Autumn begins on the Gironde estuary

Last week I set off for rehearsal a little early because the sunset was beautiful and I wanted to drive through the rose and mauve air (it really does that on the estuary!). This week there was rain. it hasn't rained for ages, and the frogs have been waiting a long time to get out: there were hundreds of them, ecstatically leaping all over the little roads. Fortunately there wasn't much other traffic, so I could drive very slowly and swerve.

Last night we had thunderstorms, or one thunderstorm passing here three times. After the rain, the air is clear, the grass and small herbiage are green again, and wildflowers have blossomed. The sky is almost clear to the east; in the west lush multi-grey clouds are heaped like silk cushions against which the red, orange, and gold autumn trees glow so brightly they sound like a symphonic tone poem.

Low as a kite

The Association Culturelle Dizannaise planned the second Sortie Nature (nature trail) of the year for yesterday; this time it was an evening outing. The weather had become strangely unpleasant, but it went ahead anyway. Unfortunately my winter clothes were put into storage in preparation for holiday-rental, so it took me much of the afternoon to excavate a fleece, warm socks, and waterproofs.

It was very windy out on the marshes, so windy that the dark clouds hurtling overhead had no time to lose any of their water-load, except for a brief drizzle. One person had brought an umbrella which promptly turned inside-out on opening. Swallows gave amusing displays of flying sideways and backwards; the funniest moment was when one of them, flapping madly, managed to turn, and suddenly found itself whizzing away on the wind with its little wings still whirring as it disappeared in the direction of St Fort with frantic squeaks.

Most of the smaller birds were in hiding or only visible if their nests were in clear patches, but the storks seemed unworried and there were herons and egrets and curlews and falcons aplenty, plus a busard cendré and a bird with pink markings whose name I missed. At one point I was a little ahead of the group and noticed a huge dark bird of prey: it came towards me, so close I could no longer focus on it with the binoculars, and just over my head it veered off along the estuary embankment. A black kite!

As usual there was a meal after the sortie, with much merriment and conversation (topics at our end of the table: education, nutrition, nuclear power, power outages, alternative energy, international finance, and of course politics). I was the only anglo present this time so there was no English, and I was pleased at how much I could take part in the discussion even when it all got rather noisy.

Between the second and third course the wind dropped and so did the rain. It pounded down for a few minutes. Before dessert I realised it was time to leave because Broomstick had no lights (I couldn't remember which box they were packed in); just as well, as the diet had already suffered. A little way down the road the rain started again, the road flooded, and Broomstick experienced surfing. My waterproofs gave up.

I was very wet and rather cold, but replete with good food and good company; and I'd been only a couple of metres from a black kite!

La Roue Tourne

A new commercial centre has opened on this side of Jonzac; Intermarché and Bricomarché have moved into large shiny buildings there. I don't usually shop in Intermarché, but the new and bigger shop looked interesting and I needed some things from Bricomarché so I went to try it out. It's not bad, and has one advantage over Leclerc: the bags in the fruit-n-veg section are reachable.

As I left, I glanced into the brasserie at the entrance, and saw an amazing sight. A Victoria, parked among the tables! Of course, I had to go in.

The place is clearly owned by a fan of old vehicles. It's called La Roue Tourne (the turning wheel), and even the windows have been decorated with a horse and carriage motif. The coffee was very good, quite cheap, and served in attractive crockery; the warmed and slightly frothy milk came in a jug. It was empty, being in the lull between lunch and well, anything else; the bartender/chef/probably owner was outside chatting to friends but kept careful watch in case I needed something. He was very friendly, and amused by my reaction to the Victoria.

On the first Friday of the month they host a meet of vintage vehicle enthusiasts, who proudly display their cars, motorbikes, bicycles, and presumably carriages. I'm looking forward to taking visitors to see it.

We may not have a bus service, but...

The postie brought a parcel into the house (the delivery required a signature) and I forgot to give her the letter that needs posting. Such a bother: I shall have to peg the letter onto the mailbox for her to collect. ;) I do love the local postal service.

As for bus services: there is only the school bus which picks up from St Dizant and Ste Ramée, is also used by the public and runs in the holidays too, but of course it's only once a day (Jonzac and back).

However, there is now a communal taxi, collecting from and delivering to one's home and running to Jonzac on Tuesdays and St Genis on Thursdays and Saturdays, with two or three hours in the town. It's a shame that the Jonzac service doesn't go early enough to connect with the railbus to Angoulême.

