Serve me right for being so slow about posting.
Google have laid hands on me blog and it has just taken nearly an hour to find my way onto my own page. Accompanied by the whole of Kate Bush's Sensual World - it helped to keep me calm, anyway. So now, there is no time to post! The promised 'Roots' blog will arrive another day, for now, other jobs call.
Monday, 6 August 2012
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Hibernation
We have to get out of the house soon as we have run out of bird food. They now have a diet of suet, porridge and emmental. I knew that cheese would come in handy for something other than the couple of ounces required by my tartiflette recipe.
On Sunday morning, after a week of bitter east winds, we woke to a blanket of snow beyond the bedroom's French window, and driving snow. The weather has been like this before; in February 2004 we just made it to the airport for a trip back to the UK to pick up the car. Gendarmes accompanied a convoy of traffic up and down the several hills on the Bergerac road, past abandoned lorries, following the only 'gritter' in the area - two guys on the back of a flatbed truck shovelling gravel and earth onto the road, which sank uselessly into several centimeters of snow.
As we sat in the airport, 4 hours before the flight was due, we watched the snow melt before our eyes. The plane left at 4.30 and friends told us later the snow had all disappeared by the evening.
Not this time. Now, on Wednesday morning, the snow is still thick in the garden. A mixture of icing sugar and glitter, it is no good even for making a snowman. I tried, at the top corner of the garden, overlooking the road to the outside world, to make un homme du neige, (just doesn't have the same cosy ring to it, does it?) perhaps waving for help? perhaps signalling 'cheers' with a cup of tea? but the snow crumbled to sparkly fragments in my hand. And few would have seen him anyway, for few vehicles have made it along the road.
The French do not handle 'weather' well. Some seem even to consider rain to be a dangerous substance. In this area of South West France snow is rare and short-lived - 1999 was the last prolonged fall - so there are few snowploughs or gritters. Being a Continental climate it can get intensely cold in January, particularly overnight, but sharp winters are short-lived and can be followed by good spells. We have often gardened in t-shirts in February. So we all have to shift for ourselves now.
A friend marooned up the road in St Astier has just emailed to report the ridiculous if well-meaning efforts of her Maire to clear his Commune's roads. He drove past her house, where she cannot get up the slope of her drive, in his tractor with a bucket on it. " He had attached the bucket not to the front, where he might have been able to scoop some of the snow from the lane, or push it out of the way, but to the back. So he succeeded only in compressing the snow into a hard-packed glass-like surface." A local farmer has made a run along our road and turned up our lane to free our neighbours at the top. But beyond where he has been the road is still pretty dangerous, crackling and crunching as the occasional car goes by in 2nd gear So for one more day we'll stay put.
I've found suet at the back of the spare fridge, so we've had steak and kiddly pud. I've made tartiflette and cheesy-onion bread and we've had lots of porridge. So running short of potatoes and eggs has not been a problem. By the way, the BBC food site has only 1 recipe for tartiflette and it is incorrect. Sorry, Hairy Bikers, crème fraiche is essential imo, although some French recipes use no cream-based products at all. Double cream belongs in a dauphinoise not a tartiflette.
But though the freeze is forecast to continue we have appointments to keep tomorrow.
Our example will be the French family who do stand up to the weather. Unlike other local farmers who have kept their tractors in their sheds and their feet up by their wood-burners, the folk who work the vineyard opposite work in all weathers. By the next spell of good weather, all the pruning has to have been done, followed by the pulling out of all the pruned growth. Yesterday, un homme dressed in a suit similar to that worn by actors in The Hurt Locker, worked his way up and down the rows with his huge secateurs and working up some warmth yanking out lengths of growth.
And he drove here to do it. My Hero.
On Sunday morning, after a week of bitter east winds, we woke to a blanket of snow beyond the bedroom's French window, and driving snow. The weather has been like this before; in February 2004 we just made it to the airport for a trip back to the UK to pick up the car. Gendarmes accompanied a convoy of traffic up and down the several hills on the Bergerac road, past abandoned lorries, following the only 'gritter' in the area - two guys on the back of a flatbed truck shovelling gravel and earth onto the road, which sank uselessly into several centimeters of snow.
As we sat in the airport, 4 hours before the flight was due, we watched the snow melt before our eyes. The plane left at 4.30 and friends told us later the snow had all disappeared by the evening.
Not this time. Now, on Wednesday morning, the snow is still thick in the garden. A mixture of icing sugar and glitter, it is no good even for making a snowman. I tried, at the top corner of the garden, overlooking the road to the outside world, to make un homme du neige, (just doesn't have the same cosy ring to it, does it?) perhaps waving for help? perhaps signalling 'cheers' with a cup of tea? but the snow crumbled to sparkly fragments in my hand. And few would have seen him anyway, for few vehicles have made it along the road.
