The average temperature has been so mild this Autumn. There are yellow Welsh poppies and primroses flowering in the garden and the magnolia stellata's buds are very fat already. I hope they won't be frosted. It would be sad to lose those delicate white flowers in the Spring. My neighbour gave me a pot of purple pansies last April. I finally put them in the garden, hoping they might flourish a little longer and to my surprise, there is now a whole carpet of them under the rose tree, far more than in the original pot and in full bloom. Somehow, it's a little disquieting when the plants get confused about the seasons ... climate change is definitely on the march.





I've been buying a wealth of Kentish grown apples from the Farmers' Market. Braeburn and Cameo are my favourite at the moment. Jonagold are good too. Ringden Farm, where they come from, also have wonderful pears. My favourite are Comice. I was watching a programme recently where Michel Roux was promoting the English pear. To tell if they are ripe, don't go by the colour - just press them lightly at the top and if they are a little soft they are ripe - I never knew that! Sliced pear with walnuts and some mild blue cheese, white Stilton or even a Cheshire with hints of honey and lemon or a fresh Wensleydale is just such a treat. We are lucky to be able to buy this excellent fruit along with apple juice every Saturday. I like the mix of Cox and Bramley but having a sweet tooth means that I adore the Russet. And there are many more juices to choose from.

I was waiting impatiently at the bus stop by the river, mulling over the French homework I'd just finished at speed before leaving home. You can see the bus's progress from far up the river road. There is usually an enormous youth in baggy pants standing waiting at this time, so I know I haven't missed the bus if he is there. He seems to talk endlessly to himself but maybe there is some sort of mobile around his person that I haven't seen. But he does have an odd manner. I leave him to it and idly contemplate the river, the bridge and the boathouse on the opposite side of the road.

I am not one to rave on about restaurants - best to leave that to the biting wits of A A Gill et al but I really wanted to flag this special birthday evening up as it turned out to be a huge success. I must also (modestly!) note that I had cut out something from the paper about this new restaurant about a year previously and given it to Hania. Both girls are the put upon recipients of articles I cut relentlessly from various places that I think may be of interest! It is in my nature to find things out and they gracefully accept my offerings - sometimes with enthusiasm. In this case, Gaia had suggested we go to Bruno Loubet's bistrot and I was delighted to have a chance to try it out.

John was invited - at quite short notice - to a writers' retreat at the Villa Serbelloni, which stands high up above the little jewel of Bellagio, a small town which sparkles at the water's edge on Lake Como. First of all, he said he didn't have time but as he was indeed in the midst of writing a book, he was finally persuaded that ten days away on a writing retreat could only lead to a constructive outcome. Plans were made ...

I was both intrigued and slightly thrown by the invitation. I wouldn't have refused it under any circumstances but it meant missing my French lessons and in the same way as going to Davos over several years, I would be the partner, spouse, hanger-on. I tend to overcome my feelings of lesser self esteem by thinking that all these people need an audience and people have always told me that I am a good listener. Maybe I am getting less patient as the years build up behind me but I still smile encouragingly, even at the few who don't deserve it - while eviscerating them mentally in a satisfactory manner. And there were only a couple of those up at the villa, as it turned out.

All we had to do was turn up at Milan airport at the appointed time and we were whisked over to Bellagio by a personable young man who had lived all his life there and spoke much better English than I spoke Italian. The Italian Lakes are just so stupendously beautiful. They don't need me to say anything else about them, except that you won't be disappointed, unless mountains and lakes and the most picturesque of towns and villages don't appeal. Not to mention Italian food!

We arrived just in time for lunch and so were introduced to some of the others. Our room, complete with bathroom and a huge balcony, had a panoramic view of the lake, looking north towards Switzerland. I stood on the balcony for a moment, suddenly mindful of Lottie Wilkins in 'The Enchanted April' (and it was April), then threw myself on the bed, watching the sun's rays on the icing sugar ceiling and listening to the muffled sounds outside of the gardeners, clipping and pruning. Then we explored John's 'study room', which was next door, all set up with desk, armchair, printer and stationery. And with a similar stunning view of the water with boats plying up and down the lake.

I very much recommend 'The Enchanted April' by Elizabeth Von Arnim. It is a read which will lift your spirits, especially during bad winter weather. A film was made of it for television with a host of well known names, including Michael Kitchen, Josie Lawrence, Alfred Molina, Jim Broadbent, Miranda Richardson and Joan Plowright.

All the gardens around here abound with bluebells - the rather fat and fleshy ones, known as 'Spanish' bluebells rather than the more elegant, woodland type. It would be interesting to know the history behind this, as my neighbours complain about the fact that however many of these bluebells you pull up, they return in force the following Spring. Because they are so luxuriant and strong they look marvellous for about three weeks and then comes the task of putting all the spent stalks and the largesse of leaves into the green bin, so that other plants can thrive.



