Cool Britannia

It's taken me a good week to decide what to write about next. After inspiration-overload in France, our first week in the UK has been filled with such mundane matters as SIM cards, Sainsbury's and train timetables.

We spent a weekend with old friends (well, late 70s, perhaps not sooo old) who live near Ely. They showed us the countryside they love: the flat fields and wide skies of the Fens. Turning marsh into arable land in the 17th century was an engineering feat which advanced agriculture and increased the wealth of the wealthy while also destroying the homes and livelihoods of its not-so-wealthy inhabitants. Quick history lesson

Ely Cathedral, 'The Ship of the Fens', floats on the horizon

Returning to London this week was something of a contrast. It's a city we have lived in before (once again, one does not like to think of oneself as a tourist) but ... this is London 2012, a city revitalised for the Olympic Games. And run by the ubiquitous Boris, Mayor of London, whose voice can be heard even in the Underground.


The transport system has had an upgrade, there's a cable car across the Thames (the Emirates Air-Line, it's called)...and of course the Olympic complex is a brand new build. Following on from the Royal Jubilee and the rise in popularity of their royal hotnesses Will and Kate, it's pretty cool to be on Team GB right now.


We've been to three Olympic events so far. Eton Dorney, near Windsor racecourse, is the venue for rowing. After an epic train trip (think sardines standing on their tails in the tin), double decker bus ride and long walk, we found our seats in the stands close to the finish line.

It was a session of repechages and semis but good fun nonetheless. Seeing Mahe Drysdale win his single sculls quarter-final capped the morning. What became clear very quickly was the extent to which Britons have embraced Team GB at these Games. We were surrounded by a sea of Union Jacks and a cacophony of noise whenever a home crew was on the water. It was quite a morning.

They did look more enthusiastic than this, honestly!

An Olympic badminton session is a different kettle of fish. Or a shebang of shuttlecocks...Does this count as a neologism, Becs? 

The Wembley Arena was electric with audience enthusiasm, supporting teams such as Denmark, Thailand and China. The highlight for us was a gruelling mixed doubles match won by the eventual bronze medallists, Denmark. Both sides had fervent supporters in the crowd, providing us all with instant entertainment.


Last night was our only session in the Olympic Arena. These were the tickets which would have paid for a small overseas holiday. OK, hyperbole again. Picton, anyhow.


Again, it was an evening of mainly qualification rounds (men's long jump) as well as women's heptathlon and 10,000 metres. But we soaked up the atmosphere of course ("ooh look, the Olympic flame!"). And we were there to see a black singlet cross the finish line first in a men's 1500m heat. Nick Willis looked fantastic...can't wait to see his next race.

Prime Olympic viewing? Not Wembley, not Eton Dorney, nor even the Olympic stadium. Our comfy apartment in Hendon has a living room with his-and-her couches and a huge TV. The BBC provides the rest: 24 channels of wall-to-wall, advert and promo-free Olympic coverage. Some days, it's hard to get outdoors!

The other good thing about the BBC coverage is its unintentional humour. The commentators are totally focussed on Team GB. At times, it seems there are two different races: the one on the screen and the other in their dreams. 


New Zealand's two gold medals within an hour the other day  were almost swamped by the Team GB travelling circus.The commentary on the men's pairs race, dominated by Eric Murray and Hamish Bond, centred on the race for 2nd and 3rd (France/UK). Fair enough, I guess.  The Kiwis were in a different class to the rest of the field but there was little drama in their win.

But the classic example had to be after the single scullers had crossed the line. The race had been a bit of a battle between Mahe and his Czech opponent. Not much of a battle really because the NZ boat steadily pulled away from the halfway mark. Third home, down the track a bit, was GB's Alan Thompson. As the camera showed the medal winners coming onto the pontoon, the commentator announced that we would now be crossing to Alan Campbell's medal ceremony. Say what?

All quiet at Le Quesnoy

With strong links to New Zealand, and to Cambridge especially, Le Quesnoy was a 'must visit'. Surely we'd only have to wave our passports to be welcomed with open, gesticulating arms, or kisses on both cheeks ... or an invite to lunch with the Mayor even.

