Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 51

SIREN

(not me in the photo!!)

Tiny Winter Poem, Prompt 5, today the word is :

SIREN

Remember me?

The siren on the silver screen?

Not the blonde one with the bubble,

The dark one with the bedroom eyes,

Constantly in trouble.

 

I’m older now,

All silver grey.

My bedroom eyes no longer say,

Hey hon, come dance with me.

They’d rather read with a cup of tea!

 

SEARCHING

Me, in spring 2021, with my wonderful Dominic.

Tiny Winter Poem, day 4, written in less than ten minutes, prompt by Beth Kempton. The word today:

Searching 

I woke one day knowing I must release frustration,

Let go of what used to be a given,

A passion performed daily with ease.

Stop my mind’s frantic whirling,

Searching for a way back to my younger days,

To my pre-injured days,

To days filled with horses,

With conversations about horses,

With friends with horses.

With horses horses horses.

Face the truth or sit with sadness.

Find another purpose.

Reinvent myself, reignite a former passion.

Spend days with words instead of horses.

My two passions now play together on the page.

My body feels the familiarity of horses as my fingers canter on the keys.

My heartbeat accelerates, thrilled by

A new story enriched by a lifetime of colourful experiences,

As well as trauma, loss, regret.

In this new version of myself,

Initiated by both searching and not searching,

I find fulfillment.

Once more at peace.

NEARLY

Tiny Winter Poem number 3, prompted by Beth Kempton. Written in just a few minutes. The word today is:

NEARLY

 

The recurring nightmare of my nearly,

Reminds me of how lucky I was to find you on my path.

Behind that door,

That day.

Your eyes,

My eyes.

My blue dress.

Your box of coloured pencils put to such improbable use!

The flutter, the immediate knowing.

Thirty-seven years later,

You remain my Valentine.

 

I love you.

RIPPLE

Another #tinywinterpoem prompted by Beth Kempton, today the word is “Ripple”. I wrote it in a couple of minutes, and it’s put a smile on my face. I hope my smiley ripples reach out and tickle the corners of your mouth!

RIPPLE

 

The tickle in my tummy as I head upstairs,

To my bright sunny room with a keyboard.

In the morning.

In the afternoon.

In the evening.

Those wretched insomniac hours?

My tickle can turn them to thrilling hours!

A windfall to spread ripples of tickles,

To places no other tickles can possibly reach.

 

 

WOLF : a poem, written in a few minutes from a prompt proposed by the lovely Beth Kempton. Go and find Beth; you’ll love her, if you don’t already!

I’ve been so afraid of the big bad wolf.

For many years he prowled above my keyboard

Teeth bared, with mocking, slitty eyes.

Don’t you dare, he growled lazily,

As my fingers twitched above the keys,

Desperate to play with the many fragmented sentences

Trampolining in my head,

Straining to get a clearer glimpse of the figure on the chestnut horse,

barely visible through the fog of warm wolf breath.

You’re old and all puffed out, the wolf taunted.

And that woman in tears you think you see?

That’s just you, you big silly!

Don’t you know no-one wants your warmed-up porridge?

You know damn well it’s over.

You’ve done it once, and that was that.

I cowered.

I cried.

I tried.

So, I left the keyboard and returned to the source,

To splash around, play in the sun.

I knew this path led back to fun.

The wolf watched me from a distance,

He yawned, closed his slitty eyes.

I thought, maybe he’s moved on…

I crept back to my desk, smiled at him.

Watch me! I laughed, then bounced and bounced.

And just like that, poofff…. he was gone,

Far too haughty to partake in fun.

 

Signorina Giuseppina - an excerpt from an unpublished manuscript called Turn Left At The Ocean

This particular excerpt is special to me because, although nothing in this book is based on my parents’ life, whenever I think of it I feel a tightening in my chest. I suppose it could be the father’s (Nikos) speech patterns, or possibly subconscious memories of my Italian grandparents. I had no intention of digging it out of my hard-drive today because I was busy working on my current WIP. But somehow I got side-tracked, sucked into it, and ended up fiddling with old words for a couple of hours. Which is probably just a waste of time, really. Nevertheless, I’m glad I did, because it brought me a wonderfully soothing feeling of nostalgia. Signorina Giuseppina is not the title of the manuscript, just the name of one of the minor characters in the story who nevertheless plays an important role. I had set out to write a sweeping, epic, romantic love story set between England, Sicily and Ithaca, Greece. The manuscript currently lives in a drawer. Once I’ve finished my current WIP I might go back to it… I don’t know.

