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I seem to have packed my routines as well

Published by bone&silver

Ah yes, the freedom of Travel with a capital T: being ready for anything, meeting anyone, changing plans in an instant. No work commitments, no diary appointments, no regular routines getting in the way of spontaneous adventure…

When we first arrived in the Barn, I was finishing a 2-month ‘cleanse’ of no sugar, almost no wheat, minimal carbs, and various herb concoctions before and after eating (on the advice of both a doctor and naturopath, trying to deal with a water-borne parasite I’d picked up somewhere- Hello Blasto 😦 ). Within a week I was having fresh bread spread with unsalted butter and homemade jam for breakfast, or croissants and pain au chocolat; incredibly rich and varied omelets for lunch followed by more cheese and bread; chicken or fish with garlic potatoes for dinner, finished with more cheese of course. The other day I even drank a glass of champagne in the afternoon, which honestly for me is the equivalent of Keith Richards going on a three-week bender.

So we can say I’m letting loose here. We can say I’m throwing caution to the winds. We can say I’m embracing my incredible, once-in-a-lifetime holiday with my son ‘15’… Apart from all the nagging I’m doing about all the usual stuff!

‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’

‘Do you have any washing?’

‘Please rinse your cereal bowl.’

‘Can you do some wiping up and put away?’

I’m so boring, annoying, boring, I’m annoying myself. But all that stuff still has to happen, right? It still has to get done. Dishes need washing, clothes need cleaning, bodies need feeding.

The first few days here were glorious: other people inspired to cook and wash up, enough clean clothes in our suitcases to just grab another shirt, no big drama if teeth went unscrubbed. I felt so free, and I’m sure so did ‘15’.

Last week I realized how quickly I’d reestablished familiar routines, or made new ones that were fast becoming cozy to wear. As I washed a huge pile of dishes, facing out of the kitchen window towards the last of the sunset, I noticed that this was my new evening pattern. Sure, it came after fun badminton games, and before lighting the fire, (definitely NOT what I usually do in Australia), but still, a habit nevertheless.

And as the night time temperature sinks below 10 degrees, and now below 5, we have new habits together: cook an early dinner, leave the washing up till morning, eat huddled round the fire, add more layers every hour or so, then fill our hot water bottles by 9.30 and potter upstairs to bed to read. We’ve moved up to the mezzanine, in theory because it’s warmer up there… But I’m not really sure about that.

Can you see those dots of light in the roof? That’s between the tiles; it’s Sky. Which is not such a good thing at 2am in 2 degrees… Although kinda pretty from the warmth of bed at 8am:

We’re on a countdown now, leaving in 8 days. Off to Barcelona, then London; home to Oz in a month. My European routines are still young, but comforting. Such creatures of habit we are/I am. I’m already whining to ‘15’ about how I’ll miss his attention and interaction, once we return to the Land of School Friends, Wifi and Sleepovers. It’ll be back to just me and the cat [Of course I have a cat- I’m a single woman over 45- what else did you expect?? And yes, I’m thinking about getting another one. Or even two].

He rolls his eyes at me, and smirks. That routine hasn’t changed: he’s still incredibly cool, and I’m still a prize idiot. But this trip has given us a unique chance to bond and expand our relationship, habits and all. For that, I am incredibly grateful.

But he still has to clean his teeth, dammit.

Périgueux- home to perhaps the dodgiest Airbnb listing you’ve ever seen

Published by bone&silver

Glorious day last week, with blue skies to rival Australia’s.

Time to visit the mediaeval town of Périguèux, 40 minutes drive away, including its cathedral, built in the 6^th, 12^th, and 16^th century:

Time to be enchanted by the surrounding laneways, leading to the marketplace where son ‘15’ ate “…The best ribs of my whole life, even better than Dad’s, I’m sorry to say…” (no pics allowed, but let me assure you, there was Grease Chin, sticky fingers, and complete carnivorous delight):

Time to take my favourite picture of the trip so far:

Time to marvel at the unwelcome front doors they make round here:

A chance to picture Juliet, calling down to her love:

And then, walking along the river, we saw this- The Place You Don’t Want To Stay:

We were flabbergasted.

