travel

Meg at Gleneagles

Posted by

1


11/6/2024
We continued our journey north. After packing up the Northumberland cottage, we drove back to Cresswell for some exercise before our next long drive. This time the beach was full, lots of people and dogs, everyone out for their morning walk. We let Meg run free, but every time she started to run towards another dog, I called her back and waved a stick or kicked a pebble, and she stayed near to us the whole time, ignoring the other dogs. Some dogs ran up to her, and she was friendly, but always followed us as we walked on. She is very sociable for a German Shepherd—let’s hope it continues.

We stopped a couple of times during the journey, and Meg was very good—we were still on the A1, but it was quieter, and the stops were more peaceful. Early afternoon, we arrived at the Gleneagles Hotel, where Husband had a work conference.

The hotel is big, and beautiful, and it allows dogs (and horses, if you want to take your horse on holiday!) We could have taken Meg into our room (with an additional cleaning charge) but we thought it would be easier to book her into the kennels. I am cautious about kennelling a young dog—it doesn’t take many bad experiences to change a character, and I would hate for Meg to be kennelled next to an aggressive dog. However, this was fine. The kennels were more a room in a separate block, with individual locks, and beds and bowls provided. We were responsible for feeding and exercising Meg, and taking her out so she could toilet. She was the only dog inside, so no danger of being threatened by a dog-bully. Outside, were the hotel’s working Labradors, who barked every time we passed, but that was okay. The staff were friendly, and said how beautiful and friendly Meg is (I suspect they say this to all owners). They lock the kennels at 10 pm, so we needed to toilet her before then, and they unlock at 8am, and take her out so that guests can enjoy breakfast before taking over. That is longer than Meg is usually left at night, so I hoped she would be okay. We exercised her, and then went to prepare for dinner.

Dinner at Gleneagles is an event. They have two Michelin stars, and honestly, it is the most delicious dinner I have ever eaten. We sat at large round tables, with candles and flowers all around, and the waiters brought trolley after trolley, offering Champagne, then wine, carving a beef wellington, adding caviar to a cod steak, explaining the taste of various cheeses, preparing crepe suzettes with flavours and flames. I ate and drank far too much, but I only had to walk upstairs, so it was fine. (Husband kindly did the last Meg shift.)

Our room was very luxurious, though was quite a long walk from reception (I don’t think it was one of their better rooms!) It had a desk and two easy chairs, and a huge telly. There was a cabinet offering free tea and coffee, bottles of water, and shortbread biscuits—and a cupboard displaying over-priced snacks that we could buy. The bathroom had double sinks, and a shower, and a huge free-standing claw-footed bath. The loo was in a separate room. There were toiletries, and dressing gowns and slippers, and—most importantly—plenty of plug sockets for phones and computers. Unfortunately, the pillows were very fat, but I had brought my nice flat pillow in the car (because hotels always seem to have very fat pillows).

Our Room
Meg’s Room

12/6/2024
I didn’t sleep much—probably due to too much food and drink. I showered (marvellous shower—the water pressure wasn’t painful, but there was so much water a deluge of it, soaking me instantly). Went down for breakfast. Gleneagles has the best food. There was everything. We were offered fresh orange juice, and coffee, and I ordered buttermilk pancakes with smoked almonds and maple syrup. While waiting, we visited the buffet: displays of fresh fruit, and pastries, yogurts, cereals, every kind of cooked breakfast food, various breads and cakes. I filled a bowl with fresh strawberries (perfectly ripe) and Greek yogurt (perfectly creamy) and waited for my pancakes. Husband, who usually eats everything, restricted himself to sourdough bread with smoked salmon and poached egg, and another slice with bacon and mushrooms (proper mushrooms—hotels often use the nasty tinned variety). The coffee arrived in a silver pot, and we sat in a light conservatory filled with flower arrangements. Such a treat.

Dining Room
Breakfast Room
Posh Washroom

Husband then went off to work, and I returned to the room and was slightly ill (due to unusual food and too many nerves—because even though I can control my outside with lots of prayer and self-control, my insides get stupidly anxious when we travel. I tell you this in case you can relate—we like to hide our imperfections, but everyone has them, even in the near-perfection that is Gleneagles. You might think you are alone with your problems, but you are not.) I then prepared for the next day, and went to check Meg.

Meg seemed fine. I spoke to the kennel staff, who said she had been clean and dry when they arrived, and was pleased to see them. She commented that Meg is very quiet, which pleased me. We try hard not to respond whenever Meg barks, trying to teach her that barking does not result in whatever it is that she wants, training her to be quiet. (So if she wants to go outside, she sits quietly next to the door and looks at me… Occasionally… On a good day… Mostly she bounces at it, bounces at me, bounces at the door again, and then sits and looks at me. Work in progress.)

