Lights in the dark

La Fête des Lumières, edition 2012 turned out to be one of the better vintages of recent years. Impressive displays in at la Cathédrale St Jean, la Place des Terreaux, la colline de Fourvière and le Théâtre des Celestins were the highlights. The only drawback of it all was that the festival seemed more popular than ever, with streets more crowded than ever. For example, an average of almost 200000 people watched "les Chrysalides de St Jean" each night, which is a lot of bodies to pass through the small square in front of the cathedral. La bienheureuse et la belle-mère were forced to queue for almost an hour to see that particular display. La petite famille's viewing was rather more restricted than usual, due to the demands and sleep needs of a small toddler, exhaustion, illness, and cold, damp weather.

Winter malady first reared its ugly head at the end of last month when la bienheureuse was struck down by a particularly nasty virus. Three weeks later she still hasn't shaken it, which isn't helpful given her condition, and now I've picked it up too. Worst cold in history. The streaming nose was relatively short-lived, but the more viscous snot is still clogging sore sinuses, leading to disturbed nights' sleep and the whole-body aches for a couple of days. La petite has also suffered her worst cold yet, but she at least seems more robust than her parents and it only lasted two weeks. The snotty period was followed by a chesty cough, loss of appetite, mild fever and a completely uncharacteristic listlessness that lasted several days. It was rather distressing to watch a little girl who normally never stops charging about just lying quietly on the floor feeling sorry for herself, and meekly going to bed with barely a whimper.

Still, things are looking up. Two weeks of rest and relaxation in damp Blighty over the Christmas break coming up. Though to get there we've got a 1200km drive with two sick parents and a child who hates car seats to get through first…

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.

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...

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!

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.

Chilled

"Le Grand Froid" has well and truly set in. Daytime temperatures yesterday didn't get above -4C, and dropped overnight to minus seven. The central heating is working overtime, and a biting northerly windchill factor of minus ten reduced our daily promenade to fifteen minutes from fear of baby getting home with frozen cheeks. And it's forecast to continue for another week. Brr. On the plus side, clear blue sky was sighted today in Lyon for the first time this year. A small corner of the apartment even saw sunshine.

Indoors we met the nanny from downstairs this morning. Nice lady, if a little brutally honest about my French. "It isn't any better after ten years?" So soon la petite coquinette will start learning to speak the local lingo better than her father, and start learning to share toys and playtime with a couple of little copains. And papa will rediscover free time. By which I mean time to write, of course...

Light visits

The 2011 version of la Fête des Lumières came and went with the usual crowded streets and a couple of visitors making it a crowd chez nous. A bit of a mixed bag this year - some good, some a little underwhelming. Perhaps the moderate impression comes from the fact that we didn't get out to see a great deal of the displays, partly due to the logistical difficulties that come  attached to evening sorties with a 9 month old baby, partly because I rather thoughtlessly booked a flying trip to London last weekend. Which only caused me to miss one night, spent with only a cat for company as my usual hotel owners were all out partying. Nonetheless it was worth the trip because the 1-0 victory over the Toffees coincided with the 125th anniversary of the best football club in the world.

Earlier in the week, visitor number two, la soeur, arrived to see the lights and her niece, not necessarily in that order of priority, on the night of the 8th. Her chauffeur was late arriving at the airport because he lingered to watch the opening night fireworks and trusted the Lyon airport website when it said the flight was twenty minutes late instead of early. Never mind, she got here in the end and the next night her brother treated her to a marathon grand tour of the main light sites in the town centre while the three generations of the other side of the family restricted themselves to a shorter look.

While I was away feeding a habit, the four ladies enjoyed a weekend of not doing any Christmas shopping or any lights viewing. A visit to the Marché de Noël was abandoned due to the crowds. Still, the visitors found their main entertainment without leaving home. On Sunday the traveller returned and did his duty by staying at home to look after baby while the three older ladies visited the park to view la Mythe de la Tête d'Or, one of the highlights of the Lumières.

