A month on from my last post and now the question I am hearing often has changed to 'so what's it like to be back?' We've been back in the UK and back in our old house in Penicuik for a week and a half now, and to tell you the truth it's a little bit surreal. I'm not completely convinced that we ever went to France. All the evidence suggests that we probably went on a long-ish holiday somewhere, but since everything in the house looks the same, all our old belongings are in the same places they used to be, and our lovely neighbours are still there - I suspect it might have all been a dream. There is just the small but noisy object that is Alec to remind us that a few things have changed in the last 2 years.
I have to say though, it is good to be back. I say that with a slight sense of hesitation, because I am worried that people will think we didn't enjoy our time in France or - worse - that we don't miss the people we left behind. We did and we do. But coming back to Penicuik has been like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers - a pair that you had almost forgotten you still had, hidden down the back of the wardrobe somewhere, and now you're wondering why you ever thought about throwing them out.
While our tenants didn't exactly leave our house in a wonderful state ('cleaning' doesn't seem to have been a familiar word to them), and there has been a lot of stuff to sort out since we came back (clearing the garden of bags of dog s**t for example...), getting the house back in order has been mercifully quick and coming back to it after a 2 year break has spurred us on to do all those things we never got round to before - repainting the dining room, fixing that bit of broken gutter, chopping down a few trees in the garden. We have a renewed hatred for letting agents and their weasel-word contracts, which promise nothing but charge you 15% for the pleasure. And we have vowed never again to let our house out to someone with 'a dog' - or rather, as it transpired, 'three dogs, three cats and two rabbits'.
Happily, we have also swapped the sound of French motorbikers racing down the road past our house day and night for the gently rippling sound of the river at the bottom of the garden. And we have been reunited with our wood burner! Even in July, the Scottish weather is kind enough to let us use it.
Armed with an energetic toddler who demands entertainment every waking hour of the day, I've also started to see the area through new eyes. The woodland walks and rambles around our local woodland and the Pentland Hills that I used to enjoy so much on my own have been transformed into exciting nature discovery adventures that will keep Alec happy for hours. I've also found a new community centre 5 minutes up the road that has cheap coffee (tick), free wifi (tick) an indoor play area (tick) and a playground (tick) for slightly less adventurous days. Another 10 minutes in the car takes us to The Kabin in Loanhead, a great soft play centre (also with cafe and free wifi) that Alec thought was amazing, and 10 minutes more takes us to the Toots play cafe - an ingenious idea started by a fellow mum looking for a way to drink her cappuccino in peace (yes, there's wifi there too). I've discovered the children's area at the National Museum of Scotland, which Andy and I previously bypassed on our regular trips to the museum, and I haven't even got started on the Museum of Rural Life (animals - tick), Dynamic Earth (science and buttons to press - tick) or Andy's favourite, the Falkirk Wheel (big machinery - tick).
Of course, I'm back to work 3 days a week now, so all this activity has to be sandwiched into my 2 days with Alec during the week, but that is also a good thing. Instead of getting up each morning and thinking, 'Right, how can I entertain Alec today?' I'm now happy to be getting time to myself on work days, thinking about more than snacks and naps and nappy changes, while on my days off I get up thinking 'Lovely, a day off and some time with Alec!' There is still time, of course, to be worn down by the monotony and rigour of daily life, but for now it's Bienvenue en Ecosse and Och aye the noo. Scotland, thanks for having us back.
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Thursday, 5 June 2014
This is not goodbye, it's just au revoir...
In less than three weeks time, we'll be back in the UK, our petit sojourn in France having come to an end. The title of this blog is a little misleading as our 'year in France' became nearly two, thanks to a bit of crafty contract extension, but all good things must come to an end, and Scotland is calling us back.
As we start packing up and saying our goodbyes, I am being asked a lot: 'Are you looking forward to going home?' In truth, it's a time of mixed emotions. Yes, I am very much looking forward to going back, but there are many things I will miss about living here. Life in France has very much lived up to the idyllic image I had hoped for, much of the time. Take today, for example, when I cycled along to the park in beautiful sunshine with Alec sitting in the seat on the back pointing out the cows along the road, as I looked across the valley to Mont Blanc in the distance. Earlier, we sat on the terrace looking up at the mountains, both of us without a care in the world.
Part of the reason our stay here has been so wonderful is down to the fact that I haven't been working (at least for the most part). I had a relaxed pregnancy, during which I went to French classes, joined a needlework group, went swimming regularly, and met lots of other lovely women in the same position. And since then I've been fortunate enough to spend 16 blissful months with my son, in what is certainly an extremely generous amount of maternity leave. But the friends you make when you have a baby are really important: you share with these people perhaps the most important experience of your life, you talk with them about things you would never discuss with other people, and you build up a closeness with both them and their children that it will be hard to replace. (Just have another one then, my friend said to me the other day...) The people we've met here are, without a doubt, the thing I will miss most when we return to the UK.
And as for the weather... yes, this is number two on my list of things that I will miss. Closely followed by the pastries and the bread. And the wonderful seasonal fruit. And the markets. And the mountains. And in a funny way I will miss speaking French every day too. When I arrived with my rusty GCSE French, I could do little more than order a coffee and a croissant, whereas now I can get by in most situations - give or take a few too many d'accords and a rather liberal use of the verb faire. It would have been interesting to see how Alec responded to speaking two languages too. I had assumed that his two half days a week at the local French creche wouldn't have made much of an impact, but today he surprised me by saying his first word (or words, in fact) and it was French: 'a-va' (au revoir) to the French children in the playground.
