It has been the worst winter  in this area for forty years, and aspersions  are being cast on the coincidence of this phenomenon and our arrival.

However, on Saturday sun was forecast and while Gaz was offering me various options of activities for this warm and sunny day, I was dreaming of my body in a bikini again:

My dream:

The reality:

The Abrivado at Grau du Roi had been postponed so we, with Bassie  and Hugh, decided to visit Perpignan, where none of us had been and where the above beauties reside.   Nice to have a bit of culture from time to time.   Hugh drove, so a lovely break for Gazzie.

Amazingly, though Perpignan is only about seventy miles from here, they had not had snow.   But as we drove towards the town,  the Pyrénées rising before us were completely white.

There are more stunning cities in this area than you can shake a stick at (what the hell does that mean?   Why would you be shaking a stick anyway?).   Perpignan takes some beating though.   Home,  years ago, to the Kings of Majorca, there is a strong Catalan influence throughout the city and the people.   That’s all the historical education I’m afraid.

We were in shirt sleeves (I’ve just got a picture of that.  Where do we get these sayings? Why would anyone go naked except for the sleeves of a shirt?).

We parked easily and walked into brilliant sunshine and shared this view as we sipped our coffee and savoured our croissants.

After a wander through the old town looking longingly into shop windows of high fashion and even higher prices we had lunch in the town square where residents and visitors joined in mutual enjoyment of a good lunch under blue skies.

We are still very new to the French language of course and often have to check things on Google Translate.  So for your information,  if you see, on a menu, “tomette de brebis”, the dish you can look forward to is “floor tile of ewe”.

We then made our way through these ancient streets towards the stop for the little tourist train.

The Basilique-Cathédrale de Saint Jean-Baptiste de Perpignan  looks almost modern from the outside, but the inside filled both Gary and I with wonder and reverence.   Whilst neither of us are conventionally religious, we were both moved to tears by the beauty of  this building and I was so glad I had left any cynicism on the doorstep and walked in ready to embrace whatever we found.

And so  to the relative normality of the Little Train.

Gazzie and I were taken right back in our minds to the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway where we had many, many happy times with our grandson over the course of a couple of years, feeding his obsession with Thomas the Tank  Engine.    We said, in unison, as we boarded the train. “Thomas’  Engine is blue, Percy  has a big funnel and oh, here comes the Fat Controller”. That last was Miles and I being hilarious when grandpa appeared.   Ah happy days!

Still, I digress.

The tour was fascinating.   We bib bibbed and toot tooted through the narrow streets where the shops were so close we could have shoplifted.  The train wouldn’t have made much of a getaway car though.

We made our way higher and higher and were then asked to put away our cameras as we trundled through the Gypsy Quarter.  Catalan Gypsies (or Gitans, remember?)  are a valued part of the community here.   There were maybe a hundred men, women and children in the square, talking, playing, being.    They were mostly dressed in black but there was a friendly, happy  feeling about the place and certainly an air of self parody from the young man who shouted“Don’t stop or I’ll have your tyres off”. In Catalan naturally,  but I worked it out from his gestures.   I think.

Every time the tourist information tape stopped, we had a jolly song about Perpignan which we were all soon singing along to.   It appeared to have more to do with a German Oompah band than anything French, but none the less, we happily bounced and swayed in a jolly touristy way.

Back in the town we stopped in Tiger to buy silly glasses and found each other hilarious!

We had felt like kings, enjoying the beneficence that was our due and like paupers who’d savoured every crumb.   Sometimes, that’s how a day goes.

…. and so, in solidarity with our comrades in the UK, we have whited out.    Snow is unusual here and only fell once in the last four years, when our neighbours’ teenage children saw it for the first time.   We have watched  youngsters and animals today,  seeing, feeling and tasting snow.  Their joy was contagious, but not enough to draw us outside.

The down side of an area which sees hardly any snow, is that most drivers are not used to the conditions when they do occur.    There  have been people seeking assistance all over the Languedoc,  either because they have  become stuck in their cars or, worse, have had accidents.  The Ladies in Languedoc Facebook page has been inundated both with cries for help and offers of support.   Social networking at its best.

