My Last Day in La Bourboule

It is always the same, on my last day, when I am super busy, the weather is great and I decide to take a long walk, usually up the mountain.  Thus it was today.  Georgeous sunshine, and beautiful blue sky – one day I will figure out how to have a polarising filter effect on my camera and have truly great photos!  It is very frustrating, because my sunglasses make colours so rich and saturated, and then I look at my photos and everything looks washed out.

Anyway, I took to the road and walked basically for six hours.  Oh my aching feet, not to mention thighs and other assorted muscle groups.  But it really was a great day.  I deposited three rolls of toilet paper in the toilet of the Glider Shack – having waited until the fifty or so bikers has disappeared from view, I don’t want them to discover the toilet and muscle in on my laboriously transported paper – and scaled the heights of la Banne, taking photos as I went along.  I even climbed under the Antenna to try a few shots, thus adding an interesting new angle to my repertoire.

Barely home I had to go to Le Galapagos, because I had promised to come by for a last supper (as it were).  Not only did they insist on letting me have a free meal, they also poured alcohol down my throat until I was a bit tight (well it doesn’t take much, especially at the end of an epic hike).  They only let me leave early when I promised to have a coffee tomorrow before my Autocar leaves.  Wonderful people, a real home from home! 

For this post I am trying out how many photos I can incorporate, the number seems to have increased recently (might it be my new camera?  Then I must do a bit more house cleaning and prepare myself emotionally for life away from the Auvergne.  Because, to quote my newly favourite film, “C’est chouette, La Bourboule!”

Fog, Coins, and a Haunted House

Today I had planned to scale one of the many mountains around La Bourboule, but alas the weather was still inclement.  Foggy and overcast, with occasional intervals of sunshine.  These intervals are actually quite annoying, because every time they occur I think, aha, finally the weather has improved, and put on my boots and jacket ready to go hiking.  But ten minutes later we are back to dark and gloomy, and I return home.

What is one to do on a day like that?  Hunt for coins, of course!  After lunch I spent an hour in the backstreets searching every nook and crevice, to no avail.  La Bourboule is difficult terrain for coin collectors like me.  Usually, no matter how long or short my holiday is, I find exactly one coin – usually a 2 cent copper.  Last year I almost despaired, but on the last day I found a 5 cent piece under one of the tables at Les Galapagos – phew!  I do hate to break a long standing habit.

This year, however, La Bourboule has been extremely generous to me.  I found six coins!!!!  Two 2s, one 5, and three 1s.  Unheard of!  The La Bourboulians are very thrifty and keep their coins safely in purses, not just loose in their pockets, and therefore rarely lose any of them.  But this is obviously my lucky year!

Often while searching for coins one encounters suspicious individuals, who enquire about one’s peculiar behaviour.  “What are you doing, have you lost anything?”  “I am looking for coins,” I reply.  An uncomprehending stare is the usual response.  “Comme Onc’ Picsou” (like Uncle Scrooge) I add, helpfully.  Then their faces light up, they smile approvingly and sometimes even pat me on the back.  “Well done,” they say, and often enquire about my takings.  Last week I found a 5 and a 2 cent piece within ten minutes, and upon hearing of this haul an old man suggested I go and invest the money in the casino (La Bourboule actually has one, though it has seen better days).  “Oh no,” I replied, “I need this for my money-bin!”  He smiled indulgently.  Yes, the people of La Bourboule understand me and my ways.

Today, though not finding any coins, I did discover the Haunted House!  Well, I don’t know whether it actually is haunted, but it jolly well should be, because it has been completely overtaken by some extremely ambitious vegetation and must be pitch-black inside.  It would take a machete just to get to the mailbox!  Despite this overgrowth it does seem to be inhabited, some of the greenery gets trimmed back occasionally.

Afterwards I bought a piece of cake for my Afternoon Tea, and returned home for a nice long indulgent perusal of The Economist while having my tea (no paper today, since the Press is on strike).  Seeing as the weather is so disagreeable I might as well enjoy my light and airy apartment while I can.  Tomorrow is the last day of my holiday, and then it’s back to the grindstones for me!

