In The Company of Strangers

I'm trying hard with my French - on some levels. OK I don't attend Conversation Classes and I don' t have a teacher, but I really do try to embark on some form of conversation when I am in a position to do so. As I have mentioned before, my physio team have been wonderful and make every effort to follow my convoluted explanations regarding gardening, children in Australia, holiday plans and pains in my shoulders, and my husband is endlessly patient, forever rescuing me from bits of chatter that threaten to disappear up dark alleyways with no apparent way out.

But today I was absolutely spoiled rotten and didn' t have to spend a moment battling with my tenses, deciding whether something was masculine or feminine or trying to keep some sort of conversational order. Having recently become a member of the American Women's Group of the Languedoc Roussillon (AWGLR) I joined them for a very pleasant couple of hours this afternoon, during which time there was a report on the recent visit to the annual conference of the umbrella organisation of the Federation of American Women's Clubs Overseas FAWCO. Recently returned from Vilnius, the representatives who had attended the conference filled us in on all sorts of interesting developments.

Something that really stuck with me was the story about a club member in Italy who had major problems visiting her sick child in hospital. Without someone being with the child, it would be left to its own devices to eat, and since the child was too ill to make any effort to feed itself, the situation could have deteriorated quickly. It was the support system of the local branch of FAWCO that ensured that there was always someone with the child and this safety net must have been a godsend to the worried parent.

I quickly realised that this pattern of support and caring was being replicated in many countries where women found themselves in strange lands, struggling with a new shops and schools, coping with new customs and longing to hear their own language.

There is something remarkably strong about a gathering of women. Growing up with two brothers and spending most of my adult years in Africa in a largely male orientated society, I have often shunned the company of large groups of women, but listening to these intelligent, warm, hardworking women who have travelled widely and managed families in foreign countries while husbands accepted postings in strange corners of the globe, it made me realise what a force we are to be reckoned with.

As I write this, the English Women's cricket team are on TV celebrating their recent win of the World Series. It just shows that there are no boundaries, no limitations, and no end to the strength, warmth and support that can be found amongst a group of women, given the chance to get the kids off to school, the menfolk out to work and the menus for the next week decided upon.

Walking Up An Appetite

Setting off from the Chapel of Notre Dame


Leila the dog did about three times the distance that we did



The massive blocks awaiting the cutting saws

Our reward at the end of an excellent walk

We did it. We walked our 12 kilometres in company with some friendly cheerful people who had gathered from the surrounding villages, and by the end of the day, (and after a good snooze this afternoon) we can now stand up without clutching at our hips and hanging onto the furniture.

To be honest, it was a lot less arduous than we had anticipated, and in many respects, it was a bit like being part of a very pleasant moving cocktail party. As the winding paths through the garrigue narrowed, I would find that a conversation about the research science behind vetinary medicine had suddenly turned into a horticultural discussion about the surrounding vegetation. Although most of the party was French speaking, those that did speak English were generous and included me, and after a while, I found that the combination of laughter, exercise and sunshine combined to create a sort of lingua franca.

The route wound around the collosal quarries that encircle Beaulieu, and it was frustrating to see the most perfect chunks of rock just lying about, apparently for the taking. But despite Jean carrying a fairly capacious backpack, I just couldn't get him to load a couple of neatly cut cubes with which we could build a stone bench next to the water garden.

We were led by an energetic gentleman who carried a GPS system and despite one or two small detours and a few mild rumbles from the rear of the party, he sheperded his flock safely back to our starting point. The sheer bliss of sinking into the comfort of a car seat can never be underestimated, but the best was still to come.

"Bring along something for a picnic lunch" had been the directive and I had produced some barbequed chicken pieces and a rather tasty seafood taboule but this was boring by comparison with the variety of dishes that appeared on the table at the home of one of the walkers. The gentleman with the GPS changed roles and became barman, and within moments, everyone was provided with drinks ranging from sweet Muscat, Pastis, Martini and wine. We had all walked up an appetite and we feasted on such remarkable treats as pear and goat cheese flan, boulot cheese from the north of France, home made pizza and a positive smorgasboard of delicacies.

