End of Part 1

It is another glorious morning in Ispagnac, in the Lozère. The sun is shining of the cobbled square and through the window. Ouside the town is waking up, cars heading off to work in Florac or futher afield, people are going to the boulangerie a few doors down. The bells of the 12th century church toll on the half hour.

We have been visiting with Julie, who lived with us in Victoria 5 years ago now, and who now manages the local radio station, 48FM. The area is stunning. We are on the edge of the Massif Central, the land rolling hills, rivers cutting through deep gorges, cliffs and plains, and little villages built from the stone that is strewn everywhere, cobbled streets, stone arched bridges over the rivers, bergeries (shepherd's huts), stone walls everywhere, and twisty mountain roads that drop into steep valleys and canyons, without curbs or barriers, and sometimes tunnels through basalt hillsides. At times I imagine cowboys riding across the landscape as in some old Western movie, but the ruined castles and old churches betray the history of the land. And the people - we are now in the south, and the tanned faces and almost-Italian accent let us know this is a different place. This is a place where yesterday I heard old men haggling at the marché des brocandes (more like a communal garage sale) in Occitan, the traditonal language of the area, over 50 centimes for a bunch of rusted ironwork. I picked up a hand-painted plate to add to our collection for only 2 Euros and Tegan bought a pair of shoes for the same. This is a place where coffee, expresso, is drunk black on terraces, slowly so you can catch up on the local news. This is a place full of néos, newcomers from all over the country and further afield, where they can go back to the wild land, slow down the pace, find cliffs to climb and caves to explore, and create a community. It feels like a place that is both young and old.

Florac, the bigger town 10 km down the road, named 'the flower' in Occitan because rivers come together here like petals of a flower, has stores where you can buy local produce - jams and cheeses and wine and woolens and baskets and everything 'chataigne' (chestnut) - outfitters to paddle the Gorges du Tarn (the river), climb, hike or follow the route taken by Robert Louis Stevenson with a donkey through the Cevennes wilderness, and immbiliers (real estate agents) where you can buy a stone house (or un tas de cailloux - a pile of stones) for on 50 000 Euros, though it may need a bit of work. The past two nights we ate with Julie's friend Laurene under the stars, overlooking forests and the steep valley. Julie and Laurene joke that they love the country life, so long as there is internet. Jude the dog kept the girls company and the cherries from the trees kept them busy while we waited and waited and waited for dinner. You can't rush things in the south. Friends, a glass of local wine, and before you know it it is 10:30, or rather 22h30. Lots of salads, local sausage on the charcoal barbecue, It seems a pretty good place to be.

And now we come to the end of part one of our journey. For the past month we have been travelling from place to place, moving around, seeing friends and family and the country. In three weeks we have put about 3000 km on the car (and now we have a few CDs from the marché to keep us going, though the quality of the music, Hits of 2002, etc., is debatable), from Paris to Normandie and Bretagne, across to Switzerland and now to the south. We have gotten to know the land better, having hiked and explored beaches and mountains and towns and forests. We have seen enough museums and churches and towns that a break is in order. And today we will be leaving Ispagnac and Florac to go to Pézenas, a shortish 2 1/2 hour drive through more stunning landscapes, where we will be spending the next four weeks with out hosts, Corinne and Selma. I think we are ready for it, though we all have some soucis (worries, uncertainties - I am starting to think more en Français) about how it will go: school for the girls, living with another family, me working on the farm, making friends and connections, communication.  I am sure as soon as we arrive we will be welcomed and as the week unfolds worries will slip away. I am excited, slightly anxious, but ready for something new. And I am so impressed with how the girls have been adapting, open to adventures and meeting countless new people, becoming more confident in speaking French, and capable of living out of a pack for a month.

So today, after another pain au chocolat or chausson au pomme we will pack up, again, do some laundry in Florac, swim at le Rocher des Féés, have a goutée with Julie at the café, and then head further south, vers la Mediterranée.

Ici et là

Chaque jour est rempli de plein d’activités, alors voici un ensemble de photos et pensées des semaines passes don’t je n’ai pas encore écrit . . .

