Okay. Back to school one week and already exhausted. Currently sitting on sofa with neighbours' cat as my companion. But that's another story.

Okay for those of you who haven't been up to speed with the continuing soap opera, just before the holidays I'd taken some stick from my old cousin who was appalled that I hadn't done anything about my parents' ashes. (His own mother is buried under my aunt's fishpond ) I spoke to the people - Mr Fridge- at Inverness crematorium and we talked or the options. I had intended at some point to do the final farewells at the old airfield beside my granny's schoolhouse, but these days it is a bit too close to the gas terminal, and not to be recommended. I was asked where my parents had gone on honeymoon; where I was conceived; where my mum and dad liked to spend their time. And as most of those answers really came up as Inverness, I adopted a tree for them and we had a little ceremony where I read a poem, scattered them around the tree, and left flowers. Soon there will be a little plaque with their names and dates and a line from the poem.

As my luck never holds, my Italian dumped me the day afterwards. I suppose the fact that I'd seen him for the summer months had made me complacent, but his other lady- the one who knows a lot about his business and his family- had found out, and threw a huge tantrum, in which there were suicide threats and all manner of stuff that made him decide 'anything for a quiet life' and the easier person to dump was me.

So with that in mind, we had to turn the holidays around to salvage something.

I headed to Wick airport on Thursday morning, and ended up waiting there for over 12 hours. One plane had technical issues; a second had run over the crew's hours; then there was an incident involving an air ambulance at Aberdeen airport runway. During my time sitting around I kept company with an oil stand by barge master, the cafe owner and the legal auditor. And in those conversations I discovered how much I enjoy just talking to people. And that it's fun even when there is no flirting agenda.

I saw some friends from my own schooldays on the Friday: breakfast with one, dinner with Vaila and her husband. Then Saturday I got on a train with my gig going friend Gordon, and we headed for Edinburgh. Fun day of getting my nails done, eating in Le Monde, Patisserie Valerie, and then the gig I'd waited all those years for- Al Stewart at Queens hall. The music was amazing, every bit as good as the recordings with a bit of a twist. And as Gordon had sussed out that there would be a signing session at the end I got my photograph taken with him and the band.

Next day I blew the budget, bought a Mulberry bag, and had a gallery morning in the Scottish National Gallery, before getting on a bus out to the airport, where my bag protector spray was immediately confiscated. While I was waiting to go through security, I had lunch, and spent an hour speaking to a young Austrian, who had intended to spend the early afternoon at the zoo, but had been put off by the weather.

It was home Sunday night and the sleeper to London Monday night,,as there was no way I was risking missing the big Al Stewart gig at the Albert Hall. On the sleeper if you take a first class ticket, there are a few perks. One of these is the rather American style diner/lounge car, where the regulars meet for a conference (if you book it early enough, commuting through the week between London and the highlands is possible), and lone travellers can unload to someone they might never meet again in their lives. A lady called D who teaches in primary and I spent two hours telling our stories. Although she is divorced with grown up children, our situations were remarkably alike: uncertainties, loneliness, the whole ' what am I doing the rest of this life?' Having had our drinks we went our separate ways at midnight.

I don't think I actually slept in that narrow bed, being shingled by the movement if an incredibly fast train, but next day I followed my friend Kate's instructions and showed my first class ticket at Euston's nd had my shower, did my make up, had breakfast and bought my one day travel pass, before heading out to London.
Hard to think that this was my fourth visit in fifteen months, after being away for so long, and this one had items in a bucket list to deal with. I dropped my bags at the hotel, where I couldn't check in until late afternoon, headed for covent Garden and did the tour of the royal opera house, and nosed around the shops.another handbag later - a Radley- I had a bucket list mission to have a drink in the American bar in the Savoy. for a mere £11.50 I had the non alcoholic iced tea cocktail and a plate of nibbles that turned it into lunch. And managed to get a wee tour of the establishment too. It's been refurbished, but I still remember going in there once with Mum - and I'm sure she would have approved.

I did the Elizabethan exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery before heading upstairs to say hello to some portraits which were old friends during my gap year. I was hungry again by this time, so did the Macdonalds burger fix, and headed off towards the Tube station intending to find afternoon tea in Fortnums or Harrods. And then another bucket list wizard wheeze. I nipped into the Ritz and asked if it was possible to get afternoon tea as a cancellation. The nice young concierge was very sympathetic when he heard it was on my late mum's bucket list, so he let me into a secret. go through the doors into the salon, but turn right into the small jewel of a mirrored bar, and order a pot of tea. Fraction of the price, and it comes with shortbread and the daily telegraph. Oh and lots of the world's glitterati at the next tables.

