Back on the road

They say opposites attract so there is a reason I'm married to Handyman. I break things and crash into things, he fixes them, I pack virtually everything I own (one holdall just for shoes, another for toiletries, you get my drift) he travels light and I love a lie in while he is up before the birdsong starts and has been for a walk, breakfast and coffee before I have even brushed my teeth. Our last night in Western France before leaving for the UK was a frenzy of packing (me and Issy, who have oversized suitcases, so much her mother's daughter) while he nonchalantly chucked a few bits into his diddy Samsonite and hey presto, he was off to the bar while we waded through unworn, unfolded clothes that there was no point unpacking in the first place.  This morning, an hour before we were due to leave, he was hassling us to close our cases so he could start loading the car. I am allergic to organisation on this scale especially when I'm still in bed with sleep in my eyes. Issy was still unconscious. I dragged myself out of bed, shut my case and he was off sprinting to the car with it. Half an hour later, with the car immaculately loaded with cases, wine, beach bags, my bike and concrete candle holders, I realised that the apartment key was still in my clutch bag, now packed in my suitcase. Cue a complete unpacking of the car, amid stifled hilarity upstairs while Handyman burned off a few cals of last nights pizza/pasta carb fest trying to find the right clutch (they were three to choose from, so easy to get confused.) The moral of this story is that it doesn't always pay to be ahead of yourself.  Despite the fact that this last month was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, with some work and adventure thrown in, it has been rather eventful. I am covered in cuts and bruises, the result of biking/surfing exploits. Two days ago, I fell off my bike in front of 200 tourists as I left the ferry at Cap Ferret. It was far worse than landing in the dirt in Spain when at least no one else was around. But by far the worst accident was surfing. There I was, surfing at Biscarrosse near Bordeaux, catching some great waves and enjoying the water. After a couple of hours, I decided to get 'one last wave.' Unfortunately so did the guy next to me and he ploughed into me, knocking me off my board and somehow entangling his ankle leash around my neck under the water. As I fought to release the cord, the guy was tugging his board above me and strangling me. The surfboard fin smashed into the back of my ear and as I finally emerged from the water, I was covered in blood, my diamond earring ripped from my earlobe and the back of my ear sporting a gaping slice. The Baywatch guys swung into action, cleaning me up as other bathers looked on in horror and sending me off to Dr Fabian, a cool hippie with a surfboard in the corner of his office who stiitches up all the unfortunates. The surf shop owner said 'Fabian is good with a needle and thread.' He took a photo with his iPhone to show me the gaping flesh before and the neat six stitches afterwards saying, 'It's a shame it's behind the ear as it looks so pretty now.'   My mum has urged me to take up something safer, like knitting. In London, I have decided to leave the derring do to the Olympians and stick to pedicures and some light shopping instead. Meanwhile the 12 hour journey back to the nippy North unfolded with us both doing what we do best....Handyman driving and me reading the satnav, the papers on the iPad and Cote Ouest.  

Cap Fantastique

There's a little stretch of western France that is akin to heaven. It's called Cap Ferret/Bassin d'Arcachon and it's as close to perfection as you could hope to get. The town of Arcachon is a buzzy beachside haven with seafood restaurants, cool boutiques and a beautiful daily market selling yesterdays catch, fresh fruit and vegetables as well as cashmere, silk dresses and pastries. La Maison du Bassin on Cap Ferret is the kind of hotel that one wishes to open in those daydreams one has of running a seaside b&b. The bar and terrace were full of interesting types, from Parisian families en vacances to surf dudes to arty creatives. And us. It has a whiff of The Hamptons about it. The region boasts stunning white beaches, surfing, cycling, seafood, the best wine in France, sand dunes, dolphins....it's full of tanned beautiful families with kids straight out of Boden, dads who look like a cross betwenn Sean Penn and Matthew McConaughey and chic bikini clad mums wearing straw hats and boasting not a millimetre of fat. The shoes are Converse, Havaianas and Bensimon. I'd like to say I hate it but I'm smitten. Cap Ferret has wide open white sandy beaches with barely a soul on them at the end of July, cool beach bars playing salsa and latin sounds with driftwood sofas and shade sails and enough surf to keep the dudes happy. Stylish boutiques like Jane de Boy and Popies nestle beside wooden oyster shacks in the fisherman's quarter serving delicious crustaceans with a glass of chilled white. Everyone cycles with their groceries, baguettes, poodles and French bulldogs in their baskets. Chateau Galhaud locked up their wine when they heard Handyman was in Saint Emilion on Sunday. It's a beautiful village full of history, with a monastery dating back to the 8th century. We were spolit for choice with wine and went to two different caves and chateaux for tastings before heading for lunch on a shady terrace. As we were paying the bill, I noticed a poster advertising Herbie Hancock performing in Bordeaux. 'I wish we'd been here for that, I bet it was brilliant,' I said to Handyman. The very cool guy sitting at the bar wearing a hat nodded and smiled to himself. It was Herbie, chilling on a Sunday lunchtime in sleepy Saint Emilion! You've got to love a road trip, especially if you work from home and time isn't a problem. As long as you book places with wifi, you can work when necessary and explore the rest of the time. After interviewing Lenny Henry, I finally managed to persuade Handyman to hire a bike so I don't have to keep training alone following my coast rides in Spain and exploring the Bassin here. We hit the road first thing and cycled along stunning routes next to the ocean, stopping for a coffee and a croissant just as the rest of Bordeaux was waking up. Short of a surf, which had to stop after day two when a fellow surfer careered into me and caused a gash in my ear that needed six stitches, or a gallop across the beach, it is the perfect way to kick start the day. After cycling around the Cap, Sebastian Degrave's oyster shack, pictured above, beckoned and six huge oysters and a glass of white wine seemed in order. Although to call it a shack is slightly misleading given that it sits on a beach opposite the oyster beds and looks like a style shot out of Cote Sud. Cannot say more...except please don't come here, it's awful.

