“L’Été has indeed arrived in our French village. But in my bedroom the weather felt tropical as my temperature continued to rise and my eye lids,  too heavy to lift, stayed closed, off and on, for four days. French doctors were called, more drugs administered and gradually over the last ten days I’ve almost returned to normal.   Though often weary to my very bones.

During this time we had Sara and Brian staying for a week, then Mandy and John for four days. I was carefully ladled in and out of cars and slept through some of the most amazing scenery in Europe.
Sara had long wished to eat at the oyster restaurant Tabourieche of which I’ve spoken in previous blogs. We managed to get a table one Sunday lunchtime. Whilst SuperBri and I aren’t big shellfood eaters we shared some mussels,drank some wine and grew misty eyed over the views.

Having undertaken a very long walk to the villages of Neffiès and Gabian (7 and a half miles) our guests decided to take up Gazzie’s offer of a chauffeured research day, checking out venues for their next energetic adventure.  So we set off for Roquebrun (remember bloggees we went there in January to see the mimosa).   Roquebrun is even more beautiful in the warm, bright sunshine and we stood, yet again transfixed at its beauty, seen this time from the river’s edge. Unfortunately for our would be kayakers all the rivers are in  spate.  Very high water levels due to heavy rain earlier this month, making most water sports too dangerous.

Now I don’t know whether you, dear readers have Happy Happenstance Days but we do occasionally and this turned out to be such a day.

We decided to drive further into the mountains and show  Sara and Brian Olargues, one of the “Plus Belles Villages de France”.   We had had  beautiful lunch in this pretty little place when we were here with Maz and Johnny in September.  Delightful in every way possible.   The restaurant, however was closed and we had begun to look longingly at the rather ugly brown sheep on the hillside.   Finding (on the internet) an Auberge only 10 mins away in Mauroul (a village we’d not heard of), we rang.  “Oui”, said Madame.   “Nous avons une table pour  vous”.    The ten minutes must have been as Concorde flew, for it took considerably more though we hardly noticed time passing as we climbed higher and higher, through pine forests, punctuated with little waterfalls tumbling down to the road.   Cherry trees, hardly able to hold their white blossom , filled every space on the mountains and in the forests …. and up above us this tiny village of maybe 50 houses came into view.

There was an almost Tyrolean feel to the place and I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if Julie Andrews had popped out in blond bent-up pigtails, singing “ High on a hill was a Lonely goatherd”.  We climbed up to the auberge past little houses in streets identified by their names hand written on slate and were very warmly welcomed by Madame.

The plat du jour was 23 euros and included Roquefort Tart, stuffed leg of guinea fowl and strawberries three ways.  A pitcher of house wine was better than any wine we have tasted so far in France.   We were the only guests.

We felt chosen; we felt privileged and we felt as if we had found our own bit of heaven.

The following day we all went to Beziers once again to find some kayaking but the rivers were still too swollen for safety.   On the upside we found a pretty part of Beziers that we had not previously known.

As we were close by we visited Les Neufs Écluses de Fonsérannes.   This is the third most visited tourist attraction in the Languedoc Rousillon area (after the town of Carcassonne and Pont du Gard).  These are staircase locks and consist of 8 ovoid lock chambers which allow boats to be raised a height of 21.5 metres in a distance of 300m and is still a very important part of the Canal du Midi.

What adventures we had and on top of those we visited several restaurants including Chez Paul in Pezenas where all courses are served together on one slab of slate (it works. Don’t ask me how).  We also returned to Chateau St Pierre de Serjac and spent five hours over lunch.  Our exhausted little group got together for their last evening before the young ones started on the next leg of their European tour.

I knew this was not going to be an easy one for me.   Still feeling very weak and waving goodbye to our lovely girl and man.   We knew not for how long.   So it was fortuitous that we had all been invited for Apero.  I’m not sure if this is a French thing or a Languedoc thing or even an ex pat thing but it is rather like the old UK cocktail party.  Arrive at 6.30, drink and eat nibbles and leave at about 8.30.  Not something I’ve looked forward to, not knowing whether the guidelines are strictly adhered to or not.  Any old road I’ve recently made a friend of an amazing woman called Zara and her husband Chris.   They live in an exquisite villa in a nearby village,   Zara was a teacher of interior design and her house is an eclectic mix of total amazingness.    Colourful, clever, zany, beautiful and yet calm and welcoming.   We took our Sara and Brian and were treated royally to wine and Persian food. warmth and laughter   I can never thank them enough for making the last evening of an amazing week as special as it was.

