Feasts and family

As it turned out, the two day journey from Lyon to Cheshire wasn't as bad as feared. La travailleuse took half a day off work (intended to be a full day, but an unreasonable deadline at work put paid to that idea) to do most of the packing, leaving me to load the new voiture and finally figure out, with help from la bienheureuse, how to fit the roof bars securely (blame a head befuddled by illness and fatigue). Bars for a roof box that in the end we decided to travel without, partly thanks to efficient packing, but mostly because the new, higher car with roof box attached won't fit into the garage or even through the door into the courtyard which houses the garage. Gnash, gnash...

And so, the Friday before Noël we set off soon after 9.30am on the long drive north. Eight and a half hours and two refreshment breaks later we arrived at our overnight stop in the wonderfully named Loon Plage near Dunkirk after a journey troubled only by minor complaints from the child seat. iPads are wonderful in-car child entertainment devices. Dinner in the hotel and a relatively quiet night, at least in the case of the youngest occupant of the room, followed. Her parents, both still suffering heavy colds, intermittently slept and snored well throughout the night, though apparently never at the same time.

A five minute drive to the ferry terminal the following morning allowed us to check in more than an hour before the 10am sailing, though there was a bit of unseemly haste later after a relaxed drink in the café was rudely interrupted when la bienheureuse went back to the car to find it was only one of three left in the boarding queue. The two hour crossing was smooth enough and made easier by a soft play area which kept la petite coquinette amused for much the time, and French wheels touched English soil for the first time just after eleven in the morning.

Long drive north number two through persistent rain and a mere two traffic hold-ups (A2 and M25) took almost five hours, but we arrived chez la belle-mère (who had paid for her trip in the reverse direction three weeks earlier by contracting the dreaded virus) only mildly the worse for wear. Exhaustion was staved off until after dinner and then we all collapsed into bed.

Rest and recovery was the main item on the agenda for the next couple of days, apart from two shopping trips for la bienheureuse et la belle-mère, one for a bit of last minute Christmas shopping, the other the weekly provision run.

Come Christmas morning, lingering coughs and snot-clogged sinus pains apart, the adults in the family seemed to be on the slow road to health, and la petite was already there. After a morning spent opening presents it was off across the border to spend Christmas day chez le beau-frère in deepest north Wales. A cosy time was had by all, Christmas lunch was delicious and enormous, once again the in-laws were far too generous and received the dubious present of the nasty virus in return.

On Boxing Day, the slow gathering of the opposite side of the clan commenced, with le grand frère arriving late in the afternoon. The next day le petit frère and la cuñada dos arrived in the afternoon, after a game of hide and seek with me in their hotel in Chester for a few minutes, and la soeur completed the party the same afternoon. Despite suffering from a the after-effects of a heavy cold herself, la belle-mère heroically aided her French visitors' recuperation by doing almost all of the cooking and cleaning. Delicious roast ham was on the Boxing Day dinner menu, and followed by luscious roast lamb on Thursday.

The cook was given the morning off on Friday for the mass visit of the East Cheshire branch of the family, leaving me free reign of the kitchen to put together the now traditional family Christmas tartiflette for thirteen. Nieces and nephews keep growing and changing, but a good time was had by all, particularly the baby of the family who had sundry aunts, uncles and cousins to keep her amused and give her yet more presents. Enough to make us wonder if the roof-box might after all have been needed.

The next day, the visitors left one by one and the football obsessive also took temporary leave for a day trip to the smoke to watch the trigger happy gunners and geordies take unequal shares of a ten goal thriller. Well worth the long day and late night return. Meanwhile, the three girls took advantage of the absence of guests with a trip to the soft play centre at a nearby ice cream farm.

After another pleasant day in North Wales on Sunday, and another trip to the ice cream farm on Monday, all too soon it was the eve of the new year. We compromised on need for sleep and sense of duty by seeing in the French new year with a small coupe de champagne before going to bed. And on New Years day, it was time to start the long journey home. With a hint of a tear in the eye and car stuffed with baggage and gifts we took our leave of la belle-mère and headed south to our first stop near Cambridge, where we spent a pleasant day and two evenings chez Professor Margarita with his poorly spaniel.

Then we hit the road once more. Dover, cross-channel ferry, Dunkirk and three hours on French autoroutes passed in a blur before we made an overnight stop near Chalons in Champagne country. Thence it was a mere four hour cruise down the autoroute before we were back home in not-so-sunny Lyon. The end of a very pleasant, only-slightly-marred-by-ill-health festive holiday.

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.

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.

Mountain high

As the temperature climbed last week, reaching 34C on Friday, we decided to stick to our original plan of a weekend in the mountains despite a less than optimistic forecast. And so, in the afternoon, we headed east, air-conditioning on max, and arrived at Meribel shortly after five pm. After settling into our accommodation for the weekend, courtesy of une amie de la bienheureuse, we headed straight for a cooling dip in the small pool that is part of the apartment complex. Very nice it was too.

Thunder rumbled ominously overnight and Saturday morning dawned cool and damp. At least I think it did - hard to tell with shutters closed and a toddler who remarkably slept until after eight in the morning. Luxurious lie-in. Thereafter the rain cleared and the pattern for the rest of the weekend was set: gradually clearing skies, morning sortie, lunch, attempt to give a nap to the youngest member of the family, swim in the pool, dinner, bed.

The first morning we hiked up from La Chaudanne to Mottaret, roughly following what in winter is the Truite piste. Nice easy green run down on snow, bit of a slog up on foot, particularly carrying a 11 kilo wriggling bundle on your back. We hadn't necessarily intended to go all the way to Mottaret but chose to follow a newly constructed path along the Doron stream and there was no way off it before we reached the top. All good exercise, and we recovered with a very pleasant outdoor lunch at one of the cafés in Mottaret. La petite coquinette then unsurprisingly fell asleep on her mother's back on the way down, albeit for only ten minutes, but that was enough to persuade her that any further nap that day was unnecessary. She did however, stay happily enough in bed for 40 minutes while mama read and papa napped in the sunshine on the terrace outside.

