Midsummer blessings

The choir I sing with, the London Bulgarian Choir, hasn't had an away gig this year. We're delighted, then, to be invited to celebrate Midsummer with a concert in Martock, Somerset. The event is being organised by the mother of one of our singers, Brenda, in the village's vast yet atmospheric All Saints Church.

Poster for our concert, in front of the local bank

En route to the concert

It's a scorching weekend, and donning our costume of opaque black tights, long black skirts and thick wool aprons, adds a sweat factor all its own. But Brenda has galvanised an army of support and the church is packed with curious locals, from WI jam-making types to the music fans who are more used to seeing jazz performances in this venue.

Our men make merry in Martock

Midsummer maidens

I'm staying with John and Jacky, friends from London who happen to have moved from the big smoke to this very village. They live in a gorgeous cottage with creaky floors and mullioned windows and chickens at the end of their beautiful country garden.

John and Jacky

This way to the chooks

The morning after the concert we all meet at Brenda's house for breakfast and a leisurely stroll into the fields nearby. 

Somerset, looking pretty level

It takes a special person to welcome all-comers; an even more remarkable one to say, “All back to mine!” to an entire choir. Brenda doesn't fuss about the fact that her garden has become a campsite, or that there are 10 people in line for the loo. Nevertheless, eventually, it's really time to let her have her house back, and we make for a local hill, which boasts a mock Stonehenge, a war monument and expansive views over Martock and its surroundings. 

A very English view

A very multi-cultural crew

The local hill also boasts a pub with great food and ale, which we fall into with great delight. Only after we've sung, of course.

Palace aforethought

The next day we take a tour around Fontainbleau gardens. Having missed breakfast, I’m very hungry and find a cafe selling strong coffee and the world’s most expensive croissant.

French pastry in a palace courtyard comes at a price

It's hotter than hot and we dart along avenues of trees and behind topiary to keep out of the sun. The palace is a splendid backdrop. Originally a medieval castle, it was built around between 1528 and 1547, by Francis l, in the Renaissance style recently imported from Italy. The palace was expanded by son Henry ll and his queen, Catherine de Medici, then added to over the centuries. Latterly Napoleon established himself there, as befitting his imperial ambitions (and it was at Fontainebleau that the emperor abdicated in 1814).

Royally elegant view across the carp pond

The topiary calls to mind an episode of Dr Who

Il y a trop de monde au balcon…

The following day, when the others head back to the UK, I stay on in Fontainbleau and head inside the palace to tour the apartments.

There's gold in them there halls

Lofty halls with chequered marble floors and tall windows run the length of the building, leading to cosier apartments brought vividly to life with rich, embroidered velvets, intricately patterned parquet floors, ornately carved ceilings and impossibly extravagant four-poster beds, including the one slept in by Marie Antoinette, which contrasted nicely with the simple fold-up contraption Napoleon used on his military campaigns.

“Let them eat cake; I'm off to bed”

“Not tonight, Josephine”

It's a wonderful thing to visit a place like this on a wet and windy Monday, as I often find myself almost completely alone in the chateau's lavishly decorated chapel, or its magnificent library, stretching on for at least 100 yards.

Renaissance gallery of Francis 1: bevelled mirrors in empty halls

Eventually, it's time to catch a suburban train to Paris and the Eurostar terminal. Let's face it, there's only so much opulence you can take in one day.

French toasts

When an invitation to a wedding in France comes your way, you snap it up with a ‘Merci beaucoup!’. The last one I went to – my cousin Hugh’s to his Breton bride Josseline, in the 1980s – was something of an adventure, with the entire Langmuir clan making the road trip from Scotland via minibus (and a somewhat mechanically unsound one, at that). This time there’s Eurostar and the Tunnel and Paris in less than three hours.

