Month: December 2017

Well it feels like it.

It is Wednesday morning in Aix en Provence.  At 6.15 am on Friday we set out by car for Ypres in Belgium.  We arrived 10 hours and three petrol/toilet stops later, having travelled the entire north/south length of France.    Grey sky, windmills, perfect roads and well behaved traffic.  A dream trip really.

As you approach Ypres, which is to all appearances in the middle of nowhere, the place names start to ring bells of all those WW1 battles you have heard about and never really understood.  The landscape is tidy, flat, and utterly bleak at this time of year.  But Ypres turns out to be a fairy tale village, albeit with a grim past.

The language is this part of Belgium is Dutch so Johan is quite at home.  Our B&B is great with a friendly owner, and right in the middle of town.  So we go to a restaurant he has recommended for a very good early dinner, then to Menin Gate for nightly Last Post ceremony.  The names of fifty-five thousand soldiers who have no known graves inscribed on this beautiful structure.  Lots of people.  Plenty of tears.

Sorry, I am still in the midst of travel blitz so will post photos later.

The next day we visited commonwealth memorial, grave and battle sites.  All incredibly emotional, even though my grandfather actually survived.  The Museum in Ypres details the battles in this area, which were in the end completely meaningless but cost 10s of 1000s of lives, and destroyed many more.  Go looking for Passchendael Ridge, the scene of one of the most famous battles, and the “ridge” turns out to be nothing more than a slight rise in ground level that in NZ we would not even notice.  Horrible, but more of that when I have the time.

Saturday we drove to Antwerp, which is a beautiful city, and acted like proper tourists wandering around town, and visiting the Stroom Museum.  We even wandered, quite accidentally, into the very extensive red light district.  Only realised when we peered closely at red lighting in shop fronts and saw that the goods on display were real live naked woman. Next morning did quick tour of beautiful Art Nouveau and Art Deco buildings and houses before heading for Oeffelt on Christmas Eve.

BTW, typical Belgium food is crap – don’t be persuaded to eat it.  Go somewhere that cooks something you recognise.

Sunday morning left Antwerp and headed first for Eindhoven to visit – wait for it – the first Albert Hein Supermarket, a “model” supermarket apparently.  It was certainly the nicest, if not the biggest, supermarket I have ever been in.  I was a bit disconcerted though to find they had a policy that refused Mastercard payment.  Outside I had my first olie bollens – seasonal treat of deep fried dough with raisins and icing sugar.  They tasted great, but came from a street cart, when Johan encountered a couple of very rude fellow country men.  This was only his second encounter with his countrymen, since Eindhoven was our first stop in the Netherlands. The first being with the supermarket staff who would take neither my MasterCard, nor cash at that particular counter.  But after that every other Dutch person we met was lovely!

Christmas eve and day in the tiny village of Oeffelt with Johan’s relatives, Phil and Nollie, in their lovely home in the south of the Netherlands.  On Christmas Day we went to visit his sister, Virini, in Apeldoorn and went with her and husband Gerrit, to the Krüller-Möller Museum in the magnificent De Hoge Veluwe National Park.  Wonderful art and sculptures, including a big Van Gogh collection, and (my favourite) quite a few Mondrians.  Apeldoorn is where Johan grew up, so lots of stories and memories.  Then back to Oeffelt for a magnificent dinner, and me exhausted by sensory overload.

Yesterday, Tuesday, we drove first to Nancy in north of France, where we stopped at the best patisserie ever, but really to hunt down another Art Nouveau collection of buildings.  Nancy very interesting and well worth another visit.  But the drive there was through the most industrial part of the Netherlands and northern France in the dark and mostly pouring rain.  Then we had to drive all the way back to Aix.  Arrived home last night at 9 pm after huge traffic jam in Lyon, and one motorway accident.  Not the dream run of a couple of days earlier but not bad.

Today getting a bit organised for return home, but tomorrow off to Agen to stay with Sylvie for two nights.   Will take in a bit of Toulouse on the way.   Then one more sleep in Aix and we are on our way home.

There is much to write about in what I have seen and done over the last few days, but it will have to wait.  Just wanted to let you know I am still here.

Bonne Anniversaire – think of me up in the air flying through multiple time zones on New Years Eve.

Love Linda

Just a quick word today, because struggling to keep up with demanding visitor now in residence.  Well, not that bad actually.  He is currently cooking me breakfast.

This week I am revisiting some places I have seen before, because they are new to Johan.  The usual markets and tour of the Centre Ville goes without saying, although with a real photographer in tow progress is pretty slow.  I stopped pointing out the photo opportunities after a while, because he was already going crazy with the wonderful late afternoon light falling on the old buildings.  It was getting so cold as the sun went down that every time we stopped my nose got a little bluer.  He was oblivious to that, as people are when carried away by an enthusiasm.

We have also been back to the beautiful Hôtel de Caumont, so that now I have seen the wonderful Picasso and Boterro exhibition twice.  It was just as much fun the second time, and of course you pick up more and more detail each time.  Then we also went back to a place I did not like so much, the gigantic Carrefours at Les Milles.  This time we spent over two hours just wandering around a supermarket.  If you imagine Noel Leeming and K-mart combined with Countdown plus Farros, and three times as big, you would have some idea of the sort of place it is.  I simply get overwhelmed, and cannot shop at all except for the few specific things I have come out for.  Naturally Johan loved it.

I have now handed over driving duties to the one who claims native European status, but both of us remain reliant on the satnav in the car.  It does not matter how many times I explain that the satnav does not necessarily make life easy, and that you have to really concentrate and obey instructions.   ALL of my visitors have made mistakes in navigation.  Johan was no exception.  When we left Carrefour it was dark and rush hour, which is comprised of commuters between Aix, the surrounding smaller towns, and Marseille.  Quite a busy area here.  Of course we took a wrong turn.  When this happens you just wait for the satnav to recalibrate, then follow the instructions to get back on track.

But in this case there were queues everywhere, and then the driver decided the satnav lady was mistaken and that he would take the 2nd exit from the roundabout instead of the 3rd.  Cue 20 minutes more driving down narrow unlit country roads before we finally got back on the motorway.  There was a degree of tension on my side of the car, but the driver thought it was an adventure.  Naturally he wanted more, so took the wrong off ramp coming back, which lead to a cross-town trip through more unfamiliar territory.

We are about to go out and test the driving scenario again.  Wish me luck.

This is something I know a little bit about.  I am a person who does not mind their own company.  Up to a point.  I am an introvert by nature, not an extrovert.  Although this blog might appear to put the lie to that.  It is more about how you interact with people in real life.  One on one is fine.  Presenting to an audience is fine.  Trying not to feel like the least desirable person in the room to talk to at any other time is the struggle.

Anyway, relying on one’s own company breeds independence.  Circumstances can also breed independence.  I have had that as well.  I like to think my grandmother was an independent person , although her breed of self-reliance might have been questionable.

We can only wonder at my grandfather’s motives for joining up to serve in WW 1.  By the time he enlisted the conflict had been dragging on for several years, and the bloom of adventure that propelled young men forward at the outset had faded.  Men were dying.  New Zealand men were dying, and our young country could neither comprehend or afford that.  Communities like those in Poverty Bay were hit hard.  But more men were needed, and more and more were conscripted or volunteered.

