Birthday walk

We nearly didn't as the sky was uniform grey and rain approaching. But we did - quite a long one directly from the house and no car involved. Think I am going to start a series of 'deep topography' walks taking in the landscape surrounding our house and town. There is always so much to discover, appreciate and re-appreciate just in the familiar territory.
Today, I was drawn to look closely at lichen - what weird and wonderful stuff - the wikipedia definition:
A lichen is a composite organism that arises from algae or cyanobacteria living among filaments of multiple fungi species in a mutualistic relationship.




Also on the walk we nearly tripped over a large oblong slab of stone with names and dates engraved within the fissured granite surface. I vaguely recalled someone telling me years ago that there was such a thing on top of the hill crest from Limoux to the next village but I couldn't recall more than. that.
We were enlightened a little later by an elderly man driving on the back road to Limoux who stopped to admire the hounds. Apart from obviously being impressed that we had done the longish circuit he asked whether we had seen the stone slab - dedication to Jean de Brunhoff's great grandmother, (he being the author of Baba the Elephant). Ah . . . that's what it was . . .



We arrived back in Limoux just in time to witness the Arago Carnaval group's very, very strange 'theme' - each group present on the morning of their 'sorti' a mini theatre production of a few minutes - something usually political or something referring to local happenings; occasionally cultural, almost always bawdy with lots of sexual references, fake breasts/backsides, fresh fish, leeks, nuns' habits, men dressed as prostitutes . . . etc.
This particular theme with live Star Wars soundtrack played by the carnaval musicians (mostly brass and percussion) involved the unearthing of some sort of space ship? out of which appeared a very small and curvy woman with nowt on her top half except a few strings of beads, a masked man and the dummy of a baby . . . err. I asked various people if they had a clue to which they said, "beh . . . non."
Anyway, it seemed to go down well and everyone disappeared into cafés to drink pastis. We went home to make lunch and celebrate the rest of Mark's birthday and drink tea.

        

Postcards from the Camargue

Yes, we went to Provence in August, yes, to Aix-en-Provence: mad.
Actually, it was wonderful, everything: hotel (found one) the churches, fountains, food, window shopping, people-watching, Cézanne . . .
The journey back was less wonderful as we had chosen to travel (optimistic - oh, it'll be fine . . .)  on one of the do not travel days in France (everyone going to or leaving the coast).
By about three we hit the traffic queues on the motorway. My default response to this is to take any possible diversion: goat tracks, winding piddly roads, look at trees, feet up in a car park and read until the crowds disperse, anything than sit in a line of cars weaving their way in and out of lanes in order to be twenty inches nearer to their destination. Mark will go generally for the sit and wait, inch forward option. 
We tried a bit of both and mostly didn't get cross or accuse the other for making the wrong decision. My last desperate plea resulted us arriving - after an hour of driving around aimlessly - in a small town called something like Moribund, where they were having their annual 'annoying bulls' festival.
My fevered mind had imagined a small, shady square, church bells, a cold beer and the satisfaction of having made an excellent choice in getting off the tarmac hell-strip. Not so.
The square was not remotely shady: 38 degrees or so and covered in white foam from some fun event that had obviously involved bucket-loads of Pastis and dire music. The next group were tuning up, barricades being erected for further street-long bull annoying, and people were looking at us in a strange way.
I hurried Mark away in his pink flowery shirt and we drank some tepid water sitting by the car comparing piles of dog shit, while we considered that we might never get home and perhaps in fact this was purgatory: foam, pissed off bulls, pastis, bad music, Moribund 'en fete'.
I studied the map again and discovered with a hundred percent delight that there were 'cabanes' marked on the map


                                         



                                   

Cabanes on the French coast usually means a collection of small, low houses, or 'shackery' as my mother would have termed them, sitting close to the water's edge, for fishing or general leisure purposes.
On driving there the day turned from motorway/weird town depression to an art-filled memory. One of the best Cabanes area I can recall: colourful, eccentric houses with chicken-filled gardens, home made benches, rambling plants, a river with futting boats, abandoned sheds, waving grass, herons and liquid miles of glassy sea, the surface broken by the occasional plop of a fish.
I strode to the sea (etang - large sea-lake) removed clothes and sank ankle deep into rich mud before swimming gratefully out into the soft water and observing the seaside conurbations on the distant shoreline.

Building No 15

 If people married buildings, this might be the one for me.

Can you imagine in 1890 I think it was, commissioning such a thing; the polite meetings with an architect, him laughing into his pastis as soon as the client was out of the door, the local builders scratching their heads. Inspired by a brief visit to Morocco? We visited it yesterday hoping they might like a weird jazz happening; they did not, but we did get a chance to look into the wonderful office, interior-designed in about 1973 and untouched since, including the grumpy secretory. They, like many other places in this region, are missing a trick. What a superb place for a restaurant: views of the mountains, right next to the train station, large roof terrace, their own wine sur place. Tant pis.