11pm

Tonight’s entry comes to you from the old house you see fragments of in the corresponding photos. The household has retired to bed for the evening – yes, all ten of us – and the Hawke family is chillin’ in the darkened lounge-converted-into-a-bedroom before the new year kicks in. It’s quiet and reflective at the moment, which is a pleasant change from the preceding two days. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday morning we arose at 4am (after my alarm went off at 3:50) and were picked up promptly by the taxi at 4:30. The trip to the airport was interesting – our driver was a Pakistani, and a fanatic cricket supporter at that, and had been watching the current match for about half an hour before picking us up. Fortunately the Aussies were doing us justice at the time, with Hussey having scored a century in the first innings.

However, the trip to the airport took a while and we were crammed into the car, which wasn’t large. Come to think of it, there aren’t many large cars here at all. Anyhow, we arrived punctually and without further hitch. Gatwick airport is airy and tall, but my memory of the entry area is a little hazy. After proceeding through check in, we were left in the boarding lounge (quite large) which is below a terrace of shopping spots. I went with Tim to grab some Maccas for breakfast, despite the warning against it we were given by our “native” relatives. It’s at this point that I realise, with great resignation, that a Sausage McMuffin with Bacon (no egg) is very different in London to Adelaide. So while my stomach attempts to digest the carbs I ingested with an ample helping of multinational grease, we considered buying coffee. That’s all we did, mind – considering the poor state of the McMuffin, our coffee consideration was short and definitive. Apple juice was the beverage of choice, along with a chocolate croissant from a bakery franchise called Upper Crust.

Then it was quickly downstairs, off on a ten minute walk to the departure gate, a couple of security scans (remove watch, extract iPod, camera, wallet and phone from pockets, dump bag and lappy, step through beeping frame, reset watch, relocate iPod, camera, wallet and phone into pockets, shoulder bag uncomfortably and grab lappy hastily) and a sweltering wait in the easyJet gate departure room. easyJet doesn’t believe in seat number reservations, so it’s a free-for-all based only on a preference grouping system determined by the order you check in. We managed to get a good spot just inside the door to the causeway.

A flight from London Gatwick to Toulouse takes only 1:20, so there was barely enough time for me to open my book (“Winning with People”, John Maxwell). Until that point I hadn’t opened any of the reading materials I had brought with me, so I decided the France bit was the opportunity. Takeoff, in flight banter, landing – all standard.

So here we are in France. I can’t understand the people, or the untranslated signs, or the billboards. It’s interesting how you grope for any level of understanding you can find. My groping led me back into the dark unused depths of the mind to my Year 8 French lessons, now seven years ago (I must be getting old(er)). Only snippets of the vocab and conjugation remain in my awareness. The first port of call is the Europcar desk, where we source our Renault Laguna rental car. It’s grey and it’s a reasonably new, 5 door 6-speed manual automatic-everything machine. It has a start/stop button and an activation card which goes into a slot. Back in my day…

Toulouse is rainy and French looking. It’s about one and a half hours’ drive from our final destination, and we had to stop a couple of times along the way to fetch groceries and some heating apparatus. Further, Dad’s been thrown a curve ball because all driving is the other way around in France – yep, forward travel in the right lane. Since the car’s a manual, Dad’s been hitting the door on his left at gear change time. It’s somewhat funny to watch, but he’s doing a great job of it. Now that we’re on the subject, the toll highways are fun. The fun factor is nothing to do with the speed limit, which is actually average and maxes out at 130km/h. No, what’s interesting is the eight to ten ticketing machines and toll booths which end-cap the highway. Essentially they make up a ten lane drift; once you’ve left your rank in the ticket booth, you’re out of the box like a horse in the Melbourne Cup. There are no lines at all for at least 50 metres while the road funnels into the usual three lanes. First in, best dressed. I’m looking forward to watching it all happen with more dense traffic on Wednesday in peak hour.

Lunch at McDonald’s was fun. I had to order for Tim and me, and so I put all my French knowledge into action. I end up asking for “Deux moyen Menu Best Of McChicken”. I get asked “Ou frites?” to which I reply “Oui.” I get asked something containing “boisson”, to which I reply “Cola.” I missed the next bit, but a bit of a hand signal from the understanding French girl serving me made me realise the meaning of “C’est tout?”, to which I reply “C’est tout, merci.” What a buzz!

Finally we arrive at our destination, about ten minutes’ drive outside a place called Caylus. This spot is truly idyllic, with rough stone walls, blue window shutters and wooden plank doors. Forgot to mention, it’s cold. -1 degree C outside the car as we drove, and not any warmer now that we’re preparing to go inside. The steps up to the front door were iced up and slippery as wet soap, and my Auntie had a fall from the top down all twelve or so. This place doesn’t get used much – our London relatives are branching out into France and renovating as they can. Thus, the foot-thick stone walls have had time enough to become as cold as the outside climate, chilling everything inside. It took some time to get everything uncovered and the wood fire crackling along, and all the while we’re exhaling mist, even inside.

The wood fire puts out plenty of heat, but the next little issue is the wood supply. There’s ample amounts around but not much of it is dry and readily accessible, and most of the good fuel we have on hand is pine which burns too quickly. It is at this point that I experience the first major frustration apart from the foregoing issues of ten people in a small space. We have wood. We have fire. Conservation of energy says that, no matter how fast we burn the wood, we’re going to get the same amount of total energy output. To my mind, maximising the heating rate without regard to the speed of fuel consumption is the primary concern. The place is literally freezing, and without pumping the heat into the building, the slabs of cold rock aren’t going to heat through. But I keep well out of the admin chatter, guessing that the older cooks won’t appreciate another broth-spoiler.

Well, suffice to say we had a very cold night. It was planned that Tim and I should sleep in an exterior room which had no heating. This plan was scrapped after it was discovered that the heater we purchased had no fan, and that the cold was almost unbearable even inside the wood fired lounge room. I hate sleeping cold, even more than I despise instant coffee. I awoke at about 4am (5am?) shivering in my sleeping bag, which turns out to be too far the other way in terms of thermal protection. Third time lucky, hopefully.

Today, then, we arose at about 8am and slammed down some chocolate croissants before heading out to the shops again, which shut at 2pm on a Saturday. This was another interesting experience. Without any decent language skills (and with my brain mistakenly suggesting German words where my poor French fails me) I was becoming more annoyed. It’s quite hard to function when you can’t even express the most simplest of concepts to a shop assistant or passer by. Even knowing numbers above 10 would help.

This afternoon I became quite dejected, with the next five days of cooped up family politics, saving face, polite smiles and shaky facades becoming less and less attractive. The inability to get out without driving and the inclement weather compound the language barrier to make France seem very unfriendly and my upcoming time in Berlin seem distant and short. Fortunately our residence is heating up by now and is not as icily repressive as before. Unfortunately Tim hasn’t been feeling well. The Hawke family decides to split for a while to debrief and ponder the next few days by taking a car drive down the road around our village, enabling me to capture some scenery on camera.

After returning I retreated to the dinner table (a few feet from the lounge area) and began to devour my book, highlighter in hand. This turns out to be a great use of my time and my mood improves as I read Maxwell’s advice on dealing with conflict and maximising relational skills. I don’t resent being here as I did this afternoon, and am now taking it as it comes. If nothing more, I’ve got some nice photos and a wider perspective on the world of travel, family and my own character.