Bijoux

One more abbey photo , just because it was so amazing…

The hotel room at Mont Saint-Michel was even more basic than I realised. Unable to turn the heater off, I opened the window, resulting in a blast of briny cold air from one end of the room fighting the 28 degree heat pouring out of the heater from the other end. The cold won, chasing me to the shower, and a five minute wait for a trickle of warm water. There WAS a Nespresso machine, but no milk, so cold but determined, I ventured down the stairs to the deserted restaurant. Tiny spiral stairs, in the semi-dark, at 5am are no laughing matter. I was completely prepared to raid the kitchen fridge, but found one of those automatic coffee machines and swiped a cup from the pre set tables to fill with hot milk. I felt quite proud of myself- one of those little moments when you just keep going and achieve success in the end. 

My sense of achievement was short lived , as I missed the shuttle back down the causeway. I tried to flag down the driver but the guy just waved back at me and kept driving. I walked. In the rain. The rest of the trip back to Paris was uneventful. I’ve included a photo of the causeway path seen from the abbey, and an interesting option from the buffet car (I wasn’t brave enough to try them)

Back in Paris, I collected my luggage and moved to my accommodation for the last few days, L’Hotel in St Germain. This is a little 20 room hotel built in 1828, said to be the first boutique hotel in Paris. 

The rooms are all individually decorated with theatrical flair - velvet, silk, rich colours and elaborate detailing. I believe my room is Mata Hari themed. It’s ridiculous, but fun, and feels like bring inside a jewellery box. 

The  hotel has a guest list as colourful as the decor including Salvador Dalí, Princess Grace, Frank Sinatra, and Jim Morrison. The most celebrated resident was Oscar Wilde, who spent his final days here in 1900 and died in room 16. I went down all five flights of stairs so I could check out the room. Evidence : 

St Germain is a fantastic area, full of galleries, antique shops, cafes and winding streets. I lunched at a  creperie, “Little Breizah”, demolishing a ham cheese and mushroom buckwheat crepe and a bowl of cider. Literally a bowl of- I wasn’t sure if a cup was coming but eventually drank from the bowl. It’s a tiny restaurant with tables crammed together but the service was friendly and food delicious. Highly recommend!

 

The afternoon was spent with a friend at Vignerons, a small private wine-tasting room across from the Tuileries. As we were the only two people booked into that time slot, it turned into a rather special experience.

There was a beautiful spread of charcuterie and cheeses, matched to the wines by region. Our sommelier, a Ukrainian woman with a wealth of knowledge, guided us through a tasting focused on small, independent winemakers. It felt like sitting down with a knowledgeable friend who just happened to have excellent wine and a good supply of cheese. We discussed everything and nothing, and the session ran at least an hour beyond its scheduled finish. We finished by trying dessert wine associated with the family behind Château d'Yquem, not part of the standard tasting, but brought out by our sommelier as a bit of a treat. 

By the time we finished, dinner was definitely unnecessary. I headed back to the hotel for an early night. 

Michel ma Belle

I checked out of my hotel, leaving my big bag with them for an overnight excursion to Mont Saint-Michel. This is not the easiest place to get to, requiring a taxi, then a train, then a car,  then a shuttle bus. The train was clean, fast and well equipped with a dining car, wifi and reclining seats. I didn’t need the dining car- any one that knows me will know I was at the station a good hour before boarding, and if you know me VERY well, you’ll know I had pre-scoped out the food offerings to find the best breakfast option. 

All the transport went smoothly and in no time at all I was stepping off the shuttle on to the causeway to the most breathtaking sight. 

Unlike most of the over edited, over instagrammed tourist destinations, this is the real deal. It rises out of the flat expanse of the bay, medieval buildings piled improbably on top of one another with the abbey at the summit, a vast sweep of sand and sea stretching out on either side.

Once inside the walls there are a maze of narrow cobbled streets and stone buildings, all winding their way around and upwards towards the abbey. 

