Late snow

The arrival yesterday of summertime went unnoticed for two reasons: firstly we were in the mountains for our first and only skiing trip of the season, where several hours of heavy snow mocked the idea that winter was over; secondly, being in holiday mode, we both completely forgot that the clocks were going back, so spent the whole of yesterday blithely ignorant of the fact that it was an hour later than we thought it was until we got home and switched on the TV to watch the eight o'clock news that had already been and gone.

Nonetheless, we had a very enjoyable, if mixed weather-wise, couple of days. A work colleague of la bienheureuse kindly lent us her apartment for the weekend, and after picking la salariée up from the airport on Friday evening we made it up to the corner of England that is Meribel by 10pm. The following morning dawned bright and sunny, and so it continued until lunchtime, which, with a decent fall of snow the previous day, made for very pleasant skiing conditions, even if ma bien-aimée was restricted somewhat by her perennially dodgy knee. At lunch the snow started falling. And kept falling, into the evening, and into the night. It was still falling as we ventured a few yards up the road from the apartment complex for a very tasty meal and a nice bottle of Mondeuse, and was still falling as we slipped back to bed.

By the morning the snow had stopped, and a good six inches lay on the ground outside the apartment window. Alas, la bienheureuse decided her knee wasn't up to more skiing, but consoled herself with the purchase of a pair of raquettes à neige and a walk in the snow round Lac de Tueda, and allowed me to sally forth solo in eager anticipation of a day's skiing on lots of fresh, lovely snow. So eagerly did I take advantage that by lunchtime my thigh muscles had virtually seized up. That was partly due to the hour or so that I didn't enjoy, at Mont Vallon, where the flat light and wall to wall whiteness offered absolutely no contrast. I had no idea what I was skiing on and consequently any technique I might possess went out of the window. Bumps, fresh snow, flat snow, steep slope, shallow slope, it all looked the same to me. I was thus exhausted when we met up for a late lunch, a very late lunch, but a very tasty lunch. Afterwards, I bravely managed to fit in a couple of more runs down from Saulire. The snow came down again in the afternoon but conditions higher up, between two layers of cloud, remained excellent.

Down in the resort it was rain rather than snow but, by the time I'd helped la travailleuse finish cleaning, tidying and shutting up the apartment in readiness for the return of its proprietors next weekend, it had eased off so it was an undemanding and uneventful drive home. This morning, my body is screaming in protest at the excesses of the weekend, but the sunshine and spring weather are back. Unfortunately it looks unlikely to last long...

Kicking off

First it was Saturday, then it was Friday, then it was Saturday again, and now it may yet be Friday, but more likely Saturday. There's been a lot of to-ing and fro-ing this week, centred round a rather unseemly spat between Lyon and Bordeaux over the kick-off time of OL's match this weekend. It's all about another match entirely, the Champions League quarter-final between the two teams next Tuesday. Before the draw, Lyon asked for their match to be moved to Friday to give them more time to prepare for the Champions League. Permission granted by the French league, but when the draw threw the two French teams together, Bordeaux started getting uppity. 

Les Girondins are playing in the League Cup final on Saturday (presumably immovable), and when their request to UEFA to move the Champions League game to Wednesday failed, they asked to the French league to move Lyon's league match against Grenoble back to Saturday (in the interests of fairness, you understand). Permission granted. Result - Lyon not happy at all, and they appealed the decision. Appeal turned down, so they appealed again, to a (presumably) higher body (the national Olympic and sporting committee). However, the last ditch effort looks likely to fail, so it seems OL will have to play Saturday after all, and meanwhile Grenoble has been watching from the sidelines getting increasingly annoyed that nobody seems to have asked their opinion in the whole affair. French sports politics is just like the real thing - entertaining nonsense.