Maybe you’ll enjoy this excerpt. Let me know.

This is a scene on a beach in Sicily.

******

Reading between rondos of hand movements and invocations of the Madonna, we eventually learn that the lady’s full name is Signorina Giuseppina Santini. Proudly expressing herself in a self-taught English strongly flavoured with Italian, she informs us that she’s seventy-three, that she’s my mother’s cousin and that she’s been waiting fifty years for this moment.

“Che meraviglioso,” she exclaims, her shrill voice a menace to our eardrums, her arms rotating like windmills, her mouth stretching like Plasticine. Then she embarks on yet another round of hugs and kisses. Overwhelmed, we give in to her affectionate pummelling, smiling like imbeciles.

“Venite ragazze!” she says, encouraging her black-clad lumpy girlfriends to move in a little closer and check us out. “Madonna! Ma che fantastico! Che sorpresa, such a surprise! I am a watching you all morning on the beach. And I am thinking me, madonna, those people, I know them. Is it possible? But then I tell myself, ma no, ma Giuseppina, ma hai perso la testa? Have you lost your head? Nikos Prasinopoulos, his Angela and her friend Tessa here in Santo Stefano without Allegra? Sei pazza! Completely crazy! So, then I think my eyes are making the tricks on me. And, insomma, to know people when you only see them on the photographs, well, is not la stessa cosa, not same thing. Molto difficile. Molto. But then I hear Nikos speaking the English, hear him say the name of Angela and I think my heart is explode with the happiness. I say me, is miracle! Is them!”

Her soft bulbous body bobs up and down like an old cooking apple. Her rubber mouth is all over the place. Oh God, I think she wants to kiss me.

“Angela!” she exclaims. “Bella! Bella bambina!” She grabs my cheeks between her thumb and her fist and squeezes hard, shaking my head back and forth as though I’m a chubby six-year-old. Her dark eyes then flit towards Tessa, who grins at her while warily backing up a few steps.

 “C’e anche la Tessa! Tessa here too! I hear much about you. I know all things about all of you. Incredible. E davvero una giornata benita di Dio! A day blessed by God!” She whirls around, her cellulite ravaged thighs shuddering as she beholds my father with adoring eyes.

“And Nikos…” Giuseppina stops to catch her breath, a labyrinth of blue veins mottling her gelatinous bosoms. She leans towards him and sighs. “Caro Nikos, still so handsome! You naughty boy! Mascalzone! You break my heart when you run with my cousin Allegra.” She waggles a finger at him, her dark brown eyes sparking all sorts of mischief, then she throws her head back, cackling with delight at his bewildered expression.

Tessa nudges me, softly humming the four infamous notes from the Twilight Zone soundtrack. We’re trapped, encircled by Giuseppina’s cronies who stand with their stumpy legs splayed, swollen hands resting on lumpy hips, beaming at us. I can tell that my father is mentally ransacking each nook and cranny of his brain, searching for the slightest trace of this eccentric old lady.

Giuseppina shifts her weight from side to side, eyeballing him. “I not make impressione on you!” she says with an accusatory pout. “You no remember me? I save your culo, your bottom, many times. Mio zio, my uncle, he furious when he find out about you and Allegra. He want come after you for many years. I know where you were. I know all things. But I keep my mouth zip,” she concludes proudly, chin up, miming the motion. Hands on her hips, she looks around at her friends, willing them to acknowledge her honourable achievement with thunderous applause.

“Sorry,” says my father, thoroughly perplexed. “What you know?”

She rolls her eyes and throws her hands skywards. Plainly, my father is an idiot. “Sapevo tutto io! I know everything! I know you are in England. I have your address! My cousin, your wife, she write me. Always. Every month. She send me photographs, tell me all the news.”

