Bonjour et bienvenue

At Standsted we’re back in the ‘melangerie’, the fair skinned english country pubs giving way to that car crash of colour, shape and size, enjoyed in airports the world over. If you look up ‘melangerie, you’ll find ‘vienneace breakfast bar’ but there word just felt right.

Car returned, stale bread roles, left over peanut butter and vinegarised wine jettisoned, scanned, bagged, checked and tagged, we’ve naught to do but await our flight. Three hours.

We very much enjoyed lolling about in Stamford the last week. Yesterday morning afforded a relaxed exit; blue sky, busker punching out jazz tunes, coffee and cake as the sun warmed the cobbles. Then to the car.

On a whim, on a scenic route to our Stanstead overnighter, we park and walk down an inviting shady tree-lined drive to Hambleton Hall in Rutland.

We’re served tea and coffee in silver pots by a finely liveried gent who arranges our restorative with the same care and exactness evident in the beautifully topiaried, garden; pleasing green domes and cubes broken with natural growth and the brilliant colours of spring blooms.  Lambs can be heard bleating in the fields below, bird song is symphonic in the village quiet and from somewhere in the garden, a fountain softly bubbles and murmurs.  We sip our wine…mesmerized.  (Well, with all that going you could hardly expect us to stop at coffee).

Later, after the bill has brought us sharply back to our senses, we wander along the reservoir shore amidst blue bells and green tinged forest.

Lunch at the Old Buttercross at Oakham, recommended by a young lad at the Horse and Jockey as they, like many pubs after two, were closed, filled our bellies but lacked atmosphere. It was rather like a British McDonalds. An easy hour and a bit from Oakham to Stansted from there.

That was yesterday. The three hours at Standsted airport this morning passed quickly enough and proved good training for French customs in Bairitz. As ever, locals feed swiftly through a veritable army core of sunny dispositioned customs officers leaving a grumpy one armed, near sighted, matron to serve the 200 remaining foreigners. Actually that description is probably more representative of my disposition having waited so long, but there you go.

The last train to Saint John Pied de Port is cancelled and the bus replacement turns out to be a boon as we get front seat views winding up the Nive River valley to the foot of the Pyrenees.

Two things stand out. It’s so much greener this far further south, its like the place has had a green explosion and… there are camino pilgrims everywhere; at the airport, on our plane, on the bus….a sign of things to come we assume.

Its 8pm when we arrive and we dump our gear in the stunning little place Di’s found here and walk two doors up to a restaurant for dinner. There’s a couple there from Byron Bay and it’s all; what shoes? What back-packs? etc. from then on. The fresh trout was sensational.

Camino passports tomorrow and off-sending some stuff to Santiago de Compostella. So excited!