The route is steep, but there are plenty of distractions along the way, a hodge-podge of craft shops, tourist offerings and restaurants. I managed to acquire two berets and a pair of gloves as well as eat lunch and down a glass of champagne for energy on the way up. I needed it as the climb to the abbey is something of an undertaking. Google tells me there are around 350 steps from the entrance to the Mount to the top, but it felt like far more. Sometimes you go down, just to go up again. There is a reasonable stream of tourists coming along behind, so there was some Dory-like “just keep climbing “ going on in my head. 

The abbey itself is spectacular, full of gothic halls, little chapels, and courtyards, with the occasional glimpse of the bay showing just how high you have climbed. The cloister is particularly beautiful and feels incredibly peaceful and quiet. The light, the sound of the wind, the salty air and the architecture combine to make something magical. It seems like everyone there feels it - the chatter of the tourists dies away in this space. 

I sat inside the church at the top, taking on the soaring ceilings and the light pouring in, and lit a candle for Jason before moving on to the scriptorium and the crypts. The building is a rabbit warren of small narrow stair cases which open out into large halls. It’s hard not to consider the sheer determination involved in building such a place here. There is a large 3D model that you can walk around, and the practical planner in me is wondering about managing food and waste, and all the tricky logistics involved both then and now. Later on in the tour there is a giant wooden wheel with a sled attached, used, I understand, to haul food up to the building. I’ve included a picture of the fibre arts display, a project to produce textile maps of the bay made with local wool, dyed with local flora. 

A basic but hearty dinner next to the fire was all I could manage before falling into bed in an equally basic room. There are no fancy accommodations here, and I’ve picked the best of two options. Three long flights of steep stairs, a bathroom with questionable plumbing and a thankfully comfortable bed. 

Paris Privé

Breakfast in Paris will be my undoing. The croissants are fantastic. I understand it’s something to do with the way the wheat is milled, but whatever the reason, the buttery flaky goodness is hard to resist. After this treat, plus a hot chocolate and an “anti aging” strawberry juice, I rolled out of the breakfast room to meet my driver, Ben.

Ben and I spent three hours together in his gorgeous vintage Citroen DS, driving around Paris The car garners huge attention and I’m likely in many hundreds of strangers’ photographs. Every time we stop, by the time I wander back to the car there is a small crowd of admirers asking Ben questions, taking photos and oohing and ahhing. We drove through both the main thoroughfares and the little winding backstreets, with a running commentary of historical and contemporary tidbits of information. I didn’t know that Pariscwas called the city of light because of the electrification of the streets, or that the Latin quarter was from speaking Latin at the Universities, not to the ethnicity of the area’s residents. 

 Ben finally dropped me off at the unmarked entrance to a private club, Cercle de l’union Interalliee, where I was meeting a friend for lunch. Neither of us had been there before, but I have reciprocal rights from home and it looked interesting. Wikapedia tells me that the clubhouse is widely regarded as one of the most beautiful if not the most prestigious in France. Perhaps this results in a certain, ah, attitude from the reception team. My friend was wearing what was technically a sneaker, but made of tan suede and without a sport shoe sole. Unacceptable apparently- said with a French sneer that belonged in a fifties black and white movie. If he had a moustache, he would have twirled it. Luckily, they had “loan” boots in an appropriate size. Chagrined, we effected the shoe change and slunk into the bar, which was a beautiful room with friendly staff. I note that I was ALSO wearing sneakers but I had rather long pants on that made it less apparent. I pulled the pants right down on my waist so they covered the shoes, hanging on carefully to make sure they didn’t take a further trip south. The food was excellent and they had my favourite champagne as the house drop. Full of Pepper beef rump and cauliflower puree, we swapped the shoes back and giggled our way out the door. I had a snoozy evening, hopefully putting an end to the time zone confusion. 

Non, je ne regrette rien.

