Tag Archives: heatwave

A Lepe Finish

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We’re only at Ashurst campsite for two nights and it seems churlish to ignore the meal offerings at the pub next door so we wander there in the early evening, avoiding the short cut across the field due to its having stiles to cross- a no-no for me at the moment.

It isn’t busy, in spite of the site next door but service still appears a bit slow. One issue with hip replacement is there are some restrictions on what I can and can’t do. I must sleep on my back, I mustn’t bend more than 90 degrees or twist and when sitting my operated leg must be sloping down. It surprises me how many seats aren’t level or actually tip back. I need to scrutinise every venue’s furniture to find a suitable seat. Benches aren’t good so I choose a table with rattan dining chairs and have to take a cushion from one to put behind my back.

These days most menus disappoint me. It’s hard to find anything to eat that isn’t smothered in some chilli or garlic product. The one starter we choose to share is ‘off’, leaving us with one option. I feel bad for the amenable waiter who is trying his best, repeatedly going to find out from the chef if anything is available for me to eat. I must say here that it isn’t down to fussiness on my part- until I was diagnosed with UC I ate anything and everything. Nowadays restaurants are much the same in that nearly every item has been doused with a sauce, or an oil or a marinade containing chilli or garlic [2 items I’m not able to eat], leaving me with an option of fish or steak and chips. Ho hum…

The lamb cutlets are very good [even though the kitchen couldn’t resist putting hot, spicy salsa on the side!].

Next morning it’s time to pack up and leave, but we’re not off home yet and have promised ourselves a day at Lepe country park- a Hampshire park next to the sea with outstanding views over the Isle of Wight and the coast. There’s a good car park next to the beach, which is filling up quickly as we arrive. Nevertheless, by driving to the end and some judicious manoeuvering, the van gets parked. Here, there’s a brisk, refreshing breeze whipping the sea up into white caps, sailing boats on the horizon. It’s not a wide, sandy beach, rather more shingly and wild, but has a charm of its own and plenty to look at.

Up, then, out of the car park and to the park path, walking on a gravel surface which turns to sand after a while. There’s a bizarre, ‘D-Day’ play park featuring climbing nets and tunnels like an assault course. Some, like us, are here for the walk, others for a quiet piece of beach. But few have opted to come this far. Further on there are remnants of the D-Day departures from the second world war.

It’s time to turn back, and down to the cafe for a modest but respectable lunch then coffee in the van before we think about how we’ll get home. Our normal route is blocked by a serious fire which has caused people to abandon vehicles on the tarmac, has destroyed the road’s surface and buckled barriers. But our route takes us through Beaulieu, where some donkeys are holding up a queue of traffic by sheltering in the shade on a bend, which is a cute sight.

A little local knowledge goes a long way so by weaving our way through the New Forest roads we are home. Now to unload..

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

The Return

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Here we are- much, much sooner than we ever expected, out in our van. Not far, of course- only a stone’s throw from home, in the New Forest, one of the UK’s historic, iconic national parks. Here there are all manner of wonderful treasures: huge, ancient, English oaks plus all our other native trees, heaths with purple heather, ponds and lakes, many species of birds, lizards, insects and other creatures, wild, roaming ponies, cows, donkeys and pigs. There are picturesque villages and small towns, like Lyndhurst, historic centres like Bucklers Hard, wildlife sanctuaries, open farms. And of course- campsites.

This site, at Ashurst, is next to both a pub and a railway station, which is beyond handy! Husband has brought his bike, since the forest trails and wonderful, but my bike must, for now, remain in our garage. I’m not allowed to cycle…yet. But I am, now, able to walk, and this I intend to do.

We’re experiencing our fifth heatwave this summer here in the south of the UK and have been officially in drought for weeks. When we arrive to site, we search for a shady spot, selecting a place under the shade of a large oak. Next to us, a group of families with tents and caravans sets up, Tents, I feel, will be very hot indeed. The assorted children ride their bikes round in little convoys in time-honoured fashion. Later there’s a small gang of them sitting under the oak tree enjoying the shade and the tree itself.

The shade works well for us. In the evening we sit outside to eat and as we do, an ominous, billowing cloud begins to appear- brownish purple in colour and with shreds of blackened vegetation landing on the table. This is not a rain cloud.

In the forest, not too close to us but present, a fire is taking hold. It’s not a worry for us because we can move very quickly and we know we’ll be warned if necessary.

Next morning we realise there’s a snag with parking in this shady spot. There’s no electric hook-up at Ashurst site and we need all the sunlight we can get for our solar panel to charge the leisure batteries and keep our fridge, lights etc going. We opt to move into the open. It’s hot, yes, but not unbearable under the awning. I set off to walk around the site, which, after several open areas, plunges back into dense woodland and it’s lovely, deep shade. Far at the back, beyond a small footbridge which would have spanned a stream, there’s a boggy area which may have been a pond as it’s green and muddy.

