Evening walk

One of my fave dogwalks is up at the Lightning Tree area. Named it ages ago when I wrongly assumed a big branch had been knocked off by lightning. It was actually due cattle using the branch as a back scratcher. Must have used it a bit too enthusiastically. Farmer told me that. It's up there that he cuts and stacks his logs ready for winter when they're gobbled up by log burning stoves. Interesting that these stoves are now getting the thumbs down in the UK. Apparently the woodsmoke is considered pollution. Wouldn't happen out here in the sparsely populated Creuse region where woodsmoke just disappears into fresh air. Anyways..., the Lightning Tree is a pine, I think. But it might be a fir. Not sure. Don't really know the difference. Looks good in the evening sun though. Really impressive. The sun lights it up with reds and golden yellows.

Bit further on Sprocket Hill comes into view. That's where we sprinkled Sprocket's ashes. Right at the top. He always liked that hill. Hamish is a fan too. We occasionally sit up there and take in the view. Another good viewing spot is just past the Lightning Tree. Sitting under a fir tree, or maybe it's a pine, is good at sundown. But a mole has been at work. Edge of the field has molehills. Farmer apparently isn't having it. Traps have been set.

Sat down there under that tree yesterday eve. Hamish and I. He ogled a distant cow ambling up the field while I watched a vapour trail snake across the clear blue sky. North to south. Where had it been and where was it going? I reckoned Gatwick to Casablanca. Or maybe Oslo to Lagos. Opposite direction to migrating cranes heading back north after their winter break. It's a good spot to spot cranes. None around yesterday though. Maybe they've all headed north already. Then the sun fell below the distant hills. Time to head for home. Fish for tea.

 

Beaune

Following on from my Angouleme posting of a couple of weeks ago, the car search continues. Now the Alfa's gone (expensive to insure, tricky and pricey to service, lack of use doesn't justify the expense of ownership, petrol guzzler, etc.) I'm left with just the trusty dogwagon Citroen ZX. But it's had a good innings, getting a bit flea-ridden and smelly, is now 24 years old, is rapidly approaching the 100 kilometre mark, has just passed its CT test (French MoT) without a serious flaw (tester mentioned exhaust system may need replacing soon) so maybe it's the right time to move it on.

I've been scouring Leboncoin (French sales website) for a replacement for a couple of months. It's a nightmare occupation. Budgetary constraints rule out dream cars, while internet car reviews rule out practically everything else. Then just as I was about to call the whole thing off and stick with the smelly old dogwagon, up pops an ad for a 2003 Ford Fiesta, 5 door, one owner, 1.6 litre petrol beauty with just 930 kilometres. 930? I presumed it was a typing error. But, no. Genuine. Emailed the garage seller and bagged it immediately (just under my €6k max). Then had to visit the bank to transfer €500 deposit and arrange a cheque de banque. Then arranged insurance. Then booked travel: bus from Felletin to Clermont Ferrand, train to Lyon, train to Beaune. Did the trip on Wednesday 27 Feb. Left at 9ish and arrived at about 5ish, picked up car, booked into Beaune hotel at about 6ish, sat in nearby restaurant bar with well earned vin at about 7ish, had paté, steak and chips and pud at about 7.30, and hit the horizontal in the land of Nod at about 9.30.

Been a busy day. Loads of stress. Would I miss the bus or the train connections? Would I have a heart attack - Georgie had told me to tap 15 into my phone if disaster struck, but if the ticker gave out would I remember the number (yes, it was written down) and would I be capable of pressing the phone buttons, and would I be capable of speaking the right words in French, or would I just go "bleurgh, blubb, graaaahblebubble" thereby confusing the heart attack knight in shining armour helper doctor? Too stressful to even think about. And..., would the car be a load of old rubbish, and therefore a wasted journey, and how would I then get back again without wheels? Pah, worry ye not. All's well.

Breakfasted at 7.30. Made the mistook of chopping the head off a boiled egg, only to discover it hadn't been boiled. Apparently the boiled eggs were in a different basket. The raw egg I'd scalped was supposed to be put into the boiling pan to cook for as long as the hotel guest desired. Had to visit the kitchen to explain my mistook and to bin the oeuf. Merci monsieur Bean. Excellent fresh orange juice though. And coffee, ham and croissant. Next, the car. More stress. Would the battery be flat, ditto the tyres, would it refuse to start, etc.? But, no problemo. Hit the road at about 8ish and did a few laps of the Beaune ring road looking for a sign to Autun. Couldn't see one. Wanted to head west so when the rising sun was behind me I escaped the dreaded ring road and headed towards Auxerre, even though it didn't feel right. Sure enough, it was wrong. Turned back and once again joined the ring road racetrack. Eventually spotted a sign to Autun and lurched right. Left Beaune.

