Christmas in France...

This really is my favourite time of year, and I am truly thankful not to be celebrating Christmas in neither a bikini nor air conditioning.  As we all know by now I could never, and will never, adjust to such an anomaly.

 

 

Even though France has the same seasons and similar weather to Britain in December, not everything is exactly the same for Christmas.  Yes, there are trees and lights, holly and mistletoe, hopes and wishes for a white Christmas (usually delivered in the French Alps and Pyrenees etc.) and excessive eating and drinking to be looked forward to.
 

But some things are different.  Father Christmas seems to climb up rope ladders here to deliver the toys and goodies.  This drives me crazy!  Santa Claus arrives on sleigh pulled by reindeer and goes down the chimney! Everyone is aware of this - the legendary stuff of Christmas - so I do not know where the notion of an abseiling Santa originated. I do not approve.

The French don’t really send Christmas cards, and the ones that are on offer are hugely expensive, really quite boring and often in the form of a postcard rather than a ‘proper’ card complete with envelope, glitter, robins and snow scenes.  Knowing this, I wisely stocked up on cards on a recent trip to London and sent them out in a timely fashion – probably my first and only bit of pre-Christmas planning.

 

 

French shoes rather than stockings are put out in front of the tree or by the chimney for Father Christmas/Père Noël to fill with treats.  France also has a Père Fouettard who patrols looking for naughty children to spank...

 

So very French is the law (passed in 1962) that all letters posted to Père Noël receive a reply – no room for negligence here! Not sure who hands out the punishments to workers from La Poste who fail to follow through on replies - Père Fouettard perhaps?!

 

The traditional Christmas meal can be on Christmas day but is usually in the middle of the night, after midnight mass is over with cafés and restaurants staying open all night. We are still mulling over whether to give this a try.  I’m inclining towards keeping it a daytime event, as there’s nothing quite like coming downstairs and opening the presents – with the breakfast 'toast' being champagne.

 

France has a very special place known as the Capital of Christmas, a city called Strasbourg which sits on the edge of the Black Forest in Alsace, all gingerbread houses, fairy lights and frosty pine trees and that’s where we are going for Christmas.  Famous for its Christmas market and starry eyed crowds, we plan to over indulge in mulled wine, late night shopping and sightseeing. A must will be a chilly ride in a horse drawn carriage, and even though I know there won’t be any, I am still secretly hoping for snow and maybe a sleigh ride instead.

 

We will have to track down some traditional fare for lunch and I will be avoiding the seafood bonanza the French – in common with the Aussies – enjoy over the festive season.  Turkey and mince pies all the way for me. Although, having attended a Foie Gras Fête and seen all the poor ducks and geese piled up, plucked and gutted waiting to be polished off, I might be tempted by a nut roast. It was all too much for hypocritical, squeamish me. 

 

Not sure what gifts may be waiting under the tree for us, but the trip alone is the best of presents.  And talking of presents, Christmas came earlyish for our indefatigable old neighbour Pam, a big fan of a bottle of wine, a packet of fags and Johnny Depp.  Imagine how thrilled she was when he did eventually drop by to light her up....

 

And all that is left to say is, in the words of Clement C. Moore in The Night Before Christmas, “I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, ‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!’”.  Wishing you all the happiest of holidays and the jolliest of Christmases....

 

3 Steps To Winter Warmth

 

 

STEP ONE...

 

Meet lovely people with a very big garden full of tree prunings and timber left over from large scale house renovation...

 

STEP TWO...

Don special trousers and learn to use a chain saw (trickier than it seems - the chain saw bit, not the trousers), and spend a day cutting up large pieces of wood...

 

 



 

STEP THREE...

 

Take the wood home and make it into a fire.  Voilà!  It sounds quite easy, but is actually good old hard labour and enjoying the fruits of it is very rewarding.  Having said that, it is still glorious weather here, sunny and 23ºc – shorts weather for some, meaning log fires are hardly necessary, but we couldn’t wait.  It’s our first house with fireplaces and every time we light a fire feels like a special occasion. I’m sure the novelty will wear off when it is cold enough to necessitate the fire, but meantime it’s still my favourite decorative accessory!

 

 



 

 



Oscar is Lost

French village cats are tough customers.  Street wise and sly, crafty and confident they slink and swagger about the streets as if they own them - which they do, to a large extent. They have learned to fend for themselves, fight with dogs, avoid traffic and feed themselves from wheelie bins. They seem mostly to be unsterilised and intact, producing  a couple of litters a year at least.  

Oscar, on the other hand, is a well behaved, nicely brought up cat unaccustomed to life in the gutter.  Inexperienced, apart from a couple of run-ins with the neighbours' cat in Australia, we felt he was ill equipped to deal with the pugilistic lifestyle second nature to the alley cats of the Med, and decided to keep him in the house.  He seemed fine with it and disinterested in outdoors.

