We’ve made friends! Two lovely American ladies – long time buddies, great travel mates – introduced themselves to us on one of the walking tours and we loved them for it. Tres elegant and softly spoken these ladies were well travelled and even though they were super friendly to us, they had bonded with so many others on board they had a host of dinner mates who vied for their attention at the table each night so still Geoffrey and I sat alone.

But it was all so very good – and if sitting with your husband for dinner on board a luxury river boat eating duck, seafood and chocolate cheesecake each night is hardship then I will be lining up for more. Everything is cooked on board Amadolce, including all the breads. Chefs get up at 3am to prepare everything and nothing is brought on board frozen.

We entered the Rhine Gorge and sailed down a stretch of the river in one afternoon with – ready for it? – more than 30 castles. Beautiful old castles, many of them in use as tourist attractions, a lot of them vacant, all with fascinating history, none of which I can tell you know because even though I was lazing on a sun lounge up on the sun deck watching the castles go by and listening to Cruise Director Maddy give a full commentary of the castles’ histories, I couldn’t take it all in. Could you have? Enough to say, it was castle overload and I loved it.

By now we had been through dozens and dozens of lochs and each one was a nice experience- going down into the loch while the water pumped in, or going up while it was being pumped out. It was all part of the river cruise experience and we loved it.

We stopped in fairy tale villages with names you may not know: Cochem, Koblenz, Rudesheim, and then big towns youuu will know: Mainz, Frankfurt, and on to so-pretty-it-hurt villages of Miltenber and Wertheim. Cute little half-timbered houses, little cobbled streets, quaint shops and always, always…flowers. Summer time flowers in little German villages are everywhere.

Our delight in the river cruise on board Amaldoce continued for seven glorious days. We sailed through gorgeous countryside, first on the Mosel River flanked by vine covered hills. It was so pretty we sat up on the sun deck all day gasping and saying: “Is this real, or what?” It looked like a glamorous travel brochure. The vines covered the steep hills on both side Neat, orderly as though it had been ordained, this was stunning countryside and the beautiful Amadolce glided like a swan along the calm Mosel River.

The cruise director, Maddy, gave us updates all the time so we knew exactly what to expect as we cruised along. It was all very efficient, so organised and friendly. And the food just kept on getting better and better beginning with eggs Benedict for breakfast and then going to to luscious pastries for morning tea and home made chocolate chip cookies and little chocolate crunchy things and then fabulous salads and fish and chicken dishes at lunch and always, big rich desserts, and then little sandwiches for afternoon tea and then five or six courses at dinner and then late night snacks. At every turn there was food, food, food.

First stop Bernkastel-Kues, which I am going to guess you’ve never heard of, but oh my, what a pretty town. Walking tours were organised at every stop and while I can’t say I took in much of the history – there was so much of it – I enjoyed the guides’ commentaries, but above all I just couldn’t get over the picturesqueness of it all: quaint timber houses, green vine covered hills, serene water of the the river, hundreds of churches, lots of lush green and endless caravan parks on the banks of the rivers. The caravans, tents and motor homes line the banks with contented looking people sitting in their swimwear outside their caravans waving us. Much waving was involved.

Every day became a highlight. Sitting up on the sun deck while castles and villages pass by is something to dream about, no? Add to that attentive service of the crew (especially the hot young dining room waiters) and lots of little shipboard highlights throughout the day – ice-cream parties in the afternoon, special chocolate treats, piano tunes at cocktail time…oh, in heaven I was.

But…we had set a pattern on our first night of sitting in the dining room alone. There was a policy of free seating so as you went down to the dining room each night, you gravitated towards tables with the new friends you’d made, but seeing as we hadn’t made any we gravitated towards the table for two. I think after that first night everyone on board thought Geoffrey and I were either (a) snobs, or (b) famous Australian celebrities who wanted privacy or (c) fifth time honeymooners. They just left us alone. Dinner time anguish it was. While around us friends shared tables and laughed and sang and talked, we sat alone. For six long dinners. Our fault, our fault. Entirely. We could easily have joined others at tables for six or eight, by after that first night we had set a pattern.

