• Visit two of the world’s most iconic sights and create not-so-savoury memories.

• Go into the spice cupboard with mask and rubber gloves. Then tackle the freezer.

• Going to get my teeth done for a ‘more youthful’ look.

How about our Australian dollar?   I know it’s not good for manufacturing but it is so good for travelling, and if you’re rich, for buying a property in Europe or the US.   This year is the best it’s been for us to travel so don’t hesitate if you’re thinking of making plans.

We were cruising the Mekong last November and the dollar was good then but not as high as now.  I’d wanted to visit Cambodia for a long time and the cruise was a wonderful chance to do it.  Although Cambodia’s name is synonymous with terror, death and poverty, and a visit wasn’t going to be exactly cheerful, I really wanted to go.
I wanted to see the terrible S21 School, turned prison by the Khmer Rouge (picture below), where so many souls were tortured and killed, and I wanted to   visit the Killing Fields where thousands were taken to be cruelly executed and to be tossed into mass graves.I know this is grim but it is recent history and I believe if we can, we should visit sites such as these to ensure the terrible deeds of the past will not be forgotten and thereby lessen the chance of them happening again.
That’s my theory anyway but a lot of our fellow passengers on the Pandaw river cruise didn’t feel the same way and chose not to visit these sites when the ship stopped at Phnom Penn, instead opting to trawl the Russian Markets and buy souvenirs.  Each to his own.
I also wanted to visit Angkor Wat, the ancient iconic temple we hear so much about.  So to do both these things on my Bucket List during a river cruise with Pandaw, from Vietnam into Cambodia was a little travel dream come true.
But as you might expect, both these visitations have now become memorable to me, not so much for their own importance and significance, but because of my dear Geoffrey’s aberrations.
Here’s what made it so.
Into the dreadful S21 building in Phom Penn we went with a guide who showed us into the rooms where innocent souls were taken, photographed and tortured in unspeakable ways.  I was braced for horror and while it was terrible to stand in the very rooms where so much agony and suffering had taken place, it wasn’t as horrific as I had expected. The authorities have turned the school into a museum and the grounds are grassy and neat and somehow take away some of the terror.  (Have a look at the school, on the right.)
But the photographs of innocent people, especially young mothers with babies, were particularly haunting.  One of the prisoners and only one a few to survive the prison was an artist and he had painted pictures of the tortures – these paintings were the most confronting thing in the museum for me.
After touring the prison we drove about half an hour to the Killing Fields. Surprisingly this place, also now a museum like the S21 School, was tranquil and serene.  (See how parik-like it looks, below, but look at the skulls on the left.)  It was very late afternoon when we arrived and the sun was going down, the air soft, still and balmy.
The place was so grassy and filled with trees it actually looked like a pleasant spot for a picnic.  Butterflies and birds flew all around us and where the executions took place and each of the mass graves had been discovered, there stood a little temple depicting the awful acts that had taken place.  In the centre of the park/museum was the Stupa monument filled with skulls, more than eight thousand of them, all sitting staring through their vacant eye sockets on layer upon layer of shelves reaching so high up most were beyond sight.  (That’s the stupa below, left…full of skulls.)
The strong feeling to be silent, to show respect and reverence was all-powerful and as we strolled quietly and deferentially around the grounds, Geoffrey Rickard’s mobile phone rang shrilly piercing the air, frightening the butterflies and scaring the birds.   He took the call – from Australia – while I crept on ahead, mortified.
He told me later it was an important call as there were many machinations going on back home that he was involved in and had to sort them out.
So that is my strongest memory of the Killing Fields.  Me walking around in a sombre and grim mood with Geoffrey trailing behind me talking on his phone about local politics.  In fairness he did try to keep his voice down and the issues he was talking about were important to him and many others back home…but still…a phone call in the Killing Fields?
Angkor Wat

Next stop, Angkor Wat.  For as long as I can remember I’d wanted to see this famous temple and now that we were so close, staying at the glamorous Sofitel resort just down the road, to say I was excited was a bit of an understatement.
Off we went in a tuk tuk – great little machines that cost about $2 for a decent ride – got to the temples with several million other tourists and gasped a lot as you do when something so grand and magnificent is before you.  We strolled through the arches and admired the towering edifices and moss covered walls and the serene lake.
Built between the 8th and 13th centuries by a succession of Hindu and Buddhist kings, these marvels were created in stone. The elaborate carvings of serpents and gods and kings were amazing, and you know I only use the word ‘amazing’ literally.  (See the temple, right and the serene monks below.) The sheer scale of it overwhelmed.
Then Geoffrey, who had had several large beers at lunch, announced his urgent need for a pee.  Well, as is always the case when the bladder is about to explode, there is not a rest room in sight.
We looked around for options, always easy for a bloke, but not when you are in a massive stone temple surrounded by thousands of tourists.
“I’ve got an empty water bottle in my backpack,’’ he finally said.
“Oh, no,” I said.  “You can’t pee in a bottle in this iconic place.”
“Oh, yes, I can,’’ he said.
So off he goes to find a quiet corner while I fled as far away as possible and tried to close my mind off the vision of him emptying his spoils into a water bottle in a religious temple.
Then, because he is a tidy man, he emerged from his hiding spot and announced he’d put the bottle of pee back into his backpack – alongside my half full water bottle.
So it was that we toured this world famous site with me fretting and a bottle of warm piss in our bag.
These are my strongest memories of the Killing Fields and Angkor Wat.
Now let’s talk about something completely different.

Into the spice cupboard with mask and gloves.

