Our Somerset Snug

Alfie the big black Labrador, looked at me beseechingly and raised one big black soft paw and placed it gently on my lap. At the same time he dropped a tennis ball at my feet, 'anyone for a game?'
I was sitting on the couch in the conservatory, looking out across the picturesque, stone-walled fields of Somerset. The potbelly stove in the corner was flickering warmth throughout the room and the sunlight streaming in through the tall, glass conservatory windows, all added to the cosy atmosphere and my growing reluctance to play any sort of ball games. I tried to avoid looking into those pleading eyes, and to ignore the second paw being surreptitiously placed next to the first on my lap. Alfie is a con man who knows if he keeps the pressure up sooner or later I'll cave into his doggie demands.

We had been here for a week since our visit to Brittany. The house is a converted Methodist church set high on a ridge near Bath. It is very comfortable with 4 bedrooms, bathroom and ensuite upstairs and lounge, study, dining, eatin kitchen and conservatory on the lower level.
I was particularly impressed with the kitchen, being newly renovated it had the latest in everything.
Corian bench tops, glass cooktops with finger touch controls and fantastic corner cupboards which floated out on sparkling metal slides, capable of displaying all their secret treasures in one glance. At home you were in danger of suffering a back injury when retrieving a utensil from the corner cupboard. The pantry glided out and could be easily accessed from both sides and the metal slide out trays, behind the cupboards contained every kitchen appliance that one would ever need.
This was going to be my new kitchen back home, I excitedly told himself, who didn't seem to hold the same level of enthusiasm about any of my projects that might involve his participation. He probably just needs a little convincing?

It has been hard to tear ourselves away from this very comfortable abode, however we did manage to make a trip to Glastonbury during the week. The town is the home of Glastonbury Abbey purported to be the earliest Christian sanctuary in Britain and the buriel place of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere . It certainly would have been a magnificent structure in its day, towering above the landscape and the proportions of the cathedral were gargantuan in length and size.
The town itself is a mix mash of history combined with modern day magic and alternate lifestyles. We saw a few residents walking down the street without shoes, and I'm sure it wasn't because they couldn't afford to buy them.
Lunch was at the oldest pub in town and in Britain, the George and Pilgrim Hotel. We consumed enormous helpings of the roast of the day in front of a roaring fire. There was enough food on our plate to feed a family of 4 for a week. They haven't discovered the meaning of a light serve in UK pubs as yet.

The hike up to the top of the Glastonbury Tor was not made any easier after partaking of the lamb roast, 3 veg, numerous boiled and roasted spuds and Yorkshire Pud! It was a steep climb, with numerous steps winding back and forth up the hill..
At the top we were met by a lone man, in a long grey ankle length coat, who appeared to be just standing there awaiting our arrival. His hair, long flowing locks, were buffeted by the wind so much so it was hard to see his face, let alone the big earring dangling in the breeze. A guided tour hadn't been an option and only crazy Australians do the climb in winter, so we were at a loss to explain his presence.
However he greeted us warmly and told us of the history and the mysteries of the place, where we should walk and where was the best place to stand to avoid the wind. It only took a few minutes to walk around the structure it was about 4 metres square and 5 times as high.
Returning a short time later, our friend had disappeared and was nowhere to be seen - an eyrie encounter to contemplate on our way home.........

Alfie has now started to up the anti, he has raised himself up so we were both on equal footing I could no longer look away from those pleading, penetrating eyes. A low whine emanated from somewhere deep in his belly and his tail has started a rhythmic thump much like the crowd does when clapping in anticipation of the next act. Two paws were already on my lap and before I knew it a third was raised and then looking exceedingly guilty he raised the fourth and squeezed his body in between Chris and I on the couch. After making himself comfortable and settling down for a snooze, I knew Alfie had won out again.

