promenadingpeacocks

I decided a while ago that if we both stayed healthy through the winter I would love to go to Paris to celebrate my birthday. After last year’s events and the hideous memory of confinement due to COVID I have been left feeling that if there’s something I want to do, best get on with it sooner rather later.

So onto booking.com to see how expensive it might turn out to be. Cheaper to do in the spring and better now than this particular summer when the Olympics take place in Paris. Our eldest son, the cyclist, often pops across the channel on his cycle rides and has been known to go to gigs in Paris…’not a lot dearer than a gig in London, mother, when I might have to book a hotel too’. One place he had enjoyed was the area around the Saint Martin canal and, as I had decided this would be a train trip, a central hotel with parking, usually scarcer than hen’s teeth, wasn’t a necessity.

I found what looked and sounded like a reasonable one right on the quai of the canal and booked us in for three nights. The cyclist checked it out last month on his return from spending time with us and reported it looked ok and was just along from a hotel celebrated in a cult film. The excitement began!

It’s now Friday and we leave on Sunday from our local station. Friends are dropping us off but are prepared for the late or non arrival of our scheduled train, (it happened to the cyclist on his last two visits), and will whizz us off to Brive for our Paris bound connection if need be. Now I just have to squeeze everything into my smaller and more manageable suitcase plus handbag, hard to do when you are used to chucking odds and ends into the car ‘just in case’.

We were up and organised well before our friends arrived so there was a bit of a wait at the apparently deserted train station at Biars, our departure point. Both of our phone apps were saying the train was on time and it was.

And it was surprisingly full. We often see the trains pass the end of the garden with only one or two passengers on board but this was busy with only one set of double seats free. The familiar landscape slip by and we arrived in Brive with plenty of time for our Paris connection despite Mr McGregor heading off down the stairs convinced we were on the wrong platform. I waited patiently for his return having read the sign above our heads!

I was not best pleased to find we were in a coach with a corridor and even less so to be stuck with an old fashioned compartment where our seats were facing one another by the door. I wrestled our cases onto the racks above and soon discovered there was no WiFi or charging sockets anywhere. The cyclist praises our French trains, clearly we were on some elderly rolling stock he’d missed!

The Trainline app told us the train was sold out and our compartment was busy with several passengers arriving, leaving and being replaced as we progressed towards Paris. A taxi from Austerlitz (the bus might be too big a challenge for Mr McGregor armed with a suitcase and a stick) took us into the thick of the evening traffic jam and eventually to the door of our hotel, after some muttering about not being allowed to park.

We were welcomed in by a charming young chap and told we were on the third floor. Good, I hadn’t asked for a disabled room but hoped we wouldn’t be up with the pigeons in the roof. The hotel had a tiny footprint but our room had everything we needed plus a lovely view of the canal and its lock.

With the houses lining the quays and the many bicycles whipping past in all directions I was reminded of Amsterdam. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as cold as my birthday we spent there!

The cyclist had recommended a nearby creperie which I quickly booked on arrival as it was only open on the Sunday evening of our trip. Full of excitable young people mostly speaking English we felt our combined ages! Nevertheless we enjoyed our meal and then took a wander along the canal.

It was not too cold and the canal and its lock looked impossibly romantic under the lights.

We passed the Hotel du Nord which we were soon to discover has almost mythic status for the French. A film based on a novel made in the thirties starred, amongst others, a popular actress called Arletty. She had a line in the film that she delivered in a perfect Parisian accent of the working class and it is this that les Francais can quote back to you if you mention the hotel (I know, I tried it on a friend!). Over the next few days I discovered more about the film but for now I just took a photo for the cyclist and continued our stroll.

Once more, we were probably the oldest people wandering its banks. 😊 But how satisfying that we still could albiet slowly and stick assisted for one of us.

There was blue sky when I woke up on the birthday morning. Himself made me a cup of tea and I spent a happy moment opening all the cards I had been saving for the day. An inveterate card sender myself I am always chuffed to receive one, especially when the sender has clearly thought about things I might appreciate; cats, flowers, particularly poppies, rude jokes about my age and an enchanting Eric Ravilious reproduction.

Breakfast was taken in the bar on the ground floor. A simple continental (!) but enhanced by freshly squeezed orange juice. We dawdled through our tartine watching the near misses beyond the window, made more dramatic by two interior mirrors which gave the impression head on crashes were imminent!

I had bought day tickets for the centre Pompidou which opened at 11am, also the time I had chosen. Mr McGregor reckoned he could manage the roughly half hour walk so after a consultation of the photocopied map in my pocket we set off. We looked at restaurant menus as we went thinking of the birthday evening meal.

Our route took us around ‘Place de la Republique’ a long rectangular open space with an enormous bronze statue of Marianne and the three further stone ones around her representing the three tenets of the French constitution ‘liberte, egalite and fraternite’ at its centre. Apparently the pedestrian area was created around 2008 to give walkers precedence over the thundering traffic.

We struck off down the rue de Temple, one of the oldest streets in Paris which commemorates the area settled by the Knights Templar in the 12th century. A Templars tower, later used as a prison at the time of the revolution and housing Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette before they met their sorry end, stood near today’s metro station but was demolished by Napoleon to prevent its continuing as a royalist place of pilgrimage. About now Mr McGregor started his ‘are you sure we’re going the right way’ questioning. Over the years I’ve realised he can’t follow a map and has a very poor sense of direction so I just keep on keeping on, telling him to trust me. Hard for him, I know! 😊

As we walked I grabbed photos of things I could look up later. One place in particular was 79, rue de Temple with two information boards each side of its huge doors. Later research threw up many things about this auspicious address, one interesting fact being the existence of one Elizabeth Dmitrieff, a communard who launched the ‘Union des femmes pour le defense de Paris et les soins aux blesses’. I discovered she had a tiny square named after her established in 2007 by the socialist mayor of Paris at the time. By coincidence, I unwittingly took an arty photo of the metro station in the middle of it on our way back to the hotel!

Finally we hung a right and came out alongside the centre Pompidou with its tube and pipe covered exterior. I was reminded of our elderly neighbour when we first got to know our village neighbours in the 90s who told me she grew up in the area around Les Halles in Paris and was sad when it was demolished to make way for the Pompidou. The market moved to Rungis in much the same way the market traders of Covent garden were moved out of central London. Fortunately, Covent garden was only modified not demolished.

A short wait outside and then we were inside grappling with the technology of the automatic locker system for stowing our coats and scarves, yet another password to remember. I scribbled ours down! Our warm coats were chosen as the result of gloomy forecasts which seem to have been mistaken as we had enjoyed spring sunshine thus far. I felt the need for coffee after our trek so we headed upstairs to the cafe and planned our day.

The last and only time we had visited the Pompidou was for a retrospective of Henri Cartier Bresson which was fabulous but very extensive. By the time we had finished we were shattered and too tired to take in any of the other collections. This time I was keen to see the permanent modern art collection but also the temporary photography exhibition called Corps a Corps (body to body), which was a mix of works held by the centre plus loans from a collector, Matin Karmitz. In kindness to himself I decided photos first then he could hole up in a comfy corner if he didn’t fancy the art!

To reach the exhibition on the top floor we took the exterior escalators which treat you to an amazing panorama of the Paris skyline. We ticked off the tour Eiffel and Sacre Coeur as we gently ascended.

The photographs were fascinating, a collection of images dedicated to the human condition. We went our separate ways as per, absorbing information, in my case that means surreptitious photos of my own and scribbling names on my programme.

All the photos were in black and white, Mr McGregor’s preferred medium, so it was a very happy couple who finally spilled out into the filtered sunshine of the escalator tunnels. We dallied by the menu of the top floor restaurant but decided the cafe had lighter offerings so descended to the first floor noting several school groups beginning to throng the escalators.

It was interesting to note that the cafe had mostly vegetarian options. Something that still surprises in France but we were in the cosmopolitan capital, after all. To watch my husband eating a vegetarian ‘hotdog’ accompanied by a non alcohol beer was a first.

Then I had the best afternoon in a long while. We had plumped for the fifth floor part of the permanent exhibition which holds the 20th and early 21st century works. The fourth floor with its more experimental works would be there if we had the energy for them afterwards….

I revelled in rooms full of Chagall, Kandinsky, Klee, Delaunay, Kahlo, Matisse, Mondrian….I photographed a Chagall that had images of Paris as befitting the day. I had spent last year’s birthday in a tiny chapel in the Correze visited specifically to see the stained glass windows he had designed for it.

In a side aisle I came across art works reclaimed from the Nazi thieves which hadn’t found their original owners. A Utrillo of Montmartre reminded me of a battered reproduction that had hung in our home for years, a gift from my aunt when she moved countries.

It was with a wrench that I tore myself away, the ‘I’m the chauffeur no more’ had gone off to find a comfy seat a while before. With a last nod to Bacon and Warhol and the Moores beyond the window grills in a courtyard, I rejoined him with a big grin on my face.