The French do not handle 'weather' well. Some seem even to consider rain to be a dangerous substance. In this area of South West France snow is rare and short-lived - 1999 was the last prolonged fall - so there are few snowploughs or gritters. Being a Continental climate it can get intensely cold in January, particularly overnight, but sharp winters are short-lived and can be followed by good spells. We have often gardened in t-shirts in February. So we all have to shift for ourselves now.
A friend marooned up the road in St Astier has just emailed to report the ridiculous if well-meaning efforts of her Maire to clear his Commune's roads. He drove past her house, where she cannot get up the slope of her drive, in his tractor with a bucket on it. " He had attached the bucket not to the front, where he might have been able to scoop some of the snow from the lane, or push it out of the way, but to the back. So he succeeded only in compressing the snow into a hard-packed glass-like surface." A local farmer has made a run along our road and turned up our lane to free our neighbours at the top. But beyond where he has been the road is still pretty dangerous, crackling and crunching as the occasional car goes by in 2nd gear So for one more day we'll stay put.
I've found suet at the back of the spare fridge, so we've had steak and kiddly pud. I've made tartiflette and cheesy-onion bread and we've had lots of porridge. So running short of potatoes and eggs has not been a problem. By the way, the BBC food site has only 1 recipe for tartiflette and it is incorrect. Sorry, Hairy Bikers, crème fraiche is essential imo, although some French recipes use no cream-based products at all. Double cream belongs in a dauphinoise not a tartiflette.
But though the freeze is forecast to continue we have appointments to keep tomorrow.
Our example will be the French family who do stand up to the weather. Unlike other local farmers who have kept their tractors in their sheds and their feet up by their wood-burners, the folk who work the vineyard opposite work in all weathers. By the next spell of good weather, all the pruning has to have been done, followed by the pulling out of all the pruned growth. Yesterday, un homme dressed in a suit similar to that worn by actors in The Hurt Locker, worked his way up and down the rows with his huge secateurs and working up some warmth yanking out lengths of growth.
And he drove here to do it. My Hero.
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Jenga
So we have been playing Jenga with a giant woodpile that was once an American Walnut, Juglans Nigra, 27 years old according to its rings, very tall lumps dropped from it into the lane, it filled the barn's gutters with leaves and rats collected its, to us, inaccessible nuts to hide under our camping equipment in the barn and make nests and eat them. So it had to go.
Michel the Bat Man came last February to fell it and we spent a fine weekend clearing, dragging, sorting and stacking. Now the beautiful pink, salmon and cream wood exposed inside the warty bark has weathered to a silvery slatey blue that would be at home on a Fired Earth paint chart.
I filled the wheelbarrow to take to Paul inside the repaired barn for him to stack. He becomes obsessive, turning logs to find the 'right' one, discarding awkwardly chunky ones and 'can't I bring him more of the long ones at 750 mm?'
I roll my eyes, tell him to follow the stonemason's advice to handle a stone only once; pick it up, find a place for it, don't be so precious about it.
The older pile in the woodshed that we are still using, hence needing to stack newer wood elsewhere, was built, by me, following that principle and has, after all, only suffered 2 small avalanches. But no, I have to go on risking shin and foot and play Jenga with a 5 foot pile.
Admittedly his pile is now a thing of beauty, but I think of the adage about wood warming you 3 times as you cut it, stack it and then burn it.
How about cutting - barrowing - stacking - moving stack again - arguing about it (very warming,) - lugging it indoors in a log basket - burning it...
I make that at least 7.
The other calorie-burner we've been experiencing is the tandem he's just bought.
Oh dear.
Terrifying.
Particularly going downhill when I feel my lack of control most acutely.
Until the saddle got the better of Paul, we did manage half an hour on it the day before yesterday and Christophe the carpenter shot past us in his pickup with a great deal of horn-blaring and waving and swerving.
Terrifying.
We were going to get on it again this afternoon, Sundays being as quiet as the Marie Celeste, but it is raining. So I'm going to light the woodburner instead.
And who is Michel the Bat Man you ask? I'm glad you did, it gives me a cliff-hanger for next time....
Michel the Bat Man came last February to fell it and we spent a fine weekend clearing, dragging, sorting and stacking. Now the beautiful pink, salmon and cream wood exposed inside the warty bark has weathered to a silvery slatey blue that would be at home on a Fired Earth paint chart.
I filled the wheelbarrow to take to Paul inside the repaired barn for him to stack. He becomes obsessive, turning logs to find the 'right' one, discarding awkwardly chunky ones and 'can't I bring him more of the long ones at 750 mm?'
