Sunday's colours

My unexpected trip eastwards had ended up being much less sombre than I had anticipated. Apart from the semi-planned part of the weekend (involving venturing as far east as Southend) I had time in London “at leisure”, as they might describe it in a holiday tour brochure. My friend Alex had kindly put me up on her unexpectedly comfortable sofa at unreasonably short notice and I spent a lovely Friday night catching up with her (and drinking the best de-caf tea in the known universe). There were a few options for Sunday but number one on my list of things to do would be to see friends. So I sent my friend Char a short notice message and incredibly she was free. We made no plans apart from that until Saturday, and then came to the conclusion that, based on the time I was likely to leave Alex's (Alex enjoys a lie in) and the time I had to catch a coach, we would be wise meeting for lunch in a south London location.

That was until this morning when Char texted me to ask if I'd like her to “do my colours”. For about the last 18 months Char has been running an enterprise doing colour (and more recently style) analysis, mostly around south west London. I would generally place myself in the very unstylish and unbothered category (apart from on very special occasions) so this is something that I would never have considered of my own volition. But, I'm generally open to new ideas and this was not only a new idea but seemed like a good idea. Char is after all an award winning colour consultant so I would be in good hands. She's undergone extensive training so hopefully some of her memorable teenage “fashion” statements would not be an indication of what was in store for me. (In fairness I would now class her as the best dressed of all my friends.)

I don't know what being prepared for a colour consultation would involve but I didn't feel it. I was feeling pretty gross from travelling across London in high humidity conditions and had failed even to brush my hair this morning (well all weekend as I had forgotten a brushing implement). But Char, as always, made me feel at ease. This was achieved in no small part by the offering of a beautiful platter of sandwiches – food will usually make me more relaxed. I learnt something that I didn't know about Char before (despite being friends for nearly 20 years) – she doesn't really like crusts. (But she has curly hair so that disproves that theory.)

Char started by explaining to me a bit of the history and theory behind the colour analysis. It's based on Munsell's theory of colour, which will probably be familiar to anyone has started art. This was developed in the 1900s and states that there are three elements to a colour: clarity, depth and tone

The first step in the process is to determine your dominant colour type: soft, clear, deep, light, warm or cool. Char showed me pictures of celebrities typical of these and I correctly guessed that I was a “deep”, although I was also sort of thinking clear, until I saw Colin Firth and decided that I quite resembled him – he's also a deep. Char then worked out the rest of my theme by some fancy work with squares of fabric. It turns out that I'm deep, warm and clear.

Then we moved on to make-up. Most of the time I don't wear make-up (unless it's a special occasion) and when I do I am not particularly confident with it. I tend to stick to what I know and play it very safe with mostly brown colours on my eyes (with the notable exception of my Strictly Come Dancing make-up for relevant occasions) and nothing more than a subtle lip gloss. So I was both nervous and excited about what Char would do. I was keen to find out something new to do with my eyes. I didn't have anything very glamorous planned for the rest of the day (a 5.5 hour coach trip would be anything but) so I wanted something that I could carry off without feeling too conspicuous. Char did an amazing job. Possibly the best make-over I've ever had (admittedly I've not had many). She created a gorgeous look in just the right shade of green with my eyes. Apparently I've got very flickery eye lids which impedes the application of eye-liner, but she did an excellent job and didn't poke me in the eye at all (unlike if I put my own eye-liner on). But the wow factor really came from the lipstick. As I said, I'm usually a lip-gloss only person – I don't even own a lipstick. Char was more than happy for me to go for this option today but if ever there was a time to try lipstick out now was that time. She got out “Sheer Nutmeg” - in the stick it looked horrific. On my lips it looked stunning.

Char then spent some time showing me all my best colours, starting with my neutrals. Apparently I'm one of the few lucky ones who can get away with black – which is useful. I can't imagine trying to shop without being able to put black in my wardrobe. But there were some other rather lovely neutrals in there like chocolate (mmm) and charcoal which I'm going to keep more of an eye out for. Char also had some really useful tips about whites – I'm better off in ivory and soft white. Which might explain why I generally looked so dreadful in my school uniform.

As we went through my colours (with the assistance of a huge array of cotton swatches) I was pleased it included quite a few that I favour at the moment, like true blue which I liked so much even before I'd been analysed that I bought a matching hat, dress and bikini. My colours also included lots of reds which I was very happy about as I really enjoy wearing red. But even more exciting was finding out about some colours that I could try that maybe I've shied away from before like watermelon (the inside colour) and emerald green; and some great combinations like dark navy and clear salmon, and lemon and charcoal. Best of all was finding out my “wow” colours including mustard (yes really, so now I can wear it as well as cook with it), true blue (so I got something right), scarlet (hurrah) and the purple + pumpkin combination (it's going to take some guts to go out with that on).