I told him he’d missed the most fun thing in the last room, an extravagant array of brightly coloured foam shapes that I wanted to hurl myself into….but didn’t. 😊

We visited the gift shop, as you do, where I just bought a magnet of one of the black and white photos and a foldup bag for life printed with Chagall. Our lives are full of stuff already although I did ask in the bookshop about a Robert Doisneau book we’d seen in the hotel that paired his photos with poems by Prevert, but sadly out of print, I was told.

Recovering our coats etc from the red lit locker, they go green when free again, we set off to look for a different walk ‘home’. But just before we left Pompidou I dragged Lou over to the photo booth for a silly memento of the day. Each copy came with an art work so it had to be Chagall, bien sur!

Crossing the huge place in front of the centre we headed for the far corner and turned towards rue de Turbigo.

Before going far though we stopped for a tisane and a beer on a sunny terrace.

Then back to the amble home with the inevitable ‘are you sure this is the right way? We eventually came in sight of Marianne resplendent in the late afternoon sun which only slightly mollified himself.

But then we walked past a clutch of fast food joints with a Macdo which he remembered from earlier. Not that enormous Marianne? Hey ho.

From there it was just a few minutes to the bank of the canal, the quai Valmy, where the sight of four older people glued to their phones made me smile. So not just the young then?

For the birthday meal we decided that a nearby restaurant advertising itself as specialising in Basque cuisine from Bairritz sounded interesting. We’d peeked through its windows the evening before on our canal side amble. I used the online reservation service called le Fork which had been successful before and was again.

We had a good meal in comfy surroundings knowing we didn’t have far to walk home afterwards. 😊

The next morning was sunny again and we had another 11 o’clock appointment. This was for the Sainte Chapelle which I wanted to visit during a previous stay in Paris but it was closed. I’d read it had the most beautiful stained glass in France so was eager to see it for myself.

I’d taken a cheeky selfie of us in the lift and was feeling good about the day ahead. We had decided that the bus would be the better option today as it was further to go and yesterday we had been on our feet a lot.

Google maps directed us back to Place de la Republique where after a few minutes wait our bus took us towards Notre Dame where I thought it would drop us but instead it was just over the river. We walked back and found ourselves in front of an impressive building with no obvious way around it to the Chapelle. Later I discovered it was the prefecture de Paris housed in the Citerne Cite. I ventured to ask two heavily armed young women at the entrance for directions. ‘Gauche, gauche, droit’ they replied. so left, left, right we walked and then found ourselves up against barriers on both side of the road. This time it was a uniformed and armed chap I asked who smiled, complimented me on my Fremch and directed us to the top of the street where there was a crossing opposite the tour de l’Horloge.

It’s a sad comment on our times that so much security surrounds landmarks. But the Sainte Chapelle is within the Palais de Justice and when buying the tickets it had said arrive early because of passing through the necessary security. However, that was, literally, a waste of time. We were kept penned in behind specific but confused lines until the hour struck when a harassed official came out and let us proceed. Oddly, Lou was allowed to carry his stick through the full body scan, arms held aloft while our coats and bags went separately.

We followed signs that led us past the entrance booth and through double doors. My first impression was one of immense disappointment. We found ourselves in a low vaulted chapel full of audio guide and book stalls with some glass windows on the surrounding walls. Is this it? I whispered. Then we saw, right in the corner by the entrance a small sign with ‘sens de visite’. It led to a narrow winding stone staircase (oh cripes). I got himself to lead, so you fall on something soft, I told him!

And then we emerged into the Chapelle proper. Still smaller than I had imagined and almost completely built of glass it seemed.

Because it was a sunny day the glass in certain windows really glowed. Around us photos were being taken while others stood listening to their audio guides. I just tried to absorb the experience, knowing I would buy a guide book as we left, to be studied quietly later.

Of course, I took photos too but they can only give you a reminder of something so splendid. The floor was interesting too but no one seemed to photograph that, only the mad English woman. 😊 The whole edifice has gone through several restorations and the floor tiles were created by Steindahl in the mid 19th century.

Under the rose window there were big doors leading out on to a balcony, once the top of a grand flight of steps, I imagined. There was a beautiful tympanium and very interesting stone panels unlike anything I’ve seen before on entering a church or abbey. Later study of the guide I bought told me there weren’t steps before, rather a gallery leading from the royal apartments.

It was Geoffrey Dechaume who sculpted the tympanium and panels in the mid 19th century using 18th century drawings.

From the Chapelle we wandered back towards Notre Dame interested to see the ongoing restoration after the horrific fire in 2019.

The spring sunshine was shining on the new leaves just beginning to unfurl and it all seemed too good to be true. Fingers crossed our luck with the dry weather would continue.

We found a cafe hard up against the hoarding protecting the cathedral and ordered a grand creme for me, and a blanche beer for him. When a delivery lorry arrived and a gate opened I nipped across to take a photo of the restored front. Lou was very impressed by the photographs of the workers and the various aspects of the restoration work as it has progressed, giving value to them and recognition of the risks taken.

Due to the reflected light my photos are rubbish. A writer and a photographer are recording the whole process of the restoration. I had recently seen a documentary about the necessary and extensive work to stop the cathedral collapsing in on itself that had to take place before the restoration could begin. Incredibly complicated and painstaking work

While we were in the vicinity I wanted to visit Shakespeare and co to buy some secondhand English novels. This is a celebrated bookshop on the left bank with an unusual history originally established by a remarkable American, Sylvia Beach in 1919. Then resurrected on its present site in 1951, by another American, George Whitman, who lived an eccentric life offering open house to wandering writers in return for help in the shop.

I first became aware of its existence years ago through a book by a Canadian crime reporter, Jeremy Mercer, who wrote an autobiographical tale of his year surviving in Paris courtesy of the kind owner. ‘Books, baguettes and bed bugs’ is the UK title, ‘Time was soft then’ elsewhere. Today the shop is staffed by mainly giddy young girls who managed to overcharge me and were not best pleased when I went back for a refund.

Having crossed the Seine there was now a better view of the new ‘fleche’ that had been installed on Notre Dame’s roof with great ceremony a few months ago.

Walking away from the riverside and crowds we hoped to find somewhere for a simple lunch.

Following our noses and a twisty street we found a sandwich bar run by a cheerful young staff who sold enormous filled buns masquerading as simple sandwiches. Absolutely delicious even if a bit messy to eat!

The afternoon stretched before us with nothing in particular planned….but Mr McGregor knows me well enough that there would be something I had discovered. And there was. A passage called Brady that was known as little India according to my search results where all manner of Indian goods could be bought. It was a ‘rare covered arcade with a glass and metal roof built in 1828’. Back to the map in my pocket and Google and the relevant bus was identified. It involved a short walk along the riverbank past the souvenir shops selling a multiplicity of goods labelled Paris. I remembered buying a dozen keyrings with Eiffel towers dangling from them at the start of our China trip when Lonely Planet suggested having little gifts from your home country when travelling in the far East.

The digital signboard at the bus stop told us our bus was delayed due to disrupted traffic so we sat and watched the world go by as the sun burned through my jeans!

Hopping(!) off the number 38 at Chateau d’eau the Passage Brady was soon found.

There weren’t as many shops as I had been led to believe but several restaurants with intricately decorated facades. The antique roof was hidden behind modern plastic sheeting so may be in need of repair.

But there was one epicerie where I could have shopped til I dropped but no car boot to lob things into and I was already carrying five secondhand books and a guide to the Sainte Chapelle so I restricted myself to some favourite Indian snacks.

Back across the road to the other half of the passage which is open to the air and home to the creepiest costumiers I’d ever seen….

Then out onto rue du Faubourg Saint Martin with Gare de l’Est with its amazing fanshape window in one direction and the Porte de Saint Martin in the other. Past the incredibly splendid mairie (town hall) of the 10th arrondissement…

…a wriggle through a couple of side streets and we were back by ‘our’ bridge over the canal.

….shoes off, a cup of tea and a snooze before apero time!

Intrigued already by the Hotel du Nord we perused the menu online and seeing snails as an entrée Mr McGregor was sold. Onto le Fork to book a table. When we arrived the pavement tables were full of bright young things nursing aperos. We were ushered towards the back of the bar where steps took us up past a piano, (cabaret next Saturday we were informed) and into a comfy space with subdued lighting. The walls were covered with black and white photos which Mr McGregor investigated later. Facing me was a poster for That film…

The candle on our table was lit and menus proffered…

The meal was delicious and the ambience just right. I decided I really needed to find out about the film and the hotel connection but later!

Wednesday morning there was no rush as our train didn’t leave Austerlitz until early afternoon so when I noticed water pouring over the lock gates there was time to gawp and see what was happening. I wondered if it was quite normal then noticed the boat waiting in the lock and began to get excited. We had noted and discussed the deep grooves in the bridge across the canal and pondered if the road had turned at some point in its history. But clearly this was going to happen in front of us!

