The plane that took away “the girls” brought in our daughter Sara. What balm for the soul!    Her cheerful, dear little face did much to assuage the worries of the previous week.

Her bags were dumped indoors and we immediately went out because Sara wanted to watch the World Cup Football Match between France and Belgium in a bar in France.  We checked in our local bar. “Non,” said the patron, “I am closing”. So we all did a French “pffff”, with raised shoulders, went to eat and caught up with the match on our phones.

Daughter Sara has visited so often now (I am very glad to say) that she tells us where she wants to go and has now been added to Gazzie’s car insurance so she can relieve him of some of the driving.

We had, however, got some new experiences for her and for us. Pezenas has now started their Friday Estivales, which run throughout the summer.   The Main Street is lined with stalls of vignerons offering wine tastings (you buy a glass for 5 euros and get 2 free tastings. After that, taste as many as is sensible at 2 euros a glass!). There are food stalls and live music. A great atmosphere, fully supported by local people.

 

We were also fortunate to have had Sara with us on Bastille Day when every village has a celebration.    Our landlady had  whetted our appetite with tales of food and wine, (of course.   It rains wine in these ‘ere parts) live music, and fireworks.   With giggly tummies we wandered down town at about 8 ish, worrying that we wouldn’t get a seat.   We listened  out for jolly voices to direct us to Funsville.    Despite lack of such voices we found the venue.   Two bouncy castles, a stand serving, bizarrely, humous, an empty sound stage and the ever present wine stands.    Twenty large tables, two security guards.    And 12 people.

“Well that wasn’t very well supported”, we mumbled into our beards as we wandered back towards home.   On the way we passed a packed restaurant ( no honestly we do not spend our lives in restaurants.  Just when people visit us.).  “Daft not to go in”, it was generally agreed.

We got the last table, had one course and a pichet of wine.   At about 9.30 those jolly voices we had listened for earlier were passing the restaurant and excited children carrying lanterns thronged the street.  We quickly paid the bill and followed these miniature Pied Pipers back to Funsville for great music and amazing fireworks.   The whole village must have been there.  Vive la France!

We tried some other  pop up beach bars  and just relaxed and read and chatted.   These are all within about 30 to 60 minutes drive away.  A new one to us is Les Voiles Rouges, near Sète. Lovely food, cool music and comfy beds.   Oh and they do charge for beds and parasols in the season.  They vary around 7 to 12 euros for the day.    They have an offer at Voiles Rouges, which is bed, parasol, salad lunch brought to your sun bed, with one glass of wine at 20 euros.   Not bad.

We had arrived early; played in the silky warm sea and enjoyed a light lunch.   A movement of bodies and a raising of voices alerted us to the fact that there was a t.v. and the World Cup Final between France and Croatia was being broadcast.   It was a wonderful thing to be part of.   We could cheer with the French when their team scored and join in their celebratory hugs and shouts when they won.  I really liked the huggy  thing (using the upward interrogative young person talk.)

Driving home as the evening sun slipped slowly towards the horizon,  with car windows down, the whole journey was accompanied by car horns sounding and the local people shouting and waving flags, arms, legs.   Anything waveable.   Almost.

We joined the victory parade down Pezenas main street where the joy was contagious.

Vive la France   Vive la Royaume-Uni.   Vive  la monde.

And yes I know what I said about restaurants, but you may like to know this for when you visit, dear bloggees.   I had heard of a reopened restaurant in the hills.   A village called Vailhan.   Built into a seventeenth century Presbytery above a lake,  Äponem it is called.   Owned and cheffed by Amélie Darvas and Gaby Benicio.  I booked.

I knew nothing about it, except the previous chef was good, not cheap, but good value.    It was our goodbye to daughter meal.

We asked for the menu.    There was a lot of French talky but no recognisable food choices.   Just 55 euros for 6 somethings and 75 for 10 somethings     We needed a drink.    Picked up the wine list, desperately looking for a pichet of house white.    Rien.    Cheapest wine was 30 euros.   We looked at each other, white faced and wriggling in our seats.

“Well I don’t mind walking out and saying it was a terrible mistake”, said I.   “Ok let’s”, we agreed.

Then   …    Sara..   “ Well I didn’t buy that dress I liked.”   True.   ( She did later).    “And that meal on the beach cost almost as much”.

“And we didn’t spend much last week when the girls were here.”

All totally spurious fiscal arguments, with no basis in sound economics at all.   But we began to feel better and better.

