31/07/2007 by Brigid.

Our kitchen floor is in need of some repair. When we removed Signor Ascero’s home built reinforced concrete kitchen units in 2002, we were left with large gaps in the otherwise attractive tiled floor. Local French tile stockists told us that the small elegantly shaped terracotta tiles haven’t been manufactured for years, but a friend had since told us (on the basis of a rough sketch) that they are still common in Spain. Feeling that we have been rather idle of late, JR and I decided to mount another sortie across the border into Spain in search of said tiles. Neither of us speak a word of Spanish but, with the help of the babelfish translation engine (http://babelfish.altavista.com), we located a couple of tile merchants in Huesca - about 3 hours drive away.

The first problem that we encountered was finding a useable street address to program into the Garmin - we didn’t know that “poligono” indicated an industrial estate. Undaunted, we just typed in “Huesco” and off we went. Not south, across the river via Gourdan Polignan, the way we normally drive to the Boya hypermarket near Les. But west. Leaving Montrejeau on the St. Laurent de Neste road, we picked our way around the foothills. Several “recalculations” later, we eventually joined the main Arreau road at Hechettes via the D26 . The patient lady from Garmin then took us over the border through the 3km Tunnel Aragnouet-Bielsa. After the Spanish town of Ainsa, we followed the undeniably scenic N260 for 70km around the Valle de Solana and the Reserva Nacional de Viñamala. But after an hour or so passing nothing but a handful of Spanish cars, two or three lost Dutch motorhomes, and a couple of rural molinas, even the scenery began to lose its appeal. We began to regret setting out without either a road map or a Spanish dictionary. Believe me, in these circumstances, a GPS screen is no substitute for a good old-fashioned Michelin map - especially when one realises too late that our projected arrival time is based on Britsh Summer Time!

It was about 3pm when we eventually arrived in Huesca. Siesta time. There was nothing to do but find a restaurant for lunch. Next problem. How does one order a meal when no one speaks either French or English, and you can’t read the menu? Actually, that’s a lie. The Dutch family on the table next to us spoke English. Unfortunately, they didn’t speak Spanish. Miraculously, thanks to a couple of lucky guesses, some pointing, and an extremely good humoured waiter, we managed a very good 3 course meal from the 10€ menu.

Huesca is a beautiful city, and we had plenty of time to explore on foot while waiting for the tourist office to open. Parking in the centre of town was free during the lunch hour: 1pm - 4pm. Needless to say, the majority of shops were closed until 6pm. Nevertheless, we were able to buy a road map and dictionary at the station bookstand, and the lady at the tourist office helpfully marked the location of the two tile merchants on a free town map.

No one had ever seen anything like the sample tile we had brought with us, so we came home empty-handed. But, armed with our new road map, we identified a much more direct route home via the Col du Pourtalet, and were again able to relax and enjoy some breathtaking scenery on our return trip. We’ll be back. But, next time, we’ll bring a phrase book.

We got in just before 9pm. The cats were not impressed.

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20/07/2007 by Brigid.

Well they are, actually. The kittens, that is.

Despite having long announced our intention to leave Blighty on or around 1st June, our curiously hasty departure on 6th July still took everyone by surprise. Having mooched around for months waiting first for our Fulham house to sell and then, when it didn’t, putting it on the rental market, we suddenly upped and left town with barely enough time to arrange a leaving party. No, let’s be frank here, we didn’t have time to organise a party. Instead, we held an open house over the preceding weekend, during which we entertained guests in between buzzing around with the hoover and paint brush. How to win friends and influence people, not!

But meanwhile, over in France, two kittens needed to be collected before La Belle Famille F left for their annual junket to sunny Scarborough.

Tigger and Foggy probably probably arrived in this world around the middle of April. I say probably because no-one will ever know for sure. The kittens were born in Billy and MrsF’s roof, and the first they knew about them was when they started squeaking and scrabbling about above their bedroom … apart, of course, from the fact that the mother, who had for weeks resembled a sort of four-legged furry football, seemed to have been on a crash diet. From memory, kittens don’t do much for the first week or so, so they may have been 7-10 days old by this point.

Anyone who has tried recently to find a non-pedigree kitten in the UK will undoubtedly have been surprised to find how difficult it is these days. I know of one couple who travelled from London to the West Country to buy a common tabby for their daughter. Even most the motley feline cross-breed can now fetch a tidy sum, so successful have the animal charities been in their quest for sterilisation. And then we wonder why mice and other pests are on the increase.

In rural France, however, things are more old-fashioned. Most local papers carry a plethora of ads offering kittens ‘free to a good home’, placed by those too kind or too squeamish to drown their cat’s illegitimite off-spring in the nearest available bucket. With the new Passport for Pets Scheme allowing pets to travel between the UK and mainland Europe, you may be forgiven for thinking that you have hit upon a sure-fire business proposition. However, dear reader, before you rush off to the Dragons’ Den to seek financial backing for your new kitten import business, there is a catch …

Tigger and Foggy immediately settled in to the house in Montrejeau and started to make it their own. First victims were our bedraggled house plants, just starting to recover from being squashed during the hot journey down in the car. Next, the net curtains. Luckily, with shutters, we hardly need them anyway. Then our shoes - Foggy seems to have developed a slightly kinky penchant for sleeping with his head in John’s sandals - and our tall gothic dining chairs with the upholstered backrests, perfect for testing those sharp little claws.

