Techno problems

Hello everyone,

Sorry to say that I am still beset by technical problems. No Internet at home, and now the letter "i" on my keyboard has given up the ghost. Could this just be a loss of ego!? It gives pause for thought at how just one little letter missing from the alphabet makes writing a civilized sentence impossible. Ditto the slide in society when basic mores and lores are ignored. Please pray for my little aged, but beloved  mac and hope that I can get it back. Am borrowing Mr SQ's pc and it's like talking to a foreigner, so please forgive any obvious errors, and lack of postings and pictures, as I don't know how to upload them from here. But just to let you know that I'm still here, battling on bravely to get your daily dose of Suzy Q out for you, and hope you'll bear with me and not forget me...

With love, but suffering heaps of frustration,

Your long suffering,

Suzy Q

The President's Penis...

It's all my fault, unfortunately. I should NEVER have said that the Internet was less important than cellphones in my last blog post. We have been struck down by an unknown force and have no connection and are all climbing the walls. My apologies for not doing a blog post, or replying to all your mail timeously, and I am going to have to try to do today's posting in a hurry from a wifi zone, so hope it will be ok and that you'll forgive any typos.

Very frustrating actually, as my head has been abuzz with the furore over Brett Murray's portrait entitled The Spear depicting President Zuma with his private parts exposed. Which must surely be the oxymoron of the year. The President's private parts, from what I gather, are anything but private. His reputation is not exactly  spotless. His sexual prowess is seemingly a point (blunt one?) of great pride to the President. His penis certainly works anyway, probably harder (oops, sorry didn't mean that) than many, many members of his cabinet. One would have imagined that the President might have been proud to have his hardest working member on show for appraisal and applause. Which merely goes to prove the old dictum, that the harder you work, the more likely you are to see results. As we all know, there are many Zumas, both little and large, sired by our esteemed President, scattered about this fair land of ours. If Suzy Q were to don her doek and gaze into her crystal ball, she would no doubt see a honeymoon baby before too long to further bless our beleaguered nation. Imagine if the presidency were to become hereditary...!?

I rather wonder why he is so angry about this picture. He apparently feels "violated" and resents being depicted as a philanderer. Weell...what can I say, does his reputation not speak for itself!? Methinks the President protesteth too much. As Tselane Tambo, daughter of Oliver, a real ANC stalwart, tweeted over the weekend, "...the truth hurts...Do the poor enjoy poverty? Do the unemployed enjoy hopelessness? He must get over it. No one is having a good time. He should inspire the reverence he craves..." This is one tweet  which can't be brick batted as racist, and it comes from a 40 carat ANC source.

It's true, it should be JZ's head which should actually be hanging in shame because of the unacceptable levels of crime, poverty, unemployment and corruption in South Africa under his leadership. The ANC is taking the Goodman Gallery in Johannesburg to a full bench hearing of the High Court over their refusal to remove Murray's picture. Cold blooded murderers don't even get to court, so why should he receive preferential treatment over a piece of protest art? I guess it must be too close to the bone. (Irresistible that one.) Is he going to try to tick Brett Murray off as he did to Gareth Cliff over his amazingly gutsy, incredibly well worded open letter in 2010? Was it his henchmen who defaced public property by attempting to destroy the portrait earlier today? Does he not realize that the more fuss he makes about this the bigger fool he is making of himself, and hence our country? Does he even care? What of free speech and freedom of expression? 

Business is reputedly brisker that ever at the Goodman Gallery and Brett Murray can be assured of escalations in the value of all his works, but let's hope he doesn't get rubbed out by an irate mate of Zuma's. This fiasco is taking of epic proportions, and I'm not referring to the great man himself.


The burning question remains: is the picture of the President's penis going to bring down our Constitution...?

In haste, with love and hope for us all,


Suzy Q

Talking telephones...

If you had to ask me, a technophobe and Luddite of note, what has most revolutionized the world in the last two decades, it would not be the Internet (I can still barely use google) definitely not facile facebook, but the cellphone. I barely go to the bathroom without mine, and get into a complete panic if perchance I leave it at home. It's not that I'm yakking on it all the time, (though as you may well know, I do love to sms) but the knowledge that should my children or husband need me urgently, I won't be available makes me feel quite frantic. I know that this phenomenon has led to the cellphone being called the longest umbilical cord in the world, and I wonder how indeed I survived my childhood without being able to summons some responsible adult in an instant. I wonder also about how much my mother must have worried herself sick about me when I went backpacking alone through Europe, with only the odd poste restante letter and a few short calls made from foreign phone booths, usually reverse charges.

