Welcome to the attic of my mind. Mind the stairs, click the light on and have a rummage around my thoughts on writing, the art of everything second-hand, the natural world, music . . . just about everything. Probably not much about sport.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
During a small break in our favourite coastal area we had the fortune to see an example of this ancient form of dance (Sardana) celebrating leg muscles and shaved armpits.
On first hearing the music we cocked our heads to one side in bemusement like two dogs on hearing a new and possibly dangerous noise. Shrill wind instrumentation and a tiny drum strapped to the arm of the pipe player combined with double bass and brass. Odd . . . but strangely charming.
The 'footing' is delicate and rather like horse dressage with occasional forays into jumping movements when the tempo of the music ups slightly.
I wanted to join in except I would have been an elderly shire horse and my armpits were almost certainly not to the standard required. Next time I will be prepared.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
A Grande Motte building. Me in 1970's bikini. Mark after hunting down and eating an omelette in the Camargue plains. Wonderful coloured blocks at the photography expo. Me with matching top and paving in G.Motte. Mark in front of super wall and heating vent at G.Motte — I have noticed that most people photograph their loved ones in front of such landmarks as the Trevi fountain, or la Tour Eiffel, not us . . . more likely to be Wolverhampton bus station, or some old graffiti ridden door.
and the driving is restricted. Mainly by these huge fridge freezers with names like Marauder, Rapido, challenger, etc rather than Turgido, or Lard- wagon.
This was a particularly apt name; driven by some happy folks from the flat lands unaware that they were leaving in their wake a stream of laughing, swerving French drivers. (con = well, something a tad rude)
We spent our two day annual vacation in the Camargue this year: land of immense skies, roaming horses and flamingos which I noticed look rather like golf clubs when flying. High spots were the wonderful 'Grande Motte' with its Star Trek film set architecture and over-bronzed glitzy women in white, and Arles where we saw bits of the huge annual photo exhibition, part of which was housed in a collection of old industrial buildings.
We stayed in a horrible hotel and ate prisoner food — the problem with booking something in August the day before going — should have just camped in a bush, the comfort level would have been higher.
I noticed their publicity said something about 'sometimes the best addresses are a secret', well they should bloody keep it as one. Anyway apart from that the time was a delight reminding us how important it is to get away with your partner/husband/ person you have sex with, so you can talk about lots of stuff, not just who should have put the bins out last night.
Following some holiday snaps . . .
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