By Tuesday the visitors had returned from whence they'd come, la bienheureuse was back at work and reluctantly out for dinner in the evening, which meant la petite had only papa for company. A return to her own bedroom met with mixed results. Decent daytime naps were somewhat counterbalanced by a half hour complaining session before she finally went to sleep in the evening. Similar story the next night, with la travailleuse out being quiz master at another work do, followed by a day when she wasn't keen on going to sleep at all. At lunch the situation was complicated by the fact that I was waiting for Monsieur le chauffagiste to turn up to service the boiler. By the time he phoned ninety minutes late to say he was on his way la petite coquinette had won the nap battle, and later in the evening it took an hour for her mother to finally get her to sleep. Two days later things seem to have returned to normal. Famous last words...

Sunny lockout

The long bank holiday weekend was blessed with sunshine and mild temperatures. We duly took advantage with a long afternoon promenade each day. On Friday we followed the crowds along the river to the park, where la petite was treated to her first open air autumn goûter - yoghurt and biscuit on the menu. A pleasant afternoon ended in consternation when we returned home to find the key wouldn't turn in the lock. Not the ideal situation, being locked out of the apartment with an 8 month old baby, but fortunately the upstairs neighbours were there (unusually for a bank holiday weekend) and came to the rescue, providing the phone number of a reliable locksmith, drinks and shelter while he turned up and drilled his way in. New locks on the agenda this week…

Saturday we joined the shopping crowds on the Presqu'île and then had the bright idea of climbing the hill to Fourvière. Baby carrier rather than pushchair might have been the right choice but it was still rather a hard slog with an extra 12kg on papa's back. At the top the crowd queued three deep to look at the view with Mont Blanc just visible in the distance. Second open air afternoon snack on the way down with la petite gourmande demonstrating her raspberry blowing technique to all and sundry. Sunday saw another jaunt to the park - a more genteel amble this time - to mingle with the crowds and the falling leaves. The fine weather continues this week, with night time temperatures inexorably dropping. The first frost isn't far away…

Adjusting

La petite coquinette seems to have adjusted to winter time. Seven am alarm call this morning, but the previous two it was closer to 7:30. As the season changes so it seems do her habits. Perhaps understandably, as the days shorten, she seems to think she has to take advantage of every available daylight hour. And sleeping during the day earlier this week was not part of that agenda. Actually she did eventually, but usually only after lengthy and vociferous protest. Maybe it was just a phase, with tooth number two on the way. Hopefully the reversion to a former favourite pastime - raspberry blowing during mealtime - is also a passing phase. If not we'll soon have rather fetching spatter-effect wallpaper and furniture...

The weather in Lyon remains mild, though not quite as mild as a week ago, when the minimum nighttime temperature was a couple of degrees higher than the average maximum daytime temperature for this time of year. It was looking a lot more like autumn though, with the sunshine of the previous week making way for overcast skies. Which tended to make our habitual afternoon riverside promenades rather gloomy affairs before the sunshine returned yesterday.

La petite famille was reunited again yesterday, after several days apart. Last Saturday I caught an early flight to Blighty for another pilgrimage to the blessed ground. For a change the game was comfortable, as was the habitual overnight welcome chez le grand chef et la petite beaucoup. La bienheureuse and I then briefly crossed in Lyon on Sunday night before she flew to the teutonic north for a couple of days of meetings.

Economic belt tightening is the adjustment apparently required in France to reduce the deficit and retain the sacred triple A rating handed out by the same American based agencies who gave AAA+ rating to Freddie & Fannie Lehman right up to their respective financial deaths. And yesterday one of them 'erroneously' downrated France. Hmm, reliable these ratings then. Anyway, a second austerity plan in two months (still judged insufficient by the EC) resulted in a two per cent rise in lower rate VAT, a bringing forward by a year of the increase in retirement age and linking some social security payments to growth rather than inflation. Economic 'experts' in France and Europe are full of doom and gloom, but then not so long ago most of the same experts were forecasting full recovery by next year…

Elsewhere, belt-loosening is more in the news. A top hotel in Lille has been exposed as the centre of a prostitution ring, with the hotel manager and a high-up policeman among the chief suspects for running it. And another name heavily linked to the affair is none other than Dominic Strauss-Kahn, the man with seemingly the biggest libido in France. Texts from him have been found on the phone of a local businessman also involved in the whole business talking about parties and 'young ladies' in Lille, Barcelona and New York.

