Candida Heard: Forever Harlyn Bay

Most of my childhood holidays were spent in idyllic sands, beach breaking swell and rock pools that form the Cornish coastline. In particular, Harlyn Bay, a few miles from the now famous Padstow. However, this was a Padstow that was pre-Rick Stein. The locals and the ‘grockles’ both enjoyed the daily offerings dragged from the sea but this was 1977 when the deep fat fryer was king and most fish were battered within an inch of their lives and were accompanied by thick salty chips. This is when all our seaside towns consumed the majority of our post Cod- War quota.

You could eat fish and chips followed by the local fudge and wash it down with a couple of cans of coke, without even a pang of guilt. This was a pre-cholesterol nation. This was the year of gold bikinis, of brightly coloured socks with toes in and all things glitter, which included Gary.

This was my fourteenth year on the planet, when I got my licence to roam and my first independent thoughts.

Glam rock was dying, as was my childhood. Punk rock was calling, poking a finger up at ‘the olds’, enticing me to walk on the beaches and look at the peaches, even if I didn’t understand its meaning. Parental horror and secrecy nurtured my soul and the dark Cornish coves and craggy cliff faces formed the perfect backdrop.

This was the year that I had a foot in both camps. By day I was torn between lying on a towel with my bikini perfectly in place, soaking up the never-ending Cornish rays and occasionally cooling off in the seductively playful sea. And then there was the lure of those rock pools that had held my attention for hour upon hour in previous years, the small safe rock pools, not the huge one at Travone that I learnt not to drown in. These pools held the strandline’s secret circus. I loved the bearded ladies that paralysed their marine prey under water and appeared like engorged rock- nipples once exposed. Also the somersaulting sea shrimps that eluded my net, not to mention the ringmaster himself, the king of the pool, the clever crustacean who was the jewel in my bucket if caught and a total terror if he escaped.

Sometimes I would venture further a field and explore the rough cliff tops and watch a group of skinny boys jump into the surrounding sea from an exposed rock at high tide. I smiled last week when they reported the new craze of Tombstoning as I thought back to those foolhardy boys. Once I fell from those cliff tops and into the swell below, only to be pulled out by some random adult asking me where my parents were. I can’t remember how I regained my solitude without having to divulge information that would surely have clipped my wings for a few days, teenage cunning I guess.

Night and the light of the Cornish Cyclops transformed everything. Gone was the gold lame that was supposed to make my skin look pale and interesting. In came the more ‘up yours’ look of plastic punk, concealed in the black bin liner that doubled up as a dress and could be hidden in the toilet block furthest from the family tent. Out I would come, dad’s tie askew, pigtails at an oblique angle with enough kohl on my face to scare even Marilyn Manson, not that he was around in those days. Off I went across the cliff top in search of the older girls from the chip shop, the same girls that had put a shot of whiskey in my coffee the night before. We were off in the opposite direction from the one and only pub that our parents were hauled up in. We were off to the famous Cornish cliff top Hog Roast.

Even remembering the smell, all these years later, makes my mouth salivate. Words like succulent, pungent and aromatic come to mind and that was just the boys that came to these events! Not that we were to appear interested, that was not the ‘plastic’ way. Instead we ‘pogoed’ to the sounds of Plastic Bertrand with his ‘ Ca plane pour mois’ and Poly Styrene and her ’Germ Free Adolescents’. Only as an adult have I discovered how uncool these were to the real punks!

Later with our bellies full of applesauce and pork and our hearts full of disappointment, we would be drawn towards the shoreline. With the sounds of never swim at high tide or on a full stomach ringing in our minds we stripped off. How daring were we? Once in and only once in, we would shout at the passers-by on the cliff tops, what I can’t remember. Probably something along the lines of come on in the water is lovely, what we shouted wasn’t important because what we were actually saying was look at me look at me. Funny how the Facebook generation thought they invented that. Getting in was all well and good, getting out and into a bin liner whilst dripping wet wasn’t so much fun. Thank god for the nook and crannies and overhangs that the cliffs provided.

Back in the family tent just before the call for last orders, listening to the sounds of the adult revellers, I clutched my copy of My Guy. I looked at the hastily scribbled address of one of my new friends whose run at the chip shop was coming to an end. Pen friends forever: snail mail style, with a promise to meet up next year and do it all again. I scribbled 1977 Harlyn Bay forever and encircled it with a heart before placing under my sleeping bag.

As I slumbered I dreamt of the mad old women of Padstow who shouted at you if you sat on her step eating Tiddyoggy, wet days at the cinema and the boy I hoped to meet next year.

[Photo of Harlyn Bay from www.gosouthwest.co.uk/]

Margaret Maguire: Rethymnon, 1998.

