Helena Frith Powell

Carla said this morning at breakfast that we should always remember this trip and how wonderful it has been. For example, if we get captured by Somali pirates we should think about how happy we were at Shreays and how beautiful it is.

I think these past few days I have understood must be what it is like being a princess. We are alone in this luxury retreat and treated like royalty. We probably wake up a bit earlier than your average princess, but that is to do yoga, so I don’t mind.

In case I ever do get kidnapped by Somali pirates I am going to list some of the special things about Shreyas here so I can remember them:

The tree opposite the yoga pavilion which I focus on when I do my tree pose

The flowers strewn over the tables at mealtimes

The ginger tea

The smiling zen staff

The sound of my yoga instructor’s voice when he says ‘balance’ and ‘be aware of’ whatever part of my body I am meant to be aware of or ‘very good’ which he doesn’t say very often

The amazing food; day after day

The dinners, always candlelit and in a different part of the garden

The crisp, clean, elegant swimming pool

The little garden with flowers and a tree in it outside our tent which is almost part of the bathroom (there is no wall)

The tall palm trees swaying gently in the wind

The massages from Jason who has magical hands

The library where you feel you could spend a lifetime reading all the books (not all, there are some terrible ones, left behind by people I assume when they realised how bad they were)

The morning and evening sun by the pool

The sound of birds all around

And just in case this list isn’t enough, here are some more photos…

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

So far the Shreyas retreat has come as close to my idea of an ideal way to live as I have ever experienced.

Set in the lush Indian countryside it has beautifully landscaped gardens, a yoga pavilion, lovely swimming pool and little tree-houses where you can chant, or just chill and read a book.

The food is outstanding; all vegetarian Indian. There is no alcohol but actually I don’t even mind.

The day begins at 7am with yoga, then breakfast then meditation and chanting. Following this there is free time until lunch when I work on the novel, have almost written 5000 words, not bad considering my brain is a little mushy to say the least. There is another yoga session at 4 and then dinner at 8. Dinner is in the garden, candlelit.

There are lovely touches all around, like flowers strewn on the tables and every time you take your shoes off to go inside someone comes and turns them around for when you come out again.

My friend Carla has arrived and it is lovely to be with her. There are also some lovely people staying here. I guess in a yoga retreat you’re unlikely to get any real plonkers.

OK there are times when I want to giggle, like this morning when I was sitting cross-legged with my fingers in my ears chanting. Happily Carla was in another class (the easier one, natch) so didn’t see me or I would have collapsed.

But most of the time I am really into the whole experience; the exercise, the breathing, the chanting and the feeling of total and utter blissful relaxation. They say in the literature that a holiday is actually a holy day. I’m not religious but this is as close to holy as I have ever felt. I can’t believe we have another week to go…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

I travelled to Cairo last night with my friend Joy who is the wife of the Swiss Ambassador in Abu Dhabi. I am never travelling without her again.

We get to the airport where she checks in at the business class counter (despite the fact that we have economy-class tickets). Then we are escorted through a special VIP passport control by a young lady and up to the Etihad Business Class lounge where we drink Chamomile tea in splendid isolation. Half an hour before we are due to take off we are escorted by a charming young man to the gate where he pushes us to the front of the security queue. Once through, we get into beautiful white Mercedes with a flashing light on its roof and are whisked to the plane.

Next there is a brief hellish interlude as we endure an economy-class flight for four hours. “How the mighty are fallen,” I say to Joy.

Happily upon landing normal service resumes. We are met by Switzerland’s military attache for the Middle East and his driver. His driver takes our passports and organises my visa then we are whisked through the VIP passport check and into a waiting car.

Joy says this normally doesn’t happen to her either, and was as surprised as I was. I am sure though that the diplomatic passport played a big hand. Or maybe my meeting with Sheikh Mohammed (below blog) is already having an effect as the ‘wasta’ filters down……..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010

It may be a stupid question, but you can’t help wondering as you wander through the Egyptian museum looking at the remnants from what was one of the world’s greatest ever civilisations: Where did it all go wrong?

How come thousands of years ago they were so rich and so talented and intelligent that they were able to bury people with more riches than it would take several families a lifetime to make in modern Egypt, where people earn around $160 a month if they’re lucky?

I am shocked at how poor this country is, and so is Nawal, the writer and activist I interviewed last night. She of course blames it on economic colonialism. As well as non-secular government and a patriarchal society. “We are forced to eat imported food,” she told me last night. “We are perfectly capable of growing our own, but now our agriculture is non-existent.”

The answer is clearly to put the women in charge and make the men grow the vegetables. Then they can go back to the good old days.