The barriers whose purpose we hadn’t really thought about came down and the road began to turn on its axis.

when it came to a stop parallel to the canal the boat, dredger? chugged through followed by a much smaller vessel. The road swivelled back, the barriers went up and the pedestrians began moving across again, saved from having to climb up and over the footbridge and its many steps.

Breakfast was served by yet another new member of staff who was a Brit and told us he could call us a taxi but why didn’t we wait until later as there was no rush to vacate our room until midday. So we decided that we’d visit the book shop opposite that the cyclist had enthused about but had been shut each morning when we passed it. I noticed the lock gates were still open but didn’t think much more about it.

The book shop was enticing and we spent ages flicking through the many photography books available. Of course, a book was bought. Lou bought me a copy of a Martin Parr that I have hankered for for a while. A series of photos commenting on the way mass tourism has impacted on the sites visited.

Back at the canal the gates had shut so, being nosey/curious I climbed up a few steps of the footbridge where I discovered the little boat was waiting to go back up the lock.

I loitered until the water had risen, the boat had gone into the last lock and the middle gates closed. For the first time I realised there were three sets of gates rather than two. Later, I discovered this is one of several double locks on the canal and it’s called Ecluse des Recollects. The canal was built in 1825 to bring clean water into Paris but also used to transport goods. It was barely used by 1960 and narrowly escaped being concreted over. What a shame that would have been.

Mr McGregor was waiting patiently and warned me to cross the street to avoid the filming taking place outside l’Hotel de Nord. Film students or just more young employed people? Apropos the 30s film of the same name, the hotel was used for interior shots but it was felt exterior ones would take too long so replicas of the hotel façade and the canal were built at the Billancourt studios. Ditches were dug and filled with water on land that was owned by the nextdoor cemetery!

Family and friends who subscribe to Netflix thought that our filming might be for ‘Emily in Paris’, not being a subscriber I have no idea.

We were on our way to a little supermarket by the creperie to buy a picnic for the train. Back at the hotel we did a bit of repacking to absorb the latest book purchase then waited for our taxi.

At Austerlitz we still had time to waste so after an abortive effort to leave our suitcases…we had no small change and the change machine had broken down…we trudged past acres of building works to find a cafe close to the jardin des plants.

The usual grand creme and beer blanche as we watched the world go by…and still the sun shone. Unbelievable to have four dry days together in this very wet spring.

Finally on the train we discovered we were in a more modern carriage. Not necessarily more spacious but with all mod cons aka WiFi and power sockets, and a bonus, a small fold out table…

So, a comfortable journey home with friends collecting us at Brive to save us messing about with a wait, a train, another wait and then a bus!

What a wonderful spree to Paree… 🥰

In January we are usually discussing where to spend Mr McGregor’s February birthday which we have traditionally celebrated by clumping around some snowy (sometimes green) landscape be it Pyrenees, Jura, Alpes or Auvergne. Due to his continuing balance problems, heaps better but still there, snow and a walking stick seemed an uneasy combination. As the person who organises the bookings I pondered on an alternative that might be acceptable but kept it as a surprise.

Some years ago we spent a few days in Paris during the return from visiting the UK for a family wedding. On our way home from there we stopped at Tours to see a Vivien Maier photo exhibition in the Chateau de Tours which works in conjunction with the Jeu de Parme in Paris. I googled the chateau to see what was on offer and discovered an exhibition dedicated to the photographs of China taken by two French diplomats, or rather, one diplomat and one wife of a diplomat. The woman Helene Hoppenot took hers in the 20s and 30s while Andre Travert took his in the 50s and 60s. As we had visited China in 2007 I hoped Mr McGregor would find them interesting so went ahead and booked a hotel without telling him. A birthday surprise.

Of course, I was rumbled in early February when our older son was here and asked what we were doing for the special day. I owned up and was happy that there was an affirmative grunt although he still hankered for some snow. Maybe a day trip up to le Lioran later on to look at the white stuff?

Typically, or so it seems judging by our recent autoroute trips, the weather between Brive and Limoges was horrible, pouring rain and lots of spray from lorries to deal with. It was a Friday and school holiday changeover weekend so more traffic than usual. But once we left the motorway at Chateauroux the sun was intermittently shining and we even had a rainbow at one point. The GPS had found us the signposted route along the D943 which differed from Google but was great ..until we hit the suburbs of Tours. Then it was hateful. The GPS seemed to want to take us back to Paris on the A10 so I ended up following my nose and any signs for centre ville until we got close enough to the hotel to trust the GPS. It still tried to take us up no entries but after a hairy circuit which involved crossing tramlines (more of those later) we came out on the riverside, the Loire, and I recognised the carpark we needed.

Conveniently, it is situated under the concourse in front of the hotel so not far for us to stagger with suitcases in the rain. Two charming girls on reception in matching outfits, it was the Hilton after all, greeted us with smiles but then dropped the bombshell that the restaurant was closed all weekend. The main reason I had chosen this particular hotel. Was the bar closed too, I enquired. Affirmative, so no arrival beer for him or a kir pour moi. We were told there were lots of restaurants nearby and three names were scribbled down for us.

Up in our room we contemplated the gloom outside and the empty minibar (!) and googled the three restaurants. I rang down and asked if one could be booked for us. Thankfully it was able to take us at short notice.

Wrapping up well we headed out to see what Tours had in store for us. Luckily the rue de Colbert, which we later discovered was full of restaurants, was only a few minutes away once we had negotiated the tram tracks. I recognised the point where I had tentatively crossed them earlier!

Les Canailles was bustling and cheerful, decorated with old signs, LP covers etc. In its website blurb it said it modelled itself on the burons of Lyon which concentrate on traditional French dishes in simple surroundings. We felt really comfy and liked the menu.

and I finally got my arrival kir, petillant. 😊

A delicious meal served by cheerful girls and the rain had stopped when we left. We walked back slowly taking in the array of menus on offer from around the world; Turkish, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Ethiopian, Indian…and French, bien sur.

There were fascinating buildings and I later found out that this is one of the oldest streets in the city. We seemed to have struck lucky food wise even if the hotel had disappointed.

A restless night, comme d’hab. Neither of us sleep well in hotel rooms despite comfy beds and turning down the heating but the sun was in evidence when we finally gave up the pretence of slumber and made tea (me) and coffee for the birthday boy.

The chateau only opens in the afternoon so we had hoped we could explore a little of Tours beforehand and it looked as if we might get away with a dry morning. Breakfast was copious and had the possibility of choosing a full English from the hot plates. I stuck to my usual fresh fruit with fromage blanc, a change from the plain yoghurt usually on offer, while Mr McGregor sampled the sausages and baked beans etc.

Planning ahead, I had photocopied a town plan from our Michelin France map book having remembered town maps were included in the back of our copy. It was only a few minutes walk to the place Plumereau, a beautiful square probably best avoided in high season but relatively quiet as there were few tourists about and just restaurant staff putting out chairs etc.

As we wandered we read menus boards outside the many restaurants lining the place and I deciphered the historical information under its graffiti! Then it was onto Les Halles which turned out to be a very long and modern building full of Saturday shoppers with an open air market at one end.

Like many people we love the bustle of a market but it was chilly despite the sunshine so we kept on the move.

We had passed some impressive stone churches and towers already and decided to walk back by a different route towards Place Plumereau hoping to find a sunny terrace for a coffee stop.

Back in the place the restaurants and cafes had opened and there were a few sunny spots so a birthday beer and a lovely facetime with the petit fils singing Happy Birthday to his Dada while I drank my cappuccino contentedly.

Then a wander around the smaller alleyways of the Vieux Tours…

Feeling peckish we decided to return to rue Colbert to see if we could find a light lunch somewhere. Himself remembered the Lebanese cafes so we scrutinised a few menus and opted for the Beyrouth which has two tiny places a few doors from each other. We squeezed in and ordered several mezzes to share. Hmmm, maybe not such a light lunch as planned!

Needless to say, most of it disappeared as it was freshly prepared and delicious. It was decided a return to the hotel for a short nap might be a good idea but first, find a restaurant for the birthday dinner. Already we’d seen the ‘complet’ signs had gone up in quite a few windows. After several turns back and forth we booked le Laurenty which was very busy at lunchtime so seemed a good advertisement. I chose the first sitting for seven o’clock.

After a snooze in our room we discovered the rain had returned in earnest so it was a blustery wet walk along the riverbank to the chateau, fortunately just a few minutes away.

The gallery was busy, maybe everyone sheltering from the rain? The Chinese photos were on the ground and first floor. Two more exhibitions lay in the third and fourth but after labouring up the shiny steep wooden staircase we decided to give the topmost exhibition a miss.

Another time, Chloe Jeanne! The black and white photos were fascinating. There were a few squeals and nudges as I recognised places we’d visited although very different to look at now. The historical changes due to arrival of Mao Zedong were witnessed by Andre Tavern and evidenced in his photos but we remembered the abject poverty that still persisted that we saw down side streets and alleys in the cities we visited.