Besides the daffodils, narcissi and other spring flowers in their various shades of yellow, cream and white, there is the 'wire netting' bush - a native of New Zealand - so called because its tiny crooked, zig zag twigs look like wire netting, studded with tiny, star like, scented flowers in late Spring. This is 'corkia cotoneaster'. It is very hardy and only needs the occasional trim to stop it looking ragged.



I found a jewel like, blue cineraria. Some of the plants in this family prefer to be indoors but most of these I find just too frilly and fussy and overblown, reminding me of 'mutton dressed as lamb'. This more simple style, yet intense in its blueness, is happy in the garden. I put it in next to a 'rosa rugosa' - a wild rose - and you can also see the deep crimson paeonies about to bloom. These plants were in the garden when we came here and must be forty years old. I would like a lipstick in this shade. They seem to do better than ever with each passing year. I would like to be like that too! The lacy green fronds of the sweet cicely make a perfect backdrop to their opulent crimson beauty. And they seem to be impervious to slugs and snails. Maybe they hold some secret re happy longevity!

There are also quite a lot of bees around of all sizes and different colourings. I don't use any insecticides and this is especially to create a safe haven for bees and other insects to flourish. That doesn't mean I am kind to them all. I hunt down mosquitoes relentlessly and there is a dark gold green beetle the size of a ladybird, which attacks lavender. 'Tis pretty but deadly. The gorgeous looking red lily beetle also needs a quick sharp squashing should you want to enjoy your lily blooms. Keep an eye out for vine weevils and the robin, thrush and blackbird will appreciate a few squashed slugs and snails underfoot. No good being too sentimental in the garden... I have also made the mistake of trying to cram too many plants in together. Plants need space as well as sun and rain to do their best.



'It is not Spring until you can plant your foot upon twelve daisies' - mid nineteenth century proverb. It wasn't until the 28th April, when we arrived at Bellagio on Lake Como, that I was able to do this. And here, the mists over the lake were beginning to be chased away already by the heat of the sun.

'But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed,
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white - then melts for ever'.

'Tam o'Shanter' (1791) by Robert Burns

But the seasons return - and the pleasures with them - may they long continue to do so ...

END

I'm not quite sure of the date but it was around this time. I walked into our garden and looked up to see this balloon, which seemed to be just skimming our neighbour's chimney pot. Luckily, my camera was on the kitchen table and I managed to get this shot. It wasn't until afterwards that I saw what was written on the side of it.



END

I hadn't spent much time exploring the north coast of France, except for lovely Dinard - (see Dinard film festival entry). Usually, it was 'across La Manche' and then full speed ahead for the autoroute to the south. But I was about to find out what I had been missing, when my sister and her husband invited me to go with them to Wimereux, on the Côte d'Opale. A name that conjures up beauty and mystery swathed in the misty appeal of opals. (Bognor sadly doesn't elicit the same reaction.)

Early morning, a nip in the air and a blackbird carolling on top of one of the branches of the eucalyptus. The tree has been savagely lopped but now acts as a brilliant lookout post for the birds. They see themselves very much the king of the castle and I'm expecting a vulture to materialise any day, which could put paid to our local yapping dog! Mmmm... dark thoughts abound ...

I hate packing and leaving home but having shut and locked the door behind me, the ties are severed, giving way to a frisson of excitement and anticipation, a quickening of the pulse, an air of expectation ...

I arrived at Strawberry Hill station on time with my small case and there they were, Christine and Mickey, parked up, waiting and ready to go. In a couple of minutes we were off and on our way to the Channel tunnel. It was what I call a grey goose day with a soft down of cloud above and the wind ruffling the trees. The roads were fairly clear going our way but there was a mile long weary jam towards London on the other side.

We arrived at the tunnel in good time. There are lots of hoops to get through, where robot machines offer the only assistance but Christine sailed through the reefs of Scylla and Charybdis successfully by pressing the right buttons and we drove onto the waiting train. Mickey was now with his nose in his newspaper, having bought coffee all round. He looked benign and content in his own little kingdom in the back of the car. Outside, there was a frisky little chalk pony etched into the hillside.

London, a yellow-grey, clammy cold. Cloud, like heavy piles of damp, seeping cardboard. But the holiday week I had booked last November was coming around and Switzerland beckoned. I searched in the back of the cupboard for our walking boots. John's finally came to light and looked still serviceable. Annoyingly, mine seemed to have disappeared, so I ended up having to buy another pair in Kensington High Street, along with some very comfortable socks, padded in all the right places. The latter were on offer, two for one. I found our 'nordic' walking poles lurking somewhat dustily behind the hot tank. Mine just fitted into my case diagonally - for some unknown reason, John's didn't, so he put them in his knapsack.

I don't know Gatwick very well but was geared up to loathe the time I spent in it. Things started badly. John was told that he couldn't take his walking 'poles' on the plane and petulantly offered to donate them there and then to whoever wanted them. 'I will sort it out', I said authoritatively, putting on my neutral, no worries, pleased to see you face. The man at the desk smiled back, looking relieved to be shot of 'grumpy man', reluctantly going on holiday. Later, I pointed out the sealed rubber stops on the ends at the x-ray - no sharp points whatsoever to skewer people with. Eventually, they were accepted. Much later, in Switzerland, the local sports shop showed me how to unscrew them in half for the journey.

