Dawn over Roujan 2nd June 2018

VILLAGES  IN  LANGUEDOC

BOUJAN

 

 

 

 

Nèffies at night

ROUJAN

Church and riverside allotments

Our teacher’s house where we go for conversation classes

GABIAN

The ancient city walls on the river side

 

The clear water of the  river Thongue in Gabian

MOTHER  NATURE WEARING HER PRETTIEST DRESS  IN LANGUEDOC

….. and fighting back around the burned, dead trees, victims of last summer’s fires.

 

.and three weeks after my last photos of the vines, tiny bunches of grapes just appearing:

.. and after food for the soul, food for the tum in the wonderful, friendly, pretty restaurant “Poisson Verre” in the ancient streets of Pezenas

So did the pictures speak louder than words?

And “yes”.   It is Boujan and Roujan!!

The Frog  Fair was really great fun.   Hundreds of visitors crowded into St. Géniès de Fontedit.   There was a real carnival atmosphere, with brass bands, drummers and, inevitably, the cooking of frogs.   Here is the man preparing to cook the little buggers.   15 minutes later this counter was 20 deep in people waiting for half an hour for their frog lunch .   I stuck with chips.

Off we go on our travels again!   Poor old Mistress R. Soul will be blowing a gasket if we don’t rest her soon.

But so much to see and so little time.

We let Johnny and Maz rest on their first evening here as they’ve been before and were here for longer this time.   They bought us another flamingo gift in exquisite taste.  Blow up ones to hold our drinks when our dip pool is set up for the summer.   If all goes well (ha, as if that’s gonna happen) the pool will be ready for revellers next week!

However, big plans were made for Monday and Thursday.

The only request we had received from Les Fromages (aka Maz and Johnny) was for a Brocante or Boot Fair.    We  discovered there was to be one at Bouzigues (I know faithful followers, we have been there several times, but sans Brocante).    It was a beautiful setting with stalls set up along the sea front, very friendly stall holders and a great variety of stuff.  Money was spent by all.   Our purchase finally proved that we have no idea of the worth, nor aesthetic value of anything.   We’ve hidden the lamp we bought for 10 euros!

Gazzie and Johnny feasted on oysters and us women on chips, all washed down with  an excellent pichet  of white wine.   Our host/ waitress was, we all agreed,  the kindest, smiliest, nothing-too-much- troubliest that we have ever met.   A total joy to spend a short time in her company and gaze at the sea.

To give our guests an extra treat we decided to take the car ferry across the Petit Rhône.   Unluckily there was a cafe serving beer at the ferry terminal.  The weak willed men went to get one. The ferry tooted to go and in the time it took to pay for the blooming beers, the ferry went.     This  free ferry runs every half  an hour and we had things to see.   So we drove  all the way back the way we came.

Gazzie and I had decided to take our friends to Ste. Marie de la Mare.    When we visited in February we saw a pretty little town, with odd cone shaped white houses and six people:  gentlemen of a certain age playing Boules in the square.

We had heard that next weekend was the festival day of Ste. Sara Kali, (the Black Madonna) patron saint of gypsies and that gypsies from all over Europe go to Ste. Marie to watch the ceremony of taking her statue into the sea.

Five days in advance of this, we thought we might see some preparation.   As we drove in,  the car parks were full of caravans and trailers.  Instead of six people there must have been six thousand milling around the square.   We amazingly found a car parking space and as we left the car we were met with a wall of noise;   ear splitting recorded music and thousands of laughing, shouting voices.   And many, many armed police.

We hurriedly walked away from the cacophony into a quieter area and in complete contrast found this gypsy singer/guitarist playing to a small but appreciative audience.

 

 

It’s all about bulls, horses and maleness.

In the sea front bars, the young men, carefully coiffured, their muscled bodies gleaming with body oil, drank beer, played guitars and paraded themselves loudly in front of the young women ( I only took a quick glance) .   The very air appeared to be laden with testosterone.

 

“Gazzie,”  I said quietly, “can we head home?   I fear if I stay here a moment longer I shall start to grow testicles”.   With a horrified look downwards he jumped in the car.

 

The drive home seemed very long and like weary children we fell indoors and ate pizza.

