travel

Texas Farmhouse

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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.

Road Trip 2026

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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

More New Orleans

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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.

First Impression of New Orleans

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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.

More Travel

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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. 

Hope your day goes well. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x


anneethompson.com
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A Reluctant Traveller

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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 Inn
Lighthouse
Sunset

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.

anneethompson.com

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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
******

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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6


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