A Rocamadour high

The alarm went off in the dark. Usually, getting up pre-dawn means one of two things: illness or an early flight. Today was a case of the latter, but not in the normal sense. We left the hotel just as a hint of breaking sun highlighted the river mist, following the trusty Michelin map to a field just below Rocamadour, one of France’s most visited pilgrimage sites. By now, the town hewn so creatively out of a cliff was tinged the soft rose of dawn. It was breathtaking. However, my breath was about to be taken away by something quite different: a hot air balloon ride.

Neither Monsieur nor I had ever been in a hot air balloon before, so the whole routine was new to us. Once at the rendezvous point of a dewy field we introduced ourselves to a balloon crew already unpacking their trailer. A shiver of doubt trickled down my spine as the pilot explained that our crew was not yet here and he would be teaching his two companions how to fly today. Oh joy. Would they use L plates? I wondered. Already nervous, the idea of floating around at great heights in a basket near learner pilots was becoming less and less attractive.

Our crew drove into the field and we went to say hello. There were two of them: the pilot and an assistant who would follow us in their jeep. The basket was unloaded, looking a lot smaller than I’d anticipated, then a large nylon kit bag was opened to expose the balloon. At this point it was surely too small to inflate into something large enough to carry us across the Dordogne skies. Once unfolded, however, with a gas canister pointed into it, the mass of green fabric filled up to full size.

All too soon it was time for take off. We climbed aboard. With Monsieur, the pilot, the gas canisters and me, there wasn’t much room to move. A piece of advice: never get into a balloon with anyone you don’t trust, or, for that matter, with someone you don’t like very much as you may be tempted to help them over the side. It would be all too easy.

Amusingly, the pilot gave us safety instructions prior to lift off, similar to what you see on a plane. “If you need to hold onto something, use the frame or the rope handles on the basket,” he told us, “and please do not touch the knobs on the gas canisters.” I prayed I wouldn’t knock into one accidentally. Did I mention how little room there was? “In case we bump into a cliff,” (a cliff? we could bump into a cliff, he said?) duck down inside the basket and hold onto the handles.” The pilot smiled. “But that hardly ever happens.” Not exactly reassuring when we’re stood right next to quite a large cliff of historic importance. We could end up taking out some unsuspecting tourists if we weren’t careful. Perhaps a whole bus-load. But wait, there’s more. “In the case of an emergency landing, duck down inside the basket and roll with it, and keep away from the flame.” Well, that part is obvious. I thought of my mother and started to pray.

The Learners took off at about the same time as us, so we travelled in tandem. Our basket bumped up off the ground and hovered. A surge of gas and we rose a bit. And hovered again. This happened a few times until we just floated, quite still, at a level with Rocamadour. This was a comfortable height, with a pleasant view of the valley and town. Perhaps we could just stay here for a few minutes and go back down? A couple of dogs below were already beginning to resemble small insects in quite an unnerving way.

My wish wasn’t granted. The gas surged again and up we rose heavenwards, gradually losing sight of Rocamadour. Soon we were above the clouds, floating across a fluffy white carpet with an unnerving expanse of blue sky all around our tiny little basket. Yet another unwanted thought popped into my head: can planes see balloons on radar? I certainly hoped so. Thank heavens we weren’t near any major airports.

After a while, I stopped praying and managed to take some photos. The vista of the unspoilt Dordogne landscape was stunning. It was easy to imagine cavemen running around down there shaking their clubs on the way to do some cave painting. Then we drifted across luscious farmland. At one crop of outbuildings a choir of barking started as the rush of our flame alerted some dogs to our balloon. We couldn’t see them, but clearly they didn’t like the sound of us. The barking faded as we passed farmhouse after farmhouse with fresh blue rectangles of swimming pool, a churchyard and lots of outbuildings and barns, all resembling those little plastic farm toys that come with a pair of ducks, some cows, a sheep or two and a hen house..