 I took Meg for a walk around the grounds, avoiding all the golf areas, and then, because I had been told that I could, I took her into the hotel. Meg walked beside me, over thick carpets, past all the guests waiting to check-in. We then walked along corridors lined with little shops selling expensive watches and jewellery and the sort of clothes that other, richer, people wear. The lights were dim, and the air was perfumed, and Meg plodded quietly next to me. I didn’t attempt the stairs, because we haven’t learnt stairs yet and I worried she might leap down them and pull me crashing behind her (which would cause quite a stir amongst the smart guests and the attentive staff!) We had a hiccup when we left, because a man had a Labrador next to the entrance, and Meg has obviously now decided that Labradors should be barked at (because that is what the hunting dogs in the pens outside her kennels do). So we walked quietly through the door, and then had a loop-out when we saw the dog. I calmed her, and managed to get her attention, and we left—not looking quite as professional as I hoped.

The grounds are beautiful. There is a vintage Rolls Royce parked in the driveway, and neat lawns with chairs next to an outside bar. Stone steps link various terraces, and low walls divide the lawns. There are mature trees and lakes with fountains and beds filled with lavender and poppies. In the valley is the golf course, and behind the hotel are tennis courts. An area to one side houses the kennels, and a caged ferret and birds of prey. Beyond the grounds are hills covered in heather and trees.

13/6/2024
We collected Meg from her kennel for the final time. It was noteworthy that she ate a lot last night—up until now she has eaten very little and ignored her chew. I guess she didn’t want to eat until things were familiar and she relaxed a little.

I have been very pleased with her. The kennel staff all commented on how friendly she was. Whenever we walk past the working Labs, they fling themselves at the cage wall and bark. Meg has managed to walk past them, not barking back (mostly) and concentrating on me and where we’re going. She has also been clean/dry for the long hours (10pm-8am) that she was locked inside. We put Meg into the car, and she fell asleep almost immediately.

Thanks for reading. I will tell you what happened next in another blog. Thanks for reading. I hope you have a good week.
Take care.
Love, Anne

anneethompson.com
*****

Instow with Meg

Posted by

0


Thursday 4th April

After a quick burst in the garden, I put Meg back into her crate and we went for a run. We’re very near an entrance to the disused railway line, so we joined all the other joggers, bikers, and dog-walkers, and ran away from town, level with the coast. It’s a lovely place to run. While Husband showered, I decided to cool down by walking in the opposite direction with Meg. I kept her on the ‘lead of shame’* (the slip-lead with a nose noose, which is loose when she walks beside me but turns her head if she tries to pull, giving me complete control. She hates it, but it keeps us both safe). I tried jogging with her, and it was fine, so I might take her with us tomorrow.

All went well until we came to a short tunnel. Meg had walked under a couple of bridges, but she absolutely refused to walk through the tunnel. She put on the brakes about 10 feet from the entrance, and refused to move. I tried to reassure her, stroked her, tried walking away and then approaching it again—no luck. A family walked past, and I asked if their dog went through the tunnel. They assured me it did, and suggested we walk with them. I tagged along behind them—same result. We were not going through the tunnel. I decided to come back another time, with Husband, and see whether if I go in first, she will follow me.

Another walker stopped to ask whether Meg is a Malinois. This seems to happen a lot. She’s not as tall as a Malinois, but while she’s going through her leggy stage she does look similar. The man was walking his own dog, and asked if he could give Meg a treat. She sat very politely while he fed her, but his own poor dog was most unhappy!

We decided to attempt a cafe with Meg. John’s Cafe often has dogs, and they have their own entrance, away from the grocery part of the shop. Husband secured a table and then let us in. I had a large chew with me, and hoped she would settle under the table and gnaw the chew while we had breakfast. Meg was wearing the lead of shame, so walking through the café was fine, and I put her in the corner. She was very antsy, trying to see what was happening in the café, so I switched places (not the seat—I remained on the seat and she remained on the floor! But I sat in the corner, and she sat under the table where she could see everything). After a few minutes she settled, and gnawed the chew while watching as other customers came and went. Other than replying when another dog barked, she was very good. Another first.

I messaged Sue, who leads the puppy class, to ask for advice re. the tunnel. She said not to attempt to call Meg through off the lead, as she might freak and run away. Nor should I force her through, as it would just make the fear permanent. Instead, I should make it into a game, approaching the tunnel with a treat, then turning and moving away from it, repeating until we were in the tunnel. We did this—Husband stood near the entrance with a treat, we ran up to ‘find Husband’, took the treat then turned and retreated. Gradually Husband stood nearer and nearer the tunnel, until he was inside, then moved further back. We managed to enter the tunnel, with Meg on the lead but moving on her own volition. Then we walked the rest of the way, to the other side. On the return trip, she hesitated at the entrance, we showed her a treat, and she walked through. Another success.

Success!


Friday

We tried taking Meg on the run this morning. It was definitely more effort, and we had to stop every time a bike or another dog was in range. But I’m hoping that in the future this will be a thing, and part of her daily exercise can naturally overlap with mine.

