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The End of the Ile

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We’ve done Bois de la Plage but we’re keen to stay somewhere different on Ile de Re, this time to the very end of the island. But first we make a stop at tiny Sainte Marie de Re, a very beautiful and cute village we’d driven around on arrival. Now we know that negotiating the narrow, twisty lanes of Sainte Marie is a very tricky business, so we park just outside and walk in.

When we’d driven round a few days ago, we’d been looking for a particular site, one which the SATNAV had decided was here [in fact it most certainly was not]. We’d eventually found our way to this first, chosen site then, after a quick look round, determined that it would not suit us at all- being very shady and a long way from everywhere].

It doesn’t take long to see Sainte Marie, which has little besides a quaint village shop, a cafe in a large, open square and a lot of pretty lanes.

Before we head off to the next option for a site, we need to shop. The major supermarkets [Intermarche, Leclerc and Lidl] are based at Ile de Re’s capital, Saint Martin. It’s a beautiful town but we’ve seen [and photographed] it before. This visit is purely for supplies. Leclerc is in the SATNAV, which is certain that we have arrived- but can we see it? No. It takes some time, driving backwards and forwards, into mysterious car parks and out again, before the supermarket is revealed- cleverly disguised as a barn in black timber cladding- with nothing to advertise its existence.

Stocked up, we make our way along to ‘Seasonova’, a site at Les Portes en Re, a quiet part of the island, passing the picturesque lighthouse [which we’ve visited previously]. Seasonova’s reception is closed for lunch, which is commonplace for French sites. Nobody is going to deprive the French from their leisurely lunches! The site is on the outskirts of the little town, by a large car park where the buses stop and turn, which is useful for us as we can also have lunch while we wait.

But we can also wander into the site to look round. It’s very quiet, with only three of four tourers parked up; even the chalets at the end are sparsely occupied.

Reception opens and I go to check in, although the young woman behind the counter is pleasant but disorganised, answering the phone whilst attempting to get my details. But we’re in and on to a sunny, open pitch strewn with a carpet of yellow flowers- lovely.

Les Portes is clearly less visited than the towns and villages at the other end of Ile de Re. It’s bordered by the sea and the marshlands, a flat, wild landscape.

It’s an easy walk into the town, which has a few shops and a couple of bar/restaurants as well as a pretty church. The centre is bustling, with bikes, dog trailers and child trailers parked up by a tiny roundabout. We get a beer- and establish that yes- of course we can get oysters here!

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

Wine and Oysters

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The islands off the west coast, the Atlantic coast of France are all beautiful and all worth visiting for their individual attributes, but Ile de Re has a special place in the hearts of many, for a plethora of reasons. We haven’t visited for years, so this is the destination for this jaunt to France.

To get to this small island you only need to cross a bridge from La Rochelle- first paying a toll, of course, which pays for your trip there and back.

Once across, we only have a couple of miles to our first, chosen site, at Bois de la Plage. And it’s much as its name describes, a wood at the beach, the site nestling in the dunes, which makes it undulating but with a good choice of pitches. We select from the options- an elevated pitch, although the beach and sea are not visible over the next line of dunes.

There are more tourers here, even a few British, the first we’ve seen on this trip. however there’s a brisk, cool wind, so lolling around in the sunshine is less likely than at Vannes.

The island is a cyclists heaven and you could be forgiven for thinking it was The Netherlands, since the off-road cycle tracks are everywhere and busy with whole families or individuals in the saddle, enjoying the easy, flat terrain. Besides beaches and oyster beds there are acres of vineyards between the communities.

Nowhere here is large or sprawling, the biggest town being the island’s capital, Saint-Martin-de-Re. We’ve visited before [and photographed] so we’ll by-pass it this time. But we’ll take a look at Bois de la Plage while we’re here. It’s just a 15 minute walk from our site, along residential lanes, the homes white-painted, single storey with shutters and neat gardens- some clearly holiday homes.

Bois de la Plage is not a throbbing metropolis and has a few small shops- a salt seller, shoe shop, florist, tobacconist. There’s an indoor market, closed today, a picturesque church and a few cafes. We’re on the lookout for somewhere to eat, and while a restaurant near the beach looks lovely, the menu is offering too much ‘tartare’ for our liking. One on a corner in the little town centre, though, Le Moulin a Cafe, offers a good looking menu and, crucially, oysters.

At the entrance to our site there is a bar/cafe, which is fine for a drink- and even has a selection of cocktails, although the food offerings are of the burger and pizza variety. It’s noticeable that French diners appear to be going for more fast food options these days. We wander down in the early evening but there’s a chilly wind and it’s not cosy inside the canvas dining and drinking area, as the breeze blows in.

The beach here is typical of this French Atlantic coast, vast, sandy and with lively rolling waves, the kind of beach that surfers love, and one afternoon we return to our site along the sand, turning into the site beach access.

