Photos - South Australia

The Archway near Loch Ard


The tragedy of the Kinglake Fire



The Twelve Apostles - Great Ocean Road

Cape Otway Lighthouse

At the foot of the Anglesey Lighthouse

This is what being "Granny and Grandpa" is all about

The early morning session

Joanna Beach Farmhouse - room for everyone to play

Loch Ard Gorge on the Great Ocean Road

The new generation of Australians

The Great Ocean Road - Australia

I can never decide what is the most addictive thing about the Great Ocean Road that sweeps along the coastline south of Melbourne. Is it the grandiose views of the sea and the cliffs dotted with swooping seabirds and creamy topped waves, or is it the rich heritage of history that is woven into this coastline.


I had been down the Ocean Road before on a wonderful but hectic one day trip with my son. It falls to everyone living in Melbourne who has relatives and friends visiting from overseas, to undertake a trip down the Ocean Road, and consequently, he and his family know every nook and cranny of it, but they never seem to tire of it.

But this was to be no whistle stop drive, and travelling in two cars, we met up at Anglesey to purchase delicious pies and then went and sat at the foot of the old lighthouse in warm sunshine while the grandchildren played "roly poly" on the steep grassy bank. Hamish the dog had come along as well, as my daughter and family were still in New Zealand on the last leg of their trip, and our destination was Joanna Beach Farmhouse where dogs were warmly welcomed.

What a wonderful place to stay if you have a combination of lively children and a dog that has the demeanour of a floppy labrador but the speed of a collie. With a huge garden to chase around, and an indoor heated pool for the children to burn off energy, we had the best of all worlds, plus the additional fun of being able to collect our own eggs and pick whatever vegetables we required from the garden.

Joanna Beach is within easy reach of the Twelve Apostles - the great sandstone stacks that stick out of the sea further along the coast, and although they are just about reduced to Matthew Mark Luke and John, you can clearly see signs of new ones being carved out by the relentless waves that pound the cliffs. It is the combination of these waves, very high winds and dangerous rocks that has been the downfall of many a ship, some of which had managed to sail safely all the way from England, only to founder on the rocks a few hours short of their destination of Melbourne.

The Otway Lighthouse out on the point was in many cases the first sign of landfall that the weary sailors and passengers from the late 1800's would see after leaving the comfort and safety of English shores, and the sad little graveyard at Loch Ard Gorge told the story of when the Loch Ard broke up on the rocks, resulting in the loss of almost everyone on board. The two most famous survivors were a young seaman and an equally young lady passenger whom he rescued from the surf after they had both been swept into the gorge. For a few weeks, Australia held its' collective breath hoping that a grand romance would develop and that the seaman would marry the young girl, but she had clearly had enough of the sea and those who sailed upon it, and at the first possible chance, she returned to her native Ireland to mourn the loss of no less than six of her family members.

We revelled in the history, played on the beach with the dog and the children, ate delicious seafood cooked on the barbeque at the farmhouse, and enjoyed the outstandingly good fish and chips from one of the coastal villages.

When time came to leave, instead of driving straight back to Melbourne, Jean and I headed northwards to Ballarat and approached our destination of Whittlesea north of Melbourne from the countryside. As we drew closer to home, we could see the ravages left by the terrifying fires last February, and I was sickened to see just how close it had come to my daughter's house. She had friends who had lost everything, and the homeless are now housed in a variety of dwelling places. The gifts from the Australian public and government ensure that they have everything they need, but money can never bring back their homes, their belongings, and in so many sad cases, their loved ones. Kinglake which was once a green thick forest threaded with a network of lanes and lovely old cottages, is now a barren burnt stretch of charred stumps and derelict broken down houses, and although people are defiantly rebuilding, the day that hell visited this part of the country will never be forgotten.

We spent a day in Melbourne and having absorbed a lot of interesting facts in the huge Melbourne Museum, we took a trolley ride around the city in company with hundreds of other people who had been lured out by a lovely sunny day. Maybe not the best way to see this vibrant colourful city with its blend of ultra modern and victorian buildings with the Yarra River winding through it like some vast snake, but at least we had a flavour of it.