Quelque chose de merveilleux qu’on a vu à Paris,  à Londres, meme à Montreux, est des vélos à emprunter. Comment ça fonctionne est qu’on s’enregistre à la mairie de la ville et on reçoit un clé. Avec le clé on pourrait prendre un vélo pour une demie-heure gratuitement. Après ça on doit payer. Il y a des stations comme celle-ci partout au centre-ville, alors on pourrait les emprunter et laisser n’importe où! Génial, non?

Les fromages, les fromages, qu’on adore les fromages!  Pendant notre visite chez Judy, Bruno, Nathalie et Eric, on a été introduit à un échantillon incroyable de fromages. Judy est allée au supermarché, même pas un fromagier, et elle avait du mal à choisir, alors elle a tout pris. Il faut, a t-elle pensé, qu’on goute de ceci et de celà. Quelques uns étaient super-forts, les autres ass ez doux. Tegan aime du Brie, Rowan préfère du Compté (mais en effet, ell edit qu’ils sont tous bons!), et moi je les aime tous, surtout du Morbière, du Roquemadour (de, a dit Eric, Rocquemadour!) et des autres fromages de chèvre– il y en a plusieurs! On mange du fromage comme dessert, à la fin des repas, ou, comme on a fait hier, avec du pain frais en randonnée.

Hier on était à Gruyère, en Suisse, où font ils les fromage ainsi nommé. Mais ces fromages n’ont pas de bulles! Oui, il y a un village appellé Bulle à la region, mais aucune bulle aux fromages.

Faites attention se balançant aux lianes à la forêt. Quand Tegan s’est balancée, la liane s’est cassée et elle est tombée. Ce forêt est aussi super à faire des forts, glisser aux pentes avec une palette de bois, et se promener.

Trois Pignons, près de Fontainebleau, est une de nos places favourites. Il était une fois une mer ancienne, et maintenant il ya des ‘plages’ de sable fin, et partout on trouve des rochers incroyable à grimper.

On a passé une matinee incroyable là en explorant, en escaladant, en mangeant, jusqu’à Tegan a grate son orteille.

C’est attendu pour elle, et on a dû partir vers le château de Fontainebleau, qui n’est qu’une petite domicile pour les rois François I et Henri II quand ils avaient envie d’aller chaser. Napoléon l’a aimé aussi. On apprend nos rois de France. Ce n’est pas trop difficile car la plupart du temps c’est un Louis, avec quelques Charles et Henris.

On a decide de décorer ma chamber comme celle-ci:

On est allé chercher une plage en Bretagne, et on a trouvé une incroyable au Sables d’Or, au Cap de Fréhel, nord-ouest de Dinan, une ville médiévale. Le sable était fin, chaud, on a vu un homme au cheval gallopant au bord de l’eau. J’ai dormi un peu au soliel, pendant que les filles m’a fait des bêtisses! On a nagé un petit peu, car l’eau était un peu frais, pas aussi froid que le Pacifique à la côte oust, mais froid quand meme! Après on a dejeuné, protégé par notre voiture, une belle Citroën C4 verte!

Le Cap Fréhel était incroyable – sauvage, isolé, avec des phares anciennes et u château-fort au bout! Ça m’a rappelled beaucoup d’Irlande, et en effet ce n’est pas si loin géographiquement ou culturellement des Iles Britanniques. On doit revenir là.

Ensuite, le trajet long de la Bretagne en Suisse. On est parti vers 9h du matin et on y est arrivé vers 22h30! C’était à peu près 700 km, la plupart par des autoroutes de péage criminelles.

On est arreté au château de Chenonceaux, construit au bord, et ensuite au dessus de la rivière Cher. On l’a bien aimé. Pas trop grand, assez facile à nettoyer, des belles salles, et la rivière là. On y a fait le tour, pris une glace, visité le magasin touristique, et fait une pique-nique. J’adore la grande Salle de bal, construit au pont. Je pourrais imaginer des grandes fêtes là, avec des danses formelles, des robes exquises, et des festins somptueux. Oui, je pourrais y rester, mais je crois que ce n’était pas à vendre.

 Il y avait  une embouteuillage entre Moulins et Mâcon où on n’a pas bougé un centimètre pendant plus qu’une heure. On a mange tout ce qui restait du pain, des olives, du fromage, de la gomme à mâcher, mais pas le vin du pays de Loire ou le chocolat special pour Clare! Qu’elle est chanceuse. J’ai dû emprunter un telephone mobile d’un Suisse à dire à mon amie en Suisse qu’on serait un peu, ou beaucoup en retard. Dès que Tegan a commence à pratiquer son violon, le traffic s’est mis à advancer, et elle nous a divertit jusqu’à Mâcon.

