MONDAY 27^th JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.

Madremanya – Figueras – Le Perthus – Perpignan – Sigean – Béziers – Pezenas – Clermont l’Herault – Lodève – Millau – Séverac le Château – Rodez. 391 km / 243 miles.

Von doesn’t feel at all well. Doesn’t feel like a parting swim. So we pack and set off to drive to Rodez. Many thin, suntanned prostitutes sitting on white plastic chairs by the side of the road on the Spanish side of the border. As finding a place to sit on our picnics is becoming a problem, Gwyn has a wizzo idea. He will drive slowly into the prozzy’s layby and while he is negotiating with the lady Von will nip out and nick her chair. Idea vetoed.

Le Perthus still one long shopping mall despite the disappearance of customs and borders. Prices still vary, I guess. It’s getting hotter as we go north, for some reason. None of the villages we pass through seems to have a boulangerie until we finally find one in a derelict petrol station, of which there are even more in France than there are in the UK. I buy bread and apricots, and the man counts out my change: Sing Frang for Cinq Euros.

We curve past Béziers and stop for a picnic on the popular shore of a reservoir, the Lac du Salagou outside Clermont l’Herault. It’s marked as a green road on the Michelin map (= picturesque) and with panoramic views, but it isn’t — it’s hot, brown, dusty and litter–strewn. A large sign prohibits dogs, and behind it a French family, all with mahogany forearms and faces and pale grey torsoes, sport with their Alsatians in the lake.

Von spots a forest fire on a hillside on the opposite shore. A helicopter arrives, and circles the site of the fire. I think it’s just going to fan the flames, but then two small yellow aircraft arrive and dump powder — it can’t be water — on the fire. Within ten minutes there’s not much more than a small plume of smoke. A yellow biplane arrives and circles excitedly. By the time we leave all is clearly under control. Very efficient.

There are good reasons for sticking with the old Routes Nationales. They’re free, traffic density is surprisingly low, and you get to see la France insolite, and they’re free. They’re also usually straight, so we only go on the autoroutes when we’re pressed for time or we want to see some spectacular engineering feat like the Millau Viaduct.

Which is just what we wanted to see. We drove over the viaduct on the autoroute — approaching from the south it’s well hidden, and only comes into view a kilometre or so before we’re on it. Frankly, driving over is no big deal, it’s when you pull off into the Aire that we can see what an astounding construction it is: the highest bridge in the world. Eiffage is widely credited with its construction, and I suppose it is much more of an engineering than an architectural feat, but there was no mention of the Brit Norman Foster who scribbled the design on the back of an envelope, although we didn’t go into the museum.

Milo at Millau — look at the shadow the bridge makes

Note as we turn off the autoroute: the castle at Séverac le Château is magnificently sited.

The temperature hit 100°F again as we checked into another bland sales reps’ hotel at Rodez. We have to compromise if we want to do a holiday like this. The hotel corridors are nice and cool, but the room is boiling. There is air conditioning, but there are no controls. The Management Will Decide. The same cheerful woman was at the reception in the evening and the breakfast bar in the morning. She happily provided a small amount of ice for us. Von points out these hotels are basically self-running. There is one member of staff, and the cleaners come in and hose down the rooms every day. That’s it.

Long half hour walk uphill in blistering evening heat from the Deltour Hotel Rodez-Bourran in the commercial suburbs to the mediaeval city centre. Collapse into chairs outside the first brasserie we see. Good view of the cathedral tower, though.

The enormous bell tower at Rodez

Again another interminable wait for service in France. When it finally comes, we have a good Aligot aux saucisse, and a poor tuna steak. Aligot is mashed potatoes with butter, crême fraiche, garlic and cheese. It is smooth and intriguingly rubbery. Delicious but possibly not too slimming. A French / American married couple at the next table — he lives in Paris, she in Vermont, and it seems to work for them — recommend we visit Loches. We walk back downhill in the hot darkness. Milo very well behaved.

