What, another one

With the arrival of our fifth, but first male, grandchild in Barcelona on Wednesday, we headed off this morning to see him before we leave for England. It might be a bit more difficult visiting Barca when were in the hinterland of Yorkshire.
Luke was born without problems and mum and baby are both healthy and well. Grief he's our fifth grandchild and there's another on the way in June.
On the way down we stopped off for a slap up feast at La Roca Petita just off the AP7, junction 8, south of Girona.

Another royal announcement

Yippee, we are a grandfather. The first grandchild born on my side of the family arrived in Brighton today. Mother and daughter are both well and father is hanging on in there. More news when I get it. Many congratulations to James and Pauline.

Uncle Nino

After spending all day ferrying folks around (sort of an international taxi service), I needed a pint, so we drove out to The Radcliffe Arms in Folifoot.

Mum, the oldest person there by a mile, ordered a triple gin and tonic, much to the barman's amusement, Jan a double and I had a pint of Sam Smith's bitter.

Anyway we were sitting there and mum started to talk about Italy and her adored, long dead brother Nino. Uncle Nino is something of a family legend having made it from humble beginnings to president of the Italian Court of Appeal but, I also knew that he was a bit of a rogue.

By the time of this part of the conversation I'd had a couple of more beers and as mum was in a good mood I said that 'yes he was a bit of a rogue, I'd even met his girlfriend.'

Mum's reaction made me think that maybe I'd said too much. The saintly Nino was being maligned.

Mum's reaction was one of horror. She asked me 'if I'd met the scarlet woman,' and I said. 'yes, she lived nearby.'

Again mum wasn't happy. 'There's no way he had a girlfriend in Foggia,' she said. Jan looked away, thinking that I'd taken things too far.

After a short silence my 86 years old mother piped up with, 'he had a girlfriend in Naples, but never in Foggia.'

God, how we laughed.

Calcotada

After a deluge last night I wondered whether today's calcotada would actually go ahead. It did.

With fourteen friends and family, calcots were first on the menu, followed by roast lamb and all the usual trimmings.

Ave had brought some excellent Spanish wine which, as I write, is still working its magic (if you get my drift). We had four different wines, three excellent ones from Rioja, Ramon Bilbao 2006, Vina Salceda 2006, Auctor Seleccion 2005 and, everyone's favourite, Torres Atrium Merlot 2008, from Penedes. Excellent.

Spanish fly

Paula, Ben, Kate, Ave and her good friend Raffi, all came up from Barcelona last night, this combined with our neighbours the Lloyds who arrived Wednesday means that we will have a houseful over Easter. Excellent.

It also means lots of good food and wine because they always arrive with tons of our favourite things and Jan cooks up a storm.

As I write, they're making Raffi's speciality, arroz negro, my very favourite fish dish, that I only get when with Spaniards or around Barcelona. Bloody excellent.

All this washed down with Vincent's, Vermentino which is even better this year. This man makes seriously good organic wines and it improves year on year. Nothing to complain about so far. Very bloody excellent.

Exhausted

The last few days have been really hectic with little or no time to update or even get internet access.

Back to last Thursday. At lunchtime, we met my daughter Cara in London. She has just returned from a six months tour of Africa and is now trying to settle back into some sort of 'normal' life.

Later that afternoon it was over to Chiselhurst to stay with Holly and AJ and eat dinner at Due Amici with the lovely Laurie and John. What great people. AJ was, as usual, in sparkling form. Just great hospitality.

Friday it was back over to Brighton for lunch with Rebecca after which Jan babysat whilst I took the train over to Eastbourne to have dinner with my old mate and coaching partner, Rob.

Saturday, Jan's son Luke came down from London and we exited en masse for lunch at the Ginger Pig. (I feel tired and bloated just writing this!)

Saturday night we tried to relax, pack and get psyched up for the journey back the next day.

Throughout all this, Jan has suffered with a hacking cough and cold and has been feeling very poorly. By the way I've now got the cold (man flu) so who's going to look after me - he said bitterly.

A few special mentions, in chronological order:

Thank you to Pauline and James for letting us use their house as a hotel and looking after us so well.

Welcome home (safe and sound) to Cara.

Holly and AJ, thank you for your very kind hospitality and for reminding us how nice Laurie and John are.