No bendy sandwiches and warm fizzy drinks while sheltering from the inclement weather that accompanies English rambling clubs. Sunshine, laughter, delicious food and excellent wine was the order of the day.

Was it worth having knees that feel like an elderly racehorse and hips that are going to give me grief tomorrow - absolutely. Will we go again - you bet, but it might not be the four star, twenty kilometer hike up the Cevennes Mountains - I think we'll leave that to the gentleman with the GPS.

Till Burnham Wood Shall Come to Dunsinane

Jean taking a well earned rest from plumbing after his idiot wife put a pickaxe through a waterline - apologies to our British neighbours who must have heard a bit of unexpected Anglo Saxon coming over the hedge!

Two days ago, I spent ages sieving heaps of topsoil and mixing it with heaps of sieved compost into which had been lovingly mixed the correct amount of grass seed. Looking like something biblical, I marched up and down the back garden broadcasting the mixture and then spent another half an hour dutifully watering it in. Now all I had to do was to stand back and watch the grass grow.

Forget it! Today I happened to take a close look at the row of nasturtium seeds that I had planted a week or two back along the front edge of the new lawn, and low and behold, all I could see were tidy mounds of grass seed where my new nasturtiums should have been starting to show. Not only were there tidy mounds of seed, but they were being added to by a positive army of ants, each one carting yet another seed on his tiny back. Piece by tiny piece, this well trained battalion were moving my carefully spread seed clear across the expanse of freshly smoothed ground and delivering it to a hole, into which it was fast disappearing.

'Bring the packet" I yelled to my trusty compatriot, and Jean dropped his power drill, put down his coil of wire, stuffed his pliers into his back pocket and raced for the poison shelf in the garage. This was no time for worrying about the environment and caring for little creatures. Sorry - "you pincha my seed, I blowa your head off". We didn't spend five years in Miami without getting street wise!

Just in case my sweet peas felt like poking their heads above the rather chilly surface of the soil, I have installed a row of gleaming wiggly poles for them to twine up. We have installed some more for our newly planted jasmine to twine along, and the birthday strawberry plants have been put into the wildflower bank (which at this financially worrying time, seemed like the safest place to put them).

Tonight we are resting up. A friend suggested that I spend the evening soaking my feet in a salt solution. Why? You might well ask. Tomorrow we are embarking on a 12 km walk with the hiking club from Saussines. Up until now, our experience of distance walking has been a regular 3 mile march around the Country Club Drive walking track in Florida. I have the feeling that tomorrow we are going to see significantly fewer designer shorts, poodles on luminous pink leashes and blondes on roller blades. If you hear nothing further from me, I am somewhere in a quarry in the Beaulieu district learning how to be a troglodyte.

Meantime, for any of my readers who are British and who qualify, a Very Happy Mothering Sunday. For the rest of my readers, you probably have to work out if, like me, you qualify or need to remember Australian, South African, American or French Mothers Day.

For any Irish readers, I hope you have plenty of aspirin handy. After that amazingly exciting Six Nations rugby win today, you deserve a rip-roaring party. Congratulations!

Natasha Richardson's Death

Kate on her horse Kismet in Lesotho 1974


I am feeling so sad over the death of Natasha Richardson as her early demise makes me stop and think how every day of our lives needs to be lived to the full. It also brings me face to face with my own mortality, and how fortunate I am to be able to do so much.


Many many years ago, I was galloping my stallion at full tilt while practising tent pegging on the gravel airstrip in Mohales Hoek in southern Lesotho. The next thing I knew, the security bar had unclipped and my stirrup leather shot out and I came crashing down like a fireman coming down a greased pole. My head snapped round, I bounced off my shoulder and landed up spread-eagled with all of my dignity gone. My horse, to give him his due, came to an immediate standstill and nuzzled me gently as if to reprimand me for my sudden disembarkation.