However.   Priorities are different here.   As we stood indoors watching, me with my  Guides First Aider badge clasped in my hand and Gazzie with his ambulance man uniform on (my favourite, second only to the Fireman one) our neighbour over the road cleared snow …… from his roof!…. and yesterday, yes yesterday, while Gazzie was sunbathing (but you know about that.   It’s getting  worse, bloggees.   Remember when he stripped off when someone switched on a light?    Well, yesterday, a friend wandered round with a lighted cigarette and he was disrobed, suncreamed and on the newly purchased sunlounger before I could say “there’s snow forecast”.)

Where was I? Oh yes.   Terday.  This :

“If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”  , said ol’  Willie Shakespeare.   Well they do things differently here, sir.   Spring skips onto the scene followed by an Arctic permafrost.

Having carried his golf clubs with us from England, we felt it imperative that Gary should use them.  Early research indicated that membership in the Beziers Golf Club  for a little over ten months would be 1800 euros.   Much as I wanted him to play, this amount was far beyond our budget and we agreed it wasn’t feasible.

A bit more research found a nine hole course, costing half as much in membership fees.    We went off to view it on a sunny day in January.   It is  a pretty course, long and narrow and following the path of a river.   A newly built clubhouse offered such a good standard of food and drink that it was open to the public.   Any worries about dress code were allayed as we watched a young man teeing off  in jeans and leather jacket, with a Gauloise stuck firmly between his teeth.

After his first game,   Gaz seemed happy enough, but he had lost six balls:  four in the river and two under one of the many Coypu who, with the odd duck or two, wander around the course.   Gary pretends they are his golfing buddies as he has not yet had the confidence to chat to other golfers, despite the fact that most golfing terms have strong roots in English:  “les green fees”, “le pitching et le putting” etc.   I hope he will get over that shyness.  Bit lonely till then.   Coypu and duck aren’t big on conversation.

The course is on the outskirts of Lamalou  les Bains.   It is a very pretty spa town and this  golf widow looks forward to many a happy hour being pampered,  while, on the golf course, Gaz is holing in one.

It was New Year’s Eve when our last visitors from home were here, so we eagerly awaited our visit from Maz and Johnny last week.   As we knew they both had strong associations in the design world, we decided to show off some of the man-made beauty of this area.   We had not been to Millau to see the famous Norman Foster-designed Viaduct, so we all set off with eager anticipation.

It was a beautiful drive.  We had  enjoyed an idyllic breakfast in our sunny garden and drove up high into mountains topped by snow and swirling mists.   As we drove across this amazing edifice there was a collective intake of breath at the peerless beauty before our eyes.    Once again, we all felt privileged that man and nature had combined to show themselves at their very best, just for us.

Having feasted royally on food for the soul, we travelled onwards and upwards to Roquefort in search of cheese and served our baser instincts there.

Regular bloggees will know how much we were affected by our visit to the Petit Camargue and the desire to share an experience is strong in us.   On our two day design immersion we wanted to take Johnny and Maz to La Grande Motte to see the 60s/70s architecture there.

A limpid sun illumined our journey across the wetlands.   The flamingos looked happier in the warmer weather; there were hundreds of these funny, beautiful creatures.

Our friends were as amazed with this town as were we.   We almost had a pride of ownership in their pleasure … and the  Moules (in Roquefort sauce naturally) Frites went down very nicely with a pichet of white wine.

Everyone quickly fell asleep on the journey home as I read to them, from Wikipedia, a dozen  pages of facts about the town.

And all too soon it was time for our friends to leave.   As they were flying from Carcassonne, we took the opportunity to do a lightning tour around the old town.   And of course,   enjoyed more lunch.

The town is huge and deserved more time than we had to spare.   We managed about an hour in  the walled city, which was well  worth the visit.

Another good bye.    Another little airport.   Another afterthought:

As I got into Mistress R. Soul for the homeward journey, a gust of wind grabbed hold of my long scarf and then banged the door.   Shut.  My face made intimate contact with the window.   I tried to rescue my scarf but it was stuck fast around the lock.   The door would neither open nor shut.   Freed  from my end of the scarf, I spent the journey hanging onto the door in case a bump suddenly dislodged the scarf and the door fly open.

That car hates me.