On the Tuesday we were back to French class.   Have I said before I love this class?  We sit in Bérènice’s dining room conversing in pretty awful French, while her three cats put paws over their ears and hide under the chairs.  We are such a mixed bunch but we laugh till we ache most weeks.

Home to Johnny’s asparagus risotto, with wonderful asparagus from the farm shop. Where, incidentally, Gazzie buys his red wine in a 5 Litre cubi at a cost of  7 euros.    And says it is wonderful.   Mmmm

Wednesday found us back in Beziers.   I had to have an ultrasound, so our friends wandered around Beziers while we experienced  another part of the French Health system    It was a very modern building, with free parking. We were seen early and whilst my doctor had no English  and I little French, we seemed to manage.   Though Gary said he did look surprised that I had all my clothes off when he was only looking at my stomach.

Ten minutes later we left with my x-rays, his observations on what he had found and were lighter by £75.   Fair do’s    At the moment we can claim back three quarters of that.

Gary translated the doctor’s observations, Then looked up the medical terms on Google, put on his doctor’s uniform on and told me what he’d found.   Basically water retention we think!   We go to our doctor next week.   £25!

We met up with our friends, had lunch in the lovely Café Des Arts, home and then tea with an artist friend of ours.   Funny but over here you don’t seem to have tea for tea, but wine and cake.   And tea lasts from 4 till 8!

And so, dear patient bloggees, we arrive at the last day of our friends’ visit.   They are to go home Friday lunchtime and I have my Creative Writing class in the morning.   We had planned what we hoped would be a lovely surprise for them.

We had booked a lunch cruise on the Canal du Midi.

 

It was so calm, so relaxing and the weather was kind enough.  The two young French people (Andrea and Jerry) who run these cruises do a range, which includes one hour canal cruises and evening cruises with dinner and gypsy guitarists.

We had a lovely cold buffet lunch with lots of variety and a wide choice of drinks  Just a perfect way to spend two and a half hours.

 

 

Home to Prawn Curry

Purrfeck!

Oh.   Scenes from a French idyll.

I am beginning to wonder if the village of Neffiès is actually a fantasy.    Like a French “Brigadoon”.    Of course we had to take Les  Fromages there to see the murals   We met a few people on our way to the church.   Every single one smiled and said “ Bonjour”.

Silence fell as we wandered about this exceptionally pretty village.   Then  we heard singing.   Into a patch of sunlight beside the church came a mother and two tiny little girls, holding hands and singing on their way home from nursery school.

Collective intake of breath and holding back of tears.

 

 

When thinking about my next blog I realised that my offerings were becoming a bit like Facebook;  I was in danger, latterly at least, of presenting our lives as a hedonistic idyll.   I’ve  even photographed meals for god’s sake!   My intention was always to tell it how it is  and not give you the impression of never ending outings, with a never ending procession of visitors and never ending jollity.

(Jan being not jolly)

Whilst it would be boring for you to read about them,  we do have periods without guests, when we stay at home, do washing and ironing and shop for food    I still have days  of terrible homesickness and a physical ache for my family and friends.   ‘It ain’t all beer and skittles, know what I’m sayin’?

It is such a day today and it’s hot as Hades outside.   So I’ll tell you about, and remind myself of, some more of the lovely stuff.

With most of our guests we do visit the village of Neffiès, only 5 minutes by car from here and a pretty, hilly, arty little place.   It has enough shops and two restaurants and some interesting murals.  A lovely place to live methinks.

Murals and trompe l’oeils

and garage doors

and doorways

In between visiting more distant places, we are still finding delights  on our own doorstep.

Recently we booked to go, on our own, to a wine tasting at the local village of Laurens where our friend Ginny lives.

There was to be a five course taster menu, paired wine with each course, and a singer from the Montpellier Opera Company.

”Sounds like  our sorta gig, Gaz”, says I.   As you know my word is his command, so he booked.

On the afternoon of this much anticipated occasion, as we watched the rain tear up paving slabs and the wind scoop up small people and deposit them inconveniently distant from their homes, Gaz asked me what had attracted me to this event.

“Opera singer”, I said.   He nodded.   “Wine”, I said.   He made a strange wiggly sign with his hand.   “Food,” I said more quietly, as despite my size, it is not one of my over riding interests.

