The Tragedy of Nice #Nice06

Warning - this blog contains upsetting images of the scenes in Nice.

They came out in their hundreds; locals, holiday makers, families with children and more. They came to enjoy the Bastille Day celebrations in Nice, as thousands of others were doing all over France on 14^th July 2016. A day, which in 1789 saw the beginning of the French revolution, but which on this occasion marked a day of unimaginable violence, death and grief.

As the crowds made their way along the Promenade Des Anglais having enjoyed the fireworks and conviviality of an evening shared with friends and family, they could not have begun to imagine the tragedy, which was unfolding behind them.

Following the crowds in a 19 ton lorry was 31 year old Tunisian born Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel. Bouhlel was on a mission of evil intent, which would end with the horrific deaths of at least 84 people.

Using the lorry as a weapon, and in an act of incomprehensible cowardice and cruelty, Bouhlel deliberately drove into the crowds, leaving a swathe of destruction and death in his wake. He drove for 2 kilometres before being shot and killed by French police. 

As well as those murdered, hundreds were injured, many of them seriously.

10 of those murdered were children; the image of the covered body of a murdered child lying next to her discarded doll brought this unspeakable and sickening attack into sharp focus. 

I understand war. There have always been wars. Soldiers choose to go and fight in wars and I salute their courage and bravery. But this. To mow down innocent children with their families? There are no words to adequately express my feelings. 

In those minutes, lives were wiped out, and other lives forever changed. For the families of those murdered, life will not, and cannot be the same again. 

Never.

I was up at 5.30 this morning as I usually am. Our rescue dog Merlin was politely reminding me that it was high time I took him for his first walk of the day. A beautiful day in promise, with the sun just beginning to rise. 

However, a message from a friend via social media stopped me in my tracks. Living in Australia and hours ahead of us here in France, she was already aware of the horrors, which had unfolded in Nice the night before. 

I read the news report in what felt like slow motion and I wept.

I wept for the families, the children, the dead, the dying, and the injured. I wept for the mother’s the father’s the grandparents, and the unmitigated abomination of the violence this one man had wrought. I wept for France, experiencing her third terrorist attack in 18 months and I wept for the futility of it all, the utter waste of human life and for what?

I am a mother, a grandmother and a wife. I know the value of family, of a loving husband and of life, which is good. As well as family, I have wonderful friends, close friends who I love as I love my family. I began to think how I would feel if it were one of MY children, or one of MY friends who had been a victim of that wicked attack and I wept some more.

I am also a writer, and writers write.

This is a personal and emotive blog, it is how I feel today, it is an outpouring of grief, rage, sadness, sorrow and much more.

Steve and I live in Brittany, far away from the tragedy in Nice. However, in our little village today, there is an eerie silence. The lively local café, usually so busy on a Friday morning, is closed. The Mairie’s office is closed. No one is out in their garden, despite the sunny weather, and as my friend and fellow author Jennie Bonhet put it so succinctly, “sorrow hangs in the air”.

Sorrow also hangs over us. Like millions of others the world over, Steve and I have been deeply affected by this latest terrorist attack. We did not know any of the victims in Nice, but we FEEL. We feel the pain, we feel the anguish of those personally affected. We really do share in the suffering, albeit from a distance and in a very small way, compared to those at ground zero.

Some people might turn to their God at a time like this and find some comfort there. Others will ask, “Where WAS your God when this happened?” Whatever your personal beliefs, the human spirit is strong, France is strong and will respond to this latest attack in her midst with all possible means.

There will be three days of mourning in France; it is not enough. The repercussions of this night of terror will last for an eternity, especially for those caught up in it.

Our thoughts are with the families, their friends and loved ones. We are heartbroken for you, we weep with you, we embrace you from afar and though you do not know us, we stand with you in your grief and we say, we are sorry. Sorry that this man, whatever his warped motives were, took your loved ones from you in such an horrific way We’re sorry that you are having to live through this, when all you wanted was a peaceful evening out with your families. We are sorry that your lives are forever changed; that the plans you made for the future have been destroyed at the hands of a murderous fanatic.

Most of all, we are sorry we cannot turn back the clock and change it, prevent it happening and make it all right again.

May you find the strength and the courage to go on.

