Sweet Surrender (17 page)

This long journey back from Canada to Australia was my seventh over the last three years. I sometimes feel as though I'm on a merry-go-round, jumping from one continent to the next. Every time I return home there's a period of adjustment – whether it's my home at the farm with David, my home in the village in France, or my sister's home in Canada. I have to get my head around everything all over again and settle myself in. Depending on how long I've been away, I sometimes forget where things are kept or how to use basic appliances or gadgets. I rummage through drawers and cupboards trying to find where things have been stashed in my absence. And I face the continuing challenge of having to adjust to driving on a different side of the road. Right-hand drive in France, left-hand in Australia, then back to the right when I am in Canada. I also leave clothes in all three places, which can cause problems. I have often spent half an hour looking for a particular pair of shoes to go with an outfit, only to remember that I left them in the bottom of the cupboard in France. So I spend a lot of my life reorientating.

I also have to adjust to being with David again, sometimes after separations of three months or more. The initial reunion is always
exciting for us both. We fall into each other's arms and, if he's picked me up from the airport in Sydney, we talk non-stop all the way back to the farm. There's so much to catch up on, from family news to quite mundane information. How much water is in the house tank? Have the chickens been laying? How bad are the snakes this summer?

After a few days, we inevitably go through a difficult patch. David has been running the place in my absence and he finds it hard to relinquish control when I return. I am accustomed to organising the domestic side of our lives, especially in the kitchen, which I regard as my domain. Conflict arises when I put things back the way I like them or change anything in the routine he has established in my absence. It becomes a bit of a power struggle, but eventually we manage to work it out. It seems hilarious that at this stage of our lives, after thirty-seven years of being together, we are nitpicking about what should go into the compost bin or whether the eggs should be kept in or out of the fridge. It's the nature of long-term relationships, this constant renegotiation, and I try to laugh about it rather than get cranky.

Often when at home, I have intensive writing to complete and I escape to a motel for a week or ten days so I can concentrate on nothing but getting on top of the task. The first time I did this, during the writing of
Last Tango in Toulouse
, I didn't tell David. I knew I needed solitude, some quiet writing time without interruption, so I waited for him to go to the gym then packed my computer in the truck and drove to the Big Trout Motor Inn at Oberon, where I bunkered down for eight days. He's now accustomed to this eccentricity of mine, running away to write. If I'm working on a section of a book that requires complete focus, I simply can't stay at home because of all the distractions. The meals, the garden, the animals. They pull me away from the essential task at hand. In a motel I have an easy routine. I get up very early and start writing while still in my nightie, drinking tea and eating toast. I don't stop until late afternoon when I go for a walk, have a bite to eat at the local pub, followed by an early night. It's amazing how much
writing I can get done in just a few days, and once I gain momentum it's easy to keep it going, even when I get back to the farm.

Over time my grandchildren have also grown accustomed to my comings and goings. When Miriam's older boys were little I was at home most of the time and saw them on a regular basis. Indeed, when the family lived in Bathurst I would see them virtually every day. I would often pick them up from school and bring them out for a swim in the wading pool and afternoon tea. I really missed this when the family moved to Adelaide, so I fly down there as often as possible, and I also try to plan my year so that for at least one of the school holidays I'm at the farm and we fly them up for a week or more. I enjoy these extended visits, even though these days I find keeping up with four lively boys can be exhausting.

I used to see a lot of Isabella and Caius when they lived with us at the farm for two years, even though I was travelling so much. This constant contact has created a deep bond which survives the fact that I'm not around as much these days. Isabella spends a lot of time in hospital so I organise for Caius to stay overnight as often as possible. He calls these visits ‘sleepovers' and absolutely adores being an only child for a day or two. I make him special meals, we go for long walks and he loves to help in the vegetable garden and with the poultry. At night he sleeps on a single mattress on the floor of our bedroom. The house is large with long hallways and lots of empty bedrooms, and he's not quite ready to brave one of the spare bedrooms alone.

