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.

It was the weekend of the Fources flower show; the whole village is turned into a riot of colour, the scents of rose and lemon flowers perfume the air and there are stalls selling garden furniture and sculptures of every description. The men of the village organise the parking in the surrounding fields, the women serve lunch, then later on, dinner, to the thousands of visitors who descend for the weekend, and the young people push barrows full of purchases to the cars of those who have bought more than they can possibly carry.

As most of our garden is more of a weed infested field than anything to be proud of, we went just to look, to get ideas for next year, but not to buy much – famous last words; by the time we’d made numerous trips back to the car with our various purchases, the car was full. A lime tree, a climbing rose, a mock orange, phlox, osteospermum, geraniums, to name but a few; the car smelt wonderful. But the one plant we were looking for, that we’d seen in a garden in Caupenne last week but didn’t know the name of, we couldn’t find.

So this morning, I went for a walk that took me past the house where we’d seen the mystery plant. I knocked on the door and explained to the man, who turned out to be the gardener of the household; he was delighted to tell me the plant is an abutilon, and if I go back in August, he’ll give me a rooted cutting of it.

The French Superbikes Championship was being held at the circuit this weekend, so I found a suitable vantage point from which to watch for a few minutes as first motorbikes with sidecars and then those without raced around the track. I was a bit too far away to get good photos, but it always amazes me the way they lean the bikes around the bends without falling off. Fortunately, they’d finished for the day when the sky turned black and thunder started to rumble before the rain started to pour; I hope the exhibitors at Fources didn’t get caught in it.

C’était le week-end du marché aux fleurs à Fources; tout le village est transformé en une débauche de couleurs, les senteurs de rose et de citron fleurs parfument l’air et il y a aussi des stands qui vendent des meubles de jardin et sculptures de toutes sortes. Les hommes du village organise le parking dans les champs autour du village, les femmes servent le déjeuner, puis un plus tard, le dîner, aux milliers de visiteurs qui descendent pour le week-end, et les jeunes gens pousser des brouettes complètes des achats aux voitures de ceux qui ont acheté plus qu’ils peuvent porter.

Comme la plupart de notre jardin est plus d’un champ infesté de mauvaises herbes que beau jardin, nous sommes y allés juste pour regarder, pour obtenir des idées pour l’année prochaine, mais ne pas acheter beaucoup – derniers mots célèbres; quand nous sommes alls plusieurs fois à la voiture avec nos divers achats, elle était pleine. Un arbre citron vert, un rosier grimpant, un philadelphus, des phlox, des osteospermum, des géraniums; la voiture sentait merveilleux. Mais la seule plante que., nous cherchions, que nous avions vu dans un jardin à Caupenne la semaine dernière mais dont nous ne savions pas le nom, nous ne pouvions pas trouver.

Donc ce matin, je suis allée me promener vers la maison où nous l’avions vu. J’ai frappé à la porte et a expliqué à l’homme; il etait ravi de me dire que la plante est un Abutilon, et si je retourne en août, il me donnera une bouture enracinée de celui-ci.

C’etait le Championnat Superbike français  sur le circuit ce week-end, donc j’ai trouvé un point de vue à partir duquel je pouvais regarder pendant quelques minutes, premières des motos avec side-cars (désolée – je ne peux pas trouver la traduction) et ensuite des motos ordinaires, qui ont couru autour de la piste. J’étais un peu trop loin pour prendre de bonnes photos, mais il m’étonne toujours de la façon dont ils penchent les motos autour des virages sans tomber. Heureusement, ils avaient fini pour la journée quand le ciel est devenu noir et le tonnerre a commencé à gronder avant que la pluie a commencé à verser; j’espère que les exposants à Fourcès ont fini avant que la pluie est arrivée.

When we were told that our neighbour’s 18th birthday party was on a “chic et choc” theme, we didn’t know what it meant, but were told we had to put on our party clothes, along with an item that didn’t go, something “un peu choc“. We thought long and hard; wellies? no, Emilie’s mum was going in slippers; a hat or wig? no, her dad was wearing a hat and her brother a wig. Eventually we had an idea and headed to Emmaus, our favourite charity shop, where we found a prettily embroidered, very large bustier for Nick to wear, well padded with socks. To complement this, I would wear one of his ties. It was a shame that very few people outside the immediate family had made any effort – even to be chic, never mind the choc part, but Nick’s outfit caused a great deal of amusement.

Gradually guests began to arrive; the whole, extended family, from babes in arms to Emilie’s grandma, the oldest there at 97 years young. It was nearly 10o’clock by the time things started; the aperos were served, then we sat down to eat at about 11pm. After a glorious week, the heavens had opened in the afternoon and the evening was wet, but the rain stopped around midnight, so we all traipsed out, through the wet grass, to watch a firework display.

