Blue or yellow, its the same difference. (What the bicycle saw)

Tags

bogs, Donegal, france, Galway, Malignant melanoma, mountains, the yellow bicycle, turf fire

The yellow bicycle is unwell.

Her wheel rims are rusted, her skirt guard held on with plastic cable ties.

She has suffered more punctures than she deserves (at one point there was more patches then original tyre on her back wheel)

Some of her spokes are missing and she has a distinct rattle of unknown origin.

My guess is it comes from the rear mudguard fixed many years ago by inserting a sponge between the stay and the actual guard.  Mr Monet Mends my Bike. 

But it may be something more sinister. Something internal. A cracked hub. A loose shimano brake cog.

And who knows what the creaking noise is when I turn the pedals! ( Though I suspect that noise might be more human in origin, emanating from my right knee, the one I have recently learned has no cartilage left in it).

Now there are those who feel I have been neglectful of the yellow bicycle’s maintenance.

But I have treated her no differently than I have treated myself.

We believe quality of life is better than quantity.

The yellow bicycle has lived a good life and seen many things that she may not have seen living with a more careful person

Cycling not only paved roads but mountain tracks and small boirins, across beaches and even along clifftops.

She has been hauled over ditches and dykes,

lowered into sea faring boats.

She has slept out under the stars, camped out by the sea.

She has lept across tree roots and swerved around potholes.

She has seen horses and donkeys close up, watched dolphins caper, Hawks in flight.

And once a man wandering naked through trees.

France 2010

It is early morning on a sunny autumn day.

The tree’s are letting go their leaves for another year.

Fluttering like a myriad of amber and yellow butterflies they float and drift, landing on the still water of the canal.

But not all.

Some don’t quite make it and instead form a golden covering on the uneven surface of the tow path.

A sort of yellow brick road.

And cycling along this yellow road is a woman on a heavy Dutch style bike. (which coincidentally is also yellow!)

She has been up since cockcrow and has quickly settled into her usual even pace which is only disturbed now and again when she is forced to swerve and avoid the roots of the trees.

These wayward gnarled ‘ropes’ have the habit of breaking the surface of the path as though doing so to make their way thirstily towards the water.

But mostly all she has to do is keep turning the pedals.

She hums contently to herself.

Without warning a twig, catching itself in the spoke of her bike causes her to brake and she dismounts and wrenches it free.

This gives some new leaves the opportunity to land on her head and entwine themselves in her hair.

As she is brushing them out with her fingers she sees a movement further along the canal.

A man walks out of the trees and crosses the path.

He is naked.

Without looking left or right, he poises for an instant on the canal bank before diving in.

The woman is stunned.  She pulls the last leaves from her hair while considering her dilemma.

Should she cycle quickly passing him before he starts scrambling out or should she wait where she is, her yellow bicycle camouflaged by the drifts of leaves, until he has finished his swim and gone?

Afraid that he might be planning to stay in the water awhile, she opts for the former, and cycling speedily,  bounces carelessly across the potholes and tree roots.

As she draws level with the man who is now swimming in a slow measured way, she calls out ‘Bonjour’.

Just to show she is not a prude.

And on she goes through the twirling leaves, leaving the man and his nakedness behind.

But as the canal path improves and a stretch of solid pale gravel comes under her wheels and she doesn’t have to concentrate on avoiding pot holes, she wonders at her reaction.

Why did she hesitate before passing him? Indeed why did she call out a greeting?

And then a memory from the past pops into her head.

July 1980

A young woman is cycling a black upright bicycle along the wild Atlantic way.

The small wooden trailer attached to her bicycle containing her tent and gear, bounces jauntily along behind.

Starting her journey in Donegal, a few weeks previously, she has many miles under her wheels by now and having already passed through four counties is presently in her fifth. Galway.

It is a pleasure to cycle these roads. They are mostly empty of traffic, with vast bogs that career off in each direction ending under the brooding mauve mountains.

At one point she spots a group of tiny figures. Bending and straightening as they cut and spread a bank of turf.

A wisp of smoke curls up, white against the dark blue of the mountains and the smell of burning turf reaches her. They must be stopping for lunch, she thinks, lighting a turf fire to boil the kettle on.

Feeling hungry she decides she’ll stop for her own picnic soon (the makings of it lie in her front basket),

She can see a flash of blue ahead appearing now and then as the road twists and turns.

The lakes at kylemore would be a good place.

A green Cortina car passes her slowly.

She pays no heed but rounding the bend, she notices the car pulled in on the side of the road just beyond a clump of rhododendrons.

Now she is a naive sort of woman. Seeing good in everyone  but her female instinct is strong and kicks in.

On high alert, she picks up speed. (not an easy task with the trailer) and keeping her eyes on the road ahead,  cycles as fast as she can.

As she draw level with the bushes, she catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, standing facing the road, his trousers down around his ankles.

She flies past so speedily that the flasher becomes a flash.

Continuing at a steady pace all the time listening for the sound of a car approaching from behind, she ditches the idea of having her picnic just yet and also forgoes the idea of camping that night and decides to instead to head for the hostel in killary harbour.

2019

It will be ten years ago this April since I was diagnosed with a metastatic malignant melanoma (it had metastasized to the lymph nodes in my groin)

That small mole removed from my calf five years previously was not benign (as histology had incorrectly shown at the time).

Oh the drama!

I thought I was going to die.

but I didn’t. (obviously)

And following successful surgery and treatment I decided to celebrate my recovery by I cycling across France. From the Atlantic to the Mediterranean

I thought I made the journey to prove my effected leg was still able to turn the pedals of the yellow bike.

But looking back I realize that I wasn’t good at taking time out for myself.

I needed an illness as an excuse.

And not just any old illness!

It needed to be a colorful one.

Don’t be a victim in your story telling. (I read somewhere)

Get your shit sorted before telling your story.

Come out the other side and begin to see the funny side.

I have decided that in my 62nd year and on the tenth anniversary of my diagnosis, that, even though I love bright colors, I don’t need them to prove myself.

Welcome to the dark blue bike on whom I hope to continue to have many journeys with colorful stories to tell.

P.S Of course the yellow bicycle and I will continue to limp along for many more years to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A penchant for pumpkins (And pots of homemade jam)

Tags

Artist, bamboo, Cistertian abbey, france, fruitflies, goldfish, Jam, Monet, Montelieu, painting, Penchants, pumpkins, theyellowbicycle

 

Penchant; A strong habitual liking for something or tendency to do something.

AN INTRODUCTION.

Most of us have a penchant for something.

Mine is for telling stories and my yellow bicycle.

Recently I came across someone with a penchant for pots of homemade jam.

This reminded me of another penchantier of not only homemade jam, but of the pumpkins his jam was made from.

And as it is the seventh anniversary of that time, I thought I might tell you the tale of Monsieur l’abbe and his penchant for pumpkins.

For those of you who may be concerned that their penchants are abnormal I hope this story reassures you….

But first we must go there (to France and the journey across it on the sturdy yellow bicycle)

After leaving the two Irish Moira’s of Montelieu and their tiny house in the middle of that village, and with their recommendation, (you MUST stay at the old abbey, they insisted, nodding their heads vigorously and smirking knowingly at each other) I cycled over the mountain and down the other side to the ancient Cistercian Abbey now a Chambre d’hote.

Arriving at an enormous pair of iron gates, I spotted a notice nailed to one of the gate posts beside which hung a worn but still thick rope.

‘TIREZ FORT ‘ I read.

So I did as instructed and pulled hard on the rope.

The sound of  a deep bell echoed through the innards of the building.

I could hear a dog barking and after a short wait, a tall man of indecipherable years wearing pale linen trousers and a white shirt, approached the gate.

He wore a wide brimmed black felt hat pulled down so low over his brow that I could only glimpse a shadow where his eyes should be.

‘Ah the woman on the yellow bicycle’, he called out as he pulled the gates open.

‘The Arteeste’ (The two Irish Moira’s had obviously filled him in, exaggerating my skills but this wasn’t the time to correct him )

‘Entrez! entrez! Holding the gate open for me, I pushed the yellow bicycle through passing quite close to him.

He smelt of something familiar. but I was too busy mumbling ‘bonsoir’ to pay much heed to it.

Any way he had already turned on his heel, and was leading the way into a large dimly lit coach house.

‘You may leave your beautiful yellow bicycle ici’.

At first I couldn’t see where he was pointing to but, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I saw it was to the only space clear of huge pumpkins.

He stood patiently while I fumbled with the buckles on my panniers and basket and then taking the heavy items from me headed back out into the fading light.

I trotted obediently after him.

Down a cobbled path we went and then through another door and up a stone stairs.

He strode purposefully along a windowed corridor , where on each windowsill lay a beautifully carved pumpkin.