Willing hands flung down their assorted golf clubs (our little nine hole course ran around the perimeter of the airstrip which was also the cricket ground, the race course and the public grazing area) and I was taken home and laid tenderly on my bed. Apart from the appearance of a little Korean doctor who issued me with an envelope full of valium with instructions to take one whenever I felt like it, I was pretty much left to my own devices. A month later I was back in the saddle and thought that was the end of it.


However, to date I have undergone two laminectomies, one anterior fusion involving a chip from the end of my hip bone being put through the front of my neck to fuse the spine, two shoulder operations and endless dental work from shards of broken jaw pushing out perfectly good teeth.


But I am still digging water gardens, loading wheelbarrows, hauling rocks and seeding the lawn and I am able to swim, cycle, walk and dance. For this I am eternally grateful to the wonderful Professor Repko who was the finest neurosurgeon in South Africa, and to the fact that it clearly wasn't my time to die. It is for this reason that I am so moved by the death of Natasha. 45 years old and so much going for her, and her life has been snuffed out by such an innocuous accident. It makes me even more determined to make the most of every day that I have been given.

Our Farm Truck

You can take the farmer out of South Africa, but you can't stop us using the car like a farm truck!

We went back to L'Arc en Fleurs today - I think the owner is starting to get a glint in his eye when he sees us drive in. We left after a very happy half an hour, bearing a tray of new plants plus a lovely star jasmine which will wind its way up the washing line supports. We can't dig the poles out because they are set in the sort of quality concrete that would hold up a bunker, so instead, we are setting about disguising it. I also bought three little aromatic plants and I've put them in a pot next to the seating area so that we can touch, squeeze and smell them.



Two more loads of gravel have gone into the pool edges and there is hardly an inch of plastic left in sight. I now need to find some marginal plants but the nursery people say that we must wait for the deep water plants as apparently it is still a bit chilly for them. Taking a well earned rest in the hammock after lunch in the partial shade, you could have fooled me that the word chilly could even be used in a sentence, but we still close up the wooden shutters by 7pm and keep our jerseys handy.



Tomorrow I am embarking on a new project. The area of the garden that was once used for vegetables is being turned into partial lawn. I have to seive a load of soil and compost, mix in the grass seed and then set about scattering it about and watering it in. At least this shouldn't call for the use of either spade, pickaxe or hoe which means I can report for physio on Friday morning with a clear conscience. In fact I went along this morning, and the nice lady said that she didn't know which was impressing her more - the state of my shoulder or the state of my French!



I saw a pigeon taking a sneaky bath this morning, and if the weather continues to warm up, I can see him having some company!

From a hole in the ground to this

Not bad for five days work! Now I want to spend the national budget on plants, but instead I settled for lying in the hammock for half an hour, watching butterflies playing in the hyacinths, listening to some gorgeous music while the sun dappled through the laurel trees and soaking up the atmosphere of my own French garden. Just how much of this can I take!!

Going Back to the Nursery

I think I have discovered Plant Nirvana. Thanks to the American Women's Group, I made my first trip to L'Arc en Fleurs at St Christol, and despite a desperately windy day, I could see the amazing potential of this place.

We have returned twice since the first visit and have advanced to asking aquatic types of questions thanks to the progress of the water garden. Jerome Botell and Carole Pinay are helpful and generous with their extensive knowledge of planting in the local conditions, and the drive via St Genies de Morgues is like trundling through a little bit of English countryside.

If you are interested in planting up a large container or want to turn your large garden into a Mediterranean paradise, then this is the place for you.

But don't take my word for it - go on line and have a look for yourself.

http://www.pepiniere-arc-en-fleurs.com/default.htm

Photos of the Spring garden

I went to the physio this morning and he felt the muscles in my upper right arm and looked at me rather speculatively. Thank heavens our French/English exchanges are fairly limited so I didn't have to explain that I had spent much of the weekend wielding a pickaxe and a shovel. Instead we discussed his art and an upcoming book fair and exhibition in Palavas and then went on to work out the various tenses of "We will go", "We have been" and "We are going". I fear that my French lessons are going to expire at the same time as my physio sessions, and they have all been so sweet and helpful and I shall miss them.