SUNDAY 26th JUNE Posted 3 weeks later, on my 65th birthday
Madremanya

Finally got out of bed at 09:20 with metaphysical hangover. All is lost. There is no hope. We are doomed. Von is either dead or in the deepest migraine of her life. Cup of horrid tea improves matters very slightly. Faint signs of life from Y. Pretty poor cup of coffee (must be the water; it doesn’t taste great here) improves matters a little more. Toast and apricot jam aid still further. Finally feel brave enough to try and fix Milo’s sun shade in the car and then to venture up to the pool, where we Have To Try Be Nice to Lucy, Philip and sweet little Moya, who have just moved into the next door shack, so we are no longer alone. Throwing up in the pool might be discouraged.

Shaunagh doing her Mamma Mia! number

We slope back to the shack and set off to Shaunagh’s Hangover Brunch. I am not allowed to wear my swimming shorts, so I put on my specially hot cream trousers. We stop at the Super in Bisbal to get hooch, eggs, dog food etc. Temperature in Super car park: 104°F. Arrived after everyone else. All the paella had been eaten. About the same number of people as there were last night, perhaps a few less, a mere 70 or 80 for lunch.

The house from the pool

Meet Hugh and Claire. Claire’s father died yesterday (aged 94), so instead of spending a long weekend as planned they flew out this morning and are flying back tonight. They are renting Torre Ronsat in 2 week’s time, filling it with 17 people. We sit under the shade of the pergola by the pool with Hugh, Claire, Nicola and David from the Palaces. Soon the disco man arrives and sets up a monster groove. I can no longer hear what people are saying, so I relapse into rosada.

Milo is dubious about the delights of the pool

Milo makes friends with everyone, as usual, except Lola, Crispin & Shaunagh’s rescue dog. It is so hot, and the pool is filled with youngsters. The self-important man from last night goes round the pool tickling the toes of the sunbathing beauties. They don’t know him or who he is. That is serious dirty old man territory — even I can see that’s inappropriate behaviour. What a prat.

I need a dip badly, so we make our farewells. S & C are off on Tuesday to spend 10 weeks sailing round the Greek islands. It sounds glorious in theory but about 9 weeks too long for me. I mentioned this and a shadow briefly flitted over Shaunagh’s face. I wonder how she feels about it?

As we leave, Lola changes her mind about Milo (a woman’s prerogative), suddenly decides that he is the only dog she has ever loved and off they set on a joyous, noisy romp for ten minutes through the olive groves. How he can have such energy in this sapping heat amazes me. They run in tighter and tighter circles, Milo barking happily. He has never yet met a dog that can’t run faster than him, but he adores chasing. They finally collapse in the shade together but sadly we have to separate them and Lola watches her beau bumping away across a dusty field in the back of a car.

Get back to the shack in the boiling car, almost jog to the pool and dive straight in. No messing about. Gloriously cool. Then a big zizz in the shade. Peace. Magret again for supper. Who’s complaining?

SATURDAY 25th JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Madremanya

Bright sunshine. Lunch with Liz & Chris at Ses Brises, Llafranc. What a lovely house, what a stunning location high on the coast just below the Faro de San Sebastiá overlooking the bay of Llafranc.

Von in the garden at Ses Brises

Almost as good a view as we have in Harlech — but not quite, although there’s a lot more sea action going on. Liz and Chris are leaving on Tuesday to drive Chris’s elderly Porsche 911 from the Costa Brava to … Calcutta, India, via Istanbul, Afghanistan (the safe part, he assures me) and Nepal. The car has been fitted with truck tyres for the journey, which is about 12,000 km / 7,500 miles. Personally I’d rather stay at Ses Brises.

A sleeping policeman carefully hidden in the shade in the village does in one second for Milo’s sunblind, which had taken me three hours to install.

The folly at Torre Ronsat

In the evening Shaunagh’s 50th birthday party at Torre Ronsat. Yes, it’s a folly. I pronounce it definitively. Champagne (none of yer Cava muck) in the olive grove by the folly to start. I meet a self-important man who works in a field I know something about, having written five books about it. He’s working on his first book which may be published by a well-known publisher. Or not. He is apparently far more important than me, and cuts me dead.

Ace of Spades window in the folly. Was it built out of winnings in a card game? Or was Hector Guimard involved?

Dinner for 90 with 10 people to a table, 9 tables.  I sit at Shaunagh’s right hand. There’s flattered I am! Talk to a woman about taking a dog on holiday. She points at Milo, lying next to Von at Crispin’s (Shaunagh’s husband) table. “That dog with that beautiful woman is on holiday too.” Feel absurdly pleased.

