The shortest, though not the only, way from Harry’s home to the multi-purpose, all-in-one, unisex shower / toilet / wash-up and laundry block is via these eleven steps. So for now at least “I’m going up the steps” (possibly follwed by “I may be some time”) is the current euphemism for …. I’m going round the corner, or … to the little room, or …. whatever else …. Use your imagination.

There was an incident on the steps yesterday ….

When Carol tripped and nearly broke her nose back at Alet a few weeks ago, I’m afraid I was not first on the scene. That gold medal went to young, handsome, fit Richard (the bounder; he must have been a bounder – he was there in one bound!), from the tent just below our pitch. However, yesterday when a little girl, five years old maybe, tripped on the steps and cut her knee – a bit; not as much blood as Carol managed! – I was first there! In fact, for a while, I was the only person there, having just come down the steps myself. So what was I to do? Follow any dad or grandad’s instinct and go and pick her up, tell her it was alright and we’d go and find Mummy, or be afraid of recriminations and accusations of child molesting, or whatever? Of course I took the former option. The little girl had stayed on the step where she had fallen, but her loo roll had made off like it was in an Andrex advert, taking in several steps in its bid for freedom! So I had to pick that up as well. Now, I’ve no idea whether the little one understood anything I said – I was an Englishman speaking French and she turned out to be Dutch, but she replied to “Où est ta tente ou ton car?” with an aproppriate gesture and we went there, with the loo roll trailing behind us. By now that mother’s insticnt (which leaves us amazed, though it shouldn’t – sheep do it all the time!,) by which a Mum can recognise her own child’s crying from some distance away, had kicked in, and Mum and sisters were running up from the games area near the café. 

There were no objections to what I’d done, just lots of ‘merci’ from all of them, and the sisters seemed slightly amused by my ongoing attempts to wind in the loo roll, a task which they took over …

I have to say, I enjoy being smiled at and greeted by people of all ages, nationalities and both sexes. ‘Don’t talk to strangers’ doesn’t seem to apply. Is ‘stranger danger’ exaggerated in the UK? After all, most abuse takes place within the family, or extended family. Or are children who smile and say ‘bonjour’ to a funny, fat, old foreigner not being adequately warned of the dangers? Discuss, if you want. Or not, if you don’t.

We watched the opening ceremony – all of it, thru to ‘Hey Jude’ on French television, in a thunderstom! During the night the rain turned to hail which tore up our parasol! Eagle-eyed readers may like to play ‘spot the difference’ between this photo and previous ones: 

As for the Olympic opening, general opinion here, as far as we can tell, is very impressed with the show, though maybe sections of it were a bit long, and we didn’t appreciate how the Arctic Monkeys fitted in! Anyway – Wiggins is winning once more! 

We’ve visted Mirepoix, which is the nearest big town to the house. The centre is very old with a square of arcades and lots of cafés and gift shops.

There’s also a good supermarket. 

We’ve jumped in the lake quite frequently, but haven’t ‘pushed the boat out’ on Montbel yet. We were going to on the 31^st, but it was a very fine, hot, day and by the time we got there finding a parking space at the beachy bit was impossible, so we came back und swam in ‘our’ lake instead. 

Yesterday evening we had English Fish et Chips at the market just outside the campsite, enhanced by an almost full moon.

We sat next to some French people (local, but from Alsace) who took an interest in us. We were drinking white wine from a 500cl mineral water bottle, at the sight of which the man next to me said (in French), thinking it was water, ‘You shouldn’t drink that, you should drink wine!’ – ‘It is wine’ – ‘What?’ He picked up the bottle and took the top off. He didn’t actually drink any, but he had a good sniff, and realising it was wine he said ‘petit voyou!’ (You little rascal!). So in the space of three weeks I’ve been called a ‘rosbif’ and a ‘petit voyou’! All in good spirit, of course. 

Thanks to David S. and Chris T. For help in saving the photos (sample below) and to Meg for assistance with the inevitable paperchase in which French bureaucracy is threatening to overwhelm us!