I know that I have, how shall I say, extracted liquid from the urinary tract of France, in previous blogs,  but time has lent me a more balanced view, I think.  Whoever said “comparison  is odious” is right.  To compare France and the U.K is pointless. They are very different and thank goodness for that. For me, what is familiar is safe, what is unfamiliar,  a bit scary.   The more familiar everything becomes, the less scary it is. I am not a great explorer,  seeking new lands and new experiences, I merely want to familiarise myself with the unfamiliar.

In order to decode some of the unfamiliarities we started French conversation classes this week.   “School” is the small dining room at our teacher’s home,  where we are closely observed by her three cats.  In our first week our fellow students were three Brits and an Australian, all of us over 60.    Some of us, well over.

Of course, only French may be spoken.  On that first day, the cats said more than Gaz and I.

The last part of the session is for reading aloud students’ work.  Kevin, the Aussie, read a 15 minute piece, in pretty perfect French, philophosising about his partner’s visit to the A & E department of a Paris hospital, quoting, still in French, Macbeth, King Lear and Dylan Thomas.  This is the Intermediary class!

There is an easy walk, we are told, from our house to the village of Margon.  (Obviously, for me, this is the same as saying “there is an easy way to electrocute yourself”).  As responsible tour guides, however, we thought we should drive the route to make sure it is safe.   We passed the time of day for a while, with this young lady,  making her way along the road beside us.

We planted our carbon footprints over  mile after mile of vineyards (so much wine, so little time) and on, up into the mountains, past chateaux, perfectly preserved, their turrets glinting black against impossibly blue skies.    The  countryside became wilder as we drove  higher, with white water surging out over granite boulders and bursting into a scintillating parabola against the sky.   The ghostly shouts of last summer’s canoeists and white water rafters seem to echo around us as the air became thinner.

We drank coffee outside in the microclimate that is Roquebrun, smelling the emergent mimosa flowers.   I sat quietly smiling and thanking ”whatever gods may be” that I had never, in the whole of my long life,  had the least desire to don a wetsuit.

With the  arrival of daughter on 3rd January we decided to start exploring in earnest (no, we haven’t changed the name of the car or the mode of transport).   We decided on Narbonne and its seaside partner Gruissan as being easily achievable in one day. (We always have to factor in a good 90 minute “refreshment break”.)

Obviously,  the lack of Christmas decs is a local thing   In Narbonne we were blinded by them, all in the best possible taste. Narbonne is a pretty town of ancient honey coloured buildings and a must to return to.

 

But perhaps, even more so, because,  overlooking the town square and all its Christmas gaudiness is a most beautiful building, possibly 1800 or earlier, dedicated to “the women of France”

We chose Gruissan as our refreshment break because it was on the coast   It is obviously a big water sports area in the summer but at the beginning of January the wild birds reclaim the land and swoop around annoyingly, at us, the interlopers. I saw my first flamingoes, standing around miserably on one leg (presumably to try to keep at least one leg out of the freezing water) –  they looked less pink than blue with the cold. In fact we saw one fall over into the water –  obviously trying to warm both feet at once.

Gruissan is famous for two things   One is the fact that there are 1300 wooden houses standing on stilts.   On our visit it looked like some ghostly Atlantis:  grey wooden shacks, risen from the depths of the ocean,  seaweed fanning out from the stilts like shredded stockings,  wooden shutters banging and the wind howling through the empty streets.

However, the other claim to fame is, and I quote Wikipedia here: “Also the home of Gary W. Harvey the reputed inventor of time travel using the ‘magnetic pulse resonance theory’ to excite atoms into a single vibration direction at previously thought unachievable speeds. His sudden disappearance is thought by many to be the result of a ‘journey that went wrong’!!

On Friday last we ate breakfast in the garden.    22 degs and sunny.   We went for lunch with our friends from Gabian – ‘La Maison’ in Tourbes, a local village.   Best food we’ve had since we arrived and not an oyster in sight!   Yippee!

