So it was, in our brand new voiture, that we set off on the annual week's holiday on the Côte d'Azur. Loaded almost to the gunnels, the new car swept silently down the autoroute like a dream, la petite more or less behaved herself and enjoyed the view from her new, higher perch, and we arrived in La Favière late on Sunday afternoon. After a quick drink at the corner café in the 28C sunshine, we successfully retrieved the keys to the apartment from the safe box outside the immobilier, and settled into our old/new home for the week. Three hours later, NI Soggydiver and new Scottish consort arrived and we all enjoyed beer and takeaway pizza for dinner as we watched the sun go down from the terrace.
Lazy Monday morning, though a somewhat earlier start than hoped for due to a toddler waking up and excitedly finding her parents in the same room, and slightly marred by the downstairs neighbour complaining about the noise. Shut that young child up…
And so to the first dive of the week and the discovery of the Bormes boys new headquarters. La bienheureuse generously volunteered for baby-sitting and beach life-guard duty leaving me to enjoy a trip in the afternoon sunshine to Pointe de la Galère with our two buddies. Pleasant enough pootle, though current and depth restrictions limited us to the less interesting west side of the point. In the evening, a return to a favourite haunt, la Brasserie du Port. Soupe de Poisson and Mousse au Chocolat naturally on the menu and, despite her parents' apprehensions, la petite coquinette displayed almost perfect table manners, albeit aided and abetted by a portable DVD player. Once again la bienheureuse chose the short straw and took baby home to bed, though the rest of us weren't too far behind. Wine, beer and a few traditional games of peanut-head followed. A girls off-night at the card table.
An early start the next morning because it was decided to do the morning dive. La mère plongeuse eventually overcame the apprehension at her first dive in over two years and accompanied the Soggy diver on the trip to Pointe de Montremian. The ski slope delivered its usual lovely dive though a National Instructor's current phobia put paid to the plan to swim out to the pinnacle. Meanwhile, la petite napped, papa lazed, and the RNLI cox explored Le Lavandou. Late afternoon was spent at the seaside, where la petite travailleuse busied herself in an ultimately fruitless attempt to transfer all the sand from the beach to the sea.
Dinner in that night, and we settled for two reliable old favourites - poulet au lait & tarte tatin. Or not-so-reliable old favourites. Though both dishes turned out to be tasty enough, a lack of suitable utensils and ingredients meant the chicken wasn't quite up to usual standards (bad chefs always blame their equipment), and an exploding masquerading-as-Pyrex dish put paid to the caramelisation process for the dessert.
We chose Wednesday for a day off diving. The East Lothian contingent decided on a day checking out the plastic surgery on display at St Tropez while les lyonnais spent the morning wine shopping. Or rather spent the morning on a scenic but hairy drive up and over the Col du Canadel in the hope that la petite would nap on the way to the vineyard. She eventually did, but not before her mother had spent an anxious half hour piloting a new car along a road barely wide enough for one old car, let alone two, with a precipitous drop on one side and a ditch and rock wall on the other. We eventually reached the Domaine de l'Angueiroun with nerves jangling but intact, and enjoyed a wine tasting session which ended with this so-called connoisseur choking (accidentally, I hasten to add) and the purchase of two cases.
After a much needed nap for all of us, ice creams in the village were followed by fun and frolics for the smallest member of the family in the fountains that are set into the floor of the village square. Once the NB lifeboat crew returned from glitz of St Tropez, we all went out for dinner again to the Tropicana Beach. Living the high life.
A lazy Thursday morning for la petite famille ensued, while the chefs for the day got busy at the supermarket and in the kitchen. The sun shone and the wind howled outside but the afternoon dive still went ahead. Papa and Auntie Sogs learned with a groan that the site was Pointe de la Galère, chosen for its protection from the easterly gale. However, it turned out to be the best dive of the week for me, as I managed to drag my buddies (a random stranger had joined us) over to the east side of the point, which rewarded us with a ring-side view of a large school of patrolling barracuda. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, la petite coquinette was amusing herself and her mother with a game of hide and seek in the living room dresser, and a gin palace amused everyone by coming adrift from its mooring and being battered by the waves on the beach. Rich boys should learn to tie knots.
The results of the morning's labour in the kitchen was seen in the evening - delicious spicy lamb tajine followed by sweet Eton Mess. Lovely. And more beer, wine and games of peanut-head to follow.