Après Mâcon, on a roulé vite, avec du chocolate récemment acheté  par des viaducts fous au dessus des vallés jusqu’en Suisse. A la frontière des douanniers, disant des pirates, m’a fait achèter un collant pour le vitre pour (35 Euros!) avant de nous laisser entrer le pays. Il m’a rendu un billet de 20 Francs suisses, assez joli, mais qui a fait follement rire Rowan en lisant le mot Zwanzig, Allemand pour 20. On était complètement épuisé, évidemment.

Et nous voilà en Suisse, pays de montagne, d’horloges, du chocolat, des vaches aux cloches, et où tout coute plus cher.

Mont St. Michel

The bells of l’Eglise St. Pierre are ringing, and now the Abbey bells toll from up above. Matins. It is seven in the morning. This is possibly the coolest place I have ever slept. Absolutely it is a tourist trap, but when the last tour bus rolls away we are left on a medieval island, surrounded by dark waters, the brown foam, l’ecume, washing on the shores, the marais around the river in front and the green green fields of Normandie and Bretagne stretching into the distance. I can’t make out the shops selling souvenirs that we drove past from this distance.

On the Mont, we are taken back in time. The island rises hundreds of feet up, a massif of rock, with a gilded abbey on top, its spire rising towards heaven and the blue blue sky. We sneak in through the back door, as the tide has blocked the main gate. The Grand Rue goes under the main gatehouse, portcullis, drawbridge and huge wooden doors and then winds its cobbled way up and up and around, up stairs, past hotels and restos ranging from basic to posh, all a bit pricey, past kitschy souvenir shops where we can buy replica swords and our very own Bayeux Tapesty (20% off today only, very good price!) for only $500 per panel.

We continue up to our hotel, closed, so we have to ask around, and find that the same owners own the Hotel St Pierre. We check in, the office dark and messy, our reservation written into a long ancient looking bound book. The concierge leads us out, up, through side passages and up more stairs to our room. It, like the guidebook says, is nothing special. Tegan says the décor hurts our eyes, and it is even more ugly than some of the rooms in Fontainebleau Palace, where, in places, ici et la,  queens and empresses had chosed overly busy and ornate patterns for the furniture, walls, ceilings, artwork. True this was only a few of the dozens of rooms, but this room on the Mont was seems to have been cobbled together from 1970s Thrift Shops. Tant pis.

We drop our bags and head out exploring – up the cobbled streets, down secret passageways only as narrow as my shoulders, along the battlements, cutting through an empty church, candles lit on the sides and light streaming through the stained glass. Jeanne d’Arc stands guard at the front doors. We peek through arrow slits and over the parapets at the steep slopes down to the Channel, La Manche, and love the wildness of the woods that manage to hold on to the steep rock, and must have for almost 1000 years since the abbey was first built, upon St Michel’s, St Michael’s directions. We can buy statuettes of him too, in various poses with his sword, subduing a variety of beasts and human adversaries. Since then it has been enlarged numerous times and over the years both religious pilgrims and tourists have been flocking here, and the services to serve them have been provided: places to buy sacred objects and food, to sleep, to pray, and likely through the ages all of the pilgrims and tourists have been gouged. The souvenirs are cheesy (really, snow globes WITH St Michel protecting them?) and the meal we have is decent but overpriced. Still, being here is walking to a combination castle and theme park. After we eat Tegan needs to sleep so Rowan and I explore in the darkness. The Mont is illuminated at night, so as we creep around, we can look up and see the stone abbey bathed in golden light. We poke down lanes, wondering where they might lead. There are secret gardens with iron gates, a graveyard that is more mystical than frightening. We walk narrow and broad staircases and peer into the tiny courtyards outside houses (it seems some people live here permanently). Through one semi-closed gate and down a few stairs we see a darkened garden, but we run away giddy with adrenalin when we hear voices. We walk down to the base of the Mont, onto the sandstone, le grès, now that the tide has rolled out, and marvel at the construction of this village on a rock in the sea. We sneak about some more, poke into courtyards and look through windows. We are taken aback by the quiet of the place, for at night the tourists are gone, the few who remain are getting ready for bed, sleeping, or, like us, creeping around in the darkness.

