There has been something of a technical blip here, and this post was written some years ago and never posted.  So, it has been slightly amended, however, some parts may not be as current as some of the sections might suggest!!

Furthermore, the original version that was misplaced tucked away in a computer file for all this time, contained a different version of “Dolly Parton at The Birmingham Arena” and an extra section entitled “Spotted on Holiday.”  I have included these as “Extras” at the end!

A Good memory is one you can give away!!

As uttered by Billy Connelly in a recent television programme about his life, and as always with him so very profound and true, therefore I’ve been delving through my scribbled notes of ideas for future blogposts, observations and trivia, so here I’m giving some of them away to you, my loyal readers!!!  I’ve also been persuaded to put “pen to paper” by at least one friend who assured me they read all my offerings!  So if only that one person reads this, I’ll have a following!, but it would be good to hear from others, who might have read on, if only to say hi, or when you can come for dinner! See below.

 

A bottle of wine for a white ribbon!

During the summer the year before last, I was walking the dog through the edge of a nearby wood, as I do at least once most days.  Minding my own business in the dappled sunshine but also minding my footing in the deeply rutted track, from the previous wet winter, my eyes alighted on something out of place and sticking out of the mud and remnants of fallen leaves.  On closer examination I discovered a small silver key on a similarly coloured ring, probably I thought the ignition key from a small motorbike.

There being no houses for some distance and deciding that anyone looking for the lost key would have little chance of seeing it on the ground, I hung it in what seemed a prominent position on an overhanging branch.  There it stayed for quite a few days, but was obviously not that easy to spot, as several times I missed seeing it, only to discover it still there, the next time I passed.  So, I decided it needed to be more conspicuous, and found a piece of white ribbon at home, which I added to the ring.  Now each time I passed it couldn’t be missed, and there it stayed for quite a few weeks, before it finally disappeared, shortly before we returned to the UK for a visit.

We were away several weeks and then a short while after we returned, with the nights closing in we had walked the dog and returned as darkness fell and were closing the living room shutters, when a car pulled up and parked obviously outside our house, certainly not a visitor for the neighbours.  I realise that the man who got out was the retired farmer from a farm I regularly pass, the other side of the wood.  I often see him whilst walking, either with his rather large and not always particularly friendly dog or driving his van and usually he stops and winds down the window to exchange pleasantries about the weather and his dog going berserk in the back of the van!  Despite, some language difficulties, we always greet each other like long lost friends, particularly after I commented upon his splendid cows – blonde Aquitaines.  I only know that as at the end of his drive is a photo of their prize bull from several years ago, posing with his son who now runs the farm, advertising the farms blonde Aquitaine herd!  I later found out that this particular bull had been crowned champion of the whole of France and would have potentially been worth in excess of €150,000!

But why was he visiting this dark, cold autumnal evening?  It became obvious that he was asking me a question, and then I realised it was about the key that had been hanging in the woods on the white ribbon, and wondering if I had put it there, as I walked there so often?  Confirming, that I had, he went back to his car took out a bottle of wine and gave it to me with profuse thanks, on behalf of his grandson, who had all that time ago lost the key!  I invited him in for a drink, which he refused, leaving with more thanks, a cheery wave and an element of relief, not simply that the mystery had been solved, but because for several weeks he had been calling to ask about the key and present the bottle of wine, only to find us not at home.  Not only was I touched and taken aback slightly at this generous gesture, but all the more so at his perseverance, and a very pleasant bottle of Cote de Blaye it turned out to be!  

 

And another pleasant welcome home

More recently, we returned home from spending the festive season in the UK.  Having arrived back just after lunch and unpacked the car, we spotted our neighbour Paul walking along from the new chicken run he has been constructing.  He waved, but obviously wanted to talk so we went across to him and greeted him appropriately with a handshake for me and a kiss on both cheeks from Linda, whilst giving him the expected seasonal greeting of “Bonne année et bonne santé” – Happy New Year and Good Health.  I then asked how he was to which he gave his normal somewhat noncommittal reply of “slowly, slowly” but adding with a twinkle in his eye French words to the effect of “all the better for seeing you!”  I then enquired about Yvette his wife, who he said was in the house, we preceded to go in and tell her we were back and asking after her.  She appeared and seemed equally pleased to see us and amongst other things, asked us about Linda’s sister, who sadly lost her husband just before Christmas, about how my mother was and how Victoria, our daughter was, who she knew was expecting her first child and had been suffering from all day “morning” sickness!  She then presented us with a box of eggs, from her soon to be re-housed chickens!, as a welcome home present.

Suffice to say, we felt well and truly welcomed home and touched that they had bothered to enquire about the family.