Now there's a soon be extinct object; I almost had to explain what they were to the Misses SQ when we happened to see one. I regaled them with tales of standing outside the local municipal swimming pool when I was a little girl making Scotch calls to home (hoping that somebody heard my three rings) to let them know I was ready to come home. No idea how long I had to wait to be collected. Or the time Mr SQ and I were new arrivals in Cape Town looking for jobs and dossing down in a bedsit. We had to answer adverts by walking to the local corner store to make calls from the "tickey box" which was also next to the gaming table. We'd have to bribe the kids there to keep quiet for a few moments as we made our nervous enquiries, hoping that the money and time wouldn't run out before we'd had our say, wanting prospective employers to think us cool and desirable rather than down to our last dime and desperate. My children just couldn't grasp the concept of a phone with a dial. Anyone remember the advance to the Protea phone with it's distinctive ring?

There was a time when getting a home phone was a major achievement, and my mom was a past master at flirting with the P&T guys to get our names moved up the queue. No doubt  experience perfected her performance, as we relocated a lot. We would wait by the phone, hoping for a boy to ring, and pray that he would have manners good enough to get past my mom, who might have been lax about a few things, but was a stickler for good telephone manners. When Blues Restaurant in Camps Bay celebrated their tenth anniversary some time ago, their advert ran, "Remember ten years ago, when phones were still attached to walls?" Those were the only type of phones we knew. When Miss SQ No 1 was born, I was sadly unable to take the calls from wellwishers, as I was glued to the bed breastfeeding her, or glued to the washing machine doing her nappies. YES, sluicing, soaking and washing nappies. By the time Miss SQ No 2 came along (don't blink, it was barely a year later, with another set of nappies to sluice, soak, wash and hang out to dry) Mr SQ ensured that I had a cordless phone so that I could feed her, fend her elder sister off and talk to wellwishers all at the same time. Of course there were never as many callers for a second child, but it was still wonderful to have a chance to chat amidst all the babyhood this and that.

THEN came the moment when the cellphone made it's arrival. My brick, weighing in at about 5 kg allowed me to keep in touch with Mr SQ on his many travels when I was alone at home with the two little ones, usually a little run down and exhausted. Fortunately, we  all survived, though I'm not quite sure how?  I used to read Telephone Ted  to them during the lonely days/nights/days/nights who knows, they blurred so much during those exhausting times. And my lonely mind was called on to draw on the telephone calls of note which marked my life. The Best and the Worst. Those were the ones nobody wanted to receive or make, but we won't go there. The amazingly happy ones are the best ones to think about. Like when you got called for a second interview. And then you got called to say you had the job, the car, the fat salary. Or a boy you knew called to say he fancied you. Even better, the dishy doctor on your shift managed to wheedle your unlisted number out of P&T (not that you didn't want to be contacted, no nay never, you'd just acquired your first flat and phone and were simply dying for it to ring) to ask you to the annual anaesthetic ball. Of course I went, but I promise I didn't fall asleep!

And going one further, when a summer romancer tracked me down past the stiff British reserve of the BT operators, testing all the numbers I'd given him in my country bumpkin innocence, but omitting the area code, and made my day and my life complete by calling me one day. He is, and remains the current Mr SQ No 1 btw. See, perseverance pays off chaps. Yet of all these important phone calls, the one that changed my life immeasurably was the one from my doctor's secretary, just before she shut shop on a Friday evening ahead of a long weekend, asking when I answered, if that was the "very pregnant Suzy Q?" I was about to become a mother!

These were dramatic times. The phone would ring, and news would be delivered. Mr SQ had a bag of 20c coins and a list of people to phone when Miss SQ No 1 was born to first inform friends and family from the call box at the end of the ward about our happy news. This proved to be more than problematic, as many of them lived abroad. Today folks just mms the birth video from their cellphones. I  also believe people break up relationships, if not engagements and marriages by sending an sms, and then changing their status on facebook. Yet no face to face consultation. People are talk talk talking all the time, but what are they actually saying? Can't it wait? ("I'm boarding now. I'm getting off the plane and onto the bus.") People at restaurants text other people but don't engage in conversation with the people right next to them. Like someone once said at the height of Friends fame,  "People are so busy watching Friends that they don't have time to make their own friends." So in a high tech world of previously unimagined communication systems, are we really communicating at all?

