On The Move

Eating al fresco couldn't be nicer



Not quite sure who is doing the Cat-Sitting!



The view across to Mont Aigoual from the Corniche Des Cevennes



Raking the leaves and keeping things shipshape



Beautiful grounds and a lovely house. What a pleasure to be coming back here in Spring.


"An Englishman's Home is his castle" or so goes the saying, but in southern France, there are a fair number of Englishmen who have realised that their castle here in France needs someone keeping an eye on it should they choose to be absent for a few months.

Our foray into the House Sitting industry came about more by good luck than good management. We had flirted with the idea of running gites for absentee landlords, but despite a couple of interesting offers, nothing came of it and now we are rather glad that it didn't. Instead, we cheerfully offered to look after a pleasant country house belonging to a friend and ensure that her pets were safe and well cared for. Her absence of three weeks extended to eight weeks and we were happy to stay on and enjoy our surroundings.

Word got out and we were asked to look after a large property situated far out in the countryside without any neighbours. This is just the sort of thing that we love and it brings back memories of our isolated farm in Africa. For more than two years, we have lived in the little village house here in France, unable to avoid the noise as the endless commuter traffic thunders past the front gates barely fifteen feet away. For ten wonderful weeks we wallowed in luxurious surroundings and lived in utter peace and tranquillity, raking up leaves and picking olives by day and curling up by the big wood fire at night. We walked in the vineyards nearby and explored the region that was new to us and discovered towns and villages that we would never have seen.

But the jungle drums were beating and we were then invited to take on a house in the foothills of the Cevennes Mountains. What joy to be able to look out of the bedroom windows and see the steep wooded hillsides sweeping up behind the house, and hear the splashing of the river that passed by at the edge of the property. Despite the heavy frosts and icicles that hung from the gutters, we were snug and warm, enjoying English tv and internet connection and the pleasure of having a group of cosy cats to care for. We could also explore deep into the mountains, knowing that we were never more than two hours drive from the house, and instead of long drives and short snatches of scenery, we could soak it all in at our own pace.

All three home-owners (plus a new one) have asked us to return, and having been away since last September and only been back for a couple of weeks, we are just about to close up the village house once more, lock the gate and head off into the country.

So if you are an Englishman with a castle and you feel like a break - we are the people to talk to.

A Visitor Both Wanted and Unwanted

I have recently been testing and trying pretty much every potion and lotion available in the local pharmacy. Whatever nasty viral bug was doing the rounds, it homed in on me ten days ago, and buried itself in my lower right lung. In doing so, it reduced me to an exhausted deflated coughing chunk of misery - and that was on one of the better days.

But French Doctors don't give up easily and our GP has run through the entire gamut of antibiotics, steroids, pro-biotics, lung inhalers, cough syrup and pain killers, and I think I can honestly say that things are on the mend at last. Not having an appetite is no fun and being unable to even contemplate a glass of wine at 6pm is worrying. This too will pass I am sure and my friends who are also sick and who are muttering "Swine Flu" behind closed doors will understand that I had a viral infection and not a flu bug. I did tell someone the other day in an email that I wondered if I had Seine Flu - a Freudian slip maybe!

One thing about steroids is that you are up with the lark (and in fact I beat him out of bed by about an hour this morning). Sitting here quietly typing, I heard a large splash and saw the black tip of a tail disappearing out through the open side of the back garden. This explains the upturned water lily plants and the loss of water every morning. Some big daft dog is popping in for his morning ablutions which must be scaring the heck out of our soul surviving goldfish. The dog is welcome to a dip but I envision a claw going through the plastic liner any day now, so I guess the net had better go back on.

We purchased five new goldfish at the end of April and for five days they swam about and larked in and around the plants and rocks, and then the temperature dropped and they all vanished. Even one little survivor from last year (called Lazarus as he had once been baled out and chucked into the rockery by mistake) had joined the group and it was all very merry, but we seem to be back to just one lonely goldfish, so maybe that darn dog is an expert fisherman. We even had a couple of crested hoopoes turn up for a dip and they were a nice reminder of our Africa days.

The little blue tits are working their parental socks off this week. We keep the fat balls suspended under the mulberry tree and on occasions, there are no less than three frantic parents chipping away at them while their chicks urge them on from the nests just under the tiles on the roof. Once again this year, I failed to hear a cuckoo. There is a very clever wood dove nearby who I think runs an agency of "wanabe cuckoo callers" and every so often I would stop in my tracks and think I had heard the real deal, but they have obviously been driven out of the immediate surrounds by the increasing size of the village.

There is a possible move afoot but more of this anon. Suffice it to say that it would result in us hearing a good many more cuckoos next year and a lot fewer buzz bikes.

June 2010 - Bonjour - Salut - C'est moi!

You start off with a boring little corner like this



Then you get yourself one of these



And you give him one of these to encourage him



And this is the reward.


By the time "Quatorze Juillet" comes around we will have been in France for two years and so this year, we had advanced warning of the village fete and all that it entails. We have discovered that a great way to enjoy the fete is to leave the village and find somewhere peaceful and beautiful to relax until the madness of scared young bulls, crazy horsemen, hormone laden teenage boys, decibel levels of music that would make a vuvuzela sound like a childs penny whistle and the main road turning into a Le Mans 24 hour race for buzz bikes, finally fades from view and life returns to normal.

This year we had luck on our side when a good friend asked us to house and cat-sit for her over the long weekend, and firmly bolting the shutters and locking the gate, we drove half and hour north into the idyllic region of the Gard near Carnas. Peace and tranquillity were all around us, and for the next four days, I made inroads on a pile of books, caught up with a pile of good DVD's, groomed two cats that would have made a Persian look bald, and revelled in the view from the terrace.

Sadly, due to the onset of a vicious viral bronchial infection that is currently doing the rounds, I was laid low for our entire stay which put paid to all our plans of evening walks in the vineyards and exploration of the beauties that surrounded us. Never mind - the medication is finally winning the battle, and when I catch the fellow who was driving the bus which ran over me, I shall have him publicly horse-whipped.

