promenadingpeacocks

Up sharpish this morning as Eurostar seemed divided about how early we should present ourselves at check-in, anywhere between 45 and 120 minutes before departure on the various bits of paper/emails. We skipped breakfast and left for Gare du Nord just after 8 o’clock. ‘down the road and turn left’ had been the advice the evening before from the hotel reception so we did and found it very easily. No sign of the Paralympic marathon either.

It had looked like a bright and dry day outside so it was pleasant walking despite the luggage. Inside the station we followed the signs and ascended the escalator to where we were sent down marked aisles to passport control. Machine checking so it was a tad complicated as I tried to get my passport the right way round (I chose the wrong photo page and didn’t suss straight away that there was a screen I had to look into before I could be released the other end. Mr McGregor had even more attempts before he managed. Oldies holding things up! French passport control was easier and I knew we had to proffer our carte de sejours as well. Then came the screening bit. I kept reminding himself watch, belt, phone but somehow he ended up with his watch still on. He made several attempts to go through the scanner as I attempted to collect his trays (why three?) as well as my own plus backpacks and suitcases to prevent further delays for the people behind us. New knees? the security chap finally asked in desperation as the beeps continued. Just about to frisk him when someone in front of a computer waved to let my beeping husband through!

As we headed down the concourse to the gates to the platforms I passed a news stand with a very aptly titled magazine!

The signs were saying B coaches 1-10, we were 15, so I asked a chap guarding the gate where should we be, please? Back up the far end, he told me, sign A. So back we trudged and sank, thankfully, into spare seats opposite our gate. Around then, Mr McGregor remembered his house keys were in his jeans pocket!! Count to ten, I told myself!

On the departures board the the earlier train was still showing with increasingly curt warnings that the gate was about to close. So much for closing half an hour before, it was bang on its departure time by now.

The emptied concourse slowed filled up with the passengers for our train but still we sat waiting for the order to board. Finally, with about twenty minutes to go, the gate was opened and we got ourselves organised and joined the throng. All very orderly as there was only one door to each wagon with copious luggage space to left and right. Our seats were the first two so we were quickly settled.

The train is smooth and fast and whizzed under the channel without any announcement, unless it was on the overhead running timer that I couldn’t see from my seat. I went and got coffees before then and something to eat to make up for the lack of breakfast.

We belted through Kent, the river Medway looked lovely from the rail bridge, yachts lying at anchor on a falling (?) tide and weak sunshine reflected in the shallows. Then it was underground for a bit before the Dartford bridge reared up, scene of many a traffic jam we now know about with son and grandson living north of the Thames. People began to close their laptops and get suitcases from the racks above their seats. We agreed to sit tight and let everyone get off so we could stagger about for our stuff without making people wait. We were only going to stroll to the hotel after all.

Our hotel. I’ve been telling anyone who asked we were in an hotel opposite the British library but when we presented ourselves at the reception I was firmly told we were in the wrong one! ‘Our’ hotel was the sister one three minutes walk away, this one was called St Pancras, ours Euston. So the stroll became a cross stomp as we set off to find it. No distance away, just annoyed with myself for a silly mistake.

Checked in early…for a few, we dumped our luggage and went to find a pub. No bitter for himself so he ordered Guinness, it seemed appropriate! I asked for a strongbow cider but got something pink and fizzy sweet. It was swapped for a Magners, also Irish brewed, so we’re getting into the Irish mood.

A light lunch then back to the hotel for himself to rest his eyelids and for me to write this…it has just rained hard and thundered but when it stops I’m off to the British library as I’ve never visited it before…

I was born late and have been tardy ever since. For big events that require me to be ready at a certain time it involves alarm clocks/calls and a nagging fear I shall sleep through them all and be late…too late! So of course, I woke up way before the alarm went, listened to the night train from Paris thunder past just before half past six and knew sleeping was finished with.

The skies should have been lightening but were darkening and as I checked the lightning map app on my phone I saw a big orange splodge heading our way. One almighty clap of thunder, not to be repeated, and the heavens opened. That set himself off worrying about Kitty, our half-feral cat. She went wild the first and only time we put her in a pension and we promised we wouldn’t do that to her again. She disappears every time we have friends or family to stay only creeping up to the front steps for her food we leave out so I don’t feel too guilty doing it when we go away. A good friend pops by to check the food and water hoppers are ok but has only seen Kitty once in six years of holidays. I mollified him and we got stuck into the last tasks before leaving.