I roll my eyes, tell him to follow the stonemason's advice to handle a stone only once; pick it up, find a place for it, don't be so precious about it.
The older pile in the woodshed that we are still using, hence needing to stack newer wood elsewhere, was built, by me, following that principle and has, after all, only suffered 2 small avalanches. But no, I have to go on risking shin and foot and play Jenga with a 5 foot pile.
Admittedly his pile is now a thing of beauty, but I think of the adage about wood warming you 3 times as you cut it, stack it and then burn it.
How about cutting - barrowing - stacking - moving stack again - arguing about it (very warming,) - lugging it indoors in a log basket - burning it...
I make that at least 7.
The other calorie-burner we've been experiencing is the tandem he's just bought.
Oh dear.
Terrifying.
Particularly going downhill when I feel my lack of control most acutely.
Until the saddle got the better of Paul, we did manage half an hour on it the day before yesterday and Christophe the carpenter shot past us in his pickup with a great deal of horn-blaring and waving and swerving.
Terrifying.
We were going to get on it again this afternoon, Sundays being as quiet as the Marie Celeste, but it is raining. So I'm going to light the woodburner instead.
And who is Michel the Bat Man you ask? I'm glad you did, it gives me a cliff-hanger for next time....
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Le Clos
Hey, it's vendage time again, and the last chance for barbeques, but, do you know what, although I do want to invite pals round for a last go at incinerating Toulouse sossiges and sinking too much local wine, we have discovered a new joy - shutting our gate.
We had new gates (and a new fence and a new drive and a new barn after the 2009 tempête blew it down,) in early 2010, but what with all the to-ing and fro-ing to hospitals etc, we rarely bothered to close the things. But all through the summer we've had unwonted visitors, especially when I am wearing my disgraceful gardening shorts, have just started cooking, while P is either up a ladder or sinking his first pint.
We live just down the lane from a Chambres d'hôtes. To reach it, intrepid Parisian tourists have to brave the neighbour's large greenhouse growing bionic aubergines, no, biological peppers, er, tomatoes bio, ah, got it, - organic veg, then a long chicken run, before finding their pretty but little house. That's if they don't just miss it completely, carry on , run out of road and end up in the woods with their 64 varieties of edible fungus. Neighbour Francis assures me they are there, he's counted, picked and eaten them. I'll take it as given.
So the Parisians tend to drive back down and turn into our place looking somewhat relieved.
And I have to say it is looking much better now Paul has renovated the big barn doors that are the first things you see, with the hollyhocks around them having a second flush. But their faces fall as they spot the shorts, and the wearer directs them back up the lane to the chickens.
The last straw was a woman who actually argued with me (come on, Madam, I would know if I was running a B and B,) then almost demolished one new barn door and was a squeak from hitting my car, as she turned round and drove off.
So since we got back from Corsica in mid-September we have been sporting our oak. For one spell, after Rupert-from-Siddalls came to lunch, we saw no-one for 5 days. It's a nice, safe, closed-in, private, nested feeling. We got loads done; P fixed the 40+ feet of guttering that has been bothering him for ages, I've sadolined some exterior woodwork, gardening has gone on, bread has been made, we had two barbeques just for us and P bought a tandem online.
He clearly feels we're ready for new adventures.
We had new gates (and a new fence and a new drive and a new barn after the 2009 tempête blew it down,) in early 2010, but what with all the to-ing and fro-ing to hospitals etc, we rarely bothered to close the things. But all through the summer we've had unwonted visitors, especially when I am wearing my disgraceful gardening shorts, have just started cooking, while P is either up a ladder or sinking his first pint.
We live just down the lane from a Chambres d'hôtes. To reach it, intrepid Parisian tourists have to brave the neighbour's large greenhouse growing bionic aubergines, no, biological peppers, er, tomatoes bio, ah, got it, - organic veg, then a long chicken run, before finding their pretty but little house. That's if they don't just miss it completely, carry on , run out of road and end up in the woods with their 64 varieties of edible fungus. Neighbour Francis assures me they are there, he's counted, picked and eaten them. I'll take it as given.
So the Parisians tend to drive back down and turn into our place looking somewhat relieved.
And I have to say it is looking much better now Paul has renovated the big barn doors that are the first things you see, with the hollyhocks around them having a second flush. But their faces fall as they spot the shorts, and the wearer directs them back up the lane to the chickens.
The last straw was a woman who actually argued with me (come on, Madam, I would know if I was running a B and B,) then almost demolished one new barn door and was a squeak from hitting my car, as she turned round and drove off.
