Last Christmas Gemma gave Nick and I an amazing present; a voucher for a hot air balloon flight over the Dordogne. Obviously we hadn’t taken it by the time of Nick’s death, so Gemma agreed to go with me.

The date we booked was very close to the end of Gemma’s stay and the weather forecast wasn’t great for the Thursday morning, so the company suggested we do Wednesday evening instead. 

What an experience it was! 

There were several balloons flying in the area, it seems to be quite a centre for it.

Our balloon was enormous, as was the basket; big enough for 16 people plus the pilot. We were 12, so we had plenty of space as, once the balloon was inflated, we climbed aboard.

I don’t think I was the only one wondering if our pilot knew what he was doing at the beginning of the flight; we lifted a bit, but then stayed on the same level as we crossed above a road. We needn’t have worried however; on the far side of the road was a big field of maize, which we skimmed, the top leaves of the maize just brushing the bottom of the basket as we flew over the field. We then rose quickly before a row of trees along the edge of the Dordogne river, again just skimming the topmost leaves. 

Our pilot, a New Zealander, had done over 3000 flights in 87 countries over the past 23 years; he certainly knew exactly what he was doing. 

We rose higher and higher, though there was no sensation of movement, just a feeling of total peace and tranquility, ending up at 2200 metres altitude. No wonder everything looked so tiny below us!

All too soon, we began to descend, landing in a farmer’s field, where everyone helped to pack up the balloon before we were offered drinks and nibbles. 

An unforgettable experience.

It was Gemma’s 40th birthday in August, so she and Chris planned to visit that month, at the same time as Alex and Immy (Graham and Belle don’t like the heat).

Alex and Immy were the first to arrive; we spent some time making and hanging birthday banners and other tacky decorations which Gemma certainly appreciated when she got here.

We spent a lovely couple of weeks, swimming, eating out and doing all the other normal holiday activities.

One important thing we wanted to do was to say our final goodbyes to Nick; it would have been his birthday on August 28th, so we decided to go to the top of his favourite col, la Hourquette d’Ancizan, to scatter his ashes in his beloved Pyrenees.

The logistics took some working out, but worked perfectly in the end. We dropped Kieran and Chris in Ste Marie de Campan, at the bottom of the climb, from where they started cycling the col, carrying Nick’s ashes in a rucksack. Gemma and I drove a bit further, to Payolle, then shared the riding and driving from there, my bike only needed a slight adjustment to the saddle height to suit each of us. Alex drove Kieran’s car, with Alice, Immy, Artie and Emily, to the top of the col, from where she started walking down to meet us. We picnicked near the top and reminisced about happier times, before finding a lovely space, away from the road and overlooking the mountains, where we scattered Nick’s ashes.

It was, obviously, very emotional, but we all felt that this was exactly where he’d have wanted to be. It felt a very fitting tribute.

I can’t believe it’s been 3 months since my last post here, the time has gone so quickly, probably because I hardly have time to think these days, there’s so much to do.

This house and garden are far too big for me to manage on my own, so the decision had to be made to sell. I’ll move to Dax, to be nearer to Kieran and his family. I think it will be a very small place in Dax – the prices are way higher than they are around here. 

Obviously downsizing involves getting rid of a lot of stuff, an awful lot of stuff. You see, Nick was a hoarder, he never threw anything out. In fact at the beginning of this year, I started having a bit of a clear out; when I got to his “working clothes” drawer…… and box ……. and overflow heap, I discovered that he had no fewer than 16 pairs of working trousers, 15 sweatshirts and over 20 tee shirts, all scruffy, all for working in. Did he really need them all? Well, yes, of course he did!

It was almost impossible to walk in the garage, the abri and the cabanon; I despaired when I looked at the huge quantities of “stuff” we’d accumulated over the years.

But help was at hand; Kieran found a buyer for the digger, the trailer tent and some other bits and I called a woodworker friend, who took a lot of wood and the Renault 4 and a local garage owner offered to put the camper on his forecourt.

Maddy and Dom arrived from England; the idea was for them to alternate a few days here with a few days camping for their two weeks holiday, but it was far too hot to go camping, so they stayed here and worked from morning to night every day. Dom’s an expert at decluttering, though he needed watching as he had a tendency to throw everything out! Between us, we cleared out most of the big, most cluttered areas, taking many loads to the tip and organising what remained. Dom also organised Nick’s bike shed – a monumental task!

