I was getting pretty sick of Adrian’s criticisms of me at band practices, I don’t like being spoken to as if I’m something he found on the bottom of his shoe. And I wasn’t the only one; Jean Marc, the drummer, had had enough too.

A few weeks ago Michel, the old singer, decided to come back, in spite of still having severe tinnitus; he’s very different to sing with from Jean Michel, whose style I’d got used to over the last 2 years and I knew it’d be a challenge. Jean Michel told me to sing as I would with him, so I was surprised when, at the end of the first song, Adrian barked at me that I was too loud, as well as various other faults. This was too much for me, so I called him out over it. He’s someone who’s happy to dish out criticism, but can’t take it, so at the end of the practice he flounced off, like some ageing prima donna, announcing later that he’d quit the group.

Lots of messages flew around over the following few days and I was told I’d have to go to see Adrian, to sort things out; but as he wouldn’t even read messages I sent, this seemed rather pointless. Célia, a keyboard player who Adrian had just brought into the group, offered to arbitrate. We drove 2 hours to a meeting place chosen by Adrian, who arrived nearly half an hour late, by motorbike.

He spat a few orders at me about how I’d have to behave in future, as he wouldn’t be speaking to me and I needn’t bother to speak to him, then started to put his helmet back on. Célia and I pointed out that this would simply cause a bad atmosphere and that we hadn’t driven all that way for that. A very difficult discussion ensued, with Adrian trying to leave several times, but Celia took the keys from his bike. Eventually, I thought we’d got somewhere, Adrian put his helmet on, then deliberately walked straight into me, shoving me out of the way and shouting “move”! I was so shocked that I didn’t say anything; no man has ever behaved like that to me before.

I was so angry, I thought it’d be better if I didn’t go to band practice that weekend, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to turn up. I’m pleased to be able to say that, in spite of feeling very uncomfortable and in spite of Adrian glowering at me, I played and sang very well; however that evening I received a message telling me that they didn’t like my attitude and could no longer work with me.

I’ve seen Jean Marc and his wife since; he spoke up for me at the following rehearsal and told them what he thinks of their behaviour towards me, but stopped short of leaving (I can understand, it’s his main social outlet of the week). Apparently Adrian has lied, (in the words of Mandy Rice, ” well, he would, wouldn’t he?”), denying shoving me and saying he stayed on his bike all the time; but, having got over the initial shock and upset, I’m pleased not to have anything more to do with a man like that.

I’ve been asked to play some Christmas songs at the ladies’ club Christmas lunch this week and was invited to spend this afternoon at the house of a friend and her partner. They’re part of a folky/Irish band. I’m not sure if they’re actually looking for a guitarist/ vocalist at the moment and they need to speak to the third member of the group, but it was a very enjoyable afternoon. I’ll wait and see…..

Arthur and Emily wanted to spend their pocket money, so Kieran and I took them to GiFi, a huge shop, full of cheap tat. While we were there, I had a look for little gifts to put into the crackers we’re going to make for Christmas, when Alex & co will be here, but found very little. I wished aloud that I’d thought of this while I was in an amazing little shop in San Sebastian, to which Kieran replied that he needed a trip to Spain too.

So last Saturday morning I picked him and the kids up and off we headed for our day out. I love going places with Kieran as he’s happier driving than being a passenger, so it gives me a break from driving.

It only takes about an hour and a half to get there, so by lunchtime we’d already visited the Flying Tiger shop, leaving with bags full of goodies. The kids chose a stretchy, catapult dragon each, which they played with for the rest of the day. I was delighted since that’s what they’re getting in their Christmas crackers and the ones they bought will have been destroyed by then.

San Sebastian was rattling with tourists and locals so we quickly found somewhere to eat; they loved their tapas, I couldn’t believe how many slices of tortilla Emily got through! It was as well we’d got in before the late, Spanish lunchtime, as people were queuing when we left.

