I do it my way

Monday

A bit of a non-event day apart from the arrival of 3 comic books at once which had to be read sitting outside in the timid afternoon sunshine resulting in a very pleasant time.

Tuesday

In Which We Close a Pool and Open a Bar Tab

Some days begin quietly. Tuesday began with the pool man, who arrived, tucked our pool in for the winter like a very expensive, very wet toddler, and left with the news that a couple of replacement parts will be needed before spring. Of course they will. Pools, like cars and teenagers, are never truly “done.”

The moment he left, we leapt into the car. I may be exaggerating the leaping. There was a pause for knees, and a brief negotiation about who had the keys. But we were off, heading north, or at least in the general direction of “not here.”

First Stop: Aigues-Mortes

Home is Carcassonne, a magnificent walled city, and I say that with love. But Aigues-Mortes is also a walled city, only this one is lively, beautifully kept, and sits by the water in the Camargue like it knows it’s the good-looking sibling. I spent a good part of the visit wondering why we didn’t move here in the first place. I have no answer. I have since been told there is a mortgage involved.

Lunch was at Banaras, an Indian restaurant I’d scouted online with the focus of a man planning a heist. Verdict: excellent. Pleasantly spicy 🌶️, and then came the Indian café gourmand, which was a dessert platter that might, in hindsight, have been a cry for help from my stomach. A digestive stroll followed, past restaurants with every outdoor table occupied. End of October, and the French were still sitting outside as if winter were a rumour. Respect.

On to Nîmes

Fifty kilometres later we reached Nîmes and our home for the night, the Novotel Atria, a couple of minutes’ walk from the famous arena. Not our first stay, and the location in the old town is perfect. We had barely unpacked before we were out again, which is the sort of discipline I usually reserve for finding the biscuit tin.

First up was the Maison Carrée, so well preserved it makes the rest of us feel poorly maintained. Nîmes is basically a Roman history buffet, and we were hungry for more. Then the Jardins de la Fontaine, which were absolutely worth it. We even sat on a bench for a few minutes to take it all in, which at our age counts as an extreme sport. The spring of Nemausus bubbles away a few yards off, and you can’t help picturing yourself in Roman times, wondering what it was like. (Mostly, I suspect, a lot of sandals and no gin and tonic. A tragedy.)

We then couldn’t resist buying tickets for the arena. Of the 200-odd Roman arenas still around, this is one of the best preserved, and it’s still used for shows and concerts. I must attend one soon. Gladiators optional.

Aperitif O’Clock

By 6pm, a tough fact had emerged: visiting ancient monuments is thirsty work. Fortunately Nîmes’s old town is generously stocked with bars, and we settled outside one for a couple of drinks plus one gin and tonic. (The maths is deliberately vague. History is hard to count.)

Still full from lunch, we staggered back to the hotel bar for a couple more G&Ts and a planche mixte, that glorious French plank of charcuterie and cheese, then retired very early to a very comfortable bed. I say this with authority.

The 1 a.m. Plot Twist

I woke just after 1 am, an odd hour even for a man who has just consumed a small distillery. And then it hit me: exactly 15 years ago, at this very time, I was having a rather nasty heart attack and being rushed to hospital in the German town where we then lived. It was touch and go, but I made it through in the nick of time.

So here I am, 15 years on, in a Roman city, full of cheese, gin, and curry, with a perfectly good heart and a very comfortable bed.

Maybe I should celebrate this anniversary every year. In fact, I think I will. Same menu, please.

Wednesday: In Which We Survive a Roman Hangover and Celebrate Not Smoking

Today also marks 15 years since I gave up smoking. The heart attack wasn’t directly caused by the habit, but lying in a hospital bed I took the hint, the way you do when a doctor looks at you over his glasses. After some 45 years of a nasty and, may I say, extortionately expensive pastime, I quit. And here is the annoying part: I had no problem stopping. No patches, no gum, no dramatic scenes. I’d like to say it was willpower, but I suspect my lungs simply filed a formal complaint.

So, a double anniversary. One heart attack survived, one cigarette-free decade and a half. Frankly, I’m getting good value out of this particular date. Next year I’m asking for a discount from the hospital.

