’Tis around the midnight hour and a figure approaches my bed. I feel my sheets pulled aside and take a sharp intake of breath as my pyjama bottoms are pulled open and a mumbling takes place. I look up to see the figure bending over and peering down into the pyjama clad abyss.

I sigh.  ’Here we go again’

It has become a regular occurrence and I’m getting used to this intrusion. In fact, the other day I realised there was a queue forming to take part in the ritual.  Looking for Gaz to question this, I realised he’d donned a disguise and was number three in line. Some just look into the dark and mysterious interior that is beyond my pyjama cord; some though, prod and probe and one does this really strange thing where he bends two fingers into a claw, presses them into my painful stomach and then beats a tattoo with one finger of the other hand. To what end I have no idea. Perhaps the French, being stretched, have sought support from witch doctors.

Yes I’m in hospital. 

Now the expats extol the virtues of the French Health Care System and I can understand why.  There are generally no long waiting lists.  I had tummy pain for a few days, saw my local doctor, tried antibiotics which failed to improve the situation and so, on the doctor’s advice, turned up unannounced at Urgences (our A and E), was assessed, scanned and admitted within three hours and operated on at 9 a.m. the following morning. But not without financial implications, my friends. We now have our Carte Vitale which entitles us to quite a few treatments which are free at the point of contact, but also 75% of other costs (these costs are retrieved from the British Government).  Of course, even 25% of the cost of operations and two weeks hospital stay can add up to many thousands of euros and so we, like so many others, pay private insurance on top, at the cost or 155 euros per month between us.  We had signed the paperwork and paid our first premium two days before my admittance to hospital. Cancer and heart problems are free to all and the very poor also receive free treatment.  Hospitals, in this area anyway, are modern and clean, seem more than adequately staffed by adorable, young and efficient nursing staff, most of whom try to speak some English.   The male doctors are not so keen to try. 

So at my age of fragility I have had my first long stay in hospital.  Everything was new to me. Another set of rules and etiquette to be observed. On my way to the operating theatre I can remember being parked alone in a sort of equipment graveyard:  a room full of stretchers with bits falling off, wheelchairs leaning perilously on three wheels and I remember wondering if this was also the patients’ worth-to-the-world assessment area. Fully awake in a totally silent world, I imagined I was in a sort of Purgatory where Gods in white coats gave a thumbs up or down to the fate of medical equipment and the odd patient getting towards her ‘used by’ date. Before I met my assessors, though, I was back in my private room, sun pouring in the windows, morphine pouring into my arm and the dearest man in the world peering at me. I must have had the thumbs up by those white coated judges and was to be allowed a few more years of Prosecco abuse.

I have barely spent a night alone in my life and one of the things I was worried about was being in this room overnight, alone except for lovely people with little English. I feared I would unknowingly agree to have my organs used for medical experiments while I was awake and alive, or bits chopped off and replaced to give the staff a bit of practice.  On my first evening,  Gazzie said: 

‘I’d better be going, if I’m to be here tomorrow when you go down for the op.’

‘O.K, love,’ I said, though my lips were trembling so much it probably sounded like ‘Erby bub’.

And then there came a  golden angel in a nurses uniform (this was pre-morphine) saying: 

‘Please don’t cry. Your husband can stay with you if you wish. That’s a fold up bed behind you.   I’ll bring blankets’.

A torrent of the new language I had created poured from my lips: ‘Eets bunderbull.   Wahlick.   Bunderbull’.   Gazzie’s face was a bit difficult to read, but I really think he was thrilled at the thought of sleeping on three bits of plywood for the foreseeable future.

There were compensations for him though.   I have told you in the past how Gazzie likes a uniform and no occasion is too minor for him to don his workman’s outfit, policeman’s outfit and my favourite, the fireman.  However Gazzie’s fave has always been the doctor.   Whenever I’ve got a little cold, on goes the white coat, the professionally kind doctorly face, the shaking of thermometers and pulse beat counting.  

Now, my darlings, he had a stage on which to perform.  He sits beside me as me vital signs are measured, nodding sagely as numbers, unintelligible to me, pop up in glorious technicolour on the nurses computer screens. He follows the nurses outside, where murmured conversations take place.  Donning his white coat he wanders the corridors, fingering an imaginary stethoscope, nodding to other medical professionals in a slightly aloof manner. How he hasn’t been arrested for very suspicious behaviour I shall never know.  But when he nods encouragingly as nurses tear from me plasters the size of the Bayeux Tapestry, with the ’quick is kinder’ approach, and then very carefully peels me from the ceiling, to be honest he could perform surgery on me anytime.  My own Dr. Kildare.

So. Diagnosis? An abscessed appendix. Now both abscess and appendix are removed.   Or were they?   That evening my surgeon called in. They do this twice a day. Amazing. He looked pretty grave and said a lot of stuff which we didn’t understand, but what we did deduce was there may be another operation the following day. My perky, brave little face disintegrated and back came the strange, blubbery language.  ‘Bo, bo do mwore cutty’.   

Our English speaking nurse came in give us the low down on me low downs.   