 

This was going well until one night when we returned home a bit late from dinner at neighbours Danny and Russell's house, and full of curry and VRAC, failed to notice Oscar had slipped out of the house as we were locking up.  Off to bed we went.

 

Early in the morning, I woke suddenly and realised Oscar was not in his usual morning position i.e. on my chest loudly purring the 'get up and feed me, slacker' purr.  Where was he?  A search of the house revealed he was not home.  Alex joined me in a second search and it slowly dawned on us that he must have sneaked out last night and been locked out all night.  With all those French alley cats.

 

We rushed out and frantically started to look for him.  We combed the streets all morning, feeling sicker by the minute. What if he'd been run over? What if he'd been stolen? We had been warned he was 'trop beau' and would be a prize trophy.  What if he were trapped somewhere where nobody could hear his cries?  What if, what if..  We tried to think 'he's a cat, he'll turn up' but didn't manage at all well.

 

We thought surely Roly and Pepper would find him. They set off all alert and determined - definitely on the trail of something - and lead us straight to a left over pizza dropped in Place Charles de Gaulle.  They were immediately relegated home.  

We bumped into Louis, the local policeman - Pomerols has just the one.  He was very kind and said he'd do an announcement from the Mairie PA, which he did, requesting news of a 'gros chat blanc' - 'gros' is big in French, not fat, though Oscar fits both descriptions.  This made us feel sad, not hopeful, however.

We made some Lost (Perdu) posters, which was awful as I hate to see them in the streets and always wonder where the poor pet is and how the poor owners are feeling, and of course dreaded having to resort to a Lost poster myself. We knocked on doors, asked around and continued to patrol the village. 

 

The village children quickly found out Oscar was missing and embraced the hunt with boundless enthousiasm, especially Gabriel (age 8) who probably reads a great deal of Tin Tin or the French equivalent of Secret Seven or Famous Five and decided he was going to find a trail of white fur and track Oscar down this way.  He requested his own copy of the Lost poster and gathered a band of acolytes who set off for the search on assorted bikes and scooters.

It got dark and then it got darker. No sign of Oscar.  We thought about going to bed and leaving the front door ajar in case Oscar found his way miraculously home.  We realised we wouldn't be able to sleep too well, so set of for one final search with a torch and a tin of Whiskas.  It was around midnight, and we bumped into Danny and Russell who told us they could hear a cat mewing near the Mairie.  We conducted a thorough search, to no avail.  Miserable, I wandered off down a side street shining my torch under cars and gates.  And then suddenly, there was Oscar!  Huddled in a recess in a wall to a garden - we had looked there a dozen times that day.  He must have been hiding, too scared to come out during the day. I scooped him up and rushed him home. He was frightened and dirty but nothing else.  We had probably (almost certainly) been more bothered than him by his disappearence.  But he was glad to be home, and Roly and Pepper were delighted to see him.  We were never so grateful, and still are.

 

Early the next morning Gabriel was ringing the door bell to announce his latest scheme for finding Oscar, which seemed to involve trails of crumbs and secret chalk marks on buildings. We told him the good news. He seemed pleased but requested proof - so we booked Oscar in for an official appearance in front of the search party, which would be accompanied by cup cakes for all.

Several hours and dozens of cup cakes later, everyone was happy.  Especially Gabriel who had collected white fur, a Lost poster, a band of followers and a reputation as village sleuth.  How was he going to occupy his days now, though?  He rang the door bell a bit later to let me know he'd be happy to show me how to improve my cup cakes.....

Is the Shopping Better in Britain...or am I just living in the Sticks??

Buying a house inevitably entails buying things for it.  Some things like Liquid Nails and paint are not so terribly exciting, although they do promise change for the better. Other things like sofas and chandeliers are utterly thrilling (at least to me) and merit considerable thought and planning.

 

Given our budget for furnishings, it's a good thing that I adore old stuff and that the prospect of weilding sand paper and a paint brush around a bedside cabinet purchased for 4 euros from the car boot sale deprives me of sleep through sheer excitement.  I didn't realise, though, that my passion for brocante, chineur, vide grenier, Emmaus, skip trawling etc. was also going to be practically my only choice for furnishing our home - apart from Ikea, that is. 

Much as I love and admire Ikea, and am terribly grateful there is one a 30 minute hop down the road, I don't want an entire house decked out courtesy of our Swedish ally.  I want choice, the ability to select from a range of suppliers and outlets, the possibility of comparing one rug / dining chair / console with another.  I would like a broad spectrum of bedding options and kick-ass kitchen ware selections. I'd prefer the idea of choosing between roman blinds, shutters, curtains, sheers, panel glides, venetians etc. to be a clear and present challenge rather than a distant memory.  In my personal opinion fabric should be offered in more than toile, stripes and 80's florals.

