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Well, much as I enjoyed Ireland (and compared to some nights the accommodation in Ireland was better!) this trip to France was mind blowing. Apart from booking the train and a night in a hotel in Perpignan, I relied on my Micawber instinct. Everything would turn out alright. The hotel room could have done with a redecorate but it had a fan, very clean bedding and was quiet. I tried to book the same room for the return journey but I got a double. Very different story. No fan, very hot and quite noisy. But the walls were cream unlike the rather depressing mustard of the single room.
I caught the bus to Caudies and had a right ding-dong with the bus driver. Everyone got off at St Paul leaving me as the only one on the bus. He then, in spite of all the signs on the bus, lit his cigarette. I started screeching "Ne pas fumeur, ne pas fumeur" whilst jabbing at the signs but he just shrugged and opened the window beside him so all the smoke blew over me. I got off in a right huff. I finally got the rucksack over my shoulders and walked into Caudies. Luckily, the little supermarket doesn't shut until 12:30 so I was able to buy the things that Eurostar staff told me I couldn't take with me like knife and the essential bottle opener. I ate my lunch sitting on the bench in the square. Unfortunately, it was also beside the public loo!
Then I tackled the mountain. It took me nearly 3 hours to walk three miles. I couldn't get the balance right. Halfway up I was in tears - until I told myself off for trying to rush. I finally made it to the camp site at Fenouillet. The sign said Ouvert so that was okay. But nothing appeared to be Ouvert! I sat down and waited. And waited. And waited. I picked up all the bits and pieces. Have I told you that the strap on one of my bags had broken halfway up the mountain? No? Well, that didn't speed things up. I pitched my tent in the aptly named Queribus space. Queribus is my favourite Cathar Castle. Then I went into the village to post some cards. When I got back, with trepidation as I had seen the big notices on the way out that promised a skirmish with the Gendarme should I camp without permission, the owners had arrived. It was 5 p.m and they had opened the small bar. Lovely people with a great desire to learn more English words. I paid for my spot in their woodland. He switched on the water so I ould use the facilities. Later on I went down to the bar and several people from the village had clustered around. We took turns in playing Bar Boules. The French will vote for the man who brings back the Franc, they all said. They also couldn’t understand why we got rid of their heroine, Maggie. I was alone on the site that night and only had wild boar, deer and birds for company which suited a country gal like me absolutely fine.

The next day I found it took at least an hour just to pack everything away. I got the load balanced by propping it up on one of the outside sinks and this time it was a lot easier. I set out from the site at about 10:00, I didn't want to be walking in the midday heat again. It took me about an hour to do the 2 mile walk to Fosse. I finally found Pam’s, the French call her Pameela, as she had moved since we last met in 97. She was in because the door was open, although that is not always an indication that anyone is in. In that part of France people often go off to their allotments or to the neighbours for a chat and leave the door wide open. A voice called out "Come In". So in I go, laden like Henry James donkey. "Hello" I said to Pam who was talking on the phone. She looked completely bemused. Then I took off the sun glasses and the sun hat. "Wow, it's you" she said. "That's right, I'm me", I replied.
Pam said I could put up my tent in her garden. We climbed up some pretty steps. There was a nice piece of grass shaded by a tree." Mmmm, that'll do" I thought. We went over the grass to some decking. "That won't" I thought, "I'll never get the tent pegs into that". We then went into what is going to be her herb garden but had a lot of builder’s rubble in it. We arrived at the side of the road. "There you are” she said, "All this is my garden too". I picked which bit by the side of the road that was the most level and also had the least dog crap on it and pitched my tent. I blew up my airbed, laid out my sleeping bag and went back down to Pam's as she was trying to arrange to get me a ticket for the Fete that evening.
I then walked to le Vivier. I know that this is exactly two miles because Bob and I once watched it on the car milometer. This was easy, about half an hour without a rucksack, tent, sleeping bag and cool box on my back. Le Viver was like a ghost village. There were one or two men standing around watching flies. The shop was closed. I walked round the village. Colin and Doreen’s gate was locked. I took some photos. I finally saw someone draw up outside Jean-Pierres and he came out on his balcony. "Ah bonjour" he said. I explained that I was trying to find Colin and Doreen. I knew they were around because their grandchildren were staying with them. "Pique nique, centre ville" he said. I then wandered on up the coste towards the 11c chateau. I thought the centre of the village was The Place, where the shop was. I kept walking. I walked out of the village and then realised that the old St Eulalie chapel, which they had been renovating, was the old village centre. Down through the cemetery, across the bridge by the mill and there they all were. Lots of hugs and kisses and hand shaking went on. It turned out that Jean Pierre had snuck away to watch the Rugby. Then I walked back to Pam’s promising them I would return the next day.