We passed rooms with various names on the doors. The ivy room, the oak room, the magnolia room, I tripping along trying to keep up with his long legged stride.

Finally he stopped at door which read ‘the rose room’ .

‘You will sleep here’

And opening the door he laid my belongings on the bed and bid me goodnight.

I waited till his footsteps had faded before throwing myself onto the bed.

I was exhausted but as I drifted off to sleep, I became conscious of that smell again.

What did it remind me of?

That night I dreamt I was back in Co Sligo in my old house by the waterfall, wandering up through the ferny dripping hazel woods, clambering over moss covered rocks to gather bags of loam made from centuries of broken down trees and leaves for my garden.

Dark, damp, earthy, crumbly loam, smelling of ancient woodlands….

 

(the blue shuttered window of the Rose room, forth shuttered window from the right)

The story

La Monsieur de L’abbey had a penchant for pumpkins,

A fascination for the oddness of their shapes.

A passion for the soft blues, greens, orange colors of their skins.

They were everywhere!

Painted, sculpted, engraved, carved into bowls, jugs, even lampshades.

That morning at breakfast there were at least four different varieties of pumpkin jam.

Some made with added rosewater, some with Cointreau.

The hovering black fruit flies were drunk and in ecstasy.

We had to keep brushing them off our bread.

‘ Ah but you must try this! Le Monsieur’s face loomed close to mine as he pushed a teaspoon of the sweet syrup against my mouth.

‘Ze summer of 2008, best year for pumpkins… you like it?’

‘Mmmm’ I said widening my eyes for effect.

His were dark brown and very shiny.

‘And ziz’? He persisted dipping the spoon into another pot

‘Ziz did not turn out as I wanted… too sweet! So I added some ginger what do you think? Interesting flavour n’est pas?’

‘Qui, qui’ I murmured savoring the hot sweetness ‘very interesting’

He smiled.

His teeth were very white.

‘So today’ he announced ‘you must paint!’

‘No more gallivanting about on that yellow bicycle, I have hidden it!’

‘Today you must stay in the garden and paint pumpkins, come I will show you the best place’

I followed him out into the coolness of the morning.

His sandals made a slapping sound on the ancient flags of the cloister floor.

Heading up some steps , He crossed the dewy grass towards a Grecian style tower.

A few birds were up as early as us, singing in the nearby magnolia tree but otherwise all was still

At the base of the tower and covered by its first floor but open at the front to the elements, was a small courtyard screened from the abbey by some giant bamboos.

An ornate pond glistened in the morning sun.

I could see the shapes of goldfish flitting and hiding under the lily pads.

The soothing sound of trickling water over stones had an almost soporific effect.

Three old iron bed frames were placed, one along each of the three walls.

On the rustiest of the three lay some green pumpkins of rather bizarre shapes.

The remaining beds were covered in luxurious throws of some exotic fabric and a few cushions of Japanese silk were strewn casually against the heads of the bed frames.

A small bamboo table stood in the centre.

‘You may sit here’ He patted one of the cushions. ‘This is your studio. But first you must go and fetch your materials!  vite! vite!’

And so I, normally such a strong and independent woman, found myself scurrying off to do his bidding.

I hurried back across the lawn , past the bird filled magnolia tree, past a blue telephone box filled with pumpkins, passed a zany zen sculpture made of willow winding around a heap of pumpkins, passed a blue wheel barrow overflowing with pumpkins .

Down through the cloisters I ran and in through the door and swiftly up the stairs.

The mirror on the landing showed the flushed face of a woman of middle years smiling like a teenager.

Back in the garden Le Monsieur stood waiting.

In my absence he had replaced the black felt hat of yesterday with a Monet style one, white and wide brimmed, complete with black ribbon and looked for all the world like a great impressionist master.

On the low table now sat an elegant basket its lid fastened by silver clasps.

He undid the clasps and lifted the lid with a flourish

I peeped curiously inside.

A dainty teapot and two equally delicate china teacups nestled in the padded silk interior.

He lifted one of the tea cups out and placed it carefully on the table.

Then he lifted the the teapot and with all the ceremony of a geisha poured out a cup of fragrant green tea.

Steam coiled up and diseapearred into the rafters above and the scent of jasmine wafted into the air.

A soft breeze rustled the bamboo and the sunlight flitted and played with shadows across the spear like green leaves.

A few late butterflies danced, dipping and swaying among the hibiscus flowers.

The clinking of wind-chimes hanging in the peach tree broke the silence and every now and again a leaf broke loose and sea sawed through the air landing gracefully on the pond surface with a soft sighing sound only to be caught by the breeze where it sailed like a small boat across the pond.

‘Harrumph’ Le monsieur cleared his throat wakening me out of my daze.

I looked up at him

He smiled from beneath his brim

‘And now I will leave the artist to work’

And before I could reply he lifted my hand and bowing low over it, kissed it briefly.

He walked away and turning once by the willow sculpture he raised his hand in farewell

I caught that smell again.

Earthy, deep, dark and loamy and suddenly I remembered.

The smell of perfect compost for growing pumpkins in.

I lifted my brush and began to paint.

The End

 

 

I can’t see the sea for the agapanthus Day 1 (slow cycling round a small island)

Tags

agapanthus, brittany, france, google maps, happiness, Ile de Batz, rain, Roscoff, seaweed, shutters, the yellow bicycle, vegetables, windows

“Happiness is the biggest window a house can ever have”                                                                                                              Mehmet Murat Ilden

Part One: I arrive on The Island.

The first thing that struck me as I stood in the rain waiting for the small ferry that plied backwards and forwards between Roscoff and the island, was the happiness of the people around me.

It may have been bucketing down from the heavens but they piled on that boat, laughing and chatting as though it was the sunniest day the summer could offer them.

Old ladies with pulley baskets, elderly men with shopping bags, glamorous people with beautiful dogs, walkers with the correct gear and a crowd of teenagers hauling tents and their belongings.

And not a scowl between them.

The handsome young man who lifted my heavily laden Yellow bicycle as though it was as light as a feather and of no inconvenience to his strength, smiled and placed it carefully along with the other two on the front deck.

It stood forlornly, water dripping off it’s panniers (and into them too as I discovered later) while the other two bicycles, if bicycles could, were smiling along with everyone else.

Some people leaned forward, regarding me with interest as I took my seat and greeted me with a merry ‘Bonjour’.

I would guess this was not because they recognised me as someone not from the island, (I’m sure there were others like me coming for the first time) but because I was the only one NOT smiling.

Rain belonged in Ireland for heaven’s sake and you see I hadn’t accounted for it here in France.

I also didn’t expect everything to be so straightforward and had giving myself too much time when arranging meeting the woman of the house to collect the keys of what would be my home for the next week.

I could expect to be out in this rain for another three hours.

But I found I couldn’t help smiling back at them as I replied to their greeting.

The second thing that struck me, fifteen minutes later, as I pushed the yellow bicycle with its sodden belongings up the hill from the harbour and past an old church, was the Agapanthus.

It grew so profusely that in places it blocked my views of the sea.

But it got away with being a nuisance by the sheer beauty of its flowers

Blue stars reaching to the heavens.

I was beginning to smile again.

Then there was the perfect rows of cauliflowers, fennel bulbs, kohlrabi, potatoes, growing in small fields fertilized by sea weed which I spied through the misty rain and between the gaps of the clusters of houses (the fields that is not the seaweed)

Add to that the wild sea which I could now get a glimpse of (I had reached the brow of the hill) and surely that was a white beach in the distance reached by small sandy roadways scattered without plan.

The rain was beginning to ease now.

The last thing that struck me (but should have been the first that I mentioned) were the gorgeous colorful shutters surrounding small lace curtained windows that I whizzed past as I freewheeled down the other side of the hill.

And for the length of my stay those windows stopped me in my tracks time and time again and me smile.

“Happiness is the biggest window a house can have” wrote the poet, Mehmet Murat Ilden.

Well that must be so, as it did not seem to matter that the windows of the houses here were small because the people continued to exude happiness the whole time I was on the island.

The Island of Ile de Batz lies a 15 minute boat ride off the town of Roscoff which is on coast of brittany.

It is the only small island (and I have been on a good few of them) where even cycling is going too fast.

I had been planning a larger cycle along some of the greenways of Brittany when I spied this tiny island on google maps. The more I read about it, the more I was drawn to it and soon booked a small house in its village for the week.

My plan was to cycle, walk, swim, write, draw, paint and take photographs.

Oh and eat good food and drink fine wine.

And I am inviting you to join me.

To be continued……….

Leaving before the swallows.

Tags

apartment living, brittany, france, Irish Ferries, Islands, Swallows, the yellowbicycle, trains

 

Last night the sky was a fiery red over sugarloaf.

This morning the colour is faded to a pale pink. The swallows, having successfully nested and reared their young between the iron girders of the balconies below mine, are already up and chasing flies across the sky.

