Almost too much news in France at the moment. Current main headline is the civil unrest in the Antilles, which pushed another national broadcast last night by Sarkozy further down the front page. Earlier in the week it was a violent and audacious prison break which dominated news bulletins.
Sarko's pre-recorded prime time broadcast last night was his second of the month. The first was a marathon two and a half hour question and answer session with four journalists from the main TV and radio channels to respond to the financial and social crisis that is gripping France, much like the rest of the world. It was something of a tour de force, but did little to ease fears. Last night was a mere ten minute, straight to camera address, intended address criticism that he'd announced little in the way of concrete action the previous time. Various measures to help the less well off and struggling small businesses were announced, but few think it's enough...
Monsieur le Président also only made a passing mention of the crisis some think should be top of the political agenda at the moment. France's Caribbean départements are in a state of near breakdown at the moment. There's been a general strike in Guadaloupe for nearly a month now, and recently the situation has deteriorated into riots which came to a head yesterday when a union official was shot and killed by protestors as he tried to turn round at a road block. Meanwhile there is also now a general strike in Martinique, and Guyane is looking like heading down the same road.
It's all about the high cost and low standard of living in the Antilles. The protestors claim that a small, white elite originating from mainland France hold a financial stranglehold on the islands, and maintain a cartel which keeps prices artificially high. It's certainly true that the cost of living there (as we saw first hand in St Martin) is much higher than in the Métropole. This morning François Fillon, the Premier Ministre, announced a 200 euro monthly supplement to low wage earners. It remains to be seen whether that's enough...
On a slightly lighter note, jailbreaks in France seem to be a favourite past time and preoccupation of French criminals. There was a recent popular film about Jacques Mésrine, public enemy number one in the sixties and seventies, who escaped several times from prison, and while on the run attempted to break some of his cronies out of another jail. After numerous bank robberies, murders and kidnappings he was eventually killed while evading capture in Paris in 1979.
The latest to try and emulate him were two major criminals who managed to escape from Moulins prison by blowing up the door of the visiting room and taking two guards hostage on the way out. Despite crashing on the autoroute shortly afterwards, and being chased by two helicopters and sundry police vehicles, they somehow managed to evade capture by busting through the toll barriers. They later released the guards, commandeered another car and took the occupants hostage. Another car and hostage swap later, they were finally captured after two days on the run in a shoot out on another autoroute near Paris. One of them received two bullets in the chest for his pains, and his girlfriend has just been arrested on charges of supplying them with explosives.
Not all prison breaks are successful though. A high security prison in south west has just claimed to have foiled an elaborate attempt by a couple of Corsican mafia members to escape using a helicopter and a massive steel box which was designed to shield them from prison guard and police bullets. A French criminal hasn't made it unless he's at least attempted to break out of gaol.
Life in Lyon seems quiet in comparison...
19 février 2009
17 février 2009
Winning again, better late than never
A quiet valentine's day. No flowers, no cards, just a nice meal cooked by ma bien-aimée. C'est moi qui l'a fait ces dernières années, that's my excuse. Then a Sunday almost as quiet. We did venture out twice, once to do a hasty video, then later to the football. Too late as it turned out. On the way to the ground we were a little bemused to be on a metro virtually empty, and certainly devoid of OL fans. Speculation as to whether we'd got the wrong day, wrong time or wrong venue ended as we emerged at Gerland. The match had kicked off half an hour earlier than we'd thought. Than I'd thought. Ho hum...
Anyway, we only missed the first fifteen minutes, and it was still 0-0 when we took our seats. Which was no great surprise because the French league leaders have failed to win a home league game since mid November. Fortunately on Sunday they were playing la lanterne rouge, bottom of the league Le Havre. And it all came good finally with a comfortable 3-1 win.
Almost all good anyway. OL's Nigerian defender John Mensah was sent off after two yellow cards in a second half during which he seemed to be trying to see red. It emerged later that he probably was, and had asked to be taken off at half time because he'd been upset by racist taunts by a sprinkling of the handful of Le Havre 'fans'. One of them was arrested and charged, the latest in a spate of incidents in French stadia this season...
Yesterday, while la bienheureuse was away in Germany, it was the turn of my true équipe de coeur to get back on the winning track. And for a change I got a chance to watch it at home, with France Televisions having the rights to the FA Cup this year. Highly gratifying, all in all...
Anyway, we only missed the first fifteen minutes, and it was still 0-0 when we took our seats. Which was no great surprise because the French league leaders have failed to win a home league game since mid November. Fortunately on Sunday they were playing la lanterne rouge, bottom of the league Le Havre. And it all came good finally with a comfortable 3-1 win.
Almost all good anyway. OL's Nigerian defender John Mensah was sent off after two yellow cards in a second half during which he seemed to be trying to see red. It emerged later that he probably was, and had asked to be taken off at half time because he'd been upset by racist taunts by a sprinkling of the handful of Le Havre 'fans'. One of them was arrested and charged, the latest in a spate of incidents in French stadia this season...
Yesterday, while la bienheureuse was away in Germany, it was the turn of my true équipe de coeur to get back on the winning track. And for a change I got a chance to watch it at home, with France Televisions having the rights to the FA Cup this year. Highly gratifying, all in all...
13 février 2009
Soggy, snowy weekend
We spent five days back in Blighty last weekend, leaving Lyon in the pouring rain and arriving at a snow blanketed Stansted. Surprisingly, given that the runway was closed for a period in the morning to clear the snow, our flight landed 15 minutes early. An efficiently organised baggage and hire car collection meant we were chez Professor Margarita in Cambridge soon after four, before the master and his dog were even back from their gambol in the snow. The evening ran a familiar course, with a pint or two in the pub followed by a Pipasha curry.
Saturday morning my plan to get a football fix by watching les jeunes cannoniers was flummoxed by the weather, and I had to be content with dropping la bienheureuse off in Cambridge to do some shopping. Later in the afternoon the Wigs arrived, Sogs saying goodbye to southern friends and relatives before she satisfies her wanderlust and heads off to Madadascar or Mozambique, Australia, New Zealand, and parts further afield. The evening was spent in highly enjoyable fashion, dining and wining Italian style at De Lucas with selected other members of the Cambridge clique.
Sunday was family day with a lunchtime trip to another local pub. Big M and a larger than usual lady K made the drive in from their Fenland outpost, while the DenEboy brought his lady and baby all the way up from deepest Berkshire. Only the poorly Ms H was missed. After an afternoon in front of the fire, we had a quiet night in.
Monday JeB and the builder headed off to work, la bienheureuse joined them in spirit, using the Margarita man's internet connection to work from our temporary home and avoid going into the local office. Meanwhile the Soggy girl and I twiddled thumbs, met the other two for lunch in town while la bienheureuse conducted a marathon phone conference. Then we watched daytime TV before I succumbed to moral pressure and gave the Sogwig a lift to the airport. In the evening it was back to eating and drinking, with the builder taking a leaf out of the book of guests maitre-chef JW and mlle Beaucoup by cooking us all a delicious and generously portioned paella.
