At 6.45, in glimmering light, a mist beyond the red-checked curtain, I was crouching by the woodburner, carefully feeding small sticks into the embers, coaxing the friendly monster back to life. A small flame rewarded me, how little it takes to give one huge pleasure. Not normally an early riser, I had been unable to find the knob to wind me back an hour last night, and there was a certain glow in the mist that hinted of a glorious day to come that got me up.
As the mist shifted later, I jumped out of bed, ( yes, dear Reader, I had retired again, with Whittard's Assam and 'Winter In Madrid',) grabbed jeans, fleece and camera and rushed out to catch images before the light changed. I'll post a few here later; having taken a few between the vines, the fusillade from the chasseurs up in the woods drove me to the safety of our own garden.
Yesterday I did the walk 'round the block' that some of you have done with us when you arrived after a journey. The vines from which we picked merlot or sauvingnon grapes in September are now stripped and turning sage and mustard. Against pale french navy hills, the yellow candles of poplars stood, and here and there a field maple blazed, its rich colours stealing the eye from the less showy oaks and chestnuts. (Our other local walk, around the lake, takes us round a mirror on which are reflected ducks and herons, black and white blobs on a plate of blue.) A woman passes on a higher path. We wave. She is not near enough for me to ask 'have I missed the Grues?'
The grues, - cranes- are one of the sights and sounds of autumn and early spring. My diary records their passage on the 28th and 29th October, in the previous 2 years, so perhaps they've not yet passed, although it has been cold for a week. You hear them first; they are named for their call; perhaps one evening as they arrive at a nearby lake to settle for the night, or the next morning as they wait for the sun to warm them up a bit, encouraging them to spiral and jostle and flap, finally arranging themselves into an orderly and stately upward reel into the sky, where they circle for a while, arguing about the direction, until a vote is taken and they head South for Africa once more. Or you hear them and look around, then up, searching the sky for the source of 500 birds 'grrrue-grrue'-ing and there they are, far higher than you would have thought from the volume of the sound, a long, trailing, wavering 'V' that trembles up and down with each wing beat. You can still hear them long after they've gone. Wonderful.
Passerelles. Birds of passage. Which we are, now. From the moment we made our decision to leave our home, we were detatching ourselves from Home. And where is that, now, exactly? Sometimes I ache with homesickness, but I am not as I was when I left, and to where would I return? Unlike the swallow and the crane, we can never return the the same place twice, at least not without feeling how different it is, we are, now. I look at Britain now with a judgement influenced by how 'we do things here', although the French-encompassing 'we' doesn't fit me either. I still struggle with the everyday communication of non-school French. I have French acquaintances, but friends?... Unless I bump into someone from the village, I haven't a clue what's going on in the community; who's died, who's left, ( although leaving home is something few French do.)
For some time I felt totally adrift, cut off from 'there', committed to 'here' but no part of it, alienated from it. Sometimes I woke in a panic in the night. Sometimes I wept.
But now I am part of a network of similar migratory creatures of several nationalities. We share our experiences of dislocation, our very different views of Britain. The footpaths, fields, ponds and woods are completely familiar now - I know the terroir, where the hunt looks for pigeons, where for deer, which vines grow red wines, which white, and even, sometimes, who owns which vinyard. Distant views are familiar too, although I don't always know the names of the hills I know roughly where they are. But I can never be rooted in this soil and I don't know which soil I might one day really feel is Home.
It is less hard now, we have, after all, come to land, settled for the night, 'found our feet'. We pay our taxes, are in the Health System, (and still will be after Sarkhozy's spiteful law disallows that sanctuary to several people I know. As if that will make any difference to his Budget deficit!), we have French driving licences and French Wills; conquering each of these bureaucratic nightmares has been a little triumph and several, an excuse for a bottle of Fizz!
But one day we will spiral upward, arguing about which way to go......
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Fireworks (2)
I have just got round to putting the final mud pictures on, since Viki thought the blog finished abruptly & she thought we were still in a mess. ( Leave comments, Vik; however am I going to get the notoriety of the 'myboyfriendisatwat' woman otherwise? Or the publishing deal?) Well of course we are still in a mess, this place is huge & ancient, but the grass has grown & the potager is restored. I will post prettier pics soon, but include the final one as it shows the famous pile of rocks, viewed by all visitors who had read about it in earlier Round Robins with gasps of mingled admiration & horror. We truly have dug them & heaved them ourselves, (yes, this is pretty much a royal we but I did do some,) and now the pile is a haunt of lizards.
On July 20th we gave ourselves a break & took a trip to the Vendée with the French class above mine. Marie-Christine has got it into her head that I am a person of culture & despite my absolute refusal to join her 'Civilisations' group to discuss history & politics, ( my French truly isn't up to it,), I am often included in their jollies.
I have to say this person of culture raised an eyebrow at the chosen venue, a sort of historical theme park with grand staged 'Spectacles' instead of rides, called Parc du Grand Fou.
We watched a cod rehash of Gladiator in an impressive amphitheatre & moved on to the Viking village. After happy bronze age people frolicked free of hunger, syphilis or bad dentistry, the V's arrived. One longboat sailed impressively round a bend in the river, (the settings for the spectacles were just that, spectacular,) but then one appeared to slide down a hill rather than round it & another rose from beneath the water. Marie-Christine must have heard Paul murmur in my ear,
"Hmmm, I never knew the Vikings had invented the submarine..", for as we all wandered off to watch 'Falcons Les Phantomes' (this won't let me do an ascii 'o' with a hat), she sidled up to me & said apologetically,
"I don't think this is quite your thing?!" with perfect 'ths'.
However, the Falcon thing was quite stunning, we had never seen so many birds of prey together, including huge vultures & eagles who were set loose from a tethered balloon way up in the sky, & all set skimming above our heads by the handlers. It was jaw-dropping & well-worth the entrance fee & bad food, all on its own.
I'm being unfair; the point of the visit was the evening show, a 'Cinescenie' which is the biggest Son et Lumiere in the world, ( I know, accents, it won't work today,) & this was quite stupendous; I would gladly travel back to see it all again.
