Dabbler Diary – A fortnight in France

With Gaw still on holiday in France, today’s diary comes from Toby Ash… and is about his holiday in France…

The holiday kicked off with a splendid buffet dinner on the overnight ferry from Plymouth to Roscoff. Needless to say the boat had a French crew. There was a wonderful selection of langoustines, oysters, salmon and other gastronomic marvels, which tasted all the better with the prospect of two weeks of sunshine lying deliciously ahead. My memories of Sealink ferry crossings in my childhood consist mainly of drunk football fans, puke covered decks and cold chips. Things have definitely improved. Anyway, a bottle of Pinot Noir later and we’re chatting to the chap on the next door table, who turned out to be Cynthia Lennon’s former partner and very jolly company.

***

Our first week was spent down south, where I learnt a valuable lesson: don’t revisit the places of happy childhood memories. Thirty years ago we enjoyed two wonderful family holidays in a small Languedoc village close to the sea. I remember them and the place so vividly: The four kilometre drive from the nearby town; the small air field on our right; a winding road through a vineyard into the village; the slow drive past the boulangerie, across the village square and down the cobbled lane to the house, with the huge fruit laden fig tree by the front door. Then there were the days we spent on the beach at Sète, where I would innocently paddle my inflatable dinghy to nearby the Cap d’Agde, one of Europe’s largest naturist resorts. “Those are definitely the biggest I’ve seen all day!” I’d joyfully shriek. Oh, happy days.

Well, the village is still four kilometres away from the town. And the ramshackle aerodrome is still there. But the road now gently descends to rows of identical Lego-like houses – angel delight coloured blocks with white plastic shutters, high fences and closed gates. The boulangerie is derelict; there are no shops in the village at all now. The cobbled street has been tarmacked and the fig tree cut down. And the lovely old village house? Well, re-rendered beyond recognition and painted a hideous blancmange pink. The house next door, once occupied by a kind elderly couple, has also been “refurbished”, shuttered up and renamed “Schroder”. All very distressing.

I didn’t even get to paddle off Sète beach – there was nowhere to park within two miles of it. Probably best, thinking about it.

***

Our second week was spent in Shangri-La (or Shangri oh là là)-Sur-Lot in an extraordinary gîte in a small hamlet overlooking a valley of fields and woodland. It was originally an old barn which the owner had converted into a Chinese house. No kidding. It was like walking onto the set of The Water Margin – all intricately carved beds, gongs and koi carp (please feed twice a day). There was even a 25 metre infinity pool. As you swam to the end you expected to see a tropical lagoon unfold before your eyes. Instead you got a field full of Charolais cattle.

The owner was an artist who, according to the neighbours, spends most of his time in Paris and Bangkok and created the large Buddha statues that can be found in the trendy Buddha bar in Paris. That’s the thing about renting holiday houses from websites like Owners Direct – you never quite know who you’ll be renting from. A fun house for a holiday but I’m not sure I could live there all year round.

***

It seems eye infections are de rigeur for Dabblers this summer. I, however, was fortunate enough to have mine in France. Two days before we were due to leave I woke up feeling as if my left eye had been stabbed with a knitting needle. Gripped with pain and semi-blindness I sat up way too fast and hit my head on a Manchu ceremonial wood carving above my intricately carved Chinese bed, leaving me writhing and whimpering on the futon mattress.

I bravely managed to get myself to the nearby small town where a pharmacist took one look and said: “Monsieur, you need to see an eye doctor immediately”. My heart sank. The nearest city was more than 60 kms away. “Just go left up there,” she pointed, sensing my despair. “Go to the house with the green shutters”. So off I groped, and I soon stumbled into the surgery of Docteur Yves. Within 10 minutes I was hooked up to a machine that let the heroic Docteur look into the inner workings of my eye. A (perilously deep, I believe he said) scratched cornea that had become infected. I confessed to him that I had been swimming in the river the day before. He looked horrified: “Oh, les microbes!”

Docteur Yves lovingly applied life-saving drops and potions and I began to feel I was at last being hauled back from the abyss. In fact, by ten o’clock I was enjoying a large café au lait and pain au chocolat and planning the day ahead.

What would have happened in the UK? A GP appointment the same day if I was lucky, and then a referral? Or perhaps a miserable four hour wait in the casualty department? I don’t like knocking the NHS, it’s just that I would rather be ill in France.

Dabbler Diary is brought to you by Glengoyne single malt whisky – the Dabbler’s choice.
Share This Post

About Author Profile: Toby Ash

A former journalist, Toby now works a consultant in the private and humanitarian sectors. When not in deepest Cornwall or darkest London, he trots the globe taking stunning photos which you can see on his Instagram account - @toby_ash

6 thoughts on “Dabbler Diary – A fortnight in France

  1. Worm
    August 24, 2012 at 09:52

    gosh what’s up with Dabblers and eyes?? Perhaps it’s too long spent staring at computer screens

    Your observation about ferries is definately true, they really have upped their game and moved away (a bit) from the weird hell ships of the past, although every time I go on one I still find myself amazed at the weird Bruegelian grotesques that one sees, ensconced in shiny shell suits, off to load up on white vans full of golden virginia.

  2. info@shopcurious.com'
    August 24, 2012 at 11:37

    Enjoyed reading about your holiday travels and travails, Toby.

    I hope these eye infections aren’t catching – and that Brit is all-seeing again now? I recently visited what is now Boots for a contact lens check, where the young female optician appeared to be rather alarmed by the condition of my eyes – in fact her concerned look worried me… then she said, “I’m sorry to inform you there are red lines in your eyes.” I explained that I wasn’t surprised as I’d been suffering from hayfever. “No,” she said, “these lines are dfferent, they are the sort of red lines that are caused by lack of oxygen – if you remove your contact lenses they will take several days to go away.” I wasn’t aware there were various types of red lines, but I soon worked out that these must be something to do with a new (and more expensive) type of disposable contact lens that allows more oxygen into the eye… That’s the private sector for you. Don’t think the NHS supplies contact lenses?

    • Worm
      August 24, 2012 at 11:56

      If the NHS do provide contact lenses I imagine that they’d be made from poorly polished and brittle bits of old coke bottles

  3. johngjobling@googlemail.com'
    malty
    August 24, 2012 at 11:44

    France has never been the same since Tommy Wolsey organised that picnic for his gaffer, Henry Tudor and that French half-wit Frankie one. Both sitting there on the gold car rug, all Tupperwared up, Henry dictating terms, little Frankie nodding assent, Tommy accumulating dosh from the pope’s bulls, all the while the porridge scoffers gathering at Carter bar.

    Why, dear lord, do we not have a Thomas Wolsey in our midst, Hollande would have been minus his napper by now. As for the Ecuadorians, in the tower mate, that’s what.

  4. Gaw
    August 24, 2012 at 12:47

    Lovely, and especial thanks for not mentioning the Olympics.

  5. andrewnixon@blueyonder.co.uk'
    August 24, 2012 at 13:07

    “France – a great place to have an eye infection.”

Comments are closed.