The photos prompted happier memories too. The Bund in Shanghai that buzzed in the evening as people strolled and hawkers sold everything from selfie sticks to rubber toys that changed shape and stuck to the pavement as they flung them dramatically. The police cruised in golf buggies and the traders melted away, one young girl snuggling up to my husband, begging him not to give her away!

Suzhou, where rich young couples go to have their wedding photos taken amongst the canals of this Venice of the east. My chief memory is of dodging the traffic outside the station after our canal cruise, slurping on huge ice creams bought for us by our jolly guide, Mabel. She told me I must have Chinese blood in my veins as I expertly avoided being run down. 😊

Another blustery and wet walk back to the hotel before going out to dinner.

As hoped we had an excellent evening meal in a friendly atmosphere with a conscientious staff who made sure we had all we needed. It was lovely to be able to sit back and relax after all the events since last year’s birthday spent in la Bourboule.

Greedily I ordered the cafe gourmand which himself teased me about but then succumbed and helped me finish it off.

Sunday morning was wet again as we dashed to rue de Colbert for the nearest supermarket for bread and something for supper when we got home but I still dawdled and took some last photos of this fascinating town.

Apparently, we had walked past the house reputed to belong to the ‘armurier’ who provided the battle armour for Jeanne d’Arc in 1492. There is a sign to that effect but way up on the first floor facade of the building. I missed it but found it on Google earth. 😊

The weather on the way home was abysmal so we were very grateful for the sunny Saturday that had opened our eyes to some of the delights of Tours we hadn’t known existed on our previous visit.

As mentioned in my last post there was a Giacometti (not Magritte) exhibition at Les Abbatoirs in Toulouse that I hoped we would visit before it closed. And yes, the gallery is housed in the old slaughterhouse of Toulouse and is an interesting building with different levels around a lofty central area. The exhibition was due to finish on 21st January so speed was of the essence.

Despite the rain and subsequent depression that drives me onto the sofa with a good book at this time of year I was determined to find the energy to make the trip. As a motivation I scanned the long-range weather forecast for a gap in the ever present gloom and booked tickets for what I hoped would be a dryish day.

Himself was ok with another trip to Toulouse and said he would be fine with just a walking stick this time which was testament to the progress he has made since the last visit when he used two crutches. I took the wheel as I worry that his reactions are still a tad slow so steeled myself for some backseat driving.

The day I had chosen began very cold and frosty but promised to stay dry. Leaving home it was minus 1 but by the time we got up onto the causse it was dropped another degree. As we left Gramat we came up against both a route barree sign and a deviation. This swung us to the left and along the road past the Parc Animalier, second favourite visit for ‘petit fils’ after ‘Reptileland’. It wasn’t a road either of us knew and I was a bit anxious the deviation signs would disappear leaving us lost amongst the holm oaks and dry stone walls. But they didn’t and, although the GPS kept trying to persuade me otherwise, I followed them until they dropped us back on a road we recognised. In fact, we’ve since decided it is a more straightforward route to the motorway than our regular one. Also, it took us through a village, Reilhac, we didn’t know, with beautiful old stone buildings. Q: is there a boucle/circular walk nearby? A: there is.

This time there was no getting flummoxed by the Toulouse road layout and we arrived at the car park in good time although we then spent twenty minutes crawling down the levels in a queue, finally finding a place on 5b. I had to ignore the panicky voice of claustrophobia in my head!

Typically, the lift wasn’t working but Mr McGregor shot off up the stairs while I puffed behind him, vainly begging him to take it easy. Fat chance! Outside the sun was trying to break through and we took a detour through the halle just before it closed.

I was surprised by how many butchers, cheese sellers and fishmongers operated inside while greengrocers lined the outside walls. Clearly, it is well supported by the surrounding community.

No need to cancel the bistrot reservation I had made the day before as we had arrived early this time around and I was glad I had booked as the place was busy. Cheerful staff and two excellent steak and chips after an arrival beer blanche for him and a grand creme for me.

I would recommend le bistrot des Halles and the nearby Indigo carpark if you are driving and visiting this part of town. It had been very straightforward although I noticed I was the only driver crawling along at the new speed restriction of 30kph!

Now it is just a six minute walk to Les Abbatoirs and we arrived there well before the time on our tickets. However, it wasn’t a problem and we walked straight in after the obligatory bag search.

For Mr McGregor, his happy place is his garden but mine is an art gallery. As I love reading to discover the different authors’ perspectives on life and living so I am fascinated discovering how artists see familiar objects and landscapes. So, a lovely interlude that only came to an end when we began to realise how crowded it was becoming, especially by school children, milling about with obligatory clipboards. Time to leave we decided.

A last look at the cat, a particular favourite, before the stroll back to the car.

Stopping to snap some street art I spotted ‘my’ cat again!

Just before the car park in the place Roguet I noticed some Art Deco looking mosaic but on a modern building. Of course, I took a photo and googled later.

There were municipal showers built on this site, opening in 1931, designed by the municipal architect, Jean Monetariol and commissioned by the maire, Etienne Billieres, when many homes in the area didn’t have bathrooms. There were 24 shower cubicles available at 1.25 francs a time. The building eventually ceased operation in 1992 as home sanitation improved and it ultimately fell into disrepair. When the underground carpark and new council offices were built in its place the mosaic was reinstated on the facade as a reminder of its heritage. The original ironwork door, with its entwined T V for Toulouse ville, has been preserved too.

Leaving Toulouse on the autoroute I was pleased that there were no holdups as I had seen in the news ‘les agriculteurs’ had blocked it the day before. But I was wrong! As we approached the peage (toll booths) north of Montauban a message flashed up on the overhead information ….

Bum! We had just missed an exit so we’re obliged to idle in the queue to leave at the next one where police cars, tractors and burning tyres heralded yet another ‘blocage’.

We were grateful our afternoon in Toulouse had ended earlier than planned. Despite another traffic jam on the route nationale we were able to rejoin the autoroute south of Cahors and arrived home just before it got dark, with only the ‘deviation’ to negotiate, without any angry farmers to stop us again!

When we were just starting to let our little holiday house as a gite we were asked to house some holidaying friends of friends who had been flooded out lower down in the village. They stayed for a week and left a delightful message of thanks in our new ‘livre d’or’/visitors book, hoping we would go strutting, proudly as peacocks, into the future. Recently, strutting is not something himself can manage and I feel less inclined to do so either! But we have managed to stumble into 2024, spending ‘Reveillon’, New Year’s Eve, with French friends of friends which taxed my language skills but led to lots of laughs and corrections. It was a warm and touching way to finish a difficult year.

However, despite the new challenges, we have refused to give up on the things we used to do without a second thought and last October took ourselves off to Toulouse for the day to visit a photo exhibition of the coup in Chile in the 1970s. As a four and five year old, Mr McGregor had lived in Chile and although he and his family returned to the UK after a short sojourn, he still has relatives there and so he had a particular interest in seeing the work exhibited.

I am the designated driver now and hadn’t driven into Toulouse before but wasn’t too bothered by the prospect. The day we had chosen was dryish so the drive was fine but Toulouse, or rather its road layout, had changed dramatically since we had last visited. After driving down a bus lane and then doing a right turn that may have been illegal we found ourselves on the far bank of the river. Following my nose rather than the GPS that was equally lost, we got back to the vicinity of the Chateau d’eau gallery but all above ground parking was ‘interdit’. Some choice ‘gros mots’ from me but, eventually, by carefully following signs to a car park we drove back across the river and parked under a ‘place’.

Over paninis in a nearby cafe (I had to ring and cancel our lunch booking at a fish restaurant as we were too far away to arrive in time) we regrouped and discovered we were by a stop for a bus that would get us almost back to the gallery we wanted to visit. With his two crutches, himself was treated politely by the bus passengers and a seat was quickly vacated. A short walk to the Chateau d’eau where we were both given free entry despite owning up to having no paperwork to support his handicap (a result of no given diagnosis).

The gallery in a former water tower and pumping station is a fascinating space and we always enjoy visits there. On our way back later we spotted the car park we had been trying to find so made a note of how to reach it next time.. Giacometti at Les Abbatoirs, fingers crossed!

In December I had a greater driving challenge to face. For the past ten years my siblings and I have met up at a Christmas family ‘do’. Originally it was because we were all travelling to the town where our mother was in a nursing home and enjoyed seeing each other as well. Ultimately we outgrew the local pub and began hiring a hall and welcoming extended family members too. This year the nephew in New Zealand was visiting in early December so the date was set.

Since we moved here and for several holidays before then I had driven myself backwards and forwards to the UK several times but my last trip was 2008 and I was a tad anxious. Plus we have started to use the shuttle and I remembered it as being particularly narrow to negotiate!

But I needn’t have worried. The biggest nuisance was ‘i’m only the chauffeur’ who took it upon himself to criticise my driving at what seemed like every opportunity. But we got there and back in one piece. (I resisted the urge to leave him on the side of the road somewhere!) As per, we broke the journey to Calais at Rambouillet on the way north and at L’Isle Adam returning south. The weather was atrocious between Brive and Limoges going but coming home the rain dried up at Orleans and I drove along marvelling at how glorious the countryside is south of the Loire.

