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.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
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.
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.
Arc en Ciel in Saint-Trojan-Les-Bains
It was a long drive to St Trojan, on a warm sunny day and through some lovely countryside. Neither my friend nor I were so impressed by the town nor the route once on the Ile d'Oleron: it felt touristy in a soul-less way, with something essential lacking. Curiously, we'd just been discussing the validity of first impressions: perhaps we both need another visit to re-assess it.
The concert itself went very well indeed. The audience obviously preferred the bouncy second half to the more serious (both more subtle and better sung) first half. I've often remarked that concerts in France get a bigger audience than in England, even though it seems that the knowledge of and response to classical music is about the same in both countries. People turn out to performances, musical or theatrical, willing to be entertained. Back in England, choirs are often relieved that the audience outnumber those on stage.
Overall, they enjoyed it enough to give us a standing ovation and demand encores, and ask us to come back. It's always good to have pleased punters. :)
The concert itself went very well indeed. The audience obviously preferred the bouncy second half to the more serious (both more subtle and better sung) first half. I've often remarked that concerts in France get a bigger audience than in England, even though it seems that the knowledge of and response to classical music is about the same in both countries. People turn out to performances, musical or theatrical, willing to be entertained. Back in England, choirs are often relieved that the audience outnumber those on stage.
Overall, they enjoyed it enough to give us a standing ovation and demand encores, and ask us to come back. It's always good to have pleased punters. :)
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Brocante the first
The summer season of events has begun. There are brocantes everywhere, and festivals and open days.
Today is St Dizant du Gua's big brocante. I went down there on Broomstick, with only a small amount of cash, as a precaution. The precaution was wise. So many stalls full of such interesting things! Books, clothes, furniture, crockery, pans, antiques, ornaments, tools, bikes (and motorbikes): the contents of cupboards and garages and barns and attics. Plus plants, fruit, vegetables, and cakes. I bought a mirror (four people joined in working out how to transport it on Broomstick), a copper jug as a present for Ginette, and some vegetables; I just looked at everything else. Broomstick was, as usual, admired and I had to explain how it works and where I got it and how much it cost. Maybe there's an import market.
I shall miss the annual flower festival in St Genis and the Sailing Festival at Port Maubert, because I'm singing on the Ile d'Oleron late this afternoon.
Today is St Dizant du Gua's big brocante. I went down there on Broomstick, with only a small amount of cash, as a precaution. The precaution was wise. So many stalls full of such interesting things! Books, clothes, furniture, crockery, pans, antiques, ornaments, tools, bikes (and motorbikes): the contents of cupboards and garages and barns and attics. Plus plants, fruit, vegetables, and cakes. I bought a mirror (four people joined in working out how to transport it on Broomstick), a copper jug as a present for Ginette, and some vegetables; I just looked at everything else. Broomstick was, as usual, admired and I had to explain how it works and where I got it and how much it cost. Maybe there's an import market.
I shall miss the annual flower festival in St Genis and the Sailing Festival at Port Maubert, because I'm singing on the Ile d'Oleron late this afternoon.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Mountains, forests, sun, and sea
Before moving to Charente Maritime, I noticed on the map that the Pyrenees are not very far away. Close enough for a day trip! Somehow it hadn't happened, though. Last week I decided it was about time to cross this one off the list of things to do. One day isn't sufficient for admiring mountains, so it would be two days, with sleeping bag in the car. I set off on Thursday morning.
It took nearly an hour to get around Bordeaux, even though it was no longer peak-time rush. After Bordeaux the motorway becomes dual-carriageway, covered in lorries from all over Europe. I wonder why they don't use trains or ships for such long distances? There was even a lorry from Finland!
The first view of the Landes and Gascony was a disappointment. It's flat and dusty, and the roads are fringed with clumps of sad spindly pines, huddled too close together. The northern part of this region was badly hit by Xynthia; perhaps when there were more trees the countryside looked happier. It would certainly have retained water better.
Eventually I could see mountains in the distance, and my spirits lifted. The road signs had Basque names and instructions added to the French. I'd never realised how many Xs there are in Basque words: it looks rather like Mayan.