Red card

The French regional elections went much as predicted, the ruling UMP and its allies retaining control of only one of the 22 regions, and only 36% of the vote, against 54% for the left wing alliance. The Front National clawed back the votes Sarko pilfered when he stole some of their clothes in the presidential election and Monsieur le Président is left to lick his wounds and sack a couple of ministers as scapegoats for the debacle. Meanwhile the opposition crows and declares the result a resounding rejection of his politics. Then again, perhaps the big winner was apathy. The turnout barely crept about 50%.

Elsewhere it was a quiet weekend, though we did hear the first thunder of the year in Lyon. The sunshine is back today after a rather grey couple of days, and the mild weather encouraged us into the only real activity of the weekend, a trip to a garden centre. Geranium stocks however were low, so we ended up with more indoor greenery, a couple of lavender plants and a bag of earth.

Such was the excitement of the weekend. Apart of course from the football, where I had to make do with a dodgy internet stream to follow the chosen XI because their game clashed with the egg-chasing internationals, which the pubs and bars bizarrely chose to show in preference. Infidels. Fortunately, a blind ref and only ten men didn't prove too big a handicap.

Quiet week ahead too, with la bienheureuse away in a German amusement park for her first business trip of the new year. The rides, alas, are all still closed for the winter, so it's all work and no play...

A spring in the step

Le printemps semble arriver. It was a very pleasant cycle down to Gerland in the afternoon sunshine today, to collect tickets for the all-French Champions league quarter-final, even if the reverse Mistral made it rather hard going on the outward trip. The only interruption to sunshine since we got back from East Lothian has been between sunset and sunrise, and temperatures have remained in the high teens, even reaching twenty today. Hope there's still some snow left for the skiing next weekend.

It's been a mixed week for French football. The success of OL and Bordeaux in the Ligue des Champions contrasted with the fortunes of the two French representatives in the Europa league, and yesterday a PSG supporter, injured in clashes a week ago between warring factions of the Paris fans, died. PSG's match against Nice - also in trouble because of the behaviour of their fans - this weekend will be behind closed doors.

On the political battleground, it was the first round of regional elections while we were in sunny Scotland. Sarko and the ruling party received a somewhat bloody nose, and with the Socialists, Greens and Communists agreeing a united left-wing front in most regions for the second round, said nose looks likely to be severely out of joint come Monday. Monsieur le Président has been accused of making political capital out of the killing of a policeman by Basque separatists earlier this week, and his Prime Minister made his own blunder in a speech yesterday by referring to the death of another policeman, who turns out to be alive, even if he was seriously injured in a different attack.

Beach walking in Blighty

Ten days of cross-Channel travel with much fun and games comes to an end tomorrow. Two Saturdays ago I abandoned la bienheureuse in Lyon and, wonder of wonders, caught an on-time flight to Stansted, which got me to the new home of football, via a quick detour to Cambridge to pick up the ticket, in time to see a catalogue of tasty Danish chances go begging. Ultimately however, the Lancashire claret and blues were despatched comfortably enough, and a train/bus/train trip later I was back in Cambridge chez the builder-gardiner, where a chicken dinner and evening of beer-drinking in the Empress awaited.

A lazy Sunday for me followed, chief entertainment derived from observing the early stages of the courtship ritual of the Margarita bird. Continuation of said ritual the following day caused me to shift base from Fen Ditton to Cherry Hinton, where I enjoyed the usual high quality hospitality chez J&C until the second match of the week on Tuesday. The red and white goal thirst was duly quenched by generous measure of blue and white Port, so I flew back to Lyon on Wednesday in suitably high spirits.

Reunited with ma bien-aimée, the following day we promptly flew back to Blighty, north of Hadrian's wall this time, paying a visit to the Sogwig in her North Berwick nest. We arrived to find her very soggy indeed, suffering from a 24 hour bout of icky tummy, but the following day she was well enough for us to leave her working while we trundled into Edinburgh to meet up with the Margarita man. The day was spent gossiping over coffee, gossiping over lunch, and purchasing new leather bags and cheeses. Back to North Berwick for the evening, with the arrival of the JoneBoy completing the usual quintet.

