Many months have passed since my last blog. I was in danger of repeating myself, so I spared you the repetitive ramblings. But on a day when Pezenas had more rain in one hour than it should have in a month, I curl myself around the IPad and muse on my doings.

I last wrote in May, admitting that from my miserable, flu ridden, homesick beginnings I was becoming a Lotus Eater, trying to make the the most of the winter years of my life; making up for my poverty dominant youth and years of sobriety with a bit of joy and laughter, the company of good friends and as much excess as my old age pensions and arthritis ridden body will allow. As it turned out, it is quite a generous allowance.

We had visited Aix and Arles in April, to avoid the crowds. It was a good decision. Arriving home, as we unpacked, Summer knocked gently on the door. We opened the windows and shook out the winter mantle of dark and cold. Winter clothes were packed away with winter duvets and electric blankets. Swimming pools were uncovered and cleaned, verandahs swept and decked with petunias. Outside living was prepared for.

That was all very tiring! But soon we were heading back to the beach, last year’s swimsuits tried on then discarded in favour of total cover burkas, last year’s sun oil, searched for and discovered: empty save for the oil on the outside of the bottle. No matter, there we were, first week in May, lying on the beach, book in one hand and a glass of rosė in the other. Lush

 In the euphoria of a relaxing day on the beach and feeling sun–tingles on our bodies, we had forgotten the dangers of parking so close to the beach that not too much of the “w” word need be deployed for reaching our sun beds.

“Lovely day, darling”, says husband, pressing his accelerator with a merry little tap. Mistress R. Soul was either being really obstructive or we were stuck. Oh, it was that last thing. Stuck. We’d driven into a sand pit “and them wheels they kept on turning.,.” Various very kind French people tried to push: “Poussez, poussez,” but they pushed us further in. A crowd of about twenty stood around offering French advice, scratching French heads and telling French children to “Hush, daddy’s trying to help stupid English man”. Until, dada dada – Superhomme (in the shape of a 5 ft and a fag paper Frenchman) in a very big 4×4, joined us to him with a very big rope and pulled us out, to the cheers of now fifty French people, including some bored but relieved French children. I moan less about gas guzzling penis extension drivers these days.

The days at the Paillottes or beach bars have become rather expensive, so we have enjoyed quite a few hot and lazy days at Gabian plage (aka Hugh and Bassie’s gaffe); taken sandwiches and pop, read and dreamed, chatted and schemed – and all for a fraction of the cost of the beach bars – and much closer to home.

I made another valiant (some say foolhardy) effort at painting and tried a class of faux stained glass painting. I think the result could be called “naive” at the best, but I rather enjoyed it.

June found us back in Sitges in Spain with Johnny and Maz. It doesn’t disappoint, this town, and we went back to our favourite Tapas bar, trawled the shops and sea-dreamed awhile.We stayed in an old and lovely hotel near to the station.

 Handy that, as our second day was to be the grand adventure of going to Barcelona by train. The train journey was lovely; easy and quick On arrival, in this amazing city, however, we were met by torrential rain. To look up at the buildings would have caused terminal drowning of the eye balls. We sought the comfort of a small cafe, coffee and croissant, to wait it out. On the way to the cafe we passed the about-to-open Picasso exhibition. “We’ll call in there later,” we promised ourselves. 45 minutes later we passed hundreds of sodden people queuing in the rain. We walked on…

We were determined to see the Gaudi Cathedral and having stopped off in a shoe shop to replace our sodden shoes, we set off with a soggy spring in our steps. Several hours later, four colourful, little figures (we’d all shrunk by this time) arrived with undisguised joy at…… an underground station. We hopped, well squished really, on to the train and in no time stood before the amazing edifice which is La Sagrada Familia. Well Senor Gaudi did a jolly fine job.

 The building was breathtaking from every angle. Even through the mist of moisture-heavy, lucent cloud, every facade is covered with intricate detail that intrigues the eye and stirs the soul. We sat steaming in a cafe opposite and silently paid homage.

Gazzie drove us through bright sunshine the following day and whilst Maz sketched and cultured we lunched in the shadow of the amazing Dali building in Figueres.

 

We had a quick trip home in June to celebrate our daughter’s Silver Wedding Anniversary. Gosh how I love being with my family and their loyal and steadfast friends. And with our steadfast and loyal friends, we shared a goodbye dinner on the beach at Whitstable . Gosh, all my darlings, you do make it so hard for me.