Hey everyone, let's talk more! Call me. Let me know if perchance you are enjoying reading my blog. And if that fails, just skype, sms, email, tweet or update me, just let me know, please...!?


Hope you all have a wonderful weekend.


Love,


Suzy Q x 

Hop on the bus Gus...

As part of our birthday celebrations for Mr SQ last week, we shut shop and played hooky for the day, all aboard the Hop On - Hop Off  CitySightseeing topless red buses. The service is so well run, the buses are punctual, the guides and drivers very friendly and helpful, and I can't remember when last we had so much fun. We booked and printed out our tickets online, at R110 each incredibly good value for a day's outing, and set off for a hike in Kirstenbosch, to be ready for the first bus to stop there at 09h50.  In winter they will arrive every 35 minutes, in summer every 25.

Great excitement as we heard our first bus chug into sight up the hill, and we did our boarding pass thing and headed for the upper deck, there best to see the sights of our beautiful Mother City from new heights. The commentary over the headphones is most interesting, even to resident Capetonians, and we learnt a thing or two about our home town we'd never known before we disembarked at Constantia Nek for the Wine Tour Bus. (Great idea this, all before 11am!) We so enjoyed the views and the colours of the vineyards all aglow in shades of orange, and met many cheerful tourists en route, but, sadly no locals. This is definitely a trip we should all do, just for fun, for knowledge, to support a fantastic local initiative or disappear for a day. In fact, like the Circle Line in London, you could actually just keep going all day...

Having visited Groot Constantia many times before, we opted to stay on board for the next stop at Eagles' Nest, to try uncharted waters, so to speak. This was a most enjoyable visit to a scenic and stylish boutique winery, halfway up Constantia Nek. Chantal gave us a friendly and generous tasting for our R30 a head, and the wines proved to be worthy of Kobus Jordaan, the viticulturist, who set up the vineyards at Klein Constantia in the 80's, although sadly no MCC to toast our birthday boy. The Viognier is an interesting single varietal bottling of an unusual cultivar, and the Shiraz is a little local triumph. They offer picnics on their spacious lawns at R300 per couple, including a bottle of their sumptious Sauvignon Blanc, for which we returned for a fun day out on Mother's Day. The tasting terrace is (HOORAY) non smoking, but people did of course, smoke on the lawns, as they deem themselves to be "in the fresh air". The hamper was, ummm, not very inspiring, with some random selections of biltongy meat, (which Rex enjoyed on our return) a packet of handfried crisps, a whole hard camembert,  some sludgy pate, strange tasting pesto, two tiny baguettes and two pain chocolats. The wine, service and the setting were all so wonderful, so I wish we could have just taken our own picnic and bought a bottle of their wine. However, I was simply so thrilled to be taken out and treated on this day dedicated to mothers, that ne'er a whinge shall pass my lips, however, should the proprietors read this, I hope that a kindly meant word will be taken. My daughters could have done better at Woollys, for a lot less, so perhaps they should reconsider their picnic supplier, as it is outsourced.

But I digress, back at our bus stop, our faithful red rooster arrived on time and took us to reconnect with the Blue Route Bus, and continue through Hout Bay and up over Suikerbossie and on to the Waterfront. No, I did not want to hop off at the World of Birds, been there and done that when the Misses SQ's were infants and we were all left gagging having been there when the pelicans were fed chicken heads and worse bits, nor did the township tour appeal. Enough township dwellers visiting the burbs by night from what I hear to warrant a return visit from us. Uh oh, sad state of the nation that gangs seem to be operating all round us again. Bad enough for us living in fear of crime behind our security services, worse for the decent citizens of the same townships who live cheek by jowl with the criminals.

Anyway, back on the bus, we drank in the elevated views going past Llandundo, singing the praises of our city to all our newfound friends (no mention of crime and the recent horrendous attack on Fr Andrew Cox in the Constantia Catholic Church and the fear we have for our future to them of course) as tourism keeps people in jobs and off the crime beat. We arrived back at the VnA, and one small flaw here, the bus stops at the Aquarium, so it is actually a bit of a trek back to the main areas to eat if you are planning on moving on shortly. Surprize surprize, we found ourselves having a hearty, and very reasonable fish and chip lunch at a super table with one of the best settings at the Waterfront, all for R70 including a glass of house wine. Try that at one of the overrated and overpriced places next to the amphitheatre. I had so hoped to do the mini boat tour through the canals, but time would not permit, so hopefully next time. We did however, get lured into an Irish pub, O'Driscoll's (dirty) Pub in Burg Street on the way home for a celebratory glass of Guinness, which, surroundings and patrons aside, served a fairly decent pint, but not a place I'd rush back to. However, the German bookshop over the road was a treat hard to beat, with a charming bookseller of the old school and a most interesting selection of Africana and local books on sale.

