My fringe hates this weather.   I leave the house sleek and coiffed and within seconds my fringe has frizzed and I look as though I have a bleached Brillo Pad on my forehead. Any advice as  to how  deal with this would be appreciated.

Yes summer is well and truly here.   Temperatures have been hovering around the 30’s all week.

With the heat came :  fringe problems, flies, mosquitoes, midges, bites, insomnia, body dysmorphia.   And, every compensatory factor in one bundle:   Grand daughter Bethany and lovely boyfriend Jordan.

In the weeks before they came Gaz and I went into many a huddle, worrying where we would take them.   Mountain climbing, mountain biking, mountain skiing, any mountain related exercise or kayaking,  canoeing, paddle boarding, water skiing , any water-related exercise or chilling in “Ibiza lounges”,  or night clubs, foam parties, discotheques.  Most chill stuff don’t happen hereabouts.

The nearest we get to “chill” are the guignettes or pailottes or pop up restaurants which are literally built every year in June, with water, electricity, kitchens and toilets and completely dismantled in September.   We did go to Mango Beach, at Agde, with its South American vibe ( such a useful word “vibe”)   Beth and Jords paddled, said the water was freezing, sunbathed and chatted, while the Agèd GrandPs flopped like Sperm Whales on the ultra comfortable beds .   There is great food at reasonable prices and killer  cocktails.   We were not charged for our beds or parasols, but  I don’t know whether this changes in the season.

So a good French Immersion for them and a relaxing day away from jobs in London.   We took them on their first ever wine tasting and were fortunate to have the most charming and helpful vigneron in the world at Caveau Morin Langarin, near Marseillan.  Delicious wines too.  We and the children shared a mixed box of 6.

However, by general consensus, the very best day of all was at home, christening the dip pool, having a barbie and singing along to Neil Diamond

Another day of goodbyes loomed and we went to Marseillan for an amazing Pottery Fair, lunch and then to our second home, Beziers airport.   We needn’t have worried about what to do with “the kids”.  It was just great being together again.

To ease the pain of parting from our lovely ones, we needed to do something different.  I had a scan booked at a laboratory on the next day in Beziers, so we looked at the map for places south of there and found Argelès.   Before the hour was out we had booked a small hotel for one night and set off excitedly.

After an interminable wait for the scan results,  we set off, once more towards Argelès, on the Spanish border.  It was getting late so we used the motorway which we  both dislike, but it meant we were there in no time.   The outside of the Hotel Mimosa (2 stars) did not look promising, but once inside we found a very modern, very clean hotel with charming owners.

We wandered for five minutes along the road and reached the sea.   Looking to our left we saw a deep and long sandy beach with just the odd beach bar, fringed with pine trees.  To our right….. oh my goodness, children’s dream, our nightmare:  dozens of 20 feet high plastic animals, fun fairs, loud music.

Well we weren’t deterred actually.   We were here for a change of scenery and we certainly got it.   We wandered around the tat shops, running 4 deep, back from the beach, then found a restaurant, sat down, ate well enough and watched the children play.   The occasional petulant screams from the children, and yelping from the hundreds of miniature  dogs in the restaurant did not disturb our sense of contentment as the sun went down over the beach.

We rose to a lovely al fresco breakfast in the hotel and went to explore the old town of Argelès.   It was market day.   It was rammed.   No matter,  it was buzzy and interesting and fun.

We took our fill and then made the two hour journey back to Roujan to prepare the house for our next guest.

On our way home we went through Bacarès and Leucate which,  as we told you bloggees, when we last passed through, only two or three weeks’ ago, were totally deserted.   Block upon block of empty apartments, whole camping villages, unoccupied apart from the odd cat.    Now the place was alive with summer busy-ness    Santa had, perhaps escaped to Lapland, but the rest of the world had arrived!   We decided to see if  the Baobab Beach Bar was now open.    It was.    And we enjoyed a refreshing break there.

(Brillo Pad  hair)

(For those who didn’t study French : “Isn’t Life beautiful”).  I’m inclined to agree.

And so home and preparation for our next guest, Sara T.   Before we go though (and my aversion to dogs is well documented) we had to introduce you to Mimi who we met in Argelès.