Freya

Road to Hell; or our 36 hour dash from Brittany to the UK and back!

Okay, perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea we’ve ever had to make a trip from Brittany to the UK and back again in less than 36 hours, but here’s how it came about in such a hurry ……….

Steve and I had been in our new home for about 6 weeks when we decided to get a dog. Not just any dog of course, but a rescue dog, and not just any rescue dog. Oh no, if we’re going to have a dog, while up to our ears in renovating a house, then let’s make sure it’s one who has never lived in a house in his life, and is therefore not house trained; add to that a background of abandonment and ill treatment, which makes the poor thing frightened of just about everything and everyone. Yes, let’s have THAT dog, oh and make it a BIG dog too - J

Welcome to Merlin.

Merlin, our beautiful Griffon Bleu de Gascogne - who has perfected the hang dog expression to a tee

So, what has this got to do with us going to the UK and back again in less than 36 hours? Well it all came down to two things.

The cost of travel

Someone to care for Merlin

Merlin's care was our paramount concern

We realised that ferry costs were becoming startlingly high with the advent of the summer holidays. A quick price check put a return trip on the ferry with the Land Rover and trailer at an exorbitant €700 return!  The Channel Tunnel was a more reasonable €200, so the Tunnel it was.

Up until this point, we had managed to avoid the Tunnel and for good reason. One only has to turn on the news to see the trouble going on both sides of the Channel, with riots and violence breaking out on an almost weekly basis. Delays and frayed tempers are common place, hence we had always used the ferries. In addition, it is almost a 7 hour drive for us to get to the Tunnel, compared with a mere hour and a half to the closest ferry. But the Tunnel it was.

The next big question was what to do about Merlin. A nervous and highly anxious dog, it was untenable to even contemplate taking him with us. To expect any dog to spend that length of time in a car without much of a break is totally unfair. Added to this was the fact that the weather was too hot for him to spend time in the back of the Land Rover, plus when he is anxious he won’t eat or drink properly; it was obvious that we needed to identify someone to care for him.

What about me?

Thankfully, help was at hand from a lovely lady called Wendy who agreed to care for Merlin in her own home for 2 days and one night. We knew what a task she was taking on and were extremely grateful to her. However, due to other commitments, her window of opportunity for looking after Merlin was small, and in the end it was either, make the trip in 4 days’ time, or leave it until September when the prices go down a bit.  Decision made; I booked for 4 days’ time.

I had little sleep the night before as I fretted about getting to Wendy’s in good time with Merlin and trying to get him settled before we dashed off. We left our house at 6am, and it was at this point that the Sat Nav decided;

 “I know, let’s go the scenic route”. 

There ensued a frustrating journey, which at any other time would have had me exclaiming in delight. “Oh look at those lovely woods” or, “What a pleasant little one track road this is; and with so many lovely twists and turns”! However, when you are towing a trailer with a fretful dog in transit,  and on a tight schedule it’s no joke. Thankfully, we arrived in good time and Merlin was introduced to his temporary home – complete with 2 cats, which set his tail wagging like a flag!

Off we went in the direction of the Tunnel; ignoring the Sat Nav’s attempts to send us back the same way, we managed to navigate to the main road and we were off.  As is my habit when we go on a road trip, I had packed a picnic and flask. As is also my habit, I began to eat it almost as soon as we were on our way. Steve on the other hand, was in his, “Man on a Mission” mode, refusing all offers of ham and cheese sandwiches on fresh baked soft white French bread, and snatching water only when necessity drove him to it.

The miles flew by, and finally I was able to appreciate the scenery and beauty of the area, in which we are lucky enough to live.

We are lucky to live in such a lovely area

Sunrise in the Cote D'Armor

However, my good mood quickly evaporated as we arrived at the Tunnel. After a drive of almost 7 hours, the last thing we needed were delay, but, delays we had. Two hours of them to be precise.  As we sat in the long static queue, we gave thanks that Merlin was not in the back of the Land Rover. It was hot and tedious and he would have been a very unhappy dog. We finally made it onto our train and made the quick 25 minute crossing to the UK.

THEN the fun began L we had been spoiled by the wide open spaces of France, and had almost forgotten the congestion on the roads in England. It seemed that the M25 was one giant car park. The M1 was no better, with bumper to bumper tail backs for miles. It was Friday evening rush hour and the whole world seemed to be on a journey to somewhere. What should have been a 4 hour trip took 6 hours and once again, we were grateful that we had not brought Merlin.

