After a wonderful Sunday with the Bache family – collecting croissants from the boulangerie van in the village, breakfast outside in the sun, precision log stacking, a couple of highly-competitive games of footie with Ben, a drive in Paul’s Fiat Barchetta through some winding rural roads (WOW! I want!) and a roast lunch served by lovely friends of theirs in a neighbouring village – we were finally beginning to wind down as our trip reached its end.

As both Rachel and I have mentioned, my poor Nan isn’t very well, so we’ve decided to cut short our trip and head to the Midlands to bolster her, and hopefully get her back on track. Plus, give some moral support to my parents, who are worried sick about her. These things have to be done. So, apart from a detour to Bordeaux for duck fat chips at La Tupina restaurant, on Monday morning we were beginning our return journey, up along the west coast of France, after hugging the Pyrenees for the first stretch of the journey. First stop: Bordeaux. Second stop: a “glamping” site in Brittany. Third stop: Rouen and a vet stop for Henry’s last jabs. Fourth stop: Bromsgrove. It works out at about 1200km in total, so a fair way to go, but with some sightseeing in between I was hoping it wasn’t going to be too much of an arduous drive. French motorways are really bloody boring.

However, I would have preferred dull, straight roads with no excitement compared to what happened next. We were cruising (well, as much as our 4×4 does cruise) along a brand-new stretch of motorway, connecting the Pyrenees with Bordeaux. With about 100km to go before we reached our culinary pit-stop, the car began to shudder. Rachel was reading us a story – such was the arrow-like straightness of the new tarmac – and had to be hushed as I felt the shudders increase and the spluttering begin. At 60mph, the car cut out and we coasted onto the emergency hard-shoulder. Luckily, the motorway was deserted (an expensive stretch of toll, we’d decided to treat ourselves so we could spend as much time as possible in Bordeaux), so there were no scary lorries shaking our stationary car as they passed. It was made all the more quiet by the fact it was a Bank Holiday in France. Rachel and I exchanged looks and after a few turns of the key, the engine started over again. And then stopped. A few more tries and we were off! Oh blessed be! My toe glanced the accelerator, not pushing her too hard, but not letting the revs die either – it was precarious driving, but we were moving and racing towards Bordeaux. After about 10 minutes, the shuddering began again and we conked out and glided into an SOS bay. After a few more turns of the engine, it was clear we weren’t going anywhere – and certainly not Bordeaux. I traipsed to the orange SOS booth, had a quick look at the terms and conditions (noting the 141,50€ pick-up charge. GULP), and pressed the “talk” button. Explaining that I didn’t speak much French meant I was put onto an automated speech Q&A session. It was announced that the tow truck would be with us in 30 minutes and we were to wait near the car. I donned a reflective vest, put out my warning triangle and took the pooch out of the car and behind the crash barrier. Less than 15 minutes later, the tow truck arrived.

The mechanic – another term I shall use loosely – pulled open the bonnet, waggled the dipstick and announced the oil was fine. He turned the engine over once and then began getting our car ready to tow. He clearly thought it was not fixable at the roadside. Henry had decided that one horse-like leap over the crash barrier was enough for him, so refused to hurdle back over so we could get him into the tow truck. After a five-minute battle, I eventually managed to get him to crawl underneath the barrier, much to the amusement of the tow truck man. Realising the truck’s cabin was nearly eight-foot up, we had to have the car put back down onto the road so Henry could clamber into his usual spot in the back and then be raised onto the truck. His little face as he was propelled upwards, squashed up against the glass, looking bewildered and frightened at us on the road, was a heartbreaking picture.

The tow truck took us to Roquefort. Not the Roquefort, but another Roquefort. It was raining, we were upset and we had no idea where we were – apart from a long way from Bordeaux. The garage was closed due to the holidays, and upon dumping the car back to the ground, the “mechanic” announced that the 10-minute journey from the motorway was to cost us 212€ (an extra 50% is added on holidays and weekends) plus another 80€ the next day in order to take us to a Nissan garage. Despite clearly being a modern set-up, the boys weren’t willing to tinker with our old Nissan. A couple, who’d had a nasty-looking bash in their car, spoke English, so helped us out with some of the, erm, gaps in my vocabulary and they helped us arrange a hotel in the town for 39€ per night, including the dog. The tow truck driver, whether out of sympathy or fear for his life, kindly offered to take us in his van, and so dropped us off at the town’s only hotel.

To say it must have inspired the writer of The Shining is being kind. But, it was clean-ish in the rooms, had free ‘wiffy’ and took large hounds. We couldn’t really ask for much more. The rest of the town was in shut-down due to the Bank Holiday, so we felt relieved to have somewhere to sleep for the night. Henry could clearly feel our tension, and so paced the room. Rachel relented while I was downstairs getting the wifi codes and allowed him onto the spare single bed in the room. He slept like a baby and barely moved all night (just in case we realised our foolishness and moved him back to the floor!), so despite me being worried sick about what we were going to do, I slept brilliantly, too. As did Rachel. Ready to face a battle with French mechanics in the morning.