I am grateful that my neighbours either don’t notice the nests (and the swooping birds) or are lovers of swallows too.  It would only take one self righteous occupant of these fairly new apartments, to alert the Health and safety department .

It would most likely be someone who didn’t use their balcony.

Someone who didn’t plant runner beans and grow bamboos on them.

Someone who didn’t store their bicycle there.

Someone who didn’t stand there in the evenings to watch the sun drop behind sugarloaf or the grey clouds form a lacey shawl around her shoulders.

Someone who didn’t even realise that there are swallows nesting there until their attention was drawn to them.

So though we may ALL be on the side of the swallows (I suspect we are but daren’t risk finding out) the subject is taboo.

For the birds safety best turn a blind eye to them. Get them nested, mated, fledged and flown without the fanfare they deserve.

When we meet in passing, we speak about the weather and the increased traffic and how the little man I had rescued (I found him clinging to a lamp post in the storm, hanging on for dear life, afraid to let go for fear he would be bowled by the wind across the carpark) has got over his fright and is doing well.

Yes, we talk about everything but the swallows.

The elderly and very dapper gentlemen who lives below me and has the greatest number nesting on his balcony, holds the door open for me gallantly.

‘How was your work day?’ He asks, a swallow skimming the top of his white thinning hair.

‘Busy’ I sigh, as though it was the wind that causes it and his moustache to ruffle.

‘Feet up and a nice glass of wine so’ he smiles as a second swallow poops just missing his ear.

‘How did you know that is exactly what I need’ I smile, pretending not to notice him brushing something off his sleeve.

Sometimes we nearly let the cat out of the bag

‘I saw you clapping your hands at the magpies again this morning’ My neighbour across from me states, staring at me intensely.

She is seventy five and is studying chinese and history and I feel would be very amenable to the swallows.

I open my mouth to explain that I am sick of them attacking the swallows nests but, though she is already smiling and nodding in encouragement, I stall at the last moment and mutter something along the lines of performing some sort of tai chi on my balcony every morning that involves clapping.

No! we don’t trust each other when it comes to the swallows safety.

One word to the wrong person would be their downfall and we cannot imagine a summer morning without their magical presence. I imagine if they were got rid of a lot of us would leave too.

Anyway another two weeks or so and they will be heading on their long journey south

And I am sorry to be leaving before them.

I feel guilty, for as my neighbour has noticed, who else but the mad woman that I am, will step out on the balcony in the early hours clapping her hands wildly to chase away the marauding magpies from their nests, when the small finch, who keeps  constant watch from the nearby hawthorn tree, sounds the alarm.

Hopefully she will take over but I daren’t ask her.

Instead I have told her the exact day I am going hoping she will get the message. I think she has for she nodded furiously and told me she would come out every morning and make sure the magpies were not attacking my RUNNER BEANS.

We smile at each other for a long time.

The reason I am going is, my much dreamed about sojourn to Brittany is looming.

My panniers are out and waiting to be packed.

The last time I made such a journey to france was six years ago when I had just finished my interferon treatment.

Back then I had flown with the yellow bicycle to Bordeaux to cycle from the Atlantic to the mediterranean.

This time will be different. A slower getting there.

This time my journey will begin when I wheel the yellow bicycle out of my home and cycle down the road to the train station and haul it up the steps and over the tracks to platform two and catch the 10.30 train to the port of Rosslare.

One of the loveliest train journeys in Ireland I am told.

The boat journey from rosslare to roscoff takes 16 hours and in celebration of my 60th birthday in November I have booked myself a cabin.

Not just any old cabin, but a cabin on the 8th deck with a window looking out at the sea.

A cabin that promises a complimentary bar and bowel of fruit.

More used to wild camping than such luxury, I pressed the key on my laptop nervously.

Then spotting a small island just 15 minutes by boat off the coast of Brittany(coming from an island and loving all things islandy I suppose it is only natural to be drawn to another one) I found myself once again pressing the key.

I now had a little house to stay in on a little island.

‘Oh I can get the boat back to the mainland every day and do some cycling on the greenways’ I explained defensively to my sister, anxious she wouldn’t see me as opting out of my original plan of cycling across Brittany.

‘Or’ she laughed ‘You might just relax and put your feet up!’

I am adding my laptop, drawing materials and paints to the bundle by my panniers.

Bon Voyage.

The yellow bicycle resting at her journey’s end (The mediterranean) the last time we were in france.

The Van.

Tags

bicycles.2cvs, butterfies, campers, Caterpillars, connemara, france, ladies, Vans, yellow bicycle

“The end of life for a caterpillar is a butterfly for the master.”

This quote came to mind recently and though it might not seem the most applicable one for the post I am about to write, in a vague way has something to do with it. 

For I have passed the caterpillar phase. Even passed the butterfly phase.

Now the third phase of my life (signified by the selling of my small green camper)is about to start. 

I have sold the van!

‘Please don’t call it that’ my younger daughter sighs throwing her eyes up to heaven. ‘It’s a camper not a van!’ (Which makes me wonder if the word ‘van’ has connotations that I am unaware of?)

But she is right! It’s more than just a Toyota hiace van its a CAMPER!

And it is efficiently fitted out with double bed, cooker, sink, fridge, storage cupboards, a passenger seat that swivels (to make a comfy armchair.) and a table to dine off.

It is turquoise green to match the color of the sea on a stormy day and, to make it look as though I have just driven through a cherry orchard, I have painted pink blossoms along its sides.

It did have a an awning but sadly all that is left of that is the holes where the bolts held it in place. (Gentle awnings built for shading one from the mediterranean sun are not capable of withstanding connemara storms as I discovered one night)

The bike rack on the back is invaluable for carrying my yellow bike and even my pink and my purple bike and when I’m heading west and am stopped at traffic lights, children in the back of the cars pulling up beside me point and smile and wave.

Once when I pulled into a petrol station, a very large and shiney audi jeep pulled up on the opposite side of the pump. As we filled our vehicles, our eyes lifted from our task and met across the metal tank.

‘I’m admiring your jeep’ I smiled at the well groomed blond woman.

She smiled back ‘My children and I think your camper is wonderful and want to do a swap. What a happy way it must be to travel’.

‘But yours looks so comfortable and new and shiney’ .

‘Things are not always as they seem’ she grimaced.

I wanted to enquire further but something in her eyes told me not to delve any deeper.

So I held my whist and instead waved at her children who are madly craning their heads for a better look

Yes it was such a happy way to travel and I am parting with it in sadness.

The lane down to my favorite camping place is narrow and potholed

I drive carefully, my two hands gripping the steering wheel. I already have a large dent in the sliding door where I hit a rock that had disguised itself as a fuschia bush.

To  my right, as the lane straightens out and over the stone wall, Jo’s garden is doing well with its rows of carrots and onions and spuds standing in neat lines.

I am drawn to a halt by a gate tied shut with a length of rope. I pull the brake, jump down and untying the rope, lift the gate open

Not being on hinges it is heavy and unwieldy but I don’t mind

The struggle is worth it. I follow one of the sand roads across the commons and it’s not by luck but from years of camping here that it leads me to my favorite spot.

I tuck the camper in behind ‘whale rock’.

Now though the west of Ireland is the favoured haunt of the green van camper, It is happy to explore further afield.

Driving from calais we too have been swept along with the flow of caravans, Cars pulling trailer tents and other campervans.

With registration numbers from Finland, Denmark, Sweden, we too flew like migrating geese in formation, heading south in search of warmth, sometimes passing and repassing each other at a speed my van camper has never known in ireland.

And she is able to keep up with the best of them except for once.

A tiny 2cv driven by two ancient white haired women shoots past us. Two worn leather suitcases tied to the back jiggle madly and look in danger of flying off as the small car bounces along like an out of control pram.

They disappear from sight in a swirl of dust. I fear for their safety but needn’t have worried.

When I pull into one of the ‘Aires’ to stretch my legs I see them again.

The tiny car is parked skew ways and is taking up two spaces.

Its two occupants are already settled nearby on a tartan rug in the shade of some pines.

An open picnic basket lies beside them and the slimmer and taller of the two is in the process of pouring coffee from a flask . Seeing me examining their car (It had a right hand drive and the reg which I had presumed was french but couldn’t quite see in the blur of their speedy passing was actually scottish) They wave me over.

‘Your from Eire, we passed you earlier! sit here, have a coffee with us’

They tell me their story.

Two sisters in their late eighties from Edinburgh who love all things french are heading to their house in St Tropez which they had bought 10 years previously.

‘We didn’t always live together but when our husbands died within a year of each other we decided it might be a good idea’

It worked well they told me. They couldn’t get on each other’s nerves because the younger one was a night owl and the older one an early bird so they didn’t have a chance to get in each other’s way. They shared the housework and then the younger did the cooking and shopping whilst the older ‘did the Bins’.

