This is my second time of writing this. I am sitting on a veranda, in the sunshine, and I merrily typed on my keyboard while not being able to see my screen. When I checked what I had written, it was all in Hebrew script! It made no sense, because I had used English spellings, so it was a complete waste of time. I shall start again—in English…
It’s the end of July, and we have joined the family in Jersey. We rented a large Airbnb in St Martins, and as I write I can see the sea over the tree tops, and hear birds singing, a dog barking, and not much else. It’s very peaceful. We’ve never visited Jersey before. It’s part of England, so wonderfully familiar, yet not attached, so it feels slightly different. Driving, language, currency is all like home—but the island is quite small and very well-kept, so very pretty. The sunshine helps of course.
We haven’t done much, and various family members have worked (online) on different days, which has worked well in the house which is big, with rooms people can escape to or meet for (loud) chats depending on their mood. The days have passed much too quickly—walking next to the coast, visiting castles, eating lots of cake. One day we rode on an amphibious vehicle to a nearby island. Husband and I sat in a secluded garden and drank coffee while the others watched canons being fired.
Today we went to the tunnels—built during the German occupation by their war prisoners. There were shocking signs announcing that the the government had decided to not, ‘repeat not’ defend the island when the Germans attacked. Can you imagine how it would feel when the islanders read that for the first time? The tunnel displays showed what life was like under German occupation, much was sad (they killed all the cats and dogs because there was no food for them) and some things were practical, just getting on with life during difficult circumstances. It makes you question your own core beliefs—how would you behave when compliance with the enemy would enable food for your children? I had previously thought I would definitely be part of the resistance movement—no one forces a Thompson to do things. But some of the soldiers were 14. Big children. I don’t think I could have been involved in killing kids, even if they were the enemy.
Today we plan to visit the zoo. This deserves it’s own post (it’s an excellent zoo) so I will write some separate blogs when I am home. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Things I Heard in Jersey/Only in a Family:
Is someone watching a video in the bathroom?
Don’t throw rocks at your brother.
I’ll give £5 to anyone who can hit him with a pebble.
Let’s get the curry, the linguine and the roast dinner, and then share them.
Stop trying to open the car door—that’s not our car!
Don’t open the flip-top bin with your foot, you’ll break it.
Please can we have a designated quiet area in the house?
(When playing Code Names): Oh great, that’s just what you want your vocal and dominant teammates to say…
Your washing is all over the lawn; let me introduce you to the peg basket.:
Hello, you may remember from last week’s blog that we had trouble getting home from Italy. After a week in the Italian alps, we packed ready to catch our flight home on Sunday. At 3am we received a message from BA saying our flight was cancelled (there had been storms in London and the plane did not arrive in Italy ready to take us back). We therefore booked into a hotel in Milan, and waited for our rescheduled flight on the following Tuesday. (Yes, Tuesday.) The hotel was lovely, and we had internet, therefore although inconvenient it wasn’t the end of the world, we could both work, there are worse things in life.
However, by Tuesday I was SO ready to go home. There was a limit to how useful my work was without my computer (I could access the library on my phone, but reading theology books on a phone is not quite as easy as reading them on a large screen). The weather was really hot, so although we were near Milan, a hot hour on a train to get to the centre, followed by tourism in an overheated city, was very unattractive. So we stayed in the hotel–literally inside the hotel. Which after two days made me a bit desperate for fresh air (but when I ventured outside, the air was thick with fumes and it was so very hot, it was not ‘fresh’ at all!)
Tuesday morning, we packed our things ready to go home. I joked with Husband about how I had mixed my clean and dirty clothes before, and this time I wondered whether I should try to keep the not-too-dirty ones separate…just in case… But I didn’t. Although I did decide to keep snacks and water bottles, thinking I would discard them at the very last moment.
We left the hotel and entered the stale-aired chaos of the airport. Too many people, concentrating on pulling luggage, avoiding other travellers, signs flashing, noisy tannoy, watching the red letters on the information board, keeping track of my valuables, ignoring the smells of fast-food outlets, and perfume, and bodies, trying to balance on the escalator. Much too much noise and smell and stress. (I am not a happy traveller.)
