Too Beautiful . . . a farmhouse in. The Auvergne

I can hardly stand it! We are staying in the renovated and professionally and charmingly decorated 300-year old farmhouse which old walking friends run as a Chambre d'hôte in the Auvergne region of France

Almost 25 years ago, we met these women when they invited us to visit, with our children, after they saw our entry in an Intervac catalogue. We made a house exchange with a family in Blois that year and while there, we did, indeed, come to St. Galmier to meet J et E. Our daughter posed for a picture in this very spot. . .

And we would have looked out of this very window

The following year, Paul and I returned without the children, and we walked a Grande Randonnée with J et E, about 170 kilometres over a week, staying in tiny hotels each night, sore and weary, but always happy in the company and the vistas and the food and the culture.

We corresponded for a year or two after that, but then we lost touch. Then, on a whim a few months ago, I googled them. And now we're back again, staying in this room

Eating around a grand table, speaking French with the other guests, and then going for walks through scenes like this . . .

 

And this

And this

Until we find pretty villages like this

 

Life is tough, bien sûr . . ,

 

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Cycling Near Bordeaux. . .

I'm just waiting for Pater to get back with something for dinner. We had planned to eat a simple meal, perhaps steak frites, at the cafe around the corner, but that ten-minute walk feels too far for me. Why? Well, we spent most of the day riding to Créon and back, the distance apparently adding up fairly close to 60 kilometres. I tend to like my bike trips in one-hour measures, but I must admit that today's was a glorious ride. I will also admit that I am very tired. And that some parts of my body are warning me that I will be much sorer tomorrow. And even more the day after.

Riding along the Garonne

And I have a sunburn, and my usual queasy response to too much time in the sun (I do sunstroke readily ever since falling asleep in the sun in my late teens).

The double strap of my Hermès watch protected some of me from sunburn!

But the ride was wonderful. Within 40 minutes of biking away from our house near Centre-Ville, we were in this bucolic landscape, all under our own steam

Separate bike lane for each direction, very nice

We were hoping to find the Roger Lapébie bike trail, built on a former railway line, and we did eventually, but not before stopping to admire some impressive estates along the way.

All barred to the likes of us, sadly . . .

But we could admire, and take photos, and try not to get in the way of the very fast, and ever so serious, cyclists zipping by on their real bikes, wearing real cycling gear . . .

Still, even in our daywear and on our clunky City bikes, we were cycling in France, in wine country, on a sunny day . . . The stuff of dreams, right?

 

You might note that Pater is carrying his bag and that otherwise, we have no panniers, none of the clever add-ons that could make longer treks more comfortable. I grumbled about this a bit, especially when we arrived in Créon to find it was market day, and that Créon puts on an excellent Marché. We ogled the stalls full of gurmet delights and could have put together a fabulous picnic had we only thought of bringing a knife, some forks, a napkin or two, and especially something to hold our finds. Next time, we consoled ourselves. And, instead, found a pleasant crêperie where we started with a savoury crêpe each, shared a sweet one, all washed down with a pichet of cider and a couple of espressos as we watched the market vendors pack up their wares and wash their counters vigorously before closing up the trailers and vans, presumably to do it all again in another small town tomorrow.

As for me, I'm very glad I don't have to repeat our day tomorrow, worn out as I am, but I'm also very glad that we managed our almost-sixty-kilometre cycle today. And especially glad that Pater is still feeling fresh enough to whip up dinner for me right here at Rue B. . .

Where I can sit and plan for future trips, all those directions opening up for us . . . I'm sure some of my readers have either done cycling vacations or have cycled while on vacation. I'd love to hear some of your experiences, recommendations, or dream cycling trips.

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Random Bordeaux . . .

Some very quick notes because we're off on our bikes as soon as Pater finishes his tea. I love being able to come back to our charming house on Rue B for a nap after a busy morning wandering, but I also like to maximize our Bordeaux exploration time. Bit by bit, I'm also trying to write a longer, slightly more crafted piece, but there is so much to show and tell that I hope you'll bear with these smaller, looser snippets.

 

Recent excitements: we made a brilliant random find of a bar-cave yesterday. I'll divulge that bonne addresse later along with a description of the delicious lunch we enjoyed for the prix formule of 17 euros each. What I have time to tell you now, though, is how surprised I was, pushing open the cheery red door with WC Ici (toilet here) painted on it in jaunty yellow, to find that the toilet was Turkish style. I haven't seen or used one of those for a few years, and I was rather grateful for my runner's thighs. And very grateful, as I carefully placed my red Ferragamos, inherited from my mother as you might recall, in the foot-shaped ceramic platforms either side of the ceramic hole, that the white porcelain was very, very clean.

 

And I was grateful that I was not wearing these wide-legged white linen pants . .