June has been a strange month. "Cast ne're a clout till May be out" seemed like a very pessimistic view to take in the sunny south of France, but once again we had to dig out a couple of extra blankets for the bed and keep one or two jerseys on hand. But we were rewarded with a few splendid downpours which have done wonders for the garden which was beginning to look distinctly confused with this stop-start summer.

Our erstwhile meadow next door now sports two huge "nouvelle maisons avec piscine" and the birdsong is invariably drowned out by the sounds of the builders hurling abuse and tiles at each other. They are doing a terrific job I am sure, but we start to feel like the filling in a rather large sandwich, and with no boundary fence, the back garden is now open to the world.

In order to counteract this, we have drawn in our sphere of operations and have concentrated much of our gardening efforts in the courtyard where, to my delight, I have found that the plumbago which reminds me of South Africa, and the Sweet Peas which make me think of my mother's English garden, are flourishing out of the wind with their backs against a warm wall.

The lavender is now in full flower and the pomegranate tree in the front garden looks like a fabulous firework display and every time we get into the car, we are put into visual overload at the sight of Mother Nature letting her hair down, lifting her skirts and showing off. For so long, it seemed like a never-ending winter, but of course we had to take into account the fact that we had been in Australia and New Zealand last October, so the tail end of their winter had to be added on to the one that was getting going here on our return. But even the old boys in the village were muttering and saying that January snow that lay around for a week was totally unheard of, and then to have insult added to injury with another dollop in March was the absolute end.

From what I can make out, the garden seems to have quite enjoyed some proper hibernation, and my brave little winter pansies which waited patiently for me to come along each morning and carefully remove their snow hats are still flowering bravely amid the more riotous nasturtiums. The thermometer on the terrace seems set on an upward track and the sky is that deep clear blue that makes one realise why all the great painters headed down here at this time of year. Either that, or like us, they knew it was one of the best places on earth to live.

Photos - South Australia

The Archway near Loch Ard


The tragedy of the Kinglake Fire



The Twelve Apostles - Great Ocean Road

Cape Otway Lighthouse

At the foot of the Anglesey Lighthouse

This is what being "Granny and Grandpa" is all about

The early morning session

Joanna Beach Farmhouse - room for everyone to play

Loch Ard Gorge on the Great Ocean Road

The new generation of Australians

The Great Ocean Road - Australia

I can never decide what is the most addictive thing about the Great Ocean Road that sweeps along the coastline south of Melbourne. Is it the grandiose views of the sea and the cliffs dotted with swooping seabirds and creamy topped waves, or is it the rich heritage of history that is woven into this coastline.


I had been down the Ocean Road before on a wonderful but hectic one day trip with my son. It falls to everyone living in Melbourne who has relatives and friends visiting from overseas, to undertake a trip down the Ocean Road, and consequently, he and his family know every nook and cranny of it, but they never seem to tire of it.

But this was to be no whistle stop drive, and travelling in two cars, we met up at Anglesey to purchase delicious pies and then went and sat at the foot of the old lighthouse in warm sunshine while the grandchildren played "roly poly" on the steep grassy bank. Hamish the dog had come along as well, as my daughter and family were still in New Zealand on the last leg of their trip, and our destination was Joanna Beach Farmhouse where dogs were warmly welcomed.

What a wonderful place to stay if you have a combination of lively children and a dog that has the demeanour of a floppy labrador but the speed of a collie. With a huge garden to chase around, and an indoor heated pool for the children to burn off energy, we had the best of all worlds, plus the additional fun of being able to collect our own eggs and pick whatever vegetables we required from the garden.

Joanna Beach is within easy reach of the Twelve Apostles - the great sandstone stacks that stick out of the sea further along the coast, and although they are just about reduced to Matthew Mark Luke and John, you can clearly see signs of new ones being carved out by the relentless waves that pound the cliffs. It is the combination of these waves, very high winds and dangerous rocks that has been the downfall of many a ship, some of which had managed to sail safely all the way from England, only to founder on the rocks a few hours short of their destination of Melbourne.

The Otway Lighthouse out on the point was in many cases the first sign of landfall that the weary sailors and passengers from the late 1800's would see after leaving the comfort and safety of English shores, and the sad little graveyard at Loch Ard Gorge told the story of when the Loch Ard broke up on the rocks, resulting in the loss of almost everyone on board. The two most famous survivors were a young seaman and an equally young lady passenger whom he rescued from the surf after they had both been swept into the gorge. For a few weeks, Australia held its' collective breath hoping that a grand romance would develop and that the seaman would marry the young girl, but she had clearly had enough of the sea and those who sailed upon it, and at the first possible chance, she returned to her native Ireland to mourn the loss of no less than six of her family members.

We revelled in the history, played on the beach with the dog and the children, ate delicious seafood cooked on the barbeque at the farmhouse, and enjoyed the outstandingly good fish and chips from one of the coastal villages.

When time came to leave, instead of driving straight back to Melbourne, Jean and I headed northwards to Ballarat and approached our destination of Whittlesea north of Melbourne from the countryside. As we drew closer to home, we could see the ravages left by the terrifying fires last February, and I was sickened to see just how close it had come to my daughter's house. She had friends who had lost everything, and the homeless are now housed in a variety of dwelling places. The gifts from the Australian public and government ensure that they have everything they need, but money can never bring back their homes, their belongings, and in so many sad cases, their loved ones. Kinglake which was once a green thick forest threaded with a network of lanes and lovely old cottages, is now a barren burnt stretch of charred stumps and derelict broken down houses, and although people are defiantly rebuilding, the day that hell visited this part of the country will never be forgotten.

We spent a day in Melbourne and having absorbed a lot of interesting facts in the huge Melbourne Museum, we took a trolley ride around the city in company with hundreds of other people who had been lured out by a lovely sunny day. Maybe not the best way to see this vibrant colourful city with its blend of ultra modern and victorian buildings with the Yarra River winding through it like some vast snake, but at least we had a flavour of it.