One of my favourite holiday destinations is the island of Crete. Crete is the largest of the Greek Islands, Iraklion is the capital. Rethymnon, known as Rethimno to the locals, is the old town and is the second capital which has miles of golden sands, great for sun worshipers and tourists who like a mixture of cultural delights. In the summer the temperature can rise to 40 degrees Celsius. It is far better to visit the island in late summer when one can enjoy the many attractions on offer.

In the September of 1988 my husband and I booked an apartment near the sea for two weeks. The first impression we had was how very friendly the Greeks were. They would shout kalimera, which means good morning and yassas meaning hello and also goodbye. What a warm welcome for a distant traveller abroad.

Near our apartment was a small taverna. It was owned by a Greek family called Sotos. Everyday we would pass the taverna and could smell the different aromas of freshly barbecued chickens, dolmadas and pizzas. We got to know the Sotos family very well. They would invite us into their taverna and serve us Soumada, a drink made from local grown almonds. It was delicious. They would try and talk to us in broken English which was quite funny; we all ended up laughing, unsure of what had been said.

After a couple of days sun bathing we decided to hire a car and go sightseeing. Our first stop was Chanie. The streets were very narrow and were lined with souvenir shops laden with leather, pottery, ceramics, lace and home woven clothing and bed covers in an array of colours. Aromas of coffee, sweet fruit and cheese pastries surrounded us.

Our journey continued up high winding mountain roads, twisting and turning with stony edges, without barriers. The wind whistled and echoed around us, hot dust rose from the deep ravines below. I must admit I was quite scared, but soon we found ourselves descending and I could enjoy once again the glorious scenery of the many pine forests and olive groves.

We passed some quaint and charming villages. White painted flat roofed houses with small gardens. Some had terracotta pots filled with scarlet red geraniums while other were filled with purple bougainvillea. The perfume from these blooms was intoxicating. Dark haired bronzed children played happily in the narrow streets. The elderly sat in their doorways, or tried their luck playing backgammon in the many bars. Life seemed so slow and relaxing; I envied their peace and tranquility. What a fantastic day.

A night in the old town of Rethymnon sounded appealing. We visited the small Venetian harbour where fish restaurants line the harbour walls. The Greeks boast that one can eat any fish imaginable at these restaurants. Guitarists were serenading customers with their old traditional love songs. Candles flickered and colouful papier mache lanterns hung in the narrow streets, so pretty, swaying in the warm evening breeze.

The shops stayed open very late. Minoan art and cleverly embroided table covers were in abundance. The splendid Platanos Square with its richly decorated Rimondi Fountain. Built in the seventeenth century and still supplying drinkable water for residents of Rethymnon.

We realized our holiday would soon be coming to an end. The sun had never stopped shining. We achieved a great tan, but our memories of Rethymnon would last far longer than it takes a tan to fade. The wonderful Sotos family who made us laugh, the refreshing almond wine they served us. The many friends we made from Denmark, Sweden, America and of course our dear friends Frank & Gladys from Walsall, whom we still see today.

Unforgettable memories. Yassas.

We returned to Rethymnon in 2008 with our friends Frank & Gladys hoping to see the Sotos family. As we neared the street we saw their old taverna once again. To our great surprise it was still owned and run by the Sotos family. The old taverna looked more or less the same but it had been refurbished and had an automatic sunshade fitted, the favourite feature.

We stopped for refreshments and to reminisce. The son told us that his father and grandfather had sadly died. He had been quite happy to carry on running the business with his wife and daughter and still enjoyed the job very much.

By the way, he did remember us.

Stephanie Burkhart: Berlin, 1988

When I was 18, I decided I wanted a grand adventure so I joined the army and left my home in New Hampshire. While others my age were worried about getting into college, I became on MP. (Military Police) I knew college would come, but I wanted to see the world first. I did my training in Alabama and in December 1986, I was sent to Germany.

Excitement bubbled in my veins when I stepped off the plane and processed in at the Rhein-Main AFB in Frankfurt. Soon, I was off to my first duty assignment: Münster, Germany and the 583rd Ordnance Company.

Germany was new to me, but it seemed to fit like a snug glove. The weather and climate reminded me a lot of New Hampshire. Due to its latitude/longitude, the sun rose at eight in the morning and set at four in the afternoon in the wintertime. The winter air was bitter cold, but I didn’t mind. I was hearty New Englander, after all.

In January 1988, I won the soldier of the quarter board for my battalion. The recognition was something I worked hard for. I was a good soldier. I liked the army, and I was in love with Germany. For my reward, I won a spot on the prestigious Berlin Orientation Tour and that’s where this particular travel log of mine begins. This is my first trip to Berlin, before the fall of the wall, in the closing days of the Cold War. The time is lost to history now, but I’m glad to say I saw a piece of Berlin before it was consumed by the annuals of time.

