travel

A Walk in Ierapetra

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Husband announced he was taking me on a walking mystery tour. I didn’t mind the walk, but I didn’t especially want a mystery tour. Plus I had read all the same guidebooks as him, so I felt I knew it would be one of the few ‘sights’ in Ierapetra. But he insisted, and off we went, hat to keep sun out of eyes, sensible shoes for walking, nice bit of sea air, bit of a grumpy attitude.

The first stop was an ice cream. Very nice, I cheered up. I had a ‘Twix’ cone, and walked along the waterfront trying to not let it drip, wishing Husband would not take photos of me while I ate (so maybe still a bit grumpy).

I wondered where we were going, as all the interesting things are situated in the old town. There is the fort, which we run to every morning. Not likely to be that—I am not especially interested in forts. There is also Napoleon’s House, which I was quite keen to see, but when we reached the turning, Husband said we should keep walking. That also ruled out the museum.

We walked to the fort, then turned inland, towards the highlight of ‘the mystery tour.’ It was, if I am honest, disappointing. What had looked online in Google maps like a beautiful garden with a big house next to it, turned out to be what looked like a go-kart track next to a school. I later investigated, and it was actually a bike track, set out to teach traffic rules for cyclists. (The Greek equivalent of the Cycling Proficiency Test.) I could tell Husband was a bit flummoxed by how ugly his ‘beautiful garden’ turned out to be, so I wasn’t as sarcastic as I might have been. It was just a broken fence, with a race track needing some care, a few weeds growing in the dust. Not much of a highlight. 

However, behind it, hidden out of sight, was a more interesting feature. There was a deep, narrow canal, that led away from the sea, to a small lake. There were the remains of walls (looked Roman to my uneducated eye) and lots of fancy walkways, a coffee shop, art forms, a playground, and a lone fisherman. It was clearly disused, but at one time had been significant. But what was it? An elaborate lake for model boats? Too big for that. A disused swimming pool? Too deep and dangerous for that. A port? Not possible, as there was a bridge over the canal, so no boat would be able to enter from the sea. A mystery, even if an unintended one.

When we got home, I spent a long time trying to discover what we had seen. Other blogs described Napoleon’s House, the Museum, the Mosque, the Fort. Nothing about a weird lake next to a deep canal and Roman walls. And then, just as I was about to give up, hurray! I found it.

It had changed significantly from the original size and shape, but at one time it had indeed been Roman. It was a maritime theatre, the site of a Naumachia. The Romans had used it to reenact battles on the water, forcing slaves and gladiators to battle on the lake, while they watched. Hence the deep canal from the sea, the Roman walls, the lake. Obviously over time the size and shape of the lake has changed, but I’m guessing it was too big and deep to completely remove. There were no signs, just some cryptic maritime artwork on a wall. But how interesting. I wonder why it hasn’t been turned into more of an attraction.

We walked back, past Napolieon’s house (apparently he stayed the night here, incognito, leaving a note revealing his identity to be found the following morning). People were smaller in those days. I wonder if the Roman theatre was still a feature in Napoleon’s time, or if he missed it too. Strange how history is in layers of time.

We finished the walk with another coffee next to the beach. In my experience, Crete involves eating a lot of yogurt, and drinking lots of good strong coffee (not together, obviously). Nice afternoon.

I hope you have an interesting week (and are less grumpy than me). Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Visiting Spinalonga—‘The Island’

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Several years ago, I read The Island, by Victoria Hislop. Although her writing isn’t really to my taste, I find her books interesting, and The Island described a leper colony, off the coast of Crete. I thought it would be interesting to visit.

We’re staying in Ierapetra, on the south coast (which is sunnier in October) so I shoved a jumper in my bag, and we headed North. It’s possible to catch a ferry from Plaka, which has free parking, so we drove there. The parking was free, the ferry cost €12 for a return ticket, which seemed reasonable, and the ferry ran every 45 minutes. We had just missed one, so we bought a ticket and then wandered up a pretty street while we waited. I needed a coffee and a washroom, so we bought some coffee (very good coffee) from The Pine Tree tavern. The washrooms were very clean (I think everywhere in Crete is very clean) and an espresso and an Americano both cost €2.50–which is as cheap as we have found.

The ferry arrived, we found seats, there was a short wait while it filled with passengers. The ride was very short. We came to a small harbour, with ferries from several other places. There was a ticket office. I don’t know why, but I had assumed the ferry included entrance to the island. Rookie error. It cost a further €20 each to go onto the island. I felt slightly cheated, which makes no sense because I would probably have paid €30 for a ticket on the mainland, but somehow the 2-stage payment felt like a trick. Next time I will do better research. A very vigilant woman was checking tickets at the entrance, and insisted on tearing them in half (even though I had wanted to keep mine—it cost me €20!)