I was propelled to attack the spice cupboard after coming down with a rare attack of Domestic Goddessism which thankfully I got over in a day without the need of antibiotics.
So into the spice cupboard I went like Nigella under full Domestic Goddess steam.
Removing dusty but almost-full jars fennel, tarragon, nutmeg and turmeric, I then went back in again wearing rubber gloves and white mask of the type favoured by Japanese people on crowded trains in Tokyo, and fumbled around towards the dark depths of the cupboard to discover dusty but almost-full jars of fennel, tarragon, nutmeg and turmeric.
This is what happens when you come across a new recipe that so fills you with culinary fervour you rush out to the supermarket to buy a jar of something you have no knowledge of already owning seeing as you probably bought it in 1987 during a previous state of culinary fervour.
There were some interesting things in the back of the spice cupboard beneath the withered bay leaves, the odourless cloves and shrivelled coriander seeds: vegetable stock cubes now in a soggy disintegrating state but their label arrogantly declaring ‘no trans fats’, and a rusty tin of curry powder proudly claiming to be ‘Clive of India authentic.’ Clive of India? How did he get in there?
Oh my, it was ugly in there, but if I may, I challenge you to delve into the back of your own spice cupboard and see what lies in wait for you.
How Nigella can go into her pantry and immediately put her hands on neat and labelled plastic bags full of the exact ingredients to make a complex paella I don’t know. But then a woman who can go into that same pantry and instantly find everything she needs to make spatchcocked poussins with baby leaf salad and sourdough croutons, and then dig into the bottom of her fridge to whip up a blistering vegetarian curry from the wilting contents, can do just about anything.
And speaking of the fridge, I didn’t dare go into mine after the spice cupboard trauma. But I did have a go at the freezer.
After gently removing two icy bottles of vodka (one plain for everyday use, one mango flavoured to impress visitors) and two icy bottles of gin (one Gordon’s for every day use and one Bombay Sapphire to impress visitors) and placing them lovingly on the bench for a return to the freezer when I’d cleaned it – and after I’d removed several ice-cube containers containing absolutely nothing, and one ice-pack thingie you put on ankles when they’re swollen, and approximately 24 half packets of frozen peas – I came to a couple of plastic bags of substances that looked like laboratory experiments gone wrong. One a crappy brown. One a lurid orange.
I put them out to defrost in the hope I may be able to decipher exactly what they were, but the next morning the wet and soggy oozes revealed only that they were wet and soggy oozes.
So the moral of the story is, if you must have one, leave the back of the spice cupboard alone and let items in the far reaches of the freezer lie in peace. The next generation in your family will take care of them.

New teeth to flash at you

We’re going to Thailand and I wish you were coming with us.  The lovely Geoffrey and myself and a couple of mates are going to have 10 days of fun and food and drink in a private villa in Koh Samui and then Geoffrey and I are going off to try two of the Anatara resorts on the island, very swish, and ritzy.  Except I’ll start off the holiday with a visit to the dentist.  This isn’t as odd as sounds as the main reason for going to Thailand is to have some dental work done because as you probably already know it’s a fraction of the cost there.

I’ve decided to get a brand new smile.  Veneers, my friends, veeners.  You know how we have all embraced Botox and are not afraid to talk about it anymore because it’s perfectly acceptable.   You’ll also know I’m a big proponent of doing anything that will give you a more youthful look, but what a lot of women and men don’t realise is, that no matter how smooth your face is or slim your figure is, it matters not a bit if your teeth are letting you down.   Teeth, sadly, age rapidly and if you have a mouth full of yellowing old teeth with bits chipped off them, you’re going to look old even if your face and figure say otherwise.
So, a mouth full of veneers in Thailand it has to be.     I’ll take ‘before and after’ photos so you can see the dramatic difference.  But if I look crap, I won’t, so don’t rely on it.
That’s all happening mid February but before we go, we’re sailing off for a wee cruise on board aSilver Seas ship, very swish and so fabulous it’s going to be surreal.  They have a 24 hour open bar policy and unlimited French champagne in the state rooms.  If they knew me, they would have changed that policy before I boarded, but thank goodness they are obligingly unsuspecting.   I’ll tell you a bit about that next time.

Goodbye my lovelies…thanks for reading me.
More adventures to come….

Love from  Ann

P.S.  Thanks to Geoff Rickard who allows me to write what I like about him and who really is usually the MOST well-mannered gentleman and holds his wee in until it hurts.

I look forward to your emails below.  Talkk to me, it’s like old friends coming at me.

• Slack at keeping in touch yet again

• Very messy Christmas with the babies

• Something I wrote before Christmas

• Still have 2 places left for France

Hello my dear friends….yet again I must apologise for the delay in newsletters.   I hate making excuses, especially the “I’ve been so busy” excuse because we all have the same 24 hours in each day to do what we have to do. You are just as busy as me, so I’m not going to rant on with an excuse about not writing to you because I’ve been so busy even though I have!

Hope you are going into the New Year with a new sense of energy and purpose.   I know by now that you’ve broken all your New Year resolutions, and I’m glad of it, because it means you’re normal.   It’s a bit unnerving being around people who are full of willpower and determination and strength.

I’ve barely been able to get my head up off the pillow in the early mornings since Christmas Day ( just like our new baby Jacob – isn’t he cute?) to go for my morning walk.  I think I’ve only managed one walk since Christmas.

I had to work right through, only had one day off, and it’s hideous working through the festive break when everyone in town is on holiday.    It feels so lonely being the only person in the office…well, not the only one.   Our editor, Gail, broke her ankle before Christmas so she is off, and our senior journalist is on holiday.  So, the people at head office have sent two hunky young journalists up to work with me, which is a nice compensation.  I sit in this tiny room with my computer and these two young hunks.   Rather good.

As much as I adored having my grandchildren stay at Christmas, OMG, the mess.   I didn’t see the surface of my dining room table for two weeks.  It was covered in baby things: nappies (unused), baby bottles (little dribs of milk in the bottom), nappies (used, but in little perfumed bags), wipes, baby bubble bath, bits of tinsel, one teddy bear wearing a tutu, one worn piglet with an eye out, Dora doll with her hair all messed up, half eaten peanut butter sandwiches, champagne corks (I had to be a small part of the mess), rotting apple cores, empty crushed beer cans. (Geoffrey Rickard’s contribution),(how cute he is with his Christmas red outfit and his beautiful granddaughter Shaya),  scrunched up wrapping paper, DVD covers (if I have to watch Alice in Wonderland one more time I’ll run around the house screaming), bit of jigsaw puzzles, tiny wet swimsuits and many damp towels.

I hope you had a lovely Christmas and didn’t gain five kilos like I did.  The pre-Christmas party season nearly killed me.   Here’s something I wrote for my newspaper before Christmas when my lips were tired from all the pre-Christmas kissing we are  all expected to do.