But as rewarding as it has been, speaking French has also been one of the most challenging parts of living here too. Not being able to express yourself precisely the way you would like to, not having any 'chat' and not being able to pick up the phone and know with confidence that you'll be able to ask the questions you want and get the answers you need - that has been frustrating. It sounds lazy to say I'll be pleased to go back to an English speaking country, but it will certainly be easier.
Neither will I miss the expense of living here, which far exceeded what we expected. And while I admire the gesture towards quality family time, I'll be happy to live again in a country that considers Sunday a viable 'doing things' day too (nothing - by which I mean nothing except bakeries - is open here on a Sunday). I'll be pleased to have a reliable source of bacon again, not to mention the soft white bread to put it in, and it will be nice to be able to buy a crumpet or a tea cake without any fuss, instead of having to venture out to the British shop and pay five times the price for a little taste of home. And don't get me started on a decent cup of tea... (A note to the French: a cup of hot water and a tea bag does not a cup of tea make.) I'm also looking forward to going back to work properly, and for Alec to start at his new nursery. And best of all, I'm looking forward to returning to our friends and family in the UK, who we've missed a lot while living away.
As we drive away on that final day, I expect I will feel a little bit emotional to be leaving things behind. But most of all it seems strange to me that there will be a little corner of France (and also a little corner of Switzerland) that we will know really well, that will continue to go on as normal, but we won't be a part of it. That in years to come, we'll look back at photos of our time here and of Alec's birth and first year, and say 'Do you remember when we lived in France?' 'Do you remember that house we lived in, and our little village?' That we'll forget the names of the roads we knew so well, just as I've forgotten the names of the roads I walked along every day in Cambridge, now more than a decade ago. And that Alec won't have any memory of this funny little period of his life. ('What do you mean, you're Scottish, but you were born in Switzerland and lived in France?'). When I started this blog, the idea was to give my view of life in France from the perspective of an expat. I wanted to write about all the things - big and small - that I found strange and surprising and novel about living here, having come from the UK. And in the early days, there was a whole rush of things to write about: What do you mean you have to eat lunch between 12-2pm? Why can't I get milk on a Sunday? And what is this priorité a droite rule all about (OK, I discovered that one a little late, and got beeped at for the best part of a year before I realised my mistake...). But the reason the blog posts have slowed down in recent months is not just because I have a small child taking up most of my time these days, it's also because life in France doesn't seem so strange anymore. In fact, I really can't remember the feeling of alienation that we had when we first arrived, nor put my finger on why life here is any different from anywhere else.
And so now we reach a quandary: what to do with this little blog? A Year in France: Life as a CERN Wife is a rather specific title to write under, so I either pass on the baton to another willing CERN wife, or this CERN wife starts blogging about going back to life in the UK (I've heard it's strange there, you know. The shops are even open on Sundays!) and the prospect of a Yes vote in Scotland. Ok, Ok, that's another topic for another blog. Until then, this is not goodbye....
As we start packing up and saying our goodbyes, I am being asked a lot: 'Are you looking forward to going home?' In truth, it's a time of mixed emotions. Yes, I am very much looking forward to going back, but there are many things I will miss about living here. Life in France has very much lived up to the idyllic image I had hoped for, much of the time. Take today, for example, when I cycled along to the park in beautiful sunshine with Alec sitting in the seat on the back pointing out the cows along the road, as I looked across the valley to Mont Blanc in the distance. Earlier, we sat on the terrace looking up at the mountains, both of us without a care in the world.
Part of the reason our stay here has been so wonderful is down to the fact that I haven't been working (at least for the most part). I had a relaxed pregnancy, during which I went to French classes, joined a needlework group, went swimming regularly, and met lots of other lovely women in the same position. And since then I've been fortunate enough to spend 16 blissful months with my son, in what is certainly an extremely generous amount of maternity leave. But the friends you make when you have a baby are really important: you share with these people perhaps the most important experience of your life, you talk with them about things you would never discuss with other people, and you build up a closeness with both them and their children that it will be hard to replace. (Just have another one then, my friend said to me the other day...) The people we've met here are, without a doubt, the thing I will miss most when we return to the UK.
And as for the weather... yes, this is number two on my list of things that I will miss. Closely followed by the pastries and the bread. And the wonderful seasonal fruit. And the markets. And the mountains. And in a funny way I will miss speaking French every day too. When I arrived with my rusty GCSE French, I could do little more than order a coffee and a croissant, whereas now I can get by in most situations - give or take a few too many d'accords and a rather liberal use of the verb faire. It would have been interesting to see how Alec responded to speaking two languages too. I had assumed that his two half days a week at the local French creche wouldn't have made much of an impact, but today he surprised me by saying his first word (or words, in fact) and it was French: 'a-va' (au revoir) to the French children in the playground.
But as rewarding as it has been, speaking French has also been one of the most challenging parts of living here too. Not being able to express yourself precisely the way you would like to, not having any 'chat' and not being able to pick up the phone and know with confidence that you'll be able to ask the questions you want and get the answers you need - that has been frustrating. It sounds lazy to say I'll be pleased to go back to an English speaking country, but it will certainly be easier.
Neither will I miss the expense of living here, which far exceeded what we expected. And while I admire the gesture towards quality family time, I'll be happy to live again in a country that considers Sunday a viable 'doing things' day too (nothing - by which I mean nothing except bakeries - is open here on a Sunday). I'll be pleased to have a reliable source of bacon again, not to mention the soft white bread to put it in, and it will be nice to be able to buy a crumpet or a tea cake without any fuss, instead of having to venture out to the British shop and pay five times the price for a little taste of home. And don't get me started on a decent cup of tea... (A note to the French: a cup of hot water and a tea bag does not a cup of tea make.) I'm also looking forward to going back to work properly, and for Alec to start at his new nursery. And best of all, I'm looking forward to returning to our friends and family in the UK, who we've missed a lot while living away.
