A new day … the boiler has broken and we are awaiting the vital part that will bring back heat and hot water. John has the King of Colds and I have just knitted a Christmas elf. Outside, the garden is a riot of fallen-down colour, pretty but wild and we don’t really want to cut away the last of the yellows and purples. The sea looks agitated and the sun can’t make up its mind whether to come out or just stay behind that whimsy black cloud. Autumn, and the change of the season and almost time to change the blue rug to the winter red.

A month ago we ventured forth, down to the South of England to explore and visit and revisit. Our aim was to walk the 100 miles of the South Downs Way. It was all organised and accommodation booked and baggage transfer arranged. We were confident that, after the West Highland Way, the Great Glen Way and the last hundred miles of the Camino de Compostela, we would easily manage the rolling fields and hills of Hampshire and Sussex.

First though we stopped in Cambridge on the way south, and idled the  hours looking at the clever graduates celebrating their special day. It was all too much and the sun was so hot, we opted for a lie down on a  punt and our English Gondolier took us along the beautiful River Cam, and pointed out the famous colleges that have educated some of our finest brains throughout history. Beautiful and we were duly impressed.

Onwards then to Bexhill-on-Sea and visited Rosie and Pete. So nice to catch up, listen to chatter and walk through ancient woodland.

We felt quite alone as we caught the train to Winchester, our car safely left in the care of Pete. The start of the route started from Winchester and would end in Eastbourne. Naturally we looked at the cathedral, paid homage to Jane Austen who is buried there, and also Saint Swithen, the poor saint  whose body was dug up from his tomb outside and reinterred into the cathedral itself. Whilst he was open to the elements it rained, it rained for forty days and forty nights, and so the legacy remains that if it rains on Saint Swithen’s day, which is the 15^th July,  it will continue raining for forty days. We ate in England’s oldest pub, The Royal Oak – c1002, a gift to a Viking princess who later became the mother of Edward the Confessor. I duly read all about it as we munched the traditional fare of pies and chips. I didn’t even know that Winchester was the original capital of England under the mighty King Alfred. I only knew that he had burnt some cakes once upon a time. My education was coming on in leaps and bounds.

And at last we set off on The Way. We strode out of the town, along the pretty river path with commuters rushing to work, and headed for the countryside. We walked and walked, the day was hot, and we struggled to find a seat to rest. My midday I had developed a nasty blister on the ball of my foot. We tended to  it, covering it with Compeed. We walked on, and after fourteen miles I limped into the pretty village of Exton. John was as fresh as a daisy, just a little weary.

Our hotel was full of character. I sat on the bed and it collapsed. I went to the loo and got locked in as the snib was broken, the taps turned the wrong way, the ceiling was soaked from a bath leak upstairs and the television wouldn’t work. The guy from reception was full of apologies, and said I could sit and watch TV in the room next door, but only on one chair, as the reception was affected if you moved about!

Amazingly the food was fantastic!

And so day two dawned. The foot was agony. The hedgerows each side were massive, the woodlands were huge and the view came and went. The final straw was five miles of constant climbing on hard cement roads and evil sharp flints that threatened to pierce the soles of my boots.  We arrived, after 13 miles, in Buriton.

Day three, we decided to detour to Petersfield, where we bought up bandages, plasters, scissors and tape and then sat in the Physic Garden and doctored the foot. It was good to rest amongst such healing plants.

Then on again, along the tracks and roads and HIGH hedgerows to Cocking where we stayed in Midhurst. A pretty place with ancient black and white houses resembling a film set, and finally for me, Cocking to Amberley. The day was hot and the scenery quite beautiful, with fields of sunflowers and rolling land resembling a patchwork, and there in the distance, the glittery English Channel. I sank down on the grass, avoiding the evil flints, and had to call a halt. My foot was swollen to twice its size so I had to quit. John was my knight and managed to secure a lift to our B&B from a Ghurka campsite nearby.

We did carry on but not on foot. The train to Brighton was a revelation. It was packed full of glamorous festival-goers wearing as little as possible. We hid behind our masks and looked and learned, it was like a lesson in anthropology. Glitter was being painted on cheek bones across from us, a very pretty girl opened a bottle of Prosecco and tipped her bottle and drank thirstily. She saw us looking and said, ‘I normally have a cup with me but I forgot, I normally have more decorum.’ She didn’t like the Prosecco, so she rummaged in her backpack and pulled out a bottle of Smirnoff and tipped that up to her mouth. ‘Much better,’ she said. The time was 11.20 am. It was going to be a long day at the festival!

John was delighted to meet up with his daughter Becky and grandson Jenson and also his son Matt. We had a good social day together before we got our bus  to Upper Beeding.

