The shortest day...

...dawns reluctantly, grey and damp.  Although the dawn slips forward for a few days, it's a comfort to know that the we'll gradually get a bit more daylight.  But I can't forget my grandmother's dictum: 'the day lengthens, the cold strengthens'.  It was already bitterly cold in  the county town on Friday when I was there for the hobby.  We had an hour's gap in proceedings while professionals scrabbled about for evidence they in due course found they didn't need anyway.  During the gap I went in search of some  motor maintenance bits, and almost froze in the process. 

Cars are so clever these days: at intervals a warning  light would come one to let me know a light bulb was literally on the blink, and the system even told me which one it was - one of the number plate lights, which I could easily change myself.  Not so a few years ago, when a headlamp bulb failed on another VW product I owned at the time.  The approach to said bulb was so tortuous that I couldn't get near it before my rheumaticky hand cramped up.  It really offended me that I'd to get the garage to replace a bulb!  But there's so little maintenance an owner can do on a car these days.  Just as well: I'm not to be trusted.  When I replaced the brake linings on a certain Renault 16 some years ago, I made an utter pig's tit of it, and had the wheel and hub cap back on before realising that I hadn't replaced the split pin when I reassembled the hub.

A trip along the beautiful lanes of the county next door yesterday.  Our farmer friends had just got some beef back from the butchers, having recently slaughtered the first of their small Dexter herd, so I'd to go and collect our Christmas joint and some other cuts, plus a couple of bags of bangers.  The house was quieter than usual: mother was at hospital with a very poorly daughter who was to go later in the day to a specialist hospital in London for further tests. 

Our house, on the other hand, was substantially less quiet than usual yesterday evening.  Each year around this time one or other of the neighbours throws a drinks bash, and we decided that, seven years on, it was our turn.  We had quite a good crowd: twenty including ourselves, and the 6:30-8:30 pm forecast ran over to closer to 9:30.  Martyn's Mary Berry mince pies, topped with crumbled marzipan, were the star turn.

We catered it ourselves: a couple of big pizzas, sausage rolls, hummus and crudités, blinis with crème fraîche and caviar, shrimps or gravadlax, some spicy koftas made with a nod to Madhur Jaffrey, some little onion bhajis (the only shop-bought ready-made component) and the mince pies.  The left over crudités will shortly find their way into a casserole of Dexter braising steak! 

Practically all the ingredients and drinks came from one or other of the discounters, Lidl (known as Fortnum's in this house) and Aldi.  True, the makings of the sausage rolls were from Sainsbury's, but these days we darken their door rarely.  What we save, of course, we partly spend in diesel getting to our nearest Fortnum's, but the experience is so much more pleasant.  Of the other lot, founded by Albrecht and Dietrich, I've less experience, and the one I used the other day was a bit like a North African soukh.  Their wines are on the whole more recherchés than Fortnum's, though.

So, with the festive hostilities officially started, the next job is to gear up for Christmas Day.  The bread is proving as I write, the Dexter topside is in the fridge and we're turning our minds to the cheese board. 

For the annual blethers, click here.

Two steps forward, one step back

The news from Another Place is encouraging: Pierre tells me that he and Pierre #2 have applied two layers of lime render to the base of the side wall, and will be doing the third during the current week, though we've heard that before.  He has done some more leak chasing around the new bathroom window and assures me it's watertight.  That's good news, given the torrential rain of recent weeks: at one point the river rose by over 4 metres, which is over half way to panic stations.  
Back here at Forges-l'Evêque the sitting room is festooned with cards sending greetings and good wishes from friends round the world.  The parcels are stacking up by the Christmas tree, following lots of on-line ordering.  We did shop briefly yesterday, but browsing for inspiration soon got me tired and grizzly, so I've suggested a pause for thought and probably more on-line ordering.  

Two of the dining room windows are still decorated with condensation between the panes.  I had a call last week from JokersЯUs Home Improvements, asking whether they could come and measure for the replacements - a third time.  Evidently visitor #2, who arrived with replacement units of quite the wrong size and shape, has gone sick, taking his notebook with him.  Deep sigh.

The social season trickles on: we were at the annual Punch and Carols party at Ginny and Richard's on Sunday, and sang ourselves hoarse as usual.  We left at half-time to catch our bus and train home - it's a shame that, for less than two hours' worth of party, we have over four hours of travelling by car, train, bus and Shanks's pony. 

The new London buses are pretty impressive, as they'd want to be at a million a pop.  The best thing about them is that I don't have to pay, but I get a sense that that little privilege of decrepitude is unlikely to persist.  Still, by the time it's abolished, my state pension will take the strain instead.  I wonder if we're the only indigenous Brits to use the buses.  The languages being spoken round about us were, I think, Russian, Japanese, Arabic and Italian.  Last time I was in London, two fellow bus passengers were arguing over the phone in voluble Portuguese, my grasp of which couldn't tell me whether with each other or third parties.  The trains are less congenial late in the evening: on Sunday we had a bunch of guffawing young people with us all the way, and our neighbour across the way had certainly been at the ale.  So I felt less bad about breathing mulled wine and egg sandwich fumes at him.  

We're pretty much geared up for entertaining this coming weekend: we're doing wine and nibbles for the neighbours on Sunday evening.  There's still the booze to buy, but I shall be near an appropriate outlet later today.  The freezers are groaning under the weight of blinis, pizza and sausage rolls, we hope in sufficient quantities. 

Cinema yesterday: Paddington.  Anthropomorphic, camp, sentimental rubbish.  We loved it! 