For the Maori community it must have been a matter of pride.  They could not be seen to avoid the fight, and perhaps memories of a warrior past were stirred and prodded.  On the East Coast, Ngati  Porou had its own company in the Maori Pioneer Battalion.  For a transplanted Nga Puhi there was a challenge staring him in the face.  

Then there was the marriage itself.  There is nothing to indicate it was on the rocks.  After all, in those days  a marriage might not have been a success, but that did not often end in separation and divorce.  Certainly not if you did not have money.  There was no support for a women left to care for a family alone, and societal condemnation for any party who left a marriage.  Generally you made your bed and you lay in it – literally in many cases.  But this marriage must at the very least have been turbulent.

My grandfather was proud, and he had a temper.  He looked after himself and his possessions, and had no difficulty in aspiring to all that Pakeha society had to offer.  

My grandmother was wilful, and she had a temper.  She had not much concern for society generally, and was a little slovenly and careless about possessions, hers and others.

When they first met none of these things was obvious.  As with so many young people, other factors were at play.  Lust, looks, the exoticism of different worlds.  The more prosaic elements of a relationship did not figure in their thinking at all.  Probably they were not actually thinking, just acting on overwhelming instincts.  But by the time my grandfather sailed off to Europe they would certainly have had the measure of each other.  They would have known each others best and worst characteristics, although neither would have had any idea the extent to which those traits would take them.

While it was unlikely my grandfather joined up to escape his marriage, he may nevertheless have felt that a break from it was not necessarily a bad thing.

My grandmother was left behind, and she is unlikely to have approved of his decision to enter the conflict.  She would not have been the only young woman left behind to cope with a young family, but she was not the type to volunteer for self-sacrafice.  Nor was she the sort to give up her pleasures in sympathy with the state of the world.  

But before you race ahead in your expectations of what comes next, let me tell you that she did not forsake her husband while he was off fighting. There were no children conceived or born out of the marriage during this time.  My grandmother sent no “Dear John … ” letters.

That is not to say she was not hardened and strengthened by the separation.  She would not have been unsupported.  The young family remained in the district, where Mary and Uncle Denny were still living.  It does not appear Uncle Denny served in the services.  At least he did not serve overseas.  So there was close family at hand, and even an able male to help out when one was required.  Even so, life must have been tough.

My grandmother was an intelligent woman, and she had received as good an education as most girls got at that time.  She was strong, and young and capable.  She was also a somewhat selfish and  rather neglectful woman, with little regard for social mores.  She had her indulgences that were not easily forgone.  Sadly, she was not above using others to get what she wanted.

How she got through the war years is not clear, but for her the war did not end in 1918 as it did for other women.  Her husband did not come home immediately, and when he did he was so sick that he spent two years hospitalised while his lungs recovered.  She would have used both wits and charm to enhance her lifestyle during these years, because you can be sure that she would not have been satisfied with the income of an enlisted man, not even that of a sergeant.

By the end of the war she was running a womenswear store in Gisborne, and her children were in temporary care.  The boys were together in a household they abhorred, and the whereabouts at that time of the baby, Maisie, is unknown.  To all intents and purposes, she was an unencumbered single woman.  What she did at that time was up to her.  One imagines there were men around, although we do not know whether or not she succumbed to their attractions.  

But she was still married, and she did have a family.  The independent life might have suited her very well, but she had not entirely abandoned her responsibilities.  What she did next some might say was merely her responsibility.  But I prefer to think it came from a deep well of compassion.  If you have no sense of responsibility, to nevertheless act against your deepest desires and inclinations takes a certain kind of resolution.

My grandfather’s health was not improving appreciably.  He was not a man made for hospital wards, and perhaps his spirit was broken by what he had witnessed and endured.  In any case my grandmother eventually took action.  She gathered back her family, faced down the authorities, and took her husband home to nurse back to health.  And back to health he came under her care, which could be and was devoted, when she set her mind to it.  

So it was, that at the beginning of the third decade of the 20th century, the young family were reunited and apparently back on track.  It could not, of course, last.

As I sit here writing on this early Sunday afternoon, I have been unable to avoid smelling my neighbours cooking and serving their midday meals.  I have previously mentioned that Sunday lunch is a big deal in France, and I described the one occasion I attended such a meal in Marseille.  Recently I have been critical of some of the food here, but believe me, there is no more enticing smell in the world than French home cooking.  Particularly during the winter.

Notwithstanding my late breakfast and recent habit of skipping lunch, I have been driven into the kitchen to tear a couple of mouthfuls of bread off yesterday’s half stale baguette.  Pickings are sparse in there.  I am forbidden by Johan to go to the supermarket until he arrives tomorrow.  Supermarkets are one of his favourite places in the world.  In a past life he ran a deli counter in a Dutch supermarket (he has a lot of past lives) and cheese and cured meats are part of his genetic make-up.  Go figure.  Anyway I also found and ate a slightly shrivelled clementine.  (They are mandarins really, but the French call them clementines and they come from Corsica.)  Then I downed the can of Red Bull Zero I was saving for later.  I am only somewhat satisfied.

I dare not go for my walk just yet because everyone in the entire world will be eating and drinking, and it drives me insane.  By 3 pm or so it should be safe to go out.  By then there will only be people drinking.  Luckily, it being the penultimate weekend before Christmas, most of the shops will be open.

On a final note, I am  curious to know who is reading this blog.  I have had some responses through other channels that suggest there are a few of you out there who are checking in.  But my technical abilities in setting up this blog did not extend to monitoring the readership.  So just this one time, and as long as you don’t mind the admission, it would be great if you would leave a comment in the field below just to say that you have seen this edition.  Don’t feel you need to actually say anything; just say “reddit”.  I promise not to put you on any secret email list.

And even if you don’t feel like adding a comment, thanks anyway for being out there.  I will be busy over the next couple of weeks, but I will try to keep writing anyway.

In the meantime wishing you a Joyeux Noël and a Bonne Année.

Coming from the antipodes it is not as difficult to get used to a winter Christmas as one might expect.

It must be because we are so used to the northern hemisphere version of the celebration that it comes as no surprise to find oneself actually surrounded by the accoutrements of a cold weather celebration.  Mulled wine makes sense.  Santa Claus is appropriately dressed.  Snow is an actual possibility.

What takes a bit more getting used to is that this is not holiday season.  That is to say, there will be a coupe of days holiday, but few people are gearing up to take time off work and go on vacation.  To my way of thinking, the lead up to Christmas, the craziness in the office as clients clear their problem baskets onto my desk, and the event itself, mean that a holiday is a necessity not an option.  But of course that does not happen here.  As I have already remarked, the Christmas preparations begin late and the preparation is leisurely.  It is only now that the stores are pushing buying for gifting, and tomorrow (Sunday) some of the stores will be open.

Since Christmas is on a Monday, there will be a holiday.  And in some parts of Europe the following day is a holiday too.  But otherwise it is business as usual, with another brief hiatus for New Year.  I will miss the latter – in fact I will miss New Year altogether – because I will be in the air passing through so many time zones it will be impossible to know at what moment to celebrate.  I leave France on the afternoon of 31 December, and arrive back in NZ on the morning of 2 January.  Perhaps Qatar Airlines will come to the party and supply champagne and treats for the entire duration of the trip home.