And so we find ourselves on the industrial outskirts of Mont-de-Marsan, next door to one of France’s largest RAF bases – the momentary peace is being constantly smashed by jets breaking the sound barrier as they land and take off on aerial exercises. The Nissan garage had not been told of our arrival (should we have expected that as part of the 300€ service by the Roquefort tow-men? Hell yeah), so they couldn’t fit us in. My lip quivering and Rachel’s tangible rage meant he offered to fit us in tomorrow (Wednedsay) at 11am. But all that would be was a look at the car, and not its actual repair. That could be, he said as he shrugged and turned his mouth downward, “three or four days, peut-être. Maybe more…” Aghast, I booked us in for our ‘check-up’ and made Rachel go outside to send texts to her father so he could speak to the mechanic in Spain whose palm we had quite recently crossed with muchos silver.

So now we’re in a Campanile hotel – a motel, basically, but without the cool, kitsch Americana vibe. It’s 72€ a night, plus 5€ for the pooch, so we feel un peu ripped-off. Henry has found himself the perfect cosy spot, in a carpeted vestibule by the front door. Bless him, he’s happy wherever we are. There’s a lesson right there…

So, we’re just waiting. And waiting. But working hard on projects that kick in as soon as we get back to London. Debating life over a cold beer in the hot sunshine (a bonus, I guess), but we’re feeling shattered, shell-shocked, unsure of the future, of where we want to be, how we get to that unknown place, that we miss Spain, but want to make London work, that we need to be near our families, but need to get back on our feet again… And wondering whether the trusty steed is even going to get us home and to the family that I need to be near right now.

Sunday 12 June
The last 10 days have been a time warp – I can’t believe we leave tomorrow, but I also feel that we’ve had a really lovely amount of time here with Paul and Sarah – the people that introduced us to the HelpX phenomenon through a mutual friend in London. We’ve gotten to know their two children, Ben and Freya, gotten to know some of the people they know in the area, and have caused a stir with Henry – as per!

Although the weather has been atrocious – rain every single day, apart from two – we’ve loved it here. Their modern-style wooden house is right on a fast-flowing river, with freezing cold water gushing down from the Pyrenees. Their flat, lush lawn has been perfect for highly-competitive games of football and rugby with five-year-old Ben (weather permitting) while their open-plan house has lent itself wonderfully to evenings filled with Sarah’s excellent cooking and some great local red wine. Even though Paul’s been away at work in London, we feel that we’ve got to know the whole family and we’re hoping to come back and visit in November, when their pig is ready for slaughter (they pig-share with a couple of local families, so we’ll be doing some porky research in the coming months!) and hopefully when the slopes have their first dumping of snow. Paul’s child-like excitement for on-piste fun has been infectious and he’s been raving about some slopes just over the Spanish border where the runs are wide and quiet.

Talking of Spain, we popped there for lunch on Saturday. Yet another of Rachel and mine’s madcap detours – we do encourage each other terribly! Having been shocked by the cost of living here in France – and being bemused by the fact that we left Spain weeks ago and yet the border was less than 45 minutes away – the only way that lunch wasn’t going to be another baguette with cheese was to head for the border. Being terribly out of practice, we drove past lots of restaurants – with spacious terraces overlooking rivers and mountains – thinking they can’t be much good as, at 1pm, they were quiet. However, even though we were just minutes from France, Spanish time had kicked in and the waiters were probably only just arriving for the onslaught. Somehow, we found ourselves in what appeared to be someone’s front room. After we’d sat down, the hostess – I use the term loosely – switched on the lights and while we shivered over the menus, she clattered about in the kitchen out back. What we envisaged as we chose our chicken al horno and pork chops was not what arrived. Green-tinged, insipid-looking “chips” sliced by someone clearly not allowed to use sharp knives, a cold and grey mushroom sauce across my two chicken drumsticks (we decided that she must save the good cuts of meat for her family), and what looked suspiciously like a shop-bought sauce graced Rachel’s plates – glutinous and unappetising. The local wine, coming in at 1,50€ per glass was great, as was the crunchy green salad – we’d seen the owner’s mum delivering the lettuce from her garden next door. When it came to paying the bill (about half of the price we would have paid in France – admittedly, it may have been tastier), upon presenting our credit card (the place was a restaurant, bar and had bedrooms upstairs, so it was no tin-pot venture), the hostess said “Oh, we have no signal for the credit card machine.” We said we had no money. She shrugged and said that the nearest ATM was a few kilometres down the road. So, despite there being no sign on the door regarding her credit card machine not working and no word of warning as we ordered, she expected us to get in our car and make a six-kilometre roundtrip in order to pay the 24€ bill. Rachel, in fine and feisty form, declared that there was no way we were doing that. We scraped together 19€ and decided to do a runner – well, not technically a runner, but as much of a runner as I’ve ever done in my life! So, when she was out back, ignoring the other diners who’d arrived, we legged it. Henry was already in the car, Rachel had her handbag and the camera, I had the car keys and we ran! For 5€!! The car spluttered and moaned as I put my foot down and we excitedly headed for the border! Fugitives!

