Author: Ian J Myers

I'm a half English, half Irish guy who has been in France for the last 30 years. I have a devouring passion for photography, be it digital or analogue. Photography is my escape, and what helps me feel whole. INFP

Back to Hell’s Belz

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Welcome back, dear reader, to my world.

Today we will talk about families, food, being a hero, and more family, and kir. I know you can’t wait, so let’s begin.

Arrival in Bretagne

It was early evening and we eventually arrived in Bretagne, feeling very warm, surprisingly peaceful, and ready for whatever the weekend had in store for us. Or so I thought, but more about that later.

We arrived and my mother-in-law was talking to some people with Southern accents. Strange… But I recognised something in the gentleman’s voice. It was Raymond and Sylvie who are friends with Marina, my sister-in-law, and Vincent, her husband. You’re going to meet quite a few members of the family, so try and keep up. Vincent is deaf and has a hearing loss of 94%. Raymond was completely deaf, but had had a cochlear implant and could now hear! Isn’t science amazing. Sylvie is his wife.

L’Apéro – The Social Ritual That Just Happens

As will happen in summer, especially in France, we settled down to have the apéro. What an amazing invention. I have talked about this before, but they just seem to happen and people just know what to do and fit naturally into their respective roles. We talked about our hearing aids, and the difference they made in our lives. And started cracking jokes and basically having a good time. I was on the fizzy mineral water—you never know when you might need a driver.

Crisis Calls – Jessica and Xavier Need Rescue

We were in coastal Bretagne and it was nice to be back seeing Gisèle, my mother-in-law. The conversation was flowing and it was turning out to be a lovely evening. The phone rang. For once, Gisèle heard the phone and answered it. She has hearing problems too. Jessica, my wife’s other sister, and her husband Xavier, had been in La Rochelle and had taken a coach to get back home. That coach was late, and the boat back had stopped running. Ian to the rescue.

Xavier and I are the black sheep of the family, and get the most criticism. Xavier, because he is Xavier, and me because I’m not French. After 30 years we have become accustomed to our rôles and are secretly proud of it.

To the Rescue – Loca Loca Restaurant, Here We Come

I reminded my mother-in-law how shitty it can be when a plan, well, doesn’t go to plan—even more so when it’s not your fault. I said, right, let’s get in the car and go and get them. My mother-in-law would be the navigator. She asked if my car was a new car. I wasn’t, but it would be nice if it were. And wasn’t it far to drive? No, it wasn’t. She would have told them to stay the night with their son. True, but isn’t it nice, at the end of a long day of plans going wrong, to have something that goes right? It’s good to be good, etc.

Embrassades and Bises – Reunited at Last

We arrived at the station and couldn’t find each other. Gisèle was starting to get worked up, and I just calmed the situation down. Jess, you where? OK. I don’t know how to get there but I saw the Loca Loca restaurant. Can you both go there? They could. I drove round the block and I’m not sure whether where I parked was legal, but no flying farts were given, and that would be where I would be parking to pick them up. Embrassades and the famous “bise” and let’s get that case into the boot. Try and find a place on the back seat. They found a place on the back seat. And back to Belz to get them home. Yes, it’s good being good.

Kir, Shrimps, and a Forgotten CPAP Machine

Gisèle and I got back to her house, and the Kir was flowing and now it was my turn to have a few. Very nice it was too. We talked, talked, and talked some more, and Raymond went back to Sylvie and Gisèle, my wife and I decided to eat. Shrimps, homemade mayonnaise, and boiled potatoes. Simple, and wonderful!

We were to sleep in the bureau. My wife was upset at me because I had forgotten my CPAP machine. I would just go to sleep and enjoy the night… Tomorrow would be another day, full of adventure. Well, everything is relative I suppose. I will see you, Dear Reader, tomorrow…

Bastille Day 2025

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An audio “deep dive” into the article…

Bastille Day, or should I say la fête nationale, is linked to the French Revolution but technically has nothing to do with the Bastille, which was a fortress prison in Paris that was stormed on the 14th of July 1789. It only housed seven prisoners, and yet it became a symbol of anti-royalism. It still cost the guv’nor his head! Oops-a-daisy.

No, no, no. La fête nationale, technically speaking, started as the Fête de la Fédération in 1790, and was only officially established in 1880. After the fall of Napoleon III and the creation of the Third Republic in 1870, there was a need to unify the country and create a shared national identity. They always need so much time, these Frenchies, to get some things done and agreed upon…

To the modern Frenchman, it is synonymous with a weekend off, the military parade, the chance to hear the President’s speech, to make a biting critique of said President, and to declare him a despicable little man. It’s always their fault anyway. It is also synonymous with firework displays and dances organised by the fire brigade—bal des pompiers—which, contrary to popular belief, does not literally translate to “firemen’s balls.”