TOO MUCH KISSING

I like kissing as much as the next person, but at this time of year I don’t enjoy it at all.
I’m talking about social kissing. Not the other kind. You can never have enough of that.
This festive time of year means more than the usual number of parties which in turn means so many cheeks must be kissed you could wear your lips out.
Social kissing at parties is often awkward and sometimes downright embarrassing.
There I was on Saturday night, having just slurped down an oyster topped with jalapeño when someone snuck up on my right and puckered up for a greeting kiss.
I had no choice but to breathe oyster and jalapeno all over him.
But that was sweet compared to the waft of chorizo and onion the next kisser got when he rushed up to greet me, lips at the ready, just as I stuck a bit of pizza in my mouth.
It’s not uncommon to go to up to three or four parties in the same week at this time of year where the same people are in attendance. No matter that you saw each other the night before, the kissing must be repeated.
It makes me feel awkward.
“Didn’t I just kiss you last night?” I’ve been known to say to a pair of lips coming at me.
“Yeah, you did. Thank God they’re not serving oysters tonight,” comes the reply, which can be a bit hurtful.
I don’t like wet beer lips landing on my cheeks either.
Nor do I like greasy lipstick (sorry ladies) leaving its imprint on my cheeks.
And as for the bloke with the bushy beard hurtling towards me, lips ready to spring from their hiding place in the forest – well, he just about finishes me off.
I’d opt for the air kiss along with a loud “darling,” if it didn’t sound so theatrical (and fake.)
The trouble is, we all feel obliged to do the social kiss, when I suspect most of us don’t enjoy it all.
And let’s be frank here – most of us are not adept at the social kiss. Just as you’ve proffered your right cheek in readiness, the lips coming at you make a sharp turn and go to the left. Even if you both get it right the first time there is often that awkward moment of withdrawal when the kisser goes in for a second round on the other cheek while the kissee, thinking it’s a one-cheek gig, has already turned away and is downing another oyster.
I never get the kiss right even though I go to France every year.
Meet an acquaintance at the market in France in the morning and you must go through the three-cheek kissing ritual. Twice. Once when you greet and again when you take your leave. Even if you’ve only spent two minutes discussing the weather.
Run into that same person in the afternoon at the patisserie while buying a baguette and you must kiss him in greeting all over again. Talk for a moment about the quality of the baguette, get ready to take you leave and pucker up all over again.
It adds a good hour to every shopping expedition.
You can’t escape the social kiss even if you’re sitting quietly at home in front of the telly. Male television hosts will greet their male guests with a handshake, but it has to be the kiss for the women. Male politicians can greet each other with a firm handshake, but put a female politician in front them and in they go for lips on cheek.
Watch how Julia Gillard and Hilary Clinton are greeted by male politicians and you’ll see what I mean.
But what am I banging on about?
Kissing really is pleasant and friendly and shows someone you’re happy to see them.
So forget all the above, put on some lip balm, practice your pucker and off you go with a confident pair of lips.

**

I’ve snuck in a couple of photos of the granddaughters above.  How cute is Shaya kissing her doll?  And that is Tilly and Shaya above.

South of France

We have had four cancellations for our Provence tour this June.  Illness and the Global Financial Crisis to blame.  (Although at the moment the Australian dollar is really favourable to the euro for travel to Europe.)  Two places have already gone but there are two left if you feel up for it.   It’s from June 16 to June 29 and it’s going to be the usual joyful time of touring,  drinking pale pink wine (lots and lots of it) and trying new Provencal foods and trawling the markets and partying like we are 30 years younger than we actually are.  Check it all out on the website, click here or direct to Ann’s tours,  click here.  Who knows, we may be together in France this year.  You’ll love it.  You can take a photo like this of you standing in the middle of a lavender field.

Lots of love and good new year wishes to you…

Ann. xxxxx

• Baby boy born to much joy
• Do ourselves damage
• Go to many lunches and fabulous dinner
• Visit Gold Coast and stay at new Hilton
• Family visit and create much havoc and mess 

Much, much happening my friends.  In fact so much it’s kept me away from my keyboard yet again.

First things first. 

We now have a baby grandson. Our daughter Dallas gave birth to Jacob Michael Dyer on November 4 and what a dear little man he is.

Dallas, unlike most expectant mothers, chose not to find out the sex of her baby so we were all agog to see what flavour would appear.  Just two days before Dallas was due we found out her sister, Jessica who is expecting a baby in April, is having a boy.  So you can imagine how bewitched we were when Dallas produced a little man.   So now we have two granddaughters, one grandson and will have another boy in April. Are we clever or what?

So that’s the baby bit out of the way. 

The bruises and black eyes,

well, you’d think we’d know better at our age.   Geoffrey Rickard with the black eyes.  Me with the bruises.

 Here’s what happened.

Melbourne Cup Day – we went to a lovely party not far from our place hosted by very generous friends (the only kind to have) who always put on a ripper party with flowing French bubbles  and delicious morsels created by Noosa Catering who make the most creative, attractive and flavour-filled canapés in the country.

So there we were, dressed up to the nines, me with my feathers and bling, drinking champagne all day, watching our horses come last in every race, trying not to give our mates dark looks when they won hundreds of dollars, enjoying the lavish ambience of our generous friends’ (the only kind) home and generally having a top time.  Before we got too messy we walked home barefooted, me with fascinator askew, Geoffrey with shirt hanging out, our mate Jayne, who was staying with us not too tidy herself, and once safely home decided it might be a good time to paddle over to other generous friends (the only kind) who live across the water from us. 

So off we paddled to their place, had some more champagne, came back, safely once more to our house whereupon the lovely and kind Geoffrey tripped and fell and stumbled and swooped and crashed his head on a bollard thingie and gave himself a nasty deep cut between the eyes and my oh my there was blood, so much blood.

“Ring 911,’’ I shouted.

I watch far too much American television and forgot we have 000 in this country. 

“Ring 911, I repeated to my mate Jayne who, by this stage, was, quite frankly, too drunk to know we didn’t have 911 in this country and just kept shouting, “Geoffrey’s a Master Mariner, he’ll be okay.”

