Having a Baby in Belize- The Birth of Khaya

I had a few different options for where to have my baby. I knew I did NOT want to have my baby in a Belize public hospital as I had heard stories about the treatment of birthing mothers and I did not want to be in that situation. I wanted to have my baby in a safe and caring way. I wanted to have control over what happened to me during the labour and I did not think a public hospital here in Belize would give me the experience I was looking for. My three options were: 1. Travel back to Canada to have a hospital or home birth. 2. Have the baby at a private hospital in Belize City. 3. Have a home birth with a midwife I had found by an online search. We decided not to take a chance with going to Canada if Luckie had problems getting his visa. I did not want to get stuck last minute making a plan B. I had been getting my prenatal care at the private hospital in Belize City which was a very good facility but still a hospital with policies and proceedures that did not really allow me to have everything I wanted. So we chose to go with the midwife. I really wanted to have a water birth and we had met with the midwife and really liked her. She is a woman who worked as a midwife for many years in Canada and the US, highly qualified and experienced with more than 1500 births. She and her husband moved to Belize to retire but she continued to catch babies calling herself “midwife without borders” travelling all over the world delivering babies. I had contacted her and she was available at the time of my due date.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/having-a-baby-in-belize-the-birth-of-khaya/

Snippets of French History: Leonardo Da Vinci

It would be crazy for me to attempt an item on Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), an Italian who spent most of his life in Italy.  However, he lived the last three years of his life in France, and died in his French Chateau de Clos-Luce, near Amboise in the Loire Valley.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-leonardo-da-vinci/

Snippets of French History: Edith Piaf

I have to say that I cannot abide her singing, but I am not a musical person and I am sure that her singing is wonderful …. just that I don’t like it.  Oddly enough, although Edith Piaf grew to be internationally famous, and although there are several books about her, relatively little is known and, due in part to Edith’s own verbal embroideries, there are all sorts of myths surrounding her birth and her childhood.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-edith-piaf/

Sex...?

For some reason best known to herself my little PA, Charlotte, suddenly asked me this morning how old I was when I first had sex.  Now, I have known Charlotte for many years and we have a really great relationship, so this kind of question doesn’t bother me at all.  In fact it made me launch in to the following story:

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/sex/

Extract from 'A Call from France'

“A Call from France” by Catherine Broughton is a true story.  It has been described as a must-read for mothers of teenagers:-

Letter from my father.

Be grateful for small mercies – Hussein is not a fanatic, and Muslims can be fanatics in a way we’re not accustomed to in the Western world. Having met him, I’d say he is quite moderate, and I daresay many a Muslim would say he’s barely Muslim at all. It’s important to understand that Islam is not a religion in the usual sense – it is more a political system in the name of God. It is based on poems and sayings set out by Mohammed in the Muslim year One – our 622 AD. Where we, as Christians – or westerners at any rate, regardless of our beliefs – can say a prayer or sing a hymn in almost any way we want to, and can in fact believe (Roman Catholics and Protestants, for example) in any way we want to, Islam has only the one way.

Furthermore, that one way has not changed at all since the 622 AD. It is stuck in that mode, for the Muslims believe that there NO OTHER way, that all and everything and every aspect of all things are covered by the Qu’ran (Koran) and that there is absolutely no need for any further ideas or inputs in any form. There exist only the prayers already in the Qu’ran, and not only do they have to be said in that tongue, all the intonations have to be the same too. Otherwise it is a corrupt prayer.

In our culture we don’t mind which language we pray in – French, Spanish, German – the Our Father is still a prayer. We can sing it or whisper it. Islam does not have this luxury. Some might argue – and probably correctly too – that that is why Muslim countries are so backward – precisely because of their inability to allow an intake of anything other than what they already accept. It must be quite galling for them to see (I’m thinking of Americans and the Gulf) “corrupt” people in their country.

Anyway, I wouldn’t worry too much about Hussein. He is clearly very fond of Debbie and Jasmina, even if he does impose his Muslim ways of thinking on them. He has lived mostly in France, so I doubt he’d be willing to exchange the comforts of the western world for the unhygienic sluminess of Algeria. He seems to me to be pretty off-hand about his beliefs for on the one hand he forbids alcohol and card games, but on the other is a bouncer at a Casino.

Hussein had indeed a foot in each world. It explained some of his aggressive macho-ism towards me, for he felt that I was a mere woman, yet he lived in a world, recognized and accepted that world, where women play as important and worthwhile a role as men. He veered back and forth between Muslim principles and western ways, making a kind of wobbly ideology so that one never really knew where one stood with him.

