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السبت، 19 سبتمبر 2009

The Cares Gorge


Coffee in Asturias was becoming a problem. We had forgotten our espresso maker and besides the coffee in Spain was good, right? Trouble was we couldn't seem to get any before ten. Thus we were making later starts than intended. And then there was the temptation of that swim first thing, and those wave-induced smiles of Julian's as he bobbed and ducked...

Anyway, for our second attempt at a Short Walk Before Lunch (we had our eye on the place mentioned in the Guardian as serving highly calorific simple fare) we were on the mountain road by eleven. We chose not to have our coffee in either of the places called Poo (little did we know how symbolic these places would become)but instead in a small market town. In Arenas de Cabrales we replenished our walking sock supply in a shop that sold everything that you could possibly want and in which there there was not a single bar code. (Gold medallion souvenir blue cheese? Sure. Skip in back to brown box. Waterproof trousers? Sure. Skip in back to another brown box etc) Then, at my insistence, we bought a litre of water, a hunk of bread and a block of the cheese for which the region was famous. We were ready for our morning walk. In fact we were ready for anything. Almost. 'Just a quick visit to the tourist office' I said.

Julian hates tourist offices. He is the kind of guy that, rather than go to the information centre right in front of him to find out where the map shop is, he will walk round the entire town trying to find it. He is not a tourist office kind of guy. He is the kind of guy who eats the picnic while his wife is in the tourist office.

'The Cares gorge from Poncebos to Cain is only three hours each way' I said, emerging to find teeth marks in the cheese. 'Surely we can do it?'



Needless to say, our budget fabada (the highly calorific simple Asturian bean stew with chorizo and black pudding) at Casa Moran in Benia did not happen that day either. However, we did have a very tasty Magnum (a highly calorific simple chocolate covered ice cream popsicle thing) in Cain with our feet plunged in icy river water and the sun beating on our shoulders


.

Le Tour de France arrive

Le Tour de France arrive




I awoke early. As I watered the lavender, I felt a warmth on my back and the flower bed was suddenly illuminated. I turned, and saw the sun rise above the shoulder of the Mont Ventoux.

I am not a competitive sports kind of person. I like walking, swimming, jogging. Solitary stuff. A deux at most. I am wondering what it is that excites me about the Tour de France passing by us. Julian is riveted and has managed, for the past three weeks, to paint whilst having it on the screen to the side of his easel. All I know is that I love Lance and want one of those wrist bands, and that if I look closely, he will be the one en danseuse with black socks. And that there is a British guy. Not enough, surely, to fire me up?

Last night I came back from town at eight. It was still thirty degrees and Madame Ventoux was all pink and had a cloud would round her like a feather boa. Meanwhile, camper vans and tents were beginning to line the route the cyclists will take tomorrow.

This morning Julian and I took a trip to Sault. As we drove around the flanks of the mountain we could see a glinting ring of what looked like diamonds circling its neck. Camper vans never looked so pretty.

The Lavender capital was getting ready. The Tour de France van was putting up its arrows and Sault had its lavender and wheat prayer flags flying, but apart from that business was as usual and the harvest continued.


Meanwhile, in our fridge, we had a dodgy map of road closures, a leg of lamb, lots of cute aubergines and three kilos of the last cherries for our Tour Barbecue. And nine anticipated guests. If they could get through the road closures.


We drove home. We drove up and down the mountain, up out of the valley of lavender, into the pine forest and down into the vineyards and cherry trees.

I realized that what I am moved by is the waiting mountain. By noon tomorrow 700,000 people will be paying homage to 156 cyclists paying homage to her. She is so majestic in her waiting, in her receiving the puffed out sports people, puffed up locals, and tourists. Though we see her every day, she is, as ever, so very beautiful




.