In fact, these got their first outing yesterday when I realized they would solve the problem of what I could wear to the opera given that it was looking far too cool to wear the silk sleeveless shift I had counted on, even with the addition of a linen-silk shawl that "goes with." The cardigan I packed is the wrong colour, my coat a field jacket, and as the day progressed, it became increasingly obvious that I would have to wear my navy cashmere pullover no matter what with. This outfit isn't perfect, but given that we hadn't planned on attending opera here, and given that the audience was generally quite casually dressed for a final performance of the production's run, I felt good in this combo.

 

As for the opera itself, what a clever version of Mozart's La Flute Enchantée, set in a 60's mod Alpine setting, including cable cars and ski lifts, even a train that glided onto the stage at one point. The Queen of the night stumbled drunkenly out of a Klub, in a satin Marilyn Monroe gown, platinum hair and ultra-red lips complementing her coloratura brilliance. And when we weren't being dazzled by the singing and the costumes and the sets, we were thrilling to the opera house's immense chandelier, its gilt-accented rococo decor, and by the vertiginous view from our seats in the euphemistically termed Paradis. Colour me skeptical, but do door attendants really direct visitors to Paradise to take the stairs to the fifth floor? Not sure how that would fly back home, but we were very grateful to have scored the 40 euro seats for such a magnificent evening. And grateful we hadn't settled for the 8 euro ones, whose owners generally elected to stand if they wanted any chance of a view.

Off on our bikes now, but let me load up a few photos before I go. Some of Bordeaux's architectural-decorative charm, balconies, lacy wrought iron grillwork, and stonework embellishments everywhere. Enjoy!

 

Just curious: have you had to use a Turkish toilet? Would you, if confronted with one today, or would you squeeze and wait, if I may be so rude? It always strikes me, when traveling, how fortunate I am to take my bathroom comforts for granted most of the time.

 

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Bordeaux: it's all Sharks and Roses and Cabbages!

This past week has been emotionally gruelling, but Paul's father was buried yesterday, and now we will begin to move forward. I've just erased a paragraph in which I tried to explain our decision not to be there and the hurt inflicted by the family's failure to understand, if not support, that decision. But really, the deed is done, the ship is sailed. My husband is a good man who loved his father very much but who felt I really needed this time together, away, after a very tough spring. And while I absolutely would have accepted him staying behind, the difficulty I've had processing the family's response has revealed that I'm still more fragile than I want to be.

So.
Really pleased and proud that all four of our adult children and their partners and their children represented us at the funeral, even getting up to offer some of their Dad's stories about their grandfather, so that Paul could be included that way.
And, having just erased another few sentences that might have signalled some bitterness, let's move onto some happy, shall we?

I took some photos of these sharks at Bordeaux's Marché aux Capucines because Paul thought our son, daughter, and their families might not have gotten to see all the cool foodie possibilities when they spent a week together here last month. Otherwise, I've been leaving my Canon in my bag more often, wanting to blend in a bit more perhaps, wanting also to draw on other faculties a bit more. . .
Still, I couldn't resist trying to capture the sumptuous blue of these cabbages at the weekly (dimanche) market at the Promenade Fluviale this morning.

And I hauled the camera out when I fell in love with a new rose in the Jardin Public. Richly fragrant in the warm sun, these are simple blossoms, somewhat like a complicata, but presenting in large clusters, their golden stamens a brilliant punctuation of the creamy blossoms collecting a sweet pink in buds and at the heart of each individual blossom

If any of my gardening readers recognize this rose, I'd love to know its name. I'll have to prowl through Beale's when I get back home to see if I can make this one mine. .
I'll be back soon to recount adventures with oysters, bikes, and Noah's Ark ( okay, not really the latter, but I have a pair of shoes, stuffed with paper, that have been drying for two days and are still not wearable). Right now, though, Pater is doing something promising with fresh figs, heat, and a bottle of Crème de Cassis. You must agree that deserves my solemn attention . . .

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Life's Dance . . And some Catalan Folk Dancing just for you

I am not sure how this will work, all managed on my little iPad mini with the help of my Blogsy app, but we so enjoyed this Catalan folk dance last weekend in Barcelona's Cathedral Place that I thought I would try to share it with you. We're settling into Bordeaux right now, but matters at home (response to Paul's non-attendance at his father's funeral) are troubling and hurtful. At least we know what is important, have each other, our own children understand their father's choice as did his father, with whom he had a very good relationship. And his mother, admittedly with cognitive abilities compromised by aging, appears to appreciate and enjoy his almost daily calls. So for now, we might to quite be dancing, but we are trying our best to enjoy life's music . . .