Spinalonga is a popular tourist destination, and it was busy. This didn’t especially spoil it—it was still just about possible to imagine the patients who were taken there in the early 1900s, who managed to survive until their illness defeated them. It was originally a fort, and they destroyed parts of the structure (to the horror of archeologists!) to build a settlement. I read that it became a community, and people even married and had children while living there. The novel I read was not, apparently, overly factual (I think it muddled some events, which happened in different times) but it’s fiction—it’s not meant to be a travel guide. I think Hislop describes places better than she describes people, and I recognised some of the buildings described in the book.

I cannot imagine how it would feel to live so close to the mainland, yet be unable to ever visit. If you were a strong swimmer, you could probably swim across, it’s not far. To be forced to live in isolation, to have to restart you life amongst strangers, must have been unbearably hard. As I read the signs (most were about the fort, but there were a few facts about the leper colony) I began to realise how strong those who made the island better must have been. Some of the people made a community, improving buildings, seeking to enforce a structure to life. As I wandered through their tiny houses, and looked at the uncompromising blue of the sea, I realised that there is a lesson for all of us. Life will always have tough, nasty, times. We choose whether we will fold into ourselves and wait to die, or pick up the pieces that are left and try to make something positive.

We caught the ferry back to Plaka and ended up at the wrong harbour! It was fine, as the town is very small, and we wandered along the main road and decided to find some lunch. We chose The Carob Tree because it had a table of old men drinking coffee and staring at the world, and I firmly believe that local old men know the best places to visit. We were not disappointed. 

We chose a selection from the appetisers menu, with more coffee and a bottle of water. The Cretan Cheesecake turned out to be bread and carob bark, mushed into a sort of cake, with a local cheese and chopped tomatoes on top. It looked very pretty, tasted rather sour, and is definitely worth trying. My favourite was Graviera kantaifi, which was goat’s cheese baked in crispy shredded pastry, served with olive jam (which did not taste like olives—I don’t like olives). It was rich, and hot, and delicious.

We sat inside (near the old men) and watched the world drive past. At various points a van stopped outside, blocking the view, delivering fresh fish, or vegetables, or bottles of gas. It all felt very real and interesting.

I hope you have a good morning too. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

More Crete: What is a Tamarisk Tree?

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We are a short walk from the supermarket, which means we can buy things as we need them and don’t need to do a major shopping trip. It’s difficult to find some items, as we know no useful Greek (although I do recognise the letters). Some packets have several languages, which helps (but finding dishwasher salt was a challenge). 

The toilets are like the one in Turkey—you can’t flush paper. Which makes for an unpleasant bin-emptying job each day. Today all the water also stopped, which wasn’t great (not so much because we needed water at the time, more because we wanted to know it would be restored before too long).

We went for a walk around the old town. This was, from what I could see, not very old, other than a church which at some point had been changed into a mosque. There were some lanes, and lots of houses had pots of plants outside, which was pretty, but the buildings themselves are all very ‘rectangles-of-concrete-painted-white’ in style. Which is not so much to my taste.

The people are friendly. We walked past a little church with three old ladies sitting on a bench outside. They called us over, and tried to guess which country we were from, chatting to us in Greek (which we didn’t understand). They smiled a lot.

We then passed a cafe full of old men drinking espressos. My kind of cafe. We stopped, and ordered two espressos (which was good of Husband, who doesn’t like espressos but does like joining in). 

Friday

After a couple of days in the villa (Husband had interviews and I was tired, so it suited both of us) we decided to venture beyond the town. We drove along the south coast, to Monastiri Kapsa. The road was empty, only occasional cars passed us, it was very easy driving—even I could have managed it. The towns we drove through were all similar: concrete blocks painted white, the odd tree struggling in the rocky soil, a few shops, kids on bikes. Mainly lots of concrete, but lots of houses have big terracotta urns outside, filled with plants, which contrasts with the general ugliness of the place and makes it almost pretty. I realise this is very subjective, and many people would find Crete beautiful. But I like trees, and there are very few— mainly rocks and scrub. It is a very brown island.

At one point we passed a herd of goats, being shepherded by two men—no shirts, long grey beards, tanned bodies, fat tummies. The goats were sheltered in a cave on the hillside. I don’t know what they managed to eat, there wasn’t much growing, but they seemed happy. (I think goats are like ducks, they always look cheerful and slightly naughty. Maybe I should keep a couple.)

The monastery, when we reached it, was set on a high rock next to a gorge. I don’t think it was open for visitors. There was a little beach, with people swimming (not much in the way of costumes) and a few tired trees. The gorge was deep, and there was a goat track through the middle, but we didn’t walk it (too lazy). We drove back to the apartment for lunch.