Picu Uriellu
















Our budget lunch at Casa Moran in Benia finally happened on the next, a very tired and rainy day. After a refreshing stroll along the river at La Molina we enjoyed another fabada, served with almost spooky intention by a Spanish version of Mrs Danvers. I was learning to leave the chips that came with everything. Julian, meanwhile, was learning to finish them for me. Having rested and lunched, and planning a final day of more of the same (this time on the beach and at Casa Marcial) before we left on Monday, we were up early for our final big walk on Saturday. By that time we had sussed that you could get great coffee at eight, and the best breakfast in the world of a ham tortilla bocadillo for the price of a pee in Euston station in the walkers Café Cares in Arenas. There you could also whet your appetite by admiring the impressive array of photographs from climbers of the Picos de Europa that hung on the walls and were dedicated to the owner who had clearly provided them with much of their fuel. Julian’s bocadillo filled smile that morning was, I think, his biggest yet!We started off, well supplied, at Canares, after a steep and stunning ascent in the car past Tielve. Red roofs and green pastures were caught in the morning rays and cheesemakers went about their early cheesemaking tasks. We parked and tried to decide between raingear and fleece, long and short trousers as the cloudless sky mocked our wavering. The walk to the refuge at Picu Uriellu was on a good path over grassy slopes, through heather, past cows and goats and horses and remote farm buildings. We didn't talk much except for a few tips from the mountaineering maestro to his mistress. 'Straighten your knees. Try taking bigger steps.' I took Julian's advice, adding the advice I give to my cello students (and indeed myself). 'As soon as you arrive on a finger you are leaving it. Use every joint as a spring board. The impulse comes from your middle. It's all about throwing yourself off balance and the limb swinging effortlessly forward to try and recreate the balance.....' As the path became steeper, snake like and on scree, I found I was less puffed out. The square peak loomed tall and silver in the distance. Meanwhile I couldn't help being just a litle pissed off that Julian could walk up a mountain having not moved for two years (since our holiday in Skye I believe) whilst I, having jogged all year round and swam an hour a day all summer, still lagged behind.










By the time we got to the refuge and dug into our country bread and the blue cheese from the valley we had just left, we were both feeling strong, joyous, slim and fit!That evening we joined the weekend throngs in Llanes for grilled squid and baby eels sizzling with hot peppers. We had a velvety Rioja. We saw a wedding and heard bagpipes and retired to the sound of waves and the cowbells, the sound that was beginning to feel like home.









Mary Travers is Dead

Mary Travers has died at age 72. Her group, Peter, Paul, and Mary, were often scorned by folk purists who disdained their popularization of the folk idiom in the early-60s. But there can be little doubt that the group's harmonies opened mainstream US society folk, with its long history of advocacy for civil rights, unions, and peace.

Through their covers of Bob Dylan's songs, at a time when mainstream listeners would have been unwilling to listen to his decidedly un-Bobby Vee voice, created a broader interest in Dylan the composer and performer, placeholding for Dylan, so to speak, before he himself could go mainstream (or electric)

In the 1970s, Travers hosted a radio show syndicated for broadcast on Album Oriented Rock (AOR) stations. The guest on her first show was Dylan, who had apparently accepted Travers' invitation out of deference to the important role Peter, Paul, and Mary had played in his career, because Dylan wasn't giving many interviews in those days and when he did, he left things as oblique and uncomfortable for the interviewer as possible.

Grateful or not, Dylan still insisted on giving, in turn, dadaist or nearly confrontational responses to Travers earnest attempts at conversation. It all started badly when Travers told Dylan how much she'd enjoyed his then-latest release, Blood on the Tracks (1974), an LP that largely chronicled the break-up of his first marriage. Dylan didn't accept the compliment, telling Travers that he found it hard to understand how anybody could enjoy that much pain.

Maybe she hadn't "enjoyed" the collection, Travers responded uncomfortably. Maybe "appreciated" was a better word.

Later, Travers tried to engage Dylan in a discussion about songwriting. "Do you write songs?" Dylan asked, reversing roles on Travers, once more adding to her discomfort. She explained that she wrote poetry and discussed it at some length. Dylan's response: "Uh huh."

I couldn't help thinking of that interview when, some years later, it was announced that Dylan would host his own satellite radio show. But you can bet he would never leave himself in the position of being as vulnearble as Travers did thirty-five years ago.

But that seems evocative of the same admirable quality that led to Peter, Paul, and Mary's success. Travers never aspired to be a professional singer, but one thing led to another. No master plan, just a girl with a voice, who sang the next song she was asked to sing.

I was never a Peter, Paul, and Mary fan. But they could be pleasant enough to listen to on my parents' Stromberg Carlon stereo. (Dad had ordered several of P, P, & M albums and put their songs on whenever friends came by to play Canasta.)

