Salut!

Closure

During my final months in Paris, back in 2006, I met the families of Eldad Regev and Ehud Goldwasser, whose deaths - as my newspaper, The National, reports today - have finally been accepted publicly by the Israelis.

Goldwasser and Regev were the soldiers whose capture triggered that summer's military strikes by Israel on Lebanon.

There is no need here for any comments about the political issues at play. As I wrote in a Daily Telegraph blog posting at the time:

Grief is an emotion that crosses all human, political and geographical boundaries. I have come across it more often than I would ever have wanted, from Sierra Leone to Tottenham, from Algiers to Belfast.

The anguish of a Jewish mother whose son has been stolen away by Hizbollah carries no more weight than that of an innocent Lebanese parent who, because she has no means of escape from an area deemed by the Israelis to be terrorist-dominated, loses a child in an air strike.

I do not know at what stage the families who were so generous with their time in France came to realise that these two young men were not coming home alive. The Israeli announcement certainly came as a shock to me since, in common with most of the world, I thought they were living, though in captivity.

But I will never forget the last words that passed between the relatives and me that evening in Paris.

Goldwasser's 23-year-old brother, Gadi, was in his hotel lobby, e-mailing updates about the families' campaign for the release of their loved ones or at least some signs of life.

Just as I was leaving, he broke off and said: "Please can you help. How do you spell nightmare?"

* Ehud Goldwasser is in the middle, Eldad Regev on the right in the photograph, with a third kidnapped soldier, Guilad Chalit, who is in the hands of Palestinians, but alive

Inshallah Towers (1)

Only a couple of days or so late, two colleagues who came from Quebec to be among my new colleagues in Abu Dhabi celebrated the festival of St Jean Baptiste, aka John the Baptist, patron saint of French-Canadians.

Andre Forget, who took the photograph, of which more in a second, and Ray Beauchemin chose the theme for their joint flatwarming parties. They are neighbours in Inshallah Towers, the building into which, for many months, I also hoped to move; it was due to be ready by the turn of the year but was not completed until two or three weeks ago, long after I'd given up.

La Fête St Jean-Baptiste is June 24, but Andre and Ray, who also has a website called Salut! (the upstart!*) had to wait until the weekend (which starts and, for some of us, finishes on Fridays in Abu Dhabi) for the party.

And the picture? Cannot yet say which of the following - if any - explains the alarming detail in Andre's snap:

* I used DIY in an attempt to remedy one of the numerous defects to manifest themselves at my own flat

* after absent-mindedly starting to chant Viva espana, I found myself in the company of German football louts

* fashion statements come in many forms

* I needed something to write about in my column for The National

All will be revealed in the days to come.......or , more precisely, on Wednesday (a clue, for my more alert readers, to the solution for my single-question quiz).

* named after his book Salut! The Quebec Microbrewery Beer Cookbook

'My mum'

On what I remember as a sunny day in late summer, I saw my brother Phil's wife Chrissie for the last time. Phil at the time was grossly underweight, having suffered a strange ailment that had been difficult to diagnose. I was worried about his health. Chrissie, on the other hand, was her normal robust, cheerful and in-command self.
The way she described the historical landmarks of Rochester, Kent to her young sons, Steven (that's him closest to her in the photograph) and Matthew, illustrated perfectly why she had chosen a career in teaching. She combined strong general knowledge with impressive powers of communication. Within months, it was not Phil but Chrissie that was seriously ill. She fought her cancer bravely, but ultimately in vain. In our last telephone conversation, at Christmas time, she spoke of a break from chemotherapy as the "best present I could have". A few months later, she died. Steven, now 16 and doing his GCSEs, wrote this essay* as part of his English studies. So far as I know, everyone who has read it so far has struggled to avoid tears. I struggled, and failed. And I am very proud to reproduce, with Steven's consent, his beautiful tribute at Salut!, exactly as written....
......

My French bolthole: a very old farm with heaps of charm (2)

Another bite-sized chunk, about building a nest in France, from my newly rediscovered friend Emma Lee-Potter - newly rediscovered via Facebook, of all things, so I have my daughters to thank for dragging me into it. Emma rose bravely from her hospital bed to write it, having been treated for a detached retina, and promises to keep us posted about her house with no name..

I had a big shock when I set eyes on my tumbledown French farmhouse for the first time in four long months.

If it had looked dilapidated before, it was 10 times worse now. Three-foot high thistles sprouted out of the courtyard, the first-floor shutters dangled pitifully from their hinges and despite the scorching Provencal heat the whole place reeked of damp.

Standing next to me, my teenage daughter was made of far sterner stuff. She promptly began pulling decades-old wallpaper off the walls and went into raptures about the view across rolling fields towards the imposing Roche Colombe in the distance.

Caller: "Can I speak to Kate Adie?" ..... BBC: "Who?"

Kate Adie opening the Dream Big photographic exhibition of the Irish charity To Russia With Love, with Debbie Deegan, the charity's founder, on the right.