Our last day was spent in company with two of our grandchildren and we wandered the pathways through the Healsville Animal Sanctuary, spotting the koalas snoozing in the trees, laughing at the emus who strutted about in a self-important fashion, and envying the kangaroos who stayed in their warm dry shed looking at the tourists who stood out in the pouring rain hoping to see some hopping going on. Before we left, we bought the children a small toy each, and from what I gather, Sid the clockwork snake is still going strong and had taken up residence among the underwear in his six year old owners top drawer.

Saying goodbye is never easy and it was good to know that we were returning with hundreds of photos that would remind us of our trip. I know there is Skype and email, phone calls and letters, but nothing in this world can replace a pair of little arms around your neck, and the words "Granny - can I tell you something".

It was wonderful to be able to return to France, to our home and garden and our friends, but how I wish I had gone to the Victoria Market in Melbourne and bought one of those magic carpets!

New Zealand - A Dream Come True

This is what makes a 23 hour flight worthwhile!


South Island between Haast Pass and Wanaka



The best way to see the country

For some strange reason that I have never quite fathomed, since the age of eleven, it has been a dream of mine to see New Zealand, and now in my sixtieth year, the dream finally came true.

Having not see my children or grandchildren for nearly two years, it was high time that I undertook the long journey to the other side of the world once more.

While living in Miami, I had been twice to Australia, flying first to Los Angeles and then spending the best part of sixteen hours crossing the Pacific Ocean to reach Melbourne. I often feel that long haul flying is a bit like childbirth. At the time, you swear that you'll never do it again, but then you find yourself in possession of another airticket, all prepared to squeeze into a seat with no leg room, situated in front of a person with no manners.

But this time I was going "the other way round" from France via London and Hong Kong, and with a temptingly low airfare on offer, I put the pressure on Jean to come with me. The thought of coping with all the various components of the journey on my own seemed a bridge too far, and I was so happy when he agreed to come along as Honorary Grandpa.

Thanks to the loving generosity of my two children, both our camper van in New Zealand, and four days in a beautiful farmhouse near the beach on the Great Ocean Road south of Melbourne were a birthday gift, thus giving us two holidays within our three week stay, and with hand on heart, we can honestly say that it was far and away the best trip we could ever have had.

But back to the realisation of my dream. As we flew in to Christchurch, the air stewardess announced that there were now new chickens at the airport which she hoped we would all enjoy. I was dubious as to why chickens should be such a source of pleasure and why they would be kept in such a public place, and then realised that she was informing us of the new "check-ins". Clearly the New Zealand accent was something we would have to come to grips with, but the New Zealanders that we met were as friendly and delightful as I had always known they would be, even though my previous knowledge of them had been based largely on the All Black Rugby team!

Two camper vans were the chosen method of transport, and my daughter and her family occupied one and Jean and I had the other. What a brilliant way of seeing the country. No packing and unpacking each day; a hot cup of coffee at a moments' notice; the same cosy comfortable bed each night and time to spend gazing in awe at the sheer majesty of the South Island scenery.

I ran out of descriptive words within the first hour of leaving the Canterbury Plain and climbing up towards Arthur's Pass en route for the west coast and Greymouth. Everywhere you look, you can see tourists with their mouths agape as they turn another corner and take in yet another spectacle of snow capped mountains, vast lakes, vistas that go on forever, and in our case, a beautiful blue sky overhead.

Of course it rains in New Zealand and you definitely need to like sheep, but the green pastures and contented flocks are proof that the combination works. It was late September while we were there and although the daffodils were out and the peach blossom created drifts of pink across the landscape, we still managed a dusting of snow on our last night.

We had stopped in the campground near the foot of Mount Cook, in the hopes that the low cloud would lift and we would be rewarded with the sight of the South Island's highest peak, but instead, the grey mist hung in swags around the mountain sides. It was no problem, and we were content lying in bed with a hot mug of coffee watching the snowflakes drift past the window, and on our way back to Melbourne, we flew directly over Mount Cook and literally had a birds eye view of the entire snowcapped range that forms the backbone of the island.

At each stop we would regroup with our fellow travellers and enjoy a picnic lunch and an evening of laughter and good food before each retiring to our respective beds, and while Mum and Dad went off in the rain to explore the Fox Glacier, Granny and Grandpa stayed in the cosy warmth and played games of Uno, Snakes and Ladders and Monopoly. There is nothing more precious to me than time spent with my grandchildren and we cherished every moment.

We parted company with them in the Queenstown region and over the next three days, the children learned to snow ski, ice skate, bungy jump and rock climb and they even raced their Dad down the luge in a low slung go-kart. In the meantime, we headed back to Christchurch, said hello and goodbye to the chickens and flew back to Melbourne for part two of our wonderful holiday.

Getting Back On Track

Vineyards near Asperes



We are embarking on our second autumn and now that the clocks have gone back, Jean does the rounds at 6pm and closes the shutters and draws the curtains. Instead of barbequeing sausages out in the courtyard for supper, we now settle in and drink thick homemade soup and await the arrival of the cold. So far we are still eating lunch outside and putting on the sun cream, so no sign of the cold that gripped us last year - or at least not yet.

It was a huge relief to come back from Australia to find that there had been good rain and the grip of a long hot summer had finally loosened. We could vaguely recall a downpour on the 5th July but that was about all we to show for it with regards to summer rainfall, and the back garden looked more like the Gobi Desert than anything else. It was so good to hunker down last weekend and watch the rain lashing down for the best part of three days, and the almost immediate change in the remaining plants and grass is extraordinary. They were totally disinterested in our sprinkler system and the fact that we lovingly carted water to each of the tubs and hanging baskets and they slouched and sulked throughout the heat, but now we have a masses of bright violas and a swathe of green grass, and all the old stonework has developed a fuzz of moss.

Our three fish have clearly been busy, because now we have seven fish. They are still stupidly shy and hide their heads under a lily pad leaf in the same way that a child will cover its' eyes and think that you can't see it. It never occurs to the fish that two thirds of its body is still sticking out. At least the youngsters seem a bit more friendly and are starting to register that if we are around, there is a fair chance of a bit of fish food appearing as well.

