Tuesday, 25 December 2018
Saturday, 22 December 2018
Tod was Lucky
Christmas Day we will spend with friends. Christmas Eve is just us and a traditional Polish evening meal. It's a day of fasting and abstinence in the Catholic calendar, so the break fast happens at the first star and the meal is fish. Traditionally in Poland the fish is carp - bony and pretty tasteless. I think I had it once, many years ago, when Tod prepared a meal for his mother, sister and her children. We've always agreed since: "not carp".
So it's usually something like monkfish or a meaty piece of "dos de cabillaud" (fillet of cod). The challenge is that the French (also following a day of fasting and abstinence) opt for seafood. So from now onwards great swathes of the fish counter in Leclerc are given over to huge platters of mussels, prawns, oysters, crabs, lobsters, clams. Boxes and boxes of oysters are stacked in great piles. And the white fish vanishes from sight.
This morning's early dog walk was close-by the Garonne on the edge of town and not wanting to make the car journey twice, Tod nipped into Leclerc to buy the cod on his way home.
He was lucky. As he was leaving, the Gilets Jaunes (yellow vests) were setting up their barriers on the same roundabout where I got caught a month ago. These are not "casseurs" (a new word I learnt through all of this meaning hooligan) but just local guys who are very, very fed up with the way their central government has been treating them and they are just not giving up or going away.
Tough though on anyone who has only this weekend to prepare for Christmas.
So it's usually something like monkfish or a meaty piece of "dos de cabillaud" (fillet of cod). The challenge is that the French (also following a day of fasting and abstinence) opt for seafood. So from now onwards great swathes of the fish counter in Leclerc are given over to huge platters of mussels, prawns, oysters, crabs, lobsters, clams. Boxes and boxes of oysters are stacked in great piles. And the white fish vanishes from sight.
This morning's early dog walk was close-by the Garonne on the edge of town and not wanting to make the car journey twice, Tod nipped into Leclerc to buy the cod on his way home.
He was lucky. As he was leaving, the Gilets Jaunes (yellow vests) were setting up their barriers on the same roundabout where I got caught a month ago. These are not "casseurs" (a new word I learnt through all of this meaning hooligan) but just local guys who are very, very fed up with the way their central government has been treating them and they are just not giving up or going away.
Tough though on anyone who has only this weekend to prepare for Christmas.
Monday, 17 December 2018
Feet
My role in life has become keeping the medical profession in full employment.
If it isn't teeth it's eyes. And if it isn't eyes it's feet. Today, it's feet.
Do you remember the large brown x-ray machines in shoe shops? A lifetime ago. As children, my mother always insisted we wore "sensible" shoes - Startrite I seem to remember. The giant advert on the walls at tube stations of two small children, hand-in-hand marching away from us along an endless road, a perfect image of me and my brother.
The man with the brown box - I was always a little nervous of putting my foot into the black hole (a touch prescient maybe) - informed my mother I had "expensive" feet. How right he was!
Apart from a relatively brief irresponsible moment in my late teens and early twenties when my father despaired of the impact of my stilettos on the lounge parquet flooring, I have, on the whole, continued with my mother's advice ringing in my ears to wear sensible shoes. So, I find it hard now to be lumbered with a set of aching clodhoppers that our new GP recoiled from exclaiming "deformés" several times when he asked me to remove my socks. (It particularly rankles that Tod has such beautifully straight feet.)
Still, our less than tactful GP gave me a prescription for some orthotic insoles and I headed for the best podiatrist in the whole of Lot-et-Garonne. Somehow, shoving little coloured wedges of differing heights under my heels and insteps, bonding them all into scruffy grey insoles and with fearsome instructions to wear them always, the podiatrist has done it.
My feet may still be clodhoppers but at least they no longer hurt. Today, three months later, the foot-man is proud of me (and himself) exclaiming "superbe!" at least half a dozen times as he asks me to stand and walk. So much more encouraging than "deformés".
Basking in my new-found sense of well-being, I contemplate even going so far as to buy some new (sensible of course) Merrell's sandals for next summer.