Even so, there is a definite buzz in the air, with crowds in abundance in the Centre Ville.  Saturday is a particularly popular shopping day, as are evenings late in the week with the shops open till 7 pm.  This weekend there is a preponderance of families out shopping.  Today I saw several men making self-conscious purchases in womenswear stores.    During the week the bigger jewellery stores (think, those a bit like Michael Hill) have been packed, and I have watched teenage boys shopping so cluelessly for their mothers or girl friends that it has been all I can do to stop myself offering advice.

Last weekend I followed a small family carrying a live Christmas tree (they don’t really go for the fake kind here) home from town.  The little boy was trying to hold up the middle, the wife had the heavy stem end, and the father was leading carrying the tip.  There were many stops, and all three were issuing continuous instructions to each other.  Just as I was wondering how far they were going, they turned into the front yard of my apartment building.  Greetings were exchanged as I was able to offer the slight assistance of opening and holding the front door.  So I know at least one of my neighbours has a Christmas tree.  In addition a wreath has appeared on the door of the new people who moved in downstairs a couple of weeks ago.  And there are flashing lights coming from the window of one apartment opposite, at least until they get around to closing the electric shutters each evening.

Possibly there is a Franklin Road type scenario going on somewhere in Aix, but if so I have yet to find it.

However, my current obsession is not Christmas, but my feet.  Today I made my final visit to the beauty salon, which is just up the road.  My nails are now a tasteful and festive pink.

The manicurist, who is getting good at interpreting my mangled French, described them as Barbie pink.  She does not speak any English, but she knows the phrase “Barbie pink”.  Perhaps it is a technical term of the trade.

Anyway, the point is that the premises are slightly less than 1 km from home, so I thought it would be safe to wear my new boots.  You may recall that I purchased some very flash ‘kick arse’ boots, with tread designed to cope with the snow.  It turns out that although they are admirably equipped to handle the snow, they are not equipped to handle my feet.  The problem is, a bit like new Doc Martens, they are made of very heavy and inflexible leather.  They are the right size, but my ageing feet have a number of tender and sensitive points, and require a little ease for comfort.  So last week, and again last night, I tried a trick that has worked for me in the past.  I put on three pairs of socks, stuffed my feet into the boots, and turned the hair dryer on them until I could stand the heat no longer.

If you are lucky, what this will do is mould the shoe or boot to the shape of your foot, with a little bit of space to spare.  Try it with a pair of shoes that are a bit too tight. Usually it works, and indeed this morning when I set out they felt pretty good.  But this is a tough pair of boots to crack.  I might have been alright if, as planned, I had gone no where else but to the Utile across the road for extra yoghurt for my next visitor’s breakfast.  That is not what I did.  The sun was shining, although the wind was wicked.  There were crowds about.  I could not resist going for a walk.

In your heart of hearts you always know when your feet are going to end up causing you pain.  I knew it as I set off down the Rue d’Italia, as I poked my head into the new chocolate shop that opened yesterday (they make the chocolate in the shop where you can watch), and as I ventured further into the Centre Ville.  What was I thinking?  Experience told me it was bound to end in misery, but on and on I went.  There are always shops that you think might have something new worth checking out.  There are always little streets and alleyways that you have not been down when everything is open.  There was a marching band to watch for a while.  The smell of food can lead you on, even though I scarcely ever sample.

Even when every step is bringing pain, I keep going.  In the end I had no choice, because walking was the only way I had to get home.  So I stop.  A lot.  In shops.  Because my feet do not hurt much when I stand still.  I accidentally buy a blouse, when really all I am doing is trying to rest my feet.  It is a nice blouse – Stella Forrest with 30% discount.  But I would have been better off buying a pair of sneakers to be honest.

On the way home I pick up a four-pack of Greek yoghurt  (sans sucre, bien sûr), a can of Red Bull Zero (they don’t sell V here), a baguette, two chips of fresh raspberries (my breakfast obsession), and a bottle of red wine.  These all go in the Trelise Cooper canvas shopping bag I purchased in Countdown and bought with me.  This is necessary because in French supermarkets and food stores they not only make you pay to use the trolley, they also fail to provide a shopping bag unless you say “et un sac, s’il vous plaît“, and of course pay for it. I gather we are heading the same way in NZ, which is not a bad thing.  The shopping bag, I mean.  Not paying to use the trolley.  But I digress.

The point is, that although I am nearing home, I now have extra weight to carry.  That weight goes straight to my feet, and somehow increases the friction between my skin and that inflexible leather.  I am not happy.  In fact walking with sore feet is somehow not just painful, but also exhausting.  My face, I realise, is set in a grimace.  The cheerful woman who set out this morning with a spring in her step has disappeared, and been replaced by a wretched old hag.  I want nothing more in the world than to remove my boots and fling myself on the bed.

And eventually, after climbing the stairs seemingly inch by inch, that is exactly what I do.  Half an hour later, feet happily clad in slippers, I have recovered enough to start writing today’s little rant.  It is not what I intended.  I had every good intention of coming home, full of the joys of the season, and letting you in on what happened next to my grandmother.  Unfortunately, you will have to wait.

As promised.

Transplant someone into a different world and you have no idea how they will behave.

There are any number of ways that Millicent Louise Gerard and William Pera Aperahama could have met.  But none of them would have mattered if she had remained Amelia Louisa Girard.  This was a young woman who had shed her old life and was ready to take on the world.  Give her another year or two, and she might have reconsidered.  In another year or two she would be wishing she had reconsidered.  But when life grabs you by the throat, you have to go with it.

Picture her living in Te Karaka.  Small farming towns were the heart of NZ at the time, so rural communities had more going for them than we might imagine.  There would have been hard work and hardship a plenty.  But there would also have been a strong community with a sense of kinship.  This would have been familiar to her from the Channel Islands.  Clubs, societies and church groups would have had regular activities.  There would have been picnics and dances, horse races and other entertainments.  Shearing time on the big stations would have created its own special gatherings.  It is possible she helped out in the sheds at these times, or even as a cook for the shearing gangs.  Certainly she would have been expected to bring in an income.

William was also far from home, although not as far as her.  He was young, strong, conscious and careful of his good looks, and he had a sense of himself than transcended many of his fellow farm labourers.  He too would have looked for relief from hard labour in the local events, and no doubt he had an eye for the ladies.  He would also have discovered that he was attractive to many women, and learnt how to exploit that attraction.

The two sisters from Jersey would have stood out in the community.  Strikingly handsome rather than beautiful, with deportment and bearing drilled into them by their governess, their looks and manner must have confounded their humble circumstances.  Even in a NZ filled with imports and more arriving daily, they must have stood out as exceptional.  No one in Te Karaka need have known the circumstances of Mary’s marriage or the birth of her first child.  They were to all appearances both respectable and exotic.  Ok for a married woman.  Dangerous for a single woman with no parental guidance.

My grandmother went to the dances and other events.  She stood out and possibly attracted envy.  She flirted and was pursued, was relaxed around men, and no doubt attracted gossip.  What she wanted or expected to come of this we do not know.  Very likely she hardly knew her own mind at the time, but she certainly knew she was off the leash.  One of the men she met was William Aperahama.  A bit like moths to the flame for both of them.

