A relatively painless (apart from a tough poo pellet episode) journey towards the Côte d'Azur ended in warm, late afternoon sunshine. Keys to the apartment were exchanged for a sum of money and a few cheques vacances, along with emergency bedclothes provided by the lady from the agency following an overlooked request to hire them. La petite famille settled in, watched the sun set over the beach, baby was put to bed and parents ate takeaway pizza from the restaurant across the road while waiting for the soggy diver and her new beau to turn up. A text informing us of lengthy queues for car hire however persuaded us to secrete the keys outside and do our waiting in the dormant state.
On a morning with no diving planned, la petite gave us an undesired wake-up call at 5.30am, performing some cot gymnastics in anticipation of the arrival of an almighty thunderstorm. As the lightning flashed and thunder crashed outside, she went back to sleep. A couple of hours later we met the new arrivals. Late breakfast and a lazy morning ensued before they went for an introductory dive (La Formigue) after lunch, the youngest in the party went off for a nap, and the oldest went off to the airport to collect the new member of the 50 club.
Five reunited, the evening was the occasion for an experiment: taking la petite coquinette to a restaurant. Ensconced in her pram, the hope was that she would fall asleep. Fat chance: noisy restaurant, interesting things going on, lots of new faces. Nonetheless a good time was had by all, though la bienheureuse skipped dessert to take the tired-but-determined-not-to-be-sleepy little angel back to bed.
My turn to do the first dive of the week the following morning, while ma bien-aimée senior forewent the water to look after ma bien-aimée junior. With the Mistral blowing up an easterly gale in a cloudless sky, I joined the beach lady and the crooked nail for a dip on a rock in the sheltered bay. Very pleasant it was too, if a little chilly and a floppy sausage and detached fin demonstrated my rusty diving technique. Fortunately the latter was rescued by the brave La Favière tyro. Prof Margarita preferred to nurse blocked sinuses and indulge in a morning lie-in, but in the afternoon joined us in braving the whistling wind and for a squeaky sinus dive at Cap Benat. Red sausage fully inflated this time, but a buoy line wrapped round a reel handle almost resulted in a rapid early ascent. The 51 year-old resolved to try and dive more than once a year while the 50 year-old decided one dive was quite enough for this year.
A more successful sortie for a meal out took place in the evening. A strategically chosen quiet restaurant, with a longer walk timed to coincide with la petite's bedtime worked perfectly and she slept through a lovely meal. We walked back to the apartrment and were lulled to sleep by the howling wind, clinking riggings and crashing waves.
The next morning, la petite coquinette was awake early once more, but the wind had miraculously dropped. It was almost dead calm was the diving trio headed off for a day's diving at Port Cros, leaving two beauties and a beast to enjoy a quiet day and test the swimming pool. Water at 20C was not at all to la petite's taste. A bit cool for me too, but a wet suit helped enjoy a great dive on le Grec with AI N after NI S decided three was a crowd and gave up her perennial battle with the surface current. Lunch in the summer sunshine at Port Cros was followed by a pleasant plunge at Pointe du Vaisseau, where groupers lazed, a lonely moray lurked and a school of barracuda circled menacingly close to the bottom.
The divers took the middle day of the week off to spend time with the Margarita man and the two lovely ladies. A stroll along the coast path in the warm sunshine towards Le Lavandou was broken by a picnic lunch for baby and late morning drinks for the grown-ups. A lazy afternoon ensued apart from a sortie to the beach for la famille where la fille confirmed that she's none too fond of water that's well below body temperature. An evening in followed, with the shark lady cooking her renowned beer can chicken. Delicious it was too, even if the chickens had a little too much of the hard stuff and kept falling over.