We checked in and left our bags. BA had moved us down a group when it reissued the tickets, so we requested to be put back into the group we had paid for (Group 4–so nothing fancy, just not left until the very end when all the overhead lockers would be full.) The kind person at check-in moved us into Group 3. We walked to the gate. Due to Brexit (so much I could write) we have to go to passport control via separate screens, entering details about visas and right-to-stay, which adds another long queue to enter and depart Europe. We eventually arrived at the gate, waited to board.
We boarded the flight pretty much on time. Then we waited. There was a fault on the aircraft; an engineer was sent. We waited. After a couple of hours (yes, hours) they brought round cans of drink and biscuits. At one point they warned us the lights and air-con would turn off, as they were ‘switching everything off and then restarting the system.’ This reminded me of my son’s advice when my computer won’t work. It did not bode well. After about 4 hours, we were told they couldn’t fix the fault, we should collect our luggage, and we would be sent to hotels and contacted about new flights. Super.
We went back to the terminal (via the annoying extra queues because of Brexit) and collected our bags. There was no one with a sign telling us what to do or where to go. I went to security, and they suggested I should go to the BA lounge. There was a BA representative, but he did not make his presence obvious, and certainly did not make any announcements. If I had been travelling alone, I would have felt very insecure. I chatted to a couple of passengers who were travelling alone, and told them the information I had. When we left, I went via the lounge and told them they should send someone with a sign to the arrivals hall, because people did not know what to do. I’m afraid the bossy-school-teacher is still in me.
However, I was not alone, and 40ish years ago, I chose wisely. As soon as the flight was delayed, Husband had looked online for other flights leaving Milan. The instant they announced our flight was cancelled, he booked tickets on the flight the following day, and rooms back at the Sheraton. I suggested that if the flights BA sent were better, maybe we should use those? He made non-committal noises.
We returned to the lovely Sheraton. No clean clothes, yuk. But I still had water and snacks. We got to our room sometime after midnight. A message from BA arrived. They offered us tickets at 5am the following mornings (so after maybe 3 hours sleep) to Zurich. Yes, Zurich. We would then spend 12 hours in Zurich airport, and catch the evening flight to Heathrow. We declined, and requested a refund.
Wednesday, three days after our scheduled flight, we returned to the airport. The flight was delayed, which worried me, but after about an hour, we taxied to the runway. We made it home. It was so lovely to finally arrive, to see the animals, to unpack, to have clean clothes and my own bed. In the grand scheme of things, a few days in Europe staying in a hotel is not so bad. But something about being in limbo, of not being able to do things we have planned (I missed the funeral of a friend, for example) was very unsettling. We have our plans, and we like things to be normal. Normal is something to be valued, but we often don’t notice it until it’s missing.
Hoping you have a nice ‘normal’ week this week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
It’s holiday season, so we escaped to Italy for a week. We did very little, so enjoy the photos (but the diary is possibly not worth reading unless you want to see what doing nothing in Italy means!)
A Week in the Italian Alps
Taxi 5:30. Flew BA to Milan from Heathrow. Now, I don’t book the flights, therefore I have no right to criticise. But I would like to say that there are nearer airports, and cheaper flights, and I am not convinced that BA are the best. But that is just my opinion (and mostly I am just grateful that I don’t have to book the flights.
Picked up a Fiat, drove to La Thuile. Apartment opposite Montana Lodge (nice). It overlooks the glacier from the front, and the meadow from the back, so wherever you sit is beautiful.
Dinner in La Grotta, and we had to sit outside, which is not my favourite thing (insects always bite me). Husband had cheesy starter and cheesy main. A LOT of cheese.
Each day began in the same way: I open the shutters and windows, in rushes the crisp cold air, the sound of cow bells from the forest, the smell of pine trees. I make coffee and sit on the balcony reading my little Tanakh. Lovely. Later we have a second coffee and croissant on balcony. No kettle but hob super fast for boiling water. I hadn’t realised the advantage of convection hobs before, they are very space-age.
Our days varied, but we never did very much, we just returned to the places we have enjoyed on previous visits. Walked up to river (the little local shop we used on previous holidays has closed).
I did some washing (yaay). I do like having a washing machine on holiday (this is not sarcasm, I actually do).
