Friendly French!

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Once we’re en route again and heading south, the weather gets better and better. We’d been in a quandary over what we should do, since the electrics have failed again, as they did on our ill-fated Spanish jaunt earlier in the year. They’re supposed to have been repaired…this can only be resolved once we’ve returned home. But should we go north or south? The forecast decides for us- we’ll get more sun and hence more solar power from heading south, so we opt to press on.

It’s a longish haul down the coast and towards La Rochelle. We’ve been down this way countless times now, but we’re headed to an unfamiliar town and site. It’s at Tharron Plage, a satellite of the oddly named ‘St Michel Chef Chef’. The site is ‘Le Vieux Chateau’, although when we arrive it’s hard to see why. Across the road there’s a cylindrical, ochre coloured tower and a long wall; not overly chateau-like, but still…

The site is small and almost entirely occupied by French holiday makers. It becomes clear very soon after we arrive that this is one of the most friendly and welcoming places we’ve stayed- the usually reserved French greeting us and chatting each time they pass.

By now it has become very warm. We have a wander down the road to the seafront and along to the tiny seaside at Tharron Plage and it’s very basic and undeveloped- which is lovely. Along the shoreline, fishing huts on stilts are dotted. There’s a stretch of sand and a few streets with bars, ice cream parlours and cafes but little else, except that the ‘Velodysee’ cycle track runs right along the front. This means that we can get the bikes down off the van and have a go.

It’s a long time since I cycled and some unpleasant physical interventions have taken place since I was in the saddle- but I’m keen to have a go, especially as there’s a ready-made, tarmac, off-road cycle path to use! But sadly, when the bikes are lifted down, my lovely, trusty, Specialized has a major puncture, which Husband sets about mending the following morning, removing the inner tube and submerging it to find the hole. Somehow, though, it proves impossible, since when we think we’ve patched it, it still deflates. Husband spends a lot of time on it- to no avail. A friendly French neighbour tries to help out, too, but all to no avail.

We research and find a bike shop in St Michel Chef Chef. Although it’s Sunday and will be closed we decide to walk and find it- which we do- and yes- it’s closed along with everything else.

In a further twist- Husband’s bike, the Charge Cooker seizes up in an act of rebellion against the heat- which it has done before- so neither bike is rideable. Ho hum.

On Monday it’s still hot, but Husband nobly sets off on foot to get some bread for lunch as there’s none available on site today, meanwhile the friendly Frenchman tells me that everywhere, including the boulangeries, is shut. Husband returns empty handed but with news of a tiny Pizzeria that is open and serving lunches. In the evening we go to a cheerful corner cafe where I get moules and frites and watch as a tiny girl outside at a table tucks into the same thing with gusto!

Then we’re off once more- a little further south as the weather turns ever hotter…

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

Unholy Trinite

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A British woman in the pitch next door to ours drones on and on, a constant monologue, a commentary to her husband about her activities: ‘I’m putting this in here’, ‘I’m going to take these in’, the pegs are under there’, ‘you’ll need to wash that’. Later, once they’ve cooked their evening meal on a grill- accompanied by the commentary- she launches into a new monologue about rose wine- how the deeper the colour, the sweeter it is, or something. She intersperses each comment with ‘but I don’t know anything about wine’ or ‘I know bugger all about wine’.

When I meet her at our shared water tap she treats me to a story about her new, grey top and how the wind blew their washing rack on to their teapot, which in turn tipped over on to it and she doesn’t know how she’ll get it dry.

Next morning they’re engaged in the commentary-laden project of moving their caravan into a new position- a task that seems to require emptying it entirely and using their car to manoevre it round. This is apparently [or so I can’t help hearing] due to their lack of shade. So when a member of staff comes along to tell us we must either leave or move because we only booked three nights it’s not too much of a catastrophe- except that I feel incensed that there’s no acknowledgement that we did, in fact, reserve for four nights.

We’ve been here, at La Trinite sur Mer, for a couple of days. For our first day, which was a little overcast and breezy, we walked around the town then, on a whim, took the ‘Noddy’ train trip out to the Standing Stones at next door Carnac- which are an amazing, vast, neolithic site, although we’ve been before. The little train is relaxing and there’s information on the headphones, of course. Back in town we get a coffee, served by [yet another, for those following this blog] ill-tempered woman. Not all the bars and cafes along the prom are open.

Yesterday we took the van out [partly in the interests of battery charging] and looked at a few places- some beautiful wild dunes by a deserted beach where we lunched, Port Louis, which hadn’t yielded a coffee shop. The weahter was hot, sultry and sticky, making walking and sightseeing hard work. Then thunderstorms moved in, the rain so heavy we needed to pull in and stop to wait it out.

When I wake on the third morning there’s sune pouring in and a fresher feel. We can sit outside, have coffee in the sunshine, read a book. In the afternoon we walk down a cute footpath outside the entrance to the site and up around the headland, the coast rock-strewn and rugged, then it turns along the beside small beaches and back towards the town.