Tuesday I chauffeured la bienheureuse into the local office for an all-day meeting and then was reduced to going into town to do some window shopping. Finally it was time to pick her up again and after a farewell cup of tea with Professor Margarita and Harry, we headed south to Stansted. A horribly early flight the next morning meant a room in the airport hotel for the night was fully justified. An early night, even earlier rising, another flight on time, and we were back in cold Lyon by ten-thirty.
Saturday morning my plan to get a football fix by watching les jeunes cannoniers was flummoxed by the weather, and I had to be content with dropping la bienheureuse off in Cambridge to do some shopping. Later in the afternoon the Wigs arrived, Sogs saying goodbye to southern friends and relatives before she satisfies her wanderlust and heads off to Madadascar or Mozambique, Australia, New Zealand, and parts further afield. The evening was spent in highly enjoyable fashion, dining and wining Italian style at De Lucas with selected other members of the Cambridge clique.
Sunday was family day with a lunchtime trip to another local pub. Big M and a larger than usual lady K made the drive in from their Fenland outpost, while the DenEboy brought his lady and baby all the way up from deepest Berkshire. Only the poorly Ms H was missed. After an afternoon in front of the fire, we had a quiet night in.
Monday JeB and the builder headed off to work, la bienheureuse joined them in spirit, using the Margarita man's internet connection to work from our temporary home and avoid going into the local office. Meanwhile the Soggy girl and I twiddled thumbs, met the other two for lunch in town while la bienheureuse conducted a marathon phone conference. Then we watched daytime TV before I succumbed to moral pressure and gave the Sogwig a lift to the airport. In the evening it was back to eating and drinking, with the builder taking a leaf out of the book of guests maitre-chef JW and mlle Beaucoup by cooking us all a delicious and generously portioned paella.
Tuesday I chauffeured la bienheureuse into the local office for an all-day meeting and then was reduced to going into town to do some window shopping. Finally it was time to pick her up again and after a farewell cup of tea with Professor Margarita and Harry, we headed south to Stansted. A horribly early flight the next morning meant a room in the airport hotel for the night was fully justified. An early night, even earlier rising, another flight on time, and we were back in cold Lyon by ten-thirty.
03 février 2009
Ski, sun and a star named Coco
Another year, another January, another week of glorious weather and skiing, another seven nights of gourmet self-catering at La Tourterelle...
Sat 24 Jan
The week starts well bar a forgotten coat and house keys on a train at Paddington, and despite the JonE and DenE boys spending too long in the bar at Heathrow. They just manage to board their flight before the doors close, and arrive in Lyon in perfect time for us to pick them up and successfully rendezvous with the Cambridge bus crew for the wine and cheese handover. Le frère arrives in the pouring rain at Part Dieu via Eurostar and TGV, with his other jacket locked in a suitcase with the keys still in London. We queue for a taxi and on arrival chez nous he finds it disconcertingly easy to force the lock.
The wining and dining gets off to an auspicious start with delicious tuna meatballs and a taster or two from the week's carte des vins.
Sun 25 Jan
Once again we manage to cram la petite voiture with five adults, four pairs of ski boots, three pairs of skis and other assorted baggage for a winter's week in the mountains. The precipitation of the previous two days has stopped, the roads are clear of snow for the drive up to Meribel, and we arrive in time for an afternoon's skiing in the sunshine on lovely fresh snow. Les Gooners variously stop early to watch the bore draw with Cardiff.
The Tourterelle onze are more or less reunited in the evening, with Professor Margarita coming in as a late replacement for the la prime J, who wasn't forwarded enough. Le maitre cuisinier gets the gourmandisement going with soupe de chou-fleur and a sublimely palatable Pork in Calvados. The wine cellar and cheese board are attacked with the usual gusto.
Mon 26 Jan
Les deux petite skieuses are up early for their usual pedagogic rendezvous with Super Suzie and Miss J, who this year is staying in a more sedate chalet further up the mountain. The rest of us take rather more time to hit the slopes on a day of mitigated weather, as the French would say. The clouds and the odd flake however don't spoil the enjoyment, and we have some lovely runs in Courchevel 1650 in the morning, before a gradual parting of the ways as we wend our way back to Meribel in the afternoon.
Le gateau choco-banane de la bienheureuse completes a satisfying first day, before the early evening arrival of the real star of the Meribel show, Coco la kino. Physio to la quinze de France, various other rugby teams and Wimbledon tennis players, she becomes our masseuse, osteopathic consultant and body mechanic for the week. JonEboy and the builder-gardener are her first clients. Diagnosis and treatment tally: one mildly twisted knee and poultice, one displaced and replaced shoulder tendon, one torn thumb ligament duly strapped.
The Margarita man then bravely ignores his injured thumb to create his powerful signature cocktail for the rest of us, excepting the author who is still suffering the after effects of the previous two night's drinking. Everybody manages to stagger to the table to enjoy yet another exquisite effort from le grand chef - salmon and horseradish amuses bouches, gnocchi et jambon entrée, rounded off by coconut and salmon laksa, with a bit of unrelated happy slapping as an amusing entre-plats. The cheeseboard is almost an after thought. After dinner JeB subjects a select but brave few to a core strength test which ends with only three men standing, or rather lying, and accusations of cheat flying from certain non-participants.
Tue 27 Jan
An even later start with the usual breakfast entertainment of tinkling on an out of tune piano, but most manage to hit the slopes by ten thirty and have fun on the east and west slopes of la Tougnette. After les filles head off for afternoon lessons, the rest of us gradually go our separate ways.
While the Sh**head card school gets going between cups of tea and more cake, Coco is back by popular request in the early evening. La bienheureuse is first on the massage table: another displaced tendon and numerous knots in back and shoulders are relaxed before another knee poultice is applied. La petite beaucoup is next and reports no major problems.
JeB's scrumptious cassoulet is next on the menu, and much enjoyed by all, as is the first dessert of the week, another la bienheureuse speciality, tarte tatin. Few have room for cheese, but schnapps and genepi digestifs do the after dinner rounds.
Wed 28 Jan
Le soleil est de retour! Morning lessons again for les deux petites, and the rest of us eventually manage to head off for a bit of glacier skiing, via a missed chocolat chaud rendezvous in Val Thorens. Reunited, we manage one lovely run down before la bienheureuse, JeB and I head home, leaving the others to attack the second glacier.
It's my turn to undergo the Coco treatment in the evening. Diagnosis: knotted shoulders due to the stress of a layabout sponger's life, but my back surprisingly receives a good report - straight spine and no real problems. La petite skieuse is next and in contrast her spine needs straightening and another tendon realigning. Meanwhile sounds emanating from the piano suggests that the DenEboy's practice is paying off in spades, but it turns la reine serène showing off her rather more accomplished skills instead.
