Having carried his golf clubs with us from England, we felt it imperative that Gary should use them.  Early research indicated that membership in the Beziers Golf Club  for a little over ten months would be 1800 euros.   Much as I wanted him to play, this amount was far beyond our budget and we agreed it wasn’t feasible.

A bit more research found a nine hole course, costing half as much in membership fees.    We went off to view it on a sunny day in January.   It is  a pretty course, long and narrow and following the path of a river.   A newly built clubhouse offered such a good standard of food and drink that it was open to the public.   Any worries about dress code were allayed as we watched a young man teeing off  in jeans and leather jacket, with a Gauloise stuck firmly between his teeth.

After his first game,   Gaz seemed happy enough, but he had lost six balls:  four in the river and two under one of the many Coypu who, with the odd duck or two, wander around the course.   Gary pretends they are his golfing buddies as he has not yet had the confidence to chat to other golfers, despite the fact that most golfing terms have strong roots in English:  “les green fees”, “le pitching et le putting” etc.   I hope he will get over that shyness.  Bit lonely till then.   Coypu and duck aren’t big on conversation.

The course is on the outskirts of Lamalou  les Bains.   It is a very pretty spa town and this  golf widow looks forward to many a happy hour being pampered,  while, on the golf course, Gaz is holing in one.

It was New Year’s Eve when our last visitors from home were here, so we eagerly awaited our visit from Maz and Johnny last week.   As we knew they both had strong associations in the design world, we decided to show off some of the man-made beauty of this area.   We had not been to Millau to see the famous Norman Foster-designed Viaduct, so we all set off with eager anticipation.

It was a beautiful drive.  We had  enjoyed an idyllic breakfast in our sunny garden and drove up high into mountains topped by snow and swirling mists.   As we drove across this amazing edifice there was a collective intake of breath at the peerless beauty before our eyes.    Once again, we all felt privileged that man and nature had combined to show themselves at their very best, just for us.

Having feasted royally on food for the soul, we travelled onwards and upwards to Roquefort in search of cheese and served our baser instincts there.

Regular bloggees will know how much we were affected by our visit to the Petit Camargue and the desire to share an experience is strong in us.   On our two day design immersion we wanted to take Johnny and Maz to La Grande Motte to see the 60s/70s architecture there.

A limpid sun illumined our journey across the wetlands.   The flamingos looked happier in the warmer weather; there were hundreds of these funny, beautiful creatures.

Our friends were as amazed with this town as were we.   We almost had a pride of ownership in their pleasure … and the  Moules (in Roquefort sauce naturally) Frites went down very nicely with a pichet of white wine.

Everyone quickly fell asleep on the journey home as I read to them, from Wikipedia, a dozen  pages of facts about the town.

And all too soon it was time for our friends to leave.   As they were flying from Carcassonne, we took the opportunity to do a lightning tour around the old town.   And of course,   enjoyed more lunch.

The town is huge and deserved more time than we had to spare.   We managed about an hour in  the walled city, which was well  worth the visit.

Another good bye.    Another little airport.   Another afterthought:

As I got into Mistress R. Soul for the homeward journey, a gust of wind grabbed hold of my long scarf and then banged the door.   Shut.  My face made intimate contact with the window.   I tried to rescue my scarf but it was stuck fast around the lock.   The door would neither open nor shut.   Freed  from my end of the scarf, I spent the journey hanging onto the door in case a bump suddenly dislodged the scarf and the door fly open.

That car hates me.

 

 

 

The train strike was cancelled so, only an hour late, we boarded our train to Marseille.  Gaz had read somewhere that the French always take a picnic on board, so he made big rolls and added a bottle of Picpoul and despite my reservations (not of the train kind, the etiquette kind) we excitedly unpacked our goodies as we sped through lovely French countryside.  Farms and flamingoes, vineyards and freight yards whizzed by.   “Glasses?” I enquired.    “Forgot,” he replied.  Despite my embarrassment we sipped daintily from the bottle.   Classy or what?

