Two days ago.   The moon was  reluctant to leave as the rising sun illuminated our neighbour’s house.

Yesterday.    The sun struggles through the clouds and for us a welcome respite from the heat.    But not too much of a respite, please.

We went to Vendres Plage, for another beach day, to celebrate Hugh and Bassie’s fourteenth wedding anniversary.   There is already a “ fin de siècle” feel about the beaches, fewer children, fewer people altogether.   On Saturday we go to the last Brasucade in Puisallicon and the last Sizzling Sausage evening at the Sarabande vineyard on Sunday.

Then comes the collecting of the grapes and the pressing of the olives to which you, dear bloggees, will hopefully be invited through these pages.

Bull  fighting is still legal in France and practised in some towns in the south, such as Nîmes and Arles in Provence.   Neither of us has ever attended any bull-related events, so we decided we would go to the Bull Run in Tourbes last Sunday.   I have to say there was some trepidation on my part, for, although not the world’s most avid animal lover, I do abhor all forms of cruelty.

 

However, though I’m sure the horses and the four young bullocks would have preferred to be chomping away merrily in a field somewhere, they appeared to be in fine fettle as they ran 200 yards up the main road and back again. Not so much a nod to bullfighting, but in acknowledgement of the lives of the  “gardians” (french spelling)   who tend the black bulls and white horses of the Camargue Wetlands.   (Remember we visited there earlier in the year bloggees?).

And after this savage beauty, of course, wine and food and gypsy guitarists:

In most villages at every festival it is traditional for  some of the men to dress as women.   I have no idea why.   Perhaps they just like it.   In Roujan the men have a very sophisticated outfit of white skirts, blue tops, white socks and shoes.

These are the Minettes of Tourbes;

 

 

And as August sizzles out we have been stocking up with logs for our landlady, and making sure the house is as lovely as it was when we arrived in December.

For, bloggees, we are moving.  In November we move away from this little jewel of a house, with its beautiful  views across the countryside, to an ancient, though modernised house in the centre of the village of Gabian,   We can walk to the baker and a little grocery shop and, lord help us, a bar and restaurant.   This   mediaeval village lies in a valley, defined by the River Thongue with its roman bridge and allotment-filled banks, and we will be looking at old tiles and stone, instead of the changing panoply of the countryside of Roujan.   So, a very different living space, but I hope we’ll be as content there as we have been in Debbi’s house.

We shall miss our lovely neighbours Babeth and Paul,  their lovely gifts and our very hesitant conversations.  Today’s bounty:

As I prepare to push”publish”, here is the sun this morning.   20 degrees at 07.40.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

However hard we try with our French Language  c.d.s, and in our conversation classes, we still go into panic mode when people speak to us in French   We have had several halting conversations with Babeth next door.   Not  her husband, Paul, however – evidently a man of few words even in his native tongue.   But as the old adage  goes, “Actions speak louder than words,” and Babeth regularly calls round with vegetables from Paul’s allotment (above) and fresh trout caught by Paul on his fishing trips.   I have tried to express how welcome this makes us immigrants feel.

Segueing nicely into other welcoming people, then stand up for the people of Puissalicon.   A group of us Brits attended their “Nuit des Vins”  recently   I know, wine again, but that is the raison d’être of this area.   The anticipation is palpable as some vineyards begin their harvest and the purpose of many of these festivals is to sell the wines of the local domains.   But they dress it up nicely with tapas and wonderful music and dancing.   Everyone gets up to Line Dance and wiggle attractively and smiles replace words in the atmosphere of goodwill.

I don’t remember why we all had to have our arms in the air but we did it previously at the brasucade in Alignan  du Vent.   And the line dancing …..

Oh and the people-watching  ….

And on these non health and safety bonfires were cooked quail, sausages, pork, mussels, frites and there were salads and cheese …. and villagers and visitors and deep joy.

…. and, for your interest only, wine at 2 euros a glass.

And the pièce de resistance as we say in this country was the appearance of the village mascot.    Most villages have one.      Roujan has the hedgehog   A huge representation of which is carried out at festivals   I am not sure what the huge blue animal was but it was welcomed with the passion and fervour normally  reserved for pop stars :

I promise we never tire of visiting all the fêtes and festivals.    I know, dear bloggees, you think  because wine is involved, but more truthfully it is because the enthusiasm and hard work of the organisers and the total support of the villagers illustrates, for me, the essential goodness of most human kind.  And there is a certain naïveté:  chairs and tables are old and rickety;  they take place on boule courts, car parks, in town squares;  there is no charge to attend:  every age group is represented and children play and dance around the adults until late in the evening.

