Sunday
It was a most beautiful autumn day, so I went walking and Nick went for a bike ride with the cycle club, as usual, but had a problem with his bike, so came home, swapped bikes and set out to meet up with the rest of the club. He spotted them coming towards him on the road and, incomprehensibly, it seems as though he pulled out to do a U-turn without checking behind him, so was unaware of the car overtaking him. He was thrown up in the air, ricocheted off the car, buckling the roof and wing and crumpling the windscreen before landing in the ditch on the far side of the road. The guys in the club were convinced he couldn’t have survived such a collision, but he’s a Yorkshireman, made of tough stuff.
Luckily for Nick, the passenger in the car was a medical student who’s just done 6 months in A&E in Toulouse and the next person on the scene was a retired sapeur pompier (fireman-cum-paramedic). The emergency services were called, as was another club member who’d gone home early. Jacques called me and arranged to pick me up; he knew Nick was conscious but that was all.
We arrived to find half the road closed and full of sapeurs pompiers and gendarmes’ vehicles. Nick was in an ambulance, able to move his limbs, in a lot of pain, but completely unaware of what had happened. They took him to the local small hospital and that was where the wonderful French health care system took a nose dive, in our experience at least.
When I got to the hospital he’d had x-rays, showing that he’d broken his right shoulder pretty badly. In the course of the next hour hour I asked three times for pain relief for him; I’ve never seen him in such pain, even when he broke his hip. but the nurses were more interested in gossiping than looking after their patient. At last the surgeon arrived, furious that, not only was he not on a drip for the pain, but they hadn’t even immobilised his shoulder. He looked at the x-rays and explained to me (Nick was in no state to understand anything) that he’d have to insert a pin the length of the humerus, along with three screws and a band around the bone. He couldn’t operate till Tuesday because they’d have to order the parts.
Eventually Nick was admitted, still in a lot of pain, but the nurses on the ward were efficient and caring. Finally I got home, had something to eat and slept fitfully.
Monday
I got to the clinic in time to help Nick with his lunch as he couldn’t feed himself on Sunday; I was so pleased to see him showered and sitting up, able to feed himself and looking more comfortable.
From there I had to go to Maubourget, a halfway point between here and where the car driver lives, to fill in some insurance documents. I met Jacques partway and he took me the rest of the way and we filled in the forms. The young lad who was driving brought his parents with him; I was dreading the meeting, but they were so kind, not a word against Nick, just “Well it could happen to anyone”. They said the gendarmes should have filled in these forms, but that if they don’t, they don’t have to include this accident in their statistics, so it’s a means of massaging the figures.
Then back to the clinic; by now it was dark and raining and the road markings were almost invisible so I didn’t enjoy the miles I had to drive.
The anaesthetist had been to see Nick, but had postponed the operation till Thursday, because the metalwork hasn’t turned up yet. In addition to this, his ankle was hugely swollen and bruised, but no x-ray had been done, his neck hurt and though they had x-rayed that, they’d done nothing more. Three lads from the club came visiting; they were appalled and made me promise to see our GP the following morning, to insist that something was done, and done very soon, a prospect that filled me with dread.
I got home feeling a bit wrung out, only to find that the wind was in an unusual direction and all the firewood I’d cut on Sunday was soaked. A cold, miserable end to a long, hard day.

Tuesday

When I phoned to ask when I could speak to the doctor, the receptionist promised to ring me back, but of course didn’t; so I went to the surgery to wait. A friend who’s a retired nurse came with me, to help explain where my vocabulary ran out. The doctor saw us, listened to my complaints and reassured me that the surgeon is excellent; he phoned the surgeon to ask what was being done about Nick’s ankle and neck and we were promised that an x-ray would be done of his ankle.

From there we went to the insurance office, where I got a list of stuff I have to take in tomorrow. I was so pleased to have Marie-Neige with me, to explain in simple terms, slowly, what was said. The more I hear, the more I realise how much French I lack.

I bumped into the surgeon on my arrival at the clinic; he didn’t think it was more than bruising, but was sorting for an x-ray of Nick’s ankle to be done; it turned out that it is broken, so he will screw it back together when he does the shoulder on Thursday. I feel vindicated.

The next task was the cycle club insurance; Jacques and Gilles came round, but of course, things are very complicated and when they left after two hours, we hadn’t actually managed to fill in any of the forms, but at least we know what’s required now.