Though Dylan may have been too cool and egotistical to overtly acknowledge his debt to P, P, & M, they cleared a path to the mainstream not only for folk music, but also for the political sensibility that was so important in Dylan's music and that of so many others.

God give comfort and peace to Mary Travers' family.

[The picture above, to the left is of Bob Dylan, Donovan, and Travers. Click to enlarge.]

What Harm Can It Do ?

Last week on my day off, I took a nice afternoon nap. After about an hour's sleep, I awoke and a name immediately popped into my mind. It was the name of a woman who graduated from seminary several years ahead of me, some twenty-eight years ago. I've not had contact with her in about ten years, have had no conversations about her, and hadn't even heard her name in all that time.

"Why did I think of her name?" I wondered.

No matter, I decided. This was a good reason to pray for her and, if I could find her address, send an email to her way just to let her know that, as the result of the strange emergence of her name in my sleep-fogged brain as I awoke, I had prayed for her.

I prayed, "Lord, whatever it is that X needs, provide for her needs. Bless her and give her a sense of Your love for her." That night, I also included her in my bedtime prayers.

Then, I sent an email to X.

A day later, I received a reply, "Thanks for the Prayers, God never ceases to amaze me!" She went on to explain that over the course of three years, she'd suffered from six light strokes and that, because she also suffered from diabetes and other maladies, she had taken what's known as "continuing disability" status as a pastor. She was no longer physically able to do parish work day-in and day-out. She went on to explain though, that she had missed working with youth so badly, that she was now tutoring students part-time in a local school system, in addition to filling in for pastors who had to be away from their congregations on Sunday mornings. Beside dealing with her own issues, she also is helping her mother, no longer able to drive after suffering from her own more serious stroke several years ago.

It's possible that God planted X's name in my brain, knowing full well that she needed help and seeking the invitation of some intercessor on her behalf. (In fact, I believe that God did exactly that!) South Korean pastor, David Yonggi Cho, has said that "the Holy Spirit is a gentleman," meaning that God never forces Himself into any situation.

Like the anxious underclassman on the sidelines of a football game who begs, "Send me in, Coach," God wants to be invited into our world and into the lives of people to bring wholeness, healing, comfort, guidance, and hope.

The Bible makes it clear that prayer isn't really something we do at our initiative. Unbeknownst to us, our prayers really start with God's Holy Sprit. Paul writes in Romans, "...we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, Who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God" (Romans 8:26-27).

But even if you can't believe that the thought of that nearly-forgotten name flashing across your brain as you wake from a nap was put there by God, what harm can there be in responding to that strange occurrence by offering a simple prayer, something like, "Lord, in the Name of Jesus, help X"?

It can't do any harm and it just might do some good.

How to Keep Our Mouths Under Control (Or, Getting Free of Being a Gossip)

[This was shared during worship with the people of Saint Matthew Lutheran Church in Logan, Ohio, earlier today.]

James 3:1-12
A true story, one told by a pastor, Rick Eshbaugh. One evening, he was alone with his kids, while his wife was out crafting porcelain dolls at a doll-making class. While he chatted with a neighbor on his front porch, the telephone rang. Eshbaugh’s son, Craig, then five years old, answered. “I was proud to hear Craig answer the phone promptly and politely,” he says. “[But] My pride [turned into embarrassment] as I heard my son’s response to the caller’s request to speak to my wife: ‘No [Craig said], my mom’s not here. She’s out making a baby. But my dad is here if you want to talk to him.’”

Over the past several weeks, our second Bible lessons have been drawn from the New Testament book of James. James is a book that challenges us to consider how we live out our faith in Jesus Christ, particularly within God’s only eternal family, the Church.

In today’s second lesson, James addresses a very practical issue for Christians and the Church: How we use the gift of communication and speech. Or, how we use our tongues, as James would put it.

James was appalled at how Christians could use their mouths to praise God in worship one moment, pray to God for blessings the next, and then use those same mouths to run down other people who, just like us, are made in the image of God and for whom, also just like us, Jesus died and rose.

James isn’t concerned with the innocent mistakes made by people like little Craig Eshbaugh when he told a caller that his mom was making babies nor was he talking about the things we say that emanate from innocent ignorance.

Instead, James is talking about the deliberate use we make of speech that rips people down, that passes on gossip, that lifts us up at the expense of others, or that hurts the fellowship of the Church in which Jesus commands us to love one another as He has loved us. In short, James addresses speech that dishonors God.

