The Startling Adventures of a Girl, and Boy, and a dSLR
E and I are off to the South of France for three weeks. His relatives (great-uncle and his wife?) are holding a huge party to celebrate their silver anniversary, and they just so happen to live in a tiny hilltop village in the Aude province. E’s family were invited, at which I was invited, and they are staying a fortnight. Then, my parents decided a holiday was in order and booked the same gîte for the week after E’s family leave. Thus, we get three weeks in the Med.
That’s the background. Just so you know.
Today ran rather smoothly. Mum drove E and I to Stansted in the early hours, and we met E’s family (mother, sister, aunt, uncle, cousins X2, grandma. Check.) Sent off luggage and passed through customs – E was surprisingly not frisked by the burly security guard, for the first time ever – and sat in the boarding lounge during Ryanair’s complimentary one-hour delay.
By the way, I found this question while checking their website. It made me laugh.
Boarded the plane, sat in terror for a couple of hours, bounced (not once, not twice, but) three times on landing, collected bags. Then came finding the hire car/Vehicle of Terror, and the journey to the supermarket, and then through the hills to the gîte. This included a half-mile drive backwards, up a mountain, avoiding the sheer drops on either side when faced with a combine harvester coming the other way.
And then, we were here.
The gîte is charming, but – with one shower, six beds and a double futon – not really meant for nine people. I foresee a privacy issue. Also, the nearest town with anything other than houses, cats, and a Catholic church, is 15 clicks away. And no, there is no bus.
Cazalrenoux it is, then. Just me, E, and a camera. Plus, come Saturday, 120 English people. Now, where’s the pool?...