On Sunday, it was cooler still, but with the sun coming and going it was nice enough to contemplate another walk in the mountains. Actually, we chose one that was more or less flat, a pleasant stroll along the banks of Lac Tueda, with another nice café lunch, though the cold breeze forced us indoors on this occasion with traditional mountain fare, tartiflette, on the menu. Another brief nap on the way home, this time in the car, put paid to any ideas these concerned parents might have had about their daughter getting enough sleep. Another sleepless half hour in bed this time ended in vociferous complaint.

Uninterrupted sunshine was forecast for Monday and we were having such a good time the next that we decided to stay an extra night. We thus fitted in another walk the following morning, driving up to Altiport for a slow wander in the woods  (little legs don't always follow straight lines) around the 'sentier des animaux'. And then alas, it was time to head back down to the stifling heat of Lyon. La petite was a little less cooperative in the car this time - slept the first 45 minutes and then screamed for the next half hour necessitating an emergency refreshment stop. Car journeys still aren't her favourite way of passing the time...

Mellow yellow

A fortnight has passed and much has happened. La belle-mère arrived for a two week visit, she and la petite-fille spent three days getting reacquainted in hot Lyon and then we all set off in the petite voiture for a week's holiday in the deep sud-ouest;  more specifically the Lot-et-Garonne, a gentle land of green and gold, sunflowers and hazelnuts, ruined castles and hilltop mediaeval villages. We arrived at our base for the week, holiday residences near Monflanquin, after a smooth eight hour journey punctuated by service stops to keep la petite voyageuse from going car-seat crazy. We settled in and the week thereafter followed something of a routine - morning outing, relaxed afternoon, early evening swim, dinner and early to bed.

Sunday: with the aim of purchasing provisions for the first couple of days, we chose a morning trip to Pujols, a mediaeval village classed as l'un des plus beaux villages de France. Perched on a hilltop, with a Sunday market, it was indeed notably pretty. Provisions duly acquired, we sat down for a pizza lunch as the skies cleared, la petite made friends with the children from a large group of Dutch tourists and then displayed her talent for the grand departure by dramatically blowing a kiss at the perfect moment as we left. Mass "aaahhh". A scenic route home allowed a short afternoon nap, and then we sampled the heated outdoor pool in the holiday complex. Very pleasant.

Monday: the Chateau de Gavaudun was the chosen destination for the day's outing. On a warm sunny day we climbed and wriggled through the narrow entrance in a sheer rock face, and admired the views of the ruined castle and beyond from the top of the castle keep. Thence back to base for a late lunch, and late nap for la petite, which lasted three hours. Unheard of…

Tuesday: on the sunniest, hottest day of the week, we drove to le Jardin des Nenuphars, a calm and pretty garden of water-lilies and lotus flowers. The decision to stay for lunch in the outdoor café was the low point of the day. More than two hours later we finally finished the meal. A coach party of pensioners was the likely cause, but la petite didn't care, she just got ratty. However, the return to Monflanquin was notable for a couple of firsts. We took another scenic route home in the hope that la petite coquinette would sleep, a plan that worked better than our wildest dreams. Firstly she slept one when we stopped to look at a windmill on a hill, and then slept almost all the way home, a total of well over an hour. First time she's stayed asleep for more than 40 minutes in the car. A swim in the pool at the end of a hot day was more than welcome.

Wednesday: the weather broke, and heavy showers that came and went all day persuaded us to stay put and watch the rain coming down from the cover of the apartment. La bienheureuse cured a stir-crazy daughter by taking her for a walk in the rain, and then, like true Brits on holiday, we all went for a swim in a deserted pool despite a 10 degree drop in temperatures from the previous day.

Thursday: even cooler and wetter. Undaunted, we set off on the traditional morning outing, choosing a hazelnut farm with a self-styled 'museum' on the theory that we would be under cover. True enough, though we had a short wait outside while the owner came across from the farm to open the doors for us. Being the only visitors we had the benefit of a personal tour and tasting session, and naturally came away weighed down with nut oil, nut biscuits and nutty sweets. A short stop at another farm shop allowed us to stock up on that other local specialty, prunes. As it was even colder we skipped the swim in the pool on our return.

Friday: an improvement in the weather encouraged yet another outing, to another ruined castle. Le Chateau de Bonaguil calls itself the most beautiful fortified castle in France, and most impressive it was too, even if we were there a day early for the mediaeval fête the following weekend. After a picnic lunch in a shady spot above the chateau, we drove back to base and then, while the three generations of females slept or read according to age, the token male was given time off to finally visit Monflanquin, another plus beaux villages de France perched high on a hill. And very pretty it was too, all narrow alleys and picturesque stone buildings with an impressive central square bordered by arcades.

Saturday: homeward bound. A seven hour trip, including only two stops for a more travel-hardy toddler, and we were back in warm, muggy Lyon by five pm. The end of a pleasant and more relaxing than might have been expected week…

The last few days of la belle-mère's visit passed quickly for some. La bienheureuse spent 2 days and a night away in the company mother country while la grand-mère et la petite-fille enjoyed each other's company, apart from an extreme reluctance on the latter's part to go to bed. Perhaps the after-effects of a holiday during which she slept a lot during the day and went to bed late. Perhaps she was missing mama, or perhaps she was missing Wednesdays with her little playmates, as our nanny-sharing arrangement with the neighbours has sadly come to an unexpected and abrupt end.

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...

Flag day

A day before her half-year birthday, la petite met her old friend Monsieur le pédiatre for a six-month checkup. Result: nearly 5kg heavier, 15cm taller than her first day at home. Diagnosis: "elle est magnifique!"; high time she started eating some real food.

And so, the next day papa got to give his litle angel her first spoonful or two (mama reluctantly at work). Reaction: puzzlement ('why is the old man trying to stick something other than a teat in my mouth, when he normally stops me from doing it?'), followed by uncertain testing of the strange substance (pureed carrot). I think a little of it went down her gullet. Over the next few days, two spoonfuls became several, several became many, and many more ended up all over her bib, her face, her hair, her hands, her clothes, the high chair, and of course mum & dad. Messy business, especially when the raspberry blowing receives full treatment.