Our last day was spent in company with two of our grandchildren and we wandered the pathways through the Healsville Animal Sanctuary, spotting the koalas snoozing in the trees, laughing at the emus who strutted about in a self-important fashion, and envying the kangaroos who stayed in their warm dry shed looking at the tourists who stood out in the pouring rain hoping to see some hopping going on. Before we left, we bought the children a small toy each, and from what I gather, Sid the clockwork snake is still going strong and had taken up residence among the underwear in his six year old owners top drawer.

Saying goodbye is never easy and it was good to know that we were returning with hundreds of photos that would remind us of our trip. I know there is Skype and email, phone calls and letters, but nothing in this world can replace a pair of little arms around your neck, and the words "Granny - can I tell you something".

It was wonderful to be able to return to France, to our home and garden and our friends, but how I wish I had gone to the Victoria Market in Melbourne and bought one of those magic carpets!

New Zealand - A Dream Come True

This is what makes a 23 hour flight worthwhile!


South Island between Haast Pass and Wanaka



The best way to see the country

For some strange reason that I have never quite fathomed, since the age of eleven, it has been a dream of mine to see New Zealand, and now in my sixtieth year, the dream finally came true.

Having not see my children or grandchildren for nearly two years, it was high time that I undertook the long journey to the other side of the world once more.

While living in Miami, I had been twice to Australia, flying first to Los Angeles and then spending the best part of sixteen hours crossing the Pacific Ocean to reach Melbourne. I often feel that long haul flying is a bit like childbirth. At the time, you swear that you'll never do it again, but then you find yourself in possession of another airticket, all prepared to squeeze into a seat with no leg room, situated in front of a person with no manners.

But this time I was going "the other way round" from France via London and Hong Kong, and with a temptingly low airfare on offer, I put the pressure on Jean to come with me. The thought of coping with all the various components of the journey on my own seemed a bridge too far, and I was so happy when he agreed to come along as Honorary Grandpa.

Thanks to the loving generosity of my two children, both our camper van in New Zealand, and four days in a beautiful farmhouse near the beach on the Great Ocean Road south of Melbourne were a birthday gift, thus giving us two holidays within our three week stay, and with hand on heart, we can honestly say that it was far and away the best trip we could ever have had.

But back to the realisation of my dream. As we flew in to Christchurch, the air stewardess announced that there were now new chickens at the airport which she hoped we would all enjoy. I was dubious as to why chickens should be such a source of pleasure and why they would be kept in such a public place, and then realised that she was informing us of the new "check-ins". Clearly the New Zealand accent was something we would have to come to grips with, but the New Zealanders that we met were as friendly and delightful as I had always known they would be, even though my previous knowledge of them had been based largely on the All Black Rugby team!

Two camper vans were the chosen method of transport, and my daughter and her family occupied one and Jean and I had the other. What a brilliant way of seeing the country. No packing and unpacking each day; a hot cup of coffee at a moments' notice; the same cosy comfortable bed each night and time to spend gazing in awe at the sheer majesty of the South Island scenery.

I ran out of descriptive words within the first hour of leaving the Canterbury Plain and climbing up towards Arthur's Pass en route for the west coast and Greymouth. Everywhere you look, you can see tourists with their mouths agape as they turn another corner and take in yet another spectacle of snow capped mountains, vast lakes, vistas that go on forever, and in our case, a beautiful blue sky overhead.

Of course it rains in New Zealand and you definitely need to like sheep, but the green pastures and contented flocks are proof that the combination works. It was late September while we were there and although the daffodils were out and the peach blossom created drifts of pink across the landscape, we still managed a dusting of snow on our last night.

We had stopped in the campground near the foot of Mount Cook, in the hopes that the low cloud would lift and we would be rewarded with the sight of the South Island's highest peak, but instead, the grey mist hung in swags around the mountain sides. It was no problem, and we were content lying in bed with a hot mug of coffee watching the snowflakes drift past the window, and on our way back to Melbourne, we flew directly over Mount Cook and literally had a birds eye view of the entire snowcapped range that forms the backbone of the island.