We strolled back to the ‘old man cafe’ this afternoon. They have the best coffee, and they bring it with a bottle of water, which is a nice touch. As we sat there, looking at the beach, I wondered what the twisty trees growing on the beach are. If you open the camera on the Google search bar, it will photograph things and then suggest what they might be (I have never used ‘Google search’ before—it’s rather helpful). The search results suggested they were olive trees, which they are clearly not. It also suggested they were tamarisk trees, which matched exactly. I found this very interesting. 

Tamarisk trees are mentioned in the Old Testament. They are able to survive in salty soil, and they deposit the salt in their leaves, which then fall and make the surrounding ground salty—so other plants never grow near them. They are therefore used metaphorically for Israel, which was called to be a nation separate from other nations in the ancient world. It was fun to see them, with their twisty branches and bubbly cork-like bark and delicate foliage.

It often takes me a day or two to properly see a new place, and I like Ierapetra. It has a nice mix of tourists and real life. It’s not (to my eyes) pretty, but it has some interesting plants, and lots of friendly people. The pace is relaxed. It’s also very clean—there is no litter, the streets are cleaned regularly, and whenever I have used public toilets they have been spotless. If it wasn’t for the dodgy drains, it would be perfect.

I hope you see the good things around you today. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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October in Crete

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Crete October 2025

We arrived yesterday. The taxi arrived at 4.30 (I didn’t book the flights) and all went smoothly, so we arrived at the apartment early afternoon. We flew to Heraklion and drove down to Ierapetra on the south coast. The town feels slightly rundown, with white buildings and broken pavements, lots of cats and small shops selling beautiful trinkets. A first impression, so possibly will change. The apartment is right on the coast, with a balcony overlooking the sea, and a short walk to a strip of restaurants. There is a lot of touristy things (restaurants,  tourist shops, beach chairs) but mixed with real life—-a school, a few small businesses, a decent supermarket. I like it. The weather today is sunny (was stormy yesterday, when we arrived) with a fierce wind coming off the sea. I have not yet seen any mosquitoes, but the guidebook says they exist, so I am being cautious.

We have escaped for a holiday. I am hoping to do nothing. I want to read novels, nap, walk along the strip next to the beach for dinner, watch the sunset from the balcony. Husband has other plans, and a list of interesting places to visit. We shall see what happens. The one place I do want to visit is Spinalonga island, because I read the novel, The Island by Victoria Hislop. It used to be a leper colony (until surprisingly recently—leprosy was not a thing that died out thousands of years ago, it exists even today in places that don’t have easy access to antibiotics).

I am also reading a book of Greek myths by Stephen Fry, so I shall smatter my blogs with interesting ancient factoids. (I find it interesting how the Greek myths overlap with myths from Mesopotamia. For example, chaos is a feature of both, and gods vying for control over chaos, and over each other, as well as their reactions to mortals.) When various gods were sorting out the pecking order, Zeus was a baby god, hidden in a cave on Crete (not yet sure which one, but I feel sure it will be labelled somewhere.) He was raised by a goat, and as a toddler god, he snapped off a horn by mistake, This filled with wondrous foods, which is where the cornucopia, the ‘horn of plenty’ comes from. (This will always remind me of Beefeater restaurants in the 1980s, when we had less money and agonised whether we would eat the free ice-cream or pay extra for a Horn of Plenty dessert!) But back to Zeus: After he was a fully-grown god, and had defeated the other gods to be the most powerful, he needed to sort Atlas, who was a super-strong god. So he gave him the task of holding up the sky, to keep it separate from the earth. Over time, the strain was too much, and he evolved into a mountain (the Atlas mountains) and gave his name to a great sea (the Atlantic). People were so grateful (because no one wants the sky to fall down) that whenever they drew maps, they drew a little picture of him (holding the world, even though he actually was holding the sky). Hence an atlas. (More fun facts from Mr Fry to follow! ) I will let you know if we find Zeus’s cave.

Today we have just run along the path next to the beach, and wandered to a nearby coffee shop. So perhaps my restful holiday will actually happen after all. We shall see. I hope you have a peaceful week, whatever you are doing. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Disappointing Downton Abbey

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Disappointing Downton Abbey

My sister Ruth is staying, and we bought tickets for Highclere Castle, the film location for Downton Abbey. The tickets were bought online, and there was lots of information about Downton Abbey, with photos of the actors in the house. We wanted to visit the house because we have watched Downton Abbey, we wanted to see the filmset, to take a selfie in the library, to enjoy seeing in real life what we had enjoyed watching. We were not especially interested in the Earl of Carnarvon (who owns Highclere House) nor in seeing another stately home. I felt the website reflected this, it was aimed at fans of Downton. We therefore paid our £22 for tickets to the house and garden. We decided not to pay £75 for a picnic (no surprise there!) although we wondered about taking our own picnic, if the weather was nice.