Safely in France, we headed for Luchon – an odd, lovely Victorian spa town twinned with Harrogate and Sitges. It was definitely more Harrogate than Sitges – although we did spot a very stylish, cashmere-clad gay gentleman looking rather lost at one point. Rachel insisted – yes, insisted – that we take the cable car to the ski station and, in a moment of madness, I agreed. So while she used the pissoir, I bought me, her and Henry tickets and we climbed the metal, mesh steps to the cars. Henry was terrified – not of the cars, although he didn’t like standing under them as they whizzed into the station, but of the see-through metal flooring. He crawled, spider-like with his legs spread and his paws spread, trying desperately to keep his tummy as close to the ground as he could. This, of course, tempered our ability to get him onto the moving cable car – a running trot was needed to wedge us three into the precarious mode of transport and after three goes – including one where I thought I’d trapped his leg under the car – we were off!! The weight of a 75kg hound, plus a nervous me and carefree Rachel meant that the first few metres of passage were accompanied by swaying. Henry had perched his bum on the seat next to Rachel, facing up the mountain and as Luchon disappeared below it dawned on me how much I hated these bloody things. God, no! Henry was panting profusely, not because of his being in the car, but the ordeal he’d gone through getting into it. I was panicking, thinking, “Shit, we haven’t thought this through: what if said 75-kilo pooch has a panic attack (or something) in a cable car barely big enough for four people?” At this point, I think I began to pant.

Nearing the top, the cloud descended, shrouding us in a thick fog. As we neared the station, another realisation: how are we going to get him out of this thing? Somehow we persuaded him out of the car and onto yet more of the nasty mesh flooring. Seeing terra firma, he crawled his way across, out into the dense fog, barking at mountain bikers as they appeared from the swirling cloud.

Realising we could see bugger-all, we took a quick walk in the freezing cold and decided to head back down – we were keen to see a ski resort off-season and, in case  you too were wondering what it’s like: there’s nothing to see. Even the wooden eco-loos were boarded up, so I had to cross my legs all the way down. Not before getting a now-wise-to-this-lark dog back on the cable car. The operator man shook his head and said in gruff French: “Use some strength,” as we tried to drag poor old Henry back onto the car. It took another three goes before he blindly followed us into the fibreglass pod dangling from a wire, where he sat for the duration of his ride looking calmly out at the beautiful view. By the time we reached the bottom, I deserved a beer.

I can’t believe we’re coming to the end of our trip. We’re having to cut it short by a week as Lisa’s poor Grandmother is not very well. So we’re foregoing our last stint at a chateau in the Loire Valley and heading to Calais from here, arriving on the 16th (the first day that Henry is allowed back into the UK) and then driving straight to Lisa’s family in Worcestershire. We’re sad not to be able to finish the trip (especially as the weather is fab there and we’ve endured nearly three weeks of non-stop rain), but some things are just more important. Lisa’s Grandmother has been there for us during some tough times and now it’s our turn to be there for her.

Despite the weather we’ve thoroughly enjoyed our time with the Bache family. We’ve achieved a huge amount. The garden has been transformed: the river bank is clear of nettles and brambles, dry stone walls have been lovingly restored, flowerbeds prepared, slate paths uncovered, and obsessive weeding has been carried out. The pig barn and garage have completely cleared and at least a dozen tip runs undertaken. Plus tons (literally) of logs have been moved and stacked (in a precise manner by Lisa – I was the brawn moving them from outside to the balconies overlooking the fast-flowing river).

We even found time for a day off yesterday and popped over to Spain for lunch. We were heading for Luchon, a ski resort and thermal spa town recommended by our hosts and when we realised we were only a few kilometres from Spain we decided to take advantage of the cheaper prices across the border. Sure enough, our lunch was half the price of the same standard in France. We’ve been astonished by how expensive everything is here – from a cup of coffee, to grocery basics, to a simple meal in a restaurant.

We returned to Luchon for an expensive coffee and a trip up the mountain in the cable car to the ski station. Much hilarity ensued as we attempted to coax Henry first across the mesh walkway and then into the car itself. Once in, he was fine and sat on the seat next to me admiring the view. While it lasted. By the time we got to the top, you couldn’t see further than your nose thanks to the cloud cover. I’m sure it was beautiful but we cut our losses and came straight back down again.

We spent this afternoon at friends of Paul and Sarah’s enjoying a Sunday roast. I was certain I recognised Sue, one of the couple who had kindly invited us over, and it transpired that we used to play tennis together about 15 years ago in Bath and know lots of the same people. What a small world!

Tomorrow we spend the night in Bordeaux. We are booked into a restaurant that we’ve been trying to track down for years, as Lisa explained in her last post. I’m looking forward with mouthwatering anticipation to my duck fat chips. Only a few more days until I’m back on my super healthy diet – better make the most of it!

After an incredible (some would say a bit too good to be true) few weeks of Helpxing and feeling fabulous, I have emerged from our last placement feeling bruised, battered, emotionally and physically drained, and full of a stinking, streaming cold. The gruelling 12-hour days, working in driving rain, the absence of privacy, long queues for the bathroom, the nonsensical list of rules and regulations, and the lack of fresh fruit and veg have really taken their toll. Enough said.