Hamish and Ella often come over from Mudgee when I'm at the farm, and sometimes I have them for part of the school holidays. If their cousins are also staying I can have up to seven children living-in at a time, and this requires super organisation and a cool head. I am quite strict about certain things, and they totally accept the ‘rules' at the farm. No computer or console games; no lolling around in front of the
TV; no eating in front of the TV . . . in fact they are only allowed to eat at the table unless we are having a picnic or sitting out on one of the verandahs. They have to help setting the table and clearing up after a meal and I encourage the older ones to get involved with the cooking, too. Eamonn makes a delicious meatloaf and Sam likes decorating the pavlovas. They eat mountains of food – literally a fridge-full every day – and David is constantly alarmed at how many trips he makes to the supermarket when the kids are staying. One full trolley a day is not uncommon.

I also insist that they all have a ‘quiet time' after lunch. They lie down on a bed and read for an hour – I spread them around all the different rooms, because having two in together means there's no reading, just hijinks.

Once again, I'm sad Isabella doesn't often get a chance to be part of these wild and woolly family gatherings. I would not be capable of caring for her and looking after a gang of children at the same time. She only comes to stay overnight if her parents are also staying. I have looked after her on my own quite a few times, and I've even mastered the intricacies of operating her feeding pump and managing her complicated medication. However, now that her epilepsy has intensified she requires constant monitoring and, quite frankly, I don't spend enough time with her to immediately recognise the signs that she could be having a problem. The farm is quite a distance from the nearest hospital and this also makes me nervous.

I've stayed at the house at Blackheath overnight to babysit both children so that Ethan and Lynne can have a night out alone, or with friends. Lynne's parents have also helped tremendously, having the children to stay. But the only time Lynne and Ethan experience total respite from caring is when they have a week at a special care centre for disabled children at the beach in Manly. It's a fantastic concept. The children in need of care are housed upstairs and even a child with disabilities as profound as Isabella's can be looked after twenty-four
hours a day. The families are housed in apartments downstairs, only a short walk from the beach. So Lynne, Ethan and Caius have a restful holiday in a beautiful location and they can come and go and spend time with Isabella as often as they please. This suits them so much better than simply leaving Isabella alone in a respite home for a week. They are entitled to support such as this but would much prefer to be as close to her as possible.

As my oldest grandson heads into his teens I suddenly begin to contemplate the next possible stage. Great-grandmotherhood. It may well come to pass, and that's a seriously alarming thought.

I couldn't believe I was at the airport again. It's just as well I was such an easy traveller, because my life at that time was spent hanging around airport lounges and dashing to make connecting flights . . .

I don't travel business class because I find it a huge cost to pay for a day in your life spent in the air. But I have developed a few techniques of my own for making it bearable. A glass of wine at the airport, of course, and I always treat myself to a new book to read along the way. I go for an aisle seat and carry a cashmere shawl to wrap myself in – as well as the blanket that's provided. I can't sleep if I'm cold. I eat the meal provided, with a glass of wine, and take a sleeping pill. With luck I'll sleep six to seven hours straight, then when I wake I'll watch movies or read until we arrive. It's almost as if I put myself into hibernation mode for the period of time it takes me to get from A to B.

Travelling from the farm near Bathurst to my house in France can take more than thirty-five hours door to door, depending on the connections. David drops me at the little airport near town, and the flight to Sydney takes forty minutes at most. I then catch the underground train to the international airport and check in, always allowing plenty
of time. The flight from Sydney to London takes around twenty-four hours, with one stop along the way. I transfer to another terminal and catch a flight to Paris, which only takes an hour – it's the waiting around and clearing security that takes so long. After I clear customs I catch a taxi across the city – always wide-eyed with delight to be back in France – to Gare d'Austerlitz, where I board a train for the five-hour journey south to the elegant town of Gourdon. At the Paris railway station there is a restaurant that I just love. It's simple but they always have en excellent
plat
and I order a small bottle of red wine to remind myself that I really am here, at last.