Home from home

The invite comes from my partner Chris’s Uncle Kevin, whose daughter Justine is marrying her fiancé Alexis. Justine and her sisters, Prudence and Charlotte, have a French mother and grew up near Versailles. The wedding venue, though, is being held close to another famous palace, Fontainbleau.

As expected, the train journey is almost seamless and we arrive in a fraction of the time it has taken Chris’s mother and two sisters, who’ve driven out from London. We’re staying at the Hotel de Londres, right opposite the palace gates.

The Madigan clan

The wedding is at five that afternoon so we change and set off in a taxi, winding through the royals’ former hunting forests, the rolling countryside, sleepy villages of golden sandstone, until we finally arrive in the sleepy village where le mariage is being officiated.

Here comes the bride

Outside the town hall, or mairie, proceedings unfold a little like an extended take in one of those stylishly low-key French movies. The hall only holds about 30 and there are more than 100 guests, so people are craning through open windows for a glimpse, while those inside lean out to tell everyone to shush, there are children scampering between grown-ups’s legs, at one point a small dog stands on the threshold, wagging its tail and being petted by the guests. Mostly people are catching up with each other outside, until the newly married couple emerge, to delight and cheering from all.

We're married!

The ‘do’ is being hosted by the groom’s father, a former landscape architect who has lovingly and painstakingly converted a beautiful old mill nearby. Pa cranks up the wheel for us and we watch it splashing round through a glass panel in the floor above. The stream feeding the mill wheel is bordered by lush grounds and the guests trickle through and fling themselves onto chairs in the marquee, or onto the soft grass if they're feeling a little more informal.

Millwheel action above the venue

Evening sun on the courtyard

There’s a whole menagerie of animals, too, from swans and geese, to sheep and donkeys – one donkey is so antisocial it is kept in a field on its own and even interrupts the groom’s dad’s speech with a guffaw. 

Petting zoo

The aperitifs and canapés go on and on. The heat is intense, too – about 28-29 degrees. Just when we think we’re about to be called to take our seats, a chef arrives in the courtyard and begins frying fresh foie gras and another round of amuses bouches ensues.

Foie gras canapés being prepared

We eventually sit down around 9pm and the first course (of four) is served at 9.30pm. Following speeches and video clips and a Mr & Mrs quiz show, the final course of cheese and a chocolate fountain comes out at midnight and the dancing begins. Our taxi takes us off at 1.30am but we find out the next day that the DJ didn't down tools until 5am. Sacre bleu.

Later that evening…

As if the previous day’s hospitality was not lavish enough, today there is another party, with a Turkish theme. Couscous, stuffed vine leaves, lamb tagine, houmuos and a barrel of beer that Uncle Kevin has ordered for les Anglais. 

Moroccan-themed Sunday brunch

In France, you're never far from an edible snail

Now the key festivities are done and dusted the major players have the chance to cut loose and lark about. Alexis the groom ends up in the river a few times, and his father and chums imbibe with gay abandon, ensuring that Pa at least has to retire early. The food keeps on coming, which makes it hard to leave.

…and relax

Fifty shades of Spey

I’ve taken to walking sections of the Speyside Way, a haphazard goal I’m keeping up my sleeve for visits to family in the north. I hit on the idea when I was staying with my brother Sean and his wife Lara earlier in the year. Lara and I walked about eight miles of this trail, from Tomintoul to the Glenlivet distillery (it was closed, sadly). 

Speyside Way marker

I don’t know if it’s midlife thing. It’s true that long-distance walking is mighty popular with the 40 to 60-somethings, though that is perhaps because they’re the only people with the time and resources. My siblings have gone in another direction – road biking. I think I’m just too much of a tourist to take on the relentless pedalling. I like to yomp when I have to, but dawdle when I can. 

Dawdling under Highland skies

So on this visit to my brother’s in Nethybridge, over three days, I completed three sections of the 65-mile trail, which starts at Buckie on the Moray coast and ends at Aviemore. Except that I’m starting in the middle and walking in the direction that suits the particular day’s logistics. 