We go to eat at the Moulin. It’s a little quiet, which is unnerving, and we’re led into the back, but as usual we’re out to eat much earlier than the French so as the evening progresses more diners arrive. We have oysters. I didn’t try an oyster until I was in my fifties and immediately became a fan, which was a surprise!

It’s time to move on- but we’re not done with Ile de Re yet…

La Fuite

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Vannes is a very pretty, medieval town in Brittany. We’re here for a few days’ second visit, enjoying beautiful warm sunshine for a walk along the footpath from our site, which begins in woods and emerges to boatyards, then a quayside thoroughfare into the centre of town. As we near the town it becomes landscaped with seating areas and planting. there’s a large concourse in front of the tourist information office, where the weather has brought out a lot of visitors, keeping the neighbouring cafes and ice cream vendors busy.

Vannes has a lovely network of ancient, half-timbered buildings lining its streets and a huge castle with attractive gardens. Near the top of the town lies the gothic cathedral. Everywhere is thronged with tourists, in and out of the gift shops or sitting outside cafes in the sun.

When we’ve had enough we spend some time searching for a bus stop with the correct number to take us back to site, but it’s easier said than done. We accost a driver, who tells us we’re in the wrong place for our bus and then, remarkably, offers to ferry us up to the bus station, saving our sore feet.

The site’s bar and cafe is open for cheap and cheerful meals. It’s not an extensive menu but the ‘faux-filet’ is very acceptable. We have a lazy last day in the sun with an evening stroll down to the shore for an ice cream.

We’re on the move again- southwards to make another stop at Bretignolles-sur-Mer, which is also known to us, although the site Husband has selected is also known to us and we know it’s a long way from Bretignolles’ tiny centre or seaside and opt to try another, which, as it turns out, is cheaper and more convenient,

We’ve pulled off the track and on to our pitch when some neighbours make us aware of a trail we’ve left along the lane. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell them, ‘it’s water.’

‘Non, non, non! they reply. ‘C’est gazole!’

Yikes! Diesel is leaking from our van! And it’s Saturday!

Husband crawls around on the grass underneath. His verdict: it looks to be the fuel pipe. The mood turns gloomy. I search online for garages, finding a local one with a 5* review from a British motorhome owner, which looks promising. But we can do nothing until Monday except find out exactly where the place is.

We set off on foot to follow the route on my phone, stopping to ask a man busily tidying his garden if he knows it- a man who retreats to find his wife [the English speaker], who immediately offers to take us in her car! ‘C’est normal!’ she cries when we say it’s too much. It’s just as well she did take us- it’s a fair way on foot.

In the meantime, while we wait for Monday, we set off to look at Bretignolles, which Husband claims we’ve never seen- and discover that of course- we have been here and it’s clear as soon as we get to the centre; the square with the uninspiring church, the market hall, the cafes, the little street with a few clothing shops. I even remember where the supermarket is. Not being an extensive metropolis, it’s soon looked at [and recalled]. I don’t feel like photographing it a second time.

On Monday we pack up early and make for the garage. I’ve prepared the French: ‘Une fuite dans le traduite de carburrant’ or thereabouts. We pull up outside. I slept badly and have that cold, stretched feeling of anxiety/exhaustion as we push open the door to reception. I launch into my speech- just as well I prepared as Monsieur speaks no English. He frowns irritably and sighs- not auspicious- and comes out to look.

Then he beckons the van up and towards the workshop and summons a mechanic from the depths. He delves under the bonnet, unscrews things, takes bits away, returns, screws things, bids Husband to start up, stop, start up, stop. He has a few words of English.

It gets done. ‘Phew!’ says Monsieur, laughing.

Then we’re off south.

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

Van to Vannes

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We’ve not been back long from Malta- but feel it’s time to get off somewhere in the van. There have been unfortunate circumstances punctuating our van travel in the last few years but we’re hopeful, now, that things have been resolved.

We won’t be doing anything exceptional, rather visiting familiar territory in easy, comfortable France, where vans and motorhomes are catered for better than anywhere.

Packing the van is never my favourite part of van travel but it gets done and we manage the early morning scramble [when I have to wrestle with the fridge contents] and short drive to our local port of Poole, arriving to a quiet check-in with only a few vehicles and even fewer campervans.

Then we’re on board and the sun is streaming through the windows as we exit Poole Harbour- a very beautiful area, for those who don’t know it- and enjoy Brittany Ferries’ coffee and pastries, which are very welcome. Then I do my usual descent down to the couchettes for a snooze and a read, which is really the only way to pass the four hour crossing. We’ve long since given up looking round the shop or wandering the decks. Other than one or two families with very young children or babies, the boat is quiet.

Once arrived, we go first to the ‘Orange’ shop at Cherbourg [known to us now] to get a SIM for our little mobile internet device- then we’re set. And we belt down our well known route, past Avranches, Mont Saint Michel etc until we arrive at Saint Brice en Cogles, a small town with a wonderful aire that we know very well having used it for years. There is always a new addition, an extension or an improvement to this free parking area with all services, in front of a cemetery and next to the police station! And we’ve a handful of French motorhomes for company.

