Over 1000 lorries thunder their way through Nogaro’s narrow streets every day, blocking the whole road as they take corners that were designed for horses and carts, not transnational articulated trucks, which save €60 a trip by avoiding the motorway. It’s not just Nogaro that’s had enough; several villages along the route between Auch and Bayonne want to stop the noise and pollution this traffic brings with it.

A protest was organised, so we went along to join the convoy driving at 10kph between Manciet and Nogaro and meeting another group which arrived from the opposite direction, having held up the lorries in both directions. We felt very French, Nick driving the Renault, wearing his Gascon beret. There were journalists at the rendezvous point and even some TV crews;  the maires of the affected villages and officials from the Department, in typical French style, made long, rambling speeches.

The plan is to ban the transnational lorries, forcing them to use the motorway, but apparently such a ban is not legally binding and can be overturned; nor, it seems, is it possible for the government to force the motorway companies to reduce their charges on big vehicles as they’re privately run. So we’re not holding our breath; this being France, this is a problem that will take many years, hundreds of meetings and thousands of civil servants to resolve, generating tons of waste paper in the process as they print everything in triplicate.

Such is the reality of life in France, but if we didn’t have the bureaucracy, what would we have to complain about?

The weather has suddenly gone from summer to winter; often the days are still gloriously sunny, but as soon as the sun begins to drop, the temperature plummets and we’ve had frosts for the last few nights.

For the last six winters, I’ve dreaded the cold weather as our only heating was a wood burning stove in the kitchen. Getting up in the morning, the first job was to go out, either to collect or to chop wood to light the fire and although the kitchen was toasty within a few hours, the rest of the house was cool, to say the least.

Now, however, in the new house, we have underfloor central heating; I think I must have died and gone to heaven – stepping out of bed or the shower, the tiles underfoot are warm to the touch and the whole house is deliciously toasty. I’ve even thrown out the mangy, but warm, quilted man’s cardigan that I’ve lived in for the last 6 winters!

A student arrived one morning this week for her English class; Nick let her in and I heard her say “oh Nick, you’ve got knackered feet”. We both howled with laughter, to her total bemusement, before I explained to her how we pronounce “naked” in English.

It being half term and two of my students having cancelled their lessons for the week, it seemed an ideal opportunity to head off in the camper van. I wanted to practice my Spanish, so we set off for Jaca, not far over the border and from where we’d heard tell of a monastery built into a cliff face, within cycling distance. We wouldn’t be doing any serious riding, so we didn’t take our best bikes; it always feels a bit risky leaving them locked to the back of the van.

We arrived in Jaca on Halloween; every child in the town, and several of their mums, must have been out, dressed up and faces painted; all the shopkeepers had huge buckets of sweets for those doing “trick or treat”, it was so good natured and fun. Even the waitresses at the restaurant where we had dinner were dressed up.

The next morning we set off for the monastery; not long into the ride, the road turned up hill. It went up, and up…….. and up…….. till at last we reached the sign for the Puerto de Oroel, a mountain pass at 1080 metres (how had Nick not spotted that on the map!). And still it went up, to the new monastery on the top, from where we started dropping to the old monastery, which is amazing, and is indeed built into the face of a huge, overhanging cliff.We couldn’t get decent photos because of all the trees around, but there are some good photos at

https://www.google.fr/search?q=monastery+san+juan+de+la+pena&client=firefox-b&dcr=0&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjwv_Snp63XAhWDWRoKHXsJDbwQ_AUICigB&biw=1280&bih=591&dpr=1.5#imgrc=eKLeBEuvVUi5QM:

I was really pleased when two groups of Spanish stopped me to ask if I’d really ridden all the way up there; more pleased that I understood what they’d said and that I could reply, than anything else, if I’m honest. The village of Santa Cruz de la Seros was at the bottom of the valley, so we set off there for a lovely lunch, really pleased that we’d done the ride this way round; the descent was so steep, I’d never have been able to ride up that!

