It is always a race when there are two boats on the water

The Derwent Hunter - our tall ship for a day

We had all been given bright yellow rain jackets to put on; the sort that I wore decades ago over my school uniform but under protest. Visibility was a little further than the railing on the boat, but not far enough to take in the Jurassic Park-lookalike islands, hiding out there somewhere in the fog and slanting rain. Instead, from my position under cover, I focussed on shaping the stiff, brightly coloured material, which I had stretched over my knees, into channels, and watching the water gush through them before cascading over my bare legs and onto the deck. 

We were in the Whitsunday Islands and, when booking our day's sailing and snorkelling adventure, I had had to put aside my fear of being in the water with deadly jellyfish and sharks, by focussing on the white sandy beaches in the publicity material, the Great Barrier Reef that I would get to see before it whites-out completely and the anticipated pleasures of a gentle breeze in my hair, the sight of an occasional bird and the singing and sighing of the tall ship. I hadn't envisioned dreaming of a hot bath at 8.30 in the morning.

She had a history this girl and I was impressed. Could the moral of my story be that experience counts, I wondered, as I listened to the crew distract us from the elements by recounting The Derwent Hunter's exploits? Lovingly, and expertly, crafted, she had survived mountainous seas, a trip to Antarctica, racing in a tall-ships' Sydney to Hobart, an inglorious period as a television-series prop and, intriguingly, running packages that probably could not have been posted at a regular post office. Her maker had seen 83 years before he began work on her and, would that he be alive, to hear of her 70-odd-year journey and know that she had surmounted each and every challenge that had been put before her. I know that I felt proud of her achievements and I had nothing to do with her conception.

The nearly all-female crew, too, had me beaming. Is it because I am a Mum, is it because I am a teacher or is it just what we should all be delighting in...but for days afterwards, I could not stop talking about the friendly, personable, efficient and knowledgeable way in which they guided us through the day.  

In the middle of the 'show-and-tell' session on our way back to harbour after snorkelling and lunch, the clouds lifted, the sun shone and, when all sails were hoisted, the engine was switched off. Calm, peaceful, warm, blue...until we spotted another tall ship. 

"It is always a race when there are two boats on the water."

I laughed and leant back to enjoy the spectacle, surmising that so often life's lessons come at you in the most unexpected moments. 

PS We are not in France this Australian summer and, as much as I miss Annecy, the snow and rugging up against the cold, this beach life, I have to admit, has been a lot of fun!

If you are a new reader of this blog, and would like to discover how we lived our French family life, here it is - 'But you are in France, Madame' (available in print or e-book).

The sun desperately trying to peek through the clouds. She made it.

It seems that it isn't about the quality any more...and I like that.

I was late to social media and was following instructions when I hit publish on my first blog (picture above), started a Facebook account and learnt about Instagram. Sceptical, I figured that it was worth a shot as marketing was really the name of the game.

"Look here. How beautiful."
"Wow, that's a big project."
"Oh, I miss the snow."
"Ha! This pig has character."

What? I was interacting ... on social media, and not in a 'flick, click and onto the next' sort of way. I was genuinely interested in the stories that I was looking at. It occurred to me that I knew these people in the photos. I was not a friend, nor was I attempting to become that, but I was connected all around the world.

Curious, I looked back at my own Instagram photos. As far as quality goes; some are ok, some are very average, but the little waves of hello (likes) and the occasional comment always happen. It seems that it actually isn't about the quality anymore, and I like that. Of course, when I post classically beautiful scenes of France, I can count on more interaction from the other side of the screen, but mostly from people that I have never heard from.

The French word for an acquaintance is une connaissance from the verb connaître (to know). That was what sent me to sleep last night; reflecting on the pleasure that I get from knowing my worldly connaissances and receiving frequent snap-shots, updates if you like, of what is happening in their worlds.

Friends, in an old-fashioned pen-pal sort of way. So nice.

For more of our French story - Kindle or print - click here But you are in France, Madame 

Interview with' Let's Speak French'

I had a lot of fun doing this interview with Lise. Most of my work these days is in English, but Lise (Let's Speak French) teaches French and so we decided to do the interview in French as an extra bit of practice for her students. If you have the time, I'd love you to have a listen. For those who are just starting out learning French, there is also a transcript of our conversation to use as a guide.

Happy listening!

A catch up in Melbourne?

                                                          A bit of publicity...If you are in Melbourne and thinking of heading to the Alliance Française Christmas market (51 Grey St, St Kilda) on Saturday 15 Dec, I will be in the basement at 14h30 giving a talk on our French life, which led to the writing of my book and the purchase of our French home. Perhaps you are thinking of something similar? Maybe I will see you there? I will leave plenty of time for questions.

It is a free talk, but you do need to book. Link here.

PS Copies will be available for sale on the day, but if you would like to purchase beforehand, hop over to Amazon, where ‘But you are in France, Madame’ can be purchased as Kindle or print options. Perhaps one for a Francophile friend, one for you? 

The tag-along...

She had long blond hair, skied black slopes, spoke French (well, she was French) and wore a light purple lipstick, which coordinated rather well with her lavender Peugeot. I, on the other hand, had short hair, an increasingly ordinary figure as my first unrestrained months of French eating stretched out along with my waistline, spoke enough French to get myself into linguistic trouble and was a complete novice on the ski fields. The tag-along. She was good about including me, even though I had been foisted on her by her teacher step-father who had had no ready accommodation solution for an overwhelmed Australian English-teaching assistant, so sent me to live with her.

Not unkindly, I think, and when her newest conquest was not around, she referred to me as her concubine. She smoked like a chimney, partied hard, changed jobs like I changed travellers’ cheques (frequently and until there were no more) and courted trouble. Her apartment was in the grounds of the school where I was teaching in Grenoble, so when she suggested that I accompany her and some friends down the road to Lyon for the night-to the ‘Fête des Illuminations’, she told me-I agreed.

Night fell quickly at that time of the year and, for early December, it was cold but there was no snow. My pre-departure preparations included reaching for my insufficiently warm and nondescript jacket and checking that I had a few survival francs on me. Theirs, was to fill the boot with bags of cheap glow sticks that, presumably, they had bought earlier in the afternoon. This was decades before Instagram, mobile phones and Facebook, so there was no starter selfie to be shared, liked and commented upon, although the event itself would have been excellent fodder for such platforms. Lyon was prettily done-up with strings of lights, windowsills jammed with candles, a few simple light projections on a couple of public buildings and a jovial, festive atmosphere.

I had been briefed on the forward journey. We were there to make money; to sell our sticks to the highest bidder as we infiltrated the street crowds, and we garnered attention by wearing them ourselves in our hair, around our neck and on our wrists. Unsurprisingly, with my sexy purple-parka-clad flatmate in the lead, we were most successful.

I have not been back since. To Lyon, yes, but not for the light festival. It has become a bit of a monster and, from what I understand, requires an excess of patience and a lack of claustrophobia as one becomes one with the masses surging through the streets, experiencing the light. I’d like to go but wonder if I would be downcast at the differences, both in me and my experience.

It is, though, the season to be jolly, so waving away such errant thoughts, I will share a list of all the possible Christmas magic in my region as compiled by Taste of Savoie.

Two for three francs anyone?

PS If you hop over to Amazon, copies of ‘But you are in France, Madame’ can be purchased as Kindle or print options. Perhaps one for a Francophile friend, one for you? It sure would help light up my Christmas :)