So since we got back from Corsica in mid-September we have been sporting our oak. For one spell, after Rupert-from-Siddalls came to lunch, we saw no-one for 5 days. It's a nice, safe, closed-in, private, nested feeling. We got loads done; P fixed the 40+ feet of guttering that has been bothering him for ages, I've sadolined some exterior woodwork, gardening has gone on, bread has been made, we had two barbeques just for us and P bought a tandem online.
He clearly feels we're ready for new adventures.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Fine one I am, as a resolution-keeper. (And I'm back on the cheese and butter too. DoH)
But as most of you know, my Father-in-Law died in May, and preceding months were even more bound up with appointments and hospitals.
Since this is blog not diary, and aims to give a flavour of HOW life is for a British person in France, I shan't go into detail. But what made the whole thing harder was not, as you might expect, language problems, leading to misunderstandings, the fear of errors, but a cultural difference which we have only realised after talking to French people since May.
Doctors in France will tell you only what they think you should? want to? hear. We assumed that as in Britain, that if you ask a question it will be honestly answered. Then one can proceed, have the conversations one needs to have, make the arrangements necessary. I have no idea whether it is a lasting paternalistic attitude, or whether it's a sort of Japanese thing of fearing that causing distress is rude, but we were as good as lied to on several occasions, which of course, caused us far more distress both before and since his death.
Discovering from an Insurance agent and a Bricolage employee (odd who we have conversations with!) that this is the French way has been a relief and release.
Through it all, we have had the most fantastic weather! A beautiful Spring from mid-March, although a worrying drought through June, then, just as all the holidaymakers came in July, blessed downpours! Saved our runner beans but I felt so sorry for campers.
And now, phew, following a storm, the temperature has dropped infinitesimally below 20ºC, our Max/Min thermometer now has a 25º difference from the 47ºC it showed one day (mind you it was in full sun and Paul says that doesn't count,) and the 20ºC it is now. At night it was 35º but for the first time in over a week, sleeping is possible again. No more 2.00 am viewings of The Wire or the Beiderbecke Trilogy, although we are still kept up til midnight, irresistibly transfixed for the second time by Forbrydelsen, even though we know whodunit!
Fortunately it has only been that week that was so unbearably hot and humid, with hornets putting our fig trees out of bounds and the house filling with drosophila. (Which always make us think of Mary F and her strange previous employment; sexing fruit flies. < waves to Mary > ) The little critters are drawn into the dark cool of the shut house by a big dish full of melons and pears from the garden.
The previous wealth of peaches and nectarines and blackberries are filling the freezer, fattened by July rains, but Tuesday's storm will have had the local vignerons quaking; their harvest, the vendage, is so close, earlier than usual because of the months of fine weather. The last thing they and their crop need is rain. Sappy, swollen grapes, split and breeding botrytis overnight, will not make good wine. (Only the local Monbazaillac grape is harvested late, often after the first frosts, shrunken and slightly mouldy.) A neighbour - anyone within a 3km radius is un voisin - Jackie Chater, is crossing her fingers, legs and toes at Domaine Chater, and so are we; we love their wines and admire their efforts which are successfully transforming a Vin du Pays vineyard into a world-class organic medal-winner.
That end-of-summer feel.
Still quiet - school has not started yet so no school bus rumbles past the bottom of the drive at 8.05.
Still August, so many artisans are still at Arcachon or Argeles, their busy buzzy white vans parked in their yards.
The last Soumensac picnic market is on Sunday.
In the garden, an empty swing sways to and fro in the breeze stirring the chestnut tree. Straw beach mats flap from the loungers higgledy-piggledy on the lawn, next to a little tipped-over red chair. The large ring left on the lawn by the paddling pool is greening over, and we are left with the ghosts of visitors' lively presences. Footprints dent rapidly across the lawn, calls ring through the house, giggles wreath through the trees and bring back all the other people who have arrived and departed from here. A red squirrel pounces across the grass, another blue morning flower opens.
But as most of you know, my Father-in-Law died in May, and preceding months were even more bound up with appointments and hospitals.
Since this is blog not diary, and aims to give a flavour of HOW life is for a British person in France, I shan't go into detail. But what made the whole thing harder was not, as you might expect, language problems, leading to misunderstandings, the fear of errors, but a cultural difference which we have only realised after talking to French people since May.
Doctors in France will tell you only what they think you should? want to? hear. We assumed that as in Britain, that if you ask a question it will be honestly answered. Then one can proceed, have the conversations one needs to have, make the arrangements necessary. I have no idea whether it is a lasting paternalistic attitude, or whether it's a sort of Japanese thing of fearing that causing distress is rude, but we were as good as lied to on several occasions, which of course, caused us far more distress both before and since his death.
Discovering from an Insurance agent and a Bricolage employee (odd who we have conversations with!) that this is the French way has been a relief and release.