The weather is too lovely to start cooking so we wander into the little town to find a bar- not easy this evening when most places seem closed. But the trusty PMU is open- although it’s not obvious- and busy with locals, so we can find a table and enjoy a beer- or two. Then it’s back to the van for dinner.

In the morning there are the usual chores- emptying, filling with water, ditching trash [taking great care over the recycling- the French are very particular in providing a range of bins] and we’re off again, heading south. And on to Vannes, Brittany, on the Gulf of Morbihan, to a site we’ve stayed at before- one of a chain of sites. Site chains are becoming increasingly common now. They can be more expensive than smaller, independent sites, but this one- part of the daftly named ‘Flower Campings’ conglomerate, is not too pricey, is convenient and offers all we need.

The skies over Vannes are blue, the temperature heating up and we’re here for a few days. We’ll take another look at the city of Vannes, which we can walk to along a very pleasant footpath and we can also relax in some much needed sun.

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

Many Harbours

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It’s our penultimate day on Malta and time do use our ticket for the harbour tour, which was part of a bundle of tickets for sightseeing. We’ve been unable to use the ticket due to choppy seas and high winds, but finally, on Friday the winds calm a little and the boat can go. This does not, however, signify hot- or warm weather, so we choose to sit inside, which is very comfortable and pleasant.

Valletta’s harbour is an amalgam of many harbours, the coast of Malta here serrated like a pancake edge and dotted with tiny islands. Almost every part has a fortification looming high above the water with watchtowers. One huge area is for cruise ships, a couple in today getting refurbished as a jaunty crane embellished to look like a giraffe swings its neck back and forth.

Another part of the harbour houses cargo shipping and ferries- one massive catamaran the ferry to Sicily, Malta’s nearest neighbour. Then there’s a section for private yachts, of which there are a few large and luxurious specimens, of course. Here, also we spot the other side of the science centre we’d passed on the bus, the water side boasting a huge globe.

In the afternoon we wander to the back of Sliema, which has a pleasant enough seafront though nothing outstanding- no promising restaurants either. And it’s windy and a little chilly.

The next day is our last. Another look at the old town seems essential and there’s still much we haven’t seen, so we get a bus this time, round to ‘bus station’ which is next to some gardens. They aren’t spectacular, but the upper level has some colourful flower beds. There is a beautiful arched wall giving views over the harbour and the canon, which are fired each day at 4pm.

We walk back to the city centre and to the main square, where some kind of event is being set up, then get tickets for a peek at the Archbishop’s Palace. By far the most astonishing sight here is the collection of armoury- housed in a vast, long hall- cases and cases full of ancient weapons, from bows and arrows to rifles and pistols, canon, full suits of armour, chain mail, helmets, breast plates- every ancient weapon and item of warfare is here.

We cross an elegant courtyard to view the state rooms, although they are less impressive. The eagle-eyed staff that police each room are fierce guards, one nudging me away from a model table I inadvertently touch!

We leave the palace and stroll down to the ferry terminal, getting a beer in a waterside restaurant while we wait. There’s a long queue for the ferry but we are board ok and return to Sliema and our last evening on Malta.

It’s an island I’d return to, and there were plenty of sights and experiences we neglected. Another time, however I’d go a little later in the year, waiting for warmer temperatures and less of a breeze!

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

…And then the South…

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Thursday of our week in Malta and time to take out second bus tour- this time to see the south of the island. Whilst in the ‘Queen Elizabeth’ pub I’d become absorbed by a tourist video of a fishing village. I thought I’d love to go there. It turns out the village is on the bus tour of the south. Hooray! We can stop off and have a quick look. The village is called Marsaxlokk and it’s anybody’s guess how it’s pronounced.

The day is just a little less breezy and slightly warmer than the previous day, when we’d had to sit inside to avoid getting blown to smithereens, so when the open-top comes we clamber upstairs and sit as near to the front, undercover part as we can, which is not under, but nearly!

Our first stop is in Valletta, which is familiar territory by now, then there’s a lot of twisty turns and narrow streets to negotiate before we’re out in the countryside. The outskirts of the city are densely built, blocks of flats piled in, pastel coloured and higgledy-piggledy, a forest of aerials flying above.

Driving out of Valletta this way is a complicated business of circling around each harbour as well as a lot of ups and downs, but at last we’re in the open.

We arrive to Marsaxlokk, stopping at the end of a curving quayside where a string of restaurants are serving luscious looking seafood- and all look busy. We’ve an hour to wander before the next bus comes but first we make for a bakery selling coffee and a range of delicious things. We opt for spherical apple pies and sit in the sunshine. The far end of the quay hosts a tourist market, stalls selling all manner of edibles, ceramics, flags, lace etc

It’s all very beautiful here- and by far the most spectacular sight is the fishing boats, which are painted in bright, primary colours and have a protruding eye of Horus either side of the prow. Most are bobbing about in the little bay but some are drawn up on the slipway or in the process of getting refurbished.

the hour passes quickly and we walk to the bus stop. Soon we’re underway again. We’ve no interest in the ‘Popeye’ village- an ageing film set for the Popeye film, which, I have to admit passed me by when it came out in the early eighties. I’d no idea there was such a film, which apparently starred Robin Williams.