 

I never thought I would actively miss Pillow Talk, Freedom, Domayne, Kitchen World and Spotlight quite so acutely.  Not to mention Rugs-a-Million!! What I wouldn't give for a Rugs-a-Million now.  And these are Australian shops. I couldn't even begin to list the home furnishing options on offer in the UK - there, it's best to decide on your decorating style before leaving home in order to thus target the appropriate retailers, never mind wondering if there will be any duvet covers on the shelves actually available to buy as I do here. 

I like Maisons du Monde, I really do.  The furniture section of Galeries Lafayette is lovely for lofts and hotel particuliers.  A store called But presents an impressive selection of items almost exclusively upholstered in Union Jacks and Eiffel towers.  The rugs at 

Décor are all polypropelene and they had NO hall runners.  I am not fond of pimp style leather furniture so that elimiates Chateau d'Ax.  Where else do I go? I am sure there are places I don't yet know about or have not heard of.  I am becoming prepared to drive to Lyon or Marseille for a shopping fix and would hire a van, too!  I realise of course the plethora of possibility available on line and may just have to settle for that, although it's quite nice to wander around a few department stores and then have a sustaining snack, something on line won't ever supply. 

 

 

Shopping isn't all furniture and homewares, either.  Clothes are nice to buy. Alex needs new clothes to match his new slimline shape.  And shoes. His feet haven't changed size but co-ordinating shoes are good.  Mercifully the clothing options are marginally better here and Odysseum or Polygone can usually drum up some interesting offers.  But don't go looking for singlets or shorts out of season and put aside all thoughts of stylish, statement shoes of novel design.  Brown and black with laces rule.  Or boots.

I'm going to London soon.  I can feel a lengthy visit to Top Shop, Heals and Habitat coming on.  I might even get on a train and go to the Metro Centre, just down the road from my parent's house near Durham.  Really wish I hadn't booked a baggage free Ryan Air ticket now... 

Buying a House in France a.k.a. life without phone, internet, mobile, TV, a kitchen.....

It’s not easy to rent a house in France – other than a holiday let – without the necessary credentials, status, documentation etc. etc., a situation I have bemoaned before.

 

 

We got fed up of moving every six months and not having our own stuff, so we decided to buy a house.  After having looked at 9,682 houses – well, 73 actually (no, really truly) - we decided to buy one of the first we had seen.  A common occurrence I believe, as looking at a lot of lemons allows the plum to stand out.

 

 

So we reopened negotiations with the vendors we’d last seen in October ’12 and the ball started rolling.  It rolled very nicely, not quickly but smoothly.  There were no building or pest problems as once a house gets over 300 years old the odd crack or incongruity is insignificant – it’s lasted this long and will almost certainly go another 300 more.  Extraordinarily, we were given the keys to the house ‘so we could start moving in and painting and things’ as soon as the cool off period had elapsed!  We hadn’t even paid the deposit and we were in there wielding brushes and unpacking boxes.  That would never happen in Oz...

 

 

We unpacked our boxes and were reacquainted with all the things we’d shipped from Australia, some highly relevant and useful and others not so much (regretting the CDs and clothing, very pleased to have tools, artworks, rugs and most furniture).  I bustled about putting flower boxes on windowsills and organising Alex paintbrushes.  I was delighted with the 4 metre (12ft) high ceilings, Alex less so as they are a bugger to paint.  I started off finding the irregularly shaped rooms and sloping floors characterful and rapidly became cheesed off that this prevents the furniture sitting straight. 
 

 
 

Most of all, though, we were decidedly non plussed at our lack of kitchen facilities and seeming inability to get connected to the outside world via phone, mobile, internet or TV.  The kitchen was easier to solve than the communications problem – we just had to buy things.  All we had was a sink, so we acquired a washer, a cooker (a great little number that would fail every safety test in existence in most countries of the world - the gas canister sits right next to the oven in a tailor made compartment - but is de rigeur here), a fridge etc. etc. from Le Bon Coin and plumbing courtesy of our wonderful neighbour Philippe who slogged for a 12 hour day on our behalf and didn’t even want a beer as a ‘Merci’!

 

 

Getting on line, however, was a nightmare.  We quickly worked out that the house had no existing phone line and we needed an engineer to install one.  Trying to get SFR and then Orange to agree with us was impossible, though.  And in France the TV goes through the internet lines so the whole thing is connected – if you don’t have that you have nothing.  We had nothing. For nearly 3 months. Not even mobile phone coverage. It was difficult, trying, frustrating, at times quite nice and like living in a time warp – we knew nothing of royal babies, Canandian floods or Australian elections – but mostly it was rubbish.  Not recommended.  Eventually Orange deigned to send an engineer round who confirmed we did not have a line and they would have to install one.  This happened very quickly and life resumed its normal structure.  We hadn’t even been able to use internet cafés as the only one within 50k had closed for the 3 month summer holiday (oui, 3 months). 