The following day we went to Huesca, from where we thought we’d ride to the Castillo de Loarre about 35km away and a mostly flat ride. All went well till we reached the village of Bolea, about halfway; the village was a labyrinth with not a road sign in sight. We took a right turn that seemed to be heading in the right direction, but which soon petered out into dirt track, it was apparently the footpath for the pilgrimage of St Jacques de Compostelle. So back into the village centre, where I asked a man; “down there and turn right”, he said, but that was where we’d come from so I asked another; “right here, then left”. Better get a concensus, so I asked someone else; “I’m not from around here, you’d better ask in the bar”, which I did. Three locals all shook their heads when I said, with a lot of mime when I ran out of vocabulary, that we’d found the camino de St Jacques, but wanted a proper road to Loarre; “no, there isn’t one; if you want to see the castle, you have to take the track”. This seemed a little unlikely as there was a road, with a number, on our map; but my Spanish certainly isn’t good enough to argue. I reported back to Nick and we’d almost decided to head back to Huesca when we spotted a town map on a wall; clearly marked was a road to Loarre. My three friends from the bar were walking up the road; “look, this is the road we’re looking for” I said, pointing to the map. More shaking of heads; “no, it doesn’t exist any more, you have to take the track”. Unconvinced, we followed the map; there was a perfectly good road all the way to Loarre and if we hadn’t taken the first right turn, we’d have found it, no problem; but i wouldn’t have had as much Spanish practice!

The last 4km to the castle were steeply uphill; I really wished I’d taken a lighter bike with lower gears, but arriving at the top it was worth every minute; the castle was stunning and the views fantastic, as we sat in the sunshine, feasting on our picnic of tortilla followed by sheep’s cheese and what was called date and walnut loaf – a 10cm circle, about 2cm thick, of neat dates and walnuts, squashed together – delicious!

We sampled a couple of tapas bars in Huesca, they were superb, then loaded the van up with olive oil, brandy, wine, oranges and more date and walnut loaf, before heading home. It was only four days, but felt like a real break.

It was with mixed emotions that we said goodbye to our Helpxers this morning; it’s been great having them here, but we (and they) are exhausted and looking forward to a few days respite.

As first experiences of Helpx go, I don’t think we could have been luckier; Gwen and Valentin were cheerful and hardworking. They first helped collect the wood from the forest, a task that would have taken Nick and I weeks on end. Then we set them on to clearing the banking of weeds; we planted plants there two years ago and it’s been sadly neglected since, so the weeds were shoulder high in places, there were brambles and nettles everywhere, most of what we’d planted had died of neglect and because of the lack of rain this year, the soil was like concrete. But they took it on as a personal challenge, determined to finish it before they left and finish it they did, just the night before. Nick let Valentin have a play with the chain saw, the strimmer and the compressed air driven roofing nailer; he was delighted to be let loose with such toys and the two of them finished off the pergola by putting in the lats on the top, which in turn allowed me to treat the wood with a sort of creosote-y stuff.

In their time off they borrowed bikes, walked, had a day in Auch and we took them to see an armagnac distillery, so I think they enjoyed their stay. We certainly enjoyed having them here.

Nos jeunes “Helpxers” sont partis ce matin; on etait triste les voir partir, mais nous sommes tous, les quatre, tellement crevés apres 18 jours de travail dur.

Ils nous ont aidé prendre 10 stères de bois de la foret, ils ont desherbé le grand but de terre au jardin et ils nous ont aidé finir le pergola. Ils etaient tellement gentils; toujours heureux et bons travailleurs. Quand ils ne travaillaient pas, ils ont emprunté des vélos, ils sont allés à Auch et nous les avons amené à un chai d’armagnac; donc ils ont vu un peu du Gers, qu’ils ont beaucoup apprecié.

Comme premier essaye de Helpx, c’etait une grande réussite.

I take on too much, I know I do, and one of the ways I try to make up time is by skim reading emails and the like. This usually works in English, but is less successful in French.

