Wednesday 30 April 2008

things to check before you leave...

Make sure your portable fridge is switched to "kalt" not "heiss".

We stopped on the road to Biarritz at a reasonably pleasant roadside picnic spot for a lunch of leftovers from the previous day´s outstanding fete feast - so soup, cheese and cold roasted aubergines.

However, as somebody - ie me, Theo - had inadvertently switched the fridge onto heater mode when strapping it in we got a bit of a surprise. Our yoghurts were now very liquid and had to be jettisoned, our pepper practically cooked through, and the half a kilo of comte and brie cheeses somewhat, er, sweaty!

Actually the comte in particular turned out to be rather nice half-melted and so all was not lost. We did have to eat it all rather more quickly than planned and threw away a bit of our brie, but never mind.

At least we didn't have any butter or chocolate in there...

Sunday 27 April 2008

Everbody here loves you twice...

Getting married, moving house and leaving the country are three of the most stressful things you can do in your life, though also the most rewarding. Take it from us - we've done it. Twice!!

As several French friends - most importantly Jean - were unable to attend our first wedding in England, Kate's mum Cathy determined to hold a second wedding celebration for us in France. We were a little apprehensive, particularly after our experience at the Spring Fete when we realised that our sitting, drinking and eating skills were no match for the French and we risked not making it through the day. Plus as the 27th April approached stress levels inevitably rose, as Cathy planned and re-planned her five course feast for 45 people and we were despatched to various markets and shops to buy ingredients.

Still the day arose - a beautiful one - and it felt lovely to put on our glad rags again; Kate looked gorgeous wearing her dress and one young guest felt she had to ask Cathy "who the princess was?" Driving down in Sheena, proudly wearing her new "kate & theo" sunstrip, we did feel very much the newly weds and, this being France, were thus bombarded with questions over aperitifs about the arrival timetable for tiny feet plus incredulousness over Sheena's petiteness.

The feast - and what a feast it was - duly arrived, slightly delayed as the guest seemed non-plussed at first by the presence of of steaming bowls of freshly made italian soup on the table, and carried on chatting and drinking. Jean was manning the barbecue - aubergines for us - and served up great platters of fragrant meat after the artichoke has been nibbled. Our carefully laid up and arranged tables were clinically assessed by the French ladies, found wanting, and duly rearranged much to our amusement. As Cathy and Jean were constantly on the move, despite many requests that they sit down and eat something, we were kept entertained by the lovely Pascale and Christian, while the irrepressible Norbert started firing champagne corks across the room during desert. A deserved round of applause for the chefs was followed by the briefest of speeches (in french) by us, and then it was our turn to be stumped by the amazing generosity of all present as we opened our cards and gifts. Our wedding guests in England had been equally generous, but here it seemed even more over-whelming as some of the guest we'd only met that day!

After the clearing up was done, almost by magic by the ladies present, Kate was moved to comment that if Cathy had been catering for Napoleon's army they would have either made it to Moscow or been too full to leave France. There was so much delicious food and wine left over half the guests resolved to stick around to help finish it off that evening. Several voracious card games later and we were laying up the tables yet again for another "small selection of left overs" that wouldn't have embarrassed royalty, and the Party finally finished around 11pm, just before the storm broke.

It was a fabulous day and we both really, really enjoyed ourselves and feel so warmly welcomed to Montcuq and St Croix. Hence it was a shame that we have had to move house yet again - for Cathy & Jean's felt very much like a second home - as we head down to Biarritz for a couple of days laden with what seems like a gallon or soup and a kilo of cheese. We'll be even sadder to say goodbye to France, though it is of course only temporary.

We'll be back.

Saturday 26 April 2008

Hubble Bubble

My Mum occasionally claims to be a witch. Not the Wiccan, earth-energy crystals and incantations type. More the fortune-telling, randomly clairvoyant variety. She was recently asked to do a reading of Lady Macbeth at an event marking Shakespeare's birth and death on April 23rd. By all accounts, it was a bravura performance, but I reckon she would have also gone down a storm doing a bit of "Double, double, toil and trouble..." An opinion formed by the unexpected appearance (in a big cauldron, fittingly) of soup which looked like it was made of frog-spawn. Actually, the initially unsettling ingredient was tapioca, or "perles Japons", as the French rather romantically call it. I'd only ever had tapioca as a sweet milk pudding and had certainly never considered it as something to chuck in with the broth, but actually it was delicious, once you got used to the odd texture.

Then there was the small matter of the bat. Theo and I had just retired to our bedroom for a siesta, afternoon constitutional or spot of honeymooning (choose your favourite euphemism) when interruptus in the form of a bat diving through the almost-closed shutters of the window sent me disapearing under the bedclothes and Theo crouching down on the floor to avoid the creature's madly flapping aerobatics (ahem). It's not that either of us are scared of bats, but it's not exactly fun being trapped in a confined space with a small mammal quite beside itself with panic. Thankfully after a minute or two, it found its own way back through the window and Theo and I were able to recommence our preferred method of shaking the shutters.

Finally, I feel I should mention something about French markets. They are fantastic places, a cornucopia of freshly produced food, crafts and plants and flowers. Even the more modest ones put the best English farmers' markets to shame. But they aren't for the faint-hearted. Buying from them involves a bit of confidence in spoken French and a certain amount of strength of will to resist the hawkers' sales patter. But toughest of all is avoiding being run down or otherwise bashed by the shopping trolleys being pushed or pulled from stall to stall by les anciens. Multi-coloured, tall canvas bags on a frame and wheels which they wield like weapons. It's pretty effective too. I soon learned not to stand in the path of an elderly woman hell-bent on buying her demi-kilo of champignons - if those things get dragged into your ankles, you soon know about it. There was an especially impressive array of trolley-wielding pensioners at the Saturday market in Cahors, where Theo and I went to buy 46 artichokes among other things for the huge banquet Mum had planned for our French wedding fete on Sunday. Frog spawn, however, was not on the menu.