‘The doctor thinks there is another abscess.   It was hidden from the scan as it is in the Douglas Sac’. 

I’m thinking ‘what’s that to do with me?’   Surely Douglas, whoever he is, can remove the thing from his own bag’. Seeing our looks of total confusion, the nurse laughed and explained that most women are blessed with old Douglas’ handbag hidden down among their bits.  Must say he got around a bit that man.  And then, as if all of that was just to give me another story for the blog, the infection had disappeared and the process of recuperating began.

And time for me to learn more of hospital ways.   Have you ever tried to go to the loo whilst attached to a metal plant holder?  One-handedly you wriggle out of bed, one arm attached to a wire and a bottle and the plant holder; you set off, trip over the end of the bed, the bottle jigs around precariously as you try to wheel the whole contraption into the bathroom.  How to raise the lid, turn around, lower pyjama bottoms.   Well I’ll let your imagination take over, but by the time you reach your objective its almost too late and by the time you get back to bed, its time to set off again.

’If you need anything, press the emergency bell,’ the dear nurses say with that care professional smile. What it actually means is ‘If you could possibly recognise that unbearable pain was going to happen in about an hour’s time, ring the bell and by the time we get to you we might just about be in time to hook you up to the pain killer’. 

Then, what constitutes an emergency? Not being practised in the skill of having only one adaptable arm (the other being hooked up to some liquid or other being pumped into one).   I did get myself into some pickles on the days Gaz was off gallivanting and eating decent food at MacDonalds.  I decided I really needed to change my pyjamas, particularly as the poke, prod and look down my pyjama bottoms was increasing in popularity. So I worked it out technically that if I took off the bottoms first, I could then remove the sleeve from the unfettered arm. Once I’d managed that, sitting with one sleeve round my neck and barely anything covering my dignity, I looked from the drip bottle to my still sleeved arm, and back, working out how to extricate one from the other.   Right.  Unhook bottle of fluid.  Remove sleeve from fettered arm.  Get bottle to end of sleeve, pull through with pipe. Voila. Non.   I now have a sleeve with pipes wound round it tightly, my neck is against the top of the drip stand and I am, in fact, hanging myself, naked.  I began to oscillate my eyes like spinning marbles trying to locate the emergency button. There. I risked snapping my carotid artery stretching to reach it.   I pressed.

Just as I was about to lose consciousness, the door opened slowly and in walked the only male nurse on our ward.  

‘Are you in pain?’ says he.  

‘I soon won’t be,’ I thought.   ‘I soon. Won’t be’.

Chuckling merrily he took my weight.   ‘That nearly killed him,’ I thought gleefully.

He unwound and untangled me and returned the drip to its dripping station and me unceremoniously to the bed and left me, still chuckling away. Then I realised I still hadn’t got clean pyjamas on.  In fact, no pyjamas at all.

One of the drips on my multi-branched drip station was liquid food.   I rather liked it.  No shopping.  No preparation.  No washing up.  Still full up.   Little hints started as I began to get better. ‘May be tomorrow.  Real food.’  Well, I’m not saying I wasn’t a bit excited, especially as it was only the eating bit I was required to do.  The  three course meal came along.  The first course was very often on the menu and became known in our little room as ‘dog turd soup’. This was a rather complimentary soubriquet for something so completely tasteless.  The main course was totally white: a lump of white, maybe fish and white rice, accompanied by a dessert of mashed polyfilla.  It is inconceivable that even with a restricted budget, anyone could produce something that looked or tasted less like food.

But sitting here at home after eleven days in hospital, I smile.  Despite much pain, no television and diabolical food, my experience was not an unhappy one. My darling daughter flew over without telling us, hired a car so Gazzie wouldn’t have to drive her around and poked her dear sweet face around my room door.   

‘Hello Mummy’.   

And she bought the sunshine in, hung up her illuminated climbing Santa and said, ‘Sleep now’.   She distance-worked on her computer while I slept and a party started later when Gazzie, the nurses evening shift and the pyjama lifters all arrived at once.  She took Gazzie out for some proper food and then went back to our cold little house to sleep alone.   She made me start walking around and took me out to the front of the hospital in my sparkly slippers, to feel hot winter sunshine on our faces.  My recovery rate escalated by about 100%.   How lucky I am.

And dear, Gazzie, his back lacerated on the put u up, his body mired with lack of sleep, racing around in the day time and joining me in the evening for a film on the iPad thing.   

And now nurses will visit every day for as long as it takes to heal the wound.  A hell time of no baths for me.  But I am not complaining.  Gaz is out getting the Christmas Tree.   We’ll dress it tonight. We’ll light the fire and, I’m thinking, maybe, just maybe he can put on his doctor’s uniform. Just because.

 

HOT  OFF  THE  PRESS :   So faithful bloggees, the blogs are to become a book published by The Linen Press and due for publication in the summer.   Working title is ‘The husband, the Mistress, Miles and Me Go to France’   or ‘Flamingoes for Tea’   I’ll try to let you know the final title   Unless you can think of one, that would be really wonderful.

