We swam through a patch of moonlight

"We swam through a patch of moonlight - it was fun making silver ripples just in front of my eyes - and then to the steps of the corner tower... "After we turned the corner to the front of the castle there was no more golden light from the windows or the lantern, nothing but moonlight. We swam on our backs, looking up at the sheer, unbroken walls - never had they seemed to me so high. The water made slapping, chuckling noises against them and they gave out a mysterious smell - as when thunder-rain starts on a hot day, but dank and weedy and very much of a night-time smell too.

"I floated and Neil did too; it was lovely just drifting along, staring up at the stars. That was when we first heard the Vicar at the piano, playing Air from Handel's 'Water Music', one of the nicest pieces - I guessed he had chosen it to suit our swim, which I took very kindly. It came to us softly but clearly; I wished I could have floated on for hours listening to it, but I soon felt cold and had to swim fast again...

"He helped me out and we climbed over the ruins and sat down with our backs against the kitchen wall; the sun had been shining on it all day and the bricks were still warm. We were in full moonlight. Neil had patches of brilliant green duckweed on his head and one shoulder; he looked wonderful."

Excerpt from I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith Photography from Indian Summer by Jessica Olm. Her blog is truly gorgeous.

Blossom party

While I was on the other side of the world, spring happened at home. People in my new town like to plant their flowers en masse, it would seem, and a walk with the dog is now awash with fragrant banks of pink, yellow and white roses; jasmine and wisteria tumbling over fences, and thick hedges of lavender. Even in my own garden, almost hidden behind a weed jungle that makes the thorny thicket around Sleeping Beauty's castle look like a pathetic patch of dandelions, I discovered a blossomy bounty.

What to do with all this fragrant colour? Why, host my very own blossom party, of course, inspired by this one. Won't you join me?

[vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/22662531 w=525&h=295]

Blossom Party for Japan from Hype Vandals on Vimeo.

Keeping company with Shakespeare

"Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise." It is a haven in the city. You fight your way over Pont Neuf to the Left Bank, through traffic and bicycles and dogs and cafes spilling out onto pavements and waiters flagging down tourists, until you reach a quiet, tree-lined square that was once a monastery and later a slum, and finally cross the threshold of the little English-language bookstore called Shakespeare and Company, Paris.

Once inside, it is as though you have come home. That is, if home was a place with little nooks and crannies of bookshelves stretching right up to the medieval ceiling, lined with exposed beams and strung with chandeliers. You gather up books to buy later, drop some coins in the wishing well, and climb the narrow stairs.

Up here is perfect peace. Ancient, cloth- and leather-bound books line the shelves, and the tiny rooms are dotted with couches and armchairs that have been well-worn to faultless comfort. You hear birds. Following the sound, you take a seat by one of the open windows where geraniums flower in pots and, just beyond them and across the Seine, Notre Dame rests in centuries of sleep.

You pull out one of the old books and start to read. Hours and visitors come and go, browsing, reading, softly talking. From the other room, someone opens a piano and begins to play a classical tune you don't recognise. It is lovely. They play another, so you put down the book and close your eyes to listen.

The bookstore's founder, George Whitman, long ago spent many years walking through South America. "I walked from Mexico to Panama," he said, "where the road ended before an almost uninhabited swamp called the Choco Colombiano. Even today there is no road."

He was touched by the hospitality of the locals, who would often feed and accommodate him. This had a profound impact upon his life, and led him to create a bookstore that would become a sanctuary for writers and artists.

First called Le Mistral and then changed to Shakespeare and Company as an homage to Sylvia Beach's famous Parisian bookstore of the same name (1919-1940), the lovely little space where you now rest your eyes and listen to classical music first opened in 1951.

Since then, hundreds of thousands of writers, artists and friends have found a place to rest in this haven in the city, including Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Gregory Corso, William S Burroughs and Alen Ginsberg.

And now you.

The long French dusk gathers, slowly, while you read and rest. When at length you step back outside, golden light spills from the bookstore onto the square, and festive, coloured cafe lights loop across the night sky.

