Everyone who’s moved to St Paul in the last year was invited to a reception this morning. It was held in the Mairie (town hall) and you were supposed to sign up beforehand, though I think quite a few just turned up as there weren’t enough chairs, the room was full and people had to spill over into the corridor and the balcony.

The Maire gave a speech extolling the virtues of living here and introduced those of his helpers who were able to attend, we watched a short film about the town, were given a nice tote bag full of goodies and sent off the the “forum des associations”, being held just up the road.

All clubs, whatever they do, tend to be associations; there were far more than I expected – everything from dance classes to food banks, from the club that puts on bull fights, to judo and tai chi. I got caught by one woman on the cremation stand – I only stopped for a look because I thought I must have misunderstood! But no; you sign up, leave them something in your will and they’ll make sure your wishes are followed. She was very pushy; when I said that my children know my wishes, she insisted that they might know now, but once I’m gone, will they really carry them out???? Unfortunately, my french isn’t good enough to tell her that by then I really won’t give a monkey’s! Finally I got away, clutching a large sheaf of papers, which have gone straight into the recycling.

I found the painting club that I was looking for and even a patchwork club that does a bit of textile art too. A friend had asked me to look out for ballroom dancing classes, but there weren’t any.

After lunch, I went to man the cycle club stand at the twinned event in Dax. If I thought the forum in St Paul was big, Dax was huge, with over 100 stands, as well as demonstrations of all sorts of sports, dancing and even stilt dancing. I took a video, but it won’t load up.

There were lots of visitors and we handed out numerous flyers about the cycle club; whether or not that will translate to new members remains to be seen, but at least people know we exist.

I also found a group doing Spanish classes, which I’ll join at their open day in a couple of weeks, as I’m keen to improve my Spanish so I can go to Peru to help my friend Susie with her charity.

On my return I met my neighbour, Antonia, in the car park; she’s invited me to two events next weekend, gradually I’m getting to know people.

There’s a lovely lake just 5 minutes walk from where I live. It seems to be the cultural hub of St Paul, hosting all sorts of events throughout the year, from vide greniers (car boots) and art exhibitions to firework displays and triathlons. When I went for a walk around the lake this week, there were barriers being erected, along with a large stage, drinking water sources and signs to the toilets; I’d noticed posters for a music event this weekend – “Tempos du Monde”. I vaguely thought about having a walk down to see what went on, but it’s a ticketed event, so I forgot about it.

On Friday afternoon, sewing in my workshop, the window open to let in the lovely, cooler air that’s finally arrived (it’s been up to 41°C most of the week), I could hear music. The various bands were obviously doing their sound checks, some reggae, some African beats, all perfectly audible from where I sat.

So once things got started in the evening, I smothered myself in mosquito repellent, poured a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed out onto the balcony to listen to the free concert. Life could be a lot worse!

Once upon a time, according to legend, there was a Roman legionnaire who arrived in Dax with his elderly canine companion. The dog suffered from rheumatism and walked so slowly that the soldier left him in Dax while he went off to do whatever it was Roman legionnaires did, coming back for his old friend a while later. In his absence the dog had been rolling in the mud on the banks of the river and such were the health giving properties of the mud that the dog’s rheumatism was completely cured.

Dax has been well known as a spa town for a long time now, though whether it dates back to Roman times, I couldn’t tell you. The town’s other claim to fame is its annual fête, held over four days around August 15th, the second largest in the south west of France, beaten only by Bayonne. 

I thought it’d be rude not to take a look.

The first thing that struck me as I approached the town was how wrong my clothes were; almost everybody else was dressed in white and red. There were stalls on the roadsides, selling shorts, tee-shirts, neckerchiefs, scarves, all in white and red.

I could see a large crowd by the side of the river, so went to see what was happening. It was the opening ceremony; groups of people were dressed up as all kinds of Romans; soldiers, dancing girls, elders from the forum, camp followers….. There were battles re-enacted between the Romans and the Gauls, then Caesar and his wife appeared, riding in a chariot. It seems that normally they arrive by boat, but the water level in the river was too low this year.