We climbed up the side of what felt like a roller coaster, through an entrance hall like the NEC & emerged high up on an enormous grandstand, seating about 10,000 people, over-looking an outdoor 'stage' at least 1/2 a kilometre across. As Darkness fell, we took in the details: a huge lake, behind it a chateau, around were spread woods, a village, lanes, grassy swards, bridges, hovels & distant windmills. The spectacle began as a lone figure with a lantern walked around the setting while a voice set the scene; we were going to see the history of the Vendée. For 2 hours, despite the cold, we watched a cast of 1-2,000 actors, 24 horses, stunning light effects enact a history full of struggle & war. Wonderful set piece followed wonderful set piece, I abandoned my camera.
The finale was optimistic, even a little triumphal, & then the fireworks began. Only a week earlier I'd thought I'd seen the best fireworks ever, but these were even more amazing, they filled the night sky with light & flaming colours, burst after burst, around me everybody gasped, laughed, cheered, one lady wept. I have no pictures of this. If you're visiting the Vendée in the future, go, see.
On July 20th we gave ourselves a break & took a trip to the Vendée with the French class above mine. Marie-Christine has got it into her head that I am a person of culture & despite my absolute refusal to join her 'Civilisations' group to discuss history & politics, ( my French truly isn't up to it,), I am often included in their jollies.
I have to say this person of culture raised an eyebrow at the chosen venue, a sort of historical theme park with grand staged 'Spectacles' instead of rides, called Parc du Grand Fou.
We watched a cod rehash of Gladiator in an impressive amphitheatre & moved on to the Viking village. After happy bronze age people frolicked free of hunger, syphilis or bad dentistry, the V's arrived. One longboat sailed impressively round a bend in the river, (the settings for the spectacles were just that, spectacular,) but then one appeared to slide down a hill rather than round it & another rose from beneath the water. Marie-Christine must have heard Paul murmur in my ear,
"Hmmm, I never knew the Vikings had invented the submarine..", for as we all wandered off to watch 'Falcons Les Phantomes' (this won't let me do an ascii 'o' with a hat), she sidled up to me & said apologetically,
"I don't think this is quite your thing?!" with perfect 'ths'.
However, the Falcon thing was quite stunning, we had never seen so many birds of prey together, including huge vultures & eagles who were set loose from a tethered balloon way up in the sky, & all set skimming above our heads by the handlers. It was jaw-dropping & well-worth the entrance fee & bad food, all on its own.
I'm being unfair; the point of the visit was the evening show, a 'Cinescenie' which is the biggest Son et Lumiere in the world, ( I know, accents, it won't work today,) & this was quite stupendous; I would gladly travel back to see it all again.
We climbed up the side of what felt like a roller coaster, through an entrance hall like the NEC & emerged high up on an enormous grandstand, seating about 10,000 people, over-looking an outdoor 'stage' at least 1/2 a kilometre across. As Darkness fell, we took in the details: a huge lake, behind it a chateau, around were spread woods, a village, lanes, grassy swards, bridges, hovels & distant windmills. The spectacle began as a lone figure with a lantern walked around the setting while a voice set the scene; we were going to see the history of the Vendée. For 2 hours, despite the cold, we watched a cast of 1-2,000 actors, 24 horses, stunning light effects enact a history full of struggle & war. Wonderful set piece followed wonderful set piece, I abandoned my camera.
The finale was optimistic, even a little triumphal, & then the fireworks began. Only a week earlier I'd thought I'd seen the best fireworks ever, but these were even more amazing, they filled the night sky with light & flaming colours, burst after burst, around me everybody gasped, laughed, cheered, one lady wept. I have no pictures of this. If you're visiting the Vendée in the future, go, see.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Feux D'Artifices 1
I think I need the 'X' & the 'S', (anyway, there were lots of them, over 2 weekends.)
This is like homework: have I spelt it correctly? Gotta get it posted before we go back to the UK for 2 weeks...
To whom am I handing it in, though? Who is reading this, red pen in hand?
Anyway, the fireworks.
For years we came to France in the summer holidays, expecting to celebrate Bastille Day with cheering, merry French Republicans, but we must always have been in the wrong places. Campsites on the Loire & Ardèche, small villages, central squares in medieval towns were more deserted on the 14th July than normal. Where did the celebrating go on?
In 2005, we heard distant crackling & saw golden showers from our isolated garden, so in 2006 we headed for our local town. We had to queue to get in, at a crossing, as every child under 10 crossed in front of us, dressed in frills, pastels minature suits & ties, spotless socks, each carrying a candle lantern & accompanied by a proud adult, holding their hands as they progressed to the Chateau. There was a fairground set up in the centre, ( not a very big one as it isn't a very big centre.) Stalls full of gaudy gewgaws lined the streets, so we retreated down the steps to our favourite bar. I'm not sure why we prefer this place as we must double the average age, anyway, we got a drink & joined the groups standing in the road, looking up at the chateau waiting for the fireworks.
Well, there were 3. One was red. 2 were gold. Between them they created, oooh, 10 stars & 1 bang? We drank our drink. We went home, yes, waiting first for the 100+ children to cross back over the crossing. All that finery for 3 feu(x) d'Artifice(s) in 10 minutes! They didn't seem too disappointed, but I bloomin' was.
So when a friend from Bergerac said, 'Come to dinner & we'll walk to the old Port to watch the fireworks', I thought, 'Well, it will be nice to go to Bob's for dinner, anyway' And so it was. Afterwards we walked through a warm evening towards the Port. More & more people joined us. The streets were lined with cars, one wheel on the pavement, de rigeur parking but VERy politically incorrect, probably why they do it. When we got to the bridge, there were hundreds of people, excited, chattering, the children carrying those little multi-coloured flashing things that look like neon sparklers... Amazing! We settled on the cobbles of the Port, the place was packed. Before long the PA started, telling us that the Ville & Commune of Bergerac welcomed us to their celebration of le Quatorze, that the theme was 'cinema' & they wished everyone good luck for the coming twelvemonth.
With that began the most amazing firework display I have ever seen. We tried to 'spot the Movie' as clear, loud stereo sound blasted wonderful themes, from Gladiator to Brief Encounter, from James Bond to Top Hat, with perfectly choreographed & coloured rockets, starbursts, wheels, rains & shooting stars crackled & banged across the river. Wonderful.