For the record, Gatwick South Terminal was distinctly uncrowded and we got on to our 'flybe' propellor plane without hassle. These planes are like buses and work really well for a smaller number of passengers not going very far. And the staff were well organised and pleasant. So no complaints about Gatwick this time round!





I brought three books with me, two by Paul Theroux. I realise I am a big fan of travel writing from an individual's point of view. But not every individual. I like Paul Theroux's insatiable curiosity which must be linked to his perseverance plus love of a challenge in the often dire situations that come his way. Given that, he never seems to take the easy route but he does justify this by saying he prefers to travel alone, so he doesn't have to think about the other person's needs that he's with. I understand that so well but I would get lonely at times - he does too - I would also need a better class of bed for peace of mind. He doesn't mind flea ridden, flyblown lodging houses. He even revels in them. But I'm happy to experience them only as a voyeur through the pages of his books, as he is both good at description and conveying atmosphere. And there are one or two luxury sojourns too, especially on boats. He's very good at fitting into whatever the circumstances offer - no stars to five stars - low life to high life - and there's no holding back on the frustrations of travel in general, whatever the level. All that is grimy and wretched is held up to the light and described in joyous detail. This last trait of Theroux travel tales definitely put me off ever visiting some places that I might have considered before but also made me appreciate the good times I've had. And it's sobering to see the reality of your dream even though you might have guessed about the rubbish on the beach, the no go areas, etc.

I also like his general knowledge of history, coupled with his perceptively ironic descriptions of how people manage, or mainly don't manage, their daily existence. He doesn't have the mind of a historian but fitting in both historical and up to date facts around seedy tales of the underbelly of life in various countries adds a piquant taste for learning why we are as we are and why history explains quite a lot of it. Life is not the utopia of the travel brochures, even though we might long for it to be so and Paul Theroux bursts that bubble, somehow without casting us into eternal gloom and doom.

I like his general take on things, even though I sometimes find myself quite at odds with him. He can be arrogant and infuriating but he has the supreme advantage of not being boring. By the time I got home again, I'd travelled round the coast of Britain and the Mediterranean, mostly enjoying his company, getting tetchy at times, as well as making off to have 'time out' in a 'speakeasy' Dashiell Hammett crime detective novel. I was minded to buy it partly because the author's name appealed. Over the week, I also managed to acquire some fabulous photos and the forthcoming travel brochure tells no lies whatsoever!



Planes with propellors fly lower than jets and it was fun to look out over the miniature map of Europe. As I had a window seat, this kept me busy and content. Bern airport is tiny and onomatopoeically named Belp. There is one small glass walled café, so you can keep an eye on the comings and goings of the planes, which look like friendly hover flies buzzing good humouredly around the airfield.

I mentioned that John and I had joined The Cloud Appreciation Society, set up by Gavin Pretor-Pinney. There is, on the website, a photo gallery of weird cloud formations, taken by people from all over the world. Some of the cloudscapes are astonishing. I have always been fascinated by the different types of clouds and what they forecast weatherwise. We used to have 'nature' class at school and that's where I learned all the different names of clouds, like 'cumulus', 'cirrus', 'cumulonimbus', 'lenticular', 'cirrostratus' etc. There are many more names put to clouds now than the ones I learned. And, it seems, a greater variety of clouds!

Our Canadian friends, Doug and Margot, had decided to leave their comfortable flat in Kensington after five years and return to their roots. Doug wanted a change from city life too, as he had various projects in mind. They ended up finding a farmhouse with some land, three hours drive north west of Toronto, in a lovely rural setting near Georgian Bay.

I felt very excited to be going out to see them on my own. John had been working at full tilt for most of the year and now it seemed that we were racing towards Autumn with very little in the way of vacation. Unfortunately, his schedule wasn't going to be able to fit in two weeks in Canada but he very generously suggested I go and have some real 'time out'.

I got to Heathrow with a feeling of both dread and anticipation. The girl at the desk wasn't able to find my booking. She spoke to somebody on the telephone and the happy outcome was that I had been upgraded to business class. From then on, I felt very well looked after and enjoyed chatting to my neighbour, a Canadian widow in her late eighties, who came to England every year and was - besides being a rabid Anglophile - an expert on Agatha Christie's life and books.

Fortunately, I had read most 'Agatha Christies' over the years. I was first introduced to them by the sanatorium 'library' at school. I had been laid low in the 'san' for a week. It was a single storey building, located in an isolated part of the school grounds, amongst trees. Ailing girls were supervised by a very no-nonsense but kind-at-heart 'Sister', who wore a white hospital uniform with cap to match at all times. As I got better, I was finally allowed out of my room and found the small library, which seemed to consist mainly of Agatha Christies or stories about missionaries in Africa. The latter didn't appeal in the least. Too many of our teachers at school were ex-missionaries.

