The Gioux 'do'

So..., another Saturday night. Couple of Saturdays ago, the Felletin beer festival. And last Saturday, the fete at Gioux. Neither event was for those of a nervous disposition. And certainly not for the lily-livered due to the compulsory consumption of considerable quantities of  laughing juice.

Having survived the beer festival, I was desperately trying to think of an excuse not to go the Gioux 'do'. Typically though, I still hadn't thought of one when Isabelle rang at about 4pm last Saturday and told me to get my arse round to her place for a 7pm drive to Gioux. With the benefit of hindsight, I could have said that I still hadn't recovered from the previous Saturday and am under doctor's orders to steer clear of future drinking sessions with any of my neighbours. Or that I'd just joined a Hare Krishna sect and my body was now a temple, no longer a bicycle shed, and therefore closed to abuse by alcohol. Or that I couldn't go 'cos I had to get an early night due to competing in a Sunday marathon run as training for my forthcoming Olympic appearance. But, alas, I didn't think of any of these brilliant excuses in time. So that was it, I had to go.

Rendez-voused at 7.30 (I'm always late), freshly shaved and reeking of Chanel pour hommes (circa 2002, purchased on a Santander/Plymouth ferry to cover up the stench of leather and sweat that one inevitably gains after a week or two on a motorcycle) and was somewhat surprised by Christian and Hadrien not being there. Apparently they were already at Gioux, helping get stuff set up.

Drove off in Christian's massive 4x4, six seater, pick-up truck thingy with Isabelle at the wheel. About fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the home of Francois and Jane (pronounced 'Jan'), and kids Margaux and Axel, en route to Gioux. Stopped off for a drink or six (I definitely need one after Isabelle's speedy driving round the back lanes) on their sunlit verandah with its splendid view across the valley. Christian joined us about half an hour later, then Jane's brother Guillaume and his daughter Lola. Cue more drinks. By the time we all piled into two cars and headed off to Gioux, I was already seeing double and muttering incoherently despite my determination to imbibe with moderation.

Arrived at Gioux, I guess around 9.30pm. Don't really remember a lot after that but I do remember taking some photos. These reminded me that I spent some considerable time attempting speech with Christian's nephew Davide and partner Kelly (she's English but I was in no fit state to parlez-vous in Anglais, or any other lingo for that matter) plus a few others who I vaguely recognised. Seem to remember the only person who understood a word I was saying, was Guillaume. And that's because he was equally blotteau. He didn't speak a word of English though, just drunken jibberish. Made sense to me. Come to think of it, as the night wore on, conversation improved as speech deteriorated. Often the way at these sorts of soirees.

Another thing I vaguely remember was nattering to Guillaume's daughter Lola. Tried to tell her that she was named after a Kinks' song. Then had to explain who the Kinks were (an impossible task when one's wrecked, let alone from a pre-disco music age). Then, having discovered that she hopes to study photography, I recommended she look up Henri Cartier-Bresson. Then spent ages with her and Kelly while they tried to work out what I was gurgling about as I tried to spell out Henri CB's name in order for Lola to enter it into her mobile phone thingy for future reference (luckily I refrained from wrongly accusing Lola of rudeness in making a phone call while I was trying to blurt out letters in the correct order - being from the stone age I keep forgetting that these modern mobile phone thingies are also notebooks, cameras, computers, tellys, radios and probably microwave ovens too).

At some point I remember Isabelle trying to usher Guillaume and me into the grub tent for steak and chips. It was only about ten yards away from where we were discussing the meaning of life in fluent Swahili but, somehow, we got lost on the way and ended up at another watering tent where some poor chap had apparently dropped dead in a chair. Did my best to get him out of it 'cos I fancied a sit down but he wouldn't budge. Had a couple of drinks there then suddenly found myself sat at a table confronting a plate of ham and chips (steak had finished). Gulped it down and re-joined the bevvyers. Caused a bit of a panic when I joined Isabelle and co. at one of the bars. Asked if I'd been in a fight. Hadn't a clue what they were on about. Then twigged. I'd sploshed tomato sauce over my moosh and down my front. Not a pretty sight.

