Hanging in there

Bonjour, c’est moi, er, again.

It’s day four of our seven-day French sojourn and it’s a case of so far so bonne. 

I must say, it’s taking me a while to adapt to the crazy French ways, hugely impressive though they are.

Man do they love their bicyclettes.

They’re everywhere and, even more remarkable, no one seems to nick them.

Bread is also an obvious favourite, alongside sneering at our pitiful attempts to speak their lingo.

Today Jamie combined the two by ordering a baguette in French for lunch.

He did very well, before the mademoiselle who served him felt the need to demonstrate that her English was better than any of ours. 

But, keen to please our hosts, we will keep trying. 

Charlotte got her hair done in an effort to blend in.

Even though it did turn out all David Beckham.

She also bought some French Toast.

I remembered them being bigger when I was a kid and, a little earlier, Jamie upsized.

Goodness knows how we’re going to get through 72 in just four breakfast times but, at €2.20 a packet, what’s not to like (apart from yet another piece of French toast)?

We’ve been to a couple more shows since my last update. The first was a “Welcome Party” featuring the reps...

...supported by the French mafia.

And last night we were treated to a Sikh magician with an S&M fetish.

Tonight’s primary evening entertainment has a “diamonds” theme and earlier we overhead the sound check which was a Shirley Bassey number. I think we all know where this is likely to go.  Yes, downhill. But there are also suggestions of an Irish turn playing in the bar so we might give that a craic (can you see what I did there?)

One last observation before I say au revoir for now. Health and safety. Back in the UK, in the unlikely event of an emergency, we’re used to being told to proceed calmly and in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit. The guidance seems to be a tad different in France and much less collegiate. 

It’s run like f***.

Bonsoir.

Allez mes enfants

Bonjour mes amis. Oui, nous sommes en la France.

(I’ll complete the rest of this meandering drivel in pigeon English because it’s now 30 years since I passed my French GCSE and my memory has never been good).

We left Barcelona yesterday morning. Brilliant place, which you’ll surely know if you’ve been. Everyone seems so laid back, including “Kamal, the Indian guy” who greeted us warmly upon our arrival and smiled manically as we departed. We’d paid him by then, and didn’t break anything.

The next challenge was to train it to Perpignan.  Initially, Charlotte wasn’t impressed with the views.

And then we left the tunnel.

She was thrilled as you can see.

We only had a couple of hours in Perpignan, which at least gave the kids an opportunity to begin to understand that France is just that little bit madder than anywhere else on the planet.

For example, this fine example of modern French art stands proudly in Perpignan town square.

Well, sits. On a big wooden chair.

Then it was time to clamber aboard another magnificent train - spotless, loads of room, fast, on time - for a 15 minute scoot to Argeles. A bit of lunch, a big shop (26 beers for €11), an overpriced taxi and easy passage into our static holiday shack.

And as if by magic, Charlotte entered full-on holiday mode. 

Then we hit the water, me literally after Jamie made me try out each and every water slide. I don’t mind that sort of thing, but I was very tee shirt tan conscious so early in the trip. Hopefully my body colours will even out over the course of the week.

After pizza al fresco, we had a wander around the site and caught a glimpse of the nightly show. It was called McCavity, presumably because the producer didn’t want to pay Andrew Lloyd Webber a pile of cash for the privilege of calling it Cats. 

Meow.

As I look out of the window to my left, the sun is peering over the distant trees at the start of what will hopefully be another beautiful day.

And to my right, there’s this.

They’ve even pulled the curtains.

So that’s what happening with us. I hope the weather’s OK back in Blighty and you have exciting Bank Holiday plans in place.  Failing that, there must be a pub nearby.

I’ll be in touch.

European Vacation

Greetings from Barcelona, which l understand is an integral part of Spain/Catalonia (delete where applicable).

We arrived mid-afternoon after a two-and-a-bit hour delay to our flight, followed by another hour stuck in the airport when our pre-booked taxi driver turned out to be waiting for us in Madrid. Thankfully he eventually gave the gig to another amigo.

And all of this happened after Vanessa was violently ill on the tarmac in Leeds with what appears to have been a bout of food poisoning (I’m a trier, not a cook).

That meant that when we did eventually reach our hotel (you’re most welcome, I’m the only one awake), Vanessa wasn’t very well and I had to take the kids for tapas all on my ownsome.

To be fair, it was hardly a chore.

Also, as you may have spotted, pints were off the menu. Replaced by litres. 

Don’t worry, I worked it.

As it happens, the home of the Spanish football giants is just a stopover. Tomorrow we head over le border to France for a week in a shanty village.  I may have further comment about that in the coming days.

After our tapas, Vanessa joined us to see lots of water fall out of the air (I thought we’d come abroad to avoid such eventualities). 

We were watching the “Magic Fountains” and they were genuinely spectacular (whilst the huge crowd watched cross-legged).

We set sail for France (on the train, so I’m lying) at 9.30am tomorrow European time,  which means another early start.  But hey, what else would we be doing? 