Birding on the marsh

The Association Culturelle Dizannaise organises local events, including two summer walks on the marshes guided by Fabien and assistants from the Ligue pour la Protection des Oiseaux (the French equivalent of the RSPB). This year the first walk was earlier than usual, so that we could hear the late spring sounds and see the storks nesting. There are plenty of chicks this year - one nest had four!

About 20 of us set off from La Grange de Marais, the nature site near St Dizant. We watched various harriers, bluethroats, egrets, falcon, many bright small finches... and other birds whose names I don't know in English. Fabien is amazing at picking out birds in the distance; there were telescopes and plenty of binoculars for us to look at what he'd sighted.

It was a very social walk. I'm not familiar with birdwatching, it not being a generally wheelchair-friendly activity, but I used to go out with a twitcher so I have a little experience. This was the first time I've ever been birding with people who chatter. I was on Broomstick, and at one point I decided to go on ahead as we neared a small copse. The birdsong coming from the trees and shrubs was fantastic, but as soon as the merry throng of humans arrived the birds shut up and there was sadly no opportunity to ask Fabien what birds were making which sounds.

After the walk, M le Maire and his wife provided a lunch under the trees at the camping/picnic site next to 1000 Frais et 1 Fred (he explained carefully that he was paying for it personally, not out of public funds). It was a simple but plentiful spread, and he must have spent a lot on the drinks because the apéro was pineau from the Château de Beaulon, and that stuff is not cheap. I can report that the orange juice was good. Towards the end of the meal Madame drove off, to return a little while later with flasks of coffee freshly brewed in her kitchen. So sweet :)

Journey back to Charente Maritime

It was far too early to be up, but at least it was warm and dry when I crept quietly out of $Friend's house and set off up the hill, wheeling all the way and allowing time for rest-stops. I travel light when not going by car, but even the few clothes and laptop, and a few books, weighed enough to tip Chariot over backwards if I wasn't sitting in it. I had to be at the station early in case the train didn't come in on the nearest platform, as the lift to the new bridge over the lines still isn't open; wheelchairs have to be checked in 30 minutes before the train arrives, anyway.

I'd allowed too much time and could have caught the previous train, but it's not easy to change a wheelchair booking. Anyway, the hour passed happily in greeting old BT colleagues who were dashing to commute, chatting to station staff (in French!), and drinking coffee for breakfast.

At Liverpool Street the station-staffperson who got me off the train showed me where to catch the bus for St Pancras. However, the bus-stop wasn't there: roadworks had closed the street. Heading back towards the station and taxis, I saw the right number bus turning down a nearby street, and chased after it. Right number, wrong direction. The driver suggested I ask at the information place a few yards away; there, the information person came out to give me directions to the next bus-stop (the booth was, as usual, not accessible). I was bewildered and worried about getting around the roadworks, and his English wasn't perfectly understandable. He looked at me, locked the door, and said he would take me there. And he did!

The bus was quick and trouble-free, and I arrived at St Pancras in time for my ticket to be changed to an earlier train. Eurostar people are very good about changing tickets, even though it's a bit complicated with there being so few wheelchair spaces. The journey was comfortable, as it always is, though I wished the meal hadn't been breakfast. None of it was on the diet, it was all tasty and I was hungry.

In Paris it was very warm and sunny. The buses provide good views when they aren't too full, and this time they both had plenty of room. Having so much time to spare, I decided to wheel for a while, doing a bit of window-shopping and wandering through a park before picking up the 92. At Montparnasse there was still time for another drink in a café and a happy half-hour in a bookshop.

There were no problems at the Gare de Montparnasse, for which I was grateful because I was tired; I spent most of the three hours' journey half-asleep. From Angoulême to Jonzac there is a railbus, a beautifully plush coach (with motorised lifting-platform) which always has very few passengers. Leaving was slightly delayed by the intricacies of fastening-down the wheelchair, as this driver hadn't done it before. The straps for the wheelchair were fairly straightforward, but he confused the various parts of the seatbelt and had to unfasten it all and start again, apologising for having to put his arms round me to get it done. I offered to do it myself, but he wouldn't hear of it.

Finally, the taxi to home and the welcome sight of my house and garden. But what had happened to the garden? The grass was three feet high and all the summer flowers were out!

Ipswich railway station staff are great

A few days before leaving Suffolk I trundled up the hill to the railway station and tried to buy tickets for the new route to St Pancras via Stratford International, which would cut out going across London. The person in the ticket office was concerned that it might be difficult to get from Stratford to Stratford International, with the building works there. She very helpfully phoned Stratford to check: they said the area was not wheelchair-friendly. Ah well, maybe next time. For this trip I'd have to do the Liverpool Street to Kings Cross thing.