The only other bits I remember were the fireworks (very pretty) and sitting on the stage behind the deejay in the disco room where I must have spent hours staring at the swirling disco lights and muttering to myself about the terrible taste in music that modern kids have. When I could stand this musical dirge no more, I made a dash for freedom, fresh air and the nearest booze tent, scattering teeny-bopper kids in all directions (luckily, out here in redneck country, the youngsters are used to standing aside when an elder staggers around pished as a rat). Joined Guillaume and Davide and Christian and Francois and all the gang for a final bevvy or ten before Isabelle and Jane rounded us up and drove us away. Apparently arrived home at around fourish and then walked the dogs under a moonlit sky. Not that I remember.

Crossing the Creuse

Had a little amble along the Creuse river the other day, just beyond the junction where our nearby stream joins it. Normally can't get into the field because it always seems to be full of cattle. But on this particular day the field was empty and the gate was open. So in I went. Crossed the river by way of an old cement telegraph pole with a wobbly wire hand rail. Didn't spot any fish but saw loads of electric blue dragonflies. Then noticed a few bright blue beetles in the grass. They seemed to be glowing so I presume they were glow worms. Daft name for a beetle. See a lot of them up our way at night but never seen one in the daytime. 'Til now.

A few beers with the lads

'Mal de tete' they call it. Roughly translates as 'bad of head'. It's a phrase associated with the morning after the night before. Or, in other words, a rotten hangover. Which is exactly what I'm suffering from right now. And it wasn't my fault. I was an innocent victim. Honest.

Couple of days ago neighbours Isabelle and Christian invited me to join them for Saturday night's Felletin beer festival. And when they invite you, you just have to go. So the three of us went there last night with their chums Francois and Jan. Arrived just before eight. Didn't really know what to expect but soon got the hang of it. Seemed you simply poured beer down your neck 'til you lost the powers of speech. And the ability to walk. Even standing up became a bit of a challenge after a couple of hours. And by the time I was escorted to the dining tent (Isabelle and Jan were drinking non-alcoholic beverages so were able to assist us chaps in achieving forward motion) clutching a plateful of sausage, frankfurter, spuds and some wierd sort of chopped turnip stuff, I was seeing double. Or maybe treble. But luckily I wasn't alone in this respect. How I managed to get the grub on the fork and shove it in the orifice below my nose, I'll never know. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I flung the lot over my shoulder.

Anyway, noshing done, Christian and Francois crawled back to the beer tent to join their comatosed chums while I wobbled over to the caff for a coffee or ten. Clearly, my beer-drinking days are over. Used to be a beer-bevvying champion of Soho and Covent Garden. But that was many moons ago. Nowadays I stick to shorts. So I had a couple of cognacs with my coffees. Sat there perched in my chair outside the caff watching the youngsters and a few oldsters dancing the night away to the sound of a Germanic oompah band and some local pop group. Tried to stand up at one point but failed miserably. I appeared to be stuck in the damned chair. Either that or my legs weren't receiving messages from my addled brain. Luckily the cafe manageress noticed my predicament and asked if I was okay. Told her I could murder another coffee and cognac. Downed them and suddenly felt right as rain. Miracle.

Marched over to the beer tent and joined the gang. Everyone (except Isabelle and Jan) appeared to be swaying around as though on board ship in a gale force wind. Really quite amusing. Isabelle asked where I'd been. Told her I'd had a few coffees and cognacs over at the caff. "Cognacs!" she exclaimed. "Oui," said I, "worked a treat, feel perfectly sober now."

About half an hour later it was time to leave so we ambled back to the car and Isabelle drove us all back to our little hamlet. Thanked them for a wonderful evening and went home to walk the dogs up the granite cross beneath a starry sky. Hit the sack at around twoish.

Am now mentally preparing for next Saturday's annual hunt festival at Gioux. Serious stuff. Kicks off at around seven in the evening and makes last night's session seem like a vicar's tea party. Once again, Isabelle and Christian have invited me along. And once again, one can't say "no". Hopefully this mal de tete will have cleared by then.