After a shower, we went to John’s Cafe again for brunch. They seem to only serve very large portions of food, so it’s not possible to have a single croissant and coffee. I brought home the extra croissant. It’s a shame, because our country seems to be getting gradually fatter/less healthy, which is bad for all of us. (And it’s not easy to limit what we eat when we have delicious food put in front of us—better to be only served a sensible portion, in my view.) Meg was mostly good, and lay under the table with a chew. She did find it necessary to bark when other dogs arrived, which was annoying. However, she coped with being in a cafe, with lots of people arriving and leaving, and young children swinging their legs and making a noise—so mostly I was pleased with her.

Walking along the street is still a challenge, as she reacts to every car that passes us. I can easily restrain her with the lead of shame, but it will be good when she stops reacting. There was a fun moment when I stopped to look at the beach, and she jumped up to see over the wall too. Mostly, she is a nice dog. David has re-named her ‘Nutmeg’. I am hoping this is because she is dark brown.

Thanks for reading. Have a lovely week, and take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
*****

The lead of shame is a lead recommended by my puppy class teacher. It’s made by Gencon, and available from Amazon. The nose loop stops her pulling hard, so even though she is stronger than me, I can safely walk her next to roads. (As naughty Meg has learnt how to wriggle out of it when it’s loose, I also attach another lead to her harness, just in case.)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gencon-Headcollar-Lead-Black-Handed/dp/B00T6IEAZ8/ref=sr_1_5?crid=32MM1PVGPBZAM&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6TXmzMwiAG3dLjefzyoPjEiKKgio1kPf5yps26825oHeAOzOh0GGNXbXdkxNlYngJGpYQTXQZcYk-H3nhvlx5edT6-7z2LSJs-UuAs_qO711HcxdC5h3VTSwUq0rNluEEZDlLOU-ud9Yi2pXN_j87fm2UkrrBCUIHa6OjUpAXtFnKsN4WHNt-bz8q6rSmh5e7CwU4s8ijTL2pXE61aT94HneAgOTlWLeB34nqeaN-Ce81xVYUEEX3Il8fTbI_ykStQwk53NgXsJyDAVOBIA2SqEL7hJQ7R1bDB3yuLa9zDk.V3ednoE5IXBi5OK7tN_E30_mbEBOG8VCmJUuywZMfEQ&dib_tag=se&keywords=gencon+figure+of+8+dog+lead+anti+pull&qid=1713186052&sprefix=gencon%2Caps%2C81&sr=8-5

Trip to Instow, Devon

Posted by

0


Instow is the most dog-friendly town in the country. We visited several years ago, when Kia was alive. Kia was true to her GSD nature, and was deeply suspicious of all other dogs, so we spent the entire holiday with a low grumble of disapproval in the background. Despite all the other dodgy dogs, Kia loved the beach, and always cried when we drove home at the end of the holiday. Meg however, is different (this could be a stand-alone sentence: Meg is different!) We therefore decided we would take her to Instow, and see whether she liked it.

The journey here was brilliant. Unlike when she was a puppy, and threw up on a 5 minute car ride, Meg travelled perfectly. (Whether this is due to my training, and constantly being taken in the car or simply because she’s older, is impossible to say, but I have had so few successes with my training so far, that I am claiming it.)

I learnt a lesson from a holiday in France, when our children were young, many years ago. We drove, and the baby was fine all the way on the long drive to the South, but the following day, when we tried to put him in the car to go into town, he had an absolute loop-out. Forcing a determined baby, with arching back and flailing arms, into a car seat is no easy feat. I think trying to force a reluctant GSD into a crate would be impossible, so I was keen to break the journey. We therefore stopped a couple of times, and Meg walked a few loops of the dirty Services’ car park, and had some water, before being put back into the crate. Meg was wonderful (I don’t often write that!) She even managed to sit outside a Costa while I drank a nasty coffee.

The house in Instow is in a quiet road, a short walk from the beach. It’s perfect for families with dogs (I believe everything in Instow is perfect for a family with a dog). There are hardwood floors, and an enclosed garden, and hoses outside both doors. The sofas are in one area, with a large rug, and we are trying to teach Meg that she is only allowed on the hardwood floors. At home she’s pretty good with keeping to certain areas—here not so much. I suspect it will be a battle all week, but we will persist…and then accept a compromise.

We took Meg on the beach. It’s a small stretch of dirty sand along the estuary, with a million people walking, and every person has a dog. Honestly, never come to Instow if you don’t like dogs, they are everywhere. Most were well behaved, and stayed with their owners, a few ran off to interfere with other people, but all seemed friendly. Meg has so far been okay with other dogs—I suspect this is thanks to puppy classes, where she has learnt to practise working with me whilst ignoring all the other dogs working with their owners.

