Author Archives: Grace Lessageing

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About Grace Lessageing

I am writer of novels, short stories, flash fiction, blogs. I lead a creative writing group. I am an Ex infant teacher, living in Christchurch, Dorset, UK. My brand new novel, The Conways at Earthsend was published on January 28th 2021 can be found on Amazon, Waterstones, Hive and Goodreads and is available in either paperback or e-book versions. You can also read The Year of Familiar Strangers, available as an e-book from Amazon. You can visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Jane-Deans-Novellist-Short-Fiction-and-Blog-102757711838272 Happy reading!

In the Company of Trees

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Though it’s not on the plan, as we leave Tobacconist Farm, Minchinhampton I remember that we’re not so far from somewhere I’ve wanted to visit for a long time- the national arboretum at Westonbirt. The arboretum is home to a huge collection of trees and since we’re passing very close it seems a good chance to go and see it.

It’s a warm, bright day. We pull into the coach and motorhome, where we’re almost alone, park and decide to have coffee before we set off around the plantation.

It’s not busy on this weekday, so as we begin to stroll around the vast area we’re often out of sight of anyone. The trees here are extraordinary. As well as the well-known, indigenous trees of the UK, there are many unusual specimens from all over the globe and they’ve made a great job of labelling most of them.

This is a beautiful time to visit, as in between the trees there are huge carpets of proper British bluebells and glorious, vivid rhododendrons in eye-popping colours. The plantation is divided into areas- a lime tree grove, an oak walk, a maple loop. The maples are displaying their finest foliage, with an array of colours from lime green through to the brightest scarlet. There are, of course, some real giants here, too- towering redwoods and huge horse chestnuts.

There’s a lot to see and it requires a lot of walking, which is good for us, although for those who find it harder there’s a shuttle service to take around the site. It’s well organised. In the end we decide there’s so much to see here that we should probably have some lunch at the small cafe and continue.

After a sandwich and coffee, we’re up for finishing the circuit of the place. which means going up the other side and a wilder part, wooded and canopied. On one pathway there is the Gruffalo- and I noticed that childrens’ parties can be held here-. I think I’d have loved a birthday party in the woods as a child! [also I wish I was Julia Donaldson but that’s another [childrens’] story.

We’re working our way towards the elevated tree-top walk, which can be seen from the entrance, then we’re climbing up and getting the views. Below us there’s a woodworking workshop where furniture is being made; above us a short set of steps up to a rounded tower- all, of course, in timber.

We feel we’ve earned tea and cake, conveniently available from a kiosk near the entrance. It’s time to move on and to our next site in the village of Lacock. This site is a world away from ‘Tobacconist Farm’, which was basically a field with a shower block. This one is landscaped, the hard standing pitches meticulously lined up with their own patches of mown grass. There are carefully tended flower beds, a thoughful play area [this site is not adults only], a separate tent field, the beginnings of some glamping units. We’ve booked and already have a pitch number, so there’s no checking in- just finding the pitch and plugging in.

We take a quick stroll down the hill and across the busy road to the village for a very quick recce, then back. The day is still warm and it’s pleasant enough to cook and eat outside- which we do….

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Cotswold Jaunt

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So following the unedifying debacle of a van trip to Spain in March, which nasty weather and electrical failure prompted us to abort, we settle down at home for a while, to undertake chores, take stock and have the van repaired.

It transpires that [according to the repair man] the Spanish campsite sockets were the culprits of our calamity in the electrical department. At home, April continues the soggy theme and it’s not until May comes around and there’s enough time between various obligations [health appointments] to chance a short break closer to home.

Husband is a devotee of Gloucester Rugby and has expressed a desire to watch them at their ground and this seems like an incentive to travel onwards into the Cotswolds, even though we went last year. This gives me an afternoon wander around the shopping areas, although I’m disappointed in the range of stores, which are predominantly fashion. There are some odd characters roaming the shopping centre, too…

Our onward journey takes us through some archetypal British villages-

We’re on our way again next day and on to Minchinhampton, a typical Cotswold village with pubs, church, cafe, grocery shop, a miniscule market area, allotments and a vast, open common. We’re booked in at ‘Tobacconist Farm’ and I can’t help running the old song, ‘Tobacco Road’ [first recorded in 1964 by The Nashville Teens] through my head. Access to the site is tucked away in a corner by the allotments and not easy to find, but when we do get in it’s a simple, open meadow next to a donkeys’ field, with a small shower block down at the end.