Darling daughter was flying home from Montpellier so we decided to spend the day there.    Another beautiful, buzzy city with great Christmas decs! (last mention, I promise).

Gazzie had done his homework this time.   We got lost going to collect Sara and she was waiting an hour for us to find our way into the airport.  This time we parked on the outskirts of town and caught a tram into the centre   The trams are amazingly beautiful, painted in bright colours and designs by Christian Lacroix.  Cost for three, return tram fare and five hours parking?   Just under 5 euros   What!

Lordy, Lordy I’m not liking the “W” word any better and we walked so much yesterday that my legs are two inches shorter.   Or so it feels this morning. Did I moan?   Did I say, “Gazzie can we please get a taxi?”   Yes I damn well did.    Did he listen?   No he damn well didn’t.

He did allow us our refreshment break though and we chose  our restaurant by the name.    It was called ““Comme un dimanche sous le figuier”. Or “Like a Sunday under the fig tree”.

It was quirky and wonderful inside.  Food was pants!

 

The tough part, dear bloggees, is the saying goodbye.  Tears were shed at Sara’s departure.   Despite resolutions regarding drinking and eating, I have to admit, we screamed with delight when we saw an open supermarket and like the true French we have become, we rushed in for pain. fromages et vins.  And sought comfort in those in front of the fire,

The ubiquitous Santas  hanging from balcony railings, by the thousand, begin to look a little weary from struggling to get into houses with their sacks on their backs. Rather than a jolly Christmas symbol most look as if they’ve been hanged for crimes against good taste.

The Christmas trees remain unvandalised as if even the most eager vandals see little excitement in stealing red and silver bows.   In any case the mischievous wind has taken many of decorations and they cling to our legs as we wander the streets

Despite the number of cookery programmes we watch , we remain at the best,  rather amateur chefs.  Fortunately for us we have found the most amazing local shop.   A sort of Harrods  of the frozen food world.   We have lived out of Picards, for so it is called, through our various illnesses and are finding the habit hard to break.,

We shared a salmon en croute from there with our friends Amanda and Hal on New Year’s Eve.   We played a hand or two of Nomination Whist and were all, save one, in bed by 10.

Gazzie raised a weary glass to Jools Holland on the T.v and waited the one hour time difference for Jools to raise one back,

No matter.   2018 has, without our help, arrived.    To our family, friends and bloggees we send our sincerest wishes for your good health and happiness over the next year.

We are homed!   At last!    We are unpacked and the fire’s alight.  The fridge is full.  The Christmas trees are up and dressed.   We are like two war torn, world weary animals finally  reaching their home territory.   We curl up before a roaring fire, watch tv, recovering from the  slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune that have brought us to this point and search for the joie de vivre that we lost somewhere along the way

We fought the cold and ice of the old country; the great MOT debacle, the transformation of Mistress R. Soul into a sickly, needy liability and were nearly floored at the outset by the great Suck Instead of Blow Machine and the terror of going through Customs with a suitcase full of prescription drugs.

We fought through snow in the north here too, the “read my mind, we don’t do signals” car brigade; our eyes ached with the beauty of the countryside and were blinded by the low morning sun.  We experienced the ludicrousness of being the only guests in a huge old Chateau, attended by the Marquis and his titled wife.   We experienced the fear of having to get out of the car and walk.   We fought the great monster that is Rouen who tried to ensnare us in its ancient walls and never let us go.   We’ve discovered a new phobia: “The fear of Supermarket check out girls “ who accuse us of unknown and non-understood breaches in French supermarket etiquette.   With quaking knees we have faced the interrogation of certain ladies of the ex pat community, looking at us with the avarice of vampires seeking new blood.

All of this have we faced   Mostly with a bravery we didn’t know we had.    But now, as we creep into our new lair, bloody and battered (and with hacking coughs) we seek the restorative power of fire, food and alcohol  and will rise on the morrow like phoenixes into the glory that is ……… La Belle France!

