Home county

Back to Farnham, Surrey today: the first place I lived when I arrived in England 34 years ago, to spend the day with family I first met then, still as funny, and such good company that the daughter who was initially miffed that we couldn't go instead to Legoland, was entirely won over.

Farnham is such a pretty town, different from the Cotswold classics but in its own way just as appealing, with its historic old brick buildings, some of them in herringbone patterns, its half-timbered houses, and flint ones too. As well, it takes the Britain in Bloom competition very seriously, and is a prize-winner with hanging baskets and window boxes bright with flowers everywhere. The country all around is lovely too, with lots of woods, the Common, bridle paths and footpaths - we took a walk to look at the mock-castle set currently being used for Johnny Depp's new movie Dark Shadow (unfortunately no filming in progress today).

A sainted aunt, cousins, children, cats, a dog and some horses, plus a cosy pub, good stories and cider: another good day.

End of the octology

What a big day: the last event in the Harry Potter section of our lives, that's given us so much shared fun and excitement over the last 14 years. It was the premiere of the final movie, held in Trafalgar Square because the usual Leicester Square wasn't going to be big enough. Trouble is, Trafalgar wasn't big enough either, with so many eager fans camping out for days that the 8,000 coveted red wristbands for admittance to the central area soon ran out, and thousands of people were shut out into the wasteland of the footpaths around the outside, to be barked at by stressed policemen.

Rather unkindly, the barriers were solid and high, leaving us wishing we had drills - "Or a wand!" one girl said longingly - and reduced to poking our cameras over the top, hoping to catch a snap of the stars or JK herself on the stage in front of the big screen. We were all herded and bossed by the police, and most of us saw very little, our only excitement coming from the roars and screams of the crowds squeezed on the steps of St Martin's as they caught sight of a new star coming forward for an interview. But it was still fun and exciting, and it was such a good-natured crowd, from little kids in cloaks and round glasses, through the 20 year-old Harry generation with their risque posters ("I'd get sleazy for Ron Weasley"), all the way up to people like me who ought to be beyond it, but were loving every moment.

It was a major production, getting there from Gloucestershire, and battling through the traffic and crush of people, and we saw practically nothing of the celebrities - but it was an event that meant a lot to us, and we were glad to be there.

Summertime in England

Synonymous with Glastonbury, Wimbledon, Royal Ascot - and rain. Well, showers, so at least we did get to enjoy, in between, the rolling fields of wheat and barley in the Cotswolds, the poppies along the verges, and the lovely honey stone villages that are looking so neat and pretty with flowers in tubs and baskets and the grass so fine and tidy.

Lots of names from the past - Cold Slad, Pamington, The Slaughters, Bourton-on-the-Water, Broadway - and a long detour so the Firstborn could take a photo of the Wyre Piddle sign. Then a bit of rain, and we took shelter in the classy shops of Cheltenham Spa, where the assistants are effortlessly polite and the customers ditto. I'm feeling a bit scruffy here, to be honest - I always used to dress up to come to Cheltenham, whereas Gloucester was all jeans and muddy gumboots.

Non-appearance by the daughters at the rendezvous under the Regent Arcade fish-clock - instead an urgent text: "NEED MORE TIME!" - I'm glad Chelters is fulfilling our promise.

As I was saying to Lady Carnarvon...

Highclere Castle is a beautiful building and a fun place for her young son to grow up in. We were there to get material for a story about "Downton Abbey", the irresistible upstairs/downstairs soap opera that's just finished its first season in NZ, and which is filmed at Highclere. We chatted with Lady Carnarvon for an hour. She was very nice, but wouldn't let me take a photo "because I'm a mess and haven't got any makeup on" - I should be so lucky, to look like that when I'm at my worst, all tousled blonde hair and blue eyes and perfect teeth, and casually elegant.