Friday 25 April 2008

where we've been and where we're going

An update then, for regular readers, and for others a quick summary to avoid trawling through the past 19 odd posts.

We caught the ferry at Poole at the beginning of April, and drove down the West Coast of France - Cherbourg, Mont Saint Michel, Dinan, Carnac, Nantes, La Rochelle, Ile de Re, Rochefort - to Montcuq in the Lot region. We've been here for two weeks now drinking and eating far too much at Cathy & Jean's - Kate's mother and her French-of-Italian-extraction boyfriend. We've been relaxing, washing clothes, shrugging off colds, taking day trips to Carcassonne, Toulouse & Cahors, learning Spanish, doing odd bits and bobs to Sheena, and playing lots and lots of card games. This Sunday there's a big party for us that is basically a second wedding reception for those French friends who couldn't make it to Bristol.

Where to next?

We're both looking forward to getting off - it's been great chilling out here and being spoiled, but we're itching for the road. Bilbao, probably via Biarritz, is our first stop - we've met some people through Global Freeloaders there who are going to let us park up and use their kitchen and bathroom, while we find out whether we've learnt any Spanish at all. Then Madrid, Salamanca, Porto, Lisbon and Seville are the next stops on our rough itinery, before we rock up at the Rocket Festival outside Grenada on May 16th. Afterwards we plan to check out Granada itself then head up towards Barcelona for the Primavera Sound Festival, both of us having secured press passes, which starts on the 25th - SJ Esau, Portishead and Fuck Buttons on our 'to see' list. Then back to France - probably via Andorra - and on, via the French Riviera, to Italy, where we plan to spend most of June, before heading back to Cherbourg via Slovenia, Switzerland and Paris to catch a ferry back to take our turn as wedding guests.

a tale of two grottoes

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Well, ok, no it wasn't quite that extreme a polarity, but there was a distinct difference in the experiences we had at two different grottes: Grotte Roland and Pech Merle.

France has limestone caves formed by millennia of water erosion all over the country, some of which are very famous, and rightly so, for their prehistoric cave paintings and stunning calcite structures. Here in the Lot region, where the river carves a dramatic gorge through the soft sedimentary rock, they seem to have more than their fair share of these underground caverns.

There's one just up the road from where we are staying at Montcuq, the little Grotte Roland. Discovered in the 1920s, it's very much a family affair - we were shown around by the son of the farmer who stumbled upon the natural opening to the cave. Lacking any cave paintings, the Grotte makes a great deal of noise about the Cave Bear remains that have been found there and the scratch marks from their claws that are there for all to see. Not that they needed to in our opinion as we were far more enthralled by the wonderful stalagmites and stalactites that turned the grotte into this beautiful science fiction landscape, like Ridley Scott's imagination cast in miniature, which naturally meant my camera shutter was whirring away. It being the low season we had our extremely knowledgeable and enthusiastic guide to ourselves on the 200m promenade sous terre, explaining about the different levels and side passages and pointing out particularly interesting calcite structures and colours (as well as yet more claw marks). We both felt rather embarrassed that we didn't have any change for a tip.








Pech Merle is very much on the tourist trail with signposts all the way from Cahors, a 20-mile drive along the river past dramatic cliffs. With a museum, souvenir shop, ticket booth and cafe, it radiated pretensions to national importance mixed with conveyer belt economics. Shunted into an entrance room with 23 other visitors immediately after another tour group had departed. We were at least offered printed english versions of the guide's talk, though I rather wish we hadn't as then I might have been able to pretend not to understand when the guide explained that taking photos was forbidden. She didn't explain why, and so if it hadn't been for the guide at Grotte Roland telling us too much light encouraged the growth of algae and lichens which damaged the cave paintings, I would have assumed it was just an attempt to preserve the monopoly of the overpriced postcards in the souvenir shop. I was miffed especially when presented with the stunning rock forms and caverns that greeted us downstairs. The cave paintings were less interesting - partly because we were at the back, partly because the french guide didn't talk very loudly, but also because when faced with the glorious and magnificent sculptures made by rock and water, you couldn't help but feel that early man's efforts at art were rather put to shame. A few handprint silhouettes did produce a tingle as the realisation dawned that somebody not unlike us had made them some 8,000 years ago and thus grasped a kind of immortality, but otherwise we were content to stand at the back and gape at the towering spikes and columns until the lights flicked out behind us and we were forced to catch up with the group ahead.


It wasn't a bad visit, but after the permissiveness and personality of the visit to Grotte Roland I know which one I'd suggest you go to. Especially if you want to take photos, which you undoubtedly will.

Wednesday 23 April 2008

Wedding photos

The wedding photos are now up; you can see them here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kuhfeld/

Jemimah, who earns her living taking photos, did the whole day for free, hence there is a small charge for prints so she can cover the cost of her travel and the time she spent editting them. Prices (which include p&p) and her contact details are up there.

We're very pleased with them - she's actually managed to get photos with us both a) smiling b) with our eyes open and c) not looking awful. Impressive!

Tuesday 22 April 2008

Cómo se pronucia esta palabra?

Hola nuestros amigos y extraños! Nosotros esperamos que vosotros estáis bien. Mi guapa esposa Kate y me aprendemos español, pero muy despacio. Encuentemos la pronunciation de ciertos letras sumamente difícl, especialmente 'c', 'j', 'll', 'b', 'v' y 'g'. Plantea nos un problema pourque la palabra que significa "beer" se escribe "cerveza".

So, as you can see Kate and I are learning Spanish, and, as you may have divined from the above, it's not easy. The fact that we'd started learning Italian first is making it harder as many of the words are very similar, except in the crucially important differences.

Still we've managed to learn all the important phrases, namely:

No hablo español - I don't speak spanish

No comprendo - I don't understand

Puede hablar más despacio, por favour? - Can you speak more slowly please?

Tiene algún plato vegetariano? - do you have any vegetarian dishes?

Cómo se dice "we're tired and hungry, please help us"? - How do you say "estamos cansados y tengamos mucha hambre, ayuda nos por favour"?

and of course...

