Dad and his sister Pat 

Back in the mountains at last 

Heather cooking lunch on the manifold 

All the comforts of home 

Leo and his reading material 

The North Carolina Trip

A few months back, I was fortunate to be invited to join a couple of ladies plus a Bengal Cat named Leo on a camping trip that would take us up to the famous Blue Ridge mountains in North Carolina. Sharing the driving with Pat, we slogged right up through Florida and met up with Heather who had come across from Sarasota. The first stop was the Okeefenokee Swamp where we settled in and were promptly deluged with two inches of rain. Considering it was the first time that I had put the tent up without Jean, I was fairly proud of myself and with two of us under canvas and one in the camper van, we all managed excellently. Driving up through the centre of Georgia was a wonderful chance to see beautiful little towns like Madison. Since the speed limit in Georgia is 45mph, you get plenty of chance to admire the passing scenery, but we were a bit horrified to find that at the end of a long days drive, it was impossible to buy wine on a Sunday! Thank heavens Pat discovered a spare bottle at the bottom of a cupboard in the van. Staying over at Vogel State Park was scenic but distinctly chilly and we found a thrift shop and bought up their stock of blankets. Well worth it however to be back in the mountains and Heather introduced hot chocolate into the diet before we retired for the night which really helped. From Vogel we moved into North Carolina and joined the Blue Ridge Parkway at Cherokee, following it along the tops of the mountains until we reached Ashville. Two more nights spent in a delightfully wooded campground by a bubbling trout stream and we investigated the delights of the Biltmore Village where the shopping is highly expensive but incredibly beautiful. A day spent in and around Ashville and we were ready to head back to the hills and stopped off at Linville Falls for two nights. This was our last view of the mountains and we slid down in the early morning mist and drove through South Carolina to Savannah. What a lovely Sunday. We took the tourist trip and visited all the squares, sat on the bench where Forest Gump offered the lady his chocolates, saw the house from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and wound up in the campground with a great bunch of South Africans who were having their annual get-together. In true SA spirit, they sent us off with a big bag of boerewors and a packet of charcoal having shared their seafood poitjie with us. From Savannah we called in at St Augustine and duly walked along the oldest road in America before heading down to spend our last night in blissful luxury with friends of Heathers who had a beach house. It was great to get back home but we are already talking about our next trip. Just as long as Leo comes along with us!

Heather, Pat and Kate at Linville Falls NC 

Fort Lauderdale Veterans Day 

Veterans Day

We’d parked behind a cow and this was important because otherwise, we would have no idea how to find the car again. There are only two cows in Fort Lauderdale and ours was stationed outside a tee shirt emporium. I’m not too sure what the one has to do with the other but doubtless there is a story behind this strange linking. The other one I stands outside an Argentinian Restaurant. This would make sense apart from the fact that that particular cow is a milking Guernsey cow and therefore safe from the steak eaters. Like the White Rabbit, we were late for a very important date. The first official Veterans Day Parade was marching down West Broward Boulevard and was due to arrive at the River Walk at 11am. We got there by 11.15 just in time to see the last of the busses bearing the wives and those who could no longer undertake the long march, arriving in the square. It was a sad disappointment and for a while, we wandered about looking at the army jeeps and admiring the smart uniforms of the varying forces who were now milling about and seeking out their families. But as we strolled, we became aware that poppies were being proudly worn in smart dark blazers that were bedecked with rows and rows of medals. These were not American servicemen and women, and it dawned on me that a large contingent of my countrymen had marched alongside their cousins from across the pond. People are quick to say that in the light of football hooligans, there is very little to be said for the British travelling abroad. Well let me tell you that never have I been more proud and more delighted than to meet up with this fine body of people. Led by their organiser-in-Chief Frank Fallows, the British Korean Veterans Association were upholding all that is admirable and fine about the United Kingdom. These were not the stiff-upper-lipped British military types that seem so unapproachable, but a cheerful, friendly outgoing crowd with the usual quips and sparks of humour that cannot be copied or transplanted to any other race on earth. Telling them of my occasional newspaper column, they cheerfully gathered up wives, husbands and friends, and standing in serried ranks up a flight of steps, I was rewarded with a photograph that says so much. Even here under the brilliantly blue warm skies of Florida, everything about them said “We are British and proud of it” and I in turn was proud to have met them all. I had wanted to be here on this special day to represent my father who has suffered a stroke and is no longer able to take his place in what he so endearingly described as “the bump and tinkle” parade. From their place at the War Memorial in a little Buckinghamshire Village, the decreasing number of elderly veterans of the 2nd World War would gather each year and salute their comrades in arms who had died as young men and women, and then, girding their loins, they would make it back up the hill to the pub for a well earned pint and a great story telling session. I had always longed to be able to gather up my brothers, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren to stand at his side and honour the deeds and sacrifices that have given me and my generation the chance to live such a full and happy life. This is sadly no longer an option, but in meeting that fine group of people today, it made me realise that as long as there are those who remember, those who care and people who respect what has gone before, there is a chance that we may still respect and honour what is now ours because of them. We found our car again. We accosted a taxi driver and asked him if he knew where the cow was, and he took us there as straight as a die. He spoke warmly of the forces that had fought alongside his own countrymen and he shook us all by the hand, and I was proud to be British.