Mostly we ate at La Grotta, but it’s closed on Tuesdays–many places were closed on Tuesdays. Actually, most places haven’t even opened for the season yet—coming before July is very quiet, which is mostly good but does limit restaurant choices. We managed to book dinner at Lo Tata. Very lovely. We shared a cheese and meat platter, drank wine and beer. I then couldn’t eat all my spagetti, and received an angry scowl from the owner!
One day we drove to the most beautiful valley in the world. Still beautiful. It was early, so not too hot (excellent) but we got entangled with a herd of cows going to be milked, on a narrow path next to the mountain edge. They were very big (a bit worrying). Made it back unscathed.
It’s hot and cloudy. Thunder is rolling round the mountains and odd spots of rain fall occasionally. Some evenings the storm passed over the valley, which made walking to restaurants rather damp (the day that we had hail, Husband drove, but mostly we walked unless it was too wet).
We returned for dinner in Lo Tatà again. It was busy. They put different parties on shared tables. Boss lady wouldn’t allow Husband to mix meat dish and pasta dish (‘In Italy this is not possible.’) I thought maybe she was joking, both were available on the menu. But no, she refused to serve them at the same time. He switched to a more Italian-acceptable order. Nice food.
Saturday was a sort of nothing day. I started to pack, we strolled around Gollet and found the restaurant (now closed and overgrown) where we enjoyed an unexpected lunch a few years ago. We watched several lorries unload sheep onto the meadow, then different lorries collected most of them. We tried to guess why. (A sale place? Switching to Swiss lorries? A respite break?) They were still there the next day.
There were storms in the evening again, but it was dry enough to walk to La Grotta for dinner. Nice to be back somewhere familiar with no scary Italian women checking our behaviour!
I finished packing, set alarm for 6 am, went to sleep. It has been a lovely week, and now I am ready to go home. I miss my animals and my books, and just being at home with the routine of days. (Sometimes I wonder if I am slightly autistic, I prefer routine.)
Sunday
Husband woke at me at 4am to say BA had cancelled our flight and put us on one Tuesday evening. I was so sleepy, I couldn’t think. There was opportunity to try to get on an earlier flight, but I needed to decide quickly. I was too sleepy. I didn’t have my diary, but thought I could probably stay if I could extend the animal care for an extra couple of days. But I wouldn’t know that until England was awake, which would be too late for quickly booking an earlier flight. Chicken-and-egg situation. And I was SO sleepy. Agreed I would get the allocated flight.
Then it was difficult to get back to sleep. Put a load of dirty clothes in washing machine (not enough socks for the extra days!) Sort of dozed until 7.
We left apartment and drove to Malpensa airport. Three hours, good run. Returned hire car. Then we headed for the terminal, pushing cases that never roll straight, avoiding crowds of other passengers, into the noise of electronic announcments, flashing advertisement boards, flicking flight information. Just being there, bombarded with stale air and too many people makes me feel tense. Then, just as I braced for a difficult route towards the hotel, there it was. Before we even entered the main terminal, there was a sign, and electric doors opened before us, and whoosh, we were in an atmosphere of cool air and calm.
Checked into Sheraton Milan Airport (Husband had booked it as soon as he heard about our flight). It was very easy. I did not know such places existed. I shall seek airport hotels whenever we travel now.
Hotel is nice. Big. Quiet. We have access to the club lounge due to Husband-who-travels gold card. They have nice drinks and snacks. Our room is okay. Weather hot (35°) so we’re staying inside.
Went for a stroll around airport terminal. Husband ate a Pret. Looked at art in the foyer. This was really good—portraits made from buttons, drink cans, circuit boards. If you zoom in on the photos you will see how clever they are.
Dinner (small one) in the lounge (a bit crowded). It was okay (I wasn’t really very hungry). In room, phoned family.
Monday
I was really tired, so slept well.
We went to the exercise room, 20 minutes on a treadmill. Then breakfast . Fresh orange juice was €8, so we stayed with the free stuff! There was a trolley of take-away fruit, with little paper bags. Very nice touch. I had an apricot (nice).
We both worked in the morning, then went into terminal for Pret sandwich (never nice). Husband had online meetings all afternoon. These are always very loud, and (not unreasonably) he uses the only desk and chair. I was therefore somewhat dislocated. It was too hot for tourism. I went to the executive lounge (free with Husbands card) and tried to work. Tired, so switched to watching Bridgerton on my phone.
