In France, cars older than four years are subject to the controle technique, the equivalent of the MOT, every two years. Our more-or-less trusty 15 year-old petite voiture passed the last one, albeit with less-than flying colours. Among the rather lengthy list of non-fatal faults were leaking exhaust (hole slowly getting larger and noisier), non-functioning screen wash, unbalanced hand-brake and 'minor' play in one of the rear axle bearings. In others words, the old girl was beginning to look a bit long in the tooth.
And so, after months, years even, of procrastination, using family expansion as a reason for needing a car, we finally took the decision to replace it. There then followed several weeks of dithering about whether to go for cheap new car, more upmarket second-hand, this brand, that brand, how much to spend, etc, etc. Finally, last weekend, motivated by an imminent 900km round trip that might have tested the old jam jar to the limit, we bit the bullet and drove out to a dealer for a well known French make of car, still not having decided on new or second-hand.
However, having compared the second-hand prices with those in the show-room and compared the different models, we soon made a choice. Seduced by the supposed discount of more than six grand, including trade-in for our near worthless banger, we shunned shopping around and plumped for a shiny, brand-new, all-singing all dancing model with lots of marvellous tricks and gadgets. Well, they seemed marvellous to the owners of a car that was new way back in the last century.
Our excuse was that the salesman promised it would be delivered in time for our upcoming holiday. Easiest commission he ever earned. Apart from when he tried to sell us a finance deal we didn't need. Interestingly he claimed that his commission was more dependent on him selling loans than actual vehicles. Eventually we agreed to take a small, short-term loan in return for an extra discount that made it a 0% deal. Drives a hard bargain, la bienheureuse.
So now, a week later, a brand new car sits in our garage, awaiting its first real outing. Took one or two more attempts to park it too, being somewhat larger than our ancienne voiture, which currently waits its fate at the breaker's yard. Indeed, to ensure it fitted into the garage we had to spend a morning and a trip to the déchèterie to clear out the pile of junk that had mysteriously accumulated at the back. About time too…
15 septembre 2012
14 septembre 2012
Crèche course
Travel note 14: La petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parents' knees. Even more screaming and struggling in the flight home than the outward journey.
Travel note 15: don't be tempted to try and evade airport parking charges when car is left in an overflow field with a mere wooden barrier that was open when we parked. Arrive in said field to find said barrier firmly padlocked shut. Fortunately a hasty round trip back to the terminal to validate parking ticket doesn't take too long. We arrive home exhausted with a toddler who has had a mere 40 minutes sleep during the day. She's in bed a full two hours before her habitual holiday bedtime, and parents follow soon afterwards.
The next day it was in at the deep end in the return to normal life. Both parents accompanied la petite to her new crèche on the first morning of a three day adaptation. We all stayed ninety minutes, then la petite and papa went home for lunch while la travailleuse went in to work briefly before jetting off for a meeting in Barcelona. In the afternoon, another short spell at the crèche, but this time papa left his little baby on her own for half an hour.
Thursday we were both back for another two part session at the crèche, only this time I left my little darling fending for herself in the big bad world of collective childcare for a total of more than two hours. Each time I left her screaming - screaming with delight, that is, while throwing herself energetically around exercise mats. Seems she has taken to the crèche like a duck to water. Conversely, once she was home alone with only papa for company she was in a distinctly grumpy mood. I thus looked forward to the return of la bienheureuse that evening with more than the usual anticipation. Alas, her flight took off, turned round, and landed back in Barcelona. Faulty undercarriage. Another night in Catalonia beckoned. Humph.
A short night, that is. Early flight the next morning meant a 4.30am alarm call. Meanwhile, la petite and papa enjoyed a full night's sleep only for the former to get out of bed on the wrong side. Worst morning strop ever - refused milk, didn't want to be picked up, didn't want to play with her toys or cuddle doudou, yelled and cried non-stop for half an hour. Obviously missing mama and staging a protest about all the travelling and change in the last few weeks. Finally I was reduced to the TV drug - putting on her favourite DVD of children's music at last calmed her just in time for the return of la voyageuse.