We’re not quite alone, but there are only a handful of vans around the edges of the meadow. The owner is a larger-than-life woman who clearly likes to talk and rides around on a quad bike.

Once installed, we go to stroll around the village, which is soon accomplished.

The following afternoon we go to visit Cirencester. It’s not a large town but has an enormous parish church that is easily cathedral sized! There are beautiful grounds to the rear of it and a tiny section of old Roman wall as well as a Norman arch. There isn’t a whole lot else to the town but it’s pleasant enough.

The weather deteriorates a little and there are a few showers, but next day, after a slow morning. we stride out across the common, which is undulating and dotted with communities of cowslips. There’s a huge pub which is clearly popular on this bank holiday weekend, judging by the throng of cars parked everywhere. We walk until we reach the brow of a hill overlooking a valley then turn to loop back, getting somewhat lost by attempting a different route back.

For our final night at Tobacconist Farm, we eat at the village pub on the square, which is more than acceptable and has a lovely decor.

Then we’re off towards the next destination, but not before we’ve visited a stunning plantation…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Beastly Buses of Bilbao

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We’ve had a brilliant time at the Guggenheim Gallery in Bilbao, looking at a magnificent pop-art exhibition. Now we retrace our steps to Bilbao’s ‘international’ bus station to get the first of the two buses we need to take, back to our camp site at Islares.

The buses themselves are on the ground floor of the station and we enter on the first floor. But I notice there are ticket barriers, which I mention to Husband, who shrugs and tells me we can pay on the bus. This is what we did when we came. We paid the driver. But how are we to get through the ticket barriers?

We go around to the back and spot a staircase. Hooray! We can go downstairs to the buses, which we do. And there- THERE is our bus- the bus to Castro Urdiales that we need to take to get another bus back to Islares. It’s the 5.00pm bus, which is perfect timing. We join the queue and soon it moves along as people begin to board the bus, their tickets being checked by the driver. Then it’s our turn. But no- we can’t board the bus. We don’t have a ticket. We are turned away.

We dash upstairs to the first floor and to the manned icket windows. ‘No’ says the ticket seller, ‘you can pay the driver’. ‘But we can’t!’ we tell her. And she shrugs.

5.oopm comes and goes- and so does the bus.

While we are standing helpless and hopeless we are joined by the Dutch couple from our site- the ones who’d turned up after us and had eaten paella in the restaurant as we had. Now the four of us are attempting to get back to Islares. We turn our attention to the ticket machines, a row of them along a wall. They are not all identical but we try a few. We press buttons. Some destinations appear on a list. Castro Urdiales, however, is not among them.

We return to the ticket windows, where we are variously told to pay the driver, shrugged at or ignored. By now we have bonded with the friendly Dutch couple, united in our difficulties. We all return to the machines. Then we’re joined by a kind Nigerian who seems very keen to help- for a while, although as he tries machines and accompanies us to the ticket windows it becomes clear that his attempts to help are eclipsed by his ignorance of the entire procedure. We are no further on with our ticket purchasing. And the next bus is the 6.00pm.

We return to the windows with no improvement in results. ‘Why doesn’t she help us?’ says the Dutch lady- and it is a mystery.

Then we get a breakthrough. One of the ticket machines- one of the smaller ones at the end of the line- displays our stop, Castro Urdiales. Eureka! We quickly begin buying tickets, using credit cards. It has to be done one by one. Then we’re done and have 4 tickets! But there’s a wait now for the six o’clock bus, so we repair to the bar and chat.

At last we board our bus, quieter now than the 5pm one. We set off for Castro Urdiales, with deteriorating weather. Once we reach the town we peer out to look for the bullring, then we’re there; the bus parks and we get out and go to our stop, although we must wait on the opposite side of the road. Sadly, although it’s now raining, the side where we must wait has no bus shelter- and it’s also become much colder. We’ve no idea of the bus schedule, but a look on the internet suggests there won’t be a bus for about an hour. An hour!

There’s nowhere close to retreat to- not a bar or a coffee shop where we could see a bus approaching. We sit in the bus shelter, ready to leap across the road should a bus come. We get very cold but are glad of the company of our new Dutch friends. Now and again a taxi zooms by and I wave madly- and in vain.

At long last the bus arrives and we can get back to Islares. By the time we’re there the rain is falling in bucketloads and it’s gone 8pm. We all go to the cafe and have a convivial meal.

