What is it with the mass amount of hobos that have gathered outside Les Halles, Pau recently? Sorry to be an awful snob, but it's not like they seem to be having a bad time. There's a massive gang of them that spend every day meeting up and getting plastered together. The equivalent of a Church coffee morning, but with Christians replaced by tramps, and coffee replaced by beer, and Church replaced by the road outside Les Halles. On arrival, I gathered that this lively market spot during the morning cum huge, empty basketball court for the rest of the time acts as the tramps' preferred place of residence. But throughout the term this colony of vagabonds have increased in number from about five to thirty five. Before, walking past the homeless crew simply involved a harmless, drunken demand for a beer. Nowadays, a simply dash to Spar is a terrifying adventure past the hairy, dirty mass of drunkards. I have experienced multiple shouts of abuse, dodged fights and nearly been vomitted on, all before midday and on numerous occasions, when all I wanted was some eggs and milk.

But where have they all come from? And why Pau? Do they perform some kind of opposite technique to hibernation in which they sleep under some bush throughout the summer then crawl out during the downpours of winter to hang out and get hammered in the rain together? Or do they migrate from Northern towns such as Paris and Lille to the South for the winter, to stay where it is warmest? Or is this just another dismal effect of the economic crisis? Were these stinking cavemen once high earning bankers whose drowning of their sorrows after being 'let go' have just gone a bit too far?

Dreadfully sorry, followers. I honestly don't know what happens to my days, weeks and semesters. Yes, semesters. I only have one week remaining in dear old Pau before scootering up to the bright lights of Gay Paris next saturday, to meet my beloved, squeal over the sights and get suitable sozzled over turning 22. Bleurgh. I'm not supposed to tell anyone my age at this point in life, the first sign of turning old, but sod it. I'll be at the top of the Eiffel Tower or similar. Then I'm heading back to London for the night, and to Antigua the following day. Smug, me? Yes, I almost hate myself. You're allowed.





Right, so what have I been up to? I climbed a mountain today, as you do. It was about 800 foot, and it was hard. The first hour I was so out of breath that my stomach was turning, my legs felt like jelly and there was a suspicious booming in my head. Bernard, 'le guide', was ridiculously over-enthusiastic and over-fit, and also over the idea of having any 'petite pauses' whatsoever. We pathetically scrambled up practically vertical slopes through woodland, desperately trying to keep up with him . When we escaped out of the woodland and into the fields things improved a little, mainly thanks to the wonderful views that made it all a bit more worthwhile. But everytime I thought we were at the summet, another summet appeared, and another, and another. And compared to the last hike, where we stayed at the top for an hour or two, sitting in the sun, drinking coffee and admiring the magnificent views, the actual summet was disappointing. It was small and grassy with rabbit poo everywhere. And it was flipping freezing. My cold sweat stuck to my back and turned to ice as the wind blasted it. I miserably ate my pasta, also cold and slimy. But it was all worth it for the descent. It was so much easier to admire the sublime mountainous scenery and lovely little Lord of The Rings-style valley below whilst not gasping for breath and shivering to death. The footing was slightly awkward but it only added a bit of adrenaline. So in the end, I stuck to my belief that I might as well have made the most of my last weekend in Pau. I could go out, get drunk and spend the next day hungover any time in Leeds, and although I nearly didn't manage it here, I couldn't climb a mountain in Leeds. Partly becuase there aren't any at a convenient distance, and partly because I wouldn't have the guts that I do here.

