31/05/2008 by Brigid.

John’s UK bike insurance expired in April, technically 30 days after he braved sleet and snow bringing the bike home at the beginning of March. Since then it has been safely stowed in our hall awaiting French immatriculation. However, having received the Attestation de Conformité Partielle, we could now at least get a temporary cover note to allow us to take a weekend trip to Roussillon.

Even so, things did not run smoothly for our departure. The BMW had a flat battery and refused to start, and John slipped on some algae while trying to take the Triumph off its centre stand. It was lunchtime. The hardware shop was closed, and John announced that he had given away our jump leads. The famous British sang froid was, well, decidedly froid, and humour exited stage right at the first opportunity. Having eventually got the bike going, we stopped just once to buy a cheap pair of jump leads at a Toulouse supermarket. Otherwise, we kept the bike running continuously for 500km, all the way to Alice’s place.

It rained heavily on the way over, so we were a bit tired and soggy by the time we arrived. Still, nothing that couldn’t be easily fixed by a hot shower and a glass or two of wine in front of the fire. We were late, but it seemed the rest of the party had faired no better. There was an unofficial strike by airport staff at Avignon, so all travellers were being diverted to Nice. In place of a sumptuous birthday feast at a local restaurant, the birthday boy, Clifford, and two other guests, found themselves enduring a three-hour bus transfer back to Avignon.

Roussillon, itself, is renowned as one of the most beautiful villages in France. For centuries this tiny bastide was one of the biggest producers of artists’ ochre in the world. But, even if you know nothing about art or painting, you cannot but admire the variety of colour in the local architecture. As you drive into Montréjeau, large brown boards proclaim the town to be a Village Touristique offering 500 free car parking spaces and a driving range. We respect their optimism. Roussillon, on the other hand, is probably a little too touristy for our taste but, we have to admit, does have slightly more to offer. Located in the heart of the Côtes du Luberon wine region, among the mountains of the Vaucluse, the village is surrounded by poppy filled meadows and fields of lavendar. Its steep alleys and cobbled squares are packed with tempting delicatescans, art galleries, craft shops and restaurants. And, if you wanted to venture further afield, the nearby towns of Apt and L’Isle sur la Sorgue have attractive weekend markets. In fact, I loved the area so much I am abandoning John to go back on Tuesday.

I am fibbing, of course. Without wishing to take anything away from my glowing depiction of Roussillon, I would not be going back quite so soon without a very good reason. Actually, I have to collect my bike from the garage in Avignon …

Having passed an extremely agreeable weekend with Alice and Clifford, we aimed to leave for home on Sunday morning. Unfortunately, the BMW had other ideas. We managed to start it with the jump leads, but were only a couple of hundred yards down the road when it died on me, and this time it was terminal. Thus, John and I were forced to leave the BMW (and our dirty washing) in the tender care of Generali’s excellent Assistance and come home two-up on the Triumph.

If you liked my description of Roussillon enough to want to visit, you can rent the Rosens’ cosy 3-bedroom house. Contact them via their website: www.matesratesvillas.com

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21/05/2008 by Brigid.

Potential visitors will be delighted to know that we are now fully double-glazed: insulated against draughts, church bells, sirens, scooters, dogs, neighbours and all manner of other Gallic nuisances. The whole job took M. Fuchs just under three weeks, working alone, with occasional help or hindrance from his erratic daughter. As well as a spectacularly good job with the windows, John and I benefitted from daily French lessons from M. Fuchs (pronounced foosh, in case you were wondering), in the form of a hearty and convivial midday repas: two courses, one of which was often provided by Mme Fuchs, and wine. However, I must confess to a certain lack of motivation, blog-wise, brought about by mental exhaustion as a direct result of our lunchtime conversations.

The first visitors to benefit from a peaceful night’s sleep were John’s cousin, Theresa, and her son, Daniel. What a reprehensibly long time it has been since we visited them in Co. Clare. When we went over to scatter John’s father’s ashes, Daniel was about a year old. He is now a very grown up little lad of 10 and a Harry Potter fan, which gave us an excuse for a home cinema showing of “The Goblet of Fire”.

Theresa and Daniel were only with us for one night, but at least it gave us a bit of a chance to show them the area. The following day, we took the scenic route back to their holiday apartment in Biarritz, posing for photos at the Col d’Aspin and Lourdes.

The French, at least, still take VE Day seriously. On May 8^th, nearly every commune of any size stages a ceremony of commemoration like the one in Montréjeau. Veterans of the French Resistance and armed forces, French and Allied, are thanked for their part in freeing France from German occupation. Victims of the war are remembered and children are reminded of the sacrifices of their forefathers. I often wonder why Britain doesn’t commemorate VE Day in the same way that they do the 1918 Armistice on November 11th. The answer could be that Britain was still at war in the Far East until August 15^th 1945. But VJ Day is not commemorated either …

May in France is a great month for jours feriés. There are four: the Fêtes de Travail on May 1^st, the Ascension; the Victoire 1945, and Pentecôte. This year the Ascension coincided with the Fêtes de Travail. In any event, as a lot of French businesses faire le pont whenever a jour ferié falls on a Tuesday or a Thursday, May is not a great time to get anything done.

In the ‘not done’ pile go John’s continuing motorcycle immatriculation woes, and our temporary loss of telephone and internet access.

Triumph, bless ‘em, sent the required attestation immediately. But not, apparently, immediately enough for M. Lavielle, who was away from the office again by the time it arrived.

Our telephone troubles were self-inflicted. Incensed by the true cost of our Orange telephone and internet package, we took out a new contract with Neuf. Very helpful they were too, taking all the necessary details over the phone. The new ‘Neuf Box’ router would arrive within 7 to 10 days they said. Just plug it in and we would be off and running. Exactly seven days later, suddenly finding ourselves without a phone line in the middle of the afternoon, I rang Orange. “You are not a client of Orange”, the not-so charming technical assistant told me, “You must call your service provider”. Call me stupid, but it took several repititions before the penny finally dropped. Neuf had taken over the line from Orange, but the holidays had delayed the arrival of the necessary box of tricks to connect to it. The automated Neuf helpline was anything but helpful. So, we were off-line and out of contact. We might as well have been living in Outer Mongolia. Luckily we had arranged to visit my old friend Alice in Vaucluse for the weekend.

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