The glorious weather continued on Thursday. The three divers set off on the boat for a day of wreck diving and lunch at Cavalaire. First dive on the agenda was L'Espingole. Dr S made it down the shotline this time, but contented herself with observing the broken up wreck from afar while her buddies explored as far as they dared. Le Rubis was the afternoon dive. After initial false reports about the current all three of us eventually got down and enjoyed a lovely dive on the lone star French sub of the 2nd world war. Dinner in again in the evening, tasty leftovers followed by a few testy games of cards. Too much glee from certain quarters about the champion peanuthead in my opinion.
Friday was Professor Margarita's last day. Skipping the morning dive, I drove him to the airport and then joined the Scottish pair for the last dive of the week on the jewel in the Port Cros crown - the east wall of La Gabinière. Excellent as usual. Our last night was taken up with packing, cleaning, takeaway pizza and more card games. The married couple came out top in the competition to be last.
And so another week of great weather and great diving at La Favière came to an end. On Saturday morning we headed north through perplexing autoroute queues while the soggy diver and her buddy headed east towards Nice airport via St Tropez and other coastal hotspots. No doubt we will be back again next year...
A day before her half-year birthday, la petite met her old friend Monsieur le pédiatre for a six-month checkup. Result: nearly 5kg heavier, 15cm taller than her first day at home. Diagnosis: "elle est magnifique!"; high time she started eating some real food.
And so, the next day papa got to give his litle angel her first spoonful or two (mama reluctantly at work). Reaction: puzzlement ('why is the old man trying to stick something other than a teat in my mouth, when he normally stops me from doing it?'), followed by uncertain testing of the strange substance (pureed carrot). I think a little of it went down her gullet. Over the next few days, two spoonfuls became several, several became many, and many more ended up all over her bib, her face, her hair, her hands, her clothes, the high chair, and of course mum & dad. Messy business, especially when the raspberry blowing receives full treatment.
She soon got to show off her new skills to visitors. The UKC connection, Ealing branch, were in town for a long weekend - work and baby viewing purposes, respectively and combined. They arrived late Thursday evening, and the next morning Dr N and la bienheureuse went off to their respective work, leaving Dr C to enjoy some time with old dad and baby. Which she did after doing a bit of work remote from Whitehall. No real rest for these high-powered civil servants. By afternoon however, both visitors had finished working, and la bienheureuse met us all at the end of our habitual late afternoon stroll along the river for a slow drink on a boat café.
The rest of the weekend followed a similar pattern: morning lie-ins for those that could, morning naps for those that wished or didn't wish, and lazy strolls out in the afternoon, which provided a surprise source of great entertainment for la petite - flapping flags on the bridge. Highly exciting stuff to a six month old, apparently. In the evening, NB gestured towards an upcoming half-marathon by punishing himself with early evening jogging up and down the river while dinner was cooking and baby was being put to bed. Saturday blurred into Sunday, and all too soon it was Monday morning and our visitors were on their way home.
They were followed to the airport two days later by a reluctant business traveller heading towards the company mother country. Dad and baby were thus left to cope on their own for a day, which they managed in their usual fashion. I even had time to sort out dive kit for the forthcoming holiday before notre bien-aimée was home on Thursday evening. More late packing late the following evening and by Saturday morning we were more or less ready for the drive south towards sea and sunshine...
Four became three on Thursday as we bade a fond farewell to la grand-mère and hit the road south. Six hours later, including two spent going nowhere on the M1 and M25, we finally arrived in Bromley. Petit frère was there to show us round the building site and, an hour or two later, tia numero dos made her long awaited-acquaintance with la sobrinita.
The next morning la petite greeted yet another new bedroom with some early morning cot gymnastics, but her parents were granted a lie-in when la tia kidnapped her for an hour before breakfast. The builders turned up, took one look at baby and decided to work elsewhere for the day, leaving la petite coquinette and her parents free run of the half-rebuilt house while tia & tio were at work. A walk in the late summer sunshine, a bit of shopping and, before we knew it, baby was back in bed and the taxi was there to take her parents for their first night out alone in nearly a year.
