Clermont l’Hérault

Leaving Montpellier behind has been far from traumatic. In fact, I don't think I've given that over burdened, grimy city a second thought - other than 'glad we're not there any more'. I really didn't expect to much prefer une vie à la campagne, but that's how it's turned out since we started living in Clermont l’Hérault in June. 

I was here in Clermont last year during a wintery February and a spring like March; the town presents itself quite differently in the full bloom of summer.  There are abundant flowers everywhere, including glorious displays of Laurier Rose, also known as Oleander and dubbed a 'toxic weed' in Australia therefore routinely chopped down.  This opinon is clearly not shared in France, where Oleander is actively cultivated and appreciated, and we now share that appreciation.  This time of year flags, bunting and floral hanging baskets adorn most streets and squares whilst pavement cafés multiply and flourish everywhere.

The bright blue, cloudless skies and long days of sunshine have encouraged wide exploration of the Hérault area and we have ventured further afield than previously, discovering new and memorable places.  

Pepper swims in the Lac du Salagou; Alex paddles his pirogue on the river at Aspiran; we have danced at the Fête in Cabrières; enthusisatically tasted the new season's rosé wine at Fontès (very good, bought a case); we've listened to the free Bach recitals performed every Wednesday at St. Paul's with musicians from all over the world playing the grand organ; viewed the abstract art and photography exhibitions at the Ancienne Ėglise; drunk pichets of wine and enjoyed the Mélo Divin live music festival at Allées Salengro which also hosts open air cinema sessions and jazz concerts.

Bastille Day was a huge indulgence of non stop almost free wine and music, with spectators - including toddlers  - weilding fireworks whilst watching the official firework display. The visible lack of an overbearing police presence, security guards, barriers, crowd control, hooligans, ambulances waiting for business etc. etc. was truly liberating, with everyone expected to regulate their own behaviour - if you maim yourself with a firework there's no chance of a law suit or an ambulance so this has a beneficial knock-on effect!   

We've sampled cheese at the night market at Octon, lit camp fires and roasted marshmallows (this particularly appealed to Alex as the possiblity of just lighting your own camp fire pretty much isn't an option in Oz), listened to salsa amidst the natural wonders of the Cirque du Mourèze and marvelled at the limestone gorges of Saint Guilhém le Desert. We've visited Roujan, Neffiès, Muviel-les-Béziers, Plaissan, Lodève, Cuxac d'Aude, Nébian, Saint Jean de la Blaquière - all places we could easily consider living.  We honestly and truly drive around with a boules set in the boot of the Fiat and whip them out for a wine fuelled challenge wherever a boulodrome presents itself. 

We've only been here four weeks!  Last Thursday I just couldn't summon up the energy for a wine tasting plus musical hommage to Dalida followed by dancing until 2am at Adissan and turned in early.  Who would have thought la vie à la campagne offered so much?!  We selected Montpellier for what it might have to offer and found what we were looking for forty minutes from its bright lights.  So much so that we've talked seriously to a couple of real estate agents.... 

Fiat Punto

Wheels. Pretty much taken for granted.  No longer by us however, given how tricky it is to get on the road in France.  And how important.  France, unlike Australia, has many, many villages and towns sprinkled liberally throughout the countryside, within a few minutes of each other,  each with their own markets, personalities, attractions and appeal.  It's possible to spend a lifetime encountering the villages of France, but impossible without a car!  Having spent a small fortune on hire cars last year, this time round we were keen to earn our independence from Rent-a-Car.  But how?  To buy and insure a car requires the all important utility bill (the golden key to many doors in France) and it's terribly difficult to get a utility bill without references, referrals and a track record of renting a home, or owning your own home.  Problematic.  A long and expensive relationship with Rent-a-Car loomed on the horizon.

Holly to the rescue!  Lurking in the garden of her country house, quietly taking root, was a much loved but ever so slightly neglected Fiat Punto Cabriolet.  A car I'd known and loved in London as it shuttled us from bar to club to party, night after memorable night. It even knew its own way home from Soho House!  Why not rescue, revive and restore the little treasure and drive it down to its new life bistrot hopping in the South of France?  Why not indeed.