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?

 

Our homeland is neither in Europe, nor out of Europe.  We are in La La Land.

We continue our seemingly hedonistic, lifestyle. Though in reality we spend many days houseworking, shopping, reading and trying to get the damned television to give us a few English programmes.   Or now, any programmes at all.   It is my view that President Macron, unaware of our total powerlessness, is purposely blocking our signal so we’ll go home and force Britain to Remain. Our TV could then become the Backstop, or at least a doorstop.

We would, however, be foolish to stay indoors all the time and not take advantage of the beautiful and varied countryside that is within a short drive (or, God forbid, walk) of our rented home. Winters are, generally, milder here and there are many early year days when the weather is warm enough to walk without  coats, and certainly to  sit outside enjoying the views and having a small glass of the local wine.

In the UK, to plan a carnival with street parade in early April, is risky.   The residents of the seaside village of Bouzigues, were confident that their  parade would  go ahead. And so it did. It was a tenth of the size of the one in Sitges, with only four floats, but the enthusiasm of the participants was every bit, if not more, infectious. It was also all inclusive, in that one was side by side with those who had spent many hours rehearsing and many days decorating their floats. We felt totally at one with everyone there. And at times forgot we should be just watching and took part.

In mid April we had our first visits to the ‘pop up” beach clubs, or Paillottes, or Guignettes, the temporary beach clubs, rebuilt each year, where one can hire wonderfully comfortable sun beds and have reasonably priced lunches. With visiting children and grandchildren, friends and their families, we happily bathed in the sunshine and in the sea, before travelling home, sandy and sun bronzed, sizzling with Vitamin D and bonhomie.

In the meantime we entertained our friends Jenny and Mark, with cultural trips and more seaside capers for these expert swimmers.

I am very pleased to say that our daughter, Sara, has also fallen in love with the Languedoc and in her three month stay learnt some french (mostly Yoga instruction!) and introduced us to places that she had researched and then took us to.  One of these was  The Lerab Ling Buddhist Temple at Roqueredonde, deep in the countryside, near Lodève.   To come upon this exquisite building, set among green woods and shaven hills ,  took our breath away.

In Whitstable one of my greatest joys is our monthly, rather radical, Not the Book Club  meetings.   So much did I miss it that I’ve started one here called Book Club Plus in which, over lunch, we each discuss a favourite book from the past or present    The range of literature is huge,  from Colette to modern  writers such as Ian McEwan.   Food, friends, books and conversation.    What a combination!

It is a small community here and like many “immigrant” communities I suspect the “six degrees of separation “ is cut down to about three.   Tracey, one of our Book Club members, is married to Daniele, one of our conversation class members.   Daniele, an Italian singer/ guitarist has been a great hit since they arrived in this area eight months ago and appears at many of the social occasions we attend.   How lucky are we?    He is a very talented young man.

As I have said in the past, many of the interesting people we have met and events we have attended have been because of the amazing networking abilities of our old friend, Bassie.

Last week we went for  lunch at Maman Des Poissons (Fish Mother) in Pezenas, a tapas bar with good food and amazing and very friendly service    There,  Bassie and I , with Tricia from the Book Group met Lynn Michell, a published author with a small book publishing business.   My goodness.   Other people’s lives!    Lynn lives up in the hills in a house she and her husband have hewn out of the rocks.   Her husband is an academic as well as a builder of houses and they chose to follow their separate careers here in the Languedoc.    I look forward to learning more about her life as we, together with another friend, are going to get together once a fortnight to do some creative writing together, with guidance from Lynn.    Incidentally, Tricia, the other creative writer, is an “International Baccalaureate Educator” and lectures on “Pathways to Future Education”   Just can’t get away from teachers.   And don’t want to.

One of the places we have wanted to visit since arriving here, is Arles.    We both remember our old friend, Esther, enthusing about the town many years ago.   Only about an hour and a half’s drive from here, it is easily achievable as a day trip, but the combination of our dislike of motorways and the proximity of Arles to Aix en Provence,  formed our decision to make this a two day trip.

”’Ere we go again”, we thought ungrammatically, as we circled Aix for two hours trying to reach our hotel.   We had chosen the day of the “ Iron Man” race.    Every route into town was “barrée”.   Whilst trying to park to assess the situation, we were nearly victims of scammers who wanted us to take our credit card to a parking meter or get fined a hundred euros.   Tired and frustrated Gazzie was nearly drawn in, but refused to hand over his card.  The scammers gave up.    Without a fight  thank goodness.   By going back on the motorway and taking a different route in we found our hotel.

Thereafter (actually “wineafter”) Aix revealed itself to us in all its beauty.  We dined in “Les Deux Garçons “, the oldest and most famous restaurant in the town,  frequented in the past by the likes of Van Gogh, Cézanne, Jean Cocteau etc.    Presumably they all died in poverty, after paying the prices for food which tasted as if it had been cooked in the Thirties, buried and ressurrected for our delectation .  Oh how we laughed.