The Ritz was the destination, courtesy of a birthday present from Professor Margarita. Very nice it was too: lovely four-course meal, live swing band, bit of dancing, bit of uncertain celebrity-spotting, personal service in the gents, and all too soon it was time for the taxi home. Tia two sounded almost disappointed to report that the babysitters had heard not a peep from the sleeping baby when we got back.
Saturday was spent recovering, observing a fascinating discussion on choice of paints by the home builders, and then it was time to head for the bright lights of London once more. Second night out in a row, once again thanks to the Margarita Man, this time celebrating his own half-century. Having received strict instructions to be at Festival Pier by 7pm otherwise the boat would leave without us, we left the babysitters to feed, bathe and put their niece to bed. First time la petite has been put to bed by someone other than one of her parents. Crossing fingers, we caught a train into Charing Cross leaving them to cope as best they could.
Arriving on the South Bank early, we gradually met a few others who had made their own way there and waited for the main party and birthday boy to arrive by coach from Cambridge. The boat arrived, the clock ticked past seven, and still no sign of the majority of the partygoers. Modern technology informed us they were becalmed in heavy traffic somewhere in the City. The captain fidgeted, the clock ticked on and finally the bus deposited its load at about half past. The description containing the words piss-up and brewery springs to mind, but as it was his fiftieth birthday I'll be kind and not apply it here.
We all eventually boarded, drank Pimms and the boat slipped its moorings for an evening cruise up and down the Thames. Riverside sights by night, magician, caricature artist, buffet dinner, drinking and dancing: a good time was had by all. When the cruise came to end we all piled into a noisy club and shouted at each other for half an hour before the taxi turned up to take us home to our baby.
And we got there to find her sound asleep. Apparently all had gone well apart from a brief wake-up and need for a cuddle and slurp mid-way through the evening. Phew.
No rest for the wicked though. Six hours after going to bed we were up and, an hour later, on the road to Dover. A seven and a half hour drive awaited the other side of the Channel, survived with intermittent short screaming sessions from a very tired baby until 7pm (usual bedtime) when she finally fell asleep and stayed asleep until we reached Lyon. The end of an exhausting but very enjoyable holiday. And only two weeks till the next one...
Having left twenty odd new relatives in the Lakes, back in Cheshire it was time to start renewing acquaintance with some old faces and two new ones. Old in the sense of familiar, of course. On Sunday la petite was strapped into that hated car seat once more for the short trip across the border to visit ewthr and modryb. A new experience awaited - the encounter with two large, boisterous labradors was viewed from the safety of her parents' arms with a sort of supercilious curiosity. Shortly afterwards the parents of la tante arrived bearing lunch and a long time after that old uncle arrived having spent some time wandering the Welsh countryside with a less than helpful satnav.
The evening saw an experiment which was not entirely successful. La petite was put to bed in Wales and then, when her parents decided it was time to leave, she was rudely awakened, put back into that car seat, rudely awakened once more on arrival in England and put to bed again. Four different bedrooms in two days was perhaps one change of scenery too much: an hour of protest later she finally went to sleep. Don't think we'll try that one again in a hurry.
Next in the queue to see baby was auntie, who arrived late on Monday afternoon in time to say hello and goodbye to her eldest brother and take over the guest room. On Tuesday four of us temporarily left la grand-mère tending the birds and the garden in west Cheshire, got into la petite voiture and head across the county to meet some more relatively new faces. Another uncle and aunt and all four first cousins were greeted with a mixture of bemusement and coy smiles. A short walk, dinner and five hours later it was time to say reluctant goodbyes to all but one cousin and see if we could squeeze four adults and a baby in a car seat into the little car.
The seven of us squeezed into chez grand-mère for one night, achieved by aunt sharing with niece number three and baby sharing with a computer and lots of books. Bath time for baby was a crowded all-female affair - mama assisted by her belle-soeur and niece. The following day was taken up with entertaining la petite and a stroll round the village through nettle patches and churchyards. La soeur headed back to Yorkshire in the early evening, dropping off la nièce en route, and then we were four once more.
