Holiday Comedown

Soooo we're back in Belgy after a bit o'time in the UK. And, of course, the heavens have opened in anticipation of my return to work in a week's time. Hello, pathetic fallacy. The rain is of biblical proportions; the pigeons are sodden and everything is the colour of lead - the sky, the clouds, people's faces, the pavements, the dog excrement. The apartment is filled to the rafters with damp post-holiday washing (is there a more miserable task in all of one's allotted span on earth? I doubt it) and I could do with a bit of exercise somewhere where there is sky and grass and fresh air. Alas, it is not to be. There's nowt for it but to steer my lumpish form about on a yoga mat in front of YouTube. 

Maybe tomorrow. 

I think it was probably because the UK was on such sparkling form that I feel a bit meh. Even when it pissed it down in Cumbria (see above) it was still all spectacular skies and lush greenness. 

It might have helped that all we did was 1) buy copious amounts of newspapers 2) read copious amounts of newspapers and 3) eat party food from the poshest service station in the UK (I'm deadly serious, behold its freakin' Trip Advisor review) in an attempt to reecreate the Northumberland honeymoon of 2011.

And then after all of the above, Brother Got Wed. It was a magical day of love, family, a rockabilly version of My Heart Will Go On and 200+ glowsticks. To follow. 

Cheese, bread, cheese and more cheese.

Capri, Capri, with your eyes so blue

Capri, Capri, I've got a crush on you

Capri, Capri, I'm so in love with you-ou-oooou **repeat to tuneless fade**

I've been singing that for nigh-on a month. If you change 'eyes' to 'sea' it's 100% accurate. 

So we're back from Capri (well, Anacapri - the cheaper, non-Guccified side of the island) and it was goodly - glorious - nay, sublime! Look at it man. LOOK AT IT. It's like joke scenery. 

My dad, who has an unwittingly beautiful turn of phrase, would probably call it 'the finest holiday in all the world that I have ever been on in my life' if indeed he had been on said holiday (he wasn't. It was just me and Bedders and forty-seven books between us). I'm just guessing, but I imagine he would say something like that.  

So yes, Anacapri, decidedly less showy little sister of Capri, but no less stunning. We stayed in a little B&B with only three rooms run by the delightful Carla ('It is nothing!'  and a little dismissive hand wave was her response to our effusive thank yous for the lifts she provided everywhere/the surprise birthday cake she produced for mon anniversaire/the general bending-over-backwards she did all day every day) and her wonderfully true-to-stereotype Italian family (by that I mean supremely generous, kind, friendliest people in all the world who grow all their own tomatoes and basil. Of course they do). 

And LOOK AT THE VIEW FROM OUR BALCONY.

And here it is looking RIDIC in the evening:

And here it is looking UTTERLY RIDIC later on:

Worrrrr. 

Basically, every day followed this delicious pattern:

9:15am: Wake up

9:30am: Sumptuous and decadent breakfast which looked a little bit like THIS:

10:30am-6:30pm: Lounge in hammock/by pool/do a bit of yoga/play with aperture on the camera/read the paper/read a book/listen to the gentle thrumming of cicadas and distant scooters as they combine in melodious harmony. 

On a couple of occasions we really pushed ourselves and went for a WALK:

Although to be honest the walks were usually a penance for eating something like this:

Gooey ricotta and spinach and soft baked bread JOYFULNESS. 

6:30pm: Shower, out for tea and more cheesey-bread-goodness. 

We had a wonderful time, with only minimal time and effort expended worrying over my lack of a stylish maternity capsule wardrobe (I mainly looked like an All Saints reject in my sister's Premaman cut-off combat pants and sunbleached gingery top-knot) which is pretty good going for me. And then this happened and I was reminded that we are all, indeed, the same and no matter how effortlessly sun-kissed you may appear or how many Rolexes you own you will still occasionally get caught out by the rain and be forced to wear a placca bag on your head like the rest of the serfs:

And I had a birthday! 31. No longer the age at which Sylvia Plath killed herself (30) but catching up with Jesus (33). And to celebrate we decided to take a spontaneous trip to Rome on the basis that 1) I've never been and the Catholicness would probably blow my mind and 2) come November spontaneity is going to be a bit of an issue. 

So we went to Rome (only an hour from Naples on the train) and did the Vatican museums of which my lingering memory will be CEILINGS:

The sheer enormity of St Peter's:

A brilliant night out courtesy of Katy:

 And the amazing mummified body of Blessed John XXIII:

Like a tiny waxy Santa Claus. 

One more picture of Sculpturemania:

And a comment overheard from an American tourist:

"Jeez, if they sold just one of these things they could air-condition the whole place!"

BEST HOLIDAY EVER I.D.E.M.T.