Another policeman in trouble is the former number two in the Lyon Police Judiciare (rough equivalent of the CID), who is in prison while under investigation for corruption and links to organised crime. The man once fêted as Lyon's top crime-busting cop allegedly used drugs seized by the police to keep a supposed informer sweet, supplied copies of police files  to, and accepted expensive holidays from, individuals known to be part of Lyon's criminal underworld…

Autumn warmth

No sooner home from the warm sunny south than back out again on a balmy late September Lyon evening. Having once again indulged in an OL season ticket, the 4th home game of the season was my first chance to use it. Les gones this season are a different team to last. Gone are the sterile Puel tactics of last year; the new watchword under new coach Remi Garde (who learnt from the maître manager in England) is entertainment. So far so good - OL went into the game 2nd in the table and continued in more or less the same vein with a 3-1 win over Bordeaux.

The Indian summer continued into October apart from a couple of damp days which coincided with the arrival of la belle-mère. Not to worry though, the sunshine and record temperatures soon returned, and Mamy enjoyed a week of her granddaughter's company, sundry sewing chores, copious cup-cake cooking and afternoon perambulator ambles along the sunny banks of the Rhône.

Too soon she reluctantly went home and, just as reluctantly, la bienheureuse followed her to the airport at the start of a hectic week of travelling. Milan on Tuesday and Wednesday, home in the evening just in time for a cuddle before bedtime with la petite, then off to Germany the following morning before baby was awake. Finally home again on Friday evening, with barely time to pause for breath before we all set off for a weekend across the Channel later today, followed by more business travel, for la travaillleuse, across the Irish sea. First flight for la petite coquinette…

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...

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...

Cooling and climbing

Baby travel tale number five, Tuesday: in thirty-five degree heat, la grand-mère, la mère et la fille set off in la voiture with broken air-conditioning to visit a friend and her baby. Short ten minute journey fortunately, and la petite behaves perfectly during the trip there, the visit, and falls asleep in the car on the way back! Hallelujah.

Next day le père takes the car to the garage to get the air-conditioning fixed. Diagnosis: leaking compressor. Cost of repair: 900 euros for a new replacement, or 560 for a repaired one. Plus labour costs. Hmm, trusty (air-con apart) old banger is barely worth that much. Internet search reveals second hand compressors are available for about 100 euros. Wonder if the (franchised) garage will put it in? Quatorze juillet yesterday and bridging day today, garage closed. Have to wait till next week to find out…

There was the usual fireworks show above Fourvière yesterday to celebrate la fête nationale, an event dampened by the deaths of five French soldiers in Afghanistan but not by the torrential rain, which came and went the previous day. La belle-mère et le beau-fils toddled to the end of the road late last night to watch, while la bienheureuse looked after last feed of the day for la petite coquinette. The latter has learned a new trick recently - blowing raspberries. Which she does frequently and with great gusto. Significance? No idea. Any baby behaviour experts out there, answers on a postcard please.

Bastille day also produced minor fireworks yesterday, during the start of the real Tour de France, the first mountain stage. As expected, French cyclists made valiant attempts to win the stage, accompanied by a worthy Welsh gooner, but in the end the favourites all finished more or less together. Main talking point though was the fact that the others gained a few more seconds on Contador. Never seen before.

Up until yesterday the Tour was characterised by the number of falls. Contador alone has tumbled four times. Seems it really isn't his year, but the most spectacular day of chutes was on Sunday, when several riders were severely injured in one major crash, and a car belonging to France Televisions knocked two of the leading group into a barbed wire fence. Both bravely got back on their bikes and finished the stage, but the incident made lots of noise in France. The car driver was excluded from the tour, and there is talk about requiring all drivers and motorbike riders to be former professional cyclists. Most already are, though not the culprit on Sunday.