As we drive away on that final day, I expect I will feel a little bit emotional to be leaving things behind. But most of all it seems strange to me that there will be a little corner of France (and also a little corner of Switzerland) that we will know really well, that will continue to go on as normal, but we won't be a part of it. That in years to come, we'll look back at photos of our time here and of Alec's birth and first year, and say 'Do you remember when we lived in France?' 'Do you remember that house we lived in, and our little village?' That we'll forget the names of the roads we knew so well, just as I've forgotten the names of the roads I walked along every day in Cambridge, now more than a decade ago. And that Alec won't have any memory of this funny little period of his life. ('What do you mean, you're Scottish, but you were born in Switzerland and lived in France?'). When I started this blog, the idea was to give my view of life in France from the perspective of an expat. I wanted to write about all the things - big and small - that I found strange and surprising and novel about living here, having come from the UK. And in the early days, there was a whole rush of things to write about: What do you mean you have to eat lunch between 12-2pm? Why can't I get milk on a Sunday? And what is this priorité a droite rule all about (OK, I discovered that one a little late, and got beeped at for the best part of a year before I realised my mistake...). But the reason the blog posts have slowed down in recent months is not just because I have a small child taking up most of my time these days, it's also because life in France doesn't seem so strange anymore. In fact, I really can't remember the feeling of alienation that we had when we first arrived, nor put my finger on why life here is any different from anywhere else.
And so now we reach a quandary: what to do with this little blog? A Year in France: Life as a CERN Wife is a rather specific title to write under, so I either pass on the baton to another willing CERN wife, or this CERN wife starts blogging about going back to life in the UK (I've heard it's strange there, you know. The shops are even open on Sundays!) and the prospect of a Yes vote in Scotland. Ok, Ok, that's another topic for another blog. Until then, this is not goodbye....
Monday, 10 February 2014
A brand new human being: one year on
The time has really flown but believe it or not, on Wednesday, we celebrated surviving 365 days of nappies, milk, teething and baby sick. Alec William Buckley is now a one-year old. And according to our paediatrician, that means he's no longer a baby, but is officially a little boy.
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The idea of reviewing the year seemed like a good one when I started thinking about writing this blog entry. But now that I'm trying to do it, I find that it really is a bit of a blur. Milestones that seemed like such a huge deal at the time now seem like a fuzzy string of events, whose timings I really can't quite recall. When Alec rolled over for the first time, we were so excited that we videoed it and immediately shared it with friends - I was sure I wouldn't forget when this happened. But the memory is a bit hazy now - was it 3 months, 4 months, 5 months? And when exactly did he start saying Mama? I'm not sure. All I know is it was before he started saying Dada, and that's the important bit to remember.
Many parents make note of these kind of things in a baby book - apparently, so that they can look back and reminisce and share these little developmental gems with the child when they get older, but really I think it's so they can pretend they remember how it all panned out. In the absence of a suitable baby book to mark these events, I've been doing it the modern way - on Google calendar. Alec has his own little calendar in which I mark things like 'rolled over in his cot - and got stuck' (17th July, aged 5 months), 'first ride in a shopping trolley' (26th October, aged 8 months) and 'climbed the stairs to the kitchen' (11th December, aged 10 months). I've even marked the occasion of his first blood (4th January, aged 11 months - bashed his lip when he fell over). The first time he slept 12 hours in one go is also documented, in CAPITALS for emphasis (28th June, aged 4 months).
The great thing about a timeline like this is that I can look back and see how far we've come in such a short time. Now that we have a noisy, energetic toddler on our hands, it seems like a lifetime since he was just starting to sit up for himself (30th July, aged 5 months). And it helps to jog my memory of all the momentous things that happened amidst the blurry bits too. I remember how we were all in stitches when Alec laughed properly for the first time, as his daddy tickled him (14th May, aged 3 months) and how sad I was the day Alec took one look at my boob and then turned away, deciding for himself that he'd had enough of breastfeeding (11th December, aged 10 months). I remember the delight on Alec's face when he used his toybox to pull himself up to standing for the first time (23rd November, aged 9 months) and the day afterwards, when he got carried away and toppled head first into it.
At the risk of getting soppy and blubbing over my keyboard, I can honestly say it's been the most wonderful year of my life. And I'm pleased to say it's also been far easier than I ever imagined. It's not the done thing to say you had a dream of a time with a young baby, because it seems too much like bragging, and sleepless nights are supposed to be a rite of passage. But if you found the whole thing enjoyable, why not say it? We've had around half a dozen sleepless nights out of 365, so I think that's pretty good, and the inconsolable crying episodes have been mainly confined to periods of illness or extreme tiredness. We've had just one overnight hospitalisation (Berlin, 15th January, aged 11 months, for an unidentified rash and fever) and only two truly horrendous exploding nappies. But best of all, we've stayed sane, and although I can't really remember the details of everything, I'm fairly sure we enjoyed 90% of it.
So happy birthday, Alec, you wonderful little nutcase. I love your enormous eyelashes and your huge great smile and the fact that everyone who meets you falls in love with you too. Here's to the next 17 years, and may they please go a little more slowly.