And afterwards, several thousand people, with no marshalls & few Police in evidence, got themselves & their children from the port, along the narrow streets & alleyways of the old Town, to sit in delightful bars beneath plane trees & eat an ice-cream or drink a beer. A lovely evening, so civilised, so elegant, & I thought with sadness of what happens these days in English town centres....
(to be cont.)
This is like homework: have I spelt it correctly? Gotta get it posted before we go back to the UK for 2 weeks...
To whom am I handing it in, though? Who is reading this, red pen in hand?
Anyway, the fireworks.
For years we came to France in the summer holidays, expecting to celebrate Bastille Day with cheering, merry French Republicans, but we must always have been in the wrong places. Campsites on the Loire & Ardèche, small villages, central squares in medieval towns were more deserted on the 14th July than normal. Where did the celebrating go on?
In 2005, we heard distant crackling & saw golden showers from our isolated garden, so in 2006 we headed for our local town. We had to queue to get in, at a crossing, as every child under 10 crossed in front of us, dressed in frills, pastels minature suits & ties, spotless socks, each carrying a candle lantern & accompanied by a proud adult, holding their hands as they progressed to the Chateau. There was a fairground set up in the centre, ( not a very big one as it isn't a very big centre.) Stalls full of gaudy gewgaws lined the streets, so we retreated down the steps to our favourite bar. I'm not sure why we prefer this place as we must double the average age, anyway, we got a drink & joined the groups standing in the road, looking up at the chateau waiting for the fireworks.
Well, there were 3. One was red. 2 were gold. Between them they created, oooh, 10 stars & 1 bang? We drank our drink. We went home, yes, waiting first for the 100+ children to cross back over the crossing. All that finery for 3 feu(x) d'Artifice(s) in 10 minutes! They didn't seem too disappointed, but I bloomin' was.
So when a friend from Bergerac said, 'Come to dinner & we'll walk to the old Port to watch the fireworks', I thought, 'Well, it will be nice to go to Bob's for dinner, anyway' And so it was. Afterwards we walked through a warm evening towards the Port. More & more people joined us. The streets were lined with cars, one wheel on the pavement, de rigeur parking but VERy politically incorrect, probably why they do it. When we got to the bridge, there were hundreds of people, excited, chattering, the children carrying those little multi-coloured flashing things that look like neon sparklers... Amazing! We settled on the cobbles of the Port, the place was packed. Before long the PA started, telling us that the Ville & Commune of Bergerac welcomed us to their celebration of le Quatorze, that the theme was 'cinema' & they wished everyone good luck for the coming twelvemonth.
With that began the most amazing firework display I have ever seen. We tried to 'spot the Movie' as clear, loud stereo sound blasted wonderful themes, from Gladiator to Brief Encounter, from James Bond to Top Hat, with perfectly choreographed & coloured rockets, starbursts, wheels, rains & shooting stars crackled & banged across the river. Wonderful.
And afterwards, several thousand people, with no marshalls & few Police in evidence, got themselves & their children from the port, along the narrow streets & alleyways of the old Town, to sit in delightful bars beneath plane trees & eat an ice-cream or drink a beer. A lovely evening, so civilised, so elegant, & I thought with sadness of what happens these days in English town centres....
(to be cont.)
Saturday, 7 July 2007
Flood & Mud
Finally we emerge from 6 months of muddy trauma. It was not caused by poor weather, (although that certainly didn't help) but we sort of brought it upon ourselves.
Those of you who have visited may remember that our gas tank on which 2 central heating systems depend was sinking slowly into a mysterious hole at an alarming angle. Finally, Totalgaz refused to fill 'er up again. M. Cabriole, (not quite his name, but I'm going to be rude about him & don't wish to find out how French Libel law works,) swanned over in his Gucci loafers with a young acolyte in tow one day in, oh, must've bin early November. When he wasn't using them to brush back his elegant grey hair or tap on his phone, his waving hands indicated various tank-relocating possibilities, while pouting, pwuffing & shrugging to indicate how easy it would be.
Already I wasn't sure. OK, he said Totalgaz would charge us nothing, but there was that oh so often - used French phrase that I have learned to use, that you hear everywhere, 'Il faut que..' followed by the subjunctive. We hardly use it in English, 'it is necessary that one should'..do whatever.. is a rough translation."Il faudra..", (he used the future tense. Please note I am showing off here.) " It would be necessary that I should find a builder who could place a platform of beton that should be... much flourishing of extended tape measure & soaking of loafers in long, wet grass... so many meters by so many. Then il faudra que .. an ever - elusive plumber -electrician be found to cut off the old gas tank & re-connect the new. Did I know anyone? O KAay, yess.. we had had (pluperfect) a lot of work done, I know people...
" Bon, alors, lets go & have a coffee & sign some contracts"
We slop back to the house & I am fairly pleased to note the state of his lower legs. Over coffee, I discovered the acolyte's use was not only tape-measure-holding but he could draw a mean plan-to-scale on p1 of a many-paged contract. With much repetition of information in his, admittedly, very rich, deep voice, M. Cabriole enjoyed telling me that I should make all the arrangements, That a lovely tank would be delivered by February 2nd, the old one moved beside it, & that everything should be completed by mid-February, "et voilà".
At first, everything is fine. Philippe the builder trips up to assess the job. The plombier-electricien says fine, just give him a ring when we're ready & he'll be over. A lovely fine, fair December comes & goes. Early January... Around the 7th, it starts to rain. We are not that far inland from the Bay of Biscay & when it rains it means it & lasts for days. Philippe's boys, their jcb & mixer arrive on the 9th. By the 11th, the job is done. It looks like this. Things are no longer 'fine'.
And this.
There had been a thriving vegetable garden here. Great trenches cut this area of the garden in half.
(gosh, I do hope I manage to put the pictures in. If not, use your imagination. Although nothing like as bad as Hull; somehow my story rather pales in the light of the last fortnight in the UK).
We return from a trip to the UK to meet our new granddaughter to find the company delivering the tank have sent us a letter saying, if we phone to say the concrete is down, they'll do the biz. We have missed the date in the letter. I telephone, we arrange another date, I get hold of the plumber, it starts raining again.
