promenadingpeacocks

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..

part three..

Tuesday.. or as I was calling it ‘shopping day!’ It seems a bit daft that we go shopping on trips away but we live in la France profonde so we are not blessed with a huge variety of shops. Like many other people we order a lot of stuff online. The relais mondiale system makes returning disappointing goods easy, especially as we have an agent in the village. But nothing beats a city high street full of shops!

We have history regarding shopping in Brighton, a sentimental history. In the summer of 1966, the year we met, I was with a play that ran at the Theatre Royal for a week. I was in theatrical digs with my fellow ASM and a couple of contestants touring with Hughie Green’s ‘Opportunity Knocks’ show at the Dome. I remember one of them took my friend and me to the Brighton races one afternoon. Lou came down to see me on the Friday and we went to buy my engagement ring at the Sussex goldsmiths and silversmiths, in Castle Square, a shop long gone now. The following summer I was back at the same theatre with ‘Canaries sometimes sing’, a show that required a live bird on stage. It was my job to chat up a pet shop in each town we played to lend us a yellow budgie! This time Lou and I booked a holiday bedsit in Kemptown on one of those pretty roads that run down to Marine Parade. We took the opportunity to go back to the Sussex goldsmiths and buy my wedding ring as we were getting married at the end of that summer. During my down time we explored Brighton, discovering a Japanese shop in the lanes where we bought matching kimono style dressing gowns, a shell mobile and two coffee cups and saucers. The mobile has hung in every house we’ve lived in and the cups are hanging on the kitchen dresser. I think one of the dressing gowns is still in a drawer somewhere…see? Stuff!

At Christmas I tried explaining, somewhat inadequately, to my sister in law why I still buy j-cloths and gravy granules on UK trips. I’ve looked for alternatives locally but never found anything that is as good. For Mr McGregor it’s certain seeds that aren’t available in France eg purple sprouting broccoli.

And then there is his comfort food, baked beans, sold in small tins with reduced salt and sugar. Admittedly it’s me who prefers those lower additives. But the big bonus is Marks and Sparks. We can order online but it’s easier when you can try on the goods.

This trip I had my little blue blighty book as a reminder; new jeans were noted for himself while for me it was bras and pants, the traditional female middle (old!) age purchase. In addition, he was looking for sash line, as you do, and a winter jacket while I wanted to get lost in Waterstones as I had a book token burning a hole in my wallet. Also, one Brit friend was anxious to add to her UK biscuit reserves while a French friend loves English shortbread.

First we wrestled the bags of books up (!) to the charity shops. Oxfam, Shelter and British Heart Foundation had benefitted this trip and I only bought two novels in return and a pretty scarf. I can’t resist a pretty scarf. Once more, you can see how I acquire ‘stuff’. 😊

It was pleasing to see our board games already out on sale. We went our separate ways to save time, relying on text messages to reunite us later. Waterstones was wonderful, a shop full of books in English. I can read French novels but my first language will always be easier. I took photos of titles that looked interesting and hesitated over which one to buy. Had I read this one? That one?

I used the book token for a Helen Dunmore, merci bien, Monica!

Satisfied at last, I moved up to the children’s section and happily rummaged for something for petit fils. His bookshelf is already groaning, mainly thanks to me, let’s hope he doesn’t suffer from my inability to ditch the unwanted books later in life.

A couple of text messages and we met up again and had coffee in Waterstones. Then it was back to the outdoor shop and a lengthy debate about which jacket he should buy. I could hear a couple across the shop having a similar conversation about a rain jacket. I sighed for the other woman as I leaned on a wall, the recipient of several discarded items of clothing. Decision made at last it was off to M and S. Separating again, I headed for the lingerie. A very disappointing choice I felt but I managed find some things that would do and went off to enjoy the summer clothes on the ground floor.

Taking our haul back to the hotel we messaged Gav about any pubs in the vicinity for our lunch. He works from home and was doing a lunchtime mercy dash to his cousin with our present for his sister, my niece, who had just extended the family by giving birth to a baby girl. My family just keeps growing! He didn’t have time to join us but recommended a pub not too far away.

It was just what we wanted. A traditional pub with sarnies and chips on its menu. We sat in a sunny window and relaxed.

I revelled in a half pint of local cider, a rare treat.

The weather was warm and sunny despite the chilly wind. The afternoon was spent hitting the big Asian supermarket, Taj, and Waitrose for treats, notably hot cross buns. I’ve tried making my own but shop bought ones win out every time. Finally, each item was crossed off in my little blue book and so back to the hotel for tea and a snooze.

The row of chimney pots from our hotel window fascinated me, tangible evidence of why pollution was such a problem in the days of coal fires in every room including bedrooms and the view indicative of the fascinating mix of old and new that is Brighton and Hove as evidenced by the new block of flats beyond and the remnants of former glories on Western road.

Later we wandered up (!) to Gav who took us to a nearby tropical sushi restaurant, a mix of Japanese and Latin American flavours, where the chopsticks came out again and we shared a platter of sushi and other delicious mouthfuls. We had certainly eaten around the world on this trip.

More big farewell hugs and home for our last night in our room with the sloping and creaky floor. I said it was an old building!

Wednesday was an early alarm call and I was greeted by a pink sky as I opened the curtains. Shepherd’s warning?

Everything stowed in the boot and off to Folkestone via the motorways. Fairly uneventful but a hiccup at Eurotunnel where big signs told us there were delays on all departures. My over active imagination went into catastrophe overdrive, of course. Facing a delay of ninety minutes we explored the terminal building. The usual outlets and a girl singing on a stage which seemed very odd at midday. I bought some duty paid perfume and a newspaper for its word games.

The coffee shops had long queues so we opted for cups from a machine and went back to the car. Once there we decided we may as well go through border controls to pass the time. That done we were waved into a separate lane for the later departure.

We were resigned to the wait and smiled at what appeared to be an adult seagull inducting a youngster into chip stealing! But soon found ourselves being waved forward to the next train. Result, we were going to leave at our reserved time after all. Out with the word puzzle book!

