Heating up

And so the Olympics are over, life returns to normal and I get off my TV couch and high horse. If my previous blog entry gave the impression of an anti-British view of the London games in France, I should perhaps correct it. In general they have been well received in France, particularly with a minor French gold rush in the final weekend, culminating in a second successive gold for "les Experts" all-conquering handballers. It was rather France TV's sports presenters who I was ranting about, and they can be characterised as a group of grumpy old men nursing a grudge that it was the BBC rather than France TV who were the host broadcasters for the games…

Meanwhile, the domestic sporting arena has been confined to la petite performing gymnastics on the sofa, and a couple of trips to an aquatic complex that opened relatively recently just outside Lyon. With three indoor and three outdoor pools, including paddling pools, 'fun' pools and plain swimming pools it is the ideal place to take a toddler swimming. We'll cure that aversion to getting water in her eyes yet…

Elsewhere life trundles along much as normal. Another aversion of la petite coquinette, that of being examined by a doctor, is still alive, kicking and screaming you might say. A trip to the paediatrician for another jab and a certificate stating that she is safe to be let loose amongst other children in a crèche resulted in the loudest and strongest screaming and struggling fit yet. She is otherwise in perfect health.

The weather recently has been mostly warm and sunny, and the forecast is for temperatures in the upper 30s from this weekend onwards. Good job we are escaping to cool Britannia...

Sour grapes

La bienheureuse et la petite have both suffered but coped remarkably well over the last week while I feed my TV sport-watching habit, though the latter has been displaying more of her naughty side recently, perhaps as a protest at not getting enough attention. My excuse is of course that the summer Olympics only come along every four years, and the Olympics in one of my home countries only come along roughly once every thirty years. Not that I've been able to as fully satisfy my urge as I no doubt would have done had we been living back in Blighty. Coverage of the games in France has more or less been restricted to two channels, and naturally that coverage has tended to concentrate on the fortunes of home heroes. Envious of the BBC's 24 live HD streams, moi?

Early on in the fortnight, TV coverage on France Televisions adopted a tone which was a mixture of the genial and the exultant, as French golds in the swimming, canoeing and judo rolled in. Midway through the first week they were having a quiet snigger at the fact that the host country was still awaiting its first title. No doubt I'm just being cynical, but I detected a bit of revelling in schadenfreude. The games should of course have been in Paris not London.

However, it all changed a week ago when the British gold stream started flowing just as the French one dried up. Firstly the presenters on France TV made a big fuss about alleged British cheating in the cycling and rowing, judges favouring British competitors, etc, etc. The fact that the French cycling coach inconveniently admitted that they would also have deliberately crashed in the event of a poor start was largely ignored. As for the bias towards home competitors, dare I suggest it was bit of a sore point. The games after all should have been in France...

Since then it seems to this particular viewer, albeit perhaps overly sensitive, that British successes have been pointedly ignored. At one point France 2 was showing badminton, a game normally rarer on TV than tiddlywinks, while a track cycling final that ended in British victory was going on. This in a country that is home to the greatest cycling race in the world. Fortunately Eurosport was immune to partisan considerations and showed the cycling. It was almost enough to turn me into a bigoted nationalist.

There has also been constant carping by commentators about problems (transport nightmares) and perceived injustices at the London games, particularly the alleged marginalising of the French language. One presenter was outraged by the lack of announcements in French during an archery event at Lords. Well, what did he expect of an institution that only started admitting women members a little over ten years ago? It was of course a Frenchman who was the driving force behind the first modern Olympics, though a certain Shropshire village claims he got the idea from them. The modern Olympics are a British invention after all. So there…

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...

Tour de force

A British victory in the Tour de France - a bit like a Frenchman scoring a century at Lords. Wiggins does seem to have won over the French public though, with his somewhat crooked sense of humour, quirky personality and willingness to give interviews in reasonably fluent French. And his triumph in what the French see as the ultimate sporting challenge has been welcomed, albeit somewhat grudgingly. Articles I've read have praised the professional, pragmatic way the Sky team controlled the race but at the same time bemoaned the way the spectacle was thus rendered somewhat less exciting than normal. This year's race has been described more than once as one of the most boring ever.

On the other hand, French commentators have also heralded it as a great year, largely due to the French success in winning five stages. In contrast to the boring Brits, the likes of Thomas Voeckler have been hailed for their panache and daring. French flair, quoi…

British BBQ

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mellow yellow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hubris & schadenfreude

Seems I spoke too soon about the improved mood in the French football camp. No sooner had they gained plaudits for their first two games, than they threw it all away against a team with nothing to play for. Thanks to English luck though, they still made it through to the quarter-finals, where the bad against Sweden went to worse against Spain. It seems the fissures in les Bleus had only been papered over post-Knysna.

