2019-The Year in Travel

Featured

Posted on by
Reply

One way or another, this year we’ve indulged in seven trips, which seems, on first reading to be self-indulgent [a view that is certainly hinted at by some]. I don’t like to call our pieces of travel ‘holidays’, because holiday is an ambiguous term that means different things to different people. A holiday to many [myself included when I was a proper working person] is simply a break from work, lolling on a sofa in pyjamas watching movies. To others it is somewhere hot, lolling by a pool in swimwear. For us it is a foray into learning about places-their history and geography, the art and the culture.

The first 2019 trip was in January-to Scotland in our camper van, which may appear a strange choice to some, but the weather, though cold [-6 at Loch Ness] was mainly crisp and sunny, ideal for seeing the dramatic scenery of The Cairngorms or the grandiose architecture of Glasgow.

P1060617

Next, in February, we made a self-indulgent winter sun visit to Barbados, a tiny, laid-back, friendly island, where we self-catered in a modest ‘apart-hotel’ and enjoyed the company of our fellow guests, jovial Canadians, most of them.

P1060803

In the spring we trundled off along the [extremely wet] north coast of Spain, a spectacular journey following the pilgrims route to Santiago de Compostela. This rugged coast includes many cliffside towns that would rival the Amalfi Coast, if only there was sunshine and dry weather. We continued on around the corner to Portugal, which defied our experience of always being warm and sunny to be cloudy and windy. There is not much left of Portugal we haven’t seen but it remains a favourite destination.

northern spanish coast

We undertook an early summer jaunt to Brittany, to cycle some of the Nantes-Brest canal. This was a spectacularly successful trip, the well-appointed, municipal sites along the canal cheap and conveniently placed by the towpath. But the temperature soared into the 40s, making cycling tricky even in the evenings. It was, however scenic, memorable and pleasant and we are likely to cycle some more French canal paths.

Brittany cycling

Later in the summer we stayed locally in a New Forest site by a small, handy railway station and a large pub, hosting a small granddaughter who had requested to come camping with us and fell in love with it all immediately, especially riding around on her bike, being surrounded by wild ponies and cows and eating outside in the fresh air.

IMG_20190821_141311

This was followed in the autumn by a visit to the outrageously gorgeous Italian lakes, starting with Lugano and continuing on to Como, Iseo, Garda and Maggiore-all very different but all breathtakingly beautiful-and new to us as a destination. The return drive over The Alps via the Simplon Pass was spectacular and I’ve no doubt we’ll return to the lakes at some point.

P1080354

Our last outing, in October,  was to visit Norwegian friends where they live overlooking a fjord near Aalesund. We were gifted with cool, clear sunshine and our hosts’ hospitality was lavish.

norway 19

So a brilliant year of travel; but where to in 2020? Well-weather permitting we’ll be sampling the delights of the Lake District, UK in January, then heading for long-haul sun in February. After that, who knows? Will European travel even be feasible? We can only wait to find out…

The Beastly Buses of Bilbao

Posted on by
2

We’ve had a brilliant time at the Guggenheim Gallery in Bilbao, looking at a magnificent pop-art exhibition. Now we retrace our steps to Bilbao’s ‘international’ bus station to get the first of the two buses we need to take, back to our camp site at Islares.

The buses themselves are on the ground floor of the station and we enter on the first floor. But I notice there are ticket barriers, which I mention to Husband, who shrugs and tells me we can pay on the bus. This is what we did when we came. We paid the driver. But how are we to get through the ticket barriers?

We go around to the back and spot a staircase. Hooray! We can go downstairs to the buses, which we do. And there- THERE is our bus- the bus to Castro Urdiales that we need to take to get another bus back to Islares. It’s the 5.00pm bus, which is perfect timing. We join the queue and soon it moves along as people begin to board the bus, their tickets being checked by the driver. Then it’s our turn. But no- we can’t board the bus. We don’t have a ticket. We are turned away.

We dash upstairs to the first floor and to the manned icket windows. ‘No’ says the ticket seller, ‘you can pay the driver’. ‘But we can’t!’ we tell her. And she shrugs.

5.oopm comes and goes- and so does the bus.

While we are standing helpless and hopeless we are joined by the Dutch couple from our site- the ones who’d turned up after us and had eaten paella in the restaurant as we had. Now the four of us are attempting to get back to Islares. We turn our attention to the ticket machines, a row of them along a wall. They are not all identical but we try a few. We press buttons. Some destinations appear on a list. Castro Urdiales, however, is not among them.