At each stop we would regroup with our fellow travellers and enjoy a picnic lunch and an evening of laughter and good food before each retiring to our respective beds, and while Mum and Dad went off in the rain to explore the Fox Glacier, Granny and Grandpa stayed in the cosy warmth and played games of Uno, Snakes and Ladders and Monopoly. There is nothing more precious to me than time spent with my grandchildren and we cherished every moment.

We parted company with them in the Queenstown region and over the next three days, the children learned to snow ski, ice skate, bungy jump and rock climb and they even raced their Dad down the luge in a low slung go-kart. In the meantime, we headed back to Christchurch, said hello and goodbye to the chickens and flew back to Melbourne for part two of our wonderful holiday.

Getting Back On Track

Vineyards near Asperes

I've thought long and hard about continuing with this blog for a variety of reasons. On the positive side, I have received a number of emails from friends and readers, bewailing the fact that it has virtually slid to a halt. However, on the negative side, I have been bored and annoyed by a pathetic character who seeks to worm his way into our lives by sending a series of comments which have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the blog. These are automatically deleted, so might I suggest that you stop wasting your time and find something else to do in Indonesia such as "getting a life of your own" because we really aren't interested in anything that you might have to say.

And now onto happier things.

We are embarking on our second autumn and now that the clocks have gone back, Jean does the rounds at 6pm and closes the shutters and draws the curtains. Instead of barbequeing sausages out in the courtyard for supper, we now settle in and drink thick homemade soup and await the arrival of the cold. So far we are still eating lunch outside and putting on the sun cream, so no sign of the cold that gripped us last year - or at least not yet.

It was a huge relief to come back from Australia to find that there had been good rain and the grip of a long hot summer had finally loosened. We could vaguely recall a downpour on the 5th July but that was about all we to show for it with regards to summer rainfall, and the back garden looked more like the Gobi Desert than anything else. It was so good to hunker down last weekend and watch the rain lashing down for the best part of three days, and the almost immediate change in the remaining plants and grass is extraordinary. They were totally disinterested in our sprinkler system and the fact that we lovingly carted water to each of the tubs and hanging baskets and they slouched and sulked throughout the heat, but now we have a masses of bright violas and a swathe of green grass, and all the old stonework has developed a fuzz of moss.

Our three fish have clearly been busy, because now we have seven fish. They are still stupidly shy and hide their heads under a lily pad leaf in the same way that a child will cover its' eyes and think that you can't see it. It never occurs to the fish that two thirds of its body is still sticking out. At least the youngsters seem a bit more friendly and are starting to register that if we are around, there is a fair chance of a bit of fish food appearing as well.

Bertha the dove has vanished and I just hope that she found a new partner during the summer months. I looked around for any sign that the neighbour's cat had pounced on her, but so far so good. The little blue tits are always around pecking at the fat balls but at last the arguing magpies have moved off after devouring six of the eight pears that we were nursing along. If only the constantly barking Doberman two doors along would also move off, life would be a much quieter thing with regards to our animal kingdom. However, I did threaten to report him to the Mairie this morning and he instantly went quiet, even though I made the threats in the privacy of the bathroom! Maybe he has a French/English dictionary and looked up the meaning of "Why don't you damn well shut up dog".

The countryside is ablaze with colour right now, and going anywhere is like driving through an oil painting. Great swathes of vines dress the hillsides and valleys in gold and burnt orange while above, the arc of the sky remains clear and blue. We visited the Sommieres market last weekend and it was sheer delight to wander the stalls without the crush of tourists, and then find all our old pals appearing for a midday pichet of wine and a gossip.

Although we miss our Australian family, it was no hardship to return to France, but I just wish that they could travel in this direction to share some of the beauty with us. I suppose that in time, we will have grandchildren appearing with backpacks and various partners, and come one, come all, they will be so welcome.

