Fed up with tights and jeans

You might have noticed in all my photos that I am wearing tights, and Colin is wearing jeans tucked into his socks, even in 35 degree Celsius heat.  These are not Canadian (or French) fashion statements.  These are due to the threat of ticks. 

If you have not seen a tick in action, consider yourself lucky.  It is one of the most shocking and disgusting things I have ever seen.  Our dog, Rory, recently had his first and only tick, that he picked up while hiking with us on Vancouver Island.  Luckily, he had already had his shots for Lyme Disease, and a quick trip to the vet removed the tick.  While Rory went on with his day like nothing had ever happened, Colin and I kept checking and re-checking our own bodies for days, unable to rid ourselves of the visual of the tick's head burrowed into Rory's neck, its little legs pinned backwards beside its bulbous body, wiggling and wiggling.  Ugh!   I know you now want to google-image it.  Don't!  It's very disturbing.  Here, think of cute healthy Rory instead!!   

(Quit it!  I said don't google-image it!!!  Ok, I know some of you will still do it, but don't say I didn't warn you!) 

Anyway, the day we arrived at the gite, we were greeted by this very very sweet and friendly cat, who wanted nothing more than to play with me and snuggle on my lap. 

The first time I petted her, I noticed the tell-tale scars from ticks on her neck. The exact same kind of distinctive scar that Rory had after his tick encounter. Fortunately for both of us, it seemed that no live ticks were currently eating her, but it alerted me to the fact that ticks are thriving in this area.  This was confirmed later by our host Alban, who warned us that the cat kept getting ticks, despite his efforts to use the proper drops and collars (as you can see in the photo, the cat has yet again ditched her collar... "It's SOOOO last year"). 

Since ticks are commonly found on necks, heads, and in armpits, most people think that ticks live in trees and drop down on their unsuspecting victims.  So they put on a hat when in the woods, and feel safe.  However, ticks actually usually live among tall grasses, fall onto feet and legs that brush past, then migrate upwards to find more delicate skin to attach to, which is why they end up around the neck and head.  (I already told you, don't google-image it!!  You will have nightmares for days.) 

We certainly do not want any ticks on us.  However, since most of our plans revolve around daily randonnées through rough trails and fields with long grasses, we decided, "better safe than sorry!"  and donned long leggings.  Ticks cannot attach through nylon or denim.  Colin tucks his jeans into his socks so any wayward ticks would be stuck on the outside, unable to climb in.  When we arrive back at the gite each day, we strip our leggings right near the door and toss them directly into the washing machine. Yes, we are taking a lot of showers and doing a lot of laundry!

As you can see, our decision to wear long leggings on our randonnées was all very logical and sensical... perfectly reasonable... until you add in the human factor of wearing long leggings in 35 degree heat.   :p    C'est mortel!!!!!

Word of the day: Mortel / Mortelle

adjective

1.  [poison] deadly;  [dose] lethal  ⇒ un poison mortel a deadly poison

2. [accident, blessure] fatal   ⇒ une chute mortelle a fatal fall

3. [danger, frayeur] mortal

4. (figurative) [ennui] deadly; [soirée] deadly boring

          ⇒ Ces réunions de famille sont mortelles! These family gatherings are deadly boring!

5. (informal)(= excellent) wicked, killer, awesome, intense (inf)  ⇒ Dis dont, elles sont mortelles, tes pompes!  Wow! Those are some killer high heels you are wearing!

After a full week of suffering the heat in jeans, Colin has had it.  He is finally willing to walk on the road to Chamelet, if it means he can wear shorts.  We decide to go for it, and plan a randonnée to lunch at the local Moroccan restaurant, called La Vallée de l'Atlas, and then a short excursion to the Parc des Loisirs beside the train station.

Rue Le Cocon becomes Les Terres, and then Les Blanchines, as it winds down the hill towards Chamelet.  At Les Danières, we pause to admire a group of sheep grazing near the frog pond.  One little lamb is singing counterpoint with a frog: baaaaaaa... crrrrroik  crrrrrroik... baaaaaaa.... crrrrroik crrrrrroik...

Once in town, we take the long staircase, and drop right into Chamelet's main street, Louis Bréchard... better known as Highway D385.  Le restaurant is right there.  

We order the "Menu du Jour," which is a 3 course meal very reasonably priced at 12 Euro.   The little tuna salad appetizer is so tasty, I consider coming back to order that alone as a meal.  Then comes the main course:  Tagine Kefta.  It consists of exotically spiced meatballs with peas, carrots, and onions, all baked in a distinctive triangle-shaped earthenware pot.  I smell cinnamon, cumin, saffron, and other spices I can't identify.  It is truly out of this world!!   They say "a picture is worth a thousand words"... well, the look on Colin's face might say more than I could describe here.    

I devour two of my four meatballs.  If you know that I've been vegetarian for 20 years, you will know that is truly high praise.  Colin eats 5 of his 4 meatballs (one is from my plate).  Dessert is a lovely apple tartine with the best vanilla ice cream I've ever had.  I know my body will probably rebel against all this rich food, including a big pile of meat, but it's all so delicious I decide it is worth it.

As we enjoy our after-meal cafés (with requisite tiny cookie), a family of five walks in, each carrying an empty tagine pot. Yes, the restaurant packs up your to-go order in the original tagine cooking dish, and expects you will return the pot at a later date. No tacky styrofoam containers here--this is France!!!!

Holding our full bellies, we wander over the river L'Azergues to check out the Parc de Loisirs.  We can't figure out what half of the facilities are meant to be used for.  For example, there are several self-contained pens in a row.  We conclude they must be either for bocce ball--known here as pétanque--or child care.  ;)  What we do understand is the garbage can next to the picnic table, completely filled with Kronenbourg bottles.  It appears that at least one park activity is universal, no matter which country you are in.  ;)  

Chamelet also boasts a Pressoir.  It's advertised in big font on our map, convincing us it's worth seeing.  Plus, it's right next to the park, so we go check it out.  Three teenaged girls are lounging in the shade it offers.  A sign offers us a mini-history of Chamelet: "The oldest written records of this strategic stronghold date from the 10th century. The name either means pleasant field or field of honey... Chamelet was under lords who gave allegiance to the Archbishops of Lyon, then the Sires of Beaujeu, before joining the kingdom of France. Because it was fortified... it was the main town of the canton during the Revolution."   What we don't see is any sign telling us what the heck a pressoir is.  Based on the name, and our local region, we guess it's for making wine.  

Hiking back up through town, we realize that the long staircase is not the only available route.  In fact, pretty much anything marked "Montée" or "Éscalier" will get you up to Rue Nationale. We have fun exploring all the different little staircases and ramps. 

We even find a public toilet near the church in the centre of town.  Good to know that is there, for refilling water bottles, or... ahem... other emergencies.  ;)

Leaving the other side of Chamelet, approaching the turn to the walking trail at Les Danières, I suddenly call out to Colin, "Hey LOOK at that!"  There, barely visible in the shadowy recess of the cement electrical pole across the street, is the familiar red and yellow trail flag indicating an immanent left turn.   

Son of a...