soaked to the skin

Katrina waited 3 years before asking me to look after her darlings, 3-year-old Joseph and little Roisin. But the day arrived, and I was ready for action. At first the babes were asleep. But Roisin soon woke and, after a happy time rolling balls around the living-room floor, the lure of the dangerous big-boy toys outdoors, and the paddling pool, proved too strong to resist. Although barely stable on her baby legs Roisin is adept at scaling the ladder of the slide. Breathtaking to watch and even scarier as she insists on standing high at the top. After a session in the paddling pool her (soaking) nappy weighed her down as she slid from top to bottom, mopping the surface clear of the ants that had been running it. Yummy squished-ant nappy. And so it was back to the paddling pool, and I swear I looked away for less than a second - but in that time Roisin had fallen over and was submerged. Yow. I grabbed her out and the drenched baby and nappy soaked me, too. Roisin hardly batted an eyelid, though the water wasn't exactly hot. But she was getting quite cold. So when Katrina arrived back shortly afterwards there was her daughter in Joseph's pyjama top, nappyless - and the babysitter drying off on the kitchen steps. Nice work, Rebecca.

yet another Ecrins walk: Vallon des Etages

One treat following hard on the heels of another, I am just back from 24 hours in the Ecrins with Juan.
After a torpid Saturday, we finally decided early evening to head for the hills, ignoring all storm warnings (so many predictions of rain these last months have proved false). In a sense we were proved right - Vaulnaveys remained dry. But the Venéon valley was another matter. As we weighed up possible bivvying options near the Cascade de la Pisse, the heavens opened and we were instantly soaked. Bedding down in dripping vegetation, not knowing when the predicted "clear night" was going to start, had limited appeal.
So we went for Plan B: a dorm bed at the renowned hotel-café-bunkhouse, "La Cordée", in St Christophe (where Juan slept with his head away from the wall so as to have more air in the event of an attack - ?!?).

After supper there was a bonus: a screening of Bernard Boyer's 1991 film, "Le voyage vertical", a beautifully filmed account of some of his many Ecrins ascents interwoven with a commentary on the farming communities on the verge of disappearing, even at that time. We experienced a mixture of envy (the bird's eye perspective you get as a mountaineer is beyond all wonderful) and relief (that our walks involve none of the risk and difficulty of technical climbs).

Sunday dawned fair. We had a glorious breakfast on the edge of the carpark at Les Etages...

....then walked up the Vallon des Etages towards the glacier of the same name. An exquisite route, packing in all the Ecrins elements into a handful of km: a delightful woodland approach:

a river:



a glacier (deceptive - what looked like a glacial "molehill" from afar was impressive close to):



soaring peaks all around (you can just pick out the Dibona needle in this shot):

- and juicy blueberry bushes lining the path. And, because there is no refuge up this valley, on this Sunday in full French holiday period we saw just six people all day.

from 38 to 15 degrees

I knew I was in Edinburgh because everyone was wearing leggings under their shorts. Coming from a
40-degree heatwave, I naively took the "sun and cloud" forecast at face value and arrived with no umbrella or waterproof. What can I have been thinking of...

My cousin Sarah's flat was a perfect base for dipping in to the Fringe with Lucy:

(completely phased by the options we go to a late-night comedy rock band who turn up trumps, see http://deadcatbounce.ie)

roof-gazing:

and - the main reason for my trip - visiting my aunt Anne.

Although her activity is limited in some ways by partial eye sight and mobility, I was struck by what is still possible: how tactile memory helps her find everything she needs, as long as the location is familiar; how she can do many routine domestic tasks, including cooking and reaching for things on shelves - a huge physical effort with her bent posture. Part of me thought "what if everything was made to be within range" and then later reflected that there may be value in the exertion, as long as it doesn't exhaust her too much. My instinct was to want to do everything for her, but during the 3 days I learned to curb my tendency to take over, and to temper my protests at the excessive amount of "lolly" she pressed on me for a taxi, along with chocolate, biscuits..., with graceful acceptance of her generosity. This is how it has always been, at the end of a stay; my adorable, doting aunt.

I was lucky to see all the cousins during my 3-day visit, including Sarah and Rog who were holidaying on the Fife coast at idyllic St Monans...