As you can see, the gps gets very confused when in the tunnel and we hoped it could find our hotel that evening, it being one we hadn’t used before. Clocks put forward, we were soon belting along the A16 heading for Paris. I drove some of it to a background of criticism from ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ who hates being a passenger and only gives in when he’s tired. As we entered the Paris suburbs, himself back at the wheel, we negotiated the tricky entry to the hotel in le Port, Marly le Roi. As expected it wasn’t straightforward but the carpark under the hotel was easy to access and very secure.

From our third floor, dirty, window we could see the Eiffel tower away in the distance. The guy at the desk told us the restaurants were across the road but there was a subway we could use gain the other side.

We promptly christened it ‘muggers alley’ despite it being completely empty. Passing a lovely old blue and white Michelin sign that indicated the riverside we walked towards a couple of restaurants I had seen on Google earth without much idea as to how far away they might actually be.

So when we came to a chic looking frontage I asked a girl closing the door if it was a restaurant. Well, it could have been a posh boutique?

She confirmed it was and ushered us in. As she took our coats we caught each other’s eye as we realised we were probably in for an expensive evening but a comfortable one.

Over aperos and delicious amuse bouches we chose our meal and giggled over the wine list that was more like a book. Happily, we found a choice of half bottles that wouldn’t break the bank.

We were looked after by a cheerful young waitress who told me she liked to learn idiomatic phrases in other languages when I complimented her on knowing puree de pomme des terre was mashed potato. Lou was delighted with his entree of fruits de mer served elegantly on a bed of ice while I had a tartare of sea bass in herby creme fraiche.

Offered the chef’s special of calves liver I said yes, imagining thin slices served in a balsamic jus. What arrived was a huge lump of meat smothered in onions, not at all what the elegant entrees had suggested. I struggled despite it being delicious.

We passed on desserts, settling for coffee as we surreptitiously people watched. Outside again, we crossed the road and took a look at the riverside which must look very pretty in daylight, the walkway lined with trees and plants. There seemed to be houseboats moored up too.

Walking back to the hotel past elegant apartment blocks to our muggers alley, the contrast between the two sides of the big main road seemed hard to equate.

Back up on the third floor we could see the Eiffel tower spotlight sweeping across the horizon.

The rest of the journey home was not the best. In the early hours I woke up feeling as if I had a very heavy cold and couldn’t get back to sleep until himself kindly made me a comforting cup of tea around 5am. Unable to help him with the driving, I slumped in my seat alternatively coughing and nodding off while he heroically got us back to Gagnac in one piece. Convinced it was the fault of that chilly wind off the sea in Brighton it wasn’t until the Saturday that the possibility of doom virus occurred to me and it’s presence was subsequently confirmed by a test.

Twentyfour hours later and we were both positive. At Christmas when several family members were ill we’d dodged it, but not this trip. The joys of travel, post covid!

But it had been a brilliant trip… 😊

part two…

On Sunday morning there was no petit fils banging on our door demanding help with his homework. The price of their room quadrupled for Saturday night so they crashed at ‘Uncle Gav’s’. I doubt he got much sleep! We sat in the window of the breakfast room and watched the 10 mile runners going by.

It looked cold and that wind was still blowing.

The boys were treating themselves to breakfast out somewhere so a slow start to our day. I prevailed upon the reception staff to book us a place in the car park for later, made difficult by the fact that people leaving that morning couldn’t take their cars with them until 6.30pm. After some debate I got a place and the paperwork to confirm it. It was back to the beach when the family were reunited and the shell searching began again. An enormous cockle (?) was found and it was heavy too so I guessed it was very much alive.

Jon tossed it out beyond the waves as we assumed it had been thrown up by the storm. Then a game off jumping back from the breaking foam began. Happily everyone was agile and no shoes were soaked despite near misses!

We were off to the party for the afternoon and Kai had been promised the pier and the cinema before the return to London so after a short stroll it was back under the prom to avoid the marathon runners who were now pounding along the seafront. Big hugs all round, it had been great fun but too short, as always, and we went our separate ways. *sniff

A quick tidy up and off to the public car park to retrieve the car after paying a hefty price for 26 hours parking. A slight pause when ‘i’m only the chauffeur’ realised the keys were in his other coat.. back at the hotel. An anxious wait for me as I waited and wondered if there was a time limit between paying and actually leaving the car park. If there was we didn’t overrun it and had no problem driving away from the seafront. Later on there was confusion trying to negotiate our way towards Worthing without using the A27 which inexplicably is closed on the weekends at the moment. But the pretty, albeit long-winded, detour around Stenning and Storrington allowed me to notice the cowslips blooming on the verges and the sight of a steam roller chugging in the opposite direction swathed in smoke. We wondered if the driver could see where he was going.

We were greeted like old friends at the party, as indeed we are, very old! It was touching to be the only non family guests and the afternoon was spent sharing anecdotes and photos and ‘do you remember?’.

The two 80 year olds had known each other since childhood when they lived opposite each other. In fact, I’ve always been told it was the best friend who bestowed the nickname of Lou on my husband, officially christened Anthony. 😊

They both took evening jobs at the Streatham Hill theatre as teenagers and ultimately followed each other into full time work in the West End. An article published long ago in the Daily Mail recorded the sort of activity in which they got involved.

This was eagerly pored over and the story behind it retold to younger family members. The two chaps (far left and far right) plus a couple of stage hands had been the thunderstorm sound effects for a play called Thark and the article gave a jokey account of the possible new group, ‘The Weathermen’. The stagehands at that time worked the evening shows and then went off to do the night shift in Covent Garden market which was still the main fruit and vegetable hub back then.

I became part of the team for six months when I moved to the same theatre, the Garrick, in early 1966 as the ASM (assistant stage manager) and understudy of the understudy!