Pouring more cold water on the event than there was outside, he intoned:

“Wine will come a thimbleful at a time and at least two of the courses will be with red.   Which you don’t drink.   Those two courses are pork and then duck, one of which you don’t like and the other of which you would never let into the country,  let alone your mouth.

“Opera singer?” I said faintly.

”You might be alright there,” he said.

Well, my bloggees, you know me.    By the end of the evening I was drinking red wine like a red wine drinker facing a red wine drought.  I even  did a bit of begging for other people’s dregs.   I made several new friends and Gary had met four new golfing buddies so he doesn’t have to play with  himself anymore.

(And Gaz said there wasn’t enough wine!)

i went home sober, hungry and with the prospect of losing Gary to golf three or four times a week.   The opera singer was, well, the brother of the vigneron.    Who was, incidentally, a woman (obviously, the vigneron not the singer ).   Oh and a thimbleful is hardly enough to be able to savour and judge a wine.   In my opinion.

An aside:   the next book to read and discuss at my Book Club is “The Sober Diaries”.   Honestly I’m going to enjoy that one!

And so.   The Pezenas Brocante Festival   or Antiques Fair    Instead of taking over a handy field, this takes place in the avenues and alleyways of Pezenas.   There was a carnival atmosphere with live music and sunshine and an air of bonhomie.

The antiques are, naturellement, very French and exhorbitantly expensive.   Lovely to look at and to wander amongst though.

 

A yummy plate of paella (we are very near the Spanish border!) …

…. and then home.

Off to the Frog Fair (Fête de Grenouilles) at St. Genies de Fontedit today.   Legs will be eaten.    But not by me.

 

 

Dear bloggees.   The technology gremlins have been at me again.   It’s disappointing to find that what I think you are receiving is not always the case.   Some photos have been missing from the last three blogs.

We think this has been corrected.   If you go to the blog site Wrinkleysgapyear.com you might see more photos.  It only affected the last three posts.

Though, honestly, maybe life’s too short.

Poppy field with Muffin

(I don’t know what these little buildings are.  I’ll try to find out)

The countryside is singing with wild flowers of every kind and the garden of our little home is awash with colour   Not many French homes seem to have flower gardens.   I think it is because of the extremely hot summers that we have been warned about but, so far, have no evidence of.

We’ve been to the local airports so often that people think we work there.    Gary loves a pilot’s uniform.   Said yet another teary farewell yesterday to Lin and Lawrence who, unbeknownst to us had a five and half hour delay, as “spare parts” were awaited from across the globe to glue the plane together.  God protect us from Mr Ryanair!

(Cafe in Olargues.   Wall art)

Visiting Olargues in the pouring rain was a new experience.  Cobbled, perpendicular streets, rain and flip flops not being a great combination.   But we found a welcoming cafe (just the one open in a back street) with hot coffee and sandwiches.

So we ooh-d  and ahh-d through misty car windows.  Drove home and Gazzie actually barbecued and our guests ate indoors, while  I went to my first proper book club meeting (the previous one had been a “social”).  We discussed “Elinor Oliphant is completely Fine”, whilst drinking Rosé wine and eating chips and mayonnaise!   The only way to do it.

 

Fortunately, Tuesday brought sun and we wowed our guests with the Petit Camargue.  We visited a part of Grau du Roi  that we didn’t know and had lunch at the Quayside.  Looked in lots of lovely dress shops on our way back to the car.   Must go back when we win the Lottery!

 

(This is a random stranger, but he looked so content, it captured our mood)

On to Aigues-Morte, now awake and vibrant in brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies.  Our guests seemed to be as impressed as we always are with this lovely area.

 

So when we are asked if we get bored of showing off our lovely countryside to visitors the answer is “Not so far”.  Each friend has different interests and so visiting the Canal du Midi with Mandy and John opened our eyes to other aspects of this interesting waterway.  Like where would you join the canal with your boat, wondered Sailor Mandy.   And we discovered where : in an apparently almost deserted part of the canal

And off they went in their hired car to look at the famous Nine Locks (where we have already been, bloggees, remember?) while we attended our French conversation group after a long break.