 

 

 

The train strike was cancelled so, only an hour late, we boarded our train to Marseille.  Gaz had read somewhere that the French always take a picnic on board, so he made big rolls and added a bottle of Picpoul and despite my reservations (not of the train kind, the etiquette kind) we excitedly unpacked our goodies as we sped through lovely French countryside.  Farms and flamingoes, vineyards and freight yards whizzed by.   “Glasses?” I enquired.    “Forgot,” he replied.  Despite my embarrassment we sipped daintily from the bottle.   Classy or what?

Marseille station is a thing of ultra modern beauty.  They have even copied the St. Pancras open piano which was being effortlessly played by a young Frenchman.   Outside, Gary once more sought the advice of Miles (worst French accent in the world) Satnav.   Now.   Either  Miles has taken against us because of all the times we have shouted “Shut the (swear word) up.   How can we return to the bloody route if we don’t know where the bloody route is!”; or some malicious person has slipped him an internet version of a psychotic drug.   He’s being weird.

Off we set in high spirits.  “This way, darling,” says Gazzie merrily.   We started down a perpendicular cobbled road, our cute  little cases clippety clopping as we went   ………… into the jaws of hell.

I’m not saying it was a rough neighbourhood, but I feared for my very fillings.  Even the sun was a luxury not to be afforded amongst the mountains of debris that spilled from every opening.    Men sat in groups on the ground smoking and throwing dice and we jumped three feet off the ground when one said, “Bonjour.  Ça va?”

 

Every conceivable surface was covered in graffiti.   I have never seen such a proliferation of this questionable art.  Walls, doors, windows, shop fronts, cars -all covered.   Animals too, I suspect.   Through chattering teeth I said to Gaz, “Don’t stand still or you’ll find a Banksy  on your bottom”.

When thinking on this later I was a bit sorry we hadn’t stopped.  I thought, “Mmm.  Banksy on bottom;  remove Banksy with several layers of bottom.   Sell Banksy and keep bottom reduction”. A silver lining can be found in most things.

Finally we saw light filtering through the darkness and came out onto  a sunny street.   Totally ungraffitied people sat in groups chatting in Arabic, drinking coffee the colour of tar and making families of their Arabic speaking friends.

Unbelievably, like a man seeking advice from someone who has just directed him into a burning building, Gazzie once again sought advice from Rat Face ( worst French accent etc).    “ Straight up here, darling,” he said, a little less gaily than last time.   Up was right.   You almost needed a ladder to walk “up” this road.  “Only another 5 minutes”.   An hour later, while I was strapping on an oxygen cylinder and adjusting a face mask, he said.   “ I think Miles has told us wrong”.

We turned and made our way back down the road.   My face was set in a rictus of pain caused by a two hour walk on arthritic joints.  We had passed our hotel twice.  We checked in and fell on the bed and slept.

On waking, trying not to “seek out the poorer places where the ragged people go” (thanks Paul Simon), we found ourselves (no, you are absolutely never going to believe it, actually Miles found us) in an area,  just by the Metro, of sullen  streets and silent  strangers.   By this time though, hunger made us immune to danger and in this, the second largest city  of France, home of the Bouillabaisse, we had a delicious Indian meal.

Like mornings in all the best stories, our morrow dawned blue and gold.   The hotel was ideally placed in the shopping area and only minutes from the old port, where we sat and ate our omelettes in the 100+ year old restaurant “La Samaritaine”.   We sat transfixed looking at Norman Foster’s masterpiece Miroire Ombrière, built to shade visitors to the port and reflect the lives of those who visited.  Being an artist, like,  bet  he didn’t think of the poor souls who have to clean it.   Several contortionists  were attempting to do so as we watched.

 

As we try to do, whenever visiting a new town, we took the Big Bus Tour.  We were driven  right up to Notre Dame de la Garde which stands high above the town,  via  a hair raising route through narrow urban streets, bullying small cars out of  our way as we went. We held our breath as the bus seemed to teeter over the rocks above the Frioul archipelago and sighed with relief as we dropped down to drive along  the elegant corniche of the  sea front,  past  the town’s diverse architecture and back to the old port.   Too full and frozen  to eat the Bouillabaisse being served at most of the port side restaurants,  we returned to the hotel to thaw out.