I had an extraordinary email yesterday from an American who is currently in Lesotho and who is doing a PhD on people who lived in ex colonies in Africa. He was interested in reading my autobiography "Cannibals to Croissants" and asked where I had got my information from. I had to point out that I had actually "lived" the book long before I wrote it, but that I had also gained access to the old Club records dating back to 1946. From those I have drawn plenty of amusing anecdotes that have been used in my novel "On Which The Sun Has Set". It did occur to me that this young man clearly viewed my experiences as in some way historical. Meantime, I view a great many of them as hysterical apart from the few times when things weren't all that funny.

I wrote a limerick for the American Women's Group St Patrick's Day party which you might enjoy reading. I forgot to take it with me, so here it is - better late than never!

The last time that I saw St Drezery
I said to myself "I am desole,
There is really no chance
That we'll wind up in France"
But instead, we are here on St Patricks Day.

It was Terri to whom goes our thanks
It was she who said "Come join our ranks,
We are keen, we are funny
It won't cost much money
So here we are - honorary Yanks!

We have lived in the States for five years
Made good friends and had very few fears.
Just a couple of blows
From some ladies we know
Called Katrina and Wilma - such dears!

But now we're in France and that's great
And we know that it isn't too late
To make some new friends
And to learn some new trends
Thanks for having us - From Jean and from Kate.





The front garden comes back to life


Looking up the driveway lined with daffs and hyacinths



The forsythia is lovely this year but needs a haircut




Some of my birthday plants in the courtyard plus a wonderful gift of assorted herbs. Now I can make my own horseradish sauce!

The Wearing Of The Green

The stones that demarcated the circle are on the move


The liner has been glued to the right size and the filling begins



By Sunday evening we are making progress

Katie O'Fagaldy ready for the St Paddy's Party

I only have to say the words "You know, I've been thinking" and Jean goes very pale and still and mutters "Oh no, what now?"

When I looked at that circle of stones with the sheet of bedrock in the bottom, I didn't see a hole in the ground, but had a clear vision of a tranquil water garden with lilies, tumbling plants and goldfish swimming happily beneath the surface in the dappling sunshine.

OK so we haven't actually ordered the goldfish or made our way to the nursery to purchase the tumbling plants, but it is starting to take shape. My physiotherapist is going to take one look at the knotted muscles in my arms tomorrow and wonder what on earth I have been doing, but perhaps I had better not share too much detail with him!

I could always blame it on a lively St Patricks Day party that we attended last night. The American Women's Group had arranged a very pleasant gathering in a nearby home of one of their members, and before long, we were exchanging limericks and standing around the piano singing "Oh Danny Boy" while one or two members had a little cry. The table was filled with a wide assortment of finger food, much of it in various shades of green, and everyone had made an effort to dress in a similar colour.

"Don't touch me or my shamrock will fall out" is not the usual greeting one expects when attempting to embrace a friend in France, but it was a very jolly get-together, and one that I am sure will be repeated often.

It is now Sunday evening and I am very tempted to go and pour some aromatherapy oil into the pond and soak my aching back and arms, but with my luck, a passing heron will mistake me for some massive frog.

The temperature today at lunchtime was 28C and we were actually forced to move into the shade - and this is only March. I have the feeling that come August, the goldfish are going to have to move over and make room for me.

Casting The Clouts and Pool Building

Gone down about a foot - what have I started!


Still no sign of the cherry tree stump



Bed rock bottom - time to rethink the project.

I know that there are some people who will call me crazy. Come to think of it, throughout most of my adult life there have been people who call me crazy so no change there then!

It is such a gorgeous day that I have removed the thermal vest, taken off the long sleeved shirt, shed the thick blue jersey and the brushed cotton track suit bottoms, the black socks and the boots. For those of you who can stand the excitement, I have replaced them with my beloved Crocs from Australia, my mini skirt which is not for public viewing, and my white short-sleeved tee shirt. I daresay it is enough to send the Postman running for cover, but too bad. I have declared it Spring and I have to do something about my lily-white legs.

