An Historical Weekend

For some reason Mr Ryan Air has decided that flights landing at Poitiers Baird should be moved to the middle of the night (with the now standard delay added on). I was going to pick up our four month old granddaughter (she wasn't travelling alone, her parents were visiting too). It was to be her first time on French soil and we were very excited. A cot had been erected, nappies from Aldi (size 3) purchased and a large Tupperware container was ready to act as a makeshift sterilizer.

The first part of our airport run is cross-country and having done the route so many times it has become second nature, but driving at night was a different matter. I found myself creeping along at 60km trying to avoid all the wildlife that decided to commit hari-kiri when my car passed by; a fat ragondin just outside Gourgé hurled himself towards the front tyre (luckily my ninja driving skills kicked in and I managed to dodge the big fella), there was also what looked like a pine marten jogging alongside the car as I approached Thénezay.

So by the time I reached the airport I was an emotional wreck. No sooner had I bought a packet of roast chicken flavoured crisps from the vending machine to calm my nerves, they entered through the Stars-In-Their-Eyes sliding doors: ma, pa, baby in pram and the biggest suitcase I have ever seen, trundling along beside them. It is always lovely to watch loved ones being reunited at the airport arrivals and so it was with me, my son Murray, Emma and little Ari.

When we arrived home at 11.30pm and after I had nearly given myself an aneurism carrying their suitcase upstairs, we found that Anna, my wife, had lit a fire so her granddaughter didn't get cold. The house was positively tropical. After shedding several layers I asked if I could open the back door as I was worried about the baby who was the colour of a tomato, in her vest, baby-grow and knitted cardigan combo.

At four months Ari can now support her head, follow you round the room with her beady eyes (which can be a bit disconcerting, as though she knows more than she is letting on) and sleeps 90 instead of 99 percent of the time.

At four months Murray and Emma have become a crack team at sharing nappy changing duties (front to back), drool wiping, bottle sterilising, outfit changing, bathing, feeding, carrying, pushing, bouncing, tickling. Murray has perfected a move called the 'joystick' for burping: he sits baby on his knee with one hand on Ari's back the other under her chin, he then rotates her in a clockwise fashion and...purp! Every time.

The Deux-Sèvres sun was shining on the Friday and we sat outside drinking cocktails and soaking up the last few rays of summer, debating whether we should put suntan lotion on. For the rest of the weekend it rained so we had to drink indoors.

Their visit coincided with the European Heritage days. A weekend when you can snoop around somebody's house in the name of culture. On the Saturday we visited the medieval Château de Tennessus (which is just round the corner from us and cost 5€ entrance fee [Anna was outraged]). Complete with moat, drawbridge, tapestries and chain mail hanging on the walls, the castle did not disappoint. We were allowed to snoop around the kitchen, dining rooms and three bed chambers which can be booked by people who want to experience the medieval way of life (which didn't seem that different from our own French lifestyle). Costumes can be hired too, presumably medieval, for those with an inclination.

On the Sunday we snooped around the château in Saint-Loup (which is just round the corner from us and cost 8€ entrance fee [Anna was apoplectic])...I had the honour of wearing the papoose and Ari slept throughout strapped to my warm moobs as we wandered around the donjon, orangerie, gardens, pigeonnière, canal pavilion, and part of the moated château (the river Thouet had been turned off somewhere upstream for work to be carried out so the château was surrounded by a muddy trough, much to the confusion of the ragondins).

We have a few fruit trees, which we laughingly call 'the orchard' (as no fruit has ever been forthcoming other than a few mirabelle). This year, for some reason, one of the pear trees has been dripping with fruit and so for the crowning glory of our farewell feast together Anna made a pear Tarte tatin, which was delicious and wolfed down by all, apart from Ari who took 50 minutes to finish 150ml of formula...(joystick)...purp!

On arriving at the airport and hearing the flight to Stansted was delayed by an hour we said our goodbyes and I watched as they disappeared through passport control, their jumbo suitcase bursting at the seams. I was feeling a little emotional so thought I would give myself a boost with a detour to the vending machine.