Barcelona and Arcachon

Barcelona is a great city, even if you don't pack light, like I didn't, and end up having to lug luggage up four flights of stairs to our cool apartment opposite the cathedral.  The tapas was fantastic at a number of restaurants including Mariscco in Placa Reail and Origens in el Born, where everything was organic. The pimientos del padron and baby squid Galician style were particular favourites.  Luckily for the Kershoe brigade, the shops stayed shut on Sunday so there was no opportunity to swell the total of eight pairs of shoes we had bought collectively in Alicante. Instead, it was the Miro Fundacio followed by a fishy tapas lunch and cava at Mariscco. Drinks at the rooftop bar of the Pulitzer rounded off a perfect weekend. Seven hours drive later, on Monday we landed in Arcachon near Bordeaux for the next leg of the summer road trip. It's a favourite haunt of Parisians, Johnny Depp, Vanessa Paradis and AA Gill, and it's not hard to see why. The seafront is bordered by golden sand, oyster bars and restaurants looking across the bassin towards Cap Ferret. There are dozens of stylish boutiques and a market selling organic and locally grown produce, boasting a fish stall which if the fish counters of Leclerc, Auchan and Carrefour were lined up they would still not beat it in length or quality.  The area is full of sand dunes, popular with bottlenose dolphins, porpoises and surfers, with the Atlantic waves among the best in Europe. With that in mind, I booked a surf lesson for Issy and Poppy before heading off to try out the beach they will be learning on tomorrow evening. I hired my board and was persuaded to take it for four hours rather than two with the words of the surf dude ringing in my ears. 'Les vagues sont tres belles aujhourd'hui.' Now, defining good is a tricky one. And I didn't realise that most of the four hour hire time would be spent trekking in searing heat with a board twice the size of me under my arm.  By the time I had parked the car at La Salie Sud and walked a kilometre of boardwalk in sand dunes carrying a 7ft 6in fun board in 80 degrees and a wetsuit, I was having anything but fun and I hadn't even stepped into the surf yet. There were no other surfers in sight, not an encouraging sign, but I was damned if I was going back after all that effort.  I gamely stepped in and was immediately rolled by waves crashing sideways into each other. Memories of Hossegor came flooding back but as everyone who knows me knows, it takes a lot to beat me. When I emerged an hour later, I'd managed to catch a fair few good waves, get rolled by a few more and incur a sand rash on my knee and a whack across the jaw when a particularly evil wave caught the board and smashed it into my face. Does this sound like fun? I'm not doing it justice.  Later, as I regaled Sarah with soggy surf tales as water still poured from my nose and my knee took on a shiny hue of scarlet, I decided that a priority in the next few days is to find a beach with surf boards for hire, surfers aplenty, less of that walking mullarkey, kind waves and a bit more in the way of fun. I will leave you with the image of me, ready for a big one, and clearly marking myself out as something of a lone maverick to the couple walking along the shallows, only for me to end up seconds later, virtually at their feet, tied up with my ankle leash like a character from Fifty Shades of Grey, covered in sand and seaweed. 

