Friday, 7 December 2018

Storms of all sorts...




A few days ago, after a sleepless night (gusts at storm force 11, whistles, clangs and heaves), we struggled my suitcase over the guardrails. The pontoons were awash with spray and I held Phil's hand for dear life. We were walking like drunkards, intent on avoiding to be blown off into the brine, on reaching the shore and the 7am bus where we said goodbye, emotions numbed by the buffeting.


My grandpa used to say that trees made the wind. See, look how they move their branches! I feared to be clutched by gnarled twigs, Lord of the Rings style, loved the song of leaves in the breeze, a living force to be reckoned with But here, ha! I imagine a sleeping creature in the middle of the ocean, in a place far off any sea routes, where there is no island of floating plastic. Sometimes, when it wakes up and sees what we, humans, do to our beautiful world, it sends vortices of indignation and anger towards our coasts. And on this western shore, indeed, for days it's balmy, quiet, sunny. On a Sunday, we motor around scraggy rocks for a picnic in the cockpit, anchored in a sheltered bay, with the sun on our face. On other days it can be foggy, drizzlyOne can't see the other side of the bay and the old granite church on the sillon barely emerges from a ghostly, hushed, world... And then it hits the coast. Slam!

The quiet before the storm in the marina

Pontoon tales... It seems five of us are "live-aboard" in the "Port du Notic", or so Pierre says.  It's just as well as the heater in the shower block is being repaired. As the one in the toilet block works, we all queue up at the disabled shower there. The dribble of tepid water ends up really warm if one perseveres long enough under it. 
A hippy couple lives in a tiny yacht with a rather large dog who looks like a black labrador with a scruffy beard. It lounges in the sun on the pontoon and contemplates sea gulls with calm indifference. 
There is a guy who leaves long black hair in the shower and a dusting from his electric shaver in the sink. Ugh... 
There is Pierre, a good friend whom we enjoy having around for a drink or a soup, who will soon go back to Chamonix for the ski season. 
Another neighbour, Alan, is anxious about his beautiful boat. He took 8 years to build it and frets every time a storm is announced, which means he frets often. We know the weather will become more dynamic when Alan turns up at the marina, worrying that our two boats are too big to be moored together at this flimsy finger pontoon. 
From time to time, an old man, bent at an angle by eighty years of life, carries jerrycans down the quay slope, puts them down, grabs them again, one step at a time. He's got a wooden fishing boat, painted jolly colours. 
Another local chap goes out every day, even when it would be sane to hunker down, check all the ropes, secure the moorings and remove anything that might be shredded by the weather. When were having breakfast, through the portholes we see his mast go past, fast and undaunted. 
A tug boat, the "Abeille Flandres", famous in the area, anchors in Camaret when a storm is brewing. Its appearance doesn't bode well. West of Ushant is considered the "Cape Horn of Europe" and, since the Amoco Cadiz oil spill in 1978, the "Abeille Flandres" is there to save ships and guide them away from danger.


Camaret gives us both shelter, welcome, friendly cafés, restaurants and miles of stunning scenery. Nothing quaint or twee, but sturdy Breton houses, alleyways and artists who paint the cobblestones blue and orangeJean-Paul has travelled and worked all over Europe, promised to himself he would never travel further, though Cuba had an appeal. He makes woodprints and his bearded self holds the wheel over his shop.

 The other day, I was sitting at the café de la place, for a grand crème. The owner, Vincent, was consulting the obituaries with a glum patron, both shaking their heads over the 2 page spreadIf one stays long enough in a café, snippets of information come unbidden and aplenty. 
                                                                    I discovered that on the camino. Nothing better for local knowledge. Sooooo, it seems the new Queen Mary was berthed in Brest for internal refitting, 10 days round the clock work. I learned that Camaret, in its heyday of lobster fishing, when money was coming out of their ears, was offering that very seafood on workersmenus. Vincent told me he lived in Africa for years, Burkina Faso. The paintings on the wall, village street scenes under wide skies, are his work. 



After three days in France, I am now still in Europe (well, Britain) : Chelmsford, Sudbury, Ipswich, Southwell, London and then Hongkong... and then... and thenLoose ends to tie (bank, hospital appointments, etcyawn, yawn). Before the longest trip since my early twenties, I wanted to reconnect, catch up, see family, friends. My sister and I had a leisurely time, covering our hair with henna and making soups. I shared a meal with Thierry, Clément and Brigitte and discovered Lille with Sophie and Ludovic. We had the most decadent hot chocolate and saw arts and crafts being made and sold in an old textile factory. The buzz in there!! 


Sue caught me when I arrived in England and my mobile phone was on strike. Mercury retrograde, thats what I say. I shouldnt be travelling under those auspices. Antonia, Ely and I talked about the magic in life and about writing. I caught up with Clare and Ann in Ipswich cafés, was welcome in Southwell by Ann who made me countless cups of tea and put my towel in the airing cupboard so it would be nice and warm for my bathBill showed me all his improvements of the old Westgate house, its elegantly painted windows and fiddly woodwork. Sue, Roger and I shared good reads and possible motivations for an interest in  history. I swapped family news with Caroline at the deli. In London, I lugged my suitcase through the rush hour in delayed public transport under a drizzly sky and, in Alice and Lizzies lovely flat, spent my last night in Britain for a long time.


Phi is expecting 60 miles an hour winds tonight....Westerlies. The gilets jaunes and the police sympathise... More storms...

Now in Heathrow terminal 5, I have been wandering in the departure lounge. A half-price, brightly-coloured Harrod's satin dress is, for your information, £1962.... But I feel far removed from the bling and the wafting of expensive perfumes.. I cant contain a mixture of trepidation, happiness, joy, excitement, sadness. Now like a pinball at rest, in the lull before take off. Ping!

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