27/09/2007 by Brigid.

Bringing the bike back to the UK would mean a busy few days for us. First off, we had to alter our travel arrangements. Being due to stay with my mum in the Isle of Wight over the weekend, it would have been logical to travel via the Cherbourg - Portsmouth ferry, saving ourselves about 3 hours driving over our usual route. Now, having arranged to garage the bike with John’s brother, that advantage would be lost. Moreover, it was not economical to travel on the same ferry. Following the appalling weather this summer, Speedferries were hit by numerous insurance claims for damage to motorcycles caused by rough seas, and no longer carry bikes. However, they remain the cheapest cross channel operator as far as cars are concerned. So while I caught Speedferries’ fast catamaran in Boulogne, John had to take the slower P&O ferry from Calais.

On Tuesday morning, while I stocked up on HP Sauce and Colman’s Mustard, John visited the local Triumph dealers in Carshalton to try and establish the value of his bike … and to see what sort of deal they might be able to offer in the way of part exchange. It is a difficult position John finds himself in. Boxer Bikes in Toulouse could not offer anything for his bike, as it would be impossible to sell on. But they did offer a very attractive finance / insurance package on a new Triumph Tiger. In the event, Carl Rosner offered a decent price for the Trophy, but Triumph UK cannot match the finance available in France … and John would still have had to pay for a new headlight unit before being able to re-register the bike. Regardless, the bottom line is that all this is money that he would rather not be spending at the moment.

Then it was off to collect our medical records for translation, complete our shopping and, er .. umm, hire a suit for John’s meeting on Wednesday. In our efforts to prevent the escape of the cats while loading the car, we had left his own behind in France.

We spent Wednesday morning at Ikea in Croydon. The extremely nice and good humoured Letizia prepared a quote for the required kitchen units, which we then compared (piece for piece) with the one we had for identical units from the Toulouse store. Interestingly, the overall price of the kitchen, had we bought the whole thing from one store, varied by only a few pounds. But price of the individual pieces differs enormously, depending on what the various markets think they can get away with. Few people would be in the fortunate position of being able to buy their base units in the UK and their worksurfaces in France. But, depending on the finish of the kitchen you choose, if you are anal enough to do the maths and your car will withstand the load, you can save a packet.

We bought what we could at Croydon, then John’s daughter and I took a trip out to the Lakeside branch at Thurrock, east of London, for the remaining pieces.

By 5am the following morning we were on the way to Dover for the return ferry. To be completely honest, family aside, we had had enough of the UK and were only too glad to be heading home.

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21/09/2007 by Brigid.

Our regular readers may have noticed the absence of news over the last week or so. We’ve been back in Blighty. John had a meeting on Wednesday and the trip would give us the opportunity to save some money on our new kitchen by buying the units in England: tight so-and-so’s that we are …

As luck would have it, our scheduled departure date coincided with the climax of John’s homologation problem. I’m talking about his bike. Tush, tush. What were you thinking?!

Following the cryptic letter received from Triumph SAS, Paris (see September 6th), we attempted to contact the DRIRE in Colomiers. Even allowing for my ‘faible’ telephone French, Monsieur Lavielle did not appear terribly sympathetic to our cause. He babbled incomprehensibly about a required ‘dossier’ and I was sure he said that we would have to take the bike to Paris for tests. It was clear that I had not understood and he quickly became impatient. I thanked him for his time and gave up. John rang Triumph UK in Hinckley, asking them if they could throw any further light on the problem. There is also a small car import agency in Montréjeau, so we thought it might be worth asking them if they could help.

After several phone calls, it transpired that the problem boiled down to the homologation code that forms part of the bike’s VIN or chassis number. It seems that a new Europe-wide whole type vehicle approval scheme was introduced in June 2003. Under the new scheme, new models intended for use on European roads are subjected to a comprehensive battery of tests to ensure they meet the latest regulations on noise, emissions, etc. If passed, a Certificate of Conformity is issued for all vehicles identified as being built to the same specifications. The benefit of this approach is that, once approved, one can freely import and re-register vehicles anywhere within the EU. Hence, all that was required to re-register my 2005 BMW was a few minutes’ form-filling.

The homologation code essentially identifies the particular set of standards relevant to the market for which the vehicle was built. Unfortunately, it seems that later Triumph Trophies were principally manufactured for the American market and therefore carry a different homologation code from earlier models exported to Europe.

Yannick from Triumph Paris explained that, because no Certificate of Conformity had ever been issued for John’s bike, in order to register it in France, we would have to submit it for testing. However, he warned, the process was extremely complicated and expensive, and it might be better to bring the bike back to the UK and sell it. Not the news we wanted.

