It was still dark at 7am when I walked Poppins early in Swellan last week before our flight to Greece. It was damp, raining and chilly so I was surprised to find the world already up and about. People were out walking, running on the green, even doing exercises under the street lights. Various kitchen lights were on and I could see kids watching cartoons  and parents getting breakfast together. I had completely forgotten the morning routines of family and working life as, while I am an early riser, I do not go out and about. Two hours later, I was in Costa, in Athlone meeting Joe who would take Poppins while we were away, and this time I was watching well dressed men and women having coffee and earnest conversations in twos and threes. They were clearly work colleagues having scheduled meetings and I wondered about their working lives…it is so easy to forget the parameters of the working day when one is retired.

Two hours later, the packed airplane made sense – the majority of people were Irish heading off on holiday with a few Greeks returning from the cold, dreary weather of Ireland and after that thoughts of work, routines, and children disappeared altogether as we touched down six hours later in Athens.

After a gorgeous restorative meal of stuffed tomatoes, peppers, and roast potatoes, cousin Ruth and I put the world to rights with a few bottles of wine, chatting deep into the night about the various afflictions the world finds itself in: Gaza, the Greek elections and new Syriza Leader. If only people would listen to us!

Delicious food and drink were a strong theme during the Greek visit, though we did squeeze in a visit to the new Contemporary Art Gallery in Athens. There were two exhibitions: the first on Sonic Odesseys by Iannis Exenakis which looked and sounded interesting but which I didn’t understand at all and not because it was in Greek. The second was a series of exhibits on Modern Love which while interesting were also a little depressing. However, I liked the design of the gallery itself, which had been an old beer factory and definitely enjoyed lunch at the foot of the Acropolis and for dinner later that evening I had the most succulent lamb shank and mash.

Di Bi and George also fed us delicious lamb when we arrived in Tolo which is in the Peloponnese. We were staying five nights with  my oldest friend, Mandy and her partner, Barry who are now living there and on our first night we went to visit their very good Greek friends, Di Bi and George. We ate outside on their balcony, overlooking the shadows of mountain. Wild dogs were barking in the background, large cats were prowling around our feet, Molly (Mandy’s new pup) was on my lap as we ate and drank having riotous discussions about the SWP and punk rock! Happy out.

Napflios, which is their local town, is a lovely old city (the first capital of Greece). It’s on the sea, has beautiful marble squares, castles, tavernas and a market which, on Saturdays and Wednesdays stretches along the concourse for miles full of grapes, aubergines, colourful peppers, pomegranites, wine, greens, and of course, olives in abundance.

Mandy and Barry were in great form and why wouldn’t they be living their days in sunshine, strolling along beaches, and sipping cocktails, wine and metaxa in tavernas!

Tolo where they live is a small touristy village with a gorgeous beach and an array of restaurants to choose from. It was end of season so we strolled around with ease and I was went swimming every day in the sea. The English are very much in evidence, and Mandy and Barry have made a good number of friends. And all credit to the Greeks for most of them speak excellent English, aside from the one older Greek woman who came and knocked on the door on Sunday morning to complain about our raucous night of drunken laughter the evening before. She didn’t in fact speak English, but she called up her son from downstairs who was able to come and tell Barry in very precise and angry English terms about the noise levels and the bad review that was going to be given by his Airbnb clients next door!

Of course, we all blamed Mandy who, in a loud voice, gets rather voluble after a few drinks. She also sneezes like a trumpet on steroids, likes to dance and, at the point of complaint, was still in bed! Quite rightly, Mandy saw it as a badge of honour to be 64 and still loving life. Debauched and Happy With It…its what she wants written on her grave stone.

Unsurprisingly, Mandy and Barry have many friends who join them in their laughter and metaxa and most of our evenings were passed in a haze of storytelling, gripped  tummies and snorts of explosive laughter. It’s quite a thing to spend time with someone whom you have known and who has known you since your were a baby. It’s like cavorting around the crown of a tree which has grown out of a beanstalk, but the roots of the tree are still apparent.

I have to mention the castles around the Peloponnese which are amazing defensive structures spanning the mountain tops. Barry drove us up to Palamidi in Nafplio. For the most part, they remain in tact and look amazing. The surronding sea is glorious, absolutely clear, warm, with REALLY big fish in the shallows. But best of all was the Tsatziki, Greek salads, and Sword fish served to me on the beach, the ocean lapping on my feet….all I missed was Tom Conti from Shirley Valentine. I started this visit with lamb and I ended it the same way, crunching delicious lamb chops with cousin Ruth  who took us to a meat taverna on the way to Athens Airport. Delicious. Thank you cousin Ruth, and Mandy and Barry for hosting us. I feel like I have been away a month already yet tomorrow, I am off to Spain with Roisin, Jack and baby Aine. Talk about living the dream!

Still having issues with photos. Might have to change this blog from wordpress

The last discoveries to mention include Boules of Cidre de Bretagne (delicious), Noix St Jacques (scallops) really delicious, and the Ile de Batz in blazing heat. During our meanderings across Batz (which is rather like one of the Aran Islands. It has a population of 400 people, two schools, and life is based on agriculture, fishing and tourism), we passed the time of day with an old man with a huge hump on his back, teeth as long as tombstones, and a face ravaged by a sea of wrinkles. He used a walking aid to get on and off the boat and explore the island in 25 degrees of heat. So impressive. He must have been about 90,  and , would you believe, was yet another Englishman who had fallen in love with a French woman and stayed in France, but he struggled more with his memory of English so we discussed the tip of Collie dog tails in French.

Since giving up smoking, my French has somewhat deteriorated as I no longer do Duo Lingo in the porch while having a quick ciggie. While I understand quite a lot, and can certainly get by, I don’t remember certain phrases. When people gabble a sentence or two, I get the gist, but I can’t quite remember how to respond. It’s very irritating. I might have to start Duo Lingo again, but its unfortunate I associate it with smoking.

I have found being in France and not smoking very annoying. I used to love sitting in cafes with a vin blanc cassis or a Ricard and a cigarette and now an important part of my enjoyment is missing. The French smoke in such a natural way…the cigarette belongs between their gnarled finger tips, particularly the men. I always felt very at home smoking in France. And now I can’t!

Finally, Poppins and I have discovered there is rain in Brittany…and its quite wetting…but it’s actually quite nice to sit at home, do a little writing, painting and to have the walk to the patisserie in the afternoon to buy Far de Breton for tea as the main attraction of the day…not to mention the Irish/ Tonga rugby match tonight.