We loved going up to the lounge bar after dinner (relieved of the stress of eating alone amongst a sea of revellers) and the on-board entertainer, forgotten his name, sorry, a Romanian man, had a thing for Elton John and kept on playing all his tunes. He was very good and had a lovely voice, but he kept on murdering the lyrics. He just made up words as he went and even though they made no sense, he kept in tune – and his voice did sound very much like Elton John’s.

There were two couples on-board – Canadians – who were divine dancers. They glided across the little dance floor in the big lounge every night with all the elegance of Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers…but – hate saying this, it sounds awful – they didn’t look good. They wore sweat pants, shorts, running shoes, long socks, big tank top thingies. They looked as though they were dressed to go on a hike and yet there they were dancing as gorgeously as though they were on Dancing with the Stars. We, of course, found this very entertaining, and seeing as we had no friends on the ship, we sat mesmerised by them every night.

(Note: Very important that you don’t think Amaldoce shipboard life was unfriendly. Not so. Au contraire. It was super friendly. I must stress this. The crew were gorgeous and encouraged everyone to be friendly and the Americans and the Canadians and the Australians were all so happy together. It’s just that Geoffrey and I had got it all wrong on day one by sitting by ourselves and not introducing ourselves to anyone and we became stuck in a barrier (of our own creation) that we couldn’t seen to break through.

(Another note: Geoffrey was very content to be friendly just with me, said I was being paranoid about everyone else bonding and us not. Kept telling me to go forth and bond.) (But I didn’t.) (In some situations I am very shy.) (No-one believes this, but it is true.)

Obviously we found out the name of the ship (Amadolce) and where it was berthed in Trier (Zurlaubner Ufer) – and what can I say, my friends, what an extraordinary surprise! The whole river cruise experience was absolutely gorgeous.

I had no expectations other than we would be gliding down a river on some sort of boat. This is the good thing about not knowing where you are going and putting your trust in a reputable cruise company. In this case it was APT and I knew they were credible and Australian and that’s why we made the booking and didn’t thoroughly look at the details of the ship or the itinerary or what facilities were on board. (In my defence, travel writers rarely do a lot of homework, we just take off and go.)

The Amadolce

So, as we went down to the port, a mere five minutes from our hotel, and came upon this long, loooooooooooooong ship called Amadolce, I was thrilled. New and sleek and state-of-the-art, we stepped on board and were immediately greeted by super friendly multi-lingual staff welcoming us, even though the ship had 12 hours before departure time and at least 3 hours before we could get into our cabins. (It had just disembarked the previous lot of passengers.) We were offered cold towels, iced tea, soup, sandwiches (all complimentary) and full bar facilities (at our cost of course) in this beautiful big lounge area.

Floor to ceiling windows gave a picturesque view out to the gorgeous German buildings on the river banks on both sides. Surreal it was. I thought we were a postcard. It was all so very unexpectedly delightful I didn’t know what to say. But not one for being long without words, I munched on my sandwich, sipped my soup, and said to Geoffrey: “Christ, this is good.”

He agreed and immediately helped himself another bowl of soup. At this stage we were the first passengers to embark and the lovely crew told us to leave our baggage in the elegant foyer and do whatever we wanted until our cabins were ready. So we sat sipping soup and eating petite little sandwiches of the kind you expect at high tea in the Savoy or Dorchester and decided, we liked this river cruise caper very much indeed.

Trier it transpired, was a delightful old town, in fact, the oldest in Germany with Roman remnants of walls and other historic fabulousness. We had a little wander in the afternoon in the heat and admired all the prettiness and the old bits of Roman wall.

By now, the football fans had calmed down a little and would have calmed down a lot had they known that euphoria at winning a World Cup final would soon result in disappointment.

