In flight to Seattle

Just a quick in flight/post search email to say g'day and to bring you up to date somewhat with life occasionally taking place within the Main household. The flight I'm in is on its way to Chicago, from where I will transfer to another flight to Seattle, where I will re-acquaint myself with my wife at a wedding in which she will be participating as a matron of honour (or as it's in the US, perhaps a matron of honor.) Her friend from school in the Philippines, Alisa, is getting married tomorrow.

Just before Felicity left for the US the central heating stopped working. We called the agents who handle our place, and they called a plumber/hot water heater fixer upper type wallah who came and discovered that there was no oil in the oil lines and the oil pump had burnt out. This could all be explained by us running out of oil, except that the oil tank gauge was showing about 1/6th of a tank (over 200 litres of oil) left. We left him puzzling over (but happier as now he could swear about)it when I took Felicity to the airport, and when I returned that evening (from work, not the airport) I found a note saying there was no oil in the tank. So I went and checked, and the gauge said there was, so I rang Reg (for that is the plumber/hot water heater fixer upper type wallah's name, and also happens to be a lot less typing) and said there's oil in the tank and he said that's what you think, and what he used to think too, until he stuck a stick in the tank and found it was bone dry. So please could I turn the oil off at the tank and give him a ring when I'd had it refilled so he could check out the whole system for any leaks. So that was Friday, and I was about to make my way across to Upper Hale (the place to drive carefully through when entering Farnham) to make a visit to the Prince Alfred, a pub Roger, another Aussie in Pommieland, had invited us to join him at for a quiet one, and which he had then decided that he couldn't make it to, and so had left directions for the rest of us to find it. We found it after following a route which was very aptly named. We came to a T-junction, and not being able to work out which way to go, we decided to go down Hope Lane. But alas our hope was misplaced, and we had to retrace our steps back to Folly St, and then the clergy came to the rescue in the form of Bishop St on which the Prince makes his home. We entered a tiny little pub, bought a round, and then had to make the all important decision of which seats to sit in, being very conscious of the fact that it was a very small local pub, and we could well end up in sitting in some-one's seat. We eschewed the somewhat girlie lounge, and avoided the big carved chairs under the TV (a wise move, as some elderly gentlemen came in a little later and set there with a proprietorial air about them) and picked the most non-descript looking table in the place, and from there sat and commented on the many sports photos on the walls, and played next person to mention work buys the next round. (Fortunately we didn't enforce that rule too strictly, or we'd probably still be there.) By the time we left, Ben "could murder a curry" so we finished the evening in traditional style by popping in to the local tandoori for takeaway before heading back to Dave's to scoff it. Anyway, the whole point of that was to explain why I couldn't get any oil that night. Which meant that although Saturday was an absolutely gorgeous day, I had to sit around and wait for the oil truck to turn up, which doing rough calculations to work out how much fuel the tank could hold, and the likely damage to my wallet. The guy turned up eventually, and put 1298 litres in, informing me that the tanks hold 1300 litres, so it must have been pretty empty. So then it was time to phone Reg. He'd left me his phone number, but that didn't work as there seemed to be a couple of digits missing, and so I had to use his mobile, which he'd conveniently switched off for the long weekend (Monday was a bank holiday), so instead I went out for a drive, heading down to Whitchurch, a little town on the Test river, where I wandered through some fields, scaring rabbits, until finding a little bridge across the river where I looked unsuccessful for trout before braving my way past an alert and noisy goose, and along the bank a bit where I watched a guy doing some fly fishing while his dog came over to say hello and put muddy paw prints on me, and then eventually found my way back to the car and went for a drive through some very pretty villages in the Test Valley, including Wherwell which my grandmother has raved about to me, and I discovered why and fully agree with her, and then on towards Salisbury where I passed a sign to Danesbury Hill Fort. I have passed this sign a number of times before, and said to Felicity "I wonder what that is" and received replies along the lines of it's not where we're going, but this time as I wasn't going anywhere I decided it was where I was going, and went there. Having braved the signs warning me that thieves operate in this area, and making the strong implication that although this was a place you'd want to come and visit, you really shouldn't be doing it. I parked up the top, nervously looking around for the evil thieves, and then walked up the top of the hill to the iron age hill fort. All that was left was a big ditch, a big bank, some sheep which looked like they came from the iron age, and a magnificent view. So I walked through the ditch, up the bank, past the sheep, and walked all round the top of the bank admiring the view. If you've got kids, it looks like a really good place for a family picnic (and even if you don't have kids it looks like a really good place for a family picnic, you just need to find a family) which a variety of other families with kids also thought and were having family picnics. Then it was just a drive through the countryside until I happened across Stonehenge, which tends just to be there next to the road, and back home.

I think I spent lots of Sunday wishing Felicity was about, but the weather was warm so there was no need for central heating, and then Monday came and I had to get on a plane to Marseille, and then drive through the tunnels of Marseille to Cassis. I knew the way this time, and made my way through the tiny winding streets of Cassis, past the hoards of people returning at the end of the long weekend back to Marseille, hoping that I didn't miss the hotel as I reckoned it would take me an hour or so to do a U-turn, and ended up at Les Roches Blanches, the hotel where my meeting the next day was to be held. The highlight of the trip was Wednesday morning, when the meeting had finished the day before, and I had a 1:30pm flight. I sat outside eating breakfast, overlooking the village of Cassis with all the fishing boats in the harbour, the cliffs with the castle on top, the beautiful blue sky and enjoyed the sun on my skin and the lovely warm temperature. After that, I checked out and took the Route des Cretes, a road which winds its way along the top of the cliffs and ridges between Cassis and La Ciotat, and seems to exist purely for the spectacular views it offers. The only thing better might have been to have done it in a right hand drive car, which might have eased my nervousness somewhat. It's the sort of road which makes you want to concentrate on it so you don't start driving straight down the side of a very steep hill, while offering you views which make you want to forget about concentrating on your driving. Reg's mobile was still off on Wednesday, but I did manage to catch him on Thursday, when he was too busy to look at it all, so Felicity is going to have to give him a ring when she gets back so he can come and get it all going for us.

Spring's arrived, and the views are vanishing as the hedgerows regrow their leaves and the grasses at the side of the road sprout. Amongst the green is lots of blue as the bluebells are all out. The lambs are a bit bigger, except for the late born ones which are still pretty small, and like to chase each other around the place. Young pheasants are even thicker than older ones, and like to stand in the middle of the road until you stop before flying away. The sign by the duck pond which says "Ducks crossing" seems to have inspired the ducks to start crossing the road, and not even the death of one of their number (a very sad day) has inspired them to stop. Inspired by the London Marathon Felicity and I have taken up a bit of running which is doing us a world of good. I had a school reunion with class mates from Hebron in India, which was great, and gave Felicity an opportunity to meet up with some of the people I grew up with. Manchester United have won the league again with one hand tied behind their back, but alas were not able to repeat their European performance of last year. Shane Warne makes headlines over here, and someone said he should be sent home 'cos he still like to have a go at batsmen and we don't need that in English cricket. Glenn McGrath had figures of 9 overs, 6 maidens, 4 for 9 (that's wickets for runs, I haven't yet switched to the Pommie runs for wickets format) in his one outing.

Meanwhile, the plane is flying over Canada, to where I will return for some meetings in Montreal after a week or so's holiday in the Seattle area, and will no doubt give you more details of the trip.

Cheers,

Jonathan

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© Jonathan Main 2000