Jean with home in the background

 

Jean in Aventura April 2006

 

Dave and Mum-Guernsey 2006

 

Unexpected snow in April 2006

 

Angie and Nigel - March 2006

 

Mum and Kate-Guernsey 2006

 

Dad and Kate - March 2006

 

Mum and Molly-March 2006

 

Jean's daughters Priscilla and Carol-Lynn 

Happy Festive Seasonal Merry Holiday Greetings

The Holiday Season has descended on South Florida and for the past month we have been cautiously wished a "Merry Christmas" a "Happy Hanakuh", or the pc safe "Happy Holidays" despite the fact that the great day was at that stage still a long way off. But now we are on the home run and tonight we plan to make our annual pilgrimage out into the suburbs to admire the lights. This will be our third voyage of discovery and each year we are amazed to see the extent to which people go in order to send their electricity bills spiralling and to out-do their neighbours. Massive reindeer vie with enormous snowmen and an assortment of Disney figures are juxtaposed with angels and mangers. Roofs that have already born the brunt of Hurricane Wilma are now staggering under the weight of loaded sleighs, and apart from having your garden filled with sparkling twinkling figures, it is now neccessary to have the air filled with jangled musical offerings. Florida is an incredibly cosmopolitan area and it is quite possible to travel the length of one suburban street and hear an assortment of music ranging from Santa's on his Way, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Feliz Navidad and All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth. This past weekend we drove up to Fort Lauderdale to witness that Florida tradition - The Intracoastal Waterway Festival of Lights. Having found ourselves a spot on the edge of the canal along with a couple of hundred other souls who sat in incredible discomfort on outcrops of concrete and stone up the side of one of the drawbridges, we enjoyed the spectacle of a succession of massive luxury cruisers, small motor launches and yachts all dressed from stem to stern in sparkling lights and issuing forth a mixture of thumping disco music and Christmas carols. The theme was supposed to be "The Jewel of the Nile' in keeping with the King Tut exhibition that has reached Fort Lauderdale, and we were presented with a selection of Cleopatras, asps, pyramids and palm trees from one quarter, and the more traditional Santa Claus (because nobody dares refer to him as Father Christmas in these politically correct times) and a number of leaping elves, some of whom looked in severe danger of falling into the dark waters beneath. It took an hour and a half for all the boats to pass by and while this meant waving dutifully to each one that passed, I felt somewhat sorry for the passengers on board who had been waving for the past three hours on their progression up the waterway. We made our way home via Las Olas, the famous shopping street of Fort Lauderdale, and thanks to a solid traffic jam, we could enjoy the twinkling lights, the warm sultry air, the vibe of the pavement cafes and the pleasantries being exchanged between drivers, pedestrians and waiters. "Move that heapa crap outta my way idiot", "Hey you got eyes moron, I'm drivin' here". "Who ordered two pizzas with anchovies and one without?" "Call that a tip you shmuck" "You call that service?" We drove on home and eagerly finalised the packing for our trip out into the Seminole Indian Reservation where we intend to camp for six days while the festive season makes its merry way into the New Year. I doubt anyone will miss us much as we would add very little to the screaming, flailing, fighting, arguing general public - and that's just to get a spot in a parking lot. At least out in the Everglades, we really can hark and hopefully either hear the herald angels sing, or Charlie the alligator barking at his mates. Which ever way you choose to celebrate the up-coming week, our very best wishes to you all and may all that you would wish yourselves be yours in the New Year.

Aboard the Pevensey-Murray River 

Claire with Katie and Max-Mornington 

Shaun and Pete with "Das Boot" 

Tabs, Claire and the kids off on "Das Boot" 

Granny with Max and Nick on The Murray River 

Pete, Tabs, James and Nick in the Dandenongs 

FROM MIAMI TO MELBOURNE

Please scroll down for the article. This is one of the mysteries of blogging!

