Travel weary

One of life's dilemmas: la bienheureuse's youngest cousin thoughtlessly fails to predict that she'd be 8 months pregnant on the day he finally chooses for his wedding. After some dithering we book cancellable train tickets and leave the final decision until the last moment. And a week before the day the gestational diabetes is under control, sleep deprivation is no worse than it has been for the previous 8 months, so we decide to go.

And the journey starts off well enough. Okay, twenty minute delay to the 9am TGV from Lyon to Lille, but that shouldn't be a  problem because we have a 90 minute stopover before our Eurostar is due to depart. La petite behaves impeccably during the 3 hour train trip, and only starts getting stroppy an hour after we've been through security and passport control into the Eurostar departure lounge. There we get the first hint of trouble - 40 minute delay announced.

Eventually we troop down onto the platform, get on the train and settle into our seats. Uhoh - another announcement - due to a problem with the engine there will be a further 40 minute delay before a replacement train arrives. Rather more than 40 minutes later we eventually all file off, cross platforms and get on the new train, which was originally heading in the opposite direction. Bizarrely the passengers on the replacement get off and get onto our original train. Presumably the engine was serviceable enough to get them to Paris but not to be risked in the Tunnel…

So we eventually arrive in Ebbsfleet nearly two hours later than scheduled, find the car hire desk, complete the formalities and the car seat for la petite is produced. Only it's the wrong size, suitable for a child twice her age. The Avis girl rings round nearby branches and eventually a replacement is fetched from Maidstone by a driver and arrives nearly an hour later. All of which means we end up on the M25 in rush hour instead of at two in the afternoon. An exhausted toddler is asleep within minutes and only wakes up when traffic grinds to a halt for the first time, somewhat surprisingly, an hour later just south of the M3. Having been a little angel all day, she decides it's time to let loose, and screams accompany our crawl along Blighty's blighted motorways for the next half hour.

However, she gradually cheers up roughly in proportion to the car's speed and we arrive at our hotel over three hours later than planned, frazzled and frayed round the edges but in one piece. Mass dinner with the thus far assembled family follows and we finally get to our room ready to fall into bed just before nine in the evening. Ready but not willing in one case - all the excitement of the day has been too much for la petite voyageuse, and she promptly goes hyper and takes a full two hours to fall asleep, which she finally does sharing the double bed with maman while papa attempts to kip on the single bed.

Nine hours later we are all awake again, the parents having also been awake at regular and frequent intervals in the interim. Mother and child end the night sleeping across the bed, the latter having turned a full 90 degrees in her sleep and almost succeeding in pushing the former off the edge.

The big day is not due to start until mid-afternoon, so we keep la petite amused with a trip to nearby Wellington country park where a kindly employee lets us into the children's play area for a free half hour to avoid paying the steep £9 entry fee. Snack lunch in the cafeteria follows and then we head back to the hotel to attempt to get la petite coquinette to have a siesta before the festivities begin. Success is eventually achieved by dint of papa sharing the bed in front of children's TV while mama goes to mamy's room to put on her party frock.

We find the venue, a former manor house which is now owned by a charitable educational trust, with only minor navigational difficulties, and choose seats in the back row for the humanist ceremony in the packed Tithe Barn. La petite more or less behaves, with only one short walk outside with papa required to stave off boredom. Thence to the main house for the reception and drinks to toast the bride & groom. The weather is kind enough - cool but pleasantly sunny - to allow the younger guests to run around outside while those so inclined imbibe the alcohol on offer.

The wedding feast begins late in the afternoon, bangers & mash, home baked cakes and bacon butties on the menu, all washed down with wine and followed by wedding cheese cake, literally. Speeches are made, (un)fortunately missed by papa & la petite due to an urgent call to the nappy change facilities, the ceilidh begins, and la petite famille, enlarged by one, eventually decides to head back to the hotel at about nine-thirty. This time we get properly lost and have to stop at a petrol station to ask directions. The attendant has no idea how to find the hotel, but fortunately his next client is a local, and we are eventually back by ten. Thence follows another lengthy two hour 'getting la petite to sleep' session. At least this time she eventually drops off in her own bed.

The next morning it's time to say our goodbyes, and the various aunts, two generations of cousins, siblings and in-laws one by one take their leave, leaving us to make the short drive to nearby Ascot where the marathon running civil servant and the armchair rugby man await their first meeting with la petite. Drs N & C, Ealing branch of the UKC connection, were also there and we all enjoy a sumptuous home-cooked and home-butchered roast pork lunch and walk it off in the afternoon with a walk round the chilly, wind-swept race course.

After the climax to the Football League season is suffered by some, we wave goodbye and head back for our last night of hotel purgatory. A quick dinner in the adjoining pub allows us to make an early, 8pm, start to bedtime, but the process still takes two hours and ends this time with la petite asleep on the floor. The whys and wherefores are better left unsaid…

Next stop on the itinerary is Bexleyheath. We arrive chez the two doctors and the Jezoids just before lunch the next day. After the Jezoid aîné survives a severe winding from a fall off the monkey bars while showing off, I head off into the big smoke for a final pilgrimage of the season. I meet le grand gooner and the margarita man in the pub before watching with gritted teeth an honourable but unsatisfactory draw with the newly crowned champions.

I return to our base for the night find la petite already in bed, having had a two hour siesta in the afternoon, and she  soon drops off with little fuss. A welcome return to near normality. The lady and the boys of the house are up and out on school day before their visitors are up, and we are left with to enjoy a leisurely morning preparing for the journey home. Short drive to Ebbsfleet, where Avis at least have the good grace to waive the car seat hire charges, Eurostar arrives on time, transfer to TGV in Lille progresses smoothly, and we arrive back in Lyon at seven in the evening. There the travel hoodoo strikes again. It's raining, rush hour and not one bus turns up in the half hour we spend waiting. We eventually decide to walk home, a two kilometre slog with suitcase, bags and two year-old toddler not made any easier by the fact that the cursed outward journey had also put paid to the child carrier, bent out of shape somewhere along the line. At last the blessed sanctuary of home is attained and, after a quick snack dinner, we fall into bed. La petite is asleep within minutes. Hallelujah…

Breakthrough

The spring that never was - the sun at last comes out, temperatures at last climb into the twenties and, somehow, all seems a little more right with the world. After throwing the mother of all paddies over papa denying her the right to perform gymnastics with a pair of nail scissors in her hand, la petite coquinette has been (almost) a model of good behaviour since. Of course part of that may be due to the fact that we had visitors last week.

The good Doctors C and the two now-not-so-mini Jezoids arrived on Monday on the early morning flight from Gatwick for a 5 day Lyon city break. They thus arrived chez nous in time for lunch before heading off to their hotel, allowing la petite a chance to nap and recover from the excitement of having two young lads to keep her amused. A short walk round the zoo convinced the visiting parents that an early night was necessary for them all to recover from the early start. And with la petite at crèche the following day, it was early evening before she renewed acquaintance with the two Jezlas.