We’d had a fabulous time in Maidstone meeting up with our younger son and grandson which involved a toy shop and Macdonald’s, of course. Our eldest son was suffering from suspected COVID so had stayed away, remembering our recent saga. I trawled the local charity shops for secondhand books and we hit the supermarket with our own shopping list plus those of expat friends all missing some blighty favourites. Then there was the evening ‘do’ with goodies and gossip, present swapping and the Poundland lucky dip, an absolute must.

To round off the evening all three generations present posed for the traditional group photo. For us in particular as the two most senior family members, we were especially grateful to have made it after such a difficult year. Here’s hoping 2024 is a little kinder….

After the positive experience of the Angouleme visit I was keen to build on our success so booked us in for another little jaunt, just two nights this time down in the department of the Gers.

For many years I had been fascinated by the centre of art and photography located in the bastide town of Lectoure. It seemed to have some super exhibitions and I had begun following it on Instagram and my appetite was whetted by some stunning images from the current exhibition entitled ‘l’ete photographique’, the photographic summer.

We hadn’t visited before as it was too far away for a day trip but didn’t seem to warrant a longer stay. After the year we had had I decided this was the time to go and satisfy my curiosity…and hope the poorly one would agree. Fortunately he did!

Booking.com only seemed to have hotels several kilometers out of town but I found a Logis de France in Fleurance, another bastide town just down the road from Lectoure. I booked a wheelchair friendly room again and, despite finding very little useful information on the Lectoure art and photography centre website, crossed my fingers it would all be ok!

The journey down was very straightforward and it was only when we left the motorway we began to realise just how empty and rural the area was. Fields of maize followed those of sunflowers with occasional stretches of millet. In one place as we passed, teams of workers were lifting plastic sheets as they advanced down the field. We wondered what was being harvested. On our return two days later they were still in the same fields but with trailers loaded with melons.

Yet again we were given the first room just beyond the reception area of the hotel. A lovely big room with a well appointed bathroom and even a tiny terrace beyond our patio door.

We ate in the hotel that evening in an echoing dining room with just one other couple, having decided against the terrace outside on account of the menace of mosquitos that the continuing warm weather was propagating.

As per, we spent a restless night despite our comfy bed. The next morning we decided to explore the centre of Fleurance and find lunch somewhere as the musee in Lectoure didn’t open until 3pm.

Despite it seeming a busy place we were able to park very easily smack in the middle of town close to the stunning stone Halle.

The Fleurance tourist office lady was very helpful but unable to give us much information about the summer photography exhibition in Lectoure, telling us the tourist office in that town would have all we needed and would sell us tickets for it too. A bit odd, I thought, but if that’s the way it is…

We went off to look at the church of Saint Laurent, himself using his ‘canne anglais’ rather than his wheelchair. There were huge and slippy steps down into the nave so I went in on my own. I was impressed with the immensity of the columns supporting the roof.

Drinking coffee in a lively cafe across from the Halle we ended up booking lunch there after a discussion with our waitress who told us she was usually the chef. Then, never ones to miss a retail opportunity, off we went to do some clothes shopping in the small commercial centre on the edge of the town.

Lunch was a jolly affair, sitting in the shade of the arcades watching the cafe tables fill up all around us and revelling in being part of normal life after weeks of thinking these sorts of activities were all behind us.

It was a short drive up to Lectoure, mmm… up. That was a surprise, I hadn’t twigged that from my Google earth searches. Parking by the cathedral I quickly found the tourist office, bought our tickets, (reduced) and discussed the programme with the young chap on the desk. It became clear that the exhibition was spread around town and that one venue was actually closed.

I stomped back to the car in a strop, after sticking my head inside the cathedral of St.Gervais and St Protais. We have often visited photo exhibitions that are spread about a particular town and have been able to organise our visits beforehand using information from the relevant website. This was particularly important given our present circumstances but had been impossible due to a lack of available information. Now we had to work out what was possible to visit and how to find it, made difficult by the not very clear town plan on the programme.

It seemed sensible to start at the centre of art and photography but how to get there? The gps kept trying to take us up no entries and eventually out of town! More by luck than judgement we finally found it, a tiny turning on the roundabout as we came into the town (in case anyone else is visiting). Happily, parking was easy and we weren’t far from the tourist office after all that.

The wheelchair came out as it looked like the distances were a bit too much for just the cannes but Lou managed to get himself around the two floors of the gallery. The lift was freely accessible, thank goodness. I was disappointed that there was only one photographer, Lisetta Carmi, featured in the centre but a very good one all the same. Lots of black and white photos of everyday life in Italy in the 1970s. I was excited to see Alberobello in Puglia which we had visited in 2012.

From there I pushed and Lou rattled (cobbles again) towards the next and nearest expo. Having struggled to get himself and the chair up a flight of stone steps it was annoying that we found ourselves watching a video in a cellar of two people debating. My translation skills with the programme were letting me down.

Up another flight of steps and across a garden to find the photos around the abandoned Lectoure swimming pool. But to get close to them was down yet another flight of dilapidated and broken stone steps, which even I went down very gingerly. Leaving the poorly one in the garden (the wheelchair was in the care of the bored girl looking after the video in the cellar!) I took in the view as well as the art.

The effort to retrieve the wheelchair, bump it down the steps and then get ourselves back up the hill to the main road by the cathedral meant we were reluctant to visit the last two exhibitions, neither of which the programme described particularly clearly and both of which involved going down the hillside again. Time for cold drinks and a rethink.

We opted to call it a day. Delivery vans, cobbled pavements and high kerbs make pushing a wheelchair a less than pleasant experience. But the sun was shining and Lectoure is a pretty town and we had had a lovely morning in Fleurance. Curiosity satisfied it was time to call it a day.

By the car I found conkers, autumn was making itself felt.

That night we ate on the terrace despite the mozzie menace, as there might not be many more warm evenings when we could enjoy al fresco dining.

On the way to Fleurance we had used the car’s gps despite being aware of its idiosyncrasies. It tried to persuade us to leave the autoroute as we travelled south towards Montauban but we stood firm and continued on and swung west onto the A65 towards Bordeaux. When we left it to travel across all those sunflower and maize fields the gps very quickly took us on a goat track deviation, as I call them, an entirely unnecessary three or four kilometres that ultimately dropped us back on the road we had left. But…it did take us through a tiny village that looked interesting. I noted the name to Google later on, Saint-Antoine.

I discovered that Saint-Antoine is a recognised stop on one of the three Compostela routes across France, this one being the Via Podensis starting at Le Puy. The church is celebrated for its painted interior and for a recently discovered medieval fresco which is still in the process of being restored. I was hooked!

I warned himself that we would be stopping .. briefly…so I could make quick visit to see this little gem for myself.

And a gem it was, probably recently refurbished as the colours on the interior surfaces were bright and breathtaking. I had passed a group of pilgrims outside the village auberge, identifiable by the scallop shells attached to their enormous backpacks. One of their number came into the church while I was there and, being me, after the obligatory bonjours, I asked how far she intended to walk.

Not quite all the way, she said, as her feet were causing some problems but the others hoped to make it to the end. As for how long, it would be four months. Quite a commitment, she told me, especially as it will mean walking in the winter months. Four months! I wished her ‘bon courage’ and told her how much I admired her.

I took a few more photos, especially pleased when I finally identified the poor dragon being pierced by St George on the fresco, and hurried back to the car, yet again feeling very thankful that there are still such unexpected discoveries to be made as we travel along.

NB the building that had caught my attention originally was the arched north gate and nearby tower, the remains of a commanderie probably built in the 17th century. both it and the church are listed as French monuments historique. The village was founded in 1146 by Antonin monks who built a hospital although nothing remains of it according a website run by the friends of Saint Antoine

https://www.les-amis-des-antonins.com

It was with great relief that we contemplated a lazy Sunday after our two busy, albiet very interesting, days. The hotel prided itself on its Sunday buffet BBQ brunch and had gone to the trouble of emailing me a few days before we travelled to say it was booking up fast and asking if I wanted to make a reservation. Intrigued, we had. But not sure we could last until 11 o’clock without a little something, I had bought some croissants the day before so we had them with coffee in our room and had a slow start to the day.

However, I was keen to search out the ‘mur piente’ I had spotted as we drove into town and after checking on Google earth realised it was only a few minutes walk down the hill. So off I went to hunt it down.

I walked through the little park below the hotel and hoped the black clouds would not tip their contents all over me! As I walked I was aware of just how steep the hill actually was and very glad we hadn’t attempted to do it together with the wheelchair.

Down at the street corner I saw one of the steep flights of steps the first hotel receptionist had told me about. Angouleme residents must be very fit!

I soon came across a different kind of street art and a sad one.

I was reminded of the war memorials in our local towns relating to the deadly skirmishes that took place as German troops were called north due to the D-day landings. Later research revealed that this one commemorated the liberation of Angouleme by the ‘maquisards’, resistance fighters, on 31st August 1944. So brave and so young.