As I leave, we shake hands and wish each other "bonnes fêtes". He tells me to come back in a year - but then hastens to say if I need to see him in the meantime, not to hesitate to do so. Ah, of course, I must always be mindful of my new role in life!
If it isn't teeth it's eyes. And if it isn't eyes it's feet. Today, it's feet.
Do you remember the large brown x-ray machines in shoe shops? A lifetime ago. As children, my mother always insisted we wore "sensible" shoes - Startrite I seem to remember. The giant advert on the walls at tube stations of two small children, hand-in-hand marching away from us along an endless road, a perfect image of me and my brother.
The man with the brown box - I was always a little nervous of putting my foot into the black hole (a touch prescient maybe) - informed my mother I had "expensive" feet. How right he was!
Apart from a relatively brief irresponsible moment in my late teens and early twenties when my father despaired of the impact of my stilettos on the lounge parquet flooring, I have, on the whole, continued with my mother's advice ringing in my ears to wear sensible shoes. So, I find it hard now to be lumbered with a set of aching clodhoppers that our new GP recoiled from exclaiming "deformés" several times when he asked me to remove my socks. (It particularly rankles that Tod has such beautifully straight feet.)
Still, our less than tactful GP gave me a prescription for some orthotic insoles and I headed for the best podiatrist in the whole of Lot-et-Garonne. Somehow, shoving little coloured wedges of differing heights under my heels and insteps, bonding them all into scruffy grey insoles and with fearsome instructions to wear them always, the podiatrist has done it.
My feet may still be clodhoppers but at least they no longer hurt. Today, three months later, the foot-man is proud of me (and himself) exclaiming "superbe!" at least half a dozen times as he asks me to stand and walk. So much more encouraging than "deformés".
Basking in my new-found sense of well-being, I contemplate even going so far as to buy some new (sensible of course) Merrell's sandals for next summer.
As I leave, we shake hands and wish each other "bonnes fêtes". He tells me to come back in a year - but then hastens to say if I need to see him in the meantime, not to hesitate to do so. Ah, of course, I must always be mindful of my new role in life!
Sunday, 18 November 2018
Yesterday ...
... I think I may have been lucky. Not displaying my "gilet jaune" on my dashboard to show my solidarity with the "manifestation" I could have encountered a much more aggressive response than just a leaflet through the window.
In this morning's Sunday Times ...
The protests continue today. On the VINCI website alone there is a list of over a hundred places on their motorways where traffic is being obstructed.
Free parking at Disney World Paris today apparently, thanks to the demands of the "gilets jaunes".
They are talking cheerfully about carrying on through the week. We'll see whether tomorrow's temperature in single figures cools their ardour. Or just encourages more burning of pallets and (as is usual in France) car tyres.
We, in the meantime, are spending a bright but cold windy day moving summer pots against the shelter of the cottage terrace wall and building our own barricade of large black bags of swept up leaves which will help to keep the plants cosy through winter. Very satisfying to have geraniums and begonias continue year on year.
If we venture forth tomorrow we'll be displaying very prominently our yellow vests for all the world to see.
In this morning's Sunday Times ...
The protests continue today. On the VINCI website alone there is a list of over a hundred places on their motorways where traffic is being obstructed.
Free parking at Disney World Paris today apparently, thanks to the demands of the "gilets jaunes".
They are talking cheerfully about carrying on through the week. We'll see whether tomorrow's temperature in single figures cools their ardour. Or just encourages more burning of pallets and (as is usual in France) car tyres.
We, in the meantime, are spending a bright but cold windy day moving summer pots against the shelter of the cottage terrace wall and building our own barricade of large black bags of swept up leaves which will help to keep the plants cosy through winter. Very satisfying to have geraniums and begonias continue year on year.
If we venture forth tomorrow we'll be displaying very prominently our yellow vests for all the world to see.
Saturday, 17 November 2018
Well That Was a First!
I had our large Leclerc supermarket entirely to myself this morning - except for a few dejected staff.
France is having a national "manifestation" against the rising cost of taxes on diesel.