We’re off again next day, heading south towards an area we’ve visited several times- around Pornic. To get there we must cross the stunning bridge at Saint Nazaire which crosses the Loire at its estuary- then we’re over and heading on in blue skies and sunshine…

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

It Never Rains but it Pours

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When we arrive to Villedieu les Poeles, a little old Normandy town where we’ll spend a couple of nights, the road to our chosen campsite is barricaded off and a large expanse of the town square car park is occupied by teams of Petanque players- it’s a Sunday afternoon. It seems the only way round it is to drive the wrong way along a one-way street, which we do, having watched others. the street up to the site is narrow and blocked by a Belgian car and caravan, but we make it in and get a pitch.

Regular readers of Anecdotage will have learned of our issues earlier this year on a jinxed trip to Spain. when we were without internet and devoid of plug-in electricity…and surprise! The same things happen again.

We are lucky in having excellent batteries, which can keep us going as long as we move every couple of days, but when we move on we’ll attempt to get it fixed. We can also go to the ‘Orange’ shop and get a SIM for our mobile wifi device- so that will be sorted.

In the evening we drift into town, find a restaurant and have a compensatory meal.

Next day we’re in need of a walk, so after lunch we set off to explore Villedieu les Poeles, which rewards our efforts with loads of interesting and historical information. Iy used to be a town of copper foundries, in particular the making of bells, and the copper workers lived in small courtyards accessed by passageways, which are still there. The courtyards consist of small stone houses with external staircases and many connecting alleys and passages.

Down at the end of the main street and around a corner is the great bell foundry- still working, but we’re unable to see it on a Sunday. All in all it’s a delightful town and well worth a visit.

We spend another night here then we’re off, first to a motorhome service place we’ve found. It’s not far, however we arrive to the forecourt and a notice to say it’s closed today. Then we pop over to Saint Lo and the ‘Orange’ shop, where it’s easy enough to arm ourselves with internet, at last!

We opt to stay in the area for one more night and try the motorhome place tomorrow, but we’ll go and visit Vire to make the most of the day. It’s not a charming, historic town like Villedieu, although it does have the remnants of old Norman walls and a towering archway, decked out with D-Day flags. We wander some more streets then decide there’s not a lot else of interest. The next site is at Torigni-sur Vire but it’s a tortuous trip on country lanes to get there.

By now the weather has closed in and rain has started, nevertheless we decide to take a walk into town and to a creperie that’s been recommended to us. Taking a detour by the lake adjoining the site we find the restaurant- and it’s closed, so we continue into the village where a sign for ‘pub’ beckons us and when we get there it’s very quaint amd olde worlde inside, so we get beers, then I ask if we can eat there- there are boards outside touting various meals. The publican, who is busy peeling potatoes on the bar- answers with a stream of incomprehensible French, too fast for me- and looks very disgruntled, at which we finish the beers and repair to our campsite’s snack bar for pork and chips- and very welcome it is, too!

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

Chancing it-

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As I write, we are gearing up to be away,. It’s never simple. Besides the prepping of the van, which takes longer than it used to and especially after longer intervals- there’s the house and garden to consider, which has all to be left in a reasonable state ready for return. I always experience a frisson of anxiety over the garden, in particular.

This year, our part of the UK has received an unprecedented amount of rainfall. During the eight years we’ve lived in this house, which overlooks a river called The Avon [yes I know- Avon means river, too!] and a watermeadow, the field has never been inundated for such a long time in the winter- six months. Six months and we didn’t see a single blade of grass from November until the end of April.

Flooding is very bad news for many and the world needs to wake up to the fact that the climate is wreaking havoc.

In our garden, however, the early deluges have been beneficial. The steep bank under the trees that was a tangle of ivy and brambles when we came has never looked better, with all the ferns, geraniums, grasses etc thriving. The new flowerbed we installed after a visit to wonderful Hidcote Garden in the Cotswolds has become lush and colourful, with my 70th birthday rose having pride of place and throwing out deliciously scented blooms.

It hasn’t been an easy garden. Options on planting are limited with so much dry shade. A dry shade bank must be one of the trickiest places to plant. Perseverance and trial and error have yielded so-so results until this year- this wettest of years.

Opposite the dry shade bank is a fence- still shady, still dry. A vigorous jasmine likes it. Some clematis like it and some don’t. This year I’m trying a rambling rose.

At the top of the bank, accessed by a cute path that Husband installed is a wildish space. Here he also put in a pond which has remained stubbornly devoid of life since its arrival [so much for ponds being a magnet, and all that…]. The pond is flanked by more ferns and a lot of weeds. Opposite, on the other end of the decking is a small house that we placed here for small people, although visiting grandchildren have, thus far, studiously ignored it. This may be due to the spider population which enjoys the accommodation.

The few sunny parts of the garden are occupied by pots of annuals and by tomato plants, which I had to buy this year, as my seedlings succumbed to the cold.

All this, then, must look after itself while we take a wander off to foreign parts. Fingers crossed!