The pilot picked up his walkie talkie at intervals to identify landmarks as we flew over them, so that Monsieur Ground Staff knew how to follow us. Finally, just as I was beginning to really relax into the ride, he said “see you at Jean’s farm,” clicked the walkie talkie back into his belt and began our descent into the friendly Farmer Jean’s back field. I grabbed hold of the frame with one hand and the nearest rope handle with the other, gritting my teeth as I prepared to roll with the basket in case of a landing issue. Proving that Epicurus is quite sound in suggesting we find a way to live without fear, we bumped across the grass a little bit and stopped perfectly easily, making all my nerves and doubts seem rather ridiculous.

Climbing out of the basket, we were greeted by Farmer Jean’s Border Collie as Farmer Jean himself ambled out to shake hands with our pilot. Then Monsieur Ground Staff joined us, trailer in tow, as we waited for the balloon to deflate.

I stood back, absorbing the early morning light and the view of our Learner friends dropping into a nearby field, quietly mulling the concept that a lot of adventure can be had before 8.30 in the morning when I noticed the cobwebs. In the long field-grass there were cobwebs everywhere, beautiful in their symmetry and sparkling with dew. As I searched for a spider to match one of these webs, something tickled my face. It felt like hair so I reached up to brush it away, finding instead a spider walking across my hand. It must have taken a long walk up my jeans and over my fleece onto my face without stirring any attention. Looking like an anorexic daddy-long-legs, I gently put it back on the grass before watching the men pack away the balloon into the trailer. Already the trip had taken on a surreal quality.

Once back in the field of departure, the pilot filled out our flight certificates, justly earned, might I add, and bade us farewell. We felt it rude not to visit Rocamadour so off we went to breakfast at Le Beau Site, looking down on the field we’d just left. As we sat with our coffee, we watched the town wake up, shop shutters cranking open, tour buses arriving and discharging their passengers. Yet just before things became too crowded or touristic, we were able to leave, still pondering the morning’s adventures as we drove off to explore more of rural France.

It would seem my prayers worked. I had survived the balloon ride and would see my mother again. But would I go on a similar trip in the future? Almost definitely, yes.

Too long in London?

When I jumped on the plane that would take me to London, I never knew I’d stay here for so long. At first, I made common mistakes of vocabulary, such as calling a chap “spunky”, only to have my English flatmate explain that although she watched the Australian soap, Neighbours, and therefore knew what I meant, in England “spunk” meant a male bodily fluid.

Long ago, I ceased calling the popular English washing-up product known as Fairy Liquid “Sunlight”, or plastic cling film “Glad Wrap” (New Zealand equivalents). I even stopped calling a “desk” a “disk”. The accent still pops up from time to time, gaining strength after a reunion with Kiwi compatriots, but it’s a lot more mellow than it used to be. Thank goodness for that. English people no longer have that quizzical look on their faces when I say something that sounds a bit wrong.

Some things still surprise me, though. When I first arrived in London, I thought being here 5 days, 6 weeks, 3 months or 2 years quite an achievement. Many years on, having adapted to life in a place where people sunbathe on a common as opposed to a beach, or where owning a car holds a myriad of unexpected fiscal outgoings such as congestion charges for daring to drive into the town centre, it would seem I might just have become a bit of a Londoner.

There are various on-line jokes listing indicators that you’ve been in London too long. One of the best indicators is feeling you’ve been resident here long enough to complain about delays on public transport without someone inviting you to return to your homeland. Everyone who uses tubes or trains here knows the standard delay excuses “there are leaves on the track” in Autumn, “there’s snow/ ice on the tracks” in Winter, “the heat is affecting the tracks” on a warm summer’s day, but imagine the outburst of laughter when a colleague recently mentioned a friend having been delayed on a train one winter with the loudspeaker stating that it was down to “fog on the line”.

There is also a statistic that in Central London, traffic moves at an average of 6 miles per hour. That would be on a good day.

Another frustration is that no matter what your pay rise, you always need more money the following year. It is horrendously expensive here. Over £3.00 for a pint of lager, that doesn’t count gourmet beers, over £5.00 for a day’s travel pass if you don’t have an Oyster card, a standard cappuccino at Starbucks costs almost as much as a discounted DVD. There is simply no rhyme nor reason to the prices.