!!!

Don't go anywhere, Italy, we're coming back for ya. 

Springtime Jaunt

I went on a course in Prague over half-term - oh, half-term. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

(By the way, I know - 'I went on a course in Prague'. Jeez. Gone are the days when a sandwich on Parents' Evening felt like a bit of a treat. And the course itself was amazing, and the fella who led it was The Most Inspirational Man Ever and was like 'I feel that to be teacher of Literature is to be a practitioner of Literature and here's a blog of my own writing that I SHARE WITH MY STUDENTS' - at which point my head exploded.)

I haven't been for a long time - 2007, I reckon, when I did a mini-tour of Eastern Europe. All I remember of the city is a room with huge windows and a cellar-type bar under the bridge. And pretzels. Pretzels on a mug tree. And buying The Sun a lot to read about AMY WINEHOUSE DRUGS HELL. 

I did less of that this time. Although I did read some amazing Alice Munro short stories and some Szymborska (thanks, Inspirational Course Fella!)

//Service Announcement: I seem to have lost my blogging mojo. I don't really know what to do about that. I've toyed with packing the whole thing in, if I'm honest. Nothing's wrong - I just wonder if it's maybe time for something new. Anyway, that's the reason it's been a bit quiet at this end.  We'll see. Over and out.// 

Week Three in the School Holiday House

So I have just returned to Belgy after five days in Ireland on my own because that's what all the cool kids do these days - you know, go on holiday by themselves and get lost on buses and end up in Tesco Extra buying a nectarine because they need an excuse to speak to the checkout girl to ask directions. 

It was kind of an experiment because, I suppose, if in future I'm going to have two months holiday in the summer (WOE IS ME), I kind of need to sort out what I can do with all that time (DOUBLE WOE IS ME. My brain hurts from all of the mental sorting out). 

So I came to Ireland, on account of it being a bit safe and easy. I've grown up going to Ireland (though not this bit) so I sort of know the score on all the important stuff, like which flavour of Tayto crisps is the best (salt and vinegar, duh) and that Fir and Mna on toilet doors are the other way around to what you'd think. Be warned. 

Wicklow is a bit of a funny place, really; funny in that it's kind of like Cornwall or the Isle of Wight or somewhere else beautiful but not really Irish. Don't get me wrong, it's stunning. Over the last week I've walked the Bray's Head to Greystones coastal path and back and marvelled at its Riviera-esque beauty (the 30+ degree temperatures aided that comparison, admittedly). Hmm. Maybe it's the accent, which is often quite Dublin-y and perhaps to my English-attuned ears sounds a bit standoffish. Maybe I'm just feeling bitter because an American guide to Ireland that I found in the B&B doesn't even MENTION Sligo. Not a word. Gah. Dunno, it just feels different. Jeff, the B&B owner, was telling me (completely unverified fact coming up) that two thirds of Ireland's population live in Dublin and the three counties around it - so Meath, Kildare and Wicklow. So if that's true, I suppose it's not that surprising that they feel a bit different. It's all a bit less personal, more savvy, more attuned to the tourists. 

Ireland in loads-of-blue-skies-and-green-stuff-shocker.

I visited two Ancestral Homes, too - beautiful big old estate mansions and their grounds owned by influential English landowners whose titles were created for them by Queen Elizabeth I or King James. I was ready for a big Irish history geekathon; I was fully expecting lots of colour displays about the Famine and Fenian uprisings and maybe a box of dressing-up clothes where kids could don the garb of Irish peasants. So many former estate houses were destroyed in the Irish Civil War, but what was the craic here? Why did these survive? I paid my 8 euros and I wanted ANSWERS - and mebbes a cup of tea. 

But there wasn't a sign or an exhibition to be found. Not even a sniff of a leaflet. There ARE tour guide booklets with photos of Earls with non-Irish surnames smiling benevolently in open collar and tweed, but they advertise events like falconry and farmers' markets and berry-foraging and bee-keeping days. The tea rooms are painted in sherbert shades from Farrow and Ball. Given the amount of coaches that were tipping old ladies out before midday, I'd say the pensioner pound is pretty strong; the gift shops were piled with packets of flower seed and tasteful mugs and natty stationery. Beyond the carefully pruned formal gardens, the wildness looks in. The whole thing is all very lovely, but also a little...curious. They've got ultra-modern refits and wifi and wedding packages and suddenly they've been neutered. What history? Oh, this little old country pile? 

So that was a bit strange.