 

Mais bien sûr ~ But of course

A couple of summers ago there was a young family; mum, dad and three boys, about six, nine and twelve, staying in a neighbouring gîte. Each evening, after tea, the whole family would go for a walk along the tracks leading from our hamlet.  This would often coincide with us taking the dog for a walk, and although we didn’t always pass them, we could often see them from across the fields, the children running happily ahead.

On one particular evening, as we turned down the track heading towards the hamlet, the family were just setting off, the two youngest boys were tearing animatedly ahead intent on a race to the top of the slope. The parents followed sedately some way behind, whilst the eldest boy lagged behind having stopped to excitedly pick blackberries from a particularly plentiful branch and happily supplementing his tea!  As the younger two hurtled past us they politely replied to our bonsoirs, as did the parents when they arrived.  The eldest having had his fill and realising that the rest of the family were some way off, and maybe also alarmed at the strange looking Anglais bearing down on him, set off at a rapid run to catch up with the rest of the family.  Reaching us and before we had a chance to speak, he greeted us with a cheery bonsoir, as he raced by.  On reaching his parents just a little way past us, we heard him being quizzed as to whether he had remembered, in his haste, to speak to the English people he had just passed!  With a distinct hint of indignation, he replied “Mais bien sûr!” (But of course) ….And that’s the crux of it, he was quite put out, at 12, to even be asked the question, as it is such a normal part of life to greet people as you pass them, simple good manners instilled in all at a young age.

 

Dolly Parton at The Birmingham Arena

I read an article some time ago now about the singer Michael Ball, where he was discussing some of his own favourite songs. In the article he recalls how when he heard Dolly Parton sing Little Sparrow he bawled. This brought back to me a very similar experience, but I bawled to Backwoods Barbie, In My Tennessee Mountain Home and Coat of Many Colours, but allow me to explain!

I love the songs of Dolly Parton, and for one so small she has a mighty big voice and an equally big personality to go with it and her songs tell stories of everyday life, much of it her own life, starting in very humble beginnings in that Tennessee Mountain Home mentioned above.  From this humble and indeed extremely poor childhood, she has through hard work and determination become a true global superstar but never lost sight of those roots and given the world so much more than just a few good old country songs. She has shown herself to be an astute and savvy businesswoman, although also self-effacing often making fun of her looks.  In her own words; “Don’t judge me by the cover, cause I’m a real good book,” and “I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not dumb... and I also know that I'm not blonde!”

 

So, this love of Dolly Parton’s music, (including a riotous evening of Dolly and others for a dear friend’s 50^th birthday, culminating in more weeping and wailing when discovering the song “Little Andy”, but that’s a story for another time) was bound to have a profound effect on my children!  Daniel vehemently shunned the bright lights and darker corners of Tennessee and Nashville, but Victoria embraced the lilting notes and stories of life with a similarly vehement passion! Indeed, by the time she was sixteen, name a Dolly song and she would know all the words, and I’m sure was the first to blast them out at university socials, given the chance, and probably still could now!  Well, a Dolly tour of the UK, to promote her Backwoods Barbie album, happened to coincide with her 21^st birthday, so tickets seemed an obvious birthday present, together with pink Stetsons for the ladies, not really my colour, but mum was coming too!

 

As you will have gathered the concert was at The Birmingham Arena, a vast performance space in the middle of Birmingham, and our seats were upstairs, about two thirds of the way back, stage right, so some distance from the stage.

When she first arrived, so small a figure, she was almost lost in the enormity of the venue, until she sang in her inimitable style, filling the auditorium right to the rafters.  Her stage presence is immense, and when she talks “Thank you all for coming tonight and spending your money on the tickets, it takes a lot of money to look this cheap!” and sings it as almost as though it’s just to you and the other thousands of people aren’t there!

 

So it was that the aforementioned songs, interestingly all deeply routed in her childhood, just struck a chord, and the tears flowed freely as her amazing voice slipped, flowed and cracked around the rafters.  I’m sure there is a proper musical term for this, like “piano messo forte”, or something like that, but I’m just an emotional uncultured soul at heart!

 

Sadly, as I finish writing this it has just been announced that Dolly has just lost her husband Dean, after nearly 60 years of marriage, a long time in anyone’s book, despite early worries about Jolene!

 

Different perspectives on Roadside Haiku project

In one of the many cuttings I hoard, to read at my leisure later on, was a fascinating article about “bandit signs” and a growing controversy in the city of Atlanta, Georgia, USA.  Bandit signs, for those of you who don’t know, are those random signs, often measuring about 12 inches by 18 inches, that appear all over the place with eye catching headlines such as “Get Cash Now” or “Lose 30 Pounds in 30 Days”.

Well, Atlanta artist John Moore decided to come up with a Roadside Haiku project positioning 500 of these around the city, as a temporary exhibit for however long they lasted.  His would indeed include catchy headlines such as “Meet Local Singles” or “Lose Ugly Weight Fast” but as the first line of a haiku poem, but with something more, indeed a message!