We finally made it to our destination in Derbyshire and immediately ordered a Chinese takeaway! Some things are just necessary J

After refuelling ourselves, we set about loading up. Our belongings had been stored at Steve’s mum’s, and so into the attic, shed and bedroom closet we went, rooting out boxes, suitcases, guitars, speakers, amplifiers and much more. It was a bit like Christmas, with long forgotten things seeing the light of day once again. Needless to say it rained as we were loading!

Packed to the top!

Steve soon had it all packed up, covered and amazingly, we were ready to leave again in less than 4 hours. However, we had one more destination …………. Tesco!

Thankfully, open 24 hours and close by, we made a trolley dash around, picking up the things we either can’t get in France, or, which are so ridiculously expensive as to make them prohibitive. Top of the list was Bisto gravy, followed closely by mushy peas (for Steve not me I hasten to add, I tend not to eat anything which is luminous green) brown sauce, and Tilda Basmati rice. Heinz beans were of course in the mix, as well as Walker’s crisps and some Cadbury’s chocolate – all good healthy stuff of course J

Just got to do it!

We managed to snatch a few uncomfortable hours’ sleep in the chair and on the sofa before it was 6 am again and time to leave.  Once again, despite it being a Saturday we hit the traffic and queued for another 2 hours on the M1 L How people manage to do this every day of the week is beyond me.

Arriving with an hour to spare, I had the mother of all headaches; a combination of lack of sleep, lack of proper food and stress.  Leaving Steve to snooze in the Land Rover I set off for the Duty Free shop in search of paracetamol. Of course we had bought paracetamol in Tesco but could I find them? Of course not, so off I went. Picking a pack up, I squinted at the price – wait for it – a whopping €4.95 for 12 paracetamol! “What?” I raged loudly at no one in particular “€4.95? These are 16p in Tesco” and with that I stuffed them back on the shelf and decided to put up with the headache.

“Did you get some?” asked Steve when I got back.

“Are you kidding?” was my response, “They want €4.95 for them, not likely, I’ll find the ones I got in Tesco”

He nodded in understanding, “Paracetamol rage?” he asked knowing me all too well.

I admitted somewhat sheepishly there had been paracetamol rage in the shop.

There then ensued a LOT of rooting, rummaging and generally annoying behaviour as I determined to find the lost tablets, my headache worsening by the minute. Finally I managed to find them, and felt extremely satisfied in NOT having wasted €4.95.  I felt better almost immediately J

Thankfully, the return Tunnel was free of delays and we even managed to get on an earlier train. As we drove off in France, we both exhaled. We were home, and despite having the 7 hour return trip ahead of us, we felt a sense of relief. There was not one hold up on the way home, no traffic jams, no road works, no stress, just a lovely drive through the wide open spaces of the country we are proud to call our home.

We called at home and literally threw everything in the door before going to pick Merlin up. 

Stuff!

More stuff!

It was late when we got there, but Merlin had his bags packed and was ready to come home. He had, of course, been fine. He had made friends with the cats, and also met some tame sheep and been spoiled rotten by his auntie Wendy J

Home again

I think it took all three of us a good week to get over the journey and settle back into a routine again. It was tiring beyond belief, but for the first time in six years, we have all our stuff in one place – at home.

Feels good J

I looked at Steve and smiled. He had driven the whole 1400 mile round trip without once losing his cool or getting rattled. He had also turned in to the wild man of Borneo! I mean it had only been 2 days for goodness sake, but without regular grooming, Steve reverts to caveman mode. His bristles grow at an alarming rate, and his hair, well, let’s not go there. Let’s just say we were both glad when he showered and shaved the next day!

***

Merlin has been with us now for almost three months and has become somewhat of a celebrity. He has his own Facebook page;

www.facebook.com/merlinthehounddog

AND he has his story in print and available as a download from Amazon;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Merlin-Hound-Dog-Part-Cold-ebook/dp/B01I09GHZO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1468437724&sr=8-1&keywords=merlin+the+hound

In this short story, you can read all about Merlin and the progress he has made to date in his new home. We love him dearly and he has quickly become a part of our lives and has a special place in our hearts.