Catherine Broughton is an author, an artist and a poet.  Her books are available on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Click below to order your copy from Amazon:-

http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Call-From-France-ebook/dp/B007VBBT42/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369482410&sr=1-1&keywords=catherine+broughton

Snippets of French History: isadora Duncan

Isadora Duncan was an American (1877 – 1927) who lived and died in France.

She has her tragic place in history more due to her unusual philosophy and extrovert ways, in an era where conformity was more the norm and, unlike her counterparts such Coco Chanel, does not have a rags-to-riches story to tell, nor stunning invention or breakthrough in science.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-isadora-duncan/

Extract from my novel: The Man with Green Fingers

He met Fiona, a girl his own age with hippy-like flowing skirts and long loose hair, at one of these classes and thence began a love-affair that introduced Ashley to sexual intercourse for the first time. He found it a disappointing experience.

“I thought the world was supposed to change,” he complained to Melvin, “I thought there was supposed to be like an explosion and a – I dunno, a feeling of wonder and splendour and …… and well, that it was really great.”

“Yeh, well mate, it is. It is great. Can’t do without it. S’ppose my first time was a bit flat too. Depends on the girl, I think. She has to sorta be well …… you know, erotic or summat.”

Oddly enough, his new non-virgin status seemed to open up other doors for him, and for the first time ever, and thanks largely to Fiona who was a bubbly and charismatic girl, Ashley was able to join-in with his college friends and feel a part of the student peer group to which he adhered. Having Fiona at his side introduced him not only to other students but to the sensation of being a cog in a wheel, a part of a whole, and of having a role to play. He supposed he was probably in love.

“You don’t look like a Maths student,” said Fiona one evening. They were lying on her bed and she traced her fingers slowly over his chest. The room smelt of spunk and cigarettes.

“What does a Maths student look like?” he asked.

“Oh – dunno –sort-of boring. You look more like a poet.”

“What does a poet look like?”

He thought he was going to be pleased with this conversation, particularly in view of Melvin’s comment. He had – years ago now – sensed that his father was disappointed that he was not a big burly chap like himself, and he had been concerned as a young lad that his fair hair was girlish …… but if he looked like a poet, that was okay. He smiled at her in anticipation.

“You look like Rupert Brooke,” continued Fiona, “ethereal, sensitive, beautiful like an archangel.”

“Well, I am ethereal, sensitive and beautiful like an archangel,” he grinned, though he had never heard of Rupert Brooke.

“And modest!”

“Yeh – really modest too.”

When he got home to his digs that night he looked Rupert Brooke up on the net: a first World War poet. There was a black and white sepia photo of him – indeed, he was beautiful like an archangel. A finely-chiselled profile gazed out of the side of the page, full of the pain of love and full of an ardour all things lovely. He was beautiful and Ashley could suddenly see how men find men beautiful. Ashley closed the net, stripped off and stood naked in front of the mirror. Frowning slightly as he turned this way and that, he studied his body carefully. He was not tall – five feet nine inches in fact – and he had a pinkish skin that tanned quickly in the English summer to a pleasant pale gold. Without the tan his skin was effeminate. His eyes were light blue-grey. His hair was fair, not quite blonde, and he wore it short in a traditional schoolboy cut, though it was already extremely thin. His pubic hair was slightly darker. He had only recently started to shave, and even now – he was nearly twenty – needed to do so barely once a week. What stubble did grow there was fair and hardly showed. There was not the slightest trace of hair on his chest though a thick crop grew on his lower legs, like a soft down. The jaw-line was oval, the cheek-bones high, the lips full, and he had long thin fingers with immaculately clean nails.

The Man with Green Fingers by Catherine Broughton, is a novel set in Cyprus.  Described by leading critics as “brilliantly written” and “a page-turner”, this novel has little do to with gardening, as one might have supposed, and contains a gripping mixture of mystery, adventure, romance and murder.  Available on Amazon on Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.

Catherine Broughton is English, though born in South Africa.  She has travelled a great deal and this is reflected in all her books.  She is also an artist and a poet. More about her and her work on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Click below to order your copy of “The Man with Green Fingers”:-

http://www.amazon.com/The-Man-With-Green-Fingers/dp/1475029411/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1369311142&sr=8-2&keywords=catherine+broughton

In the Souk-Morocco

This amazing old crone (there is no other way to say it) had a stall at the edge of the souk, opposite where we sat down for a coffee.  It was impossible to judge how old she was, quite possibly not very old at all, for these people often live very tough lives and age quickly.  We had been over to her stall to look at her wares, which appeared to be bits of dead I-dread-to-think.  Certainly the smell drove us away promptly.  The woman herself was extremely loud, despite the pensive look in this quick sketch.  Yes, her hands were big like that – huge hands that had done a great deal of hard work.  They were more like a man’s hands and, indeed, her general features were, and for a mad moment I wondered if it really was a man … and perhaps it was.  She did a great deal of shouting, angry shouting, at an older man nearby.  He in turn just went back and forth, back and forth, between an old timber cart drawn by a moped and the back of a small shoe repair shop.  He ignored her completely.

