Thursday July 29th.
Only a third of our trip left and so much to process in my mind. Hopefully this blog will provide signposts for me when I can look back and find out, as Bacharach and David said "what's it all about, Alfie?"
We’re incredibly tired and spend most of the day dozing….. Back to the bedroom every couple of hours. Perhaps it’s the driving - or the disappointment. Or maybe we’re depressed that the money is running out at an alarming rate. I thought we had plenty, but Barcelona is very expensive and our 3 day trip ended up costing almost 700 euros instead of the 400 I budgeted for. My worst fear is that we will have no money left for Paris - and there’s still another week here and the journey by road to Paris with a stopover to be paid for. No matter how carefully you budget, things always cost more.
We manage a trip to the supermarket between sleeps and stock up on essentials, but mostly we are content to spend the time between the terrace and the bedroom and we don’t fight sleep when it comes. I seem to have been bitten alive in Barcelona by midges or mosquitos…I’m not sure which. But right now I don’t care. Even the flies dive-bombing us doesn’t raise much of a reaction. We are silent together - but it’s a good silence. We need to be alone with each other. The weather is cooler since our return and we take turns spooning each other as we sleep. A nothing day really - but one that is much needed. There’s a very light shower in the afternoon and the earth smells sweet and musty.
The sunflowers have been harvested while we were away and are the fields are now just golden stubble. The harvest is early, because of the intense heat, so the cooler weather is welcomed by all.
In the evening we curl up on the couch and watch the athletics. Christophe Lemaitre is the darling of France and the games. He’s only 20, looks like Jude law, and is the second fastest sprinter on earth at the moment. Tony says he has up to 7 years left as a sprinter. Obviously, when Bolt retires, he will be the natural successor. If I were his agent I would get him into acting school NOW!!! He’s a huge star in the making.
It’s pouring with rain in Barcelona….bucketing down, and we can’t help but feel smug here in France. By 10pm we are ready to sleep AGAIN. But each day now I am more conscious of missing family (especially Allie) and my furkids back home.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
44/23 The Long and Winding Road
Wednesday 28th July
“Happiness is Barcelona in a rear view mirror.” So says Tony as we drive off the next morning. Whilst I was pretty non-commital about Barcelona, Tony openly disliked it. We programme the GPS for France and take off. Fussy Felicity has no way of knowing of course which roadworks will tie us up, or what streets are closed for markets, so we drive around in circles for over an hour before hitting the toll road, which actually starts just a hundred metres or so up the road from where we were staying!
A friend told me of a place he visited many years ago, and suggested we had to see it. At the northern end of the Costa Brava, peaceful and serene Cadaques was once home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. I looked it up months ago on the net and the little promenade was bursting with ambiance, the sand was pale gold and the Mediterranean a rich blue in all the photos. So that is where we are heading. I love the water, love to swim and here I’ve been in a European summer for 6 weeks without a swim. I have my swimsuit on under my skirt and blouse…..lead me to the sea!
When we leave the tollway the route becomes frightening, across mountains via narrow winding roads. There’s a crisscross pattern of old stone walls and tiny abandoned stone huts all across the mountainsides, as though some ancient civilisation has left behind its calling card - or maybe it’s just the local shepherds.
The winding road seems endless but suddenly there is the Mediterranean below us and I can see Cadaques….. All whitewashed buildings with clay roofs. It’s like a dream.
But dreams turn into nightmares quite quickly on this adventure. When we descend the mountain to go into the town, we are trapped in a terrible traffic jam. There are police trying to ease the congestion by directing everyone to a large and garish carpark. I can’t see the promenade or the beach at all. And I never will! This time it’s me who suggests we give up. Hiding our disappointment we find a place to turn the car and brave the halted traffic and polizei and we beat a quick retreat.
Instead of a swim and lunch in Shangrila - we buy a loaf of bread and stuff it with what is left of our cheese and charcuterie - but it’s hard to swallow with a lump in your throat.
It seems that everything that man does in the name of progress leads to the destruction of something that was simple and beautiful. Cadaques was once an idyllic spot - now it is simply a tourist Mecca that you have to queue to even reach. Whatever it was 30 years ago is gone - and will never come again.
We feel an overwhelming sense of relief when we finally cross the border back into France and instantly we relax again. We’re going home. The old farmhouse welcomes us as if it’s truly glad we’re back; there’s a light breeze to temper the late afternoon sun and, tired from the drive and disappointed with the trip, we find smoked salmon and melba toast and make a kir with cassis. The TV has the opening of the European athletics championships in Barcelona so we watch until we really need to lie down and sleep. Barcelona looks spectacular. Were we actually in the same city? So much of our perception depends on our state of mind.
“Happiness is Barcelona in a rear view mirror.” So says Tony as we drive off the next morning. Whilst I was pretty non-commital about Barcelona, Tony openly disliked it. We programme the GPS for France and take off. Fussy Felicity has no way of knowing of course which roadworks will tie us up, or what streets are closed for markets, so we drive around in circles for over an hour before hitting the toll road, which actually starts just a hundred metres or so up the road from where we were staying!
A friend told me of a place he visited many years ago, and suggested we had to see it. At the northern end of the Costa Brava, peaceful and serene Cadaques was once home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. I looked it up months ago on the net and the little promenade was bursting with ambiance, the sand was pale gold and the Mediterranean a rich blue in all the photos. So that is where we are heading. I love the water, love to swim and here I’ve been in a European summer for 6 weeks without a swim. I have my swimsuit on under my skirt and blouse…..lead me to the sea!