Twenty four new people in eight days, only another thirty six to go, all of them relatives, albeit most in only the loosest of senses. The week in the Lake District assembled la grand-mère, two great aunts, a great uncle, several cousins once removed, and assorted other less easily defined relatives and relatives' hangers-on - something like 29 in total. That's a lot of new faces to take in, but apparently la petite coped admirably despite arriving not long before bed time. An hour after bedtime la bienheureuse collected me from Windermere station following the trip to London notable only for the chance to exchange brief gossip with the McBhoy and the Dove and a slap-up breakfast in the local café. Least said about the main footballing event the better.
Petite famille reunited, Sunday was spent recovering from our respective traumas. Saturday's rain was eventually superseded by some lovely late afternoon sunshine, which encouraged a group outdoor dinner (delicious Mexican cooked by the fiancée-in-waiting of cousin number five) on a table for 30 just beneath baby's window. She slept blissfully on.
The routine for the week soon became established. Quick swim in the petite piscine for la petite after morning nap, excursion after lunch (and progressively shortening lunchtime naps), then dinner and bedtime before grown-ups dinner time. Monday afternoon was taken up by a stroll in the sunshine into Ambleside and the hire-with-purchase-option of a back baby-carrier. Said baby-carrier was duly tested the following day with a minor hike along a groomed path in Grizedale Forest. Carrier received full approval from la petite and load-bearing parents and subsequently purchased.
Wednesday was grand-oncle's birthday, celebrated in fine Lake District style with a mass outing via road, ferry, canoe and sailing dinghy respectively to the visitor centre at Brockhole. As the small boats sailed in, the clouds rolled in and a picnic lunch for thirty was consumed in traditional British style in raincoats and under umbrellas. Refuge was eventually sought in the café, and then everybody drove, paddled or sailed back to Waterhead in the rain. It was however, then only persistent rain of the week.
The next day dawned sunny and bright, perfect weather for a cycle ride along the west bank of Windermere. While the three ladies, one from each generation had a stroll and coffee in Ambleside, le nouveau père hired a bike to join the old-hand fathers and older children for a pleasant jaunt up and down the bridle path that runs alongside the lake. Cocky ginger second cousin distinguished himself by losing control of his mount going down a steep incline and sailing over the handlebars. Pride and one shin sustained the only bruises.
Last full day in the Lakes included another trip into Ambleside and a visit to the youth hostel to watch the various cousins (first, second, once removed, vaguely related), aunts and uncles messing about on the water or wrestling on the wet grass. Three against one didn't really seem fair, but the eldest second cousin just about held his own.
Saturday morning passed in a blur of cleaning and packing, and by eleven we were on the road south once more, arriving in Cheshire via a foolhardy detour through Warrington to avoid a jam on the M6. No matter, we made it back to chez grand-mère without too much screaming from driver, navigator or passengers.
The two penultimate days before the marathon journey to blighted Blighty were taken up with transitory visitors. Friday evening, the three Goldilocks and their parents dropped in on their way to the Mediterranean sunshine. La petite reacted to the sudden appearance of five new faces by bursting into tears. Well, it was the end of the day. The following evening, the two doctors and the mini-jezoids arrived after she was in bed, thus delaying the gradual introduction of four more new faces until Sunday morning. Refreshed by 12 hours of sleep and the knowledge that she wasn't alone in not being in full control of bodily functions, she was all smiles and good humour. By midday our visitors had continued their journey south, and we were almost ready for the long trek north.
The twelve hour car journey, split over two days, was more dream than nightmare. La petite slept, from time to time, in her car seat, though never for longer than 45 minutes. And the rest of the time was kept amused with songs, toys and games, or kept quiet with a bottle in her mouth. Only one inconsolable bout of screaming occurred, 20 minutes before arrival at our mid-journey hotel in Laon. And so, via autoroute, hotel, ferry, and motorway, we eventually reached Cambridge 30 hours after leaving Lyon.