He was very much NOT okay (and he was only a Master Mariner for 10 minutes about 50 years ago.)  With blood spurting all over our jetty (and on me), we cleaned poor Geoffrey up a bit and put little strips of Bandaid on the cut which really should have had stitches but Master Mariner that he is, he said he didn’t need 911 (he forgot we have 000 too), and braved on.  With blood soaked towels and blood up the walls and on the floors, he soldiered on and we drank more champagne and had something to eat and flopped into bed.

Well, the next morning did that Master Mariner have two of the biggest black eyes you’ve ever seen.  He looked liked he’d been beaten up by a gang of burly bikies.

And then we had to go to a posh lunch at the very fancy berardo’s restaurant for those two MasterChef dudes, George Calombaris and Gary Meghan.  So Master Mariner Geoffrey got into my make up bag, covered his face with foundation and off we went to berardo’s.   Of course, the make-up didn’t hide a thing and everyone thought I’d beaten him up – and I let them believe that because I didn’t want them to think we were so irresponsible as to paddle across a river in a sloshed condition.  Don’t tell anyone I told you and we will never ever do it again.

My bruises.

A few days later I spent three hours at the spa having scrubs and wraps and deep tissue massage, and as you may or may not know you can get dizzy after a long massage session so I got off the table carefully, felt a bit swoony as well as dreamy and floaty as well as polished and buffed and scrubbed.  Later that night in bed I woke to a horrible cramp in my legs (common with me) and leapt out of bed with all the speed of a four year old and stomped about to relieve the cramp and next thing I know I am lying on the bathroom floor with a very concerned Geoffrey leaning over me with a wet towel bathing my face.

Fainted I had.  Out cold.  Crashed my head on the bathroom tiles, cut it badly, more blood everywhere and me not having any idea where I was or who I was.  But let me tell you, I very much liked the look of this gentle but black-eyed battered man leaning over me, with his soothing concerned voice gently urging me to wake up.   Poor Geoffrey thought I’d died.  I was out cold for about five minutes and then lost my memory for about half an hour and didn’t know who I was or that I had a daughter who’d just had a baby.  Very distraught was our Geoffrey to think he nearly lost me.  He got me back to bed – after I’d vomited all over him – and put a towel on the pillow to soak up all the blood and then laid next to me answering all my questions about who I was.

My memory came back the next day but I felt very woozy and out of sorts.

We have now decided Ann and Geoffrey Rickard cannot look after themselves due to over consumption of champagne and too many spa treatments and require full time carers.

Lot of lovely lunches

Been to many lovely lunches lately, and although I don’t usually do lunch because it takes too much time out of my day, I succumbed this past month and accepted all invitations and while it almost killed me to go out to long affairs and then go back to work to meet deadlines it was worth it.  

Had lunch with the very generous (the only kind) Peninsula Hotel people.  They hosted a media lunch at Urban restaurant in Brisbane oh my, how fabulous was that place.  I urge you to discover it. We dined in plush surroundings in the private dining room and I enjoyed a light and tall cheese soufflé and loved all the Peninsula people very much because they kept telling me to visit them in Shanghai and Beijing and Manila, and then they told me they were opening Peninsula Hotel in Paris in 2013 and I had to visit them there.   If you’ve ever been lucky enough to stay in a Peninsula Hotel then you’ve experienced paradise.

Then I lunched at Sails restaurant right on the beach at Noosa with Annabel Langbein, that beautiful New Zealand cook who is blonde and soft and gentle and lovely and has a television show on Austar and makes delicious organic fresh food. Well, charming and attractive she was and if you’re into good cooking without fuss, you must buy her book.  It’s called Annabel Langbein Free Range in the City.

Then it was off with the gentleman, still black-eyed, Geoffrey to try out the brand new Hilton Surfers Paradise Hotel.  We spent a weekend cosseted and pampered in the swish new hotel, a two bedroom apartment up on the 29th floor with sweeping views of the ocean.  We dined on grain-fed waygu at dinner in Luke Mangan’s Salt grill restaurant in the hotel which is elegant and swish and comfortable it makes you feel like a rich person just by being there.

After more pampering in the Hitlon spa, I was very carefully that night in case I leapt out of bed and fainted again, only this time instead of landing on the bathroom room floor, fell over the 29th floor balcony and landed splattered on Cavil Avenue.

 The pieste de resistance of all the lovely parties and dinners came last week in Brisbane at the Sofitel Hotel in the Prive 249 dining room where Moet & Chandon launched their latest product, Moet Ice Imperial.   What a gorgeous occasion with all of Brisbane’s glam folk out in their bling and the delicious champagne served from three dimensional white bottles and a fabulous French man Philippe opening the champagne bottles with a sabre, yes, a sabre, and us eating food so sublime it looked like works of art.  We had pea crumbs with our waygu – took three days to prepare and appeared as tiny dots with the beautiful meat, but oh, my what texture they gave to the dish.  And we ate foie gras (better than I’ve had in France) with parmesan custard, and we sat with lovely people and it was one of those sparkling evenings you never want to end.

Family descend on Noosa

Last weekend I had the entire family with me in Noosa.  This doesn’t happen very often as beautiful daughter Jessica lives in Cairns and beautiful son Steven lives in Sydney and beautiful daughter Dallas about 15 minutes away.  Everyone came at once to congratulate Dallas on the baby, and we all spent three packed days together which I loved of course – but oh, the mess!   Steven came with his fiancé Julia, Jessica came with her beautiful baby Shaya (18 months) and Dallas stayed over with her energetic daughter Tilly (almost 3) and baby Jake, 2 weeks.

 I don’t need to tell you how chaotic it was do I?  With toys and books and fluffy bears and building blocks all over the house and sticky fingers on windows and walls and all my beautiful object d’art thrown about the place like bits of flotsam and little girls playing tug-of-war over dolls and teddy bears and all of us getting in the pool and splashing so much we almost drained it of water and me cooking and shopping and cleaning and then cooking some more and shopping and cleaning some more.  I’ve forgotten what it was like to feed a big family and I’ve completely forgotten how special it is to be surrounded by little ones.  I spent the entire weekend, saying: “hello my sweetheart, hello my angel, hello my darling’’ every time a little one came toddling towards me…and do you know…I didn’t think to take a single photo of us all together.     

