THE RED EARTH, THE BLUE SKY, THE TURQUOISE OCEAN

At the end of November last year we went on a 6-day trip to our house in France. My husband, myself, my three daughters, my two granddaughters. Josh - my Australian son-in-law - flew in from Melbourne and met us at Barcelona Airport, where we usually land and drive up to the house in Thuir, near Perpignan. We'd asked for leave from school for our two granddaughters, Julie had come home from Oz for Christmas, not least to help us move house in Oslo, as had Josh.

My husband and I started off in the VIP lounge at Oslo Airport a couple of hours before we joined the others at the gate. Serving ourselves (me serving us) from the buffet where you helped yourself to everything from cocktails to food and wine and beer on tap (!), his comment from the wheelchair was - "They must think you're the greediest person they've ever had in here, moving constantly like a shuttle bus from the buffet to the table! Glad it's not me!"

Selfie at the Airport VIP Lounge - November 2014

Yes, wheelchair. Pushing your loved one around in a wheelchair teaches you a lot. Getting out of the taxi at the airport that day nearly 10 months ago, my husband had to walk with the help of a crutch for about 50 metres by himself into the departure hall and find somewhere to lean on while I fetched a wheelchair for him. As he was struggling with his crutch all by himself - no support from me as I was managing two bags - he tripped on the rubber mat at the entrance and fell. Oh my guilty conscience. Fortunately good people rushed up to assist. I realised then that Oslo Airport provides no seats in the departure hall, except way way in - a far distance to walk even for someone more able.

Pushing that wheelchair up the aisle

Having said this, the disabled service at airports is usually impeccable. Going back to Oslo from Barcelona Airport we entered the plane by the rear emergency entrance - hauled up by a truck lift - I was devastated because we had front seats - completely thrown off as you are when you're vulnerable. But the competent airport guys just went: No worries, we have a wheelchair that fits the aisle. Of course they have wheelchairs the width of a sales trolley! Silly me.

My husband and I bought our house in France in 2002. It was a dream come true for us. We'd been holidaying in the Roussillon with our daughters earlier. As the dream of a house of our own matured, we visited other areas of southern France to compare, but by spring 2002 there was no more doubt - it had to be this area in the southernmost corner of France, squeezed right up to the border of Catalan Spain.

Our plan was to spend more time here as the eve of old age grew closer.

When we left the house in the early morning of November 29 2014 I knew that this had been my husband's final visit.

On September 8 I finally went back to the France house. Nine months and nine days after my last visit. 

I was going back alone - to work, to clear up, to throw away my husband's clothes, to generally get used to being there without him. It would have been madness - I realised this later - and fortunately my friend Grete called me just days before my departure: "I'm coming with you." And I honestly don't know how my stay would have turned out without her there. Constant crying, I suppose. Having her there with me made such a gentle difference - awakening to a day of chatting and laughing instead of silence, walking to the village in step, instead of listening to footsteps that should have been there, echoing between the colourful Catalan style houses - Grete delightfully pointing out the pink, the yellow, the orange and the sand nuances that cover every wall in sight. The colours that reflect the natural hues of the Côte Vermeille and its beautiful light - the turquoise ocean, the blue sky and the red earth.

Our walls are pink!

Collioure

Try this: Throw out the clothes of your loved ones. Because they're old, or worn, or out of fashion. Not a piece of cake perhaps, because you might be attached to old stuff, but still. Out it goes.

Or try this: Get rid of perfect clothes and shoes because they're not needed any more, because the one who wore them is dead. I came to our house in France to throw out my husband's clothes there - the sneakers he's wearing in the photo above, the coat. My handsome husband, always so well dressed, always so cool, and at the same time - so sweet, so incredibly caring. So alive. Always my good looking man. Grete said to me, gently, every so often - shall we do it now? His shoes anyway. I answered yes. But I didn't get around to it. Couldn't.

Next time.

Maybe.