Eté

La Chatte is sadly forced to admit that the blog has suffered during the summer. This has been largely due to a lack of evenings. The lighter the evenings are, the shorter they are. It stands to reason; they are no longer evening, they are day and in day time there are things-to-be-done. Le Comte and I are obliged at all times to keep our holidaymakers as happy as possible. This mostly means watering the petunias (and anything else that is attempting to grow in these few acres of baked dust), mending broken bits in gites, supervising animals and the summer special, cutting the lavender. So whilst in winter I can sit happily by the fire and tap away at le blog while le Comet watches another rerun of Grand Designs, in summer we are out a-watering and a-busying into the early hours.

So a quick recap on happenings to date: 14th July has come and gone and as the Francophiles amongst you will know, this is Bastille Day (Storming thereof). Obviously this means (yet) another jour de ferié (bank holiday). World Wars aside, what event could be more worthy of celebration than the day the peasants decapitated the entire aristocracy? The answer is ‘pretty much nothing if you’re French’, so the local municipalities dig deep into their coffers to reflect public sentiment on the issue. Festivities invariably climax in a grand firework finale and as those in la Grande Ville are exceptional, le Comte and I, accompanied by Princess 2, took ourselves off to admire them. They start late, of course, officially around 11.00pm, and, because this is le Midi and time is less clearly defined than in northern Europe, this usually means 11.30pm. To entertain the le public while they wait, the organising committee throws in that stock item of local celebrations everywhere – the procession. Predictably this includes flowery floats, bands, half-naked hula dancers with no clearly defined role and inevitably, Miss Grande Ville waving graciously from her throne.

Aware that the wait for the fireworks is always a long one and le public are apt to become restive, this year their Gracious Grande-Ville Officialnesses decided on two processions, or rather, the same procession twice. But who’s to know or care as everyone has had a verre or two by this point.
By the time the fireworks exploded over the river against the backdrop of the midnight sky, the streets were packed and buzzing and the crowd was edgy with anticipation. Everyone had emptied out of the bars and stood gazing upwards. And the show was well worth the wait.
And how much more civilised, le Comte and I observed on the way home, to have one’s revolutionary moments in the summer. It’s altogether much pleasanter to stand on a bridge on a warm evening in July, than in a freezing field in November.

A week or so later Princess 2 and I took ourselves to Nimes, that great Roman town, and specifically to the grand Arena where Gladiators and Lions and Toreadors and Bulls fought their long-ago battles. However, this time in the highlight was Mika, who leapt and whinnied with phenomenal energy on a very 3rd millennium stage. The audience, in contrast, squatted uncomfortably on chunks of genuine 3rd century rock which must killed untold numbers of slaves in the shifting. It is an imposing venue but one which heavy metal bands have been banned from playing as they make the stones shake disturbingly. Health and safety is risible as there is literally nothing, in some places, to prevent you falling down a large stone-lined crevasse or descending rapidly and unexpectedly from a three storey window-hole. It is also very badly lit. In ambiance, however, it lacks rien. From the top row of the arena you can choose either to gaze out at the sun setting over Nimes and the distant hills, or peer to the stage below, as you sit on your cushion surrounded by ancient history and dancing crowds.

La famille Chatte

Midway through the hot season practically all the female members of la famille Chatte descended on Coldspot, including one of the smaller vegetarians, the Lake District collection (three in number), some pixies from Cornwall (one large, two short), and Madre la Matriarch, who dresses exclusively in an eye-catching shade of beige. Le Comte retired promptly to the field to practise his swing with a thermos and sandwiches stashed in his golf bag. We didn’t see him until Thursday. The ladies, however, cavorted gaily around the pool in the sunshine and a good time was had by all.

Princess 1 finally made her decision and eschewing Australia as too expensive and Montpellier as too close she has accepted place at Lancaster. Le Comte is counting down the days.

Mark the Cocktail Shaker is returning next week for the first time since February. This time he will be sporting a checked shirt and assuming the role of Woodcutter. He doesn’t know this yet.

Meanwhile almost all the Happy Holidaymakers have gone home and new ones are starting to enquire for next year. We’re envisaging another large contingent from the Low Countries and some more from the large lumpy Island across la Manche. Well, tant mieux.

La Chatelaine is now taking a short sabbatical from the blog to write a book and hopes to return after Christmas. We’ll just have to see how it all goes...

End note: the new school term only started last week but the French have already managed to fit in one major general strike. You so have to admire their persistence (if not their politics).