This was not 2017.  It was over 100 years ago, before the social re-ordering of two world wars and the subsequent decades.  There were no Maori immersion schools, and the Treaty of Waitangi was still sitting in a locked vault somewhere in Wellington.  One of the two was Maori, with nothing to his name, working as a farm labourer.  The other was European, culturally and ethnically, and from a solidly middle-class upbringing.  It was not a match that many would have supported.

Yet their coming together must have been incendiary.  While both may have had doubts about a long-term relationship, they did not hesitate to form a carnal union.  Their eldest child, my uncle Bill, was born sometime in the first half of 1914.  It is impossible to know when exactly, because although his age when he died is known, there is no record of his birth.  Perhaps they forgot, or deliberately did not register it.  Or perhaps it was registered under a name we cannot trace.  We do know that he was given his father’s first name, William, as appropriate in those days for a first son.  But although many knew him as Bill Aperahama, in fact his name on all official documents is Bill Abraham, the anglicised version taken by some in my grandfather’s family.

Neither the pregnancy or the birth lead immediately to marriage.  One can only imagine the dismay the pregnancy caused, to her sister and brother-in-law with their own past to bury, and to her mother and family in Jersey.  My grandfather’s family were unlikely to have been happy either.  And perhaps he himself was reluctant to take responsibility.  In any case, she would have carried the child to full term and given birth under the glare of local knowledge and disapproval.  This would only have increased once it became apparent the father was Maori.  And it would have been apparent.  My uncle Bill was a dark skinned man with little to show his mixed heritage.

But they did marry.  In December 1914 in the registry office at Gisborne, with Mary as a witness.  If there are photos, I have not seen them.  If there was a celebration, I imagine it was muted.  And that was it.  My grandmother’s run at freedom at an end, and my grandfather with a tiger by the tail.  Was there love?  I am sure there was, but tinged with doubt and regret.  They were a family.  Young and poor, but then so were many others.  Not quite respectable or acceptable, but respected and accepted anyway because of the strength of their personalities.  This was a marriage that could survive outside influences, but it was not clear that the partners could survive each other.

Anyway, it must have worked for a time.  They stayed in the area and settled down.  Their second child, James (Jim) was born in May 1916, and a daughter Maisie in July 1917.  But by the time of Maisie’s birth, my grandfather was at the European front.  He did not need to enlist, and went off to fight in a war he had no good reason to join.   He left behind a headstrong, wilful, and pregnant wife, and two small boys.  God only knows what he expected to come home to, if he expected to come home at all.

Ok, never let it be said that I do not keep my promises.

I love writing this blog, but it is so scary to write about my grandmother, whose life I can only really guess at, and my family who may well have a different perspective.  But I have to keep writing.  Because what I know beyond any doubt is that my grandmother made my mother what she is, and my mother in turn shaped my outlook on life.  There is plenty of literature to back me up.  One of the earliest books I read about the subject was Nancy Friday, “My Mother, Myself”, but there are plenty more.  So there will be more to come.  Whether I finish it here in France, which now seems unlikely, or on my return to New Zealand.

Just warning you.

On a lighter note, I am getting excited now waiting for Johan to arrive from NZ, and for us to travel to Belgium and the Netherlands for Christmas.  We are also going to visit my friend Sylvie, in Agen, which I last visited 15 years ago when Laura was living there.  And I am starting to think about coming home.

It is strange what you do when you start to over anticipate.  For example, I seem to have developed the idea that I need to return to NZ looking the epitome of French style.  I have no idea why, because in fact I am at least as well groomed and dressed as the French women of my age in Aix.  But be that as it may, I weigh myself every morning, go assiduously to the beauty shop for waxing and tinting, and today went back to Jean-Luc for another fancy coiffure.  The hair looks good, but you saw the photo last time.  I only know my weight in pounds, because that is what the scales are set to.  But I weigh maybe 10 lbs less than I did on arrival.  Not on a diet, just nervous energy and walking.

Last night I did the weirdest thing of all.  Before bed I slathered myself with self-tanning lotion and wandered around naked for 30 minutes while attempting to dry it.  I had it in my head that I need to return home with a suntan so I can wear my summer clothes as soon as I get off the plane.  Notwithstanding the fact that is still over a fortnight away, and in the meantime I am heading off to frozen Northern Europe.  Worse than that, it is not the wonderful, streak-free, fast drying tanning lotion I buy at home.  No, it is a caramel coloured goo, that refused to either dry or sink in, left streaks everywhere, tanned my palms, and washed straight off in the shower this morning.  I will never trust a French pharmacist again, no matter how nice they are.

What is even more worrying, is that I have not worn heels in three months, so that my calf muscles are shortened and strengthened in that position.  Great for walking in flat shoes, but no use for glamour.  Add to that the fact that I have forgotten how to wear a dress – or indeed anything other than jeans.  That my top half is permanently clad in un pull (jumper), and that I am accustomed to being covered quite literally head to toe whenever I leave the apartment.

On the plus side, I do know how to tie a scarf properly, and I have overcome my fear of hats.

I am telling you this so you do not have any expectations of acquired glamour when next you see me.  French women are born, not made.

That’s it.  Time to go.  There will be more.

Just thinking

As we reach mid-December it strikes me that my time in France is coming to an end soon.

I could be panicking at my lack of achievements during this period, but I came here for time out, so I am not panicking.  I could be wracked with regret at the thought of leaving, but I love Auckland, and I am happy to return to family, friends and summer. In fact I cannot wait to hug Amy, who has discovered she is pregnant while I have been away, and Laura, who has signed a lease on an apartment in my complex and will now be my neighbour.  And of course I will hug my sons in law Eric and Jason too, and everyone else who gets within hugging distance for that matter.

But I am starting to feel the need to take stock, and I am conscious that I still have some thinking to do and decisions to make.  So watch out for that folks, because everything gets spilled on the page sooner or later.

Food

You develop a different attitude to food when out of your usual routine.  It will be obvious to everyone who knows me that food and I have a perilous relationship, although it has improved over the last few years.  I am pretty sure I inherited it from my mother, who to this day describes every social event she attends in terms of the food that was provided.  But I also have irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), a vague diagnosis of a digestive condition that plays havoc with the process of digestion and elimination.  It can be benign for long periods of time, is not food specific, and until I consciously decided to live with its effects without embarassment, all but destroyed my self confidence as a young woman.

I am not sure why I just told you that.  The state of my stomach from day to day remains even now one of the primary arbiters of my mood and activities.  Well now you know.

The point I am coming to is this.  French food is both wonderful and terrible.  Daily life here puts me in a continuous state of low level, barely acknowledged stress.  I am hardly conscious of this, but my digestive system is fully aware.  I knew this would be the case.  So for me, living here in this gastronomic wonderland, is interesting.  I do not want to miss out on anything, and I have never restricted the type foods that I eat.  There is no point when I am as likely to be struck out by a sandwich as a curry.  But eating is not the pleasure you might think it would be.

Add to that the reluctance to eat in restaurants alone, and the laziness one develops about cooking for just one person.  I do eat out alone sometimes, but generally prefer to save this for the times when I have visitors to entertain.  Cooking is intermittent, and I am missing the wide range of fresh foods I would be eating at home at this time of year.  The cheese and patisseries are superb here, but hardly a staple diet.  A baguette and whatever is in the fridge is a common evening meal.