Now I have to write a report of the accident for one lot of insurance; in French, of course, to take to the office in the morning. My head’s spinning!

Désolée, mais je suis trop fatiguée de faire une traduction.

I’ve always had an artistic streak, but between working, renovating houses and bringing up our three children, I never had the time to give it its freedom, till we arrived here.

I can’t paint and my drawing’s not great, but over the years I’ve enjoyed trying various crafts; lots of sewing, but also paint effects, stencilling, knitting by hand and machine, I’ve made my own Christmas cards and have even done a bit of stained glass window making. I’m never happier than when I’m creating something and I have a good eye for colour. But my enduring passion is for fabrics; I love the textures and colours and the sense of achievement when I’ve created something unique.

When Izzy, our first grandchild, was born, I decided to make her a patchwork quilt. Never having tried patchwork before, I bought magazines and books; useful for techniques, I found the designs repetitive and boring. I didn’t want to follow a pattern, making lots of samey blocks; it seemed like colour-by-numbers, so I started making my own designs.

Many years ago I bought a magazine at a patchwork exhibition. There was a feature on “wearable art”; totally unique, one-off garments, there were jackets, waistcoats and dresses, but what really caught my eye was a top made from bits of reclaimed lace. I saved the magazine; one day I’d make something like that.

That day arrived this year. I scoured charity shops and vide greniers for bits of lace, buying net curtains, tablecloths, bedspreads, hankies, clothing, even a lampshade, anything, in fact, with lace attached, ready to cut up.

I chose a design for the prototype, which would be undyed, bought some water soluble fabric (like sewing clingfilm!), and set to work. It took months, carefully stitching the pieces of lace to the soluble layer, and also to each other; I didn’t want it falling apart! Once the sewing was done, I started beading it, hand stitching hundreds of tiny beads in place. Eventually it was completed, I washed away the soluble fabric base and it turned out better than I’d dared to hope.

I was inspired! Now for the dream project, to be ready for Kieran’s wedding party, just two weeks away.

I chose the bits of lace I wanted to use, divided them into three piles, mixed green and blue dyes in differing proportions and started dying. The greenest panful was too green, so they went back into a pan of just blue dye. This top was to be fastened with lacing down the back, so it needed more strength than the prototype; I found some organza to use for the base layer, made that up and started to attach the pieces of lace. Each different bit of lace had taken up the dye differently, so I had lots of shades from which to choose, from the palest turquoises to deep sea greens.

Nick knows only too well that once I get immersed in a project, I’m oblivious to everything else; he took over the cooking, dragging me out of my cave at mealtimes and to sleep and gradually my top took shape.

Two days to go and it was ready to try on; but the back, below the lacing, stuck out at a horrible angle, basically the pattern was for a bigger backside than mine and I hadn’t noticed when fitting the organza. Four hours, lots of delicate unpicking and nearly a few tears later, it was wearable, just needed beading, well that and a skirt making to wear with it.

I didn’t completely finish the beading, but stopped working on it the evening before the party, when Alex and Izzy arrived. The organza’s a bit scratchy, but it felt so good to wear my own, unique, original piece of wearable art.

Je suis toujours un peu artistique, mais entre le travail, la rénovation de maisons et d’élever nos trois enfants, je n’ai jamais eu le temps de lui donner la liberté, jusqu’à ce que nous sommes arrivés ici.
Je ne peux pas peindre et mon dessin n’est pas magnifique, mais au fil des années, j’ai aimé essayer divers métiers; beaucoup de couture, mais aussi des effets de peinture, pochoir, tricoter à la main et la machine, je me suis fait mes propres cartes de Noël et j’ai même fait un peu de vitrail. Je ne suis jamais plus heureuse que quand je crée quelque chose et j’ai un bon oeil pour la couleur. Mais ma passion durable est pour les tissus; j’adore les textures et les couleurs et le sentiment d’accomplissement quand j’ai créé quelque chose d’unique.
Lorsque Izzy, notre premier petit-enfant, est née, je décidai de lui faire un dessus de lit en patchwork. N‘ayant jamais essayé patchwork  auparavant, j’ai acheté des magazines et des livres; utile pour les techniques, je trouvais les dessins répétitif et ennuyeux. Je ne voulais pas suivre un modèle, ce qui rend beaucoup de blocs répétitive; donc j’ai commencé à faire mes propres dessins.
Il y a de nombreuses années, je acheté un magazine lors d’une exposition de patchwork. Il y avait un article sur “l’art portable”; des vêtements totalement unique; il y avait des vestes, des gilets et des robes, mais ce qui a vraiment attiré mon attention était un haut de robe fait de morceaux récupérés de la dentelle. J’ai gardé le magazine; un jour, je ferais quelque chose comme ça.
Cette année, ce jour est arrivé. Je écumé Emmaus aussi que des vide greniers pour les morceaux de la dentelle, j’ai acheté des voilages, des nappes, des couvre-lits, des mouchoirs, des vêtements, même un abat-jour,n’importe quoi, en fait, avec de la dentelle attaché, prêt à couper.

