France 1

Gramma Num Num's adventures in France.

Warning: The information in this blog, in some instances, may be supported by research I have made or that has been provided by local residents with long memories and longer histories; other may merely be the opinion of the writer. Information correcting or updating the former will be appreciated. Opinions differing from mine may reveal a different viewpoint, but are also welcome to be shared here.

Updated information may be added from time to time; such will be identifiable in blue text.

Monday, March 4, 2012

It's morning. I know that by the light shining through the curtains and sounds of industry invading the open window, disturbing my sleep.

I check my watch; though I had no idea of local time, I was able to figure out that I'd slept about fourteen hours - the most I've slept in one night since I was a teenager.

The first words I heard came from my friend and travel companion, Gill, from the other side of our miniscule hotel room: “Did you sleep well Fumbles?” This added to my confusion since my name is not Fumbles.

The name belongs to Gill's soft, brown teddy bear, a creature who has been with her for many years and has supported her through many life crises. She was apologizing to him for his having to travel in the suitcase.

Given space constraints in her luggage, packed for our three-week stay in France, I'm astounded that Fumbles was invited on the trip. I'd bypassed aspirin to make room for my toothbrush.

Fumbles forgave Gill for his travel accommodations; forgave but nonetheless pouted. He did report that he had slept well during the night; Gill complained that he took up over half her bed.

Lest you think I have attached myself to a delusional travel companion, and aside from her bringing an extra guest on our vacation, I'm happy to report that Gill is proving to be good company and competent in handling problems with calm and lucidity.

Initially, however, I feared she had dubious navigation skills. Her job had been to direct us from the airport to our hotel in Toulouse; mine was to drive us there.

Following her directions, we spent 2 1/2 hours driving in circles through the centre of Toulouse, trying to find our hotel. While Toulouse fascinated us, given that it was our first experience of a town in Southern France, we were both drunk with travel fatigue and delirious with hunger.

Eventually we returned to the airport to ask at the Information booth for directions to our destination, or to find a taxi to lead us there.

The former worked and with little confusion we found our temporary home less than 10 minutes from the airport. Believe me, a small hotel room NEVER felt so welcome.

View A from the window of the Balladins Toulouse Hotel – the most modern sight we've experienced thus far in southern France.

There was no restaurant in the area; the hotel dining room was closed when we arrived at 7:00 p.m., so we ate snacks we had carried with us, definitely not a balanced diet, and were dead asleep by 8:00 p.m. local time.

View B from the window of the Balladins Toulouse Hotel

The next morning, repacked and preparing to leave the hotel, we began thinking about breakfast. We'd slept through the free in-house morning repas. Gill was convinced she'd seen the Golden Arches the prior evening as we had approached the hotel; I was convinced she'd been hallucinating from fatigue and hunger.

Inquiries at the desk, in French I'm proud to report, confirmed Gill's sanity - there was a Macdonald's if one went "a la carrefour et a droit; puis a la prochain carrefour et encore a droit." Comme magique, there it was. (Forgive my unaccented French; this is a new computer and I haven't yet figured out how to switch from language to language.)

Statue in the centre of the first 'carrefour;' I can't decide whether this is one lucky guy or whether the morose look on his face tells another story.

So, though it embarrasses me to report, our first meal in France was taken at Macdonald's.

But I have to tell you that this French Micky-dee hamburger was actually made out of real beef - Charolais to be exact. (A white breed, Charolais believed to originate in southern France; white cattle first noticed there in 878 A.D.)

Maybe it was starvation, but a hamburger never tasted so good.

With full bellies, we walked back to the hotel, climbed into our little Ford Fusion, 5-gear wonder and headed to Neffies, where we were to reside for the duration of our adventures in France.

With a combination of our maps, and Gill again as navigator, refreshed and now extraordinarily competent, we found ourselves quite simply driving through beautiful French countryside with manor houses, farm houses, acres upon thousands of acres of vinyards and ubiquitous Catholic monasteries and churches around each bend.

Just one example of the thousands of acres of vineyards in the Languedoc and Provence areas of southern France.  (Courtesy of Gill)

A closeup of a vineyard belonging to Domaine Morin-Langaran, where we stopped to 'deguster' some vin, which we didn't get but we did buy some superbe chutneys and apricots in madeira.

Hwy D15 on the way into Neffies, lined with the ubiquitous London Plane or Sycamore trees. Many roads and private laneways throughout the region are tree-lined like this.

Upon arrival in Neffies, an absolutely charming medieval town, we again encountered confusion. I'd neglected to copy off the landlord's to-the-door instructions, so we spent about an hour driving up and down extremely steep hills and narrow streets (we were entranced) trying to find Rue du Prince.

It turned out to be exactly where it was supposed to be – at the top of the steepest of hills – the road which we'd passed several times but overlooked because of the do not enter sign which, it turned out belong to the adjacent road to the left.

Once upon the hill we had no trouble locating our destination.

Picture of the town square, Neffies, with what we think is a remnant of the old fort, now a lovely restaurant; blue awning on the right, the epicerie, our salvation in a country with unfathomable restaurant hours of operation. (Courtesy of Gill)

 Fountain and statue on the edge of the town square, Neffies.

The lane within which our little French habitat is situated is too narrow for an auto, even one of the tiny French version, so we had to park on the main square, less than a 1-minute walk from our door.

Straight ahead, Rue de Prince, where our abode is situated - #7. Though called a 'rue' it is no more than an alley. Neighbours are friendly, very important when you're sharing the same breathing space.

We hauled our luggage up the slight incline, unloaded it into the house, then went to the epicerie to find dinner. We enjoyed a totally delightful meal that included a baguette, two different but local pates – Jambon du Gogogne, et Pate du Forestier, Tomme and Brie cheeses with tomatoes, and French red wine left as a welcoming gift by our landlord. It was amazing. We felt so habituated.

Exhausted, we watched a bit of English TV, (OK that was a cop-out but all our overtaxed brains could manage), then tumbled into our respective, rather chilly (no central heating) bedrooms. I snuggled under the comfy quilt and read myself to sleep per usual.

I awoke in the middle of the night suddenly unnerved at the thought of the number of people who had lived in this interesting house in its 1000 year history, and how many of their souls still roamed its rooms. I decided that as long as they respected my personal space I would happily share the remaining space with them. And I wondered if boo was the accepted greeting.

I'm going to post in small batches until I become more confident with the whole blogging thing, so here's the first post.

Bye for now,

Love Mom/Awnty/Gramma Num Num/Sharyn