In the back garden we have a circle of rocks about 3m in diameter. Apparently it used to contain a large cherry tree which was filled to the point of collapse with bright red cherries each summer. Sadly it fell over one day and I have just discovered why.

I've been eyeing the circle of rocks for some time which always makes Jean nervous, and this morning "I picked up my shovel and walked to the mine".

The soil was temptingly soft and friable and as I dug deeper, I had to cut through a network of thin roots, but no sign of any cherry tree stump. I went another spade full deeper and discovered why. There is a solid sheet of rock underneath which has brought my excavations to a halt. Now I have to decide if I am going to turn the hole into a very shallow swimming pool or a fish pond. Jean says that if I sit in the hole with an egg whisk, I can imagine that I have my own jacuzzi but it would be a lonely pastime as there would only be room for one.

This isn't my first experience of digging a pool. Many years ago while still living in Lesotho, I managed to get hold of a relatively cheap pool liner, and rounding up about ten small African boys, we started to dig the hole. A resident road building engineer in town at the time worked out that between us, we had shifted more soil in a day than one of his digging machines, but he didn't know about the combination of carrot and stick, and to this day I can't smell tinned pilchards without thinking of that team of diggers toiling away in the blazing sun.

Since this hole definitely won't allow me to swim across it, or even sit down in it, I think the time has come to ask Uncle Google about fish ponds, oxygenating plants, waterfalls, pumps and goldfish. Jean has extensive knowledge of these things and already I can see a glint in his eye as he checks out the distance from the nearest stand pipe to the pool.

OK It won't be ready for Monet to come and paint the water lilies for a while, but just give it a year and check back. Meantime I am going to dig out the spray-on tan. Patience never was my best attribute.

My Official and Unofficial Birthday

Nella and Kate proving that the "pinky" is still working!

Jean gets the boules going while the rest talk up a thirst

Louise, Nella and Jean preparing for the after lunch championships

I might not be as old as Her Majesty and I most certainly don't have her finances, but I definitely felt like the Queen on Sunday. My 60th birthday was actually a couple of weeks ago, but we decided that in order to take a chance on some slightly warmer weather, we would wait until the first week in March to have the birthday party. What a brilliant decision. If we had ordered the weather over the internet and given the supplier a year to ensure perfection, we couldn't have done better.

Having got the weather sorted, the next thing was to ensure the right mix of guests, and once again we scored big time. Friends newly made over glasses of wine at the Sommieres Saturday market plus other friends introduced by chance meetings, and folks that we had only met a week ago made up the guest list, and it turned out to be a perfect mix of languages, interests and fun.

Jean had lined up our four sets of boules on the garden wall, and in no time, he had a group of "newbies" getting the hang of the game and becoming increasingly competitive. The pastis went unopened but the wine flowed, and before things got really serious, I called a halt for lunch.

Our dining room table extends at both ends and we sat ten people in comfort, and thanks to plenty of early preparation, I managed to produce a large "Snake and Pygmy Pie" with vegetables and roasted potatoes. However, the sunshine called to us and we moved back into the courtyard for delicious deserts and coffee drunk out of my beautiful new demi-tasse cups. One guest bought a large box of plants for the garden and another presented me with a charming pottery dish which matched the coffee cups, and everyone arrived bearing a bottle of excellent wine. Glasses were raised and everyone gave a pretty good rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" and looking around at the smiling faces, the bright sunshine and the slowly melting ice cream, I decided that I was perfectly happy being me and didn't envy the Queen at all!

Making new friends

I make no claims to being any sort of a gardener. My mother who has created the most lovely English country garden always says that it is the result of a series of mistakes, but I happen to believe that there was a lot of sound common sense and a fair bit of knowledge mixed in. She was also prepared to work alongside Mother Nature and the result is a garden that is filled with delightful nooks and corners all of which call for a good book, a comfortable chair and a tray of tea.

Thanks to a fortunate succession of introductions, phone calls and kindness, today I was invited to join a group of ladies who all belong to the American Women's Group of Languedoc Roussillon. http://www.awglr.org/ .