Gazzie obviously gets bored occasionally with all the pastoral and watery idylls and decides to scare the living daylights out of me by going up mountains.   So whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the coffee and house sized baguettes in Fraisse sur Agout,

 

onwards and upwards went Gazzie.   I tbink he was fantasising that he was Sherpa Tensing on his way up Everest.   I didn’t see much more of the scenery as my head was in Mandy’s lap, screaming, “Gary take this bloody car downwards this instant”.  He ignored me and carried on to his destination which was a rather disappointing lake called Lac du Laouzas. Not worth the climb in my humble opinion, but the others coloured themselves impressed in order to curry favour with the driver.

However, we rounded off a scary day with a wonderful meal in Les Palmiers in Pezenas.

More teary goodbyes.   These goodbyes are doin’ my ‘ead in!

Wines in waiting    The stark, stumpy vines in January…

This week, green and healthy growth.

And almost here, tiny grapes just appearing.

This is wine growing country as you know At one time, virtually the whole community were involved in some way or other, working for the separate domaines or wine growing dynasties, such as Domaine Mon Plezy.

A lot of the domaines have returned to their independent status after the popularity of the massive co-operatives waned, amongst accusations of inferior quality. One can still see these huge buildings around the area empty and falling to disrepair. However lessons were learnt and some of the smaller wine growers are again using co- operative wine producers and producing a superior quality of this nectar of the gods.

Handily for me the most popular grape round these parts is Picpoul. We first tasted this crisp, white wine at the Goods Shed in Canterbury with Maggie and Peter; now we see it growing. Gives one a sense of almost parental pride.

So, we were very excited on Sunday last to be going to our first dégustation or wine tasting.   It was to be the first tasting of the rosé wine from the Sarabande domaine.  This is a tiny domaine owned and run totally by Isla , originally from Ireland, and Paul from Australia.   They have two young children; they grow the vines, and do the weeding, tending and picking and produce delightful red and rosé wines.   At first,  I declined a glass of rosé, on the basis that I don’t like it.  “I know you will love it” quoth Paul and so I did.  I had to keep trying but after a fair test of 3 glasses I had to agree.   Loverly.    And dry as a bone ( technical term, unknown except among us wine quafficionados)

In their spare time (!) Isla and Paul make Sarabande gin which is rated very highly and sold to many other countries.  And they run different events around their wine tastings throughout the year.   AND they never stop smiling.

Although the guests last evening were of several nationalities, it was obvious who was the target audience.  Supper was provided by Mr. Fish and Chips

So in this exciting new world in which we live,  we attend everything.  If someone’s inspecting a drain in the next village we’ll be there.  At home I would not stir past the front door for less than a Michelin starred meal and free champagne (oh I forget you nearly all know me.   Ok for a free meal and a bottle of Prosecco).  Add into this picture my well known fear of anything that isn’t an actual human being i.e under the generic description of “animal”,  then dear bloggees you would have been surprised to see me in a field, at the end of nowhere, with a load of chickens.

” Would you like to see the chickens that produce your lovely morning eggs?”

”No”

“But it’s an idyllic spot in the country   with chairs you can sit on and everything.”

”No.”

”Take you out for lunch after.  With wine and stuff”

”Can I stay in the car?”

” Yes,  but you’ll want to get out.”

Ever in the forefront of my mind, whatever the occasion, is “what to wear”,  so in the absence of such mundane footwear as Wellington boots, I put on my black patent leather thigh-high, four inch heels,  Jimmy Chews   (yes, ok,  I was fooled.  I suppose I should have guessed as they were only £28 as opposed to £300 or so for real Choos)   We drive to some god forsaken place, up dirt tracks and then had to walk, yes walk, for miles to an opening in a hedge where sat Brian, our friend and egg man, and about eighty chickens.

Honestly, is it me?   The noise and the smell were horrendous and the other three adults cooed and clucked and stroked these beaky things    I did admit, I am not a total philistine, that some of the iridescent feathers were pretty but when Brian said to me “Jan, do youwant to hold this egg, it’s straight from the hen?”   I shuddered and politely said, “No thank you dear, let it cool down, put it in a nice grey box with five others and I’ll pretend it came from a supermarket”.

One interesting thing occurred to me though.   The chickens were eating the vine leaves and presumably the grapes when they come.   A bit of fermentation and I could have wine-infused eggs for breakfast.    I think it could catch on.

After the other three finally gave in and tore themselves away I was pleased to get back to the car    Until a nasal scorching, eye piercing odour told me that Hugh had taken the opportunity to bring three tons of chicken pooh back for his garden.   Ah the joys of country living.