I notice my father tense slightly, but Giuseppina pats his arm. Her mouth pulses. “Calma! Don’t worry, I keep quiet. Always. Never say nothing to no one. I hide letters in box of wood in my cupboard.” She slaps him, cackling gaily. “You safe. And now the bad persons all dead,” she adds, making the sign of the cross. “Now tell me. Where Allegra? She no here?”

My father flinches and absent-mindedly picks flakes of paint off the old wooden sunbed. “Allegra died last month. We bring her ashes back to Santo Stefano. It’s what she wanted. Now she is here forever.”

Giuseppina gasps. “Oh Dio!” Her hand jumps to her mouth. “Mi dispiacce. I very sorry. A big traggedia, no? She write me little time ago. Vediammo, what she say?” She frowns, thumbing her lower lip, trying to remember. “A si! She worry about Angela.” She turns to me, her mouth pintucked. “Your mother worry about you go to the Americas,” she says accusingly. “You find nice man in the Americas?”

This woman knows more that British intelligence, I think with amusement. “No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t meet anyone.”

“And you sell business?”

Incredulous, I nod. “Yes, actually. We did.”

“Hmm.” She frowns, considering this. “Get good money?”

I chuckle. “I suppose so.”

“Brava,” she says, her whiskers twitching with approval. “Is good for woman to be independente. Me, I be independenteall my life. No man ever tell Signorina Giuseppina what to do. I am a, how do you say? Yes, I am a feminista in Sicilia.  Giusto raggazze?”

“E!” the ladies agree, hairy chins wagging in unison.

“What did you do?” wonders Tessa, nibbling on a coconut slab.

“I selled underclothe,” she says, proudly hitching her humps. “Very success. People need always underclothe. And I also selled, how do you say it in English, costumi da bagno?”

“Swimsuits,” I offer.

“Swimsuits! Certo!” She sits up a little straighter, puts her hands on her hips and jiggles her over-generous flesh. “I first girl in Santo Stefano wear bikini!”

“Opa!” My father blinks, reeling at the image.

“Yes,” Giuseppina continues proudly, plonking herself on my father’s sun bed. “And I first woman speak the English. Learn myself. I watch movies – America movies.” She giggles. “I also have America boyfriends! I like America men! And America men, they like very much Sicilia lady. And love my underclothe.” She waggles her torso from side to side, like a Sicilian Mae West. “Ha! I trap them likes zanzare! Like mosquito! Clak!” She slaps her thighs, wheezes a little, spits thick gloop into the sand. “I never marry. Terrible bad reputazione in Santo Stefano!”

“My God,” gasps my father, hitching his swimsuit nervously, his blue eyes as big as serving platters. He’s about to say something else, but she beats him to it.

“Santa Madonna! Is lunch! You be very ‘ungry. You come back my home. I cook real Sicilia food. What you say? Come eat my Maccheroni alla Nonna. I cook the sauce all the morning.”

“That sound… that sound very nice,” stammers my father. “Err, what time we come?”

Groaning, Giuseppina heaves herself onto her tumescent feet. “Eh! You follow. That way you no lose my home!” She giggles. “I am sure you not run away! Ah, Nikos! How my heart bang when you near! Ufa!” She fans herself theatrically, as though sizzling at the memories. “Let’s go. Get up. Come,” she urges, starting to lumber down the beach with her friends in tow. They’re all babbling at once as they head towards their parasols and pack up their beach gear.

My father mops his brow. “Thee mou! What I have done?”

“Do you remember her?” I ask, while vigorously shaking sand off my towel.

“Maybe…” he says, putting on his socks and sandals. “The name, it is ringing a bell. But I didn’t know that your mother she writes to somebody in Sicily. For so many years. Is crazy. Allegra, she never say anything about this, but this Giuseppina, she knows everything about my life.”

“I think she’s a trip,” shrugs Tessa, lying back on her towel and wriggling into her shorts. “And she clearly knows all kinds of other interesting stuff.”

I nod, wondering what the other interesting stuff might entail.

But my father is increasingly unsettled by this encounter. “This is meaning that, all this time, your mother she knows what is going on over here. And she never tells me. Why she doesn’t tell me? Why?”