About 70 km from Arras, Le Quesnoy was famously liberated - by scaling the steep fortress walls -by New Zealand troops from its German occupation at the very end of World War I. Liberated, what's more, without destruction, ensuring the eternal gratitude of the town's residents. Some 90 Kiwi soldiers died in the attempt.

Unfortunately, we managed to arrive in this sleepy town just on midday, in time to hear the town's bells playing Bach's 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'.

We walked to La Maison Quercitaine de Nouvelle-Zelande. Shutters were drawn. We tried the Office Tourisme. Doors locked. Oh well, no handshake from the mayor then. Like much of France, Le Quesnoy slumbers from 12 till 2.

There was plenty of evidence of the town's historical link with New Zealand on its walls though. And there was one boulangerie open, so all ended well.

This trip brought to an end our relationship with our lease car, the Peugeot, and its formidable GPS 'voice', The Lady.  As in any relationship, we had weathered ups and downs over the three weeks, but it was with a tinge of regret that we handed back the car at Sodexa's Calais depot before boarding the Eurostar to London. We have plenty more adventures to come on this trip, but they will be without the guidance of The Lady.

Mort pour la France

We Kiwis have been fed  a steady diet of films, novels and family stories suggesting that, for many young men, going off to war was A Great Adventure. Our sense of nationhood was apparently forged in the heat of battle at Anzac Cove on the Gallipoli peninsula. The Anzac Day service there is now almost an obligatory item on the OE agenda. 


Going off to war may well have been a great adventure for young New Zealanders. Being overrun by war, though, was a personal and national tragedy for the French people.

We are spending a few days in Arras before crossing the Channel to London. Arras was part of the Western Front during World War I and was also the site of  a major British offensive  designed to bring the war to an end. Well, no need to state the obvious.


The New Zealand Division, 15,000 soldiers, arrived on the scene in September 1916. And 2,000 of them died within the month. My grandfather, Wilfred, and his brother Roy sailed from Wellington in May 1916 as part of the NZ Rifle Brigade. I have a photo of these two handsome young men in uniform; no doubt they visited the Wellington photography studio to make sure their mother had something to remember them by. My Grandad returned within a year and lived till his late 70s, a hard-working small time orchardist in Hastings. Roy was one of the unfortunate 2,000.

War graves at Estaires cemetery

His grave in the small Estaires Communal Cemetery has been immaculately maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. And he does have his name on a headstone; over half of those New Zealanders who died on the Somme have no known grave.


I didn't know what to expect, or how I would feel, when we visited his grave yesterday. A family member I never knew who has been dead for nearly 100 years ... 


I guess seeing his grave became a very personal way of absorbing the impersonal and obscene figures thrown at us at every war museum or memorial we have visited this week. For instance: Six in ten French men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight died or were permanently maimed in World War I.


However, I came away feeling regretful. I am the only remaining child of an only child on my mother's side of the family...I must be the first of the family to visit this unknown man's grave, and I suspect I will be the only one. It's hard to imagine that our two 20-something sons will feel any connection. And there is no one else in the entire world who is related to Roy Wilkie Saywell. 

Vimy Ridge memorial

The Canadian war memorial at Vimy Ridge also deals in huge numbers. The battle to take this unassuming looking ridge not far from Arras has become Canada's own symbol of nationhood.  The monument itself is remarkable,beautiful and surprisingly peaceful...which was the intent of its designer. More about this memorial


The really interesting story about this monument is that, in World War II, rumours of its destruction by the invading Germans were rife, and widely reported as fact in western newspapers. Hitler himself paid a visit to Vimy Ridge in 1940, was apparently taken by the memorial's message of peace, and it remained intact throughout the war.

The Battle of Arras, though another criminal waste of young lives (the British commanders' tactics weren't the best when it counted), was one in which New Zealanders played a crucial part. We visited the excellent La Carriere Wellington 20 metres below the city of Arras. These medieval chalk cellars were chosen by the Allied commanders  as the place to gather 23,000 soldiers before the surprise offensive against the Germans. 