‘15’ kept giggling, and imagining having parties inside, and getting everyone to run from one side to the other to rock it [Oh the way teenagers’ minds work huh?!].

Let’s look at it one more time shall we? Imagine turning up here for the night, and facing this climb to your front door:

5Rhythms in 5 layers, and scarf. Plus gumboots.

Published by bone&silver

I just had a dance, and I feel so good. 30 minutes moving to a playlist I made back in Australia, pumping through my headphones, while around me the French countryside wakes up slowly. Those of you who know me in person know I love to dance; disco and funk tracks always get me going, and I still love going to music festivals to jump up and down at the front near the front to my favourite band…

But the private practice that keeps calling me, following me, leading me, is the 5Rhythms HERE. It’s a moving meditation, a spiritual practice, a stress release, an exploration of the wisdom and challenges held in the body, heart and mind… It’s hard to put into words exactly! But those are my words for it today.

Some people find peace in church. Others at the shopping mall, in the surf, during a meditation circle, listening to music, or making/enjoying art. Perhaps just with a good bottle of wine. All of them are valid of course, just not for me- my place is the dance floor, always has been.

In my worship, you dance to 5 different musical rhythms, a ‘Wave’: Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical, and Stillness, which creator Gabrielle Roth believed underpins every aspect of life itself (Link to her talk HERE).

I used to co-produce monthly workshops of it in Adelaide with dearest friend Kat (search Facebook for 5Rhythms Adelaide and go along- it rocks). I do it at home by myself every week, sometimes every day. I go once a month to the huge dances held in my local town, and we have some great teachers up North (search for 5Rhythms Byron Bay, Northern Rivers, Brisbane).

This morning was my first dance in France though. I’d looked for classes in London and Paris, but our travel timing wasn’t quite right. And this morning I woke up early, hearing the birds waking up too, and just thought ‘It’s Time.’

But it’s cold. And son ‘15’ was still asleep. So I grabbed my clothes and got dressed in bed: 5 layers, including two zip up jackets and a scarf. Added thick socks and gumboots before I stepped outside. Then wandered round the edges of the Barn looking for some flatish ground, privacy from the road and distant neighbours, and somewhere pretty too (because I’m a performing visual artist after all).

Near the washing line proved to be the optimum dance floor. I pressed Play. And at long last, the Dance began. Watched by hidden wildlife, fields of corn, 300 year-old rock walls, and a softly lightening sky, I danced.

Here is a snippet of my ‘Chaos’ dance, to French punk gypsy band ‘Leo’ (you will just have to imagine it’s playing really loud)

And after I’d danced, watching the many thoughts that came and went, I had to write about something that happened to me the other day here in the supermarket, about Death.

Again, those of you who know me personally know I struggled a lot when my dear Dad died in 2008. I blogged about it at Reading Dad’s Journals HERE for a long time. Two days ago I bumped into Englishwoman ‘A’ who my Aunt had introduced me to recently. She suddenly said, standing behind me at the checkout, both of us enjoying a chat in a familiar language, that she’d looked at the wide group photo taken at her 50^th the day before (she’s now 63), and apart from she and her husband, everyone else is now dead. Completely dead. The only 2 survivors out of a group of almost 20. She was clearly struggling to take it in, and so was I. That’s a lot of deadness, while waiting to pay for milk, cheese, and yoghurt.

This morning as I danced, enjoying my body’s strength and flexibility, I thought about being 50 next year. And all the dear friends and family I hope will be photographed with me… Then I shivered. And I thought about the mid-life crisis that comes when we’re 40, or 50… When affairs begin, marriages end, red sports cars get bought, or plastic surgery is endured. Is it motivated by fear of death? Or a sudden lust for life? Both?

