These posts are for anyone interested in the stuff that happens, and thoughts that occur to us as we roam the by-ways of England, Scotland and Europe. Like my family, for example, (at least, I think they’re interested).
If you’re a fan of ‘The Godfather’, you’ll recognise “Leave the gun, take the cannoli”. Peter Clemenza said it to his offsider after they’d stiffed a traitor. You see, he’d bought some cannoli for his wife on the way to the hit and they’d left the car with the dead body and the gun. But there’s no way he was going to leave the cannoli. It’s a Sicilian thing. . .
I bet you watched it. Or at least part of it. It was hard to miss, and it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But no one can deny that if there’s one thing the Brits do well, it’s pomp and ceremony. And as ceremonies go, this was all pomp.
It’s mid-April and we’re well into Spring. The weather has yet to catch up, but we live in hope. In the meantime, I’ve fallen victim to a particularly British ailment, which I’ve dubbed ‘Wardrobaphobia’. To suffers like myself, it can be a debilitating condition, and I’m thinking of starting a support group.
As you will know if you read Part 1 of this post, we were in Ireland enjoying the unseasonally sunny weather, instead of the forecast sleet and snow. But maybe we were heading straight for it. Maybe the second part of our Irish adventure was a disaster waiting to happen.
It was February 2023. Cold and miserable. Short English days of foggy, grey skies. So we decided to pack our bags and go to Ireland. . . .where it’s even colder, with a forecast of scattered showers of sleet and snow. No, I don’t know what we were thinking, either.
Blow me if it’s not 2023 already. Last time I looked, we were at the tail end of the most glorious summer on record in 2022. We’d enjoyed long hot days and warm sunlit evenings through July and August, and we were looking forward to jetting off to the South of France.
If you read the account of our Big Fat Greek Holiday Disaster, you’ll know things started to go wrong the morning of our departure. Disturbingly, this seems to be developing into a pattern.
Picture This: The warm blue waters of the Ionian Sea, a 5-star hotel on a private sandy beach in Corfu, perfect weather, great food, free drinks, and an upgraded room with sunset views over the ocean. What could possibly go wrong? Quite a lot, as it turns out.
By now, the news of the Queen’s death will have reached every last corner of the world. There may be a village of pygmies in the Congo Basin who don’t know – and there are likely to be many republicans who don’t care. But overall, it’s a moment in history we will all remember.
It all started with a message from my friend Dinah in Australia. “Can you join me in Italy at the end of September?” she wrote. “Sadly not”, I had to reply, “But where will you be at the beginning of the month?” In Provence, it turned out. So Provence it was.