"Welcome aboard Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Our flying time to Melbourne will be fifteen and a half hours with good luck and a following wind. Right now we have head winds so I hope you've all brought along a good book". A dry chuckle went round the cabin of the Boeing 747-400, and I eyed my cramped seating space and guarded every inch jealously. I had no idea that the Pacific was so vast and was mystified that somehow I managed to lose an entire day in crossing it. 'Welcome to Australia Madam" chirped the nice lady on the immigration desk. "You must be one of the visiting grannies. I reckon over half the plane was filled with grandparents today". I look around at the queue of my tired but cheerful travelling companions and I realise that I am among the youngest although right now I feel distinctly frail around the edges. I pass through customs stoutly declaring that I have not had any dealings with a cow, pig, chicken or a plant of any description, safe in the knowledge that I left my last three rice cakes on board the plane rather than risk being incarcerated for the crime of entering Australia with foodstuffs. I've done it, I'm in and ahead of me are a sea of faces but I can't recognise anyone. Suddenly two small boys detach themself from restraining hands and hurtle towards me followed by a wide-eyed shyly smiling little girl. They are followed by my daughter with arms outstretched and closely in her wake comes my son. After a year of sea-changes throughout the family, we are once again united, albeit on the far side of the world. That evening, I sit in a blissful daze cuddling my five year old grandaughter, listening to an incomprehensible description of computer games from my six year old grandson, and watching as the two aforementioned little boys aged three and two repeatedly attack each other with rubber swords showing no real animosity but exercising a great deal of bravado. Overlayed are conversations with my son and daughter and my son in law and daughter in law while a glass of excellent Australian chardonnay is placed into my hand and as I look at all of them, I know that the fifteen and a half hours have been worth every single moment. The days go by and Melbourne begins to take shape. It's a city without any pretensions. It has the standard selection of high rise glass buildings, but hidden away are exquisite little Victorian cottages wreathed in intricate wrought iron balconies all swathed in roses. Everyone proudly points out the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Yarra River winds past the vast sporting facilities that await the arrival of the 2006 Commonwealth Games. Claire and Pete both live out in the eastern suburbs a half hour drive from town, and I tend to turn my eyes to the forested slopes of the Dandenong Ranges rather than the city. Tabitha and I go into the heart of Melbourne and up the Rialto Tower on a peerlessly clear day. From this viewpoint we can see way out across the bay, where the sheltering arms of the Mornington Peninsula wrap around as if in a caress. Off to the west the bay curves towards Geelong and the Ocean Road and northwards, the Great Dividing Range beckons invitingly. Suddenly across our line of sight flies the enormous new Airbus that is on its trial flight into Melbourne. This aircraft will carry nearly double the number of passengers that were aboard my plane and I fail to see how on earth it is ever going to get airborne. I daresay that in a year or so I shall find out for myself. A camping trip has been planned and I go ahead alone with a car loaded with equipment and a map of Victoria. I feel as though I should be setting out with a mule, a shovel and gold panning equipment as I pinpoint Echuca and the Murray River. Staying clear of the main route, I wind my way across the Macedon Ranges, falling madly in love with beautiful homes set in what looks like English countryside. I pause to photograph Hanging Rock and stop at Maldon and chat with a man called Keith who is accompanied by a sheep called Liquorice who wears a luminescent orange raincoat. When I voice faint surprise, he merely points out that it is a shame that I missed the girl with the mule. People in the small towns are friendly but appear to have very little interest in the world beyond their shores. Quite frankly when viewed from the top of the Great Dividing Range, the rest of the world with its troubles and woes seems comfortably far away and relatively insignificant. The Australians give the impression that they dearly love their country, are passionate about their sportsmen and women; are unimpressed with "big talk", and have a wry humour both about themselves and about those who are less fortunate than they are; i.e. anyone who hasn't been lucky enough to be born and raised an Australian. The scenery often reminded me of South Africa and I was blessed to be there after good rains. Victoria was as green and lush as England during a wet summer, only here it seemed to rain during the night leaving the days sparklingly clear. I shared in the lives of my children and grandchildren for three wonderful weeks, doing the school run, going to swimming classes, practising reading, and watching 'Cinderella' a dozen times but loving the cuddles that went with it. A day spent with Claire touring down to Sorrento and another day spent with Pete viewing the magnificent Ocean Road were gifts beyond value. They all work hard but their leisure time is filled with sunshine, sea and sand and good friends. Education standards are high, their quality of life is good and above all, they are together. Would I move to Australia? In a heartbeat. Would I live in the city?- probably not, but just tempt me with a few acres of land out near the Yarra Valley with a pony in the paddock for the grandchildren and a couple of Weimeranners lying at my feet. This is one Matilda who would waltz off to Oz with her jolly French swagman without a backward glance. A few more years and we would qualify for a Granny Visa and Pete and Tabs bought me the right hat just in case!

