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!

Bus Trials [again!]

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So it transpires that our neighbour at Bagwell Farm camp site, Chickerell, Raymond, is something of an institution, as having sorted out the electricity problem, he’s off hobnobbing with all and sundry. Clearly, he spends a great deal of time here and is to be spotted most of the day, sitting outside his caravan awning chatting to other ‘regulars’. It’s that kind of site. In contrast, the single man in the caravan the other side of us is reclusive to the point of hermit-dom, appearing rarely and furtively [and clad only in scruffy shorts].

But we’re here to enjoy the walks and the coast path and having undertaken quite a hefty hike yesterday, we’ll take a day off and get a bus to Abbotsbury, which is famous for its swannery, of course, [https://abbotsburyswannery.co.uk/ ] but has other, lesser known bits of interest.

It should be easy. We’ve used the bus service on many, many occasions back and forth along this part of the coast. And the bus stop is down on the main road, near the unpatronised Victoria pub we’ve already investigated. Husband, who is the maestro of all things timetable, has looked at bus times and selected one for us. We stroll down the field and to the stop by the silent pub and the busy road. A man rides out behind us on a mower and begins to cut the grass around the pub. We wait…and wait. An inspection of the bus stop timetable affords no help- since not only do the times bear no relation to Husband’s online timetable, they bear no relation to reality-

I begin to tire of standing still. We begin to discuss how long we should wait. I sit down. It’s a warm afternoon. After about 40 minutes [far too long!] we opt for returning to site. We get as far as the gate to the field and…yes…there is a bus. It pulls up at the stop. We make our attempt to run towards it in full view of the driver…we get to within 50 yards of the bus…and…it pulls away.

Having returned to the van and regrouped, not to be beaten, we try again, even though the afternoon is slipping by and we’ll need to return at some stage.

Finally we get on to a [very busy] bus and get to Abbotsbury, where we alight and attempt to discern the timetable for the bus back to Chickerell. I need hardly say that it is all nonsensical. We wander the lovely, picture-perfect village. We don’t have long, but we stumble upon Abbotsbury Abbey, which is delightful, with a ‘cut-your-own’ flower shop, a beautiful mill pond, the semi-ruined abbey and a cafe which is just about to close but will sell us drinks and cake to take away [hooray!]. We settle at a bench in the sunshine by the pond.

It’s time to meander back to the dastardly bus stop, opposite the pub. The bus stop bench is occupied so I lower myself on to a log by a gate from which chickens are coming and going- a more interesting diversion than the mower. At least this time there are fellow hopeful passengers. Husband bemoans the fact that we don’t have time for the pub, which appears a great deal more inviting than the Victoria.

At last, however, a bus comes. Perhaps there is some mysterious deity after all…

Coast and Country

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Those who’ve followed Anecdotage for ever will have detected a change in our trips lately. We’ve not undertaken any lengthy, meandering van Odysee, rather dashed out for short stays, some local, others made by air. This is due to a deluge of NHS appointments [National Health Service for overseas visitors to this blog]. This means having to sandwich travel trips between doctor interventions and checks. Ho hum…

After Valleyfest we dash home, then there’s time to clean the van and do laundry before we’re off again- this time to west Dorset, to a massive site, Bagwell Farm near Chickerell [which is near to Weymouth]. And it has direct access on to the lovely coast path, right where Chesil Beach passes by on its way to Portland.

Like so many sites these days, there are dozens of permanent and semi-permanent vans and caravans. It’s a rolling, hilly kind of camp site, our own allocated pitch up high on a terrace with a view towards the sea and sandwiched between two caravans. The first thing that happens is that we blow the electric point with our plug-in lead- a mishap which has dogged us all of this year. The occupant of the caravan to our right, ‘Raymond’, emerges and strides down to reception, declaring that this is a regular occurrence here. Little does he know! The reception woman comes to reset everything and miraculously, we have electricity. So sure were we that we wouldn’t have we’ve brought our gas fridge, which is now redundant.

At Bagwell Farm they’ve thought of everything, with donkeys and goats, a well-stocked shop and their very own bar/restaurant. It’s not gourmet but will do for a lazy night. There’s also a pub nearby on the main road, accessed by a footpath across a field, although when we explore, in spite of the conventional bar we can see through the windows, it doesn’t seem to be doing much trade. We’re quite a way outside the village here and the walk is along a busy road without a pavement or a verge.

