Checking-in and checking-out a B&B

Last weekend I had planned a little adventure. After the marathon-workload that was my August when I worked for twenty-nine of the thirty-one days of the month, I decided that a little treat had been earned and that treat would encompass one of my passions, Neolithic stone circles.

I did not expect it to be a learning opportunity for me as a potential B&B owner. It was, and I thought I'd share some of my thoughts here to gauge the opinions of others. I do not plan to name the B&B in which I stayed for the sake of fairness since I did not mention any of the points listed below to the owner because I did not think he would take kindly to my feedback.

I had booked a B&B online, chosen for its location and for the rave reviews that others had left about the establishment, and because it looked 'quirky' and 'homely' and I do like quirky, homely places.
It was priced a little on the high-end of the market, in honesty more than I would have expected to pay for a bed and breakfast, but the location was perfect and I thought I'd earned it, so I arranged a stay and the owner immediately took £140 from my bank account which surprised me but perhaps that is the norm?

Point 1. I would not expect people to pay the full amount in advance. What if there were 'issues' either with my establishment or with their travel plans? Would not 50% be more reasonable as an upfront payment?

So, the booking was confirmed and I was told that I would have an en-suite room, which, for that price, I would have expected.

Point 2. Check-in time was 5pm. Check-out time was 10am. I would have liked to have arrived a little earlier, at 4pm perhaps, in order to relax after a strenuous day at Stonehenge, to bathe, change and prepare for dinner at a nearby pub/restaurant. And I would have liked to have had the option to leave a little later, especially on a Sunday morning.

I arrived, was met by the male owner (his wife has a job outside of the B&B) who was polite and smiling in a ... no, no bias here, in an apparently friendly, albeit a little patronising way (my personal opinion), and escorted to my room, past a sign instructing me to remove my shoes, which I failed to notice on arrival and so entered fully-shod, carrying my own laptop case, overnight bag, bag of books on Neolithic stone circles, goodies purchased at Stonehenge, my picnic bag, camera and handbag, none of which the owner offered to carry for me and all of which I had been obliged to remove from my car since a notice in the village's 'resident parking area' had cautioned me that thieves operate in the area. No parking at the B&B itself.

Point 3. I did not feel 'loved'. That may seem like a small point but a middle-aged, oft-times shy woman, travelling alone, does appreciate a few gestures of kindness and consideration. Again, a personal opinion.

My room was 'interestingly' furnished. As I said before, I do like quirky, I seek out the quirky, but there's quirky and then there's a room that looks as if it's the store-room for a junk shop. But, again, a matter of personal taste. There was not, however, a dressing-table or a chest-of-drawers and the only hanging space was a cupboard with a single, sad coat-hanger swinging sadly from a low rail. I was only there for one night and had no need to unpacking but it would have been nice to have had some useful bedroom furniture.

The refreshment tray comprised tea-bags, one herbal, one organic, four 'value', some cartons of long-life milk and cream, tubes of sugar and instant coffee. I had brought my own teabags and some fresh milk, a small packet of biscuits and some decent decaffeinated coffee. I'd have provided those to guests and, I think, home-made biscuits and maybe, being in rural England, a little home-made fruit cake, a scone and jam or a cupcake... A welcoming tea-tray is important, I think, and for £140 a night a biscuit would not have broken the budget.

On a practical point, the kettle and tray were on a low coffee table which made bending double to pour boiling water a potentially hazardous affair. It could easily have been located on one of the 'interesting' pieces of furniture at worktop-height.

The other surprise was that the room was not en-suite, my bathroom being situated along a corridor. This was not welcome news and unexpected since I'd been told I'd have an en-suite. Large bath robes were provided, the bathroom was large and lovely, the toiletries were of good quality but padding along a corridor to perform my ablutions was not a pleasant prospect given that the other guest room had been taken by two men. Call me old-fashioned, call me middle-aged, call me silly, but I felt put-off. My own B&B will not have en-suites but the two bedrooms will only be offered to couples, families or friends and that entire part of the house for guests will be for their sole-use.

Point 4. I think it a good idea for the owners to stay in their own guest rooms in order to test the facilities they are offering.

I did not bathe before dinner. I went out and found the pub that the owner suggested, a 10 minute drive from the B&B and past some lovely small stone circles and one avenue of stones, had a decent dinner and returned to my quirky room.

Being a fan of fresh air I opened the sash windows as wide as possible which proved noisy, given the pub next door at which people were drinking at tables outside, and the road into the village which passed in front of the B&B, and the loud shouts of people leaving the pub at closing time, but I live in a quiet little house at the end of a lane and am accustomed to only hearing owls and the sound of my own eyelids blinking when I am in bed so, again, a personal opinion.