Of course the little dear was fine while she was at the crèche that morning in her final adaptation session, this time staying the whole morning and sharing lunch with her new friends. The downside of spending time with other children her own age became apparent over the weekend: yet another cold. Still, it wasn't bad enough on Sunday to discourage us from setting out in the car to go swimming. Only we didn't - arrived to find the pool closed for cleaning. No matter, the warm sunshine encouraged us to stop off in the Grand Parc de Miribel-Jonage where la petite paddled and splashed in the lake. Her parents having neglected to swap clothes for swimming costume, she got so wet she had to travel home in only a nappy. With temperatures approaching 30C, she didn't get too chilled. We hope. The cold was worse the next day mind you…
First full week at the crèche followed. Well, full week of two full days a week. Tuesday it was déjà vu - la petite at the crèche, for the whole day this time, la bienheureuse travelling for work again, Bratislava this time. Home on his own, papa sighed and suppressed the longing by getting on with some chores. Wednesday evening mama returned home on schedule and took the next day off to recover. She took her little girl in to the crèche in the morning and then we both spent the rest of the day clearing junk out of the garage in preparation for another new arrival...
Travel note 15: don't be tempted to try and evade airport parking charges when car is left in an overflow field with a mere wooden barrier that was open when we parked. Arrive in said field to find said barrier firmly padlocked shut. Fortunately a hasty round trip back to the terminal to validate parking ticket doesn't take too long. We arrive home exhausted with a toddler who has had a mere 40 minutes sleep during the day. She's in bed a full two hours before her habitual holiday bedtime, and parents follow soon afterwards.
The next day it was in at the deep end in the return to normal life. Both parents accompanied la petite to her new crèche on the first morning of a three day adaptation. We all stayed ninety minutes, then la petite and papa went home for lunch while la travailleuse went in to work briefly before jetting off for a meeting in Barcelona. In the afternoon, another short spell at the crèche, but this time papa left his little baby on her own for half an hour.
Thursday we were both back for another two part session at the crèche, only this time I left my little darling fending for herself in the big bad world of collective childcare for a total of more than two hours. Each time I left her screaming - screaming with delight, that is, while throwing herself energetically around exercise mats. Seems she has taken to the crèche like a duck to water. Conversely, once she was home alone with only papa for company she was in a distinctly grumpy mood. I thus looked forward to the return of la bienheureuse that evening with more than the usual anticipation. Alas, her flight took off, turned round, and landed back in Barcelona. Faulty undercarriage. Another night in Catalonia beckoned. Humph.
A short night, that is. Early flight the next morning meant a 4.30am alarm call. Meanwhile, la petite and papa enjoyed a full night's sleep only for the former to get out of bed on the wrong side. Worst morning strop ever - refused milk, didn't want to be picked up, didn't want to play with her toys or cuddle doudou, yelled and cried non-stop for half an hour. Obviously missing mama and staging a protest about all the travelling and change in the last few weeks. Finally I was reduced to the TV drug - putting on her favourite DVD of children's music at last calmed her just in time for the return of la voyageuse.
Of course the little dear was fine while she was at the crèche that morning in her final adaptation session, this time staying the whole morning and sharing lunch with her new friends. The downside of spending time with other children her own age became apparent over the weekend: yet another cold. Still, it wasn't bad enough on Sunday to discourage us from setting out in the car to go swimming. Only we didn't - arrived to find the pool closed for cleaning. No matter, the warm sunshine encouraged us to stop off in the Grand Parc de Miribel-Jonage where la petite paddled and splashed in the lake. Her parents having neglected to swap clothes for swimming costume, she got so wet she had to travel home in only a nappy. With temperatures approaching 30C, she didn't get too chilled. We hope. The cold was worse the next day mind you…
First full week at the crèche followed. Well, full week of two full days a week. Tuesday it was déjà vu - la petite at the crèche, for the whole day this time, la bienheureuse travelling for work again, Bratislava this time. Home on his own, papa sighed and suppressed the longing by getting on with some chores. Wednesday evening mama returned home on schedule and took the next day off to recover. She took her little girl in to the crèche in the morning and then we both spent the rest of the day clearing junk out of the garage in preparation for another new arrival...
02 septembre 2012
Water week
Saturday 25th: And so to Cumbria. Heavy rain showers during the two hour journey north, heavy little eyelids only close when we are about 10 miles from our destination. Fortunately the traditional slow traffic crawl between Kendal and Ambleside affords la petite a twenty minute catnap. Another tradition on arrival despite persistent rain during the evening - the opening night BBQ for all 26 odd members of the three sisters clan. Thus begins another week in the Lakes.