Through it all, we have had the most fantastic weather! A beautiful Spring from mid-March, although a worrying drought through June, then, just as all the holidaymakers came in July, blessed downpours! Saved our runner beans but I felt so sorry for campers.
And now, phew, following a storm, the temperature has dropped infinitesimally below 20ºC, our Max/Min thermometer now has a 25º difference from the 47ºC it showed one day (mind you it was in full sun and Paul says that doesn't count,) and the 20ºC it is now. At night it was 35º but for the first time in over a week, sleeping is possible again. No more 2.00 am viewings of The Wire or the Beiderbecke Trilogy, although we are still kept up til midnight, irresistibly transfixed for the second time by Forbrydelsen, even though we know whodunit!
Fortunately it has only been that week that was so unbearably hot and humid, with hornets putting our fig trees out of bounds and the house filling with drosophila. (Which always make us think of Mary F and her strange previous employment; sexing fruit flies. < waves to Mary > ) The little critters are drawn into the dark cool of the shut house by a big dish full of melons and pears from the garden.
The previous wealth of peaches and nectarines and blackberries are filling the freezer, fattened by July rains, but Tuesday's storm will have had the local vignerons quaking; their harvest, the vendage, is so close, earlier than usual because of the months of fine weather. The last thing they and their crop need is rain. Sappy, swollen grapes, split and breeding botrytis overnight, will not make good wine. (Only the local Monbazaillac grape is harvested late, often after the first frosts, shrunken and slightly mouldy.) A neighbour - anyone within a 3km radius is un voisin - Jackie Chater, is crossing her fingers, legs and toes at Domaine Chater, and so are we; we love their wines and admire their efforts which are successfully transforming a Vin du Pays vineyard into a world-class organic medal-winner.
That end-of-summer feel.
Still quiet - school has not started yet so no school bus rumbles past the bottom of the drive at 8.05.
Still August, so many artisans are still at Arcachon or Argeles, their busy buzzy white vans parked in their yards.
The last Soumensac picnic market is on Sunday.
In the garden, an empty swing sways to and fro in the breeze stirring the chestnut tree. Straw beach mats flap from the loungers higgledy-piggledy on the lawn, next to a little tipped-over red chair. The large ring left on the lawn by the paddling pool is greening over, and we are left with the ghosts of visitors' lively presences. Footprints dent rapidly across the lawn, calls ring through the house, giggles wreath through the trees and bring back all the other people who have arrived and departed from here. A red squirrel pounces across the grass, another blue morning flower opens.
Friday, 31 December 2010
Oh dear, Charles tells me there have been only 2 sightings of the Round Robin this year, so the pressure is on to make it 3 before the year is out.
I do confess to a certain lassitude and ennui this year and can only apologise.
Being sent for those health checks in June was a real jolt, a reminder that I was not, after all, immortal, that the natural order of things that we have expected all year, could, conceivably, be challenged. But we're OK at the moment, and father-in-law is still here, despite everything the doctors said in January. Neither the heart failure nor the aggressive medication have taken their toll on his existence, despite several bad falls when his heart stops, and his insistence on continuing to enjoy the odd glass of wine.
But we cannot leave the house for more than half a day, and the strain of waiting for the inevitable tells. It is particularly hard for Paul, who goes in first each morning.
So we have been so grateful to those who have been to see us this year, especially as family visits were fewer, due to Kerry's pregnancy and Emma's work, - her summer season at Beaulieu was successfully busy. Then there has been the relief of finally making some good friends here and enjoying the yea-ha dance classes and Randonneurs walks, on which talk always, but always turns to food. Such things have been so important for feeling less isolated, as early August was when our last visitors came.
I should then have written about the stunning autumn, (please note folks, September and October are the best months to visit unless you are intent on baking in temperatures of over 90 degrees or on dining at Soumensac, otherwise, May,) I could have written about the mostly excellent French Health Service, but was not sure if you'd really be interested nor if I wouldn't be mis-interpreted as saying 'it's all so-o-o much better here, as happened on another forum.
And I might have covered a couple of extraordinary French lessons at the start of the new term, where I encountered for the first time, the kind of British person I have been told have migrated here, whose conversation begins,
"How England has changed..." and who proceed to voice such stunningly awful generalisations and stereotypes that my jaw dropped, - it did do wonders for my fluency, but I don't think I made any new friends.
And now our plans for the coming months, because of our situation, all seem to be directed towards preparing this house for sale. And then what? It's not that we have become disenchanted with France. How can one be disenchanted with a place where you can eat outside all summer, drive for miles on good roads that are almost empty and walk wherever you please, see the Milky Way and sleep in perfect darkness and silence, hibernate with a woodburner, chestnuts and good local wine? Somewhere where the seasons still give rhythm to life, views can be endless, where your car can gain new dents every time you have parked at the Supermarket and where you can go out to post some cards for 3 January birthdays and go to the bank, (all shops and services have been open since Monday,) and come back with a bag full of oysters and a Galette du Roi for less that 10 euros? It's just that this year has been so without focus, except framed by medical appointments for Des, that we wonder where are goals are now, what we will plan for the New Year.
