It is a momentous day. I have written for 100 days, with weekends off. My mother, Beverley, is my greatest fan. The first thing she does, when she wakes up, is to read the diary.

Yesterday’s Tea and Concert for Older People was a success. Tables were laid for 400 people, and all the sandwiches, handmade by volunteers in the morning, vanished within minutes. The event is completely run by volunteers and a few HTB church staff.

I was in charge of the clear up operation. Almost everything is taken to the back of the church when the guests depart; then it is sorted and sent on to one of four kitchen areas for cleaning and packing.

Cups are rinsed and sterilised in an industrial machine, and then they are packed into crates (Geoff, my husband, mercifully turned up to help with this); three-tier cake stands are dismantled and washed up and stored (my sister-in-law, Susie, mercifully led this); saucers are washed and packed away in crates and the remaining items are dealt with at the back of the church (my friend, Mrs Wonderful, mercifully led this).

We managed to be done in an hour and a half. I love to trouble-shoot, aiming for a steady flow of dirty stuff to one of the four stations from the mother-station (my little empire).

Manning the mother-station appeals to my OCD tendencies. It is an embarrassing admission to make, but I like cleaning; I like sorting. If I am stressed, I clean and sort the house. I declutter. If my environment is neat and tidy, I feel neat and tidy. My neat streak is ironic, given that I drove Bev crazy with my untidiness as a child and teenager.

The one place that I did not try to sort too much was Corn Close cottage in the Cotswolds. It was tiny, so you had to live with a bit of mess. And most of the time in the day, we were out and about. We would ride bikes up and down the lane. We would pick the wild blackberries. Or we were in the garden. The children spent hours in the paddling pool or climbing trees.

 

We we would go fruit picking. We would go to one of the yellow-stone towns and have afternoon tea. We would go up to Stratford-upon-Avon, the home of Shakespeare, and walk amongst the white and black Tudor houses. We visited National Trust properties nearby. We would go to Hidcote Manor Gardens near Chipping Camden. The garden is divided into rooms by large hedges, and you walk through ‘doorways’ and find, yet another, unique planting creation or pond. The rooms are linked by long avenues with stunning pastoral views at the end: fluffy white sheep in green fields.  Alternatively, Snowshill Manor and Garden had wonderful views from its perch. You drive through limitless golden wheat-fields in the summer to reach it. Bridget Jones diary was partially filmed in the village. In this bigger landscape, I could hop around for miles like a kangaroo. I didn’t bump into fences.

I am so grateful that after the Stone House years when I first married Geoff, followed by a brief interlude in the Cotswolds midway, that I have found my way to Hampshire on the border with West Sussex. It is beauty personified. I have enjoyed hopping everywhere I can manage from the sea to the downs. And over to Nicky Barber, who is like a sister, at her farm in Winchester.

Today I will get ready for the Chancellors’ (our tennis partners from Hurlingham) visit to the Old Rectory. The driveway is full of weeds, and I shall gouge them out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday we went to the polo at Cowdray Park. It was the semi finals of the Jaeger-LeCoultre Gold Cup. The final is on Sunday.

Great friends kindly included us in their party. We were the only non-horsey people. Many of them had been polo players or were agents. I met an older gentleman from the Hurlingham Polo Association, Mr B, who had set up an association ensuring the welfare of the ponies. They surprise owners with spot checks to see if the horses are being well looked after. I asked him if he had played polo. He casually told me that he had played for England. Geoff poured the drinks, and at the end of the day one of the guests thanked us for hosting so well. He obviously thought we were staff!

The polo was both thrilling and terrifying. You gasp and “ooohhh” in succession. Fear turns to joy, and then back again. It is a roller coaster for the spectator. It is an exciting sport to watch. I found Matilda, my mate from Chelsea, also happened to be there a few marquees down, so we could marquee hop during the day.

