Category: Lyon

226 – Why I Can’t Have Dogs

As my ten days as a dogsitter draws to a shaky close, I can categorically say that I will not be having a dog.

TRY BEFORE YOU BUY

For want of a better phrase. The wisdom they use in advertising campaigns. Free slices of salami or cheese or coffee rationed out in supermarkets by overly eager sales reps dressed in bright aprons. Giving you a taste of Brand X before you become a lifelong follower.

I tried DOG X and said no. Which was a good move because if I had succumbed at some point in my life to buying one, I would have instantly regretted it.

I would have got used to it, but I wouldn’t have particularly enjoyed it. Too much like being a teacher. Making do, but always looking for a way out. Most likely with a loaded rifle, a bottle of whiskey and a long walk. (I’m talking about me, not the dog.)

The worst part of having a dog for me is the forced wake up call EVERY SINGLE morning. Getting woken up by some rat faced mutt breathing offal into my face. I want my weekends back. Which is the shocking truth of having a dog, isn’t it? You don’t get one.

There I was going to bed on my first Friday night here, looking forward to a full twelve hours sleep with a proper lie in. When I suddenly realised that I would have to get up in about seven hours time to walk the stupid dog.

It was at that point that I knew there would never be a dog called Oggers in my house. Not that I would call it Oggers, that would be ridiculous. But if there was an animal called Oggers, it would have to be a cat. Or a fish. Or better still, a wooden horse. Or a duck. Something that doesn’t bark, breathe, shit, smell, wake me up, or steal my sandwiches.

So that’s the dogsit accomplished. Next up is a short trip to Barcelona to visit some friends, then a drive back across the Pyrenees to Bordeaux to pick up some cash, sign on at the job centre, and then hot foot it back to the UK for reasons I can’t even remember now.

no dog

 

225 – Three dogs, a Nervous Breakdown and Two Very Good Cups of Coffee

After driving 480km from Taussat on the Arcachon Basin to Alaigne in the department of Aude, 25 km south west of Carcassonne, which included two rain washed nights camping out in the Ariege-Pyrenees, me and Elizabeth finally met up with the three dogs we were going to be looking after for the next ten days.

Two crazed Parson Russell Terriers (like a Jack Russell but with longer legs) and a Golden Labrador with big dark lonely eyes that made me want to give it a biscuit and say everything is alright.

The fun started yesterday on our first walk with the dogs’ owner, when I was towed up a hill by the male terrier called Idéfix like I was attached to a ski lift. He’s only a foot tall, but has the power of a bull. His little hind legs pumping furiously ten feet in front of me ignoring my cries to slow down as my shoulder slowly came out of its socket.

I asked the owner if I could let him off the lead for a minute, but he advised me not to.

‘Not this one. If you do that, you’ll never see him again,’ he said gazing into the distance.

I believed him as well, looking at the lead stretch out in front of me like a fully extended bungi cord, and imagining the dog being catapulted off towards the horizon the moment I let it go.

The other two dogs, Carla (the other terrier) and Holly (the sad Labrador) seemed to be having a nice gentle walk, and it made me wonder if I’d been specifically hired for the task of walking Idéfix because of my abilities as an athlete. I’m good at running up hills and don’t easily tire. Just like a dog. Perhaps in another life, I was a Parson Russell Terrier.

So that’s the deal for the next ten days, plus seven chickens and a cat to look after. And in truth I’m relishing the idea of being up here in the Aude. Dogs, chickens, loads of eggs, hooded priests, dark shadows, hidden skeletons, holy grail and all that Cathar legend stuff.

It’ll probably be more relaxing than the trip here that resulted in a partial meltdown. Not a physical one like blowing a head gasket, or setting ourselves on fire. But a mental one, caused by the realisation that after this housesit, we actually have nowhere to live and have no jobs.

But in truth that wasn’t the real reason. The meltdown was caused by the fact that we arrived at a campsite with no gas. And no gas means no coffee.