As we walked over the sand dune, onto the main beach, a small black dog ran towards us. I grabbed a stick, and Meg’s focus was entirely on the stick. She ignored the small yappy thing at our feet, and walked with me towards the sea. Brilliant. She loved the beach (only the dry bits, she doesn’t do wet feet, and not even a flock of water birds tempted her into the sea). We had a lovely walk, the air was fresh, the seagulls circled above us, the dog bounced happily beside us. Then we tried to put her back on the lead to leave, and all went to pot. No way was Meg coming near enough to be caught. When I called her, she stood about 3 feet away, and stared at me. If I approached, she skipped back a step. Bribes (both food and toys) were useless. Very frustrating. We wasted 10 minutes trying to trick her into a situation where we could grab her, and I vowed never to let her run free ever again. We eventually caught her, and returned to the house.

Not coming close enough to be caught.

We left her in her crate while we ate in the Instow Arms. The food was okay—not such a good menu as I remember from previously. We could have taken Meg (I think you take dogs everywhere here) but I was still cross from the beach naughtiness, and needed a break.

After dinner we watched telly for a while (3 Body Problem on Netflix—it’s a bit tense but very clever). Meg has never seen television before, and she was deeply suspicious. She barked at it a few times, and then sat next to me (I like to think she was guarding me, but I suspect it was the other way round). She wasn’t a fan. Before bedtime we strolled along the beach. We kept Meg on a long lead, and she seemed quite happy. No other dogs this time, and the lights from Appledore twinkled through the night on the other side of the estuary. All was peaceful.

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

Looking at the view.
anneethompson.com
*****

A Treat in the Cotswolds

Posted by

1


I woke at 6, took the dog for a quick run in the garden, then showered, threw a few things into a bag, and was ready to leave at 7:15. We went to my daughter’s house first, as she had kindly (madly?) offered to have the puppy for a couple of days. We dumped the dog, bags of food and toys and a playpen, then off we went, heading west.

Our first stop was The White Horse pub in Forest Hill. On our wedding day, in 1988, we left Surrey and drove to the Cotswolds for our honeymoon, but on the way, we stopped at a pub for dinner. Neither of us can remember anything about it, except that we ate chicken in mustard sauce, and I remember being very excited because I was married and I wanted to tell everyone in the pub, but I didn’t, and it felt very odd that no one knew such a significant fact. We found the name in Husband’s diary in the loft, and decided to visit, to see if it stirred any memories. We sort of remembered the car park, but nothing else. But then, it was a long time ago. It’s a Thai restaurant now.

We continued to Bibury, and lunch in The Catherine Wheel. It was pouring with rain, so we didn’t stop to walk around Bibury. I recognised the pretty cottages next to the river, but I couldn’t remember the trout farm (which Husband assured me we visited). It was busy, with coaches of tourists and lots of cars. It must be strange to live somewhere like that.

We stayed at Barnsley House. Just one night, but it still felt like a holiday. Our room was fabulous, with a whole sitting area, and facilities to make drinks. They had provided a tiny carton of fresh milk, and a jar of cookies, and apples in a bowl. I like when they provide free stuff, it feels more welcoming that a sign telling you to pay £1 for a coffee capsule!

We drove around the Cotswolds, looking at places we remembered from our honeymoon. We looked at the cottage we stayed in (it has a new extension now, but looks much the same) and I bought a toothbrush at an unfriendly village shop. (Not sure how I managed to forget my bathroom bag!)

The weather was still wet, so we had drinks and watched a film. We could have used the ‘cinema’ at the hotel, but it was nicer in the room. We did dress in wet-weather gear and wander round the grounds. There was a spa (I think this is a feature of the hotel) so we went to have a look. There was an outside pool, with women drinking cocktails in bubbly water. I peeked at them through a bush, and decided I can think of little worse than being at a spa! There was a sign offering various ‘treatments’ but as I stood there, in my wellies and bobble hat, I felt it wasn’t really for me. (Husband compared me to Compo in Last of the Summer Wine, so I don’t think he imagined me sipping cocktails in a jacuzzi either!)

Not really a spa person!

Dinner was marvellous. We dressed up, though we didn’t need to, it was very relaxed. There wasn’t a taster menu, but the food was delicious, with lots of fresh vegetables and interesting flavours. I drank too much wine, and got the giggles, and it was a lovely evening. Such a treat to only have to walk upstairs after dinner, and not to drive home.

We ate a huge breakfast, and then went for a walk. It was really muddy, and I worried I might lose a boot in the boggy bits, but it wasn’t raining. We walked beside a stately home (Barnsley Palace) and wondered what it would be like to live there (cold, I expect). Then we packed up, and drove back to collect Meg and go home. It was so lovely, and just what I needed after all the Christmas busyness.

I hope you manage to plan some treats too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

An Unexpected Experience

Posted by

0


We were invited to a ‘War of the Worlds’ experience. I had absolutely no idea what this meant—but accepted anyway. Husband, I suspect, had more idea than me, but decided to not share. Last week, we met our friends at the station, and set off for London.