The day arrived, and off we set. We had booked lunch in a nearby pub instead of taking a picnic. This turned out to be a lucky decision. The reality of Highclere Castle is rather different to the enthusiasm of the website.

Now, to be fair, the grounds are beautiful, and we had fun posing for the iconic view in front of the house. Everything was clean, there were washrooms and a giftshop and a tearoom. However, it was very much geared up to be Highclere House — not Downton.

My main complaint, and I feel it’s valid, is that no photographs could be taken in the house. I can forgive the rather rude women standing at the door who insisted (as if we were 12 years old) that we kept our phones in our bags. I can forgive the long queue even though we had timed tickets (the time made no difference) and the rather ‘herded’ method that we were trooped through the house. I understand why most rooms were cordoned off, and we could only peer from the doorway. The number of photos of the family was a little odd, because I assume very few people were there to see Highclere, we all wanted to visit Downton—that is what we paid our £22 for, that is what the website sold us. I understand that it is the Earl’s family home, but visiting his house is not worth £22 to me (or I suspect most other visitors). He had sold us a visit to a film set. He gave us a visit to his house.

But we wanted a selfie, standing in Downton Abbey, and I feel that to deny us that was almost false advertising. It was mean. I checked online, and after all the Downton hype, after clicking on the page to buy tickets, I managed to find a tab that stated no photographs were allowed. It was definitely nowhere near as obvious as the numerous signs (and strict ‘guides’ who basically seemed concerned only with policing the policy). It felt like a trick. I was also somewhat bemused to find that they also do not allow picnics (despite selling them) though they do allow them to be eaten in the car! Again, it felt the website was misleading.

I am sure it costs a vast amount of money to maintain a stately home. But Highclere Castle seemed to be presenting a false image to encourage visitors. If you enjoy visiting stately homes, I expect you will enjoy it. If you want to take a selfie in Downton Abbey, or picnic in the park—then I suggest you save your money.

We spent a happy journey home downloading photos of the interior of the house from their website and adding photos of various family members. I hope you enjoy them.

Thanks for reading.

Take care,

Love, Anne x

These were the photos we were allowed to take:

Very long queue–the timed tickets were not checked.
The outside bar
The dustbins
The washrooms
The sign (all about Downton!)

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The photos we were not allowed to take:

Taken through a window
Copied from website
Copied from wensite
Copied from website
Copied from website

I added the family members using clever phone. Therefore I have the photos of us in Downton Abbey–but not taken during the visit, which was a shame.

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Husband in Denial

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We have been married for a very long time, it has been mostly good, but undoubtedly I have changed during this time. If you are a long-term reader of my blog, you will notice that I have changed since I first began writing—for a start my hair is a different colour. I am aware that I have changed because when I meet people who I haven’t seen for a while, they do not recognise me, and I have to tell them to imagine I have black hair and am thinner—then they usually remember me. However, I am not sure that Husband always notices or remembers that I have changed. Often this is good. But when we go for walks, especially long walks in Italy, this can cause challenges. I don’t find adventures as relaxing as I once did.

Yesterday we went for a walk around a mountain lake. It was beautiful, not too far to walk, no danger of getting lost because we could see the whole perimeter. Lovely—but not without challenges. The first challenge was the lack of facilities—older bodies mean weaker bladders, and whilst this is not a problem for men, it makes for a slightly uncomfortable walk for women. 

Then there was the ground, which was boggy in places where the snow was melting on the slopes. It was very pretty, with steams of water flowing into the lake, but not so easy to navigate in my not-waterproof trainers. There was quite a bit of leaping over stepping-stones, which with my lack of co-ordination and balance is a challenge. (I blame this lack of co-ordination/balance on the brain surgery, but if I am honest, I was never exactly athletic. I did read somewhere that people should practise standing on one leg while cleaning their teeth, to improve their balance. This means I fall over a lot when cleaning my teeth). But it was fine, the stepping stones were not too far apart, they didn’t wobble, my feet stayed dry and I was quite impressed with how far I can still jump.

But then we encountered an area that was basically swamp, with no dry ground at all. It was caused by a large area of snow halfway up the scree slope which was melting fast. The ground above the snow was dry, and Husband suggested we should walk up the slope, along the line where the top of the snow met the scree, then down the other side. It was bound to be a disaster, but I decided it didn’t look too difficult, off I set.