She soon got to show off her new skills to visitors. The UKC connection, Ealing branch, were in town for a long weekend - work and baby viewing purposes, respectively and combined. They arrived late Thursday evening, and the next morning Dr N and la bienheureuse went off to their respective work, leaving Dr C to enjoy some time with old dad and baby. Which she did after doing a bit of work remote from Whitehall. No real rest for these high-powered civil servants. By afternoon however, both visitors had finished working, and la bienheureuse met us all at the end of our habitual late afternoon stroll along the river for a slow drink on a boat café.

The rest of the weekend followed a similar pattern: morning lie-ins for those that could, morning naps for those that wished or didn't wish, and lazy strolls out in the afternoon, which provided a surprise source of great entertainment for la petite - flapping flags on the bridge. Highly exciting stuff to a six month old, apparently. In the evening, NB gestured towards an upcoming half-marathon by punishing himself with early evening jogging up and down the river while dinner was cooking and baby was being put to bed. Saturday blurred into Sunday, and all too soon it was Monday morning and our visitors were on their way home.

They were followed to the airport two days later by a reluctant business traveller heading towards the company mother country. Dad and baby were thus left to cope on their own for a day, which they managed in their usual fashion. I even had time to sort out dive kit for the forthcoming holiday before notre bien-aimée was home on Thursday evening. More late packing late the following evening and by Saturday morning we were more or less ready for the drive south towards sea and sunshine...

Ritzy nights

Four became three on Thursday as we bade a fond farewell to la grand-mère and hit the road south. Six hours later, including two spent going nowhere on the M1 and M25, we finally arrived in Bromley. Petit frère was there to show us round the building site and, an hour or two later, tia numero dos made her long awaited-acquaintance with la sobrinita.

The next morning la petite greeted yet another new bedroom with some early morning cot gymnastics, but her parents were granted a lie-in when la tia kidnapped her for an hour before breakfast. The builders turned up, took one look at baby and decided to work elsewhere for the day, leaving la petite coquinette and her parents free run of the half-rebuilt house while tia & tio were at work. A walk in the late summer sunshine, a bit of shopping and, before we knew it, baby was back in bed and the taxi was there to take her parents for their first night out alone in nearly a year.

The Ritz was the destination, courtesy of a birthday present from Professor Margarita. Very nice it was too: lovely four-course meal, live swing band, bit of dancing, bit of uncertain celebrity-spotting, personal service in the gents, and all too soon it was time for the taxi home. Tia two sounded almost disappointed to report that the babysitters had heard not a peep from the sleeping baby when we got back.

Saturday was spent recovering, observing a fascinating discussion on choice of paints by the home builders, and then it was time to head for the bright lights of London once more. Second night out in a row, once again thanks to the Margarita Man, this time celebrating his own half-century. Having received strict instructions to be at Festival Pier by 7pm otherwise the boat would leave without us, we left the babysitters to feed, bathe and put their niece to bed. First time la petite has been put to bed by someone other than one of her parents. Crossing fingers, we caught a train into Charing Cross leaving them to cope as best they could.

Arriving on the South Bank early, we gradually met a few others who had made their own way there and waited for the main party and birthday boy to arrive by coach from Cambridge. The boat arrived, the clock ticked past seven, and still no sign of the majority of the partygoers. Modern technology informed us they were becalmed in heavy traffic somewhere in the City. The captain fidgeted, the clock ticked on and finally the bus deposited its load at about half past. The description containing the words piss-up and brewery springs to mind, but as it was his fiftieth birthday I'll be kind and not apply it here.

We all eventually boarded, drank Pimms and the boat slipped its moorings for an evening cruise up and down the Thames. Riverside sights by night, magician, caricature artist, buffet dinner, drinking and dancing: a good time was had by all. When the cruise came to end we all piled into a noisy club and shouted at each other for half an hour before the taxi turned up to take us home to our baby.

And we got there to find her sound asleep. Apparently all had gone well apart from a brief wake-up and need for a cuddle and slurp mid-way through the evening. Phew.

No rest for the wicked though. Six hours after going to bed we were up and, an hour later, on the road to Dover. A seven and a half hour drive awaited the other side of the Channel, survived with intermittent short screaming sessions from a very tired baby until 7pm (usual bedtime) when she finally fell asleep and stayed asleep until we reached Lyon. The end of an exhausting but very enjoyable holiday. And only two weeks till the next one...

Relatively old and new

Having left twenty odd new relatives in the Lakes, back in Cheshire it was time to start renewing acquaintance with some old faces and two new ones. Old in the sense of familiar, of course. On Sunday la petite was strapped into that hated car seat once more for the short trip across the border to visit ewthr and modryb. A new experience awaited - the encounter with two large, boisterous labradors was viewed from the safety of her parents' arms with a sort of supercilious curiosity. Shortly afterwards the parents of la tante arrived bearing lunch and a long time after that old uncle arrived having spent some time wandering the Welsh countryside with a less than helpful satnav.

The evening saw an experiment which was not entirely successful. La petite was put to bed in Wales and then, when her parents decided it was time to leave, she was rudely awakened, put back into that car seat, rudely awakened once more on arrival in England and put to bed again. Four different bedrooms in two days was perhaps one change of scenery too much: an hour of protest later she finally went to sleep. Don't think we'll try that one again in a hurry.

Next in the queue to see baby was auntie, who arrived late on Monday afternoon in time to say hello and goodbye to her eldest brother and take over the guest room. On Tuesday four of us temporarily left la grand-mère tending the birds and the garden in west Cheshire, got into la petite voiture and head across the county to meet some more relatively new faces. Another uncle and aunt and all four first cousins were greeted with a mixture of bemusement and coy smiles. A short walk, dinner and five hours later it was time to say reluctant goodbyes to all but one cousin and see if we could squeeze four adults and a baby in a car seat into the little car.

The seven of us squeezed into chez grand-mère for one night, achieved by aunt sharing with niece number three and baby sharing with a computer and lots of books. Bath time for baby was a crowded all-female affair - mama assisted by her belle-soeur and niece. The following day was taken up with entertaining la petite and a stroll round the village through nettle patches and churchyards. La soeur headed back to Yorkshire in the early evening, dropping off la nièce en route, and then we were four once more.