Just now as I was typing this I had a bit of a shock – Bomb Alarm!!!!  There is a siren somewhere around town which seems to be tested every Tuesday at lunch time, but today is Thursday and it happened at 17:05!  The alarm went on and on, I looked out of the window and no one was outside – all headed for the bunkers, obviously.  I grabbed my purse and a packet of tissues (still got that cold) and raced down the stairs (one is not supposed to use the elevators in emergencies, of course) to the reception.  Several people were checking their e-mails, looking supremely unconcerned.  So I asked the receptionist whether we shouldn’t evacuate the building?  Oh no, she said, there is a fire somewhere, it does not concern us.  No enemy attack? I asked, just to make sure.  Not as far as I know, I hope not, she replied.  Oh well.  It sounded like a bomb alarm to me.  We used to have drills for them when I was a child.  We were supposed to hide under the desks, not sure how that would have been helpful.  But our school didn’t have a bunker.  Upon reflection, I am not sure who would want to bomb La Bourboule.  I wonder whether there even is a bunker?

The City Hall of La Bourboule

Despite having less than 2,000 inhabitants, La Bourboule has any number of beautiful buildings of the type more generally seen in large towns.  The weather has been rainy ad overcast again, and to show sympathy my body revived its cold, so I have been staying indoors much of today and yesterday.  It is bound to be good for my French – I have watched the DVD Cleopatra in French over six times already, and at four hours a sitting that must have made an impact.

Nevertheless I got a bit stir-crazy this afternoon, and went for a short meander.  First I visited the Mairie (City Hall).  I have fond memories of it ever since I managed to convince the Major to let me sponsor the bench up La Roche des Fees, and shall never forget their last objection to my scheme (after numerous others raised during my six month campaign had been laboriously resolved), “But if you buy this bench for your friend, where will everyone else sit?”  This sums up La Bourboule perfectly for me, so charmingly old fashioned and otherworldly one hates to disturb their repose and is tempted to tiptoe away quietly without having achieved one’s designs.

Architecturally I am most fascinated by the staircase barristers, painted a beautiful fire-engine red.  Since it was quite dark inside, my camera kept flashing, which changes colours dramatically.  But when I changed the setting to ‘Night’ I got colours much closer to the originals.  Just behind the entrance there are all sorts of stone arches which serve no discernable purpose except being photographed, so that’s what I did.

Having thus exhausted my camera’s batteries, I dripped over to Pascal’s Delicatessen Wonderland to buy my leaving presents for the hotel and themes.  I figured I’d do it today, if the weather improves I might need my remaining two days going up various mountains and what not.  Pascal has a special offer, if you buy half a ham you get a free sausage thrown in, but I am to lazy to carry a ham half way across Europe – maybe I’ll order one for Christmas?  Just three more months!

Tele-cabining up the Mountain

Feeling much improved today, I went for a little walk in Parc Fenestre to admire its many attractions.  As usual mini-golf, kiddie-train, and climbing-jungle were out of commission, it being the off season, but the Tele-cabins were working.

The Tele-cabins are a sort of ski-lift, I imagine – I have never actually been in a ski-lift.  Picture a strong metal rope suspended between two large towers, one tower being on top of the mountain and one at the bottom.  Suspended from the rope are six small cabins, which go up and down the mountain in regular intervals.

The towers can be seen from anywhere in la Bourboule, and are quite ancient – even my old prints from the town from around WWI show them.  Usually when I am here the Tele-cabins don’t seem to be in operation, again it is that seasonal aspect to the la Bourboulian attractions that continue to confound me.  Occasionally I would go to Parc Fenestre and walk past the Tele-cabin harbour? port? and sigh in disappointment that they din’t seem to be working any more.

But today I noticed the six little cabins actually going up the mountain, and was suddenly filled with a great desire to ride in them myself.  I anxiously checked my money supplies, wondering whether I was rich enough to pay for such an extravagance – Euro 26,98 was all I had.  A trip to the bank was perhaps indicated.  But first I would check prices and departure times.

I was pleasantly surprised!  For the paltry sum of Euro 3,85 I could go up the mountain and return as well!  I rushed to the ticket office to enquire when the next cabins were due to leave.  Five minutes!  I was clearly in luck.  Actually, later I found out that these cabins leave every five or ten minutes, between 930 and 12 in the morning and 13:45 and 17:15 in the afternoon, every day except Mondays.  And they stop going altogether as of end September.

Clutching my ticket I impatiently waited at the end of the queue.  Since I was the last passenger, I got a cabin all to myself, so had no unwelcome witnesses for my uncontrolled excitement as we went up the steep mountain.  Once again I blessed my lucky stars for being in possession of a camera and snapped away in ecstasy as we ascended.  Leaving behind la Bourboule, Glider Mountain, which is opposite Tele-cabin Mountain, loomed ever larger into view, and I could see numerous little glints from the cars that were parked in the little parking lot at its feet.

