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!