I called Simon, who recycles building materials, and who agreed to take away the huge pile of old roof tiles from the middle of the back garden. Maddy tackled the unenviable task of removing the brambles that were growing all over, under and through them.

Francis recommended a scrap metal merchant, who came to take away the huge heap of scrap metal that we unearthed from all over the place.

At times (well, actually, most of the time), it was very hard emotionally, seeing things thrown out that, though of no use, reminded me of Nick. Maybe it was too soon, but it needed doing and I couldn’t have tackled it on my own.

Once Maddy and Dom had left, Alex came over for a week; we planted up a flower bed where previously there were only weeds and had a lovely week together, in spite of the frequent tears. We even managed an afternoon at the jazz festival in Marciac, by chance there was a fantastic band on in the place; what luck, it made our day.

I’ve chosen an estate agent and am going to put the house on the market very soon, but in the meantime, the back wall of the house isn’t finished and looks awful, as we hadn’t got around to having it crepied. I’ve asked the builder to do it, but I think he’s probably very busy since last month’s storm, during which I lost quite a lot of tiles from various parts of the roof. A retired roofer friend came round to repair the damage for me, but looking round at fields of maize and vineyards entirely stripped of their leaves, I realise how lucky I was not to suffer serious damage.

Richard, a retired carpenter, came round a few weeks ago, to repair the workshop shutters, all of which had dropped a bit in the middle, so were very difficult to open and close. I spent the rest of that week sanding and painting them before the family arrived.

So all in all, progress is being made, even though it feels slow. I’ll try not to leave it so long before my next post; there’s plenty to report.

Lots of people have asked me for a copy of the tributes paid to Nick at his funeral. Some of you will know that we tried to livestream the service, but that the internet dropped out quite quickly.

Gemma was the first to speak, reading a eulogy of which she and Kieran were the main authors; Alice translated it into French, which Patrick, the mayor of Caupenne read.  Maurice, of the Nogaro cycle club, followed her; I’ll include a local newspaper article which summarises what he said, including the obligatory journalistic errors. Alex had spent her journey to France writing her dad a letter, an extract of which she read out, followed by her own translation; Alice checked it over for any really unacceptable errors, but Alex wanted to be truly the author of her own words. My contribution was a poem by WH Auden, which perfectly expresses my feelings; There was no way I could read it myself, so my friend Kate read it in English, followed by Jacques with the translation, again provided by Alice and much better than the google translation.

By way of explanation of something Gemma said; I put the word out that I’d love cyclists to turn up in cycling kit, even if it was just a jersey over their ordinary clothes; dozens of them did so.

Just writing this has brought home to me, once again, how lucky I am to have such an amazing family and friends; everyone has pulled together, each person doing what they could to help everyone else, be it trips to the airport, making up beds for the incredible number of people we needed to house, or simply making sure I had something to eat before I keeled over.

Gemma

Good morning,

For those who don’t know me, I’m Gemma, Nick’s eldest daughter.

I’d like to start by thanking everyone for coming today, this is an impressive turnout which is fitting because Dad was a very impressive man.

I didn’t ever think I’d be so glad to see so much lycra.

Dad was a man who built houses, who turned wood into beauty, and piles of rust into working clocks.

Few people know how much he was capable of, but a glance in his workshop, a look at his collection of carefully manicured bonsais or just a browse of his library would show the depth of his modest and unassuming expertise.

Mum and Dad met in 1975 at college, and it took him over 2 years to pluck up the courage to ask Mum out. They were married in 1980 and celebrated 42 years of marriage just last month.

They both worked in Biomedical Science and enjoyed walking, including supporting a school for the blind by guiding them along the Lyke Wake walk, a 40 mile trail which Dad completed over 40 times.

In the late eighties, we started traveling to France as a family for holidays and enjoyed staying at numerous gites, some nicer than others (remember the ant house?). It was on one such holiday that when sheltering from the rain in an estate agent’s, Mum and Dad made a spur of the moment house purchase – a dilapidated ruin with dirt floors and an outhouse in the Dordogne. This launched the twenty year French adventure which culminated in their retirement to Caupenne d’Armagnac in 2011.

For as long as I can remember, Dad’s life revolved around cycling. A major factor in him and Mum moving to this area of France was its proximity to the Pyrenees where he could spend a large portion of his retirement years cycling pretty much every col (or mountain pass) in the range.

