Gits

As mentioned in a previous post (September last year?) I bought a low mileage 1985 Honda Civic Shuttle to replace my previous Citroen dogwagon. Car worked fine and was entirely fit for purpose, apart from one thing: the rear silencer. This item was showing its age and, although it had passed the French MOT test, it ideally needed replacing. No problem, thought I. About six hours later, after searching the worldwide web and contacting various parts suppliers, it became apparent that the rear silencer for this particular model was no longer available anywhere on the planet.

Took the car to the local garage and asked if it was possible to repair the damaged item - it hadn't rotted through but the outer 'skin' was beginning to separate from the innards. Luckily, they managed to repair it by welding. Looked good as new. Been running it all through winter and was dreading the imminent MOT test in case the repaired item failed the examiner's critical inspection. Turned up for the test a couple of weeks ago. Amazingly it passed with no criticism of the exhaust whatsoever.

Immediately put it up for sale.

The first enquiry was from a chap up in Paris. Seemed very keen and I arranged to meet him with the car at Gueret railway station, about thirty miles away (he was travelling by train to La Souterraine and bus to Gueret because he didn't have a car). Day before our rendez-vous he emailed to say he couldn't make it because of kids, or something. Arranged another rendez-vous for the following Sunday. Naturally, I asked if he was serious about buying, or just a dreamer. Assured me he was deadly serious and he'd be there, cash in hand, same time, same place.

Being 99% certain of achieving a sale, I now had another problem. If the car sold, how would I get back from Gueret on a Sunday? (I understood that the Gueret to Felletin bus didn't run on Sundays, but, I now know, it runs three times.) An obvious answer was to book a cab. Rang the local cab company and was given an estimate of €140 - extra charge for Sundays. Bugger that. Decided there was only one solution: Drive the Merc to the station on the Saturday, park it, catch the bus back, then drive the Honda there on the Sunday, sell it and then drive the Merc back. Simples.

Buyer's bus duly arrived at Gueret station on the dot of 12.10pm. Standing by the Honda, parked in a prominent position, I watched the passengers get off the coach. Buyer didn't appear. Drove the Honda back home. Rang Isabelle the next day (Monday - her day off) and asked if she could drive me down to Felletin to catch the bus to Gueret in order to pick up the Merc. Typically, she insisted on driving me all the way to Gueret despite my protestations, then insisted I come round for supper. I turned up with a bottle of champagne as a gift for helping me out. Emailed the timewasting buyer with a suitably worded missive. No reply. Git.

There were two other serious-sounding buyers. Contacted the first one and told him the car was still for sale. We arranged for him to visit on the following Friday (yesterday), but, if he purchased, he said he would do so paying by banker's cheque. Told him I preferred the entire amount in cash - no cheques. He then said he'd pay €500 cash and the rest by banker's cheque. I reluctantly agreed to this and promised I'd reserve the car 'til Friday. Told the third buyer (an American living near the Swiss border) that the car was reserved, but I wasn't entirely happy about the cheque situation. He then offered an entirely cash transaction, but couldn't do it 'til the Wednesday. Bit of a dilemma - two serious buyers, one offering the full amount in cash and one with cheque who sounded like he'd offer less than the asking price.

Having been mucked around once already, I was in no mood to be mucked around again. The 'cheque' buyer sounded the more 'iffy' of the two so I emailed him to say I'd found a cash buyer and apologised for breaking my word about reserving the car 'til Friday. Informed the American that he was now front runner. Asked if he was still on for Wednesday. He then told me that he would have come earlier but he had a job interview on the Wednesday. He was sure he'd get the job and then he'd buy the car. Aha, sounded 'iffy', alarm bells rang. Wednesday lunchtime, he rang to say he didn't get the job and won't be buying the car. Thanks pal. Git.