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The idea of reviewing the year seemed like a good one when I started thinking about writing this blog entry. But now that I'm trying to do it, I find that it really is a bit of a blur. Milestones that seemed like such a huge deal at the time now seem like a fuzzy string of events, whose timings I really can't quite recall. When Alec rolled over for the first time, we were so excited that we videoed it and immediately shared it with friends - I was sure I wouldn't forget when this happened. But the memory is a bit hazy now - was it 3 months, 4 months, 5 months? And when exactly did he start saying Mama? I'm not sure. All I know is it was before he started saying Dada, and that's the important bit to remember.
Many parents make note of these kind of things in a baby book - apparently, so that they can look back and reminisce and share these little developmental gems with the child when they get older, but really I think it's so they can pretend they remember how it all panned out. In the absence of a suitable baby book to mark these events, I've been doing it the modern way - on Google calendar. Alec has his own little calendar in which I mark things like 'rolled over in his cot - and got stuck' (17th July, aged 5 months), 'first ride in a shopping trolley' (26th October, aged 8 months) and 'climbed the stairs to the kitchen' (11th December, aged 10 months). I've even marked the occasion of his first blood (4th January, aged 11 months - bashed his lip when he fell over). The first time he slept 12 hours in one go is also documented, in CAPITALS for emphasis (28th June, aged 4 months).
The great thing about a timeline like this is that I can look back and see how far we've come in such a short time. Now that we have a noisy, energetic toddler on our hands, it seems like a lifetime since he was just starting to sit up for himself (30th July, aged 5 months). And it helps to jog my memory of all the momentous things that happened amidst the blurry bits too. I remember how we were all in stitches when Alec laughed properly for the first time, as his daddy tickled him (14th May, aged 3 months) and how sad I was the day Alec took one look at my boob and then turned away, deciding for himself that he'd had enough of breastfeeding (11th December, aged 10 months). I remember the delight on Alec's face when he used his toybox to pull himself up to standing for the first time (23rd November, aged 9 months) and the day afterwards, when he got carried away and toppled head first into it.
At the risk of getting soppy and blubbing over my keyboard, I can honestly say it's been the most wonderful year of my life. And I'm pleased to say it's also been far easier than I ever imagined. It's not the done thing to say you had a dream of a time with a young baby, because it seems too much like bragging, and sleepless nights are supposed to be a rite of passage. But if you found the whole thing enjoyable, why not say it? We've had around half a dozen sleepless nights out of 365, so I think that's pretty good, and the inconsolable crying episodes have been mainly confined to periods of illness or extreme tiredness. We've had just one overnight hospitalisation (Berlin, 15th January, aged 11 months, for an unidentified rash and fever) and only two truly horrendous exploding nappies. But best of all, we've stayed sane, and although I can't really remember the details of everything, I'm fairly sure we enjoyed 90% of it.
So happy birthday, Alec, you wonderful little nutcase. I love your enormous eyelashes and your huge great smile and the fact that everyone who meets you falls in love with you too. Here's to the next 17 years, and may they please go a little more slowly.
Sunday, 8 September 2013
The Grand Canyon
Our time in Arizona was not without its misfortunes. It began with a forgotten bag, left behind in Flagstaff, which we had to drive back to collect. Next came the loss of our car seat adapters for the pram (which enable us to use the car seat as a pram top, eliminating one extra thing that you need to carry around), which were left behind in our rental car when we dropped it off in Phoenix. Since the car seat doesn't fit on the pram base without them, the pram was utterly useless to us for the rest of the trip. Then we had to reschedule our plans for Utah on the basis that the ancient RV was way too slow to cover the mileage needed to get there. Then I drove the wrong way down a one way street in the aforementioned RV...
Personal misadventures aside, nature also had a few challenges to throw at us. Back in February, the road just south of Page (which is the closest major town to the Grand Canyon North Rim) decided to shift it's position a little, and ended up looking like this:
As part of our route, we had planned to stay a night in Page, before heading on to the Grand Canyon the next day, but the landslide was in danger of scuppering our plans. Although the landslide is tantalisingly close to Page, out here in no man's land there aren't a huge number of alternative roads. In fact, the route to Page now involves a 45-mile diversion through the Navajo Indian Reservation - not good news for us, our tight schedule and our trundling vehicle. What's worse: I had booked a night in Page as an ideal stop-off before continuing on to the Grand Canyon, but thanks to the landslide, the direct route from Page to the Canyon was also now a no-go. Cue another 45-mile diversion north of Page to access the Grand Canyon National Park.
Although this meant that we spent two long days in the RV and covered a lot of unintended extra miles (with a mileage charge of $0.34 for every mile covered....!), our stop-off in Page did allow us to see Horseshoe Bend, something that the landslide will have prevented a lot of tourists from reaching. This horseshoe-shaped kink in the Colorado river must be one of the most photographed images of this part of the state.
Without a wide-angled lens, our camera didn't really do it justice: if you want to see just how spectacular it can look, this guy has done a pretty amazing job.
From Page, we set off for the big hole in the ground that they call the Grand Canyon. When we were planning the trip, someone said to us 'visit the North Rim, it's much less touristy', so without consulting any maps or actually checking the logistics, we booked two nights in the North Rim campground. Not only is it far less touristy, it's also around 10 degrees cooler, and the terrain is much more varied than that of the South Rim. What we hadn't realised, however, is that although the South and North Rims are just 10 miles apart as the crow flies, there are 215 miles of driving between the two - and that's without the two 45-mile detours that we incurred en route. Happily, it was worth the trouble. We arrived to find our spot in the quiet, secluded woodland campground, with chipmunks scurrying by and birds tweeting all around us. Harvey the RV felt quite at home.