Nos trae dos cervezas, por favour? - Can we have two beers please?

If we can ever learn to pronounce "cervezas" without drowning the waiter in spittle - it must be the only word in the world where having a lisp would be an aid to pronunciation....

Monday 21 April 2008

of sewing and planting...

Before I start this post proper I just want to say something about sewing. Sewing by hand is not something I do for pleasure, but if the necessity arises for tears in clothes to be repaired or buttons replaced, I don't object to sitting down with needle and thread. And as an act of love (which probably won't be repeated all that often) I don't mind spending a few hours, preferably with a gin and tonic or glass of cider nearby, sewing patches in my husband's jeans. Plus, it's worth it to be spared the sight of him marching down the street with the innards of his pockets hanging out the sides of his strides in what I can only describe as a testicular fashion.

But once sewing becomes mechanised the potential for complication and frustration is greatly magnified and frankly, I can't be doing with it. I once spent an entire week - a week of leave from work - making two pairs of curtains. It's a week of my life I will never get back and I have vowed not to throw away so much precious time in that way again. After his own experience at the sewing machine, Theo has gained some insight into my attitude towards that particular domestic activity. But his mosquito net-curtain for Sheena will, I'm sure, prove to be a very useful addition to her facilities come the hotter weather.

Speaking of weather, it's been disappointingly British in Quercy over the last week - unsettled and it has to be said, rather chilly. But we're still enjoying our absorption into Mum and Jean's vacances routine of multi-course meals (admittedly, that doesn't only happen during the holidays), generous aperitifs and a lot of card games.

We also had the honour of being included in the Ste. Croix spring lunch, to which the entire village came and only VIP outsiders - which sort of included us - were invited. On this occasion it was also "the planting of the Mai", a ceremony used partly to signify the induction of the new village council, whose elected officials now include both Mum and Jean.


In true French style (of which I highly approve) the fete started with aperos and nibbles all round before the Mai - a very tall piece of sprouting bamboo - was duly planted, mainly by Councillor Jean, who got his best trousers covered in mud and quick-drying cement in the process. A short speech was made by the lady mayor of Ste, Croix, who said she and her fellow councillors would work for the pleasure of the local people. A sentiment applauded with no small amount of lechery by the mayor of neighbouring Montcuq, who'd come to add his official presence to the gravity of the occasion. Jean, no respecter of authority, made sure M. Montcuq got some well-deserved heckling, much to the approval of most of the onlookers.
Then it was time for the lunch, a proper, sit-down affair, which Theo and I were able to share by leaving aside the smoked salmon of the salad starter and the poultry and sausage of the delicious cous cous main course. Portions were generous and after the ice-cream and coffee that followed we all felt absolutely stuffed. Ste. Croix being more of a hamlet in size than a village, there were about forty people there and Theo was absolutely right when he observed that it looked like a scene from something like the Midsomer Murders, not so much because of the type of activity underway, but because of the cast of characters. The glamorous lady mayor, the local busybody, the disapproving middle-aged woman, the black guy, the woman in the wheelchair... Unlike The Midsomer Murders there was no trail of bloody bodies, but judging from some of the stories told to us by my elected councillor mum, the place is a hot bed of affaires, break-ups and personal dramas aplenty. One final observation - unlike the mayors in England, who generally hang about wearing ridiculous capes and outrageous amounts of bling, the lady mayor of Ste. Croix organised the meal, made the aperos and served out the food. And all she got to denote her status was a modest, tricolore sash.

France: discoveries & disappointments

Cathy finally solved a big mystery for me today. Norbert and Jean, Cathy's near neighbour and boyfriend respectively, never seem to go to the loo despite consuming large quantities of wine throughout meals and games of cards. I had been wondering if they simply had prodigiously sized bladders, but "No" Cathy informs me, "they just piss outside."

It all be comes clear.

French TV has been a big disappointment though - it's largely all dubbed UK & US cop shows (NYPD, CSI, Midsomer Murders - or rather "Inspector Barnaby") and frenchified versions of countdown and 15 to 1. And the only nipples we've seen were on a trailer for an English wartime drama! Rubbish!

Saturday 19 April 2008

things I have learnt about my wife (part 1)

Strangely, given the excellent job she did sewing up the holes on my favourite pair of jeans, it turns out that I am more comfortable behind a sewing machine than Kate...

Friday 18 April 2008

The freedom of free camping...

There is a definite art to finding the perfect place for overnight repose, safe from uninvited visitors and unwanted interruptions. Our free camping so far has been in a ferry port carpark (convenient with good facilities, but hardly picturesque); a closed campsite (kind of cheating, but a useful spot); at an aire de loisir by a fishing lake, where motorhomes were forbidden to park overnight (luckily Sheena isn't obviously a camping car and anyway, no one came to check); and at an aire de loisir by the Canal du Midi, along with a group of other transient motorhomes.

In France, free camping is not generally encouraged because the country is so richly endowed with official sites, most towns, even those of modest size, boasting at least one municipal campsite. These are great for being able to use proper loos and showers plus the availability of water and electricity hook-ups, their general level of security and the flatness of the plots.

But, as we have found, many do not open until mid-April at the earliest. Also, you generally have to check into the campsites by 1800 or 1900 at the latest, which can inconveniently cut short sightseeing or stints of driving.

But free camping does have its drawbacks. You could indiscriminantly park up and kip like a long-distance lorrydriver, but that kind of utilitarian, service-station camping doesn't quite cut it somehow for a honeymoon or holiday. So we have found ourselves driving numerous kilometres seeking out a more agreeable spot, looking for lacs and aires de loisirs on the Michelin road atlas that might offer the right surroundings. Thus the amount we save in campsite fees is at least partly offset by the extra diesel expended en route.

