But will put up with a leaky roof from time to time.

This summer Mr Stark and I spent some time in Australia. Mostly we stayed in perfectly nice but unremarkable corporate type hotels but for Mr Starke's two actual holi-days we skipped away to a couple of quite different places.

First off to Lady Elliott Island Eco Resort, a tiny coral atoll at the south end of the Great Barrier Reef. Of course being an island we couldn't skip there, our early bird taxi took us out to Redcliffe airstrip where we made sure to avoid the sky divers' queue and boarded a 12 seater for our trip out to the island. Any cloud induced glumps lifted as they did and then disappeared completely as our pilot took us down to get a closer look at migrating whales and a first glimpse of our destination.

Not a terribly Eco way to travel but the only way to get there.

Now tight rubber isn't usually my thing particularly set off with fetching little ankle bootees but the fishes have probably seen worse and to be honest weren't likely to care. Me? I've never seen anything like them.

We signed up for a sunset cruise, Mr Starke wasn't that enthusiastic but there were snacks and fizz. And then there were whales...

Whales. Huge humpbacked whales. None of my photos do them justice. They were elegant and truly awesome. They knew we were there and could have flipped our boat but they just kept on doing their thing. I've rarely felt so small. Never in daylight. They swam around us and then away, the sun sank below the horizon and the birds flew home to roost. We returned for dinner and bed.

And so to the leaky roof. Our day on the island had been sunny and bright but night brought rain. Heavy,heavy rain. Imagine the scene, I'm lying in bed listening to the rain rattling on the iron roof, thinking my espadrilles left outside to dry would get wetter, but at least it would be fresh wetness. And then my goodness how suggestible am I? I'm listening to the rain and thinking my arm is feeling wet. My arm is feeling wet. Rain is dripping through the ceiling. It's only dripping through a tiny spot though and the bed is fairly big so I move to a drier bit and snuggle down again. Next morning all is dry even my espadrilles.

Don't assume the leaky roof means a rackety resort. Next day the staff were hugely apologetic but I didn't mind anyway. It's not a fancy place, there aren't butlers at your beck and call. The staff are friendly and helpful, meals are hearty but not fine dining and the rooms are comfortable and clean (mostly watertight!); there is one phone and one Internet access point but the modern world is not why you go. The luxury is in the surroundings, whether you snorkel, dive or simply laze around you're surrounded by nature, sometimes wet, sometimes noisy and messy (I'm thinking of the bird breeding season) but to be cherished and celebrated.

 

 

And what of our second stay? Well that one was nearer to conventional luxury. Spicers is a small up market brand and Spicers Balfour in Brisbane's trendy New Farm was certainly well appointed, with the requisite clean sheets, fluffy towels, cold and piping hot drinking waters on tap and all the technology you might ask for. But nice though these things undoubtedly are, they weren't the best thing about our stay. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed them but what made our stay memorable was the attitude of all the staff. Eager to help but not in your face and always,always friendly. There was no stuffiness and no disdain just a feeling of being in a very comfy and stylish home. My only regret was that we couldn't stay longer and just enjoy a little more of our surroundings.

Connecting, with people, with nature. That's the value of travel.

Now all I need is for Australia to move a little closer to Scotland and I'll be back in a flash.

 

(Mrs Starke does not like long haul flying but that's another story)

 

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And is having fun enjoying her own

No! Not like that. This is not a fifty shades of Starke. Just enjoying the loveliness of a freshly made bed. Not at the moment obvs, I'm not that lazy and Dogstarke precludes long lies these days. So fresh(ish) from a sleep in my own clean sheets I embarked on what has been the most expensive dog walk to date. No Dogstarke didn't misbehave, quite the opposite but lots of our lovely local shops and cafes are dog friendly. Add in vintage and craft fairs and there goes a fair wodge of cash. I can't even pretend that I've been buying Christmas gifts. No one but me is going to wake up on Christmas morning with an orange feathered hat in their stocking. Sorry GlamourPuss.

 

I did manage to pick up a couple of gifts, but will keep them secret, just in case......of course there were also the shoes,from our lovely independent (ooh Ruby Shoes) because shoes always fit. And after indulgent but dairy free hot chocolate( I'm blaming you The Chocolate Tree ) that may be an important factor in wardrobe choices later.

Mmmm could I flout the no hats with a frock after 6pm rule?

 

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And still manages to keep one

No not a reference to stealing hotel linens nor worse habits. It's a footballing analogy and due to another successful Louvre body swerve (mixed metaphors here, that would be the egg shaped ball game). Instead of the "place which must not be visited" we followed a sociable lunch with a long wait outside the "Paris seen by Hollywood " exhibition at the Hotel de Ville and a short time inside. More tiny clothes, this time belonging to Audrey Hepburn, but also some surprisingly large boots worn by Gene Kelly. He must have been fleet footed to avoid tripping over them! Interesting early film of Paris crowds, reminiscent of Caillebotte's "Rue de Paris - temps de pluie" at Musee d'Orsay.

After Friday night with friends, Saturday night dinner was just me and Mr Starke. We ate at Pramil, rue Vertbois 3e. Highly recommended. Again small and cosy but more polished than Thursday's choice. Pink lambs liver, delicious and no ill effects, take that Westminster Council.

Lazy Sunday morning, a last decadent breakfast and then a visit to the Musee de la Vie Romantique followed by our now traditional Sunday in Paris activity, a visit to a cemetery. Last visit it was the frozen Pere Lachaise where we paid our respects to Oscar Wilde.

(Pere Lachaise February 2012)

 

This time it was Cimetiere de Montmartre, patrolled by cats, and the (almost) last resting place of Zola, moved to the Pantheon in the '70's, and "la Goulue", Louise Weber, former Can-Can dancer at the Moulin Rouge.

 

Bypassing the place of her triumph, besieged by coach loads at Sunday lunchtime, we preferred to emulate her nickname with a long lunch at the beautiful brasserie Mollard opposite Gare St Lazare. It's an historic monument, officially because of the gorgeous art nouveau decor, but should be for its platters of seafood, lunches en famille and traditional hierarchies of busy waiters - only the maitre d' finishing off the crepes Suzette and lobster.

Then back down to earth with a bump. The Gard du Nord and the RER to CDG. And over that journey I'll draw a veil.

 

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