You know who you are!

Note to .... someone.

A gentleman does not look at the security pass being worn by a female colleague and say "You've not worn well at all, have you?"

In passing (the Paralympics)

I was watching the highlights of the Paralympics last night - and I have to say how impressed and moved I have been by the whole competition - when a caption came up under a picture of a Swiss athlete.

It appears that, entering the Paralympics, the World Record Holder for the 10,000 metre wheelchair event was Hans Frei.

Now there's a name ....

.... and it was all going so well (2)

.... being the second part of "travelling with cats" for this year.

So where was I? Right, the cats were both fully wormed and ticked off.

Late the following morning we packed all the luggage into the car, put Dyson into his box, picked up the end of the main bed, got Snowball out from underneath it, put her in her box, put both cat boxes in the car and headed for home.

We arrived at the ferry terminal with just over an hour and a quarter to spare. Our passports were checked and returned, no problem. We were asked to scan the cats ourselves (to read the microchips and confirm they were really the right cats), which caused some amusement. Snowball did not take to kindly to a largish piece of electronic wizardry appearing in her box, and did her best to avoid it. Then tried to put her head through the loop. But, yes, the cat we had with us really was Snowball and not an imposter.

Dyson, of course, tried to eat the scanner.

So far, so good. Then they starting looking at the passports in detail.

Please bear in mind that both cats have travelled on these passports before. We knew we had followed all the regulations, and there should be no issues with either cat.

"Should" being the operative word.

A bit of history here. The European Pet Travel Scheme first came into being in (if I recall correctly) late 2003, but the booklet-style passports weren't issued until 2005. In the intervening period, animals travelled on a series of papers, the most important one being Form PET5. Snowball had her first rabies vaccination in January 2004, and her serological test a month later, after which she was issued her PET5, and travelled to France that summer. Early in 2005 she was issued a booklet-style passport, which includes the date of her satisfactory serological test. Since then, she has had annual rabies shots to keep her up to date all of which are recorded, with dates, in her passport.

So when the French official examined her passport, he noticed that the date of her serological test was before the first rabies vaccination shown. This did not compute.

Eventually, he gave us all the passports back, and told us to go to line A in embarkation which would "be closer to the office". We weren't actually told we had to go to the office.

Neither did we realise, until embarkation started, that we hadn't been given a boarding card.

We explained this to an official, who said only "Office!" So I picked up our booking and all passports, and headed to the port office.

There was only one member of staff on duty, who was not only sorting out problems with boarding passes, but also selling tickets and changing bookings. So quite busy then. I explained we hadn't been given a boarding pass, and she asked to see our booking; that was in order. Then she asked to see our passports; they were in order. Then she asked to see the cats' passports; they were in order.

So she 'phoned the check-in staff and asked why they had sent someone with two cats to her (note that she hadn't been given notice), and the person who had first identified the discrepancy on Snowball's passport explained his concern. She checked through Snowball's passport again; the serology was there, the rabies was there, what was the problem? Oh yes, the serology was dated before the rabies....

She took photocopies of Snowball's passport and faxed them off to DEFRA in the UK. Then she sold/exchanged/amended some more tickets. And all this time, our ferry was boarding.

After a while, she came over and explained that she was waiting for DEFRA to 'phone her back to confirm whether the passport was in order. I explained the history, showed her Snowball's pre-passport medical card detailing her first rabies vaccination but, no, she had to have DEFRA's response.

It was now approaching 5.30 pm on a Sunday afternoon. Possibly not the best time to try to get an answer from a government official (I know; I used to be one). And our ferry was closing boarding at 5.40 pm.

She called DEFRA. They promised to call back within ten minutes. So she got involved in selling tickets to an elderly couple, and exchanging a ticket for an Eastern European man who had got through check-in using "my brother's ticket, but he can no longer travel, so I want it in my name please". This last one didn't seem to worry her at all, although I would have thought it was a bit more suspicious than Snowball's passport. And now she was telling people that the 6.00 ferry was full; they would have to wait for the 8.00 sailing.

5.40 passed without a call. To make matters worse, I'd left my mobile in the car, so couldn't let Luc know what was happening, and didn't dare leave the office.

My mind was racing through the possible outcomes. A two hour delay would get us home at 11.00 pm, and I was going back to work the next day - but my main concern was that the two cats would have been in their boxes for 12 hours. What if DEFRA didn't get back in time for the 8.00 pm sailing? There were no further sailings that day, so we would be delayed until the morning. Snowball's insurance covers some costs arising from lost travel papers, but would it cover this, when the papers weren't actually lost?

The 'phone rang. DEFRA informed madame that Snowball's papers were in order for her return to the UK. Our boarding pass was printed and handed to me, along with both cats' papers.

