Hanging in there

Bonjour, c’est moi, er, again.

It’s day four of our seven-day French sojourn and it’s a case of so far so bonne. 

I must say, it’s taking me a while to adapt to the crazy French ways, hugely impressive though they are.

Man do they love their bicyclettes.

They’re everywhere and, even more remarkable, no one seems to nick them.

Bread is also an obvious favourite, alongside sneering at our pitiful attempts to speak their lingo.

Today Jamie combined the two by ordering a baguette in French for lunch.

He did very well, before the mademoiselle who served him felt the need to demonstrate that her English was better than any of ours. 

But, keen to please our hosts, we will keep trying. 

Charlotte got her hair done in an effort to blend in.

Even though it did turn out all David Beckham.

She also bought some French Toast.

I remembered them being bigger when I was a kid and, a little earlier, Jamie upsized.

Goodness knows how we’re going to get through 72 in just four breakfast times but, at €2.20 a packet, what’s not to like (apart from yet another piece of French toast)?

We’ve been to a couple more shows since my last update. The first was a “Welcome Party” featuring the reps...

...supported by the French mafia.

And last night we were treated to a Sikh magician with an S&M fetish.

Tonight’s primary evening entertainment has a “diamonds” theme and earlier we overhead the sound check which was a Shirley Bassey number. I think we all know where this is likely to go.  Yes, downhill. But there are also suggestions of an Irish turn playing in the bar so we might give that a craic (can you see what I did there?)

One last observation before I say au revoir for now. Health and safety. Back in the UK, in the unlikely event of an emergency, we’re used to being told to proceed calmly and in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit. The guidance seems to be a tad different in France and much less collegiate. 

It’s run like f***.

Bonsoir.

Allez mes enfants

Bonjour mes amis. Oui, nous sommes en la France.

(I’ll complete the rest of this meandering drivel in pigeon English because it’s now 30 years since I passed my French GCSE and my memory has never been good).

We left Barcelona yesterday morning. Brilliant place, which you’ll surely know if you’ve been. Everyone seems so laid back, including “Kamal, the Indian guy” who greeted us warmly upon our arrival and smiled manically as we departed. We’d paid him by then, and didn’t break anything.

The next challenge was to train it to Perpignan.  Initially, Charlotte wasn’t impressed with the views.

And then we left the tunnel.

She was thrilled as you can see.

We only had a couple of hours in Perpignan, which at least gave the kids an opportunity to begin to understand that France is just that little bit madder than anywhere else on the planet.

For example, this fine example of modern French art stands proudly in Perpignan town square.

Well, sits. On a big wooden chair.

Then it was time to clamber aboard another magnificent train - spotless, loads of room, fast, on time - for a 15 minute scoot to Argeles. A bit of lunch, a big shop (26 beers for €11), an overpriced taxi and easy passage into our static holiday shack.

And as if by magic, Charlotte entered full-on holiday mode. 

Then we hit the water, me literally after Jamie made me try out each and every water slide. I don’t mind that sort of thing, but I was very tee shirt tan conscious so early in the trip. Hopefully my body colours will even out over the course of the week.

After pizza al fresco, we had a wander around the site and caught a glimpse of the nightly show. It was called McCavity, presumably because the producer didn’t want to pay Andrew Lloyd Webber a pile of cash for the privilege of calling it Cats. 

Meow.

As I look out of the window to my left, the sun is peering over the distant trees at the start of what will hopefully be another beautiful day.

And to my right, there’s this.

They’ve even pulled the curtains.

So that’s what happening with us. I hope the weather’s OK back in Blighty and you have exciting Bank Holiday plans in place.  Failing that, there must be a pub nearby.

I’ll be in touch.

European Vacation

Greetings from Barcelona, which l understand is an integral part of Spain/Catalonia (delete where applicable).

We arrived mid-afternoon after a two-and-a-bit hour delay to our flight, followed by another hour stuck in the airport when our pre-booked taxi driver turned out to be waiting for us in Madrid. Thankfully he eventually gave the gig to another amigo.

And all of this happened after Vanessa was violently ill on the tarmac in Leeds with what appears to have been a bout of food poisoning (I’m a trier, not a cook).

That meant that when we did eventually reach our hotel (you’re most welcome, I’m the only one awake), Vanessa wasn’t very well and I had to take the kids for tapas all on my ownsome.

To be fair, it was hardly a chore.

Also, as you may have spotted, pints were off the menu. Replaced by litres. 

Don’t worry, I worked it.

As it happens, the home of the Spanish football giants is just a stopover. Tomorrow we head over le border to France for a week in a shanty village.  I may have further comment about that in the coming days.

After our tapas, Vanessa joined us to see lots of water fall out of the air (I thought we’d come abroad to avoid such eventualities). 

We were watching the “Magic Fountains” and they were genuinely spectacular (whilst the huge crowd watched cross-legged).

We set sail for France (on the train, so I’m lying) at 9.30am tomorrow European time,  which means another early start.  But hey, what else would we be doing? 

I’ve only been in France twice before. Let’s hope that this time the locals understand at least a bit of I’m saying. 

Splash and shiver

It's now three days since we Whites returned from almost a week on the Causeway Coast of my native Northern Ireland.

It's taken me this long to report back because, well, we've all been a little bit tired.

This despite the kids still being too young to go to the Railway Arms.

Or the Portstewart Arms.

Although foodie places did let them in

Jamie and I had our annual dip on Barry's big one.

Whilst Mummy joined him, Charlotte and cousin Katie on the whirly-twirly-up-and-downy-thingy.

Our trip also included a visit to Water World which was supposed to close down last year but they couldn't find the key to lock it up.

However, there was one particular episode which will live long in my very cold bones.  And it's all as simple as ABC.

Jamie and Charlotte had gone for a paddle at the White Rocks beach on Saturday, before Jamie got carried away and went right in.  He emerged shortly afterwards complaining about potential damage to his undercarriage.

I mentioned this on Facebook, which led to the issue of a very kind invitation from my lovely friend Julie Smyth.  It was for Jamie to join the foolhardy members of the Arcadia Bathing Club (yes, ABC) in immersing themselves in the Atlantic Ocean at 10.30 the following morning.

These madsters meet at the same time every Sunday, 12 months of the year.  The purpose?  There are actually quite a few. "Bathing, swimming, body surfing, drinking coffee and doing a little bit of work for charity."  And there's just one rule.  "No wetsuits - be brave."

Jamie was immediately up for the challenge.  I thought he was bonkers - the innocence of youth - but said we'd take him.  Then I drank 10 pints of Guinness and informed Julie I'd do it too. 

It took me a few minutes the next morning to recall my pledge.  And then the horror of what I'd done hit me.  But, as one of the most fundamentally decent human beings I've met, Julie was not someone I was prepared to let down.

So Jamie had his moment, Charlotte had another paddle and I made a complete fool of myself in front of lots of strangers.

Some of them became my friends afterwards over hot coffee.

As I was trudging out, I said to a lady: "I've never given birth but it can't be worse than that."

She looked at me, all pale, pathetic and shivering (me not her), and replied: "It certainly doesn't look like you'll be able to have any more children."  Indeed.  Even going to the loo proved to be a challenge until almost lunchtime.

All good fun and highly recommended but, eff me, it was freezing.  If the good people at ABC want to raise a bit more money for charity, I suggest that a swear box is an obvious way to go.