In the meantime the tourists braved Lyon in the morning rain to visit the Roman amphitheatre before the weather improved enough in the afternoon for a play in the park. Dinner for seven back at ours followed, and it was thus well after nine by the time peace descended on the apartment once more and la petite was at last asleep having overcome a doudou lost in bed crisis. Her new, big bed that is. Another small rung on the ladder of toddler development was otherwise successfully climbed without drama (so far) last weekend, when a trip to Ikea to purchase a rug finally led to a rearrangement of la petite chambre and a move from cot to bed.

A group outing was on the agenda for Wednesday, with a trip to the park and lunch in the sunshine in one of the buvettes. La petite famille then headed home to allow a nap for la petite and la bienheureuse to beat the 2pm deadline. Our visitors stayed to enjoy more time in the park playgrounds and a boating trip on the lake before joining us for dinner once more.

Thursday was crèche day for la petite and meanwhile her parents were treated to lunch by the good Drs C. The expectant mother then headed home in time for two to await the visit that, of course, never came, while papa accompanied the Lyon tourists on a mini-tour of the old town. Up via funicular to Fourvière basilica, where a whinging cease-fire deal was reached between father and sons to allow a short visit inside the religious edifice, before we trudged down the hill for a look around la Musée Miniature et Cinéma. The young visitors were more interested in the original cinema props than the models that originally made the museum's name, but we still spent nearly two hours wandering through the exhibits. It was thus five rather foot-sore tourists who trudged back across two rivers for a final diner en (deux) familles.

The travellers were back in time for Friday lunch, before heading off to the airport to catch their flight home. They were thus privileged to witness the partial beginnings of another breakthrough in la petite coquinette's growth. Having resisted for some time virtually all attempts at potty-training, on Friday morning, as she wandered toute nue through the apartment (prior to our guests arriving I hasten to add), she suddenly decided it was time for a first proper pipi in the potty. And several more since. The process remains a bit hit and miss, since she still refuses to wear normal panties and once a nappy is on, well… a nappy is designed to be peed in, isn't it…? Mais bon, ça commence enfin…

Coughing comeback

And so it continues. Just as one illness is on its way out, so another takes its place. La petite's cold improved, then got worse, la bienheureuse's cough was almost gone before returning with a vengeance, and papa had just about recovered from his previous ailment when yet another cold came along and aggravated the cough again. Splutter, three ailments in two months from a man who claims three in ten previous years. All now slowly recovering, fingers crossed and nostrils blocked…

Of course, air travel is never good for the health, so perhaps I was tempting fate by indulging in a cross-Channel trip last week to ease my lifelong football fever. And the health of the Premier League heroes continues to ebb and flow, with yet another half and half performance against the red Scousers. Still, t'was an entertaining game and a pleasant evening otherwise, a pre-match pub dinner with la petite beaucoup et le grand chef followed by a post-match pint or two with the McBhoy, who also provided convenient overnight lodgings a mere ten minute walk from the ground.

Meanwhile, la femme enceinte is also risking the perils of planes, with the first work trip of the new year - a short hop to company headquarters in Germany this week, albeit a two-nighter, before a longer trip next week to the land of a thousand frozen lakes. Maybe by then, we'll all be healthy...

Cross dressing

And so, gradually we settle back into the routine of everyday life in chilly Lyon. La petite resumes her two day routine at the crèche with a trace of shyness but enjoys her fun-filled days there as usual. However, getting her dressed in the morning becomes something of a daily pitched battle, perhaps her way of protesting at getting abruptly abandoned after almost three weeks in the near full-time company of both parents.

Away from the morning wrestling and bargaining sessions, things trundle along just fine. The lurgies of the past few weeks seem to have finally been beaten, a lingering cough or two apart. Indeed the only health scare occurred on la travailleuse's first commute back to work, when a packed metro induced a fainting fit and heavy fall. Not uncommon for a woman in her condition apparently, and fortunately no damage done and no recurrence since.

Grey clouds in the sky, but the only dark cloud on my personal horizon is of the trivial sporting nature. I enjoy, in certain senses of the word, another cross-channel trip over the weekend, outward via train. Near St Pancras I meet up with le grand gooner chef for a very pleasant Sunday roast and beer or three in the pub before we head to the game against the oil-doped Mancunian citizens. A self-inflicted wound and a disappointing game later we spend a quiet night with tea and toast in Cambridge before I catch the plane home the next day to seek consolation in the family bosom.

Northumbrian sands

The days shorten, the thermometer falls, winter approaches. Last week we exchanged the fading light of the Lyonnais autumn for the British version during a long weekend break. The occasion was a birthday celebration for the soggydiver (1st class, national instructor). Given the remoteness of the chosen location and associated lack of convenient flights, in the end we chose to extend the weekend with an initial stop over in Bexleyheath, which we reached via a half-empty British flag carrier flight to Heathrow and a hire car journey round the M25 in the pouring rain. The latter with a tea break in the middle to pick up keys from the mistress of the house at her workplace deep in Kent/Sussex border country.

In the event the keys went unused as our arrival at destination coincided with the return of the male half of the good Doctors C. No sooner had Madam returned with the two Jezlings in tow an hour or so later, than I sneaked away for an evening of guilty worship at the sacred ground. A lift to and from the train station, a 2-0 victory over the French champions and a 13th successive qualification for the knockout phases of the Champions League made missing out on beef stew for dinner and suffering the habitual British railway delays bearable. Tiredness was counterbalanced by loud snoring from both sides. La petite otherwise seemed to sleep well until the usual time, French time at least. She did allow us a fifteen minute lie-in though, before making the delighted discovery that her cot was right next to where her parents lay feigning sleep.

The part-time working mother had the next day off, so in the morning she took us to a garden centre where la petite had much fun in a small soft play area, pushed around a mini shopping trolley and said hello to three real-life Santa's reindeers. After the habitual post-lunch nap, we took her to the shopping centre for new shoes and new clothes - no VAT exemption on children's clothing in France. The mini-Jezoids returned soon afterwards and the house was filled with the sound of battling robots and more or less tuneful clarinet and tenor horn playing. Good old bangers and mash was on the menu for dinner before bed for the kids and champagne for the adults. Thence began a second night of sharing a bedroom with a toddler. This time the snoring wasn't as loud and the wakeup chorus from the cot was half an hour later at just before seven.

