Summer: done

We moved fairly quickly after Seville, having only one night in four different towns as we – perhaps foolishly – started moving north for the winter. The towns were chosen based on convenience for our trip (we didn’t want to drive too far each day but we also didn’t want to stay in places that we either too large to discover or too small to feel busy), and as such we embarked on something of a holiday lucky dip.

Happily for us, the first of the last stops was a surprising stunner: Salamanca.

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A university town, Salamanca is a town built in – and at times it looks like carved from – sandstone. We spied it in the distance long before we arrived; a town barely discernible from the lightly coloured rocky terrain (erm, that sandstone?!) around it other than its ornate peaks rising into the sky. As we approached, the city’s walls were visible: ancient Roman fortifications that, along with the river, have been turned into an enormous green space for the town. We made our way to the car-free old town where we wandered the streets and climbed the bell tower and soaked in the wonderful atmosphere.

As the kids were exhausted from a long day, we took them for their daily holiday ice cream in the magnificent town square (yup, we’ve become those parents) and then tucked them into bed. I stayed and held the fort while Tim hit the town and did what he does best: drink whiskey (actually, take photos. But you’d best believe he stopped for a treat for himself along the way).

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The next stop en route home: Pamplona. Another city chosen for convenience, we were again pleasantly surprised (but not wowed like Salamanca). We stayed in an attic apartment at the top of the old town, and our very helpful host directed us to local treats: the chocolate pastries from the bakery next door, a bar built into the city walls with stunning views across the nearby sprawling hills, and a pinchos bar where we ate tiny Spanish snacks to finish off the night. We were about a month later than the town’s famous bull-running, but it was easy to imagine the mayhem that would occur through the streets.

Our own running continued. Toulouse, known as the pink city due to the terracotta used to build the old town, was our next stop. The adults enjoyed a wonderful dinner and would have liked to spend more time checking the town out, but the allure of the swimming pool in our hotel was too much for the smaller people. Our final stay was in Valance – the French Valencia – which felt like it rounded out the trip nicely.

As we drove northwards it felt we were leaving the summer behind us. Temperatures began dropping, and by the time we hit Toulouse the leaves on the trees lining the pink canals had started to turn. Our final day’s drive – from Valence back to Luzern – was filled with gloomy skies and rain: autumn had arrived while we had been gone.

The last week since we’ve been home has been one of small adjustments and tweaks. Addie has started the new school year with an increase in her activities: four days of kita and playgroup, including her favourite weekly forest visit. Swimming season is definitely over although we managed an optimistic chilly dip a few days ago, conscious the entire time that it was likely our last until next year. Luscious summer fruit is long eaten and the apples and pears have arrived in force, as have the pumpkins (much to our girl’s delight. She ate four – FOUR! – bowls of Golden Soup the other night and promptly asked for it the next morning for breakfast). The mornings are grey and chilly and the afternoons have the rich glow of a tired sun. I love Autumn, and I love the indulgent melancholy of seasonal change (and I, like my daughter, love pumpkin soup) but somehow it seems hard to embrace it. We had a magnificent summer – my favourite yet – and I guess I’m not quite ready to let it go. Then again, the lake was bloody freezing, so maybe I’ll just make a hot chocolate and be done with summer after all.

Summer: Seville.

We arrived in sweltering Seville just before lunch (our lunch, not the Spanish lunch, which I have yet to properly understand. We seem to be either too early or too late, but that’s also the perfect summary of mine and Tim’s personalities, so there we are). We had about 24 hours in the city so wanted to make the most of it, which for us means wandering, eating, and looking at lizards or other small spottable creatures. Our pickle was that we were somewhat frazzled post travel and the idea of walking around town in near 40 degree heat was rather unpalatable. Enter: horse and cart.

(We opted to take this for a few reasons. The primary one was that once they saw it, the kids were super keen. The other was we were super lazy and didn’t want to confront the heat. After about two minutes I felt dreadful. The horse was managing the heat and all of us for the better part of an hour in peak siesta time. My consolation was that we stopped regularly, and I saw the driver pause and give him water on several occasions as well as a full hose down when we finished. Still: thank you, noble steed. Also, my son is now your number one fan (he waves at all the horse-and-carts now, garbage men forgotten)  my lass thinks she’s a princess.