On Friday, mama once again generously put toddler time ahead of time and depth, and allowed the other three divers to enjoy a full day out at Port Cros. Which was indeed enjoyable, though still-stiff easterlies restricted diving to the lee-side of la Gabinière and Pointe de la Croix, neither of which are noted as particular gems of the region. Lunch in a Port Cros café in the warm sunshine was very pleasant though.
Meanwhile, back on the mainland, la bienheureuse et la petite set off after lunch to collect the Margarita Man, delayed by bereavement but nonetheless keen to pay a flying visit. The half hour trip each way to the airport didn't allow la petite coquinette an afternoon nap, but the additional entertainment provided by her favourite builder kept her amused and mostly even-tempered until the evening. The core La Fav gang thus reunited, we had dinner at La Rade in the port. Tasty food but slow service meant papa only had one course before it was his turn to take the tired toddler home to bed. The compensation, with no diving the next day, was more beer, wine and peanut-head once the rest of the card school returned.
Our last full day was spent on a brief dip in the pool in the morning - brrr, water colder than the sea - and, after lunch and naps, on a wander along the coastal path towards Le Lavandou and back in the perennial sunshine, followed by more playing in the water jets.
For the last supper it was back to La Brasserie, where a fine week was celebrated with champagne. A rather more leisurely final morning than usual was possible the following day thanks to the Sunday checkout and consequent lack of time constraints. Thus we were all able to have lunch together one last time in the Provençal sunshine before going our separate ways - Nice airport via one final shower for the Scottish party, Lyon via Hyères airport to drop off uncle Margarita for the Lyon lot. And a fast, smooth, quiet drive (albeit on an autoroute busier than expected) got us home by seven, tired but happy after yet another great week on the Côte d'Azur.
The mobile phone industry in France was deregulated in the nineties, which means that phone contracts have never been exorbitantly priced. However, for most of the last fifteen years, the same three networks have existed in a cosy arrangement, which ensured that real competition never really drove prices down either. And it's not just me saying that - the official body that oversees pricing and competition in France fined the three phone companies a total of close to half a billion Euros in 2007 for an illegal pricing agreement.
All that changed at the beginning of this year, following the award of a fourth network licence to Free, an aggressive newcomer that made its reputation (good & bad) as an internet service provider. By offering an unlimited contract (phone calls, SMS and internet) for just 20 euros a month, it totally shook up the industry. Never mind that Free's network coverage was a fraction of that of the other three (a problem which they partially solved by reaching a network-sharing agreement with Orange) and that there were plenty of initial problems, the price seduced subscribers away from their competitors in droves. Something like 3 million took up their offer in the first six months. And the other networks were forced to respond and bring their prices more in line.
All of which eventually motivated this particular phone user to get off his arse and shop around for a better deal than the one that I've had more or less unchanged (in price and service) since I first took it out. And for an upgrade to my battered but trusty 10 year-old phone whose battery was beginning to require charging every couple of days despite being hardly used. And so, a week or so before our recent trip to the UK, I duly switched provider and contract for something that gave me more than twice as much for barely half the old price, and went shopping for a new phone. Given that the new contract allowed limited internet access I decided to go the full hog and upgrade from a phone on which I could merely make calls and send texts to a so-called smart-phone. Cheapest one I could find, I hasten to add.
Eager to try out my new toy, I duly snapped out the new micro-SIM and opened the phone to insert it. Should have checked that it indeed took a micro-SIM rather than normal size one. Oops. However, I cobbled together the micro card and the cutout and managed to get the ensemble into the phone and, what's more, it all seemed to work. Phew.
Alas, I soon discovered that the wifi on the phone didn't work, which limited its use somewhat. And by now it was only a couple of days before we were due to leave on the two week holiday. No matter, a hasty phone call or two to the technical hotline of the shop I bought it from eventually produced a promise to replace it. Phew. So I opened the phone to take out the SIM card before taking to back to the shop. Only to find I couldn't get it out due to it being in two pieces. Bugger.
Eventually, after much cursing and with the help of a thin-bladed knife I did manage to get it out. Most of it anyway, and without destroying the phone in the process. Fortunately any bits of plastic that might have been left inside weren't visible, so I took the phone back and got it changed, no questions asked. And the new phone worked, wifi and all. Phew.
However, with our flight the next morning, there was no time to get a new SIM card. ie two weeks away without a phone beckoned. The question of whether that was a good or bad thing never really arose because la bienheureuse always had her phone for emergencies. Anyway, ordering a new SIM card was a painless and not-too-expensive process, and it was waiting when we got home two weeks later. And new phone and new SIM have since worked flawlessly. Long live commercial competition.