It was difficult to know what to wear, but I decided it was probably something similar to a thing my cousin went to recently, when an orchestra played the tunes from ‘Lord of the Rings’ while images from the film were shown on a giant screen. I certainly thought it would be a passive experience, and as my friend is something of a natty-dresser, I decided to wear nice clothes. (My wardrobe is divided into three: very posh evening wear, expensive ‘nice clothes’ or tatty stuff that a tramp might wear. I usually wear the latter.) This was a mistake; especially the heeled boots.

We walked from London Bridge—the men striding a hundred yards ahead, me stumbling over uneven pavements while my friend kindly walked beside me. We arrived at a building resembling the sort of clubs we went to as students, and went inside. There was a young man (everyone is young these days) looking official, checking tickets. We were given yellow wristbands (also reminiscent of student nightclub) and told to wait for yellow smoke. We were also directed to fill out a waiver form (they hadn’t invented those when I was a student!)

We sat at a table in a sort of bar, with dimmed lights and strange decorations. The waiver form informed me I should be over 16 (√check) wear flat shoes (X failed there) and not be sensitive to light/noise/motion or scary things. I stopped reading at that point, as yellow smoke squirted from a tube in the ceiling (it was disappointing how long it took four of us to decide on smoke colours!) and we joined the line at the door.

We were part of a group of 12, and I was pleased that we were not the only adults. (Adults are people over the age of 45.) We were led through a door and met by a bouncy actor with exaggerated enthusiasm, who explained we were going back in time to when the Martians had landed. She was very good at her job, as she maintained her ‘in character’ persona despite our rather doubtful expressions and complete lack of reciprocation. We were shown virtual-reality headsets, and told how to use them, then led along a dark corridor to a theatre. We took our seats, and I hoped that perhaps this was where the rest of the experience would happen. It didn’t.

The experience continued. There were holograms, and we had to walk along corridors, and through holes, and down steep spiral stairs—which was sometimes a challenge for someone with a dodgy back in heels. However, it was all very professional, and although I never managed to quite believe that Martians had landed and our lives were in peril, I had to admire their enthusiasm. To be honest, I was nervous—but of falling over or someone shouting ‘Boo!’ unexpectedly. There was a lot of ‘dark’ involved. And amazing special effects.

The experience was based on the book/films of ‘War of the Worlds’ and was a series of rooms that showed different aspects of the story. We had done our homework and watched the Tom Cruise film version, so each scene made sense. My favourite part was when we sat in boats, wearing virtual-reality glasses, and we ‘sailed’ through a burning London, looking at the destruction and feeling the waves lift us. It was really well done. I have never experienced such clever technology. The actors and props were brilliant.

I couldn’t take photos during the experience, as cameras were banned, so I can only share pictures taken in the bar area, and the ‘professional’ photo taken at the end. But if you are ever invited to visit the experience, I would certainly recommend it. Just be sure to wear flat shoes.

Thanks for reading.
Have a great week, and be sure to wear the right clothes.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Nervous Smile…
Embarrassing Picture but a Fun Memento

anneethompson.com

Why not sign up below to follow my blog?
*****

Snow in August

Posted by

2


We arrived in LaThuile in bright hot sunshine. It was too hot to walk far, and even the shade was warm (which has not been my experience previously in the Italian Alps). However, within a day, the weather changed: the temperature plummeted and we woke up to snow on the mountains. This was very exciting! I love snow. Never before have I experienced snow in August.

After lunch, we found the car where we had abandoned it in the town garage (because we are staying in a little apartment in the town centre and the narrow cobbled streets barely fit a bike, definitely not a car), We drove up the winding road to St Bernardo’s Pass, and there we found snow! It was jolly cold. I had brought my woolly hat but most of my clothes were the thin impracticable kind that you take on holiday.  (Husband was so pleased to see it again so soon after it had been put away at the end of winter. He loves that hat.) Husband strode off, looking for the best ‘snow photo’ spot. I spoke briefly to some pretty cows with donging bells round their necks (who ignored me) and then went in search of warmth in a cafe. The cafe had a few toys, and I bought a cute St. Bernard dog toy, because this area has lots of them (the real variety) and even I realise that owning one would not be wise given where we live.

The rest of the holiday passed peacefully enough. We returned to the most beautiful valley in the world (Route 11) that we found last year. It continues to earn the title, it’s too beautiful to describe and even photos don’t really show the beauty of the place (especially my photos!) You will have to visit yourself. Just be careful as you drive to a parking place, as the road is very narrow and there are no barriers and the drop is very long if you fall. Nice place to die though.

