I had many visions of where I would spend my 10th wedding anniversary: Le Byblos in St Tropez, Hotel de Toiras on the Ile de Re, Hotel Costes in Paris, some ritzy restaurant in London, a beach in the Caribbean, a luxury spa on Lake Geneva. After all, ten years of marriage is something to be celebrated. Just think, 10 years ago today I was squeezing myself into my wedding dress and worrying about where in the seating plan to put my father (immaterial as it turned out, he stormed off before it all happened).

So where am I? A McDonald’s on some nameless roundabout 10 kilometres from the Ile d’Oleron, our next island stop.

I have always refused to go to McDonald’s. I hate McDonald’s. It’s as far away from the kind of place I would like to spend any time as a public loo. (As a child I was famous for refusing to go to public loos, which made travelling with me anywhere tricky). And yet I am here, sitting at a table, drinking a perrier while all around me people stuff their faces with burgers.

And yet….it’s not that bad. I can’t smell the burgers (or the people), the table is wooden and they have HIGH SPEED FREE WIFI. This may not seem as exciting as a massage in a luxury spa but believe me, after several days on remote islands, it is amazing.

But I don’t think we’ll stay for lunch.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have been to the Ile de Re on France’s Atlantic coast three times and every time it has rained. Notwithstanding this, I love it. In fact I’m sure after two months in the desert I will be dreaming of its green coastline and soft showers.

To me it sums up why the French are the one nation in the world who have really got this ‘how to live’ thing sorted; beautiful countryside and wildlife, gorgeous little boutiques, beaches, fabulous food and wine and donkeys wearing trousers (I kid you not).

I just paid a visit to the post office here in the unfortunately-named Ars-en-Re. It was like walking into a Knightsbridge coffee shop. The cycle hire shop is run by a woman who would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money. Rupert keeps getting punctures, I can’t think why.

We have lunch planned (obviously, what else does one do during breakfast?) in a totally trendy looking spot called Le Bo and then we take a boat to another island called Ile d’Aix. I am assuming that once we’re off the Ile de Rain the sun will shine.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I had no idea where Abu Dhabi was until Rupert told me he had been offered a job there. He likes to get a proper job once every ten years or so, so he’s off to work on the business desk of a new newspaper called The National (www.thenational.ae).

“I’ll stay here,” I told him, imagining life as a single parent with a little trepidation. No one in their right mind wants sole responsibility for our three children, for every school run, every meal, every bit of shopping, ironing and homework.

Then my agent called me. A client of hers was going out too, to edit the new weekly magazine. Was I interested in working for her as a staff writer?

I decided to do some research into Abu Dhabi. This could be an interesting new slice of cake (see below blog). Here’s what I found out:

It’s hot
There are lots of parks
There are beaches
There are seven-star hotels
There are lots of shops, I mean SERIOUS amounts of shops
Most houses come with maid’s quarters
There are two French schools
The Louvre and the Guggenheim is about to open (good for when the shops are closed)
Dubai is close by
There are camels
There’s not much wine

I decided to join him and so after our European tour we are moving. The children are going to the French school and we are going to work. All very grown up. I will miss my afternoon kips and walks with wolfie but am extremely excited by this new adventure.

The children have taken it really well. Not a word of complaint and they’re really looking forward to it. Olivia did have two questions: “Are they handsome and will we have maids?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But we’re about to find out.”

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So we have said goodbye to Sainte Cecile and begun the European tour. We drove away from a calm-looking Max (being looked after by the tenants) with the car jam-packed with our belongings. For some reason I have four bags of bathroom products; there are just so many things a girl can’t live without such as lavender oil, cleansing nose-strips and fake tan.

Included in the contents of the car are also; one electric keyboard for the girls to practice their piano on, one VAST coffee machine so Rupert can get his daily fix which sat on top of Olivia all the way to dance class yesterday, two rugby balls (almost as essential as the nose-strips), 27 bottles of Arrogant Frog wine, tennis racquets, too many unread copies of the New York review of books, yoga mats, Olivia’s new Nintendo DS (birthday present from her godfather), several sun-hats, the entire works of Marcel Proust in French (guess who won’t be reading those?) and Marco the brown and white furry dog.