We finished off with some scarf action. Char showed me how to tie the “twisted necklace” with a red scarf and then gave me a tutorial on the “pretzel” with a purple scarf. I felt amazing and really enjoyed my “after” photo shoot – it was an absolute transformation, but I was still me.

The make-up lasted all the way back to the South West. Matt, my husband, seemed to quite like it but very tactfully he said that I was hard to improve!

I can't wait now to have a root through my wardrobe and get rid of all those things that I haven't worn for ages. I knew there must have been a reason that I didn't wear them and maybe it's because subconsciously I knew that they are the wrong colour for me. The charity shops are in for a treat (as long as it's not deep people hoping to pick things up). But getting rid of clothes means making space for new ones and for the first time in ages I'm actually looking forward to going shopping (usually an activity that comes from necessity rather than pleasure for me), armed with my hand bag colour wallet an adventure in colour awaits me. Maybe you'll even spot me in purple and pumpkin before too long. With some sheer nutmeg lipstick.

http://www.chicbycharlotte.com/

Monday's black and white

Tuesday May 14th

It was black and white night last night. Which means there are a lot of people wearing black for whom it doesn't really suit, and a lot of people wearing white for whom it doesn't particularly suit (I have learnt this from my very chic friend Charlotte). Neither colour goes well with the lobster skin colour which is the look that a lot of people were going for after a day in the sunshine (obviously without sufficient factor 30); but you've got to be especially wary of men in white tuxedos.

We had dinner with a lovely middle-aged couple called Trevor and Patty (I got excited initially when I thought it was the people left behind in Cartagena) and a difficult-to-age lady travelling on her own. She was almost the opposite of Susan from the night before. I imagine that this lady (who shall remain nameless) got “rich” (she cruises a lot and has that “considerably richer than you” air about her) from an acrimonious divorce. She was very bitter towards a lot of people. She left the table early as she had to get back to the casino. Which left us to have much easier conversation with Trevor and Patty.

Hythe Pier

Patty is a big fan of online group deals and they had recently spent a night in a hotel in the New Forest. As coincidence would have it they had visited Hythe – just a mile or so from where I grew up. She had loved it and was thrilled that my mum is currently the lady mayoress of the parish. I gave them a bit of insider information (where they can park for free) and I think they plan to return to visit the pier and take the ferry and maybe go to the market. I hope the market's still going.

The meal was notable for two things in particular:

Pina Colada Soup

• Soup: There is always a choice of two (between starter and main, it's not compulsory) and today's choices were roasted plum tomato or chilled pina colada. I can eat tomato soup anywhere so went for the pina colada. It was interesting and not at all unpleasant but I'm not sure it's something that I'll be trying to recreate.
• Cheese: A cruise is potentially hazardous for a cheese lover such as myself.

  

  Cheese and biscuits

  You can have cheese and biscuits every evening of you want but I've tried to limit this to formal nights only. They bring out a board with lots of choice and it's just too difficult to pick one or two so I invariably went for a bit of everything. The waiter piled my plate high with biscuits too. The goat's cheese was fantastic, as was the stilton (served with a spoon from a whole stilton about a foot in diameter).

As if that wasn't enough, the lady who had dashed off to the casino had given me her shortbread biscuit. She didn't like shortbread. If you don't like shortbread what biscuit do you like?

As of last night I have worn every pair of shoes that I brought on holiday with me. All 12 pairs.

Monday's sea legs

Monday 13th May

After 5 busy port days, it was relaxing to have a day at sea to recuperate. Fortunately yesterday's storm had abated. I spent most of the day on the deck with a good book, interrupted only for frequent re-application of sunscreen and a longer break for lunch.

In the morning Matt kindly set off to do some laundry while I went to the “ladies fashion event”. This was a disappointment as it largely consisted of larger-sized middle-aged ladies barging around looking at clothes that (even to my untrained eye) clearly would not suit them. I was neither apologised to when I was trampled into, nor thanked when I made way for, the larger-sized middle-aged ladies. I did not stay long but my escape route up the stairs in the atrium was blocked by larger-sized middle-aged men spectating on the larger-sized middle-aged ladies.

Once I'd made my way through this obstacle course I had a clear run (well, trot) up the stairs to the Ocean Deck – by now our preferred outside location. I passed the time of day about the hammering our knees were taking with a man also going upwards. We agreed that going downwards was much worse. At the top of the stairs something really great happened to me. A kind Scottish lad said (to me), “ooh, here's the lady with the lovely long legs; the legs that just go on and on”. It's a special kind of compliment that comes from a stranger. Particularly when it's a compliment that makes you forget the pain in your knees. I'm going to try to compliment strangers more.