In France, cars older than four years are subject to the controle technique, the equivalent of the MOT, every two years. Our more-or-less trusty 15 year-old petite voiture passed the last one, albeit with less-than flying colours. Among the rather lengthy list of non-fatal faults were leaking exhaust (hole slowly getting larger and noisier), non-functioning screen wash, unbalanced hand-brake and 'minor' play in one of the rear axle bearings. In others words, the old girl was beginning to look a bit long in the tooth.
And so, after months, years even, of procrastination, using family expansion as a reason for needing a car, we finally took the decision to replace it. There then followed several weeks of dithering about whether to go for cheap new car, more upmarket second-hand, this brand, that brand, how much to spend, etc, etc. Finally, last weekend, motivated by an imminent 900km round trip that might have tested the old jam jar to the limit, we bit the bullet and drove out to a dealer for a well known French make of car, still not having decided on new or second-hand.
However, having compared the second-hand prices with those in the show-room and compared the different models, we soon made a choice. Seduced by the supposed discount of more than six grand, including trade-in for our near worthless banger, we shunned shopping around and plumped for a shiny, brand-new, all-singing all dancing model with lots of marvellous tricks and gadgets. Well, they seemed marvellous to the owners of a car that was new way back in the last century.
Our excuse was that the salesman promised it would be delivered in time for our upcoming holiday. Easiest commission he ever earned. Apart from when he tried to sell us a finance deal we didn't need. Interestingly he claimed that his commission was more dependent on him selling loans than actual vehicles. Eventually we agreed to take a small, short-term loan in return for an extra discount that made it a 0% deal. Drives a hard bargain, la bienheureuse.
So now, a week later, a brand new car sits in our garage, awaiting its first real outing. Took one or two more attempts to park it too, being somewhat larger than our ancienne voiture, which currently waits its fate at the breaker's yard. Indeed, to ensure it fitted into the garage we had to spend a morning and a trip to the déchèterie to clear out the pile of junk that had mysteriously accumulated at the back. About time too…
Travel note 14: La petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parents' knees. Even more screaming and struggling in the flight home than the outward journey.
Travel note 15: don't be tempted to try and evade airport parking charges when car is left in an overflow field with a mere wooden barrier that was open when we parked. Arrive in said field to find said barrier firmly padlocked shut. Fortunately a hasty round trip back to the terminal to validate parking ticket doesn't take too long. We arrive home exhausted with a toddler who has had a mere 40 minutes sleep during the day. She's in bed a full two hours before her habitual holiday bedtime, and parents follow soon afterwards.
The next day it was in at the deep end in the return to normal life. Both parents accompanied la petite to her new crèche on the first morning of a three day adaptation. We all stayed ninety minutes, then la petite and papa went home for lunch while la travailleuse went in to work briefly before jetting off for a meeting in Barcelona. In the afternoon, another short spell at the crèche, but this time papa left his little baby on her own for half an hour.
Thursday we were both back for another two part session at the crèche, only this time I left my little darling fending for herself in the big bad world of collective childcare for a total of more than two hours. Each time I left her screaming - screaming with delight, that is, while throwing herself energetically around exercise mats. Seems she has taken to the crèche like a duck to water. Conversely, once she was home alone with only papa for company she was in a distinctly grumpy mood. I thus looked forward to the return of la bienheureuse that evening with more than the usual anticipation. Alas, her flight took off, turned round, and landed back in Barcelona. Faulty undercarriage. Another night in Catalonia beckoned. Humph.
A short night, that is. Early flight the next morning meant a 4.30am alarm call. Meanwhile, la petite and papa enjoyed a full night's sleep only for the former to get out of bed on the wrong side. Worst morning strop ever - refused milk, didn't want to be picked up, didn't want to play with her toys or cuddle doudou, yelled and cried non-stop for half an hour. Obviously missing mama and staging a protest about all the travelling and change in the last few weeks. Finally I was reduced to the TV drug - putting on her favourite DVD of children's music at last calmed her just in time for the return of la voyageuse.