And now the sun is up. The bells have stopped. There is mist over the estuary and the distant trees. The morning light from the east warms up the stone, turning it from greys and black to reds and browns and golds. The seagulls, les mouettes, are up and flying around, searching for breakfast scraps. We will too and then continue our exploring.

Juno Beach, site of the Canadian D-day Invasion

Two giggling girls race along the beach

They run and leap among the sand dunes

Wade through the tide pools

Collect scallop shells

And muse about the chains and seaweed covered buoys washed up on the strand

And this is where

Almost seventy years ago

Forty-five thousand men

And boys

Under the cover of Allied airplanes

Landed, waded through the surf,

Dodged German machine guns

Or didn’t

The museum, surrounded by
Canadian and French flags

Old concrete bunkers

Memorial steles

And sculpture

Explains the story

A dictator appeased too long

A far away nation willing to do its duty

And young men and boys

Who signed up for adventure and honour

And longed to be home for Christmas

But never were

And I think the soldiers

The fallen and the vets

Would smile upon my girls playing in the waves

And upon the beach

They did their job, fulfilled their role

So that generations later

Two giggling girls

Could race upon the beach.

Paris, Day 1

A siren down the street, workers and stylish mamans with their kids walking briskly

Tables of apricots and mangoes, strawberries and apples

Irresistable frangrance of the boulangerie

Deux croissants, deux pains au chocolat

I take a bite as we walk to the Metro

Warmth

Crispy and flaky

Rich buttery flavour but light, airy

Could a croissant taste this good anywhere else?

The city is bustling. People on the go, crowds everywhere,

But when I bite into the pastry

I melt into the city

Decadence, beauty, tradition

The noise fades,

Time stops

All I can do is bite, feel the sweet dough between my teeth

The crust like honeyed scales

This is Paris

We arrive in Paris late in the afternoon and are picked up by Aviva and Marc, the parents of a family friend who studied in Ottawa. The drive from the Gare du Nord train station to Saint-Mandé, the suburb squeezed between the Péripherique ring road and the Bois de Vincennes park, is frightening. Marc explains that in Paris when you drive you need to take advantage of opportunities, switch lanes if you see a space, and assume others will get out of the way. Whether you are a cyclist, pedestrian or car, don’t hesitate one you start to move. Motorcycles ride between lanes, not in line with cars, and move twice as fast as other vehicles. Most street signs are, apparently, optional, and cutting people off and yelling or honking is part of the culture. It is good to arrive safely chez les Devaux on rue Sacrot.

The quartier is great. It is close to the centre-ville, on the Métro line, right by a huge park complete with chateau and fairgrounds. The main street, Charles de Gaulle (same as a good percentage of streets in French towns) has everything: four or five boulangeries (we are told that the first and third ones are the best), pizzeria, creperie, sushi, supermarché, a Picard frozen food emporium, a great little bookshop and a papieterie, full of specialty papers. There are a few banks (buzz first to have them unlock the door for you) including an HSBC branch where two very stylish and helpful agents explain why my bank card won’t work in extreme detail, and give me the phone number I need to call. When they try there was no reply as it was 1 am in Vancouver. When we get to the main square by the Mairie (city hall) the Thursday market is in full swing. Tables and table and tables of fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, pasta, meats, olives, cheeses, cheap knick-knacks and junk, and at the far end fashions under the watchful eye of a turbaned man. My health inspector friend, Janet, would flip seeing all the unpasteurized dairy products, shellfish, sheep, cow and pig organs and cuts of meat all out in the sun. Still it looks incredible and we leave with two dresses (for 10 Euro!), cherries, a bag of olives and some cheese that the olive vendor gave us because Tegan was so coy with tasting the olives. The start of a decadent lunch.

Day one in Paris comprised about 12 km of walking. We started at l’Etoile, the Arc de Triomphe, and after a few ups and downs in the underground passages that bypass the boulevards we stepped out into the bright sunshine. It is a massive structure, towering above the neighbouring buildings, a monument to the glory of Napoleon with all his victories engraved upon it (no mention of the Russian campaign or his inglorious end that I saw), and with the names of battles since in all the wars; the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier beneath. Later that evening Marc asks Rowan do you know who the unknown soldier is. She doesn’t rise to his teasing, saying, um, no, he’s unknown.

