Tidying up some scribbled snippets:

Down the K9 Road

Having travelled down past Bordeaux and Biarritz, not incidentally on the K9 road, we arrived at the campsite near St Jean de Luz, that we had been to before and provided a good base for exploring the surrounding Basque area, as well as providing a great overnight stop for people en route to Spain and Portugal.

The caravan pitched, I was finishing off tidying away things like the peg and pole bags, when our new neighbours, a Dutch couple who had arrived just after us and were off to explore the site, stopped to talk.  They initially “bonjoured” me, before continuing in French and were a little surprised when I answered them in Franglais, a posh word for poor French as spoken by an Englishman with a limited command of French, so prone to inject the odd English word into the sentence, at least whilst trying to fathom the correct word from deep in the dictionary of the mind!   Unfortunately, despite having lived in France for several years, it wasn’t particularly that they thought I looked French, but the confusion was caused by us having a French number plate, having as residents had to re-register the car in France, a bureaucratic nightmare worthy of a chapter somewhere else!

Realising their mistake, as only the Dutch can, they slipped effortlessly into perfect English, to the extent that I had to double check that I really had seen their car with Dutch number plates!

During the course of the conversation, I discovered that they were very excited, as they were en route to Portugal to pick up their new dog!!  Apparently, there was at that time a real problem with stray dogs in Portugal, and a Dutch charity had been set up to try and re-house as many of them as possible in Holland.  Normally, the dogs are flown from Portugal to Holland, but this couple didn’t like the idea of their new addition being crated up and flown all that way, so had decided to go in person.  It was, they agreed a long trek, but they were making a holiday of it, although it was a case of speeding their way down, picking up the dog and making their way leisurely back – I did say they were excited.  Needless to say, when I got up the next morning they had already packed up and set off once again along the K9 road!

Good Deeds for the Day

It was obviously a day that I was feeling extra helpful, maybe because I was on holiday, relaxed and in no particular rush to do anything or get anywhere.  So in the course of the day I did not one, but four good deeds, helping a total of seven people from three different countries.  It left me with a good feeling, so I poured myself a glass of wine that evening to celebrate, which I would probably have done anyway as I was on holiday!!

Being a pleasant day, the sun shining and relatively warm despite a strong on shore breeze, I decided to make the most of it, as the weather had been a little inclement over the last day or two.  So I got Linda, my wife, to drop the dog and I off, down the coast a little and arranged for her to pick us  up some way back towards the campsite we were staying on, as it was inland a little and rather too far to walk back to.  We walked north along the Cote Littoral, on a lovely stretch of cliff top path, with pounding breakers being whipped up by the breeze and seabirds floating on the eddies on one side and the snow covered foothills of the Pyrenees on the other, enjoying the fresh air and scenery.

The first of my good turns of the day was when I encountered a Spanish couple who were attempting to do a circular walk first along the cliff top and then doubling back to their car through the countryside back from the cliff.  This area was riddled with pathways and they had become disorientated, and liking to be prepared I had a simple map guide with me.  So in broken French, English and Spanish I was able to point them in the right direction with a cheery “Adiós y buena suerte”, Good bye and good luck, although as this happened some time ago my memory might have got that muddled and it could have been a simple adiós, au revoir or even good bye, but the first response was undoubtedly more impressive!!

Then a little further on I encountered a couple of rather attractive young French women, as I was climbing up some rather muddy and slippery steps and they were coming down.  Ever the gentleman, I stepped off the path to let them come down, slipped and ended up throwing myself at their feet, well I did say they were attractive!  As they descended, as well as telling me to be careful, I’m sure they told me there was no need to throw myself at them!!  And I’ve only just thought of it, but perhaps they meant that my gentlemanly charm was enough for a shared drink at a nearby bar, when in fact all I did was laugh sheepishly and wish them a bon continuation, literally good continuation, but more an “enjoy the rest of your walk!”   I suppose hindsight is all well and good, but Linda was waiting just up the coast a bit and we needed some shopping for tea!  

Next were a Dutch couple, in a large campervan, stopped in the supermarket car park near to our campsite, pouring over a map and looking lost.  Having parked the campervan, the man had disappeared into the shop, probably to ask for directions, so as it was that time in the afternoon when people who have travels are looking for the next campsite in time to make camp before preparing their evening meal and settling down for the night.  As it was out of season and our campsite was really the only one open nearby, I enquired from the lady; if they were trying to find our campsite, which indeed they were, so I was able to direct her.  On my return I chanced upon them again and asked if my instructions had been good and they had managed to find the site easily, to which the gentleman, replied “Yes, my wife told me she had met a very helpful Englishman!

Having given the Dutch lady directions, I continued into the supermarket to do some shopping and found a lady in a slight predicament!  She was struggling with her husband’s boxer shorts, so being in a helpful mood I proceeded to help this elderly French lady to take down her husband’s new boxers! .. the size she wanted were on the top rack of the supermarket shelf!

Lunch with a friend over the telephone

I’ve never been one for long conversations on the telephone, and well remember once, at work, being asked by someone if they could conduct a somewhat lengthy interview with me about some latest educational fad or other and could they do it over the phone.  My reply was simply “No!” if they were that keen to hear my opinion, I would only be too happy to talk to them face to face over a cup of coffee in my office.  They never came, and I’ve often wondered if in fact they didn’t really value my views or simply had enough other people prepared to talk, at length, over the telephone.

