Last night while we ate dinner on the terrace my old favourite mountain; Canigou, put on a cloud circus for us.

Five and a bit years ago I deceded to write the following piece.
As I had to dredge it out of my memory for the first time for Fionn last month when he was over I thought it high time for a revisit.

Fionn , pictured by his mother, with his new Man in the Moon decals on his bedroom wall.

When my three daughters were little, as a bribe to get them to go to sleep
(or at least to bed) at night I used to occasionally tell them bed time stories. After a while one particular series of stories became the all time favourite and, children being conservative animals, none other were permitted.
Just recently my middle daughter Eileen (who works in Hodges Figgis book shop in Dublin) told me that I must write this down. Of course I was flattered, even to think that she remembered it but also at a loss because the classic elements of a “Man in the Moon” story were not just the words. There were all sorts of actions, sound effects, and indeed audience participation which were part of the experience.
I have decided that the nearest I can get to recording this, I am at a loss to know what to call it, maybe short, interactive, one man playlet would be nearest the mark, would be to give the story as I used to to my children and suggest stage directions for the various bits of business by the size of the text where appropiate. In other words what one has here is a story for adult story tellers not for children.
My three daughters were Caitriona, Eileen and Deirdre. For the sake of the story we will imagine them as aged 9, 6, and 3 respectively.(which they would have been about 19 years ago.) Of course the stories were never the same and varied to reflect current family events but I will try to remember one . You substitute names etc. as appropriate, as indeed I have when I have told this to children of friends, nieces and nephews and even to grand nieces and nephews.Here we go;

The Man in the Moon and the Pink Planet.

Caitriona, Eileen and Deirdre were lying in their beds one night. They were bored and wide awake, didn’t feel like going to sleep.
Caitriona looked out the window and looked at the stars:

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky”
She sang.

She looked up at the sky and saw a pink star shining and twinkling brighter than any others.
“I’d love to go up to that Pink Planet”
“Why don’t we call the man in the moon and see if he will bring us there?” said Eileen,
Then they all concentrated hard and looked up into the sky at the big fat moon with the mans face on it and they closed their eyes and called out together:

Man in the Moooooon!
Man in the MoooooooooooooooooN!

Suddenly they heard a faint swishing sound far far away in the sky.

Ssssshhhhhhhhh it went very faintly in the distance.

But then it started to get louder.

Sssssssshhhhhhhhh as it got nearer.

Then it got very close and much louder

Sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And suddenly, there just outside the window was the man in the moon in his rocket with a big smile all over his face.

“Did I hear someone saying they wanted to go to the pink planet ?”
He said.
“Yes!” Said the three girls all together.
“Then Hop up on the back of my rocket and off we will go!”

So they scrambled out the window and sat on the three seats on the back of the rocket.

“Are we all ready?” Said the man in the moon.

“Wait wait!” said Eileen, “I forgot my nana”
“I’ll go and get it” and she scrambled back into the bedroom to get her very important blanket.
Then Deirdre said “And I’ll get my Teddy” and followed Eileen.
Caitriona looked at the man in the moon and said
“I used to have a Mousie, but I’m too big for him now”
“I see” said the man in the moon.

The two younger girls scrambled back out the window and into their seats in the rocket.

“Are we ready now?” said the man in the moon.

Yes! They all shouted together and he started the engine of the rocket and away they went.
Sssssssshhhhhhhhhh!

Sssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh.

Sssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Awayyyywayyyy into the night sky.

All the way up past the stars and the planets.

All the way up through the asteroids.

Until with a big bump they landed on the pink Planet.

“Right” said the man in the moon, “out you get”
“Don’t forget I’ll be back for you in two hours”

and awawayawayaway…….. he went

Ssssshhhhhhhhhh

ssssssssshhhhhhhhhh

ssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh

into the night sky.

Well what a surprising place the pink planet was.
Everything was pink!
The houses were pink.
The trees were pink.
The roads were pink.
The cows were pink and they didn’t say Mooooo
They said Piiiiiiiiioooooooooooooooonk.
The sheep were pink.
They didn’t say Baaaaa.
They said Piaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank.
What did the Dogs Say?
What did the Cats say?

Down the pink road walked the three children.