It also marks the official start of the Grandes Vacances, when the country begins to shut down for summer until the rentrée in September.

But for me, it meant getting the children to a restaurant for lunch on the Saturday to eat with my brother-in-law, his wife, his daughter, and his grandson. Killian was a “little tired” after a long week at work and some drinkie-poos with friends at the bottom of the castle walls in Montaigu. No, of course he wasn’t hungover, heaven forbid. Of course he hadn’t lost his phone, and of course he hadn’t hurt his wrist wrestling—or cuddling with—his mates. He had tried to get out of it, but was told, “Not bloody likely,” by his mother, and I said I’d take Kate to go and get the boy. A friend had found his phone, so we passed by her flat to get it back. The Anglais arrived fashionably late at 12h15. Sat down and had a couple of beers. We almost looked presentable!

We ate and caught up, had a very pleasant lunch, and I finally met my new nephew Raphaël—a lovely two-and-a-half-year-old. Motherhood suits my niece to a tee, and it felt wonderful not to have to be on full alert because it was no longer my job. After eating, we men went to pay for the meal, and Killian was more than happy to contribute, bless him.

We dropped off Killian, who declared his intention to have a “little snooze,” and dropped Kate off at home so she could welcome Emeline, who would be spending the weekend with her. Virginie had cleaned the kitchen, and Kate had been briefed to keep said kitchen just as spotless for our return from Brittany to visit my in-laws… The last visit had gone surprisingly well, and it was with actual pleasure that we set off. It was still a tad warm, and since there was a risk of fires, all fireworks had been cancelled by the préfet. In Montaigu there would be no fireworks, no bal des pompiers, but in Brittany it would be fine! Yippee!!

The trip up was very much the usual trip to Brittany on a busy weekend on the roads. We were not driving at a rapid rate of knots, and Virginie’s infamous and rather colourful language punctuated the drive. The Frenchman, whilst driving in 36°C heat, can get a little irate. His ultimate goal is to get there—wherever there might be—before the car in front of him.

The hierarchy of traffic, as far as he’s concerned, goes like this:
– Anyone from the same department is a mate.
– Anyone from our region is a mate—unless they’re from Maine-et-Loire, who apparently don’t know how to drive, or Loire-Atlantique, who think they know how to drive but clearly don’t.
– We’re from the Vendée—and we do know how to drive… we’re just usually too drunk to do it properly.
– Anybody else from France is fine, I suppose.
– UK drivers are also mates—especially if, like us, your car proudly displays both an F and a UK sticker.
– Drivers from 75 (Paris)? Absolutely clueless.
– Those from 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 77, and 78—the rest of Île-de-France—are also deeply suspect.

Ah, Bastille Day. The revolution may be over, but the road rage? That’s just getting started.

Drop in next week for another adventure where we actually get to Hell’s Belz, in one piece. That first evening is already full of adventures as I rise to save the day, Jessica and Xavier, and not get told off by Gisèle. I do get told off by my wife for being a complete idiot and forgetting my CPAP machine for my sleep apnea…

Lourdes 2025

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There are places in the world where time feels different — where the air is thick with memory, hope, and something quieter than silence. Lourdes is one of those places. This is the story of my pilgrimage there with my son Killian — and of the moment that changed us both.

Lourdes 2025

I look back on our trip to Lourdes with great affection and know that I will be going back with Killian one day. Lourdes is one of the most significant sites when it comes to Marian apparitions — and was where the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was confirmed. Our Lady made several apparitions to Bernadette Soubirous, and the grotto remains exactly as it was, as does the spring she once dug by hand, along with the sacred alcove where Mother Mary actually appeared.

This time we didn’t manage to go to the baths, but I did attend Mass and go to confession.

Was it a pilgrimage for both of us? In some way, yes. Killian’s faith path and my own may be at different places, but we couldn’t help but feel changed.

Little did I know that while I was waiting inside to go to confession, an African nun had come up to Killian and had started talking to him.

When I was confessing my many sins, the priest guided me, taught me, and reminded me of some of the key elements of the faith — and the importance of looking after myself. He was completely right about everything. It was a moving experience — I left that confessional a new man, newly reconciled with God. I said my penance and went to find the boy.

For those of us who went to Catholic schools, we know all about the power of nuns — and you listen to them. She spoke to him not only with authority, but with profound wisdom, deep kindness, and the kind of love only an African mother can carry in her voice. He later told me how much she had marked him. When I came out of confession, she was still talking to him — and boy, was he listening.

Was it just a nun — or was it Our Lady speaking to him the way Jesus speaks through the words of the priest during Mass? I don’t know. But what I do know is that what that nun said to him had moved him more than any lecture from his father ever could. She was such a happy woman, and her laugh was infectious. She truly had the joy of serving Christ.

