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1:
Shakespeare in Love or Just Plain Bad Boy?
We arrived in England five days ago, and have spent most
of our energy getting
"through" minor disasters and remembering how
sweet and simple travel can be instead of discovering new
pleasures and adventures. Example: both places where we've
stayed so far promised to have WiFi, but not so, which is
why it's taken me a while to check in-no Internet!
Still, landing in London is such a blast when we recall
following the construction of the new Swan theater, replica
of Shakespeare's home base, on a couple of trips here a
few years ago. Back then we saw a play at Stratford-on-Avon's
Swan, in old Will's hometown, and were wowed by a couple
of his we saw at the Royal Shakespeare theater in Stratford,
too, Romeo and Juliet among them.
I hear from my mom, a prolific reader, that Will had his
problems in the love and marriage department, according
to a fairly new book she just read, Mistress
Shakespeare. This historically backed novel says
the paragon of English literature married two different
women, his true love Ann Whateley ("the love of his
life") in London one day and Anne Hathaway back in
Stratford, the wife of historical records and mother of
his child, the next. Seems Will confused the chapters and
verse of his personal life some of the time, but still gave
us such exquisite poetry and dramatic quotes for the centuries,
it may be possible to forgive such transgressions-or is
it?
I'd love to hear your opinions!
Next time: Any Dick Francis fans out there?
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2:
We Went to the Races but Nobody Ran!
But it didn't matter, because the race course was Cheltenham,
the loveliest and most majestic track for hunters and jumpers
in all England, in my opinion. What makes Cheltenham even
more exciting, even when the race season is over as it is
now, is that it's the premier location for many of Dick
Francis' horse world mysteries. And again in my opinion,
Francis is the greatest mystery writer. Now that he's dead,
poor fellow, his son is taking over. Let's hope his style
and POV skills are as wonderful as his dad's.
I was so inspired by Dick Francis' racing world settings,
I set part of my latest Menopause Murder mystery in the
same part of England. It's called Hurdles, and takes
my six women sleuths to Cheltenham race course and on the
trail of the killer of their favorite horse trainer.
Although nothing big was scheduled when we were there, the
few service personnel there welcomed us gladly and allowed
us free rein-to sit in the grandstands, visit the private
high-snooty viewing rooms, see the famous Centaur Club and
be inspired by the beautiful grassy fields and scarey jumps
in this hunt-dressage, etc., wonderland.
Next time: Why we're living in a haunted house!
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3:
Why We're Living in a Haunted House
Chambercombe
Manor, on the north coast of Devon, England is reputedly
one of the most haunted dwellings in the UK. Just yesterday
a woman and her husband went on the historical, hauntings'
tour, and she told me later in a whisper that she swears
the chair she sat in rose off the floor, and it wasn't just
the crooked old floorboards that were responsible.
We've had similar experiences here, ever since our first
visit in 1994. The legends they tell on tours of the thousand-year-old
Manor house, about smugglers passing through secret tunnels
to wreck boats on the coast and reap their bounty, about
priests' holes, and skeletons being found in secret rooms
hundreds of years later, stuck with me and inspired my first
published novel, Moonrakers. I'd researched it for years,
and still do, and soon, Chambercombe had me by the throat.
By now, having stayed four times in apartments within the
house and being personally able to verify some ghostly happenings,
I'm hooked.
So every couple of years I come to visit, renew acquaintances
and do booksignings of Moonrakers and now my newest book,
Menopause Murders: Hurdles, which takes place partly
in the old Manor House, too. What better place for my six
feisty women sleuths to hunt down their murderer than here
at Chambercombe with its historical and phenomenon-boasting
surroundings?