We were very good, and went for a run every morning. We found a relatively flat road to run along (beside a bubbling river and looking at mountains). But it was hard to breathe. Husband informed me it was very good for my lungs because the high altitude makes them work harder. It didn’t feel good though, it made running very hard work and not at al enjoyable (apart from the scenery). Afterwards we went to Angela’s Cafe, which was crammed with local people all speaking Italian and drinking espresso coffee. I also drank espresso coffee, of which I am rather proud. I noticed a few years ago that only foreigners drink things like cappuccino or latte, and all locals drink tiny cups of strong black coffee. I therefore forced myself to drink it—like a teenaged boy forces himself to drink beer even though he would rather have a lemonade. I now enjoy drinking it, but I especially enjoy the approval I see in people’s eyes when I order it. Husband orders a cappuccino, and often this is passed to me, as the more ‘girly’ drink. Anyway, Angela’s Cafe has very good coffee, and it advertises that it’s grown by women, to help raise the standard of living in families, so I rather like that too. We always reserved croissants for the following day, because they are eaten in the morning by the earlier customers. This then was our routine: run by the river, recover and shower, breakfast in Angela’s Cafe, buy bread for lunch, return to little apartment. Not a bad way to start every day.

We finished each day by eating dinner in La Maison—the restaurant we ate in almost every evening last year. They allow us to have a table in the wine cellar, and they know that I like a chair rather than a bench, and that our Italian is terrible. It’s a friendly place to eat and the food is delicious.

One evening, when walking towards the restaurant, I noticed that my dress felt odd. I ran my hand down the side, and realised I could feel the seam. When I glanced down, a big white label was flapping at the side, and all the buttons were on the inside! I had somehow managed to put on my dress inside-out and not notice. We were next to a little chapel at the time, so I ducked inside while Husband stood guard, and quickly turned my dress the right way round. I was so pleased that I noticed before we arrived at the restaurant. Made a note to always look in the mirror before I leave home in future. (I do of course blame Husband, who really should have noticed.)

Other than clothing issues, the holiday was lovely. The Italian Alps are so lovely in the summer. I hope to come again. Thanks for reading, have a good week. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.

anneethompson.com

Milan in August

Posted by

1


A Day Touring Milan

Our day in Milan was somewhat spoiled by the heat. I think this is unusual, as we’ve visited before and it wasn’t too hot to walk. It felt more like Seville in August than Milan. But we coped, mainly by searching for the coolest places. (Cool as in temperature.)

Our first stop was the Pinacoteca di Brera gallery—which happens to be the source of the most romantic gift ever. About a hundred years ago, when our children were young, we visited this gallery (mainly because we had not understood that to see ‘The Last Supper’ by Leonardo da Vinci required booking tickets months in advance. This was a less-good alternative). We walked to the gallery, and wandered around, looking at lots of religious art (which neither of us appreciate) and wondering why we had bothered, when we entered the very last room. This room displayed art showing life in the 1500’s, and it was much more to our taste. (This might be because, according to a sign, Gerolamo Induno and his brother ‘were the leading exponents of genre painting which used personal, domestic images to draw the uneducated classes to art.’ I am clearly one of ‘the uneducated class’!) I especially liked a painting by Induno, which showed a teenaged girl sitting in her messy bedroom, with a popular poster on the wall, apparently texting (actually, she was looking in a small  compact). I had a teenaged daughter at the time, and this painting struck a cord on many levels. I loved that even though the ‘poster’ was a popular painting by a local artist (‘The Kiss’ by Francesco Hayez) and the furnishings and clothing was different, the girl was not so different to girls today. I looked at the painting for a long time, and chatted about it with Husband, and forgot all about it.

However, Husband, who is not usually given to especially romantic gestures, surprised both of us. Using his work computer (because at the time, we shared one and he wanted it to be a secret) he contacted the gallery, asking if it was possible to buy a print. It was not, but if they were willing to send him a photo for personal study. This was all in Italian, which Husband does not speak. He agreed, and they sent him an invoice and a contract to sign (again, all in Italian, which he does not speak). He signed it (a bit risky!) and sent off a large amount of money (very risky!) and waited for the image to arrive. It never arrived. He then realised that as he was using his work computer, the IT security blocked files of a certain size. He had to contact the IT department, and admit improper use of company computer (luckily he was very senior, so they forgave him) and ask them to release the file. They did, and the image arrived. Husband then printed it off, and gave it to me for Christmas. What a lovely gift. We bought a frame for it, and hung it in the bedroom (because then it really is for personal study, and doesn’t break the agreement). Romantic, huh?

This year, we found the painting again. It was interesting to see the brush strokes (because they don’t show on my copy) and the slight variation in colour. The guard shouted at me for standing too close.

After the gallery we walked past the shopping arcade with the fancy roof, and to the cathedral (the Duomo). The queue for the cathedral stretched out across the plaza, the sun beat down, we decided to just look at the outside. We enjoyed seeing the gargoyles and statues (which I wrote about in my blog on Milan a few years ago). We walked down towards the castle, and I thought I might melt. So hot. We detoured into a lovely cafe, and ordered desserts and drinks, and spent the whole afternoon chatting and eating ice cream. Which frankly, is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

We ended the day with drinks in the hotel bar (which is rather nice because they brought plates of snacks to eat with the drinks). We ate in a cafe near the hotel. Went to bed tired—it’s surprising how heat saps energy even when you don’t do much. Tomorrow we head for the Alps, where we have a little apartment for a couple of weeks. I am hoping it will be cooler.