The week before I left to go on the tour, I had my Class A’s dry cleaned. Class A’s are the green dress uniform the army wears and I was expected to take mine to Berlin. I had to update my I.D. card, go to security briefings, and fill out FLAG orders. FLAG orders are in English, French, and Russian and are the official travel papers needed to travel between the different German occupation zones, specifically, East and West Germany. It was a hectic week. If my paperwork didn’t have the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed, I wouldn’t be allowed on the train.

I had to wear my class B uniform to travel on the duty train. (My dress uniform minus the Class A jacket) In 1988, two duty trains traveled to Berlin, one out of Frankfurt, and one out of Bremerhaven. Bremerhaven is a coastal city on the North Sea. Since Münster was two hours south of Bremerhaven, I was assigned to catch the train there.

It was July 1988, the week after the 4th, and the company’s duty driver drove me up to Bremerhaven. The duty train didn’t leave until 10:00 pm, and he dropped me off at 4:00 pm. I had a long wait. I sat out in front of the train station at a small café, drank a beer, ate a brotchen, and read a book. The hours ticked by as I reveled in the excitement of taking a train to Berlin under the cover of darkness. It was all so mysterious and spooky. My muse came to me during that time and I started furiously scribbling notes on napkins. These notes would hold the skeleton plot of my novel, Destination: Berlin.

Time eventually passed. The train ride to Berlin was uneventful. The shades on the windows were drawn. At the East German border in Helmstedt-Marienborn, the Soviets came on the train and inspected our paperwork. After an hour delay, we were off again. I arrived in Berlin at six am. Tour guides from the Orientation Tour were there to greet me.

Berlin in July is fairly overcast. The sun rarely peeks out of the clouds, but it is muggy. Again, the weather was no bother to me. I was used to the mugginess.

We went to Roosevelt Barracks in the heart of the American sector in Berlin and processed in. Berlin is full of rich history and not just from World War II. Berlin also housed the kings and queens of Prussia as well as several forms of German government. There was a lot to see.

Here’s a recap of my pictures:

#1 – The Soviet War Memorial in the West. This monument was built by the Soviets shortly after Berlin was conquered. They thought it would be included in their sector of Berlin, but when Berlin was divided, it fell in the American sector. The Americans allowed two Soviet soldiers to guard it during the Cold War.


#2 – The Kaiser Wilhelm Church. It was bombed in World War II. The Germans never rebuilt it as a reminder of the horrors of war.









#3 – Checkpoint Charlie in July 1988. I processed through there when the tour went to East Berlin.


















#4 & 5 – Treptower Park. This is another Soviet war monument, but in East Berlin. I’m in class B’s. There are five mass graves with 1,000 soldiers buried in each.



#6 – The Berlin Wall. This section of the wall is near Checkpoint Charlie. It says, “Nyet, Nyet, Soviet.”








#7 – Wansee Lake, middle of the day. The Wansee is on the Berlin/Potsdam border. This is a perfect picture to see what the days are like.






#8 – Freedom Bridge. This bridge crosses the Wansee and connects Berlin to Potsdam, Germany. It was used to exchange spies during the Cold War.






#9 – This is me by a sector sign.










On the way back from Berlin, the plot of my novel, Destination: Berlin took shape. Inspired by my own trip, Destination: Berlin became my first novel.

Corporal Sharon Cates has professional accolades and is well respected in her company. Her drive and grit earned her a slot on the Berlin Orientation Tour, but all is not what it seems. While the duty trains travels to Berlin, it derails in the middle of Communist East Germany. Corporal Cates is forced to travel to Berlin with the help of a Soviet soldier, Jr. Sgt. Dimitri Nagory, just as the East German Secret Police, the Stasi, doggedly purse them. Sharon reluctantly puts her trust in an enemy soldier when she realizes her and Dimitri have much in common, despite their governments’ political differences. Will Sharon drop her guard completely with Dimitri and let him into her heart?

The romance factor between Dimitri and Sharon is what I consider “sweet.” It’s a slow, simmering pairing focusing more on emotions. The physical scenes between Sharon and Dimitri rarely go past a kiss.

It took ten years, but Destination: Berlin was published by IUniverse in 2001. It was reviewed by the Midwest Book Review - “A tauntly written military action/adventure.” It’s currently available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, and IUniverse.com

Destination: Berlin will always hold a special place in my heart since it was inspired by my own personal adventure. It captures the spirit of Berlin before the fall of the wall, brings history to life, and embodies those memories of the military which I’ll treasure forever.

