73 Ibiza

Crikey, these birthdays whizz by. I keep thinking I'm about 16 or 26, but, buggaire moi, here I am at bleedin' 73. How the hell did that happen?! Anyways, to celebrate, recover from shock or to drown one's sorrows at reaching this milestone, I did what I did last year and the year before that and the year before that etc.: run off to Formentera with Geo and Don for a two week escape. Cost an arm and a leg this year with travelling at high season and the dramatic collapse of the pound against the euro, but what the heck, one's only old and decrepid once (if one's fortunate enough to stagger into old age).

Took a load of photos with the mobile phone thingy; far too many to load up in a single blog posting so I thought I'd split them into three - Ibiza, Formentera and grub'n'odds. Ibiza first.

Dropped Hamish off at the local doghouse on Friday 16 August. Set off for Lyon airport Saturday lunchtimeish. Had a bad start: unbeknown to me Georgie had put her carefully packed wheelybag behind the car in readiness for a quick getaway, so when I reversed out I inadvertently drove over it. Luckily no damage but it could have been a disaster. Ahem..., flew (easyJet flight booked way back in February) late to Ibiza. Arrived at the backstreet hotel (also booked February) at around 11 pm, presumably just as the hordes of youth were preparing to go out disco grooving. Had some grub in the warm open air at the Hard Rock caff in the busy central boulevard (it's an old habit), then assumed the horizontal below a spinning ceiling fan back at the hotel.

Next morning (Sunday) we trundled around in the sunshine. Had coffee and vino rosado sitting outside the caff we always visit (at the start of the climb up to the old town on high) but the name of which always escapes moi. We'd booked the car hire in Formentera for around 3pm so we had time to kill before hopping onto the ferry from Ibiza. Did a bit of killing by slobbing about under the palm trees of the corner caff on the dockside - again, another part of our Ibiza routine. People watching is a great way to pass the time. Amazing how many vain buggers are covered in tattoos nowadays. No comprendo that fad. Makes no sense to me.

Time waits for no man, and nor does the ferry. Missed our intended bateau so caught the next one half an hour later. One of the great joys of being a geriatric old fart is that one qualifies for half price boat fare. Marvellous. Decisions decisions: to sit inside in air conditioned luxury or outside in blazing hot sunshine? As always we opted for outside, despite the threat of painful sunburn. Hats on. We're on our way.

Corinthian

Georgie gave me a tour of the garden pointing out various growths, one of which she called a corinthian plant, or summink simla. Then she went on about Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan and Composite, some of which names I vaguely recognised as Greek columns, or summink simla. Then she asked in a very superior manner "didn't you do classics?" Being a yob, of course I didn't. So I countered with "Norman, Early English, Decorated and Perpendicular" which had nothing to do with the classics but it was better than saying nothing. Er, took some snaps of other garden stuff plus some plants round and about on canine strolls. It's a good time of year for plants. But, drought conditions mean we can't legally water le jardin. We need rain.

Mint

Dogwalking at this time of year is almost enjoyable. I say 'almost' because there's one thing that ruins it. Or dozens rather. And what's my annoying bugbear? I'll tell you: flies. For some strange reason the bastards find me really attractive. Not Georgie though. She reckons it's because I stink and she doesn't. As a typical attack by flies, take our meanderings up at Sprocket Hill for example. Within minutes of leaving the car and unclipping Hamish from his lead, I'll slowly but surely become aware of numerous black dots hovering and swooping above my head. So I start swatting with flailing arms. Does no good. Probably increases my sweating which causes even more of the flying filth to inspect my balding bonce. Georgie has suggested wearing a hat. Tried that. Didn't work. My solution is to dogwalk in a covered area, such as the forest up at the Walkers' Barn. Or somewhere devoid of cattle, which is almost impossible to find locally, here in the centre of Limousin cattle country.

Couple of days ago I was sitting outside, wine glass in hand, admiring the evening view after yet another fly splattered dogwalk, when I spotted a few of the dreaded dots dancing above my head. Swatted with my left hand, spilt vino with my right. Was just about to waddle indoors to escape the bastardo nasties when Georgie suggested I put a sprig of mint on my head. Being a gardening expert she reckoned this was a sure fire deterrent to even the most determined fly. She cut me a small bush of the stuff and placed it on my head. Couple of vinos later I was feeling quite mellow as the distant hillside across the valley turned orange in the low evening sun. Quite beautiful. Then the farming mayor drove past in his pick-up truck and, as usual, we exchanged cheery waves. He probably thought why is that strange Britisher sitting there with a bush on his head?

  

MGBGT

Warwick and Lorna came to visit a couple of days ago. Drove here in their classic black MGBGT. Stayed at the B&B in Felletin. Left this morning to head back north. Amazingly, they didn't seem too horror struck by seeing our rustic abode. In fact, they seemed favourably impressed, especially with our attic room and garden. Mind you, it was sunny and the garden's looking at its best, thanks to Georgie's travails. Visitors have been known to reel back in shock as soon as the front door is opened. Bit disconcerting.

Anyways, neither of them 'do' Facebook so they wouldn't have seen my daily bletherings with photos. But Lornie mentioned that she often checks out my blog to see what we've been up to. Mentioned that I hadn't blogged for ages. I didn't realise that any of my chums still visited my bloggeau. It's one of the reasons I sort of gave it up. Maybe it's time to quit Facebook and return to blogging. Trouble is, I remember thinking most of my postings were a bit repetitive with photos of a Westie trotting along country tracks. Boring. 

So..., what's been happening since my last bit of scribing? Well, not a lot really, apart from Georgie's impressive work with the garden. And, of course, the changing seasons as enjoyed on our daily dogwalks with Hamish. Winter changed to spring, then summer. The days grew longer, the swallows arrived, jackets and pullovers were stashed, the upstairs wood burner was allowed to go out, ditto the kitchen one too. Problem is we now can't burn most of our plastic packaging so it gets binned or, if it qualifies, recycled. But..., how can we be sure all those empty plastic water bottles and stuff really gets recycled, rather than getting shipped off to the Far East where it ends up dumped in the oceans? Quite worrying.

Drove in to Felletin this morning at about 9.30 to say farewell to Wal and Lornie but, alas, they'd already gone. Left at about 9ish apparently. I'll keep in touch with their progress by email. Hope the old car keeps going in this summer heat. They're planning an overnight stay at Poitiers. Not too far in one day. Should be okay.

Drove back from Felletin and stopped off at Felletin's 'leafy chapel' (as I call it). Didn't get around to showing it to Wal and Lorn on our brief tour of the town. Took some snaps in the hope that they'll see this posting - presuming the MG makes it back to the UK without heat exhaustion or a nervous breakdown. It's an interesting structure. Looks like the old roof collapsed some time ago and was replaced by wooden criss-cross beams with greenery growing up and over, but I may be wrong. Seems to be a place for meditation and contemplation. Or maybe it's simply a cool escape from the summer sun.

Then onwards into the homeward valley where there's currently an impressive display of foxgloves. Took a few snaps then continued uphill to HQ. Not really a big fan of mobile phone photos. They're too convenient. Lazy bones. Much prefer my little Lumix LX3 camera, but I keep forgetting to take it. Time to get back in the habit. (Photos include a hailstone the size of a golf ball from last week's storm - apparently in nearby Clermont Ferrand they had hail the size of tennis balls. Impressive huh. And a photo of the garden thermometer from a few days back. Hasn't exactly been chilly.)

     

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.