In today's edition of Abu Dhabi's new paper, The National, my colleague Philippa Kennedy has a terrific feature about Kate Adie (left), whom she interviewed when the BBC stalwart paid a flying visit to Dubai to launch an international festival of literature to be held next year.

Philippa mentions the 2003 rumours, which accompanied reports that the reporter was stepping down as the BBC's chief news correpondent, that she had been sidelined on the instructions of the corporation's top brass, supposedly "fed up with her opinionated reports that often upset politicians".

It reminded me of an unusual morsel of evidence of Kate's declining prominence that came my way before she lost the role.

A canny bit scran

Mid-May to early August is not, it is fair to say, the time of year I am most likely to be found in the North East of England.

Land of the Prince Bishops, God's own country, home for 23 of my first 23 and a quarter years of life (though not, admittedly, that very first quarter). All these things it may still be, whatever the month.

But there's no football. No, I do not mean the effete, elitist tosh masquerading as the real thing in television transmissions from Switzerland and Austria. I am talking about the normal English season, which is organised so as to end each May with Sunderland either battling against relegation or striving for promotion.

That is the stuff of which life is made. How can I properly appreciate the wonders of Northumbria if there isn't the prospect of a match to attend or endure?

Twice in recent years, however, I have found myself drawn back at quite the wrong time. On each occasion, blame could be placed on weddings. The first of these led to arguably the best banquet that has ever been set before my eyes. And that was before I'd even reached the wedding. What is more, like all that nerve-racking football, it was in Sunderland.

French reflections

Hardly have I had time to turn my back, and look what has happened to France. A circus has taken over at the Elysée, TF1 is about to ditch Patrick Poivre d'Arvor, better known as PPDA, television news anchorman for the past century or two, and it's been raining.

The rain bit is unfair. If fact the day it did pour was welcome after months of Middle Eastern sunshine and in the awareness that still hotter, more humid fare awaits my return. But after the surprising heat of Gothenburg, the Var has not been south of France hot, even if the short break has ended in glorious June fashion.

PPDA? Much of France will miss his comforting, shall we say non-confrontational approach to interviewing on the main evening bulletin. I met him before I left Paris and warmed to him, though I would be more upset about the changes if TF1 also decided to get rid of Claire Chazal, whose serene, unageing presence continues to seduce male viewers without irritating the women.

Making Salut!'s stats add up

No, Salut! has not just cheekily taken advantage of a break in the south of France and added 50,000 visitors to the Statcounter tally you see towards the foot of the lefthand sidebar.

The figure has simply been reset to reflect something closer to the correct number of visits paid to this site since it was launched in the wake of my departure from the Daily Telegraph in the autumn on 2006.

For some reason that I do not understand*the figure suddenly lost 50,000 to read 80,000+ whereas, behind the scenes at my Statcounter account, the total - when last I looked - stood at 132,460. Even that I know to be lower than the whole story since it took me a week or so to add the counter and traffic was particularly high in the first few days.

Back soon...........

* For "do not understand", read "did not understand". After a spot of spring cleaning, I see that the explanation is simple. The lower figure reflects only the traffic since I installed the nifty little country-by country chart. The truer figure is visible at last.

Singing in the sun

The Swedes we know to be as super efficient as they are beautiful. A bit on the dour side, the dissenter observing Sven-Goran might think, but maybe also up for a party, if the dissenter switches his gaze towards Ulrika.

Well, I arrive at the Heathrow Terminal Three desk of the Swedish airline SAS to be told that while I have indeed made an online booking, no ticket or confirmation seems to materialised. Would I kindly remove my case from the belt and pass over to the ticket desk to sort it (aka their error) out? "Don't worry about queuing again," says the young woman. "Just come straight back to me."

Unfortunately, no one lets a fractious queue in on this deal. So when SAS belatedly rediscovers my existence, issues a boarding pass and sends me back to check-in, the belligerent lady at the front of that queue begins a tantrum. All doubtless part of a Swedish joke.

Then, after a flight marked by having to pay for a fiver for a glass of water and can of beer and also by encountering some bulky Swedes, some of them passengers, the airport ATM in Gothenburg refuses to issue cash until I work out that you have to put the card in upside down.

We follow the hotel's recommendation and take the airport bus since it stops outside the front door and can therefore be excused being jam packed. At the hotel, there's a problem with my internet connection. No, I cannot use a business centre since - despite this being one of the partner hotels for the World Association of Newspapers 61st congress - it is closed for refurbishment. And no, there's nowhere still open for food ("it is Sunday, I am afraid, sir").

Next morning, the girls at the conferences registration desks (hotel and congress centre) can find no trace of my badge and documents. Apparently, the system "thinks" I haven't paid though it certainly felt otherwise when I parted online with my card details. And outside there are signs advertising a performance of Singing in the Rain.

There is no rain, Gothenburg being blessed with wonderful June weather, but it strikes the right note on two levels.

First, it really is a delightful place, full of friendly people. And I am here, among newspaper executives arguing until blue in the face that all - or at least much - is actually going well for the supposedly beleaguered printed press, as a representative of that rare phenomenon, a newly launched daily newspaper.