Not being in a mood for hyper-tourism I decided to bypass Bayonne and Biarritz, took a convenient exit, and headed inland. Just after a disused French customs building there was a sign pointing up a small tree-lined road to the Col d'Ibardon (437m) which looked perfect. It soon became rather narrow and too bendy for comfort with the motor-caravans swooping down and not on the other side of the road, but it was only 4 kilometres of worry. I stopped halfway up in a layby because watching the road meant I couldn't admire the scenery. At the Col there was a marvellous view over St Jean de Luz, Biarritz, and the Atlantic; and a crowd of parked cars. Also a hotel, a lot of tourist-trap shops and craft places, several caffs and a couple of expensive restaurants, and a filling-station with cheap petrol. Clearly on the Spanish side of the border.
After a while of looking at mountains, talking to ponies, and avoiding touristy things, I went back down the mountain and onto the motorway. The intention was to follow it a little way and then find a route through wild mountains, but the motorway itself goes through beautiful scenery so I stayed on it, through the forests and slopes. The roadsigns were now in Spanish and Basque, except for the sign to Madrid, which was in Spanish and Moorish. I was impressed.
Then there was Bilbao. I'm not really a city person (in spite of having lived in cities until I was 8), but people had told me that Bilbao was worth seeing. The trouble is that, driving alone in a strange city, all one's attention is on traffic, suicidal pedestrians, and trying to make sense of directional and instructional signs. I did notice some lovely buildings, but couldn't work out what they were. There was nowhere to stop; all parking spaces were full. There were crossings and traffic lights every few metres. The engine began to overheat. Red lights came on: one of them shouted STOP. Still no parking space, and in desperation I pulled into a bus-stop, behind a bus. If anyone complained I'd plead breakdown, mine as well as Roo's. The bus moved away, and I saw that it had been stopped on a disabled space! In trepidation, I turned the engine back on and slithered the few metres forward. I left Roo trying to cool down in the hot afternoon, and went off to explore the area.
First, there was a pedestrian street full of little bars (all with steps) and camellia trees. That's right, trees. And in bloom. At the end of the street was a square with a park which even had a bandstand. I bought a bottle of water and some oranges from a small shop run by a father and son, and realised I'd forgotten to bring the Spanish dictionary with me. It's a few years since I spoke Spanish, though Basque would have been better. The older man was very friendly, and he switched from Basque to Spanish after the first sentence. I followed most of what he said, but could only manage a couple of phrases back. Several people on the street and in the square spoke to me, to offer help or just to say hello. It was very peaceful, sitting in the sunshine eating oranges or wandering the little streets. I didn't find out where I was, though.
At last I reckoned Roo would be cool enough to have water added, and found my way back past the shop; the older man dashed out, and appeared to be asking what I was doing that evening. I said goodbye hurriedly. Roo was indeed cooler, and I collected courage to open the bonnet (I'd never wanted to open Roo's bonnet again after Incident of the Trapped Fingers). Someone waiting for a bus came over to help, but he clearly knew nothing about cars and I was glad that his bus turned up before he could mess with anything. I put in some water and got the bonnet closed without any disaster, turned the key, and it was fine. Now to find the way out of Bilbao. East is that way...
Back on the motorway in the sunset, I stopped at a reasonable-looking services and parked in a corner, not too close to the lorries. Sadly for the diet, the cafe didn't have salads but it did have steak and chips; worse than that, a custard flan turned up, included in the price. It was warm in the sleeping-bag and I slept well, waking at dawn.
I took the next exit off the motorway and headed for the coast, finding a lovely little port. I'd missed the signs naming it, so had to ask a local: that's how I discovered that in Basque 'Z' is pronounced like a jota or a Welsh or Gaelic 'ch'. Zumaia is still partly a fishing port, small boats only, but has clearly had a huge influx of tourist money which has been used to build a marina and renovate the seawalls and the town. It's in beautiful condition. On one side of the sea wall is a calm harbour; on the other side the blue-green waves crash over dark rocks. I got a few photos before the camera's batteries died.
From there I took the pretty winding coast road through Getara and Zarautz all the way to the outskirts of San Sebastian. Another big city in the hot sunshine didn't appeal, so it was back on the motorway to Urrugne, from where I went inland again. By this time another fuel-stop was required, but the price on the French side was shocking, even higher than around here. Odd, when it's so close to Spain. I turned back and found myself at another sign for the Col d'Ibardon, which is over the border and has a filling station. This time, instead of going up into the tourist area I tried the restaurant at the cross-roads. It was excellent! And cheap: and the other customers were locals, always a good sign. I recommend the Benta Gorria.