Back on board before we realised it we were being shown to our cabin along a very long alleyway (alleyway: ship talk for passage) and into our beautiful quarters. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous is all I can say. A beautiful suite with big picture windows (French balconies these windows are called, they actually slide open to give the illusion you are sitting on a balcony as you glide along the river, even though they open to just a railing.) Double bed, big bathroom, quality toiletries, much wardrobe space, fresh clean linen, flat screen television, internet access…could you possibly ask for much more in a cabin? We were really bowled over.

After we’d settled in and checked out our surroundings we went back to that lovely lounge for the Captains welcome cocktail party and to check out the rest of the passengers now on board, and they were almost entirely American and Canadian, all speaking loudly and twangy as Americans and Canadians are want to do, and amongst their twang were a number of Australian twangs.

Dinner time: down to the salon with me whispering to Geoffrey: “Don’t want to sit with twangy Americans and we definitely must run away from the Australians, quickly.” Wrong of me, very wrong. But when I am in Europe I get embarrassed by fellow Australians. I don’t know what brings this on (but could be ‘cos they always ask “where are you from?’ with a kind of conspiratorial camaraderie they think makes us special, or something like that.)

So it was that we asked for a table for two in the dining room and sat together looking out through more big windows to the gorgeous river banks with their half-timbered houses and picture-book appeal and ate four courses of wonderful food while all around us new passengers were shyly getting to know each other and then, as the generous wine (included) was poured, they started laughing loudly and bonding closely while Geoffrey and I had to pretend that we liked being snobs sitting at a table for just us two, when really, we wanted to be with them.

We’re in Germany now even though I didn’t know I was coming here. Explanation: We booked a river cruise called Europe Heartland and I admit I was so stressed before we left Australia to embark on this long trip involving a variety of expeditions, I didn’t have time to sit down and look at the cruise itinerary or where the cruise actually started from. I just knew we booked it for the day after our Ooh La La! Culinary Tour had ended. The only other thing I knew about it was that we had to go to some place called Triers to begin it.

Well, my friends, what a terrible day getting there. I didn’t know Triers was in Germany, thought it was in France. We had to take 6 different trains to get there!!! Mon dieu, if I’d known that when we left Amanda and St. Maximin that morning I would never have gone.

The first part proved okay, the TGV from Avignon to Paris. I actually love the TGV, it’s so fast and efficient and you can buy wine and food on the train and have a merry time. But when we got to Paris Gard Nord (I think that’s what it’s called but don’t trust me I’m just a travel writer) we had to get across to Paris Est, wherever the hell that was.

There was no information desk within sight at the chaotic Gard Nord station and we struggled with our big suitcases and hand luggage up and down stairs (way over packed, never ever doing that again). We wandered around looking for a way to get to this Paris Est station where we were due to get the next TGV to Luxembourg (didn’t know where that was either) and a young woman came up to us asking if we had change. Being very aware that pickpockets and thieves adore train stations – it’s their workplace – I shooed her away, but in a kindly manner, and then felt bad and said: “Sorry, we are distressed, we don’t know where to go or what to do?” and she said: “Can I help you?” She was a young American girl visiting her sister in Paris and trying to buy train tickets herself from a machine and needed coins and didn’t have any.

Well, won’t bore you with the details, but this kind kind young woman assisted us to the ticket machine, got tickets for us on the Metro while we fought off a couple of hundred gypsy types asking for money, and then she told us how to change stations on the Metro, and then she even took us to the correct platform to ensure we didn’t get on the Metro heading for the opposite direction to which we wanted to go. So kind, so helpful.

By this time we were sweating, distressed, beside ourselves with duress and SO GRATEFUL to this young woman. She even helped us get through the turnstiles with our heavy luggage (no easy feat when you have to insert your ticket in a machine and go through a tiny slim space waiting for these trapdoor thingamajigs to shoot open, and then you have to rush your big body along with your big bags through before the trapdoor slams on you.) This kind young woman led us to the correct place and just I was opening my purse to give her money so she could go and buy more tickets for her own travels, our train came in and she ran off. I shouted after her to come back for some money, at least some effusive thanks; I so wanted to give her something – but she was gone, disappeared into the chaotic crowd. Kindness does exist at crowded train stations. .