Sunday 26th: eight-thirty am wakeup call from the little girl's room. Marvellous, a lie-in. Rest of the day is spent in equally leisurely fashion. Walk down to the lakeside and coffee in the YHA café in the morning, long 3 hour siesta in the afternoon for la petite while papa suffers a stalemate in the Potteries on TV and mama and mamy do some shopping for provisions. Evening establishes a routine for the week - dip in the little superheated pool, bath, dinner, bed.
Monday 27th: another luxurious post-eight am lie-in, followed by another provisions shopping trip to Windermere in the morning rain. Post-lunch siesta only ends when la soeur et la nièce numéro 3 turn up for a short visit in the afternoon rain. They renew acquaintance with their niece/cousin respectively, check into their B&B and then return to take part in the usual evening routine.
Tuesday 28th: the rain finally stops, encouraging us catch the 11am boat to the visitor's centre at Brockhole. A visit to the playground is followed by lunch on the terrace in the sunshine and the return boat ride to Waterhead. The habitual evening is interrupted only by the departure of la soeur et la niece.
Wednesday 29th: another morning outing, this time to a soft play centre near Ambleside. La petite cascadeuse has fun, tiring out parents too old or unfit for obstacle courses. After lunch in the café the heavens open, drenching la bienheureuse who misses the short cut to the car park. Slight diversion from the usual evening routine, with the older female generation out for dinner, the imminently new female member of the middle generation cooks chili con carne for everyone else. The lack of sticky toffee pudding for dessert is in part compensated by la bienheureuse providing DIY Pavlova.
Thursday 30th: quiet morning is followed by the traditional mass rounders game in the park. Damp conditions underfoot render it a somewhat dangerous sport for certain members of the older generations, but much fun is had by all and the ginger ninja's team wins comprehensively. In the evening it is the turn of the middle generation to enjoy their traditional night out. Dinner at a new Thai restaurant in Ambleside is enjoyed in the usual convivial fashion and surprisingly gets less noisy as the evening progresses.
Friday 31st: no sign of the sun, but no sign of rain either means we go ahead with another outing on the lake. This time we accompany the three sisters to Castle Wray across the water. We meet the soon-to-be-newly-weds there, have an outdoor lunch and a walk round the grounds before taking the young girl back on the early afternoon boat, leaving the old girls to enjoy a tour inside the castle. In the evening dinner is the traditional fish'n'chips for twenty-plus, and then it's time to think about packing and going home.
Saturday 1st September: we succeed in packing and checking out by the 10am deadline, say our goodbyes and head south down the M6 once more. Via a stop for coffee at a farm shop we arrive chez la belle-mère half an hour before le frère et les 2 nièces arrive from the other side of the county. Cheese toasties for lunch in warm sunshine outside in another pretty English garden start the afternoon off in splendid fashion while la petite enjoys getting thrown about by her uncle and playing hide and seek in the willow tree with her older cousins. All too soon it is time to say goodbye once more and do the final bit of packing and faffing.
Sunday 2nd: la grand-mère waves sadly goodbye and we hit the road again. Three hours later we arrive back in Cambridge. This time our host is the Margarita Man, who has kindly organised an afternoon BBQ for our benefit, allowing us to meet up with les gooner confrères again, as well as le grand M and family. A very pleasant way to end a very pleasant holiday. Later in the evening, the Caiparinha Kid drops in having been delayed on a Eurostar from the Brussels beer festival for the umpteenth time. Then it's bedtime and the journey home to follow…
Sunday 26th: eight-thirty am wakeup call from the little girl's room. Marvellous, a lie-in. Rest of the day is spent in equally leisurely fashion. Walk down to the lakeside and coffee in the YHA café in the morning, long 3 hour siesta in the afternoon for la petite while papa suffers a stalemate in the Potteries on TV and mama and mamy do some shopping for provisions. Evening establishes a routine for the week - dip in the little superheated pool, bath, dinner, bed.
Monday 27th: another luxurious post-eight am lie-in, followed by another provisions shopping trip to Windermere in the morning rain. Post-lunch siesta only ends when la soeur et la nièce numéro 3 turn up for a short visit in the afternoon rain. They renew acquaintance with their niece/cousin respectively, check into their B&B and then return to take part in the usual evening routine.
Tuesday 28th: the rain finally stops, encouraging us catch the 11am boat to the visitor's centre at Brockhole. A visit to the playground is followed by lunch on the terrace in the sunshine and the return boat ride to Waterhead. The habitual evening is interrupted only by the departure of la soeur et la niece.