The meal was lovely; charcuterie, crudités, salmon and langoustines, roast beef and pork with a salad piedmontaise, cheese, green salad, and birthday cake. By the time we left at 4am, they were nearly ready to serve the coffee. Between courses we’d played plenty of silly games, led by the DJ and watched a film of Emilie’s life so far; a far cry from an English 18th birthday party – plenty of alcohol, but nobody was obviously drunk.

I didn’t go walking on Sunday morning, preferring to catch up on my sleep, but Nick got up at 6.30 to go out cycling, only to find that the forecast was for more rain, so nobody else turned up. He was sheltering from the rain in Aignan when he saw a friend who insisted on taking him home for coffee and to wait till the rain stopped.

After 6 weeks of enforced inactivity, due to a nasty virus that left me weak, dizzy and weighing less than at any time since I was 16, I was finally finally ready to get back to work by the end of last week.

The weather is glorious this week, but too hot to work outside in the middle of the day; so gone are the lazy mornings of winter, sitting by the newly lit fire “just to make sure it stays alight”. It’s time to get up early and out to the garden while it’s still cool; everything’s growing, but nothing as fast as the weeds. The onions we planted a few weeks ago had all but disappeared, so this morning’s first job was to weed around them, then pile last week’s grass cuttings, from the first mowing of the year, into the compost bin that Nick has emptied of lovely, rich compost onto one of the veg plots.

I’ve finished painting the second of the six sections of the living area of the house, and just had to wax the wooden beams today, before Nick could move the scaffolding to the next section. I’ve done the most difficult two now, so I hope to get the rest of the sanding, painting and waxing done quite quickly; Nick’s nearly finished tiling the ground floor and will want to move on to the upstairs very soon.

When they discovered that the downhill stage of the mountain bike world championships was to be held at the Pic du Jer, a 1000m peak near Lourdes, Nick and Kieran decided it would be rude not to go and watch.

They arrived in time to head up the hill to watch the start of the event, as riders hurled themselves off the starting ramp and down the mountainside, round sharp bends, over jumps and down ridiculously steep terrain. There were plenty of thrills and not a few spills as the world’s best jumped, skidded and hurtled their way down the course at breathtaking speed.

Nick and Kieran gradually made their way down the course, stopping at good vantage points and eating their picnic lunch en route before heading home, neither of them wishing to try their hand at this aspect of cycling.

PS A friend has sent me this link to a short video covering some of the race highlights – enjoy!

http://www.e-adrenaline.fr/terre/actualites/la-coupe-du-monde-de-descente-en-vtt-a-tenu-ses-promesses/6161

Easter Monday dawned bright and sunny, not a cloud to be seen in a clear, blue sky; a perfect day to take Betty out for a ride, and as there was an art festival over the weekend in the pretty town of Salies de Bearn, it seemed the perfect destination.

We’d expected an outdoor event, a sort of market, but there were cars parked in the market square, so we set off to find where it was all happening. We didn’t have far to go; the first venue we found was in the Temple, an old church in the centre of the town, where there were three artists displaying sculptures and paintings. In all there were sixteen locations, including the casino, the library, the town hall, street corners, churches, a couple of garages and even a “mobile exhibition centre” – a lorry, and over 70 artists, many of them professional, but some amateurs too.

The range of work was amazing; paintings incorporating wood and other media, sculptures of clay, metal and glass, ceramics of every shape and size, fabrics, photographs. There were dozens of brightly coloured metal birds throughout the town; we mistook them for flamingoes, but according to the artist, they were just imaginary birds that he’d struggled to fit into his lorry. He was delighted to have sold plenty of them; the remainder would go in the lorry more easily for the return journey. One of our favourites was a large metal seahorse, made from scrap metal; it would have looked fantastic in our garden, but the artist’s girlfriend didn’t want him to sell that piece. He said he’d try to make another for next year, if he can find a big enough scrap boat to reclaim the nose piece.

There were so many beautiful pieces that we couldn’t choose just one and came home empty handed, but having had a great day.

Le lundi de Pâques etait lumineux et ensoleillé, aucun nuage  dans un ciel bleu; une journée parfaite pour prendre Betty pour un tour, et comme il y avait un festival d’art le week-end dans la jolie ville de Salies-de-Béarn, il semblait la destination parfaite.

Nous avions prévu un événement extérieur, une sorte de marché, mais il y avait des voitures garées sur la place du marché, donc nous allions chercher où  passait l’evenement. Ce n’etait pas loin; le premier lieu nous avons trouvé était dans le Temple, une vieille église au centre de la ville, où il y avait trois artistes exposant des sculptures et des peintures. Il y avait seize lieux, y compris le casino, la bibliothèque, la mairie, les coins de rue, des églises, quelques garages et même un «centre mobile exposition” – un camion, et plus de 70 artistes, beaucoup d’entre eux professionnel, mais certains amateurs aussi.