When we leave the tollway the route becomes frightening, across mountains via narrow winding roads. There’s a crisscross pattern of old stone walls and tiny abandoned stone huts all across the mountainsides, as though some ancient civilisation has left behind its calling card - or maybe it’s just the local shepherds.
The winding road seems endless but suddenly there is the Mediterranean below us and I can see Cadaques….. All whitewashed buildings with clay roofs. It’s like a dream.
But dreams turn into nightmares quite quickly on this adventure. When we descend the mountain to go into the town, we are trapped in a terrible traffic jam. There are police trying to ease the congestion by directing everyone to a large and garish carpark. I can’t see the promenade or the beach at all. And I never will! This time it’s me who suggests we give up. Hiding our disappointment we find a place to turn the car and brave the halted traffic and polizei and we beat a quick retreat.
Instead of a swim and lunch in Shangrila - we buy a loaf of bread and stuff it with what is left of our cheese and charcuterie - but it’s hard to swallow with a lump in your throat.
It seems that everything that man does in the name of progress leads to the destruction of something that was simple and beautiful. Cadaques was once an idyllic spot - now it is simply a tourist Mecca that you have to queue to even reach. Whatever it was 30 years ago is gone - and will never come again.
We feel an overwhelming sense of relief when we finally cross the border back into France and instantly we relax again. We’re going home. The old farmhouse welcomes us as if it’s truly glad we’re back; there’s a light breeze to temper the late afternoon sun and, tired from the drive and disappointed with the trip, we find smoked salmon and melba toast and make a kir with cassis. The TV has the opening of the European athletics championships in Barcelona so we watch until we really need to lie down and sleep. Barcelona looks spectacular. Were we actually in the same city? So much of our perception depends on our state of mind.
43/24. If it's Tuesday it's Spain.
Tuesday July 27th.
But I don’t! - sleep well, that is. Throughout the night I am awoken by the clattering of something falling on the floor. Not once, but FIVE times. It turns out it is the bed falling apart! No….really. It’s one of those Ikea type jobs that has a lengthways central batten that the wood slats slot into. If two people move to the middle of the bed the batten flexes….and the slats drop out! We look under the bed and see all the slats and realise we’ve been sleeping on half a bed! It takes us about an hour to completely fix it.
Anne knocks early to say that she and Eric are going to take the same bus and go to the Gaudi garden….it’s a must see for everyone ( unless you’re in a wheel chair or have a bad hip/knee - there are literally hundreds of steps). We arrange to meet at lunchtime and then take the second route of the tourist bus in the afternoon.
We potter for a while and, since the bus changeover point doesn’t look that far on a map, I suggest we walk it. It’s midday in Barcelona heat and I am wearing Crocs! And the bus point is a little over FIVE KMS ( around 3 miles for those of you on the old system). I’m certain I won’t make it, or I’ll die of a heart attack , or the heat, or both! But somehow I do and it gives us a chance to have a closer look at Gaudi-land.
Tony wittily, but quite cruelly, describes Gaudi as a frustrated wedding cake decorator and there’s an element of truth in the tag. What’s fascinating is that his buildings and designs are all curves….there isn’t a corner or a sharp angle amongst them. They are hauntingly bizarre and beautiful - or ugly - it’s hard to say which - but certainly outside the realm of anything seen before or since. Gaudi inspired many others and the whole Modernista movement has given Catalania a claim to fame it might otherwise never have known. I don’t take pictures…… every one of the Modernista buildings has been photographed from every angle and there seems little point in me making inferior copies. Tony hates the mosaics but concedes it’s one way to recycle broken teapots. He’s a very simple man in some ways. Simple….and sarcastic J
None of us has been very specific about where we are meeting and I’m suffering from blistered feet and dehydration plus some aching muscles. I haven’t walked that far in one hit since our last trip to Europe five years ago. We stop about halfway and have a cold beer at a little bar called the Re:Public house. We like the clever name, and the owner - a young Brit from Birmingham, chats to us about his eleven years in Spain and the economic state of the country. To see the way people are spending money it’s hard to believe the predictions that Spain will be the next country to declare bankruptcy. I find I can manage about 20 words of Spanish….which is about 15 more than I thought I knew. Tony asks me why the Spaniards look confused when he greets them with “Cameron Diaz” and it cracks me up!
There seem to be no flies in Barcelona - but the Bourdiquet flies have sent messengers ahead to brief the mosquitos and midges who have clearly fasted before our arrival so they feast on peaches and cream! With the red bites all over me I look like the winner of the polka dot jersey in the tour de France.
When we finally find E&A we have a hurried sandwich for lunch, climb on board the tour bus and make our way upstairs to the open top deck and the blistering sun. This tour takes in the south of the city and is even longer than yesterday’s - 3 hours. Within an hour I am burnt….even my scalp is on fire.
Barcelona is a beautiful city made up of many different styles, though almost all of its distant medieval past has been eradicated in the name of progress. It has wide boulevards and public squares and churches galore - much older and less threatening than the Sagrada Famiglia. It still basks in the glory of the 92 Olympics and it hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to be yet. But places either speak to you or they don’t - and you know it instantly. Barcelona doesn’t speak to us - it doesn’t want to know us and couldn’t give a toss if we stay or go. We look at the buildings and fountains, the old palace and the remnants of the Olympics without ever being emotionally engaged. There are no “oohs” and “aaahs” or wishes to come back here and spend more time. We’re observers, nothing more. It simply isn’t “our” place….not like Paris.