Marseille station is a thing of ultra modern beauty.  They have even copied the St. Pancras open piano which was being effortlessly played by a young Frenchman.   Outside, Gary once more sought the advice of Miles (worst French accent in the world) Satnav.   Now.   Either  Miles has taken against us because of all the times we have shouted “Shut the (swear word) up.   How can we return to the bloody route if we don’t know where the bloody route is!”; or some malicious person has slipped him an internet version of a psychotic drug.   He’s being weird.

Off we set in high spirits.  “This way, darling,” says Gazzie merrily.   We started down a perpendicular cobbled road, our cute  little cases clippety clopping as we went   ………… into the jaws of hell.

I’m not saying it was a rough neighbourhood, but I feared for my very fillings.  Even the sun was a luxury not to be afforded amongst the mountains of debris that spilled from every opening.    Men sat in groups on the ground smoking and throwing dice and we jumped three feet off the ground when one said, “Bonjour.  Ça va?”

 

Every conceivable surface was covered in graffiti.   I have never seen such a proliferation of this questionable art.  Walls, doors, windows, shop fronts, cars -all covered.   Animals too, I suspect.   Through chattering teeth I said to Gaz, “Don’t stand still or you’ll find a Banksy  on your bottom”.

When thinking on this later I was a bit sorry we hadn’t stopped.  I thought, “Mmm.  Banksy on bottom;  remove Banksy with several layers of bottom.   Sell Banksy and keep bottom reduction”. A silver lining can be found in most things.

Finally we saw light filtering through the darkness and came out onto  a sunny street.   Totally ungraffitied people sat in groups chatting in Arabic, drinking coffee the colour of tar and making families of their Arabic speaking friends.

Unbelievably, like a man seeking advice from someone who has just directed him into a burning building, Gazzie once again sought advice from Rat Face ( worst French accent etc).    “ Straight up here, darling,” he said, a little less gaily than last time.   Up was right.   You almost needed a ladder to walk “up” this road.  “Only another 5 minutes”.   An hour later, while I was strapping on an oxygen cylinder and adjusting a face mask, he said.   “ I think Miles has told us wrong”.

We turned and made our way back down the road.   My face was set in a rictus of pain caused by a two hour walk on arthritic joints.  We had passed our hotel twice.  We checked in and fell on the bed and slept.

On waking, trying not to “seek out the poorer places where the ragged people go” (thanks Paul Simon), we found ourselves (no, you are absolutely never going to believe it, actually Miles found us) in an area,  just by the Metro, of sullen  streets and silent  strangers.   By this time though, hunger made us immune to danger and in this, the second largest city  of France, home of the Bouillabaisse, we had a delicious Indian meal.

Like mornings in all the best stories, our morrow dawned blue and gold.   The hotel was ideally placed in the shopping area and only minutes from the old port, where we sat and ate our omelettes in the 100+ year old restaurant “La Samaritaine”.   We sat transfixed looking at Norman Foster’s masterpiece Miroire Ombrière, built to shade visitors to the port and reflect the lives of those who visited.  Being an artist, like,  bet  he didn’t think of the poor souls who have to clean it.   Several contortionists  were attempting to do so as we watched.

 

As we try to do, whenever visiting a new town, we took the Big Bus Tour.  We were driven  right up to Notre Dame de la Garde which stands high above the town,  via  a hair raising route through narrow urban streets, bullying small cars out of  our way as we went. We held our breath as the bus seemed to teeter over the rocks above the Frioul archipelago and sighed with relief as we dropped down to drive along  the elegant corniche of the  sea front,  past  the town’s diverse architecture and back to the old port.   Too full and frozen  to eat the Bouillabaisse being served at most of the port side restaurants,  we returned to the hotel to thaw out.

 

In France, sales in retail shops are only allowed for 6 weeks from mid-January.   We felt it our duty to support the local economy and tried our best to buy.   Only to find that (apart from a pair of pink patent leather brogues that called to me) even the sale prices were beyond our budget.