It's also the final night's cooking for le grand chef, and we have a guest for dinner, la prime J paying us a visit on her catered chalet's night off. Prof Margarita's understudy sets us up with some marginally less strong cocktails, and as usual JW exceeds himself with a huge and delicious venison dish, preceded by more salmon and horseradish. Midway through the week, wine stocks are surprisingly holding up and we're more or less sticking to our ration of six bottles a night. An after dinner game of cards, with the master-builder teaching the master-chef how to play, ends with the former as Sh**head and the latter asleep.
Thu 29 Jan
A day off school for the Super Suzie acolytes, and another cloudless day, so we all head off towards Tougnette again. After a Coco-aided victory in the battle of the wounded knee the previous day, la bienheureuse is forced to retreat to some more gentle skiing on her own, while the rest of us head towards Mont Vallon. The long run down the mogul-infested east flank is enjoyed by all, despite a rare face plant from the master skier DenEboy. JW and I then have a quick run down the west flank piste while the others rest weary limbs in the café at the bottom. Thence we wend our way Meribel-wards and for old time's sake head up to Saulire for the late run down in the setting sun.
An early evening massage leaves the DeB, chef for the evening, remarkably unstressed and unhurried about getting down to cooking. While le frère takes his turn with Coco, the sous-chef grows more agitated about her master's apparent lack of urgency. With reason. Three hours later the pork stroganoff is finally ready and we sit down to dinner at ten. The wait is worth it though, and the laid-back chef produces a chocolicious bread pudding to follow. Then it's straight to bed, though a few can't resist a cheese and port digestif.
Fri 30 Jan
Greedy for improvement, les skieuses are up early for their big day out with Suzie. La bienheureuse gives her knee a rest from skiing and after les six garçons spend the morning variously on le grand duc, and la facejerusalem, the BJ boys and the JonEboy meet the BJ girl at the top of Saulire for lunch. JeB and la bienheureuse then head home in the bubble car leaving le frère et moi to take a first back of the leg whacking ride up Creux Noirs before wending our way back to Meribel via the Courchevel and La Tania valleys. JW and DeB meanwhile heed the urgings H le rouge has been making all week and enjoy themselves on La Masse. The master chef and I are the only ones to meet up for the late Saulire run home.
Final night of massages for la bienheureuse and the Margarita man, final knee poultice, final thumb strapping, and then it's au revoir to Coco. Our bodies will miss you. On the up side, Friday night is tartiflette night. With all the hard work of potato peeling and onion slicing completed by la bienheureuse, all JeB and I have to do is fry, assemble and stick it all in the oven. Result, one of the most delicious savoyard dishes known to man.
Tartiflette night also means vodka sorbet night, and vodka sorbet night means First Impressions night. Add it all together and you get a lot of drunken revelry and fun. This year it's la petite boss who finds it all a bit too much mid-game and disappears downstairs to be not seen again till morning. JeB and JW do their besht to finish the vodka, but manage to remain shlightly more coherent than last year. The game finishes uncompleted but with the la petite et le grand team declared winners, and the gang of three ending up with the most attributed personality traits. Weird, moi?
Sat 31 Jan
The last full day of the holiday is somewhat foreshortened by a late start. It's after eleven by the time the survivors manage to assemble on the slopes and eventually stumble over to Val Thorens for another run down the glacier. Les deux petites play good samaritan to a fallen kindred spirit on a steep red slope while her husband stands idly by. After a late lunch the DeB and I head home while the remainder make the most of their final day on the slopes.
La reine serène is chef for leftovers night, a misnomer if ever there was one. Delicious grilled nachos are followed by mouth-watering roast vegetables with venison and a savoury selection of grilled sausages. The only leftovers by the end of the night are on the cheese board. Even the wine was perfectly judged this year, the last bottle drunk with the last mouthful of food.
And so we make our way to bed, heavy of heart, heavy of leg, heavy of stomach but light of head and light of spirit. 'Twas a good week, blessed by great snow, good weather, fine food and wine, and amiable company. We will be back next year, credit crunch, falling exchange rates and failing bodies allowing...
Sun 1 Feb
Correction: Saturday wasn't quite the end of the week. The Cambridge minibus crew were up early and away by 8.15am leaving the Lyon clan to finish tidying the chalet and head off for an abbreviated day's skiing. We were back in la capitale des gauls by five-thirty, in time for soup, cheese and wine before le frère et moi headed off to Gerland for a less than inspiring derby draw with les stephanois. Meanwhile the Cambridge crew crossed the channel and hit snow in the Kent lowlands, but still got home.
Mon 2 Feb
Snow and chaos in the UK, calm weather and chaos in Lyon. The JonE and DenE boys decide to go to the airport despite their flight back to Heathrow being cancelled, but wring little from BA other than a promise to 'try' and put them on the same flight the next day. Thus I make a second trip to the airport to collect them again and then direct them to the train station in an attempt to get back via TGV and Eurostar. They eventually just manage to catch the same train as le frère and get as far as Lille. There, JeB keeps his seat on an overcrowded Eurostar while DeB and le frère are forced to get off. However, he who laughs last, laughs loudest. JeB's train is held up in the tunnel and overtaken by the one the other two eventually catch. The boys finally get home to Reading, Bristol and Cambridge at 10pm, midnight and 4am respectively. La bienheureuse and I had an early night.
Sat 24 Jan
The week starts well bar a forgotten coat and house keys on a train at Paddington, and despite the JonE and DenE boys spending too long in the bar at Heathrow. They just manage to board their flight before the doors close, and arrive in Lyon in perfect time for us to pick them up and successfully rendezvous with the Cambridge bus crew for the wine and cheese handover. Le frère arrives in the pouring rain at Part Dieu via Eurostar and TGV, with his other jacket locked in a suitcase with the keys still in London. We queue for a taxi and on arrival chez nous he finds it disconcertingly easy to force the lock.
The wining and dining gets off to an auspicious start with delicious tuna meatballs and a taster or two from the week's carte des vins.
Sun 25 Jan
Once again we manage to cram la petite voiture with five adults, four pairs of ski boots, three pairs of skis and other assorted baggage for a winter's week in the mountains. The precipitation of the previous two days has stopped, the roads are clear of snow for the drive up to Meribel, and we arrive in time for an afternoon's skiing in the sunshine on lovely fresh snow. Les Gooners variously stop early to watch the bore draw with Cardiff.
The Tourterelle onze are more or less reunited in the evening, with Professor Margarita coming in as a late replacement for the la prime J, who wasn't forwarded enough. Le maitre cuisinier gets the gourmandisement going with soupe de chou-fleur and a sublimely palatable Pork in Calvados. The wine cellar and cheese board are attacked with the usual gusto.