But essentially all the food rules have gone out the window, and with them my interest in eating has significantly waned.  If I am alone, I find it more convenient to forget about lunch altogether.  Unlike a day in the office, when lunch looms like a welcome beacon to help get you through the day, there is no pressure to eat in the middle of a day that is unstructured.  Hunger is not a problem if I have had a proper breakfast.   Other days create their own eating pattern.  Today for example, I skipped breakfast in favour of being the first client at the beautician (they don’t take appointments).  Afterwards I decided to have dinner for lunch, and I am going to have breakfast for dinner.  The lunch in town turned out to be a flop, and so I am looking forward to dinner.

But the thing is, I am questioning the need for three meals a day, and wondering if my aging body and digestive tract can even cope with that anymore.  It seems to me that perhaps the social element of eating with others is what is important, and the rest of the time  not a great deal is actually required.  Interesting to see how this develops when I get home.

Television

I have always used tv as a means to relax.  I often do other things while I watch television, but it is my default  evening occupation, especially when home alone in the evening.  Day time television does not appeal to me, and even when home sick I do not bother to turn it on.  It took me a couple of weeks here to manage to switch the tv from the mind-numbing English language programmes it had been set to by my kind landlady, back to ordinary French tv.  But since then, I have watched exclusively in French, and breaking all past habits, I have it on in the background throughout the day.  This was a conscious decision in the vain hope it would improve my French.  I doubt that it has, but it does provide a cultural window.

In the evenings, if no one is staying with me, I knit and watch television.  I cannot follow what is being said, but I do know what is going on.  I find actual language comprehension is quite unnecessary to follow a crime show or most dramas.  Certainly it is superfluous for current affairs or nature programmes.  The news and weather are self explanatory by and large.  I do not know to what extent French day time television differs from ours, but it is quite similar in the evenings.

It goes like this.  Although there are many channels available even without going to pay tv, only a couple are ever worth watching.  In the morning, while I do my yoga and eat my breakfast, there are morning talk shows, regional round-ups, nature programmes and the  shopping channel.  David Attenborough dubbed in French loses his calming, all is well with the world tone, and is therefore a little disappointing.  In the evening there are the usual dramas, crime shows and entertainments.  There are versions of all the big hits.  France has Talent is on at the moment.

There is, however, a problem with the entertainment shows.  The problem is that France really does not have talent.  That is to say it probably does, but French popular music is so bad that it is hard to tell.  Last night I watched the final of French Dancing with the Stars.  All three couples scored perfect 10s across all categories in their second round.  How they determined the winner I have no idea.  On the weekend the French mourned the passing of Johnny Hallyday with an 8 hour special.  The man, who was a great entertainer, did literally hundreds of covers of great English and US songs, and produced a plethora of generally awful French songs.  Come back Edith Piaf.

A good half or more of the dramas are in fact dubbed versions of  English or US shows.  Watching the Vera crime series in French is quite an experience, but I have found pretending it is set in Brittany helps.  What is extraordinarily good here, and totally lacking on NZ television, is in depth current affairs reporting.  They do not hesitate to spend time and money on first hand investigation, and two hour documentaries on topics as diverse as poor quality housing, the fraudulent claims of big brand garment manufacturers as to product origins, and the underlying causes of diabetes are common.  And riveting, even in French that I cannot understand.

Christmas decorations

The glacial speed at which Christmas decorations are going up is fascinating me.  Given that my daughter is a merchandiser at Smith & Caughey where Christmas starts in October, I find it astounding that in mid-December Aix is not fully decorated.  It is not that it does not have decorations.  They have been appearing since late November with the arrival of the Christmas markets in Cours Mirabeau.  But every day I wander around and see the Council men on trucks still putting up more.  I don’t know where it will end.  And assuming they finish by Christmas Day, when will they all come down again?  It is a mystery to me.  But here is a little of what is up so far.

Ok, ok … next episode in Grandma story next time, I promise.

Many people will know that shopping is my favourite hobby, and the only sport at which I truly excel.  But OMG, shopping in France, I scare even myself.

It is true that I have given myself time out.  I have accepted that my earnings for the year will reduce, and I have given myself permission to spend money that at my advanced age ought properly to be saved.  I have learnt not to convert Euros back to $NZ when I order my chocolat chaud or pay for my groceries.  That way lies madness.

But in this smug, smart, well-off little town in the heart of Provence, shopping is a brutally debilitating experience.  Unfortunately it is one of my favourite experiences, and since other favourite experiences are currently off the menu, I cannot stop doing it.

My current state of shock arises from the replacement of two pairs of prescription glasses (everyday and sun) complete with progressive lenses and trendy Mauboussin and Burberry frames.  Check out Mauboussin.  It is a French luxury brand with jewellery, bags, glasses etc.  If you do not know Burberry I am afraid you are beyond my help.  In my defence I present the following facts:

• My existing prescription was 4 years out of date and in dire need of updating if I was not to permanently ruin my eyesight.
• The lenses of both sets of glasses were scratched to buggery.
• The brands I bought would have cost even more in NZ, even assuming they were available.
• I got a discount.

So it had to be done, but I am still catching my breath at how much it all added up to.  I had to fight to keep the shock showing on my face when I realised that the first invoice, which I was still assimilating, was for the  cheaper pair, and not for both.  And since they cost considerably more than my hot chocolate, I cannot help but do the exchange calculation.  Oh well, now (or in a week when I pick them up) I will have very trendy French face furniture.

In fact the $NZ has not been performing well against the Euro since I arrived, and every top up on my magic debit card has cost me more than the last.  I do not know whether to blame the new government, or just bad luck, but I am philosophical.  No one has ever suggested living in France is cheap.  But this part of France is worse than most.  I learnt that when two French friends, one of whom lives elsewhere and another just south of here, informed me that Aix was trés cher.  So expensive in fact, that they refuse to tip the waiters in town because the cost of a meal is so much more here than elsewhere.

It was not especially necessary for them to point this out.  Everything is about on par with NZ price-wise.  That is to say, if it would cost you $1 in NZ, it will cost 1 Euro in Aix.  Or in real terms, about 1.75 x as much.  Wine is no exception.  It is true you can buy a drinkable bottle for around 5 Euros in the supermarket but, do the math, you can do the same in NZ.  Other things, that you might expect to be less expensive because made in France, like cosmetics, are sometimes dearer than in New Zealand.

Nor is food cheap, either fresh produce or processed foods, although the selection is great.  A few food lines, that we would definitely put into the luxury class, are cheaper here – great cheese, artisan sausages and dried meat products, good quality pates.  But  that is a function of different food preferences and buying habits, and would be balanced out by the cost of the fresh products we take for granted.  For example, sushi here is ridiculously expensive, and any trip to the butcher that involves the purchase of lamb or free range chicken is a shock to the wallet.

Which reminds me.  A wallet is useless here.  Unlike NZ, the French have not retired their minor coins.  They still give change in 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 cent pieces, with 1 and 2 Euro coins as well.  As a consequence you must have a separate coin purse, because no wallet would ever close on the amount of shrapnel you accrue.  Further, the coins are almost indistinguishable in the poor light that prevails in the early evening when I am doing the shopping for my evening meal.  The girl in the boulangerie up the road is sick of me fiddling around trying to make up 0.85 Euros for a baguette while a queue forms behind me,.  She has taken to snatching a 1 Euro coin out of my handful of coins, and handing me my 15c change without the customary “merci à vous” that is supposed to proceed “au revoir”.

