We gave the market a cursory glance this morning, failing to find what we needed, so headed towards the shop. Part-way there, we thought 'oh, let's just go to the Carrefour in Lézigzag'. Part-way thither in the despicable Nissan, Martyn said 'we could go for lunch by the sea', so (with a sigh from the driver) we set off towards Gruissan, and started to think about places to eat. Having discussed the inventory of places we could go, and how disappointing they'd been lately, we decided to change plans yet again, and go to the pizzeria we used last year in Leucate Plage. Closed. By all appearances, définitivemang. (This after we'd got lost in Leucate Village, of course.) Interesting side trip up to the lighthouse, however: we hadn't been there before, and much enjoyed the 270° views from the top of the cliff. The restaurant up there looked thoroughly uninviting: doubtless fine views through the green-tinted windows, but on a rare fine spring day, one likes to sit outside, rather than behind glass on moulded plastic chairs. Glorious views of the Massif du Canigou, rising, snow-streaked, above the mist at lower levels: almost reminiscent of the photographs one sees of Mount Fuji. (No photos, because we were only going to Lézigzag when we set out, remember?)
By this point, we'd adjusted plans yet again in favour of the good old Palm Beach at La Franqui, and my pizza ambitions were transformed into médaillons de thon frais, just seared and served with green beans, steamed new spuds and exploding tomatoes. (Fortunately, it was the tablecloth rather than my decades-old shirt that got the fallout.) Delicious: just a little too much of it. We must have been going there for over ten years now, and the boss now comes to greet us when we arrive, and to say his farewells when we leave. As for the shopping, having discussed the market, the village shop, the Carrefours in Lézigzag and Narbonne, where did we finish up? Where else? Fortnum's on the ex-N9 south of Narbonne.
There were fewer of the ladies of the afternoon by the N9 this time, though Martyn spotted one. Which reminds me of the story of the writer, the English lecturer, the orchestral musician and the baker encountering a number of these age-old professionals, and musing on a suitable collective expression. 'An anthology of prose' said the writer. 'A volume of Trollope's', offered the lecturer. 'A flourish of strumpets' suggested the musician. All trumped by the baker's 'a jam of tarts'. Acknowledgements to Claire Smith, who first told me the joke aeons ago. Easy to joke about it, but I'd love to know there was a solution to the scandalous trafficking of these poor deluded souls.
As for proper wildlife, we went in search of flamingos on the way home, and found none. We saw one egret on the étang near Bages, and Martyn saw some oyster catchers. Yesterday, there was a group of unfamiliar birds circling over the house. Blackbird sized, but with wings tapering to sharp points, slender necks and small heads, tails culminating in a long point, and a fluting call. Any ideas? This evening we sat on the terrace watching the swifts, house martins, redstarts and starlings. Pretty much on the stroke of 9:00 pm, the birds disappeared and the bats came out. Shortly before that, we were serenaded by the frogs in the river valley, and the local donkey, which was in fine voice.
I now officially hate the vehicle. I gather they are to replace the New York yellow cabs with the same vehicle which, unlike our sample, can be supplied with 7 seats. I hope they come with flooring that can be hosed out, given the sick-making ride. Now that I know the model designation, I shall in future refuse any attempt to rent one to me.
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