Won't be this quiet again for months
Aside from growing fascination at the admirably inclusive nature of Nicolas Sarkozy's cabinet, and prurient interest in the debris of the power couple of the Left, Ségolène and François , France's election season has been and gone.
And it's not the only season that's gone or going. At the marché provençal, we learn, that's just about that for the asparagus, while the tranquility of our little resort has also nearly run its course.
Le Lavandou was heaving last night for its part in the nationwide Fête de la Musique, a great idea even if the music is not always great, too.
All the same, we chanced upon a couple of decent French bands on the seafront, one doing covers of British and American pop, the other - more to my younger daughter's taste, though she was not with us - rapping away with commendable vigour as if they were from troubled banlieues instead of the Côté d'Azur. Best of the lot, opposite Le Calypso bar, an amply built young woman belted out a robust version of The House of the Rising Sun.
Up the hill in Bormes-les-Mimosas, another group had promised the repertoire of the Shadows. In conversation earlier with one of my folkies, Martin Simpson, it was made clear that he would not have been tempted.
I rather liked Apache et al as a kid, and even practised the Shadows walk with tennis racket for guitar, but then Martin does happen to be a quite exceptional guitarist himself, so his view clearly deserves respect. He also teaches at an annual guitar workshop along the coast, so maybe he has encountered one or two of the musicians and knows something I don't.
Now Le Lavandou will return to a quieter, more orderly run-up to the high season. And then they'll all start arriving, from mid-July and especially from the start of August.
At the market, people could even be heard talking to one another about heading the other way - back, I imagine, to their home towns of northern France or to Paris, to escape the influx coming the other way. In no time, we'll be regretting that we ever moaned about the place being so quiet out of season.
One time it is certainly no longer quiet is the dead of night, when a mosquito or two can he heard buzzing around your head as you try to sleep. But at least that's an improvement on Paris, where our proximity to the Seine and the pond of the Tuileries gardens meant it was a year-round nuisance.
And as we approach the height of summer, some things remain reassuringly French, enough so to offer a note of caution to the army of British visitors who will join this rush to the Med and Atlantic.
I am a rare steak man. Or at least, I thought I was. But when I say rare, I mean pink. So in France, where rare or saignant* means barely menaced with a frying pan, I have taken to asking for à point , or medium.
This I did the other evening, when driven away from the seafront by the crowds pressing forward for their free anchoiades, sardines and rose wine, a gift of the mairie to mark the opening of the expanded tourist office .
In one of the nicest restaurants we have found in Le Lavandou, I made my mistake. And, after delicious appetisers and starters, my à point steak arrived looking suspiciously uncooked. The merest touch with a fork sent blood streaming around the plate.
It didn't seem worth protesting, and I wasn't so put off that I would have asked for the meat to be reacquainted with a pan and heat. They were doubtless right, in their own terms, and I was wrong. Next time, must remember to ask for bien cuit, or perhaps - to make sure it's pink, not bright red - burnt to a cinder.
* Mme Salut! was, of course, horrified at my first attempt at spelling it - as seignon. Nor was she much impressed by the excuse: "Slip of the pen, or maybe three."
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