The horses thunder up and down the pitch at breakneck speed, with the polo players wielding their mallets to hit the ball through the goals at each end. The game is divided into chukkas, each 7.5 minutes each. There are usually 6, and so the game lasts about 45 minutes. The players change horses constantly – they will each have a selection of 8 to 10 horses ready for the match. Grooms ride the ponies out to them, and then the players dismount and mount and continue the game.

At half time, the spectators are invited onto the pitch to press the divots back into the ground with their heels – think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. My goddaughter, Perdita, was there with her sister Tara; two of the beautiful daughters of my great friend, Niki.

Niki was the mother at Noah’s Ark Nursery that my daughter, Anna, constantly pestered to take her home for tea. Niki was kindhearted, and she invariably agreed. So Anna would be whisked off in the jeep to one of the loveliest houses backing onto Wandsworth Common, with Niki, her three blonde daughters and their black, glossy labrador, Keeper.

Through Anna and Mimi’s friendship, first at nursery, then at Broomwood Hall, we all became close friends. We had two wonderful holidays to Bermuda. And they often visited Corn Close Cottage from 2000 to 2001, the period we rented the cottage.

One of the activities we tried, was riding lessons near Broadway. The children were novices. I think I paid for Perdita’s first riding lesson. Ironically, my children would never go onto to ride again after we left the cottage, whereas Niki’s girls are now skilled and talented riders – they have won gazillions of rosettes and prizes. After riding, we would go for hot chocolate in one of the tea rooms in Broadway, or we would find a field and have a picnic. They were happy days.

Today, we have another free Concert and Tea for Older People at St Paul’s, Onslow Square. The weather is looking good, so we should have a lot of guests.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today is meant to be mixed weather. I am hoping not, as we are going to the Jaeger-LeCoultre Polo Gold Cup, at Cowdray Park, Midhurst. I will be dressed up. I am usually not when I visit. It is where I often walk Domino in old clothes, and then I pop into the cafe for a cuppa.

Yesterday was on and off sun and rain, all day, in Hampshire, at the Old Rectory; it is summer holidays now, so I will be spending more time here until September. London is emptying. The exodus has begun. It will be a ghost town soon. I am pleased to be in the countryside, in this green and pleasant land that I love.

That first summer in 2000, at the Corn Close Cottage in the Cotswolds, was similar to the weather yesterday – mixed rain and sunshine.

But it didn’t matter too much, as we were topped up with sun after visiting Australia over Easter. Stan and Bev, my parents, were now living in Cater Street, Coledale, on the Illawarra Peninsula, four streets away from Shaun and Wendy and their boys, Ryan and Jonah. It is about an hour south of Sydney on one of the most stunning stretches of coast you can imagine. It meant that we could also regularly catch up with Brett and Gillian Davis, my friends from Uni days, and their three children, Jackson, Taylor and India. They lived next door to Shaun and Wendy, and they shared an idyllic communal garden next to a creek. It was an Aussie haven – heaven –  for my children. They played with their cousins and the Davis children, who were just like cousins.

 

Our first visit to the new family home right on the sea was a dream come true! It was thrilling to be able to run down in flip flops (Aussies call them thongs) in swimmers (Aussies call them cossies), with a towel over my arm, and plunge into the surf at the end of the road. Something that I had not experienced growing up in a landlocked suburb in Sydney.

And it amounted to three trips to Oz in two years with my children. We also made the trek to Jervis Bay, which boasts the whitest sand imaginable – forget the Maldives. It is about 3-4 hours from Sydney. Anna fed rosellas from her hand on the way to the beach. Sadly no kangaroos were spotted. The beach was virgin perfection. And we stopped at Berry on the way, an historical town with good grub (food).

As the 20th century turned into the 21st century – the new Millennium, ending the last 1,000 years and 2,000 from Christ – the Sloane in me was fading fast. And with Corn Close Cottage providing a countryside vista when we arrived back in the UK from Oz, it continued to recede even more. The Kangaroo was starting to show her face. The pheasant facade I’d partially adopted was deconstructing.