Blissfully unaware, I took the back road to the retail park where Lidl and Leclerc sprawl. Emerging from a side street I found my way onto the roundabout blocked by middle-aged men in "gilets jaunes"- the yellow safety vests we all have to carry by law in our vehicles. A leaflet was thrust through my window. No one was going anywhere.
Slowly it dawned on me - they weren't blocking Lidl's entrance! Possibly because the "gilets jaunes" needed somewhere to park their own cars. A quick u-turn, a parking space found and I struck out on foot for Leclerc on the far side of the estate.
More "gilets jaunes" and several pallets blocked my way. Uncertain of the etiquette in France about crossing picket lines, I asked if I could pass. Sometimes being an elderly English woman speaking bad French has its benefits and I was waved benevolently through.
As I walked between the rows of empty parking spaces, the entrance doors swished apart and a solitary, scowling man emerged. Good! That meant the place was open. Curious to know what was going on, I crossed the deserted hallway to the information desk, to find the staff clamouring for information from me! How had I got there? Had they let my car through? When I explained Lidl was open and I had been able to park and walk, an irate manager promptly got on the phone. (I nervously wondered if his call would lead to Lidl and my car being blocked.)
In half an acre of cash tills, only one was open, the young cashier idly chatting to a colleague. They told me the manifestation was foolish and that it was likely to happen again next weekend.
Carrying my shopping and retracing my steps, a woman with a knapsack, wisely wearing her "gilet jaune", came towards me. As we passed we smiled at each other conspiratorially.
It's going to be a very long, very slow Saturday for Leclerc's staff. They are going to need the "bonne courage" I gave them as I left, especially as Lidl is still open.
France is having a national "manifestation" against the rising cost of taxes on diesel.
Blissfully unaware, I took the back road to the retail park where Lidl and Leclerc sprawl. Emerging from a side street I found my way onto the roundabout blocked by middle-aged men in "gilets jaunes"- the yellow safety vests we all have to carry by law in our vehicles. A leaflet was thrust through my window. No one was going anywhere.
Slowly it dawned on me - they weren't blocking Lidl's entrance! Possibly because the "gilets jaunes" needed somewhere to park their own cars. A quick u-turn, a parking space found and I struck out on foot for Leclerc on the far side of the estate.
More "gilets jaunes" and several pallets blocked my way. Uncertain of the etiquette in France about crossing picket lines, I asked if I could pass. Sometimes being an elderly English woman speaking bad French has its benefits and I was waved benevolently through.
As I walked between the rows of empty parking spaces, the entrance doors swished apart and a solitary, scowling man emerged. Good! That meant the place was open. Curious to know what was going on, I crossed the deserted hallway to the information desk, to find the staff clamouring for information from me! How had I got there? Had they let my car through? When I explained Lidl was open and I had been able to park and walk, an irate manager promptly got on the phone. (I nervously wondered if his call would lead to Lidl and my car being blocked.)
In half an acre of cash tills, only one was open, the young cashier idly chatting to a colleague. They told me the manifestation was foolish and that it was likely to happen again next weekend.
Carrying my shopping and retracing my steps, a woman with a knapsack, wisely wearing her "gilet jaune", came towards me. As we passed we smiled at each other conspiratorially.
It's going to be a very long, very slow Saturday for Leclerc's staff. They are going to need the "bonne courage" I gave them as I left, especially as Lidl is still open.
Friday, 26 October 2018
Lot-et-Garonne has been Invaded!
Open a window and they emerge from the frame. Take down washing from the line and they scuttle out from the folds. Get into bed at night and one is bound to wander out from the sheets across your pillow. They huddle on electric cables, lamp shades, the backs of chairs, the edges of books. Pick something up and they will be hiding underneath.
They fall badly - lying on the floor, or the desk, or the kitchen worktop, legs waving in the air - and so they stay until, exhausted, they are comatose. Pick them up and they wriggle back into life, using your fingers to right themselves and heading off purposefully to explore your hand.
They startle when they burst into flight, wings emerging from beneath their greenish-greyish hard shiny cases. Their deep buzz is out of all proportion to their size and their flight, as they zigzag across the room, is decidedly erratic.
