Writers and Routes

Jean with home in the background

2006-04-16T06:43:00.000-07:00

Jean in Aventura April 2006

2006-04-16T06:41:00.000-07:00

Dave and Mum-Guernsey 2006

2006-04-16T06:17:00.000-07:00

Unexpected snow in April 2006

2006-04-16T06:16:00.000-07:00

Angie and Nigel - March 2006

2006-04-16T06:15:00.000-07:00

Mum and Kate-Guernsey 2006

2006-04-16T06:14:00.000-07:00

Dad and Kate - March 2006

2006-04-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

Mum and Molly-March 2006

2006-04-16T06:12:00.000-07:00

2005-12-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

Jean's daughters Priscilla and Carol-Lynn

Happy Festive Seasonal Merry Holiday Greetings

2005-12-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-20T14:07:00.000-08:00

Aboard the Pevensey-Murray River

2005-12-20T14:04:00.000-08:00

Claire with Katie and Max-Mornington

2005-12-07T05:59:00.000-08:00

Shaun and Pete with "Das Boot"

2005-12-07T05:58:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-07T05:48:00.000-08:00

Granny with Max and Nick on The Murray River

2005-12-07T05:46:00.000-08:00

Pete, Tabs, James and Nick in the Dandenongs

FROM MIAMI TO MELBOURNE

2005-12-06T12:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-27T07:19:00.000-07:00

2005-10-26T08:21:00.000-07:00

The entrance to Waterview

2005-10-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

Balcony damage at Waterview

2005-10-26T08:17:00.000-07:00

Wilma sorts out the parking

Wilma, I'm Home!

2005-10-26T08:02:00.000-07:00

The roughly painted sign on a boarded up window said it for all of us. "Wilma, go back to Bedrock". But Wilma didn't comply and instead she carved a pathway through Miami that few of the residents will ever forget.
The problem with hurricanes in Florida is that Hurricane Andrew is the benchmark by which all hurricanes will be forever measured, and those people who lived through the evil fury of that storm always sneer at anything of a lesser category. I think that many of those sneers were wiped off faces when Wilma rampaged through on Monday morning.
We awoke to hear the howling whining wind and the insistent rattling, shaking and banging of thousands of storm shutters that were steadily being worked loose. Within the hour, all we could see from our 17th floor apartment was a white-out of wind and rain and the whirling strips of metal and mesh as they were stripped from the four hundred balconies on our twin tower condominium and sent flailing out into the upper vortex of wind before spiralling down into the car park where they gashed paintwork and smashed windscreens. Rows of parked cars were shunted into mangled heaps, or nudged towards the edge of the Intracoastal waterway that runs past our building and a constant crashing sound could be heard as fronds and coconuts were ripped from the sturdy palm trees and sent thundering in among the wreckage below.
At one point I watched the light fittings swaying back and forth and realised that the entire building was rocking from the force of the 100 mile an hour winds, and we stood back from the windows as debris smashed and flew about. And then Wilma passed over us and a light along the western horizon told us that sanity was returning. However, that light was the only one that was visible. The power went off by eight o clock in the morning, taking with it the air conditioning, most of the lifts in the building and we were left with just the emergency lighting in the hallways and stairwells.
We had organised a gas cooker and camping lamps and had stocked up on water and apart from tramping down seventeen flights of stairs to take coffee to a thirsty friend, we spent the rest of the day "hunkering down' as it is termed. By the early evening the weather was gorgeous with light breezes, cool clear weather and an almost apologetic feel about Mother Nature. The sea was a beautiful aquamarine and the air quality was crisp and fresh as though some almighty spring cleaning had been done. We ventured out only to find roads blocked from thousands of trees, no traffic signals anywhere, people standing in the streets looking up at mangled apartments from which hung large sofas that had been sucked out through broken windows.
Now for many the endless search for ice, water and petrol commences, but for us, the power has been switched back on, there is water in the taps and the air is cool. Hurricanes bring out either the beast or the best in people, but Floridians on the whole are a resilient bunch. We left Midhurst for Miami just over two years ago and have experienced the worst two hurricane seasons in recorded history. But we don’t take it personally; it’s the price you pay for a little piece of paradise.