Jean and the girls on Hollywood Boardwalk 

The Night Before The Election

“Under the boardwalk” we all sang in unison waving our arms in the air. “Down by the sea” we warbled as we took two steps to the left and clapped and then two steps to the right and clapped. There must have been a hundred people under the stars at the Hollywood Beach open air theatre on a Tuesday night completely impervious to the fact that the entire nation was awaiting the results of one of the most bitterly and closely fought elections in recent history. Republicans sweated and sidestepped while Democrats got in a bit of fancy footwork but on the whole, everyone was working hard to put together a fairly well orchestrated dance routine, led by the young man on the stage wielding a microphone and backed up by a huge electronic music machine. For all the mud-slinging that had gone on prior to the actual election date, it was now in the lap of the Gods, and for most of us, the evening was spent leaping about like teenagers, laughing and colliding with our neighbours, and desperately trying to copy the sharp line dance routines going on around us. I couldn’t help feeling that Hollywood is a melting pot of the Americans that we come into contact with. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, the faithful are seated early on the rows of “aloominum” benches awaiting the arrival of whichever group or solo performance is booked for the evening. There is a wide concrete dance area that separates the onlookers from the stage, and on either side of the dance floor, ropes separate the watchers from the dancers and prevent the casual bike riders from peddling through the midst of the entertainment. The stage is curved, painted with a vast seascape and stands with its back to the sea, and a small door at the back of the stage is left open in order to allow a cooling breeze from the water that keeps the musicians from dissolving into a puddle of sweat. It is easy to spot the old Hollywood residents. They stick to the same seats each night and dance in the same area of the floor. Dressed in t shirts and flip-flops or turned out in silky tops with a dab of gold jewellery they can look like any other normal couple until the gentleman turns his back to the audience to reveal a Under The Boardwalk – Kate Fagalde waist long plait. There are the elderly retired couples who sit down for all the fast numbers but who never fail to get onto the floor for the waltzes. Arms about each other with a misty look in their eyes, they move with the music as the memories flicker across their faces. In one corner there will be a Dad with a small child perched on his shoulders, or a young couple with a child between them, the little one standing on Dad’s shoes and clutching his knees as he dances with his parents. The middle aged bracket still kick their heels up to the 60’s music and a few brave ones take on a pretty nifty ragtime beat, and are at once transformed into servicemen and women from the wild days of the war years. The youngsters have given up on disco music that merely requires them to stand and wiggle various bits of their anatomies, and join in the joyous free style, dodging the line dancers and weaving in and out of the waltzers. The audience applaud the musicians and the dancers alike and woe betide the band who make lots of noise but fails to produce the rhythm that gets everybody up on their feet. I have yet to know the weather to put a damper on things and invariably the stars are shining, the moon beams down on us all, while the wind from the sea brushes the palm fronds at the edge of the beach. The music ends at the reasonable time of nine o clock and people depart, some of them still dancing, towards the car park or the ice cream shop. Small children loll sleepily on their parents shoulders, elderly couples walk arm in arm and the youngsters hold hands and drift towards the beach. I didn’t hear a single mention the election on Tuesday night at Hollywood, but I heard the sound of combined laughter, saw the delight on people’s faces as they finally caught the rhythm and watched a hundred people all in step singing “Under the Boardwalk”. I know that in some form or another, this scene is being re-enacted all over America by people who have a common cause. All they want to do is to dance in step with each other just as long as the band leader is playing the right tune.

