Brass. Xures

We had been invited to attend a small function to celebrate the official opening of the little port in Xures so lovingly developed by our friends in Lagarde.

It was to have been held outdoors, at the new port, where old friends and prospective customers many of whom had travelled some distance to be there, could sample the romance of life afloat, voyaging under perfect spring skies, past romantic French villages with even more romantic melodies wafting from below the decks provided by a real accordionist.

No-one predicted the sudden chilly, wet and grey change in the weather that forced a sudden change of venue.  Instead of celebrating on the pontoons of the new harbour where food would be sodden and guests at risk of hypothermia, invitees were guided to the town’s modest reception rooms adjoining the mayor’s office.  This was a warm and welcoming gesture by the village intent, on encouraging any business within its bounds.  There was a risk in that though, as perhaps on the closer inspection provided by the walk to the venue, the “romance” perceived from the waterway could also be perceived as being dangerously close to being “unkempt” in much of the village, and then there was a risk that the darkened mural that loomed over us within the building itself, illustrating times far less happy than these could detract as well.

The ancient musician, no doubt sensing that an extraordinary effort would be required, or perhaps just to show off his undoubted talents and through this happy circumstance armed with access to a power point, decided to abandon his squeezebox in favour of a more modern electrical contraption.  This turned out to be a portable keyboard, from the days when they were called “organs” and came in a particular shade of pastel green, this one with it’s tone button stuck on “trumpet” and it’s volume button stuck on “full”.

So there we were, sampling the regional delicacies of Lorraine, being regaled with the lesser known compositions of Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass, under grey skies but with all the warmth in the world from the people of the company and the village, and all the light (and romance) we needed from the early flowers of spring.

Sunshine is so overrated.

Springing to life.Lagarde

Spring is on the way.  Despite appearances, on close inspection there are tiny green shoots appearing now on all of the trees that weren’t there just a few days ago.

It’s the same on board too.  Despite appearances, everything is close to clean and tidy and mostly properly stowed, with only a load of shopping and a quick rub over some oily bits in Mr Perkins’ domain to be done and we’ll declare ourselves ready for summer.

After one last trip to town (the other town this time Sarrebourg, the one that is a freeway drive away) the car went back to it’s home, our umbilical cord to the land gone.  Tomorrow we might even go for a little run to see that all is in order.

Then all we have to do is to shoot off ourselves, and we’ll declare our own season underway as well!

A day in town. Lunéville

It had not been a terribly late night out, nor had we had a terribly early morning, but when we did deign the time appropriate for us to rise, we felt as animals must as they slowly emerge from hibernation.    Despite the clear blue sky or some would say because of it, even with almost no remnant of the overnight frost to be seen the chill was still bordering on uncivilised as we sprinted from our little heated space to the warmth of the car. 

There’s nothing not to enjoy about the drive between Lagarde and Lunéville.  It’s the the sort of gently winding undulating country road that makes one feel as though one is in a cigarette commercial or perhaps an after-shave one, although come to think of it being in either of those would require the absence of a roof and long locks of billowing hair and perhaps a galloping white horse, none of which were to hand, which possibly tempered the romance of it all ever so slightly as did the fresh loads of winter manure being ploughed into some of the fields. 

All that aside there was the serious town business to be done: sorting out our banks and internet and buying enough provisions to get us through the next famine or at least for a week or two or tomorrow, until we can access a supermarket again.    

And then we just had to take that drive one more time, enjoying being in it far too much to stop and take a photo. 

but baby, it's cold outside!

We have a rule that says that we don’t get out of bed unless something is in double figures.  It matters not whether that is the time or the temperature aboard but one of them has to co-operate or we don’t get up.

Our little five hundred watt heater can get our tiny sleeping cabin up there in adverse conditions given enough time, but even after four hours of effort on its part, it was touch and go this morning whether time or temperature would win the battle.   

Just three nights ago, ice was what we were putting in our drinks, now it’s nasty stuff we can slip on if we aren’t careful, even more reason to remain tucked ever so snuggly under every doona we can find.

Temperature notwithstanding, it’s good to be back among our friends in the port, and in truth it’s good to have an excuse to simply stay in bed for a bit. 

Yesterday the covers were away and the decks were scrubbed.  Today almost everything inside is ship-shape. In a day or two the post-winter chaos aboard will be gone, replaced by a semblance of normal life aboard. 