On October 22, the creator of 5Rhythms Gabrielle Roth will have been dead for 3 years. She asked her global dance community to dance for her then as she moved towards the final ‘Stillness’. I danced; we all danced. I danced in my living room in Adelaide, with my stereo turned up as loud as possible. I danced in the garden too, earphones in, mobile phone in hand, just like this morning. When the announcement had come that she’d finally left us, I’d gone out to the back lawn, barefoot and solemn, dancing and crying, thinking about the great teacher who’d passed away…

Then, mid-dance, I fell over. Actually, I felt like I was pushed. I landed hard on my arse, like a toddler, and laughed with surprise. Then laughed some more. I felt as though my serious, reverent mood, honouring the 5Rhythms Matriarch, had been rejected by her, in favour of a more authentic, more wholistic and well-rounded dance? It’s hard to convey. But then I smiled and danced with my tears, feeling my heart widening to Glee as well as Grief, to Love as well as Loss, to Beginnings as well as Endings, to Hope as well as Defeat, to Dance as well as Stillness.

It was exquisite. Sometimes that experience re-visits me, and it’s ecstatic. I felt it this morning, just for a second or three, spreading my arms wide under the French morning sky, knowing my dancing tribe in Australia was dancing last night, and that my American dancing tribe is yet to dance. I can feel the connection, and it fills me up.

So at my 50^th, there will be dancing. There will be a group photo, and there will be a lot of Love. And then what unfolds will do so… I am neither afraid of Death, nor lusting foolishly for Life (although a red Mini Cooper would be a great birthday present for me, if anyone feels so inclined to organize it…?). I love the Life I have, that I’ve created. I love the possibilities that still surprise me, and the courage with which I greet them (usually, unless I’m super tired or hungry, then I’m crap cos it’s all too much).

Thankyou to the Dance, which moves my heart, body and spirit; to Gabrielle, the Raven, for articulating and sharing the 5Rhythms, and to the teachers who continue her work.

Thankyou to the friends, family and lovers who support and cherish me.

Thankyou to my son, who deals with my passion and stubbornness in equal measure.

Thankyou to the Earth, who holds me, feeds me, nurtures me.

And Thankyou to YOU, for reading my Blog, and for persevering to the end of almost 1200 words today! Xxx

Like bunting, her voice strings itself through the house

Published by bone&silver

‘À table mes enfants, à table!’

We can hear her no matter where we are. Squat legs running down a wide hallway, heading for the third room on the right. The walls and ceilings reach as high as the sky; grown ups are as tall as giants. The woman’s voice calls us all, and squat legs are running in from the garden too. It’s hot out there, and the sunlight almost blinding; I prefer the cooler, quieter places inside. I’m eager to grab my reward though, chattering with the other small ones who also want what’s being offered.

I wash my hands, clumsily rolling short fingers over each other, dropping the soap, and splashing cold water. The green drying cloth is rough on my soft skin, but I’m nearly ready!

Four of us to a table, with tiny matching coloured plastic chairs. At lunchtime my legs will get sticky and hot on the seat, but it’s still early, so I know I can wriggle and kick. The talking and excitement reaches its peak, and of course we’re told to be quiet. I hold my lips tight shut with my hand, making my tablemates laugh, and I smile at them behind my palm.

At last it’s here. My mouth waters as I wait for the plate to reach our table. Will there be enough? How many pieces can we each have? Will it be the same as yesterday, which I remember being so good? A large hand with rings on holds some out to me, and I feel complete delight as my little fingers close around the edges of it. I hold it just for a second, marveling at how white and soft it is. I sniff it, and waves of hunger and pleasure crash over my head. Then I launch my teeth into it, and nearly squeal with happiness. It IS the same as yesterday, and it IS so good! The same lady must have made it for us, and she does it like none of the other ladies- I wish she could teach them all her special way. I wish she could show me how to do it, and then I could show Mummy, and we could eat it every day.

I’m so happy. Life is good. Life is simple and full, a world of joy in a slice of fresh white bread, unsalted butter and strawberry jam, all made in France.

Our last swallow has flown South for summer

Published by bone&silver

We arrived 2 weeks ago in the Dordogne (rural France at its best), down by train from Paris through late summer fields and villages. Old stone walls glowed gold at sunset. The air was warm, thick and welcoming, like a fresh baked cinnamon bun straight out of the oven.

