Life's a bitch.....

We received a postcard from a couple of friends today: Jess & Alan, whom we've known since university. Over the last year or so they have each had some major health scares which are still unresolved. They have now decided that it's time to do the big trip while they can, so they've taken their camper-van off to Europe for at least six months.

I can only agree that it's the best thing to do. There's no point in waiting until it's too late - look at the reason that Moonface & I bought our camper-van in the first place. In some ways I'm surprised that they actually need a van, as they have loads of friends scattered around western Europe as well as two homes there, but as we really enjoy using ours and we appreciate its convenience and just plain fun, I can understand them completely.

So enjoy your time abroad, kids.

:o)

Health and Safety

Thinking back to France again, on our brief walking break, I was impressed by the lack of health & safety provisions which typically blight interesting locations in Britain. There were no warning signs over sheer drops, crumbling fortifications were unmended, railways unfenced: overall there seemed to be a general concensus that it's an individual's responsibility to act sensibly and to take care.


(Moonface and the Cow's Arsehole)


A case in point was the cave near Meailles. In the Mendips there are many limestone caves and potholes, all of which are carefully closed off by locked steel shutters to prevent the unwary or inquisitive from entering them. Two hours walk into the hills from Meailles, it's a different story. The Grotte de Meailles is 400m long, and descends for over 100 slippery muddy metres into the hillside. And it's completely open to anyone, so Moonface and I investigated it. Locally, it's known as the "Cul de Boeuf". It was a great experience, descending steeply along the sticky clayey boulders inside the cavern. We had two torches, so light wasn't a problem, but there were potholes in the floor of the grotte which we had to look out for. It's the first proper cave I've been in unaccompanied and without guides, since I went into Kirkdale cave as a lad. It was cool, it was sticky, it was wonderful. I only wish that we had spent more time there, but we had a last train to catch from Meailles back to Entrevaux. We saw no other walkers that day, only a solitary woman mushroom-picker in the morning.



:o)

Entrevaux

What do the people do here all winter?

It's a beautiful little town, guarding the Var as it rushes between the upended sheets of rock, but in late October there are few tourists and most of the cafes, shops and restaurants are shut. Even in the evenings, the one bar in the old town centre was shutting its doors by 9:30.

The population, according to the tourist office, is less than 800, although at the time of WW1 it was 1400 or more. Many of the tall handsome buildings are crumbling, and most of the streets are now too narrow for modern traffic. Moonface and I stayed in the only hotel open, in the new part of town across the river, which is at least accessible by road. Fortunately the hotel served demi-pension, or otherwise we would have gone hungry in the evenings. The dining room felt hollow on the night on which we were the only guests, but we know that they catered for many more during the days, when we were out walking.

I guess that in the past this was an important staging post and depot; certainly the Romans had a fort here and the medieval walls are mostly intact - but what is it now?

:o]

Old

Today, I became old.
In a single transaction in a railway station in the south of France, my status changed.

Buying tickets for Moonface and I to take the meter-gauge train from Nice to Entrevaux up the Var valley, I noticed that the age at which discounts apply for seniors is only 55. And I'm that age.

So I asked for one standard and one cheaper ticket, and received them. Mine was 25% cheaper, and instantly I entered a different age group and became a "Senior". Perhaps I'll become more mature now.

;0)

Nîmes

After a week in the rural hills of the Cevennes, returning to Nîmes was a shock. Apart from the bright whiteness of the city squares and the size of the place, what struck Moonface and me was the variety of skin colours of the inhabitants. In the villages which we had walked through, we hardly saw a black or brown face. In Nîmes, not only were there lots of noirs and beurs, but the skin tone of the indigenous people seemed to be darker than in the hills.

Strangely, this didn't seem to be so in Avignon, only half-an-hour's ride away; there, the standard skin-tone had reverted to a paler colour again. I wonder why?

I've a very soft spot for Nîmes, having spend several weeks there at conferences. I love the consistent use of their crocodile-and-palm-tree symbol throughout the town, on bollards and plaques and signs. It was something of a victory to take Moonface there after all these years of talking about the place. I wonder if I'll ever return?


:0)

Avignon

Not Avalon, but still a city to thrill.