Rail travel in France is fast, and better than most equivalent Australian services. The carriages are comfortable, the trains generally run on time, and the scenery speeding past the window is entrancing. Much to my amusement, passengers are allowed to bring their animals into the carriages. Once, I sat next to a woman with a poodle on her lap. Another time, I was caught up in a nasty dogfight. While everyone was asleep, two dogs – one large mutt and a small lapdog – took advantage of the situation to attack each other. By the time their owners woke there was blood all over the carriage and both dogs looked worse for wear.

This trip, I find myself opposite a young couple with a ferret in a cage – urgh! – and I am bemused by its antics. It tries to escape, savagely attacking the bars with its sharp little teeth. Then it sleeps deeply for an hour, on its back with its feet in the air. Then it piddles on the towel lining its cage. The acrid smell of rodent-like urine fills the carriage, but the young couple sleep on, oblivious to the fact that their pet is stinking us out.

In Gourdon I am met by a friend – sometimes Jock, sometimes another member of my gang – and then it's a thirty-five-minute drive to the house in Frayssinet. It's such a joy to arrive.

This time, I was here to lead one of my tours and there was a lot to be done as it was a big group – nineteen people, including a woman
from New York who found our details on the internet – and, at eighteen days, quite a long tour. I had allowed myself a fortnight to unwind before starting work in earnest.

The next day I did as I always do when I arrive in France. I joined a group of friends for lunch at Restaurant Murat in the nearby tiny village of Pomarede. The restaurant is now regularly invaded by groups of travelling Australians who have read the book I wrote about it several years ago. A copy is proudly displayed on the bar, and Mme Murat – Jeannette – and her daughter Sylvie are delighted that the restaurant's fame has spread so far. Five generations of women have owned and operated this working man's restaurant for more than one hundred years, and they serve the traditional, family-cooked meals of the region. Sylvie has officially taken over the day-to-day running of the establishment, although her mother still lives upstairs in the rooms where she was born and where her father and grandmother also entered the world. Jeannette remains a constant presence, fussing over people as they arrive, taking orders and clearing the tables. Having lunch here is always a delight, although it can be a struggle getting up from the table after five courses and all that red wine.

Some friends had been lent a house for a week on the Atlantic coast, in a charming resort town called Hossegor. It's north of Biarritz, the famous surfing mecca, and only an hour from the Spanish border. Usually when I'm in the south-west of France I'm inclined to hang around the region where we have the house rather than explore too much further afield. It's partly laziness, because I just love sinking into village life and becoming part of the local scene again, but it's also financial. Why would I want to pay for hotel rooms when I have a lovely house of my own?

My friends were already at the beach house when I arrived in France, and I decided to drive over for just a few days. It would be about a three-hour journey. My car is very old and lacks modern comforts such as air conditioning or a GPS for directions, however, I found a
website with detailed directions on driving across country and I set off optimistically, with my instructions printed out in large handwriting on a piece of paper on the passenger seat. I find this is the easiest method when driving alone, because I can stop quickly to check on the next town I should be heading for without having to change into reading glasses and look at the fine print on a map.

Somehow I got totally tangled up in the town of Agen, and ended up travelling south instead of south-west, running through all sorts of little villages and settlements that are completely off the beaten track. I was determined not to get flustered by this, but to just enjoy the drive. Eventually I would find my way to the coast.

The day turned out to be very hot indeed. Sweat was pouring down my face, and I seemed to be driving around in circles. I was sure there were several villages I had been through more than once. I arrived in a large, elegant town with glorious old buildings set around a winding canal, and on checking my position realised I was in Condom. Local Brits laugh about the name of this place and now I was smack bang in the middle of it, quite accidentally. I continued on, repeating the mantra that I should just enjoy the ride, but the novelty was rapidly wearing off. Thank heavens I had my mobile phone with me and managed to get through to my friends, who gave me some quick directions on how to reach them. They worked! Almost six hours after leaving Frayssinet I arrived in Hossegor, looking forward to a cool drink and a swim in the ocean.