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Walking or trotting, Seville is a treat. The fourth largest city in Spain, it has the hustle and bustle you’d expect from an urban hub, coupled with slow pace that we’re starting to appreciate from the Spanish, in one of their hottest cities. A contradiction, sure, but one you feel as you plod along the streets which seem to move just as quickly as the charming chattery Spanish language around you. We spent a lot of time wandering the shaded narrow alleys, tripping over stones and getting pleasantly lost as we searched for ice creams and parks and each other (we got separated sans technology and had to revert to old school meet up principles).

Now we’re back on the road, we’re reverted to the one place / one meal approach to travelling. In Seville, the one place was a mighty one: the Alcázar. I’d been to the beautiful palace before, but as is apparently thematic on this holiday I barely remembered any of it. The site it stands on has been occupied since 800BC: it’s been used for the military, numerous churches, as a stable and warehouses and eventually a palace. It is now an extraordinarily well preserved example of Moorish architecture, and is the oldest occupied palace in Europe as well as a UNESCO site due to its garden’s diversity.

Enough of the blurb: the Alcázar speaks for itself.

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The palace and its surrounding grounds are enormous. There is room after perfectly tiled room, hidden courtyards, cool nooks in which one can get lost, and impeccably manicured gardens. If it wasn’t for a pressing agenda and two not entirely relaxed children, we could have spent weeks exploring it. As it was, we settled for goldfish spotting in the ponds, and cheesy family snaps.

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And, of course, splashing in any available fountain.

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At one point – one loses track of time in such a place – the kids and I found ourselves in a long, cool room hung with tapestries and tiled with hand-painted folklore. Despite the fact that I might look cranky, we were actually discussing what the lion slash dragon situation was.

To the delight of our almost-over-it kids, the immense gardens featured a maze. Our Addie led the way, while I carried a less than enthusiastic Ted in her wake.

The last time I was in Seville, the oranges were at peak ripeness. I remember sitting at a bar on the river and having them plonk heavily next to me as they fell off the trees, their almost cloying scent catching us unawares. This time of year, they are just forming: bursting their glossy roundness against the green leaves, everywhere you look across the city.

We had places to be and phone conferences to call into, so our visit was shorter than we’d ideally have liked. On our way out of the sweet city, we stopped for a much anticipated treat: churros. Tim and I had regaled the children with tales of amazing straight doughnuts that could actually be dunked into – gasp – warm chocolate. Thankfully – like on every other measure – Seville delivered.

Still. more. summer.

We spent just over a week in our little Spanish hilltop town, and it proved to be an excellent base for exploring the surrounding Andalusian area. Because I am geographically ignorant, I thought this included the nearby Gibraltar. For once I was correct about proximity, but as usual there was a flaw in my thinking: Gibraltar is part of the United Kingdom and not Andalusia, a fact which apparently everyone other than me is aware of. We went with one purpose only: to go up the rock and see the shores of Africa (OK, we actually had two goals: to also buy super cheap booze).

Gibraltar is small – only 6.2 square kms – and as we approached we were surprised and a little confused by the large fence that separates it from Spain. We parked the car, grabbed our passports, and walked across the border. It was quite surreal. I can’t think of another occasion that I’ve crossed a land border on foot and had my documents inspected. The British overseas territory is not, I am sorry to report, a particularly pleasant place. Lots of high rise apartments cram the 35,000 inhabitants into the small territory limits. While there were a few ostentatious mansions on the water (adjacent to the Ludicrously Large Yacht Parking) most places were shabby and run down. There was an airstrip immediately inside the border, which commuters strolled across. Apparently online gaming is a huge industry there, and whether imagined or not we felt the place was slightly seedy. We made our way promptly to the (Swiss manufactured, naturally) cable care and ascended the rock, much to the delight of our lad who loves any form of transportation. (As a tip, if you ever go: walk up the rock instead of cable car. Even though it was hot, if we left early the walk would have been manageable and far more enjoyable than the six minute trip up. It appeared mostly shaded and would have offered a far more interesting perspective to the area.)

It was a stunningly clear day, and from the top of the rock we were able to see across the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco, rising out of the water (it’s on the far left below, in case all blue-grey landmasses look the same to you. They sure do to me).

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The top of the rock is also home to the only wild population of Barbary macaques in Europe. I was horrified to learn this as I am a scaredycat joyless person who hates our adorable monkey cousins. My daughter, however, is not. She was besotted with them, and when I asked her what she liked about them she replied ‘their hair. They’re so hairy!’. My revolted point precisely, Ads.

