Blessed Is That Which Is Imodium ... Hmm, enough said.

And so to Suzhou on the 12th by slow queues and fast train from Shanghai. I was quite relieved to leave there; tall place, deep potholes, smelly smells (pong hi in Shanghai) and astonishing pace of rebuilding (you had to mind your head!).

The irate taxi driver in Suzhou couldn't put me off watching out for the canals which I caught tantalising glimpses of through the phalanx of bikes and mopeds whizzing along beside them. The hotel was in a main shopping area and we weaved our way through said phalanx plus hundreds of pedestrians to get, well, almost to the door. The cheapest deal meant the room was opposite a building site, with drilling the wake-up call at 6am.

We woke early (!), I avoided the duck's blood soup for breakfast, and scuttled off to the museum as I hoped to find an old map which might give clues as to where the British consulate was. Granny described it as being near the city wall and a few yards from the canal. She wrote that HM's government had rented 9 rooms in a 500yr old palace belonging to Li Hung Chang (Chinese envoy in the late 1800's). The museum was singularly unhelpful and Sophia was told that there never had been a British consulate in Suzhou. We went round the exhibits anyway, because they were interesting.

I was itching to leave, though, and I couldn't fathom why. Following the exhibits in an exit-only fashion the modern building finished as I stepped over a high doorsill and into a small and ancient courtyard, surrounded on 3 sides by the red/brown wooden latticework of the verandah topped by steep roofs dressed in curved clay tiles. I was amongst hundreds of Chinese tourists with cameras flashing, all jostling for a good position, but they couldn't compete with the silent antiquity of that place. My flash was still off from the museum and I took pictures of nearly every room, courtyard, alleyway and corridor that wasn't full of people (I had to be patient).
It occurred to me that this was the consulate, after all it was opposite the canal. This must be it, this is where they lived. My grandfather was Acting Consul in Suzhou in 1897. I told myself off for being ridiculous, but I went on taking pictures because this might be the only type of place I see that they might have recognised.

Half an hour later Sophia and I walked to the little art gallery opposite the museum entrance that we'd already noticed served tea and cake (museums always make me famished, I don't know why). We went down some steps into the cool dim interior and were ushered to a huge table by an open window. Its shutters were folded back and outside, a few feet below, were the green waters of the canal, and 15 feet away was an old man sitting on his tiny landing stage smoking his pipe. His beady eyes met mine without a flicker. I suddenly felt like a big blundering foreigner encroaching on his home and by the time I'd turned away he retreated indoors.
The gallery's owner and manageress served us my favourite lemon tea and little biscuits and we got chatting, Sophia being asked the inevitable question; What is she doing here? She explained as they smiled and nodded at me and I felt able to ask; Was there a British consulate here in the late 1800's?

"Oh yes," the owner said, waving her hand in the direction of the museum, "It was over there in Li Hung Chang's palace."

I was right! I knew it, I just knew it! The tears threatened to spill over. We all sat there, stunned, until my hand was patted, more tea was brought and I had myself under control. All those years of waiting. This place was somehow the most precious in my mind, I don't why. And now I'd been walking in the same rooms and the same courtyards. (Thank you WCMT).

I tottered out to the street and 20 yards away we came across stone steps leading down to the canal and boat trips. It was a cross between a punt and a gondola, covered, and the boatman manning the eulow (oar) at the back was 5'2'', wizened and wiry. I nearly drowned, obviously, when the boat slid away from the bank with my right foot in it; dignity apparently not an option on this trip. The canal was just wide enough for passing boats, and the very old whitewashed houses backing on to it had their stone foundations held together with fresh air and green water. The steps leading to each one stuck out in desultory manner, ready to clip the ear of the unwary, and had gaps between each stone step. What on earth was holding them up? The plaster crumbled like pastry into the water and the tiny landing stage doubled as a washing stone. Clean clothes dripped from poles and rusting air exhilarators (no, what do you call them? I'm tired!) hung as a testament to modernity from every house.

The canal was over a thousand years old and remained unchanged except for a couple of new road bridges. So my grandparents would have seen this, travelled on this waterway in the official boat with Mary and Brother at the eulow.

The inevitable question came, and when Sophia answered, the boatman's response was to announce his intention to sing 3 songs dor me, about family, love, and life. He held the collar of his shirt and began as the youngsters up front collapsed into giggles. I was transfixed and although strange to my ears I could tell he was a real singer, and it turned out he had once belonged to a local opera group.

Once I've remembered to buy a memory stick (yes, well..) I shall ask Sophia (sainted, and second only to Imodium) to upload her video clip of his performance for us.Supper beckons (it could be the soup).