On the morrow we were excited to find that Aix has a little tourist train    A favourite of ours.   Under the watchful gaze of Monsieur Cèzanne we mounted the train and set off in bright sunshine to discover some of this famous Provençal city.

 

The City of Fountains is deservedly a tourist magnet.   We were pleased to have visited at the edge of the tourist season.

We wander the ancient streets, craning our necks to look up at roof lines, which one only seems to do when being touristy. Sometimes what catches your eye is something as bizarre as odd shop signs.

However after a light snack we switched back to tourist mode and visited the famous Cathedral of St.  Saveur.

 The Statue on the left is St Theresa of the Roses.   This was the title of a pop song of 1956, sung by Malcolm Vaughan.   Never say this blog isn’t educational.  

We set off in the afternoon to make our hour long journey to Arles.    Gazzie had picked our hotel based on its proximity to the centre of Arles and the fact it was film-themed.   At a cheaper price than the hotel in Aix, this was a dream hotel for me.

In contrast to the comparative luxury of the little tourist train, we mount our tourist Tuc Tuc, with Soufrian, our very knowledgeable driver.    At least we think he was. Knowledgeable that is.     The tail end of the Mistral was rattling our Tuc Tuc around alarmingly, Soufrian was peddling like a mouse on a wheel at the same time as mouthing amazing information and squeezing between bollards the exact width of the Tuc Tuc!   Gazzie and I nodded encouragingly and knowingly, until, after a puzzling thirty minutes we realised he wasn’t talking about Cèzanne and Gauguin but Caesar and Augustus!    

And thus we made our confused  and shaking way through the narrow, pedestrianised streets of a French town, whose Roman roots are beautifully preserved for our  present.   How symbolic then that our fellow guests at the hotel and just ahead of us at most ancient tourist sites was a Korean women’s football team!   Some things are changing for the better.

Between Aix and Arles, we approached what was to be the pièce de résistance, la crème de la crème of our visit.   Les Carrières des  Lumières at Les Baux.   In quarries dug out by man  since Roman times for the white limestone used for local buildings,  there has been created a world of wonder.  

Once you enter, the caves are completely dark, and then projected on the 50 ft high walls, the ceilings and floors, were illumined Van Gogh paintings, moving over each other to the accompaniment of amazing music of all genres.   It is very difficult to explain the experience, but Gary and I agreed that it was a deeply spiritual one and like nothing we had ever seen or felt before.

The exhibitions change annually    I can’t wait to return.

We drove back to our home in Gabian, eyes and souls overflowing. 

I am aware, bloggees, as always, that I record the highlights of our life here and would not want to give the impression that our life is a series of “ events” strung together with inertia.  Because we are in a limbo land between holiday and residence, we still are tourists at the same time as “living”, paying electricity bills and medical bills and taking the rubbish to the tip.    But there is a disconnect   We don’t vote here, don’t pay taxes, are not fully cognisant of the political system, struggle to read French newspapers, and watch French television.

So, freedom or irresponsibility?  Whatever it is, that’s the way it will be until October, when we return home to “reflect” on our future.

Poppy fields in Languedoc, courtesy of photographer Sara. 

The bedroom window is a skylight.    We open the blind each morning to see the colour of the sky.   It is mostly blue.

The  days rush by a like a speeded up movie.   Since the action packed adventure of our Christmas trip home, we’ve done more travelling around, more meals out, movies , reading, writing,  quiet times and busy times and many special times

At the end of December our friends Mandy and JC arrived for a 6 week stay in the area.   They became immersed in the French way of life, at least of the medical kind, with  visits to doctors, dentists and vets to seek cures for their various health problems    Oh the vet was for Kicker Dog.   Poor chums   Their landlord, Son of Rachman, was unhelpful and a disgrace to the rental property community.   The house had not been prepared for them in any way.    It took four of us nearly 30 minutes to get into the house, to be greeted by cobwebs to rival Miss Havisham’s bedroom, dirt and leaves everywhere,  mouse chewed bed linen  (where it existed at all), moulding food in the oven, inadequate bedding and exorbitantly costly heating.

Son of Rachman had not counted on the masterful and determined Mrs Collins however.     Her email tongue sent paper cuts over the ether and eventually, and at a cost, she and John managed to have a reasonably happy stay.   We had lots of lovely, cosy evenings , eating together and playing cards and they did lots of beautiful touristy stuff in the area.

On New Eve, the four of us and eight other friends shared a lovely meal together, at our rented property, played charades and Pass the Parcel, and other silliness, and welcomed  2019 into our lives with the help of a totally unintelligible french radio person.