The best bit of the year came right at the end, when we were able to return to Britain for the birth of our second grandchild, Reuben John, who arrived the night after my birthday. So now I am hoping my birthday might be forgotten so I can remain sixtyumptyoo until I receive my telegram.
So, right, a resolution, I'll blog again soon, with a more amusing theme.
A very happy, peaceful and fulfilling New Year to you all, full of love for you and all your families.
I do confess to a certain lassitude and ennui this year and can only apologise.
Being sent for those health checks in June was a real jolt, a reminder that I was not, after all, immortal, that the natural order of things that we have expected all year, could, conceivably, be challenged. But we're OK at the moment, and father-in-law is still here, despite everything the doctors said in January. Neither the heart failure nor the aggressive medication have taken their toll on his existence, despite several bad falls when his heart stops, and his insistence on continuing to enjoy the odd glass of wine.
But we cannot leave the house for more than half a day, and the strain of waiting for the inevitable tells. It is particularly hard for Paul, who goes in first each morning.
So we have been so grateful to those who have been to see us this year, especially as family visits were fewer, due to Kerry's pregnancy and Emma's work, - her summer season at Beaulieu was successfully busy. Then there has been the relief of finally making some good friends here and enjoying the yea-ha dance classes and Randonneurs walks, on which talk always, but always turns to food. Such things have been so important for feeling less isolated, as early August was when our last visitors came.
I should then have written about the stunning autumn, (please note folks, September and October are the best months to visit unless you are intent on baking in temperatures of over 90 degrees or on dining at Soumensac, otherwise, May,) I could have written about the mostly excellent French Health Service, but was not sure if you'd really be interested nor if I wouldn't be mis-interpreted as saying 'it's all so-o-o much better here, as happened on another forum.
And I might have covered a couple of extraordinary French lessons at the start of the new term, where I encountered for the first time, the kind of British person I have been told have migrated here, whose conversation begins,
"How England has changed..." and who proceed to voice such stunningly awful generalisations and stereotypes that my jaw dropped, - it did do wonders for my fluency, but I don't think I made any new friends.
And now our plans for the coming months, because of our situation, all seem to be directed towards preparing this house for sale. And then what? It's not that we have become disenchanted with France. How can one be disenchanted with a place where you can eat outside all summer, drive for miles on good roads that are almost empty and walk wherever you please, see the Milky Way and sleep in perfect darkness and silence, hibernate with a woodburner, chestnuts and good local wine? Somewhere where the seasons still give rhythm to life, views can be endless, where your car can gain new dents every time you have parked at the Supermarket and where you can go out to post some cards for 3 January birthdays and go to the bank, (all shops and services have been open since Monday,) and come back with a bag full of oysters and a Galette du Roi for less that 10 euros? It's just that this year has been so without focus, except framed by medical appointments for Des, that we wonder where are goals are now, what we will plan for the New Year.
The best bit of the year came right at the end, when we were able to return to Britain for the birth of our second grandchild, Reuben John, who arrived the night after my birthday. So now I am hoping my birthday might be forgotten so I can remain sixtyumptyoo until I receive my telegram.
So, right, a resolution, I'll blog again soon, with a more amusing theme.
A very happy, peaceful and fulfilling New Year to you all, full of love for you and all your families.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Bob and Bordeaux.
Well, yesterday was just like being on holiday in France!
For a start, the sun was shining, (rather too much acksherley as it was over 30º), something it hasn't done much of through May and June while we collected all your rain.
Then we had a Whole Day to Do What We Liked, not had many of them lately either.
And, THen, we sat outside a café and had a beer, then we got on a tram and then we saw Bob Dylan's 'Never-Ending Tour'!
Buying the tickets in April was the first mini-adventure, as the fnac website that details all tours and concerts in France was having problems with its new booking system, so I had to get on the phone, especially as I feared I had already bought 2 tickets twice over on the misbehaving site, and they weren't cheap. There was the usual menu hierarchy to negotiate, press one for information about this... 2 for that... 3 for the other... 4 to query a booking, 5 to make a booking, (Hooray), then, oh botheration, 1 for one sort of booking, 2 for another, 6 to speak to a person who might give-a-damn...
I explain and ask to book, a question rattles back, I ask for consideration and slo-o-owness and am asked, with a barely suppressed sigh, if I'd like to speak 'wiz my colleague Alex who spik English'
Galling.