The ‘Barn’ has stood for more than 300 years, and been in the family since 1981, thanks to the pioneering and determined spirit of Aunt ‘M’ (she of the infamous parking fine in previous post HERE). The solid stone building was full of energy and chatter: twin girls here with their Dad, an Uncle from England, cousins, partners, ‘M’ the matriarch, a visiting octogenarian, old friends and locals alike popping in. Badminton games and barbeques. Loads of washing taken in and out, beds made up, beds stripped down. Wine bottles brought home, and emptied with loud laughter. Old stoneware bowls filled with baked potatoes, garlic, cheese and cream, matching the smoked salmon and rosemary baked chicken. Various neighbours invited for afternoon snacks, as we piled chips, olives and cheese onto platters on the red-checked tablecloth outside. Not to mention the mound of zucchini feta fritters with crème fraiche dipping sauce, and the walnuts gathered from trees at the edge of the garden.

A full time of sharing: talks, stories, depth of personalities, and family history.

“Tell us about the time you all drove to Spain, and the brakes failed…”

“Remember when you spent an hour getting ready to go out, and even wanted to use an iron…”

“Have I ever been lost? I lost a whole regiment once- fifty tanks…”

“We were in a tiny tavern and it was love at first sight…”

Nothing can replace Time spent together. The energy it takes to gather, prepare, serve and share food. The care it takes to tidy up afterwards, helping to wash and wipe, still talking. The joking about who’s turn it is to make coffee, or fetch fresh bread from the village. The calling out for dirty laundry, the helping to hang heavy linen sheets. The soothing of little spats, the glee in making everyone laugh. The quiet sadness of talking about those we all love no longer present, yet here in spirit.

Irreplaceable family time. So precious. So rare for me.

And now done. The last of the Australians put on the train to Paris this afternoon, flying home tomorrow. Son ‘15’ and I drove home quietly, listening to loud music, but mostly lost in thoughts.

I didn’t like coming back inside. Too big, too empty, too lonely a place now it seems. We wandered around lost for a moment, not sure of where to settle. ‘15’ made a fire, even though it was still light outside, and we both ate comfort food: he cooked porridge, and I smeared Brie on this morning’s bread.

Silence around us. A large space, needing many people to fill the gaps. Needing energy and chatter: needing twin girls here with their Dad, an Uncle from England, cousins, partners, ‘M’ the matriarch, a visiting octogenarian, old friends and locals alike popping in. Needing that energy.

But all we have is the fire, and the echo of huddling around it all together. We press close, dragging both chairs nearer. The edges of the quiet darkness resolve around us, and I can feel a peace descending, with the arrival of a new experience at the Barn: just me and my boy.

I first came here when I was 15, and that’s how old he is now. I brought him here when he was 6, and have a wonderful photo of him grinning happily in the living room then. Now he’s taller than me, with much hairier legs, and a smart funny wise way about him that swells my heart. It’s been time for Family at the Barn, and now it’s time for Us.

Nothing can replace Time spent together. The energy it takes to gather, prepare, serve and share food. The care it takes to tidy up afterwards, helping to wash and wipe, still talking.

Irreplaceable family time. So precious.

Travelling with a teenager to Paris: Completely reassess your food budget

Published by bone&silver

Oh Paris, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways. Son ‘15’ is a hoovering food machine at the best of times; set him loose in Paris, and watch him ramp up his gourmet habit.

Before I committed to this 2-month trip overseas, I drafted a budget. I did some Internet research, talked to a few fellow travellers, and guesstimated how much I’d need to survive for 8 weeks in Europe (while not paying for much accommodation, thanks to my extended family). I panicked a bit over the numbers I admit, then woke up at 2am one restless morning and thought “F**k it, if I don’t go now, when will I? And more importantly, when else will ‘15’ want to actually come with me? It’s now or never, before he’s 16 and in love, or 17 and rebelling, or 18 and doing Europe by himself anyway!”

So Hello two return tickets half cash half credit, and a firm but fair travel budget in place in my mind.

Hello to sensible talks with ‘15’ about restricting our food choices. Hello to negotiations about eating one meal a day (at least) at home- buying supplies from supermarkets, and cooking when we can. Hello to good intentions…

Then Hello Paris. City of desire, senses, history and pleasure. City of beauty, passion, and age. City of love. And city of food. Oh Paris, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways. Beginning with Nutella crepes, via croissants, pain au chocolat, and all the way to gelato, in the first afternoon.