‘I’m only the chauffeur’ and I bonded over the only bit of action in the three hours the show ran when I cued him in with my starting pistol (car backfiring effect) and he heaved the prop car backwards into the wings. The rest is history, as they say.

It was a lovely afternoon of catching up but, after the present opening and cake eating, it was time to go. Lots of hugs and promises to stay in touch and we were soon tracing our way back along the seafront, no confusion this time.

In Brighton the barriers were still up but traffic beginning to trickle through so we were soon able to park back in the hotel car park and kick off our shoes after staggering up the five half flights of stairs to our room. This holiday will be remembered for all the climbing we did!

‘Uncle’ Gav was having an early night and so we took ourselves off to a friendly and very good Turkish restaurant we’d eaten in before where we stuffed ourselves with mezes plus meatballs and imanbyaldi, which was melt in the mouth…

And then an early night for us too…..

Monday morning was dry again which was good as this was the day we were off to ‘Lunnon’ for an art exhibition. I’d seen it talked about on UK TV a while before we left and pre-booked some tickets, it being David Hockney, one of my favourite contemporary artists. Himself had surprised me by saying he fancied it too so, with Gav as our guide, we were off by train at lunchtime.

Before then, I satisfied my curiosity about the walled garden that was below our window. To us it looked like a paved ‘area’ that these old houses have but ‘walled garden’ was on a downstairs door.

Well, a few pots might be a cheerful addition but there was a bench at the end overlooking what I assumed was the kitchen on the lower level. The rear part of the hotel appears to be three interconnected houses from my sleuthing on Google earth. The reason for all those staircases?

Happily, the train was on time and we let Gav negotiate the ticket machine as a regular user. I had had no idea there was a Thameslink train all the way from Brighton to St Pancras, our ultimate destination. How useful is that? Lou and I spent the journey reminiscing about train journeys of our past as the train sped through familiar bits of south London and along the south bank of the Thames.

The skyline is so different from when we used to work in London or even since we moved to France. A big surprise was discovering that there is a station on what was Blackfriars bridge.

At St Pancras I was bemused by the mainly pedestrianised area. I had never been that familiar with the area only having travelled from the main station a couple of times but Gavin knew it all well and led us through to the canal where I had to stop and stare …and take photos, of course.

We searched for some coffee as we were ahead of time and found some good stuff in a bike shop. Always look for a bike shop advised the cyclist, the coffee is usually good!

This curving roof built onto an old building mesmerised me, as did the refurbished gasometers in the background!

And then it was into the exhibition in the Lightroom. And it was breathtaking. Despite the children careening about and a lack of seating it was a fabulous experience. I hadn’t realised that there was a voiceover from Hockney himself explaining his motivation and reactions to the places he had visited and lived in throughout his life. All four walls were covered with images at any one time and I constantly twisted and turned not wanting to miss a thing.

We had all positioned ourselves in different places but as the loop came to the point where we had arrived we moved up to the top gallery where we could get the full effect of the light show on the floor.

I found myself becoming quite emotional which is a measure, I always feel, of how successful an experience has been. We had all enjoyed it and reluctantly dragged ourselves away. It runs until October and I urge any interested readers to visit. After the obligatory purchase for petit fils from the shop it was back to St Pancras for our useful direct train….

. …back across the canal (Camden, that way, mother) and into M and S for sustenance before discovering the train we were hurrying for was cancelled. No matter, we ate sitting on a bench, our heads full of Hockney images.

Gavin wanted to treat us to supper and, finding his first two choices closed on Mondays he opted for a curry house he had heard was good. and so it was. Very good. A diet will be in order when we get home I thought!

part one…

The birthday party trip to the south coast (UK) slowly approached while I was in full spring cleaning mode. Well, not so much the cleaning as the clearing. When I am in contemplative mood the house seems to overwhelm me with all the ‘stuff’ we’ve acquired over the years. Even changing countries didn’t seem to cut it down although I remember a lot of visits to the dump, the charity shops and a couple of car boot sales before we left the UK. Our removal boxes were stored in the roof of our house here while it was refurbished and when I eventually started to unpack them there were several cries of ‘why on earth did we bring this?’

The discovery of the local charity shop of Secours Populaire was a godsend in parting with the unwanted bits and still is my ‘go to’ place rather than the dechetterie. One man’s rubbish etc..

So throughout the spring I have been steeling myself and getting rid. I read a self-help book many years ago and discovered I fall into a certain type, one that feels guilty about throwing stuff out whatever the stuff might be. The trick is to put it aside for a while until you are convinced it can go. I managed to convince myself the plethora of books could go. Himself doesn’t understand the attachment I have for books, ie novels I have read. And I can’t adequately explain it to him so whenever I talk of getting rid of something he immediately seizes upon my overloaded bookcases as the first ‘victims’.

But I have been strong and packed up several dozen books, maybe a hundred or more. I am helped by the fact a friend knows of someone who supports an animal charity and who will take books for their regular sale days. In fact, the bags of books so far I have given her have been sorted by mutual friends who share my tastes in reading.

After my bookcases it was the shared ones in the spare room that became the focus. I did a trawl through them a few years back when I realised there were a lot of reference books made useless by the internet. Remnants of our boys’ youth when the questions kept coming. Those books had gone to the UK on one of our earlier trips and ended up in an RSPCA charity shop. This time we were going to be staying in Brighton and I know exactly where some charity shops are located as they have been the source of some of the novels I am now moving on!

So several bags of non fiction stood ready for the off alongside a number of large boxed games, from when trivial pursuit spawned many others cashing in on the fashion for home entertainment around a board. Ours had all been collecting dust for years, one even had its cellophane still intact.

Unlike Christmas when the boot is packed with goodies, this time there were a few but mostly my donations for the charity shops. Bonkers maybe, but I can’t bear to throw away things that might earn something for someone in need. It all squeezed in and we were away.