Heaving heavy bags and hand luggage – never do it, always pack light even if you have to wear the same knickers two days in a row – we squashed on to the Metro train with a thousand others and I thought ‘if we get off this train without being pick pocketed or pillaged it will be a fortunate day indeed despite the stress. We were so jammed in with the crowds, anyone could have slipped fast fingers into pockets or bags and relieved us of wallets, cash, passports, important documentation. BUT IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

Then it was off the Metro with the crowds, heaving heavy bags up more steps and out into another big station and then on to the TGV for Luxembourg. We had lost about three kilos in weight at this stage with all the stress (the only good part of this story.)

Triers - Germany

Finally we relaxed a little bit. Saintly, lovely, Geoffrey who was a Queen Scout in his teenage years and knows the benefits of being prepared, had packed baguettes and water bottles filled with wine for our journey. (I hadn’t even seen him do it.) Off we sped through the countryside eating baguettes and drinking pink wine (he had even put plastic cups in) watching the names of the stations we zipped through. Now we had left France the names became very complex, with many syllables. The further we got in to Germany the more unpronounceable they became:(Geurtzamenalzipmynkumphschlosszip) and the like and so different to the gorgeous sounding French names we’d become used to these past weeks. Finally we arrived at some place called called Shitzemkamph or something and then it was out and up more steps with heavy bags and on to yet another train. We were now on to regular trains, no fast moving TGVs with comfortable seats. These were old rattlers of the kind I used to endure in the 60s. Smelly things. And would you believe, Germany was going through an unprecedented heatwave. When it should have been a top of 20C it was in reality 40C. Hot slow trains, much stress and long teeth-jarring journeys and then we arrived at some other Godforsaken place that I don’t recall, and don’t want to either, and there were more steps to heave bags up and another hot smelly train to get on, and there I was thanking God and Geoffrey for the baguettes and the wine and about six hours later we arrived in TRIERS…in GERMANY.

It was an incredibly long and stressful day. And when we walked out the of the station, exhausted, soaked with sweat, smelling worse than the old rattling trains, deeply disturbed with aching arms from all the heavy bag carrying, we came into a German town in full-blown celebration mode. Germany had just won the finals of the World Cup and every local was out in his car, honking his horn incessantly and waving a big flag out the window. People were dancing in the streets, blowing whistles, hugging each other…and you couldn’t help but be cheered. For a little minute there Geoffrey and I were Germans..

We got a taxi to our hotel and flopped down on the bed in an emotional state, vowing never ever to get on another train for the rest of our lives.

Tomorrow we board our river ship for the Europe Heartland cruise – and we have just realised we have no idea the name of the ship or where the port might be.

Leaving you now with that little cliffhanger.

The Mistral stopped on day three and the sun came out and shone as fiercely as the Mistral had blown. We swapped jackets for swimsuits and spent hours in and by the pool in the walled garden at Maison de Maitresse.

We did all the things we usually do on our culinary tours – check out the itinerary.

Our guests were all delightful, all high-powered women: one was a midwife, one the GM of three rehabilitation hospitals with 650 staff reporting to her, one an interior decorator to Melbourne’s A-listers. It’s always a surprise to see the mix of tour guests each year. One year we had all couples, another year 7 single woman and one man, another year a married couple and the rest singles, and yet another year a brother and sister duo and a married couple and some singles. But it always works, no matter the configuration.

Our dear friends Maurice and Françoise come to stay with us for the first four days of the tour and while Françoise cooked her rabbit in mustard cream sauce, frogs’ legs, and other specialities, Maurice entertained on the piano accordion.

We had visits to the local cafe, Table de Julien, a most unpretentious place but oh, my the food! Julien (owner/chef) presents such sublime food you have to stop yourself making little sex noises when you eat (oohing and aahing sounds, soft murmers, exuberant yelps…that sort of thing),(although I shouldn’t be so presumptuous as to imagine what sort of sex noises you make.)