I didn’t think ‘doing the bins’ equalled the cooking and shopping and said so

‘Oh yes it does. Bins entail a lot of hard work’ The ‘bin ‘ sister explained. ‘You have to sort the rubbish, wash all the tins and jars, not mix the paper and the plastic, fold the newspapers, breakup and flatten any boxes, remember which day which bin goes out out on AND be up early enough to have it out on time.

She pauses to catch her breath

‘I would hate having to do all that’ the younger one frowns

‘And I would be bored cooking and shopping’ her sister replies.

They both smile at me, their ancient eyes still bright blue and their white hair in soft curls, seated elegantly on their tartan rug with their cardigans draped across their shoulders and tweed skirts pulled modestly over their knees, the pines shading their pale skin from the mediterranean sun.

‘So you see’ They say in unison ‘It works very well indeed’.

So goodbye dear van with your stories and memories of which there are too many to mention in a single posting.

I am sad to see you go.

But I still have my yellow bicycle and now am off once more to cycle the small roads of the west of Ireland in search of what the third stage of my life will bring.

 

 

It’s a harp, it’s a rocking horse! (feel the fear and just do it)

Tags

cancer, fear of flying, Flying with a bicycle, france, Interferon, jokes, philosophy, the yellow bicycle

I had started to write a piece on fear of death, of cancer and cure by interferon (Interferon works by activating natural immune cells such as killer cells and macrophages) when an incident came to mind that turned into a snippet.

I will continue to write the interferon piece in the hopes that it might help someone starting out on that journey but first…..

And I hope i don’t sound judgemental. 

People can be puzzling.

And odd (I include myself in this)

‘We will miss your oddness’ was a comment made recently when I informed my colleagues at work of my recent decision to change floors.

But there is odd and ODD!

Would you, for example, buy a house in france if, you were living in dublin, were retired and were planning to spend every other long weekend in your new french abode and were absolutely terrified beyond compare of flying?

Would you go through that fear (the fear that you feel when you are about to die ) every ten days? A fear that would last two hours (and that didn’t include the time you chose to be fearful on your way to the airport)?

Would you think it fine to keep your eyes shut as your fingers clutched the arms of the plane seat so tightly that your knuckles turned white for the duration of the flight?

Would you think it ok to be hardly able to straighten your tensed legs on landing?.

Would it occur to you that you were more likely to die from a heart attack from the fear of the flight than be killed in a plane crash?

Well I met someone who was that fearful and yet who bought a house whereby she would spend quite a few hours a month being in that state.

And she was lovely and didn’t seem in the slightest bit odd.

I even had the pleasure of having a meal and wine in the beautiful house she had bought in the tiny village of Montolieu in the montagne noir in the south of france.

It was the year I had recovered from cancer and had come to the end of a wonderful months cycling from the atlantic to the mediterranean and I was preparing to fly home.

We happened ( My fearful friend and I)to be booked on the same flight and we agreed we would meet in the airport in carcassonne.

I had no idea of her fear at this time.

My main concern was finding a box or a bag to fly the yellow bicycle home in.

I had flown over with aer lingus and followed their stipulations to a T.

Lowering the saddle and handlebars. Deflating the tyres. Turning the pedals inwards and packing the whole shebang neatly in a large cardboard bike box that I had begged off my local bike shop.

They made a small fuss in security as the box would not fit through the xray machine and they had to lug it downstairs somewhere to a machine that would scan oversized luggage.

Otherwise it had been a straightforward procedure.

When I had arrived in bordeaux I had binned the box, my plan being to pick up another one on the french side and repeat the process for the homeward journey.

But there were no boxes on the french side, only very expensive bicycle bags which proved too small to fit the bulky yellow bicycle so I was stymied.

I did have a day left to figure it out so I wasn’t panicking (things had a way of working themselves out I always found) and was cycling through a small shopping area in Carcassonne when I spotted a fabric shop

I went in, not to solve the bicycle thing, but because I loved fabrics.

Wandering down the aisles admiring the silks and cottons and linens. I spied a colorful bolt of strong vibrantly coloured material

‘My mother would love to make a tablecloth from that’ was my initial thought.

Then it struck me. I could kill two birds with the one stone!

i could wrap the yellow bike in it like a sort of makeshift bicycle bag and then give it to my mother when it had done it’s duty.

Hauling the heavy bolt over to the cashier, I waited patiently while a dapperly dressed elderly man had the shop assistance measure out ream upon ream of gold ribbon.

‘Every week he comes here!’ the shop girl whispered to me confidentially in french as we watched the man disappear out the shop doors with a spring in his step. He was whistling gaily the brown paper bag tucked neatly under his arm.

‘Sometimes it is silver ribbon he wants. Sometimes it is blue or pink or green! But always it is meters and meters….Mais pourquois? Je ne sais pas’ She shrugged her shoulders in a gallic fashion and turned her attention to my bolt of material.

I left shortly afterwards, my fabric also in a brown paper bag along with a spool of strong thread, a scissors and a needle.

That night in my hotel room, I laid the fabric out and, placing the yellow bicycle on its side on top of it, I wrapped the cloth around as neatly as I could. (not easy after three glasses of the last bordeaux I would have on french soil).

Then threading the needle with difficulty (did I need glasses?) I sewed it together.

Fashioning a sort of handle, I leant my ‘bicycle bag’ against the wall and went to bed.

The next morning half lifting, half dragging it, I successfully got my strange looking parcel from the airport bus into the airport.

‘Its a harp! No! its a rocking chair’ People argued in hushed tones as I joined the check in queue.

I smiled mysteriously.

‘Qu’est ce que c’est?’ the handsome stewart asked me politely

‘C’est un vélo’ I replied

‘Un vélo jaune!’

He nodded in a bored fashion, as though being presented with yellow bicycles, poorly sewn in colorful fabric, was a common occurrence in his line of work.

Running a scanner quickly over it, he placed it effortlessly on the conveyor belt where upon my colourful bundle was whisked away out of mine and the curious onlookers sight.

Ryanair did not blink an eye and I was relieved at their nonchalance.

My phone beeped from the depths of my panniers.

A message from my friend!

‘I’ve kept a seat for you in the departure lounge. I saw you come in’.

It was then I discovered her fear.

She was quaking!

‘I’ll be more in danger of dying cycling home from dublin airport in the traffic’ I laughed trying to cheer her up.

‘Have a glass of wine or something stronger to steady your nerves’ I looked around for a bar.

‘But I can’t drink’ She said sadly ‘I have to drive home from the airport and I don’t want to risk being caught for drunk driving.

‘Who cares about been caught for drunk driving if you are planning to die in a plane crash!’ But I kept my ironic thought to myself.

‘ Hey Ho’ I said to cheerfully to her up as we hit some turbulence crossing the alps.

‘See nothing to fear’

The other passengers were reading magazines or looking out the window.

‘Did you hear the one about the…..?’ I said happily as the plane gave a few bumps ( a normal occurrence when flying over where land mass meets sea)

I was running out of ‘Paddy the irishman jokes’ when the plane thumped down roughly at dublin airport (I had actually repeated a few of them but she didn’t realise it)

She stood from her seat as pale as a ghost and gave me a hug.

‘I don’t know how I would have got through that rough flight without you.’ She said shakily.

I didn’t say that I thought it was actually quite a smooth one but asked her instead when she was heading out again.

Her face brightened as some color returned to her pale cheeks ‘In two weeks time’ she said eagerly ‘And I can’t wait!’

The complete and utter vividness of Matilda Maricella

Tags

Bachelors, bicycles, colours, Dublin, france, Frank O'Connor, love stories, spinsters

Frank O’Connor, that great Irish short story writer once wrote “Every old bachelor has a love story in him if only you can get at it”.

I would add that every old spinster also has one or even a few and whether imagined or real (or a bit of both) it matters not as long as they are told.

****

She had a passion for bicycles and yellows!

He had a penchant for pumpkins and blues. 

One day their world would collide in an explosion of color!

PART ONE.

Matilda Maricella was a lover of all things yellow.

Though she was not impartial to other colors.

Blue for example, appealed to her romantic side and of course mixing blue and yellow together led to the verdant green of the trees she lived under so, she would admit to having a ‘thing’ for green too.

Talking of which! The green Mexican jug on the table caught her eye more than once a day, a jug which she filled with pink tulips when in season.

Yes! Pink and green, she decided, went well together.

And the pink of her silk moroccan cushions did not in anyway clash with the cardinal red of her armchair

Which in turn matched her yellow coffee pot .

Her rugs were of blue and yellow and green and red and pink stripes.

Her plates and cups were of turquoises and purples.

Even her knives and forks had carefully chosen colored handles (blue with white daisies)

It would be safe to say that her life was completely filled with vivid color.

But it was yellow that turned her head.