Well, almost. The party fell on the weekend just after my appointment with my opthalmologist. Rendezvous are scarcer than hens teeth so the plan was to still keep it as Brive is an hour north of us and in the right direction for Rambouillait, our first night’s stopover. However, the place was very busy and I was in there more than an hour. When I finally emerged we decided to head straight off and take a late lunch at the aire after Limoges or at least buy some sandwiches to eat later in the car. Some much needed coffee and we were off again.

The weather wasn’t too cheerful and was very windy but the traffic wasn’t too heavy and we made Rambouillait in decent time. A comfy room in the Ibis that had rejected us over plumbing problems at Christmas and a short walk across the car park for a gruffalo bill supper

Once again, the following day the drive north was against a background of scudding clouds and strong winds that buffeted the car. As we neared Boulogne the traffic on the big viaducts was limited to one lane only. The decision to take the tunnel seemed the right one yet again.

As before at check-in we were offered the next train and, after a stop to visit the duty paid, we boarded, this time being ushered into the lower deck. Can’t be very busy, we told each other. Little did we know about the chaos that was erupting for coach passengers at Dover. (My niece was stuck on her coach for 48 hours! )

I dug out my codeword book and busied myself on the letter puzzle while the train took the strain. A young French girl with ‘formation’ (training) across her hi-viz reminded us to open windows and keep the car in first gear.

The drive up the M20 was slow as the interminable roadworks continue and the stop at the services at Clackers Lane was a shock, literally, as we careered from pothole to pothole on the entry slip road. The muck along the sides of the M23 to Brighton was a reminder that expensive as motorway tolls in France might be there are benefits to be had.

As we dropped down to the seafront to find our hotel we could see big white waves rushing in from quite far out and when I tried to get out the car the wind nearly took the door off. I fought to hold onto bag and coat and leaving ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ in situ I leaned into the wind to check in and secure a hotel car park space, which was on a first come first served basis. After a certain amount of debate, there being the Brighton marathon in the Sunday meaning that leaving the car park would be impossible…we finally dumped our cases, texted the boys we were safely arrived and took ourselves off to the bar! Bien sur…

Our youngest son was coming down from north London having picked up our grandson straight from school. After his big smile and rush across the hotel lobby for his hug, petit fils insisted we start on his homework. Ever the good ‘dadi’ I persuaded him one worksheet of odds and evens would be quite enough, he was looking at a fortnight’s holiday, after all. As he scrawled his answers I was thankful I was no longer required to mark thirty similar efforts. Retirement is a happy place!

The older son, cyclist and Brighton resident, recommended a nearby street of eats and we chose a Chinese restaurant we all knew. One that would provide chips for our youngest member. As it was he was very impressed with his freshly squeezed apple juice and referred to it thereafter as his milkshake.

We toasted his dad, Jon, as it was his birthday too and then tucked in. Petit fils was impressed for a second time as I used chopsticks. Teach me how, now, he demanded, in much the same way he wanted to learn French, immediately, at a marche des producteurs last summer so he could chatter to his new found French playmates. Fortunately, he became engrossed in the recounting of a story with enormous ramifications about a cunning rat and a cat and a river….while a huge plate of chips disappeared without the need for chopsticks!

Leaving the eldest son to find his way home, the rest of us were all glad of our beds back at the hotel, hoping petit fils wouldn’t come knocking too early. As I drew the curtains the i360 glowed like an alien spacecraft from the top of its tower.

Amazingly, the following morning the sea was much calmer and the sun trying to break through, despite a chilly wind…what a change. After breakfast and a certain amount of faff moving the car to a carpark we could exit from the next day without a problem, and the handing over of the board games to the British Heart Foundation shop, it was a day of typical seaside fun. The beach had to be explored first, bien sur, and I soon had a pocket full of shells collected by petit fils.

The pier is the big attraction for most visitors and so we wove our way along the lower promenade towards it between rock shops, oyster bars, lurking seagulls, bucket and spades, postcards, fishing boats, art exhibitions etc.

A stop for coffees allowed us a closer look at the i360 as it slowly ascended. The collective family opinion was it is a waste of money and doesn’t make up for the sorely missed West Pier destroyed by several things including fire and successive storms, an iconic image of Brighton and Hove for many, including us.

I was pleased to see the other pier had had its original name reinstated. It had always been the Palace Pier and although still preceded by Brighton it was good to see Palace back up there.

Below us surfers were trying to catch the waves left by the storm. Brrrr. We were intent on fun of a monetary kind ..the arcades. Petit fils adores the air hockey so after the two of us ramming 2p coins into slot machines with only occasional wins, he took on his dad, uncle and ‘dada’ in turn. I just enjoyed watching them…and videoing, of course. Excitement was high!

All this activity meant appetites were sharpened and there’s only one meal you can eat on a pier (in my opinion) and that’s fish and chips. We adjourned to the Palm Court and dined well on huge portions of cod and haddock.

Still with energy to use up it was the turn of the arcade games we hadn’t visited and then one of the outside rides. Petit fils and I agreed that one of them looked far too scary for either of us, especially with a tummy full of cod and chips!

There were a lot of people around as usual on a weekend in Brighton and the marathon the following day was clearly a big draw. We threaded our way back along the pier stopping for a daft photo..

And then back to sit on the beach to catch our breath. This time it was small white shells washed tiny and smooth by the sea that Kai was fascinated by and we watched as he involved a young woman sitting on her own in his search. Soon my other coat pocket was full too.

All this excitement meant the oldies needed a bit of a rest before the evening so we retraced our way back to the hotel but this time on the upper promenade where barriers were being readied for closing the road in the morning.

That evening we finally had the birthday celebration meal for Jon in a pizza place while across town one of my sisters and her extended family were likewise celebrating her son’s birthday, which he shares with Jon. We had hoped we might meet up for an apero but it hadn’t worked out so we raised glasses to both boys instead.