So, after the excitement of the rugby match, the days have slipped into a habit of silvery blue…I now have to make the decision to take a separate path to the village for our baguette instead of my habitual one, the evening swim follows a routine promenade, the aperitif will happen at the witching hour (mind you, that will happen wherever I am), my feet know the curvatures and footholds of the coastal path. The sunsets are familiar, the Casino supermarket is home to me now, the couch has moulded itself to my fit and it is time to get ready to leave.

Yesterday we went to Morlaix to the hyper market, Leclerc, to buy the wine and goods to bring home. It was scary…not just negotiating the car park but the shop itself. It was huge, the size of two Rugby pitches. But with grim determination and courage, we advanced on each aisle at a time, ending at the wine. I found some Armagnac, and Champagne for Roisin and Jack’s engagement celebration on our return and fifteen bottles of wine. We will complete our purchases today in our local Casino, happily buying our favourite wine bottles, the right brand of gateau de riz and chocolate puds and I won’t be too embarrassed at the bottles clanking in the trolley and at the till because, well, because another fifteen bottles isn’t too much…is it? I think it will be a pleasurable experience, unlike Leclerc yesterday. After asking, the Lerclec Cashier refused to find us boxes for the wine, then with disaproval pointed to the sign that only 15 items were allowed at this till after she had processed 15 bottles, and then, when there was no label on the anchovies I had picked up, refused to continue until I returned to put them back where I found them. When I asked where in this mad house I had found them, she performed the perfect French shrug! It was quite a stand off…with the queue getting longer. The poor man behind us only had a baguette. Until then I hadn’t come across any of the usual French disdain for foreigners, so in a way, it was a relief to discover not everything has changed!

Yes, it is the end of our Brittany Days. I have loved our near month in Carantec. On Friday we get the overnight ferry back to Cork, stay overnight in Limerick with Joe, and next week, I will be in Dublin with my daughter and granddaughter who, in my absence has started to crawl. So, I have lots of silver linings…not to mention going to Greece to see my oldest friend, Mandy in mid October!!!

Tuesday 12 September.

We have made quite a few delightful discoveries during our Brittany days. Discovery of places which are quite simply ‘practically perfect’ and ‘happenings’ are ‘kindnesses’ that make a day special.

When Ellen and Lesley were with us, we went to market in Morlaix. The ‘clothes and clutter’ market stretches along the bottom of the gorge from which the town rises – very steeply may I add. I would not want to have to walk up too far. The food and veg market is in the handsome Allende Square which was built by the merchants of the 16^th century. Jerry and I went exploring there early in our Brittany Days. The four of us wandered around both markets, had a coffee in a café. The plan had been to walk Poppins in the woods on the way home and have a pizza lunch in the nice café in the pretty village of Loquenole but it was a hot day, and we decided to skip the walk in favour of lunch. It was the mention of Pizza that ruined Poppin’s walk in the wood. Unfortunately, the café was closed but the owner to whom Jerry and I had been chatting earlier in the week, came out, explained he had to shut today but offered to serve us drinks before he left. We explained we had come for lunch so he let us into the closed épicerie, let us buy the wherewithal for a picnic, and because he had no bread, gave us bread from his kitchen and let us eat and drink at his tables outside, asking us to stack the dishes and leave them outside the door. Such a kindness.

Also, in the village of Loquenole is a beautiful Oak Tree of which the village is very proud. They call it the Liberty Tree. It was planted at the time of the French Revolution to mark the event, along with a hundred others throughout the country, and it is the only one left alive. The village takes very good care of it. Of course, we had to pose in revolutionary stances…

This week, Jerry and I were exploring the adjoining peninsula with the main town of Plougasnou at its centre. We drove to the Pointe de Primel Tregastel and climbed the rock there. It was absolutely beautiful. Our discovery was that the peninsula is different to the Carantec one. It is greener, steeper and more mountainous. There are less sandy coves, more rocky ones and it feels less populated. The tiny villages are probably more touristy, but there are fewer of them. Again, a fabulous camp site. A walking holiday around these peninsulas would be wonderful.

We also went further South to the next ‘pointe’, Maison de la Pointe. This side is very flat, lots of agriculture, with miles of hot beach separated from a forest/green area by wonderful sand dunes (impossible to walk in, even with a brand new titanium hip). But, of course, the French have developed various walking paths through the green areas and woods where lovely houses sprout out of the trees. It reminded me of Jurmala, Latvia, except the paths were better and so well maintained.

By the way, Lesley showed me a brand new app called ‘outdooractive’ which identifies and/or tracks the paths you can take in whatever region/area you are in. It’s brilliant.

So this app and the coastal walks, peninsula paths, and the forest chemins are a wonderful discovery in Brittany and it is these I think that will bring me back (aside from the wine and cheese). They are all along each peninsula, little dotted lines that curve around the cliff tops, through the pine trees, along the beaches. Yesterday, I left Jerry to read in the shade of the pines while I went with Poppins for a walk. Across the bay, I could see the long beach that Ellen, myself and Lesley had walked along last Friday at the start of our coastal walk on the Carantec peninsula.

We also visited the Cairn de Barnenez…a gigantic megalithic tomb on a number of levels. It’s pitched at the top of hill and when it was built it was on top a plain…not the sea. I think, once you seen one megalithic tomb, you’ve seen them all…but this one was rather splendid.

Another discovery are the steeples on the churches hereabout. They are distinctive in that they are structures as opposed to solid points. We were wondering about that. Jerry thought that they were Moorish looking…and he was right. We discovered yesterday that the Moors invaded this coast line sometime between 15^th and 17^th century…I can’t remember when exactly. Anyway, these steeples are much more interesting that the squat Norman ones or pointy Catholic ones. 

Two other discoveries…the starry nights when the sky is clear are fantastic. The other night the night sky blossomed with stars. It was as if they were falling out of the darkness. The plough was so close, I felt I could reach out and touch it. I haven’t seen a sky like that since we lived in Drumbriste in rural Cavan. There was also a party going on in the port. At 1.30am they were playing loud music and dancing under the starry night. I really felt like I was missing out.

And finally, so far, the military jets! The noise they make as the roar around the bay. They look like black angry mosquitos…flat, sharp and full of angles. They do their military manoeuvres in the late afternoon, often while I’m on the beach. It’s odd to be floating on the waves or snoozing on the sand when suddenly a slow rumble starts and grows and two, always two, black aircraft zoom across, round and round…as if little God boys were playing in the sky.