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After a stop for said cheap booze we bizarrely walked straight back over the border. The Spanish side had passport control but the two immigration officers didn’t bother opening the gates and simply waved us all through a door out the side. Hola!

Next stop: the beach. We went to Estapona for the afternoon to swim in the Mediterranean, build sandcastles, eat seafood tapas and see if the kids love the ocean as much as their papa. (Verdict: most definitely.)

The days have become a bit blurry, like all holidays should, and I’d like that to be my excuse for not exactly remembering that it was our ten year anniversary last Thursday (in my defence, I knew it was coming up but I had confused the days, a completely understandable position after a decade, no?). We spent the day in Ronda, a mountain town at the top of a very winding drive. We finally arrived and entered through the town wall…

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…and immediately indulged in ten year anniversary pastries. (At least, the two best products of our relationship did.)

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Ronda is a very famous town in the region. Built high in the hills, it straddles a ravine and the two halves of the town were long divided. In the 1700s, the Puente Nuevo (New Bridge) was built to, ahem, bridge them. It’s an impressive sight. Each of the old towns is lovely in its own right, and the bridge adds a drama to the whole scene. Stunning architecture aside, there’s a waterfall at the base that gushes down into the calm river which snakes its way through the chasm. The bridge itself could be walked over, under and into: it used to be a prison, particularly during the Spanish Civil War. It was impossible to see it all in one hit – every different angle held new aspects.

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Ronda is also the city in which, 300 years ago, the official rules to bullfighting were negotiated and agreed. Many years ago, on a holiday to Seville, I went to see the traditional Spanish sport. It was not for me; I was unable to watch it and left shortly after it started. I appreciate the complexities of tradition and the arguments around the life spans of bulls (apparently fighters often live much longer than animals bred for meat), but despite being a meat eater, leather wearer and all round hypocrite, I felt it was a step too far in terms of the animal’s welfare. I was however (see: hypocrite) quite happy to check out the bullfighting arena where it all began, so to speak.

We celebrated our decade with a spectacular lunch. In a courtyard at the base of the town, with a playground within eyesight and ice-cold vermouth being refilled regularly, we toasted the years together. And then brat number two ate our dessert (flan, with almost burnt caramel, with a heavy dollop of cool yoghurt around it. So good, or so I’ve heard).

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A million years ago, on a previous trip to southern Spain, I spent a day? a few days? a week? in a beachside town that had something to do with tuna. The modern age of the internet, and a memory that is determined to connect some dots, located it as Zahara de los Atunes, a seaside fishing village on the way to Cadiz (this is relevant as it was a key part of the puzzle; on the same trip I visited the Cadiz fortress). Since we were so close, we did another day trip – this time through the nearby national park – to visit it.

Jimena is surrounded by the enormous Los Alcornocales National Park. It’s the only remaining natural cork forest in Europe, and a hugely significant ecological area both for historical reasons but also for controlled modern industry. The cork trees are still farmed – the sport the weird look of a tree undercut, as the bark at the base is removed while that on the top remains. The base bark is then left to dry in huge fields in the sun before it is used. The park is also home to many native animals – I saw a Spanish ibex while out running one morning* – and birds. As we drove to the beach, we saw an amazing flock of eagles circling, darting and dancing in a huge vortex. We stopped the car and got out to watch them, having never seen a sight like it. It was mesmerising, magical.

* disclosure: I literally ran the one morning. And I only ran a tiny bit. Those hills! That heat! Ridiculous.

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We arrived at the beach I’d stayed at and I found that the town was completely unfamiliar. Admittedly, it was 18 years ago I was there and at the time it was tiny, and it was in the opposite season (winter in southern Spain is heavenly, by the way), and I think I actually stayed at the opposite end of town. I remember a sleepy mostly-closed village, where we had to ask the local restaurant to open in advance if we wanted a meal. Now, in the height of summer, it was an unrecognisable bustling beach haven. Once we hit the beach I remembered the curve of the land – or at least I’m going to tell myself I did.

The beach was lovely. The children were maniacs, running in and out of the waves, playing ball and building sand ditches (not having quite mastered castles). Addie, who gets cold quite quickly (especially after her father dunks her head first into the ocean) ran and interrupted my sunbaking by asking for a cuddle. Happily obliging her, we sat quietly for a while and she murmured into my ear ‘Mama, your arms are as warm as the sun’. I died happy, folks.

