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.

This summer has been so hot, a series of heat waves with temperatures up to 40ºC, each one running into the next, with hardly time to notice when it was cooler in between.

The day of the party to celebrate Kieran and Alice’s wedding was no different; it was held at Alice’s parents’ house in the middle of the forest, so we benefitted from the shade of the trees, but even so, no-one complained when the children started spraying everybody with hosepipes as the temperature soared.

Kieran was up early that morning to light the fire in the outdoor bread oven, for the evening’s pizzas and the fire to cook the Méchoui, a whole lamb cooked on a spit over an open fire, for lunch. There was a tomato salad to start with, then the lamb, which was delicious, served with beans and heaps of French bread. Cheese and salad followed, then the cake, a traditional pièce montée, choux puffs, filled with crème patissière, piled up and stuck together with caramel.

Jacques, Alice’s dad, had asked me to take my guitar, so I’d asked Adrian and his brother Mick to do the same. We played for a few hours in the evening; it was a lovely atmosphere and so informal that lots of people joined in; if I didn’t know a song, someone else would, and if they were unsure of the lyrics, someone would find them on a tablet. Alice’s brother, Max, seemed to know nearly every song and was more than happy to throw himself into the role of rock star.

We stayed over, in the camper, and helped with the clean up the next morning, before heading off to the coast, but that’s another story.

Cet été a été très chaud, une série de canicules avec des températures jusqu’à 40°C, chacun suivant le prochain, avec à peine le temps de remarquer quand il faisait plus frais entre eux.

Le jour de la fête pour célébrer  le mariage de Kieran et Alice n’etait pas différente; on est allé à la maison des parents d’Alice au milieu de la forêt, nous avons donc profité de l’ombre des arbres, mais tout de même, personne ne se plaint quand les enfants ont commencé à pulvériser tout le monde avec des tuyaux d’arrosage quand la température est monté.

Kieran a du se lever tôt le matin pour allumer le feu dans le four à pain extérieur, pour les pizzas de la soirée et le feu pour faire cuire le méchoui, un agneau entier cuit à la broche sur un feu ouvert, pour le déjeuner. Il y avait une salade de tomates pour commencer, puis l’agneau, qui était délicieux, servi avec des haricots et du pain. Fromage et salade ont suivi, puis le gâteau, une pièce montée traditionnelle.

Jacques, le père d’Alice, m’avait demandé de prendre ma guitare, donc j’ai demandé à Adrian et son frère Mick à faire de même. Nous avons joué pendant quelques heures dans la soirée; ce fut une belle atmosphère informelle et ainsi que beaucoup de personnes se sont jointes; si je ne connaissais pas une chanson, quelqu’un d’autre la connaissait, et si il ne savaient pas des paroles, quelqu’un pourrait les trouver sur une tablette. Le frère d’Alice, Max, semblait connaître presque tous les chansons et était plus qu’heureux de se jeter dans le rôle de la rock star.

Nous y avons séjourné dans le camping-car, et aidé au nettoyage le lendemain matin, avant d’aller à la côte, mais cela est une autre histoire.

It’s the time of year when festivals and local fetes abound; every weekend is the turn of some nearby town or village to hold its annual fete, be it at Dax, one of the biggest fetes in the region, or of a tiny village with only a handful of inhabitants.

We had a walk around the vide grenier, which is always part of the Nogaro fete; the main roads through the town are closed to traffic and filled with stalls selling everything imaginable, from those people just having a clear out, to professionals selling old tools, organic breads, jewellery, books, jams…….. I picked up a few nice pieces of lace for my latest project and Nick bought a couple of water colour paintings, which now adorn the sitting room walls. But the main reason for going to the vide grenier is to bump into people you perhaps haven’t seen for a while, as everybody goes. The atmosphere is great.

The following day was the running of the cows; not just any old cows, but cows that are specially bred and trained for this, and similar, events. I got there early and found a good vantage point on the corner of the road. A bandas band came past; I can’t say it’s my sort of music, in fact it seems to me as though they all just play as loud and as fast as they can, in order to make as much noise as possible; but each to their own. After they’d finished the only people on the road were the young men selected for the event, ie to run in front of the cows without being trampled. A good natured crowd had built up behind the barriers lining the streets, until the town siren soundedmarking the start. Six cows were released from a lorry at the end of the run; they chased the men past the hay bales, a safe spot to jump to when the cows got too close, round the corner and down to the bottom of Nogaro’s main street. Then back up as far as the lorry, where they were turned around, to do it again, and again, three or four times in total, lasting all of 10 minutes.