So I was rather amused and indeed staggered some time ago to sit and have lunch at a campsite cafe, during which time a single lady on the table next to us, completely ate her two – course lunch having an animated conversation with her friend, who could for all I knew, have been in distant Timbuktu, as the whole rather one sided conversion, was conducted over the phone.  Thinking again, actually, it didn’t really amuse me, as people have an infuriating habit of talking very loudly on their phones in public, so rather impinged on the enjoyment of my meal, and perhaps even more infuriating was the fact that being only able to hear half the conversation, I didn’t know what her friend thought about the various dilemmas and problems that the woman on the next table choose to share with everyone on the terrace and if it hadn’t been for a mouthful of food, I might well have told her where to go, not I hasten to add in a rude manner, but politely tell her that as far as I was concerned the best option was to make an appointment with her doctor as soon as possible!  Well she had asked her friend what she should do about the nasty rash on the inside of her left leg!!!   

Paris, London, Old York

A few years ago we had some friends to stay from York, the plan being they were flying out to La Rochelle, spending a few days with us and then we were going with them to visit Paris, Steve had been before but Anne hadn’t.  From there we were taking them back to York, en route as it were for one of our trips back to the UK.

We had a great time, Steve helped with some of the house renovating and Paris was, as always fantastic, and extremely tiring, as the hotel we had chosen was a fair walk from the nearest Metro and for most of each day we choose, what is always the best way to soak up any city, to walk it.  We ended up walking miles each day and apart from one evening when we stayed in the centre, having had a quiet morning at the hotel, we returned weary and exhausted early each evening for a meal at the hotel.  Unfortunately, one evening we had failed to notice that the restaurant was shut, so had a long walk to rather unsuccessfully, find an alternative place to eat.

But, by and large, a good time was had by all; Anne was introduced to the wonders of the length and breadth of Paris, the rest of us were glad to be reunited with this most magical of cities.  It seemed that if it was in the guidebook we did it and a few “local” non- tourist attractions, having been shown them on a visit to a Parisian friend a few years previously.

But all good things have to come to an end and weary, but happy, we set off for the UK, on quite a long trip. Paris to Calais, M3 from Dover to the M25, M11, A14, A1/A1M and A64 with a few minor roads in between!

It was only a couple of days later when, when I had a thought, we were on a bus going into the centre of York and overheard a young American lady talking to a friend on her mobile phone, the conversation going something like this; “ Hi Stace, it’s Kathy”, Stace obviously then asked where Kathy was, to which she replied “York”.  Stace then obviously said what New York and Kathy replied “No, Old York!” before going off on one of those excited squeals, that only Americans seem able to do, when visiting somewhere old, about how wonderful and ancient it all is! 

But, my thought, our journey a couple of days ago was a little like an expensive scent bottle – “Paris, London” and (OK, I did say a little like!) in this case “Old York” instead of New York!   

A seat on the Paris Metro

A couple of little snippets, both from the Metro, from the visit to Paris mentioned above.  On the night we travelled back from the centre of Paris, it was the end of a long evening in Paris and we were glad to rest our feet as the train made its way to the end of the line.  There were a few other passengers spread out amongst the carriage, including a somewhat shady looking character, certainly one you wouldn’t have fancied meeting in a dark alley.  He was an enormous Jamaican-looking chap, both tall and thick set and certainly with an air of menace about him.  Imagine how surprised we all were, as well as chastened by our stereo-typing of this chap, who as he got up and left the carriage at his station, wished everyone in the carriage and cheery bon nuit (Goodnight), as he strode out into the night, probably into the arms of a loving family.  Such public displays of good manners and general bonhomie, are very common in France, we just made the mistake of judging a book by its apparent cover!

     

On another day, heading into the centre, in a very busy carriage with standing room only, we were strap hanging, something that always takes me back to my childhood with my Aunt in London.  How I longed, at that time, to be tall enough to reach the hanging straps and really ride the tube, like a seasoned commuter!! 

After a couple of stops a seat became available, but I was now tall enough and enjoying riding the strap, imagining all sorts of commuter adventures.  I was roused out of my day dreaming by a young Chinese girl carrying a violin case. She said “ Excusé moi” and offered me the seat, before sitting down on it after I declined, it was much more fun riding the bucking bronco holding the thin rein, I did say commuter adventures, perhaps that should have been cowboy adventures.  My wife always says I’ve got a vivid imagination! 

Afterwards, talking to my friends, I put it down to good Chinese / French manners, my companions had the cheek to suggest it might have been something to do with the white hair and aged appearance!  It’s good to know who your friends are!

Some recent events and observations

Superman-like surge

No, it says surge not urge, I haven’t started to inexplicably wear my underpants on the outside of my trousers, but I did recently get close to that “is it a bird, is it a plane ......”  Superman moment.

With the long light evenings of summer we usually take Fergus out for a walk after dinner, theoretically, in the cool of the evening but recently this hasn’t been happening, the evenings and nights staying rather warm.

As is often the case when some noteworthy event happens, this particular evening I was walking alone, except for the dog, and even he wasn’t there to confirm my story as explained below, although the reason said surge remained there for all to see for a number of days afterwards, as also described below!

It had been a very pleasant walk over the bridge by the ford, or in the dog’s case through the ford, up the hill on the track through the fields, or in the dog’s case all over the fields as he still chases his shadow and still it refuses to stop and play!  Then, along the track that goes through the edge of the wood, with the lowering sun causing all sorts of wild animals to loom amongst the trees which all needed chasing, before retracing our steps and returning home a slightly different way, down the track that comes behind the mill, which is now a rather picturesque gîte, and passed our garden.