We’re here for the walks, so we strike out down through the site, down a field and to the coast path, Chesil Beach in our view, then follow the path by the water. The weather is on our side, for once, making the water in the lagoon that separates the shingle bank from the sea sparkle. There are some climbs but they’re worth the effort for the views over the farmland and the coast.

We turn in and up a track, [stopping to look at the dry stone wall which is being repaired] which takes us to a village- Langton Herring. It’s quaint and picturesque and typically Dorset, with stone cottages, narrow lanes, a tiny church and immaculate gardens. We’re flummoxed about which way to go but spot a sign and take a path through a working farmyard and up across the field again until we come to a copse and eventually out to the main road and the entrance to our site. Phew!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Over and Out

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The second day at Valleyfest dawns dry and much more promising. We’re not early risers- almost always the last to surface on a campsite- and today is no exception; neither do we eat breakfast, so we’ve plenty of time to loll around and observe the occupants of the two motorhomes in front of us cooking and eating a ‘full English’ on an outside grill. One of the women clearly enjoys holding forth on a variety of subjects but not in subdued tones… Our van has the advantage of dark, smoked windows, providing ample opportunities for snooping. Fellow motorhome and campervanners beware of parking up next to a van like ours…

So it’s not until after lunch that we prepare, then amble across the fields and trudge up to the festival site, behind most others who’ve already arrived. The rocket-inspired, gothic DJ platform has been emitting its insistent beat for hours by now but we head right towards the stages, where various acts are underway, We set up on the hillside above the main stage. An energetic band of numerous members is on, playing a vibrant mix of genres I’m at a loss to describe- drum n bass/jazz/rap? The band’s singer is charismatic and colourfully dressed.

Having lowered into our beach chairs I’m able to scrutinise the garb of our fellow-attendees and it’s clear that this year’s must-have is something sequinned. Sequins are not a thing I’m ever drawn to in any circumstances, but here in the bright sunshine of a hot afternoon they are not a great look. There’s a range of sequinned garments- shorts, jackets, tops, trousers and skirts, looking garish and tawdry in the sunlight. I wonder what will become of them post-festival? As far as I know they are not especially recycle friendly-

There’s a hiatus for a change of musicians but it’s warm and we’re settled. It’s mid-afternoon and I feel a strong desire for an ice cream. I don’t eat dairy but these days dairy-free ice cream is widely available and is delicious so I leave Husband and go on a hunt, figuring that if I’m going to get a vegan ice cream it will surely be easy at a festival, with such a plethora of food stalls. I begin at one end and walk…and walk. I find one stall that sells ice cream [dairy] but is awaiting supplies. I try the children’s area- even here there isn’t an ice cream to be found. Yes- there are sweets. Yes- there are pancakes. No- no ice cream. I’m astonished- and very disappointed, Husband gets me a crepe as consolation.

We move to the other stage, down by the lake, where folk musicians are warbling to a sparse audience consisting mainly of parents, babies and toddlers, a collection of prams occupying the central area. We try the [supposedly] Simon and Garfunkel-like duo and we’re underwhelmed.

Later we queue for meals based on brisket. They are nice but pieces of chilli lurk amongst the other ingredients and have to be rooted out before I can eat. Then we wander a bit but don’t stay late. As the sky darkens, the rocket-construction-DJ platform becomes hyper-exciting with light beams penetrating the dark to the throbbing beat.

Later we amble back through the twinkly tent lights and to the van, where I’ve just enough energy to get down to the mobile shower unit.

There’s more to come on Sunday but nothing we’re gagging to see so in the morning we do a leisurely pack-up and wend our way back down the lanes towards home.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Fest and Eye Fest

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So- we [the OLD couple] have settled in on the festival campervan field at Valleyfest. It’s Friday afternoon and we prepare to walk to the main fields and see what’s happening. Preparation includes hats, water and beach chairs [although foolishly, as it turns out, we omit rainwear].

The camping field covers a large area so we must walk a bit to get to the ticket entrance but once there our bags are checked [for bombs? or alcohol?], we’re braceleted and in. Then it’s past the tents, up quite a steep hill and in. The first thing that grabs attention is the striking, rocket-like structure on top of the hill, flanked by gothic structures at each corner. This is where the insistent, throbbing base beat is coming from. It’s manned by DJs and is to become spectacular in the dark.