Some motorhome afficionados clearly know of good free camping park-ups because you see clusters of them choosing the wagon-train approach to road-trip stop-offs and grouping together for safety in numbers. Going off-piste has its advantages if you hit on a gorgeous secluded oasis, but they are not the easiest to find. Eventually exhaustion will lead you to lower your priorities an settle for roadside avec les autres winnebagos, as it did on our way back from Carcassonne. It's the worst night's sleep I've had in Sheena, partly because I didn't feel secure in the aire we'd chosen and partly because of an uncomfortable recurrence of the IBS with which I am frequently plagued. However, I reckon we'll get better at this free camping business as we accumulate more experience. As for the IBS, I'll just make sure I cut down on cheese with my evening meals.

Carcassonne

An old fortress town, built up by Romans, Saracens, Cathars and French Royalty over the years, it used to guard the border between France and Aragon/Spain, until the Spanish ceded Perpignan to France and Carcassonne's importance waned. It fell into disuse and ruin, the stones being plundered to build the (rather beautiful) newer town across the river Aude, which runs beneath the citadel. Then Viollet-le-Duc, the great restorer of French monuments rescued it in the mid 18th Century, rebuilding the Castle and walled city into the tourist haven it is today:



















Great views and spectacular buildings, so we can forgive the crap, overpriced hot chocolate and tacky tourist memorabilia on sale.

Wednesday 16 April 2008

Oh to be in Audeland, now that spring is here...

Neither of us has been in France during April before, and the landscape is thus a surprise to us, and a very pleasant one at that. Whereas in summer or autumn, when we are both used to visiting, we would expect to see fields of flourishing vines laid out in stringent rows, we find gnarled, bare stumps strapped to their wires, starting to wear the merest of green garlands as the first buds open.

In the past we've been greeted with golds, browns and dusky greens as sun burned fields give way to parched forests; instead the lush greens of young wheat fields are broken by the bright yellow of rape and the nut-brown of ploughed soil, freshly drenched by spring downpours. The French don't go in for fences, so while in England our roadside views are impeded by high stone walls or hedges, here the long, straight avenues allow us vistas of many kilometres across fields and orchards, often catching sight of beautiful buildings as we drive, sometimes covered with frothy mauve wisteria or surrounded by sprinklings of needle pines.

On the drive south to Carcassonne on the river Aude we had an added pleasure; the snowy ridges of the Pyrenees rising up like a glowing white wall in the distance. It's so easy to imagine how, to superstitious folk in times past, they must have seemed like the edge of the world.

In the hills, where sightlines are more restricted, the winding roads take us through woods that are just at their turning point, with acer, alder and poplar racing ahead, sprouting pale green and yellow leaves, while oak, ash and birch lag behind, still brown and winter-spindly.

It really is a wonderful time to visit and while the occasional downpour or drizzle make it nice to have an interesting city to visit, or a warm fire to sit by, generally the spring sunshine and emerging plantlife make the journey just as exciting and fulfilling as the arrival.

Monday 14 April 2008

The Little Differences

"They got the same sh*t over there as they got over here, only it's a little different.." - Vince, Pulp Fiction

So here we are, being royally pampered in a rustic French style and adapting to les differences. The French have got some really great things. Like bidets, clearly invented by a nation which rightly prioritises carnal activity highly and appreciates efficiencies of hygiene thereof. Excellent for honeymooning couples, I can tell you.

Three-hour five-course lunchtimes are also still very much the norm. During her time in France, my Mum has developed the ability to knock up a daily mega-course feast in the blink of an eye. Today we had fresh vegetable and home-grown white bean soup, followed by poireaux mimosa (leeks cooked in long lengths and served with vinaigrette and hard boiled egg yolk pushed through a sieve so it resembles the flowers of a mimosa), then pasta with wild morels (collected yesterday by Mum's man, Jean and their friend Jacques), after which the cheese course and then coffee and pistachio ice cream to finish with.

In this household, soup is a must with every meal (including breakfast for Jean, who customarily starts the day with a piece of cake and a bowl of soup rinsed out with a glass of the local red wine) as, of course, is bread. Currently there are a lot of "mon dieus" being said about the price of bread which, in France as everywhere else, is going up sharply because of soaring wheat prices. Since the French revolution, the importance of bread to the people who live here cannot be overstated.

The big meal is eaten at lunchtime with a smaller supper at about eight in the evening. Mind you, I say smaller, but it still tends to be three courses comprising soup, a main dish and cheese. But it makes sense to do it that way round, especially if you've got the option of a siesta, as that much digesting can be a tiring business. And you really should try and reign in your natural greed and keep your courses very modest. I reckon Theo and I have more than made up for the starvation that began our honeymoon, thanks to the "gastro" we both endured in the days after our wedding. This afternoon we've resolved to go for a run to try and shake off some of the extra carbo-loading.

The other interesting aspect of eating here involves the cutlery. They don't bother with special soup spoons, dessert spoons will do. But most importantly, you have your own knife - a pocket twist knife (Opinel, ideally) which you keep sharp and use for everything, whether it's opening oysters, cutting bread, picking wild champignons or slicing up your vegetables. Jean and his good friend Norbert are also very specific about the exact type of glass they use for their wine, but there isn't time to go into all that now.

Since we arrived, we've met a good number of Mum and Jean's friends, which has certainly been useful in cranking up our rusty French. On the whole we've just about made ourselves understood, Theo doing rather better than me (well, he did study French to A Level and a good deal more recently than I did). The people have all been very friendly to us and we have been made to feel very welcome. But probably our most successful mode of communication has been through playing cards, largely Belote and Ascenseur, with Mum, Jean and Norbert. Not quite the vernacular to be used in polite company, but "putain" and "con" are excellent all-purpose exclamations and we're now pretty adept at telling apart our coeurs, carreaux, trefles and picques and have more or less got our heads round the eccentric (to English eyes, anyway) mode of scoring points in continental whist games.

And finally the French computer keyboard, as alluded to by Theo earlier. The different placing of the A, W, M, Z and Q in particular can lead the unwary English touch-typist into strange avenues of written Franglais and this, plus the unexpected placing of punctuation marks, accented letters and the fact my Mum's laptop has a stubbornly sticky D key, can make computer work exhausting and only possible in short doses. The word "putain" comes in handy there, too.

