Fête

The fair's arrived. Out here it's called a fête. Rolled into town last week for a three-day stint, starting last Saturday. Didn't go down there on that soirée but, despite the rain, I imagine crowds of people did. There were probably fireworks and a rockin' party atmosphere with everyone having a jolly time. Instead, I popped down there last night at around eight-ish. Discovered that Sunday evening is not the time to visit a fair. The place was dead, with just a handful of people out and about. Maybe it busied up later on but I didn't hang around to find out. Took a few snaps then headed back home and slung another log on the fire. Well into June, almost at the longest day, grey and damp outside and I'm still chucking logs in the stove! Will this rubbishy winter ever end? (Click pics to enlarge.)

Seeing the gleeful kids wandering around this fair reminded me of when the fair used to roll into Headley in Hampshire when I were a lad. Used to set up on the village green next to the Holme School - a primary school that my sister and I attended back in the mid-'Fiftes. One of my many memories of this school is sitting at a desk behind Pauline Brown and being fascinated by tiny maggots creeping about her hair. Lice I suppose. Her dad was a big black man (not many around in those days, especially out in the country) and I remember he used to earn a few bob whenever the fair visited by being 'the man' in the boxing tent. Here he'd take on anyone daft enough to step into the ring. If you lasted a single round round (about three minutes), you probably won a goldfish or a cuddly toy. I don't imagine anyone lasted more than a minute, but maybe a soldier or two did from the local army base at Bordon. Shame you don't get boxing tents at fairs any more, they were great fun. Same with coconut shys, with the coconuts glued into their cups. And music blaring out from tinny Tannoys playing scratchy records by Elvis, Buddy Holly, Paul Anka, Tommy Steele, Bill Haley and Lonnie Donegan. Ah, gay days.

Scoured the internet and found a photo of the school taken at around this time. Also found an aerial view of part of Headley which shows where we used to live (big house, bottom left, owned by the army).

Had an acre of land, mostly behind and to the right of the house. Looks like it's now been sold off and built on. There used to be walnut tree there and a mini forest of tall bamboos. All gone now. And a meat wagon used to visit the village once a week (well before the advent of frozen foods). I remember it sold horse meat. Thought nothing of it back then, but nowadays it seems shocking and possibly dangerous due to the druggy stuff given to horses. It also sold chicken and other forms of poultry (unplucked of course) which were hung on hooks hanging from the wagon's ceiling (exposed meat wouldn't be allowed nowadays thanks to Health and Safety - but still exists out here in France). I remember too gutted rabbits. Talking of which, I'm rabbiting so I'll stop.    

London

This time last week I was in London. Went there a couple of Sundays back and returned last Sunday. Did four days' advertising and design work with an old chum who runs a thriving business at Butlers Wharf in the shadow of Tower Bridge (quadrangle.com). Didn't work on the Monday because it was a bank holiday so did a bit of pottering and shopping with Georgie in sunny Putney. Had the Saturday off too and visited John Lewis in Kingston with Georgie and Donnie in order to eye up Apple computery stuff  that Georgie needs to buy in readiness for going freelance when she moves out here in July.

Even though I lived and worked in London for more years than I care to remember, it still comes as a big culture shock on those rare occasions when I visit the capital city. I used to take for granted the hustle and bustle, the flashy cars, the rampant consumerism, the high prices and the constant drive for success and wealth, but now I find the whole thing rather unreal and more than a bit vulgar. Maybe it's because I'm getting old, or maybe it's because I'm now a hermit recluse from the misty backwoods of rural France, or maybe it's because I'm not a Londoner (there's a song there somewhere). Whatever the reason, I now feel like an alien from a distant planet whenever I visit.

To get to my chum's offices I'd catch a train from Putney to Waterloo, passing loads of new buildings that have shot up along the south bank of the Thames. I presume some are offices and some are flats, but who can afford such places? The rents or purchase prices must be astronomical. At Waterloo I'd then catch a train from Waterloo East to London Bridge, with glimpses of even more buildings going up in the City. Recession? What recession? These architectural towers are testimony to the fact that London's booming while the rest of Britain boards up shops in streets strewn with tumbleweeds. Scary. Then, at London Bridge, I'd walk to Butlers Wharf passing even more flashy new office buildings, including those of PricewaterhouseCoopers and Ernst & Young among others. Clearly these companies are hugely successful, but what do they actually do? As far as I can make out, they're just accountancy firms. I presume their expertise lies in saving tax for big corporations and, by doing so, are major players in the money game. Call me an old hippy, but I feel these companies and their impressive tower blocks are built on far from solid foundations. Just as soon as the big money moves from London to Peking or somewhere else in the developing nations (as it surely will eventually - it's just a question of time), these houses of cards will come tumbling down. As I said, scary.