I keep going- along the back of the site, up and round, There are one or two solitary walkers like me and a couple of cyclists. There is much evidence of fallen trees although, on the whole the trees, bracken and vegetation seem to be surviving. Even the brambles are offering up some acceptable blackberries in places.

Around a bend I join a tarmac road, the site and residents sharing it for a distance. But it’s less shady and I turn right across the woods to return to site, pleased to have walked a mile and a half- my longest distance since major surgery on my hip. Hooray!

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

From Heatwave to Ice Storm in one night

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One of the great advantages of staying at Le Saint Martin, Moliets Plage is that you can turn left out of the exit and be able to get just about anything you need. A bakery, a delicatessen, clothes outlets, surf outlets, newsagent, beach items, gifts, rotisserie, a comprehensive supermarket, a cash machine, bars and an assortment of restaurants and all in easy walking distance outside of the campsite gate. To the right of the exit and up the slope are still more bars and restaurants en route to the beach.

In high season the bars and restaurants are busy, especially when people are leaving the beach, but there’s always somewhere to get a meal, beer or a cocktail in the evenings. Later or earlier in the year there’s a reduced choice and the supermarket may not be so well stocked, but now, at the start of the season we don’t need to travel anywhere to get anything.

Inside the site there is no commerce except for an ice cream kiosk, new for this year, overlooking the extensive swimming pool complex- also very different this year, new pools and slides having been added to the domed indoor pool that was here previously.

If all this sounds like publicity for Le Saint Martin I must add that our first impressions are of slight dismay- we’re not fans of holiday park type sites, on the whole. But as we settle in most things seem like the old, familiar site we love, so we’re happy enough- and besides, it is in a stunning location between the forests and the ocean, with a comprehensive network of flat cycle paths. Perfect!

When the punishing heat subsides enough to allow us to cycle we pedal out on a favourite route to Leon, a few miles away. It’s not an arduous cycle, with only one steepish climb into the village, which has one or two bars around a square and very little else. We’ve been a couple of times before, once hving to stop in the square for a puncture. This time we don’t pause for a drink, but lock the bikes and have a short wander, though there’s not too much to see.

It’s still too hot for daytime beach and although we opt to go at 7.00pm it’s still very warm indeed, with little or no breeze.

Towards the end of our week something extraordinary happens. It’s late afternoon and the temperature is around 40ish- something we’ve come to expect on this trip. Then it starts to plummet, becoming noticeably cooler. In ten minutes it has dropped ten degrees. It feels incredible- like being released from a hot bubble. The evening becomes cooler still and clouds bubble up.

It’s a more comfortable night and I get off to sleep quickly, only to be woken by a crashing, hammering, clattering noise, so loud I’m prompted to leap up to close the rooflight. Water is splashing in from a monumental deluge of ice showering the van, melting and pouring off the exterior. I hurry to close all windows. The windscreen is a falling sheet of water and the sound is ear-splitting. The raging, icy torrent lasts for several minutes then slows and subsides. We are nonplussed. What just happened?

Two Memorable Summers

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The summer of 1976. Long, hot, dry days. A summer that stretched on in an endless, sweaty haze punctuated by occasional fires, hosepipe bans and exhortations to ‘bath with a friend’.

I was still in the early years of my career, although I’d switched jobs and had moved from a school in a 3 story tenement building in Stockwell to a light, airy, leafy special school [for ‘delicate’ children] in Putney where I was responsible for all of twelve children in a huge classroom. I loved everything about my new job, from the joys of working with such a small number of children to the social life of the staffroom; from the three delicious meals each day, [cooked on site] to the convenience of living a twenty minute walk away. I’d moved from Wimbledon to share a flat in Putney with a girl who’d begun working at the school at the same time.

One wall of each classroom in this modern building was glass, giving a view on to landscaped grounds but in a hot spell heating the rooms to oven temperatures in the afternoons. Our gregarious, eccentric boss, who had a gammy leg and was given to gesturing wildly with his stick, instructed us to take the children outside under the trees, a directive that we were only too delighted to follow. These were sick children, suffering from a range of conditions that included chronic asthma, heart problems and cycstic fibrosis. They flopped down under the trees and slept while we worked on our tans, having given up all pretence of holding meetings or making teaching aids.

By the time the long summer holiday came I’d acquired skin the shade you would expect from a long sojourn in a tropical location-and remember this era pre-dated any enlightened warnings about sunbathing.

This summer is the longest and hottest in the UK since that heady season of 76. And while I may not tolerate blistering sunshine as well as I could in my 20s I continue to love hot weather. I love soft, still early mornings and long, light, balmy evenings. Yes, the garden is dry. The grass is golden and crispy. Bumble bees have taken up residence in the lawn, tunnelling underneath the decking. The come and go in a relentless, dedicated relay, circling drunkenly before they make their inelegant landings then disappearing into the grassy tunnel.