J’ai choisi un patron pour le prototype, qui serait non teint, j’ai acheté du tissu soluble dans l’eau (comme faire la couture avec du film étirable!), et me mit à travailler. Il a fallu des mois, j’ai cousu délicatement les morceaux de dentelle à la couche soluble, et également l’un à l’autre; je ne voulais pas qu’il tombe en morceaux! Une fois la couture a été fait, j’ai commencé à attacher des centaines de petits perles,  de couture main. Finalement, il a été terminé, je fis disparaître la base soluble de tissu et il est avéré meilleur que j’osais espérer.
Je me suis inspiré! Maintenant, pour le projet de rêve, d’être prêt pour la fête de mariage de Kieran, en seulement deux semaines.
J’ai choisis les morceaux de la dentelle que je voulais utiliser, les divisa en trois. J’ai mélangé des teintures en bleu et vert dans des proportions différentes et j’ai commencé à teinter. Le marmite le plus verte était trop verte, donc je les ai mis tout de suite dans une casserole de teinture bleu. Ce vêtement devait être fermé avec laçage au dos, donc il fallait être plus solide que le prototype; J’ai trouvé un peu d’organza à utiliser pour la couche de base, et j’ai commencé à attacher les morceaux de dentelle. Chaque morceau de la dentelle différente avait pris le colorant différemment, donc je eu beaucoup de nuances à partir de laquelle choisir, des turquoises claires aux verts foncés de la mer.
Nick sait trop bien que, une fois je suis immergé dans un projet, je suis inconscient de tout le reste; il a fait tous les taches ménageres, et m’a traînant hors de ma caverne au moment des repas et de sommeil et petit à petit mon haut de robe a pris forme.
Deux jours avant la fete et il était prêt à essayer; mais le dos, au-dessous du laçage, coincé à un angle terrible, la patron était pour une  arrière plus grand que la mienne et je ne l’avais pas remarqué lors du montage de l’organza.

Quatre heures plus tard, et beaucoup de dégrafage délicate et il était portable, il ne fallait que faire les perles,  et aussi de faire une jupe à porter avec.

For a while I’ve been concerned that our Irish band wasn’t long for this world. Jacques, our front man and driving force, who plays an array of penny whistles, mandolin and chanter amongst other things, is selling up and hopes to move to Majorca in the next couple of years. And if that weren’t bad enough, Alain, a lynchpin as he plays guitar, fiddle and banjo, recently announced that although he can still come to rehearsals, he can no longer play gigs. That only left a few, lesser-talented individuals, not a band.

But then I remembered a fiddle player who joined in with us one evening a couple of years ago; he seemed very talented and picked things up very quickly. A couple of phone calls and I’d got his phone number.

I dithered for ages; would he be interested? Would he fit in? And how would it change the dynamics of the band to add another English member? Up to now it’s very much a French band with a few foreigners, but without Jacques and Alain the balance will be very different. But then again, went the argument, if the alternative is no band at all, what had we to lose? I plucked up my courage and phoned; his wife, Vera, answered, she was sure Lester, her husband, would be delighted by the invitation. He plays not only fiddle, but also mandolin and banjo – perfect! As an added bonus, Vera herself plays piano accordion, which will add an extra dimension to our sound.

They’ve been to two rehearsals now; lovely people, they fit in perfectly and seem really committed to learning the music as well as improving their French, so we need to translate less for them. But as they say, music is an international language.