On the new date, the lorry rumbles up. 2 very nice blokes, in wellies & overalls, M.Gucci-Shoes please note, get out & look at the site. And the sight. Heads shake. They can ( & do) deposit the new tank, since the new site has a lane alongside. But there is no way in which they can get their lorry over all that mud to pick up the other tank & relocate it, & anyway, where is the plumber who is to disconnect it? My turn to shrug. It doesn't seem to have the same devastating effect on them as it always does on me. They are kind but what can they do? Phone when it dries out a bit, they say, & drive off.
A few days later, a gas tanker arrives on a normal top-up trip. I don't remind the driver that Totalgaz said we couldn't have any gas & let him top up the old, tilted, tank. We are getting low on fuel & the in-laws need to keep warm. So now, apart from the destroyed corner of the garden & depressing sight, we can forget about the job for a while & get on with decorating jobs inside.
It is now April & the whole of western Europe has summer. All the mud dries out. Then I get phone calls, why hasn't the job been done? The contract specifies everything should be done by mid-April. Hadn't spotted that. B*gger. When in doubt, get cross, - mud, GLI won't shift tank, plumber doesn't come, M.Gucci-Shoes no bluddy help.... A few days later, while Paul is out, M. G-Shoes - &-probably-Knickers phones to say he's coming over. I get onto the plumber, who miraculously agrees to come too. It is so hot when they arrive that we stand in the shade of an old shed & the order of work is decided upon, M. Smug-Knickers finally acknowledges that it might not dent his dignity to make a few of the arrangements & phone calls himself, pats the plumber & calls him Pierrot, & things finally seem to be moving.
It starts raining again, well, you remember what May was like. The day before GLI are to arrive to move the tilting tank, Pierrot & his acolyte arrive, cut off the gas, join up some connections in the trenches which covers them in mud. However, the ground is still firm & he reckons the lorry & lifting gear will be fine.
Well, he's very kind. The next day he telephones. Are you sorted? Shall I come & connect all the tanks up?
Well, no.
Merde, why not? Did GLI not come?
Oh, they came.
?
The refilled gas tank now weighs 1.6 tonnes & is now 0.3 tonnes overweight & can't be moved.
Merde.
However, they were very kind & say they know a man with a terracer which will move the tank & they have phoned him & he is driving over from Monségur (20 mins away) & will be here in 2 hours & please will you come & connect us.
Well he did & he did: (picture here?)
After this the in-laws had gas. It only took another 2 weeks for all the paperwork to get to the gas Inspectorate so we were allowed to get the new tank feeding our house filled. It wasn't too cold, & we did have a new immersion heater serving the new bathroom, (we nearly blew ourselves up with it but that's another story,) & we got used to having a 'shower' with a bucket of hot water...
Anyway. That was the end of May & an early, cold June, & the gas came 1 day before all the family including granddaughter, & very hard work by Paul & a lot of grass seed later it now looks like this...
Please hang on for these pics, it is dinner time & tomorrow we're out...
Those of you who have visited may remember that our gas tank on which 2 central heating systems depend was sinking slowly into a mysterious hole at an alarming angle. Finally, Totalgaz refused to fill 'er up again. M. Cabriole, (not quite his name, but I'm going to be rude about him & don't wish to find out how French Libel law works,) swanned over in his Gucci loafers with a young acolyte in tow one day in, oh, must've bin early November. When he wasn't using them to brush back his elegant grey hair or tap on his phone, his waving hands indicated various tank-relocating possibilities, while pouting, pwuffing & shrugging to indicate how easy it would be.
Already I wasn't sure. OK, he said Totalgaz would charge us nothing, but there was that oh so often - used French phrase that I have learned to use, that you hear everywhere, 'Il faut que..' followed by the subjunctive. We hardly use it in English, 'it is necessary that one should'..do whatever.. is a rough translation."Il faudra..", (he used the future tense. Please note I am showing off here.) " It would be necessary that I should find a builder who could place a platform of beton that should be... much flourishing of extended tape measure & soaking of loafers in long, wet grass... so many meters by so many. Then il faudra que .. an ever - elusive plumber -electrician be found to cut off the old gas tank & re-connect the new. Did I know anyone? O KAay, yess.. we had had (pluperfect) a lot of work done, I know people...
" Bon, alors, lets go & have a coffee & sign some contracts"
We slop back to the house & I am fairly pleased to note the state of his lower legs. Over coffee, I discovered the acolyte's use was not only tape-measure-holding but he could draw a mean plan-to-scale on p1 of a many-paged contract. With much repetition of information in his, admittedly, very rich, deep voice, M. Cabriole enjoyed telling me that I should make all the arrangements, That a lovely tank would be delivered by February 2nd, the old one moved beside it, & that everything should be completed by mid-February, "et voilà".
At first, everything is fine. Philippe the builder trips up to assess the job. The plombier-electricien says fine, just give him a ring when we're ready & he'll be over. A lovely fine, fair December comes & goes. Early January... Around the 7th, it starts to rain. We are not that far inland from the Bay of Biscay & when it rains it means it & lasts for days. Philippe's boys, their jcb & mixer arrive on the 9th. By the 11th, the job is done. It looks like this. Things are no longer 'fine'.
And this.
There had been a thriving vegetable garden here. Great trenches cut this area of the garden in half.
(gosh, I do hope I manage to put the pictures in. If not, use your imagination. Although nothing like as bad as Hull; somehow my story rather pales in the light of the last fortnight in the UK).
We return from a trip to the UK to meet our new granddaughter to find the company delivering the tank have sent us a letter saying, if we phone to say the concrete is down, they'll do the biz. We have missed the date in the letter. I telephone, we arrange another date, I get hold of the plumber, it starts raining again.
On the new date, the lorry rumbles up. 2 very nice blokes, in wellies & overalls, M.Gucci-Shoes please note, get out & look at the site. And the sight. Heads shake. They can ( & do) deposit the new tank, since the new site has a lane alongside. But there is no way in which they can get their lorry over all that mud to pick up the other tank & relocate it, & anyway, where is the plumber who is to disconnect it? My turn to shrug. It doesn't seem to have the same devastating effect on them as it always does on me. They are kind but what can they do? Phone when it dries out a bit, they say, & drive off.