The beginning of February saw the arrival into our home of our daughter Sara, her friend Georgia and the loving, funny,  live teddy bear that is Harley, the Cavapoodle.  Following various visits Sara had decided she would like to share some of our adventures in this beautiful country and had booked the same villa as Mandy {!}.  They stayed with us for a fortnight first and we started preparing for them to make the most of their stay: intensive  french lessons in Beziers, gym membership and  Aquaswim membership in Magalas, Yoga lessons, wine tastings in local domaines, testing out local restaurants and places of interest.   Gaz and I were worn out just listening to it all.   Finally it was time for them to take over Le Manoir du Vigneron, ex Mandy house.  Mandy and John, bless them, had ironed out most of the difficulties and after completely rearranging the furniture, lighting the log burner and with the local wine in the fridge, the girls pronounced themselves well and truly “Chez Nous”

One of our early planned trips was to Roquebrun.   I have written of Roquebrun previously,  a beautiful hillside town, renowned for water sports.   Heralding the Spring, this little town puts on a festival to celebrate the Mimosa which grows abundantly in the area.   The one mile walk from the parking area was well worth it.    Stalls selling wine, honey, cheese, lavender, olive oil, fruit and, to feed the hungry. barbecued boar and chips, paella, hamburgers and churros.   We needed the long walk back to recover.

And you know, and as I’ve said previously, it’s not all wine and roses.   One day we took a five minute drive just to hug an 800 year old plane tree!

One of the things we had long planned with the girls was to drive to Sitges in Spain for the Mardi Gras Carnival.   The four  of us, plus Bassie and Harley the Cavapoo,set off in high excitement, with our Carnival costumes packed safely away.    We had an amazing apartment close to the centre of town, which cost us each 20 euros a night.   A bargain.   A friend from our Conversation Class invited us to watch the Carnival from their hotel room.   We felt like royalty.

The last evening most of the entertainment was at ground level:

The gang:

Firstly, my facial expression for most of the evening:

Whilst watching these:

 

Sitges, when the madness has gone to bed and the street cleaners have  washed away the night’s excesses, awakes again as a beautiful seaside town .  The streets were wet and slick, clean white linen clothed last night’s tables, the sea glittered blue and silver and the naked faces of last night’s revellers were  innocent as lambs as we set off next morning for a four mile walk around the coast.   Exquisite.

 

Prices in Spain are markedly lower than France so we took advantage of this in local shops and at the border and journeyed home quietly, empty of fun, speech, money and the ability to move our limbs    Apart from Harley who was remarkably chipper after all the festivities

.

Barely home and we prepared to greet Maz  and Johnny on their fourth visit to us.   As always, much fun, laughter, eating and drinking were enjoyed.  We all stayed at  Sara’s villa and dog sat while the girls were away.

We did our usual touring around and had a lovely day in Sète.   This is not a town I love but we discovered new places this time by going to the top of the hill on which it is founded.

Maz and Johnny visited the Paul Valèry museum, while Gaz and I read the famous names on the graves in the famous cemetery.

And more goodbyes and more “welcomes” and we share Sara and Georgia’s adventures and dreams and visitors.   And await our lovely friends Jenny and Mark who come at Easter.

We meet new and interesting people, visit new and familiar places in a winter that has been unseasonably warm … and yet we have days of longing for the grey skies of England.

And our hearts break for what is happening to our homeland.

 

 

 

 

 

I miss you  bloggee chums.   So I give you :   Dada dada.  “Further Adventures of the Wrinkley Wanderers”

We had booked our flight home for Christmas and like two kids going to visit Father Christmas in Lapland, we trembled with excitement as we got in the car,  packed and painted for the hollibobs.   Checking his phone for emails, Gary said a very rude  word.   “Flight’s cancelled.   Something about drones”

We went back indoors and started looking for another flight .

The email was three hours’ old, so flights were either full or ridiculously expensive    I pictured the disappointed faces of our children and grandchildren, curly haired innocents looking spookily similar to those cherubic children in “It’s a Wonderful World”.

“Oh, husband,” said I. “ We cannot let the faaaamily down.   We have to get there somehow.”   A crystal tear fell attractively on my cheek.

Searching out rope, spades,  vacuum flasks, space blankets, mountain boots,  the Bear Grylls of five star hotels gathered us all up and strapped us in.     As an aside, he’s also known as Bare Thrills, but you would probably prefer not to know that.    Or was it Bare Frills?

Bare  donned his Davey  Crockett hat and we were off.

“We’ll have to do motorways,  Wife,” says Bare.

“Oh no,  husband”, says  wife.

”Desperate times, old fruit,” he says.    Wife smiles.   Though her eyes tell  a different story.

And so my hero just drove. We left Gabian at 08.30 and fighting juggernauts, indicator-less drivers, rain and eye level sun , we came within two hours of Calais, where we risked booking a 9.40 pm tunnel crossing .   The crossing was late so we just made it.

Euphoria hit us on arriving in Folkestone. We had to cancel dinner and overnight stay with friends Maz and Johnny and asked our daughter if we could stay with her in Maidstone .   We kept her informed of progress and when we arrived in Ashford to find the M 20 closed. Euphoria disappeared quicker than Communion Wine at Midnight Mass.  We texted daughter to tell her we’d be there in about 30 minutes.    A regretful text replied that, as they’d had a long day, they would leave the door on the latch. We understood.    Sort of.