I walked up the scree, next to the heap of snow. As we approached, marmots (groundhogs if you’re American) scampered off and dived into their burrows. How cute. The terrain grew steeper, and less easy to walk, but we were nearing the top of the snow. Husband is very good at offering his hand for the more difficult parts, and he usually goes first and suggests the best footing. But somehow I managed to be slightly higher than him, and I started to slip, and needed to use my hands to avoid falling. I just needed to climb slightly further. My face was now right next to a marmot burrow, and I felt I could hear them watching, just out of sight, gnashing their teeth inches from my cheek. Not so cute. I climbed higher, level with the top of the snow now, maybe we could walk along it? Husband tested the footing and slipped—no, snow is too slippery to walk on in trainers. I searched for hand/footholds in the scree. There was nowhere to secure myself, I started to slip whenever I paused, I needed to keep moving sideways. Husband told me to wait while he found a route. I told him (very calmly, no panic at all) that I could not. If I kept still I slipped. I started to make my way back to where we had started. Sharp thorns were sticking into my fingers, my feet were skidding, there was an Italian man below shouting ‘Allez!’ which might have been nothing to do with us, but it added to the stress of the situation. I crawled/slipped//skidded back down to the swampy land. Avoided being attacked by marmots (they were probably laughing). Found a big rock and sat on it, waiting for Rambo Husband to join me. He went off in search of an easier route. There wasn’t one. We were halfway round the lake, and decided that perhaps this was as far as we could get. Walked back to the car. More of an adventure than hoped, but it was very beautiful.

We drove up to the San Bernado Pass, into France. Stopped for coffee and crepe (and washroom—yaay!). This bit I enjoyed.

Today Husband suggested another walk in another valley. I said I did not want any scrabbling, off we went. We drove into the mountains, and walked into the valley. Gushing rivers with little bridges, meadows full of flowers, very beautiful. The path wound upwards. Not so good, but okay so far. Then the ground got boggy, more melting snow, more jumping across stepping stones. Then, while perched on stepping stones, we noticed cows—frisky ones—walking up the hillside towards us. Worried we might get trampled. Noticed a thin blue line of electric fence and felt safer. Under the fence dashed two large dogs, barking loudly, hackles raised—felt less safe. I kept my arms tucked in, and spoke sternly, telling them to stay down (hoped they understood English). They circled us, but didn’t approach. A farmer further up the hill heard the noise, called the dogs. Husband asked if we were okay to walk, he replied with a thumbs-up, we continued. The electric fence crossed the path. It was nearly too high, but managed to step over it (held onto Husband for support). Then a little further on there was another wire—this one was too high for stepping over, so we crawled under it, hands and knees on the gravel. Old back protested, took some nurofen. 

The rest of the walk was very beautiful, with stone bridges over bubbling water, and flowers and mountains, and all boisterous cows secured behind wires. But I felt a bit worn out. I do like walks in beautiful places, but I prefer less adventure. And definitely less scrabbling up scree or under fences. Being upright is very nice at my age. I don’t mind being older—I actually do not want to do the things that I did in my forties, I don’t want more children or to be worried about a career or to be planning to move house. Mostly I like being older. But as I cover my cuts with savlon and top up my nurofen for my aching back, I realise that I do not quite keep up with Husband anymore. I now prefer my adventures in books. I think I will take charge of planning the walks in future. They will involve only walking.

I hope you survive your day. Thanks for reading. Take care.

Love, Anne x

Happy Thoughts

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Today I was cheered by something I read in the news. In Devon, two young bears had escaped. The zoo quickly phoned the police (standard procedure) and ensured all the staff and visitors were safely secured into buildings. When everyone was safe, they set about capturing the bears. This sounds fairly easy. Apparently, the escaped bears went straight to the food storage area, ate a week’s worth of honey in two hours, then went back to the cage to sleep it off. I love stories like this. Who doesn’t love a good bear story?

Image from BBC website.

I feel we need some cheering news at the moment—the rest of the world seems very insecure. I understand that Europe has become very popular for holidays this year, because no one wants to visit America due to Trump’s stringent  border controls, and the Middle East is not looking safe right now.

Europe is nice though, and currently safe and welcoming (with variable food and weather, depending on which country you visit). We followed the trend and visited Italy. So far (two days in) it has been pretty perfect—though we did have bit of a worry the day before we travelled.

We had booked an Airbnb, which we have used several times, and they have always worked out well for us. This one was in La Thuile, which is our favourite place in Italy, and you will remember we have visited a few times in the past. However, the day before we were due to travel, the owner of the apartment contacted us, saying that the cooker was broken, so we were being offered a different apartment, further up the road. This was a worry, because La Thuile is in the Italian Alps, and a ‘bit further up the road’ might turn out to be up a long track, up a mountain, a long drive from anywhere. We asked for more details, and said that as we did not plan to cook, we didn’t really mind if the cooker didn’t work. Not much in the way of reply. Then some videos arrived, showing the new apartment, and directions so we could check the map. It looked fine. When we arrived it was fine, and the previous apartment was covered in scaffolding and had workmen renovating it. It looked to be rather more major than a faulty cooker! 