I walked into Dax for three of the four days, dressed appropriately, having unearthed white shorts, a white and red tee shirt from the back of the wardrobe, as well as a pair of red earrings. The bull fighting events didn’t interest me, but the stalls showing various aspects of local history and traditional local crafts were fascinating. In the area around the arènes were several big marquees, all of which were restaurants, catering to the thousands of hungry visitors. I didn’t want a sit down meal, but treated myself to an excellent cone of chicken kebab and chips from one of the many fast food vans.

On the last two days there was the “grand défilé”, or procession. Groups of musicians and dancers from numerous countries, as well as locals and the inevitable Bandas bands, join in this event, all dressed in traditional costume. There were Mexicans in sombreros,  Spaniards in flamenco costumes, Scots in kilts, playing bagpipes, Ecuadorians, Basques and lots of others. One of the Bandas bands apparently choose a theme each year, dress up and play music appropriately; their theme this year was Charles and Camilla. The musicians all dressed up as beefeaters and played “Land of Hope and Glory” while the “King and Queen” were pulled along in a chariot.

There were all sorts of events, from a competition to see who could kick a rugby ball the furthest across the river (they’re rugby mad around here), to stilt dancing and initiation into walking with the traditional stilts, used by shepherds when the land was mostly marsh. There seemed to be bands playing in many of the bars and the atmosphere was great.

I was advised by several people only to go in the daytime; apparently the nights get quite wild. Certainly in the mornings there were plenty of cars parked all over the place, windows and/or doors open, full of sleeping bodies and certain parts of the town smelt distinctly unsavoury.

A very interesting few days, though I wouldn’t like to have to clean up after it.

It won’t go down as the best holiday I’ve ever had. I went to Harrogate for two weeks, supposedly to help Alex with childcare, but it wasn’t destined to work out well.

Between a bad back, requiring two visits to see the osteopath and a stinking cold which left me feeling like death warmed up, I wasn’t a lot of use to anybody!
I’d forgotten how awful the weather can be; it rained almost every day of my stay and was so cold that I had to buy extra clothes, my summer clothes staying in the bottom of my case.

The journey back to Manchester airport was one I’ll long remember; originally I’d booked a train from Leeds on the morning of my flight home, but decided it wasn’t fair to ask anyone to get me to Leeds by 6am, so tried to book an Airbnb in Manchester for Thursday night; my Airbnb account wouldn’t work, so Alex booked for me.
I booked trains to Manchester; the previous evening I heard that the Leeds-Manchester train had been cancelled, in fact four of the six trains around rush hour were cancelled! Great!

Graham took me to the station in Harrogate, only to learn that that leg of my journey was also cancelled. Never mind, I’d have time on the following train to make the later, running, connection to Manchester. I got to Leeds station, lugged my bags to the platform on the far side and waited. There were so many people, how would we all get on one train? There was an announcement; our train, running late, would actually leave from another platform, so I heaved my bags up and down the stairs with everyone else. Finally it arrived, already fairly full. I’m not good at pushing to the front and it was obvious that I wouldn’t get into the nearest carriage, so I started walking along the train; every doorway was crammed with people. I got to the end, very small, carriage with a few others and we squeezed our way in, nearly 30 of us in a carriage with only six seats.

After a very uncomfortable ride as far as Huddersfield, people began to get off. I was by far the oldest person in the carriage and was very grateful when a young man kindly offered me a seat that had been vacated.
Finally we arrived in Manchester, just one more train, then a short walk to the BnB. But instead of taking me directly down the main road, Google told me to take small roads through a housing estate; I was soon totally lost! After asking a few people I found the BnB; my host had gone out as I was so late, but left me keys, so I let myself in. I’m not entirely convinced the sheets had been washed, but was too tired to do anything other than crash, very relieved that I’d booked my host to take me to the airport the following morning. That evening I had another email from the train company, letting me know that the morning train I’d originally reserved had also been cancelled! What a complete farce!