He minces no words about the destruction wrought by our words or where their destructive power comes from.

And he says that without personal surrender to Jesus Christ, the use of our speech will always be more reflective of hell than of heaven. Listen to some of what James says, as his words are rendered in the translation of the Bible known as, The Message:

We get it wrong nearly every time we open our mouths. [I certainly can identify with that!] If you could find someone whose speech was perfectly true, you'd have a perfect person, in perfect control of life.

A bit in the mouth of a horse controls the whole horse. A small rudder on a huge ship in the hands of a skilled captain sets a course in the face of the strongest winds. A word out of your mouth may seem of no account, but it can accomplish nearly anything—or destroy it!

It only takes a spark, remember, to set off a forest fire. A careless or wrongly placed word out of your mouth can do that. By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell.

This is scary: You can tame a tiger, but you can't tame a tongue—it's never been done. The tongue runs wild, a wanton killer. With our tongues we bless God our Father; with the same tongues we curse the very men and women he made in his image. Curses and blessings out of the same mouth! My friends, this can't go on.
In Medieval times, a woman visited a monk. He was a man admired for giving holy, sensible advice. The woman realized, she said, that she had become a terrible gossip, the purveyor of hurtful words. She wondered what she should do.

The monk told her to go through the village and bag all the goose feathers she could find. Then, she should lay a feather at the doorstep of every person about whom she had gossiped. After that, she should return to the monk.

The woman dutifully did what the monk directed her to do and returned to him. The monk said, "That's great. Now go back to each of those doorsteps and collect the goose feathers you left behind. Then, come back here." When the woman returned for yet another visit to the monk, she reported that all the feathers had been blown away by the wind.

"That’s the point, of course," the monk told her. "We can be forgiven the sin of gossiping about others. If you repent for it, God surely will forgive you. Those you have violated may do the same. But no matter whether you are forgiven or not, the damage will have been done. Gossip spreads as though carried aloft by the wind and you can't bring it back. So, be careful about what you say."

When I look at my life, I find that almost every problem I’ve ever experienced has been caused by my unwise speech, words used that denigrated or damaged others, words that told half-truths, words that conveyed hurtful speculation about the character or motives of others. I’ve repented for those things. But I realize that the damage done, like a bell that can’t be unrung, can never be reversed.

In his explanation of God’s Eighth Commandment, “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor,” Martin Luther writes in The Small Catechism, “We are to fear and love God so that we do not betray, slander, or lie about our neighbor, but defend him, speak well of him, and explain his actions in the kindest way.” Not only are we not to lie about others, we’re to put the most positive spin on their actions and motives that we can. (And that includes what we say about politicians in Washington you and I will never meet!) If we love the God Who loved us all the way to the cross, we’ll take the call to the right use of our words seriously.

But how do we do that? Here are a few thoughts from one recovering mis-user of speech to another.

First: We surrender our brains and our mouths to God, along with the rest of us. A good prayer to offer each day might be the one in Psalm 119:14: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.”

Second: Before we open our mouths to share something critical of another, we should ask ourselves, “Does this help anything?” In the book of Ephesians, we read these words: “Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that your words may give grace to those who hear.” (Ephesians 4:29)

Third: We ask ourselves another question: Would we say these words to Jesus Christ? In a very real way, whether our words build others up or tear them down, Christ hears every one of them. As Jesus once said, “There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.” Jesus has said that when we encounter others, we really meet Him. Do we think that Jesus wants to hear our gossip?

Finally, I want to say a word to all of you who, like me, have already scattered too many goose feathers to the wind. It can be appropriate for you to apologize to the people who have been hurt by your intemperate words. Although I must say, I don't feel fanatical about this. In my former parish, a woman told me that just the week before, she'd gotten a call from a man she'd dated forty years earlier. He wanted to apologize for something she had long forgotten from that period. But what’s most appropriate when we misuse the gift of speech to run others down is to ask God for His forgiveness and for the power to keep our tongues under His control in the future.

Proverbs 22:1 says, “A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, and favor is better than silver or gold.” Those of us who are saved in the Name of Jesus Christ choose each day whether we will honor Christ’s Name or not by deciding whether we’ll care about the names and the reputations of others as though they bore our own names and reputations.