Another unexpected thing was our favourite restaurant, where we usually eat every night, was shut. No info on the website, no response to phone calls. We tried our second-choice. They replied saying the season has a break in June, they reopen at the end of the week. Unexpected. We walked down the hill into town. This was the day we had arrived, after a 4am start, and a long drive from Turin airport. I was tired and hungry (but still pleasant, good company, completely reasonable, as you can imagine.) We found a restaurant that looked nice, booked a table for 7pm, when it opened, walked up the very long hill to our apartment. I napped.

At 7pm we went back down the hill to the restaurant. We were seated in a sort of cavern, with an arched ceiling, and given good red wine, and tasty food, and all was very good with the world, Well, with our little bit of it. Felt very happy as we made our way back up the hill/mountain (felt steeper than before) to our apartment.

I woke this morning to a view of the mountain, white with snow, and the blue blue sky. I notice how beautiful the world is. We went for a walk, along Rte 12, which is, without doubt, the most beautiful valley in the world. The sun was shining. There were butterflies and spring flowers, and cows with bells clonking on the mountainside. The air was clear, We walked for a couple of hours, This is why we came. At one point there was snow, which had slipped down the hill, covered in mud but still white underneath. It was icy, hard to scoop into a snowball. The path was wet with snow melting further up the mountain, and the waterfalls, which will be tiny springs in August, were racing foamy white torrents that rushed down to the valley.

At one point there was a rumble, distant, a deep shudder. Was it a plane flying high? Thunder? An earthquake? Noticed there was ‘smoke’ from the mountain on the other side of the valley and at first I thought they must be mining. Then I realised it was a rock fall, stones rolling down the mountain (probably due to melting snow), I was more watchful after than—didn’t fancy a rock on the head!

A lovely day, in a beautiful place. It’s good to remember that beautiful places, and good food, and cute animals, exist even when it seems like the world is going bonkers. Humans have not managed to ruin everything, there is still some wonder in the world.

I hope you find something to cheer your week too. Thanks for reading. Take care.

Love, Anne x

Visiting The Saatchi Gallery

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We went to the Saatchi Gallery in London, to see their exhibition, Flowers: Flora in Contemporary Art and Culture. It’s there until 5th May, and worth the visit if you have time. My sister was visiting from Canada, and we thought it would be a fun day out, so we caught the train to Victoria and walked to the gallery. As soon as we left the main road the volume of traffic dropped, and we could have been in a country town—birds singing, flowers in window boxes, pretty houses clustered in Mews. I love walking through this part of London, it’s peaceful and beautiful, and full of history. We walked for about 20 minutes, then walked through the archway at the entrance to the gallery gardens and discussed whether we should have prebooked tickets. We hadn’t, and there was a queue for people who had pre-booked, and I wondered whether we would shortly be on our way home! But all was fine. I don’t know if it’s usually busier, but we bought tickets at the entrance and went inside immediately. (The tickets are £18 plus a £2 donation which would be hard to avoid; or £10 if you’re over 65 or a student.)

The gallery is open from 10 til 6 every day, and the nearest underground (in case it’s raining) is Sloane Square.

The flower exhibition is wonderful, and not at all boring (not even for me, who is not actually very keen on paintings of flowers). The first view was Van Gogh’s Irises which is huge, and purple, and full of Spring. It was placed on the wall, behind a sculpture of his Sunflowers. I am interested to know two things: 1. What is the correct way to pronounce his name? (I am English, so say ‘van-goff’ but my Canadian sister says ‘van-go’). Any Dutch readers, do tell which is correct. 2. Is the Saatchi painting the original or a copy? I went in circles online, and couldn’t be sure of the answer. It’s lovely, whether painted by—or inspired by—Van Gogh (/ff/o).

There were sculptures, and fabrics (and a small boy who had worn a flowery jacket and who looked as if he was part of the display—but wasn’t). My favourite was a painting, beautifully realistic but with long straight drips, which dribbled across the canvas and over the mount to the frame. It was bright and beautiful and incredibly clever, and the sort of painting you could stare at for hours.

Another highlight was the Rebecca Louise Law room (which had inspired our visit, as we share uncles even though we are not related). I have seen her work a few times, but this was different as it filled a whole room. It was like a gigantic upside-down tree, made from dried flowers, and we could walk through the upside-down branches, and stare up to the upside-down trunk, and it was clever and calming and brilliant. (It was also full of people taking selfies!) My pictures do not represent it properly, you need to visit if you can.

After enjoying the gallery for longer than expected, we went to a small Italian restaurant and ate lunch in the sunshine. Altogether a pretty perfect day out.