Of course the little dear was fine while she was at the crèche that morning in her final adaptation session, this time staying the whole morning and sharing lunch with her new friends. The downside of spending time with other children her own age became apparent over the weekend: yet another cold. Still, it wasn't bad enough on Sunday to discourage us from setting out in the car to go swimming. Only we didn't - arrived to find the pool closed for cleaning. No matter, the warm sunshine encouraged us to stop off in the Grand Parc de Miribel-Jonage where la petite paddled and splashed in the lake. Her parents having neglected to swap clothes for swimming costume, she got so wet she had to travel home in only a nappy. With temperatures approaching 30C, she didn't get too chilled. We hope. The cold was worse the next day mind you…
First full week at the crèche followed. Well, full week of two full days a week. Tuesday it was déjà vu - la petite at the crèche, for the whole day this time, la bienheureuse travelling for work again, Bratislava this time. Home on his own, papa sighed and suppressed the longing by getting on with some chores. Wednesday evening mama returned home on schedule and took the next day off to recover. She took her little girl in to the crèche in the morning and then we both spent the rest of the day clearing junk out of the garage in preparation for another new arrival...
Saturday 25th: And so to Cumbria. Heavy rain showers during the two hour journey north, heavy little eyelids only close when we are about 10 miles from our destination. Fortunately the traditional slow traffic crawl between Kendal and Ambleside affords la petite a twenty minute catnap. Another tradition on arrival despite persistent rain during the evening - the opening night BBQ for all 26 odd members of the three sisters clan. Thus begins another week in the Lakes.
Sunday 26th: eight-thirty am wakeup call from the little girl's room. Marvellous, a lie-in. Rest of the day is spent in equally leisurely fashion. Walk down to the lakeside and coffee in the YHA café in the morning, long 3 hour siesta in the afternoon for la petite while papa suffers a stalemate in the Potteries on TV and mama and mamy do some shopping for provisions. Evening establishes a routine for the week - dip in the little superheated pool, bath, dinner, bed.
Monday 27th: another luxurious post-eight am lie-in, followed by another provisions shopping trip to Windermere in the morning rain. Post-lunch siesta only ends when la soeur et la nièce numéro 3 turn up for a short visit in the afternoon rain. They renew acquaintance with their niece/cousin respectively, check into their B&B and then return to take part in the usual evening routine.
Tuesday 28th: the rain finally stops, encouraging us catch the 11am boat to the visitor's centre at Brockhole. A visit to the playground is followed by lunch on the terrace in the sunshine and the return boat ride to Waterhead. The habitual evening is interrupted only by the departure of la soeur et la niece.
Wednesday 29th: another morning outing, this time to a soft play centre near Ambleside. La petite cascadeuse has fun, tiring out parents too old or unfit for obstacle courses. After lunch in the café the heavens open, drenching la bienheureuse who misses the short cut to the car park. Slight diversion from the usual evening routine, with the older female generation out for dinner, the imminently new female member of the middle generation cooks chili con carne for everyone else. The lack of sticky toffee pudding for dessert is in part compensated by la bienheureuse providing DIY Pavlova.
Thursday 30th: quiet morning is followed by the traditional mass rounders game in the park. Damp conditions underfoot render it a somewhat dangerous sport for certain members of the older generations, but much fun is had by all and the ginger ninja's team wins comprehensively. In the evening it is the turn of the middle generation to enjoy their traditional night out. Dinner at a new Thai restaurant in Ambleside is enjoyed in the usual convivial fashion and surprisingly gets less noisy as the evening progresses.
Friday 31st: no sign of the sun, but no sign of rain either means we go ahead with another outing on the lake. This time we accompany the three sisters to Castle Wray across the water. We meet the soon-to-be-newly-weds there, have an outdoor lunch and a walk round the grounds before taking the young girl back on the early afternoon boat, leaving the old girls to enjoy a tour inside the castle. In the evening dinner is the traditional fish'n'chips for twenty-plus, and then it's time to think about packing and going home.
Saturday 1st September: we succeed in packing and checking out by the 10am deadline, say our goodbyes and head south down the M6 once more. Via a stop for coffee at a farm shop we arrive chez la belle-mère half an hour before le frère et les 2 nièces arrive from the other side of the county. Cheese toasties for lunch in warm sunshine outside in another pretty English garden start the afternoon off in splendid fashion while la petite enjoys getting thrown about by her uncle and playing hide and seek in the willow tree with her older cousins. All too soon it is time to say goodbye once more and do the final bit of packing and faffing.
Sunday 2nd: la grand-mère waves sadly goodbye and we hit the road again. Three hours later we arrive back in Cambridge. This time our host is the Margarita Man, who has kindly organised an afternoon BBQ for our benefit, allowing us to meet up with les gooner confrères again, as well as le grand M and family. A very pleasant way to end a very pleasant holiday. Later in the evening, the Caiparinha Kid drops in having been delayed on a Eurostar from the Brussels beer festival for the umpteenth time. Then it's bedtime and the journey home to follow…
