The hospital, a retrospective

Sometimes, the vague mists of time can give one occasion to look back on things through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia. To make sure that this does not happen, and to preserve the horrors of the medical experience here, I simply quote Simon's post on Katherine's wall. This expresses far more succinctly than I managed what it was like (and I just wanted an excuse to repeat it for the amusement of all).

"You have nothing to fear if you fall ill in France; you can be sure to end up dead and to spend your last precious moments being verbally and/or physically abused by some obnoxious nicotine-drenched excuse for a doctor. Meanwhile whoever accompanies you to the hospital will have six hours to wish he had some Domestos and a chemical suit to clean the toilet. For a less balanced assessment of French healthcare, see Marius' blog."

The fourth journey

Milan to Brandenburg. Started at 8:20, arrived at 21:30. 641 miles (about 1030 km,) 11hrs 41mins driving. Tired. Red Bull works wonders for concentration. Distance looks ridiculously huge on Google Maps.

In the spirit of European togetherness induced by driving through 6 countries in two days (France, Italy, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, Germany), I will make an exception to my usual rule and compliment the Swiss. Their scenery is impressive, their motorways pretty, their Vignette fairly priced (in comparison to Austria) and their petrol cheap.

How anyone managed without GPS is beyond me. Still cannot quite believe how easy it is to leave Milan and navigate halfway across Europe.

The dramatic final hours

Mosquitoes. Normally a mere annoyance. Until you have a 10 hour drive the next day. It was on Tuesday evening that a particularly ambitious mozzie decided that, rather than eating a normal meal, it would tap into a veritable feast and go for a tasty foot vein.

3o mins later the pain sets in. 2 hours later and despite several anti-histamine pills, walking is no longer possible. It is at this point, around midnight on Bastille day, that I decide to go the hospital, as the pain is heading further up my leg. Saint Simon comes with to the hospital.

Never have I been treated more rudely than in Fréjus-Saint Raphael hospital. Aside from the very long wait, which is in fairness to be semi-expected for non life-threatening injuries at A&E, the number of doctors was risibly low - 2! is Bastille Day really that important? - and the staff made no effort to explain what needed to be done to negotiate the French hospital system. I was asked why I had bothered turning up at all, as if allergic reactions can't be dangerous and then dealt with in as offhand a manner as possible before being told to go. If it were not for one very friendly orderly explaining that 'go' actually means pick up your prescription and leave, I would have been without medication.

Finally returned home in the morning at 6.00, plans for travel to Augsburg scotched. The Venerable Wareham kindly picks up my prescription from the bottom of the hill later on.

Avoid French hospitals at all costs. I suspect just going to a normal GP the next day is vastly preferable.

Les Issambres & St Tropez

A week of relaxation overlooking the Mediterranean, with a trip to St Tropez thrown in. As it is strictly holiday material I will dwell only on a few choice aspects.

Table-tennis: Losing to Edmund, repeatedly, even if only in knockabouts.

Churchill: We will fight them... ... ...on the beaches, Simon.

With a tow-row-row-row-row-row-row for the British Grenadiers: Simon and everyone.

Mike Oldfield: with a special mention to Ali.

Géant Casino, Fréjus: the last minute dash with Tom (Bon)

Petrol-fired barbecuing: Tom.

Cooking: Noreen a particular stalwart.

Mosquitoes (more on that later): to my noble co-sufferer Katherine.

Lethal drinkies: Elen, whose making sure I was alright and giving of pillows is one of few memories left of that evening.

Dorling Kindersley Cards: with quizmaster Usman.

The second journey

Drove to Chez Wareham in Les Issambres near Sainte Maxime on Mediterranean coast. 559 miles, 10hrs 20 mins. Easy trip except for one factor:

One rarely appreciates how good the average standard of driving is in the UK until one goes to France. The roads seem to be dominated by a complete lack of consideration for other motorists. This includes though is not limited to: stopping the car in the middle of roads, on corners etc. wherever most inconvenient; tailgating at all speeds for no reason and refusing to overtake; not moving lanes to allow someone to move themselves. Anyone considering driving on their year abroad should not consider tackling the Autoroute network without prior experience of continental driving, preferably accompanied. This rant will not appear again, hopefully.

Paris

A few days have been spent in Paris continuing the dangerous eating trend established in Provins. Having spent quite a lot of time in Paris over the years I did very little sightseeing, but rather lounged about.

The one small exception to this pattern of laziness was heading to the Louvre where I visited the French pictures section, the last part of the museum I had not seen. Found that the later the pictures got, the less they appealed, a sad reflection of Medievalist tendencies perhaps?

The only other excitement was thinking that my wallet had been lost/stolen. Over-complicated sofa-bed mechanisms make fiendish pickpockets.

Provins

Provins (my first stop in Europe) turns out to be a very attractive medieval town around 60 miles east of Paris (or should that be 96km?). At the centre of many major medieval trading routes, it was one of the richest towns of 13th century France.

Highlights include the ramparts, the Tour César and the Église Saint Quiriace, pictures to follow.

Other tourist highlights include the American-style tourist train, ferrying sedentary visitors between such spectacles as the information centre and 'Arkangai: Les Cavaliers des Steppes' pictures definitely not following...

The first journey

The trip to France by car was surprisingly easy. Sustained by endless CDs, the 350 miles passed relatively quickly, especially during the final romp through the countryside.

The Eurotunnel is bliss. Arrived at the terminal 10:20, train left at 10:43, arrived in France 12:20 French time. If only they weren't going bankrupt, they might be able to lower their prices to compete with the ferries. Here's hoping they don't charge me for the return not taken.