Who knows where the time goes?
Thursday
According to the BBC, our last day was to be dominated by “severe weather sweeping across Europe”. We walked up the gorge in torrential rain, sheltering under overhanging rocks and wondering whether good quality walking boots provide enough insulation to prevent a lightning strike. We got soaked to the skin, but our feet stayed dry. The loose paths turned into streams, and it got too dark to see our feet properly. Our waterproofs, our backpacks and the plastic map cover all let the water in.
As we climbed out of the gorge, we crossed a road and sheltered in a sort of a large grotto curtained by a temporary waterfall, with an incongruous garage door at the back. I had just spread my wet clothes out to dry when 30 elderly French walkers joined us. We huddled together with a strong smell of wet pensioner, staring gloomily out at the rain, which suddenly and unexpectedly stopped.
We started climbing again. During a very damp picnic, the clouds cleared and the sun came out. We dried amazingly quickly and enjoyed walking for several more hours, eventually reaching Saignon. This is a perfectly preserved piece of Provençal charm, too idyllic for the real world. It looks like a film set. Dinner was in a tiny family place where the food was rustic and traditional. There was much laughter with Ian and Kaush.
We had managed to get through the whole holiday without eating truffles or foie gras.
Friday
The journey home started badly. The taxi arrived very early, before breakfast. We never got to eat our delayed petit dejeuner because there had been an accident on the road to Avignon, and there were long delays. Having cleared the accident, followed by a painfully slow journey across Avignon, we arrived at the station with minutes to spare. “De justesse” said a very calm taxi driver to his over-wrought passengers. We did not have a clue how we would get home if we missed the train.
There was a seriously disinhibited lad on the train, drunk or drugged or both. He was eventually removed by the guard, having been told off by an older woman for talking in the quiet zone. He was mildly harassing a young woman at the time, and I was surprised that the reprimand made him move down the carriage.
There were all kinds of problems crossing Paris. My suitcase handle would not extend so I could only wheel it bent over. I lurched about the Metro, jostled by and jostling Parisians. I started to become quite irritable. We finally had our first holiday argument walking a circuitous route from Baker Street tube to Marylebone station. Nonetheless, the benefits of the holiday survived some irritating letters that had arrived whilst we were away. I had a report and two conference presentations to finish against tight deadlines, and, as usual, I started winding up a bit before I went back to work.
Terry thinks I drive myself too hard. She does not blame the health service or the university. She blames me. She thinks I am dependent of the buzz of working under pressure in an imperfect health system and a fiercely competitive higher education sector. When I got back to the office, I sat and had coffee with two good friends. We are roughly the same age and we have been colleagues for more than 25 years. We discussed our reluctance to stop. I no longer know if I work for pleasure or from fear. Holidays give me a glimpse of complete retirement, of another life, and I have to confess, it looks pretty attractive. I am just not sure it’s the life for me.