Rioja riot

Poor Bluebell, the camper van is full of Rioja. After that nice lady decorator made another of her carefully argued statements the night before last; something like “all French red wine is shit”, we went back to Spain yesterday morning to fill the Bluebell full of Spanish wine. It had taken just one bottle of a very decent 2005 Reserva for her to make the decision to make a detour of an hour and buy around a hundred bottles, enough for at least a couple of weeks, maybe even until the end of the month. Had it been white wine she was demanding in such quantity I have objected, but red wine is of course another matter.

The trail then took us back into France to Thuir in particular then on to Castelnou to look at our old holiday home being utterly ruined by the people who bought it. The masterstroke has been to build an extension which destroys a great view and screens the sun from the swimming pool. That nice lady decorator was spitting feathers, she takes destruction of her handiwork very seriously indeed.

Lunch in the village was disappointing in that the best restaurant in the village L’ Hostal, has been ruined by an eccentric idiot with no taste. No not me, but the new owner who seems to have a commercial death wish. In all the return visit to what was a very special place for us laid the ghost to rest.

There is a tradition in the area, the northern edge of Catalonia in the Rousillion of drinking muscat via a Galet, a kind of spouted glass jug, and although he will be distressed by the picture, my dear Norwegian friend Morten shows today how it should be done.

A master of the galet at work

The knack of course in ensuring the liquid goes in your mouth not down the front of you shirt, and I have the evidence of too many sticky shirts in my wardrobe to have been tempted into anything but a cursory try of this stupid drinking method.

The beautiful and special La Fauvelle in Thuir offered a night of sumptuous luxury courtesy of our wonderful Norwegian friends Morten and Ziggy, the owners, and a stark difference to the camping experience, which once again faces us tonight.

Today we are back on the road aiming for somewhere recommended by a friend called St Guilhem Le Desert (I wonder if that has anything to do with William of Orange? No? Ok, too obscure, I will edit this out). Google maps indicates it is just over two hours away, which means at least three hours in Bluebell. This is the start of the return journey, we need to be back by Wednesday in time to fly to London for some cricket and London Pride.

I hear a story about a golfing pal who has featured in this column but I dare not identify. It seems that there is a rather ancient “lady of the night” who works close to where he lives. He went to have a conversation with her to ask her to take her business elsewhere and story goes that whilst talking to her he somehow lost his wallet and had to go back to see her again… I cannot reveal either who told me this story, but I cannot wait to get back to the REGS golf society to see if any of it is true.

We are now one-third of our way through my vacation period, that means at least another two weeks before I will be able to mention and plug Currencies Direct, until that time my commercial lips are sealed.

Chris France