Back in Sliema, we attempt a read by the hotel’s pool, which is across the road, or can be accessed by a tunnel underneath, past the spa and beauty salon. We manage an hour before the cool wind drives us back into the building.

In the evening we decide to try another pub, further down the street. It’s tiny, but looks promising, initially. We order a pizza [Husband] and pasta [me]. There is a loyal gathering of Brits who clearly love this place and return- not only to Malta, but to this pub, year in and out.

The meals come, remarkable only in that they are two of the worst meals out we’ve ever had. We won’t be joining the loyal clientele here…

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

Breezy Bus to the North

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We’ve to fit two bus tours and a harbour tour into our week in Malta and it’s Wednesday already. But high winds and choppy seas have anchored the harbour boat, so a bus trip it is, to enable us to see as much of the island as possible. The tour of the north includes a visit to Mdina, Malta’s old capital, which is perfect. We can have an hour looking at this ancient city and get on to the next bus, which allegedly comes round in an hour’s time.

We head into the inside of the bus, since it’s neither warm nor calm enough to sit upstairs in the open, although a few hardy souls are attempting it. Once we get underway, some of them decamp down inside, looking battered!

I like getting a chance to see some of the interior of the island. I always like to see what grows and how the people live. The rural areas are criss-crossed with dry stone walls, much like our Dorset, UK countryside, except that it’s divided up into much smaller areas like allotments.

The roads around Mdina are very busy and once we get to the approach road, on a hillside, we’re down to inching upwards towards the top. We’d seen the walled city as we approached as it’s set up high in the landscape.

We’re dropped outside the walls by a kind of park, where patient horses are waiting for sightseers to take up an offer of a carriage ride. There’s a public toilet here, but judging by the queues- [especially for the women’s, as usual] it may be the one and only opportunity, so we have to use some of our precious hour to queue up.

There’s a short bridge over a moat then we’re in through the gate and it would be like stepping back to medieval times were it not for the throngs of tourists everywhere. There’s more shelter from the stiff breeze here inside the walls and it’s pleasantly warm. Horses and carriages clatter around the streets, looming up alarmingly from unexpected corners. We stroll. It isn’t a large city but the buildings are magnificent- in particular a church with a most beautiful, painted ceiling. Further up the street we emerge into a small square and a portion of wall that can be walked upon. There is a smattering of gift shops, although it isn’t too commercialised.

An hour is long enough to get a flavour of Mdina, so we wander back and across the bridge to the park, where the loo queue is as long as ever. Husband, of course, reappears in no time and goes over towards the area of bus stops, little knowing that my queue extends inside the toilet block. When I emerge he is shouting for me to hurry as the bus is about to leave and he’s prevented the driver from leaving- phew!

We stop at a few more places pass by some of the large resorts that dot the north coast, like St Paul’s bay. Looking at these, I’m glad we’re based at Sliema as the weather isn’t lending itself to lolling around on a sun lounger.

Later, we walk down the road to ‘Giorgio’s’, where we get a very delicious meal. We still have a bus trip and a harbour tour to fit into our week.

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

A Capital Visit

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We’ve been dropped off in Valletta’s big square, flanked by the Grand Master’s Palace. While the golf cart transport had boasted its ‘hop-on-hop-off’ facility, this turns out to be the one and only ‘hop-off’. Hmm…

But we’ve arrived at the top of the steep climb from the harbour, at least and can wander a bit. I’m fascinated by the architecture- especially the ‘gallerija’- the protruding windows everywhere, mostly painted green. They were constructed to allow ladies a view of the streets.

While yesterday had been sunny and breezy, today is overcast and breezy- but we’re undeterred and can get a first look at this most beautiful and historic capital. The palace is open to visitors but we’ll leave it for now and stroll [carefully] the streets to get a flavour of the place. The square is at the end of a main street, Republic Street, a wide, paved, straight road lined with elegant old buildings of honey coloured stone. This large square leads to a neighbouring, smaller one housing a library, in front of which a terrace is crammed with cafe tables.

The entire street is thronged with tourists, even on this cool, windy, overcast March day. the rest of the street is lined with gift shops, cafes, bars and the art gallery- which is not the home of the Caravaggio exhibition, we are to learn. It is housed inside St John’s cathedral- further back, where a long, snaking queue is waiting. We continue along to the end of Republic Street and out into another large square with a vast, elegant facade. A throng of flag-waving, whistle- blowing teenagers in matching T-shirts is on the steps, just as a cavalcade arrives bearing the prime minister! There is very little in the way of security. We could walk right up to him and splat a custard pie in his face should we wish- which we don’t. He spends some time chatting to his young fans.