After an hour or so on deck I began to get a bit worried about Matt. I contemplated going to look for him but thought better than this because I figured that the chance of us crossing paths was very small. I tried calling the cabin from the phone on deck to see if he was hiding from the sun there – no answer. While trying to use the phone I ran into the our friends from the deck from a few days earlier – the chap who was going to be an unofficial tour guide in Rome. Apparently it had been a great success.

I read a few more chapters of my book. I tried calling the cabin again – no answer. I asked one of the stewards for the number for reception. I don't know quite what I expected reception to do: send out a search party to the launderette? Put an announcement out over the tannoy? I hadn't heard any lost person announcements the whole time yet. Now I could understand why I've seen some passengers walking around with walkie-talkies. Matt turned up just before I made the phone call to reception so I never found out what they would have done.

We had lunch with 2 fairly jolly middle-aged couples. One of the men insisted on telling us that the secret of a happy retirement is a good pension; maybe he thought we should be saving and not cruising.

The afternoon was punctuated only by further copious application of factor 30 (factor 50 for Matt) and I also took the opportunity to walk from one end of our deck (12) to the other – 334 paces. I had had to return to the cabin because I got factor 30 in my eyes. I tried to deal with it with a wet wipe but if anything this made the situation worse and I needed running water. It's not as painful as getting chilli in your eye. The cabin area was very quiet in the middle of the afternoon so I could walk the whole way along counting the steps without attracting too much attention.

Sunday's evening

Sunday 12th May: continued

It was still stormy: I was still feeling fine, Matt was still feeling a bit unwell. He challenged me that I would feel unwell after having a shower. I didn't. We were a bit delayed in getting out to dinner as Matt insisted on moving around the cabin with his eyes shut in an effort to avoid the development of unmanageable nausea. I made a concession to the whole gale and wore flat shoes and we took the lift rather than risking the stairs. It amazed me the number of women tottering around on ill-fitting high-heels. I mean, style's all very well (although a lot of them weren't even stylish) but this was just plain stupidity.

I have also been amazed by the number of doddery old ladies going around with various mobility aids (sticks, frames, those terrifying fold out frames with wheels) who also attire themselves in high-heels, surely their travel insurance should preclude this. I got poked by an old lady with a stick this morning and I'm not entirely sure it was an accidental poke.

Dinner was a lot quieter than usual – I guess that a lot of people were weathering the storm in their cabins. We sat with just one other person, a fantastic lady called Susan who was on her first holiday post-kidney transplant. It was her first cruise and she described it as her branded yeast extract cruise – love it or hate it. Fortunately she loved it. She worked in logistics and was impressed with the slick running of the ship. It was a great evening; none of the conversation staples that we're becoming over familiar with when people don't have anything interesting to say (their opinions of various cruise lines, the next cruise they've got booked, how proud they are of their grandchildren who – with a few notable exceptions – sound quite unremarkable). We talked about entrepreneurship and economics. Susan was a lady who had worked very hard to get to where she was today, and clearly still worked very hard. I had a lot of respect for her, helped I suspect by her fantastic sense of humour.

None of us felt remotely ill at the end of the meal (I think there's a good deal of mind over matter and the good food and good company took Matt's mind off the storm) but the boat was still listing in all dimensions so ballroom dancing was definitely off – even in flat shoes.

Sunday's storm

Sunday 12th May

We had spent most of the breakfast period arguing about the size of Corsica. Matt claimed it was the biggest island in the Mediterranean while I was adamant that it was about the same size as the Isle of Wight. I knew that at least it was smaller than Sardinia, Sicily and Cyprus. Today's port was Ajaccio – capital of Corsica. I don't think it's the most beautiful part of the island but we didn't have enough time to venture into the mountains so spent our time exploring the town.

It's typically French including:

mmm Palmier biscuit

• a market selling lurid coloured underwear, beach towels, cheap jewellery, ugly bags etc
• numerous boulangeries / patisseries (we didn't even try to resist)
• copious amounts of dog poo on the pavements

As it turns out Corsica is indeed smaller than Sardinia, Sicily and Cyprus, but considerably larger than the Isle of Wight.

We enjoyed exploring the city and made our way towards today's Something High To Go Up which was a statue of Napoleon. I think I managed reasonably lady like clambering to make it to the top.

The main produce of Corsica (or at least that which was most conspicuous for us to buy with our tourist Euros) was:

• a strong cheese – we tasted a bit in the market and although I love cheese I didn't fancy my chances getting a kilo home
• knives – potentially risky given the security procedures you have to go through every time you get on board
• dome shaped tea-towels – with or without a miniature donkey affixed. We had been commenting on the poor state of repair of our tea towels so parted with a few tourist Euros for one of these

We got back on board in time for a late lunch, along with a chatty middle-aged couple who told us that they were thrilled to be sat with some younger people. Unfortunately the other people on the table didn't seem to be so thrilled. Maybe they were worried that we'd start talking pop music, club drugs and reality TV (we refrained on this occasion). I couldn't help but wonder if this is how miserable they are on holiday what they must be like to live with.