A little further on I found another one , this time with flowers, presumably a family descendant still remembering.

My own search felt trivial after that but I told myself the current artwork was celebrating the life that was able to continue in the city due to their sacrifice.

As I turned back for the hotel and that brunch I spotted another artwork that made me smile. It seemed no piece of street furniture was immune from the painters’ brush..

I decided to return via the street that is used in the hotel’s address, a very narrow one that it was impossible to turn the car into despite the protestations from the GPS….’recalculating route!’ As I did I was delighted to find two ghost signs as they are called. Signs for businesses that have long since disappeared or those painted onto house walls that are now protected by law from being removed. Two windows had been set into these, probably before society thought about preserving them.

I was particularly delighted with the absinthe example. Walking up behind the hotel I came upon a beautiful doorway set into its wall which seemed to confirm the hotel publicity that stated its building was an old presbytery.

The brunch lived up to the hotel’s hype and we started on a buffet of salads accompanied by cold smoked salmon and meats, moving on to an entrée served by our ever smiley waitress who whipped between bar and restaurant. The poorly one was very happy with his oysters while I had the creamiest and best scrambled eggs ever. Now for something from the barbecue? I passed but himself enjoyed a particularly good Toulouse sausage and chips. Then it was back to the buffet for cheeses and a sizable selection of pastries and desserts.

Phew! We noticed that the majority of the diners were not from the hotel so it was clearly a popular place for Sunday lunch amongst local residents.

Feeling very glad we didn’t have far to go we staggered back to our room for a siesta. Later, I went to laze by the pool and found several brunch customers still enjoying beers and a swim.

The restaurant was closed that evening but was not a problem for us as we were still pretty full after our lunchtime feasting. I had bought a couple of sandwiches alongside those croissants yesterday morning and had stashed them in our minibar so we settled down with them while watching the very good Welsh – Fiji rugby game. But only after a last aperos in the now deserted hotel garden.

It had been a wonderful weekend, thanks especially to the lovely staff at the hotel, and proved to ourselves we could cope with our changed situation. The Peacocks would continue to promenade!

Saturday, our 56th wedding anniversary, was planned as a museum visiting day; a calmer one, we hoped. The Musee de Bande Dessinee is housed in an old winery on the north bank of the Charente river below the city. However, only the decorated façade remains with a modern building behind, all steel and wooden cladding.

I had read on the musee’s wiki page that it housed over 12000 plates and designs. In fact, the statistics that we discovered about the film and associated industries in Angouleme were quite gobsmacking for what we had naively imagined as simply a charming and historic city. It is the prefecture of the Charente department and apart from its paper making and engineering works hosts ‘forty animation and video game studios that produce half of France’s animated production’. Blimey!

We were hoping too for a physically easier day. With a handy car park and a flat concourse leading to the museum entrance, the poorly one wouldn’t be shaken to bits and pushing him would be a doddle, fingers crossed. But firstly, I had to pop up to the centre for a few bits. Arriving by Herge’s bust I discovered a few stalls, one of them selling second hand books. Of course, I had to buy a Tintin, for old times sake and given where we were.

Just as I was paying there was a tremendous amount of hooting coming from higher up the road and suddenly a cavalcade of mopeds and scooters swept down the pedestrianised street, their riders in bizarre dress and accompanied by a lot of noise and waving. Later a shop customer told me it happened periodically and was various motor associations who came together to ride out in this way. This town was full of surprises!

Without the wheelchair I was able to return to the hotel via a different route, taking in a view across ‘our’ part of the city from the ramparts.

Off at last, ignoring the GPS who wanted to lose us in yesterday’s alleyways, I found our way down to the river and across to the musee. As we approached the entrance there were chairs being set out on the huge concourse plus a sound system and buvette. Something was happening later, it would appear.

Inside the cavernous building we found the museum entrance but the lift up to it was ‘en panne’. The girl on the desk rushed over convinced it was working but no! So himself got out and, using one of his ‘canne anglais’ (stored in a baguette bag swinging from one of the wheelchair’s handles), got himself up the short flight of stairs while I bumped up his chariot.

Free entry for the handicape and reduced entry for me as his accompanying helper. We don’t have any supporting evidence but the presence of sticks etc seems to work each time, we’ve discovered.

The present exhibition at the musee takes as its theme the rise of BD associated with rock music and associated publications. I noticed a lot of alternative and anarchic magazines featured too.

Happily, there was enough space for the handicape to trundle himself around without me and we both spent ages exploring the images as well as reading many of them.

It was a trip down memory lane for two oldies like us!

As we moved through we came to the animation section where videos were playing and we were reminded of how the cyclist at age 11 was determined this would be his career. It didn’t happen but he did end up at art school.

It was hard to move on sometimes with so many fascinating images to enjoy and to recognise with a smile…

But move on we did and found ourselves in a huge room with enormous circular sofas set as a series of islands, each one with low central bookcases as well as display cases with BD books or those graphic novels.

Now would have been a good time to relax and enjoy leafing through the offered volumes or poring over the display cases. The problem was we were both into exhibition overload and the air-conditioning in this area was positively arctic. I wished I had a cardigan!

This room was described as representing the maturing of the BD form, moving away from children’s comics and the work we had already seen and into some quite serious representations. I was intrigued by a case showing the work of two illustrators who used the story of a photo journalist’s experiences of the Russian advance into Afghanistan.

We tore ourselves away, promising we’d be back at some future time, and went in search of lunch. The musee cafe was closed but there were dispensing machines in the entrance hall. There then followed a Peacock pantomime as we attempted to get coffee with sugar from one and sandwiches from the other. Eventual success with the coffee but the sandwiches needed the intervention of the burly chap behind the bookshop counter who threw his weight against the machine until my two sandwiches were dislodged from their position above the exit bin. I had had the bright idea that buying a second one would mean it dropped onto the marooned one….wrong!

We picnicked on a bench outside under a shady tree. The second visit of the day was to the Musee du Papier on the other side of the Charente which was reached by a footbridge.

We were beginning to notice how warm the day had turned while we’d been indoors and were glad to find some shade inside the doorway to the closed musee du Papier. I’d forgotten it shut for lunch!

The museum building had had many reincarnations throughout its existence, beginning as a brewery for a religious order before eventually becoming a paper mill and manufacturer in the late 19th century.

It seemed its main claim to fame was the manufacture of cigarette papers. We enjoyed poking about the old building which was open to the air but cool. There were photographs of the workers and I commented it must have been deafening for them given the present volume of noise coming from the water thundering through the sluice gates below us.

The two ladies in charge were very concerned that we benefit from all that the musee had to offer so insisted we ring up to them via the intercom when we wanted to use the lift to the first floor. This involved us leaving the building and waiting at a locked door further along, being let into a pitch dark room and then being led to a lift by the light of a mobile phone from which we emerged into a gloomy and very hot art gallery on the first floor. I went through to pay our entrance fee but discovered there was no charge due to our disabled status. A magnet and postcard were purchased out of guilt for all the fuss. And the fact that we were suffocating from heat and disinterested in the limited art on display, a retrospective of past exhibitors so a tad random.

Leaving involved the same lift and locked door saga in reverse but finally we were back outside and recrossing the Charente, past the interesting statue with his flyaway coat tails.

As we reached the far side there was a girl rehearsing a graceful ballet in front of the sound system. I felt sorry for her, dancing on that surface and in that heat.

Back at the hotel the pool looked extremely inviting, so armed with a book I left himself taking a nap in front of the rugby while I cooled off gratefully……

That evening we toasted our anniversary over our exclusive room service meal.

When you move to a new country there are a lot of things to get used to, a lot of things to grasp but others can slowly become apparent as you settle in and begin to understand your new situation. One of those was the curious abundance of what I considered comic books in the library where I work as a volunteer. A fellow ‘benevole’ regularly takes out several each week. I was aware of the popularity of bande dessinee as I knew our sous prefecture had a big fair each year. I assumed it was only for collectors of comics. Wrong!

It was the visiting cyclist who rushed over when ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ was first in hospital who decided to put me right. After a week of supporting his aged ‘parentals’ he needed a day off and took the train to Limoges, a city he had cycled past but never explored. While there he visited an exhibition by an author of graphic books. Now, the words ‘graphic book’ had a different connotation for me, recalling the furore around ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’ when I was a teenager but I was clearly very out of date. I knew about ‘Tintin’ and ‘Asterix’ as a French friend when our boys were young used to bring back French copies from visits home. But I hadn’t realised how the art form had developed. Now I did, leafing through the two beautiful volumes Gav had brought back with him.

So when I was searching around for somewhere we could take a city break as a replacement for our usual late summer holiday around our wedding anniversary Angouleme seemed an obvious choice. I discovered not only was it a beautiful city but also the national centre for bande dessinee with a museum dedicated to it and an annual festival to boot.