Sweet Molly Malone

Sweet Molly Malone ( nee Hogan) is a cute little cocker poodle who lives in Dinan, an ancient, medieval village in the heart of Brittany. Unlike her namesake, she doesn't spend her days selling cockles and mussels on the streets of Dublin, but lives a rather fortunate, indulgent life, charming all who meet her with her sweet, friendly, nature.
Each day, Molly watches all the passing traffic from her doorway on the Rue de la Petit Fort, a steep, cobblestoned road which winds it way downhill from the old walled town to the port below on the river Rance.
Himself and I were lucky enough to meet Molly 6 months ago when she was just a wee puppy. Now here we were back again at the invitation of Molly's owners, Ross and Robyn.
Six months ago the street was a bustling, crowded, thoroughfare, filled with tourists soaking up and partaking in the culinary delights and the wonderful sights of this historical town. Today, it's quieter but no less atmospheric being shrouded in the depths of winter.
For Molly, however, this means she has to contend with a lot less attention than she received at the height of summer, but she takes it all in her petit stride making the most of the compliments and pats she gets from the infrequent passer- bys.
She was given a little extra excitement the other day after an abundant downfall of snow in the town. A new experience for Molly and also a pretty rare occurrence for the children of the town, made so much better as they were given the day off school.
Molly was excited to see them as they turned the winding hillside road into a tobogganing slalem ride. She was a little unsure of the snow herself as she had never experienced snow, digging in it is not quite the same as dirt, crunchier and colder. But after a little exploring and a few laps of the garden she decided it was much more pleasant lying on a soft lap inside the warm house.

We left Molly for a few days to explore the chateaux of the Loire Valley. The region is dotted with them as each little village has its own chateau. The Loire valley is also well known for its caves. Some of the caves contain prehistoric paintings, others have been used for wine storage and growing mushrooms and these days they are mostly used for accommodation. Himself had booked us in for 2 nights into a cave in a picturesque village called, Amboise. He assured me that it was 4 star with all the comforts one would expect of a hotel of that calibre.

We had a very relaxing trip down from Dinan to Amboise. Himself now an experienced driver on French roads managed to negotiate the roundabouts with confidence. I 'd lost count of the numerous roundabouts that we had driven through before we managed to find our way out of Dinan - you guessed it the satnav had decided to take a day off!
Of course I also wasn't too perturbed at running across 6 lanes of motorway traffic to a tollbooth to pay a very irate French Madame, just because the lane we were in didn't accept our card. Though the motorists in the cars behind us did appear to be slightly agitated.
So by the time we arrived at the cave hotel I was so relaxed, I was nearly comatose.

We were shown to our room by a very chic mademoiselle in stilettos, who pointed out that the cave had its own heated swimming pool and as we were the only guests that night, we could have it all to ourselves . The very thing, I thought for me to unwind even further.

Later that night I made my way down to pool. Chris had decided a swim wasn't for him! So it was just me and I closed the big heavy timber doors behind me ensuring my privacy. Necessary because I had no swimmers.
The cave was dimly lit with hidden lights reflecting up on the wall above me. The rock was white and the ceiling shimmered in the low light like marble. I spied a foam noodle lying in the corner and lowered myself into the pool using it as a flotation device. The water was warm and as I laid back and floated in the water, the heat swirled up over me. I thought that I hadn't felt this warm since last August.
Looking up to the luminous ceiling I noticed some black shadows where the light didn't penetrate. I wondered fleetingly whether anything else was in the cave, bats, spiders or perhaps even spirits from bygone days. Convincing myself I was here alone I settled back on the noodle, letting the cares of the day float away. On one whole wall of the cave was a screen and projected on to it was a movie of underwater life, whales, turtles and fish floated by me in this underwater cavern. Lulled by the heat and captivated by the panorama before me, I didn't notice the hotel owner coming in with a complimentary glass of french champagne. I don't know who had the bigger shock him or me!

We returned a few days later to the very comfortable gite in Dinon. Australia Day was spent enjoying a seafood lunch at Cancours on the coast and playing 500 into the wee small hours of the morning while consuming numerous amounts of burgundy reds.
I highly recommend this fabulous gite , Robyn and Ross are such gracious and generous hosts and the gite was such a beautiful place to stay. Robyn's email is hogan.robyn@orange.fr for anyone who wants to experience a unique slice of Brittany and I've included both some winter and autumn photos of the area.