Emailed the 'cheque' buyer and said the car hadn't sold. Emailed him again somewhat sheepishly while munching a gobful of humble pie and asked if he was still willing to visit on the Friday as previously arranged. Expected him to respond with a blast of colourful language. Instead, he gave me a mild bollocking and agreed to go ahead as planned. Turned up yesterday as the passenger in his son's car. Drove all the way from Lyon. They were both extremely pleasant. Bought the car and paid the asking price. Emailed me last night to say they'd arrived home safely and that he was very pleased with the car. (I hasten to add that he, being a Honda classic car enthusiast, is entirely aware of the fact that the exhaust parts are no longer available. He also said my garage had done a good job of repairing the old one and that he knew a mechanic who could manufacture a new one if and when one was required.)

Phew, such a relief that's over.

Snowtime

Phew, looks like the snow's been and gone. However, a couple of years ago it snowed in May so maybe it'll be back sooner rather than later. Hope not. It's rubbish. Couple of weeks ago when we had about a foot of the damned stuff, the woodpile had almost gone. This meant I had to cut back and only light the kitchen stove in the evenings. Spent the daytime either in bed (3 or 4 degrees in the bedroom according to the hi-tech bedside clock) or huddled over the electric oil-filled radiator while shivering away surfing the net. Dread to think what the 'leccy bill's going to be. Anyways, last week-end Christian delivered a tractor trailerful of logs so I'm ready for the next big freeze. Couldn't deliver during the 'big snow' 'cos he was working, the snow was too deep, it was far too cold and I'd told him that I'd be okay for another week.

One of the big problems about snowtime up here in the hills is that cars get snowed in and the road down to the town gets a bit treacherous with ice. Sometimes it even gets blocked with snow and we all have to wait until the snowplough drives up. Which, of course, means you run the risk of running out of grub unless you dig the car out and clear a track to the lane (takes about an hour and you end up with frostbitten fingers) then take it really slowly downhill out of the village down to the town to stock up. Did just that about ten days ago and met the snowplough head-on on the blind corner going out of the village. Had no option but to lightly brake and steer to the right (I was doing about 6mph at the time). Wheels locked up on the ice and I ended up at a jaunty angle in the little roadside ditch. Jock was somewhat miffed at being thrown off his seat and ending up on the floor. Luckily the snowplough lads stopped and pulled me out. Took it very gingerly down to town, stocked up and headed back with a bootful of bread loaves. At snowtime I get through a couple of loaves a day feeding the birds. They queue up in the little apple tree outside the kitchen window waiting for me to shove another load of chopped up crumbs on the window sill. Even had a robin appear in the kitchen looking for bread. Must have crept in under the front door when I'd taken Jock for a snowy trek out back (when we go out, the kitchen carpet roll doesn't block the draught under the door unless I put it in position outside the door). Another thing: the snow limits our options for dogwalks. The only walk we can do is up to the granite cross and back, which gets a bit boring after a time. Still, it's better than nothing, even though it gets a bit slippy when the farmer's tyre tracks ice up.

The only good thing about snowtime is the joy of slobbing out in front of the roaring kitchen stove when it's been lit at suppertime. It's then that I take a medicinal scotch or three while whatever's on the menu is being burnt to a cinder on top of the stove while Jock slumbers and snores on the floor in front. I sometimes switch off the light and just stare at the orange glow and flickering flames while wondering how we survived that first winter without a stove. That was the time when the wind, rain and snow lashed in through broken windows and holed roof. The thing that kept me going was a hatred of Gordon Brown and his inept government and my flat refusal to give in and return to Blighty. Looking back, it really was not only a test of endurance, but also a measure of just how much I despised New Labour for leading the country into decline (some people disagree with my opinion but they're wrong).