Refreshed I headed to check into my less salubrious hotel room and had to argue not I be sent to the other hotel in Hammersmith. I pleaded that I needed to be within walking distance of S Kensington, so was given the disabled room with a dodgy shower. By now I'd used up two black t shirts so I dashed back onto the tube and went to Knightsbridge where H&m had what I needed. Mad dash into Harvey's and Harrods, and thence to The Gore to meet Neil McEwan, a Facebook friend, for a drink in the bar where years ago my roommates and I used to plead for the cake at the end of the night. Mr McEwan is older than me, semi retired, but he does the rounds of the film festivals and buys documentaries which then go to C4 or to cable channels. And we talked film, and the subject of a programme on the trade in human organs in third world countries.

And then it was Al Stewart time again. I'd never actually been inside the Albert hall before! and it's where the non stadium rock crowd are holding the London leg of their tours. (Steve Hckett was there this last week). This time it was the entire Year of the Cat album, with musicians Tim Renwick, Peter White, as well as Dr Dave. Brilliant gig, and he played the dark and the rolling Sea for me.

Next morning it was mad dash to get to Victoria and the rail link for Gatwick for the plane north, and a taxi run to pick up the car, to drive north. And Thursday saw me drive to Inverness to get on a train for Aberdeen to see my solicitor and sign off Dad's estate.

I stayed over to meet a friend the next morning, before getting on the train north, and spending a bit too much time and money in Inverness. I got in totally exhausted and the last Saturday of the holidays I was in bed until about 3pm.

Huge sense of anticlimax going back into work. Oh I had to drive to Inverness again on the Monday for an in service course, but I had company in the shape of the ladies of WHS English department.



I spent so much time running about over summer and October that I've caught up on travelling. Not quite so frustrated over that and I know I can find my way around Europe and the U, as a loner traveller. I've spoken to people in airports and trains, and done some writing. But work is still a bit rocky at times, and now I'm not sure where I want to live or plan to retire to. I've discovered that living alone is the norm in London and Edinburgh, and that you don't stick out like a sore thumb in those cities, but I doubt I could live in them full time.

Caithness is a good place to be if you have family or a group of close friends, but I have neither, and short of spending my entire life online, I'm going to need to make some changes. Finding another teaching job isn't likely to be easy unless I either look for a promoted post, or a sideways move- possibly a secondment. I've applied for one, which I don't know if I'd be allowed to take given my acting PT is on maternity leave and our timetables have been collapsed. The ideal would let me have a year south to help me make up my mind.

As to relationships? I am lucky to have some good friends- all at a distance- who all have other things to focus in in their own lives, but who are prepared to give me a bit of their time, by email, or text or the odd meeting. Gino, I now realise was a short term 'fix' of excitement and adventure, but it was never meant to last, and I got the idea that he was running out of steam.

I really need to do what Neil McEwan has shown me is the way forward- to get happy with my own company: live in a place I like where I can do stuff that will cheer me up. The audiences attaché Al Stewart concerts were amazingly friendly and enthusiastic, and although we were a very middle aged bunch, I remembered how I felt all those years ago when I was young.

The next challenge is going to be getting through Christmas and New Year. Especially in a house where 2 years ago, a bit of magic happened.

Oddly enough there is a little bit of magic around in the form of a neighbour's little black cat. He sits on my boiler, blags his way in for a bowl of cat biscuits and a saucer of milk, then crashes out on my sofa for hours at a time. But he usually heads out before midnight. Maybe I need small dark and handsome rather than a man?

back on the road. Scotland late July

Introverted naval gazing is not the answer to life's issues.

That's what I discovered this weekend on the latest of the sort Julie out road trips. So where did I go, what did I do and who did I see?


Beginning of trip was a drive to Elgin to see former pupil and good friend Rachael- incredibly clever lady who teaches law and has two wonderful little boys who have to be trilingual. Italian dad, and school in Iceland makes that one essential. Over the afternoon, I discovered what being a granny must be like, and how exhausting it must be, but it was a great day and the talk was terrific.


That evening, expecting nothing I reached my hotel and rang a very special man who spent the evening with me. Huge treat, and one, whenever it happens makes my life so much more fun. His account of his court case ( he held on to his driving licence by one point) was really funny and reminded me of how Neil told me about his work, all those years back. However, not wishing to tempt fate he changed cars in case his daughter had to be his chauffeur for the year ahead and his scarlet coupe had to go. In its place is a hairdressers car, but he is trying to be philosophical about it. He is someone I adore, but can't have, but any time we get together is all the more precious.


Next day I spent time with my honorary brother talking gardening and what I should do about the new builds before meeting V for lunch at Jamie Oliver's. it was such a treat being ladies who lunch, but neither of us pushed our food around our plates: it was too delicious and we were both hungry.


I took a drive down the coast road to Arbroath en route for Perth and stopped off at Louis' for a drink in the beer garden by the harbour. back in our student days he was the closest thing to Woody Allen and got into some pretty scrapes and he hasn't changed much. It was so strange being back in the town that I called home for most of my early childhood. driving into the town, and seeing the Abbey for the first time in 40 years was bizarre. I've dreamed about the place for so long, and it was all exactly as I remembered it. Even managed to take a photograph of the house where my childhood was spent in Kirk square.