I’ll let you know when we make new discoveries…until then, I think I’m happy indulging in the old ones: it’s lunch in Kelenn today after a walk, reading my book which I haven’t done much of and then an early evening swim followed by a lovely aperitif. Salut!

Still having pic issues…

Monday 11 of September

Gosh…that is a date that changed our lives. It seems quite innocent when you write it like that. But on my watch, it is written 9/11, and looks and sounds ferocious. Let’s hope today is more benign. The earthquake in Morocco is sad enough.

Our second lot of friends, Ellen and Lesley (another Lesley) left yesterday. We had a lovely weekend of coastal walks, drink, markets, drinks, beaches, drinks and a delicious fish and drinks at the other port restaurant at the bottom of our road. We met Sasha, Ian and Lucette over drinks in our favourite café on Beach Kelenn after a lovely hike and Ellen had extensive Rugby discussions with wine ‘advisor’ in the local Casino supermarket. (I was very pleased about the Irish/Romania match 82/8!) Sasha is the manager of the restaurant at the bottom of our road who  squeezed us in last minute on Saturday night for more lovely fish and drinks. Sadly, after our chat with Ian and Lucette at the next table, (they met thirty years ago when Ian came from England to Paris to do a French speaking course, and now have three shiatzus) went back home to Paris. I hope it wasn’t having to listen to Ellen’s appalling French that made them leave. Anyhow, we had a great weekend full of craic, lots of laughs and we even danced the night away on Friday.

Yesterday, after dropping them off at the Ferry, I watched them sail away from the beach at the tip of the Periharidi point while eating a breakfast slice of the delicious home-made apricot, apple and pecan loaf that Lesley had brought with her. Because it was so early, we let Poppins go mad in the sand dunes chasing whatever creatures she dreams up in her head, and we gazed into the distance…the low tide was far far away and it seemed so still, so blue, so quiet, so peaceful. Then a lone fisherman arrived and a man with three dogs, then a couple came walking, and Sunday in France began. We went in search of a boulangerie for our daily bread and took our picnic to Santec beach where we ate and watched at least 600 people doing a sponsored walk/run for the catholic church. Santec beach is a long wide plage and behind is a lovely small forest, so Poppins and I meandered around, ending up in a beautiful campsite…if anyone enjoys camping…do go here. We ended the day on our own beach back in Carantec, swimming and watching the locals at play and finishing the pot au fer that I had cooked specially for the women which I have to say was absolutely delicious…never mind that Ellen won’t eat anything with carrots or meat. I had thought it was  Poppins and Tomatoes she didn’t like but apparently, she loves them and goats cheese and cider and our fridge is now full of both. I’m not keen on either!

Still having pic issues!

Thursday 31 Aug

We’re acquiring habits! I walk Poppins every morning, usually along the beach and then up to the coastal path which meanders across beaches, over the cliffs, and at the foot of the gardens of some immense ‘maisons’ built into the rock, similar in scale to Bono’s in Killiney. Usually, I will divert off to the boulangerie in Carantec to pick up our baguettes for breakfast on which to spread our fine local rhubarb and cherry jams from the market for breakfast when I get home. Breakfast is a treat well deserved.

Today, however, I meandered around the port, taking the tiny passages and paths that lie in wait, hiding beside hedges and shuttered houses that look like they might lead me to some splendid secret cove or short cut home but instead weave and dive and leave me elsewhere altogether. So, I look around, scratch my head, and set off again, whistling to Poppins to come. It’s like walking in a beautifully constructed maze, where instead of hedges you have houses, except I always seem to get further away from home. However, I think Poppins is less impressed as she called back from rooting under bushes, and sniffing at gates where she is sure heaven lingers in the form of cats. I’m never really lost as I know I just have to head down and there the port will be.

It’s called the port, and indeed rows of pretty boats are tied up to buoys far off in the distance, but the true sport of the port is, when the tide is out, people scouring the rocks and seaweed for clams, crabs, oysters, shrimps, mussels and lobster. Poppins enjoys the scamper around and I like to study the pools for the mysteries that lie within but the crabs, lobsters and shrimps are invisible to me, and I never see those monsters that restaurants have swimming around in their aquariums.

To Poppins chagrin, today, we weren’t out too long as we had to go to our local market. It was more homely that that of St Pol de Lyon and I picked up carrots, leeks, lamb gigot chops, parsley, all the wherewithal for a pot of Irish Stew which I can cook on the one hot plate I can get to work on the infamous induction stove. I let it simmer away while in the afternoon we walked across to the Ile de Callot at low tide. There is something so exciting and romantic about walking across to an island, and having to get back before you are left stranded. The beaches are beautiful half moons of white sand and the colours of the flowers and shrubs are vibrant. About seventeen families still live on the island so it is well looked after and there is a church (Notre Dame) at the far end where I lit a candle to both our mums…though Margaret will more likely appreciate that than my mum who was never one for religion.

On our return we stopped at the foot of our lane at the café for an melange of Strawberry and Vanilla Italian ice cream before returning home to the gorgeous smell of Irish stew. After a little read (it seems I have brought library books I have already read ), I togged out and went swimming, sitting on the beach afterwards to listen and try to assemble the story of the English/French family in front of me. Grandpa’s wife was a stylish older French local woman (white trousers, pale blue blouse – on a beach!). She lay head resting on his tummy or jumped up to ‘present’ him to passing older walking women. Grandpa’s Daughter, who wore and swam in leggings and a flowery top, seemed to take up a lot of space, playing ball on the beach, swimming in the sea. Everywhere she went, she talked in loud English to her two toddler children. She then left her tiny daughter alone in the shallows after trying to get her to show grandpa her swimming skills which were non existent; the child kept sinking. Then the Daughter went off into the sea with her her three year old son on her shoulders and shrugged him off so he would swim. He also sank. We were swimming in Croatia, she said, by way of explanation. Grandpa stayed close to hand, saying nothing, but trying to get the little girl out of the water and warm with a towel. Dad, why aren’t you swimming, exclaimed the woman Daughter. The classily dressed French wife said nothing. I think everyone spoke French, even the children, but Daughter insisted on speaking English. It was a very strange family dynamic.

The beach is the perfect place for story development because I just know that the French woman is the third wife of ‘dad’ who doesn’t speak English and cannot bear her husband’s Daughter because she is so demanding and spoilt and as for the grandchildren…well, she wants little to do with them. I believe Daughter has married a rich English man who doesn’t like his in laws or France where they live, and so she has come to visit for two days alone to show off her children and pretends everything is ok.

