Rain, rain, rain

My daughter, Jude, and family arrived on Saturday and with the exception of yesterday, where it was mostly just overcast and cool, it has rained – and rained and rained. And it is going to rain until they leave on Friday.

All credit to the family that they have such a positive attitude in the face of such lousy weather, particularly as it looks better in London, where they came from!

The parents had an energetic wet walk on Saturday and an even wetter one early on Sunday. Then the whole family braved the rain for their traditional Esparon to Bréau walk. Yesterday they took advantage of the relatively improved weather to climb up the steep hill to the Col de Mouzoules (not bad for Maddie, aged six) where I met them for a picnic lunch, and then they continued on to Bréau and back home via a visit to their other favourite haunt, the river at le Rieumage.

After all that energetic, bracing exercise it is entirely permissible that they are playing games on the iPads! We alternated this with a good session of the two families’ favourite card game, Monopoly Deal. Even Maddie can now join in, when she is not creating decorated folders (Private – keep out) and other art works.

On Sunday the girls, helped by sous-chef Ed, made some delicious chocolate chip cookies, which have been sustaining us since then. Sadly Ed has now had to go back to London, unexpectedly, for work. So meals without the chef are going to be a challenge for Jude and me.

More good news: my cold is improving by leaps and bounds, and Philippe (who cuts my grass) and my tenant, Sébastien, are climbing on the roof trying to find and fix the source of the leak (so i can avoid major roof repairs).

However, a new complication is that on Sunday I heard that my friend, Roy (Chris and he were graduate students together 50 years ago) is seriously ill in the hospital in Alès. He was in Alès for a court hearing of a neighbour dispute and was found unconscious in the hotel. His children are scattered round the world, his main friends happen to be absent too, so I have been a bit preoccupied with phone calls.

His wife, Lynn, is en route from York, but it is tough for her, as she speaks only English and Spanish (she is Mexican). But I have just spoken to the hospital and been assured there is someone who can explain what is going on in English. Meanwhile, I just got a call from Ryanair – she left her mobile on the plane! Poor Lynn, I may have to leave my family tomorrow and go to Alès to see what I can do for them.


I am very sad. The health of my dear friend, Jacky, has taken a turn for the worse.

It was Jacky who built my bassin five years ago and has looked after it ever since, as well as planting 30 olive trees. Here he is in 2014, sitting beside the newly inaugurated pool.

Jacky and his wife, Marthe, the painter (three of her paintings are highpoint in my house) have become such good friends. Jacky is a clever, funny, gregarious soul who until recently enjoyed entertaining his friends with endless jokes and stories.

Last winter he learnt that he had lung cancer and that it had metastased. Rather than undergoing chemotherapy, he has been having a treatment I have never heard of before: immunotherapy. Miraculously, over the past few months, the secondary cancers retreated and seemed to disappear . We all kept our fingers crossed in what seemed to be a story which defied the laws of probability.

Despite being often tired, Jacky seemed determined to carry on with life as normal, albeit for shorter hours. He has been coming regularly to help with maintenance of the pool and brushed off suggestions that he should bring someone with him to do any hard physical work.

Then yesterday he texted to say he was coming to see me, ostensibly to do something with the pool, but I sensed better. I asked him how the pet scan on Monday had gone. Not well, he said. The oncologist had been visibly upset when she told him that the secondary cancers had returned, with a vengeance. The immunotherapy was no longer doing its work. He will be starting chemotherapy on Monday.

What could I say but give him a hug? He knows how upset I am and I am touched that he had in fact come to break the news himself rather than my hearing it on the grapevine. Together we turned off the basin’s pump prematurely. The sand in the main filter has clogged up. Jacky said he knows he should have changed it before filling up the bassin at the start of the season, but we both know he was not up to it.

He will now be returning with his son, Julien, to show him what has to be done to replace the sand in winter. And, without saying it, I knew what he was at last doing – something till now he has been in denial about – was preparing for when he can no longer look after my bassin. It breaks my heart.