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Our final excursion was to the southern most tip of mainland Europe: Tarifa. Or at least, it would have been had we been able find a bloody car park there. A dreadlocked mayhem that sort of reminded me of south east Asia, the town was crazy busy and we found it almost impossible to get to the tip of the country. So, four cranky people cut their losses and went to nearby Bolonia, where we pulled up near some Roman ruins (those dudes were everywhere, man) and had our last dip in the Med for a while. Unfortunately the wind was whip strong, and despite using child labour to weight all our possessions it wasn’t the most pleasant of days and we called it not long afterwards.

The rest of the week was spent pottering (me), reading (me), dipping in the pool (me), playing in cubby houses (not me…OK, sometimes me), lazily walking to lunch (me), getting up super early to take lovely snaps of the village at sunrise (are you kidding I am not insane. That was totally Tim, as evidenced below).

We all had our favourite pastimes, but the person who had the most cherished ritual of all was our Ted. Every morning around 8.30 the garbage men would drive up our street, noisily clanging and clattering. Our little man, waiting after his breakfast, would jump up, gasp, and run to the window where he would wave at them as long as they were in sight. After the first few days, they started waving at the top of the street and similarly didn’t stop until they turned the corner. This morning, he even earned himself a few toots of the horn. A happier holidayer there has never been.

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Summer, continued.

I’m sitting in a whitewashed Spanish casa, in a tiny town made of confusing and exhaustingly steep streets, perched on the side of a hill. It is about a million degrees; shade makes no difference. The male half of the family is taking a siesta (both having done a bit too much fiesta-ing last night) and Addie is off chit-chatting to herself, primarily about how long it will be before she will have another swim and whether or not she will put her whole head underwater (currently: not, but maybe tomorrow).

When planning this, our summer holiday proper, we didn’t realise how heavenly the season in Switzerland would be. It felt like we’d already had a solid summer before we even left home. Apparently it is the year of double the fun for us, as last Thursday we barrelled into the car to drive over 2000km to get here (not in one hit. We’re clearly a bit idiotic but not that crazy).

Our first stop, for convenience and to get a few miles under our belt, was Chambéry in France, not far from the Swiss border. Given the road trip was going to be intense, we decided to hold off on sightseeing until we reached our final destination. We figured we’d aim for one sight and one (hopefully decent) meal at each stop en route and not put too much pressure on ourselves to do much else. At Chambéry, this equated to a delicious Lyonnaise-style meal and a visit to the Fontaine des Éléphants. A tribute to a local military hero returning from a campaign to India, the fountain is locally know as ‘the four arseless’ as the pachyderms are lacking their rear quarters.

Unfortunately our excellently located AirBnB was also weird, hot and mozzie ridden, so we departed absurdly early the next morning. Perhaps it was for the best as it was our longest driving leg, down the coast of France and Spain to Valencia. Due to our pre-dawn departure we arrived in time to check off our Valencia activity: Turia Park. We hired bikes and cycled around the former river turned massive green space. The kids, who had done amazingly well on the ten hour drive, were indulged in their every request for parks and splashing in any available water. (Our meal here: seafood tapas. Hurrah for no longer being land locked!)

Our final day of transit – coincidentally my driving leg – was also the most spectacular scenery wise. We made our way from Valencia to the town I’m now sweltering in, Jimena de la Frontera. The route was made of wide brown expanses, hills lined with cultivated olive and orange groves, and craggy odd-shaped peaks, all spiked with the occasional peep of the Mediterranean.

We arrived late afternoon, and after meeting my friend for a drink (red wine and lemonade. When in Jimena, as they say) made our way to our digs for the next week or so. The house has been a year-long renovation project for my friend; we’re the inaugural visitors in what will be a holiday rental. It is traditional for the area: white washed and multi-leveled, with cooling tiles, exposed beams, low doorways (Tim’s noggin can attest to this) and hidden terraces. It also, to the delight of the kids and the relief of the parents, has a tiny pool which is the perfect size for sitting in with a beverage after the heat of the day has subsided.

