Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com
It was really only fifteen minutes between Reina Elisenda and Plaza Catalonia and it was simple to use the Metro to reach the bus station to set off for Toulouse.
We had met Michel and Corine, our soon to be hosts in Toulouse, in Cappadocia in Turkey. They, Michel’s sister, Isobel and her husband, Christophe, and Michel and Isobel’s mother, had been looking at the frescoes in the rock churches in the open air museum there. We were too, but the difference between us was that the mother was providing an excellent commentary on the pictures that brought them to life, and we were looking at them and wondering what exactly was being depicted. I was doing a little bit of eavesdropping on her words, translating to Keith when I understood something properly. Michel came over and introduced himself and said hello, and soon we had joined their party in an open way and were benefiting even more because Michel’s translations for us were far superior to what mine had been. We were also able to try out our fledgling French and we told them that we were planning to go to France and stay for a while to improve our language skills. Michel and Isobel both extended invitations to us, but we thought that we had everything organised and that there would be not much opportunity to follow up on them. We gave them our details in Australia and hoped that they would come to visit us. It certainly was a moment when people clicked and we were really surprised and honoured by the immediate generosity and friendliness of the family. When our flat option fell through for our first time in France, Michel had reiterated his invitation and so had Isobel. As it was, we ended up in Bayonne, so we didn’t visit them at that stage after all. Now, two months later, we were very keen to catch up with Michel and Corine and the other people in France whose paths we had providentially crossed, feeling that if we didn’t take up the invitations this year, the moment would be lost. We planned to include the visits on our way up through France to Paris, but unfortunately we could not include Isobel’s area in the time before we had to be flying off to Tanzania.
So there we were, on the bus for ages, remarking before and after crossing the border how the French the Spanish side looked and vice versa. We stopped for lunch in a place where the winds were so frequent from one direction that all the picnic tables had three sided walls around them to encourage people out of their cars.
Driving into Toulouse we saw a canal with tents beside it and ragged people huddled around.
They are the homeless whose plight creates an eyesore in the city, and we learnt that there has been discussion and some kind of planning towards building accommodation for them.
The bus pulled in and Keith asked me if I remembered what Michel looked like. I said that I would be sure to recognise him, but there was no-one waiting for us so we went to phone. A man rushed past to the bus area and I said that I was sure it was Michel, but he was gone before we could say his name to test out my memory. It was him, and he immediately saw us as he rushed back. To us, especially after all the friendly email contacts, it was just like greeting a friend, with the very comfortable feeling we had immediately felt in Cappadocia slotting right back into place. Michel drove us along beside the canal which joins the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. Walkers and riders follow the path beside it and Michel has ridden it by bike as far as Carcassonne, about an hour away from Toulouse by car. Narrow boats were moored at the edge and, just as in England, the canal system, left over from the time of the Industrial Revolution, was now providing leisure opportunities.
On the way to Pibrac, the village where Michel and Corine live, we learnt that Michel works for Airbus, which has its headquarters in Toulouse. The village of Pibrac is far enough away from Toulouse to retain its character as a village and close enough to Toulouse for it to be very convenient. We crossed the railway track and then turned down the road that is on the path of the Chemin de Compostelle. A perfect soccer field on the left took our attention before Michel pointed out a little Chapel De La Fontaine of St Germaine, where there were flowers inside and a little garden outside. We stopped there a couple of days later with Corine and she showed us a book in the corner where you could write your thoughts, requests or thanks to St Germaine.
The entries were in many languages so were probably added to by pilgrims, with some of the French ones asking for success for a daughter’s car licence test, for help with the stress of living and in understanding oneself, and for thanks in helping to overcome a crisis. The ones I read in English were more general, with one saying thanks for help with ‘everything’.
The house is set up a lane with the block running into the forest. Deer sometimes come down into the garden. The house was designed to run down the block rather than to sit on a flattened part cut out of it, so it is very interesting inside. The kitchen and lounge room are the lowest rooms and there are French doors leading out to terraces and a very wide decking verandah that has steps all along its length. It is a stage just waiting for dancers or actors to begin. Branched steps lead up from the lounge room to a gallery with rooms off it, creating yet another stage and plenty of opportunities for dance moves going up and down the stairs, to delight a possible audience down below. Other steps lead down to the cellar/garage. This large home was once filled with children who have now flown to take up their own lives and interests.
