SUN LICKED!

Mt Canigou, the Pyrenees, tonight. View from my terrace.

After getting my animosity towards winter, snow, ice, cold and skiing off my chest in yesterday's blog, I can comfort and assure you all that I'm being totally sun kissed at the moment! I arrived at my house in France on Sunday and have been spending these four days taking in the fact that here trees are already in bloom, I've managed to get a slight sunburn in 27 degrees plus today, and the rosé tastes as good as always. Is this what is known as acclimatisation? Not doing anything for four days, I mean? Well, tomorrow we're getting down to business - cleaning, tidying, killing weeds, getting everything ready for the new season.

2784.66 metres

Mont Canigou has always been the sacred mountain of the Catalans. Everyone considers the Catalan region to be Spanish, with Barcelona as the regional capital, but Catalonia extends into the French side as well. My house is in Thuir, a village about thirty minutes drive up from the Spanish border. Mont Canigou can be seen from everywhere in the area - truly majestic as it rises above every other hill and peak in the vicinity. And very special for its proximity to the sea.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canigou

To reach the point where we can start walking up the Canigou we need to drive for about 30 minutes, and climbing up there is steep! So steep that many tourists cheat and rent chauffeured Jeeps! For mountain walking we prefer the more nearby paths, off the tourist tracks - like the one I described the other day:

http://kjerstihornmoen.blogspot.fr/2013/01/the-hermit.html

In fact, we don't even really need to get in the car - we can walk out straight from the house, but that means walking in the lowlands for a bit. We get much higher up after just a five-minute drive. Last year I was here alone at this time - okay, maybe two weeks later - escaping from that horrid Scandinavian winter again - and walked in the lower Pyrenees on my own in the warming sun. I moaned, I sang, I purred, I danced, I ran, I shouted - no, I yelled out loud - like Julie Andrews did in "Sound of Music": I love it! I love the SUN! I LOVE FRANCE! (Well, she loved Austria - and she sings better than me - I'll give her that).

And everywhere you turn, in every direction, your eyes catch Mt Canigou, snowcapped, inviting, forbidding, assertive, majestic. My mountain. 

Yes, both my mountain and I have been sun licked today - and soon we'll both lose our snowcaps.

Thuir evening

Waiting for summer

SUN KISSED!

I've said earlier in my blog that I shouldn't really be living in a cold country at all. Something went wrong when God decided to put me on this earth in one of the coldest, darkest northernmost places on the planet. I can only think of a few colder places - the North and South Pole perhaps, and Siberia...  I blossom, I thrive, I feel fantastic in the sun and the heat - whereas I wither and hang my head in those never ending Scandinavian winter nights. Well, I can hear my near and dear ones going "You're exaggerating again - as usual," but the honest truth is that in order to survive the Norwegian winter I have to make sure I do cosy uplifting fun things.

Winter at its most dreary - view from my window in Oslo

And those fun uplifting things for me do NOT include skiing. This time of year my friends wallpaper their Facebook pages with beautiful skiing photos, and frankly - it doesn't do it for me. In Norway you should never admit that you don't enjoy skiing - it's the equivalent to heresy - but I'll quote one of our most famous authors (whom even those who ski like reading) - Jens Bjørneboe: "One of the invaluable advantages one has achieved after becoming an adult, is that one doesn't have to ski." Or something to that extent. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jens_Bjørneboe

In Norway all children HAVE to ski, there are compulsory skiing courses in kindergarten, there are skiing school days, there is the jolly Sunday skiing outing with the whole family - which, if you don't join, but insist on staying at home with a book - your parents will immediately call the psychoanalyst and book a session for you.

My bare footprints in the snow - at least it wakes me up on freezing mornings when I go to fetch the newspaper from the mailbox 

I know that if I dug deeply in my photo albums of yesteryear, I'd find pictures of me skiing. Truth be told, I did enjoy downhill skiing for a while when I was young, but cross country?.... Hmmm....... well, no hill climbing, no scary slopes, sun shining, Easter temperatures... maybe.

Norway is the greatest skiing nation in the world - I think we can say that without being overly patriotic - and our girls and boys keep grabbing all the medals, in both cross country, downhill, biathlon and ski jumping. And I love watching them on TV! But then again, I love watching sports.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross-country_skiing 

Street in Oslo that hasn't been visited by a snow plough

Nowegian motorway being ploughed and salted (taken last Sunday)

These are some nice things to do in winter:

Light log fires and candles

Dress up warmly and go for long walks with soulmate Grete

Have a jacuzzi on the terrace of a mountain cabin with good friends in minus 17

Go to France and watch snow at a safe distance

After totally dismissing winter in my blog today, I must admit that even I can see the beauty in a winter's day. Winter landscapes can also be sun kissed, and give me associations of pureness and untouched virginity, but also renewal and rebirth and the promise of a new spring. And that, after all, is the magic of the changing seasons.

