9 Février 2011
The next few days in Paris were lovely, cold but sunny, and involved lunches, wine, shopping, dinners, wandering around the marché aux puces in Cliquancourt, walking Holly’s dog, Lola, around Montmartre feeling like a local, buying baguettes at the boulangerie feeling like a local, and working our way through the remainder of Sarah’s cheese haul. They also involved some organisation, as I had a train to book and a journey to make.
Leaving Paris behind made me feel grown up and responsible – no longer could I rely on Holly to make phone calls or translate anything I didn’t understand – I was on my own. This became quite apparent at the Gare de Lyon where I had to collect my pre-ordered ticket from the correct desk, find the platform, punch my ticket, get on the right train at the right time. Quite stressful when following verbal directions in another language and with a deadline to meet!
Anyway, I made it and felt very posh sitting in first class for the four hour journey to Agde in the South. French trains are a marvel; clean, comfortable, fast, reliable and reasonably priced. My first class ticket was a mere 7 euros more than a second class ticket (why ever travel 2nd class??) and only 83 euros for the journey, in stark contrast to the outrageous prices charged for train trips in the UK
A quick taxi ride from Agde to the house in Les Mougères, a village outside of Marseillan, delivered me to the doorstep of the place I was to call home for the next few months, the place I’d looked at on Google Earth several times and was now seeing for real. It was more substantial than I expected. It had a swish sliding gate. It was freezing!
A neighbour let me in and gave me a brief tour, some notes on how to keep the pool nice (the pool?? in February??), how to work the sprinkler system (ditto, in February??) what to do with the peach trees (peaches?? if only..) and then I was on my own. It was freezing! I was in shock. This was the South of France
Shivering, I attempted to light the fire that had been thoughtfully laid by the owner, and rushed around turning on every heating appliance I could find, including the oven. It continued to be freezing! The log fire would not co-operate and guttered out. The radiators struggled valiantly to turn luke warm. The oven appeared to be blowing out cold air. There was nothing to eat and I had forgotten to bring frivolities such as food with me.
Miraculously, I found an electric blanket in a cupboard and re-made a bed to include it. In my bag was the half bottle of Mouton Cadet pressed upon me on the train, plus a tough bread roll left over from breakfast in the station. That would have to do. The house had big, heavy wooden shutters on every window, so I pulled the bedroom shutters closed. I cranked up the electric blanket, digested my meagre repast of bread and wine and, placing the framed photo of my husband and pets carefully onto the bedside table, retired to bed at some bizarrely early hour as I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Tomorrow would be a better day.
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