A few days later, a gas tanker arrives on a normal top-up trip. I don't remind the driver that Totalgaz said we couldn't have any gas & let him top up the old, tilted, tank. We are getting low on fuel & the in-laws need to keep warm. So now, apart from the destroyed corner of the garden & depressing sight, we can forget about the job for a while & get on with decorating jobs inside.
It is now April & the whole of western Europe has summer. All the mud dries out. Then I get phone calls, why hasn't the job been done? The contract specifies everything should be done by mid-April. Hadn't spotted that. B*gger. When in doubt, get cross, - mud, GLI won't shift tank, plumber doesn't come, M.Gucci-Shoes no bluddy help.... A few days later, while Paul is out, M. G-Shoes - &-probably-Knickers phones to say he's coming over. I get onto the plumber, who miraculously agrees to come too. It is so hot when they arrive that we stand in the shade of an old shed & the order of work is decided upon, M. Smug-Knickers finally acknowledges that it might not dent his dignity to make a few of the arrangements & phone calls himself, pats the plumber & calls him Pierrot, & things finally seem to be moving.
It starts raining again, well, you remember what May was like. The day before GLI are to arrive to move the tilting tank, Pierrot & his acolyte arrive, cut off the gas, join up some connections in the trenches which covers them in mud. However, the ground is still firm & he reckons the lorry & lifting gear will be fine.
Well, he's very kind. The next day he telephones. Are you sorted? Shall I come & connect all the tanks up?
Well, no.
Merde, why not? Did GLI not come?
Oh, they came.
?
The refilled gas tank now weighs 1.6 tonnes & is now 0.3 tonnes overweight & can't be moved.
Merde.
However, they were very kind & say they know a man with a terracer which will move the tank & they have phoned him & he is driving over from Monségur (20 mins away) & will be here in 2 hours & please will you come & connect us.
Well he did & he did: (picture here?)
After this the in-laws had gas. It only took another 2 weeks for all the paperwork to get to the gas Inspectorate so we were allowed to get the new tank feeding our house filled. It wasn't too cold, & we did have a new immersion heater serving the new bathroom, (we nearly blew ourselves up with it but that's another story,) & we got used to having a 'shower' with a bucket of hot water...
Anyway. That was the end of May & an early, cold June, & the gas came 1 day before all the family including granddaughter, & very hard work by Paul & a lot of grass seed later it now looks like this...
Please hang on for these pics, it is dinner time & tomorrow we're out...
Monday, 18 June 2007
Doing & dashing - exhausting!
For weeks we have been stripping & plastering & scrubbing & plumbing & tiling & grouting & painting & papering. Result, one super dooper bathroom & 2 more guest rooms.
For two days we did pushing & carrying & shoving & arranging to get all the furniture & 'room dressing' in in time, then one day shopping & polishing.
Then we got half a day off, Phew! Flop. Snooze! as the visitors, son, partner, grand-daughter, the 2 other grandparents, didn't arrive till the evening flight.
Then for 8 days we've been talking, eating, DRInking, filling the dishwasher, emptying the dishwasher, barbeque-ing, Drinking, packing into cars, rushing off, rushing back, dandling the baby, cooing at the baby, changing & feeding the baby, (just a thought, how did Sarah Parrish in that drama 'Me, Sex & the City' last night have time to drink vodka & lie on the settee while caring for a baby?), getting more shopping, more drinking, photographing, sitting in the sun or the shade, singing, shouting, showering,
And now they've gone. It's oh so quiet, shh, shh.
And I'm sighing & moping, cleaning & doing the washing, drinking pints & pints of.. water.
For two days we did pushing & carrying & shoving & arranging to get all the furniture & 'room dressing' in in time, then one day shopping & polishing.
Then we got half a day off, Phew! Flop. Snooze! as the visitors, son, partner, grand-daughter, the 2 other grandparents, didn't arrive till the evening flight.
Then for 8 days we've been talking, eating, DRInking, filling the dishwasher, emptying the dishwasher, barbeque-ing, Drinking, packing into cars, rushing off, rushing back, dandling the baby, cooing at the baby, changing & feeding the baby, (just a thought, how did Sarah Parrish in that drama 'Me, Sex & the City' last night have time to drink vodka & lie on the settee while caring for a baby?), getting more shopping, more drinking, photographing, sitting in the sun or the shade, singing, shouting, showering,
And now they've gone. It's oh so quiet, shh, shh.
And I'm sighing & moping, cleaning & doing the washing, drinking pints & pints of.. water.
Sunday, 27 May 2007
09 May 2007
balloon head
back after a busy day, with a swollen head....2 compliments in one day. No, not"Why, Miss Jones, but... you're beautiful..." The time for that is, if not long gone, then certainly autrefois. But at my French cours, a pretty intensive language course held by a superb, energetic teacher of a foreign language, Marie Delaye, I was kept back to be told I had made the most progress of all her students at level4 that year. Wow! It was worth mastering the subjunctive& reading le Fig to understand the election. Here I am in my fimtyumph decade, longing to please the teacher & chuffed to bits when I do!And this morning's teacher, Christine the line-dancing queen, earned my undying devotion by including me in her teacher's pet-quick-learners group & teaching us a faster, more complex dance than the rather dull stomp & scuffs we've been doing. In celebratory mood, & having forgotten to defrost some pastry before my late return from class, I nearly suggested we went out to eat - it is a blessed evening of calm sauternes sunshine - but wiser caution & the remembrance of the bank account prevailed.Tomorrow it's back to the decorating, 2 rooms to finish by June, & you know what they say about the bloke who invented decorating...
balloon head
back after a busy day, with a swollen head....2 compliments in one day. No, not"Why, Miss Jones, but... you're beautiful..." The time for that is, if not long gone, then certainly autrefois. But at my French cours, a pretty intensive language course held by a superb, energetic teacher of a foreign language, Marie Delaye, I was kept back to be told I had made the most progress of all her students at level4 that year. Wow! It was worth mastering the subjunctive& reading le Fig to understand the election. Here I am in my fimtyumph decade, longing to please the teacher & chuffed to bits when I do!And this morning's teacher, Christine the line-dancing queen, earned my undying devotion by including me in her teacher's pet-quick-learners group & teaching us a faster, more complex dance than the rather dull stomp & scuffs we've been doing. In celebratory mood, & having forgotten to defrost some pastry before my late return from class, I nearly suggested we went out to eat - it is a blessed evening of calm sauternes sunshine - but wiser caution & the remembrance of the bank account prevailed.Tomorrow it's back to the decorating, 2 rooms to finish by June, & you know what they say about the bloke who invented decorating...