I love being with my granddaughters all year round - no matter what the season is. They are born in Norway, they get a lot of fun out of skiing and skating and winter activities (still), but I'm afraid Mimmi is not the one to be expected to play with them on the slopes. That's up to someone else.

Winter sisters

Summer sisters

Winter Big Mama (making the most of it)

Summer Big Mama (happy and sun kissed)

MY BEST FRIEND BILL

Having blogged a lot now about "Big Mama-alone time" I might have come across as very self-centered and self-indulgent (but that's partly the point too! Of course - this is me)! However, I do have an overwhelming need to communicate today one of the main reasons I go to London on my own - Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.

http://www.shakespearesglobe.com

When I was a young girl at school in Tanzania we did William Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar" - and that was it for me. I fell in love. I began a long journey and a life-long crush. I discovered my idol. My one and only. My ultimate hero, and the reason I went to University to study English literature. When I read Shakespeare I feel deeply connected to him and his work.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare

I went on a business trip to London in April last year and discovered then that the current production at Shakespeare's The Globe was a run-through of all his thirty-eight plays - in thirty-eight languages. One language for each play, over a period of six weeks.

http://www.examiner.com/article/thirty-eight-shakespeare-plays-thirty-eight-languages

I truly went into a state of mourning when I realised I would miss out on this - how about watching "King Lear" in Australian Aborigine dialect, or "Love's Labour's Lost" in British Sign Language, or what about watching a Shakespeare play in Hip Hop!! I found out that the English language play - "Henry V" was extended after the six week festival, so I bought a ticket for June.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2012/jun/14/henry-v-review

Oh joy! Oh happiness! I cried, I laughed, I joined in. I didn't want it to end. All alone there at the Globe, open roof, rented red blanket across my knees. Henry's war motivation speech "Once More Unto the Breach, Dear Friends" is imprinted on my mind - a result of my IST English teacher's endeavours in 1968 - "Learn this by heart - you'll never regret it." I know it all, and I even noticed that the actor missed a line!

I always keep my small book of Bill's sonnets close. My soulmate Grete challenges me to all sorts of things - and she challenged me to writing a sonnet just recently. I wrote one this evening, staying very close to the way my hero did it - abab - cdcd - efef - gg. And ten syllables per line. (I notice my notes are a bit muddled, but as long as I understood them..... the prerogative of an artist!)

Did I try to copy Bill's signature? (This is written inside the little book of sonnets)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet

Sonnets are basically romantic, a bit daring, a bit erotic... and a lot of shortenings are used to make the syllables fit! Here goes:

My love, I have not seen you since last year,

I long to set my eyes on you again.

I miss you, am in agony, my dear, 

When will we at last live and breathe as twain?

To see once more the beauty of your face,

To hold you in my arms and feel your touch, 

I will be drape'd for you in silk and lace,

Though not for long, at least we know this much.

You'll whisper in my ear how I've been miss'd,

And that you've long'd in pain each day and night.

No stopping now till ev'ry place is kiss'd,

The way you do your work is pure delight.

I'll carry with me lov'ly memories

When next your name is whisper'd in the trees.

BIG MAMA - GROUPIE

I'm still in London - in my blog anyway. This photo is from Trafalgar Square, where I sat in the sun for an hour and a half with my caffe latte and a magazine in March 2012, in more than 20 plus - London was experiencing an "Indian Summer" on the spring side of summer (is there a term for that)? Why was I sitting on the steps in Trafalgar Square, apart from the fact that it was glorious and I had to pinch my arm because I was enjoying it so much? I was waiting for my entry time to the National Portrait Gallery to see the Lucian Freud Exhibition that I wrote about in my post the other day. 

http://kjerstihornmoen.blogspot.fr/2013/01/a-hermit-in-london.html

They give you a time to enter the exhibition because they have to spread the visitors.

When my watch showed 10 minutes before entry time, I started off, and suddenly a guy crossed my path, saying "sorry love", as all English do. "Sorry" and "please", constantly! I love it! I am reading an interesting sociological study about this at the moment by the way: "Watching the English" by Kate Fox. She walks around London deliberately bumping into people to see if they apologise! They do!!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Watching-English-Hidden-Rules-Behaviour/dp/0340818867

All I did was smile at him in response - and that did it. A cue for him to pick me up - and I'm OLD!  Well, he wasn't exactly young either, I'll admit that. "Where's that lovely smile from?" he asked, and I wasn't going to be rude, so I replied. 