The import agency confirmed Yannick’s advice. The manager had rung M. Lavielle at the DRIRE to clarify the requirements for testing and was shocked to be told that the cost would be in the region of 5-6,000€! Unsurprisingly, M. Lavielle did not know of a single person who had pursued the matter. Realising that he would not even be able to insure a British-registered bike for use in France, John was left with no option but to return it to England to sell.

Thus, on Friday last week, we cat-proofed the house (as far as possible), set the timer on ‘George’, the automatic pet feeder, and drove back to the UK in convoy: John on the bike and me in the car.

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17/09/2007 by Brigid.

Notwithstanding the disappointment of Gavarnie last weekend which, let’s face it, was less to do with the area, more a failure on our part to prepare properly, we put together another picnic lunch and headed back into the mountains. The French treat walking as a serious sport, so it occurred to us that a regular ‘randonnée’ might be the ideal way to start to get fit for the ski season. We have two pairs of almost new Salomon Crossmax skis that, ironically, have seen precious little action since we bought the house here, and we definitely want to make the most of this winter. No need to join a gym, or buy an expensive exercise bike, if you can stretch your muscles with a gentle hike once a week!

We bought ourselves a cheap little guide book from the local newsagent and looked at the available walks close to home. It came as a bit of a surprise, though it shouldn’t have, that walks here are graded like ski runs: blue (easy), red (moderate) and black (difficult). Being sensible, we picked the blue ‘Petit circuit dans la Vallée de Lis’, just above Bagnères de Luchon. The book describes a blue designated walk as “without risk on well marked paths and byways”. This particular walk indicated a climb of 260m and a duration of approximately 2 hrs 15 mins.

We parked at a pleasant-looking picnic spot by the river and followed a path to the start of the ascent to the ‘Prairie de l’Artigue’. It was about 1pm.

The Ordnance Survey map showed the path zig-zagging 3 or 4 times over a number of closely spaced contour lines … From where we stood, we could not see the top of the hill through the trees, but the valley was closed on the other two sides by, what the book described as, 3000m high “steep rocky bastions”. A gentle hike? I think not.

Acknowledging our lack of fitness, we told ourselves that we could always turn back if we wanted to, and soldiered on up the narrow path, picking our way over rocks and tree roots, taking care not to venture too close to the edge of the escarpment. Passing other walkers was a precarious business in itself, but we hadn’t reckoned on having to step aside for a herd of sheep!

After about an hour’s continual climb, John and I were puffed. We came upon a couple of logs on a wider section of the path, and collapsed. We still had no idea how far we might have to walk to the prairie. It seemed a good moment to open the picnic bag in the shade of the forest.

As it happened, we weren’t that far off. Suddenly we emerged from the trees into a clover-filled meadow at the base of a steep grassy coombe. Behind us rich pasture land stretched up beyond the tree line and the spectacular ‘Cirque des Crabioules’ towered in front of us. We spent a moment or two marvelling at the view before a glance at the map revealed that we had only completed about a third of the walk.

Most of the rest of the walk was downhill, but it was still quite hard work. We detoured slightly to view the ‘Cascade d’Enfer’ (Hell’s Waterfall) and eventually returned to earth via the beech and pine woods on the other side of the valley. By the time we got back to the car it was 4pm. We had aches in leg muscles we didn’t know we had and felt as if we had spent 4 hours in the gym … but without the sweaty changing rooms, TV screens and incessant disco music!

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13/09/2007 by Brigid.

For only the third time since we’ve been together, John and I suffered a culinary disaster last night and had to throw out the dinner. It should have been John’s favourite and is, incidentally, Britain’s national dish. Curry!

A bit of a nuisance really, as one cannot buy all the spices and condiments you need to create a decent Madras or Vindaloo here in France, and one therefore has to stock up in the UK. A lot of the bigger supermarkets do sell some “Produits du Monde”: Sharwoods Curry Powder, Mango Chutney, HP Sauce, Colman’s Mustard, Jacobs Crackers, and even Helman’s “Real Mayonnaise”! Who remembers the 70’s movie, The French Connection, in which Gene Hackman’s character, the uncouth Popeye Doyle, demands ‘mayo’ for his burger and the French waiter has no idea what he is talking about? Actually, I have a degree of sympathy for him.

The problem started at the butchers. I wanted some chicken breasts. My initial request for ‘fillet de poussin’ was greeted with a blank look. The butcher pointed at a pork fillet. I then corrected myself and asked again for ‘fillet de poulet’. No joy. Looking around, I pointed at a tray of chicken legs and said ‘poitrine’, meaning ‘breast’. The butcher crossed the shop to a chiller cabinet by the door and pulled out an enormous bag of, what looked like, chicken breasts and asked me how much I wanted. He opened the bag and made to slice the meat. To my great surprise the bag contained just one, mammoth, double breast fillet. This thing was huge. The poor bird must have been on steroids! Nevertheless, it was cheap, so I allowed the butcher to slice it into usable pieces and took the whole bag to divide up and freeze.