In their gift shop in the tea rooms, the staff sell my books
year-round and perhaps that's why I feel like we're partners,
in some small way. Can I explain the strange happenings
at Chambercombe in the quaint Victorian resort town of Ilfracombe,
England? No, I can't. Do I know why BBC One came to interview
me here in one of the mysterious bedrooms nine years ago,
and the North Devon Journal came last Sunday to take my
picture in the dining room of the old manse or why ghosthunters
continue to see strange blue orbs floating around the lovely
gardens? No idea. Does Lady Jane Grey's short stay here
(when her father owned it) just before her disastrous marriage
to Henry VIII have anything to do with it? Maybe.
All I know is, the Manor will always feel like my home away
from home, and that's another mystery I can't explain. Which
is why I hate to leave after living for a week under its
very roof.
Next Time: Six Forks on the Table: for Foodies Only
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4:
Six Forks on the Table: For Foodies Only
It's high time we wiped the slate clean and gave England
its culinary due. The "most civilized nations in the
world" may have stuck to plain steamed vegetables,
bland curries, sweet tea and doughy Cornish pasties far
too long. But the times they are a-changin'-and we are experiencing
some pretty fine restaurants, dishes and cutlery arrangements
on our two weeks in the UK.
The cutlery, of course, is where they rank Number one. Take
your seat in a modest to fine restaurant-even a pub!-and
you'll find, for the two of you, tons of silverware requiring
directions for the order of use. Two forks on the left,
two knives on the right (although most Brits eat with the
knives and push the food onto them with fork!), then another
fork, a very large spoon and a smaller spoon across the
top of your setting. If you're ordering a fish, a fish knife,
resembling our large butter spreaders in the states, will
be included at various locations, depending on whether you're
dining at Queen's Head (Posh!), Smugglers
(Barely Do-able), or the Old Thatched Inn (a Modest
Middle-of-the Roader).
We ourselves started out at Queen's Head in Gloucester,
packed to the gills both times we went there, a menu full
of oddities (to us) but every bite delicious. Our first
evening there we shared a starter, two large Portobello
mushrooms stuffed with excellent Stilton cheese, bacon,
herbs and crumbs of some kind, toasty hot from the oven.
Then I had freshly caught (that day) Dover sole, grilled,
lightly sauced and accompanied by new buttery boiled tiny
potatoes, yummy broccoli in cream sauce, and buttered green
beans and peas. (The English are on a "Eat your 5-a-day"
kick, and the restaurants work hard to comply.) Mojo ordered
one of his favorites, fish and chips, and the cod stuck
out over the ends of the foot-long oval platter another
three inches onboth ends!
The second night he tried Roast Pork belly, something new
for us, and I avoided the lamb livers though tempted, and
stuck with fried breast of duck in mixed berry sauce. Outstanding.
In Ilfracombe I enjoyed one of my favorite desserts ever,
"Eat'n Mess." It is made up of a crushed meringue
cookie, mixed berries and sweetened whipped cream. Ironically
a few nights later we watched The Barefoot Contessa
make Eat'n Mess on her TV show (yes-we have food network
here!) and she said it was a hand-me-down from British boarding
schools. I can tell you it will be found in my kitchen back
home many a time in future.
Other dishes we enjoyed along the way were a shish kabob
smothered in shredded red cabbage, salad and garlic dressing,
and plaice, rolled around herbs and stuffed into steamed
individual leek leaves from the white end of the veggie.
Different, and surprisingly good. I also learned how to
make Scotch Eggs and watched a sausage maker in town make
chorizo that looked good enough to eat! I'll try that, too.
Hurrah for us gourmets-UK has finally caught up. If only
the Romantic Poets had eaten as well!
Next time: Where
They Lived - Authors We Love
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5:
Where
They Lived - Authors We Love
Visiting the homes of writers, especially in England, can
make for a full vacation experience. In northern England,
in what is called the Lakes region, we've visited many Writers'
homes, but William Wordsworth's stands out, because
William doesn't seem to have been a struggling down-and-out,
in-the-garret kind of writer. He was born and brought up
in a small but austere mansion, married and moved on to
slightly smaller quarters, then spent his final years (getting
paid) as the town postmaster in a charming house in view
of the lake, facing a perfect hill, where in spring you
can picture miles and miles of-you guessed it-daffodils.