That still left an hour and a quarter to twiddle our thumbs (and fret about what we might have forgotten) before another good friend was due to pick us up for the drive to the station. We drank coffee and relaxed…sort of.

Duly left at the station (merci bien, Jean-Michel) we still had a half hour to fill! I idly read posters while himself read the local bus timetable. Finding luggage labels and a pen under a stern warning all luggage must be labelled I filled them out and Lou put them on. Very natty..

On board at last with the rain still falling I overheard the ticket inspector telling another elderly chap with a stick and large suitcase who got on when we did that he would be met at Brive by someone who would help.

And sure enough he was. I thought this was brilliant. Our local train is one wagon only, it was filled by a mixture of passengers, the young girls paying no attention to the weather when choosing what to wear! 😊 and a few elderlies with suitcases and backpacks. At Brive a SNCF uniformed young woman met our older gentleman and we last saw them over on another platform as she waited and then helped into his connecting train and stowed his luggage for him. A paid service or just attentive and caring staff?

Our train was ten minutes late and we heard why after every stop up to Paris, faulty signals near Souillac, also that wagon 3 was lacking in ‘material’ and so the numbers were all wrong. If you were booked for that wagon,… please sit anywhere! And finally why there was no WiFi, we were on a train ambulant. Now I have always understood ambulant means travelling.. ? Anyway, no podcasts or word games for me just scenery watching. Thankfully the rain dried up somewhere past Limoges and I thoroughly enjoyed spotting wildlife, what WERE those black and white birds, trying to decide which crops were growing and snoozing…

Oh, and drinking black tea and eating the sandwiches we brought with us.

Blue sky!

And now we are in Paris, on the first floor of our hotel, very conveniently placed for Gare du Nord. Mind you, I had a text from Eurostar just before we got into Austerlitz station telling me to be careful tomorrow as the Paralympic marathon is running past Gare du Nord and getting to the station might be difficult.

But that’s tomorrow and this evening we’re in Paris, the sun is shining and I’ve booked a nearby bistrot for dinner. 😊🗼

We started this blog when we went overland to China for our ruby wedding anniversary, although ultimately it fell to me to write up our story depending on dodgy WiFi and other restrictions. It continued as a record of our various promenades, mostly in our camper van, but shorter jaunts within France and trips to the UK for weddings and celebrations. Around COVID it became more reflective before returning to its original purpose but I got lazy and started to write up each outing retrospectively. Nothing wrong with that but it didn’t/doesn’t seem to reflect the spirit of the thing, writing in the moment rather than trying to remember reactions and the tiny nuances of what makes traveling such fun and so compelling. So we’re off tomorrow to Dublin, our ultimate destination after Paris and London and I’m going to try and write on the hoof, as it were.

We’ve never been before but family and friends assure us we will love it for its vibrancy, not least for its pubs! We’re taking trains and boats and using Eurostar for the first time so new experiences. Our last long train trip was eleven years ago when we went overland to Bergen to pick up the Hurtegruten cruise on the old post boat route. I remembered the unwieldy large suitcases we took. On the sleeper between Copenhagen and Paris there was barely any leg room once they were pushed into the tiny floor space. Then I fought to lift mine onto the train at Austerlitz smiling but declining the help a young man offered and then nearly dropped it. ‘I did offer’, he said, reprovingly. So mortifying as I nursed a bruised knee! So small cases and the awkward odds and sods in a backpack each. On y va!

This year the spring was wet, wet, wet so the thought of some time by the sea, wriggling my toes in the sand with the sun warming our backs became impossible to ignore. After cancelling last June’s seaside trip due to Mr McGregor’s dramatic health problems I was hesitant about booking something again but decided it was better to live hopefully!

Last year’s destination was the Ile de Re, an island on the Atlantic coast of France, very popular with the French in general and our neighbours in particular. They have a camper van and regularly return to the island to eat oysters, cycle around the salt flats and hunt for cockles on the beaches. It sounded irresistible so I was sad to have had to cancel.

But this year himself is so much stronger and as he managed so well on the Paris trip I decided to take a chance. So with crossed fingers I booked the island again although the original hotel was ‘complet’. Ultimately the new hotel’s instructions for finding them on the pedestrianised harbour side of Saint Martin, the biggest town on the island I discovered later, and then finding their private carpark with certain accessibility problems seemed all too much so I regretfully cancelled…again. But not to be defeated I did some online sleuthing and found Chatelaillon-Plage just to the south of La Rochelle, home to one end of the bridge to the Ile de Re.