Now there are B&Bs and there was this one. Oh my. We had the Yellow  Room, bright and crisp and fabulous. Our owners adore colour, and Ron had created a mini Greece on a flat wall across from the house, an Australian outback bar in the back, and an African welcoming garden at the front. I was entranced with the mighty Honda in the driveway, and was told that the couple were planning to ride to Morocco on it for Christmas. Fun place.

From there we went on to Lewes. Such a pretty town, and our B&B lady seemed lonely and pleased to see us. In the morning I saw three sticky glasses lined up by her chair in the living room. It was here that she had sat listening to music on her headphones the previous evening. It reminded me of a novel by Elizabeth Jolly. She described a woman taking three crystal glasses of whisky and soda to bed with her. She lined them up and drank them as she enjoyed her novel. I wonder? Is this something that people do?

And finally back to Rosie and Pete in Bexhill. Such bliss to be back and rest and catch our breath. They took us to Beachy Head where we should have finished the walk. We did see a man walking towards us across the hill on his last leg of the Way, and I was so jealous. Maybe another time?

They took us to Chartwell House, home of Winston Churchill. What a fabulous place with so many paintings and apparently Brad Pitt has bought one of Winston’s landscapes for nine million pounds!

The only painting of his that I really liked was the one he did of his wife, Clemmie.

It poured with rain as we looked at the gardens, so we took refuge in the Wendy House that Winston had built for his daughter, Mary. Here at the age of five she played hostess and served rock buns to Isaac Newton and Charlie Chaplin.

And so we left, and revisited Brighton where we stayed with Matt and Hannah, then on to Chichester where we saw John’s sister Libby, and then to Salisbury. The rain was a deluge, so we missed the choral singing in the Cathedral; instead we saw Zizzies where more modern history was played out with the poisoning of the Russian spies. I felt a little disconcerted as our land lady was called Natasha. Hmmm.

Our plan was to go on to Wales after visiting Stonehenge, which we saw quite clearly from the road, but my own Natasha and Bonnie had both just been diagnosed with Covid 19. (She had been double jabbed so not good.) So we decided that as we were so far south we would make a diversion and visit Devon instead, and then meander up to Cornwall and see the Eden Project. No need to go on foreign holidays, just visit the glass bubbles of this amazing place, where the temperature sits at 26C and you walk through South East Asia, West Africa, the Caribbean, Australia and the Pacific Islands.

The plants have all been grown from seeds or have come as babies from other nurseries, but now they tower high with waterfalls and flowers. Fabulous experience. We bought a toothache plant. We saw them growing like weeds along the sides of the Amazon River a couple of years ago.

We called into Port Isaac, a lively fishing village, but more famously home to Doc Martin, and also the film set of Fisherman’s Friends. It seemed strange to walk through streets that are so familiar and eat a vegan Cornish pasty sitting on a wall that I have seen hundreds of times on TV.

And no visit to Cornwall can be complete without visiting Boscastle. Natasha insisted we should visit the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic. What an experience. We learnt about potions and poppets, i.e. the dolls that you can transfer evil thoughts of hate and revenge or envy. One poor man doll looked a bit like a hairbrush – he  had so many pins sticking out of his chest. It seems he made the woman’s daughter pregnant. Oh well.

We came out reeling with so much information and so many images to digest. We headed to Tintagel where the legend of King Arthur originated. It was late, and so we didn’t bother walking down to the sea. Maybe another time.

And finally, on to Chester… again in the pouring rain, so no walking around the city walls. We lurched into the Museum of Medicine. To be honest I think we lurched out again about an hour later feeling very green around the gills. It was so graphic and quite horrible, but very clever and true. We saw depictions of horrible amputations, diseases, barbers’ chairs, complete with manacles for the hands and feet . The barber’s symbol that hangs outside their door is red and white, and now I know why. A very bloody experience for sure.

And HOME sweet home. It has been good to travel and visit and meet so many people, friends, family and new friends. But now it is time to reflect.

I shall continue sewing, started doing shirts, and planning a very colourful spring season – and John has so many jobs to be done, inside and out and soon it will be the end of another year.

I have just celebrated another birthday, and John stepped up to the mark and baked me a Victoria sponge (courtesy of Mary Berry).  His first ever, and it was so delicious, it will certainly not be his last.

I will not be writing this blog anymore. It has been fun these last 10 years or so, and sometimes I look back at the entries from Australia and Doha and the various trips we made and remember all the fun adventures we had.  Also I marvel at how Bonnie and Hazel, Darcey and Dillon have all grown and become part of my life.

So – goodbye from me. Thank you for reading, stay well and happy, wherever you are!

Gael