Beyond this there’s the bar, which is impressive, having embraced shabby chic, Victoriana and a plethora of other styles. Half of the entire area is covered and there are booths along one side, the wall sporting old pictures and photos. Strings of lights with old-fashioned lampshades [the sort with fringes] festoon the edges of the roof, which is then open to the outside. True to type, we settle ourselves here first. It’s a great place to people-watch, enabling me to scrutinise the wide array of festival outfits- about which- more later!

This part of the site does not house any stages, so it’s time to go and find out what’s on and have a look. To do this we must walk through an archway and down a lane lined with myriad food stalls- mostly, as I predicted, cheese and/or chilli orientated. When dinner time approaches I’ll have a job to find something to eat.

The main stage is down at the bottom of the hill. At this time, late afternoon/early evening, although there are many people milling around the entire site, there aren’t huge numbers watching the stage, but there is a band on this evening, Tankus the Henge, who we’ve seen before and liked. They’re described as ‘gonzo’ rock and roll- which is ok by me!

I like a range of musical styles- rock and roll, pop, soul, blues and I’m partial to a smidgeon of heavy metal on occasions, too, mainly for the drama. Genres I haven’t taken to include , drum and base, some types of electronic music and rapping- which rules out ‘Tiny Tempah’ who is scheduled later in the weekend.

Annoyingly, the weather is deteriorating and while we’ve brought our chairs, there’s no fun in sitting in the drizzly rain that’s sweeping intermittently across the field so we decamp to the nearest bar, along with many others. There’s only so many beers I can imbibe [2 is the limit!] and there’s no seating in this stage-side beer and cider tent, meaning we stand under the dripping canvas.

A stallholder selling plastic ponchos must have gambled on the weather and won, as festival goers swathed in them are everywhere, concealing their carefully curated outfits [more in a later post].

We stay a little longer, out then in a couple more times, then call it a day.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

You’re not Old til You’re Told

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I was just 17 years old when I went to see Pink Floyd play in London’s Hyde Park. At that time there weren’t ‘music festivals’ as we know them today, although they had begun in the sixties and developed in the seventies, with Woodstock [1969], Isle of Wight [1968] and several other iconic ones. Isle of Wight continues to thrive, although after the explosion of festivals we’ve seen in recent years, many won’t run again, including Valleyfest in Somerset.

I was lucky to see as much live music as I did, growing up. Nowadays it’s a rarity to get to see any musicians I’m interested in. But Husband has a yen to attend a festival this year, something we’ve done once or twice in our dotage. Can you be too old to attend a music festival? No- but you can certainly feel old when attending one. For a start- it’s likely you will not have heard of most of the musicians playing. For another thing, the music, while starting early, goes on later than I can cope with these days. Another issue is food. While the array and variety of food stalls seems impressive, most are, by nature, and of necessity, ‘fast food’, they are also heavily dependent on spice [in particular, chilli] and cheese. Chilli and cheese are two foods that I’m not able to eat [a great source of sorrow!] since getting ulcerative colitis 10 years ago.

Another thing- we’re great walkers. Regular readers will know that we are habitual hikers and can manage fair distances and steepish climbs. But standing for long periods is not as easy as it once was. Our method of dealing with this is to take tiny, portable beach chairs, which have backs but are very low on the ground, making getting up and down out them tricky, also comical for anyone watching, but not insurpassable.

And so- armed with chairs, comestibles, rainwear and the rest, we set off towards Somerset and Valleyfest. It’s on a farm about 9 miles from Bristol and next to a lake, the ‘Chew Valley Lake’. I have to be honest here and say that, of those performers I’ve actually heard of [Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Tiny Tempah, Sister Sledge] I find nobody irresistable, but then I’m always prepared that we will see someone new that we love and besides, there is lot’s more than music to enjoy.

The first difficulty is that we cannot find the place, or rather, our SATNAV cannot find it. The signage is lacking, except for one on a lane where we’re about to turn which declares ‘no access to Valleyfest’. Hmm…

After backtracking, we do find our way, although there are the inevitable narrow, country lanes to navigate. The campervan field we enter is already three quarters full. When we reach the first steward we stop and wait to be directed. He’s an elderly, grizzled hippiesque character with a bedraggled plait and tattoos. He speaks into his walkie-talkie.

‘Can you find a space for this old couple?’ he says…..

