Summer holidays in France

Come August in France, everyone shuts up shop (as in literally – everything closes) and leaves town for the summer. Rose had a foot operation in July and the doctor finished the post-surgery consult with instructions to call him if there were any problems, however he would be on his boat in the South of France all day so would not answer. So as they say, when in Rome (or Paris), we got with the program and spent three weeks driving around this incredible country. Here are some of the highlights: 

Exploring the the old volcano’s in Puy de Dome region. We caught the train up Puy de Dome and ambled around the old volcano’s, now miles and miles of grassy mountains covered in explosions of mis-matched wildflowers.

The enchanting town of Figeac. We ate a very French lunch of mussels in white wine sauce, and camembert duck, then wandered through the ancient streets, marvelling at the architecture and charming shops. The kids played in the park by the river Célé and Dave and I pinched ourselves - as we often do - to make sure this whole experience was actually real. 

La Ferme de Cayla. We spent a week at this farm which consisted of a handful of lovingly renovated cottages - one of which the owner was literally born in - overlooking the most breath-taking view of rolling tree covered hills, green fields, and of course, huge smatterings of pretty wild flowers. This place was paradise: buffet breakfasts of warm croissants, pain au chocolates, and home-made yoghurt, meals cooked with fresh farm produce, a wholesome-y kids club where they fed farm animals and did craft, a day spa, yoga, a night sky full of shooting stars – need I go on.  Dave and I especially enjoyed happy hour with the other parents at the farm, then sitting down for a three-course dinner for two overlooking the sun setting behind the mountains in the background. 

We fell in love with the other families at the farm. One we already knew, but the other three were from France and Belgium. Even though we couldn’t communicate with everyone, the kids still played together, and we muddled through with our conversations. It is a proven fact that young children are 85% cuter when they are speaking French. Watching these beautiful children was mesmerising. We made our first proper legit French friends who helpfully informed me that this blog name is both grammatically incorrect and spelt wrong. Oh well, too late, domain name paid for. 

Velleron, Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur. Dave ticked a big one off his bucket list and rode up Mt Vonteux. We then spent a lazy afternoon strolling through the town of L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. It was swelteringly hot, so we ate ice-reams the size of our heads and sat with our feet in the ice-cold water of the Sorgue River; freezing feet and boiling bodies. While the kids showed off their much improved ‘walking around French town’ stamina, we noted the work they still had to do on their ‘old church etiquette’. They made a beeline for the enormous white walled church in the town centre. Willa tried to blow the prayer candles out while simultaneously nearly setting her hair on fire, and Sam ran up and down the aisles while a nun glowered at him from the shadows. We will keep working on that one.

Chamonix. Just when I think I have seen the most beautiful towns in France, we drive a little further and I am blown away all over again. Chamonix was just next level. We stayed a week in a stunning chalet with panoramic views of Mont-Blanc. The streets were packed with the fittest looking humans I have ever seen, tanned and relaxed, and sporting a wide array of equipment they were using for whatever alp-ish activity took their fancy. It was quite funny watching people line up at the boulangerie with their pickaxes. The outdoors-y adventure vibe was contagious. We went to Acrobranche and while I went to chaperon the kids, I left them for dust and climbed rope ladders, did obstacle courses among the trees, zip lined over lakes – it was awesome. I did a hike on the Grand Balcon Sud. Dave rode up every mountain he could. I was eying off the paragliders thinking, “I could do that”.

One step too far however was the people climbing on Mont Blanc. From the safely of the Sommet de l'Aiguille du Midi we watched these tiny specs navigate the jagged, snow-covered peaks, with steep drops into ravines on either side of them. They made their way carefully down the ice, then turned around and ice-picked (is that a verb?) their way back up again. I couldn’t help but wonder “What on earth are you doing that for?”. But maybe they would think the same about my hobbies. 

We ate fondue. A huge pot of melted cheese with enormous platters of prosciutto, potatoes, and bread to dip in it. I was full after about three mouthfuls. Did I stop there? Did any of us stop there? No. We did not. The décor certainly screamed cosy ice-tavern: the walls were covered in deer and bore heads, boots, saucepans, and a range of eclectic alp memorabilia, as Sam aptly described as “good, but harsh”. We definitely felt like we got to experience an authentic French Alps meal, although I am not sure if I can ever eat cheese again. 

We went to the Mer de Glace ice cave, and literally walked into a tunnel drilled into the side of a glacier. It was dark and the walls were smooth, wet, and freezing cold, the melted ice dripped on our heads. It would have been a bit eery if not for the hundreds of other people also jammed in around us. To get to the cave we walked a thousand steps, or so it felt. It was a scene remnant of Alice in Wonderland where the steps wind down and down and down and never seem to end and when you think you have got to the end, another stretch appears. Every few hundred steps, a new sign marked where the glacier had once reached. In my lifetime, the glacier has melted so much. It was confronting to look at global warming up close. It was bitter-sweet to experience the glory of Mer de Glace and know future generations may never get to do the same.

Borg d’Oison. This was the last stop of our trip and was included so Dave could do his final three bucket list rides, but bloody France literally overwhelmed us with most spectacular landscape yet - as in bring tears to your eyes spectacular. The kids and I drove through the Col de la Croix de Fer mountain pass and into a vast expanse of rolling green alps, deep blue lakes, and wildflowers (again). It was awe-inspiring. We spent our final evening drinking rosé in the garden with the alps in the background, eagles soaring in the sky, and the kids doing some performative/interpretive dance for the bikies who shared our accommodation. Dinner was shared with the owners and other guests, cooked for us with home-gown vegetables and locally sourced meats and cheeses, wine, and home-made absinth with wildflowers from the alps.  It was the perfect final hoorah. 

It felt like coming home as we drove back into Paris; the kids were excited to see their friends and sleep in their own beds. We did so much yet barely scratched the surface- every region has its own identity and style and unique beauty and there is still so much to discover. The landscape, the food and wine, the people, the incredibly precious family time – it was a trip that we will remember forever x