So, to complete the above headlines you get:

Meet Local Singles!!

Easy: Stand Near Others

Hang up your Cell Phone

 

Lose Ugly Weight Fast

Feel Happier! Healthier!

Dump Your Bigotry

 

And a particular favourite:

Build Personal Wealth

In the Comfort of Your Home

Read to Your Children

 

Well, as often happens in these situations, the project has created a degree of controversy, with those who love the signs and those, such as Peggy Denby, of the “Keep Atlanta Beautiful” campaign who has described the project as “litter on a stick”.

 

But I’m with the former and prefer to think of these messages as “wisdom on a wand” or “passion on a pole”!!  How about you?

 

And for Peggy Dandy, can I suggest a free advert, for an obviously worthy cause:

 

Please, Keep Atlanta

Beautiful, for everyone,

With respect for All!

 

 

Any one for dinner?

In a recently read article about the Faroe Islands, I was particularly taken by what one of the islanders called Oli spoke about.  Oli was hosting a supper evening for a group of visiting Belgium artists and a Swedish based Nigerian photographer and writer called Lola Akinmade Åkerström.  One of the artists announced that they would like to photograph Oli, on his green roof, as you do!, to which he replied:  “You know what?  When you say yes to life, you open up doors.  That’s why we run these dinners and invite strangers into our home.  Who knows how the evening ends!”

So, just let me know when you are free and come prepared, there may be more than four courses, cheese course included!  However, if the wine flows our roof is perhaps just a little too high for staging photographs, although I do recall one instance when a visitor did pose reading a book on the barn roof.  His wife was also in the photograph, climbing up a ladder to the roof.  The subsequent caption read something like – “(He) thought he had found a quiet place to read, but (his wife) still found him!!

Late night urge!

As many of you will know, I’m something of a night owl, often not retiring to my bed until the morning side of two o’clock!  But that gives me something of a dilemma, as when I let the dog out for a late night wee, before bed, I often feel my most creative, but are often too knackered to let the creativity flow, but not always.  Here are a couple of winter late-night haiku offerings, only short, but then it is time for bed!

1.    Out from the warmth                           2.  Chillier tonight                              

Cold air took my breath away                   With the hoot of an owl

 

A million stars                                           A stream from the dog!

 

 

That’s all for now, and whilst not a New Year’s Resolution,

I never seem to be able to keep them!, this will hopefully be the

return of the monthly-ish blogpost for 2019!

So keep your eye’s open and don’t forget

you’re invited for dinner!!

 

P.S.  I told you that this blogpost had been a long time coming!

The Extras, rather like the bonus tracks on a CD!

Spotted on holiday

On holiday at a place called Mataro, just north of Barcelona, I was very much taken by the name of a second-hand bookshop, it was called:

“Re-Read”

Simple and to the point, and surprisingly in English!

Dolly Parton at The Birmingham Arena 2008

I recently read an article about the singer Michael Ball, where he was discussing some of his favourite fellow artists and their recent material.  One of these artists was a particular favourite of mine, the tiny, larger than life, Dolly Parton.

My admiration for Dolly, and all she stands for, as she is far more than a simple country girl who is a singer – songwriter, has perhaps rubbed off on my daughter Victoria, who has the dubious talent of being able to animatedly sing along, word perfect, with most of her songs!!    So, it might come as no surprise, that we took Victoria to the above concert for her 21^st birthday.  And what a concert it was, as part of her Backwoods Barbie tour.  For those of you who don’t know The Birmingham Arena, it’s an enormous venue and it is a true testament to Dolly, that despite her tiny height, she filled that vast space with a truly memorable concert and I certainly felt every number was being sung directly to me, albeit that Dolly was but a small dot on the distant stage.  Her passion for the songs and her audience were certainly evident, the songs interspersed with lots of personal anecdotes, and you could almost feel you were having a cosy chat with her over a cup of tea in your front room!

But back to Michael Ball, the interview was some years after this concert, and he admitted that the title track Dolly’s earlier Little Sparrow album, had made him bawl!  I can sympathise with him totally as, at the Backwoods Barbie concert, the emotions were certainly well and truly running high and the sentiments of the songs, the enormity of the event, the tangible love and warmth of the “room” had me bawling and tears rolling down my cheeks when she sang the title track; “Backwoods Barbie”, but also during “In My Tennessee Mountain House” and the really heart-wrenching “Coat of Many Colours” – but I wasn’t alone, as I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house!

 

  

Happy New Year and all the very best for 2025.

Having just posted on my other blog after being absent for several years, although active with other things, I thought I should also put something here and try and be a bit more creative in 2025, amazingly a quarter century since the millennium!