PS In response to Dom’s comment below (as my own website seems to think that my comments are spam and will not let me post any) my point is this: In England today the majority of people do not live below the poverty line. We have a working and a middle class that is prosperous. Here there seems to be no middle class, 99.9% are poor and the others are rich.  Of course peasants in Medieval England were badly off, but the fact is they don’t live in the gutter today or have to send their children out to work.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

I have arrived in Egypt. As always my departure was not easy. The morning I was leaving Olivia’s ear infection came back, Bea had a “hurty tummy” and she lost her blue exercise book. Leo had the worst problem of all; a bad hair day.

Anyway I managed to escape and a few hours later found myself on a camel lunging towards the pyramids. Obviously I had my BlackBerry with me (I am on a working trip after all) and in between trying to reach the elusive film star Mona Zaki to set up an interview and confirming appointments for today I saw these symbols of ancient Egypt.

Rupert calls them “proof that man has been a congenital idiot for centuries”. My guide Mohammed also questioned their wisdom: “Mr Go no come back” he told me with confidence.

What did I think of them? Well, to be honest, they look better in pictures. In reality the ground is strewn with rubbish, the animals they give you to ride, horse or camel, look like they have not eaten for weeks (Mohammed blamed their Saudi guests for this) and the prices are extortionate. I did have a brief Lawrence of Arabia moment as the wind picked up and the three pyramids loomed ahead of us. I can imagine the desert can be an extremely beautiful, calming place.

Cairo, on the other hand, is not. Well I have not seen much but compared with Abu Dhabi it just seems so dirty and busy. I guess this is the Middle East without oil wealth. As a Swede I am about as far out of my comfort zone as I ever want to be. On the way to dinner last night I almost fell over the carcass of a rotting ginger cat. The cars all look older than me. Having said that there is something very authentic about it and I may grow to love the chaos the longer I stay. One of my heroines and one of the people I am interviewing today, Nawal El Saadawi, is mad about it, even though they keep putting her in prison.

I have just had a call from Leo, another bad hair day. But the girls are happy so Rupert only has to get the gel and the hairbrush out.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

We leave the day after tomorrow. In fact Hugo and Rupes left yesterday. We are staying on until the last possible moment to let Olivia’s ear infection clear up and also to enjoy some last-minute walks around the green fields.

Yesterday we spent the day in Annecy with my mother (who flew in from Rome) and our great friends Jean-Claude and Alex as well as their children Astrid and Elisa. Olivia and Elisa have been best friends since they were one. We met Jean-Claude when I fell in love with one of his wines and a friend of ours was looking for suppliers for his London wine bar. He is an amazing man, he now has an incredibly successful wine-making business, selling millions of bottles all over the world, but he also has time to do things like sell our car for us (which he did a few weeks ago) and give me advice about my novel which is about a housewife turned winemaker.

Annecy by the way has to be one of the nicest places I have ever visited; there is a stunning lake, great shops and swans gliding around the city centre’s waterways. Here is Leo on a boat on the lake.

My mother, the children and I are back with our other great friends Norrie and Mary. It feels like coming home. And talking of home….THE house. Well the news is not good. They want a price much closer to the asking price than we can come up with. That may change of course and I am not giving up. Meanwhile the upside is we can stay here and I can’t think of anywhere else I relax quite as much. The children are off playing with the rabbits and I am in Norrie’s office catching up with some work and admin. It also means we don’t have the stress of trying to sell Sainte Cecile and all the worry of what to do if it did sell (there are tenants there until March) or the expense of moving. And to some extent the heartbreak of leaving our family home of nine years.

It has been a lovely holiday and I do have that ‘going back to school’ feeling today. But I am not sad to be going back. I have great friends there too whom I am longing to see. And I am looking forward to getting back into my yoga/work/school routine. Last night I spoke to Rupert who said “It’s nice to be home.” So I guess for the moment Abu Dhabi is where home is. We’ll see what happens in the future.

The other great news is that the updated edition of Ciao Bella is in the window of Waterstone’s in High Street Kensington. Bang in the middle according to my friend Peter who saw it there. This is it, if you see it, buy it please. Then maybe one day we will be able to afford THE house!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

While we were still at the lakeside hotel in the Savoie last week Olivia and I had an interesting conversation.

“Mummy,” she began. “Not that you’re very old, but when you die would you like to be buried or burned?”

“I think probably burned,” I said. “But can I have lunch first?”

She thought for a moment. “Yes, but where do we scatter your ashes?” She looked around her. “How about here?” she suggested. “I know, I will throw you in the lake. You’ll like that, you like swimming.”

Here is a picture of me with Bea on said lake. I hope I won’t be swimming with the fishes too soon.

