That beautiful old classic  “September Song” (above) also reminds us that  “the days grow short when we reach September”,  and so they do, and the people of the Languedoc prepare to look inward,  though the old folk still sit outside their houses or in the town squares, gossiping and enjoying the slanting light and kinder sun.

Our weeks  have not yet fallen into any sort of routine, as we try to visit new places every two or three weeks, and visitors give us a reason to revisit favourites.  Visitor-less August, however, found us getting closer to a pattern, with twice weekly golf for Gazzie, our French conversation classes, beach days  and the never-ending saga of our dip pool.

A cool pool would have been a boon in the past few months, but despite the fact that it has been administered to by a parade of “Fixers” since the end of May, it is still luminous green in colour, with the consistency of porridge.    And is a happy breeding ground for a whole variety of wild life of the bitey/stingy kind.   I have a feeling we won’t be dipping anything in it while we are here.

Gazzie has had to limit his sunbathing.  Regular bloggees will know that, for him, it’s like withdrawing water from a dying man.   He has had a terrible heat rash, so we seek the shade and aircon of the car and go off exploring.

We took  a breathtaking ride across La Route Causses et Vallées de l’Herault (a UNESCO World Heritage site).  Walls of green parted before our eyes to reveal limestone plateaux of poetic beauty.   Yet again we found ourselves having to stop the car to gulp it all in.  We drove past the Cirque de Navacelles (a series of limestone gorges)  though my fear of heights prevented us overlooking those.

…. and on across the high  plains through villages abundant with flowers blooming brightly against ancient stone, stray  cats rolling  luxuriantly in the dusty streets, horses and cattle flicking their tails lazily  against the flies …. and not a single human being for mile upon mile upon mile.

Our final destination was the ancient home of the Knights Templar at Couvertoirade, a tourist magnet,  but who would not want to visit this amazingly well preserved 12th century village.

We still attend the Jazz concerts in Laurens, now held in the beautiful Mairie high above the town.   We saw an amazing American jazz singer and saxophonist called Jersey Julie.   The castle walls echoed to some funky sound that night!

Coincidentally I met Julie again yesterday on my Sketching Course, in Beziers.   Yes I’m learning to sketch   I’m pretty hopeless but I do enjoy it and our teacher Annette certainly winkles out any microcosm of talent that might be lurking.   Mine is still very lurky:

I attended my second lesson  (I know what you’re thinking, so much progress after only two lessons!) with our beloved girl Sara, staying with us for about the sixth time since we came in December.

We took her up to Lake Salagou as she is a big water sports lover.   She was as blown away by this lovely area as we were.

Above,  Salagou, movable  “graffiti”done in white stone across the red hills.

Sara and I enjoying the view over Lake Salagou.

Charity events have formed a large part of our lives in the past two weeks.   We attended a Curry  for Kerala lunch  in a garden in France that looked exactly like an English garden in summer.

 

….. and for a sick little boy in Puissalicon, as always, great music and dancing, food and wine and oh, people:

This road safety sign alerted us to the fact that the wine harvest season was upon us:

Loosely translated. “Road slippery with wine”.   I know that feeling!

So we decided to throw our hand in with the locals and help bring the wine harvest home.  Vested interest.   Obviously.

5.45 a.m.   Sara, Gary and I rose in the dark for the first time in many, many months.   We put on sensible shoes, grabbed hats and water and set off for Paul and Isla’s house to join a small caravan of vehicles heading to their vineyard.

Dawn rose in time for us to find our way deep into the countryside, past wild boar being spooked by the three Springer Spaniels who accompanied us.

I was disappointed at first to find we were picking black grapes,  as my grape progress had always been with white, but we set to at a cracking pace, after  a two second training.  The  sun started to climb high behind us.  And boy we worked hard.  And boy we loved  it.  We reckon we picked enough for  200 bottles!

We have no record of Gazzie actually picking.

.  …. but he was there for our lovely coffee and cake break.

And,  for a lady of uncertain years, but a very good memory, there were compensations:

Tomorrow is my birthday, and we have been living here for nine months   It is a year since we decided to come to this lovely part of the world and, despite crippling homesickness at times, it has been a life enhancing experience.    Thank you for making the journey with me.   Here’s to another exciting year!

“And it’s a long, long time from May to December                                                                                                                   and the days grow short when  they reach September                                                                                                         And the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame                                                                  and I haven’t got time for the waiting game.

Oh the days dwindle down, to a precious few                                                              September, November                                                                                                                   And these few precious days I’ll spend with you                                                                   These golden days I’ll spend with you”

Kurt  Weill

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.