We set off to explore straight away (after clearing up what can only be described as Alec's most explosive nappy to date, a truly extraordinary present to celebrate our arrival) and within minutes we were at the Canyon's edge, looking out at this:
It sounds silly, but I didn't know what to expect from the Grand Canyon. I purposefully hadn't looked at pictures in advance, and in my head I think I expected to see a great big chasm, and a lot of nothingness. I hadn't appreciated how many ups and downs there would be, how many tributaries and offshoots the Canyon has, and how varied and interesting the landscape would be. It is so vast that in places you can barely see the other side, and we certainly couldn't see the bottom from any of the vantage points we found. On the second day we were fortunate (?) enough to get caught in the middle of a thunderstorm, and although we got fairly soaked before we reached cover, we were able to sit at the big picture window in the North Rim restaurant and watch as the lightning and thunder rolled around the rocky landscape. On the final evening, Andy also raced off across the campground just in time to watch this spectacular sunset:
Our two days there were undoubtedly the most memorable of our whole trip. We spent the days wandering around the rocky trails and the evenings toasting marshmallows around our campfire. As for Alec, things got a lot better after The Great Grand Canyon Surprise Poo and he just adored looking at the trees and charming the passers-by on our walks.
Of course, our good luck had to come to an end sometime. And as we rolled out of the campground on the final morning, to begin the long 400-mile journey back to Phoenix, we called in at the gas station to get some air put into a rather low looking tyre... Well, what do you know, it turned out to be flat.
Personal misadventures aside, nature also had a few challenges to throw at us. Back in February, the road just south of Page (which is the closest major town to the Grand Canyon North Rim) decided to shift it's position a little, and ended up looking like this:
As part of our route, we had planned to stay a night in Page, before heading on to the Grand Canyon the next day, but the landslide was in danger of scuppering our plans. Although the landslide is tantalisingly close to Page, out here in no man's land there aren't a huge number of alternative roads. In fact, the route to Page now involves a 45-mile diversion through the Navajo Indian Reservation - not good news for us, our tight schedule and our trundling vehicle. What's worse: I had booked a night in Page as an ideal stop-off before continuing on to the Grand Canyon, but thanks to the landslide, the direct route from Page to the Canyon was also now a no-go. Cue another 45-mile diversion north of Page to access the Grand Canyon National Park.
Although this meant that we spent two long days in the RV and covered a lot of unintended extra miles (with a mileage charge of $0.34 for every mile covered....!), our stop-off in Page did allow us to see Horseshoe Bend, something that the landslide will have prevented a lot of tourists from reaching. This horseshoe-shaped kink in the Colorado river must be one of the most photographed images of this part of the state.
Without a wide-angled lens, our camera didn't really do it justice: if you want to see just how spectacular it can look, this guy has done a pretty amazing job.
From Page, we set off for the big hole in the ground that they call the Grand Canyon. When we were planning the trip, someone said to us 'visit the North Rim, it's much less touristy', so without consulting any maps or actually checking the logistics, we booked two nights in the North Rim campground. Not only is it far less touristy, it's also around 10 degrees cooler, and the terrain is much more varied than that of the South Rim. What we hadn't realised, however, is that although the South and North Rims are just 10 miles apart as the crow flies, there are 215 miles of driving between the two - and that's without the two 45-mile detours that we incurred en route. Happily, it was worth the trouble. We arrived to find our spot in the quiet, secluded woodland campground, with chipmunks scurrying by and birds tweeting all around us. Harvey the RV felt quite at home.
We set off to explore straight away (after clearing up what can only be described as Alec's most explosive nappy to date, a truly extraordinary present to celebrate our arrival) and within minutes we were at the Canyon's edge, looking out at this:
Our two days there were undoubtedly the most memorable of our whole trip. We spent the days wandering around the rocky trails and the evenings toasting marshmallows around our campfire. As for Alec, things got a lot better after The Great Grand Canyon Surprise Poo and he just adored looking at the trees and charming the passers-by on our walks.
Of course, our good luck had to come to an end sometime. And as we rolled out of the campground on the final morning, to begin the long 400-mile journey back to Phoenix, we called in at the gas station to get some air put into a rather low looking tyre... Well, what do you know, it turned out to be flat.
Friday, 30 August 2013
Arizona: the first in a mini-series
Although I'll be posting this after arriving home, I'm
writing it in Flagstaff, Arizona, sitting outside our RV (otherwise known as
a mobile home to all you UK folk and, funnily enough, the French too - who call
it un mobilehome) on a balmy August
evening. Family Buckley is on a road trip, American style. There have been
(many) pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, a good deal of fried goods, too
many meals served with 'whipped butter' and the occasional root beer. There
have also been long, long, straight roads, plenty of cacti, and lots and lots
of trucks.
Since
other people's holidays really aren't very exciting to read about, I'll try and
keep the entries relatively brief. But Arizona deserves a bit of good PR. It's
largely known for being hot and deserted - in both senses of the word - and for
laying claim to one of the seven natural wonders of the world, The Grand
Canyon. But the one thing that has struck me in the days since we arrived is
the enormous variety of terrain and landscapes in a relatively small area.
The RV
signifies the second half of our stay in Arizona and the start of our holiday
proper. We arrived a week ago for a conference in Flagstaff. Alec and I hung
out in the hotel for a week, while Andy did some clever physics. In the midst
of this, I also turned Thirty (I think it deserves a capital letter). Although there were no fireworks or surprise
parties or even, in fact, a card from my husband (the less said about that the
better), it turned out to be a good day. We drove east of Flagstaff to see the
'world's best known and best preserved' Meteor Crater: nearly a mile across and
550 feet deep, there's no denying its a Very Big Hole in the Ground. At $16 a
pop, it ought to be. Sadly, the visitor centre is about 30 years out of date
and the exhibits tangential to say the least - after all, there really isn't a
lot to say about a big hole in the ground.