But then it's still Irish in lots of regards. I was staying at a delightful B&B about 2 miles from the nearest village, and the owner dropped a group of us down in the village one evening for a meal. There was an American lady and her German partner in the back (now there was an interesting pair - there must have been twenty years difference between their ages minimum, perhaps more like thirty, and she was all yoga-taut with scary Madonna arms and intense eyes and lots of very high-tech walking equipment and the first time I came across them in the communal room they were dancing - like, 'we're-oblivious-to-everyone' twirling each other around and around - and yet they were in separate bedrooms. What was this? A marriage of mutual convenience? A meeting of pen-friends? The mind boggles). American Lady was asking about food options.

'WHERE WOULD WE GET SOME FISH? I WANT FISH. AND, LIKE, LOTS OF RAW VEGETABLES.'

Good luck with that Gwyneth Paltrow, I thought to myself, you're about as likely to get some weird LA-inspired low-carb nonsense here as you are a gilded unicorn horn. You're in IRELAND pet. There's a pub and two takeaways. It's something deep-fried or nothing. I can recommend some good Tayto crisps if you like.  

And at that I felt smug and quite at home. 

Here are some more, less political thoughts/observations:
  - Five bus journeys, only one of which was completely in the wrong direction. That's good going for me. 
- SEVEN EUROS FIFTY FOR A JAMESON AND DIET COKE.
- Saw Christy Moore live in a tiny venue. My mum is totes jel.
- A Dublin chav (female, completely off her tits) on O'Connell street shouting at a girl wearing a headscarf: 'Tha's not roigh'! Bein' oll covered up!', then trying to stop random passersby to ask their opinion on aforementioned lady's clearly outrageous decision to wear a HEADSCARF ON HER OWN HEAD* in an aggressive manner. 'Whaddya think? Whadda YOU think?' *deep sarcasm, obviously. 
- Had 'the best coffee in Dublin' (so says the sign) served by The Bald Barista, who has that very phrase 'The Bald Barista' tattooed onto the back of his baldy heed*. *Geordie accent. Take note.  
- 'IT'S IRELAND'S BIGGEST WATERFALL I UNDERSTAND'* *a special prize if you get this reference. 

Anyway must dash, I have raging sunburn to attend to (sad face).

Have you been on holiday on your own? Was it weird?

Also, please let me know if your sunburn is worse than mine. It would make me feel less of a penis. 

Reasons Why You Should Definitely Follow Me On Twitter And Other Such Updates

Well, I've sent 45 billion work emails, condensed five scrawled To Do lists into one carefully-printed catalogue of tasks, listened to 80% of the Today programme on Radio 4 and found a cure for the common cold*.  And it isn't even 11am! This can only mean one thing: SNOW DAY. 

*well, I'm self-medicating with paracetamol and hot water and lemon and feeling bloody marvellous. 

Next thing on the agenda: update this bleedin' blog. Again, I've been away. I know. Sometimes, though, you've just gotta revise for that French exam and enjoy your subscription to the Times and read, read, read (pour mon travail, mainly, although I have been enjoying the odd excursion into extra-curricular books, too); ooo, and maybe do some furtive planning for future stuff and whatnot. 

So what have I been doing? Well, I could direct you towards my twitter feed, but a quick peek at my profile timeline suggests that my updates are a bit, err, slapdash shall we say? 

And you wonder why you don't follow me? With updates like this?

I've also been bossing my husband around:

And spoiling y'all with my sharp and insightful celebrity-based commentary:
  

To be fair, this last one was the most exciting thing to have happened to me this month:

It was Ryan, if you're interested, on this episode. 

What else? There must be more! Well, during February half-term we made off to Debbie and Richard's delightful self-catering spot in Ravenstonedale, Cumbria once again. And voila, I took perhaps the Most Impressive Instagram Photo Of All Time:

It was honestly this beautiful. 

And then went to Best Book Shop Of All Time. Believe me, I've been to a few. And read lots, accompanied by lots gins and tonics. Lots of lots, hey? It was a week of the best kind of excess.

And I blew my mind reading a biography of Ted Hughes followed by Birthday Letters. Sometimes, his words are so tender; at other times, they're like a slap. Highly, highly recommended. 

And then a quick stop-off in London before coming back to Bruxelles. An exciting Orla Kiely purchase (be still, my beating heart) more than made up for the misery of a rail replacement service. And how lovely are those turquoise King's Cross tiles?

So that's me for now. Must do better and all that. 

So until next time, listen to this. It's fabulous. I've been pretending that it's exposure to French, but actually taking an hour to compile a playlist called Frenchy McFrenchy on Spotify probably isn't as useful a method of revision as, say, ooo, studying irregular verbs might be. I just like her throaty voice and imagining myself listening to this whilst smoking a cigarette and looking intense as only a Frenchy could. 

Eire

When I think about where I'd like to live long-term, I think of skies and a sea like this. 

Enniscrone, County Sligo, Eire. T'is beautiful.