Tomorrow we head back to the Savoie for our last week of holiday. We have rented a little cottage, the same one as last year, called La Clementine which is two minutes from THE house and ten minutes from the lake. On Tuesday we see the house inside, but meanwhile here is the exterior and view of the tennis court. You can’t tell me that’s not beautiful, whatever the weather….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Today as I was about to board a plane to Stockholm my mother sent me an email saying “safe flight home”. It made me think, as the concept of home has been uppermost in my mind over the past few days.

Sweden is clearly no longer home. I love it here. I love the food and the cleanliness, the friendly people and the cakes. But it has not been home for a long time. Although I suppose in some deep part of my psyche there is a part that will always be Swedish.

While we were in the Languedoc this week we went home to Sainte Cecile. Bea wept and I felt ambiguous. It is still a lovely house. It is a perfect house in many ways. But for me the romance has slightly gone. It could be because it smelt wrong. Maybe I am rather like a mummy bunny rejecting its young when they have been touched by someone else. I don’t know. But even walking to the cross (which used to be one of my favourite things in the world) was less magical.

I felt like a bit of a traitor but half of me was thinking about the Savoie house which I think could become a home. But is it mad to give up on Sainte Cecile where the children were practically born? The landscape is lovely and we have good friends there as well as granny and grandpa. Leo and Bea took their first steps there. Most of my books were written there. And yet I don’t really feel at home there any more. But would I feel at home in THE house in the Savoie? Possibly…as Shakespeare says: No traveller returns.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

We drove over to dinner last night with my friend Regine and her husband Jean-Claude. The children stayed with Norrie and Mary. The drive was beautiful; I am more and more taken with this region. We had the GPS plotter leading the way and when she said: “caution you are entering a restricted area” we knew we had arrived.

Regine and Jean-Claude have a house just below the palace and Her Highness was not there but had sent food, crockery and servants. So I got closer to her than most. We had a fabulous evening; great fun people, lovely wine, good food including the MOST incredible brie stuffed with truffles which I don’t think I will ever forget. I sat next to a top surgeon and apparently Grey’s Anatomy is quite realistic (I don’t expect many people talk to him about soap operas but I just had to ask). He in turn told me I am far too thin so I had three puddings, what joy.

At one stage I heard my husband say to Regine: “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you seem to have a talking hedge.”

He was right. The hedge was bleating on about how tired he was and how noisy we were and how he had to work in the morning. Regine offered him a glass of champagne.

“I’m in my pyjamas,” said the hedge.

“We accept people in pyjamas,” she replied.

But he wasn’t moving. So we all told him (very loudly) we would be quieter. Rupert (what a hero) drove home around midnight and now we are getting ready to collect the children. Tomorrow we head to the Languedoc so I expect I will be off air for a while. After a brief trip to Stockholm for work we come back to this region for our last week and finally see THE house inside. As long as there are no talking hedges, I would like to buy it…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

So we showed up at the airport last night at midnight, ready for our 2am flight to Geneva and our holiday.

“Geneva?” said the young man at the Etihad counter. “There is no flight to Geneva tonight.”

“Ha ha,” I said. “Very funny.”

Sadly he wasn’t joking. The flight we were meant to be on had left at 2am the previous morning. I had got it wrong. I felt sick. We were told to go and see the ticket desk and try to get the next flight, scheduled for 9am this morning. I can’t believe how nice Etihad was about it. I mean it’s not their fault I am a natural blonde (I hide it well most of the time). And the flight was lovely, we were looked after by a Swedish attendant called Mattias who was so thrilled to find some “countrymen” as he called us that he kept bringing Leo treats from up front.

Now we are here we are by our lake, having been for a swim and settled into our rooms with a view.

Obviously Rupes didn’t let me forget my mistake, there were constant references to what day it is today and so on. “Is this joke going to go on all day?” I asked him.

“Oh no,” he laughed. “Much longer.”

This evening the girls arrive with my mother. Norrie and Mary have gone to collect them. Tomorrow we go and see THE house and we have a big, long, French lunch in honour of Norrie and Mary’s 41st wedding anniversary and the fact that my mother has survived for a month with the ferals.

We have lots of plans for our time in the Savoie, including a trip, I hope, to the home of the “mother of the nation” or the equivalent of the queen in the UAE. She summers here (like you do) and my friend is her BF so summers with her. The girls will be most impressed if we get to meet her; I am wondering what the protocol is. Does one curtsy?Do I have to wear a scarf?
Meanwhile the terrace beckons with a view of the lake and the swans gliding around looking serene. Oh and I forgot to say, it even rained earlier – total bliss.

And we have until the 29th of August when we fly home to enjoy it. Did I say 29th, maybe I meant 30th…..could be a good way to extend the holiday.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009