Today is my favourite day of the French week. It commences with a welcomed lie-in after my arduous week in classes (cough), followed by a visit to the market. It’s incredible to see two large, rather grim-looking basketball courts, usually home to the hobos of Pau, transform into the magnificent, buzzing, colourful market that is Les Halles. The place is crammed with local cultivators who furnish the courts with rows and rows of their home-grown, fresh and largely organic fruit, vegetables, cheese, eggs, herbs, meat, honey and milk. Movement is limited by the hoards of animated Pau citizens from every background, who flood here every weekend to stock up on provisions. It really is a wonderful place to do one’s weekly shop, and highlights the horrendous quality, evil mass consumption and utter tedium of Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s and their competitors. Here, farmers don’t need to sell their produce to supermarkets because they have places like Les Halles to go every day of the week (except Sundays). Farmers markets in Britain should be brought back to their grass roots, away from their middle class stigma and be made accessible to all. Who cares if a cauliflower is 100% certified organic if you know that it has been grown within five miles of your home, and in the same way that it has been cultivated for generations?
I have also started buying meat from the butchers, instead of L’Eclerc or Auchun. It is very comforting to see beef mince prepared right in front of your eyes, and to know that it comes straight from the cow without a load of additives added.
To my some wheat allergy-induced excitement, I later found a little independent shop which Cecile recommended with a huge gluten-free section, and stocked up on bread, rice cakes and, most exciting of all, lasagne sheets! I haven’t eaten lasagne for about a year. The kind gentleman behind the counter also gave me some gluten free biscuits to try and to report back to him about, as he was wondering whether to stock up on them (they ended up being decidedly too crunchy). I’m hoping that I will be used as a gluten-free guinea pig for new products on a regular basis.
On my return, I made a pumpkin and carrot potage with my newly-purchased vegetables, and listened to some French radio. Much of it did not go understood, but I did appreciate the thrilling combination of music all within about twenty minutes: of a rap against the government, Edith Piaf, a classical choral composition and the French translation of ‘Hey Mr Tambourine Man’ all within around twenty minutes.
I’m definitely starting to understand why the rate of obesity is half and heart-disease related deaths a third of ours in Blighty. The French eat food straight from its source, whether it is the earth or the animal. Barely anything is added in between, apart from a few herbs and spices to bring out the flavour. And they eat a good portion of this food three times a day, without fatty snacks between meals. Alors, bon appetite.

Education Education Education...... and some other updates.

It's been a while since I've posted now, and I'm sorry if I have disappointed my vast followers. Three! The excitement that prevailed at seeing this was overwhelming, thank you, loyal friends... But thanks also to those who have not yet declared themselves 'followers' but have also complimeted my blog. Please blame tardy updates on my limited access to internet, not my enthusiasm. At present I am currently battling with a rather confusing French keyboard in university. Numbers are replaced by punctuation, and full stops by semi-colons. I would have thought that even in French full stops are used more than semi-hyphens, but there you go; another French oddity to add to the list.

I started at The University of Pau et Pays d'Adour one week ago. Like all courses in French Universities the hours spent in class exceed my ten hours a week contact time in Leeds by a long way. This underlines the question asked by so many British students: Where the hell do our three thousand pounds a year actually go? French students pay a third of what we do and get triple the amount of contact time in small groups, with enthusiastic and knowledgable teachers. In England we get the equivalent of this three hours a week, while the rest are spent in enormous lecture theatres amongst a crowd exceeding two hundred, while a mediocre 'Doctor' drones on about 'sexual connotations' for an hour. In my French lectures, the lecturer barely even speaks in French! Despite the sense that I'm feeling slightly like I am back in school, I feel I will progress a lot more in University in France than I have in my two years at Leeds. Another thing that's better about France than England. Hurrumph.

It's also worth mentionning that it's ever so fascinating learning a language. Although the University does seem to be rather good at teaching French, I definitely believe that the majority of my language learning will be outside of the classroom. I've always thought of learning a language like putting together a puzzle. In primary school you gather the most basic, big peices, like alphabet and numbers. Later on you learn some vocabulary, some verbs and eventually some tenses. In college and at Leeds I have been perfecting my knowledge of these and putting the puzzle together. But the 'glue' will be speaking and listening to Cecile and my other French friends all the time, so that I eventually, fingers crossed, become fluent.

Talking of French friends, I've now become firm friends with the rather eccentric gay couple downstairs, Seb and Juan. It all started when I couldn't get my internet to work. Cecile mentionned that the guy downstairs was a bit of a computer whizz, so I turned up at the door, laptop in hand and a distraught look on my face at the idea of no facebook for the year. At 6ft 5, Seb is rather intimidating to have answer the door to you for the first time. He assertively grabbed my laptop and got to work without complaint for about half an hour, eventually and ingeniously starting up the little symbol with two computers and a world in the middle (yes, that is the extent of my computer knowledge). All the time he was tapping away, I played with the very cute black and white cat and chatted to Juan, who is very friendly and sweet. I went home happy, thinking what a nice fellow to help me with my computer. Alas, the internet failed to work again a few days later. I traipsed back round to Seb and Juan's. And a few days later. I've now given up hope with the internet, but I've made some great friends out of its failure . Liam came to visit me this weekend, which was wonderful, but we also spent rather a lot of time with Seb and Juan, who plied us (and Cecile) with drinks on Friday night, took us to Lourdes on Saturday, cooked us lunch on Sunday then drove Liam to the airport at 7 o clock on Sunday morning. They are unbelievably kind and generous and great fun to be around. And we can stay up til the early hours chatting... in French!

