Chinese Lessons

We are en route from our new home in Gabian (into which we moved six days ago) to our house in Whitstable.   We’ll be staying in our house for a week to reinstate the furniture for new tenants.

Mistress R Soul, Gaz and I  are all going to have check ups;  full MOT for her and similar for us.

Having packed six suitcases and 10 large bin bags of, mostly, clothes to move to the French house we set about repacking for our trip home.    I am determined to dispense with at least half my clothes before we move again.   Promise…

On Tuesday 30th October,  we set off with some trepidation, as the previous day had seen heavy falls of snow throughout southern  France.    Our route was going to take us across the Massif Central which reaches an altitude of 1121 metres at its zenith.   The Bear Grylls of the five star hotel world, our Gaz, filled the car with spades, boots, thermos flasks, Yeti  deterrent.   Everything for the intrepid explorer in a Kia Soul.

As you can see, whilst heavy snow had fallen,  the roads had thankfully been cleared after having been closed the previous day.

Some amazing bridges :  Millau and Eiffel among them.

Christmas trees anyone?

Logs for the Christmas fire?

Scary weather coming in.

It took us over four hours to drive across this high plateau.   We experienced most weather conditions, save a sand storm,  and truly diverse terrain, from stark limestone mountains to verdant plains.   Cattle grazed and goats did whatever goats do, horses chomped and sheep did too.   They seem to favour white animals in these parts.   Must make it difficult to find them in the snow.   Or maybe they were covered in snow? Who can say.

After three hours driving along the white out, our eyes were like wrinkled raisins in a dumpling.   Gazzie’s hands on the wheel, blue fingered and white knuckled, trembled as he leafed through”Scouting for Boys” just in case there was a hurricane round the next bend.

The A75 took us gently down from the meteorological maelstrom of that amazing mountain range, with its hardy inhabitants of one-house hamlets,  into the familiar territory of vineyards, wheat fields and lavender fields and other eye level stuff.   Our necks creaked back into place and we prepared, after a light lunch, for the three hour journey to our resting place of Blois on the River Loire .

We checked into our very reasonably priced hotel.   Nice.

Then  a stroll into town and food.  Braving the drizzle and darkening skies we wandered like two innocent children through the old streets, the shopping area and, ah ha, the restaurant area.  Which to choose?    Why in the name of all that’s holy did we try this place:?

Well it looked different in the dark.  But it still looked Chinese .    We had the worst food, of any country, of our lives:  totally scallopless scallop fritters, king prawns so over cooked the flesh refused to leave the shell and enough garlic, I mean bricks of it, to do more damage to the digestive system than e.coli.   Did we complain?   Did we ask for our money back?  No.   We smiled Britishly, mumbled “lovely” and sat back to enjoy the beautifully chilled bottle of Vouvray that the only waiter had mistakenly charged us 14 euros for.  Fair do’s we thought.  The only seated customers all evening, we watched a parade of very strange, apparently non- paying customers, come in, whisper to the waiter, who, a few minutes later, took a small parcel over to the Salon du Thé opposite.   Early Christmas gifts no doubt.

The following day, after a lovely breakfast in the elegant dining room of our hotel  of faded glory, we set out to explore Blois in the daylight.

A beautiful city on the majestic Loire.

In the grounds of the Mairie, an exhibition by cartoonists from all over the world in support of Freedom of Expression and of Peace..

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“Is Life Art?

The answer to this question is to be found at the “The  Foundation  of Doubt”.

And reminding us of a woman who fought for her beliefs, this amazing statue of my youth’s  heroine Jeanne d’Arc:

Rudolph looking for Santa?

Now regular bloggees know I was a little disappointed last year to see so few Christmas decorations in most towns.  I think I’ve sussed it.   The decorations are put up at the beginning of October and by end of December they have either been weather ravaged or vandalised.  Espied on the Bridge over the Loire:

We loved this place and spent too long admiring it, for ahead we had a four hour journey to  our next stop in Le Touquet.    Eschewing the motorways for scenery for the soul, we took the six hour non motorway version.   This journey took eight hours because of the many missed turnings whilst enjoying the bloody scenery.

Arriving at The Red Fox hotel we were less like two innocent children and more like two old lags recently released from prison.

The thought of a glass of vino revived us somewhat, despite the realisation that Hallowe’en is a big night in France.   Le Touquet was rammed.    Many shops close the following day.   I hope the women who were screaming with laughter outside our hotel at 4 this morning worked in one!

We know Le Touquet very well having holidayed there on numerous occasions, but not for maybe ten years.  Gosh it has changed.  Many upmarket bars and lovely restaurants now attract those who’ve rambled through the pine forests during the day (you know me, I love a Ramble).   Very upbeat with many pedestrianised streets, I really want to go back again.

And for us old romantics, we found our favourite restaurant, Café Des Arts, was still open after thirty odd years, with the same two ladies waiting on table.   And the most beautiful food.  Unusually I shall post food photos:

Lovely hotel too.  Altogether a wonderful experience.

And now we sit in a tin box under the channel.   We’ve only been waiting three and a half hours.

Ah!   Arrived.

England mon amour.