On the eve of Christmas Eve we got sunburned eating oysters on the sea front at Bouzigues Then the lack of build up to Joyeuse Fete meant that Christmas Eve came as a bit of a surprise:  in that,there was a person on the streets and three checkouts open  at SuperU.   We spent most of the day in front of fire and tv. I did a passable imitation of Mimi , coughing and sighing, hand on brow, whilst Gary peeled a grape or two and spoon fed Lemsip.

Two of the good guys (alongside SuperBri and his gal) have been Hugh and Bassie, old friends living in nearby Gabian   They took delivery of parcels and scooped us up when our rental was  delayed.   A British Christmas in all its gaudy glory welcomed us into their home on Christmas Day, another lovely log fire, amazing food, wonderful new, kind and interesting friends. Four dogs and one cat  – hey ho, I’ve given in   They are  errmmmmm, ok!

Back  in our lair we lick each other’s wounds (not a   great image I know; mixing with too many animals can do it),  keep taking the medicine and prepare to welcome old friends into our new life on New Year’s Eve.

 

 

 

 

 

Or do I?

I know I said I wouldnt blog for a while.  But to all those who said they envied this”adventure” ….. listen up. We are still homeless.   I am having the worst cold of my whole life.  English tv is an hour later here;  I can’t watch Have I Got News for You at bloomin 10 o’clock .   That’s  bedtime.

Joe won “Strictly”. The bread’s too crusty, the sausages are white and don’t get me started on the bacon.    You can’t get Marmite, and frozen peas ( because the tinned vegetables are so good, come on….).  You can’t get frozen Yorkshires and it is impossible to get turkey

Chickens, however, are the size of  emaciated sparrows and the colour of bananas . And the skies are grey today and I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve lugged eight cases of clothes and my light-up-flamingo over here for nowt.

i am hoping my present negativity is due to my ill health and not a permanent state of mind.   After all it’s nearly Christmas

(Dinde is turkey; gui is mistletoe)

It’s not the same though is it?  I know we are supposed to be embracing the
French culture of our temporarily adopted country.

I don’t know about “Deck the halls” but if they are decking,  it ain’t showing.  Even the supermarkets have only the odd bunch of coloured  balls, hanging sadly like left overs from a Gay Pride march.

Where’s yer turkeys, where’s yer mince pies, where’s yer after office parties  with drunken Santas lying in the gutters?   It’s not right. The Sparkle of Christmas is on dimmer.

Added to which the skies are so bloody blue, you daren’t sit in front of a window or your book would catch fire.  Yesterday Gaz was sunbathing in shorts and sun cream. Mind you, thinking on, he strips off if someone switches on a light.

We are both still a whirling cauldron of catarrh and infection.  Sitting in bed we cough like a couple of 90 year old 60-a -dayers. Me in me curlers and winceyette nightie, him in a moth eaten jumper.  Ah the romance of our French sojourn.   Babies will be born, of that I’m sure

We move into our temporary  adopted home on Friday and our lovely girl comes to visit in early January.   Can’t wait to show her how far we have become immersed in the customs and culture of our new country.

Mist rising out of the valley behind Hugh and Bassie’s house.

And mushrooms of every sort on view and on sale at the Mushroom Museum.  Yup.

Because of my aversion to the “W” word (walking that is)  we haven’t done much.  To be fair it has been very wet and cold . but even through a car window it is obvious that the Loire more than deserves its reputation for beauty.  It is a stunning area.   Fascinating to see amongst the grandeur of the castles, there still exist the caves of the troglodytes.  There was an enactment area where actors demonstrated how the cave dwellers lived.  But that would have meant getting out of the car.   So we didn’t go.