I slept well in a comfortable bed with good pillows and linen, although I did wake several times, once after a dream  in which I was obliged to cook breakfasts for everyone and once when I dreamt that I over-slept and missed the check-out deadline, which I take as an indication that I did not feel at ease. And I did have to scuttle to the bathroom once which was not nice. I tweeted that incident and someone replied that for £140 there should have been a limo service, to which I responded, or at least a piggy-back?

The morning shower was not good. The shower head was directly overhead and fixed in place so I risked a thorough drenching which, with long hair that did not need washing, made cleaning myself awkward. I could have had a bath, I'd brought  some lovely organic lavender bath soak for that purpose, but I'd been told that breakfast would be served at 8:30 am on the dot, and I hadn't time to linger in the bath.

Point 5. Breakfast at 8:30 am precisely, on a Sunday morning. I would offer guests the choice of eating breakfast between 7 am and 10 am. Later if they wish to have a lie-in. They are, let's face it, on holiday.

I entered the dining room, again furnished like the store-room of a junk-shop, where a table had been laid for one and where the other two guests were already seated at a second table with their backs to me, gazing out of the window. I said a polite 'Good morning' and sat down. I think they replied with a similar greeting but I can't be sure. We ignored each other after that. There being no sign of the host I ate the interesting little bowl of fresh fruit salad that was on my table and then popped upstairs to fetch a book for company. The owner appeared, asked if I wanted the 'vegetarian cooked breakfast' which was all that appeared to be on offer, and would I like brown or white toast which I declined since there was only an odd-looking vegetable spread in little luminous green packets on the table and no offer of butter, and disappeared to find my coffee. While he was gone I drank my concentrated orange juice, observed some packets of cereals on a sideboard nearby and wondered if they were for guests, or for show.

My coffee was, coffee. My cooked vegetarian breakfast was awful - a fried egg, some potatoes, sliced mushrooms a fried tomato sprinkled with something green, cheap-tasting baked beans and the worst vegetarian sausage I have ever encountered. It was tepid, tasteless and truly awful.

Point 6. Breakfast could have been the saving grace of the B&B. A fluffy cheese omelette, pan-fried mushrooms on thickly-sliced, generously-buttered toast, poached eggs and toast,  boiled eggs and toast soldiers, cheeses and fruit, the list of possibilities could go on...  Needless to say, a nasty pink, cardboard-textured vegetarian sausage should never, ever, ever be included in a meal for anyone. I wished that I'd accepted his offer of ketchup, which I should have taken as a warning and why wasn't it on the table anyway?

I think that breakfast was the nail in the coffin of the B&B.
I could have forgiven the lack of an en-suite because the bathroom was lovely and the towels were fluffy and the toiletries were nice.
I could have forgiven the sad tea-tray because I had brought my own provisions.
I could have forgiven the lack of bedroom furniture because the bed was comfy and the linen good.
I could have forgiven the noise from outside because the view of outside was of a stone circle and sitting in bed, sipping tea and gazing at it next morning was lovely.
But I could never forgive the breakfast and, let's face it, breakfast is one half of the B&B experience.
                      
When I arrived home yesterday evening The Ragazza showed me an episode of a TV series in which a set of B&B owners stay at each others' establishments and compete to win a prize for the best value B&B. The B&B at which I had stayed had taken part a few years ago. They had charged £250 a night. The other B&B owners who judged it raised similar points to mine, above.  Needless to say, it came last in the competition. Had I watched the programme before I booked the room I would not have stayed there, but now I understand why I formed the impression of the owner that I did, having seen how he behaved during the competition.

An interesting experience and a good lesson in how not to run a B&B.
Location may be important, being situated next to a stone-circle may be a bonus, but really....



          

Kayaking the Pink Granite Coast

I am a firm believer in the benefits of play.
As adults our lives are often so stitched-up with work and worries, duties and daily tasks, that we can easily forget to have fun. And when that happens our minds become narrow and closed and we lose an important element of that which makes us human - our curiosity and our sense of adventure.

So, on holiday, I like to return to my seven year-old self, the little feisty kid with waist-length blonde plaits, scraped knees and freckled face. On holiday I like to play.

The Rags and I went kayaking in the Gulf of Maine twelve years ago and, aside from an unsuccessful attempt at canoeing on the Thames when I capsized my craft so often and had to be dragged from the water so frequently that our instructor gave up on me, we hadn't enjoyed Riparian Rolics for a long time. So, with The Ragazza and the BF, I planned a kayaking adventure on the Pink Granite Coast.