Brian invited us to afternoon tea with his sister Sharon in her house in Roujan   It is an enormous three storey conversion project.    The gardens have been done, the pool installed and an amazing and enormous kitchen.   The whole of  the top floor and roof are yet to be rebuilt and unfortunately some of the work already undertaken is seriously sub standard.   Sharon , Brian’s sister,  seems very philosophical about it all.    However, she lost her farm, her home and most of her possessions to the Mugabe pogroms in her native home of Zimbabwe.    After the unimaginable horrors of her last years there I suspect a leaking roof is small fry.   She is a brave, bright and intelligent woman and I hope we shall become friends.   Despite …. the three dogs, two cats and the chicken sanatorium, housing chickens at every stage from incubator to old age.   What is it with people and animals here?

To round off a blog mainly about wine, Sharon is a wine importer    Currently she sells  South African wine to newish markets such as China.   However now she lives in France and has a French partner they hope to produce their own wine label.   She made Gary a gift of a bottle of Rhône wine which he had difficulty describing amid his exultant cries of “Oh, Oh.    It’s ….  oh”.  An adjectivally challenged man is our Gaz.   He later found that the wine was in the top 2 per cent of Rhône wines   A gift indeed.

i received one glass of a nice white.   I’ll give her one more chance to be my friend. One.

 

“L’Été has indeed arrived in our French village. But in my bedroom the weather felt tropical as my temperature continued to rise and my eye lids,  too heavy to lift, stayed closed, off and on, for four days. French doctors were called, more drugs administered and gradually over the last ten days I’ve almost returned to normal.   Though often weary to my very bones.

During this time we had Sara and Brian staying for a week, then Mandy and John for four days. I was carefully ladled in and out of cars and slept through some of the most amazing scenery in Europe.
Sara had long wished to eat at the oyster restaurant Tabourieche of which I’ve spoken in previous blogs. We managed to get a table one Sunday lunchtime. Whilst SuperBri and I aren’t big shellfood eaters we shared some mussels,drank some wine and grew misty eyed over the views.

Having undertaken a very long walk to the villages of Neffiès and Gabian (7 and a half miles) our guests decided to take up Gazzie’s offer of a chauffeured research day, checking out venues for their next energetic adventure.  So we set off for Roquebrun (remember bloggees we went there in January to see the mimosa).   Roquebrun is even more beautiful in the warm, bright sunshine and we stood, yet again transfixed at its beauty, seen this time from the river’s edge. Unfortunately for our would be kayakers all the rivers are in  spate.  Very high water levels due to heavy rain earlier this month, making most water sports too dangerous.

Now I don’t know whether you, dear readers have Happy Happenstance Days but we do occasionally and this turned out to be such a day.

We decided to drive further into the mountains and show  Sara and Brian Olargues, one of the “Plus Belles Villages de France”.   We had had  beautiful lunch in this pretty little place when we were here with Maz and Johnny in September.  Delightful in every way possible.   The restaurant, however was closed and we had begun to look longingly at the rather ugly brown sheep on the hillside.   Finding (on the internet) an Auberge only 10 mins away in Mauroul (a village we’d not heard of), we rang.  “Oui”, said Madame.   “Nous avons une table pour  vous”.    The ten minutes must have been as Concorde flew, for it took considerably more though we hardly noticed time passing as we climbed higher and higher, through pine forests, punctuated with little waterfalls tumbling down to the road.   Cherry trees, hardly able to hold their white blossom , filled every space on the mountains and in the forests …. and up above us this tiny village of maybe 50 houses came into view.

There was an almost Tyrolean feel to the place and I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised if Julie Andrews had popped out in blond bent-up pigtails, singing “ High on a hill was a Lonely goatherd”.  We climbed up to the auberge past little houses in streets identified by their names hand written on slate and were very warmly welcomed by Madame.

The plat du jour was 23 euros and included Roquefort Tart, stuffed leg of guinea fowl and strawberries three ways.  A pitcher of house wine was better than any wine we have tasted so far in France.   We were the only guests.

We felt chosen; we felt privileged and we felt as if we had found our own bit of heaven.

The following day we all went to Beziers once again to find some kayaking but the rivers were still too swollen for safety.   On the upside we found a pretty part of Beziers that we had not previously known.