Pendant quelques semaines, je m’inquietais que notre groupe irlandais ne pourrait pas continuer. Jacques, notre force motrice, qui joue un tableau de flutes, la mandoline et le bombard entre autres choses, espère démenager à Majorque dans les deux prochaines années. Et si cela ne suffisait pas, Alain, un pivot parce qu’il joue de la guitare, le violon et le banjo, a récemment annoncé que, même s’il peut toujours venir aux répétitions, il ne peut plus jouer aux concerts. Il nous restait seulement quelques individus, moins talentueux; pas un groupe.

Mais je me rappelai à un monsieur, une violiniste qui a rejoint avec nous un soir, il ya quelques années; il me semblait très talentueux et a appris très rapidement les pièces de musique que nous jouions. Quelques appels téléphoniques et j’avais obtenu son numéro de téléphone.

Je tergiversé pendant quelques jours;  s’intéresserait-il?  S’intégrerait-il? Et comment serait-il changer la dynamique de la bande à ajouter un autre membre anglais? Jusqu’à présent, il est vraiment un groupe français avec quelques étrangers, mais sans Alain et Jacques la composition sera très différent. Mais, si l’alternative est pas de groupe du tous, que-ce que nous avions à perdre? J’ai pris tout mon courage et je lui ai appelé; sa femme, Vera, a répondu, elle était sûre que Lester, son mari, serait ravi de l’invitation. Il ne joue pas seulement du violon, mais aussi de la mandoline et du banjo  – parfait! Comme un bonus supplémentaire, Vera joue de l’accordéon, qui va ajouter une dimension supplémentaire à notre son.

Jusqu’à maintenant ils sont venus à deux répètes; des gens charmants, tout le monde s’entende bien et ils semblent vraiment déterminés à apprendre de la musique ainsi qu’ameliorer leur français, donc nous aurons besoin de traduire moins pour eux; mais comme on dit, la musique est une langue internationale.

Our friend Nellie is a stained glass maker, she creates the most beautiful contemporary pieces of glass. But if you saw her workshop, you’d wonder how anyone can produce anything in such an environment; ivy and all sorts of greenery grows over the inside of the walls, the roof leaks like a sieve and there’s hardly any natural light. It’s also completely uninsulated and bitterly cold in the winter. At last Hervé, her partner, has decided to do something about it and Nick, along with several other friends, has been working on replacing the roof this week.

The common language being French, Nick feels it has helped improve his grasp of the language, but not before he made a huge faux pas. Someone arrived who I know slightly from when the band played a gig and Nick told him that he thought he knew me; innocuous enough in English, but apparently this doesn’t translate to French in the way Nick intended, but implies “knowing” in the biblical sense. The guys on the roof at the time laughed so much they nealy fell off, leaving Nick wondering what he’d said, until it was explained to him. He corrected himself, hopefully leaving my reputation intact.

It’s mushroom season. They spring up everywhere; in the garden, on walks through the forest and in the hedgerows. But of course, not all are edible and people die due to eating the wrong sort every year.

Nick’s been helping our friend Hervé wire his new kitchen recently; Hervé is a real countryman who worked as a shepherd for 25 years, so when it comes to mushroom identification, he’s something of an expert. But a Frenchman’s mushroom picking spot is generally a closely guarded secret, so we were very surprised and not a little flattered when Hervé invited Nick to go mushroom picking with him.

They set off early, looking for cepes, very highly prized, but there weren’t any so they had to be satisfied instead with a variety of other types; but each of them arrived back with a carrier bag full, enough for two meals.

Il est la saison des champignons. Ils poussent un peu partout; dans le jardin, dans la forêt et dans les haies. Mais bien sûr, ils ne sont pas tous comestibles et de personnes meurent en raison de manger le mauvais type chaque année.

Nick a aidé notre copin Hervé faire l’electricité dans sa nouvelle cuisine recemment; Hervé est vrai paysan qui travaillait comme berger pendant 25 ans, alors quand il faut identifier des champignons, il est expert. Mais le lieu ou un Français trouve des champignons est généralement un secret étroitement gardé, donc on a été très surpris et pas un peu flatté lorsque Hervé a invité Nick aller ramasser de champignons avec lui.

Ils sont sortis assez tot, à la recherche de cèpes, très prisée, mais il n’y en avait pas alors et ils ont dû se contenter avec une variété d’autres types; mais tous les deux sont arrivés de retour avec une poche complète, assez pour deux repas.