Bill is a bit puzzled though. With all of our major renovation work complete and for the first time in six years, no great list of things to do appearing each day, things just don’t seem normal.   When he started Mr P after completing his post-winter service, there was no smoke and he had to check whether he was on the right boat.

Perhaps we have stumbled into a new “normal”.

Waiting for our brains to arrive.

Because we are wise and experienced travellers, we know when to say enough is enough, so we planned a night of respite in a pleasant if somewhat world-weary, which is to say “cheap” hotel in Lunéville. There we would have a warm meal, a nice, hopefully long sleep in a warm bed without the need for too much comfort, and a sustaining breakfast before setting off on our merry way in the warmth of a clear spring morning.

Because we never like to plan things in any detail beyond perhaps a quick hunt for accommodation on the internet the night before, or in this case the week before we were due to arrive, we never seem to get the hang of checking whether there is anything which might impact on our ability to get to where we think we want to be.   For instance, we now know that if one arrives in Lunéville on Easter Monday, one discovers in very quick order that the town taxi business will resume normal service tomorrow if one would care to wait.

By tomorrow of course it would be today, so if one was to indeed enjoy the planned respite that one had planned, it would be wise to stride off on one’s own volition, which we did with the usual happy result.

When today arrived, having dined and slept and woken refreshed and sustained by a leisurely breakfast we decided that another leisurely walk to the hire car place would be in order.  Thankfully we had waited until the morning chill had gone before setting out, as the temperature may well have been minus zero had we not, instead of the plus boldly proclaimed by the animated neon signs of each pharmacy we passed.

Old habits do die hard.  Our instinct as Australians is to hide from the sun.  Therefore it was not for the first time as we walked that we found ourselves crossing the road for no reason other than that our brain was telling us to walk in the shade lest we should fry to a crisp.   

“To heck with the sunburn, brain, let’s just for once enjoy the warmer bits … shall we?”

The glamour of long distance travel.

On any long journey, one spends an inordinate amount of time looking at one’s feet.   

We’ve never done the “P to P” analysis before, that is to say “Pillow to Pillow”, and now that we have it turns out the statistics of our journey were far more interesting to contemplate than the various patterns of carpet and travertine we’d enjoyed during the journey.

By the time we had our heads down for a snooze in Lunéville this afternoon, it had been forty-six hours since being rudely awakened by our alarm, warning that we had to leave our pillow and make our way to the airport.  In the intervening time, we had travelled by planes (two) and trains (two) and automobiles (two if you include the bus) and had spent an astonishing fifteen hours of our journey simply waiting, staring variously at the floor or ceiling in all of four airport lounges, two train stations and two cafés. 

These simple statistics do nothing to explain the weirdest feeling of all, that of having lost the past six months entirely.  We are back to pick up life exactly where we left off.  Usually we describe this as a sort of time travel, but that does not take into account that the rest of the world has moved on since we left, 

Inspired no doubt by a subliminal message from the life support system we are attached to during flight (although others may call it “in flight entertainment”), the other of us has concluded that it is not time travel, that instead the aeroplanes are taking us through worm-holes in the universe.

We arrive completely oriented yet disoriented at the same time, without any need to regain our bearings and except that our brains are still sitting somewhere between our destination and our departure point it is as though nothing as happened since last we were here.   

Even the clothes we are wearing are the same, although she has new shoes, a fact which only seems to highlight the normality of it all.  Is this how amnesia feels?

Puzzled as always, we are back.

Well that came around quickly enough!

Suddenly, we are in Hong Kong, watching the sun set and feigning being puzzled as to how we got here.

To those we missed, if you aren’t so miffed that you are no longer reading this blog: don’t worry, we’ll be back in even more less time than we were at home, and we’re sure to catch you then.

I suspect that just as commentary of the latter weeks of our travels of the past two years may do, the former of this year will somehow magically retrospectively appear. We may not have caught up with our reporting but least we made a bit of progress on DickyWorld, had a holiday or two and managed to get at least some of the photo books done and at least one of the web sites sorted to boot.  The rest of the things that remain undone will just have to wait I’m afraid.

Tomorrow when the sun rises we will be in Paris, in weather that is expected to be around thirty degrees cooler than that to which we are accustomed, and with a little luck there won’t be a hammer, paint brush or wheelbarrow in sight, but for now we’ll sit and wait and make small wagers as to how much sleep we will snatch on the flight, and wonder just how late in the flight we can sneak off and slip into our thermal underwear.