I'd taken the precaution of booking online and in English to avoid any confusion and hitches but even so... We arrived early at the Club Nautiqe de Tregastel (link here) which was not easy to find and which driving down dead-ends and round in circles had put the BF (our self-appointed driver in France) in a mood that was tense, to say the least. We parked and walked expectantly to the club where small, sun-tanned kids were wandering around in wet-suits and everyone seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going, except us. We marched into the reception area to be greeted by a woman who spoke only French and who insisted that she had no record of our booking.  The BF's tension increased and the pressure on me mounted. There was an exchange, polite but insistent, no there was no booking, yes there had been, no there hadn't, yes there had, until I suggested that we make one for that afternoon, an hour kayaking with a guide for three people, that being all that I could afford to pay when presented with a new price list. And so, it being lunchtime when everything in France grinds to a halt, we left to find food.

An hour later we were back. And this time we were armed with the e-mail confirming our booking, courtesy of The Ragazza's phone. We found the changing rooms (no signs on the doors or directions), we changed into suitable clothing, we wandered outside feeling self-conscious and gauche, and were duly pointed to a row of kayaks and pretty much told, there they are, see you in an hour.

Quoi?

I protested, we had requested an hour with a guide, we were not capable of venturing forth alone and unguided on the high seas, we would pose a risk to shipping and a danger to ourselves, what if we ended up encountering a Brittany ferry?  What if the currents returned us to England? What if...?

And then everything changed. A guide was found, we were informed that our bill would be a great deal less than we'd been told that morning, we were promised two hours instead of the one that I thought was all we'd been allocated, we were kitted out in life-vests, handed a paddle and asked to follow Eric to the kayaks on the beach.

And from that moment it was blissful, heavenly, brilliant!
We paddled in the shelter of the pink granite rocks which, as I kept informing the Ragazza and the BF, would once have been the tops of mountains higher than the Alps, wasn't that amazing? We navigated small channels between the rocks with only the occasional mishap when one of us, the oldest and wisest, became stuck on said-rocks and had to be pulled back into the sea. We admired the crystal-clear water and all that we saw beneath the waves, and you have to be above the waves to appreciate the beauty of that which lies beneath. We ventured out into the sea beyond the safety of the little bay and battled the current. One of us, the oldest and least wisest, even tried to copy the guide as he practiced some fancy-schmancy kaykaing near the rocks, before being politely told to desist. In short we had a wonderful afternoon.

Our guide was great, patient, reassuring and even laughing at my silly French humour.
It had all been worth the hassle and the misunderstanding.

When we finished and when I finally managed to extricate myself and my wonky knees from my craft, having thought at one point that I might have been forced to board the ferry home still 'wearing' a kayak, we thanked Eric and gave him a tip which, he said, was not expected, but which we said had certainly been earned, and which he said would buy him a lot of beer, and we left to find a certain establishment nearby that sells the best cheese omelette and fries in the world, by way of celebration.

We will return, that much we've promised ourselves, perhaps for a whole day of kayaking next time.

Sadly, I have no photos with which to illustrate his post.
Save for the one that I took from the restaurant which, I think, captures the mood of the day perfectly. Apologies for reproducing it but it is my favourite.

So, kayaking at Tregestal.
11/10

Useful Information:
The Club Nautique Tregastel caters for all ages and offers courses in kayaking, windsurfing, canoeing, sailing etc.

Equipment for kayakers:
Shoes, suitable for those occasions when you part company with your kayak and find yourself standing on rocks, stones, sharp stuff on the seabed. Carrefour sell cheap canvas shoes that do well.
A hat if you find the sun too much.
Swimsuit, see shoes, above.
Sun cream, unless you like to look like a cooked lobster.
Wetsuits are provided if you kayak in cold weather or plan to be submerged in deep water.
Life-jackets are provided and must be worn.

Changing facilities, toilets and showers are provided on site but there are no lockers for valuables so best to leave the diamond tiara at home.
Car parking is available nearby and is, of course, free.

One last picture, of my muse, the pink castle that inspired me to write my second novel

  
 





 

Trégastel

I think that one day, when I finally am finished with the world of work and have established a modest means of supporting myself in retirement, I would like to live in Trégastel.

It is a most delightful little town, not too large, not too little, situated slap, bang on the Pink Granite Coast of Northern Brittany which is one of my favourite places in the world, along with Finnish Lapland and The Alps.