Mon 26 Jan
Les deux petite skieuses are up early for their usual pedagogic rendezvous with Super Suzie and Miss J, who this year is staying in a more sedate chalet further up the mountain. The rest of us take rather more time to hit the slopes on a day of mitigated weather, as the French would say. The clouds and the odd flake however don't spoil the enjoyment, and we have some lovely runs in Courchevel 1650 in the morning, before a gradual parting of the ways as we wend our way back to Meribel in the afternoon.
Le gateau choco-banane de la bienheureuse completes a satisfying first day, before the early evening arrival of the real star of the Meribel show, Coco la kino. Physio to la quinze de France, various other rugby teams and Wimbledon tennis players, she becomes our masseuse, osteopathic consultant and body mechanic for the week. JonEboy and the builder-gardener are her first clients. Diagnosis and treatment tally: one mildly twisted knee and poultice, one displaced and replaced shoulder tendon, one torn thumb ligament duly strapped.
The Margarita man then bravely ignores his injured thumb to create his powerful signature cocktail for the rest of us, excepting the author who is still suffering the after effects of the previous two night's drinking. Everybody manages to stagger to the table to enjoy yet another exquisite effort from le grand chef - salmon and horseradish amuses bouches, gnocchi et jambon entrée, rounded off by coconut and salmon laksa, with a bit of unrelated happy slapping as an amusing entre-plats. The cheeseboard is almost an after thought. After dinner JeB subjects a select but brave few to a core strength test which ends with only three men standing, or rather lying, and accusations of cheat flying from certain non-participants.
Tue 27 Jan
An even later start with the usual breakfast entertainment of tinkling on an out of tune piano, but most manage to hit the slopes by ten thirty and have fun on the east and west slopes of la Tougnette. After les filles head off for afternoon lessons, the rest of us gradually go our separate ways.
While the Sh**head card school gets going between cups of tea and more cake, Coco is back by popular request in the early evening. La bienheureuse is first on the massage table: another displaced tendon and numerous knots in back and shoulders are relaxed before another knee poultice is applied. La petite beaucoup is next and reports no major problems.
JeB's scrumptious cassoulet is next on the menu, and much enjoyed by all, as is the first dessert of the week, another la bienheureuse speciality, tarte tatin. Few have room for cheese, but schnapps and genepi digestifs do the after dinner rounds.
Wed 28 Jan
Le soleil est de retour! Morning lessons again for les deux petites, and the rest of us eventually manage to head off for a bit of glacier skiing, via a missed chocolat chaud rendezvous in Val Thorens. Reunited, we manage one lovely run down before la bienheureuse, JeB and I head home, leaving the others to attack the second glacier.
It's my turn to undergo the Coco treatment in the evening. Diagnosis: knotted shoulders due to the stress of a layabout sponger's life, but my back surprisingly receives a good report - straight spine and no real problems. La petite skieuse is next and in contrast her spine needs straightening and another tendon realigning. Meanwhile sounds emanating from the piano suggests that the DenEboy's practice is paying off in spades, but it turns la reine serène showing off her rather more accomplished skills instead.
It's also the final night's cooking for le grand chef, and we have a guest for dinner, la prime J paying us a visit on her catered chalet's night off. Prof Margarita's understudy sets us up with some marginally less strong cocktails, and as usual JW exceeds himself with a huge and delicious venison dish, preceded by more salmon and horseradish. Midway through the week, wine stocks are surprisingly holding up and we're more or less sticking to our ration of six bottles a night. An after dinner game of cards, with the master-builder teaching the master-chef how to play, ends with the former as Sh**head and the latter asleep.
Thu 29 Jan
A day off school for the Super Suzie acolytes, and another cloudless day, so we all head off towards Tougnette again. After a Coco-aided victory in the battle of the wounded knee the previous day, la bienheureuse is forced to retreat to some more gentle skiing on her own, while the rest of us head towards Mont Vallon. The long run down the mogul-infested east flank is enjoyed by all, despite a rare face plant from the master skier DenEboy. JW and I then have a quick run down the west flank piste while the others rest weary limbs in the café at the bottom. Thence we wend our way Meribel-wards and for old time's sake head up to Saulire for the late run down in the setting sun.
An early evening massage leaves the DeB, chef for the evening, remarkably unstressed and unhurried about getting down to cooking. While le frère takes his turn with Coco, the sous-chef grows more agitated about her master's apparent lack of urgency. With reason. Three hours later the pork stroganoff is finally ready and we sit down to dinner at ten. The wait is worth it though, and the laid-back chef produces a chocolicious bread pudding to follow. Then it's straight to bed, though a few can't resist a cheese and port digestif.
Fri 30 Jan
Greedy for improvement, les skieuses are up early for their big day out with Suzie. La bienheureuse gives her knee a rest from skiing and after les six garçons spend the morning variously on le grand duc, and la facejerusalem, the BJ boys and the JonEboy meet the BJ girl at the top of Saulire for lunch. JeB and la bienheureuse then head home in the bubble car leaving le frère et moi to take a first back of the leg whacking ride up Creux Noirs before wending our way back to Meribel via the Courchevel and La Tania valleys. JW and DeB meanwhile heed the urgings H le rouge has been making all week and enjoy themselves on La Masse. The master chef and I are the only ones to meet up for the late Saulire run home.
Final night of massages for la bienheureuse and the Margarita man, final knee poultice, final thumb strapping, and then it's au revoir to Coco. Our bodies will miss you. On the up side, Friday night is tartiflette night. With all the hard work of potato peeling and onion slicing completed by la bienheureuse, all JeB and I have to do is fry, assemble and stick it all in the oven. Result, one of the most delicious savoyard dishes known to man.
Tartiflette night also means vodka sorbet night, and vodka sorbet night means First Impressions night. Add it all together and you get a lot of drunken revelry and fun. This year it's la petite boss who finds it all a bit too much mid-game and disappears downstairs to be not seen again till morning. JeB and JW do their besht to finish the vodka, but manage to remain shlightly more coherent than last year. The game finishes uncompleted but with the la petite et le grand team declared winners, and the gang of three ending up with the most attributed personality traits. Weird, moi?
Sat 31 Jan
The last full day of the holiday is somewhat foreshortened by a late start. It's after eleven by the time the survivors manage to assemble on the slopes and eventually stumble over to Val Thorens for another run down the glacier. Les deux petites play good samaritan to a fallen kindred spirit on a steep red slope while her husband stands idly by. After a late lunch the DeB and I head home while the remainder make the most of their final day on the slopes.
La reine serène is chef for leftovers night, a misnomer if ever there was one. Delicious grilled nachos are followed by mouth-watering roast vegetables with venison and a savoury selection of grilled sausages. The only leftovers by the end of the night are on the cheese board. Even the wine was perfectly judged this year, the last bottle drunk with the last mouthful of food.
And so we make our way to bed, heavy of heart, heavy of leg, heavy of stomach but light of head and light of spirit. 'Twas a good week, blessed by great snow, good weather, fine food and wine, and amiable company. We will be back next year, credit crunch, falling exchange rates and failing bodies allowing...