Yellow that held her eye!

It was yellow that she dreamed about.

And her ‘grande passion’ for colorful objects did not lie just with household goods!

It also included bicycles.

Some might call it an obsession.

And when other women were scurrying with unbridled lust towards fashion boutiques or jewelry counters, she found herself pulled by some invisible chain into bicycle shops.

The bicycles she veered towards were the old fashioned ‘high Nelly’ types.

The Dutch Gazelles. The Danish Veloboris. The English Pashleys. The Irish made Raleighs (Though she was not abject to other brands as long as they were colorful).

Indeed Matilda Maricella was known to buy a bicycle on a whim just because of it’s color.

The day she saw the yellow bike for the first time was a sunny spring one.

She was sitting in the park in the grounds of St Patricks cathedral drinking her coffee from a blue takeaway cup and admiring the newly blooming daffodils when she happened to look up and glance through the railings at the line of shops across the road.

It was as though her breath was swept away from her.

She stood up dizzily, holding her two hands flat against her chest as though to calm her thudding heart.

For one of the shops was a bicycle shop and in it’s window stood a yellow bicycle.

She looked around wondering had anyone else spotted it, but the office workers sprinkled on the various benches, continued to gnaw boredly at their stale cheese sandwiches.

Imagining that at any moment someone else was sure to spot it and rush into the shop before her and nab it, she, with no fear for her safety, dodged between the traffic and, tripping on the mat in the doorway, plunged headlong into the shop.

Only by catching onto the counter did she prevent herself from falling head long on top of a handsome young lad.

‘I’ll take it.’ she cried, ‘No matter what the price! I’ll take it.’

The lad, with a large disk stuck in each earlobe and one arm covered in tattoos that matched the color of the oil on his hands looked up from the bike he was mending. ‘Sorry Missus! That racing bike is not for sale’. He had to shout over the beat of heavy metal music. ‘It’s in for repairs’.

‘No no! not the racing bike’ She shook her wild hair impatiently and tossed her colored scarf around her neck (a gesture she made when she was nervous). ‘THE YELLOW BICYCLE’.

She had to shout to be heard above the music.

And so, seconds later, to the loud strains of led zeppelin, she stuck her card into the machine and punched in her pin with no thought for her bank balance. (In fact she had no idea until her bank statement arrived a week later, how much she had paid for it)

Matilda Maricella rode gaily home on her new bicycle, her long purple skirt and her colorful scarf matching it’s brightness.

And as she did the bells rang out from the Pro Cathedral.

Joyously she answered by ringing the shining bell on the yellow bicycle.

Oh! How she proudly whizzed down Patrick street and on to Camden street with her hair flowing out behind and the long scarf wrapped artistically around her neck.

’That scarf will catch in the spokes and she’ll strangle herself’ Old Mattie, the butcher remarked, looking up for an instant and barely missing his finger as he brought the cleaver down across the ox tail he was chopping for an old age pensioner.

‘Never cycle with a scarf round your neck’ Miss Mc Coriskey instructed the group of small children buying sweets in her shop ‘It will surely get caught in the spokes and swooosh! your head will fall off!’

The children sucked furiously on their sweets and stared wide eyed through the shop window at the woman whizzing down the hill.

‘Jaysus wha’ a roide!’ shouted two young gurriers on the corner and ran after her but she laughingly out did them.

Down along Dame street she rode with pizzazz. Around by trinity college and onto Nassau street.

Cars tooted their horns.

Bus and taxi drivers gripped their wheels and muttered ‘irresponsible’ under their breaths as she wove in and out of the busy traffic.

But she just smiled and waved at them all.

Her plump legs twinkling. Her skirt blowing. Her handbag dangling.

At last Matilda Maricella landed safely home and though her scarf dangled perilously near the back wheel, she had come to no greater grief on her journey than a pair of pink flushed cheeks.

She wheeled her new purchase in to join the rest of her family.

~

Now just as she loved adorning her home, Mathilda Maricella loved adorning her bikes too.

A red flower wound round the handle bar of the blue one.

Blue and red flower patterned saddle bags were added to the back carrier of the green one.

A bright golden bell on the pink and purple one.

But on the yellow one, she wrapped a long line of colored felt flowers around the handle bars and back through the front basket.

She hung a second wicker basket to the side of its back carrier.

She removed the silver bell from the handlebars and replaced it with a shiny red one.

Then she picked up her pot of paint and painted red flowers along the chain cover and the skirt guard.

When she was finished she leant back on her hunkers and sighed with satisfaction .

That evening, while others were sitting on their sofas watching television, Mathilda Maricella settled on her red armchair, her head supported by her pink chinese silk cushion and drinking red wine from a turquoise glass, admired her array of colorful bicycles.

But her eye rested again and again on the yellow one.

Now you might be wondering why she needed so many bicycles?

I suppose she didn’t, but she made use of them all as, for each journey she used a different bicycle.

For example when taking a trip to the sea for her daily swim(matilda swam from the first of march to the thirty first of october) she chose the blue pashley.

A day trip along the canal it was the turn of the green veloboris!

The pink and purple gazelle she used for nights on the town, a visit to the opera, a concert.

But the yellow bicycle became her faithful every day bike.

It brought her for coffee with friends, to the library, grocery shopping and to work.

Gradually it took the place of the others for trips to the sea and along the canals and even on nightly escapades.

It was also the most comfortable.

With it’s broad leather saddle and wide handlebars and a lean back feel about it, she floated along at a good speed despite the appearance of clumsiness.

They say a dog owner begins to look like its favorite dog

well the yellow bicycle was the bicycle version of matilda. 

~

Now far away from the colorful world of Matilda Maricellas Dublin

In france actually,

Lived La Monsieur de l’abbe de Tourville

(The abbey itself , once a monastery for Trappist monks was now a cavernous and dimly lit chambre d’hote)

As great as Matilda’s passion for bicycles was, it was more than equally matched by ‘La Monsieurs’ penchant for pumpkins.

He was obsessed by them

Their round shapes, their colored hues of yellow, orange even blue, fascinated him

They were everywhere…

When they ripened he made jam with the innards before cutting intricate patterns into the hardened skins. Some He turned into exquisite bowls, others into delicate lampshades.

Some he left au natural placing them strategically around the abbey grounds.

He lived, surrounded by pumpkins, in a large room at the top of the tower of the abbey.

One fine evening in october, Matilda Maricella arrived at the gates of the abbey on her yellow bicycle.

She was on one of her longer cycles, which she escaped to do from time to time.

Last year it was the Caminho de Compostela.

The year before that it was the cycle ways of burgundy.

This year it was the canals of southern france.

She pulled the chain at the high gates of the abbey and the bell bounced and echoed through the stone cloisters.

A dog barked in the distance and after a while La monsieur appeared.

He was dressed in blue linen trousers and a white linen shirt. A wide brimmed black hat adorned his head.

When he reached the gate he stopped and they gazed at each other through the rusty wrought iron bars.

Later she would describe it as a bolt of yellow sunshine hitting her between the eyes!

He would describe it as having been knocked over the head by a shapely and delicious blue pumpkin!

Matilda broke the silence first.

’Bonjour Monsieur’ She said ‘I have a reservation’

END OF PART ONE.

(I promise to complete this story, unless of course a handsome man comes along in the meantime and WHISKS me away)

 

Let us not lose the head.

Tags

bordeaux, cancer, coffee, cycling, france, french food, helmets, hospitals, immunotherapy, mussels, peloton

Yes! there was once a girl.

Well a woman really.

Actually she was a grandmother!

Who was pure mad about cycling.

She was so mad about it that, after surgery and immunotherapy for cancer in her leg, she got on her bike and cycled across france and had great adventures and met lovely people.

But one aspect of her cycling that caused much debate and even controversy and sometimes uproar and once downright ‘Ri ra agus rualie bualie’ (Irish for when all hell breaks loose) was the fact that she didn’t wear a helmet.

If truth be told she had never worn one, not in all her years of cycling.

Even when she was seven months pregnant and cycling to her ante natal clinics and could barely fit between the saddle and the handlebars she didn’t wear one.

Strangely people were less concerned about the pregnant cycling thing than the lack of a helmet.

They were very quick to remind her of all the dangers out there waiting for her and her bicycle.

The potholes, the trucks, the tractors, the fast drivers, the buses, the taxis, the cows on the road, the dog running unexpectedly out in front of her, the football, the hen.

It seemed to everyone but her that the whole world was determined to knock her off her bike.

‘But’ she replied, troubled that people lived in such fear of accidents, ‘It’s never occurred to me I should need such an object. I’m an optimist and I like to cycle simply and spontaneously. If I was a pessimist I could say to you. why don’t you put on a helmet when you are climbing a ladder, or having a shower or going upstairs or getting into your car, or walking on a country road?’.