England in September

2005-09-22T05:55:00.000-07:00

I have just blown back into Miami in time to see the remnants of Hurricane Rita disappearing over the horizon heading north towards the battered Gulf Coast. How much more punishment is this area going to have to suffer before the season is officially over at the end of November.
I spent two weeks in England enjoying tranquil late summer weather which was a happy change from the relentless heat of this Floridian summer and Mum and I made the most of it. I picked up a little rental car and with Molly happily installed between Mum's knees, we made our way each day up to Coombe Hill where we could enjoy breezy walks and a terrific view. Every afternoon I drove through to Princes Risborough and went to visit Dad at the excellent Ker Maria Nursing Home. Dad is looking remarkably well and is definitely a lot better than he was when I saw him in January. He makes valiant efforts to speak and with great effort and concentration on both our parts, we managed to communicate. To hear him say the words "I love you" was a tremendous reward.
Mum is doing well despite feeling understandably lonely at times, and a wonderful group of local people give her lifts into Princes Risborough on a regular basis so that she sees Dad around four times a week. She is painting again and even ventures out to the Horticultural Society meetings.
I made a quick trip down to West Sussex to see my dear pal Maggie and she organised a superb lunch party so that I could catch up with a number of old friends. With possible plans to return to live in Italy, Maggie may not be in Midhurst much longer which means that sadly I would have little reason to visit that beautiful area.
Encouraging news is that Marie Brown Associates who are literary agents, have asked to see the manuscript of my new novel so a great deal of work has to be done to finalise it and hand it over before I leave for Australia in early November.
The thought of seeing Claire and Peter and their families is so exciting, but the thought of a twenty hour flight is somewhat daunting. Never mind, I know it will be well worth it to hear those wonderful words - "Hello Granny".

2005-09-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

Mum and Molly on Coombe Hill

2005-09-21T06:15:00.000-07:00

Kate and Mum at Waterperry

2005-09-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Mum and Dad Sept 2005

2005-09-01T05:17:00.000-07:00

Katrina arrives in Miami

KATRINA ROLLS ON

2005-09-01T05:11:00.000-07:00

KATRINA ROLLS ON

A week ago, I went for a swim in our large condo pool, and as I lay on my back in the warm water, gazing up at the peerless blue sky above, I counted my blessings at being able to live in the wonderful state of Florida. This morning, I returned to the pool and repeated the procedure, but this time I counted my blessings carefully.
Looking up at the twenty four storey building in which we live, I could see the torn mesh and tattered storm blinds that still hang limply from some of the balconies, and below in the car park are the remnants of broken branches and palm fronds lying about awaiting the landscape team who will return us to a state of pristine beauty in no time. Vehicles move through the streets slowly, confused at the lack of traffic lights, and the swans on the golf course are revelling in the extra space afforded by the flooded lake. For two days last week we had done the Floridian thing and ‘hunkered down’ listening with trepidation as the huge glass windows in our apartment creaked, and the wind screamed and harried at any object that lay in its path. Storm shutters shuddered and shook and the lights flickered while daylight was turned into an evil mix of dark clouds and a white-out of rain storms. In the north of Miami, Katrina blew with intense force and then she turned southwards where she dumped incredible amounts of rain onto already sodden ground, turning streets into rivers.
But we were not enough for her. We were just a dress-rehearsal; a chance to flex her muscles and to tease and torment the residents who had cowered at her arrival. She had bigger fish to fry than us, and having jinked her way back out into the Gulf of Mexico, she set her sights on that pearl of the Gold Coast, New Orleans.
The television coverage is all that we see of Katrina now, but the exhausted tearful voices of previously hardened reporters tell of families drowned inside their own homes, of children left stranded and alone on railway lines, of the still rising water and of the thousands who now have no homes to return to. Stephen Spielberg in all his wild imagination could not have come up with a scene of such destruction and misery, and right now, the world waits to see if New Orleans will sink back into the waters from which it was wrested.
It is a humbling day for Americans. This was an attack of enormous brutality and it came from a source against which they have no recourse. But I have no doubt that the inherent good-neighbourliness that we have come to appreciate will surface, and in the same way that South Florida is slowly rebuilding, so will the shattered lives of New Orleans and its surrounds.