I’ve only been in France twice before. Let’s hope that this time the locals understand at least a bit of I’m saying. 

Splash and shiver

It's now three days since we Whites returned from almost a week on the Causeway Coast of my native Northern Ireland.

It's taken me this long to report back because, well, we've all been a little bit tired.

This despite the kids still being too young to go to the Railway Arms.

Or the Portstewart Arms.

Although foodie places did let them in

Jamie and I had our annual dip on Barry's big one.

Whilst Mummy joined him, Charlotte and cousin Katie on the whirly-twirly-up-and-downy-thingy.

Our trip also included a visit to Water World which was supposed to close down last year but they couldn't find the key to lock it up.

However, there was one particular episode which will live long in my very cold bones.  And it's all as simple as ABC.

Jamie and Charlotte had gone for a paddle at the White Rocks beach on Saturday, before Jamie got carried away and went right in.  He emerged shortly afterwards complaining about potential damage to his undercarriage.

I mentioned this on Facebook, which led to the issue of a very kind invitation from my lovely friend Julie Smyth.  It was for Jamie to join the foolhardy members of the Arcadia Bathing Club (yes, ABC) in immersing themselves in the Atlantic Ocean at 10.30 the following morning.

These madsters meet at the same time every Sunday, 12 months of the year.  The purpose?  There are actually quite a few. "Bathing, swimming, body surfing, drinking coffee and doing a little bit of work for charity."  And there's just one rule.  "No wetsuits - be brave."

Jamie was immediately up for the challenge.  I thought he was bonkers - the innocence of youth - but said we'd take him.  Then I drank 10 pints of Guinness and informed Julie I'd do it too. 

It took me a few minutes the next morning to recall my pledge.  And then the horror of what I'd done hit me.  But, as one of the most fundamentally decent human beings I've met, Julie was not someone I was prepared to let down.

So Jamie had his moment, Charlotte had another paddle and I made a complete fool of myself in front of lots of strangers.

Some of them became my friends afterwards over hot coffee.

As I was trudging out, I said to a lady: "I've never given birth but it can't be worse than that."

She looked at me, all pale, pathetic and shivering (me not her), and replied: "It certainly doesn't look like you'll be able to have any more children."  Indeed.  Even going to the loo proved to be a challenge until almost lunchtime.

All good fun and highly recommended but, eff me, it was freezing.  If the good people at ABC want to raise a bit more money for charity, I suggest that a swear box is an obvious way to go.    

Strange truths

The "before and after" school year photos aren't as as dramatic as the kids get older.  In fact, our two looked older (and taller) in the picture on the left back in September than they did this morning. 

Last night we celebrated the eve-of-end-of-term with a parade of prizes. Jamie gained his blue belt in taekwondo about half an hour earlier.  A few hours before that, Charlotte won the year 2 "creativity award" at school prize day.  The evening before that, she earned her level 5 British Gymnastics proficiency award.     

However, this blog is not about lavishing praise on our kids. No, it's about having some fun wherever possible - and ideally at our own expense.

Jamie's class delivered that this afternoon.  His teacher, Miss Gill, is leaving the school to start a new job.  Today she brought in personalised gifts for all of the kids, which were humbling in the extreme.   Each was given their very own "word portrait" made up up words and phrases which best describe the individual in question.  The words and phrases were provided in secret by their classmates and Miss Gill herself.

Jamie's includes some kind words - "friendly," "funny," "chatty" - and some accurate descriptions of the boy - "Oasis lover," "bird lover," "give it a go attitude."

However, my favourite is an absolute barnstormer: "Strange in a good way."    

That's our son.

Framed and ready for his bedroom wall, Miss Gill even took the trouble to sign the back of the picture.

She wrote: "Follow your dreams Jamie!  Don't stop being positive!  Miss Gill J"

What a fabulous human being and credit to her profession she is.  All of us our incredibly grateful for everything she's done. 

Farewell to the High Heid Yin

I was very sad to wake up this morning to learn that my old mate John Laird had passed away.

John established Northern Ireland's longest established public relations agency 42 years ago, and it's still going strong. 

I first got to know him after he was elevated to the House of Lords as Baron Laird of Artigarvan in the County of Tyrone in July 1999.   It was not a surprise as it had been my task to deliver nomination papers, signed by David Trimble, to the Government Chief Whip's office several months before.

John was proud crusader for the Ulster-Scots language and culture and, after the Good Friday Agreement, a tireless Chair (aka High Heid Yin) of the newly-created Ulster-Scots Agency.

What I'll remember most fondly about John was his playfulness and wicked sense of humour. I recall one occasion when a fellow Ulster Unionist peer had a cold sore and bought some ointment to deal with the affliction.  The problem was that John's noble friend kept missing the important area of his face when trying to apply the cure.  So John volunteered to guide his colleague's forefinger toward his face to ensure he hit the target.

I was in a room with them when this process was being gone through for about the third time that day, and John was milking the moment for all he was worth.

He winked at me and said to his patent: "I hope you never need a suppository!"