Especially as Alex and I start in French, and pretty well continue in it until I have got my tickets, so I managed, all it took was a bloke with a bit of patience, who actually wanted over 100€'s worth of my custom. Their safe arrival by registered post a few days was the sign of success.
When you book up for these things months in advance, one shows such a faith, faith in life goes on, in nothing changes, in things will turn out, in Che sera, sera- but I expect it sera what I expect it to be. But Tuesday 29th of June turned out to have my father-in-law in hospital yet again and me just out, after a routine operation- examination.
But a couple of days not doing too much for me, an earlier-than-usual visit to him with a supply of underpinnings essential to his comfort on release, (today) and the rest of the day was ours, all ours! Polly and Nige arrived mid-afternoon and we drove off to Bordeaux.
We have been fussing for a fortnight over this, who would have the dubious pleasure of driving into B and where was this Meriadeck Patinoire anyway and where would we park and should we take a picnic? We are such bumpkins these days, so used to Restaurants taking last orders at 1.00pm and shutting at 2.00pm and not opening again until 7.30, we forgot that in the city things were different and getting a little sustaining something with a glass of vino before 7.00pm would not have been hard!
Paul drove, straight to our favourite car park, ie the one that opened up under our wheels on our very first scary drive into Bordeaux over 6 years ago and that we have used ever since. (Safe, clean, cheap and just, - there,- as you drive along the stupendous waterfront, now a World Heritage site, under the beautiful Bourse building and forecourt. Imagine being able to park under Somerset House on the Embankment easily, for 8 hours, for a few quids.)
A glass elevator lifted us in front of the Bourse, just outside a bar with umbrellas, so we headed for it, each muttering 'level -4, emplacement 031' in the hopes that between us we'd remember where the car was at midnight. A couple of mellowing beers and we were ready for our picnic so we crossed over two tramlines and the road, to the promenade beside the majestic Garonne. There were gardens, with seats, a huge stone clad platform with 6-inch jets of water making an installation on which people paddled happily and strolled through coolly with no elfin safety nonsense and no-one falling over, and lots of vari-coloured plastic cows with fancy titles which are another installation. We picnicked as post-work joggers beat time to their i-pods in the heat.
Right, time to get to Bob. Polly knew how to use the gleaming, purring trams that jingle their way like mini, and slower, bullet-trains around Bordeaux's cobbled streets and eighteenth century buildings. It's that 'buy a ticket outside, use it within a specified time and validate it when you get on', thing, like Italian trains, that I wasn't sure about. But it all worked and Paul and I are tram converts. We got off too soon but found Bob by following 2 people, then 22, then 222 and suddenly there were 2,000 of us waiting to go in.
Biggish place, the Bordeaux skating rink, not an intimate venue, but it held only, maybe, 12, 000? and unfortunately there was no ice, no air conditioning and a lot of hot people. But Bob didn't keep us waiting and there he was; for the third time in my life I've been in the same space as Dylan.
It was a bit 'spot that tune', - the acoustics were not top notch and of course he refuses to play the old stuff in the old way, but by catching the odd line of dialogue we knew we knew quite a lot of the set, Masters of War unrecognisable as heavy metal, Just like a Woman and Rolling Stone really rocked up and no trace of the schmoozy jazzy Cajun vibe (sorry,) of the latest album. Superb band, no flashy laser lights..
The place emptied in civilised fashion, we got on the first tram that arrived and were back on the waterfront at 11.30, strolling along with the crowds.
Here in the Ruralité lights-out is before midnight, the Milky Way glows over the fields and silence reigns. The happy crowds strolling through Bordeaux's warm midnight streets were almost a culture shock. No drunkenness, no swearing, no threat. The children and mothers paddling on the platform were replaced by singing eighteen-year-olds celebrating the end of their Baccalaureate. The café tables were full of smiling chattering couples and groups. I suppose we were older than most - Bordeaux is a big student city - but all generations were there, having a great time together. I would happily walk round this city after dark on my own.
So there we are, my holiday-in-a-day.
This next blog was going to be about the remarkable French Health Service, and why our intimate knowledge of it has led to there still being cardboard on our stairs, but Bordeaux was so much more fun. Meet you there sometime.
For a start, the sun was shining, (rather too much acksherley as it was over 30º), something it hasn't done much of through May and June while we collected all your rain.
Then we had a Whole Day to Do What We Liked, not had many of them lately either.
And, THen, we sat outside a café and had a beer, then we got on a tram and then we saw Bob Dylan's 'Never-Ending Tour'!