Big mistake. My suspicions where raised when I had to remove something that resembled gristle as I chopped up the chicken. When cooked, the meat turned out to have the tenderness of a piece of garter elastic and was about as tasty … not that I have ever tried eating garter elastic! It was duly consigned to the bin.

I hate wasting food. Particularly meat. I believe that if some unfortunate animal has died so that I can eat, it is morally wrong to throw it away. In the same vein, I have no problem with shooting and fishing, as long as there is a market for the meat, but generally side with Oscar Wilde’s description of fox hunting as “the inedible pursued by the unspeakable”. But I digress.

Needless to say, we were still hungry. So we ventured out to our local Aubèrge for a pizza. The France v Scotland football (soccer) match was on the television, and a couple of beers soon washed away a slightly unpleasant aftertaste. Though, in all honesty, I cannot recommend the combination of curry followed by a seafood pizza with crème fraiche.

Every cloud has a silver lining. Scotland won and Philippe from L’Ovale (the local rugby bar) bought us a further couple of beers. After the match had finished, most of the other customers drifted home, leaving about 5 of us at the bar. John struck up a conversation around the fact that the majority of the French team play for two UK premiership sides, Arsenal and Chelsea. As a Spurs supporter, John can barely mention Arsenal without spitting, so the talk switched to rugby, notably the upcoming France v Ireland match. More beers were ordered, followed by green ‘prunes’(plums) in armagnac and, when these ran out, ‘pruneaux’(prunes) in armagnac. We eventually got home at about 12.30am.

Oh, if you are wondering, the other two meals that I have reluctantly thrown away were a seafood pasta sauce (because John couldn’t bear the sight of the little squid tenticles sticking out of the spaghetti), and a duck dish, Daube de Canard au Madiran, which called for the reduction of a large quantity of red wine, and smelled so awful that John and I had to leave the house!

Mrs F tells me that I should have asked for ‘blanc’ or ‘escalope’ de poulet.

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11/09/2007 by Brigid.

A Ski Club of Great Britain rep once lost her job over the above, now legendary, snow report when the host resort took exception to her honesty.

Having spent a great deal of last week couped up indoors, doing dull stuff, I mutinied and insisted that we get out and about at the weekend. After all, we live in one of France’s most scenic mountain regions, with two motorcycles and hundreds of miles of twisty roads at our disposal. So, on Sunday, we loaded up a picnic lunch and set off to the Cirque de Gavarnie, a World Heritage site and, according to ViaMichelin.com, about 2 hours away depending on your route. We took the scenic one …

Our outward trip took us over the Col d’Aspin and Col de Tourmalet, through the French Pyrenees’ largest ski area: the linked resorts of La Mongie and Barèges. There is, of course, no snow there at this time of year, and the sheep graze contentedly beside cows, goats and a few lamas. If you are a keen skier, you might be forgiven for thinking that the resorts themselves would be deserted in summer. But then you would not have taken into account the French predeliction for masochistic sports. Ah non! This stretch of road forms part of one of the mountain stages for the Tour de France, and is therefore a Mecca for serious cyclists from all over the country. Rather them than me. John and I both had the odd buttock-clenching moment, as we rounded a corner only to be confronted by an on-coming motorhome on the wrong side of the road. At least we have the advantage of decent brakes and ’safety clothing’. I wouldn’t fancy my chances on a 26km downhill stretch of hair-pin bends, wearing only skin-tight Lycra and a polystyrene lid on a bicycle, let alone a pair of in-line roller skates on a 4% incline!

Nevertheless, the weather was perfect and we had a great ride all the way to Gavarnie. ViaMichelin had under-estimated our ETA somewhat due to numerous ‘Kodak moments’ along the way. It was getting on for 3.30pm by the time we arrived, and we were seriously in need of lunch.

Now, it seems I made a bit of an error of judgement. John and his mum have often told me about childhood holidays in nearby Lourdes, and how beautiful Gavarnie is, and how you can take a chairlift up to see the lake, etc., etc. And, if you look up the Cirque de Gavarnie on the Internet, you will almost certainly see, as I did, a spectacular natural amphitheatre in the mountains - deserted apart from a few hearty types in stout walking boots, gazing in awe at Europe’s highest waterfall. A World Heritage site on a warm Sunday afternoon, deserted? Silly me.