The children were growing up. Anna was in her second year at Broomwood Hall. Hugo was about to start at Eaton House, on Clapham Common north side, in September. Despite the Sloane-ness of these institutions, they had a streak of Aussie in them now, in character not just ancestry. The visits Down Under made that vein stronger, like the veins of coal mined in the Illawarra area for many years.

They were little joeys – as well as a budding pheasant and stag. And, they would prove to show both sides of the coin in the coming years, as we continued to board Singapore Airlines’s flights, on that long, horrendous journey back to Oz. But it was always worth it when we arrived. And from then on we stayed over in Singapore for a tropical stopover. That broke the journey! Geoff had stayed at the Shangri-la, in the Valley Wing, on a previous business trip. He suggested that after Anna’s bicycle accident that we have a stopover this time. I wonder if he regretted it in retrospect, as I insisted on similar stopovers forever more. And both ways!

 

I’ll let you know how the polo goes tomorrow.

 

Yesterday, we had the heaviest downpour I can remember at teatime. I was so glad to be inside. It bucketed down. The outside was eclipsed in a vertical sheet of water that dropped from the heavens. Everything was left soggy. I popped down to the local shops, and everyone was on their high horse about the weather. And excited about our new Prime Minister, Theresa May.

In the morning, Patrick and his crew, including his wolf, and Domino and I, headed for the South Downs for a walk. Of course, it rained on and off. Still, we had pleasant walk with spectacular views, as far as the eye can see, amongst the pretty meadow fields. It reminded me of summer holidays we had at his chalet in Verbier, where we walked by the Bisse du Levron, a stream that runs to the Luberon Valley. It tinkles and trickles away during the summer, with the sound of cow bells accompanying it. In winter, it is buried deep under the snow. As it passes the scenic restaurant, La Marmotte, the fields are covered in grasshoppers in the summertime. I remember Hugo trying to catch them in his hands.

It also reminded me of walks we had at Corn Close Cottage in Paxford, in the heart of the Cotswolds in 2000-2001. Part of the day, was always spent on a pretty walk somewhere. It was a tonic to be in the countryside, after a decade in a terraced house in London.

I love the architecture of the Cotswold towns; the houses and shops are made of sandstone, just like in down town Sydney. Wealthy wool merchants established these attractive mellow-yellow towns: from Burford, to Broadway, to Stow, to Chipping Camden, to Chipping Norton. Many have an old wool exchange in the middle of the market square. And there are coaching inns, which now serve hearty food to motorcar travellers, not to dashing gentlemen on horseback or elegant ladies in carriages. Perhaps there were a few dashing women on horseback, but I doubt it somehow.

The first weekend we moved into the cottage, we stacked the car full of ‘weekender’ stuff that we would need: a huge paddling pool and pump, bicycles, picnic gear, bed linen, television and video casette player, and a fold up table and chairs. We also had to take the hamster.

The drive out of London on the M40, beyond the M25 which encircles the London metropolis, gets better and better, and then just before Oxford the vista opens up below to reveal a patchwork of fields, hedgerows, church steeples and lambkin clouds. Onwards, we continued to junction 9 on the M40, where we then thrashed across country past Blenheim Palace in Woodstock to Chipping Norton, and finally on to Moreton in Marsh. The cottage was a stone’s throw from Moreton.

The wonderful thing about Moreton, was that you could park outside any shop you wanted. You didn’t have to drive, pay and display, extract the children and then face hordes of shoppers. Moreton had no high street stores back then (I believe it has ASK now). It had Dillons, a good butcher, a toy shop, a few pubs and loads of antique stores. Dillons was our staple stop. You could buy a newspaper, hire a video and buy the chidren an ice-cream. And you could park right outside – for free.

On that first journey to the cottage, we arrived in Moreton at dinner time. I had no food. So we bundled into a pub and had hearty food. When we squeezed back into our laden station wagon, we realised that the hamster had escaped. We eventually found him under the front seat. But it wasn’t as stressful as if it had happened on a busy street in London, with cars and pedestrians jostling nearby.