A Slightly Snappish Friend 

From Africa to Alligators

We went camping with the alligators this weekend. Unglamorous beasts I know and yet I feel sorry for them in a way. Why shouldn’t they get the same star billing as the manatees, flamingos, and rare salt water crocodiles that pop up in Southern Florida? I suppose alligators fall into the same category as the hyenas of Africa where bad press keeps them low on the “must see” scale. As hyenas are aware, rotten teeth, stinking breath and coarse hair doesn’t make for glamour ratings when compared with sleek leopards and adorable lion cubs, and in similar vein, alligators just lie around and stop you from swimming on a hot day, and don’t exactly leap off the “ohh and ahh” scale like a fat cuddly manatee or a friendly dolphin. Mind you, as we watched them dining on some understandably nervous fish in a large swamp, there was enough snapping and roaring to satisfy even the most blasé wildlife enthusiast. Just before hurricane season really got going, we had found a tent at half price. Everything in Florida is eventually half price and it is just a case of being in the right place and in the right mood at the right time. Had it been pouring with rain or blowing a chilly breeze, we would probably have walked straight past the lofty canvas (or whatever “technodry” material they use) erection and passed by en route to the hiking boots department. The moment we stepped through the double layered, mosquito proofed doorway and found that not only could we stand up without touching the roof, but had room to entertain on a fairly lavish scale, we were sold. It seemed to come with divorce-proof instructions on how to put the thing up and before we knew it, we had stowed our new possession in the “trunk” as we are learning to call the car boot, and were off in search of gas stoves, battery lamps, unbreakable coffee mugs and a pump for the air beds. Many years ago, we had camped extensively throughout the little African kingdom of Lesotho but that was camping on a major scale. Knowing that we would see nothing by way of supplies apart from the occasional café on the side of the gravel track which might yield up a few dented tins of pilchards and cans of hot fizzy drinks, it was best to be totally self-contained both in the food line and in the mechanical one as well. Fresh trout were wonderful cooked over an open fire in a frying pan full of butter, but we could never rely on actually extracting them from their hiding place in the river, so a few good steaks were always packed, along with ice for the gin and tonics and marmalade for the toast. And so we found ourselves under a full Florida moon watching from our position on top of a camp table as the light of our torch caught the red pin pricks of light out across the water. The alligators were cruising their domain in the still of the night and the silence was broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the whine of a mosquito. We were an hour from the hustle and bustle of Miami but it was a world away. We returned to our campfire, and considered that instead of watching the sun setting behind the westward mountain ranges of Africa, we were looking out towards the Gulf of Mexico, but it is the same sun that sinks into the sea and instead of toasting the trout of Lesotho, we will raise our glasses to the alligators of Florida.

Fleas and Elephants 

From Fleas to Elephants

I knew I was at a Flea Market; you could tell by the elephants. I was busy combing through an excellent second hand book stand at the massive “Swap Shop” near Fort Lauderdale when a loud hailer announced “Make way for the elephants”. Presuming that it was someone trying out a bargain priced piece of equipment I paid little attention, but sure enough, two lumbering pachyderms plodded between the laden stalls followed by a lugubrious man pushing a wheelie bin and wearing a worried expression. It turned out that they were on their way to a daily performance at the Circus Tent that adjoins the market but I tell you this to illustrate how it pays to keep your eyes open in Florida. Take yesterday for instance; while wading out into the warm silken sea for a morning dip, I realised that not twenty feet away a stark naked couple mercifully standing up to their waists in water were sharing a Starbucks Coffee. It won’t do you any good to gawp and gesticulate; it’s Miami and that’s how things are. My ingrained British instincts tell me to politely look away or pretend I am searching for shells, but since they are grinning and asking “Are you having a good one?” it behoves me to be equally polite, to wave back and assure them that my day is going according to plan, except maybe I hadn’t planned on sharing my morning swim with such scantily clad coffee drinkers. Coming from West Sussex, nothing really prepares you for these sort of eventualities. Imagine waiting in the queue at the Chichester Farmers Market to pay for your new potatoes, and an elephant wanders past. I can already hear the thud as the Health and Safety manuals hit the desk and the sound is swiftly followed by an irate buzz emanating from Brussels. As for naked swimmers with your breakfast – well it’s enough to make you choke on your cornflakes. There’s another thing. The police here go into dangerous situations armed to the teeth, clad in body armour and wearing massive riot helmets. But during off-duty hours, they race around the city on huge Harley Davidson motor bikes wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans; not even a shirt let alone a crash-cap. The girl on the pillion seat must have the requisite flowing blond hair, a waistline that would satisfy Queen Victoria and the smallest pair of hot pants that money can buy, but to spoil the image with a “skid lid” just isn’t cool. One could almost understand it tooling along the beach front, but thundering down a five lane highway weaving in and out of dense traffic makes me cringe when I think of the combination of skin and tarmac. America is learning to live with that sop to the conscience called “light ice cream”. This allows fast-food emporiums and restaurants that serve helpings that could feed a family of four for two days, to round out the feast with a double scoop of “Chocolate Fudge Tiramisu Rocky Road”. But because it has the magic word “Light” on the menu, everyone feels they can have an extra portion of French Fries – or “Liberty Fries” as some people choose to call them in these somewhat fraught political times – and can sit back knowing that desert is going to exorcise all their sins. It’s a bit like the weather at this time of year. Looking out of our 17th floor windows away to the west, it is a scene of black heavy clouds threaded with lightening and the rumble of menacing thunder announcing that the Everglades are getting another soaking. However, turning my head very slightly to the east, I see gleaming white cabin cruisers creating a light ripple on the surface of the Intracoastal waterway while out at sea, a passing cruise liner looks like a cardboard cut-out on the mirror-still water. So I’ve discovered that the trick is to keep your eyes open and see it from all sides, but just occasionally remember to close my mouth lest I stand accused of gawping.