The irish stew was delicious and there is loads left for Poppins.

Wed 6 August

The last few days have been passed in a haze of sun, sea, beach, rock pools, walks, and chatter with my old friend, Lesley who arrived on the boat last Sunday. Oh, and did I mention food…lots of melon, bread, cheese, tomatoes, crepes and sea food. Yesterday we went to market at St Pol again and my haul was truly engaging…a fab, open toed pair of sandals (its been lovely and hot), the perfect little blue back pack to carry water, phone, book if out meandering the coast, and a nice blue down striped knee length sun dress. Not to mention the peppers, courgettes, sweet potato (douce potato here), aubergine for the roast vegs last night with lentils. Tout va bien!

As well as walking and eating, we explored Roscoff. First, we did a petit tour outside as I wanted to give Poppins a proper walk. We turned off by the red bus (truly – the 106 to Streatham High St), and found ourselves  foraging (in the car) along tiny little lanes through fields of artichokes and cabbage. Lovely, but we decided to go to the end of the peninsula instead as, according to the map, there seemed to be a green area there before three or four beaches. It was beautiful. The hidden beaches were white and deserted. The sea lapped gently at the shore. There was a long strand which stretched achingly into the far distance or charming half moon coves, with rocks for shelter and tall pine trees touching the pale blue sky. There were dusty paths to follow every which way. There was also a huge, low build cancer rehabilitation hospital spreading across the peninsula which somehow added to the sense of awe. It was beautiful. We meandered around and soon felt in need of coffee so decided to go into Roscoff itself. The old town is charming, old grey stone houses, narrow streets, lots of pretty hotels. The shops sold stripy Brittany jumpers, wind sheeters, gilets, though I didn’t see many of those Brittany bowls with the blue edging and the names. We managed to find a café table in the shade and had a delicious cream cheese and seaweed sandwich. Highly recommended.

On her last night Lesley took us out to eat in Cabestan, our local restaurant. It’s on the port front, overlooking the sea and is a cheap and cheerful looking sort of fish and chip place…however, the fish in Jerry’s fish and chips was delicious, not battered but served with a gorgeous creamy sauce. Lesley’s moules frites were black, huge, and shining and inside were the plumpest golden mussels I have ever seen. I had cod with langoustine (big prawns) served beautifully in a circle with two roasted potatoes, six round fleshy mushrooms, and three sprigs of broccoli. Superb. I started with a very good fish soup too. I needed the amble around the port afterwards. At 9 o’clock, people were finishing their evening picnics on the beach, or their last dip in the gentle lapping sea. There was a buzz of French chatter on the softest of Brittany (sorry, Bermuda) breezes. Another perfect day.

By the way, the weather has been so good…this could be Bermuda. And I’m still having photo issues…so no photos except on Insta and Facebook.

So, on our first night in Brittany, I coped with an induction stove, and pans that don’t work on induction stoves. We were shown around by the host’s father who obviously looks after the flat and doesn’t know much about cooking on induction stoves (that is not a criticism, nor do I!)The flat was smaller than we envisaged but this evening (the third), I have discovered (due to the sun coming out) that our living room window faces west, over the sea and islands, and I have the beauty of a setting sun taking place at this very minute. We have settled in very nicely and made it home. The apartment is near the port, and there are fabulous coastal walks, views and beaches. Tonight, the tide is in, so the water is in its full glory as opposed to its marshy, seaweeded, rocky surface which allows me and Poppins in the mornings to explore the shore-line. This evening, I have enjoyed a glass or two of wine bought from our local Casino and the reblochon, and the Tomme cheeses bought from the St Pol de Leon Market yesterday for our dinner.

After the first night of frustrated stove use when it kept flashing F at me when I put the pan of fresh tuna on the ring to cook, I have kept supper to salads or used the confusion to go out to eat. Last night we ate in Ty Pol (a restaurant) in the village. I had raw sea bream and then the best filet de boeuf I have ever eaten. Tomorrow, having now discovered the reason for the flashing F thanks to google, I will try the stove again and I’m sure I will keep you abreast of the cooking developments. I must remember to tell the host not to supply pans that do not work with an induction stove.

Back to where we are. The Baie de Morlaix  where Carantec is situated is beautiful in a very French way. The coves, beaches, the accessible islands, rocky, beautiful, and the well maintained coastal walks with gorgeous views are wonderful to wander through. The architecture of Carantec is fascinating. Classic French, three storey, ‘maisons’ with pretty shutters, stand next to tall, magnificent houses with ‘fairy tale’ towers, and modern glass structures of all shapes and angles. All the gardens are ship shape, full of flowering bushes (lovely pink fuchsia and a rather startling scarlet hydrangea) and well cut lawns. Even the weeds on the street are lovely daisies or Allyssum. Every house has a gate and a neat parking space. The picture windows have magnificent views of the bay.

The local sandy beaches fill up with local people at 5pm and everyone chatters, swims or walks up and down in the sea (I think this promenading in the shallows is a new fashion), and digs complicated chateaux with their children. Families swim out to the diving board and show off their jumping and diving skills. So, likewise, these last two evening, I walked up to the beach in togs with a box of strawberries, crisps, and my book which I don’t read. I plonk myself down in the grainy yellow sand and gaze into the horizon, listening to beach life. I swim in a gentile manner in the cold, gently shifting green sea out to the diving board and swim back without performing any dazzling somersaults, thinking as I swim, how I would have loved to try such a dive back in the day, and remembering the excitement and fear. By the time I clamber out of the sea, I haven’t decided whether the relief of being 64 (which means I don’t have to try a sky dive into the ocean) compensates for the sadness and disappointment that I didn’t.

There was no disappointment though in the market in St Pol de Jean yesterday. It weaved its way around the beautifully appointed, ancient and spotless streets of the old town. You would swear that they were swept every hour. Eggs, aubergine, tomatoes, beans, artichokes spilt out into the cobblestones alongside breads, jams, cheeses, bongo drums, napkins, raincoats, Brittany bowls and whatever else you might possibly want to buy. English, French and German voices ordered ricard, beers, verres du vin and expresso in strategically placed cafes and everyone looked content with baskets stuffed full of produce leaning at precarious angles around their seats. We will check out the Carantac market tomorrow, and Morlaix on Saturday. Does such perfection exist for every market? IndeedIs there a name for the deliberate pursuit of French markets, I wonder. Maybe I can start a new trend.