Trying to restrict a teenager to a food budget is like standing at the sea’s edge, yelling at the waves to stop breaking. ‘15’ is usually a sensible young man, but “We’re in Paris Mum, and I’m hungry, and it smells so good here.”

Boulangeries for fresh baked bread; ham, cheese and salad baguettes heavy with fresh olive oil and pesto from the food markets; buckwheat ‘galettes’ with marinated cinnamon apples, handmade vanilla ice cream and caramelised brandy butter…

So food budget? Double it. Then double it again. And that’s just for the teenager OK?

We stayed in a small studio I found on Airbnb, in Le Marais area, close to the centre of Paris:

We lugged heavy suitcases up three flights of ancient stairs, and I had to think about the generations of feet that have worn away the centre of the wood, dipping it. It stopped me in my tracks, that physical manifestation of the passing of Time.

An afternoon visit to my Dad’s favourite building, to pay my respects to them both,

then a delightful solo sunset stroll from which I took no photos, only a full heart. There’s something about Paris that reveals a thirst in me I didn’t know I had. I just want to drown myself in the language and culture. I want to fling my arms wide, and throw myself down the throat of her. I guess I want to Belong.

We were up at 7 (in the dark!) to leave by 7.30 and walk to this beautiful place, munching fresh croissants along the way [what do you mean ‘previous gluten intolerance’??]

It doesn’t open till 9, but we still weren’t first in the queue (last time we were here, the line up was 3 hours long, so we walked away). We can now officially tick off The Louvre:

We strolled and strolled (after a siesta of course), and got lost, got lost, then strolled again. We were in bed by 10, very early by French standards, but slowly getting acclimatized, understanding that it’s best to rise later, and stay up later, just to be in rhythm with Paris herself. We had to be up at 6.30, pitch black outside, to find a taxi to Gare de Montparnasse train station, ready for the trip down to the countryside near Perigueux where my Aunt ‘M’ has owned a huge old Barn since the early 80s.

And that is where my true test of ‘acclimatization’ was to begin: I had to hire a car, and drive 1 hour 10 minutes to our new Home… On the right side of the road… With the steering wheel and gear column on the opposite side… Did I mention I was feeling nervous and ‘tested’??

But look, we made it:

My middle name is Lucky, and here’s why

Published by bone&silver

“Flash fiction” short story from France:

My 76 year-old Aunt ‘M’ and I took her little Golf car into nearby Riberac yesterday. We were going to send postcards back to Australia, wander the shops, and of course, find Wi-Fi to check emails. Where should we park? We drove around the ancient town, narrow lanes not designed for motor vehicles, and got caught in a one-way system round a free carpark; finally, we settled on a spot in the shade, neatly lined up with all the Peugeots and Renaults. We had 1.5 hours ‘Gratuite’ or free, according to the sign; perfect.

Imagine how pissed off I was when I came back 1.45 hours later to find a big fat ticket under the windscreen wiper! I couldn’t believe it. I stood there next to the car, frowning and sighing. An old man walking past noticed me, so I went over and stumbled (in French) “What is this and why?”, waving the ticket at him, knowing that the French all love a good complaint about fines and rules. He shrugged bent shoulders: “I got one myself yesterday. You can only park here if you have the special disc.”

Right. It doesn’t actually say that anywhere though. Annoying. Off I march to find ‘M’, and share the news. She’s more of a drama queen than me, so she rolls her eyes and sighs deeply, and we decide we should deal with it straight away, and that I will try (in my best English) to explain that we are tourists, and didn’t understand- the fine is 17 Euros, about $27- worth wriggling out of if possible (that’s at least 10 croissants for the teenager remember).

We stomp to the Tourist Office. She directs us to the Mairie (the Mayor) at first, then changes her mind and says we must go direct to the Gendarmerie (police station). Now I try and avoid the police in any country, just as a matter of policy. But I’d kind of like to get out of this fine, and I’m up for a bit of role-playing as a dumb Australian tourist, using all my theatrical skills and eye-fluttering charm, so off we go…

No chance. The officer shrugs, and says we must pay. But we can’t pay here, at the police station, where the ticket was issued. Oh no. That’s too easy. We have to walk back into town, buy stamps of the equivalent value at the stationary shop, then bring the ticket back once we’ve stuck them onto it. Or we could post it in, if we fancy a bit more expense and effort?

