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Rather annoyingly I forgot to charge my camera battery before we went. But I thought we were simply off for a weekends surfing so I was not unduly worried. How wrong I was.

I had finished surfing and after struggling out of my wet, sandy and now too small wetsuit I had simply pulled on a pair of shorts and a vest and a crew top. I was only going to be lying on the beach reading the paper, drying off in the sunshine, wasn't I? How wrong I was.

So there I was with wet-then-dried-in-plaits hair, no make-up, sandy clothes, no camera, mouth full of fish and chips, when M asked me to be his wife. And presented me with a gorgeous ring*; sea-coloured (aquamarine and diamond), ethical, the perfect size.

The camera battery lasted for three photos.



*In due course my ring will be photographed and added to the website, in the meantime you will have to imagine...

Surfing and other stories

Back in London after the perfect weekend to finish off a busy two weeks. Looks like I might need to do a little re-branding here though, as Little Miss Rachel is no longer appropriate...

Sailing

The Queen Mary 2 on the Solent this weekend. Whilst anchored off Osborne Bay we listened to the Isle of Wight festival drifting on the breeze and heard three separate 'pan pan' calls to Solent coastguard (on strike due to pay and conditions dispute), two of which were being relayed through a passing third party, all of which required the lifeboat being launched. Was almost as enthralling as a soap opera, channel 16 today.

Memories of Italy Part One

The sight of the coast of England being left behind against the blue sea of the channel as we climbed upwards over France in the aeroplane

Leaving behind Milan, the motorway, smaller towns and then climbing higher and higher into the mountains before stopping. the engines cutting and the sound of grasshoppers, of wind in the grass, of dogs barking, of nothing.

The sound of the church bell across the valley striking the hour, a slightly higher pitched 'ting' denoting the half-hour, one church chiming the time about 4 minutes before the other.

On Sundays the haunting sound of choral music drifting across the valley in waves of sound, sometimes loud and clear before tailing off into a murmur on the wind, barely audible before rising again. It was a service, perhaps being broadcast to the workers in the fields.

Walking back from a beautiful meal in a restaurant with no menus and no prices, you ate what they offered you and drank their selection of wines. the road was so dark when a car came one of our party held up his lit blackberry so that we could be seen, even in white trousers on a still, cloudy moonless night we would have been no match for Italian drivers. feeling small in comparison to the blackness. seeing fire-flies darting around, dancing in the darkness to an unheard song, their tails like LEDs.

The low slung mist which wrapped the tops of the mountains as if in cotton wool and hung, ethereal, in the valleys, turning Italy into New Zealand or Japan, the dark greens of the mountains furring in focus as the lower clouds moved past

Truffles on pasta. local fizzy wine. espressos for one euro, glasses of wine for little more. cannelloni, meringue, home cooked beef, coq-au-vin, bread sticks,

Juliet's house in Verona being covered in graffiti with bunches of 'true-love' padlocks fasten to the gate like bunches of wine.

If not later, when?

Exams, birthdays, work. It may be that I am absent for a while. But I shall leave you with this thought: I am currently reading Call me by your name by Andre Aciman. New York Magazine calls him the "most exciting new fiction writer of the 21st Century" and so far I have only stopped reading when forced to. It is a beautiful, haunting book about the impact of love and time and the exploration of etymology from the perspective of the hindsight of a once 17 year old. Once I have finished it I shall attempt to write a review, although reading this one in the New York Times I am not sure it will be easy.

Grandparents

Catherine Bruton writes in today's Times about the importance of grandparents in a child's life, sharing two reader's experiences of their own relationship with their grandparents and that of their child to their own parents.

As the eldest of three daughters I remember, hazily, the day that my mother's father turned sixty. I would have been 3 or 4. M, the youngest son, watched his own father turn 60 last year; my father has the best part of a decade to go. I often wonder whether or not I will have a child to remember my father's 60th birthday. Yesterday, my mother's mother turned 80. M's only grandparent is 92. My grandparents have played a huge part in my life; I am lucky to have known all 4 as an adult. M in turn has only ever 'known' 1 yet her role has been large enough to more than make up for the absence of the other 3.