Although my original plans were disrupted by the Paris riots, I’ve reorganised, rebooked and ensconced myself in a comfy seat on a plane, to wing my way to Paris. It’s a long way, but I enjoy the quiet time of travel. I like the enforced stillness, the absence of internet, the anonymity of travelling amongst strangers and the small portions of surprisingly good food that appear at regular intervals. All of the Oxford travel pushed me into Platinum One status with Qantas. This brings some small privileges when travelling - little luxuries to ease the journey, such as a day spa appointment in Sydney, priority for showers in the Singapore First lounge, roped off dining areas and the good champagne. I also take the opportunity to watch all the movies that you never bother to see at the cinemas. Super girl, The Devil Wears Prada 2 and the gorgeously feel-good Sheep Detectives. Consequently, after a very long journey I’ve landed at Charles de Gaulle at 6am in good shape. The air is crisp and there is a drizzle of rain. Looking out the window of my hotel room, it is a quintessentially Parisian view. 

I spent the morning wandering the streets and the covered passageways. 

Paris is looking a little grim, with boarded up windows and a lot of graffiti. Walking through the city, there is not a working ATM to be found and many businesses are closed in anticipation of trouble following the scheduled protest today. The boarding up has three levels- fancy metal mesh for the spendthrifts, particle board for the cheapskates, and particle board painted back for the middle of the range. It’s a weird socioeconomic class system with unknown origins, although the paintwork suggests that Parisian aesthetics remain important even in a crisis.

I’m feeling a little anxious that I may have placed myself in the middle of some trouble, but the hotel is next to the American Embassy and accordingly there is a high police presence at either end of the street. 

I was completely prepared to stay in at the hotel for the evening, but the concierge said it was quiet outside so I headed off to my evening event. I’d booked a ticket to a musical performance at Musée Jacquemart-André. It started with a private viewing of a Tintoretto exhibit before continuing the evening with a condensed version of La Traviata. Performed by three singers and three musicians, it was an intimate performance that went from room to room in the gorgeous 19th century mansion. The audience were treated as the guests at the various parties in the story (complete with a glass  of champagne) and the music was performed right in amongst us. It was a beautiful setting, wonderful music and very fun to be part of the performance. A long day but a good one, and I’m feeling exhausted but very glad I decided to continue with the trip, despite the disruption.

Great Expectations

 The big day….

Getting dressed in my academic finery took longer than I expected. The outfit under the gown is prescriptive. It’s called “sub fusc” and involves covering up every inch of skin in a long sleeved white shirt, long skirt and black stockings. Over that goes the gown, the hat and a ridiculous black velvet bow around my neck . The boys get a bow tie.  Clearly the ribbon is some effort to dress up the females but I look somewhat like a six year old from the seventies.  My poor family is  also dressed up in full formal glory. I appreciate the tradition, but black academic robes or blazers and ties in the middle of a heatwave require more commitment  than even signing up for the course in the first place. 

As we made our way from the hotel to the venue, I felt a little conspicuous in my gear, lots of tourists looking and smiling. Random people kept saying “congratulations”. 

The Sheldonian Theatre itself (designed by the ever present Christopher Wren), is a breathtaking building. A very fancy, special place for a graduation ceremony. The ceremony was really nice - shortish speeches, a vocal quartet , some handshaking and we were out in the sunshine for the obligatory photos and hat throwing.

While we were sitting in the ceremony, I had some reflection time. Forty nine people put in time and money and effort to learn something new. Why? What were we hoping to achieve and now we are at the end of this chapter, did we achieve it? 

I had applied for the “view from the room” speech to be given at the ceremony. I didn’t get the gig, but my draft speech had been largely about these questions, via a metaphor.

Hic Sunt Dracones. Here be dragons. 

This phrase appeared on old maps, warnings inked on to the edges of the known world. Beyond this point - uncertainty, danger, mystery, things not yet understood. For me this is an appropriate metaphor for my Organisational Leadership course in so many ways. 

The first dragon for me was the fear of not knowing. Adult learning asks established, competent people to become beginners again. I’m used to being the person with the answers,  and all of a sudden I have none. I don’t know what good looks like. There is something uniquely humbling about getting a mark on a paper I’ve spent weeks crafting. 