I found that reading Agatha Christie was much more riveting than revising for my exams and managed to get through about ten of them. In the past couple of years, I have read the interesting story of her life - and loves - so my companion and I were well suited for the eight hours trip to Toronto. We could lie back and relax, and enjoy all the drinks and meals brought to our comfortable seats.

I am not now a great lover of 'crime' novels in general but another writer of that time that I like, whose books have just been reprinted, is Eric Ambler. His are about espionage. And then there was Josephine Tey and Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Marjorie Allingham - all of an era. Connie, my new found 'bookish' friend liked John Grisham, who I haven't read. He is contemporary and probably more gritty. I also like the Maigret books by Simenon, which are better read in French and which encouraged me to go back to that language and improve it. So it turns out that I haven't read any modern crime novels (bar the irrefutable Ian Fleming) - and, of course, he is only revived into the modern age by the James Bond films. It's not that I'm against contemporary crime novels. I just prefer other genres of modern literature.

We arrived in Toronto on time but when I came through customs there was nobody waiting to meet me and I began to wonder whether I had told Margot the wrong day. Suddenly, a flurry in a purple jumper erupted like a small tornado and there she was with her straight blonde bob and warm, husky, welcoming voice, fizzing with energy and enthusiasm!

The car was large and was obviously not a city slicker, being coated half way up the sides in white mud. I was looking forward to this rural idyll already! We sailed out on a twelve lane highway due north west and after about forty minutes we met up with the beginning of the vast tracts of rural Canada.

First stop was at a roadside place selling all manner of fruit and vegetables. It was the season for orange pumpkins and festivals wound around Hallowe'en. Canadians really go to town celebrating the wealth of 'mellow fruitfulness' at this time of year. Margot bought a bagful of Honey Crisp apples - so delicious that we ate them all and had to buy some more later on for Doug. Honey Crisp was definitely the name to go for over the next two weeks - crunchy, juicy, and full of flavour - I developed a very sharp eye for barrels of apples by the roadside and Margot would do one of her magnificent swerves on empty roads and then we would continue on our way with the renewed bag of apples between us. And the other stop off point was for doughnuts... the less said about that the better except that what I would never buy in England I could become addicted to in Canada!

John and I were invited to a wedding at Monteviot, in the Scottish Borders. I thought it might be a good idea to make a long weekend of it, so we could do some exploring. We took the train from Kings X to Berwick-on-Tweed. Gaia had found us a wonderful car hire firm, East Coast Rental Ltd., owned by a charming man called Steven, who was waiting for us on arrival. I wish all car hire firms were like his! He is much recommended for a fine service.

I had also booked us into a bed and breakfast from the tried and trusted Alastair Sawday travel books and about forty minutes later, we arrived at Lessudden, a historic tower house just outside the pretty village of St. Boswells. Apparently, the writer, Sir Walter Scott, used to come here frequently to see his aunt and uncle. Their rather formidable portraits are on the wall and they seemed to look somewhat disapprovingly over our shoulders as we tucked into a delicious breakfast next morning. We could hear the comforting clucking of hens outside as we ate our scrambled eggs. Angela is a wonderful and inventive cook. The hens are a very special breed that like their independence and wander off to forage at leisure in the woods. She has trouble finding them as they don't respond to a call like the dogs.

Everything, including the bed, was of grand proportions. We had a very comfortable sitting room to ourselves next to the bedroom and the view down to the river was full of promise. Even more so after a cup of tea and home made fruit cake, delivered by Angela. The sun was sparkling on the water as we made our way down to the river's edge via the golf course. I felt the air fresh and sweet on my face and it was a joy to be away from the swarm of city life. I also love arriving somewhere totally new and having the feeling that maybe I am on the brink of falling in love with it.

This bush - a relative of the more exotic Hibiscus and called Common Mallow - has lived outside our house in the front garden longer than we have lived inside its walls. It started off pink but for some strange reason it diversified, first to pure white and then to white with a burgundy coloured centre, all blossoming happily together. I think these may all be separate shrubs or rogue shoots from the same roots. We certainly didn't plant any of them. The bush is now quite old and gnarled but it still gives the blossoms of youth in massive abundance. I sometimes feel at this time of year that we are in an enchanted castle, surrounded by a wall of magic blooms! The postman has to fight his way to the door but at least there are no thorns!





I took these photos the day before we left for a wedding in the Scottish Borders.

END

This photo is just to show the pleasures of leisure in the sunshine. Perhaps the title of the book isn't as recreational as it could be but it's good to see John enjoying 'time out', although I'm not quite sure what he is reading. It looks suspiciously like a report of some nature. Maybe the wine makes up for it! And, for once, I don't see the Blackberry .... oh dear, no, I think I do! Banish it to a flower pot!! Rah!