Despite not being American, I was made to feel very welcome and found myself in a group of women, who like me, could claim to be citizens of the world rather than being based solely in one country. Many were married to Frenchmen and a couple heartily sympathised with my inability to speak French despite being in the same situation. "It's a bit like getting your husband to teach you to drive" we all agreed - "Not a good idea"!

Today a group of us visited a local nursery which specialises in dry gardens, and despite a cold harsh wind blowing off the Cevennes Mountains, we all gathered inside one of the large greenhouses while the nurseryman shared his extensive knowledge with us. Although unable to follow much of the French, I was impressed with my companions who not only understood everything, but asked all the right questions. Meantime, I was just happy to be surrounded by acres of plants from South Africa, South America, Mexico, Australia and New Zealand, all of which would cope very happily in the hot dry conditions that prevail in this corner of France throughout the summer months.

Having made our purchases and written up our notes, we headed back to the home of one of the members where we shared a delicious "pot luck" lunch. Any meal that involves smoked salmon, shrimp creole, warm fennel and a fabulous orange desert strikes me as being anything but "pot luck" and I felt that the luck lay with me for being there in the company of these interesting women.

Will I return to the nursery? - you bet!
Will I join the ladies of the American Women's Group? - you bet!
Has it been a good day?- you know the answer.

http://www.pepiniere-arc-en-fleurs.com/cotejardin.htm

Preparing for Summer

We've succeeded in moving a couple more of the huge rocks in the courtyard - only two more to go!


The hammock slung under the bay-tree hedge and a lovely sunny spot to sit against the wall



Despite the concrete, the front garden is filling up with daffodils and hyacinths

The wild bank along the back garden newly planted with bulbs

As I walked through the garden centre yesterday, it occurred to me that I get far more pleasure roaming about among the bags of potting mixture, the trays of plants and the racks of seed packets and tools than I ever get looking through rails of clothes or shelves of face creams and perfumes.

While still living in America, someone accused me of having had my "shopping gene" surgically removed, and I think they might be right. However, something that I do sorely miss here in France are the wonderful charity shops of dear old England. For three years, we lived in a rather upmarket region of West Sussex, and I found it huge fun to clothe myself in the cast-offs of the rich and famous who appeared in an outfit for polo, and then couldn't possibly be seen in it again.

When I was invited to lecture aboard the QE2, I realised that I would have to come up with a highly presentable wardrobe that would allow me to stand on the stage in front of an audience, and whirl around the dance floor with the Captain. Thanks to Macmillan Cancer Research, I achieved both with an outlay of less than a hundred pounds, and was constantly being complimented for my varied smart outfits. It is completely beyond me why anyone would part with two hundred and fifty quid for jacket that they could buy for twenty at a really good charity shop. I just wish that France had something along the same lines, but maybe the French pay so much for their fabulous clothes that they hang on to them like grim death.

So back to the garden centre. It is now time to turn serious attention to the garden, but having undergone not one but three spinal operations, I do have to treat my back with a fair amount of respect or else it punishes me brutally. Gardening at waist height is my ideal way of creating a beautiful living space outside, but unfortunately there is only so much of the garden which can be raised to accomplish this.

My one achievement however, is to have come up with a number of large homemade grow bags into which have gone a layer of stones and gravel, and then a layer of thick well rotted compost, topped off with some fine seived soil. I have planted them up with quite a variety of things, and by the time summer comes, I hope we will be enjoying the fruits of my labours and eating aubergines, courgettes, lettuce, red peppers, green beans, peas, spinach and tomatoes. I am all for supporting the local vegetable markets, but if I can grow it myself, those funds can be used to purchase the next lot of seed.

Tomorrow I am off to a nursery that specialises in dry hot gardens. After some nice rain, ours looks anything but dry and hot, but I must try and recall what last August was like, and make every attempt to march in step with Mother Nature.

