I'll always have Versailles...

One of the most beautiful memories I have of my first trip to Europe, and one that I can still conjure up in my mind with almost perfect detail, was my first visit to Versailles, and more specifically, the gardens at Versailles. Why this memory should stay with me so strongly after all these years, and how it has managed to muscle out of the top spot some other places I saw on that same trip (the Forum in Rome, the Charles Bridge in Prague, the canals in Venice), I can't really say.

I remember standing by the Apollo Fountain on a cold, sunny day, and feeling like I'd been transported back in time. The peacefulness, the grandeur, the elegance, the sweeping scale of the landscape around me was almost like a religious experience. Sounds a bit over-the-top, I know, but needless to say I was quite impressionable at that age and I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty all around me.

The chateau itself, well, I wasn't as blown away. The Hall of Mirrors and all the opulence was quite impressive, but I couldn't help thinking how staged it all looked. I just couldn't 'feel' it. But I definitely felt it in the gardens.

So, as I sit here trying to plan my trip to Paris to meet my Dad and Uncle in December, I'm wondering if a trip to Versailles should be included. I'm wondering if maybe the memories I have of my first trip have grown out of all proportion over the last 16 years and whether or not I may feel a little disappointed seeing the place for a second time. Is this a beautiful memory I should leave intact, or is it worth the risk of discovering again, and sharing it with my family? Answers on a postcard please...

On a side note, I've found a run I'm going to aim for next year. La Grande Classique is a 16 kilometers (10 miles) run, which starts at the Eiffel Tower and ends at the Palace of Versailles. How cool would that be? I just ran a 10k yesterday in Pézeans and I didn't die, so I'm hoping by next September, with enough training, I just might be able to do it. Somehow I feel that just the idea of where I'm running from and to might be enough to spur me on. Anyone want to join me?

Yo, Adrian!

This has been the first year in a long time where I'm not already beating myself up for failing to keep my New Year's resolution to exercise. I've been working out pretty steadily for the past year, and even though I ate enough to feed a small army over Christmas, I haven't fallen too far off the wagon.

And I never in a million years thought I would ever say this, but I'm actually enjoying my morning runs. I remember a couple of years ago I could barely make it around a 15 minute circuit without doubling over in agony, with my face the color of my bright red sweatshirt. Now I feel like Rocky running out in the vines, wanting to punch my fists up in the air and dance around to the 'Eye of the Tiger'.

Although if I did that, the people in my village would just nod and say that just confirms what they always thought of me- crazy. Somehow, to them, the sight of someone running is crazy behavior, outrageous really. (But riding a ten speed up the side of mountain, perfectly acceptable.) I'm known in the village as the anglaise who runs. And it's always said with a little pumping action of the arms, just to clarify how funny they find it.

The other mothers at the little ladies' school are used to seeing me show up in my sweats and trainers, with my ipod dangling around my neck. They all smile at me, but I'm sure they are convinced I come from another planet. Just one more example of why, after 9 years, I still stick out as one 'not from around here'...

Where's Jane Fonda when you need her?

I went for a ‘run’ today. Although I would use the term loosely, as it was more of a cross between speed walking and a jog; enough to make my knee hurt, but not fast enough to give me a side ache. There is nothing like running out in the vines early in the morning, with a cool breeze and the early morning sun just peaking its head above the horizon.

There is a really easy circuit that leaves my village and goes around the local chateau, down small lanes bordered by cypress trees and vines. I didn’t do this run today. Last time I did it I was vaguely in shape, but even so, I was sucking air and feeling very light headed. I didn’t want to thwart my burgeoning desire to get back into shape in one fell swoop. So I took a shorter route. I still hated it.

My exercising has taken a bit of a down shift since I moved to the Languedoc. Gone are the days when I parked near the gym, walked to work, then stopped off at the gym on the way back to the car at the end of the day. Circuit training, step, cardio funk, hours with the weight machines, I was a little obsessed, but in really great shape.

Over the last 7 years here in France, my exercise regimes have consisted of walking the dogs, trying to find the motivation to do workout DVDs, and chasing my toddlers around the house whilst trying to comb their hair. And now I’m not in really good shape.

The nearest gyms to the Dukedom are all at least a half an hour’s drive from me, so if you add the drive plus the workout together, I would need to find an extra 2 hours in my day to do it. This could be an option if they had daycare at the gym, but we are in France, not Manhattan, so they don’t.

My village, bless her, as sleepy as she is, offers a vast array of exercise choices, including yoga at lunchtime (which would make me want to sleep instead of going back to work after), beginner’s Flamenco (which doesn’t really fulfill the fat burning, sweating part of the whole ‘exercise’ thing for me) and Yoseikan, a sort of martial arts fitness thingy at 9 at night (which does involve fat burning, but would also require me to remove my fat arse from the sofa to engage in kung fu instead of watching Grey’s Anatomy, not a hard decision there!).

So, in my efforts to possibly wearing a bikini again before my 40th birthday, I’m running again. To the amusement of the local boys out in the vines on their tractors, I can be found huffing and puffing my way around the back lanes of my village, red faced, slightly favoring my left knee, and silently reminded myself what a beautiful part of the world I live in, even if there isn’t a Gold’s gym in sight.