We return to the ticket windows, where we are variously told to pay the driver, shrugged at or ignored. By now we have bonded with the friendly Dutch couple, united in our difficulties. We all return to the machines. Then we’re joined by a kind Nigerian who seems very keen to help- for a while, although as he tries machines and accompanies us to the ticket windows it becomes clear that his attempts to help are eclipsed by his ignorance of the entire procedure. We are no further on with our ticket purchasing. And the next bus is the 6.00pm.

We return to the windows with no improvement in results. ‘Why doesn’t she help us?’ says the Dutch lady- and it is a mystery.

Then we get a breakthrough. One of the ticket machines- one of the smaller ones at the end of the line- displays our stop, Castro Urdiales. Eureka! We quickly begin buying tickets, using credit cards. It has to be done one by one. Then we’re done and have 4 tickets! But there’s a wait now for the six o’clock bus, so we repair to the bar and chat.

At last we board our bus, quieter now than the 5pm one. We set off for Castro Urdiales, with deteriorating weather. Once we reach the town we peer out to look for the bullring, then we’re there; the bus parks and we get out and go to our stop, although we must wait on the opposite side of the road. Sadly, although it’s now raining, the side where we must wait has no bus shelter- and it’s also become much colder. We’ve no idea of the bus schedule, but a look on the internet suggests there won’t be a bus for about an hour. An hour!

There’s nowhere close to retreat to- not a bar or a coffee shop where we could see a bus approaching. We sit in the bus shelter, ready to leap across the road should a bus come. We get very cold but are glad of the company of our new Dutch friends. Now and again a taxi zooms by and I wave madly- and in vain.

At long last the bus arrives and we can get back to Islares. By the time we’re there the rain is falling in bucketloads and it’s gone 8pm. We all go to the cafe and have a convivial meal.

Next day we’re off to the ferry at Santander. Our friends have not emerged so I leave them a note. Then we drive away and to the port for the [tedious] sailing home to the UK-

Needless to add- I did not photograph any of our grim return journey, so instead I’ve added some more pop-art!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Popping out for Pop-Art

Posted on by
2

Bilbao’s bus station is impressive- a large, modern, red cube with escalators, ticket barriers and a tapas bar. As we exit into a large square next to the equally impressive stadium, we make sure to imprint the position and road names in order to find our way back. We’ve neglected to pick up a tourist map for this excursion, which has been impromptu.

We’ve one main aim in mind for this trip to, which is to visit the Guggenheim. Previous visits to Bilbao have only been for ferry purposes, so it’s high time we looked at the city and this iconic gallery.

With no map and no indication of where the gallery is, we turn left out of the bus station and vaguely downhill. I know the Guggenheim is by the water so it seems to make sense to go downhill and this turns out to be correct as at last we find some signs. Further down the hill there’s a big roundabout with a very tall statue of Christ and we need to negotiate our way around and avoid occasional trams, taking a right hand turning- then there’s a beautiful park containing elegant pergolas, followed by some hugely tall skyscrapers. We walk on until, at last, the iconic Guggenheim comes into view, sitting in landscaped gardens and yes- by the water.

People’s views on architecture differ, but I like any building, old or new, as long as it is characterful- and the Guggenheim has character in spades. Of course, I’d have preferred to have seen it on a sunny day, nevertheless the sinuous, glossy walls of the building are glorious- organic, bulging curves. To begin with, we walk past, along the waterside and past the stallholders with their trinkets. Outside, here on the pedestrian-only walkway theres a giant, sculpted spider and of course, many of the stalls sport mini versions of it.

We’ve got one bit of luck [after a miserable run of glitches] in that the Guggenheim is showing a pop art exhibition with some extremely famous artists’ work, which is irresistible. We walk up the wide steps to the entrance and buy tickets. The inside of the building is equally mind-blowing as you look up towards the top floors and it’s light, with vast, twisty columns, a voluminous space.

We go first to a vast hall containg one, gargantuan sculpture by Richard Serra, an artist who has only just died a couple of days ago, which gives it all a poignancy. The sculture.called ‘A Matter of Time’, consists of huge steel curves, some concentric, others independent, the steel weathered to a rusty bronze. It’s beautiful and sensual and can be walked around and touched, the surfaces smooth or textured. We spend some time here- at one point getting uqite lost among the maze-like structures.

