Race Day

For the last few weeks, it has been hot. As in pool hot, bikini hot even. The mildest autumn for many years has seen temperatures in the mid-70s most days since mid October. We have only just put the quilt on the bed and still have no heating on in our bedroom at night. Given that it is now mid-November, I was secretly disappointed at the thought of a delayed ski station opening, as they are usually ready for business in the Alpes Maritimes from the second week in December. But with night time temperatures of minus 15 forecast for Auron later this week, two days of torrential rain and a light dusting of snow already visible at Courmettes a few kilometres from here, it seems my fears are allayed even if our lovely late, late bonus summer has ended rather abruptly.

The weather played a pivotal role in the Nice-Cannes marathon too. As we drove to the relay points to check in for our legs early on Sunday morning, Liv in Villeneuve-Loubet and me at Cap d’Antibes, the winds were already gathering pace. The atmosphere, as always at any marathon, was phenomenal with locals braving the tornado style winds to come and cheer the runners along the route. There aren’t many things more uplifting than running in or cheering on a marathon. You really see human spirit at its best. We saw the elite runners go by as we had coffee by the beach and boy, those guys were fast.

Livvy arrived after her 8.1km leg looking pretty good considering she hadn’t been able to train for two weeks and had spent a week trying out uni life on campus at Nottingham. The joy of youth. I, on the other hand, had trained my little legs off in the lead up and felt quietly confident about the hilly section of the Cap. But the wind as we rounded into Juan les Pins was so strong, it blew one of my earphones out and whipped pine needles, dirt, sand and seawater across the course and into my face. It was impossible to see for a few minutes and everyone was running blind. Crash barriers had been flattened and this usually tranquil corner of the Med looked like a scene from The Perfect Storm.

I can’t pretend I wasn’t elated to see the next relay runner waiting at Golfe Juan for the final 6 km stretch into Cannes. The weather certainly played a part in making our Mougins Girls team finish time slower than we hoped, at 4 hours 08 minutes and 30 seconds but in the circumstances, just finishing the race at all in winds that strong was an achievement. One that was celebrated with a team photo, above, followed by huge tuna burger, fries and a bottle of Sauvignon blanc at New York New York in Cannes. Big congrats to Bel and James, who achieved amazing times in challenging conditions, with a sub 4 hr 30 PB for Bel.

With training now over until I feel the compulsion to sign up for another race, it feels quite lovely to loaf guilt-free on the sofa and veg out to the annual guilty pleasure that is I’m a Celebrity. Matthew Wright and I used to work on showbiz news together almost 20 years ago so I have to declare an interest in watching him gag and gamely chew on during the first Bushtucker trial. Go Matthew.

University Challenge

It seems like only yesterday that I was walking around with a beautiful blonde baby girl on my hip who was addicted to Teletubbies and loved sitting in on interviews in the corner of my office (mainly for the Quavers that I would bribe her with to keep quiet.) When that failed, she would be back on my hip, gurgling happily as I paced around the garden jiggling her like mad while trying to finish a phoner with a celeb before she got bored and kicked off with the screaming.

This week, that beautiful blonde baby and I are off to look at universities…how did this happen? I don’t feel any older, certainly not old enough to have a daughter who is leaving in home in less than 12 months.

It beckons a new chapter chez Kershaw, one where Issy is alone in having to put up with parents who still like to dance around the house (just stopping short of twerking), sing the wrong words to everything that comes on the radio and horrors, sometimes still hold hands while watching TV or walking the dogs. She is not amused and is already planning a jail cell style calendar marking off the days until she too can flee the nest (another four years, which might as well be a life sentence in her eyes given that there is no time off for good behaviour.)

The arguments over who has borrowed a new mascara/Top Shop knickers/Ugg boots without asking will be a distant memory and I suspect we will long for the days when we couldn’t even hold a conversation downstairs for being drowned out by hormonal banshee style screaming and insults being traded in between loud slamming of bedroom doors.

A bit of me is excited about always having a good excuse to jump on a plane back to the UK to pay Livvy a visit. (This has nothing to do with any shopping/socialising opportunities whatsoever.) She has already asked me to compile a recipe book of her favourite dishes to take with her, although this could be a red herring to allay my fear of her existing on daily MacDonalds, KFC, greasy spoon fry ups and baked beans. I am going one step further and buying her a spiraliser, which turns courgettes, sweet potatoes, apples and all sorts of other fruit and veg into spaghetti or noodles. Something tells me this might not get as much use as the corkscrew but I’ve got to try.