Sunday 13 April 2008

thank god I'm not wheat intolerant...

It's hard enough being a tea drinking vegetarian in France, so I'm glad neither of us have other dietary requirements we'd have to struggle to explain. Last night we were invited to a dinner party at some friends of Cathy. She had explained in advance that we were vegetarian, and the response had been "that's ok, we're having paella"....

oh well. still after some salad, lots of bread and cheese and two deserts each we didn't feel hard done by....

I've given up on ordering tea as well - I'll just stick to Chocolat Chaud.

Saturday 12 April 2008

and, relax...

We're at Cathy's (Kate's mum) in the gorgeous Lot region, formerly known as Quercy, just kicking back, relaxing, trying to get our heads around French keyboards and not doing very much at all....

Wednesday 9 April 2008

Lo! The flat hillsides of this country...

...as that great diarist Adrian Mole might have written;

We're in the flatlands - Nantes to La Rochelle we drove through endless marais, land reclaimed from the sea, flat fields without fences, bordered by ditches and canal, tiny little villages perched on marginally higher grounds and virtually nobody else on the roads.

That night we stayed on the beautiful Ile de Re, where the dense vegetation, boggy sea-board, low slung whitewashed houses and huge expanses of sand at low tide reminded me strongly of the coastline around Malindi or Diani in Kenya.

Today we're heading south over more fenlands - I've never been to Norfolk but I imagine it to be like this - it's a bit too empty to be the Netherlands. We've stopped in Rochefort, originally created as a military town based around grids and squares, now with a slightly dilapidated air. It has an interesting corderie royale and a beautiful centre, falling tenderly into decay and swamped by an unattractive urban sprawl.

It's such strange country, with that odd familiarity I often find in France, reminding me of so many places at once, but also of nowhere else that I've been. It is such a huge and varied place, our near neighbour, La Belle France.

Crippled Black Phoenix/On the Road

Last Night we went to see Crippled Black Phoenix at Pole Etudiant in Nantes - they were great and it was lovely to see Joe; Chipper, Matt et al. I reviewed it for The Fly:

"With eight people on stage there's a huge capacity for chaos, but instead this strange brew of old rock hands, Bristol noiseniks and a teenage drummer called Crippled Black Phoenix are carefully controlled. Justin Greaves' grand compositions weave their way around Joe Volk's pastoral lyricism, cutting from choral interludes to majestic, textured riffs to great washes of feedback with sympathetic ease. If The Fly was Art Monthly we'd make some apt comparisons to renowned painters of somber and portentous landscapes, but we're a music mag and know shit about art. We know what we like however. We like this."

It's a strange sensation being on the road. I figured originally it would be a little like being on tour and in some ways it is of course, but there are some rather crucial differences. For instance, you don't know where exactly you are going, what your itinerary is, or what you are going to do once you get there.

For a former tour manager, always used to setting out on the road with a firm route, timetable and ultimate aim in mind, this has been quite an adjustment to make and I don't feel I have yet made it. For instance, despite the fact I'm driving a mobile home that we can sleep in at the drop of a hat (or, rather, shift of some cushions) the idea of not knowing where we are going to stay goes against all my instincts and makes me quite edgy. When I was inter-railing around Europe aged 18 accommodation was always the first thing I sorted out upon arriving somewhere new; on this trip, partly because we've got our own bedroom on wheels, but also I suspect because we rarely seem to hit the road before 12, we've often been turning up to places without the first idea about where to stay/park. We're currently in a Cafe in La Rochelle, a very pretty old town that seems to have been Broadmeaded rather comprehensively, with a vague idea that we will find a campsite on Ile de Re but the lack of exactness in our plans is making me slightly tense. The fault here is entirely my own - my control-freakery refusing to be jettisoned along with the other remnants of the rat-race the we left behind when we quit our jobs. Hopefully it'll fade in time.

On the plus side, being away from everything that we know has made things more interesting for Kate and I; we are rediscovering each other again. When we were living in our cute little flat in Bristol, our understanding of each other was defined in part by our relationship to each other but also by what we did and who we were. Kate is no longer "Kate who reads the news" and "Kate who does Fine Tuned" or "Kate who sings in Hot Flush" or even "Kate who meets friends for lunch" or "Kate who makes my lunch for work" - Kate is now "Kate who is my wife and co-traveller". It's a whole new Kate who only I know and that makes me feel very special indeed.

Tuesday 8 April 2008

around Nantes...

The former capital of Brittany is a very pretty city and after parking Sheena by the Loire and bussing it back into town we spent a lovely day exploring...





Sunday 6 April 2008

Nantes (not the song by Beruit)

Human beings are a varied and bizarre species, full of kindness and cruelty in often equal measure. Today, however, we truly lucked in, finding two chock full of the former in Nantes. Gina we had got in touch with through the Global Freeloaders site and she had very kindly offered the use of her kitchen and bathroom despite her impending finals. We found our way to her charming if bijou one bedroom apartment in central Nantes easily enough - thankfully being a Sunday the traffic wasn't too hectic and the parking was free. It was nice just to be able to sit down somewhere, chill out and, yes, update the blog! Gina is a masters student, originally from the Island of Reunion, studying marketing and communication. teaching a bit of piano on the side to help fund her studies and beautifully chic pad. She treated us to a bit of Chopin while we were hanging out.

Soon her equally stylish boyfriend and fellow student Damien turned up, and promptly offered us the use of his even more bijou flat just around the corner! How could we refuse!? It certainly beat free camping on the streets of Nantes, which is what we had been planning. Naturally we had to thank them, so we took them out to dinner, which was great and it meant a change for us (in company, not in diet - Gallettes again!) and a chance to practice our French properly and find out what les jeunes francaises really think about Carla and Nico...


Tomorrow we're going to check out Nantes and then later catch a bit of Bristol in the form of Crippled Black Phoenix at a nearby venue.