Wednesday 29th: another morning outing, this time to a soft play centre near Ambleside. La petite cascadeuse has fun, tiring out parents too old or unfit for obstacle courses. After lunch in the café the heavens open, drenching la bienheureuse who misses the short cut to the car park. Slight diversion from the usual evening routine, with the older female generation out for dinner, the imminently new female member of the middle generation cooks chili con carne for everyone else. The lack of sticky toffee pudding for dessert is in part compensated by la bienheureuse providing DIY Pavlova.
Thursday 30th: quiet morning is followed by the traditional mass rounders game in the park. Damp conditions underfoot render it a somewhat dangerous sport for certain members of the older generations, but much fun is had by all and the ginger ninja's team wins comprehensively. In the evening it is the turn of the middle generation to enjoy their traditional night out. Dinner at a new Thai restaurant in Ambleside is enjoyed in the usual convivial fashion and surprisingly gets less noisy as the evening progresses.
Friday 31st: no sign of the sun, but no sign of rain either means we go ahead with another outing on the lake. This time we accompany the three sisters to Castle Wray across the water. We meet the soon-to-be-newly-weds there, have an outdoor lunch and a walk round the grounds before taking the young girl back on the early afternoon boat, leaving the old girls to enjoy a tour inside the castle. In the evening dinner is the traditional fish'n'chips for twenty-plus, and then it's time to think about packing and going home.
Saturday 1st September: we succeed in packing and checking out by the 10am deadline, say our goodbyes and head south down the M6 once more. Via a stop for coffee at a farm shop we arrive chez la belle-mère half an hour before le frère et les 2 nièces arrive from the other side of the county. Cheese toasties for lunch in warm sunshine outside in another pretty English garden start the afternoon off in splendid fashion while la petite enjoys getting thrown about by her uncle and playing hide and seek in the willow tree with her older cousins. All too soon it is time to say goodbye once more and do the final bit of packing and faffing.
Sunday 2nd: la grand-mère waves sadly goodbye and we hit the road again. Three hours later we arrive back in Cambridge. This time our host is the Margarita Man, who has kindly organised an afternoon BBQ for our benefit, allowing us to meet up with les gooner confrères again, as well as le grand M and family. A very pleasant way to end a very pleasant holiday. Later in the evening, the Caiparinha Kid drops in having been delayed on a Eurostar from the Brussels beer festival for the umpteenth time. Then it's bedtime and the journey home to follow…
24 août 2012
Tour of England
A tale of travels and travails in Blighty in nine easy steps:
Friday 17th
Decide to drive to the airport, find the long-stay car park full and are directed to a nearby field instead. Flight leaves and arrives at Stansted on time.
Travel note 1 - la petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parent's knees. Much screaming and struggling.
Travel note 2 - having decided to take our own car seat for the first time, due to the cost of long term hire being more than the cost of a new one, we collect it and our baggage from the carousel and head off to pick up the car hire. It's only once we are in possession of the keys that we realise we're missing something. No, not the baby, but the baby carrier. Fortunately the procedure required to go back into the arrivals hall to collect it is fairly painless.
Travel note 3 - hire car we are allocated is covered in scratches and dents, far more than are listed on the already long damage sheet. Attendant duly notes that there is lots of extra damage and we set off.
Travel note 4 - a rather worrying screeching noise is heard before we get out of the car park. Emanating not from the back seat, rather from the front wheels. The attendant gets in to witness the noise himself and offers us another car.
Travel note 5 - new car is a rather nice to drive German model but on a rare hot day in England we fail to get the air-conditioning to work.
Nonetheless we arrive in chez J&C in Cambridge suffering only minor heat exhaustion and the usual convivial and well-lubricated evening follows.
Saturday 18th
Bumper English breakfast helps alleviate hangovers and the three Gooners leave la bienheureuse et la petite to fend for themselves for the day while we head south to the sacred turf in North London. We enjoy, if that's the right word, a frustratingly goalless afternoon. Back in Cambridge a slightly more restrained convivial evening with dinner outdoors follows.
Sunday 19th
After a morning spent enjoying lovely and unexpectedly warm sunshine in a pretty English garden, we wave goodbye to le grand chef et la petite beaucoup and we are on the road again by mid-afternoon.
Travel note 6 - the air conditioning definitely doesn't work.
Travel note 7 - la petite displays distinctly untypical travel behaviour - she lapses into a strange sort of travel zone, staring blankly out of the window for several minutes before falling asleep.