Judge for yourself if this smile is lovely or not

Anyway - long story and conversation short - I was glad I had my entry time to the National Portrait Gallery to keep. He wanted to wait for me, but he was also sweet and discreet and smart enough to know not to push it. But what a boost - Big Mamas can attract attention, actually! Don't you other Big Mamas out there ever forget that!

Sitting alone in your hotel room on a Saturday night in London is not much fun (especially bearing in mind I was nearly picked up...), so I reserved a table at Jazz After Dark in Soho, where I'd been before with my husband. That time we saw Trench City:

http://www.jazzafterdark.co.uk

http://trenchcity.com

(Jazz After Dark used to be Amy Winehouse's haunt, something which they are very proud of, so the whole place bears memories of her).

It was fun, great, cool - and we danced all night to Trench City's reggae in the narrow aisle! When I started dancing with a group of youngsters my husband sent me outside in Greek Street to cool off. Well, all I can say is that he's pretty confident he's already got me picked up!

The Andy McKay Jazz Quartet

So - after this little digression - not wanting to stay in my hotel room alone, I hailed a taxi from Piccadilly to Greek Street. As usual the driver and I got talking, and I asked him if he thought I'd be safe stumbling out of a club in Soho at around 2 am. He said "I'd fetch you tonight, love, but I'm not working. But call me if you have trouble finding a taxi." That dear old man! (About my age...)

And then I went to Jazz After Dark alone - not scary at all - I was greeted like a queen, placed at a table next to the stage, and immediately Andy McKay asked me to look after his sax before the gig started. Yeess! I became a groupie there and then. Andy and I talked all night. Am I exaggerating now? Well, all groupies do.

Big Mama alone in hotel room in London, contemplating the groupie experience

LUCKY BIG MAMA

Eating alone at Bendida beach on the Thracian Cliffs golf course, Balchik, Bulgaria

http://www.thraciancliffs.com

(One of the most spectacular golf courses in the world)

Going out to a restaurant for a meal on your own is like a hurdle that has to be jumped. I've not managed to do this until very old and grown up, not caring any more if people think "Ooo, there sits a lonely old lady." Which they probably don't think anyway. Twenty years ago I was much more self-concious about these situations - heaven forbid that people might think nobody wants to be with you!

When you're eating out alone it is nice to have a book or a magazine at hand, simply because you don't want to be dragging out that mobile phone to pretend you're a bit busy in between courses (yeah, yeah - so much for self-confidence....). Having lunch at the Refuel in Soho last year I did not have anything to occupy myself with while waiting for a plate of delicious oysters, and the lovely waitress brought me something to read, even without my having to ask. This was the start of my experience called "Big Mama Being Looked After And Taken Care Of By Waiters, Taxi Drivers, Musicians In Clubs And Random Men In The Street."

Café Malou, Oslo, Norway

http://malou-bloggen.blogspot.fr

I wonder - do they take pity on me? The waiters, the taxi drivers etc? Hmm... no, I let that thought go very quickly. Late one evening in Notting Hill I was very hungry and a lot of places were already closing, but then I spotted a restaurant which seemed to be right on the tourist track, with the slightly worn-out name of Portobello Ristorante & Pizzeria. 

http://portobellolondon.co.uk/Portobello/Home.html. 

I was welcomed into an atmosphere of pure hospitality, the manager himself came and took my orders, and they all pampered me no end. When I said I would like "vongole" (small clams) but not with pasta and without calamares (difficult Old & Big Mama) he said "I will cooka you a special dish - you just trusta me." When I said "And a glass of Prosecco, please," I was totally accepted into the hearth. And oh wow. Oh wow. Just a pure and simple mixture of vongole and mussels cooked in garlic, chili and white wine. When he came over again after the meal and asked me if I'd enjoyed it (and to bid me good night, no less), I said "This was just the way I like it." He replied "You know, Madam - simplicity is always the best." OH YES.

A hundred years ago when I lived in Brighton, my sister and I went to a restaurant called French Connections, which probably doesn't exist any more. From that evening I have carried with me two memories - and they're not about the food - which was exquisite by the way. No - one of them was that every table had a fruit basket placed in the middle. (Fruit baskets became my entrepreneurial idea fifteen years later). The second was a beautiful young woman alone at a table reading a novel while enjoying her meal. When she finished she picked an apple from the basket, threw it way up in the air and caught it, then walked out - with an assertive attitude and a swag. Way to go, girl!

