Am I losing the plot?

Grandadughter Kirsty and best friend Samantha at Roquebrun

Having just become another year older (but not wiser - ed.), I wonder if there is anything in this 'All downhill after 50' theory, or whatever age the particular pundit tags on to their pearl of doomed wisdom. I pose the question because, whilst good times never lasted long enough, they seem to race into the past  even more quickly, the older one gets.  

For example, they left us less than a month ago now, but it was with some difficulty that I recalled the 8 days spent with Kirsty and Samantha. It really was a blur. Okay, I hear you all saying, "It's your memory that is on the blink, old feller; simple as that!" True as that may be, and I would be hard pushed to doubt it in my own case, I still maintain the perception is 'blinked and missed it'.

It was a delightful week, in spite of the unusually inclement weather lasting for just about the whole time they were with us. A great shame but we managed, nonetheless, to get out and about on most days. We visited the windmills (see 28th May) the market at Pézénas, and generally showed them the local 'paysage' which is rather special even on a dull day.

Fabulous views over the Costa Brava

E viva Espana

On their final day, the sun was, once again, struggling to make its mind up about what to do so we decided to 'do' Spain. One of the great things about living here - and particularly full time - is that Margon is the centre of our universe. It used to be Bracknell, from where we could be on the M3 or M4 within 5 minutes of leaving home. the M25 was a further 15 minutes distant and from those points one could escape to anywhere one wanted. The first time we drove from Bracknell to Margon, via the Channel Tunnel, we did not stop at one single traffic light during the whole trip, door to door. That's just about 750 miles without a stop, other than to board the shuttle car at the Chunnel and once again for diesel. "Amazing!", as my granddaughter was prone to saying, ad nauseum.

But I digress (yes, that's an age thing too I guess). From here in Margon, we can be almost anyhwere in western Europe within a day or two's drive. It's really handy. Many of us pop into Spain for lunch and think nothing of it.  Our favourite trip is to drop down to Perpignan, turn left towards the sea and then run along the spectactular coastal road into the northern limits of the Costa Brava. It adds another hour or more to the journey but, what the hell. After all, it is only 90 mins in the car to the now defunct border and, frankly, what else would we be doing? There are some lovely little fishing ports and seaside resort towns all along this coast and Puerto de la Selva is one of the finest. This is usually  our lunch destination unless we are picnicking and then it could be a shady spot just about anywhere.

El Port de la Selva

It is oft said that people grow to look like their pets. Well, I have to tell you, Old Mama owns and runs one of the fish restaurants on the quayside at Puerto. Unlike many others, it has a (very nice) toilet situated across the road next to the kitchens (where else would you put it then?), which she guards like a rotweiler from passers by, tourists, and all other lower life forms who MUST spend many pennies in her establishment before qualifying to spend the proverbial one across the road. In the thirty or so years that we have used this place, she has grown to look increasingly like a grouper. It's all in the mouth and the way it gashes the whole width of her face, turns sharply down at the corners and snaps open and shut constantly as she barks orders to the waiters as they dodge the cars to deliver our lunch and warnings to anyone poor unwitting soul who looks remotely in need of relief. My grandson Daniel suggested that she looked just like the monkfish he had chosen for his lunch. Frankly, I don't think he was doing the fish any favours by the comparison. Bless her! A looker she ain't but she keeps a great lavatory.

There I go again, off at another tangent. Back to the plot.

After a pleasant luncheon at 'Senora Peces' place, we then head inland and climb, seemingly forever, until Peurto appears but a tiny, distant squint on the horizon and the road rolls over the edge of the mountain and free-falls to the plain below and Figueres.

The Dali Museum in Central figueres

Nice town, Figueres. Pleasant pedestrian central area, cafes, restaurants, bars and assorted shops, all of which make it worth a stop. Its main claim to fame of course is being the birthplace of Salvador Dali; a character of obvious great talent and who for many reasons, not least of which is the wonderful museum devoted to his art, dominates the town. However, in common with so many hugely talented people - some would say geniuses - he was, without doubt, completely nuts!