I’d planned to take the train from Bordeaux back to Dax, but was so pleased when Kieran offered to come to pick me up instead, saving me the hassle of taking the tram into the centre of Bordeaux.

The holiday did have its good moments, however, meeting up with friends, two of whom are coming to visit me in November,  and spending time with my gorgeous, talented granddaughters (and Alex and Graham, of course), even if I could do much less than I’d planned. Immy and I went to York one day and I managed a short walk around Stainburn with Graham. I also got quite a few books read, so not all bad. Next time will be better 🤞

Shortly before I went to Bayonne, I bought a table on le bon coin (an internet selling site). I’d been looking for a dining table for a while, but this was the first I’d seen that met my needs; big enough, but drop leafed so it wouldn’t take up too much space. Kieran helped me to bring it up to the apartment, but when I examined it closely, I wasn’t convinced it didn’t have active woodworm, in spite of the seller’s assurances. So before going away, I dragged it out onto the balcony.

When I got home I started work; I stripped all the old varnish and wax and sloshed it liberally with woodworm killer. It was a good exercise in meeting neighbours, several of whom helped each time I needed to turn it over. I mixed up different tins of varnish till I got the colour I wanted, and varnished the legs and “underneath bits”, then stained and varnished the top. I’m really pleased with the result.

I’d been looking for dining chairs on le bon coin, but nothing caught my eye. I noticed the sales had started in a local furniture shop, so called in. Having no fixed idea of what I was looking for helped; I already have an eclectic mix of traditional and contemporary furniture, so I was free to choose whatever I fancied. And what I fancied was even included in the sale – contemporary brown suede finish chairs with metal legs. They’re lightweight and comfortable.

Four chairs came as a single, heavy package, so I unpacked them in the car and brought the bits up in several trips. They were easy to assemble too; I think Kieran will be impressed next time he calls in.

When Maddy and Dom knew they’d be holidaying in France, they decided to spend a few days with me. It was lovely to see them and to be able to show them not just my apartment, but a little bit of the area too.

I’d originally planned to have redecorated the spare room in time for their visit, but after my stay in Bayonne, I felt it was perhaps an unrealistic ambition in the time that remained. I bought a chest of drawers from IKEA, but didn’t manage to assemble it, though Kieran did come over the day before their arrival to help me assemble the bed. A couple of packing boxes for bedside tables, topped with carefully chosen books and lamps from my workshop completed the rather Heath Robinson ensemble. It’s a good job they’re such good friends and didn’t mind having to rough it.

Unlike their visit last year, when they worked from morning to night every day of their 3 weeks so-called holiday, this time we did very little. Lots of sitting around, eating, drinking and talking, a lovely walk around the lake and through the forest, where they found loads of interesting flora and insects and a day spent visiting old friends near Nogaro filled the time. I think we were all tired after the Nogaro trip; Francis and Regine speak no English, so Maddy and Dom made a huge effort to speak French, with me on hand to translate where necessary.

The 3 days passed very quickly and they were off again in their camper van to discover pastures new. I hope they’ll be the first of many visitors.

I really must learn to be less trusting, open and honest! A few weeks ago, while walking around the lake, an elderly man started talking to me. He told me that he’s a musician, a songwriter and guitarist, as well as a cyclist; I must have said that I sing and play a bit too and that I’m a member of the cycle club. He was very full of himself and walked slowly, as he kept stopping to make sure I’d understood the finer points of the conversation, which was pretty much his life story, including why he’d never married, problems he’d had with various girlfriends over the years, lyrics from songs he’s written, which he explained in detail, etc, etc.