Breakfast, or The Plan That Actually Worked

After a not-so-calm night, I was awake and upright at an hour usually reserved for bakers and the very guilty. The plan was simple: walk into town towards Les Halles and find a bistro for breakfast. And, in a rare triumph for the human race, the plan worked perfectly. We ended up at a place on the Place de l’Horloge that we remembered from a previous visit. The pain au chocolat was good, the coffee was good, and for ten glorious minutes nobody asked me to make a decision.

Maison Carrée, Part Two: The Interior

Having admired the Maison Carrée from the outside the day before, we decided to go in. We paid our entrance fee and stepped into… one room. A single, lovely, ancient room with a few boards explaining the history. It’s a bit like being invited to a famous restaurant and being shown a very well-preserved menu. Still, two thousand years old and it hasn’t needed a pool man once. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

The Great Car Extraction

Then came the logistics. Back to the hotel, collect our things, check out, and liberate the car from the hotel garage to find a spot near the lunch restaurant. Which, as it happens, is a mere 150 metres from the Maison Carrée. Driving there took twice as long as walking would have. Then add another ten minutes to find a parking space. I’m told the Romans had chariots and still managed to build a sensible road system. We have satnav and a sense of dread.

The Whole Point of the Exercise

Eventually, and with time to spare, we arrived at Le Questel, where we were meeting our friends Cécile and Thierry from Montélimar and Gérard from Pézenas. This, you see, was the whole point of the trip. The Romans, the gin, the arena and the cardiac anniversary were all, strictly speaking, a very elaborate pretext for lunch.

Everyone turned up on time, which at our age is practically a miracle, and we caught up on each other’s news over a lovely meal in a pleasant atmosphere. I can recommend the restaurant and will certainly be back. The conversation flowed, the company was excellent, and nobody mentioned the previous night’s gin count. Friends like that are rarer than a well-preserved Roman temple.

Homeward Bound

We parted ways after lunch and hit the road for the two-hour drive home, where we spent a quiet evening in front of the TV. After the previous 36 hours of ancient monuments, curry, gin and cheese, the sofa felt like the greatest civilisation of all.

To be continued…

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Return to Mission Control

Departures

Good night’s sleep? Check. Foot considerably less painful? Check. I’m giving full credit to the pint of Fuller’s London Pride last night. Medicinal, obviously. Doctors hate this one weird trick.

It’s not even 10am and I’m already on the Stansted Express, waiting to roll out to the airport. Peak efficiency, or just a very committed escape. You decide.

So it’s farewell to London for the second time in three months. Spring, I’ll see you there. Three full, fascinating, wonderfully varied days, and as always, I’ll save the proper reflecting for when I’m back home with a cuppa and my feet up (the better foot, anyway).

Cheerio for now, London. Keep the Pride cold. 🍺🚆

A tale of two Wests (and one sore foot)

Slept until 5am, which at my age is basically a medical miracle. Apparently walking half the Thames Valley will do that to a man.

Today’s plan: a cloth shop on King’s Road, a Chinese lunch, and some “something cultural” in between. Also, London’s last 6pm sunset of the year happened last night. I didn’t see it, but I’m told it was lovely and also a threat.

Then came the Mistake of the Month. I set out for West Ham. I arrived, with great confidence, at West Hampstead. These are not the same place. They are not even the same direction. We rode almost to the end of the line before the penny dropped, which in London is roughly Zone 6 of regret. Then we turned around, like two pensioners who’d taken the wrong coach to Margate.

Eventually we reached Sloane Square, home of the other half, the half that parks two Ferraris outside a shop as casually as I park a shopping trolley.

Prices around here have a certain “if you have to ask” quality.

Found the cloth. Admired the cloth. Did not buy the cloth, for two excellent reasons: (1) no room in my hand luggage, and (2) the price was the same as in France, only in pounds instead of euros, which is not a bargain, it’s a magic trick. I’ll buy it online and save 15%, and enjoy the smug glow of a man who outsmarted Sloane Square from his sofa.

Next, a pre-lunch gin and tonic at the Porcupine near Leicester Square. Every time I’m in London I end up here. At this point I suspect it isn’t a pub but a gravitational field.