Then they brought in some food I had a glass of red wine. I sat there, Hebrew grammar book on the desk, watching Netflix on my phone, nibbling parmesan cheese dipped in honey and sipping red wine. Not too much to complain about. Now have a headache.
We checked in for flight tomorrow. I so want to go home…
Thanks for reading. I hope any unexpected problems that happen this week are easily resolved.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
PS. Things did not go as smoothly as hoped. I will write a post for next week!
Texas Farmhouse is an unfortunate name. A wooden house, with dim lighting, far from the nearest town, evokes images of ‘The Texas Farmhouse Massacre.’ (A very slight modification of the film name, which I have not seen, but kind of evokes an unsettling image.) I think the furnishings don’t help. There are austere-looking people gazing from the walls, and although I have similar photos of my own ancestors at home, not knowing these grim people, and feeling nervous, makes for a bad combination.
The ‘farmhouse’ (‘log cabin’ is more accurate) is furnished with historical artifacts so it sort of feels like living in a museum exhibit. They have also tried to make things ‘more old’ by scraping off paint, not removing grime from sinks—which to me seems very inaccurate. ‘Old’ does not equate ‘dirty’ and I’m sure the original occupants would have repainted things when they needed it, and kept their sinks clean and free from rust. There are some concessions to modern living (indoor bathroom and modern plumbing and air/con, heating system). I think it would be nicer if they had also removed rust and grime from the sinks. But we are getting used to it.
The first morning we discussed changing our plans, and abandoning the cabin. We would lose our fee, but if we weren’t going to enjoy it, what was the point? But we have now settled into ‘camping’ mode—ignoring the grubby parts and enjoying what is lovely. And there are lovely parts. Yesterday evening, as we sat in rocking chairs on the veranda, sipping red wine, enjoying the peace, it was perfect. Leaves rustled in the breeze, birds sang, the spanish moss swayed on the ancient trees.
There are also animals, which I love being near to. We found a field nearby with deer, which came up to the fence to greet us. There were also bison, huge shaggy bodies squarely facing us as they decided whether we were interesting. Then they walked towards us, one deliberate step after the next, slowly coming towards the fence. (We were quite happy to have a fence between us—I don’t know much about bison). An emu appeared, and did a sort of dance next to us (which may or may not have been aggressive—if it was a cockerel I would have been wary, but it’s hard to feel threatened by a bird which has a perpetual smile). It followed us along the fence line as we continued our walk.
Then there was screaming, or a siren—something loud and urgent, which made us stop and look, and worry about whether we should be running towards or away from the noise. It ended with a definite animal noise, and a he-haw that we recognised as ‘donkey-noise.’ Out from the trees, our side of the fence, ran a donkey. It looked very cute, but something about the noise had sounded aggressive, so I wasn’t so sure. Husband assured me it just wanted to be fed, I thought it was warning us away. We walked on, it followed, although never got very near. A second donkey appeared, and they both followed us. It was a shame, because it stopped me wanted to stay and watch the fenced animals. That’s the trouble with animals you don’t understand—it’s hard to know what might be dangerous. (Later, I looked online to see whether donkeys are ever aggressive. The main result was newspaper articles about a mayor in Texas who had been killed by a donkey on his ranch. This was not reassuring.)
Other than the scary donkeys, it was a lovely walk. That, and the wine-on-the-veranda moment encouraged us to stay for another day. I like staying in weird places (for short periods). It’s less comfortable than the ubiquitous modern motels, but also more interesting, something that builds memories. And if we get killed by donkeys—well, it’s a pretty unique way to die and probably better than hooked to machines in a skyless hospital room, isn’t it?
Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog. Take care (and avoid haunted houses). Love, Anne x
Btw, I have since done more research into donkeys, because there were loads of them in Texas. Apparently, they make very good guards and keep foxes and coyotes away from livestock. So people keep them to protect their sheep, flocks. I’m now trying to persuade Husband that we need a donkey to keep foxes away from my birds. He is not yet convinced.