Rob it was great to see you again, thanks for the chat. Had forgotten how easy it is to sort out the world's problems.

Rebecca and Josh thank you for looking after Jan on her birthday.

Luke, thank you for travelling down to be with us all on Saturday.

I think that's it, and sorry if I've missed anyone out.

A mixed day

A visit today to the walk-in clinic in Brighton highlighted the difference between the English and French health service. Worried that Jan might have a chest infection we attended the clinic near the railway station. After an understandable wait of 1.5 hours we were seen by a nurse who pronounced that the infection was viral, Jan's chest was clear and, apart from the usual painkillers, there was little that could be done. No charge and thank you very much.

In France we'd have left with a prescription for a bagful of medicine. Still, Jan feels very rough and we had to cancel all remaining plans for the day. Notwithstanding that and keen to get into the fresh air we took a ride up to visit Constantin's grave and back to Brighton via Lewes.

Family duties.

Lots of running around with the grandchildren over the last couple of days, visiting their schools, which they seem to appreciate. I don't remember wanting my parents visiting my school when I was a bairn (that's because they'd have problems getting over the wall! - Ed) still if you can spread a little peace and happiness (and chocolate) that's what being a grandparent is all about.

Heard on the grapevine that the village had a 15 cms snow fall on Sunday night, amazing for this time of the year in Languedoc, and according to our neighbours picture above, it seems like we didn't get off lightly. Hope the dogs (in kennels) are not too pissed off, Hmmmm.

Last night James cooked a very interesting anchovies in tomato sauce with pasta (pasta con acciuge e pomodoro) out of Jamie's Italy cook book. Excellent. You wouldn't think that anchovies would go with pine nuts and raisins , but they do. It's a Sicilian dish and you can see the north African influence.

As it's Jan's birthday today, a group of us ate out at The Giggling Squid. Good food made all the better because Jan's kids paid.

Lunch

Get me outta here. Last time I was in Foggia (week or so ago) I put on three kilos.

We’ve just had a five kilo Sunday lunch, comprising, orecchiette (my favourite pasta) with a tomato sauce, torchellino (rolled and stuffed pork belly), fresh ricotta, percoche (a late harvest hard peach from Puglia, the sort they put in tins, great when dunked in red wine), cake, chestnuts and amaro, an Italian digestivo. Burp, excellent.

Nothing changes, cos I have a row with my mother. She tries to correct my Italian at every opportunity. I shouted at her because everyone (including her) understands what I’m saying. ‘Mum, at my age I have absolutely no intention of learning the grammar. Leave me alone. Stop correcting me. Why can’t you understand that?’

‘Most people would relish the opportunity to have their grammar corrected’, she shouted back at me in vain. It didn't help that I burst out laughing at that.

To shut her up I changed the subject. I mentioned that knowing that there was no way she’d leave Italy without taking back lots of goodies; I’d brought an empty suitcase with me. See what a bloody caring son and angel I am?

What a mistake. What a huge mistake. The conversation then switches to transporting jars of vegetables, liqueurs and anything weighing nothing less than two kilos. I try to calm everyone down and point out that it only takes seven items at two kilos each to blow the weight allowance. Pia, ever the pragmatist then insists that I pop to Ipercoop to buy lots of plastic bags and bubble wrap. Sorted, but a close shave nonetheless. Why don't I just learn to keep my mouth shut?

Lotsa noise

I've got a headache, so thank goodness there's only one television on. I'm lying on a put-up bed in the study, the room next to the kitchen and I didn't sleep very well. The noise from next door is horrendous. I can clearly hear every word being said on the television and my aunt Pia has decided to reorganise all her pots and pans. To me it sounds like she is throwing stuff at the walls. It sounds like she's trying to drown out the television. I have got to get up.

Italian television is great. It's so bad, it's brilliant. It's 08.30 and the morning breakfast programme is blaring away. I've only been here a few hours and every programme that I've seen involves very beautiful, some would say stunning, young women standing around, looking gorgeous but doing nothing. Where do they find them all? On last night's programme there were six of them, all absolutely gorgeous, who traipsed on carrying keys (don't ask) and, sitting to one side, was a man whose dress and demeanor said that he was gay. He seemed to be an important guest and frankly I have no idea why he was there. Anyway, as the girls slithered onto the set the host turned to him and said, 'aren't they gorgeous'? As if this wasn't funny enough the look on the gay man's face was a picture. He looked ever so slightly confused and not sure what to say. Eventually he said, 'yes, the dresses are beautiful.' The host turned to him and said, 'is that all you can say?' I nearly fell off my chair laughing.