We are now with Paul and Sarah, in the beautiful Haute-Garonne region – not far from where we were with the pigs, but it feels like a world away. Paul and Sarah’s modern, open-plan, architect-designed house is stunning, but also homely and comfortable. They are lovely, warm people and have made us feel so welcome. Their two children, five-year-old Ben and one-year-old Freya are adorable.

Henry is a huge hit all round and is being spoilt silly by Sarah, who carefully picked the leftover chicken from the bones yesterday so he could share in the deliciousness of her Sunday lunch. She is an excellent cook and it is an absolute joy to be eating healthily again. Her love of food is infectious and I’m really enjoying pouring through her collection of cookery books. I’ve got a private cheffing job in Marbella in August, so it’s good timing to be inspired.

It’s really good to see Henry back to his normal self, too, after his rather unfortunate role in the terrorising of the goats in the last place. Being kept separated from us, he reverted to pack mentality with their three dogs and, whilst no permanent damage was done to the goats, the slobber on their necks, where only Henry could reach, gave the game away! On our first morning here, 200-plus goats and sheep were being herded to higher pastures and, despite a dozen of them escaping into the garden, Henry did nothing more than look on with a distracted interest.

We are helping in the garden, strimming away five-foot nettles from the bank of the river that runs at the bottom of the garden, so the views from the terrace of the fast-flowing water are, once again uninterrupted. Plus there’s weeding around terraced flowerbeds, returning them to their former glory (or rather getting them to a state where Sarah can create glory). We are also clearing out the pig barn, which is attached to the main house, although entirely self-contained. So far, we have done two runs to the local tip, and anticipate several more trips before the week is through. The idea is to renovate the barn and create a Chambre d’Hôte: a B&B where people can stay in style and comfort, eat a fabulous dinner in the evening and wake up to a great breakfast and the sound of nothing but the birds and the river in the morning. Somewhere I’d love to stay. It’s such a joy making a small contribution to this becoming a reality for them.

Part of me wishes it could be my reality too. I miss cooking for a living and whilst I love London (really love it) I do miss the countryside and the thought of having a little B&B where I can cook all day, gather fresh produce from the garden and feed people in the evening sounds blissful. No staff. No bar, and therefore no local politics. No mad service on a busy Saturday night. Just a “booking essential”, three-course, “you get what you’re given” meal. Lots of interesting people passing through… It’s nice to dream!

Rachel and I occasionally have an impatience when it comes to seeing the sights you’re meant to see when visiting a place. Not that we don’t want to see them. But we want to get the mandatory stuff done – box ticked, moved on – so we can get out there and uncover gems. I’m ashamed to say that, on what has been more than a couple of occasions, when visiting a must-do gallery or museum, we’ve hot-footed it straight to the shop to get the gist in order to make sure that there’s plenty of time left for, erm, well, lunch. That we’re about to copyright “Drive-By Tourism” (© pending) as a concept shows our unwillingness to plod page-by-page through guidebooks, seeing the structures, rivers, places of worship or homes to art that we’re “supposed” to see.

However – and you’ll know where I’m going with this one – if a restaurant exists that we’ve read greedily about, then we’ll make a detour, we’ll pound the streets and we’ll go in search of the ultimate foodie “experience”. Hence our previous excursion, across the paddy fields south of Valencia, in search of an authentic paella. But, when you’re on a roadtrip with both time and budget constraints, each and every extra kilometre has to be considered.

Having criss-crossed the Canal du Midi a few times on our travels of late, we naturally recalled one of our favourite foodie TV programmes, when fish chef Rick Stein traversed France on a barge, starting on the Atlantic coast and slow-boating through the country to the Med, tasting this amazing country’s regional dishes. In one episode, which neither of us could remember well, he went to a local eatery and ate meat (can’t remember which) roasted on an open fire with a generous side order of chips cooked in duck fat. I think we stopped listening at the duck fat bit, so we didn’t recall the restaurant’s location.

At our current HelpX joint (Henry is pictured above, lounging on their patriotic rug), where we’ve been welcomed with hospitality, great food and a beautiful family, we’ve shared a mutual love of great food. Talk, therefore, has turned to cookery books we love and foodie cities. We chatted about our day trip to Toulouse on Friday (we’ll be back, and certainly will not be partaking in Drive-By Tourism©!) and our host Paul said that we must make sure we visit the Victor Hugo food market, and mentioned Rick Stein visiting the restaurants above its food hall. That reminded us of the duck fat chips, and we hoped it was the same place. Turns out it wasn’t, but thanks to his wife Sarah’s fine collection of recipe books, we managed to unearth the name of the chippie – essentially – that Stein had mentioned. It was in Bordeaux, and although our route up to our next stop, in the Loire Valley, wasn’t taking us past Bordeaux, we figured a little detour might be in order.