Midhurst to Miami - newspaper article

(Previously published in the Midhurst and Petworth Gazette) I knew we were no longer living in West Sussex from the moment I laid eyes on the guy coming towards me along Collins Avenue. From the top of his daisy laden hat, past his mini dress and to the soles of his cream knee high lace-up boots, there was something about him that clearly stated “I do not belong in The Home Counties”. Maybe there are areas of England where he might have fitted in perfectly, but over the past four years, I hadn’t come across them. My world of Barbour jackets and ties, tweed skirts and twin sets has vanished and in its place is that incredibly diverse city of Miami; home of the rich and famous, the old and the new, the glitz and glamour and the down-at-heel. To most people in England, the word “Florida” provokes the Pavlovian response of “Orlando”. One cannot be in one without seeing the other and indeed there would be little purpose in travelling all this way were it not to savour everything that the planners and dreamers of Epcot, Disney World and Sea World have come up with. However, living here permanently is a different story and the saying among the elderly retired folks who populate the southern areas of this vast and exceptionally flat State, is that “Nobody goes to Orlando until the grandchildren turn up, and then they have more fun than the kids”. So far we have resisted the temptation to shell out the equivalent of a return air-ticket to England on hotel accommodation and entry fees to these wonders, but no doubt the time will come when the first of my four grandchildren arrives at the airport and takes me firmly by the hand. We have lived in north Miami for a year now and along with learning to drive on the right in a vehicle that could double as a Russian tank in size, I have had to come to grips with a whole new language. Certainly the Americans speak English and in many cases gripe that we have done terrible things to it. Take this morning for instance. I put the trash into the compactor, left the apartment and rode the elevator down to the lobby and fetched the caddy to offload the shopping from the Mall that was in the trunk. I left the caddy next to the “aloominum” railings so that the next SUV that would swing in next to the condo wouldn’t create a fender bender. And that’s just in the normal course of events. After a very short time we discovered that it was going to be a case of “The fit or the fat” and we would have to plump for one side or the other. Were we going to fall foul of Big Macs, Tony Roma’s Rib Joint, The Pizza House and Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream or would we make our virtuous way to “Natural Foods” and “The Fresh Food Market” pausing in only in our progression to call in at the gym and the pool? The golf course adjacent to our condo building has a tree lined walking track that winds for three miles around its circumference and this is where we joined the fit, the not so fit and the “full of good intentions” brigade. From spandex clad lithe figures racing past on roller blades to joggers plugged into their iPods sweating their way around and on to the grandmothers doing duty with the push chairs, all life finds its way around the park at varying speeds. T shirts proclaim a variety of messages; “Save the Whale”, “Save Cuba”, “Save Ten Bucks down at Marty’s Lube Station”. You walk on the right and keep a wary ear for the approaching whirr of wheels as the roller bladers and the bikers overtake you and with sweat pouring into your eyes you march on until the circuit is complete and the welcome security gates of the condo come into view once more. Shopping is a constant search for the ideal object at the best price. Of course there are those who would only place their Manolo Blahniks onto the forecourt of Bal Harbour but for every one of them, there are a hundred who will first choose their outfit from the rails of Bloomingdales and JC Penney, and then go and purchase it for a third of the price down the road at Ross Discount House. The Americans are savvy shoppers and the return policy of all major shops attest to the fickle nature of the purchaser. Having found the ideal item and carried it triumphantly home, it may not rest there for long before being carted back because it fails to go exactly right with the shoes or the top or the jeans. Americans are avid movie goers and heaven help the forgetful patron who leaves his cell phone switched on. Bleeps are met with boos and whistles while the offender scurries from the auditorium in red-faced shame. Moments of high emotion are met with sighs and supportive groans from the audience and the finale of really good film can be met with anything from a round of applause to a standing ovation. No film can possible be watched without a monster box of popcorn, a coke large enough to float a small cabin cruiser in, and assorted pretzels, hot dogs and ice creams. Everyone seems to be possessed of an iron clad bladder and there is seldom a mad rush to exit at the end of the show but instead, people will discuss the pros and cons with their hitherto unknown neighbours and will stand and watch the titles roll quite happily. For the princely sum of seven dollars, one can gain access to the twenty seven screen complex and cheerfully spend the entire afternoon and evening wandering from one film to another if you so desire, and a little careful planning beforehand can ensure that those with “square eye” syndrome can manage at least two, if not three full length features. So if it’s food, culture, theatre, music, sea, sand, sunshine and the occasional brush with a hurricane that you are after, then maybe Miami is the place to start. If you don’t know where to begin, I’ll bet the guy with the daisies in his hat could help you, but you might want to leave your Barbour jacket at home.