 

Thus one chilly Saturday in early April, weilding spades, we dug the car out of the garden.  We heaved up the bonnet and jump started the car.  It started first time!  That earned her the reward of a new battery.  The new battery helped the Fiat limp to the car wash for a spruce up.  Life was improving for the Fiat, but sadly we had to leave her in Samois and head South to take up our new rental home in Montpellier. 

Holly took over and found out what was needed to pass the Controle Technique, the equivalent of the Safety Certificate in Aus or the MOT in the UK.  An eye  watering assortment of dings, scrapes, knocks and bangs to a vehicle's body work are considered compulsory in France, and in this regard the Punto passed with flying colours.  What was required was a new motor for the windscreen wipers, a couple of light bulbs for side lights, two new tyres - nothing too outrageous - after four years of taking root, anything was possible!  These things fixed up, a full service and the Fiat was ready to go. 

 We took a train to Paris, enjoyed a fabulous musical showcase by the talented M. Philippe Barbot, drank some wine and retired early ready to drive the seven or eight hours from Samois (well positioned one hour to the South of Paris) to Montpellier. 

 
A nightmare journey ensued where we left Samois bang on time and avoided heavy traffic and scary weather, only to realise my lap top had been left behind, sitting in the hallway in Paris..... No option but to turn back and retrieve it.  This represented a Hideous Set Back.  THIRTEEN hours later, after nearly coming to blows several times in assorted lay-bys, wrestling with folding maps and Sat Nav (twat nav...)  and going around in circles near Nemours, we were still on the road.  We limped in to Montpellier at 1 a.m., having driven through some spectacular countryside - including the amazing Millau viaduct - in the dark. 

Not a good start for the new life au sud for the Fiat Punto Cabrio. However, things have continually looked up for us all, and she has settled in very nicely to the long hot days, the drives through vineyards and rolling foothills, the trips to the boulangerie and local markets -  and is a big hit with Roly and Pepper, who love the wind in their fur as we bomb along at 130km looking for a new adventure. The locals may take us for Parisians due to our proudly Parisian number plates and give us the cold shoulder, but we don't care, we'd rather be shunned than grounded.  Thank you, Holly, for the Fiat we call Freedom!

En Angleterre

Visited the mother country in June.  An interesting and revealling trip in ways I was not expecting.

First of all, I was very taken with how lovely it all was. Just beautiful.  And here was I fresh off the plane from the fabled South of France!  Frankly, where I was (Durham, the Dales, Raby Castle) really held its own, perhaps even excelled thanks to the castles, monasteries, ruins etc. casually scattered everywhere, the deer grazing in the woodlands, the quaint and picturesque villages one after the other in lush emerald countryside. 

I loved the vintage horse-drawn gypsy caravans meandering through country lanes following Appleby Fair, the jaunty bunting strung along every street and square in honour of the Queen's diamond jubilee.  The food was delicious and varied and the coffee wonderful - I even drank a perfect Flat White!  I was delighted to see the endless walls entirely free of any sort of graffiti, streets featuring total lack of dog poo, revelled in the pristine condition of national monuments, stately homes and just about every house I saw, wanted to partake of a pint in each one of the ridiculously quaint pubs, and - most importantly - basked in the warm, friendly, smiling, funny people I came across everywhere. Gosh, why did I ever leave??!

The weather, that's why. It was NINE DEGREES for most of my stay. Nine degrees centigrade. Nine degrees at midday, in mid summer.  NINE.  I went to bed in pyjamas with an electric blanket and the central heating on. In mid summer.  I had packed a coat, a scarf, woolly tights, a thick cardigan and I wore them all, all the time.  Incredible to me was the general up-beat approach of the locals to all this - overheard on an escalator in a department store "for all the rain, it's not that cold is it?".  I felt like screaming "IT'S NINE DEGREES!!!!! THAT'S BEYOND COLD!!".  

Despite the cold, I had a wonderful time.  It was a huge relief not to be struggling with the inferiority of one's French language abilities.  When the sun did shine (for three days of my seven day stay) it was truly inspirational; when it didn't it the warmth of my welcome made up for it.  I think the dismal weather has also given people a humourous, resiliant outlook to life, one full of optimism and one to learn from.  And it isn't always thus - we know it's some bizarre Gulf Stream variable causing the worst summer weather 'since records began', so the papers were happy to reassure the nation that there would be 'Summer in September'!  Glad to hear it, these people and this Sceptred Isle deserve better!