She stays asleep almost until we arrive in Bromley suffering only minor heat exhaustion and enjoy another convivial evening and outdoor dinner chez le petit frère et la belle-soeur colombienne numèro deux.
Monday 20th
The young professionals head off to work leaving us to spend a day relaxing. At least that was the idea…
Travel note 7 - after several phone calls la bienheureuse manages to get the hire car changed again. According to the RAC broken air-conditioning does not count as a break-down, even in Saharan temperatures.
So off we set to Chatham, the nearest centre with an available car. Hallelujah, the air-con and everything else on hire car number three works. Meanwhile we belatedly get in touch with the Punjabi Princess and arrange to go and see her and the new arrival for lunch. After a very pleasant few hours catching up with old times and swapping baby tales, we head back to our digs in Bromley. Another outdoor dinner follows.
Tuesday 21st
We wave goodbye to le frère et la cuñada and head south-west via a stop for lunch and playtime for la petite at a soft play centre in a Bromley entertainment complex.
Travel note 8 - la petite voyageuse gets into the new travel zone again, but then reverts to type by waking up after forty minutes and throwing a wobbly which necessitates an emergency stop at services on the M4.
The British weather reverts to type and we arrive in Bristol amidst a heavy shower and heavy traffic. Eventually we arrive chez le grand frère to find fifteen-year old paint testers still decorating the walls, and a pleasant indoor dinner follows.
Wednesday 22nd
The four of us get into the car once more and head further south towards deepest Devon.
Travel note 9 - atypical behaviour seems to be becoming typical. La petite lapses into her zone once more, falls asleep and, wonder of wonders, doesn't wake up again until we we are in South Devon a whole two hours later.
Travel note 10 - traffic on the winding road between Totnes and Kingsbridge is as bad as ever, made worse by road works and slow moving farm tractors.
Travel note 11 - eighty year-old aunts can give wonderfully explicit directions, so we arrive safely at the new-ish abode of my only surviving aunt and uncle in the back of the South Devon beyond.
A very pleasant lunch and afternoon follows during the long overdue visit in the mellow Devon sunshine. La cousine decoratrice comes across from Salcombe to say hello and introduce us to two of her five progeny. Late in the afternoon we wave goodbye and head north back up the A38 and M5.
Travel note 12 - another 90 minute plus car sleep. Astonishing.
Thursday 23rd
We wave le grand frère off to work in the morning and not long afterwards leave the bachelor pad ourselves and hit the road once more.
Travel note 13 - the travel zone is not necessarily immediately followed by unconsciousness. The little traveller neglects to go to sleep until we are less than half an hour from Tattenhall.
Nonetheless the journey is relatively painless and we arrive chez la grand-mère suffering only minor travel weariness. In the evening however, after being on her best behaviour the whole week, la petite coquinette rebels against a sea of new and old faces constantly saying hello only to say goodbye a day or two later. She yells and steadfastly refuses to go to sleep for well over an hour. Exhausted, she is finally drops off around ten pm, and her parents fall into bed immediately afterwards.
Friday 24th
We spend a very pleasant day chez le beau-frère, la belle-soeur et les nièces canines in north Wales, despite the weather providing a taste of things to come in the Lakes - showers, not much sunshine and rather colder than the visitors from south-east France are used to. Back in Cheshire bed-time is slightly less taxing.
Friday 17th
Decide to drive to the airport, find the long-stay car park full and are directed to a nearby field instead. Flight leaves and arrives at Stansted on time.
Travel note 1 - la petite coquinette does not like being strapped in on parent's knees. Much screaming and struggling.
Travel note 2 - having decided to take our own car seat for the first time, due to the cost of long term hire being more than the cost of a new one, we collect it and our baggage from the carousel and head off to pick up the car hire. It's only once we are in possession of the keys that we realise we're missing something. No, not the baby, but the baby carrier. Fortunately the procedure required to go back into the arrivals hall to collect it is fairly painless.
Travel note 3 - hire car we are allocated is covered in scratches and dents, far more than are listed on the already long damage sheet. Attendant duly notes that there is lots of extra damage and we set off.
Travel note 4 - a rather worrying screeching noise is heard before we get out of the car park. Emanating not from the back seat, rather from the front wheels. The attendant gets in to witness the noise himself and offers us another car.
Travel note 5 - new car is a rather nice to drive German model but on a rare hot day in England we fail to get the air-conditioning to work.