My hotel rooms were a varied lot: the smart Thistle, the faded grandeur of the station hotel in Perth, where'd I left the car, not wishing to have to fight for parking spaces in Edinburgh. The Travelodge in St Mays street was inundated with stag dos and very busy. I think everyone I met in hotels in the UK, and some in Italy were staffed with people from Eastern Europe. Everyone was charming and the service was good. Perhaps the service industry can learn a lot from them.


I had an hour to explorer so I headed to Harvey Nichols where the Chanel lady gave me a makeover,much to my delight.


The day with my female friends was spent eating at the amazing La Garrigue, where the food was so good it was sacrilege to waste a dip of the sauce, so I know I ate too much bread. And pudding. That afternoon Tina was my guide to Rankins Edinburgh, as we headed over to Reginas flat, where Her son was setting off to his first job as a doctor. There were some poignant farewells going on that afternoon.


Later that evening we saw Havana Swing at the amazing Spiegeltent. music was cool but I managed to turn my foot when I slipped on wet AstroTurf. Taxi back to hotel where we hit the Stella cider. And I ate too many crisps. ( I'm sworn to try and lose those pounds before the weekend) The big treat was getting to lean on a young, handsome tall chap from the Festival staff while I hobbled to the cab.


Sunday I had coffee with a blind date. Nice chap. In need of advice as to how to be a carer, as he is now living with his mum and dad. But the venue was Le Monde, and having had a glimpse if the bar and restaurant, it's a place I plan to return to, if I can take friends with me.


That care advice was needed when I met up with my older cousin and my aunt.
My older cousin has always burned on a short fuse, and is one of the most irascible people I know, but his heart is in the right place and when we gathered in the kitchen for the how are we doing as a family conference, he reminded me that the family solution to most things going wrong is to get hammered or get laid. well, if it worked for my grandfather....... My old aunt is like Dad, utterly charming and utterly self centred, opting to be a television addict recluse, who doesn't always appreciate just how much her nephew and his partner do for her.


Perhaps that s the book I do need to write- how to hold it all together she the people you love become your children? For ten years I put me on hold while I sorted out my parents needs. The inverted naval gazing had come from suddenly being redundant as daughter, carer and general provider of consolation and comfort. I had forgotten that there are so many different sorts of love out there, and over this weekend I saw so much love of different sorts.


All those four days I had been part of everyone else's family. I headed north, stopping at a M&S foot outlet to buy the weeks shipping and reflected as I drove north on what makes the perfect holiday. It doesn't have to be far, but it shouldn't be entirely alone either. As long as there is food, conversation and friendship, that will do for me

Checklists

My aunt helped me deconstruct my adventure, and I realise now that I made lots of mistakes. So here are my suggestions for lone female travellers:

1) Go well equipped. If you are in a place where you don't speak the language, you may find yourself in a hotel room where your only link with home may be BBC News. You will need books/a kindle with everything you want loaded on it. Make sure you have music to listen to; if possible take a portable DVD player and some films you want to catch up on. Yes you might need a bigger case to carry a laptop, but it might just keep you sane.

2) Be prepared to talk to everyone you meet. Look for conversation opportunities on trains and transport in general. On my first flight from Inverness to Gatwick I met a Harvard lecturer who was writing a study on the proposed 3rd runway at Heathrow. He'd been staying with his granny near Tain. I very much enjoyed the conversation with the American family on the train from Florence to Pisa.

3) In an ideal world you don't want to be a lone traveller. If you have nobody to go with, try to plan your journey to meet up with friends and family en route. Keep a diary or a blog- and Facebook can be your best friend. Tell your contacts online about what you've done and seen, and post loads of pictures.

4) Do your research. If you are signing up to an activity holiday, find out as much as possible about where it will be held- who you will be with, and what exactly you will be doing. Is it all inclusive? if not, budget for what you will need each day.

5) Luggage is never going to be about that one small cabin bag- especially if you are going somewhere for more than three days. its worth booking that case into the hold just to avoid taking two big bags home, as I did , and wrecking your shoulder muscles

Florence and Venice

So what did I find in Florence?

Having seen both the Galleria and Uffizi I've come to the conclusion that most of the good art is actually in Paris or London. I was very glad I’d seen David and the Botticellis but not really impressed by the huge store of pre renaissance religious studies. There are icons and icons, and without my notes on Byzantium and religious symbolism one was as obscure as the next.

The Uffizi I enjoyed very much as we trekked with our earpieces in following our lady guide. We had long enough in the Botticelli room to appreciate the scale of the works, and I came away even more of a fan than when I went in. The tour finished at the café on the rooftop and after I’d rested with coffee and taken a picture of the Palazzo Vecchio roof next door, I went in search of the shop, going through the foreign art rooms.

And there, ironically- not on the tourist tour -are some of the Uffizis most lovely jewels. Paintings by Caravaggio- Judith slaying Holofernes, and others by a little remembered Dutch master- Honthorst- known in Italy as Gherardo della Notte- mainly because his paintings are set in a night time interior, where the delicate light throws detail on the faces of the subjects.