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

Festive or Frustrating?

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I’d guess most would consider that living in a tourist town is extremely lucky, since the attractions are there on our doorstep all year round- and it’s true, there is much to feel fortunate about- although not smug [I hope!]. But it can be variously annoying, frustrating and tedious too.

The small market town where I live is in an enviable position- between the Uk’s best known national park and the sea- and also boasts many historic features, making it a magnet for visitors, no less for holding regular events like festivals during the summer months.

During such shindigs, streams of traffic pour in, choking up the town and filling the car parks by early in the day- then having to stream back out again, having failed to find spaces. On the other hand, we’re lucky in that we can stroll up the road and be in the midst of whatever is on in a matter of minutes. Sometimes it’s noisy, often it’s messy- with clearing litter an almost full time occupation for those involved in the running.

Husband and I used to be part of a team that ran a music festival in our town, an event now taken over by others, so we know what’s involved in staging one; risk assessments, fire fighting training, stallholder booking, ticket selling, first aid- the list of chores is endless.

Our town has just hosted the annual food festival, a massive undertaking that results in a sea of stalls down through the High Street and on the ‘Quomps’- a green area next to the river and quayside. The event was, as always, hugely popular, with some obvious features like cookery displays and others less so, like sheep shows and a cross-channel row-boat. Like many such festivals this one has been taken over by a huge company, which results in fewer small, independent businesses and much of the food [too much!] is ‘fast food’ orientated.

We wander along for a couple of hours to see if anything’s new and to investigate lunch possibilities- it’s tricky for those like me, whose choice is a bit limited by health issues, since I can’t consume dairy or spicy foods these days and the range of stalls is overwhelmingly dominated by spice and cheese. Another festival a couple of weeks ago in the environs of the town was a ‘cheese and chilli’ one- not a great magnet for me!

We walk past the waiting stream of traffic and to the High Street, which is thronged with visitors, then on down to the Quomps, where most of the action is; a double decker bus remodelled into a bar, curry stall, burgers, the sheep show- no sheep on show- [presumably they’re on lunch break, too], ‘loaded’ fries [loaded with- you’ve guessed it- cheese], belly dancers- belly dancers?.

I manage to find a roasted duck wrap, which is pleasant enough- if expensive, then think I might like an ice cream. A tour of the entire food festival. however, cannot yield one single ice cream stall [and there are quite a few] offering a non-dairy ice cream, which strikes me as extraordinary, given that every supermarket is now able to offer them!

We walk back to the town and home. That’s it until the next festival- and mostly the same stalls 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

Village on a Chocolate Box

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Years ago, when I was a child [the 50s, mainly], boxes of chocolates were a favourite gift and were almost always adorned with pictures- most often totally unrelated to their contents. A common theme was cosy, thatched cottages with roses around the door. My mother was very fond of boxes of chocolates, so this made buying her a birthday or a Christmas gift very simple.

So all these twee designs on chocolate boxes led to a well-known catch-phrase [at the time] of comparing country cottages to chocolate boxes. If you said a home was like a chocolate box, everyone would know what you meant.

Nowadays though, I doubt very many people would understand the phrase at all. Boxes of chocolates have largely fallen out of fashion and favour and those that do still exist are unlikely to have photos of thatched cottages on the front and a huge red ribbon around them.

The village of Lacock in Wiltshire, though, boasts enough chocolate box cottages to stock large numbers of sweet shops and is the kind of village I imagine overseas tourists dream of visiting, should they want to see traditional British life.

Here, the two main streets host terraces of ancient buildings- half-timbered, thatched, tiny or rambling- all tended and primped for visitors. Among the homes is a village store, a post office, bakery, cafes, pub and gift shops. Outside some of the houses, shelves of home-grown garden plants are on offer- even offering ‘honesty boxes’ for payment!

In addition to all of this historic twee-ness there is the beautiful attraction that is Lacock Abbey [National Trust of course], a huge, majestic pile sitting in vast and beautiful grounds, all as meticulously tended as you would expect from a NT property.

One stunning aspect of the abbey grounds is a buttercup meadow, a sea of yellow cris-crossed with mown paths, the flowers almost tall enough to conceal a person [at least- a short person like myself!]. In the centre is an old tree, wound with something at the top [possibly willow twigs?] looking like a woody planet, and hung with beautiful bracket fungus.

The wooded area is another sea- white this time, of wild garlic, which seems to be having a good year, perhaps due to March’s incessant rain? There is an unmistakeable aroma of garlic as we wind our way nearer to the abbey.

We stop for a quick look at the courtyard- presumably accomodation for the abbey inmates, then pop inside the abbey itself, which is beautiful, hung with paintings and dressed with age appropriate furniture. We finish in the enormous hall which is decked with statues around the walls and an enormous fireplace.

Back outside, we take a moment to visit the large pond, before leaving and going to the cafe, always an obligatory deviation. The sun is out and a cheeky robin visits our table to beg for cake crumbs…now as afternoons go it’s pretty good…

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

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