Further sleuthing revealed that there were murals scattered about the town in hommage to various celebrated illustrators and had recently been the fictional setting for a Wes Anderson film that had used many locations within the city. A film Gav had chosen to watch with me one evening using his streaming service. This I only discovered later as, exhausted by the time he arrived, I had obviously slept through the whole thing as I had no recollection of seeing it!

The hotel receptionist was very helpful when we discussed the need for booking a wheelchair friendly room but did say that the town was quite hilly with a lots of slopes and steps. I would probably need to use the car. N’importe, I thought to myself, we’ll cope!

And we did. Just about.

We were very impressed with the hotel when we arrived. The girl on reception was warm and welcoming and nothing seemed to be too much trouble. Our ground floor room was the nearest to the breakfast cum restaurant and had a well organised bathroom. I left the poorly one to settle in while I went off to use the pool.

Surprisingly for us we slept really well and then negotiated the breakfast buffet, mainly because I did the fetching and carrying. 😊

I had done my usual research and knew that despite a lot of the murs peints being in outlying parts of the city there were still plenty to discover in the centre so off we set. Following the advice of the physio that pushing the wheelchair when possible would be good walking practice that’s how we started. Not the easiest task with uneven pavements and what proved to be a very steep street up to the centre but with several stops to recover we got there….

… and were rewarded with our first painted wall and a bust of Herge alongside a panel describing the filming by Wes Anderson. (Our hotel had a big collage in the bar area dedicated to it too). Lou sat down thankfully and I took on the pushing.

As is usual for us in a new place we sought out the tourist office, this time in the huge chateau that doubles as the Hotel de Ville and after an interminable wait I managed to buy a guide to the murals although the town maps had run out.

From there it was a short distance to Les Halles where helpful bystanders directed us to the sloping entrance as we dithered by the steps. I love these big cavernous covered markets although not self catering we didn’t need to buy anything from the few stalls that were open. High above us was a glazed ceiling with decorated iron beams.

Leaving there we felt the need for a coffee break, well, I did! Struggling with kerbs and having to look ahead for potential problems is tiring. Around the Halles were several cafes and bars with busy terraces but we managed to find a spot where the chair wasn’t a trip hazard for the busy waiters and waitresses.

Given I had gone ahead and booked this trip without consulting the meteo, so far we were blessed with fine weather.

From my sleuthing and confirmed by our guide, I realised we were near two of the more celebrated murals so off to find them. What is a simple stroll when you are both mobile becomes something of a physical marathon when manoeuvring a wheelchair and trying to be aware of fellow pedestrians and traffic although most people are sympathetic and make allowances, I was glad to note. And we did find both walls…

We realised that we were now down below Les Halles but still high enough for a wonderful view across the countryside beyond the railway station.

So the poorly one did a bit of pushing before I took over as the ground flattened out! By now we were peckish and so started to look for a suitable place. Most were offering three course ‘menu de jour’ which, despite our strenuous activity, was not what we were after.

After a promenade around the narrow streets and alleyways we came out on a pretty square where our interest was piqued by the offer of a warm fish salad. The attentive waiter made sure we were seated at a table that was a comfy height for the wheelchair and we settled back and relaxed.

St Jacques, hake and gambos… scrumptious.

After coffee it was a short detour to the bottom of the square where I abandoned the poorly one to skip across the road for another ‘Muriel’, this time Tartuf.

About now I should have given up and I fully intended to turn for ‘home’ but thought we could go back by a different route and find another celebrated ‘mur’. Um, maybe a bad move. Using the map we cut up a narrow alleyway past an Indian restaurant (noted for another trip) but then came to a junction that was marked as a crossroads on the map. Oops. So, after appealing to some young lads who clearly had no idea where it was, I wrangled the wheelchair and its reluctant occupant along yet another cobbled ‘trottoir’. We found Sainte-Marie church but wanted the street named after it. As we were there I went into its cool interior and discovered some wonderfully vibrant stained glass windows.

Back outside we had to dodge cars in the narrow street, then coming out on a corner, once more I abandoned the poor chap and walked a short distance into a square behind said church and found my quarry..

Now, finally satisfied we had some sites ticked, we could go back and leaving the cobbles, mostly, behind us it was all downhill back to the hotel, passing some more wall art we hadn’t noticed earlier in the day…

Given the efforts involved that day we decided that eating our evening meal in the hotel would be more convenient for the rest of our stay but due to staff shortages, we were told, the restaurant had reduced its number of covers and it was fully booked for the next two nights. This meant we would have to take the car or a taxi to get to any of the restaurants the hotel could recommend as they were all up in the town centre. As I discussed this with the now male receptionist he told me he would talk to the chef and see if we could be served dinner in our room despite room service not extending beyond breakfast. Yet again the staff were going out of their way to make our stay as convenient as possible.

Leaving himself to recover from the bone rattling over the cobbles, he had already told me he felt every joint had dislocated, I went off for a relaxing float in the pool.

Before dinner we had aperos in the bar and chatted to a Welsh couple touring France and taking in some of the World Cup rugby matches. After our own room service meal we watched the opening game and cheered on our adopted country’s team as they smashed the opposition!

It’s hot again, very hot. France is under a ‘dome de chaleur’ and the mercury is hitting 42°c plus in the far south. We have hidden indoors for the last two days.

And the poorly one? Doing very well, it has to be said. His balance is still a problem but he is much stronger in mind and body and walks with a stick in the house, so long as I am there in case of wobbles. His lovely physiotherapist keeps telling him ‘slowly’ and ‘listen to Lynne’…fat chance!

The bed in the living room has been taken apart as we have slept upstairs for the last three weeks which made life much easier while our younger son and grandson visited. Petit fils thought it was great eating breakfast with Dada side by side on our bed.

A saga with wheelchairs meant that at one point we had four in the house but now we are down to two and the fancy anodised green one was very useful on outings with petit fils although walking around the Parc Animalier was a challenge. Younger son’s muscles were put to the test, although petit fils did his bit!

The brilliant friends swung into action again and put up two grab handles in our shower so ‘i’m only the chauffeur’ can wash himself which makes a change from sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl which was how we began.

It’s two months since he came home from hospital and there’s been no call to return for the re-education the doctor talked about. In fact, we saw the neurologist last week and the diagnosis is vitamin deficiency (really?) which we find a bit odd but he wouldn’t be pushed into a deeper discussion and just promised all movement would return and to continue with all the tablets and physio. I am hoping we will get a copy of the letter he dictated to our doctor as I heard covid mentioned several times!

Our older son came back for a proper holiday and was chuffed to see the improvement in his father as he sped across the kitchen on his Zimmer!

With the help of various wheelchairs, borrowed, rented and bought, we have managed to join in with village events, visit local restaurants and feel part of normal life again.

Our first outing, soon after he came home, was to our fete de la musique and there were some shocked faces as I pushed Lou across the street. More recently, at our village vide grenier, several people came over to say how happy they were to see him looking so much better. That was so lovely to hear and did wonders for our morale.

Yesterday we gathered all the tools and he put up his own grab handle in the ‘visitors’ loo. The kind of job I can’t and won’t do. Gardening, yes, and I’m very pleased that all the vegetables that I planted under supervision from Mr McGregor have come to fruition. There was a lot more to do than just sticking them in the ground!

The cucumbers weren’t bitter and the aubergines yummy and still producing. The courgettes went mad, as usual , and there’s ratatouille in the freezer.

The pool was my biggest headache but with the loan of pumps from friends and several hours of wading about in a green swamp, I got there.

I kept telling myself that I would be so happy to be able to float about in clean water on a hot day…and I am.

And, of course, the family really appreciated it while they were here. Petit fils finally swam without armbands so all that back breaking scrubbing paid off.

So here we are. Life is different and there are challenges but, for the moment, we’re both in one piece and grateful for what we have. On y va!

By now, I should have added a blog piece about a June visit to Ile de Re where I had booked a beautiful looking hotel close to the harbour in St Martin…but the gods had other plans for us.

As I wrote at the end of my last entry I caught covid on the return journey from the UK and ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ followed suit. For about ten days we coughed and suffered and kept to the house and garden until we tested negative again, me on a Tuesday morning, himself on the Thursday. On the Friday evening Lou started to stagger about and said he felt dizzy. We assumed vertigo and I googled if this was a possibility after having covid. The information suggested it was.

On Monday morning, after I had helped him down the stairs so I could change the bed he’d lain in all day Sunday, I decided to ring the doctor and say we couldn’t make the rendezvous the next day, could he make a house call, please. This unleashed a series of events as a result of various phone calls and we ended up in an ambulance blue lighting its way to our local hospital ‘urgences’ as our doctor had anxiously muttered about AVC….stroke!

Our nearest hospital is a modest affair so the casualty department has an accueil, which took his details, a small waiting room that I sat in for the next six hours, a toilet and a coffee machine that only took coins. I didn’t have any! So a long afternoon with no WiFi or sustenance (I only have WiFi at home) but occasional texts to family and friends. Eventually I was called through the double doors and as I watched my husband wheeled away a nurse called back that scans had been done, he hadn’t had a stroke, it was vertigo and they would keep him in overnight.