Happy to be in orchards and maize fields throughout the summer, they definitely prefer indoors to outside at this time of the year!
They are shield bugs or stink bugs (crush them and they give off a nasty smell). "Punaises" in French. And their numbers this autumn are so extraordinary (perhaps the hot dry summer has contributed) they have made the front page of the newspaper.
Among the places they have found to hibernate are the gathered curtains of our gazebo outside the cottage. Unfortunately for them, and some sleepy wasps, we are taking down the curtains and fabric roof for winter. The task involves much shaking out and grumpy bugs dropping to the ground, picking themselves up off the terrace and trundling off into the grass.
As soon as we put down the folded material a small contingent tries to sneak back into their shelter.
No doubt late next spring, as we set up the gazebo for summer, a few will contentedly re-emerge, having survived whatever this coming winter has to throw at us.
They fall badly - lying on the floor, or the desk, or the kitchen worktop, legs waving in the air - and so they stay until, exhausted, they are comatose. Pick them up and they wriggle back into life, using your fingers to right themselves and heading off purposefully to explore your hand.
They startle when they burst into flight, wings emerging from beneath their greenish-greyish hard shiny cases. Their deep buzz is out of all proportion to their size and their flight, as they zigzag across the room, is decidedly erratic.
Happy to be in orchards and maize fields throughout the summer, they definitely prefer indoors to outside at this time of the year!
They are shield bugs or stink bugs (crush them and they give off a nasty smell). "Punaises" in French. And their numbers this autumn are so extraordinary (perhaps the hot dry summer has contributed) they have made the front page of the newspaper.
Among the places they have found to hibernate are the gathered curtains of our gazebo outside the cottage. Unfortunately for them, and some sleepy wasps, we are taking down the curtains and fabric roof for winter. The task involves much shaking out and grumpy bugs dropping to the ground, picking themselves up off the terrace and trundling off into the grass.
As soon as we put down the folded material a small contingent tries to sneak back into their shelter.
No doubt late next spring, as we set up the gazebo for summer, a few will contentedly re-emerge, having survived whatever this coming winter has to throw at us.
Sunday, 30 September 2018
We lingered ...
... reluctant to leave. Our crêpes finished, the wine drunk, the bill paid, the soft, gold lighting casting shadows on the old brick and stone walls, up to the gloom of the ancient beams high above us, we and our friends from Australia stayed to listen.
Giselle spoke of the time when Clairac was "the centre of the world"; when every nationality crossed her threshold, the family from Tasmania, the forty Australians who disembarked from their boats down at the quay and walked up the narrow cobbled street to dine at her crêperie.
At the table next to us the four English boat people spoke with sadness and hope.
Sad that the beautiful Lot is now so little used. Channels allowed to silt up, pollution contaminating old mill ponds preventing dredging, the Garonne crossing that enabled boats and barges to move from Europe's great network of canals onto this waterway now closed.
Hopeful that, finally, France is beginning to recognise what this beautiful river has to offer. Not next year, but maybe the year after, the crossing may re-open and, who knows, one day money may be found to reverse the on-going decay and neglect.
Giselle closes her crepêrie at the end of September and this would be our last visit 'til the first of April next year. There was an extra tinge of nostalgia in our farewells. She tells us next season will be her last. Where then will we go to find such evenings of magic?
Giselle spoke of the time when Clairac was "the centre of the world"; when every nationality crossed her threshold, the family from Tasmania, the forty Australians who disembarked from their boats down at the quay and walked up the narrow cobbled street to dine at her crêperie.
At the table next to us the four English boat people spoke with sadness and hope.
Sad that the beautiful Lot is now so little used. Channels allowed to silt up, pollution contaminating old mill ponds preventing dredging, the Garonne crossing that enabled boats and barges to move from Europe's great network of canals onto this waterway now closed.
Hopeful that, finally, France is beginning to recognise what this beautiful river has to offer. Not next year, but maybe the year after, the crossing may re-open and, who knows, one day money may be found to reverse the on-going decay and neglect.