Those coins do come in useful at the supermarket though.  If you want a trolley you will need to put a 1 Euro coin in the locking mechanism to free one for your use.  The supermarkets are also more advanced than ours at reducing the level of services they provide in some areas, while increasing it in others.  For example you will need to weigh and print out the label for produce yourself, and woe betide the stupid foreigner (i.e. me) who gets to the counter not knowing this rule.  On the other hand, there are three men behind the wet fish counter, just dying for you to ask for their assistance.  Unfortunately, by the time I have wrestled a trolley out of its chains,  weighed and labelled my vegetables, and traversed three aisles of nothing but cheese, I am seldom in the mood to select wet fish.

Naturally, neither the cost, nor the difficulties of shopping in French, have slowed me down much.  I am somewhat put out by French (and even worse Italian) clothes sizes though.  Having in recent years shrunk sufficiently to be able to return to shopping in normal size clothing stores, I am aggrieved to find I am very much on the borderline here.  It is not that French women are not fat.  Although there are not the overwhelming numbers of overweight people we have in NZ, I see fat French women every day.  That is to say I see women who have rolls of fat around their middles, thick ankles, ponderous bosoms, and double-chins.  But, and this is my problem, they are simply smaller and more petite than the average NZer to start with.  So the clothes are smaller on the whole, which limits my choices.

Even so I have managed to acquire 3 hats, a gilet (look it up – actually two I now recall), four pulls, two pairs of socks, a pair of boots, a pair of high heeled shoes (basically unwearable in my present lifestyle), two each of bras and knickers, three scarves, knitting yarn and needles, three rings and two pairs of earrings, not counting tea towels, table cloths, a painting, books, yoga mat, a candle snuffer, and road marker (decorative) and a full set of Christmas presents for others.  This is an inclusive, not an exclusive list.  And I am not finished yet.

My interest has now strayed into the kitchenware (oh, and I forgot I bought a wine bottle stopper) and home decor shops, as well as the market stalls and stores with second-hand goods.  Do not imagine for a moment that you will wander into a little shop of dust covered antiques just waiting to be found.  The French hold onto their antiques.  By and large they are still, and always have been, in every day use.  When they do find their way to the market, their value is well understood.  You can expect to pay as much for an item as you would in NZ.

As far as clothes, bags, shoes etc are concerned, the better stores stocking ‘vintage’ are so exclusive you have to ring a bell and be vetted before you can enter.  Then, if you do not have the right look about you, they will totally ignore you in favour of other fur clad customers, and release the door to let you out without so much as a glance.

Which reminds me.  If you have to ring a bell to be granted entry to any store – and there are quite a lot in Aix – you probably cannot afford to buy anything there.  If you can afford to pay upwards of 5000 Euros for a coat, or 1500 for a cashmere jumper, go right ahead and ring that bell.

But the kitchen and home design stores are great hunting places.  The French have a kitchen gadget or a delightful container for every conceivable use.  They are not all expensive.  Electrical appliances are fun here too, and again not that expensive.  You can have fun just figuring out what they do, but it does not pay to fall for them because those funny plugs are  going to be a problem at home.  Uh oh, just remembered! I also bought an epilator while in Paris.  Exactly like the one I accidentally left at home, but newer and complete with funny plug.

The home decor and furniture stores are a joy.  I am not talking about Ikea, which does exist on the outskirts of town.  No, I mean the non-chain shops in town, with furnishing fabrics to die for, and furniture that someone has designed and crafted.  One can lust after a kitchen stool in this town.  At the moment I have my eye on some little clay figurines, but I am going to take advice before deciding whether to buy one, two or three.

And now that I have bought a painting from an antique stall in the market, I am keen to keep going back and checking out what I can find.

Ok, enough about my rampant consumerism.  Time for me to be getting on with my knitting.

For those of you still in suspense, ‘What grandma did next’ will resume shortly.

 

 

There can be no doubt that weather influences ones’ mood.  As a child I loved rainy days.  That delicious sense of being safe and cosy inside, with all pressure to  pursue outdoor activities suspended.  I still feel that way sometimes.

But two days of grey sky, rain, and now Le Mistral as well, is more than I can bear in sunny Provence.  The cold is fine, the wind bearable on its own, and the snow fell for less than a day.  Today is just plain miserable.   My only consolation that when I went out for my daily walk, I was, for once, better dressed for the weather than the locals.  I have with me a proper full length raincoat with a hood and a big zip up the front.  I was prepared and protected from both rain and wind.  A snazzy ski jacket that exposes your butt and an umbrella just does not cut it in this weather.

Now before anyone gloats, let me remind those of you back in Auckland that a couple of weeks ago you were complaining non-stop about the weather and predicting the worst summer ever.  Now you are complaining about the heat and predicting the hottest summer ever.  GET OVER IT.  One thing that living in a relatively stable continental climate teaches you, is that NZers are OBSESSED with the weather, and utterly incapable of dealing with its unpredictability.  The weather forecast tells me it will be fine here tomorrow.  I can trust the weather forecast here.  Consequently, je suis tranquille.

I have been accused of leaving my Grandma story hanging yesterday.  Well, yes.  That is what writers do.  I will come back to that part of the story, but in the meantime let’s fill in some more recent background.

My mother was just seven years old in September 1939 when Germany invaded Poland marking the start of WW2.  She was only 13 when it ended six years later with the signing of the Japanese surrender on board the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.  I have stood on the very spot on the Missouri where that occurred, but I was thinking about all those young American men who fought across the Pacific theatre at the time, not my mother’s war.  Although in fact the two were connected.

At the start of the war my mother had four older brothers, and a father who had seen active service and remained a sergeant in the Army reserve.  At 47 her father was probably too old for service in the regular Army, but he served nevertheless as a training Sergeant on the Home Front.  Oldest brother Bill, then 25, was already in the Air Force.  He had been  based at Hobsonville near Auckland since 1936.  At 23 the next brother in line was Jim, easily old enough to serve.  Both brothers entered officer training, Bill in the regulars and Jim in the Maori Battalion.  Only Jim made it through.

Bill had the right stuff all right, but he lost a bet gambling with a prisoner while in charge of the stockade.  Bill had a perverse sense of honour.  Gambling debts must be paid.  He let him out and was cashiered.  Not an officer, and no record of subsequent service can be found.

Jim went on to serve throughout the war in North Africa and Italy, rising to the rank of Major.  A faded newspaper clipping contains a photo of him and three other officers from the 28th Maori Battalion studying a map on 23 October 1942, the eve of the Alamein offensive.  He was a Lieutenant at the time, and the photo is deservedly a family treasure.  He survived that brutal campaign, and all that followed, unscathed physically.  But by the time I knew him he was starting to unravel under the twin and related burdens of alcohol and post-traumatic stress.  It was not dramatic.  In fact, it was pretty much par for the course for men who had been and done what he had.

It might have been expected that the two younger brothers, Jack 17 and Bob 13 in 1939, would escape active service.  Not so, of course, since the War went on for six long years.  Jack followed Jim into the Maori Battalion once of age, but not as an officer.  Bob, who might easily have avoided service altogether, persuaded his parents to consent to his going into the Merchant Marine at only 14.  My grandmother apparently did not object.  I am not sure if she lacked imagination or responsibility, or was simply happy to bask in the reflected glory of her four adventurous and courageous sons.  Not something many mothers would accept today, but times were different I suppose.