 

 

We are gradually attempting to get into the groove of life in a French village.  Recognising the locals happens rather quickly as you see them going about their daily business, but you don’t necessarily know who they are. Hence we have ‘handles’ for people, there’s Yellow Clogs Lady, Fat Stuff, Putain and Putain Jnr (don’t ask), Patapouf’s Mum, Scooter Boy, Whisky and Knitting Set, Chain Smoking Man, Fruit Shop in Living Room Family,  Grapes Lady, Newsagent Johnny Depp, Fat Stuff’s sister, Fluoro Girl, Moped Accident Bloke etc. etc.  So far we have only found out Yellow Clogs is Claire and Johnny Depp is Jerome. 

 

 

Adapting to total lock down at lunch time continues to be a struggle and I doubt we will ever feel comfortable sitting on a chair outside the front door having an evening chat and a wine, as the entire village seems to do. They let us off this custom as we are ‘foreign’ and there aren’t many foreigners here, certainly none direct from Australia. 

 

Summer here has been amazing, one long round of fireworks, fêtes, flowers, foam parties, picnics, performances, dinners in the square – exhausting but most enjoyable. And we got to benefit from all the hi jinks happening along the road in Marseillan, too. Oh, yes. We now live in Pomérols, did I forget to mention that?  The one by the sea, not the famous wine one, although the wine here is Picpoul de Pinet which is quite famous enough for me and now we buy it direct from the Cave Co-op for a staggering 1.20 a litre.......
 

There is lots more to tell, lots more to share, so I hope you will forgive the long silence (blame Orange...) and bear with me as I fill in the gaps, the highs and the lows, the trials and tribulations, the wine and the wonder of life in a French village.

P.S. while all this has been going on Alex has lost 15 kilos!  Coming soon, how he did it and pictures!!
P.P.S. while all this has been going on Steve and Jessica have made a baby! Felicitations!!

Bonjour Londres!

Thirteen years. Treize années.  Trece años.  Trīspadsmit gadi.  13, one-three years -enough time for a babe in arms to evolve into a spotty teenager.

That's how long since I'd been in London.  Too long.  I'd lived a full life there (!) and just hadn't felt the urge to visit, especially as I am certainly no longer in the retinue of A Listers, so the familiar doors and privileges would no longer be open to me.  But the woman 'who is tired of London is tired of life' to paraphrase Mr. Johnson, and I am certainly not that.  Inspired by our travel companions Yacine and Aurelie and their thirst for all things London  - off we set!  

Super cheap vols courtesy of Ryan Air got us there in a timely fashion and it was rather fab to see our hosts Katy and family in their accommodating South London home. Up early the next day, toast and Marmite for breakfast and heavy sight seeing on the agenda. Much more gratifying than I'd realised, we packed the day with all things tourist and can highly recommend it.  Punctuated with Pimm's, pints and ploughman's, these were excursions to cherish.

The weather was the best of the year, the flowers were in bloom (crazy technicolour beauties), the streets and buildings were clean and the locals friendly.  We thought the Queen was home, but perhaps she wasn't - the Union flag was flying not the Royal standard.  

Soho House, my haunt of many a long, hard night, we learned is no longer the cat's whiskers and we didn't get to the cool sister Shoreditch House. Next time.  We inhaled curry and mainlined coffee.  Interesting that Yacine and Aurelie loved both, too.  Highly recommend the English Market Cafe in Spittalfields for their genuine Flat Whites.  

Travelling on the Tube was fun, cheap and easy. The Tate Modern turned out to be big fun and Shakespeare's Theatre is best visited as a groundling as you will get to see the whole place and a play for five quid. Don't bother with the tour. 

Fortnum & Mason is still Posh and I can't help but wonder if it's the only place on earth where one can find chocolate fish and chips (we sampled both the original style and the confectionary).

The London Eye will be enjoyed with Emily and Mark in August - come on down!!

South Bank and Festival Hall were majorly cool and quite different from my expectations. Splendid to drink a Pimm's and look over the Thames whilst tossing up which street food vendor to visit for a culinary voyage.  We miss such food inventiveness here au Sud in our corner of France.  Thanks to Minky for escorting us in the right direction - we'd have been missed out on serious treats without you!
 

There were many things we wanted to do but did not have the time, however I am so chuffed to know such expeditions are only a 20 euro flight away.  The cultural/fun mini break is what I missed in Australia and intend to profitez-en here in the Euro zone.  It helps to have lovely friends who will put you up / put up with you (thank you Katy, Rob and family), but good to know we can forward a Languedocian counter offer albeit less Hip and less Happening, but very probably more Hot... 

All I can say is London surpassed itself and it didn't rain once!  So go visit on an empty stomach with a full purse and an open mind and prepare to leave replete.