On the upper floors we find Warhols, Lichtensteins, Rothkos and much more besides- in one room a large Gilbert and George mural. It’s all thrilling and absorbing and comes some way to compensating for the wretched time we’ve had on this, our first foray overseas since serious illness and major surgery blighted last autumn.

There’s not a lot of time left after the gallery- just enough for a visit to the cafe and a look at Jeff Koons playful, planted sculpture of a puppy, all covered in living flowers.

We walk back to the bus station and the trouble really starts…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Brief Sunny Interval at Islares

Posted on by
Reply

We’ve stayed here, at Islares, before, another occasion when we’d needed to get home earlier than planned. I recognise the site when we pull in; a green, daisy- strewn field next to the sea. There’s loads of space, and, best of all, the sun is out. The journey here has been pleasant and I remember how beautiful the north coast of Spain is- rugged and glorious.

There aren’t many places to walk here, but outside the camp site gates you can stroll up to the seaside bar and watch the waves crashing in against the rocks in fluffy plumes. When the sun comes out it actually feels hot, so having walked up and around the path a little we return, plonk down at a table and have beers in the sunshine. It feels, on this penultimate day, like a proper holiday at last- except we’ll be setting off home the day after tomorrow.

Back at the site, we scrutinise the bus timetable for tomorrow’s jaunt- a day’s sighseeing before we depart. We can get to Bilbao by bus from Islares, although it’s two buses.

The site here has its own, modest cafe/bar and we opt for this, rather than the posher place where we had our beers. It just has a few tables, formica topped and a small selection of meals, from burgers to paella. Since we can’t order until 8.00pm, we choose to prop up the bar with a beer. At 8 a few people drift in and sit and we decide on paella which, at 12 euros is a no-brainer, besides- a Dutch couple who’ve arrived to the site after us and parked nearby have ordered it and it’s looking delicious.

The paella arrives in a large, traditional dish. We dig into the fragrant rice and it’s full of wonderful, fresh seafood as well as topped off with giant langoustines. We’re happy.

Next morning we trudge up to the main road above our site and walk along but there’s no sign of a bus stop. We backtrack a little but by now the bus is due, which is worrying. I waylay a passer-by and launch into my woeful Spanish: ‘Senor- donde esta autobus?’ It will do! He gestures further along the main road, gabbling furiously, then gets into a car. He pulls alongside us and indicates that we should get in, then takes us up the road to the bus stop- a kind stranger!

After a while a few other passengers arrive to wait, then a small bus comes along and we’re off towards a town called Castro Urdiales, where we must change buses, ‘at the bull-ring’ as we’ve been advised.

The older I get, the more I enjoy bus rides and there are all kinds of reasons to use public transport, not least the convenience of not needing to find a parking place or worry about traffic, or the route. So we settle back to enjoy the ride and the scenery as the bus meanders in and out of villages and round the houses, until at last we’re in the outskirts of the town and we must pay attention in order to get off at the right place. Castro Urdiales is a sizeable town, with a seafront, all attractively landscaped and an obvious tourist destination.

We spot the bull-ring and get off, although there’s no obvious sign to where we catch the next bus. But there is a large coach parked in a space by the wall of the bull-ring and it’s complete with driver, who assures us that yes- it’s the bus for Bilbao. Hooray!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Back and Back…

Posted on by
Reply

It’s become clear, on this terraced camp site opposite an industrial estate in Caceres, Spain, that our electrics are not going to work in any of their sockets. Worse still, it seems that the problem is ours, not theirs. Everyone else’s van is plugged in and working fine. This is a major hitch to our plans. We can cope for two days on battery power before we need to move and charge up, but we’d planned to stay longer in some of the sites we’ve booked- one, on the coast, almost a week.

Husband goes down to reception and returns triumphant, bearing the name and address of someone in the industrial estate who could help. The man in reception had been kind and helpful. We pin our hopes on the name and address and settle in for the evening. I’m relieved to have had a shower in the cleaner bathroom, as although the ranting French lady and her husband have moved on, they’ve been replaced by a Dutch couple.

By morning the weather hasn’t improved and it’s colder, overcast and breezy. With the address of the electrician in the SATNAV, we plunge into the industrial estate, pulling in at a forecourt. The helpful campsite reception man has phoned ahead to alert him, explaining that we are English and a youngish man appears, brandishing a phone, on which he has downloaded the language app. It takes no more than 30 seconds for him to shrug and shake his head, once he’s seen the set-up. That’s a ‘no’ then.