She started on calculation of which train would ensure arriving at the Eurostar terminal early enough for checking-in a wheelchair. By this time I was tired of shouting, because those desks are very high; she wasn't tall enough to lean over to speak to me, either. I asked why the lowered desk wasn't staffed. At first she was reluctant to tell me, but then she admitted that because of the location of the lowered desk near the sets of automatic doors, it was very draughty and often cold. I'd noticed that from the passenger-side. Poor and thoughtless station design.

She kindly moved over to the lowered desk for talking to me, though she still had to use the other terminal to book the ticket.

While waiting for the ticket, I chatted to a woman who had no problem talking to someone at the neighbouring high desk because her powered wheelchair had a seat hoist. Very nifty, and so useful. She was booking tickets for her first train journey since being in a wheelchair, to get to the Hardest Hit rally; she asked me about the accessibility of London buses (usually good, except when they are crowded).

I left the station with a ticket for the 6:44 train, and a warm glow from dealings with people who are helpful, efficient, and friendly.

Very glorious food

Carole and I sampled the fairly-new British Larder near Woodbridge.

Verdict - yummmmmy! Not cheap, but excellent.

I was impressed by the statements on the menu about sourcing locally, and "from the hedgerows". It appears that, although they don't have time to forage themselves, they accept bags of stuff picked from the wild (or one's own garden) in exchange for a drink. Marvellous.

Three cheers for anything which encourages people to eat perfectly good food which doesn't happen to be wrapped in plastic, feature in tv adverts, nor bear the seal of approval of money-grubbing supermarkets.

And in case you, like some of my ex student-housemates[0], are too nervous to sample wild fruits and vegetables, have a useful website.

Journey to England

This time I travelled to England by public transport, for ecological reasons and because petrol is so expensive.

i don't like rising before the sun, but the autocar leaves Jonzac at 7:30 and the taxi-driver wanted to allow plenty of time to get there. He didn't actually need that much so I had a long wait for the 'car, but by then it was light and warm, and I had a book (China Mieville's excellent short stories).

The 'car arrived at Angouleme station in time to see the connecting train to Lille, the train I would have booked if I hadn't had a wheelchair. The station staff went into panic, thinking I wanted to get on it and not having time to get me across the tracks. Such relief when I told them I was getting the next train, three hours later. One day there will be a lift at Angouleme, and I shall be able to get to the platform by myself and save three hours' journey time. The lift is promised by completion of the line upgrade, sometime before 2016; of course, before that the TGV will be going as far as Saintes and I shan't need to travel to Angouleme.

One of the new TGV trains came through. Plush! Double-decker, but for me its best feature is the entrances: level with the platforms, and a small automatic bridge at each door, covering the gap. No need for Assistance at all! One has to wonder why trains haven't always been designed to fit the platforms; or platforms designed to fit the trains. It's not only crips and ski-ing accidentees who have trouble with those high steps: I've watched quite a few people struggling with luggage.

Though not on one of the new trains, the ride to Paris passed quickly, between admiring the view and reading more Mieville. Paris was rather warm. I'd planned a long gap before catching the Eurostar, just in case, and decided to use some of it to look at the Seine and Notre Dame, just around the corner from where I change buses. It was lovely, but April in Paris... is full of tourists.

I still had over an hour before needing to be at the Gare du Nord, but I thought the cafes around there might be less crowded than near Notre Dame. The second bus goes through a poorer part of the city and is consequently more heavily used, but people are always very good about squashing up, finding a space, and helping me get on board. Good thing I went early. Three stops later, the bus driver announced that we all had to get off because the police had closed the road on account of a demonstration.

No choice but to set off up the road and keep looking for a taxi. Taxis passed, but they were all full. Eventually I asked a shopkeeper how much further to the Gare - at least half an hour. I was tired, and hot. There were people waiting for a bus: I stopped to find out if they had news, and they suggested I get the bus with them to the Gare de l'Est and find a taxi there. The plan worked even better, because a woman who got off the bus at the same time told me that the Gare du Nord was not far and insisted on pushing the wheelchair up the (slight) hill, while her 7-year-old son asked questions about England.

The so-dangerous demonstration was, it seemed, a few people with a placard. Ah well.

As usual, the Eurostar was well-sorted for a wheelchair-user, and this trip I'd been lucky enough to get the space in Business Premier, which comes with a very pleasant lounge. There I accepted a drink and fired up the laptop, but didn't have chance to use the wifi because the all the time was taken up in conversation with an interesting and amusing Texan and Argentinian couple.