This region of France is famous for its fresh seafood, and we decided to eat nothing but that for the entire short holiday. We went to the morning markets on the wharf and bought crabs and all sorts of fresh fish to barbeque for our evening meal. My friends are real foodies and we literally stuffed ourselves with delicious food, day after day. One day we decided to drive across the border into Spain for lunch. I'd never been into Spain and the thought of cruising the tapas bars was most appealing. It all sounds very extravagant, but in fact it's not an
enormously expensive day out. It would cost more to have lunch in a reasonably good restaurant in Sydney or Melbourne. I was struck by how different Spain is from France. It's that old border thing – the moment you cross over into Spain the atmosphere changes immediately. The tapas bars were great fun and the food was fantastic. Not too heavy, but with lots of seafood and intense flavours. We swam in the ocean again and I slept really well that night! I felt rested, as though I'd had a proper break.

Back in Frayssinet, I began to get organised for the tour with the help of my friend Jan, who lives full time in France and acts as our local guide. We try to incorporate a little bit of everything into these trips: history, architecture, scenery, farm life, local culture, fresh air, exercise and, of course, great food and wine. Having conducted five of these tours, I've discovered the most memorable aspect for many tourists is the opportunity to meet locals and go into their homes – even if it's just for a drink or a coffee. It's the sort of thing most people don't get to experience when they're travelling.

From my perspective, I get a kick out of meeting a diverse group of people from all over Australia who have one common passion: they love France and they're keen to explore this relatively remote area, embracing all it has to offer. A bond develops as we get into the journey, and I'm also intrigued by how people on group tours link up, forming unexpected alliances. Given that their paths may never cross back home in Australia, new friendships are forged and I enjoy that notion of bringing people together in a shared adventure.

This time we had a lot of husbands along for the ride, which gave gender balance to the group. In the past we have had maybe ten or twelve women and just a couple of blokes, but for once we had six husbands and wives, a couple of single women and some women also travelling in pairs. With more ‘attached' men, the group dynamic changes. Women travelling alone tend to be more raucous and uninhibited; having the blokes around has a slightly sobering effect.

But there's always at least one comedian in a group, someone with quick one-liners or a seemingly endless stream of bad jokes to tell on the bus. This year there were a couple, including a delightful chap who suffered from a touch of ‘some mothers do 'ave 'em' syndrome. He seemed accident-prone and was always bumping or knocking or dropping something – usually a large glass of red wine and usually all over himself. It became a real running gag, waiting for his daily disaster, and even our bus driver was amused by his antics.

One of the highlights of this tour was having lunch in the garden of my friends Trish Hobbs and Dany Chouet, who live in an ancient stone house with a beautiful garden near Monpazier, one of the unusual planned and fortified towns from medieval times –
bastides
, the French call them – which can be found in this region. For decades Dany and Trish owned Cleopatra, the famous country guesthouse and restaurant at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, and although they have retired to France they were delighted to welcome our lively group for a picnic lunch in their garden. It was a perfect day and the food was very special – homemade tomato flans and succulent rolled loin of pork with salads, followed by various local cheeses and fruit tarts for dessert. We lingered so long in the garden, sipping wine, that we had to skip the
château
we were intending to visit after lunch.

Another highlight was meeting the Australian artist Erica de Jong, who lives with her husband Henk in the celebrated artists' colony Saint-Cirq Lapopie. Erica and Henk have been restoring ruined cottages to rent out as holiday houses and their creativity in these renovations was inspiring. They invited the group to look over their own small house, perched high on a cliff edge overlooking the Lot river, and many people commented afterwards that it was the most spectacular slice of France they had ever seen.

The final leg of this trip was to the historic city of Albi, famous as the birthplace of Toulouse-Lautrec. We hadn't included this on the itinerary before and it turned out to be very special – in
particular being given a guided tour of the
château
where he was born.

On our last day we had lunch together in Toulouse, taking over the front of one of the pretty little cafes in the square, and as usual at least one glass of wine was knocked over.