Time to start for home, with a small detour to see the Arcachon area south of Bordeaux. What a lovely two days.
It took nearly an hour to get around Bordeaux, even though it was no longer peak-time rush. After Bordeaux the motorway becomes dual-carriageway, covered in lorries from all over Europe. I wonder why they don't use trains or ships for such long distances? There was even a lorry from Finland!
The first view of the Landes and Gascony was a disappointment. It's flat and dusty, and the roads are fringed with clumps of sad spindly pines, huddled too close together. The northern part of this region was badly hit by Xynthia; perhaps when there were more trees the countryside looked happier. It would certainly have retained water better.
Eventually I could see mountains in the distance, and my spirits lifted. The road signs had Basque names and instructions added to the French. I'd never realised how many Xs there are in Basque words: it looks rather like Mayan.
Not being in a mood for hyper-tourism I decided to bypass Bayonne and Biarritz, took a convenient exit, and headed inland. Just after a disused French customs building there was a sign pointing up a small tree-lined road to the Col d'Ibardon (437m) which looked perfect. It soon became rather narrow and too bendy for comfort with the motor-caravans swooping down and not on the other side of the road, but it was only 4 kilometres of worry. I stopped halfway up in a layby because watching the road meant I couldn't admire the scenery. At the Col there was a marvellous view over St Jean de Luz, Biarritz, and the Atlantic; and a crowd of parked cars. Also a hotel, a lot of tourist-trap shops and craft places, several caffs and a couple of expensive restaurants, and a filling-station with cheap petrol. Clearly on the Spanish side of the border.
After a while of looking at mountains, talking to ponies, and avoiding touristy things, I went back down the mountain and onto the motorway. The intention was to follow it a little way and then find a route through wild mountains, but the motorway itself goes through beautiful scenery so I stayed on it, through the forests and slopes. The roadsigns were now in Spanish and Basque, except for the sign to Madrid, which was in Spanish and Moorish. I was impressed.
Then there was Bilbao. I'm not really a city person (in spite of having lived in cities until I was 8), but people had told me that Bilbao was worth seeing. The trouble is that, driving alone in a strange city, all one's attention is on traffic, suicidal pedestrians, and trying to make sense of directional and instructional signs. I did notice some lovely buildings, but couldn't work out what they were. There was nowhere to stop; all parking spaces were full. There were crossings and traffic lights every few metres. The engine began to overheat. Red lights came on: one of them shouted STOP. Still no parking space, and in desperation I pulled into a bus-stop, behind a bus. If anyone complained I'd plead breakdown, mine as well as Roo's. The bus moved away, and I saw that it had been stopped on a disabled space! In trepidation, I turned the engine back on and slithered the few metres forward. I left Roo trying to cool down in the hot afternoon, and went off to explore the area.
First, there was a pedestrian street full of little bars (all with steps) and camellia trees. That's right, trees. And in bloom. At the end of the street was a square with a park which even had a bandstand. I bought a bottle of water and some oranges from a small shop run by a father and son, and realised I'd forgotten to bring the Spanish dictionary with me. It's a few years since I spoke Spanish, though Basque would have been better. The older man was very friendly, and he switched from Basque to Spanish after the first sentence. I followed most of what he said, but could only manage a couple of phrases back. Several people on the street and in the square spoke to me, to offer help or just to say hello. It was very peaceful, sitting in the sunshine eating oranges or wandering the little streets. I didn't find out where I was, though.
At last I reckoned Roo would be cool enough to have water added, and found my way back past the shop; the older man dashed out, and appeared to be asking what I was doing that evening. I said goodbye hurriedly. Roo was indeed cooler, and I collected courage to open the bonnet (I'd never wanted to open Roo's bonnet again after Incident of the Trapped Fingers). Someone waiting for a bus came over to help, but he clearly knew nothing about cars and I was glad that his bus turned up before he could mess with anything. I put in some water and got the bonnet closed without any disaster, turned the key, and it was fine. Now to find the way out of Bilbao. East is that way...