The house was very appealing on a hot July day - though evidently a chilly place in cold weather, and all the fireplaces were set ready to go - and I especially liked all the evidence of occupation, like the tubes of cream on the bedside tables, the books left open face down, in amongst the Van Dyck portraits and the soaring ceilings. Oh, and seeing the Queen and Di in family photos scattered about on the grand piano and side tables. And there was a Tutenkamen exhibition in the servants' cellars that was mostly convincing replicas except for Lord Carnarvon's actual folding razor that gave him the fateful knick, leading to septicaemia and death, and the Curse of the Mummy story. Great stuff.

Therefore not tired of life

It's really pleasing to see the daughters, who began by rolling their eyes at a programme of sight-seeing historical buildings when they could be shopping in Oxford Street, surprising even themselves by being interested in the sights and amused by the guides and enjoying the open-top bus ride round London today. It helped that the commentaries were genuinely funny ("The man on top of that column is the Duke of York - 'The Grand Old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men' - but enough of his private life") though who wouldn't be impressed by the history and the stories and the name-dropping that any look at London involves? The only downside is that Auckland is coming to seem like such a lightweight in comparison.

As well as the tour and the Tower and the Thames, there was also shopping of course, in battle with the crowds and the sales and the choice: a stressful business. And yesterday at Camden Market there was more, though different, amongst all the stalls of crafts and funky fashion and tat and food, where we managed to find a guy serving bbq ribs who comes from ChCh, so in amongst all the Sarf Lunnon accents by the canal lock there we were talking about Cathedral Square.

And then last night there was a West End musical, Betty Blue Eyes, on Stephen Fry's Twitter recommendation, which was funny and cleverly staged with some great swing-dancing and even some history - as well as an amazingly good animatronic pig. All that and a pork pie, too.

PS Post title of course referring to Dr Johnson ("When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life") and nicely connected because we're staying at the Inner Temple in Dr Johnson's Building - tucked away in total peace right beside Fleet Street, to which the journo First-Born has her own connection.

En train de nous nous amuser

Today I slid into the Gare du Nord, starting point for so many stories I've read, for one of my own this time. A long one, starting with a 5.30am wake-up in London, a two and a half hour fail journey (but oh so smooth and efficient, leaving on the dot of the scheduled 7.22am) and straight onto a bus tour of the city.

It was a beautiful day and Paris looked fabulous, all the iconic sights bright and shiny and stunning, the traffic marvellously horrendous, our guide unfailingly cheerful. Up the Tower, down the Seine, into Notre Dame during a service with a priest singing so beautifully I would happily have paid to listen, and then to a Temple of Mammon: Galeries Lafayette with its glorious stained glass dome. No-one could ever accuse Paris of minimalism. 

Lots of queues and waiting too, though, and dinner finally at 10pm in Montmartre, charmed into a tourist-focused very ordinary restaurant by a waiter who snared us out on the footpath. No matter: it was a brilliant day and the daughters were delighted with their first taste of Paris.

Geography

Just gotta love these daylight legs. Even though Air NZ's entertainment system is SECOND TO NONE in its depth and width and accessibility from the moment you board, and I've revelled in getting deep into entire series of hi-qual TV series ('Episodes' - yes!), there's nothing like the real-time, real view from the window.
Of course, you need to be over land for it to hold more than a few minutes' interest - there's a limit to how long you can concentrate on empty sea - so unless you're flying over Oz, that means a long wait on any ex-NZ flight.
But so worth it! How much fun it is, looking down on vast landscapes that change so quickly and that feature recognisable things like Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon! (re which: never mind from the moon - actually, myth - how stunning to be impressed by its size even from 33,000 feet in a 777).
And even when the spoilsport cloud muscles in and wrecks the view, there's still the airshow map showing that we're passing over places with names like Salt Lake City, Mt Rushmore and - whoa! Gimli!!! Ok, waiting for Aragorn to pop up now...
And has anyone ever counted Canada's lakes? Seems excessive to me - but maybe that's the port talking. Even though I'm on the starboard side, hahaha! Ok, getting dark, going to sleep now.