From there, we headed back to our car at Kirstenbosch, and an evening cooking and celebrating with the Misses SQ's. It was a great day, and something I wouldn't just save for a high day or holiday. Do it for yourself, do it for our city, do it with family and friends, do it to celebrate our Mother City. 

With love from,


Suzy Q    
www.citysightseeing.co.za
www.eaglesnestwines.com

Franschhoek and the Now Famous Literary Festival

Hello again my dear friends, family and readers,

I'm back, and have so much to tell you about that I barely know where to start, hence my delay. We Librans are notorious for indeciciveness, so lest I deliberate any longer, let me tell you today about the fabulous Franschhoek Literary Festival. Being lovers of words, literature, books and reading, I can't believe that we only went to our first flf last year, as it is such a truly fantastic event. Oh, hang on a moment, was that shortly after Miss SQ No 1 got her driver's license and we could, maybe, just start getting away for the odd weekend again, even with fingernails chewed to the quick with worry? (Or salved by the delectable local wines?) Well after the success and enjoyment of last year's festival, we couldn't wait to return and take in some of the 2012 line up. 

This is the brainchild of local author, Jenny Hobbs, and is now in it's sixth successful year, but seems to be threatening to burst at the seams. I hope it doesn't get tooo big, as the beauty of the event is in the venue, Franschhoek being a quaint village, surrounded by mountains, vineyards and bathed at this time of year in spectacular autumn hues. The talks take place over three days in a selection of venues, all within walking distance of each other. Fortunately for us all, the weather has been mild and clear, so no hotfooting it from venue to venue in the rain for us yet, but even that wouldn't be too much of a hardship or detraction for being there. It has an interesting cast of authors and well known characters, many of whom can be seen mingling with the crowds, signing books, drinking coffee, or sipping bubbly at one of the many pavement cafes when not participating in panel discussions. There is an air of great excitement, a touch of madness, and a slight frisson of "you never know who you might meet." Nothing can yet beat meeting Justin Cartwright last year, whose great hands have penned so many brilliant books. Sadly he wasn't back this year. Oh dear, did I throw myself at him too in a mad moment of heady excitement at meeting a long time literary hero? Nothing holding back ol' Suzy Q when she gets going, sorry to say! He didn't exactly quail at being presented with at least a dozen treasured books to sign, and in fact was quite taken aback seeing some of his earlier works in proof form. I guess he'll return when he has a new book to promote.

This year we chose to kick off with an intimate talk in The Screening Room, which does double time as an armchair movie theatre, called  Poetry of this Late Age, featuring poets Gus Ferguson, whom we admire and treasure, and Margaret Clough, who was an alluvial diamond newly discovered. There was such gentleness, humility and beauty to their poetry it left me utterly charmed. And hopeful. Gus discovered his talent for words in his early 30's, and Margaret, much, much later, so let's never say die kids, there's hope for all of us who try, I hope... Look out for copies of Dubious Delights and At Least the Duck Survived, if there are any poetry lovers out there. In the evening we attended Pieter-Dirk Uys in Cabaret playing "Bambi Kellermann" in the packed Church Hall, which was a marvellous performance by this national treasure.

Home for the weekend was again at La Bourgogne Farm riverside Cottages, just beyond the Huguenot Monument, which provides the most comfortable, well kept self catering cottages in beautiful surrounds. The cottages are managed by Loesje and her able assistant Lara, and despite it being a very busy weekend for them, they went to great lengths to see to our every need (including the removal of the pool cover for lil' old polar bear here.) The farm produces a few wines, including a very interesting 2009 Semillon called Progeny, fruit which Loesje preserves and sells, olives and truly exceptional olive oil. www.labourgogne.co.za