The only fly in the ointment of my bliss was the atmosphere, which was a little murky and had a bleaching effect on my photos.  The journey only lasted about five minutes, and too soon for my rupture to wear off we had arrived at Tele-cabin Port 2, on the plateau of Charlannes.

It is a popular sight seeing spot, and there is a café as well as a hotel (whether still in use I am uncertain).  I had been there before, but usually I walk.  Tele-cabin Mountain is covered in woods, with lots of nice little clearings thrown in, perfect for hiking.  Today I wore my fancy shoes, and a dress and a lilac hat – the latter much remarked upon by all and sundry! – so was clearly not in a good position to go hiking.  But now that I know how the tele-cabin set up works I shall become a frequent utiliser!  Tomorrow of course is Monday, so nothing dong, but after that I shall ascend the mountain daily and explore the vastness of Charlannes!  I do hope I spelled that right ….

Mirror Mirror on the Wall …

Is this going to work?

I am afraid I can’t spare you, I have once again experimented with my new camera and self portraits.  I have learned this morning that the way to take pictures of myself is to use the night scene setting, rather than the portrait option.  The portrait option invariably uses a flash, which results in all sorts of exciting light effects which obliterate my image – interestingly enough in its way, but not quite my intention.

The other thing I noticed is that my face always looks somehow rounder, less long, than in real life, no doubt a result of having to hold the camera at an angle – if I hold it straight I get a photo of the camera superimposed on my face, which is again interesting as a one off but not really my intended effect.  Somehow I don’t think I will ever really be sold on these portrait shots in a mirror ….

With glasses ...

... and without

My cold still has a toehold on me, but I am off medication and hope to be able to go swimming again soon – got to use up those 8 hours still on my multi ticket!  About half of my fellow curistes and a third of the staff of Les Galapagos have also managed to catch a cold, whether from me or elsewhere is uncertain.  Everyone blames the weird weather – one day it is almost freezing and I have to buy a turtleneck, the next we are over 30C and I am watching Cleopatra in my underwear.  Dash dash dash, is all one can say about this.

I love the way my glasses glitter in concert with my earrings - very fetching, eh?

Amazingly, the Spiegel has arrived today at Remys.  I am reading German, English, and French publications all at once.  You might think this is confusing, but it is really necessary.  I noticed that if I focus on only one language I get the other two wrong – for example, I have to be careful not to spell English words the French way, like ‘courate’ instead of ‘curate’.  I just can’t afford to screw up my English just to learn French – the idea is to add another language to my brain, not to replace one.  But I do feel that all my slapdash half-hearted intermittent – I mean incredibly hard work! is finally paying of.  The natives understand me much better, and I understand them as well, even the occasional joke.  Still a long way to go, mind – Radio France Inter is still pretty incomprehensible to me, they talk too fast and never repeat themselves.  Why can’t they talk with subtitles, like they do in the movies?

The Streetlights of La Bourboule

One of the most attractive aspects of La Bourboule is their Make do & Mend attitude.  This can be seen when observing the architecture of the town, particularly the street furniture.  The afore mentioned bench, for example, is the same one depicted on postcards from before WWI, just periodically painted and refurbished.  The balustrades that grace the river’s edge have been patched and replaced as and when necessary, with whatever stone in whichever form was available (cheaply, one assumes).  This thrifty approach – much appreciated by yours truly, who has so far failed to emulate her great hero and role model, Scrooge McDuck but always admires others who are more successful in this – is also evidenced by the street lamps that are scattered throughout the centre of town.

Originally they were all matching, of course.  La Bourboule looks as though it was built pretty much in one go, between the late 19^th century, when the Cure became all the rage and the healing springs had become more widely known, and the 1930s.  As a result the town has a pleasingly unified look.  It lacks most of the modern concrete accoutrements that augment most other old city centres.  Much of this has to do with lack of funds – by the time other towns embarked on a wholesale slash & burn assault on their existing buildings in the 1960s and 1970s, la Bourboule had run out of money and had to make do with what they had.

The street lights originally all possessed either three or four domes, each of which looked like a full moon in the darkness.  However, the domes do sometimes break and crack, and appear to be expensive to replace.  Walking around the town I discovered all manner of replacements for these domes.  Sometimes only the colour differs; sometimes they are see-through rather than the usual opaque.  And sometimes the shape is no longer dome-like, but has assumed a lantern-like appearance.

A small town like la Bourboule needs all the attractions it can get, and for me this departure from boring standard street lamps to a more varied and ingenious street architecture has increased the old fashioned and discrete charm of this little place enormously.  La Bourboule is cool!