Today, one of my friends is making the trek to the Old Rectory. Geoff is coming tonight with Hugo, who has finished at Wimbledon, as we have the polo tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The weather today is stable.

On Friday I prepared for a busy weekend at the Old Rectory. Anne, my first friend from Aussie, came with her girls for Saturday: to play tennis and sit in the garden with their dogs, Max and Lucy. Patrick, Geoff’s baby brother, also headed south with his family, including his part wolf, to see us. Geoff loves this sibling.

I threw cushions and blankets on the lawn for us to sprawl on, and I cut fresh, sweet-smelling roses for vases and dotted them around the house.

Geoff mowed the lawn into stripes. There were no wasps to ruin the scene. It was idyllic. The weather was dry.

We ate chicken and salad, plus summer pudding (summer fruits coated in white bread that soaks up the juices), played tennis and periodically checked what was happening over the fence in the adjacent cricket pitch. As Anne summed it up, “Summertime is the sound of leather on willow.” She was referring to cricket. A sport that both Britain and Australia are crazy about.

There is something magical about the British countryside in the summertime, when the conditions are good. When the clouds and rain depart!

In the spring of 2000, Anna fell off her bike and split her forehead open – just before we were due to fly to Australia for Easter. It is too upsetting to write about in detail. She had a Harry Potter angry scar. I was finding it impossible to find a good plastic surgeon to restitch it. It had been done badly by a nurse at a local hospital in Sevenoaks. A friend of a friend suggested a Harley Street surgeon who could revise it. He apparently did a number of face-lifts for actors. He was brilliant. When every surgeon we initially consulted said, “Impossible to fix.” He said, “I can (not think) make it a lot better.” You can’t notice it now unless you look very carefully.

However, the whole episode wrung me out. At about the same time, our friends, the Fothergills, offered us their cottage in the Cotswolds for a peppercorn rent. They were living in South Africa. We jumped at the chance to be in the middle of nowhere on weekends.

I loved London, but I was tired of trying to navigate it with two small children and no help. And no grandparents living locally. So off we went periodically to one of the prettiest parts of England. It was a tonic.

I loved Stone House, Geoff’s family home, and I loved this pretty cottage in the middle of Paxford, a hamlet near Moreton-in-Marsh. It became a friend. It even reminded my Auntie Wilma’s farm near the Outback, where I found my pet kangaroo. At night, the wind would catch the wheat in the next door field outside, and I would watch it sway like the Pacific Ocean.

 

 

It is a cloudy start, but the outlook is warm and sunny soon. The clouds will burn off. That is what happens a lot at the start of an Aussie day.

Yesterday, I did have lunch at the Hurlingham. The sun was shining, and we sat like frilled neck lizards warming up in the sun. We discussed holidays, books and plays. They are avid theatre goers. Strangely, we avoided politics. Which is what people are discussing a lot at the moment. It looks as if we are going to have another woman Prime Minister. Brill is what I say.

I realised that my pheasant friends were not in favour of dogs at Hurlingham. I thought, that’s bad luck, as where I go, Domino goes. I think they were referring to an incident at tennis on Tuesday morning. I was in the middle of a game, and I realised that Domino had chewed through his lead, and he was helping himself to a bag of dental dog sticks in someone else’s bag. I had no choice but to run off the court and to tie Domino back up, feeling a little worse for munching through so many sticks in one sitting. At least his breath smelt fresh and minty. But when I returned to court, my absence, of all of a few minutes, had not been appreciated by the players.

It’s not only Brexit that divides people. All sorts of issues do. Do you agree to disagree politely, or is it a deal breaker? Do you move politely away? Can a friendship work if they don’t like or tolerate dogs? Especially my dog, Domino. I love it when people stop me and ask about him: “What breed is he?” Or coo over him: “My isn’t that a beautiful coat.” Or address comments directly at him: “Aren’t you a beautiful creature!” Such comments make me feel that the world is well.