Fergus, as now he is older and wiser, is usually very good, running off and periodically returning for the odd “high five” and a couple of meaty treats before busily exploring the area again, unless he has a better offer and then he becomes selective with his hearing (typical male I hear all the ladies amongst you say – to which I say NO!  It’s a typical trait of the Irish Setter, which in Fergus’ case is his mother’s half!)

Well we were nearly home and just as we turned the final corner before Fergus sits obediently waiting for his lead to go on before walking back into the hamlet, he had a better offer in the shape of a hare which took one look at Fergus and took off with him in very hot pursuit!  Well, he’s been known to get mighty close to bagging us a tasty dinner, although I think if he caught one he’d not know what to do and would probably simply want to play tag, and this time the poor hare had barely a head start.  Fortunately, it had the presence of mind to take evasive action and dart through a thick hedge through to the cow field beyond.  Well, although quite capable of crashing his way through most of the local hedges, Fergus is a bit of a wimp, but a canny one at that as he quickly retraced his steps went through the nearby gate and back along the other side of the hedge in a flanking movement that was rather late.  The prey had well and truly gone, but Fergus found himself in a cow field and is rather partial to what they leave behind, not putting too fine a point on it, he either eats it or rolls in it!!!  At this stage he started to run down the field, with something other than meaty chunks and his lead in mind.

Now, I mentioned the gîte earlier and as we’re very much in the height of the season it was occupied by a couple from Reunion, a French department which is an island in the Indian Ocean, who for the last couple of years have based themselves here for 3 weeks to a month and had various family come to visit them during their stay.  Well, it was Saturday night and lots of family were visiting and a party was well under way in the warm evening outside the gîte, the wine had been flowing for some time and subsequently the volume of conversation had risen.  So, here was Fergus heading down the field towards the gîte and if there’s one thing he prefers to cow dung it’s socialising with lots of people, he’s quite the party animal!

Drastic action was needed, as if I didn’t manage to head him off at the bottom I had visions of an upturned barbecue with Fergus licking up the spilt meat and introducing himself to the surprised company.  So in a moment of panic I surged off to intercept him, but this was only a simple surge, not a superhero one, there was more to come.  As I ran headlong down the track, calling Fergus with the promise of semi-moist meaty chunks instead of succulent barbecued steak and sausages, in mid air between strides I took my eye of the dog and there curled up on the ground, with my leading foot heading towards it was a large snake.  Hence the Superman-like surge, as although I was already in a down trajectory, I flew just like Superman, without the aid of a telephone box, and landed a safe distance away having uttered a rather loud “oh my god!” or possibly something worse.  Momentum carried me on my way, adrenalin helped me catch the dog before he gate-crashed the party and with racing heart, in this case not caused by physical exertion, I very gingerly retraced my steps to see if the serpent was still there.

Surprisingly it was, as it was neatly coiled up but dead, something having appeared to have squashed its head.  Maybe the last person to run by didn’t have superhero powers, just the luck of the Irish to have trod in just the right place!!

As I said before, the evidence stayed there for several days, and each time I walked by the heart beat a little faster, even though I knew it was dead and I was mightily relieved when finally it had gone.  Just for the record it was only a grass snake, a relatively small one at about 120 cm or four feet, but rather surprisingly, as I soared above it, it looked altogether alive and bigger and they do bite!

I picked up some litter today

Now on the face of it that might not seem that big a deal, indeed over the years I have taken part in a number of “litter picks,” blitzes to tidy up an area that has become clogged with litter, be it lay byes on the A46 towards Bath from Stroud, local picnic sites or school fields.  On these occasions I have at times been surprised and disgusted at just what people will leave behind, so as not to go into too much details let’s just stop at soiled disposable nappies!

There was also another occasion, when with a group of other countryside wardens, we ended up helping the police with their enquiries, as we had apparently cleared an area that the police thought had been the site of a recent murder and wanted to know if any of us remembered finding a gentleman’s shoe or wrist watch.  Unfortunately, we weren’t in fact much help with their enquiries as all we had cleared away was the “normal” sweet wrappers, crisp packets, plastic bottles, tins and the odd nappy!

But no, this was not an organised litter pick, I was simply out walking the dog and saw a discarded wrapper for some item of fishing tackle called a “Stop Flott Gummi Stopper” which initially I had no idea what it was for, not being a fisherman, until I read the packet.  My limited French leads me to believe that it is a piece of kit that helps to keep your float upright, but being no expert I’m happy, if necessary, to be put right on this.

So what is unusual about this?  Quite simply that on a fairly popular walk that I regularly do, and takes me about one and a half hours, seeing any rubbish at all is quite unusual.  It seems that particularly in the countryside the French quite simply don’t throw rubbish on the ground.  It does happen and towns can be worse, but it is relatively uncommon and generally rubbish is either taken home or put in the bins provided, which are regularly emptied, or in urban areas street cleaning is an all too obvious priority.  This to some extent dispels the myth commonly expressed in the UK that to provide bins tends to act as a catalyst for rubbish, where overflowing bins merely attract more and more rubbish.  The crucial elements here, I believe are that where bins are provided they need to be regularly emptied and civic pride, something I’ve written about before, is often much stronger in France than the UK, it is something the French seem to expect from the payment of their taxes.

