Christmas is Coming

   I thought that, when I spent time in France, my French would improve. So far that does not appear to be the case.  It could be due to the fact that, in Menton, on the border with Italy, you are as likely to hear Italian as French. On the other hand, it could be that I am so obviously English (or maybe American), that as soon as I try to speak French in a shop or bar, I am answered in English—sometimes worse than my French. I seem to be using a mixture of languages, slipping in an English word when I can’t remember the French. I am getting by.

   In an effort to remedy the language situation, I have signed up for French lessons at the library.  The teacher, Régine, is very kind and very patient. At the first lesson, I didn’t completely embarrass myself and  managed to stutter out a couple of sentences but there is a lot of work to be done. I think I’ll take my pencil case next time, perhaps that will aid my concentration. But in the meantime, I MUST PRACTICE.

   When I talked about my routine in the last blog, I forgot to mention the most important thing that has been part of my routine as long as I can remember. Reading. I read for at least half an hour each morning, more at night and at any time during the day, if there is nothing else going on, I pick up my book. 

   I’ve borrowed Middle England by Jonathan Coe from the English library. A few years ago, I thoroughly enjoyed the bizarreness of his book, Number 11  and hearing that he had a new book out called Bourneville, I decided to read another of his books before spending any money.  I think I’m enjoying Middle England more because I'm reading it here in France. I’m not sure if it is that England looks better from a distance or if it is because the book takes me back to my younger days—I can picture all of roads and places that he describes in and around Birmingham.  It gives me a feeling of Home. Whatever the reason I’m enjoying reading it. It’s human, well observed, funny and it brings back the political shambles that surrounded  Brexit, a time that has almost been wiped from memory by the chaos of the pandemic. 

   But then, I enjoy any book that I can relate to, be it in place, person or feelings.

   The light is so beautiful here I can’t stop taking pictures. It's  just as well that I can’t paint, otherwise I’d never got any writing done.     

Even with leaden skies there is hope of light on the horizon

On the subject of light, I wonder why it is that going outside and opening the shutters in the morning, is so much more satisfying than pulling back the curtains.

   My friend, Gill, has been with me for the last few days and we’ve been exploring Menton together. Sadly she brought some English weather with but like true Brits we haven’t let wind and rain deter us.  We had promised ourselves a visit to the Jean Cocteau Collection but finding the museum closed (for restoration work),  we had to console ourselves with clothes shopping, exploring the unbelievable organised chaos that is the  Allo Robert brocante emporium (it’s way beyond a mere shop) and trying numerous cafes and restaurants for coffee, lunch, dinner...

   Friday evening we enjoyed an hour of jazz in St John’s Church and came out to find that all the Christmas lights had been switched on. Magical. 

   On Gill's final day, in an effort to escape the rain in Menton, we drove along the coast, into Italy. San Remo was busy with shoppers and Gill treated me to coffee and cake before the rain caught up with us. We got a little lost driving out of San Remo and took the scenic route through the suburbs, before ending up on the autostrada—an amazing stretch of road, that is a series of impossibly high viaducts, connecting the mountains, and long tunnels, cutting through them.

I am happy to report that the rain did stop, mid afternoon— just as we stopped for a siesta, the sun  broke through the clouds!