Snowtime seems to last forever, but it eventually passes. After what seemed like weeks of greyness, the sun peeped out about a week ago and the snow began melting. Can't begin do describe the joy I felt as I gave Jock his first walk for ages in the evening sunshine. And the evenings are getting longer too. Doesn't get dark 'til about 7.30ish. And it's lighter in the mornings. Up here in the hills, the flowers come out later than down below. I've spotted a single crocus and a couple of snowdrops, but that's all. However, the tulip thingies that Georgie planted in the pot by the front door seem to be growing. Haven't yet budded but give 'em a couple of weeks and they might flower. I hesitate to say that spring is in the air, but it could be just around the corner. I can hardly wait.

 

Lazybones

Winters are boring. The days are short, the nights are long and the weather's rubbish. Outside, it's cold, grey and snowy. Inside, it's warm by the stove, but a bit chilly everywhere else (apart from when the oil heater's on in the telly room). The dirty washing pile has outgrown the basket and is waiting for a rare sunny day so it can all be shovelled into the washing machine. Winter is all about waiting. Waiting for spring. Waiting for sunshine. Waiting for the colour to return to the landscape. Waiting for an opportunity to get my paints out again so I can do something vaguely useful (not that painting's useful, it's just that it's much more interesting than putting up plaster boards in the bathroom or hacking off loose plaster in the indoor shed or kitchen). Meanwhile, the logpile gets smaller and I get smellier because I can't be arsed to get stripped off and shiver in the shower.

Like many animals, I'm a big fan of hibernating in winter. If it wasn't for Jock I'd probably stay in bed all day. But, as it is, the little bugger gets me up at around 6.30 (that's 5.30 UK time) by growling at the bedside. And if his growling doesn't wake me, he starts pawing the side of the mattress and growling foul dogbreath in my general direction. Slumbers rudely terminated, I then fall out of my pit wearing woolly socks, sweaty teeshirt and smelly knickers, don slippers, tracksuit bottoms and dressing gown, waddle downstairs, let the little git out, make a cuppa, check emails and news on the laptop, let the spoilt brat back in again, chuck some biscuits in his bowl and attempt to dry him off if it's been snowing, sleeting or raining (what's with the 'if'?), then back to bed 'til he wakes me up again just after mid-day when the process gets repeated. By this means I often get properly up at around 6pm when I give Jock a quick walk up the back lane to the old granite cross and back, sploshing our dreary way through snow, slush and muddy puddles before returning home to load up another wheelbarrowful of logs from the shed, re-lighting the stove if it's gone out (what's with the 'if'?), drying Jock off again, donning slippers, pouring a large scotch, doing something about preparing supper and getting stuck into whatever book I have on the go (recently finished Danny Baker's 'Going to Sea in a Seive' - an excellent read - and am currently halfway through Ernest Hemingway's 'Death in the Afternoon' - bit boring, but a logical choice having recently finished a book about the life of El Cordobes, the highly esteemed bullfighter of the early 'Sixties - and before that I attempted to get into Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road' but found it pretty boring, not the least bit amusing and, I'm afraid to say, highly over-rated, but that's just moi). Maybe two or three scotches later, it usually dawns on me that whatever grub's on the go on the stove has changed from a delicate shade of green (e.g. cabbage) or blonde (e.g. chips) or pink (e.g. chops) to a not so delicate shade of black or brown, at which point I may chuck it all in the bin, stick a packet of frozen paella in a pan, pour another scotch and get back to my book. Then, when the paella's caught fire and the room's full of smoke, I generally pick at whatever bits aren't black, make a cuppa, grab a biscuit and waddle upstairs to catch the 10 o'clock news on telly (11pm out here) before nodding off on the settee under a duvet and a couple of blankets to be rudely awoken at around 2am by Jock demanding to be let out for a wee. Then it's back to bed to be awoken by dogbreath about four hours later, then repeat all the above.