I pondered on such matters whilst listening to lunch time jazz in a small bar, as part of the St Thibéry Jazz festival.   Such hard work is put into preparing and presenting  this three day festival.   They even produce a special wine for the duration: Cap Jazz.   Delicious.

The Jazz was mellow with a very gifted double bass player

Everyone received a free jazz hat.     Bless.

…. and more people were watched

Sometimes when Gazzie is at his golf, I meet up with friends for coffee or lunch.   I met Tamara at Creative Writing Class and despite being the age of my daughter, we bonded as we struggled  to express ourselves creatively,  She  lives up in the hills near Clermont l’Hérault and she suggested we meet for lunch at Villeneuvette, where Gaz and I have never been.

Villeneuvette is a small village made up of a group of buildings initially erected in the 17th century to create a royal clothmaking factory, originally for Louis XIV,  and to provide accommodation for its workers. Apart from a hotel and restaurant, the buildings are now restricted to residential use, many for holiday purposes.   Population excluding visitors?  65

Recently widowed,  Tamara still spends a lot of her year in France and we spent a very interesting  few hours laying the groundwork for what I hope will be a lasting friendship, whilst dining royally at La Source.

French idiosyncrasies:      Vive la différence,  of course.   Here are three:

Last evening we were at a dinner party with French, British (just us two) and Zimbabweans.   One of the guests was Max a two year old French boy.  Unbeknownst to Gary, Max was standing by his chair looking at him with adoration.   Gaz suddenly pulled his arm back to illustrate something and smacked Max full in the face with his elbow.   With the dignity of a very dignified person, Max climbed onto Mamma’s lap, put two fingers in his mouth and just stared at his attacker, with a look of benevolent puzzlement.    Or possibly concussion.  I haven’t checked.

One of the things about Britain I miss is politeness taken to ludicrous levels.   So for instance, I know I’m carrying some extra weight, but lovely Brits would hopefully just say, “You look well”.   Here, I  go in a dress shop and a stick insect sidles up to me, points imperiously at a rack of six bell tents in various dark colours and says, “Les grandes tailles”       big sizes).   Yesterday took the biscuit (handily in one way.   Very fattening biscuits)   I picked out a nice red dress the size of a barrage balloon and was carrying it towards the changing rooms, when a young sales person ran up to me “Non, non” says she.   “No good for you.   You have the big boobies.” And as if to emphasise the point in front of all the other customers, she poked my big boobies and took the dress away.

I’d rather have the girls at Zara sniggering behind their hands as I try to squeeze into one of their jackets.

I was told that the French, in general, hate speed cameras.    As happens in many parts of France, a camera placed in one of the country roads close by,  was knocked over, set fire to and left, within three days of its erection.   And two weeks later, there it lies:

And then, maybe, it was just those few salespeople and that dear young child, and one person with speed camera phobia.   And the fact is  that we are all, universally, unique.

 

 

 

 

I  was within a whisker of being done for shop lifting today.

Short version:  Went to Aldi for cheap Prosecco. Saw some Babybel cheeses. “Ooh I used to love those Gaz”.

“Get some,” he says, “only 1 Euro 6O”.

I did. Opened one in the car and said, “Urghh. Why did I think I  liked those?”   Threw them in my shopping basket.

Went to SuperU as couldn’t get our coffee in Aldi. As usual picked up some other stuff. Got to self check out.

“Ha ha”, says so called “Here to effing Help”   😀 smiley face person. “Why is these in zee basket?”.

“I got them in Aldi,” I said with a British Colonial sneer.

”Receipt?” she  says.    I’ve now got three snotty women and a man with a walkie talkie round me.

“In the car?” I said, hopefully, in Fren, as if to prove how innocent and law abiding I was.

“Fetch!” said Walkie Talkie Man, obviously, at the same time relaying this to bloody Interpol.

I returned from car. “Can’t find it,” I say. “You pay then,” says Walkie Talkie man.

“Whateva.   It’s only £1 bloody 20,” I mutter.    Officious woman comes and grabs me Babybels.   Tries to scan them.   The little darlings will not scan.  She gets on phone.   Another officious mother of Satan comes over, grabs me Babybels and goes off to Interpol headquarters probably.    Returns. There are now 50 French people glaring at these thieving foreigners.