 

In France, sales in retail shops are only allowed for 6 weeks from mid-January.   We felt it our duty to support the local economy and tried our best to buy.   Only to find that (apart from a pair of pink patent leather brogues that called to me) even the sale prices were beyond our budget.

Our last evening and Gazzie, working without Rat Face, found a delightful Bistrot in the Opéra region, just two blocks back from the port.  Named l’Horloge, it was narrow, with one line of tables,  giving close access to the neighbour’s food, and their dogs, should you be extra specially hungry.    The staff of youngsters were absolutely delightful, with huge smiles and a nothing-too-much-trouble attitude. We were using Google Translate to decipher the menu when, to the amusement of all our neighbours, the nice waiter pointed out there was an English translation beneath the French.

Gazzie had the octopus,  which he pronounced delicious and I had a gourmet cottage pie with pulled beef cheek and almonds.   We shared a plate of fromage, as yummy as a very yummy thing, and a pichet of  quite quaffable dry white wine.  All this for a princely 30 euros a head and more people-watching and story-making than your heart could desire.

 

The lights of the port lit our way home.   Perfect.

Despite security alerts at the station, and a thirty minute delay, the journey home was very pleasant.  And there was our foster mum, Bassie, waiting for us in an illegal parking area, ready to take us to our foster home in Roujan.

We light the fire;  Gaz turns on the rugby; I groan;  we home.

No matter how beautiful a place I am in, the difference between joy and despair will be made by the people I’m with.    It was ever thus.

We were so fortunate to have friends already here and Bassie has always been generous with her friends, wanting them all to know each other.  Making social connections has dragged me out of my homesickness and into the “ doing stuff” that is at the heart of the expat community.

Being part of this community has also given me a very small insight into the difficulties of immigrants to our own country;   to look behind the stereotype of both immigrant and ex pat.   When you live in a country of strange language and customs it seems natural to cling to the familiar and many Brits still long for their baked beans and Marmite, their bacon and Corrie.   Almost all do make an effort to speak the language, but somehow that “strangeness” never goes away.  Many Brits to whom I have spoken say that they have really tried to form friendships with local people and in one case, despite living in France for 25 years, a very socially adept Francophile told me that he numbered only four native French amongst his friends.  Is it that old saw that  humour and poetry do not translate and therefore it is not possible to fully integrate into another culture?   Or do you need a “hook” , such a sport or  a shared interest to break down internal barriers?

Obviously, the words “family” and “familiar” have the same root.   I think that incomers to strange countries cleave to their own language speakers in order to form replacement families.

I don’t know, but we are trying really hard with our next door neighbours and we smile and wave at each other and will, I am sure, eventually make tentative conversation.  And I’m certainly going to find the French words for “will you stop your bloody dog from barking all day long”.

In the meantime I am revelling in meeting  the English speaking ladies of the Languedoc.   My first introduction was at a venue close to here: Chateau St. Pierre de Serjac (pictured above).  The event was billed as a tapas and jazz evening but, in fact, the music was provided by two Catalan gypsy guitarists, who were joined every so often by a young woman singer from the table next to ours.   Soon her companions were dancing and we, the observers, were transported to a northern Spanish gypsy campfire.!   As our table of ten Brits loudly showed our appreciation, I looked around at my companions, most of whom Gaz and I had made some conversation with, and anticipated, with some pleasure , the part they might play in our adventure.

In appreciation of our support, this dark haired young woman then stood at the end of our table and sang a highly emotional, hand on brow,   rendition of “La Vie en Rose”.  Life seen through rosé tinted wine  glasses seems fine!

Only two days later we joined some of those we had already met, and some fascinating others, at a Sunday roast lunch (2 courses, wine and coffee, 22 euros  a head).   The venue was Domaine L’Aise in St Pargoire, 20 minutes from here.   Once again, kind new friends, Richard and Jill, transported us there.   This beautiful, very old home, is high in the hills, with amazing views.    It is owned and run by Karen and  Mike, as a chambre d’hote (b and b) and their summer lives are very busy with guests.   In the winter they host these occasional lunches.  14 of us sat down to eat our traditional British fare.   The conversation flowed over an amazing variety of subjects.   There was much laughter and bonhomie.   As we retired to a long table in the warmth of a sunny January afternoon, to drink our coffee and pastis, it seemed that I had begun to find what I had been missing.