Right. I’ll deal with it, I say to ‘M’; you go off with your friend and have lunch etc. As soon as I walk through the stationary shop door, ticket clutched, the woman behind the counter pulls out a thick leather folder full of stamps, well worn, and thuds it down. We don’t even speak. I give her the money, she sticks down the stamps, tears off the return carbon slip, and now I have 2 pieces of paper to clutch. I shove them in my bag.

I’m walking back down the hill to the Gendarmerie, kind of dreamy, looking in shops, finishing my small salmon quiche, fiddling in my bag for sunnies, when I realize I’ve accumulated quite a bit of ‘stuff’ in there: loose serviettes, old shopping lists, a couple of used train tickets, empty croissant paper bag- the usual stuff.

“I’ll have a clean up,” I think. “I’ll chuck all this away,” I think. “Lighten my heavy load…”

So I do that, into a convenient bin. Get to the Gendarmerie and it’s closed for lunch (of course) 12-2. Sigh. Drive home. Have lunch. Potter round the Barn. Read a bit. Get ready to go back into Riberac, to do my civic duty, but can’t find the ticket ANYWHERE.

It must be in the car. No, it’s not in the car. Is it in my bag? No it’s not in my bag. My bag is really clean and organized and… Oh shit… I put it in that random bin in the park didn’t I?

F**K.

What shall I do? It has to be paid, or they’ll hunt ‘M’ down and prosecute her (I imagine- the French are VERY strict about fines and rules, as we know). I decide to sleep on it, then confess to ‘M’.

It takes me till noon the next day to admit my mistake to Aunty. We’re wandering round the Riberac markets, which are packed full of people, and stalls selling new and old clothes, plus fabulous artisan crafts like pottery, as well as delicious handmade foods like marinated olives, breads and cakes, garlicky chicken paella, massive stinky wheels of aged goat cheese, and spicy salamis in hanging baskets.

She laughs and gasps in horror in equal amounts. She tries to avoid the police in any country as a matter of policy too, but now we’ll have to voluntarily go in and hand over the registration papers and license and ask for a new fine! Plus get new stamps, and stick them down, and even post it in to them, just for more effort and expense.

Bloody hell.

I laugh, and propose searching through the bins. We look at each other. My son ‘15’ looks at each of us. We look at him. He recoils. We look at each other again.

Then two women, quite well dressed and presented, one aged 76 and one 49, start peering at bins; there’s a choice of several in the park. First one we come to is full, but looks the most familiar to me. How often do the French empty their bins? What kind of stuff do they put in their bins? How much stuff gets put in there in a 24-hr period?

We lean forward. Son ‘15’ leans away. Can we do it? Gingerly I push aside a soggy cup of coffee. ‘M’ prods a stained magazine. I don’t think we can do this. ‘15’ begs us not to.

And then I see the green corner of that goddamned stamp. There it is, only 3 layers down, crumpled, and a little damp! What are the chances of that??

Does France have a national lottery, because I feel like I should buy myself a ticket in it today…

THE END

What’s the luckiest random thing that’s ever happened to you (not counting meeting soulmates/having children/getting the perfect job)?

Is there a skeleton on your back?

Published by bone&silver

Have you returned to where you grew up? Noticed how much smaller the streets are, and narrowed with more cars? Did you feel nostalgic, longing for good times past, or relieved to have gotten the hell outta there, no matter how picturesque it looks at sunset?

My experience was definitely the latter. My son ‘15’ and I were just in Dawlish, a quaint seaside town, full of aged tourists and desperate English families trying to find shelter for their beach picnic. I lived there aged 10-20, and haven’t looked back since I fled to Australia. We’ve come to visit my Mum, who now lives 100 metres from the house I grew up in.

The beach still smells of fish, piled with pebbles and seaweed. The amusement arcade still flashes distraction that sucks all coins. Ducks still waddle, but now outnumbered by monstrous seagulls, closely followed by multiple grey gangs of pigeons. The many gift shops still lack style; the strings of coloured light bulbs along the brook running through the town centre flicker like lost souls, with every fifth one dead.