Sixty new faces

Twenty four new people in eight days, only another thirty six to go, all of them relatives, albeit most in only the loosest of senses. The week in the Lake District assembled la grand-mère, two great aunts, a great uncle, several cousins once removed, and assorted other less easily defined relatives and relatives' hangers-on - something like 29 in total. That's a lot of new faces to take in, but apparently la petite coped admirably despite arriving not long before bed time. An hour after bedtime la bienheureuse collected me from Windermere station following the trip to London notable only for the chance to exchange brief gossip with the McBhoy and the Dove and a slap-up breakfast in the local café. Least said about the main footballing event the better.

Petite famille reunited, Sunday was spent recovering from our respective traumas. Saturday's rain was eventually superseded by some lovely late afternoon sunshine, which encouraged a group outdoor dinner (delicious Mexican cooked by the fiancée-in-waiting of cousin number five) on a table for 30 just beneath baby's window. She slept blissfully on.

The routine for the week soon became established. Quick swim in the petite piscine for la petite after morning nap, excursion after lunch (and progressively shortening lunchtime naps), then dinner and bedtime before grown-ups dinner time. Monday afternoon was taken up by a stroll in the sunshine into Ambleside and the hire-with-purchase-option of a back baby-carrier. Said baby-carrier was duly tested the following day with a minor hike along a groomed path in Grizedale Forest. Carrier received full approval from la petite and load-bearing parents and subsequently purchased.

Wednesday was grand-oncle's birthday, celebrated in fine Lake District style with a mass outing via road, ferry, canoe and sailing dinghy respectively to the visitor centre at Brockhole. As the small boats sailed in, the clouds rolled in and a picnic lunch for thirty was consumed in traditional British style in raincoats and under umbrellas. Refuge was eventually sought in the café, and then everybody drove, paddled or sailed back to Waterhead in the rain. It was however, then only persistent rain of the week.

The next day dawned sunny and bright, perfect weather for a cycle ride along the west bank of Windermere. While the three ladies, one from each generation had a stroll and coffee in Ambleside, le nouveau père hired a bike to join the old-hand fathers and older children for a pleasant jaunt up and down the bridle path that runs alongside the lake. Cocky ginger second cousin distinguished himself by losing control of his mount going down a steep incline and sailing over the handlebars. Pride and one shin sustained the only bruises.

Last full day in the Lakes included another trip into Ambleside and a visit to the youth hostel to watch the various cousins (first, second, once removed, vaguely related), aunts and uncles messing about on the water or wrestling on the wet grass. Three against one didn't really seem fair, but the eldest second cousin just about held his own.

Saturday morning passed in a blur of cleaning and packing, and by eleven we were on the road south once more, arriving in Cheshire via a foolhardy detour through Warrington to avoid a jam on the M6. No matter, we made it back to chez grand-mère without too much screaming from driver, navigator or passengers.

Burning bus, blazing sun

The week before was one of anticipation - of the return of the annual ski trip, and the forthcoming life-changing arrival. The latter necessitated another antenatal session and a rendezvous with an anaesthetist. All seems to be proceeding fine, with the wriggling, kicking and hiccupping little bump full of life. A larger bump proved rather more problematic, with a search for a helmet to fit my abnormally-sized and shaped head ending empty-headed.

From Friday onwards, skiing dominated events. The annual trip to Meribel was reinstated after last year's short hiatus. With minor personnel changes it followed a time-honoured course established over previous years, and went something like this:

Saturday
Le grand frère arrives on an early flight, I pick him up from the airport and then force march him to Les Halles to purchase cheese provisions for the week. Boeuf Bourguignon prepared and put in the oven before sacrificing my internet-stream-side seat at the sacred ground to set off to the airport once more to collect the DenEboy. The men in red and white manage a comfortable win in my absence. Back home we all await the arrival of J&C. And wait, and wait. Lost in Lyon. Again. They eventually get here with the help of some real-time telephone guidance, and a predictably convivial evening follows. Main topic of conversation: girls' names. Strange but true.

Sunday
We're up by nine am, le père potentiel suffering the mild after-effects of champagne, Côtes du Rhône and dodgy whisky. Organiser and head chef are away by ten, leaving the rest of us to install roof box, load up and follow about an hour later. Hopes of getting in a half-day skiing are dashed by a malfunctioning entry keypad and a coach on fire. The former causes the vanguard to await the arrival of an electrician, who is held up along with the rest of us in a 10km traffic queue behind the burning bus between Albertville and Moutiers. After 90 minutes spent going nowhere, we eventually arrive in Meribel village sometime after 3pm. A relaxing afternoon follows, and in the evening the gastronomic festival kicks off with a special from le grand chef - salmon and horseradish hors d'oeuvres, courgette and parmesan soup, with baked salmon and creamed parsnip to follow. All washed down with champagne and an eminently palatable vin blanc de pays de Provence. Le grand chef introduces l'architecte to the Tourterelle digestif tradition - a few generous snifters of Cognac.
Monday
The newcomers are scared into rising early by alcohol-fuelled talk of hitting the slopes at nine - a ploy by the old hands, which ensures croissants on the breakfast table by the time the majority make an eventual appearance. We're all finally sitting on the first lift by ten. A gentle morning skiing en masse follows - Jerusalem, Choucas and Le Grand Duc (scene of the first wipeout of the week - honours to le grand frère). Expensive pizzas for lunch in the Chaudanne, after which les skieuses head off for their first Super Suzie session of the week, leaving les garçons to sample the snow and the Combe de Saulire in Courchevel. Meanwhile la femme enceinte has been neglecting the strict observation of restful confinement by baking the traditional gâteaux choco-banane for our return and cooking lovely lamb tajine for dinner, complemented by un bon Côtes du Rhône and a sampling of the generous cheese board.