A Flea Market in La Bourboule



A flea market has come to la Bourboule!  I always get terribly excited about them, together with thrift shops they provide my favourite shopping experience.  So as soon I had finished the Cure yesterday I mingled with the crowds to have a quick gander at the offerings.

There is usually not much going on around here, so just about everybody descended upon the market for some cheap entertainment, if not to say buying opportunities.  I didn’t see anyone actually buy anything, but no doubt purchases occurred.  Prices are a bit steep, especially considering we are in the deepest countryside – very similar to Oxford, in fact.



First off I looked for scarves, but there weren’t any.  This is doubly regrettable, because (a) I lost my pashmina at the Grands Thermes yesterday (stolen! proclaimed the matron, but I still have hopes that it will be returned by an honest finder), and (b) I stupidly agreed to a challenge by R that I would not buy any Hermes scarves until November, excepting only those I might come across at a flea market at an incredibly low price (K’s challenge is to lose a stone in body weight – wonder whether she will be as successful as me?).  Since I did not find any scarves at the market, I ended up buying a shawl in a boutique – it gets quite nippy in the evenings and early mornings, and without a warm shawl one easily gets cold.  

Having not found any scarves, I looked at the rest of the offerings.  The linen sheets were reasonably priced and of a good quality, but since I already have a life-time’s supply of them and they are heavy to transport I resisted.  While taking photos I fell into the hands of a very persuasive dealer who tried to sell me the statue of a naked woman, not my favourite subject matter (why is it always women who are naked?) and anyway how would I transport her home?  He kept reducing the price, and offered to ship her to London, and told me about amazing reviews in English speaking magazines of his store, but I sought refuge in my inability to understand French and eventually managed to disentangle myself.



I think in France I have the look of a sucker about myself, a charmingly helpless female who can be easily exploited and taken advantage of, probably because of my lack of language skills.  Several people have found out to their cost that I am not as easy as I look, including the old man who used to work at Les Galapagos and tried to chat me up last year – I felt quite insulted, what made him think I could possibly be interested in someone like him?  Duh!



In the end I bought five DVDs for E20, all brand new but probably unpopular, given the price, and spent the rest of the day watching them.  My cold is still going strong, and watching Cleopatra for four hours was just about all I was good for that day.  Mind you, I watched it in French, with English subtitles, so hopefully learned a few new words.  Tragically I best remember words I have least use for, so Cleopatra will probably turn out to be less educational than Comme un Chef, which has useful terms like ‘Tu Remue Tu remue Tu remue’ – you must stir you must stir you must stir – the soup, in this case.

Live to be 120 in la Bourboule!?!?!?!

I have kept myself to myself yesterday and today, because my mild head cold has meandered down into my throat and taken up residence there, and I don’t want to pass it on to anyone. 

Nevertheless I have not been idle.  Aside from watching my two DVDs over and over again and reading Le Tresor de Picsou (the treasure of Scrooge McDuck) I have kept an eye on the surroundings, courtesy of the three large windows in my apartment.  Yesterday morning I discovered that a large beach umbrella had blown down from the top level veranda of a building opposite mine and fallen into the river, just behind the parking lot.  I checked periodically whether it was still there, and it always was.  Over the course of the day it had migrated slowly down the river, until it got stuck near the little bridge.

Finally this morning after I returned from the Cure I decided I could watch this no longer, and went into he parking lot to inspect the situation from close up.  The umbrella was firmly stuck, and well out of my reach.  At home of course I would have fetched a walking stick and retrieved the umbrella with its crock – terribly useful things, walking sticks! – but in la Bourboule I have no access t such implements.  Besides I have a cold and am I supposed to meddle in these affairs anyway? 

I went to talk to one of the helpful ladies at the reception and explained the situation.  Please note that thanks to my Hermes scarf L’Ombrelle Magique I know the difference between an ombrelle (against sunshine) and paraplue (against rain), so was able to describe the situation accurately – had I proclaimed that an umbrella (against rain) had fallen into the river no doubt the reaction would have been a gallic shrug.  But a huge umbrella blown down from a terrace, now that was a different matter!  The helpful lady and I went straight to the river, she observed the situation and took notes, concluded that the umbrella – she called it a parasol, yet another word for umbrella – belonged to the owners of house XYZ, and returned to her desk to make a few telephone calls, not before thanking me profusely and repeatedly for being so gentil (nice).  Just proves one can be useful, even by just looking out of the window!