Afterwards we went out on deck and enjoyed a large cocktail of the day (pina colada).

The wind was picking up and it was getting a bit choppy but we had a lovely quiet spot shielded from the worst of the elements by glass screens. We were going to go back out once we had used the facilities in cabin but by this time the wind had picked up even more. According to the weather log (which Matt mainly watches on our in-cabin TV) there is actually a fresh gale, but due to the direction of travel versus the direction of the wind the apparent wind speed is a “whole” gale. This causes a “danger” sign to flash on the screen, which is slightly disconcerting. But the captain put out an announcement that we needn't worry and, apart from some dramatic water splashes around the pool, life on board carried on as normal.

Lots of people were heading for afternoon tea but Matt decided that the only thing for it was to sleep through the storm and I tucked into some prophylactic crystallised ginger. If I was sick it would just serve me right for eating so much pudding the other day.

I ended up falling asleep in the cabin too. It must have been the swaying motion of the ship, or maybe the large pina colada. Either way I was rudely awoken at 7pm by an in-cabin announcement. This was it, I thought. I would have to get my life-jacket on and make my way to muster station A. I thought about the old people and how they would struggle to get into the lifeboats.

But no. It was Lewis the cruise director announcing that the evening's singer (a semi-finalist in a 2007 TV talent show) was sea sick (he put it rather more euphemistically than this) and informing us of what other entertainments would be available, including a 60s and 70s night which he assured us was the era of the music not the age restriction of the passengers (this is just a taste of the poor quality “jokes” that we had to endure from Lewis).

Saturday's pirate dance

Saturday 11th May, continued

Having only consumed one of the little packets of biscuits that they put in your cabin and an ice-cream (all be it a very delicious ice-cream) since 9am we were rather peckish when we got back on the ship. Everything was gearing up for the evening meal but we legged it up 10 decks (we have been trying to avoid the lifts in an effort to burn energy, plus they are a bit temperamental and time was of the essence) to make it to the poolside pizzeria 10 minutes before it shut. I really enjoyed my hungrily eaten pizza (we were in Italy after all) and chips (it was only a little pizza). 

We'd have to wait a while for that to go down to make space for dinner. There were lots of other cruise ships in Civitavecchia so we took a walk around the deck to look at them all - I was particularly excited by the one with loads of waterslides at its stern. 

The captain's disdain of the Italians became apparent. He'd announced the previous evening that there would be quite a few cruise ships in Civitavecchia that day and due to the lack of "control" that "Port Control" ever exerted he would not be able to guarantee our docking time, even though it was booked for 7am. Then, this evening, he said that we would have to have a tug out of the port, even though there was no need, and insinuated that this was just for "jobs for the boys". 

We had the pool to ourselves for another vigorous pre-dinner swim. Again, on a ship with 3000 passengers this amazes me. In preparation for dinner Matt decided that his beard had got long enough and took his clippers to it. Unfortunately he had an accident with them on the back of his neck and I was thus entrusted to even things up. Hair dressing is clearly not one of my natural abilities but I was trusted enough to sort it out. I saw this as my perfect opportunity to adorn Matt with one of those little rat tail tufty bits popular with small Dutch boys (at least this was the case on French campsites in the early 1990s). Matt didn't like this style so I was benevolent and did my best to give him a straight hairline.

Dinner was a peculiar affair. We were on a table of 8 which is a difficult size to have a conversation involving the whole table so Matt and I mostly chatted with a lively older couple who had been engaged for 18 years. Also on our table were:

• a miserable looking middle-aged couple. He perked up a bit when talking about football. She didn't perk up at all.
• an older couple - Gladys and Glen. I think that Gladys was one of those older people who is deaf but doesn't realise it. She became very animated when talking about the potteries, the evils of drink and the unnecessary use of mobility scooters. They both became animated when talking about the gym. Gladys was also disproportionately excited about fountains. In this respect (rather than that of the potteries or the gym) Matt had found a like-minded traveller.

We were very late dining this evening and observed the waiters counting cutlery as we finished our coffees. I presumed that this was a safety precaution (to make sure no-one had removed a knife to use as a weapon) but our fellow diners suggested it was more likely to be to check for losses from an economic perspective.

I instructed Matt to be careful in his leading of the dance tonight as I had a rather short dress on; but we were quite successful, especially to my request of the Pirates of the Caribbean Tango. I particularly like this music because you can really get into character with some well placed ooh-ahh pirate noises. 