At 22.20 GMT we turned into our daughter’s  drive, 15 hours since leaving home.   Her house was suddenly flooded with Christmas lights, carols filled the air and the next door neighbours merrily called out, “Turn that bloody lot off”. Daughter and husband, dressed as Father Christmasses ,  were there with open arms, mulled  wine, sausage rolls and mince pies.   This time it was we who became  James Stewart’s wide eyed, curly children.

“Just  like the Waltons,” I sighed to Daughter.

”More like the Griswolds,” she replied.

Our plans for the week at home had to be adjusted but we managed to get round for quick cuddles with most friends and relatives, a great Games Evening with Nicki, John, Steph and Colin and a gorgeous meal at Carol and Roger’s, then back to our daughter’s for Christmas festivities.    So much fun, food and wine, my body began to groan for mercy.    But we’re British, we did not flag, we kept on with the imbibements.

Boxing Day found us striding through country lanes.   Well, not exactly striding, maybe sidling.    Whilst others, with dogs, did a 90 minute stride across fields,  like real country folk, we did a more sedate, less stridey walk through country lanes.   However, bloggees, we did refuse several offers of lifts from merry Christmas strangers.

Waiting to greet us was an array of delicious food, good company and fine wine at the home of Sharon and Theo.   Bliss.

And soon enough it was time for very tearful goodbyes.   Sara, shivering in her jamas , waved us goodbye at 6 a.m as Bare and I set off, once again, for Folkestone and Le Shuttle.

Good time to travel.   Straight on the train and before long, we were “oui-ing and non-ing” again.

We had decided to try to avoid the stress of the motorway and go cross country.     Stunning scenery spread before us like gifts   Thick frost on field and tree, tiny hamlets twinkling with fairy lights, empty roads and cold turkey sandwiches.   Joy to the King.   And to us.

As evening  cast  its long grey fingers across the landscape, and Gary’s eyes began to ache, we pulled into an Aire to look at maps and decide whether to look for shelter or press on.

What was the pull to press on?    I don’t know.   The desire to be “home”, however temporary that home may be?   I think so.    I left the decision to the driver and, in accord, we headed for the motorway.

I will say, here, that Gary’s stamina is phenomenal.   He may, on occasion,  present his funny, rather soft side, but when the chips are down he can be depended upon to eat them off the floor.  He never once made me feel guilty that I didn’t share the driving.   He didn’t swear, didn’t moan and just got on with the job in hand.  We sang carols, made up silly words to favourite songs, and the time crept on.   We encountered heavy rain, fog, traffic jams, accidents, lorries overtaking and deluging us with rain.   Sometimes we drove in silence    And the time crept on.

Finally we reached the péage off the motorway at Florensac/St Thibery which had been closed by Gilets Jaunes on the way up.  There was one faint green light showing and behind it a huge bonfire warming half a dozen Gilets.   Our hearts sinking, we drove slowly towards the barrier.   It raised its ghostly arm and we drove through with no payment.    The Gilets waved wearily as we drove past.    Our stoicism suddenly crumbled.   We had been on the road for nearly nineteen hours and we took the last thirty minutes in slightly weepy, slightly beaten, rather slow progression.

At twenty to one we fell in the door, took out the dustbin and then slept.

The following day we started planning and shopping for our New Year’s Eve dinner party for eleven friends.  The menu had been planned, other friends were bringing starters and desserts and we had ordered 2kg of  meat to make venison, chestnut and mushroom in Madeira.

Oh very happy days!   We ate like kings, drank like, erm… drinky people, played the old games like Charades and Consequences and before we knew it was five to 12.   No Jools Holland for us, we’re an hour ahead, so a French person on the radio led us into 2019.   We’ll have an hour longer than you then in 2019.   Every  one of us oldies made it to midnight, for many of us the first time in many years.

On the first day of the New Year we walked around our new village, feeling the ancient stones and our insignificance,   compared with the lives seen by these old stones over the last 600 years.

(Street signs in French and Catalan   This area  was often part of Spain)

 

We ended the walk with an omelette in our local bar, where they know our names!

The lovely  Magalis in Tavernat.

…. and other customers.

 

Happy New Year dear friends.

Bring on  l’année nouvelle.

Come, take my hand, let’s see what we shall see ….

After our trip home at the beginning of November, we gathered our new home around us and wriggled around to make it fit.   Am I too old for so much wriggling?    So much ”new”?   Well, we have settled in.   The expensive heating and variable internet connection have caused me some frustration. And yet  Gary seems to have become totally French,  in that any problem that happens along is met with a raising of shoulders to ears and a long “pfffff”.   Sang froid personified!

But I do keep trying,  bloggee chums.   We’ve put flower boxes on the verandah and have Christmas trees and lights.

🎶  It’s beginning to look a lot like🎶 ….. home.

Front of house:

our square:

Back of house

Living room:

dining room and kitchen;

One of the bedrooms:

After our long drive back from the U.K. we’ve mainly kept to local outings and events, from which, even in winter, there are many to choose.

Thanksgiving dinner in a Chateau near Pezenas:

Warmer than it looks!

A Cracker Fair in the Abbaye de Valmagne.   Mulled port, mince pies, and lots of things to buy in a stunning location.    Colder than it looks on this occasion.

