by Mary Moody
I also insist that they all have a ‘quiet time’ after lunch. They lie down on a bed and read for an hour – I spread them around all the different rooms, because having two in together means there’s no reading, just hijinks.
Once again, I’m sad Isabella doesn’t often get a chance to be part of these wild and woolly family gatherings. I would not be capable of caring for her and looking after a gang of children at the same time. She only comes to stay overnight if her parents are also staying. I have looked after her on my own quite a few times, and I’ve even mastered the intricacies of operating her feeding pump and managing her complicated medication. However, now that her epilepsy has intensified she requires constant monitoring and, quite frankly, I don’t spend enough time with her to immediately recognise the signs that she could be having a problem. The farm is quite a distance from the nearest hospital and this also makes me nervous.
I’ve stayed at the house at Blackheath overnight to babysit both children so that Ethan and Lynne can have a night out alone, or with friends. Lynne’s parents have also helped tremendously, having the children to stay. But the only time Lynne and Ethan experience total respite from caring is when they have a week at a special care centre for disabled children at the beach in Manly. It’s a fantastic concept. The children in need of care are housed upstairs and even a child with disabilities as profound as Isabella’s can be looked after twenty-four hours a day. The families are housed in apartments downstairs, only a short walk from the beach. So Lynne, Ethan and Caius have a restful holiday in a beautiful location and they can come and go and spend time with Isabella as often as they please. This suits them so much better than simply leaving Isabella alone in a respite home for a week. They are entitled to support such as this but would much prefer to be as close to her as possible.
As my oldest grandson heads into his teens I suddenly begin to contemplate the next possible stage. Great-grandmotherhood. It may well come to pass, and that’s a seriously alarming thought.
30
I couldn’t believe I was at the airport again. It’s just as well I was such an easy traveller, because my life at that time was spent hanging around airport lounges and dashing to make connecting flights . . .
I don’t travel business class because I find it a huge cost to pay for a day in your life spent in the air. But I have developed a few techniques of my own for making it bearable. A glass of wine at the airport, of course, and I always treat myself to a new book to read along the way. I go for an aisle seat and carry a cashmere shawl to wrap myself in – as well as the blanket that’s provided. I can’t sleep if I’m cold. I eat the meal provided, with a glass of wine, and take a sleeping pill. With luck I’ll sleep six to seven hours straight, then when I wake I’ll watch movies or read until we arrive. It’s almost as if I put myself into hibernation mode for the period of time it takes me to get from A to B.
Travelling from the farm near Bathurst to my house in France can take more than thirty-five hours door to door, depending on the connections. David drops me at the little airport near town, and the flight to Sydney takes forty minutes at most. I then catch the underground train to the international airport and check in, always allowing plenty of time. The flight from Sydney to London takes around twenty-four hours, with one stop along the way. I transfer to another terminal and catch a flight to Paris, which only takes an hour – it’s the waiting around and clearing security that takes so long. After I clear customs I catch a taxi across the city – always wide-eyed with delight to be back in France – to Gare d’Austerlitz, where I board a train for the five-hour journey south to the elegant town of Gourdon. At the Paris railway station there is a restaurant that I just love. It’s simple but they always have en excellent plat and I order a small bottle of red wine to remind myself that I really am here, at last.
Rail travel in France is fast, and better than most equivalent Australian services. The carriages are comfortable, the trains generally run on time, and the scenery speeding past the window is entrancing. Much to my amusement, passengers are allowed to bring their animals into the carriages. Once, I sat next to a woman with a poodle on her lap. Another time, I was caught up in a nasty dogfight. While everyone was asleep, two dogs – one large mutt and a small lapdog – took advantage of the situation to attack each other. By the time their owners woke there was blood all over the carriage and both dogs looked worse for wear.
This trip, I find myself opposite a young couple with a ferret in a cage – urgh! – and I am bemused by its antics. It tries to escape, savagely attacking the bars with its sharp little teeth. Then it sleeps deeply for an hour, on its back with its feet in the air. Then it piddles on the towel lining its cage. The acrid smell of rodent-like urine fills the carriage, but the young couple sleep on, oblivious to the fact that their pet is stinking us out.
In Gourdon I am met by a friend – sometimes Jock, sometimes another member of my gang – and then it’s a thirty-five-minute drive to the house in Frayssinet. It’s such a joy to arrive.
This time, I was here to lead one of my tours and there was a lot to be done as it was a big group – nineteen people, including a woman from New York who found our details on the internet – and, at eighteen days, quite a long tour. I had allowed myself a fortnight to unwind before starting work in earnest.
The next day I did as I always do when I arrive in France. I joined a group of friends for lunch at Restaurant Murat in the nearby tiny village of Pomarede. The restaurant is now regularly invaded by groups of travelling Australians who have read the book I wrote about it several years ago. A copy is proudly displayed on the bar, and Mme Murat – Jeannette – and her daughter Sylvie are delighted that the restaurant’s fame has spread so far. Five generations of women have owned and operated this working man’s restaurant for more than one hundred years, and they serve the traditional, family-cooked meals of the region. Sylvie has officially taken over the day-to-day running of the establishment, although her mother still lives upstairs in the rooms where she was born and where her father and grandmother also entered the world. Jeannette remains a constant presence, fussing over people as they arrive, taking orders and clearing the tables. Having lunch here is always a delight, although it can be a struggle getting up from the table after five courses and all that red wine.