Anne and Eric get off at some gardens to ride a cable car to the top of a mountain with an old castle on it. We beg off and stay on the bus down to the Port Vell and Christopher Columbus territory. I hadn’t realised that Barcelona has 5 kms of beach on the bay - not unlike St Kilda….no, really! The downtown part is more interesting and I wish we were going back to La Rambla and the Gothic quarter tonight - my mother was part Spanish gypsy and maybe that is what is calling me. Instead we have a last dinner with Anne and Eric. They’re leaving early in the morning for Canada via Geneva. Anne says she finds Barcelona overwhelming - just too much to take in. Maybe that’s the problem for us - yet some part of me feels I have taken in all I want to. We find a nice place for dinner and the paella is good…but still no churros. Perhaps I’ll have to wait until we get back to Melbourne. We say our goodbyes and, despite them being good company, we are glad we will be on our own on the way back. We are in desperate need of together time.
But I don’t! - sleep well, that is. Throughout the night I am awoken by the clattering of something falling on the floor. Not once, but FIVE times. It turns out it is the bed falling apart! No….really. It’s one of those Ikea type jobs that has a lengthways central batten that the wood slats slot into. If two people move to the middle of the bed the batten flexes….and the slats drop out! We look under the bed and see all the slats and realise we’ve been sleeping on half a bed! It takes us about an hour to completely fix it.
Anne knocks early to say that she and Eric are going to take the same bus and go to the Gaudi garden….it’s a must see for everyone ( unless you’re in a wheel chair or have a bad hip/knee - there are literally hundreds of steps). We arrange to meet at lunchtime and then take the second route of the tourist bus in the afternoon.
We potter for a while and, since the bus changeover point doesn’t look that far on a map, I suggest we walk it. It’s midday in Barcelona heat and I am wearing Crocs! And the bus point is a little over FIVE KMS ( around 3 miles for those of you on the old system). I’m certain I won’t make it, or I’ll die of a heart attack , or the heat, or both! But somehow I do and it gives us a chance to have a closer look at Gaudi-land.
Tony wittily, but quite cruelly, describes Gaudi as a frustrated wedding cake decorator and there’s an element of truth in the tag. What’s fascinating is that his buildings and designs are all curves….there isn’t a corner or a sharp angle amongst them. They are hauntingly bizarre and beautiful - or ugly - it’s hard to say which - but certainly outside the realm of anything seen before or since. Gaudi inspired many others and the whole Modernista movement has given Catalania a claim to fame it might otherwise never have known. I don’t take pictures…… every one of the Modernista buildings has been photographed from every angle and there seems little point in me making inferior copies. Tony hates the mosaics but concedes it’s one way to recycle broken teapots. He’s a very simple man in some ways. Simple….and sarcastic J
None of us has been very specific about where we are meeting and I’m suffering from blistered feet and dehydration plus some aching muscles. I haven’t walked that far in one hit since our last trip to Europe five years ago. We stop about halfway and have a cold beer at a little bar called the Re:Public house. We like the clever name, and the owner - a young Brit from Birmingham, chats to us about his eleven years in Spain and the economic state of the country. To see the way people are spending money it’s hard to believe the predictions that Spain will be the next country to declare bankruptcy. I find I can manage about 20 words of Spanish….which is about 15 more than I thought I knew. Tony asks me why the Spaniards look confused when he greets them with “Cameron Diaz” and it cracks me up!
There seem to be no flies in Barcelona - but the Bourdiquet flies have sent messengers ahead to brief the mosquitos and midges who have clearly fasted before our arrival so they feast on peaches and cream! With the red bites all over me I look like the winner of the polka dot jersey in the tour de France.
When we finally find E&A we have a hurried sandwich for lunch, climb on board the tour bus and make our way upstairs to the open top deck and the blistering sun. This tour takes in the south of the city and is even longer than yesterday’s - 3 hours. Within an hour I am burnt….even my scalp is on fire.
Barcelona is a beautiful city made up of many different styles, though almost all of its distant medieval past has been eradicated in the name of progress. It has wide boulevards and public squares and churches galore - much older and less threatening than the Sagrada Famiglia. It still basks in the glory of the 92 Olympics and it hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to be yet. But places either speak to you or they don’t - and you know it instantly. Barcelona doesn’t speak to us - it doesn’t want to know us and couldn’t give a toss if we stay or go. We look at the buildings and fountains, the old palace and the remnants of the Olympics without ever being emotionally engaged. There are no “oohs” and “aaahs” or wishes to come back here and spend more time. We’re observers, nothing more. It simply isn’t “our” place….not like Paris.
Anne and Eric get off at some gardens to ride a cable car to the top of a mountain with an old castle on it. We beg off and stay on the bus down to the Port Vell and Christopher Columbus territory. I hadn’t realised that Barcelona has 5 kms of beach on the bay - not unlike St Kilda….no, really! The downtown part is more interesting and I wish we were going back to La Rambla and the Gothic quarter tonight - my mother was part Spanish gypsy and maybe that is what is calling me. Instead we have a last dinner with Anne and Eric. They’re leaving early in the morning for Canada via Geneva. Anne says she finds Barcelona overwhelming - just too much to take in. Maybe that’s the problem for us - yet some part of me feels I have taken in all I want to. We find a nice place for dinner and the paella is good…but still no churros. Perhaps I’ll have to wait until we get back to Melbourne. We say our goodbyes and, despite them being good company, we are glad we will be on our own on the way back. We are in desperate need of together time.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
42/25 - Barf a Loner!