La vie Francaise.

So I am now fully installed in my new French life, and I like it. One of many things I have noticed about the French is their appreciation of the small but exceedingly important pleasures in life: A steaming, milky coffee from a bowl at dawn, fresh-from-the-source meat and veg (there is absolutely nothing in Cecile's freezer), smoking a cigarette on the balcony before bedtime, wine and cheese with every meal, laughing a lot. The simple, enjoyable things which the English have long since not had time to do, or thought it too much of a threat to health and safety. When all put together, these small pleasures logically add up to a generally more pleasurable standard of life. Nevertheless, the French are also a hardworking nation. Cecile, a typical example of a French student, leaves her appartment before 8 O clock every weekday morning, and stays in college until between 4 and 6pm. In the evenings, she either does homework or goes horseriding, swimming or, from time to time, socialising in bars. Polly's flatmates work during the day but return for lunch and a siesta, then again return in the evenings to enjoy supper and some drinks together.

As you may have noticed, the before-mentionned small pleasures do tend to revolve around mealtimes, and why ever should they not? It goes without saying that food is one of life's greatest pleasures. But mealtimes here are also very important in terms of their social significance, as the French generally always eat together as a family, flatmates or friends. The classic, buzzing atmosphere of a French street seething with brasseries of an evening is a fine example of the sociability food creates. Wine is also very important to the French, and is consumed alongside a meal. However, unlike Bingeing Britain, its consumption is moderated and one rarely sees a French drunkard. All in all it seems that the French have achieved an incredible balance in terms of work and play, and balance is of paramount importance. The extremes in Britain are portrayed by gossip magazines every day, comparing the obese to the anorexic. People cannot simply enjoy a glass of wine, but three bottles. Let's learn how to chat, not scream and shout. We need to take a tip from our neighbours; less is more.

J'arrive en France.

It's been three days and two nights since I arrived in Pau, a gloriously picturesque little city at the foot of the Pyrennees. The chateau beside the river, the pretty little Juliet balconies decorating white-washed, majestic town houses and the buzzing cafes lining windy streets amount to an idyllic portrayal of Southern French life. I'm still in disbelief that this is the setting of a year of my life... And after finding a gorgeous appartment that bought to mind snapshots from 'Amelie', along with an extremely pleasant French collocatrice named Cecile, I have to say that I'm extremely content. That's not to say the last few days haven't been ever so slightly stressful, to say the least. The Leeds French department came up trumps in the disorganisation stakes, informing us that it would be dead easy to find a place on arrival (by us I mean a fellow Leedser, Polly, who I have been flat-hunting with), but the first thing that the accomodation office asked was why I hadn't contacted them in June. This led to some rushed 'annoncement' searches, but I was especially in luck, the first person that I contacted being Cecile. Polly, however, had a lot more difficulty and has only just found a place, which is only contracted for a month anyway.... but we'll just put it down to character building and life experience. My rusty knowledge of French adds to the latter, having being used less and less since May, when uni finished. My initial fears of not having enough exposure to the language, as I was warned, have since vanished thanks to the monumentally small amount of English that the residents of Pau speak, which is fantastic, but often difficult and tiring. I'm sure not many people would go out of their way to describe Rosie Blunt as unconfident, but I froze up when I uttered my first few words to a friendly waitress. Since then, I've been talking on the phone, having light-hearted gossips with Cecile and discussing complicated deals for mobile phones with salesmen. I have no doubt that my confidence, if not my French, has improved obscenely within just three days.

However, I still have the weekend left in a lovely, chateau-style appartment overlooking vineyards and mountains before my parents leave me all alone in the big, bad monde on Monday. It is still most certainly the honeymoon period, and there will be even bigger challenges to face as the year progresses. But, at the moment, I am raring to get stuck into ma nouvelle vie francaise.

Sir Benfro

Before heading off to the notoriously snobby country of France, I thought it appropriate to enlighten you on one of the most underrated and deprecated regions in the world: Wales. Why did no one tell me before about the breathtakinly unspoilt, majestically beautifully and unexpectedly fun-filled land of Pembrokeshire? I suspect the former is the reason. Unlike Cornwall, seemingly miles and miles of Pembrokeshire is untouched, the reason behind this perhaps being the lack of 'cool' credit the region obtains. For me, the stereotype Pembrokeshire tourist instantly brings to mind a middle-aged, yet unfeasibly physical, white-haired hiking enthusiast, forcing his way through scorchingly cold wind and rain along the Pembrokeshire coastal path, staying in unfriendly B & Bs, and repeating the mantra: 'It's just great to get away from it all and immerse oneself in Mother Nature! 'Staycations' should have been brought back years ago!' Translated as: 'I'm really regretting leaving my cosy semi-detached in Surrey and coming to this god-forsaken, freezing-cold hell hole 'cause I couldn't afford to go skiing this year. Bloody recession' .

