Feeling racy

It's been a busy few weeks chez nous. Mipcom was the usual chock a block celeb fest in Cannes with the great and the good flying in to promote and sell their latest TV projects. Trinny and Susannah were on great form, sharing their secrets to looking good in your 40s and 50s, what not to wear if you want to age gracefully (I listened hard) and generally telling it like it is. Go girls. Matthew Modine was a gentle soul as he talked about his new sci-fi end of the world series Cat 8 and Sarah Wayne Callies from The Walking Dead was refreshingly on the ball about life in Hollywood. The hot tip for great TV coming soon is The Americans, a sizzling new pilot starring Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys about the secret lives of Cold War spies. Then there was the Grasse 10k race, which Liv had press ganged me into signing up for. The last time I ran it was three years ago, in 47 minutes, which was never going to happen again and in typical Competitive Mum spirit, I was loathe to say yes and not be able to beat my previous time. But it was good training for Liv's Manchester marathon next spring and her first big race so I agreed to put my own ridiculous competitive spirit to one side and be her running partner. The day dawned last Sunday, sunny and a bit too warm for running at 75 degrees, and off we set for Grasse old town along with 1899 other mad souls. I was a bit jaded, the result of a ridiculously late night at Ecole des Filles with friends. We were so busy chatting that I forgot about getting an early-ish night and only having one glass of wine and suddenly it was 1am, the wine was still flowing and I had the prospect of less than 8 hours sleep....not the best preparation for a race. So it came as quite a surprise that despite a slight hangover, I enjoyed it as much as I did. It's the furthest I have run for a year, and pounding the tarmac looking out across the countryside to the coast felt brilliant. There was something very cool about being in the midst of almost 2,000 other runners with music pumping across the PA, jazz and steel bands playing en route and spectators shouting out 'Allez, les filles' which is difficult to do justice to here. We both finished in 56 minutes, a major achievement for Liv, who only took up running six months ago, and not such a shabby result for someone who could barely put one foot in front of the other last spring.

What a load of old bollards

What is the purpose of bollards? Are they useful in any way whatsoever or is their existence merely to stress out petite drivers of Jeeps?  My first brush with a bollard happened when I offered to go shopping so that my friend Sally, who was arriving to stay with us and is a brilliant cook, could whip up a fabulous supper. She was stuck on a yacht in Monaco harbour following the Historic Grand Prix, poor thing. As I loaded the car with shopping, my phone started beeping with impatient messages from Child No 1 asking how long she had to wait for her lift. I reversed out of my space in the underground car park at LeClerc in Grasse and promptly whacked the car into a low fat bollard that had failed to materialise in my side mirror. I mean, what is the point in a bollard that you can't even see, beside a car parking space that you are encouraged to use? Supper was delicious, but it might have been cheaper and less stressful if I had just taken us all out for dinner.  The car went off to the garage for repairs and came back like new, all shiny and clean with no nasty dents. So you can imagine how gutted I was when I took Handyman's parents to the airport last week and it happened again. Again, I was doing someone a favour, this time to save Handyman from missing out on work, so I offered to drive. I parked in a lovely big space near the ramp so I could push the wheelchair to departures and did a quick appraisal of the space and saw no bollards. I had learned my lesson, however, and looked in every car mirror several times before engaging reverse, so why did I hear the sickening scrape of metal against a stupid, short, dumpy, upturned bucket of a bollard that was next to my space? Because it was invisible to anyone sitting in the driver's seat. As if by weird mental karma, my phone rang and it was Handyman asking how the drop off had gone. 'Well you won't believe this but....'  'You haven't pranged the bloody car again have you?' he spluttered in rage. 'Honestly, do you think someone is driving around putting bollards up each time you park?'  Well yes, actually that's exactly what I am thinking. Livvy said: 'Mum, you need to stop doing nice things for other people.' As I type this, we are en route to Florence for my birthday weekend. The autostrada is two lanes, incredibly narrow, with high crash barriers, tight bends and the occasional bollard. And I am not driving. 