Armchair Travel with Judah Raine

I love armchair travel. I enjoy 'real' travel, too, but when I can't afford that, in either time or cash, then a good romance in a different location really works for me. That's why I adore historical romance and science fiction and fantasy romance - stories set in different times and places. That's why I am drawn to the novels of Judah Raine.

Judah is South African. She lives near to Durban. She writes about South Africa - the South Africa she knows. She brings me the rhythms of life of the country, of how people live and speak. She shows me the animals. She allows me to experience the weather there, the scents, the tastes. When I curl up with one of her novels, I feel transported to another continent.

Read one, and discover South Africa for yourself.

I'll finish with an excerpt, blurb and latest review from Judah's latest novel, A Thick Black Line.

EXCERPT:

No one spoke. All attention was riveted on the dance floor, but they were completely oblivious of the audience. Even Caro, who had innocently engineered what she thought was a simple slow dance, was wholly unprepared for the palpable and almost raw energy that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
“Hot-damn!” she breathed. It was an instinctive response, a wholly inadequate response of something close to awe.
“And then some!” That from Andrea who was beside her, mouth open in unmitigated disbelief. “What the hell is going on there?”
Steve was smiling, but it was a kind of shaky, uncertain smile, like he wasn’t quite convinced that he wasn’t dreaming.
“I think,” he said softly, “that it’s the irresistible force and the immovable object.” Andrea shot him a questioning look. “Think of it like Ice Queen meets Sun King - freeze meets fire.”
Andrea looked back at Bo and her brother. Steve’s words sounded ridiculous, but they made sense in an entirely crazy kind of way.


Which was exactly the kind of thing that Bo was wrestling with herself. It had been so simple in the beginning. Just a dance. A challenge. A clash of two perfectly matched strong wills. But somewhere along the line the boundaries had shifted, the conventional rules lost in something that was way bigger, way more intense - something totally, frighteningly, fundamental and consuming.
Bo saw nothing - felt nothing - but the deep, talking blue of his eyes and the potent, demanding magnetism that surrounded him. She felt removed from anything normal, stripped of everything safe and familiar and secure. As if, somehow, on some deep and inexplicable level, they were irrevocably joined and had entered into a place where reason and logic and plain common sense simply didn’t exist.
A part of her wanted to pull back, pull away, free and find herself again. She wanted to grab hold of all things safe and real, but something in her - something strange and unfamiliar - fought back, refusing to give, wanting the crazy, the inside-out, the unthinkable.
When the music finally stopped, when reality at last crept in, she was still bent backwards over his arm. His eyes were unreadable, almost navy with an intensity that mirrored her own. Slowly, reluctantly, the silence penetrated.
“I’ve never really understood that dance,” he said, his voice oddly rough and dragging. “Until now, that is.”
Bo used his shirt to pull herself upright. She couldn’t think of a response, focused instead on the bleak off-white of the fabric. She could see his heart beating rapidly under the white of it, an echo of her own. It was oddly mesmerising.
There was a sharp and sudden burst of applause, like a spell was broken and everyone needed something to ease the tension.
Bo slipped out of Nic’s arms, leaving him there as she strolled - on shaking legs that hopefully no-one noticed - over to the bar. The barman gave her what seemed to be a sympathetic grin.
“Here,” he said, pushing a glass of wine at her. “You look like you could do with a little something.”
“You think?” She gulped down a sip or two. The music had started again. Something safe and cheerful, but it seemed loud and brittle. Bo saw the moment of escape. “I’ll send this back in the morning,” she said, lifting her glass.
He nodded. “You’re the boss.” Bo didn’t feel like it. Didn’t feel anything like the normal, in-control boss-lady she was supposed to be. She slipped around the bar and ducked on through the kitchen door feeling more like a delinquent than a respectable businesswoman. Safely outside, she breathed deeply, had another sip of wine, then picked her way carefully round the side of the building. She was home-free.
Or would have been if Nic Sinclaire hadn’t been doing pretty much the same thing that she was. Swallowing an instinctive shriek of fright, Bo struggled with a temptation to accuse him of deliberately waylaying her. But he was clearly as surprised as she was, and for a long moment they simply stared at one another in silence.
“What the hell happened back there?” he asked at last. He still sounded edgy. At least, she thought stupidly, she wasn’t the only one. Not that the realisation really helped her any.
“Happened?” She managed a good rendition of flippant, like she really had no idea what he was on about. The last thing she needed right now was a dissection exercise. The world still hadn’t quite returned to its usual axis, and examining it was going to be difficult.
“So that’s how you’re going to play it.”
“Play what? I really have no idea what you’re getting at.”
“Which,” he responded dryly, “is why you’re skulking around, slinking out the back door so that you don’t have to face anyone.” Put that way it sounded juvenile - which probably matched the delinquent feeling she was having quite well.
“I’m simply going home,” she protested reasonably, immensely glad that the darkness effectively hid the sudden rush of hot colour into her cheeks. She desperately needed to get a grip, and fast.
“Right. And tomorrow it’ll be all business-as-usual, like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen.” Bo was working really hard - against huge odds - to end this. Whatever this was. She still wasn’t sure. But there was no place for it in her world, and exorcism was way up on her to-do-immediately list.
“No.” He sounded thoughtful. Still intense and taut and compelled. Strangely, it frightened her. “But we both know - although somehow I get the feeling that you’d rather die than admit it - that it might as well have. Whatever that was - and I have no idea what it was - it was about as enormous and passionate and downright intimate as the real physical thing.”
Bo gasped her outrage, her indignation. Mainly because she was - very outraged and very indignant. But also because she knew, somewhere inside her, that he was right. And because just the thought of it terrified her, left her feeling like somehow she’d crossed every line she’d so carefully - so painfully, so determinedly - drawn for herself. And because she’d been so utterly powerless to stop it. Which terrified her more than anything.