Car was driving well. I'd been impressed with its racy performance on the Beaune racetrack, and I was now beginning to bond on a meandering country road. Suddenly aware of being in the midst of wine territory, I slowed down a bit to take in the views. I'd forgotten that Beaune is not only famous for its magnifique roof tiles but also its excellent vins. And here I was on the Route de Grands Crus (or whatever it's called) in the morning sun and mists of one of France's most highly regarded wine regions. Such moments are captivating. I should have stopped and taken a few snaps with the mobile phone, but I didn't. Great shame.

Onwards. Autun, Moulins, Montluçon, Aubusson, Felletin, then home. Arrived about 2ish. Got out the car and noticed the passenger door was missing a plastic panel about a foot long. That would explain the loud bang I heard back on the autoroute (I guessed I'd hit something in the road, maybe a rogue mudflap or summink). The panels appear to be glued on, and maybe the glue's too old. Ordered a new one on eBay and bought some strong glue at the supermarché. Also bought a couple of bouteilles of Beaune region wine - a Bougogne pinot noir and a Macon, both reasonably priced at around six euros each. Am now eagerly anticipating a guzzling session, purely educational of course, as an essential part of my vin learning curve.

Pics: pudding, hotel room view, wine region map (Beaune purple), couple of nicked wine fields photos, nicked snap of Beaune roofs, car (note supertape holding door panels in place - old glue liable to fail anytime soon), deux bouteilles de vin de Beaune region.

Angouleme

Hit the road at 8am a couple of days ago (St. Valentine's Day). Headed for Angouleme. Planned 1pm rendez-vous at the Géant supermarché to check out a 1993 1.9 Citroen BX with only 60000kms and virtually just one elderly owner who'd recently passed away. Gloriously sunny day and a fairly simple route. Missed the supermarché turning and continued completely unaware of our mistook. The Angouleme ring road is no fun when sandwiched between various mahoosive lorries. Eventually twigged we'd missed the turning so headed back. Arrived early so noshed at the McDonald's restaurant. Seller of said BX turned up bang on time. Inspected the car and had a test run as passenger. Stifling a bout of Toad enthusiasm I decided to delay making a decision about buying until that evening. A rarely seen act of being Captain Sensible.

Car viewing over, I was all for heading back home. But Georgie wanted to do stuff. Like having a good old schoofty round that giant Géant supermarché. Or maybe doing the tourist thing and looking at some of Angouleme's historical buildings while munching an ice cream. Hmm, but leaving dog in car on sunny day while wandering around a supermarket wasn't a good thing, said I. And we dont really have time for finding somewhere to park near a touristy hot spot building or three, muttered I. And we still have a 225 kilometres drive to get back home. Anyways..., we sort of compromised. Attacked the local LeClerq supermarché instead. Dog left in shady car with windows open, so he just might survive. And off we went.

Impressive emporium. I always judge a supermarché by whether or not it has a selection of Patak's curry sauces. And LeClerq's came up trumps. Mind you they were well hidden down the dark end of a faraway aisle. Georgie was rather impressed too. Eventually met up about 45 minutes later at the checkout (we tend to shop separately so we don't argue in public). She looked rather chuffed with her main trophies, a pillow and a frying pan lid, plus various other items. Shopping done, we did a quick dogwalk and gave the mutt a bowl of water which he flatly refused to touch. Probably sulking for being left in the car for so long. Och well, suit yersel', Hamish. Then headed for home. Interestingly, or maybe remarkably would be a more appropriate word, we were headed east so the sun was behind us, just as it had been ce matin when we headed west.

Arrived home at around sundown. Rang the seller and said sorry, but I won't be buying. Shall give Angouleme another go come spring or summer. Looks an interesting place.

Sunny Christmas 2018

Quite odd to have sunlight blazing into the kitchen on Christmas day. But that's how it was yesterday. No snow, no clouds, no rain or wind or dismal greyness. And, being almost the shortest day of the year, the sun was low in the sky so the sunny shafts stabbed almost right across the room.

As Georgie and Donnie slaved over the oven and stove knocking up a superb Christmas lunch, I stayed clear of the activity by remaining perched in my kitchen chair, occasionally making myself useful by laying slices of smoked salmon onto plates and chopping up a lemon. Exhausted by these travails, I slowly recovered by swigging vin rouge. And champagne.

Throughout these proceedings, to further keep myself occupied as the diligent duo grafted away, I took a few snaps to record the culinary activity for posterity. This didn't really please Georgie due to her fear that I might load the photos onto Facebook where the whole world and his dog (including her chums) could then witness the somewhat rustic ambience of our cuisine. 'Modern' isn't exactly a word that comes to mind when describing this room. But we simple peasants like it. Well, I do. It's homely and functional. Warm too when the stove's burning up logs. So there.

Normally we knock up our grub and then nosh it upstairs in front of the telly (using just a fork while the left hand steadies to plate - spag bol, curry, etc., our normal fayre, rarely requires fork AND knife).  However, on this auspicious occasion we decided to nosh at the kitchen table, thus avoiding the likelihood of hot spillage onto laps while attacking with knife and fork (thereby not having a spare hand to steady a wobbly platter). And a splendid lunch it was too.