Since then I have become a member of “Ladies in Languedoc”.   This is a two thousand strong internet-based support group for English speaking women in France.     Help and information is offered on any subject under the sun, from schools for children, to finding a cobbler, and everything between.  A wide range of outings is also arranged.  All this  to help combat the possible loneliness of the stranger in a strange land.   It has proved to be a lifeline for for many of its members. Another group I have been invited into is  “Ladies in Pezanas” a much smaller, more social group); Books, Wine  and Chips  (an eight in number book group) and I start my Creative Writing classes in March.  We continue our conversation classes with another lovely group of  6 or 7.   Goodness, come the summer, I shall have no time to sunbathe.

Our trip to Marseille tomorrow looks in doubt.  Rail strike and farmers’ road blockades.    Plus ca change, plus c’est la même chose.

Just a footnote really, and despite promises not to mention, while out yesterday (second week in Feb), we counted 11 Santas still struggling over balconies with their still laden (though rather grubby) sacks and glimpsed in a house one fully lit and laden Christmas tree.   Just sayin’.

Lordy, Lordy.  Worst bloggy nightmare.  For those of you who are notified  by email when a new blog is posted,  you will have received my first (unchecked) draft of the blog “Deliverance”.

The following errors were identified: Lagrasse is spelt thus;  it is in the Aude, not the Alpes Maritime;  it is not the centre for perfume.

For those who just visit the site they have the researched and edited edition.

All other events and observations are, to my knowledge, correct.

Note to self:   Must stop pressing “publish” after a glass of wine.

 

 

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I have pondered a bit, while we have been here,  the reason why so many ancient buildings in France remain in such good condition and I can only assume that the  temperate weather is kinder to slate and stone than our own sometimes cruel conditions.   In almost every town and village in the Languedoc, history surrounds you in the narrow, cobbled streets.    The  ancient  buildings sit majestically alongside the rather squat and ugly newcomers.  It is a joy to  wander through them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Certain  villages are categorised as “The Most Beautiful in France”.  When we were here in September we visited the village of Olargues.  It most certainly deserves its place in that august company.   High in the hills beyond Beziers, its cobbled streets seem to be almost vertical in places, clinging on to the hillside overlooking the River Jaur.

We also overlooked the river as, with close friends, we ate outside  at the Restaurant Fleurs d’Olargues.    After we had moved downwind of the freshly manured kitchen gardens of this exquisite  restaurant, with its adorable young waitress, we were once more rendered speechless by the beauty of our surroundings, the amazing food and the pleasure in laughter and good company.    And some very fine wine.

 

Based on the success of our visit here we decided, last week, to visit another of these famous villages.   Lagrasse.

It was naive to think that a “plus beaux villages” would be as beaux on a grey day in January as on  warm, sunny day in September, but as demonstrated earlier we do err on the side of naïveté.   Lagrasse  is to be found high up in the Aude.    It is renowned for Corbières wine and is now home to numerous pottery workers and artists, and hosts numerous cultural and intellectual festivals such as “Le Banquet du Livre”.

On the day of our visit Lagrasse  was shut.

Obviously its natural beauty must be illumined by the sun which shines, we are told, 360 days of the year.   But not on a grey day in January.   Shops, restaurants, church and school all had a Miss Haversham air of cobwebbed waiting.   Silence pressed against our ears as we tiptoed around the town.

 

We found the car, carefully closed doors and started the engine, so that our departure would have no more impact than our arrival.   As we took the steep descent from the village, there was a sudden roar behind us and a school bus, carrying half a dozen blank faced children, overtook us on a hairpin bend.   We slid to a stop, inches from the parapet wall separating us from oblivion!

With shaking legs we got out of the car to gulp in some cold mountain air,   Across the valley I’m sure I heard the sound of duelling banjos!

Its a true story bloggees. But we shall return in the Spring.   Preferably on a guided tour.

Gaz and I now have our Senior Citizens rail card.  We have booked our first rail journey to Marseille next week.