Corine returned from watching a friend’s wedding, and then we all went off to the church and the basilica in the village centre. Corine and Michel’s friends were just driving off in a delightfully decorated wedding car decorated with balloons and brooms. The third bride of the day was just entering the church on her father’s arm. Further along there was a display by all the organisations in the village to give the community and others the chance to learn what was going on and to meet the people involved. Michel set us the challenge to find out the rehearsal hours of the choral society, so that we would be forced to use and practice our French. First we asked a couple of young girls and they didn’t know but they were in the climbing club with Michel. Michel and Corine know lots of people and there was an atmosphere of great conviviality and respect for all the different interests.
We found the choral society stand and a friendly man gave us the dirt on the choral society activities, so we had passed our first test. I took a leaflet from the lady promoting the Feldenkrais Method, which includes exercises and developing a consciousness of the body, its mechanisms, needs and feelings. Every kind of group seemed to be operating in Pibrac.
The Basilica to St Germaine was built in the 20th Century because so many pilgrims were coming here that the church could not cope.
There is no question as to its purpose, with statues and pictures of St Germaine everywhere, lots of details about her history and a photo montage of all the St Germaine representations in all the churches in all the surrounding areas. She was a poor shepherd girl who lived from 1579 to 1601, dying at only twenty-two years of age. She had one crabbed hand and was not well loved. 
Nevertheless she was very pious and always did good deeds, even for those who were not kind to her. She aided the poor and I think that she also cured the sick. She is usually depicted with flowers. The Basilica is a grand building in some parts but lack of finance prevented completion of all that was in the plans. The ceiling looked as if its wooden slats were a temporary stage and that the dome decorators would be arriving any minute to complete the job. It made me long for a rich benefactor with a soft spot for St Germaine to put an appropriate cheque in the mail. Other bits of me, of course, long for that kind of cheque to be mailed off to an orphanage or some such instead. 
The original church was still occupied by the wedding but we did peep in at the little chapel of St Germaine, where she is buried. A quick walk down the drive of the chateau set the guard dogs off and the caretaker popped his head out of a window to say that it was not opening hours. 
We beat a hasty retreat and raced home for a quick ‘picnic’ tea on the terrace featuring the most delicious home made hommus. Then we were back in the car, because we were off to see the fireworks in the centre of town. Toulouse is making a bid to be the culture capital of France, pitting itself against about five other cities and going all out to earn it by putting on cultural events and a special extravaganza weekend. We had chosen a good time to come, or as Michel said, he had kindly organised a few things for our visit. It was very pleasing to be complimented on the improvement in our French, and here it was easy to talk and listen lots, with the fall back of English for support or when we needed a rest.
The city was packed with a very young crowd, which is not surprising since this is a university city. We crossed a bridge over the Garonne River, and looked towards the perfect arches of the ancient Pont Neuf (New Bridge). Cyclists wove around the revellers through the narrow streets on the way to the banks of the river to watch the extravaganza. We crossed the Capital Square, surrounded by arcades and formal buildings and the home of a large, tiled, twelve-pointed occidental cross, with signs of the zodiac on it. A band was surrounded by a large crowd absolutely loving their rhythmic music, clapping along and dancing. The river back was already throbbing but we found a spot with a reasonable view and sat down to wait. And wait and wait. The crowd became restless and booed when an announcement blamed the weather for the delay. At last an organist started playing and the concert had begun. Unfortunately there was a problem with the PA and the next piece sounded like jets coming in to land. It drew cat calls. An ear hurting loud droning for the next act was too much for the audience, which booed again. This was an interesting moment in learning about cultural differences for us. We were embarrassed for the performer and would not have booed, whatever it had been like. Corine explained that the Toulouse crowd always voices their opinions in no uncertain way and that it is normal to tell a performer just what you think. It is a city of opera and organ aficionados and holds music dear to its heart. The drone stopped and fairly soon was replaced by what sounded to me like a fog horn. Two boats approached from opposite directions along the river and made their way to the centre, their precarious lit street light or flower decorations taking my attention as I wondered if they would fall. Shortly afterwards the fireworks began, with so many explosions and patterns and sparkles in the sky being launched along a considerable length of the river. It went for ages and certainly was spectacular. I did think that fire works displays have nowhere to go except to get bigger and longer, or crowds would probably say that it was not good enough. For me, to have had ten different examples of the variety of fireworks, set off against a dark sky with a pause between each one to appreciate it, would be more my kind of spectacular, but I don’t think that anyone would be brave enough to try it.
After a drink and some chatting that could have gone on forever, we settled in for our first night in Pibrac, in a bedroom full of the evidence of travels.
The ideal choice of wedding car? A Citreon, of course - no Rollers or Bentleys here!
Another wedding car. This one is a Renault, with brooms and balloons attached.