BLURB:

Bo Carmichael has drawn a thick black line around her heart with good reason. She has worked hard to overcome the anguish of betrayal and the devastation this had wreaked in her family's lives, and is now close to realising her dreams. There simply isn't place in this equation for emotional entanglements, and especially not with Nic Sinclair who is the only man in a very long time who has the ability to breach those defences.
From their first encounter, an impossible chemistry rages between them - a crackling heat that seems set on melting the ice surrounding her.
Then a bizarre new twist makes Nic a constant companion and self-appointed protector, the situation does nothing to ease the conflict between them. As she is gradually pulled into a sinister underworld fraught with tension, fear and distrust, the line between her and Nic becomes smudged and unclear as his role in her life slowly changes shape.
When tragedy pushes her into a cold and lonely private world she is aware of the shifting of her barriers but seems unable to stop the process, is no longer even sure that she wants…


THIS IS WHAT CAMELLIA OF LASR SAYS: "Judah Raine tells an exciting story... The imagery, the wonderful character development so full of energy and intrigue along with the remarkable love lived and revealed enhances a compelling plot. The “bad guys” certainly give the “good guys” a run for their money. They are indeed antagonists to be reckoned with before we can see a happy-ever-after. Superb reading!"

Paris: the dark side

Arriving late on Friday night at our hotel near the Eiffel Tower, we decided that a meal and a bottle of good red French wine was the best way to start our ‘dark’ weekend in Paris.

Saturday dawned very overcast, which actually added atmosphere to our plans. I had a full English breakfast with delicious French black pudding, Susan my wife, was not too sure about her stomach with what lay ahead, so had croissants and tea for breakfast, we finished in time for the taxi at 9 o’clock.

I handed the driver a piece of paper with the address on, my French is ‘petite’ and my pronunciation even worse. The address was Les Egouts de Paris, Quai D’Orsay. He smiled and looked us up and down. I just smiled. We were going to the Paris Sewer Museum. Paris’ sewerage system is quite unique and when you’ve visited it you may know more than the average French person does.

All the sewers have a street sign and number above them and run parallel to the streets above, like a subterranean world opposite to the topside world of people and their lives. Beneath their feet is a world of the 3 p’s; pee, pooh and paper. In the Middle Ages before the sewers were built, the citizens would throw the contents of their night time guzzunders out of the window after shouting ‘gardez lou’.

The city has 2,000 plus miles of sewers but the museum is only 500 or so yards long and this is a long enough distance to walk, remembering where you are. You will see the ‘egouters’ [workmen], working at maintaining the fabric and keeping the flow going with their flusher trolleys. During the tour you will also see the old and the new tools and machinery that make and made their job easier.

Tourism down below started in the 1800’s and by 1858 tourists rode on carts. In the 1970’s you could travel by boat but now walking is the only way to see it all. When Victor Hugo wrote ‘Les Miserables’ he used the sewers for some of his scenes. Did tourism influence the book or did the book influence tourism? On your visit spend some time reading about this underground world, you will not be bored.

One good tip is to take some Lavender Oil down with you, dab it on your clothes round the chin it helps sweeten the air! And Susan didn’t feel ill at all. If anyone mentions alligators, smile to yourself because someone has to keep these urban myths alive, if it is a myth! On surfacing we sat and watched the Parisians knowing what we all had in common.

After lunch we got a taxi down to the River Seine as we were going on the two island walk. The islands walk gives you the feel of early Paris because this was the birth place of ‘The City of Lights’: Paris. The guide will show and tell you all about the old heart of this city, its architecture and early famous and infamous citizens. The film ‘Paris When it Sizzles’ was shot on the same island as the gothic Roman Catholic Cathedral Notre Dame. France has a number of churches named ‘Notre Dame’ but this is the most famous and most spectacular. To meet the leaders for this walk go to Metro Pont Marie [line 7] but check times first.