After work I'd amble back to London Bridge after sunset, but this time along the riverside with wonderful views of Tower Bridge and the City lit up with twinkling lights and their reflections in the dark waters of the Thames. Here I'd stop and become a tourist, taking out my camera and snapping sights that have been snapped millions of times before. Nay, au contraire; that City view is constantly changing as more and more buildings are constructed. The latest one looks like it's almost finished. Not sure what it is though. Maybe it's yet another rip-off bank HQ, or yet another accountancy giant making a loud statement of massive wealth. Ah well, whatever it is it looks rather pretty at sundown. Then it's onward to London Bridge station where I'm suddenly aware of a tall building stretching upwards towards the distant sky: The Shard. Once again I'm thinking what's it for, who's going to live there or work there? Beats me. Shaking my head in disbelief and incomprehension at what London's become, I stagger onwards and catch the train back to Putney. An alien in a foreign land indeed.

So that was London. On the Sunday I flew back to Limoges, rescued Jock from the jailhouse (kennels) and drove back home to the misty hills. I would have stayed longer in London and maybe visited sis and bro-in-law up north, but as it was the first time Jock has been in jail on his own (after Sprock's sad passing), I felt I had to get back quick as poss. Ah well, another time.

   

Strange

It's said that people who write about the weather show a distinct lack of imagination. So, to prove that point, I'll once again write about the remarkable meteorological inclemency that currently prevails.

Nodded off on the sofa last night and woke up at around midnight. Peered out the window at a street light that lit up what I thought was rain, but on closer inspection I realised it was snow. Went to bed half expecting to be snowed in this morning. Fortunately the snow must have been just a quick flurry because most of it had melted away. However, as I made an early morning cuppa, shoved another log on the dying embers in the stove and let Jock out for a quick wander around his estate, it started snowing again.

Have just checked the calendar and, yes, it's almost June. I can hardly see across the valley for falling snowflakes and, according to the thermometer thingy, it's minus two degrees. This is all very strange. Think I'll go back to bed.

Grey

Been under a blanket of cloud for what seems like an eternity. Grey, dismal, rainy and surprisingly chilly for the time of year. Woodpile continues to shrink due to the kitchen stove being lit in the evenings to keep warm while cooking. Seems like this winter will never end. Might even have to ask Christian to deliver yet more logs if this weather doesn't improve in the next couple of weeks. Looking out the window there's no sign of wind, just a stubborn greyness that refuses to move on. Still, I suppose all this rain is good for the countryside. Certainly looks green and lush out there with tall grasses shooting up in the fields and trees bursting into leafy splendour.

Down in the valley the little river has turned into a raging torrent of brown water that crashes into bends, further eroding the muddy banks. Took Jock down there for a walk a couple of days back. Kept well clear of the river though, didn't want him washed out to sea, so he drank from puddles instead.

Yesterday we went walkies up the mushroom forest. Mentioned this forest in a posting a while back. All the trees have unfortunately been cut down, their trunks stacked and lorried off to one of the many woodyards round these parts. However, I was pleased to see that the discarded tree branches have now been stacked into long rows with hundreds of newly planted saplings lined up in the open spaces inbetween. The old stuff will eventually rot down and disappear as the little saplings grow into towering trees. In about thirty or forty years time they'll be cut down, and so the cycle continues. At least those little saplings appreciate all this rain. Gives 'em a good start in life.

Blooms

Had some rubbish weather recently. But on the bright side, it's saved me the chore of wobbling around the garden with a watering can. This morning dawned bright and sunny so I nipped outside and took a few snaps of some recent blooms. The little apple tree out front is in full blossom and one of the irises has burst into flower. They look rather rather impressive in the low morning sunlight. Clouded over a bit now. Might rain again later. Ah well, ç'est la vie.