Monday July 26th.
The problem with my anger is that I can never sustain it. When it’s done it’s done and as far as I am concerned we just move on ( and tend to the wounded.) So I am quite surprised to find I am still in a mood this morning. Most unlike me. Maybe it’s the strain of never having a minute alone with my husband. This morning Tony gets a text that Philly….my youngest stepdaughter, is flying to Rome and will then join us in Provence. It will be wonderful to see her but bang goes our last few days in Provence, and she will probably come to Paris with us. C’est la vie. It is what it is. Adapt!
Tony and I are not really the “see the sights and snap pictures from the top of a tour bus” type but with limited time we opt to accompany Anne and Eric and do just that. Somehow I swallowed my better judgement...which hasn't been too great of late .... and convinced myself it would be FUN! The fellers buy fresh bread and I make crusty rolls with the charcuterie we brought with us. Eric makes his and Anne’s as they are bit fussier than us about food. So it’s off to get the Barcelona city tour bus and sit on the open top deck in scorching heat. The tour takes 2hours and there's plenty to see, but we don't get off at any of the stops....even though you can hop back on the next bus....and there's ALWAYS a next bus. We stay on and we sit through another half hour repeat to get off and go to Mount Tibidabo, where we plan to have lunch. Except I am starving and my blood sugars are falling - and Anne is already eating her roll. Why? Because she’s hungry of course! But Tony doesn’t want me to eat mine because it will spoil the picnic! I eat it anyway and by the time we get off at Tibidabo Im VERY EDGY!!!!! Hissy fit approaching at the speed of light. I need a cold drink and a bathroom and at least there’s a little square with an open air café and some public toilets which I point out to Tony. But he has set his mind on a café across the road and steers me in that direction. And then I lose it! I am NOT going to be taken somplace else where I don't want to go. Like a hild I tell them to go without me as I don't want to be anywhere near my controlling husband right now. All of them....Tony especially, are shocked and taken aback. Not pleasant…but it has been a while coming. I storm off to the park, Tony storms off to the flat, taking Eric’s lunch with him and poor Anne and Eric are caught in the middle of a nasty domestic.
I sit for half an hour in the park and compose myself and drink a lemon Granita to get my sugars up. Then I go on the little blue tram which has run for over 100 years and join Anne and Eric halfway up the mountain where we take the Furnicular to the top. They’re embarrassed and annoyed….rightly so. When I see at the top that there are hundreds of steps up to the church, I give up and take the furnicular back down and catch the next Barcelona tour bus. I’m tired…half eaten by mozzies, and sunburnt! It’s a fair walk from the bus-stop and I just want to collapse and rest. But I don’t have a key to the flat and I hammer and bang for 20 minutes before Tony wakes up and lets me in. We talk about what happened and I explain why, to me, this trip of a lifetime is rapidly turning to crap. Neither of us wants that. We love each other and we’re usually so in sync with each other. But when we are out of sync….we are WAAAAAAAAAAAY out of sync. But at least we talk, and we’re honest, and there’s no name calling or nasties. I nap for an hour and Anne and Eric still aren’t back. So we shower and dress and head for La Rambla and the Gothic area.
And guess what? That’s where Spain has been hiding all the time! Yjis is more our scene....we're mixing it with the people...not observing it from afar. We watch some great Flamenco - have food in a sports bar and then head downstairs to a GREAT jazz cellar with an awesome band called……wait for it….”What The Fuck?” very appropriate given the last few days. Great line-up, fine musicians and a terrific drummer - the best we’ve seen in many a long year. We walk hand in hand across the Placa Reial and savour the joy of just being alone together. It’s been a great night and my faith in both Spain and my husband has been restored. When we get home we discover Eric has finally found Churros ( Churros bars are plentiful in Australia - but it’s hard to find them in Barcelona) and has left them in a bag hanging on our door. Yummy - but lousy for my sugars. Still, I’ll sleep well tonight.
The problem with my anger is that I can never sustain it. When it’s done it’s done and as far as I am concerned we just move on ( and tend to the wounded.) So I am quite surprised to find I am still in a mood this morning. Most unlike me. Maybe it’s the strain of never having a minute alone with my husband. This morning Tony gets a text that Philly….my youngest stepdaughter, is flying to Rome and will then join us in Provence. It will be wonderful to see her but bang goes our last few days in Provence, and she will probably come to Paris with us. C’est la vie. It is what it is. Adapt!