Our neighbour for the night was the author, James Whyle and his wife, so we dutifully attended the talk on his novel, The Book of War, also in the Screening Room. This was conducted by Mark Behr (another unexpected thrill as I have long been a fan of his) and was very interesting, outlining the war in the Eastern Cape, from where James hails, in the mid nineteenth century. The behaviour of people is a constant source of amazement to me. Two seats away from me (just too far to poke in the ribs) sat a young woman who no doubt fancied herself as a budding journalist, or was perhaps just tweeting her friends to let them know where she was, as she tapped, nay stabbed her ipad throughout the entire discussion, when not rifling in her voluminous handbag for  more sweeties, which trust me, she definitely did not need, to unwrap noisily. She beat the girl by a whisker who asked after a long and thorough synopsis of the book by James, "basically what's it about?" He held well. We have our signed copy, which Mark said contained some "stellar writing" - high praise indeed from the author of The Smell of Apples - but I fear it might be a tad too violent for my tastes, so will have to ask Mr SQ to review it for you.

We also attended an excellent panel discussion hosted by the witty and eloquent Marianne Thamm entitled On being Bolshy with Gareth Cliff,  Denis Beckett and Martin Welz. Now that takes guts! Needless to say, the state of the nation was hotly debated. There were so many other interesting talks we would have loved to attend, rather spoilt for choice, but that is all we could manage. Neither can one go hungry or thirsty in Franschhoek, with so many restaurants and quaint little establishments from which to choose. We came home full to the brim of all the good things we had left Cape Town to ingest, and have, needless to say, already booked for next year. www.flf.co.za

Wonderful to be back with you,
Love,
Suzy Q

Gone fishing...

Fleeting greetings my dear hearts.  Been a busy, very happy week celebrating Mr SQ's birthday, (more of which next week when I'm back full steam) and we are going to the Literary Festival in Franschhoek for the weekend which promises to be great fun. It's a beautiful day, and we're on our way...

With love,


Suzy Q

Of babes, boats and bicycles...

May Day had me reminiscing about the same day some years hence, when Suzy Q signed up for duty as unpaid crew on a cabin cruiser on the Canal du Midi. How, my dear friends, you may well feel entitled to ask since we're all getting to know each other quite well, did this bit of divine good luck befall me? Blame it on Mr Suzy Q and a somewhat Senior Fr SQ, (unofficially adopted father of SQ) who tinkers on his boat on the canals during the European summers. It was decided in a ribald moment between the two men (who always seem to know better) that poor old SQ had lost her mojo having been tied to her children by their bib strings, and should get out and live a little again. Your quivering and tearful correspondent was sent reluctantly on her way to meet her fate on the waterways of France, abandoning house, husband and babes on this madcap adventure. I cried solidly for the first few hours, (just the person you want to sit next to on an all night flight) but then my schoolgirl German kicked in and I decided to console myself with a few Rhine wines. This just about got me through to the part when I imagined my darling daughters getting up for school without me to brush and braid their hair, praying that Mr SQ wouldn't be too grumpy with them already, and hoping he'd serve them a healthy breakfast. That is of course if he had remembered to get them to brush their little teeth and say their prayers the night before, or if indeed they remembered to get up for school at all. Of course I  really needn't have worried, as he is a wonderful and competent, if somewhat avant-garde daddy, and he coped admirably, but still, I'm a mother and "Worry" is my middle name.

However, I had to survive solo without my children to hide behind, and make my way from Munich to Marseille (having actually remembered to change planes in Jo'burg) then go by train to Avignon, then change for Tarascon and go over the bridge with my sailing bag to Beaucaire. Luckily I travel light, this being a lesson I try to share with my daughters, in a slightly more literal sense, as I've yet to see them travel with less than two BIG bags whenever they go away, even for a day. I was seconded to duty with the sole purpose of cleaning a carpet, which remains a bit of a mystery and is still a family joke of note, as after three weeks on the Canal du Midi my carpet cleaning skills were never put to the test. (Or is your SQ just a slightly cuter operator than anyone ever gave her credit for?) Still, I hope that I did earn my keep helping to navigate the waterways, ensuring that the wine flagons were forever full (not an easy task with two seasoned sailors on board, which task occasionally entailed me cycling ten km along bumpy towpaths carrying an empty, then very full and heavy 5l jerry can on my aching back) and the table adorned with the freshest and most delectable food from the many markets we passed on our gentle travels along the waterways. I was, in truth, like a kid in a candy store, utterly captivated by all the fresh cheeses, olives, fruits and vegetables available, and we haven't even mentioned the patisseries and boulangeries yet. WHY can't shopping at home, in a country with such abundant fresh produce, be as exciting as doing the groceries in France? 