This dull routine was broken last Friday when Georgie flew out for a quick visit to check that I was okay (she's worried I might be poisoned by a tooth abcess which I'm ignoring 'til I can summon up the courage to visit the dentist). Her visit meant I had to brave a visit to the shower, followed by a shivering dry-off in front of the stove and a quick shave once I'd stopped shivering (wielding a sharp razor blade in such circumstances can be fatal). Anyways, bless the old trout, she survived the chilling conditions and insisted on clearing snow from the car area while I stayed indoors and watched the rugby. She also dug out the indoor shed door which we put back up and the kitchen's now noticeably less draughty. I have to say there's far more reason to get up when she's here. Things get done. Inertia no longer rules. Ah well, she flew back on Monday so I'm now back in my lazybones routine. Told me to get blogging again. Bit tricky when bugger all's happening. Roll on spring.    

Christmas

Haven't blogged for ages. A month in fact. Been meaning to do a quick account of Christmas day, but couldn't be arsed. Now it's so long ago that I can hardly recall what happened. Mental block. Still, there's no going forward until I've got it out of the way so I'll have a bash.

If I remember correctly, Christmas day was on a Tuesday. Georgie flew out on the Sunday before, landing at Brive late afternoon, having flown from London City airport (not the usual Stansted to Limoges flight 'cos it was fully booked).

On the two hour drive down to Brive to collect her, I stopped at the service station midway between Brive and Ussel to give Jock a quick walk and to have a coffee and fag. As I was about to get back in the car there was a bit of a rumpus going on at a car parked nearby. Turned out that it had rammed a flying hawk doing about 70mph up the motorway (the car, not the hawk), resulting in one dead bird and a dented bonnet. Luckily, not a smashed radiator. Anyways, the driver freed the dead oiseau from the front of the car then his wife took some snaps for insurance purposes while his two daughters jumped up and down, waving their arms around and yelping "eugh!". Quite amazing how big that bird was. Must have been about six feet from wingtip to wingtip. Disposed of the body in a distant bin. Probably would have made a good meal for any passing foxes.

Georgie's plane landed at around sundown and luckily it wasn't snowing. Come to think of it, the snow didn't arrive until well after she'd gone back. Seems like it's been here months, but that's how it is in winter, especially up here in the hills. Anyways, we drove back, re-lit the stove, had a bit of grub and settled in. Next day we did some shopping at Aubusson's Christmassy supermarché and sort of mentally prepared ourselves for the following day's visit to Isabelle and Christian's for Christmas lunch. Personally, I'd have preferred to stay indoors glued to the telly while stuffing my face with chocolates and cake, but when Isabelle calls, you gotta go.

After the usual Christmas morning laze in bed while opening Chrissy cards and Chocolate Oranges, time was getting short. Typically, I couldn't remember if we had to report for duty at mid-day or 1pm. Settled on 1pm and to hell with the consequences. Then dug out the Sellotape and began wrapping presents for Isabelle and gang. Interesting how Georgie's presents are always meticulously wrapped while mine show obvious signs of Sellotape being stuck everywhere apart from where the damned stuff's supposed to be.

Arrived at 1.05 just as other guests were arriving, so, for once, Georgie and I were on time. Turned out there were fifteen people for lunch. Amazing how Isabelle manages to cope with that many noshers. Amazing too, the amount of preparation that goes into organising such a feast. Can't remember exactly what we had to eat and drink, but it was brilliant, if a little on the rich side. On the menu were oysters, foie-gras, chicken, salad, er..., I forget the rest, largely because I sat opposite Christian who kept topping me up with more whisky, more vin blanc, more vin rouge and more paint stripper (it's what I call a sort of lethal, clear, fruit flavoured, inflammable liquid which causes one to lose the powers of speech, balance, and all sense of time).

At around 6pm, just as we were getting stuck into the gateaux, Isabelle's brother's tribe arrived. Luckily, this gave us a good excuse to leave as there wasn't enough room to seat them. So we gave our thanks and bade our farewells. Miraculously, I somehow made it back to the house without falling over, re-lit the stove and gave Jock a quick walk. Can't remember what we did then. Watched telly I presume. But I do remember throwing up. I blame the paint stripper.