At St Pancras I tried unsuccessfully to buy a ticket for the new route via Stratford International, then was too tired to attempt to get to Liverpool Street by bus, so taxi it was. A friendly taxi-driver and helpful staff at Liverpool Street and Ipswich eased the last stage of the journey, though it's disappointing that the long-promised lift at Ipswich hasn't yet been built (opening at the end of May, apparently).

Finally I coasted down the hill to Sophie's and the first cup of tea of the day.

Roman roads and Romaneau

There's very little written about the history of this area, and even less on the web. Sebastian at the shop/restaurant told me that the family who own the Château de Romaneau at the south end of St Dizant did some research.

St Dizant, now a few kilometres inland, was a port in Roman times (the marshes were drained in the middle ages, just as the Fens and Broads of England were). Back then, when Saintes was the capital, there was a major road from Saintes to St Dizant which went past the place where the château now stands. There was probably a Roman villa on the site. The road continued to be in use for a long time, and was later part of the Pilgrim Route (to Santiago de Compostella). Now that stretch of the road has disappeared. It's possible that one of the tunnels around here leads to the Château, but no-one has investigated that.

The Château de Romaneau isn't open to the public. Until fairly recently the Romaneau family lived in the big house, but now it's closed up and the last resident lives in a smaller house in the grounds.

Arc en Ciel in Saint-Trojan-Les-Bains

It was a long drive to St Trojan, on a warm sunny day and through some lovely countryside. Neither my friend nor I were so impressed by the town nor the route once on the Ile d'Oleron: it felt touristy in a soul-less way, with something essential lacking. Curiously, we'd just been discussing the validity of first impressions: perhaps we both need another visit to re-assess it.

The concert itself went very well indeed. The audience obviously preferred the bouncy second half to the more serious (both more subtle and better sung) first half. I've often remarked that concerts in France get a bigger audience than in England, even though it seems that the knowledge of and response to classical music is about the same in both countries. People turn out to performances, musical or theatrical, willing to be entertained. Back in England, choirs are often relieved that the audience outnumber those on stage.

Overall, they enjoyed it enough to give us a standing ovation and demand encores, and ask us to come back. It's always good to have pleased punters. :)

Brocante the first

The summer season of events has begun. There are brocantes everywhere, and festivals and open days.

Today is St Dizant du Gua's big brocante. I went down there on Broomstick, with only a small amount of cash, as a precaution. The precaution was wise. So many stalls full of such interesting things! Books, clothes, furniture, crockery, pans, antiques, ornaments, tools, bikes (and motorbikes): the contents of cupboards and garages and barns and attics. Plus plants, fruit, vegetables, and cakes. I bought a mirror (four people joined in working out how to transport it on Broomstick), a copper jug as a present for Ginette, and some vegetables; I just looked at everything else. Broomstick was, as usual, admired and I had to explain how it works and where I got it and how much it cost. Maybe there's an import market.

I shall miss the annual flower festival in St Genis and the Sailing Festival at Port Maubert, because I'm singing on the Ile d'Oleron late this afternoon.

Mountains, forests, sun, and sea

Before moving to Charente Maritime, I noticed on the map that the Pyrenees are not very far away. Close enough for a day trip! Somehow it hadn't happened, though. Last week I decided it was about time to cross this one off the list of things to do. One day isn't sufficient for admiring mountains, so it would be two days, with sleeping bag in the car. I set off on Thursday morning.

It took nearly an hour to get around Bordeaux, even though it was no longer peak-time rush. After Bordeaux the motorway becomes dual-carriageway, covered in lorries from all over Europe. I wonder why they don't use trains or ships for such long distances? There was even a lorry from Finland!

The first view of the Landes and Gascony was a disappointment. It's flat and dusty, and the roads are fringed with clumps of sad spindly pines, huddled too close together. The northern part of this region was badly hit by Xynthia; perhaps when there were more trees the countryside looked happier. It would certainly have retained water better.

Eventually I could see mountains in the distance, and my spirits lifted. The road signs had Basque names and instructions added to the French. I'd never realised how many Xs there are in Basque words: it looks rather like Mayan.

Not being in a mood for hyper-tourism I decided to bypass Bayonne and Biarritz, took a convenient exit, and headed inland. Just after a disused French customs building there was a sign pointing up a small tree-lined road to the Col d'Ibardon (437m) which looked perfect. It soon became rather narrow and too bendy for comfort with the motor-caravans swooping down and not on the other side of the road, but it was only 4 kilometres of worry. I stopped halfway up in a layby because watching the road meant I couldn't admire the scenery. At the Col there was a marvellous view over St Jean de Luz, Biarritz, and the Atlantic; and a crowd of parked cars. Also a hotel, a lot of tourist-trap shops and craft places, several caffs and a couple of expensive restaurants, and a filling-station with cheap petrol. Clearly on the Spanish side of the border.