Next day we’re off to the ferry at Santander. Our friends have not emerged so I leave them a note. Then we drive away and to the port for the [tedious] sailing home to the UK-

Needless to add- I did not photograph any of our grim return journey, so instead I’ve added some more pop-art!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Popping out for Pop-Art

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Bilbao’s bus station is impressive- a large, modern, red cube with escalators, ticket barriers and a tapas bar. As we exit into a large square next to the equally impressive stadium, we make sure to imprint the position and road names in order to find our way back. We’ve neglected to pick up a tourist map for this excursion, which has been impromptu.

We’ve one main aim in mind for this trip to, which is to visit the Guggenheim. Previous visits to Bilbao have only been for ferry purposes, so it’s high time we looked at the city and this iconic gallery.

With no map and no indication of where the gallery is, we turn left out of the bus station and vaguely downhill. I know the Guggenheim is by the water so it seems to make sense to go downhill and this turns out to be correct as at last we find some signs. Further down the hill there’s a big roundabout with a very tall statue of Christ and we need to negotiate our way around and avoid occasional trams, taking a right hand turning- then there’s a beautiful park containing elegant pergolas, followed by some hugely tall skyscrapers. We walk on until, at last, the iconic Guggenheim comes into view, sitting in landscaped gardens and yes- by the water.

People’s views on architecture differ, but I like any building, old or new, as long as it is characterful- and the Guggenheim has character in spades. Of course, I’d have preferred to have seen it on a sunny day, nevertheless the sinuous, glossy walls of the building are glorious- organic, bulging curves. To begin with, we walk past, along the waterside and past the stallholders with their trinkets. Outside, here on the pedestrian-only walkway theres a giant, sculpted spider and of course, many of the stalls sport mini versions of it.

We’ve got one bit of luck [after a miserable run of glitches] in that the Guggenheim is showing a pop art exhibition with some extremely famous artists’ work, which is irresistible. We walk up the wide steps to the entrance and buy tickets. The inside of the building is equally mind-blowing as you look up towards the top floors and it’s light, with vast, twisty columns, a voluminous space.

We go first to a vast hall containg one, gargantuan sculpture by Richard Serra, an artist who has only just died a couple of days ago, which gives it all a poignancy. The sculture.called ‘A Matter of Time’, consists of huge steel curves, some concentric, others independent, the steel weathered to a rusty bronze. It’s beautiful and sensual and can be walked around and touched, the surfaces smooth or textured. We spend some time here- at one point getting uqite lost among the maze-like structures.

On the upper floors we find Warhols, Lichtensteins, Rothkos and much more besides- in one room a large Gilbert and George mural. It’s all thrilling and absorbing and comes some way to compensating for the wretched time we’ve had on this, our first foray overseas since serious illness and major surgery blighted last autumn.

There’s not a lot of time left after the gallery- just enough for a visit to the cafe and a look at Jeff Koons playful, planted sculpture of a puppy, all covered in living flowers.

We walk back to the bus station and the trouble really starts…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Brief Sunny Interval at Islares

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We’ve stayed here, at Islares, before, another occasion when we’d needed to get home earlier than planned. I recognise the site when we pull in; a green, daisy- strewn field next to the sea. There’s loads of space, and, best of all, the sun is out. The journey here has been pleasant and I remember how beautiful the north coast of Spain is- rugged and glorious.

There aren’t many places to walk here, but outside the camp site gates you can stroll up to the seaside bar and watch the waves crashing in against the rocks in fluffy plumes. When the sun comes out it actually feels hot, so having walked up and around the path a little we return, plonk down at a table and have beers in the sunshine. It feels, on this penultimate day, like a proper holiday at last- except we’ll be setting off home the day after tomorrow.

Back at the site, we scrutinise the bus timetable for tomorrow’s jaunt- a day’s sighseeing before we depart. We can get to Bilbao by bus from Islares, although it’s two buses.

The site here has its own, modest cafe/bar and we opt for this, rather than the posher place where we had our beers. It just has a few tables, formica topped and a small selection of meals, from burgers to paella. Since we can’t order until 8.00pm, we choose to prop up the bar with a beer. At 8 a few people drift in and sit and we decide on paella which, at 12 euros is a no-brainer, besides- a Dutch couple who’ve arrived to the site after us and parked nearby have ordered it and it’s looking delicious.

The paella arrives in a large, traditional dish. We dig into the fragrant rice and it’s full of wonderful, fresh seafood as well as topped off with giant langoustines. We’re happy.