I can handle not having a place to live. Or not having a job. But not having a decent coffee first thing in the morning, especially camping, especially in the rain, especially when you’re wondering why on earth you’ve just driven 500 km with a car full of junk, really takes the biscuit. And we didn’t even have any of those either. Just half a packet of damp peanuts. Nightmare!

There’s no need to go into the precise details, but we had the meltdown on a road somewhere in the Ariege. I can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter. Our lives flashed in front of us in great detail and we both wondered how everything could have gone so wrong. But then we were saved. Not by God, or the Cathars, or hooded monks or priests. But by a nondescript roadside café on the main road to Spain near the town of Foix.

It proved once again that it’s only when you’re feeling really down that the simplest things in life are the best. Just when I was considering jacking the whole thing in and going back home, I was saved by the best coffee I’ve had in France in the four years I’ve been here. I’m not religious. But I now understood why people are.

You might think I’m exaggerating the moment for literary effect. I’m not. When I came out after those two mugs of coffee and four croissants, I was truly re-energised. I was ready for anything. I climbed back into the car, fired up the Honda Civic Extra Turbo Power Mark IV and headed to Aude to meet my destiny. My destiny being a two year old Parson Russell Terrier called Idéfix. The story continues.

ide

 

111 – Le Tour de France

Le Tour hits Lyon today. Frédéric Moreau said to me that cycling is as close as sport gets to rock and roll. Cycling has never been clean. It’s too hard. 3000 km in three weeks up mountains. Five time winner Jacques Anquetil famously said that only a fool would imagine it was possible to ride from Bordeaux to Paris in a day on just water. ‘We have to ride through the cold, through heatwaves, in the rain and in the mountains. Leave me in peace; everybody takes dope.’ Continue reading “111 – Le Tour de France”

110 – The Three Wise Men of Lyon

During my two years here, three men have stood out from the crowd. The first one I saw at the amphitheatre one September evening in 2011. Strolling through the ancient pillars and mosaics carrying a radio under his arm wrapped up in a plastic bag listening and dancing to U2 – A Beautiful Day. Continue reading “110 – The Three Wise Men of Lyon”

108 – The Run

It’s 37 degrees. The track around the park is like an avenue of hot coals. Burning the rubber on my running shoes as I hit the long straight that leads up to the Orangery. The short shrubs along the route providing zero shade as I increase the pace, sweat already dripping from my brow like I’m running under a shower. Continue reading “108 – The Run”

107 – Nuits de Fourvière

The old Roman Amphitheatre on Fourvière hill is a monument to the performers who entertained the cream of Roman society two thousand years ago before being thrown back down the hill after an evenings work to scrape whatever meagre living they could. So what better way to celebrate these actors, singers and poets of Antiquity than by rehashing the idea two millennia later. Albeit with more modern offerings like rock, the avant garde and Madness. Continue reading “107 – Nuits de Fourvière”

106 – Summer

It hasn’t been a good year for suncream manufacturers. Or for the bar and restaurant industry along the Rhone. Frantic owners sucking on pink gins gazing at the litter blowing around the acres of expensively leased terrace. Feeling like they have been looking at the same rain splattered watercolour forever. Tables and chairs stacked up and chained together. Barrels of beer going sour. Wine corking. A million crates of ice cream going flaky at the edges. Rifle at the ready as the bank manager rolls up in this Merc. Two strong drinks. Two bullets. Continue reading “106 – Summer”

104 – Larina

There’s nothing at Larina except dead people and gravestones. Which makes this 7th century village perched high on perilous cliffs overlooking the Bugey nuclear power station, its sinister looking reactor globes a mere sling shot away from what used to be a village hall, a very strange place indeed. Continue reading “104 – Larina”

97 – Shacks and Smiles

Walking to Mahle last week I passed fifty or so shacks on a waste ground. At first I thought they were part of an abandoned allotment waiting to be cleared for development. But then I saw a woman washing clothes in a tub. Children playing in the grime. Guys kicking a ball around. Smoke rising from chimneys. Continue reading “97 – Shacks and Smiles”