Parking costs 4€ whether you are in a car or motorhome, or on a bike. Though, as luck would have it, we found a space with a dozen or so other motorcycles just outside the designated parking zone, and the parking attendant turned a blind eye. John examined a map of the area that had been attractively carved into a piece of local slate. The town of Gavarnie stretches several hundred metres alongside the river, before one joins the throng of families, dog-walkers, hikers, and donkey trekkers on the footpath up to the unspoit national park area. Everyone was more suitably dressed than we were, in our leather trousers and motorcycle boots, added to which a bottle of cream had leaked and turned to cheese in the picnic bag. Things were not generally going so well. John did his best to ignore my grumbling and set off with the picnic bag and rug in search of a suitable spot to pitch camp. I plodded along behind, wrestling with two cameras, an over-stuffed handbag and a Thermos of coffee.

In spite of the unpromising circumstances, we did eventually find a shady spot beside the river with an excellent view of the Cirque and the waterfall. We unpacked our slightly sticky picnic and passed a very enjoyable hour or so watching a couple struggling to erect a large tent on the campsite on the opposite bank. At times like these, there is nothing better to cheer the soul than a bit of good old German “shardenfreud”!

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06/09/2007 by Brigid.

There is no peace for the wicked. They say that moving house is the second most stressful event in life after bereavement. The statistics take no account of distance. Add the vagueries of moving to another country, with a foreign language, and you add a whole other dimension. Nevertheless, we continue to think up innovative ways to complicate our lives - while, in my case, improving my French vocabulary with spurious technical terms that will be utterly useless in any social context.

It has long been a standing joke that John’s mission in life at the moment is to set me a daily challenge. It usually starts, “I think WE need to call X and ask …”, or “WE need to pop in and see Y about …”, followed by “Could you ask …?” And it is never something simple. NEVER the sort of phrase that one is taught, “Ça fait combien?”, “Le train va partir à quelle heure?”. You get the idea.

Last week I successfully imported my bike. It is a BMW, so it couldn’t have been much simpler. Whatever John and I might be tempted to say about HAL, the onboard computer responsible for the bike’s electrical idiosyncrasies, a new BMW is a new BMW, whether it was bought in the UK, France or the US. Getting the necessary Certificat de Conformité (showing the bike conforms to French standards), took a single call to BMW in the UK with the chassis number. The Certificat arrived by return of post. Once installed in our French home, we looked up the address for the local Hôtel des Impôts and Sous Préfecture, and “presto”. 10 minutes form filling and, 165€ lighter, we walked away with a brand new Carte Grisse (registration document or title).

John’s bike has proved a little more problematic …

Before leaving the UK, John rang Triumph - the same day, in fact, that I rang BMW. He was told that they would have to ask the French distributers if there were any modifications necessary to issue the Certificat. They would get back to us. Weeks went by and we kind of let things slide. Eventually, in the absence of a response from Hinkley, I rang the distributers in Paris. Having established that the speedo was marked with both km and miles, and that the headlight was adjustable, they assured me that there was nothing else necessary and I should simply send in a copy of the UK registration document. Ha!

A letter arrived by return of post. It transpired that John’s 2003 Triumph Trophy could not be identified as a model that had been available in France. By way of assistance, I was directed to produce the letter to the local DRIRE (Directions Régionales de l’Industrie de la Recherche et de l’Environnement, if you are interested) in my démarchés administratives - whatever they are. Bloody typical.

The DRIRE turns out to be in Colomiers, on the outskirts of Toulouse, which is convenient as we can probably coincide our appointment with a visit to a local CB dealer …

Not content with settling in to a new home in a new country, we have also managed to import a few old problems in the hope that, somehow, despite certain language difficulties, we will now have time to deal with them. I speak of our long-standing CB issues. I am sure I can hear some of our American and Canadian friends laughing already.

We fitted CB radios on our bikes in preparation for our 6-week trip to the US in 2006. Most of our biking friends over there have CB (as distinct from 2-way walkie talkies more commonly used in Europe), so it seemed a logical choice. Ummm. The trouble with breaking the mould, is that one is always going to find advice and information a bit sparce. On top of which, of course, what we knew about radio communications generally could be written on the back of a postage stamp.

Nevertheless, we identified a suitable Midland radio that functions throughout Europe and will operate on the correct frequencies for the US. So far, so good. Unfortunately, having bought from the distributers direct, we were now on our own as far as installation went. It is hardly surprising then, that once we got to the States, it was difficult to make each other out across a parking lot, let alone out on the highway! Various solutions were suggested. We bought an SWR meter and changed antennas (twice). Nothing seemed to help. We resigned ourselves to having to wait until we were back in the UK to sort our communications out, but priorities at home were somewhat different, so the problem never got fixed …

It was against this background that John and I found ourselves in a Toulouse car park last week discussing (in French) some of the finer technical issues affecting CB transmission with a bemused local Midland radio dealer. He quickly diagnosed an insulation problem on John’s antenna set-up (a plastic washer was wrongly positioned), and referred us to a colleague in Colomiers to cable up a couple of new antennas. This will be our fourth set!

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