‘Plus’ She reminded them ‘I have never come to grief in all my years of cycling except once’.

Oh yes! they all remembered THAT day.

That day was the day she got her diagnosis.

It had already got off to a bad start and she knew by the time she reached the hospital, she might as well give up any smidgen of thought that it might improve.

To begin with, she had forgotten to set her alarm clock and therefore only just had time to have a shower.

A day when she didn’t know what part of her the doctor might want to examine, was not a wise day to skip a shower.

She remembered an incident in the assessment unit where she once worked.

An old farmer came in complaining about a sore left foot. She examined the clean and scrubbed foot produced out of the wellington and a sock that smelt of pears soap.

But when she asked to see his other foot to make a comparison, he went red and ducking his head, produced a foot with no sock but grimey with turf mould and muck instead.

Having taken the time to shower that morning meant she didn’t have time to make her espresso, a beverage she found hard to function without. Or to pop into the local church and light a hopeful candle (the last straw she could think of grasping)so by the time she got on her bike things were already going downhill.

‘Never mind’ She thought as she pedalled furiously down the hill on the wrong side of the road. ‘I can get a lovely latte from the coffee shop once the doctor has told me there is nothing wrong with me except the need to lose a bit of weight’.

As she sped around the corner a large jeep was coming slowly the other way.

In panic she tried to get up onto the pavement (a silly manoeuvre on such a heavy bike but she really wasn’t thinking straight due to the lack of coffee and what she had to face).

She fell off the bike and landed haphazardly on the pavement. Sitting up and realizing no damage was done, she lifted her face to the sky and howled like a baby.

The woman hopped out of the jeep and ran to see if she was alright.

‘No I’m not’ She bawled ‘I am late for my doctors appointment and I think I have cancer’ (there she had said it)

‘Well’ said the jeep woman putting her finger to her chin for a moment and frowning ‘If you HAVE cancer I don’t think being late for your appointment is too important.

The woman who might have cancer thought about this for a second or two before saying ‘yes you are right. If I have cancer it changes everything. In fact all the silly things I have worried about over all the years suddenly seem no longer important.’

‘Lets pop your bike in my jeep’ The jeep woman leant forward to help her up ‘I will bring you to the hospital’.

‘You are very kind. But I am ok and what you have said really makes sense plus I have a few things to do enroute. I will ring and say I am a bit delayed and I will cycle carefully’.

‘Do that’ said the woman ‘I see you are not wearing a helmet but I suspect its not a head injury you’re afraid of dying from and I suppose every minute of feeling the wind through your hair and the sun on your cheeks is important to you now. Good luck today’ she smiled then got back in her jeep and drove away.

As soon as the woman with maybe cancer quickly calculated how long it would take to light a candle and pick up a coffee, she phoned the hospital and told them she would be 10 minutes late due to heavy traffic.

I certainly didn’t bring a helmet to france.

I was planning to pedal sedately and calmly with my head up admiring the passing scenery and avoiding the potholes.

There was no reason why I should fall off and if I did, then definitely there was no reason why I should land on the top of my head. (as opposed to my arm or my shoulder or my leg).

I wasn’t quite sure what the helmet story was in france but I was about to find out.

My first encounter with cyclists was a peloton.

I had gone to Arcachon in order to dip the front wheel of the yellow bike into the atlantic. (The next sea I hoped to dip my wheel into being the mediterranean).

I was now cycling back in the direction of Bordeaux along a sand road which meandered between grapevines

The sun was warm and now and then a relieving breeze ruffled my hair wherever there was a gap in the rows of vines.

I was in a world of my own, happily settling into the rhythm of my pedalling.

A twitter of voices, getting louder by the second, woke me from my daydream.

Something large and noisy was approaching from the rear.

Before I had a chance to look over my shoulder! They were upon me!

A large flock of coloured ‘parakeets’ swooping by with cheery calls of ‘bonvoyage’ and ‘courage’.

In the seconds that they took to pass I noted bright lycra above their tanned muscular calves and coordinating helmets upon their heads.

They were supreme in their choice of colours and coordination.

If the lycra was purple with pink trim then the helmet catching the sunlight was pink with purple stripes.

But that was the men.

The women, recognisable only by their smaller slimmer stature, wore black. Some conceding cautiously to colour by the smallest streak of yellow or blue.

I presume this is because black is slimming and god forbid any french woman would be seen as fat especially when viewed from behind.

And on such a note I did observe that the men wore gel pads in the seat of their cycling shorts whilst the women, who would have no problem risking saddle sores and blisters for the sake of beauty, went au natural.

As the dust from the cheerful entourage settled I spied the last female hopping off her bike and leaning it against a post.

She disappeared in among the grapevines.

Aha! I thought. A good place to pee. But she was not peeing instead she returned swiftly with a few bunches of luscious black grapes in her hands.

As I drew parallel she popped a bunch in my basket.

‘Bon appetite et bonne chance’ she smiled, before leaping agilely onto her saddle and whizzing off after the others.

I could see her throwing back her head every now and again as she gobbled down her own bunch.

So there I had it.

Speedy cyclists in france wore helmets, but were very friendly and encouraging to slower cyclists who didn’t.

I arrived sticky handed and purple lipped into the center of Bordeaux

Here it was a different story. Just as friendly but hurrah! I hardly spotted a single helmet amongst the hoards of city cyclists.

And hoards is no exaggeration.

I stopped for a coffee at a cafe in gambetta square and sat and watched in awe.

Such a cacophony of bicycle varieties.

This was too serious a scene to merely sit nursing a coffee over.

I needed something to chew on while I observed the show.

Something to get my teeth into and as I had the best chair in the house, right next to the square, I shouldn’t rush.

I had timed it well.

The waiters were starting to throw pristine white tablecloths over the now emptying tables as the coffee drinking galloise smoking youngsters pushed back their chairs and drifted away.

Older serious foodies were now arriving.

‘Vous manger?’ a handsome lad nodded at my table holding a tablecloth in his hands.

‘Mais qui’ I replied.

With one gesture he flung the cloth high into the azure sky and we both watched as it floated gently down and landed with unwrinkled precision across my table. The waiter smoothed it once, just in case.

Out of nowhere, two glasses and a knife, fork, spoon and napkin appeared and a menu was produced.

‘Un aperitif madam? My handsome waiter suggested raising a dark eyebrow.

‘Bien sur’ I replied, with my best french shrug ‘Un verre de vin rouge s’il vous plait’.

He darted off to carry out my wish and was back within seconds.

I lifted the glass of dark ruby almost black liquid.

I would have loved to spend some time sniffing the aromas but fearing pretentiousness, I took a sip instead and was surprised by its silky elegance. I had expected something rougher for a house wine.

The menu was simple and only in french.

I eventually narrowed it down to the ham cassoulet with haricot beans or the moules a la bordelaise. The mussels won. Bordeaux was too near the sea for them not to.

While I waited for them to arrive I sat back, sipped my wine and bike watched.

France has a tradition of a two hour stomach challenging lunch but it seems this tradition is fading fast when it comes to the young.

The young in france were slim and beautiful on that sunny autumn day and out and about en masse on their bicycles and not planning a large lunch as I was.

A few in particular caught my eye.

A high heeled woman in a flowery dress with a small white poodle in her front basket for example.

She had a cigarette between her elegant fingers, which also managed to hold onto one handle bar, while the other clutched a mobile phone to her ear.

She laughed joyously and held an animated conversation whilst weaving in and out between taxi’s, her dog yapping noisily at any other cyclist who dared to cross their path.

With each bark its diamond trinketed collar jangled furiously.

She was not long gone when my attention turned to a handsome lad and pretty girl holding hands and cycling nonchalantly by.

Then there was a girl with a large cello on her back.

Next a man cycling an old black upright bike and with a free hand bringing along an empty bike.

Meanwhile girls perched on back carriers, arms twined around their lovers, who pedalled enthusiastically with no objection to the extra weight.

They crisscrossed, swerved, slowed, in and out between the buses, taxi’s and cars, but no one fell off. No one got cross.

They just kept going, optimistically and without fear it seemed to me and not a helmet among them.

So engrossed was I by what was in front of me that I almost missed the smells that were beginning to fill the air, almost delicate at first but gradually getting stronger.

Saucisson, steak, jambon, onions, garlic. A plate of earthy mushrooms went by leaving a scent of forest in its trail.

At last I smelt something familiar, something that reminded me of summer evenings in connemara. The smell of the sea. My mussels had arrived.

 fin.

The power of suggestion (Be afraid. Be very afraid).

Tags

bicycling, fear, food, france, helmets, high viz, hospitality, injuries, onion soup, steakfrites, watermills, wine

Once upon a time there was a girl. Well a woman really. Actually she was a grandmother.

And she was a happy optimistic person who loved doing interesting things!