Crispin sailed single-handed across the Atlantic for his 50th birthday, and wrote an excellent book about it, Where The Ocean Meets The Sky. Doing his publicity tour, he encountered a pretty little local radio reporter who was getting rather too effusive about his achievements (Crispin is a good-looking, muscular 6’ 5” former Oxford rowing blue). Luckily Shaunagh was there to chaperone him, and the reporter just about managed to include her in her general excitement, bubbling at her “Did you ever in your wildest dreams think that your husband would sail the Atlantic single-handed?” Shaunagh fixed her with that basilisk stare we all know and love and stated “My husband does not feature in my wildest dreams.”

Get to bed at 02:30.

FRIDAY 24^th JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.

Madremanya

The day dawned grey, warm and still cloudy. OK, right. Walks, touristica stuff, get out and about. We went to the prehistoric village ruins at Ullastret, which had been abandoned after a Roman attack in 187 AD. Von nervous every time Milo ran up to a wall, waiting for him to leap blindly over. But he was sensible. Lots of grain silos and impressively large and deep stone-cut cisterns. Massive views all around, a well-chosen site.

What’s that horizontal niche in the Ullastret wall about?

The sun was now out, and it was getting hot. We headed for Toroella de Montgri with the intention of climbing up to Castell del Montgri — not from the town at the foot of the hill, that would have been insanely reckless, but from the Santa Caterina hermitage I’d spotted on our new map which was reachable from north of the castle, and about 1,000 feet up, so the distance we had to climb would be halved. We bumped down a rocky dust road towards Santa Caterina but after a couple of miles found the route barred to cars. We’d have to climb much the same distance. By now it was noon, 88°F and the sun was getting stronger. Worse, we’d forgotten to bring water either for ourselves or Milo. We looked at each other, and the air-conditioned car bumped slowly back down the track.

One winter’s day we’ll walk up to the magnificently sited Castell del Montgri, visible across the whole Emporda region and a replica (built eleven years later) of Harlech Castle.

We managed to get lost in Palafrugell looking for the beach, until a closer study of the map revealed the town was a mile or two inland and there was no beach at Palafrugell. So we drove round Llafranc, packed with holidaymakers, not a square inch on the beach, nowhere to park.We finally found a place right at the top of the town and walked down to the sea front. If this was a Friday in June, I shudder to think what a Saturday in August must be like.

A quiet Friday in Llafranc in June

We found a pleasant enough bar on the seafront where we could have a beer. The beer came with a tapas menu, so we thought “Why not? Let’s have a snack.” Von chose some type of whitebait, I had salt cod (bacalhau).

Before the Bellacosta rip-off

We waited so long for it I was forced to have another beer, but when the tapas finally arrived, it was surprisingly delicious, and in reasonable proportions too. The cod was really good, perfectly cooked and melting. The bill came — and it was triple what we were expecting. My Spanish and Catalan is nonexistent, so I went inside to find an English speaker. He pointed out we had been served the full restaurant portion of the dishes, €15 instead of the tapas at €5. I pointed out we had ordered the tapas. Had I been Jack Reacher instead of inadvertent Gwyn, I would simply have pulled his head across the counter and broken his neck with a single twist, but there I was, a fat white elderly tourist with no vocabulary of argument. We ordered from the tapas menu, we were served the whole baloney. No argument about that, it was big and good, but we thought we’d just found a great bar, not a rip-off joint. But we were wrong. Friends, be warned: if you order at the Bellacosta bar in Llafranc, get a contract in writing first. The patron knocked off the cost of one beer. RIP-OFF ALERT!

Back to the shack, swim, more magret for supper. Watch a DVD of The King’s Speech on Enola Gay.

THURSDAY 23^rd JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.

Madremanya, Catalonia

Blob out day!