From behind some trees near the road they heard some strange crying.

I I I I I I
WAAAAAAANT
MYYYYYY
( PINK PINK)
MAAAAAAAMY

And there behind some trees they found a little baby elephant and he was crying his eyes out.

I I I I ! He started again very loud.
That’s enough of that said Eileen.
And he stopped except for a couple of pink hiccups.
P hic nk P hic nk.

Deirdre said.
“You stay with him and I’ll see what I can do.”

She went back on th the road and talked to the first man she saw.

“Where is the nearest pink town?” she asked.

“Down at the end of the pink road” he said.
“And is there a Pink Zoo in the pink town” said she.
“Indeed and there is” said he.

So Deirdre went back to the others and said “Come on”
“We are going to the Pink Town to find his Mother”

So they set off.
Caitriona in the lead holding the elephant by his trunk.
Eileen after her carrying her Nana.
Deirdre after her holding Teddy’s hand who was walking along the road next to her.

After a while they got to the Pink Town.
There they were guided to the Pink Zoo.
In the Zoo they found their way to the Pink Elephant house.

As they came up to the Elephant house they could hear a terrible catawauling noise.

I I I I I I I I I I I

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANT

MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

BAAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBBBBBYYYYYYY!!!

So Eileen had to go up to the big Pink Elephant Mother in the Elephant House and say
“That’s enough of that!”
And the Big Elephant Mother stopped crying
And just gave two pink elephant hiccups.

PiiiiHICnk PiiiiiiiHic upnk.

Then she saw her baby.
And the baby pink elephant saw his mother.
And they were DEEEEEEELIGHTED!

And the Zoo Keeper came and said
“Are you the children who brought back the Baby pink Elephant?”

“We have a special reward for you” he said

And he gave them a
Great !
Big !
Bag!
OF!
Pink!
Sweets!

And a

Great!
Big!
Bar!
OF!
PINK!
CHOCOLATE!

And they were

Deeeelighted

Because they were

Deeeeelicious

Suddenly Eileen looked at her watch and said
“Will you look at the time”
“If we don’t run we are going to miss the Man in the Moon”

So off the ran as quick as they could.
Through the pink town
Down the pink Road
Past the pink wood where they had found the baby elephant.

There at the spot where he said he would be was the Man in the Moon.

“Hop in” he said “and we will go back to Kilmacleague”

So back in they hopped and off the rocket went.

Sssssshhhhhhhhhhh

Sssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh

Sssssssssssssssssss Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh !

Until down they landed in Kilmacleague.
Back they scrambled into their beds.
They tucked themselves up all snug and comfy
And fell
Faaaaassssssttttttt Asssssssleeeeeeeep
Like Good little Girls……

At last I get some value out of my college fees . UCD graduate magazine “Connections” (which went out with the IT yesterday ) selected us as one of their “Stories of the Seventies” and printed this piece about us.

The Beach at La Tamarissiere today (photo by Eileen)

I have a very mixed relationship with time spent on the beach.
Had I decided to do the sensible thing and stay in Ireland this would not really have mattered, I gather from the people who still live there that the decision to beach or not to beach is not one that keeps them awake nights.
Unfortunately I have decided to settle in a part of the world which not only has the correct temperatures for La Plage , but is also within a half hour of tens, if not twenties of smooth sandy beaches.
It makes it really difficult to pretend that “a day at the beach” is not an option.
Fortunately for me we are too busy during the height of the summer season for my wife to have the time to break down my beach resistance . Even when she has , the Mediterranean sometimes conspires with me to make the whole experience as unenjoyable as possible.
There was a beautiful July day in 2010, temperatures around 24 C when I rushed with gay abandon into the Mare Nostrum only to scream like a girl as I lost all feeling below the waist. The water was a terrifying 11 C , colder than even in Donegal on Christmas day, this was due , I afterwards discovered, to tidal currents and the fact that heat rises and a lot of stuff which I did for Inter cert science and have forgotten.

