London, here we come.

    I always forget how just how vast and sprawling London is. It took two hours to get there by coach, with at least one of those spent crawling through the suburbs past what seemed like endless kebab shops. Mind you, since the authorities started charging drivers a steep rate to take cars into the city centre, traffic has improved immeasurably. Instead of taking the Underground, we filled up our Oyster cards and whizzed around on the red double-deckers. (And for those who don't know what Oyster cards are...think of a credit card that you "top up" and swipe when you get on a bus. Brilliant.)

   Galleries, museums, Trafalgar Square the favourite meeting point on the side of Nelson's column facing the National Gallery, Charing Cross Road bookshops, Camden Lock on a Saturday morning, West End theatre--Felicity Kendal in GBS's Mrs. Warren's Profession, pints at pubs, pub lunches, terrific Malaysian and Chinese meals in Soho. We walked our feet off, my personal best being from the Imperial War Museum  back across the Thames (which I where took these pix of the Houses of Parliament--the classic shot used on HP Sauce bottles--and the London Eye), up Whitehall and finally into Trafalgar Square. As you can see, it was a grey day and, thankfully, not too hot. And did I mention shopping? Shame we were restricted to 10 kg of carry-on luggage each.

    Enjoy the snapshots. 

   

    

A day at the seaside...

     On a cloudy Sunday, my sister Hilary drove us to the Suffolk coast with a short stop at Walberswick for a coffee. By the time we arrived at Southwold, raindrops were spattering the windscreen.

     I LOVE Southwold because it's the absolute essence of English seaside places. Lining the front are traditional seaside huts painted in bright and different colours. A long pier protrudes from the beach. The sand and pebbles are held in place by "groynes," which, on chilly summer days, act as handy windbreaks. 

     The rain poured down so we are our picnic in the car. Then we walked to the end of the pier, checked out the amusement arcade and wondered if the landmass we could just make out in the distance was, in fact, the Netherlands (somewhat confusing the junior member of the party who got very excited when she thought we could see "Neverland"). Then the sun came out so we walked into the town of Southwold which is pretty almost to the point of tweeness but not quite. Then we went home and later went out for fish and chips. In other words, a very traditional English Sunday. 

Back to my birthplace.

   Oh, I have been a very bad little bloggiste recently. Five weeks and nary a word from me. If you've hung in this long, my heartfelt thanks. A deluge of posts is about to descend on you. I could backdate them but it seems more honest to write them all at once, get up to date, and proceed from there.

   So...on April 23, appropriately since it's both St. George's Day and Shakespeare's birthday, we drove to Carcassonne, abandoned the Clio, and took off with just under 10 kg of hand luggage and Ryanair which deposited us, some two hours later, in the U.K.

   First stop: my home town of Bury St. Edmunds which, metre for metre, contains an astonishing amount of history. That tower at the top is the Abbey Gate, not the original one which the townspeople destroyed in the 14th century but a replacement built somewhat later. 

   The abbey itself kept going till the 16th century. Now it's only ruins (in a fine example of recycling, the good folk of Bury reused the stones in their own houses). Small sections do remain like this entrance (the lower photo) which is beside the cathedral. At some point, houses were built into it, with considerable architectural sensitivity I think. Back in my teenage years, when I belonged to a theatre group, we used to rehearse in the house on the left with the bay windows. 

    Bury has changed of course since I was last there ten years ago. At long last, the cathedral has acquired a magnificent tower. On the other hand, what used to be the cattle market has sprouted what is inarguably the nastiest shopping centre in the UK, a true abomination, a stylistic mish-mash of buildings centred on what looks like a giant cross-hatched metallic slug. 

   

   

Mirepoix's annual triple market

Carpet of flowers is such a cliché but that's honestly what it looks like.

Can't resist a louche or two of olives.

Just part of the haul.

So it's cracked and stained--just think of the life this platter has already led.

And look how well it goes with some of my other finds found at other brocantes.

Around this time of year, Mirepoix's weekly Monday market starts to get more and more crowded. At its peak, you literally find yourself in people-jams. The only way around this is to shop earlier than you usually do. But, on Pentecost weekend, you could probably arrive there the night before and you still wouldn't find a parking spot. 

   That's because the main square houses a brocante--antiques and collectibles fair--all weekend. Then, on the Monday, there's the annual flower and plant market. And the regular market with all its produce, meat, cheese, and other stalls has to be there too. What happens is that the market expands into the surrounding streets where parking is usually at a premium anyway. 

    But it was all worth it. A terrific one-euro find at the brocante. Lots of pots of lavender and rosemary, and a climbing rose, colour unknown but we're told it's red. The usual lettuce, parsley and other salad makings, and eggs from the egg man. We came away so laden that I stood by a tree and waited while Peter went and fetched the car. 

A Couple of Days in Albi

   Peter's pick for his birthday so last Thursday, we packed up the car and drove north to the city of Albi via the Black Mountains.

   Years since we were here and I'd forgotten what a stupendously lovely city this is with its red-pink brick buildings and bridges across the Tarn. 

   Dominating the view is the cathedral built by the Church to remind those around that The Church Ruled (this was after they'd slaughtered thousands of Cathars). More fortress than holy place, it's large and ominous. Every square centimetre of its interior is painted, one of the main paintings being of the Last Judgement and depicting, in rather too vivid detail, what happens if you break one of the seven main sins. When Peter bought three postcards of the fate awaiting gluttons (and another one), the young man behind the counter pointed out that the cathedral sold postcards of all the sins. We'd just picked our favourites. 

     Outside was much cheerier with beds blazing with orange and yellow flowers, and a marvellous formal garden. Signage in braille means that everyone can "see" its intricacies.  

     

A Walk on the Flat.

    Ten kilometres is nothing when it's all on the flat, the trees are in bloom, the sun is out and there's the prospect of a riverbank picnic at the end of it. 

    Not much to add to these photos except that I've never seen so many cowslips in flower, and that that exquisite village is Camon. 

Strawbs and spuds at Albi market

   Before leaving for the trip back, we bought picnic supplies at the little market at the end of the street our hotel stood on. A big chunk of crusty bread, a fresh goat cheese, a slab of pâté, some tomatoes, and a basket of meticulously arranged gariguette strawberries--the first of the season--from this little girl and her maman. 

   I couldn't resist taking a surreptitious shot of this shopper riding off with his big bag of potatoes.