... in a cottage looking straight out to sea:

We visited Tentsmuir, where I last picnicked around 40 years ago. At the height of summer (?) there were a dozen people on the vast expanse of dune and sand. At St Andrews...

... I ordered a banana and peanut butter milkshake at the café "where Kate met Wills for coffee", and got a gratifying look of disgust from Rog.

We visited Boase Wood, just outside St Andrews, where Uncle Jack's ashes had been buried earlier in the week. It's as appropriate a spot as could be imagined, full of family significance - the wood named after Philip Boase, who gave it to the preservation trust in the 60s. I felt very moved to be present at the place where the family had recently gathered, and could understand the symbolic value that this place has, and how it gives a sense of being closer to Uncle Jack. And at the same time I wonder what I and my immediate family will do, when our time comes. Perhaps have our ashes thrown into the wind at the top of a hill, to recycle back into the universe. A big letting go. And contact with spirit that can be anywhere.

With so many memories, happy childhood associations, the excitement of an international city, the buzz of a second-to-none cultural event, and dear family, it was hard to get on the plane back to heat-crisped continental Europe and the uncertainties and frustrations of life in France. But 24 hours later and I'm back in the groove with Juan and all seems better.

Woodstock toes

The hottest weekend this year, and the lakes have dominated the agenda (Pierre Châtel on Saturday, Pétichet on Sunday). Bagging a small patch of shade, we rotated our picnic spot as the sun progressed, in much closer physical proximity with our neighbours than usual. There were rich people-watching opportunities: beefcakes and dolly birds who have have clearly spent every free hour perfecting their tans; wimpy youths revealing underpants under their swimshorts (hence the hygiene rule in French swimming pools: close-fitting swimwear only, to prevent men wearing this double layer); barrel-shaped, hirsute specimens talking loudly on their mobiles; toddlers, teenagers - the world was there.

Juan stayed for as long as I have ever seen him on a "beach". But I couldn't persuade him from the house on Sunday, so I went on my own to absolutely hoaching Pétichet, with its awesome views of the Dévoluy peaks, and added to the lobster-red streaks on my back. (How? I was in shade the whole time.) I now need to prepare for a 20-degree temperature drop in Edinburgh, where I am bound tomorrow.

Today is a bank holiday - and a welcome break from the Berlitz intensive I am doing this week. The heatwave continues, with no hint of rain to encourage the increasingly parched garden. I've been skulking indoors, playing with paint. At first I was thrilled to see how talented I was (ha ha). But I soon realised my delusion. Painting the same vase of flowers four times has been an interesting exercise, uncovering new layers of incompetence at each attempt. Here is the fourth version:

The splat of ochre has to be explained - it's an achillea, though you wouldn't know it.
Onwards and upwards...



Return to Valgo, food and sun

Have just bid a tearful farewell to the folks (and Juan – double whammy) after their week in Vaulnaveys, Juan dropping them at Geneva airport on his way back to Yverdon. Am now distracting myself with a speedy house-clean, thanks to the mighty e-cloth (am I the last person on the planet to discover its time-saving technology?).

I had met Mum and Dad at Geneva, having spent a couple of days doing a glacier walk across the Trift glacier (see pics of hike here).

After 24 hours of all-too-familiar sloshing cold rain, Mum and Dad ended up having a blast of typical French summer sun which Dad couldn't get enough of. The highlight was 36 hours in the Valgaudamar valley, based at the Ban de l’Ours hotel at Lubac:

Dad and I did lovely walks:

... while Mum painted.  We had lunch at shady picnic spots adjacent to streams. On the way home we braved the Col du Noyer to have views over the southern Ecrins and Champsaur:

Back at Vaulnaveys we sought out shade in the garden:

... read (a lot):

... made some excruciating marks on paper:

... played piano duets and Dieupart sonatas, had fun in the stream by the house (the lengths some people go to, to avoid getting their feet wet!):

... picnicked and swam at Lac Pierre Châtel:

... ate tried and tested favourites:

... and then threw caution to the wind and lunched at the Terrasses at Uriage (stressful for some!):

Mum spent an excessive amount if time slaving over a repair to a beach mat, with very satisfying results:

The mat has acquired the status of a valuable antique.

The house is now strangely quiet and empty. The heat continues and only mad dogs and Englishmen are abroad. The weather is set for at least the next week, so the garden will continue to burn to a crisp – and the tomatoes to produce their delicious crop.