The last few days have hot, extremely hot, at least 30 degrees if the weather forecasts are to be believed, and we have been visiting the local beaches, riverside areas etc, most of which we have visisted before, but, whereas as few years ago when we first came, it was a quiet, unspoilt area, it is fast becoming busier and more commercialised. In this area, the French are building and extending road networks like there's no tomorrow. One wonders where they are getting all the money from, and then, if one is a cynic, the thought that they are getting it via the EU and that we are helping pay for it comes to mind.
Anyway, we have caught up on the zeds missed on Monday night and are now packed up and ready to set off once again, this time to Coussa, where we shall stay for a week before setting off northwards again.
Not sure what sort of internet connection we shall have next week but if we have one, I shall try to post.
Laters, tout le monde!
En France enfin!
Well, here we are, in the south of France, not far from Sete, with free wifi and temperatures of 30 degrees plus.
Keith thought it would be a good idea to drive to Dover on Monday, cross over in the evening and drive all the way to the south by Tuesday evening, taking cat naps in the car during Monday night. I, like a fool, agreed to do this. As it happened, we arrived early at Dover and were able to transfer to an earlier crossing, so we were in France and heading south by eight o'clock, or 9 BST+1, as it is over here. Around midnight we stopped for a snooze and I dreamt of how wonderful the following night would be - in a BED. At 12.45a.m. Keith was boiling the kettle to make us some coffee (The Boy Scouts really missed a gem when he decided not to join them). As we sat at a picnic table in the 'aire' drinking our coffee, Keith said,
"I bet you've never done this at this time of night before."
Amazingly, I couldn't think of one occasion - certainly not sitting in an aire in France, anyway.
To cut a long story short, we made our way down France, stopping at intervals, sleeping at intervals and arrived here in Balaruc les Bains at 3.30 yesterday afternoon.
By 6pm we were both asleep and so we remained, on and off until 7.45 this morning.
At 10 o'clock, we were in the local Carrefour, buying food for today's picnic. (Note to self: Don't attempt to go shopping on the first day of the French sales.)
At 10.15 Keith was hobbling around, clutching the trolley, wondering why he had severe backache and I was promising myself that never again would I agree to anything so ridiculous as our journey south - but never!
Now, I am typing this and he is lying flat on the bed, trying to get better quickly...
or else!
Les Vacances s'approchent!
Soon Keith and I are off to France for a much needed holiday. It's two years since we last went away and we shall do as we always do, take off in the car and drive, apart from the channel crossing, until we get to where we decide we want to go to. After a few days doing that, we shall be going back here, to Yorkshire Pudding's brother's gite and we are really looking forward to it.
Paddy, meanwhile, will be going here for his holiday, where he will have lots of other dogs to play with and, hopefully, won't miss us too much.
Paddy, meanwhile, will be going here for his holiday, where he will have lots of other dogs to play with and, hopefully, won't miss us too much.
Going posh
Seen in the Chester Chronicle this morning, was this item of information. Waitrose is coming to Chester. So it looks as if we are going up in the world around here.
Caviar, anyone?
Caviar, anyone?
A meaningful conversation
This morning, Keith and I had a conversation which we have never had before. Before anyone's imagination begins to race, it was about football, or more specifically, about the apparently disappointing result of last night's match. Regular readers will be well aware of my attitude towards football and will no doubt gasp in astonishment and step back in amazement, and these reactions would be particularly appropriate when they learn that Keith not only shares my degree of interest in football, but his antipathy could even be said to surpass mine.
Anyway, having seen clips of Wayne Rooney's succinct and direct reaction to being booed by the fans and Fabio's apparent bemusement and total lack of histrionics as he made his way 'backstage' (sorry but I'm not conversant with the correct terminology here), we began to jointly wonder why anyone would be surprised that Fabio was not upset by England's performance as he is Italian, not English. I said I thought that the fact that he is raking in five million pounds per annum should be reason enough for him to show a little concern and interest, but Keith was adamant. He's Italian, so he will be rooting for the Italian team. Actually, we weren't sure if Italy is playing, but assumed they are. This in turn led us to speculate on why in the name of sanity so many of the managers and owners of the British teams are quite obviously not British and, come to that, neither are a large proportion of the players. Does the UK produce so few decent players that it is impossible to cobble together at least a few teams using solely British players?
By this time, Paddy was fixing me with the doggy glare that means, 'Are we ever going for a walk today?' so that was the end of our conversation, except to bemoan the fact that there are still a lot of 'World Cup' days to get through before I can be sure of seeing Emmerdale and Coronation Street at the proper times again.
Oh, and if anyone thinks they can answer our queries, please feel free to use the comments box - but no hate mail, please!
Anyway, having seen clips of Wayne Rooney's succinct and direct reaction to being booed by the fans and Fabio's apparent bemusement and total lack of histrionics as he made his way 'backstage' (sorry but I'm not conversant with the correct terminology here), we began to jointly wonder why anyone would be surprised that Fabio was not upset by England's performance as he is Italian, not English. I said I thought that the fact that he is raking in five million pounds per annum should be reason enough for him to show a little concern and interest, but Keith was adamant. He's Italian, so he will be rooting for the Italian team. Actually, we weren't sure if Italy is playing, but assumed they are. This in turn led us to speculate on why in the name of sanity so many of the managers and owners of the British teams are quite obviously not British and, come to that, neither are a large proportion of the players. Does the UK produce so few decent players that it is impossible to cobble together at least a few teams using solely British players?
By this time, Paddy was fixing me with the doggy glare that means, 'Are we ever going for a walk today?' so that was the end of our conversation, except to bemoan the fact that there are still a lot of 'World Cup' days to get through before I can be sure of seeing Emmerdale and Coronation Street at the proper times again.
Oh, and if anyone thinks they can answer our queries, please feel free to use the comments box - but no hate mail, please!
Text messages
When I take Paddy out for a walk, I wear trousers, jogging bottoms, whatever, but they have to have deep pockets. This is so that I can carry tissues, treats for the times when Paddy actually manages to walk past another dog without having an attack of hysterics, poo bags (self-explanatory) and my two mobile phones, one being my personal one for use in case I am suddenly attacked by a manic axe murderer (well, you never know) and the other being my 'work' phone. When the message tone on that one beeps, I can be fairly sure it will be from a client wanting to cancel an appointment or having forgotten the time of said appointment, but today, it was different.
The message read, "Hi, how are u. Wot u up to this mornin?"
As no-one I know is that into textspeak, I could be fairly sure that this was not from a client, not even one who wanted an appointment at short notice, so I ignored it and carried on walking.
Minutes later, the phone beeped again. "Where r u mate?"
I considered texting back to put the sender out of his misery by informing him that I was not his mate, but I didn't, at least, not until we got home when I sent a text saying, "I'm afraid you have the wrong number"
to which I got an immediate reply: "R u not rod then?"
"No" I replied. The novelty was wearing off by now.
"Who r u then?" was the next message.
I was tempted to reply "Not Rod" but decided against it. Surely if I ignored him, he would finally get the message. How hard can "I'm afraid you have the wrong number" be to understand?
But no, our friend was not ready to give up yet.
"R u a lady?"
Yessss! Recognition at last!
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