Some friends had been lent a house for a week on the Atlantic coast, in a charming resort town called Hossegor. It’s north of Biarritz, the famous surfing mecca, and only an hour from the Spanish border. Usually when I’m in the south-west of France I’m inclined to hang around the region where we have the house rather than explore too much further afield. It’s partly laziness, because I just love sinking into village life and becoming part of the local scene again, but it’s also financial. Why would I want to pay for hotel rooms when I have a lovely house of my own?
My friends were already at the beach house when I arrived in France, and I decided to drive over for just a few days. It would be about a three-hour journey. My car is very old and lacks modern comforts such as air conditioning or a GPS for directions, however, I found a website with detailed directions on driving across country and I set off optimistically, with my instructions printed out in large handwriting on a piece of paper on the passenger seat. I find this is the easiest method when driving alone, because I can stop quickly to check on the next town I should be heading for without having to change into reading glasses and look at the fine print on a map.
Somehow I got totally tangled up in the town of Agen, and ended up travelling south instead of south-west, running through all sorts of little villages and settlements that are completely off the beaten track. I was determined not to get flustered by this, but to just enjoy the drive. Eventually I would find my way to the coast.
The day turned out to be very hot indeed. Sweat was pouring down my face, and I seemed to be driving around in circles. I was sure there were several villages I had been through more than once. I arrived in a large, elegant town with glorious old
buildings set around a winding canal, and on checking my position realised I was in Condom. Local Brits laugh about the name of this place and now I was smack bang in the middle of it, quite accidentally. I continued on, repeating the mantra that I should just enjoy the ride, but the novelty was rapidly wearing off. Thank heavens I had my mobile phone with me and managed to get through to my friends, who gave me some quick directions on how to reach them. They worked! Almost six hours after leaving Frayssinet I arrived in Hossegor, looking forward to a cool drink and a swim in the ocean.
This region of France is famous for its fresh seafood, and we decided to eat nothing but that for the entire short holiday. We went to the morning markets on the wharf and bought crabs and all sorts of fresh fish to barbeque for our evening meal. My friends are real foodies and we literally stuffed ourselves with delicious food, day after day. One day we decided to drive across the border into Spain for lunch. I’d never been into Spain and the thought of cruising the tapas bars was most appealing. It all sounds very extravagant, but in fact it’s not an enormously expensive day out. It would cost more to have lunch in a reasonably good restaurant in Sydney or Melbourne. I was struck by how different Spain is from France. It’s that old border thing – the moment you cross over into Spain the atmosphere changes immediately. The tapas bars were great fun and the food was fantastic. Not too heavy, but with lots of seafood and intense flavours. We swam in the ocean again and I slept really well that night! I felt rested, as though I’d had a proper break.
Back in Frayssinet, I began to get organised for the tour with the help of my friend Jan, who lives full time in France and acts as our local guide. We try to incorporate a little bit of everything into these trips: history, architecture, scenery, farm life, local culture, fresh air, exercise and, of course, great food and wine. Having conducted five of these tours, I’ve discovered the most memorable aspect for many tourists is the opportunity to meet locals and go into their homes – even if it’s just for a drink or a coffee. It’s the sort of thing most people don’t get to experience when they’re travelling.
From my perspective, I get a kick out of meeting a diverse group of people from all over Australia who have one common passion: they love France and they’re keen to explore this relatively remote area, embracing all it has to offer. A bond develops as we get into the journey, and I’m also intrigued by how people on group tours link up, forming unexpected alliances. Given that their paths may never cross back home in Australia, new friendships are forged and I enjoy that notion of bringing people together in a shared adventure.
This time we had a lot of husbands along for the ride, which gave gender balance to the group. In the past we have had maybe ten or twelve women and just a couple of blokes, but for once we had six husbands and wives, a couple of single women and some women also travelling in pairs. With more ‘attached’ men, the group dynamic changes. Women travelling alone tend to be more raucous and uninhibited; having the blokes around has a slightly sobering effect.
But there’s always at least one comedian in a group, someone with quick one-liners or a seemingly endless stream of bad jokes to tell on the bus. This year there were a couple, including a delightful chap who suffered from a touch of ‘some mothers do ’ave ’em’ syndrome. He seemed accident-prone and was always bumping or knocking or dropping something – usually a large glass of red wine and usually all over himself. It became a real running gag, waiting for his daily disaster, and even our bus driver was amused by his antics.
