On the road again

It is April and the grounds are white over ; not snow but hail. An intense , but fortunately brief storm, then followed by equally torrential rain . All my hard work raking the potage negated , and newly planted seedlings non too happy . Still it helped somewhat to flatten the sangliier’s rotovation of the previous night ( electric fence inadvertently not on ). Nothing to be done , we are off to UK the following day . Four weeks at home , after four months away ; itchy feet !

Airport chaos; Ryan air strikes; so we are driving, whilst avoiding Dovers’ snarl-ups. Roscoff to Plymouth on Brittany ferries . For us P&O , with the way they treat their staff, is a no no ! Not to stress the driver ( me ) an overnight stop in Pons , and then two in Roscoff. 

Pons , pronounced Pon , why , well it just is ; was a bit like the curate’s egg…good in parts. ( 1895  Punch cartoon ). The hotel was perfect, except the room’s only window was a sky light …with a view of …the sky ! It being a Sunday , virtually all restaurants were closed routinely or ‘ exceptionally’.  We were saved by the local bar which served a simple , but an excellent meal . The local beer was good too. 

In the centre, in a  commanding position , was the ‘Donjon’, or castle keep . The rest of the castle was long gone, but taking the132 spiral steps , the view from the top was fit for any lord. The only residents now appeared to be a pigeons egg and a dead mouse . The latter succumbing to the effort of those steps , and the egg from abandonment.The top’s main feature was the five speakers of the siren , placed at head height next to the walkway. For audible preservation, a place to avoid at noon on the first Wednesday in the month ( when tested ) or during an impending air raid .

Roscoff was well worth the extra days sojourn. The stone housing spoke of previous prosperity, derived from legal and dubious trading . The latter paid for a truly magnificent church bell tower, I guess a form of spiritual compensation. With the decline in smuggling , hastened by the power of the British navy, onion selling became the other main occupation; Delivered throughout England and Wales by beret clad Breton cyclists, affectionately known as ‘Johnnies.’ Increasing post war prosperity killed this trade. To maintain onion production in the face of stiff competition, the wily Bretons have managed to obtain an AOC designation for only their onions . To the unprofessional eye, they still look the same as any other onion , but now are a must as tourists memorabilia . 

Today we left Europe,  given that Brexit has opened up that divide. Presentation of our ‘Carte de séjour’ is now an obligation to avoid breaching non resident 90 day limit on stay. You would think Europe would want to encourage tourism ! As we head towards ‘Blighty ‘ , I can gain some solace in that The Leavers, leader is facing appropriate discomfort from his ‘ miss truths ‘ ( lies to us lesser mortals ) ; even if this comes from errant partying rather than responsibility for economic and political damage . 

A White…..April!

Ear plugs essential 

Oh, I do like to...

 …To be doing Yoga beside the sea . Well I would like to , but there was no way I was going to try and match the two lithe young ladies doing their ‘ sun salutations ‘ at Sardine bay  ; or to give it its proper name : Plage de L’Ouille . Our name comes from the main dish at the local  summer restaurant , and location of the limit of our physical activity .

It was fabulous Monday spring morning, which had banished the thoughts of the last two weeks of rain . So we set off on our favourite walk along the coastal path  from Plage de Racou to Collioure. There was absolutely no wind, so the sea was a blue mirror; it look enticing . However the thousands of boats remained in their marinas , that perfect sea left to two lobster fisher men , and the marine police launch . As there was absolutely no other activity , I can only assume that that the boys in blue were out to shake off the winter cobwebs.

The path winds up and down, precariously clinging to the cliff edge . From time to time bits fall off , but today it was intact and open .So too were the gates, that in the summer are closed  at night, to enable adjacent happy campers to get a  good nights sleep. Today was too early even for spring visitors , the spectacular view was the preserve of us locals .

Half way the path descends to sea level , and that beach . Normally the beach holds back the river , but today, after all the recent rain, we had to wade across. The first across were those two ladies , who then  unrolled their yoga mats . Whist they proceeded with their impossible contortions, us older mortals struggled just to reach our feet to remove shoes and socks. A sobering reflection of the generation gap.

…To be by a roaring log fire . It seemed that winter had fought back , and for four days the fire stayed  alight, warming ancient bones .  Obligatory night time forays to the loo had their advantage; it enabled wood to be added with sufficient regularity to maintain twenty-four hours continuous combustion .

…To enjoy gardening in the spring . New growth  is appearing and  planting is in full swing , with thoughts of summer blooms and vegetable surpluses ( I am the perpetual optimist ) . Ah Ah , we already have four days of strawberry production; well one per day . A taster , this time for us, and not the birds, as the potage is completely netted . But is the net spacing big enough for bees to germinate the profusion of blossom ? But wait , summer has arrived ; the first swallow has returned to its'/our garage from its' African sojourn. Exciting times indeed .

A tale of two generations

Two days production