After a while of looking at mountains, talking to ponies, and avoiding touristy things, I went back down the mountain and onto the motorway. The intention was to follow it a little way and then find a route through wild mountains, but the motorway itself goes through beautiful scenery so I stayed on it, through the forests and slopes. The roadsigns were now in Spanish and Basque, except for the sign to Madrid, which was in Spanish and Moorish. I was impressed.

Then there was Bilbao. I'm not really a city person (in spite of having lived in cities until I was 8), but people had told me that Bilbao was worth seeing. The trouble is that, driving alone in a strange city, all one's attention is on traffic, suicidal pedestrians, and trying to make sense of directional and instructional signs. I did notice some lovely buildings, but couldn't work out what they were. There was nowhere to stop; all parking spaces were full. There were crossings and traffic lights every few metres. The engine began to overheat. Red lights came on: one of them shouted STOP. Still no parking space, and in desperation I pulled into a bus-stop, behind a bus. If anyone complained I'd plead breakdown, mine as well as Roo's. The bus moved away, and I saw that it had been stopped on a disabled space! In trepidation, I turned the engine back on and slithered the few metres forward. I left Roo trying to cool down in the hot afternoon, and went off to explore the area.

First, there was a pedestrian street full of little bars (all with steps) and camellia trees. That's right, trees. And in bloom. At the end of the street was a square with a park which even had a bandstand. I bought a bottle of water and some oranges from a small shop run by a father and son, and realised I'd forgotten to bring the Spanish dictionary with me. It's a few years since I spoke Spanish, though Basque would have been better. The older man was very friendly, and he switched from Basque to Spanish after the first sentence. I followed most of what he said, but could only manage a couple of phrases back. Several people on the street and in the square spoke to me, to offer help or just to say hello. It was very peaceful, sitting in the sunshine eating oranges or wandering the little streets. I didn't find out where I was, though.

At last I reckoned Roo would be cool enough to have water added, and found my way back past the shop; the older man dashed out, and appeared to be asking what I was doing that evening. I said goodbye hurriedly. Roo was indeed cooler, and I collected courage to open the bonnet (I'd never wanted to open Roo's bonnet again after Incident of the Trapped Fingers). Someone waiting for a bus came over to help, but he clearly knew nothing about cars and I was glad that his bus turned up before he could mess with anything. I put in some water and got the bonnet closed without any disaster, turned the key, and it was fine. Now to find the way out of Bilbao. East is that way...

Back on the motorway in the sunset, I stopped at a reasonable-looking services and parked in a corner, not too close to the lorries. Sadly for the diet, the cafe didn't have salads but it did have steak and chips; worse than that, a custard flan turned up, included in the price. It was warm in the sleeping-bag and I slept well, waking at dawn.

I took the next exit off the motorway and headed for the coast, finding a lovely little port. I'd missed the signs naming it, so had to ask a local: that's how I discovered that in Basque 'Z' is pronounced like a jota or a Welsh or Gaelic 'ch'. Zumaia is still partly a fishing port, small boats only, but has clearly had a huge influx of tourist money which has been used to build a marina and renovate the seawalls and the town. It's in beautiful condition. On one side of the sea wall is a calm harbour; on the other side the blue-green waves crash over dark rocks. I got a few photos before the camera's batteries died.

From there I took the pretty winding coast road through Getara and Zarautz all the way to the outskirts of San Sebastian. Another big city in the hot sunshine didn't appeal, so it was back on the motorway to Urrugne, from where I went inland again. By this time another fuel-stop was required, but the price on the French side was shocking, even higher than around here. Odd, when it's so close to Spain. I turned back and found myself at another sign for the Col d'Ibardon, which is over the border and has a filling station. This time, instead of going up into the tourist area I tried the restaurant at the cross-roads. It was excellent! And cheap: and the other customers were locals, always a good sign. I recommend the Benta Gorria.

Time to start for home, with a small detour to see the Arcachon area south of Bordeaux. What a lovely two days.

Events in St Dizant du Gua

Another event in "patois saintongeais" today. I'd decided not to go because it was a programme of readings and, although I had followed the broad farce of Les Buzotiâs de Jhonzat's theatre pieces sufficiently well, straight readings would be mainly incomprehensible. Then the organisers (two of the Association Culturelle Dizannaise) emailed a reminder, and it seemed rude not to turn up.