It was really only fifteen minutes between Reina Elisenda and Plaza Catalonia and it was simple to use the Metro to reach the bus station to set off for Toulouse.
We had met Michel and Corine, our soon to be hosts in Toulouse, in Cappadocia in Turkey. They, Michel’s sister, Isobel and her husband, Christophe, and Michel and Isobel’s mother, had been looking at the frescoes in the rock churches in the open air museum there. We were too, but the difference between us was that the mother was providing an excellent commentary on the pictures that brought them to life, and we were looking at them and wondering what exactly was being depicted. I was doing a little bit of eavesdropping on her words, translating to Keith when I understood something properly. Michel came over and introduced himself and said hello, and soon we had joined their party in an open way and were benefiting even more because Michel’s translations for us were far superior to what mine had been. We were also able to try out our fledgling French and we told them that we were planning to go to France and stay for a while to improve our language skills. Michel and Isobel both extended invitations to us, but we thought that we had everything organised and that there would be not much opportunity to follow up on them. We gave them our details in Australia and hoped that they would come to visit us. It certainly was a moment when people clicked and we were really surprised and honoured by the immediate generosity and friendliness of the family. When our flat option fell through for our first time in France, Michel had reiterated his invitation and so had Isobel. As it was, we ended up in Bayonne, so we didn’t visit them at that stage after all. Now, two months later, we were very keen to catch up with Michel and Corine and the other people in France whose paths we had providentially crossed, feeling that if we didn’t take up the invitations this year, the moment would be lost. We planned to include the visits on our way up through France to Paris, but unfortunately we could not include Isobel’s area in the time before we had to be flying off to Tanzania.So there we were, on the bus for ages, remarking before and after crossing the border how the French the Spanish side looked and vice versa. We stopped for lunch in a place where the winds were so frequent from one direction that all the picnic tables had three sided walls around them to encourage people out of their cars.
Driving into Toulouse we saw a canal with tents beside it and ragged people huddled around.
They are the homeless whose plight creates an eyesore in the city, and we learnt that there has been discussion and some kind of planning towards building accommodation for them.The bus pulled in and Keith asked me if I remembered what Michel looked like. I said that I would be sure to recognise him, but there was no-one waiting for us so we went to phone. A man rushed past to the bus area and I said that I was sure it was Michel, but he was gone before we could say his name to test out my memory. It was him, and he immediately saw us as he rushed back. To us, especially after all the friendly email contacts, it was just like greeting a friend, with the very comfortable feeling we had immediately felt in Cappadocia slotting right back into place. Michel drove us along beside the canal which joins the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. Walkers and riders follow the path beside it and Michel has ridden it by bike as far as Carcassonne, about an hour away from Toulouse by car. Narrow boats were moored at the edge and, just as in England, the canal system, left over from the time of the Industrial Revolution, was now providing leisure opportunities.
On the way to Pibrac, the village where Michel and Corine live, we learnt that Michel works for Airbus, which has its headquarters in Toulouse. The village of Pibrac is far enough away from Toulouse to retain its character as a village and close enough to Toulouse for it to be very convenient. We crossed the railway track and then turned down the road that is on the path of the Chemin de Compostelle. A perfect soccer field on the left took our attention before Michel pointed out a little Chapel De La Fontaine of St Germaine, where there were flowers inside and a little garden outside. We stopped there a couple of days later with Corine and she showed us a book in the corner where you could write your thoughts, requests or thanks to St Germaine.
The entries were in many languages so were probably added to by pilgrims, with some of the French ones asking for success for a daughter’s car licence test, for help with the stress of living and in understanding oneself, and for thanks in helping to overcome a crisis. The ones I read in English were more general, with one saying thanks for help with ‘everything’.The house is set up a lane with the block running into the forest. Deer sometimes come down into the garden. The house was designed to run down the block rather than to sit on a flattened part cut out of it, so it is very interesting inside. The kitchen and lounge room are the lowest rooms and there are French doors leading out to terraces and a very wide decking verandah that has steps all along its length. It is a stage just waiting for dancers or actors to begin. Branched steps lead up from the lounge room to a gallery with rooms off it, creating yet another stage and plenty of opportunities for dance moves going up and down the stairs, to delight a possible audience down below. Other steps lead down to the cellar/garage. This large home was once filled with children who have now flown to take up their own lives and interests.