Saturday morning dawned bright and breezy, and after a fry-up we took advantage of the sunshine and bracing winds with a stroll along both beaches, followed by coffee and cake and a bread and cheese lunch. TV rugby and football occupied the late afternoon and early evening, with pre-dinner cocktails in the pub happily coinciding with a late, late breach of the Humberside defences by the heroic north London invaders. A rather excellent dinner at North Berwick's premier Italian restaurant, accompanied by much quaffable wine, was followed by more cocktails and karaoke back in the pub. It was a mercifully short stumble home.

The Sunday morning constitutional was an amble up North Berwick law, which cleared heads and was followed by a trip to the supermarket to purchase provisions for a delicious fry-up brunch. The afternoon was taken up with a short drive and stroll along Seacliffe beach, before it was time for JeB to start the exodus early in the evening. The remaining trio of visitors thanked their lovely host with a tasty chicken in milk dinner, finished off with creamy apple and blackberry crumble.

The pattern of walks on the beach in the bracing breeze continued this morning, and afterwards we drove and tunnel-walked to picturesque Cove harbour, then did our final beach walk of the weekend in the shadow of a nuclear power station. No three-legged fish were spotted. Lunch at the seabird centre was followed with another stroll along the high street, and then it was time for Professor Margarita to be ferried to the airport. Tomorrow it will be our turn, and a lovely four days with Doctor Sandswig will alas be over...

Cold reality

Eight years of life in Lyon have done much to convince me that France is a much healthier place to live than Britain. Anecdotal evidence supports the theory. Up until a week ago, I claimed never to have caught a cold here. La bienheureuse too can count the number she's suffered since coming to Lyon on the fingers of less than one hand. However, two firsts in the last week have dented our French health record - first I caught a cold, and now la bienhereuse est enrhumée aussi, the first time we can remember either of us infecting the other. I'm sure it's just a blip.

It's cold in Lyon today, with a bitter north wind blowing down the river, but with lovely sunshine to take the edge off the chill. There was also a cold atmosphere in the Stade de France on Wednesday night, where les Bleus came up against the current best team in the world and came off second best. However, it wasn't the 2-0 defeat as such that displeased the fans and pundits, it was the manner of it. France looked like a team with no ideas, no cohesion and no leader. Domenech is more unpopular than ever, and with fewer than a hundred days to the World Cup, the natives are getting restless...

Ill winds

It was rather windy in Lyon on Saturday evening, blowing enough to buffet us on the walk to the metro station, and enough to spoil the spectacle of the match (viewed through generously tinted spectacles, anyway), which OL eventually won comfortably enough, even if they had to rely on a slightly bizarre injury time own-goal to confirm it. However, the stormy weather was obviously nowhere near as violent as it was further west. La tempête Xynthia is being blamed for 50 deaths, the worse tally in France for 30 years, most of them drownings as the winds combined with a high tide to flood coastal areas.

When we got home from the match I was jubilant to discover that the pure football red and white angels had at last slain the anti-footballing beasts in their own Potteries home. It all turned rather sour later though, with the news of another horribly broken leg. St Arsène is right to cry foul - three in less than four years is a direct consequence of the over-physical approach that most inferior teams take in order to 'stop Arsenal playing', and of the fact that such an ethos is condoned, nay applauded, by most of the English media. I might also suggest that causing two broken legs in less than three years is no coincidence for the aggressor in question either...

The wind still blew but the skies cleared yesterday. The warm sunshine was almost spring-like as we took advantage with a short stroll along the river. The variable weather was one of the reasons we decided to abandon a proposed weekend in the mountains. Having done no skiing whatsoever this year, it was a hard decision, swung in the end by the fact that I came down with a cold. Another first for life in Lyon - I claim it's the first time I've caught a cold in France. May it be the last for at least another eight years...

Instead of skiing, we settled for a weekend of recuperation (ie lazing around) on my part, and a whirl of cleaning and cooking de la part de la bienheureuse. Cauliflower soup, apple and blackcurrant crumble, tiramisu and an almost tidy bedroom to look forward to for the remainder of the week...