Having route-planned the entire trip down to its last kilometre, average speed, weight of vehicle and day trip excursion, an extra few KMs here or there is a big deal. So adding an extra 100 has really got to be worth it. Plus a few extra hours of driving for me – the sole, designated driver – is a big deal. Especially as the decrepit 4×4 a) has no air conditioning, b) smells like a dog who has run with pigs and tried to eat goats, c) has a broken driver’s side window and d) has no radio. (The mighty Nissan is doing a marvellous job though, it has to be said).

Various internet searches had proved useless when trying to locate the rotisserie-and-chips restaurant – having described it as such, I’m beginning to question our madcap detour! But now, with Stein’s tome in front of us, we’ve found it. We tapped in the restaurant name and street location, and discovered it even had a beautiful website. Having searched for it for so long, we felt a little bit cheated, but still, regardless of having no place to stay in Bordeaux, we’ve booked in for dinner on Monday 13th June. And so, our route changes again. Because of food. And we can’t bloody wait!

So, have we just been very lucky with our first four HelpX stints, or are we experiencing it at its most hardcore? The blog hasn’t been updated because we’ve either been too exhausted to type/think/move, or have lost internet access because of the ferocious storms whipping their way through the Pyrenees, bringing with them dramatic skies, violent storms and a massive drop in temperatures. And, because this is a farm, come wind or torrential rain, work must go on. So we have toiled until we’re soaked through to our underwear, helping to create a new veg patch for a crop of maize – to feed the family and the animals, of which there are many: pigs, goats, rabbits, dogs, a cat, plus sheep and cows in a nearby pasture.

Apart from our utter exhaustion, there has also been a major incident involving Henry, the other dogs, and some goats – the goats came off worse, and anti-inflammatory drugs were administered toute-suite. Henry was banished to the car in shame for a couple of hours, and upon his release a rough-and-tumble-avoidance tactic with the resident Collie puppy resulted in the pooch damaging his back leg quite nastily, thanks to getting it wedged in a hole on the terrace. So, we’re trying to rest him as much as possible, but with three other dogs around, including the aforementioned bouncing bundle of energy in the shape of the six-month-old Collie, it’s pretty hard to control his rest time. Plus, the Collie is enamoured and so will not leave him alone. If he’s not improved by Thursday, then he’s off to the vets for a check-up. Luckily, there’s an English vet in nearby Tarascon. If only the daft sod could take me to one side and say ‘I’m OK, a bit sore, my weird backward knee joint’s feeling pretty rubbish, but I reckon I’ll be OK in a couple of days, if you only you can keep that effing Collie away from me…’

Another unsettling event during our stay here, albeit on a far more impactful scale, has been the news of the death of a very old friend of mine, Michael Drain. I received an email from a mutual friend on my way to the Pyrenees and I have to say it’s shaken me to the core – as often does happen when a peer passes away. He was 37, a bundle of fun and certainly knew how to enjoy life. Our formative London years were spent recklessly, and we blagged our way into as many restaurants, clubs and business-class-cabins as we possibly could. Good times. My sleep in the fresh mountain air has been fraught with dreams about him, meaning I wake in the morning feeling even more shattered and with that horrible sense of impending doom, although you’re not sure why for a few moments. Physical exhaustion with an unhealthy dollop of emotional tiredness has made me a very a grumpy girl. But, sadly, this grumpy girl has social chores and obligations to fulfill. Sometimes – just sometimes – I just really can’t be bothered with people and the getting-to-know of new people especially. Harumph.

We had a day off today – the routine here is to work for two days with a day off on the third. Our HelpX experience thus far has been working for five or so hours per day (with us more often than not putting in extra time), with lunch and dinner supplied by the hosts (unless self-catering is specified). Here, though, in the farmhouse perched precariously on the edge of a deep valley, work starts at 8am and finishes when the tasks are done with whoever’s near the kitchen seconded to food duties. Yesterday we finished just before 7pm, and on our first day that was just after 8.30pm, with us on dinner duty afterwards. Sadly, it’s not a way of work for me that’s conducive to productivity – I don’t believe that demanding 12 hours of flagellation gets the best out of anyone. Plus, as we experienced when we had the pub and when we owned Caché magazine, working 12-plus hours per day is fine if you’re the owner of the business/venture, but one should never expect your staff to follow that example – unless they’re taking a percentage of the profits or are after a hefty promotion. Different strokes… again, this HelpX adventure is opening our eyes to ways of life that we’ve never experienced before and, in some instances, will never experience again.

So yes, our day off: the weather’s been bloody awful, so we decided to descend from the mountains and take a look at one of the famous local caves, La Grotte de Niaux, with its prehistoric paintings – very cool. I loved stalactites as a kid, and I love ‘em now. Throw in a high-powered torch and a bit of fauvist wall art dating back some 20,000 years, and I’m happier still. One of the great things about the visit was that, unlike a lot of monuments in Europe, it’s not been messed with too much. No waxwork dummies of cavemen cooking up a bison stew on a faux fire or the sound of grunting cavewomen being piped into the vast space. Sure, there are a few areas of the cavern with walkways or electric wire to protect the paintings from mischievous graffiti artists, no doubt, but the rest is as the early explorers would have found it: damp, dripping and slippy under foot. Due to my obsessively slow mountain driving, we missed our pre-booked slot, so had to tag onto a French school party of kids aged around seven. A sad indictment of how the French language was so poorly taught to disenchanted West Midlands youth at A-level “standard” in late 1980s: I understood about one word in 30, and some of the words I understood had child-like paintings to illustrate them!