We’re going to do nothing, just find the pool and sit by it. Sunny in the morning, so Gwyn goes into La Bisbal d’Emporda to buy bread and briox from Sands, and fill up two 2 litre plastic water bottles with Rosado at €1.20 a litre and Tinto Crianza at €1.60 a litre. Why stint ourselves? Go for the posh stuff. Bought a local map in the bookshop. I tried to buy a duck at three separate butchers but all they had was magret. When my turn came I called for ‘Magret’ but a large, square woman stepped in front claiming she had been there first. She had presumably materialised through a closed door. So instead of getting the prepacked magrets and leaving, a 20 second transaction, I waited while she ordered a rabbit to be skinned, butchered and deboned, then wrapped round some unidentifiable filling and tied up in six separate morsels. Then the butcheress disappeared, came back with a sack of mince, cut it open and started hand rolling meat balls for her. Enough. After 15 minutes of waiting I spoke loudly and forcefully. “Dos magrets, por favor!” The butcheress shrugged, tossed me two vacuum packed magrets, took my €15 and carried on making meat balls — with a 20 second interruption. The square woman glared at me. ‘Arrivederci,” I said. Wrong country, I guess.

Outside in the narrow echoing streets was a small boy with the worst present anyone could possibly have thought of giving to a ten year old — a working toy loudhailer.

Back at the shack it was grey and cloudy. Von had discovered the pool, which she said was fabulous. But she was seriously anxious and worried. The pool is at the top of the hill with a steep drop at its southern end down into woods, and the pool at that end is surrounded by a two foot wall. Milo had run exuberantly into the pool area, seen the low wall and sailed blissfully over it, not knowing there was a 20 foot drop on the other side.

All Von heard was a thump and then — nothing. She ran to the low wall and peered over expecting to see a dead or at least seriously injured dog. As Milo limped back into view she called out to him – and astonishingly he sprinted up the shallow curving steps as though nothing had happened. Do dogs have nine lives too?

Milo demonstrates the depth of his fall

As I walked back down the gravel path from the pool I heard a footfall behind me. I turned with a smile, expecting Von, but there was no one. I must have turned the wrong way. But there was no one on my other side, either. Odd. But then the second time I walked the path I heard the footsteps again, and again I turned and saw no one. This was very strange. The third time I heard the unmistakeable sound of bicycle wheels on gravel, so close I jumped sideways to get out of its way. There was nothing there. This was beginning to get disturbing, and I walked …

As one who looks behind, walks on
And no more turns his head
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread

I made sure I walked with Von the next time. She heard nothing, and as she laughed I heard the footsteps again and glanced at her with eyes wide open. She assumed I was faking it. But I wasn’t. I heard someone. Or some thing. It happened every time I walked down that path, and once it was expected, it ceased to be worrying and simply became a curiosity.

Partly cloudy — but all to ourselves

There was intermittent sun in the afternoon, but it was generally a grey, cloudy day. We stayed by the pool till early evening, then retreated to the shack where Von made a lekker dinner of magret, washed down with the second bottle of Chateau de Java.

WEDNESDAY 22^nd JUNE Posted 3 weeks later

Martigues – Arles – Béziers – Narbonne – Leucate – Argelès – Port Bou – Figueras – Girona – Madremanya. 408 km / 254 miles.

Downhearted? Us? Never! In the morning Milo & I went to collect the mercifully undamaged car and brought it back safely to the now vacant hotel car park. Passing a boulangerie I bought a baguette from the stunned, seated and grimacing woman inside— no artisanal loaves in this woman’s bakery — for our picnic. Then Von & I set about the hotel’s buffet breakfast — I got three big cups of café au lait. I do like my tea / coffee in the morning. There was no point in moaning to the receptionist about the car park or anything else, so we just left.

We drove across the Camargue towards Arles — no white horses, black bulls or pink flamingos. We did see a field of black cows and a single white horse later that day, but by then we were well out of the Camargue. It rained fitfully (Gwyn driving) but it was always the intention to stop and buy picnic stuff because the forecast said it was going to clear up later. There were Dégustation / Vente signs all along the road throughout the Corbières so when I saw I was going to be stuck behind a particularly lumbering tractor I swung violently off the road and we found ourselves proceeding down a long, stately avenue of old plane trees. I got out of the car just as it began to rain quite heavily, and ran to the Dégustation gate where a notice stated quite clearly that the times they were ouvert were 0900 – 1200 and 1500 – 1800. It was ten to one. There was a small nut brown woman holding a bottle of wine and locking the gate, and I cried “Est-ce possible d’acheter un ou deux bouteilles de votre vin?” “Certainement”, she replied and unlocked the gate. There were cats everywhere in the picturesque courtyard. We hurried through the rain to the chai which smelt magnificent, like all chais. I said rather apologetically “It’s just for a picnic” as she brought down the €200 Specialité du Chateau, and she replied “Then this will do perfectly,” handing me a bottle of 2006 Chateau de Java. “I make it myself,” she said proudly, “I’m the vigneron.” With a good grasp of English, as well. “I’m from Oxford,” she added, “and my husband’s from Stoke-on-Trent. His family are potters.”  I bought two bottles of the Java and a bottle of her Merlot, and very good they were too. So if you’re looking for a sound AOC Corbières we can strongly recommend Chateau de Java, made by Penelope et Paul Dudson, SCEA de Haute Fontaine, 11100 Prat-de-Cest, Narbonne. Tel 04 68 41 03 73.

