It’s not often that I get a chance to have a ‘day off’ from keeping this place tip top and trying to find time for Witch Wackle business so an invitation to pop over to Andorra for a morning’s shopping wasn’t going to be turned down. Not just for the duty-free cigarettes and alcohol; bulk buying laundry detergent and other sundry items at knock-down prices are a must when popping over the border and let’s not forget (Denis’ words) that petrol is cheaper too. Yes, but you have to fill the tank to get there darling. Anyway, with Welsh Lisa being kind enough to look after the woofers, we took off at the crack of dawn in my car (the only one with air-conditioning) – Marina and her boyfriend Hugo joining us as, according to the latter, he knew a much quicker route. It wasn’t but that’s me being pernickety. Now, anyone who has ever driven from here up into the Pyrénées will wax lyrical about the vast beauty of the mountain range but not if you suffer from vertigo as I do. Luckily Denis opted to take the wheel otherwise we’d have ended up stuck at the bottom; put it this way, it is very long and very winding road perched precariously on the edge of what can only be described as an abyss below which I left my stomach. If that wasn’t enough, upon arriving in El Pas de la Casa that is to say the commercial centre (think Oxford Street in the 1980’s on steroids), Marina decided we should stop at the petrol station before letting our debit cards go wild. A petrol station that was another 2 kms up a cliff. Is it me or is driving further than necessary to get a few centimes off half a tank of fuel a little odd? Ah well, at least I won’t need to buy any washing powder for the next couple of years.
Still, having survived the throngs of tourists and hustlers and with Bluebottle’s (my car for those who don’t know) back end loaded with booze and bags of bargains, we descended back onto the more favourable flatness of the French side. And a tornado. Okay, we weren’t in its direct path – just shrieking along beside it whilst trying not to be bombarded by flying signposts and tree debris. Yet, my little Renault Clio took to the task like a military veteran as did Denis – I’m glad one of us found the experience adrenal -inducing. Thankfully, that evening was spent at the opening night of our pal Xavier’s new emporium in nearby Prexain in the company of familiar faces listening to an amazing band and downing lashings of the local grape. And for me, a little bit of networking. It’s funny how sometimes you meet people in the weirdest ways and become friends; Xavier was the one whose 90 kilo Mastiff escaped, tried to kill Arry and instead got beaten into submission by a 6.5 kilo Border terrier that is our Alice.
You’d think after all that excitement, one would finish the week with their feet up on a Friday night looking up at the stars with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc but no. Earlier that afternoon and pootling back from Arry’s physio appointment, D and I took the exit onto Rouffiac’s top road and found ourselves instead being diverted onto the bottom one. A fire. Not a big one but enough for the presence of a fire engine and the village’s volunteer vigilantes – brooms and rakes in hand. Peeps, don’t throw lit fags out of car windows. Anyway and with that haze of smoke gotten under control quickly, D and I decided a quiet evening was in order as was one of Christophe’s pizzas. Then the phone started ringing and before long, the whirr of helicopters. Having raced the two minute walk over to the pizza locale in the camion; Denis’ idea of safety, to catch up with the hungry crowd and check in on family, we stood watching the sky. Another fire then another then another – 4 in total and no doubt set deliberately. Those helicopter pilots are simply incredible, zooming back and forth with expert precision and speed. Mercifully no-one was hurt and nothing damaged other than a few acres of terrain; mine not included and our swimming pool left untouched. I know that sounds a little selfish and by law the pompiers can use whatever water source is available but we had another house visit booked for the following morning. One in which I had to show the potentials around as the agent wasn’t available. I can’t say it’s a future career for me even if it does involve a lot of talking, my field of expertise but luckily for my siblings, I won’t be leading tomorrow’s maybes around – I’m off to the prefecture to refresh my resident’s permit. I mean, where else would a widow and her woofers want to live?…
“Never doubt the courage of the French. They were the ones who discovered that snails are edible.” (Doug Larson)
Widow plus woofs 