“Well if we have the cheaper, 6 course option and the cheapest bottle of wine, we’ll actually be saving money.”

“Yeah, why not, we deserve it.”

Meanwhile attentive waitress, Gaby was waiting.    She’d grown a full length beard while we deliberated.

“We’re going in,” we said.    Obviously impressed by our cheffy terminology, she had a quick shave and told us that each course was part of a journey, a story,  and we should relax and enjoy the experience.

Hoping my “what a load of cod’s wallop” face did not easily translate, we smiled, gave her our “Get the bloody 30 Euro bottle of wine on the table” look and did a cynical wait pose.

And then, dear bloggees, we got the “smack in the chops, philistines” feeling.   And, of course, we know that what we paid for the meal could feed a family of four for a week.   And yes we do feel privileged.   And yes we will be paying for it for the next six months.   But none of us, in our lives,  have experienced the food sensations that we experienced that night.  Wine was almost immaterial (thank goodness) but the whole taste experience was something quite wonderful.   Heston Blumental eat your heart out.   Well, I wouldn’t put it past him.

At last, in the cradle of gastronomy, an incomparable taste experience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The month of June left us, quietly and elegantly, in the arms of our friend Sara from Whitstable.

We visited some of the old haunts together and took our virgin ride on the little train in Beziers.   This is well worth the 7 euro ticket price.

Most importantly you get to see places you may miss if you don’t know the city, such as The Poet’s Park.  Beautiful.

 

Late in her stay we discovered that Sara  loved antique shops and so we took her to the street of Brocantes  in Pezenas where we spent  a happy, dusty hour, fingering the past and being aghast – at the prices.

After four days it was time to take Sara to Rivesaltes, near Perpignan (she did want to go!) where we had a delicious lunch in a wine domaine with her friends who took her on to the next stage of her journey.

We used the next few days finalising arrangements for three old friends to visit.   Sparky, bright and intelligent women, aged from eighty to ninety years, they do have some mobility issues so our rental house was  not suitable.

A local couple offered us their zany,  attractive house , with swimming pool, at a good price.   We checked out ease of access and  safety of the very few stairs and deemed them suitable.   It all seemed too good to be true and we spent anxious weeks thinking something would go wrong.

And then we got the news that Sheila had fallen in her  garden in Suffolk and had broken her wrist.  However, the brave explorers were determined to have their holiday in France.

Sharing a meal on our first night.

Any worries about the suitability of our choice were swept away when the “girls”  arrived and were visibly excited with our holiday home.  We shared a lovely meal together reminiscing over previous holidays and were making our way to bed when Sheila slipped and fell.

A night of pain for Sheila and concern by the rest of us and at 6 a.m the following morning we made the decision that we must call an ambulance.  Gazzie and Esther followed the ambulance and came back with the news that Sheila now had two broken arms.  As an aside, I wouldn’t have minded following that ambulance;  the paramedics were gorgeous!

What a brave woman Sheila  is.   No moans, no fuss.   She was operated on two days later and was released from hospital after three days.

Whilst Sheila was in hospital, poor Annie was suffering from the heat (hovering in the upper 30 degrees C) and severe back pain and spent long periods on her back in bed and Es carried on bravely on her walking sticks,  despite a badly bruised coccyx, caused by yet another slip.

A worrying pattern seemed to be emerging.   Gaz and I donned body armour, slid around the house and garden on our bottoms and foreswore alcohol.  Serious but necessary precautions.

Obviously our itinerary was vastly curtailed and several outings cancelled, including an evening trip on the Canal du Midi with dinner and Gypsy Guitarists and Sunday lunch at a Chateau. We did manage to take Es and Annie on the little train around Beziers in between visits to the hospital.   But try as we might  our joie de vivre was somewhat diminished by concern for, and the absence of, She.   On the day before our departure, however, she asked if she could see the sea and with the other two still hors de combat, we took a gentle ride to Marseillan and ate some mussels on the quayside.

Despite all that had happened,  we managed a few laughs and a few discussions on books.  A touch of dreaming, whispers of “if only”,  hesitant planning, firm intentions, nodding to the past, welcoming the future.   Talks of friends here and friends  gone, families and the  familiar.    All the usual drifting holiday talk condensed into too few hours.

We hope that, with time, this holiday can be the one that causes the greatest reminiscent laughter, for what better  tribute could there be?

And in preparation for that time, the grapes grow on the vine,  plumptious with promise.