END

I used to think it wasn't worth going 'on holiday' for three or four days but our recent foray into Sussex proved otherwise. My Alastair Sawday choice of bed and breakfast suited us very well and the location near Midhurst was perfect for exploring. As we drove into the town centre we espied on our left the Cowdray ruins, reached by walking along a broad, raised sandy path with water meadows on either side and cows grazing by a deep pool in the river at the far end.





Even in ruins, this former Elizabethan mansion impresses. It belonged to the Viscounts Montague and was a place of great national importance for many years. Both Henry VIII and Elizabeth I stayed here. Capability Brown was in charge of the landscaping. The Dissolution of the Monasteries brought wealth to the Montagues but also a curse. One of the disenfranchised monks prophesied that 'By fire and water thy line shall come to an end, and it shall perish out of the land'. The 8th Viscount drowned in the Rhine and the carelessness of workmen led to a great fire in 1793, when many treasures were destroyed, including paintings by van Dyke, Rubens and Holbein. I got a lump in my throat and had quite an 'Ozymandias' moment when I read this. I then took some photos - there seemed to be a ghostly figure looking through the empty ruined windows. John pointed out that it was the top of a chimney! See for yourself! He may be right... but those Viscounts lived in troubled times.....


Now desperately in need of a cup of tea, we investigated the outbuildings. Not only was tea and a freshly baked slice of Victoria sponge waiting for us in a delightfully flower filled dining room but there was also a hidden garden, full of lavender and marigolds and buzzing with many contented bees.

Our friends, Will and Carla, were over here from California. Will has created his own 'Ideas' garden over some years and is very knowledgeable on an enormous variety of plants, so it wasn't difficult to make a decision about where to take them for a day out in the English countryside. I was very excited also because John and I hadn't been to Sissinghurst - former home of Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Harold Nicolson, who created the gardens there in the 1930s - for many years.

Parking is in a field and the reception is 'manned' by lovely Kentish women volunteers, who all gave us an extremely warm welcome. There are different parts of the gardens, which revolve around the towers in the centre, where Vita made her study. The roses weren't quite in bloom yet but there was plenty to enjoy, including the largest and most exotic paeonies I have ever seen for real. I wish I could grow them at home but I think they need an open aspect, with lots of sunshine. And we were blessed with sunshine at Sissinghurst on that Sunday. And also with the sound of many bees, a jar of whose honey came home with us.











The Kentish ladies also offer a delicious lunch in beautiful rustic wood surroundings. While Carla became the sleeping beauty, the rest of us explored the library and climbed to the top of the tower. Although there were quite a lot of visitors, the soporific humming of bees added to the tranquillity and beauty of this historic and very personal place. I felt I could have come upon Vita tending to her paeonies, pruning in the nuttery or writing an article on gardening at her desk. It's a very idiosyncratic garden, a haven created with much love and talent. Well worth a visit.

END

John was meant to have the week after Easter for holiday. The weather wasn't encouraging - grey and with an east wind chapping at the extremities. I had thought I'd finished with wearing my scarf inside as well as outside but had to retrieve it from the winter shelf in the cupboard. And John finally arrived home with lots of unfinished writing to do. He said he'd like to be by a river, which sounded idyllic but the magic of sunlight on water on a warm afternoon with flashes of blue dragonflies whirring here and there, was, most probably, a distant dream... given the weather forecast.

I did, however, look up some enchanting sounding places by rivers, using Alistair Sawday's wonderful guides but in the end we opted to go and see John's parents in the Cotswolds towards the end of the week, when John had caught up with his heavy schedule. Meanwhile, we had an afternoon in Kew, which was bursting with blossom and lunch at The National Gallery. John was delighted with the position of our table, which gave him a chance to take a photograph of the statue of Sir Keith Park (in Trafalgar Square) from an interesting angle! Otherwise, I directed the decorator who had arrived in Barnes on Tuesday morning, bright eyed and brush in hand. It lifted my spirits to see things getting freshly painted.

I'd been reading a poetry book = Evergreen Verse = which I'd come upon when emptying rooms, ready for painting and there were a number of poems I found, all of which I would put in my list of favourites. There is one called 'Adlestrop', written by Edward Thomas (1878 - 1917). The village of this name is very near Stow-on-the-Wold in Gloucestershire and about twenty minutes drive away from John's parents' house. The poet was on a train on the 23rd June, 1914, when it made an unscheduled stop at Adlestrop station. The poem is timeless, the moment in summer eternally captured. I had to track it down.

We had an amazingly deep fall of snow in Barnes this winter. However, Spring seems to be in the ascendant at last and here are a few images to prove it.





This last photo shows part of Barnes Green. Opposite lies a row of shops, which includes our only greengrocer (Two Peas in a Pod), Victoria's for fresh bread, healthy salads, cakes, jams and many other delicacies, a chemist, a travel agent, a dry cleaner's, three clothes shops, a small supermarket open all hours and Natsons, our award winning newsagents, who we couldn't do without in our house. Papers are delivered without fail every morning. We used to have a wonderful art gallery which came to the end of its lease and has sadly closed.