 After trudging through the treacle of homesickness after our lovely trip home, we threw ourselves back into our French life. And so the summer days dreamed slowly on, with Gazzie playing golf and me meeting amazing women (and men, once in a while) on boat trips on the Canal du Midi, at the wonderful Sarabande Sundays and in cafes, and social gatherings all over the Languedoc.

Dinner  in a crater formed by a meteor and days on the Canal du Midi

 Visits and people watching at Vides Greniers

 

 

 

 

One of the very special places where I’ve met some wonderful women is at the book club I told you about in the last blog. So many books I’ve been introduced to and made friends with! A great group of people too. We each bring a plate of food and eat together afterwards, where conversation grows wider and sometimes wilder.

And oh my goodness, how I love our Creative Writing group. Five of us meet once a fortnight for two hours to , well, create and share. The women are inspiring, companionable, trusting, life enhancing (and probably several other adjectives.) Like all the best learning environments, the “pupils” love their times together. Three members are writing forms of memoir and this involves an even deeper level of trust and whilst offering opinion, we seem intrinsically aware that constructive comment should be tempered with respect. For, as old W. B. Yeats said, “I have spread my dreams under your feet, tread softly, for you tread upon my dreams”.

 

 

I’m not being curmudgeonly I hope, but birthdays, as one gets older, seem only to serve as reminders of one’s mortality. However, thank goodness for friends who refuse to let me dwell on how much longer, but insist on making the most of every minute. Thus my birthday passed in a happy haze of hilariousness. Thank you, yet again, Bass, Hugh, Ginny and Debbi

The day following, four of us set off in separate cars for Roses in Spain. We were so looking forward to returning to this delightful seaside town and it gave us more than we anticipated. The weather was gorgeous and we spent daytimes on the beach opposite our very reasonably priced hotel. Evenings were spent walking to some amazing restaurants : one serving the following:

A chocolate covered Foie Gras Magnum. Incredible. I’m told.

The reason for the two cars was so we could buy a Spanish pot in which to put my birthday tulip bulbs and some of the many household products that are as much as half the price of their French counterparts. So, we actually saved money on the trip!

In the spirit of grabbing life by the cahones, we had a quick unpack, wash and iron, and three days later we are at Beziers airport to collect the Whitstable Quality Controllers to Wrinkleys Gap Year (aka Maz and Johnny). Two days wine acclimatisation later we set off, brave voyagers into the great unknown that is the west coast of France. We poured over maps, planning our four day journey….

(And for the continuation of our adventures, dear bloggees, I will post again in a few days. I had written another section, but it was lost. How, I have no idea, but I shall do my best to remember what I wrote)

….. and so the journey was planned. We visited the Brocante Market in Beziers and then headed for our first stop: Perigeux . The Gilets Jaunes seem to have disappeared but the red flags have taken their place and thronged the streets as we tried to navigate our way to our hotel.

Having checked in, we set off to explore this city famed for the Black Truffle. As I’ve never tasted a truffle of any hue (save the chocolate kind), I was disappointed to find they were not in season, but we managed to find some preserved ones and some oil, which unselfishly we took as gifts to our daughter. So they are still unknown to me.

We checked into our hotel, set off to explore and fell upon a most agreeable hostelry for some liquid refreshment. “The Silver Owl” is run by two very hospitable and engaging fellows, Hank and Chris, with whom we spent a happy half hour before setting off to eat in a restaurant they had recommended and booked for us. A great gastronomic experience awaited us. Thank you chaps!

On the morrow we enjoyed acquainting ourselve with the city, which was “en fête” and looking very jolly.

After visiting the Cathedral and coffee and croissanting we decided to do something not beginning with “c” and jumped aboard Mistress R. to burn a few miles towards our next destination. As we were passing within a gnat’s burp of La Rochelle, Someone ( who shall be nameless but sometimes has red hair), said we should visit one of the isles off the coast. Eschewing the more popular Isle de Rey in favour of St. Pierre d’Olerons, as someone had told someone it was just like Whitstable. Hah. Think Sheppey!    Admittedly the rain was falling like a million knitting needles and we had to be tied together to prevent the wind scooping us up and placing us in the Outer Hebrides, but even so…

Whilst  on the subject of moisture, blogees, I have noticed that when the Whitstable Quality Controllers are around, there’s some chap following us,  calling out, “Two by Two, get your seat on Noah’s Ark?”