Saturday 5 April 2008

Brittany Tales

If you're going to be ill while on the road, you might as well pick somewhere picturesque in which to do it. That was our reasoning as we checked into a hotel in the centre of the charming Brittany town of Dinan. We wanted en suite toilet facilities, wi-fi and a bit of space in which to slob out and convalesce to the extended edition of The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers.

But there was still the interesting mission of finding food. Self-catering, it quickly became clear, is by far the simplest way to ensure nutritious meals if you're a vegetarian in France. Basically, if it doesn't come with meat or fish, the French do not regard it as actual food. Luckily, Brittany is home to crepes and galettes (savoury buckwheat pancakes) and the latter have fromage and champignons as a filling option, so the first night saw us supping in one of the town's many creperies.

The next day was spent in warm sunshine wandering around Dinan's tour and ville vieux, a siesta and a leisurely postcard-writing session outside a bar, enjoying the local Breton cider (served for some baffling reason in tea-cups).

Our mission for meatless food resulted in a couple of "Je suis desolees..." as we explained our dietary needs to various regretful restaurateurs and we'd almost decided to cop out and get a pizza when we found another creperie, but one with tourists in mind that had a few fleshless options on the menu. Galettes again, then - vegetarian for me (served with various vegetable purees) and tartiflette sans lardons for Theo. Very tasty, even more so for the various failed attempts we'd made along the way.

On Saturday we said our goodbyes to Dinan and also to the tummy bug which had beset us for the last week as Theo finally managed a decent-sized breakfast, which didn't immediately head south. The laryngitis, which had afflicted me since the eve of our wedding, was at last disappearing and I could talk, albeit in a Mariella Frostrup sort of rasp.

We drove down to the Atlantic coast of Brittany as it was more or less on the way to Nantes, which was our next scheduled stop - and because Theo was keen to look at the various arrangements of prehistoric megaliths in the area. Essentially, lots of lumps of granite, rather grandly called "Les Alignements". Once we had satisfied ourselves that at least one of them was the actual menhir carried by Obelix in the Asterix books, we went to find a campsite.

Carnac and nearby Trinite-sur-Mer are places absolutely made for tourists. As well as those keen on checking out the rocks, it's a lovely stretch of coastline and extremely popular with sailors. Unfortunately, this being so early in the season, only one campsite was open and it was rated two-star. I'm not really au fait with the star ratings for campsites, but in this case it meant no loo seats, no toilet paper and water that made it to tepid at best.

But hell, we could hook-up Sheena to the electricity supply (we finally found the in-point thanks to an email to her previous owner), crack open another bottle of our wedding bubbly, take a romantic stroll along the beach and sleep for the best part of twelve hours undisturbed, except by fits of coughing. Yep, Theo's recovery from the tummy terror merely meant he could be fully assaulted in the sinuses, while I continued the relentless task of trying to liberate my lungs. As they say in France, "sante!"

Tomorrow, Nantes.

Friday 4 April 2008

Of Monts and Molehills

Well as Kate has done a fine job letting you know what happened while still in England, it falls to me to let you know what we've been doing since getting to France. If you are short of time, here's a summary: stayed overnight in Cherbourg, drove to Mont Saint-Michel, took photos, drove to Dinan, checked into hotel.

Thanks for reading, do check back soon.

For those of you with more leisure time or a more pressing need to avoid doing any work, it's slightly more complicated than that. Our French is taking a while to warm up, so trying to first find a mechanic and then explain that we needed our headlights adjusted, straight off the boat while trying to get my head around the French traffic system was a bit of challenge. However we did it - sort of; we've put stickers over a section of the headlights to avoid blinding those on the other (left-hand) side of the road. So armed with a handy map of Cherbourg from the tourist office we decided (as it was now 3.30pm) to stay in Cherbourg rather than to push on to anywhere else. Priorities: a shower and to sort out the arrangement of luggage in Sheena. Last night had been comfortable, but cramped.

The Map pointed us in the direction of a campsite. After a few obligatory wrong turns we found it, only to find it was closed. Well, actually it was open, but all the shower and toilet blocks were locked up. Still there was running water on site, flat ground and it was near the beach, so we just decided to stay - if anyone turned up we'd offer to pay, but the unlocked gates seemed to suggest that they weren't too bothered. Well we'd always intended to do some free camping. This still left the issue of showers.

We solved this by going swimming. Not in the sea (tempting, but probably more than a bit nippy this time of year) but in the piscine next door. The plan was, have a dip then use the changing room showers. Brilliant. As ever, nothing was quite that simple. The next problem was that I only have Bermuda Short style swimming trunks and, for reasons unclear to me, these are banned from French swimming pools. Hmmmm. After fronting it out with the receptionist ("oui, oui, j'ai le malliot correct") I decided it was safer to go through in my boxer shorts, which, handily, were black and close fitting trunks. Had to tuck in the Calvin Klein waistband - could have been a bit of a give away - and felt unable to risk using the water slides, but otherwise Kate and I very much enjoyed our little dip, feeling buoyed up by our problem solving skills.


Suitably refreshed and cleansed we headed off in Sheena back into town to Carrefour, one of those gigantic French supermarkets, to buy a picnic dinner and the most obscene chocolate patisseries ever. We were both feeling much better by now, having managed both breakfast and lunch on the ferry. We felt great, sitting out behind Sheena in the warm evening sun eating bread and cheese with fruit and salad, sipping Champagne (thanks Jon and Sarah!) and toasting our good fortune. Later, after a romantic beach side stroll we retired to bed, feeling like we had just about everything worked out.

.... oh dear.
If the presence of countless molehills was anything to go by there used to be a pretty healthy mole population at the Collignon campsite before we arrived. After some rather fluid bowel movements the following morning this is probably no longer the case. I felt like I was committing mammal genocide as I madly dug with my shovel and squatted, intestines heaving, in the early dawn. All yesterday's optimism at our returning health - mine in particular - vanished pretty quickly. Kate's stomach was at least holding up, though the poor darlings lungs were behaving like those of a 60-a-dayer after a 3 mile swim through treacle. It was in rather duller spirits that we made our way through splendid sunshine and rural roads to the glorious Mont Saint Michel.