Finally, to finish this first blog, I can’t believe that all this ‘Frenchness’ is so close to home…a boat ride away from Cork. In fact, a very civilised boat ride with comfy berths that I was allowed to share with Poppins, comfy deck chairs, good food, a swimming pool, a bar with a white piano being played as we had a drink before bed. I tell you, I’m never going landbridge again…sorry England, this might be a fond farewell.

I have just returned from a wonderful saunter down memory lane, wedged with hedgerows of fiery orange montbretia, purple loosestrife, globe thistle, fuchsia, Marguerite daisies and the most amazing windswept reeds in Cleggan, Connemara. I was staying with a friend who has a lovely cottage that stands surveying the rocky island bays of Inishbofin, and Omey. The stretches of white grainy sand are rugged, the rocks clamber across salty pools, and jostle in the wind and rain, and all was swept into place by Storm Betty. We ventured out in the bright patches and took refuge in our books and electric blankets when exhausted by the glory of it all.

A perfect visit.

Thirty years ago, we used to go to Cleggan Farm every year at either Christmas or Summer when the children were small. It stood on Cleggan Head, surveying the wild Atlantic Ocean. We would put the children on our backs and explore the 12 bens, take them to Dogs Bay Beach, have mussels in Letterfrack, run back from Omey Island with the tide lapping at our ankles, explore Inishbofin in sun, rain and fog.

It has barely changed at all. There is more carparking in Cleggan (a good thing; I remember always peering out between cars crammed up in the hedges or right in front of people’s doors in order to cross the road), and Ballynahinch Castle has a beautiful new walled garden full of gorgeous herbaceous borders, and strutting little inquisitive stone hares. There is a beautiful brand new greenway which is a spur from the Clifden Galway Greenway. We didn’t go on it…but I hear it calling me.

My friend drove me all around my old haunts. We visited Renvyle, toured around Tully mountain, the Inagh Valley, Ross Harbour (which is now all beautifully renovated homes) and lunched on excellent mussels and chowder in Letterfrack. Oliver’s in Cleggan where we ate in the evening hasn’t changed either and I had a beautiful fish platter for my dinner between Betty’s power cuts. Fortunately, they didn’t remember the incident during the English Soccer World Cup when we were watching the match there. Ireland were playing England and when the English scored I leapt up and cheered…in deafening silence. I have learned my lesson since.

My visit was just a day and a half. It was a four hour drive, but it was well worth it. Mrs Google guided me to Connemara through the back roads of Cavan, Leitrim, Mayo and then down the N59 through the lakes and shoreline of Killary Harbour. We live in the most beautiful country ever so it will be a joy to return next Spring.

However, before that…next week, we go to France for three weeks so you may look forward to the Brittany Chronicles! A Bientot!

Thrones and Games of a Different Kind in Antrim.

When I first moved to Cavan 23 years ago, I used to enjoy driving into Northern Ireland because the road infrastructure, the houses, and the high streets reminded me of home. Driving across the North this week to and from the Glens of Antrim made me realise how Irish I’ve become. Until I reached the glory of the Glens (and it is truly glorious), I found the Northern countryside flat and uglier than I remembered. In the South, there are hedgerows and green fields, and a lingering sense of ‘beyond’. There, I felt trapped in the here and now of the Northern Irish industry of road structure. Driving yesterday, I was happy to get back to Aughnacloy and cross the border into Monaghan. However, I was not happy to leave the Glens of Antrim which is a truly gorgeous part of the island.

I had picked Cushendall, County Antrim for a short break because it is, moreorless, the one area in Ireland I haven’t visited. As a result, I didn’t have particular expectations when setting out, except that when I mentioned to people we were going, they nodded and said, ‘yeah, it’s nice up there.’ Nice? It’s truly gorgeous. I loved it.

Cushendall is a busy, small town, by the sea and at the foot of the glens. During our stay, we slept under either side of the glorious Mount Lurig, and enjoyed two very different, but very friendly guest houses. By chance our visit coincided with the annual Glens Festival held in August when there are food fests, markets, masked balls, a run up Mount Lurig, sports competitions, plus much more. Local people were out and about, very friendly and welcoming, open to conversation whether you met walking on the cliff tops, in the shops, or were sat at the next pub table.

The first evening we strolled into town from our first guest house and got our bearings. We wandered down to the beach and while Jerry ambled around the prom and playing fields, I went up the cliff walk which was stunning and well maintained. I was lucky, the sun came out, and the sea turned blue. The clouds turned into fluffy cottonwool and the butterflies fluttered about (I haven’t seen many butterflies this year). The views were amazing and my heart soared. At the top I came across the old ruins of Layd Church, chief burial place of the MacDonnells. It was nestled very prettily among the lovely houses and small fields of sheep scattered among the bushes and trees of the Glens. I wended my way back to the town, passing and examining the architecture of the beautiful homes on the way down. I bumped into Jerry at the bottom at Cottage Wood which we decided to explore the next day as now it was time for an aperitif at Harry’s Fish Bar where I concluded my evening with the best seafood tagliatelle I had eaten for ages.

After a month and a half of rain this summer, I woke up the next morning to sunshine. I leapt out of bed, showered (the guest house had my favourite dead sea face wash) and headed out. I wandered along the beach and the front, meandering through the caravan park, the marina/boat house, and the camp site. At the end, I came across a family of five, all standing on two benches outside a pod, staring into the rising sun of the ocean, hands shading their eyes.

‘You all look a picture’, I said.

‘We’re watching a shoal of Dolphins’.

‘Oooh, can I join you?’

They made room and we all stared with awe at the dolphins, spinning about the bay, jumping, putting on a real performance, leaping out of the water, zig zagging together in rows. It is truly magical seeing nature in its glory. It made me a feel a part of something bigger and very special. I went back to the guest house, and celebrated with a hard boiled egg, cheese and a yoghurt for breakfast in our room, sitting under Lurig Mountain.

After a little walk in Cottage Wood, we decided to explore the area, driving across the cliff roads on the different peninsulas. First, we went to Cushendun, just up the road. It’s a tiny place with the strangest architecture, much of which was designed by the Welsh architect Clough Williams Ellis who designed Port Merion in Wales, home to the film set of The Prisoner. He was employed by Lord Cushendun and the houses with their Mansard roofs were designed to look like fishing cottages from Cornwall which was where Lord Cushendun’s wife was from. Anyway, what really made this village famous were the caves which were used by The Games of Thrones series in their filming. Would you believe, we forgot to visit them as we got distracted by me having a dip in the coldest but clearest sea water I have ever seen, followed by a pint of bitter shandy in the infamous Mary McBride’s pub. It is full of nooks and crannies and has the GoT oak carved doors.