Then Chinatown and a reservation at Joy King Lau, where a large and excellent meal awaited.

Somewhere between the dumplings, I was teleported back to Shanghai. My handful of Chinese words came flooding back, and I must have pronounced them rather well, because the head waitress responded with a torrent of fluent Mandarin. I understood none of it. My strategy: friendly grunts and a warm smile. Diplomacy, it turns out, is 80% nodding.

Sadly, my left foot then declared independence for reasons unknown. Walking was off the agenda. We still limped to Piccadilly Circus for a little shopping (priorities), then rode the tube back to Southwark.

I’m now writing with my foot elevated and a strong painkiller doing its best. The treatment plan is clinical: a visit to the local pub, where pints of real ale will perform the healing, followed by a couple of large nightcaps “for good measure.”

Doctors may disagree. The pub, I’m confident, will not.

Tomorrow: home. Hopefully in the right direction.

DRAFT

3:30 a.m. My body, apparently still on a schedule known only to itself, woke me for the third morning running. I then lay there for nearly two hours, staring at the ceiling and composing strongly worded letters to my circadian rhythm. Eventually sleep returned, like a guest who shows up after the party has ended.

Coffee in bed followed, brewed this time with bottled water bought the night before. Lesson learned: London’s tap water is a crime scene, and the bottled stuff is the only witness willing to cooperate. A drinkable cup at last. Small victories.

By 9 a.m. we were out the door, ready for a brisk march to Petticoat Lane Sunday market via the Millennium Bridge, St Paul’s Cathedral, and the Gherkin, which I still refuse to look at without feeling mildly judged. On arrival, one is immediately reminded of Del Boy Trotter, even though Peckham is nowhere near. Lovely jubbly, as they say, but I stayed vigilant for anything that “fell off the back of a lorry.”

Refuelling took place in a tiny Swedish cafeteria, where I ordered coffee and a sausage roll that turned out to be plant-based. A sausage roll with no sausage. A bold choice, and frankly, a plot twist I didn’t see coming. It was tasty, though I remain suspicious.

Then it was off toward Covent Garden, lunch being a non-negotiable deadline. Once we rediscovered St Paul’s (it’s hard to lose, but we managed to make it feel like an achievement), Fleet Street led us neatly into the Strand. We stopped one block short of Covent Garden at Bella Italia. I suddenly fancied pasta, which is the kind of sudden fancy that should always be obeyed. I ordered it, I ate it, I was happy. Next.

From our table we could see the Lyceum Theatre 🎭, where we held tickets for the 2:30 p.m. matinee of The Lion King. Knowing we’d be pinned to our seats for a good 2.5 hours, we took a quick stroll through Covent Garden first. Think of it as pre-emptive stretching for the sedentary marathon ahead.

The verdict on The Lion King? Excellent. The costumes, the scenery, the cast, the music, the songs: all of it thoroughly entertaining. Even from the stalls, the circle of life felt very much in session.

Afterwards we walked back to the hotel to put our feet up and deliberate over the evening’s agenda. Which brings me to the present, where I sit writing these lines and surveying the pub options within a 300-metre radius. Rigorous research, you understand. Choosing wisely is a serious business.

Today’s tally: 9.6 km on foot, one plant-based sausage roll, one plate of pasta, one lion king, and zero hours of decent sleep. Not bad, London. Not bad at all.

Cheers, and see you at Day 4, probably awake at 3:30 again. 🍺

DRAFT

Breakfast: croissant 🥐 and tea in bed, which is where the day’s first Big Decision was made. “Why don’t we walk to Marble Arch instead of taking the tube?” Reader, this was said by a person who had not yet met the day’s mileage. It was cool, dry, sunny, and only 4.7km. Only. The most dangerous word in travel.

Off we trot at 9am, across the bridge, past Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street, where devoted citizens queued for shops to open at 10, like pilgrims awaiting a sale on holy ground. Oxford Street was its usual calm, spacious self (it was not). We arrived at Marble Arch, parked ourselves in a coffee shop, and waited for my sister-in-law. Then came Frameless, my second visit in three months. Verdict: still worth it, even without the element of surprise. Art that survives repeat viewing is the only kind I trust. Same goes for sisters-in-law.

