A consistent low snore broke the sound of a quiet occasional rustle that is the local library. As I walked beyond the steps of North Kensington’s fine example of Victorian architecture, past Information with a view towards row upon row of ruthlessly alphabetised books, I tried to figure out where the afternoon nap was coming from.
I was on a quest for my next read.
The twin prop aircraft landed at Sumburgh airport. I picked my bag from a selection of three on the tarmac and wheeled it towards the terminal, following a group of fresh-faced locals and international adventurers. Breathable air and blue skies lifted my weary 6am start to the here and now.
No, not the TV show, but rather the Chelsea Flower Show gardens: They’re superlative this year – and made on the spot in the grounds of The Royal Hospital, Chelsea.
And, that’s not all there is to enjoy at this stalwart of an event: The comments to be heard wandering along a logically organised route are to be relished as one views flowers and creative displays.
I paused at the Morgan Stanley Garden. “It’s absolutely stunning” a behatted lady said to her companion and then turned to the man on the stand: “You were robbed.” Various other viewers murmured agreement; there was a head shake or two. I wandered further along main avenue to see the culprit of all this dissent.
Past shuffling bag carrying visitors I went, pausing to look at other show gardens on the way. Finally on the corner tall blocks of stone rose to greet me, wild plants and weed type species burst up through the hard slabs. “Is it inspired by the Giant’s Causeway?” my brother asked.
“No, Malta – it’s got that desolate drought feeling about it.”
A lady behind me blew her nose: “It’s all about what grows up after…” She trailed off. Her friend continued: “It’s divided opinion a bit: Best in Show?!! It’s not my cup of tea.”
Through the pollen and Artisan gardens we trod. A cacophony of sneezing and coughing surrounded us. “Gaw, there’s something making my nose go” a gentleman remarked to his partner.
“It’s the same every year in this area, love, it’s the tree pollen.”
At the end of day, I returned to my favourite: The BBC Radio Two Zoe Ball Listening Garden. “There’s something especially comforting about this one.” I said to my brother as I placed my foot on the gravel to feel the sound vibrating as, reaching its lowest frequency, it simultaneously caused the water to ripple, bubble and then spurt in the long troughs nestling amongst the greenery.
“Mesmeric, isn’t it?” the lady helping out said. “They’re all supposed to be a comfort – these gardens reflecting the senses” she told me. “You were here earlier weren’t you?”
I replied that I was, and told her the name of my blog. “Well, my name’s Mel, and I’ve just won best explainer of the day.” she told me.
“And well deserved too.”
I turned to my brother to suggest it was time to go. “Can you feel the sound?” an elderly lady beside me asked her husband.
“No, nothing.”
“Well, maybe your shoes are too thick.” she said turning to leave. “Let’s go and get an ice cream.”
Thanks to RHS for a fantastic day.
In the Nineties, dare I say so, we all read it. In fact we read two of them: ‘Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus’, and ‘Mars and Venus on a Date.’
This was a hotly anticipated ‘sermon’ at The School of Life: An audience with John Gray – author of those books.
Back in the day we’d looked to him for guidance in a dating world where we were all a bit confused. As working women we’d been told we could have it all – however those paths to high flying careers had been littered with obstacles, one of which was a conundrum re our relationships with men – or more specifically male and female ‘roles.’
My cousin smiled: “I wonder how he’ll address it today – we’re twenty years on; we didn’t even have the internet back then, let alone smart phones and app dating.”
Conway Hall was busy, sun flitted momentarily past large paned windows on the ceiling. Hundreds of women (and a few men) sat on the edge of their seats.
After the customary sing-a-long hymn, he came bounding onto the stage. The applause was heartfelt before he said a word – an indication of the bond created by so many conversations back then in a world where we lived in rented flats, had drinks after work, and attended multiple parties on a Saturday night.
“Seriously? You have a bath and a kettle in your room?” I said to new Club Med friend Els. “It must be a deluxe one: I was told they’d done away with most of them in the refurb – part of an economy drive around water. I agree with that – but I do love a soak in the bath after a hard day’s table tennis and lounging by the pool.”
It was the first of many changes I spotted during my week at Da Balaia. It seemed that like some of its guests and the world at large, Club Med is also partial to an identity crisis: Rooms are refreshed; a newly decorated bar upstairs is all blonde wood; the nightclub area bright and airy, however in the communal areas the same old comforting carpet greeted me – a little tired around the edges now.
I followed crowds of beards from a tech company visiting for a conference to the dining room for lunch.
Ines, a Gentil Organisateur (G.O.) tore me away from frowning at chipped plates and cups, and the large round table next to me of eight French bloggers superglued to their ‘phones.
“So, how was your morning?” she asked, smiling. I told her what I’d done and hadn’t done and we found shared experiences to bond over.
Conversations with Strangers 