Bertha the dove has vanished and I just hope that she found a new partner during the summer months. I looked around for any sign that the neighbour's cat had pounced on her, but so far so good. The little blue tits are always around pecking at the fat balls but at last the arguing magpies have moved off after devouring six of the eight pears that we were nursing along. If only the constantly barking Doberman two doors along would also move off, life would be a much quieter thing with regards to our animal kingdom. However, I did threaten to report him to the Mairie this morning and he instantly went quiet, even though I made the threats in the privacy of the bathroom! Maybe he has a French/English dictionary and looked up the meaning of "Why don't you damn well shut up dog".

The countryside is ablaze with colour right now, and going anywhere is like driving through an oil painting. Great swathes of vines dress the hillsides and valleys in gold and burnt orange while above, the arc of the sky remains clear and blue. We visited the Sommieres market last weekend and it was sheer delight to wander the stalls without the crush of tourists, and then find all our old pals appearing for a midday pichet of wine and a gossip.

Although we miss our Australian family, it was no hardship to return to France, but I just wish that they could travel in this direction to share some of the beauty with us. I suppose that in time, we will have grandchildren appearing with backpacks and various partners, and come one, come all, they will be so welcome.

Membership of the American Women's Group has proved to be invaluable, and now that the summer recess is over, there is a positive smorgasbord of activities coming up. We are blessed with good friends and even the fun of a borrowed dog from time to time. Plans are being laid for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year parties and the barrage of gunfire on a Sunday morning leads me to believe that a fair number of wild boar and rabbits are finding their way into local fridges.

We have now been in France for fifteen months which means we have witnessed two lots of village bull-running and two grape harvests, and now we look towards the end of the year, happy in the knowledge that at last we are in the right place at the right time.

An Australian Update

It's strange waking up to the sound of kookaburras and seeing the kangaroos hopping around in the field opposite the house, but just so wonderful to be here with the family.

The flight over was slightly more exciting that we had anticipated, and Hong Kong failed to lay out the welcome mat. A typhoon was battering the coastline, and although the Captain managed to guide the massive 747 down below the worryingly low cloud level, the 50 knot cross winds made it impossible to land, and with a roar of engines, we climbed back into the clag and headed for Manila.

I wished I had paid more attention in geography classes as I had not the faintest idea where Manila was, and having spotted it on the airline map, I then began to wonder if the Phillipines were enjoying a period of political stability or would there be a row of tanks parked across a very short runway. As it happened, the Captain greased the plane onto the exceptionally long airstrip and parked alongside a very modern airport building, and we spent three hours kicking our heels on board while they refuelled and we all waited for the weather to clear in Hong Kong. Back we went, and this time he made it down onto the runway set between the mountains and the sea, and was rewarded with a round of applause from the tired passengers.

By the time we were up and away once more, we were six hours behind schedule, and instead of a civilised 8pm arrival time, it was nearly 4am when we reached the house outside Melbourne. Those little faces that we were longing to see were tucked up in bed, and we all had to wait to be re-united while Granny and Grandpa enjoyed seven hours desperately needed sleep.

By yesterday evening, everyone except Pete who is currently in Thailand but who will return on Friday, had been hugged. My five grandchildren have all grown in the past two years, but it felt as though it was only a few months ago since I had seen them last. Yes, it's a long way to come, but it is so worth it.

Today we had decided to visit Melbourne for the day, but the jet lag kicked in and the rain clouds descended and instead of braving the city, we waved off the workers and students from the house and crept back under the duvet for some more sleep. Our long sleeved shirts and jerseys have been unpacked and put to good use and it's clear that although it's not that cold, or that warm, that Australia is currently enjoying what can only be described as "Sprinter". We leave for New Zealand on Saturday, and I can't help wondering if the temperatures are going to be a little less clement than they are here. Never mind - it will be the realisation of a long held dream to finally get to see South Island in company with Claire and her family, and right now, it is hard to work out who is the most excited between the adults and the children.

An editorial note: Since this is a blog for general reading, no comments are ever posted or read. My computer is set to delete comments on receipt so I have no idea what they say. This is no longer my regular blog regarding our French life and my readers know where to find the new one.

Summertime and the Living is Noisy

Ah - blissful tranquil somnolent summer days with merely the buzzing of bees and the occasional scrape of cigale wings to be heard. The hammock sways gently beneath the perfumed bay leaves and a frivolous breeze occasionally rustles through the long grasses. A faraway splashing of water flowing into the swimming pool and the clunk of an icecube dropping into a tall refreshing drink merely serves to remind us that this is summer in the south of France.


Actually No! Not quite. To create this sort of idyll, one has to be either extremely lucky, or live in a beautiful old farmhouse way out in the vineyards, miles from a road or a neighbour.


All the component parts are present, and just once in a while, there is the opposite of The Perfect Storm, and there is Perfect Peace, but don't expect to be able to lay your book down, remove your glasses and drift off to sleep, because it's not going to last. Lunchtime is a quiet time, but the temperatures have normally climbed up into the mid thirties, and only a mad dog or an Englishman would venture out to the pool. However, if you do take a chance, you are met with the sounds of scraping cutlery, clashing plates, and loud family discussions coming over the fence. A dog that has lain quietly in the shade will suddenly take it into his head to rush to the gate and bark abuse at a passing postman, and this is the signal for all the other dogs in the neighbourhood to put in their sixpence worth. Cigales are another myth. Admittedly they do rely on temperature and today, when the thermometer hasn't quite made it to the requisite number, they remain silent. But on a hot day, you can set your watch by them, and it is sometimes quite hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of scraping wings. It only takes one to start up and the entire countryside is suddenly filled with the racket.


Summer time is buzz-bike time in France. Country roads, off-piste tracks through the garrigue, village squares and towns are a mecca for these two-wheeled producers of a high pitched whine, sounding for all the world like a plague of infuriated mosquitoes. Apparently a bike that doesn't emit a loud noise isn't worth the money you pay for it, and will never attract that necessary addition which is the young girl with the flowing hair and mini skirt perched behind the driver. One other fun addition is the radio strapped to the handlebars which emits loud pop music in the same manner as the fine lady who rode a white horse to Banbury Cross. "She shall have music wherever she goes" and so will the surrounding countryside.