The children were all given new suitcases from IKEA which have a smaller bag inside where they were told to pack essentials. Leonardo was the most impressive packer by far. Inside his bag are one wooden sword, one soft-toy cat called Findus, one MP3 player with no headphones, one copy of High School Musical CD, 17 toy cars (when asked why he needed them all he replied “I love them”), one water-pistol and one Spider-man climbing doll. There’s a boy who knows how to travel lightly, unlike the rest of his family.

So far we have managed to lose the children (actually we’re leaving them with Chantal for a week) and end up a full hour away from home in a dreamy place called Peyriac de Mer where I am writing this listening to doves and church bells.

After a walk we are heading up to one of my favourite places in the world; the Ile de Re, where we will spend two days. Then it’s off to explore more French islands before we head back to the Languedoc to watch the girl’s ballet show, squeeze them and Leo’s bag back in the car and head off to the Savoie followed by Sweden, England, Wales and who knows where we might end up? 

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We are in Cadaques, where normally at this time of year the children would be swimming in the sea and playing on the beach. But it’s raining. Not the sort of rain you can avoid. Sheets of rain that hit you like a bucket of water.

We are here because Rupert has to write a travel story for The Times about the region and more specifically the boat Salvador Dali gave his wife Gala. We need said boat just to get out of the hotel.

Yesterday we went to the Dali museum in Figueres. He was a brilliant artist (technically) but I just don’t like all that weird stuff. I can’t help it. It seems slightly ridiculous, as was his moustache.

After breakfast we are going to see his house. I am looking forward to it. Whatever I think of his art or moustache, he was a fascinating man. We have tried to instill the children with some interest in goings on. They really have none. They seem most fascinated by the hotel bathroom and Spanish TV channels. I suppose that’s just as well, considering the weather.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I would like to give you all an insight into my hard working life. Rupert and I are in St Tropez at the chicest hotel in town, Byblos, which has been the best address in St Tropez since 1967 when Mick Jagger married Bianca on a terrace here. Guests include Brigitte Bardot, George Clooney and, er, my husband and I.

We are on a most gruelling schedule. Here is the itinerary for today:

Breakfast at leisure

Free time to explore St Tropez

1.00pm Lunch by the pool

18.00 Spa treatment

19.30 Cocktails and dinner at B bar.

I think you will agree that this is far too much to expect a person to do in just one day and support me in my letter of complaint to the National Union of Journalists.

As if this isn’t enough, tomorrow they expect us to go for lunch at Club 55. We will no doubt be forced to eat and drink for several hours while watching the waves gently lap the shore and spotting celebrities in exile from the Cannes Film Festival.

Is there no end to our suffering?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am risking life and limb to head to Chelsea. Some of you may not be aware that police yesterday had to shoot a lone gunman within metres of Marks & Spencer. Can you imagine, you pop out to buy some matching underwear and the next thing you know some lunatic with a gun is trying to kill you.

Apparently he had a fight with his girlfriend. Sadly it seems he served in Iraq. Yet another consequence of that pointless war.

Anyway, the retreat is over and all went well. I came home and tried to introduce the children to the joys of sleeping with lavender scented yoga beanbags over their eyes. It didn’t work last night; Leo woke up due to a “baddie dream” and Bea woke up because she had a “hurtie leg”. Rupert slept through the whole adventure and was amazed when I looked so tired this morning. Gunmen allowing I shall look forward to a good night’s sleep in Chelsea.

I am going to meet some TV people, see some magazines and have my eyebrows threaded. This threading is a very serious business and as I know of nowhere outside Harvey Nichols that does it, I am forced to go there. I wonder if they sell bullet-proof vests.