We trundle round the roads of the industrial estate in the remote hope that there’s somewhere that might help and I try one or two likely places as well as some unlikely ones. Eventually we decide it’s no-go. I begin to feel that this lack of interest is more to do with the impending Easter holiday than anything else. Everywhere is winding down. Everyone is focused on their time off.

There’s nothing for it but to turn back, so we set the SAT back to Salamanca and get back on the motorway. At the whizzo services I go inside for over-the-top chocolatey pastries to revive our flagging spirits, then we’re on again, back to Salamanca, where, at least we know there’s plenty of space. The weather continues to get colder and there’s a nasty, biting edge to the wind.

When we turn into the entrance to ‘Don Quijote’, the lovely Salamanca site, I notice a building we hadn’t seen before- ‘Motorhome Services’. Motorhome Services! I experience a frisson of excitement. We’ll check in and investigate, though it has some hefty gates and they are closed. We check in and enquire at reception, where the man says they might help, although holidays are fast approaching and they’ll be wanting to get their existing work finished beforehand.

On the site, everyone is swathed in puffa jackets, hats and scarves. It is perishing cold now- 3 degrees! We won’t be getting chairs out for a bask in the sunshine. We wait until the motorhome place is open then take the van along there. A woman emerges from a large hanger and beckons us in. She looks. She has us plug in to their socket. It blows. She shrugs, shakes her head. I feel my shoulders sag.

In the morning we track back towards Burgos. It’s now Wednesday and we can’t get a ferry home until Saturday so we opt to spend two nights. We can hunker down with books and at least now we have internet. We check back in. The wind is blowing horizontally across the site and I’m hoping a tree doesn’t fall on anyone. In the evening we go to the restaurant for a change of scene.

The afternoon of the following day is brighter and we stretch our legs with a bracing walk around the extensive park by the site. It’s been landscaped with barbecues and footpaths, one of which follows the river. Along the way we encounter more pilgrims with their walking poles and large backpacks. Presumably they’ll be trekking to Burgos for the Easter shindig.

We leave next day and head to a site on the coast between Santander and Bilbao where we’ve stayed before. We’ll stay our final two nights there- and we have a plan for our final day…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

On to Salamanca

Posted on by
Reply

So we leave Burgos and continue down towards our next stop, Salamanca. The Spanish motorways are excellent; toll-free, quiet and well served with service areas, although they do vary quite a bit, some being right by the roadside, others a detour into a village. Some of the roadside ones boast modest hotels, together with a host of facilities including cafes and shops. Others may just be a petrol station with a coffee machine.

We take a break, veering off to a village gas station where a man emerges and dolls out the diesel rather than it being self-service. This is endearing, a step back in time for us. There is a small parking area and three picnic tables beside the petrol station and as it’s fine enough to sit outside we have coffee at one of the tables, entertained by a stream of hikers, pilgrims making their way along the path towards Santiago de Compostela. At this stage, close to Easter, it seems unlikely that they’ll achieve Santiago, but perhaps they use a cheeky bit of public transport? Or is part of the way enough? At one point an entire family turns up in a 4×4, get out, smoke cigarettes, change their shoes and set off walking…

It’s not too far to Salamanca. For those who haven’t been to this most gorgeous of cities, it is well worth a visit- a historic centre of beautiful buildings of golden stone- best seen in sunshine, when the yellow stone zings. But again, we’ve been before and it’s not our destination this time so we check in for one night. I remember the site, tidy and tree strewn, by a river, with a cycle/footpath leading into the city. The sun has enough warmth for us to get chairs out for a bask, which we do. There’s also a tempting looking restaurant at which we just about manage to squeeze a booking by saying we’ll go at 9.30pm. It’s a wonderful meal, though and worth the wait, and while we feel it’s late for us to be eating there are many coming in later still on this Saturday night- some at 10.30pm! This is Spain, after all, with a culture of late evening dining that includes small children, too.

We’re off again in the morning, the weather having turned more gloomy, but we strike out on the road to Caceres- another city we’ve visited in the past, memorable for its nesting storks on every lofty perch, its wacky Easter parades of floats and pointy-hat adorned bearers and its huge plates of beef. En route we stop at a wonderful service area with a fruit and veg stall, shop and cafe, where coaches are pulling in, presumably carrying Easter travellers. Easter is a big holiday for the Spanish and everyone, it seems, is on the move.