As we were close by we visited Les Neufs Écluses de Fonsérannes.   This is the third most visited tourist attraction in the Languedoc Rousillon area (after the town of Carcassonne and Pont du Gard).  These are staircase locks and consist of 8 ovoid lock chambers which allow boats to be raised a height of 21.5 metres in a distance of 300m and is still a very important part of the Canal du Midi.

What adventures we had and on top of those we visited several restaurants including Chez Paul in Pezenas where all courses are served together on one slab of slate (it works. Don’t ask me how).  We also returned to Chateau St Pierre de Serjac and spent five hours over lunch.  Our exhausted little group got together for their last evening before the young ones started on the next leg of their European tour.

I knew this was not going to be an easy one for me.   Still feeling very weak and waving goodbye to our lovely girl and man.   We knew not for how long.   So it was fortuitous that we had all been invited for Apero.  I’m not sure if this is a French thing or a Languedoc thing or even an ex pat thing but it is rather like the old UK cocktail party.  Arrive at 6.30, drink and eat nibbles and leave at about 8.30.  Not something I’ve looked forward to, not knowing whether the guidelines are strictly adhered to or not.  Any old road I’ve recently made a friend of an amazing woman called Zara and her husband Chris.   They live in an exquisite villa in a nearby village,   Zara was a teacher of interior design and her house is an eclectic mix of total amazingness.    Colourful, clever, zany, beautiful and yet calm and welcoming.   We took our Sara and Brian and were treated royally to wine and Persian food. warmth and laughter   I can never thank them enough for making the last evening of an amazing week as special as it was.

And so more goodbyes, more tears (both happy and sad)   Gaz and I walked back indoors together, raced upstairs and started making the house nice for Mandy and John.   Oh and that complete rest I’m supposed to be having?   Plenty of time for that when I get old!

(Some of Zara’s work)

You may remember, dear and faithful bloggees, that as I set off for my homeland I said I had no idea how I would feel.   Of all the feelings I could have imagined, under the category “No, not that one” the following would be listed:  being run over by a Sherman tank which then reversed; have my head in a vice operated by the Incredible Hulk; having my legs removed, simmered in aspic and then sewn back on by a blind juggler (nice try though) and my chest housing two Tasmanian Devils sometimes loudly purring, other times trying to claw their way up through my throat.

Well that would be a close proximity to how I felt for eight of the eleven days I was away.    Now, I enjoy a good illness along with the next hypochondriac but never, never, have I felt so ill in all my life.   And so, whilst we managed the first weekend’s round of wonderful parties, I spent the rest of the time in a friend’s bed.   The doc had diagnosed flu (the first of my life) and I was highly contagious, so had to save humanity by keeping away from it.    A trick a few politicians could learn!

  The first weekend started with a family lunch at my daughter’s club which was closing the following day.  I sat there surrounded by the people who are my very life’s blood, smiling inanely (probably inwinely ).    Gaz and I have spent so many happy times here since before the grandchildren were born (now in their 20s):  christenings, weddings, the best New Year’s Eve parties in town.  And watched the children mature as their parties became less and less mature.   A real reason to celebrate and remember all the fun times.

And now the club is becoming a school again which is what it used to be.    Fitting.    And hopefully as much fun.

At the party the next evening I saw so many people I hadn’t seen for ages.    It all became very emotional.  But what separates human kind from other kinds?   Emotion.

I kissed, I cuddled, I licked, I stroked.    I started a flu pandemic,  (that has the ring of a very catchy popular song).

Tears formed raging torrents along the streets as we prepared to leave and as some friends gathered to offer a totally unmelodic, but none the less just recognisable, rendition of “So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye”, Gary and I slished and sloshed our way back to our hotel.

And then I relentlessly slipped into a world of delirium.    We’d managed visits to Gary’s mum and dad and were at Carol and Rogers     The coughing started, fortunately waking me from dreams of terrible, red eyed beasts; snakes in my hair, village people between my toes (no, not those Village People), Boris Johnson as Foreign Secretary,    Terrible, terrible visions.   We managed to drag ourselves on to our beloved Whitstable and our one night stay with Jenny and Mark turned into five .    Whilst Gary made Merry Little Forays  to friends’ houses, (“Oh, silly me, I haven’t taken off my nurse’s uniform , it’s been hell looking after her, pure hell.    My poor beloved”), I languished in sweat-soaked sheets, with my demons.    Neither food nor wine (I think that was part of the fever – post partum Prossecco deliriums).    I couldn’t read, watch tv, speak.   Every so often  Gary would come in and squeeze a few drops of water onto my parched lips from a flannel.   Like they do in films     I have a feeling though, it’s  a clean one in films: my water had the distinct aroma of Dove Pure.