It’s a slow moving town. Partly because it’s Spanish, partly because it’s hot, and partly because it’s steep (but probably mostly because it’s Spanish). The weekend we arrived was the annual Féria so around 9pm the town – the Purler ring-ins included – started mobilising down to the main square, which became a hot spot of cerveca, jamon and flamenco (and several far less traditional Spanish things: dodgem cars and jumping castles). I couldn’t quite bring myself to let my kids stay out fiesta-ing as long as the Spanish brats (2am!!) but they made it to a very respectable midnight.

Today, we walked up winding cobbled streets past wild blackberries, fig and avocado trees to the medieval Castillo de Jimena de la Frontera. Built by the Grenadian Moors, it was one of many points that guarded access to Gibraltar and the Bay of Algeciras. Although in ruins now (another ‘broken castle’, to Addie’s ongoing confusion. Actually, not ‘Addie’: she insisted on being called ‘Princess Anna’ for the duration of our visit. I was apparently to be called the less glamorous and far less explicable ‘Fireman’), its strategic position was obvious as it looms above not only Jimena, but all surrounding land.

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We are trying to adjust to many things – the heat, Spanish timekeeping, red wine and lemonade, the bloody hills. This is most difficult for me, as I seem to operate on two functions: rushed or even more rushed. I’m trying to relax, to not worry so much about time frames (meñana, meñana as they say here) and to embrace slow walking in the shade, long lunches, late afternoon siestas and even later dinners. I am pleased to report that it’s not going too badly thus far, but I suspect we have the red wine and lemonade to thank for that.

Summer

At the risk of being sombre, I have probably already used at least half my allotted summers. A bunch of them are long forgotten. Some of them linger as sensory memories only, revisited briefly through the scent of, say, coconut oil or steamed corn on the cob. Some were most definitely squandered (I’m looking at you, wasted university summers). A few unfortunate years I missed them altogether: moving continents and foolishly –  unintentionally – following winter. The summers since the arrival of my children have been different again. Ads was born in the peak of an Australian summer and my memories are primarily of bunkering down in our darkened terrace, hiding from the sun and hoping for sleep. The last two, spent here in Switzerland, were fleeting both in terms of weather and enjoyment. I was pregnant for the first and had a six month old skwarker for the second, so my attention was focused primarily on morning sickness and baby naps and basically keeping everyone alive.

These unfortunate summers past all feel like a rehearsal for this year. This year – unexpectedly and delightfully – the summer has been amazing. Weather wise (which isn’t everything but it certainly helps) we’ve had bonza days since May. We had a solid influx of visitors over May and June, resulting in lots of lovely lake time and the start of a holiday vibe. But most importantly, I find myself reaping the full benefits of being a hausfrau: the kids are old enough to enjoy summer actives (swimming! camping! grilling!), I’m not ruled by Nap Schedules as restrictively, and we can spend as much time as we like by the water. Tim and I have finally copped on that only one parent needs to be at home of an evening, resulting in a tag team effort of evening lake swims. For the first time in maybe forever, I feel like I’m making the most of the season.

Here, the height of summer coincides with Swiss National Day. On 1 August (or thereabouts, the history books refer to ‘early August’) in 1219, three Swiss cantons – formerly independent states – banded together to protect their trading routes and themselves from Germany in the north. In a field called Rütli, north of Lake Luzern, these three states swore the ‘Oath on Rütli’ which established the first Swiss confederacy. Over time (and several battles) other states joined, and eventually the collective became the Confederation Helvetia of today. As you can imagine, it’s a much loved celebration by the Swiss. Firework shops pop up for the week preceding it, people take extended holidays around the formal day off, grills and picnics are prepared, and everyone wishes each other well on the day.

Our third Swiss National Day – a glorious thirty-plus summer’s day – started off appropriately, by shoving a mini Swiss flag in our breakfast. (Although admittedly not terribly Swiss, i could have been worse. We could have shoved the flag into our usual breakfast: vegemite toast.)

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We were spending the day not far from the meadow of Rötli, the site of Swiss confederacy. Located in one of the three cantons that formed the original Switzerland – Canton Uri – we were hearing to the Lorelei Bathing Islands.

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The ‘islands’ are actually made from reclaimed rock and gravel excavated during the building of the Gotthard Tunnel, the largest tunnel in the world, connecting Switzerland to Italy. A five year project, the islands were made to counter the erosion occurring at the site of the Reuss Delta and provide a habitat for native birds and water life of the area. They also – very conveniently for our needs – deliver excellent swimming for both children and adults alike.