By the time we get to Caceres there’s a strong breeze blowing. We locate the camp site but it’s not one we recognise and I’m at a loss to recall where we staryed last time. This site is opposite and industrial estate and is terraced, with pitches housing individual bathrooms, according to our ACSI book. We check in and find our pitch, which is under a large tree. When I take a look at the bathroom I’m less than impressed. It’s grubby, with leaves blown inside and furniture piled up in the shower cubicle.

I go in to put the kettle on while Husband grabs the cable to plug the van in. But there’s no power. He tries the socket in the neighbouring [empty] pitch. No power. He goes to reception, where he’s told it’s ok to use next-door’s socket, although it’s becoming clear that something is badly amiss. Next door’s bathroom, however, is altogether cleaner, so I get a shower in there before anyone else turns up- which they do- a massive motorhome and a woman gabbling a tirade of French at us with no thought that we might not be compatriots on this Spanish site…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Caught without a Web

Posted on by
Reply

We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Toe in the Water

Posted on by
2

It’s a return to travel writing in this week’s post…

Not literally- at least I hope not!

The ferry from Portsmouth, UK to Santander in northern Spain leaves sometime after 11pm; after the last, remaining motorhomes, lorries, cars and motorbikes have been fitted into the jigsaw slots in the ferry’s capacious hold. This boat is one of Brittany Ferries’ newest, boasting ingenious ramps and contraptions in order to accomodate as many vehicles as possible. Similarly, there is more cabin capacity than public area, although the bar/lounge, once we’ve managed to get loaded on, found our cabin and got there, is bursting with life, a roaring trade, with drinks and platters of charcuterie and cheese flying out like the end of the world is at hand. Once we’ve sat down with a drink ourselves, all the dreary waiting in queues, yawning, is forgotten.

I don’t sleep well on ferries. In fact, I don’t sleep well at all, these days, but after this first cabin night there’s no rush to get up. It’s a dinky 4-berth, which is lucky because neither of us is cabable of clambering up and down off a high bunk, especiallly in the dark. Next morning there’s a cafe queue for huge breakfasts, and since we’re not huge breakfasters we grab coffee and a pastry, then…what? We can walk around the boat for a look, which we do. We can look at the one, modest shop, which we do. We can go to the ‘reading room’, which we also do, although it isn’t as comfortable as it looks and not as warm as the other areas. We spend an hour or so then get another coffee.

We have lunch. We read, We take another tour. We resist the urge to drink the day away as some are doing. The views in the Bay of Biscay become, briefly interesting as we glide past Brittany, with the lighthouse at Finistere a feature. The afternoon becomes bright with sunlight and the skies clear, until the sun is a tangerine orb that sinks into the sea. We go to shower in the tiny ensuite inside our cabin then go for dinner.

I’m awake before the tannoy announces our imminent arrival to Santander. It’s 7.00am, so 1 hour before we must disembark, but there’s very little to do except wash, dress and pack. In the cafe some are scoffing down ‘full English’ breakfasts as if they’ll never eat an edible morsel again. Santander port begins to slide past then the boat slows and we’re docking. We’re called to the car decks and descend through the hoards to ours- which we’ve taken care to remember! [I’ve described in a long ago post how we failed to locate our van on the Sardinia ferry and were mortified to be the last remaining vehicle as well as confronted by scowling ferrymen].

It takes an age to unload everyone and we’re one of the last to trundle off the boat and on to Spanish shores, then out into the outskirts of town, driving south and west. This first part of our journey is mountainous [the Cantabrian Mountains] and it’s exciting to see snow caps. We stop at a convenient supermarket for supplies and the bright sun feels warm. The autovia is easy and quiet and we’re on our way to Burgos…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [Part 3]

Posted on by
1

Molly and Ed have been paying a visit to lugubrious Steven as a favour to a neighbour, but the visit is not easy or enjoyable. Now they on their way back home…

‘You’re surely not going, are you?’ Ed exhales an irritated huff as I begin to reverse out of the driveway.

‘I feel I should. I need to be Elspeth’s representative. And If I don’t go, who on earth else will?’

‘It doesn’t matter,does it? Who cares? It’s not our problem. I suppose at least we’ve got a cake out of it.’

