Last night we travelled 20 km, crossed a linguistic border, laughed our way through an English pantomime in the middle of French vineyards… and discovered what might be the only truly undrinkable wine in the region. A full house, forgotten lines, expat theatrics, genuine charm, and one tragic glass at the bar — click in for Dick Whittington, amateur brilliance, and the evening’s real drama. 🍷🎭
Cold mornings, the smell of sizzling bacon, a steaming cup of tea, and fighter jets roaring overhead—welcome to my little sanctuary at the Lakenheath lay-by. A quirky roadside stop in the UK that became the heart of my northbound trips, where mundane drives turned into unforgettable memories. Click through to relive the sights, sounds, and surprises of the road less ordinary.
Les matins froids, l’odeur du bacon qui grésille, une tasse de thé fumante et des avions de chasse rugissant au-dessus de la tête : bienvenue dans mon petit sanctuaire sur l’aire de Lakenheath. Un arrêt routier un peu à part au Royaume-Uni, devenu le cœur de mes voyages vers le nord, où des trajets banals se transformaient en souvenirs inoubliables. Cliquez pour revivre les images, les sons et les surprises de la route la moins ordinaire.
🚴♀️ Carcassonne sans pistes cyclables, c’est un frein à la liberté. Après 25 ans à Hanovre, je témoigne : notre ville peut et doit offrir un réseau sûr et ambitieux. Découvrez mon appel aux élus et à CarcaVélo…
Nearly a month ago, I boldly declared that I was finally taking my book project seriously. And to be fair, I’ve almost kept my promise of writing one page a day — except for the last three days, when Christmas festivities, mulled wine, and repeated “essential” visits to the Christmas market conspired against my productivity. My home office has therefore seen more dust than inspiration lately. Still, progress is progress: I now have a title, and even a simple cover design to prove I’m not just talking about it. With a bit of luck (and fewer festive distractions), I should find both time and creativity in the week ahead.
What happens when a quiet Sunday turns into a rescue mission involving a leaky vinegar barrel, a heroic ladle, a pot of jam, and a venerated vinegar “mother”? Dive into my latest domestic saga — proof that even a tiny drop can trigger a full-blown kitchen adventure…
December kicked off with a bruised rib, nightly pilgrimages to the Christmas market, enough mulled wine to forget the pain, and one unforgettable cassoulet eaten under the bittersweet news that my favourite restaurant is soon closing. If you enjoy laughter-through-the-winces, delicious detours, and slices of real life in Occitanie, dive in — this week’s tale is worth the click.
Every year in early December, our quiet corner of Occitanie suddenly fills with Spanish laughter, overflowing shopping carts, and enough Catalan energy to power Carcassonne’s Christmas lights — all thanks to a holiday most French people forget exists. Why exactly do our Iberian neighbours invade (lovingly) the region on December 6th?
Paris has just been crowned the world’s best city for the fifth year in a row — but of course! — while London politely shuffles backward in the rankings. With a dose of French pride, a few well-aimed jabs, and a quick world tour of rising destinations, I break it all down with humour (and a glass of rosé in hand).
Click in — it’s worth the trip!
How I Accidentally Became a 3 A.M. Addict to French Cinema — and Recovered Four Lost Decades in the Dark. Read more…
After 44 years abroad, I’m rediscovering a France I completely missed — especially its music. Iconic bands I never heard of, hits everyone knows except me, and weekly surprises as I catch up on four lost decades. It’s like being a tourist in my own country… and I’m loving every minute. Click in and join the ride.