After a pint we went on our merry way across the cliff tops, taking in the stunning views of the Mull of Kintyre. It looked so close, it was unreal. I began to see why Borris wanted to build a bridge. I really did feel I could put out my hand and grab a Scottish boulder. It’s mad, isn’t it? To feel so excited about being able to see the land of another country from where you stand. I felt similar when I could see the white cliffs of Dover from Wimereux, France, last year. I just wanted to reach out and touch.

Instead, we reached out and touched Ballycastle where we had a delicious ice cream and watched the red sea (yes, the waves were blood coloured) splash onto the rocks. I assume the red colour was a result of the iron pier, rather than murdered bodies cast into the ocean! After our ice cream and watching family holiday scenes on the gently spinning cups and saucers, it was time to return to check into Guest House number two on the other side of Mount Lurig, and take a short walk along the boardwalk, along the beach from Waterfoot to Cushendall for the food fest. At the Food Fest, I ate lamb mince and God knows what poured over chips and Jerry had two beef burgers while we wandered and watched the girls, the boys, the families meander up and down the high street, lingering, chatting, queuing, tasting, dancing, drinking at all the food trucks. I slept well that night.

Glengarrif Forest and the waterfalls was our objective for the next day, then to visit the Dark Trees (from the GoT). We saw the first fine waterfall together as it was only two minutes from the car park. We then studied a very confusing map of trails to examine how to get to the next. We knew it was halfway up the glen. The plan was for Jerry to return to the car after seeing the waterfall and then drive up to collect me at the top as I wanted to walk. We disagreed on which trail was the easiest to the waterfall, so we set off, amiably, I hasten to add, in different directions. Jesus, after ten minutes, I was hoping that Jerry’s path was easier. Mine was steep, beautiful, meandering but steep. And, as my pace slowed to a crawl, I didn’t come across any waterfall. As time went on, I came across other trails, and other people, all looking for the second larger waterfall. None of us had any reception so we couldn’t google maps it. We walked together, got to the top and discovered that the waterfall was down a different slope altogether. Unsurprisingly, it was another steep descent and I knew I had to climb back up to meet Jerry who would have driven to the top, as agreed. Jeez, I thought, surely once you had seen one waterfall, you’d seen them all!!! So, I turned around and trekked back up. Jerry and I shared tales of our adventures over a cup of tea and a scone and set off for the Dark Trees which, of course, are not Dark but certainly beautiful, mad and glorious.

After having joined the flood of people visiting the Dark Trees (I was amazed), we decided we should really take this GoT tour more seriously and go back to see the Caves. So, we headed back, cross Glens, to Cushendun to explore the Caves and have a pint (taking the opportunity to taste the chowder at Mary McBride’s at the same time). The caves…well, they were nice, like caves…nothing special, mind you, but I tell you, by the time we got back to the guest house, I was ready for my nap…and then me dinner back at the Lodge at Glengarrif Forest in the evening. This GoT touring stuff is exhausting business…particularly when you didn’t even watch a lot of it.

I woke up at 5am on our final morning, and leaving Jerry sleeping, drove five minutes up the road, back to Glengarrif Forest. I was determined to see that waterfall. It was definitely worth it. It was so high, so forceful, so noisy in such a silent place. I climbed further up and also walked the Rainbow Trail which was full of spiders webs weaving amazing colours in the rising sun. I wondered if that is why it was called Rainbow Trail.

At breakfast later, Rose, our landlady said that on our way home we should go on a jaunt to the Hidden Village, another GoT place, as it was on our way to Ballymena where we were going to Sainsbury’s (to pick up a few Goosebury Fools – nothing, I should add, to do with GoT). It had become a gloomy, misty morning…the perfect atmosphere to climb an outcrop of rocks over a grey foggy sea in search of a Hidden Village. We didn’t even know the story behind the Hidden Village, and Jerry didn’t remember it in the series. Never mind…by this time we were loyal GoT sight seers, so up we traipsed. At one point, out of the gloom three people emerged…locals who told us that before we left the area, we should visit St Killian’s school around the next glen which was built by the grandmother of Winston Churchill. It was nothing to do with GoT but when we saw it, we wondered why not.

Finally, we got to Sainsburys  and I got my fools. Then we negotiated a long drive home through never ending Northern road network until we eventually descended into the valleys, hedges and fields of Monaghan, Cavan, and home.

In the beginning…there was the lovely Peter Frankopan transforming the earth in Dalkey Book Festival with his new book on climate change and driving home at the end, I found two gardeners razing my chaotic, overgrown, weed and wild flower filled garden…Talk about earth transformation!

In between that beginning and that end was Displacement, the central theme at the Borris Festival of Writing and Ideas and then two days of looking after Aine, my granddaughter who, at six months, at the sight of a spoon or a bottle lunges forward, mouth open, hands ready to grab what she can.

The Borris festival was truly wonderful. This year it was extremely well organised: the only queues were for the wonderful food trucks (Moroccan, Indian, Pizza, Burritos, Wine, Coffee, plus) and that didn’t matter because everyone chatted happily whether you knew each other or not.

However, some of the sessions were grim; the news was not good. I came out of the session with Carol Cadwaller and Iain Overton on Saturday morning and burst into tears. Iain Overton in particular had been talking about the ‘Dark Arts of Propaganda’ which was all about Hybrid Military warfare and Russian Trolls, Cambridge Analytica, Donald Trump, Aaron Banks and it seems the complicity of the British Government. According to them, democracies are turning into authoritarian governments. They warned that there are 70 elections coming up in the next few years in fragile democracies and that with the rise of Artificial Intelligence and without a regulated social media, we would be all soon be living under controlled dictatorships like Russia or China. I found it very alarming, and as I said, burst into tears, but, I have to say, I also felt discouraged by the anti Russian/Chinese vibe that was present in the session.

Fortunately, my Friday night experience had not been so stark. I listened to a fabulous conversation between Edmund De Waal, the potter/writer, (Hare with the Amber Eye and Letters to Commondo) and Dorothy Cross, the Irish Artist. She is a sculptress living in Mayo and works with photography and video. They discussed how art installations should be called a ‘scores’ as art is full of sound and resonance. What a great idea.

