Autumn begins on the Gironde estuary

Last week I set off for rehearsal a little early because the sunset was beautiful and I wanted to drive through the rose and mauve air (it really does that on the estuary!). This week there was rain. it hasn't rained for ages, and the frogs have been waiting a long time to get out: there were hundreds of them, ecstatically leaping all over the little roads. Fortunately there wasn't much other traffic, so I could drive very slowly and swerve.

Last night we had thunderstorms, or one thunderstorm passing here three times. After the rain, the air is clear, the grass and small herbiage are green again, and wildflowers have blossomed. The sky is almost clear to the east; in the west lush multi-grey clouds are heaped like silk cushions against which the red, orange, and gold autumn trees glow so brightly they sound like a symphonic tone poem.

Low as a kite

The Association Culturelle Dizannaise planned the second Sortie Nature (nature trail) of the year for yesterday; this time it was an evening outing. The weather had become strangely unpleasant, but it went ahead anyway. Unfortunately my winter clothes were put into storage in preparation for holiday-rental, so it took me much of the afternoon to excavate a fleece, warm socks, and waterproofs.

It was very windy out on the marshes, so windy that the dark clouds hurtling overhead had no time to lose any of their water-load, except for a brief drizzle. One person had brought an umbrella which promptly turned inside-out on opening. Swallows gave amusing displays of flying sideways and backwards; the funniest moment was when one of them, flapping madly, managed to turn, and suddenly found itself whizzing away on the wind with its little wings still whirring as it disappeared in the direction of St Fort with frantic squeaks.

Most of the smaller birds were in hiding or only visible if their nests were in clear patches, but the storks seemed unworried and there were herons and egrets and curlews and falcons aplenty, plus a busard cendré and a bird with pink markings whose name I missed. At one point I was a little ahead of the group and noticed a huge dark bird of prey: it came towards me, so close I could no longer focus on it with the binoculars, and just over my head it veered off along the estuary embankment. A black kite!

As usual there was a meal after the sortie, with much merriment and conversation (topics at our end of the table: education, nutrition, nuclear power, power outages, alternative energy, international finance, and of course politics). I was the only anglo present this time so there was no English, and I was pleased at how much I could take part in the discussion even when it all got rather noisy.

Between the second and third course the wind dropped and so did the rain. It pounded down for a few minutes. Before dessert I realised it was time to leave because Broomstick had no lights (I couldn't remember which box they were packed in); just as well, as the diet had already suffered. A little way down the road the rain started again, the road flooded, and Broomstick experienced surfing. My waterproofs gave up.

I was very wet and rather cold, but replete with good food and good company; and I'd been only a couple of metres from a black kite!

La Roue Tourne

A new commercial centre has opened on this side of Jonzac; Intermarché and Bricomarché have moved into large shiny buildings there. I don't usually shop in Intermarché, but the new and bigger shop looked interesting and I needed some things from Bricomarché so I went to try it out. It's not bad, and has one advantage over Leclerc: the bags in the fruit-n-veg section are reachable.

As I left, I glanced into the brasserie at the entrance, and saw an amazing sight. A Victoria, parked among the tables! Of course, I had to go in.

The place is clearly owned by a fan of old vehicles. It's called La Roue Tourne (the turning wheel), and even the windows have been decorated with a horse and carriage motif. The coffee was very good, quite cheap, and served in attractive crockery; the warmed and slightly frothy milk came in a jug. It was empty, being in the lull between lunch and well, anything else; the bartender/chef/probably owner was outside chatting to friends but kept careful watch in case I needed something. He was very friendly, and amused by my reaction to the Victoria.

On the first Friday of the month they host a meet of vintage vehicle enthusiasts, who proudly display their cars, motorbikes, bicycles, and presumably carriages. I'm looking forward to taking visitors to see it.

We may not have a bus service, but...

The postie brought a parcel into the house (the delivery required a signature) and I forgot to give her the letter that needs posting. Such a bother: I shall have to peg the letter onto the mailbox for her to collect. ;) I do love the local postal service.

As for bus services: there is only the school bus which picks up from St Dizant and Ste Ramée, is also used by the public and runs in the holidays too, but of course it's only once a day (Jonzac and back).

However, there is now a communal taxi, collecting from and delivering to one's home and running to Jonzac on Tuesdays and St Genis on Thursdays and Saturdays, with two or three hours in the town. It's a shame that the Jonzac service doesn't go early enough to connect with the railbus to Angoulême.

Birding on the marsh

The Association Culturelle Dizannaise organises local events, including two summer walks on the marshes guided by Fabien and assistants from the Ligue pour la Protection des Oiseaux (the French equivalent of the RSPB). This year the first walk was earlier than usual, so that we could hear the late spring sounds and see the storks nesting. There are plenty of chicks this year - one nest had four!

About 20 of us set off from La Grange de Marais, the nature site near St Dizant. We watched various harriers, bluethroats, egrets, falcon, many bright small finches... and other birds whose names I don't know in English. Fabien is amazing at picking out birds in the distance; there were telescopes and plenty of binoculars for us to look at what he'd sighted.