Tony and I are not really the “see the sights and snap pictures from the top of a tour bus” type but with limited time we opt to accompany Anne and Eric and do just that. Somehow I swallowed my better judgement...which hasn't been too great of late .... and convinced myself it would be FUN! The fellers buy fresh bread and I make crusty rolls with the charcuterie we brought with us. Eric makes his and Anne’s as they are bit fussier than us about food. So it’s off to get the Barcelona city tour bus and sit on the open top deck in scorching heat. The tour takes 2hours and there's plenty to see, but we don't get off at any of the stops....even though you can hop back on the next bus....and there's ALWAYS a next bus. We stay on and we sit through another half hour repeat to get off and go to Mount Tibidabo, where we plan to have lunch. Except I am starving and my blood sugars are falling - and Anne is already eating her roll. Why? Because she’s hungry of course! But Tony doesn’t want me to eat mine because it will spoil the picnic! I eat it anyway and by the time we get off at Tibidabo Im VERY EDGY!!!!! Hissy fit approaching at the speed of light. I need a cold drink and a bathroom and at least there’s a little square with an open air café and some public toilets which I point out to Tony. But he has set his mind on a café across the road and steers me in that direction. And then I lose it! I am NOT going to be taken somplace else where I don't want to go. Like a hild I tell them to go without me as I don't want to be anywhere near my controlling husband right now. All of them....Tony especially, are shocked and taken aback. Not pleasant…but it has been a while coming. I storm off to the park, Tony storms off to the flat, taking Eric’s lunch with him and poor Anne and Eric are caught in the middle of a nasty domestic.
I sit for half an hour in the park and compose myself and drink a lemon Granita to get my sugars up. Then I go on the little blue tram which has run for over 100 years and join Anne and Eric halfway up the mountain where we take the Furnicular to the top. They’re embarrassed and annoyed….rightly so. When I see at the top that there are hundreds of steps up to the church, I give up and take the furnicular back down and catch the next Barcelona tour bus. I’m tired…half eaten by mozzies, and sunburnt! It’s a fair walk from the bus-stop and I just want to collapse and rest. But I don’t have a key to the flat and I hammer and bang for 20 minutes before Tony wakes up and lets me in. We talk about what happened and I explain why, to me, this trip of a lifetime is rapidly turning to crap. Neither of us wants that. We love each other and we’re usually so in sync with each other. But when we are out of sync….we are WAAAAAAAAAAAY out of sync. But at least we talk, and we’re honest, and there’s no name calling or nasties. I nap for an hour and Anne and Eric still aren’t back. So we shower and dress and head for La Rambla and the Gothic area.
And guess what? That’s where Spain has been hiding all the time! Yjis is more our scene....we're mixing it with the people...not observing it from afar. We watch some great Flamenco - have food in a sports bar and then head downstairs to a GREAT jazz cellar with an awesome band called……wait for it….”What The Fuck?” very appropriate given the last few days. Great line-up, fine musicians and a terrific drummer - the best we’ve seen in many a long year. We walk hand in hand across the Placa Reial and savour the joy of just being alone together. It’s been a great night and my faith in both Spain and my husband has been restored. When we get home we discover Eric has finally found Churros ( Churros bars are plentiful in Australia - but it’s hard to find them in Barcelona) and has left them in a bag hanging on our door. Yummy - but lousy for my sugars. Still, I’ll sleep well tonight.
41/26 - Hi ho, hi ho - it's off to Spain we go.
Sunday July 25th.
Ola! After practising our French for the past few weeks we are acutely aware that we don’t know any Spanish at all! Armed with this worrying information we pile in the car for the 5 hour journey to Barcelona. There’s so much food in the fridge I pack a cold pack with stuff for the three days. We’re all excited….. Tony and I have been to Majorca ( not together) but never to the Mainland. This should be the most amazing part of our whole trip.
The motorway is fast, and expensive. Although Tony won’t let me drive ( I’m a great driver but I do drive too fast) Tony relinquishes the wheel to Eric and sits in the back with me - where Woodstock helps him out by reading the map ( yep I do have a picture - LOVE the boy in my man!) We stop at Figueres for lunch. The Dali museum looks spectacular and we take photos, but there’s nowhere to park so we don’t go in. Okay….this is sounding familiar! We then have lunch in McDonalds!!! McDonalds in Spain! And it’s AWFUL - but I am the only who isn’t happy and was expecting something more….er…Spanish! Warning Will Robinson!
Tony takes over the driving and manages to navigate, with the help of fussy Felicity, right to the front door of our “Guest House”…which is in fact a shared guest Flat!!!!!!! We wait an hour to be let in and shown around. WTF!???? The flat has a kitchen and five bedrooms! That’s it. And we all ( eight people in total) have to share the two bathrooms. I chuck a massive hissy fit and tell the manager we will stay tonight but leave in the morning, even though he‘s talking about a discount ( I always love a discount). Then I go on line ( at least they have Wi-Fi) and find some fantastic deals in good hotels. Easy peasy! Except no-one else wants to move. They’re quite happy to stay in a shared flat with strangers in the bathroom as if they were in their teens and backpacking!! I am mortified and pissed off. I do NOT want to be in this place but I’m outnumbered 3 to 1 - just like in McDonald’s. It’s true - I’m turning into my mother and sharing a bathroom is not on my list of things to do….neither is camping. I’ve earned my right to creature comforts!