But for now I am working on the train, speeding through the lovely French countryside. Everyone around me is eating and the conductor keeps wishing them a “bon appetit” - never let a train journey get in the way of lunch.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The irony of returning from a trip to the French Lakes and find we have no water in the house was not lost on me. But what is surprising is how life drastically changes without running water. No lavender baths, no easy way to brush your teeth, no cleansing of grubby children after a four-hour car journey, no washing machine, dishwasher, no glass of water to take to bed, no running water for Max the cat to drink (he is furious).

Even Rupert, who has just written a book about water so is well aware of its importance, was amazed. “I feel terrible,” he declared this morning after an evening and night without water. “I can’t believe how not having water affects everything you do.”

It is horrible not to be able to wash rasberry jam off the children’s hands or wash your face before going to bed (not to mention horribly ageing, I read somewhere that if you sleep with your make-up on you age 10 days, luckily I had an alternative cleanser to hand).

We are back to normal now, except the dishwasher, which has packed up. I don’t blame it, after a day and a half of washing the dishes I know how it feels.

I am adopting a Zen attitude (partly as am very excited by the news that Amazon has sold out of To Hell in High Heels) and anyway I find that whenever I go away I come back to some slight problem, be it a nasty letter from the bank or a dead mouse in my sink, or possibly both.

We had a lovely time, as you will see from the pics, so it was worth it.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I barely had time to stroke Max and say woof to Wolfie before we were off again. This time with the children to the Savoie where Rupert is researching an article for The Times. This gave us an excuse to come back to one of my favourite places in the world, our friends Norrie and Mary’s house.

It is a little like a spa retreat for me. I walk in and immediately feel relaxed and looked after. I ask if I can help and they say things like “you can sit down and drink your wine.” Regular readers might remember Norrie and Mary and the flying biscuits? They tell the children that when they hear the cockerel they are not to disturb mummy and daddy but to come into their room for milk and flying biscuits.

The downside to this is before 6am yesterday morning Olivia had woken everyone up on hearing a cockerel who is clearly on Asian time.

Olivia, Rupert and I have headed off to research the lakes. Yesterday it was gloriously sunny. I did some evening yoga (or yogo as Leonardo calls it) on the pontoon by the lake, much to the amazement of the locals who were extremely impressed with my pink yoga mat. It was one of those magical moments; the setting sun, the calm lake, the ducks gliding noiselessly back and forth.

Until I heard a voice behind me: “Mummy, we can see your knickers.” I only hope they didn’t clash with my yogo mat.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Sir Edmund Hillary died today. He was 88 and died of heart failure at the Auckland City Hospital. The reason you will have heard of him is that in 1953 he and Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest.

I have never had a desire to climb mountains. In fact when we were in Zermatt last year we wandered around the village graveyard looking at the graves of all those who had failed to conquer the Matterhorn and paid the ultimate price. I looked at the names and the birth and death dates of these young men and wondered what on earth possessed them to give up what was probably a very bright future to get to the top of a mountain. I suppose it’s some desire to do something that you will be remembered for. But wouldn’t it just be easier to write a book or become a golfer?

But some of the greatest acts of bravery have come from expeditions. The British have a long and illustrious history of exploring. The Antarctic explorer Captain Lawrence Oates, weakened by frostbite, walked into a blizzard knowing it meant certain death so as to increase the chances of survival for the remaining men. His last words are among the most famous quotations ever. “I am just going outside and may be some time,” he said as he left the hut.

“Those were the days when men were proper blokes,” said Rupert as we watched a programme about an expedition to the north pole in the 1960s the other evening.

It is true it seems a more romantic time, when men were driven to daring deeds and to discover the world you actually had to go there instead of just googling it. Having said that Hillary may have been undaunted by Everest, but when it came to proposing to his wife he was too shy and so asked his future mother-in-law to do it.

Hillary’s wife and daughter were tragically killed in a plane crash in 1975. But his son Peter climbed Everest in 2003, along with the Tenzing’s son, Jamling Tenzing Norgay, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Hillary’s ascent.

So maybe we are still up to daring deeds, we just need the right inspiration.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008