Thursday 3 April 2008

In Sickness and in Wealth

Theo and I consider ourselves generally healthy people. We've seldom taken time off work because of sickness, priding ourselves on our strong constitutions and robust immune systems. So if you're going to get struck down by a debilitating stomach bug, silenced by acute laryngitis and hit with a cold, why not choose the time when you're trying to organise and star in a wedding for two hundred guests, move out of your flat, sell your car and quit your native country? Oh, and timing the worst of it to begin on the first day of married life together...? Perfection.

But that's what happened. Our post nuptial breakfast at the Brigstowe Hotel in Bristol consisted of an extremely unromantic bowl of cereal and some orange juice because neither of us could face anything else. Theo had to sprint to the loo a bit sharpish as soon as he'd finished his anyway.

In fact, neither of us had eaten or drunk a huge amount at our wedding - possibly because we were so overwhelmed by the occasion, but more likely because we were both coming down with something and just didn't have the appetite. Theo was so sober by the end of the night, he could have driven us to the hotel himself if the car hadn't been parked there already.

Luckily, several members of our families and various friends came to our rescue on Sunday as we set about the task of clearing up. It was all done in a few hours and we were able to relax in the evening and open the huge pile of cards and presents we'd been given.

Now THAT was a real eye-opener. Despite us saying to people we weren't expecting presents because we needed them to help us put the wedding on in the first place, most people gave us some money. In fact so generous were our nearest and dearest and so cheap was the final bill for the day itself (thanks to the largesse of our loved ones...and the handy fact of Theo being a former employee at our venue, Manor Hall, so we got the use of it for free) that we realised we not only spent less than a thousand pounds on a pretty lavish do, but ultimately came out in profit. Shame we can only get married the once, we could have turned it into a decent business.

Monday morning was when we had to move out of our flat. Despite having shifted a whole bunch of boxes a week previously, there was still an awful lot to do. We woke up both distinctly pale around the gills and feeling lousy. Great. My mum was there and gamely got stuck in for the couple of hours before she had to get the plane back to France. Then it was down to us. Theo was particularly badly hit by the tummy bug, but soldiered on grimly. Not a morsel of food passed our lips all day - which was probably just as well because we wouldn't have had time to stop and eat anyway. We kept our energy levels up with sips of cola and tried not to think about our stomachs, which felt like they were hosting a rugby match at the Memorial Stadium.

Starvation turned out to be the best plan because by the time we got to Theo's parents that evening we were both a bit brighter, although rather knackered. But getting down to sleep cued The Revenge Of The Phlegm as a cold took hold of Theo's nasal passages and my chest infection submerged my bronchial cavities. I woke up about five am feeling like the Parret Estuary. At low tide.

Our final day in Bristol was spent tying up loose ends, including selling the car and sorting out bits for Sheena (who, by the way, had been performing marvellously as a removal van). We risked a bit of strawberry and banana smoothie and when that didn't cause any untoward side-effects, shared a bowl of skinny chips at the Tinto Lounge. On our way to Poole, where we were getting the ferry, we stopped of at The Talbot Inn in Iwerne Minster - a very well-appointed place where we snoozed in Sheena in their carpark, ate soup, drank tea and hot chocolate, played backgammon and finally used their nice clean toilet area for brushing our teeth and washing faces ahead of a night at the dockside.

Our boat, the Barfleur, was leaving for Cherbourg at 0830 in the morning, boarding an hour before. So it felt great to have a decent night's sleep in Sheena (whose sleeping accommodation is unrivalled - I think it may be the most comfortable bed we've shared so far) and get on the ferry surrounded by the bleary faces of people who don't have the luxury of a bedroom on wheels. And we're definitely feeling a lot better. Maybe our libidos will make a recovery soon as well.

Wednesday 2 April 2008

THE WEDDING DAY

I guess everyone thinks their wedding is extraordinary, but ours really was. Mainly because it involved so many people's time, energy and talents and it was all done with such unstinting goodwill.

Theo had hired one of his young singer-songwriter proteges, Harry Penny to help with the get-in at Manor Hall on Friday. Liz and Al came over with enough fairy lights to rival the Blackpool illuminations and stayed to give us a hand. Later my mum, my godmother Tish, Theo's parents and sister and Poppy, Theo's best man all turned up to help and apart from a few last minute whoopsies, it all went reasonably smoothly. (The linen tablecloths we thought we'd organised didn't materialise, but the students let us use their rolls of paper table cloths, gawbless'em. Never again will I whinge about the lack of parking in Clifton during term-time. Also, the order of service wasn't printed because the print shop had closed for the Easter holidays, but the one round the corner did the whole run as a last minute emergency before they closed for the weekend at a cost of less than 20 quid). Our celebrant, Susan Osman, arrived and we did a run-through, then went home to await the arrival of the hoards.

The eve-of-wedding family warm-up as Pizza Express was lovely, albeit marred for me by the disappearance of my voice. I'd felt the beginnings of a chest infection coming on the night before and by Friday evening it had got a grip of my larynx. Knowing the signs, I realised with a sinking heart I was going to struggle to be heard during my wedding. I spent the dinner talking by text message in a vain effort to preserve what was left of my voice. I knew it wouldn't work.

Theo spent the night at Poppy and Diccon's flat in deference to tradition, so I woke up alone at five thirty am, mind already getting geared up for the day ahead. I gave up trying to sleep at seven and went for a run the quiet of early morning. I'd hoped it might help unclog my chest, but no. Still, it was a wonderful lift to the spirits to see the Avon Gorge and Clifton Suspension Bridge outlined in the sleepy Spring sunshine. I got back refreshed to eat breakfast with my sister, brother-in-law and four niblings.