This is Wellington, looking towards Auckland...

A group of experienced New Zealand miners were called up and became the NZ Engineers Mining Company. Their task was to enlarge these underground caverns and create a series of interconnecting tunnels. Which they did superbly. So, deep underground in northern France, we were led through caverns named Wellington, Auckland, Blenheim, Waitomo...and were made to feel quite special because of our nationality. It was a remarkable experience. 

Last word on this awful war goes  to Siegfried Sassoon, who was wounded at the battle of Arras:

The General

"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

Paris comes to a standstill

After getting ourselves up close and personal with an earlier stage of the Tour de France, we weren't too sure what to expect when we returned to Paris for the final day of racing on Sunday. Was it madness to contemplate viewing the race from the Champs-Elysees along with hordes of others? Given that we're heading off to the Olympics in London in a few days, when most sane Londoners will be clearing out, perhaps our foray into the City of Love would be useful experience...

As it turned out, this was a fantastic day to be in Paris. The hordes were there of course, most of them lining up to visit the Louvre when we were considering this option to fill in the morning. Plan B (actually MY Plan A) had been to lose myself in the Forum des Halles, the vast underground shopping centre that was once Les Halles, the city's wholesale food market. It was closed, though.

Never too young to start training!

A stroll from the Louvre over to the Jardin de Tuileries mid-morning gave us the chance to scope out the best place for race-watching. We settled on a spot in the gardens overlooking the Rue de Rivoli. Just on the other side of the Place de la Concorde from the Champs-Elysees and about 500 metres from the finish line.

There are thousands (this may not be hyperbole) of heavy green metal chairs scattered around the gardens. Two of these found their way to our spot and we set up camp alongside two other couples of a certain vintage. Introductions made, the three couples from the UK, Norway and New Zealand settled down to spend the next ...five...hours waiting for the cyclists to arrive.

Another pic of Bruce waiting for cyclists to pass by, though no Stubbies this time

When the action did arrive, it was  so exciting. The cyclists did eight (I think) laps of the sprint circuit. By the time they whizzed by us for the final time, Bradley Wiggins was leading the Sky Train - and just about to launch Mark Cavendish to the finish line.

What an amazing finish to an amazing Tour. 

I can't believe I'm writing this... the girl who stopped going to PE in the 4th form (by hiding in the school hall) and who made reserve for her primary school's D netball team, waxing lyrical about a sporting event? (The great irony of my young life was falling for a sporty chap who grew up to become  a PE teacher!)

I digress. Somewhat. Enough said. Here's a picture to prove this blog hasn't been a figment of my over-rested brain...Au revoir.

Sabbatical = no sowing, no pruning

"Six years thou shalt sow thy field, and six years thou shalt prune thy vineyard, and gather in the fruit thereof;  But in the seventh year shall be a sabbath of rest unto the land, a sabbath for the Lord: thou shalt neither sow thy field, nor prune thy vineyard."

Leviticus 25. 

God's words to Moses on Mt Sinai make good agricultural sense - resting the land occasionally ensures greater productivity. Driving past vast tracts of French farmland gives us the impression that land is deliberately left fallow here...New Zealand countryside seems to be much more intensively farmed by comparison. NOT that I know much about farming, so will stop right here!

I can do words though.The meaning of sabbatical is derived from the word sabbath, which also makes sense. After six years, or seven or eight, in the classroom it is timely to let the mind lie fallow. No sowing, no pruning. I'm translating this to mean 'no preparation, no marking'.

And what bliss it is to be on sabbatical and to be free for a term (or two!) from these two constants of teaching.

What a sabbatical DOES provide is time. Time to read. Time to walk. Time to travel.

Time to think of very little, or to consider more weighty matters (something Bruce is very good at). Time to reflect. And time to make plans for the future.

I'm very appreciative of this gift of time and would like to say thanks to the St Peter's School Trust Board and to the Principal for the opportunity to let my brain lie fallow awhile. 

Just one point though. Leviticus suggests one year's rest after seven years. Any chance of following this Biblical example?

