Sometimes, just occasionally, it’s quite difficult to focus on exactly what we love about living here. Such times as when, having worked my way through five official websites to try to order an EHIC-type card, I couldn’t remember my password, so hit the “send me a new password” button, only to have it arrive by post 3 weeks later, after we’d been on holiday. They say that you can order your EHIC card online, but guess what; you can’t, Or wanting a bank cheque for a large purchase, I’m told I have to write to my bank; they will then order said cheque from Paris and it will arrive by post, they claim within 24 hours – yeah, right!  Or that, when Gemma wanted to buy a French sim card for her phone and presented her Australian driving licence as proof of identity, it was unacceptable, even though it has a photo. Or the simple fact that customer service is a totally alien concept over here, as is doing anything on time.

However, the weather’s great, the people (with the exception of officialdom) are the warmest, most generous you could hope to meet, the food and drink are excellent and life is generally good.

Last week, having waited over 2 years since having our photovoltaic panels fitted, they were finally hooked up to the grid. The man from EDF was due at 1pm, as was the man who fitted the panels; but typically, the fitter, who had the necessary paperwork, didn’t turn up and the man from EDF had to leave for other appointments. We were furious. I phoned his wife, who’d made the arrangements, apparently without consulting her husband, but when he couldn’t keep our appointment, she didn’t think to let us know. I was so angry I actually managed to argue with her, in French, by phone. There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Result? She got them both back, together, later in the afternoon and we are now producing electricity.

As another hectic week dawned, I decided not to attempt any painting; the patchwork club’s exhibition was only a few days away and although I’d finished my granddaughter’s quilt, the waistcoat I’d started for Nick was nowhere near completed.

It was an idea taken from a photo I’d seen years ago; made in 16 separate pieces, each one constructed individually, then overlaid across each other to form the whole, with gaps where they didn’t meet. Once it was together, I started to quilt it, outlining the design on some of the fabrics and free-motion quilting on others.

We were setting up the exhibition from 5pm on Friday; I’d been sewing all day, (most of the week, actually) but by 4.50 hadn’t hand stitched the inside of the armhole bindings in place, so I pinned them carefully and hoped nobody would notice.

Saturday was the “Mayade”, something we hadn’t come across before, but which follows the election of a mayor. The mayor of Caupenne has eleven advisors; people gather at the house of one of them at 8am, and breakfast is provided, including plenty of alcohol. From there they go, in turn, to the houses of every one of the advisors and the mayor himself, to eat, drink and get very merry. Lunch was at the mayor’s house, so we went to that as we couldn’t go to the paella in the evening. There were about 100 people, many of them already looking the worse for wear, who sat down to eat salad followed by oxoa, a veal and pepper casserole, in the shade of the trees in Patrick’s beautiful garden. They didn’t look like moving on anytime soon when we left at 5pm, the day was already well behind schedule and the woman who was providing the pudding, coffee and armagnac at the next stop was beginning to panic about the condition some people were in.

We went home, changed, loaded the car up and set off to Campagne, where the band was playing at an event for the annual national music festival, held on the weekend nearest to midsummer. We had a great evening, we were well fed and watered and given a great welcome by everybody who came along.

On Sunday I took a friend to the patchwork exhibition, then helped to take down all the quilts; the removal was much quicker to do than the installation, which had taken us 3 hours.

For some incomprehensible reason, neither Nick nor I was bursting with energy today!

Comme une autre semaine mouvementée a commencé, j’ai décidé de ne pas tenter de la peinture; l’exposition du club de patchwork n’était qu’à quelques jours et, même si je l’avais fini  le dessus-de-lit de ma petite-fille, le gilet je l’avais commencé pour Nick a été loin d’être terminé.

C’était une idée à partir d’une photo que j’avais vu il ya quelques années; fabriqué en 16 morceaux séparés, chacun construit individuellement, puis une superposé sur l’autre pour former l’ensemble, avec des lacunes où ils ne se réjoignent pas. Une fois qu’il était ensemble, j’ai commencé l’à matelasser, décrivant la conception de certains des tissus et quilting en mouvement libre sur les autres.

Nous mettions en place l’exposition à partir de 17 heures le vendredi; j‘avais cousu toute la journée, (la plupart de la semaine en fait), mais par 16h50 je n’avais pas cousu à la main à l’intérieur des bordures emmanchures en place, donc je les ai épinglé, dans l’espoir que personne ne le remarquerait.

Samedi était le “Mayade« que nous n’avions pas rencontré auparavant, mais qui suit l’élection d’un maire. Le maire de Caupenne a onze conseillers; les gens se rassemblent dans la maison de l’un d’eux à 8h du matin, et le petit déjeuner est fournis, y compris beaucoup d’alcool. Ils  partent de là, à son tour, dans les maisons de chacun des conseillers et le maire lui-même, de manger et boire. Le déjeuner était à la maison du maire, donc nous y sommes allés, car nous ne pouvions pas aller à la paella le soir. Il y avait environ 100 personnes, dont beaucoup d’entre eux avaient déjà beaucoup bu. Nous avons mangé de la salade suivie par oxoa, à l’ombre des arbres dans le magnifique jardin de Patrick. Ils etaient toujours là lorsque nous sommes partis à 17 heures, la journée était déjà bien en retard et la femme qui fournissait les gateaux, le café et l’armagnac à la maison suivant commençait à paniquer au sujet de l’état dans certains personnes ont été .

