When we moved here, Kieran decided he’d come with us for a year, to help with the building work. At the end of that year, having barely scratched the surface of the work that needed doing, he agreed to stay for a second year, during which he met Alice, now his wife.

Alice’s parents are architects, who run a family firm and Kieran was soon looking after their computers. He’s really found his niche there and is now an integral member of the team,  loves playing with the 3D printer, has installed a new software system that builds  incredibly detailed models of buildings and which is a requirement for architects designing public buildings. He is also working on introducing an ethos of good customer service across the company, a totally alien concept to the French.

Anyone who knows him will be aware that Kieran is not someone who enjoys being in the limelight, so when he was asked to do a series of presentations on the new software system to other architects, it was his worst nightmare. The presentation was about 20 minutes long and there was to be time for questions afterwards; of course, it was all in French, to be repeated three times in a day. He says it went fine; which, given Kieran-speak, probably means it was brilliant. I’m so proud of him!

At the end of the last cycle club dinner, one of the guys stood up and asked for quiet, a big ask at these boisterous events. He said he was going to read an article from l’équipe, the sports newspaper, written by an undercover journalist who’d infiltrated the club over the last few months and had written an article about the characters he’d met in the Nogaro cycle club.
Obviously a spoof, we all sat back to enjoy it and we weren’t disappointed.
He went on to describe several members who ride regularly; the good looking one who doesn’t like to put in too much effort and has a million excuses for why he’s not at peak fitness; the ex-president for whom money is what matters, who likes to offer advice on a strictly “do as I say, not as I do” basis. Then there’s the late comer to cycling, only taking up the sport after retiring; a perfect gentleman, always immaculately turned out and capable of coping with any paperwork the French system can throw at him, he seems, according to the journalist, to be cycling a little too well and should we be suspicious? He thought that the guy who often rides tandem with his wife deserved a medal for so doing. And as for the one of the few women to ride regularly, who would do anything to help anyone and likes to check that they’ve all taken their medications, had enough to eat, made the bed, locked the house, had a wee……… Or the one who always arrives too late for the formal greetings, so important in France, and passes most of every ride in discussion with the ex-president about the agricultural crisis, the price of maize, the weather, pesticides, etc, etc, but rides strongly; again, should we be suspicious? He blames it on the agricultural pesticides he inhales at work.
Then he got to Nick, aka Bradley Wiggins; this incredible rider who had already performed the amazing feat of escaping the fog of England to arrive in Nogaro, bringing a breath of fresh air to the Nogaro peloton, always attentive to the needs of others and frequently hanging back to help weaker riders. So devoted is he to the club that one day, perceiving a car heading towards them at great speed, he intercepted it, reducing the vehicle to a total wreck and himself suffering several scratches for his wife to fuss over.
We didn’t understand all of it, but enough to appreciate the gist of it; there was hardly a dry eye by the end, everyone was laughing so hard.

The best way to learn a language is to go to the country where it’s spoken. So, having worked very hard recently, feeling in need of a break and having noted that the weather forecast for northern Spain was good this week, we packed up the camper and headed off. First stop Jaca, just 20km over the border; a lovely town with a castle, a cathedral, lots of restaurants and a camper van site.

The only down side to being so close to France, from the point of view of someone who wanted to try out her Spanish, was that most people spoke French, English or both. But I kept trying. Looking around the town I noticed an old fashioned haberdashery shop, the perfect place to buy the bits I need for a textile arts project; full of enthusiasm, I went into the shop, only realising too late that I had neither my dictionary nor the necessary words. I hadn’t a clue how to say “ribbon”, could make a wild guess at “gold” and “silver”, but as for “sparkling” – no hope! Luck was on my side though, as there was a French woman serving. so I bought everything I needed without a problem.

We stayed in Jaca for a couple of days, wandered around the town and castle, ate very well at local restaurants (where the waiters were very patient with my halting attempts at their language) and soon felt very relaxed.

The next place on Nick’s itinerary was Ainsa, an ancient village about 80km away; but we missed the turning, so took a much longer route, which led us past a stunning reservoir, olive and almond groves and fields and road edges full of wild flowers. Ainsa is a little medieval village perched on a hilltop, complete with the ruins of a castle, next to which was the campervan site. The views over the mountains were lovely, especially as the sun set, turning everything golden.

We went for a short bike ride the evening we arrived, to see a monument recommended by the tourist information lady; if I needed any convincing that I don’t like mountain biking, this was it; the views were great, but I was far too busy worrying about falling off on the rutted track to appreciate them!

The following morning we set off on a proper bike ride, ie on nice, smooth, tarmacked roads. We followed a little road up into the hills; there were tiny villages dotted all around and we found ourselves in Guaso, from where you can take the road an extra 1km further up a very steep hill, to see the tower built on the summit; Nick, of course, did; I chickened out halfway, preferring to watch the good looking tree surgeon prune the olive trees on the other side of the road.

Eventually we got back to the camper and set off home, a journey that should have taken about 4-5 hours, but by the time we’d had numerous stops to take photos and called in to see some friends in the foothills of the Pyrenees, it was nearer seven, but we were on holiday after all.

Last Sunday the band was booked to play at a sheep festival; there was sheep shearing, spinning and a variety of other traditional crafts. It all depended, of course, on the weather; if it rained, it would be cancelled. We were lucky; it was quite cool, but dry as we played through the aperitifs, had lunch of hot dogs made with lamb sausages, followed by a croustade, a local dessert made with layers of filo-type pastry, apple and armagnac.

The audience came and went as they wandered between the attractions while the sheep were being sheared and apparently people were listening to us as we attempted to keep warm. I was able to jump about a bit, but poor Vera, our accordian player, just froze and had to give up playing towards the end when her fingers went numb! The organisers, however, were delighted; they’re hoping to do the same thing again next year and will we be available? We’ve never turned down a free feed yet.

Notre groupe a joué à la fête de mouton à Estang dimanche dernier. Ils ont tondu 160 brebis pendant la journée, il y avait une dame qui a filé de la laine aussi que plusieurs autres métiers traditionnelles.

Il faisait sec mais assez froid, mais nous avons joué pendant les apéros et après avoir mangé des hotdogs de saucisse d’agneau et croustade. Les organisateurs étaient contents et nous ont demandé si on peut le faire encore l’année prochaine.