Piste to Plage...A Triumph

The word hero is generally overused but it is the most fitting word I can think of to describe each and every rider who took part in Piste 2 Plage, which came to a triumphant end late yesterday afternoon on the beach at Juan les Pins. In a nutshell, it was four days, 440 km and 160 cyclists snaking along Tour de France routes and up and down cols from the Alpine ski resort of Sainte Foy to Juan les Pins in weather that ranged from driving rain and freakish September blizzards to 30 degrees of sunshine. Lining up with 160 riders in the pretty mountain village of Auron in early morning sunshine, the anticipation of the final 111 km descent from the mountains to the coast created a tangible buzz of excitement in the air. At the forefront of my mind was the mantra 'Do Not Fall Off The Bike' and perhaps even more importantly 'Do Not Fall Over The Edge.' Having fallen off while stationary twice this summer, not forgetting a couple of embarrassing crashes into my fellow cyclist Tony while touring Kyoto two years ago, the falling off thing was in danger of becoming an obsession. Especially when I spotted crash barriers at the side of a sheer drop that had already been crashed into and destroyed. Thankfully, nothing to do with me on this occasion. We set off at 9.30am in staggered starts, with the slowest, most cautious riders first and the speed junkies last. I think you can guess which group I was in. The biggest group I have ridden in until yesterday was a gang of two so the joys of riding in a peloton were all new to me. The descent down from Auron through the mountain pass towards Nice is a spectacular drive at the best of times but on a bike with 160 other riders whizzing along with you, the wind on your face and the September sun high in a blue, blue sky, it came pretty damn close to perfection. With the roads getting busier the closer we came to Nice, we bunched together with riders shouting out warnings about gravel, posts and oncoming cyclists to the riders behind. One minute you'd be on your own lost in thought, concentration and the breathtaking scenery and the next, another rider would draw level and strike up conversation. I made a lot of new friends. As we cycled towards Villeneuve Loubet slightly ahead of schedule, the temptation to ditch the bikes for a dip proved too much and they were abandoned on the grassy verge as 100 or so sweaty padded bottoms made a dash for a quick swim in the sea, much to the amusement of the French sun worshippers on the beach. 'Oui, c'est les Anglais,' sighed a female pedestrian as she looked on bemused. If any of us needed any reminder as to why we were taking part in such an arduous challenge, it came right then when Mark, a marine who lost his right leg below the knee in a parachute accident, abandoned his bike too, ran down the beach, kicked off his prosthetic limb and hopped into the sea amid deafening cheers. Jamie, a para who sustained 60% third degree burns when his plane cockpit burst into flames, Rab, an army captain who broke his back and neck in an army ski training session and Mike, an RAF operator injured during reconnaissance over Afghanistan rode alongside us. However much your bum might hurt on that miniscule saddle, you don't even want to contemplate moaning as you ride alongside such inspirational human beings. As we headed into the last few kilometres at Cap d'Antibes in a long meandering snake, with drivers beeping and pedestrians cheering their support, the atmosphere was electric. We finally crossed the finish line at the Pinedes in Juan to the claps and cheers from friends and family and the tears flowed (well, mine did!) One year ago,I wouldn't have dared to dream that exactly a year after being diagnosed with cancer I would be marking that first anniversary riding in a challenge of this scale. I wasn't the only one proving that impossible is nothing. Neil, who had open heart surgery a few months ago, and Tom, who broke his back a year ago, were also doing the same. As the celebrations continued into the early hours at a party on the beach in Juan, the buoyant mood made everyone dig deep at the auction and raffle, leading to a current total in the region of £325,000 for Help For Heroes, which is nothing short of phenomenal. This money will fund a hydrotherapy unit at Tedworth House rehabilitation unit in Tidworth, Wiltshire as well as spa facilities for injured servicemen. None of this would have happened without the tireless dedication of one individual in particular, a certain Mr Al Parker Swift, who has lived and breathed this event since first coming up with the idea of a little cycle ride with a few mates last autumn. Words cannot express how brilliant it was. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Homeward bound

The six week 4,500k road trip is coming to an end. In that time we have had many adventures, some fun, others not quite so. The highlights? Travelling through Spain, France and the UK, seeing all the bits you usually miss, enjoying the unspoilt beauty of Cap Ferret, the culture and nightlife in Barcelona, Bill's deli in Lewes, the cool ambience of the Riding House Cafe in Soho, riding through the Norfolk countryside, surfing in the Atlantic, cycling coast roads, wine tasting in Saint Emilion, meeting my great new literary agent, watching the Olympics closing ceremony fireworks from the roof, collecting lovely bits and pieces from all over Europe safe in the knowledge that the Jeep could take the strain....oh yes, and the boozy barbecue where I realised that half of us present represented four of the most reviled professions....journalism, politics, estate agency and banking. The downsides were slashing my ear in a surf accident, losing a diamond earring in the same accident, leaving the beautiful Anthropologie cardigan I've never even worn in Saint Emilion, having a van smash into us on the M23, arriving at Beachy Head unaware that someone had committed suicide minutes earlier, enduring horrific traffic jams in 37 degrees (clearly this wasn't in the UK,) breathing through my mouth while using the stinky overcrowded mens loos at the Valence services (the queue for the ladies was 25 deep) and unpacking 1500 items from the boot at every stop. I'm returning to the Cote d'Azur a few pounds heavier and several shades blonder thanks to Karin's skills with my newly growing crop which led to being scouted for a fashion shoot by a photographer (yes, I couldn't believe it either.) Our last day and night has been spent in fitting style in Saint Remy de Provence, catching some rays by the hotel pool, mooching into the beautiful town for supper and enjoying the calm before the storm of unpacking, restocking cupboards and cracking on with work. Back to reality, except the prospect of fresh figs from the garden, 35 degrees and yoga by the pool is not such a bad routine to return to.

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.