A good friend was on standby to pick me up which she did after finishing her work shift nearby and she drove me home, still a bit befuddled at how the day had turned out.

Next morning I received a text from himself saying baldly, ‘I need you’. I texted back, needing to know if he was being sent home, but no reply, so off I went, assuming he was coming home. But he wasn’t. After a morning of sitting next to his bed, horrified at how poorly he was, a nurse finally explained he was being admitted to a ward upstairs. As was going to happen now and again later, things got lost in translation. I thought I was waiting for the doctor, medecin, when in fact he was going to the ‘service de medecine’ ie medical ward.

And there he stayed for the next four weeks. After the first one, our eldest son, blessed with the possibility to work from home, came out to give his elderly mum some support. ‘You’re post covid too, mother, you need help’. So I found myself being cooked for every evening after days listening to video conferences going on in our spare room with what seemed like the four corners of the world. Modern life, eh?

We both visited the poorly one, searching each time for evidence of improvement. Sometimes it was very little in which we were taking comfort. The vertigo medicine didn’t seem to be making any difference and disinterested in eating or drinking he was put on a drip while the doctor tried to organise an MRI scan to see what it might uncover.

As a small hospital big investigations like MRIs have to be done at other, larger ones. Here in la France profonde, we are in a medical desert, as the newspapers and regional government call it, so pressure is heavy on services elsewhere. Eventually a space was found at Brive, a hospital ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ had visited for day surgery a couple of times. Just as well he had, as it turned out. Lou was duly sent off for his MRI on a Friday afternoon and brought back in time for supper. A rendezvous with the Brive neurologist was set for the following Thursday.

An ambulance was organised once more by the hospital and after an enthusiastic reception of my request to accompany him I was told I must be there for 6.50am. Hard for someone who doesn’t really start fully functioning until midday! In reality, it was nearer 7.30am before we got going. No blue lights which disappointed himself. By now he was a lot better than he had been but still unable to walk and lacking hand/eye co-ordination plus suffering brain fog as son and I had christened it.

At the hospital in Brive our arrival seemed a complete mystery to the secretary at the accueil who was further discombobulated by the fact this patient had turned up minus certain vital effects, namely his carte vitale, which was sitting in his change bowl on the kitchen table chez nous. Eventually, as I beginning to panic he wouldn’t be seen, she asked if he had ever been treated at her hospital. Oh, yes, I said, a hernia operation a few years ago. Bingo, computer said oui!

The interview with the neurologist which followed was harrowing for me and for our son. Watching my husband and his father stagger around the room, unable to follow instructions was a sad experience and all those things we’d been telling ourselves were improvements seemed nonsensical and just wishful thinking. Gav had travelled into Brive by train as only one family member could accompany the patient in the ambulance. I felt so sorry for him having to travel home alone after such an experience.

The neurologist had decided that the poorly one should transfer to Brive hospital ‘after the holiday weekend’ for further tests and monitoring. The next lunchtime I sauntered in to see him, as I had been doing for the last month to help him with his midday and evening meal, to be greeted with the news he was off to Brive that afternoon.

Already that morning, needing to get home, Gav had pedalled off to Biars station to catch the 6.20am train to Brive for his connection to Paris, only to find it was cancelled. He texted me and I catapulted out of bed while texting him I was on my way! Wrangling his bike into the car I promised him we would make it on time…and we did.

So to be told Lou was off to Brive that afternoon meant I would be driving there again to make sure he was settled in comfortably. Despite living here for nineteen years he can still only manage a handful of French words which makes times like this pretty complicated.

But I needn’t have worried. When I arrived, he was ensconced in a single room on the ninth floor and had already been welcomed by a young male nurse who spoke good English and told him he came from Brittany. While I was there two aide soignantes came in to ask how often he would like a shower. Bliss, he’d only had bed baths for ages and his hair hadn’t been washed. Plus a dietician would be in later to ask which foods he preferred. Hospital? Or spa?

At Brive his health continued to improve steadily while I became more and more exhausted. The drive was an hour each way and the weather turned very warm. Keen to improve his hand/eye co-ordination I took in board games and cards. Finally, as his hand control improved, he started to use his mobile phone to communicate with myself and the boys. This was an enormous breakthrough and huge relief to us all. He even agreed to a few facetimes with our grandson, something he had avoided for weeks.

There were a lot of tests including ones where electrodes were stuck on his head and legs. Meanwhile, Lou fretted about the size of the meals. He appreciated how good they were but his appetite wasn’t equal to them. At St Cere, the staff became so desperate about his lack of appetite they asked me to take in something he liked that they could reheat. He has always joked that beans on toast is his comfort food so beans on toast it was! Thankfully, things had changed. The dietician reappeared and ordered half portions which satisfied everyone. A male orderly, who gave him his showers, neatened up his beard for him and he began to look like my husband again.

Eventually, the neurologist arrived one Thursday afternoon and told us certain results would take up to two to four weeks to come back so Lou was to transfer back to St Cere until they did. I was mighty relieved to be saved the driving which I was finding really draining but himself was sad to leave the place in which he felt so comfy. A nurse bustled in and told me not once but twice that she was organising his return which would take place the following Tuesday after another MRI on the Monday to see if anything had changed.

That weekend I counted down the hours until that drive wasn’t a daily occurrence. On the Monday I bought his customary coffee from the little cafe in the entrance and took the lift to the ninth floor. I walked in with a smile to be greeted with ‘I’m not going until Thursday’. My reaction was ‘Yeah, right’, as ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ is prone to that kind of joke. But he wasn’t joking. And I stopped smiling and actually shed a tear or three. Two more days of that hot drive!

Apparently, the big cheese of the neurology department wanted to do an MRI lumbaire which couldn’t take place until the Wednesday due to pressure on the system. So I dug up a smile and braced myself for two more days of ‘that’ drive. The hot weather was bringing dark skies and torrential rain, not the most ideal driving conditions…

I told myself that I wasn’t being completely selfish about wanting him to return to St Cere. At Brive he was comfy but on the ninth floor and hadn’t sat in the fresh air for over six weeks. At St Cere there was a small area with lawns, shady trees and benches where visitors brought their loved ones in wheelchairs to sit and chat.

It would be wonderful to get Lou out into the sunshine, he had missed a glorious spring despite the intermittent rain storms. Also, up until now, he had refused to have anyone other than me visit him but now he was clearly getting tired of me and, in the manner of a royal decree, said he was ready for some! St Cere was more easily accessible to anyone who wanted to do so. Earlier, whilst at St Cere, he had begun to have regular physiotherapy which had stopped when he went to Brive and I was determined to ask for that to start again.

And all those things happened. He began to walk again on a zimmer every day with the same young physio, Fanny, and he had his first visitors other than me. I got him outside in a wheelchair too, although the first day we planned it for there was torrential rain all afternoon, clearly the weather gods had decided against us!

The first time I visited near suppertime I was surprised and delighted to see he could manage a knife and fork with his meal. The last time I had seen him eat it was with a fork and a very wobbly delivery. I hadn’t been able to stay until his evening meal at Brive…that drive! Perhaps due to all this improvement and feeling so much better Lou told me he felt a bit like a spare leg, perhaps taking the place of someone more needy. He was tucked away at the end of a corridor with a new doctor who seemed keen to sort him out once and for all. One day, she announced that she felt it would be much better for his morale and continued progress if he was to come home for a while with a return to the hospital later for re-education. We were delighted but worried that our house wouldn’t come up to scratch for a disabled occupant. Calming our concerns, she proposed a prescription for a wheelchair, a commode and a zimmer frame for me to collect from the pharmacy. At the same time, organising a rendezvous for me with Fanny with photographs of our entrance steps and rooms plus measurements of doorways etc.

I carefully measured and photographed and returned on the Friday morning to see the physio. She was pleased that our rooms were spacious and said she would take Lou out on the fire escape to practise stairs the following Monday. Meanwhile, she gave me a lesson in how to walk with him on the zimmer. The doctor came in a few moments later saying Fanny had been very happy and handed me the prescription. As easy as that?

Not quite. First I had to sort out a bed for the living room which brilliant friends helped me move from our gite. I kept up the pretence it was a single bed with himself but, in reality, I could just squeeze the gite’s double bed into a space in our living room and still be able to use the room as our sejour. I visited the pharmacy and ordered the various boys toys which I was able to collect later the same day…it was all going ahead so quickly.

On the following Monday I received a phone call from the ward to say he had managed the fire escape stairs very well and would be coming home that afternoon….and he did! Eight weeks to the day since he had been rushed in.

We still don’t know what went wrong or how long, if ever, before he will regain full mobility although he has another lovely young lady giving him physio three times a week. The doctors appear to be scratching their collective heads about a diagnosis although we have a rendezvous in August with the Brive neurologist who may have some answers. But for now we are both under the same roof and really appreciate it!

NB throughout this nightmarish episode family, friends and neighbours have been fantastic in their support. It has been greatly appreciated and will not be forgotten. Merci bien every last one of you..