2005-08-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

The Gang in Melbourne

SURVIVING KATRINA

2005-08-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I looked out from our 17th story condo and watched as the normally turquoise sea turned an ugly shade of grey and then disappeared under a lowering sky. Katrina was on her way, and having flirted with the coastline and confused all the pundits, she finally set her sights on Aventura and came barrelling in directly at us. For the last two years, we have been like deep fielders, watching as Charlie, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne came within reach and messed with our weather, but this time, the ball had been bowled straight at us and it was time to do that Floridian thing known as "hunkering down".
In order to hunker correctly, the first course of action is a trip to the gas station to ensure that the petrol tank is full. Quite where anyone plans to go is dubious as we are an eight hour drive from anything remotely approaching rising ground, and if you flee to the West coast of Florida, you can bet your bottom dollar that the hurricane will seek you out and send you fleeing back to the East coast. The next item on the list is a trip to Publix Supermarket, that Aladins Cave of daily supplies. Thanks to our camping trips, we are normally stocked with tinned goods, batteries and suchlike, but I am always intruiged to see those shoppers who feel that they cannot possibly face the wrath of Mother Nature without at least four cases of coke cans, enough Krispy Creme donuts to re-sink the Titanic and sufficient bread products to feed the orphans of Africa for a week. Cash tills ring with glee as everyone goes into mild panic mode while outside, the sun is still shining and the palm fronds wave gently in the breeze. However, word has been given by the High Priests of Hurricanes, the reporters of Channel 10 news, and the Governor of the State, George Bush's brother Jeb, has also given us a few comforting words. Sadly he has had regular practice in making this speech over the past two years, so much so that he is forever linked in many people's minds as "The Hurricane Governor".
It then remains to return home with the supplies, bring down the storm shutters and settle in front of the TV to see how the expected onslaught is progressing. You are now ready to Hunker, and in fact you are in Hunker mode which requires the consumption of such wicked items as chocolate, donuts, endless cups of coffee and a comforting bowl of ice cream. None of these things would normally pass our lips during bright sunny weather, and definitely come under the heading of Hunker food. At least this year we didn't feel the urge to bring out the dominoes and play endless games while the storm shutters clattered and the wind screamed about the building. This time, Jean plugged in his computer and worked all day and I wrote a couple more chapters of the new novel. We are obviously becoming old hands at the Hunkering!
Of course for many folks, the power goes out and this means the air conditioning stops. To be penned up in a hot house with fractious children or scared family members while facing rising water, flying debris and possible house collapse is a very different thing than sitting in the comfort and safety of our apartment, and our thoughts go out to those poor souls who have days of mopping up and possibly months of reconstruction ahead.
I drove Jean to the office this morning and it was like driving through the film set of some Hollywood disaster movie. The streets that were largely ungoverned by traffic signals, were littered with trees, branches, palm fronds and general mess, but the Floridians were out and about, some wading knee deep, some frolicking waist deep, many shovelling, mopping and digging, but within a week or so, it will all be back to normal, or as normal as Miami ever is.
And just think folks - we are only halfway through the season!

2005-07-23T13:08:00.000-07:00

Dad and his sister Pat

2005-07-19T15:53:00.000-07:00

Back in the mountains at last

2005-07-19T15:52:00.000-07:00

Heather cooking lunch on the manifold

2005-07-19T15:48:00.000-07:00

All the comforts of home

2005-07-19T15:46:00.000-07:00

Leo and his reading material

The North Carolina Trip

2005-07-19T15:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-07-19T15:27:00.000-07:00

Heather, Pat and Kate at Linville Falls NC

2005-07-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

Fort Lauderdale Veterans Day

Veterans Day

2005-07-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

Jean and the girls on Hollywood Boardwalk

The Night Before The Election

2005-07-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

“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.

2005-07-17T13:41:00.000-07:00

A Slightly Snappish Friend

From Africa to Alligators

2005-07-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

Fleas and Elephants

From Fleas to Elephants

2005-07-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-17T07:05:00.000-07:00

(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.

2005-07-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

Back under canvas

2005-07-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

Everglades Lake

2005-07-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

Shaun, Claire, Max and Katie

2005-07-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

Our Miami view

2005-07-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

James in Melbourne

2005-07-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

Tabs

2005-07-15T12:04:00.000-07:00

Pete and Nicholas

2005-07-15T11:47:00.000-07:00

Jean - Miami

2005-07-15T11:29:00.001-07:00

Andrew and Julie

2005-07-15T11:29:00.000-07:00

Dave, Andrew and Sal

2005-07-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

Andrew and Becky at their wedding in Canada

Lesley Martin passes away

2005-07-12T13:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-10T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

Kate in Miami 2005

On The Move Again

2005-06-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

It looks as though I will be making a trip over to England in September to spend a couple of weeks with Mum and Dad. With neither Claire nor Peter and their respective families living there, it will be a strange visit. Walks with Molly the Labrador will seem very tame by comparison to taking the little ones to the park, screaming in delicious terror as we hurtle down the tunnel funnel at waterworld or clambering all over the climbing frame at the play centre. I shall miss sharing tea parties with Basil Bear and going on space missions or building railway lines but I have high hopes of getting to Australia in November to catch up with them all. In the meantime, I plan to enjoy some early autumnal weather and see a few old friends in UK while I am there.