Please visit my website at www.freyabarrington.com for more details about my writing. 

I have a new book due out, entitled Caught in Traffick, which given this trip is quite appropriate! The book will be published very soon, so watch out for that one.

Happy Summer everyone

Freya 

NEW Short Story About Our Rescue Dog Merlin is NOW Available on Amazon

I am really pleased to announce that my new short story all about our lovely rescue dog Merlin is now available on Amazon.

Read all about his adoption from the SPA in Quimper and how he has begun to adapt to his new life in Brittany with us.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Merlin-Hound-Dog-Part-Cold-ebook/dp/B01I09GHZO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1467751407&sr=8-1&keywords=merlin+the+hound

Dance With My Father; A personal blog about Father's Day

In some countries, including the UK and France, June the 19^th is Father’s Day and as such, many people will celebrate and be thankful for their father.  

Not everyone will join in with the celebrations. For some, their experience with their father was negative or perhaps even abusive, negating any desire for an ongoing relationship . For others like me, the reason is more simplistic. Their father has passed away. There is no one to call and say hi to on Father's Day, no one to visit and take a bottle of scotch to. It is a day for reflection and memories.

When that life changing call came, I felt my legs go from under me. Someone, I don’t recall who, held me up and helped me to a chair. My mind was numb with disbelief and shock.

At the age of only 56, my father had died. He had not been unwell, but had a massive coronary thrombosis and had died instantly. He was in the back of a taxi of all places, the driver of which, drove immediately to a police station, but it was too late. He was gone. I had moved from Lancashire to Derbyshire only three days earlier. I had said goodbye to him, we had hugged, joked and said goodbye.

How could I have known that it was to be my last goodbye?

At only 56 he was gone







I stood now in a stranger’s kitchen trying and failing, to get my emotions under control. There were no mobile phones in 1981, but someone had managed to track down my closest neighbour and rung them to ask them to go and get me. They were so kind and drove me to a railway station some miles away where I was met my by beloved Aunt. I wept and I sobbed, until I made myself sick. I was in a nightmare from which there was no escape. And what of my mother? She had idolised him; oh God, how would she ever cope. I knew she wouldn’t.

Me and my brother with my lovely mum






At the age of 21, it was my first close encounter with the death of a really close family member – a parent. I had lost grandparents of course, but while I mourned their passing, it was not the same. This was my dad. My DAD for God’s sake. He couldn’t be dead, he just could NOT be dead.

I could not claim to have been close to my dad, in fact, he was a rather distant father. Growing up, he was someone who was in the house on occasion, but did not really interact with my brother and me. I recall mum pestering him to take us out for the day, which he did, with bad grace. He was not a family man, he was a business man, and a busy one at that. He was often abroad in Germany where he had a branch of his textile business. However, when he returned, he would always bring me marzipan and chocolate off the ferry. He never forgot. I actually hated marzipan, but that was not the point. My dad had brought me something, he had thought of ME.

Dad with one of his cars







Dad was a golfer and a Freemason – two activities, which kept him out of the house for most of the time, much to my mother’s disappointment. When I became a teenager, dad and I were little more than strangers who passed through the same space now and again. If I was really stuck, he would take me to work in the racing stables, where I was a groom. We hardly spoke, he really was like a stranger to me, and I found I had nothing to say to him. He must have said something to my mum because she tackled me about it one day. She said that dad told her I hardly spoke to him in the car on the way to work. I felt angry and snapped at her, “What do you want me to say to him mum? I don’t know him”. She was shocked, but knew it to be true. He had invested little time in his children and as a consequence, our relationship was strained and distant.

Always one of the lads - here's dad on the wall



After this incident however, he began to make more of an effort, and I guess, I did as well. Not having much in common made it difficult, but things started to improve.

One overriding memory I have of my dad is of New Year 1977. I was a "know it all" teenager (is there any other type?) my friend Nick and I had decided to go to the pub and see the New Year in. Mum and dad had agreed, but dad wanted to know how I was getting home. “Oh” I said airily, “We’ll get a taxi”. Dad warned that there would be few available taxis around at midnight on New Year’s Eve, but of course I didn’t listen.