Tessa discreetly pulls a concerned face at me as picks up her bag. “Err, well, maybe she didn’t want you to think she missed her family.”

“Yes, but…” He shakes his head. “Why she never says to me that she wants to come back and visit? Many times I ask her, always she say no. But we could come. Twenty, thirty years later, her father is not going to jump out from behind a palm tree with a Borsalino and a machine gun.”

“Forza ragazzi! You come?” Giuseppina, way down the beach, is getting impatient.

“We’d better go,” I groan, dreading it.

“I guess she didn’t want to come back here for the same reasons you didn’t want to go back to Greece,” Tessa suggests as we slowly head towards town.

But my father only grows more agitated. “No! Is not the same! Is different. I have nothing to go back to. My life there, it is destroyed by the earthquake.”

Tessa shrugs. “You could have gone back on vacation years later. You could have visited old friends.”

“What friends? Everyone is dead!”

I make big eyes at Tessa, silently asking her to drop it.

“And I am happy in England,” continues my father. “And we are busy. We have children. A business.”

This is the excuse he’s always spouted whenever anyone broached the subject of going back to Ithaca. I’ve never known why, and until now, I never really cared. “But you often talked about Ithaca. You’ve had loads of opportunities to go back there, not necessarily when we were kids, but it would have been easy in the past few years. Why did you never go back? I mean, it’s kind of crazy if you think about it; I’m half Greek, and yet I’ve never set foot in the country.

“Then why you didn’t go? We never told you not to! Your mamma and me, we have not the money to go,” my father hisses angrily, suddenly standing still in the middle of the dark, narrow street. Tessa glances at me, and I shrug. We keep moving, letting my father slightly fall behind.

Minutes later we enter Giuseppina’s dark, dank little house, and know right away that her Maccheroni alla Nonna will be amazing. The recipe is simple: thick slabs of eggplant are grilled golden, then simmered for hours in a tomato sauce with a sharp, herby kick.  Her pasta is homemade al-dente perfection, and as soon she’s put it together and added a sprinkling of peccorino cheese, I know without a doubt that I’ll be clamouring for seconds.

Giuseppina shows us a series of photograph albums in which we all feature at various stages of our lives. I find the experience disturbing, as though we’ve all been watched through a double-sided mirror, the minor and major events of our lives played out in secret to a stranger thousands of miles away. After dessert – a homemade Cassata Siciliana – Giuseppina delves into the depths of a dark, chiselled wood cabinet and extracts the wooden box containing my mother’s letters. “Ecco!” she says, tearing off the thick rubber band holding them all together. “Is all here. Your lives.”

“Can I see?” I ask, then immediately change my mind.

She hands me the pile. “Caffé per tutti?” she asks, scurrying off through the heavy curtains that separate her ornately decorated dining room from her kitchen.

I start to push the letters towards my father, but he turns away. “No. Is between your mamma and this woman.”

He’s right. It would be like reading my mother’s diary.

The smell of coffee precedes the bubble-hiss of the Bialetti percolating on the gas stove. We can hear the old woman fussing around, piling things onto a tray. She reappears, tongue wedged between her front teeth, fine china balanced precariously on a melamine tray. “Here we are!” she says cheerfully. “Un buon’ caffé! And have some Amaretti. These are being made close to Santo Stefano. Veramente deliziosi!” She pushes a plate of the famous almond biscuits, individually wrapped in brightly coloured paper, towards the centre of the table.

We drink and munch in silence for a while as Giuseppina finally seems to have run out of steam. Then, suddenly, she says, “Oh, Nikos. I near forget. Two years before, lady come to Santo Stefano. She speak the English, I think she say she from America. She una vecchia signora, an old lady, but molto elegante, very elegant. Very, err, how you say? Ah, si. Very distinguish.”

She takes a breath, hesitating. “This woman, she look for you. For Nikos Prasinopoulos.”

I glance at my father, but he’s just sipping his coffee, his eyes firmly on the table.

“Do you know why that woman was looking for my father?” I ask her.

“I not know,” she says, frowning. “But she spend long time in Santo Stefano, ask questions, try to find out informations. The post office send her to Signorina Giuseppina Santini. They know Santini know Prasinopoulos at post office.”