It was warm and sunny, so I rode into town early, did some shopping, stopped for a grand crême at the café-bar, and wandered around to see what's changed (or hasn't) over the winter. There's a bungalow for sale behind the Foyer Rural, very smart. No-one has taken the building opposite the gates of the Château de Beaulon: at 75,000 euros with planning permission for seven flats, I wonder why not.

Ten minutes before the start, the organisers were beginning to look upset. Only nine people had turned up. Eight minutes later a small crowd surged in and they had to put out more chairs.

I didn't understand much of the performance, but it was a pleasant sound and I could pick out some words. The value of turning up was in chatting to people, making contacts, and gleaning information about what's going on. Hopes of using the Foyer Rural for a concert or two this year have been lessened, but it's cheering rather than disappointing that its weekends are fully booked into next year.

Hot!

After two cool grey days, the clouds have left (apparently to bother England). I took cushion, sunhat, phone, and book outside... and was soon driven back indoors by the burning sensation in exposed skin!

Denis noticed that the lilac is in full bloom, so he cut some. The jonquils in the other vase are lasting well: their pale yellow and the lilac's purple are set off beautifully by the stone wall.

The lilac will be over by 25 May. I shall wear the lilac, of course, but not from my tree.

Ooh, there are lilac sparklies for 2011! And some lucky person will get a Lilac-Don't-Panic Towel.

Spring greens

The weather has been marvellous. There has been some rain, just enough to encourage the plants, and much sunshine. Driving to Saint-Fort-sur-Gironde this morning to buy vegetables at the market, I was distracted by the greens of the view: trees in pale spring-leaves, grass growing madly, and the deep rich green of young wheat. It's the only time of the year that the landscape is so rich in green-ness, because soon the grass will fade in the sunshine and the fields will turn delicate shades of yellow as the cereals mature, followed by the bright yellow of the sunflowers. The trees will carry the banner of verdure, of course, and so will the vines, but nothing will match the sprouting wheat.

A friend said he doesn't see all the different greens. He likes the countryside, but to him it's just one shade of green and a lot of brown. I wonder if that's one reason why some people don't appreciate rural views so much: they can't see the colours?

Spring and song

Or perhaps Flowers and I Fagiolini.

The Striggio Mass in 40 parts is doing splendidly in the charts. It's so exciting. I am very much looking forward to collecting my CD next month. Robert's videos are a wonderful bonus: I particularly like the new one in which he gives us hints on listening (I'm not sure that was the intention). With his usual enthusiasm, he appears to lose himself in the music towards the end, and I could imagine the people on the desk saying oi Robert, that's enough and then cutting off the recording ;).

I was so privileged to be in that central spot during part of I Fagiolini's rehearsal: it's a memory to treasure.

And the flowers? As well as all the joyous blooming in the garden, there is a vase full of highly-perfumed and strongly-coloured hyacinths in the kitchen, a present from Ginette.

Equinoctial

I've been to the Naw-Ruz celebration in La Rochelle. Lovely people, much fun, and much Persian food. The first two courses were on-diet, but after that... ahem. The spread included the best Persian bakhlava I've ever tasted, and some excellent cheese with pain ancien, the wonderful French bread made with dough fermented for ages. I just couldn't resist. First bread since November!

The drive home took a lot of concentration under the spectacular moon. Fortunately there's hardly any traffic in the middle of a Sunday night, and if I felt like stopping at the side of the road to admire it I was inconveniencing no-one.

Happy Naw-Ruz/New Year/Ostara/Equinox, everybody :)

Furniture, fowl, and friendly neighbours

Fasting does strange things to my time-sense (such as it is). I've only just realised how long it is since I posted, and now I can't remember what's been happening.

A friend sold me a big sofa, a single bed, and 8 dining chairs. The old sofa and armchair have been moved upstairs to make a sitting-room. Friend also donated an aged 2-seater sofa which can be split into two chairs, and which is now on the terrace for comfy seatage. It's a shame that since the furniture was delivered it's been cool, windy, and generally unsuitable for sitting outside.

Payment for the furniture almost emptied my bank account. There has been income into my UK account, so I shall be able to transfer money across, but the pound is once more very unwell. Please encourage MPs and pundits to make pound-supportive statements (for a change). Just until the transfer is done, ok?

I went to the opening of the new shopping area at Jonzac, just to look: not having any money, I couldn't buy any tat, which is a Good Thing.