Faced by a six hour road trip, we said our goodbyes and took our leave of the former UKC postgraduates by ten on Friday morning. First two hour stint - smooth and quiet, with more gentle snoring from the child seat in the back. Following a Happy Eater lunch somewhere north of Peterborough, the second stretch was almost as smooth, though the chirping from the back grew gradually more plaintiff as the journey wore on. Coffee, apple juice and mince pie at Scotch Corner services brought temporary respite, but by the time we hit Tyneside car-seat stir craziness had well and truly set in, not helped by the total absence of direction signs for Alnmouth as soon as we got off the A1. A phone call to Dr Organiser soon set us on the right road though, and we arrived slightly the worse for wear at our impressive lodgings on the Northumberland coast less than 8 hours after setting off from Kent.

After our hosts we were the first to arrive, soon followed by the DenEboy who had undertaken the 6 hour drive on his own. Spaghetti Bolognese was on the dinner table for six before, later in the evening, numbers were completed by Crystal Tipps and the Caipirinha Kid, who more sensibly let the train take the strain of bearing not limes and cachaça but home-made Marmite sausages and bacon.

It was thus a late night for all, relatively speaking anyway, and therefore a late morning for most. Not surprisingly it was the couples without young children who had the longest lie-ins. La petite got us up closer to normal time, UK time, but only after a night of somewhat disturbed sleep. We managed to keep her amused for a couple of hours until brunch, a slap-up fry-up which was worth the wait. Replete with sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, beans, English muffins and Scottish tattie scones, we then all trooped out for a walk along the beach. It was a lovely stroll - the hazy sunshine and calm sea on a windless morning almost made it feel warm. La petite took a 15 minute power nap on papa's back and then enjoyed digging in the sand and flying between two adults.

Back at the ranch, the morning activity led to another 15 minute power nap, this time for the birthday girl, the smallest tummy in the party had a lunch-time snack and then we all piled into two cars for a trip into Alnwick. A meandering stroll round the town centre was followed by an obligatory visit to Barter Books. La petite famille restricted themselves to a browse in the children's section before heading back to base to try and fit in an afternoon nap. Meanwhile the rest kept calm and carried on browsing for another hour or so.

Chicken Fajitas were on the dinner menu that night, delicious they were too, prepared again by our generous birthday-celebrating host. The rigours of the weekend then gradually took their toll and, one by one, we drifted off to bed. The Cambsac boys were the last up, viewing Rolling Stones retrospectives and then football, though in the case of the DenEboy, up was a relative term. Somehow he woke up when the Canaries came on, then fell asleep straight afterwards when the last, read least eventful, match of the day was shown. Funnily enough the latter was what forced me to be the last man standing.

As the rain poured down outside, a rather restless night of toddler and parent sleep followed, but at least we were allowed a lie-in until almost eight. Brunch was as good as the previous morning, and then it was time for an hour or two of concerted tidying and cleaning before we all packed up and made our separate ways home. The end of a lovely two-day Northumberland break.

Not quite the end of the travelling for us though. Wary of subjecting la petite to another six hours in the car, we chose to break our journey back to Heathrow with an overnight stop in a hotel in Robin Hood country. How right we were - la petite by this time had definitely decided she didn't much appreciate being strapped into a car seat. More rain and habitually heavy M1 traffic didn't make the journey easier, but we got there in one piece, had a quick dinner and then all settled down to sleep.

Tried to settle down to sleep anyway. Quality of sleep over five nights of sharing a bedroom with a toddler gradually deteriorated. Nonetheless we survived until first light, had breakfast and set off on the road south once more. The complaints from the back seat gradually quietened and were superseded by snoring during the final hour. We dropped off the hire car, checked in and were through departures a full 3 hours before our flight was due to depart. Which left plenty of time for a leisurely lunch and browse in the shops, but also left plenty of room for time to drag, particularly as the flight was delayed by half an hour. Back in Lyon, it was pouring with rain and the fridge and cupboards were bare. Welcome home.

Correspondent reports

Nappy changing report: further progress, la petite now more or less happily lies down to don new diaper, but still prefers upright bum-cleaning. Latest quirks include excitedly burrowing under the duvet on parents' bed, and jumping off every kerb and low-level window ledge between home and playground or crèche. How to turn two minute walks into half hour marathons.

Health report: youngest member of the family in bouncing good form, older couple suffering from various bugs, latest of the gastric variety. Mine was a mere 6 hour variant, albeit virulent enough to bring back bad pre-colonoscopy laxative memories. La bienheureuse then either caught it off me, reacted to my cooking or caught an entirely different virus, and suffered for rather longer, encompassing an overnight work trip to Basle. All rear ends squeaky clean now though…

Weather report: a brief cold snap two weeks ago was followed by ten days of unseasonably mild weather, though with only rare glimpses of sunshine. Last weekend it all changed - maximum of 7 degrees, a full 17 lower than 7 days previously. Winter's icy tentacles are reaching Lyon...

State of the nation report: not good. Approval ratings for president and prime minister at all time low, economy stagnant, taxes on the rise, discontent rumbling. Not that any other new government could have done any better, but the Socialists don't seem to make things easy for themselves. Latest example of some government spokesman or other shooting themselves in the foot was PM Ayrault apparently saying going back to a 39 hour working week wouldn't be ruled out, going against a Socialist policy set in stone. Cue criticism and clarification from fellow PS members, and immediate "we told you so" shouts from opposition UMP politicians.

There was an interesting article on the BBC news site a couple of weeks ago, comparing the mood in France with that in Britain. Unabated Gallic pessimism vs cautious British optimism, was the gist of the article, despite the two economies being in roughly the same leaking boats. Partly down to the Olympic effect, partly down the national psyche…?

Sporting report: could do better, much better. After an optimistic start to the season, nasty November appeared to arrive in October for the glorious Gunners. Two abject defeats were followed by a hard-won, slightly fortuitous victory against the new-boy Hoops. I'd like to think my presence made the difference, as I made my first solo cross-Channel flight of the season. Habitual convivial hospitality provided by my usual hosts, victory witnessed first hand, splendid couple of days all in all. Meanwhile la bienheureuse et la petite survived without me.

And then there was last night's extraordinary events at what they apparently call the Mad Stad. For good reason too it would seem. Able as I was to witness it live on TV (having spent - wasted as I thought at the time - 11 euros to subscribe to a new sports channel in order to watch the Champions League match against Schalke, defeat no 2 noted above), I ended the evening unsure whether to laugh or cry. Entertainment it was, top class football it certainly wasn't. Perhaps I should rationalise it by saying it was the reserves after all, though I did wonder for while whether they'd gone to Hackney Marshes last Sunday and found 11 lookalikes...

On the Lyon playing field, OL have also had a slightly mixed start to the season, this time entirely unwitnessed by your local correspondent. For the first time in 9 years, I don't have an abonnement. Story of renewal deadline coinciding with UK holiday, less motivation, less time due to toddler demands, etc, etc.. At least I can still follow them on TV now and then.

Sun, sea and sand 2012

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.