Thanks for reading. I hope the weather is good for you today.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Another painting I like.
It shows a mother saying goodbye to her son as he goes to join Garibaldi’s army.

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
Sign up below to follow my blog.
*****

Milan was Hot

Posted by

2


Milan was hot. As in, really, really hot. We flew to Malpensa Airport, with the excellent plan to catch a train to the city centre and then walk to our hotel. The airport part went well. Milan airport has a walkway, which is basically an art gallery, with sculptures and music and atmospheric lighting. An unexpected interlude as you pull your luggage towards the railway station. Only in Italy.

The rest of the plan was less interesting. We managed to buy tickets, and found the correct platform, and boarded the train. But as we perched on seats around the luggage (that we were too worried about leaving in the rack next to the door) we realised the journey was long, and it was past lunch time, and we had been awake since 4am. I tend to wilt when I miss meals, so had brought some snacks, but they were warm and squashed and tasted of plastic.

We arrived at the massive station in Milan, and eventually managed to find the exit (though not the correct one). Walked around the exterior of the station, pulling heavy case over ruts in the paving stones while the sun burned down on us. Followed Husband along many hot streets, over many major roads, with suitcase wheels sticking and clothes soaked with sweat whilst passing pristine-looking beautiful Italian people. Italian people always look like they washed their hair this morning and have dressed in the latest designer clothes and are just taking a break from looking beautiful to meet their friends for an espresso. Felt very English.

Arrived at the end of the slope up to the hotel. It was steep, and cobbled, and I thought I might faint. Luckily, a porter spotted us, and came to the rescue. Usually we bat away porters and cling on to our bags as though they contain the crown jewels; this time I relinquished my luggage with thanks and offered to buy him dinner. (The dinner bit isn’t true, but the emotion was there.)

We stayed at The Westin, which apart from the steep cobbled drive, was very nice. Our room was clean and comfortable, and they provided ‘White Tea’ toiletries which I especially like.

After a shower and a change of clothes, we went to meet friends for dinner. I had been very clear when explaining that walking far was not going to happen, and thankfully the restaurant was very near the hotel. We sat  under a sunshade, and had drinks and ice-creams and watched the trams carrying beautiful people to wherever it was they were going. It was still hot, but as long as I wasn’t required to move, it was fun.

Dinner was pizza. I don’t much like pizza, but having said I wasn’t walking more than 2 1/4 minutes from the hotel, I didn’t feel I should give further input. It was actually very tasty pizza. Unfortunately, the local insects also found me very tasty, and in my rush to shower and change, I had forgotten insect-repellent. Luckily, I was so tired that even itchy bites couldn’t keep me awake, and I slept well, ready for a day exploring the sights of Milan.

In my next blog I’ll tell you about the most romantic gift I have ever received, where the coolest parts of Milan are, and how to make an ice-cream last an entire afternoon.

Thanks for reading. I hope you manage to struggle through an difficult parts of your day.

Take care,

Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.

anneethompson.com

Sign up below to follow my blog.

*****

Cambridge Stories

Posted by

2


There is a story in my family, about Fanny Cornell. She was my grandfather’s great great grandmother (I may have the number of ‘greats’ wrong) and she was a carrier in Harston. Harston is a small village near Cambridge, and the story goes that Fanny had a horse and cart, and she would regularly transport goods from Harston to sell in Cambridge. I picture market gardeners, lace-makers, weavers — all giving small bundles to Fanny, to be sold at the market. Apparently she couldn’t read or write, and she kept the money folded into separate parts of her handkerchief, and despite the complicated sums and various amounts, she always gave the correct money to the producers in Harston.

However, the most memorable part of the story is that after selling the wares in Cambridge, Fanny would visit The Eagle pub, where she would drink until completely legless. The landlord would then lift her back onto her cart, and the horse knew the way back to Harston. In case of robbers, Fanny kept a large pepper pot on the cart, ready to throw into the face of anyone who tried to delay her. (I’m not quite sure how the ‘brave woman with the pepper-pot’ tallies with the ‘completely drunk being carried home’ description, but family folklore is best if not fact-checked too closely.)

When I mentioned the story to Emm, he was very excited and told me he often drinks in The Eagle as it’s near where he works. We decided to visit and take Ruth before she goes back to Canada. Our aunt thought that we might find the portrait of Fanny in the folk museum in Cambridge, so we went there first.