A particular highlight for him was last September, when he managed an incredible 43 cols and over 400 kms in 4 days. There is an elite club called the hundred cols club which you need to have cycled at least 100 unique cols to join. At the end of last year, Dad was listed in the club magazine as having achieved 344 cols to date.

Dad was seemingly impervious to pain. He was able to shrug off major injuries like they were nothing and we all know how he liked to throw himself off his bike with alarming regularity!

I was talking to Dad after his most recent cycling accident, and we spoke about the life expectancy of the new ceramic hip. He said that it should last 15-20 years, and that would probably see him out. I was horrified that he would suggest he would only be around for that length of time, but he said “I don’t want to get too old and infirm, better a shorter life of greater quality”

In the next breath, he then took great pleasure in telling me that he was having his stiches out and made mention of the young nurse he was mooning at. I told him I hoped it was a young male nurse, he called me a spoil sport, but then conceded that the young nurse did indeed have a fine moustache!

One of our favourite memories of Dad was his friendship with Hermione the goose. Hermione was the most fearsome creature and hated everyone except Dad. There was a period of about a year when every photo of Dad working on the house included this proud looking goose stood next to him – protecting him from everyone and anyone who dared come close.

The thing about geese is that they can’t fly with clipped wings. But Dad really wanted Hermione to be able to fly, so regardless of whether or not he knew he had an audience, he would run up and down the garden flapping his arms, with an enthusiastic goose following him, honking her support and flapping her wings too!

Dad’s death serves as a stark reminder that life is short. That even the strongest people, the ones we thought would be there forever, are gone in the blink of an eye.

Although we are heart broken, we can take comfort from knowing that Dad spent the last four weeks of his life with family after two years of minimal contact, and it was clear to see that this made him so happy. He enjoyed over a decade of cycling and retirement in the most beautiful area with Mum and built a stunning home for them both.

Today we are crying, but his clocks are still ticking. The bikes lie dormant, and our hearts are broken but one day it will hurt a little less.

A tree which is overwatered will never grow strong roots; underwatered and it will die. Dad helped all of us grow strong roots with his consistency and calm, unwavering love and support.

I’d like to finish with a quote from a French Philosopher, Albert Camus that Dad sent me a couple of years ago when I was upset about something. It helped me then and I hope it can help us all now.

My Dear,

In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me an invincible love.

In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me an invincible smile.

In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me an invincible calm.

I realised, through it all that…..

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

Maurice

This translates, approximately, as:

The cyclists of the Bas Armagnac club of Nogaro are grieving because their secretary, Nick Cawthray, has left them for ever. Born the 28th August 1956 in York, he studied the sciences and worked in haematology in a big lab in York( actually Leeds).  Holidays in the Dordogne led him to the purchase of a house in Caupenne d’Armagnac in the Gers, where life was quieter than in the Dordogne, and 5 years later the couple became Gersois (habitants of the Gers), renovating their house and joining the cycle club as Nick had been bitten by the cycling bug. He was a gift to our club, rapidly integrating, his natural good humour and his ease on the bike soon led him to play a larger role in the club. Elected secretary he revitalised the club, always there on the weekly runs as well as the trips to his beloved Pyrenees. He was also a member of the 100 cols club and had, up to the end of 2021, totted up 344 cols.

A wonderful person, brimming with talent and humanity, we’ll miss him. We will never forget you Nick

.Alex

One of my favourite memories of all time, Dad, was the day, one Easter, when we all went into the mountains. Belle must have been about 6 and we spent ages at the border because she thought it so funny that she was in Spain while we were all in France. As we drove on, the two of you decided to go sledging….. without a sledge.  You had a large cardboard box in the boot of the car, so decided to use that. I remember the first time the two of you tried to go down the hill, the snow was so deep that the box just sank in and you both got covered in snow.

As usual, though, you weren’t to be defeated. You kept going, again and again, until the snow was so compacted that it would have worked if the cardboard box hadn’t been so wet it was disintegrating!

It’s so cruel that the rest of your beautiful grandchildren knew you for such a short time and won’t get the joy and wisdom you gave to everything you do.