Water week

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…

Tour of England

A tale of travels and travails in Blighty in nine easy steps:

Friday 17th
Decide to drive to the airport, find the long-stay car park full and are directed to a nearby field instead. Flight leaves and arrives at Stansted on time.
Travel note 1 - la petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parent's knees. Much screaming and struggling.
Travel note 2 - having decided to take our own car seat for the first time, due to the cost of long term hire being more than the cost of a new one, we collect it and our baggage from the carousel and head off to pick up the car hire. It's only once we are in possession of the keys that we realise we're missing something. No, not the baby, but the baby carrier. Fortunately the procedure required to go back into the arrivals hall to collect it is fairly painless.
Travel note 3 - hire car we are allocated is covered in scratches and dents, far more than are listed on the already long damage sheet. Attendant duly notes that there is lots of extra damage and we set off.
Travel note 4 - a rather worrying screeching noise is heard before we get out of the car park. Emanating not from the back seat, rather from the front wheels. The attendant gets in to witness the noise himself and offers us another car.
Travel note 5 - new car is a rather nice to drive German model but on a rare hot day in England we fail to get the air-conditioning to work.
Nonetheless we arrive in chez J&C in Cambridge suffering only minor heat exhaustion and the usual convivial and well-lubricated evening follows.

Saturday 18th
Bumper English breakfast helps alleviate hangovers and the three Gooners leave la bienheureuse et la petite to fend for themselves for the day while we head south to the sacred turf in North London. We enjoy, if that's the right word, a frustratingly goalless afternoon. Back in Cambridge a slightly more restrained convivial evening with dinner outdoors follows.

Sunday 19th
After a morning spent enjoying lovely and unexpectedly warm sunshine in a pretty English garden, we wave goodbye to le grand chef et la petite beaucoup and we are on the road again by mid-afternoon.
Travel note 6 - the air conditioning definitely doesn't work.
Travel note 7 - la petite displays distinctly untypical travel behaviour - she lapses into a strange sort of travel zone, staring blankly out of the window for several minutes before falling asleep.
She stays asleep almost until we arrive in Bromley suffering only minor heat exhaustion and enjoy another convivial evening and outdoor dinner chez le petit frère et la belle-soeur colombienne numèro deux.

Monday 20th
The young professionals head off to work leaving us to spend a day relaxing. At least that was the idea…
Travel note 7 - after several phone calls la bienheureuse manages to get the hire car changed again. According to the RAC broken air-conditioning does not count as a break-down, even in Saharan temperatures.
So off we set to Chatham, the nearest centre with an available car. Hallelujah, the air-con and everything else on hire car number three works. Meanwhile we belatedly get in touch with the Punjabi Princess and arrange to go and see her and the new arrival for lunch. After a very pleasant few hours catching up with old times and swapping baby tales, we head back to our digs in Bromley. Another outdoor dinner follows.

Tuesday 21st
We wave goodbye to le frère et la cuñada and head south-west via a stop for lunch and playtime for la petite at a soft play centre in a Bromley entertainment complex.
Travel note 8 - la petite voyageuse gets into the new travel zone again, but then reverts to type by waking up after forty minutes and throwing a wobbly which necessitates an emergency stop at services on the M4.
The British weather reverts to type and we arrive in Bristol amidst a heavy shower and heavy traffic. Eventually we arrive chez le grand frère to find fifteen-year old paint testers still decorating the walls, and a pleasant indoor dinner follows.

Wednesday 22nd
The four of us get into the car once more and head further south towards deepest Devon.
Travel note 9 - atypical behaviour seems to be becoming typical. La petite lapses into her zone once more, falls asleep and, wonder of wonders, doesn't wake up again until we we are in South Devon a whole two hours later.
Travel note 10 - traffic on the winding road between Totnes and Kingsbridge is as bad as ever, made worse by road works and slow moving farm tractors.
Travel note 11 - eighty year-old aunts can give wonderfully explicit directions, so we arrive safely at the new-ish abode of my only surviving aunt and uncle in the back of the South Devon beyond.
A very pleasant lunch and afternoon follows during the long overdue visit in the mellow Devon sunshine. La cousine decoratrice comes across from Salcombe to say hello and introduce us to two of her five progeny. Late in the afternoon we wave goodbye and head north back up the A38 and M5.
Travel note 12 - another 90 minute plus car sleep. Astonishing.

Thursday 23rd
We wave le grand frère off to work in the morning and not long afterwards leave the bachelor pad ourselves and hit the road once more.
Travel note 13 - the travel zone is not necessarily immediately followed by unconsciousness. The little traveller neglects to go to sleep until we are less than half an hour from Tattenhall.
Nonetheless the journey is relatively painless and we arrive chez la grand-mère suffering only minor travel weariness. In the evening however, after being on her best behaviour the whole week, la petite coquinette rebels against a sea of new and old faces constantly saying hello only to say goodbye a day or two later. She yells and steadfastly refuses to go to sleep for well over an hour. Exhausted, she is finally drops off around ten pm, and her parents fall into bed immediately afterwards.

Friday 24th
We spend a very pleasant day chez le beau-frère, la belle-soeur et les nièces canines in north Wales, despite the weather providing a taste of things to come in the Lakes - showers, not much sunshine and rather colder than the visitors from south-east France are used to. Back in Cheshire bed-time is slightly less taxing.

British BBQ

The weekend past was taken up with a flying visit across the Channel, Cambridge the destination, a barbecue to celebrate the half-century of la petite beaucoup the prime reason. We left warm, 27C Lyon sunshine behind on Friday afternoon and arrived in Stansted four hours later and twelve degrees cooler. There was at least a glimpse of sunshine as we drove the hire car towards Cambridge, where the welcome was as warm as usual. And habitually convivial, which meant the grey skies that greeted us in the morning matched the grey fuzz clogging up my skull. It was as usual though la bienheureuse who dragged herself out of bed to deal with the chirping coming from the room across the landing at seven o'clock on the dot. Young children obviously automatically recognise time zones.

The clouds soon brought forth rain, rain and more rain. Not the ideal weather for a BBQ, but while our hosts toiled in the kitchen we made a quick trip to the local supermarket to restock on vital British supplies and then kept la petite amused indoors. And then, as if by prior arrangement, as the first guests started arriving in the late afternoon the rain stopped. And then, as if by miracle, as the JeB sausages, lamb and pork sizzled in the grill the sun came out and dried up all the rain. Well, enough of it to make sitting and consuming but a small proportion of the provided feast outside feasible. And a great time was had by all, particularly one particular toddler who had twenty odd adults and a dog to amuse and be amused by.