But now I have to share with you my outrage about a little pamphlet which was pressed into my palm this morning during the Cure by a young man.  The pamphlet invited every curiste to come to a talk about the healing powers of the water in la Bourboule.  OK, fair enough.  But half way down the leaflet I saw the following statement:

‘Dans les montagnes du nord Pakistan, les Hunzas vivent frequemment en pleine sante jusqu’a 120 ans, l’eau qu’ils boivent a des proprietes particulieres.’

Sapperlipopette, as Professor Tournesol (Cuthbert Calculus) would have said.  Leaving aside the question what this ‘fact’ is doing in a leaflet about the healing waters of la Bourboule – the insinuation is obviously that its waters have similar longevitious properties, which is ludicrously easy to rebut since the people who live here do not frequently live beyond 120 years of age – surely one can expect anyone expert enough to give a public talk on the matter (and charge Euro 5 for listening to it) to check their facts before making such an astonishing statement?

A few years ago I read up on various studies relating to human longevity.  Curiously enough, in all cases where large segments of a population claim to be excessively old, birth registration records are either non-existent or patchy, and old people are highly venerated.

An interesting case is the famed centenarians of the Caucasus.  Although the inhabitants do indeed live to a ripe old age, documented cases of above age 90 are rare.  However, there is a tradition of naming children after their grandparents.  During the Stalin area any number of Caucasian males tried to get out of military service by using their grandfather’s identity papers, thus increasing their age by 40 odd years at a stroke.  About twenty years ago – google for the details, it’s all out there – a researcher into old age looked into the Caucasian old age claims, and discovered this interesting little bit of history.  He had hoped to prove that it was the yoghurt that did it …….

Undeterred, he went on to see the Hunzas, whose claim to old age were their apricots.  They also live in inaccessible mountain regions and honour the aged, the more aged the greater the honouring.  He had read about the Hunzas in the research papers of a fellow scientist, who had visited them ten years previously, and decided to visit the individuals who had been interviewed by his colleague ten years earlier.  To his great surprise, an individual who had claimed to be aged 80 ten years ago now claimed to be 102 – she had managed to age 22 years in the span of ten years!  This story was repeated over and over again – individuals routinely added a decade or two to their previously reported age.

What can we conclude from this?  If old age is rewarded and difficult to verify, people lie themselves older.  If additionally it sells apricots, so much the better!  If living in inaccessible mountains with pure air and water made one live longer, the people of la Bourboule would all live to be a hundred – but they don’t.  Ditto for yoghurt, apricots, goji berries, etc etc.

La Bourboule and the Cure are great for asthma and other respiratory diseases, as well as various skin conditions etc – why undermine a hard won reputation with ridiculous claims for longevity?

If my French wasn’t so iffy I would go to this talk and heckle!

Les Iles Britanniques …..

….. is the name of the hotel where I am staying.  I am not sure one can call it a hotel, there is neither room service nor cleaning staff who turf you out after ten and turn your room upside down.  LIB rent out apartments, very light and airy and warm, with a kitchen and bathroom included. 

The walls are half a meter thick, and very well insulated.  Even in the middle of winter the inside is quite toasty.  The best part for me is all the windows.  My house back home is quite dark, and having three windows in one room really is the height of luxury for me.  Even on an overcast day my room is flooded with light.  A perfect place for someone with depression, I should think.

Indeed, when I feel a bit low la Bourboule often springs to mind.  Plenty of sunshine, clean air and water, peace and quiet, long walks in the woods, and of course excellent food at Les Galapagos, never fail to comfort and hearten me, even if only in memory.

The fair is still going strong just across the road and river, but the windows are double glazed and I don’t hear too much of the noise.  I am drinking tea and reading Picsou and am fiddling with my squiggly toy Zebediah Allnixguts.  He has lost both eyes by now but is otherwise standing up well to my repeated squishing and pulling and kneading – you know, the kind of thing one does to that sort of toy.

I did some laundry today.  The hotel bought new clothes dryers, and it took considerable skill to assemble this one.  It’s a good thing I am so smart, otherwise I might still be struggling!

Last night I took a few low light photos with my new camera, just to try it out.  One out of each window.  The last one is with the zoom fully extended – I think it looks quite good!

The top one is of the hotel itself, taken from the Fairy Rock where my bench stands.  It is in good nick, although several delinquents have carved their names into it.  Oh well, one must expect these things.  You can spot my room at the back of the building, on the third floor, just behind the tall fir tree.  I can see my bench from one of the windows!