Stop all the clocks

by W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

On hearing of Nick’s death, the St. Germé cycle club decided to do something to pay tribute to him. The annual pilgrimage, following the “géant du Tourmalet” statue up to its summer home, which Nick took part in every year pre-covid, having been cancelled this year due to building work taking place at the top of the col, they chose to do their own ride as an hommage.

Kieran wanted to join us; I gave him a bike of Nick’s and the rest of the gear, fortunately they’re both the same size, and he promised to do some training as it’s 7 years since he’d cycled. The training rides, however, failed to materialise; he’d attempt the 30km col, known to be a brute, with no training at all.

We took the camper to Pierrefitte Nestalas last night as neither of us is a morning person, and were ready to go when everyone else arrived at 8 o’clock this morning. We were 27 in total, most rode from Pierrefitte, some from Luz Saint Sauveur, 12km up the hill, all except Steve, who set off on his bike at 5 o’clock this morning from his home, near us!

I never had any intention of riding the whole col – I’m no longer capable, but I did 16km before I bottled and got into the “broom wagon”, so I was happy enough with that. Edith dropped me at the top so I could take photos of those strong enough to complete the climb, before she went back down to see if anyone else was struggling. She reported back that she’d seen Kieran sat at the side of the road about 5km from the top, eating, drinking and determined to finish.

At last he appeared, in the second half of our group but far from the last, looking totally exhausted; we had a very emotional reunion on the top of the col. I’m so incredibly proud of what he achieved today, as Nick would have been too.

We all went back down to Pierrefitte, where we’d booked into a restaurant for lunch. There was a toast to Nick proposed by some of the many fantastic friends we’ve made here over the years. A very fitting tribute to an amazing man.

My plan to post a monthly blog didn’t get off to a very good start, but here’s a roundup of recent events.

Nick and Kieran went on a boys’ road trip to England, paying Alex a surprise birthday visit and collecting an old motorbike that’s been in boxes in my brother’s garage for many years; the idea is that Kieran will rebuild it.

Two weeks later Alex, Graham and the girls came over for the Easter holidays and of course Kieran, Alice and their children joined us. We had no idea that Gemma and Chris, her partner, had planned to fly in to surprise us. We certainly were amazed when they appeared at the kitchen window. We only had a few days all together, but what a few days, full of love and laughter, before people had to go their separate ways. It was made all the more special after two and a half years of COVID restrictions.

This time became all the more poignant on Saturday 30th April, when I came home from a day out to find Nick dead on the floor. He’d had a heart attack.

We’re all devastated, he was always so full of life and love, of plans for us and for Kieran’s house. He was my rock and I can’t imagine living without him. 

I’m so pleased he and Kieran had done their trip to England together, that we’d all been together for Easter and that Nick had met Chris for the first time and wholeheartedly approved of Gemma’s choice of partner.

The day of his funeral was the hardest day of my life, but it went smoothly and was attended by over a hundred and fifty people, many of the cyclists in lycra at my request; the salle des fetes was full. I couldn’t be prouder of my children, who arrived as soon as was possible, who have supported me in every possible way and who together wrote tributes to their dad, which the girls read during the ceremony and somehow kept their composure. 

The house has been bursting at the seams with up to 13 people, family and friends, staying. Obviously we’ve shed a lot of tears, but there have also been moments of laughter, when I could almost imagine that Nick was still here with us.

Our hearts are breaking, but his legacy is one of a united, strong, loving family who will continue to pass on his values to the next generation.

I thought I might try a slightly different approach to my blog; if I wait to write about an important happening, I could be waiting a long time as, since we finished the major work on the house and especially since COVID hit, life just trundles on and nothing much happens here in Caupenne.

So I’m going to try to write on a monthly basis, including the few little newsworthy items that occur.

So here goes……

February 2022

The major event of this month was that we now have a house number! Yes, I can hear the groans of “get a life”, but just imagine sharing an address, which doesn’t appear on any GPS system, with 7 or 8 of your neighbours.  I don’t know how many times I’ve either stood outside the gates, ready to flag down a likely looking van, or even sent Nick into the village on his bike to meet up with a delivery driver who couldn’t find us.

 Now, however, following a government dictate, we have a house number! We still have a few official bodies to inform, but it’s already making life easier as I don’t have to describe the house and its location to every delivery driver who rings, but can tell them it’s number 11, Route de Laujuzan.