We watched for a while, drank our coffee (though I think mine was mint tea) and then set off around the souk, avoiding the old crone, and mesmerized by the brilliance of the colours, the cacaphony of sound and the exotic mixture of scents and smells.  All around Arab boys gathered, all trying to persuade us that we needed them as a guide.  We had taken one of these boys on, years earlier, in Tangiers.  His name, he told us, was Mustafa Coca-cola.  I sometimes remember him and wonder where he is now – no doubt running around with tourists in a souk just like this one.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most leading book stores and libraries.  Catherine Broughton has travelled widely and her book “Travels with a Biro” is due out soon.  More about Catherine Broughton on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

Diane de Poitiers 1499-1566

Before I start on Diane de Poitiers I must answer your questions about Henri II and Catherine de Medici and their “genitalia” problems.  We will never know for sure, but in those days – and till relatively recently – there were a lot of horrific misunderstandings.  I think we can fairly safely assume that the young king did not realize quite what he was supposed to do. We know that Diane de Poitiers became his mistress a year after his marriage to Catherine de Medici, so we can be pretty sure that she taught him anything he needed to know.  We can be equally sure that he already knew most of it via previous mistresses … yet with his wife he apparently did not perform and both he and his wife were confused as to why she didn’t get pregnant.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/diane-de-poitiers-1499-1566/

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Call-From-France-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475116659/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369128093&sr=8-1&keywords=catherine+broughton

Snippets of French History: Catherine de Medici 1519-1589

Born Caterina de’ Medici in Florence, to an Italian father and a French mother, both of whom died within weeks of her birth, Catherine of Medici grew to be arguably the most powerful woman in 16th Century Europe.  The Medici family were fantastically wealthy, essentially Florence bankers, but commoners.  Catherine’s French mother, however, was from an exceptionally powerful French noble family.  This combination of wealth and status made for a turbulent and often dangerous life for the young Caterina.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-catherine-de-medici-1519-1589/

Snippets of French History: Marie Antoinette

In some ways Marie-Antoinette (1755-1793)  has gone down in history as a frivolous and spoilt woman who was executed because she allowed the people of France to die of starvation while she lived in great luxury.

This is not the case at all.  One has to remember that it was the year 1770 when she was married to Louis, hier to the throne of France.  Social issues like poverty and starvation were not the norm in any country, ie it was not recognized, generally speaking, as an issue that needed to be vigorously addressed, and it was many years later that those in authority started to look at (and abolish) things like child labour and slavery.  So to expect Marie-Antoinette who was not, to all intents and purposes, the brightest button in the box, to sweep in to France with anything other than a vague disregard for the plight of the people around her is completely unreasonable.  To boot, she was a woman, who anyway had no say.  That saying “let them eat cake” is fiction – Rousseau included this in one of his books over fifty years later.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-marie-antoinette/

Snippets of French History: hot air balloons

There is a poster on the wall in one of the cottages here at Rochebonne that says something about the French being the first to fly, and yesterday a guest commented “but it was the Wright brothers!”

Indeed it was.  The American Wright brothers were the first to fly (1909), they invented the aeroplane and made the Great Breakthrough.

The French Montgolfier brothers, however, were the first to ascend.  That is not the same thing. They didn’t really fly anywhere – I think the longest journey their balloon travelled was under 2 kms.  But it was still significant and a Great Breakthrough in its own right. And it was over 100 years earlier.

Gas hot-air balloons, which very soon took over because the Montgolfier ones didn’t go far and were dangerous (the fire was actually there in the basket, of course, or remained on the ground underneath), were invented by another pair of French brothers, called Roget, and an Englishman, Henry Cavendish, who invented the gas.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-hot-air-balloons/

Snippets of French History: Coco Chanel

Gabrielle Chanel (1883-1971) got her nickname of Coco when performing in a bar soon after she left the orphanage where she grew up.