Since starting the tiling of the floors, Nick has begun to have pain in his knees; I put it down to the tiling, but he was having none of that – he thought it was due to too much driving. During the summer, while neither driving nor tiling much, his knees improved; until he started tiling again, when, standing up, there was a horrible cracking noise and his knee didn’t feel great. He had to admit it was probably tiling.

The solution seemed obvious to me; but tiling floors, it seems, is most definitely a blue job and it took all my powers of persuasion to convince him to let me help. Finally a compromise was reached; he’d mix and lay the sticky and I could put down the tiles. We’ve always worked well together and this time is no exception and two of us working means we can get a lot done during each session, so we can see progress being made.

In order to prevent the same thing happening to my knees, Nick’s insisted that we have a day off between tiling days. A friend was looking for a guitar for her daughter and I found one in Pau; so we picked up the guitar en route to the Pyrenees and had a few hours in the hills.

We parked beside the river in Louvie-Juzan, ate a quick picnic and cycled to Laruns; Nick wanted to do the Col de Portalet, a 30km climb that starts just above the town. I did the first few km of the climb with him; it’s a long time since I’ve been able to do any “proper” cycling and it felt great to be back in the hills, especially on the descent, with the wind whistling through my helmet. I cycled back to pick up the car and take it to Laruns, where I wandered around the pretty town and read my book in a pavement cafe till Nick got back, just minutes before it started to rain. En route for home, we dropped off the guitar, so everyone was happy.

Depuis il a commencé faire le carrelage des sols, Nick a des douleurs aux genoux; je lui ai dit que c’est du au carrelage, mais il pensais que c’était dû à trop de conduite. Pendant l’été, quand il n’a fait pas beaucoup de conduite ni de carrelage, les genoux ont amélioré; jusqu’à il commencé carreler encore, quand, debout, il y avait un bruit de craquement terrible et son genou ne se sent pas très bien. Il a du admettre qu’il a probablement été le carrelage.

La solution me semblait évident; mais faire du carrelage du sol, il semble,est un metier pour les hommes et il a fallu tous mes pouvoirs de persuasion pour le convaincre de me laisser aider. Enfin, un compromis a été atteint; il mélange et tartine le col et je pose les carreaux. Nous avons toujours bien travaillé ensemble et cette fois ne fait pas exception; nous pouvons faire beaucoup plus chaque séance de travail qu’une seule personne, afin que nous puissions voir du progrès.

Afin d’éviter que la même chose se passe à mes genoux, Nick a insisté que nous avons un jour de repos entre les jours de carrelage. Un ami a été à la recherche d’une guitare pour sa fille et j’en ai trouvé une à Pau; donc nous sommes allés chercher la guitare en route vers les Pyrénées et avons passé quelques heures dans les collines.

Nous nous sommes garés à côté de la rivière à Louvie-Juzan, mangé un pique-nique rapide et pédalé à Laruns; Nick a voulu faire le Col de Portalet, une montée de 30km  qui commence juste au-dessus de la ville. J’ai fait quelques premiers kilomètres de la montée avec lui; il est longtemps depuis  je peux faire  le “vrai”cyclisme et il me sentais bien d’être de retour dans les montagnes, en particulier sur la descente, avec le vent qui siffle travers mon casque. Je suis allée chercher la voiture et je l’ai pris à Laruns, où je promenais autour de la jolie ville et lisais mon livre dans un café jusqu’à Nick revint, quelques minutes avant qu’il a commencé à pleuvoir. En route pour la maison, nous avons déposé la guitare, donc tout le monde était heureux.

It’s been a pretty busy summer and Nick and I felt sorely in need of a break before the next lot of visitors arrived. The forecast was good for last weekend, so we decided to head off for the little town of Vieux Boucaux on the west coast on Friday.

The garden is still producing loads of veg, so the whole of Thursday was spent in the kitchen, making vast quantities of tomato coulis, putanesca pasta sauce and Indian peach chutney (it was meant to be mango chutney, but we didn’t have any mangoes, just a tray of peaches that weren’t ripening). Once all that was done, I went to band practice, leaving Nick to clean up the catastrophe of a kitchen.