We spent the next day consuming barbecue leftovers, took la petite coquinette to the local park, and otherwise enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon chez des chers amis. The next morning our travel alarm was already in the process of adjusting for the trip home because she woke up half an hour before the traditional hour of seven. Which did at least mean we had an unrushed morning before we bade a fond farewell to the lady of the house and weekend, and set off homeward bound. Apart from longer than usual queues at the airport, we had a smooth trip and were back in warm, sunny Lyon soon after 5pm.

And there the pleasant weekend ended and a nightmare night started. The travel-weary toddler went to bed as usual but was awake 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep and woke up again 45 minutes later. She was settled back to sleep again and awoke 45 minutes later. Whereupon she refused to go back to sleep for the next four hours. When finally we did all get back to bed at about three in the morning, the little so-and-so allowed us five hours of uninterrupted rest. I use the word rest advisedly because sleep wasn't easy to come by…

And in the morning, when we were all finally up, the reason for her unrest became clear. A wretched cold, courtesy presumably of cold weather Blighty. Another interrupted night followed, albeit less dramatic, but our own little domestic drama was put into perspective by a real life drama we witnessed on our traditional afternoon outing to the playground yesterday. A group of passersby was gathered around a man lying flat on his back on the footpath along the river. The drama soon became a crisis as two of the helpers started administering artificial resuscitation, heart massage and all. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the pompiers a few minutes later and they continued the resuscitation for a few minutes before putting the victim into a recovery position. Then a medical emergency team arrived, put on a BP cuff and put in a drip, which I took to mean the unfortunate fellow was alive.

And so la petite and I went home to resume our mundane routine of the mealtime and bedtime battles that have intensified since the return of le rhume...

Sun & water dance

On Saturday, the sun shone, the temperature climbed into the thirties and we spent the afternoon at the Fête de l'Eau, not so much a water party as the Jons village fête. A friend of la bienheureuse was one of the organisers, hence our presence, and we enjoyed delicious paella for lunch in the sweltering heat. Someone had rather thoughtlessly cut down the large trees that had apparently provided shade in previous years, but a giant marquee fortunately sheltered the lunch party from the worst of the sun, even if it also trapped warm air somewhat.

On the agenda after lunch was a guided visit to the Barrage de Jons, one of the dams on the Rhône management system that diverts water to a small hydroelectric station upriver of Lyon. Meanwhile, back at the party, dancing dogs, rides in horse-drawn carriages and various river craft continued through the afternoon. And so did the music, the rhumba band delighting la petite danseuse so much that she climbed up onto the dance floor and led the boogying.

The next day we recovered and the water arrived a day late, lots of it falling from the sky. As if in sympathy, the thermometer mercury tumbled too, a full fifteen degrees. From midsummer to early spring in one fell swoop, and la petite grognarde went a little stir crazy, despite being taken out for a walk in the rain by maman while papa remained dry in front of the TV tennis. Or perhaps she was suffering from the previous day's excitement and lack of sleep. Still, the day spent mostly indoors allowed her to practise her latest skill, climbing. Nothing so easy as the sofa for her. No, something more challenging like the baby walker or the wooden activity box. And once she's reached the top and stood up, the huge self-congratulatory grin - 'look, no hands, how clever am I?' - makes it hard to tell her off with a straight face.

A few days earlier a different sort of water was falling from above. La bienheureuse went into la petite chambre and realised there was leak coming from l'appartement au dessus. Visions of the infamous flood of 2006 came flooding back and she dashed upstairs to warn the neighbours. Yes, the same flat and the same neighbours who were the origin of that six month nightmare. 

Meanwhile, I hastened to see how many buckets might be required, only to find that the leak had stopped. The neighbours arrived in a state of some bemusement until Monsieur said to Madame, "Did you just water the plants?". She nodded. A simple case of an overfilled house plant pot; only damage - a couple of small damp patches on the bed cover. Phew!

Dipping little toes

After the rain, the sunshine, which seems to have finally arrived just in time for the first sporting event of summer, the French Open. The third bank holiday weekend in May (though a mere 3-day one this time) was for the most part bathed in warm sunshine. And on Saturday, the warmest day of the year so far, it was our turn to be bathed in blissful cool water. The occasion was an invitation to a BBQ chez une amie de la bienheureuse, where we got a first try of their new pool. Given the recent weather, you'd be forgiven for suspecting the water might have been rather too cool, but some solar heating got it to a more or less bearable 23C. And with a cute little neoprene suit, it was just about warm enough for la petite nageuse, though she was none too sure about her first taste of an outdoor pool at first. And she was perfectly behaved for the rest of a very pleasant evening, obligingly going happily to bed while the rest of us ate a sumptuous barbecue feast before putting up gracefully with being woken rudely at about midnight, carted across Lyon in the car, and put to bed again.

Sunday was recovery day, which was just as well because it was the one day of the weekend when the weather was a little less beautiful. The sun and elevated temperatures were back on Pentecost Monday, which allowed another balade by bicycle along the river to the Parc de la Feyssine. Yesterday, la petite and papa were back in the old routine while maman went off to work, and today le père has a day off while la fille is downstairs, where she has settled in as though it's an extension to home, having fun with her friends and being looked after by the nounou.

The father-daughter days are indeed pretty routine at the moment. La petite coquinette regularly wakes up at 7am, give or take 15 minutes, happily goes down for two daytime naps at regular hours (circa 10am and 2pm), eats fairly willingly (albeit needing a bit of gentle persuasion from time to time) as long as she's given whatever her parents are eating and is allowed to have a go at feeding herself, be it with fingers, fork or spoon. And most of the rest of the time the petit ange plays contentedly on her own or with parent, apart from the odd occasion when she wakes up in a bad mood or tantrums are thrown as a result of frustration with not being able to do something. Dressing herself is one source of annoyance at the moment, or at least trying to. Socks, trousers and tops (not necessarily her own) just won't cooperate at the moment, and she can get very upset when they won't do as she wants. Life when you're less than fifteen months can be tough at times but, fortunately for her parents, bad moods usually pass as quickly as they arrive…

Travel sick notes

Ten days of visits and visitors started last Thursday with an afternoon flight to Stansted, la petite coquinette's first experience of being cooped up in a plane since she turned one and started to walk. Not being the type to immediately fall asleep when travelling, she was rather uppity during the 80 minute flight but kept reasonably quiet by dint of a supply of biscuits and flapjack, a helpful neighbour in the aisle seat and a session of toddling up and down the aircraft.

The journey from Stansted to Bexleyheath in a hired people carrier (reason for which will become clear later) via M11 and M25 at rush hour was remarkably quick and smooth, and we arrived chez the Doctors C in the early evening in time for dinner. The mini-jezoids helped entertain and feed la petite and we eventually got her into bed a mere two hours later than normal. A restless night followed. Note to selves: if at all possible, avoid sharing a room with small daughter who fidgets and moves around in her sleep, something that was necessitated on this occasion by our hosts being in the middle of carpet laying.

