I'm ashamed to admit that it has taken me a whole month to get round to recounting a rather eventful start to the new year spent in Le Sauvage (savage by name and savage by nature, never rang so true!), and I really have no excuse. Well, not a decent one, I'm not exactly rushed off my feet here.
It has only really been since the UK 'shut down' for a week that I was reminded of our own personal experience with the dreaded white stuff, and thought you might like to hear it. I know it's all me, me, me isn't it...the endless shameless self promotion of blogging!
Admittedly, it's been beautifully sunny and rather mild here the last few days. But believe me, reader, I feel your pain. Climate change is after all so ball-achingly inconvienent, although an absolute winner when it means not having to face a painful Monday morning meeting or traffic jam. The worst part about it all of course is we only have ourselves to blame! Yes fan-bloody-tastic...the world is going down the pan and I'll just add it to my list of things to beat myself up about...like doing badly in my GCSE's and having that almighty teenage party when my parents were away and trashing the house. Now all the polar bears are dying and it's my fault because I do my washing at 40 degrees and sometimes (although not often and I feel really, really, bad about it) I tumble dry towels!! But ONLY when we have guests. Promise.
Although the (general) jury is still out as to whether climate change a). exists, and b). is due to the greed, disrespect and downright selfish nature of man; I have to say that after the weather we've experienced in the last month alone, believing this is normal would be like saying Bush did the US an outstanding service, or that Kerry Katona was not off her tits on This Morning...she'd just had a late night, you old cynic. Sometimes you just know the truth. Or in the immortal words of Jack Nicholson: "You can't handle the truth." Quite right, Tom Cruise hasn't a bleeding clue.
So as we fasten our safety belts, or rather build a nuclear bunker in the back garden, a decade of floods, hurricanes, blizzards and monsoons are set to wreak havoc on life as we know it. And the reason for being so defeatist? I WAS SNOWED IN...AND IT WAS HELL!
Cue last night of Kelly, James and Lyla's stay with us. The log burner is roaring, the vin rouge is flowing, the babies are bathed and in bed and we're just about to settle down for a lovely 'last supper' (the calm before the storm) when out of the silence beyond the front door comes the first flurry of snowflakes.
Like a load of pre-teen girls at their first sleepover, we skipped outside with "WOWS" and "AHHHSSS" and "isn't this amazing!!!" and danced as the snow hit the ground and started to settled. Before we knew it the ground was white, the night was silent, and all we could hear was the cracking of the snow beneath our feet.
"Wouldn't it be amazing if we got snowed in, and then we would have to stay here forever!" came Kelly's immortal words...
Yes folks, be careful what you wish you!
I think I hugged her with a shriek of delight wishing it would come true, and if I didn't I meant too, but things were admittedly a little hazy after all the excitment.
Once the novelty had worn off, or maybe the last glass of wine, we realised how bloody cold it was and dashed inside to have dinner with little thought of how this might effect their flight home the next day.
Little did we know the flight was the least of our problems.
By lunchtime the following day, the snow was thick to the ground and showing no signs of thrawing, but it was so beautiful and the most I'd ever seen, in the flesh so to speak, that we didn't consider my car tyres on the road outside the house. Or the lane that leads down to La Combe, a neighbouring hamlet, or the hill that leads to the main road and on to Sauze-Vaussais, the nearest big village and petrol stop.
All bundling into the car ready for our journey to La Rochelle airport, a journey of 5 mins quickly became 30, during which I suffered a minor nervous breakdown whilst trying to control the steering wheel sliding through my hands and ending up skidding all over the road.
Deciding to turn back to the house and asking Roy to take them to the airport (if anyone can do it he can, I thought...as if Roy is some sort of f*cking superhero!) the 5 minute journey went from 30 to an inflated 1 hour 20, involving multiple stops, getting poor freezing Lyla (aged 18 months) in the car, out the car, in the buggy, out the buggy and with me and Kelly pushing James up the hill, along the lane, out the ditch, onto the road...you name it we did it! We eventually made it back in time to the house about an hour before their flight was due to leave. Needless to say, Kelly's wish had came true.
After a shot of something wet and seriously alcholic (purely medicinal) we weighed up our options. James and Roy would take the overnight ferry 2 days later with Kelly and myself following by Ryanair (a form of transport that deserves more of a description than simply a 'flight'...how about thieving, crooked, devious bastards) with babies in tow. A cab would come and take us to Poitiers and we would be 100 euros lighter, plus the costs of flights). Done deal. Or so we thought.
After numerous telephone calls to Poitiers airport and Ryanair respectively...with great difficulty to get a solid answer from anyone, we decided to risk the trip up to the Poitiers, even though the flights had been cancelled all week. And it would seem, after a 3 hour wait, they were cancelled this day as well.
Balls, bollocks, f*ck, shit and w@nk, were just a few of the extremities flowing freely from our lips and echoed in unison by our fellow travellers. I do love a good extremity in a time of need. Hundled together like a scence from the Kryopten Factor, Kelly and I (taking over the Team Loser mantel from Roy who was now back in UK being fed grapes and having his feet massaged) decided we would hire a car, drive to Caen and get the overnight ferry to Portsmouth where my sister, Lenny, would pick us up and drive us back to her place, the Mecca that is Basingstoke.
Decision made...now let's hire a car! Mmmmm easier said than done. Hertz, Europcar, Avis - the desk was empty. We called, no answer. The, now I use the term lightly, helpful people at Poitiers airport, helpful in a kind of "I do not have time for this, you are English and stupid and I want to get home," called the car rental firms, but guess what...there ARE NO CARS in Poitiers! Don't ask me why. Maybe everyone in the town decided that today they would hire a car but we couldn't get one for love nor money...of which by that point we had very little of both.
Hundle up...think think...what do we do? Get a cab to the train station, at least for more transport options to let us down. Get to the station, a very nice cab driver, Kelly then attempts the walk of shame to every car rental place opposite...quelle surprise - NO CARS! My poor dear friend looked like she'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson as she crossed the road dodging the ice only to report back the bad news. We've got to get the poor girl home...there must be a way! Cue Superman music (in my head of course, not over the train announcements...this isn't a film) Dur dula dula dur dur durrrr....TGV!!!!
Within a flash of Kelly's credit card, we were on the next fast speed train to Gay Paris, the kids battering the window panes with their minature plastic farm animals, wriggling and getting restless as we wondered if it looked bad to drink G n T's so early in the day.
Within 2 hours we arrived at Charles De Gaulle, tired, hungry, mentally tormented, only to be heckled by a group of young men. "Always good to know you're still got it..." I winked at Kelly. Even looking like we did, and feeling like we did, it was good to laugh as the prospect of ending our journey loomed closer.
And end it did. Thanks to Kelly's mum who (bless her) phone airlines and ferry companies and manged to get us last minute flights to Luton. We landed back in Blighty at 10:30pm looking like a couple of Victorian match stick sellers, all ragged and forelorn, and wavering a white flag of surrender.
I quickly nipped into M&S and bought some G 'n' T's in a can (very good..cheap and strong!) to top up the much needed ones we had on the plane, and by the time James arrived to pick us up I was beginning to feel more like my old self; dazed, confused, knackered and everso slightly tipsy.
Kelly and Lyla were safely home and me and Raffers were, as ever, on to our next little adventure.
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