Market day in Felletin

Friday. Market day in Felletin. My local town. Nice and sunny so I took the camera. Normally forget. Rattled off a few snaps and bought some bread, fruit'n'veg and a couple of necessities like baccy and a cheeky little vin rosay - still can't work out where the accents are on this damned keyboard. Took about 24 snaps in total but I'll just show eight 'cos they take aaaaages to load up. Strange to think that exactly a week ago I was wandering around the streets of London.

Friday evening in London

(continued from previous posting...)

Turned up to meet Georgie about five minutes early. Sat in the sun on the hot steps outside her workplace. Amazing how many people leave their Covent Garden offices on the dot of 5.30 - I never did and nor does Georgie (she normally works 'til around eightish and is usually the last to leave - bonkers). Mind you, it was Friday, the hottest day of the year and I suppose most offices don't have air-conditioning, so fair enough.

Had a quick chat about where to go and what to do. As usual, inconclusive. Georgie mentioned 'The Summer Exhibition' but I didn't fancy it. Too hot and sweaty. And probably overcrowded. So we just started walking. Ended up in Soho (again) where we joined the merry throngs enjoying after-work drinky-poos in the late afternoon sun. Place was packed. Even more tables and chairs seemed to have appeared on the pavements and all of them occupied. Headed towards 'The French House' (again) for a French cider and another gobful of free garlic and tomato olives. Turned the corner and saw a huge crowd standing outside. A clear case of no room at the inn. Walked past and headed for Chinatown. Bought a couple of superb ice creams from a tiny Chinese shop. I had a little chocolate cornet (which disappeared almost immediately) and Georgie had a special mixed whopper wrapped in a soft sort of pancake thingy instead of a crispy cone. She was still munching it when we arrived at Trafalgar Square where we simply sat and did nothing apart from watching the crowds enjoying the sunlit, open space. Ice cream finished, Georgie washed her sticky fingers in one of the fountain pools and suggested visiting the nearby National Portrait Gallery and upstairs bar. Sounded good to me.

Exhibition was staggeringly brilliant (if you get a chance, go). Then, having been on my feet for what seemed like hours, the prospect of sitting in a bar/restaurant with a view and a cool drink grew irresistible. So we went upstairs. Georgie had apparently been there before (company outing) so knew what to expect. But I hadn't. Again, staggeringly brilliant. Poshish without being snotty, with a marvellous rooftop view over Trafalgar Square looking out towards Big Ben and beyond. Bit pricey (two ciders, ten quid), but to a hermit recluse from the backwoods of France, most things are. Once again, if you get a chance to visit this bar/restaurant, I recommend you do so. Especially on a sunny summer's evening with a beloved companion. An experience not to be missed.

Suitably refreshed, we slowly ambled over the Waterloo bridge walkway and vaguely headed towards the station. Joined the crowds on the South Bank in the shadow of the Big Wheel thingy. Great atmosphere. Very relaxed and summery. Loads of people lazing on the grassy area watching the sun descend through the riverside trees, while others stood entranced by a street entertainer as he arranged individual volunteers into statuesque poses on the wide walkway. All very odd but fascinated the crowds. My particular favourite though was a copper in a tutu.

About half an hour later we were on the train to Putney, catching glimpses of the orange sun as it dropped below buildings on the London skyline. Then a short walk home via the fish'n'chip shop (apparently they'd been working there all day, in that heat, on the hottest day of the year, poor sods), followed by a large scotch, feet up and telly. So ended a long but immensely enjoyable day.

Friday afternoon in London

Flew off to Stansted last Thursday and returned yesterday. Four whole days in London. Went there to attend a briefing (work stuff) on Friday morning in Covent Garden. Meeting lasted about an hour or two, so, come lunchtime, I was back on the streets and the world was my lobster. Decided to become a tourist and amble around Covent Garden, Leicester Square and Soho and simply enjoy the buzz of being in the centre of the great metropolis on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year.