Corine returned from watching a friend’s wedding, and then we all went off to the church and the basilica in the village centre. Corine and Michel’s friends were just driving off in a delightfully decorated wedding car decorated with balloons and brooms. The third bride of the day was just entering the church on her father’s arm. Further along there was a display by all the organisations in the village to give the community and others the chance to learn what was going on and to meet the people involved. Michel set us the challenge to find out the rehearsal hours of the choral society, so that we would be forced to use and practice our French. First we asked a couple of young girls and they didn’t know but they were in the climbing club with Michel. Michel and Corine know lots of people and there was an atmosphere of great conviviality and respect for all the different interests.
We found the choral society stand and a friendly man gave us the dirt on the choral society activities, so we had passed our first test. I took a leaflet from the lady promoting the Feldenkrais Method, which includes exercises and developing a consciousness of the body, its mechanisms, needs and feelings. Every kind of group seemed to be operating in Pibrac.The Basilica to St Germaine was built in the 20th Century because so many pilgrims were coming here that the church could not cope.
There is no question as to its purpose, with statues and pictures of St Germaine everywhere, lots of details about her history and a photo montage of all the St Germaine representations in all the churches in all the surrounding areas. She was a poor shepherd girl who lived from 1579 to 1601, dying at only twenty-two years of age. She had one crabbed hand and was not well loved. 
Nevertheless she was very pious and always did good deeds, even for those who were not kind to her. She aided the poor and I think that she also cured the sick. She is usually depicted with flowers. The Basilica is a grand building in some parts but lack of finance prevented completion of all that was in the plans. The ceiling looked as if its wooden slats were a temporary stage and that the dome decorators would be arriving any minute to complete the job. It made me long for a rich benefactor with a soft spot for St Germaine to put an appropriate cheque in the mail. Other bits of me, of course, long for that kind of cheque to be mailed off to an orphanage or some such instead. The original church was still occupied by the wedding but we did peep in at the little chapel of St Germaine, where she is buried. A quick walk down the drive of the chateau set the guard dogs off and the caretaker popped his head out of a window to say that it was not opening hours. We beat a hasty retreat and raced home for a quick ‘picnic’ tea on the terrace featuring the most delicious home made hommus. Then we were back in the car, because we were off to see the fireworks in the centre of town. Toulouse is making a bid to be the culture capital of France, pitting itself against about five other cities and going all out to earn it by putting on cultural events and a special extravaganza weekend. We had chosen a good time to come, or as Michel said, he had kindly organised a few things for our visit. It was very pleasing to be complimented on the improvement in our French, and here it was easy to talk and listen lots, with the fall back of English for support or when we needed a rest.The city was packed with a very young crowd, which is not surprising since this is a university city. We crossed a bridge over the Garonne River, and looked towards the perfect arches of the ancient Pont Neuf (New Bridge). Cyclists wove around the revellers through the narrow streets on the way to the banks of the river to watch the extravaganza. We crossed the Capital Square, surrounded by arcades and formal buildings and the home of a large, tiled, twelve-pointed occidental cross, with signs of the zodiac on it. A band was surrounded by a large crowd absolutely loving their rhythmic music, clapping along and dancing. The river back was already throbbing but we found a spot with a reasonable view and sat down to wait. And wait and wait. The crowd became restless and booed when an announcement blamed the weather for the delay. At last an organist started playing and the concert had begun. Unfortunately there was a problem with the PA and the next piece sounded like jets coming in to land. It drew cat calls. An ear hurting loud droning for the next act was too much for the audience, which booed again. This was an interesting moment in learning about cultural differences for us. We were embarrassed for the performer and would not have booed, whatever it had been like. Corine explained that the Toulouse crowd always voices their opinions in no uncertain way and that it is normal to tell a performer just what you think. It is a city of opera and organ aficionados and holds music dear to its heart. The drone stopped and fairly soon was replaced by what sounded to me like a fog horn. Two boats approached from opposite directions along the river and made their way to the centre, their precarious lit street light or flower decorations taking my attention as I wondered if they would fall. Shortly afterwards the fireworks began, with so many explosions and patterns and sparkles in the sky being launched along a considerable length of the river. It went for ages and certainly was spectacular. I did think that fire works displays have nowhere to go except to get bigger and longer, or crowds would probably say that it was not good enough. For me, to have had ten different examples of the variety of fireworks, set off against a dark sky with a pause between each one to appreciate it, would be more my kind of spectacular, but I don’t think that anyone would be brave enough to try it.
After a drink and some chatting that could have gone on forever, we settled in for our first night in Pibrac, in a bedroom full of the evidence of travels.
The ideal choice of wedding car? A Citreon, of course - no Rollers or Bentleys here!
Another wedding car. This one is a Renault, with brooms and balloons attached.
No comments:
Post a Comment