The next dragons were the ideas themselves. How to tackle ambiguity, paradox and change. And while we wrestled with new complex ideas inside Oxford, outside the walls the world continued shifting beneath our feet. We studied change while living through it. Technology reshaped industries faster than organisations could adapt. AI challenged how we work and how we made decisions. Political systems fractured. Social expectations evolved. The pace of change accelerated while our certainty diminished. 

Which brings me back to the metaphor. Old maps no longer work. In order to lead in today’s world we need to be able to navigate when the existing map fails . Navigate into the unknown places marked by dragons. 

But… dragons are also symbols of power, wisdom and guardianship over treasure. 

So did I achieve what I wanted from this chapter of my life? I think so. I learned to fly over terrain I once found intimidating. To tolerate ambiguity. To ask better questions. To challenge assumptions (including my own). 

Finally, I’ve also gained some self belief. I looked at the edge of map, at the place marked “here be dragons”. I read those words and was willing to walk there. 

And I didn’t walk alone - there is a cohort of others, now friends who walked with me. We all arrived at Oxford with different expectations, but we all leave with something shared, an experience that built a support network that will last well beyond the course. 

Hot in the City

We breakfasted late on Thursday, at an Indian restaurant. Bottomless chai and a range of tasty breakfast items with an Indian slant - I had a cooked-to-order naan wrapped around a sausage with cream cheese and chilli jam. Spicy, messy and delicious. 

Fortified by breakfast, we wandered towards the  Weston Library for a bird exhibit and then the Natural History Museum. Our progress was slowed by a detour through the Bodleian Library gift shop. I am incapable of passing a bookshop or museum gift shop without at least having a look, and the Bodleian gift shop is particularly dangerous. My suitcase is getting heavier! The Natural history museum is home to the only surviving Dodo- it’s only the head part and completely desiccated, and not on display, but they make quite a big deal about it. Possibly to increase sales of Dodo gift shop items, of which there are many. 

It reached 33 degrees in the afternoon . The pavement and walls in the largely treeless city centre radiate every last degree of heat back at you. Self-preservation trumped exploration so we stopped sightseeing altogether and retreated to the rooftop bar for a cold drink and a rousing game of cards. This was followed by snacks and drinks on my terrace as the evening slowly cooled. There are certainly more productive ways to spend a day in Oxford, but at this temperature they are difficult to imagine. I am hoping this is the peak of the heatwave. When shopping for snacks we found some “interesting” food and drink items. KFC serves baked beans with one of their meals, and Pepsi has a wide range of flavour options- banana chocolate anone?  

Friday was largely the same, with a trip to the Asmolean Museum around the corner from our hotel. I have a bit of museum fatigue, but there are fantastic Egyptian, Greek and Roman  exhibits here. One of my favourites was a statue painted with historically accurate colours. It looks garish and weird as we are so used to seeing white marble statues. I forgot to take a photo! King Charles is in town today for the opening of something or other and we had to wait to cross the road while his limo went by. 

We had been walking past a Sicilian sourdough pizza restaurant all week, and opening day was today, so we dropped in for lunch. The focaccia sandwiches were delicious but the shop has some kinks to iron out with service - the English staff couldn’t figure out the Italian names on the digital till, and my white wine was served at room temperature. Very full after lunch, we repeated the terrace snacks and drinks plan for dinner, this time with a new card game. It’s a relaxing way to spend the evening. The terrace is on the top floor, and sounds drift up from Oxford - pealing church bells after a wedding at Magdalen chapel, chatter and laughter from schoolchildren on an excursion, and the cool tunes from a trumpet player, busking in the street. I’ve included photos of my mother and I waving to each other between my terrace and the St Michael’s tower down the road . It’s the oldest structure in Oxford. 

I know big graduation ceremony is tomorrow, but I’m over the heat and actually looking forward to going home more. No doubt once I’m home, I’ll be complaining about the cold…..