By Friday morning, we hadn’t done any preparation for the trip and really wondered if we ought to stay home and do some gardening, tiling or any of the other 1001 jobs that need doing; but common sense prevailed, we threw the essentials, or most of them, into the camper and set off. We called in to Adrian’s for lunch and he took me out for a motorbike ride and to look for a hinge for our new front door; we didn’t find a hinge, but had a great ride with Kieran. The next port of call was Dax, to take Alice her birthday present and enjoy aperitifs with her and Kieran; so by the time we arrived in Vieux Boucaux, it was already dark and we only found the camping car site with some difficulty.

On Saturday, we went to explore the town; it’s lovely, built just behind the big sand dunes. There’s a marine lake too, linked to the sea by a little river and in contrast to the big waves of the sea, that attract surfers, the lake is completely calm. There was a great market to look around and the beach looked very inviting. It was too cold, at 20ºC, for me to go in the sea, but Nick spent ages diving into the big waves.  On Sunday we went for a ride along the cycle path; built on the old railway line, it extends to Mimizan to the north and Cap Breton to the south, going through miles of beautiful forest. It’s well used, by walkers, cyclists, roller skaters and skateboarders and being in the Landes, is pan flat. Then for a walk around the lake and another dip in the sea for Nick.

On the way home, looking for a petrol station, I realised that I’d left the bank card in the pocket of the motorbike jacket that Adrian had lent me; but it was OK; the “low fuel” light didn’t turn on till 5 miles from home. I was forgiven.

Il a été un été très occupé et Nick et moi nous sentions d’avoir besoin d’une pause avant le prochain couple d’invités seraient arrivés. La meteo était bon pour le week-end dernier, nous avons donc décidé d’aller à la petite ville de Vieux Boucaux sur la côte ouest le vendredi.

Le jardin continue de produire des quantités de légumes, donc l’ensemble de jeudi a été consacré à la cuisine, on a fait des vastes quantités de coulis de tomate, sauce putanesca  et de chutney de pêche  Indien (il a été destiné à être chutney de mangue, mais on n’avait pas de mangues, juste un plateau de pêches qui ne mûrissaient pas). Une fois qu’on avait fini tout ça, je suis allé à la repete, laissant Nick pour nettoyer la catastrophe d’une cuisine.

Vendredi matin, nous n’avions rien fait comme la préparation pour le voyage et on se demandait si nous devrions rester à la maison et faire du jardinage, de carrelage ou de toute de l’autre 1 001 taches qu’il nous faut faire; mais non, nous avons jeté les choses essentiels dans le camping-car et sommes partis. Nous sommes allés chez Adrian pour le déjeuner et il m’a ammené pour une rando au moto et de chercher une nouvelle charnière pour notre porte; nous n’avons pas trouvé une charnière, mais il etait un très bon tour avec Kieran. Notre prochaine arrete était Dax, à offrir un cadeau d’anniversaire à Alice et profiter des apéritifs avec elle et Kieran; donc au moment où nous sommes arrivés à Vieux Boucaux, déjà il faisait noir et nous n’avons trouvé le camping qu’avec une certaine difficulté.

Le samedi, nous sommes allés à la découverte de la ville; elle est belle, construit juste derrière les grandes dunes de sable. Il y a un lac marin aussi, reliée à la mer par une petite rivière et en contrast aux grandes vagues de la mer qui attirent les surfeurs, le lac est complètement calme. Il y avait un grand marché et la plage était très attrayante. Il faisait trop froid, à 20°C, pour moi d’aller dans la mer, mais Nick a passé du temps de se plonger dans les grosses vagues. Le dimanche, nous sommes allés pour une promenade sur la piste cyclable; construit sur l’ancienne voie ferrée, elle étend à Mimizan au nord et au Cap-Breton, au sud, va-travers des kilometres de belle forêt. Il est bien utilisé, par les marcheurs, cyclistes, rollers et skateboarders et d’êtant dans les Landes, elle est absolument plat. Ensuite, pour une promenade autour du lac et un autre plongeon dans la mer pour Nick.

Sur le chemin du retour, à la recherche d’une station d’essence, je me suis souvenue que j’avais laissé la carte bancaire dans la poche de la veste moto que Adrian m’a prêté; mais ça y etait; la lumière “de carburant réduite” n’a activer jusqu’à 8km de chez nous. Je suis pardonné.