I’m taking it as a compliment

Earlier in the month (July) we dined at L’Assiette Gourmand, the restaurant in the nearby small town, that a couple of years ago, moved across the road from a rather small premises, where in many ways it was like a bar that served food, to much larger premises, the converted old fire station.  Supposedly, the major refurbishment was made possible by a loan from the Mayor’s office, and now the local town boasts a large modern vibrant restaurant, tastefully decorated and with a good sided terrace built out over where the fire appliances rolled out of their garage onto the road.

It was a Monday night and so we were a little worried that we would be dining alone, just Linda, my Mum and myself, which although not a big problem, I do feel that fuller restaurants have a greater ambiance.

But, we were pleasantly surprised to find two French touring cyclists sitting having a drink on the terrace waiting for their food to arrive and inside, where we choose to sit as the warmth of the day’s sun was beginning to fade, a French couple at the bar and an English couple and their two dogs, one recently rescued, who we had met just a couple of weeks before having English Fish and Chips from a mobile van that parks each week outside a number of local bars.  They were sitting waiting to order chatting, in best pigeon French, with an older Frenchman from the village.

As we chatted with the English couple, whilst ordering an aperitif and our food, a family of three, possibly Dutch people arrived on the terrace to dine and a French lady came inside, on her own with a small pug-like dog, with whom, after the dogs had had a little tiff, we exchanged pleasantries, initially in French, but then found she was able to converse well in English.

The English couple, relative newcomers to the village, having lived there about two years, were very chatty and we found ourselves swapping stories between the courses, and involving the French lady periodically in our conversations.  And, being in France, with the wine flowing some of the conversation became quite animated, with the other man telling the French lady how beautiful she was and me complimenting her on her excellent English.

Having finished her moules (mussels) and had a brief café (coffee), she finished before us, as we were having the three course fixed menu, she got up to leave, tried unsuccessfully to get the dogs to make up after the earlier tiff, and approached our table.  Before wishing us a bon nuit (goodnight), she told us that when she had been having her English lessons, her professor (teacher), had told her she was the class bavarde or chatterbox, but she felt that the other Englishman and I were far worthier of the designation than her, and with a cheery chuckle, a bon nuit and an à bientôt see you soon), she left.

I certainly took it as a compliment, as the French so often accuse the English of being somewhat reserved and though I suspect many of you may find it hard to believe, I used to be shy and retiring, and ‘er indoors will vouch for that!! (‘er indoors: “Certainly not now!)

Corks popping, ropes breaking, Bastille Day ended with a bang

Bastille Day, or to give it its proper title of Fête de la Fédération (French National Day), takes place each year on 14^th July, and is a big occasion and much celebrated across the nation. It is the day that in 1798 the infamous French castle, arsenal and prison, La Bastille was stormed and destroyed during the French Revolution, effectively a symbolic day that caused the end of the absolute monarchy.

Many communes (similar to English parishes) celebrate the day with a variety of events, culminating in impressive firework displays, which due to the time of year and the long evenings, often don’t start until close to midnight.

Our own commune has for a number of years held a number of activities on the day.  The last couple of years this has started with a morning commune walk or bike ride with a refreshment stop part way round – water, juice, cake, fruit, chocolate and wine, remember it’s still about 10.30 a.m.!, that ends up at the football ground for a an aperitif or two provided by la municipalité (parish council) and where many of the other inhabitants join in, then most of the people sit down for a picnic they have bought along on a long trestle table with a plastic table cloth, usually advertising a bank!, stretched along it.  The various picnics are grand affairs, often with china plates extra table clothes and several courses of food, frequently ending with large flans or tarts being offered around.  All this is liberally washed down with wine, naturally in real glass glasses, and habitually offered to neighbours, so it’s quite a boozy affair! 

For the last couple of years, once the eating was finished a near neighbour of ours has come around with a small dust encrusted bottle of homemade absinth, an evil brew with a taste that doesn’t go away for some hours, in this case long into the evening, and which another of our neighbours found himself strangely craving for more!  But bizarrely this year, a new trend seems to have started and there seemed a steady stream of people coming around with bottles of almanac, cognac and various homemade concoctions of a similar type.  This is all the more strange as the French taste for such liquors as a digestive after a meal has dwindled, at the same time as the French seem to be drinking increasing amounts of whisky, largely as an aperitif before the meal!

With a degree of trepidation there followed a games afternoon, as after the lunchtime refreshments there was a slight worry that getting up might prove rather difficult, and I almost felt that a quiet sitting down game of French Scrabble, as being set up by the older contingent, might be preferable!  But no, tradition we were told meant an afternoon of frivolity, and to ensure maximum participation and to mix us all up we had to draw a name from a hat and find the right partner for the first games; a tournament including a sack race, a three legged race and an egg and spoon race with the spoon held in your mouth and a table tennis ball instead of an egg!!  Well, the pairs it transpired were all royal couples from Europe: William and Kate, Charles and Camilla, Albert and Charlene (from Monaco, not Victoria as I thought), Elizabeth and Philip and so on....  Strangely the French are mildly obsessed with royalty and often know more about the UK monarchy than I do!  It was a neighbour, the one who produces the absinth, that commiserated with me when Camilla’s brother died unexpectedly, and I’m sure they knew each time Kate went into labour long I even knew she was expecting!!!  Suddenly, whilst writing this, I just seen the irony of this; using royal couples to select partners for games on the day France celebrates becoming a republic and the end of their absolute monarchy!!!