We drove from New Orleans to St, Martinsville. I was desperate for a washroom when we arrived. It was Sunday, in a sleepy town there were not many options. We tried to buy coffee in a Mexican restaurant, but they said they did not serve coffee. (They may not have understood us.) We bought a couple of bottles of coke. I asked if I could use the washroom. Relief! Now, it might seem strange to begin a travel blog with washroom details, but that will only be if you are not an older female who has had children. Age and children muck up bladders, and this can become something of a hindrance to travel. However, usually it’s not a problem in the US, as there are usually plenty of restaurants with washrooms (you just have to drink a lot of coffee, because they are only for customer use).
We were in St. Martinsville because the guide book told us there was a famous oak, a famous square, and an eternal flame. The people who we spoke to in the street seemed unaware of this. We did, eventually, find the oak, and the square (which was not really identifiable as a square) and the eternal flame (which could be seen by walking across some grass and peering through a fence). I don’t think they get many tourists. Most things were closed (it was Sunday).
We then drove, without much optimism, to the nearby Cypress Swamp reservation. This also seemed deserted. We parked and followed a pathway to look at the river. It was swampland, with wooden decks into them, and it was pretty amazing and very beautiful. However, the decking was low over the water, and broken in places, and I worried it might give way and we would plunge into the swamp water and be eaten by alligators. (Not that we could see any alligators, I think it’s the wrong time of year.) We survived, and took some photos. We could see large white egrets in the trees, getting ready to nest. It was beautiful, and peaceful, and very unnerving because we are foreign and not sure of the dangers. We went into the information hut afterwards. This is like reading the instructions of a machine after trying to work it out first. There was a helpful man, and information boards, and it all seemed very well organised and safe.
We drove to Lafayette and checked into a Residence Inn which are my favourite motels because they have a little kitchen area, and a shared laundry. I like being able to wash our clothes. We ate in a nearby restaurant, which had welcoming music, and comfy booths, and a very friendly waitress. I ate alligator nuggets, which were deep-fried and tasted exactly like chicken. Apparently, alligator meat is high in protein and iron, but low in fats.
(I think from my current study of Noah, that humans were told they can eat fish and ‘creepers,’ not all animals. I have not yet finished researching this, so I may come to a different conclusion, but currently I try to only eat veggie food or fish/‘creepers.’ I decided alligators are ‘creepers.’ Husband is not admiring of my food choices nor my theology.)
The following day (Monday 23rd Feb) we drove through Louisiana (LA) towards Texas. We passed flooded fields, and swampland, and vast green fields of cows. According to the internet, the flooded fields are for rice, which some farmers alternate with crawfish after the harvest. It would be interesting to stop, and see one properly. I hadn’t realised that rice was grown in the US.
As we neared Houston, the roads grew very busy. We stopped for food, and I asked the waitress for the name of a good grocery shop. Kroger’s. (It’s very hard to find supermarkets, because Google does not differentiate between the small garage shop with outdated food and the big supermarket that locals use.) We drove through Texas. There were fewer farms, and lots of industry: aggregates and oil. Some of the oil refineries were huge, the size of a town, filled with tall metal tubes and machines and nasty smells. Driving around Houston was no fun. Huge lorries, 9-lane roads, junctions on both sides, everything moving very fast, overtaking on either side, roadworks shutting lanes.
We made it, and left the main road for our next stop.
Husband had booked an airbnb on a ranch. Sounded nice. It took 15 minutes to drive down the dirt track. The houses were cabins, hidden in the trees, full of historical furniture. As we parked the car, we saw a wooden outside loo. I was silent.
We went into our cabin. It felt haunted, I don’t really like houses that have photographs of dead people on the walls (which makes no sense). The facilities were quirky, but there was modern plumbing, so I felt happier. We ate some food, and went to bed. No ghosts visited. I rather like the place now, it’s very unusual, but has good working washrooms.
It had a washing machine. Sort of…
Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog. Take care (and avoid haunted houses). Love, Anne x
Our last day in New Orleans was Sunday. We woke early (managing a sort of hybrid UK/US time, although the extra hour when we moved from Florida towards Alabama was brutal). We ran in the hotel gym, because even though we wait until it’s light, running in New Orleans would feel unsafe due to all the drug addicts—who I suspect are unpredictable when needing money.