So, now I’ve caught you up on all the Rickard news and I hope you’re having a lovely time wherever you are and are looking forward to having your own families with you for the Christmas break and I wish you all my best love because you’ve been loyal fans and you bother to read my ramblings and one day we might get together if you come to France with us and if you do, you’ll find out how fortunate I am to have a well-mannered and kind and caring husband who looks after me, because he will look after you in the same way caring, filling up your wine glass, ferrying champagne to you, helping you in and out of the car, escorting you all over the place like a gentleman and generally looking after you as though you were precious, which of course, you are.

Much love to you…

I’ve been away from you for a long time and once again I have to apologise.   I’ve been holed up on a writing project that has given me no time to write to you. But that’s nearly over now and I’m back.
I did get away last weekend and, listen to this, I’ve been camping. What’s more I’ve been camping in the Australian Outback.  Now if that doesn’t make me a rugged, pee-in-the-bushes, fair dinkum Aussie sheila, I can’t think what else could.
The dear husband Geoffrey and I flew up to Cairns, picked up an Apollo campervan and then picked up our darling daughter Jessica (who lives in Cairns) and her darling baby daughter Shaya  (who is too beautiful even for me with my fabulous literary skills to describe) and off we set in the Apollo to a place far, far away called Undara….
…but not before loading up with so much gear, it made my eyes water.
We all know going out with baby means taking a lot of stuff with you….but oh, you should have seen what we put in the Apollo for that little bubba.  A play pen so huge it had to fit into two massive boxes – the kind you get when you buy a king size bed at Ikea.
Then the pram – an enormous thing with more accessories than a jumbo jet, then a backpack  the size of a boutique hotel to put bubba in so we could trek with her on our backs.
Then bags and bags of toys and bags and bags of books, and bags and bags of clothes, nappies, bottles, special bubba cups and well…you’ve got the picture now.  No, actually you haven’t.  Finally we took the special esky Jessica uses with her husband when she goes out to the reef fishing.  This, my friends, is an esky. As big as a 12-seater dining table, it can hold a hundred kilos of fish, essential when you are catching red emperor and coral trout by the dozen, but a tad big when you are in a motor home.  However, the Rickards managed to fill the giant esky with booze and put it at the back of the motor home with the rest of the massive baby gear.
Off we went from Jessica’s house in the heart of Cairns.  She was in the front with her father I was in the back sitting at the kitchen table with the beautiful bubba strapped in her little bubba seat next to me.
When we turned the first corner, all the overhead cupboards flew open and jars of bubba food and musical toys shot through the air, and the giant esky came sliding dangerously down the middle of the motor home threatening to crush Jessica and Geoffrey. .
Not wanting to be killed by a sliding esky or lose an eye from a flying building block, we had to stop and rearrange things.  And we hadn’t even got a kilometre from home.   Cupboards were locked, the giant esky secured under the big boxes of playpen stuff, and off we went again.
The first hill we came to saw the kitchen table where bubba and I were sitting, start to slide on its rail thingie and dig into my stomach.  Although this was no threat as there is so much blubber surrounding my belly the table would have been cushioned and done no damage, we still had to make another stop to do more securing and rearranging.  .
We were still in Cairns by this stage.  Then it occurred to me:  “I don’t think there will be another bottle shop in the Outback, I think we should back-up our supply of booze.”
So Geoffrey swerved into the nearest Dan Murphy’s (no cupboards flew open and the esky and table stayed put) and while he was in there buying more gin and champagne, Jessica and I decided we’d like a snack, so we made sandwiches in the Apollo in the Dan Murphy car park.
“I’m getting into this camping gig,’’ I said as I slapped a hunk of cheese on a bit of bread.
With the giant esky now almost impossible to shut with all the booze, once again we set off in fine fettle.
Now this Apollo home was very luxurious.  Six berths, with its own toilet and shower, and microwave and television and all the appliances you need for a good holiday.  Spotlessly clean and really five star, it was pretty fabulous.  But we were not experienced campers so the dodgy start by not securing everything was our fault. I don’t want to turn you off Apollo vans.  I want you to take one of your own and travel. They’re fabulous.
**
For weeks leading up to this Outback experience I hadn’t been able to stop singing –
“Travel all over the countryside, ask the Leylands, ask the Leylands, travel all over the countryside, ask the Leyland brothuuuuuuuurs.”
Now I’ve made you sing it, sorry.
It took us five long hours and 9,750 choruses of ‘ask the Leylands’ to get to Undara out west of Cairns.
But it was worth it.   We were there as guests of Undara Experience, a beautiful bush camp in glorious Henry Lawson countryside to enjoy Opera in the Outback.
Well, it was just damn wonderful.
After we had set up the Apollo – that is taken all the baby gear out, set up the enormous playpen, assembled the pram and  backpack, put all the toys and books in the play pen, dragged the big esky out, found camping chairs and a fold-up table in a nifty compartment outside in the Apollo – we were well set up.
The thing about camping is it makes you speak to other travellers.  With everyone sitting outside their tents and vans you just have to be friendly.  This is new to me, a person who rushes into her hotel room without speaking to another soul.   Within half an hour of setting up camp, we had half a dozen new best friends.  Beautiful bubba didn’t want to stay in the play pen with all her toys and was very happy on the ground with us playing with twigs and leaves.
Into our second bottle of wine, we were loving the smell of the eucalyptus trees and the sweet song of the birds and really getting into this camping gig, when out of a small tent, steps a man in a dinner suit.  Full black tie dinner suit.  He was quickly followed by a woman in a  long evening gown wearing more bling than Puff Diddy.
“What’s this about?’’ we said and then realised, people were taking this Opera in the Outback seriously and dressing for the occasion.  How they got into such glamorous gear inside a tent is quite the wonder.   Another man in full dinner suit stepped out from the bushes carrying a bottle of champagne.  Wonderful it was.  Then a man wearing a kilt appeared from the amenities block followed by women dressed in fairy wings and little halo things and bunnies ears.  We of course, had nothing fun to wear.
Anyway, without banging on too long, it’s enough to tell you the Opera in the Outback was one of the most special things I’ve ever attended.  To sit in a natural amphitheatre in the middle of the Australian bush watching people costumed up, singing their hearts out while the sun set behind them, was nothing short of spectacular.  And the beautiful bubba Shaya absolutely loved the opera.  I stood her on my knees and she watched and listened fascinated.  Not only beautiful but cultured too – at age 18 months.
The next morning we had a bush camp breakfast, sitting on logs eating baked beans and eggs and bacon off tin plates and drinking tea from a billy.  Bubba was still ignoring her toys and playing with leaves and we were all happy.
When we left two days later, packing everything back into the Apollo and securing the now empty esky beneath a ton of baby stuff, we ensured we had plenty of bottled water, as someone had died in the Outback the week before.  (Her car broke down and she left it to get help and didn’t survive.)  Staying with the car is paramount in the Outback.   Off we set, again in fine fettle, got about 50km down the road, a short distance in Outback terms, when we realised we hadn’t checked the petrol.  The red warning light was showing.  We had no idea how far it would be to the next town – several thousand kilometres probably – so we had to turn and go back to Undara where we knew there was a petrol pump in the camp site.  We made it with just the smell of petrol left in the tank.
Perhaps we should do a course in camping before we venture out next time.