We walk  down the Champs Elysées, big name stores and designers, a shoe store with a wall of tricouleur Converse. Tegan says she likes her new Converse better, and it’s true. They are much cooler. The most memorable part of the walk was the throng of men standing on top of a building, half of them in tuxedos, the other half bare-chested. Then another couple dozen bare-chested men on the boulevard. Maybe it was a designer’s publicity stunt, maybe our welcome committee, maybe just Parisien men wanting attention.

We continue past Place de la Concorde, with its obeslisk, stolen, given, acquired during Napoleon’s  Egyptian campaign. How you get a 100 foot obelisk from Egypt to Paris in one piece in the early 1800s is beyond me, but I doubt you could get away with that today. We meander through the Tuileries gardens, look at statues of river gods and the seasons, and decide we need to eat before heading into the Louvre. We have cheese, olives (the cherries we consumed walking past the narcissistic men) but lack baguette, so I lead the girls more or less knowing where we are going towards the Opera, down wide streets and narrow alleys, posh hotels and expensive restaurants, among tourists, businessmen and other locals, finally lining up with construction workers to get our drinks and bread. We picnic on the grass at the Louvre. How much better can life get? The homeless man that stumbles by us with his sleeping bag and other possessions jammed into plastic bags, looking for shelter in the Louvre bushes, is likely thinking the same. A beautiful sunny day, exquisite architecture, a glass pyramid in front of us and gardens and archways behind us. We could have napped if not for the throngs.

The Louvre itself is amazing, not just because the girls are free and it is cheaper than the Royal BC Museum. I liked looking at the foundations of Francois I’s original castle and watching Rowan’s eyes pop out and jaw drop at the painted ceilings, gilded cornices, and paintings the size of our house. The artefacts and art was amazing too. From the Roman pottery and sculptures to the Italian Renaissance painters. Yes we saw the Mona Lisa, La Jaconde, but the masses of people crowding in front put me off it a bit. The other da  Vincis did show off his incredible talent and how far ahead he was of many of his contemporaries. We don’t need to go back, because I think Rowan took photos of just about everything.

We finally decide to head out, our feet exhausted, try in vain to get a decent wi-fi connection at the mall connected to the Louvre, underground, discreet and very nicely done, but really? A mall connected to the Louvre? There is a Starbucks, a big Apple Store, a nature store and some fancy Parisian shops too, but it doesn’t do it for me, not that many/any malls ever did. We even need to pay 1 Euro for a fancy washroom boutiquey place, where they clean the facilities after each visitor and sell exclusive toilet paper and seats.

The final part of the day, it is getting on 6 pm by now, we walk along the Seine, past the bouquinistes and print sellers to Notre Dame. There is a line-up, still, a bread festival outside, and inside the glorious stained glass, carvings, glassed-in confessionals (it is after all the 21^st Century!), and then a service begins. A woman’s voice sings, ethereally, and reminds us all of the meaning of the building. My eyes are drawn up to the light, the woman’s beautiful and passionate voice echoing throughout. Yes this city is a tourist trap, full of cheap Chinese-made souvenirs and overpriced cafés, but moments like this restore my faith in the City of Light. That and the croissants.

 

Words about Wales

Early in the morning, cup of tea (good English breakfast tea), I’m looking out over the rolling hills of northeast Wales. Greens fields, green treese, green grass, and spots of yellow and pink flowers here and there. Tufts of white too scattered everywhere too, but that would be the sheep. More sheep than people around here, many more sheep than people. We’re a few miles north of Corwen, just around the bend from G.... something with many consonants and few vowels! The house we’ve been staying in, a converted old barn with 2 ft thick walls and massive oak beams, a little weathered but still structurally sound. I hear the swallows that have nested in the chimney, sheep bleating and thats about it. My father is off for a run down the country road, or up the hill – more sheep, cows, fields of grass and also a stand of windmills, huge slowly whirling arms that are so foreign, yet somehow fit into the landscape. Ask that to some migrating birds and they might not agree, but to me they do not seem too invasive. They are quiet, isolated, even a landmark for travellers, inukshuks of the heath. 