Ginette seems to like the new sofa: she's been stopping off for a rest and a gossip a couple of times a day when she passes on the way to feed the rabbits and hens. The hens don't think much of the weather; the other evening when the wind was howling she found them huddled against a tree, looking very pathetic. Of course, they haven't been laying. Shop eggs just don't compare; however, she just brought over six little eggs from the bantams, which appear to be hardier. When you eat them, think of me, she said :)

Denis has hurt his shoulder and can't cut more wood. There is enough for five or six days, so it's fortunate that warmer weather is returning next week. I hope he recovers soon, because he gets very bored if he can't be busy.

Sun and stars

Clear skies.

Riding Broomstick into town wearing a short-sleeved tshirt.
Curled up on the front steps in the sunlight, reading.

Driving home from rehearsal, cresting the hill into Le Rivalard was as if plunging into the crowded stars.
I stopped and turned off the lights, and remembered Van Der Posts's description of the Kalahari desert sky where the hunting stars make a hissing sound. These stars are not hunting: they are majestically, aloofly still.

Fortunately it's not raining in my heart

It is bucketing down: indoors (or at least, in the atelier), as well as out. There is now a very large damp area. I doubt that M. Babin will be arriving this afternoon as promised, because no way could he check the roof in this rain.

There was a break of a few hours in the rainfall this morning. I was busy tidying the kitchen and preparing the downstairs rooms for $Friend-cleaner who will be here on Wednesday[0] when I noticed Denis in the garden, wielding secateurs. I'd pruned the rosebushes a few days ago, but not to his standard of ferocity. While chatting, I mentioned the dead car battery, and he put down the secateurs and brought round his battery-charger. It wasn't plugged in for very long before the waterfall re-commenced, and as it was by then l'Heure, the engine got rather wet before he could return to unfasten the charger and put down the bonnet. I considered going out there and doing it myself, but every time I look at the bonnet I re-live that few minutes of having my fingers trapped... ugh. Middle finger is still sore and a slightly odd shape.

The rain has stopped again, and Denis is chopping wood in the little house. I worry about him doing so much - he is over 80 - but Ginette assures me he needs things to do since he sold his vinefield, and she's glad of some peace to get on with her own work.

[0] I know it's an old joke about cleaning the house before the cleaner comes, but really I'm not cleaning: it has to be tidy, that's all!

[UPDATE] M. Babin did turn up. He thinks it's not the roof, but the guttering. Hope so, because that will be much easier to fix.
Still raining.

Into every life...

Roo the car is completely lacking electrical power, so I couldn't go to the theatre in Saint Dizant last night to see Les Saltimbanques.

Some rain fell last night, confirming that the atelier roof is definitely leaking.

I cheered myself up by re-potting Darcy in a roomier home.

Les Buzotias d'Jhonzat

Yesterday I went to the theatre.

There are several local pro-am dramatic groups in the area, and during the winter they tour the small towns. Every little town has a building used for social and leisure purposes, and each one boasts a stage with curtains and a lighting rig of sorts. The one in Saint-Dizant-du-Gua is called the Foyer Rural, and its hall is quite a size. With a population of only about one-and-a-half thousand, it seems a big place to fill, but somehow people do turn out from not just the town but the surrounding hamlets.

This performance was not expected to draw much of an audience, but even so they had to go and fetch a few more chairs. And why did the Association Culturelle think it wouldn't be popular? Because it was a revue of sketches, recitations, and songs by Les Buzotias d'Jhonzat, a troupe which performs in the Charentais dialect (known as Saintongeais in other parts of the region). Surprisingly, there were plenty of young people there, which is encouraging for the future of the dialect; the troupe itself has several child actors.

I went along out of linguistic interest and a desire to Support Your Local Culture, hoping not to fall asleep, and was surprised and pleased at how much I followed. Websearches for historical information and linguistic analyses of Charentais haven't turned up much: there are vocabularies, and a few recordings on Youtube, but a dearth of information about how and why. It's interesting to see that Cajun and Quebeçois have roots in Saintongeais, though.

Curious points:

* The 'jh' is an aspirate, which is like a softer version of the Spanish 'j' (jota).
* Where the second sound of a word in Latin was 'l', it has changed to 'i', as it has in Italian (bianc').
* The final syllable which in modern French contains '-ai' or -'oi' has retained the early pronunciation '-ouai'.

I must admit that most of what I understood was helped by the acting. They had some very good bits of business and a few pieces of clever tech.

Lemon tree

M'friends mentioned that there are small lemon trees for sale at a reduced price in the garden-shop in Pons and that they were thinking of getting one. I know I shouldn't be spending money at the moment, with windows still to pay for, but I've wanted a potted lemon tree ever since seeing Ginette's which appears to be permanently covered in fruit. So of course I said metooplease.