We’d exchanged several emails with our Helpx couple, about their arrival, food, work, etc., so we set off to pick them up from Toulouse railway station on Saturday afternoon. We got a little lost, but eventually found the station, but not our helpxers. I phoned to check where they were; in front of the station. So were we, but couldn’t see them. “La gare de Matabiau?” I asked. “No, the gare St Jean.” I asked directions to the other station at the information desk, but the man seemed a bit bewildered, got out a map and pointed to the autoroute that leads to Bordeaux. No, I explained, I wanted the gare St Jean in Toulouse; finally I understood; there isn’t one; it’s in Bordeaux, 4 hours drive west. I phoned Valentin back; “are you in Bordeaux?” “Yes.” ” I thought you were coming to Toulouse.” ” We changed our plans, we did tell you.” When I looked back through the emails it was there, but somehow, in skimming, I’d missed it. Fortunately they were able to get a car share as far as Mont de Marsan, from where we picked them up, finally arriving home after midnight, instead of 8.30 pm. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an idiot.

I’d prepared a quiche for the evening, which we had for lunch the following day. I took a bite; it was sweet! Or to be more precise, the pastry was sweet. As they’re vegetarian and try to avoid eating butter, I’d bought pastry as it’s made with oils; what I hadn’t realised is that pâte brisée is savoury, whereas pâte sablée is sweetened. It tasted really strange!

I’m still waiting for disaster number three.

We haven’t put them off completely, however; they’re a lovely young couple, quite a bit younger than our own kids, and they’re enthusiastic, strong and more than willing to work. We did a couple of hours of forest clearing today and it made an enormous difference, as Gwenaëlle can carry more wood than I can and Valentin can carry as much as both of us. Clearing the wood is looking like a realistic possibility now.

I take on too much, I know I do, and one of the ways I try to make up time is by skim reading emails and the like. This usually works in English, but is less successful in French.

We’d exchanged several emails with our Helpx couple, about their arrival, food, work, etc., so we set off to pick them up from Toulouse railway station on Saturday afternoon. We got a little lost, but eventually found the station, but not our helpxers. I phoned to check where they were; in front of the station. So we’re we, but couldn’t see them. “La gare de Matabiau?” I asked. “No, the gare St Jean.” I asked directions to the other station at the information desk, but the man seemed a bit bewildered, got out a map and pointed to the autoroute that leads to Bordeaux. No, I explained, I wanted the gare St Jean in Toulouse; finally I understood; there isn’t one; it’s in Bordeaux, 4 hours drive west. I phoned Valentin back; “are you in Bordeaux?” “Yes.” ” I thought you were coming to Toulouse.” ” We changed our plans, we did tell you.” When I looked back through the emails it was there, but somehow, in skimming, I’d missed it. Fortunately they were able to get a car share as far as Mont de Marsan, from where we picked them up, finally arriving home after midnight, instead of 8.30 pm. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an idiot.

I’d prepared a quiche for the evening, which we had for lunch the following day. I took a bite; it was sweet! Or to be more precise, the pastry was sweet. As they’re vegetarian and try to avoid eating butter, I’d bought pastry as it’s made with oils; what I hadn’t realised is that pâte brisée is savoury, whereas pâte sablée is sweetened. It tasted really strange!

We haven’t put them off completely, however; they’re a lovely young couple, quite a bit younger than our own kids, who are enthusiastic, strong and more than willing to work. We did a couple of hours of forest clearing today and it made an enormous difference as Gwenaëlle could carry more than I can and Valentin could carry as much as both of us. Clearing the wood is looking like a realistic possibility now.

Once upon a time, between the vineyard and, well, another vineyard, in deepest, Armagnac-soaked France, there lived a couple of Nayatubs (not-as-young-as-they-used-to-be’s); that’s not to say they felt any older in their heads than they used to – far from it; but they were finding hard physical work took longer and that their arms seemed to have shortened when they wanted to read. This didn’t prevent them, however, from volunteering to help when the need arose.