“What did she say?” asks my father, unwrapping another Amaretto and popping it into his mouth.

“She ask if I know where she find you, if you still alive. I tell her I know you alive, but I don’t want give her English address.”

I pour myself another coffee. “What was her name?”

“Angelika. She say her name is Angelika.”

My father’s cup slips through his fingers, crashes onto the table where it breaks into dozens of tiny pieces. Thick brown liquid seeps into the antique yellowed lace cloth, as,  choking, he spits the partially chewed biscuit into his hand. “Angelika!” he murmurs, ghostly white.

Tessa and I glance at each other.

I lean towards him, place a hand on his knee. “Baba, what’s the matter? Who is Angelika?”

But my father doesn’t answer. He leans onto the table with his head between his hands. When he looks up, there are tears in his eyes. “Angelika from Ithaca.” His eyes flick back and forth between the stained table cloth and me.

“Who is Angelika?” I ask again in the smallest of whispers, squeezing his hand.

He closes his eyes. “She was my first love.”

Curry in the Chem-Trails, and…could this be THE magic serum?

I wrote about Cicaplast Baume a little while ago on my Instagram author page, because my skin had become so dry when I was in Spain, despite lotions and potions and all sorts of other self-proclaiming miraculous unguents. I had a tube of Cicaplast, usually reserved for my more remote bodily parts that might suddenly require urgent attention, and decided to give it a go. Well, it has been a revelation. My skin went from being rough and flaky and patchy and basically crap, to being…well, looking much nicer and feeling far more content. Also, I could probably buy a gazillion big tubes of Cicaplast with the amount of money spent on the multitude of creams with blingy names sitting in my bathroom cabinet.

And then, one day, I came across this…

Well! Look what I found today!

I don’t know if I’ve been living under a rock or spending too much time making up fibs on the computer, or I’m totally losing touch with the wonderful world of beauty products, and somehow missed the launch of this Cicaplast Serum… but I had to leave the keyboard today to go and buy some deyellowifying shampoo and conditioner as banana yellow is not a good color on me. Is the ozone layer killing my highlights, or are the baddies putting curry in the chem-trails?! Anyway, hopefully Christophe Robin’s ludicrously expensive purple mask will turn me back into an ice princess if I’m patient and leave it on long enough (I’m not patient with these things but, hey, curry chem-trails…)

Anyway, after purchasing the purple stuff and getting talked into buying the new amazzzzzzing Shiseido foundation by a twenty-two year old who assured me I’d be glowing (we shall see), I went to the pharmacy to fill a prescription and checked out the La Roche Posay area and there it was: Cicaplast Serum! I tried the tester on my hand, and it was nice, so I brought one home with me. Has anyone tried it? What do you think?

I shall try it tomorrow and report back 😝❤️

#larocheposay #cicaplastserum #francescabossertauthor#beauty #swissauthor #skincare #writersofinstagram

DAYS OF DRAMA: Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific!

I keep thinking about a shampoo called “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific”. Yes, I know, it’s ridiculous, especially considering it’s a shampoo I’ve never even used, because (as far as I know) you could only buy it in America, and I’ve always lived in Switzerland. Plus, it appears to have been discontinued in the 1980s. It’s on my mind because a friend recently gave me a book of advertisement compilations from the 1970s (“70s Fashion”, published by Taschen. Some of the ads are REALLY funny!), and it’s featured in there. I was a bit bummed Taschen hadn’t included the advert for a perfume called “Wind Song”, because that’s another one I’ve never forgotten - in fact I still remember the catch phrase for it: “I can’t seem to forget you; your Wind Song stays on my mind”. And although the photograph was all wistful and romantic, it conjured up a totally different kind of atmosphere if you had a penchant for poopy jokes like we did in my family.

Anyway, the last time I saw “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific” advertised was probably 1975, while flicking through the pages of a copy of Seventeen magazine that I’d pinched from one of the cool American girls who’d forgotten it in the senior lounge, located on the right-hand side of the hallway just after the main entrance to the school cafeteria. There was a jukebox in the senior lounge of the International School of Geneva (aka Ecolint), and lots of big bean-bag type cushions to flop around on if you were lucky enough to get a spot. The cool boys played Aerosmith’s “Dream On” a lot. And now that I’ve remembered that nugget of information, I’m going to have the screechy part of the song stuck in my head all day.