It's arriving tomorrow. It's quite small but already fruiting. It will have to live in the salle for the moment, until the cold nights are over.

M'friend referred to it as 'he' so perhaps it/he should have a name. I'm not sure a tiny lemon tree presents as male, though.

[Update]
It has been named Darcy (or Darcey), with thanks to Oxford Reader. You can think of it as an elegantly handsome Austen character or an elegantly beautiful Principal Ballerina.

Ten lemons on such a tiny plant!

On seeing the first lizards of Spring

Gardening today. Oh, joy! Baby lizards scampering over the walls, and bumblebees lumbering around the early flowers. It's so good to see the daffodil and lily-of-the-valley leaves growing tall, and the rosebushes covered in new growth.

Shame about the bluebottles getting into the house, but I feel kindly even toward them in the warm sunshine.

A Wurzel moment

There's a tractor in the garden.

Neighbour Denis looked at all that old wood from the Atelier-space (beams and planks and such) and offered to put it through his big saw next time he was cutting up their firewood. He thought there was enough to last through the spring without having to buy any more logs. Excellent! The wood had been moved into the little-house-across-the-lane; he collected a load of it, the saw did its noisy work, and then he brought round a load of woodburner-sized pieces of pine and aged oak. To get the wood to the storage area on the terrace he had to drive the tractor and trailer over the mint lawn. It smells wonderful out there.

... I drove my tractor through your mint-lawn last night
Oo-ar-oo-ar ...

The Atelier is usable

When I returned from England I sent off the acceptance of M. Babin's quotation for insulating the roof of the Atelier (which is the back half of the house, and used to be a haybarn and stable). Three days later I was startled to get a call from the friend who had recommended him, saying he'd be over the following morning to clear out the wood and chipboard and old beams and ancient electrical rubbish, so that the scaffolding could be put up in the afternoon ready to start work the next day.

I'd thought it would be a couple of months later. Panic checking of savings accounts! And oh woe, the pound had nosedived again. There was no choice but to empty the savings and transfer it all, at a depressing exchange rate.

For two weeks there has been scaffolding inside the house (yes, the ceiling is that high) and I've had to get up before sunrise to let them in. They have finished now, and there is a big gloriously empty space with an echo which is a bit over the top. When the sun shines I can open the shutters, and then it becomes golden-warm. The view to the west is lovely.

Now all it needs is the music.

Sound the horn to warn the boar

On the way home from rehearsal last night we had to stop for animals crossing the road. This time it wasn't the usual hare or deer: it was a family of three wild boar. They are such cute podgies! I wouldn't want to greet them without benefit of car, though, especially a sow with young ones.

Critical thinking skills not being developed in college

A study showed that more than a third of US students completed their four years without learning how to "sift fact from opinion". As the author suggests, it's not so much the fault of the teaching in colleges as the lack of foundation in primary education.

Don't assume this is only an USian failing - it's clearly perceptible in UK universities, too.

...it’s the world that we live in and it’s unlikely to change

Noooooo! If this is true, the future looks ever bleaker: each succeeding generation of students becoming more gullible and less able to think properly.

Run! The ice is melting!

Another cheering snippet.

Once upon a Times (back in the days when it was a British newspaper) there was a little back-page article, by someone whose name I have forgotten, on the subject of Joggers all over the pavements. The writer bemoaned the waste of so much energy, and suggested large exercise wheels, perhaps with video of pretty countryside. They could be used to power the towns and cities.

This is perhaps even better.

Annoyed one day, happy the next

I've been in England for a few weeks, visiting family and friends, and there hasn't been much material suitable for blogging. When I have thought of recording or propagating anything it's been because I'm angry: over the disappointing and apparently stupid shenanigans of British politicians, the shameless greed of bigbusinesspeople and bankers, or, even worse, life-threatening injustice and persecution.

English driving depresses me too.

So, I am glad to have something happier to report. Roo had been squealing at any electrical load; $Friend#1 said the belt would be a quick and easy job at a garage, $Friend#2 told me to go to the garage she uses - Forest Gate Garage on the road to Friday Street. I went down there to make an appointment and arrived just as they closed for lunch. Bloke saw me and came over to the gate, asking what was the trouble. I explained, and he said he'd do it straight away. It took longer than expected, and he had to crawl under the car and lie in the mud (did I mention that it was raining hard and there are minor floods here?). Now, I know that it's too fiddly to put a small job through the system and there's usually no box for it, but I like to give them a little something in the nature of a tip. The poor man was wet and muddy too. He refused with a big grin: "You're a visitor here, from France, and anyway I did it in the lunch break." Wasn't that sweet?