I ran across the tarmac holding the white boarding pass above my head. Luc opened the car door for me, and started the engine. An official came from nowhere, took the pass, and waved us on to the ferry. A few seconds later, boarding ended. The ferry had started moving away from the dock before we'd gone up two flight of stairs from the car deck.

But just think ..... Snowball's passport still has that discrepancy. We could go through this again on every trip from now on.

.... and it was all going so well (1)

.... being the first part of "travelling with cats" for this year.

We're now quite experienced at travelling abroad with our cats, so didn't anticipate any particular problems. Taking them to see an unknown French vet for their pre-return ticks and worms treatments is always a bit of an unknown, but that's all.

Ah, yes, the pre-return visit to the vet .....

I have to say, the vet we found in Villenauxe la Grande was lovely. We took both cats in together, I showed him their passports and explained what was required, and we decided to start with Snowball.

I should explain at this point that the worming treatment used to be an injection, which the cats didn't like much but, once done, was over with. Last year we were offered the choice of injection or tablet and - having some idea of the difficulties that giving a cat a tablet can produce - opted for the injection.

This year, we weren't given the choice.

So the vet started with pretty, innocent-looking, clever little Snowball. The tablet went into her mouth, her mouth was gently held shut, and he massaged her throat. She refused to swallow. After about 30 seconds, he decided to flush it down with a pipette of water. This did not have the effect he had hoped; in fact, it had quite the opposite effect.

Snowball is missing some teeth on the lower left side of her mouth (we understand she was repeatedly kicked by her first owners). The influx of water when she had already had the tablet in her mouth for approaching a minute meant that the pink sugar coating on the tablet dissolved completely, and came from the sides of her mouth as bright pink foam.

She looked as though she had a designer version of rabies.

And, to add to the insult, the addition of water allowed her to push the tablet out through the gap in her teeth.

The vet split the tablet in half, and tried again, with more water. No luck.

At this point, he disappeared and came back with a tube of nutrient jelly. Half the tablet went into a small amount of the jelly, which was then pushed gently into her mouth (and I have to say that the vet was always gentle, and never once lost patience). She tried to resist, adding a smear of gold-coloured jelly round the front of her mouth, but couldn't. She could, however, spit the tablet out.

She now looked as though she was a blinged-up cat with designer rabies.

She had also gained a new nickname, Petit Malin. Yes, I know technically that should be Petite Maline, but just at that point her gender wasn't a major concern.

More jelly, more water and, eventually, both parts of the tablet were downed. And our precious Snowball was not happy at having lost the battle of wills.

Dyson, of course, had been watching all this.

Despite his size, Dyson is usually a most laid-back cat. In fact, I don't think I've ever before heard the growl that came from him when the vet came close with a tablet. It was really quite impressive.

The vet glanced at me and asked "Il est gourmand?" Yes, he is a little greedy.

The tablet was split into three, and the first part was added to some nutrient jelly on the vet's finger. Very cautiously, the vet brought his hand close to Dyson's mouth .... and Dyson licked, swallowed and came back for more. The second part of the tablet went the same way, and Dyson was still keen for more. And the final part of the tablet. Then some more jelly without any tablet, for good measure.

Thankfully, the tick treatment was the usual back-of-the-neck liquid which, although neither cat liked it, did not leave much opportunity for resistence.

Anyway, at least that was done, and we could bring the two cats back into the UK without any difficulty.

Or so we thought .....

Thoughts on food in France (Cats' version)

We brought Dyson’s low magnesium food to France with us, and mostly dry food for Snowball, but the weather was so hot in the first few days that we bought some sachets for her as we were concerned with the amount of fluid/moisture she was getting. She’s been eating the French food very happily, which is a relief – she can be very fussy (although less so since Dyson moved in).

So we decided to give Dyson one of the French sachets (we give him standard food perhaps once every five days as a change). Dyson will eat just about anything (last night this included the battery from his tracker tag, which he finally crunched open but, luckily, he spat it out), and the menu we selected was chicken and peas.

There were a few minutes of enthusiastic eating, then Dyson took a few steps back, licked his lips, looked up expectantly for more (answer: No), then moved a bit further and started grooming vigorously.

It was some time later I actually looked at his bowl and, to my surprise, found it not quite empty. Yes, the chicken was all gone. So was the jelly. But four peas remained neatly licked clean and group together.

I left them. Later that night, we put a couple of treats in his bowl, which again disappeared quickly. I checked the bowl. Three peas left neatly at one side.

And one pea nosed very gently out of the bowl altogether, and on the floor next to it.

First impressions and a Festival

We arrived at our site in the middle of nowhere (ok, about an hour’s drive east of Paris) at around seven o’clock following nine hours’ travel. Both cats were sick less than five minutes before we arrived (so not a bad journey really).

The site is in a forest and we should have large pools of water just behind us but they are dry – possibly a benefit in the hot, late summer weather. A quick look round the chalet indicated it would be very comfortable – there are even bikes padlocked to the decking for our use, and they seem to be in decent condition.