We wanted to attend a church. I like attending local churches when away from home. Since I went to Spurgeon’s College (a Baptist college) I have definitely become less Baptist ironically, and much more interested in how different denominations express their faith. Most of the churches near us were black churches, so I checked with the hotel receptionist whether we would be welcome in a black church, or whether it would be rude to attend. She assured us we would be welcome, and also suggested we could try the local Catholic church—St. Jude’s. This, plus the information that the local Baptist church service would run to at least 2 hours, was helpful. We walked to St.Judes.
The walk to church typifies New Orleans for me. The roads were big, but easy to cross because traffic stops at crosswalks. The streets were fairly busy, with a mishmash of people—many with dyed (blue/green/pink) hair, many looking smart, music seeping from doorways. Lying on the hard tarmac, huddled under old coats because the weather was chilly, were the homeless. There was a police convoy, stopping traffic as floats from Mardi Gras swept past—going I guess into storage until next year. The floats were bright, huge figureheads, painted fences to enclose the people who would ride on them.
As we neared church, I saw a couple of people, sleeping with blankets pulled over their heads, bare toes peeping out from under the cover. It was sad, sadder for some reason than the homeless that I see in London—perhaps because there are places they can go to if they choose, and here I don’t know what their options are. Plus so many were young men, thin faces and blank eyes, ravaged by drugs. It broke my heart. I wanted to lay my jacket over them, but Husband stopped me, said it would probably be sold for drugs, better to donate money to a charity that could help them properly. But it was sad. As we arrived at the church I felt very near tears. I kept wondering where God was in this city, wondering who was working for him to help these people.
The church was welcoming when we entered. We are not Catholics, and much of it was completely confusing, everyone else seemed to know what to chant at intervals, which responses to give. It was a big church, packed with a whole variety of people—many were very smart, posh clothes ladies wearing hats and heels, some were casual, some looked like they had wandered in from the street in search of somewhere warm to rest. The choir were dressed in white and processed down the aisle to signify the start of the service. Most were fairly old, and they wore fez-type hats. All the church wardens wore red gowns, which helped to know who was an official. There was a brass band, and the songs all had a Kum by Yah African-American spiritual-folk flavour to them. The offering was collected in baskets with long handles (like fishing nets) and after collecting it, they came back a second time, which was unexpected. (I think they were collecting for two different things, but it made me giggle.) The Priest gave a talk, which was short but I thought it was good—about Jesus being tempted and how people are tempted today by Power and Prestige and Profit (even the leaders). There was then a prayer asking that leaders of countries should behave according to God’s will, and for the good of the world not just their own prestige or the good of their own country. (But he did not name anyone specifically.) At the end was a little prize-giving for the women’s group (who seemed to do all the work in the church) and they reminded me of the strong women working in the Zambian church we visited. Then it ended, and people walked out, dipping their fingers in a bowl of holy water.
We packed our bags and drove away from New Orleans. I’m glad we visited, but it made me sad. There was so much creativity, a lot of carefree relaxation, a lot of excellent music, all with an undercurrent of heartbreaking sadness when you noticed the lost faces of the addicts. But we were only there for a few days, so my impressions might be wrong.
I cannot explain my first impression of New Orleans to you, I can only show you what I saw and try to describe my feelings about the city. It is not like any other city I have visited previously, and it felt sad, like I had entered a world read about in the past. A city I thought no longer existed today in our modern world of mental health care and intellectual superiority.
Arriving was easy—Google maps guided us along highways, bridges over vast rivers, lanes of traffic swooshing past the clogged streets of the city until finally, just before our hotel we were taken onto smaller roads, a brief moment of stress and traffic lights before arriving at the hotel. We’re staying at a Courtyard by Marriott—a nice reliable chain of hotels—you know what you’re going to get. We checked in, dumped our bags, went for a walk.
The pathways were busy, lots of colour, lots of noise. Mardi Gras finished this week, so we thought it would be quieter. Not sure there was anything quiet. There was music. Bands and piano music drifting from bars, trumpets played on the street, children using upturned plastic cartons as drums beating out a rhythm. It made you want to dance.
The creativity of the city is undeniable. There were poets, offering to write for any price. Artists with paintings hung on walls. The buildings were pretty with lattice work on balconies, strung with beads and draped with bright fabric. Even the people wore bright clothing, hair dyed pink and purple and blue.