First audio book finished — Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. I didn’t much care for it.

We stopped at a super to buy the other picnic necessities and I spotted a Gillette Mach 3 razor, the type for which I have been regularly buying blades for years without actually having one, so I was forced to buy it. Marketing, eh? It was getting warmer and Von was scanning the map for green bordered (Michelin maps = picturesque) roads. She selected one between an étang and the sea at Leucate and we stopped again for some reason at another super in the new village then we pulled off the road onto the old, abandoned route départemental and turned into a field of maquis. Cosseted by good air-conditioning, we hadn’t noticed the temperature climbing and when we opened the doors, two things hit us — the heat and the clamour of crickets. The Mediterranean at last.

Picnic with the crickets

Milo went exploring, so did Von, who came back with dill, rosemary and thyme. Just walking through the brush released so many scents. And Penelope’s wine was delicious.

We carried on down the coast, Von driving, and went through a succession of indistinguishable beach holiday villages, ending up at Argelès Plage where 45 years ago Gwyn and 13 other students including Heather “I know” Moffat slept on the beach having driven down from London non-stop. We had had a camp site booked inland at Laroque but it was too hard to find after 24 hours driving so we all crashed out on the beach. Nobody minded — at least no one who wanted to disturb fourteen tired but healthy 20 year olds.

We chose the winding, picturesque route over the border through Banyuls and Port-Bou, past immense marshalling yards on both sides of the now abandoned border (well done Schengen, bad luck Milo who once again didn’t get his passport stamped). Once in Spain the road improved dramatically, winding through spanking new tunnels and immaculately restored villages. If Spain is a country in deep financial doo-doos at least they frittered the money away on infrastructure and home renovation, so they’ll have somewhere comfortable to live while they pay back the bankers.

We stopped at the third super of the day in Figueras, once again finding parking impossible. Bought Spanish dog food, BEER and GIN as well as comestibles.

From Figueras we took the autostrada because I had forgotten to buy a map for Spain and Frieda, our 10 year old satnav, only covers Ermine Street and Watling Street. We had to come off at junction 6; we sailed past the sign but there was no trace of an exit. Von had clearly missed it in the roadworks, or while I was weepily singing along to Don Henley’s magnificent and moving “A Month of Sundays”. It was miles to the next turning and we’d have to schlep all the way back on the autostrada to get the right turn off, and pay double the toll, and there was the dream of a cold beer in the sunset getting more and more distant — and then there was Junction 6. The sign to the exit was posted at least 15 miles before the junction. Very confusing. Once off the fast road La Bisbal d’Emporda was clearly signposted, as was the turn off to Madremanya. Then at the village we found the one track lane to Mas Caterina, set on a hillside south of Madremanya. Von had booked it for 5 nights, and I hadn’t shown much interest, knowing that she rarely puts a foot wrong.

Mas Caterina, Madremanya

She well and truly plonked both feet in it this time — both feet completely right. Mas Caterina is lovely. A rabble of dogs greeted us, jumping up on the car, dying to attack Milo which of course they did as soon as we let him out. Milo’s first steps in Spain! Poor boy. We were met by Jenny, one of the owners, who walked with me and Milo up to our shack while Von drove. Jenny was monosyllabic and disinclined to chat. “How long have you lived here?” I asked brightly. “Long,” she grunted. The shack is great. Huge bed, living room, bath, shower, two loos, kitchen with all the necessary implements, terrace facing north and east with lovely views of the countryside. Just what we wanted.