Sunday-Taxes & Ten Tors
Sundays are SOoo quiet here, apart from mainlaw's doberman barking, affronted, as a distant neighbour's visitors have the temerity to drive off with a merry beep. Hardly a car passes, but for the constant chirrup of cicadas & the breeze through the conifers my ears would be humming with dense silence. Perfect time to confront the Tax Form.Really it's not so difficult, the Hôtel des Impots sends us the easy pink form; our affairs are limited & simple, only a couple of sections to fill in, it's just that it's foreign, there's always the risk of making un erreur & if you're not Chirac a dim view is taken of financial mistakes. We might be hauled off to the Bastille, no, it no longer exists, that Island then, where Papillon was incarcerated , after all, you can be jugged for merely failing to balance your cheque-book & going overdrawn! Suddenly weeding the drive then painting a door seem terribly important. A bagful of broad beans is crying out to be podded & frozen, make P a cuppa while he prepares the guestroom's walls for tomorrow's papering, get the washing in... Oh well, I'm sure I'll do it before it has to be in the post for June 1st.I see the UK has the customary accompanying appalling weather to the 10 Tors challenge. Why don't they change the date? Every year it's the same. Still it was great seeing so many teenagers dressed in clothes not hanging off their backsides or pulling above junk-food-filled stomachs, articulate, grinning, if disappointed, having put in weeks of training, at being stopped from yomping over beautiful Dartmoor, reminding the world that it is only an unfortunate percentage of 13-20 year-olds who spend their time binge- drinking in town centres before puking & fighting in gutters. Although P pointed out that many of them will now be enjoying a night on the cider! Well, they've earned it.Well done the Hammers! Beat ManU!!
Sundays are SOoo quiet here, apart from mainlaw's doberman barking, affronted, as a distant neighbour's visitors have the temerity to drive off with a merry beep. Hardly a car passes, but for the constant chirrup of cicadas & the breeze through the conifers my ears would be humming with dense silence. Perfect time to confront the Tax Form.Really it's not so difficult, the Hôtel des Impots sends us the easy pink form; our affairs are limited & simple, only a couple of sections to fill in, it's just that it's foreign, there's always the risk of making un erreur & if you're not Chirac a dim view is taken of financial mistakes. We might be hauled off to the Bastille, no, it no longer exists, that Island then, where Papillon was incarcerated , after all, you can be jugged for merely failing to balance your cheque-book & going overdrawn! Suddenly weeding the drive then painting a door seem terribly important. A bagful of broad beans is crying out to be podded & frozen, make P a cuppa while he prepares the guestroom's walls for tomorrow's papering, get the washing in... Oh well, I'm sure I'll do it before it has to be in the post for June 1st.I see the UK has the customary accompanying appalling weather to the 10 Tors challenge. Why don't they change the date? Every year it's the same. Still it was great seeing so many teenagers dressed in clothes not hanging off their backsides or pulling above junk-food-filled stomachs, articulate, grinning, if disappointed, having put in weeks of training, at being stopped from yomping over beautiful Dartmoor, reminding the world that it is only an unfortunate percentage of 13-20 year-olds who spend their time binge- drinking in town centres before puking & fighting in gutters. Although P pointed out that many of them will now be enjoying a night on the cider! Well, they've earned it.Well done the Hammers! Beat ManU!!
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
back to shedland...
One day I will have the time to look at lots of other blogs to see what a blog should be like...
But today it was off to Marmande, to take pa-in-law to an appointment, then a chance to shop for 2 items. Once again I trawle up & down the Bordeaux Road on Marmande's shedland, kerb-crawling with all the other punters who are on the look-out for consumer goods. Those of you who have had my conventional RRs e-mailed in the past will know that many French shopping areas are strung along arterial roads in aluminium sheds, and we still struggle to work out what some of them contain. Since becoming a grandmother I discover that 'Aubert' is a sort of Mothercare. 'Litomania' has beds &, apart from supermarkets is the only place in which I've found bedding. Hence my affection for The White Company & its over-priced mail-order service. Le Mutant is a meat supermarket, hmmm...
Today's futile quest was for moisture lotion. After happily using it for firtyumpty years, I am no longer able to find Almay lotion, so taking my last precious bottle for reference, I venture into a 'parapharmacie'. A size zero 17-year old in a starched white coat hears me out, looks at my bottle & indicates three products. Avène is made from spa water & a bottle 1/5 of the size of mine costs twice as much. Not being a believer in water being anything other than H2O, I move on to Caudelie, which is made from the remains of squished grapes. After the harvest, vignerons leave piles of these at special roadside points where the Min of Ag picks them up & turns them into industrial alcohol; they smell appalling. I pass on to Roc, again, a minute tube costs far more per centilitre than I am used to paying - I am going to have to grow old more gracefully. I show my teeth & escape in search of new baskets.
Sport 2000, thank goodness for an unambiguous shop name. 1 pair Reeboks, perfect fit, très confortable, parfait, succès! First decent pair I've had for ages despite years of step etc. Praps now I'll finally lose some pounds? Now I have good baskets? ( Ssh. Don't tell anyone. They're for line-dancing.) The French LOve line-dancing. I did go to a Guingette ( a dance studio,) in a shed on the Bordeaux Road, where 2 excellent teachers encouraged paysans, femmes de menagère & smooth young men, who must have worn sharp suiting during the day, to sailor-step & coaster-step and every one slung thumbs into big buckled belts that held up straight jeans that covered the tops of their studded cowboy boots. Some even wore hats. And the dancing was brilliant, all pas chassé-ing & quarter turning in perfect unison while the studs flashed.