Next morning I go next door to Elspeth’s to tell her when the funeral is, playing down the negative reception we had from Stevenand probing a little into the strange, mother-son relationship of Steven and Bet. My elderly, infirm neighbour is sitting in her usual spot by the bay window, where she likes to watch the world go by. I tap the window to let her know I’m coming in, then use my key.

Elspeth was here when we moved here, seven years ago. She made us feel welcome straight away, going on to become a close friend and confidante. Over the years she’s become disabled, lost confidence and rarely leaves the house, even though she knows we’d take her anywhere she’d like to go. I pop in most days, unless we’re on holiday, just to check if she’s alright and see if she needs any shopping.

I make us both tea and settle into a chair opposite her. She’s looking expectant, wanting to know how we got on yesterday at Steven’s house.

‘Did he like the flowers?’ she asks. I smile.

‘Oh yes- I think he liked them. I found a vase to put them in for him.’

She nods. ‘How does he seem, Molly?’

I chew my lip, thinking. ‘He’s…he’s sad, of course.’

She waits for more. She hasn’t seen Steven or his mother for more than twenty years. since they moved to the coast, to Eastbourne and I wonder why they made the choice to move away from anyone they knew, given that neither of them had left the bungalow or the TV screen to stroll by the sea and enjoy the benefits of coastal living.

‘Elspeth, why do you think Steven stayed with his mum and never left the family home? He seems to have become dependent on her right into adulthood.’

She gazes out of the window, where a hungry blue tit is tearing away at her bird feeder.

‘Well, they were always close,’ she tells me, ‘more so when his dad left them. I think Steven felt protective towards her then I suppose it became a mutual thing.’ she turns back to me.

I ask her how she and Bet had met and she describes how they’d both started in the same accountancy firm on the same day, how they’d gone out dancing, met men, had boyfriends who’d become husbands, had a baby within a year of each other. They’d been bridesmaids for each other, supported each other and laughed together for years, shared secrets and helped out whenever it was needed, until Bet’s husband left her and she wanted a new start, wanted to be near the sea. She chose Eastbourne, many miles away.

Elspeth’s happy marriage came to an end when she was widowed but she no longer had the immediate support of her best friend. Contact had been reduced to letters, fewer and fewer of them as time went by, then only birthdays and Christmas cards. Elspeth had received an impersonal, typed, round-robin letter informing her of Bet’s death.When she asks me about the funeral arrangements I feel so sorry for her I tell her I will deputise for her and attend.

Then I realise I will have to tell Ed.

Back at our house, Ed is busy pottering in the garage. I open the door and he looks up.

‘How was Elspeth?’ he asks me.

‘She’s ok. I know you won’t like this idea much,’ I venture, ‘but…

Check in next Sunday for the fourth and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [part 2]

Posted on by
2

Molly and husband, Ed have driven a longway to visit Steven, a man they don’t know but are beginning to wish they still didn’t…Track back to last week’s post to begin at the beginning…

He stares down. ‘I cared for her for a year. She likes to be in here, with me. We like to be together. We like the same TV programmes. Emmerdale, that’s one of her favourites; all the soaps. We love them.

I’m noting the use of present tense, nodding at him. Is he confused, part of him believing her to still be alive?

‘Did you have help with her care? Did anyone come in?’

‘They come three times a week; not always the same ones. Some of them are alright. I like it when they’re gone and it’s just Mum and me again. I can do anything they do, anyway. We don’t need anyone else.’

Ed coughs. I ignore him.

‘I tell you what, Steven. How about me making us all a cup of tea. Shall I do that? I expect I can find everything in the kitchen. Is it through there?’ I wave my hand at the hallway. Ed leaps up, springing into action.

‘I’ll do it! he blurts and strides from the room.

I plunder my thoughts for conciliatory phrases. ‘Was it peaceful? I expect she was comforted to have you by her side, wasn’t she?’

There is a painful silence, during which I notice his face is glistening with tears. I rifle in my bag for a clean tissue and place it in his lap before escaping to the kitchen, where Ed is opening and closing cupboards in a hunt for mugs. He turns when I enter.

‘For God’s sake! How much longer do we need to be here? The man’s clearly deluded and clinically depressed. There’s nothing we can do for him, is there?’

I refrain from questioning Ed’s psychiatric, diagnostic skills. ‘I promised Elspeth! I can’t just throw the flowers at him and run off!’