 

Under the disguise previously described, we bravely set off once more, because there are so many beautiful, historic, unspoilt places to visit within a reasonable car journey from here.

Gary had meticulously planned a trip to La Petite Camargue.    Our first stop was in La Grande Motte with its extraordinary 60’s architecture.   I loved this town and don’t agree with those who say the buildings have not stood well against  the ravages of time.

And then to the wild and wonderful beaches at Le Grau du Roi.

(No Gazzie I’m not making a sand castle   I’ve fallen over.   Stop taking the damned photos!)

We had lunch on the red and white gingham table cloths of Les Capucins Restaurant in the town square within the Medieval city walls of Aigues-Mortes.   Afterwards we walked along a canal lined with bone white coppiced plane trees, looking like calcified limbs against a pale blue sky.

Gary had planned our day to perfection. He knows the area because when he was hitch hiking as a student he was picked up outside Paris by three students of Romany heritage. They drove him all the way through France, feeding him and  sleeping on beaches.    When they got into the Camargue they invited him to the family wedding they were attending in Ste. Marie de la Mere.

We visited this seaside town, purported to be the capital of the Camargue and certainly the spiritual home of Europe’s gypsies. Of course, out of season, almost everything was closed,  which lent the town a ghostly air. Though a group of elderly gentlemen played a spirited game of Boules, mufflered up against the sea breeze.

We definitely want to return, possibly in May when gypsies from all over Europe return to Ste Marie for annual festivities. The town is dominated by huge statues of bulls and horses. These animals are central to the lives of the people of the Camargue.

We recounted this story at our French conversation class but didn’t know the French word for gypsy. We learned that a female gypsy is a Gitane, hence the iconic emblem on the cigarette packet.  

We Juliette Greco clones remember these:  the Look; the smell;  the cough.

In order to get to Ste Marie we needed to cross the Petit Rhône canal.  We did this on the Bac du Sauvage or ferry boat.   Completely  free,  the ferry plies its trade every half an hour during daylight hours.    On a Wednesday in January, Gaz and I and Mistress R. Soul were the only passengers.

As we drove deeper into the countryside we passed the many manades, where visitors can stay and take part in the lives of the “cowboys” of the Camargue.   The manades have guardianship over semi-feral horses and cattle.

We started to make our way home as a fierce orange sun began its own journey towards the horizon.  The wetlands around us tck tck tickered and slippy-slithered as the wildlife prepared, some to settle down for the night and others for a night out.

Behind the swathes of golden reeds the white  Camarguaise horses snickered and gently hoofed the soft ground.   Huge black bulls looked over their fences to see who had the temerity to disturb their twilight rituals.

And then, impossibly, a starling murmuration, swept over the car and across the marshland.   The air around us stirred to the beat of a thousand wings and for a moment we were in dark shadow as they passed before the dying sun.

We had opened our windows and it seemed to us that we, alone in all the world, at that precious moment, were privileged to be part of the greatest show on earth.

We could not speak.  There was no need.   We had shared a day that had shown us the best that man and nature can offer. The memory will be there for us when man and nature are at their worst.

And then we will say,

“Remember?”

 

We have taken to travelling incognito.  It is a matter of life or death dear bloggees.  We’re wearing striped jerseys, short black satin skirts with side splits (Gaz looks particularly fetching), berets and a string of onions.   Nobody would recognise us as British.   We start lots of conversations with “listen, I shall only say zis once”.  Honestly I do believe we could fool anyone.

We have rubbed mud over  Mistress R Soul’s number plates and she has a big sign on her back saying “don’t blame us we voted “Remain”.  Oh bugger that’s a give away.   We wrote it in English.  Note to self “back to Google translate”.

The reason for the subterfuge is that we face death or serious injury every time we venture out in the car.  We are particular targets on roundabouts.   Gazzie follows French road law of keeping to the inside lane, signalling his intention to  be there, then signalling right to come off when he’s ready.  Suddenly there are three or four puce faced drivers , with not a signalling finger amongst them, inches, nay centimetres from our car, blowing their horns, gesticulating (I think that gesture is universal) while we just stop in confusion.   Causing more chaos, more anger, more fear.