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Last Gasp

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We’ve been to Portugal quite a few times, sometimes with tents and mostly by campervan and have eaten meals in all manner of restaurants in a lot of places. There are many memorable ones- our early stopping place at Vila Praia de Ancora in the north, where we first experienced the pre-dinner assorted breads and dips, the rough and ready port-side restaurant in Porto which we visited having missed our train and witnessed a recalcitrant patron being ejected through the double doors by his pants…The wonderful family-run restaurant with plastic tablecloths where we selected our fish…I could go on and on-

In Tavira centre we’re spoilt for choice of restaurants- except that they are all extremely busy in the evenings. There’s a narrow lane, just off our local square, where we’d had a beer, sitting outside and had noticed a menu advertising tuna steak and salad for 12 euros- so what’s not to like?

We’re halfway through our [delicious] meal when a character dressed in black robes and a jaunty hat- looking very ecclesiastical- appears near our table, holding a saucepan and a wooden spoon, which he bangs together while he squawks tunelessly, prompting us to wonder if he needs paying to go away. But he pauses, then switches on a speaker and launches into an operatic classic- and he sings wonderfully. We’re treated to two or three arias before he moves on up the street to the next restaurant.

Our last day dawns and we’ve planned a trip to Tavira Island, where a pleasant breeeze will take the edge of the stifling heat. We stop off at the bakery to pick up some lunch supplies en route, then through the square, over the bridge, through the bigger square, through the gardens, past the market hall and to the ferry- which is waiting.

We know our way now- up off the jetty, along the path and through the restaurant area to the sand- which still has convenient fabric pathways, making sand walking easier, In spite of the huge numbers of visitors and the explosion of sunbeds and restaurants, Tavira Island has been kept as pristine as possible, with plentiful recycling and refuse bins. There’s not a speck of rubbish on the expanse of white sand, anywhere.

We’re just about to veer off to find a place when we’re waylaid by a young man who seems to want to sell us something. We’re wary, cynical travellers in our dotage and tend to ignore touts, but he’s British and I wonder what he’s offering us, so I pay more attention. He explains: He and his partner have purchased sunbeds for an entire day but have a lunch engagement in the town and need to leave. Would we like to share the cost and use them for the afternoon? I’m still a little suspicious, although he leads us to their place- at the front, facing the sea, with a fancy button to call a waiter and draped for shade. We do the deal, of course!

It’s a great way to spend our last afternoon- lolling on the beach, reading or snoozing. Then it’s with a certain reluctance that we wend our way back to the ferry. Behind us, a long queue gathers, snaking away up the path.

We’ve booked a table at one of the busy restaurants in the square to have a ‘last supper’, then it’s back to the hotel, the rooftop bar and a last, lofty drink in the warm late evening air.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Tavira Island Revisited

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We’ve had enough time to get familiar with our surroundings in Tavira and even to find a regular bar. Hoping for some late afternoon let-up in the heat we step out for a stroll, although exiting the hotel doors still feels like entering a boiler room. We walk down the steepish hill to the tiny triangle housing bars and restaurants, then on over the river to a larger square overlooked by an imposing civic building. Book stalls line the path along the river. A stage is being installed here with rows of seats lined up. Then it’s along through some gardens to the market hall. Just past here, the ferry to Tavira Island is moored. It would be fun [and cooler], wouldn’t it, to go and look, for old times sake?

We last came many years ago. It’s only 2.50 euros for the short trip and we’re just in time to bundle on, cramming inside and perching at the end of benches- the previous passengers being very reluctant ro budge up- or even to pull their beach bags on to laps! t’s all very familiar- chugging along the river towards the estuary, stopping at Quatro Aguas and out into open water, before arriving at the jetty and stepping off with everyone else. A tree-lined, paved path leads towards the beach, through a conglomeration of cafes, bars and restaurants- far more, surely than were here 20+ years ago?

We continue to the beach. All that time ago, there’d been nothing but a massive expanse of sand, as far as we could see, with nothing on it. We’d put towels down. I remember falling asleep, waking with that slight smear of dribble that emerges during daytime naps, and being told by Husband [pre-Husband in those days] that I’d been snoring.

Today, when we get to the end of the paved path, wooden duck boarding leads off in all directions- to row upon row of sunbeds- stretching away into the distance and to various structures. It’s busy, although not full. Some of the sunbeds, the posher ones, are those with drapes over the top= others are bog-standard with sunshades. The best thing is that the island is blessed with a gentle breeze-.We wander through the restaurants, most of which have displays of hapless sea creatures. Presumable they’re mainly catering for lunchtimes, since the last ferry is 8pm ish, although there is a camspsite [a new addition since our previous visit].