Henry is now, hopefully, snoring downstairs in the hallway with the three dogs. He’s on enforced rest tomorrow – bloody wish I was. Up for work at 8am, and we will no doubt roll into bed at 10pm. We’ve already been in touch with Sarah, our new host – she wanted to check to see if we had any food or drink requests as she’s off to the supermarket tomorrow. I like her already. The fact that her son is so looking forward to meeting Henry that he keeps asking how many sleeps until we get there means I’m counting the sleeps, too.

RIP Michael Drain, 1974-2011

We left our Provençal gîte this morning, and felt very sad to say goodbye. We both felt that we’d really started to settle in by the time we left… typical!

On our last day of work, I got to do some gardening – hooray! My hands are now covered in blisters, from hacking weed roots, and grazes from pulling grasses from between paving stones, but I loved it. And the feeling of a completed task and tackling something that has made such a huge and immediate difference has given me back that job satisfaction I felt in all the other places we’ve stayed. Plus, there have been less of us at L’Eau Salée, and I’ve really enjoyed the smaller group around the table at meal times. And now I know everyone better I feel more comfortable and we’ve had a couple of lovely evenings with really interesting and stimulating conversation.

It’s been mostly just Pete, our host, who is such a genuine and generous man; Kathyrn, a lovely lady from Ilkley in Yorkshire; and Tony, a heavily pierced and tattooed sweetheart from Brighton. It’s the people who’ve really given me food-for-thought here. It’s fascinating to see how differently people choose to live their lives. None of them stay in one place for long and work to live, rather than the other way around. Of course, it’s easy when you have plenty of money, as Pete seems to (this is an educated assumption, rather than being based on anything factual) but it still takes guts to live your life the way you want to, i.e. moving around the world as and when it suits you. Tony works as a painter and decorator in the UK and is based near Brighton for three or four months of the year. He lives as frugally as possible during that time and for the rest of the year he lives like a king in Thailand. A nice apartment, daily massages, wonderful fresh food, all the beer and Thai whisky he can drink and lazy days on the beach. Kathryn is a small-scale property developer in the UK. Her last project, a six-bedroom house in an upmarket Yorkshire town, is rented out, while Kathryn spends the foreseeable future travelling around France, Helpxing, enjoying the sunshine and leaving the stresses and strains of everyday life (not to mention the Yorkshire rain!) behind.

It does make you make think. Obviously, not many people are in the position to just get up and go, to head off and explore. Responsibilities abound for most. And while our responsibility, Henry, might be a very large one (quite literally), he doesn’t need much and is the most laid-back dog imaginable. As long as he’s with us, fed and watered, with a few walks and the odd cat to chase, he’s a very happy dog. I’m not saying I could be constantly travelling or completely rootless, but it has given us lots to think about.

Yesterday we took the day off and explored the Côtes du Rhone region, visiting some vineyards, learning about and tasting the wine they grow. We also bought a couple of souvenir bottles (we felt it quite literally would have been rude not to! Or, rather, I did! Lisa was happy to glug a few glasses and then head to the next spittoon!). We also walked around the most wonderful little town of Vaison-la-Romaine. The town is split into two sections: the medieval town and the “new” town, which is “only” several hundred years old. Both were stunning and we wandered around like the tourists that we are, snapping endless photos, drinking cafe au lait, and sampling the perfect croissant and most delicious macaroons imaginable.

I’m writing this, my latest update, sitting in an opulent hotel room in the incredible walled town of Carcasssone (we’re doing a hotel and restaurant review), about to luxuriate in a deep, bubbly bath, wrap myself up in a fluffy robe, do my nails, then dress for dinner. I love this. But do I love it more than sitting around a scrubbed wooden table eating homemade food and drinking local wine after a hard day’s work? You know, I’m genuinely not sure… I’ll let you know. But for now I am really, really looking forward to putting on my heels and heading downstairs for my Michelin-starred feast!

Just as I’m settling in to way of life here at L’Eau Salée, it’s time to start packing up and heading back in a westwards direction. I feel quite sad about it. Not just because I feel that we’re just starting to get to know this wonderful family – Nattaya, the two-year-old is a heart-stealer, but her 16-year-old half-brother Timothy is just as adorable, and so patient with his little sister. And he winds his dad up, Peter, brilliantly. Oh and Ploy. Goodness me, she has been spoiling us with food so delicious that I would have been thankful had I tried it in an expensive restaurant in Bangkok. All this makes the departure all the more difficult.

Henry always knows when it’s time to move on out – as soon as we start messing around with the suitcases, packing strategically for each stop, he gets antsy and unsettled, following me to and from the car as often as is required, regardless of the 35-degree temperature. Occasionally he stations himself in the boot, just to make sure we don’t forget the big lump. As if that were possible.