Julien always goes the extra mile for us and puts on a special menu, featuring an amuse bouche (little palate opener) which he presents beautifully (a trio of tomato dishes in teeny bowls, the tomato crumble, memorable) and always a delicious starter (tempura prawns and asparagus) and then a generous main course (succulent pork with creamy mash and vegetables of perfect crunch) and then some silky sinful rich dessert served on a plate on which he has piped in chocolate: Ooh La La Tour 2010. People drive great distances to come to Table de Julien in St. Maximin and we just have to walk a few steps to it.

Relaxing in the pool at Maison de Maitresse

We had many glorious meals in the walled garden, on the upper terrace and down in the garden beneath the pergola of grape vines at Maison de Maitresse. John New Zealand, a regular guest chef on our tours (a New Zealand man who went to holiday in France, found love, lost love, but fathered a child in-between so decided to stay) took us to the Uzes markets where we trawled the stalls and then later ate oysters and drank a white wine variety called Pic Poul, made especially to go with oysters.

Our darling gay Michel came to us one night to make his special paella, wearing a new outfit bought on a holiday in Quay West: a tiny mini skirt, leopard print top, fishnet stockings, silver stilettos and a little band with a red rose over his bald head. He knows he looks camp and draggy but he loves to send himself up. His antics and his English in a gorgeous French accent endears him to everyone. And his paella is perfect.

Picnic by the Pont du Gard, without the baguettes

One one day we went kayaking down the Gard River to picnic by the mighty Pont du Gard, the 2,000 year old Roman bridge. I spent an age making up delicious baguettes to take for our picnic after our kayak: great big things full of juicy ham and tasty cheese. They were so big, it took me forever to wrap them in glad wrap. And then I left them sitting on the riverside in the flurry of activity to get everyone into life jackets and kayaks. Didn’t discover their loss until an hour and many kilometres up the river later when we arrived at the bridge and unpacked everything in great anticipation of a big baguette nosh. Catastrophe. But we had plenty of bottles of rose wine so Geoffrey quickly got alcohol into everyone while Amanda telephoned the woman back at the kayak place who assured us she had found the baguettes sitting in a bag on the ground and put them in the fridge. So we had a little swim in the deliciously cool water, posed for a group shot by the massive bridge, drank the wine and everyone pretended it was okay that I’d left the picnic food behind (kind, kind, lovely guests) and then we kayaked on to the pick-up spot, got driven back to the starting point where we rescued the baguettes from the fridge and then ate then sitting by the river in peace and tranquillity until a thousand school children arrived on kayaks and pulled up right next to us.

An aside: We all teamed up in couples to kayak and although no-one was very experienced, they all managed to paddle serenely down the river. Except me and my partner, dear Helen. We just could not get the hang of it and even though we paddled in unison, we kept going around in little circles, like doing wheelies on the water. Really terrible we were. Everyone had paddled ahead and I had asked brave Geoffrey to stay back with Helen and myself until we got it right and stopped doing wheelies.

Despite Geoffrey’s shouted instructions “the person at the back should steer, put the paddle brake on, work together” nothing Helen and I did could stop us going around in these wretched little circles. We kept facing the wrong way all the time and started to get testy with each other (not a good thing for a tour guide to get testy with her guest.) In the end, our saviour Geoffrey kayaking with one of the other guests, got us to the bank, and we all took off our life jackets and he made a towing rope out of them and hooked our kayak on to his and towed us all the way to the bridge. I was ultra embarrassed as we limped in behind Geoffrey and his partner, to find all the others waiting for us in shock and great mirth. (At that point I hadn’t realised I’d left the baguettes behind and further, bigger ultra embarrassment was to follow.) (Bad , bad tour guide on this day.)

But the kind, caring, understanding, lovely guests all thought the kayaking day was a great adventure. Being the best tour guide in the world is a hard thing to live up to.