Jammed

Lyon was named in a recent survey as the sixth most gridlocked city in Europe, behind London but ahead of Paris. Who would have believed it? Most lyonnais for a start. The recent change to limit speeds on roads in the Presqu'île to 30kph and allow bikes to ride the wrong way down such roads didn't meet with universal approval, and Saturday did nothing improve the mood those trying to drive in the city. A go-slow drive by motorcyclists asserting their right to do as they please on the roads held up traffic in the morning, and then in the afternoon the Gay Pride march brought it to a standstill. As for us, we were pleased to see transvestites holding up traffic as it meant one of those pesky scooter riders didn't get the chance to gun his souped up 50cc engine driving under a bridge that we walk under on our afternoon stroll along the river. La petite thus didn't get rudely awoken from her afternoon nap.

On Sunday we strolled the other way along the river to witness the greening of Place Bellecour, turned from the second largest square in Europe into one of the smallest arable farms. Nature Capitale came to Lyon after Paris and the Champs Elysée last year and New York next. Parcels of wheat, barley, vines, oats and wild flowers were all pleasant enough, but we were left slightly underwhelmed by it all, and la petite was distinctly unimpressed. She slept through the whole thing.

Meanwhile, two of the most inevitable changes in French football occurred over the weekend. The FFF elected a new president to supposedly sweep a new broom through the system following the World Cup debacle, and Claude Puel and OL finally parted company. No more "Puel - demission!" chants at games next season. Not sure the fans will know what to do. The man who "turned OL into a pedal car" is likely to be replaced by the director of the football academy, Remi Garde. Who, of course, has impeccable credentials, having played under the best coach in the world...

Eclipsed

Perhaps it was the lunar eclipse and the associated full moon. The day after, a little angel turned into a little monster for three hours. Or perhaps it was the fact that her mother was working out of town and thus didn't get home in time for the usual bedtime routine. Earlier in the day she was a perfect little sweetheart - went down for morning and lunchtime naps with nary a whimper, slept well, played, shouted and gurgled happily all day. Until 4pm when I tried to put her to bed for the usual siesta.

Not playing: "I shall thcweam and thcweam until papa is thick".

Okay, papa gives in, gives his little angel some of her tea early, gets back on track and then tries to put her to bed at around the normal time. And it worked. For five minutes. And so it continued for the next hour. Blissful silence as soon as I pick her up, full volume yelling as soon as I try putting her in the cot. Eventually la bienheureuse gets home and immediately has a baby thrust into her arms.

"Here, she's yours."

And of course, she was asleep ten minutes later. Since then that switch which turns la petite off for a nap has gone slightly faulty. Now she usually needs an extra few minutes of cuddling before she'll accept being put into bed. No great hardship, and perhaps she was too kind to us early in her life…

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…

Three and easy

Splendid weekend, more like April than mid-January. Dawn to dusk sunshine and temperatures in the mid-teens dragged us out on Saturday afternoon for a walk in the park, where giraffes gambolled in the belief that spring had arrived. The weekend also marked the official start of le congé maternité de la bienheureuse. Not quite the end of work though, because the infernal computer came home with her to allow peace of mind and a few bits and pieces to be finished off.

Saturday was also first day back for French football after the winter break. Feeding both English and French habits proved a logistical problem, with the Gooners in the early evening slot and les Gones playing at 9pm. La bienheureuse has ceded her seat at Gerland to a work colleague for the rest of the season but accompanied me to the pub in the hope of eating dinner while we watched part one of the evening's drama. Vain hope, with the pub full of first Saturday sales shoppers and the crucial match only on the upstairs screen where food is banned. An attempt to persuade the manager to put it on downstairs failed, so she went home and put her feet up while I watched the Irons easily hammered and then hotfooted it to Gerland. End result, two comfortable 3-0 wins, with the transformation of a former whipping boy from the local enemy into a top Gone hero complete.