Giselle closes her crepêrie at the end of September and this would be our last visit 'til the first of April next year. There was an extra tinge of nostalgia in our farewells. She tells us next season will be her last. Where then will we go to find such evenings of magic?
Wednesday, 25 July 2018
The merc has been ..
.. part of our lives for over twenty years. Not a "he" nor a "she". No cute name. Our functional brute of a vehicle is always just "the merc".
Built on a Friday, or in some doubtful foreign country when Mercedes was trying to save money, or left out in a field in the rain, or too much salt on the roads over winter - the myths grew up as to why the bodywork of the merc so quickly began to deteriorate. Rusty bubbles appeared. The paint on sills began to split and crack. The merc was never a beauty. Or maybe only briefly, in the early days before coming into our lives.
So it became the workhorse and a Tardis. It is the car that is used to carry newly bought plants from the nursery (a sprinkling of compost and wood chips left in the well). It is the car that has carried tatty writing desks and small occasional tables to be "shabby-chiced", sets of rush-seated wooden dining seats for the terrace and two armchairs (a mistake later transported to Emmaus), more than one second-hand carpet and a mound of furniture from Ikea that by rights should not have fitted in the back.
It is the car that is used to take rubbish to the tip - garden bags stuffed with plastic plant trays and pots too small to re-use, old faded, grubby sun umbrellas, wooden poles broken under the weight of their covers - caught and carried across the garden in a sudden summer storm, great cardboard cartons, flattened as requested, the wrapping from the latest Amazon delivery or the outer protection of dog biscuits from Zooplus (Bertie and Vita in the van helping to track down the package), builders rubble that leaves the upholstery dusty and gritty, odd bits of metal and plastic pipe carefully separated each to go to a different skip. The tip attendant peers in through the window of the packed merc, checking that we are not carrying any noxious substance.
Eleven years ago a border official too peered into the back window of the merc; duvets, pillows, kettle, plates and mugs, wedged in and pressed against the glass obscured his view. Somewhere from the depths came a muffled bark and he handed back our pet passports with a smile and waved us through. On the Eurotunnel crossing we opened the tailgate and our two elderly Airedales (Clara and Smudge) eased out of their cage to sit with us on the floor of the carriage.
Over the years the dog cage has been in and out of the back. Seats removed so that it would fit - Airedale sized dogs need a large cage if they are to turn round - the merc carried them to the vets, to the canal for walks, to a play date with a nearby cousin found via an Airedale owners forum. The evening Vita was poisoned there was no time to find the cage. We hurtled into town to the vet, breaking every speed limit, Tod holding her on the back seat as she thrashed and foamed and he begged her not to die.
On short trips - up to the bottle bank in the village, down to the stream to start the morning walk on days when the fields are too muddy to cross - Bertie and Vita just jump in the back and jockey for where they always finally sit. Vita on the front passenger seat, Bertie in the back, in the middle, looking over our shoulders through the windscreen. Sometimes a large Airedale paw gently pulls at the driver's arm, asking to have her "tummy tickled". The passenger window is smeary with Airedale snot as she snorts at the glass, wanting more of a gap so she can stick her head out.
In earlier days the merc was an ambulance for Tod. This was yet another time we removed the seats and he lay, in agony with a bad back, the length of its cavernous space as I gingerly drove home, silently cursing every bump and pothole in the road.
It was the place where we said goodbye to Smudge. Too weak to be driven anywhere he lay in the back until our vet came to him and we let him go with love.
To begin with I was nervous of this great tank of a vehicle and it was very much "Tod's car" but then he bought the Batmobile - with its open roof ideal for warmer climes - and the tank became mine. It turns on a sixpence and squeezes into parking spaces that other drivers have rejected. It is scruffy. Pebbles from the soles of my wellington boots collect behind the pedals. Loose seat covers and extra carpets have briefly smartened the interior and then, looking sad, have been discarded.
Monday, taking a visitor back to the airport, the merc broke down on the motorway. Towed to a distant garage, it now sits forlornly on a forecourt looking all of its many years, waiting for an estimate for repairs. We already know it will not pass the French MOT next year. Friday we collect a second-hand Skoda from Tarbes.
