Graham Nash's next book - 'Gray's Shades of Fifty' is a follow-up to his hilarious and acclaimed 'Un Portion of Chips, Bitte' - the true tale of an inept family - themselves! - travelling abroad for the first time with their motorhome - Harvey the RV. In 2010 they travelled through ten European countries in 100 days despite never having camped nor driven abroad nor being possessed of anything but 'please' and 'thank you' language skills. Read more about 'Un Portion' on a separate page.
'Gray's Shades of Fifty' sees the family return to Europe in 2013 - and now, on their third foreign trip in little more than fifty years - with a stumbling, if not swaggering, confidence.
The account of the trip is interspersed with the Author's musings on what it is to be on the 'Saga-side' of fifty, when physical irritations start to, well, irritate, limitations start 'to limit and...... and other things he can't remember start to happen.
When his fiftieth year starts with a health scare and a bowel-screening test kit as a present from the Health Service there's little wonder that some of his observations verge towards the grouchy!
Although 'Gray's Shades..' will not be published until Spring 2015 you can read a few excerpts exclusively below!
There is a discernible swell in mid-Channel and so walking about the ‘Arse-end of Kent’ is after the fashion practiced in Sauciehall Street on a Saturday night – casual and fluid but with a hint of out-of-control and dropped right shoulder. No doubt it makes me appear drunk but who cares? So does most of everyone else who attempts passage along the corridors and through the public areas. Generally speaking the sober souls play safe and stay to the middle of the pedestrian areas, not wanting to risk a shoulder-bumping on a wall-mounted fire-extinguisher. A few of those coming from the opposite direction seem able to walk in a completely straight line, however. Initially this mystifies me – not difficult at 3am – but my dream-mode brain soon reasons that these folk really are drunk, and that the natural out-of-control, dropped right shoulder gait of the seafarer is being counteracted and nullified by the out-of-control, dropped left shoulder of the drunk. Shrewd, I’d say.
Having a standing comfort break in France isn’t always as satisfying an event as it should either, mainly due to the lingering smell of those who have missed what is, I would have thought, an adequately sized target and done it up the wall. This would be only a minor irritant but for the fact that holiday chilling and de-toxing initially involves rather a lot of wee – a sort of In-Continent incontinence, I suppose you could say.
The lady who runs the campsite is pleasingly bonkers and – hallelujah – it transpires that I have more French than she does English. This is a first for me and even eclipses the joy I felt when the receptionist at Innsbruck’s museum of modern art crap responded to my ticket request in German with German of her own, thus mistaking me for one her countryfolk. Usually my attempts to use the local language are met with bemusement – a shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulders – or else a reply in fluent English. Here in the Alsace, at Camping Beautiful Seizure, my confidence skyrockets.
Being un-failingly polite, we applauded, which is, of course, what most of us do in order to record our appreciation of something – a movingly rendered song, a 30-yarder with the outside of the boot or some git getting his comeuppance in front of a crowd. Applause, however, is of course, a ridiculous act in itself. Were it suddenly be decreed that the only acceptable manner by which, forthwith, to register thanks and approval was to smack the back of your head with your knuckles, to rotate your big toe ‘twixt thumb and forefinger or simply to shout ‘Bong’ then we would consider it an affront to our dignity and sensibilities; why is the hitting of one hand with the other any less ridiculous?
"Italian women have none of these concerns and evidently feel liberated with a birds nest under each arm. So, too, do many Germans, who set out to accrue international pride points for displaying them in games of badminton. European campsites are hosts to all sorts of international spectacles and inevitabilities; noisy Spanish kids, middle-aged Frenchmen in Mr Olympia swimming trunks, Dutch pensioners tanned the colour of Brogues and Germans playing badminton in not many clothes. It is an interesting fact that three out of every four shots played by a German lady in badminton is an overhead. This is sixty per cent higher than the global average and the disparity is due entirely to their desire to display their underarm nests. To be revolted would probably be to breach their human rights. So – we breach their human rights.
One of Jurgen’s first pre-occupations tends to be the satellite dish – its construction, location and fine tuning. Overly wealthy Germans, of course, have self-tuning dishes on the roof of their caravan or Hymer and entertainment from afar can be had at their expense as they pirouette and cant round and round and up and down in a frequently fruitless search for the news that no-one wants to hear while on holiday. Finally defeated in its search for a signal, the dish hunkers down again on the roof and gives up, like a disappointed sperm. On our last major trip abroad we missed a major volcanic eruption and a General Election for the absence of TV and it was bliss.