Swimming pools become a gathering place for children, none of whom appear to be able to converse in anything other than high pitched decibels, as they argue over the floating armchair, the lilo and the inflatable ball. With Dad still at work and Mum trying to catch a couple of moments of peace after lunch, the kids are left to wreak havoc on siesta time, and such is their stamina, that they can keep it up until well into the evening.


But at last peace returns. The cavalcade of commuters finish driving past the house, exhausted children fall into bed, parents retire to the couch and the TV, and the last whiff of barbequed chicken floats away on the evening breeze. The dogs are either confined to kennels or are sleeping soundly after a long day of barking, and the cigales have closed up shop for the night.


This is the time to go out into the garden and sit quietly in the cooling air. This is the hour to see shooting stars and watch the satellites navigating their way across the heavens. The local cockerels are catching a few hours sleep on their perches and the lawnmowers and strimmers have been packed away for the night.


It's not the summer days in the south of France that make it the best place on earth to be - it's those summer nights.

Summer Visitors

Last week a friend announced that she was coming to visit. By a visit, I don't mean that I had to wash the sheets, make up beds and scour the bathroom, but it did mean that a little housework would have to be undertaken. She was only popping in to pick up something, but we all know that a pop can turn into a magical mystery tour. "Oh what a dear little kitchen - how many bedrooms do you have - may I use the bathroom - oh a courtyard, how lovely".

It's the not knowing which is sometimes worse than the knowing, so rather than take a chance, Jean and I have developed a swift but successful method of blitzing the house and courtyard which takes us 2 hours to have the place gleaming. I sweep and vacuum while he washes the stone floors. We share the bathroom and kitchen and he washes the terrace while I sweep the courtyard, and in no time it is pristine and ready for inspection.

Having lived so very far away for so long, we don't have the sort of friends that our friends here have. They do say that once you have a house in the south of France, you discover friends and relatives whose funerals you could have sworn you went to fifteen years ago, especially if you have made the move from the UK to here.

"Oh dear, I've got Susie and Mark coming for the weekend, and then Lydia is coming for an overnight stop en route to Cannes. She'll just be gone when Melinda and Clarissa and their dog Hector are coming for two days and I have no idea what to do with the cats".

Life for some becomes a constant round of changing sheets, re-visiting the Nimes arena for the fifth time in a month, burning to a crisp on a beach that you would never think of visiting, and eating and drinking copious amounts of hot goat cheese and cold rose wine. Your vision of spending the summer months lying in a shady hammock with a pile of good books and lots of Evian disappears into a welter of crammed carparks, vehicles that you could fry an egg on, queues on motorways and inflated ticket prices for everything.

We, on the other hand, only know people who already live here, and some of those, like us, have come from regions of the world that are too far away to attract an endless stream of guests. We are the ones who can be found sneaking along the back country roads through the vineyards, and never venturing outside unless it is for a quick dip in the pool before returning to the hammock under the trees.

We watch the BBC weather forecast each morning and feel sorry for those who have opted for three weeks under canvas in Devon or a walking holiday in Cumbria. Meantime, we mop our perspiring brows, reach for another bottle of cold water and rest on our dusted laurels.

Summertime And The Living Is Easy

Zulu Dancers - just one of the summer time entertainments on offer

The phone rang a little while ago and I tumbled out of my hammock and raced to pick it up, knowing that it would be my nautical pal, just back from a week on the briny.

"How was your week?" I demanded

"Which day?" she responded, and we made a pact to get together later on to share details that would doubtless cover the gory and the glory of a week on board a relatively small boat with two other family members for company.

But there was no time to dwell on the past - this is summer and almost every night there is some form of entertainment available, and tonight, she informed me, there is a group from Johannesburg playing a gig at our local quarry that has been turned into a concert venue.

"You've always said that African music gets you dancing" she said firmly when I started sounding a bit feeble.

"Yes, but I meant African music played on drums and guitars - the sort of thing you hear in the shebeens - not Electro Pop".

"Oh come on, it'll be fun, and anyway, you won't be able to sleep because it'll be so loud you won't stand a chance."

I tried explaining that I had actually hurt my hip while behaving like a thirty year old instead of a sixty year old the other day, but I gave up the fight and said that if the music was good enough, I would dance on one leg.

Before they went away, we had made the effort to go with them to the free concerts in Castries, and thoroughly enjoyed the brass jazz band and the two very slick tap dancers who accompanied them, and then settled in to the smooth sounds of Jango Reinhardt played by an excellent trio. The light breeze ruffled through the surrounding trees and the music aficionados took in every note while their children ran about among the shrubbery that surrounded the arena.

There's nothing too serious about the music in this part of the world - nobody pretends that they are at Glyndebourne or dresses for the Opera. Music here entails an easily pleased audience, a couple of young lads barbecuing sausages at the back and a man selling cold beers out of a large tin bath full of ice. The children know enough not to annoy the audience with their games, and the audience look on them like rather boisterous puppies.

Each evening on television, traffic jams starting from the north of France are shown on a large map of France, and everyone seems to be headed in this direction. Our idea of the tourist season is to make use of the unmarked back roads that lead through the vineyards, shop before anyone crawls out of bed, and stay as far away from the beach, the Nimes arena, the Place de la Comedie in Montpellier and the A9 Route as we possibly can.

Eventually they'll all leave, and we'll have it to ourselves once more. OK we might not have the freebie concerts, but there's the grape harvest to look forward to and the cycle of French life will continue to turn - speaking of which, we watched the last cyclist pass the finish line in Paris yesterday. The Tour de France is over and from now on, you can forget getting anything fixed, ordered, answered or dealt with until the end of August. The Mayor is on holiday - it's official!

A Life On The Ocean Wave

The true colour of the Med


Third Mate Jean keeping up the family nautical tradition



Ship's Cook and Tillerman i.e. the Third Mate's Mate

Our trusty craft with Jean being advised on parking by the ship's dog

We are blessed to have good friends who own a yacht. Now before you imagine us aboard some glitzy ocean-going sleek white, fully staffed gin palace, this is a proper sailing boat with real sails that you hoist yourself without a battery operated switch, a jib, a mainsail, a tiller and lots and lots of ropes (which I must remember to call sheets). She has a cosy cabin that will sleep four at a squeeze and not a lot by way of luxury facilities. But that's OK, because we had been invited to sail and I was tickled pink.