As yet we’ve been spared a hosepipe ban, unlike 1976. I no longer loll around in the sun and am more likely to be walking, cycling or gardening. To relax I’ll seek out some dappled shade and settle with a book. I’ve become a conscientious user of sun cream and wearer of hats. We eat dinner with the doors wide open and a view of the river at the lowest it’s been since we moved here, flowing slowly and exposing islands of weed for hopeful moorhens to pick over.

Some day soon it will be over, this hot spell-and autumn will be upon us. But for now I’m going to enjoy every day, just as I did 42 years ago.

 

Christmas Climates-what’s your preference?

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In 2011, towards the middle of November, in the midst of an extended trip to New Zealand followed by Australia we found ourselves in Adelaide in temperatures of around 30 degrees. And Christmas was cranking up.

Adelaide was delightful-quaint architecture [what goes for ‘olde worlde’ in the New World], a busy, buzzing city with a vibrant night life, cheeky, fun bars and plenty of attractive, green spaces.

During most of our road trip we’d been disappointed with evening, cultural life. The vast majority of bars, devoted almost entirely to gambling-‘pokies’ and horse racing-tended to shut around 9.00pm. We’d show up just before, at a time we are accustomed to setting out in the UK to be told we could get one drink before they closed up, or that they were in fact just closing. We were mystified. Where was the fabled ‘wild west’ lifestyle, the Bohemian, carefree, party, outdoor social whirl?

Turned out I’d been watching too many ‘Wanted Down Under’ programmes. Other than for an early evening meal no one bothered with going out except hardened gamblers, who sloped off in inevitable disappointment once the books were closed.

Adelaide, though was different. The nightspots were thriving. There were throngs in abundance. The locals enjoyed life. One bar proclaimed it was ‘the worst vegetarian restaurant in the world’, in praise of its steaks. Result.

Our hotel, reserved by Trailfinders [hence not a penny-pinching hostel such as we’d have selected if left to our own devices] was magnificent; a monument to luxury and decked tastefully in the burgeoning Christmas items that were adorning the city. Christmas trees sparkled at the foot of the sweeping staircase.

Outside in the street the stores sported their own Christmas displays-Santa and his reindeer cavorting above the porch of a department store, tinsel glinting in the searing heat of the sun.

To those of us accustomed to Christmas in the Northern hemisphere the appearance of Yuletide decorations in a heatwave is a surreal experience. I responded with a driven desire to obtain Australian style tree decorations-a mission in which I failed, until my kind, Antipodean aunt, seeing my predicament mailed me a beautiful, red and white felt kangaroo to dangle from the branches of our own tree.

Still more outlandish, Hong Kong-where we stopped over on our return in late November-boasted enormous Disney-style Christmas trees constructed entirely of plastic cartoon frogs and vast ornate merry-go-rounds in glittering gold and shiny purple. All this in an atmosphere that could wilt a cactus.

I am in awe of those who celebrate the festive season in a hot climate. But despite being one of the first to complain about cold, dark, frosty mornings and bleak winter nights there is something very special about Christmas at home, here in the UK where we still retain some semblance of changing seasons. And after all, with only one week until the shortest day [in daylight hours] spring is just around the corner.

London Heatwave

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                The underground train is a stifling capsule of wilting passengers, staring mute into the clammy air.

                A slim, elegant woman in a long, floaty dress, large, ugly feet restrained by thin, strappy sandals. Her big toe gross, like a giant’s thumb-

                Stepping out on to the platform; a surge of cool air pursues us through the rounded tunnels.

                Heedless, purposeful travellers walk between us, barge into us or stand in the way, intent on their tiny screens.

                Throngs on the shady side of Bond Street-a forest of smooth, bare legs in the shortest of buttock-skimming denim shorts.

                I grimace when I spot my baggy knees reflected in the mirrors of the hotel lobby as I await the lift.

                We are the ‘Out of Towners’-Jack Lemmon and his wife-I am a tourist in a city where I lived for years-aeons ago-

                The restaurant terrace overhung by subway tracks-trains squealing by overhead, their wheels grinding as they round the bend, counteracting conversation; the waiter beams and his lips form a question, soundless in the train’s passing hubbub.

                Shoppers clutching bags-Dolce e Gabbana, Liberty’s, Reiss-

                The gift stalls crammed with a million items no one could want-Union Jack mugs, fridge magnets, Tee shirts, metal models of Big Ben, Buck House in a snowstorm.

                I fall exhausted on to the soft, white sheets in the air conditioned room-am asleep in seconds.

                When I wake I am sixty years of age…