Saturday's slight loss

It was our first weekend in a while without anything in particular to do (apart from the usual DIY based activities) and we spent a considerable time debating what to do. The fine weather was holding for now (although a strong breeze was evident as one of the plants had fallen off its shelf in the garden), but the forecast into next week wasn't looking so good. So it seemed sensible to make the most of the outside world. The obvious choice would have been the beach but a few things put me off this:

• Social media would suggest that a lot of other people were headed there
• The wind would potentially be a problem
• One of my favourite things to do at the seaside is to bodyboard, with the current high pressure there are insufficient waves to make the wetsuit application, removal and cleaning worthwhile.

Instead we decided to go for a walk. Coastal walks would be afflicted with the problem of the car parks being full of the aforementioned beach-goers. So we would go for something inland. The moors would be afflicted with a lack of shade. So we would go for something countrysidey. There are good walks that would have fitted the bill very locally but as we didn't have any time pressure we could go a little further afield. Going further west into Cornwall would be afflicted with the problem of lots of other people going west into Cornwall (it being a Saturday in the school holidays). So we would go for something in Devon.

Starting out at Totnes

I found just the walk I was looking for in a book of Devon walks – along the river Dart from Totnes. This book has a lot of nice walks in it but is very light on both directions and maps. For example on undertaking a previous walk from the same series we were instructed to “go right at a rock that looks like a shark”. And today's particular walk had no map at all. Still, it was basically along the river so surely wouldn't be too challenging geographically. Once we had worked out what side of the river we were supposed to be on, the first part of the walk was indeed straightforward. It wasn't looking promising as we started off walking past some light industrial units but we soon hit rural paths. I ran into a bit of trouble with some stinging nettles but did my best to resist the urge to scratch and the pain soon subsided.

An undulation

For a walk beside a river it was remarkably undulating. Our first geographical dilemma arose when we came to an “undulating field with parkland trees”, the book's instruction was that the route continued around the bottom of this field, the sign suggested that the path was up one of the undulations. Given our previous experiences with the book we opted for the sign option so duly marched up the undulation and joined the path here.

River Dart, looking back to Totnes

The next geographical dilemma occurred when we came to a point with 2 signs to Ashprington, one suitable for bikes the other not. We knew that we had to get to Ashprington as part of our route but the instructions said that we shouldn't change paths until we got to a gate with a no entry sign and then that we would walk through a larch grove. There was no sign of a gate, let alone a no entry sign and although I couldn't be sure what a larch grove looks like I assumed it involved trees and there was no sign of this either. Additionally, according to the book, we should have passed a disused quarry and neither of us had seen any evidence of this. We'd hardly seen another soul so didn't want to chance waiting to ask someone; so we continued, enjoying more of the beautiful South Hams scenery.

When we arrived at the Sharpham farm shop and restaurant we knew we must have gone too far. It was busy with (mainly very posh) people lunching but we had no time to rest ourselves as we had just about hit the halfway mark with our car parking allowance. The lady in the shop (clearly disappointed that we were not buying wine) confirmed that we had indeed gone too far and helped out by giving us vague directions that you had to go up The Hill to get to Ashprington. So we retraced our steps a little bit until we got to the first path that looked like it was going up The Hill. This looked hopeful as it followed along beside a road, so if it didn't go to Ashprington maybe it would go somewhere else with some sort of amenities, or a bus.

But it did get us to Ashprington. This turned out to be an absolutely gorgeous place – exactly what you might imagine an English Village to be like, only with more parked cars. If I was going to live somewhere out of the city it would be somewhere like this (although a later investigation of house prices indicates that maybe I wouldn't live somewhere like this barring a lottery win). We were now back on the suggested and route and reviewing our schedule decided that we were well back on schedule to avoid a parking ticket, so we could stop off at the pub for a drink and a loo visit. It was a proper pub and one that we'll try to get back to for a meal sometime.

Ashprington

15th century church

 Suitably refreshed from one of my favourite types of ginger beer we returned to the book. It instructed us to “simply retrace” our steps. This would have been disappointing had we not taken such a major detour on the way (I am generally a fan of more circular routes) but since we had gone wrong we could aim for the right path on the way back. This was actually quite easy and we even experienced the larch grove. There was the added excitement of keeping an eye out for a lost buoyancy aid. We eventually rejoined our original path where there were the 2 signs to Ashprington, but there definitely wasn't a gate with a no entry sign. We walked back along the river and this time did see the disused quarry – quite obvious so unsure how we missed it on the way, maybe we were too engrossed in some other view. 9  miles (approximately), three and a half hours later (approximately) and a nice mix of sun and shade we avoided a parking ticket by a whole 25 minutes and were really, really hungry.