It was only when we started to make up the beds that we found our first problem.

Luc always has difficulties with the beds on holiday. At 6’3”, he needs to sleep diagonally across the smaller than normal beds you get in rented mobile homes, and even then his feet hang over the edge. But that wasn’t the problem here.

No, the problem was that we’d brought double sheets with us …. and they didn’t fit the king-size bed!

Oh, well, it could be worse.

The first day was a rest day (apart from some food shopping), to allow Luc some time to recover from the last couple of days, and to give the two cats a chance to explore while we weren’t too far away. Dyson did a quick once round the immediate area then settled on the decking, purring loudly. Snowball – shining a dazzling white in the sun – decided to go further afield, find out where there were dogs and wind them up as campsite rules say they have to be kept on a leash and she doesn’t. And I swear she knows that.

I knew that Provins, our nearest town of any size, was well worth a visit. The medieval town is still pretty much complete within its walls, with the majority of nineteenth and twentieth century building limited to the newer “low town”. But it wasn’t until the evening of our rest day that I picked up a few tourist flyers and found that there was a harvest festival in the old town the next day.

When I say harvest festival, I don’t mean three hymns and a few tins of carrots. Immediately on entry through the city walls we came across a baker making bread and cooking it in wood-fuelled ovens – and his produce included douillons - whole apples wrapped in bread dough and baked. A quick look round the church where Joan of Arc came for mass after leaving Reims in 1492, and then a stroll to the first square which was full of classic cars and scooters; not just wooden framed, but, in some cases, wooden built with a metal covering only for the engine. And everywhere there were people of all ages dressed in traditional costume.

We strolled on (it was a pleasant 28 degrees, five degrees less than the previous day), past stalls selling handmade leather goods, local sausages, cheeses and honey, and decorations made of twisted and plaited straw. Another small square held an exhibition of bicycles through the ages, including a wooden framed, wooden wheeled and pedal-less “push bike” – surely not very comfortable!

More stalls (and not over-priced) lined the street to the next major square, where a local band was playing. Here there were funfair type stalls, including a shooting gallery. But this one was different. Vertical alcoves, perhaps half a metre wide, held three under-inflated balloons each. These were stopped from escaping by two or three vertical strings at the front of each alcove, and kept moving by a fan at the bottom of the alcove. So all you had to do was shoot the moving balloons ….

Now Luc is a good shot and he needed a confidence-boost …. But then, how far off target were the rifles? We paid for 15 pellets.

His first shot took out a balloon. He readily pointed out it was six inches lower than the one he was actually aiming at, but it gave him an idea of how the rifle was shooting. His second shot managed to burst two balloons. This got the attention of the young boy (too young to shoot) standing next to him. Luc was given a token, and three more balloons were put into the alcove.

I didn’t know you could hit three balloons with one pellet, but you can! Another token, and three more balloons ….

After fifteen shots, Luc had hit fifteen balloons and the boy standing next to him had a new hero. A quick look at the prizes, and Luc worked out he needed two more tokens – six balloons – for the prize he wanted. We bought the minimum seven shots.

A few minutes later we walked away with his prize and an additional small blue hippo; after all, Luc had demonstrated quite clearly that it was possible to win, and trade on the shooting gallery was going well by the time we left.

Our timing couldn’t have been better. As we reached the corner of the square, the parade came past; first of all, vintage tractors decorated with corn and bright, paper flowers, then the classic bicycles, including the totally wooden one which must have been really uncomfortable on the cobbles, and all ridden by people in costume, including the postman with a handlebar moustache and the priest in his cassock. Then some ponies, followed by three or four small bands and troupes of folk dancers, each headed by a banner indicating which village or town they were from. And at the end, perhaps two minutes after the rest of the procession, two “drunks” playing a hurdy-gurdy (with genuine punched paper music cards) and singing slightly rude songs as they wove a not-very-straight path up the street.

We bought some rose ice-cream and moved on. Now the stalls were selling honey and beeswax candles, meats, cheeses, fresh milk (the goats were penned next to the stall) and beer. Several of the bandsmen were enjoying the beer, so we took that as a recommendation and tried the white and amber.

At the end of the town on the grass rise just inside the wall, were stalls selling wooden produce. The first man was making clogs from scratch, while others had inlaid boxes, toys and jigsaws, clocks, small carvings and the like. Then we realised a second parade was coming, this time floats, again decorated with corn and paper flowers, each showing local crafts or institutions (including, as far as I could tell, the local school). This even included a couple of men on the timber frame of a roof sawing off the extra wood from the rafters (yes, on a moving float). Health and Safety would never have allowed it at home. Still, even in non-PC France the woman clearing the route scolded the carpenter who threatened to throw his hammer into the crowd!