SURVIVING WILMA

We have just cycled to the supermarket which in itself is an odd thing to do in this petrol-driven country. In the elevator I met a woman who gasped in amazement when I told her that I was sprouting my own beans and eating them with brown rice and that they were delicious. ‘Where do you grow them?’ she queried and looked horrified when I said that they were doing famously on the balcony. I think she had visions of me up there with a ton of topsoil and a mechanical digger instead of my dinky little sprouter. We set off around Country Club Drive that has been cleared of fallen trees, snapped-off lamp posts and mounds of broken storm shutters, and realised that instead of cars racing past us they normally do, everyone was moving at a slow steady pace. These are the gas hunters, and the SUV’s (Sports Utility Vehicles) are moving slower than most. A week ago, they were the Miami status symbol, but now they are an albatross around the neck of the owner. The millionaire houses that lie between our high rise condo and the beach have no electricity as despite their grandeur, they are only single family units, and the power company is desperately trying to reconnect the larger buildings that house more people. The owners of these luxury homes now need gas to fill their expensive generators but first they need gas to drive their SUV’s to get to the gas station to get gas for their plastic drums. You see what I’m saying. Suddenly from being at the top of the financial pecking order, they have plummeted to the other end of the spectrum, and find themselves queuing in the hot sun alongside the lower income group. We made it to the supermarket and chained our bikes to a pole. They don’t have bike racks – nobody ever expected that a customer might cycle to the shop. Marching in with a back-pack, we foraged among the half empty shelves. At last fresh produce had appeared but now our shopping came down to how much weight we could carry. In the normal course of events, the only time a shopper touches his shopping is when he takes it from the shelf and puts it into the trolley. It is then transferred by the packer and taken to the boot of the car where it is offloaded into another trolley at the condo and taken upstairs in an elevator. Back onto the shelf went the wine, the milk and the orange juice. The cereal came out of its excessive packaging and the back-pack was carefully filled to capacity with immediate necessities. This time the credit card machine was working and cash back was available. This is great because cash is needed to purchase the limited amount of gas that might become available, but in the meanwhile, we cycle everywhere and conserve the half tank that we have got. Stories are now being told of bikes being stolen and gas siphoned out of cars at night. It’s becoming a dog-eat-dog world but I have found that the best currency is a smile and a sympathetic ear. Everyone’s got it tough, and right now we measure our luxuries in electricity and running water. That puts us in the millionaire bracket and for once, the millionaires envy us. So you see, it wasn’t just the dustbins that got upset during Wilma’s visit; the social order went for a bit of a loop as well.

Gone But Not Forgotten

I heard the other day that the names of killer storms such as Andrew, Ivan and Katrina are retired and will never come back to haunt us. One can only hope that Wilma will be among this pantheon of dangerous names and that she never returns. It is now four days since Wilma lashed Southern Florida in general and Aventura in North Miami, in particular. We could have coped with the 100 mile an hour winds, the flailing storm shutters that were ripped off, and the crashing banging mayhem; but did she have to throw in a tornado for good measure? All around our area we see trees that have been twisted out of the ground rather than snapped, metal poles that look like piles of spaghetti and heaps of traffic lights that swung this way and that until they flew off their supports. During the daylight hours, all we hear are the constant buzz of chainsaws as years of patient growth that block the roads, are cut free and reduced to wood chippings. At night-time, the area hums with the sound of a thousand generators where those unfortunate souls who still have no electricity, battle to keep milk for babies and insulin for diabetics cool. The endless search for petrol, ice and water continues unabated and for senior citizens trapped in the upper floors of condominiums that no longer have lifts, each day is a dice with death. Will a kind neighbour climb up to bring them water and at least one meal a day, and will anyone be prepared to stand in long queues at the pharmacy to fill their prescriptions? Certainly everyone was given plenty of advanced warning of Wilma, and we took the warnings seriously and filled the petrol tank, stocked up on water and canned goods and made sure that we had cash on hand. For many who didn’t take the warning seriously or who thought that no storm could begin to equal the wrath of Hurricane Andrew, and who were rather more casual about their preparations, life has been reduced to an endless queue. People queue to get into queues. The queue to get into the car park at the supermarket is followed by a queue to pay for whatever is left on the shelves, provided that you first queued at a bank and drew cash as plastic is no use at present. This is followed by a queue to turn left or right at the busy intersection that has no traffic signals, presuming that you have queued for up to five hours to fill your tank with possibly only $10 worth of petrol. More and more bikes are appearing and the uncommon sight of people walking home carrying the shopping is something that we have never seen in this petrol driven society. Our electricity and water has been reconnected, and we still have a balcony on our 17th floor apartment which was on the north side of the building. Friends in the south facing apartments that took the full brunt of the storm didn’t fare so well and over two hundred balconies have been ripped off. We have bikes, strong legs, experience of living in Africa in fairly trying conditions and the all important sense of humour, but then again, we aren’t frail, in our eighties and living on the tenth floor relying on a walking frame. Thanks for the visit Wilma but please understand that we won’t be inviting you back.

WATERVIEW TOWER ONE