Sun 1 Feb
Correction: Saturday wasn't quite the end of the week. The Cambridge minibus crew were up early and away by 8.15am leaving the Lyon clan to finish tidying the chalet and head off for an abbreviated day's skiing. We were back in la capitale des gauls by five-thirty, in time for soup, cheese and wine before le frère et moi headed off to Gerland for a less than inspiring derby draw with les stephanois. Meanwhile the Cambridge crew crossed the channel and hit snow in the Kent lowlands, but still got home.
Mon 2 Feb
Snow and chaos in the UK, calm weather and chaos in Lyon. The JonE and DenE boys decide to go to the airport despite their flight back to Heathrow being cancelled, but wring little from BA other than a promise to 'try' and put them on the same flight the next day. Thus I make a second trip to the airport to collect them again and then direct them to the train station in an attempt to get back via TGV and Eurostar. They eventually just manage to catch the same train as le frère and get as far as Lille. There, JeB keeps his seat on an overcrowded Eurostar while DeB and le frère are forced to get off. However, he who laughs last, laughs loudest. JeB's train is held up in the tunnel and overtaken by the one the other two eventually catch. The boys finally get home to Reading, Bristol and Cambridge at 10pm, midnight and 4am respectively. La bienheureuse and I had an early night.
19 janvier 2009
Sliding on...
More normal winter temperatures have returned to Lyon. Last Wednesday freezing rain caused chaos in and around the city. As I didn't get out until after 10.30 I was largely oblivious to it, but most of la bienheureuse's colleagues arrived at work late with tales of nightmarish journeys. Otherwise it was a quiet week. La bienheureuse had meetings just outside Lyon on Monday & Tuesday, but fortunately (as she was taking the car) not on Wednesday. Another out of town meeting on Thursday was cancelled because more freezing rain was forecast. As it turned out, it was only freezing fog.
Meanwhile, I shivered and beavered away in my own fashion at home. Having rushed to finish roman numèro trois before Christmas so that la bienheureuse could read it during the holiday, I've decided on another rewrite. Prompted partly by a slightly lukewarm reaction by my beloved, but also by a new twist I've thought of which should improve the book. That's my excuse anyway, though I concede it could just be another form of procrastination before I have to get down to trying to sell both latest masterpieces...
Our weekend was also fairly quiet. La bienheureuse cooked while I mused. In search of inspiration. Not for the book but for an application for the best job in the world, which two young ladies in Australia have been harassing me to apply for. Needless to say, I haven't done so yet. Maybe after the skiing holiday.
We did get out once, on Saturday evening for the ritual trip to the pub. Another late show by much maligned hommes d'Arsène Wenger set us up well for some fast food on the way home. Fast food French style. We went to L'Entrecôte, a restaurant with no menu. Only choices to be made, quelle cuisson for the steak, and Bordeaux or Côte du Rhône for the wine. Excellent it was too, though the frites were a bit greasy...
Finally, a small self-congratulatory hurrah. 100 not out and still blogging. Even if it remains largely unread...
Meanwhile, I shivered and beavered away in my own fashion at home. Having rushed to finish roman numèro trois before Christmas so that la bienheureuse could read it during the holiday, I've decided on another rewrite. Prompted partly by a slightly lukewarm reaction by my beloved, but also by a new twist I've thought of which should improve the book. That's my excuse anyway, though I concede it could just be another form of procrastination before I have to get down to trying to sell both latest masterpieces...
Our weekend was also fairly quiet. La bienheureuse cooked while I mused. In search of inspiration. Not for the book but for an application for the best job in the world, which two young ladies in Australia have been harassing me to apply for. Needless to say, I haven't done so yet. Maybe after the skiing holiday.
We did get out once, on Saturday evening for the ritual trip to the pub. Another late show by much maligned hommes d'Arsène Wenger set us up well for some fast food on the way home. Fast food French style. We went to L'Entrecôte, a restaurant with no menu. Only choices to be made, quelle cuisson for the steak, and Bordeaux or Côte du Rhône for the wine. Excellent it was too, though the frites were a bit greasy...
Finally, a small self-congratulatory hurrah. 100 not out and still blogging. Even if it remains largely unread...
14 janvier 2009
La télé sans pub...
The Sarkozy 'reforms' continue apace. Le hyper-président is currently zooming round the country presenting his voeux to various sectors of work and society. Earlier in the week it was education, where reforms have been less than widely welcomed, though protest marches this week by high school students and teachers were somewhat less well attended than those before Christmas. The cold weather gets to us all.
Then it was the health service and more widely denounced reforms. Yesterday it was the world of culture, and the one reform that has received unanimous approval - free entry to museums for all under-25s and teachers. A cultural reform that has been somewhat less applauded has been the banning of advertising on all channels of state owned France Televisions, and the appointment of the head of France Televisions by the president himself. Sarkozy wants a completely publicly funded TV service 'following the BBC model'. Hmm, good idea or not...?
Advertising hasn't been completely banned yet - it's being phased out between now and 2011, but since le 5 janvier, there have been no ads on France 2, France 3, etc between 8pm and 6am. Protesters say the eventual outcome will be a decrease in funding and decline in quality, and with le Président decreeing who the France Televisions boss should be, independence will disappear too. The government counters that the idea is to channel money towards higher quality programming, documentaries and the like. One thing is for sure: privately owned TV channels, in particular TF1, the most widely watched channel in France, have been rubbing their hands in anticipation. France 2 is the second most popular channel: no ads on France 2 equals more advertising revenue for TF1. Sarko-detractors point out that the owner of TF1 is a close chum of Monsieur le Prèsident...
In Lyon, it was the weather causing headlines this morning. Freezing rain in the small hours, falling on frozen ground, caused the entire region to virtually grind to a halt. Road traffic accidents caused 2 deaths & several serious injuries, the three main autoroutes were closed, traffic was snarled up all around the city, lots of people didn't make it into work, and pedestrians were slipping, sliding, falling and breaking limbs all over the place. Apparently. When I went out at about ten-thirty this morning, the pavements in the city centre (perhaps warmed by the rivers) were perfectly negotiable, and the first I knew about it was when the woman on the checkout at the supermarket mentioned the problems she'd had getting there...
Then it was the health service and more widely denounced reforms. Yesterday it was the world of culture, and the one reform that has received unanimous approval - free entry to museums for all under-25s and teachers. A cultural reform that has been somewhat less applauded has been the banning of advertising on all channels of state owned France Televisions, and the appointment of the head of France Televisions by the president himself. Sarkozy wants a completely publicly funded TV service 'following the BBC model'. Hmm, good idea or not...?