Membership of the American Women's Group has proved to be invaluable, and now that the summer recess is over, there is a positive smorgasbord of activities coming up. We are blessed with good friends and even the fun of a borrowed dog from time to time. Plans are being laid for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year parties and the barrage of gunfire on a Sunday morning leads me to believe that a fair number of wild boar and rabbits are finding their way into local fridges.

We have now been in France for fifteen months which means we have witnessed two lots of village bull-running and two grape harvests, and now we look towards the end of the year, happy in the knowledge that at last we are in the right place at the right time.

An Australian Update

It's strange waking up to the sound of kookaburras and seeing the kangaroos hopping around in the field opposite the house, but just so wonderful to be here with the family.

The flight over was slightly more exciting that we had anticipated, and Hong Kong failed to lay out the welcome mat. A typhoon was battering the coastline, and although the Captain managed to guide the massive 747 down below the worryingly low cloud level, the 50 knot cross winds made it impossible to land, and with a roar of engines, we climbed back into the clag and headed for Manila.

I wished I had paid more attention in geography classes as I had not the faintest idea where Manila was, and having spotted it on the airline map, I then began to wonder if the Phillipines were enjoying a period of political stability or would there be a row of tanks parked across a very short runway. As it happened, the Captain greased the plane onto the exceptionally long airstrip and parked alongside a very modern airport building, and we spent three hours kicking our heels on board while they refuelled and we all waited for the weather to clear in Hong Kong. Back we went, and this time he made it down onto the runway set between the mountains and the sea, and was rewarded with a round of applause from the tired passengers.

By the time we were up and away once more, we were six hours behind schedule, and instead of a civilised 8pm arrival time, it was nearly 4am when we reached the house outside Melbourne. Those little faces that we were longing to see were tucked up in bed, and we all had to wait to be re-united while Granny and Grandpa enjoyed seven hours desperately needed sleep.

By yesterday evening, everyone except Pete who is currently in Thailand but who will return on Friday, had been hugged. My five grandchildren have all grown in the past two years, but it felt as though it was only a few months ago since I had seen them last. Yes, it's a long way to come, but it is so worth it.

Today we had decided to visit Melbourne for the day, but the jet lag kicked in and the rain clouds descended and instead of braving the city, we waved off the workers and students from the house and crept back under the duvet for some more sleep. Our long sleeved shirts and jerseys have been unpacked and put to good use and it's clear that although it's not that cold, or that warm, that Australia is currently enjoying what can only be described as "Sprinter". We leave for New Zealand on Saturday, and I can't help wondering if the temperatures are going to be a little less clement than they are here. Never mind - it will be the realisation of a long held dream to finally get to see South Island in company with Claire and her family, and right now, it is hard to work out who is the most excited between the adults and the children.

An editorial note: Since this is a blog for general reading, no comments are ever posted or read. My computer is set to delete comments on receipt so I have no idea what they say. This is no longer my regular blog regarding our French life and my readers know where to find the new one.

Summertime and the Living is Noisy

Ah - blissful tranquil somnolent summer days with merely the buzzing of bees and the occasional scrape of cigale wings to be heard. The hammock sways gently beneath the perfumed bay leaves and a frivolous breeze occasionally rustles through the long grasses. A faraway splashing of water flowing into the swimming pool and the clunk of an icecube dropping into a tall refreshing drink merely serves to remind us that this is summer in the south of France.


Actually No! Not quite. To create this sort of idyll, one has to be either extremely lucky, or live in a beautiful old farmhouse way out in the vineyards, miles from a road or a neighbour.


All the component parts are present, and just once in a while, there is the opposite of The Perfect Storm, and there is Perfect Peace, but don't expect to be able to lay your book down, remove your glasses and drift off to sleep, because it's not going to last. Lunchtime is a quiet time, but the temperatures have normally climbed up into the mid thirties, and only a mad dog or an Englishman would venture out to the pool. However, if you do take a chance, you are met with the sounds of scraping cutlery, clashing plates, and loud family discussions coming over the fence. A dog that has lain quietly in the shade will suddenly take it into his head to rush to the gate and bark abuse at a passing postman, and this is the signal for all the other dogs in the neighbourhood to put in their sixpence worth. Cigales are another myth. Admittedly they do rely on temperature and today, when the thermometer hasn't quite made it to the requisite number, they remain silent. But on a hot day, you can set your watch by them, and it is sometimes quite hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of scraping wings. It only takes one to start up and the entire countryside is suddenly filled with the racket.