Gary played golf on his old Whitstable course.   He  met old golfing buddies, went to the pub with Jenny and Mark and I could hear their merry laughter along the corridor as I lay on my sodden sheets, with a bit of old flannel hanging out of my mouth.

I missed a book club meeting with my gorgeous book worms and worse, missed seeing Viv’s  99 year old mother! (Too dangerous the doc said.    For me).   Oh, and  a hastily reconvened gathering of the Silly Games Players : us and Nicki and John and Steph and Colin.  I might have understood some of the games without copious amounts of Prossecco.   Hell and damnation and many, many buggerrrrrrs.

There was one last reason for us to come home:   Maz’s 70th.

On Saturday morning my energy level had dropped to zero.   Opening my eye lids had been achieved with the aid of a mini hydraulic lift.   I had to be spoon fed water:  “I’m not gonna make it” …   ( no, not die, to the party).   I went for a bath at noon and crawled out at four.   Three hours to dress.   “Let’s go parteee.”

With the help of our friend Sara I made it down the 3 million steps to Maz’s.     I suddenly felt rather shy to enter, as if the illness had not only stripped me of my energy, but all the other things needed by the seasoned party animal.    There was a whoosh as the door opened and out poured warmth and laughter and smiling faces and open hands.   “Jan and Gazzie,” they seemed to say,  “you’re home.   Come on in and be loved”

And so we did.    And so we were.

The journey back to France wasn’t easy but we made it.    I’m still coughing like a very coughy thing but the fever has gone.

La Vie Francaise

Part II.      L’Été

starts here.    Bring it on.

 

 

 

she could never have imagined,

not that little girl,

brown eyes level with the kitchen table,

her grandma saying “ There is no Christmas”

that little girl

many years on

sitting with someone who loves her

watching a jazz quartet

in an ancient beamed room, lit by candles,

in a small village in Southern France

that little girl

there.    Then

more than seventy Christmasses

wrapped themselves around her

and gifts of peace and contentment,

and simple joy

fell like leaves

into the soul

of that little girl.

 

 

This morning, for the first time since arriving in France in December, and as hot weather was forecast,  I decided to sit in the garden and catch up on the blog.

I tickled my memory bank, applied sun oil and had my finger poised over my phone, when I became aware that, close by, rehearsals were in progress for a performance of “Hound of the Baskervilles” – the unMusical.   Every damned dog in the Languedoc seemed to have a part and each one barked or howled in a different key.   I went inside until rehearsals were over, despite rather falling in love with one of the soloists.

Since the snow went, the skies have mostly been blue and our days continue to be filled with wonder at new surroundings and people.   I have continued to meet amazing women: artists, ceramicists, writers, housewives, many of whom have decided that, with or without partners, they will make a life in this part of France.   Despite my misgivings earlier, that one cannot make friends with the local people, I have met a British couple who have achieved exactly that and count many French people  in their friendship group.   I think also that when friendships are made here they are fed, watered and regularly maintained.   I like that.

That first photo was taken in a scruffy little cafe with lovely food, outside in the middle of February.  In the square behind us two palomino horses and their riders were prancing like Lipizzaners.  On their own, with no audience.  By coincidence I saw the following notice only today,  so I am guessing they were practising for this:

But, bloggees, as we all know “there’s no friends like old friends”.   And Lordy I’ve got some old friends.  Ho ho ho.

We anticipated  the arrival of said  old friends with a pleasure borne of the knowledge they would love this area.   But as previously hinted, Gaz and I are not the most confident cooks on earth and this couple are, whisper it on the wind …….   vegetarian.   Whilst France has moved a long way to encompassing meatless eaters, we had been advised to check with restaurants before booking.  So I did.  After giving the restaurant the news, the manager asked whether our friends ate eggs or fish.   I’m sure I detected a French “pffff” at the news that they did not.