Down in Dorset, toward the south coast, is the charming
home of Thomas Hardy, author of Tess of the D'Urbervilles
among others. The thatched roof, wild and beautiful cottage
garden, and the writer's own garret bedroom, with its tiny
desk and chair looking out a window, would be my choice
if I had to move to the UK. Hardy was a small man, and the
setting fits him. He's one of the laudable writers to have
been buried in Westminster Abbey in Authors' Corner, but
had requested that his heart be buried in his hometown cemetery,
to be close to the buried woman he loved and married. A
guy with heart.
Then, out west in Cornwall, is the intriguing home of
Daphne DuMaurier, set on the Fowey Estuary by the coast.
There's an odd feel about the home Daphne spent many years
in, trying to become a more serious writer. Her personal
life was a little bizarre and worth studying, but what she
did write so touching, I don't know why she tried so hard
to go beyond it. Rebecca, The Birds and Jamaica
Inn were all made into films by Hitchcock, which seems
adequate praise for the undisputed Dame of the Thriller.
D.H. Lawrence, my favorite writer of all time, lived
in the oppressive coal mining area of Nottingham in a flat
that mimics today exactly the setting you imagine for Sons
and Lovers-coal stove, iron bedsteads, Ma's handmade rag
rugs and crudely crocheted antimacassars, and a harsh feeling
of poverty under the polish. Amazing that such writing genius
could come from such harsh circumstances!
Here in Provence, Peter Mayle, a transplanted Brit,
wrote A Year in Provence, not so many years ago,
while living in the vertically challenged little town of
Menerbes, where our biggest claim is that we went to the
bakery there! Mayle is still here writing and living the
good life, they say, but the natives keep his address a
secret to spare the poor man! It was that writing, and beyond
A Year, which also became a movie, that tickled my fancy
for all things French. We've come for several vacations
varying from a few days to a month over the last ten years,
and just love soaking up the sun, the soft air and peculiar
light that drew so many artists here, too-such as Van
Gogh, Cezanne and Gaugin.
Am I inspired to write here? You better believe it. But
also inspired to swim, sunbathe, dine out (or in) and re-read
my favorites.
Want some inspiration? Pack your bags. Travel. Yes, reading
and imagination count!
Next time: Oops!
Yesterday I spent a "LittleTime" with the Chief
of Police
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6: Oops.
Yesterday I spent Some "Time" with the Chief of
Police!
No, I
wasn't in handcuffs, or checking out a lunch of bread and
water, or taking a breathalyzer test. In fact I was doing
what we primarily came to Provence for-interviewing a member
of the Police Municipale of Pernes les Fontaine-town
of 37 ancient fountains that we've come to many times. Since
my next Menopause Murder mystery takes place mostly
in Provence, I needed to find out how the French police system
works. That "finding out" is the research that got
me here and into the office of the chief.
I asked at the Office of Tourism in town, a mile or so from
where we're staying, if someone knowledgeable about the criminal
justice system here might speak English and be willing to
answer a few of my questions. A phone call was made, and two
minutes later we were told to get in our car and drive pronto,
no questions asked, to a particular address where someone
was to help us. We flew over, rang the bell and were welcomed
in seconds. Far from what we expected, this was no secretary,
new recruit or low level assistant set up to deal with the
nosy tourists. Instead we were welcomed into the office of-the
chief himself.
Now you writers out there don't think in stereotypes, like:
tall, dark and dangerous or old, boring and half asleep after
a noonday dinner of (mostly) vin and soup.
No, our chief was young, vigorous, forthcoming, intelligent,
blue-eyed and charming. And packed with all the usual scary
police gear-heavy pistol and holster, communication implements,
cuffs and other miscellaneous items that looked worth avoiding.