They were looking at the wood pile as the nights started drawing in, when Mr Nayatub announced that there may not be enough to see them through the winter; they’d have to look into buying some more.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, or maybe there was a puff of smoke; there appeared the wood elf, in the form of Patrick, the village Maire. “I come with tidings of great joy” he said, or words to that effect. “In thanks for your voluntary work, the commune would like to give you a present of 10 cubic metres of firewood”. And without even a puff of smoke, as that would be against health and safety regulations, there appeared a large, neatly stacked pile of oak. The Nayatubs were delighted; they thanked the wood elf and everybody lived happily ever after.

Ah well, it’s a nice dream and some of it’s true; but after telling us about the wood, Patrick added that it just needs collecting from the forest. The commune sold the oaks from a patch of forest a couple of years ago; barrel makers got the best wood, mainly the trunks, cabinet makers the next and what remains has been divided up among the volunteer workers. There are some huge pieces and other bits are smaller, but they all need chainsawing to length, dragging to the edge of our plot and stacking. Patrick said someone with a tractor would bring them to the house for us.

It’s extremely hard work; we can only do a couple of hours at a time and though Nick doesn’t seem to be suffering too badly, I’m not sure my shoulders and wrists will ever be the same again!

So we’ve signed up with Helpx, a work/accommodation exchange scheme and have a young French couple arriving on Saturday. They’re both into bodybuilding, so we’re hoping they’ll be strong enough to make a difference. Watch this space!

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I’m really not good with wildlife, or even tamelife; even such mundane animals as cats and dogs scare me. But I am getting better at coping with the invasion of seriously big spiders every autumn and I can tolerate the bats in the attic, simply by making sure I don’t go in there at night.   However, when a toad crept in through the door one evening and started hopping towards the wardrobe, Nick did have to come to the rescue; it ended up in one of my shoes. Imagine if I’d put my shoe on in the morning and found it full of toad – it really doesn’t bear thinking about!

Now there’s no Hugo to deal with the autumn influx of mice,I’m practicing setting mouse traps, but Nick has to deal with the remains. There was a lot of noise last night, in the kitchen; a strange noise, it didn’t sound exactly like the fridge making ice, so Nick went to investigate. There was a mouse under the sink; it was caught in the trap, but still alive, poor thing (I can say that when it’s no longer there), so he had to dispatch it pronto, by hitting it on the head with the washing up bowl.

But yesterday, when I went into the bedroom to put away some clothes and found a snake in the middle of the floor, it was just more than I could cope with. Nick, thinking “something serious had happened”,(it had!), came hurtling downstairs to find me frozen to the spot and almost incapable of rational speech, only to declare it “just a small one” and “very pretty”, before packing it into a plastic box and taking it to the far end of the vines.

I think I’ll always be a townie at heart.

We’ve been working on our bedroom all summer; the task I thought would be done in a week has actually taken a couple of months, but at last it’s finished.

When Joel, our builder, said we’d have to have a pillar in the bedroom to support the floor above, we had plenty of ideas how to decorate it, but also wondered about using it to create a dressing room. But would that make the bedroom small? Would it make the entrance too narrow? Like a corridor? Etc., etc….

In the end, we bought a cheap, temporary wardrobe, just a few shelves, a couple of drawers and some hanging space, and put it next to the pillar; we could imagine better how it would work and yes, it would work. But it was already bulging at the sides and sagging in the middle (a bit like us, really!), so Nick built some extra hanging at the end, between the wardrobe and the wall and put in a back, which we covered with plasterboard and filled. I painted the new wall and we designed and built some shelves and shallow cupboards. Next came some more hanging and shoe racks across the end wall and it was done and works really well. It’s supposed to be temporary, but……

We’re still using the chest of drawers and bedside tables I bought, unfinished, from Argos years and years ago, functional, but the paint was looking tired and they didn’t match their new home; so I decided to tart them up a bit. The first job was to find the paint. The chaufferie had become a dumping ground for all sorts of stuff apart from paint, from dust sheets to sunbeds, tiles to a table tennis table; you could barely get in through the door, let alone find anything, so we spent a day sorting that out before I could even think about painting.

Then I could start, undercoat, two coats of dark grey, wax the edges, a coat of pale grey, rub off the edges to get a worn look, then a bit of stencilling, a coat of varnish and they look great, in our opinion at least.