The chateau cottage

As briefly mentioned in a previous posting, we put in a low offer on a little cottage just to the east of Tulle. We were then informed that someone had beaten us to it with a higher offer. Fiddlesticks! Rats! Houses like that (19th Century, stone, unmodernised, in a quiet location and very reasonably priced) don't turn up that often. And when they do, they usually don't hang around for long, despite the sluggish property market and France's current economic woes. Still, it appeared we were in with a very slight chance, but only if the other buyer had difficulty in raising the dosh. In our favour was the fact that we were cash buyers. But, we knew that the other agent would be working like mad to find another buyer if his current buyer dropped out. The odds seemed stacked against us. All we could do was to wait for confirmation either way the following Saturday.

On the Friday, a day early, our agent contacted us to say that the vendor had decided to give up with the other buyer and was happy to accept our offer if we still wanted to progress with the purchase.

Crikey! Now it was serious! Buying yet another property in France hadn't really been on our agenda. We'd sort of been thinking about selling 'the barn' and maybe buying a cheap shack in England, or maybe Wales. Or maybe selling our current house and chucking everything at 'the barn'. And now here we were facing the unplanned prospect of owning three properties in France. On the one hand it was madness, but on the other, it kinda made sense. Better to have our tiny bit of dosh invested in property rather than languishing in a lousy British bank where it earned pathetically little interest. Furthermore, we could sell 'the barn', do up this new property (I call it 'Chateau Cottage' because it's next to a chateau), then maybe sell our current house and live in luxury at the cottage. Or keep both and maybe live in the cottage in winter (it has proper heating and is in a slightly less chilly area) and rent it out in summer (touristy lakes and the popular Dordogne Gorges are nearby). Or, if all else fails, then maybe sell it for a profit.

So, what to do? Say yay or nay? Being bonkers, I was all for it. However, Georgie, being the sensible one, was reluctant to commit to what was essentially a totally unnecessary purchase. But, with the winds of change already blowing in her life (she's chucking in work and planning on coming out here for the summer and going freelance, armed to the teeth with new Apple computery stuff), she said "another fine mess you've got us into" thus confirming a green light to proceed.

Turned up at the notaire's office (the sale solicitor) in Tulle last Monday where I met the vendor and the selling agent, signed the agreement to purchase papers, handed over a deposit cheque and am now looking forward to the official purchase meeting sometime in June.

Next project is to sell 'the barn'. Could be complicated, but ç'est la vie. Never a dull moment.

(P.S. - I'm probably stating the obvious, but click on the photos to enlarge.)

The forest house

About four years ago I discovered a new dogwalk up in the high forest across the valley. The winter winds blow fiercely up there so the tall trees have to be strong to survive. And strong they are. Big too, especially the tall pines. It's a great place to walk when the evening sun sends shafts of light between the moss-covered tree trunks. And it's very peaceful, but not when it's raining or snowing, or when the winds are howling.

On my first trek up there I was quite surprised to discover a dilapidated old house and barn by a disused track in the middle of the woods. Intrigued about its history and whether it might be possible to buy the original front door which was still in quite good condition, I asked neighbour Christian if he knew the owner. He responded by saying that the local council were now the owners and that they had plans for renovating the wreck as a hostel for visiting walkers. I later discovered that the Creuse region had recently been granted government funding to boost tourism and attract nature lovers to explore its unspoilt countryside - the Creuse region is one of France's least densely populated regions with little industry apart from farming - hence the renovation plan.

Work began the following spring. The overgrown garden area was cleared and the barn re-roofed. However, nothing was being done to the house, which I thought a bit odd. That summer, as is customary in France, a big board was put up on the barn wall listing all the different companies that were involved in the renovations, such as electricians, plumbers, masons, etc. Then winter came and work stopped. Started again the following spring. However, still nothing was being done about the house. The following spring, I suppose last year, the barn had been almost finished and was presumably ready for its first visitors. Then, for some reason, I stopped going up there. I think it may have been because there was now more likelihood of meeting other dogs up there so Sprocket would have to be kept on his lead. Far less risk when walking up the Sprocket Hill area.

Anyways, now Sprock's gone, I thought it safe to venture up to the forest house for the first time in ages. Went up there yesterday evening with Jock. Big surprise..., the barn was finished but the dilapidated house had been demolished. All that remained was just a small pile of rubble. I wonder what happened to that front door...