I have decided to write later of my adventures in England. For now as I leave Angleterre, a picture of me as a traveller, taken in a very Dickens area of London, Marshalsea road, and not far away, Little Dorrit street.
Could I streak there to see it and then extremely whiz to St Pancras for the Eurostar. I do waver. But good sense for once takes hold , I sigh and virtuously set off on the underground. More excitement , the Eurostar .
I have an anxious moment when my bags are are scanned. I have just purchased two lethal pointy wood/ Lino cutting tools. And then there are my savage knitting needles. Might I have to toss them out? All is well, it is very good such care is taken. It is a wonderful journey, by chance I sit next to an equally wonderful person called Maggie, who is a children’s attorney from Wyoming. She is travelling with her two teenaged daughters , Emma and Zoe. We quickly lay our ears back and have the best of conversations. Only stopping to really watch as we descended or sloped down into the tunnel. Might I see a fish or a crab I wonder? Maggie and I both agree the present Australian leaders are up there or down for the first prize in Awfulness, with the Republicans in her country. We quickly leave these thoughts of mean and wretched behaviorand speak of our homes , of the animals coming across the fields of deep snow in Wyoming,of their rescued horses, now fine and happy dressage animals . Of the concert they heard , the highlight of their London stay, the London Symphony orchestra , playing Bartok, a huge number of strings present. A fond Au’revoir. I buy my metro billet. All Français, La billet femme comprends!!! Maintenant, rattling along in the metro, I come to Gare Mouton Duvernet.
oh it is Art Nouveau, with twirly whirly twirls. I find the Henri Delormel square and ascend in a tiny lift. I meet Gabrielle, who gives me a warm welcome . I have a great Airb&b accomodation, a beautiful little attic on le plancher sept. I must be at last , truly an artist . A Parisian Attic. Two slightly rickety windows open onto the rooftops of Paris. I am so high up , the street lights can’t be seen. Only the occasional glow from dear old windows like mine.
Away across I can see les enfants , ils appelant à autre enfants sous. It is like our children when they were little. Across the balconies. In my attic, decorations of old French Colonial African animals. All standing nicely, perfectly behaved.
I can sleep with the windows wide open. Might a pigeon fly in? I can see a murder of crows, crowing to each other on the next row of roof tiles. It can’t be about chook eggs etc like our at home Ravens. I sleep well and in the morning travel out to see the Museé Marmontan. I get a bit lost at the St Michel underground station. I stand and look at my Paris moleskine ( which Janet P kindly gave me three years ago..it is Really useful, with maps and lists ) but this time Book and I are stumped. And there in front of me appeared a tiny older lady, who asked if she may help. She spoke slowly , I know I must look foreign. An Angel I think , …she said she would take me to the right train place, a sort of above train. ‘ Follow me ‘, and as we trotted along she told me to be Very Careful of strangers in the metro. It was a long scurry, but I was grateful. For all the world she looked like Mrs Tigggy Winkle, without the prickles. I thanked her with my best French words, she gave me a hug and was gone. Amazing gifts of kindness and care there are in this world. There I was at the station and more asking Lá s and il y a rue and there I was, Museé Marmotan. ( And Pierre and Henri dogs who I meet on the way.)
It was wonderful to see the collections of the Marmotan , I didn’t photograph pictures there, but just to tell you.. beautiful early Monets, and Berthe Morisot . More perfect art of the heart and of home. The streets were filled with sunshine