Apart from dealing with the paperwork involved in modifying the address, we haven’t been idle. We were looking to introduce some shade to our garden; some friends have a gorgeous, wooded area, where they’ve installed a table and chairs. It’s a lovely, cool space in the summer, perfect for sitting with a glass of something.

We were thinking of doing something similar when I read about micro-forests, which are apparently springing up all over the world. Small areas,  densely planted with native trees, it seems they grow very quickly and can look like a 100 year old forest after only ten years.

So I put the word out that we were looking for little trees and friends responded; Steve arrived with a trailer containing oaks and troènes, a variety of privet that grows as a tree; Christine arrived at the textile arts group with a huge box full of baby trees, mostly oak, hawthorn and wild cherry, between 5 and 30cm tall, 20 or so to a pot, all labelled, and Nadine has invited us to take whatever we can find in her garden, mostly shrubs to go between the trees.

It seemed a good idea to improve the soil before planting; we have a huge compost heap behind the banking, but as it’s where I dump the nasty weeds, celandine, oxalis, etc, we don’t dare use it on the potager or flowerbeds. However, celandine and oxalis would be perfectly acceptable in a woodland, so up to now, Nick has dug and I’ve barrowed about 80 wheelbarrows full of compost to where the woodland will be. The heap has shrunk, but there’s still quite a lot left, which we’ll gradually shift.

We’ve planted all the trees and must get the shrubs in soon;   most of the trees look as though they’re still alive. I think we’ll need more in the autumn, but it’s a start.

Apart from that, I was voted president of the textile arts group at the AGM. It doesn’t mean an awful lot of work as there are only six of us, but every association in France must have its president, secretary and treasurer. As it’s often me who comes up with ideas for techniques to try and projects to undertake, not much has changed.

Spring is fast approaching and Alex, Graham and the girls have booked to come over for the Easter holidays; it’s over 2 years since last we saw them, so it’s going to be great! Gemma is hoping to get over from Australia in August too, so this could be a wonderful year of reunions.

Back in the autumn Maria, our elderly neighbour, came to see me. She looked uncharacteristically sheepish as she said she had something to ask me, on behalf of her son-in-law Fred, who’s a conseiller du maire, like a town councillor. 

I wondered what on earth it could be; Maria is such an outspoken sort of woman, so full of life that it’s hard to believe she’s 80.

Eventually she asked; how old are Nick and I? Not the question I’d ever have expected. I told her we’re 65, but why did she (or Fred) need to know? 

It’s because the elderly of the village are given a present every new year, from the commune, and yes, we are now sufficiently elderly to qualify!

It arrived this week; a hamper containing 2 bottles of wine, foie gras, confit de canard, cassoulet, a box of hand made chocolates and 2 packets of luxury biscuits. Perhaps it’s not so bad, being old, after all!

Six years ago, November 1st 2015, Nick had a horrendous accident while cycling, smashed his shoulder and ankle and totally wrote off the car that hit him. 

A week last Sunday, October 31st, while cycling with the club, he touched wheels with someone, fell off and broke his hip. The other hip, that is; not the one he broke 15 years ago, while cycling, of course. He claims it didn’t feel too bad at first, so, refusing all offers of help, he got back on his bike and set off to ride home, stopping in Nogaro to call me when he realised he could go no further. By the time I got there, he’d diagnosed a broken neck of femur.

We went to A&E at the local hospital, where the staff were very amused by us turning up with his pyjamas, toothbrush, etc, but where his diagnosis was confirmed.

It being Sunday, the surgeon wasn’t around, but we were pleased to learn that Nick would have the same surgeon this time as last. Monday was a bank holiday, but the surgeon appeared in the afternoon; he’d operate on Wednesday.

For me, Wednesday was the longest day ever; Nick went to theatre at 9am and the anaesthetist had told him the op would take about an hour, so I called at 11, but there was no news. I called again throughout the day, until he eventually got back to the ward after 5 pm. What a relief!

So all is well, they found some evidence of osteoarthritis in the joint, so gave him a replacement hip.

He was allowed to come home on Wednesday, looking very thin after 10 days of hospital food. Kieran came over, cooked us delicious, highly calorific “smash burgers”, and left us with his deep fat fryer.

Nick’s making amazing progress and hopes to be off his crutches soon. He hasn’t mentioned getting back on his bike yet, but I’m sure it’s not far from his mind.