Took a couple of days to sober up.

Picked up Donnie (Georgie's twin sis) from Limoges airport who'd flown out to join us for Hogmanay. Shoved her in the loft with a couple of duvets and a 'leccy fan heater. Despite this, she seemed to have a relaxing time, dogwalking, telly watching and generally taking things easy. At least I think that's what we did. Can't remember for sure. Then I drove them both back to Limoges for the flight home. Then the snows arrived.

So that was Christmas. 

    

The mushroom forest

One of my fave dogwalks is up the back lane to a little pine forest which I call 'the mushroom forest' for obvious reasons. It's really quiet up there, mainly because any sounds are absorbed by the thick mossy floor. Bit spooky too in a Tolkienesque way, so it's easy to imagine elves and goblins darting behind the tree trunks. Couple of weeks ago, I stopped in my tracks as I spotted a couple of small deer about thirty yards away in the distance. They stood still, staring at me for about ten, long, magical seconds before hopping off into the shadows where the trees end and the brush begins. I've dug out four photos taken a few years back which, hopefully, convey the almost unique atmosphere of this special place.

Went up there with Jock yesterday. Bumped into Isabelle walking little Goah and her new dog Zen, a three-year old golden retriever. Walked together up to the old granite cross with Jock enjoying the company of his playful bitch chums. Approaching the cross, there was an aroma of pine. Then I saw pine trunks, newly stacked. I feared the worst: my mushroom forest was no more.

Isabelle turned and took her bitches back home, having invited me round for an evening aperitif (that means supper) with Christian and Hadrien. I continued onwards to the mushroom forest. Followed the track which was muddy with heavy tyretracks and turned the final bend. Instead of seeing a wall of tall pines with the track leading into a dark tunnel of trees, there was now a broad sky and open ground carpeted with pine branches.

Ambled around remembering the peace and quiet the dogs and I had enjoyed in this very spot in bygone years. Then noticed Jock had disappeared. Saw him back up the track nibbling on something. Ran back and ordered him off. He'd been chewing a discarded deer leg. Maybe one of those little deer I'd stared at not long ago. A sad end to my mushroom forest.

In the seven years of dogwalking the local hills and forests, I've seen countless pines disappear from the landscape. However, more often than not, when the trees have gone they're replaced by rows of planted saplings. About thirty years later, when fully grown, they're cut down and the cycle continues. That's the way it goes. Nothing is forever.

Decorations

Quite Christmassy down in Felletin, our local town. The main street's lined with Christmas trees adorned with purple and silver bows, the overhead Christmas lights are up, flickering coloured lights flash from streetside windows and are reflected in the puddles and wet cobbles. Very festive. But there's one particular house that always puts on a brilliant show, as if to say "y'ain't seen nuthin' yet!" Took a quick snap of it at dusk on the way home from visiting the post office. Went there to buy stamps and send my Christmas cards, but the damned place was shut so, as usual, my cards will arrive late. Gave Jock a longish walk in the gathering darkness on the way home. I think I may have tired the old boy out. Keep forgetting he's aged about eighty in doggy years. Fed the brute when we arrived home and he's now kipping in front of the kitchen fire. Suppose I ought to do something about Christmas decorations. There's a holly tree with berries just up the back lane. That'll do for moi.

  

Long time no bloggeau

Ain't blogged lately. No real reason. Mainly laziness and the fact that nothing much has happened recently. It's a dull time of year. Still, Christmas is fast approaching and Georgie's due to fly out next Sunday so that's something to look forward to.

Talking of Christmas, I was invited to a Christmas lunch for all the elderly locals at the village Mairie a week ago last Saturday. It's an annual event, paid for by the state, and it's the first time I've been invited. Taken me seven years to be officially accepted by the community, or maybe in previous years they just thought I was younger than I really am. Anyways, having been invited I had to go, despite severe misgivings about being the only Brit there. Plus, of course, my rubbish parlez-vous lingo and the fact that none of the locals speak a word of Anglais.