You re-enter the crowds and find a restaurant with friends but somehow, while the waiter buzzes past delivering crepes and olives and fries and wine, you carry the peace of Shakespeare and Company with you into the city.

And all around, Paris glows.

Paris flea markets

Reason #612 why I need an apartment in Paris: so that I will have a place to put all the amazing and ridiculously cheap finds at Paris' several marchés aux puces (flea markets). I need space, par example, for that antique typewriter; that gloriously carved and upholstered chair; that ancient Turkish lantern; those three concertina cameras; that tarnished, silver tea set; and that sweet little watercolour by a little known artist from La Belle Époque.

However, finding myself somewhat wanting in the Parisian apartment department (give me time), I have had to make do with these small mementos.

* A beautiful, tall antique bottle * Another antique bottle, this one a heavenly dark blue * Four antique postcards (later, I'll try to translate the messages) * A lovely, rusty old key. I wonder what it once opened * Three unused antique postcards, to send to friends * A little book on French history * Antique Queen Elizabeth tin * A colourful woven basket (not pictured because it was too big)

And some other reasons why my bag was so heavy:

* A hand painted Christmas bauble from Paris * Little glass bird, found in Carcassonne * Reproduction of an ancient map of Venice * A fantastically trashy and touristy Rome mug * A Venetian mask (the girls bought us one each for my birthday party) * Two tiny vials of perfume from Grasse * A glass Christmas bauble from Murano, Venice (Santa driving a gondola) * Glass candy, also from Murano * Sweet little purse depicting Marie Antoinette fashion * A flipbook with a romantic Paris street scene * Flower stickers * Leftover stamps, since the kids didn't send as many postcards as expected * Three watercolours from an artist in Monmartre, and another two from Venice * Novels The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and The Lady and the Little Fox Fur, and children's picture book Paris Y Es Tu? (too big to be pictured) * A wonderful notebook with vibrant squares of Pantone colour * Piece of handmade Venetian lace * Shoulder bag from my favourite bookstore EVER, Shakespeare & Co (Paris)

Floating through time

Float with me a while, along Venice's strangely silken waters. The morning is unseasonably hot and when the canal takes an eastward turn, you shade your eyes in the glare. At unexpected corners, the water sparkles in the sun like shards of fine Murano glass.

Your gondolier isn't of the singing persuasion, only whistling fragments of tunes at intervals, but this suits you because the soft splash of oar on water lulls you into gentle thoughtfulness.

You still your imagination: you wouldn't want to be anywhere but right here.

The air is thick with centuries past. Each sweep of the gondolier's oar takes you further back in time.

You float.

From this window, Vivaldi once watched over the canal with symphonies in his heart. Behind that window, Casanova practiced glorious seductions. And out of that doorway Marco Polo once walked, en route to discover new worlds.

The gondolier holds your hand to steady you as you step back onto the path.

You discover time was unfolding while you were drifting. You are now in a world as ancient as it is beautiful. Twisted laneways, rough with cobblestones, wind in picturesque labyrinths that make being lost a glorious joy.

Life on these islands is lived in concert with the centuries. There are no cars, not one. Family laundry is strung across narrow streets. Small children leap like seasoned sailors from footbridges into waiting boats. Mossy steps slope from home front doors directly into canals. A fruit vendor sells his wares from a watery stall.

In these narrow streets, colour explodes out of tiny, ancient shops. You long to buy it all: the hand-stitched, marbled paper notebooks; spectacular glass bowls, vases and chandeliers; menageries of phantasmagorical carnivale masks; delicate lace that smiling women stitch while you watch; and antique decoupage music boxes depicting dancing jesters and masked lovers.

You think, "this is the closest we have to Atlantis."  You are right.

Home sweet home

Grand adventures were had indeed, but by golly it's good to be home. And it's good to have a real home to come home to. Yar, 'tis bad grammar but good a feeling. Please excuse me, I'm 50 hours without sleep. I missed you, too. I'll be back in bloggy touch soon!