Living la vida loca

We all like to start our days in different ways. This morning I drank a hot lemon and cayenne followed by a bowl of fruit, yoghurt and honey and then headed to the Bhavana spa for a steam, swim and a massage. Meanwhile Handyman, Issy and Gazker headed off in another direction for a full English breakfast.  La vida loca is tripping along nicely in sunny Spain, following a hot 12 hour journey from Bar sur Loup to Gran Alacant. We left at midnight after partying the evening away at Al and Susie's, which was a brilliant idea from my point of view (as designated Champagne drinker) and a not so great idea from Handyman's (his decision to leave at midnight rather than Sunday morning therefore he was the driver.) Al's valiant attempt to keep us off the road until morning by offering Iain a champagne bucket filled with Guinness and straws failed, and we rocked up at Gary's house at midday just in time for lunch. It's roasting but all the more enjoyable for the fact that it is tipping down in the UK. My sincere apologies to all non Med readers, who may be spitting tacks by now and hurling their PCs at rain spattered windows as they read this. My first Spanish bike ride yesterday went well up to a point. The point at which I fell off. Cycling 30k in 30 degrees at 9am down the coastal road to Santa Pola was lovely, with the warm sea breeze keeping me from overheating. Confidence is not always a good thing though and when I decided to do a u-turn rather than stop, I came unstuck, or rather I didn't come unstuck in time, the dirt path loomed and unable to click my cleats out of the pedals, I collapsed in a heap of dirt with the bike on top of me. Only my pride was dented but I am sporting a rather lovely purple bruise on my left thigh.  Whizzing along past little coves and beach bars is a wonderful way to explore the local community. Stopping off at beach bars makes the journey even better. We have our own version of the Bitch, otherwise known as Opio hill, but in the spirit of being en vacances who needs a gradient when you can choose a gently sloping beachside plateau instead?  In contrast to Northern Europe, the meteo office has issued an amber weather warning here forecasting temperatures of up to 40 degrees. It makes going to the beach before 4pm an impossibility, so there is nothing for it but to take life slowly, relax and enjoy the holiday vibe. 

A very personal journey

There are moments in life when your faith in human nature is restored to the point where you want to cry with joy. Like the time many years ago when I lent the silk jacket I was wearing to a girl I'd never met before on a mad night out in New York (it's a long story, she worked at a merchant bank and couldn't go into work the next day without changing her outfit slightly, given that she hadn't been home all night.) I did it against my better judgment, expecting never to see it or her again and berated myself for being a soft touch. Imagine my surprise when a month later, a package arrived from Brooklyn, containing my jacket, a thank you letter and a beautiful dress for two-year-old Olivia. It happened again this week. With just three months until the Piste 2 Plage Challenge, I created my charity fundraising page for Help For Heroes. As well as asking for sponsorship, it was also a public declaration of what I have been through over the last 10 months. On the day I race, it will be the first anniversary of my diagnosis of breast cancer. Three operations, four and a half months of chemotherapy and six and a half weeks of radiotherapy later, I'm hanging in there, my hair is growing back after six months of looking like an extra from Alien, and best of all, I feel normal, no scratch that, I feel pretty great. I loaded it on Facebook, Twitter and email and by last night, just over 24 hours later, I'd raised in excess of £1,000 in donations from generous friends, relatives and in some cases work colleagues I have never even met. My day improved when I found out how to view the donations and read the encouraging messages of support. I am so touched I cannot even put it into words. With this in mind, I went out yesterday to buy my cycling gear. Livvy cracked up when I tried on my helmet the wrong way around. It should have been a giveaway that a. I couldn't actually see and b. the flashing torch was on the front instead of the back, making me look like a confused miner. Having been warned about raw buttock syndrome on those skinny roadbike saddles, I bought the most padded shorts I could find, which give the impression that I couldn't quite make the loo in time. Never mind. I'm a runner not a cyclist, but I will be going for it on September 15th alongside 150 other mad souls from the pretty mountain town of Auron to Juan les Pins as fast as my chunky little neon shorts will allow me. Today's picture is of me with my gorgeous soon to be teenager last year in Puglia. She is 13 on Sunday and when asked what she would like to do for her birthday, she eschewed parties and outings with schoolfriends to choose a day at the beach, just the four of us.

