Day 1:
Destination: Formiguères, near Font-Romeu, Pyrenées Orientales.
After picking up my Mum at Carcassonne airport, the laden Twingo makes its weary way up the twisty mountain roads… that are surprisingly devoid of snow. We wonder when we’ll have to actually use the very expensive snow chains purchased (shrewd move by me) a day earlier. Turns out, we don’t need them. FH is heard to mutter something involving the words “chains”, “waste of money” and “over-cautious”. I purse my lips. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, as we shall see.
Later, as we are settling into the gîte, unfolding the flowery bed linen, a big (ish) spider drops out. In a flash of panic, I stamp on it madly, crushing it to death on the spot.
Immediately, I feel bad. It was a savage, unthinking act from a normally animal-loving vegetarian.
I guess the countryside brings out that side of me.
FH makes a log fire, in that age-old tradition of male hunter-gatherers. He becomes more virile by the second. I think: it’s a shame we deprive our men of this opportunity to show their manliness 51 weeks of the year. Maybe that’s all it would take for our 21st century men to feel strong and reassured again?
Day 2:
Perfect blue sky. Mediterranean blue. The view from the gîte looks like a child’s drawing of “winter”. I start to think that being in the mountains is actually quite nice after all.
The soft pad of boots on snow is heart-warming.
Also, I am relieved to discover that the adjacent village boasts a boulangerie AND a crêperie! Somehow, the presence of these two establishments provides a sense of security. If you are confused by these sentiments, let me explain. I am the girl who, not so very long ago, was shamefully heard to plead: “Get me back to bloody civilisation!” in the course of a 2-week holiday in Martinique. I admit it: I’m a bit of a city girl at heart.
Day 3:
More blue sky. BB is being taken care of by his Nana. FH and I lie in bed in the morning and listen to the sounds of someone else making his bottle, preparing his breakfast, dealing with his impatience… and a wicked smile of contentment creeps across our faces. We are on holiday!
Destination: Formiguères, near Font-Romeu, Pyrenées Orientales.
After picking up my Mum at Carcassonne airport, the laden Twingo makes its weary way up the twisty mountain roads… that are surprisingly devoid of snow. We wonder when we’ll have to actually use the very expensive snow chains purchased (shrewd move by me) a day earlier. Turns out, we don’t need them. FH is heard to mutter something involving the words “chains”, “waste of money” and “over-cautious”. I purse my lips. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, as we shall see.
Later, as we are settling into the gîte, unfolding the flowery bed linen, a big (ish) spider drops out. In a flash of panic, I stamp on it madly, crushing it to death on the spot.
Immediately, I feel bad. It was a savage, unthinking act from a normally animal-loving vegetarian.
I guess the countryside brings out that side of me.
FH makes a log fire, in that age-old tradition of male hunter-gatherers. He becomes more virile by the second. I think: it’s a shame we deprive our men of this opportunity to show their manliness 51 weeks of the year. Maybe that’s all it would take for our 21st century men to feel strong and reassured again?
Day 2:
Perfect blue sky. Mediterranean blue. The view from the gîte looks like a child’s drawing of “winter”. I start to think that being in the mountains is actually quite nice after all.
The soft pad of boots on snow is heart-warming.
Also, I am relieved to discover that the adjacent village boasts a boulangerie AND a crêperie! Somehow, the presence of these two establishments provides a sense of security. If you are confused by these sentiments, let me explain. I am the girl who, not so very long ago, was shamefully heard to plead: “Get me back to bloody civilisation!” in the course of a 2-week holiday in Martinique. I admit it: I’m a bit of a city girl at heart.
Day 3:
More blue sky. BB is being taken care of by his Nana. FH and I lie in bed in the morning and listen to the sounds of someone else making his bottle, preparing his breakfast, dealing with his impatience… and a wicked smile of contentment creeps across our faces. We are on holiday!
Regular readers will recall that BB was supposed to get chickenpox this week. We have come armed with lotions and suppositories (suppositories are good for everything in France). Every day, we scrutinize BB’s face and body for signs of the first telltale spot – but nothing appears. After all that build-up, we are slightly disconcerted by the absence of the pox. Suddenly, I think I’ve found one on his cheek! But on closer inspection, it reveals itself to be a smudge of chocolate.
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