Anyone who regularly reads my blog may remember last year’s guinea pig holiday (https://www.cawthray.co.uk/2013/10/01/once-upon-a-guinea-pig-holiday/), in which our friends Mr Rattletrap and Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it went on holiday.

It’s a little known fact that the collarbones of guinea pigs who eat too much chocolate become soft, rather like twix bars, in fact; so this year, shortly before embarking on his annual visit to the dungeons of the Emperor Adrian in deepest, sunniest South West France, Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it went for a ride on his motorbike, fell off and broke his twixbone – again. He’d enjoyed the experience of having it repaired with a metal plate so much last time, that he thought it a good idea to repeat the experience, even if it meant he’d be unable to ride his motorbike to France.

Luckily Mr Rattletrap’s brother, Mr Oh-no-not-a-seventh had also booked to visit, and being a big, strong sort of guinea pig, offered to carry Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it’s bag, well packed with enough chocolate to sustain him, on to the plane, if he could book a flight.

Like Mr Rattletrap, Mr Oh-no-not-a-seventh also plays a mean guitar, so mean, actually, that Ryanair wouldn’t let it on board, so ferocious is it that he had to leave it in the dangerous animals’ cage. Normally a gentle sort of guinea pig,  Mr Oh-no-not-a-seventh has a horror of playing seventh chords on his guitar, they make him screw up his face in an apoplexy of angst, while shouting “Oh no, not a seventh!”

The first job was to buy Mr Oh-no-not-a-seventh a motorbike as it would have been a squeeze to fit all three guinea pigs onto one, none of them being exactly sylph-like specimens of guinea pig-hood. This done, they set off to chase dragons in them thar mountains, accompanied by Mr I’m-just-off-to-dax-to-see-alice Skinnypig, now known as Mr Aren’t-I-smart-in-my-shiny-new-leathers Skinnypig, on account of his recently having married the lovely Alice and bought a set of motorbiking leathers, the smallest size made, but still less than a close fit. The three rounder-than-they-should-be guinea pigs, whose bodies may be ageing and decrepit, but whose minds are still as sharp as a plastic spoon, and with the combined maturity of a twelve year old schoolboy, had great fun taunting Mr Aren’t-I-smart-in-my-shiny-new-leathers Skinnypig about said new leathers, suggesting remedies for their shinyness, such as rolling about in muddy puddles and when he didn’t agree, they accidentally-on-purpose spilt coffee on him.

The dragons needn’t have worried about being caught this year as Mr Oh-no-not-a-seventh wasn’t used to his new bike and Mr Rattletrap, cosily sharing his bike with Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it (they did look sweet!), rode at a grannie’s pace up the hills, the poor bike struggling under their combined consumption of steak, chips and chocolate, and still sounding like a bucket of spanners being dropped down the stairs, so leaving the dragons more time than ever to saunter back to their caves, laughing all the while at the overtaking antics of Mr Aren’t-I-smart-in-my-shiny-new-leathers Skinnypig.

Once they’d tired of that game, they came to visit us (guinea pigs can never resist a free lunch). Amongst the experimental cuisine on offer were chocolate and chilli samosas for Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it; he had finished one and was part way through the second before he piped up that these samosas were sweet, he hadn’t been expecting that and hadn’t anyone else noticed? Everyone else had veggie samosas, so no, we hadn’t! A delicious selection of curries, made by Mr Bonnet-ornament Skinnypig followed, finished off by an experimental chocolate meringue pie; chocolate in the pastry, chocolate truffle filling, topped with chocolate meringue. Even Mr There’s-not-enough-chocolate-in-it didn’t dare complain.

I’m sorry I haven’t any photos of the guinea pigs or the dragons, but none of them thought to take a camera and wouldn’t take me along for a ride.

Ceci ne traduit pas bien en français – désolée!

Over the last couple of months, life has been so busy that we don’t seem to have had a lot of time to work on the house, but although it’s been slow, we haven’t ground to a complete halt.

Nick’s finished grouting the tiles downstairs and I’ve cleaned the cement residue off them with acid, so they look really good now. I’ve finished painting the walls and ceiling upstairs and Olivier came back to sand the floor, so Nick is ready to start tiling this week. He’s been working to adapt the doors we bought second hand, to replace the current back door. He’s made an oak frame and will have to cut a much larger hole in the wall, but it’s going to transform the back of the house and allow us to get Joel back to crepi the outside, a sort of render-like finish.