He did not even accept his usual coffee and our session together putting the world to rights. Next time, he promised, when he comes with Julien, coffee will be on the agenda.

Women friends

After Tuesday’s cello concert I had dinner with three of my French women friends: Odile, who lived in my Gite for much of last year, another Odile, who has retired from running a restaurant in Bréau, and Monique, who used to run the campsite in the days when we camped there.

We spent an excellent evening eating (well), drinking (amply) and above all talking – a lot. It has to be said that, since Sylvia died in 2015, what I have missed most here is the women friends I had in Edinburgh. That evening reassured me that yes, I do have good friends here with whom I can talk, discuss and argue.

There remains the barrier – or challenge – of a different cultural, not to mention linguistic mindset. For conversation without these barriers I have to rely on two other good friends, Margaret (Scottish/German) and Dessa (American/Dutch).

I do try to avoid getting sucked into the easier social situation of mixing predominantly with English speakers. Sometimes it cannot be avoided. I’m just about to go to lunch with a very nice elderly couple (Moroccan and French) who have their second home in Bréau. I know that the other guests are Margaret and her husband, and Maria, a South American who speaks English more fluently than French. We will undoubtedly be speaking French throughout the lunch, so it is weird to invite a lot of English speaking guests together.

A photography lesson

My friend Dessa currently has two visitors from Germany: Manos – a professional photographer – and his wife Katya. Yesterday there was a break in this year’s unreliable weather, and we headed off and up into the Cévennes. Manos is here researching possible photo opportunities for the future (he is particularly interested in early churches), while Dessa and I were hoping to watch and learn.

It is so easy to forget that we are just a few miles from one of the most beautiful, unspoilt stretches of rocky and green valleys and mountains. Each time I venture up into the hills I think why don’t I do this more often.

We did not in fact take pictures of this wonderful landscape – that is another project. Instead we were heading for two Romanesque churches, in St André de Valborgne and Pompidou. In fact both churches were a little disappointing, the first because it was not open (as advertised) and the second because. although in a charming rural location, its restoration had not been particularly well done.

But both villages have some striking Cévenol houses, and what we learnt from Manos is how to look around us and notice details. In particular he showed us how to be aware of doors, windows, gates – the little features that make up villages or towns. Of course when he takes a photo there is so often an added clever visual twist- a piece of railing, or steps – which invite the eye to look up and beyond. Why, we asked ourselves, had we not thought of this. Answer: as well as his talent, Manos has years of training and experience behind him. Luckily he is also a good teacher, and we enjoyed his explanations of how to produce a more interesting picture.

I feel rather like a student presenting an unimpressive portfolio, but here are my photos. I’m hoping Manos will have time to look at them on Monday and give me a few more tips.

Graeme, a polymath

“If there had been a Nobel prize for polymaths,” said the novelist, Ian Macewan, “it would have to go to Graeme Mitchison.”

He was speaking at the Memorial Day for my lifelong friend, Graeme, who died last year. And what a day it was.

In the afternoon there were several sessions attended by scientists who discussed Graeme’s contributions. According to Tim Mitchison, his cousin (an eminent professor of biology at Harvard), whom I sat opposite at dinner, these sessions were quite moving, as mathematicians, quantum physicists and biologists spoke one after another of the immense contributions that Graeme had made in their area, his brilliance, intellectual curiosity, and generosity.

Then there was a concert in King’s College Chapel. Again, musicians talked about his wonderful piano playing but also his immensely popular hosting of musical evenings at his house in Maids Causeway.

The most poignant – most upsetting – moment was when the two young pianists played the Fantasia in F minor by Schubert, one of Graeme’s favourite composers. The sound drifted gently up through the chapel, its mournful theme reducing many of us nearly to tears. It was played exquisitely by James Sherlock and another pianist. James, now conductor of the Copenhagen Opera, used to play this with Graeme. And Graeme was there, in every note.

This was followed by Bach and Dvorak. But nothing touched that raw moment of his presence so much as in the Schubert.