On the way back along Republic Street, we decide to join the queue outside the cathedral, since it hasn’t grown. We reach the entrance and get a bag search then enter the cathedral- and it is breathtaking, every surface an intricately decorated work of art. The floor consists of colourful scenes in marble, the main body of the building a riot of silver and gold, each tiny chapel encrusted with decor and the ceiling astonishing.

As for the Caravaggio ‘exhibition’, it consists of one painting, accompanied by video footage of his life and work. He was an interesting character and a bit of a rogue- having murdered and escaped capture- but I already know about him, so we drift off and make our way back to Republic Street, from where it’s all downhill to the ferry.

On Sliema side, there’s a wealth of cafes and restaurants to choose from. Most offer a mainly Italian style menu, although Malta is noted for rabbit dishes- not an ingredient I’m drawn to. But pasta is fine by me. Next to our hotel is the Queen Elizabeth pub, too, peddling a range of British pub grub and almost-beer. It’s convenient for us and an improvement on the hotel dinner offering.

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

Small Island

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Once upon a very long time ago, a beautiful, olive skinned Maltese woman met and was courted by a red-haired, British sea captain. They married and she was brought to live in Plymouth; at least- that’s the vague bones of the story of my great grandparents and I may have embellished even this, sketchy tale. But my mother somehow inherited the olive skin and the jet black hair which I assume were attributes of my great grandmother.

It has taken me all these years to visit the small, Mediterranean island of Malta, birthplace of my great grandmother and ideal, we think, for an early spring break.

We can fly from our local airport- a mere 10 minutes taxi ride from our house. I’ll skip the grim realities of flying with a budget airline this time, having detailed the joyless experience in a previous post…

We arrive in the dark, mid-evening and are transported to our hotel- an enormous, shiny block at the end of the peninsula of Sliema, which faces, on one side, across a stretch of water, the beautiful and historic capital, Valletta. We have not stepped out of the plane into a hot and balmy night. It’s breezy and tolerable- warmer than at home in the UK but not ‘sitting outside’ weather. Still…we’re here.

After being shown to a vast room complete with vast bed, we return down to ground floor and are just in time to consume the remnants of dinner- which had been ‘Tapas night’ but was now a range of tenuously described tapas in a less than newly prepared state, for which we pay a princely sum- not being in a position to seek an alternative. We repair to the bar, whose meals would have constituted a better proposition, had we known they were available. Still…

After breakfast [the usual hotel buffet-style bun fight], reception furnishes us with a map and we’re lucky to meet Karen, who is a fount of information and ideas- then we set off to explore, although in a slow manner, due to my incapacity of the hip. It’s sunny but with a cool wind as we walk [hobble in my case] down past the conglomeration of high rise flats and hotels that comprise Sliema’s waterfront towards the bend housing ferry terminal, bus stops and cruise jetties. The other side of the road is lined with cafes and restaurants- all busy.

We’re beginning to find our way around and Karen has given us some good ideas. We can get a pass for two bus tours plus a harbour tour, which seems a good deal and will give us a chance to see as much of this small island as possible in our week. For now, we’ll attempt a ferry crossing to Valletta for an initial look round, which might be challenging for me, given that I’ve acquired a hip problem. Still…

The ferry is efficient and only takes a few minutes to travel the short stretch of water between the two cities, although when we disembark, the first hurdle looms- an extremely steep climb up to the first level of Valletta. There are, however, a couple of ‘golf-cart’ type buggies offering ‘hop-on-hop-off’ tours for 5 euros, which seems cheap- and we are about to discover why. The buggy takes us up and around a few of Vallettas narrow streets then stops in the main square- and that’s that. Still…

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

The Courtyard Pest

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Nancy has moved to be near her daughter but has left her old life behind. How will she adjust? A neighbour is offering support; or is he?

                  Nancy wakes again. The grey glow of an autumn dawn is seeping between the curtains. This room is still new, shadows in strange places. She pushes the quilt back, eases pale legs over the bedside then pads across the carpet to the en-suite, shaking her head at the incongruity of it. An ‘en-suite’! Imagine!

On the way back she pauses by the window to peer out at her tiny patch of yard, bare except for the wooden bench, a flat-warming gift from Sarah. “What will you do with this courtyard?” her daughter had asked her as they sat on it, only three days ago. Nancy shrugged. “Not sure yet. A few pots. A bird feeder.”

Sarah laughed. “You and your birds!”

But they were company; bird company was easier to come by in a strange town than the human sort.

There is a movement, a flicker in the passageway outside the yard gate, caught in the corner of her eye as she stares. But it is nothing; a moving branch across the faint light. She sighs. It is still only six. She must try to get back to sleep. The days are already too long to fill.

She is washing up her breakfast bowl when the doorbell rings, a shrill unaccustomed sound above the murmur of the radio news programme. A silhouette fills the door’s frosted glass as she fumbles with the key. “Won’t be a minute!” she calls and at last the door yields, revealing Jeffery, from number five. He leans down towards her, eyes protuberant in his florid complexion. “Is the door a bit stiff? I can fix it, if you like.”

