Last Day in France

So, our visit is almost over and we are going into Paris again, this time with Nicko.  Today I am again a sheep.  I need make no decisions, I can just follow along, drinking in the sights and letting Paris wash over me.  
We make our way through the most prestigious parts of the City, past the Elysee Palace, past Embassies and Police Academies, some so well guarded that there isn't even pedestrian access to them.  Everything is scrubbed clean, the stone is soft and warm coloured.  I find myself reminded what a lovely city this is.
We mingle with the great and good along the Rue St Honore, where the large fashion houses display impossible to wear and priceless items in their vast windows.  Wafts of perfume come from the shops and the passers-by.  A little girl of about four clad in a smart gold dress is grizzling as she is dragged along, poor mite.  It's too hot for me, and I like window shopping.
Unexpectedly, we come across a Church - the Eglise Notre Dame de l'Assomption.  All the information about it, and the notices outside, are in Polish, as is everything inside.  It's a little oasis of calm and cool - with a wonderful painted dome.  A real gem.

We make our way to the river, past the Bouquinistes, where Andy buys an elderly copy of La Maladie Imaginaire by Moliere - how strange to find it here, as we had just been talking about the play.
And so down to the Seine itself.  There's a wide pedestrian walkway alongside the river - I say pedestrianised, but actually pedestrians share the route with cyclists, roller-bladers and skateboarders, all whizzing along at breakneck speed.  It pays to keep your wits about you.  But its lovely - there are areas marked out for children to play, cafes with board games, floating restaurants - its full of life.  Here we are joined by Nini, and we stroll along together until its time for a beer and some food.
And so to the Tour Eiffel, which I've not been to for several years.  It looks cleaner than I remember it, but it is as popular as ever.  None of us having much of a head for heights, we wander under it, and eventually make our way back to the metro and home.

And that's it for now - but America beckons in late August - so watch this space...

Friday in Paris

Coming into Paris on the A6 from the south, feels in a way like coming home.  We’ve been visiting every year for so many years now – over twenty – that I feel I know Paris better than I know London.

First sight to hove into view is the church at Montmartre, floating above the Parisian apartments, such an evocative, beautiful place which holds a special place in my heart.  It graces the skyline for just a moment before hiding as we round a corner.  The tower of Montparnasse follows it, all glass and reflection, and finally the Eiffel Tower is there, the symbol of Paris, and I know we have arrived.

Our first day in Paris we walked.  And walked.  And walked.  All day.  Flip flops probably weren’t the best footwear, but it was phenomenally hot, and they were comfortable.  For the first couple of miles. 

It’s amazing that no matter how well you think you know a city, there is always something to surprise you.  Walking to the Marais we found an arch we’d never seen before.  A bit further on, a covered walkway housed a plethora of Indian restaurants with smells that made me hungry even after my enormous lunch.  Around a corner and through a little park we found ourselves next to the Canal du St Martin and rested under a tree while smartly dressed men walked their tiny dogs and a small boat negotiated a lock.  It felt like we had discovered an almost secret part of Paris, so different from the overcrowded and touristy shops along the Rue de Rivoli.  Quiet and peaceful with deep green water, it was a revelation.

We followed the Canal down towards the Seine.  After a lock it disappears underground, so we followed what we thought would be its route.  Above it, children shrieked in playgrounds, fountains threw up cold water, cars parked and men played boules.  Finally it appears again at the Place de la Bastille, in a large basin full of houseboats and yachts.  We sat beside it and drank a cold beer before taking the Metro back to Nicko and Nini's flat. 

A pretty much perfect day – if only I’d worn walking shoes.

Wednesday in Tarare

Tarare is like a forgotten, hidden world.  Look it up on the internet.  There’s next to nothing about it – even the Wikipedia article is only a few lines.  There used to be factories there to do with the fabric industry, that much I do know, but exactly what each factory was for, I have no idea. 

When we first came here, about ten years ago, it was a dismal February morning.  We parked outside an abandoned factory whose broken windows and grey walls echoed the grey day.  The rain was coming down like a waterfall from a mud coloured sky.  The whole town felt sad and unloved. 

We went with Ricky and Regine to see the house they had just bought – an empty house, which needed a considerable amount of work to make it habitable, but the walls, floors and roof were sound, and the potential immense.  Nonetheless, I wondered if they were doing the right thing.

Ricky and Regine's House Now

Well, they were indeed doing the right thing!  Not only is their house transformed, but the whole town is, these days, vibrant and full of life. 

This year our visit has coincided with the end of the five yearly Fete des Mousselines.  Brightly coloured fabric hangs from balconies in swathes.  Bunches of fabric flowers adorn doorways and walls.  To walk through the centre of the town is to walk under a multicoloured fabric sky.  In the main square the fabric spins out from a central column like a giant maypole.  It’s fabulous.

Its not just a party to celebrate the fabric either, it’s a real community building exercise.  Each quarter of the town gets together and builds a float, which then parades through the town.  In doing so people meet others from their area and spend time together.  Old ladies who used to work with the cloth feel the texture of it between their fingers again, and share their memories.  

It seems to me that in being a bit overlooked, Tarare comes out as a winner.  People know each other and are safe.  Last night, walking back to our hotel, we passed down the main street.  A woman in her first floor window was having a conversation with another woman on her balcony, the other side of the road.  It feels like a good place to be.

Tuesday in the Beaujolais

Its half past twelve, and we are on the third day of our trip to France.  We’ve come down to Tarare, by way of Epernay and Colombey les deux Eglises, the temperature rising all the way. 

Here, in the picture perfect and prosperous Beaujolais hilltop village of Oingt, (pronounced something like the noise I imagine a stuck pig would make), it is now at least 37 degrees.  Apart from a few fellow tourists, sweating quietly, there isn’t a soul to be seen. Life is going on indoors.  Thick wooden front doors are firmly shut.  Shutters are closed, or almost closed, allowing the breeze to blow through, but no sunlight to enter.  It’s a hidden world. 

The view from here is magnificent.  There’s a little church in the middle distance, surrounded by vineyards.  The further hills are almost like a mirage as the heat brings up a haze.  There is so much land in France – so much more than in England.  I remember being told once that in England unless you were in a National Park, wherever you looked, no matter how remote, there would always be a house or a barn somewhere within sight.  Not so in France.  I suppose that’s how they can manage to put up so many wind turbines and build the track for the TGV without civil unrest – there is more than enough space for everyone and everything.

We took refuge from the heat in a Cave that mercifully had air conditioning (for the wine, rather than the punters, probably.  Wine is supremely important here).   A very knowledgeable and friendly young woman helped us taste our way through several reds and a couple of whites, and we left poorer financially, but considerably richer in terms of wine...

Later, under a lowering sky, we visited Theize, whose sandstone buildings are the colour of Coleman’s mustard.  There’s a fabulous chateau there which is one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen.  I may have to buy my first ever lottery ticket so that I can spend my winnings on doing it up…