Our last evening and Gazzie, working without Rat Face, found a delightful Bistrot in the Opéra region, just two blocks back from the port.  Named l’Horloge, it was narrow, with one line of tables,  giving close access to the neighbour’s food, and their dogs, should you be extra specially hungry.    The staff of youngsters were absolutely delightful, with huge smiles and a nothing-too-much-trouble attitude. We were using Google Translate to decipher the menu when, to the amusement of all our neighbours, the nice waiter pointed out there was an English translation beneath the French.

Gazzie had the octopus,  which he pronounced delicious and I had a gourmet cottage pie with pulled beef cheek and almonds.   We shared a plate of fromage, as yummy as a very yummy thing, and a pichet of  quite quaffable dry white wine.  All this for a princely 30 euros a head and more people-watching and story-making than your heart could desire.

 

The lights of the port lit our way home.   Perfect.

Despite security alerts at the station, and a thirty minute delay, the journey home was very pleasant.  And there was our foster mum, Bassie, waiting for us in an illegal parking area, ready to take us to our foster home in Roujan.

We light the fire;  Gaz turns on the rugby; I groan;  we home.

No matter how beautiful a place I am in, the difference between joy and despair will be made by the people I’m with.    It was ever thus.

We were so fortunate to have friends already here and Bassie has always been generous with her friends, wanting them all to know each other.  Making social connections has dragged me out of my homesickness and into the “ doing stuff” that is at the heart of the expat community.

Being part of this community has also given me a very small insight into the difficulties of immigrants to our own country;   to look behind the stereotype of both immigrant and ex pat.   When you live in a country of strange language and customs it seems natural to cling to the familiar and many Brits still long for their baked beans and Marmite, their bacon and Corrie.   Almost all do make an effort to speak the language, but somehow that “strangeness” never goes away.  Many Brits to whom I have spoken say that they have really tried to form friendships with local people and in one case, despite living in France for 25 years, a very socially adept Francophile told me that he numbered only four native French amongst his friends.  Is it that old saw that  humour and poetry do not translate and therefore it is not possible to fully integrate into another culture?   Or do you need a “hook” , such a sport or  a shared interest to break down internal barriers?

Obviously, the words “family” and “familiar” have the same root.   I think that incomers to strange countries cleave to their own language speakers in order to form replacement families.

I don’t know, but we are trying really hard with our next door neighbours and we smile and wave at each other and will, I am sure, eventually make tentative conversation.  And I’m certainly going to find the French words for “will you stop your bloody dog from barking all day long”.

In the meantime I am revelling in meeting  the English speaking ladies of the Languedoc.   My first introduction was at a venue close to here: Chateau St. Pierre de Serjac (pictured above).  The event was billed as a tapas and jazz evening but, in fact, the music was provided by two Catalan gypsy guitarists, who were joined every so often by a young woman singer from the table next to ours.   Soon her companions were dancing and we, the observers, were transported to a northern Spanish gypsy campfire.!   As our table of ten Brits loudly showed our appreciation, I looked around at my companions, most of whom Gaz and I had made some conversation with, and anticipated, with some pleasure , the part they might play in our adventure.

In appreciation of our support, this dark haired young woman then stood at the end of our table and sang a highly emotional, hand on brow,   rendition of “La Vie en Rose”.  Life seen through rosé tinted wine  glasses seems fine!

Only two days later we joined some of those we had already met, and some fascinating others, at a Sunday roast lunch (2 courses, wine and coffee, 22 euros  a head).   The venue was Domaine L’Aise in St Pargoire, 20 minutes from here.   Once again, kind new friends, Richard and Jill, transported us there.   This beautiful, very old home, is high in the hills, with amazing views.    It is owned and run by Karen and  Mike, as a chambre d’hote (b and b) and their summer lives are very busy with guests.   In the winter they host these occasional lunches.  14 of us sat down to eat our traditional British fare.   The conversation flowed over an amazing variety of subjects.   There was much laughter and bonhomie.   As we retired to a long table in the warmth of a sunny January afternoon, to drink our coffee and pastis, it seemed that I had begun to find what I had been missing.