In the meantime, there is nothing like the prospect of a chick flying the nest to make you realise that you really just need to make the most of them while they are on loan to you, screaming matches, hovel like bedrooms and make-up caked bathrooms and all.

Run rabbit run

Every year since we moved to France I have toyed with the idea of signing up to run the Nice - Cannes marathon. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful courses in the world, snaking along the Cote d'Azur coastline and taking in the sublime Cap d'Antibes but one thing stops me. The training, oh the training. And after two London marathons - which incidentally were two of the best days of my life - I'm not sure my poor 40-something knees can cope with a third.

But this year, thanks to Mougins School and Michelle Johnson, triathlete and sports teacher extraordinaire, who asked me to join their marathon relay team, I am getting the best of both worlds; running in the marathon but only for 10.8 km before passing the baton onto Livvy for the next leg.

I was getting very excited about having my cake and eating it until Livvy casually dropped into the conversation last night the fact that Mougins historically do brilliantly and always get placed as one of the fastest finishers. Suddenly my running-free summer of drinking rose and swimming a few laps every so often instead of pounding the streets three times a week looks like it wasn't such a good idea after all.

This morning, I set off with my running playlist on my phone to do my first 5km for some time. The first kilometre was hideous, but 10 minutes in, my legs remembered that they have done this before and it started to get more enjoyable. Calvin Harris, Daft Punk and The Police helped me along and by the last sprint (past the pompiers, so it had to be a sprint rather than a stagger) I was feeling on top of the world.

The last race I ran was the 10k in Grasse last year, a few months out of treatment. The buzz was indescribable so I am looking forward to that feeling again. It's great having a race to train for. I am going to run hard over the next six weeks so I can complete my leg as fast as possible so I don't let the team down. I am going to log my times and distances on Facebook so that I can follow my progress...hopefully the thought of public FB humiliation if I don't get quicker will be incentive enough. You have been warned.

Last weekend, I wrote a very personal piece for The Times Weekend section about how I changed my diet to cope with chemotherapy. I have been overwhelmed by the amazing response from friends, family and even strangers. It was a cathartic piece to write, and having had the all clear from my recent second year control tests (yay) it feels like I have drawn a thick black line underneath that experience. Closure, maybe. A good feeling, definitely.

Getting figgy with it

We have been back for three weeks now, having arrived home with, well let's just say a little soupcon more luggage than we left with. The weather is still fabulous so the unpacking hasn't been finished and will have to wait until the first rainy weekend of autumn.

Having cooked very little during our road trip - we ate out or barbecued out of laziness, indulgence and heat exhaustion - it feels like time to get back in the kitchen.

I have two huge black fig trees in the garden but typically, the best fruit is always just that tiny bit out of my reach. I've used ladders, big sticks, even a child's fishing net to try and reach the little blighters and often risk life and limb to get them before they drop onto the terrace at the back of the house and go to waste. It seems criminal but luckily, Rosine's tree next door is also heavy with beautiful ripe green figs, all within easy picking reach, and as they are one of my favourite food stuffs on the planet and she is happy to let me pick as many as I like, I thought I would share a few of my favourite ways with figs.

If you have access to fresh figs, just pick what you need as and when as they tend to blow, leak juice and turn mouldy within a couple of days.

The salad above was lunch a few hours ago, made with figs and coeur de boeuf tomatoes (thanks again Rosine) chopped into chunks, along with artichokes and sun dried tomatoes (out of a jar), goats cheese, pine nuts and a scattering of fresh basil. I made the dressing with equal parts of olive oil and cider vinegar (which is great for speeding up the metabolism), a squeeze of lemon juice, half a teaspoon of Dijon mustard and salt and pepper. You can add a little honey to sweeten the dressing if you like. Serve it with a toasted pitta - it's healthy, low in fat and brimming with taste and goodness.

This one also works if you scatter most of the ingredients above(leaving out the fresh tomatoes, basil and pine nuts) on a piece of puff pastry and cook in a hot oven for 25 minutes (all credit to Sarah O for this one.)

For a quick, easy, low fat dessert, halve green or black figs or a combination and lay them skin side down in a roasting dish. The low fat version just needs a few tablespoons of water added while the slightly more calorific version goes with a generous dousing of honey across the top (and my friend Rob adds cinnamon too, which creates a sweet sauce with a little kick.) Roast in a hot oven for 20 minutes and serve warm with the juice drizzled over and a (small) spoonful of mascarpone. Yum. Last night's pudding at Ecole des Filles was baked cheesecake with fresh fig compote, which was delicious.