This Saturday is my birthday. Yes, we are both Pisces which probably makes us incompatible in terms of star signs but we’ve hung in there for a very long time. We have had trips away for my birthday but just as it was becoming a lovely habit doom virus struck and we had to cancel. Last year the spring was busy with both of us having our cateracts sorted plus other events and I can’t even remember what we did! Oh, yes, dinner in a little restaurant in Biars which has since closed. ☹️

This year I thought it would be fun to have a little jaunt, visit somewhere interesting; lunch or picnic, maybe a gentle stroll but all dependant on the weather. I had found something on the internet not that long ago about whose existence I had no idea. A tiny chapel in the Correze with windows designed and painted by Mark Chagall. This is the sort of discovery I love, deep in la France profonde, a little pocket of international culture. I noted it down on the bucket list. This seemed like the perfect time to visit as it is only just over an hour away with a town handily placed along the route for lunch and a wander.

‘I’m only chauffeur’ acquiesced without too much debate and I started researching lunch spots. Donzenac looked a likely place as it is listed as a medieval town (interesting to wander) and one we hadn’t visited since 1990 when we stayed on its municipal campsite. That was the year we arrived in the area in our caravan determined to find a holiday home. Friends thought we were bonkers but we gave ourselves a month and had gathered a list of agents and likely properties before we left home.

The campsite was crowded but a lot of fun. Himself ended up on the adults team for an impromptu football match against les jeunes. I can’t remember who won, probably les jeunes, being younger and fitter, but I do remember the aperos that followed with a family from Dunkerque. I struggled to understand all that was said by the husband and finally apologised to his wife for my mistakes. She burst out laughing and told us that when she met him she couldn’t understand a word he said either! Having lived here I now know about les Ch’tis, the much loved but incomprehensible northerners.

Anyway, back to the important matter of food. There were two possibilities, a Logis and a bistro. I remembered we had eaten very well one or twice in Donzenac during that holiday but had no recollection of where in the town it was. The bistro had a daily formule and the Logis membership means the restaurant must offer one regional menu so either should be fine.

In the event, the Logis was still closed for the winter and the bistro featured a burger as its main ‘plat’, not something I normally choose to eat.

But across le place du marche was a pizzeria with a sunny terrace and not just pizza on the menu. We had deliberately chosen the Thursday before ‘the’ day as it had the best forecast of the week and we opted to eat outside as it was so lovely.

I was delighted to see my favourite pizza on the menu after discovering my first choice salad was unavailable and that I could have the small version.. more of that later. First some coffees as we were a bit early for lunch. A delicious cappuccino in true Italian style.

We sat and people watched for a while, noting those who also turned away from the burger menu and wandered our way or back down to the main road where there was a bar offering steak frites.

When my ‘small’ pizza arrived I squeaked ‘petite’? and our smiling waiter told me I could always take the remains away in a box.

And, indeed, I did!

From where I was sitting I could see a sign for the Chapelle des Penitents bleus so after lunch we wandered in that direction. I had no memory of ever exploring Donzenac back in 1990 so it was a new experience climbing the narrow streets to the highest point of the town.

A couple of friendly cats came over for a stroke while another stared hopefully from a window.

The chapelle was tiny and had once been a guard house when Donzenac still had protecting walls.

I was fascinated by a very low arch inside but could find no information as to whether the floor had once been lower or people had been very short.

Outside, the curved line of the houses on the other side of the place suggested the earlier presence of walls although I couldn’t see any remains now.

Where plaster was missing you could see the torchis used for construction; wattle and daub, we would call it. Our holiday home and present home have walls of torchis here and there. Every trip to our loft means passing bits of straw sticking out beside the staircase. We had some cleared away from an internal wall with just the wooden uprights left to create more light on a landing corridor. I love seeing evidence of the original construction.

We continued climbing until we passed a building with very old features, a sign further along confirmed its origins as the much rebuilt chateau of Donzenac situated at its highest point.

Back to the car to continue to la Saillant and its Chapelle. First the gps did its ‘lets go up the wildest track we can find’ before himself decided to turn around and find his own way out of town.

It reminded me of the poor chap who delivered our last lot of pellets. His GPS brought him the back way to us; ever narrowing lanes and a bridge impossible for his huge arctic to pass below.

Le Saillant didn’t look particularly pretty as we approached across a flat plain but the 13th century bridge over the Vezere that we had to navigate certainly made up for any lack of kerb appeal.

Close to the bridge there is parking space opposite the privately owned chateau (gardens opened in the summer). ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ opted to stay in the car and rest his eyelids while I went off to explore. The chapelle isn’t far away and, happily, was open as its website had stated. It is a tiny one and was built by the family, de Lasteyrie, who have owned the nearby chateau through twenty one generations since the 13th century. The village, called Orbaciac in the 11th century, came under the remit of the abbey at Beaulieu sur Dordogne just a few kilometers from us. By the end of the twelfth century it had switched to the Bishopric of Limoges. A recent incumbent, Guy, was the person who loved Marc Chagall’s art and persuaded him to create the windows. The interior was completely restored in the 70s. The publicity of the Chapelle states it is the only one in France to have all its windows made by the artist although several famous French cathedrals also have individual windows by Chagall.

I had the place to myself so was able to clamber about and get up close to most of the glass. The coloured windows faced each other from the two ends while the ‘grisaille’ windows are along the right-hand side.

I was surprised by the plainer windows as I always associate Chagall with strong colours and was glad of the explanatory notes carefully displayed by the entrance. Please excuse my shadow!

I was taking the photo of the tiny rose window with the joyous colours while balancing on the vertiginous balcony above the entrance when four walkers came in. We nodded to each other and I wondered if they had picnicked nearby as I knew there were two circular walks that came through the village. I found myself following them as the two ladies of the group and myself searched for the signposted toilets. Frustrated by the locked door when we did track them down we began to chat. They were doing an eleven kilometer walk, ‘tres facile’, and headed off along the river where I knew there was a barrage further downstream considered a highlight by the walk organisers!

Back at the car himself had wandered over to the bridge and spent some time acquainting himself with the fishing regulations..not that he is a fisherman.