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We had excitedly prepared our grill, and I had been very enthusiastically planning what fireworks I would purchase (doing something banned in my own country remains childishly thrilling, I’m afraid) when a national fire ban was put in place. We were annoyed for a few moments, but since a fire ban is indication of a delightfully warm summer, we happily complied. (Also, fines for breaching said ban were CHF20’000 minimum, so we were happy to eat non-grilled food.) We spent the day pottering by the lake, swimming across to the islands, exploring the nearby bird sanctuary and playing chaseys around the viewing tower.

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Although definitely idyllic I will admit the day wasn’t perfect. The children ate only olives and cake for lunch, poor little Teddy has a summer cold so was quite miserable, patience was tested from time to time, and there was a revoltingly filthy marshmallow incident in the car on the way home. Still, in the summer scheme of things it was a lovely way to celebrate once again our adopted country, and since that marshmallow came in a packet bearing the Swiss flag all is forgiven.

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Lyon, revisited

Our first trip outside of Switzerland after having relocated was to the lovely city of Lyon. It was my first solo international car drive, Addie was a tender 9 months old and a rubbish sleeper to boot, and – in the most dreadful of crimes – we failed to eat nearly enough of the amazing local cuisine. A return trip was always on the cards and happily it occurred last weekend. We were meeting up with some friends who are on an enviable three month holiday around Europe, so last Friday we hit the highway. Once again I was behind the wheel, but this time we’d doubled the number of offspring (both of whom now happily sleep well) and had absolutely no intention of missing out on French delights.

Our last visit was in October. It was autumn and the weather, while not exactly unpleasant, was not prime outdoors material. We’re currently in the height of summer here – it’s been glorious for weeks now – and the city felt completely different. (That may also have had something to do with the two pint size travellers who are no longer happy to be simply pushed around as their parents sightsee and eat.)

It was a low key trip, the markets / traboules / walking tours of our previous visit not replicated. This time, we focused on food and local parks which kept all of us reasonably happy.  After a late arrival on Friday night we made the most of lost time and hit the old town for lunch. The two little charcuterie monsters were delighted.

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As always, there was wandering to be done. On our last trip, we were belatedly told about an Australian themed barge on which one could partay (to be fair, it didn’t matter if it was belated or not as I doubt we would have gone to the inappropriate and inappropriately named ‘Ayres Rock’ anyway). Jen and I did, however, sneak away from our beloved families for a cheeky non-Aussie-barge rosé.

The main culinary event was saved for the evening: we visited a Michelin starred bouchon where three quarters of us ate beef and the other had major food envy. While there, I overheard a familiar accent and my already burning ears pricked up even more when she said the words ‘Wagga Wagga’. Turns out I was not the only Riverina lass dining in Lyon that evening (and she had also ordered the bloody beef). After a few games of ‘who do you know’ and ‘where are you going next’ we went our seperate ways only to run into each other again the following morning. For the third largest city in France, with a population of about seven times that of Wagga, it sure felt like a small town.

We left after a market run where we stocked up on meats, fish and baked goods (the former two largely ruined by the time we got home due to a reverse refrigeration accident), stopping in Geneva on the way home for a dip in the lake. Once again it feels that we perhaps didn’t capitalise on the fabulous city, but nonetheless we all had a great getaway. If we do make it back again, I’m curious to see the changes not only in the city but in our wee girl. The snap on the left was taken on our first trip and the one on the right last weekend. Although the latter looks like she is crawling, my girl is actually scaling the wall on the banks of the river. On second thoughts, maybe I’d rather we didn’t see the next Addie incarnation any time too soon.

Yondon Calling

I am not sure when or how the fascination started. It’s most clearly linked to two sets of travelling grandparents, both of whom visited London and talked about their adventures there, bringing back London-related books, toys and other paraphernalia. Regardless of the source, to say our Adelaide is obsessed with the town is an understatement. From time to time – say if we are talking about holidays or sometimes just out of the blue –  she’ll sigh dramatically and say ‘I’d just love to visit Yondon’. She holds no greater love than for that of Big Ben (for reasons which still remain unclear). She’ll frequently choose ‘Ruby Red Shoes Goes To London‘ as her bedtime story, pointing out the sights and carefully choosing which terribly English treats she might like to eat. We’d long hoped to get there soonish, but going for no other reason than the whim of a three year old seemed indulgent. However when we saw that Christo had a new sculpture in Hyde Park (you may recall we saw his ‘Floating Piers‘ some years ago), both Tim and I were keen to visit too. (Apparently travelling on the whim of 40 and 37 year olds isn’t quite as ludicrous.)