And so more goodbyes, more tears (both happy and sad)   Gaz and I walked back indoors together, raced upstairs and started making the house nice for Mandy and John.   Oh and that complete rest I’m supposed to be having?   Plenty of time for that when I get old!

(Some of Zara’s work)

You may remember, dear and faithful bloggees, that as I set off for my homeland I said I had no idea how I would feel.   Of all the feelings I could have imagined, under the category “No, not that one” the following would be listed:  being run over by a Sherman tank which then reversed; have my head in a vice operated by the Incredible Hulk; having my legs removed, simmered in aspic and then sewn back on by a blind juggler (nice try though) and my chest housing two Tasmanian Devils sometimes loudly purring, other times trying to claw their way up through my throat.

Well that would be a close proximity to how I felt for eight of the eleven days I was away.    Now, I enjoy a good illness along with the next hypochondriac but never, never, have I felt so ill in all my life.   And so, whilst we managed the first weekend’s round of wonderful parties, I spent the rest of the time in a friend’s bed.   The doc had diagnosed flu (the first of my life) and I was highly contagious, so had to save humanity by keeping away from it.    A trick a few politicians could learn!

  The first weekend started with a family lunch at my daughter’s club which was closing the following day.  I sat there surrounded by the people who are my very life’s blood, smiling inanely (probably inwinely ).    Gaz and I have spent so many happy times here since before the grandchildren were born (now in their 20s):  christenings, weddings, the best New Year’s Eve parties in town.  And watched the children mature as their parties became less and less mature.   A real reason to celebrate and remember all the fun times.

And now the club is becoming a school again which is what it used to be.    Fitting.    And hopefully as much fun.

At the party the next evening I saw so many people I hadn’t seen for ages.    It all became very emotional.  But what separates human kind from other kinds?   Emotion.

I kissed, I cuddled, I licked, I stroked.    I started a flu pandemic,  (that has the ring of a very catchy popular song).

Tears formed raging torrents along the streets as we prepared to leave and as some friends gathered to offer a totally unmelodic, but none the less just recognisable, rendition of “So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye”, Gary and I slished and sloshed our way back to our hotel.

And then I relentlessly slipped into a world of delirium.    We’d managed visits to Gary’s mum and dad and were at Carol and Rogers     The coughing started, fortunately waking me from dreams of terrible, red eyed beasts; snakes in my hair, village people between my toes (no, not those Village People), Boris Johnson as Foreign Secretary,    Terrible, terrible visions.   We managed to drag ourselves on to our beloved Whitstable and our one night stay with Jenny and Mark turned into five .    Whilst Gary made Merry Little Forays  to friends’ houses, (“Oh, silly me, I haven’t taken off my nurse’s uniform , it’s been hell looking after her, pure hell.    My poor beloved”), I languished in sweat-soaked sheets, with my demons.    Neither food nor wine (I think that was part of the fever – post partum Prossecco deliriums).    I couldn’t read, watch tv, speak.   Every so often  Gary would come in and squeeze a few drops of water onto my parched lips from a flannel.   Like they do in films     I have a feeling though, it’s  a clean one in films: my water had the distinct aroma of Dove Pure.

Gary played golf on his old Whitstable course.   He  met old golfing buddies, went to the pub with Jenny and Mark and I could hear their merry laughter along the corridor as I lay on my sodden sheets, with a bit of old flannel hanging out of my mouth.

I missed a book club meeting with my gorgeous book worms and worse, missed seeing Viv’s  99 year old mother! (Too dangerous the doc said.    For me).   Oh, and  a hastily reconvened gathering of the Silly Games Players : us and Nicki and John and Steph and Colin.  I might have understood some of the games without copious amounts of Prossecco.   Hell and damnation and many, many buggerrrrrrs.

There was one last reason for us to come home:   Maz’s 70th.

On Saturday morning my energy level had dropped to zero.   Opening my eye lids had been achieved with the aid of a mini hydraulic lift.   I had to be spoon fed water:  “I’m not gonna make it” …   ( no, not die, to the party).   I went for a bath at noon and crawled out at four.   Three hours to dress.   “Let’s go parteee.”

With the help of our friend Sara I made it down the 3 million steps to Maz’s.     I suddenly felt rather shy to enter, as if the illness had not only stripped me of my energy, but all the other things needed by the seasoned party animal.    There was a whoosh as the door opened and out poured warmth and laughter and smiling faces and open hands.   “Jan and Gazzie,” they seemed to say,  “you’re home.   Come on in and be loved”

And so we did.    And so we were.

The journey back to France wasn’t easy but we made it.    I’m still coughing like a very coughy thing but the fever has gone.

La Vie Francaise

Part II.      L’Été

starts here.    Bring it on.