So my mother grew up with her older brothers coming and going, mostly going, and her parents in an uneasy union, which she did not really understand.  It would not be an overstatement to say her care was neglected.  There was a lot going on.

She was sent to the local convent school, and later to St Benedicts College, but barely provided with the required uniform, which became her default clothing in and out of school.  Food was never short in the household, but money often was.  My grandmother’s fondness for the horses was partly responsible for that.  But in any case, there were other things to spend money on than the care and comfort of my mother.  She was at the end of the line, and whatever largesse may have been conferred on the older children had definitely run out.  

In any case, and for whatever reason, my grandmother was more demanding than indulgent by nature.  My grandfather, although not unkind or even unloving, had his own reasons not to concern himself too greatly with her well-being.  And he too had other concerns and responsibilities.

My mother did have an older sister.  Maisie was 22 at the end of the war, and had already left home.  She seems to have been fond of my mother, but they were in fact worlds apart – in age and life experience.  Maisie, like her brothers, was adventurous, determined, and absolutely beyond the control of her parents.  Photos of the time show an extremely stylish and groomed young woman, always looking at the camera as if daring it to come closer.  NZ men may have been in short supply, but the Yanks were camped down the road on Waikaraka Park. Maisie, by all accounts, had a very good war. 

But there was one supportive and positive woman in my mother’s life.  Jim was already married when he headed overseas, and his wife Jean was a sterling character.  She came from a strict religious family in Hamilton, and her  union with my uncle must have caused no end of dismay at the time.  He was already a drinker, like all of the brothers a womaniser, but her personality, character and charisma was such that it seems to have been a genuine love match at the time.  I suppose she was seduced by his dashing good looks and manner, and sheer exoticism compared to her staid upbringing.  Before long the  unsuitability of the match must have become apparent, but they stayed together for life and raised an adoptive family when fertility eluded them.  

Whatever the perils of her marriage, Jean was a strong and intelligent woman.  She could read my grandmother, and indeed most people, like a book.  My mother needed nurturing, and she needed someone to nurture.  Under her care my mother got better care, better clothes, and a degree of moral and ethical guidance that might otherwise have been lacking.  She was also loved, and loved in return.  She says, with everlasting gratitude, that Jean ‘saved’ her, although from what it is not entirely clear.

If you saw my mother in those years, she was a stunningly beautiful, if rather unkempt child.  Petite, with dark curly hair, high cheek bones, and fine skin, she was undeniably attractive.  She has been lucky enough to retain those looks for most of her life.  She was always a sportswoman, and physically adventurous playing alongside her intrepid brothers.  Lively might be a good way to describe her.  Nor did she lack intelligence, doing well at school with the nuns.  She was also popular, with close friends at school.

But her family life was chaotic, and if it was not apparent to her why that should be, there were others who did not hesitate to make her feel second-rate. 

Stopping now.  Come again another time.

 

 

Not for me.

I am just sitting here on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Aix, vaguely taking in the all day tribute to Johnny Hallyday on the tv in the background.  Turns out he did a lot of covers, so humming along to songs I know being sung in French.  The French are so deeply in mourning I am surprised they have not declared a public holiday.

A little while ago I zipped my Rains coat (I thought I was never going to need to wear it here) up to my chin, pulled the hood up, and ventured out to the convenience store up the road.  I felt lazy, so instead of going all the way to the Utile on the corner, I dived into the wee store that I usually avoid because the entrance is lined with nothing but booze and snacks.  However, the proprietor, who works every single day, was charming, and out the back were all the necessities of life.  I got my sparkling water, greek yoghurt and laundry capsules – unfortunately no sugar free Red Bull available – and high-tailed it back home.

The shopping trip was necessary, but also a way of putting off writing, since the Grandma story is, as I say, getting complicated.

Gisborne, in the second decade of the twentieth century, was a busy and go ahead place.  It was essential to the vast farming area it served, with large and wealthy sheep stations established by the late 1800s, and the port to support both exports and coastal shipping.  But the sisters did not remain in Gisborne.

Te Karaka is a small town 31 kilometres north of Gisborne, just off what is now State Highway 2 through the Waioeka Gorge.  It is another 16 km east of the main road up the valley of the Waipaoa River to Whatatutu.  Perfect country for farming sheep, and the most beautiful and iconic of New Zealand rolling farmland.  Provided you close your mind to the effect of deforestation on erosion.  Now days this tiny East Coast settlement has a population of about 300, and a couple of years ago was the centre of a controversy about fracking*.  It was probably not much different in the decade before World War I, but in those days the gold was wool and sheep meat, not oil or natural gas.

Mary’s husband, Uncle Denny to my mother, was a driver.  Presumably she arrived in Te Karaka by truck, and at least she had to go no further.  They would not have owned a house at that stage, but basic rental housing would have been available.  The big stations needed workers and support services, and those people had to live somewhere.  But although both places were small, there could have been very little comfort in comparing Te Karaka to Jersey.  

The latter had been settled since Roman times.  Its stone houses are solid and ancient.  There were shops and services, and constant contact with Brittany and England by ship.  Wealthy English and French people came to stay, and there were businesses that catered to their needs.  A concentrated and well-defined social order prevailed.  Te Karaka had none of those things.  The social order in particular must have been confusing to say the least.  Perhaps that is where my grandmother came unstuck.  

Isolation, it turns out, is a relative thing.  The Channel Islands are isolated, but a town at the back of beyond in God’s last, loneliest, loveliest country is more isolated. No wonder that Mary, with a young child and a new husband who was virtually a stranger, was keen to have a visit from her younger sister.  Unfortunately, it probably did not occur to her that she would be ‘in loco parentis’, and that she was not really qualified for that job.

Having attained respectability through marriage, Mary was about to lose it vicariously through her sister.  And make no mistake, respectability was an asset then as now.  It is just that we measure it a little differently now.

William Aperahama was born at Whangaroa in the Far North, and the whanau still has coastal land to the north of the Whangaroa Harbour.  But like other young men, no doubt including South Islander Uncle Denny, he would have been drawn to the work available on the farm stations in the area.  Hardworking, good looking and popular with his fellows, he had a streak of integrity and self-determination that may have made him stand out from the predominantly Maori workforce in the area.  In any case, it can be assumed that he and Uncle Denny knew each other.  Whether or not they were actually mates is another question.  There were not many Maoris in Geraldine where Uncle Denny came from, and in later years the relationship between the sisters seemed to involve activities that excluded the menfolk.

Into this rural backwater, where men were men and women kept their thoughts to themselves, drifted my grandmother in the early part of 1913, just before the western world exploded.  She must have been shocked and exhilarated in equal measure by what she came to.  Substandard housing in the ranges north of Gisborne with winter approaching, housekeeping and child care duties, and no way to get out.  But the freedom.  The unaccustomed ability to do whatever she chose.  And it should not be assumed she was naive or inexperienced with men.  There is a strong suggestion in the meagre correspondence available that she may have left a lover behind her in Jersey.  In any case, it should be assumed that she knew what she liked, and she liked men.

How she met my grandfather is a mystery.  He was working on a station at Whatatutu, and she was living with Mary and Uncle Denny in Te Karaka.  But the distance was not that great, with a brother in law who drove a truck to service the surrounding farms, or even by horse back.  She knew how to ride a horse, and so did William Aperahama.  Even so, he was not necessarily her first romantic entanglement in the district.