The folk museum is in a building previously used as a pub, and the various rooms display historical Cambridge. There was also an Agatha Christie display, which was interesting because I read all her books when I was young, but I never discovered what her link to Cambridge was. Husband found the museum challenging, because it was reminded him of the Victoria and Albert in London — more like an attic of stuff people don’t want to throw away than an organised archive. But I loved it. The man at the entrance was very interested in our story of Fanny, and contacted the curator for us. I expected an elderly woman with tangled grey hair, but instead an attractive young Canadian girl found us, and said she would look in their store room. She returned, not with a portrait of Fanny, but with a booklet about Harston which had a picture of a portrait. When we read the book, it seems that some of the ‘facts’ about Fanny might actually be merged descriptions of a few different individuals — though I guess there is no reason to assume that the booklet is any more reliable than our family story. (I have learnt a lot about ‘citing from reliable sources’ at college, and neither source is more reliable than the other.) I will believe our family legend until proven wrong.

Next was a trip to The Eagle. The pub has a few stories of its own: There is a window that is never closed since an ancient fire when people were trapped inside, and if it’s ever closed everyone in the pub feels suffocated. There is also table 4, which is occupied by a ghostly man. He happily shares the table when people sit there, but he frequently spills their drinks. Make of the stories what you will, but I think they’re fun.

The window at the top is always left open.

The pub was used by the RAF during the war, and has various insignia stuck to the walls, and the signatures of airmen on the ceiling. It’s also where the discovery of DNA was announced to the world, and there’s a plaque to commemorate the woman, Rosalind Franklin, whose work led to the discovery (even though the men who announced it tried to steal her work and exclude her from the credit). It was also full of modern-day drinkers, and tourists, and it was easy to imagine the bustle of ancient days.

We did, of course, see more of Cambridge while we were there– the sandstone colleges, the ancient houses on modern streets, the university entrances that remind me of Victorian prisons with their high towers and forbidding gates, the tourists, the teashops, the roads full of cyclists. It was raining, and cold, but Cambridge is beautiful.

I hope you hear some good stories this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Gates that remind me of a prison entrance.
Bikes and beautiful buildings.
The round church.
The oldest bookshop.
Each college has its own chapel. More of a cathedral than a chapel.

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
Sign up below to follow my blog.
*****

Ruth Days

Posted by

2


My sister came from Canada for a family wedding, so we have enjoyed some days out. When she was here last year, we followed a trail around London, looking for garish painted statues. It was unexpectedly fun, so when we saw there is a ‘Tusk Gorilla Trail’ around Covent Garden, we downloaded the map and set off. ‘Setting off’ involves more planning these days, due to train strikes (sooo much I could write here) but the day we chose was lucky for both trains and weather. (English summer weather could be a whole blog.)

We walked from Victoria Station, and avoided the millions of people who had come to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. I like walking through London with my sister—she’s a photographer (amongst other things) and she makes me notice things I wouldn’t see otherwise. The trails are mainly fun because they take you to streets you wouldn’t normally visit, so although finding ugly gorillas (they were very ugly) is not especially compelling, the side-benefits are definitely worth it. As we followed the map, we met a few other people (all with children) doing the same thing. We shared hunting tips (some were hidden in squares or shops, so not easy to find) and tried not to notice that we were about 40 years too old. Next time perhaps we should kidnap a child to take with us.

*****

Our next trip was to Wakefield Place. This time we took Husband with us. We knew there was a seed bank there—not the baby-making kind. They keep samples of millions of seeds (2 billion, to be exact) in a huge vault under the ground. Visitors can wander around the centre, which has information boards and glass screens to protect the scientists from the tourists.

Apparently, most seeds can be dried out, which preserves their life and keeps successive generations safe. However, some seeds die if they’re dried, so they need specialised storage facilities to preserve them. It is these ‘recalcitrant’ seeds that the seed bank are researching. When you visit, if you are lucky, as well as seeing the information boards, you might see a rare scientist, complete with white lab coat and gloves, studying things (I assume seeds) under microscopes. It’s not unlike visiting a zoo, though only the brashest of visitors would photograph them.

Underground (where visitors are not allowed) they keep the temperature at -20˚C (with a wind chill—produced by fans—of -27˚C). My sister, who teaches in Calgary, was unimpressed by this, as she does outside playground duty in temperatures of  -20˚C most winters. But perhaps the fans are what make it dangerous down there.

After the seed bank, we explored the rest of Wakehurst place. It’s very nice, with lots of different sections to the gardens. I loved the wild areas, especially the ‘Boulder Walk’ which had trees growing over rocks, with their roots displayed. It felt almost indecent, like looking up someone’s skirt. There were some art installations (I am the wrong audience for them) and a very nice teashop. Unlike some properties, I didn’t feel everything was over-priced and designed to fleece the unsuspecting tourist (an annual pass is £35). We shared a pot of tea for £3.50, and sat outside, watching toddlers roll on the grass. If I’d thought about it, we could have come here first and kidnapped a couple to take on our gorilla trail. Maybe next year.

***

We are planning an outing to the beautiful city of Cambridge. I’ll tell you about it in my next blog.

Thanks for reading, have a lovely week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
Sign up below to follow my blog.
anneethompson.com
*****