et maintenant

Well, we're back. Almost a quotation of Sam Gamgee at the very end of The Lord of the Rings.... the best line of the whole book, in some ways. 

We're back, still conversing in franglais. We stayed overnight at Cobham services on the M25... extortionate even by English standards, but a good peaceful night, well away from the freezer lorries. 

In the afternoon we crossed Calais to Dover in the remnants of storm Bertie. A strong south-westerly, the captain called it. The waves were lively but these enormous modern ferries are massively stable; no need for the "hygiene bag" supplied at table, nor for the cocktail of Kwells and Sea-legs that used to knock us out in my youthful days when there were still ferries to Gothenberg.

Waiting outside Port of Dover, a wonderful mix of seabirds flying around the ship. Crookwinged gannets soaring and diving. Little black whizzers and terns and gulls of every size... I used to think I could name gulls, but every time I look them up there seem to be more species, so I've given up.

A gannet

It was blowy on the Côte d'Opale. When I opened my door at Aire de l'épitre, the wind snatched it and nearly ripped it off its hinges. Memo: in these conditions, you should wind down the window first!

Before that, we stopped at Aire de la Baie de Somme, but the power kept going on and off. Card payments stopped working and the tea was scarcely warm. However, I did manage to buy a French translation of one of Viveca Sten's Jämtland whodunits.... a final and particularly pointless indulgence, because my Swedish needs more practice than my French. 

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It was difficult getting into France, because of the flag-bedecked tractors protesting the Mercosur deal. We were already in a hurry, having dawdled up the Mediterranean coast enjoying the late sun. Blocked off, we headed back down past Barcelona,  thinking to cut across to the west via Zaragoza, but after spending the night below the steep slopes of Montserrat at El Bruc we learnt that the protest was over, so we went back to La Jonquera and this time we sailed through. Laura's brother whatsapped us a YouTube of Homeward Bound, a song that rang through my head for the rest of the journey. 

Aire de Fitou

We missed our usual walk at Aire de Salses but we stopped at Aire de Fitou instead, for a last view of the hazily sunny Mediterranean, here bordered with reedy marshes.

Voyez Près des étangs Ces grands roseaux mouillés...

We swung inland and it started to rain. We made it past Toulouse as darkness fell, stopped overnight at Frontonnais.

Beautiful clear weather the next day, but we pushed on, with little stops at Graves, St Leger, Fenioux. (Fenioux has a wonderful walk through chestnut woods to the village and chandelle des morts, but now wasn't the time.)

We were buying family gifts in the services: patés, soft toys, mustards, saucers. Somewhere I found myself another book, by Marie-Paul Armand, novelist of Normandy life.

Meanwhile the temperature dropped sharply. Poitiers-Chincé was our coldest night in the van; but the services building, reduced overnight to an angular corridor, was delightfully warm.

The next day we began to see snow patches north of Tours. Stopped at Sarthe-Touraine and again at Sarthe-Sargé-Le-Mans for lunch. Andouillette de Vouvray not being available,  we both stuck to assiettes de legumes. 

More snow lying on the fields. Aire de Haras was at its bleakest, empty and the drinks were almost cold.

Every day's an endless stream / of cigarettes and magazines ...

Through the hundreds of miles we played the bridge game. At least, Laure did. The rules are simpler than the other kind of bridge game. You spot a bridge ... either one above the road, or below it, and you shout BRIDGE!! in the shrillest and most grating way possible. I did well, but cannot pretend it was a close contest. 

We reached Rouen as darkness fell and I made a mess of getting across it, ending up on the wrong road. Laure got me back on track, but we were tired and stopped at Bosc-Mesnil, though currently it's just portacabins and huge piles of rubble. At least the portacabins were warm, and there was reliable hot water all night. 

You know the rest. So that was our quick crossing of France. I loved every minute. 

Mediterranean November

 

Torrenostra

Dead Aleppo Pines

Lots of dead Aleppo Pines in 2024. This photo is from Sagunto, near Valencia.

Swathes of this white member of the cabbage family across the Valencian plains.

Another plant in the cabbage family, not much smaller overall but with relatively tiny yellow flowers.

On the same theme, the large leaves and small flowers of Mediterranean Stork's-bill, Erodium malacoides. 

A mud cliff at Villajoyosa. We saw a pair of Black Wheatears here (Oenanthe leucura).

Peter Jones' fascinating article about them:

https://www.andaluciabirdsociety.org/article-library/the-black-wheatear-oenanthe-leucura-leucura/

We're a bit later in the Med than usual. So I never caught the dramatic blooming of Cape Honeysuckle before. 

Books I read or acquired during our trip. Most of them I've only dipped into.

Contes per a tot l'any is a Catalan children's book (Stories for all the year round). The only thing I've taken in is the intriguing way of differentiating certain double-L type words, e.g. il·lustració, col·lecció ...

I had to download the Catalan keyboard to my phone to type that. 

I did read Balzac’s great novella Le Colonel Chabert in its original language; generally his French is too difficult for me. 

But I came across Stendhal's short stories in Spanish translation. This was on top of a hill on the edge of Aranjuez. 

Also in Spanish, the 1950 noir thriller Portrait in Smoke by the US author Bill S. Ballinger. I have the impression he's now better known here than in the English-speaking world. At any rate, his Spanish Wikipedia entry is much more detailed.