Advertising hasn't been completely banned yet - it's being phased out between now and 2011, but since le 5 janvier, there have been no ads on France 2, France 3, etc between 8pm and 6am. Protesters say the eventual outcome will be a decrease in funding and decline in quality, and with le Président decreeing who the France Televisions boss should be, independence will disappear too. The government counters that the idea is to channel money towards higher quality programming, documentaries and the like. One thing is for sure: privately owned TV channels, in particular TF1, the most widely watched channel in France, have been rubbing their hands in anticipation. France 2 is the second most popular channel: no ads on France 2 equals more advertising revenue for TF1. Sarko-detractors point out that the owner of TF1 is a close chum of Monsieur le Prèsident...
In Lyon, it was the weather causing headlines this morning. Freezing rain in the small hours, falling on frozen ground, caused the entire region to virtually grind to a halt. Road traffic accidents caused 2 deaths & several serious injuries, the three main autoroutes were closed, traffic was snarled up all around the city, lots of people didn't make it into work, and pedestrians were slipping, sliding, falling and breaking limbs all over the place. Apparently. When I went out at about ten-thirty this morning, the pavements in the city centre (perhaps warmed by the rivers) were perfectly negotiable, and the first I knew about it was when the woman on the checkout at the supermarket mentioned the problems she'd had getting there...
12 janvier 2009
Cold feet
It's still freezing. I find one of the most reliable temperature indicators available to man is bare feet. It is thus clearly cold when I'm forced to start wearing socks around the apartment. Anyone who knows about my relationship with socks will be aware of the significance. And we have turned the heating up, it's just still cold.
More normal winter temperatures are forecast later this week. But in the meantime it was cold over the weekend. We trekked down to Gerland well equipped for the weather - long johns, thermal underwear, three other layers, hats and gloves. Sweltered on the metro, but stayed warm for most of the match. My toes were cold by the end though. Perhaps I should have faced phobia and worn two pairs of socks...
The match itself wasn't terribly warming either. OL scored early, star striker Benzema missed at least 3 other first half chances he would normally have snapped up, Lorient dominated most of the rest of the match and got a deserved 2nd half equaliser. In mitigation, with their cup game twice frozen off last week, les lyonnais hadn't played since the 3rd week in December.
Earlier in the afternoon I was somewhat warmer watching football in the pub. Another match to not exactly warm the spirit, but I left with a little glow after the late winner for the forces of footballing good. All the more gratifying because I was forced to endure three typically loud-mouthed Brits abroad behind me spend the whole game decrying les cannoniers.
More normal winter temperatures are forecast later this week. But in the meantime it was cold over the weekend. We trekked down to Gerland well equipped for the weather - long johns, thermal underwear, three other layers, hats and gloves. Sweltered on the metro, but stayed warm for most of the match. My toes were cold by the end though. Perhaps I should have faced phobia and worn two pairs of socks...
The match itself wasn't terribly warming either. OL scored early, star striker Benzema missed at least 3 other first half chances he would normally have snapped up, Lorient dominated most of the rest of the match and got a deserved 2nd half equaliser. In mitigation, with their cup game twice frozen off last week, les lyonnais hadn't played since the 3rd week in December.
Earlier in the afternoon I was somewhat warmer watching football in the pub. Another match to not exactly warm the spirit, but I left with a little glow after the late winner for the forces of footballing good. All the more gratifying because I was forced to endure three typically loud-mouthed Brits abroad behind me spend the whole game decrying les cannoniers.
09 janvier 2009
A Caribbean footnote - St Martin
With the temperature in Lyon still below zero (though the winter sun has at last broken through the thin cloud), it's time for the final chapter of our Caribbean interlude...
Our evening arrival in le petit hotel in Grand Case had one small drawback: we couldn't figure out how to open the door to the balcony. Come daylight, the mystery was solved when I discovered a length of wood blocking the rail on which the door slid. A rudimentary, but very effective locking system. Remove the wood and hey presto! the door slides open. Ho, hum. Anyway, it allowed us to eat breakfast on the balcony gazing out at the white sand, turquoise sea and blue, blue sky.
Later in the morning we took a taxi to La Lotérie Farm, a former sugar plantation which now has gardens, restaurant, a treetop assault course, and several marked walking routes through the forest towards the top of the highest peak on the island, Pic Paradis. We chose the latter. We didn't quite reach paradise but enjoyed a lovely three hour walk which included some stunning views of west, south and east coasts.
Given that the taxi ride had lasted barely five minutes, we decided to walk back to the hotel. We hadn't got far along the main road when a 4x4 pulled over and the driver offered us a lift. It was a mother heading home from church with her family. Eyeing the seven children already crammed in the back, we politely declined, but she insisted, so we squeezed into the back seat alongside four wide-eyed enfants and rode the last couple of miles to Grand Case. A true good samaritan.
In the evening we walked along the beach and eventually found the Zen It, the particular bar we were looking for. It was empty but open, but nontheless we walked in and dined on tapas accompanied by a magarita or two. And then we walked back to the hotel along the beach, on the way disturbing herons fishing by the light of beachside cafés.
The next day was the first of December and last full one of our holiday. We took another taxi ride into Marigot, the main French town on the island, wandered around the market, climbed the hill to the fort, wandered some more, and then decided to try catching a minibus back to Grand Case. Guidebooks informed us that one simply has to hail a bus heading in the right direction and hop on. The problem was we'd chosen a spot just past a large school, just after the end of the school morning. Thus every bus that went past was full to bursting. Eventually though, one did stop and we took the last two remaining seats. The $1 ride home was regularly punctuated by calls of 'stop please' to the driver. Then everybody between the alighting passenger and the door would get out and get back in again. Cheap and cheerful way to travel.
Back in Grand Case we ate lunch at a lolo - a local grill serving cheap, cheerful and plentiful food. Later in the afternoon we trekked up the hill to L'Esplanade, the sister hotel of le Petit Hotel, to claim our free poolside cocktail. Foolishly, we suggested the barman mix a drink of his own choosing for us, and then watched with growing alarm and anticipation as he added four different types of rum and a splash of fruit juice. Some time later we rolled glassy-eyed back down the hill, watched the sun set over the beach and managed to get out again for dinner. An earlier resolution to eat more cheaply went west with the sun, and we ended up in another of Grand Case's gastronomic establishments, where we enjoyed another delicious meal and a discussion of French and English football with one of the waiters, and finally endured a marriage proposal on the next table. Fortunately, she said yes and moments later was on the phone to her mum. Americans, needless to say.
And that was more or less it. On the final morning I fought my way through the undergrowth to the top of the hill at the end of the bay while la bienheureuse packed, we went out for one final beachside café lunch, and then it was time for the taxi back to the airport. Ten hours later we landed in Paris at five in the morning, and it was snowing. Still, at least we got home with all our luggage...
Our evening arrival in le petit hotel in Grand Case had one small drawback: we couldn't figure out how to open the door to the balcony. Come daylight, the mystery was solved when I discovered a length of wood blocking the rail on which the door slid. A rudimentary, but very effective locking system. Remove the wood and hey presto! the door slides open. Ho, hum. Anyway, it allowed us to eat breakfast on the balcony gazing out at the white sand, turquoise sea and blue, blue sky.
