Fifteen days ago I was popping antibiotics in Lyme Regis and thinking about Mary Anning, faith and scepticism. Now I am in Loupian, in our favourite camping municipal, a short bike ride through the Picpoul de Pinet vineyards from Meze, our favourite small market town in France, and thinking about nothing in particular.
The weather is stunning deep blue Med and set to stay that way for the foreseeable future, so definitely an improvement, even if I am still popping antibiotics .
It's been clear for a couple months that until my health issues were resolved our usual trick of disappearing into the blue yonder for months on end was going to have to be put on hold. We dialled back our ambition to explore Sardinia and planned a shorter trip to familiar places in the Languedoc and Costa Brava - serious mission drift from our avowed aim to always head for somewhere new.
However, I felt so wrecked in the Eden Project. Until my sudden, intense inflammatory flare-ups can be controlled planning anything longer than a few days became problematic. I am the sole driver so far as the moho is concerned. Gill's eyesight is fine to drive the car locally, but she is not happy driving the moho, especially abroad.
By day three the course of antibiotics prescribed by the Cornish doc. kicked in. I began feel perkier. We caught the bus into Lyme Regis again on the final day of our West Country break. I managed to walk a couple of miles without having to sit down that often, and when Gill bought some chips I filched a couple, so maybe my appetite was returning too.
We headed west along the seafront towards the Cobb, Lyme Regis's historic harbour. Its iconic status was cemented by the famous posters for the 'French Lieutenant's Woman', the 1981 film starring Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons. The novel is set in Lyme Regis, and John Fowles, the author lived locally. Its pleasing that the film was shot here too and the famous shot of Meryl Streep furtively glancing back in a hooded cape is surely one of the most recognisable film posters ever. Both it and the equally famous image of the ill-starred lovers embracing on the sea wall as wild waves crashed over were shot here on the Cobb.
It's quite rare for scenes from novels to be actually filmed in the places mentioned in the book. When we visited Locronan in Brittany years ago it had recently been used in Roman Polanski's film adaptation of 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles.' Granite, in Dorset? Same director, different film, I know for a fact that in Polanski's 'Macbeth' Birnam Wood did not 'move towards Dunsinane' but in fact trundled across a scrap of soggy peat on Chatton moor in Northumberland. I was there, an 'extra' clutching a small Christmas tree, it was November 1970, cold, wet and blustery.
Today the scene on the Cobb wasn't wild and atmospheric like in the movie poster, much jollier, more fish and chips, ice creams and deck chairs for hire.
Elsewhere in the blog I've been quite rude about British resorts asserting that although I love the sea and coastal scenery generally I find 'the seaside' somewhat tawdry and naff. It's always good to have your prejudices challenged and be forced to think, 'but on the other hand..
On the other hand Lyme Regis is rather lovely. The seafront with its row of jolly beach huts, pebbly beach and sweeping cliffs is very pleasing.
The chips we had were cooked to order and triple fried, the ice-cream, not exactly gelato, but a noble attempt at a facsimile.
The town too, with it's steep streets stretching up the hill behind the beach is a pleasing mix of Victoriana with older bits in-between. So, a lot to like in Lyme Regis.
Speaking of having to 'eat your words', I have also been quite snarky previously in the blog about venerable Saga victims droning on about their health issues - particularly the time in Olympia in Greece when we became embroiled with a 'seniors' cruise ship excursion. Gaggles of ancient Britons wandered about the place; oblivious to the magnificent site, instead they swapped anecdotes concerning their miriad ailments or described in lurid detail various gruesome medical procedures they had recently endured. I fear that I am becoming one of them.
The week after we got back I had my own personal 'health awareness week' with appointments at Balborough Hospital to discuss a hernia op. and feedback from the urology consultant at Stepping Hill. This felt like hard going to me, as I have spent most adult life studiously avoiding contact with the medical profession. So much so, that in 2002, when I fell down a metal fire escape while conducting a health and safety inspection at work, the nurse in the local minor injuries unit could find no NHS record of me whatsoever and enquired if I was actually a British citizen. This is all about to change.
It's been interesting being a rooky user of private healthcare. The upside is that you are treated as a customer rather than patient, so the interpersonal bit is all very slick and affiliative. The downside is as a new user they know nothing about you, so there is a lot of form-filling about your past medical history. Most of this was repeated at my initial (£95) visit to the hospital. A ten minute chat with the surgeon about the operation was followed by a 45 minute consultation with two nurses who went over my medical history form with me in detail and carried out a full health check - heart, lungs, blood tests, blood pressure, height, weight, basic ECG. I had told them about my heart murmur which prompted one of them to pop out and have a chat about my condition with an anaesthetist. This has resulted in a follow up visit in six weeks time for a more in-depth ECG (£195) to decide if a general or epidural anaesthetic is my best option. Would this have happened in an NHS setting? Their priority is to stay within budget; the aim of a private provider is to maximise income, it is a classic example of 'you pays your money and you takes your choice'.