A particular passion of mine is Rupert of the Rhine and his 17thC siblings. The Palatines were a brilliant bunch, and while their names are forgotten, they left us with all manner of things in our every day life : one sister was Honthorst’s pupil- and among the subjects in those paintings. Another was Descartes’ pupil, Eliza- and when I bought a fridge magnet with the motto Cognito Ergo Sum, I smiled at its presence here. Rupert- no mean artist himself, went on to be a founder member of the Royal Society, which sought to make Science respectable.

 

Gypsies tramps and thieves abound in Florence from the waiters who rip off diners to the pickpockets masquerading as lawyers with briefcases- why do we trust people with luggage? Streets full of Albanian women prostrating themselves in the street. I did wonder how many of them die under the wheels of oncoming traffic. Most Florentines get about by bike- trundling over the dodgy cobbles and I saw very few flash cars on this trip. I did see the Segway tours, and I stroked the necks of the lovely horses which drew the site seeing carriages.

There are rip off merchants and rip off merchants. One of the most blatant cases was the Aussie lady who ran a leather boutique down the lane from the Galleria and relied on people not doing any price comparison- as she charged at least 300% more than anyone else.  Then there was the pavement café in Piazza Della Republica where the waiters are straight out of the Godfather- so much so that a ten euro pizza ends up costing 30. Still the eye candy was worth it. Message to self to stick to the other side of the Ponte Vecchio for food

There were also bargains to be had. The lovely little trattoria in Piazza Santa Felicitas did great pasta with truffle cream sauce, and the wine was delicate. The food there was as good as the Watermill. The place was busy- but the service good, and it was cheap. A short walk away was an amazing gelaterie at Trinitas bridge.

 

I spent time in some of the other leather emporia – where the elegant ladies showed me hides which would later be sent to Mulberry or Hermes. Crocodile turned out to be as soft as silk. Python was amazingly tactile and the ostrich hides were amazingly delicate. I bought two small clutch purses- a scarlet lattice one from Parri- from their atelier off the Vecchio. The other- a dove grey ostrich one was identical to a bag I remember from Mum’s wardrobe and bought in a studio behind the Cathedral.

But shopping apart, I had the uncomfortable feeling that as a middle aged female I’d become invisible. Everyone in the city appeared to be with companions or relatives or colleagues and I had little opportunity to get into conversation – unless it was with the shopkeepers or on public transport.

On my second day away from the course, I fulfilled an ambition of the past 25 years and returned to Venice, which I’d last seen on a trip with my school.  Train goes through Padova  and other bits of Shakespeare referenced places. This time it is a second look!

 

First half hour of train ride is through tunnels and the first stop was  Bologna where an uber elegant lady got off laden with Viuitton luggage. Some of the streets visible from the train look smart although there is the inevitable outrage of graffiti. Banksy could teach them a thing or two about urban cool

Bullet trains have few stops and our last before Venice was Padova at noon. Didn't realise how close to Venice it is before. Wonder how far we are from Verona?

At this point I was joined by an elderly walker, who was catching his flight home from San Marco. We got into conversation and I mentioned running away from my course. It turned out my companion not only knew my tutor from his work with the Arvon Foundation, but he also knew the Hebden Bridge Arvon writer- Ted Hughes. I’d have enjoyed having his company a bit longer.

Off the train I bought my ticket for the vaparetto and got my iphone camera into gear. The water bus can be slow, but it affords some terrific sights, including the visiting cruise ships and a hideous piece of inflatable art, anchored across the lagoon from San Marco.

Lunch in Venice was taken in a cafe round corner from San Marco on the waterfront in an amazing heat haze. Takes me back to last visit in 1988 when cafes were off limits! Not so now. And Pina Cabrelli  is right about Venice being a theme park- it's full of well heeled Brits.

So what did I get up to?  Had a shuffle around Vuitton and Prada as you do and wandered in and photographed the Danielli hotel. The pictures tell the real story and I'm sunburned from the time I spent in boats (no seasickness so mum would have been proud of me).

If I could stay anywhere I’d opt for the Danielli- which is like a Byzantine jewel in itself. Venice has less in the way of pictures (apart from the Manet Exhibition in the Doges palace which I wished I had enough time to see- but didn’t). However, what it lacks in terms of Old Masters, it makes up for in the precious jewels of its buildings. The black and gold interior of Saint Marks takes some getting used to, but has to be on everyone’s bucket list.

Yes I was on the look out for pickpockets, with Mum’s precious bag glued under my arm. Id taken to adding key rings and bag charms to its loops, so it now boasts a carnival mini mask and a key, as well as the fleur de lis of Florence. But Venice turned out to be courteous, and kind, and amazingly beautiful. Yes its sinking into the sea, but it still takes my breath away.

Only when I was back on the train, did I realise that I’d visited all the scenes referenced in Inferno!