Chatelaillon-Plage looked a tad bleak on Google earth as the photos were taken in the winter but there was a long expanse of beach with what looked like a quiet road with old fashioned seaside villas running behind it. A bonus was that it was only a thirtyfive minute drive to the island. Given that Mr McGregor’s boredom threshold is very low, the possibility of doing a day trip when the beach palled seemed ideal. So I went ahead and booked a hotel with a pool that was one road back from the beach with restaurants within walking distance. And last week we went!

The weather that had been a bit gloomy and damp after three very hot days when we had visitors (lucky them) decided to cheer up for our ‘depart’. There was a certain amount of faff, comme d’dab, as we stopped for diesel, then sandwiches, then in Brive so himself could buy a new watchstrap, as you do! Finally we were on the autoroute heading west. The A89 runs through beautiful rolling countryside, the Correze, the Dordogne and ultimately the Gironde. As per the first of only a couple of aires on the whole stretch of autoroute was heaving but after decent coffee from the machines we munched our excellent sandwiches from our home bakery watching the comings and goings around us.

The GPS deposited us in front of the hotel around four in the afternoon. As informed in an email from the hotel there was off street parking which saved us the expense of the hotel car park. The welcome once inside was very warm and friendly and my email after booking asking for a room on a lower floor due to Mr McGregor’s mobility problems had been noted and acted upon so we were on the first floor. Thankfully, as there was no lift!

It wasn’t long before we had settled ourselves in, had a recovery doze and then taken ourselves down to the rear terrace, overlooking the pool, to enjoy our arrival aperos. As we relaxed in our new surroundings we sensed this was going to be ok.

Later we wandered down to the seafront where the tide was high and the sea calm. We perused menus and opted for a covered terrace at the Casino, a majestic building dominating its surroundings.

We were at the seaside so it had to be moules frites…

The sun blazed into our faces and we had to remind ourselves that’s what we had come in search of as I tried to wriggle into some shade! 😊

Feeling replete and very satisfied with our first evening we walked slowly back along the front watching families finishing their al fresco beach picnics while youngsters swam and played ball in the shallows.

I was beginning to notice the old fashioned atmosphere of the town due in part to the seafront villas, no shops and quiet one way promenade.

This was all beginning to feel promising…

The next morning we took our breakfast trays out onto the front terrace. A charming young girl had shown us the buffet emphasizing the homemade products; three cakes, two jams and plain yoghurt. The yoghourt was delicious and I had it every morning on my fresh fruit. The apricot jam rivalled Bonne Maman. We passed on the cakes, they looked good but too much for breakfast.

We had decided on a beach day but first a little explore of the town, especially the covered market. The main road was closed due to a fete taking place that following weekend. We were bemused by a large panel depicting the Beatles but discovered the town was twinned with Knebworth…

The covered market was typical and full of regular housewives being aggravated by tourists getting in the way and lengthening the queues. We waited patiently and bought various yummy things for our beach picnic.

All the nearby cafe terraces were full so we wandered back towards the hotel and found a cafe/bar near the ‘curio’ shop where we had bought beach shoes and trunks for Mr McGregor who had forgotten to pack his.

Due to a confused discussion with the staff at the hotel we still had no idea of the state of the tide but put on our costumes under our clothes in anticipation of a sea dip. It was not to be! The water was almost at low tide and was only to be reached after a squelchy walk which neither of us fancied just for a paddle. We had been able to borrow a parasol from the hotel and so reclined on a blanket thing I had bought ages ago and never used, to enjoy our picnic…bliss!

Himself took a short wander to the high tide mark while I went further to explore some nearby rocks where a mother and daughter were busy with nets…crabs? Shrimps?

It was lovely…sun, sea (almost) and sand…lots of it. Apparently back in the 80s the beaches had been washed away and there was a huge operation to bring sand from Ile d’Oleron to replace it at Chatelaillon-Plage in order to prevent the town losing its seaside identity and vital economy.

After cold drinks in a nearby beach bar we meandered back to the hotel to take advantage of their pool. One of the helpful receptionists had told us that morning that the pool was good in the afternoon as it was partially in shade. And it was….even himself came in for a while despite disliking chlorinated water.

Then another evening of reading menus at the many restaurants around town and the beachfront before settling for a very busy one opposite last night’s venue. This town must be heaving in July and August!

