Sneeze, cough, grizzle

Like any self-respecting bloke, I sink into a swamp of self-pity, paracetamol and liquor when I get a cold.  Annie having acquired one from a fellow Ryanair sufferer en route to France passed it on to Marion, who passed it on to us during the couple of days we spent with them at Le Roc.  I'm just hoping we didn't give it to Celia and Andy, who braved vile weather to come and collect us from Gatwick.  I'm ashamed of myself for making a fuss: we learned during our recent visit to France that one of our village builders, Erhard,  finally succumbed to cancer on 26 July.  He looked hale and hearty when we saw him last summer a few years post-surgery, sporting a spectacular scar down his chest and abdomen (it was a very hot day...).  He was looking pretty rough in the spring, however, and that was the last time we saw him.  Our current builder, Pierre, tells me that Erhard, once a big strapping lad, had shrunk to about 50kg.  Nice fellow: he did a good and extremely reasonable job of waterproofing the valley between the roof and the stairwell.  He tolerated my poor German when I felt the need to wheel it creakily out, but we generally met on the neutral ground of our second language, French. 

We closed up the house last Monday, having done the worst of the laundry the day before, and got it dry.  That just left the cleaning, and this time I adopted the slightly novel approach of doing my bit dressed in boxers and slippers.  The job, like any physical work in the summer, always brings me out in a sweat, so this time I arrived at a means of avoiding leaving a shirt in the laundry basket until we return. 

A couple of days before we left, we took our usual ride into the hills and down to Limoux.  The sky was clear, so we got fine views of the Corbières and the Pyrenees.  Our friendly donkeys, one black and one white, were in evidence, and yet again I'd forgotten to bring them a handful of carrots.  We just don't tire of the view from up there, and this time we were rewarded with a remarkable display of lenticular clouds.  Evidently glider pilots seek them out because of the strong updraught associated with them, whereas commercial and private pilots try to give them a wide berth for the same reason.  They are certainly spectacular, and this has been a good year for them.  Down  in Limoux we ordered our usual pizzas, and though the service was polite and prompt, my pizza left me feeling queasy for the rest of the day.  We really desperately need some better addresses. 

A positive customer experience to report, by the way.  We got to Toulouse Airport a little early.  At that point our flight was still on the ground at Gatwick, which it left an hour and a half late.  (I hope that whoever decided to build the airport in a fog and frost hollow is now sitting on an uncomfortably damp cloud.)  It's an ill wind, and the delay gave us a chance to catch up on email thanks to a good free WiFi service, and to have an early supper - in my case, chicken breast stuffed with chopped hazelnuts, wrapped in jambon cru and served with a good gratin.  Martin's choice of a faux-filet was no longer available, but the helpful waitress said they'd do a 200g entrecôte for the same price.  A couple of glasses of good rosé and a friendly smile from waitress Martine completed the good impression.

Back here it's back to the usual.  We are heartily grateful to be reunited with our comfortable, tall cars and their automatic gearboxes.  Art class for me on Thursday, weekly free taxi duty for Martyn.  I'm playing with some sketches based on photos I took while we were away, and hope they'll come to something.  The garden is pretty: some of the roses are into a new flush, the cosmos are flowering well and we have been cropping apples and tomatoes.  Martyn has made an apple crumble for tonight, plus. I notice, a second batch of stewed apple for the freezer.  I've prepared a Delia sow belly recipe, which is ready to go in the oven a little later.  Nothing like a dose of the sniffles to send one rushing for comfort food.