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, To-whoo
- a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, To whoo
- a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

The Thames has been flooding over the banks at high tide and so our walk turned out to be muddy as well as cold to the bone. Muffled up with scarves, gloves and hats and a big padded winter coat, so constituting a formidable defence against winter's icy grip... Even so, sometimes I feel my brain gets too cold to think and I might as well be a snowman.

We took the turn at the Church Road/Castlenau crossroads along Queen Elizabeth Walk, with the entrance to Barnes wetlands on our left, the playing fields to our right. It's straight on to the river bank and Harrods old Depository, which is now reassembled into luxury apartments with beautiful, watery views of the wetlands and the river. If I was a birdwatcher and lived in London, a flat here would be paradise - along with a powerful telescope by the window. It's a desirable location, in any case, both for people, birds and other wildlife. The Barnes Wetlands - a significant stopping off point for migrating birds - are very worthwhile a visit. They are open throughout the year. A number 283 bus from Hammersmith takes you right to the entrance, just off Queen Elizabeth Walk.

We alternately strode along, then gingerly tiptoed through the muddy bits, jumping here and there to avoid über-squelchiness and deep puddles. Runners and dogs splashed by, oblivious of their constant spatterings far and wide. Grrrr...

I'd been at the Royal Academy looking at the Anish Kapoor exhibition - which left me on the whole ambivalent and slightly deflated, and with offended housewife syndrome to boot! I want to add that there were also two or three joyous pieces. But I did unreservedly enjoy the sculpture in the front courtyard and imagine that many people cloned their own reflection in one of the balls, getting the same result as me...

John was invited to speak at a conference in Vienna. We had never been there but both of us had always wanted to go, so we decided to include the weekend and explore a little.

Easy flight, mild weather. I had booked a hotel I found on the internet. I'm always anxious about choosing places to stay because John is quite particular. Silence on his part indicates discontent, then descends into gloom. Luckily, this hotel passed the test! The façade of the building was old but inside was very modern. The room was huge and the slate walled shower that would have accommodated at least two people at once, reminded me of the architecture by Peter Zumthor at Therme Vals - a Swiss spa we visited some years ago. We were on the second floor. The bedroom had lots of warm wood against white walls. I noticed each room was called the name of a different vineyard. And there were bottles of wine set out for tasting. It was overwarm but we managed to turn the heating off and open the big, ceiling to floor windows, which looked out over a quiet street.

The sparkly girl at the reception desk had suggested a few places near at hand for dinner. I went to have a quick look round while John set up his computer and on the way back asked her if she could book us in at Kristians Monastiri. Already unpacked, I was now so hungry for my dinner, I hustled John to get ready. Dusk was filtering through the sky as we strolled along, taking in Vienna's romantic, inviting ambiance. Added to which, it turned out to be a great choice of restaurant.

The 19th September 2009. Up at 6.30 am, racing around to water my mimosa tree, amongst other things. The garden is in shadow and silent except for single crabapples falling haphazardly with a hollow bong onto the metal tray of the barbecue - but there is that sense of growing momentum, of the day opening up. The car has been borrowed by our daughters and is hopefully even now speeding towards the Channel Tunnel en route to the south of France. It will appreciate a good long run after being incarcerated so long in its city hutch.

Last bit of ironing, all switches off, loos flushed, cases bearing coloured ribbons in the hallway. Leaving home is always a nightmare for me. I don't want to go, I think of all the things that could go wrong. The taxi arrives, the driver picks up our bags and we are dragged out of our burrow... it is agonizing. We turn the corner at the bottom of the street and all at once I have forgotten about our house. We are on our way.

It's always best to look forward for the most part and my natural instincts seem to mainly work that way. Now I fiddle neurotically in my bag, checking passport and tickets. The ride to Terminal 3 is smooth and we arrive in good time. However, there is an enormous queue and a high percentage of lumbering bodies plonking around. I hope I am not sitting next to one of them.

I am rewarded with a window seat. Turkish Airways give us the best airline lunch I've had in a long time, finishing up with a piece of plum cake and a glass of cherry juice. All prettily presented and delicious.

SLIGHTLY SINISTER

Last week I went to see Francis and Christine Kyle at their gallery in Maddox Street. Ramsey Gibb, who shows his paintings there, has just completed five or six oils of Istanbul, which are to be part of a large 'Byzantium' exhibition, starting on the 11th November. There is one of the waters of the Bosphorus, which I think is outstanding. It's edgy. Viscous, heavy water with a slightly sinister swell below a pinkish blue evening sky, silhouetting the dark minarets of a domed mosque on the opposite shore. I am unaware now that I will soon be sitting on a boat with this selfsame view before my eyes. John took a photo of it, which I must compare with the painting.

Three quarters of an hour to go. Some children are starting to squawk like jackdaws and the scene outside is rather Daliesque. Pale blue lakes and eruptions of cumulous clouds, like forts or fairy castles, rising out of an otherwise deserted landscape. I can imagine a posse of colourful, turbanned janissaries on horseback, flags flying, galloping across the white, pristine plain... far down below are countries I have never been to. Full of dragons, I expect.