Not wanting to go back the way we came (that dodgy GPS) we followed signposts, (now there’s old-fashioned), and rounded off our day with some retail therapy at Brive’s out of town zone commercial.

A lovely day out and, maybe, we’ll go back to do that ‘facile’ walk or just stroll around the chateau gardens when the weather is warmer and the flowers are out.

for information

Chapelle du Saillant Voturac

open everday 9.30h – 18h free access

Jardins du Château du Saillant Voturac

in June Saturdays and Sundays 15h – 18h

in July and August during the festival of the Vezere – guided visits by appointment

4 euros pp

For his 60th we took over the first floor of our favourite Italian restaurant; for his 70th we cruised the Norwegian coast ‘hunting the light’, the Northern lights…and saw them plus took a husky ride around a frozen lake within the Arctic Circle…

So for his 80th I thought that ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ would be up for another adventure so explored possibilities focussing mainly on the Glacier Express, a train that follows the mountain tops between Zermatt and St Moritz. He wavered for a while but ultimately decided he didn’t want a fuss despite his nephew being very keen on a grand fete, so I resigned myself to a quiet celebration, if any!

One of our traditions since retirement has been to spend his February birthday raquette walking on the snow, wherever we can find it within France. We have clumped around parts of the Pyrenees, the Jura, the Alps and, nearer to home, the Auvergne.

La Bourboule, a frequent destination in recent years, scores well due to the variety of its walks, the number of good restaurants in the town centre and that it is only two hours away by car so I wasn’t surprised when himself decided that a short break there would be his choice of a birthday treat. We have a favourite hotel that is close to the centre, has a swimming pool that I enjoy and most importantly for ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ a covered garage where he can attach the tyre chains, if needed, in the dry rather than on the side of a snowy road.

The hotel has a long history going back to the 1930s when it was mainly a restaurant catering for the early glider pilots who flew their planes from the Banne d’Ordanche, a strange volcanic ‘lump’ that can be seen looming above the town. There are many nods to that aviation past and not just in its name. The lobby is decorated with jazz age style stained glass depictions of planes as is the bar.

Lovely comfy armchairs echo 30s style and are great for curling up in with a book. Or with your phone when the internet is temperamental in your room!

Just before we left home on the Thursday I booked our preferred restaurant for the Friday (birthday) evening as I suspected the town would be busy. As it was we spent our first couple of hours in La Bourboule rediscovering the town and finding somewhere to eat that wasn’t ‘complet’ that night. In fact, when one place reluctantly turned us away we took the opportunity to book for the Saturday to avoid disappointment.

The pressure on the various eateries was very apparent when we succeeded on finding a table but only because we were just two and happy to eat at seven. Sitting in sight of the door we watched as a succession of people were turned away throughout most of our meal. It was hard not to feel smug!

All the cafes and restaurants in La Bourboule have similar menu choices, heavy on the potato, meat and local cheese. Oddly, our first evening was spent amongst a very extravagant Spanish decor, the dirty dishes disappearing up a staircase into a mock finca. Go figure? But the waiting staff were welcoming and cheerful despite the pressure of the holiday season. February school holidays in France are always two weeks and everyone who can goes off to play in the snow. A small girl on an adjoining table had a cupcake arrive to sound of the waitresses and waiters singing Happy Birthday, in English, despite her being French. She was two, her parents told us. I whispered to her we were celebrating a birthday the next day…

Typically we woke up to pouring rain on the birthday itself. But, no matter, we needed to sort out a possible slow puncture (no) and pump up the spare tyre if necessary (yes) by which time the rain had turned to gently falling snow. After a coffee and some sandwich buying we drove up to la Stele espace nordique, our favoured walking area.

The road was mostly clear and we caught sight of snowy trees as we climbed…a good sign?

After a picnic lunch in the car (too cold outside) we set off through the forest on the multi-activity piste.

The snow wasn’t deep so walking boots were fine. We had our raquettes in the boot of the car but hoped not to need them as we find wearing them a tad exhausting now. A stick each for the tricky bits and we were fine. The sky even cleared a bit and showed us some blue.

Invigorated by our walk but ready ‘to rest his eyelids (birthday boy) we drove back down to the hotel for a cup of tea, me, and a nap, for him. The WiFi was intermittent in our room but the aforementioned lounge on the first floor had much better reception so I caught up on the national news and my word games.

That evening we tried to contact our grandson but with poor WiFi and in a rush to get to our restaurant we only managed to receive birthday greetings and the news he had something to show us. We promised a proper facetime in the morning.

Our favourite restaurant didn’t disappoint and we were served by a chirpy waitress who tried out her English skills with us. I opted for a kir flavoured with the local speciality birlou, chestnut liqueur, as my apero. Himself has acquired a taste for Ricard since we’ve lived here. A clear yellow liquid that takes on a sinister cloudy appearance after the water is added. I haven’t got used to it, too redolent of aniseed balls that I hated as a child.

Les Thermes (spa baths) were illuminated and looking beautiful as we left although the usual sparkling trees were in darkness despite the lights that we could see hanging amongst the branches. Energy saving, I suppose.

A sunny Saturday morning and we collected the hotel picnics that we had intended ordering on Friday but forgot until it was too late. As promised, we facetimed le petit fils and were told about his lost tooth, his first, that came out on Dada’s birthday as he chewed his lunchtime sandwich. The tooth fairy had already been and left a pound. A richer tooth fairy these days!

We had decided to go up to the lac de Guery and after a routing error that took us out to the heart of Le Mont-Dore ski centre, which was heaving, we finally found the narrow road out of the middle of Le Mont-Dore town. Later, I discovered the road number differed from the one in our Michelin map of France. Don’t blame the navigator! 😊

Sadly, as we climbed we lost the sunshine but were surprised that, once there, there was less snow although we were at the same height as yesterday’s walk. The lac de Guery is the highest lake in the Auvergne at 1244m. The ‘piste pietons’ was signified by a fox and we remembered virtually crawling up a steep slope beside a waterfall the last time we were here before deciding we must be following the wrong balises. Today we would be more alert despite the plethora of signs!