Now I just enjoy myself in the village hall at Agnac, being taught by an enthusiastic amateur along with a lot of French & English ladies in T-shirts & cardigans, & 3, occasionally 4, men. There were 5, but Gerard, an ex-Parisian policeman, gave up. Sometimes, someone will sport a nattily knotted neckerchief, & several of us wear jeans, but except for Pauline who likes to clack her heels, we favour trainers. The floor is slippery & nobody wants to break a hip!!
Our favourite shed is a Troc. Now what do you think a Troc is? Answers on an e-mail please, I'll tell you another time...
But today it was off to Marmande, to take pa-in-law to an appointment, then a chance to shop for 2 items. Once again I trawle up & down the Bordeaux Road on Marmande's shedland, kerb-crawling with all the other punters who are on the look-out for consumer goods. Those of you who have had my conventional RRs e-mailed in the past will know that many French shopping areas are strung along arterial roads in aluminium sheds, and we still struggle to work out what some of them contain. Since becoming a grandmother I discover that 'Aubert' is a sort of Mothercare. 'Litomania' has beds &, apart from supermarkets is the only place in which I've found bedding. Hence my affection for The White Company & its over-priced mail-order service. Le Mutant is a meat supermarket, hmmm...
Today's futile quest was for moisture lotion. After happily using it for firtyumpty years, I am no longer able to find Almay lotion, so taking my last precious bottle for reference, I venture into a 'parapharmacie'. A size zero 17-year old in a starched white coat hears me out, looks at my bottle & indicates three products. Avène is made from spa water & a bottle 1/5 of the size of mine costs twice as much. Not being a believer in water being anything other than H2O, I move on to Caudelie, which is made from the remains of squished grapes. After the harvest, vignerons leave piles of these at special roadside points where the Min of Ag picks them up & turns them into industrial alcohol; they smell appalling. I pass on to Roc, again, a minute tube costs far more per centilitre than I am used to paying - I am going to have to grow old more gracefully. I show my teeth & escape in search of new baskets.
Sport 2000, thank goodness for an unambiguous shop name. 1 pair Reeboks, perfect fit, très confortable, parfait, succès! First decent pair I've had for ages despite years of step etc. Praps now I'll finally lose some pounds? Now I have good baskets? ( Ssh. Don't tell anyone. They're for line-dancing.) The French LOve line-dancing. I did go to a Guingette ( a dance studio,) in a shed on the Bordeaux Road, where 2 excellent teachers encouraged paysans, femmes de menagère & smooth young men, who must have worn sharp suiting during the day, to sailor-step & coaster-step and every one slung thumbs into big buckled belts that held up straight jeans that covered the tops of their studded cowboy boots. Some even wore hats. And the dancing was brilliant, all pas chassé-ing & quarter turning in perfect unison while the studs flashed.
Now I just enjoy myself in the village hall at Agnac, being taught by an enthusiastic amateur along with a lot of French & English ladies in T-shirts & cardigans, & 3, occasionally 4, men. There were 5, but Gerard, an ex-Parisian policeman, gave up. Sometimes, someone will sport a nattily knotted neckerchief, & several of us wear jeans, but except for Pauline who likes to clack her heels, we favour trainers. The floor is slippery & nobody wants to break a hip!!
Our favourite shed is a Troc. Now what do you think a Troc is? Answers on an e-mail please, I'll tell you another time...
Monday, 14 May 2007
missing on La-Annie
Right, missing blogs are on www.la-annie.blogspot.com , I think!
Next I will try to get the time setting right. Was on Pacific time, switched setting to W European but I'm still 2 hours out.
Next I will try to get the time setting right. Was on Pacific time, switched setting to W European but I'm still 2 hours out.
Brilliant.- - Der!
Typical. Just as I think I've cracked it & created a blog, thanks to the rather irritating & not entirely intuitive sign-on system here, I've ended up with 2 identities & have been merrily blogging away on the wrong one. I'll try & post the link so you don't miss them!
Monday, 7 May 2007
elections & electricity
Yesterday I stumbled through dark corridors behind my mainlaw as she showed me all the cupboards where her bluddy dog's sumptuous supplies are kept. She had just found out, she informed me, that by using less electricity she might help to save the environment. So she was not going to use her lights.
Then she & my father-in-law switched off their tv which is on 16/24, 7/7, (loudly), got into our car, we drove for 1 & 1/2 hours to Bordeaux, including a 20-minute spell with foot hard down, which is the only way to survive on the 'Rocade' around the city, to the airport at Merignac, where they got on a jet.
Bordeaux's airport is unhurried, bright & cheerful. There are plenty of signs, loos & pleasing notices saying Restaurants, plural. You can park right outside. We've never flown from there, being far more familiar with the tents & sheds of Bergerac-Roumanières, but as they shuffled off, I thought that I'd like to, perhaps this summer, as we brace ourselves for the usual heat plus the now-expected urban unrest.
This may not be noticeable in the calm of the rural Sud-Ouest but it may be wise to stock up at the supermarket. One cannot live on foie-gras, duck breast & the local appellations for ever, ( although this is pretty well all you can get in any local restaurant as French food has ossified since the 1960's, bar the nouvelle cuisine blip). If supply lines are cut by riots in the banlieus & strikes at the ports, following Sarkhozy's election, we need to ensure our supplies of sliced bread & sausages & bottled Black Sheep. These are all to be found on the shelves marked 'Produits Etrangers', along with noodles & soy sauce & Pataks curry sauces, Hooray! All a far cry from the day when, in a supermarket near Sarlat, we shrank & longed to look French as a pink Englishwoman in unsuitable shorts strode up & down the aisles, crying
"But they must have Branston's. Where's the Branstons?", after which we ex-pats promised never to raise our voices in that middle-class bray that so many English tourists affect as they de-ferry.
I watched Sego & Sarko on the debate. I know which one I preferred. The body language spoke volumes; one too rigidly calm despite a moment of being accused of losing their cool, one fidgettingly repressed, aggressive, turning a shoulder constantly to viewer & co-debatee & talking to the TV pundits. We're in for a rocky 100 days, je pense. Best to turn off lights, leds & all, head for Merignac & the hills.