FROM MYKONOS TO RUNNING WITH THE BULLS IN FRANCE

So sorry, my good mates, but it has been a long time between blogs. Slovenly, I’ve been tres slovenly. Slothful too. Add to that my fear to start writing if I’ve left it alone for a while, and you have the reason for the delay. Each day of this long trip, I have put off starting to write and then put it off for another day and then I get totally terrified I won’t be able to write at all and I can’t bear to look at the laptop.

Every day since we’ve been away in Europe (and it seems forever now, Geoffrey has said to me: “When do you want me to post your new blog?” and that immediately terrifies me ‘cos I haven’t written one, and then I worry that I won’t be able to write something fun and interesting. Crazy, no? But when I finally do put fingers to lap top something unearthly happens and I can’t stop writing. Even crazier, no?

So, I left you in Mykonos at our favourite place, Soula Rooms, right? There we were having a glorious time, sitting on the beach, drinking far to many gin and tonics (at lunch time) and way too many glasses of white wine (for afternoon tea) and then an obscene amount of red wine (at dinner)…well, debauched it was. I’d put on three kilos in three weeks.

When it came time to leave our beloved Soula Rooms at Psarou Beach on Mykonos I was quite distressed. Almost cried…but…

…not quite as we were going to the South of France to the dazzling Amanda’s to host our fourth Provence culinary tour. Once out of Soula Rooms, on the plane to Paris and then on the TGV down to the South of France, I perked up.

We arrived at Maison de Maitresse (Amanda’s property) in the tiny village of St. Maximin on the border of Provence and Gard a few days before our tour started and prepared ourselves for the arrival of our guests.

Well, all I can is, we had another fabulously successful culinary tour. We had eight single women this year (one was married but had an understanding husband who stayed at home to mind the teenagers (saint, or what?)

I always get so nervous when we meet our guests at the Avignon TGV for the first time, I gush all over them in the hope they will like me. I am certain they think I am a big strange burbling woman, but they hide their feelings well. Geoffrey, reliable, patient stalwart that he is, drove us all back to Amanda’s in good form and within half an hour of being in the walled garden of Maison de Maitresse, everyone was good friends. (Thanks mostly to the second round of kir royals Geoffrey brought out in between lugging their bags up to their rooms.) (He really is a fabulous host and steady mini van driver.)

Only small bulls, but dangerous just the same

As fortune would have it (what an old fashion expression) there was a weekend fête going on in the village. Called the Fête de Votive, it involved an entire weekend of activities including a DJ party in the park on Saturday night, a paella picnic in the same park on the Sunday and, wait…for it…a running of the bulls on the Saturday afternoon. Well, excited I was. I love to show our guests a slice of local village life and this was the perfect opportunity.

It had been 40 years since the village had staged a running of the bulls. When I asked the local mayor why this was so (he is a friend of Amanda’s), he replied: “Because someone usually dies.”

Now, I’m not going to give you a full account of the fête, because I’ve written about it in my new book (out in October, called Three In A Bed in the Med, and very entertaining it is too), but I will tell you this, a Mistral sprang up over the weekend of the fête (Mistral: annoying bitterly icy wind that roars through Provence usually in the spring and winter, but always manages to arrive in the summer on the very day I do) and we braved the weather for the bull running and the paella picnic (gave the DJ party a miss) and even though we had to rug up and shiver a lot, it was really quite marvellous.

The bulls are there, inside the horses

Our guests were all great sports and didn’t blame me for the Mistral and put on extra sweaters and scarves and lined up by the side of the road for the bull running. I won’t tell you that one of the bulls escaped the herd of horses containing them, and ran straight for one of our guests. Well, I just have told you, sorry. Christ, I was terrified. To have a guest gored by a bull of day one of a culinary tour is not the way a good tour guide wants things to pan out.

But fortunately, (thank you God), it didn’t happen and the bull’s horns just scraped her thick anorak and even better, the bull decided not to crush her against the stone wall she was leaning on, but to rush off to join the other bulls. Our guest took it well. When she stopped shaking (and when my heart slowed down to its regular beat) we laughed about it. There were barricades at the side of the road to keep us safe but we got bored waiting for the bulls to come running and slipped through them, so it would have been our fault if one of us had died, but as I said, fate and God were on our side that day and we were all safe.