Then Pam and I went with another English couple to Notre Dame de Laval near Caudies to hear a concert. A wonderful concert given by 8 singers from Montpellier. Then back to Pam’s for a little aperitif and then onto the fete in Fenouillet. It was the usual French gathering, a lot of English in that small village, a barbecue, an aperitif. Loads of wine. Then we all trooped up a hill to a small church where some people in gold masks and holding flares sung a song. Don’t ask me what it was about. Even if my French had been good enough I couldn’t hear much of what was happening behind the masks. Then we lit flares and followed them down the square again. The tables had gone and the barbecue was now in the middle of the square. There we had to rush towards the fire and push our flares in. Then the mad took turns in jumping the flames. Great evening. Pam and I returned to hers. Thunder rumbled. “Bring your sleeping bag in”, she said. I dashed out and got air bed, night clothes and sleeping bag. We sat and drank. At 3 ish we went to bed. My airbed went down so I crawled onto the sofa. At 4:00 the thunder decided to attack every rooftop. Pam’s dog, Etoile, crept up to me. I went back to sleep stroking Etoiles ears. Because it had been so sultry, both Pam and I found we were covered in mossie bites the next day.

Next day I walked to le Vivier leaving Pam nursing a hangover. A convention of about 40 plus motorbikes were gathered in the village and a team of people in red shirts were playing Crazy Golf. I stopped at the shop and Eva and I both had a cry and I bought enough wine to replenish Pam’s stocks and also some of Eva’s great ham and pate. Then I tried to use the phone box to tell the daughters that poor old Mother was still alive. Failing, I walked to Doreen’s and she said “Use ours”. Bel’s number was engaged. I told her about the motorbikes and the team in red shirts. She commented on how visitors knew more of what was going on in the village than they did. I then walked back to Fosse. I decided to take the tent down as it had dried out and sleep on Pam’s sofa again. I had some lunch and returned back to le Vivier, this time with just my plastic mac. It was so hot I had shed the leggings and fleece. On the way back into the village there was some sort of race taking place by some men in Audis. Another one to tell Doreen, I thought. Halfway up the Coste to visit the Chateau, it started to rain. I sheltered under a tree for a moment and then decided to head back to the village. Just as I got myself into the card only telephone kiosk the heavens opened. It rained so hard my pockets filled up with water.
After 5 minutes it stopped so I decided to dry out before I paid a visit to Doreen. I wandered around the village for a bit and stood on the terrace of our former house and admired the view and the splendid yukka in the garden (beggar never ever flowered when I was there!). Then I made my way down the hill to see Colin and Doreen and I had a lovely three hours asking about everybody and reminiscing. Then the sun came out and so did all the villagers so I had another walk around the village speaking to old friends and former neighbours. Then back to Pam’s and her sofa. As I wasn’t carrying anything, apart form my mac which is very lightweight, and my camera, I didn’t hurry but deviated onto the mountain paths. I reckon I walked about 12 or 13 miles that day. We went and admired Pam’s allotment. Due to the fact that everyone is going on meters in France, she had spent some of the day digging canals and channels round her rows of veg so that when they released the plug that evening in the village cistern her veggies would benefit. The French are finding it difficult to understand why England hasn’t got any water! Bel’s number was still engaged until Pam checked in her book and I found I had written it down incorrectly!