Richard Ford from Mississippi has a wonderful, low voice, as if it’s brimming with dark toffee. He is witty and wise and said his characters  ‘confect’ happiness to survive. I think we all do that, except possibly Iain Overton. He also said that ‘writing makes you feel more intelligent than you are’. I know what he means…I guess its because your characters show you, the writer,  how people can respond, live, and just what is possible.

To confect my own happiness at Borris, I and five very good, old friends, had booked into a farm Airbnb in St Mullins and brought quiches, salads, cheeses, crackers, salmon, fresh fruit, yoghurt, chocolate and lots of wine. The farmer’s wife had baked us the most gorgeous brown bread too, so we feasted the whole weekend. On Friday evening, we all debriefed and gossiped about the Friday night sessions, and started Saturday with a wonderful breakfast. Before that, at 7 o’clock, I had an amazing swim in the River Barrow at St Mullin’s with Bob. It was pouring rain, fierce drops were pelting against the water, and mist was rising up into the dark gloom of the low clouds touching the trees in the valley. It was beautiful. All this was good because it meant I was in very good form before I went to the Dark Arts of Propaganda session. I also have to thank Gary Younge and Kathy Sheridan who, at the next session, put me back in good humour as they discussed Gary’s upbringing and his new book Dispatches from the Diaspora. Gary Younge was a Guardian correspondent for many years and his book distils the ‘black experience’ through his Guardian reports. For instance, he was staying in Soweto during the South African election. He was with Obama during his election. He was at the start of Black Lives Matter. For over 25 years he was on the front line of the Black Experience in the News and the book captures this.

What I really liked about this session was how he explained that because he was Black and suffered verbal and physical abuse, he had grown up to appreciate that there is a story behind every person. He explained that racial harassment was only an aspect of the community. Alongside the racism, he was also a part of the scene, the classroom, the football team… and so he had learned to look behind the action to appreciate the why.

A quick aside. Gary mentioned that he was reared during the sixties and seventies in Stevenage, a new Town in England, made up of many circuitous housing estates and roundabouts. Life was not easy but he pointed out that another Black kid from Stevenage had also made good, and that was Lewis Hamilton, the racing driver! He didn’t know if the roundabouts of Stevenage had contributed to his career.

Anyhow, Gary’s and all the sessions were real food for thought although some were very ominous about the dangers of climate change, authoritarianism, social media and new technologies. However, out of the disarray, the fear and the darkness pertaining to the future of the human race, two men rose up – intelligent, sharp, and possible shining knights: Philippe Sands and Jason McCue, both human rights lawyers/writers.

Jason McCue was talking to Carol Cadwaller about taking on the Wagner Group, the private army of Putin, and his experience of taking on the Omagh Bombers, as well as his determination to raise funding to go after the big Tech companies to ensure that they are regulated. He was talking about how law can be used for positive change. I was so impressed. You have to litigate, he says. You have to follow the money. You have to slap writs. You have to sanction. You must take those sanctioned assets and give it to the victims. It’s called transitional litigation, I think, or lawfare. You have to be aggressive. You need to find the people on the inside who are prepared to engage and provide evidence. For instance, McCue is hoping to use the evidence of the Iranian drones used by Russia to sue Iran for the deaths of Ukrainians.  This approach was new to me. I am more used to human rights representing the face of liberalism rather than direct action approach, but, of course, he is right.

I became interested in human rights (known back in the day as the compassion industry) through the work of my father who ran Civil Liberties in London, moved on to head up Amnesty International, and was then active in setting up International Alert, Article 19, HURIDOCS plus various other organisations I am sure I have forgotten. He spent much time in the UN (New York, Geneva) getting human rights conventions written, agreed and adopted. Seeing Jason McCue taking action, using this legal framework, was so heartening and impressive. He is definitely my new pin up boy.

But, he has competition in Philippe Sands. This is a man, a British and French writer and a lawyer who works on the international human rights scene bringing governments to justice whether it be for actions during the colonial period or present day. He is very interesting on identity and the importance of international law. He is a Jew, he is English, he has a French passport. He is rational, very clever and has a funny anecdote for every eventuality. At the moment, Palestine wants Philippe Sands to help them establish their right to self determination at the International Court of Justice. It would be wonderfully ironic for a British Jew to argue their right for self-determination. I also really liked his point that it is not socially useful to name a state or a country as a genocidal state. Genocide is not a collective responsibility, it is committed by individuals acting on behalf of the Government. He talked about the importance of recognising identity, calling it out and communicating it, because so much conflict is based on identity. Throughout the Festival, I seemed to follow him around, and I also found him interesting on the discussion about the identity of Europe with Fintan O’Toole and Kathy Sheridan. He thinks Brexit might have strengthened the EU. I hope so. I can’t wait to read The Ratline: The Exalted Life And Mysterious Death Of A Nazi Fugitive.

However, I also missed so much: Misha Glenny and Fintan O’Toole discussing the Scramble for Rare Earths, Clare Keegan, Bernadine Evaristo, John Banville, Ruby Wax to mention but a few, all of whom I would have loved to see but they clashed with someone else I wanted to hear. Occasionally, I dipped in and out and this way got to hear a little of the wonderful Elaine Feeney, a little of the erudite and amusing Ian McEwan, and the gorgeous Jeremy Irons and Sinead Cusak who wandered around with us for the whole weekend. I did get to see some of David Baddiel who was funny and serious at the same time, and got to the session, Here Comes China with Andrew Small and William Dalrymple. I am pleased that China cannot be dismissed. It represents too many billions of people to be ignored, as does Africa.

There is so much more to write about but my time and space is running out.  I think I will end this Borris yarn with Audrey Magee who wrote the The Colony and The Undertaking, both of which I loved.

The Colony is a book about the impact of colonisation, language and identity both on the colonised and the colonisers. I found her really vibrant. She was talking to Manchan Magan and was passionate, thought provoking and seemed really interested talking about the themes rather than the book itself. I really liked her. I sought her out before her session to give her a poem that I had written while reading The Colony. She was amazed and pleased and instead of me feeling silly handing it to her, as I did at first, she made me feel valued and proud.

So, as usual, the Borris festival was absolutely fab. It sparked really interesting conversations, made me think, and I learned a lot, particularly about the new virulent, aggressive form of human rights practice that is going on. Hats off to Hugo and the team of Elves that make Borris my favourite weekend of the year.

