Motorway travel, views from a jam
This year's Urban
Sketchers symposium is as I write taking place in Paraty- a
Portuguese colonial seaside town in Brazil prone to flooding. But
while the participants were packing flip-flops for this annual
gathering, I was heading with Mr. Price for the tranquil shores of
Brittany.
From the north of
England, with the motorways jammed with traffic, it's a slow journey
down to the south coast and the ferries.
The boat's jam-packed,
too! We have no overnight cabin and as I lie bruising myself on the
floor under a table I'm close to weeping (or homicide) at
one-o-clock in the morning, as I listen to a selfish mother nearby,
raucously singing 'Row, row, row your boat” with her child. Well,
thank you! Charming and touching though the scene might be in
daylight hours, I don't think it's really on when everyone's trying
to get some rest ...
The little barn, washing and roof-mending
Our house has survived
since Spring, although the familiar dead-mouse-under-the-floorboards
smell greets us and stays around for a few days. Over the years we've
learned you just have to sit it out, helped along by incense and
air-fresheners.
A box of clothes has
been nibbled by the wee pests, too. I buy horrid mouse-traps, but
Mr.Price 'forgets' to ever set them while we're over.
The garden's run rampage as well, with little plum trees everywhere. There's a wren's nest built in a hank of rope on the back wall of the lean-to. The little bird has flown, but inside are empty eggshells and just one lonely infertile egg, tiny and white, translucent and almost weightless in the hand. We need the rope for cutting down a big branch, though, so I carefully remove the small dwelling to keep in a box, perhaps to draw at a later date.
Some of the family are
with us, and the younger grandson is quite eager to help us and his
Mum and Dad clear the garden. The other, older and aware that his
hairstyle and cool need preserving. is less naively enthusiastic and
chooses to wander around foppishly, documenting the work of others on
his camera.
They're at the beach
most days, however- and we, too, manage to escape the relentless
gardening for an afternoon swim at the lovely Pen-guen beach. The
seawater stings my bramble-scratched arms and that cliff-path gets
steeper every year, but it's a good pain!
The house is up for
sale, so every visit might be almost the last, who knows?
And in an act of
blatant self-publicity (contact me, though), here's a link:
http://www.rightmove.co.uk/overseas-property/property-30091923.html
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