Apart from that, we’ve spent many hours in the garden; watering can take up to two hours a day, then we’ve had to pick the produce – plums, tomatoes, aubergines, beans, onions, courgettes, chillies, butternut squash and melons. Once picked, it all has to be dealt with; we’ve made batches of plum jam and plum butter, about 80 jars of tomato based pasta sauces, heaps of ratatouille and tomato coulis, jars of  chilli and tomato ketchup and, new for this year, several jars of sun dried tomatoes in olive oil. The figs are now ripening; I cut them in half, squash them and put them in the dryer; when they’re dry I can store them, ready to take when I go walking.

Now most of the cooking stuff is done and the freezers are rapidly filling up, things should start to get back to normal. The schools have all gone back and soon it will be time for me to restart my French and English classes. The CLAN is having major work done this year, so I’m not teaching there, but I’m going to have another go at learning Spanish when my friend Maria begins teaching again – third time lucky.

When Gemma stayed with us in June, and came to the cycle club dinner, we didn’t realise the impresion she’d made. But a few days before she arrived back, this time for Kieran and Alice’s wedding party, we were chatting to a few of the guys from the club when they started asking about our beautiful daughter; how old is she? Where does she live? Is she married? And so it went on; she’d obviously caused a stir. Even those who hadn’t been at the meal had heard of her. When we said that she was coming back on Wednesday, there was great excitement; the Nogaro circuit would be open to non-motorised forms of transport on Wednesday evening; they all thought they might go; were we going? Did we think Gemma would like to go too? Did she ride? Did she have a bike? Eventually, we had to promise that she’d be there, and riding, to which she agreed, greatly amused and not a little flattered by the attention.

There were all sorts of vehicles there on Wednesday evening; scooters, roller skates, a recumbent bike, and of course, a large contingent of the Nogaro cycle club, in their best lycra, bikes polished for the event. We rode a few laps of the circuit and watched as the Nogaro peloton rode round, as disciplined as they’re ever likely to be in their effort to impress, before heading home; after all, Gemma had been up since 4am and was flagging by then.

Alex and Izzy arrived on Thursday afternoon, just in time to sort themselves out and pack a few things for the next couple of days. Friday was the party; we stayed overnight in the camper and the following day headed off to Mimizan, on the coast.

Mimizan is a surfers’ paradise with the huge waves typical of the west coast. The area where swimming is permitted was quite small and closely surveyed by three life guards, two on a tower, the third in the water, which gives an indication of how dangerous these waters can be. Even paddling was quite strenuous, as the tide was coming in and the waves hit the shoreline with amazing force. We had two people with Izzy at all times; she loved jumping and diving into the waves, but the undertow was so strong, it could easily have carried her away.

A walk into town for ice creams, post cards and a look around, then it was time to go home, all of us pretty tired after a busy few days.

But there’s no rest for the wicked, as they say; this was, after all, the weekend of the village fete and we’d booked to go to the lunch on Sunday. No chance for Izzy to be bored as there was a bouncy castle at the back of the salle des fetes, so she burnt off plenty of energy between courses, leaving us to enjoy the food, the wine and the company.

Monday, Alex and Izzy’s last day, was less successful. The restaurant we went to for lunch, never having needed to book before, was full; we tried two others, but both were closed, so we went home and ate left-overs from the fridge. Alex wanted to go to the treetop walk that Nick and Izzy had done last year, but it started to rain as we were driving there and within a few minutes of our arrival there was thunder, lightning and a downpour; so we came home. Alex wasn’t happy, but maybe next year…..

Later that evening there was a huge storm with thunder, lighning, torrential rain and the strongest winds we’ve seen since we’ve been here. As it started we went up to the bacony to move furniture back, out of the way of the rain; we were just in time to see the cane chairs and settee sliding along the balcony, whipped by the wind, and about to disappear off the end, if we hadn’t managed to grab them and bring them inside. The following morning we found our beans and tomato plants sorry and battered to the ground, but we were lucky; many people lost trees and tiles from their roofs.

On Tuesday Alex and Izzy went home, followed by Gemma on Wednesday; the house felt so quiet and empty without them. A friend describes the post family visit time as being a bit like a bereavement; I don’t know that I’d go that far, but we certainly miss them when they’ve gone. Fortunately, it doesn’t last too long.