The following morning we watched the rain coming down to a soundtrack of carpet tacks being banged home upstairs while our daughter entertained the lovely Dr L and worked her way through the stock of toys piled in the dining room. The weather cleared enough in the afternoon to allow a shoe shopping expedition before we waved goodbye and set off for our next destination.

The South Circular was somewhat slower early on a Friday rush hour than the M25 late on a Thursday rush hour, but we arrived in Bromley late in the afternoon to be effusively greeted by la cuñada dos. Le grand frère was also visiting for the weekend and le petit frère arrived home from work soon after our arrival. A convivial evening followed, as did another restless night, same reasons as above.

On Saturday I took temporary leave of absence from the family gathering to attend the last home game of the season ritual at the home of good football. Said good football had apparently deserted its home, at least in the first half, but seemed to have returned just in time to ensure a satisfactory season ending, only for the Canaries to spoil the party by accepting the gift of a late equaliser. I thus returned south of the river in ambivalent mood, which was alleviated by another pleasant evening and subsequent results the following day.

Marking time was the theme of the day on Sunday, as we all waited for the main event, the arrival of las chicas from Down Under via a university visit in Nottingham and a rainstorm in Hong Kong. Waiting time was filled with a cold weather gear trip to the local playground, a bit of shopping and such lazing around as an energetic 14 month old allows five adults. La cuñada y la sobrina uno eventually put in an appearance mid-evening, by which time la petite and her mother were already in bed, the latter somewhat earlier than planned because she was suffering with an extremely dodgy tummy. Whether due to poisoning by her sister-in-law's cooking or a vomiting virus wasn't clear at the time but no simultaneous, and later victims of the same malady seemed to suggest the latter.

While the election of a new president in France passed almost unnoticed in a small part of Bromley, overnight la petite slept more soundly than previously, possibly resting easy in the knowledge that Sarko had become the first French Fifth Republic president to fail to be re-elected but more probably because it was her third night in a row in the same bed. The same couldn't be said of either of her parents for differing reasons, but we were nonetheless up bright and early, soon to be joined by the new guests for their first encounter with their niece and cousin respectively. 

By late morning, la bienheureuse had recovered sufficiently, even if her appetite hadn't, to undertake the trip home without fear of leaving a techicolour yawn en route. So we bade goodbye to la belle-soeur cadette et les deux frères and set off for the airport with the extra seats and luggage space in the Sharan taken up by the Austral-Anglo-Colombian girls. After a reasonably smooth six hour trip (albeit variously smeared with yoghurt and banana - messy business feeding a one year old on an aeroplane) we were home in warm, sunny Lyon. Two hours after we got back it was my turn to start throwing up, and it wasn't travel sickness…

Upswing, down river

Seems two weeks of toddler grouchiness was probably brought on by feeling under the weather and teething. No different to adults then, apart from tooth problems being caused by them falling out or going rotten rather than growing. Anyway, la petite suddenly went from being a grumpy little monster to a sweet little angel in the space of 24 hours, the same day she was finally clear of illness and a seventh tooth made an appearance. However, cold number two has already started to snuffle its way through the nasal passages, so the good behaviour may not last long…

Out in the wider Lyonnais world, the big event of the Easter weekend was the opening of the new Confluence shopping and entertainment centre, part of the latest grand project in Lyon, the renovation of formerly derelict warehouses and docks at the southern tip of the Presqu'île where the Saône and Rhône rivers merge. We wandered out on Saturday to look at some of the festivities to mark the grand opening, including a float with water jets and mime artists on a giant umbrella on the Rhône, a flotilla of strange water craft (cars, beds, desert islands and giant hexapods topped by animal skulls) on the Saône, and a parade with a stuffed polar bear, marching bands and assorted strange machines in Place Bellecour.

Later in the evening I headed downriver again to Gerland, where OL eked out a turgid 2-1 victory against bottom club Auxerre thanks to two penalties earned and converted by Lisandro. The footballing entertainment on offer the following day was of rather higher quality, at least from the home team. The highly satisfying late victory against the oil-money wasting light blue Mancunians was preceded by a seven hour train journey across France and under the Channel, leaving just enough time for a quick pre-match pint in the pub with fellow gooners, grand et petite, who had just enjoyed an epicurean Easter lunch.

After the match we went our separate ways. I strolled north to chez the McBhoy and la Palombe, my hosts for the night. Turkish dinner was on the Sugar Lounge menu in the evening, followed by Match of the Day, sleep and an unaccustomed lie-in. Then it was time for me to make my way homeward through the London rain via tea-purchasing duties at Tescos, a crowded St Pancras, Eurostar, a time-pressed trip across Paris and a Lyon bound TGV caught with two minutes to spare. But all was well that ended well, and I was home little more than 5 hours after leaving London.

Teary eyed

So, the first 12 months: virtually no health problems. So far, two weeks into the unlucky 13th month: running total up to two illnesses already. The cold of the first week was swiftly followed by conjunctivitis in the second week. Not nice, and getting antibiotic drops into the tightly closed eyes of a screaming, struggling toddler is no easy task. She's somewhat off her food and more easily moved to tears than normal, but most of the time shrugs off the discomfort like the brave little soldier she is.

She was perfectly behaved when we took her out for dinner on Saturday evening, the day the infection became evident. The occasion was the fiftieth birthday of a friend of la bienheureuse. Our rheumy-eyed little girl wowed the dinner party guests before being put to bed in the travel cot upstairs. No complaints then and only good humour when we woke her up soon after midnight for the journey home. Very pleasant evening overall, even if the foie gras took about 2 days to digest, but perhaps it was the following night that we three suffered. Three times mama & papa had to get up to comfort la petite malade. Monday morning was hard, and despite a subsequent undisturbed night, Tuesday was even tougher for la travailleuse as she was awake at six to set off for a three day trip to Milan.

More tears shed in the wider world, following the shocking murders in Toulouse. Hard to avoid the feeling that they were of the crocodile variety from some politicians in particular, with the presidential campaign being overshadowed. The candidates all declared a 'ceasefire' in campaigning, which seemed a rather hollow promise as they all promptly made appearances designed to keep profiles as high as possible. And now the supposed killer has been found, having been forced to keep fairly quiet by initial suspicions that the perpetrator was of a similar far-right persuasion, Mme Le Pen has been quick to try and turn events to her advantage. It's going to be a long 32 days…

In Lyon the rubbish isn't just political. The real stuff hasn't quite piled up and putrefied enough to bring tears to the eyes, but it won't be long. La grève des eboueurs is into its tenth day and no end yet in sight. And the warm sunny weather is back after a brief return to seasonal temperatures and our first rainy day in weeks…

Spring in the step

Winter seems a little further away now. Blazing sunshine most of this week and temperatures creeping towards 15C. Lovely sunny day last Sunday too, in all respects. Though I have to admit I wasn't looking much on the sunny side of life at 2pm that day, more like staring into the abyss, with the red and white forces of good football two goals down to the local enemy. A mere hour later however, a five gun salvo had sounded and all was (almost) right with the world. Even if the previous ten days had seemed like a nightmare.