Nonetheless we arrive in chez J&C in Cambridge suffering only minor heat exhaustion and the usual convivial and well-lubricated evening follows.
Saturday 18th
Bumper English breakfast helps alleviate hangovers and the three Gooners leave la bienheureuse et la petite to fend for themselves for the day while we head south to the sacred turf in North London. We enjoy, if that's the right word, a frustratingly goalless afternoon. Back in Cambridge a slightly more restrained convivial evening with dinner outdoors follows.
Sunday 19th
After a morning spent enjoying lovely and unexpectedly warm sunshine in a pretty English garden, we wave goodbye to le grand chef et la petite beaucoup and we are on the road again by mid-afternoon.
Travel note 6 - the air conditioning definitely doesn't work.
Travel note 7 - la petite displays distinctly untypical travel behaviour - she lapses into a strange sort of travel zone, staring blankly out of the window for several minutes before falling asleep.
She stays asleep almost until we arrive in Bromley suffering only minor heat exhaustion and enjoy another convivial evening and outdoor dinner chez le petit frère et la belle-soeur colombienne numèro deux.
Monday 20th
The young professionals head off to work leaving us to spend a day relaxing. At least that was the idea…
Travel note 7 - after several phone calls la bienheureuse manages to get the hire car changed again. According to the RAC broken air-conditioning does not count as a break-down, even in Saharan temperatures.
So off we set to Chatham, the nearest centre with an available car. Hallelujah, the air-con and everything else on hire car number three works. Meanwhile we belatedly get in touch with the Punjabi Princess and arrange to go and see her and the new arrival for lunch. After a very pleasant few hours catching up with old times and swapping baby tales, we head back to our digs in Bromley. Another outdoor dinner follows.
Tuesday 21st
We wave goodbye to le frère et la cuñada and head south-west via a stop for lunch and playtime for la petite at a soft play centre in a Bromley entertainment complex.
Travel note 8 - la petite voyageuse gets into the new travel zone again, but then reverts to type by waking up after forty minutes and throwing a wobbly which necessitates an emergency stop at services on the M4.
The British weather reverts to type and we arrive in Bristol amidst a heavy shower and heavy traffic. Eventually we arrive chez le grand frère to find fifteen-year old paint testers still decorating the walls, and a pleasant indoor dinner follows.
Wednesday 22nd
The four of us get into the car once more and head further south towards deepest Devon.
Travel note 9 - atypical behaviour seems to be becoming typical. La petite lapses into her zone once more, falls asleep and, wonder of wonders, doesn't wake up again until we we are in South Devon a whole two hours later.
Travel note 10 - traffic on the winding road between Totnes and Kingsbridge is as bad as ever, made worse by road works and slow moving farm tractors.
Travel note 11 - eighty year-old aunts can give wonderfully explicit directions, so we arrive safely at the new-ish abode of my only surviving aunt and uncle in the back of the South Devon beyond.
A very pleasant lunch and afternoon follows during the long overdue visit in the mellow Devon sunshine. La cousine decoratrice comes across from Salcombe to say hello and introduce us to two of her five progeny. Late in the afternoon we wave goodbye and head north back up the A38 and M5.
Travel note 12 - another 90 minute plus car sleep. Astonishing.
Thursday 23rd
We wave le grand frère off to work in the morning and not long afterwards leave the bachelor pad ourselves and hit the road once more.
Travel note 13 - the travel zone is not necessarily immediately followed by unconsciousness. The little traveller neglects to go to sleep until we are less than half an hour from Tattenhall.
Nonetheless the journey is relatively painless and we arrive chez la grand-mère suffering only minor travel weariness. In the evening however, after being on her best behaviour the whole week, la petite coquinette rebels against a sea of new and old faces constantly saying hello only to say goodbye a day or two later. She yells and steadfastly refuses to go to sleep for well over an hour. Exhausted, she is finally drops off around ten pm, and her parents fall into bed immediately afterwards.
Friday 24th
We spend a very pleasant day chez le beau-frère, la belle-soeur et les nièces canines in north Wales, despite the weather providing a taste of things to come in the Lakes - showers, not much sunshine and rather colder than the visitors from south-east France are used to. Back in Cheshire bed-time is slightly less taxing.
16 août 2012
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...
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...
08 août 2012
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…
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…
31 juillet 2012
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...
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.
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...
25 juillet 2012
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…
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…
18 juillet 2012
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...
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...
11 juillet 2012
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…
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.
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.
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.
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