The view of the village of Madremanya from our shack

Next to the cold beer I had planned, of course. We unpacked, glad of the respite from daily travel. Milo was pleased, as well. We asked about local restaurants and were told of three — La Riera, which we’d been to with Shaunagh a few years back, a tapas-y bar in Cellins, and La Plaça in Madremanya itself — very elegant and pricey. Travel stained and weary, we opted for the tapas bar. When we got there the village was shuttered and deserted. Very clean though. Immaculately restored. But closed. So we turned round and went for La Riera. Closed.

Third choice, La Plaça. Yes, it was posh, with immaculate roughstone vaulting throughout. But it was open, and we could just have one course. Von had magret with a fruit sauce and I had fish with topinambour (no, you’ll have to look it up too). Delicious, topped off with a fresh Rosado. Interesting to hear a party of Brits and Dutch loudly discussing the financial problems of the Grampian NHS in one of the more expensive Spanish restaurants.

We slept soundly.

TUESDAY 21 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Aix-les-Bains – Grenoble – Sisteron – Chateau-Arnoux –  Aix-en-Provence – Martigues. 363 km / 226 miles.
Hot, sunny. Snaffled two free cups of coffee from the breakfast room and headed into town for our breakfast. Aix-les-Bains is a smart, prosperous resort, with the main centre some distance from the lake. As we parked the car I spotted the sort of drinks shop that might sell Arquebuse — and it did. The perfect present for Nick Kennedy, even at €31.20 the bottle. There’s a long story about Arquebuse. Some other time. Suffice it to say that it used to be used for curing shotgun wounds — and it says so on the bottle. An arquebus was a blunderbuss.

“L’Arquebuse était autrefois une remède pour les blessés des “Arquebuses”. Elle fut qualifiée de VULNERAIRE, ce qui signifie “propre à guérir des blessures”.

Had café au lait at a little bar on the main street — when I asked for two croissants Madame sent me over to a bakery on the other side of the street. While I was there she told me to get a Croix de Savoie as well, a sugary brioche with a touch of almond paste. Pleasant, but not as earth-shattering as she made out. We bought two slices of ham and a Tomme de Savoie for our picnic. Fantastic ruined mansion at the south end of town, high on the hill.

We decided to take the autoroute round large conurbations and stick to the old straight roads for intercity travel. Bogged it in Grenoble and did the opposite, becoming quite lost in a housing project in the south east of the city. Eventually made it through. We’re using a 23 year old Michelin map, and all the road numbers have been changed.

Gwyn very snuffly with hay fever. Gwyn is allergic to flowering privet, so this was a good time to be out of London — but Von spotted we were driving through a grove of what appeared to be privet trees.
Driving through one village there were cartoon-coloured statues of children just about to run across the road at a zebra crossing. I automatically wanted to slow down even though Von was driving. Clever idea.

Picnicked from the back of the car on a road leading up from the old N 75 to the Col de Grimone. Side of the road stuff. Clouding over.

Driving through the gap at Sisteron

We drove through Sisteron and down the Loup d’Or. Oh, another story. We can never redecorate the lavatory now. Amazing bridge piers from a demolished bridge over the Durance — or was it the Sasse? French Wikipedia was not helpful. Joined the autoroute just before Aix-en-Provence and sailed through to Martigues. Came off a junction too early and couldn’t find the road to the little church among the pines where Milo was to have his run and ended up in a coach park. He was whimpering by now as he had decided not to have a crap at lunchtime, so he catapulted out of the car and exploded in the coach park, far too much to clear up effectively. Ach-y-fi, ach-y-fi.

Hot and steamy evening. Found the hotel in the southern part of town. Car park at back. Tiny room, minimal air-conditioning, but another second little bedroom upstairs! We used the stairs as shelves. Drove into town and it was SEETHING. Never seen so many people. Traffic inched along but worse still it was becoming very clear that it was going to be impossible to park. Every parkplatz, every street was solid.