Last Wednesday, we chugged out of Port Camargue and launched ourselves onto an unsuspecting nautical world. Of the four of us on board, one was an expert sailor, one was in serious training, I had fiddled about with a racing dinghy years ago, and the fourth crew member was willing but relatively untried.

The wind couldn't be described as strong. The term "light" would have worked for a while, and then the word "becalmed" began to be bandied about on board. The mainsail flapped aimlessly and the jib hung like limp washing. It was time to break out the ships biscuits in order to stave off mutiny. I love sailing with men. They have no interest in plates, salads, knives and forks. Give them a hunk of bread, a chunk of sausage, a bottle of water and a thick slice of cold melon, and you've got a happy sailor.

"We're going to put the spinaker up" the Captain informed us. His eye swept around his cowering crew and fortunately landed on the young fit agile pupil. "Remember - one hand for the boat and one for yourself", and the two of them headed forward and did a lot of fiddling about with hanks of rope, short poles with funny names and massive acres of sail. I stayed at my post on the tiller while Jean moved from one side of the boat to the other, keeping some sort of balance while all the action went on at the sharp end.

A rattle of wires, a hauling of rope and a billowing of sail, and the spinaker filled with wind. The yacht reacted like a young horse being turned out into a field. I could feel the craft begin to connect with the tiller and the little pennants on the stay wires began to flap. We were moving forward and instead of the baking sun, we had a fresh breeze on our faces.

Everything connected and for a happy half hour we bowled along with the spinaker making maxium use of the weak wind, but sadly, we were headed for the port once more. I willed the wind to pick up, but it was more likely that it would die totally, and then we would be reduced to the ignominy of either getting back to shore with help from the engine, or being stuck out at sea deciding whether or not we were going to eat the dog.

I am officially hooked - I want to sail again, and soon. And this time, I hope that Mother Nature will play her part and send us a bit more wind. Maybe not the 50 knots that our Captain had once sailed in, but enough to get our pulses racing while we skim across the surface of the incredibly translucent blue Mediterannean sea.

A Bird Called Bertha

Bertha (or maybe Bert) awaiting breakfast


She only picks out the fine seed and kicks the rest out
for the magpies and those "terribly common pigeons" to find


Lying in my hammock the other day, making every effort to stay awake long enough to read another chapter of my book before dropping off to sleep in the somnolent heat of the afternoon, I became aware that just below me was a small white dove sporting a black feathered collar.


At first I lay absolutely still for fear of frightening her away, but she looked up at me, and gave the dove equivalent of a yawn, and continued pecking and picking among the leaves. This dove was definitely not afraid.


A day or two later, I became aware of an insistent call emanating from the line of trees in the back garden. "Co Coo Coo - Co Coo Coo". On and on it went until it became more than a little annoying. "Hey - shove off and do that somewhere else" I suggested, in a manner that I am sure David Attenborough would find most offensive. I waved my broom at her but it only resulted in her flapping to the next available branch and carrying on.


After two or three days of this behaviour, I began to realise that the dove was demanding more than just my attention, and if I wanted any peace, I had better work out what it was that she wanted in return. In the garage, I had some left-over wildbird seed from the winter, and taking a small pot of the grain, I whistled the same repeated call, and low and behold, she flapped down and sat on the bird table and waited for her breakfast to come.


For two weeks now, Bertha the Bird has arrived earlier and earlier, and I have learned to sleep with an earplug next to the bed rather than put up with her 4.30am room service demands. She seems to have got the message and now awaits for my 8am appearance, probably mocking my tousled hair and voluminous cotton nightdress.


"Co Coo Coo" she sings, as I sprinkle her seed on the table and bid her "Good morning Bertha". She eats, she flutters down into the pond for a quick wash and brush-up, and then with one more backward beady look, she flies up and away to the woods.

But there is more to the story - Bertha has a past! My best friend Maggie tells me that doves mate for life and yet Bertha is always alone. The previous inhabitant of the house mentions a dove that she used to feed here five years ago who sounds suspiciously like Bertha. If doves can live for up to twenty years, then perhaps she is a broken-hearted lonely widow.

I think I'd better give her an extra scoop tomorrow, and I'll never again say "Shoo shoo" when she says "Co Coo"

Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly

A grave with a view at St Croix de Caderle


Sunflowers near Barjac



Happy campers near Montclus




Looking down into the Gorge L'Ardeche

The Pont D'Arc

The Monument to the Martyrs of Les Crottes

The lavender fields at Montclus

It has been a while since I wrote and I would hang my head in shame, except that I have been doing rather boring things, like going to England for days of grey skies and rain while visiting family. Luton is still as unlovely as ever, the Charity Shops had lost a lot of their charm as their stocks are low, but at least British country busses run on time, even if some of the drivers are on day-release from Brands Hatch.

But now I am back home, summertime is here and the countryside beckons. We have been on an adventure, and you might want to have a handy map of the central area of the Languedoc nearby.

My husband is fairly hardened to my sudden wild ideas, and nobly climbed the ladder in the garage and hauled down our tent, the box of camping kit and the air mattresses. After all, we have camped in the mountains of Lesotho, the Everglades of Florida and the Australian bush, so a quick two day trip in France wouldn’t pose many problems.

“I can only see one mattress” he called down from his lofty perch.

It dawned on me that the other one had been left in England along with the pump due to the fact that Ryanair don’t play nice when you drag along excess baggage.

“Don’t worry – we’ve got loads of duvets which will be just as soft”.

I can report that three days later, the back pain pills are starting to work and he looks as lot more comfortable than he did yesterday!

We have previously visited Provence on a couple of occasions during May, but we were determined to find lavender in the Languedoc and avoid the busloads of tourists making their way to the Abbaye du Senanque.