John presented me with a House of Lords claret decanter when I left my job in Westminster in 2003 and I've cherished it ever since

It is often said when someone passes on that "we'll never see his like again."  In John Laird's case, it is unquestionably true.

Out of office

This is where I've been working for much of the week.

It's the bottom of our garden. This is the first time in the more than seven years we've lived here that I've done such a thing.  That is because it's normally p*ssing down, even in late June.

And get this. We're off camping again tomorrow which long-suffering readers will know is an activity I habitually loathe.  But the sunshine has a strange effect on strange people.  As such, I am actually looking forward to two nights under canvass (excluding short notice, middle-aged dashes to the toilet block in the depth of night).

I suspect that this will not prove to be a permanent reversal of my camping policy position i.e. avoid at all costs.  But I mean, the North is having its first proper summer since weather was invented and I've decided that it's best embraced.  Should the sky turn grey, I will be looking for excuses to return to the cosy familiarity of bricks and mortar.

Last night I flicked between the cricket and the football on the telly.  And throughout my channel-hopping, I felt guilty that I wasn't outside.  I can't recall that ever happening before.

Tonight, England continue their stroll towards inevitable World Cup glory (according to many pundits) and I shall join the rest of the country in cheering them on (probably with the sound down as Glenn Hoddle is commentating.  Why can't they get someone who speaks proper English, maybe a Spaniard or an Argentinian?)  Then I hope to revisit the garden to celebrate.

On our return from camping on Sunday, it'll be time for the annual Guiseley Summer Street Party.  Vanessa is staffing the tombola as she's not very good at making jam.  The we might have another barbecue.  I say "another" as we had one on Tuesday.  We used the same gas tank we bought in 2011 and it's not even a big one.  Total number of barbecues in our garden in the last two years?  Two.  One per summer.

A final observation before the sun stroke finally gets me.  Have you seen the long-range weather forecast?  Other than a few days here and there when a bit of rain is expected, the sun is due to stay with us into September which, last time I looked, was classed as the autumn. The temperature is due to dip a bit but will still be decent.

I hope you're as excited about all of this as I am bemused.  So please enjoy it - especially if you're going camping this weekend and feared you might drown.                  . 

10 of the best

Jamie officially turns 10 years old in a couple of hours' time (I'm delaying accepting the inevitable for as long as I can).

The picture above was taken this morning in Bramhope where he is currently on a two-night Cub camp (thanks to Andy Parsons for sending it to me).

He even appeared to make a speech before cutting his cake. 

He set off last night, looking all grown up.  

Earlier he opened his main present, an electric acoustic guitar complete with amp (for him) and headphones (for the rest of us). 

Our boy is aging well.

That makes me jealous. 

Good Sports

It was Sports Day at St Oswald's PS today and, despite claiming otherwise, Jamie was determined to defend his unbeaten record in the sprint race.

This is what happened.

TFFT.

And Charlotte did well too.

Afterwards its was homemade pizzas in the garden.

And a little drink for Daddy whilst he documented the historic occasion.

A bigger celebration might yet be required.  Followed by a lie down.

Whitsun with the Whites

The first of four camping trips planned for this year (yes two, plus another two) is done and, well, it wasn't too bad. OK, it was actually really good.  This might have something to do with the fact that we didn't have to erect (or dismantle) the structure you see above you.  It even had a heater, a fridge, a cooker and a kettle.

Oh, and a sofa. 

The Scarborough weather disappointed to begin with.

But the sun eventually came out, along with the disposable barbecue. 

The most bizarre element of the trip was a visit to the Alpamare water park, the like of which I'd not seen before. 

Below is a picture of one of its two outdoor pools. Yes, outdoors.  In Scarborough.  In North Yorkshire.  And it's open all year round.   

Vanessa sold the visit idea to me on the basis that the pools are heated.  I confess that I was not in any way a believer before sliding in with the air temperature already close to freezing.  But, for possibly the first time ever, I was wrong.  Both pools were genuinely like entering a bath.

Then it was back inside to try all four water slides on offer.  Loads of times.  I'm a sucker for that sort of thing.  Prior to the kids' arrival in our lives, I lost count of the number of small children who gave me dirty looks as I stood in front of them in a water slide queue waiting impatiently for my turn. And the Scarborough slides were as good if not better than any I'd been on before.   

Do yourself a favour and go if you can. 

And so on to Monday and a visit to Bempton Cliffs near Bridlington to allow Jamie to indulge in a spot of bird watching. 

Unfortunately because we are the Whites, the fog rolled in and sightings were limited.  

With some exceptions, such as these gannets.  

Jamie also managed to spy seven puffins, bringing the grand total of real puffins he's seen in his lifetime to, er, seven.

So that was our half-term treat.  I hope you enjoyed yours if you had one, or are having fun if still on location.

Our next trip?  Camping.  In a little tent.  Which I have to put up myself as Vanessa is arriving late.  And after that?  Oh yes, camping.  Sometimes I wonder why we even bothered to buy an actual house.