We arrived here with the assumption that the bridge would be narrow, complete, and twee; and that there would be little else to see in the city. We were wrong. Avignon's old town is a superb tourist destination, with narrow fascinating streets, history on all sides, and a cleanliness that doesn't exist here any more. Apart from the crottes. As a town for a day's proper tourism after a week of walking in the hills, it was hard to beat. Instead of taking it easy we just walked around in wonder, tiring ourselves more in the streets than we did on the trails. The food was good (in my eyes) and the reaction to tourists relaxed.

But we heard English spoken in the streets! After a week of nothing but French and each other, it was a shock to be eating in a resto and have other groups of Brits walk in, braying loudly at themselves and the waitress. And then one cafe we ate in had Duffy playing on the radio, bringing Moonface and I back to earth with a bump.

See you here in June ?


;0)

Ou se trouvent les bestioles?

Where are all the wild animals in France?
During our recent trip there, we didn't see a single wild mammal, either from the trains in which we travelled, or when out walking. Admittedly we did see plenty of droppings and trqaces of various sorts, which ranged from boar scrapings to badger tracks to genet and fouine spraints. But we didn't actually see one mammal.

Contrast that with the train journeys which we took to and from Southampton Airport for our flight. The travel time and speeds were roughly comparable with the train travelling times in France, but we saw so much more wildlife. On the way out, we spotted at least three small groups of deer, a fox, and many rabbits. On the return leg, which was mainly in the dark, we saw two lots of deer in the twilight, plus the ubiquitous rabbits.

So where are all the French animals? The human population density there is lower than in England, so it's not competition. Do the French shoot everything they can? Do they hunt even the smallest mammals?

:o[

From Langogne

In 1878, Stevenson wrote so much better than I do: of his ascent from the Allier valley, he said:

"All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained and hailed alternately; the wind kept freshening steadily, although slowly; plentiful hurrying clouds--some dragging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and luminous as though promising snow--careered out of the north and followed me along my way."

Of course, Moonface and I had a wind from the south, blowing into our faces to force our jacket hoods up and our heads down, for protection against its chilling bite. Instead of a donkey to carry our baggage, we had a taxi to take most of our goods from hotel to hotel, although we each carried a rucksack of goods which might be needed during the day.


:O)

Chemin Stevenson, from Langogne

Just as Stevenson found, the long trek upwards and south from Langogne was made in bitter weather. For him, it was in October; for Moonface and myself, in April. The wind and rain were in our faces and as we gained height the rain turned to hail and sleet. The rim of my hat became encrusted in ice and the melting sleet trickled down my neck as we bent into the gale.

This was not how we had intended to start our walk to the flatlands of the Gard.
Nor had we intended to arrive in Langogne with nowhere to stay, but the Gite d'Etape which we had booked proved to be closed when we arrived and was still shut after we returned to it after an hour of wandering the streets. Fortunately we found a suitable cheap hotel nearby which was willing to take us as their only guests that night, and we were treated to a superb meal which was strangely bleached, being nearly all of white and meal-coloured foods. This, the Hotel des Voyageurs (?) had recently been taken over and the proprietor was unaware of the relais Stevenson as a source of guests, as we discussed before Moonface and I left in the rain that next morning.

We underestimated the distance of that first day's walk, so we prudently decided to walk the last few Ks on the road. We hitch-hiked again, and we were even offered a lift by a couple of counter-cultured women complete with piercings and dyed hair. They were kind, as we were neither clean nor dry by that time.

At La Bastide we were again the only guests in the hotel, in a town shut down for winter, as the Lightning Seeds would have sung.


:O)

Taste

Last weekend was spent in France, visiting a friend. Perhaps, more accurately, I should say that I was almost losing a friend. That wasn't unexpected; I was hesitant about making the visit, so I repeatedly asked beforehand whether I was welcome, half expecting and a quarter hoping that the invitation would be withdrawn. When my friend and I first met some years ago, there was a definite chemistry and affection between us which sustained our communications without an actual meeting for two years. There was chemistry this weekend as well, but this time it caused explosions in the confined space of her flat.

So there was an emotional turmoil that I haven't experienced for years, leaving me confused and rather miserable upon my return journey.