Discovering a few flee-dirts, we bought a flee-comb and treated the kittens’ bedding (at 3 months they are too young to treat directly) and our other furnishings with Tiquanis, a foul-smelling aerosol pesticide. It sorted the flees out overnight, but fumigated the flat so effectively that we had to vacate the house. The next day we took them to our charming, English-speaking, vet for their first vaccinations.

Dr. Nivot asked us whether or not we intend to travel back to the UK with our cats. “Not this year”, I said, “but we may do next summer”. He then explained the process for getting a Pet Passport. Just as well, as it soon became obvious that one needs to think ahead, if one wants to take a pet abroad.

Simply speaking, the kittens need to be microchipped, vaccinated for rabies and treated for ticks. The vet gave the kittens the usual vaccinations against cat flu, leukaemia and the cat equivalent of parvo virus, etc., injected and checked their micro-chips and presented us with the Pet Passports. Since poor Tigger and Foggy were now feeling a little the worse for wear, having been thoroughly ‘chipped and pinned’, Nivot said he would do the rabies vaccine when we brought them back for their booster in a few weeks’ time.

But here’s the catch. Before the kittens can travel on their shiny new passports, six months must elapse from the date of a satisfactory bloodtest showing that they have developed sufficient anti-bodies to the rabies vaccine … and the blood test must be taken six months after the vaccination. One therefore has to start the vaccination process a full year before one wants to travel.

Back at home, Tigger and Foggy have discovered that, when it isn’t too hot to bother, the best place to learn about the ways of the world is from the (relative) safety of the second floor window sill.

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15/07/2007 by Brigid.

Now I was always given to understand that Bastille Day was one of the most important national holidays in France - celebrated (according to my OU text books) almost everywhere with fireworks, public dances, veterans parades, and an infinite variety of local and regional traditions. With the revelry anticipated to continue into the small hours, we saw the “quatorze juillet” as a perfect opportunity to get acquainted with some of our French neighbours. The accompanying wine/beer lake would also serve to encourage French conversation - shed some of our natural English reserve, one might say …

Since we bought the house, we have been aware of a certain amount of Spanish influence around Montrejeau. It isn’t surprising, given our geographical proximity to the Spanish border - about 30 minutes south by car. Even so, we were surprised at the extent, on this most nationalistic of days, to which the town prides itself on its Catalan connections rather than its Frenchness!

Montrejeau celebrated Bastille Day with a “Festival des Bandas” - six amateur oompah bands from neighbouring areas. The town centre, decked in the red and yellow bunting of Catalonia, was closed to traffic. Tables were laid out in front of every bar and restaurant in the manner of a giant street party, a parade of the bands around the town and an enthusiastic rendition of the “Marseillaise”. And that, as far as French nationalism went, was that. Not a tricolor in sight!

Of course the festivities continued late into the night. There were fireworks above the lake. The bands continued to tour the bars and restaurants, playing a (limited) latin/Spanish repetoire. Close your eyes, and you could almost imagine the bulls thundering through the streets of Pamplona (only about 2 hours away), or perhaps El Zorro swashbuckling his way out of another daring do, way down in old Mexico!

So what of the principal purpose of our sortie, I hear you ask.

We settled at a small table in front of the Bar Millenium in the Place des Abeilles, where one of “The Gaie Rimontais” was entertaining customers with an evocative latin trumpet solo. It was 8pm. The sky was clear blue. The temperature was about 25oC and the air was thick with smoke from barbeques and crepe vendors. As the sun went down the square filled with people, and we began to feel a little conspiquous. Mr and Mrs Billy No-Mates.

There was another table of Brits a few feet away. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but … What is it about the English? Is it the overly formal clothes, the sunburn, or just a general manner that gives us away? Now, John and I want to integrate with the French, but we don’t want to be unnecessarily stand-offish to our own countrymen. Though, whether or not they would have appreciated us is anyone’s guess as, just as we were contemplating introducing ourselves, we were interrupted by a French couple asking if they could share our table.

We nod and make appropriately friendly noises. They try to strike up a conversation. We apologise for our ‘faible’ French, and the fact that we cannot hear very well over the asynchronous din from the two brass bands playing on either side of the square. Not to be put off, they try some of their English. My French is better - a rare and oddly pleasant experience. We talk, somewhat stiltedly, until well after dark and realise, too late, that we have missed the fireworks. They invite us in for coffee.

Our new friends are Marisse and Alain. Marisse moved to nearby Tibiran from Morocco about 2 years ago. Alain is a local painter. Over Sangria and coffee in Alain’s studio, we are supplied with a comprehensive list of useful artesans and the name of a good doctor in town.

Alain presents us with a heap of DIY magazines and offers the loan of DVDs from his collection. We leave at 12.30am inviting them, as we part, to drop by anytime for a coffee or an aperitif … and we sincerely hope that they will.

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07/07/2007 by Brigid.

We are John and Brigid Rynne. Recently retired (early), and even more recently arrived in France … We have had a holiday home in Montrejeau since August 2002 but, since yesterday, it has become our permanent home. Keen as we are to integrate into the local community, let’s see how well we get on …

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