After our trip back as a family of four to Oz in early 1998 I felt at peace with the world. The children loved Australia. They could run around like kangaroos! And swim like dolphins! I wanted this to happen over and over again.

Geoff and I decided to go back again at Christmas the same year. Something wonderful had happened. Stan and Bev, my parents, were considering leaving the suburbs of Sydney and relocating to be near my brother’s family  on the stunning Illawarra coastline.

We went at Christmas to help them find a house, a house that would accommodate us all when we visited. We found Cater Street in Coledale. It was perfect. It had a self contained annexe with two bedrooms. It had views of the escarpment and the sea.

 

It looked like I would be hopping across the world regularly from then on. Even if it was a long way to hop.

Today, I am at the Old Rectory getting ready for Geoff’s brother to visit for the weekend. And my first friend from Australia, Anne and her girls. And my daughter, Anna, is coming down too with a friend. Hugo has to stay in London for the big finals weekend at Wimbledon.

 

 

 

 

 

It is summer now. It is warm and wonderful.

Yesterday I went and had my hair cut, at Richard Ward, in the Duke of York Square, in Sloane Square, the Sloane mecca. There is a cafe vibe now in the vicinity. When I was first married, at the end of the 80s, there was virtually no cafe society in London. The EU changed all that. When the sun is out so are the people, dotting the pavements, drinking and eating outdoors. Socialising.

It is a lovely thing to do! Socialising in the sunshine. It is what Aussies take for granted. Outdoor entertaining is commonplace Down Under.

After my health scare in 1998, we took the children home to Oz, on a dream trip to Hayman Island, at the foot of the Great Barrier Reef. We also headed to Anna Bay with the Potts family for time on the beach. It was a stone’s throw away from where my high school best friend, Karen Nosworthy, now Brown, lived (still does) with husband Dallas, and her three boys, Mitchell, Nicholas and Denny. Karen was a young bride and started her family quickly. I was slow off the mark compared to her.

I rang and asked whether we could come and visit at their beach house near Taree, near the border of NSW and Queensland. Karen would never say no to anyone who asked to come and visit. She is selfless.

The morning arrived for our big reunion, after ten years or so. It was a scorcher of a day. Despite the extreme temperature, I put the children in their smartest London clothes: Anna in a smocked pink dress and Startrite blue leather shoes, and Hugo in smart shorts, shirt and Startrite blue leather shoes. For some unaccountable reason, I donned my best Sloane outfit for Karen. A striped Pinks shirt, with blue tailored shorts and Russell and Bromley shoes. The shoes were fine leather with tiny gold bears on them. What planet was I on? I was going to the beach!

We parked the car and knocked on the door. The door finally opened. There she was, my smiley, shiny-haired friend from Kingsgrove High School. She had not changed at all. Not physically or in character. I could tell immediately.

We were introduced to her three beautiful sons. They were sun kissed and athletic. Not a hint of pasty-white skin about them. Surfboards, and sand, were strewn everywhere. Anna was all of four. She fell instantly and completely in love with the eldest, Mitchell. When he sat down, she walked over to him and climbed into his lap like a koala bear. He looked shocked, but was flattered and chatted away to her in a broad Aussie accent.

This was a man’s house. Dallas had nailed, as a joke no doubt, a bull’s skull above the stove. Things were a little awkward at first. So much water under the bridge, but the ice finally melted, and it felt like old times.

I remember so many happy memories with Karen. She loved me unconditionally, no matter what teenage crisis I was going through. She was a steady and faithful friend in good times and bad. Getting burnt to a crisp sunbathing. I remember sleepovers with her. Talking late into the night, with the lights out, about our hopes and dreams. Doing our home work together. She had the most infectious giggle, and she always laughed at my jokes. She made me feel fantastic about myself.