Here's something about our two French gardens, both rescued from wildness, an article I submitted for a competition in the Connexions newspaper, which won - although I never received the prize!!

Potager tales

When we first escaped to France, leaving behind busy lives in a school and a hospital, we decided to rent a house and bind our time.  It didn’t prove initially very easy to find something in our chosen triangle, in the South Vendée, until one fateful day.  We had had to persuade the immoblier to take us to see the property, as he kept telling us it was in the middle of nowhere, he was even reluctant to get out of the car when we got there.  But to cut a long story short it ticked most of the boxes, and when he opened the back shutters the view of the chateau convinced us that this, a largish, fairly primitive, farmworkers / managers house, was where our French dream would start.

One of the unticked boxes was a vegetable plot, and as we were leaving, we asked Pierre the immoblier, if he thought we could dig up some of the large rough front courtyard, only part of which was gravelled.  Somewhat puzzled he asked us why?  When we said to grow some veg, he said somewhat surprised “You want a garden?”  When we answered in the affirmative, he turned swiftly around and marched off out of the front of the courtyard and down the road.  Some fifty metres down the road he disappeared into the overgrown hedgerow, opened a large rustic gate that hung on its supports at a jaunty angle, and pointed inside – “Here is your garden for you to enjoy and do with what you wish!”

Well, the position was superb, behind a large hedge bordering the road, it was a long thin triangle cut out of the cow field, with another hedge at the bottom, and the other side demarcated by a single strand electric fence, over which the view was rural, calm and wonderful, despite it seeming a little flimsy to hold back the extremely large and inquisitive Charolais cattle in the field beyond.  The garden however, was somewhere beneath the metre high matted grass and weeds, and showed little evidence of any recent cultivation other than a tumble-down shed housing some old pots, stakes, twine and other gardening detritus.  There were four spindly fruit trees, which as it was spring time added some colour with their blossom to an otherwise rather bleak scene, but it ticked the garden box!

So soon after we moved in, the garden became a priority to make the most of the growing season.  The first problem was that we only had an electric strimmer, and finances at the time were a little tight, so we had to find a way to run a power cable, or more precisely four (but we had left health and safety behind with our jobs in the UK!), into the garden.  The task was daunting and I imagine even more so for the rather underpowered strimmer that was more used to the edges of a suburban lawn. But, both the strimmer and ourselves rose to the occasion and with plenty of cooling off periods for both ourselves and the inadequate strimmer, and with the help in places of some sturdy hand tools we found the ground!  It was also at this time that we found it was rather prudent to wear both long-sleeved tops, long trousers and stout wellies, as some of the accumulated growth was far from friendly and we realised that snakes were rather more common here than in the suburban garden we had left behind in England!  Other nasties came later with the fruit in the form of wasps and large fearsome hornets, by which stage we were beginning to wonder if we had done the right thing, but a glass of wine sitting outside as the sun went down soon sorted that one out.

We then sorted out the layout of the beds, leaving a fair amount of lawn, much to the disgust of our long-suffering strimmer, and commenced the back breaking task of turning the soil and turfs over, raking the soil into a fine tilth and getting some plants in.  Fortunately, the underlying soil remembered a time when it had previously been cultivated and this made it a little easier.

We produced plenty of fine tasty food, as well as too many courgettes, and had many an adventure in that tamed wilderness, including a pair of leverets that went to ground amongst the onions and conversations over the fence with our bovine neighbours, during the two and a half years that we lived there, and just occasionally had time to sit and admire the view, before buying our own place and moving on to pastures new.  Well actually a garden fifty metres down the road from our new abode, and about 350 square metres of chicken sheds, rabbit hutches, rusty metal, random thick concrete areas, all ham-built and buried under two metre high brambles and other assorted mal herbes.  It was all surrounded by a multi-layered fence containing several layers of chicken wire, green wire fencing and sheets of thick plastic.  It might have all been somewhat ham built, but the previous owner was a little eccentric, and liked to add strands of wire and a plethora of nails, screws, fencing staples and bolts.  On one fence post alone, at an idle moment I counted well over 100 fastening holding on the various layers – did I say eccentric, mad might have been a better description, which is why it took us nearly three months to raze everything to the ground, before starting on the house renovations!

All that remains now is the question we are often asked, bearing in mind the house somewhat reflected the garden – “Would we do it all again?”, to which we give a resounding …. NO!, twice is sufficient!  And, still we rarely have time to sit and appreciate our newly tamed garden, but the produce is worth the effort, as well as giving us the energy for the next weeding session!

 

 

Garden 1

 

       The neighbours come for a chat     

 

       At last, time for a sit down!

Garden 2

        It’s here somewhere!