 

 

After the evening on the beach, we had decided not to spend lots of money on restaurants.   We had learned that Roses was the home of the world famous restaurant “El Bulli” which closed in 2011.   We hadn’t found its equivalent, so back to the hotel for a quick wash, then over the road for a pizza.   ….. the size of a house.   I barely scraped the basement but Gaz got to the first floor so it didn’t look rude.  “An early night, darling?”   Yes.    Until we got to the hotel and heard a disco with a DJ so bad, the hotel staff were hiding under the bar, laughing, on their backs, legs waving in the air.    Too good to miss, this.

Soon I was dancing with the DJ, other guests, anyone really.  Much fun was had and many regrets the following day.   Aching in every part of my body.

We decided to take the country route home, via Figueras to see the Dali museum.    There was nowhere to park because of a big fete in the town gardens.   A quick photo of the outside of the museum and onwards through the elegant, sophisticated and stunningly beautiful towns of Cadaqués and Collioure.

Approaching the border we drive into Hell Land.  The gaudy shops of La Jonquera, packed with cars and people, buying cheap booze and cigarettes.   Then to the border town of Le Perthus.   Narrow roads, cars and vans blocking the road, thousands of people thronging around with bulging shopping bags, litter and desperation.   It would have been good to speed away, but the traffic was at a standstill.

Finally we were through the gates of Hell and into the beautiful countryside of southern France.   We decided to drive along the coast road and the outside edge of the Ètang Leucate, (de Salses).    We began to ask ourselves why.   We drove for maybe twenty miles of desertedness.    Mile after mile ( to be fair, kilometre, I spose ) of houses, apartments.    Empty.   Even waterparks.   Even Aqualuds.   Empty.    Was this a case of poisoned  water?   Of involuntary euthanasia?

But wait.   What do we see?   A lone figure.    As we grow closer (I promise you bloggees this is truth of the highest truthness).   A man, dressed in red, carrying a black bag, approaches a waste bin.   Looking up, we see he has long white hair and a long white beard.  True as I am writing this .  So, tell it not to children, but Father Christmas does not live in Lapland but in Southern France.   And who can blame him?

Also true, as above, “the highest truthfulness,” etc…    further along the road we see a younger man, coming from nowhere, going nowhere, dressed in red,  black beard and hair.   Son of…?

We are now in danger of munching on car seats as it has been six hours since soggy toast and hardly coffee was consumed.   Over the sand and sea holly we see a sign

We called to son of …..   We say, “Your secret is safe with us, mais, le café, est il ouvert?”  He say, “Oui.” We run towards the entrance.  Nada.   Rien.   Nothing.   Just some surf boards and a sign saying “Pas CB”.  No bank cards.   So even if they were open we couldn’t have partaken.

Bloody Son of Father Christmas has got a lot to learn.

Your weary travellers journey on.   Their weariness does not prevent them from appreciating the scenery, but they have a hot date with a sizzling sausage in Laurens at 6.30 and it’s now, as we drive into Leucate, 3 pm and hunger gnaws at our vitals, like the vulture from a previous blog gnaws on bone.  We see a sophisticated restaurant, open.   It will do.   We find a parking place in the next country and drag ourselves towards this hunger haven.   Then, suddenly,  like a mirage in a desert, we see a beach restaurant.   Brain numbing music pours out over the road.   Are we disgusted?   No.   We are the disco divas of Roses.   We swing by.   We grab a table.   Everyone around us, waiters and customers, are from generation Zog and they welcome us like royalty.   We feast on oysters and something else revolting in a shell (Gaz) and chicken dippers (Me).   We watch the mating rituals of the young and smile.   And laugh.  And thank God for being alive.

We journey homewards to meet friends and enjoy, once again the hospitality of Isla and Paul at Sarabande, with their gorgeous sausages and salads and wine.  And dear old Gazzie, having been driving for three days, disengages himself from the steering wheel.   And we go to bed.

Fred and Ginny, enjoying Sarabande:

The silvering sea still moves back and forth over the sand, though the children no longer scream with excitement.   They play quietly beside their parents, all silhouetted against the sky.   Soul music from the restaurants enhance nature’s bounty.    And Gazzie gets his long held wish to stay on the beach until late.

