A Brief Adventure

Friend J's house in France is on a quiet suburban street lined with small trees. Inside a bland exterior is a large double volume space of an open plan lounge, kitchen and a study area lined with books. There is a free standing wood burning fire, and glass walls through which one can see a leaf strewn swimming pool and a windswept lawn. Wooden stairs lead up to three charming loft-style bedrooms but as the bathroom is downstairs, we make up F's bed near the fire. I worry about him negotiating the wooden staircase at night. I will sleep upstairs, as will son M. We are cheerful. This is an adventure.

The sea is not far away. Grey and choppy, the seascape has the desolate air of an abandoned beach in a storm. Papers blow on deserted pavements and gather against closed doors bearing pictures of pink and green ice cream cones. Summer has been packed away. A few restaurants remain open and inside they are warm, but there are no tourists at this time of the year. The French waitress is brisk and we are served a local dish of mussels, which are delicious.

It is so good to be here. We have a few short days before the hospital appointment but we plan to enjoy them. We will explore the area, lunch out, cook suppers in my friend's very efficient kitchen; we have a hire car with a GPS and there are places nearby I have never heard of. Within walking distance of the house is a fascinating array of small shops where we buy long loaves of bread, fresh vegetables and fish. As it is nearly Christmas there is a snug bustle around the shops with red shiny things and dark green conifers everywhere. There is a real Christmas feeling, not the shopworn rush of the overblown Christmas carols we are used to. We keep the fire in the house fed with chopped wood we buy from a warehouse; it consumes wood with gusto and F is constantly at it. He seems more peaceful, and even more comfortable, here.

On the third day we venture beyond the Spanish border and find a spectacular resort with high cliffs where there is a modern hotel and a massive view of a wintry sea. It is quiet now, and the hotel seems empty. In summer it must be jam packed. Very few views have impressed me so. We lunch down near the harbour but as it is a Sunday there are many diners and parking is difficult. F and I wait for son M to park and join us. The food is good but exotic. We are surrounded by locals out for their Sunday gathering. We eat quietly, aware that tomorrow is an important day. This is almost our last meal together before the hospital and we are tense, but the looming clouds and the battering sea outside is just so much bunting to our great adventure. I turn a blind eye to the threatening sky and its charcoal colour.