Things like climbing hills in her bare feet, swimming in the sea at night and heading off on her yellow bicycle exploring.

Now she did these things mostly alone because not many people she knew were keen on swimming in the dark or they didn’t fancy stubbing their toes climbing mountains in bare feet.

As for cycling? She liked that she could choose which way and which road to take. She liked the feeling that if she was halfway down a road and decided to turn and go a different road no one would think she was odd.

And in all that time she was never ever afraid.

One day she saw an ad for a group who loved cycling.

‘Hurrah’ she thought ‘I will join this group and join other happy interesting people and read happy positive bicycley things’.

But to her sadness she discovered that even though these people LIKED to cycle most of them were very AFRAID.

They were afraid of falling off their bicycles and hurting their heads so they wore plastic helmets.

They were afraid of being invisible so they wore jackets in loud harsh colours.

They were afraid of cars so they began to dislike the people who drove them.

They were even afraid of other cyclists who went much faster than them.

The girl/woman/grandmother began to think that maybe they are right and she was wrong.

Maybe cycling wasn’t a happy thing but a scary thing and she should take more care.

So she went to the bike shop and bought a plastic helmet for her head and a bright jacket of loud harsh colours.

And the next day she went cycling down the country lanes with her helmet buckled under her chin. But soon she felt dizzy and confused and very wobbly. So wobbly that she fell into the hedge and landed on a bunch of nettles.

She got up and took off her helmet and decided it was too dangerous to wear so she put it in her front basket instead .

As she cycled on she realised something very strange. It was really really quiet. Something was missing.

‘Thats it’ she thought ‘There is no bird song’.

She was getting very hot so she took of her loud coloured high viz jacket and rolled it in a ball and put it in her bike basket.

Within minutes the birds (who had been frightened by such harsh colours) began to sing happily in the hedgerows again.

As she came around the corner she stopped just in time to avoid hitting a car approaching from the other direction on the narrow road.

She popped off her bike and began to pull it into the ditch out of the way and let the car pass.

But the driver called out through the open window ‘Its ok! There is a gate just back there I can reverse into’ and he did.

And as she cycled by he called out again ‘I envy you on your bicycle, normally I would be on mine too but I have to bring my mother for her doctors appointment’. A small frail women waved out from the passengers window at her.

When she got home she put her high viz in the bin. She put her plastic helmet in the holly bush, (Maybe a bird would make a nest in it)  and she pulled out her map of france and made a plan.

Because she knew she had been right all along.

Cycling WAS a fun and safe way to travel.

She took her pen and drew a line across the map from the atlantic to the mediterranean.

DAY THREE. THE ‘ALLO ‘ALLO CAFE’

I lay on the smooth earth beside the path and listened to the birds.

A gentle breeze rippled the grasses and near my ear a grasshopper chirped . A bee buzzed in the vines and I could smell the sweetness of the grapes.

Somewhere closeby there was the sound of rushing water.

Now and then voices would approach and a few other cyclists mostly in full regalia would zip by, calling out out a cheery ‘bon voyage’ before disappearing in a cloud of dust then all would be calm again for a while.

The drone of far off tractors, busy with the grape harvest, was soothing.

I would have loved to throw a blanket over myself and sleep here for the night.

Instead I sat up and once again examined the red rash around my swollen ankle.

I should have taken it easier, not tried to cover such a distance in one day.

My effected leg would be prone to lymphoedema and cellulitis for ever . I needed to be gentler with it.

With still another 10 kms to go before I reached a town that would possibly have a bed and breakfast I was getting worried.

Sighing I gathered myself together and decided to walk for a while. Maybe that motion would help.

As I rounded the corner I spied a gap in the hedge and hammered into the ground was a wooden sign LE MOULIN and underneath CHAMBRES D’HOTES.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I pushed the yellow bicycle through the gap and wheeled it across a large lawn, past a vast plot of ripened pumpkins and over to an enormous stone mill building whose stream was gushing and turning the mill wheel.

I leant my bike against the wall and pulled the chain at the door. The jangling echoed through the building barely audible over the sound of rushing water.

The young woman who opened the door was very apologetic ‘We are closed for the season’ she said.

I was nearly at the gap again when she caught up with me

‘Attendez’ she called breathlessly ‘Yes it is true we are closed but I have just phoned my husband who agrees if you are prepared to rise at 6 am you can stay. We are both physiotherapists in the hospital of Bordeaux and have to leave very early for work’.

I nearly kissed her. ‘Of course I will leave early It is no problem’. I explained that I was a nurse and understood and was well used to early starts.

She smiled and we went back to the mill.

My room was large with a beautiful old bed. The linen was slightly damp but I didn’t care and anyway she was wrestling with some ancient heating system.

When the loud clanking of pipes settled into a hum, she turned and before I could object whisked the old linen away and returned with fresh.

Together we made up the bed again.

‘Now for food’ she said.

I could see her brain ticking away and sorting out the list of problems methodically.

‘You will need to eat! Quelle domage but I do not do evening meals’

‘Pas de problem’ I said ‘I have some bread and cheese and fruit’

She looked at me aghast and I remembered the importance of meals to the french.

She picked up the phone, waited a minute then spoke some rapid french into the receiver.

Ok’ She looked pleased with herself ‘I have made a reservation for you for dinner in our village cafe. It is just 1 km further along the path. You can’t miss it. It is the only cafe there’.

She was right! I couldn’t miss  the cafe in the sleepy single road village.

It was where the action was. A group of noisy youths were hanging out outside.

Some leaning nonchalantly against their motor bikes.  Others strewn long legged and leather jacketed at the various tables of a small terrace .

The smell of gauloises filled the air and a pall of smoke hung over their handsome faces. And I had forgotten my bicyle lock!

I looked at them anxiously ‘Quelle jolie velo’ One cried as he sauntered over to check out the yellow bike.

‘Are you engliiish’? He asked, hunkering down to examine the painting on the skirt guard.

‘No I am Irish’ I said uncertain of their friendliness.

‘Aw Luke kelly’ shouted another.

I smiled.

A woman appeared at the door of the cafe.

Dyed blond curly hair swept up into a towering bouffant. A gash of scarlet lipstick slashed across her mouth from which dangled a cigarette.  Her eyes were lined with kohl and her cheeks heavily rouged. But it was her dress that drew my eye! Leopard skin print and as tight and as short as possible and on top of this she was managing to balance on the highest of high heel shoes.

She inhaled deeply on the cigarette then throwing the but onto the road smiled at me.

‘Entrez’ She ordered

I looked from my bicycle back to her in panic.

The youths seeing my face, burst out laughing. One put his hands to his heart in a mock dramatic fashion ‘Your velo, it is safe with us’.

Inside the cafe it was dark and gloomy.

A row of large bottomed men in blue overalls sat at the bar.

They turned in unison to look at me as I entered.

‘Bonsoir’ I mumbled  and they nodded dourly and turned back to their wine.

Two were smoking .

I smiled to myself and thought ‘only in france’.

(The smoking ban was well installed all over europe at this stage).

A large dog lay at their feet, asleep.

There was a single round plastic table and a chair over at the window with one place set.

Madame Leopard pulled out the chair and indicated I should sit.

I was afraid to do otherwise.  She disappeared and I began to relax.

Within seconds she was back and plonked a large carafe of red wine in front of me, a piece of rough bread and a bowl of soup.

‘Bon appetit’ She smiled and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

I poured a glass of wine and sniffed it. Even I could tell it was a good bordeaux.

As I raised the glass to my lips, the men again swung round in unison and raised theirs ‘Sante’ they called out.

‘Sante’ I replied and sipped my glass.

Then I dipped my spoon into the bowl none too enthusiastically.

Brown is not the most appetizing looking colour for a soup but the taste was out of this world and I realised what it was.

Authentic french onion soup!

So delicious it was that I ate every scrap and used a bit of bread to wipe my bowl clean.

Madame leopard must have been watching because the minute I swallowed the last morsel of bread, she appeared at my elbow and whisked the empty bowl away.

The dog opened an eye and watched disappointedly as she went by.

Within seconds she was back again.

This time it was a large plate piled high with rice, vegetables and pieces of fish and shrimp.

‘Manger’ she instructed as she plonked the plate in front of me and after refilling my glass she disappeared behind the bar with the carafe where I could see her refilling it.

Half way through the rice dish I was defeated and lent back on my chair relaxing with my third or was it my fourth glass of bordeaux.

Again she was at my elbow to whisk away my half empty dish and again the dog opened an eye and lifted his head.

This time she leant down and scraped the remains of my plate into a bowl.

The dog lumbered to his feet and within seconds was licking the bowl clean then his jowls before lying down again with a satisfying sigh.

I couldn’t believe it when she reappeared at my elbow once more.

Steak frites! Oh dear!

But the wine was making me brave and I lifted my knife and fork with steely determination.