Less snow but more mud so we were glad of our sticks on the stickiest parts. There were fewer people about than our last visit so we could hear the few birds braving what was becoming quite an icy wind in the more exposed places and the sound of water from the many little streams of snow melt. The lake was still frozen at the end nearest us and there were repeated signs about not skating although I had seen a set of charges for skating so it must happen when the lake is really solid.

Halfway up a slope we came to a junction with ‘our’ fox indicating a right turn whilst a yellow butterfly indicated left. I remembered that butterfly which we followed last time. Not today! We could hear a family higher up and hoped they were more agile than we had been. (later, back at home I discovered that the yellow butterfly marks a walking route that is only open when the espace nordique is closed which makes sense as it would be much drier in the summer months)

Back at the ‘point de depart’ by the chalet that includes the toilets, ticket office etc. ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ thought it would be good to walk on the track up to the plateau that we had also walked last time. Today, as then, the whole espace was open to everyone as the snow cover didn’t allow for ski de fonde. But after a few hundred metres he decided it was too cold. I was mightily relieved as I remembered it as a wide open expanse that was very windy last time.

Once again it was a picnic in the car, the hotel pack proving excellent value for 10 euros each. The car park is beside the Col de Guery at 1268m and provides views of the two bizarre volcanic features of Tuiliere and Sanadoire.

Tuiliere is the remains of a volcanic chimney and its rock has been used as roof slates in the surrounding area while Sanadoire is part of the volcanic cone. It is called Sanadoire or the singing stone because of the ringing sound it makes when struck. Up until 1477 when there was an earthquake in the region that swept the summit away there was a castle on the top that it is said housed English mercenaries during the 100 years war!

Opposite where we were parked there was a footpath sign pointing into the forest that read 6km to the lac de Servieres. That seemed a tad too much to tackle as it would be 12km in total by the time we hiked back. I repaired to our Michelin guide to France (stupidly neither of us remembered to bring our IGN map of the area) and spotted the lake was quite near to the road further along from where we were. So off we drove past the two rocks and over the Col. The road to the left of us opened up onto an amazing sweep of scenery that gave the impression we might be able to see Paris on a clear day, or at least the motorway home. No layby so no attempt to capture it on camera.

We dropped down from the Col and soon found the lake signposted to our right. It looked oddly circular on the map page and so after we had parked up I went off to read the sign and find out why. Himself was too snug in the car by now. The lake turned out to be in the crater of an ancient volcano and is called a ‘maar’. As I walked towards it, cursing that I was no longer in my walking boots and had left my thick woolly ‘bonnet’ in the car, I was approached by a jolly lady who asked me if I was going to see the lake. A bit nonplussed, I concurred (why else would I be there?) ‘C’est tres chouette (nice)’, she replied. An enthusiastic local, I decided.

Hugging my coat as closely as I could and hunching into the collar, I walked the few metres to the lakeside. Wow, was I glad we hadn’t walked up to the plateau back at lac de Guery. The circular shape was clear on the ground too and there was a sign saying how the site is protected due to the rarity of its plants. Once more, swimming was interdit as was the lighting of fires. It was a 2km walk around the lake, easy but for a less windy day.

The car park had filled up in my absence, albeit brief, and Lou commented on the number of people milling about. The jolly lady’s role suddenly became clear. She must be a guide and had mistaken me for an early arriving member of her group. I didn’t envy them as the wind was getting stronger and icier so I was very happy to opt for the warm car. Then it was back over the Col and past the lac de Guery, formed by a lava flow blocking the river ‘Mortes’ as it left the plateau, the same stream that fed that waterfall of our last visit?

After tucking up the car in the hotel garage I went off for a swim while himself settled down to watch the six nations on French TV.

Another hearty dinner that final evening. I opted for saucisse d’Auvergne thinking it might be a lighter option but the sausage would have fed both of us and as for the chips…! Once again, the place had a ‘complet’ sign on the door as we arrived so our impromptu decision to book had paid off.

In the morning we were told as we checked out that despite the sunshine the wind up at la Stele was 50km an hour and the temperature minus 7. Defo time to go home!

A bientot!

NB I have reread the blog I wrote following our last visit to La Bourboule in 2020. We walked a lot further that trip. Was it the warm sunshine and dry ground under our feet? Or the fact we were three years younger?

I come from a big family – I am the eldest of six – a big family that is getting bigger (a niece is pregnant as I write this) and that isn’t even taking account of the USA branch or my UK cousins.

As a stroppy teenager I felt that having anklebiters around when I was getting into boyfriends was the pits. My best friends were a younger sister and an only child and their relatively empty homes seemed oases compared to our crowded one.

But as I grew into middle age I had more and more friends who told me they envied me my ready made support group especially the ones who had lost siblings or had just lost touch over the years. The saddest thing for me was to hear someone say that they no longer spoke to a family member due to some event that had divided them.

We have avoided that despite our brother disappearing to the ‘frozen north’ and a sister going to live in the westernmost county of southern England. Not to mention my retiring to France after spending every available school holiday for the previous fourteen years in the tiny village where my husband and I now live.

After getting married our parents moved from North London to Kent although our town was sucked into the expanding greater London in later years. With two sisters as well as mum still in the county we all travel back when the occasion demands it and for the last ten or so years that has mainly been Christmas. Mum passed in 2021 and covid restrictions meant not all the family could gather to celebrate her life so our traditional family ‘do’ became even more missed as doom virus continued to be the biggest hurdle for travel and one we couldn’t circumvent but we knew that when we could we would… and this last Christmas was when we could. An extra motivation was the visit by the nephew and his family who live in New Zealand so the hall was booked and the plans were begun.