Chief spent lots of time explaining the differences between
the two main police forces in France, the national (or state)
gendarmerie, and the local police municipale. With great imagination
himself, he listened to my potential story-line and filled
in all the blanks, captivating me with his interest and charm.
Amazing how well we connected with his minimal English and
my even more minimal French.
What exactly did I learn? And where do the gendarmes come
in?
Sorry, you'll have to wait and read In Hot Pursuit
to know exactly what detailed differences in the forces will
affect my women sleuths', the Women on Fire, brouhaha.
I've interviewed other experts in their fields before, and
even other police people, but this Gallic charmer beats them
all. No pun intended.
It was forty-five minutes well spent-and it was free. And
so am I!
Next Time:
In Provence,The Early Bird Gets It all (or Nothing!)
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7:
In Provence The Early Bird Gets It All-or Nothing
Provence covers the earth from just south of the Alpes down
to the seacoast and eastward to Nice and the border with
Monaco. It's not a perfect place, but it comes pretty close.
Nature-peaked lime hills, endless kinds of trees such as
chalky white plane trees, flowers, vines and shrubs are
beautiful for about nine months of the year in an almost
endless summer. In winter a strong wind often blows off
the Alpes just north of the Vaucluse, the region where we're
staying. The wind is called The Mistral, after Frederic
Mistral who helped remake the territory by unifying the
many separate and occasionally warring small villages. Mistral
later won the Nobel Peace prize.
We've tasted the blustery wind for a few days, but mostly
our weather has been summer with a blazing sun and blue,
blue sky, making, as artists insist, for a unique light
to paint and see by. The people are warm and friendly, make
every effort to understand those of us who haven't grasped
the language yet. And even if we had, these folks wouldn't
understand us because they speak with their own "accent,"
one the famous Peter Mayle calls "soupy."
Remember Mayle? He's the guy who has sold five million copies
of A Year in Provence since it came out in the late
eighties, and six or seven other books since then.
Mayle therefore is often quoted about Provence. One of my
favorites is "…the bizarre notion of punctuality
is frequently ignored (here), and a minimum of two hours
required for a proper Sunday lunch. Wonderful. Long may
it last."
We can vouch for both the disinterest in punctuality and
the leisurely, comfortable meals. Often the local bakery
decides to open late, whatever the sign on the door says,
and don't be surprised, as we were, to get bounced from
a large supermarket at 12:30 noontime, when we were informed
they were closed for two-and-a-half hours for lunch. On
days we rushed even to get to the bakery early before their
noontime break, there was nothing much left on the shelves.
The earlier birds had been there before us. Who can predict
when the posted openings and closings will stand? When you
ask a native about such minor details, they shrug, smile,
and continue on their way, baguette or two in hand.
Yes, it's true that professional offices like doctors',
police, etc., are pretty much on time, but there's always
the chance that they will never get to serve you because
someone else got there earlier and they've taken off together
for one of those leisurely lunches. There are real estate
agents in town I have never seen open their doors, tourist
bureaus that gladly lock their doors on waiting customers
because of the lunch hour break, and restaurants, which
usually open for dinner at seven p.m., have frequently been
occupied only by Mojo and me for the first hour of business.
It's quite continental, I hear, to dine after nine. (Gives
me insomnia!)
One newspaper here featured a sentimental column one day
last week about who likes what in Provence. One contributor
talked a lot about the local produce, the wine and olive
oil made in nearly every hamlet, the cheeses and the daily
outdoor markets in one town or another. He also guesstimated
that the French gross national product would go up two percent
instantly if standard opening and closing hours were agreed
upon and committed to. Who knows? Would we miss the risk
and chaos we've often experienced as things are?
That may even be part of the reason such famous personages
as writer Camus, the misanthrope Marquis deSade, well-known
journalist and cooking teacher Patricia Wells, and her husband
Walter, former Executive Editor of the International Herald
Tribune and a few popes chose to live here.