Buying the tickets in April was the first mini-adventure, as the fnac website that details all tours and concerts in France was having problems with its new booking system, so I had to get on the phone, especially as I feared I had already bought 2 tickets twice over on the misbehaving site, and they weren't cheap. There was the usual menu hierarchy to negotiate, press one for information about this... 2 for that... 3 for the other... 4 to query a booking, 5 to make a booking, (Hooray), then, oh botheration, 1 for one sort of booking, 2 for another, 6 to speak to a person who might give-a-damn...
I explain and ask to book, a question rattles back, I ask for consideration and slo-o-owness and am asked, with a barely suppressed sigh, if I'd like to speak 'wiz my colleague Alex who spik English'
Galling.
Especially as Alex and I start in French, and pretty well continue in it until I have got my tickets, so I managed, all it took was a bloke with a bit of patience, who actually wanted over 100€'s worth of my custom. Their safe arrival by registered post a few days was the sign of success.
When you book up for these things months in advance, one shows such a faith, faith in life goes on, in nothing changes, in things will turn out, in Che sera, sera- but I expect it sera what I expect it to be. But Tuesday 29th of June turned out to have my father-in-law in hospital yet again and me just out, after a routine operation- examination.
But a couple of days not doing too much for me, an earlier-than-usual visit to him with a supply of underpinnings essential to his comfort on release, (today) and the rest of the day was ours, all ours! Polly and Nige arrived mid-afternoon and we drove off to Bordeaux.
We have been fussing for a fortnight over this, who would have the dubious pleasure of driving into B and where was this Meriadeck Patinoire anyway and where would we park and should we take a picnic? We are such bumpkins these days, so used to Restaurants taking last orders at 1.00pm and shutting at 2.00pm and not opening again until 7.30, we forgot that in the city things were different and getting a little sustaining something with a glass of vino before 7.00pm would not have been hard!
Paul drove, straight to our favourite car park, ie the one that opened up under our wheels on our very first scary drive into Bordeaux over 6 years ago and that we have used ever since. (Safe, clean, cheap and just, - there,- as you drive along the stupendous waterfront, now a World Heritage site, under the beautiful Bourse building and forecourt. Imagine being able to park under Somerset House on the Embankment easily, for 8 hours, for a few quids.)
A glass elevator lifted us in front of the Bourse, just outside a bar with umbrellas, so we headed for it, each muttering 'level -4, emplacement 031' in the hopes that between us we'd remember where the car was at midnight. A couple of mellowing beers and we were ready for our picnic so we crossed over two tramlines and the road, to the promenade beside the majestic Garonne. There were gardens, with seats, a huge stone clad platform with 6-inch jets of water making an installation on which people paddled happily and strolled through coolly with no elfin safety nonsense and no-one falling over, and lots of vari-coloured plastic cows with fancy titles which are another installation. We picnicked as post-work joggers beat time to their i-pods in the heat.
Right, time to get to Bob. Polly knew how to use the gleaming, purring trams that jingle their way like mini, and slower, bullet-trains around Bordeaux's cobbled streets and eighteenth century buildings. It's that 'buy a ticket outside, use it within a specified time and validate it when you get on', thing, like Italian trains, that I wasn't sure about. But it all worked and Paul and I are tram converts. We got off too soon but found Bob by following 2 people, then 22, then 222 and suddenly there were 2,000 of us waiting to go in.
Biggish place, the Bordeaux skating rink, not an intimate venue, but it held only, maybe, 12, 000? and unfortunately there was no ice, no air conditioning and a lot of hot people. But Bob didn't keep us waiting and there he was; for the third time in my life I've been in the same space as Dylan.
It was a bit 'spot that tune', - the acoustics were not top notch and of course he refuses to play the old stuff in the old way, but by catching the odd line of dialogue we knew we knew quite a lot of the set, Masters of War unrecognisable as heavy metal, Just like a Woman and Rolling Stone really rocked up and no trace of the schmoozy jazzy Cajun vibe (sorry,) of the latest album. Superb band, no flashy laser lights..
The place emptied in civilised fashion, we got on the first tram that arrived and were back on the waterfront at 11.30, strolling along with the crowds.
Here in the Ruralité lights-out is before midnight, the Milky Way glows over the fields and silence reigns. The happy crowds strolling through Bordeaux's warm midnight streets were almost a culture shock. No drunkenness, no swearing, no threat. The children and mothers paddling on the platform were replaced by singing eighteen-year-olds celebrating the end of their Baccalaureate. The café tables were full of smiling chattering couples and groups. I suppose we were older than most - Bordeaux is a big student city - but all generations were there, having a great time together. I would happily walk round this city after dark on my own.
So there we are, my holiday-in-a-day.
This next blog was going to be about the remarkable French Health Service, and why our intimate knowledge of it has led to there still being cardboard on our stairs, but Bordeaux was so much more fun. Meet you there sometime.
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