For we expats the logistics have to be sorted out. Over the years we have tried different combinations of routes and channel crossings and thought we had got it just right. But.. we’re getting older and that brings additional issues. Since getting our cataracts done we are happier about the driving but still don’t like doing it in the dark. So timings become more important. Another problem for me in the winter is that the English channel seems to be getting rougher, either global warning or my imagination, but it puts me off the ferries. Having to hang around at the port as boats arrive late due to weather conditions or even bobbing about outside Dover because it’s hard for the ‘driver’ to get us through the harbour entrance. That happened not so long ago and made us two hours late arriving.

I surprised ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ by stating it would have to be the tunnel. After recovering from the shock (I’m claustrophobic and have fretted through tunnels all my life) he went off to compare prices while I checked for hotels around Rambouillet, a town about halfway ‘up’ where we could stop well before it got dark and have a little snooze before looking for a ‘gruffalo bill’ for a steak and chips supper.

Covid fears still loomed large and the French government were recommending getting your latest jab if applicable before the festive season. We sorted out ‘himself’ but I had to wait until mid January for mine, after the statuary six month between boosters. So it was crossing my fingers that we stayed fit I began to wrap presents and make journey preparations.

The date for the ‘do’, dubbed ‘chrimbo limbo’ by the sister who organised it, was the 30th December which meant we’d be travelling back on New Year’s Eve. (To the surprise of friends our blighty trips are invariably quick dashes as we have resident cats to consider.) I went online and discovered it was very easy to book the ‘gruffalo bill’ next to our hotel in Beauvais. Fortunately the menu does extend beyond steak and chips.

It was a relaxing start to the day, much better than getting up at ‘crack of sparrows’ and leaving before it is fully light. We left around ten and took it gently, stopping for coffee at the aire north of Limoges which has changed it name after twenty years. Pourquoi? I wondered. We bought sandwiches and stopped in a later aire with a view and a biting wind close to la Creuse where we had that lovely week last September.

Around Orleans the road was still under reconstruction of lanes and the traffic increased. We swung off for Rambouillet and found the hotel fairly easily. I had had an email about emergency plumbing being necessary and moving us to their sister budget hotel. Was I happy to accept? They offered free breakfast to persuade me. I did accept as it was a good place to stop but warned Mr McGregor to mind his head on the child’s bunk over the top of the bed. He had cracked his head on the metalwork at another hotel in this chain some years before and swore never to sleep in a ‘family’ room again. (I hung a spare sheet over the rail and hoped it would save his forehead!)

Breakfast the next morning was pretty basic so I was pleased we hadn’t had to pay for it. The nerves were beginning as I contemplated the appointment with le Shuttle later in the day. As we drove north of Paris the winds got fiercer and fiercer until every windsock was streaming horizontally. Birds hung in the air going nowhere despite manic flapping of wings. I was beginning to admit to myself the tunnel would be a relief!

As novices we were a bit slow navigating the booking in system at le shuttle terminal. Nobody in the booth, just a screen that asked questions and demanded the card we had used to pay in advance. Fortunately, himself had it to hand. We were offered an earlier train at no extra charge but queued for so long at the two border posts we missed it.

At the second and British border stop the lady smiled and said what a relief it was to have a car with only two people in it! We had noticed how full most of the UK vehicles were, packed with children and, quite often, a dog too.

We still got onto an earlier train than the one we had booked which was good as my nerves were building. As we descended to the platform we were waved into the nearest carriage and up a slope. We had had to follow ‘small and medium cars’ so we were going to be travelling on the top deck.

To my relief it didn’t feel too enclosed. I had been concerned as my only two experiences of le shuttle had been in a camper van and a coach when we travelled in the full height carriages. But my abiding memory had been how smooth the journey had been. Not so this time! Armed with my word game to distract me from my subterranean surroundings I tried hard to write in my answers but the pen skewed across the page as we swayed and wobbled our way to Folkestone.

Only twenty one minutes in the dark I noted as we rattled into daylight again. Watches already put back, we read carefully the running commentary above the dividing shutter and readied ourselves for disembarkation.

Whatever my misgivings I had to admit it had been very slick and well organised. Fingers crossed for the return journey.

With only an hour’s drive to reach our hotel we had time to check-in and go off to find a bank and pick up the first of the items on our UK shopping list.

It was a pink and blue winter evening and Rainham was looking like an advert for an old English village. I spotted some lovely buildings suggesting Georgian origins.

The day was rounded off with a jolly evening with my brother and his family who had also decided to come down a day ahead.

On the morning of the ‘do’ we were able to go over to Hayes to visit my parents grave, the first time for us since my mum had passed. We were married in the village church so a sentimental journey.

It was a quiet moment before the fun and games in the evening with all my extended family, not to mention cuddles with our grandson. Sadly, covid had claimed a few victims including the sister who had organised it all but the kiwis made it.

There was a lot of eating, drinking,chatting, dancing and general silliness…who brought the dinosaur? And the mandatory group photo at the end…

And our traditional ‘sibling’ photo, lined up in age order albeit wobbling about. Due to covid absences a nephew and niece stood in for their mums!

After breakfast with the sons and grandson next morning it was off to the shuttle again, this time feeling more confident about the checking in system but still a tad nervous about the crossing. I reminded myself the weather was still windy and the boats probably bouncing about in mid channel!

Once again we were in time for an earlier train as you are told to arrive at least an hour before so we had. Top deck again but I was ready for the wobbling and completed the puzzle before we ran into the light again. I must have been calmer?

The reception of the B and B hotel at Beauvais opened for the evening just as we arrived and the receptionist gave us a friendly welcome. It was the same at the Buffalo grill where a smiley waitress looked after us beautifully. Such cheeriness despite working on ‘Reveillon’. She got a generous tip from us in response.

An easy drive home the next day although we were tired by the end of it so I assumed that would be the last trip for a while.

But no, an invitation to a UK 80th birthday party in April turned up a few days later and ‘I’m only the chauffeur’ accepted with alacrity….so to make things speedier, it will be the tunnel again. Despite the nerves, I’m a convert. Well, out of season, anyway!