Then she & my father-in-law switched off their tv which is on 16/24, 7/7, (loudly), got into our car, we drove for 1 & 1/2 hours to Bordeaux, including a 20-minute spell with foot hard down, which is the only way to survive on the 'Rocade' around the city, to the airport at Merignac, where they got on a jet.
Bordeaux's airport is unhurried, bright & cheerful. There are plenty of signs, loos & pleasing notices saying Restaurants, plural. You can park right outside. We've never flown from there, being far more familiar with the tents & sheds of Bergerac-Roumanières, but as they shuffled off, I thought that I'd like to, perhaps this summer, as we brace ourselves for the usual heat plus the now-expected urban unrest.
This may not be noticeable in the calm of the rural Sud-Ouest but it may be wise to stock up at the supermarket. One cannot live on foie-gras, duck breast & the local appellations for ever, ( although this is pretty well all you can get in any local restaurant as French food has ossified since the 1960's, bar the nouvelle cuisine blip). If supply lines are cut by riots in the banlieus & strikes at the ports, following Sarkhozy's election, we need to ensure our supplies of sliced bread & sausages & bottled Black Sheep. These are all to be found on the shelves marked 'Produits Etrangers', along with noodles & soy sauce & Pataks curry sauces, Hooray! All a far cry from the day when, in a supermarket near Sarlat, we shrank & longed to look French as a pink Englishwoman in unsuitable shorts strode up & down the aisles, crying
"But they must have Branston's. Where's the Branstons?", after which we ex-pats promised never to raise our voices in that middle-class bray that so many English tourists affect as they de-ferry.
I watched Sego & Sarko on the debate. I know which one I preferred. The body language spoke volumes; one too rigidly calm despite a moment of being accused of losing their cool, one fidgettingly repressed, aggressive, turning a shoulder constantly to viewer & co-debatee & talking to the TV pundits. We're in for a rocky 100 days, je pense. Best to turn off lights, leds & all, head for Merignac & the hills.
elections & electricity
Yesterday I stumbled through dark corridors behind my mainlaw as she showed me all the cupboards where her bluddy dog's sumptuous supplies are kept. She had just found out, she informed me, that by using less electricity she might help to save the environment. So she was not going to use her lights.
Then she & my father-in-law switched off their tv which is on 16/24, 7/7, (loudly), got into our car, we drove for 1 & 1/2 hours to Bordeaux, including a 20-minute spell with foot hard down, which is the only way to survive on the 'Rocade' around the city, to the airport at Merignac, where they got on a jet.
Bordeaux's airport is unhurried, bright & cheerful. There are plenty of signs, loos & pleasing notices saying Restaurants, plural. You can park right outside. We've never flown from there, being far more familiar with the tents & sheds of Bergerac-Roumanières, but as they shuffled off, I thought that I'd like to, perhaps this summer, as we brace ourselves for the usual heat plus the now-expected urban unrest.
This may not be noticeable in the calm of the rural Sud-Ouest but it may be wise to stock up at the supermarket. One cannot live on foie-gras, duck breast & the local appellations for ever, ( although this is pretty well all you can get in any local restaurant as French food has ossified since the 1960's, bar the nouvelle cuisine blip). If supply lines are cut by riots in the banlieus & strikes at the ports, following Sarkhozy's election, we need to ensure our supplies of sliced bread & sausages & bottled Black Sheep. These are all to be found on the shelves marked 'Produits Etrangers', along with noodles & soy sauce & Pataks curry sauces, Hooray! All a far cry from the day when, in a supermarket near Sarlat, we shrank & longed to look French as a pink Englishwoman in unsuitable shorts strode up & down the aisles, crying
"But they must have Branston's. Where's the Branstons?", after which we ex-pats promised never to raise our voices in that middle-class bray that so many English tourists affect as they de-ferry.
I watched Sego & Sarko on the debate. I know which one I preferred. The body language spoke volumes; one too rigidly calm despite a moment of being accused of losing their cool, one fidgettingly repressed, aggressive, turning a shoulder constantly to viewer & co-debatee & talking to the TV pundits. We're in for a rocky 100 days, je pense. Best to turn off lights, leds & all, head for Merignac & the hills.
Then she & my father-in-law switched off their tv which is on 16/24, 7/7, (loudly), got into our car, we drove for 1 & 1/2 hours to Bordeaux, including a 20-minute spell with foot hard down, which is the only way to survive on the 'Rocade' around the city, to the airport at Merignac, where they got on a jet.
Bordeaux's airport is unhurried, bright & cheerful. There are plenty of signs, loos & pleasing notices saying Restaurants, plural. You can park right outside. We've never flown from there, being far more familiar with the tents & sheds of Bergerac-Roumanières, but as they shuffled off, I thought that I'd like to, perhaps this summer, as we brace ourselves for the usual heat plus the now-expected urban unrest.
This may not be noticeable in the calm of the rural Sud-Ouest but it may be wise to stock up at the supermarket. One cannot live on foie-gras, duck breast & the local appellations for ever, ( although this is pretty well all you can get in any local restaurant as French food has ossified since the 1960's, bar the nouvelle cuisine blip). If supply lines are cut by riots in the banlieus & strikes at the ports, following Sarkhozy's election, we need to ensure our supplies of sliced bread & sausages & bottled Black Sheep. These are all to be found on the shelves marked 'Produits Etrangers', along with noodles & soy sauce & Pataks curry sauces, Hooray! All a far cry from the day when, in a supermarket near Sarlat, we shrank & longed to look French as a pink Englishwoman in unsuitable shorts strode up & down the aisles, crying
"But they must have Branston's. Where's the Branstons?", after which we ex-pats promised never to raise our voices in that middle-class bray that so many English tourists affect as they de-ferry.
I watched Sego & Sarko on the debate. I know which one I preferred. The body language spoke volumes; one too rigidly calm despite a moment of being accused of losing their cool, one fidgettingly repressed, aggressive, turning a shoulder constantly to viewer & co-debatee & talking to the TV pundits. We're in for a rocky 100 days, je pense. Best to turn off lights, leds & all, head for Merignac & the hills.
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