We enjoyed an excellent party on Saturday night with a few of our South African pals here in Miami. We might all live in twenty five storey condos now but the boerwors and the memories are never far away and everyone has a few Swazi spears, springbok carpets and Tinus De Jong paintings on the wall. There is a huge South African contingent living in South Florida and it is even possible to buy Nando's sauces and Mrs Balls Chutney if you know where to look!

Miami has come through the wettest June on record for many years and we all feel as though we have webbed feet. However, the real Hurricane season still lies ahead of us and will last until the end of October. Let's hope we don't get the pummelling that we had last year with no fewer than four major hits on the Florida mainland. There is a high price to pay for living in paradise!

2005-06-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

Mum and Dad at Ker Maria Nursing Home

2005-06-24T06:58:00.000-07:00

James and Nerissa at Hester's wedding

Write What You Know!

2005-06-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

When I was sixteen, I was challenged to write an essay following a school trip on the recently completed Inter City train line up to the newly opened Coventry Cathedral,. I stunned everyone including my English teacher and myself, by winning the competition and since then I have found it easy to write about places and people that I have experienced.

On my arrival in Mohales Hoek Lesotho, I found that the local newspaper entitled "The Foothill Times" had fallen by the wayside, so appointing myself editor in chief, typist, roneo operator, stapler and distributing manager, I proceeded to put together several issues. However, despite the enthusiasm of some readers which resulted in them purchasing a life time subscription, the paper didn't stay the course. Poems recording various births, marriages, anniversaries and extraordinary occurrences in the little town were all written and I understand that some people still hold copies.
I came across the minute books of the Social Club and from that rich source of material, I began to write a book entitled "On Which The Sun Has Set". The book covered the twenty three years that I spent in the tiny European community which on a good day could number between twenty and thirty people. During the 1970's in the absence of TV, tar roads and telephones, we made our own entertainment, and on the whole we had a fairly hilarious time of it. There were days when we dodged bullets from the latest political upheavals or disappeared over the nearest mountain on either horseback, motor bike or aeroplane in some madcap race. We flew from trading station to trading station landing the tiny Tripacer aircraft on strips of land that defied all the known rules of aeronautics occasionally accompanied by a pig, two dogs, two children and cases of frozen chickens. We spent our weekends trout fishing in the mountain rivers, playing crazy games of Beery Golf, challenging each others sporting abilities in the Annual Pentathlon and generally keeping ourselves active and occupied.
Once my two children had grown up and left school, I left Lesotho and settled on a derelict farm across the border in South Africa. It was here that my next book was written . "Lambs Love and Laughter" told the story of how my second husband and I had wrested the farm back from its declining overgrown state, how we turned the farmhouse that had been used as a sheep shed, back into a home, and how we learned the hard way about coping with veldt fires, drought, cattle sickness and the strange animals that came into our lives. This book was serialised by the Country Life Magazine in South Africa before going on to be re-written and enlarged.
On leaving Africa, we finally found our way to America where I began to write a series entitled "From Midhurst to Miami". Readers of an English newspaper seemed to enjoy finding out about life in America through the eyes of two recent arrivals and the articles can be seen on my website www.fagalde.co.uk.
I write for pleasure ( who these days apart from JK Rowling writes for gain?) and am working on two more books.

2005-06-09T10:54:00.000-07:00

Max and Katie

2005-06-09T10:47:00.000-07:00

Braving the birthdays

INTRODUCTION

2005-06-09T05:03:00.000-07:00

When I was young, people often asked me "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Having lived in five different countries, I still seem to be making it up as I go along.
At the age of nineteen, I packed my bags and left my home in England and headed for South Africa. A strange twist of fate then took me from the comforts of Durban to the mountains of Lesotho where I expected to stay for a period of three months. My departure was somewhat delayed however, and twenty three years later, I repacked my bags and moved across the border to a derelict farm in South Africa where I and my second husband worked to create a home and raise a herd of beef cattle. Eight years on, and with both security and financial situations equally precarious, we sadly sold up and moved back to England.
We had begun to grudgingly settle in to a rather dull existence when the offer of a relocation to Miami came to us, and without a second thought, we packed our suitcases once more and headed for Florida.
Is this the end of the road for us - who knows! With children and grandchildren now living in Australia and France, I have my doubts. I have discovered that the trick is to travel light, keep our options open and make the most of whatever life offers.