 

 

 

Villa Gabrielle D’Annunzio- aka Hotel California

Completely shopped out between leather market, jewellers and the chain stores near the Ponte Vecchio I finally left my tourist trap for the four star hotel room which had no bath either! Ouch! My feet were so in need of a proper soak! And don't tell me to use the bidet!

I trekked back downstairs to where the elegant lady on the desk checked her computer and found me a room with less of a view, but a tub.  A fellow guest – American-heard my desperate plea for a bath and commented that no one ever understands what a bath means to a woman- especially one with sore feet.

The Villa was formerly a convent of the Poor Claires. I wonder what the nuns would make of the pool or the naked girls festooned on towel draped loungers.  It turned out that the hotel was taken over by two distinct groups- a tour bus, full of American travellers and a wedding party – the celebration would take place in a nearby castle late on Sunday afternoon. The older bridesmaids were topping up their suntans, periodically leaping into the pool. I sat on my lounger with my kindle and wished I had a bikini, or had bothered to learn to swim. The temperature was much higher than I’d ever encountered before, and I was conscious of needing to top up my internal and external moisture levels.

The place was elegant, but by now I’d had enough of tiled floors and air conditioning. The worst bit I realised was being on my own with no one to talk to. Facebook was rapidly becoming my best friend. Every post I made was like writing home, and when I said as much, my good friend Kate told me that in effect I was doing just that- and that my friends were now standing in place of my family.

The statuary and the shrubs were straight out of Hotel California. I kept thinking of the lines:

‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave…’

I did a last dash into city centre to check train times for Pisa airport tomorrow and to do a last trawl for odds and ends. By now I had bags filled with stuff for friends: fridge magnets, note books, art cards, and some chic little key rings, in the form of a key.  I had to steel myself not to get carried away at the leather market by now.

Back on the train to Pisa the next day (I’d photographed the leaning tower on my first day),  my invisibility cloak fell away as I got into conversation at various queues. I spoke with an Australian couple who were having to cut short their trip of a lifetime because the wife’s sister had that morning been killed in a plane crash near Newcastle Australia- one which hadn’t made the international news. I met a lovely American family from Illinois who were spending three months touring Italy. The parents had been alone with one another for two months, and were chuffed their daughters had come to join them because they needed other people to speak to.

And in one queue, for boarding I met a lovely couple who were bracing themselves for the next part of their lives. The husband had been made redundant while they were in Tuscany (not far from the Watermill), and the wife was giving up her study plans to do for her parents what I had done for mine- but with the support of a good man.

I made it on to my plane, and that evening checked into the Premier Inn at Gatwick North, where not only did I have a room with a carpet, and a bath, and UK television, but I also had a date with someone I love very much, my amazing aunt Ann.  And I’d come home.  

 

So what did I learn?

Okay after those eight days I've seen a fair bit of northern Italy. Writing course apart the trip was a bit too long so I  worked out how to do it in three or four days.

First choose your airline and airport. Pisa and Easyjet could well be the cheapest option.

If Pisa set aside three hours to do the old town- which includes the leaning tower etc.

Now choose your base. Keep in mind that star ratings vary and you might wish to sacrifice some comfort for location. I'd suggest Florence and to  look for the best deal on Trivago. If you go for the outskirts you can get a pool but it might limit your choice of eating places.  And you will need to factor in transport costs. You can walk Florence easily but book gallery tours to avoid the queues. The leather markets have some pretty cool bargains but while all the designer shops are here there isn't the variety you find in London or Paris.

Take one day, book the Silver Arrow and spend the day in Venice. Take the vaporetto  to St Marks. If there are a few of you hire a water taxi going back to the station- you will feel like a movie star.

Use your third day either in Florence or book something flash on the 'my tours' website. This could be wine tasting, or Ferrari driving, or designer outlet shopping- or just walk.

Other advice? Sensible and comfy shoes and watch those paving stones- as everyone will tell you this is Italy.

Everyone has a favourite place to eat. Mine is at the far end of the Ponte Vecchio. Pasta with truffle sauce and the nicest chianti.

It's doable if you book at least a month in advance for about £600

So- before I book to do Florence, Sienna and Lucca next year- who’s coming with me?

Running away

Once I had hugged Lois and Bill farewell and surprised the other participants with my decision (I think most of them understood- but D and M- both hungover after another night of Limoncello abuse didn’t appear unduly upset), I really was on my own.  Time to try and get into proper travel mode.

A friend’s husband often said, if any of us felt down ‘The world’s your lobster!’ It always made me smile, and I wondered what my Mum would have made of my striking out on my own. Shortly before I’d come away I’d spent the best part of  a week doing a job I’d avoided for four years. I went through her stuff and considered how her life hadn’t always been what she wanted. Mum was an adventurer- but stuck with a man who was perfectly happy working seven days a week and playing golf. When she was the age that I am now, she’d made an attempt to break out, and while I was a student she’d travelled. Now I kept finding little things that suddenly acquired significance: a straw hat-bought for a cruise and never worn; a big wheeled case; a lovely summer frock- which fitted me perfectly now; and a very soft, lightweight leather tote which I’d always admired. I’d packed these things with me (alas not in the big case-more of that later) and hoped that she would be coming along with me in spirit.