But, let the games commence!  I have to admit that my Charlene, yes I was Prince Albert of Monaco, cheated and used chewing gum in the egg and spoon race, however it was worth it to see the bemused look on the faces of a number of rather merry villagers, puzzling as to how we could run so fast balancing a table tennis ball on a steeply angled plastic spoon!! Still it was just for the fun of it, no prizes just merriment and ridicule!  I should say at this point that these games were largely for the adults who were young enough and fit enough to participate, the children had a bouncy castle and a football, the old people were playing scrabble and other board games or the fiercely complicated local card game called belot, and for those of such a disposition the fishing lake next door to the football ground was freely available.

Then, things turned serious, a long rope was stretched across the football pitch and two teams, children against the rest lined up to do battle with the tire à la corde or tug of war.  It’s amazing how strong a group of children can be, particularly when helped by a number of strong young adults, but on the first pull after the initial shock, age and experience won over and with a final heave we pulled the ribbon over the line and ended up in a heap on the ground.  The second pull somehow we failed to regroup sufficiently and the youngsters equalised!  But, by the third pull we had their measure and won handsomely and perhaps we all should have settled for the best out of three, as on the next pull whilst making good ground we all, on both sides fell into a heap, the stout rope having broken in the middle!!  Not to be thwarted, the young farmers decided to tie the two ends together at first not very successfully, until taken in hand by someone who must have been in the scouts, and managed a good secure knot, well tested by the group of young farmers.  So battle was able to commence, but was quickly over as once more with the older and wiser team digging deep and making good progress, the rope broke again in a different place, well at least the knot held!!

After that things quietened down and it was time for the traditional sweet Vendéen brioche to be passed around, and yes I’m sure you’ve guessed it, complete with a verre de l’amitié / a glass of friendship, not a cup of tea in sight!!

Surprisingly, later that night after admittedly a bit of a snooze, we were back out again for the fireworks at the nearby town, preceded by a typically haphazardly lantern procession, where all the local children follow a minibus with its back door open and a loud sound system blaring out.  The children follow with paper Chinese lanterns on short sticks each containing a burning night light – yes a naked flame and not a risk assessment in sight!!  At least for the last couple of years the local pompiers (firemen) have decided against their wheeled handcart containing powerful Roman candle like fireworks, quite simply spewing out enormous flames in all directions all over the crowds lining the route!  What a shame to spoil the fun!

Shortly after the procession returned, having it seems avoided setting light to anyone, the most amazing fireworks roared, banged, whizzed, screamed, flashed and cascaded into the night sky for at least ten to fifteen minutes, and I couldn’t help feeling that it was quite sufficient fire power to have razed La Bastille to the ground, if it hadn’t already been done 217 years before!  Good to know, France still celebrates after all this time, and indeed to be part of it!

Roger you’re so strong!

As a quick postscript I must tell you of a further compliment I was recently paid.  Having done my bit in the blazing sunshine, to pull the young village upstarts across the football field by means of a think long rope, as well as helping to break said rope, as documented above, I returned somewhat sweaty and exhausted to my seat. My exhaustion and lethargy as I plodded wearily back was immediately forgotten as our neighbour, Yvette, jumped up off her bench as only a lady of about eighty can do and called to me “Roger you’re so strong,” and as I stood proudly upright, previous fatigue all but forgotten, I noticed her four or five females cronies all of a similar age, all animatedly agreeing with her!  Well, although I say so myself, I always have been one to turn the lady’s heads, albeit normally to look the other way!!

“From the kitchen into the cauldron!”

View across La Manche ~ and a little bit more!

Taken from the Magazine of the Association of Countryside Volunteers, whose Magazine I edit, and write an article each edition under the title “View across La Manche.”  La Manche (sleeve) is what the French call the English Channel.  For the purposes of this blogpost, I have re-titled it as above:

As the title might lead you to think, I’m not at home writing this.  We’ve just spent a busy 6 weeks or so at home, knocking two rooms into one and as much of the work seemed to involve kneeling or at least sitting on the floor, not least the knees needed a holiday.

So we’re in the caravan, high on the hillside above Zarautz, close to San Sebastián (or Donostia in Basque) in the Spanish part of the Basque country.  

We arrived in glorious warm sunshine earlier in the week, with stunning views over the sea and surrounding mountains, behind which for several days we have had the most glorious sunsets and then watched the fishing fleet from nearby Gataria, go out with lights blazing to the dark peaceful ocean on the search for, amongst other things anchovies, I believe?  However, unfortunately at six thirty this morning the weather changed, being in a caravan, basically a thin metal and plastic shell!, you are very aware of the weather.  A sudden early morning gust, right on key with the forecast, announced the arrival of the rain which has fallen as squally showers all day accompanied by gusty winds, the the forecast says should die out by mid-morning tomorrow.  The only dilemma I have now, as the local, slightly sparkling white Txakoli wine, from the vineyards surrounding the campsite and rather good with tonight’s fresh fish, wears off, is should I have taken the awning down before nightfall, as it is getting quite a buffeting and will be more difficult to take down in the dark, although there is a convenient street light, should the storm get much worst. 

So why here?  Well, firstly it’s convenient a mere 330 ish miles down the coast from home; we have visited the French part of the Basque country and love the atmosphere, food, drink, scenery and normally the weather!  Spring in these parts often has warm days, even if the evenings turn cooler, and a couple of days ago we sat outside the caravan enjoying a leisurely lunch in the warm sunshine!