Dinner was in the splendid dining hall of the neighbouring Caius College. Hard to hear as over 100 friends and family all talked with energy, with many reminiscences and memories of moments spent with Graeme. I was overwhelmed by the communal sense of love for this unusual and exceptional man I have known all my life. I hadn’t appreciated how widely he had spread his network of friends in the decades he has lived in Cambridge. And the diversity of his friendships.

The most moving account perhaps came from Ian Macewan, whom he met when they were both visiting the Galápagos Islands. He recounted how Graeme tried to explain string theory to a non-scientist with the aid of three boots and laces. He spoke, as others who followed did, of the incredible range of Graeme’s interests and achievements. Indeed he said that he based a character in one of his novels on Graeme.

Another speaker Phillips Sands, the international human rights lawyer, described how Graeme’s wise comments on a problem he set him caused him to successfully win a case at international court at The Hague. And another eminent academic, who had come from Australia for this day, described an eventful visit to the V and A with Graeme, which ended with the being thrown out after Graeme attempted to discover how the statue of the Three Graces had been assembled – finding the key bolt that held them together. An example of Graeme’s sense of curiosity and mischief. Another described hair raising leaping over dangerous crevices and dodgy paragliding adventures.

They all managed to convey Graeme’s gentle modesty and delight in sharing with his friends. Never a prize winner or professor, but a brilliant and lovely man. Everybody left feeling that they had given him the send off he deserved (though of course he did not believe in an after life).

In the UK

I’m here to attend memorial events in Cambridge for my friend Graeme, who died last year – a short trip, dates constrained by my concert on Tuesday evening and family arriving in France this weekend.

My uneventful flight was enhanced by the presence of a huge number of French school children, going over for an Easter trip to the UK. Next to me sat a small 14 or 15-year-old, who politely offered me some of his Toblerone. He came from Clermont l’Herault and the girl next to him from the village of Octon on the Lac de Salagosse.Ah, I said, I knew a girl of her age who lives in Octon – Mattie, the daughter of some winemakers. Oh yes, she said, Matilde. Small world!

The boy switched to English – good English. I congratulated him on his accent and asked how he came to be speaking so well, had he been often to the UK? No, he replied, clearly pleased at the compliment. He had been once when small with his parents, and once to Sri Lanka, where he practised his English. Otherwise, he tried where possible to watch films on TV in English. He added, with some pride, that this was a cultural trip for children who had performed well in their English classes. Good luck to him, and bravo for the good manners shown.

As usual I was struck by how much colder it is in England and cursed myself for yet again not bringing a warmer coat. It’s is only a few degrees less than in France, but I think the lack of sunshine and increased humidity makes it seem much more.

I have been staying in Dulwich, with Kate and family, so have seen a lot of my grandchildren, Otto and Willow, now nine and seven. I’ve never been good with small children, so I am enjoying all the grandchildren getting older, and watching their very distinctive characters evolve.

Then, via a quick detour to Kentish Town for lunch with my brother-in-law, Peter, up to Cambridge to stay with my cousin, Ursula. She and Nick (away in Berlin) have a delightful house looout over Jesus Green and five minutes from the town centre. It reminds me of many academic houses I have known in Oxford: books, books and more books, piled up in every room and in bookshelves narrowing all passageways. And a decor cheerfully ignoring modern fashions – plumbing and paintwork dating back decades. I was staying in an attic room which was once occupied, when the house was digs, by Ian Macewan (see next blog entry!).

Nice to get to know Ursula’s two daughters, Helen (post doc researcher linguistics researcher at Surrey University) and Frances (!) who works n the Oxfam bookshop.

And now, on a long, tortuous train trip to Gatwick Airport = made worse by major rail problems.

Le traque

Tuesday night I was fizzing with frustration. I was well prepared for the Ecole de Musique’s end of term concert, but then – comme d’habitude- my performance was ruined by nerves.