The celestial object that caused it
was about 45m across and travelling at 40,000 miles an hour when it hit, which
are impressive stats, but that is about as far as it goes. A little disgruntled,
we headed back to Flagstaff and north to the Wupatki National Monument. The
first thing you need to know is: it's not a monument. The US seems to have
chosen to call sites of national or historic interest 'monuments', the
equivalent if you like to our national heritage sites in the UK. The Wupatki
'monument' is actually a series of early American Indian settlements, pueblos, which have been found scattered
across the barren Arizonan landscape. Built around 900 years ago from simple
bricks and sand-based mortar, they seem older than they really are.
If you
consider that Durham Cathedral was built and already been worshipped in around
the same time, they start to look a little sad. But they are an unusual feature
out in the hot Arizonan desert, in what is in any case a 'young' country. More
impressive, however, was the lava field we drove alongside to reach them.
Having been created when lava cascaded down from the volcano at Sunset Crater
around the same time as the Wupatki settlements developed, the lava fields now
look like ridiculously deep overturned fields of earth. Except that this
'earth' is solidified molten rock. I've never seen anything like it.
 |
| That stuff that looks like ploughed earth? Actually solidified lava. |
The lava
fields were just one of the many incredible vistas we've seen as we've driven
across the state. When we left Phoenix airport (ground temperature: 41 degrees)
and drove north to Flagstaff, we passed through cacti country. Barren, sandy
and rocky, with poker-straight roads carving through the middle of it, this was
exactly how we had pictured the Arizonan landscape. But as we headed north and
climbed up towards the plateau on which Flagstaff sits, we found mountains,
forests and an abundance of vegetation. We are back in Flagstaff rather
unintentionally. After leaving the conference, we drove back to Phoenix to
collect our RV. Enthusiastic and woefully over-optimistic, we intended to drive
north to Saint Johns (roughly 200 miles north east) that same afternoon.
Unfortunately we hadn't checked any topographical maps (Arizona is flat and
dusty, right?) and we soon found ourselves limping through an unwieldy
mountainous landscape that our rattly old RV simply couldn't cope with (in fact, this will turn out to be just one of an impressive series of bits of misfortune during the trip...). The
scenery was staggering, all the more so because we passed through a dramatic
thunderstorm en route, but by 7pm we'd only traveled 80 miles, so we called it
quits and holed up in a roadside RV park for the night. The next day - today -
we had to rethink our plans, which had originally included driving still
further north to Bluff, Utah by tonight to see Monument Valley. Looking at the huge expanse of map
ahead of us, and having now become accustomed to our RV's rather leisurely pace
(if the road signs specify a 55 mph speed limit, we can be fairly confident we
won't be managing much more than 30), we've scaled back. The stop-off in
Flagstaff tonight is part of our new journey towards Page tomorrow, and the
Grand Canyon the day after. Happily, this change of route allowed us to see the
Painted Desert today: a vast, rolling area of rocky desert in which the rocks
are stratified in different colours. While much of the Painted Desert is
nothing out of the ordinary, some of the vistas are breathtakingly beautiful,
such as the lookout we found just north of Winslow.
Arizona
continues to amaze and surprise us, and we haven't even seen the Grand Canyon
yet. With a bit of luck, out RV will manage to trundle all the way up
there.
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Long time no blog
Oh dear: no blogs since May. My Aunt in Chester-le-Street will be very cross with me, as I know she checks in at Life as a Cern Wife every time she turns on her computer. She has probably given up hope by now. In fairness, we've been a little busy, with trips to the UK, visits from friends, finding a new house to live in out here, trying to find tenants for our two houses in the UK... And for me there's all those playdates, lunches, baby swimming, walks along the lake, coffee with other mums. It's a tough life and I won't hear otherwise.
It's a little while since I blogged about Alec, so I think that means I'm allowed to give a few updates. In case you were wondering, yes he is still very cute. Here's proof:
Alec is 5 months old this week, and lots seems to be changing at the moment. He's just moved into his own room and has decided that he's now happy to sleep through the night, 8pm-8am, which is good news for those of us who haven't slept for a solid 8 hours in a long time. Although, it seems when you are a new parent, you are programmed to wake up every few hours wondering if the silence on the other end of the baby monitor is a good or a bad thing - meaning that a solid 8 hours sleep still evades you. At least, that's the case for me. Andy sleeps on happily and wakes in the morning to ask, 'How was the night?' He's done this since Alec was a few weeks old.
As well as stocking up on sleep, Alec is also stocking up on food. Real food. After many, many conversations about weaning with just about everyone I came into contact with, I can now report: Yes. Alec is eating solids. Sweet potato, carrot, cauliflower, green beans, banana, pear, apple, apricot. You name it, he eats it. I am doing the usual mummsy thing of making up batches of puree and putting them in ice cube trays in the freezer. Although it turns out we only have novelty ice cube trays, so his sweet potato portions look like this:
Real Food also means Lots of Mess, so a highchair has become the latest addition to the growing mountain of Alec's stuff, which is slowly but surely starting to take over the house.