Since then I have become a member of “Ladies in Languedoc”.   This is a two thousand strong internet-based support group for English speaking women in France.     Help and information is offered on any subject under the sun, from schools for children, to finding a cobbler, and everything between.  A wide range of outings is also arranged.  All this  to help combat the possible loneliness of the stranger in a strange land.   It has proved to be a lifeline for for many of its members. Another group I have been invited into is  “Ladies in Pezanas” a much smaller, more social group); Books, Wine  and Chips  (an eight in number book group) and I start my Creative Writing classes in March.  We continue our conversation classes with another lovely group of  6 or 7.   Goodness, come the summer, I shall have no time to sunbathe.

Our trip to Marseille tomorrow looks in doubt.  Rail strike and farmers’ road blockades.    Plus ca change, plus c’est la même chose.

Just a footnote really, and despite promises not to mention, while out yesterday (second week in Feb), we counted 11 Santas still struggling over balconies with their still laden (though rather grubby) sacks and glimpsed in a house one fully lit and laden Christmas tree.   Just sayin’.

Lordy, Lordy.  Worst bloggy nightmare.  For those of you who are notified  by email when a new blog is posted,  you will have received my first (unchecked) draft of the blog “Deliverance”.

The following errors were identified: Lagrasse is spelt thus;  it is in the Aude, not the Alpes Maritime;  it is not the centre for perfume.

For those who just visit the site they have the researched and edited edition.

All other events and observations are, to my knowledge, correct.

Note to self:   Must stop pressing “publish” after a glass of wine.

 

 

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I have pondered a bit, while we have been here,  the reason why so many ancient buildings in France remain in such good condition and I can only assume that the  temperate weather is kinder to slate and stone than our own sometimes cruel conditions.   In almost every town and village in the Languedoc, history surrounds you in the narrow, cobbled streets.    The  ancient  buildings sit majestically alongside the rather squat and ugly newcomers.  It is a joy to  wander through them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Certain  villages are categorised as “The Most Beautiful in France”.  When we were here in September we visited the village of Olargues.  It most certainly deserves its place in that august company.   High in the hills beyond Beziers, its cobbled streets seem to be almost vertical in places, clinging on to the hillside overlooking the River Jaur.

We also overlooked the river as, with close friends, we ate outside  at the Restaurant Fleurs d’Olargues.    After we had moved downwind of the freshly manured kitchen gardens of this exquisite  restaurant, with its adorable young waitress, we were once more rendered speechless by the beauty of our surroundings, the amazing food and the pleasure in laughter and good company.    And some very fine wine.

 

Based on the success of our visit here we decided, last week, to visit another of these famous villages.   Lagrasse.

It was naive to think that a “plus beaux villages” would be as beaux on a grey day in January as on  warm, sunny day in September, but as demonstrated earlier we do err on the side of naïveté.   Lagrasse  is to be found high up in the Aude.    It is renowned for Corbières wine and is now home to numerous pottery workers and artists, and hosts numerous cultural and intellectual festivals such as “Le Banquet du Livre”.

On the day of our visit Lagrasse  was shut.

Obviously its natural beauty must be illumined by the sun which shines, we are told, 360 days of the year.   But not on a grey day in January.   Shops, restaurants, church and school all had a Miss Haversham air of cobwebbed waiting.   Silence pressed against our ears as we tiptoed around the town.

 

We found the car, carefully closed doors and started the engine, so that our departure would have no more impact than our arrival.   As we took the steep descent from the village, there was a sudden roar behind us and a school bus, carrying half a dozen blank faced children, overtook us on a hairpin bend.   We slid to a stop, inches from the parapet wall separating us from oblivion!

With shaking legs we got out of the car to gulp in some cold mountain air,   Across the valley I’m sure I heard the sound of duelling banjos!

Its a true story bloggees. But we shall return in the Spring.   Preferably on a guided tour.

Gaz and I now have our Senior Citizens rail card.  We have booked our first rail journey to Marseille next week.