A welcome sight at the end of a long drive

We finally left the car parked illegally on the quayside in this ‘Venice of Provence’ and went to have a beer in front of deafening loudspeakers pounding out Portocario and Baby Dance. I haven’t encountered these dance steps before. Then off we went to get a good fish supper, perhaps a bouillabaisse. Our first choice restaurant, Le Bouchon d’Or, was packed. No chance. The second one, Quèi dou Traou dou Mast, looked hopeful. We sat on a terrace over the canal in a line of three ranks of tables. That was at 8:55. At a quarter to ten, not even having had the chance to look at a menu, we assembled our hungry dignity and left. They had one waiter and one cook to serve, what, 50 or 60 people? And of course Madame, who was above such trivialities as customer service. What a crappy place. Remember the stupid name and avoid at all costs.

Everywhere else was either full to bursting or refusing to take any more orders. So we threaded our way through the packed revellers — it was the first day of summer, and possibly the last for many of the participants — and Milo was very badly spooked by a man lit up like a Christmas tree and singing bad rock & roll at deafening volume, loud enough to fill Wembley, in a tiny echoing square. We made it back to the car which hadn’t been booked, merely hemmed in by fishermen, and got back to the hotel. The car park was locked and shuttered. Nowhere to park. So I dropped Von & Milo and went off to find somewhere. After 15 minutes I found a pavement down a dark cul-de-sac half a mile from the hotel and left it there, acutely conscious that I was leaving a LOT of stuff in the car.

Back in the room, we had two hardboiled eggs left over from our picnic, a quarter of a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. Such was our Night Out In Martigues.

MONDAY 20 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Zuerich – Luzerne – Hergiswald – Grimselpass – Chamonix – Aix-les-Bains. 356 km / 221 miles.
Saw David before we left in any case. Shouted goodbye to Nina, who didn’t come down to see us. She has an exam this morning, but had seemed a little preoccupied all weekend. Not her usual lively self.

The Pilgrimage Church at Hergiswald

Von driving, we headed to Hergiswald outside Luzern to see the rococo Pilgrimage church with its wonderful ceiling. We had the place to ourselves, so I photographed the interior of the church from every angle. I should have used the tripod. Lovely weather. Von finds she has left her terracotta rainjacket in Zuerich.

On our way to the Grimselpass we passed the Reichenbach Falls. I thought it was a Conan Doyle fiction but it really does exist. A vintage car rally was taking place over the pass — Alvis, Ford, Rolls-Royces but mainly BMW 328s. And bikers of course, bikers everywhere. The top of the pass was frankly rather disgusting, with a huge car park, fast food outlets, litter, oips milling about, so we pressed on down César Ritz’s long home valley. Stopped to buy apricots, a mere €8 a kilo, but they were special. Not as good as the ones from the Auvergne all those years ago, but pretty good nevertheless.

The César Ritz Memorial Chapel — not

We picnicked by a little roadside chapel, i.e. at the side of the road. Gwyn took over driving as we climbed out of the valley towards Chamonix. The autoroute from Chamonix is twisty and tight, and drivers who know it better than I delight in hammering down it full pelt while I attempted to veer out of their way.

We arrived at the Auberge St Simond on the outskirts of Aix-les-Bains around 6, nestled between the main road and the main line. A pleasant, shady place with a garden for Milo to run in. And a good pool, too. I’d have been in there like a shot 20 years ago. Sad that things change.

We reserved a table in the garden right under our balcony, so Milo could see us as we ate. It was a hot, balmy evening; a gorgeous day. We went for a walk along the well-hidden lake front and had a beer.

Finally found the lake at Aix-les-Bains

When we came back there was a couple sitting at the table we had reserved. Irritating. I had brochets and entrecote on the Menu Touristique (29€) and Von had foie gras and entrecote (30€). The place had a red M, but the meal, although very pleasant, was not memorable. Large leftovers put in doggy bag – much enjoyed for breakfast by M.

SUNDAY 19 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
ZuerichRain. We take the bus and tram to the Hauptbahnhof where a full Viennese orchestra is playing, then tickets to the steepest conventional railway in the world up the Oetliberg, Zuerich’s “house mountain.” The ticket for Milo was an eye-watering 32 SFr so I declined to pay it and we had to smuggle him on without Von noticing.  Die Chris was tardy in taking her seat, so I called her ‘Frau Langsam’ which made an Indian couple sitting nearby burst into sudden gales of laughter.