I

A strange fellow in red looking a little suspicious.

And why oh why did I think that the French in this area were very poor on Christmas Decoration?   I don’t know.   Perhaps those in charge read last year’s  blog and decided to prove me wrong.   They most certainly have.

Gaz and I went to Montpellier last week.  What absolute joy.

Though the temperature was around 22 degrees and there were high blue skies, the atmosphere was giggly tummy Christmassy.  There was an amazing Christmas market, with everything to excite both adults and children alike, decorations throughout the town of the highest quality and unique design.   After four hours of walking through both the old and newish town areas, a light Korean lunch (I know, I know.   No wine though) we had still not seen all that the town offered of festive cheer.   A really lovely day.   Not one Christmas present bought though.

And, of course, the people :

And on the way home, beautiful skies and storks on streetlamps

A couple of days later , we visited the most beautiful olive domaine: Pradines le Bas at Corneilhan, just outside Beziers.   I never would have believed what different tastes and quality there was in olive oil.   A charming young woman, Corinne, knew all there was to know about olives and Gaz and I spent a very happy hour there.   The owner is also an avid art collector and the grounds were scattered with interesting  sculptures and above the olive press is an impressive art gallery.

And in the past few weeks the vines (nature’s time piece in these parts) have gone from a can-can of glorious colour

to one last pirouette

…. and in a week’s time we will have been in this beautiful area for a year.

We celebrated with a beef and stout lunch back at the Sarabande vineyard, scene of so many happy summer evenings.  The grapes we picked in the summer have been barrelled and sold to pay for Christmas for Paul and Isla.   So much hard work for this young couple.   They not only produce wine, but experiment with beer, gin, port and absinthe.   All palatable, some exceptionally so.   Like vignerons of old, they use the land and their crop to make whatever money they can to keep their family safe,  warm and well fed.

And as Bassie and her friends prepare generously donated Christmas presents, food and entertainment for nearly seventy children of refugees, we remember and are grateful for all we have and all that we have been able to achieve.

You will be aware of the massive surge of dissatisfaction in France and protestors (known as the Gilets Jaunes or yellow jackets) taking to the streets preventing the free flow of traffic.   We have suffered nothing compared with Paris but they have been at the roundabout to our local supermarket for three weeks now.  They slow down the traffic and have prevented some supermarket deliveries but generally are polite and smiley.

This weekend they have stepped up the civil disobedience and are barricading airports.   We are fervently hoping this will not prevent us from coming home for Christmas in two weeks’ time.

Shall I continue the blog for the next year?     I don’t know, but, if that year proves as exciting and life affirming as this then maybe, once in a while ….

As Tiny Tim said “Merry  Christmas to  us all,   God Bless us everyone” and Jumbo Jan and Gorgeous Gaz say:  “ We wish  you all a happy, healthy and hopeful New Year”

 

 

 

 

We are returning to France after being in England to reinstate the furniture in our Whitstable home.   Mistress R Soul has had a very expensive service and MOT and we have too.    Much cheaper, ours, thanks to our National Health system.

We took the opportunity to catch up with many friends and family.    A group of us met up one evening and I remember looking around at the ten of us, sharing food and wine, faces smiley, animated conversation flowing, interjected with bursts of laughter,  shared memories turning laughter to smiles and my feelings were of sweet contentment and privilege.

We also took the opportunity to visit Wheelers Restaurant in Whitstable , a favourite of ours over the last 20 years or so.   Chef Mark, is a magician.   His fish cuisine is a treat for the eye and a surprise on the palate.   Long may he welcome visitors from all over the world to his small and unpretentious restaurant.

We decided to avoid the meteorological vagaries of the Massif Central and drive down the eastern side of France along the Autoroute des Anglaises which becomes the Autoroute du  Soleil.  A much easier route, though less interesting terrain.

For our overnight stay, about half way down, we chose Beaune, with its unique architecture and its bars,  where students sat outside laughing, smoking and talking, despite the relentless rain.   A pretty, lively  town with many restaurants offering a wide range of food styles at a wide range of prices

We found a restaurant towards the more reasonable end of the price range.  Le Fleury.   I chose two local dishes:  Oeufs Meurette (poached eggs in red wine, bacon and mushroom sauce) followed by Boeuf Bourguignon.   Gazzie? Snails in garlic followed by a Charolais beef steak    We shared a bottle of the local white Beaune wine (very dry with a hint of honey)    Yummy scrummy  (a gastronomic term, mes amis, with which you may not be familiar].

We strolled the sunlit streets of the following morning and wandered back to the hotel to prepare for the last lap of our journey back to Gabian.

Unfortunately,  Mistress  R. Soul, despite all the money we had spent on her, decided to down tools, refusing to start.   The helpful hotel lady called a car medic who kindly offered to jump the Mistress for 100 Euros.   After two minutes work, he sent us on our way with the warning : “Whatever you do, don’t stop”.    A very tense four and a half hours later, I extricated Gazzies paralysed fingers from the wheel and dear friends Bassie and Hugh fed, watered and succoured us in their home.    And that damned contrary Madame started first time and took us back to our house.