She knows her smile is weak. “It’s just new, that’s all; new to me.”

Clad in a beige waistcoat with pockets, he is grasping a canvas shopping bag. “I’m off down the road. Can I get anything for you? Hexton’s bread is marvellous. Shall I get you a loaf? And I’m going to D0-IT-ALL for a few bits this afternoon if you need anything”.

It is only eight. Early, Nancy thinks, to be setting off for the shops. What time does he get up, this neighbour? She has a sense that he must have been waiting until it was an acceptable time to call on her. She shakes her head. “It’s kind of you but I’m going out myself later.”

“Like a lift?” He breaks in. Too fast. She maintains the narrow opening, lifting her chin. “I shall walk. I like to walk. It does me good.”

He takes a step back and she lets out a breath.

“OK. By the way-watch out for rats, won’t you? Some have been seen in the alley at the back. They’re probably from the social housing in the close. Vermin, that’s what they are.” Nancy nods, unsure whether he means the rats or the residents of the housing association development opposite their flats.

He turns with a wave and withdraws, swinging the canvas shopping bag as he plods around the corner.

Later, as she drifts along the unfamiliar High Street Nancy wonders if she should have asked Jeffery to fetch her some compost for her courtyard pots. Has she been a little hard on him? He is only being neighbourly. She did ask Sarah if Danny might be able to take her to the garden centre but they are so busy all the time.

It had been Sarah’s idea for her to move here, to be nearer the family. Nancy was reluctant at first, then attracted by the notion that she might be of some help now that Sarah and Danny were both working full time. She’d thought she might be able to collect the boys from school, help with homework, even make some meals when the parents had to work late. But Sarah pointed out that the boys had little need of childcare and either went to clubs and after school activities or messed about with their friends.

Nancy stops to study a display in the window of ‘Chic Shack’, a small shop selling household items, many of which appear to have been made from driftwood, or been painted and subsequently had patches worn off. She snorts. These are things that wouldn’t have got into a jumble sale in her day.

Since she moved to be near Sarah she’s had no more contact with her and the boys than she did when she was seventy eight miles away. At least then they’d talked on the phone every evening.

Later, when she’s finished clearing up her supper things and is settled in front of the TV the phone rings.

“Will you be in tomorrow evening, Mum? Danny can drop your compost off then. He’ll pick it up on the way home from work”.

Nancy had been looking forward to a morning at the garden centre and had been going to suggest she treat them all to lunch. “It’s very kind, when he’s so busy.”

“It’s nothing. How are you settling in? How are the neighbours?”

“Oh-the couple in the flat above are very nice. They say Good Morning”. She hesitates. Jaqui and David are polite but self-contained and disinterested.

“Anyone else?”

“There’s Jeffery.”

“Is that the man with the wild, grey hair and the county accent?” Sarah met Jeffery when Nancy was moving in. He’d been on the forecourt sweeping up and had introduced himself, shaking their hands and offering assistance. “Has he been a nuisance?”

“No. He’s friendly enough. I’ll see you later.”

“Not me, I’m afraid Mum. Just Danny. I’ve got to collect Lewis from football training.”

Danny arrives with the compost, leaving the engine running while he heaves the bags into the small yard outside her living room and waving a cheerful goodbye as he drives off. Nancy surveys the three bags stacked against the fence. At least she’ll have something to be getting on with tomorrow. She can’t get to the garden centre for spring bulbs but the ‘Supercuts’ shop had some mixed bags on offer outside in a basket. She is about to close the curtains when a face appears above the fence, prompting her to cry out in alarm, hand over her mouth. An arm waves at her. She opens the patio door. Jeffery.

“You’ve got your compost then? Want a hand with the planters tomorrow? I can bring a trowel.”

She sighs. “Alright. Just not too early.”

Nancy’s sleep is restless. In her dreams giant rats stream over the gate, flooding her tiny yard, squeaking at her, hectoring, chastising, although she can’t catch the words. She wakes many times, hears scraping sounds, feels disorientated and sleeps on to an unaccustomed eight o’clock.

She is on the phone when the doorbell rings, chatting to Meg. When she’d heard her friend’s voice she’d visualised her unruly hair and bright lipstick and felt tears pricking her eyes. ‘Yes’ she tells Meg, ‘the move was fine. The flat is perfect. Just what I wanted.’ She doesn’t say it was what Sarah wanted.

“And how have you been, dear? Any more falls?”

Nancy shakes her head then realises Meg can’t see. “No. And I don’t need to use the stick Sarah got me. I’m as steady on my feet as I’ve ever been. I’m not sleeping well, but I suppose it’s just the newness of the place.”

There is a pause.

“We all miss you here, Nancy. ‘The Nettlehide Players’ isn’t the same without you.” The tears are threatening again. “We should arrange a meet up. Shall we? A weekend, even! There’s always the coach-why don’t you come to me? Or I’ll come down if you’ve room. What do you say?”

“I’d like that.”  The bell is ringing. “I have to go, Meg. We’ll arrange it.”