Not Pamplona, but entertaining.

Il est la saison de l’année où les fêtes et festivals locaux abondent; chaque week-end est le tour d’une ville ou d’un village à proximité d’avoir leur fête annuelle, que ce soit à Dax, une des plus grandes fêtes de la région, ou d’un petit village avec seulement une poignée d’habitants.

Nous avons eu une promenade autour du vide grenier, qui est toujours partie de la fête de Nogaro; les  routes principales sont fermées à la circulation et rempli de stands vendant de tout imaginables, de ceux des gens qui trient, à des professionnels qui vendent de vieux outils, de pains biologiques, bijoux, livres, confitures …….. J’ai trouvé quelques beaux morceaux de dentelle pour mon dernier projet et Nick a acheté deux peintures, qui ornent aujourd’hui les murs du salon. Mais la raison principale pour aller à la vide grenier est de recontrer des gens qui peut-être on n’a pasi vu pendant un certain temps, mais qui seront la, parce que tout le monde y va. L’ambiance est super.

Le jour suivant était la course des vaches; pas n’importe quelles vaches, mais des vaches qui sont élevés et entrainé pour cela, et des événements similaires. Je suis arrivé tôt et ai trouvé un bon point de vue au coin de la route. Le Bandas est passé, en jouant; je ne peux pas dire qu’il est mon genre de musique, en fait, Il me semble qu’ils jouent aussi fort et aussi vite que possible, afin de faire autant de bruit que possible; mais chacun a sont gout. Lorsqu’Ils avaient fini, les seules personnes sur la route étaient les jeunes hommes sélectionnés pour l’événement, pour courir devant les vaches sans être piétiné. Une bonne foule de bon humeur etait arrivé derrière les barrières qui bordent les rues, la sirène de la ville a sonné, est c’est parti. Six vaches ont été libérés d’un camion au bout de la course; Ils ont chassé les hommes autour du coin et vers le bas de la rue principale de Nogaro. Puis elles sont revenu vers le camion, où ils ont été tournés autour, pour le faire encore, et encore, trois ou quatre fois en tout, d’une durée de 10 minutes.

Ce n’est pas Pampelune, mais c’etait divertissant.

The last three weeks have been Marciac’s annual jazz festival, when the entire town is taken over by musicians, music lovers and artisans of all kinds. The central place is covered by a fabric roof, a stage is erected at one end and free concerts go on from the morning through to the early evening; later on, the big names appear in the chapiteau, a huge marquee that seats around 6000 people.

The rest of the town becomes a huge market, with stalls selling all sorts of artisanal goods, jazz CDs and vinyl, jewellery, clothing. There’s a proliferation of bars, cafes and restaurants, many of the temporary, housed in tents, where you can eat Vietnamese, Moroccan, Italian, food from all over the world in fact. Residents let out their garages and even their kitchens for the duration of the festival, to be turned into guitar builders’ studios, art galleries or cafes selling Morrocan pastries and mint tea to the weary.

The atmosphere is great, so relaxed; if there isn’t enough seating in the place for everyone who wants to listen to a particular band, people just sit on the ground, or some dance around the edges. People of all ages go, from tiny babies, through to the elderly, barely able to hobble around on the walking sticks. You see quite an array of fashions; people around here don’t tend to dress up to go out to the cinema, a meal, a party, or even a wedding; but they dress up to go to Marciac – there’s all sorts of weird clothing!

One day we went to find that most of the day’s bands in the place were from local music schools and colleges; some weren’t to our taste, but others were superb. You could hear tones of Pink Floyd from one band and the keyboard player in another was clearly a Rick Wakeman fan.

We still haven’t been to a gig in the chapiteau; we wanted to go to see Lisa Simone this year, but the weather was foul that day, with torrential rain and thunderstorms, so we decided not to venture out; but next year, I hope we’ll get there.