Ghosts of me linger everywhere, just out of my direct view.

Here, I caught the bus to school, standing in rain or wind, legs mottled blue by the sea breeze. Here, I stepped off it again in the afternoons, tired from another day of feeling anxious and alone while learning not much. There, on that wooden bridge over the stream, I had my first kiss. There we sledded down the hill instead of going to school, in the glorious white winter of ’82, when snow fell so deep that all shops and businesses shut, suspending real life for a few crisp days.

There is the front door to my first home out of home; a damp basement flat, shared with single mum Denise, where we experimented with smoking cigarettes and joints, staying up talking till dawn, sleeping till noon, getting up to watch ‘Neighbours’, and baking potato cheese pie. Plus drinking endless cups of sweet tea.

There I am, skinny, gangly, spiral permed hair and soft pink cheeks; a virgin longing to fall in love. In the days before Internet and mobile phones, there’s ‘the Wall’, where we simply sat for hours as teenagers, waiting to see who would stroll by, and what might happen. Literally hours of sitting.

There I am, cooler now, knowing so very much, hating the last year of school, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with my life seeing as I can’t face university…

Now here I am: 30 years an Australian. Have I come ‘home’ to England? Certainly not. Do I miss it? Certainly not. I see myself as the luckiest woman in the world, escaping as I did all those years ago; gifted the chance to re-invent myself, leaving behind the smallness I felt was restricting me.

But I see them now on the streets of my old hometown: those who did not flee. With strong family ties, or solid job prospects, or even the curse of laziness to blame, I see them walking the same narrow pavements three decades on. Grey-haired, stooped, often overweight. Dull of eye and spirit; defeated by life’s choices and options. I can see the ghosts of me, but I can see the living skeletons of them, jangling on their backs like giant insect husks they can’t shake off. Skeletons of broken dreams. Or else they’re trapped inside them, squashed up in too tight a fit, distorted by restraint. A clear empty shell of dreams of who they could have been.

How the hell do you stop it growing on your back? Or get it off once it starts to form? Deep effort: hard work/risk-taking/travel/study. And for me also: Dance, especially 5Rhythms. Saying ‘yes’ to sheer luck. Saying ‘I’ll try’ to blatant opportunity. Saying ‘why not’ to blank horizons.

None of it easy. Nor simple. Yet for me, essential. And for my escape and reinvention, I only have myself to thank.

So long Dawlish, and “thanks for all the fish”- plus the décor in my bed & breakfast room:

‘Have you ever seen…?’

PS: But to the local resident who grew this small ‘tree’, stalk as thick as my leg, taking over the entire front yard, I salute you:

Medieval Toy Town?

Published by bone&silver

‘How long will it take us to get to Paddington?’ I asked my cousin ‘The G-Man’. To his answer of ‘An hour at most’, I added 45 minutes. Notorious is he for underestimating traffic, and I hate rushing when I’m travelling. Moving from place to place is stressful enough, never mind adding 2 x 18kg suitcases, recalcitrant teenager, precious small backpacks, AND a time deadline.

Yes, we’re on the move. From the comfortable, 3 bedroom flat near Brixton where we’d first landed, laughing and talking with fav cousin G-man, down to his sister’s place in country Somerset (known as Toy Town in the family). Sister ‘C’ has 3 kids, and no TV; G-Man’s flat we’d christened ‘Wifi Heaven’. This is going to be interesting…

First, a bus, two tubes, and [thankfully], several escalators. Then a fast train journey through autumn fields, speeding so much that the approach to every station seeps the smell of burning brakes. My son ‘15’ suddenly asks me to imagine a time when the countryside would have been full of horses, villagers working, Vikings marauding, and castles. History is layered here like diamonds under coal, pushing down through the ground, overlapping and influencing each other in ways that our white Australian culture can’t understand. We both stare out of the window, drawn away from our books by the vision of ancient histories…

Then the guy opposite us leaves his lunch litter behind, and the spell is broken. I go on an ‘old lady rant’ (OLR) to poor son about Everything That’s Wrong With The World. I even catalogued the crime:

Don’t get me started on the symbolism of not tidying up after yourself: mining, fracking, islands of plastic etc etc etc. That OLR is always ready to go! Let’s jump ahead to walking through cousin ‘C’s’ door to the smell of a roast chicken dinner: SO WELCOMING. I’m instantly at home, and secretly wondering if there’ll be gravy?