I didn’t fare too badly but again the dog was in luck.

Coffee and tarte aux pommes were nearly the undoing of me.

I couldn’t move but eventually heaving myself off the chair with difficulty, I rolled to the bar to settle the bill.

‘Si delicieux’ I patted my tummy in case she didn’t understand my poor french.

She beamed from ear to ear.

‘Combien’? I asked politely.

The men looked up from their glasses with interest.

She thought for a few moments before shrugging in that very french way, her scarlet lips pursed around a lighted cigarette,

As the smoke coiled up to the ceiling, we waited with bated breath for her verdict.

‘Huit euro’ she replied at last. Eight euro! The men nodded as though agreeing that this was a fair price.

I took out a ten euro note and a five and put it on the counter.

‘Merci bien et au revoir’ I waved, teetering down the steps.

Outside it was dark, the youths were gone but of course my yellow bicycle was still there.

FIN.

.

Where I learn that the french ADORE bicycles.

Tags

bicycles, bordeaux, cycling, france, surgery

MAY 2009 (A HOSPITAL)

I cannot remember when my love of bicycling began.

I do remember as a teenager waiting excitedly for a friend of my fathers to arrive on a sunday and throw our bikes (and us) into the back of his van and head off into the dublin mountains for a days cycling.

How I loved those sundays, It was probably springtime and our bikes may not have been the best but youth and enthusiasm made up for them.

I don’t remember punctures or tiredness, just the pure joy and exhilaration of flying down one hill and up the next. The lakes to our right. Forests to our left. The yellow of the gorse and how it smelt like coconut. The song of the birds. the trickle of nearby mountain streams. The road ahead stretching and winding through the blue of the hills and on into the distance. 

I continued to cycle through my student nursing days, my marriage, my pregnancies, my childrens upbringing. I must state here that my way of cycling was not that of a racer. It was the happy constant cycling of someones who enjoys travelling at a leisurely pace in the fresh air and noticing life around them as they pedal.

A meditative pedaler might be a better description.

But now here I was, sitting in a hospital bed with a zigzag incision from mid thigh to mid belly and two surgical drains protruding from my groin .

And this was just the start.

I still had a year of treatment to get through. Yes I had lots of time to dream and plan.

I patted my poor battered leg sympathetically.

‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be ok. When this is over we will go on a journey, just you, the yellow bike and me. And by the time we come home it will be as though this was just a bad dream’.

OCTOBER 2010 (BORDEAUX AIRPORT)

Its not what I had envisioned.

I thought France was supposed to be filled with men wearing black berets, and striped jumpers shirts shouting ooh la la at pretty women wearing Brigitte Bardot headscarves.

AND the weather was supposed to be sunny! except for a day or two in april in Paris when there might be a gentle sprinkle of rain, just enough to give himself an excuse to kiss you under the shelter of an arch at the pont des arts.

Instead I was standing under an overpass just outside the main doors of bordeaux airport in the lashing rain and whipping wind in full view of a line of dour looking taxi drivers.

At my feet forming increasing puddles were three items. A set of flowery panniers. A bicycle basket and a large sodden dishevelled cardboard box.

Flying a bicycle is easy with just a few small measures to be carried out.

1. The tyres must be deflated
2. The handle bars dropped
3. The saddle lowered
4. The pedals inverted
5. The bicycle installed in either a customized bag or a cardboard box.

Its how you manage on landing that may prove more difficult.

Firstly I chose the cardboard box because I didn’t want the added weight and storage of a bike bag (they are large items) and my plan was to dispose of the box on arrival and pick up a fresh one from a bike shop for my return flight.

Of course I hadn’t thought the disposal of such a large box through.

But from where I was standing I could see three waste bins.

If I was lucky they might be empty.

I began to strip the soggy cardboard off the bike and run backwards and forwards to the bins all the time trying to keep an eye on my possessions through the slanting rain.

I needn’t have worried. No robber in his right mind would be working on such a day.

Pleased that I had managed the disposal I looked at the bike.

Then I looked hopefully at the taximen. Weren’t french men were suppose to be the most chivalrous in the world ? I knew at any moment one or even a few would open their doors and swagger over to offer assistance

But no! They were settling further back in their seats for an afternoons entertainment.

Some were even taking du pain and du vin out of paper wrappers, others were lighting up gitanes.

All were looking in my direction with interest.

Well I would show them!

With a flick of my wrist I turned my bike over and pulling a small spanner from my basket corrected the pedals.

I pumped up the wheels.

I turned the bike bike upright again and adjusted the saddle

The only thing that stymied me was the handle bars. No matter what I did they just kept dropping.

Not wanting to give my audience reason to smirk I just pretended that this was the way we cycled in Ireland. Leaning forward at an uncomfortable angle and clutching obviously unstable handlebars.

Throwing the panniers across the back carrier and buckling on the basket I sailed forth into the rain.

I didn’t get far. Mainly because I didn’t know where I was going and I couldn’t remember where I had stored my map.

But also because it was becoming increasingly dangerous to try and cycle with my low hanging swinging handle bars.

I persevered. I am a survivor after all and I could not allow such a small inconvenience to detain me.

After a while I was beginning to see the same sign posts again and again, mostly for hertz and europcar.

I soon realized my suspicions were correct . I was cycling in circles around the car hire compound.

On top of this it was getting dark.

My Daughters voice popped into my head  ‘Mom! your flight gets in late afternoon. By the time you collect your bike and assemble it it’ll be getting dark. I’m going to book you into an airport hotel for the night. You can relax and start out refreshed in the morning. You’re only finished your treatment. Take it easy’. She wrote the name of the hotel on the first page of my new diary along with Love you Mom, have a great adventure. You are right as always dear Hanna.

The girl in the eurocar hut was not at all perturbed to see a hooded wet bedraggled person staring in the window at her.

She opened the door and enthusiastically admired my bicycle. ‘Quel joli velo’ She chirped putting her two hands to her heart.

‘Entrez’ She invited me in pointing to the coffee dispenser.

I shook my head. I knew if I went into that warm yellow lit hut I would never leave it again. Instead I told her the name of the hotel I was looking for and she gave me simple directions.

As I turned to go she asked ‘Puis-je?  and whipped her phone out of her bag.

Before I had a chance to reply she snapped a few shots of the bike and popping her fone smartly back in her bag explained ‘Pour mes amis’!

‘Au revoir et merci’  I called over my shoulder . The small figure silhouetted against the yellow light waved once and closed the door and I was once again alone in the cold wet darkness.

The rain started to lighten a bit and I found the hotel easily.

Getting up the courage to walk across the shiny marble floor in dripping rain gear was not so easy.

I stood debating whether the best ploy was to wiggle the wet trousers here under cover and try and gather my hair into some sort of acceptable appearance.

I shouldn’t have let my daughter book after all. This hotel must be at least five star, all glass and marble with gold trim.

Before I had a chance to make a decision the massive doors slid open and a girl behind the reception desk called out first in french and then in english ‘Don’t worry come in as you are’. I looked behind me expecting to see a fur coated jewelry swathed model, but I was the only one there.

‘Entrez s’il vous plait’ She beckoned me anxiously as though I was going to change my mind and scamper off into the dark. I trotted apologetically over to the desk, leaving a trail of wet muddy prints.

‘But bring your bicycle also’ She continued ‘You can’t leave it out there! Look we will put it in the baggage room where it will be safe’.

I followed her pointing finger.

A large glass room to the right was dotted with Gucci and Armani matching suitcases

I went back out still dripping rainwater and returned adding a muddy tyre trail.

The receptionist didnt blink an eye but instead as she came out from behind the counter with a large key exclaimed ‘What a pretty bike’ then she put her head critically to one side ‘But the handle bars they are incorrect non’? She tapped them with a well manicured finger and they swung back and forth.

I explained how I had tried to fix them.

‘Pas de problem’ she smiled. ‘There is a big sports shop! you know Decathlon’ ?

I shook my now frizzly drying hair.

‘Its just down the street. Leave your things here in the room in the morning and bring your bicycle down first. They will fix it for you tres vite. Ask for Gaston! you cannot miss him! he is very tall and handsome.’ She laughed and added  ‘Of course I say that because he is my boyfriend’.

So next morning I did as bid and as promised Gaston not only repaired the handlebars but checked the tyres too. and the cost ? nothing!

‘Quel joli velo’ he smiled as he wheeled it outside for me.

I’m not sure but I thought I heard the yellow bike purr.

And that is when I began to realize just how much the french adore bicycles.

You can go into the highest starred michelin restaurant covered in mud but if you have arrived by bicycle the Maitre D’hotel will welcome you with open arms and give you the best table. You can pull into a five star hotel dripping rain and mud and without blinking an eye they will put your bike in the luggage room beside all the designer cases as tenderly as though it was made of gold.

Qui le francais adorent velos!!

FIN.