On the way back

Saturday's bus problem

Saturday 11th May, continued

After a thorough investigation of the necropolis we strolled back into Tarquinia town. There had not been many people at the burial site but it was even quieter here. It seems that between 1pm and 4pm everyone stops for a (delicious smelling) long lunch and / or a nap (this is one of the things that most appeals to me about living in a Mediterranean country. Everything was shut now - happily apart from the ice-cream shop - it must have been low season as even the bars and restaurants appeared to be on a break. So we refreshed ourselves with a gelato: coffee + pistachio for Matt and cinnamon + orange for me. 

Nature report 3

• Tarquinia has embraced the concept of a park for dogs on one side of the road and a park without them on the other side. I greatly approve of this type of canine apartheid. 
• We saw someone training a duckling (or maybe a gosling) in their front garden. At least this was the most plausible explanation of what they were doing. 
• Amazing lizard spotting today.
  
  Including some big green ones and one with a green body and brown tail. They are very camera shy.
• Like Cannes, Tarquinia is pleasingly free from seagulls (it's not very far from the sea) but it does have a pigeon issue. They seem to enjoy living in nooks in old walls. Fortunately we both avoided getting pooed on (although apparently this is lucky so maybe we weren't so fortunate after all.
• In the three hour shut down the only notable homo-sapien nature we observed was the occasional passage of a Boy Scout or Girl Guide (or whatever the local equivalent is) and an elderly man singing loudly outside a church. I don't think he was drunk, just happy. I think I would sing loudly too if I lived somewhere as lovely as Tarquinia.

We wandered in the town a bit more. It was one of those lovely places with an old building or beautiful view around each corner. I think I got an impression of what Italy would have been like in the 1950s, only now there were more parked cars and fewer mopeds. 

As the afternoon wore on we decided that we should make our way back to the ship. There would have been much worse places to be stuck than Tarquinia but we didn't fancy our chances of catching up with the ship in Corsica. The lady in the tourist information explained that we could get the small bus at 1700 or the big bus at 1620. It was 1615 and for this earlier bus we would have to buy tickets in advance at the tobacconist (they may be advanced with dog division, but not with bus ticket provision), so Matt waited at the bus stop to hold up the bus should it arrive and I dashed off to buy the tickets. By 1650 the bus had not turned up. We mused over the possibilities:

• this was one of the rarest of occasions in Italian public transport and the bus was running ahead of schedule
• the bus driver had overslept during his (or her) nap and/or overeaten (or possibly over drunk) during his (or her) lunch break
• the bus didn't actually exist at all and was merely a racket to make unsuspecting travellers buy tickets for journeys that will never happen.

At 1700 the big bus still hadn't turned up and we decided to cut our touristical Euro losses and get the small bus (that turned up on time) back to the port.

Saturday's necropolis

Saturday, May 11th 2013: continued

On the bus to Tarquinia Matt had pointed out some road signs for a "Necropolis". Since he (and me for that matter) tend to point out every road sign going I had dismissed this as "probably the municipal cemetery". But flicking through my helpful town guide it seemed that it might be something more interesting: an Etruscan necropolis. We located it on the right hand edge of our touristical map but as the touristical map didn't have a scale or any directional markings it wasn't clear whether it really was a 10-15 minute walk away (based on our experience of wandering the town), or whether it had been put schematically here and was actually located at the End of a Very Long Road. (As an aside I would like to applaud the towns where they mark the distance, or even better the estimated walking time, on their touristical signs.)

Fortunately Tarquinia had been gifted a reasonably logical cartographer. The map was to (an unspecified) scale and after walking 20 minutes along a fairly unlikely looking road we came to the UNESCO World Heritage Site. It turns out that this is the largest (known) Etruscan burial site.

There are about 6000 (known) "graves", of which most are "basic" burial mounds, but there are about 200 (known) decorated "sepulchres" (tombs). (Sorry about all the inverted commas.) Of these about 20 are open to the public. They are conserved within little "huts" and you view the subterranean burial chambers through glass / plastic / perspex (or something of that nature) - this is because the humidity of the visitors can damage the ancient wall art.

The sepulchres (no more inverted commas, I promise) date from the 6th to the 2nd centuries BC and I was fascinated to see the evolution of concepts of the after life. In the most ancient of the sepulchres the walls are decorated with scenes of banqueting, dancing, music and hunting. At this time (or so goes the theory) the Etruscans believed that the spirit of the deceased lived on in the place that they were buried.

I would choose 3 of those 4 things to decorate my burial chamber with if that was the case. In the later sepulchres you could see the influence of the Greek Theory of the after-life with images of people being led through doors to the Next World. Some of the later ones also had some erotic scenes, apparently influenced by the cult of Dionysus (whoever he or she was - perhaps I should find out). 