We set off for restaurant Pré St. Jean, in Pezenas,  with a few concerns, therefore.   There was a crowd of people in the vicinity of the restaurant. “Here to see if vegetarians really have two heads,” muttered our friend John.   Obviously disappointed, they moved speedily away as a rumour broke that, in the next town, a lone vegan had been spotted.

The restaurant had gone into overdrive and produced a meal for our friends, the like of which they had seldom seen.  They even had their own version of “amuse bouche”.   We were mightily impressed.

We revisited Sète with Nicki and John and I  have not really grown to like this town.  It should be pretty, set as it is on the Étang du Thau and with the canal running through the centre, but somehow it is too busy, too grubby for me.   Wetlands surround the town though, rich in wildlife, which pleased Nicki, surely a daughter of Attenborough.

To please her and John at the same time we went back to Lamalou where Gazzie and John played golf and Nicki jumped up and down with excitement at seeing the Coypu. The noise frightened them off.   We took sustenance outside the Club House, got sunburnt, Gaz got food poisoning and we all went home.

Actually we think Gaz’s illness started the night before when he had oysters.   It took a couple of days to identify norovirus in oysters from the Etang, at which time the sale of all oysters was forbidden.      Gary was unlucky.

Waving goodbye to our friends at Beziers train station, we set off back home  a little disconsolately as we knew all we’d got waiting for us was a soggy lettuce and telly.   Now I love tv at home, but trying to watch it here is like using the old Crystal or Cats Whisker radio kit.   Wires come from tv to iPad from iPad to god knows where and a whole new language is required to turn the bloody thing on.   “Oh no the VPN knows we’re in France!” (What’s that, the French Secret Service?)   “ Oh no it’s buffering”. “No signal,”  etc.  All before we get a programme.   Masterchef  contestants would have burnt  the food to a cinder by the time we get a picture.  So no comfort at home.

The following day, oh the excitement was giving me the vapours, was a big rugby thingy.   France v England.   Gary, feeling stronger now, lined up his red wine bottles and packets of Hula Hoops, and with the excitement of a child going to his first picnic, set off for Hugh’s to do a manly television watch, enabling them to possibly even swear a bit as no ladies would be present.

I thought.

He came through the door some four hours later and when I asked the score (good wife) he made a strange motion with his hand and I thought he was about to throw up again.

Suddenly the front door burst open.   My heart leapt towards my mouth and I screamed like a banshee until I realised it was my daughter and her friend Georgia here to spend Mother’s Day with us.  I think I went slightly mad, crying and laughing and kissing and hugging….. and there was Gazzie, standing in the corner smiling, having given up his rugby to collect the girls and please the people he loves most.   That man deserves.  ….. well, to watch his rugby in peace.   Which he did on the Cats Whisker television after us gals had fallen tipsily into bed.

Mothers Day dawned a bit cloudy but no matter.   We showed the girls ( girls, ha!) around Pezenas where we spent a merry half hour trying on hats.   We then  set off for the next surprise which had been devised between Gazzie and Sara.   (Now I know the extent of that man’s deviousness, I shall never trust him again).

We drove once again through the vineyards and green pastures of this little bit of paradise, through narrow roads in old towns approached by avenues of white limbed trees, the sun now shone on houses and vignerons and Mairies and schools.  As we left Pouzolles with its pretty town square I guessed we were returning to Chateau St Pierre de Serjac, approached by its own long driveway of young pine trees.

The sun was at its height and, on 12th March it was so hot we sat outside to enjoy an exquisite lunch, and took coffee on the sofas overlooking the pool and the countryside and reflected on how very lucky we all were.   And to a daughter and surrogate daughter who gave up being fussed and dined and gifted by their own children, to spend money and time on flights and meals to be  with us, I would say,  “Thank you for your loving kindness and as a mark of my respect I’ve deffo added you on to my list for bottom washing duties should that time come.   Bless you.”

I am aware, dear bloggees, that I might be accused of presenting our lives here in France as some sort of fabulous idyll.  Of course,  I share the extraordinary with you.   The ordinary would be a bit boring.  I must, however, get up, do some ironing and gardening, clean some windows and …….there I told you.   Boring.

We are home in two weeks time for various celebrations.  I have no idea, at this moment, how I’m going to feel.