Then the Tube to Sky Garden, with a noble plan for a pre-lunch pint. London, however, had other ideas: not a single available pub. A city with 3,500 pubs and we couldn’t find one. So we went straight up to the 35th floor and drank with a view instead, which is the sort of problem I’m happy to have. Lunch at the Darwin Brasserie, window table, naturally (I had reserved it, thank you). Good food, took our time, very busy. A triumph.

Of course, a big lunch demands a digestive drink. That’s medicine. Across the river to the South Bank for Peaky Blinders. We got in! Success! No seats, and noise at a volume usually reserved for aircraft carriers. By order of the Shelby family, we left.

Onward through Borough Market to the Bunch of Grapes, a Young’s pub where I knew from experience a decent pint of Special awaited. And it did. Experience pays. Then we parted ways: my sister-in-law boarded a train home to her south-east coastal town, and we promised to reunite in Paris in the New Year. (Poland was apparently also discussed. Plans were made. Ask me again in January.)

We walked back to the hotel for a one-hour rest, which is just a nap that has been given a job title. Then to Waterloo and the tube to Charing Cross. Covent Garden station is dead to me: the gigantic lift queue and the 299 steps, a stair-based hostage situation my knees refuse to negotiate.

The plan was a drink at the Coal Hole on the Strand, but, like every other pub in London today, it was far too busy. Are the Londoners all in pubs? Is nobody working? Swift pivot to the terrace bar at the top of the Royal Opera House for an eye-wateringly expensive gin and tonic. Pricey, yes, but the view was lovely and the ice was probably imported.

Then the Duchess Theatre, 3 minutes away, with time to spare. The Play That Goes Wrong was very funny with excellent set design, which is the only time I’ll applaud things falling apart on purpose. 🎭

Nightcap at the Wellington around the corner (a Guinness, because I’m a creature of habit), then a stroll back to the hotel across the river.

Early to bed after 13.4km on foot. Tomorrow’s decision: absolutely no more “only 4.7km” walks. (Tomorrow we will absolutely do one.) 😴

A military operation immediately loses to curry

Or: how my meticulously timed itinerary lasted roughly 2 hours

I arrived in London with a plan. A proper plan. Timed, scheduled, practically laminated. Napoleon would have looked at it and said, “A bit much, mate.”

Then reality turned up, wearing a Ryanair lanyard.

The journey (a cautionary tale)

The flight to Stansted was, and I choose my words carefully here, horribly uncomfortable. I’ve had more legroom in a hamster ball. Once safely on the ground, I was rewarded with an hour on the Stansted Express and a couple of tube changes, which is London’s way of asking, “Are you sure you wanted to come?”

Yes. Yes, I was.

Eventually we reached Southwark station and our Premier Inn. The room is fine, the location is excellent, and nobody has yet attempted to charge me for breathing, so we’re off to a strong start.

Step one: the schedule says pub

Bags dropped, and exactly on schedule (enjoy that, it’s the last time), we marched to the marvellous old Lord Clyde for a pint of Tribute. Real ale, properly kept, in a proper pub. Each sip washed away another layer of Ryanair trauma. By the bottom of the glass, I had been fully rehabilitated and was prepared to forgive everyone, including the airline. (I later reconsidered.)

Step two: the schedule is overruled by my stomach

Unfortunately, real ale has a side effect: it makes you hungry. And so, with no warning to the Ministry of Itineraries, we deviated from the plan and headed to Est. India, the local Indian restaurant. The gin and tonic was good. The food was excellent. The plan was quietly taken outside and shot.

I suspect this will not be my only curry of the trip. The itinerary may as well accept this now and save us both the heartache.

Step three: early night (a bold strategy)

A ten-minute stroll brought us back to the hotel for an early night, UK time. A sensible, mature decision, made by a man who clearly doesn’t know his own body.

Because here I am at 3:30am, wide awake, typing this on my phone with the thumbs of a man wearing oven gloves. Jet lag is a stretch for a one-hour time difference, so I’m calling it what it is: Premier Inn’s very comfortable beds conspiring with a curry-and-ale cocktail to keep me up.

Day 2 awaits. The plan says “sightseeing.” My stomach says “breakfast.” We all know who’s winning.