Enjoying alone-time in Bulgaria

A HERMIT IN LONDON

What's this horrible-looking plastic meal?! You've probably guessed it already - it's airport food, sad and expensive - the only uplifting item here is the wine. It's my lunch at Barcelona Airport, before heading to London and another hermit experience. If France is my second home, then England is definitely my third. I was at University in England in the 70s, in Brighton, and the train journey up to London was quick and easy, but even before living in England, London was my favourite city. I hadn't been to England for ages when I managed to visit London three times in 2012, two of the trips were Big Mama-escapes. Obviously I was very London-deprived!

Now we're talking - dining in style alone at the Wolseley

http://www.thewolseley.com

My visits to London last year reopened my eyes to those wonderful cultural experiences always on offer in this city. 2012 was perhaps a special year - an Olympic year for Great Britain - where they took the opportunity to show off their cultural muscles. The country was brimming over with exhibitions, concerts, theatre productions, book readings and every other imaginable happening. Being a person who needs regular cultural fixes - or I'll simply wither and die - but having a family who doesn't necessarily feel the same way, it's natural that some of these fixes are done when I'm in my hermit state.

http://www.hockneypictures.com

David Hockney at the Royal Academy! I had no pre-ordered ticket, so I queued for an hour. No stress - the weather was gorgeous in March - early summer! As I was slowly approaching the entrance, about one third of the queue to go, a woman about my own age came over and offered me a spare ticket - one of their party hadn't turned up - and I practically whirled through the fast track entrance, surprised and delighted that I was the chosen one from a queue a mile long.

And oh, so in awe... The exhibition "David Hockney - A Bigger Picture" was amazing, overwhelming, moving, breathtaking. http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibitions/hockney/ It is now on show in Cologne, Germany, so if you're somewhere in the vicinity, promise me you'll see it! My soulmate Grete is DH's biggest fan, and she gave me a crash course and a book before I went there!

Souvenir - my David Hockney umbrella

The following day it was time for the National Portrait Gallery. http://www.npg.org.uk. This was always one of my favourite haunts in London, and the exhibition in spring showed the fantastic portraits by the unique Lucian Freud. http://www.npg.org.uk/freudsite/ Appropriate enough one of the first portraits I noticed was this one of David Hockney!:

David Hockney - portrait by Lucian Freud

Self portrait - Lucian Freud

Everything comes together. Always. Everything is connected. This is how I feel in London. 

THE HERMIT

I have been more or less completely alone in my house this week and have thoroughly enjoyed it. I've always enjoyed my own company, and this week I've had time to reflect a little on "aloneness." It's not the first time I've reflected on this - far from it - a few years ago I reached a point where I felt that everyone wanted a piece of me, and that was not a pleasant feeling. I was beginning to lose myself to other people's needs and requirements in that hectic merry-go-round we call Life, and I decided that the only way to deal with it was to spend some time alone, and to do that I had get away physically. The people around me accepted this, and now they are quite used to Big Mama sometimes disappearing away from her duties into a few days of self-imposed recluse. 

Relaxing on my terrace in France

I usually go to my house in France, underneath the Pyrenees - my second home during the last eleven years. I love it there! I love being there with family and friends too, but that hermit situation is incomparable. I might be there for a week and not talk to anyone - well, some words with my neighbours and the shopkeepers and a bar waiter or two - but I don't go out for meals, I cook for myself every evening. 

Duck breast with pureed cauliflower

My friends are amazed that I can be bothered to cook these kind of meals for myself, but that's just it! It's all about slow living, enjoyment and pure pleasure. It's about collecting myself again, about recharging my batteries and taking control of my own life. Part of that for me is cooking with those superb French ingredients. Part of it is reading the books I want when I want to, catching up on films that my husband doesn't necessarily like, but it's also doing chores around the house, repairing things, planting flowers, painting walls. 

From the road outside our house we can see this little chapel - Chapelle de Saint Martin - though we are further away than from where this photo was taken. http://masdencoste.com/Places_to_see/St_Martin_de_Camelas/st_martin_de_camelas.html It used to be a hermitage and it dates back to 1259. The Pyrenees are scattered with these little hermitages, now chapels, and the French government, helped by private donations, has made a huge effort to restore them. Visiting this lovely chapel is a frequent excursion for us, and here are Sophie and I on an outing in early March a couple of years ago.

Whenever I feel overloaded and worn out with those everyday duties, the noise, the work - life in the fast lane - I shout to my family "I want to be a hermit!! I want to live in total recluse with only books for company! I want to walk around in the Pyrenees and visit farms to ask for food! I want to wear rags!" They burst out laughing and roll around the floor. "Yeah yeah - try going without Facebook for a day or two, Mum - then you can start thinking of being a hermit!"....

Hmmm.... there's a shop in Perpignan that sells hermit-things. I think I'll check it out next time I'm there.