That’s it from me. Much love and hugs to you.  Email me back.  You don’t email me unless I email you and I’ve missed you.

Ann

These pictures don’t show the true beauty of the bush.  We’re not good photographers.  And the one of me with Shaya is terrible, but I was in bush camping mode.  The little kids and the lady with the halo were just an example of people getting into the spirit.

Hello my dear friends….

I know you all want to come to France with me one day – and hopefully that day will come before too long – but in the meantime you might like to have a look at this movie/slide show one of our guests, the very beautiful Julie, made this year.  Julie came with her friend Faye to spend two weeks with us in Provence and being a bit of a photographer, she took hundreds of pictures
and little movie vingnettes.    She’s complied them into this delightful
show.  It will give you a bit of an idea of what to expect if you come with us one year. click here. We have some places left for 2012 – it seems a long way away
but we need to plan ahead for these things.    If you want more information
email me or go to www.annrickard.com and click on Ann’s Tours.
Enjoy the little movie, and here’s a little column I wrote recently.

Banning Smelly Foods from the Office Desk?

Actually, I think it’s a good idea.
But not so the other bans BHP Billiton have put in place, especially the use of post-it notes. And one framed photo only on the desk? That’s plain mean.
Receiving bossy inter-office memos takes me back to the dark-ages when I first began work at an insurance company in Melbourne. We were constantly receiving bureaucratic memos telling us what we were not permitted to do. One I vividly recall involved the tea trolley, and yes, I am embarrassed to admit that when I first started work there was such a thing as a tea trolley being pushed by an actual person, the adored and much-missed tea lady.
Hearing her trolley rattling up the corridor each morning around 10.30 gave rise to the spirit. We all rushed to circle the trolley while she poured stewed tea from a big stainless steel urn. Biscuits, two varieties, one plain, one cream, were available on the side of the trolley. Until the day the hysterical memo came, telling us that some employees had been committing the heinous crime of taking two cream biscuits rather than one of each. The biscuit supply dried up and the culprits were dragged off and put in an oubliette. (Oubliette, French word for a deep well-like dungeon with a lid on top.) (Useful place in bygone years to put vacuum cleaner salesmen when they came knocking.) (Gee, you learn a lot from me.)
But back to the less heinous crime of cream-biscuit stealing, to the almost-as-dastardly crime of eating smelly food at your desk.
I agree wholeheartedly with BHP Billiton on that one.
Anyone who brings last night’s leftover Madras curry to work, heats it in the microwave to revive all the dormant coriander, chilli, garlic, ginger and turmeric so the entire office smells like a Calcutta railway station, should be taken out and lowered into that oubliette with a vat of three day old Rogan Josh dumped on top of him.
I feel strongly about this subject because I spent many years working with someone who not only ate strong smelling food, but ate loud food. All day long. Sorry, mate, if you’re reading this, but I suffered your loud, constant eating for a very long time, and although I’m not one to bring up old hurts, the BHP Billiton memo has given me the perfect excuse to do so.
This person was a healthy eater. A good thing. But a bad thing when the healthy eater grazes all day and you are just a metre away.
Each morning began with a soaring stack of rice crackers. Loud, very loud.
Then out came the container of nuts. Nuts are not so loud when chomped individually, but the constant swirling of them around in the container before each one is finally lifted and crunched…well, very loud.
Then there were apples. Bags of them. Loud, crunchy apples. Each year I yearned…indeed prayed…for the soft-fruit season to come upon us. But no, it was loud apples through all seasons.
Then there was the Tupperware container brimming with salad. Salad – harmless enough to eat at the desk you would think. But when it contains onions, parmesan, olives, tuna, garlic…well, you understand don’t you?
It would not have been so bad if the lid had been taken off the Tupperware container and the intense-smelling salad consumed in one go. But it was unfortunately not the case. The lid would come off, the fumes would envelop me, the fork would be dipped once, maybe twice, the lid would go on again. This happened at 15 minute intervals throughout the long day.
I did not suffer in total silence. I gave hints, sometimes subtle, sometimes in joke form. But the hints were never taken and the loud and powerful food never changed.
You may scoff and call me shallow, but I have been left badly scarred by loud, smelly food.
I still tremble at the soft hiss of a lid being peeled back. I shake at a threatening rustle in an apple bag. I squirm at the first hint of a swirling blanched almond.
So be kind to your fellow office workers, I say, and keep your food tasteless and quiet. A Vegemite sandwich on thin white bread is perfectly acceptable, as long as it’s eaten in one quick go.

This is going to be brief.  I have lots to tell you and I will give you a decent blog next week, but I think you will love this.  Below is a link to a slide show (with music, very professional, my friends) of our time in the South of France.  If you ever needed proof of what a fun/splendid/gourmet/crazy time we have, this video will show you.  A picture paints a thousand words so look at the photos and you’ll see many multi-thousands of words     Click here
If you decide to come to France with us, let me know.  We have places available for 2012 but it’s already filling very fast…and it’s only August 2011.

