Cannes Cannes

Whats seems like a lifetime ago, I was lucky enough to gain access to the world of sun, sand, scrumptious food and incredible vistas that Bec and Mark are fortunate enough to call home.  There was also a day of torrential rain, and the worst cold I've had in years, but bygones.

I landed in Marseille one Saturday morning in early October, undeniable hazy and ever-so-regrettably ill after a rather massive night in Eburger, and was met by a slightly harried Bec (it later turned out that in her mad dash to pick me up, she'd earned her first French speeding ticket.  I owe you one or ten elaborate cocktails B!).

We headed first to Aix-en-Provence for a little fresh air and old-town gawping (it is a truly charming place and deserves the time if you have it.  I was particularly enamoured with the flower and fresh produce markets - what can I say - I'm a whore for an outdoor marketplace and the French do it goooood.) We had a lovely, lengthy lunch that would have been even better had I not still felt so very green.  Things were going so well...

Then France happened.  When I say France, more specifically French industrial dispute #infinity happened.  The French, in case you weren't aware, lurve them some protesting.  This is both an admirable testament to their indomitable spirit, as well as an irksome example of ill-conceived empathy garnering.  Ill-conceived because it tends to do exactly the opposite.  Prior to my exposure to 'Le Manifestation' in Toulons, I may have felt at best understanding, at worst indifferent.  However, after 3 hours in bumper to bumper traffic with an overheating engine, followed by a trip back to Cannes the loooooong way round, I was exasperated.  I won't go on about the value of industrial action, Bec's already been there, and she summed it up nicely, but it was an annoying waste of an afternoon.  Being stuck in a car all afternoon when I was this close to vom wasn't to crash hot's all I'm saying.

Before we launch into pics, let me explain that I only have some from the day I borrowed Bec and Mark's very very lush camera.  I had carefully packed all my holiday fare into a bag before the debauchery in Edinburgh.  Leaving my camera at a club the night before I left (and not realising this til Stu called me some time later to say so) was not part of the plan.  It just, organically, became part of the plan I guess.

What follows are some pics of the stunning village of St Paul we visited on the Sunday in perfect weather.  Then we have various shots of delicious foods.  No apologies for those, you read my blog, you get photis of food.  That's how I roll (pun intended).

To summarise St Paul very briefly:
Old.
Perched on a hill or two.
Artisan community - inhabited (therefore beautifully quirky and impeccably preserved, a living, breathing piece).
So so so pretty.

This is maybe my dream front door.

Heather, I thought of our trip to Krakow.  How wonderful are these toys?!  The boys would lurve.

Here comes the food.

Mark cooked a delightful roast chicken dinner on the Sunday night.  Superb.

Howzzat?!

My efforts on the Monday night.  Greek-inspired lamb, veggies and my very own Tzatsziki.

The end.

Next comes our trip Down Under.  Won't be long, I promise.