Two more new faces were greeted with more smiling and flirting, even though it was grouchy time of day. Honorary auntie C and onkel J were suitably charmed. The following evening, chez Professor Margarita, the Cambridge buddies descended en masse to meet the new addition. And once more, la petite coquinette turned on the charm. Another seven new faces were greeted with smiles and flirts aplenty before it was time for bed.
After a day spent recovering (brief shopping trip for la bienheureuse apart), it was time to be cooped up in that dreaded car-seat for another 300km journey north to Cheshire. Four hours later (those good old British go-slow motorways) we arrived chez la grand-mère. End of the road for our trusty overloaded petite voiture (with functioning air-conditioning), but two days later la petite was hitting the road again. While son papa was on a thankless mission to the asset-stripped home of football in London, sa mere et grand-mère headed further north to the Great Three Sisters Family Reunion in the Lakes, via a brief smaller family reunion in Blackpool. Another two hours in the car, another five new faces.
Seven and five makes twelve. Seven pm yesterday, la petite coquinette is put to bed, with minor complaint. And there she stayed until just after seven am today, the day she is five months old. Twelve hours uninterrupted sleep. Well, almost - a couple of brief awakenings at five and six am before settling back to sleep without need for parental intervention. Bliss for said parents, or would have been if either had managed to sleep soundly in the interim instead of subconsciously listening for sounds of distress...
The first attempt at a full night's sleep was aborted on Friday night when she woke up just after 11pm. Papa went in to offer her a small feed and found the little dear jammed sideways in the cot having somehow escaped from her straitjacket. Success duly followed last night. Wonder how long it will continue…
There was a somewhat rude shock a couple of nights earlier when it took la bienheureuse an hour to get her to bed. Followed by more disruption for papa when she refused to go down easily for daytime naps like the little angel she normally is. Guess she's growing up fast…
Meanwhile, the weather got hotter and heavier but last night suddenly broke again with thunderstorms and much cooler, fresher air. And as if to signal that summer is coming to an end, last night the French football season also resumed. The night turned into a highly satisfactory one for OL, winners at Nice while the two big favourites for the league this season failed: PSG (spenders of more middle eastern oil millions during the transfer window than the citizens of Manchester) crashed at home to little Lorient and Marseille could only draw at home with Sochaux. Lyon's transfer activity has so far been notable by its absence. The only newcomer of note (though not really new as he was previously in charge of the youth team) is the new coach Remi Garde who promises much more attacking football than his much-maligned predecessor. So far so good…
21st blog post documenting, in a cryptic fashion, life since it was changed by a certain event. La petite's quirky little ways continue to keep us on our toes and entertained. In 21 weeks she's developed from a tiny creature who sleeps, feeds, poos, pees, burps, farts and cries into a smiling, giggling, wriggling, shouting, squeaking, squawking little person with her own fast-developing personality. Latest tricks include raspberry blowing with added saliva (or milk), chin-ups on the bar above her cot (well, almost), testing whether her parents' lips, noses and ears are firmly attached, and turning 180 degrees in her cot.
Life continues to revolve round la petite coquinette, though la bienheureuse reluctantly escaped for a 3rd night abroad on business last week. Père et fille survived well enough on their own, but the reunion was joyous on all sides.
21 degrees: maximum temperature in Lyon on the 24th March, and on the 24th July. The last 21 days (give or take) of what is normally the hottest month of the year have been cool, cloudy and rather damp. While the cooler weather has been a relief chez nous (keeping the nursery cool becomes an obsession) les juilletistes (yes, French summer holidaymakers are named according to which month they take their breaks) have been complaining vociferously. Les aoûtiens look like being somewhat more fortunate. The latter include the government, on holiday for the first 21 days of the month. Ministers have all been ordered to take their holidays in France, following the controversy last year when certain high-up members of the government accepted holidays in north Africa hosted by leaders who not long afterwards found themselves on the receiving end of popular revolutions.