Back under canvas  

Everglades Lake 

Shaun, Claire, Max and Katie  

Our Miami view 

James in Melbourne 

Tabs  

Pete and Nicholas 

Jean - Miami 

Andrew and Julie 

Dave, Andrew and Sal 

Andrew and Becky at their wedding in Canada 

Lesley Martin passes away

We are all so very sad to hear that our friend Lesley Martin died yesterday. Lesley and her husband Mike arrived in Mohales Hoek back in 1982 and along with their four daughters, Anna, Lucy, Kathy and Sheena, they all quickly became an integral part of life in Lesotho. She was always a good friend to me and I shall miss our contacts through email and phone. As a family, our thoughts go out to Mike, the girls and their respective families.

Priscilla and Carol Lynn

Priscilla and Caro-Lynn have both been working hard with their respective
studies and are looking forward to the long summer break. They recently
attented the House Warming and wedding anniversary of Mr and Mrs
Michel and from what we saw of the photos, the Michels have done a
superb job with the building of their second house. Right now, the
South of France is struggling through another ferocious heatwave and
we just hope that Mamy and Papy stay home in the air conditioning
and take life very quietly. We miss you all and love to everyone.

Sad news of Lesley Martin

Sheena Martin asked to contact their friends. They're going through a tough time at the moment, Les has lung cancer and secondary liver cancer. It has got to the stage where Les has decided she doesn't want to go ahead with cancer treatment as such, is receiving palliative treatment which Sheena says is doing much to perk her up.Sheena says Les is as strong as ever in spirit, in fact she was working right up to a few weeks ago when Sheena, Brent and their children visited them in Bude, (Les also wrote an exam on the Wednesday before they arrived).They had a wonderful two weeks together before Sheena and Brent returned home, when Les was admitted into hospital in Plymouth, when the cancer was diagnosed.Kathy and Lucy have arrived in Bude, and Sheena flies over on Tuesday. Mike and the girls are going to look after Les with the help of a community sister who will visit regularly. Les' Mum, who is 90 now and also as strong as ever, is nearby and I'm sure she'll find the family as great a support to her as she is to them. They're all looking to the positive side, are grateful for this chance to enjoy some time together right now, a chance so many don't get.Sheena said that although Mike isn't able to cope with a lot of telephone calls right now, she knows that Mike and Les will both enjoy emails and letters from friends, letters with lots of news, and she'll do her best to keep in touch once she arrives in Bude next week. She asked me to thank everyone who has written to her this past week, she will be taking the letters over to the UK to share with the family there.She also asked me to thank everyone for so many kindnesses and to thank them for their prayers. Mike and Les' email address: lacmartin@riverside3048.fsnet.co.uk

Kate in Miami 2005