Cycling along, I got to thinking about hotels. There is no special reason for this, since we are not staying in any this trip. But sometimes, maybe in the winter we might take off somewhere and stay in a hotel, often as part of a winter sun package.
Anyway I got to thinking about the hotels I’ve stayed in, the favourites, the memorable and the forgettable.
There was a time back a while, perhaps when I was in my thirties when I lusted after hotels. To stay in one had an appeal akin to nirvana. This was because I didn’t actually go anywhere. It was something others did-travel to exotic locations and stays in beautiful boutique hotels with infinity pools, spas, luxurious shower items, en suites and coffee making machines. Once these wilderness years had passed I began to make forays into the travel arena.
There are the good, the bad and the downright ugly. Among the most beautiful, a tiny, quaint hotel on the island of Naxos, Greece, accessed through a gorgeous Mediterranean garden and the wonderful Sheraton Beach Resort at Krabi in Thailand, occupying the entire bay with landscaped tropical gardens and three sumptuous pools; a friendly, fun hotel on Grand Anse Beach in Grenada which hosted evening crab racing and a basic but charming one in Leh, Ladakh, Northern India, which I got to appreciate once I’d recovered from altitude sickness.
Among the bad-a terrible beach front hotel in Brighton with nasty, damp, inhospitable rooms and grotesque food, where we actually abandoned our weekend to come home, and a truly awful one in Boston, possibly the worst hotel experience I’ve ever had.
We’d arrived in Boston by train [this is another long story involving a lost ‘flydrive’ that I’ll leave for a future post] without reserving any accommodation and in our innocence assuming we’d be able to walk into a hotel and get a room. We hadn’t reckoned on it being a big university weekend. There was no room at the inn-not one, according to the woman at the station tourist office. Seeing our helpless faces she rustled through a folder and packed us off on a tram into the suburbs with a scrap of paper bearing an address. The streets here were lined with attractive, wooden homes sporting all manner of period features such as verandas and shutters.
We located the ‘hotel’. Reception was up the steps in a large old living room with a polished wood floor, dark, heavy framed mirrors and plush sofas. Relieved, we checked in-the room was not cheap, but all we had.
When we were directed along the road to another building we felt somewhat puzzled. The building housing our room was in the same period style, though you could be forgiven for thinking it was from the stage set of The Munsters, so decrepit was it. The interior, as we attempted to locate the room was filthy-dust and litter strewn. There was a tiny, grimy kitchenette with doors hanging off and half-eaten items on the surfaces and the floor. The so called bathroom was indescribable, leading me to hope I wouldn’t need it-a hope unlikely to be fulfilled. The room itself was not only also soiled, but had a door to an adjoining room occupied by others! These others completed this night of pleasure by undertaking an extremely loud and violent row late into the night.
The relief of escaping this hell hole next day cannot adequately be described. These days such a place would not survive the workings of the likes of Tripadvisor. Hooray for the internet!

We are four weeks into one of our extended trips away. There have been a few mishaps. Inevitably, long periods of travel include some mishaps-unless, of course you are undertaking a series of back-to-back cruises, in which case you will have been floated overnight to a tourist destination, hand-held on to a bus, ferried to the place, told what it is, ferried back, fed [a lot], cabaret’d to, floated to the next place, had your nose blown, been wrapped in cotton wool…you get the idea.
This trip, a slow van meander to SW France and then to the south, guided by the weather forecast [there have been severe storms in central Europe], has been dogged by a few irritations. Take the fridge, for example. It has selected now, in the heights of full blown summer and 30⁰ to shed its door, resulting in a Heath Robinson bodge of Gaffer tape and paper wedge to conserve chilling. Gaining entry is not to be taken lightly and should only be attempted in dire need, such as access to beer or wine.
The music player has come out in sympathy and has opted to remain resolutely silent under any circumstances. This means meal preparation has to be undertaken in a welter of silence; not a bad thing in itself, except I do miss the joy of jigging around to The Stones whilst waving a wooden spoon in the doorway of the van.
Worse by far-during a weekend at Parentis, which happened to be hosting a ‘Feria’-a huge humdinger of a festival involving bullfighting, drinking, eating, music, getting plastered and wearing red/white clothing, an attempt to appropriate my bicycle was made, outside the Bureau de Tourism.
Here in cycle-mad France my bike is much admired. It was acquired by default as a result of a burglary at home, and addresses my failings as a cyclist with more than adequacy. You could be forgiven, if you were to ride it, for thinking you were astride a motorised bike. It is by far the easiest bicycle known to woman. It is called a ‘29er’ owing to its enormous wheels. The French like it-and of course, many would like to acquire it! This is not the first time passers-by have attempted to free it from its locks. This time a combination lock was wrenched until two serrated teeth were exposed-almost, but not quite freeing the bike.
A few days later we were cycling yet another part of the Canal du Midi and stopped at a convenient cycle rack, securing with the aforementioned lock and returning to discover that-heureusement!!!-the combination number did not release the bikes. The cycles were locked stuck on to the rack, and we, the hapless riders, miles from home without our transport; a result of the wrenching of the previous weekend.
We walked along to where a sign directed us to sustenance-a rustic farmhouse advertising ‘crepes, boissons’ and much more. We tackled the patron. ‘Monsieur’ we faltered, ‘nous avons un problem avec les velos’…
He went to look. ‘J’ai le solution!’ he assured us, disappearing and returning with an enormous pair of bolt cutters.
Relief can sometimes seem like a holiday in itself…