I sipped my cappuccino (small, made with UHT milk and nothing like the Costa or Starbucks versions) before I headed for the sunlit platform to wait for the train to Pisa. The benches were white marble and festooned with travellers who had broken their journey near the Aolli hills. I struck up conversation with a Norwegian family, and with two Inter-rail students- a Canadian girl travelling with a Dutch girl, both of whom had met while staying in a castle type hostel nearby. They were headed for Florence so we pooled our resources and spent the next few hours together. At Pisa, one dashed off to check platforms while we remained with the luggage, and safely ensconced into our next second class carriage- we watched as the train – a slow one by Italy standards but infinitely faster and more comfortable than the one north of Inverness- took us closer to Florence. The marble hills looked as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar. Hard to think that later the same day I’d be looking at the art that was ‘released’ from those hills by Michaelangelo.

Every town we passed had the usual burst of graffiti.  Odd to think that in the 21^st C, the UK can boast the best of that oeuvre.

When the train pulled into Firenze, I said goodbye and good luck to my companions and headed for the taxi rank, giving the instructions Hotel Alinari. Ironically, the taxi driver had to ask for instructions from his radio- before literally driving me round the block. My tourist hotel was located in an old palazzo literally across the road from the station.

Grand? Might have been in the past. I’d rather liked the Pisa AC Marriott, with its designer tiling and its vast bath. This one had seen better days, but the linen was clean, the floor tiled, and the bathroom had not terrytowel, but plain linen towels of the Victorian nature, which took some getting used to. The view from my window was over the Largo Fratelli Alinari, and reminded me of that which I recalled from the room in Paris where I’d spent my 21^st birthday. At night it proved amazingly quiet- and it was also air conditioned.

Up in the hills, the rooms were old stone, and cooled by having the windows thrown open each day. At night the IKEA duvets were badly needed when the temperature dropped drastically. In town, it didn’t get particularly cold, so all that was needed was the bedspread and the white cotton sheets.

The young man on reception handed me a booklet and a map. I think he might have been used to bemused Brits looking to ‘do’ Florence.  The booklet was from a company called ‘MY Tours’ which offered everything from gallery tours which cut out queuing to a day at the Dolce and Gabbana outlet village; to driving a Ferrari for a day (I didn’t- that’s for the next trip).

I asked if he could book me on the Uffizi tour that began in 90 minutes. Having dumped my luggage and brushed my hair, I decided to waste no time. When I asked about taxis, he smiled and explained that in Florence everyone walks- and showed me on the map that it was perfectly possible to get to anywhere in the old city in a matter of minutes.

Word of advice to anyone planning to do this- sensible and very comfortable shoes are not just advisable- they are essential. I’d taken converse type flats which had given me blisters and a pair of soft gold kid sandals, which mercifully allowed my feet to breathe,, but meant I had to be very careful on the pavements.

Caithness’ proudest boast is that no matter where you are in the world, you may well be walking on a piece of slab, quarried in the county. Ground Zero in NYC is paved in this, and looking at the uneven slabs of the Florentine streets, I wondered if this were the case even in this place. The roadway in the street where Dante lived had cobbles missing, a bit like an old person beginning to lose teeth, and I shuddered at the damage those could inflict. I passed some familiar shops- Bata, Accessorize- lots of Italian chain stores and found myself passing the triple structure of the Duomo, Baptistry and the tower- all much more elaborate and colourful than I’d realised from BBC 2’s travel series. I’d downloaded Dan Brown’s ‘Inferno’ on my kindle and oddly enough it became my tour guide to the city.

Part 2 in the hills

Day one- involved driving to Inverness airport and flying first to London Gatwick, and thence to Pisa. I left Caithness shrouded in mist and rain, and arrived in a baking hot London, along with the regional CPD co-ordinator, who approved my plans- after all I’d be working on the skills I need to teach the creative writing Drama option for the new qualifications. I had to negotiate my way between north and south terminals, and onto my second Easyjet flight. I got into a taxi at Pisa airport driven by an attractive Tuscan in baggy shorts who spoke English and took me to a very smart hotel ironically located in a run down part of Pisa. So far, so good. Until that is I realised I’d packed the wrong adapter for my iphone. Next morning, ahead of being picked up by the Watermill staff, I had to trek to Media World to find the correct cable and find plasters for the blisters I’d picked up on the way.