Lourdes is a place of hope, healing, and searching — a place where we often find God through Mary.

Killian had not only been a constant companion to me, helping me and laughing with me, but I believe God had spoken to that boy through that nun and set something in motion. Is he still fighting his demons? Yes. But there was a glimmer of hope in the darkness — one that won’t leave him untouched.

I didn’t question him further. Some moments are too sacred to dissect. And every soul walks its own path to God.

We had spontaneously gone to Mass the day Pope Leo was elected, and there was a joyful energy in the sanctuary. Habemus Papam. It was a special day.

Not because of the ceremony, or the news, or even the setting — but because, in that moment, I knew: God had not stopped speaking.

Sometimes, He speaks through a stranger. Sometimes, through a mother’s voice. And sometimes, through a son who learns to listen again.

The Pyrenees Mountains – and the Pont d’Espagne which isn’t in Spain

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If the Vendée is Jane Birkin — elegant, understated — then the Pyrenees are full-on Marilyn. Proper mountains. Vast. Unapologetic. Even in May, some peaks were still capped in snow.

I was in Lourdes hoping to strengthen my faith. I think Killian needed that too — but more than anything, he needed his mountains. Now, finally, I get it. Up there, I saw him more clearly: less the boy I once knew, more the man he’s becoming.

Like most of us, he has his issues — but he’s working through them. And sometimes, he even lets me help. Those are the moments I think I might just be getting somewhere as a father.

He’d decided we were heading to see his beloved mountains. The place? The Pont d’Espagne — yes, in France, despite the name. I may have mentioned that. Maybe.

We left the impressive foothills of Lourdes behind and climbed into the real mountains. Snowy peaks against blue sky and drifting clouds. Windows down, music low, we drove toward the famous pont. It had better be worth it.

Killian and I travel at a relaxed pace. If the view’s good, we’ll pull over. Get the camera out. Take a few shots. See what happens.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s a fiasco. But more often than not, we come away with something.

Oh no! Catastrophe! A village where you can park, and go and get an ice cream. Ah well. We took one for the team, and the lady behind the counter told us that the previous week they had snow and were shut, yet this week everything looked just like a day in May should look like. Ice cream seems to have this way of just hitting “that” spot. It’s not the tidiest of foods to eat, but it’s one I’ve developed a great fondness for it over the years.

I was already learning how to approach the infamous concept of the hairpin bend. As you know, a full head of hair hasn’t been my issue for years — let alone hairpins. But the name fits. The main thing is to drive slowly, carefully, and not die… Given I’m writing this now, reports of my untimely demise were, as they say, greatly exaggerated.

We arrived at the Parc National des Pyrénées. You go through a barrier that didn’t seem to be working — one that had given up on life and was just standing to attention, waiting for whatever ‘it’ might be. So, being the thoroughly decent chaps and all-round good eggs that we are, we tried to find a ticket. We couldn’t, but since we had tried, we said something that rhymes with bucket, and started walking to see, at long last, the bloody bridge. It had better be worth it.

I had the X100F with me and Killian was carrying my DSLR and kit. What a good lad he is. He later said that if I wasn’t lugging it around, we might’ve gone just that little bit further. So back to the pont…

Before we even saw the bridge, we heard it: the sound of the water was tremendous. Water is a primeval force, and this was huge. I wanted the “money” shot, and decided to try with the X100F, giving it a sporting chance. The Canon 6D Mark II, with its stabilised lens, would come out on top. Handheld at 1/6th of a second? Not ideal — but fun to try. You get the feeling of movement in your shot, and with the magic of ND filters, you’re not overexposed.

The site itself is just astounding — not just because of the view or the sound, but because of the raw power of the place. Killian led me grumbling up the hill and we sat down to have our picnic. We fed the ants a bit of our pâté en croûte and watched them discover it, then devour it completely. And devour it they did.

He led me past the téléphérique — closed, of course — and followed the river until we reached a wide, flat-bottomed valley with water snaking through it. We saw traces of horses and wild boars, which are a lot less boring than you might think. I noticed the clouds coming round the mountains as they go, but not singing. I don’t know a huge amount about mountains, but that’s usually a cue to get back to the car…

The walk back to the car was just about being father and son — taking the mickey out of each other as we went. It seemed to be the way we operated, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Lourdes 2025: A Father–Son Farewell Tour

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When your son tells you 2025 is going to be his year, you smile, nod, and try not to think about how quiet the house will be once he’s gone. But before Killian set off into his new chapter, he offered me something unexpected: one last road trip—just the two of us.