San Sebastian backs onto what I’d describe as a mountain, though it’s probably not really big enough to warrant that name; anyway, a very steep hill, on the top of which are the ruins of an ancient chateau and a more modern statue of Christ, Rio-style. We went to explore. The views over the city and the sea were fantastic and there was so much to see in the ruins. There were dozens of canons from different eras, the older ones covered in rust, though still impressive, the newer ones with beautiful embellishments worked onto their barrels. There were even “ladies’ canons”, with much finer barrels; but how many women fired these, I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.

Exploring done, it was time to descend the mountain and find ice creams, then back to the car.

We called into the supermarket on the way home. Unfortunately they didn’t have the Danish bacon that Kieran wanted, though he did stock up on his favourite beer, and I bought some booze for Christmas and some olive oil, all very much cheaper than in France.

Arthur and Emily were much quieter on the journey home; they’d had a great day out, climbed a mountain, explored a chateau and nearly stretched their dragons to breaking point.

We’ll definitely be doing it again.

https://youtube.com/shorts/sAk2DfEO35w?si=QajFjaAJrJoioeZM

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, as I couldn’t make photos upload; however, I think Kieran’s sorted the problem now, so here goes, fingers crossed.

It seems to have become something of a tradition that Jan, Kate, Liz and I get together for a break in the autumn; they all came to mine this year, accomodation was tight, but do-able.

The weather, which had been fairly nondescript for the previous couple of weeks, suddenly brightened and we had a week of glorious sunshine, perfect for all we had planned.

Once they’d all settled in and unpacked the packs of baking powder and curry powder I’d requested, it was time to start enjoying ourselves. Our first trip was to the Bassins des Lumières in Bordeaux. The theme this time was the Egyptians; amazing photos of mummies, pyramids and everything ancient Egyptian, all set to music and reflected in the water.

A wander around the gift shop found some unusual Christmas presents, followed by lunch in a nearby café, then home for dinner, with plenty of wine and great conversation.

Jan had booked a nice Airbnb in San Sebastian for a couple of nights, so we took the train to Hendaye, from where we changed stations, a walk of about 50 metres, to catch the next train to San Sebastian. French and Spanish train tracks are different gauges, so no through train.

Fortunately, Jan’s Spanish is good; I was disappointed at how little I understood, but real Spaniards speak so much faster than they do on Duolingo! We couldn’t check in till 4pm, so we found somewhere for lunch, then sat on the beach with our bags, enjoying the sun, the sea and……. the nudists?? Yes, we’d unwittingly ended up on their part of the beach! At least they didn’t insist on us joining them!

We wandered around the old quarter of town, finding some fascinating little shops, then went to one of the many tapas bars in the evenings.

Jan has an old friend who lives in the town; when we met up with her she suggested that we get tickets for a sound and light spectacular at the cathedral. It was breathtaking! The whole place was in darkness when the music started, swiftly followed by light projected onto the walls and ceiling with unbelievable precision. The history of the town and the cathedral was narrated while we sat, open mouthed, watching the incredible light show all around. It was truly spectacular. I took a video, I think there’s a way of putting it on here, using YouTube, so I’ll have a go – but no promises! Here are a few photos, in case it doesn’t work.

At the end of a few very busy, but very enjoyable days, we caught the train home, arriving in time for a quick bite to eat, before heading to Hossegor, where the new Downton Abbey film was on in “version original”. The ladies’ club was having an outing to watch it, so we joined them.

The visit coincided with the painting club’s autumn exhibition, so we had a leisurely walk around the lake and called in to the Grange to look at the paintings; everyone manning the stand that day was delighted to meet my friends.

Somehow, a week had passed in the blink of an eye. I took them back to Biarritz airport with a heavy heart, we’d had so much fun and laughter; but there’s always next year, maybe Florence?

I think I’ve done the video, but it’s as a second post.