When we go out to eat I am in a foul mood - especially when Tony wants to choose the restaurant! We end up going to the one I originally wanted. And it’s awful!!!!! The Tapas is the pits…. Obviously designed for people who know no better. Where is the chorizo? The Garlic? The red peppers? The octopus? What’s with the potato salad and the Woolworth’s deli crab sticks? I’m stunned. Especially when Beloved drinks a litre of beer to wash down his lousy Paella. No-one else complains - though Anne did think the tapas was awful. I figure there will be churros ( Spanish donuts) on the desert list but Nooooooo! Tirimasu ( what’s with that then???) or even CHEESE CAKE. Even the Sangria is LOUSY….I have my darling Peg’s recipe and it ROCKS! Get me out of here. And to make things worse it’s the most expensive meal we’ve had in Europe. Were my expectations too high? Am I just being a difficult bitch? Tony obviously thinks so. ( And it has been known to be true) He tells me to “adapt”! Not even the night view - under a still full moon- of Gaudi’s Sagrada Famiglia can make me feel better. I don’t sleep….I’m too pissed off at my first taste of Spain.
Ola! After practising our French for the past few weeks we are acutely aware that we don’t know any Spanish at all! Armed with this worrying information we pile in the car for the 5 hour journey to Barcelona. There’s so much food in the fridge I pack a cold pack with stuff for the three days. We’re all excited….. Tony and I have been to Majorca ( not together) but never to the Mainland. This should be the most amazing part of our whole trip.
The motorway is fast, and expensive. Although Tony won’t let me drive ( I’m a great driver but I do drive too fast) Tony relinquishes the wheel to Eric and sits in the back with me - where Woodstock helps him out by reading the map ( yep I do have a picture - LOVE the boy in my man!) We stop at Figueres for lunch. The Dali museum looks spectacular and we take photos, but there’s nowhere to park so we don’t go in. Okay….this is sounding familiar! We then have lunch in McDonalds!!! McDonalds in Spain! And it’s AWFUL - but I am the only who isn’t happy and was expecting something more….er…Spanish! Warning Will Robinson!
Tony takes over the driving and manages to navigate, with the help of fussy Felicity, right to the front door of our “Guest House”…which is in fact a shared guest Flat!!!!!!! We wait an hour to be let in and shown around. WTF!???? The flat has a kitchen and five bedrooms! That’s it. And we all ( eight people in total) have to share the two bathrooms. I chuck a massive hissy fit and tell the manager we will stay tonight but leave in the morning, even though he‘s talking about a discount ( I always love a discount). Then I go on line ( at least they have Wi-Fi) and find some fantastic deals in good hotels. Easy peasy! Except no-one else wants to move. They’re quite happy to stay in a shared flat with strangers in the bathroom as if they were in their teens and backpacking!! I am mortified and pissed off. I do NOT want to be in this place but I’m outnumbered 3 to 1 - just like in McDonald’s. It’s true - I’m turning into my mother and sharing a bathroom is not on my list of things to do….neither is camping. I’ve earned my right to creature comforts!
When we go out to eat I am in a foul mood - especially when Tony wants to choose the restaurant! We end up going to the one I originally wanted. And it’s awful!!!!! The Tapas is the pits…. Obviously designed for people who know no better. Where is the chorizo? The Garlic? The red peppers? The octopus? What’s with the potato salad and the Woolworth’s deli crab sticks? I’m stunned. Especially when Beloved drinks a litre of beer to wash down his lousy Paella. No-one else complains - though Anne did think the tapas was awful. I figure there will be churros ( Spanish donuts) on the desert list but Nooooooo! Tirimasu ( what’s with that then???) or even CHEESE CAKE. Even the Sangria is LOUSY….I have my darling Peg’s recipe and it ROCKS! Get me out of here. And to make things worse it’s the most expensive meal we’ve had in Europe. Were my expectations too high? Am I just being a difficult bitch? Tony obviously thinks so. ( And it has been known to be true) He tells me to “adapt”! Not even the night view - under a still full moon- of Gaudi’s Sagrada Famiglia can make me feel better. I don’t sleep….I’m too pissed off at my first taste of Spain.
40/27 - To market to mark it!
Saturday July 24th
You’ve got to love a man who takes the folded map of France and turns it into an accordion and sings La Vie en Rose over breakfast!!! You’ve got to love him or hit him in the head with a cricket bat! But it’s hard not to smile at Beloved when he‘s in form.
We decide to hit the market today in Uzes since we are off to Barcelona in the morning. Unfortunately the market hit back. People are parked on the pavement, on roundabouts, anywhere they can find. There’s a lamborghini parked on a traffic island, a lotus on the centre nature strip….and BMWs and Mercs fighting to squeeze into a space made for a Fiat!
Everyone who isn’t watching the tour de france is in Uzes for the market.
Not that it’s not a good market, but I mean …is it really worth the traffic hassle? Tony drops us off and has to park more than a kilometre out of town and walk back. In the traffic it takes him 40 minutes.
The produce market fills the square….the general market fills the street. We can barely move. In the square a Django Reinhardt tribute and are playing gypsy jazz to commemorate his centenary. It’s a warm and lovely sound….but doesn’t quite sound the same with the use of all your fingers. We have escargots in the fridge and Tony has been trying to find the funny little clamp spring holders that used to be available in every shop in France ( except the pharmacies) 30 years ago. No luck, but at least he finds two pronged tiny picker outerers…..that’s a technical term. We both love escargots but they are virtually impossible if you don’t have the right hardware. But they’ll have to wait till we get back from Barcelona as A&E are not Snail lovers ( unless they’re the pastry kind of danish!)
At the farmhouse we batten down for the time trial - in which Andy Schleck’s chances go out the window for this year and Contador adds to Spain’s reasons to celebrate…Wimbledon, The world cup and now Le Tour. Tomorrow’s ride through Paris will be just a formality.