If all goes to plan my hernia will get fixed sometime in November and we will be able to disappear off to Iberia as usual for 10 weeks at the beginning of February. The waiting list for an NHS op locally is 11 months. I reckon the private treatment will cost a shade under £3000; however, our cut-down month long autumn trip to Languedoc and the Costa Brava will cost £1500 less than the longer one we had planned to Sardinia and Northern Italy, and the saving will part pay the bill from the hospital. Fingers crossed it all goes to plan.
Which brings me to my other meeting - with the consultant urologist. It had the potential to be a tad traumatic, but the dramatic potential was somewhat undermined by the fact that I inadvertently discovered the outcome on-line ten days before my scheduled appointment. Our trip to the West Country had been punctuated by phone calls from the team at Balborough Hospital trying to get a copy of a CT scan carried out by Buxton Hospital in mid August. I ended up as the go-between, gently encouraging our somewhat dysfunctional GP practice that it was ok to share the results of my hernia scan with a private provider. The hospital asked for date of the scan, the GP practice was not certain. I had the bright idea it might have been recorded on my online NHS records. I looked them up. There was no mention of the scan but the results of my prostate biopsy had been posted the day before.
I figure that I am level headed person, not someone who given to unexpected emotional outbursts. Still, if I had not been semi-prepared for a possible negative outcome by the nurse practitioner who referred me for for further tests, the headline diagnosis sitting on my records - Prostate Cancer - might well have tested my avowed 'sang-froid'.
As ever, it was important to read the small print, in this instance the words 'gleason 3+3 low grade' in tiny letters at the bottom of the page. Selina (the nurse practitioner) had explained that the result the raft of blood tests she had organised for me
showed I was in good general health for my age. She was particularly complimentary about my liver function. That surprised me given my longstanding support for the European wine industry. One thing concerned her - a PSA score of 9.4. 'It's not stratospheric, but still a bit high', she observed, 'it probably indicates you have developed prostatitis, but it's not unusual for men of your age to have some signs of prostate cancer too, I need to refer you to a specialist.' She intended to reassure me when she commented, 'more men die with prostate cancer than from it', but the effect was somewhat Phyrric.
So what did I do as I waited for the urology appointment to come through? That's right, I scoured the internet for information about prostate cancer. In the process I learned about gleason scores. So far as I understood it, 3+3 meant there were cancerous cells present but they were localised and not malignant. In these cases patients tended to be monitored but not actively treated.
This is exactly what happened when I saw the consultant ten days later. For the next year I will be monitored every three months, then twice yearly after then so long as my PSA count stays the same. I was very impressed by the consultant and the Macmillan nurse who talked to me. The were clear, but kind and supportive. I explained that I was hoping to head off to Europe in my motorhome the following week but was concerned that the infection that I had suffered in Cornwall might reoccur while I was travelling. The nurse provided me with a prescription for a course of antibiotics that I could carry with me as a backup. Furthermore she gave me a card with her phone number on it if I needed further advice. At the front end the NHS does come across as semi-collapsed, but I cannot fault the specialist treatment I received and Gill's ongoing dealings with Manchester Eye Hospital have been equally impressive.
We drove home, booked the ferry and six days later headed for the Med. It's been a strange summer but a Mediterranean landscape under a blue sky will undoubtedly lift my mood even though it can't in itself fix my medical issues. Our plan was to scoot through France, straight south from Dieppe, swapping a Pennine view for a Med one with just three overnight stops.
1. Dieppe, after one of the choppiest channel crossings we've ever experienced. The sea just outside Newhaven docks looked like something conjoured up by J W Turner.
then tedious hours through the boring bit...
2. Dreux, Not the most prepossessing town in France, the ring road's surface is still melted here and there where cars were torched during the riots a couple of months ago. The Camping Car Park is in an industrial area on the edge of town. We were the only people in it when we arrived and felt a bit nervous. A couple of other vans arrived later in the afternoon which is always reassuring. Struggling for highlights here - the goats in the field next to us were very inquisitive, trotting up to the fence if you used the recycling bins. I suspect people using the Aire must feed them. Also next to us a very large concrete cube. I guess most people would dismiss it as an eyesore, but I have a soft spot for these things.
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I am sure Gill really enjoyed my musings as to whether the edifice could truly be considered Brutalist, given that the texturing on the concrete was so subtly understated..
3. Bruyére Allichamp - Where? You might well ask! Google it and you will be told this unassuming village a few kilometres south of Bourges is the geographical centre of France. This is not why we are here. It's another place with a handy Camping Car Park, this one in a pleasant wooded area near le Cher - a classic 'field in France'.
We walked into the old centre, it's a typical sleepy French village.
It's geographic claim to fame is memorialised, but the monument is distinctly underwhelming, reminiscent of Spinal Tap's bathetic Stonehenge.
3.Massiac. Another Camping Car Park - this one part of a Camping Municipal. The campsite operates April to October, the Camping Car Park, because the app driven entrance system is automatic, is open all year. The place is in a great location just off the (toll free) A75. I am sure we use it regularly. Massiac itself is an attractive hill town, though we skipped it's charms this time in our haste to get south.
Next day ..852 miles and four days from Buxton - nous sommes arrivés.
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