About two weeks ago , when the grand-sons were visiting, I was again blackmailed to the beach.
This time I checked the temperature before going on the beach , Air ; 28 C. Water ; 24 C- my kinda temperatures.
There was also a sign up at the life guard station about Medusa so I assumed we were going to be entertained between swims with some of Sophocles plays- my kinda day on the beach.
Unfortunately we were to discover that Meduse was the French word for Jellyfish and the water was thick with little blue and white amoebas which looked like eyeballs which had been torn from their sockets. Furthermore all the lifeguards and all of their girl-friends and putative girl-friends (a large army) were patrolling the waterline shooting in sight anyone who ventured to put a toe in the Med.

We decided to call it a day but were then confronted by yet another reason (and I realise I may be alone in this) why I find these expeditions such a strain.
Two, youngish, Dutch ladies had decided to sunbathe just next to us and, as was their wont, had decided to do this without benefit of any clothing above their waistlines.
Now I am as proficient as the next Christian Brother’s boy from the fifties, at managing to float unconcernedly down a beach avoiding any direct eye contact with Dutch nipples but these ladies did the unforgivable ; without covering their upper quarters they addressed me directly.
“Excuse me Mistair” – said one – “But why are they forbidding the svimming ?”
Believe me it is very difficult to balance three towels, a cool box , a beach Umbrella, and two beach chairs in your hands while you try to think of the English word for Meduse and all the while being aware that your Catholic upbringing doesn’t permit you to lower your sight below the skyline.

This seamlessly brings me in fact to the beautiful month of September we are having at the moment- perfect beach weather in fact.
Furthermore since the French have experienced La Rentree, and have fled back to Paris and the North of France, the beaches have been left to the English, the Germans and the Dutch – and in such comparatively few numbers that you can walk the beach, avoiding nipple contact without risking your life.
An added bonus is that this is the moment that the average portly French man feels he can safely expose himself , making a portly Irishman far less obvious.
Yesterday I was persuaded that , as we had by design no visitors except a sun starved daughter and her even paler boy-friend, I should go to the beach.
At an early hour I began to gather up my Beach Survival Kit.

Eileen’s portrait of her father on the beach.

First a large beach umbrella , I am a sensitive soul and abhor any contact with direct sunlight. Then a comfortable beach chair is essential , not as easy for a large gentleman as you would imagine. Our house is full of the broken remains of beach chairs who failed the gravity test on a Mediterranean beach.
This problem I finally solved in a Vide Grenier by buying two wooden jobs, sort of industrial beach triangles which,even though horribly heavy and akward to carry , when they are imbedded in the sand, and coupled with a beach mat give me a small modicum of comfort and a position from which it is possible to read – this is another essential.
Lying prone, even under a stout umbrella , with absolutely nothing to do is to me the most boring thing in the world. A lot of the people who do lie on the beach do so, I notice, with their eyes closed. Are they asleep ? What in the name of God have they been doing all night to be able to sleep all day like this ?
So therefore that leads to the third item in my Beach Survival Kit- a good book, and, therefore of course, my reading glasses. As I know I will also need my ordinary glasses and my sun glasses this necessitates a small knapsack to carry my optical aids alone.
Next necessity is the swimming togs and with that The Towel.
This Towel has to be a huge bath sheet.
Changing on the beach with anything smaller when you are my size requires the agility of a gymnast, the grace of a ballerina and the lack of modesty of a Chippendale- none of which attributes I possess.
Add to the kit a camera (never used but always brought), some iced water in a cool box and you will imagine my laden progress along the beach.

Yesterday on Serignan Plage a further woe was added to my miseries.
There was a crisp northerly wind blowing on the beach , refreshing the 24C temperatures but making the erection of beach umbrellas impossible. (Ours went straight into the water once erected and it took some time for the man on the next door towel to rescue it)
Therefore, being exposed to the sun my wife decreed that I should be covered with Factor 50- this is a particularly viscous and adherent sun cream.
The minute you are covered with it and the slightest breeze blows you are turned into human sandpaper and every move removes yet another layer of epidermis.

This leads directly to the one mitigating and pleasurable aspect of a day in the beach.
The Swim.
This is (saving jellyfish and arctic currents) nearly pure pleasure.
Wallowing about in warm water gives me a feeling of weightless ness I haven’t experienced since I was 40 , still smoked and weighed in at 12 stone.
I usually stay in far too long and get all white and wrinkled this is partly to enjoy the experience but also the realisation that once decanted from the sea I face again the terrors of The Beach.