The morning was punctuated with people coming and going bearing clothes, shoes, tiara and ironing board; (Liz - she ironed my dress and stole too, bless her); flowers (my Hot Flush co-singer Laura - she and her mum had grown flowers especially for my bouquet and it looked magnificent); more flowers (Tish and Dan dispatched to get tulips for bridesmaids and button-holes); food (for the wedding buffet) and photography (Theo's ex, Jemimah came to take pictures of me getting ready). I did feel a bit like a princess as Tish painted my toenails, people brought me tea and Mum did my hair (it started badly but luckily Jemimah's experience with long hair and her words of advice helped save the day there). I didn't actually feel at all nervous or even excited. I was pre-occupied by the devastation of my vocal chords and really, just wanted to get all the preparation out the way so I could be with Theo again.

A flurry of Salisbury relatives and taxis and we were off to the registry office. My efforts to make a big entrance in all my finery for Theo were slightly dashed by the necessity of filling out forms together prior to the ceremony, but I was so pleased to see Theo (who looked utterly gorgeous in his suit) and anyway, I kept on my coat to preserve some semblance of surprise.

The registry office ceremony was short but sweet. It was a busy day for weddings, with two coming out as we went in and two more waiting their turn as we emerged. But the slight conveyor-belt aspect of it all didn't detact from the significance of what was happening for us and as we said the legal vows I could hear sniffing from our assembled families behind us. We were signed and sealed.

Theo and I elected to fill the hour and a half until we had to go to Manor Hall with a sojourn in our hotel room. I will draw a discreet veil over it. Some things should remain personal.

AT MANOR HALL

When we entered the dining room at Manor Hall with our entourage of twelve bridesmaids and pageboys and ring-bearer behind us, that was the moment when emotion almost got the better of me. All these people we knew gathered together for US and the sound of my lovely friend Ali Orbaum applying her incredible voice to our chosen song, Feeling Good accompanied by another friend, Toby Field on the keyboard. It really was beautiful.

The ceremony itself was sublime. Susan excelled herself with her moving choice of words and immaculate delivery. My singing group, Hot Flush gave us rousing renditions of I'm A Believer and I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) and Joe Volk's solo song was just gorgeous. As Poppy and Becky passed us the rings which Theo's sister Hermione had made us as her wedding gift (she'd also dressed the stage and made my engagement ring...I wonder if we'd have actually managed to get married without her...) I thought, this is it..we are joined together forever and felt overwhelmed again.

The food...the incredible food...it really was a sumptuous feast, our guests had excelled themselves with their offerings. Meats, fish and cheeses, pates, quiches, salads, sandwiches...and topped off with the most incredible cake, made by our friend S. It was three wonderfully tilting tiers of chocolate, sponge and ginger respectively, decorated in an array of harlequin colours (including the Bristol Rovers blue and white quartiles, heh!) and topped off with a bright pink feather and crystal arrangement. The whole thing was a gift from Joe and S and Liz and Al. We felt so thoroughly spoiled.

And the wine...! Loads of it, red, white and pink and lots of fizz. Tim, my former stepdad, my dad, my godparents, my friends Jon and Sarah and I suspect various others had all brought bottles and bottles of the stuff. So much, our guests couldn't get through it all, even when we gave a few cartons to our bands for their riders. A veritable cellar's-worth has been laid down for us by Theo's dad and we've taken several bottles of leftover Champagne with us to enjoy on our honeymoon.

The open-mic nature of the speeches lent itself to a slightly unconventional round-up of speakers, all completely different and all highly enjoyable. Poppy as best man took the first turn ("Theo said Kate was way out of his league and when we met her, we realised he was right...")
Theo went next ("I've got this two-word phrase I say when something is so supremely wonderful there are no words left to express it...I use it now as my toast...Kate Salisbury!!")
My Dad ("what a fabulous itinerary for your honeymoon travels and I'm deeply touched and grateful to be going with you...")
Me (I had written a song called Do You Know My Man? to perform...as the voice wasn't up to it, Hot Flush stepped in with their excellent harmonies and I simply played the guitar and mimed...it worked a treat)
Theo's Mum ("with all that intelligence, my brilliant son could be pompous and arrogant...but he chooses to work with underprivileged children with kindness...and as a husband I know he will be as endlessly giving and selfless as his own father..")
My Mum (who quoted us a beautiful French hymn about love)
And - slightly unexpectedly - my Aunty Frances (who got her own back on me by singing the On Top Of Spaghetti version of On Top Of Old Smokey as I had done at her wedding thirty years earlier)
Then a hugely funny and touching video-taped speech sent online from Argentina by Beans, Theo's original best man. The film was edited to perfection and Beans delivered it with aplomb.

In all the rush to get downstairs and start partying, we almost forgot to cut our magnificent cake, but cut it we did and after a brief photo session with Jemimah, we went downstairs and opened proceedings on the dance floor with Feist's My Man, My Moon then left DJ Pete and DJ Tasch to do us proud with non-stop floor-fillers (apart from the reggae numbers...Tasch decided quite quickly to abandon those).

Next door in the band room, SJ Esau's quirky one-man pop machine was fantastic, Angel Tech were extraordinary and Babel just superb. We danced until my feet felt like they were being cut to pieces in their unaccustomed diamante high heels. It was worth it. Miles The Munter DJ'd between bands, James Statick mixed the sound and Tony "The Voice" Hutton stage managed. And despite our efforts to at least cover their expenses, none of the bands would accept a bean. They drank plenty of wine, though and polished of the Weapons Strength ginger beer (our gift from Matt and Sarah...ahem, sorry the barrel went missing...)

By eleven we were exhausted, but the whole thing had been utterly fantastic and everyone entered into the spirit of the occasion and WHAT an occasion. If this is a rather long blog entry, apologies. But it's something we want to have fixed on the page and in our memories for the rest of our lives. Wedding of the century. Admittedly, I may be biased. But we couldn't have done it without so many people getting involved and that fact, plus the momentous and joyous commitment we have made to one another has added up to the most incredible end to one journey and the most gloriously auspicious beginning to another.