May we live in such dependence on Christ that we choose Christ’s way by letting Him control our mouths along with the rest of our lives.


[During this morning's adult Sunday School class, as we looked at the text from James, I mentioned the George Harrison song, Devil's Radio. Below is a video of a live performance of the song by Harrison, played during his 1991-1992 tour of Japan with Eric Clapton and band. The video image is slightly out of sync with the sound, but it's a good performance.

الجمعة، 18 سبتمبر 2009

Meanwhile in France

It’s been a heady year for keeping track of the global auto industry. The General Motors and Chrysler bailouts and bankruptcies, the return of Fiat to the U.S. market (and as savior of Chrysler), not to mention the sales struggles of Toyota, Honda’s hybrid problems, the zany Porsche-VW takeover tango, and the overall sense of gloom and doom that’s settled on carland. Oh sure, the electric vehicle realm is hot and heavy, and cash for clunkers saved the U.S. economy, but for the most part, despair and turmoil have been the order of the day.

During all this, I’ve regrettably neglected France. An easy thing to do, as French cars haven’t been sold in the U.S. since the 1990s. France is essentially two car companies, Renault and Peugeot. Renault is wedded to Nissan, so the tendency is to talk about the two automakers in the same breath. Peugeot, on the other hand, is more like the VW of France (in fact, it’s second only to VW in terms of European car companies—a distant second).

Peugeot has endured its own troubles during the great automotive downturn of ’09. It received a bailout from the French government and canned its controversial CEO, Christian Streiff, who was well known for lasting on 100 days at Airbus before he ended up out of the plane business and in the car game (just as Airbus is no Boeing, Steiff is no Alan Mulally, former Boeing CEO and now CEO of Ford). Several years ago, Peugeot was making noise about retuning to the U.S., but with declining sales at home—it sold less than 2 million vehicles in 2008 and is doing worse in 2009—that ambition seems to be off.



Which is too bad, as Peugeot builds cars that are both compact and full of Gallic flair. (It also owns Citröen, a few classic examples of which can still be seen prowling various American urban enclaves.) They don’t look American, they don’t look Japanese, and they don’t look German. Many are designed for fuel-efficiency and could probably develop a devoted following in the U.S., especially since the domestic market is more up-for-grabs, with the shrinking of GM. Exchange rates could be an issue, but if Fiat CEO Sergio Marchionne is right and a global carmaker needs to produce 5.5 million cars annually to be profitable, then Peugeot needs to at least reconsider seizing an historic opportunity to make a run at the world’s biggest market, the U.S.

People like me remember the 1970s and ’80s, when our roadways featured a greater variety of imported automobiles. These days, “import” really just means German or Japanese. And unfortunately, many, many German and Japanese cars are just kind of boring. The presence of Fiats and Peugeots could heighten our appreciation of our homegrown product, which even though beleaguered, still has the power to captivate (I’ll put a Corvette up against a Maserati any day, and I challenge BMW to ever create anything as cool as the Ford Flex).

Although I guess there is the small matter of Peugeot getting its house in order. However, Fiat could still be in the market for a partner, assuming it doesn’t manage to get back into a deal to acquire Opel, GM’s main European brand. That would get Peugeot, in some shape or form—potentially—back in the U.S.A.



.

The Painter's Garden 2


I continue to shovel car-loads of manure from the nice equestrian folk across the
orchard, and pile it on to the Painter's plot. It's steamy work for thirty seven
degrees, but the Painter assures me it is worthwhile. Meanwhile, this is our prize
plant on the terrace this year: A Sicilian courgette - Zuccha Lunghissima di Sicilia
- which seeds we bought in Puglia whilst visiting my Mum last year. It produces
moon coloured flowers that shimmer in the night, and has curled its way round
every available bean stem with pale green tentacles, and a long and slightly furry
sausage of courgettishness which is delicious lightly steamed in salads or stir-
fries. Other folk that are doing well from seed, also of Italian origin, are Cima di
Rape and Purple Sprouting Broccoli
.

Lavender Harvest


They are just beginning the lavender harvest on the other side of the Mont


Ventoux, at Sault. The route was crawling with cyclists doing the mountain in


advance of their cher Lance, so it took a while to reach the summit before


dropping down in to the purple sea. Luckily we forgot to bring any money with us



so we were not seduced by the heady scent in to losing the day to a boozy lunch as



we have been in the past






.