Well, we had our night of fun and of course, as predicted, the taxi did not turn up. However, instead of ringing mum and dad from the phone box in the pub, Nick and I decided instead to go to some unsuitable teenage boy’s house along with a gang of other teens. (I can’t believe how stupid teenagers are at times)

It was all perfectly innocent. We listened to music, smoked a few B&H and before I knew it – it was 3 am and definitely time to think about getting home. “I know” I said having a brainwave, “I’ll ring my dad, he’ll come and get us”. Oh the foolishness of youth. I had not given one thought to the worry I had put my parents through that night. They had no way of knowing where I was or who I was with. I rang the number and within a millisecond, dad snatched up the phone; “Where the hell are you” he barked.

I told him.

“Wait there” was all he said, and hung up.

“Is he coming?” asked Nick. I assured her that he was on his way but added that he sounded a bit cross. We heard his BMW coming from about half a mile away, engine roaring, wheels spinning. I looked at Nick, “Mmm, I think he IS quite cross” I observed with all the stupidity of a 17 year old.

Dad in Germany on the steps of the hotel we stayed in. The car is THE BMW from that famous New Year's Eve!






Cross? He was blazing, but managed to remain polite as I had my friend with me. He dropped her off at her house and we sped home in awkward silence. Of course, when I got in there was a scene as my mum was in tears, and dad remained furious for many days.

However, not long after, another family member had a baby girl. My dad congratulated them and said, “You never know, if you’re really lucky, when she’s older, you’ll get to go pick her up at 3 o’clock in the morning”.

He looked at me and he winked. I was forgiven.

One of the last Christmas's we got to spend together. Yikes on the wallpaper mum!





We became closer after that and when he died, my emotions were dominated by anger. I was so angry that he had left me when we were starting to have a grown up relationship. I dreamed about him every night. In my dreams I was looking for him, and when I found him I would say, “There you are, I knew you weren’t dead” and he would wink at me and say, “Yes, but don’t tell anyone else”.

I felt his loss like a knife in the heart. I didn’t think I would but I did. I felt cheated. A few weeks after he died, I discovered I was expecting my first baby. I was bereaved all over again. He would not get to see my baby, I would not get to introduce her to her grandpa. It was unfair, so damn unfair and I grieved for him all over again.

I would walk down the street watching people going about their business and I wanted to scream at them, “Stop it, stop just getting on with life, don’t you know my dad is dead?” It was ridiculous, but at the same time, it consumed me and I could think of nothing else.

As I suspected, my mum did not cope, and just a few years later, she also passed away. While I grieved for her, there was not the fierce, raw emotion I had felt at the loss of my father.

Me and mum in her garden where she grew all our fruit and vegetables





Nothing has ever felt so painful.

He was a popular man, and his funeral was dominated by men – golfers, Freemasons, friends, business associates and more. There were literally hundreds of mourners and the police had to be called to direct the traffic.

I shall never forget the sound of all those male voices, which to me sounded like a Welsh Male Voice Choir. When they sang Bread of Heaven, I simply lost my legs again and collapsed on the seat in a complete trauma of grief.

It took me years to move on from the loss of him. I still cannot listen to the Luther Vandross song Dance With My Father, nor can I bear to see all the Elvis videos, where he’s with Lisa Marie as it reminds me too much of my own loss.

Photos like this one make me so sad




Good memories? Yes, of course, I have those too. He loved Jazz and if he was home on a Sunday, the house would be filled with the strains of Count Basie, Art Tatum, and of course great music such as Glenn Miller and the like. I have always loved music, and we shared an appreciation of Manhattan Transfer’s “Chanson D’Amour” and Elkie Brooke’s “Pearl’s a Singer”. I remember his sense of humour and his handsome smile, and the smell of him. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.

He was the only person who called me Kate instead of Kathy (Freya is a pen name remember) and to this day I don't like anyone to call me Kate - it was dad's name for me. 

So for all those of you who still have a father, make the most of him; listen to him, he knows more than you and he’s the only one you have. Mine was not perfect, he was certainly no angel, but he was a gentleman, and he had that rarest of qualities - integrity. 

I still miss him, I will always miss him.

He was, after all, my dad.

Please do visit my website at www.freyabarrington.com

Or find me on Facebook; www.facebook.com/freyabarrington

Freya