When I lived in Brittany I never visited Trégastel, which is perhaps as well, had I done so my English and French O.U. studies would have been neglected while I returned there every few days to soak up the beauty of the place, along with the scents of iodine, seaweed and pink rocks.

Last year The Ragazza, her boyfriend and I discovered it and during our visit earlier this month we returned several times, heading first, as has become our tradition, for the aquarium in the rocks.

We took dozens of photos, I could sit here all day posting pictures like the online equivalent of that boring neighbour back in the 70's, the one who always invited everyone to see the slides of his summer holiday, but better not.

Instead just a few snaps of the things that caught my attention and made me pause ...  

Scallop on the sand...

and starfish...
with that colouring it should be re-named a sunbeamfish

I don't recall ever seeing a live cuttlefish before. They're usually only found as dried-up, bleached white remains that folk feed to caged-birds. They're really quite lovely and a little other-worldly. 

The Rags and I love visiting zoos and safari parks. Of course I remember when large cats were kept in concrete cages and elephants were tethered in small enclosures and back then zoos were not such nice places. But now we've adopted a kinder, more considerate approach to keeping wild creatures in captivity and many zoos are engaged in conservation work which we like to support when we can.

Aquariums are special, I think its because we get to see a whole different environment that we wouldn't see otherwise and we humans do seem to be drawn to water...

  

The aquarium at Trégastel is perfect for children. 

It's small enough not to exhaust them, large enough not to bore them and there are interesting French and English signs that describe the inhabitants and their lifestyles, which always fires a child's imagination, at least in my experience. 

A

And, of course, it's built among the boulders...

  

And when you've finished wandering and gazing and calling 'Come, look at this!' to your companions, there's a small and quite tasteful shop from which you can purchase all manner of souvenirs and postcards, books and mugs. 

And then you emerge, smiling and blinking into the bright Breton sunshine and wander round the corner to a little restaurant called Les Sept Iles which serves, in my opinion, the best cheese omelette and chips in the world. And for the smaller people with you, the ice-cream concoctions are served in the most outlandish whimsical bowls whose appearance will make everyone nearby smile. 

Could it get any more perfect than that? 

 

Time passing...

Pleased to report that I have been awarded my BA (Hons) Modern Language Studies
so now I can relax, catch my breath and prepare for the next course n my list
Hope that you are all having a super summer
XXXX

Back from Brittany

I've just returned from a trip to my home in Brittany.
During seven days we enjoyed:
1 dinner with the whole commune
1 firework party
4 aperitif sessions with friends
1 aperitif session at my home
1 dinner with friends
1 kayak session off the pink granite coast
3 days at the beach

That makes my 54th crossing with Brittany Ferries and so, to celebrate, we had Commodore Cabin on the return journey, which I will write about soon.
There will also be tour guide posts about our adventures.
When I have finished the laundry and preparations for returning to work.

Hope your summers are all sweet X

Van Morrison at Hampton Court Palace

One of the important lessons that I learned from my last O.U. module was that the human brain is flexible, ever-changing and programmed readily to absorb new ideas and new experiences and to weave them into its neural pathways like bright strands of threads in an ever-expanding tapestry.

That's if we take the time and make the effort...
Work, work can consume us and well, while one's work should be a passion, it should never be a monogamous relationship, we should devote as much, if not more, time and energy to exploring, adventuring and to gathering new experiences as possible.  We should flirt with fun.

The Ragazzo and I pursued this notion recently.
I do not see enough of my son. He's busy with his music studies in London, playing with bands, attending festivals, being a young man. It takes a little ingenuity sometimes to entice him to spend time with his mother. Sometimes I have to resort to irresistible lures.

Van Morrison at Hampton Court Palace.

It wasn't my first time.
Years ago I took my BF's widower to Hampton Court Palace to see Van Morrison. We both desperately needed some fun after Jeannie's death, it was a perfect solution, we laughed for the first time in weeks, we even danced in an aisle. Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl will do that for you.

We could have arrived early and enjoyed a picnic on the grass. Many others were doing so when we walked through the palace in search of a drink and a slice of pizza for The Ragazzo. There were Posh Picnics. I really do not feel comfortable with posh-anythings, too pretentious, too look-at-me-I-am-special, too much of too muchness, the credit crunch has taught me to live modestly and the tickets had already cost £140.  We queued for a latte and a brownie, it was 8:15, we were to be the last served, strict orders, no serving after 8:15, they told the smartly-dressed man from a Posh Picnickers' tent nearby, no coffee for you, you are too late. He looked disappointed. So we ordered four extra coffees for his Posh Picnicker's party. He was taken-aback, but happy. It was an evening for good deeds and being nice, our second, we'd already given a hitch-hiker a lift to the motorway on the way into the city.