When you have finished the walk you’ll be tired and thirsty - I know we were. Go to the tip of Isle of St. Louis behind Notre Dame on a street called Quai d’Orleans, look for Berthillon’s, this is a café where William Holden and Audrey Hepburn were filmed during the making of ‘Paris When it Sizzles’.

Try and linger here ‘till after nightfall and enjoy Notre Dame in all its lighted, shadowy and mystical glory. The sewers are memorable but this memory will outshine them

Sunday morning and today we both had the ‘full English’ to set us up for the day, going underground again. At least adverse weather need not affect this weekend away and the nights are romantic, particularly tonight.

Today we are going to 1 Place Denfert - Rochereau, 14 Arrondissment, 75014 Paris, home to some of Paris’ famous catacombs. Paris and district is honeycombed with worked-out quarries and tunnels most of which are forbidden territory to the general public. This does not stop the determined troglodytes from using these to explore, live, hide drugs or just party in. There is even an artistic movement called La Mexicaine De Perforation using the catacombs.

The 17th and 18th century was the time when the catacombs were used as a depository from the over-full graveyards of Paris, which had become disease ridden. The cemeteries were emptied at the dead of night and the bodies left in the catacombs with a prayer read by the priest for their souls. Don’t worry though it is biologically safe down there now. The bones were stacked or laid out for what some call a ‘Romantico-macabre decoration’. There are sculptures on some walls and some strange sights such as walls of skulls.

In the 18th century many emperors and royalty visited the catacombs so during your visit you will be following in the footsteps of the grand and famous. More recently they were used in WWII by the Free French Resistance Fighters. The catacombs are so vast and complicated that a full map of the catacombs is still in the process of being drawn. The most up-to-date in depth details of the catacombs can be found in the catacombs or on the internet, just Google Paris Catacombs. I have only scratched the surface and I could rabbit on about what I have read and seen - it could fill a magazine. Admission fees range from 3.5 Euros to 7 Euros depending on age, children under 13 are admitted free.

After spending the morning underground we decided to take a taxi down to the Seine and spend the afternoon and early evening taking in the atmospheres of the many cafes along the banks.

We had booked our dinner table for 8.00pm and in keeping with our ‘dark weekend’ we had chosen to dine at ‘Dans Le Noir’ –‘Dine in the Black’- located at 51 Rue Quincampoix, 75004 Paris. I still could not get my tongue around the pronunciation so gave the taxi driver a piece of paper with the address written on it. This restaurant is one of 3 unique diners in Europe, London and Moscow being home to the other 2.

These restaurants are unique as you dine in complete darkness. Before entering the dining room your coats, handbags, and other personal belongings are placed in lockers. Before being taken to your table you are asked to choose what you would like for dinner and here is another surprise: your choices are limited to vegetarian dishes, meat dishes or fish dishes. You are asked what your preferences are, your dislikes and any allergies you may have. From there the chef will create your surprise meal. Once you have chosen your preferences you will be taken into the dining room, which is in complete darkness. The room being in complete darkness is no handicap to the waiters and waitresses as they are all blind. When your meal arrives only the aromas from the dish can excite your taste buds, then comes the sensation of eating the mystery food. If you asked for fish you may think you are going to be served salmon, but your meal could actually be shark. Eating in complete darkness heightens your senses and this is certainly an experience to remember and is certainly romantic – as long as the person you finish the meal with is the person you sat down with at the beginning.

Don’t forget this is mainland Europe where eating late is normal and this can last up to 2 hours, but what a way to finish a ‘Paris with a difference’ weekend – Vive La Différence.

Graham Alibone

Brittany: the writer's house

Saturday, 26th May.

We arrived in the village of Guenin, southern Brittany, at around lunchtime, having taken the overnight ferry to St. Malo. The house was easy to find with its bright yellow walls and blue window frames; colours you would normally see in southern France. We opened the door and stepped tentatively inside, looking quickly around.

It felt a bit familiar, a similar-aged house as ours. Each room was like a work of art, a designed room setting, a pleasure to be in, considered in a the way an artist would consider every part of a painting. Pictures hung on the walls, some good quality originals, with a post impressionist style matching this French house. Some were prints of quality, important works of art, like Picasso’s Guernica, a picture that depicts the bombing of Guernica in the Spanish Civil War, hanging in a bedroom.