Jeffery is wearing overalls and brandishing a trowel. “I’m not quite ready” she tells him. “You’d better come in. Would you like a cup of coffee?” He takes up all the space in her miniature kitchen, scrutinising the tiny room, unabashed.

“You don’t have much…” he sweeps the trowel around at the walls “…stuff, do you? My place is an Aladdin’s Cave! You must come round.” She brushes past him to get to the kettle before reaching into a cupboard for a small jar of Nescafe. “Could I have tea? I’m not a fan of instant. I grind my own beans. Costa Rican. A friend gets them for me. Have you tried Costa Rican? It’s marvellous!” She replaces the jar and pulls out tea bags. “I’ve got a spare tea pot at mine. Do you want it?” he asks, watching her. She takes the two mugs of tea outside and places them on the wooden seat.

“Where are you having the pots?” Jeffery gestures at the tall, terracotta planters which are dotted about on the paving slabs in what Nancy considers a satisfying, random arrangement. She stares at him.

“They’re staying where they are.” Nancy’s chin lifts a little then she stoops to take the bags of bulbs from under the bench. He shrugs. “I prefer a bit of symmetry myself.”

When Nancy can take no more advice about which bulbs to put where she goes in to make more tea. They sit on the bench to drink it.

“So, Nancy, what did your husband used to do?”

She frowns at the paving slabs by her feet, taking a sip of the tea. “I’m sorry?”

“Your husband. What was his line of work?-if you don’t mind me asking. I was a financial adviser myself. Got it all up here still.” He places a finger on his unruly hair. “If you need any help with investments, that kind of thing, you have only to ask!”

She is silent for a moment, placing the mug on her lap between her hands.

“I’ve never been married”.

“Oh I’m so sorry!” he blurts, drops of tea splashing on to his overalls.  “I’ve been married three times. Had five children. Not that I see much of them of course. They’re spread far and wide. One in Singapore, one in America. I expect they’d contact me if they were in trouble. No news is good news, as they say.”

Nancy stands up and holds out her hand for his cup. “Thanks for helping. I’ll have to leave it there for now, though. I have an appointment after lunch and will need to clear up and get changed.”

Having had to demonstrate her intention by leaving the flat, she wanders along the High Street and turns down the lane leading to the library. There may be a noticeboard showing local events, groups and activities or at least someone who could point her in the right direction. The building is new with lots of internal glass. She spots a small, neat, grey woman like herself wearing a navy raincoat and realises it is herself, reflected in a rotating door.

The vast space is decorated in garish lime greens and scarlets. At a circular desk she has to wait as one librarian is attending to a young woman with a foreign accent and another is talking on the phone.

At last she is directed across to an area designated ‘local information’ where there are brochures, wall maps and a noticeboard advertising special interest groups and activities. She reads each flyer. There is a cycling club, meeting each Sunday morning at seven, a ‘knit and natter’ group in a church hall on Monday afternoons, there is the WI, the University of the Third Age and Psychic evenings. On a low table is a file labelled ‘cultural events’ and she bends to begin flipping through but is interrupted by a commotion around the reception desk.

Nancy straightens to peer around a bookcase and sees a figure in a beige waistcoat gesticulating at the librarian, who is responding by adopting a decidedly non-library tone and pointing in the direction of the exit doors.

“Mr Marsh, as I’ve said before we cannot stock every periodical and the library is run according to local authority guidelines. Now I’m sorry but unless and until you are able to follow our code of conduct I am going to have to ask you to leave the building and you may be barred from entering the premises in future.”

Her neighbour doesn’t spot her as he is escorted out of the exit doors. She sits down to look through the file of cultural societies, noting one or two phone numbers down then waits ten minutes before she leaves to avoid bumping into him.

She has walked twenty five yards before a dizzy spell threatens to topple her and she stops by a bus stop, clutching the side of the shelter until it has passed, then perching on the narrow plastic bench inside. A bus pulls up, disgorging several passengers; the driver leaning forward to see if she’s getting on. She shakes her head and takes a few deep breaths as the doors wheeze closed.

Back in the flat she feels jittery and unsettled. Perhaps getting on with her unpacking will help. But when she leans down from her bed to get a box out from underneath the dizziness descends like a fog and she sits back up, closes her eyes and sinks on to the pillows. A deluge of jumbled images gushes in to a background of piercing squeaks which rise to a crescendo, at which point her eyes fly open and she is aware of the door bell ringing with an insistent, lengthy clang.

“I didn’t know if you were in.” There is an element of reproach in his frown. “I thought I’d better let you know I’ve put some rat poison down in the alley. In case you go out that way. Let me know if you see anything, won’t you?”

It takes Nancy a moment to gather her thoughts. “Yes. Thank you. I will”.

He clears his throat. “Can I interest you in an early evening glass of wine? Over at my place?”

She pulls the edges of her cardigan together, aware that she is dishevelled from sleep. “Just a small one” he continues and she can think of no excuse to refuse. She keeps him at the door while she slips her shoes on and fetches her bag and keys. “All secure?” he asks, as she locks the door.