The plane drones on and the sun coming through the window makes me drowsy. At last I can see the waters of the Bosphorus, alive with a myriad of boats, great and small. After interminable waits to get visas and find our bags, we are in a bus going to the city centre. Ribbons of scarlet flowers like supine snakes garland the middle of the dual carriageway.

Our hotel welcomes us in the lobby with drinks of soft, pastel coloured syrup. Mine is pink, John's is appropriately green and there's orange and blue to make up the disparate colours of the rainbow. Our room is on the sixth floor, looking out over the street, with a rooftop glimpse of the Topkapi Palace in the distance. There's a shop/café on the opposite side of the street, selling all kinds of delicious sweetmeats. I am immediately seduced and can't wait to be sitting at one of the inviting wooden tables outside. John is more interested in sorting out the various cables he needs for his computer.

There are two low, narrowish beds with firm mattresses. I lie down feeling completely flattened by the travelling and queueing. But happy and rather astonished to be here, in the heart of Istanbul. The hotel dining room is on the top floor, enclosed in glass with a spectacular view of the Golden Horn. The mosques and bridges are illuminated at night and the anticipation of what lies ahead tomorrow is almost unbearable - especially as I am so dog tired at the same time. Luckily, I am completely blotto as soon as my head touches the pillow and stay that way until the dawn wakes me, lighting up the cherry and ochre petals of the large green stemmed flowers on the curtains.

This is going to be a long entry - but, of course, you can skim it........

I don't know how long Maison Bertaux has been running but I've been going there since the 1970s. I took these photos of it last weekend. It has recently expanded and been spruced up. I was on my way to a 'pearl knotting' course at 'The Bead Shop', just by 'The Ivy' restaurant. Maison Bertaux supplied me with a delicious petit déjeuner en route.

John had gone to Lausanne the day before. I had 'flu and was relieved that I could stay in bed and also that he might miss getting it, having left the Krankenhaus. On Monday morning I couldn't believe my eyes at how much snow had fallen in the night. It was pristine and untouched in the garden, except for fox and bird footprints, which were quite intriguing to track. The nocturnal life of the garden unveiled!

It was cold and bright and we took the well trodden path through the woods and then onwards around Pen Ponds. There were lots of birds on the water and it was a treat to see a woodpecker as we made our way through the trees up to the Ballet School on the way home.

A friend invited us to a carol singing concert at St. James's church on Piccadilly - the church with all the stalls outside, which sell everything from old costume jewellery, silk and woollen scarves and amber to coins and badges, silver spoons and teapots, old magnifying glasses, compasses and ancient Ethiopian crosses. The stallholders were packing up for the day as we arrived.

I looked out of our bedroom window one morning at the beginning of November and saw a very healthy looking fox basking in the warmth of the sun on our summerhouse roof. Later, I tiptoed down the garden as quietly as I could and got quite a good close up.

From time to time somebody will ask you what your favourite book, film, music, food is. I don't really have just one favourite as it often depends on the mood I'm in. But for some reason, I do, against all odds, have a favourite book. It's 'The Greengage Summer' by Rumer Godden. I probably read it once every two years in the summer, when it's hot. And every time I read it I wish I could have written it myself.

Hania invited me to go with her to the 19th Festival du Film Britannique de Dinard, held between the 2nd - 5th October. Hurrah! I made my way to Liverpool Street, which is now a wonderful railway station, with a high, glass roof, making it airy and light. In the sixties, it was rather dingy and gloomy and workhouse Victorian in style - and now it's been renovated to almost high art level. It's very streamlined and a joy to use.

I am being frugal but healthy and John pronounced this lunch truly delicious, so I'm noting it down.

John has covered most of our weekend in Dorset in his blog. So I'm just going to list a few of the best and the worst things.

The Best Things were:-

1. The beautiful and comfortable Georgian bed and breakfast in an idyllic setting by the river at Frampton with the three friendly dogs, the painting of a Breton fishmarket by an unknown French artist, Beaufils, and a beautifully carved, pale wood, almost lifesize swan. And the gate, which miraculously opened by itself.

2. Walking through fields of lush, fresh scented, bluegreen grass in the evening under a big sky, making our way down into the valley where Trill farmhouse welcomed us. It looked like a gypsy festival with all the children and dogs roaming around and everybody dancing to the band. And the wine came in huge, pear shaped carafes, echoing some of the drinkers' figures - in the best possible taste.....

3. Climbing hills, which I hadn't done for a very long time and which was rejuvenating.
Tramping the length of the ramparts at the Iron Age hill fort of Maiden Castle, meeting some delightful people there and, later on, sitting by the sheep on a low wall, eating pink Discovery apples, Jarlsberg cheese and Waitrose's very delicious 'tiffin' bars.