If you have children you know what a tricky, arduous, expensive, time consuming and rewarding time you have bringing them up. You know all about the sleepless nights, nail-biting anxiety, frustration and overwhelming pride you gain from their foibles and achievements. When they are small you are always looking forward to the next stage, the next milestone and ultimately their leap into independence. It is easy to imagine that your responsibility will have been despatched. You will be able to loll back and rejoice in the job well done [or gnash your teeth and regret the mistakes and neglect]. In any case it will be over and done with-or so you think.
Your relationships with your adult children are complex. Myself, I tend to draw from my own relationships with my parents in order to try not to replicate some of their behaviours.
Take gratitude, for instance. I don’t believe one’s children should be endlessly grateful for our having looked after them. After all, they didn’t choose to be born! They should certainly be polite, should thank us for a meal provided or a gift given-as they would to anyone, and will if you’ve done your raising task well; but they don’t actually owe us for their upbringing, for feeding, clothing and getting them educated, do they? Neither should they feel under any obligation to us in our old age. And this is where it can get problematic.
The fact is they know more, as adults than we can ever know. It is pointless to fantasise about ‘experience’. My father was a conservative eater, unable to contemplate anything as foreign and outlandish as pasta, even, and shuddering at the idea of a curry, claiming he’d been given it when in the army, during the Second World War. He’d learned everything about life there was to know. He did know quite a lot; but a great deal of it was redundant knowledge, irrelevant to the following generations.
I bow to my children’s superior knowledge. They know far more about the modern world than I can ever hope to. When they are together they like to reminisce about their childhood. This invariably involves some wry jesting about my parenting techniques. Apparently I used to insist they had some fruit [pear is often cited] before they were allowed ice cream. Neither of them now is especially fond of fruit, and neither of them will touch pear. I realise I must be responsible for this gaping void in their diets.
The best you can hope for as a parent of an adult is a cordial friendship with some affection thrown in; to help if requested, to refrain from advice, to be very admiring and not to expect anything in return. They may disown you, or they may treat you as an amiable buffoon. I seem to have achieved the latter. Which are you?

For Blogathon Part 2 I’d like to introduce writer, Janet Gogerty. Living in the South of England, Janet writes about quintessentially English characters and places. Her short stories are often stamped with her own particular brand of wry humour.
Janet has published three novels and two anthologies on Amazon Kindle. She has also won prizes for short stories and had them published on paper, on line and the lates in Audio Arcadia Volume One. She has a blog ‘Sandscript’ on Goodreads.

This is Janet in her own words

Janet’s novel, ‘Quarter Acre Block’ [available on Amazon UK] concerns the lives of a family of ‘ten quid poms’ as they pack up their UK life and set off to make a new one in Australia. Janet has drawn on her own experiences for this story, which evokes a strong atmosphere of the sixties and is compelling reading for anyone who was a child of that time.

Available from Amazon

I am pleased to have been invited to take part in a ‘blogathon’ by my fellow writer and blogger, Carol Balawyder of Canada. Carol has written two novels to date and is working on a third. Follow this link to find her tale of dating: http://www.amazon.ca/Missis-Dating-Adventures-ebook/dp/B00G8KD6IY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1383080383&sr=8-1
In her fiction writing she covers a range of genres from crime to women’s fiction. Her blog follows different themes and currently explains the work of a range of fiction novelists. She also writes short stories and submits to competitions. You can follow a link to her blog here: http://carolbalawyder.com/

Carol has sent me four questions to answer on the how, the why and the what I write.