I hope you have a perfect day too. Thank you for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Simple beauty
Forcing my sister to pose!

PS. If you are Dutch, please let me know how to say ‘Van Gogh’ correctly!

Jamaica Warmth

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Thursday

I was tired, and I twisted my ankle yesterday when getting into the sea, so I walked rather than ran in the exercise room this morning. It’s a very good exercise room—everything works (not always the case!) and there are remote buttons to work the air-con and telly, clean towels, wipes to clean the machines, a water dispenser and rubber mats for stretching afterwards. I think it would be too hot to run outside (plus we would probably be hit by a car on the crazy roads).

After breakfast we went back to the supermarket to buy more water. It was busier today, with security guards at the carpark entrance (free parking for 2 hours, but we needed to get the ticket stamped in the supermarket). We looked at the shops in the small precinct. Lots of bright clothes, a barber shop, two book shops, a shop of spare engine parts. Plus a toy shop—which displayed white babydolls in the window. Why white? Nearly everyone here is black. Makes no sense to me.

After the supermarket we went to look at a ‘craft fair’ opposite. It was full of stalls, all selling the same thing (as far as I could see)—brightly coloured dresses and hats, fridge magnets, beads, knitted goods, carved wooden goods. It reminded me of a similar craft fair we visited in Zambia. All the stall holders encouraged us to look at their goods (even though they were identical to the stall next door) and asked us to name our price. I checked the price of their fridge magnets (in Jamaican dollars). Most were $1,000 (about £5) though some were double and some were half that price. One lady was nice—friendly but not pushy, and her price was $600, plus she had some nice wooden magnets rather than just plastic ones. I bought one, and asked for a photograph. She was called Dianna. You can look for her if you ever visit Ocho Rios—I liked her.

One stall had an open Bible on the table. I asked the man serving what he was reading. He told me it was a Bible, and he had it open to encourage good vibes. I felt like I should say something—to maybe encourage him to read it, or to ask him what he believed—but it felt inappropriate. Not the time for a deep discussion, and I thought it might appear intrusive. (I tend to react against the ‘scalp-hunting’ mentality that typified my teenaged religious experience.)

We drove home without incident. It was a fun little excursion, and I feel more comfortable now. I am used to being the only white person.

Friday

Another lovely day in Jamaica. After running in the gym, we had breakfast next to the sea. I had pancakes. The menu lists the food—so it said banana pancakes with caramalised banana and maple syprup. I have learnt that when I order food here, I need to include the whole description, otherwise half the dish is missing. (So when I ordered grilled fish and veg, I received grilled fish and veg—but not the potatoes or sauce listed in the menu), Today I forgot, and asked for pancakes. Therefore I received plain pancakes. Luckily I relised my error and snaffled a banana from the fruit plate. Nice breakfast.

As we walked back to our room I threw some leftover toast into the sea (I have watched other guests doing this). Lots of striped ffish (I think called Sargeant Major fish) scurried over (can fish scurry? These could!) to eat it. Fun.

We chatted to one of the hotel managers, who spotted that we are new guests (most people have been coming here for years, and the staff also tend to stay, so it has a family atmosphere). The hotel is relatively small (50 rooms) and there is a sense of space and privacy even when (like this week) there are no vacant rooms. It has also hosted a few famous faces (Marilyn Monroe honeymooned here).

We heard there is a deserted beach further along the coast, so drove there. Driving in Jamaica is quite an adventure—massive pot holes to avoid, while someone sits inches from your bumper (sometimes beeping) and drivers whiz towards you on the wrong side of the road. Husband is very calm in these situations, and we arrived without incident (but personally, I would never drive here). We followed Google Maps to Duncan beach, and parked on the verge of an unmade road, near to where some houses are being built. There was a pathway, towards the sea. It looked private, but we went along it anyway. At the end, a man was leaning against a tree, watching us. We asked if we were allowed there—was this the right way to the beach? He smiled, and waved us on, and said yes, we were welcome, have a great day. This typifies my interaction with people here—they have mostly all been friendly, smiley, and helpful.

The beach was narrow, with volcanic rock beneath the surface of the water—the water was turquoise, and warm, and completely clear. We walked along the beach for a while, looking for shells, finding washed-up coconuts, and saweed, and lots and lots of plastic bottles. In the sea, tiny fish darted (these were not the scurrying kind) and crabs scuttled away from us. It was very sunny, so we didn’t stay too long (I have already managed to burn one arm, which was very silly of me). We ate a picnic of digestive biscuits and water before driving back to the hotel.