The summer holidays can be something of a test of endurance for people who live alone in France; not only do most clubs close, but it’s often too hot to go out anyway. I know quite a few people who feel very isolated at this time of year. There are lots of village fêtes, but these are often just an excuse for binge drinking, so not interesting to go to alone.

Once Gemma, Chris and Elliott had left, I only had two weeks to survive before the patchwork, painting and book clubs would open again, but I was delighted when Beatrice called to ask if I fancied going to a village fête with her. She explained that it wasn’t an ordinary fête, there’d be lots of different, artistic acts to see, all performed by pairs of people, hence the name “Les paires des Landes”.

There were all sorts of acts, from “opera” with programmable ducks, to hilarious ghost stories, supposedly for children, but here, at least, I could understand every word. A couple of women danced with and around a cello and a violin and later, in the same space, two young men did an amazing gymnastics/acrobatics performance into which they managed to inject plenty of humour. What I think was a parody on a Moliere play proved more difficult for me to understand, but Beatrice wasn’t interested in it, and I was relieved when we didn’t stay long at that one. Later she went to watch some French cabaret, while I preferred to stay and listen to a jazz duo.

It was a good day out, worth the effort of getting there. The following week the cycle club held its annual ” journée vélo marche”, when they cycle to a location, then change from cycling to walking shoes, go for a walk and have a picnic, then cycle home. I met them at Gourbera, from where we did a lovely 10km walk through the forest, finishing at a picnic spot. There weren’t many participants, but everyone there made me feel very welcome, it was almost as though I’d never been away.

The next weekend, the band was booked to play at Trois Villes, Adrian’s village, but he was getting bad vibes about it and was worried that we might be as welcome as we were at Argelos, something none of us ever wants to repeat. Ade spoke to various people in the village and we took the decision to cancel. He went to the event and said he was sure we’d made the right decision, as many of the older villagers wouldn’t even tolerate French music being played over a sound system.

Last weekend, being the first weekend in September, was filled with “forums d’associations”; each town and village hosts one of these events, when each association, or club, is allotted a table, sometimes in a sports hall, sometimes in an outdoor public area, to inform the public of their existence and to try to boost membership. Most stands are filled with flyers and other stuff to demonstrate what the club is about. I helped man the stand of the painting club in St. Paul; our stall was rubbish to look at, as the president had forgotten to bring the banner, any cards or flyers, and had only brought one, very dark painting. I don’t know if we signed anyone up, but I found a Pilates class, thanks to the stall next door, that I’ll give a try.

In the afternoon I helped at the patchwork club stand in Seignosse; lots of quilts covered the table and a “grille” (can’t think of the name in English) behind it. A big improvement on the morning’s effort!

So now, “la rentrée”, (the reopening of the schools) is over, people are back at work and school, temperatures have dropped and it’s comfortable to go out in the daytime and sleep at night.  Life has returned to its normal rhythm.

A few days after I got home, Gemma, Chris and Elliott arrived; they’d booked a chalet on a camp site just a 5 minute walk from the beach at Capbreton. Kieran picked them up from the airport, then we all headed to the campsite.

To say the accommodation was disappointing would be something of an understatement; supposedly for 4 people, it was ridiculously small and had no cot or any means of making up Elliott’s bottles. The bathroom was about the same size as the one in our campervan and the fridge minute.

Gemma is very like my mother – pretty scary when upset, and as she headed to the reception, Chris remarked to me that he wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of the tongue lashing she was about to deliver. Sure enough, when she got back, it was with the promise of an upgrade; they’d be moved to a chalet for 6, with aircon, but it was only available till Friday morning. They’d come to mine for the last couple of days; I was delighted.

Once settled, things improved. We were in the middle of a heatwave, with temperatures of up to 40°C, so they spent a lot of time on the beach or in the pool, hired bikes to explore the area and Chris was able to hire a surfboard. Kieran and his kids spent most days and a couple of nights there, making the most of the extra bedroom and I went over most days too, feeling quite intrepid as I joined the mass of other drivers, crawling our way through the overcrowded streets, avoiding the thousands of pedestrians and cyclists who, having priority, simply step or ride out across the roads without even a glance to see if the way is clear, many of the cyclists not even wearing helmets! Happily I got through the week without mowing anyone down, which felt like a win. 