1) What am I working on?
I am writing my second novel; set in the near distant future it concerns the effects of climate change on family, relationships and society in general. It is also a thriller involving terrorism and murder. It has involved a great deal of research so far and is not a speedy write!
I continue to blog as Grace: gracelessageing.wordpress.com, twittering on about life, society, families, travel and just about anything that catches my eye.
I am also penning short stories when the opportunity arises and currently have one in for the prestigious Bridport Prize which has set many writers on the road to success so far.
My writing group, The Spokes continues apace, achieving highly in both publication and competition.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I am not so sure that it does differ. My first novel [The Year of Familiar Strangers] was a safe, footstep-following story of betrayal, infidelity and the frustrations of feminism and drew on some of my own experiences in setting up home independently after marriage separation. It tells the story of a friendship forged through need and destroyed by deceit. The character of Marion is based on a woman I met at a particularly vulnerable time in my life.
My second novel, still in its infancy, is a much greater leap into the unknown but I believe novels concerning climate change are still few and far between, with one or two exceptions [from Barbara Kingsolver and Margaret Atwood for example].
My short stories are almost all character based and cover a wide range of themes from bereavement and loneliness, to crime and science fiction.

3) Why do I write what I do?

Writing is a curious mix of escapism and enslavement. On a long walk, or a bike ride I find I have ridden or walked vast distances without realising I have moved due to having lived elsewhere with the characters who have invaded my brain. They inhabit my sleep, often waking me and interfere horribly in my interactions with Husband, who continues to be long-suffering and indulgent.
All my life I have been a voracious reader of fiction; the lure of the story drawing me in. Writing is only a small step on from this; I, the writer am as curious as anyone to know what happens next!

4) How does my writing process work?

It is well intentioned but capricious. If a project is well underway I am unable to stop and will write constantly to everyone’s annoyance. If I am uninspired I make huge efforts to produce a piece but am rarely pleased with the result.
The idea for a novel has to roll around in my head for a long time before my fingers touch a keyboard and I could never be a ‘bang ‘em out type of writer.
Novel two [as yet untitled] has only now begun to gather momentum after months of hovering as an unformed cloud of ideas.
I find that the discipline of writing a shortish weekly blog helps to ground me. If I have done little creatively at least I have achieved something written each week!

This is the fifth time I have begun this post. The first time I managed a paragraph. The second time I completed more than half. I wrote another version and managed roughly a third. I began to be frustrated; enough to get out my fabled notebook and scribble a page in longhand. Maybe, I thought, I can tear out the page, roll it up and insert it into an empty beer bottle before casting it into the waves. It would be just as likely to be broadcast to the waiting world [or at least-the two or three loyal followers in Outer Mongolia].
There is always a certain element of tension involved in travelling and blogging, or there is for me. There is uncertainty over the availability of WiFi as well as the opportunity to actually write.
This time the tension has upped several notches, owing to the last minute purchase of brand new, shiny, all-singing, technologically wizarded laptop, together with an all-dancing, sophisticated, smug new version of Office.
The new laptop is a lovely thing. It is compact, light, slim, colourful. It has apps. It has a wizzo detachable screen and touch-screen facility. It can be swiped. On the screen are coloured squares bearing promising new applications that I could use. They have names like ‘Smite’ or Throwbox’. My imagination has failed to enlighten me as to what these applications might do. I do know what they CANNOT do. They cannot help me to use the laptop. I have failed miserably to get to grips with it, hence I am typing on the old, laborious, tired laptop with a battery that lasts about 10 minutes.
I typed my first version of a blog post on to the new, shiny little computer. After many attempts I had managed to save some gobbledegook the previous evening. I saved the draft of the post. I named it. I looked into the documents. Phew! It was there. I opened it. The page, reader was a pristine, blank rectangle. It stared back at me. ‘I’ll teach you to write on me’ it seemed to say. It was still called by the name I gave it, this blank page, but every word had vanished, whisked away in some mysterious piece of alchemy wrought by the new, tiny, shiny little laptop. After the fourth time I wanted to pick up the little thing and swing it round and round by its keyboard before smashing it into minute particles against the nearest tree. Of course, this is not an option, owing to the fact that this exotic piece of kit is actually a birthday gift from Husband…
I became dogged then. I will teach it, I thought. I am the master, not this smug little machine. I typed the post again, this time inserting a memory stick into the USB port and saving the post onto the stick. ‘Huh!’ I said. ‘Take that!’
Next day I placed the stick into the weary old computer, mindful of the tricks the little one could play. I located the removable disc, found the document. Hooray! I opened it. The page was blank…
It is war! For now, I am regrouping with the old, worn-out laptop. I have retired to tend to wounds. When I have recovered I may just have another go. Until then the lovely little laptop resides in its bag, no doubt scheming more mischief to drive me mad!