Also, coincidentally, we are right next to the Camino de Santiago, or Way of St James, the one of the many pilgrim routes that converge on the tomb of the Apostle St. James in the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. Interestingly, at home we are close to the Vendée branch of this well trod path, and our French neighbours have a scallop shell hanging by their door, as they host pilgrims on The Way and indeed have an official stamp to mark the pilgrim’s passports.  So, we are well used to a proliferation of scallop shells, or the shells of St Jacque as they are know in France, although interestingly many of the signs around about here simply have a crudely painted yellow arrow of a slightly more upmarket blue plastic rectangle with a yellow arrow on it.  But, enough about this famous route, as I covered it in more detail in a previous article.

But, to return to the area around us.  I have to say I am very impressed by the standard of signage for the many and varied natural and historical sites, as well as those paths I have managed to walk the dog along, yes he comes too!  Indeed he has more energy than I do, so forces me out in all weathers, but still returns to the caravan and spends some time chasing his shadow up and down the rather confined space.  I like to think he is neurotic, but fear it’s his simple way of telling me that I haven’t managed to wear him out yet!!

As one of the guide books says about “The Natural Basque Country, a little paradise to be enjoyed,” where “Mountains that rise from the sea and fall to form picturesque valleys and plains with vineyards ... The Basque Country is revealed in all its glory as a landscape full of contrasts, bewitching and full of colour,” and “Culture, heritage and nature come together in a network of natural parks spread together throughout the region.”  The Basque people are immensely proud of their land, culture, traditions and regional produce and the list of protected areas and leisure areas is impressive, when you consider that the Spanish Basque Country is roughly an equilateral triangle with sides of about 110 km or 66 miles.  Here are some of the larger natural areas / sporting opportunities, although there are numerous smaller protected areas such as Iñurritza, the cliff top fields just over the hedge from the caravan!, as well as many cultural and historical sites:

• Basque Coast Geopark
• Algorri, the Natural Resources Interpretation Centre of Zumaia
• Petrified dunes at Astondo
• Cliffs from Punta Galea to Armintza
• Bird watching areas at Txingudi wetlands, Cabo Hiquer and Aketxe Island
• Urdaibai Bird Centre, a wonderful story of two men with a passion to create something magnificent, initially with very little money
• Urdaibai Biosphere Reserve
• Oma Forest
• Gorbeia Natural Park
• Aizkorri-Aratz Natural Park
• Aralar Natural Park
• Armaňó Natural Park
• UrkiolaNatural Park
• Valderejo Natural Park
• Izki Natural Park
• Pagoeta Natural Park, incorporating a splendid, well-maintained Iturraran Botanic Gardens

• Tres Coronas (Three Crowns), the three highest peaks of the Aiako Harria range
• Grand Randonée (GR) 38 (Wine and fish route)
• GR 120 (Route of the Three Temples)
• 40 km Landscape Legacy Route
• Four mountain bike centres covering the Basque Coasrt, the Urbaibai Biosphere Reserve and the Mountains of Alava, as well as several greenways, old railway tracks converted into cycle / walking routes and hundreds of kilometres of other routes, trails and tracks. 

All this in an area of 7235 sq km (2793 sq m), just a tad larger than Lincolnshire! It’s certainly well worth a visit, even if the weather can be a little unpredictable!  Perhaps, Lincolnshire has as much to offer, I don’t know it well enough to comment.  If you know it and can enlighten me, please let me know!

P.S. The lastest squall was throwing rain against the side of the caravan so loudly that I couldn’t hear the kettle whistle when it boiledl!!  

Unfinished business

You may remember back in September a blog post called “Back with a bit of a travelogue” where I promised a number of future offerings or as I called them in the blog post things to “look out for ~ lof’s!”?  Well this is one of them!

I’m going to take you back to the Costa Brava in early spring sunshine in March of this year, when Fergus (the dog in case you’ve missed that event!) was a mere 7 months old and I had just turned 58 and was realising that as the days and weeks went past, Fergus was not only growing rapidly and getting bigger than his puppy paws would have led us to believe, but he was also needing an increasing amount of exercise, increasing at a similarly alarming rate to his size!  This unfortunately coincided with me having a few problems with my legs and feet, nothing serious just a combination of lack of decent length walks and not getting any younger.  I know that 58 isn’t that old, but as I read somewhere the other day, you know that you’re not getting any younger, when you can’t stand up quietly, and I certainly seemed to have got to the early groaning stage.  Since realising this I now, not always very successfully, try to jump up effortlessly and above all quietly, after all as they say, you’re as old as you feel.

But, more seriously, I was beginning to wonder if I would be able to give Fergus enough exercise as he certainly had more energy than me.  Fortunately, he runs like the wind and can even on the dullest of days still find a shadow to chase, thinking it’s another dog that wants to play, and regularly covers several times more than I do on our twice daily walks.