There was. And roast potatoes better than mine, as 15 specifically pointed out (apparently it’s a parboil/olive oil/butter thing). SO GOOD.

We wandered the narrow streets after dinner, trying to comprehend that some of these buildings were built in the 12^th century. The 12^th. And did you know that in those days, you were taxed for the amount of space you took up on the ground, so houses got wider as they went up?

But the greatest event? Both of us sleeping all the way through the night for the first time, and waking up to this:

We love Medieval Toy Town. And they even have Wifi 🙂

Travelling with a teenager: Then and Now

Published by bone&silver

I last came overseas with my son when he was 12, three years ago. We went to the UK to reconnect with the cousins he hadn’t seen since he was 6, and his maternal grandmother, who used to live in France. We snuggled in the same guest beds, took tourist tours on open-top buses, and ate familiar foods from home, like fish and chips. We posed with wax loookalikes at Madame Tussaud’s, and got scared witless in the London Dungeon. We played cards, watched crap English TV, and bonded with relatives by telling silly Australian stories (I think they were just enjoying listening to our accents more than anything).

Now he’s 15. Tall, growing his hair, hyper-aware of his daily outfits, and often attached to his smartphone (yup, just a regular teenager). Everything is different. He sets the agenda: I want to go to Chinatown. I want to go to Camden. I want to go second hand clothes shopping. I don’t want to go on a bus tour, I don’t want to do the wiping up “I’m on holiday Mum!”, Yes, I do need to change my shoes if I’m wearing these trousers, and no, I don’t want to go to bed early because you’re tired.

I love him dearly of course. He’s funny, observant, bright, talkative and affectionate. He points out a squirrel running across the park that my older eyes hadn’t noticed. He knows how to make me laugh, and raises eyebrows to me, signalling interesting people. Fills my water glass first when we sit down in a cafe. Takes great photos, even when jetlagged:

He’s empathetic, and worries about the old dog we saw this morning being hurried across the road, dragging on its leash. He ran back to a man begging in Bali when he was only 10, and gave him some of his spending money, after I’d walked on far out of sight round the corner. He’s stubborn as hell (can’t imagine where he gets that from), and pretty responsible (when he’s not being pretty slack).

But it’s different now. I’m not showing him the big wide world anymore; he knows so much about it already thanks to social media. He Googled ‘Best places to eat in London’ 5 minutes before we left the house, and that’s it, we trek across the city to a certain Chinese restaurant so he can try Won Ton soup. An hour on the bus, each way, in the pouring rain. We got soaked. But he got his soup. And we also stumbled across his favourite American clothing store (which I’d never heard of) down an alley, so we had to go in while he browsed the racks, and I stood there feeling very uncool, with the music a little too loud.

This morning the sun is shining, and we’re heading to the London Eye. I’m NOT going up in it. I’m not. I hate heights, and that damn thing takes 30 minutes to do a revolution! It’s a trek across town (bus, underground, walk), but how can I say no? It’s his holiday as much as mine; his exploration; his adventure out of our small regional town.

Of course I’m not letting him decide everything we do. But I have to let him have 50% of the choices don’t I? I seek to raise an empowered, curious, engaged young man, who values the Earth, her people, her experiences… So we have to wander down his paths as well as mine, in his timing, not just mine, for his reasons as well as my own.

It’s incredible to be overseas together. It’s an absolute privilege, and I am very grateful. We may no longer be snuggled in the same bed, asleep by 9pm, but we are still connected and enjoying each other, plus learning new details about our family members, and how we both deal with travel stress. Some routines reestablish themselves immediately (muesli, yoghurt and toast at any given hour of the day being the main one), while old ones from home are put on hold, and new ones bloom.

Throughout it all, he remains my gorgeous boy-man, Then and Now.

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