Later in the morning we took a taxi to La Lotérie Farm, a former sugar plantation which now has gardens, restaurant, a treetop assault course, and several marked walking routes through the forest towards the top of the highest peak on the island, Pic Paradis. We chose the latter. We didn't quite reach paradise but enjoyed a lovely three hour walk which included some stunning views of west, south and east coasts.
Given that the taxi ride had lasted barely five minutes, we decided to walk back to the hotel. We hadn't got far along the main road when a 4x4 pulled over and the driver offered us a lift. It was a mother heading home from church with her family. Eyeing the seven children already crammed in the back, we politely declined, but she insisted, so we squeezed into the back seat alongside four wide-eyed enfants and rode the last couple of miles to Grand Case. A true good samaritan.
In the evening we walked along the beach and eventually found the Zen It, the particular bar we were looking for. It was empty but open, but nontheless we walked in and dined on tapas accompanied by a magarita or two. And then we walked back to the hotel along the beach, on the way disturbing herons fishing by the light of beachside cafés.
The next day was the first of December and last full one of our holiday. We took another taxi ride into Marigot, the main French town on the island, wandered around the market, climbed the hill to the fort, wandered some more, and then decided to try catching a minibus back to Grand Case. Guidebooks informed us that one simply has to hail a bus heading in the right direction and hop on. The problem was we'd chosen a spot just past a large school, just after the end of the school morning. Thus every bus that went past was full to bursting. Eventually though, one did stop and we took the last two remaining seats. The $1 ride home was regularly punctuated by calls of 'stop please' to the driver. Then everybody between the alighting passenger and the door would get out and get back in again. Cheap and cheerful way to travel.
Back in Grand Case we ate lunch at a lolo - a local grill serving cheap, cheerful and plentiful food. Later in the afternoon we trekked up the hill to L'Esplanade, the sister hotel of le Petit Hotel, to claim our free poolside cocktail. Foolishly, we suggested the barman mix a drink of his own choosing for us, and then watched with growing alarm and anticipation as he added four different types of rum and a splash of fruit juice. Some time later we rolled glassy-eyed back down the hill, watched the sun set over the beach and managed to get out again for dinner. An earlier resolution to eat more cheaply went west with the sun, and we ended up in another of Grand Case's gastronomic establishments, where we enjoyed another delicious meal and a discussion of French and English football with one of the waiters, and finally endured a marriage proposal on the next table. Fortunately, she said yes and moments later was on the phone to her mum. Americans, needless to say.
And that was more or less it. On the final morning I fought my way through the undergrowth to the top of the hill at the end of the bay while la bienheureuse packed, we went out for one final beachside café lunch, and then it was time for the taxi back to the airport. Ten hours later we landed in Paris at five in the morning, and it was snowing. Still, at least we got home with all our luggage...
Le juge mort, le père mystère et la neige
A seismic shock to the French legal system. Monsieur le Président has just announced the end of the famous and particular institution, le juge d'instruction. I must admit I've never completely grasped exactly what his/her role is - my best guess is to first act as a sort of liaison between police & prosecution on one side, and accused & defence lawyers on the other, and finally to arbitrate about whether a case goes to court. Though if you believe various French TV crime series, the juge d'instruction is the ultimate crime buster. The equivalent exists nowhere else in the world...
Whatever, Sarko's announcement has caused a flurry of disquiet and denunciation. Political opponents, lawyers and juges alike have called it yet another example of the accelerating erosion of judicial independence under the current regime. Water off a duck's back to Sarkozy...
Staying in the French judicial system, the Justice minister Rachida Dati is also causing a bit a stir at the moment. Five days after giving birth she was back at work, not in itself worthy of more than a passing comment, but allied to the fact that she's Muslim, single, and not revealing who the father is, created a storm of interest. One magazine has already been slapped with an injunction for reporting the rumour that Sarko's brother is the mystery dad after he was seen visiting Mademoiselle Dati in hospital. I never even knew Monsieur le Président had siblings...
Meanwhile France still shivers in the coldest snap for over twenty years. The thermometer hasn't climbed above zero for several days here, though Lyon hasn't seen any snow to speak of. Nor have the northern French Alps, but elsewhere there was snow on the Cote d'Azur, and Marseille ground to a complete halt a couple of days ago when more than 15cm of snow fell in one day.
Whatever, Sarko's announcement has caused a flurry of disquiet and denunciation. Political opponents, lawyers and juges alike have called it yet another example of the accelerating erosion of judicial independence under the current regime. Water off a duck's back to Sarkozy...
Staying in the French judicial system, the Justice minister Rachida Dati is also causing a bit a stir at the moment. Five days after giving birth she was back at work, not in itself worthy of more than a passing comment, but allied to the fact that she's Muslim, single, and not revealing who the father is, created a storm of interest. One magazine has already been slapped with an injunction for reporting the rumour that Sarko's brother is the mystery dad after he was seen visiting Mademoiselle Dati in hospital. I never even knew Monsieur le Président had siblings...
Meanwhile France still shivers in the coldest snap for over twenty years. The thermometer hasn't climbed above zero for several days here, though Lyon hasn't seen any snow to speak of. Nor have the northern French Alps, but elsewhere there was snow on the Cote d'Azur, and Marseille ground to a complete halt a couple of days ago when more than 15cm of snow fell in one day.
05 janvier 2009
Festive excesses
Twelve days of Christmas back in Blighty passed quickly and quietly with maximum food intake. No sooner had la bienheureuse returned from a weekend in Paris with sa mère, than we were packing for the 770km drive to Calais. An 8.30am departure from Lyon got us to the ferry terminal at 3.30pm, just in time to catch the crossing one earlier than booked. No traffic on the autoroutes, and surprisingly little the other side of La Manche. Even the M25 at 5pm was flowing freely. Wonders will never cease, though the accident that had blocked the anticlockwise carriage several junctions earlier may have had something to do with it...
Whatever, we were in Cambridge by 6.30, for home-cooked dinner with the Margarita Man. Mild hangover the next morning was no more than we expected, and didn't impinge on the drive north to Cheshire. Brief stopover to visit les nièces et neveux, before arriving chez la belle-mère early on Christmas Eve for a special treat - Christmas Pudding!
Christmas day dawned bright and frosty, like most other days during the holiday, and was spent chez le beau-frère, who as usual was chef for the day. And as usual, he produced enough food to feed an army of relatives rather than the mere eight present. Despite heroic efforts, notably on the part of his beau-père and two greedy labradors, turkey leftovers seem likely to be on the menu for weeks to come.
After lunch, once digestion was sufficiently advanced to allow movement, the exchange of gifts took place. In my case, exchange is a relative term, as I always seem to receive a lot more than I give. But it would seem impolite to demur, so I never do. And for once someone else got more than bargained for. La belle-mère du beau-frère (even in French there's no simple term for the mother-in-law of one's brother-in-law) was delighted and horrified in equal measure to be given a life-sized black bear (stuffed of course).