I'm embarrassed to say that I knew nothing about the Etruscans before, I know a little now and might even pay a visit to that section of the British Museum to learn more. The necropolis was most certainly worth parting with a few tourist Euros for, especially when you consider (given the going rate of 50 cents a go) we each had one Euro's worth of toilet usage on our visit. 

Saturday's Italian jaunt

Saturday, May 11th 2013

Today's port was Civitavecchia from where you could take a tour to Rome, or with a little skill in the use of Italian public transport visit under your own steam. Having spent a leisurely week in Rome last October Matt and I had decided before we came on holiday that we would be giving a day trip into the eternal city a miss.

If we had been a bit more organised we would have carefully investigated the alternative touristical options from Civitavecchia. But we were not sufficiently organised - not even to remember to pack our Italy guidebook or to borrow one from the ship's library - and we were unwilling to fork out for the expensive roaming charges for data via our mobiles. So it would just have to be an adventure.

Over breakfast (mostly fresh fruit to atone for last night) we narrowed down the options to Tarquinia, a bit north along the train line, or Ortobella, a bit more north along the train line. This semi-decision was made because:

• They both looked like reasonably sized blobs on the map - even though I have learnt (from meanderings in Cornwall) that this is not always a good strategy for picking locations for a day trip
• I had translated Ortobella as "beautiful garden" which I thought sounded nice.

We used our skills in Italian public transport and identified that we had just missed a train going the way that we wanted and the next one wouldn't be for over an hour. So we decided to investigate the buses. This would require a higher level of skill in the use of Italian public transport but surely there would be something connecting these reasonably sized blobs on the map. I maxed out my skills and found out that there was a bus to Tarquinia in 10 minutes - so that was where we would go. I also found out that I had misread Ortobella on the map - it was actually Orbatella (so may not have been so horticultural or beautiful after all); we could always go on there later if Tarquinia proved touristically inadequate.

But Tarquinia didn't disappoint. We arrived after a pleasant bus trip (not guaranteed with southern European bus drivers), were directed to the tourist information office (this really was a top notch bus driver) and collected a map and town guide.

 

It's a medieval town and was ideal for wandering; we didn't really need the map. We made our (slow) way to the opposite side of the town walls from where we had come in, from where we enjoyed some fantastic views across the Tuscania countryside (not to be confused with Tuscany which I was). There was no need to Go Up Something High today, which was a good job as although Tarquinia is well provisioned with towers none of them were available for touristical climbing.

Friday's gluttony

Friday 10th May, continued

Suitably relieved, we headed off towards the old town. This involved walking through the newer town past numerous designer shops. We gawped in the windows a bit, including at one mobile phone with a price tag of €16500 (that is not a typo).

The possibility of Going Up Something High was not over as there was a useful looking tower in the old town. We meandered the streets towards it and found it was part of the Musée Castre. This was a very random ethnographical (whatever that means) museum, apparently one of the oldest in France. We started off with the tower - this was obviously the main touristical attraction for us. It was with the 109 step (22 metre) climb for the fabulous views over the bay and town.

The museum was pretty good too. It was a welcome break from the now hot sun (I wouldn't be needing my anorak again) and there were some interesting exhibits. I particularly enjoyed the paintings if Cannes in the 19th century and the large display of musical instruments.

I enjoyed speaking a bit of French today, although as always I feel that my inability to correctly conjugate verbs let me down. I did manage to successfully negotiate the taking of a photo for a couple whom I put my conversational skills to use on to discover that they were on holiday from Normandy. My conversational skills were insufficient to be able to explain the difference between Portsmouth and Plymouth - a geographical knowledge impediment that I am becoming bored of explaining to people of my native tongue. I also successfully negotiated the purchase of a sarong for Matt - a red one with tortoises and fish bones that matches his yellow one with seaweed and fish bones.

I'd taken a sneaky peak at the evening's menu and wasn't particularly grabbed by anything so I persuaded Matt to give the buffet a go. The theme was Mexican.

This was a bad idea: 

• Not because I missed the waiter service - it was nice to be a bit more relaxed
• Not because the food was bad - it was yummy and there was plenty of choice for veggies
• Not because the company was bad - Matt and I had a window table for 2 and as usual enjoyed each other’s company (obviously I can't speak for him but he didn't complain and I enjoyed it). Our conversation was more normal: 
• talking about some topics that might not be acceptable with strangers including the practicalities of diving into the sea from high decks - would you reach terminal velocity? Would it hurt? How long would it take? - I was even using a bit of my college maths
• not having to take care to avoid insulting anyone - we could freely reflect upon the characteristics of some of our fellow passengers.

No, it was a bad idea because the buffet led to a dangerous relaxation of table manners. While this had some notable benefits (I do enjoy eating with my fingers when possible) it opened the floodgates of gluttony. We piled our plates high with salads for starters - so much that would be enough for a whole meal.