Perhaps not the location one would choose as a romantic holiday for a 21-year old couple. My sights were set on a cute little Cornish cottage somewhere near surf beaches and pubs...the setting of my summer holidays as a child.... However, the last-minute nature of the arrangement and the financial situation of a student and graduate/care assistant prevented this idyllic and completely unobtainable fantasy from being realised. Along with their fashionable status, 'staycations' have become expensive. Various budget holiday websites were searched, with delightful destinations such as Benadorm and Magaloof being almost considered....before Pembrokeshire appeared on the suggestions list. The first B & B I e-mailed, Fynnon Clun, situated just outside the charming village of Goodwick, replied within minutes. To add to the excitement, owners Mike and Christine had a self-catering 'Cwtsch' available, later discovered to be an adorable little barn conversion, complete with ladder up to the bedroom, log burner and free-range eggs and bacon. It cannot go without mentioning that Mike and Christine were the perfect hosts, and, dare I say it? Pretty cool.

I rarely use the word 'stunning', but I feel it an appropriate adjective to describe the scenery surrounding Fynnon Clun. By day, sublime cliffs and deep blue seas, delicate flowers decorating windy little roads, awe-inspiring open country and pretty little villages with multi-coloured, smartie-like houses. By night, silence and the milky way. What could be more romantic? Oh, and so one doesn't get too bored with one's loved one and that beautful backdrop, there's always surfing, kayaking, coasteering, rock climbing, fishing, hiking and wonderful food and drink. Who needs places to go out in the evening when, actually, all you want to do is sleep after all that action? However, despite our lack of enthusiasm for evening activities, there seemed to be many a lively pub, cinema or concert within distance.

I will return to Pembrokeshire again and again, and if Mike and Christine allow it, to Fynnon Clun. Referencing an appropriate proverb for Wales; It pays not to be a sheep.

I always thought blogs were slighty pretentious. An unnecessary and confusing technicality for people who think too much and overindulge in sharing the boring details of their tortured minds... But here I am. I'd like to take a fresh approach to blogs, and share the things that I think are worth sharing. The things that I'd like to hear about if I were you.

In all honesty, I'd like to (perhaps a little conceitedly) suggest that my life of 21 years has suddenly got quite exciting. I leave for France on Tuesday, where I'm going to live for a year. I'll keep you updated about my adventures, and whether they match up to my decidedly hopeful expectations involving cheese and wine-filled nights with intelligent French students arguing about politics.

I feel quite differently about going to France then I did about travelling to Sri Lanka in 2007 and Uganda last summer. (Oh dear, here come the boring details of my tortured mind...sorry.) Both were enormous adventures for me, particularly Sri Lanka as I was only nineteen and hadn't even lived away from home before. Plus I was to be gone for four whole months, living amongst a completely different culture. It was hard at times, but it was incredible and I grew up a lot. As for Uganda,I was going away for two months with a whole load of people from university, which made things much less scary. I enjoyed myself in the wilds of East Africa even more than I did in my gap year. From living in a mud hut amongst the malaria-ridden, poverty-stricken, yet wonderful villagers of the deserted Murchison area to travelling around Rwanda, Tanzania and Kenya, those two short months were the most eye-opening, beautiful and fun I have ever had.

But France? It's only across the channel, or an hour or so to Pau on a cheap Ryanair flight. It's a similar climate to here in England but slightly hotter, the food is reportedly delicious, and the people are, well, let's wait and see. I've heard mixed reviews. There's not a lot to be scared about. But then, I am the foreigner. Yes, I was even more of a foreigner in Uganda and Sri Lanka. But I was there to build schools, teach English, do environmental stuff. I was useful, I was there to help. I was welcome with my knowledge and my enthusiasm and, arguably most importantly, my money. When I arrive in France I have to hunt down some cheap accomodation and then hunt down some French friends, so that I can 'immerse' myself in the culture and triumphantly return home fluent in French... I feel as if I'm somewhat imposing myself and expecting a lot. I am more of an étrangère than ever before.... merde.