Die Chris, der David und die Von

At the top of the hill there were hundreds of people walking, enjoying the great views over Zuerich and the lake, and a large restaurant. The new bits had apparently been added without planning permission and there was an ongoing battle between the miscreant and the city. There was an Aussichtturm looking like a pylon or a pyramid made of scaffolding. I didn’t climb it. We walked down a steep set of steps in the hillside and set off for a five mile hike along the Planetenweg to the cable car at Felsing.

Milo in clover on the Oetliberg

The Planetenweg starts with a great yellow globe representing the Sun, then along the way are placed the planets in proportional size and distance from the Sun. Mercury is a pinprick a few hundred yards along the path — we reach Neptune, the size of a tennis ball, after and hour and a half’s walking. Fascinating and educative. And simple enough to copy anywhere.

The cable car coming to take us down

We came down from the ‘house mountain’ by cable car. So that’s Milo’s first tram, train & cable car. Shopping at the Hauptbahnhof on return; Von & Milo waiting outside the shop were greeted with ‘how beautiful, how cleeeean’ about Milo. Purr.

David printed out Google map directions (in German) for each stage of our onward journey. Milo volunteered to visit the bantams in the garden and returned up two storeys with an undamaged egg held carefully in his soft mouth.

Five of us played noisy, lovely Pit in the evening, then watched ‘Across The Universe’. Why hadn’t I heard of this film, a bleaker, Beatles version of Mama Mia? Milo was content. There we were, sitting and watching telly. Life back to normal.

Forget to photograph the beautiful Fritz daughters. Your loss. We said our goodbyes on Sunday night because the house would be emptying early Monday morning. Crime is low in Zuerich so don’t bother to lock up, said David. Blimey.

SATURDAY 18 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Zuerich
After a brief burst of sun it’s much colder today, grey skies. Walk with Milo down a river valley through residential Zuerich to the lakeside. They have free shit bag dispensers for dogs every 200 yards. Great souvenirs for Milo. Walk up the lakeside into town, then Chris takes Milo home on a tram. David, Von & I walk round the old town. Far more attractive than I expected. I’m more used to Germany, where the old town centres have been rebuilt after the war — of course Zuerich was never bombed. Die Chris sends a text with a photo of Milo safely back at the house to reassure us. Beer at the Arsenal Hof, with an Oerlikon placed above the entrance porch. Walk up to the old Citadel, where there was a pre-Roman camp, admire the Chagall stained glass in the Fraumünster, attempt to climb the tower in the Cathedral but it closes at 4:45. St. Peter’s down the road has the largest church clock face in the world, right next to one only fractionally smaller. I wonder which one came first?

We go down to Paradeplatz and look — only look — in the expensive shops along Bahnhofstrasse. The Lindt & Sprüngli shop is a real temptation, a chocolate palace, and I am captured by a veritable haystack of chocolate in the window. David insists on going in to buy it for us for supper. And a box of pralines for the journey, too. There is no shop like this in London.

I’m now beginning to feel my age so we get a tram and a bus back to the house, to be greeted by an ecstatic Milo. I go for a zizz.
Later Ella takes Gwyn to see the bantams. The new chicks are going to be named after Beatles songs: Lovely Rita, Eleanor Rigby, Sexy Sadie, Dear Prudence, Martha My Dear etc. etc.

Difficulties plugging in to the Swiss electricity supply, but David provides adaptors. We can send and receive emails! Nice to be in a Mac house.

The standard Swiss 650 volt direct current ten pin socket

It brightens up in the late afternoon and I drive with David up to the FIFA headquarters a mile or so away, not for the chance of shooting Sepp Blatter but just to snap the lavish building. Of course it’s all underground and hidden behind a giant security fence (which we vault over) but there’s not a lot to see from the outside.

Der Fritzen Haus

Another delish supper. Taboulleh and pitta toasted with mozzarella and baba ganoush, and of course great slabs of delicious chocolate cake. The Fritzen have their nephew Tom living with them. He walked out on his family in February after a furious row and hasn’t been back. Despite being Swiss he wants to join the British Royal Marines so he can get an injury and attract the girls. Then he wants to make lots and LOTS of money (a more conventional ambition for a Zuericher) so he can attract more girls. Fair enough. I just relied on my natural charm, wit and intelligence. But his spoken English is staggeringly good, even though he has never lived in England.