       The garden today, with newly refurbished shed

 Wassailing brought to France

The village where Victoria is now living, Whimple in East Devon, was historically a cider and perry making area and the former home of Whiteways Cider, now sadly replaced with a housing estate.  

However, cider is still produced there by a Courtney's of Whimple, www.courtneysofwhimple.co.uk, who bought out, in 2015, the retail section of Vigo Presses, who sell all the equipment for cider making and much more.  Whimple is also famous for it's wassail, in this case an orchard visiting ceremony as opposed to the more common traditional house visiting carol singing.  This is an annual event held during the evening of 17th January each year, old twelfth night, where the locals continue a ceremony of pagan origin, where the previous harvest is celebrated and to wish good luck for a bumper harvest for the coming year, through incantations, songs and general merriment!  For more information look up Whimple and wassailing on  Wikipedia.

Well, this year due to the covid lockdown, the event was not able to take place, but Vigo Presses decided to invite people to enter a virtual wassail competition and send in their photos and videos, which can be viewed on the Vigo Presses Facebook page, linked from their website. vigopresses.co.uk

Well, I decided to introduce the idea of wassailing to our French neighbours, which unfortunately couldn't be done at night with flaming torches as we have a covid curfew currently in place.  But a good time was had by all with plenty of noise, cider apple cake and even a French version!  I'll post a link, to  to people who receive my blog notifications, to a full version of the video on my OneDrive, and some shorter pieces below here and in another post, as the videos are too "big" to all go on one post!

The end of Incantation

 

A couple of other short wassail videos

End of the wassail song

Part of the French Version 

Sorry only short snippets, as the blog won't allow me to put on the full version, it's nearly fifteen minutes long and too big for the blog!  If you haven't received the link from me and would like it, leave a comment, including your email address and I'll send you the link.

 I’m back!  Happy New Year 2021

Hi, yes maybe a bit of a surprise, but I’m back!  It’s not that I’ve been idle since my last blogposts, working on a number of projects that either haven’t been finished yet or simply haven’t been posted on either of my blogs.  I’m posting this on both blogs, as neither has had a post for some time and hopefully that will be rectified over the coming weeks and months.

The main reason for the sudden return, was a timely reminder of how long it had been since my last blogposts.  I have just had an article published in the current edition of a storytelling magazine called F & F (Facts and Fiction), which I’ll reproduce on the “Creative Urge” blog, so if you’re on the “It happened ….” blog, you’ll have to go to the other one to read it! (see below)  Well, I submitted the article for consideration on an older version of my Hotmail account, as the newer one was playing up and also doesn’t have some of the features I needed.  I forgot on this version I had embedded, on the bottom, the information about my two blogs, and when the magazine was published earlier this week (online for this edition due to the current covid-19 problems), I found the blog information printed on the bottom of the article.  This led me to look at the blogs and realise just how long I had neglected them for, hence this brief blogpost, to reassure anyone who ventures onto the blogs, that they’re not totally dormant and forgotten!

So, although I didn’t make a New Year’s Resolution this year, as it was rather a none event, after the rather nice duck comfit supper earlier in the evening, hopefully this will have kick started me back into posting more frequent posts.  Also, a reminder that if you do find your way here, it would be good to have some feedback, good or bad, so I at least know somebody out there is looking and hopefully reading my offerings!!

Oh!, and before I forget Happy New Year, and most importantly this year wishing you not just a prosperous year but also a healthy year.  Or, as they say in these parts, Bonne année et bonne santé.  And as we now seem to say more and more Keep Safe, and also try to keep happy!  I’ve always pointed out, it takes less energy to laugh than to scowl, as it uses less muscles!

Below are my two blogs, so if you are on one you can click on the link and find the way to the other!!   

http://ithappenedonethursdayinfebruary.blogspot.fr/

a blog that tells you about our life in France.

http://rogerscreativeurge.blogspot.fr/

does "what it says on the tin" and contains my more creative/ esoteric posts.

 La Belle France en confinement! – Beautiful France in lockdown!

We missed the first confinement in our sleepy little French hamlet, instead being locked down in the UK, first in Plymouth a normally bustling Devon city, and then in Whimple, always it seems a sleepy little East Devon village, although in less strange times one of the pubs does put on live music and then there’s the annual Whimple wassail, where the cider orchards are fed toast soaked in cider and the assembled masses sing to the trees and it seems a good time is had by all!  I look forward to it when the world has hopefully returned to some sort of normality, albeit what people are calling a “new normality.”  Although, those of you who know me well, will possibly question any notion of normally, but I digress!