The next day Pam was going to the coast to have lunch with a friend so she took me to the camp site in St Paul. A larger site, more facilities and well arranged pitches. I pitched my tent, had something to eat and then set out into St Paul. I bought a replacement bag for the one that had snapped and wisely choose a small rucksack. I then set out to walk to Marc Majorals. Marc, I consider, makes the best red and rose wine in the world. I was determined I was going to take a bottle back with me for my wine rack. I have a bottle of red from him for every year since 1994. It was hard going as it was very hot and also I had to walk along the side of the main road from Perpignan to Biarritz! I arrived and found a sign saying he was open. Nobody in the cave. So I came out again and saw another sign saying Push the Bell. I pushed the bell. Marc came out on the balcony and yelled that I was to knock on the blue door where his wife was. He was shaving. (BTW, he doesn’t speak any English but he does speak French clearly and reasonably slowly). His wife came out and we went back into the cave. Normally you are offered a taste of the various wines but she took one look at me and opened the fridge and got a bottle of icy cold water out. I bought 4 reds and a rose. I had just paid her and was loading it in my rucksack and she was just pouring me another water when the postman arrived. She went outside. Marc came down, smelling of aftershave, unlike me who must have stunk like a pig. “Bonjour, Madame” he said politely. I took off my glasses and sunhat. “Bonjour Monsieur Marcel, ca va?” I said. With a loud whoop he rushed forward, picked me up (He is a taller Frenchman than usual) swung me around, hugged me and kissed me on the cheeks at least 6 times., I was glad that the poor man hadn’t attempted this whilst I was wearing any of my gear. He put me down. “Madame ‘Ardy, Madame ‘Ardy” he kept saying, clasping my hand and hugging me. Well, I was so gratified. I had not seen Marc since September 1997. The last trip Bob and I did together. I remember he had very little wine left and he was saving it for his grape pickers but he managed to find me a bottle of red and a 5 litre cubee of rose. Madame Marcel came rushing back in to see what was wrong with her husband. I assume he doesn’t normally pick middle-aged (oh alright then, old) women up and cuddle them. Madam M can speak a little English. I had already said to Marc that “Monsieur ‘Ardy, i’ll et mort” so he explained this to her and kept making signs with his hand like stroking a beard (which Bob had) and how we had a house at Le Vivier. It was then I found out that the French don’t actually have a word for SOLD. I wondered why I had been battling with everybody over this. They have For Sale - Vendre and Sell – Vendrier but no Sold. They apparently form a complex sentence using Vendre and the past tense so it come out something like” I a house for sale have had”. Madam M then expressed horror that I might have walked from Le Vivier. “No, only from St Paul” I said cheerfully. “My god” she said clasping her bosom, “It’s at least 6 kilometres!” The she had a little think and said “And are you walking back with 5 bottles of wine”? When I said yes (she was speaking in French by the way so Marc was following the conversation) Marc said “Vous ete une idiot, une lunatique”. A lovely parting comment after 9 years!

Back on the campsite I took the boots off and put sandals on and went shopping in St Paul. A woman started speaking to me as I looked in the estate agents window. In spite of the fact that I kept saying my most practised piece of French (I m sorry, I do not speak French) she still rattled on. Her agent could speak English she informed me. Then I realised she was trying to sell me her house! On my way to the supermarket I found her house, it was very pretty, especially for St Paul. The campsite began to fill up. On my right were a German couple who had arrived on a heavy panniered motorcycle and next to them were a French couple. I ate my supper watching the sun set. And drinking Marc’s wonderful wine. I went to bed, having said goodnight to the French couple who were playing cards by the light of a tilley lamp. The crickets and cicadas played their scratchy back legs during the night.
Between the church clock, which struck every quarter hour, and the German who snored I had a pretty sleepless night. I woke up with a completely dead leg. The German woke about 4, complained to his wife that he hadn’t slept a wink, at 5 they started packing up and at 6 they roared off the site. Byeeeeee. I then had a lazy day. Well, lazy for me. I mooched around St Paul and went down all the little side streets. I wrote. I read, I had a panache at a bar, lunch and then set out past the thermal spring and the Pont de Fou (a tiny little Roman bridge spanning the Agly) and up the mountain towards St Martin and le Vivier. Again, it is not the best road to walk. It is okay at the lower levels but get very winding and torturous further up. At the point where I knew traffic could not see me which ever side of the road I stood, I stopped, took some photos and returned. During the evening an enormous cheer went up through St Paul, fire bells went, klaxons sounded and even some fireworks were let off. I assumed, correctly it turned out, that France had won their match in the World Cup. That night I slept on everything soft I had with me and had a better night. Another storm and it was much cooler.