‘Well, we’re leaving as soon as we’ve done the tea- that’s if I can find anything to put it in. It’s a hell of a way to come for this kind of welcome. We’ll need to get back on the road soon.’

He’s right, of course. It’s a two and a half hour drive for us.

I find a glass jug in a cupboard and put the flowers into it as Ed withdraws some petite, flowery cups from a high shelf. He’s made tea in a brown, tannin-stained teapot, using leaves he’s found in an ancient, tin caddy. There’s some milk in the fridge which smells alright. I carry two cups back into the living room, where Steven hasn’t budged, and place one beside him on a side table. We resume our respective positions. I lean forward.

‘When’s the funeral, Steven?’ I ask him and he flinches as though he’d forgotten we were there.

‘Monday. Willdown Cemetery. Eleven o’clock.’ He sniffs.

‘Who’ll be there- apart from yourself, I mean?’

He shrugs…

Check in next Sunday for the third and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven

Posted on by
1

It’s a squat, ugly bungalow on a corner between two busy roads. a short driveway bordered with scruffy weeds leads to the front door, paint peeling, neglected terracotta planters. I press the bell, peering through the wobbly glass until a blurred figure is visible and approaching. I clear my throat as the door opens just a bit, a narrow sliver of face in the gap, the rest shielded behind.

‘Steven?’ I say, summoning what I hope is a cheerful smile. He looks from me to Ed, his long , pale face guarded, his eyes hooded. He opens the door a fraction more. He’s a tall man, thin, a little stooped. He’s wearing a hand-knitted, navy cardigan over a grey shirt.

Ed’s lurking behind me on the step, semi-concealed as though he needs me to protect him. I take a breath and extend my free hand towards Steven.

‘My name’s Molly,’ I tell him, ‘and this is my husband, Ed’. I half turn to Ed, who appears to be what I term ‘skulking’ whenever he is engaged in a task he is reluctant to undertake. Steven glances down at my hand but doesn’t take it, preferring to move the door back until he’s narrowed the gap once more. I shift the bouquet of flowers I’m holding and plough on.

‘Steven, we’ve come to see you at the request of our neighbour, Elspeth. I believe you know her?’ A flicker of acknowledgement passes across his face. I continue. ‘I think your mum was a close friend of Elspeth’s. Am I right?’

He steps out from behind the door, nodding. I proffer the flowers.

‘Elspeth wanted you to have these. And she’s written you a note. Her writing’s a bit shaky these days but you should be able to decipher it.’ I do my utmost to fix an encouraging smile on my lips. There’s a pause while he stares at the flowers then back at us then he seems to rally, pulling the door wider and mumbling ‘come’, as he turns and lopes away into the hallway and turns left into a room. We follow, Ed trying to hisss something from behind me. I can guess what it is but ignore him. I know he’s even more averse to running this errand than I am myself. He wants to leave the flowers and the cake and go home.

I follow Steven into a living room furnished with two, faded, Dralon armchairs- ‘wingbacks’ I believe they’re called, in beige. There’s a worn, beige carpet, an old-fashioned gas fire opposite the door and a small dining table against one wall. The bay window has lattice panes, floral curtains on either side. It’s a bland, joyless room, unremarkable except for a large, metal-framed hospital bed, stripped down to its plastic-covered mattress. It faces the television, dominating the space like a huge, silent reproach. Steven, who has dropped into one of the wingbacks, must have noticed me staring.

‘It’s Mum’s’ he says, as if she’s still lying in it, frail and needing attention. I nod, aware that my smile must look grafted on my face.

‘You can sit’ announces, sweeping an arm at the other wingback. He pays no attention to Ed. There’s no other seating except for a dining chair, which Ed, still holding the cake, plumps for, giving me one of his hard frowns. I lean towards Steven.

‘We’ve brought you a cake’.

‘I don’t eat cake. I can’t eat gluten.’ I risk a glance at my husband, who rolls his eyes. Steven hasn’t made eye contact with either of us, rather keeping his face downcast, currently at carpet level as he sits, motionless except for the slightest twitch in his left foot, the one that’s resting on his right knee.

‘So, Steven’, I venture, ‘Your mum lived here in this room, did she?’…

The next part of ‘Visiting Steven’ will be in next Sunday’s Post. To read more by Jane Deans: novels, The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are available. Visit my website: janedeans.com