Their visit coincided with the Dax fête; at 40° it was just too hot for me, so I stayed home, though a rummage through my fabric boxes supplied enough red fabric for a neckerchief for each of them to wear with whatever white clothing they had; virtually everyone wears red and white for the fête. I  played taxi driver and when they’d had enough, all six of them piled into my little car for the ride home, Kieran and Gemma in the boot; they’d had a great day.

Another hot afternoon we went to the air conditioned bowling alley, just down the road from me. After knocking down 9 pins with my first ball, I thought it was easy, but then struggled to hit anything at all and was soundly beaten, even by Arthur and Emily, while Chris and Kieran battled for the winner’s spot. A game of pool, rides on the motorbike game for the kids and everyone was happy.

It was lovely to spend time with Gemma and Chris, but for me the best part was getting to know Elliott, who was adorable and who made so much progress in those few short weeks, starting to crawl while in England and pulling himself upright before he left. He loves books and music; whenever he was grumpy in the car, all we had to do was sing to him to restore his smile. He adored Arthur and Emily, his little face lighting up with a smile as soon as he saw them.

And then they were gone. For a few days my apartment had been bursting with noise, toys and laughter, with quilts and cushions all over the floor to prevent Elliott bumping his head on hard surfaces. Now it was time to clean up and survive the few days of post holiday blues till life got back to normal.

While I was in England I had a message from the woman who looks after the women’s club website; she’d had a message to ask me to contact a Patrick Mahue, the great grandson of Isabelle Mahue, who owned our house in the Gers earlier in the 20th century.

I got in touch with Patrick, a Canadian/French/Englishman and arranged that he’d call me when I was home.

What a fascinating call it was! I was intrigued to know how he’d found me; he’d been searching the internet for his great grandmother and had been led to my blog post about a writing competition that I won, with an article about our garden, including how we found a broken metal fireback, inscribed with “Isabelle Mahue, 1935”. Quite how he then found that I’m part of the Landes and Pays Basques International Women’s Club, I’m not sure.

We talked for nearly two hours; my memory is poor at the best of times, and there was so much information about Isabelle, her story and that of the house and family, that I can’t remember it all, but some of it stayed. Neighbours had told us that the fireback was probably bought to celebrate Isabelle buying the house, but no – the house had been in the family for generations. Other things that we were told, such as Isabelle being “as wide as she was tall” also turned out to be fiction. She’d been widowed during the war and had never got over her husband’s death, suffering from what I’m sure would now be diagnosed as depression.

It was amazing to hear Patrick’s story, all the way from Canada and he’s promised to send me more information on paper (well, email) as and when he continues his research into his ancestry.

So thank you Patrick, I look forward enormously to the next installment.

I’d promised Alex I’d help with a bit of child care over the summer holidays, so when I noticed that “the Simon and Garfunkel story” was on at Harrogate theatre on July 28th, that decided my dates.

I went with an old friend, Liz,  and as it happened, we were sitting next to the sister in law of the guy playing Paul Simon, over on holiday from America. It was a great show, part tribute show, part life story, with images, projected onto a screen behind the performers, of contemporary world events and other relevant stuff. The musicians; the two main men and their backing group of electric guitar, bass and drums were all consummate musicians and performers. The guy playing Art Garfunkel, wearing what I suspect was a wig, had the most beautiful voice and could hold notes, seemingly effortlessly, for ages.