Live in Noosa or nearby?  I am speaking at an afternoon tea function this Saturday in Noosa, if you happen to live close, please come along.  I’d love to meet you.  Here’s the link with all the information.  -  Click here

And on August 19, I will be in Perth as guest speaker an author lunch presented by Have a Go News.  It’s going to be rather fabulous.  I have only visited Perth briefly and I know a lot of you live that way, so come to the lunch, let’s have fun and I’ll tell you all about France, and Greece.  And make you laugh.

These details are:
Friday August 19, 11.30am.
Goodearth Hotel,
159 Adelaide Terrace, Perth.

Cost $45 includes a copy of Three in a Bed in the Med.
Telephone Have a Go News (08) 9227 8283 and they will steer you to the booking form.

 If ever you had fantasies about going gay, there is only one place to experiment:  Mykonos.

I’m not talking gay-between-the-sheets stuff, just living like a gay person for a little while – because gay people really know how to live well.  They know the best places to eat, the grooviest bars, all the moody late-night clubs, the sexiest beaches, the coolest shops.

Our Mykonos gay experience began at the gay Geranium Hotel.  We were not the only gays in the village when we arrived to meet New Best Friends, Damon and Rick, from Australia on holiday in Mykonos, already there a week before us and had done the all important gay research on the hippest places.  Geoffrey, me, Damon, Rick and Another New Best Friend, Deno, made an attractive bunch if I may say so.   We were up for A Big Night.

After one drink at Geranium Hotel with views over the bay, the sun still dazzling at 7 in the evening, we walked down the road to the Elysium Hotel, another place dedicated to looking after gay people.  The bar and pool area, on two levels had sweeping views down to the famous Mykonos windmills and then out over the ocean where the blazing sun was obligingly due to set in a couple of hours giving us the best sunset views on the island.

Two pink mojitos later – tequila, muddled lime and mint, cranberry juice over crushed ice – and we were honorary gays (Damon and Rick already being fully-fledged card-carrying gays.)

  The place was packed with delightful Mykonos-casually-dressed men, all hanging out, enjoying cocktails and being with like-minded company.  The music was sexy and blaring out over the pool and bar area.  Comfortable day lounges, designer fabrics, beautiful object d’art and gay accessories, and I couldn’t help but shout:  “I love being a gay.”  Everyone was so friendly, especially our slim waiter with the cutest smile who kept delivering pink mojitos at a pleasing pace.  The champagne cork bobbing rudely from a belt slung low around his hips gave him a little extra gay appeal.  (See his picture left above.)

By that stage the sun had spread its fiery glow all over the sky and ocean and bathed the windmills in glorious red and mauve stains.

I was quite overcome by all this glamour.  “I’m a gay!’’ I told the waiter as he delivered yet another pink mojito and jiggled his champagne cork at me.

After the blazing sun sunk into the ocean, the drag queens came out in glittering long gowns and heavy make-up and massive Diana Ross wigs and impossible high heels.  Then the party really took off.  We danced and sang with the gays until we were hoarse and then realised food was essential to soak up all those mojitos.  So into town we staggered, winding our boozy way along the narrow thronging Mykonos streets, getting lost several times only to remerge where we’d started.  We finally found a beautiful garden restaurant, so stylish and glamorous, but unfortunately a bit lost on us by this time after so many mojitos.  After filling up on steak and pasta we lurched off to The Piano Bar, a tiny gay bar that doesn’t even open until midnight.  Now, you must realise, all this night time activity for a woman of a certain age, is Quite The Big Deal.  For me to have such a huge night is rare and I was determined to relish every moment. 

Into The Piano Bar we squeezed with the dozens of gay men and could only get seats right near the pianist and a female singer, belting out Broadway songs.  We jigged, we danced, we sang.  After I obligingly assisted the singer in a few rounds of New York/New York and New Best Gay Friends Damon and Rick chorused for me and Another New Best Friend Deno danced dangerously close to a lurid pink dried arrangement, the barman came over and shouted at us.

 “It took me three months to grow that arrangement,’’ he ranted.  At first we thought he was joking.  It was after all, no more than a spindly bunch of pink twigs.  Then he glared at Deno as she waved her arms over the twigs, and he shouted “You bitch! ”   Well, shocked we were.  We thought we were behaving in a gay/girly manner.  We had no idea we were causing such upset to the barman who happened to be the owner.

To be thrown out of a gay bar at 2 in the morning, at my age, is really something of a compliment.  I kept telling myself that as we rolled home.

The next evening, we went back to the piano bar to apologise, and were met with more verbal abuse and blatant hostility over our heinous behaviour near the pink dried arrangement. “You’re a bunch of drunks,’’ the peeved barman said.  “You are not welcome here.”

And with that, so came to an end to my gay experimentation in Mykonos.

Lots of gay hugs to you,

Ann xx

Just finished another hugely successful culinary tour in Provence and feeling very pleased.  This was our fifth tour, with nine guests staying with us in Maison de Maitresse in the tiny village of St. Maximin near Uzes in the South of France.

The two week party was filled with laughter,  music, singing, dancing,  eating, drinking and touring - but what made it so special was the marvellous mix of guests.  Within half an hour of meeting each other, the eight females and one male were all close friends.  Something seductive happens when you put a group of strangers from different backgrounds together in a gorgeous location in Provence.  You can’t help but love each other.  

One of our lovely guests – and I’ll never reveal who – even had a delicious fling with a handsome French man.  What a bonus!!   (While I can’t guarantee you such a sumptuous encounter if you come with us next time, I can guarantee a memorable time.)

The culinary tour began with copious champagne around the pool after arrival, then dinner cooked by our resident guest chefs Maurice and Francoise, and then music long into the night.   Geoffrey Rickard, our  mini-van driver, baggage handler and world’s-most-attentive-sommelier, kept the wine flowing for the full two weeks.  It’s so easy to sip the pale pink rose wine all day in Provence.  Most of us took our first sip around 11.30 each morning, which might sound wicked to you at home right now, but it is almost mandatory to drink wine mid-morning in France.   The locals are at the cafes with their wine in front of them as early as 10am and it is nothing less than your duty to follow suit.  (However, it must be noted, the French drink with admirable restraint: one, perhaps two, small glasses mid morning, another with lunch and then no more until dinner.) (Unlike us, who start mid-morning and just keep going until we drop!)

