My French Holiday Diary- Day 4

Here comes the rain! Oh no! And a cold!

Day 4- Tuesday 18^th September.

When one is under the weather, a little slice of home is required. For me, this came in the form of a fried egg. Go to France, Italy or even America and the typical British fry up just won’t work. Years ago, we would try to recreate a holiday breakfast consisting of fried foods you couldn’t justify eating every day back at home without having a coronary; I’ve tried cooking stuff that looks close to bacon in France, and fried up sausages just outside Florence but they never cut the mustard. A fried egg on the other hand, wherever you are, tastes the same. Feeling groggy this morning I knew a gently wibbling yolk would soothe me more than pâté ever could, so I promptly put the pan on. Yes, I might have added yesterday’s potatoes and a leftover sausage, but the fried egg was the winner on that plate.

While Mum-y set about her maps with as much gusto as I’d scoffed my breakfast, I slowly felt my brain sliding away from me, the grogginess of the cold settling in. Having to have a lie down at half ten in the morning does sort of set off alarm bells, so it was decided that I would stay behind while the parents went off to a market in the nearby Cabarets, with the possibility of lunch in the newly reopened little hotel restaurant they visited a few years back.

So pretty much for all of today I sat in bed, listening to old Russell Brand podcasts, playing solitaire on my ipod and wishing Roger was about. Or a DVD player. In my desperation for another form of entertainment I picked up Olaudah Equiano’s Interesting Narrative. But by far the best moment of the day came when, on a wander about the landing, I looked out of the window to see two cyclists. My ears spiked up at their accents: American. Both were dressed up to the nines in reflective cycling gear, it even looked like they had microphones attached to their helmets so they could talk as they cycled. This didn’t stop the woman calling loudly behind her: “This is one of those on our lists!”. Her husband, sounding like the most cliché of American husbands said “What is it?” as if he couldn’t care less if they stopped or not. As they zoomed down the little hill I heard her yelling “Mar-sack!”.  I retreated back to the safety of my bed.

In between naps and watching the alpine martins swoop about high up in the sky, I watched with a huge sense of foreboding as the rainclouds started to form. The parents did end up having lunch, which apparently wasn’t bad, despite the rather disgusting starter of grapefruit and tuna. Christ. Hopefully they’ll have taken that off the menu by the time we all go sometime next week. When they came back, the rain threatened a little more, then burst into a massive, massive downpour that trapped Mum-y as she was visiting an expat couple in the village. She had good fun though, so that’s something. While Dad-y read upstairs in bed, I despaired that the rain had cut off the TV signal, forcing me to read a newspaper instead of watching trash. As you can see, it’s one of those days. Turns out you can have them on holiday, as well as at home! The ducks in the yard across the street were having a great time in the rain. I hadn’t noticed before but they have a little paddling pool! They were quacking about in that and dashing about in the rain like there was no tomorrow. They’re probably isn’t one for those guys now I think about it, people hardly keep ducks as pets round here… Ooh er.

Apart from having previously munched the leftover potato salad, no dinner had been formally arranged. But when Mum-y came back I knocked us up a simple little salad of thinly sliced chicory, pears and Roquefort, which we scoffed down a treat. Coming late to our party from finishing his book, the salad sent Dad-y off in raptures. I scoffed too much again despite my best efforts (I blame that tempting pot of vanilla semolina…) and so I’ve had to come up to bed. Mum-y has fallen prey to the cold too, so she’s up here as well. Ach, like I said, we’re in France and nothing matters. Not even the rain.