Picture her for a moment.  In the first flush of youth.  An upright, forthright and handsome woman.  Her family in Jersey had fallen on hard times after her father’s death, but before that she had been raised with a degree of luxury.  She had had a governess, been taught deportment and  social skills.  She might have had to work as a domestic, but her mind and manner were far above that.  Add to that a certain looseness in the face of convention, an openness to risk taking, and you have an intoxicating attraction for certain kinds of men.

My grandfather was that kind of man, but there would certainly have been others.  And as with any wealthy country area, there would have been occasions to meet.  Dances, race meetings, fetes, picnics – look at any archive of NZ history and you will see the photos.  My grandmother would have stood out like the fairy on a Christmas tree, and she would have known how to make the most of any event.  I am not sure if she was in danger from the men, or the men in danger from her.

But of course, it was 1913, and only women get pregnant.

D’accord, enough for now.  I have now had at least 8 straight hours of Johnny Hallyday, and it shows no signs of stopping.  If someone assassinated Trump it would not get the coverage this pop singer is getting.

 

 

 

*There is oil in those idyllic rolling hills and valleys folks, and apparently it can be extracted by hydraulic fracturing.  Not a popular idea with the natives.

 

I love having visitors.  But they create a distraction.  It is almost a week since I did any writing, and there have been complaints.  Well one complaint to be precise.  So here I am back again.

Having visitors is a lot of work for someone used to living alone most of the time.  Both here in Aix and at home in Auckland I basically do what I like without having to account for the needs of others.  Not that these others were demanding.  My friend Jacqui bends over backwards not to be a nuisance, and her friend Robyn is someone I have travelled with in the past and is never a problem.  Take a look at this trio of middle-aged women out and about on a very cold evening in Aix.

Yes, I know, still getting there with the selfies.

Anyway, the point about visitors is that you need to organise activities.  And here in France I can barely organise my way out of a paper bag.  To begin with I had to pick them up from the Marseille Provence Airport at Marignane.  Note to flyers – if you come by EasyJet or Ryan Air you will be assigned to Terminal 2, which is not nice. Readers might recall that it snowed the day before this pick-up, putting me into a bit of a spin.  But the next day was brilliantly fine, although very cold, and the drive south was through fields and banks still covered in unmelted snow.  No problems in fact, but still a bit of a mission for me.

Fortunately they were easily entertained that evening by dinner out and a quick tour of the Christmas markets.

The next day, Monday, also posed a problem.  Most people are shocked and dismayed to find provincial France largely closed on a Sunday – especially the tourists I see every week morosely towing their suitcases over the cobbles and looking lost.  However Mondays are only marginally better, even in a town  the size of Aix.  Many of the shops remain closed, unless part of a national or international chain.  After all, they are usually owner operated, and everyone needs a break.  So we set off to explore the old town, and fortunately as neither are great shoppers, it did not matter too much.  Many photographs were taken and posted on FaceBook that night.

Like most visitors they were keen for a leisurely lunch in a local restaurant, and in the afternoon we took a look at the most modern part of the city around and south of Les Allées d’Aix.   The library entrance and the view of the performing arts building are particularly worth a look.

Tuesday is a regular market day, so that easily took up the morning, and a few purchases were made.  Then first a delightful lunch in the Hôtel de Caumont salon, before taking in the wonderful new exhibition, ‘Bottero Dialogue Avec Picasso’.

This was a very cleverly curated exhibition in a very elegant building, so definitely a hit with the visitors.

On Wednesday I decided to get brave and venture out of town en ma voiture.  This was not an easy decision for me.  I do not especially enjoy driving in France.  The problem is not being on the wrong side of the road.  My brain has adjusted to that.  It is that I do not know where I am going, and the satnav, while marvellously efficient in all circumstances, is demanding on one’s concentration.  So when you have a couple of excited and talkative passengers, and you are negotiating motorways cross-exchanges or tiny back roads, driving is not the most relaxing occupation.  However, we decided Chateau-la-Coste, deserved a visit.

This is essentially a vineyard with tourism tacked on.  There is a small, original chateau, vineyards and olive groves, a wineshop and tastings, an art gallery, a hotel, two restaurants one of which is fine dining, an outdoor music auditorium, a two hour sculpture trail, multiple mini marvels of modern architecture, and probably more I have forgotten.  All set in the foothills of the Luberon, with a view over the most gorgeous countryside to a fortified hill village.  Worth a 25 minute drive really.

Even if the snow had been much heavier in this area and still covered the ground we walked on; and despite the two wrong turns (one down to Jacqui, the other to me) and the cross country drive on a single lane gravel road to get back on track.

Thursday was the final full day for my visitors, and we decided to carry on with the art theme.  In the morning we did the antique market, and I managed to score and/or was conned into buying a small oil on canvas of a Provencal landscape by a local artist.  Judge for yourself below.  It is definitely old and the frame is good.  A price in Francs is written on the back from a previous sale.  I cannot track the artist online.  But the colours are wonderful and I only paid 25 Euros, so I figure it is a good buy for me.

After the obligatory big lunch we visited both of the Musée Granet sites – first the Jean Planque Collection at the wonderful and not too large Chapelle Granet XXème, and then the principal site in the Place St Jean de Malte.  The first collection is something I have raved about in a previous blog, so I will not repeat myself.  But on my previous visit to the main site I had not fully explored the galleries, and they are in fact extensive.  Ignoring the ‘Cézanne at Home’ collection, which I can afford to be blasé about in his home town, there are a range of works that to my simple mind are more imposing than impressive.  Take a little look below.

Anyway, by the end of the visit we were so wilted that not even the gift shop could hold our attention.  We marched out the door into the late afternoon chill, down the road, and straight into the nearest bar.  All we could manage for dinner later was a baguette, cheese, pate, and some left over cold chicken – oh, and a bottle of red, bien sûr.

This morning I dropped them off at the Aix-en-Provence TGV station, which is a very annoying 20 minute and three motorway switches drive south of the city.  It is a massive and very modern structure that straddles the motorway like a giant spaceship, and the vehicular access is dire.  The massive carparks are permanently full, and cars line the motorway off- and on- ramps, which they use (apparently without consequences like being towed away) as all day overflow car parking.  The instructions for getting in and out, even with satnav, are confusing to say the least.  My poor friends ended up being dropped at the opposite side of the terminal to where they needed to be.  The bright side is that I now know where the arrivées hall is for when I pick Johan up next week.

I only took one wrong turn on the motorway home.  The satnav lady set me back on track in no time.

Also I had to get out and move a road works barrier to get into my driveway, because there were works at either end of the road.  It is not really my fault that before I could park and return to put it back in place a couple of cars got through and drove the wrong way down the one way road, which in any case had another barrier in place at the far end so they would not have been able to get out or turn around (it is too narrow for that).  The road worker I was in time to see running down the road and yelling after them did not speak English, so I did not bother to explain that I was the culprit as I slunk away.

Before I go a quick update on the Grandma story.  More episodes are on the way, but I have got back a little bit of research, and consequently there are some edits to the blog titled “Research and Procrastination”.  Turns out there really is a reason I should do research.  Anyway, if you happen to be following that story, you might want to take another look.