 

At the airport, sitting on my bag at Arrivals, apprehension began to kick in. Signing up for the course had been easy. Paying the fees, around £1500, and the flights- another £600, and then the three nights of hotels either side of the course, had eaten into the emergency fund, but I’d reckoned that not having been away anywhere for 25 years might justify it.  However, at the meeting point, I had spotted one or two people who looked as if they might be there for the same reason as me. One, a cross between Tony Hart and Benny Hill, turned out to be a grumpy minibus driver. Another, who spent the entire hour fiddling with his computer was a fellow course participant. A third, with an impressive set of luggage turned out to be our tutor. Nobody was in a hurry to speak, and I, who am seldom lost for words was at a complete loss

It took a couple arriving together to break the ice. P and J not only identified the tutor by name, but also managed to get everyone in the group to talk and introduce themselves.

Once on the minibus (which looked as if it had seen better days), we headed to Posara- not Posaro. There had been earthquakes the previous week and part of the road had been damaged so our journey into the hills took over two hours.

The scenery was stunning- but a mixture of medieval/Renaissance walled cities perched on mountain tops, combined with some pretty tatty roadside communities which looked as if some corners had been cut in the planning departments.

We eventually swung off a narrow road into a lane so tight I was convinced the wing mirrors of the bus would come off.  We’d arrived at the Watermill, and our week of writing was due to begin the next day.  Everyone was settled into rooms they had chosen when they’d booked. One person had cancelled so instead of staying in the hosts’ apartment, I was sharing with the girl helping with the cooking and cleaning in the oldest part of the building which overlooked the mill stream. Oddly enough, the living space downstairs reminded me of my flat at Bignold Court. There were no working locks- and we were told that this was in case anyone took ill and needed help.

Bill took us on a tour of the grounds, including the site where the small commune nearby held their annual party, and we piled into the minibus to be taken up to the village for our first night supper.

Fivvizano at its heart has a fountain donated by one of the Medici. The pavements are a treacherous trap for unwary feet (and having broken teeth on similar paving slabs I was especially careful), possibly the result of the frequent earthquakes the area is subject to. On the fringes are newer buildings. The weekly market was diverted to the streets on the outskirts several days later- as the threat of falling masonry put traders off from setting up stall near the 17thC part of the town.

In some ways it reminded me of Killin, the village in Perthshire where part of my family have lived since the 1960’s. Killin also gets earthquakes, and frequently gets cut off from the outside world by landslides or flood, or snow. When old Granny A lived with my aunts she wrote letters to my Dad expressing her wish to run away sometimes. I spent lots of holidays there as a child, and later as a student, and an abiding memory was of feeling trapped and remedying the situation by walking the hotel dogs.

The Watermill had neighbours with dogs, but none of them sounded the friendly walkie sort.

There was one room in the complex (there were five apartments ranging in terms of comfort- mine was the most Spartan) which had wifi access and for the next four days I was compelled to go and check my messages, facebook, and email. All of a sudden I was desperate to know what was happening in the outside world. One friend skyped me support; another cut off all contact- saying that for my own good I HAD to try and fit in.

I think when I signed up I had visions of things going along workshop lines, and I’d come with a notebook and an android tablet, expecting to take notes at lectures and discussions and to work in partnership with other people.

Most of the others had taken their laptops with them- and three had brought completed scripts. I’d sent in my short story anthology, but our tutor had overheard me telling the story of being bitten by a tropical spider in Tesco- and contracting septicaemia and suggested I write a 20 minute piece on that.

At that point I had total writer’s block. And why oh why had I not brought Tiddles with me? Ancient though he might be, my ten year old laptop has rescued lots of my pupils who have been temporarily without ICT.

The Watermill is a bit of a Brigadoon. It’s a corner of Tuscany which does the John Mortimer Chiantishire masquerade. The building is old and Tuscan, but the plumbing is British. The food is a lovely delicate take on local recipes (and Lois- I want the recipe for the fennel dish please). A typical day includes three lovely light meals with portions that won’t put weight on, and hardly any pasta. There are drinks on the terrace at Tiffin- or apertivi- the house special is a blend of sliced oranges, Aperol, and tonic water.  The hosts are charming. The only language spoken is English.

Step outside into the lanes and you’re in a different world. One where the neighbours keep hunting dogs, where a few miles up the hill you see the same Staffies and bulldogs you find in Kennedy Terrace in Wick, and where the Brits, attempting to order their ice cream and coffee in Italian stick out like a sore thumb.  

As those days passed I took my friend Kerry’s advice and asked questions. I wanted to know as much as possible about my fellow course participants. The married couple had brought the script for a sit com set in an accountants’ office (he is an accountant). They are from Essex, and their ancestors had fled the pogroms of Europe over the early part of the 20^th C. They were lovely- friendly, kind, and outgoing.

Dave, who sold holes in the ground for his father’s engineering company, had a brother working in television, and a script about two brothers inheriting a family business. He had his own agenda, and was out to get as much feedback from our tutor as he could- I got the idea that this course for him could end up being a game changer. He was nervy and when on his own fidgeted constantly. He often had the task of organising other people’s stag nights- and I got the feeling he was fast running out of single male friends.