Bad breath can become an issue between older couples; in part this is due to decreasing concerns with every married year over offending the feelings of the partner. Saying it like it is just becomes a part of everyday life. In part, however, it is simply attributable to increasingly bad breath as the gut decays and festers, sending its aromas up the chimney. Medication can exacerbate the problem. Evidently my daily antacid tablet does precisely that and gives me morning breath fit to halt the Calcutta Light Horse at full gallop.
‘Have you brushed your teeth’ says Val on such occasions. It’s not really a question; the emphasis is all on the word ‘brushed’ and suggests that all I may have done in an attempt to improve my breath is remove the cap on the toothpaste and waft its contents in front of my face. When I feign mild hurt and assure her that I have she gives me a look that suggests I might care to try repeating the procedure and scour my throat with a sterile bottle brush for good measure.
Outdoor pursuits hereabouts tend to fall into one of three categories; un-necessarily punishing, pointless and borderline illegal. Into the first category we thrust wind-chill acquisition on exposed mountainsides, scaling frozen waterfalls with an axe when a perfectly good path exists nearby and plunging through tumultuous white waters on a blow-up bed - when a perfectly good path exists ... Actually, many extreme sports seem to exist in close proximity to perfectly good paths.
It was disappointing but not, in the scheme of greater things, a tragedy – like dipping for a proffered fruit pastel, hoping for red or orange but getting green or yellow instead.
The Americano with which I am served is pleasingly and reassuringly vile and drinking it provides some holiday continuity. Like taking a wee in a French ‘pissoire’ it is an appalling infringement of human rights but the holiday wouldn’t be the same without it. My ‘small’ beverage is served to me in a half-gallon paper cup by a girl who, I judge benevolently, would be pleasant if she were awake. In between customers she replaces the bent matchsticks between her eyelids. The young cheapskate behind me asks for a glass of tap water. He has annoying hair. Since we are at sea the water may be drawn from the bilge – I’m hoping
I mumble more and am getting more difficult to understand. I know that I am, and rather hope and assume that this is an inevitability of advancing age- that my tongue, in common with my ears and nose, continues to grow throughout my life. With gradually less room left for saliva to drain, it builds up during speech and gathers in the corner of my mouth, threatening an unseemly dribble. Or maybe I am developing a lazy tongue.
German supermarkets really are worth visiting, although I’m sure their management would appreciate your custom in a more fragrant state than we were able to manage. The tiled floors are so highly polished they resemble marble, fruit and vegetable displays are like mosaic works of art, complete with running water; cakes and pastries induce artistic awe and drool in equal measure. Even the tampons – on a two-for-one offer, no strings attached – are, I’m sure, nudged into line with a wooden baton to preserve their symmetry.
Half an hour later she emerges, 79 Euros the poorer, with a collection of metal garden ornaments that blow round in the wind, things that hang up, things that smell and a comical cock. We are still 45 minutes from camp but at least being continually poked in the eye by the ground spike onto which sits the thing that blows around in the wind makes the journey memorable.
Relieved, showered and dressed other than as sweat-baked street people, we repair to the Tennsee restaurant and order the Tennsee Grill Teller – pan fried potatoes covered with a piece of every meat imaginable – pork schnitzel, beef, Ringelnatter, Dik-Dik, Chihuahua, road-kill etc. It’s another great meal in another great place.
We like to ‘spoon’ in bed but find the pleasure is compromised; laying on my right side hurts my shoulder; laying on her left side hurts Val’s hip. That’s the problem with middle-aged cuddling in bed – at least one of the participants will be limited by some physical infirmity.
It is not the nature of the work to which I must return that depresses the spirits so much as the need to return. The freedom and spontaneity of the day has been snatched away – the unknown adventures and discoveries of new places, places which we may only ever see once, a glimpse into the lives of ordinary folk in another village, town or country; people who, perhaps, would also sell superfluous body organs to be able to do, in our country, what we have been doing in theirs.
It raises the question, I suppose, of what is the greatest motivation to pursue a life of this nomadic nature – the desire to see and experience new places or simply the freedom to be able to?