You might well be aware that I have a son. His name is Killian, he’s 26, and he’d been living at home since a rather painful break-up. My wife had been dropping “subtle” hints for months, wondering aloud when her boy might consider leaving again. Last year, he brashly declared that 2025 would be his year.

The little bugger was true to his word. I now live with my wife and daughter, firmly in the minority. Molly, the dog, and Zombie, the cat, are both girls. The only other male left in the house is Mamaduke, the other cat—and he was neutered as a kitten.

Feeling somewhat emasculated, Killian offered to accompany me on one final road trip before leaving me alone with all this oestrogen. He suggested we return to Lourdes, as we had done back in 2019. He was a different man back then—brighter around the eyes, more reckless, maybe—but he has since matured through his heartache, and the healing that followed.

The Airbnb was booked and paid for. The car was ready. We were ready. My wife was looking forward to some peace and quiet. We’d be fine, and yes, we promised to send messages on the way to let her know where we were. We had the whole week off work, and this four-day visit would give us a bit of time together before he started this new chapter of his life. One last Ian-and-Killian trip.

On the way down, I quickly learnt that I’d have to hand over control of the music. That was going to be interesting.

He still hates selfies, and is terribly self-conscious about being on camera. So when he spotted my phone recording the both of us, he just muttered, “Mais quel enfer…” The road was very quiet for most of the journey, and things only got rough around Bordeaux. We passed a lorry on its side, cargo strewn everywhere. We said a quiet prayer for the driver. It was a sobering reminder of how fragile life on the road can be.

Killian kept a close eye on me as we tackled the ring road around Bordeaux, directing me with impressive calm. Once we got past the city, things settled down—so did we. Frequent stops for coffee, and fresh air at service stations helped. I wasn’t about to push through and risk ending up like that poor lorry driver. My wife would kill me if I died…

We managed to find our digs for the stay, and although small, it was perfect for the two of us. Killian made us dinner, and we got to bed feeling happy to be alive, and happy to be once again in Lourdes.

We would go down to the Sanctuary the next morning, say hello to Our Lady, maybe go to confession, and visit the baths. Killian wanted to go to Spain, but since I didn’t have our passports, that wasn’t going to happen. I had decided not to overdo anything, and just see where the trip would lead us. No stress, and no rigorous schedule. All I wanted to do was to get to confession, to Mass, and get some water, take some photos, and film to make a video. Killian wanted to go to the Pont d’Espagne, which—despite the name—is in France. But more about that later…

Saint Cado

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The concert was for the municipality of Lorient and was more I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. Sometimes as musicians we have to kowtow to certain political matters to keep the municipality sweet. They said it would be cramped, but it was, at worst, cosy, so no complaints there.

After the concert, I had organised my car so I could sleep in it. I parked up in front of my mother-in-law’s house to spend the night and get some photography in during the early hours of the morning — and because my mother-in-law can be intense, and I don’t like bothering people. It’s not that I don’t like staying overnight in people’s houses, but at one stage on exercise with the RCT (Royal Corps of Transport) back in the late 1980s, I learnt that I could sleep anywhere and that it was nothing to worry about. I didn’t have my sleeping bag from those days, which would let me sleep comfortably in minus temperatures, but I did have a couple of Scottish tartan blankets that would keep me nice and warm.

It wasn’t long before I got off to sleep. I actually slept quite well, considering, and bought myself breakfast at the local boulangerie. No snoring to contend with and no risk of being shouted at because the dog was awake and needed to go outside to poop. Yes, a very satisfying night.

After my wonderful bakery breakfast, I headed to St Cado, which really is a cadeau — a gift — for the eyes. You’ll see what I mean when you see the pictures.

I relish solitude, not just because I’m an introvert, but because I like calm and quiet. And the idea of being up at the crack of dawn is wonderful, especially when I don’t have to get out of my bed and stop hugging my wife. I was on my own and loving every minute of it.

I arrived at St Cado and used the public conveniences, as it is not the done thing to poop in front of everyone. I’m not a dog, after all. St Cado was there waiting for me to get some photos in some beautiful light. I’ve started bracketing lately to get as much as I can out of each image. Bracketing, for those who think I am speaking in Chinese, consists of taking the same photo three times — once with normal metering for light, once underexposed, and once overexposed. Back in the day, you would set up your tripod and take each photo one at a time, but now I press the button and it does it automatically. On film you would lose film doing this, but on digital, with an empty SD card — why not?

As the morning light continued to change and the village slowly came to life, I packed up my gear feeling quietly content. These simple moments — waking early, capturing the beauty of a place like St Cado, and enjoying solitude — remind me why I keep a camera close. It’s not just about the photos, but about being present and finding peace in the everyday. Saint Cado truly was a gift to the senses, and I’m grateful for the chance to savour it in my own way.