When the cycle club decided to ride the Bordeaux Sete 2015, Nick jumped at the chance, along with eight others. They would do it over 4 days, covering about 130km a day, over varied terrain, so he started training for it.

We left Nogaro at 4.30am on Wednesday in the black of night, arriving in Bordeaux in time for them to set off at 8o’clock. There was a slight panic when Nick, having put the car keys in “a safe place”, couldn’t remember exactly where that was, but they turned up after a few minutes’ frantic searching; he wasn’t allowed keys for the rest of the trip though! An hour’s riding from Bordeaux and the temperature was steadily climbing, reaching 33ºC by the afternoon, so everyone was delighted to arrive at the first hotel, to drink beer and head out for a good meal in a restaurant that had been recommended in the beautiful old village of Pujols.

We all sat down and started to tuck into the bowls of olives on the table, but when we tried to order, we were told that the €16.50 menu wasn’t available on the eve of a bank holiday and the cheapest one was nearly twice the price. I think they’d taken one look at our less-than-chic attire and decided we weren’t their sort of clientele. So we left, tummies rumbling and Nick managed to find the way to a place he and I had chanced upon a few months ago, where we had an excellent meal.

The weather on Thursday was perfect, not too hot, and the 142km passed without incident, but shortly after arriving at the hotel, the clouds started to move in. The following day was cold, wet and windy – the temperature had dropped from 33 to 9ºC in just two days! To add to the sombre mood, one of the riders heard that her father had died, so she and her husband had to abandon the ride. Everyone was soaked to the skin during the frequent squally showers, sometimes of large hailstones, which even washed the route markings off the road. They were all tired and relieved to arrive at the hotel that evening, having had 3 punctures to deal with in the course of the day.

The final day was the shortest, at 120km; it was dry and warm with a strong following wind helping them along. There was the option of riding up Mont St. Clair in Sete, but most of the riders were too tired, so only Nick did it – indefatigable to the end!

I’d only signed up for the trip as a passenger and to do a bit of navigating; it sounded like a pleasant few days off painting, but somehow I ended up living my worst nightmare; driving the main support vehicle, a van big enough to carry nine bikes and eleven people’s luggage. I like to think I’m fairly independent and able to stand my ground; however, in the company of two very feisty Frenchwomen, one my navigator and the other driving her own car, my plans to leave the riders at the start of each day and do some sightseeing, before meeting up at the hotel in the evening, soon fizzled out. Instead, I did as I was told and, against my better judgement, followed the cyclists’ route “in case we were needed”. That’s to say, I attempted to follow their route, though I think the satnav I was given last belonged to Noah and it soon became apparent that my navigator wasn’t exactly gifted in map reading. I dread to think how many extra miles we did, along tiny roads and through medieval villages where we had to move the wing mirrors in to get between the house walls. It didn’t help that on the final day, hopelessly lost, as was the norm, we asked an old man the way to Aiguesvives, only to be asked if we were aware that there were two villages of the same name within spitting distance; naturally, we were heading for the wrong one. At least we could have a laugh about it.

I did manage to take a few photos along the route, but I’d love to go back there to explore the area properly.

We’d heard so much about the flower show at the Chateau de Gaujacq that it would have been rude not to go and see it for ourselves. When people told us it was really expensive to visit, we thought of the entry prices to the Harrogate Flower Show, and braced ourselves; what a lovely surprise when it was only €6, and that gave you entry to the botanic gardens on the site as well. Betty was delighted to have a day out, too; she loves the way she smells coming home from flower shows.

It was billed as a specialist show, so probably better suited to “real” gardeners than to us, we thought and certainly there were plenty of plants we’d never seen before, as well as stands selling only cactii, or water lilies. or irises in a myriad of colours. There were wooden insect hotels, nesting boxes for hedgehogs and bat boxes, as well as living, woven willow baskets. The stands filled every bit of space around the chateau; each time you thought you’d seen all there was, there’d be more around the next corner and the perfumes drifting round were amazing.