M- a self confessed former Stepford Wife, had overtones of a Willy Russell heroine. My recent bereavement was as nothing compared to the catalogue of disasters which had changed her life: a sister dying young from breast cancer; a family row which had split her from her siblings; a failed marriage and a career change which saw her do an MA without having done a first degree, and working teaching writing as therapy to a woman’s group. She arrived perfectly groomed at each session, and was out to grab attention away from Dave, with her own idea for a film based on her own writing group.

There were two quiet people- S- a lovely lady who was taking a year out from an IT career to write, and work on a therapy programme, and Mark- a journalist who loned his way around the complex avoiding other people. I asked if he had anyone in his life who might be missing him, and got back that he preferred being on his own.

By now I’d worked out that two people were doing this as an adventure; two were desperate to get work on the screen; another two were looking to see what transpired. Laurence was at a loss as to what I was there for. And to be honest , so was I.

The week panned out that we had half the time on lectures and watching film text, followed by a day excursion, and then three days of one to one feedback- for those who’d written their pieces. Through the afternoon and evening sessions, my taste for comedy had evaporated. We watched episodes of sit-coms, or entire films, and then Dave told us why he didn’t like them.  By now Dave and M had become a double act- and their typical evening involved them polishing off a bottle of Limoncello between them.

In one little moment, the tutor had told us about a hypothetical security scenario- and without giving it too much thought, I told him how a similar scenario had ended- one which involved a friend of mine. I think I captured some interest at that point. LM – under the comedy role- is still a journalist at heart, and I was looking forward to my one to one session with him- which was due to happen on the train to Lucca. By now I’d decided that I’d write my comedy piece when I got home and my equilibrium had returned. For now I wanted to get my interviewer’s hat on and ask him about the process of writing- after all this was my year’s CPD.

And then the quake happened. Not much- not quite 7.5 on the Richter scale, but enough to stop all the trains to Lucca- as the tunnels had to be checked out for landslides.   On the outside world one friend I’d relied on to save me from the isolation snapped at me to pull myself together, and with visions of being trapped by landslides, I burst into tears and realised I really didn’t want to be up a hill with a group of people I didn’t know. Lois arrived that evening and with her help I booked a hotel room in Florence, and packed my bag for the next part of the adventure.

 

 

 

 

Why I did it

There are moments in life when we sometimes act on an impulse. That might be true of me back in Easter 2013.

I had spent a decade looking after my parents. My father had suffered from night-time seizures from the age of 70, back in 2002.That heralded a decade of never being away from home for any length of time. It coincided in the break up of my relationship, and also with the beginning of my second degree. For one reason or another, travel was completely out the window. I had to take on the process of first running, then winding down my Dad’s small business and turning it into a property portfolio.  Five years later, at the age of 75, his health went downhill so badly that he landed up in hospital with an infection and suffered a catalogue of disasters ranging from getting C.Difficile, to falling and breaking his right arm in four places. His kidneys packed up, and we were told to prepare for the worst.

Being stubborn, and determined to defend what little family I had, I put up a fight. Dad was airlifted, and stuck on dialysis at Raigmore Hospital. He was lucky- he survived. On the other hand his mobility and his cognitive processes were impaired, and when he was allowed home six months later, it was on the understanding that it would not be to our family home in West Banks- but to a new build which I’d acquired by selling my flat, grabbing my parents’ savings and getting it ready in a race against time. Mum had her own issues, struggling with osteoporosis and stressed at living with Dad- as he now was. She was used to him being a control freak, but the person he had become- childlike and chaotic was beyond her comprehension.

Mum made her will eighteen months later- and died a week after that- having simply had enough.

We kept going for four years after that, with Dad surviving fall after fall; a hip fracture; other infections, and dementia to the point I nicknamed him Lazarus.  And back in April 18^th 2013, his luck finally ran out.

I am in a unique position. I have no siblings, no partner and no children. My nearest relatives are six cousins, only three of whom are in contact with me. However, unlike my parents, I’m fortunate to have some very good friends, some of whom have known me all of my life. Three lovely men each gave me a day of just being there. One took me round an art gallery and let me talk about how scared I was. Another dragged me off to Aviemore to look at squirrels and think about the stuff that Dad loved. A third, who hasn’t known me that long, but has a habit of turning up like the 7^th Cavalry when things really get tough got me to ask the difficult questions and then with infinite kindness was there for me when after the funeral, I’d been left to pull myself together .

Two female friends threw down a challenge. I was to renew my out of date passport and book on to an activity holiday, somewhere I’d never been, and wanted to see. It was uber scary because whatever I chose, I had to do entirely alone.

The Watermill in Posara is owned by Bill and Lois Breckon, a couple based in Florence who host writing and painting courses, often with a celebrity tutor. In my case it was Laurence Marks- a writer for whom I have huge admiration as along with Maurice Gran, he has worked on projects ranging from ‘Love Hurts’, to ‘Birds of a Feather’.  He is a journalist, and these days he writes for musical theatre. True Renaissance Man- and combined with Tuscany, and the prospect of a day in Florence, I signed up, took a deep breath and headed for the hills.