But we were here for the second confinement, although the announcement took us, and most of the rest of western France, a little by surprise and we were away in the caravan near Pornic, when the news broke!  So, we beat a hasty retreat home, without the necessary “attestation”, as we don’t have a printer with us in the caravan.  Fortunately, with the first weekend of the confinement being the Toussant weekend, when families traditionally put chrysanthemums on the graves of departed loved ones, meaning many people had already travelled away to their childhood homes,  some leeway was given for returning home, during what otherwise was to be a strict and long confinement with very rigid rules and possible severe fines for those who didn’t abide by them – we even needed a paper attestation to leave the house to go shopping or for a walk and were then restricted to an hour’s walk within a ONE kilometre (not much over a 1000 yards) radius of the house!

But in many respects, we were very fortunate, living as we do in sleepy rural France, well off the beaten track, with just a few houses tightly packed together, which meant we saw neighbours to talk to over the garden fence, and were cushioned from the worst of the obnoxious virus that has affected so much of everyone’s lives for the best part of the last year.  What we really needed were projects and as the DIY shops remained open, we decided to start the renovation of both our small Tolkeinesque shed at the bottom of the garden, previously a rather tumbledown glory hole and the haunt of the odd snake or two!  Then, there was the barn attached to the house, which needed sorting and something doing to it to make it useful.  This project had been on the back burner for some time, although being mulled over from time to time.  What it really needed was the back two thirds or so to be levelled in some way – either with a raised decking like floor, dismissed largely due to the underneath becoming another favoured haunt for our local, not very uncommon reptiles (grass snakes and western whip snakes of up to 2 metres, non-venomous but somewhat scary all the same!).  Or more favourably the floor needed to be built up on one side by a good 50 cm and levelled across with suitable rubble to allow some sort of floor to be laid.  The former was potentially cheaper and easier, the latter requiring us to locate and transport some two to three tons of infill before even thinking about the floor surface.  But help was at hand in the form of an industrious new neighbour who had moved into the old mill opposite us, formerly an old mill and in need of some updating.  The neighbour had amassed a very large and expanding pile of rubbish waiting to go to the tip, much of it consisting of old walls, plasterboard, tiles and all things eminently suitable for levelling a sloping barn floor!  Better still, it was local much of it already bagged up and more importantly free!  As it was destined for the tip, and would save the neighbour multiple trips there and lots of precious time, he even helped us to move the first lot, after I had constructed a retaining wall and Linda had done the massive job of pointing or chauxing all the interior walls, it was a job that ended up mutually benefitting us and them!  It’s finished now, awaiting the sand and paving stones for the floor, we now joke with the neighbours that we are going to turn it into a disco room, and as both sets of relatively new neighbours are younger than the rest of us, they’re quite excited!  The shed is also finished and usable and as snake proof as I could make it, although I still think I’ll bash the door and walls a little before venturing in for the garden tools!

So, we haven’t been idle during our confinement and certainly for us some good has come out of the terrible situation.  However, towards the end of the works, whilst putting the finishing touches to the shed in early December, I did think as I looked around the hamlet that perhaps the confinement was taking its toll on both us and our neighbours as on this particular day we seemed to be regressing slightly back to our childhood!  First there was our forty something new neighbour, in the house behind us, she had taken up tree climbing and was some way up her old and rather large apple tree in the middle of her garden.  Then, the young neighbours from the mill, from whence came our underfloor, had started to play with water, and despite some weak winter sunshine, it wasn’t really warm enough for that sort of thing!  Moving on round, our older neighbour in the other house opposite our front was in his garden playing with fire, although there seemed to be more smoke than flames, but as the saying goes “there’s no smoke without fire”, although the rules in France forbid both – but the French and someone very close to the keyboard writing this seem very good at forgetting the rules!

Further afield, part time residents higher up the hamlet were playing house with the next-door neighbour and other part time residents in the wooden house around the corner were playing hide and seek in the long grass of their large and wild garden.  And, me I’d regressed to making mud pies and getting thoroughly messy!

Actually, perhaps it was only me that it was getting to, as the neighbour up the tree was pruning it, those playing with water were putting in a new water feature at the front of their house and the fire was all the bits of a tree that had been cut down and were no use for firewood!  As for the home makers, that is exactly what they were doing helping the neighbour get the house he was renovating ready to move in to, so he didn’t have to spend another winter in his draughty old living caravan!  Finally, the neighbours in the wooden house were in fact scything pathways through their large wildlife garden that has been designated as a small bird sanctuary, and at least one of them welcomes any snakes we send their way, and me, I was mixing up the last bits of cement to finish off the floor and lower walls of the shed!!  So, it wasn’t childhood regression, but rather a case of “C’est la vie” as they say around here – It’s life!

 

 A couple that I forgot to post, which explains why I didn't think it was that long since my last posting!

Nudge,nudge,wink,wink!!