It was the  10th November 2018 when we crossed the Channel and on that day before Armistice  Sunday, the tunnel at eight in the morning, was full with British families coming to France to commemorate,  with French families, 100 years since the end of World War I and to remember those brave souls  who gave  their lives on the fields of France.

Heavy rain seemed appropriately cleansing, as we drove alongside the green pastures that now cover the battlefields of the Somme.   The natural glory of autumn on both sides of the channel paid fitting tribute to those men and women who gave their lives for our freedom.

 

GARDEN
(Written after the Civil Wars)

SEE how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display’d:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl’d.
Then in some flower’s belovèd hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr’d,
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erewhile,
Thou Paradise of the four seas
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With wat’ry if not flaming sword;
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
When roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?

(Andrew Marvell   1621-1676)

“ When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?”  (Pete Seeger   1955)

I am taking the opportunity of repeating a Facebook post of  these amazing sculptures by Jackie Lantelli  in St Johns Churchyard,  Slimbridge, Gloucestershire.

 

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.

 

The Murders in the Rue Morgue?   No.   Isla  and Paul all graped up.

And so the vines are dying back,  having given up their fruits for our enjoyment.   We visited Sarabande once more to see our grapes being pressed. There will be a short respite for Isla and Paul before their work begins once more in preparing for next year’s crop.   A ten month cycle so far.     From bare black branches in January to the first press.   All by hand for this young couple, using centuries old methods of wine production.

I had always believed in the old adage “Never go back”,  the implication being that you will be disappointed.   Because we want to share the lovely places we visit, we do go back with our visitors and honestly find new things each time we do.

So, back to Beziers to show Maz and Johnny the newly completed palazzo with its musical fountains and water walkways.

The  reason we went on a Tuesday was to browse the antique stalls.   In  a reverse role situation, one of the very French stallholders insisted on photographing Marilyn!

We ate in the square below the cathedral and had the best mussels I have ever eaten.  Gratinéed but plump as little peach pillows.

We have been mercifully free from forest fires in this area but coming back from Beziers we witnessed how threatening they can be.   In the second photo you can just see one of the water carrying planes (Canadairs) trying to put the fire out.  They collect from Lakes, Etangs, any local water source.  There were three, going to and from the site.

And then a visit to Whitstable to surprise some friends attending a 100th birthday party.   Oh it was wonderful to see them.   Their dear remembered faces smiling with pleasure at our return.   And the following day Gazzie golfed and I wandered through Whitstable with Maz in hot autumn sunshine.   Bliss.

Whitstable sunset.  Best in the world.

After a party organised for us to spend more time with friends, we went to be with our daughter and family and visit our grand-daughter in her new home.   All this in four days and only a two hour flight away! Return flights for two @ 60 euros, car hire @ 35 euros.   Cheap as chips.

Back home, we cleaned and polished and fragranced the house in preparation for the first time visit of Lucie, an old friend from Suffolk.   Lucie is a bit of a wine officianado and a gastronome.   So we took her to St. Chinian to taste their wines and to Olargue to taste the food at Les  Fleurs.   Lucie had offered to take us to Octopus in Beziers, awardee of a Michelin star.    However I espied pig’s ear on the menu and decided it was a star too far for my naïve palate.

On the journey up into the hills towards Olargue,  we were discussing the Maquis, the French Resistance fighters, and imagining them hiding in the thickly wooded hillsides.

… and then Lucie discovered this small space beside the river,  dedicated to these brave men and women.   It was deeply moving to stand in the quiet of this unchanging scenery and remember them.

“Place of remembrance and contemplation.   Pass through here often  for they died for your freedom”

Then, a ghostly reminder of the men and animals who hid in thes hillsides here above us, with not a trodden leaf to announce its presence, this beautiful animal watched our contemplations.

And, as the shadows of the past slipped beyond our grasp, we moved back into the gentle afternoon of the present.

Pezenas, the town that never stops giving, not only had the weekly market last week but a “Grand Bazaar”.  This seemed to consist of all the shops having massive sales, a really exciting pipe and drum band and a man talking excitedly into a microphone.   It was innocent, it was fun and it was charming.

With you in mind, dear bloggees, I decided to try to give you a real flavour of the market.  If only we had “smellovision” too!

….. and then the weirdest thing.   I was busy doing these photos for you dear bloggees, when Gazzie interrupted to say, “You won’t believe this.  There goes Dave from Whitstable.”   So we ran after him for cuddles and chats.   When I went through the photos, I had unknowingly photographed him coming out of a shop!

And there was music:

and art:

In buildings like these:

With people like these:

and these:

 

 

and these:

After a day that fed every one of the senses and left us emotionally exhausted, we ventured out on the morrow, to see the new sculptures in Neffiès, the prettiest village ever:

And still, as from time immemorial, the men (and now some women) play boules:

And the Triggs and friends have their first restaurant lunch indoors for three months:

From Jan (by Mistress Phipps)