She served dessert, pudding to the Brits, and it was a massive pavlova. I had eaten so many of these growing up. They are fantastic after dinner, but the leftovers, eaten straight out of the fridge for breakfast, are even better. The meringue somehow is even gooier in the morning, soaking up the fruit topping, whether it be kiwis, passionfruit or strawberries.

I looked down at my feet. Suddenly these little gold bears, sitting on pristine blue leather shoes, looked completely insane in this environment. Which by the way, was the environment that I was raised in. They were mocking me. I remember thinking, “How did those ridiculous shoes get on your feet ?” I looked at my children’s shoes, shackling them. I walked over and took them off and let their feet breathe.

It was a watershed moment. I realised, suddenly, that I had been trying so hard to fit into life in London, married to a stag, that I forgotten that I was a kangaroo and not a pheasant.

Things had to change. And they did. From then on.

Today I am having lunch with two Hurlingham friends at the Dining Room at Hurlingham. And we will sit outside in the sunshine. I will, however, probably be wearing pheasant shoes and sadly not flip flops. But I will always be, at the heart of me, the freckled faced, sun drenched Aussie girl, that snuck (stole) the pavlova out of the fridge for breakfast before Stan and Bev could catch me. I might even have let my dog Skipper have a spoonful too. And I would have been barefoot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh  my goodness. We have bright, blue sky again this morning, and it feels warm already at 7.30am.

Last night we had dinner with the Keeling clan at their house in Wandsworth. My children love going to their house. I don’t have to drag them there. They are so hospitable. Hospitality done really well; it is a great gift. This has to be distinguished from entertaining guests, which is a social obligation. You know the difference don’t you?

When Jim and Emma Keeling bought their home, twenty years ago or so, they invested in an extendable oak table. And so, they made an investment in people. I can’t imagine how many mouths have been fed and watered over the years at their table. And how many laughs had.

So there were twelve of us sitting comfortably at the table last night. Emma is a superwoman; she works in a high powered job in the City, runs a household with four children, is governor of a school and on the parish council of a significant church, HTB. And yet, she still managed to cook a delicious cod fish pie, with crusty topping, and spinach and sweet potato salad for us. We all agreed to stay off the Brexit topic. It is ruining so many relationships at the moment. I just hope that the Conservatives can pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Jim Keeling is Hugo’s godfather, and I am Polly’s (their second child) godmother. So many happy summer memories are with this clan: at Salcombe, at their home or at Hurlingham. And many of them include blissful hours by the outdoor pool at Hurlingham, watching the children frolic in the water on a hot summer’s day. Grow, bud and metamorphose into teenagers and adults.

In the summer of 1998, we holidayed in a rented cottage on Island Street, in Salcombe, celebrating a momentous year and my 10th anniversary in Britain: with the Keelings, Glens, Polaks and other friends.

It had been a year of great change. In March we travelled to Australia for the first time with Hugo. We had loved our time with my brother’s family the year before in England.

About a week before we were due to head to Heathrow, I had a health scare. I saw a consultant on Monday, had an operation on Wednesday, and I somehow hoped that I would miraculously be able to hop on a plane on Saturday. We had to wait for the biopsy results for a forty eight hours. I kept on asking Geoff how on I was going to manage to pack. He kept on saying, in his stiff upper lip way, “Don’t worry. It will all work out.”

On the Thursday night, the consultant rang to say that the news was good. All clear. Magic words. Geoff then told me to have a nap. I was drained and spent. When I woke up, he lay on the end of the bed, and he explained that while I had been having my operation, he had found out that the European arm of the company he worked for, Thomsons, was being dismantled. That meant that he would be relocated or maybe not. He had not wanted to worry me. So we delayed flying to Australia until I was stronger. And had a holiday of a life time. I had two children, and we were all going to experience my country together.See some of the wildlife. Grandpa, could give us a spin in his boat.

We flew to Hayman Island in the Whitsundays and holidayed at Anna Bay with the Potts crew.