Strange walking around one's old stamping grounds - I worked for a couple of decades in Covent Garden, and later freelanced for a few ad agencies in Soho, so I know the areas well. But, being there as a tourist, it was almost as though I was seeing them for the first time. Changed a lot, of course. For example, there are coffee shops everywhere and there's a big Marks & Spencer store on Long Acre where the old artists' and designers' materials shop used to be. Seems the 'big boys' have moved in and all the little people have moved out. I guess that's progress. Mind you, I remember being one of the first wave of designers who 'set up shop' in Covent Garden in the early '70s when the market was still there. At that time, the market porters and fruit'n'veg sellers probably said the same thing about us trendies invading their patch. Evolution and economics. Lot of it about. Same thing must be happening in many other cities throughout Britain. Regenerating Liverpool's dock area and Newcastle's riverside, as prime examples. So where do all the one-man-band freelance designers work now? Well, I suppose they all work from home with their new-fangled computery things. No longer any need for proper offices with shared receptionist and presentation rooms. Er..., I'm rambling, I know, but I only mention the above 'cos it was the sort of stuff I was thinking as I idly ambled around in the hot sunshine, occasionally stopping off in a cool cafe or bar. Downed four coffees and three ciders that afternoon.

Another thing that struck me was the fact that pedestrians seem to have taken over the streets. Maybe it was simply because it was a hot day and the tourists were out in force. Or maybe because the many bars and cafes had put tables outside on the pavements so their customers had spilled out into the streets. Or maybe because Ken Livingstone's plan to rid London streets of cars had actually succeeded. I certainly noticed there were far less cars around than there used to be, and far more bicycles. Good thing. Well done Ken.

One of the hostelries I popped into for a swift half (and a free lunch - a few delicious garlic and tomato olives from a dish on a window table, covered in germs I suppose, but when one's a bit peckish, what the hell) was 'The French House' in Soho. Used to occasionally go there in the good old days. Thankfully, it hasn't changed much but, to be honest, I can't remember it being thus named. I rarely remember pubs' names - I just used to walk in and stagger out. Anyway, unlike 99% of the population I don't have a mobile phone (well, I do but it's years old and I can't remember where I put it) and I wanted to phone Georgie at her Covent Garden workplace and arrange to meet up after work (she doesn't have a mobile either). Asked the landlady if the pub had a public phone. Pub instantly went quiet. Man without mobile from dark ages. She said "no, but there's a public phone across the street". Ambled over there and pulled Georgie's work number from my rucksack while staring at a gallery of hookers' cards and standing in a ridiculously confined space that stank of piss. Then tried to figure out how the phone worked and how much it cost. My estimation of 10p was way out. Apparently a phone call from a public box now costs 60p. That's twelve bob in old money. How the hell are mobile-less old people supposed to be able to afford this extortionate rate? Complete bloody rip-off.

Eventually got through, arranged to meet up at 5.30 (she normally leaves work at around 8ish) and then wandered off to kill a bit more time.

The field over the ridge

In my previous posting I mentioned the distant field, out of sight from our house, where the farmer's sons and their two tractors had moved on to after completing their haymaking in the near field. Went up there with the dogs this evening. Amazingly, they'd finished their work there too, leaving the field dotted with dozens of hay rolls. Took a few snaps and returned home at about 7.30, fed the dogs, knocked up a quick scotch'n'dry and sat outside with a fag to enjoy a fine summer's evening before boiling a couple of eggs for supper and watching the Spain/Germany semi-final on telly.

Sitting there with the church bells on my left clanging eight, idly looking at the view ahead, I suddenly noticed a couple of tractors in the distance chugging along the lane that leads to the two fields. Seemed a bit late but it looked like the farmer's sons had finished their supper and were back in action. Sure enough, about ten minutes later they were chugging back towing a trailerfull of hay rolls. Five minutes later they appeared by the church, opened the barn doors and began stacking. I was obviously wrong about the barn being full. After another trip they'd squeezed about twenty more rolls in. I presume they'll finish off the rest tomorrow. Shame I won't be here to see it. All being well I'll be in Putney, breathing traffic fumes and getting ready for a Friday meeting.

It'll be bizarre going, in such a short space of time, from this idyllic lifestyle to one that many people regard as being far more civilised. Not sure I'm looking forward to it.