have passport will travel!

A mere two weeks after sending my old passport to the UK for renewal (awful – stranded on the Continent!) I have a shiny new one.

The cover is identical to the old version but inside, the opening text ("Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State requests... all those who it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.") is now displayed adjacent to an oak leaf and a charmingly clichéd National Trust-style row of cottages.

Beneath the marketing is some serious technology: I note that an electronic chip has been embedded – so presumably I can be tracked anywhere, at any time..

I will have to tell the French that I don't want any let from them. Ha ha.

Thereafter each page has a themed watermark that gives no doubt about our watery status: migrating birds, varied weather systems, fishing, beach huts, locks, fountains in formal gardens, crashing waves, more fishing – and an owl.

I'm feeling homesick!

sisters in a November wonderland

Buff: I absolutely don't want to go into snow. I was miserably cold last trip and had a horrible time.
Becca: It'll be fine. We can lend you gear.
So off we went, packing on the layers for the Arctic conditions at Alpe d'Huez ski resort...

 Juan and Phil on cross-country skis; me and Buff in snow shoes.

Buff leads the way

tantalising glimpses of the Grandes Russes as cloud swirled around us

Becca and the Michelin twins. Ha ha.

Go  Phil!

a change of scene before winter bites: the Vaucluse

Looking back at my blog post this time last year it looks as though migrating south for a weekend in November is becoming an annual avoid-onset-of-winter event. Random googling took us to a self-catering gîte d'étape near the Mont Ventoux. The approach, via Vacqueyras, Beaume de Venise and the Dentelles de Montmirail, was magical – densely wooded, craggy peaks interspersed with vineyards. Using an ancient map borrowed from Dad, we stopped for a couple of short strolls, taking advantage of the few rays of sun forecast for the weekend:

Beaumes de Venise

The second day –  Sunday – we drove south to Carpentras. Dead as a door nail except for the odd bar...

Later we found a place open on a Sunday, willing to sell us some Côtes du Ventoux (produced by the Cave de Beaumont du Ventoux – 2km from our gîte)...

Rebecca: So, apart from the soil and the climate, what's the difference between Côtes du Ventoux, Vacqueras and so on?
Sales person: Well, the soil is actually quite important.

Duh – stupid am I... it's the whole deal... And the answer is that Vacqueyras soil has bigger stones. They acquire and retain heat more than the Ventoux clay, ensuring a more even heating effect. My mind was not on the game – but luckily Juan was able to concentrate sufficiently to make a good choice.

commemorating a world-recording beating, wine-selling centenarian cyclist...

And then another walk, more or less over the Beaumont du Ventoux vineyards....

Me intoxicated in every sense with this glorious area, so 100% focussed on oenology; Juan sad, as it reminded him of Albacete – and a confused identity (Spanish? European? what is the meaning of it all?).

We had time to take in yet another gorgeous hilltop village (Le Barroux)...

before our second night in the gîte.

Monday rain stopped play, more or less. But I persuaded Juan to break our journey back to Vaulnaveys at Vaison-la-Romaine, dense with archaeological and cultural interest. Forty minutes was very inadequate! But nice to have a sense of unfinished business there. 

Finding my voice

My recent trip to the UK was triggered, as usual, by a course. Not shiatsu, for once, but organised by my shiatsu "god", Bill Palmer, in whom I have such blind faith that I asked few questions before signing up. Bill has often included vocal expression in his workshops and I've enjoyed some magical (and traumatic) moments finding parts of myself usually kept well covered up. Bill had presented this as an opportunity for in-depth work and I was looking forward to a good ol' psychological roughin' up.

Saturday started well – a happy reunion with shiatsu friends from Bill's courses this and in previous years. But already, as we went round the circle to introduce ourselves and set expectations, alarm bells were beginning to ring. People had come to sing – and have fun! What on earth had that got to do with my anticipated life-and-death struggle with the dark forces... I made it clear that I would be very disappointed if fun was what I had.