My maternal grandmother often refers to me as "her third daughter", when she isn't calling me the name of her son. Ironically, had I been a boy, she would have been correct. My maternal grandparents are more eccentric than my father's - Grannie still has waist long hair (pinned up into a bun for as long as I can remember, although photos suggest that this was not always the case), they are artists and their cottage is pretty much my favourite place on earth. From my maternal grandparents I have inherited a love of art, poetry, reading, the beauty of nature, appreciation of the very smallest things, of tea, of shadows and light. The importance of kindness, of love, of families, of displaying every day things as works of art, of Cornwall, Shropshire, stripy fabric bags, of Liberty fabrics, of making things rather than buying them, of card games. When I was small, Grannie wrote a book about the things we used to do together and Grandpa illustrated it. Every occasion is marked with a home-made card; every holiday encouraged to be sketched. I can tell my maternal grandparents things I cannot tell my parents - a tummy button piercing, leaving a long term partner, money worries. All have been discussed at length with Grannie & Grandpa over a telephone call well before the subject was broached with my parents. I can still remember the fury of my father when he received his quarterly BT statement to discover that I had chatted to them for over an hour at a ferry terminal on my way to a sailing trip, using his charge card (aged 16). To me it seemed the natural way to spend an hours wait - a cup of tea and a good discussion with Grannie & Grandpa. These days I tend to use my own mobile telephone though (with a contract with unlimited land line minutes, thankfully).

From my paternal grandparents I have inherited a love of Yorkshire, of sailing, the importance of good food, family support, sisterly bonds. Of gardening, reading, slushy films, of the closeness possible between parent & child even as adults. I think I learned more about family life from lying on the floor in the dark listening to Dad talk to his parents every few days than I ever did from discussions round the kitchen table. From Granny & Grandpa I learnt the importance of manners, and that vodka will give me lines. Every letter from Granny K ends "eat your greens" and once she even sent me a postcard with the amounts of fruit & veg illustrated courtesy of the NHS. It was stuck to the fridge in the kitchen throughout my time at university. Visits to Granny & Grandpa brought pocket money for sweets and once an illicit trip to McDonalds (if we promised not to tell Mummy)! Every month throughout university a cheque arrived, which I used to pay for broadband which would have been unaffordable otherwise, every week a notelet from Granny. Once, aged 6 or 7, during a particularly tasty bowl of ice-cream I was caught licking the remains. "That's ok in this house" warned Dad, "but not at Granny K's". Staying at their house last May bank holiday Granny repeated this behaviour, almost weeping with laughter when I told her what Dad used to say.

Mum's parents lived much nearer us when we were growing up - they used to come over once a week after school and collect us in their car (a VW camper van when I was tiny, replaced by a succession of Golfs) and take us back to our house for tea and, treat of treats, a packet of crisps. They would be waiting for us outside the school gates, with Snuff, their border terrier, sitting at their feet. We would play card games over a cup of tea. Later on, when Mum went back to work and we brought ourselves home from secondary school, Grannie and Grandpa would come over, still the same rituals. Now, aged 26, a trip home is not complete without a visit to or from Grannie & Grandpa. Dad's parents live in Yorkshire - a place synonymous for many years with Christmas and Easter. My first Easter not spent in Yorkshire came only after leaving university. Trips to Granny & Grandpa in Yorkshire were exciting - best dresses could be worn, Granny always cooked beautiful food, and still does. There was 'Grandpa Bread' to be eaten, which last visit he taught M how to make. There were mountains to be climbed and cattle auctions to be visited. Staying with Granny & Grandpa in Yorkshire is always a 'proper' holiday.

Writing this now, I feel so lucky to have had such an experience of 4 wonderful grandparents who have contributed so much to my life, and hopefully in return, I to them. I see so many similarities between the two sets of grandparents it can be no wonder that my parents fell in love. I have heard the stories of each set of parents meeting the new boyfriend/girlfriend - Dad turned up late at night on the back of a friend's motorbike, dressed head to toe in orange waterproofs and after introductions had been made was asked if he would like any food. His response - "a bowl of cereal", was so Dad, and at once he was part of the family. Mum, meeting Granny & Grandpa for the first time, had been invited up from Surrey during the holidays of their first term together at Oxford, only Dad had gone off caving and so Mum had to telephone and check she was still expected. Whatever Grandpa said to her reassured her and she too has felt part of their family from that moment on.

One day, I hope I will have children who will feel the same thing for my parents. To those who are fortunate to have grandparents, I think it is an incredibly important and special relationship.

You're Not The Only One - Buy It Now

Back in February I wrote about a book that a team of bloggers were putting together in aid of the charity Warchild (an international charity that "works with children affected by war in Afghanistan, Iraq, Democratic Republic of Congo and Uganda. Our work with former child soldiers, children in prison and children living and working on the streets gives them support, protection and opportunities. To make sure we provide them with what they need we involve them directly in all our decision making.")