Then the stroll back along the beach watching the sun sinking into the sea, now at a height for swimming in…

but I contented myself with just a paddle. 😊

Thursday was to be Ile de Re day. Our thoughtful hotelier produced a map of the island and pointed out the best routes to take and places to visit. We already had recommendations from my sister and a note of favourites from our neighbour that we found tucked under a windscreen wiper the morning we left home.

Our first stop was the 12th century Abbaye des Chateliers , surrounded by wild flower meadows full of poppies where skylarks sang. My first skylarks in years! Founded by Cistercian monks it lasted only until the 16th century when finally destroyed by the Huguenots during the wars of religion. It had previously suffered badly in the 15th century from partial demolition by the English during the siege of La Rochelle. But only invaded by tourists nowadays, most of them on bikes. As a driver you have to be wary of when the bicycle and its designated routes take precedence over the motorised vehicle!

I looked back at the bridge that had enabled us to drive here and wondered about the monks who probably had to row across…

Next stop was La Flotte where I had a fight with the parking payment machine, as did several other drivers. Modern technology, pah! La Flotte is a plus beau village that my sister had stayed in and it really is very pretty and very busy but we found a table for our regular beer and cappuccino with a good view of the harbour. I even managed a quick shot minus passers-by.

The village is very pretty with lots of expensive clothes shops, we noticed, as is so often the way with plus beau villages, they become full of bijou boutiques and artisan studios that close as soon as the holiday season is over. We were looking for the market and somewhere we could buy local wine. I had been enjoying a Chardonnay from Ile de Re at aperos time at the hotel. Market visited and wine found in the local Carrefour we returned to the car to continue exploring.

As we drove towards the seaward end of the island, home to an enormous lighthouse, I noticed the abundance of hollyhocks and giant agapanthus. I love both flowers but have failed miserably to grow hollyhocks and my elderly agapanthus now produces leaves rather than flowers. It needs dividing, I’m told. We avoided the centre of Saint Martin, the harbour village I had originally booked, as the parking looked difficult and it would probably be as crowded as La Flotte. The village of Ars-en-Re was seen from a distance, its celebrated ‘fleche’ reflecting the sun from its white base from which an odd black spire rose, a ‘daymark’ for sailors apparently. Ars is another ‘plus beau village’ plus being part of a group of villages of ‘stone and water’, a designation cooked up by the Charente tourist office it seems.

Arriving near the ‘phare’ we followed signposts to the huge dusty carpark. A standard pay later machine, thank goodness. There were even hollyhocks growing wild as we walked from the carpark towards the lighthouse…

By now we were peckish having driven past lots of oyster shacks and hoped to find a fish restaurant. I can only cope with one oyster at a sitting unlike himself. Happily, we were given a table after only a short wait in a very busy but cheerful place.

Of course, Mr McGregor chose oysters as his starter while I had crevettes. The good news was that the restaurant offered their fish soup, which I love, as either an entree or a main course so I was sorted!

After all that there was no way we were going to climb to the top of the lighthouse/phare as my sister had done!

But we did walk to the end of the island up by the windswept Tour Vauban and gaze out to sea…low tide, of course…

Studying the map I decided (as the designated driver these days) we would drive around the southerly side of the island and see some of the places our neighbours’ recommended. Several of the little villages are bypassed by the bigger roads so I swung off onto little ones that wiggled past white walls with hollyhocks swaying against them. Sadly, the salt marshes seem to be more easily available to cyclists and walkers. Our neighbour told us later that you can buy salt from tables outside cottages with honesty boxes for your payment. A lot more reasonable than the fancy little bags at the tourist shops. There are about one hundred sauniers/salt workers on the island making seasalt in the traditional way that dates back nearly a millenium. There are some quiet beaches nearby too. Next time?

Before leaving I had managed to find a card that summed up perfectly my impression of the island and its wonderful hollyhocks.

Back over the toll bridge (you only pay to come to the island) and on to the hotel for a very welcome swim in their pool.

After the by now obligatory aperos sur la terrace, himself enjoying a pastis made on Ile de Re, we went in search of tapas at a place on the beach.

We were served by a affable young chap and I marvelled at how good humoured all the waiters etc had been on this trip given how hard they have all been working. But it’s not high season yet! 😊

We shared a couple of platters and reflected on what a good break this had been and what a find the hotel was.

The next morning, after another delicious breakfast, we thanked the owners, Celine and Frederic, for their warm welcome and helpfulness, bought a bottle of the said pastis from them, kissed the strange installation chap goodbye and drove away from Chatelaillon-Plage, hoping for a return visit one sunny day.

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!