It was a very social walk. I'm not familiar with birdwatching, it not being a generally wheelchair-friendly activity, but I used to go out with a twitcher so I have a little experience. This was the first time I've ever been birding with people who chatter. I was on Broomstick, and at one point I decided to go on ahead as we neared a small copse. The birdsong coming from the trees and shrubs was fantastic, but as soon as the merry throng of humans arrived the birds shut up and there was sadly no opportunity to ask Fabien what birds were making which sounds.

After the walk, M le Maire and his wife provided a lunch under the trees at the camping/picnic site next to 1000 Frais et 1 Fred (he explained carefully that he was paying for it personally, not out of public funds). It was a simple but plentiful spread, and he must have spent a lot on the drinks because the apéro was pineau from the Château de Beaulon, and that stuff is not cheap. I can report that the orange juice was good. Towards the end of the meal Madame drove off, to return a little while later with flasks of coffee freshly brewed in her kitchen. So sweet :)

Journey back to Charente Maritime

It was far too early to be up, but at least it was warm and dry when I crept quietly out of $Friend's house and set off up the hill, wheeling all the way and allowing time for rest-stops. I travel light when not going by car, but even the few clothes and laptop, and a few books, weighed enough to tip Chariot over backwards if I wasn't sitting in it. I had to be at the station early in case the train didn't come in on the nearest platform, as the lift to the new bridge over the lines still isn't open; wheelchairs have to be checked in 30 minutes before the train arrives, anyway.

I'd allowed too much time and could have caught the previous train, but it's not easy to change a wheelchair booking. Anyway, the hour passed happily in greeting old BT colleagues who were dashing to commute, chatting to station staff (in French!), and drinking coffee for breakfast.

At Liverpool Street the station-staffperson who got me off the train showed me where to catch the bus for St Pancras. However, the bus-stop wasn't there: roadworks had closed the street. Heading back towards the station and taxis, I saw the right number bus turning down a nearby street, and chased after it. Right number, wrong direction. The driver suggested I ask at the information place a few yards away; there, the information person came out to give me directions to the next bus-stop (the booth was, as usual, not accessible). I was bewildered and worried about getting around the roadworks, and his English wasn't perfectly understandable. He looked at me, locked the door, and said he would take me there. And he did!

The bus was quick and trouble-free, and I arrived at St Pancras in time for my ticket to be changed to an earlier train. Eurostar people are very good about changing tickets, even though it's a bit complicated with there being so few wheelchair spaces. The journey was comfortable, as it always is, though I wished the meal hadn't been breakfast. None of it was on the diet, it was all tasty and I was hungry.

In Paris it was very warm and sunny. The buses provide good views when they aren't too full, and this time they both had plenty of room. Having so much time to spare, I decided to wheel for a while, doing a bit of window-shopping and wandering through a park before picking up the 92. At Montparnasse there was still time for another drink in a café and a happy half-hour in a bookshop.

There were no problems at the Gare de Montparnasse, for which I was grateful because I was tired; I spent most of the three hours' journey half-asleep. From Angoulême to Jonzac there is a railbus, a beautifully plush coach (with motorised lifting-platform) which always has very few passengers. Leaving was slightly delayed by the intricacies of fastening-down the wheelchair, as this driver hadn't done it before. The straps for the wheelchair were fairly straightforward, but he confused the various parts of the seatbelt and had to unfasten it all and start again, apologising for having to put his arms round me to get it done. I offered to do it myself, but he wouldn't hear of it.

Finally, the taxi to home and the welcome sight of my house and garden. But what had happened to the garden? The grass was three feet high and all the summer flowers were out!

Ipswich railway station staff are great

A few days before leaving Suffolk I trundled up the hill to the railway station and tried to buy tickets for the new route to St Pancras via Stratford International, which would cut out going across London. The person in the ticket office was concerned that it might be difficult to get from Stratford to Stratford International, with the building works there. She very helpfully phoned Stratford to check: they said the area was not wheelchair-friendly. Ah well, maybe next time. For this trip I'd have to do the Liverpool Street to Kings Cross thing.

She started on calculation of which train would ensure arriving at the Eurostar terminal early enough for checking-in a wheelchair. By this time I was tired of shouting, because those desks are very high; she wasn't tall enough to lean over to speak to me, either. I asked why the lowered desk wasn't staffed. At first she was reluctant to tell me, but then she admitted that because of the location of the lowered desk near the sets of automatic doors, it was very draughty and often cold. I'd noticed that from the passenger-side. Poor and thoughtless station design.

She kindly moved over to the lowered desk for talking to me, though she still had to use the other terminal to book the ticket.

While waiting for the ticket, I chatted to a woman who had no problem talking to someone at the neighbouring high desk because her powered wheelchair had a seat hoist. Very nifty, and so useful. She was booking tickets for her first train journey since being in a wheelchair, to get to the Hardest Hit rally; she asked me about the accessibility of London buses (usually good, except when they are crowded).