L'Etape de Tour

Today nine and a half thousand people passed through our village on the Etape de Tour, an everyman (and his bike)'s rehearsal for the real Tour de France which will pass by on Saturday.

I was on my way back from the pool, on my bike because our roads were all closed. The market had been shunted up to the route de Flassan and everything was deliciously clear.



I was in an expanded stretched-out breathed-into post Monday morning swim world when I noticed that everyone was cheering me. It was then that I heard the plastic bottles under tyre, saw the banana skins and realized they thought I had come all the way from Montelimar and was on my sprightly way up to the summit of the Mont Ventoux. The bike bullets whizzed past, many on mobile phones (Mom I made it as far as Bedoin! Is the beer cooling in Malaucène?). There was music. I bought salad from the veg gal with neither of our pairs of eyes leaving the route. Met a friend buying peaches who had dropped her party off at 5.30 that morning in Montelimar and was shopping for the party. I called Julian and we sat on a wall and drank a 'demi' in the shade of a plane tree. It was lively, convivial (note the 'Menu Vélo' for eight euros at Pizza Phil), loud in the soft kind of way it can be when there is no traffic.

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.

Fabada

It was our final day in Asturias. The sun was shining. the cow bells were ringing and we were excited about LUNCH!On our arrival at Casa Marcial, we were encouraged to have the traditional menu. I wasn’t sure how much better fabada or rice pudding could come than those dishes we had eaten in the simple places along the way, and I noticed there was neither fish or a single vegetable on the menu, but I always follow other people's advice. To a fault.That night Julian was sick as a dog and the twelve hour drive home the next day was punctuated with far too many motorway stops. We had been poisoned by the michelin starred restaurant! Then, to boot, we arrived home to find that the pump in our own waste water purification system had ceased to function. ‘Histoire de merde’, said Julian, having spent a third morning mopping and scooping the poop and rushing once more for the small room.We are better now, and beginning not only to love the memory of the bean stew from Asturias but to want to recreate it as we contemplete the winter nights that will soon draw in. Meanwhile, the tourists have left Provence and the ceps have arrived along with the breeze, and a precious season of glowing is upon us.

Picu Uriellu

Our budget lunch at Casa Moran in Benia finally happened on the next, a very tired and rainy day. After a refreshing stroll along the river at La Molina we enjoyed another fabada, served with almost spooky intention by a Spanish version of Mrs Danvers. I was learning to leave the chips that came with everything. Julian, meanwhile, was learning to finish them for me. Having rested and lunched, and planning a final day of more of the same (this time on the beach and at Casa Marcial) before we left on Monday, we were up early for our final big walk on Saturday. By that time we had sussed that you could get great coffee at eight, and the best breakfast in the world of a ham tortilla bocadillo for the price of a pee in Euston station in the walkers Café Cares in Arenas. There you could also whet your appetite by admiring the impressive array of photographs from climbers of the Picos de Europa that hung on the walls and were dedicated to the owner who had clearly provided them with much of their fuel. Julian’s bocadillo filled smile that morning was, I think, his biggest yet!We started off, well supplied, at Canares, after a steep and stunning ascent in the car past Tielve. Red roofs and green pastures were caught in the morning rays and cheesemakers went about their early cheesemaking tasks. We parked and tried to decide between raingear and fleece, long and short trousers as the cloudless sky mocked our wavering. The walk to the refuge at Picu Uriellu was on a good path over grassy slopes, through heather, past cows and goats and horses and remote farm buildings. We didn't talk much except for a few tips from the mountaineering maestro to his mistress. 'Straighten your knees. Try taking bigger steps.' I took Julian's advice, adding the advice I give to my cello students (and indeed myself). 'As soon as you arrive on a finger you are leaving it. Use every joint as a spring board. The impulse comes from your middle. It's all about throwing yourself off balance and the limb swinging effortlessly forward to try and recreate the balance.....' As the path became steeper, snake like and on scree, I found I was less puffed out. The square peak loomed tall and silver in the distance. Meanwhile I couldn't help being just a litle pissed off that Julian could walk up a mountain having not moved for two years (since our holiday in Skye I believe) whilst I, having jogged all year round and swam an hour a day all summer, still lagged behind.
By the time we got to the refuge and dug into our country bread and the blue cheese from the valley we had just left, we were both feeling strong, joyous, slim and fit!That evening we joined the weekend throngs in Llanes for grilled squid and baby eels sizzling with hot peppers. We had a velvety Rioja. We saw a wedding and heard bagpipes and retired to the sound of waves and the cowbells, the sound that was beginning to feel like home.