His flat is as different from hers as an identical design could be, the surfaces crammed with objects, odd-shaped stones, pieces of wood, metal parts of things; the walls clad in pictures, photos, mirrors and hangings. It feels claustrophobic, as if the entire space is closing in on her. She murmurs ‘thanks’ as he hands her a glass, watching as she takes a cautious sip. “Know your wines?” he asks, “Where do you think that one’s from?”

Tempted to say ‘Tesco’ she perches on the edge of a sagging sofa covered in piles of magazines and shakes her head. He grins, holding his glass up to an imaginary light. “Algeria! You wouldn’t know, would you? A friend brought it back from a trip for me. I love the stuff.” He places his glass on the edge of a shelf, snatches up an object from the coffee table and offers it to her. “What do think this is? Any ideas?” She turns the small, circular, metallic item in her hand. It has an opening with a serrated edge like tiny, sharp teeth

“A nut-cracker?”

He chuckles. “It’s a pepper grinder. African. I bet you’ve never seen one like that before!”

She clears her throat. “I must go, Jeffery. I have some calls to make. Thank you for the wine.”

“You haven’t finished it!”

“No. It’s very nice. But I’m not much of a drinker. It goes straight to my head I’m afraid”. She picks up her bag. He continues to stand, tilting the glass up to drain it then twirling the stem as he watches her.

Back in her flat Nancy makes some tea and takes it into the sitting room. She finds the numbers she wrote down in the library. As she picks up the phone she is distracted by a sound. She sits still and concentrates. There! A scraping, grinding sound, like a pot sliding along on the slabs of the courtyard. Jeffery told her if the rats got into the yard they might dig up the bulbs. She goes to the patio door and pulls a curtain back, peering along the shaft of light that’s been cast. But there is nothing other than the pots standing motionless in their places. A rat, however large, would not be strong enough to move a large, terracotta pot full of earth. The sound must have come from something in the alley; someone trundling something along there, perhaps. She picks up the phone again.

It is two twenty three when she wakes, having fallen asleep thinking about her telephone conversation with Rebecca Fripp, of the local amateur dramatic society. Rebecca’s response to Nancy’s enquiry had been luke-warm, as if she’d be doing her a favour by allowing her to attend a rehearsal. But they always needed ‘front-of-house’ help, she’d said, even though Nancy’d explained about her experience in set design. Once she is awake, she is unable to drift off again and thinks that perhaps she should get up and make tea. She stretches out her hand to the light and there! There is the sound: scrape. Outside the windows.

She freezes, stomach churning, her skin prickly; but forces her feet to the floor; tiptoes through to the kitchen. She takes her time in the half light, pulling open a cupboard door to withdraw a heavy pan with a long handle. She breathes in long, slow pulls like an automaton. She returns to the living room, pan held to her side in one hand and uses a finger to create a slit of light in the long curtains.

A wind has got up, stirring the trees over the alleyway and chasing leaves around the small yard; but there is also a dark, rounded shape moving around the pots. Nancy grips the pan handle and uses her other hand to inch the patio door open. The swishing breeze is louder as she steps outside, flattening her nightie against her legs. She searches for the shape then spots it-moving from behind one pot to another. In two paces she is there. She pulls her arm back straight like a forehand smash and swings hard at the shape. Crunch! The contact is sickening, jarring her arm as she stumbles. The shape topples and she drops her weapon. She takes a step forward to look but the foot gives way, sliding and she falls to her knees in the wetness, confused. There has been no rain so why is there a puddle? Reaching out she feels fur, wetly sticky; then she is swaying, sinking as the fog descends.

She is dressed and in the chair when Sarah arrives. “Ready, Mum?”

Got your tablets and everything?”

Nancy nods. She stares at her daughter, eyes wide. She swallows. “Sarah-I can’t, I don’t…”

“Shh-Mum it’s ok. You don’t have to go back to the flat. Danny and I have packed all of your stuff. You can take a case with you today and the rest will follow.”

“How…how is he?”

“He’s doing alright, Mum. He’s a tough old boy. His skull has a small fracture but it will heal. He doesn’t blame you. He’s an idiot to have been there in the middle of the night! ‘Checking the rat bate’, apparently.

A solitary tear rolls down her mother’s face. “I’ve caused so much harm. I’m so sorry”

Sarah takes her hand. “No, Mum. I’m the one who should be sorry. I should never have nagged you to come. Now we must go or we’ll be late.”

Nancy stands and accepts her daughter’s supporting arm. In the car she sinks back, closing her eyes to picture Meg’s sparkly eyes and the way specks of scarlet lipstick are visible on her teeth when she grins. “You don’t have to downsize, dear” her friend had told her, sitting by the hospital bed. “Just come back and live at my place. We can look after each other, can’t we? And you can come back to The Nettlehide Players, where you belong.”

Nancy had nodded, feeling relief course through her like a transfusion. Of course. It was all anyone wanted or needed. To belong.

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