The interior was not expensively finished, but was considered and personal. It looked as if the house had been gutted, with the plaster and paint stripped off to expose the old battered beams and wooden floor boards. The house had a smell that was a mixture of a house being left empty and not aired enough and still with the reminder of the acid that had been used to strip the pine furniture.

Amongst the collection of pictures, pottery and ornaments, there was a 50’s theme that showed up in every room. The famous and very kitsch Vladimir Trechikoff, the Chinese Girl with black hair and a gold dress, hung in another bedroom. The hall walls were lined with cream painted boards with grooves running vertically. The hall lamp shade was a swirling stainless steel, with 5 circular balls containing the light bulbs. In the bathroom there were 3 china ducks and a round 50’s patterned mirror. A set of 50’s looking plates hung on the hall wall. Each had the same scene of 2 small yachts.

On the marble table in the sitting room were 6 glasses with Babycham and the deer logo etched into the glasses together with a jug bearing the phrase – Senior Service Satisfies. The fire surround had been replaced but had a piece of wood missing, cut off from the mantlepiece as if it was about to be chopped up. But these owners didn’t mind the fact that it was not perfect and it even added something to the charm of the place by being damaged.

A 50’s radio was on a drop leaf table with carved barley twist legs. Next to it was a picture of the owner, showing a lively sharp pose. He is looking back at the camera, clearly staring full faced, a cigarette in his hand, hair in full rich brown. Someone who possibly has been preoccupied, drinking a glass of wine or writing outside and only turns and smiles because he is expected to. Inset is a picture of him as a young boy aged about 6, with short back and sides, and clearly a boy of the 50’s.

His wife is in a frame next to him. She is posed showing her right arm blown up and out of focus, half smiling, slightly thoughtful, about to say quite a lot. A very chatty person I would say. Both colourful characters I would guess with strong views on France and culture of all kinds.

The bookshelves were filled with a good collection of books, showing an interest in writing and theatre.

A pouffee in green and red leather was on the sitting room floor, ideal to put your feet up on as you read one of their books. Clues are left everywhere, in every room, on every wall, in every drawer. It is was if they were proud of their lives and wanted to show off a bit, and let you know a bit about them; at least their edited version of themselves.

Maybe these were people who didn’t quite make it, a bit like you and me. They would have loved to be celebrities, theatre and writing careers taking off a lot more, but who did not get the breaks. But they have kept going, and enjoyed the pleasure that comes on the route and have no longer any thoughts of the glittering prizes.


Sunday 27th May

I wake up early, 6 am and I can see in front of me the most amazing black and white curtains with the morning sun showing through. The design is a simple with a bold repeat of a bowl of tulips resting on a table, showing the corner of the table crudely shaded by a broad brush.

It is very warm and as I walk around the village at 9.30, I see a man sweeping the centre near the church. But in this half hour a few cars went by but not many stopped in Guenin itself. The village had a butcher’s and a patisserie and 3 bars. But for how much longer, I wonder? And yet there is always a welcoming smile on the faces of the shopkeepers.

House martins swarmed around, catching flies, and sometimes entered a nest in the eves of one of the granite stone buildings.

The village almost echoes the house as a place with memories of better days and a doubtful future.

Barry Kellington

Go jump in the lake

If someone said “Go jump in the lake” you’d think they were telling you to take a hike, right? Well, when it was as hot as it was last Monday, you might just take them up on it, and that is just what I did.

Manitoba, the province where I live, has ever changing weather. One moment it is freezing, and the next the sun is threatening to bake your brains. That’s just the type of day Monday turned out to be, first cold, (cold enough to wear a sweater and many layers), then hot by late afternoon.

Unlike my travel companions, I’d climbed into the family car, destined for a drive through Lake of the Woods, (an area known to most Canadians as an area of great recreation), dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie. Everyone else anticipated the chill in the air would give way to sunshine, and they wore light clothing, t-shirts, shorts, even bathing suits!

Driving for two hours we reached our destination just as the thermostat read 30 degrees Celsius. Sparkling lakes scatter the landscape in various sizes, from large to small, shallow to deep, but all have one thing in common, soft, golden, glacier temperature water.

I felt rather smug watching my family held their breath and gritted their teeth as the waves lapped at their mid sections, but I have to admit, it did look refreshing, and I started to long for other clothing options.

I had other reasons for covering up too. We’ve had a cool, rainy summer, and my legs are as white as the snow most commonly covering this flat region. Were I to show much skin, the beach dwellers might have a new reason to wear sunglasses.

My discomfort must have been obvious. Eventually my mother in law suggested I join them, simply jump in, jeans and all.

Jump in? In my clothes? How absurd. Yet, tempting.