Last Friday I had to drive to Carcassonne from Thezan to collect my daughter from the airport.
Now there are two ways of getting from Thezan to this airport, either you drop down to the motorway and streak off thataway to Carcassonne.
This takes (according to Michelin) I hour and 7 minutes door to door, costs about €9 for the toll and is numbingly boring and completely stressful as you dodge and weave your way up one of the busiest motorways in France : La Langaguedocienne.
It is no consolation whatsoever that you are travelling almost exactly along the track of the ancient Via Domitienne which was built by the Romans to facilitate their conquest of Southern France and Spain and later used by Hannibal and his elephants in their assault on the empire.
Me, I prefer a more meandering route which I have established over the years. This route (again according to Michelin) takes nearly an extra thirty minutes, costs absolutely nothing in motorway tolls and is a constant and unfading delight as I drive through wonderful characterful towns and villages in the Herault and the Aude , weave my way through the beautiful, and once immensely practical, Canal de Midi, catching glimpses of the hills of Corbiers to the south and then the Pyrenees behind them and leaving the Monts d’Espinouse behind to the north as they seamlessly merge into the Montagnes Noire.

As soon as I leave the house and head towards the back routes I hit my first little visual treat.
Straight ahead of me is our neighbouring village of Murviel which sits proudly on its little hill, castle properly on the top, with a perfect background of the Monts d’Espinouse , the foothills of the Massif Central.
My next treat on this journey comes about two kilometres after I leave my door.
En Route to Cazouls I pass over the River Orb on a lovely old suspension bridge.
This bridge, like lots of bridges over the Orb, is single lane and warns, as you mount it that never are more than one heavy vehicle to be on the bridge at one time.
As you pass over it, if you go slowly enough, you get wonderful views up and down the river.
After Cazouls I take the tiny little D 16 which winds through vines and links me on the road to Puisserguier. On that road is treat number three. On the right hand side there is The Chateau with the Beautiful Roof.
I have seen roofs like this in Burgundy where they are much feted , this is a lovely concoction of shiny glazed tiles making almost Moorish patterns on the roof.
A little gem.
Then on to Puisserguier – where I have been told there are a strong contingent of Irish émigrés who have vineyards- and then back on to the D 16 and through yet more vines to wind my way to Capestang.

A word at this stage about the vines.
The grape harvest has just started here in the Languedoc and as the country here is almost exclusively devoted to viniculture this is the most important moment in the agricultural economy of the area. The harvest has precedence over all and you must always yield the little tractors with their trailers full of lusciously dripping red grapes. The forecourts around the wine co-ops in the villages are busy places at this time of year as the farmers rush their grapes in to be squeezed and turned into wine.

Several kilometres outside Capestang you see a high and strongly fortified tower rise up before, by the time you near the village , some of the rest of the building will have come into view and you realise that this is the spire of a fortified church, certainly built to deter enemies rather than to invite in the faithful.
Just as you enter Capestang is the first crossing of the canal de Midi , as you pass over the bridge into the town you will certainly see boats and barges all moored by the banks- unfortunately if you look north you will see where they have started the cull of the Plane trees which have been infected with the deadly Canker Stain fungus.
From Capstang you leave behind the narrower country roads and travel on a Route National.
Now this road passes back and forth between Herault and Aude and also weaves itself in and out of the Canal de Midi. but still the only crop you see is the vine.

After you leave (for a while) the canal near Argeliers there comes a long straight road
where for once the vine does not rule. This is the fruit garden of the area and there are hectares of fruit trees on both sides of the road. Here they grow Peaches and Apricots, Nectarines and Plums , Greengages and Quetsch and closer to the ground and earlier in the summer they also have quantities of delicious strawberries and raspberries.
They even have a farm (run by an Englishman of course) where you can Pick Your Own.

Treat number four happens as we leave this garden part of our trip. Just as we cross over the tiny river Cesse is the little jewel of a Chateau de Cabezac looking like a miniature of a Loire Chateau . It is now a hotel (I have never gone in) and in June he wears a stunning Wisteria which flows down the wall of the house right into the Cesse.