I think neither Rachel nor I have settled in here. Well, until yesterday. And now we wish were here for another three weeks with Kathryn – another HelpX-er – and the family, so we can really crack on with the jobs that need to be done before July, when the rental tenants move in. A day of gardening and weeding and painting and clearing yesterday got us excited about what we could achieve in just a few hours…

I have no doubt that us not settling in so quickly is something to do with the miles travelled in between here and our last HelpX stint. And that a couple of days in the thrust-and-push pace of Barcelona pulled our thoughts back into city living: What next? When? How? Why? Should we give Spain another try? What to do when we get back to London? Plus, there were phone calls home for me, and postcards and letters written.

But, despite unsettling us, we loved Barcelona. We were swept away by it. I’ve been there many, many times, but I think this is the first time that I’ve felt that it was a place I could live. That beautifully concocted mix of sea, sun, old-school Spanish, people genuinely from the world over, energy, culture, history, modern architecture…

Plus, meeting some great people helped. Despite staying just off the Rambla, we managed to find some great little spots away from the camera-toting throngs (Henry was pleased about this: he was poked, prodded, stroked, stared at, shouted at, screamed about and generally harassed the whole time he was there, the poor little show pony). When we did find the secluded spots, ironically, thanks to the pooch’s presence, we got talking to some great people. One particular couple – a British guy and his Canadian not-girlfriend – kept us up late, talking about moving to Barcelona, why they loved the city, life changes, why we were on our trip, and why they were on theirs. All washed down with G&Ts only the Spanish can mix.

Thanks to writing work, we were reviewing a five-star affair that we’d pre-arranged with a lovely PR lady. Normally, they only take yappy-sized pooches, but had accepted Henry as part of our review deal. As we arrived in the lobby, the people-traffic stopped: to admire, to gawp and to approach. A wonderful moment was had – as the car was sat on double-yellows, or the equivalent thereof – as two American ladies approached us to say hi to Henry. After the usual chit-chat about size, age and weight, one woman looked up to Rachel and said to her: “Are you a survivor, too?” We had no idea what she meant, until I realised she was looking at Rachel’s headscarf (the hair’s getting bristlier and bristlier!). “Radiotherapy or chemo?” she asked, in a way only Americans have the balls to ask. Before Rachel had chance to answer, she told us that she, too, is a survivor: she had breast cancer five years ago, and this European trip was a gift to herself to celebrate five years after the event. Rachel then told her about her radiotherapy, and instead of being terribly British about the whole thing, we were genuinely touched by the exchange. We promised to all raise glasses to each other that evening – a “cheers” for hope, for living, for adventure. She left us with smiles on our faces. Survivors, indeed. (My rendition of Destiny’s Child’s “I’m A Survivor” in the lift on the way to our suite will not be mentioned here.)

The foodie highlight of our trip was an interview with Albert Adrià (one of the world’s most renowned pastry chefs and brother of El Bulli owner Ferran – pictured above being grabbed by Rachel, post-dinner!), followed by drinks at his cocktail bar and then dinner at Tickets, his and Ferran’s new restaurant venture. We were blown away (proper, full-on, foodie review to come soon), exhilarated, amused, in love, won over and delighted.

It’s be a long, long, long time since we’ve had such a meal: clever, original food using the highest quality, carefully-sourced ingredients to create truly imaginative food. We were smitten. And a bit drunk. And had our cocktails bought for us by Albert, no bloody less! Giddy as schoolgirls, we headed back on the super-efficient, super-clean subway to be greeted at our hotel room, in the super-future Poble Nou district, to be greeted by a grumpy pup.

What a night! That, followed by a seven-hour-plus drive to a sleepy village in Hautes-Provence – no wonder we were shell-shocked!

• RIP Michael Drain, 1974-2011. Love & best wishes to your family. You’re in my thoughts tonight, friend.

I’m in our little gîte this afternoon, which is welcome respite from the 34-degree heat and unrelenting sunshine outside (no, I’m not complaining, but it is pretty tough painting sticky Hammerite on a shadeless trelliss). Lisa, bless her, is still out there slaving away. I’m not just on a jolly in here, though: I have been volunteered to cook supper tonight, so I’m prepping for a big roast lamb dinner for the team of HelpX-ers and our host family.

It’s beautiful here at the typically Provençal farmhouse that is our home for the next week. Very different in so many ways to the places that we’ve been so far. For some reason we feel a little less relaxed here and though we’ve found the work here harder going, there are plenty of upsides. We are part of a constant stream of Helpexers, which on the one hand is great as we’re meeting lots of people, but it does make for a very different atmosphere and you definitely don’t get the chance to bond as well with your hosts. Englishman Peter and his Thai wife Ploy, are an unusual couple in these parts (most ex-pats apparently favour the more Western reaches of the region). Peter has three children by his previous wife (he is a widower), two of whom are away at university and Timothy, who is 16 and still at home. He is a sweetheart and he and his two-year-old half-sister, Nattaya, adore each other. So cute. The family spend half the year, or so, in Thailand and the rest split between this place and an apartment in the Alps, where their champion skier daughter is based (she was once the UK’s number one downhill skier). Ploy cooks the most wonderful Thai feasts for us all every lunch and dinner so meals are a real highlight. Peter has been really ill with a chest infection since we’ve been here, the poor thing, so we’ve had even less chance to get to know him. Hopefully that will change over our last few days.