The paella picnic in the park the next day was actually really very good – even though the Mistral decided to put on an extra fierce show. The locals, having had 40 years to prepare for this event, had organised a paella pan the size of the Nimes amphitheatre; it was set up in the park and brimmed over with rich yellow rice, chicken pieces, mussels and prawns.

Paella Picnic in the park

We all sat on trestle benches at long tables and shivered and shook and pulled our jackets and scarves around us. We were given our paella on paper plates with plastic knives and forks and it was all we could do to anchor them to the table against the terrible wind.

At one stage, an extra strong gust of wind picked up my paper plate full of rice and chicken and blew it down the table to land in the face of a man 10 seats away. While he pulled prawn heads and bits of rice off his face I had to force myself not to run away. Fortunately, a band started up and the musicians wandering amongst the frozen crowd distracted everyone. It could have been miserable, but Amanda, always reliable to save a dire situation, got up, pulled off her long aqua scarf, put it around the neck of the unfortunate trumpet player, pulled him and his trumpet into her ample flesh and started dancing with him. That made everyone laugh and forget the icy wind and then get up to dance. In a few minutes we were all dancing in the park while plates of paella flew all around us.

A wonderful local fête – bet you wish you were there.

P.S. Running of the bulls is all about showing the skills of the horsemen and women. They have to contain the poor bulls within a triangle of horses, that’s the point of it. I had expected a great herd of bulls to come running down the road with semi-naked young men chasing them. But no, it was just a herd of horses and we could barely see the bulls inside them. But in our case, one of the poor bulls escaped the horses and headed straight for our guests. I don’t think our RSPCA would approve of this bulling running, and in truth, neither did I. But I suppose once every 40 years is not too cruel on the bulls.

15th June 2010

The longer we stayed at Soula Rooms on Psarou Bay in Mykonos, the more we fell into lazy mode and in the end we found it almost impossible to pull ourselves up off our sun lounges and go anywhere.
We didn’t know it when we found Soula Rooms on the internet that it sat on the most trendy beach in Mykonos.  The celebrity beach, if you like.   Every day the most glamorous yachts came into the bay, anchored just out of swimming range and their rich owners and guests came ashore to lunch at the restaurant next door to Soula Rooms, right on the beach.

Bay from Soula's

Well, I can tell you, it was a case of asking ‘who’s that fabulous person?  Who’s that rich dude?” each time someone came ashore because I have no idea who a famous Greek celebrity might be.  There was a paparazzo lurking on the beach all day with his long lens camera hidden beneath a towel.  We watched him sneakily photographing people as they came off their yachts (actually hoping he’d photograph us, but no chance.)  Anyway, although most of the rich celebrities were completely unknown to us, and their fame was wasted on us, how’s this for a story?
We were sitting on the beach in the mid afternoon having our usual aperitif (Bacardi and tonic this time, we ran out of gin and vodka) with our friends who were staying with us at Soula Rooms.

Anyway, one day this unusual looking yacht comes in and anchors out in the bay.  We looked at it with mild curiosity ‘cos it was not white and sleek and glamorous like the others, but it was a big yacht nonetheless – navy blue, a bit like a barge-come-navy ship actually (but you might have had a better description if you’d seen it; I’m not good at describing boats.) (Or houses.) (Or body parts.)

Bay

We watched the people come off the navy yacht – a group of mostly men and a couple of women (one mature, one young and glam.)   I didn’t take much notice of them at first but I heard their strong Australian accents.   Anyway, our friend drinking the Bacardi with us, calls out to the last bloke in the group, a big beefy man “what sort of boat’s that, mate?”  And the big bloke turned around and said “It’s a boat,” and then pulled his hat down over his head and continued watching, and I saw it was James Packer.”   So that’s our little bit of Australian celebrity at Soula Rooms on Psarou Bay at Mykonos.