I looked at the water with longing, then to my long restrictive clothing. I stood, dusted myself off, then did as she suggested, and took a flying leap in the lake. It was cold, cold enough to make me shriek, gasp, hold my breath until I turned blue, but at least I wasn’t hot anymore. And swimming in jeans isn’t as bad as it sounds, sure it’s not as freeing as a tiny spandex bathingsuit, and no where near the thrill of skinny dipping, but when you’re as hot as a fire alarm fire, you think it’s the best gig going.

It made me think of another time when wearing that much clothing in the water was a normal thing, and any less was scandalous! I mean, I could’ve been wearing something like this.

I splashed about, barely held back by the weight of my waterlogged jeans, and eventually hauled myself out of the lake, entirely refreshed.

I sat in the back seat, on a bundle of towels, in my squelchy, dripping, tight jeans, with enough sand lining the insides to make a beach envious. By the time we got home I was nearly dry.

Was it worth it? Heck yes.

Tara Nichols
http://tarasnichols.blogspot.com
www.tarasnichols.com

Traveling with LK Hunsaker

I love to travel. Thank you to Lindsay for allowing me to kick off the Travel special where you’ll hear from several romance authors about different modes and concepts of travel. From me, you get reality.

This is a photo I took from the window of an airplane on the way to visit a friend in Michigan. I’m also a photo bug so the amount of travel photos I’ve collected over the years of living in six states and two countries, plus the many, many trips we’ve taken in and around and between could fill tons of books by themselves. I won’t bore you with all the details and will keep the photos here limited. Maybe I’ll collect them into books some day.

Until then, what I do with many of my travelogues is include them within my stories. All of my books include real places along with some occasional unreal places based somewhat on real towns. My hometown served as one backdrop for Finishing Touches, the place Jenna is raised. I don’t name it. I do grab descriptions from it. The places that are named and highlighted in the novel are Peoria and Chicago. The setting moves back and forth, with each city being a character in itself that shows Jenna’s state of mind wavering. Peoria is safe for her. It’s her adopted city and she knows it well but it limits her because of her history there. Chicago is the mostly unknown exciting and frightening pull that metaphors her wish to expand herself, to move forward.

I know Peoria well. It’s the closest real city to my own hometown and was where we found the mall and splurged with an occasional fast food trip. I should say I know the main streets of Peoria well, the connecting roads that took me where I needed to be. I stayed on those main roads, afraid of getting lost. Yes, I do get lost easily. I may love to travel, but I have no sense of direction. *sigh* My visits to Chicago, on the other hand, were brief and few but fully exciting. I was enamored with Lake Shore Drive and the vibrant life of the city. I adored walking the Loop and visiting the Art Institute. The Loop is mentioned within Finishing Touches. The Art Institute and my favorite painting there are in Rehearsal, somewhat bonding the books although they are separate stories.

Chicago does play a small role in the Rehearsal series, especially the Sears Tower (never mind they renamed it now). Its main setting is a small city about thirty miles west of Boston. Why? I used to live about thirty miles west of Boston and I adore Massachusetts. The fictional town of Lakewood doesn’t resemble where I lived. Being that we were on a military base, it wouldn’t work for the story. However, Boston is there, as is Concord and Salem. Since the series deals with a touring band, I’m able to throw in a lot of places we’ve lived and visited with small glimpses. One highlight is River Street in Savannah, Georgia. I also lived about 35 miles outside Savannah at one point. Yeah, I’ve been around. ;-)  Raucous, my fictional band, spends one Halloween on tour walking River Street. I had fun with that. They’ve also been to Branson, Missouri, where we did a family vacation a few years back, and if you find any other place highlighted there, it’s a good chance there’s a personal connection.

Two of the main characters of Rehearsal were raised in eastern Pennsylvania and one went to college in western Pennsylvania, which happens to be where we live now. The funny story with that is I decided to make Theil College Evan’s alma mater long before we ever decided to  move close enough to it to drive up and get photos.

So, on to the next-to-come. In 2002, we were able to make a quick visit to New York City. That’s the adopted city for Ryan, my hero (or anti-hero) of Off The Moon, due out this November. One of the places we went to listen to a musician friend perform is in the story, as is the general atmosphere of walking the sidewalks of Manhattan at night. The other main setting is Bennington, Vermont, and a small confession: I haven’t been there. Yet. That’s my next vacation goal. Why is it set there, then? I needed a scenic area with a big lake that was close enough to NYC for quite a few car trips back and forth and yet far enough to be a wholly different environment. Online research is great, but I’m anxious to get there and take photos.

I have albums set up on my website to show scenery from each of my novels. They are still in progress and more will be added, but there are enough to give you a feel of where my stories take place.

LKHunsaker.com

Today I was scanning in old photos from Idaho. I’ll have to set a book there soon.

Thank you for taking this short journey with me. I look forward to the rest of the travel series here!