Sorry the photos are poor; I only took my phone with me.

Ces trois dernières semaines etaient le festival de jazz à Marciac, lorsque la ville entière est prise en charge par des musiciens, mélomanes et artisans de toutes sortes. La place est couvert par une toiture en tissu, un stade est érigé à une extrémité et il y a des concerts gratuits du matin au soir; plus tard, les grands noms de jazz jouent dans un immense chapiteau qui peut accueillir environ 6000 personnes.

Le reste de la ville devient un immense marché, avec des stands vendant toutes sortes de produits artisanaux, des CD de jazz et de vinyle, des bijoux, des vêtements. Il y a une prolifération de bars, cafés et restaurants, beaucoup d’eux logées temporairement, dans des tentes, où on peut manger vietnamien, marocain, italien, nourriture de partout dans le monde, en fait. Les résidents louent leurs garages et même des cuisines pour la durée du festival, pour être transformé en studios, des galeries ou des cafés vendant des pâtisseries et thé à la menthe marocaine.

L’ambiance est super, tellement détendu; si il n’y a pas assez de sièges dans la place pour tous ceux qui veulent écouter un groupe, les gens s’assoient au sol, ou dansent à coté. Les gens de tous âges y vont,  des petits bébés aux personnes âgées, à peine capable de marcher avec leurs cannes. On voit telle mode; des gens d’ici ne s’habillent pas bien pour aller au cinéma, à un repas, à une fete, ou même pour un mariage; mais ils s’habillent tres attentivement pour aller à Marciac – on voit toutes sortes de vêtements bizarre aussi qu’elegant!

Nous sommes allés un jour à constater que la plupart des groupes de la journée venaient des écoles et collèges de musique locaux; certains n’étaient pas à notre goût, mais d’autres étaient superbes. On pouvait entendre des tonalités de Pink Floyd d’un groupe et dans un autre le claviériste etait evidemment fan de Rick Wakeman.

Nous n’avons pas encore assisté à un concert sous le chapiteau; nous voulions aller voir Lisa Simone cette année, mais le temps était affreux ce jour-là, avec la pluie et les orages torrentielles, donc nous avons décidé de ne pas y aller; mais l’année prochaine, je l’espère, nous y arriverons.

Je suis désolée que les photos ne sont pas bonnes; je n’ai amené que mon portable.

When Kieran and Alice announced their intention to marry, their plan was to have as small a ceremony as possible, just themselves, both sets of parents and their witnesses. No fuss.

But there hasn’t been a wedding in the Bellocq family since that of Alice’s parents, 36 years ago, so understandably, everyone in the big, extended family wanted to be there; brothers, aunts and uncles, grandparents, loads of cousins, as well as a few, select friends.

Kieran’s witness, Chris, flew out from Harrogate, while Alice’s, Pierre (who looks just like a young Clark Gable) arrived from Athens; they’d all had a good night on the eve of the wedding and there were some sore heads by Monday morning.

Alice looked stunning in a beautiful blue dress and we felt so proud of Kieran, in his new suit and a ring he’d made on the 3D printer, as his hadn’t arrived in time; he looked so handsome, though I would think that, wouldn’t I?

The sun was splitting the paving as we arrived at the Mairie in Dax and everyone was glad of the cool inside as people spread themselves evenly betwen the two family sides of the seating; we adopted several of Alice’s friends and relations as honorary Cawthray family members for the service, so there wouldn’t be just Nick, Chris and I on “our” side. The lady who performed the wedding had phoned Kieran last week to ask how to pronounce his name and made a very passable attempt at it. The official part was over in minutes, but she went on to say a few words and read a poem which I think is a classic, but which, I have to admit, went over our heads.

By the time we left the Mairie, the sky had clouded over, so we were able to take some photos outside before going back to Alice’s parents’ house for the evening, and to watch the fantastic firework display put on for us by Mother Nature, as the thunder rumbled and the lightning flashed all around. The younger crowd headed off to a family house in the forest, where they could barbecue and party to their hearts’ content, without fear of disturbing neighbours, while we oldies celebrated in a quieter fashion. That’s not to say there wasn’t plenty of champagne flowing as we enjoyed an apero dinatoire, a sort of French finger buffet, containing all the ingredients of a sit down meal.