Our second hotel, in Chinon, was even older than the Chateau but newly restored to add amazing modern touches, like my wonderful bath tub.   The owner Maurice was justifiably proud of this beautiful building.  Let the photos tell the story:

Despite the two hour delay we made good time through Northern France towards our first destination in Alençon, where we were due for aperitifs at 7 pm  … “whatever happens” driver Gaza’s says “we don’t want to go through Rouen”   So why did we?   Bad navigator, moi!   Two hours were spent driving round the town during the evening rush hour.

We rang ahead to warn our hosts at the Chateau de Sarceaux that we would be late   It was not a problem they said   We came off the motorway and within five minutes we’re driving up the mile long driveway, through deer inhabited parkland to be confronted with the Chateau above

We were met by the Marquis Herve Glicout les Touches, our host and his wife, the Marchioness and chef, and shown to our room, which was very old and rather beautiful   The whole place, (not huge, only four letting bedrooms) was steeped in history and decorated sympathetically to its origins   We were the only guests and, following aperitifs and amuse bouches  in front of the fire with Herve as we now call him, were served a four course meal by the owners, in a candlelit dining room  with Chopin nocturnes playing in the background.

We were so bushed by this time we fell into bed to woke  up to a continental breakfast and “heggs from our own ‘ens” as Herve said.

 

 

 

Was this a thoughtless whim?   Two weeks holiday in September and by December we have committed to a year in a rented house in Roujan, the Languedoc, France.

In that three months we had arranged to rent our bungalow in Whitstable, had long discussions with family and friends, taken on board some of the advice;  we suffered the tears and little moues of worry, knowing all was given out of love and, not without trepidation started making the final preparations.

Those  began in earnest once our bungalow was rented. Gary jumped through all the hoops and red tape , despite his bad back.

Now the Big Man and I have a row about every three years From this point in the adventure to arriving France we had them daily Mainly about the fact I wanted, nay needed, to take every item of clothing I owned. We sent three large cases ahead and also filled the car. Divorce proceedings were mooted on more than one occasion.

The last things all seemed to be car related so we began to make bookings for our Kia Soul (known as Rock and Soul because of her jazzy interior

Service booked Tick

MOT booked a week later Tick

Now Rocky had always liked a trip to Canterbury but obviously this longer trip was causing her some problems So she started throwing spanners in her works: brake pads were done but then she affected this flappy wrist action on her drivers door handle, she started skidding a bit to indicate her tires needed changing She was so temperamental we started a more formal name-calling to try to bring her in line: Mistress R. Soul

Due to her misbehaving, the MOT and tyre change took a day and a half, while we rested like huge cuckoos in our friends’ house. Finally the car doctor rang to say everything had been done, but the key had broken. “Bring spare”, he said. “We don’t have one,” said we, “it mysteriously disappeared.” Kia quoted us two weeks and £300! We were booked to go two days later Car doctor got two keys done for £80.

We have had our house in France booked since September. While cuckooing, Jan received a text: Our soon-to-be landlady had had a mild stroke, poor woman, and our future accommodation was in doubt.

OK I bawled and bawled . However, Masterful Husband, the Bear Grylls of the 5 star hotel world-said, “We are still goin woman! Get yer toe nails painted”

So tearful farewells with daughter after our 4th or 5th au revoir party and left her home to drive to Dover. The Hill from daughters house was like an ice rink. But said explorer husband, “ we might face worse than this old girl, hang on to yer hat!” So we were down in no time.

“I’ll just check the tyres at the garage. Extra weight on, you know”. I ignored the slur and continued with my “Speak French in one easy lesson” tape. Husband’s face, red and rather unattractive, appeared in the windscreen, calling me out in the cold. Sighing, I joined him. “The air thingy, instead of pumping air in has sucked it all out. And now it’s broken.”

Son in law, SuperBri was with us in ten minutes, mended it in another, and sent us on our way.

Arriving at Dover, a smiling girl came to the car. “All on time,” she said, waving us through.

Our eager little smiles had faded a bit by the time we boarded the train two hours late. But we were on our way!