Back on the motorway in the sunset, I stopped at a reasonable-looking services and parked in a corner, not too close to the lorries. Sadly for the diet, the cafe didn't have salads but it did have steak and chips; worse than that, a custard flan turned up, included in the price. It was warm in the sleeping-bag and I slept well, waking at dawn.
I took the next exit off the motorway and headed for the coast, finding a lovely little port. I'd missed the signs naming it, so had to ask a local: that's how I discovered that in Basque 'Z' is pronounced like a jota or a Welsh or Gaelic 'ch'. Zumaia is still partly a fishing port, small boats only, but has clearly had a huge influx of tourist money which has been used to build a marina and renovate the seawalls and the town. It's in beautiful condition. On one side of the sea wall is a calm harbour; on the other side the blue-green waves crash over dark rocks. I got a few photos before the camera's batteries died.
From there I took the pretty winding coast road through Getara and Zarautz all the way to the outskirts of San Sebastian. Another big city in the hot sunshine didn't appeal, so it was back on the motorway to Urrugne, from where I went inland again. By this time another fuel-stop was required, but the price on the French side was shocking, even higher than around here. Odd, when it's so close to Spain. I turned back and found myself at another sign for the Col d'Ibardon, which is over the border and has a filling station. This time, instead of going up into the tourist area I tried the restaurant at the cross-roads. It was excellent! And cheap: and the other customers were locals, always a good sign. I recommend the Benta Gorria.
Time to start for home, with a small detour to see the Arcachon area south of Bordeaux. What a lovely two days.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Events in St Dizant du Gua
Another event in "patois saintongeais" today. I'd decided not to go because it was a programme of readings and, although I had followed the broad farce of Les Buzotiâs de Jhonzat's theatre pieces sufficiently well, straight readings would be mainly incomprehensible. Then the organisers (two of the Association Culturelle Dizannaise) emailed a reminder, and it seemed rude not to turn up.
It was warm and sunny, so I rode into town early, did some shopping, stopped for a grand crême at the café-bar, and wandered around to see what's changed (or hasn't) over the winter. There's a bungalow for sale behind the Foyer Rural, very smart. No-one has taken the building opposite the gates of the Château de Beaulon: at 75,000 euros with planning permission for seven flats, I wonder why not.
Ten minutes before the start, the organisers were beginning to look upset. Only nine people had turned up. Eight minutes later a small crowd surged in and they had to put out more chairs.
I didn't understand much of the performance, but it was a pleasant sound and I could pick out some words. The value of turning up was in chatting to people, making contacts, and gleaning information about what's going on. Hopes of using the Foyer Rural for a concert or two this year have been lessened, but it's cheering rather than disappointing that its weekends are fully booked into next year.
It was warm and sunny, so I rode into town early, did some shopping, stopped for a grand crême at the café-bar, and wandered around to see what's changed (or hasn't) over the winter. There's a bungalow for sale behind the Foyer Rural, very smart. No-one has taken the building opposite the gates of the Château de Beaulon: at 75,000 euros with planning permission for seven flats, I wonder why not.
Ten minutes before the start, the organisers were beginning to look upset. Only nine people had turned up. Eight minutes later a small crowd surged in and they had to put out more chairs.
I didn't understand much of the performance, but it was a pleasant sound and I could pick out some words. The value of turning up was in chatting to people, making contacts, and gleaning information about what's going on. Hopes of using the Foyer Rural for a concert or two this year have been lessened, but it's cheering rather than disappointing that its weekends are fully booked into next year.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Hot!
After two cool grey days, the clouds have left (apparently to bother England). I took cushion, sunhat, phone, and book outside... and was soon driven back indoors by the burning sensation in exposed skin!
Denis noticed that the lilac is in full bloom, so he cut some. The jonquils in the other vase are lasting well: their pale yellow and the lilac's purple are set off beautifully by the stone wall.
The lilac will be over by 25 May. I shall wear the lilac, of course, but not from my tree.
Ooh, there are lilac sparklies for 2011! And some lucky person will get a Lilac-Don't-Panic Towel.
Denis noticed that the lilac is in full bloom, so he cut some. The jonquils in the other vase are lasting well: their pale yellow and the lilac's purple are set off beautifully by the stone wall.
The lilac will be over by 25 May. I shall wear the lilac, of course, but not from my tree.
Ooh, there are lilac sparklies for 2011! And some lucky person will get a Lilac-Don't-Panic Towel.
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