We have been here almost a week since we flew in to Heathrow and have been exploring the area near and far. Our first day, motorways, rest stops to fuel up on Ribena, British smarties, Flake bars and roast beef flavoured crisps (or rather Monster Munch – suitable for Monsters and vegetarians) and coordinate our travel. Cutting off the A5 just after Birmingham we pass through small towns like Burton under Lizard , as well as the pub that boasts “noted ham and eggery,” and soon we’re into Wales. Following the Dee, suitable subject for Wordsworth and other Romantic poets of two centuries past, as is meanders between the hills, village after village with more and more unpronounceable names, stone bridges and houses, farms and mile after mile of stone walls, all built who knows how long ago, perhaps 100 years perhaps 500. That’s one thing I like about this place, it feels like it has been like this for ages, as if people have been farming these rough hills for 1000 years, as if the stone sheds and huts and houses have been here for 1000 years, as if the talk in the villages of their crops and beasts and laws has not changed much in 1000 years, and perhaps it hasn’t. Apart from the woods that have been cut and replanted and the paving of the roads, it seems almost timeless. Of course farming and government isn’t what it used to be. Yesterday there was a referendum on proportional representation, only the second pan-Britain referendum ever – results to be announced later this week – as well as for council and Welsh and Scottish parliament elections, so that has changed. The slate mines have mostly closed. Tourism is up, with farmers being encouraged to build holiday homes for the city dwellers, and the hills and mountains of Snowdonia are well worn with trails of hikers and hill-walkers, and the coachloads of tours make their way along the twisty roads, stopping at the Welsh Slate Museum, Betws-y-Coed, and the pass below Mt Snowdon, the highest peak in the UK at about 3500 ft. Still it feels peaceful, rustic, pastoral, and we’ve just begun to explore, and now have to leave.

Crossing the Channel

Wednesday afternoon, dark outside. We are riding the Eurostar train at 200+ kph from London to Paris. We’ll be there by 5:30, local time. The last time I was there was about 25 years ago, on a camp counsellor exchange with a camp in Ostende, Belgium. We are all exhausted after a couple of busy days in London, British museum, exploring Hampstead Heath, a political stand-up show for me and a quiet night watching Glee for the girls, then yesterday going down to Hamleys in Regent St, the biggest toy stop in the world, or at least it was when I was little. After that we spent the afternoon at the tower of London, the guide explaining the subtleties between the executions and the murders that took place there, as well as the historical and architectural features around us. Then tubes and logistics, theatre tickets, train tickets, a video-chat with Kath & Jodie that didn’t quite work, a quick supper in the garden at my  aunt and uncle’s, and then seeing the musical Wicked at the Apollo Victoria Theatre. Great spectacle and actors, a fun story, just impressivenating!

Out of the Chunnel. On est en France. Bizarre que mon cerveau commence a transformer en outil francais. Ca devrait etre tout a fait naturel. On sort du tunnel et me voila pensant en francais. C’est pour ca qu’on fait ce voyage, a nous immerser a la culture pour que la communication deveient tout a fait facile. Le temps est different ici.On a laisse les nuages gris de l’autre cote de la Manche. Ici, il fait soleil, plus chaud, plus plat, moins industriel et plus pastorale. Notre prochain aventure arrive. 

Wales, Liverpool, Chester & on to London

A whirlwind week - ferry to Vancouver, flight to London via Minneapolis (I'll never fly Delta again; I mean why swerve dinner at midnight and disturb everyone with offers of duty-free sales at 1 a.m.), arriving midday and immediately driving to Wales. A few days hillwalking, surrounded by sheep and stone walls, seeing the big misty peaks of Snowdonia and mystical oak forests that could be filled with faeries. The weekend took us to the walled city of Chester and then to my cousin Nick's wedding at a manor house in the country. Now we've just arrived at my aunt and uncle's in London, catchiong up on emails, sleep, and getting  set to go out exploring - the British Museum today (with the Rosetta Stone and the Parthenon, please don't call them the Elgin, Marbles and other wonders pillaged from the colonies during the days of Empire) and maybe Hamleys again, what used to be the world's biggest toy shop. It is legendary from my childhood as the best reason to go to London, but last time we went it seemed more like a crowed Americanized Toys-R-Us in a big traditional Oxford Street building.

As my laptop just died (is it a sign?) and wi-fi has been hard to find among the rolling hills of north Wales, I haven't written much but I'll get back to it soon.