On the road again...

These past two weeks we've been travelling in the north east of England, York, Whitby, Melton Mowbray, Bury St Edmunds and Cambridge. Apart from spending time sightseeing I've been chasing up on my family history.
York Cathedral impressive as it is, is even more so, because in 1317, a relative of mine, one William of Melton, (Melton being my maiden name) was made the archbishop of York. I instantly felt a connection to the place after seeing his name up on the wall.
York itself is a beautiful town full of lots of old Tudor buildings that lean at crazy angles to each other. There are town walls, great little cobbled lanes and a cafe called Betty's, which is an institution renowned for morning and afternoon teas.
The week before we arrived the Ouse River had broken its banks and the footpaths alongside the river were covered in mud. However that hadn't deterred the crowds and the place was bustling. I thought England was doing it tough, that's not the impression you get when you see the massive number of shoppers crowding the narrow streets. Remembering my 'no shopping' promise a few weeks back I tried to restrict myself just to window shopping. It will remain a secret as to whether my promise with the almighty was kept.
We stayed in a very comfortable little flat just outside the town walls. Walking to town was easy and a great way to see the sights.
During the week we were lucky enough to get 3 days of brilliant blue skies and fine weather. Unbelievable! For weeks the sky had been either grey or white, so it was a rare treat and not to be wasted.
We drove up over the Yorkshire moors to Whitby. A seaside town, birthplace of Captain Cook, Steve Hennell and it also has an historic abbey. I loved Whitby, it was so picturesque and had an impressive cliff top walk which loomed above a massive drop to the rocks below.
Recently we had heard of a similar place in England where the cliffside had fallen away leaving homes dangling perilously close to the edge. I was tempted to walk along with one hand on the fence, only problem it was electrified!
On the way home we saw a fabulous sunset over the moors, a fitting end to a perfect day.
It was with regret that we left our comfortable little flat and turned the Fiesta south towards Melton Mowbray. No relatives to be found here only pork pies, pork pies in all shapes, sizes and combinations. I tried the one with apple and Chris went for the traditional, all I can say is that they're trouble, if you're watching your waistline.
Bury St Edmunds was the next stop on the family history trail. My great grandad had left here as a boy in 1852. The family were headed for Adelaide but missed the boat and ended up in Brisbane. They were assured that Adelaide was only a day's walk from Brisbane, especially if you started early and had a hearty breakfast! Suffice to say they never did make it to Adelaide.
I'm not sure of the reasons why the family decided to emigrate, though one could have a guess that times weren't too good back then. Today Bury St Edmund is a very nice, gracious town, boasting of one of the smallest pubs in England, the Nutshell and the beautiful Abbey Gardens.
We had a drink in the Nutshell and it was standing room only with 10 people, I'm told the record was 124 plus a Jack Russell. It's very quaint inside with loads of memorabilia on the walls and money plastered over the ceiling as well as a dead cat and a rat hanging down. There are times when poor eyesight is a real advantage.
The abbey gardens contain the ruins of a 10 century Benedictine monastery, which at one time pilgrims visited to pray at the shrine of St Edmund, who was buried there. I'll leave you to guess why the town was so named. It's also famous because it was where all the influential lords of England agreed to get the King to sign the Magna Carta.
Our next stop was Cambridge and as you can see from the photos it was snowing. Kings college and the chapel looked spectacular. The snowflakes were big and starting to fall thick and fast, we decided it was time to move on further south.
Himself managed driving through the falling snow along the M1 as if it was second nature. The weather had turned icy, with forecasts of worse to come. Minus temperatures overnight and day temperatures only reaching 0 degrees.
Up to now the weather had been incredibly mild and mistakenly I had thought being in the UK during winter was a piece of cake. So much so, that I'd even given some of Himself's thermals to the caretaker at the York flat, to free up bag space, for extra purchases, well he hadn't been wearing them!
Right now I'm hoping and praying for milder weather to return, before Himself notices his thermals are no longer in the bag and starts complaining of it being chilly down south.