We only had a few days in town and knew it would be impossible to even scratch the surface of all we wanted to see and do (and, as always, eat). Our compromise: everyone got to choose two activities which would be prioritised, and that we all had to do the other people’s activities*. Anything else was a bonus.

Tim and I – communication apparently being our strong game – both chose to see the Christo sculpture. Positioned in the Serpentine Lake in Hyde Park, The London Mastaba is made of 7,506  brightly painted barrels stacked on a floating platform. It weighs over 600 tons (coincidentally the same weight of fish and chips Little Miss ‘I Yove Yondon’ put away over the course of the weekend). We wandered through a fair bit of the enormous – and unexpectedly brown – park before seeing it, but when we did all eight Purler eyes were in awe.

(Addie’s cos she loves purple the most, and although the photos show up a bit more pink and red there was a definite purple hue to the sculpture. Teddy’s as he was allowed out of the carrier for an ice-cream.) (What, you don’t bribe your kids to make art seem more attractive?)

Laidey in London-003

We had intended after a day of travel to have a fairly quiet night however Addie had other ideas. Her two London dreams: to see the one and only Big Ben, and to travel on a double decker London bus. The evening was so lovely we opted to walk to Westminster – via the palace and the anti-Trump protest rally – to check out the giant clock tower. As we were on our way, our little London-lover squeezed my hand and said ‘Mama, I’m just so happy to be in Yondon’.

We had been warned that Big Ben was currently undergoing renovations (he’s having a face lift that won’t be finished for several years) but figured a rose is a rose. And our Addie did not mind one little bit. One of the two things she’d like to be when she grows up is a road worker (the other is a fire fighter) so when she saw Big Ben she was delighted. ‘Mama! Big Ben is a roadwork!’

We spent the rest of the evening not riding the London Eye (the queues!), instead preferring the cheaper thrill of the nearby carousel.

The following morning Tim got to enact one of his London choices: a trip up The Shard. On the clear morning we were able to see right over the top of our morning ice creams and across the city. (Just as an FYI, the toilets in the building have the best view, no question, of any toilet ever. Each private cubicle has a full length window looking out onto this.)

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My second choice of activity: food. Like all the people, I’m a massive fan of Ottolenghi and regularly cook from his books and column. My mouth had been watering for days at the possibility of eating his food, and it totally delivered. (She chose a cherry cake. Her father and I ate far more sensible lunches, but I confess that chocolate number behind the cherry cake happily found an eternal home in my belly).

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We met one of Tim’s uni friends – Lloyd, and his partner Jonno – for dinner that night in a pub in Chelsea (one of the scenes of the fish and chips crimes). Addie lived her second dream on the way home, where she got to ride on the upper story of a London bus. (We passed another red bus – a single story one – and she was still impressed: ‘It’s a double decker bus with only the downstairs’. Love, as they say, is blind.)

Our final day was more catch ups (Tim’s cousin and a school friend), an art gallery to see the Lee Bul exhibit (Tim and my other shared choice), a fountain to splash in for the kids, yum cha, even more ice cream, and playgrounds aplenty. Before we knew it we were heading back to the airport (admidst drunken cheering French World Cup fans, much to the apparent disgust of most Britons). As anticipated the trip passed in the blink of an eye, with so much left not done (the British Museum! The Tate! Trafalgar Square! More fish and chips!). But it’s close, and we’re huge fans, so we’ll be back. As we landed at Basel, bleary eyed on Monday morning after an early start, I warned the kids that we still had a bit of a drive ahead of us. My girl looked up at me, hopefully, and asked ‘Can we drive back to Yondon? Please?’

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* You may have noticed that the youngest Purler’s two things are absent from this list. Unfortunately, the rule was only extended to those of us who can talk, so little Teddy didn’t get loads of say. However, he would call ‘toot toot!’ every time he saw a train and wave ‘bye bye’ every time he got off the tube, so I think it’s safe to say he was happy. That, and he got an ice cream pretty much every day.