She was the illigitimate and fourth child of a Parisian couple who married when Coco was about a year old.  Two of the seven children died as babies, leaving Coco with one older and one younger sister, and two older brothers. Her mother died aged only 33, and the father placed the three little girls in an orphanage, the two little boys on to farms as free labour, and set off for America.  He was never heard if again but in later life Coco would invent exciting aventurier stories about him.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-coco-chanel/

The National Autistic Society

OUR GUEST BLOG TODAY COMES FROM THE NATIONAL AUTISTIC SOCIETY

The National Autistic Society (NAS) is the UK’s leading charity for people affected by autism. The charity provides information, support and services, and campaigns for a better world for people with autism.

 For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/the-national-autistic-society-2/

Snippets of French History: Chopin

Chopin (1810-1849) was described by his mistress as “more Polish than Poland”.  Although many think of him as a Frenchman, he was Polish and, although he lived in France for the last 19 years of his life, he never spoke French particularly well.

For this blog in full and more please see: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/snippets-of-french-history-chopin/

Portugal: The Palace at Sintra

I am not sure whether to call this a palace or a castle, though the Portugese refer to it as the Palace of Pena.  I have seen many many palaces and castles and on the whole feel thoroughly palaced-out and totally castled-out, so wasn’t overkeen on visiting this one.  It has to be said, however, that it does invite you up the hill to have a look.  Perched as it is at the edge of the charming little town of Sintra, not far from Lisbon, it forces you to look up and exclaim “hey, look at that!” (or words to this effect).

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/portugal-the-palace-at-sintra/

Crazannes

Our guest blog today comes from Lucy Thorburn who has lived in France 7 years:-

This area of France, with its plethora of limestone cliffs, has a long tradition of cave dwelling.

At Meschers there are the Grottes de Regulus, named after  the ship, measuring 55 metres long and carrying 700 men, which was fired by Captain Jacques Regneau during the night of April 7 1814, when, failing to hold out against the British, he saved her from falling into foreign hands. She burned for 3 days and nights.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/crazannes/

The Last King of Portugal

Manuel II 1889-1932

The history of the demise of  Portugese royalty is every bit as shameful as that of Russia in that it was in the 1900s, when mankind had advanced so far  in so many ways … to kill off the Royal family in these brutal and churlish ways when society had advanced a long way in regard to slavery, divorce rights, votes for women, medicine, politics, engineering, travel …..  It beggars belief.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/the-last-king-of-portugal/

el Camino

My mother did the camino to Santiago de Compostella when she was in her late seventies and early eighties.  She always referred to it as The Camino and said that those days were among the best in her life. The word camino is Spanish and means the road or the path and refers to the pilgrims’ way to worship at Santiago de Compostella.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/el-camino/

Portugal

I first came to Portugal a zillion years ago when I was in my twenties.  I was with an English chap by the name of Martin, who also lived in Marbella, and who was in the throes of selling his flat in Faro.  With us we had two dogs – his was named Fitsherbert I recall, like mine a big old lollopy mutt rescued from some dire and cruel situation.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/portugal/

Spain: el Cid

I remember very well that wonderful film with Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren!  What a heart-wrenching story and what a great film it seemed at that time – I’d love to see it again, but would probably nowadays find it “tame” and a bit silly.  But it was excellent in its day.

For this blog in full and more, please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/spain-el-cid/

Spain

We crossed the border near St Jean de Luz.  The caravan ran along behind us, as good as gold.

Our trusty Nissan Patrol dealt with the hills, as indeed it should, like a dream and made us remember our poor Chrysler Grand Voyager, who faithfully towed our 1.5 tons caravan all over southern Europe for five months.  This caravan is lighter and the car heavier.  That old Chrysler would weep if he knew.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/spain-2/

Spain: Isabella of Castille

Isaballa of Castille (1451-1504) means nothing to the average Brit till they realize she was the mother of Katharine of Aragon, the first wife of our Henry VIII.  I read about Isabella in my youth – it may have been an historical novel.  She struck me at that time, and has remained so in my mind, as a formidable woman.  She has gone down in history as a great beauty, but looking at her portrait, she is nothing of the sort.  I like to think of her as a beauty, and anyway European art of this era hadn't long crawled out of the dark ages and the associated loss of technique, so the portrait is undoubtedly unreliable.

To see this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/spain-isabella-of-castille/

Spain

They say that wherever you spent your “formative years” is the place that remains in your heart.  Surely that depends on one’s definition of “formative years”?   I think it is not just the childhood years, but adult years where we learn a lot, do a lot, feel a lot …. I lived in Spain for over three years when I was in my twenties, ie after I had supposedly “grown up”, yet it has remained in my heart almost as strongly as Africa … where I spent my childhood.

For this blog in full and more please see http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/spain/