Super Saturday and Soporific Sunday

Jean making our lunchtime purchases


The busy Uzes street on market day


Is there anything nicer than waking up on a Sunday morning to the sound of gentle rain on the roof, with the knowledge that you are not required to be anywhere, do anything particular or account to anyone for your actions. This morning was just such a day and I have to confess that it was hovering dangerously close to 9am before I got my "B" into "G" and got the coffee on the go.

Yesterday was a very full day, and with map in hand and a full tank of fuel, we drove north towards Ledignan, but veered off east and headed for Uzes. So many people had told us about the wonders of the Uzes market, but had also warned us of the horrors of parking. I think they might have oversold us on the first point, but were definitely right about the second.


Unlike Sommieres where the entire town centre is sealed off to traffic, and pedestrians are free to meander among the myriad stalls, Uzes keep the roads open, and visitors dice with traffic, undecided shoppers who continually pause with their roll-along shopping bags, and the clientele of the busy coffee shops who spill out onto the already full pavements.


We noted that a large number of stalls were dedicated to the sale of clothes, rather like the Lunel market, but we only found a couple of decent bread stalls and very little else by way of food apart from a number of dried sausage stands and some good herbs and spice vendors. At least Lunel has the fabulous plant market and of course it also boasts the best sacristans in the vicinity, but I think that Sommieres is winning our "best market" award for the time being.

We didn't find sacristans, but there was a most amiable lady selling fougasse, and having already been waylaid by another amiable lady selling caramel coated peanuts, we were fairly well insured against going too mad on the food shopping. The plan had been for a picnic to go with our coffee, but in the end, we drove north once more and found ourselves high above the valley floor in the foothills of the Cevennes mountains where we drank hot coffee and nibbled the last of the fougasse. All around us, we could see the bright orange jackets of hunters perched on rocks and behind bushes waiting for a rabbit who wasn't concentrating, but as the hands on my watch reached midday, there was a mad rush as every hunter raced down the hill to his vehicle and hurtled off down the road for lunch.

It was quite strange to see how quickly both the countryside and the architecture changed as we entered this new region. Great outcrops of rock often bore the ruins of some fortress that had been built in a dizzying fashion, and I couldn't help but feel that there had to be the remains of more than one of the workmen scattered among the rocks hundreds of feet below. The sunshine that had shone on us down in the valley was fast giving way to a layer of cloud moving up from the coast, and with the visibility failing, we decided to cut short our extended tour, and having meandered through the Gardon valley above Ales, we joined the main route and headed south for Ledignan.

The villages in this region looked more Swiss than French, and tight knit cottages clearly built for the coal miners in region looked as tough and rugged as the men who had inhabited them. But the great wheel at the pit head stood still and the glass from the windows of the old buildings had long ago fallen out and there was an abandoned air about the place. Maybe with the ever-increasing cost of oil, these coal mines will return to life and the villages will once again echo to the ring of miners boots.




We got home in time for a sustaining glass of wine before getting tidied up and going to the Salle Polyvalente which pretty much means "all purpose hall". The Mayor and village officials had organised a welcome evening for the newcomers and after a brief presentation on what the village had to offer, there was time for a chat, a glass of wine and some rather nice sausage meat baked in pastry. When we commented on the extent of the turnout, the Mayor shrugged and said "Where there is free wine, there are people".

We were happy to meet up with a young couple, she from England and he from France, with two delightful little boys who were completely bi-lingual. How I envied the way they could switch back and forth without even thinking about it. The boys are just about school-going age so won't need to benefit from the free creche which is run in the village for the children of parents who have to commute to Montpellier for work. However, they might soon join the other youngsters at the large new football stadium, or the music school or the drama academy or in the growing library while being educated at the fast growing school. Meantime, we could join the gym, the walking club, the theatrical society, the historical society and the tennis club, and prepare to enjoy the festive offerings by way of bull running, the 14th July celebrations and the annual concerts at the local quarry.


We got back home in time for me to watch Henry VIII wrecking his first marriage in order to wreck his second, and since I knew the end of the story, I settled for half an hour of easy-going British comedy and then tumbled into bed.

Do you wonder that we are happy to have a Soporific Sunday!