In a city filled with historic monuments, world-class theatre and galleries to rival other metropolitan centres, it seems that most permanent residents need the excuse of a visiting out-of-towner to actually get out and enjoy some of these attractions. Why? Well, for one thing, the crowds. For another, popular exhibitions now have timed ticket slots to avoid queuing mayhem. For instance, we recently planned a work excursion to visit the Chinese Terracotta Army exhibition at the British Museum. The best ticket slot we could find was for 10.30pm. That’s too late for me and too late for my colleagues who have trains to catch to the commuter belt. Ho hum. The younger crowd went to the pub and then the exhibition, but I made other plans.

Another reason why Londoners don’t enjoy their history on a more frequent basis is the ticket prices. When Monsieur’s mother came to visit, we took her to the Tower of London. How much do you think it cost per ticket? £16.00 per adult. Even with an internet booking discount, this was still a very costly excursion.

Given all of the above problems, there are definite benefits to living in London. There are plenty of delivery services (a huge bonus at the end of a long day at work), you can buy lunch at 4pm if that’s when you’re hungry, there are lots of inexpensive ways to enjoy the sights, such as walking along the river or picnicking in the parks, or visiting some of the stunning churches in the capital. It’s possible to eat the food of a different ethnicity every day of the week, and then some. It’s also amazing how much an appreciation of tubes and trains that meet their schedules can suddenly make the day worthwhile.

So the answer to my question: too long in London? Maybe not just yet…

The Positano Effect

It was a beautiful Neapolitan day in August 2005 when we decided to venture out onto the Amalfi Coast to explore this famous winding corniche. Wishing we had a sixties convertible with the top down, a chic headscarf and huge “Do you know who I am?” sunglasses, I couldn’t believe that this area really was as beautiful as it appears on film.

When we reached Positano, I had a pinch-me moment. Could this place be real? We parked at a guarded lot, walking the rest of the way down the cliff on a path or “perron” lined with galleries and souvenir shops filled with all things lemon – limoncello, painted ceramics, lemon sweets and tea towels bearing yet more yellow citrus. Only at the bottom of the cliff did we look up and realise how special this place was. The hillside was littered with houses painted in pastels. Against the azure sky, the view was stunning.

By the beach, artists stood at their easels, daubing paint on canvases that would one day sit in pride of place above visitors’ mantelpieces. We chose a restaurant with windows opened wide to the sea and watched as the little world of Positano passed us by. A sixty-something couple walked along the little esplanade, he in a sandy-coloured linen suit and she in a candy-pink trouser ensemble, dripping with gold jewellery. Day-trippers squeezed themselves into rare patches of space on the public beach, and those who could afford it paid to go private. The painters continued with their daily work and boat owners hassled tourists to take a trip on their vessels. to quieter, neighbouring bays. It was a mesmerising scene.

Even lunch at Positano was memorable. My Capri salad consisted of the juiciest mozzarella I have ever eaten, bearing a light tang from the basil garnish and flavoursome beef tomatoes. It only added to the afternoon we were about to have.

There was no room for us on the public beach so somewhat reluctantly, we forked out for two loungers on the shingly private section. This was money well spent, however, as we enjoyed the shade of an umbrella once the sun became too strong. Trotting down to the sea, we were safely enclosed in a roped off swimmers’ area as we enjoyed a refreshing dip. Then, floating on our backs, we gazed at the backdrop of the town. All those beautiful houses creating a rainbow cascade down the cliff inspired a surge of positive emotion, the sort of feeling you never forget because it happens so seldom. Once back on the beach, drying off on our bright orange loungers, I knew that this would go down on the list of one of the best days of my life. That is what I call the Positano Effect: for a place to have such a strong and energising impact on a person that it will become part of their personal history.

Back in London, the Positano Effect remained. I put a picture of the town on my desktop. I sought out films featuring the fishing village – Under the Tuscan Sun, Only You, The Talented Mister Ripley, just to glimpse Positano again. A 1953 quote by John Steinbeck expresses such a reaction:

“Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone.”

With a fascinating history stemming from ancient times when Positano provided the Emperor Tiberius with flour whilst he holidayed on Capri, to legends of a miraculous Madonna, from the poverty which forced many of its inhabitants to emigrate in the 19th and early 20th centuries, to the riches of tourism drawing all sorts of visitors and artisans to its shores, Positano has an unexpected and lasting effect. As we drove away I was already conjuring luck to bring us back. One day, Monsieur, one day.