There were a lot of Americans in my school back then, and they had all the best stuff. Back then everyone was obsessed with America; everything in the US seemed better, bigger, more advanced, and, well, just way cooler than what we had in Europe, be it music, television, movies, cars, candy, cosmetics.

Also, so many of my American classmates seemed far more confident, far more outspoken than most of the rest of us. I always felt rather intimidated by the groups of gum-chomping girls with flicked out hair and twangy accents who flounced around the campus, elbows linked, commanding right of way. In the warmer months they’d go and stretch out on the grass on the slope that led down to the football field, all gossipy and giggly, tossing their hair and flirting with boys. In class, they flirted with some of the younger teachers, too!

I watched them, those gorgeous shiny girls with quick, albeit sometimes acerbic repartee, who seemed to have opinions on everything and inspired an odd cocktail of curiosity, admiration, jealousy and apprehension. They chattered about cheerleading and shopping malls and drive-ins and McDonalds. They had subscriptions to Seventeen magazine, quoted fun lines from sitcoms that had never made it across the Atlantic. They’d watched films on intercontinental flights and seen all the Hollywood blockbusters during summer holidays in Los Angeles, or San Francisco, or New York, or Boston, or Florida.

How could girls like me compete? Those girls had Noxzema and Revlon and Bonne Bell and Coty on their bathroom shelves, while I just had Clearasil and spots. They used Coppertone fake tan and displayed remarkable orange legs during sports classes, not white mottled pasty pins like me. Also, they nabbed all the cute boys simply because they had shampoos called “Short and Sassy”, or “Long and Silky”, and – obviously – “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific”. All I had was Dop.

Nevertheless, I tried. I spent my pocket money on Maybelline mascara and Cover Girl lip-gloss and Rimmel foundation. I borrowed my mother’s curling iron and spent hours trying to master that characteristic outward flick. I begged my mother to buy me Levi’s, and Adidas Rom, and cowboy boots, and black clogs. I even persuaded my father to ask one of his American colleagues to order me a jacket I’d spotted in the Sears catalog during a sleepover at a friend’s house. It was fleece-lined denim, guaranteed to boost my popularity tenfold. That jacket, worn with my navy-blue flared corduroy Levi’s, my Smiley Face tee-shirt and my Adidas Rom, was certain to have me in the arms of gorgeous Chip Buddhi within the first few mournful notes of “Angie” at the next school dance.

Sadly, there was some sort of mix-up with the fleece-lined denim jacket. Instead, Sears sent me a padded bright purple waterproof monstrosity with multicolored embroidery down the front, and a hood edged with black and white fake fur. The one time my parents forced me to wear it to school I removed it the second my father had dropped me off and hid it in my locker, preferring to freeze than commit social suicide.

Chip Buddhi probably still doesn’t know I exist, although according to his profile picture on LinkedIn he’s now bald and somewhat slimy looking, so I’m not that fussed. Looking back, I suppose it’s hardly surprising because, when the bell went at breaktime, he was always the first on his feet, out of class, down the stairs and across the courtyard, eager to flesh out his chiseled cheeks with American candy on the two days a week the tuck shop was open.

In those days, before the Sugar Police existed, Ecolint had a small shop called The Green Window that sold Love Hearts, Hershey Bars, Laffy Taffys, Gobstoppers, Tootsie Rolls, and a particularly vile looking spaghetti-like red liquorice. Where did this regular supply of tooth-wrecking booty come from? I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing it was flown in by parents who often went back to the US for business. I never braved the US candy queue; it was far too rowdy for me. Instead, I usually enjoyed a raisin bun in a quiet corner of the cafeteria with the less cool kids, and to this day remain clueless on the merits of Laffy Taffys and Gobstoppers.