Summer time is buzz-bike time in France. Country roads, off-piste tracks through the garrigue, village squares and towns are a mecca for these two-wheeled producers of a high pitched whine, sounding for all the world like a plague of infuriated mosquitoes. Apparently a bike that doesn't emit a loud noise isn't worth the money you pay for it, and will never attract that necessary addition which is the young girl with the flowing hair and mini skirt perched behind the driver. One other fun addition is the radio strapped to the handlebars which emits loud pop music in the same manner as the fine lady who rode a white horse to Banbury Cross. "She shall have music wherever she goes" and so will the surrounding countryside.


Swimming pools become a gathering place for children, none of whom appear to be able to converse in anything other than high pitched decibels, as they argue over the floating armchair, the lilo and the inflatable ball. With Dad still at work and Mum trying to catch a couple of moments of peace after lunch, the kids are left to wreak havoc on siesta time, and such is their stamina, that they can keep it up until well into the evening.


But at last peace returns. The cavalcade of commuters finish driving past the house, exhausted children fall into bed, parents retire to the couch and the TV, and the last whiff of barbequed chicken floats away on the evening breeze. The dogs are either confined to kennels or are sleeping soundly after a long day of barking, and the cigales have closed up shop for the night.


This is the time to go out into the garden and sit quietly in the cooling air. This is the hour to see shooting stars and watch the satellites navigating their way across the heavens. The local cockerels are catching a few hours sleep on their perches and the lawnmowers and strimmers have been packed away for the night.


It's not the summer days in the south of France that make it the best place on earth to be - it's those summer nights.

Summer Visitors

Last week a friend announced that she was coming to visit. By a visit, I don't mean that I had to wash the sheets, make up beds and scour the bathroom, but it did mean that a little housework would have to be undertaken. She was only popping in to pick up something, but we all know that a pop can turn into a magical mystery tour. "Oh what a dear little kitchen - how many bedrooms do you have - may I use the bathroom - oh a courtyard, how lovely".

It's the not knowing which is sometimes worse than the knowing, so rather than take a chance, Jean and I have developed a swift but successful method of blitzing the house and courtyard which takes us 2 hours to have the place gleaming. I sweep and vacuum while he washes the stone floors. We share the bathroom and kitchen and he washes the terrace while I sweep the courtyard, and in no time it is pristine and ready for inspection.

Having lived so very far away for so long, we don't have the sort of friends that our friends here have. They do say that once you have a house in the south of France, you discover friends and relatives whose funerals you could have sworn you went to fifteen years ago, especially if you have made the move from the UK to here.

"Oh dear, I've got Susie and Mark coming for the weekend, and then Lydia is coming for an overnight stop en route to Cannes. She'll just be gone when Melinda and Clarissa and their dog Hector are coming for two days and I have no idea what to do with the cats".

Life for some becomes a constant round of changing sheets, re-visiting the Nimes arena for the fifth time in a month, burning to a crisp on a beach that you would never think of visiting, and eating and drinking copious amounts of hot goat cheese and cold rose wine. Your vision of spending the summer months lying in a shady hammock with a pile of good books and lots of Evian disappears into a welter of crammed carparks, vehicles that you could fry an egg on, queues on motorways and inflated ticket prices for everything.

We, on the other hand, only know people who already live here, and some of those, like us, have come from regions of the world that are too far away to attract an endless stream of guests. We are the ones who can be found sneaking along the back country roads through the vineyards, and never venturing outside unless it is for a quick dip in the pool before returning to the hammock under the trees.

We watch the BBC weather forecast each morning and feel sorry for those who have opted for three weeks under canvas in Devon or a walking holiday in Cumbria. Meantime, we mop our perspiring brows, reach for another bottle of cold water and rest on our dusted laurels.