He has also become lots more mobile in the last few weeks, and wriggles and rolls all over the place given half a chance. This isn't great news for us, as we now have to keep a beady eye on him at all times. Or something like this tends to happen:
We had our first family holiday last week - to Talloires, halfway along Lake Annecy. Those of you thinking -'Annecy sounds familiar' - that's probably because it was in the news a lot last year, after a cyclist and a family were shot there in quite mysterious circumstances. There were lots of cyclists while we were there, but thankfully no shootings. We were staying in a little cabin which the French call a mobilehome (ah, the French and their Franglais), although there was nothing mobile about it. A tiny bedroom, living area and bathroom, all squeezed into 15m2, and a large deck out the front nearly the size of the cabin itself. But as fate would have it, it turned out to be the same campsite where my brother-in-law has been staying with his family since he was a wee lad. Perched up on the (very steep) hillside, the view over the lake was stunning, even in the mostly cloudy weather.
The paragliders you can see floating around are the real reason we were in Talloires. After we did a paragliding course a few years ago, Andy decided he wanted to learn more so he did a week's course, and Alec and I tagged along for the holiday. Andy is now the proud owner of his first autonomous paragliding pilot's licence, which allows him to fly in calm conditions in places that he knows. I won't be letting him jump off the Jura just yet.
The next couple of months have lots in store: lots more visitors, moving house, a trip to the UK and then a big trip to Arizona for most of August. At this rate, expect another update somewhere around Christmas.
It's a little while since I blogged about Alec, so I think that means I'm allowed to give a few updates. In case you were wondering, yes he is still very cute. Here's proof:
Alec is 5 months old this week, and lots seems to be changing at the moment. He's just moved into his own room and has decided that he's now happy to sleep through the night, 8pm-8am, which is good news for those of us who haven't slept for a solid 8 hours in a long time. Although, it seems when you are a new parent, you are programmed to wake up every few hours wondering if the silence on the other end of the baby monitor is a good or a bad thing - meaning that a solid 8 hours sleep still evades you. At least, that's the case for me. Andy sleeps on happily and wakes in the morning to ask, 'How was the night?' He's done this since Alec was a few weeks old.
As well as stocking up on sleep, Alec is also stocking up on food. Real food. After many, many conversations about weaning with just about everyone I came into contact with, I can now report: Yes. Alec is eating solids. Sweet potato, carrot, cauliflower, green beans, banana, pear, apple, apricot. You name it, he eats it. I am doing the usual mummsy thing of making up batches of puree and putting them in ice cube trays in the freezer. Although it turns out we only have novelty ice cube trays, so his sweet potato portions look like this:
Real Food also means Lots of Mess, so a highchair has become the latest addition to the growing mountain of Alec's stuff, which is slowly but surely starting to take over the house.
He has also become lots more mobile in the last few weeks, and wriggles and rolls all over the place given half a chance. This isn't great news for us, as we now have to keep a beady eye on him at all times. Or something like this tends to happen:
We had our first family holiday last week - to Talloires, halfway along Lake Annecy. Those of you thinking -'Annecy sounds familiar' - that's probably because it was in the news a lot last year, after a cyclist and a family were shot there in quite mysterious circumstances. There were lots of cyclists while we were there, but thankfully no shootings. We were staying in a little cabin which the French call a mobilehome (ah, the French and their Franglais), although there was nothing mobile about it. A tiny bedroom, living area and bathroom, all squeezed into 15m2, and a large deck out the front nearly the size of the cabin itself. But as fate would have it, it turned out to be the same campsite where my brother-in-law has been staying with his family since he was a wee lad. Perched up on the (very steep) hillside, the view over the lake was stunning, even in the mostly cloudy weather.
The paragliders you can see floating around are the real reason we were in Talloires. After we did a paragliding course a few years ago, Andy decided he wanted to learn more so he did a week's course, and Alec and I tagged along for the holiday. Andy is now the proud owner of his first autonomous paragliding pilot's licence, which allows him to fly in calm conditions in places that he knows. I won't be letting him jump off the Jura just yet.
The next couple of months have lots in store: lots more visitors, moving house, a trip to the UK and then a big trip to Arizona for most of August. At this rate, expect another update somewhere around Christmas.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
France: it ain't all great
Andy tells me that it is only right that I should follow-up my blog about why it's so great living in France, with a blog about the things that drive me mad. I argued that telling the world how much the French annoy me probably wouldn't help in our efforts to fit in with the locals. Ok, our direct neighbours don't speak English, but Google Translate is pretty hot these days.
But Andy's point is a fair one: I ought to give an un-biased account of life in France, not one which just focuses on the good stuff. So here, in short, is what drives me mad (note that this Bad Things list is not as long as the Good Things list - ergo life in France is Good).
1. The driving
Ok, it may not be a patch on the Italians or the Spaniards (oh dear, here I go on a whole anti-European drive, never mind just a French one...) but the driving here drives me mad (if you'll excuse the pun). It's not bad driving as such - there's generally not much speeding, swerving or beeping to speak of - it's more the etiquette. No one, and I mean no one, ever lets you out. If you sit there with your indicators flashing madly, waiting to pull out from a parking space into slow-moving traffic, nine times out of ten you will be willfully ignored. Trying to do a tricky reverse parking manoeuvre while your child screams blue murder in the back? Don't expect anyone to give you any space to carry out this difficult task, you will just have to wait your turn. Which leads me neatly on to...