“0K.” She say. “You keep Babybels and go”. Obviously they wouldn’t scan cos they don’t sell the bloody things.   With a small show of temper I throw the offending balls into the shopping basket.  This sets off an alarm because an unscanned item has entered the basket.  Or swag bag as we now call it.  I bought that bag to save the children of Mozambique.   See where that act of charity got me.

No apology. No smile, no helping hand.  Nada.  SuperU : U ain’t so bloomin’ Super now.

Carrefour for me from now on.

I am a marked woman.

APPROACH WITH CAUTION

Baby “Bad-Ass” Bel.  Inside for crimes against real cheese.

We slither into shadows like ne’er-do-wells, avoiding police.   Our heads are covered.    Sweat pores from our faces like colourless blood from an invisible wound.         We seek watering holes like weary buffalo.   Those we pass speak the same  words in parched whispers through cracked lips.    “Turn.  Off.  The. Sun.”

We pay fortunes to be in air conditioned shops, cinemas, houses.    We form undying friendships with anyone who has a pool.  When we can’t do either of those we sit in sealed, dark houses in front of fans whizzing out air only one degree lower than the ambient temperature.    The effort to scratch our mosquito bites renders us exhausted.

Summer 2018 in the Languedoc.    And most of Europe.   Three weeks to date with temperatures in the high 30’s and rising.

And yet the people of this area celebrate the certainty of these skin sizzling temperatures with weekly festivals, fetes, fairs where people drink, eat and dance wildly   Or maybe that’s just me.  …and Ginny (the dancey bit).

We have yet to visit a village Brasucade but hope to next week.  Fires lit on pavements cooking meat, music and the ever present vignerons offering their gorgeous wines for tasting   So civilised.   So not health and  safety.

We head for the coast or the hills    We’ve done both this week in order to find some respite.   A first time visit to Rochelongue. A tourist venue but non the worse for that.    Miles and miles of sandy beaches, hundreds and hundreds of people, and yet the beach did not feel crowded or loud.   Beach Club l’Infinit has the best lunch menu we’ve enjoyed so far   Apart from the Sole running out just as I was about to order!  The busy chef surprised us by  shelling my prawns and all the staff were delightful.

….. and there was a sea breeze.   Some respite from the heat.

Still seeking solace from the searing sun (I love a bit of sibilance) we headed for the hills.

Oh my goodness me.   I had been experiencing another little bout of homesickness and the journey towards our destination of Lac Salagou certainly lifted my soul.    The vineyards petered out, giving way to wheat fields, blue mountains and pink and yellow rock terrain.

And every so often, like amuses bouches for the eyes, (amuses yeux?) villages were presented to us, the more exciting because we felt we had discovered them.   Pézènes-les-Mines is awe inspiring.   This medieval village is dominated by its 11th/12th century Chateau.  So people have been living there for over a thousand years and producing Faugères wine from their vineyards.

The ancient buildings seem to tumble on top of one another and down into the wooded valley.

Reluctantly we left this beautiful village behind us and set off for Lac Salagou, eyes wide with wonder, brows unusually perspiration free due to the aircon in the car.

It would seem that we would suffer beauty overload, but somehow each new stunning area we visit takes its own place in our hearts.   Whilst Lac Salagou is man made, Man has done his very best to make a thing of beauty.   The lake, created in 1968, has allowed a diversification of local agriculture and has regulated the River Salagou, which was subject to flooding in the autumn.

We approached the lake from its quieter side and sat shading from the sun in one of the lake’s guignettes, “Relais Nautique”.   Despite a handful of swimmers and paddle boarders, it was possible to enjoy the peace and beauty surrounding us.

We drive right round the lake, taking in the busier water sports area and more sophisticated restaurants, until we were overlooking the village of Celles.

This village was evacuated when the area was flooded to create the lake.   However the water stopped outside the village and, apart from the Marie and the church, all the other house are falling, very slowly into disrepair.

 

…. and the view that the villagers gave up

Gazzie chose one of those hair raising journeys home on an unmade road right round the lake.

We saw a sign post off the motorway to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert.   “Shall we?”   says the driver.   “Oui”, says pretentious passenger.

We could just see that the whole area, (the medieval village, the Clamousse Caves, the Gorges de l’Herault, the Pont du Diable) was well worth a visit.    However, (and this is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the Languedoc) there was no room to park or walk or see so we drove through and determined to return out of season    You shall come with us, dear bloggees, if you so wish.  Here’s a taste