In other news this week, I found myself on the other side of the fence when I was asked to do a photo shoot for a first person piece I have just written. I have spent half my working life in studios, watching shoots while waiting to do interviews but it is a very weird feeling being the subject of one. I had a mad wardrobe panic 10 minutes before the photographer arrived, trying to choose something that was not mutton dressed as lamb, nor too clingy or heat inducing in 80 degrees. I think it went well....you can be the judge when it appears in the next week or two.

Puglia

After seven weeks, 5,000 kilometres and three countries, the summer road trip is almost at an end. Hard to choose just one highlight when there were so many....surfing on Cote des Basques, tapas in San Sebastian, aperos in Siena's Piazza del Campo, tasting great reds in Montepulciano and discovering the beautiful and virtually unknown Promontorio del Gargano on the east coast of Italy.

However, Puglia deserves a special mention, not least because the villa we rented, above, was in the most idyllic spot and perfect for exploring the surrounding towns and villages on the days when you could bear to tear yourself away from the pool terrace. Locorotondo, with its whitewashed houses, flower festooned balconies, pretty narrow streets and great fruit and veg shops (everything seemed to be €1 a kilo) was a favourite, along with the baroque splendour of Martina Franca and Torre Guaceto, a nature reserve with one of the best beaches on the coastline.

The deep south is known for la cucina povera, or poor man's food, but the food here is among the best I have eaten anywhere. Order antipasti and an abundance of courgette fritters, fresh creamy burrata, sheeps cheese, proscuitto, griddled aubergines and potato balls will weigh down the table and make you weep at the thought of finishing the next course. How anyone does primi piatti, secondi and dolce after that is a mystery to me.

If you make it to Puglia, you must not miss Matera, below, in neighbouring Basilicata. Founded by the Romans in the third century BC, it has become famous for its Sassi, troglodyte cave dwellings which are reputed to be among the first human settlements in Italy. Incredibly, these cave dwellings dug into the rock were inhabited until the mid 1960s, when a public outcry at the base living conditions led to inhabitants being rehoused just outside the city walls.

Oi Mari was set in a restored cave and offered fantastic pizzas, primi piatti pastas including an amazing wild mushroom ravioli and wines by the (huge) glass as well as great service.

If you need any more convincing that Puglia is where it's at (and I hesitate to keep ramming this point home as I don't really want anyone to know how lovely it is, so please don't go there) then it has to be the fact that after catching sight of the villa we were renting online last winter, the two 18 year olds chose to come on holiday with their parents over heading to Malia/Shagalluf/Ayia Napa with their friends. There can be no higher accolade than that.

Siena

After the thrills and spills of three weeks in Biarritz, it was time to get back on the road. Having surfed almost every day of the trip, I have to admit I was quietly relieved at the thought of a day trapped in an air conditioned car en route to Italy. I like to think my surf technique has improved a little, and I got off relatively lightly on the injuries front with just a couple of friction burns from the board and half a dozen criss cross cuts on my right foot from landing too close to a submerged rock. Oh and a suspected broken toe.

Next stop Siena and a striking contrast to the laidback West Coast beach vibe. After a July spent loafing around in shorts and flip flops, Siena is a chance to flaunt some of the many shoes I lugged along (in their own case, of course) this being Italy. There is a well known rivalry between Siena and her Tuscan sister Florence and visitors tend to fall in love with one or the other but not both. I have to say I'm finding it hard to choose. While Florence has more of a Renaissance vibe and is stuffed full of art everywhere you look, in Siena, it is all about the architecture and the feel is a lot more Gothic. It's small, intimate and a feast for the eyes if you love buildings as much as Handyman and I do.

We are staying in a converted farm on a hill just outside the old city walls, and Antonio, whose family have been here for generations, gave us three recommendations for restaurants to try. As this part of the trip is all about food, we have tried them all. Osteria il Carroccio was just like being at a family house for dinner, with one of the waitresses serving as she balanced her toddler on her hip. Almost every table was taken but they fitted us in by the kitchen. I ordered the ribollita (Tuscan vegetable and bean soup) and lasagnette (a mini lasagne?) filled with spinach and ricotta. Both delicious. Handyman had pasta in tomato and salami to start (am I alone in finding it strange to have pasta as a starter?) followed by chicken and mushroom casserole. He also gave his choices the thumbs up. We shared broad beans in tomato and garlic which, when they arrived, did a very good impression of looking just like Heinz baked beans but they tasted amazing.