Fire and ice

The long cold winter continues, but the Fêtes des Lumières is over for another year. Slightly muted event this year but still some impressive displays - the projections on a water spray in Place de la Rèpublique and the beautifully lit Bartholdi fountain in Place des Terreaux among the highlights. The fiery display in Parc de la Tête d'Or was also good, but it was the one place where the policy of avoiding crowd bottlenecks failed. We turned up at the same time as several thousand other people early on Saturday evening, and joined the crush trying to get in through one small gate. Getting out was even worse, despite the main gate being open by then. The complete lack of crowd control meant there was a logjam between the entrance and exit flows. Fortunately we extricated ourselves and extra bump without too much alarm…

Click here for more Lumières

After a morning visit to a new 'British èpicerie' (pretty well, and relatively inexpensively stocked with normally unobtainable staple items such as Marmite & philadelphia cheese), la bienheureuse spent last Sunday baking cakes - flapjack, lemon tart, figgy cake. Alas, not all for me, but for work colleagues to eat in celebration of her birthday (joyeux anniversaries, ma bien-aimée). Strange custom, but  she left enough at home to keep me happy for a week. When not eating, I've spent most of the last few days on traditional pursuits for the time of year - sorting out the heating, and improving our TV viewing experience. Finally decided to upgrade our cable TV subscription to take advantage of HD and a hard disk recorder. All installed fine, lovely picture, but impossible to record anything. Thus I was back in the shop yesterday attempting to exchange the decoder when I received a phone call from Monsieur le Chauffagiste, who had arrived chez moi 45 minutes early.

Not at all what one expects from a plumber, but in other respects he lived up to the stereotype perfectly. He was there to fix a pressure leak in the boiler, but I'd earlier asked him for a quote to put in a heating thermostat/programmer: 450 Euros. Beaucoup trop cher, I thought, and promptly found a suitable device on ebay, brand new for 60 euros. Phoned him again for another quote: 300 euros. Still too expensive by my book, so I figured out how to attach the thing to the boiler myself and told him as much when he was here yesterday. "You can't do that," he says. "Yes I can," I says I, "unless you want to do it for 100 euros."
He wouldn't bite but negotiations eventually concluded with a deal for 150 euros. Cash of course. Still seems steep to me, but it means I don't have to do the scrabbling around, drilling holes, running wires up and down and through walls, etc, etc…

The rest of the week has been unremarkable, save another disappointing trip to the pub on Monday night. 11 without a win in games that really matter, and still counting. Boys must become men eventually, surely…
Perhaps I'll get a clue on Saturday when I return to the sacred stadium to witness the battle against the high ball bombs of the Potters. Weather permitting, that is. Up to 10 centimetres of snow forecast here overnight. Brr…

Up and down

Life's a yo-yo, driven by the weather. Daytime maximum temperatures over the last week: -2 on Friday, 12 on Monday, 18 on Wednesday, 2 on Thursday. I missed the warmest 8th December on record in Lyon with a bit of up and down of my own. After watching a yo-yo match at Gerland on a balmy Tuesday evening (1-0 up, 2-1 down, one man down, 2-2 the final score, second place in the group), up in a plane from St Exupéry the next morning, down at Gatwick where it was about 15 degrees colder. London was suitably chilly for a stroll through the 'Winter Wonderland' in Hyde Park, followed by a wander through Kensington Gardens looking at strange reflective stainless steel sculptures.

Thence up to Finsbury Park to deliver shock news to the McBhoy and meet le grand chef in the Marquess. Three pints and a burger later we were in the holy ground watching a lacklustre passage to the knockout phases of the champions league. A Spanish or German giant awaits. We can only get better... Can't we?

After a morning chez J&C locked in financial negotiations, I headed home to more freezing temperatures. The football trip had been rather poorly conceived in that I missed the 8th décembre Fêtes des Lumières celebrations for the first time in 9 years, leaving la bienheureuse to view the bougies and fireworks on her own. So I got home, wolfed down soup and Christmas cake and then I left her in bed while I went out for a quick late night viewing of my own. First impressions this year are that the lights are somewhat lower key than usual. Perhaps partly a concession to la crise, perhaps partly an attempt to avoid the crowd crushes and bottlenecks that have been a feature of the big set piece displays in recent years. Photos to follow…

All white, all right

The snow finally arrived in Lyon yesterday lunchtime. By evening there was a covering of ten centimetres on the ground, and by this morning it was twenty. Predictably the city has more or less ground to a halt. Hardly any traffic on the roads, all buses and a third of flights cancelled. Even la bienheureuse didn't risk the icy pavements and worked from home. Fortunately it was yesterday she had her first appointment with the sage femme up on the Croix Rousse plateau. Both patients checked out fine, tiny heart beating strongly. Twelve weeks to go...