The route passes near Abernethy Kirk, playing host to a pop-up art exhibition and coffee shop

Whichever direction you take, the drama of the weather, my feeling of connection to the landscape, and the fascinating historical contexts, make it the perfect trail for me. Some sections, for example, follow an old railway line that once connected the area to Elgin, and you occasionally find yourself strolling past an old station and platform. 

The old Cromdale railway station and platform

Signs of a bygone age

A lot of the path winds through pine and birch forests – Anagach Woods by Grantown on Spey is home to the elusive capercaille. There is bird life aplenty – oystercatchers, and lapwings sounding like squeezy toys circle overhead, warning me off the chicks they are nurturing in the long grass of the adjacent fields. 

Light and shade in Anagach Community Woods

Looking towards the Cairngorms National Park

I pass a remote kirk and notice a plaque marking the site of the Battle of Cromdale, in 1690, when some 400 Jacobite soldiers were killed by Government troops who led a surprise charge at night. The remainder of the Jacobites fled, many of them near naked, having had to abandon their plaids in the confusion. The battle ended any chance of King James regaining the throne, at the time occupied jointly by his daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange. There’s more history, too, as I cross the River Spey on ancient stone bridges, as well as industrial-era cast iron affairs. 

The River Spey is a constant presence

Enjoying cast iron cover

There is much farmland to zig-zag around, and not much refreshment – you really have to bring your own. At Cromdale, I nip in to an outward bound centre to go to the loo and see the kids’ lunchboxes lined up. I’ve just been told there’s no shop or cafe in the village. All I have is water and I’m ravenous. Would they miss a sandwich? I think better of it and decide to call it a day. There’s a bowl of soup with my name on it back at Sean’s.

Over the sea from Skye

I’m whisked off to the west coast of Scotland by my sister Moira. She and her family meet up with a bunch of friends every May at Gairloch on the northern edge of Torridon. The Sands is top-of-the-campsite-pops in my view. Fringed by sand dunes, with views over the sea to Skye, lovely hot showers, and now a little restaurant in a converted barn serving mouthwatering cakes. 

Moira and Saz paddle with the Torridon peaks in the distance

The get together is always on my niece Sula’s birthday weekend and I last came when she turned five, on a blisteringly hot weekend when we just lived on the beach but were plagued by midges. 

Sula sunshine girl

Now Sula’s 10, and while it’s a lovely sunshiny weekend, the temperature is low enough to keep the little blighters at bay. I don’t get a single bite. 

Andy prepares for the evening temperature drop

I’d rather not make a habit of camping but I do love it from time to time. As long as you’re not bursting for the loo, there’s something cozy and comforting about lying in a tent and feeling the heat of the sun, or even the patter of the rain, but having a place of shelter and safety. A sort of indoors/outdoors thing. And living outdoors like that has got to be good for you, body and soul.

View of Skye from my tent

We spend a lot of time pootling about on the beach. Moira and Andy jump off the rocks into the crystal clear water… without wetsuits. Their friends rent a kayak and the kids practise jumping off it into the water… wearing wetsuits.

Their bravery knows no bounds

Kayak capers, Skye backdrop

I sit in a camping chair reading the paper. Sula gets presents, a cake, makes loom bands with her friends. Dozing in my tent I hear the kids chatting about BFFs and who is whose. They think they might take some bracelets to the pub we’re going to for dinner, and sell them. Seth, nine, says, I’ll do all the talking, if you like.

Looms, the latest craze

The Badachro Inn is right on the waterfront of this little fishing port. The bay makes a natural harbour. It’s known for its fish and seafood. Sadly I’m not. It seems like a kind of sacrelige to opt for the goat’s cheese but hey ho…

Catch of the day at the Badachro Inn

We get the rain on Sunday morning but it stops long enough for us to get the tents down and pack up. We take our leave with a last beach walk.

Gairloch beach drama