The Cares Gorge




Coffee in Asturias was becoming a problem. We had forgotten our espresso maker and besides the coffee in Spain was good, right? Trouble was we couldn't seem to get any before ten. Thus we were making later starts than intended. And then there was the temptation of that swim first thing, and those wave-induced smiles of Julian's as he bobbed and ducked...Anyway, for our second attempt at a Short Walk Before Lunch (we had our eye on the place mentioned in the Guardian as serving highly calorific simple fare) we were on the mountain road by eleven. We chose not to have our coffee in either of the places called Poo (little did we know how symbolic these places would become)but instead in a small market town. In Arenas de Cabrales we replenished our walking sock supply in a shop that sold everything that you could possibly want and in which there there was not a single bar code. (Gold medallion souvenir blue cheese? Sure. Skip in back to brown box. Waterproof trousers?









Sure. Skip in back to another brown box etc) Then, at my insistence, we bought a litre of water, a hunk of bread and a block of the cheese for which the region was famous. We were ready for our morning walk. In fact we were ready for anything. Almost. 'Just a quick visit to the tourist office' I said.Julian hates tourist offices. He is the kind of guy that, rather than go to the information centre right in front of him to find out where the map shop is, he will walk round the entire town trying to find it. He is not a tourist office kind of guy. He is the kind of guy who eats the picnic while his wife is in the tourist office. 'The Cares gorge from Poncebos to Cain is only three hours each way' I said, emerging to find teeth marks in the cheese. 'Surely we can do it?' Needless to say, our budget fabada (the highly calorific simple Asturian bean stew with chorizo and black pudding) at Casa Moran in Benia did not happen that day either. However, we did have a very tasty Magnum (a highly calorific simple chocolate covered ice cream popsicle thing) in Cain with our feet plunged in icy river water and the sun beating on our shoulders
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Asturias

It all started one sweaty afternoon in June. We were facing the increasing heat and crowds of a Provençal canicule and the relentless production of postcard sized paintings. Julian had a frozen shoulder and his face was already engraved with exhaustion lines. It was time to plan a cool escape. As always Monsieur wanted mountains and I wanted sea. We both wanted folk music and good peasant food, fish, and a Michelin starred restaurant. Skye, we agreed with misty eyes, had been perfect. We were looking in to Ireland when up on the Guardian popped this article . It was settled. Asturias it would be, and the holiday would peak (I suspected secretly as I researched and Julian rushed to the finishing line) at Casa Marcial. At the end of August we would pack walking boots, our cute blue tent and the red bible, we would drive nine hours and we would be there. On holiday at last.Two months later, we crossed the border in to Spain. We pitched our tent above the sea, walked the rugged walk into the scrappy port and found the perfect tapas, sweet salt cod on roasted green peppers, and a tumbler of rioja. We breathed deeply. We were in for a treat.Once in Asturias, after a cider in Llanes' Bar Colon, and a hearty lunch of fabada and other traditional fare, we found a home for our tent looking over the Playa de Troenzo. The sound of cowbells mingled with the crash of the waves and the wake up smell of eucalyptus as we explored the nearby coves and beaches of Borizo and Torimbia. We ventured in to the cool water. The dark creases under Julian’s eyes began to melt into the spume. I hadn’t seen my love smile that child-like smile in months.The next day we planned a short walk around the mountain lakes. We were both tired from the journey and since the Spanish don’t start eating till two or three we had time to take it easy and still be down in time for lunch. However the Sunday bussing service to Lake Enol put in place to cope with the weight of tourists seemed suddenly daunting, especially for a hermit just emerging from his cave, so we turned back. Instead we headed towards a remote place called Gamoneu. Within the hour, true to form, Julian had us off the trail, onto a cow trail, then an ant trail and then, as far as I could see, a no ****ing trail at all. We had eaten a croissant and in our bag we had 25cl of water. Up up up we clambered. I was almost in tears. Up more hundreds of feet. We really didn’t have enough supplies. I insisted. Through mud and over scree, through bracken and gorse, our calves and arms were being scratched and our feet pummelled. Only another six hours, he said.....This was not what I came prepared for I whined inwardly. Just around this col and we're on the pass, he said. Then it's all downhill on a good path. The good path had been ravaged by cows and no longer existed. We stumbled and fell. Ouch. This was not within the goalposts we had set out at the start, I thought. But this was, I realised gradually as I began to win the struggle with myself, GLORIOUS! Wild, lonesome, rugged and above all lush. We found more water from a spring and at the end there were blackberries, and there again was that smile which was the best landscape of all. After seven and a half hours we made the last ascent. Something blue glimmered in the hamlet where we had parked the car. We watched it come closer. Was it a bar? Yes!!!! That evening we sat huddled in our fleeces and released from our boots on the bar’s terrace, looking at the full moon rise over the mountain we had just climbed, eating anything and everything that came to us – chorizo in cider, creamy blue cheese, some filet of something with chips, and lots of beer. It was one of the best meals we have ever had! All for the price of two coffees in Paris.More to come!

