Cats and Dogs (and France and Spain)

France

France

France

Spain

That pretty much sums up the difference between the two countries.

France does the quirk much more quietly.

PS: Yes, the dog's by Jeff Koons and he's not even Spanish and neither is Puppy - but still. Where else would it fit so perfectly?

Ooohh! Look!

Scaffolding's going up in the village!

That's always a good sign.

More tomorrow...

They don't call it camping here. They call it tenting.

On another topic, though - do you know what works really well?

 Frank Gehry's design for the Bilbao Guggenheim. Yes, yes, I know we said we were spending the week in Italy - but it was raining there, so we thought we'd go tenting in sunny Spain instead.

                                                                                                                                                                                   


Spain - just while I've got your attention - doesn't do tenting as it turns out. It's all about the campervanning, in Spain - which is something it might have been helpful to know before we changed our plans, but live and learn...

What Spain does do, and do quite boisterously, is quirky, iconic buildings. Barcelona's Gaudi takes the quirk to a level that I find slightly disturbing - there is, after all, (or I feel there should be at any rate) only so much fun one can have with a wall. Or a door. But perhaps it's just me? Still, I wasn't all that a-froth with delight when Paul said if we just drive another ten hours or so we could  see the building he's wanted to see since he read about it in, I dunno, the middish 1990s - the Bilbao Guggenheim.

So we drove. And drove. All day - and then had another overnight in a field with a tent that we pitched in the dark so as not to alert any irate farmers or drunken hunters, or bears; and the further we went, the less sunny Spain was, and the more kindly my memories of Home. And then we arrived. And I have to say it - the B. G. is glorious. It really, really is. One of those buildings that captures your heart, even when you weren't expecting it, even when you didn't much want it to. Just the right size, just the perfect shape, and in just the very spot. It's something to love from every angle, in bits and grabs and glimpses - even when the light is dreadful, even when the city is full of gloom  and grey.

Even in the rain. Especially in the rain.

I heart you, Frank Gehry. Can't wait to see what you do in Sydney. Go for broke and don't hold back - that darling old town of mine could do with a bit of a cheer-up.

It's time for another post.

No - I haven't written one. I'm just saying it's time...

Here's a photo instead.

My mother-in-law

Really, I suspect that there is no more adorable belle-mere in the world...

*sigh*

The thing about living in France is that sometimes you miss people.

So, I see the Brits have arrived...

That's all I'm saying...  ;)

We're agreed, aren't we -

that Sablet is the most beautiful village in France,

what with the  -->                      






and the
<--

and the              ^

and all of the


<--


                                                                           








to say nothing of these -->

We're agreed about that? Well - come over here a minute.

In almost the middle of France, in the Burgundy area, there is an absolutely precious wee town called Beaune. It's all pretty squares and and the roof-line is utter perfection. It was quiet when we were there, almost empty - most of France having crammed itself into a  municipal campground in Fieurie with a manager who was terribly rude to everyone; we booked in too, but really he was too mean. I did feel sorry for everyone else, though not enough to hang around, frankly. Despite his assurance that there were no other campgrounds at all where we would find space, we barrelled into a lovely one, clean and friendly a short way down the road on the bank of the river at Creches-Sur-Soane (and I'm sure there's a lesson in that.) But I digress -

Beaune.


Quiet and lovely, modern, rennaissance, medieval, Roman, pre-roman in places,

and friendly and welcoming and full of echoes and - please don't tell Sablet this - I could live there, I really could. It's close to Paris, closer to England in case we want grey skies and rain, close to Switzerland in case I want Paul roughed up again, or smugged on and close to Germany which is good because of my girl-crush on Angela Merkel More importantly - much more importantly, it's close to Vix.

I've wanted to see Vix since I was eight years old - and it didn't disappoint.

I could get up to Vix -  me and my bolt-cutters and a metal detector perhaps - pretty much every weekend...

Grande Fete Votive

Sablet has gone into Party Mode - and oh how well she does it!

A Friday-Wednesday festival - covering most of the major delights. It started, of course  on the village petanque field - where we acquitted ourselves, it must be said, Not Badly At All. We didn't win, exactly, but we made it through the first round sans deshonneur-

which surprised at least one of us, mightily. There are tiny little petanque courts hidden all round the village, and people have clearly been sneakily practicing up for ages. We'll be ready to take them on next year, now that we know; we'll get Anne back here, and field her and Paul as a team.

It's not all Killer Boules though -

Yesterday, there was boot-scooting,

shooting, 

 merry-go-rounds and dodgems and fairy floss; tug-of-war, side-show alley - and tables of grown-ups with grown-up drinks and card games that looked  quite a lot like poker. 

There were children and joy and laughter all through the day and into the night.



And talking of night  -

                     when the sun left the sky at last, very late - there was dancing.