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Street (art) smiles from Barcelona

When people hear that we travel to Europe every year, there is often an assumption that we spend a huge amount on our holidays. I can't claim that these trips don't demand some year-round economizing, but we have generally been able to find pleasant, clean, and convenient accommodation for around 100 euros a day (less than $150). As I write this, we are on the train heading away from Barcelona and the delightful and well-priced Hotel Curious. I will write more about this hotel later, and it to my little list of budget hotels in Europe -- you can click on that page at the top. Do let me know if you try any of these for yourself.

We could do much better budget-wise for eating. We rarely go out to high-end restaurants while away, but we do tend to enjoy a sit-down lunch and dinner in amiable surroundings, looking generally for well-prepared food that the locals also enjoy. Once we settle into our little house in Bordeaux, our costs will drop as we take advantage of the local markets and a decent kitchen to cook many of our meals chez nous.

But where we are almost frugal, I'd say, is in our entertainment and transportation costs. Exceptionally, this Barcelona visit, we took a taxi from train station to hotel on arrival and then back to another station when we left. Grand total with tips: 30 euros. Otherwise, we walked everywhere. I do realize that we are lucky to be fit enough to do this, so I'm careful not to recommend it to everyone. But oh, the free entertainment to be had as you walk along.

I'll show you what I mean. . .

even back in the city's early medieval period, its streets offered decoration to charm the eyes of pedestrians, as in this fountain, built in 1367 by Joan Fiveller who had discovered a spring in the Collserola hills from which he piped water directly to Barcelona, to this Plaça named after Sant Just.

I'm not content with the information I've been able to discover about the fountain's faces, and I'll try harder to search this out once I'm home. Meanwhile, if anyone has more info (Raquelita?), please let me know.

Some contemporary wag, obviously, has added the humorous, if irreverent colouring to the stonework.

More energetic contemporary inventions to the street scene abound. I know many disapprove of such graffiti, but I have come to admire the creative impulse that insists on speaking out. More so, perhaps, since our recent visit to the Keith Haring exhibition at Paris' Musée d'Art Moderne . . .

The subject matter is fascinatingly varied, as are the techniques. . .

Some merely want to make their mark, to register their presence in the city, while others apply stencilled pieces which they then augment in various ways.

Some are particularly rewarding to observant passers-by. . . This stream of butterflies, made of paper or lightweight plastic, for example, could easily be missed, but I was delighted to track their progress above my head down the ancient walls of a building in the Barri Gothic.

 

Whereas these fellows, with all their chromatic noise and kinetic rhythm, demand attention!

More restful are the marine motifs on the water fountains at which Barcelonites refill their water bottles, let their thirsty dogs have a drink, even rinse hot and dusty feet.

It's especially important to keep the dogs happy and well-watered . . .

Amusingly, just as I had hauled out my little Canon to snap a photo of this exuberant artwork, a young man arrived at the doorway just behind us and, as he searched for his key, he scolded his dog to move out of my way.

I studied the pooch carefully, looking for a resemblance with the canines represented across the street. Barcelona seems to boast at least its fair share of dogs whose ancestry hints at some fighting skills, and I wouldn't want any of this trio to take a dislike to me. . . But Fido was amiable enough to this tourist. Perhaps he just appreciates a photo op.

Perhaps he simply wearied of the racial profiing . . .

I also found some examples of Graffiti on the move. and lest you worry that this was a case of vandalism, no, it seemed deliberate, even professionally applied, if one can say that a out a street-evolved art form. (And given the recent Basquiat and Haring exhibits at the Md'AM in Paris, I think one can. . .)

If you find such art a bit too agressive, though, there are other gentler enjoyments to watch for, equally free. I found, this sweet little sign for a small (unfortunately closed Mondays) yarn shop .. All You Knit is Love. . .non-knitters may not know this, but we knitters have a collective sense of humour that runs to the pun, reflected in names of knit shops the world over. I was pleased to collect this manifestatio in Barcelona.

Just around the corner was this sweet little vignette. The letters A.C.A.B. are expanded to represent the sentiment "All Cats Are Beautiful"

 

And just as my eye was drawn earlier to butterflies on the wall above my height, so is it worth looking at the lower levels also. Quiet surprises await . . . Such as this intriguing adaptation of macramé to a wrought iron grille on a basement window. . .

 

A day later, my eye was drawn upwards again to another tangle of string, these much larger cords calling attention to the Fundación Antoni Tàpies. . .

As i mentied earlier, i wrote this post on the train from Barcelona to Bordeaux--more later on why everyone should travel this way, really . . . But we are now settling into our little house on Rue B. . . Pater has just come in with a basket full of dinner-to-be, and it seems to be time for a glass of wine. I hope you might enjoy my little tour of some free Barcelona street art. Perhaps it will bring a smile to your face as well!

 

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