Yours truly, Naomi

ps. How amazing and inspiring were my guest bloggers? I'm so honoured that they contributed to my site, and I hope you had a chance to check out their wonderful blogs. Thank you again ladies! Nx

Travel envy

A guest post from Gillian of Ink Paper Pen. I'm so happy to introduce you to Gillian today. Not content with one blog, Gillian is an author on two: creative writerly Ink Paper Pen (fabulous community 5-min writing exercises every Wednesday if you want to join in), and down-the-rabbit-hole-esque Alice Becomes. On top of that, she manages to be a mum to two small boys. But most of all, Gillian is incredibly thoughtful, gentle and downright lovely. And I can personally attest to that!

On a Sunday afternoon not long ago, a group of friends and I were sharing a bottle of wine and a chat about the time we shared together in Edinburgh. I was moved by the reminiscing. Edinburgh is vibrant, beautiful and historical but I have a soft spot for it as it is where I met the person who became the father of my children and my partner. I found myself getting carried away in memories, trying to recall the names of our favourite bars, tiny pubs and restaurants. But my fond recollections were brought screaming to a halt when one friend began to scoff. “You were a lazy traveller in Edinburgh”. I looked at him, baffled, waiting for an explanation. “But you didn’t visit the castle” he continued accusingly, putting his glass down abruptly on the table. “You can’t go to Edinburgh and not visit the castle”.

My scolding friend went on a guided tour of Edinburgh Castle the day he arrived in Scotland.  But in the two years I lived in this glorious city, I didn’t think to officially “visit the castle.” Instead, I walked past it every day, loving the sound of my feet on the cobblestone streets of the city. I read books about the castle’s history while lying in The Meadows on warm afternoons.

I think travelling is an art form. People travel for different reasons. Escapism. Self Discovery. Work. Fun. Inspiration. Spiritual Pilgrimage. All of the above and more.

For me it is about the getting there. The movement. The sleeper train to Bangkok. The bus ride in Borneo. A ferry to Calais. You will find me staring out the window, dreaming and thinking and writing. Absorbing the new sounds, foreign words, different smells and tastes.

Others prefer a guided tour. A good friend and I travelled to Paris together a few years back and we were not a good travelling match. Arguments began over where and what to do. To keep the peace, I begrudgingly followed her up the Eiffel Tower. We reached the top and she snapped away on her camera, pointing out the bright sights of Paris as she went. I had lost my patience hours earlier, somewhere in the never ending lines and sea of snap happy tourists. I wanted to be on the ground, devouring cafe visits interspersed with the discoveries that can only come from wandering without a plan.

It’s funny. The approach to travel is different from person to person but the appeal of travel? Well, that seems to be universal. Most people I know are half way to Barcelona in their minds upon the first mention of Sangria.

This fascinates me. Why do we travel? I suspect it has something to do with the journey we take in our imagination beforehand. And of course the journey we take for many years afterwards. Perhaps embellished in our reverie. Does the reality of travel match the wonder of our imagination? People circumnavigate the globe, all alone, with only the sound of the ocean for company. Others cross deserts and dangerous lands for the experience of driving their motorbike overland. This is more than desiring a holiday.

I love the delicious anticipation and thirst of curiosity. The satisfying feeling that comes with knowing you are going somewhere. I love to stand alone, no longer defined by the people and places around me.

Why do YOU travel?

Random acts of kindness

A guest post by Patricia Sands. Folks, meet Patricia Sands, wonderful author of The Bridge Club, and raconteur of all things French. I can't tell you how wonderful Patricia has been in giving me advice and inspiration for my family holiday in France. She is talented, clever and has a generous heart, and I'm so happy that she'll be bringing more of that positive energy to my very own blog.

My friend author Naomi Bulger is in France and Italy right now on a wonderful holiday with her family. I know they are having an awesome time making memories that will last a lifetime.  Naomi has such a quirky, creative eye and the ability to discover beauty in the most unusual places, I can't wait to hear about her adventures and see her photos.