Well, north of the caravan site we were staying at, was a large expanse of relatively flat, just slightly undulating landscape, backed in the far distance by the peaks of the eastern Pyrenees still snow covered at this early part of the year.  Then, tantalisingly in the middle distance was a small rocky ridge, rising to a castle topped peak in the middle, a veritable mini-mountain rising steeply from the surrounding plain just begging to be climbed.  At the foot of the mountain closest to our campsite, was a small town the environs of which could be seen climbing tentatively up the lower slopes, before the landscape became too steep and too rough for development to creep any further, and it was the roads that similarly crept part way up the mountainside that finally persuaded me that a good walk, up part of the mountain – perhaps to the saddle that dipped between the castle topped peak and the next peak – ought at least to be attempted, despite my slightly dodgy legs and the dogs still developing legs!  So off we set in the car across the plain and after a couple of wrong turns managed to find somewhere to park, just below the now rather daunting-looking climb to the saddle, having got this close the scale of the climb had become all too apparent.  A surprisingly flat path headed away from the car park, but all too quickly started zigzagging up the rapidly increasing slope, before getting to the rather alarming looking final near vertical scramble up to the saddle, but having come this far we had to at least try to get some of the way and gain enough height to enjoy the view spread out below.  Armed with camera, water, some sustenance for us both and I have to admit, at least on my part, something of a faint heart we hit the trail and quickly reached the zigzags and gained height at an amazing rate, it felt great to be in “them there hills” again and experience once more the speed with which you can find yourself ascending a mountain, with the landscape quickly dropping away below your feet.

It was very hot and I started worrying about whether I had enough water for the both of us, but Fergus seemed less concerned darting in and out of the scrubby undergrowth without a care in the world, until a group of young hippies came towards us with a number of large dogs, one particularly snarling and fearsome looking, causing Fergus to now worry and hide behind me with an almost audible “Daddy, save me!”  But as with all such dogs they quickly came to heel and we were once more able to concentrate on the climb and reaching the saddle, on which there appeared to be some sort of monument or large waymark, which as we passed the second small bothy like building and got to the final ascent, it became apparent it was a cross, hopefully not commemorating the demise of the last “mad dog and Englishman” who had ventured out in the mid afternoon sun and tried to climb the mountain.

Amazingly, despite the heat and thankful that we weren’t the only ones making the climb, we were still going well and half way up the final scramble, got in conversation, in French, with a Spanish couple who lived in the town below, who were bemoaning the economic situation in Spain and wondering, somewhat tongue in cheek, whether I thought they could get a job in England, and could maybe even help a little to get them on the employment ladder!  They realised then that as I actually lived in France, the best laid plans were somewhat thwarted and we parted with a laugh and a cheery “au revoir, bon après midi, bon continuation ....” as now seems to be the norm, certainly in France – none of this quick bye, a wave of the hand and off you stride.

Still chuckling about the earlier informal job interview, we were suddenly there at the saddle, standing next to the cross, with the rest of the mountain still towering above us:

We then exchanged something of a meaningful glance at each other, Fergus and I that is, and perhaps both feeling better than we had anticipated, mutually decided to go for the top, even though it was obvious that after a short grassy slope, the path then zigzagged its way through a barren rock field!  The going wasn’t easy, particularly on two feet, and it was apparent a number of times that tender age wasn’t holding Fergus back, and several times he stopped a level or two above me as if to say, come on what’s holding you up!

We then had another conversation with a French couple, this time in English, who were on the way down and did what people the world over do in situations like this; they lied and said not much further now!  And, funnily enough on the way down I did the self same thing to another couple puffing their way up through the rough boulder field!!  But eventually, and after quite a bit further, we crested the top, admired the view, read a plaque about the unfinished castle at the top, inside of which we found a shady spot to sit and rest contemplating, for me at least, the effect that the descent might have on my knees, but above all we both had that real sense of achievement, of actually standing on top of this little part of the world.  A first for Fergus, doesn’t he look proud, and proof perhaps for me that there were still mountains to be climbed!

We made it down, quite uneventfully, and both arrived back at the caravan, babbling excitedly – we made it, we did it, we climbed a mountain!!  Maybe the castle on the top is unfinished, but perhaps not my “climbing” days, maybe I can give the dog a run for his money – I must point out  with this last statement that euphoria was slightly clouding my judgement, as confirmed earlier today, when Fergus put up a hare and gave it quite a run for its money!  Indeed, at one point I had visions of hare on the menu tomorrow!!

And, whilst thinking of tomorrow, more importantly the next day, although not quite as raring to go as Fergus, I was fit and well enough for the hill behind the campsite, well it was merely a blip in comparison with the previous day, but it still felt good, and below, the view from the previous day’s summit, is one of the reasons why it would be a shame not to climb the odd mountain or two in the future and if the going gets too tough, Fergus is now big and strong enough to pull me up some of the way!!

 

 

          

Mes amis les français

This post is dedicated to Heulwen, who recently enquired as to when the next instalment was due out and therefore encouraged me to put fingers to keyboard.  Also Happy 80^th Birthday to her!

When we first moved to France we made a decision that we would try despite limited French, to integrate as much as possible into the life of our commune, or parish as it would be in England.  This has meant attending meetings where proceedings were at best hazy and playing four hours of Lotto (Bingo) after which the head hurt somewhat, but this has been a small price to pay for other events such as the annual village walk and picnic, which once we moved takes place each year by the bread oven that borders our garden and then moves into our neighbours garden for the picnic.  This picnic starts with a glass or several of trouspinette, the local aperitif made from the new spring shoots of the blackthorn bush, which has a surprising fruitiness, despite the lack of any fruit other than the grapes that are used to make the rosé wine that the concentrate is blended with.  The concentrate is simply made by soaking a large bundle of the blackthorn shoots in eau de vie or “alcool pour fruit” that is sold in the local supermarkets with some added sugar, and within half an hour of mixing the liquor takes on an amazing fruity smell, which intensifies over the two weeks that the leaves are steeped for.  Accompanying the aperitif are large trays of the local flattened garlic bread, called préfou, made with lashings of butter and garlic added to a squashed baguette and cooked with other tasty morsels in the bread oven, which has been warming up since being first fired up on the Thursday before, the picnic taking place on Sunday.