But the sad side of the city is unescapable. People in drug stupors lying on the kerbs, on benches, huddled in corners. Homeless people carrying all their belongings.
There were the businesses I wanted to avoid: the photos of naked girls outside, the ‘first church of witchcraft’ the stalls offering tarot readings. We had only walked a few minutes when we encountered a naked man, and a shouting policeman, watched by a grinning crowd filming the spectacle on their phones. I didn’t see the crime—the drug sellers, the pick-pockets, the people traffickers—but I felt they were there.
The authorities were easy to spot, but I’m not sure what they were doing. We saw a few groups of National Guard—young men struggling in layers of uniform in the humid air, looking uncomfortable, as if they didn’t know what they were doing either. Mostly they seemed to be standing in a group, looking aimless. Some were walking, but they still looked a little aimless, maybe they had finished for the day, were on their way home.
I don’t know how to explain the city. It is somehow creative without being beautiful, as if all the creativity is too much for itself, and it doesn’t know where to go. Maybe for creativity to be beautiful it also needs boundaries, or it spins out of control into drugs and aimlessness. It all felt a bit pointless, as if the people there—the musicians and artists and entertainers—had forgotten what they were trying to achieve. As if they were searching for freedom but had become trapped not having any goals; trying to escape but unsure what they were escaping from or where they wanted to go. Overall, it just felt sad. I wanted to wrap it up and take it home, show it some security, the beauty of the countryside, the peace of routine. It felt like a city that has lost its mother, and it needs some care. But first impressions can be misleading. I will look further tomorrow.
After Sanibel we drove to a motel in Brooksville. I can’t tell you anything about Brooksville. We stayed in a Fairfield Inn (always reliable) next to a busy road. When we went for our morning run I was not worried about alligators (my usual fear when running at dawn in Florida) but we did inhale lots of car fumes. Other than that, it was good. We ate in ‘Glory Days,’ a sport’s bar, which is less seedy than it sounds. It served delicious espresso martinis, in proper glasses, so I was happy.
The following day we drove to Cedar Key. This is a small town, on the coast. It has pretty houses and huge trees full of spanish moss, and a LOT of tourists! It has had its share of hurricanes, and there were still signs of damage from Helene, which hit in 2024. The houses next to the coast were built on stilts. Pelicans had moved in to sunbathe on the vacant stilts, left sticking up like the skeletons of the demolished houses. Some of the buildings looked very unstable, although they were still being used so I am assuming (hoping) they are safe. It’s a very sweet little town, and I think it would be fun to stay overnight in one of the houses perched over the water’s edge. Maybe we’ll come back here on our return drive.
We left the coast and drove to Monticello. This was another quick visit, although we had booked an Airbnb so stayed overnight. The town was quiet. Very quiet. There was not even a grocery shop (just a few groceries at a petrol station and a market selling local veg) nowhere to buy fresh milk or bread. But there was a Mexican restaurant, so we ate there. I have never been to a Mexican restaurant before. I tried a margarita. Delicious, like slightly melted lemon sorbet. I thought it wasn’t alcoholic, and nearly ordered a second one. Glad I didn’t—definitely had alcohol, just bit of a delayed reaction.
We were the only customers (because we’re on an early clock still) but they were very nice to us, and the food was good. The restaurant was painted with scenes from Mexico (I assume—have never actually been to Mexico, so I guess they may have just been random countryside scenes). We enjoyed it.
Finding my inner Mexican!
The Airbnb was unusual. It was basically a single room, with a bathroom added to one side, and the conservatory turned into a bedroom. It was pretty, and convenient, and scrupulously clean. The owner had left beers and water in the fridge for us (I certainly didn’t need any beer!). It was right next to the main road, so quite a fretful night every time a lorry whooshed past, but for one night it was fine.
Woke tired. Decided not to run (which is a shame, because running in a strange place is always fun—it makes me feel like a local). We packed the car and drove away. It was a long drive, through Florida, across to Alabama. Next stop was Dauphin Island.
Dauphin Island is another place that gets demolished when hurricanes hit. To combat this, all the modern buildings were built on stilts. As we drove across the bride to the island, you could see the pretty wooden houses perched on their stilts, overlooking the coast. On the horizon were the hazy outlines of oil rigs. The island was pretty—similar to Sanibel (lots of tourists on bikes, well-kept roads, white beaches) but different due to all the houses on stilts.