June 13th 2010

Just another day in the Greek Islands.  Check out our experiment with giving you some video news rather than just pix

Talk to you in the next few days…Ann

10th June 2010

This is a secret so don’t tell anybody I told you.   It’s about a tiny taverna called Kiki”s on the island of Mykonos.  It is at the top of the island in a tiny bay called Aghios Sostis.  You’ll never find it unless you ask dozens of people on the way.

View from Kikis

Kiki’s looks down on this tiny bay so luminous it hurts the eyes.  The taverna has no phone, no sign, no electricity.  Everything is cooked on an wood fired grill in the little taverna.

We’d visited it before on other Mykonos holidays and we were there again yesterday.  It has a simple approach.  You go into this tiny kitchen and choose your salads first and then order something to be put on the grill.  Pork shops, stuffed chicken, turkey sausages…

It sounds quite ordinary, but it’s so NOT.  The salads, all lined up in a row and as dazzling as a line up of Miss Universe entrants, comprise of incredible varieties (beetroot in yoghurt a favourite, but then the lentil with sun-dried tomatoes is also good.)

Kiki's

Wine is served in those aluminium containers, very traditional, and when your offering from the grill arrives, your eyes all but pop out of your head.  The pork chop is so huge it covers the plate and spills out over the table.  The owner, gorgeous big handsome man with a head of thick grey hair, won’t tell us the secret marinade used on the pork, but it’s sensational.  Sweet, dense and makes the pork so tender it melts.. After a long Kiki’s lunch – it’s only open for lunch – we stumble down this narrow path to the tiny bay way below and after lazing on the sand (usually alongside a few naked people) we slip into the cool clean water and swim way out around the headland and it’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.

Ann

9th June 2010

Sorry everyone, my first blog had a couple of typos in it – but that’s because I wrote it sitting in the sunshine on the beach at Psarou Bay in Mykonos.  I couldn’t see the screen property to proof read it and I got frustrated and just sent it off.  It was my first blog and I didn’t know how to work the system properly either – and still do I not, but let’s keep going.

Soula Rooms

Psarou Bay in Mykonos in case your interested, and you must be if you’re reading this, is about five kilometres from the main town where all those lovely winding bogainvillea-lined lanes are crammed with shops and glamorous restaurants and where the famous Mykonos windmills attract hundreds of tourists each day.

At Psarou Bay we stay at a place called Soula Rooms www.soularooms.com run by a family called Soula (mother), Timos (Dad) and Nansy and Barbara (twin 20something daughters of great voluptuousness).  We adore Soula Rooms.  It’s right on the beach, whitewashed buildings, immaculately kept, the villas lead on to the sand.  The bay is very small and let me tell you, swimming in the clean clear water in Greece is one of the most sensual and magical experiences you could find on the planet.  The water is cool, safe and so clear you can swim way out deep without fear of a shark ripping your leg off, and look way down past your toes to the bottom metres below.  It’s gorgeous.

Our villa overlooks Psarou Bay where the yachts and boats bob…and then over to the brown hills dotted with whitewashed hotels and villas.  And how about this for a bit of good gossip? – Valentino had his yacht anchored here recently with his good friend Ralph Lauren on board.  I learnt this from a grandmother from Luxembourg who’s been coming to Soula Rooms for years, for a month at a time.  She sits topless on the beach from dawn to dusk tanning her little body black, and knows every single thing that goes on on the island.  She gathers her intelligence from her position on her sun lounge, getting information from the beach boys and the hundreds of rich Greek visitors who flock to this trendy beach. Anyway, Valentino came off his yacht to dine at the restaurant on the beach next to Soula Rooms and our Luxembourg lady asked him if she could take his photograph and he was very friendly and said yes, but Ralph Lauren wasn’t too impressed apparently.  He pulled a snooty face and suffered through having his photo taken.

Lot of Greek celebrities come to this beach and here and am I, non-A-lister sitting right next to them.

More later.

Ann xxx
P.S.  Our Luxembourg lady told us Valentino’s face is very tanned and mask like.  He needs my Botox lady in Noosa whose philosophy is SUBTELTY.