Month five, visit to the paediatrician number five. No jabs this time, but plenty of screaming when the nasty man tried to stick his scope in little ears and nostrils. Another measuring session recorded a near doubling in weight and a height increase of 13cm since birth. At this rate la petite will as tall as her mother by the time she's four, and as heavy as her father by the time she's seven.
Of course child growth rates aren't linear, and obsessive that I am, plotting the little munchkin's numbers on the standard (British) curves has her height roughly following the 50th percentile and her weight steadily climbing from about the 60th to the 80th percentile. Hmm, nonetheless Monsieur le Pèdiatre expresses admiration for our treasure's chubby little legs and arms.
"She's not too plump, then?"
"No, not at all. You don't need to worry about obesity until she's two."
That's all right then, we'll continue feeding her 20% more than he recommends. And of course her excess weight could all be put down to her head, measured to be larger than roughly 90 percent of all other babies of the same age. Certainly takes after papa then. Well, we need large heads to fit in all that grey matter.
Daytime entertainment has been more difficult this week. Somehow, it's always raining when it's time for our afternoon stroll along the river. Naps in the cot aren't as much fun. And no more tennis, no more Tour de France on TV. Le Grand Boucle reached its climax on Sunday after three masochistic weeks for the riders that ended in plaudits all round: for the valiant failure of the local hero to hang on to the yellow jersey for the final two days, for the thrilling win at Alpe d'Huez that earned his teammate the white jersey and the burden of being the next great white hope of French cycling, for the attacking ride up the Galibier that earned the eternal runner-up the yellow jersey for one day, for the green jersey won by the greatest sprinter in the Isle of Man and the rest of the world, and finally for the Australian winner. Last year's winner did, after all, pay the price of trying to win the Giro and the Tour in one year.
The saga of cooling the car reached its end (we hope) yesterday. Not that we've needed air-conditioning in the last 2 weeks. Second hand compressor duly purchased (highly efficient online order and delivery, bargain at 100 euros) and fitted by our friendly mechanic. How much will that be then? Billed at 326 euros, with no repair warranty given that it was carried out with a second hand part. Or 250 for cash. Easy choice. Tradesmen are the same the world over.
And then there were two. La grand-mère et la mère left yesterday in the morning rain, heading for the airport at different times in separate taxis, the former heading home after two weeks of grandchild entertainment, sundry sewing jobs and jam-making, the latter reluctantly flying off for a meeting in the company mother country. She will be home this evening but meanwhile la petite et son père have just each other for company once more. Teething troubles seem to be the main preoccupation at the moment. Nothing a bit of drugging won't solve.
On Monday we had a visitor (NB arrived despite making few plans), and la petite coquinette awoke from early evening sleep in her most beguiling mood to meet our dinner guest with sleepy smiles and coy flirts aplenty. He left with a belly full of moussaka, crumble and Coteaux de Tricastin, and a phone full of blurred photos to show to Dr C. His mission of finding the hotel at the top of the tallest building in Lyon was eventually accomplished.
Rumours of the demise of Contador may well have been premature. Yesterday's stage, previously assumed to be anodyne, saw him attack on the only climb of the day in driving rain and autumnal temperatures, leaving the man who was runner-up last year trailing in his spray. Lots of complaints about the weather in France at the moment, particularly from the holiday industry. Temperatures for the middle week in July are forecast to be about five degrees lower than those we had in the middle of April. The next three Alpine stages in le Tour could be interesting, including two climbs up the col du Galibier, which on Sunday was under several inches of snow, occasioning the rescue of a number of cycling nuts who were attempting to emulate the professionals in shorts and t-shirts.