Tuesday
Early rising for those keen to improve their skiing, somewhat later start for the more lackadaisical. The latter find good snow on the red fox, but that one final run turns to near disaster, with a tumble and a dislocated shoulder for the le grand gooner. Fortunately he manages to pop it quickly back in, and soldiers manfully on through the pain for the rest of the week. We head over to Courchevel and meet up with les filles post lesson at 1650. Lunch taken and it's back onto the gentle 1650 pistes before those pesky Marmottes do their best to disrupt the journey home. Meanwhile la bienheureuse has been taking some exercise of her own at the swimming pool. For dinner la petite chefeuse rustles up tasty sausage casserole, champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin are quickly knocked back and then les gooners head to the pub to catch the second half of a famous semi-final comeback. Return to Wembley at last.
Wednesday
No pedagogic delights for les filles today, so it's a mass outing to the slopes below Dents de Burgin, where everybody practises their squidgy chocolate toes and squat-loo turns. Then all back to the chalet to give la future maman some company at lunch. And that's it for the day for some, the lure of sunshine on the front terrace proving stronger than artificial snow. Ma bien-aimée accompanies la grosse tête into Meribel in search once more of an oversized helmet, while the rest of the boys hit the slopes once more. Protection for an abnormal brain found at last. While le grand chef cooks up an old favourite for dinner, the remaining old rockers head to the packed pub to enjoy a brief Bring Your Sisters session. Back at the dinner table, venison stew is savoured with another old favourite, a veille vignes Vacqueyras from Le Couroulu.

Thursday
Morning lessons once more, the eager beavers are up and out early for their rendezvous with Super Suzie. The laggards follow some time later and head to Les Menuires and La Masse to find the best snow of the week and lunch in the company of sundry like-minded personnes agées. The Tourterelle tyros are on cuisine duty in the evening and after la belle Debutante whips up a rich fruitcake while the stone man rustles up a corking Coq au Vin, complemented by un jolie Petit Chablis. They then introduce the rest of us to a frustrating after dinner game: Newmarket. Just like betting on horse racing: all luck and no skill. At least, smartyboots claims that as the reason for ending up bankrupt while smartyskis and la petite beaucoup walk away with the biggest pots of pasta.
Friday
Gruelling all-dayer for the Suzie pupils. The boys are bemused to discover that the sun has disappeared but, undeterred, head for the crowded heights of Val Thorens and la Cime de Caron. Nice, breezy run down, but once is deemed enough for the day, and we all do our bit by accompanying a troupe of mini-skiers on a lift on the way home. At Mont de la Chambre we go our separate ways; le grand chef goes off towards Les Menuires to practise his counter-rotation; the tired architect heads for home; the DenE and BJ boys attack lunch and then Mont Vallon before one quick run down Combe Saulire to say they'd skied 3 valleys in a day. Meanwhile la bienheureuse treats herself to a facial before purchasing provisions and preparing fantastic fruit salad. The newly helmeted chef allows his brother to perform the potato peeling donkey work, leaving only the easy job of putting together the traditional tartiflette. Côtes du Rhône, Vacqueyras and Cognac finish the evening off nicely for most, though les debutants and the DenEboy still have enough energy for a quick pub sortie, quick being the operative word. Seems Bring Your Sisters' late evening set caters more for the younger crowd: stripteases and ankle-deep broken glass de rigueur.
Saturday
Last day, let's all ski together. All apart from l'expert, who tires of waiting for the rest of us to get moving and heads for his own favourite black runs. The less ambitious go up Col de la Loze, down into La Tania, back up and down into 1850. Then lunch at the Courchneige, well worth the hour spent searching for it. In the afternoon a final foray into 1650 before heading home without the DenEboy ever catching us up. Leftover venison, sausages and tartiflette for dinner. Tasty as ever, and the final bottles of champagne and Coteaux de Tricastin polished off too. Wine quantity perfectly judged, wine quality judged perfect.

Sunday
The Cambridge flyers are up and away by six am, so quietly that no-one hears them go. Le grand chef et la petite organisateuse are next to head home, leaving le grand frère and the mogul-lover to hit the slopes for a farewell morning's skiing, while the bump and old bighead enjoy a pleasant walk up through the ice, snow and trees to the altiport. We take the lift back down, a novel experience for both of us, and then eat lunch at the Lodge while watching the Gunners struggle to shake off the tenacious Terriers. All's well that ends well, the 5th round beckons, the boys return, and the four of us pile into la veille voiture for the trip home. Tired but satisfied, we reach Lyon at 5.30 and collapse into bed not long afterwards. Another terrific Tourterelle trip comes to an end…

New Year revisited

More guests arrived two days before the nouvel an. I met le petit frère and la new cuñada at Part Dieu early on Wednesday evening and dragged them and suitcases back to the apartment where succulent lamb tajine and a bottle of champagne awaited. Unsurprisingly, it was midday before the fast was broken and we were ready to head out for a tourist stroll through Lyon. Up to Fourvière (senior citizens and pregnant women via the funicular, the more able-bodied via a slog up the 399 steps and hill) for a look at the view and basilica, then back down to the old town via the Roman amphitheatre. A very late lunch in A La Traboule where the entrées were filling enough to serve as an entire meal. Then back home via Places Terreaux and Lyautey. Siestas and a light quiche and salad dinner followed.

Lazy last day of the year, which we'll blame on a headache the sufferer put down to eye problems. Or vice versa. Fortunately the pain was gone by the evening, to allow full participation in celebrating the coming of the new year. Double roast duck with sausage, apple and chestnut stuffing for dinner, followed by a second Christmas as presents were exchanged, mostly in one direction and mostly baby related. Two bottles of champagne and a red wine or two later, we were all enjoying a magnetic game. The new year was seen in with party poppers and roman candles, and the building almost burnt down. The new year was more than 2 hours old by the time we all fell into bed. Even la bienheureuse managed to last until one.

Stunning friends

The transition from Tobago holiday mode to normal life in Lyon was achieved via a three day stopover in dear old Blighty. Rain greeted us at Gatwick, accompanied us on the drive to Bexleyheath via Bromley and continued the rest of the day. Not much change there. After being welcomed by the good Doctors C, we gave them the news. Delight & surprise all round but a special mention for the Lovely L for being the first to complement la bienheureuse's usual leaky eyes. We took a two hour siesta after lunch to recover and gird ourselves for the return from school of the mini-JeZoids. They duly burst into the bedroom and inflicted an awakening that was rude in more ways than one. Bless 'em.