Heading straight up the D 6110 via Sommieres towards Ledignan, we veered off slightly to the right in order to stay well away from Ales, and continued cross country via the lovely villages of Navacelles, Mejannes le Clap and on to Montclus. I had read on the internet that it was possible to see lavender here, and we were well rewarded with not one, but two fields with the ancient village as a backdrop. Nobody can explain the heart-stopping beauty of a field of purple flowers, but my day was well and truly made.

From here we we wiggled our way north west up through the Aven d’Orgnac, in the direction of Labastide, and stumbled across the tragic little hameau of Les Crottes. We didn’t see a soul but the signposts led us to the monument that commemorated the spot where the entire population had been massacred during the second World War. It was an eerie place, beautiful but lonely, and I was not surprised to see that the local gite had pretty much closed up. I don’t think I could have slept easily here.

Our aim now was the Gorge D’Ardeche but not wanting to share it with thousands of visitors, we bided our time and sat and ate a huge citron ice cream in Vallon-Pont D’Arc before heading out along the route that follows the Gorge eastwards. Perfect timing as by 5pm, the tourists were leaving and the cargoes of canoes were heading westwards and we had all the lookout points to ourselves and we took a comfortable three hours to complete the route. It took us about three hours to really enjoy it at our leisure without driving into the setting sun.

A quick detour to the Museum of Lavender near St Remeze just 4kms north of the Gorge was well worth it with more fields of deep purple and a delightful shop that markets excellent lavender products that would make any recipient happy. Unfortunately we arrived just too late to go on the museum tour that explains the process of extracting the valuable oil, but we will hopefully return.

We returned to the Gorge and continued eastwards and crossed the river at St Martin D’Ardeche and went south in search of a campground. Every “Camping” close to the Gorge appeared to be full to the brim and we pride ourselves on being self-contained and very anti-social campers, and so we were delighted to find a totally empty river-front campground on the edge of Montclus. There were no facilities and nobody collecting money, and the only other residents were an orchestra of frogs who sang us to sleep while the half moon filtered down through the trees above us and the distant chime of the Montclus church clock marked off the night hours.

The next morning after a cooling dip in the river Ceze that flowed past our tent, we worked our way west through Barjac, turned south, dodged around northern Ales and then out into the beautiful Gardon Valley through Trabuc and Mialet. I would shake my piggy bank very hard to buy property here!

We couldn’t rest until we had climbed to the highest point in the Cevennes, and we found St Croix de Caderle on the stunning drive between St Jean du Gard and Lasalle. The views from the old chapel were incredible and not to be missed.

It just remained to slide back down past St Hippolyte du Fort, wave at Sauve and Quissac in passing before getting back to our village near Castries. 400 kilometres in all, and although we were never really more than a 2 hour drive from home, we felt as though we had visited a different country.

I can’t wait for the next expedition, but I think I’d better come up with a plan to rescue the second air mattress. Some of us aren’t quite as young as we used to be!

Half a Cuckoo

Irises in the field next to us - the result of them being chucked over the fence a few years back.

The time has come when not only do we sleep with the windows open and just the mosquito mesh closed to keep out unwanted visitors, but the curtains are left slightly open and the wooden shutters are clipped back against the wall. Summer is just around the corner, and today I washed the sheets, rolled up the duvet, put away the quilt and hauled out the lightweight Florida blankets.

But despite standing patiently at the open window early each morning, I have failed to hear that most wonderful sound - a cuckoo in the nearby woods. I have heard pigeons trying to confuse me with half a call, but the messenger of late Spring has so far eluded me.

When we first came to France in May all those years ago, I would sit out on the terrace of our rented gite, and listen to the calls tumbling over each other. Cuckoo would vie with cuckoo to convince us that the long nights of winter were well and truly over. But so far - nothing!

However, there are other rewards, and my lonely poppy is now surrounded by a wealth of brothers and sisters, and the patiently awaited nasturtiums have burst forth in all their orange glory. The "chene vert" oak tree has deposited tons of messy yellow blossoms all over the flower beds and the driveway, but I have learned not to complain about this tough tree. It keeps all its leaves in winter which means one less thing to sweep up while the micoculiere is dumping thousands upon thousands of leaves all over the garden, and it is now providing much needed shade for the car.

We have just spotted the remaining three of our four fish. They seem to have determined that we are not going to catch them and eat them, and are enjoying life whizzing around between the water lillies and the oxygenating plants. Two fat pigeons have decided that the garden makes for a very pleasant place to hang out, and they no longer worry about our presence, and flap down from the oak tree and paddle in the shallow part of the pool, drinking and bathing at their leisure. The two magpies still try to grab the fat balls suspended from the mulberry tree and we lie in bed laughing at their acrobatics which usually result in them tumbling to the ground, shaking their feathers, and pretending that they really don't mind making fools of themselves. Just to rub in their indignity, a pair of little bluetits flit back and forth enjoying an early breakfast making it look so easy.

A group of students have just rung the gate bell, and I happily parted with 2 euros in exchange for a programme of the upcoming village fete and a delicious brioche bun. I tried to establish if there were any English speakers amongst them, but we wound up all laughing and stringing together my shaky French and their obliging help with a few English words. We may not have cuckoos, but we do have summer right around the corner and I haven't given up all hope. Meantime, I shall settle for the ventriloquist pigeons who like to tease us.

Always Read the Fine Print

The easy bit!


It starts to get interesting



Looking down onto Corconne

Well worth the effort!

Just occasionally, not being able to read French is probably an asset, and one of those times was yesterday morning. I picked up the guide book of local walks just to take a quick peep at our planned route, and apart from a very small icon of a mountain in one corner with a few figures next to it, I didn't really absorb much. I did manage the bit about the 13th Century Chapel being rebuilt in 1870 from the original stones, and something about a grand view across Corconne, but the rest was a bit fuzzy.

So once my nose was pressed against what felt like a sheer wall of rock and I paused to watch the walker in front trying to squeeze through a chimney pipe ahead of me, I wondered if I should have take more care with the fine print, and not skimmed the bit about "Difficultes particulieres".

There are two routes that take you to the chapel and the cross atop the mountain behind Corconne. You can slog straight up a stone staircase from the middle of town, or take the route up through the ravine which starts out looking like the A9 but quickly changes into a scramble up a rock filled watercourse.