As soon as I had finished the Allemande from the first Cello Suite of Bach, I wanted to play it again – properly.

I am enjoying my lessons with the cello prof, Anne, and she is painstakingly working on all the ‘mauvaises habitudes’ I have picked up as a largely self taught player.  I have actually felt the improvement in my playing.Still very much a low level amateur, but better than a year ago.  It helps that my shoulder has also been less painful, allowing my bow arm to move better.

In the morning I played for Anne and she was pleased with many of the nuances and phrasing I had achieved. Then come the actual performance in the evening, and unfortunately I was first on stage and had not properly psyched myself up. Also, the spike holder slid slightly on the floor and I was playing in an awkward position.  Too late to adjust this once I had started.

Soooo annoying.  All those little details I had worked on were forgotten, intonation was not as good as it should have been and I stumbled on one or two of the passages that were a bit more tricky. Pah!

I’m relieved I was not the only one: the violinist, Elisabeth, with whom I will be playing a trio next term, had to stop twice because either she or the pianist lost the place.

This was a concert for the adult students and the general level was not bad.  It ended with some lively singing by a chorale class of 20 pupils.  I love the singing teacher, Sabine, who teaches and conducts using her whole body with energetic enthusiasm, as you can see from this last song in the audition.

Chez moi

A different sort of lunch the following day: nine people at my house. Given my energetic pursuit of avoiding the kitchen, this was a meal in which responsibility for the courses was shared out.

Before my Saturday lunches at Fatou’s, I have somehow got drawn into a Saturday morning drink in the Café des Cévennes, with an equally amiable but very different group of people. They all came to lunch yesterday. Nationalities covered are French, British, German and Dutch/American (Dessa!). The common language is French (though sometimes it is hard not to lapse into English if you find yourself beside an anglophone, particularly if the subject is Brexit!).

I was supposed to provide the cheese course but I even managed to delegate this to Dessa, as I was playing in the Ecole de Musique until after the market closed.

So, excellent food and good conversation. This is now going to be a routine gathering of the group.

Chez Fatou

Saturday was a sad day: Fatou offered lunch in her restaurant for the last time. She has sold the business to the cafe across the square and is moving on to new pastures.

Chez Fatou was the smallest restaurant in le Vigan, but with some of the finest food: a wonderful, subtle spicy mixture of African, Middle Eastern and French dishes, served with a cheerful albeit leisurely service.

Fatou is a magnificent, larger than life character: a tall, elegant woman from Mali, with splendid Afro hairstyles, a great smile, strong opinions and a wonderful laugh.

She has – oh dear, had – a regular small clientele of people who loved her food and the casual, friendly ambiance.

On Saturdays there is a regular group of half a dozen friends, whom I sort of know (friends of friends) and gradually over the last year they have welcomed me at their table.

They were there when I arrived (late – but Fatou is more relaxed than most French restaurants about what hour she serves lunch), greeted me – and Poppy – with enthusiasm, and they slid up the bench to make room for me.

Everyone talks with great animation and as so often, neighbouring tables became involved in the conversation. It’s not a place for people who cannot handle noise. The restaurant is a semi-basement cave with no sound insulation, so it is quite a challenge for me sometimes to follow fast flowing conversation in French, accompanied by the wonderfully energetic waving of hands and shrugging of shoulders. (A glass of Fatou’s delicious punch occasionally helps.)

I don’t know where we are going to eat on Saturdays, but with any luck I will enjoy Fatou’s dishes again, as she plans to offer to cook at parties and other events.

A truly Renaissance man

Next month I will be attending a memorial day in Cambridge for my lifelong friend, Graeme Mitchison, who died last year.

When I received the invitation and detailed programme, which includes sessions on maths, biology and a concert, as well as the usual dinner and speeches, I once again found myself thinking of this remarkable man, whom I have known since we were small children and will always miss. Amazingly I have found the best obituary in one of my bêtes-noires, the Daily Telegraph.  I have sneakily reproduced it here.

Obituary in Daily Telegraph