Boxing day we returned to east Cheshire to distribute presents to les nièces et neveux, meeting up with le frère ainé at the same time. As most of the rest of the day was spent playing racing car games on a games console with a name bearing a close resemblance to a bodily function, no prizes for guessing what theme most of the presents came with. All raced out, in the evening we formed a more sedate convoy with le frère for the drive back across Cheshire.
The following day was one of the best of the holiday. La bienheureuse et la belle-mère packed le frère et moi off to undertake a brisk 3 hour stomp along the Sandstone Trail, while they meandered round Beeston Castle and retired to the pub to await us drinking mulled wine in front of a roaring fire. The 7 mile walk however was worth braving the sub-zero temperatures for. With the sun shining down from a clear blue sky on a countryside covered in frost, some of the scenery was spectacular. And we reached the pub in time for a late, very late lunch and more mulled wine.
Sunday was the day set aside to celebrate two milestones - la quarantaine de la bienheureuse (again) and la cinquantaine du frère ainé. La bienheureuse celebrated in her own fashion by staying at home with her mother to cook the evening meal for ten, while my 50-year old brother and I swanned off to meet the rest of the available family at Delamere Forest. When we eventually all got there we enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the trees in the golden late afternoon sunshine, and had fun skipping stones across the frozen lake. Easy to skip stones on ice, you might say, but the principal attraction for doing so was the musical resonance of the ice as the stones skipped across it. So there.
As dusk fell we formed a three car convoy back to east Cheshire where the cassoulet feast cooked by la bienheureuse et la belle-mère awaited us. And the food and party, complete with party hats, crackers and presents (including my favourite of all - a hamper of Marmite and English cheese), was much enjoyed by all. Though exactly how many of the clean plates were due to parental command only the interested parties know. Thanks are due to la belle-mère for providing us with the venue.
Le frère et la soeur returned from whence they came the following day, and la bienheureuse, la belle-mère et moi enjoyed a quiet time over the next couple of days, filled mainly with eating, sleeping and another visit to north Wales to view the soon to be acquired woods of prospective landowner le beau-frère. New Year's Eve was quiet too, though I made the mistake of suggesting we teach la belle-mère how to play tête-de-merde. My disastrous run of luck continued over from Saba to the point where my first new year's resolution ought to have been to never play the wretched game again. But it wasn't...
On the second day of the new year it was time to kiss la belle-mère goodbye and head back down south. After another stopover chez le jardinier in Cambridge and a traditional pub, beer and curry evening, on Saturday it was time to visit the new home of football for the first time since early November. Warmed by the somewhat stuttering but ultimately satisfactory victory over the Pilgrims, we headed down to Kent for an overnight stay chez les docteurs C, ate more curry and drank more wine, and then were up at 7.30 the following morning for the long drive home. 900 odd kilometres and eleven hours later we were back, in a cold apartment and an even colder Lyon. And it's forecast to get colder...
Whatever, we were in Cambridge by 6.30, for home-cooked dinner with the Margarita Man. Mild hangover the next morning was no more than we expected, and didn't impinge on the drive north to Cheshire. Brief stopover to visit les nièces et neveux, before arriving chez la belle-mère early on Christmas Eve for a special treat - Christmas Pudding!
Christmas day dawned bright and frosty, like most other days during the holiday, and was spent chez le beau-frère, who as usual was chef for the day. And as usual, he produced enough food to feed an army of relatives rather than the mere eight present. Despite heroic efforts, notably on the part of his beau-père and two greedy labradors, turkey leftovers seem likely to be on the menu for weeks to come.
After lunch, once digestion was sufficiently advanced to allow movement, the exchange of gifts took place. In my case, exchange is a relative term, as I always seem to receive a lot more than I give. But it would seem impolite to demur, so I never do. And for once someone else got more than bargained for. La belle-mère du beau-frère (even in French there's no simple term for the mother-in-law of one's brother-in-law) was delighted and horrified in equal measure to be given a life-sized black bear (stuffed of course).
Boxing day we returned to east Cheshire to distribute presents to les nièces et neveux, meeting up with le frère ainé at the same time. As most of the rest of the day was spent playing racing car games on a games console with a name bearing a close resemblance to a bodily function, no prizes for guessing what theme most of the presents came with. All raced out, in the evening we formed a more sedate convoy with le frère for the drive back across Cheshire.
The following day was one of the best of the holiday. La bienheureuse et la belle-mère packed le frère et moi off to undertake a brisk 3 hour stomp along the Sandstone Trail, while they meandered round Beeston Castle and retired to the pub to await us drinking mulled wine in front of a roaring fire. The 7 mile walk however was worth braving the sub-zero temperatures for. With the sun shining down from a clear blue sky on a countryside covered in frost, some of the scenery was spectacular. And we reached the pub in time for a late, very late lunch and more mulled wine.
Sunday was the day set aside to celebrate two milestones - la quarantaine de la bienheureuse (again) and la cinquantaine du frère ainé. La bienheureuse celebrated in her own fashion by staying at home with her mother to cook the evening meal for ten, while my 50-year old brother and I swanned off to meet the rest of the available family at Delamere Forest. When we eventually all got there we enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the trees in the golden late afternoon sunshine, and had fun skipping stones across the frozen lake. Easy to skip stones on ice, you might say, but the principal attraction for doing so was the musical resonance of the ice as the stones skipped across it. So there.
As dusk fell we formed a three car convoy back to east Cheshire where the cassoulet feast cooked by la bienheureuse et la belle-mère awaited us. And the food and party, complete with party hats, crackers and presents (including my favourite of all - a hamper of Marmite and English cheese), was much enjoyed by all. Though exactly how many of the clean plates were due to parental command only the interested parties know. Thanks are due to la belle-mère for providing us with the venue.
Le frère et la soeur returned from whence they came the following day, and la bienheureuse, la belle-mère et moi enjoyed a quiet time over the next couple of days, filled mainly with eating, sleeping and another visit to north Wales to view the soon to be acquired woods of prospective landowner le beau-frère. New Year's Eve was quiet too, though I made the mistake of suggesting we teach la belle-mère how to play tête-de-merde. My disastrous run of luck continued over from Saba to the point where my first new year's resolution ought to have been to never play the wretched game again. But it wasn't...
On the second day of the new year it was time to kiss la belle-mère goodbye and head back down south. After another stopover chez le jardinier in Cambridge and a traditional pub, beer and curry evening, on Saturday it was time to visit the new home of football for the first time since early November. Warmed by the somewhat stuttering but ultimately satisfactory victory over the Pilgrims, we headed down to Kent for an overnight stay chez les docteurs C, ate more curry and drank more wine, and then were up at 7.30 the following morning for the long drive home. 900 odd kilometres and eleven hours later we were back, in a cold apartment and an even colder Lyon. And it's forecast to get colder...
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