Anyway, suffice to say, I had an absolutely ball exploring France from this floating hotel. I can highly recommend boating as an idyllic way to travel, as it combines the comfort of accomodation, (no panic on arriving at train stations struggling to find passable digs within walking distance of the usually insalubrious surrounds) the benefit of being able to shop and prepare beautiful, affordable meals on board, or dining ashore if a decent looking place turns up. One can take the pace at one's own whim, and stop wherever, whenever, if a particular place takes one's fancy, or move on if it, or the neighbours don't appeal. The canals are of course, on flat ground, hence a cyclist's dream (unless you're Lance Armstrong and thrill to the Man of the Mountain Challenge) and so it's leisurely cycling along the scenic and often well shaded towpaths, without traffic to impede one's ride. I LOVE cycling, but, call me a super wimp, and blame motherhood for this, I haven't taken my bike on the roads in longer than I care to admit for fear of being struck by a taxi, or worse, a yummy mummy in her supersized 4x4 rushing to get Yummikins Junior to play group on time so that she can make her belly dancing class at the gym on time.

So for me, freedom beckoned on that trip, with the ability to shop for fresh artichokes, cherries, asparagus, and cheap and cheerful co-op wine dispensed into our sesmankan with a petrol bowser, to be enjoyed at leisure over long lunches and dinners under sunny skies or starry nights, and do it all my own sweet time. Come morning and one of us would cycle off to do the fresh croissant run, whoever was up first. (Ok, it wasn't usually me, long live the Captain, but I was emerging from a long dark tunnel of seven sleepless years of babies, sodden nappies, earaches and infections, and the rest) so make no excuses for indulging in a few late nights with late lie ins thrown in as a double bonus, and still give great thanks to these two dear men in my life.)

But they had their revenge. The REAL reason I had been ensconced on board was not just to amuse the Captain, keep him in food and drink and not clean the carpet, but to get the boat up the dreaded Fonserannes Lock just outside Bezieres before he picked up his first paying guests of the season. As with life, marriage, babies, middle age, nobody warned me, and probably just as well!! I had been happily lulled into a sense of comfortable, false sailing security, cycling, shopping, handling, womanfully I thought, a few locks, the workings of which were lost on me, just holding the ropes as hard as possible and hoping for the best and never anticipating what was next to come.

Now they tell me that seasoned sailors quail at this sequence of eight staired locks going up 21.5m in rapid succession to raise boats over a mere 300m stretch. Before I knew it, they were upon me, but I was not upon them. Captain, in all his experience and wisdom, had somehow forgotten that I was supposed to be standing on the quay manning the ropes as we began our rapid and rather terrifying ascent. We were suddenly jostling for position in a tiny lock, accompanied by three other boats, all MUCH better manned than our paltry two man crew. Captain, realizing that I was in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time, threw me bodily up onto the quay (slap bang on the old sore knee) just as the waters were going down at an alarmingly rapid rate. There to regain my composure in front of hordes of German tourists, viewing the spectacle from behind the safety of their video cameras, whilst laughing heartily (haw haw haw) and never once coming to the aid of a damsel very clearly in serious distress. Ropes were thrown to me, which I luckily caught, but holding the boat steady was like hanging onto a bucking bronco as hectolitres of waters surged into the lock to raise us to the level of the next lock. And so the process was repeated up all the rest of the locks, without so much as a breather or a helping hand. 

Would you tackle this single handedly!?

Around me, strong young American men with reinforced sailing gloves struggled to hold one rope each, whilst as single ungloved crew, I had to manage all four. Miraculously, and with grateful thanks to St Brendan, patron saint of sailors, we made it to the top, then glided just around the corner to a quiet shaded river bank to catch our breath. Lo and behold, patting ourselves on our backs, we were passed by a couple in a kayak with a pet duck, who had just come through the locks after us. Either we were hallucinating or needed a richly deserved drink, but alas and alack, the cellar was bare. As if conjured up by some magic fairy, a vendor of wines appeared, selling his predictably tres cher wares, but who were we to quibble at a mere topic like price in such an hour of need. Though we didn't quite choke on our sundowners, they did go down a treat that night.

View of  Roman Canal outside Bezieres from our resting point

It was a new and improved (or just the older, somewhat wilder pre maternal) Suzy Q who returned safely to her family after her sailing adventures. The Captain I'm informed, took a month to recover.

Lotsa love,


Suzy Q -  ever at the ready for another sailing, or similar adventure!