4. Meeting the eccentric and knowledgeable old 'cider' man, tending his ramshackle greenhouses next to the ancient mill. The six foot square blue and gold clock which looked as if it should be somewhere like King's Cross station but is stacked up against a wall and weighs a ton. And here's a photo of the incredible hewn stone machinery.

I must just put this down before I forget because it's a story of kindness, of which I think more should be reported. And I also wanted to say 'thank you' to this unknown person, who was so kind to me, especially.

Linking the words 'trouble' and 'headscarves' suggests a current issue which is religion related and has caused fierce debate. Well, that is what most people might think of, reading the title.

However, in London in the early 1970s, everyone was aware of the 'Sloane Ranger' - young and not-so-young smartly dressed women, denizens of Peter Jones in Sloane Square, who were seen out and about in the environs of Chelsea and Belgravia, wearing an expensive silk headscarf, tied 'just so', under the chin.

We inherited a rampantly overgrown garden when we moved here in the early 1970s. The old man who owned it before us had grown tomatoes and there were two greenhouses, which took up a lot of the space. They were quite ramshackle, so we took one down altogether and replaced the other, as I also planned to grow tomatoes. Somebody gave us a black mulberry tree, which sadly came to grief in the big storm some years later. I put in a grapevine by the front door which had no fruit for seven years and since then it's been like a mini vineyard, heavy with bunches of grapes every summer. They turn a rosé colour when ripe and taste of strawberries.



The garden has walls on all sides. These came in especially useful when we kept rabbits and allowed them to run around freely. Although they managed to dig a large warren while unsupervised, they couldn't dig under the walls. They escaped from the clutches of the neighbouring cats by scarpering down the holes they had dug. We were sad when they died but I was thrilled to find I still had some of my original plants, which began to flourish again, with nobody around to eat them.

I had been prowling around endless nooks and crannies in central London, sniffing out the territory for possible office space re John’s new venture, VOLANS, when, without so much as a ‘gardez-loo’, one of those unpredictable and vicious April showers targeted me, threatening to leave me like a drowned rat, upended with the entrails of my pink rose umbrella, in the gutter. And initiating a ‘bad hair’ day to boot…rah…

I ran for cover, bounding through the back door of Stanford’s travel bookshop in Floral Street, where there is a small and welcome café and a feast of travel literature on the shelves beyond. I had a day or so to make up my mind as to where we could go for a week at short notice.

The wind was very blustery this morning. So fierce at times that as I was buying a box of organic eggs from the Somerset farmers, the stallholders had to hold down their flimsy tent coverings, two of which were buffeted mercilessly to the ground..... the eggs survived. I also replenished our apple juice store from Ringden farm orchards. A husband and wife team come up every Saturday from the Kent/Sussex Weald to sell both apples in season and juice all year round. I bought two bottles of 'Russet' and one of 'Discovery' for £5.00. They do a great variety, including Worcester, Cox and Bramley, Red Pippin and Grenadier. Large green glass bottles, great value and truly delicious.

Cyprus. Not a number one choice for me, but John had talked about revisiting his childhood haunts there since I met him in 1968, so when I saw Northern Cyprus scheduled for early March in the ACE brochure, including many castles, I thought I would make it happen.

The tour leader is Curator of the British Architectural Library at the V & A museum. That sounded good, too, and when I managed to book the last two places, I was cautiously optimistic. John was thrilled.

I have an ongoing crisis of confidence whenever I have to be in sole charge of choosing
where to go on holiday. This doesn't happen too often, as we hardly get the chance, (moan), but eight precious days at the end of September had been tortuously squeezed out, like the last bit of toothpaste in the tube and I had to make the most of it, while John, as usual, seemed disinterested in the whole prospect. I used to feel upset about this but looking at his family habits, going on holiday is not top of their list of things to do, so I've put it down to genes. He does usually enjoy himself after a two day acclimatisation process - input from his camera and computer are an important part of this...

On the other hand, I love taking trips. Sometimes I just want to play safe and go somewhere we've been before. I have actually done this in the past but it has been in summer and then winter, second time round. This was in Wengen, near Lakes Thun and Brienz, the region of Switzerland known as the Bernese Oberland, which is famous for mountains such as the Eiger, the Mônch, and the Jungfrau. Wengen is a car free village half way up a mountain and very special in many ways (see another article I have written for further info.).

But it was now late September. Although I am always seduced by mountains and lakes, we were so paper thin and exhausted that we really did need the southern warmth of the sun to slowly soothe, warm up and relax our bodies and transfuse us with that intangible glow of energy. This promotes a specific 'look', which I remember on the faces of my schoolmates being back for the first day of school after the summer vacation. You usually only notice this 'look' after you get home from holiday and it doesn't last for long. But when you have it, you look a million dollars.

For 'luxe, calme et volupté', I ended up choosing the Hotel Orselina, on Lake Maggiore - in the Ticino/Italian part of Switzerland. It was with a mixture of excited anticipation and dread that I opened the envelope containing the tickets. John, meanwhile, packed his case, not knowing where Locarno was. I was happy not to discuss it, in case it proved to be a disappointment.