We were too early for our Airbnb, so had lunch at a fish restaurant. The staff were very friendly, said we were welcome to hang around until our house was available. We shopped (had to leave the island to find a grocery store of any size, and I wanted yogurt). We drove to the house. It was unexpected—it was built on top of the highest stilts ever! Walking up the steps was quite a feat for someone who doesn’t like heights!
The back of the house rested against sand dunes, and behind the trees the sea glinted, so it was a nice place to stay (once you had climbed the scary steps). Not sure I would feel safe there on a windy day. There was a washing machine, so I emptied our suitcases and washed everything. Nice to be clean.
Before we left, we ran through the town. It was lovely, big trees shading the roads, birds singing, very peaceful. Then we loaded the car and set off. We drove through Mississippi, into Louisiana, to New Orleans.
I did not want to visit the US. I had read lots of scary things online about new border regulations, and how the border guards now check social media accounts, and insist on looking through computers, and how aggressive it all is now. Plus the news reports showing innocent people being shot, or sent to holding centres prior to being deported. It made the US seem like a very unwelcoming place, somewhere that did not want visitors, somewhere that I didn’t want to go.
But Husband had other ideas. Husband talked about the Florida sunshine, the ease of living in a country with diners, and clean motels, and empty roads. Husband yearned for another road trip. He talked about being retired, having more time, what was life for if it wasn’t to be enjoyed?
So I relented. I chose the books I couldn’t live without for a few weeks, and then put half of them back on the shelf because I couldn’t lift my suitcase. After a few hard work days of sorting animals and house, we caught a flight from Heathrow and flew to Orlando.
The flight was mainly full of families visiting Disney. The flight attendants wore Mickey Mouse ears. When we landed, the border guards did not wear false ears, but the mood was the same—they were friendly and welcoming, gave tips about which roads to use. Nothing threatening at all. Maybe other airports are different, but I did not find any change at all to arriving in the US, despite the news coverage. Our first breakfast was at Denny’s—a typical diner, one of the things I love about travel in the US. Food is so easy, service is friendly.
We collected a car and drove to Sanibel Island. This is always beautiful. We had a few days adjusting our clock to US time (slightly, we stayed on an early clock). We strolled along the beach, I spent some time studying and enjoyed not having to sort animals or cook/clean anything.
Sanibel InnLighthouseSunset
On Sunday we went to church. I looked online, and nearly chose the Community Church, because that was the oldest on the island, and it looked easy. Instead we attended the Congregational Church, which turned out to be excellent. Since being at college, my theology has changed slightly, so I was expecting there to be things I disagreed with, but I was raised a Baptist, I know how to ‘be’ a Baptist (and Congregational churches are basically the same). I chose this one because the website said they welcome everyone, and specifically listed race, gender preferences, marriage status—everyone was welcome. I like this. Some churches, in their statement of faith, choose to state that they are against gay marriage (and whatever they believe, this never strikes me as a welcoming thing to write on their website, which is usually the first indication of their church ethos).
The photo online: were flower hats compulsory??
Husband came. I wore jeans (may as well test the welcome anyone thing) and it was easy to find and park. Churches in the US are sometimes like shopping malls, although this one was normal sized. They had a brass band—excellent start. They had a choir—also excellent (although I don’t think people had to audition to be a member). The sermon was by the minister, and surprisingly I didn’t disagree with anything he said! He obviously keeps up with the latest developments in biblical studies, and did not feel constrained to keep to the fundamentalist line (like who authored certain books). It was also very welcoming.
As well as attending different churches, I also want to compare espresso martinis in different places. The one I had in Sanibel was very average, especially as it was served in a tumbler, and half the fun is in having a pretty martini glass.
After a few days we left Sanibel and drove to Brooksville. The plan is to spend a few days driving north, round the pan handle, visiting places like Dauphin Island and New Orleans, heading towards Texas. We’ll see how far we get before we need to head home.
Thanks for reading. I hope the things you dread turn out to be good. I’ll let you know about the other places we visit.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Holiday blogs are always written at the time, but posted later when I am home.
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
Anne E Thompson 