He told me, several times, that, even at 74 years old, he’s still sexually active adding that he’d even consider a platonic relationship and insisted that I take his email address. He was sure we could make beautiful music together! He was going on holiday to Spain the following week with a friend, but he really wished it was me who was accompanying him. Would I keep in touch? I said I’d think about it, as when I’d previously said I didn’t have time for any new activities, he didn’t accept that. I did think about it – for all of a millisecond, then deleted his email and forgot all about him.

This morning there was a pre – Tour de France cycling event in Dax. Having ridden in the heat yesterday I wasn’t up to another ride, but did want to find out more about the Roue Libre association, who had a stand at the start/finish point. It’s a group of volunteers who will repair/service your bike or teach you how to do it yourself; since I’ve never before had even to think about servicing my bike, I’m totally ignorant of how to start, so I signed up and paid my 10€ membership.

Then Christian and Gilles, who are also members of the cycle club, came over to tell me that someone had just visited the stand to ask after me. As they described him, it dawned on me that this was the guy from the lake walk; they said that he seemed determined to find me again and had even said he was thinking of joining the club. I explained my misgivings – they were very amused, but very understanding too.

I’ve learnt a lot over the past year, but must now learn how to answer questions in a more evasive, less transparent way, before I find myself in an uncomfortable situation. Perhaps I need to become a woman of mystery!!!

Update

The following Wednesday “testosterone Ted”, as he’s become known, turned up to do our club ride. Apparently he made quite a nuisance of himself at the start, asking people where I was. They knew I was joining the ride a bit later, as it was going past the end of my road, but nobody admitted to that, suggesting that I might not be joining them that day. Various club members rode next to me the whole morning, so I think he got the message; he hasn’t turned up since anyway.

After all the trauma of the past year and once I’d settled into my new apartment, things started to go downhill;  I couldn’t stop, just had to keep working, pushing myself as hard as I possibly could; each time I tried to stop, I just fell apart. My trip back to Harrogate was great and gave me a focus for a while, but I couldn’t sleep, kept having bouts of unexplained pain and ended up going to A&E on one occasion.

On my return from the UK I went to see my doctor; I explained that I really wasn’t coping well and suggested that maybe I needed a few counselling sessions. His reply shocked me – a stay in a psychiatric clinic! He knew of a good one in Bayonne, where, in fact, his receptionist had stayed a while ago. He called his receptionist in and they both assured me that it wasn’t full of “mad people”, but those, like me, experiencing difficulties in their lives. The clinic specialises in addiction, anorexia and depression and the receptionist couldn’t speak highly enough of it. Woah, woah, this was all too much for me to take in, too sudden, too fast!

I simply couldn’t commit there and then; my very English view of “lock you up and throw away the key” being too deeply ingrained in my psyche. That was ok, said the doc; I could go away and think about it and go back when I was ready.

A week or so later, I went back; I’d give the clinic a try (there was always the reassurance that if it didn’t suit, I’d be free to leave). The doctor made a phone call and told me the clinic would ring me in the next few days to arrange my stay. I couldn’t believe how fast things then moved; they called me the next day – could I go in the following Tuesday?

I packed my bag and set off to drive to Bayonne, a challenge in its own right. My shoulders and neck were rigid and desperately painful with the stress of what I’d agreed to do. However, I got there safely and was admitted, I had no idea for how long. The first few hours were taken up with a full health check and seeing the on call psychiatrist before I was taken to my room,  light and spacious with en suite facilities, in the modern part of the building, in the grounds of a lovely old chateau.

The general way things run is that you stay in your room in the morning, unless you have appointments with a physio, dietician, etc, and the psychiatrist assigned to your case visits you there every day. Lunch is served in the canteen, after which some people are free to go out till 6pm. There’s a lovely park in the chateau grounds and it’s not a long walk into the centre of Bayonne. Dinner is taken in the canteen, then you’re free for the evening, as long as you stay in the clinic. Some people go out for a smoke, others play boules on the allotted space, still others play cards in the common area near the nurses’ station The staff are all delightful and more than happy to help in any way they can; in fact during my second week they even found me a quiet space to practice singing, before Saturday’s rehearsal, where nobody would hear me and I wouldn’t disturb anyone.