We managed to be very restrained in our purchases this time, and not only because Betty has a small boot; a Morocan mint, a bottle brush plant (which I’ve wanted for ages) and a Sichuan pepper plant. You grind the dried berry casings, not the seed, and apparently it makes your tongue tingle and your lips numb. Should be interesting! Next year we might be in a position to buy more, if the garden is anywhere near ready to go.

The botanic gardens were beautiful, an oasis of calm and quiet , away from the hubbub of the show, but I think it would be worth going back a couple of weeks earlier next year as there was a long wisteria tunnel, with a different variety of the plant growing up each post, some purple, others white. It was almost finished, but must have been breathtaking at its peak.

The only disappointment was the catering, which, after Fources, was a let down; Nick was still hungry when he’d finished eating, but the in-the-know couple sitting near us, who’d had the sense to bring a picnic, had two pieces of cake left over. His hunger must have been obvious as they insisted that they really didn’t want to take it home – he didn’t have to be told twice.

When the nearby cycle club of Riscle organised a 200km ride and invited members of our club to join them, Nick decided to join a group of 10 Nogaro riders; it would be good training for the upcoming Bordeaux to Sete marathon ride. They set off by car for Riscle at 6.30 yesterday morning and left Riscle by bike at 7 o’clock, just as the church bells sounded the Angelus. They were headed for the flat lands of the Landes, ideal for a long ride. As the Angelus sounded at midday they rolled into Sabres, where lunch was booked in a local restaurant, then back on the bikes to return, by a different route, arriving just as the Angelus peeled out in Riscle, at 7pm. I’m sorry, but he didn’t have time to take any photos.

Francis, a club member and a caterer, invited all the riders and their other halves to dinner in the evening; we didn’t know whether we’d be eating indoors or out as not many people have enough space for 30 in their dining room, but we arrived to find tables set in his vast garage, among the bikes, the freezers and boxes of what I can only suppose to be equipment for the catering trade.

Once the riders had finished complaining about how saddle sore they were, and the aperos were out of the way, and while we ate our way through the starters, the main course, (which appeared to be half a cow, lightly grilled), salad, cheese and fruit tarts, Richard had us in stitches as he regaled us with tales of his childhood, living with his grandparents. His grandad would leave the house every morning, taking his scythe with him and leaving Richard’s grandma to light the range, the only means of heating and cooking. He’d cut a section of grass until the range would be good and hot, when he’d return with breakfast – a bucketful of snails, picked off the grass and the plants in the garden. Richard said he’d line them up along the front of the range, where they made sort of miaowing noises; you could tell they were cooked when they stopped singing!

This grand old gentleman also taught Richard and his brother how to hunt for frogs; they’d find a stick or length of bamboo, steal some of grandma’s knitting wool and find some geranium petals – red ones were best, to attach to the end of the “fishing line”. They’d sit quietly at the edge of the pond, gently lowering the geranium petal to the surface of the water, the frogs would think it was a mosquito, make a leap for it and wham! they were caught. A quick blow to the head, peel the skin off and into the pan on the range – delicious! A far cry from childhood today

We’ve worked hard in the garden over the past week, and the results are beginning to show, at last. It took me two days to weed the flower bed in what will be the front garden, but I was then able to plant a lot of the stuff we bought at Fources. But when I went out today, there were lots of little branches from one of the shrubs, lying on the soil and the bark was missing from most of of one of the main stems. Something has had a feast, and not just there; several of the French bean plants in the potager have been decapitated too, just leaving a bare stem. Looking more closely, we found what look like the footprints of deer, not surprising as they are often in the vineyard. We love the fact that our garden is completely open, but perhaps the time has come to erect a fence if we don’t want to lose the fruits of our labours.

On a visit to Kieran and Alice yesterday, we went to another flower show; a far cry from the one at Fources, this was held in the grounds of an old people’s home in a village near Dax. There was a stall selling plants that the residents had produced as well as a number of other stalls, some selling plants, others arty crafty stuff. It may have been small, but we still came away with boxes of plants; tomatoes, herbs, geraniums and something that we don’t recognise and can’t find in our books. So please have a look at the photos and if you know what the purple-leaved plant is, please let us know as we don’t have a clue where to put it.