Other activities have included other picnics, games afternoons and for the last three years I have “ho ho ho’ed” my way through the children’s Christmas party and am booked again for the end of next month!  Interestingly, on my first appearance Père Noël was the strong silent type, hopefully not too much of a shock for the children, as the previous year he had spoken French fluently and was incidentally obviously an imposer as he was short, thin and clean shaven.  However, as the years have gone by the language has improved and last year a petit histoire was enough to impress our French neighbours, although there was nearly an incident the previous year when having told the children I had lost my reindeers in the nearby wood, one of the children informed me that one of them was behind me (had my French been better a pantomime might have ensued!).  Slightly at a loss as to how to proceed, as the child was most insistent that there was actually a reindeer behind me, I played along and turned around, to come face to face with the most amazingly large stag’s head hunting trophy that I had forgotten adored the wall of the village hall just behind where I was sitting!  The incident, well at a loss as to what to say, I told the thirty or more excited and expectant faces sitting on the floor in front of me that it was no good as IT WAS DEAD!  You can imagine what the headlines in the local paper might have been the following day “Santa grounded by death of Rudolph!”  But, fortunately chocolate saved the day as I quickly went on to ask the children “if they had been good” and presented them with their chocolate Advent calendars.  Thinking about it, I’m not sure if I’ve been invited back again this year, although I have a feeling that once in it’s a job for life!!

So, you get the picture, we’ve been trying to integrate, at times the only English people at various events such as hamlet soirées, and also trying hard not be too much the “ex-pat,” a term I dislike intensely and that reminds me rather of those unfortunate few that are around and do little other than attend English clubs and activities, and as we once overheard on a ferry, make statements like:  “I’ve lived in France now for six years, I spoke none of the lingo when I arrived, still don’t and have no intention of learning any!”  How very sad and excessively rude to what is his adopted country.

So, we now have a number of French friends with whom we are able to pass the time of day, even if we’re not quite at the “politics, religion and sex” stage yet, although we did touch on a couple of these topics at a recent dinner party, when neighbours of my cousin who has recently brought as house close by, and who speak no English, were the only French people there.  We found that the whole evening ended up being carried out in French.  This was made much easier as the couple in question spoke slowly and clearly, not least because there were not native French speakers there.  As happens when a group of English people get together, the French en masse speak too quickly and often over one another, making it very difficult to follow. 

Having acquired a few French friends is indeed the very reason that after renting a house in this commune for two and a half years, we have ended up buying a house that doesn’t perhaps tick all the boxes, but is still within the same commune.  When we were about to embark on house hunting in earnest, and thinking about moving somewhere within a radius of 10 miles or so, we had visitors and I dashed to the bread shop in the local village.  On the way there everyone I passed I knew enough to wave cheerily to, once in the shop I bumped into a French friend who lived just down the road from us and passed the time of day with her, whilst the lady behind the counter reached behind her for my “usual” loaf of bread.  Then, on my return again I knew everyone I passed.  I got back and said to Linda, “we can’t move away from this commune as we’d have to start building up friendships and acquaintances all over again, we come a long way in two and a half years, it would be silly to have to start again!”

Since living in France and particularly over the last couple of years we have renewed a friendship with a French couple, Ray and Yvonne, who live near Brest in Brittany, whom we first met through a European school link project, some 15 years ago.  This year we met up with them in Brittany and later near Rochefort, on the coast south of La Rochelle, where they go each year for La Cure, which is a three week long spa treatment, provided by the state, to ease a back condition that Ray has, Yvonne is also allowed to go along as part of the package, all they have to pay is for the apartment they rent.  It’s all part of France’s amazing preventative / alternative medical system, designed to ease problems before they happen.

On the second occasion we met them this year we took the caravan down to a lovely coastal site at Fouras, just north of Rochefort and on one of the days met up with them to visit an amazing working transporter bridge that spans the river just south of Rochefort.  Whilst with them, Yvonne who was previously a Headteacher of an école primaire near Brest, started reminiscing about a visit she had made to us in Stroud accompanied her Chair of Governor’s wife and two of her children.  The eldest child, then about 14 or 15 and now incidentally working in a high powered financial job in the City of London, found my mispronunciation of various French words rather amusing, as the French tend to be very precise with their pronunciation, and often Yvonne will correct something I say and tell me I should say it in a particular way, which to my ear sounds exactly how I have just said it!!  

One word that particularly made the son rather giggly, was a word I was saying that I made sound rather like a French word for bottom!, and apparently all these years later I’m still doing it!!

It was as we got off the transporter bridge that I politely “merci beaucoup’d” the young lady operating the controls and who had been able to tell us some of the history of the bridge and similar ones around the world in excellent English.  This exchange reduced Yvonne to fits of giggles as apparently I had just said to the young lady “thank you, nice bottom!”

Well, as I’ve been “merci beau ... coup’ing” everyone, male or female, for the last five years and more in the same manner, maybe this has done more to help our integration than any amount of attendance at village events and could also explain, why so often they reply “mon plaisir!”