Then after a last dip into Herault we enter into l’Aude full time.
This part of the journey we are accompanied by two waterways. The Canal de Midi parallels our route to the north, we can see its sentinel and endangered trees sometimes directly at the side of the road. Here we are also joined, to the South by the river Aude which also has a guard of honour of trees at this stage as it travels eastward to join the Mediterranean at Les Cabanes de Fleury just south of Beziers.
This is flatter country here in the Aude but still dominated by vines.
The Corbiere hills are to the south of us , hiding now any glimpse of the Pyrenees, and La Montagne d’Aleric dominates to the south.
I always scan this hill as closely as driving saftly permits on the hope of spotting The Bear.
Apparently when they re-introduced bears back into the Pyrenees a few years ago one of them proved to be anti-social and headed north to Corbieres and ended up here causing great unhappiness to the few farmers who kept sheep and goats on the higher land.
I have yet to spot him.

Next town we pass through is Trebes, one that I have a particular affection for as it was here in a campsite by the River Aude that we camped for a month in the summer of 2006 while we searched the area for a house big enough to house the Chambre d’Hote of our dreams . (we found it after about three weeks but that is another story)
A most amazing thing happened in the church of Trebes just a few years ago.
There was a wedding happening and the members of the wedding had been in the church on the day before decorating it with flowers and the usual wedding tokens.
During the night a muffled whoomp was heard from the church and in the morning it was discovered that the ceiling had fallen during the night fairly destroying all the wedding decorations.
What was amazing however was what this ceiling had hidden for hundreds of years.
All of the beams of the original church were covered with carved heads from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
These appeared to be painted caricatures of all the inhabitants of the town; the merchants and their wives and the tailor and possibly even the candlestick maker.
There is certainly a Moorish gentleman complete with an appropriate hat and even one woman who people in the know claim was a lady who worked evenings.
Some puritanical priest had decided they were inappropriate and they had been covered over several hundred years before and completely forgotten until they narrowly missed making a disaster out of a wedding.

That is certainly (if there is a moment to stop and look at it ) treat number five.

We are now extremely close to Carcassonne but we have still one treat to look forward to.
As you enter the city turn to the left on the road to Limoges which leads you to the airport, this climbs up the road to the south of the cite and there you get the very best view of Violet le Duc’s triumph/ folly ; The walled Cite of Carcassonne.
I promise you it will take your breath away.
Whether its intact walls or it’s wonderful conical turreted towers were a figment of Le Duc’s imagination or an accurate rebuilding of what was destroyed this world heritage site is stunning.

Then its just a case of dropping down to the airport with a little sigh of appreciation of the beauties of our adopted country.

>

I have just finished reading, more or less in one sitting, this novel, Julian Barnes latest.

I can’t think when I have read a book I enjoyed more.
Barnes always writes well, very well indeed, but this time his plotting and ability to deliver sucker punches shows that he can also write a real page turner.

It is , roughly , about a middle aged man and the tricks that memory plays on him- maybe it is because I share his age and sex that the novel resonates so strongly with me.
It must be his best yet (and there have been already some stunners) and must be read.
Surely it will walk away with this years Booker.

This is the bit in Ryan’s Daughter by David Lean where Marie Kean as the shopkeeper refuses to sell potatoes to Sarah Miles who has been caught being naughty with a British Soldier. But , look behind Ms. Keans shoulder and there is an advertising poster for the old family firm. (A lovely shot too of a boat passing Blackrock Castle)
This was spotted by a friend of the brother Ted’s.

I had a party of four Americans staying with me for the last few days , they were a family of antique afficianados attending the big wholesale Antique Fair in Beziers.
They loved Le Presbytere (and we loved them) and just before they left this morning the gave us a present they had found for us at the fair : A pair of late 18th century beautifully engraved wine glasses which slip seamlessly into my collection of glasses .
A beautiful , thoughtful and most unexpected present.

Ail, houile a raisin, Gounod, une cote d’ou ils naissent, fuient,

Un Delibes á l’aulne, un debile, l’Aude qui est laide.

Thanks to Peter for this tremendous addition to my oeuvre.

Ruadhán discovers, again, the comforts of lying on his grandfathers ample belly.
(picture pinched from Caitríona)