We ate delicious food, sitting at the long table on the upper terrace overlooking the pool.  Lunches included goat cheese tarts, foie gras, nicoise salads…always followed by the mandatory cheese blow out:  roquefort by the tonne, runny bries and camembert.  France is cheese heaven and you simply must give in to it.

 Long evening dinners of rabbit in mustard cream sauce, seafood with black rice were followed by yet more cheese and icy sorbets doused with vodka.   Then the dancing began.  Michel, our maestro musician strummed his guitar and sang moody French lyrics, and Charles danced his fingers over the keyboard.  Our usual memorable guest chef, Michel, gay gentleman and naughty boy, donned his high heels and fishnet stockings, slipped into a mini skirt, put a red bauble on his bald head and made us a paella so rich in saffron rice and seafood, the Spanish would cry with envy. Have a look at him in this photo with the ladies.  Cute, no?

We visited nearby Roussillon where the intense blue of the sky hurt the naked eyes, and the red ochre buildings in the village glowed to present marvellous photo opportunities.  In Avignon we tootled around the city in the petit train, in Arles we visited the majestic amphitheatre, and in Uzes we trawled the markets salivating over the fresh produce before allowing New Best Friend Luce (local eccentric and adorable French lady) take us to her favourite boutique and dress us in typical local style; layers upon layers of soft floaty garments that slipped obligingly over new bumps and rolls.) We posed for photos in the sunflower and lavender fields, feeling very French.

The two weeks sped by all too quickly and although every day was filled with new French experiences and discoveries there was still plenty of time to relax bythe pool, take an essential afternoon nap, and ready ourselves for a new day starting with croissants and the best baguettes God ever commanded to be made on this earth.  I would travel to France every year just to eat the bread, but that’s another story for another blog.  Go to my web site - click here - if you want to see the full itinerary of Ann’s Culinary  Tours and join us next year.

 A huge thank you to all of you who contacted me about anxiety AND THE PILLS.   Such lovely words you all sent me and you couldn’t possibly know how much I appreciate them all.   In case you’re interested, the pills have kicked in and I’m feeling in exceptional health once again.

Now, I promised you travel blogs and you’re going to get travel blogs even though I’ve been in France for almost two weeks now and this is the first time I’ve put fingers to keyboard.   Jet lag combined with way too much French wine is a recipe guaranteed to bring on slothfulness.   Desole.  Desole.  (Lovely French word for ‘sorry.’)

So, here we are at the beginning of our fifth culinary tour in the South of France and we’re having a tres French time.  We have a wonderful group this year.  But we always have wonderful groups.  There are eight gorgeous women and one brave man with us here in St. Maximin in the South of France.  Then there is Geoffrey, our dedicated sommelier, baggage handler, on-call driver and all-round gentlemanly escort.

Flew here with Emirates, the most divine airline in the world, in my opinion.  Sipped Veuve Clicquot in the lounge before we left Brisbane then sipped some more before we took off and then yet more with dinner.  Slept soundly all the way to Dubai and arrived at 5am whereupon headed straight into the Emirates Lounge while waiting for the next leg of the journey and immediately began sipping more Veuve.  I know, 5am isn’t an appropriate time to sip anything except a cup of tea but I figured it must have been midday in Australia, although to be honest, I didn’t care.  The Veuve Clicquot was there by the bucket full and who was I to refuse it?  

Potatoes in Paris.

Had one night only in Paris, staying at Hotel Demeure in the Latin Quarter, a delightful boutique hotel with friendly staff, and a sexy red lounge and bar area and one of those Parisian elevators that feels like a tiny broom cupboard.   I took the stairs.

Only had time for dinner at Cave La Bourgogne which I remembered from last year because I ate the most delicious potato gratin there.

The French do wonderful gratins: layers and layers of thinly sliced potato swimming in cream, and cheese and butter and onions.  Oh god, the cholesterol.  But sitting in the little bistro with a pichet (gorgeous French word for ‘carafe’) of red wine in front of me and a fresh salad with simple vinaigrette was my idea of a heavenly welcome to France.  

Fast train to French paradise.

Then it was on to the TGV in the morning to head down to the South of France.  The TGV is a very fast train that races silently through the countryside at 240 km an hour.  It arrives on time to the very minute, and leaves exactly on time.

 Getting on the train and finding your seat can become quite the mission if you are not aware of the procedure.  Your ticket has a coach number and a seat number on it.  But before you get on you must go to an electronic board on the platform which has a cute picture of the train on it, and it shows you where the coaches are.   Then it shows you what alphabet letters on the platform your coach will arrive between.  You must stand between those letters.  For example, if your coach says G and H you look for the G and H on the platform, stand there and your coach will pull up exactly in front of you.  Efficient, no?

 Then once you’re on the train, struggling with everyone else to get big bags on the racks near the door, you can go looking for your seat number. If you hesitate on the platform the train doors will shut and the train will be gone before you’ve had time to shout: ‘wait for me, wait for me” and throw yourself on the ground in despair.

Once you’re in your seat, it’s all about comfort and relaxation as the glorious French countryside flies past the window.  The best thing about the TGV is the bar.  So civilised.  Bottle of wine and baguettes in front of you and  you’re well into a TGV trip to paradise.

I’m telling you all this so you’ll know what to do when you come to France and have occasion to take the TGV.  If you don’t know the procedure, it can be a nightmare.  You could get on the wrong coach, which could be half a kilometre away from your designated coach.  But once you’ve stashed your bags on the rack near the door you entered, there is no way you want to be half a kilometre away from them.  You can’t say you never learn anything from me.

 Even the toilet doors on the TGV are incredibly fast.  You wave your hand in front of a button and the door electronically flashes open at a speed as fast as the train is going.  Once you’re in you ABSOLUTELY MUST lock the door as someone else could wave their hand in front of the electronic button outside and voila! the door flashes open again.  Geoffrey did this last year when a beautiful  and regal black woman, looking like an African Princess, entered the toilet.  When Geoffrey waved his hand and the door flashed open to reveal her to the entire carriage, sitting on the throne with her knickers down by her ankles, her regal disposition suffered somewhat.   I was mortified.  Geoffrey ran away.

Lots of love and French kisses to you,

Ann xxx

Ann’s June Newsletter is now out.

click here

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