It's possible (probable?) that the merc has taken its last journey with us. I doubt somehow that the Skoda will be with us for the next twenty plus years. I will miss the old brute.
Built on a Friday, or in some doubtful foreign country when Mercedes was trying to save money, or left out in a field in the rain, or too much salt on the roads over winter - the myths grew up as to why the bodywork of the merc so quickly began to deteriorate. Rusty bubbles appeared. The paint on sills began to split and crack. The merc was never a beauty. Or maybe only briefly, in the early days before coming into our lives.
So it became the workhorse and a Tardis. It is the car that is used to carry newly bought plants from the nursery (a sprinkling of compost and wood chips left in the well). It is the car that has carried tatty writing desks and small occasional tables to be "shabby-chiced", sets of rush-seated wooden dining seats for the terrace and two armchairs (a mistake later transported to Emmaus), more than one second-hand carpet and a mound of furniture from Ikea that by rights should not have fitted in the back.
It is the car that is used to take rubbish to the tip - garden bags stuffed with plastic plant trays and pots too small to re-use, old faded, grubby sun umbrellas, wooden poles broken under the weight of their covers - caught and carried across the garden in a sudden summer storm, great cardboard cartons, flattened as requested, the wrapping from the latest Amazon delivery or the outer protection of dog biscuits from Zooplus (Bertie and Vita in the van helping to track down the package), builders rubble that leaves the upholstery dusty and gritty, odd bits of metal and plastic pipe carefully separated each to go to a different skip. The tip attendant peers in through the window of the packed merc, checking that we are not carrying any noxious substance.
Eleven years ago a border official too peered into the back window of the merc; duvets, pillows, kettle, plates and mugs, wedged in and pressed against the glass obscured his view. Somewhere from the depths came a muffled bark and he handed back our pet passports with a smile and waved us through. On the Eurotunnel crossing we opened the tailgate and our two elderly Airedales (Clara and Smudge) eased out of their cage to sit with us on the floor of the carriage.
Over the years the dog cage has been in and out of the back. Seats removed so that it would fit - Airedale sized dogs need a large cage if they are to turn round - the merc carried them to the vets, to the canal for walks, to a play date with a nearby cousin found via an Airedale owners forum. The evening Vita was poisoned there was no time to find the cage. We hurtled into town to the vet, breaking every speed limit, Tod holding her on the back seat as she thrashed and foamed and he begged her not to die.
On short trips - up to the bottle bank in the village, down to the stream to start the morning walk on days when the fields are too muddy to cross - Bertie and Vita just jump in the back and jockey for where they always finally sit. Vita on the front passenger seat, Bertie in the back, in the middle, looking over our shoulders through the windscreen. Sometimes a large Airedale paw gently pulls at the driver's arm, asking to have her "tummy tickled". The passenger window is smeary with Airedale snot as she snorts at the glass, wanting more of a gap so she can stick her head out.
In earlier days the merc was an ambulance for Tod. This was yet another time we removed the seats and he lay, in agony with a bad back, the length of its cavernous space as I gingerly drove home, silently cursing every bump and pothole in the road.
It was the place where we said goodbye to Smudge. Too weak to be driven anywhere he lay in the back until our vet came to him and we let him go with love.
To begin with I was nervous of this great tank of a vehicle and it was very much "Tod's car" but then he bought the Batmobile - with its open roof ideal for warmer climes - and the tank became mine. It turns on a sixpence and squeezes into parking spaces that other drivers have rejected. It is scruffy. Pebbles from the soles of my wellington boots collect behind the pedals. Loose seat covers and extra carpets have briefly smartened the interior and then, looking sad, have been discarded.
Monday, taking a visitor back to the airport, the merc broke down on the motorway. Towed to a distant garage, it now sits forlornly on a forecourt looking all of its many years, waiting for an estimate for repairs. We already know it will not pass the French MOT next year. Friday we collect a second-hand Skoda from Tarbes.
It's possible (probable?) that the merc has taken its last journey with us. I doubt somehow that the Skoda will be with us for the next twenty plus years. I will miss the old brute.
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