I TRIED: Chocolate in all its guises: dark, milk, nutty, white, valrhona; pistachio, from slubby green to vibrant apple; bacio (ferrero rocher); nutella; lemon meringue, complete with actual meringue folded in; cinnamon, both with ginger and without; panna cotta; caramel; hazelnut (this featured prominently and I can vouch that actual hazelnut pieces improve both texture and flavour dramatically); honey (from the ‘best’ gelatteria in Rome, though I would contest this); Violet in Tourettes-sur-loup, imagine drinking your favourite grandmother’s perfume without the acid burn; mint and chocolate (that was a mistake); Stracciatella laced with chocolate; slubby red strawberry; patent pink raspberry; mixed berry; peach (another mistake- too watery) and one day on a whim: melon. 

I can’t decide which way i prefer to eat my gelati: cones or cups. there are merits and drawbacks to both. Cones provide a satisfying crunch  and are deliciously malty when they’re well made. However, if you happen upon a poorly made one  it’s somewhere between chewing cardboard and styrofoam. Cups are cute and seem more ‘European’ plus you get a spoon with which to savour each mouthful. However, you are missing out on the biscuity goodness. Imagine then the  delight when I found a gelatteria that served gelato in a cup that was made out of waffle cone! With a spoon!

But the ultimate gelati experience was on our last day in Italy on the Amalfi coast. It consisted of your choice of any 2 flavours (I went for chocolate and pistachio, no messing around). This was then spread thickly into a sliced golden brioche and topped with a generous squirt of sweetened and fluffily aerated cream. Say no more.

anyway, a couple of weeks into the trip and we´re in Barcelona. We spent a couple of weeks in France. Most of our time was spent in the Dordogne wandering around picturesque villages which seemed to consist of crumbly little biscuit coloured houses clinging with a certain je ne sais quoi (sp?) to cliffs and river banks.

There were multiple highlights but a couple that spring to mind include Beaulieu sur Dordogne´, which translates with typical Gallic modesty as something like ´the most beautiful village in the Dordogne´. My absolute favourite village was called something like Cardances. I know that´s not quite right but I don´t have my Lonely Planet with me at present. Anyway, it was gorgeousm you could not move more than 5 steps  without bumping into another stunning vista. 

Another high point of France was the Dune de Pyla. Yet another superlative, it is the biggest sand dune in Europe. Not that I would imagine it has that much competition. Anyway, it was pretty huge, about 120m high. They had installed these kind of ladder things to help you climb up but they seemed to be being consumed by the constantly shifting sands (the dune has already eaten a couple of campsites and a hotel). So it  was a case of crawling up on your hands and knees. But once you got to the top the view over the Atalantic was phenomenal. However, the best bit was discovering your inner child when running back down the dune. Glenn was even considering purchasing a boogie board for the purpose.

Then on to Spain. San Sebastian = beautiful, fabulous city. Bilbao = The guggenheim. Zaragoza = missable. And on to Barcelona where things get much more interesting.

We´re camping about a 40min bus trip from the city in what seems to be the daytime hangout for various ladies of the night. At first we were rather surprised at the uniform of the women who seemed to be cleaning the grass verges on the motorways. well they were  bending over a lot so we presumed they were picking up rubbish. Their outfits consisted of a tight top, high heels, suspenders and a g string. but wait, something´s missing: a skirt!

In Barcelona we mostly wandered around revisiting the places that we had seen back in 2003. On one of these wanderings Glenn did his bit for the tourist population by catching a thief in the middle of snatching a bag . He was not that happy at being discovered and showed his dissatisfaction by proclaiming rather loudly that our mothers were of the canine variety. Admittedly the bag he was trying to steal had been stupidly left on the ground by some typical American tourists who were busy with their heads in a map, but still, there was no need for that kind of reaction. We were the goodies in the situation.

Yesterday we went on a bike tour of the city. Cycling around the tiny little streets was an adventure. we seemed to annoy a few pedestrians and all I can say is that the guy who managed to grab my arse while I was cycling had some pretty quick reactions: I don´t dawdle when I´m on a bike. We had a rather disinerested tour guide whose reaction to every question was a shrug of the shoulders accompanied by ´dunno´. When one of the Americans asked her to tell us about the civil war, she performed the above mentioned response but then made some attempt to share some info by saying ´Franco´.  However, any disappointment of our bike tour was made up for by the couple of hours we spent in IKEA, lying on the beds, sitting on the couches and eating Dime bar pie: heaven in a warehouse.

Ciao

The journey here was fairly uneventful;  turbulent on the first leg and smooth on the second. About 7 hours into the flight from Auckland to Shanghai, I was faced with the sudden realisation that not only was there still 5 hours of the flight left, but that it was to be followed by a further 12 in order to reach London.There was a ridiculous circus involved in our transit through China. We’re convinced it was all part of a communist job creation scheme. We had to proceed through customs, including waiting anxiously while they took our passports into a small room to ‘check them’; collect our bags from the carosel; check in again and go back through customs to the boarding gate. Maybe the words ‘transit lounge’ don’t translate into Mandarin or Cantonese. 

We arrived to great fanfare from the Bartle-Frays. The younger members of the family seem to have adapted quite well to having two intruders sleeping in their bedroom and Barnaby has sweetly taken to telling people that his godparents are staying.  Jodi and Mark have a huge and fabulous flat complete with  an garden idyll across the road; it’s like something out of a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel, either that or ‘Notting Hill’. A fabulous wonderland where we have spent the last few afternoons, lying prone in the London sunshine. Yes, London has turned it on for us.

Other than relaxing in the garden and stuffing ourselves with Waitrose picnics, we have done a modicum of sightseeing. On Saturday, while still somewhat jetlagged, we visited Tate Modern and the Borough Market, where we enjoyed fish finger, pork belly and roast beef sandwiches (not altogether). We’ve traipsed across the park to the V&A, and we’ve visited Charles Saatchi’s new gallery in Chelsea, which is housed in the fabulous light filled space that was once the army’s barracks. 

Another highlight was playing a couple of games of netball for my old team in Pimlico. In a freaky coincidence they were short of a GK and  it was fantastic to get out on the court and have a run around. 

Tomorrow we head by train to Sussex so we can pick up the van and catch the ferry to Calais on Sunday. We’ve had to delay our departure by a few days as Glenn has succumbed to a man-flu. I am secretly pleased about this as it’s given me a chance to hang out with Jodi and the kids a little more while he lies in bed moaning and demanding juice and chicken soup.

Ciao

See Amber and Glenn drive to the airport.

See all the planes.

See Amber and Glenn get on a plane. 

See Amber and Glenn fly away.

(I hope I’m not the only one who used to read Peter and Jane books)