For dessert we headed upstairs and parked ourselves in front of the gogglebox where we stuffed our faces with mince pies, Chirstmas pud and ice cream. Mince pies and Christmas pud?! In France?! Oui! I'd lashed out a few weeks back on an online order from the magnificent Walker's of Scotland. Bought some Christmas cake, chocolate mint and chocolate ginger biccies too. Hang the expense! (£40 well spent, including postage.)

'Twas a Christmas to remember. Very simple. No stress. Just took it easy. Well, I took it easy, being a slob. Was supposed to visit the neighbours at around sevenish in the evening. Didn't quite make it. Dynamite wouldn't have budged me off the sofa. Shall have to pop in later to apologise for a no show. Mind you, they (Isabelle and Christian) apparently had a dozen family members for lunch, and a few more scheduled for a visit in the evening. So maybe our absence won't matter. Much. If at all. Maybe.

Hockney Schlesinger Boman

Hockney's 'Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)' recently sold for $90.3m and became the most expensive artwork ever by a living artist, easily beating the previous record of $58.4m for a Jeff Koons' 'Balloon Dog' sculpture. The painting depicts Peter Schlesinger looking at an underwater swimmer (his new boyfriend?) and was painted by a sad Hockney after his break-up with Schlesinger. It's said that Hockney wanted to convey his pain at Schlesinger's search for a new lover. 

Interestingly, shortly after this painting was finished, Schlesinger hooked up with new lover Eric Boman. Even more interestingly, I remember Boman as a student at the Royal College of Art. When he sauntered into the canteen at lunchtime, dozens of swooning girls (and a few lads) would murmur "By 'eck, he's gorgeous!", and indeed he was (and still is, judging by recent photos). But, to the ladies' disappointment he was gay and rumoured to be part of the Hockney set (thereby causing mass slitting of wrists and suicidal leaping out of canteen windows - the canteen was on the ground floor - by some of the girls, and mass holding in of beerguts while preening in front of mirrors by some of the chaps). 

After leaving the RCA, Boman achieved fame as a Vogue photographer, despite a common belief that he was pretty enough to be in front of the camera rather than behind it. Having researched this painting I've discovered that it features a south of France pool, not a Californian one. Also, Schlesinger (in pink jacket) wasn't there - his pose photo was taken in Kensington Gardens. And the swimmer was actually John St. Clair (who hurt his head on the bottom of the pool when diving in so Hockney could photograph him underwater) not Boman (though Boman may well be the person Hockney was depicting). And Schlesinger and Boman are still together living in New York about 40-odd years later. I wonder if Hockney still sees them.

Misty morning

I remember when I first arrived in our little village I was immediately hooked on the view out front. Despite the cloudy drizzle (I think it was around September '04) I could just make out the distant horizon across the valley. I've been looking at that view for about fourteen years now. It's changed a bit. Some trees have gone and others have been planted. Brush and scrub have been cleared and new fields claimed. And, of course, the view changes with seasons. But the main change is the lighting. Sometimes bright, sometimes dull, sometimes clear, sometimes misty. Take this morning for example. Sunny and misty. Very Turneresque. The view constantly changed as the mists rolled about and the sun rose higher. Enthralling. I think that's the right word.

Migrating cranes

It's around this time of year that hundreds (nay, probably thousands) of cranes (called 'grue' in France, or maybe 'grues' - dunneau for sure) fly south from somewhere around Finland (and/or Russia, Sweden, Germany and other chilly northern places) and head towards the warmer climes of countries such as Spain and north Africa (apparently Algeria is a popular spot) where they spend the winter months. One of their favoured routes is a sort of diagonal line (north-east to south-west) over France, which, of course, means they fly directly over our neck of the woods.

Knowing that thousands of these birdies are likely to be flying overhead at any given moment, means that one is constantly looking skywards in the hope of spotting a gang of feathered travellers other than the usual crows, magpies, sparrows or hawks. This usually results in a stiff neck and/or an unfortunate treading in a cowpat or a pile of dog poo. But..., if one is lucky enough to be in the presence of these migrating oiseaux, one may be unlucky enough to have one's vision impaired by bleedin' clouds. In a circumstance such as that, one will merely be able to hear the flock (or is it a gaggle of grues?) as it passes unseen overhead due to their excited chattering as they trundle onwards. Loud chattering. Non stop chattering while fluttering.

A few weeks back, when Don was here, we heard a chattering in the sky and, sure enough, a gang of grue (or should that be grues?) eventually appeared. Marvellous sight. Time stood still. So did I. Which, of course, meant that I didn't manage to grab my camera in time to take a few snaps.

However, a couple of days ago, another distant chattering way off in the east signalling the possible arrival of another gang of grue. Luckily the sky was fairly clear. Grabbed my camera in the hope of getting some snaps. They flew almost directly overhead. Absolutely fabbeau. Then they were gone.

(Click on pics to enlarge.)