Next morning we trudge up to the main road above our site and walk along but there’s no sign of a bus stop. We backtrack a little but by now the bus is due, which is worrying. I waylay a passer-by and launch into my woeful Spanish: ‘Senor- donde esta autobus?’ It will do! He gestures further along the main road, gabbling furiously, then gets into a car. He pulls alongside us and indicates that we should get in, then takes us up the road to the bus stop- a kind stranger!

After a while a few other passengers arrive to wait, then a small bus comes along and we’re off towards a town called Castro Urdiales, where we must change buses, ‘at the bull-ring’ as we’ve been advised.

The older I get, the more I enjoy bus rides and there are all kinds of reasons to use public transport, not least the convenience of not needing to find a parking place or worry about traffic, or the route. So we settle back to enjoy the ride and the scenery as the bus meanders in and out of villages and round the houses, until at last we’re in the outskirts of the town and we must pay attention in order to get off at the right place. Castro Urdiales is a sizeable town, with a seafront, all attractively landscaped and an obvious tourist destination.

We spot the bull-ring and get off, although there’s no obvious sign to where we catch the next bus. But there is a large coach parked in a space by the wall of the bull-ring and it’s complete with driver, who assures us that yes- it’s the bus for Bilbao. Hooray!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Back and Back…

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It’s become clear, on this terraced camp site opposite an industrial estate in Caceres, Spain, that our electrics are not going to work in any of their sockets. Worse still, it seems that the problem is ours, not theirs. Everyone else’s van is plugged in and working fine. This is a major hitch to our plans. We can cope for two days on battery power before we need to move and charge up, but we’d planned to stay longer in some of the sites we’ve booked- one, on the coast, almost a week.

Husband goes down to reception and returns triumphant, bearing the name and address of someone in the industrial estate who could help. The man in reception had been kind and helpful. We pin our hopes on the name and address and settle in for the evening. I’m relieved to have had a shower in the cleaner bathroom, as although the ranting French lady and her husband have moved on, they’ve been replaced by a Dutch couple.

By morning the weather hasn’t improved and it’s colder, overcast and breezy. With the address of the electrician in the SATNAV, we plunge into the industrial estate, pulling in at a forecourt. The helpful campsite reception man has phoned ahead to alert him, explaining that we are English and a youngish man appears, brandishing a phone, on which he has downloaded the language app. It takes no more than 30 seconds for him to shrug and shake his head, once he’s seen the set-up. That’s a ‘no’ then.

We trundle round the roads of the industrial estate in the remote hope that there’s somewhere that might help and I try one or two likely places as well as some unlikely ones. Eventually we decide it’s no-go. I begin to feel that this lack of interest is more to do with the impending Easter holiday than anything else. Everywhere is winding down. Everyone is focused on their time off.

There’s nothing for it but to turn back, so we set the SAT back to Salamanca and get back on the motorway. At the whizzo services I go inside for over-the-top chocolatey pastries to revive our flagging spirits, then we’re on again, back to Salamanca, where, at least we know there’s plenty of space. The weather continues to get colder and there’s a nasty, biting edge to the wind.

When we turn into the entrance to ‘Don Quijote’, the lovely Salamanca site, I notice a building we hadn’t seen before- ‘Motorhome Services’. Motorhome Services! I experience a frisson of excitement. We’ll check in and investigate, though it has some hefty gates and they are closed. We check in and enquire at reception, where the man says they might help, although holidays are fast approaching and they’ll be wanting to get their existing work finished beforehand.

On the site, everyone is swathed in puffa jackets, hats and scarves. It is perishing cold now- 3 degrees! We won’t be getting chairs out for a bask in the sunshine. We wait until the motorhome place is open then take the van along there. A woman emerges from a large hanger and beckons us in. She looks. She has us plug in to their socket. It blows. She shrugs, shakes her head. I feel my shoulders sag.

In the morning we track back towards Burgos. It’s now Wednesday and we can’t get a ferry home until Saturday so we opt to spend two nights. We can hunker down with books and at least now we have internet. We check back in. The wind is blowing horizontally across the site and I’m hoping a tree doesn’t fall on anyone. In the evening we go to the restaurant for a change of scene.

The afternoon of the following day is brighter and we stretch our legs with a bracing walk around the extensive park by the site. It’s been landscaped with barbecues and footpaths, one of which follows the river. Along the way we encounter more pilgrims with their walking poles and large backpacks. Presumably they’ll be trekking to Burgos for the Easter shindig.