La gamme de travail était incroyable; des peintures sur bois et autres médias, des sculptures d’argile, le métal et le verre, la céramique de toutes formes et toutes tailles, des tissus, du photographie. Il y avait des dizaines d’oiseaux métal en couleurs vives partout dans  la ville; nous les ont pris pour des flamants, mais selon l’artiste, ils étaient des oiseaux imaginaires, qu’il a eu du mal à mettre dans son camion. Il etait ravi d’avoir vendu beaucoup d’entre eux; le reste irait dans le camion plus facilement pour le voyage de retour. Un de nos pièces favoris etait un grand hippocampe de métal, fabriqué à partir de la ferraille; Il aurait eté parfait dans notre jardin, mais la copine de l’artiste ne voulait pas qu’il vend ce morceau. Il a dit qu’il  essayera de faire un autre pour l’année prochaine, si il peut trouver un assez grand bateau pour récupérer la ferraille pour le nez.

Il y avait tant de belles pièces que nous ne pouvions pas choisir un seul et sommes rentrés à la maison les mains vides, mais ayant eu une tres bonne journée.

After weeks and weeks of what my students call “un temps anglais” (English weather), cool, grey, wet and miserable, spring seems to have arrived at last. The birds are singing their little hearts out, the sun is shining and the days are warm; the sort of weather that makes you throw all the windows wide open, to let in the beautifully fresh air. The bad weather had some benefits, it must be said; nothing could be achieved outdoors, so Nick has made great progress on the tiling and while he was away, I finished painting the spare room and the hall in the new house.

Choosing tiles is always a headache for us; we can never agree, and the bathroom was no exception; but we went to Pau last week, expressly for that task as we can’t put it off much longer. It was a long day, setting off at 8am; the tile shops are scattered all around the Pau ring road, with long drives between them, so it’s a full day to get to all of them, but we arrived home, after a 12 hour day, with the main wall tiles bought and a decision made on the tiles for the shower floor and the wall deco tiles – success! More than that, we even found tiles we agree on for the terrace, just need to measure up and go back for them next week.

This week has been more like the weather we expect at this time of year; cool, fresh mornings, leading to glorious, sunny afternoons. It’s far too lovely to stay inside and anyway, there’s suddenly so much to do in the garden; the mower to service before we can start cutting the grass, cuttings taken last year to plant out, seeds to sow in the potager, the fig tree to prune (probably the wrong time of year, but hopefully, it will survive) and of course, industrial amounts of weeding to do. We may slow down a bit on the inside now, but it’s just so good to get out in the warm sunshine after being indoors for the winter. I don’t know if it will last; there’s a big motor race at the Nogaro circuit at Easter, for which it always seems to rain, but fingers crossed, this year will be different.

Après des semaines de ce que mes étudiants appellent «un temps anglais”, froid,, couvert, humide et misérable, il semble que le printemps est arrivé en fin. Il faut dire que le mauvais temps a eu quelques avantages; rien ne pourrait être réalisé à l’extérieur, donc Nick a fait de grands progrès au carrelage et quand il n’était pas là, j’ai fini de peindre la chambre d’amis et le foyer dans la nouvelle maison.

Choisir du carrelage est toujours un casse-tête, et la salle de bains n’a pas fait exception; nous sommes allés à Pau la semaine dernière, spécialement pour cette tâche. C’était une longue journée, déclenchant à 8 heures; les magasins de carrelage sont dispersés tout autour de la rocade de Pau, avec les longs trajets entre eux, c’est donc une journée entière pour se rendre à chacun d’eux, mais nous sommes rentrés après une journée de 12 heures, ayant acheté les principaux carreaux de mur  et ayant décidé quel carrelage pour le sol de la douche et les carreaux de mur déco – succès! Plus que cela, nous avons même trouvé du carelage pour la terrasse, on n’a que  besoin de se mesurer et de retourner pour eux la semaine prochaine.

Cette semaine il a fait plus normale pour ce moment de l’année;  des matins frais,  des après-midi ensoleillés. Il fait trop beau pour rester à l’intérieur et il ya tout à coup tellement à faire dans le jardin; il faut entretenir la tondeuse avant que nous puissions commencer à couper l’herbe, planter des boutures prises l’an dernier,  semer des graines dans le potager, tailler le figuier (probablement le mauvais moment de l’année, mais je espère qu’il survivront) et bien sûr, il faut desherber partout. Peut etre nous ralentirons un peu à l’intérieur maintenant, mais c’est tellement bon de sortir sous le soleil après passer l’hiver à l’intérieur. Je ne sais pas si cela va durer; il ya une grande course du voitures au circuit de Nogaro à Pâques, pour laquelle il semble toujours qu’il pleut, mais je croise les doigts que cette année sera différent.