Back to this morning's programme, a sort of Italian breakfast news, there's this stunning young woman talking about whatever and I can't take my eyes off her. Pia notices this and said, 'she's beautiful, isn't she. She's this year's Miss Italy. And, she's intelligent as well!'

Anyway, I need peace and quiet. I must admit to being a bit noise sensitive so off I go to sit in another room where I can sit quietly and type this rubbish. Bearing in mind that it's early Sunday morning when, what happens? Some idiot upstairs starts drilling with a bloody jack hammer into the concrete floor above.

The Gregorian chant coming from the television in the kitchen was beginning to sound very inviting.

Don't you just love 'em

It's only on flights to Italy that I come across loud cheering and clapping as the plane touches down. The relief is palpable. We have absolutely no right to be in the bloody sky and it's a miracle that we landed safely. Crazy people.

My aunt's house is full of elderly people (that includes you boyo - Ed). Italians make a lot of noise. Italians who are hard of hearing make even more noise. There are three televisions all in different rooms but all in close proximity. Each television is blaring out a different programme. By blaring I mean bloody loud. Loud enough that when a phone rang on a programme in the next room everybody dived for the phone and confusion reigned because there was nobody on the line.

It had been a long journey and I was tired. I just wanted to get to bed but, despite it all, I found it very, very funny.

Opuntia

When I was young my mother took me many times to Italy. These were trips home to see her mother, my grandmother, who lived in Foggia and we spent many weeks at the nearby seaside resort of Siponto.

I only mention this because I bought some cactus fruit yesterday, and it reminded me of these trips. I'm talking about the early fifties, when there were two types of beach vendor, one sold fresh coconut and the other fichi d'India. This guy would walk along the beach shouting in the local dialect what sounded like 'figidindi'. He carried a bucket of these cactus fruits and would peel them for you so that you didn't get near the lethal thorns that cover the outside of the fruit. In France they're called figues de barbarie.

They have a light, fragrant flavour but be careful not to bite on the seeds which get stuck in your teeth.

A little trip down memory lane.

A poignant moment

The rain poured down, as did the tears down my face, whilst I held Constantin's very tiny coffin. The words and poems did nothing to alleviate the terrible grief of all those standing in the rain.
The burial took place at Clayton Wood Burial Ground in the Sussex downs just to the north of Brighton. A peaceful, unspoilt and fitting resting place for one who saw so little of life. I grieve for you little one.

Happy families

The start of a busy week, with three out of four of Jan's children and extended families arriving in Nimes today for a seven day stay. We get to see three grandchildren all together for the first time in several months. Should be fun.

Kate

We are so lucky, or rather Ben and Paula are. Kate, our third grandaughter, is a lovely, happy child, rarely cries and always sleeps through the night.

It's a real pleasure to see them in Barcelona or to have them visiting. The picture above shows the little angel sitting on the kitchen bar examining her chocolate Easter bunny. Bless.

Calçots

With Kate, Ben, Paula and Ave visiting from Barcelona, we could have done without the rain this weekend. In particular, because Ben has brought my favourite Spanish vegetable, Calçots and is hoping to cook them on an open fire, outdoors.

After peeling off the burnt exterior they are then dipped in romesco sauce and usually eaten standing up. It's great fun and very tasty Catalonian tradition.

Obama day

Apologies, we left the hotel Monday morning and I’ve been without internet since we arrived back here early Wednesday morning.

Holly and AJ have been really great company, and love this area as much as we do. It was sad to part company. After dropping them off at Bari airport, we headed up the coast to Foggia.

Foggia is my Italian home town or, to be more precise, my mother’s home town. Pia and Dino, my only aunt and uncle, were as usual so welcoming.

Needless to say, Pia had cooked up a feast. It was a feast of all our favourite dishes. For me, it was parmigiana, a lasagne of aubergine, mozzarella and a rich tomato sauce. It would almost be a vegetarian dish if the tomato sauce hadn’t been enriched by several cuts of different meats to enhance the flavour. The sauce alone takes a couple of hours to cook.