As it was, Geoff landed a great new job as finance director with Centaur Media. It was privately owned, and the introduction was made by Jim. I was part of the interview process. I had to go for dinner with the CEO and his wife at their house in Eaton Square. This is a dead posh address. I remember standing with Geoff on the door step, and before he rang the bell, saying to him, “I hope I don’t embarrass you.”

A maid served dinner. It was my turn to pour gravy on my meat. The table was an antique and was significantly bowed in the middle. I poured too much gravy, and, to my horror, it ran over the rim of my porcelain plate and, like a river, made its way down the pristine, starched, white tablecloth to the middle of the table. There was silence. I looked to my host, Geoff’s prospective boss. I said, “I suppose that means he won’t be getting the job.” Everyone laughed. He did get the job, and, until recently, this was where Geoff forged a career. He ended up as the CEO, when the founder retired.

Today I am having my haircut in Chelsea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today, the weather is steadily improving.

Yesterday, when Hugo came home from working at Court Number 1 shop at Wimbledon, he asked if I could take him to Chelsea, as his phone was on the blink.

I parked in Smith Street, off the Kings Road. While I waited for him, a Ferrari and a Lamborghini, passed each other in front of me. What magnificent Italian cars! Bella! Low to the ground, elongated, powerful. You see stellar cars in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea – it’s a question of cash. Especially parked alongside Harrods, with bored chauffeurs.

One magnificent summer I shall never forget was in 1997, and it involved a holiday to Tuscany, in Italy. My brother and his wife, Shaun and Wendy, brought their, almost, one year old to visit us at Elms Crescent. It was the first time that we had met Ryan, with his strawberry blonde hair. And the first time that they had met Hugo. They met Anna at the Great Barrier Reef, when she was just one and a bit. They stayed with us for five weeks, and whilst they were in Britain, the sun shone on and on.

Shaun and I went to the Wimbledon, to Court Number 1. I sent them off to Henley Royal Regatta with the Corries; did the picnic, Pimms and people watching, on the river.

We borrowed a charming cottage in the Cotswolds, just near Moreton in the Marsh, in a tiny hamlet in Paxford. Our friends, the Forthergills, generously let us have it for a few days. They were living in South Africa. We visited the golden, sandstone towns, and we ate picnics in the green fields. We walked in the hills behind Blockley, and we went to a manor house in Oddington, serving cream teas.

The big draw, however, was the trip to Italy, to a farm house near Siena. Geoff and I hadn’t been back since our honeymoon in 1989.

The Barbers came with us, with baby Harry who was also turning one. Nicky was pregnant with Ben. She was such a good sport to head to the heat with us, when she was effectively carrying a hot water bottle. She ate a lot of gelato, and John made her delicious stone fruit platters every night after dinner. We took it in turns to cook, and occasionally couples went off for a date.

We arrived at Rome airport, and after finding our hire cars, we took our lives in our hands on the frenetic highways. We arrived hot and tired at the end of the day. The farm house, from a distance, looked idyllic, like something out of a Room with a View. Poplar trees dotted the horizon. On arrival we did a recce (checked things out), and things took a turn for the worst. Big disappointment; the farm house hadn’t quite been finished. One of the bathrooms was still under construction. The big tragedy was that the pool was still under construction. Gutting.

I rang the London agent. Said that I was a solicitor. He actually sounded worried. However, there was no way they could get the pool finished overnight, so we set up a paddling pool in the garden. The next day the pool construction outfit turned up. I blocked the drive. I said, ‘You will have to run over me to get to that pool.’ They thankfully left, never to be seen again.

We resolved to make the best of the week. We went to the local, public pool. It was authentic. Sat with the local punters, listening to them speak the lingo and gesticulating like they do. We went to Siena and to Florence. We ate at local gelato bars and cafes, and we had a happy week. Shaun managed to unlock the garage and found a racing bike, which he used to explore with.