When Alex wasn’t working one day, we went to a local farm, where you can see and pet various animals and their babies. Obviously it wasn’t the right time of year for babies, they were mostly adolescent, including the goat who took a real fancy to Alex’s jeans and seemed determined to have a mouthful of them, but a fun visit anyway. Apart from the standard farm animals, there were rabbits and guinea pigs, ducks and Shetland ponies…….. and a maise maze. Not having a sense of direction of my own, I stuck with Alex for this, she’s pretty good, but the girls arrived at the fort in the centre ages before we did.

Later in the week Gemma, Chris and Elliott arrived, having spent some time with Chris’s family. At last I got to meet my newest grandson, who’s just adorable, lively and smiley and is obviously going to be as tall as his dad.  I was also lucky enough to meet Chris’s parents for the first time, as they’d driven all the way up from near Bristol for a couple of days. I think they enjoyed their stay, never having visited Harrogate before, but it’s a long drive for two days.

On Saturday Alex, Immy and I went to a sound and light show at the Leeds City museum; it was set to Vivaldi’s “the Four Seasons” in the central, circular, domed room. There were bean bags on the floor to lie on and enjoy the images projected onto the ceiling; it was superb.

I managed to catch up with quite a few friends during my stay too, squeezing in as many visits as I could between childcare duties, as well as a day in York with Immy, Gemma, Chris and Elliott, an afternoon at Harlow Car gardens with Immy, Jean and Doug and a morning’s mountain biking on a track in Wetherby.

All too soon it was time to leave; my last couple of days were to be spent with my brother and his partner in London. Gemma took me to the railway station and sweet talked the guard into allowing her to join me on the platform until the train left; a couple of minutes later, we were joined by Alex, Graham, Belle and Immy, swiftly followed by Chris, who’d “taken Elliott for a walk”, to the station. They’d had it planned for ages – I couldn’t hold back the tears, it was so lovely that they’d all come to wave me off! My brother suggested that it might be because they were pleased to get rid of me, but I ignored that!

Next stop Peter and Penny’s, where we managed to fit in a visit to my ex-sister in law’s, an afternoon at the Tate and a trip to the Bridge theatre to see the most amazing, spectacular production of “a Midsummer Night’s Dream” that I’ve ever seen. It was Peter’s second time and Penny’s fourth and I can well see why they’d both go back again – it was brilliant, with far too much to take in on a single viewing!

Then home for a much needed rest, as usual at the end of a visiting holiday; it was a quite cultural sort of trip and one I’ll remember fondly for a long time. A couple of days trying to get over the bronchitis I’d caught (I blame the man on the train who coughed incessantly all the way from Peterborough to York) and it was time to prepare for the arrival of my French grandchildren early Friday morning;  I looked after them while Kieran drove to Bordeaux to collect Gemma, Chris and Elliott from the airport for the next stage of their holidays.

After weeks of hot, dry weather, the earth around here is parched and the grass yellow, so it was a great pity that on the evening that Mart and Maarten held their annual party, the forecast was for storms and rain. The weather people often get it completely wrong, so they decided to go ahead anyway.

It was heavy, hot and humid in the afternoon, but sunny, so they put out tables and chairs in the garden; however, precisely as people started arriving, the sky turned from blue to black, there were rumbles of thunder and we felt the first few drops of rain. Within moments it was pouring; tablecloths were removed, chairs folded up, tables put away, and we moved indoors; luckily their house is big enough. It was great to catch up with people I only see at events such as this.

By midnight the rain had stopped; some people went in the pool for a swim, others headed home and by 1am there were just a few of us left, dancing in the garden, splattered occasionally by big, fat raindrops dripping from the trees overhead. It was a great party, as always, in spite of the weather.

The following morning I headed home, hoping I might have time for a little siesta before setting off to play a gig that evening; the siesta, of course, didn’t happen.

I repacked my bags and filled the car with my music stuff, along with a big tarpaulin – the forecast was still not great, and got to Jean Marc’s at 4pm. The gig was in Argelos, his village, the finale of their Bastille day dinner.