One of the first things I needed to understand were the markings on the rocks. Apparently the yellow cross meant "Not this way" and the straight yellow bar meant "this way". Having leapt into the lead working on the assumption that if I did it quickly, I wouldn't realise I was doing it, I went into Lesotho mountain goat mode and began scrambling up the stone blocks, hunting for hand holds and gripping onto overhanging branches, only to realise that my companions were strolling up well marked stone pathways slightly to the right of me.

Of course there were areas where it was impossible to avoid the steep bits, but with a haul from above and a nudge from below, and the occasional fireman's lift for the dog, we all arrived at the top and were well rewarded with the view from the chapel.

My geographic bump isn't always the best and I do tend to get a bit turned around, so it was with complete surprise that as we descended from the 10km route around the mountain top, and returned to the terra firma of Corconne, I found that we were totally on the other side of town. Never mind - the walk was great, the company excellent, the feet a bit sore but the spirits high.

I know I should always read the fine print, but this time, I was quite glad that I didn't!

Nine Inches of Pleasure

The remaining arch of the Ambrusson Bridge


The side pillar of the bridge



Jean checking out the engineering

Kate with the perfect Lunel sacristan

On the Via Domitia - next stop Spain!

You may well look at the title of this piece and wonder, but imagine how I felt when we queued politely in the boulangerie last week, waiting to claim our daily baguette. We have a new proprietor in the village bakery and he is clearly keen to make his mark, so he has ordered new bread bags, on which are written the slightly cheeky message "Your Nine Inches of Pleasure". Of course the bag is just long enough and slim enough to allow a crisp baguette to slip into it, leaving only the tempting tip sticking out. Somehow it was handed to me while Jean shuffled both his feet and his loose change, and the baker looked at me and beamed. I looked around to see how the village matrons were coping with this rather flagrant advertising gimmick, but they were more interested in catching up with the local gossip.

Today we drove down to the Lunel market and it was filled to bursting with plants and gardeners. A sea of petunias in full flower, cascades of geraniums, bold hot colours and cool blues and whites all fought for attention, and amid the colour were the trays of herbs, tomato plants and assorted vegetables.

Having done battle with the snails in the garden and lost the first couple of sorties, we have discovered that snails can be airmailed to the neighbouring field, and for those who insist on staying around, a sprinkle of blue pellets seem to do the trick. This means that the garden is now safe for courgette plants, so we splashed out and purchased a further six to replace the munched ones. A tray of lettuce plants and an assortment of herbs made up our loot plus a selection of tumbling cool blue and white flowering plants, and with a welcome shower currently giving them a drink, I think they are getting a good start.

Of course, no trip to Lunel market would be complete without stopping at the bread stall. I have been diligent about ensuring that the sacristans from Lunel market really are the very best. I have tried them in Anduze and Arles, Montpellier and Mudaison and an assortment of smaller villages, and I am convinced that I have found the perfect sacristan. Jean doesn't have my sweet tooth and inevitably chooses a fougasse which is the delicious savoury criss-cross piece of puff pastry embedded with olives, herbs and occasionally anchovies. If ever anything deserved a bag which said "Here is your 12 inches of pleasure" - it would be the Lunel sacristan!

Now comes the tricky part. We have to leave the market, drive around the winding streets of Lunel until we are out of town and into the country, and only when we reach the beautiful Ambrusson bridge can we sit on a sun warmed rock, pour out the flask of coffee and embark on our confectionary. This is a test of pure willpower but we know the quick route to the bridge so the suspense isn't too great.

Today we took advantage of a spot of sunshine and hiked up the hill from the bridge to inspect the ramparts and the habitations that cover the top of the hill above the bridge. From here, the Romans could keep a close watch on the surrounding area and also ensure that the bridge stayed open in order to keep traffic on the vital Via Domitia moving. It was a sort of Truckers Stop on the Roman Route and it is good to see that the museum being constructed near the site is coming along well. It is going to be fascinating to learn more about how the landladies of Ambrusson ran their business.

http://www.csj.org.uk/arlesroute.htm

A Little Piece of Paradise

It was just a casual remark made over a cup of tea while sheltering from the rain. A group of us had gone to enjoy a lovely garden and to benefit from the wisdom of a visiting gardening expert. However, Mother Nature was still in a slightly bad mood and she threw down a pretty stiff shower just as we reached the furthest point from the house.

"Why don't you come and visit my garden sometime? It is very small but very English" said one of the visitors who live fairly close to us.

I have always been a sucker for an English garden. My mother has a lovely one which she always claims is largely due to a lot of fortunate mistakes, but the result is the sort of English garden that you see in country magazines.

On Monday, we accepted a gracious invitation from one of the local American Women's Group members for tea before going next door to see this much admired garden. To sit drinking tea and eating delectable patisserie in the grounds of their stunning home while admiring a crystal clear swimming pool backed by an ancient stone wall was joy enough, but once the cups had cooled, we went next door to see what the English garden was all about.

My first question was "How long did it take to create this paradise".

"20 years" was the answer, but it is clearly an ongoing labour of total love.

Roses tumbled about the pillars of the terrace with names that rang down the ages. Irises in colours that were new to me filled the beds, and everywhere I looked there were varieties of plants that I had only seen in the sort of books that graced coffee tables.

It wasn't a large garden, but it was a testament to one woman's determination to create a little piece of paradise, and it was a joy and a privilege to see it.

Our garden is nothing by comparison but I do understand the concept of learning how to love a garden. To be able to walk out first thing in the morning and inspect the growth of new plants, to listen to the birds singing in the trees that surround us and to watch the first rays of sunshine dappling down has to be the best start to any day. The plants in the pond are all doing well, and today we purchased four small fish from the garden centre. They must have felt as though they had been released into some swish aquarium after spending time in a boring glass box being stared at by the passing public. Now they can play hide and seek under the leaves of the water plants and splash about in the waterfall.

The heat is increasing, and I have to confess that I rather envy them, but rather than slipping into the fishpond, I am extremely grateful to good friends who have offered the use of their pool.