Two funerals and a 50th

Sitting on Easyjet has never felt so good thanks to the wonderful invention that is the iPad. I have spent this week at the Monte-Carlo TV Festival, interviewing Eva Longoria...beautiful, funny and smart, Chad Michael Murray...beautiful...Ted Danson, my teenage crush in Cheers, who is still looking good at 64, and Downton Abbey actor Allen Leech, who did a great job of keeping schtum about the new series which starts in September. Hot on the heels of the Cannes Film Festival, it means there are currently not enough hours in the day in which to write everything up. But I have just spent an enjoyable hour on thd plane writing an interview with Michelle Collins for a UK women's magazine, without feeling like a chicken with its head cut off. No email or phone to divert me either, just a muffin and a mint tea. This is my second London flight this week and I am heading to my second funeral as dear lovely Nanny Kit died two weeks ago. She was 95, in pain and just didn't want to go on any longer. She passed away a few days after a great family friend Jack, who was almost 90. His funeral last Friday was a fitting tribute to a man who was loved by everyone who met him. Even the tearing wind, horizontal rain, uprooted trees and freezing temperatures at the graveside couldn't dampen people's spirits, it was like Jack was hovering over us to see how much we could stand.  Tomorrow will be a sad day, as Kitty was larger than life, feisty, funny and didn't suffer fools. But it will also be a celebration of her long life and a time to reminisce and share happy memories. The fact that her four great-grandchildren grew up knowing her is a marvellous bonus, as is having a grandparent when you are 45. We took my mum out for supper when we arrived and she passed nan's platinum engagement ring to me with a note, written by nan quite a few years ago from the look of the hand writing, saying 'This is for Karen'. It's on my finger now. The weekend takes a more upbeat turn on Saturday when we head off to Nick's 50th. His band is playing, the Thai caterers are on standby, and the champagne will surely flow even though the great UK summer rainclouds seem set to do their utmost to rain on his parade. My silk dress and heels may need to be swapped for jeans and boots but we are armed for every eventuality and weather pattern. Luckily the sun shone last weekend when Fiona hosted a fundraising quiz for the Piste to Plage Challenge in aid of Help for Heroes. Over 60 people attended, and thanks to generous donations, fantastic raffle prizes and the efforts of Chris France to shift more copies of his book Summer in the Cote d'Azur and donate the proceeds, a magnificent €2,000 was raised. Just shows what can be done in the back garden on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The challenge takes place in September so training has started in earnest and the funds have provided a welcome boost for everyone's charity page efforts.  This month we celebrated four years of living in France and this much I know. No matter how much I miss my family and friends - never more so than at times like this - I'd find it very hard to return to the UK, where one blazing week in March followed by another in May constitutes summer. We marked our anniversaire Francais in fitting style, watching England play France at the home of Eric, who was proudly wearing his French football shirt alongside his father-in-law Jean, also in a French shirt, and Corinne, who mercifully was not. At least the draw means we are all still talking. 

Cannes glitter and glitz

So I survived the Cannes Film Festival. I ran between interviews, screenings and parties for 12 days and wasn't sure just how I would pull it off given that no bedtime came before 3.30am and yet not only am I still standing but I feel great. Had a lovely chat with Jay Z at Kanye West's premiere party at Palm Beach. First off, I couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted him shimmying on the spot to the disco classic All Night Long right next to me. 'It's Jay Z isn't it?' I said and he held out his hand and said 'Yes maam,' shaking mine. We're both sporting short crops at the moment and he said:'I love your hair. I thanked him and said it was easy to just wash and go and he added: 'Hey tell me about it,' gesturing to his close cropped hair. It was a moment. Kim Kardashian and Kanye, pictured in the background above, looked cosy. Despite a crippling schedule, I saw and loved Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom, Brad Pitt's satirical gangster yarn Killing Them Softly, On The Road, based on Jack Kerouac's iconic novel and Michael Haneke's Amour about the love between an old Parisian couple as she falls ill, rendering him as her carer. Not much happens, and for most of the film it is a two-hander in their apartment but I defy anyone to watch it and not be moved. It well deserved the Palme d'Or for director Michael Haneke. Other highlights? Well Brad looked gorgeous as always on the red carpet and I drank two months rations of Laurent-Perrier at the parties...Calvin Klein's was the ritziest, at a sumptuous villa above Cannes with A listers galore including Ben Stiller, Naomi Watts, Chris Rock and Alec Baldwin. I saw Ronnie Wood perform at VIP Room with Cyndi Lauper, Aloe Blacc at the Eden Roc and reluctantly passed on Simple Minds private Replay gig. I also mooched about on Eva Longoria's yacht. The Filmmakers Dinner at Eden Roc was also pretty special but by day 9 I was starting to flag and blew out a late invite for dinner at the Carlton with Nicole Kidman, John Cusack, Matthew McConaughey and Zac Efron for a quiet supper with Iain and the girls in sleepy Le Rouret instead. It was a no brainer. The glamour and glitz is great but normal life is even better.