As we drove, I tried to take photos, to capture a flavour of the place. This part of Jamaica (St, Anns/Ocho Rios) has some luxury resorts, and some fairly basic-looking housing. Everywhere has bright colours. Goats and dogs wander next to the road. There are a few places with heavy industry, linked to the bauxite quarrying. (Bauxite is a metallic mineral, and it’s the only source of extractable aluminium.) Bauxite is a soft red clay, and as we drove near to where it was being loaded onto ships, the road and trees were tinged with the red dust. I worry it might not be too healthy for people living nearby. I didn’t manage to capture photos of the fishing boats bobbing on the sea, or the children playing, or the animals. But you can see how green everywhere is, with lush plants filling almost every space, and trees covered with vines and air-plants.

I have enjoyed Jamaica, even though we have seen very little of it. Maybe next time we will do more touring, and try to see more of the island, but even this short week has given us a flavour of the place (and a warm flavour of rum and smiles). The service here is warm and relaxed, and you have to lean into the pace and forget the English schedules. Jamaica is a place to relax.

I hope you find time to relax too this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I am going to miss the fruit punch!

anneethompson.com

More Jamaica Inn

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I am beginning to relax into the rhythm here. I wake about 5, and lie in bed, listening to the frogs (which are very loud—they sound like the ceiling fan is struggling to turn, a volley of squeaks—they start at sunset and continue until dawn). At 6 am an urn of Blue Mountain coffee is put out on the veranda. It’s super-strong, and kick-starts the day wonderfully. Today as I stood on the veranda, looking across the palm trees to the sea, something wafted, very quickly, overhead, then disappeared behind the branches. Pretty sure it was a ghost, pale grey, silent, floating at speed. Began to wonder what, exactly, might be in the coffee. Then the ghost reappeared, did a speedy lap of the bar and library before floating back towards the sea. A huge grey bat. It was light grey, and much bigger than the mouse-like bats we have living in our garden at home. I don’t know much about bats, or whether they bite people, so I went back to the room. (Later research found it was probably a fruit bat.)

The library, sans bat.

I persuaded Husband to come to the exercise room, and ran for half an hour. Then we had a quick dip in the pool before breakfast. We have freshly squeezed orange juice, strong coffee, and a whole selection of food. I’m trying to not eat too much fat (many meals here, so bit of a losing battle). I tend to order mint tea, porridge (called oatmeal) and fresh fruit. Then I eat bits of Husband’s Egg Benedict or pastries or toast, and steal sips of his coffee. He has started moving his food further along the table…

Breakfast room.

There are activities here, which Husband is keen to investigate and I am keen to avoid. He has already made friends with some croquet players, and today he plans to go out in a boat and snorkel. I want to stay in the room, staring at the beautiful view, reading theology books. Today, by chance, I have started to read a book by J.Richard Middleton, about the image of God or imago Dei. He begins by explaining that as a white man growing up in Jamaica, surrounded by mainly black friends and neighbours, he felt unsure about his identity, which led to his research into the imago Dei.  (Genesis describes humans being created ‘in the image of God’ and people have decided this is what defines us—and they then argue about what exactly ‘the image of God’ might be!) It feels very appropriate to be reading a book written by a Jamaican, about an aspect of creation, while being in Jamaica, surrounded by Eden-like beauty. I will let you know what he writes (unless it’s boring—some theology books are best forgotten).

While reading Mr. Middleton’s book, a waiter appeared on the veranda, delivering drinks to the room next door. He asked if we had had our complimentary drinks, and said we are entitled to a free drink every day, after 11, from the bar. I’m not sure if this is true. He then said he would collect us some—would I like a rum? Well, it would have been rude to refuse. He yelled to the man in the beach bar, telling him to bring us a complimentary rum. (Husband had an orange juice. You can make a man retire, but you can never remove the accountant within.) I drank my rum. It was strong. Feeling very fuzzy. Mr. Middleton is now not making as much sense as he did 10 minutes ago!

Tuesday

We spent the day at the hotel. It’s too perfect to want to leave.

We have to dress smartly for dinner here—men must wear long trousers and a shirt with a collar. It’s quite fun.

This evening they set up the beach area for a gala. There were drinks on the terrace then a buffet on the beach. Lanterns were strung from the trees, and a band played. I had bit of a headache, which was a shame. They let us take our food back to the room—a waiter carried a tray and set up the table on our veranda with a cloth, salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins, glasses of iced water, a basket of fresh bread—as well as the plates of food we had collected. We could see the beach, with lanterns hanging from trees, and hear the band playing. It was a shame to miss it, but where we ate was still beautiful. This is one of the things I love about this hotel—they seem to genuinely want you to have a lovely time, there are very few ‘rules’ and if you prefer to eat alone on your private veranda, well that’s fine, and they will carry your food and set your table, and do everything they can to make it special.

I hope you have something special today, wherever you are. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x