But my favorites are the people. Yesterday we revisited
one of the cottages we rented in the past, searching out
the elderly lady who had lived next door, and who, we'd
learned at a later visit, had been widowed. We try to always
go by with a wish for her health and a trinket of remembrance.
She's woven lavender tussies for us.
Alas,
Madame seems to have moved. A neighbor picking herbs in
her own garden came by and tried to assist us. She was,
as our old friend was, short and round with a flowery apron,
deeply bronzed skin, light brown eyes and laugh lines on
her sweet face.
She had as much English as I have French, and was kind enough
to phone her son on a cell phone and allow me to speak with
him. He confirmed that our old friend is gone but he knows
not where, and he owns the house now. As we made to leave
our new friend looked so forlorn, despite my reassurances,
she shook her head and tried to apologize. I reached out
to console her, and at the same moment, she reached for
me. The traditional three-cheeked kiss ensued and I left
feeling as if I have a new auntie I can visit again in years
to come.
And another excellent reason to return to the Vaucluse,
my adopted piece of Provence.
Next Time:
Ventoux: The High Point of Our Trip and One Lost Love
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8:
Mount Ventoux: The "High" Point of Our Trip and
One Lost Love
Yesterday we drove as we have once on a past trip to the top
of Mt. Ventoux, the highest peak in Provence, and considered
geologically Alpine although it stands alone and not within
a group of mountain peaks. Because Ventoux is 6,273 feet high,
and most of Provence is made up of much smaller hills, the
view from the top is magnificent. To the north the snow-capped
Alps were clearly visible, and to the south, where the sky
is not as clear, a hint of the bay of Marseille reigns. Sometimes,
they say, you can see the Pyrenees.
Walking around in the winds of the peak is an exhilarating
activity, especially because the winds often blow at 200 mph
up there. Thank goodness, yesterday it was a little calmer.
But that makes the ride up and down around scary "S"
curves no less demanding. It's a tough road to maneuver.
Aside from the view, and the contrasting gorgeous forest land
on the way up and bare limestone surface at the top, Ventoux
is also fascinating because of all the bicyclists who dare
to ride to the top. In many years the mountain has been part
of the Tour de France, and a shrine to one cyclist who made
it to one-half mile of the top and died there from dehydration
and exhaustion, brings pathos to the roadside.
An older story about someone who hiked to the top touches
me as well. The writer-priest Petrarch, born in 1304-over
800 years ago-climbed the mountain when it had never been
done before. Then, as the stars would have it, he fell in
love, the legend goes, with the young woman Laura, supposedly
as they glimpsed one another walking in the woods on Mt. Ventoux.
(Another version says he first saw her in a church in Avignon,
where he went to follow one of the popes who chose Provence
as his Rome.) Laura, however, was already married, and their
attraction became an idealized "pure" love, but
one which endlessly inspired Petrarch in his writing.
He wrote over three hundred Petrarchan sonnets about his unrequited
love for Laura, complex and awesome works still studied in
literature classes. When Laura died before him, his grief
motivated him further to write, both of her and of his soul's
anguish. He also went on to collect and treasure aged works
such as Cicero's and Homer's back to the 1st Century. With
Dante and Bocaccio he developed and unified the single Italian
language.
Petrarch was known as the world's first Traveler, as he went
about traveling for the sake of seeing and describing new
places and their effect on him-an unknown pastime in those
days. When he died, a battle took place over his books between
Venice, where he had established his library, and Padua, where
he lived in later life-Padua won, although most of his works
are now scattered all over Europe.
I feel like a kin to Petrarch, though I hated writing sonnets
in his style in high school English classes, an assignment
given me to discipline my writing style and stick to an accepted
form.
As you can see, it didn't work.