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Le Tour de France est parti


Our friends actually made it through the road blocks to our Le Tour Barbie Day. After some bubbly we made our way through the Demoiselles Coiffées to our spot on the Route du Mont Ventoux.








We stood and drank Crémant and ate brie and chili jam sarnies for an hour...



The Caravan passed by...



Threw lots of very useful things at us such as non biodegradable washing up liquid, nylon T-shirts and Etap hotel night caps....



Julian stayed home looking after the barbecue and watching the action on the telly and, when the cyclists got half way between Mormoiron and Bedoin, he ran.



The helicopter buzzed over our heads to let us know the posse were on their way. And then, in less than a minute they were gone.

I only got a Caisse d'Epargne cycle clip which I am pretending is a Livestrong bracelet. We didn't see Lance or Bradley, though I cried for them, but we had a blast. Then we walked home and had a feast.

Now the house is calm. The guests have gone and, more importantly, so has the eternal racket of the Tour on telly. Now, coming from Julian's studio, there are the low tones once again of books on tape. People called Julius and Lydia have replaced Lance and Brad. Love has replaced competition. A beach in Norfolk has replaced a mountain in Provence.

The mountain, like me, is breathing a big sigh. Even Julian seems relieved!

Le Tour de France arrive


I awoke early. As I watered the lavender, I felt a warmth on my back and the flower bed was suddenly illuminated. I turned, and saw the sun rise above the shoulder of the Mont Ventoux.

I am not a competitive sports kind of person. I like walking, swimming, jogging. Solitary stuff. A deux at most. I am wondering what it is that excites me about the Tour de France passing by us. Julian is riveted and has managed, for the past three weeks, to paint whilst having it on the screen to the side of his easel. All I know is that I love Lance and want one of those wrist bands, and that if I look closely, he will be the one en danseuse with black socks. And that there is a British guy. Not enough, surely, to fire me up?

Last night I came back from town at eight. It was still thirty degrees and Madame Ventoux was all pink and had a cloud would round her like a feather boa. Meanwhile, camper vans and tents were beginning to line the route the cyclists will take tomorrow.

This morning Julian and I took a trip to Sault. As we drove around the flanks of the mountain we could see a glinting ring of what looked like diamonds circling its neck. Camper vans never looked so pretty.

The Lavender capital was getting ready. The Tour de France van was putting up its arrows and Sault had its lavender and wheat prayer flags flying, but apart from that business was as usual and the harvest continued.



Meanwhile, in our fridge, we had a dodgy map of road closures, a leg of lamb, lots of cute aubergines and three kilos of the last cherries for our Tour Barbecue. And nine anticipated guests. If they could get through the road closures.



We drove home. We drove up and down the mountain, up out of the valley of lavender, into the pine forest and down into the vineyards and cherry trees.

I realized that what I am moved by is the waiting mountain. By noon tomorrow 700,000 people will be paying homage to 156 cyclists paying homage to her. She is so majestic in her waiting, in her receiving the puffed out sports people, puffed up locals, and tourists. Though we see her every day, she is, as ever, so very beautiful
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Tour de France preparations



Julian, as always,


makes a perfect map for friends



coming for the big day, avoiding the caravan

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