A pleasant afternoon and evening followed. With the Z-fils-cadet beavering for a couple of hours, his older brother was markedly calmer. We watched the rain fall, the squirrels bury nuts in the lawn, the fox climb over the garden shed, and the parakeets flock in the trees. Tired and jet-lagged we may have been, but we really weren't dreaming we were still in the tropics. Eventually we found our way to bed and real dreams, this time slightly less rudely interrupted by the Doctors' sons before they were dragged off to school the next morning.

Goodbyes said, after lunch we made our way to Cambridge via a somewhat unsuccessful specialist clothes shopping sortie to Bluewater. The relevant fashion sections seem rather small given that about 10% of the target clientele is concerned at any one time. We soon gave up and headed into the Friday afternoon traffic on the M25. Three hours later, we made it to Cambridge. Queue for the Dartford crossing - not too much worse than expected; traffic jam further round the M25 due to road work - not unexpected and a mere 20 minute delay or so; queue coming off onto the M11 lasting all the way (5 miles) to Harlow turn off - entirely vexing and unexpected, due to accident just off the motorway. Teach us for travelling on UK motorways late on Friday afternoon. Ritual gripe: in France they have a radio station dedicated to autoroute traffic, which keep motorists bang up to date with traffic conditions. In the UK we have to rely on patchy, out of date bulletins that may or may not be intermittently issued by random radio stations

The rest of the evening made up for the motorway hassle. A highly convivial evening, first chez J&C with a bottle of celebratory fizz cracked open and a belated birthday present, then a lovely Thai meal at the Lemongrass, with additional guests, Professor Margarita and the two Js. Ms Beaucoup made a game of leaking the news, which completely foxed the others, with the exception of the experienced Crystal Tipps, until some heavy hints were added. Reactions over the weekend ranged from Soggy stunned disbelief all the way through to shrieking delight. No less than expected.

The merrymaking continued back at Cherry Hinton with more fizz, brandy and beer finding its way down my throat while la bienheureuse looked on enviously (of the bubbly stuff, anyway). In the morning I thus felt a little the worse for wear, but a couple of pills and a huge and hearty brunch soon cleared that up. Shortly after noon I was being chauffeured to towards Mecca by the girls while le grand gooner generously forewent his seat and stayed behind to suffer the radio commentary. Suffer being the operative word for the abject defeat against the Lancashire Latics, who for a change won by playing football. Afterwards we put the finishing touches to my fiftieth gooner gift and sloped off home. Fortunately le grand chef had done his usual thing and cooked a delicious, consoling meal. A few glasses of wine did the rest.

A noon flight meant we were up early on Sunday morning. We bade our hosts goodbye, suffered the Easyjet Stansted check-in shambles, but were nonetheless back home in Lyon by mid afternoon. It was raining.

Lazy, rainy days

Our first full day on the upper Caribbean coast called for a bit of a lie in, with shutters the whole length of the front wall thrown open in the morning to take full advantage of the feeling of almost sleeping in the tree tops. The rest of the day was spent lazing by the poolside, reading on the balcony and generally relaxing. When a bit of exercise was called for we explored the beautiful grounds of the property that was our home for the week. A garden planted with banana, coconut and other unidentified fruit trees, laid out on a steep hillside that dropped away to a creek complete with small waterfall, and on down towards the sea further round. Throw in an infinity pool where we could float admiring the stunning ocean views, teeming bird life including resident hummingbirds, and we had an idyllic place for a lazy holiday.

Night times were becoming more routine now. Darkness falls, mosquito coils and citronella candles are lit, a fan moved to the balcony, dinner (fish delivered by Dwight and barbecued) taken on the balcony. Then a bit of reading, gazing out at the fireflies flitting through the garden, perhaps a visit from the affable Dwight to check up on us, and then early to bed. Once we figured out the cars going past at night were slowing down for the large potholes just up the road rather then to case the joint it was easier to ignore the strange night time noises and sleep rather easier too.

The next morning, Sunday, was spent much the same way. We resolved to venture further afield in the afternoon, perhaps to explore the nearby beaches and do a bit of snorkelling. While we ate lunch the heavens opened. So we lazed and read on the balcony instead, while the rain poured down the rest of the afternoon and into the night. Monday morning the rain had stopped and we even glimpsed the sun. So we jumped in the car and headed off for a tour round the north end of the island, with the intention of perhaps doing a boat trip with some snorkelling on the reefs at Speyside. Along the twisting, diving, climbing coast road we went. Past Parlatuvier, past Bloody Bay, past Man of War Bay, through rain showers towards Charlotteville, where we stopped in an unexpected burst of sunshine for a short stroll on the beach. Then we carried on, up Flagstaff Hill for the views of Man of War Bay and St Giles Island at the northern tip of Tobago, down again and on to Speyside, where we stopped for a drink at a beachside café. While we considered a boat trip the wind got up, the waves crashed a little louder on the beach, and then the clouds burst open. We decided to stay on for lunch, and as the rain continued unceasing, we abandoned the boat trip idea.

After a long lunch we headed back down the Atlantic coast with the idea of perhaps visiting Argyle waterfall, Tobago's highest. But the rain still came down, showed no sign of stopping, even getting heavier as we passed the entrance. We thus abandoned further sightseeing for the day and headed up the road over the middle of the island, through the rainforest. Negotiating potholes, hairpins, rain water cascading across the road, we eventually reached the top and breathed a sigh of relief as we dropped back down towards Bloody Bay. The worst seemed over, but a mere kilometre or so from the coast road, the tarmac disappeared. We bumped and crawled our way on through the rain, somewhat nervous about the rather soft front tyre on our hire car but in the end we made it home without mishap.

