Saturday morning is market day in Ceret, and it's always fun to wander along the stalls buying fruit, vegetables, olives and more, typically ending up at Le Comptoir for a coffee. This morning we met up with an old friend. She is British but has lived some of her life in NZ, and is now residing permanently in Céret. She is always very keen to know what is happening with our family, and in fact has met Alastair when he was staying with us one time in Céret. It was therefore quite alarming to notice that, compared to when we met her for coffee a month ago, she seemed exceedingly confused and forgetful. We are wondering if perhaps she has had a mini-stroke in the interim, and are wondering if perhaps we should have a quiet word with her son, who also lives in Céret.
A very quiet afternoon was spent catching up on the blog, emails and the like. I am spending a reasonable amount of time compiling chapters for a Storyworth book about our lives. It is an online link that our son arranged for us as a birthday present. A question is emailed to you every week for 52 weeks, to which you compose an answer of any length and with any number of photos or illustrations attached as you wish. At the conclusion of 52 weeks the responses are compiled into a book. We are up to about week 39.
Sunday dawned bright and clear, with a noticeably lower temperature than any day over the previous 2 months. The last few days have featured temperatures reaching only as high as the mid-20s, and it's also been much cooler in the evenings and overnight. We've stopped using the fan overnight, though still only have an unfilled duvet cover on the bed.
However, today was race day. Every year Céret runs the Ronde Céretane (Céret Circuit), which incorporates 5km, 10km and 20km races. The local council always pays for a number of Africans to race the 20km, to provide some real zip and speed to the event, but generally it is the locals, some dressed in all manner of running finery and costumes competing in all three events. Some take the races seriously, but most dress in seriously inappropriate outfits and just run for fun.
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| Runners dressed as parking meters, possibly taking the mickey out of council which has recently installed parking meters in the main carpark here, much to the annoyance of many locals. |
One of our English friends was running the 5km. He credits John and I with starting him running about 5 years ago, when basically he couldn't run between two lamp posts. We encouraged him to walk between posts, walk faster/jog between the next two, then walk again, and so on. Last year he came last in the 10km. This year he did really well in the 5km. He has also lost perhaps 15kg in weight, has given up drinking alcohol, his diabetes is much improved and he is such a healthier man. The turnaround has been dramatic. His wife has also given up drinking. They now both go to the pool 3x/wk and look completely different people compared to when we last saw them three years ago. They are much happier too.
After the race this morning, the outdoor lunch was held in one of the large plazas. It's a huge affair, catering for many hundreds of paying customers, very similar to the meal held during the cherry festival in May, except this one is held during the day and not as dinner in the evening. As usual, there were a number of bands up and running, and we had one at each end of the long dining tables. The meal is typically a plate of charcuterie, followed by paella and then créme catalan for dessert. This year it was a rather poor salad, a good paella, an ordinary slice each of cream cake and cheese. The bands had a lot of fun bouncing off each other, and a few of us got up to dance, but I think being the middle of the day made a difference. For the evening outdoor meals it's typical for lots of people to be up dancing, conga lines to form and even band members to walk along the length of the tables while playing their instruments. The latter is quite a big ask for a tuba player! However, it was fun, and good to have all our friends together at one of the long tables.