The 'do' kicked off at mid-day. Six hours later, I finally staggered off home, feeling somewhat wobbly. Amazingly, most of the oldies were still at it, noshing, boozing and nattering. They're tough critters round these parts. I just couldn't take the pace. Called it quits after the pudding cake. Neighbour Colette seemed a bit disappointed that I didn't stay for the final onion soup (apparently a traditional end to a boozy lunch), but I just didn't have room. Lost count of how many courses the ladies of the community had knocked up in the Mairie kitchen. Must have been about seven or eight, or more. And I definitely lost count of how many (free!) bottles of plonk and glasses of champagne the lads on our table got through.

On arrival at the Mairie there was much hand shaking, smiling and kissing as the locals greeted each other. Most of them have probably been chums since primary school and, indeed, are probably related in some way. It's a close community up here in the remote hills. Despite hardly knowing anyone (well, maybe a dozen or so), I was warmly welcomed. I think they know me as the artist that showed his paintings at the village fete a couple of years ago. But, other than that, they probably refer to me as that Anglais who lives by the church.

Introductions over, we took our seats. Neighbour Alain perched me next to him. Sat opposite were an elderly couple (Marcel and Lorrine?) who, despite being married for sixty-odd years (I found out later) held hands with surprising frequency. Very cute. Marcel is a farmer, aged 81, who apparently gets up at 4am every day - yes, every day (that's 3am in English money). Lorrine told me, a bit guiltily, that she stays in bed 'til about seven. I told them that I generally get up at around 6.30ish to let Jock out. Didn't tell them I then go back to bed when Jock comes back in. Marcel's quite a character with his toothless grin. Kept telling funny stories, even though I didn't understand a word. Massive hands for a little bloke, with sausage-like fingers. Typical local farmer.

The official dignitaries sat at the top table. The mayor (another farmer) sat in the middle, flanked by his wife and some local official. Also on their table were neighbour Chantal (or is it Chantelle?) who is the mayor's sister and who does most of the paperwork and running of the Mairie, and a couple of local cops (gendarmes), plus others. They were the youngsters of the gathering. Having a couple of gendarmes present didn't seem to put anyone off. Again, they're probably related in some way to most of the guests. And, perhaps surprisingly, they didn't start breathalising anyone when people started leaving before the dreaded onion soup. Mind you, I could imagine one of the gendarmes saying "breathe into this bag, uncle" and then being told "shove it up your arse, sonny." That's the way things are round here.

Can't remember exactly what we ate, but it was all fairly simple and very delicious. I think different courses were prepared by different ladies of the commune. The starter was a sort of crab seafood thingy. Bloke next to me didn't like seafood so I had a couple. This was followed by a bit of quiche. Then a sort of lemon sorbet (bit weird having pud before the main course, thought I). Then a bit of fish in sauce - had two 'cos, again, the bloke didn't like seafood. By this time I'd lost count of the wines I'd had (both white and red) so my memory was blurred. Then meat, mash and a stuffed Provençal tomato - luverly. Then lettuce with sauce and a bit of cheese (there were other courses but I've forgotten what). Then a super-duper slice of raspberry ice cream cake with meringue - stupendous. Then, er, chocolates, coffee and a glass of some lethal pear-flavoured paint stripper. Then a quick getaway after saying thank you to the dignitaries and before the onion soup.

Took a couple of snaps of the Christmas lights outside. Bit blurred, but that was exactly how I saw them. Staggered off down the road as the lads, and probably some of the lassies, continued demolishing the vino stock. Arrived home, got a bollocking from Jock about leaving him alone and in the dark for so long, gave him a walk, lit the kitchen fire and poured a welcome scotch and dry on the rocks. Perfect end to a damned good 'do'.