2. Manners
This one could get me into hot water. But if we exclude the nice French children from my previous blog, who always say Bonjour, and the sunny people at the checkout tills who wish you a bonne journée, there is a certain lack of politeness around here. My neighbours are lovely. In fact, on a one-on-one basis, most people around here are charming and welcoming and helpful. (Except the other neighbours who have never even said so much as Bonjour in 8 months, and the estate agents who ignore all your calls, and the man in the Feu Vert garage who doesn't appear to want our custom at all). But there is a general lack of awareness of other people from the average person on the street. Everyone seems to mooch along in their own world, and if they accidentally (or not, as the case may be) knock you as you walk past, you are unlikely to get a 'Pardon', or even so much as a backward glance. Getting on the tram with a buggy, I have been stared at point blank more times than I care to remember, as I apologise for having a baby and attempt to find a tiny little space in which to squirrel myself and my clearly unwelcome small child. Coming back from the UK last week just reinforced this: we left behind the helpful souls of England who all wanted to give up their seat for me, to be met by the stony, unsmiling faces of the folk of Geneva.
3. French old ladies and their advice
One of the other trials one has to negotiate when taking public transport is the French Old Lady and her Advice. Mainly, it concerns the aforementioned unwelcome infant and their well-being. He is either too hot, too cold, too tired to be out, too young to be out or just inappropriately attired for that particular old lady's whim. For the record, yes I did check the weather forecast this morning, no he doesn't need a hat today, yes he is wearing a vest underneath his babygrow and yes, he's my child and he's just perfect, thank you very much.
4. The bread is too small for toast
What sort of country doesn't prioritise the production of bread that lends itself to becoming toast?
5. Numbers
My French has improved a lot since we moved here, but I am floored every single time someone says a number that begins quatre vingts... Argh, I think, they've just said one of the stupid numbers. Now, what did they say after they said quatre vingts? Did they say a normal number like sept, so it's actually not too tricky, it's just 87. Or did they say dix-sept, meaning I have to do some quick addition in my head and work out what 80 plus 17 is (not a difficult sum, I know, but when they are in the middle of dictating a long phone number and you're desperately trying to keep up with all the other quatre vingts, it's like some kind of French Numberwang). What kind of language names its numbers thus: Ten, Twenty, Thirty, Forty, Fifty, Sixty, Sixty and Ten, Four Twenties, Four Twenties and Ten...?! At least the Swiss are smart, and have adopted the far preferable Septante, Octante, Nonante.
And that's all I have to complain about. So far.
But Andy's point is a fair one: I ought to give an un-biased account of life in France, not one which just focuses on the good stuff. So here, in short, is what drives me mad (note that this Bad Things list is not as long as the Good Things list - ergo life in France is Good).
1. The driving
Ok, it may not be a patch on the Italians or the Spaniards (oh dear, here I go on a whole anti-European drive, never mind just a French one...) but the driving here drives me mad (if you'll excuse the pun). It's not bad driving as such - there's generally not much speeding, swerving or beeping to speak of - it's more the etiquette. No one, and I mean no one, ever lets you out. If you sit there with your indicators flashing madly, waiting to pull out from a parking space into slow-moving traffic, nine times out of ten you will be willfully ignored. Trying to do a tricky reverse parking manoeuvre while your child screams blue murder in the back? Don't expect anyone to give you any space to carry out this difficult task, you will just have to wait your turn. Which leads me neatly on to...
2. Manners
This one could get me into hot water. But if we exclude the nice French children from my previous blog, who always say Bonjour, and the sunny people at the checkout tills who wish you a bonne journée, there is a certain lack of politeness around here. My neighbours are lovely. In fact, on a one-on-one basis, most people around here are charming and welcoming and helpful. (Except the other neighbours who have never even said so much as Bonjour in 8 months, and the estate agents who ignore all your calls, and the man in the Feu Vert garage who doesn't appear to want our custom at all). But there is a general lack of awareness of other people from the average person on the street. Everyone seems to mooch along in their own world, and if they accidentally (or not, as the case may be) knock you as you walk past, you are unlikely to get a 'Pardon', or even so much as a backward glance. Getting on the tram with a buggy, I have been stared at point blank more times than I care to remember, as I apologise for having a baby and attempt to find a tiny little space in which to squirrel myself and my clearly unwelcome small child. Coming back from the UK last week just reinforced this: we left behind the helpful souls of England who all wanted to give up their seat for me, to be met by the stony, unsmiling faces of the folk of Geneva.
3. French old ladies and their advice
One of the other trials one has to negotiate when taking public transport is the French Old Lady and her Advice. Mainly, it concerns the aforementioned unwelcome infant and their well-being. He is either too hot, too cold, too tired to be out, too young to be out or just inappropriately attired for that particular old lady's whim. For the record, yes I did check the weather forecast this morning, no he doesn't need a hat today, yes he is wearing a vest underneath his babygrow and yes, he's my child and he's just perfect, thank you very much.
4. The bread is too small for toast
What sort of country doesn't prioritise the production of bread that lends itself to becoming toast?
5. Numbers
My French has improved a lot since we moved here, but I am floored every single time someone says a number that begins quatre vingts... Argh, I think, they've just said one of the stupid numbers. Now, what did they say after they said quatre vingts? Did they say a normal number like sept, so it's actually not too tricky, it's just 87. Or did they say dix-sept, meaning I have to do some quick addition in my head and work out what 80 plus 17 is (not a difficult sum, I know, but when they are in the middle of dictating a long phone number and you're desperately trying to keep up with all the other quatre vingts, it's like some kind of French Numberwang). What kind of language names its numbers thus: Ten, Twenty, Thirty, Forty, Fifty, Sixty, Sixty and Ten, Four Twenties, Four Twenties and Ten...?! At least the Swiss are smart, and have adopted the far preferable Septante, Octante, Nonante.
And that's all I have to complain about. So far.
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