Jan on the other hand likes pizza patate, which is best described as a bake of mashed potato with mozzarella, mortadella, eggs and parmesan. That makes it sound so simple but it’s absolutely delicious.

Anyway, this morning we were watching television over breakfast and needless to say the subject of Obama came up. It’s interesting that the Italian people, like a lot of the rest of the world, have such hope and expectation of this man. I find it kind of scary. It’s great to have hope and expectation but in my view people are likely to be ultimately disappointed. He’s a man. One man. A very eloquent and intelligent man but I am personally cautious about what he can realistically achieve. Good luck to him.

For me disappointment is the difference between expectation and reality. If expectation is set too high and he can’t achieve too much then people are likely to be disappointed. We shall see.

At breakfast on Tuesday morning (keep up, I'm trying to cram several days in here) we were talking about assassination (as you do) when Pia started to rant about Berlusconi. I pointed out that he had been democratically elected twice so he must appeal to a lot of people. Pia dismissed my observation with a flick of her hand and said, “lots of politician seem to get assassinated, why not Berlusconi?”

It’s the Italian way!!

More than one child?

Never having been a real baby person (they give little feedback, they just eat, sleep and shit), I'm getting much more attached to Kate. She has a lovely personality and even seems to like me. (She doesn't know you yet - Ed)

We all want to be liked, right? So how does Jan express this?

I'd asked Ben and Paula if they were contemplating having anymore children when the discussion got around to only children. Jan, who wants another grandchild (as long as she can hand them back), said to Paula, "You know the potential problems with only children?" Nodding towards me she said, "Do you want her to turn out like him?" (She got it in one! - Ed)

Can I let it be known that I think only children are bloody great!

A final family day

Tim, Sue and their delightful children Emma, Jessica and Abigail have been our hosts for the begining and end of this trip and it was back to their house in St Albans that we went this morning.

Joining us for a typical Sunday roast, from Brighton, were Becs, Trevor, grandchildren Maisie and Elsie and Jan's other son Josh. Mnnnn, good old roast beef and Yorkshire puds. Excellent.

Hakkasan

As usual Cara gets it right. My genes live on. She has expensive tastes and then offers to pick up the whole tab if she can claim it back on expenses. That’s my girl.

Hakkasan is a fabulous restaurant selling Chinese food. Tucked away in a basement at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road the opulent interior belies the scruffy surrounds at ground level. The food is equally opulent and as it was lunchtime and we were a party of five, our helpful waitress suggested that we order dim sum. What good advice. The food was fabulous, washed down with a Viognier, Marsanne mix from Australia which was also fabulous and which was also the cheapest on the wine list.

This is not the place to go to if you’re thirsty and don’t have a credit card but if you want to taste very good food in modern, silky, sexy surroundings then this is the place for you. Given that we were with both Jan’s youngest Luke, his girlfriend Lydia and my youngest Cara, who kept us in stitches, this was a truly exceptional and memorable meal. Highly recommended.

We then had four hours to kill before the theatre, so what to do? The kids suggested Tate Modern and as neither Jan or I had yet been we thought that it was a great idea. ‘You’ve got to see the Rothko exhibition’, we were told. Bloody hell, getting lessons in culture from your kids.

You have to admit that the place is impressive and it was packed out with people. So many art lovers and it wasn’t even raining. As I was still in a fairly jolly mood (we get the drift – Ed), I was ready for a dose of culture. We had to pay to get into the Rothko exhibition and the woman behind the cash desk was a bit bemused when I asked her if they offered concessions for blind people. Cara thought it was funny but did threaten to ‘take me back to the home if I didn’t behave myself.’ Jan pushed me along, embarrassed.

Look, I admit that I’m no art critic and I wouldn’t know a Matisse from a Mondrian (actually I might) but this Mark Rothko must be pissing himself laughing at all the people going ooh aah at his stuff. Huge canvasses, filled with gallons of paint, with little or no discernible point, as long as it’s two colour and sort of rectangular. The last time that I was so disappointed was when I went to see a Jackson Pollock exhibition.

Either I’m a total philistine (no comment – Ed) or I have a very good eye for the Emperor’s new clothes.

By the way, I enjoyed the majority of the other galleries, so maybe I could be an art critic after all.