One of the highlights of this tour was having lunch in the garden of my friends Trish Hobbs and Dany Chouet, who live in an ancient stone house with a beautiful garden near Monpazier, one of the unusual planned and fortified towns from medieval times – bastides, the French call them – which can be found in this region. For decades Dany and Trish owned Cleopatra, the famous country guesthouse and restaurant at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, and although they have retired to France they were delighted to welcome our lively group for a picnic lunch in their garden. It was a perfect day and the food was very special – homemade tomato flans and succulent rolled loin of pork with salads, followed by various local cheeses and fruit tarts for dessert. We lingered so long in the garden, sipping wine, that we had to skip the château we were intending to visit after lunch.
Another highlight was meeting the Australian artist Erica de Jong, who lives with her husband Henk in the celebrated artists’ colony Saint-Cirq Lapopie. Erica and Henk have been restoring ruined cottages to rent out as holiday houses and their creativity in these renovations was inspiring. They invited the group to look over their own small house, perched high on a cliff edge overlooking the Lot river, and many people commented afterwards that it was the most spectacular slice of France they had ever seen.
The final leg of this trip was to the historic city of Albi, famous as the birthplace of Toulouse-Lautrec. We hadn’t included this on the itinerary before and it turned out to be very special – in particular being given a guided tour of the château where he was born.
On our last day we had lunch together in Toulouse, taking over the front of one of the pretty little cafes in the square, and as usual at least one glass of wine was knocked over.
31
After the French tour I had only a couple of days to unwind, and then packed up the house to head for Canada again. I hated packing up – stripping the beds and closing the shutters – especially as I had no idea when I would return to my beloved cottage. I had a few tenants coming and that helped, knowing that the house would be inhabited and not sitting cold and lonely all through the long winter. I yearned for those long visits I used to have, where I stayed for four or five months at a time, writing and sitting far too long in the sun drinking wine with my friends. They seem like a carefree, distant past to me now that my life involves so much trans-Atlantic travel. I don’t regret for a moment my decision to do this, but sometimes I hanker for that lovely sense of freedom I had when I first escaped to France. I am sure there are many others in my situation, probably caring for aged parents, and feeling a little trapped again – just as they did during the years when their children were growing up.
Every time I leave Canada I find it hard to imagine how Margaret’s condition could be any worse, yet every time I return I am shocked at her ongoing decline. I shouldn’t be shocked because I am always forewarned, either by Ken during our phone calls, or by Fran via emails. Unless you are there witnessing it, it’s really difficult to visualise the progress of this disease, so when I leave I hold a picture in my mind of Margaret and when I return that Margaret has vanished and a new one has appeared.
The first thing I noticed, the morning after my late flight in from London, was that Margaret’s anxiety had almost disappeared, which was a relief in some ways. She had lost that haunted and confused face – it had been replaced by a blank visage. She could still make eye contact and respond with a smile, even an occasional word, but for much of the time she was lost in her own world, staring vacantly into space. It was something Ken and I feared and finally here it was. She had lost the spirit to fight against the routine intervention that punctuated her life. Where once she would resist getting up in the morning, she now went along with it willingly, although her ability to do so had greatly decreased. She virtually had to be lifted in and out of the bathtub, and her arms and legs found it hard to cooperate when it came to dressing.
This new stage meant that Margaret could sit calmly and no longer paced frantically looking for something to do. She didn’t move things around as often (where did my pillows go? I found them later in the freezer) and she didn’t try to leave the house, mainly because she could no longer manage even a single downward step unaided and there are steps into and out of every entrance.
Margaret could barely put one foot in front of another when we wheedled her out of bed in the morning. Once she got going she could walk unassisted, but still very gingerly. She looked as though she was walking on eggshells. She no longer had spatial co
ncepts so she couldn’t judge where she was putting her feet or where she needed to position herself to sit down. She had to be guided in all these things. Indeed she needed assistance with every aspect of her everyday life. Waking, sleeping, standing, sitting, eating, drinking and going to the toilet.
She would lose her balance and needed to be supervised all the time. Four weeks before I arrived she fell in the night and broke her arm. She didn’t tell anyone about her injury and it was only discovered the following morning when Fedema went to get her up and saw her twisted, swollen wrist. The second night I was there Margaret fell out of bed yet again, and Ken, fast asleep, didn’t realise for some time. He called out urgently for help; even though the house is centrally heated she felt quite cold by the time Fedema and I placed her back beneath the warm covers.
I wondered about Margaret’s perception of pain. Why didn’t she call for help when she broke her arm? Probrobly she was incapable of a normal response – not realising she should be calling out for help. It was very frightening. Fedema watched my sister like a hawk and I had to learn to be as vigilant when she was in my care. The most positive thing, from my perspective, was that Fedema had bonded with both Margaret and Ken, and had made a huge difference to their quality of life. She and Margaret now had a tender relationship and she managed the daily routine of waking, bathing, feeding and medication so well that Margaret remained calm and unflustered. Fedema was warm and affectionate, often sitting for an hour looking at books with Margaret and linking arms to take her for long walks so that Ken could rest and have a break. Margaret’s clothes were immaculate, her nails were trimmed and her skin was glowing because Fedema massaged creams into her legs, arms and face after every morning bath. She could not be better cared for.