We’re not prepared with beach paraphernalia this afternoon- but we’re not up for any more roasting in the enclosed brazier of the hotel pool complex- so we’ll definitely be returning tomorrow. For now, we get an ice cream then make our way back to the jetty, returning to town, where we stop off at our ‘local’ for a beer, of course.

Then it’s a slog back up the hill. En route we hit on the idea of picking up a couple of things from the bakery to take with us next day, on our way to the ferry.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Taste of Tavira

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The neurotic ex-pat woman I’m squeezed in next to on this budget flight to Faro leans forward and closes her eyes in an ecclesiastical manner as we touch down on the runway. While the plane rolls towards the terminal she tells me it’s 35 degrees outside. 35 degrees? When we’d looked at the forecast for Portugal, pre- booking, we’d been informed that the temperature would be a very pleasant 25ish! And it’s gone 8pm, too!

Still- we’re here and stumbling off towards arrivals, hot or not. And it is very warm standing in the queue to have passports scrutinised- warm enough to induce a nasty fit in one of the waiting visitors, who falls to the floor, convulsing. The Portuguese airport staff spring into action, running in with first aid packs and all is restored.

We’re transported to our hotel by a rotund taxi driver. It’s a 40 minute journey, though not unpleasant- even though the driver’s musical tastes do not exactly match our own.

I don’t recognise or recall the outskirts of Tavira, which we visited over 20 years ago. Our hotel is in a commanding, elevated position on top of a hill and quite central, but we are to discover that the steep climb back to it is taxing in high temperatures.

We stumble into the cool of the air-conditioned reception area and are offfered a welcome drink of…wine. ‘White or Red?’ I make a tentative request for a beer, which is turned down. So much for that then-

Having checked in, we go up to find our room, which is at the end of a long, long corridor- it’s a little unnerving due to the decor, fake panelling concealing all the rooms’ doors and illuminated by floor lights- all very strange. But the room is fine, has a balcony and overlooks the hotel pool.

We’ve arrived late, having not eaten but the hotel’s restaurant is still open, although we are in almost solitary splendour, with only one other couple dining there. An enormous array of starters is arranged around an oval buffet – just about anything and everything, and it’s tempting to try a bit of everything- except that we’ve a main course to get through, too. I’ve found, these days that multiple courses are way too much. I could happily have done with starter only.

We discover that the top floor of the hotel houses an open air bar and it’s marginally cooler up there, with views over the top of tavira, a pleasant enough way to end our first evening.

Next morning the dining room is vastly changed and is teeming with diners. A pianist at a grand piano accompanies the activity with a selection of easy-listening musak. I’m not a breakfaster at home, but here where it’s included I’m happy with some fruit, eggs and toast.

We decide, on this first day, to chillax, preparing, then making our way down to the pool. There’s a hiatus when we are baffled as to the route but it’s via a large balcony on the ground floor then down some steps. Again, the weather is extremely hot and not condusive to sitting in the sun, though by the looks of the sunbeds this opinion is not shared by everyone, as most residents are roasting themselves to a scarlet crisp in the sweltering rays.

In the hotel lifts, stern instructions about not bagging sunbeds in advance are posted up. Even so, we must hunt for them and when we do locate two, we haul them across to the shade, where we stay, reading and dozing.

While it’s still hot, in the evening we brave the oven-like temperature and stroll down to the little town square, which has plenty of bars and cafes. It’s pretty and characterful- just the place for an evening beer and a meal al fresco…

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

Budget Flights- a Stress Test

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We don’t have enough time for a van trip [and the van is still in need of repair] but we can squidge in a short trip somewhere if we fly. Short-haul flight is not something we’ve been in the habit of doing. Under normal circumstances we’d use our home-on-wheels for forays into Europe, but needs must, since we both have health appointments to fit in.

But we’ve a few days spare, and having looked at what’s available we see that there’s a short trip to Portugal – and the weather forecast tells us that the temperature is not too hot- high 20s but not 30s. We can do it!

We’ll be going to Tavira, which we visited many, many years ago – so many, in fact that we think it may have been during our tent-camping years. We’d come across Tavira while wandering along the southern Spanish coast and over the border into Portugal. We’d thought it a refreshingly unspoilt place for the Algarve, undeveloped and free of high-rise hotels. But for the life of us- we’re unable to recall where the campsite could have been!