Nevertheless, whenever we were outside of my friend's flat and in the open air, we had a wonderful time with blue skies and warm sun all weekend. And they fed me. I regard myself as an acceptable cook (a good one, for a male Briton?) for ordinary day-to-day domesticity and I enjoy cooking for fun and relaxation as well as making the necessary daily evening meal, but the men who cooked for me this weekend were terrific. Bacon-wrapped sausage, ratatouille, roast veal and perfect steak were all deliciously memorable. Perhaps I'm just not used to their volumes of fresh herbs with the cooking, but I think that it was this that made the difference. Plus putting in time and effort, I suppose.

I mentioned steak. Now, normally I'm not a fan of barbecues, because in my experience within Britain this tends to be a recipe for food that is delivered tasteless, burnt on the outside and cold and raw in the middle. The only really good barbecues I've had have been in Australia and Africa, all using much bigger fires and grills that the one which M used this weekend. But somehow, using equipment that I have seen used to destroy food, M cooked an inch and a half thick steak to perfection. I was impressed. And he thought about the herbs used with the salads so that they matched the main ingredients and peeled the mushrooms for the salad, something which I have never done.

What else, food-wise, do I remember from the weekend? A chocolate tart, made in ten minutes, with that pastry which I can never get right. And a guinea-fowl with morel sauce, one of the best dishes I have eaten in a restaurant for ages. The guinea-fowl was cooked to the point of perfection, the sauce both sweet and savoury with an almost sea-like freshness, slightly sexual.

I owe friend and M a good weekend in Bristol. It may be a while before we are recovered enough. We shall see, but I want it to happen.

Surprisingly, I found that upon my return to the UK, I had actually lost weight: about a kilo and a half. It must have been the stress.


:o(

Bloody French

I was born in a grimy industrial Northern town, with few redeeming features that were not destroyed by planners in the 1960's. There were almost no buildings of style or interest except the local parish church, and the skyline to the North was dominated by the flare-stacks and chimneys of the massive chemical works. When the wind was in the wrong direction, we could scent the acrid brown of nitrogen dioxide which we could see floating towards the town, turning to nitric acid in our lungs.

And yet the industrial background was something to be proud of. Stockton-on-Tees was home to the very first passenger railway in the world, which ran in 1825. The revolution in powered transport for ordinary people started there. The first house in which I lived had a railway embankment at the bottom of the garden, so that I could watch the steam trains slowly shunting by from our back room. The embankment was an extension of my garden for playing in, with overgrown bushes and tall grass to hide in and young trees to climb. So I have always had a fondness for railways, and a preference for rail travel over all other methods. I have watched the slow decline of Britain's railways with despair; our ticket prices high with an arcane charging structure, the carriages often rickety or filthy, and running slower than they did thirty years ago. The slavery to making money at the expense of beauty and effectiveness meant that stations such as Paddington were cluttered with kiosks and booths selling stuff to the travellers waiting for the trains that always arrived late.

And then, three years ago, I took a job with a French company with offices based just by the Gare de Lyon. And I was shocked. The trains, heading for the Mediterranean and points south, were clean, modern and fast. The station looked as if it were built for the public, not the shop-keepers. The next year, in Spring 2005 Moonface and I took a holiday in the south of France, near Nice, and experienced mountain railways that could never have been built here. The tracks clung to the side of gorges, and spiralled upwards inside solid rock, doubling back upon themselves to climb high over Alpine passes. We were impressed and awed at what could be done. Even these branch lines had new, clean, spacious trains. It made me so jealous and angry that Britain's engineering heritage has been pissed away training accountants and lawyers to be better paid and more respected that men and women who can build.

This last weekend I travelled to Nancy in the east of France to see a friend. (More of that some other time) For the return trip I took the direct TGV Est line, newly opened this June. It made me spit with anger. We travelled two hundred miles in ninety minutes, in quiet comfort, in reserved seats with plenty of luggage space at a price far below that of a similar trip in the UK. The same distance from London would take three time as long and cost three times as much.
Oh, and the train ran exactly to its timetable, arriving spot-on at noon.

Bloody French.


:0(