We had good seats. Unable to chose the precise ones I had spent a long time playing games with the booking website until the system had chanced-upon the ones that I wanted, end of a row, in the middle of the raised stand, not too far forward, not too far back. Perfect.
 

Van Morrison sang and played for an hour and a half. Many people got up and shuffled off to the toilets somewhere down on the left of the stage, lots of champagne in those Posh Picnics, or too many glasses of beer at the bar-tent perhaps. We laughed as they emerged and were obliged to wait until the stewards had rounded-up a certain-sized group before permitting them to return to their seats like sheep going through a gate. We didn't leave our seats. Our eyes barely left the stage. We were mesmerised and entranced, carried away by the music which was so melodic it felt like a musical mental massage.

And by the splendour of Hampton Court Palace. Those bricks, I whispered to The Ragazzo, were all hand-made, their size and contours unique to the craftsmen who fashioned them... Those chimneys, with their beautiful patterns, you don't see them often, why don't people have twisted chimneys now?

  
But mostly we just sat and smiled and let the music fill our souls. Mother and son...

There was no Brown Eyed Girl this time. We were disappointed. We love Brown Eyed Girl, it's the one song that I am obliged, by some primeval stirrings within me, to dance to. But there had been many songs, and there had been Moondance and we had had a wonderful time.

And we were not shepherded out as soon as the show was over and the applause had died down and people were drifting away. We were permitted to linger, to wander through the deliciously-night-scented rose garden in search of toilets decked with lights like a fairy grotto, to stand and gaze at the palace and wonder how it would have been centuries ago.

Did Anne Boleyn walk in the gardens with her brother and her musician and did she look up at the windows where a king's eyes watched her with suspicion, and did she feel a twinge in her pretty neck? Did Jane Seymour cast modest eyes to the grass when an adulterous monarch came upon her walking with her friends? Henry VIII would have liked Van Morrison, we decided. And he would have had a Posh Picnic of princely proportions!

And so we left, agreeing to return in the daylight to spend a day exploring Hampton Court Palace. We'd been before of course, but The Ragazzo had been a boy and now he was a man and we would both see it through fresh eyes.

And we drove the sixty-something miles home to the Doll's House.
Mother and son and a Van Morrison CD playing Brown Eyed Girl...

Making hay....

It has been a while...

Spring has blossomed into early summer
The swallows have returned to skim across the green
Butterflies flit from flower to flower
Fuzzy bumble bees buzz among the bushes
The planet continues on its path

Work is as demanding as ever with changes thrust upon us, the insecurities of out-sourcing half of our tasks to India, colleagues leaving to seek better career paths, new managers to get to know, a new role to embrace.

The only certainty is that nothing is certain.
That we have as much control as a feather floating on a breeze.

I have submitted my last assignment for my Art of English module and, all being well, my last assignment for my O.U. studies. Which means that I should soon be granted a BA (Hons) Modern Language Studies. There will be no more O.U. studies, the fees are now beyond my modest budget and, anyway, I feel I have reached my destination, at least where that path is concerned.

It's been a long, rocky road to this arrival point.
Through child-rearing, a husband hostile to my ambitions, the departure of said-husband and single-motherhood, returning to a career, working myself to a burn-out, fleeing to France and returning to carve out a new career.
A long and rocky road and one on which I have sometimes stumbled, frequently fallen, but finally finished, crawling on bloodied knees towards the end.

But it is over and now I can relax and take more time to wander aimlessly on the village green.
To pause to admire a red kite circling overhead.
To stop to smell the flowers.
To make hay when the sun shines between the showers.

Except that I have been making not hay but elderflower vodka.
Spurred on by the success of last year's cherry vodka, every sip of which transported me back to the sunny days of that summer and to the pleasure I found in collecting those cherries and turning them into a rich, red, fragrant and leg-wobblingly potent drink, I decided to try this year with elderflowers.

  

It's ridiculously easy, no magic involved. Just flowers, lemon rind, sugar and vodka.

  
So after an early walk to collect the blossoms while the dew was still upon them...
And, of course, pausing to admire the irises that grow with their feet in the pond...

Here you have it...

Elderflower vodka ready to go into a dark place for a few weeks before being bottled and enjoyed with a spritz of fizzy water and a few lemony ice-cubes. 

Making hay

Making elderflower vodka 

Carpe diem