We all take a nap now that the excitement for the tour is finally over….then I make a VERY swish dinner and top it off with a framboise tart.
Ann and Eric have to pack and the Provence part of their trip is over all too soon. They’ve been terrific company and I’ll especially miss Eric’s kitchen cleaning skills…. A man who loves to wash up even when you have a dishwasher is a rare breed indeed! Tony and Eric talk Jazz….with Tony the professor as always. It astonishes me how much he knows….a perfect candidate for Mastermind! I struggle off to bed. The Sugars are punishing me for forgetting I’m a diabetic this week…but it has been lovely to surrender to temptation.
You’ve got to love a man who takes the folded map of France and turns it into an accordion and sings La Vie en Rose over breakfast!!! You’ve got to love him or hit him in the head with a cricket bat! But it’s hard not to smile at Beloved when he‘s in form.
We decide to hit the market today in Uzes since we are off to Barcelona in the morning. Unfortunately the market hit back. People are parked on the pavement, on roundabouts, anywhere they can find. There’s a lamborghini parked on a traffic island, a lotus on the centre nature strip….and BMWs and Mercs fighting to squeeze into a space made for a Fiat!
Everyone who isn’t watching the tour de france is in Uzes for the market.
Not that it’s not a good market, but I mean …is it really worth the traffic hassle? Tony drops us off and has to park more than a kilometre out of town and walk back. In the traffic it takes him 40 minutes.
The produce market fills the square….the general market fills the street. We can barely move. In the square a Django Reinhardt tribute and are playing gypsy jazz to commemorate his centenary. It’s a warm and lovely sound….but doesn’t quite sound the same with the use of all your fingers. We have escargots in the fridge and Tony has been trying to find the funny little clamp spring holders that used to be available in every shop in France ( except the pharmacies) 30 years ago. No luck, but at least he finds two pronged tiny picker outerers…..that’s a technical term. We both love escargots but they are virtually impossible if you don’t have the right hardware. But they’ll have to wait till we get back from Barcelona as A&E are not Snail lovers ( unless they’re the pastry kind of danish!)
At the farmhouse we batten down for the time trial - in which Andy Schleck’s chances go out the window for this year and Contador adds to Spain’s reasons to celebrate…Wimbledon, The world cup and now Le Tour. Tomorrow’s ride through Paris will be just a formality.
We all take a nap now that the excitement for the tour is finally over….then I make a VERY swish dinner and top it off with a framboise tart.
Ann and Eric have to pack and the Provence part of their trip is over all too soon. They’ve been terrific company and I’ll especially miss Eric’s kitchen cleaning skills…. A man who loves to wash up even when you have a dishwasher is a rare breed indeed! Tony and Eric talk Jazz….with Tony the professor as always. It astonishes me how much he knows….a perfect candidate for Mastermind! I struggle off to bed. The Sugars are punishing me for forgetting I’m a diabetic this week…but it has been lovely to surrender to temptation.
39/28 - The Tourist Game - a lot of Bull
Friday 23rd July.
Today is our big tourist day - we’re taking Eric and Ann to Arles and we are going to see what the provenencals call the Bull races. No slaughter and dead carcasses - just young blokes (Razoulets) plucking strings and rosettes from the bulls ears for points and money. I’m excited - but there’s a lot to see first.
Tony takes us to Beaucaire for lunch….it’s a pretty little town at the mouth of the Rhone and we found it by accident on our last trip. There's a wonderful statue of a rampaging bull - for all of the Camargue is bullfighting country. Wild and beautiful in the country....the towns provide welcome contrast.
Stopping alongside the river we find an auberge. We have the plat du jour menu….steak and chips….and meet the lovely owners of the bar who worked for years in London - so not much chance to try our rusty French. We walk along the side of the river and there is the spectacular long barge with its deck garden in flower and shade sails to lounge under. It was moored in the same place five years ago and I doubt that it has moved in all that time. Somehow that is uplifting, as if an indication that we will return in another five years to check her out.
WE’re relying on the GPS navman to direct us. Tony has named “the voice” fussy Felicity…. A snooty private school tosser! Mostly the navman is spot on, but every now and again she goes berserk and takes us round in circles ….still we get to see Remoulins and St Remy de Provence ( very pretty but touristy) and a few other villages we didn’t expect to. We head up to Les Baux…. A huge rock outcrop ( it’s where the name bauxite comes from) with a medieval fort and village on the plateau. It is supposed to be sensational but we drive the car as far as we can and……there are over a hundred steps to climb. There’s no way, even hanging on to Tony, that I can make it - and A and E seem equally daunted by the prospect. So we turn around and go back. On to Arles.
We loved Arles so much 5 years ago, and it has only lost a little of its appeal to our love affair with Uzes. To go into the old city and up the windy streets to be confronted by the Arena is nothing short of amazing. To think we are going to be sitting in that same arena where gladiators fought 2,000 years ago is simply mind blowing. Anne and I buy tablecloths and other provencal goodies and the guys walk ahead so as not to be dragged into shops….as guys do. They queue for the tickets for the bull races….8 Euros each and Tony takes them to the ancient amphitheatre while I beg off and sit at the café we frequented 5 years ago and drink water and test my sugars which have been so good but are now going haywire.