A few things went awry. Firstly, Hugo fell in the bath and split his eye. We headed to hospital. When they took too long to see us in A and E, we went off in search of the paediatric wing. Instead, I found the contagious diseases ward, and the staff frantically ran towards us yelling, “Go away!” But in Italian – “Va via.” Then Anna couldn’t get the hang of the uneven paving stones, and she eventually had three bruised eggs on her forehead.

The final straw was on the last day. An Italian caretaker, a largish signora, turned up just as we were leaving. In the small print, it specified that we would be charged an extortionate fee every time we used the washing machine. Somehow they knew that we had been constantly churning the children’s clothes through. The signora stood grasping a wad of lira, our deposit, which was meant to be returned at the end of our stay. I sensed she’d done this routine a few times before.

She said to John Barber, “You see-a. You use-a da washing machine-alotta. So we take off this much-a for each wash-a.” She was wildly waving the cash around. Geoff was walking past her constantly, taking luggage out to the car. And on the last trip, he walked past her, from behind, and grabbed the cash straight out of her hand. Simultaneously, he said, “Bad luck-a!” She looked like she had been robbed of her clothes. John Barber couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

Geoff then said, “Right. No dilly dallying. Get in the car and let’s get out of here.” And in a cloud of dust, we left the signora, stripped of her cash.

Tonight we are going to the Keelings. It will be great to see them before they head off to Salcombe for the summer.

 

 

Just when I thought that the Sun would never appear, she did last night in Hampshire. She appeared on Sunday night, and I was cross with Her. I felt like saying, “Where, on earth, have you been?” Like a girlfriend, who is flakey. Nevertheless, I sat under Her radiance, thankful for some warmth. I sat outside, reading a book, until it was almost dark. Until the Sun set. It was time to go inside. She, the Sun, is so fickle!

It was towards the end of my thirties, the summer of 2001, that I was tired of sitting on British beaches, cold. Of course, from time to time, as a family, we made the big trek home to Australia. It was always wonderful to be there, but it felt like the back of beyond. It was my precious ‘beyond’, but it was so flipping far away. It was, of course, always worth it when we arrived. It is unsurpassable in my affections. I am an Aussie Sheila, through and through. A diehard.

But, as much as I loved Britain, I needed to warm up. I loved the big vistas, the brooding skies, the big landscapes. Constable and Turner landscapes. I was just too chilly in summer. When I was just about to turn 40, Niki, the beautiful mother at nursery school that graciously took Anna home when she asked herself for tea, asked us to Bermuda for the summer holidays. Her mother, Audrey, lived there, with her husband, Jay, the Mayor of Bermuda.

We, of course, prevaricated. I felt disloyal to my Aussie roots. But, in the end, the lure of pink sand, aquamarine water, a reef that is just off the beach (not like the Great Barrier Reef – a couple of hours a boat ride away) and non-stop sunshine, was too much of a temptation. We said a categorical, “Yes.” I could cope the rest of the year in less than warm climes, but not in the summer.

Bermuda was all that I had dreamt of, like the perfect destination in the best movie. We arrived after not too long on the plane, and in the Arrivals Hall, there was an actual band playing ‘Tropical Tunes’ of ‘Welcome’. It was a dream come true. It was paradise.

When we came home, we had our last holiday in Norfolk, with John and Nicky Barber and all our children.

It was sad. I had a sensation that it was the last time that we would be there, altogether, for…ever. In the summertime. Could cope at other times, but not in summer.

The children did what they always did, pottered around in freezing foreshores, in luke-warm air temperatures. Nevertheless, I loved it deep in my heart, in a heartbreaking sort of way. Like an attractive young woman, she couldn’t compete with the outright beauty of hot climes. She was a lovely girl, beside a supermodel. I was off to find sun for summer holidays from then on. I blame my Aussie heritage. I just wanted some heat!!! But I do know that the British coast is very special, just a tad too cold.

The next year we didn’t go back to Norfolk. We abandoned her, and we went back to Bermuda. Flakey!

Today, I am going to celebrate the end of my job. Hopefully, the weather will get better now – just when London is winding down and schools are breaking up.