 As alcoholics to the bottle, we are drawn to the shelter of the one cafe open on the island and watch a couple walking hurriedly towards a big old boat and a bewhiskered old man.

These few people seemed to be the only inhabitants.   The island was like a deserted fairground, or Brigadoon during the in-between years. However the whole visit rendered us hysterical and we drove away holding our stomachs against laughter pain.

Gazzie “floored it” to get to our next stop at Poitiers.  Oh favourite town {favourite actor too, Sidney}.  I don’t really know why we all particularly loved it.   It was small enough to be coped with in one day and everywhere our eyes alighted, they were delighted.   Our arrival had not been auspicious.   Bloody Booking dot con had omitted to inform us that our card had not worked.   Arriving at our hotel at 7 pm, we were told they had no room for us.    Our jolly-ness quickly evaporated, as we sat wringing our hands as the very kind hotel receptionist searched for alternative accommodation.    After half an hour she smiled and directed us to a matchbox in the centre of the city.   Great location, slightly cramped accommodation.   No problem when this is on the doorstop:

My dream job:

Chartres, famous for its cathedral,  was our next stop.  I thought a lot about religious architecture on this journey – there was a lot of it and of unrivalled splendour .   Whatever our religious affiliation, some of these edifices stand alone as works of art.   I tried not to think of the human sacrifice that raised them into glory and just admired the work of artist and artisan.

On the way to Chartres we drove through the Loire Valley, justifiably known for its natural and architectural glory.   Along the way we stopped for a  picnic off the motorway.   I’m sure there was an idyllic setting nearby, but we didn’t find it.  We had neither cutlery nor bottle  opener but have found unknown uses for a credit card such as cutting cheese and spreading  butter.    Handy, as it’s obviously no good for booking hotels.

Hardly had we set off than we were  screeching to a halt as we had seen the sign for a Vouvray Wine Domaine.    We spent a very happy hour there, degusting and choosing wines.   Our host was a doppelgänger for the Reverend Richard Cole and he kept us in fits of laughter with his amusing tales of his vineyard.

B.B.con struck again.    Our appartotel was very far apart from any hotel.    We drove for five miles to pick up the key to a tobacco-infused apartment of shabby furniture, dirty crockery and broken kettle.    We made haste to get out and see the town, and enjoyed a very French Indian meal before seeking out the advertised illumined  buildings, and we were not disappointed:

Even we got illuminated!

In the light of day the cathedral was still as breathtaking inside and out.

 

From the sublime to the not quite ridiculous, on the way out of Chartres we visited Maison Picassiette, an ordinary house in an ordinary street, except that the owner was obsessed with mosaics and had mosaicced everything; the cooking range, the sewing machine, the garden and possibly his wife also:

 

 

 Can you have too much beauty?   This day was destined to deliver beauty overload, for as we left this amazing house, before we too were covered in bits of broken crockery, we set out, brave voyagers,  for Giverny, home of the late M. Monet, who painted water lilies for the last thirty years of his life.  Fortunately he did some other stuff, some of which can be seen at the house.   He managed to also do a bit of gardening and some jolly adventurous home decorating.

 

 

 

I could have lived in that house, but dead-heading in the garden might have defeated me.  It was here, dearest bloggers, that young Marilyn, who likes a dabble herself, was told that she could not draw in a garden dedicated to and honed by one of the greatest painters of all time!   Life is a paradox at times and hence the title of the blog.

 

 

With hearts and souls overflowing. we got quietly into dear old Mistress R. Soul and commanded her to transport us to Le Touquet, then realised that she needed some help in the form of a driver.  We gently pressed her accelerator and she moved majestically and gently forward and delivered us safely to our hotel.   We ate once again at our favourite restaurant, Cafe des Arts, and slept soundly, our dreams full of colour and sound, of places and people.   We breakfasted on our last 3 Cs and prepared for the final leg to Le Shuttle and England.

After a wonderful week Gaz and I made a rather quieter journey back, staying overnight in Bourges on the way.   On the journey we contemplated what we were going to do next, after we had learned that the villa, that had taken three months negotiation and constant assurance from the owner,  had been withdrawn.  Sometimes we feel like children still, taking our first steps into an unknown future.  Not tentatively,  but headlong, first one step, then another, hardly looking where we place our steps.  Recent events have made us determined to try to live life to the full whilst we can,.   What we do feel is, like that young child, each step will be exciting.   And the next.   And the next.

Wanna come?