There also must be a code language, known only to born and bred French people, which tells them the  direction to take, when the signs you’ve been following for ten miles (times 8, divided by 5 for kilometres) suddenly disappear and you’ve driven so many times round the roundabout looking for an exit you run out of petrol.   Even more very angry people.

Then we have the fully automatic petrol stations.  “Oh my goodness, what shall we do?   It’s all in French.  (Natch).  Don’t understand”.  You calm down.  It’s all quite simple.  You achieve your aim of inserting diesel into your car.   “ Diesel?   What’s the French for diesel?   What’s the French for petrol?   What’s the French for “I wanna go home.  I want my mummy”

Calm down, dear friends.  All is well.

Until, on checking our credit card we found 30 euros of petrol had cost 150 euros.   We had a sleepless night and rang the credit card company first thing next day.  Ok.  So here is the system.  The multi zillion pounds/euros profit earning petrol company are so afraid that the little guy is going to think of a way to take more petrol than he has paid for,  that it charges a 120 Euro pre authorisation on the credit card.  This amount can take up to 20 days to be repaid. How can this be legal?

Today we are ordering our Senior Citizen plus Rail Card.

 

 

 

I find him standing there, dagger in hand, a trickle of blood dripping from his thumb to the floor.   His head is bowed, not in submission, but almost in expectation.   Of what?   The honour that is his due?   For what?   I must say,  it has been an epic battle, of Cap’n Ahab and Moby Dick proportions.   So what is he hoping for?    The Victoria Cross?   The Legion d’Honneur?   The Congressional Medal?

He drops to one knee, as if to be knighted for his bravery in …… opening a damned oyster!    I try to be kind, saying “arise Sir Gaz”, but he cannot for the dagger has fallen and anchored his trousers to the floor.

While he is there I begin to think about the whole subject of oysters   My personal opinion is that they are, along with most shellfish, the biggest marketing con in the world.

All that trouble to open them and you are presented with something which looks like a piece of rubber in mucous.   Officianados are “swallowers” or “biters”. Swallowers throw back their heads, open their throats and there goes the oyster, never touching a taste bud.   Biters have covered the oyster in shallot vinegar, Tabasco sauce, chorizo.    Anything to mask the taste.  Oh and then there’s “mind you don’t spill the ‘precious liquor’ from the shell”.    It’s sea water,  people.   You spill it, there are several large oceans to get spares from.

When a growing number of people began to suspect they were being fooled, new claims were made for these inedibles.  The strongest, still believed today, is that they are an aphrodisiac   No proof of this has been found.   And lord knows Gazzie keeps trying them out. And the chances of finding a pearl?   1 in 12,000.

Thinking of eating that many oysters reminds me of that other strange phenomenon, that other rite of passage amongst these shell food seekers.    Picture a seaside hotel breakfast room.  Person arrives tinged in green.    He has that look, the one that  says , ‘I’ve just survived the initiation ceremony to an exclusive club.’

“Up all night.  Sick as a dog.  Rogue oyster,” he says, with ill-concealed pride.  There are looks of even less well concealed jealousy in some other breakfasters.

In this lovely part of France it seems that nearly all restaurants sell “ coquillages” in some form.  The pretty seaside town of Mèze, for instance, has  maybe a dozen restaurants around the harbour which seem only to serve seafood.   It is worth noting that in the UK a dozen oysters costs the best part of £25.   Here they would cost about £10.   It is food (if you can call it such) for all, not for the few.   So no need for pretension.   When we visited Mèze,  on a sunny Sunday lunchtime in January,  most people were eating  oysters and mussels.   I can just about tolerate mussels in a garlic and cream sauce, but I eat with my eyes closed,  because when once I looked at what was in the shell, it appeared to me to be the chopped-off ear of a rather hairy gnome.

Whilst I would still, almost, rather take a 5 minute “W” word than eat an oyster, to please my husband and daughter we shall visit the Tarbouriech restaurant on the Étang du Thau near Marseillan.

It is in a beautiful position overlooking the bay and so successful, humane and environmentally-aware are the Tarbouriech family that their internationally awarded sea food has been named after them.   Tabouriech oysters are prized the world over, particularly the “Pink Diamond”.  Enough.    They are oysters still.