We leave next day and head to a site on the coast between Santander and Bilbao where we’ve stayed before. We’ll stay our final two nights there- and we have a plan for our final day…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

On to Salamanca

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So we leave Burgos and continue down towards our next stop, Salamanca. The Spanish motorways are excellent; toll-free, quiet and well served with service areas, although they do vary quite a bit, some being right by the roadside, others a detour into a village. Some of the roadside ones boast modest hotels, together with a host of facilities including cafes and shops. Others may just be a petrol station with a coffee machine.

We take a break, veering off to a village gas station where a man emerges and dolls out the diesel rather than it being self-service. This is endearing, a step back in time for us. There is a small parking area and three picnic tables beside the petrol station and as it’s fine enough to sit outside we have coffee at one of the tables, entertained by a stream of hikers, pilgrims making their way along the path towards Santiago de Compostela. At this stage, close to Easter, it seems unlikely that they’ll achieve Santiago, but perhaps they use a cheeky bit of public transport? Or is part of the way enough? At one point an entire family turns up in a 4×4, get out, smoke cigarettes, change their shoes and set off walking…

It’s not too far to Salamanca. For those who haven’t been to this most gorgeous of cities, it is well worth a visit- a historic centre of beautiful buildings of golden stone- best seen in sunshine, when the yellow stone zings. But again, we’ve been before and it’s not our destination this time so we check in for one night. I remember the site, tidy and tree strewn, by a river, with a cycle/footpath leading into the city. The sun has enough warmth for us to get chairs out for a bask, which we do. There’s also a tempting looking restaurant at which we just about manage to squeeze a booking by saying we’ll go at 9.30pm. It’s a wonderful meal, though and worth the wait, and while we feel it’s late for us to be eating there are many coming in later still on this Saturday night- some at 10.30pm! This is Spain, after all, with a culture of late evening dining that includes small children, too.

We’re off again in the morning, the weather having turned more gloomy, but we strike out on the road to Caceres- another city we’ve visited in the past, memorable for its nesting storks on every lofty perch, its wacky Easter parades of floats and pointy-hat adorned bearers and its huge plates of beef. En route we stop at a wonderful service area with a fruit and veg stall, shop and cafe, where coaches are pulling in, presumably carrying Easter travellers. Easter is a big holiday for the Spanish and everyone, it seems, is on the move.

By the time we get to Caceres there’s a strong breeze blowing. We locate the camp site but it’s not one we recognise and I’m at a loss to recall where we staryed last time. This site is opposite and industrial estate and is terraced, with pitches housing individual bathrooms, according to our ACSI book. We check in and find our pitch, which is under a large tree. When I take a look at the bathroom I’m less than impressed. It’s grubby, with leaves blown inside and furniture piled up in the shower cubicle.

I go in to put the kettle on while Husband grabs the cable to plug the van in. But there’s no power. He tries the socket in the neighbouring [empty] pitch. No power. He goes to reception, where he’s told it’s ok to use next-door’s socket, although it’s becoming clear that something is badly amiss. Next door’s bathroom, however, is altogether cleaner, so I get a shower in there before anyone else turns up- which they do- a massive motorhome and a woman gabbling a tirade of French at us with no thought that we might not be compatriots on this Spanish site…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Caught without a Web

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We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Toe in the Water

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It’s a return to travel writing in this week’s post…

Not literally- at least I hope not!

The ferry from Portsmouth, UK to Santander in northern Spain leaves sometime after 11pm; after the last, remaining motorhomes, lorries, cars and motorbikes have been fitted into the jigsaw slots in the ferry’s capacious hold. This boat is one of Brittany Ferries’ newest, boasting ingenious ramps and contraptions in order to accomodate as many vehicles as possible. Similarly, there is more cabin capacity than public area, although the bar/lounge, once we’ve managed to get loaded on, found our cabin and got there, is bursting with life, a roaring trade, with drinks and platters of charcuterie and cheese flying out like the end of the world is at hand. Once we’ve sat down with a drink ourselves, all the dreary waiting in queues, yawning, is forgotten.

I don’t sleep well on ferries. In fact, I don’t sleep well at all, these days, but after this first cabin night there’s no rush to get up. It’s a dinky 4-berth, which is lucky because neither of us is cabable of clambering up and down off a high bunk, especiallly in the dark. Next morning there’s a cafe queue for huge breakfasts, and since we’re not huge breakfasters we grab coffee and a pastry, then…what? We can walk around the boat for a look, which we do. We can look at the one, modest shop, which we do. We can go to the ‘reading room’, which we also do, although it isn’t as comfortable as it looks and not as warm as the other areas. We spend an hour or so then get another coffee.