I was delighted when she asked if I would contribute to her blog in her absence! Recently I wrote on my blog about random acts of kindness and was pleased to hear from so many of you. Obviously that subject is on the minds of many of us. In France the term translates as Gentillesse Gratuité - Free Kindness. I like that, don't you?

On November 13, they celebrate La Journée de la Gentillesse in France and the number of people participating each year is growing.

Apparently November 13, 2011, is now officially World Kindness Day, a day that encourages individuals to overlook boundaries, race and religion. According to modern psychology, altruistic acts increase our own happiness in a profound way.

The mission of The World Kindness Movement, introduced in 1988, is to inspire individuals towards greater kindness and connect nations to create a kinder world. The WKM encourages individuals of all nations to set up their own kindness movements and join the WKM. Currently, membership includes representation from France as well as Australia, Brazil, Canada, Dubai, England, India, Italy, Japan, Nepal, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Nigeria, Scotland, South Korea, Thailand and the USA.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGUJnTGStsw]

Why can't we make every day a kindness day? I mean, wouldn't we all be a lot better off?  Let's each start our own personal movement right now and see where it takes us! Let me know how it's working for you and pass the message on.

If you go to www.giftofkindness.com you can order these cool cards.

Be the change you wish to see! La gentillesse a toujours du bon!

Hawk Hill

A guest post from Brandi of Not Your Average Ordinary. Oh my, you are in for a treat today. You know those rare blogs that never cease to surprise you? On one day you'll find something inspiring to look at, the next, a journey through a dream, on another, practical and lovely ideas for work... That's what you'll find on Brandi's blog. To cinch the deal, this lady is also thoughtful and sweet. All of which makes me very happy to announce: Brandi is RIGHT HERE today. Hooray!

It was a place of fog and mist. On occasion, the sun broke through long enough to see the city that lay below, but this place belonged to the fog.

The path away from the iconic bridge and city led through a tunnel. The wind whipped around, as if time itself were being erased. All sounds were caught up and brushed into a corner, never to escape past the archways.

There, on the other side, were woods and an undulating landscape that looked like the western coast of Ireland: green, cliffs, and wide ocean.

The road wound in an almost dizzy way, but it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t the road that was important; it was the fact that it hugged the coast, that it lead from one gorgeous scene to the next, that it was the place to watch the sun dip into the water. This place was one moment of a long journey.

This place is Hawk Hill, just north of San Francisco. It was one of the many stops on my long road trip from the West Coast to the East Coast. And it was where I fell in love with northern California. (I, of course, hadn’t even seen Napa yet.) The unexpectedness of it all caught me in my chest, and it still hasn’t let me go. Places between two worlds like this one are truly something special.

Bright vision

This is a guest post from Deborah of Bright and Precious. I am so excited that Deborah has agreed to write a guest post here while I'm off gallivanting in Europe. I have known Deborah for more than 15 years, and she is one of the most passionate, creative and authentic people I have ever met. We lost contact for many years and when we found each other again, lo and behold she was the mother of two adorable children who fill her days (and nights) with more than I can imagine. You mothers will understand. Joy, exhaustion and great love in a glorious, chaotic mix. Am I right? I am thrilled to have Deborah back in my life, and introduce her family into yours.

Bright Vision

There was life in my belly. And I knew her name. I had known her name for as long as I remembered my own heart beating. It whispered to me in my in dreams. It crawled out of pages in books. It blew in with a blossom in the Spring breeze, landing itself on my window sill.

Bright vision.

So we adorned the house with warm and precious things. To signify her history. To herald her future. To celebrate her imminent presence. Texture, colour, smell, and sound. All swirled around us. And filled up our senses.

From my country of birth, the sweet smell of batik.

And the gentle curve of teak wood.

From my sister, the softness of a quilt.

And from another sister, tokens from the sea.

From my grandmother, a treasured book.

From our garden, the scent of fresh blooms.

From her father, a song.

And from me, a little Rose Garden.

Then we were still. And with the grace of all her brightness, she stepped into the light.