The next day I packed up and set out for the bus. I spent an evening in Perpignan looking at all the back streets, visiting the cathedral, and looking at the shops. Perpignan has changed over the past few years. It is much wealthier and I saw more designer shops that I ever see in London. A hot night in the hotel. A hilarious conversation via text with a neighbour who offered me lift home from Basingstoke and then I found out when he was on the train he meant that night, not the next when I would be arriving. His last text was “Oops”. Then I ran out of battery so, once again, the daughters weren’t sure where on Planet Earth their mother was.
The train journey back. Well, that is a complete book in itself! I met Jacques who, on the equivalent of the French National Health, has twice annual trips to the spas at Alet les Bains to improve his health. A former smoker, drug taker and squaddie he now tries to lead a good wholesome life. A man of about 60 plus, he was the life and soul of the train. Yes, the French were encouraged to take their pension to make room in employment for young people, no they hated the Euro, the first man who elected to bring back the Franc would be duly elected president, why did the English get rid of Maggie T (now where have I heard the last two before?) David Beckham, what a fine player, would I like a yoghurt, so good for one etc. At Valence a couple got on. He, a dead ringer for George Clooney, spoke excellent English. The hour came for lunch. I opened my cool bag. Out came my rice cakes, pate, cheese, two plastic tumblers and the last of the previous evenings bottle of Marc Majoral red, which I had decanted, into a water bottle. “Ooh la la” exclaimed Jacques, “A veritable feast”. A loud cheer went up round the carriage. Everyone eyed my 500 mls of wine with great envy. “How many glasses have you got?” asked GC Mk II. “Sadly, only 2 “ I answered “And I think Jacques must have first refusal as he did offer to share his yoghurt”. Jacques didn’t refuse. He accepted most graciously. “Du vin superier” he said smacking his lips. So out came the map and I showed him were the cave was were the wine was made. I explained that he could get off the bus from Alet les Bains at St Paul on his next visit and walk to Marc Marjoral’s and then pick up the bus again at Maury. “It’s only 6 kilometres” I said blithely. GC Mk II nearly choked on his own laughter. Jacques looked quite horrified.
Jacques offered to take me across Paris from the Gare du Lyon to the Gare du Nord. I had instructions from oldest daughter who has lived in France for 15 years and so said I would be alright. “No, no, I insist” he said. Instead of taking me 20 minutes and two stops, Jacques way took me an hour and 7 stops. I was not over pleased. I would have been mighty displeased if I had missed my Eurostar connection. Back to Waterloo and it was all systems – halt. No trains. A fatality 4 hours (yes, 4 hours!!!!!) earlier had brought everything to a standstill. I moaned like mad about the British Rail system compared to that in France.
Would I do it again? You bet and take longer and do more things. In fact I am already planning! Best things I took were towels (useful for wrapping round shoulder straps of rucksack) Compeed plasters for blisters, windup torch, sun hat and best of all, paper knickers. Not glam but absolutely fantastic. I shall always wear them for travelling from now on.

Out of politeness I sent a Christmas Card to Jacques, addressed to both him and his wife. I thanked him for his kindness on the train journey and for seeing me across Paris. To my amazement, a few weeks later a postcard arrived from Germany stating that he would meet me in Alet le Bains June 2007, I could stay with him in his "pensione" and that he would be sending me a missive with a post box address on it. This he did. However, it is not my intention when travelling to ruin marriages or conduct affaires amoure so correspondance has ceased between J and I!

You are never too old to learn, as they say.