As for Petrarch and Laura, I'm too much of a romantic to disregard
as myth the story of their unrequited love. And every time
I see the majestic, lime-topped Mount Ventoux, I thank God
that my love is requited and Mojo's standing close by my side.
Next time: Does
a Journey Like This One Ever End?
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9: Does
a Journey Like This One Ever End?
Returning home from another continent, through two countries,
three airports, and a month away from home requires a strong
heart, terrific legs and lots of muscles for hoisting that
luggage.
So we took our time, and made our trip home a series of
decompression chambers, starting when we left Provence and
our enchanting home in Pernes les Fontaines.
The first leg of the journey (after the packing part) was
much shorter than we had anticipated, but we still couldn't
make the morning flight out of Marseille and into England
and we had known we couldn't. After all, there was just
one more outdoor Saturday market to peruse, and they're
always the best kind. After checking out the cheeses, salamis,
clothing, books and toys, we drove through Marseille where
we had our first bouillabaisse and other seafood specialties
of the area and went through the French Foreign Legion Museum
on the outskirts a few years ago.
Then we headed for a nice Best Western Hotel very close
to the airport, where we'd be easily on time to make our
10:15 flight the next morning. On the way south to Marseille
we absorbed with a bit of sadness the typical lime rock
hills, various evergreens, beautiful bridges and country
churches perched on top of each village of Provence. Finally
we came to the famous Notre Dame de la Garde Basilica high
on a hill overlooking the Old Port of Marseille. Although
consecrated in1864, the basilica replaced a church of the
same name built in 1214 and reconstructed in the 15th century.
The current basilica was built on the foundations of a 16th-century
fort constructed by Francis I of France to resist the 1536
siege of the city by the Emperor Charles V.
But problems arose in modern times when the Florentine green
limestone used for the construction of the basilica was
discovered to be sensitive to atmospheric corrosion, requiring
an extensive restoration from 2001 to 2008. The bell-tower
of 135 feet supports a monumental, 27-feet tall statue of
the Madonna and Child made out of copper gilded with gold
leaf. Local inhabitants commonly refer to it as la bonne
mère ("the good mother").
In addition to the impressive skyline of this, the second
largest city in France, we were impressed by the Bay of
Marseille stretching out for miles away from the shore,
busy with large and small boats on this cool October day.
It is in these waters that the island of L'If sits, where
Dumas set his great novel, The Count of Monte Christo.
I wish we had had time to take a boat there, and visit the
island. Alas, we had to make do with the amenities of Best
Western, comfortable, but only a C- in the restaurant department.
The next morning we were on our way to Gatwick Airport in
England. From there we took a "national" bus to
Heathrow, where we located our next stopping place, the
Park Inn, site of our first night in Europe four`weeks ago.
We felt like we were traveling in circles, and in a sense,
we were.
The hotel was again comfortable, the food not so hot, but
the supper we obtained as takeout from a local Italian Bistro
was definitely up a notch. By this time we were juggling
the contents of our bags to cushion liquid souvenirs (I'm
not saying what) and keeping our suitcases under the allowable
limits. (To our surprise we made it.)
We spent part of the evening thumbing through maps and brochures
we had acquired, and assessing our time away. It felt melancholy
to be leaving so many charming places. But during the ride
home, our hearts turned more and more to where we live full-time.
Would there be lots of mail? Was the e-mail oozing out of
the computer? Would the souvenirs survive and the laundry
take all week? Yes, yes and yes. That's why it's taken five
days to conclude my meanderings about this writer's trip
abroad.
Now that jet-lag is simmering down, (or is it "up"?),
I'm ready to get back to In Hot Pursuit and make
use of all the research I was able to gather. So this trip
has not ended. Somehow, somewhere, it will live on, between
the covers of my next Menopause Murder or beyond.
We writers have a gift in that: our trips, our lives, our
loves resist ending. And that's just fine with me.
Thanks for joining me on my way. Bon journée on yours!
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