After a free-flow physical warm-up where we squirmed and stretched in a random way for three times longer than one might need, Tim took out his shruti box:

... and taught us a scale. Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni, Sa... Expectations crash. What am I doing here. We are indeed going to learn to sing. Indian classical-style. Don't get me wrong – singing, until I moved to France, was a big part of my life. And Tim is a deeply knowledgeable man with a lovely voice. But that wasn't the ticket I thought I'd bought.

So I spent the rest of the next 2 days trying to recalibrate myself to what was, instead of resisting it. To no avail. My pal Maryll had travelled even further – from Catalonia – with similar motivations to me. We gossiped and bitched. And then, having sat for hours in complete boredom while Tim coached people individually to hit the right note, frustration levels for me now off the scale, there was only one way out: two people pinned me to the floor and gave me some shiatsu. Phew. Around the room others developed their own responses through bodywork, dance and vocalising. When Bill the cat walked in at the end of the second day it really looked as though the mice had gone bananas.

Meanwhile, you are probably wondering what Tim was doing the while. Hm. Well. Kind of there, and kind of not. At close of play he asked us for some shiatsu, distant-healing style. For a few minutes he lay in the centre of the circle and we did... whatever we did. And he thanked us. And everyone in the group, except Maryll and I, thanked him for a wonderful 2 days.

Later, in the pub, and in Tim's absence, I let rip in front of Bill. Slash and burn, wham bham, cut down everything and everyone in sight. Later, I was mortified by my arrogant outburst. But lo, the group seem to have enjoyed it. I am considered to have made progress in self expression of a particularly angry kind. Which is a little baffling. I consider myself pretty well developed in that department.

So there was personal development, even if not as I had envisaged. And I found that even basic vocalising – a raga scale, and a little song – rekindled something for me. Today I linked up with a pianist friend and romped through a bit of Mozart, Fauré, Vaughan Williams. Perhaps, thanks to Tim Jones, I have refound my voice.

to Chambéry and beyond

Emma, Kelli and I recently debated what makes a friend a friend, as opposed to an acquaintance or fellow traveller. Kelli had refered to my neighbour, with whom I've started going jogging, as my "friend", her basis for friendship being a shared activity. For me this is only part of it; jogging doesn't bind us together any more than any club activity would. Besides, given that we live right next door (and not wanting to revisit the wood pile debacle experienced with the previous neighbours), a degree of distance might even be desirable.

Then we talked about the way total strangers help each other out, good Samaritan-style. Again, this misses the mark for me – heartwarming though such selfless acts of generosity are.

Juan has just told me that I am a "true friend" (and at other times claims that I am his "only friend"... hmm), but could absolutely not define what that meant – perhaps reciprocal sharing and supporting?

So what's the connection with Chambéry?
Said jogging neighbour, Carol, mentioned to her husband, Pascal, that I needed to get to the Grenoble suburb of Gières, prior to taking the night train via Chambéry to Paris and then London. So, to avoid me leaving my car at Gières for a week, he offered to drive me to Gières. I was very touched – I doubt I'd have made such a thoughtful gesture, myself.

On our drive down we chat about the differences between France and the UK. Pascal is hugely positive – in his view France has much to learn from the UK, in terms of economy. Then, what irony, at the (unmanned) station we read "Action local. Renseignez-vous au www.transisere.com". No phone number. Thanks a bunch. A strike and I'm stranded. One of the minority who don't have internet access on the hoof. So what next? Bad luck, Rebecca – take the tram to Grenoble city centre and hope there's a shuttle bus? Take a taxi the 50 km to Chambéry? No, Pascal wants to see through what he has started. ("My father taught me that."). Gambling on the service from Chambéry being operational, he drives me all the way there, refusing even to allow me to pay for the tolls, and (he works shifts) ensuring that he arrives home 2 hours after he normally goes to bed.

So is Pascal now a friend? The question no longer seems relevant. What's sure is his neighbourliness and community spirit is something to aspire to.

As for the journey, after the shock of discovering that the short, ancient train on a deserted unlit platform was indeed mine it was a pleasant – if not very sleepful – night; the rolling, grinding motion bringing back memories of other night journeys in my distant, travelling past.