The rain continued through the evening and night, but early in the morning it stopped. Tuesday was our last full day in Tobago, and we ventured out once more. This time we headed south to Englishman's Bay, a postcard beach, which we had completely to ourselves. A stroll from one end to the other, then some snorkelling on the rocks at the north end, which hosted a few small colonies of coral and teemed with fish, a small moray, box fish, schools of blue tangs and surgeonfish among them. Then we drove on in search of a roadside fruit stall, which we eventually found south of Castara. On the way back we stopped off to admire the views of Castara and Englishman's bay before returning for our last night in Parlatuvier. A night that was loudly interrupted by a deafening noise rather like a strangled whooping, which emanated from the road just behind the cottage. Tentatively we ventured out onto the road to investigate and were greeted by flashing blue lights. It was the local police stopping by to check that we were okay at the solicitous Dwight's request. The man himself soon appeared, saw the nice policemen off and explained that the loudhailer horns on the police jeep were full of water. Hence the weird noise.

In the morning we packed, cleaned, bid a long adieu to Dwight and finally headed for the airport. With no stop off, the overnight flight back to London was rather quicker and more balanced nosh-wise. We landed at rainy Gatwick just after seven in the morning. After picking up a hire car we headed for Bromley, where la soeur had left her car chez the honeymooning petit frère. When the key he'd given us failed to open the back door, all three of us almost lay down and curled up to sleep in the rain, but the lock eventually gave in to a bit of desperate fiddling and we were in. A quick shower before we went our separate ways, la soeur back oop North, us the short hop to Bexleyheath for a siesta with a rude awakening by two excitable young boys…

Tobago ear ache

The post-nuptial week in Tobago passed quietly. The day after we all went up to the newly-wed's villa-for-wedding-night, further up the hill above Stonehaven Bay, for lunch and a dip in the pool. Immediately afterwards, the dispersal started. I took le grand frère and la hermana de la nueva cuñada to the airport to catch their London-bound flight, then shuttled back to home villa where la bienheureuse et la soeur were finishing packing up. The three off us then headed off north into the great Tobago unknown. Parlatuvier was a mere 20km up the coast as the crow flies, but on Tobago's sinuous, mountainous, non-signposted roads, it took a good hour to find.

Our new home for the week was a self-catering cottage in the grounds of a larger property, which is run as a B&B by a retired American couple during the six months of the tourist season. In off-season we were met by the manager, who I shall name Dwight in honour of two of his more famous namesakes, one a fellow Tobagonian. Due to our wildly optimistic estimate of journey time we arrived half an hour late. I apologised to the garrulously genial Dwight for this fact.
"Oh, you're not late," he said dismissively, and proceeded to introduce us to our new home. An hour later he was still showing us round a cottage consisting of two rooms, it was getting dark, and we still had the pool to go.

After giving Dwight a lift home, we ate an improvised dinner out on the balcony, looking across the treetops to the dark ocean beyond. Finally, we collapsed into bed, following Dwight's advice to keep the fans blowing full blast to keep the mosquitoes away. It worked, but it was rather like I'd imagine sleeping inside Concorde's engines would be, albeit without the searing heat.

The next morning, after a somewhat disturbed night's sleep, we headed back down the long and winding road to Stonehaven Bay. A mere 50 minutes later we arrived to find el hermano and la sobrinita suffering from ear infections. No matter, we all headed to the beach for a bit of swimming (head up in the aforementioned two cases) and inflatable doughnut surfing. After lunch, on a blistering hot day, it was time to ferry luggage to the airport and drop off afflicted ears at the clinic on the way. After waving goodbye to the bride's Colombia-bound family, it was back to the clinic to find the patients still queueing. La bienheureuse, la cuñada and I left the sufferers and went off to do a bit of suffering of our own, in the form of provisions shopping. Inquiry at a nearby pharmacy as to whether antibiotic ear drops could be had without prescription produced an answer in the affirmative. We returned to the clinic to find the queue unchanged, but it was decided seeing a doctor was the preferred option, given that the blocked ears would be flying two days later.

La cuñada engineered a bit of queue jumping for her beloveds, but as they still had some way to go before seeing a doctor and the shopping was cooking in the car, I took la bienheureuese and other perishables back to Stonehaven before returning to the clinic once more. Hallelujah, a doctor had been seen, diagnosis made, and prescription provided. Off to the pharmacy, another queue, and finally, three hours after setting off, medicine was obtained. Back at base, it was time for the happy couple to set off on a Barbadian honeymoon. Fond goodbyes over, we consoled ourselves with a dusk stroll to witness the surf pounding the beach and another stunning sunset. After a quick dinner came the long drive in the dark back to Parlatuvier and our isolated, windswept cottage.

Friday, after a somewhat better night's sleep, we retraced the tortuous route south to enjoy the Melbourne gang's last full day in Tobago. For a bit of variety we went to the beach. The breakers rolled in and dissuaded those with infected ears and gestating babies from risking the water. The brave tried a bit of body surfing, but everybody soon went back to the villa and the calmer waters of the pool. Dinner for eight and then it was time for tearful farewells. We hit the night road north one last time, leaving the sweet sobrinas and their parents to pack bags for the flight towards the Florida theme parks. The ears apparently survived.

Barefoot beach wedding

The day dawns bright and sunny, boding well for the festivities ahead. For most of us, it's a question of marking time until the ceremony in the early evening: plunge pool cavorting, beach swimming and snorkelling. For the family of the bride and las sobrinas, it's a day of frantic preparation. Early afternoon, the bride heads off to the marriage night villa to dress while the groom frets and sweats back at base. Furniture is rearranged and decorations put up in the top villa, and finally it is time to don the smart dresses and trousers.

In twos and threes we head down to the beach at the appointed hour, where the groom waits with the presiding clergyman before a temporary gazebo decorated with flowers. A mere five minutes late, the steel pan starts playing - here comes the bride, escorted towards the imaginary altar by her father and brother, while a flower girl (still sober at that stage) prettily paves the way with rose petals. Resplendent in white, la Colombiana joins her novio and the ceremony gets under way. The sun shines brilliantly, the cleric gives a sermon about Naomi, which passed right over my head, and mistakes (deliberately or not) Colombia for Venezuela, hermano and sweet sobrina the elder give readings, and finally the couple exchange their vows which onlookers struggle to hear over the roar of the surf. Then the wedding bands are slipped on, and le petit frère is finally married to his beautiful novia. Cheers all round.