Well, after many months of submissions and editing by Peach the book is finally ready for you to buy.

And guess what? I'm in it. Story number 21. Something previously unpublished on this blog - an account of an experience which happened almost 19 years ago, the day the earth moved for me.

The book costs £12.50 and is available here from Lulu.com. Please consider buying it and reading the experiences that other bloggers (some of them published in their own right) have shared whilst raising money for a great cause.




Full list of contributors: 1. DBA Lehane2. Corinne Furness3. Village Idiot aka VI 4. Fringes5. LilliPilli6. Naomi Dunford7. Leigh Forbes8. Heather Hunter9. Fweng Ebola10. Sue11. Ani12. Anna Pickard13. Ree14. Desperate Sarah15. M.McEwen-Asker16. Paige Jennifer17. Cat18. Sarah J Peach19. Mike Atkinson20. Diane Mandy21. Rachel Goldsack22. Deborah Carr23. Jenny Maltby24. Helen Redfern25. Miss Smack26. The H Factor 27. Fat Controller 28. L.M.Noonan29. Kal30. Ronjazz31. Nicholas Grundy32. Rob Ryan33. Casdok34. DJ Kirkby35. Bone36. Kathryn Harriss37. Helen Dalby 38. Alex McGlin39. Kate Kingsley40. Miss Tickle41. Just A Girl42. Catherine Sanderson43. Enigma44. Tim Warren45. Kat Campbell 46. Daren Callow 47. Alan White 48. Zinnia Cyclamen 49. Tired Dad50. The Boy51. Swiss Toni52. Cliff Jones53. Fiona Williams54. Kate55. Isabelle56. An Unreliable Witness57. Dave Lozo58. Anne Byrne59. Micky McGuinness60. Phillip Copland61. Larry Teabag62. enidd63. Sugar00764. Ariel Langham65. Mr Angry66. The Overnight Editor67. Kristin68. Léonie Kate69. Barb McMahon70. Misssy M71. Meaghan Kearney72. Pat Mackay73. Swearing Mother74. Emma Kaufmann75. Angela La La76. Boy Does Life77. Guy Herbert78. Blue Soup79. Junior80. Curvy Girl81. Prada Pixie82. JH83. Ms Robinson84. Distracted Spunk85. Jane86. Jen87. The Boy Who Could But Didn’t88. Solarisgirl89. Beth Smith90. Wendy Christie91. Miss Diarist92. Colin93. Hope94. Enny95. Joanna96. Reluctant Memsahib97. Karen98. Stephanie Shaw99. Clarissa100. Susan P101. Debbie102. Crystal103. Scorpy104. Megan105. Uncle Norman106. Johnny B

Italy

Memories of Italy Part One:

The sight of the coast of England being left behind against the blue sea of the channel as we climbed upwards over France in the aeroplane

Leaving behind Milan, the motorway, smaller towns and then climbing higher and higher into the mountains before stopping. the engines cutting and the sound of grasshoppers, of wind in the grass, of dogs barking, of nothing.

The sound of the church bell across the valley striking the hour, a slightly higher pitched 'ting' denoting the half-hour, one church chiming the time about 4 minutes before the other.

On Sundays the haunting sound of choral music drifting across the valley in waves of sound, sometimes loud and clear before tailing off into a murmur on the wind, barely audible before rising again. It was a service, perhaps being broadcast to the workers in the fields.

Walking back from a beautiful meal in a restaurant with no menus and no prices, you ate what they offered you and drank their selection of wines. the road was so dark when a car came one of our party held up his lit blackberry so that we could be seen, even in white trousers on a still, cloudy moonless night we would have been no match for Italian drivers. feeling small in comparison to the blackness. seeing fire-flies darting around, dancing in the darkness to an unheard song, their tails like LEDs.

The low slung mist which wrapped the tops of the mountains as if in cotton wool and hung, ethereal, in the valleys, turning Italy into New Zealand or Japan, the dark greens of the mountains furring in focus as the lower clouds moved past

Truffles on pasta. local fizzy wine. espressos for one euro, glasses of wine for little more. cannelloni, meringue, home cooked beef, coq-au-vin, bread sticks,

Juliet's house in Verona being covered in graffiti with bunches of 'true-love' padlocks fasten to the gate like bunches of wine.