I’d love to say that Nick and I struggled to learn the names of all of Alice’s relatives, most of whom we hadn’t met before, but it would be more accurate to say that, for the most part, we failed. It was lovely to meet them all, though, and I hope we’ll do better next time we see them, when we have a big wedding party at the end of the month. Alex, Izzy and Gemma will be coming over for that, as well as other friends, so we Cawthrays will be better represented.

We were hardly back from the Pyrenees when Maddy and Dom, friends from Skipton, holidaying in France, invited us to join them in the Minervois, near Carcassonne, where they were going to camp next. We loaded up the camper with bikes for both of us and clean clothes and set off early on Monday.

By the time we arrived, Dom had been to the tourist Information office to enquire about camp sites so we went for a look at them. The first turned out to be a naturist site – not for us, this one; the second looked more promising, until the owner proudly told us that they were having a music night that evening, he was the DJ and there’d be lots of good “boom, boom” music till about midnight – maybe not. The third was further out, up a tiny twisty road through the forest; they’d said 8km, but after 10km we were looking at clearings in the forest and wondering if we could fit four in the van; but then there it was, at the end of the road, an eco-friendly site with dry toilets, solar heated showers, and a washing machine run on pedal power. Feeling more like a hippie camp or a kibbutz, it was run mostly by volunteers who stayed in brightly painted caravans in clearings dotted round the site and we were invited to sign up to help with cleaning, gardening, cooking or any other of the myriad of jobs on offer, but only being there a couple of nights, we gave that a miss. There was a circus tent with various events happening, a “speakers’ corner” tree for people to stand under to air their views on anything they fancied, as well as a shop selling local produce, including bread and cheese produced on the site.

It was too hot to do anything for the first couple of days, but day three dawned cooler and cloudy so we had a bike ride into Minerve, an ancient Cathar village, almost deserted in the early morning before the hordes of tourists started to arrive. As we walked down the steps to explore the ramparts, a couple of gardeners were trimmimg the lavender; they were wasted as gardeners, able to answer any questions we threw at them about the history of the village or the workings of the catapult on the other side of the gorge (a malvoisine, not a trebuchet). There was a strange looking item in the gardens, an oversized gilded bird cage, with a metal bra suspended from the top and a spear embedded in the floor; the gardeners explained that we were welcome to go inside this art installation, to see how it would feel to be a warrior and to have our photos taken. I felt as though I was playing the role of Britannia, probably not exactly what the French artist had in mind!

Later that day, Nick and I headed off to Carcassonne, where we stayed the night in a huge park just for camper vans, just outside the old city. The city itself was buzzing in the balmy summer heat, but the next morning, unable to sleep past 6 o’clock, we went back to take photos in the morning light, without masses of people everywhere.; lovely.

Nous étions à peine de retour des Pyrénées lorsque Maddy et Dom, des amis de Skipton, en vacances en France, nous ont invités à se joindre à eux dans le Minervois, près de Carcassonne, où ils allaient faire du camping. Nous avons rechargé  le camping-car avec les deux vélos et des vêtements propres et sommes partis tot lundi.

Au moment où nous sommes arrivés, Dom avait été à l’office de tourisme pour se renseigner sur les sites des camps, nous sommes allés pour jeter un oeil sur eux. La première etait un site naturiste – pas pour nous, celui-ci; le second semblait mieux, jusqu’à ce que le propriétaire nous a dit fièrement qu’il y avait une nuit de musique ce soir-la, c’etait lui le DJ et il y aurait beaucoup de bonne musique “boum, boum»   jusqu’à minuit – peut-être pas. Le troisième était plus loin,  une petite route sinueuse à travers la forêt; Ils avaient dit 8km, mais après 10 kilomètres nous cherchions à des clairières dans la forêt et je me demandais si nous pouvions installer quatre dans le camping car;  mais en fin on est arrivé, à la fin de la route, un site ecologique  avec des toilettes sèches, douches solaires, une machine à laver et exécuté sur le pouvoir de la pédale. Elle était dirigée principalement par des bénévoles qui sont restés dans les caravanes peintes de couleurs vives dans les clairières parsemées autour du site et on nous a invité à  aider avec le nettoyage, le jardinage, la cuisine ou tout autre de la myriade d’emplois sur l’offre, mais on n’etait là que deux nuits, on n’a rien fait. Il y avait une tente de cirque avec divers événements qui se déroulent, “Le coin des orateurs” un arbre pour les gens  d’exprimer leurs opinions sur ce qu’ils croyaient, ainsi que d’une boutique de vente de produits locaux, y compris le pain et le fromage produit sur le site.