We followed this with a generous helping of hot mains - although I did avoid the ubiquitous roast potatoes which seem to be available with all meals in the buffet (including breakfast and late night snacks, I recommend this holiday as an option if you're a fan of roast potatoes). This might have been just about acceptable but I was then presented with a delicious-looking array of puddings. How could I choose between dulche de leche flan, churros with chocolate sauce and chilli & pecan chocolate brownies? I couldn't and I didn't. Fortunately I don't like bread and butter pudding (even the Mexican sort?) so a total waistline disaster was averted.

The extra brownie is one I selected for Matt

Saturday's hen

The weekend got off to a good start - I was actually running on time. We were due to head up to Windsor for our friend Becky's hen party. We was me, Vicki (designated driver) and Shelley who we collected from the train station on route. It was a remarkably quick trip up the M3 (for those heading south it was more like a car park). We were not going to my 1st choice of Berkshire attraction (I'm desperate to go to a certain Scandinavian brick based theme park), but to a posh hotel / spa which would be a new experience for me.

We had a good initial catch up in the car. One of my fellows was rather worried about her bikini line, but I doubted that we would be looking. Continuing with the on-time theme we were only the second group to arrive and made ourselves comfortable in the bar chatting to Becky's mum, Mary, and sister, Sarah.

It was drinks all round once everyone had arrived. Most people wisely went for a soft drink. This was wise because:

• it was a super hot day (according to my husband Windsor was the hottest place in the country) 
• the alcohol was super expensive (think over £7 for a standard gin and tonic)

Most people was everyone except Shelley, who is a fan of half a lager. I got one of my five a day in with a sparkling apple juice.

There were 15 of us all together, and Jean-Paul the restaurant manager appeared to be in charge of making sure we were fed. Despite my best efforts to entice him otherwise Jean-Paul was not interested in speaking French to me (he was actually French; he even had some rather Gallic ear hair). 

After lunch (a melted smoked cheese and tomato baguette with too much tomato) we prepared for the spa. There was a bit of a palaver to do with acquiring our dressing gowns (or robes if you're embracing the posh thing) and slippers, but we soon settled into the spa, helped by a glass of champagne. I am not a fan of sauna or steam room or bubbly boily pot at the best of times, let alone on the hottest day of the year in the hottest place in the country. Instead I did a couple of lengths and enjoyed cooling off in the pool before it was time for my mini-pedicure.

It really was mini (file and polish would have been more accurate), but I really enjoyed chatting to the lady who did it. She has recently gone back to college to train as a beautician, after spending over a decade on the stage and screen. She was the lead in a lesser known Andrew Lloyd Webber show for 2 years, and subsequently to that had spent 10 years presenting on television shopping channels. Apparently it is very difficult to be enthusiastic about a kaftan for an hour. I think I came off better than my friend who's mini-pedicure experience (begin your own sci-fi style soundtrack here) seemed more akin to an alien abduction.

Then, after a little time in the relaxation room, it was time to get ready for the evening phase of the hen party. It wasn't unrelaxing but I find it basically impossible to relax whenever that is designated as what you should be doing (random relaxation is much more effective). But there were some fun rocking chairs and a read some interesting stuff about Gibraltar while my nail polish dried.

The instruction that we had from Sarah was to get glammed up, not an activity I am terribly familiar with, although I had recently had some practice on a cruise. With the help of my super chic friend Charlotte, I chose to wear a one shoulder deep fuchsia dress. I even ironed it. Taking advantage of the occasion (rather than any style advantage) I donned my new gold high heels (with toeless tights of course to show off my new deep fuchsia toe nails).

The heat was making me very thirsty so before we headed down to eat I swigged a bottle of fizzy orange juice (possibly another one of my 5 a day). I skipped a pre-eating drink (except for a small glass of champagne that I think was given to us in the mistaken belief that we were wedding guests), but did try a little bit of my friend Helen's gin and tonic. I am usually a gin and tonic fan but this one tasted of face cleaner. Sarah had made us up some lovely hen-party party bags:

• earrings (she even swapped out mine for some with screws rather than hooks)
• bubbles (everyone loves bubbles)
• heart straws (very tasteful compared to previous hen-party straws that I have experienced)
• a badge (even more tasteful)
• decorative sweets (which was very useful as I forgot to pack any jewellery) 

Jean-Paul had arranged for us to have tea outside (dinner on the terrace if you're embracing the posh thing); it may or may not have been cooler than it was inside. But we all just about managed our way through a delicious 3 courses. And we even managed to wangle some bonus vanilla ice-cream to go with the chocolate fondant pudding.

After letting our food and wine go down a bit we bundled into taxis to get to the town centre. The destination was a cocktail bar. The details (for now) are restricted to the hens. Suffice to say a good time was had by all. Can’t wait until the wedding.