Last night we went to his second recommendation Taverna di Cecco, on a quiet side street just before you reach the main square, Piazza del Campo. While Gianni the owner ran in and out greeting regulars - it was encouraging that every customer apart from us and an American couple who were being shown the sights by their Siena based student son was Italian - the waiter arrived with menus and a glass of perfectly chilled prosecco on the house. This is what I would do if I ran a restaurant. It is an instant pleaser and puts you in a great mood. I had crostini porcini - so bang went the no bread rule - followed by a lovely light risotto alla verdure made with zucchini, peas and sweet roasted onions, while Handyman opted for a caprese followed by perfectly pink lamp chops on a bed of salad. We drank Villa Antinori, a crisp and fruity white from Florence (I have just bought several bottles at the local supermarket for €6 a bottle). A guitarist turned up to serenade his friends at the next table while we discussed the derelict Hotel la Toscana opposite. By the end of supper, we were smitten, had totally remodelled it and were discussing how much we could buy it for.

Lunch today was at Antonio's third pick, Trattoria Papei in the beautiful market square. Most of the menus here are meaty, with wild boar, lamb and duck among the most common dishes. In Italy, if you are more than 20 minutes inland, it is very difficult to get fish or seafood, which makes sense really. Handyman ordered antipasti and I had the bruschetta pomodoro from his plate which was yum. He had cold cuts and minced beef spleen which he compared to cat sick and which made me very relieved to be a veggie. I am a bit pasta-ed out, all that surfing is a distant memory, so my main was chosen from side dishes of peperonata (roasted peppers in tomato and garlic) and verdure al forno (simple roasted vegetables) and Chuppa Chups had lamb chops (again) served with stewed potatoes, which he declared delicious. The dessert - torta della nonna - or Granny's tart, was unreal. Almond infused pastry filled with tangy lemon cream, baked and topped with whole toasted almonds, dusted in icing sugar. I almost wanted to go and kiss Nonna, who was sitting on the terrace surveying the action. Four orange liqueurs later (I passed mine to Handyman, who drank it, only for the waiter to arrive with two more, which he also had to drink) we staggered off in search of a lounger by the pool.

Come to Siena for the wonderful architecture, the friendly locals and the stunning scenery and of course the food as well as Il Palio, the crazy horse race that takes place every summer in Il Campo. San Gimignano is also well worth a visit, although the myriad of tourist shops were a little too Saint-Paul de Vence for me. We sat out a thunderstorm in La Mangiatoia where yet another historic lunch was consumed. Borgo Grandaie is a great base, with a delicious breakfast served on the terrace, and it's worth staying here just to pick Antonio's brain for Siena's best fare. After three nights here, we are on the move tomorrow, and heading for another personal recommendation, Promontorio del Gargano on the south east coast with a pit stop in Montepulciano en route. Viva la dolce vita.

Technology Vs the great outdoors

Today I was reading about a survey that said that two thirds of kids in a recent survey about their spare time said they would rather be outside exploring the world than playing on computers and iPads. This struck a particular chord after the day I have had with Issy and Kate.

We set off for the beach at 11.30 and despite the fact that they were lying in bed with iPads to hand 30 mins earlier, they were ready to leave before I was (I like to think this is because I chivvy along calling up the stairs 'leaving in ten' then 'leaving in five' then 'I'm leaving RIGHT NOW' only for them to appear with bags ready and sunnies on while I chase around searching for car keys, having a last minute pee and checking that I have my wetsuit.)

We got to my favourite beach Ilbarritz and instead of waves we had a flat glassy sea, perfect for swimming but no use for a board, which meant an hour of sunbathing in the most glorious surroundings, this particular beach being a cross between the best I've seen in Cornwall and Queensland, backed by dramatic cliffs and zero development. 'This is boring, let's go and find some surf,' said Issy so we packed up, jumped in the car and drove to Plage Marbella, a few minutes away on the edge of Cote des Basques.

If there is ever going to be surf, it's here, and sure enough, there was. We hired boards, paddled out and spent two hours catching some lovely waves, wiping out, standing up and laughing. I had to persuade them both out of the sea, promising we would head back tomorrow and we sloped off to the bar for a drink, salty, exhausted and utterly exhilerated. 'I'm going to teach my kids to surf,' said Issy, 'and by the time I'm 23 I want to be brilliant on a surf board. I love it here, can we move?'

It's a seductive place for sure. Sylvan, the barman at La Plancha who mixes the best mojito I've had in France, put it quite simply. 'I've lived in Polynesia for 30 years but I came back home to Biarritz this year because each time I visited my parents, it was never long enough. Tahiti is lovely but this place is where my heart is. And the surf is unbeatable.' I have to agree.