The newly married couple and their witnesses sign the register in the late evening sunshine, and then husband and wife simultaneously fill a vase with individual bottles of sand to symbolise an inseparable union. Finally the groom pops the champagne cork amid a cloud of bubbles and a glorious sunset. Toasts are drunk (a little too enthusiastically on the part of la petite sobrina), many photos taken, many kisses and hugs exchanged, and many waves wet many legs and feet. Then paper lanterns are lit and rise into the rapidly darkening night sky.

Back to the top villa for more champagne. The partying starts with a splash when the bride and groom jump fully clothed into the pool and are soon joined by half the wedding party. The other half clean up while the impromptu swimmers head upstairs to change into dry clothes. Dinner is laid out and swiftly consumed, the cake is cut, and then the party continues back down at the bottom villa, where we are royally entertained for an hour by a drum and dance troupe from Trinidad. Audience participation towards the end with limbo dancing and bamboo pole hopscotch - risk your ankles if you dare.

The dance troupe leaves, and the party continues. More paper lanterns rise into the night sky, some more successfully than others, none of the spinster girls catch the bouquet, more drinking and dancing follows before la bienheureuse and I take advantage of her condition to lead a gradual drift off towards bed. The end of an idyllic day.

Surprise guests

Thursday 9th September
On our first night in Tobago, we're lulled to sleep by rain. Lots of it. The following morning we take breakfast on the terrace and watch the rain bucketing down. Three hours later water still falls from dark skies, but finally it stops and allows us to take an exploratory stroll along the beach before returning to the villa to polish off the remainder of our introductory rations for lunch. In the afternoon therefore, a shopping expedition to replenish food stocks. Cost of provisions at a nearby supermarket and fruit & vegetable shop, a round thousand dollars. Local currency, of course, but still a bit more than I'm used to spending on my habitual 30 euro Monoprix sorties. And we aren't finished yet. Another short trip to the fishermans' stalls at Mount Irvine bay provides some rather tasty mahi-mahi steaks for the barbecue, but value this time is somewhat better than our local Lyon poissonier.

In the evening, salad is prepared, the BBQ fired up (gas, fortunately), and we await the arrival of the bride and groom themselves. At two in the morning London time, they finally make it. Fish dinner swiftly cooked and consumed, beers drunk, and seven exhausted travellers fall into bed.

Friday 10th
Jet lag starting to recede, we allow ourselves a lie-in till eight. After being woken before dawn by the raucous chorus of the cocricos. Noisy birds. While the bride and groom get dragged off on a wedding venue sightseeing tour, the rest of us indulge in a day of rest and recuperation. Another dip in the plunge pool followed by a first dip in the Caribbean sea under cloudy Caribbean skies with a water spout twisting down from the storm clouds in the distance. The heavens soon open to let loose a tropical downpour, duly followed by thunder and lightening. We beat a hasty retreat to find shelter.

Early evening drinks down at the villa of the future jeunes mariés are interrupted by a text message announcing the arrival of the future in-laws of le petit frère on a flight two hours earlier than expected. Off rush two cars to meet them while the rest of us hasten back up to our villa to prepare dinner.

Salad prepared, the BBQ fired up again, and tables rearranged and laid for ten, it comes as a bit of shock when fifteen diners turn up. The uninvited guests are the best surprise though, the Melbourne clan and la suegra, arriving for the wedding after all, having told everybody they couldn't make it. Only the bride and la bienheureuse were in the know (the latter let in on the secret a few days earlier to avoid too much shock to her delicate condition). I should have guessed who the mystery occupants of the middle villa were...

Fortunately the sausages and pork chops stretch far enough, and a happy evening of eating, drinking and catching up ensues. Ten pm bedtime was noon the following day, Australian time.

Saturday 11th

The sun finally puts in an appearance, and after an early morning play in the plunge pool with the sweet sobrinas, everybody hits the beach. My sunbathing is interrupted by a return to the house to catch the final half hour of another glorious victory in faraway London, but others' first taste of Caribbean sunshine ends in sunburn.

In the afternoon, a mass outing to one of the proposed beach wedding venues, Pigeon Point. A bit of a logistical challenge, transporting seventeen people in two small cars, but in the end two trips for each car gets everybody there. Another beach, another swim, torsos and bald heads more judiciously covered this time, a refreshing smoothie, a stroll along the jetty and then it's time for the return trip. The four return trips. I pick up the stragglers in cloud of mosquitoes and finally everybody is back at three villa base.

In the evening we stroll up the road to take dinner for fourteen (la bienheureuse, la prima and husband pleading fatigue) at the Seahorse Inn. Which is full. Eventually they find space and enough tables and chairs for us upstairs and a very pleasant evening meal follows.

Sunday 12th
Settling into the holiday routine now. Fun and frolics with les nièces in the pool in the morning, salad lunch on the terrace, more swimming in the afternoon, pool and sea, with a bit of snorkelling thrown in. Speckled morays, octopus, leaf fish and trumpet fish among the more exotic marine life spotted on the rocky reefs just off the beach. Floating in the calm sea, we watch the sun go down and then head back up to the villas where the future belle-mère of the groom has prepared a delicious Colombian dinner for seventeen.

Monday 13th
The groom, the bride and her parents head off into Scarborough to take care of the administrative formalities of marriage in Tobago, in preparation of the big day tomorrow. Meanwhile, the sweet sobrinas keep us entertained in the plunge pool once more while the ladies go shopping on the hottest day of the holiday. In the afternoon, with the sun shining and the sea like a mirror, those less preoccupied with personal appearance head for the beach, while the bride's sister provides manicures. As the sun dips and flirts with the horizon, suddenly someone spots dozens of small dark creatures cascading down the beach.

Baby turtles! We all dash over to watch the rearguard making their desperate dash for the water. A local digs out the nest and recovers one last straggler who seems unlikely to make it all the way to the water unaided. He is picked up and carried most of the way before we all watch and encourage as he struggles the final few yards. Finally he makes it into the water and bravely swims away in the big wide ocean. A glorious sunset heralds the end of the beginning of a real life drama and we head back up for another tasty Colombian dinner, this time cooked by the original suegra. The young almost-married couple finally announce the chosen venue for the wedding - the local beach. Approval all round, and then it's early to bed for most in anticipation of the great day to come…