The French public and media are reasonably unanimous in condemning the self-centredness and lack of respect displayed by some players. And squarely in the middle of all the blame flying around was one Citizen who shunned footballing idealism for huge reserves of oil-stained lucre. Quite apart from his hate-hate relationship with the French media, even his teammates were accusing him of selfishness. Now where have I heard that before? L'Équipe claims the authorities are considering banning him from the national team for two years. Hohoho…

Watching an otherwise entertaining Euro 2012 unfold on French TV has been something of a trial. Unlike previous major competitions, which have all been available on free-to-air channels, this year a new player muscled in on the scene and bought up a large chunk of the TV rights. And as it's a subscription channel, if you don't pay, you don't watch. In fact half the games, including all the knockout phase are on free channels and I thought I was quids in when the new channel appeared on our cable feed unscrambled during the first weekend. However, three days in the so-and-sos encrypted it, so I was forced to miss half the remaining group games. Which at least offered some relief in certain quarters…

In the domestic arena things trundle along happily. La petite continues to grow and develop at what I might describe as an alarming rate. Most things have to be be done by herself and help from parents is often decidedly unwelcome, which doesn't stop her becoming quickly frustrated and upset when things don't go her way. Favourite activities at the moment include taking dirty mugs and bits of rubbish into the kitchen and wearing papa's underwear.

The last couple of weekends we've kept her amused by taking her swimming on Saturday morning, where she floats and splashes happily when she's not gazing intently at all the other activity going on around her. Last Sunday we also ventured out on a day trip to the Parc des Oiseaux, where she remarkably suffered without complaint an unexpected half hour queue to get in. I guess the thing about queues is that there are always plenty of other people to keep the interest. As for the birds, well they were just birds…

Pride, prejudice, pathos

And so, Président Hollande and the Socialists duly won a thumping parliamentary majority in the second round of elections yesterday. Not that 43% of the French electorate cared enough to go out and vote. Media interest has been concentrated on various high profile circonscriptions, such as the one in Northern France where the Front National leader's gratifyingly lost by a whisker to her Socialist rival. Perhaps Mme Le Pen should have grown a beard to go with the voice. Unfortunately, 3 of her similarly inclined colleague, including her 22 year old niece, did win their seats to give the extreme right MPs for the first time.

Elsewhere, Ségolène Royal was soundly beaten in her chosen seat by the dissident Socialist who maintained his candidacy despite being ordered by the party hierarchy to stand down in favour of the 'parachuted in' Royal. The battle was given added piquancy when Valérie Trierweiler, the current partner of Hollande tweeted her support for the rebel Olivier Falorni. Mme Royal was given lukewarm backing by the president and is, of course, his ex-partner and mother of his four children. Miaow…

One novelty this year was the introduction of 11 'foreign' constituencies, among them one for Northern Europe which includes the UK, giving expat French people a minor say in what goes on in their mother country. Anybody in Westminster listening? asks one expat Brit who will lose his right to vote in the UK in less than five years…

Perhaps France was more preoccupied by the European football championships in Poland and the Ukraine, where the national team's campaign has borne a marked contrast to the 2010 World Cup, despite a mere draw with the boring English. The subsequent win over Ukraine has seemingly set les Bleus on course for the quarter-finals, barring an unlikely set of results in the next games.

The football itself was somewhat overshadowed over the weekend by the sudden death of Thierry Roland, the doyen of French football commentators. His enthusiasm for the game will be sorely missed on TV games from now on, even if TF1 had already rather rudely deprived him of his largest audience some years ago. Perhaps the best description of his commentating style was given by another larger than life character in French football, Rolland Courbis, who said he commentated as though he was watching games at home from his own sofa. RIP Thierry.

Dampened expectations

The first round of the parliamentary elections in France yesterday were inevitably somewhat overshadowed by the presidential election that preceded them a month ago. It wasn't until about 10 days ago that the media started paying much attention at all to them, and that was mainly focused on the more high-profile constituencies such as the extreme right-far left punch-up between Le Pen & Melenchon. And it seems enthusiasm for the vote was duly dampened, perhaps in part by the wet weather yesterday, because the turnout was the lowest ever in the republican era. 

The new president seems likely to be given a workable parliamentary majority, even if it is only with the support of the far left. Thanks to the election system, the Front de Gauche are ironically predicted to gain a dozen or so seats, at least four times as many as the Front National despite only getting half the number of votes and Melenchon losing the mediatised battle with Le Pen. Long may it continue…

Chez these particular disenfranchised foreigners, the election more or less passed us by. Other matters demand greater attention:

the weather - the arrival of summer ten days ago turned out to be a mere rumour. Since that blazing hot Saturday, temperatures have dropped below seasonal norms and the rain has been more or less ever present. Taking la petite out for her daily constitutional has become an exercise in dodging the showers. Yesterday we got it wrong. A trip by bike to the local garden centre for lunch and an emergency purchase of wellies for la travailleuse's sugar beet field trip to eastern Germany this week seemed a good idea until we left the shop to find the rain coming down. No waterproofs either. Fortunately it eased enough for us to get home without getting too wet.

toddler health: another routine visit to the paediatrician last week produced familiar results - tears and struggles before the jab but not after, a clean bill of health, another 3cm, another kilo, and a recommendation from the good doctor that la petite take up judo after her demonstration of muscle strength. He also warned of minor after-effects from the MMR vaccine, which possibly explain why la petite succumbed to yet another cold a few days later.

toddler adventure: the cold doesn't stop the little stunt artist from frequent demonstrations of her new found climbing skills. Latest favourite mountains to conquer are the arms of the sofas, from which it's great fun to fall backwards onto the soft sofa cushions. Continual admonishments from mama & papa as they nervously eye the more dangerous fall in the other direction have little effect.

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!