Il faisait trop chaud pour faire quelque chose pour le premier deux jours, mais le troisième il a fait nuageux et plus frais, donc nous avions fait une rando aux vélos jusqu’à Minerve, un ancien village cathare, presque déserte en début de matinée avant que les foules de touristes ont commencé à arriver. Alors que nous marchions en bas des marches à explorer les remparts, on a rencontré deux jardiniers qui taillaient la lavande; Ils ont été gaspillés comme jardiniers, capable de répondre à toutes les questions que nous les avons demandé sur l’histoire du village ou le fonctionnement de la catapulte sur l’autre côté de la gorge (un Malvoisine, pas un trébuchet). Il y avait un truc un peut bizarre dans les jardins, une cage d’oiseau doré surdimensionné, avec un soutien-gorge en métal suspendu par le haut et une lance incorporé dans le sol; Les jardiniers nous ont expliqué que nous étions invités à aller à l’intérieur de cette installation d’art, de voir comment il se sentirait à être un guerrier et d’avoir nos photos prises. Je me sentais comme si je jouais le rôle de Britannia, probablement pas exactement ce que l’artiste français avait à l’esprit!

Plus tard ce jour, Nick et moi sommes partis à Carcassonne, où nous avons passé la nuit dans un immense parking pour camping-cars, juste à l’extérieur de la cité. La ville elle-même était bourdonnant dans la chaleur de l’été doux, mais le lendemain matin, incapable de dormir apres 6 heures, nous sommes retournés à prendre des photos dans la lumière du matin, sans des milliers de gens partout dans le monde. C’etait très beau.

Gemma stayed with us for three weeks before heading off to the UK. It was lovely to spend time with her; she was such good company, a breath of fresh air; we had some great days out and I miss her horribly now.

It’s a good thing, therefore, that we’re so busy. It has been so hot, mid to high 30’s, and hadn’t rained for 6 weeks up to this weekend; the grass in the garden isn’t just brown, but crunchy underfoot when you walk on it; the hydrangeas by the poullaiiler don’t get much attention and were looking very sorry for themselves when we noticed a few days ago; and we have to water the potager every day, sometimes twice a day, a task which can take up to two hours each time. So no time to sit around moping.

There have been storms forecast for the last several days and the sky has turned black and looked very threatening, but no more than that until Saturday, when we had our first proper trip out in our newly aquired camping car.

Nick was cycling from Oloron Sainte Marie, in the Pyrenees, with the club on Sunday morning, so we set out on Saturday, stopping in Pau to do a bit of shopping en route and have a civilised lunch in the comfort of the camper. Never a terribly confident driver, I nevertheless did my share of the driving and found it wasn’t as difficult as I’d expected, though it does take a lot more concentration than driving a normal car. I’d expected to be staying in some beautiful location with stunning views of the mountains, instead of which we met up with Richard in the supermarket car park where the ride was starting; it could have been worse, the shop was lovely and cool, a blissful relief as it was stiflingly hot and humid outside, so we shopped slowly, staying in the cool until nearly closing time.

Part way through dinner the storm started, with nearly continuous thunder making it difficult to make yourself heard and lightning flashing all around. Then came the rain, buckets of it, bouncing off the ground, more than the drains could cope with. Next it started to hail, hailstones as big as marbles pounding on the roof of the van. Nick had left the rooflights open just a little to try to cool the van down a bit; it was a nasty surprise to find the bathroom floor awash and even more unpleasant to realise that the other rooflight was directly above the bed. It was drenched, but only on my side, which Nick thought hilarious!

The rain stopped in the early morning, so 11 intrepid Nogaro cyclists set off for their ride, covering 102km and two cols, after which we lunched in the supermarket restaurant; hardly haute cuisine, but good and filling for hungry cyclists.