We are in Spain.   It seems almost impossible to us native islanders that we drove for less than two hours and are in another country.   No passports, no queuing, no delays.   Just an EU sign.  Espana.  Though, subtly, the houses look different, the road signs too.

Just yards from the border is La Jonquera, a huge shopping area where everything is cheaper than in France (cigarettes for instance are 5 euros.   If you bought them the few yards over in France they would be 8!)

We pass by, looking  forward to partaking of some Spanish culture, history, vistas.    My eye is suddenly caught by a priapic sign to my left.   “Sex Toy Supermarket.   Come this way”.    Naturellement, mes bloggees, being now largely French, we  made a “”Pffffffffff” (an extra long one for such a sin against good taste) and drive on by.  One of us looked slightly put out.

The view was beginning to change, from the rounded hills and vineyards of Languedoc, from duck and  foie gras,  the pouty child- like sexiness of Brigitte Bardot, across the Pyrenees  to pan amb oli (bread with olive oil) hearty paella and the strident dark sexiness of Penelope Cruz.

The Spanish do  try to maintain their cultural traditions    Most hotels  still put on at least one flamenco night a week, which is generally greeted with respect by tourists.   Though there is usually some  bleary eyed, beer bellied  Brit expressing his knowledge of Spanish tradition by calling encouragingly,  “ Show us your castanets dahlin” whilst  spilling San Miguel down  his England football shirt.

We are staying in Roses.    It is a delightful seaside town.   I’m sure in the height of the season it is heaving, but on a weekend in early June it was pleasantly full.

 

Of course we went on the little tourist train.   Red this time and a disappointing song compared to the oompah  song of the white train in Perpignan. 🎶 Roseees Expreeess🎶,  played during every break in the commentary, didn’t  quite cut it for us.

We walked.   I know,  I’m weary of it.  The great taxi conspiracy has moved to Spain. It seems an impossibility to hire one.  Anyone contemplating moving to Europe, open a taxi firm that also operates at night.   You’ll make a fortune.

We walked four times from our  hotel into town.   25 mins each way.   I’m considering doing the marathon next year.

I digress.   We walked into town for our special meal.  Pretty awful food.  Shame really,  but yet again very pretty restaurant.

 

On the morrow we rose earlyish in order to do some sight seeing and there are many sights to be seen in this area :  Collioure , Cadaqués, Figueras.   Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso loved the area and so we decided that our first visit would be to Dali’s house in Port Lligat.   What the chauffeur didn’t tell me dear bloggees, was that this visit involved yet another hair-raising mountain range, with the now familiar cries of, “Take me down this instant.   No the view is not beautiful.    And anyway I have my  eyes closed.”

 

Dali’s house and Port Lligat

 

 

We looked at the house, but didn’t go in because there was a long wait    And we had become fascinated by the reminders of the recent Catalan independence bid.   Very obviously it had massive support here and the mountainsides were covered in pro independence slogans.   In the car as we left Lligat we saw a huge olive tree, each branch bearing the yellow ribbon of the independence movement.

 

 

 

The stress of the high ride had rendered me a little tired, so following the inevitable tapas lunch we went on to the lovely beach and slept and read for some five hours.    Which is where we came in at the beginning of this blog.

The rest of our little break will probably follow shortly, while I can still remember.

 

 

 

 

 

Dawn over Roujan 2nd June 2018

VILLAGES  IN  LANGUEDOC

BOUJAN

 

 

 

 

Nèffies at night

ROUJAN

Church and riverside allotments

Our teacher’s house where we go for conversation classes

GABIAN

The ancient city walls on the river side

 

The clear water of the  river Thongue in Gabian

MOTHER  NATURE WEARING HER PRETTIEST DRESS  IN LANGUEDOC

….. and fighting back around the burned, dead trees, victims of last summer’s fires.

 

.and three weeks after my last photos of the vines, tiny bunches of grapes just appearing:

.. and after food for the soul, food for the tum in the wonderful, friendly, pretty restaurant “Poisson Verre” in the ancient streets of Pezenas

So did the pictures speak louder than words?

And “yes”.   It is Boujan and Roujan!!