It all made for a very pleasant weekend jaunt across the Channel. Flight Sunday morning was on time, quick pint with le grand gooner before the game, albeit in the company of a fifth columnist who remained remarkably restrained all the way through the remarkable match, even when his side's second, illicitly obtained, goal hit the back of the net. Just desserts in the end for the diving lily-white though.

Afterwards I made my way south of the river to visit le petit frère & la cuñada numèro dos. Kitchen now finished, witness a very tasty lamb shank dinner, but much of the rest of the house still a work in progress. Monday morning I trekked back to Stansted and thence home, while the two not-so-newly weds oversaw a fireplace installation before heading off for a holiday in the Indian Ocean. Their home for the following 10 days, an infamous hotel, scene of a recent murder. Ooerr…

Meanwhile, back in Lyon, la petite, la mère et la grand-mère enjoyed an all girls weekend. La belle-mére arrived a week ago and was eventually picked up from the airport by her daughter, after a minor panic in the morning. La vieille voiture failed to survive two months of winter idle in the garage. Or more specifically the battery did - completely flat. Friendly local garage (2 minute walk away) started it for a mere 50 euro call-out charge, charged up the battery and then informed us the starter motor needed replacing too, suspected of being the cause of the prematurely flat battery. Total cost, more than 300 euros. Hmm, the old banger had better pass that controle technique this week…

Someone not suffering in the slightest from ignition problems is the little munchkin. The hesitant few steps have now developed into full-blown, confident walking, which now takes precedence over crawling most of the time. Astonishing how much babies develop in a mere 12 months, but no doubt all new parents say that…

Would that her parents were as full of energy. La bienheureuse survived her first trip involving two whole nights and days away from her darling(s), including most of Sunday, necessary for a brainstorming meeting with government authorities and competitor companies. Fortunately a strike somewhat perversely meant she got home four hours earlier than expected, early enough for bath and bedtime. 

Meanwhile the old man exhausted himself in the pursuit of footballing pleasure over the weekend. The seven goal thriller in London on Sunday was preceded by an eight goal nail biter at Gerland on Saturday evening. The oil-rich mercenaries from Paris visited the plucky gones and walked away with the half share of the spoils, after coming back from two goals down in the last 10 minutes, including a last minute of injury time equaliser. Money can almost buy you everything. Still, fifteen goals in total made it an entertaining weekend.

Ten

The new year was seen in quietly, with a half-bottle of champagne and some heartening TV watching, Match of the Day. On the second day of 2012 we waved a reluctant goodbye to grand-mère, and set off for the journey south. Three and a half relatively painless hours later we arrived chez Professor Margarita once more, and enjoyed yet another convivial evening with salmon and salad for dinner, and the Caiparinha Kid for additional company.

And after a reasonably smooth and uneventful flight across the Channel, we were home by 6pm the following day. La petite, as usual, forewent any sleep during the journey, too much going on to even consider closing her eyes, but was subsequently asleep within an hour of getting home. While drinking her milk. The whole biberon still went down on autopilot mode though…

Since then, life has resumed its normal course. La petite coquinette's new year resolution seems to be that one daytime siesta is quite enough for her, unless the second is in the pram during our habitual early evening winter promenades. La bienheureuse is overworked and travel weary - one night away from home already, a second coming up at the end of the week ('team-building' event) and another next week. Two whole days without seeing her little angel is tough.

Meanwhile, last weekend we celebrated a couple of anniversaries. The youngest member of the family reached 10 months (able to stand for a few seconds unsupported already), and her parents notched up ten whole years in France. How time flies...

Striking lucky

The weekend before Christmas, four days before we were due to fly to Blighty for a two week holiday, security personnel at some French airports decided to go on strike. For some reason Lyon airport was the worst hit (because or in spite of all the security staff being supplied by Brinks) and two days before our departure, the Stansted flight was cancelled. Big sigh of relief therefore, when the next day all flights were assured, thanks to the airport bringing in staff from "elsewhere" (unspecified). Bigger sigh of relief on Wednesday when the same thing happened, only change being that we were advised to arrive early and that our flight was leaving from the Air France terminal rather than the (newly rebuilt) low-cost terminal. So, we duly turned up at the airport (via tram, a surprisingly smooth journey with baby, pram and assorted luggage) three hours before departure, and joined the long queue to check in - long but fast moving queue, followed by another long but equally fast moving queue at security.

In the end we were through to the departure lounge a full two hours before the flight was due to leave. First time I've ever been through security at an airport and never seen anyone stopped for a hand luggage search. Airport authorities and the government claimed that security of passengers was fully assured. Hmm, not convinced, but not complaining either as it all led to a rather more pleasant journey than normal - Air France personnel at the gate meant the usual strict Easyjet hand baggage policy was ignored; and there was an air bridge to the plane rather than walk in the rain across the tarmac; and no ten minute slog from security to the departure gates as is the case at the new low-cost terminal.

We thus arrived in Cambridge in good spirits early in the evening, reintroduced the new all-crawling, all-climbing bundle of energy to Prof Margarita and Ms Beaucoup, put her to bed and then enjoyed a tasty salmon dinner and wine chez the convivial builder.

The next morning it was onwards and northwards as we left Cambridgeshire and head to Cheshire once more. Four hours later, unscheduled stop to calm screaming baby included, we arrived chez la grand-mère and the build-up to Christmas commenced in fine style with mince pies and roast ham welcoming us.

Flying high

And so, la petite voyageuese experienced her first trip on an aeroplane. We made it as easy as possible for ourselves by taking a taxi to the airport and a flight in the middle of the afternoon, a plan which worked to perfection. Short sleep in the pram while waiting for our flight to be called, mid-afternoon snack (yoghurt & milk) on the plane, smooth car hire pick-up and another short nap during the drive to Cambridge resulted in a baby in perfect good humour the whole day.

Chez J&C la petite was introduced to four more new faces and another baby (canine variety) before finally being put exhausted to bed. For us a sumptuous and highly convivial dinner awaited. Venison was consumed, wine quaffed, and an aluminium foil shapes competition judged before the dog finally alerted the parents to the sound of crying coming from upstairs. And so the evening ended for la bienheureuse as she spent the next two hours trying to calm a distressed baby. We put the unaccustomed late night disturbance down to the excitement of international travel and a rare late night bowel movement.