Jean Marc had spent the morning building a stage, complete with drum risers, out of three large trailers, topped with big sheets of plywood; it felt remarkably stable. It was at the end of the mairie car park, the rest of which was filled with tables, set for the evening’s meal. We installed our gear and started testing the speakers and mics; the bass speaker wasn’t working, so the lads spent half an hour sorting that, as I  stood in front of it, waiting for sound. Finally it worked – big relief all round.

We did a sound check and played a couple of songs; apparently the sound was excellent, then we were called inside for our dinner. One day we hope to be paid, but for the moment, we just sing for our supper.

By the time we were ready to head back to Jean Marc’s to shower and change, the sky had turned black; we swathed everything in tarpaulins and Jean Mi offered to stay and look after the stuff. A quick change and we were back, a few drops of rain had fallen, but the sky had cleared again and looked set fine for the night.

The meal started, so we found ourselves a quiet spot round the back of the village hall, where we could practice quietly . We were meant to start playing at 9.30, but they were still mid meal, so we waited…………

By 11pm they were having coffee, so we made a start. “Bonjour Argelos” called Jean Mi – no response (and we were definitely loud enough). Those with their backs to us didn’t even turn their heads. So we played the first number – nothing – not one person applauded. And so it continued. For the last few numbers, there were three people sitting on a bench to one side of us, listening and clapping, but that was all. If we hadn’t had such a great reception at the previous gig, I think we’d have been worried; as it was, we just had to keep going, to complete the set, but it’s very difficult to motivate yourself and to give everything you’ve got when there’s no response at all. The other problem was that, apart from a few footlights, we were in the dark, there was no overhead lighting; we’d got little lights for our music stands, but really struggled to see the necks of our instruments, making playing quite difficult.

About half past midnight we finished; nobody from the comité des fêtes, who’d invited us, even came to thank us, so we packed up and went back to Jean Marc’s, feeling more than a little deflated.

Hopefully the next one will be better received.

It’s been getting hotter for weeks now, with temperatures of up to 10° warmer than the average for the time of year; it’s very early in the season for a heatwave and every day it seems to be extended further. Last week they said it would last till Sunday, but now it’s forecast to go on till Wednesday, with peaks between now and then, of up to 42°C. I’m not the only person wondering what July and August are going to bring, though I’m looking forward to my trip to Harrogate over the summer holidays, at least it will be cooler there.

The painting club closes for the summer, so Saturday morning was earmarked for the annual clean. The sun was already hot when we arrived at 8.30, as we emptied the room of tables, chairs and easels, putting them as much as possible in the shade of the building for scrubbing;  other people cleaned the windows, the floor and the fridge.

I had band practice in the afternoon; Jean Marc made space in his garage for my car and Adrian’s motorbike, rather than leaving them in the sun. The studio, in his cellar, is usually cool (freezing in winter), but even with two fans running, it felt uncomfortably hot. By the time we packed up at 6.30 pm, hot, sticky and exhausted, even the mixing desk felt hot to the touch.

I woke early on Sunday, it’s not easy to sleep when the temperature doesn’t drop below 22°C overnight, and went for a walk round the lake. It was a blissfully cool 24°C and misty, the lake looking as though it was gently steaming. It wasn’t even 7.30 and there were very few people about; it was so peaceful and tranquil, the only sound that of the birds singing as though their little hearts would burst. Even the geese, busy looking after their babies, were doing so quietly.

By the end of my second lap, the sun was beginning to break through the cloud and besides, I was getting hungry, I’d set off without breakfast, so I headed home.

My heating system also does aircon; however, my eco-conscience doesn’t like me using it, but in spite of my best efforts, the temperature in my apartment is 28°C. I’m just too English to cope and I’m melting, so I have to confess to turning it on occasionally; other coping strategies include going swimming whenever the pool is open, visits to the cinema (I’ve seen “life of Chuck” twice in the last week, in English and in French – still have lots of questions!) and going for a wander around the shops in the big, air-conditioned shopping centre. I don’t like shopping, but at least it’s cool!