I’m waiting in today, to see if last night was my Peter Mayle, “truffles in paper” bag moment, or my NHS “you’re in severe pain, aren’t you?” moment.  The latter I should perhaps explain, the other might become more obvious later on, but suffice to say it refers to being “in the know!”  But, the pain goes back to when out walking on the edge of Minchinhampton Common, near Stroud, about ten minutes walk from where I had parked the car.  On a short, steep bank made treacherous by days of rain, I slipped a short way and experienced a searing pain in my right knee, which it soon became obvious wasn’t going to be “walked off.”  It took me an excruciating hour and a half to get back to the car and then somehow I managed to drive the three miles or so home, at the end of which I was barely able to get out of the car.  It was one of those few occasions that my wife, then an intensive care nurse, took pity on me and accepted that something was seriously wrong, so back into the car, with increasing difficulty, and off to A & E at the local hospital.  There after a reasonably short wait, I was seen by the on-call doctor who, it transpired, also worked in the same ICU as Linda.  He diagnosed a torn cartilage, gave me painkillers and set about sorting out an appointment to see the consultant about an arthroscopy.  It was at this point, winking at Linda; he told me that I was “in severe pain, aren’t you?”  I was and therefore it took me a while to understand the winks at Linda, and I was certainly in no fit state to utilise the Queensbury Rules and fight for her.  But, with nothing more than a wink and a nod, it was a case of it’s not what you know, it’s who you know, and the appointment came through quite a bit quicker than I expected!!

But, back to today, well actually last night when it was the Annual General Meeting of the commune’s council, or the rather better sounding Ceremonie des Vœux, as it’s known here as not only are the parish accounts presented and the future works for the year discussed, but newcomers to the village, either through birth or moving in, are welcomed with a small gift.  After the formal part of the proceedings there is offered a verre del’amitié (a glass of friendship) or indeed several with ample supply of tasty morsels including the amazing local garlic bread - préfou - flattened baguette dripping in butter and with lashings of garlic, not for the faint hearted!  It’s perhaps this latter part which accounts for the amazing turnout, as we estimated about a third of the whole commune were there, from the tiniest tot (one of the newcomers, only a few weeks old) to our eighty two year old neighbours and beyond.  Conversation, for us, is difficult as the room is very full, very noisy, very hot and the French particularly en masse, talk incredibly fast!  We however got by, and ended up catching up on some of our neighbour’s news as well as having to remind many of those there (the adults!), that on this occasion incognito, I was Roger, not Père Noël!  I nearly had my cover blown several times, particularly as the glasses of friendship became more plentiful.

With the party largely in full swing, we decided our brains needed a rest from an overload of French, the language rather than the people, I should add!!  So we fetched our coats and made the rounds saying goodbye, a cheery wave to each group sufficing with this number of people,  the customary double bissous (kisses) would have taken forever, (it was however unavoidable on arrival, double kisses for the women, handshakes for the men and in most cases as it was the first time we had seen people this year a bonsoir, bonne année and woe betide us if we forgot the bonne santé as well!) but we did feel it polite to formally take our leave from the Mayor and thank him for his hospitality.  Linda passed first and shook his hand and said good-night and thank you and I followed.  At this point Sébastien , the Mayor, much to the amusement of someone he was talking to, fired of a rapid stream of French at me, before I was able to ask him to slow down.  Looking puzzled he rethought what he had said and slowed down enough for me to get the gist of what he was saying.  Basically, our hamlet has over the last year drawn the long straw, and had a lot of work done, that involved a new drain being put down the road, resulting in the road being resurfaced and a new parking space created, largely for us, in front of the communal oven and by our garden entrance.  Not only a superb large parking spot suitable for the car and the trailer, but its construction involved the filling in of a ditch and some levelling to the side, which makes it considerably easier for us to get the caravan in and out of the garden.  Many of you will know that absent Welsh neighbours had effectively blocked our previous parking space, and despite the best efforts of the Mayor to resolve the issue, up until this point he had been thwarted in his efforts, the neighbour ending up being rather rude to him!

So, what he was saying was that the work in Le Boutet, and in particular but without having said as much, the parking space, was a thank you – a petit Cadeau - for being Père Noël for the children’s party!  Well, they do say it pays to keep in with the Mayor of your commune in France! Having finally “d’accord”(ed) him and realised what he talking about, I then said not a little present but a large present, hopefully with a suitable glint in the eyes!  I followed it up, rather tongue in cheek, with a question as to what might be next year’s present?  To which he responded a small box of chocolates – before I could get in my suggestion – getting us a decent internet line, an ongoing bone of contention, which he thankfully saw the funny side of!! 

As we parted both chuckling, Linda followed me out and said, I only came in part way through that conversation, but it seems that he wanted to know if we would be in tomorrow so he can bring you around a small gift for being Father Christmas!  Hence, my reading of the conversation was totally thrown into doubt, and why I am waiting to see if Sébastien arrives today with a box of chocolates and I have to explain my weird response to him yesterday evening!!   Suffice to say, with each gust of wind I think it’s his car arriving, but it’s getting on in the afternoon and still no sign of the chocolates, and despite the rain starting up again, perhaps I’ll take the dog out for a walk, in case he calls!!