Every day since he came home we’ve had so many visitors and have had to start asking people not to arrive with cakes, biscuits and other edibles as we’ve had to freeze some of the gifts that friends have brought round, even a packet of chocolate muffins, left on the door handle – from whom we haven’t been able yet to discover!

One friend has even invited him to a village lunch on Sunday, a great piece of babysitting, which will allow me to do the craft fair where I’d booked a stand months ago.

I can’t say the last 12 days have been much fun, but it could have been far worse and Nick will soon be back to full strength – the bionic man rides again again!

Not having had much time off this summer, we decided to go to Sainte Marie aux Mines in the north east of France, for the big patchwork and textile arts exhibition; I bought a ticket for the full 4 days of the event and Nick packed a bike; it’s close to the Vosges, where he’d be able to bag some more cols. It’s about 1000km from home, so we booked a little apartment on Airbnb and went in the car.

The exhibition was fantastic, there was just so much to see, from traditional and antique quilts to contemporary quilts and textile art pieces; the quality and variety of the work was amazing. I especially loved the work of a group of 21 artists from all over the world, Texnet 2, who’d worked collaboratively on a 365 piece project, marking each day of 2020 in the form of 12 large calendar month pieces and another 12 made up of smaller quilts for each day. They couldn’t meet up, due to covid restrictions, so all the work was coordinated online and many of them only met in person for the first time at the exhibition. Except the two Australians, who couldn’t attend.

There weren’t as many exhibitors as usual and the number of visitors was well down on normal, which did have the advantage of allowing you to see the pieces without being swamped by the crowd, as well as being able to chat to the artists. Sadly, the commercial part was also much reduced; there were plenty of fabric stalls, but if you were looking for something slightly obscure or specialist, you were unlikely to find it.

Nick too, thoroughly enjoyed himself, cycling 430km over the 4 days and adding 42 new cols to his collection. He went into Germany on the last day and found some very pretty villages.

We set off home early on Monday morning and made good progress until a warning light came on in the car and it lost power. Looking in the handbook, it seemed serious, so I phoned the insurance, only to be told that we have no breakdown cover. I checked with our agent, who, as surprised as we were, confirmed this, though he was helpful in finding us a tow truck and a garage, albeit at our own expense. While on the phone to him, we saw a sanglier (a wild boar) run past, chased by four large dogs; the sanglier disappeared into the bushes, leaving the dogs to stand about, seemingly unwilling to follow it, then to wander off.

I phoned the recovery driver; he wasn’t the easiest person to understand, but suddenly it became a lot more difficult when a huge 4×4 pulled up right in front of us. Three gun-toting men in orange jackets got out and surrounded our car – hunters – shouting questions at us – had we seen a sanglier? How big was it? Where had it gone? How many dogs were there? Which way had they gone? How long ago?……… Eventually they left and I could get back to my phone call, feeling more than a little stressed.

An hour later the recovery lorry arrived and towed the car up the ramps. For a while things went from bad to worse;  you had to pay the driver before the journey, but Nick’s card wouldn’t work and when I looked in my purse, my card wasn’t there. I had what I think must have been a panic attack; I couldn’t remember where I’d last used it and had visions of being left stranded in the middle of nowhere, unable to get home. Eventually we found the card in my coat pocket, where I’d put it while filling the car with fuel the previous evening. Finally we got to the garage, I googled hotels nearby and the driver of the tow truck kindly offered to take us there.

It was an interesting hotel, though certainly not a classy one; each room had an ensuite, but I think they must have been purchased when a ferry company renovated its cabins –  tiny and made from preformed plastic, with a shower curtain that clung to you while you showered.

The rhythmic creaking noises from the room above ours were repeated regularly all evening; somebody had stamina, I thought, until Nick pointed out the succession of workmen’s vans in the car park!

The garage owner looked at the car the following morning; the problem was an injector, but his friend up the road had one in stock so he could do the repairs during the day. From the garage we walked into Vichy, where we found a great little café for lunch; I think I was the only woman in the place, which was full of workmen and lorry drivers. The owner and chef were delightful and the food excellent, which set us up for the walk back to the hotel and later to the garage to pick up the car.

An interesting and memorable journey, but we were so pleased to get home.

Here are a few photos of the exhibition and for anyone who might be interested in seeing more, a link to a google photos album.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/sKKbLc1p7cWgd6L6A