At 5 o’clock a very good local band starts to play and we all pile into the arena and find seats in the shade. The late afternoon sun is blisteringly hot and there are some English tourists ( idiots?) who have chosen to take off their shirts and sit in full sun. Young and stupid….. I think it’s a pre-requisite for English boys. By the time we leave they are looking very much like lobsters!
And so the Bull races begin. The Razoulets are young and dressed all in white. They parade much as the matadors would and are greeted by cheers. The big heavy gates are drawn aside and in comes the bull. It looks fierce and paws the ground, but then 12 youths start shouting at it and running backwards and forwards. Oh dear. The bull doesn’t want to play. It’s bewildered. It makes some half hearted attempts to charge and the razoulets do their thing….. plucking strings from its horns. They are remarkably athletic and leap over the arena walls and cling to the sides of the audience barricades. Spectacular….for about five minutes. The bull jumps out of the ring and runs around in circles in the outer ring. They prod it and taunt it, but each time they get it back in the ring it jumps out again, sometimes catching its back legs. Anne can’t bear to see it tormented and she quickly leaves. The bull is eventually taken out and replaced with one apparently more willing to make mincemeat out of french youths. Ultimately though, the whole spectacle is a one trick pony and by interval we have had more than enough.
A &E don’t appear to be Van Gogh fans so we skip the art history of Arles which had so dazzled Bernie and instead we make our way back to Uzes. The square is full of Friday night tourists and locals….little children, old people walking their dogs, slightly mangy looking cats. You name it….. It’s all there. The accordion players are hard at work…it seems La Vie en Rose is the only song they know…..but it’s summer in France. Who needs more?
Today is our big tourist day - we’re taking Eric and Ann to Arles and we are going to see what the provenencals call the Bull races. No slaughter and dead carcasses - just young blokes (Razoulets) plucking strings and rosettes from the bulls ears for points and money. I’m excited - but there’s a lot to see first.
Tony takes us to Beaucaire for lunch….it’s a pretty little town at the mouth of the Rhone and we found it by accident on our last trip. There's a wonderful statue of a rampaging bull - for all of the Camargue is bullfighting country. Wild and beautiful in the country....the towns provide welcome contrast.
Stopping alongside the river we find an auberge. We have the plat du jour menu….steak and chips….and meet the lovely owners of the bar who worked for years in London - so not much chance to try our rusty French. We walk along the side of the river and there is the spectacular long barge with its deck garden in flower and shade sails to lounge under. It was moored in the same place five years ago and I doubt that it has moved in all that time. Somehow that is uplifting, as if an indication that we will return in another five years to check her out.
WE’re relying on the GPS navman to direct us. Tony has named “the voice” fussy Felicity…. A snooty private school tosser! Mostly the navman is spot on, but every now and again she goes berserk and takes us round in circles ….still we get to see Remoulins and St Remy de Provence ( very pretty but touristy) and a few other villages we didn’t expect to. We head up to Les Baux…. A huge rock outcrop ( it’s where the name bauxite comes from) with a medieval fort and village on the plateau. It is supposed to be sensational but we drive the car as far as we can and……there are over a hundred steps to climb. There’s no way, even hanging on to Tony, that I can make it - and A and E seem equally daunted by the prospect. So we turn around and go back. On to Arles.
We loved Arles so much 5 years ago, and it has only lost a little of its appeal to our love affair with Uzes. To go into the old city and up the windy streets to be confronted by the Arena is nothing short of amazing. To think we are going to be sitting in that same arena where gladiators fought 2,000 years ago is simply mind blowing. Anne and I buy tablecloths and other provencal goodies and the guys walk ahead so as not to be dragged into shops….as guys do. They queue for the tickets for the bull races….8 Euros each and Tony takes them to the ancient amphitheatre while I beg off and sit at the café we frequented 5 years ago and drink water and test my sugars which have been so good but are now going haywire.
At 5 o’clock a very good local band starts to play and we all pile into the arena and find seats in the shade. The late afternoon sun is blisteringly hot and there are some English tourists ( idiots?) who have chosen to take off their shirts and sit in full sun. Young and stupid….. I think it’s a pre-requisite for English boys. By the time we leave they are looking very much like lobsters!
And so the Bull races begin. The Razoulets are young and dressed all in white. They parade much as the matadors would and are greeted by cheers. The big heavy gates are drawn aside and in comes the bull. It looks fierce and paws the ground, but then 12 youths start shouting at it and running backwards and forwards. Oh dear. The bull doesn’t want to play. It’s bewildered. It makes some half hearted attempts to charge and the razoulets do their thing….. plucking strings from its horns. They are remarkably athletic and leap over the arena walls and cling to the sides of the audience barricades. Spectacular….for about five minutes. The bull jumps out of the ring and runs around in circles in the outer ring. They prod it and taunt it, but each time they get it back in the ring it jumps out again, sometimes catching its back legs. Anne can’t bear to see it tormented and she quickly leaves. The bull is eventually taken out and replaced with one apparently more willing to make mincemeat out of french youths. Ultimately though, the whole spectacle is a one trick pony and by interval we have had more than enough.
A &E don’t appear to be Van Gogh fans so we skip the art history of Arles which had so dazzled Bernie and instead we make our way back to Uzes. The square is full of Friday night tourists and locals….little children, old people walking their dogs, slightly mangy looking cats. You name it….. It’s all there. The accordion players are hard at work…it seems La Vie en Rose is the only song they know…..but it’s summer in France. Who needs more?
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