I did, however, have an American boyfriend in 11th grade, but he was quite shy. Gobstoppers weren’t his thing; he much preferred raisin buns and pains au chocolat. He was extremely cute, and tall and slim, with silver-blonde wavy hair, golden skin and big blue eyes, and he always smelled amazing. He wore nice clothes, too, and I especially remember his gorgeous tan suede waistcoat that looked fantastic with white shirts and faded jeans. He also had an off-white Catalina jacket which, according to my friend Bettina, was all the rage in Norway. Best of all though, he was really, really nice!

It's funny how, one way or another, all these memories are linked to that advert for “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific”, which has been been stuck in my mind since puberty. I even included it in a scene in my romantic comedy, “Just Like a Movie”!

Seeing it again in the Taschen book took me straight back to those days of drama in high school, when I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who believed that having the right shampoo and mastering the outward flick would turn my life into a Hallmark movie.

The Beach Beyond

There’s something so uplifting about a coastal walk in the sunshine with a good friend. There is an easy, beautifully maintained path from the pretty coastal town of S’Agaro to Sa Conca, one of the most gorgeous beaches in this area of the Costa Brava. S’Agaro has some lovely restaurants, such as La Taverna del Mar, located right on the beach. It’s a little pricey, but the food is great, and the inside decor is really pretty even if the weather isn’t ideal. Also, a little further down the beach, on the other side of the road, you’ll eat well at Villa Mas. Villa Mas has a fabulous big terrace, but I think prices are similar to Taverna del Mar.

This is S’Agaro, where we start.

Bougainvillea!

But let’s get back to the walk.

The path to Sa Conca can get a little busy at times (although never crazy stupid annoying busy, I promise!), but it’s smooth and easy to navigate, and the views are stunning. And there’s BOUGAINVILLEA (I’m obsessed with bougainvillea!) so it’s a no brainer if you want sea air without having to worry about twisting your ankles, or losing your balance on rough terrain. And you definitely won’t get lost!! It’s wide enough to walk side by side and chat, and you don’t need to watch where you put your feet, which is always a big plus in my book. It’s great for families with young children, too.

I just love this walk

So, if you’re ever in the area, and fancy an easy but beautiful walk, this is definitely one to check out. I think it’s about 5,5 kms from S’Agaro to Sa Conca and back. And Sa Conca is magical… I went swimming there with a friend on New Year’s Eve last year (2022), but having had Covid a few weeks ago I’ve not yet felt brave enough to dive in. Maybe in February, when we return?

Sa Conca, in winter… heaven!

Sa Conca in early summer, also beautiful!

Proof of winter courage! New Year’s Eve, 2022. And I promise we went in all the way!

Happy New Year!!!

THE BEE

I’ve felt low on energy since having Covid earlier this month. I craved an infusion of sparkle while my children were here with their partners over Christmas. I felt guilt for having such intense fatigue in both my body and my mind, and struggled to fully emerge from my boring foggy fug.

Yet my lack of sparkle somehow heightened the experience of being with my family during those few days, wrapping it in muffled softness as we walked along the Catalunya coast in the sunshine.

And then my babies were gone, back to their lives, leaving me with softly sparkling memories and a smidgeon of nostalgia.

A little ache. Okay, a medium sized ache…

So…the first thing I did this morning was sign up for Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary - I was literally still in bed when I remembered its existence and pressed the button to participate. I’ve been reading her essays on Substack, and in a world filled with agression and anger and violence and insanity, I’m craving softness and wonder, empathy, kindness and connection.

And can I please get a very large side order of silliness, giddiness and fun?

Beth encouraged me to go outside and write a Haiku, which initially made me sigh a little, and puff out my cheeks, because it sounded limiting and formal, and what I really wanted to do was run around and let rip, and besides, how could being formal and attempting to write poetry possibly be fun?

Nevertheless, I sat quietly on the terrace and observed. And heard a muffled guzzling among the pink cyclamen, realised what it was, and smiled. Then I wrote:

“A chubby bee boogies

Into pink winter nectar

Happy just to be.”

I wrote two others, too, but I like this one the best. Because I’m hoping to boogie into a little pink winter nectar at a party tonight. And who cares if it’s not perfect Haiku, because it was fun!

Thank you, Beth Kempton!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Thank you so much for reading my book, as well as my little bits and pieces. It means far more than you could possibly imagine.

Lots of love,

Francesca xxx