I left the station with a ticket for the 6:44 train, and a warm glow from dealings with people who are helpful, efficient, and friendly.

Very glorious food

Carole and I sampled the fairly-new British Larder near Woodbridge.

Verdict - yummmmmy! Not cheap, but excellent.

I was impressed by the statements on the menu about sourcing locally, and "from the hedgerows". It appears that, although they don't have time to forage themselves, they accept bags of stuff picked from the wild (or one's own garden) in exchange for a drink. Marvellous.

Three cheers for anything which encourages people to eat perfectly good food which doesn't happen to be wrapped in plastic, feature in tv adverts, nor bear the seal of approval of money-grubbing supermarkets.

And in case you, like some of my ex student-housemates[0], are too nervous to sample wild fruits and vegetables, have a useful website.

Journey to England

This time I travelled to England by public transport, for ecological reasons and because petrol is so expensive.

i don't like rising before the sun, but the autocar leaves Jonzac at 7:30 and the taxi-driver wanted to allow plenty of time to get there. He didn't actually need that much so I had a long wait for the 'car, but by then it was light and warm, and I had a book (China Mieville's excellent short stories).

The 'car arrived at Angouleme station in time to see the connecting train to Lille, the train I would have booked if I hadn't had a wheelchair. The station staff went into panic, thinking I wanted to get on it and not having time to get me across the tracks. Such relief when I told them I was getting the next train, three hours later. One day there will be a lift at Angouleme, and I shall be able to get to the platform by myself and save three hours' journey time. The lift is promised by completion of the line upgrade, sometime before 2016; of course, before that the TGV will be going as far as Saintes and I shan't need to travel to Angouleme.

One of the new TGV trains came through. Plush! Double-decker, but for me its best feature is the entrances: level with the platforms, and a small automatic bridge at each door, covering the gap. No need for Assistance at all! One has to wonder why trains haven't always been designed to fit the platforms; or platforms designed to fit the trains. It's not only crips and ski-ing accidentees who have trouble with those high steps: I've watched quite a few people struggling with luggage.

Though not on one of the new trains, the ride to Paris passed quickly, between admiring the view and reading more Mieville. Paris was rather warm. I'd planned a long gap before catching the Eurostar, just in case, and decided to use some of it to look at the Seine and Notre Dame, just around the corner from where I change buses. It was lovely, but April in Paris... is full of tourists.

I still had over an hour before needing to be at the Gare du Nord, but I thought the cafes around there might be less crowded than near Notre Dame. The second bus goes through a poorer part of the city and is consequently more heavily used, but people are always very good about squashing up, finding a space, and helping me get on board. Good thing I went early. Three stops later, the bus driver announced that we all had to get off because the police had closed the road on account of a demonstration.

No choice but to set off up the road and keep looking for a taxi. Taxis passed, but they were all full. Eventually I asked a shopkeeper how much further to the Gare - at least half an hour. I was tired, and hot. There were people waiting for a bus: I stopped to find out if they had news, and they suggested I get the bus with them to the Gare de l'Est and find a taxi there. The plan worked even better, because a woman who got off the bus at the same time told me that the Gare du Nord was not far and insisted on pushing the wheelchair up the (slight) hill, while her 7-year-old son asked questions about England.

The so-dangerous demonstration was, it seemed, a few people with a placard. Ah well.

As usual, the Eurostar was well-sorted for a wheelchair-user, and this trip I'd been lucky enough to get the space in Business Premier, which comes with a very pleasant lounge. There I accepted a drink and fired up the laptop, but didn't have chance to use the wifi because the all the time was taken up in conversation with an interesting and amusing Texan and Argentinian couple.

At St Pancras I tried unsuccessfully to buy a ticket for the new route via Stratford International, then was too tired to attempt to get to Liverpool Street by bus, so taxi it was. A friendly taxi-driver and helpful staff at Liverpool Street and Ipswich eased the last stage of the journey, though it's disappointing that the long-promised lift at Ipswich hasn't yet been built (opening at the end of May, apparently).

Finally I coasted down the hill to Sophie's and the first cup of tea of the day.

Roman roads and Romaneau

There's very little written about the history of this area, and even less on the web. Sebastian at the shop/restaurant told me that the family who own the Château de Romaneau at the south end of St Dizant did some research.

St Dizant, now a few kilometres inland, was a port in Roman times (the marshes were drained in the middle ages, just as the Fens and Broads of England were). Back then, when Saintes was the capital, there was a major road from Saintes to St Dizant which went past the place where the château now stands. There was probably a Roman villa on the site. The road continued to be in use for a long time, and was later part of the Pilgrim Route (to Santiago de Compostella). Now that stretch of the road has disappeared. It's possible that one of the tunnels around here leads to the Château, but no-one has investigated that.

The Château de Romaneau isn't open to the public. Until fairly recently the Romaneau family lived in the big house, but now it's closed up and the last resident lives in a smaller house in the grounds.