Anyway- back to the flying part. We’re booked on to a budget airline- which shall remain nameless- but has a reputation for charging for every little thing- checked baggage, cabin luggage, meals, snacks, seat selection, Seat selection! If you should desire to sit with your travel companion, you must pay extra for the luxury. We determine that although we must check in one case [between us, due to medication], we can manage the two hour flight without sitting together.

We’re flying from our local airport, which most friends and family seem to consider an advantage. The local airport also charges for everything, so the taxi cost is significantly increased by the ‘drop-off’ charge. Drop-off charge!

Inside Arrivals, the situation is mayhem, with long strings of queues stretching in every direction. There is no indication as to which queue is waiting for which desk, since nothing is labelled. The system appears to consist of one large woman walking around and shouting intermittently at us, the would-be passengers. We join a queue, with no clue as to whether it’s for us. Nothing is happening and nothing moves. The large woman walks past, shouting destinations. I leave the queue to question her, returning with the news that we are in the wrong queue, a fact that Husband does not wish to acknowledge. I join the correct queue, taking the suitcase with me.

After aeons, we get to the bag drop desk, where the conveyor belt isn’t working and everyone must trek round to the ‘outsize luggage’ place. Then it’s the joys of security- which we do actually have the hang of these days! Husband must avoid the gate scanner at all costs and I’m sent back to be scanned by hand.

We repack and go to departures, expecting a relaxing wait with a drink and a snack. We’re met with a seething mass of humanity, crammed into the one bar/cafe. Husband queues for drinks while I peruse the aisles in the one or two shops, which yield very little in the way of lunch or a snack at all.

There’s nowhere to sit- until a kindly couple invite us to share their table. They’ve waited all day for their delayed flight and still have a few hours to go…

Later, we’re invited to go to the gate. Once again, it’s guesswork which queue to join. But we do get on to a plane. I’m sandwiched between a very large Portuguese lady and a neurotic ex-pat lady who speaks Portuguese, then treated to their conversation, which is conducted across me. For the remainder of the flight, the neurotic ex-pat harangues me about her ailing business in Portugal [quad bikes] and the difficulties of her family.

When I go to use the WC I pass Husband, who is merrily chomping on Pringles and swigging red wine. Ho hum…

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

An Island Day

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Islands can be magical. We’re lucky enough to live close enough to an island to be able to make a day trip. In order to do this we must make one of the most expensive crossings of water, in terms of distance- probably only topped by Italy’s Capri [unless you, clever reader, know better!].

To get from our house to the Isle of Wight we need only to stroll the 3 minutes to our local railway station, take a train to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, change on to a tiny, two stop train to Lymington and get a ticket for the ferry, which makes regular departures to the island. the short train merely shuttles between Lymington Pier and Brockenhurst, back and forth. In the past we’ve gone by bike and stayed overnight but not on this occasion-

The Isle of Wight has a special character of its own, in that it is quaint and olde worlde- a throwback to the 50s in many ways. At this time of year there’s a steady flow of visitors so the boat is busy. Our nearest point is Yarmouth, where the ferry deposits us, having meandered its way over the short stretch of water following the line of buoys to avoid grounding. The channel between the mainland and the island is certainly hsort enough for a road bridge, but so far it’s unbreached, The miniscule town/village of Yarmouth is crazily busy with tourists, the island being a magnet for holiday makers, with many attractions, theme parks, walks, cycle paths and so on. It’s also a yachty heaven with boatyards, marinas, regattas, chandleries and all things for sailors.

But we’re here just for the day, so lunch and a stroll will certainly do. With a strong desire for fish and chips we try a few places, including one mysterious restaurant which ‘cooks on stones’. We’ve sat down before we realise it isn’t what we want, then make our excuses and leave, heading instead for the cavernous, quayside pub, which does indeed offer fish and chips- and beer!

After lunch we amble off up the road, following the coast, past reed beds, along the beach, up into the woods until we reach Victoria Fort, which has been tourist-ified with a reptile house, cafe and tiny shops. We continue on, over a stretch of grass housing barbecue grills. much in use today and on through some more woods, where views of the sea through the trees are lovely. The woods are full of enormous hearts tongue ferns.

We’re aware that time to the next, return ferry is ticking and we turn back, stopping at the fort to climb up on to the roof and take in the vistas, then back to picturesque Yarmouth, where the ferry is just leaving the quayside- so there’s time for a cup of tea before the next one; just the thing for a follow-up to fish and chips!

I’m a big fan of public transport and I’m always sad when a journey comes to an end, so I feel reluctant to disembark, then reluctant again to leave the train, but we’ll definitely be going again!

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