Nous sommes allés chez nous, changé des vetements, chargé la voiture et sommes partis à Campagne, où le groupe allait jouer lors d’un événement pour le festival de musique nationale annuelle, tenue le week-end le plus proche de la Saint-Jean. Nous avons passé une très bonne soirée, nous étions bien nourris, abreuvés et on nous a  accueilli très chaleureusement.

Le dimanche, j’ai amené une amei à l’exposition de patchwork, puis j’ai aidé le démonter; l’enlèvement était beaucoup plus rapide à faire que de l’installation, qui nous a fallu 3 heures.

Pour une raison incompréhensible, ni Nick ni moi a été débordant d’énergie aujourd’hui!

So much to do, so much to do,

The days are just too short, too few

For all the work we must get through.

The beams to wax, the painting to do,

Floors to tile, the grouting too,

So many tasks for just we two.

There are plums to pick, raspberries too,

Just one apricot, but the tree is new,

And loads of cherries, not just one or two.

We went away for a week or two,

Everything in the garden grew and grew,

Helped by sun and rain and morning dew.

We get big hailstorms this time of year,

Strip fruit from the trees, leave vineyards bare

Of grapes for the wine for the following year.

They forecast a thunderstorm or two,

Torrential rain, strong winds would blow,

But worse, there’d be damaging hailstones too.

Thought I’d better pick cherries from the tree,

Didn’t want them blitzed in a hailstone scree,

Took my ladders out, and a bucket or three.

The sky soon turned to grey from blue,

Thunder and lightning, humidity grew,

The rain came down, I was soon soaked through.

Most of the fruit was picked at last,

Up and down the ladders, working fast,

Twenty kilos, more than in years past.

That’s an awful lot of cherries to stone,

But I had some help, so mustn’t moan,

Made pies and jam; next – cherry scones?

Next week we will start anew,

Painting, tiling, gardening too,

Install the shower, fit the loo.

There are weeds to pull and seeds to sow,

Chillies to plant and grass to mow,

Make a waistcoat for the patchwork show.

A report to write for the club cyclo,

Songs to learn for a gig or two,

So much to do, so much to do.

Je ne peux pas traduire ce petit poeme en français, mais il s’agit de tout qu’il nous faut faire; du carrelage, de la peinture, du jardinage, etc., etc.

La prochaine fois, j’ecrirai en français aussi, comme d’habitude.

The last fortnight has been something of a whirlwind; a visit to England is always a race against time, trying to see as many people as possible, but it didn’t end there.

We stopped for an evening in Boulogne on the way up, a lovely old town, buzzing with energy and live bands playing in the streets; then the ferry and on to London to see my brother and his family. Arriving in Harrogate, we settled for a few days and enjoyed a curry evening, catching up with a couple of dozen friends, but unfortunately went down with a tummy bug, which lost us two days visiting. We were able to complete the sale of our Harrogate flat, then off to the Lake District for the main purpose of the trip – my goddaughter’s wedding.

The wedding was lovely, held at the Inn on the Lake, Ullswater, but the weather was awful; bitterly cold, with frequent squally showers. Each time the rain stopped we had to dash outside for photos, trying our best not to look frozen. It was no colder than the rest of the holiday, but I could hardly wear my thermals under my posh frock, tempting though it was!

A night in the lake District, a day in Keswick and it was time to head back to Yorkshire, to see some friends who’d agreed to put us up for the night. then over to Hull to take the ferry to Zeebrugge. We spent the following day in Brugges, being proper tourists, before setting off to Chartres, where we’d booked an hotel for the night, then finally home last Thursday, with an hour to spare before I had to go to rehearsal, getting home again just after 1am.

There was no time to lie in or catch up on Friday, as I wanted to go to a patchwork exhibition in Biarritz; but it was well worth it. There were amateur as well as professional quilts being shown, and in all sorts of styles, from traditional bedspreads to amazingly intricate works of art, as well as some wonderful, whacky pieces.

On Saturday Nick was cycling up the col de Tourmalet, joining the pilgrimage that follows the lorry taking the “Geant du Tourmalet” statue up to its summer residence, after which I met him at our friends Alison and Ian’s house in the foothills of the Pyrenees, for Alison’s birthday party. We were asked to wear a hat to the party and there were some wonderful pieces of headgear around, some of them borrowed at the last minute, as Ian had forgotten to mention it to everybody. People brought musical instruments and even a sound system, so impromptu bands formed throughout the evening, playing all sorts of stuff, from traditional folk to heavy metal. It was a great night and because Ian and Alison run a B&B, we and about 18 others were able to stay over, and in comfort.

We’ve decided to spend some of the proceeds of the flat on a campervan and Nick had seen one in Argeles Gazoste, just an hour from Ian’s, so we went to have a look at it on Sunday. It seemed pretty good; we’re just waiting to hear about a couple of details, but hopefully we’ll be able to take Izzy to the seaside in it for a few days when she visits in the summer.

This week is back to reality; the garden’s totally overgrown again, with 8foot tall bamboo canes growing where I’d not just cut, but shaved the grass before we left! We need to get on with jobs on the house now, then there’s the upcoming patchwork exhibition for which I need to finish stuff, three gigs with the band this month, lessons to plan, etc., etc…..

Je suis désolée, mais je suis simplement trop fatiguée de traduire ce blog en français ce soir.

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.