.’

Mademoiselle Savon was very sympathetic.

‘I understand it’s difficult for you. We have many foreigners here because we’re so close to the airport. If I can interpret for you with the doctors, just ring me.’ Then there was a hurried discussion with the nurse’s aid.

‘James is fine. The nurse says it’s normal after the operation and she will organise the injection when you get back.’ She went on to organise insurance papers, get the phone in the room connected so Lindy could call home easily, and reassured her that all would be well.



The next day James had improved dramatically, as demonstrated by the reaction of the complaint-o-meter.

With this development, Lindy’s problems became more manageable - but James’ had just begun. His main issue was having a mother who was concerned about appearances. You know, those unreasonable things like washing hair, changing clothes and cleaning teeth.

As soon as he was able, Lindy made him start walking. Of course it felt like someone had stapled his chest to his knees the first time he stood up, and it became harder to refuse the kind offers of the play leader for James to come to the Playroom and use the equipment. James couldn’t see the problem.

‘Just say no,’ was his sage advice.

‘Don’t forget that it was this woman who got you the English movie to watch,’ Lindy reminded him.

‘“Lady and the Tramp” do you mean? Ha!’

‘What about the Simpsons, then?’



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‘Well……..Okay - as long as I can come back to the room when I want to.’

They were back in the room before you could boil an egg (the gooey kind!).



But the greatest trial – leaving vomiting, appendicitis and lack of entertainment far behind in its wake - was Veronique.

One day Lindy was accosted on one of her walks by a 15-year-old girl handing her a note.

‘Excuse me.’ - it read. ‘I am very boring. Could I come and visit you?’ What could she say? James was the only other teenager in the ward, and this girl was obviously lonely.

James was awesome. Nothing would make him so much as acknowledge the girl’s presence. The closest he came to communication was the odd grunt, as Veronique and Lindy muddled along desperately. Apparently, the girl had some kind of heart disease and her family could only visit every other day. It was real soap-opera stuff, and – if this had been fiction – she and James would have hit it off and begun a friendship that would have blossomed and grown across the miles and years.

After she left, James forbade his mother to invite her in again. He’s a worry!



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21. In Paris


The days dragged on and James slowly recuperated. They watched CNN, washed their hair and clothes, watched CNN, rang home, watched CNN, rang the insurance people to fix up the Paris hotel, and watched CNN. Between all this, they watched CNN.

Lindy tried to prise a release date from the nurses, and eventually got a promise that, as soon as James had used his bowels, they could depart. The nurse helped out with a small fizzy drink and - voila! - thirty minutes later they got the all clear (so to speak), and were on their way!



I neglected to mention that they’d been having difficulties with the credit card again (yes – it’s all true – every word of it!). Inexplicably (there’s that word again) Lindy was unable to get a cash advance from the local bank – their explanations less plausible than those emails you get offering you a million dollars from a deposed former African leader. On top of this, the pizza place gave it the thumbs down as well.

So, there they were with just eighty dollars, all set to kick up their heels in Paris.

The insurance helped a little by organising (after much head-bashing) for a prepaid car from the hospital to the hotel (whose booking also took much head-bashing).

Of course, the address provided by them to the taxi driver was wrong – as was the phone number when he tried to call them to get the correct address. Eventually – and you’re never quite sure afterwards how these things happen - they arrived in one piece at a lovely little hotel with a lovely little room.

Bonding is all very well but the twin beds were separated by inches and the bathroom was so tiny that you could only wash one limb at a time. But at least they were out of the hospital, so they made the most of things by settling into bed and turning on the TV.

It was CNN.





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For the next few days, Paris was bathed in glorious sunshine. James was able to manage more than a walk around the block, and he and Lindy began to make the most of things. A typical day started with a morning walk, followed by a long lunchtime rest, and ended with a short evening walk to a café for dinner. Oh, and a little CNN

before sleep.

Although it wasn’t quite the wonderful holiday the insurance man seemed to think they were having, it wasn’t too awful - and their last two days were filled with frequent trips to the English cinema. In one day they watched three movies!

Then, just when they thought nothing else could possibly go wrong, the wheels began to wobble.

On the day they were due to leave the hotel, Lindy rang the insurance man to ask what time the car would pick them up for the airport that evening.

‘Tomorrow, you mean,’ he replied. Lindy’s jaw dropped and she struggled for breath.

‘No, tonight,’ she assured him.

‘No. I have your details here on the screen. You aren’t due to fly out until tomorrow evening.’

‘Then how long have you booked our hotel room?’ –

alarm bells ringing!

‘Just a minute, Ill just bring up…..Yes, here we are.

Oh! Yes, I see. We didn’t book you in for tonight, did we?’

What was it we’d done, do you think? Slaughtered innocent babies in a previous life? Desecrated a Sacred Cow? Tortured a fly? It’s hard to imagine what could have prompted the sort of character-building experiences we’d endured, but surely the punishment exceeded the crime? I can only hope that it served some practical purpose, the benefits of which we’ll all enjoy at some later date.



By now, nothing came as a surprised. And so Lindy was fairly calm when the attendant at the check-in the following night wished her a pleasant one month stopover in Singapore.

‘I beg your pardon?’



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‘Singapore is lovely. I expect you’ll want to do lots of shopping. Where are you staying?’

‘We’re not. We’re flying straight on to Australia.’

Again that infuriating, winsome grin to accompany the bad news, as the woman replied:

‘No, not according to this. You’re staying a month in Singapore.’

‘Listen lady – I don’t care what it takes, but we’re getting on that plane to Australia – even if you have to upgrade us to first class to do it! Do you understand?’

Trembling as she disappeared behind the counter door, the attendant returned a few minutes later saying there had been new tickets left by the Insurance Company and all was well. I think the name must have rung a bell somewhere, and they knew better than to mess with a Whitton.





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21. Epilogue


Twelve days after we’d been parted, the family was reunited once again. The homecoming was a tearful and happy one, and James had a story he could dine out on for the rest of his life.

Unflappable Enid was raving about her holiday from the moment she got off the plane, and felt that all our trials and tribulations had given character to the trip.

Lindy and I took a couple of weeks to get over the grieving process, then gradually came around to the Enid view.

Thomas and James have told us they’ve been on their last holiday to Europe, but - in the words of that great intellectual and philosopher James Bond – never say never!





THE END





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