We'd arranged on Wednesday for a survey of the house for evidence of lead, asbestos, termites and dodgy electrics, so decided to push off out and let him get on with it. (His report crashed in electronically this morning - 60 pages of it - and although there are no signs of termites or asbestos, one window frame has lead paint, and the electrics are a bit sub-standard, as we knew.
Well, what do do when surveyor-dodging? We went up to Azille, where a neighbour is exhibiting in a little gallery-cum-café, and established from its web site that it would be open at 10:00. We got there about 12;10 to find it hermetically sealed. So, that's one exhibition we'll miss. Lunch and culture plans thus scuppered, we had lunch nearby at the Guinguette in Argens. The Guinguette is welcoming and informal, and we like it, but could have done with a bit of sun - we were each buttoned to chin as we worked our way through a house burger (me) and a plate of grilled cured belly pork (him). The kitchen proper has a regular front-desk bell to summon the waitress; the grill station has a squeezy toy pig, a couple of oinks from which achieves the same. Good fun, but within an hour or so I was thinking that the proximity of a lavatory might not be wholly inappropriate. Soggy chips and rather much salad to blame, I guess - or perhaps the pink mayonnaise on the burger bun.
From there we ambled along to Carcassonne, visiting the beaux arts museum for the first time. It's not bad as provincial museums go, but full of rather dingy landscapes and portraits, and very few household names - I spotted one each of Courbet, Corot and Daubigny, and didn't much care for any of them. Friendly staff, though, and an interesting building, and the paintings and so on are quite well displayed. Back in the centre in search of a café, we happened on neighbours Anne and David who were just finishing their lunch, so sat and had a soft drink with them for half an hour or so, heckled by some arse on a public address system, and an odd miniature bus that bumbled round the square advertising a disco...
Next day, we'd arranged to meet Martin and Patricia for lunch in Gruissan for a change, so the next job was to find a restaurant. I asked a few friends for recommendations, and got several. Martyn, meanwhile, found a well-reviewed place on the waterfront in a quiet corner of the port. Quai 17, it's called, and the booking process, reception and service were exemplary. The menu is limited but good, though the arrival of all three courses on one tray at the same time gave it something of a hospital-like feel! The lids on main courses kept everything hot, though, so no harm done. M and P were on good form, though by relying on electronic yellow pages, finished up in a suburban lotissement rather than on the quai. We'd researched on Google Earth etc, and found it without difficulty (said he, smugly). One odd extra diversion was a small group of hearty, if pallid, young fellows stripping down to their knickers and clambering into wetsuits at the diving school next door. (One's trunks advertised luridly coloured Haribo sweets. I shall not stretch the analogy.)
We don't think we've seen such a display of spring wild flowers hereabouts before. Carpets of aphyllante, banks of poppies, more broom than is helpful to those of the hay fever persuasion and occasional clumps of asphodel that remind me of Guy Fawkes night sparklers. We'd thought of going out and botanising this morning, but the sun remaining very shy, we've stayed in and cooked instead. Leftovers casserole for lunch (the last half of the remaining pork fillet, done with sundry veg). Siesta, this pm, I rather suspect.
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