Digging for Australia

Why is it that just when we have everything and are completely settled, that wanderlust suddenly appears and slaps you across the face? For me it was when staggering into an enticing Pâtisserie, nested in the old walls of St-Malo, very hungover and sleep deprived, thanks to an overnight ferry trip. The hangover was due to the misguided thought that if I drank enough Jack Daniels in the ferry bar even I’d be able to sleep on one of those reclining seats in a ferry lounge. Wrong! And who designed them with metal arms so that each time you are anywhere near dropping off some part of flesh would touch the cold metal and you’re wide awake again.

Anyway, despite all this, the pâtisserie wove its usual spell and the smell of freshly baked pastries and the look of the chocolate éclairs reminded me that I was back in glorious France. By the time I’d paid and was leaving the shop it was a done deed. I was going to have to move to France. Why now? I’d been to France so many times and despite having longings and vague thoughts about living there, had never done anything about it. Of course, for everyone who has experienced that need to go elsewhere there’s very little you can do. Whether it’s some divine intervention I have no idea, but the force is so powerful nothing can be done about it.

What’s the big deal you might say? Lots of people have left the security of their jobs, family and friends in the UK, or wherever else they come from, for the uncertainty of that “Better Place”. Fair enough, but I’d already done that once; left the UK in 1993, having retrained as a TEFL teacher, and moved to the north of Portugal.

So, here I was, seven and a half years later, full of thoughts of fresh bread and red wine - willing to give up all the security of a good, well-paid job running a language school in Porto and leave a centrally-located flat that had become home; not to mention lots of wonderful friends, and one of the most beautiful cities I know. And what for? To start again in France.

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It was during 1979 when it became apparent that my first prolonged experience of being abroad was coming to fruition. Dad was frequently abroad on business and was spending more and more time in Paris. One day he came back from work with some great news. “How would you like to live in Paris?” Not the normal question you’re greeted with when you get back from school!

I was doing somersaults by this point. “I’d love to.” All that French food and lovely Paris. Obviously, this had been under discussion for a while as Dad had been wasting so much time travelling, and IBM had decided that it would be more beneficial if we all moved there for two years. Mum and Dad had even already briefly looked at the British School. For the next couple of weeks arrangements started to be made. Then the bad news came one day when Dad got back from work.

“I’m afraid we’re not going to Paris anymore.”

All my thirteen-year-old dreams were dashed. In fact, I was so wrapped up in my disappointment I almost missed the next sentence.

“But, we’re going to Holland instead.”

Holland. Wasn’t that flat with lots of flowers and flabby cheese with bright red skin?

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After lunch we headed for the edge of the river where there was a natural sulphur spring walled off from the river itself. Despite the fact that it was supposed to be incredibly good for your skin, trying to get in was almost impossible – it smelt like a truckload of rotten eggs being poached! Having finally, very gingerly, slid in to the warm water, we started to try and enjoy the benefits. It wasn’t just the smell which was off putting though – there were, what I can only describe as what looked like a mixture of huge, slimy bogeys and furry seaweed floating around. Before I could do anything about it, Cath had scoped up a huge handful and slapped it on me. Thankfully, it felt like a huge dollop of exfoliating cream, and if you didn’t look too closely at it whilst rubbing in, was an amazing sensation.