On the move again

Delightful evening on Monday as guests of Beverly in her digs at Sandra's lovely house in the Place de la Halle.  Beverly has sold her flat in Narbonne now that the kids are no longer being schooled there, and Christian, her ex-husband is doing up a house  she has bought in the village.  She is living in the top floor, which the previous owners of Sandra's house let as a gite, and which, as Sandra rightly says, has the best view in the village, across the river to the Abbey, and up the river to the mountains.  

Meanwhile, we'd done a spot of de-cluttering.  One burnt-out gas barbie, a functioning trouser press with perished rubber behind the cloth side of the press (OK, the pants would have sharp creases, but the fabric would be full of dust from decaying rubber), an old turntable and misc other odds and ends are now on their way to new lives in the landfill or conceivably via the chap at the déchetterie to people who can make money from them (not, I emphasise, that I have a scrap of evidence that his efforts aren't wholly devoted to the economy of the Republic).  A clothes rail that I used in Dübi in one of the guest rooms is now at Beverly's: she needs it while she's between homes, and will doubtless press it into service in due course when her posh frock shop relocates.  And I've gained a sitting room up on the top floor by shunting the rest of the furniture about a bit.  That has always been my favourite room in the house, with its ceiling up into the roof beams, and its views across the rooftops to the old windmill.

Today we have endured the Carcassonne airport and Ryanair experience, neither of which was edifying.  I've grizzled before, I think, about the fact that the old cafeteria overlooking the airport is no more, and the replacement on the ground floor is mediocre, to say the least.  Having bought un quart de rosé, I was presented with a plastic beaker to drink it from.  There might have been times when I'd have meekly accepted this.  These are times past, my dears.  So I triumphantly drank my mediocre wine from a glass with a stem.

Ryanair was Ryanair.  Nuff said.  I'd taken my altimeter watch, and must eat my words: Ryanair pressurises its Boeings to 2165m at cruising height, which is not much higher than our friends from Toulouse.  But the Boeings handle the turbulence rather less well.

On arrival, our atypically tall blond Portuguese host was waiting for us as planned at the airport, and drove us back to the flat via a whole lot of places we needed to know about.  He and his wife were there to welcome us to the flat, which is fabulous.  Recently redone, tastefully furnished and decorated, very well equipped, good wifie and with a fine view across the street to the rolling Atlantic breakers.  We watched a container vessel leaving the port of Matosinhos just along the coast around sunset, rolling a good 15 degrees to either side.  Rather them than us!

Ready-made supper at the flat, supplied by the supermarket up the street.  Hardly haute cuisine, but it fills a gap.  We have bought public transport rover tickets, so shall get out and explore tomorrow.