By way of a PS. Thank God, I take notes at each session otherwise I would not have remembered a thing in order to write this blog. On Sunday evening, I returned from Borris to Dublin to mind my granddaughter for two days as Roisin is going back to work. Well, if ever there was a return to earth with a bump…I forgot everything about identity, human rights, climate change, social media, and the future of humanity as I grappled with a baby desperate to feed herself, eat as many strawberries and as much chicken as she could, and then make as many poo-namies as she was able; who wanted to play and dance, coo and cuddle. She reminded me of the most important things in my life: the people I love and our human desire to thrive! I would be happy to place her and my future in the hands of Jason McCue and Philippe Sands and I plan to bring her to the Borris Festival of Writing and Ideas as soon as I am able.

We unlatched the gate, manoeuvred the pram through and found ourselves in a huge garden lined with linden lime trees with a carpet of tiny purple headed daisies, bushes of white and mauve lilac, the odd apple and pear tree dotted around. In front of us was a plain grey door in the middle of large wooden Hansel and Gretel house, with a round turret and balcony and we had the key!

On entry, we ran riot, upstairs, down, out on balconies, through sunrooms, boiler rooms, testing beds, chairs, and once we had allocated ourselves our bedrooms, we quickly unpacked and re-crossed the train track to the pretty little pizzeria with outside tables where pizzas named for each of the stations along the route were being cooked on the charcoal fire.

This is Jurmala, Latvia, the Soviet Rivière. The houses are amazing: quaint wooden turreted structures  or three storied wood and glass palaces. Each has about an acre of garden or more cut into a glorious pine forest which marches along the train track with glorious beaches on the west side and a river and lagoons on the East.

It has a strange, almost ‘unreal’ quality and on local walks, we saw very few people. There were lots of Alsatians or Huskies guarding the gates. The first evening, at the pizzeria, large black 4x4s drew up, collected pizzas (delicious by the way) and drove away, wisely maybe because of the Baltic Breeze. We often had to wear all the clothes we had with us. I looked charming in blue ankle pants, white t shirt, blue and yellow plaid shirt, lime green cardigan, black socks and sandals.

The first morning, I got up early with Aine, and went out for a walk. I saw no one. Later, when everyone was up, we pushed the buggy down to the beach along the stony paths, through the trees, past the sanitorium which was built like a cruise ship. Once there, a few big bellied, men did their exercises on the beach. A stream of black figures marched purposefully along the shore singly or in twos with walking sticks. The grey flat, saltless sea rolled in and rolled back and there was a sense of a rhythmic routine to it. There were low uncomfortable benches and round concrete changing room structures were dotted along every 100 metres. A sign said this was an ‘activity area’ and we watched a circle of women from the sanitorium, following a supervisor, do hip exercises with their crutches. Roisin dipped into the sea for a quick swim and described it as ‘refreshing’. When I dipped my toe in, it was ‘freezing!’ Maybe this was why there was no one, other than the purposeful exercisers but, somehow this beach felt a little sinister. We waited for Roisin to avail of the changing areas which she said was a huge improvement on the towel. Maybe the summer season hadn’t started yet, I surmised, but the beach felt odd, utilitarian, I half expected a big round bubble to come out of the horizon, like it used to in The Prisoner series.

Our favourite place was Majori, is a lovely resort a few stops a long on the train. While the wind still whipped its way along the coast, our amble through the town was fascinating. On the main pedestrian strip, there were café and restaurants, a few jewellery shops, and only the odd clothes shop. At the end of the walk, was an ornate, shiny golden domed Russian Orthodox church beside which was a wonderful park with fabulous shrubs and tarzan walks. (I was on my crutch still so couldn’t avail). We walked to get tickets for the first open air concert of the season, but they were all gone, so we consoled ourselves with lunch in a lovely hotel and took a walk along the beach which was much more animated with cafes and people than our own utilitarian stretch.

During our few days, we visited different national parks, local towns and Riga, travelling a lot on the public transport system which was on time and extremely cheap. Joe did a brilliant job of navigation because you have to buy tickets on-line and twenty minutes before which with our indecisive party was no mean feat. All the trains had ticket collectors, one for every two carriages, and each took their job very seriously. As the tooting trains rolled into the platform, they seemed terrifying. With prams, and crutches, we had to clamber up six feet on tiny narrow steps to get into the carriage. However, with all hands on deck, we soon succeeded in managing a nifty entry process.

One of the days we went to Kemeri, a small town which has a national park. The wilderness was amazing, a meandering boardwalk across bogs, under tall trees, and across rivers. Unfortunately, it was lashing rain, so we got very wet. I could hear Jerry’s sandals slapping along behind me. We navigated our way into a town park which was beautifully laid out with formal avenues, ponds, statues, and follies but it was absolutely deserted and surrounded by formal, obviously once beautiful buildings, which were empty and desolate with no windows.

We wanted to get dry and some food. Google told us there was one pizzeria in the town which was in a small yellow plastic globe. We made our way towards it but when we got there, it was closed and surrounded by run down, shell like broken buildings, all with broken windows. It was really strange. We decided to get the bus home as the train wasn’t for an hour and a half. A few people were waiting at the bus stop, and they stared at us with interest. It was the first stop of the route, and by the time we got off, it was packed with workers going home. The women had dyed, sprayed hair, drawn on eyebrows, poor teeth. The men were older, in overalls, and generally had bad skin. We changed bus at a junction which was chaotic with lots going on: shops, markets, a circus. Everyone else was changing bus too and, for a moment, we were absorbed into the chattering melee of Latvian life. However, as we got closer and closer to our home stop, the talking ceased and the quiet had descended once again.

I enjoyed Riga. We went twice. The old city is lovely and on our last day we visited the museum of the Black Heads who were the local merchants. The building is extremely ornate and sadly was ruined during the world war. It was beautifully renovated in 1999. The museum did a good job of presenting the story of Latvia. In short, over the last hundred years, the country has been invaded by the Swedes, Germans, Russians, Soviets and God knows who else…the Prussians, maybe beforehand. I lost track. This might explain the demeanour of the Latvians which isn’t the friendliest. They seem to be a determined people who keep their head down and their path straight. However, they live in a beautiful country and I hope it remains not so badly contaminated by the bright lights of consumerism. I found the shops were practical and didn’t shout their wares with bright flashing neon lights. Of course, in Riga there were all the usual chains, but in the outlying areas the shops were small, dark, selling local produce, cheeses, sausages, wines. I guess the ‘unreal’ quality of the woods full of turreted houses and wooden and glass palaces is the usual wealth/poverty divide. Communism obviously didn’t eradicate that. But there is a ‘utilitarianism’ that we saw on the beach that, if its edges were filed down a little, is really practical. I plan to return, maybe when it is a little warmer.