Back to the roast dinner, which is well and truly underway: the vegetables are peeled, the stock is bubbling away and the Yorkshire pudding batter is mixed. Despite working at our pub as a chef for two years, plus various sorts of training prior to that, I do not consider myself a chef. I am a cook. And I like to think a pretty good one, but just a cook nevertheless. So when one of our well-meaning co-workers told everyone at dinner last night that I was indeed a chef and a yelp of delight emitted from our host, declaring that she could have a night off cooking, I could hardly say no, could I? But I’ve been nervous about it all day. It’s the fact that I don’t know the oven or have the equipment or store cupboard I’m used to. Plus the added pressure of everyone thinking I’m a “chef”. The decision that we would have a roast was unanimous and the boys are very excited about the idea of Yorkshire puddings (regardless of the fact that we’re eating lamb rather than beef). So after an initial (and very cheffy!) tantrum, where I basically told Lisa that the world was going to end because I didn’t have fresh lamb bones for my stock, I’m now on track with dinner à dix. I was presented with a ready-butchered half-lamb and I’m doing it three ways: roasting the leg, confiting the breast (with the bones removed for the aforementioned stock) and grilling the chops. Rather than the roasting potatoes I was expecting, I’ve been given the most wonderful looking new potatoes. It seems sacrilegious to roast them, but I don’t think I’d be very popular with the Brits if I served up a roast without roasties, so I’m doing half with butter and mint and the other half roasted with garlic and rosemary. I will report back on yumminess factor and how it all went down with the multi-national group.

So, here we are in a comfy little annex in a 100-year-old stone farmhouse with blue shutters and surrounded by lush greenery and endless blue skies.  Our work here so far has involved just painting railings and pergolas with Hammerite. It’s fine, but fiddly and really messy work and I’m dying to get my hands on the flowerbeds! We have had a bit of time to lie by the pool and wander around the beautiful expanse of wild gardens, and one afternoon spent in the local village. Malaucène is so wonderfully and typically French with its excellent butcher, boulangerie, grocers selling locally-grown veg, fruit and farm-made cheeses, plus a little supermarket stocked with French essentials, like foie gras and tins of snails and fresh produce to rival that of the Whole Foods Market! But mostly we’ve been working. The five hours here have seemed much longer – mainly because of this heat. It’s unseasonably hot (typical end of July temperatures) but there’s a wonderful, though still freezing, pool that has provided welcome relief from the beating sun.

Tomorrow we’re taking the morning off to visit the local market, then back to the grindstone – laying pipes for solar heating for the pool and more painting. So far, our time here has, on various levels, given me much to think about – more on these potentially life-changing thoughts in my next update. But now I must concentrate on getting my confit crisp, my gravy gorgeous and my potatoes perfect.

Despite the last week not really being hectic (it’s all relative), it’s felt that way. We’ve gone from the mountain idyll of Finca La Morama, just north of Velez-Málaga, finishing the week off there with a superlative lunch with Rachel’s parents, who drove for over two hours each way (on some pretty damn scary mountain roads, that only the Spanish dare construct), to being in Provence.

In between those two locations, we’ve taken in Alicante (meh – although we did stay at the horrid end near the airport and had trouble finding anywhere to eat, due to it being a Monday; the area near the Marina looked lovely), Valencia (scary, frustrating driving again in this city – I’d forgotten about its six-lane roundabouts and own interpretation of the rules of the road), Sitges (a quick break for refreshments – such a lovely spot), Barcelona (with some rather fabulous five-star-ness and a meal that we will never forget) and now France (after a very long, arduous drive on the hideous A9 motorway – with a pit-stop at an amazing fortified chateau and a piss-stop in one of France’s vile stand-up loos – and we had to pay for the pleasure thanks to France’s obsession with tolls).

We promise to get back on track this week with postings, as Barcelona’s mention is already long overdue – we had such a special, wonderful time there. Only two nights, but it made me realise that I could quite happily live there – thanks to its heady mix of Spanish life, culture from all over the world, proximity to the sea, its wonderful climate, its gritty and grimy streets, and its vibrancy. We randomly met some great people, ate some amazing food, Henry had his first five-star experience, we were stopped and harrassed and talked to and shouted at thanks to his furry presence, and we basked in the sunshine and modern architecture. Sometimes – just sometimes – you’ve got to get out there and experience the stuff that you can come home and write about (eventually).

So, greetings from a very warm and very beautiful Provence. Henry is in love with a mastiff called Chloe, we’re in love with Ploy’s Thai cooking (which we’re eating twice a day) and the glorious weather is making even the most fiddly and messy painting jobs rather pleasant! Plus, we’re in the Côtes du Rhone region, and are surrounded by vineyards. How bloody super!