The next morning, oblivious to her parents' somewhat worse-for-wear condition, the little dear was awake and excitedly exercising limbs and vocal chords in her new travel cot at six in the morning. A slap-up late breakfast eventually followed before le grand gooner and I left the ladies behind to attend an important engagement at the sacred ground. The Wearsiders eventually became cannon fodder for the new Dutch hero as the green shoots of recovery continued their tentative growth.

A quieter (albeit enlivened by a hysterical eleven year old) but equally marvellous meal back at the Cherry Hinton nest was followed by an early night. No late night waking this time, but another early morning wakening, which this time was welcomed by la travailleuse as it gave her a few minutes with her daughter before heading off to the airport once more for a flight across the Irish Sea. 

While maman was attending to business in Dublin, papa et fille enjoyed a quiet couple of days entertaining and being entertained by la petite beaucoup and her anglo-allemande niece-in-law. When the latter could be dragged away from the blaring TV or computer games upstairs she did an excellent pram-pushing job on Monday afternoon round the grounds of Cherry Hinton Hall, which helped la petite sleep through a display of hearts by a pair of courting swans. On Tuesday afternoon, my kind hostess and her helper bravely babysat for an hour while I cycled on an undersized steed into Cambridge on a secret errand. The three girls just about survived my absence and a couple of hours later we were saying fond goodbyes as la petite and I moved base to the other side of Cambridge to allow the vivacious young lady's Mutter somewhere to sleep that night.

Professor Margarita kindly picked us up and offered us lodging for the night, put up la petite's bed and while she slept cooked another delicious dinner. La grande voyageuse returned from her Irish travels later in the evening, and the next morning la petite famille headed back to the airport once more. With a flight timed for just after lunch we hoped la petite coquinette would take her traditional lunchtime nap on the plane. Too much going on, too many interesting people to charm and a session of outrageous flirting with one of the stewards soon put paid to that idea. And predictably the descent into Lyon had a yelling baby soundtrack, though fortunately a man making funny faces across the aisle and the nouveauté of a rice cake to chew on soon quietened the little darling.

We landed in a damp Lyon, which was about 10 degrees cooler than we left it. The heating went on in the evening. Autumn has finally made an appearance.

September summer holiday

A relatively painless (apart from a tough poo pellet episode) journey towards the Côte d'Azur ended in warm, late afternoon sunshine. Keys to the apartment were exchanged for a sum of money and a few cheques vacances, along with emergency bedclothes provided by the lady from the agency following an overlooked request to hire them. La petite famille settled in, watched the sun set over the beach, baby was put to bed and parents ate takeaway pizza from the restaurant across the road while waiting for the soggy diver and her new beau to turn up. A text informing us of lengthy queues for car hire however persuaded us to secrete the keys outside and do our waiting in the dormant state.

On a morning with no diving planned, la petite gave us an undesired wake-up call at 5.30am, performing some cot gymnastics in anticipation of the arrival of an almighty thunderstorm. As the lightning flashed and thunder crashed outside, she went back to sleep. A couple of hours later we met the new arrivals. Late breakfast and a lazy morning ensued before they went for an introductory dive (La Formigue) after lunch, the youngest in the party went off for a nap, and the oldest went off to the airport to collect the new member of the 50 club.

Five reunited, the evening was the occasion for an experiment: taking la petite coquinette to a restaurant. Ensconced in her pram, the hope was that she would fall asleep. Fat chance: noisy restaurant, interesting things going on, lots of new faces. Nonetheless a good time was had by all, though la bienheureuse skipped dessert to take the tired-but-determined-not-to-be-sleepy little angel back to bed.

My turn to do the first dive of the week the following morning, while ma bien-aimée senior forewent the water to look after ma bien-aimée junior. With the Mistral blowing up an easterly gale in a cloudless sky, I joined the beach lady and the crooked nail for a dip on a rock in the sheltered bay. Very pleasant it was too, if a little chilly and a floppy sausage and detached fin demonstrated my rusty diving technique. Fortunately the latter was rescued by the brave La Favière tyro. Prof Margarita preferred to nurse blocked sinuses and indulge in a morning lie-in, but in the afternoon joined us in braving the whistling wind and for a squeaky sinus dive at Cap Benat. Red sausage fully inflated this time, but a buoy line wrapped round a reel handle almost resulted in a rapid early ascent. The 51 year-old resolved to try and dive more than once a year while the 50 year-old decided one dive was quite enough for this year.

A more successful sortie for a meal out took place in the evening. A strategically chosen quiet restaurant, with a longer walk timed to coincide with la petite's bedtime worked perfectly and she slept through a lovely meal. We walked back to the apartrment and were lulled to sleep by the howling wind, clinking riggings and crashing waves.

The next morning, la petite coquinette was awake early once more, but the wind had miraculously dropped. It was almost dead calm was the diving trio headed off for a day's diving at Port Cros, leaving two beauties and a beast to enjoy a quiet day and test the swimming pool. Water at 20C was not at all to la petite's taste. A bit cool for me too, but a wet suit helped enjoy a great dive on le Grec with AI N after NI S decided three was a crowd and gave up her perennial battle with the surface current. Lunch in the summer sunshine at Port Cros was followed by a pleasant plunge at Pointe du Vaisseau, where groupers lazed, a lonely moray lurked and a school of barracuda circled menacingly close to the bottom.

The divers took the middle day of the week off to spend time with the Margarita man and the two lovely ladies. A stroll along the coast path in the warm sunshine towards Le Lavandou was broken by a picnic lunch for baby and late morning drinks for the grown-ups. A lazy afternoon ensued apart from a sortie to the beach for la famille where la fille confirmed that she's none too fond of water that's well below body temperature. An evening in followed, with the shark lady cooking her renowned beer can chicken. Delicious it was too, even if the chickens had a little too much of the hard stuff and kept falling over.

The glorious weather continued on Thursday. The three divers set off on the boat for a day of wreck diving and lunch at Cavalaire. First dive on the agenda was L'Espingole. Dr S made it down the shotline this time, but contented herself with observing the broken up wreck from afar while her buddies explored as far as they dared. Le Rubis was the afternoon dive. After initial false reports about the current all three of us eventually got down and enjoyed a lovely dive on the lone star French sub of the 2nd world war. Dinner in again in the evening, tasty leftovers followed by a few testy games of cards. Too much glee from certain quarters about the champion peanuthead in my opinion.

Friday was Professor Margarita's last day. Skipping the morning dive, I drove him to the airport and then joined the Scottish pair for the last dive of the week on the jewel in the Port Cros crown - the east wall of La Gabinière. Excellent as usual. Our last night was taken up with packing, cleaning, takeaway pizza and more card games. The married couple came out top in the competition to be last.

And so another week of great weather and great diving at La Favière came to an end. On Saturday morning we headed north through perplexing autoroute queues while the soggy diver and her buddy headed east towards Nice airport via St Tropez and other coastal hotspots. No doubt we will be back again next year...