Dog tired after a returning this afternoon from a family reunion in Guernsey in the Channel Islands. Was brilliant to see everyone and to be back in my spiritual home which I miss all the time. As Victor Hugo had put in his dining room when exiled in Guernsey... Vitae exilium est.
The Island Games are being held in Guernsey this week, so all our habitual haunts were booked up, so the family found ourselves staying at a boarding house run by a ghastly crew of Dickensian grotesques. The chief of these was a fantastically patronising woman who was an ex-school teacher. The pedagogic urge has not left her. She spent what seemed like five minutes explaining, with demonstrations, how to use the lock of the room. Me biting my lip savagely.
But mainly there was good food to be eaten, and chat to be had, and walks along the cliffs with my brother and his wife (whose first visit this was). Unfortunately, my mother had hurt her back a few hours before Mrs Kenny and I arrived, and so was hobbling very painfully until scoring some drugs from the local doctor and miraculously straightening out in a day and a half.
My brother had not been there for almost ten years and was surprised how every lane is full of memories.
Shame we was only two days together. The island itself is like a family member, and I always seem to get a tear in my eye when leaving the place. It so small but means so much to me. I promised myself today to return for six months or so to have a stab at writing the great Guernsey novel.
After flying back from Greece earlier in the week I am feeling disoriented and feverish with a powerfully sore throat and a deep hacking cough and loose bowels. Mere days ago I was feeling full of manly vigour. What happened?
Leaving England on friday I was searched at Gatwick airport and they relieved me of my knife Mortel which I'd forgotten I was carrying and then checked my rucksack for traces of explosives. I found myself worrying that they'd find some, which was bizarre. Feeling like a criminal in moments is easy if people are suspicious of you. Today I reclaimed Mortel from the hostage-takers and then brandished it wildly at people all the way home.
The Island Games are being held in Guernsey this week, so all our habitual haunts were booked up, so the family found ourselves staying at a boarding house run by a ghastly crew of Dickensian grotesques. The chief of these was a fantastically patronising woman who was an ex-school teacher. The pedagogic urge has not left her. She spent what seemed like five minutes explaining, with demonstrations, how to use the lock of the room. Me biting my lip savagely.
But mainly there was good food to be eaten, and chat to be had, and walks along the cliffs with my brother and his wife (whose first visit this was). Unfortunately, my mother had hurt her back a few hours before Mrs Kenny and I arrived, and so was hobbling very painfully until scoring some drugs from the local doctor and miraculously straightening out in a day and a half.
My brother had not been there for almost ten years and was surprised how every lane is full of memories.
Shame we was only two days together. The island itself is like a family member, and I always seem to get a tear in my eye when leaving the place. It so small but means so much to me. I promised myself today to return for six months or so to have a stab at writing the great Guernsey novel.
After flying back from Greece earlier in the week I am feeling disoriented and feverish with a powerfully sore throat and a deep hacking cough and loose bowels. Mere days ago I was feeling full of manly vigour. What happened?
Leaving England on friday I was searched at Gatwick airport and they relieved me of my knife Mortel which I'd forgotten I was carrying and then checked my rucksack for traces of explosives. I found myself worrying that they'd find some, which was bizarre. Feeling like a criminal in moments is easy if people are suspicious of you. Today I reclaimed Mortel from the hostage-takers and then brandished it wildly at people all the way home.
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