 

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As a slight rider to this, talk of my trying to remain incognito whilst not dressed in red and sporting a large beard, reminds me that my cover may have been well and truly blown during the last census in France.  Local people are employed to go around and give out the forms and help with their completion. 

The census lady arrived for our appointment, was shown in by Linda, took one look at me and said “Ah! Père Noël”, so I’m not sure if that was what she wrote down on the form or not!  And, I wasn’t even dressed the part!

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P.S.  It’s now tomorrow and still no sign of the Mayor or the chocolates, so perhaps my French is coming on after all!!

January 2018

All my kingfisher experiences rolled into one.

All my kingfisher experiences rolled into one and more.  The darted drive across the narrow inlet alerted me to its presence.  Then it returned to the same branch, to dive again in case I missed it the first time!

Then came the curved fly pass, low over the water, closer and closer to where I sat silent and enraptured.  First the orange underside, then the once seen never forgotten brilliant electric blue as it levelled out passing close by, and did I imagine the slight dip of the wings in proud salute to the watcher?

Several minutes passed, before I was alerted once more to the flash of blue coming in low from the left to another overhanging fishing branch.  Another darted dive, further along the bank this time, followed by several more, the pickings were obviously good.

Then from through the woods along the trail behind me, the sound of an approaching excited young child coming at a run, just as the kingfisher came in for another low level fly pass alighting on a post stuck in the water, above a sign – Entrée Interdit; missed photo opportunity as the child’s exuberance sent it on its way before I could shush the young boy and point out the magical encounter.  An earlier, rather fuzzy long distance photo had to suffice, but you could make out the shape and above all that memorable blue.

This was only the fourth or fifth time I’ve had the privilege of sharing a moment or two with this majestic and secretive creature, coming shortly after one of our neighbours had just told me there was a kingfisher, or Martin pecheur as they are know in these parts, frequenting the stream below our house.  Each of these other sighting, exciting enough but largely just a vivid splah of colour etched permanently in the memory:

·       Jogging, yes I was younger then but still not particularly fond of this form of exercise but it was for charity, over a small river near Huntingdon when we briefly lived in a doctors flat, whilst waiting for our house purchase to go through, at a brand new hospital that Linda had been given a job helping to set up the new ITU.  Just a flash of unmistakable blue.

·       Walking the dog, in this case Max, near St Michael’s Mount, Penzance, early in the morning before catching the first helicopter to the Isles of Scilly, for our then annual pilgrimage.  Another flash of blue.

·        Near the railway viaduct at the end of Frome Banks Nature Reserve, a small secretive place a mere stone’s throw from the centre of Stroud.  This time a first, as the jewel of a creature sat briefly on a suitable fishing branch, intent on the clear rippling water below.  All too soon it gave up and flew away, perhaps sensing my watching graze, but without undue alarm.  I can’t now even remember if it made its distinctive whistle, a “tee - eee” or a “tsee” sound.  If it did it was probably drown out by the water trickling over a small waterfall, or indeed the excited pounding of my heart!

·       The most recent before today, was several sightings, all in the same place.  Again on the River Frome, near Stroud, this time just across from the District Council offices in Ebley Mill.  On the first occasion I was walking alone except for Max, the dog, and had that fleeting flash once more burnt into the memory.  Some weeks later whilst leading a guided walk, I chose this spot for the lunch break.  As we sat on the river bank chatting, I did that classic no – no for a guided walk and said that here was a good spot for looking out for a kingfisher, but as there were quite a few of us, chattering away over our sandwiches it was very unlikely to happen (a bit like on a misty day waxing lyrical about the fine view that you can normally see here!).  Then low and behold, a top speed fly pass, unfortunately so quick that none of the others saw it, and I’m sure had it not flown back a couple of minutes later and been briefly spotted by a couple of others, they would secretly have been sure I was making it up!

Interestingly I wrote this just prior to reading an article in the paper about someone’s trip to India and more specifically to the Ranthambore National Park for a spot of possible tiger spotting – it’s by no means guaranteed that you’ll see one, it’s a vast area with a resident tiger population of only about sixty tigers, and if you were an endangered species would you visit the tourist hotspots!  Mandy Appleyard, who wrote the article “As holiday experiences go, seeing tigers in the wild is, for me, as good as it gets.  I have to concur having been there and fortunately had similar good luck on our safaris!

This got me thinking about not only my kingfisher experiences, but other sightings that stay similarly etched on the brain, long after the event, so there follows a few more close encounters of the natural history kind.

17^th Sept 2018   Lac de Léon