Tour de France - It's SO not about the bike ...

Today was our final full day in Limeuil, but we had always planned to spend it catching up with the Tour de France. Stage 18 conveniently passed only 70-odd km from the Dordogne region. Bruce has spent many happy hours on Google Earth researching the route and finding the best place to see the action; the spot he chose was on the D19 as it curved around the Lac du Causse, 15 km from the finish line in Brive-la-Gaillarde.

  As we know, life is all about the journey. The destination, especially when I'm navigating, can be a pleasant bonus. But our leased car - a Peugeot 308 - has an inbuilt GPS system. Translation: There's a woman in the car who constantly tells the driver what to do...and it's not me!

Limeuil is in the middle of the countryside. The Tour de France also tends to gobble up the countryside. So the best way to get from Countryside Point A to Countryside Point B was to listen to The Lady.

Curiously, she must have been aware of the nature of today's excursion. The route she chose was more or less as the crow would have flown (if it were interested in the Tour de France, of course). But The Lady chose to send us along some rather interesting 'roads'. Black tarmac and white dotted lines soon disappeared and we found ourselves trundling along cyclepath-width lanes, with the occasional detour onto what looked more like footpaths. Once the road name goes to three numbers (as in the D 184E), expect to give way to pedestrians...

All credit to The Lady, though; she took us precisely where we needed to go. We found ourselves an excellent viewing spot by early afternoon. 

When in France...read Albert Camus!

And it wasn't long before the circus arrived. Not the riders, just the pre-show entertainment: an endless convey of decorated trucks, cars and floats promoting  sponsors' products - interspersed with gendarmes on fast motorbikes. Kids, young and old, scrambled to catch the freebies tossed from moving vehicles. There was plenty to keep us entertained for the three hours or so until the announcement "cinq kilometers!"

Jeremy Roy, a French rider, led the blur of colours past our corner. His leading group of three was closely followed by two other riders.... and the peleton - the main bunch - would have been only 30 seconds behind them. After over 200 km of racing, they were tightly bunched. 

The stage had an exciting finish: with only 300 or so metres  to go, Mark Cavendish sprinted from nowhere to cross the line - his second stage win of this Tour. 


We were oblivious to this excitement of course; back in the car, The Lady had found us some different cycle paths for the return journey to Limeuil.

Vive la Revolution!

Bastille Day, July 14, marks the birth of the French Republic in 1789. This year, the national day fell on a Saturday, so it has been a weekend of celebration. On Friday, we watched the setting up of two massive marquees. In a medieval village, with no access for trucks or trailers, this involved an inordinate number of men, 16 at least, carrying the top section of each marquee down to the Port (the riverside area). On arrival, and before the rest of each marquee was assembled, there was the obligatory greeting, each bloke kissing the cheek of the others (you know, mwah mwah). Some time later ...

By Saturday evening when we wandered down the hill from Limeuil-haut, the party was well under way. We joined others in the heavy rain, bought our tickets then exchanged them at the catering tent for moules, a steaming bowl of mussels in their shells, cooked with onions.  Mmm, yes. And frites with mayonnaise, double yes! There was a DJ lined up for later in the evening. Sunday evening's tent meal was described as a banquet of local delicacies. We stayed with chez Richards for chops and salad but kept ourselves awake for the evening's highlight, the fireworks display, at 11pm.

What a spectacle! Because Limeuil is at the confluence of two rivers, the two arched bridges nearly abut at right angles. These bridges were lit as part of the display, which lasted a good 15 minutes. Then it was time for families to gather rugs, wine bottles, chairs and babies, and take themselves home.

It's so tempting to draw conclusions and make generalisations about other cultures when you're travelling - based on only small glimpses of those other lives - but I was struck by the family atmosphere evident during both evenings. Celebrating one's national holiday is treated seriously; small children were formally dressed, and were very much a part of the occasion.

Funnily enough, there were no signs banning alcohol consumption in public places, nor was there evidence of law enforcement officers ... or of drunkenness.

Just families celebrating their national day .