At first I felt quite resentful, this was all rather overkill; all I needed was a few counselling sessions, not to be confined to quarters for hours at a time. I was sooo bored! Most other people I met were doing “ateliers” – workshops – in music, dance, theatre, art, sport, aquarobics…… But not me. I gradually realised that I was there to learn to do nothing for a while. After the first few psychiatrist’s visits, I began to see things differently and settled into my new routine. I was allowed home for my first weekend, to “see how I got on”, heading back at the beginning of the following week.

The second week’s psychiatrist visits were harder than those of the first week, dredging up memories and emotions I’d had safely hidden away under lock and key for many years. But at least the psychiatrist had a sense of humour (I guess he needs one)….. and terrible taste in jackets. He said that I’d suffered a burnout (same word in French, just try saying it with a French accent), but had made excellent progress during my stay. However, I really must learn to listen to my body when it tells me to slow down – not to wait till it’s screaming at me! I promised to try and was discharged on Friday, at the end of my second week.

Friday 2nd June 2023 will henceforth be my personal Independence Day, the start of my new life.

I’m so grateful to the French healthcare system for providing this service; I’ve never heard of anything like it in Britain. The clinic is private, but the costs are covered by my “mutuelle” – top up health insurance. Clinics like this exist all over France and are well used; so many people I’ve spoken to have been through a similar experience following a traumatic event in their lives; there’s no stigma attached to needing a bit of help here.

I hate and detest paperwork; an official form or letter sends me into a flat panic and I’m unable even to read it properly. So you’ll understand why Nick used to deal with all the bureaucracy and why I’ve been having nightmares as the deadline for filling in my tax form loomed.

I told myself it couldn’t be that complicated and spent an evening hunched over the computer, trying to make sense of it; but I didn’t understand many of the questions and eventually gave up when I got into a loop that just took me round in circles.

So I got together all my paperwork and queued up at the France services minibus; but there they said that because I’d moved house, my income is from abroad and the tax office had got Nick’s date of death wrong (only by a few days, but wrong), it was too complicated for them to deal with – I’d have to go to the tax office.

I arrived at the tax office 10 minutes before they opened, but everybody else had had the same idea; the queue stretched from the doors nearly to the road, there were about 50 people ahead of me. My heart sank, I thought I’d be there for hours.

However, it was well organised; we queued up to be triaged, some people’s questions could be answered immediately, others were given tickets to queue at one of the six or seven offices available. When my turn came, I was sent to the computer at the end of the triage desks and told to log in, but when the man arrived to help me, heard my accent and realised my income is from a foreign source, he said he couldn’t deal with me, I’d need a specialist.

Again, I thought I’d have to wait for ages, but he went to one of the offices, turned out the couple who were in there (I do hope they’d finished) and sent me in. The advisor was very helpful, told me that the wrong death date didn’t matter, hardly needed to see any of the documents I’d taken, saying that he likes to keep things simple and within 10 minutes my tax return was completed.

I was amazed! It was so efficient! So un-French! I won’t have nightmares next year; I’ll just go to the tax office.

After a few false starts, I played my first gig with the band last night. It was billed as a “cabaret evening”; there were a couple of sketches, a few singers, then we rounded off the evening, which was raising funds for research into childhood illnesses.

Maybe it was because we ran through the whole set 3 times, twice as sound checks and once, unamplified, sat in the kitchen of the salle des associations, or maybe it was just being part of a group, all of whom are proper musicians, but I was able to keep my nerves in check, meaning that I sang as well as I do in rehearsal.

The audience was very appreciative (it was good to see several friends there) and even joined in with “knocking on heaven’s door” at the end. Once we’d packed up somebody asked if we’d go back for another event later in the year, so they must have been pleased.

A friend took this video on my phone; the quality’s very poor, but you can get an idea.