les Davey de France

One evening some weeks ago we met some Italians on the number 1 bus. They were examining a map of Bordeaux and the route displayed on the wall of the bus and discussing options. They seemed to be heading in completely the wrong direction. They spoke no French. We speak no Italian. We asked where they were heading and gave them a much shorter route. We asked where they were from. "Bari", they said. I looked up Bari. Pat had a decimal birthday approaching. I had a weekend off. Ryanair flies at convenient times and their lowest prices. Reasonably-priced accommodation was available. When someone told us Bari had nothing to commend it we were convinced. Ryanair. Well we'd bought cheap tickets but when it came to add any kind of bag whatsoever we could either choose to pay individually for each bag we took or to add priority boarding with two bags each included. It doubled the price of our tickets but was still next to nothing. Then came time to check-in. You could pay to

but it did mean we went wandering round the city a little. When I can work out how to add some photos I will.

of cocaine in separate packets has washed up on the shores of Aquitaine around Arcachon. The beaches have been closed. One likely lad was arrested having gathered five packets while beachcombing.

Of course, it's all changed dramatically. The entire road system has been reworked with the loss of Porth Square and the monument (the public toilets in the centre of the square) and the building of the splendid Golden Gate Bridge of Porth. Morrisons has replaced the old Cymmer Colliery, already out of action when I was a child, and my old school has been repurposed several times. But the essential shape of things is still there. My paternal grandparents lived in a small house built up on the hillside on the left of the photo. If you follow the line that leads left from Morrisons, then at the end of it stood an engine house with a steam engine that pulled trucks of waste rock up the hillside. A little below this engine house stood my grandparents' home. My grandfather's job was to attend to this steam engine. I don't remember the house at all, it was bulldozed when I was very small, but my cousin has written about it and described the dampness of the downstairs ro

not least is the danger of ranting. But one day into the election campaign I am already fed up of it.

We returned to rain. Torrential rain. We exchanged the gentle static drizzle of Cardiff for the fierce downpours of Bordeaux. In Cardiff you looked out of the window and were not sure whether it was raining or not. Everything was wet but nothing was falling. Instead everything seemed enveloped in cloud. Bordeaux gets hosed down vigorously. Apparently we've had a month's rain in three days. Oh, and I have a sore throat...

We took a quick and unplanned trip to Cardiff to see my sisters, flying out on Monday to Gatwick to take the train via Reading to Cardiff, then returning on Friday afternoon to Bordeaux. The plane left early so we packed our bags and stayed overnight in a hotel near the airport so we could get to the airport on time. The flight was calm and we dozed. At Gatwick we needed to listen carefully to the announcements because points failures near Redhill had caused widespread disruption. So instead of our Reading train we were sent to Victoria, then by tube to Paddington to take the train to Cardiff. Friendly staff helped and we eventually arrived just 30 minutes later than planned. We'd arranged to stay with friends in the area where Alan used to live and they kindly picked us up from the station, then fed us before sending us off to Kath's house, a ten minute walk away. We were thankful to spend a good quantity of quality time with the two sisters before returning, this time v