We have lunch. We read, We take another tour. We resist the urge to drink the day away as some are doing. The views in the Bay of Biscay become, briefly interesting as we glide past Brittany, with the lighthouse at Finistere a feature. The afternoon becomes bright with sunlight and the skies clear, until the sun is a tangerine orb that sinks into the sea. We go to shower in the tiny ensuite inside our cabin then go for dinner.

I’m awake before the tannoy announces our imminent arrival to Santander. It’s 7.00am, so 1 hour before we must disembark, but there’s very little to do except wash, dress and pack. In the cafe some are scoffing down ‘full English’ breakfasts as if they’ll never eat an edible morsel again. Santander port begins to slide past then the boat slows and we’re docking. We’re called to the car decks and descend through the hoards to ours- which we’ve taken care to remember! [I’ve described in a long ago post how we failed to locate our van on the Sardinia ferry and were mortified to be the last remaining vehicle as well as confronted by scowling ferrymen].

It takes an age to unload everyone and we’re one of the last to trundle off the boat and on to Spanish shores, then out into the outskirts of town, driving south and west. This first part of our journey is mountainous [the Cantabrian Mountains] and it’s exciting to see snow caps. We stop at a convenient supermarket for supplies and the bright sun feels warm. The autovia is easy and quiet and we’re on our way to Burgos…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [Part 3]

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Molly and Ed have been paying a visit to lugubrious Steven as a favour to a neighbour, but the visit is not easy or enjoyable. Now they on their way back home…

‘You’re surely not going, are you?’ Ed exhales an irritated huff as I begin to reverse out of the driveway.

‘I feel I should. I need to be Elspeth’s representative. And If I don’t go, who on earth else will?’

‘It doesn’t matter,does it? Who cares? It’s not our problem. I suppose at least we’ve got a cake out of it.’

Next morning I go next door to Elspeth’s to tell her when the funeral is, playing down the negative reception we had from Stevenand probing a little into the strange, mother-son relationship of Steven and Bet. My elderly, infirm neighbour is sitting in her usual spot by the bay window, where she likes to watch the world go by. I tap the window to let her know I’m coming in, then use my key.

Elspeth was here when we moved here, seven years ago. She made us feel welcome straight away, going on to become a close friend and confidante. Over the years she’s become disabled, lost confidence and rarely leaves the house, even though she knows we’d take her anywhere she’d like to go. I pop in most days, unless we’re on holiday, just to check if she’s alright and see if she needs any shopping.

I make us both tea and settle into a chair opposite her. She’s looking expectant, wanting to know how we got on yesterday at Steven’s house.

‘Did he like the flowers?’ she asks. I smile.

‘Oh yes- I think he liked them. I found a vase to put them in for him.’

She nods. ‘How does he seem, Molly?’

I chew my lip, thinking. ‘He’s…he’s sad, of course.’

She waits for more. She hasn’t seen Steven or his mother for more than twenty years. since they moved to the coast, to Eastbourne and I wonder why they made the choice to move away from anyone they knew, given that neither of them had left the bungalow or the TV screen to stroll by the sea and enjoy the benefits of coastal living.

‘Elspeth, why do you think Steven stayed with his mum and never left the family home? He seems to have become dependent on her right into adulthood.’

She gazes out of the window, where a hungry blue tit is tearing away at her bird feeder.

‘Well, they were always close,’ she tells me, ‘more so when his dad left them. I think Steven felt protective towards her then I suppose it became a mutual thing.’ she turns back to me.

I ask her how she and Bet had met and she describes how they’d both started in the same accountancy firm on the same day, how they’d gone out dancing, met men, had boyfriends who’d become husbands, had a baby within a year of each other. They’d been bridesmaids for each other, supported each other and laughed together for years, shared secrets and helped out whenever it was needed, until Bet’s husband left her and she wanted a new start, wanted to be near the sea. She chose Eastbourne, many miles away.

Elspeth’s happy marriage came to an end when she was widowed but she no longer had the immediate support of her best friend. Contact had been reduced to letters, fewer and fewer of them as time went by, then only birthdays and Christmas cards. Elspeth had received an impersonal, typed, round-robin letter informing her of Bet’s death.When she asks me about the funeral arrangements I feel so sorry for her I tell her I will deputise for her and attend.

Then I realise I will have to tell Ed.

Back at our house, Ed is busy pottering in the garage. I open the door and he looks up.

‘How was Elspeth?’ he asks me.

‘She’s ok. I know you won’t like this idea much,’ I venture, ‘but…

Check in next Sunday for the fourth and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com