Festive hostilities intensifying...

I like this time of year in some ways (though not for the barometer-like tendencies of the joints).  The greetings from friends are coming in thick and fast, and it's comforting to be remembered by so many friends old and new.  An extra entertainment is the form of address on the envelopes: Debretts plainly don't offer a succinct formula for civil partnerships!  Many give both our names, others one or the other.  A lot come addressed to Martyn & David.  Some come to D & M Smith, one to M & D Bishsmith, and one, perplexingly, to Mr & Mrs M Bishop.  Well if he can handle being Mr Smith, I guess I can't grumble about Mrs Bishop.  And any form of address is preferable to none.  (But if you call me that to my face, you may expect a response rich in 'f''s, possibly preceded by the estimable Isla's 'Are you familiar with the expression:....')

We had the art group bash yesterday, and Miss did a couple of demonstration paintings, both on salvaged canvases that she had overpainted in magenta.  I love her easy broad-brush style, and think I may go to class next year armed only with two broad brushes, one big round one and a rigger.

We adjourned for wine and nibbles at 11:00: I declined the former since I'd to drive, but hit the nibbles with gusto, hence needed no lunch on my return home.  Having made some mini blinis for a wine & nibbles event at Forges-l'Evêque next weekend for the neighbours, I froze some separately for the art class.  Dollop of crème fraîche on each, slap on a king prawn and a pinch of paprika (all from Fortnum's, need I add?): Bob = uncle; Fanny = aunt.  Caviar or smoked salmon woud do, and for a vegetarian crowd, try halved olives, capers or bits of jalapeño, or combinations thereof.  The last time I did blinis for neighbours was in Lagrasse, for Sheila and Henry, using bought blinis.  Never again: they were horrible, and it's so easy to make decent ones if you follow this Guardian recipe.   Hot, heavy pan, very little oil, and a scant soup spoonful of batter per blini.

My weight seems to be creeping up again.  Funny, that.

Annual Ramblings

Christmas Greetings

Having been down to the Post Office this morning to spend a day's pension on stamps for the Christmas cards, I'd better get the ramblings up on line in case anyone feels like following the link in the card.  We remain above ground, and have been out and about probably more than ever during the year.  The garden has suffered a bit, but we've taken the opportunity to get some overdue heavy work done.  Martyn has spent a lot of time helping with the administration of his cousin's care home, and my hobbies have kept me pretty busy too.  The generations come and go, and we enjoy the company of dear friends in UK and in France, as well as those scattered round the world.  Useful device, Facebook!

There are days when my main hobby gets almost unbearably frustrating: the government agencies we depend on are so strapped for resources that processes frequently stumble and fall over.  As a consequence, far too much of our volunteer time is wasted, and morale is shaky.

I'm glad I'm old.  The news brings shock after shock from round the world. Here at home, the ducking and weaving of our politicians would be comical if it weren't tragic.  I probably oughtn't to express a view on the outcome of the Scottish referendum: I hope sense prevails when and if there's a vote on EU membership.


The Clan

We learned last Christmas that Jean Routley, one of the last of my mother's generation, had died earlier in 2013.  A good soul, Jean: she married against her parents' wishes, so we knew little about her until she and her first husband, Jack, came to the UK and stayed with my parents.  Mum and I subsequently returned their visits, and enjoyed meeting their family.

We had a good family Boxing Day last year with my brother's family: the first time I can remember that we were all together with our great-nephew Tom.  By then g-n 2, Toby, was on the way, and arrived hale and hearty in the spring. 

Neilson, Margaret, John, Anna, Tom, Richard, Sera and yr. obed. servts.

Rob, Fran and some guests

In May we had the great pleasure of meeting our 'new' family again at cousin Fran's wedding: it was a cold day, but a joyful one nevertheless.  They had decided to make it a black-tie do, so after a couple of hopeless attempts to get into my 1968 and 1993 dinner jackets, I was marched down to M&S to get a new one.  (We hope Hospice in the Weald will earn a little from my old DJs and all the other stuff we took along a couple of weeks ago!)  The two of us, being hefty and shaven-headed, looked rather like the bouncers.  Mr Engineer Smith stole the show in his Smith tartan kilt, need one add?

On Martyn's side, niece Fiona has graduated from Camberwell with first-class honours, and is exhibiting frequently.  Her husband is also doing well, with a major prize and his own exhibitions.  Their delightful kids are doing well at school in east London.   They are growing up in a rich cultural environment with a strong, stable home upbringing, so we have great hopes for them.

Garden

It has been an expensive but rewarding year in the back yard.  Last winter's storms finished off the rickety fence between us and the adjacent street, so we called in the people who'd done the fence on the opposite side.  They did a fine job for a fair price.  They also grubbed up the ugly, overgrown shrubs next to the fence.

We'd been worried about the terrace at the back and side of the house: it wasn't very well laid in the first place, and the roots of the previous administration's wretched leylandii had left a lot of cracked and wobbly slabs: we almost had to cordon sections off when we had guests. 

Relaid terrace, new steps, raised bed - worth the investment

We spotted a firm of landscapers working round the corner and liked the look of their work, so got them to come in and do the work, adding better steps, a raised herb and veg bed opposite the kitchen door and a quadrant of proper paving at the top of the garden.  We've reused the old slabs, because we liked the weathering and lichen.  They also reshaped and dug over the bed where the shrubs had been, adding a fair amount of horse in the process.  Apart from signing the cheque, the process was entirely painless for us: we pushed off to Lagrasse for the duration.  We've since had the fun of planting it out, though the process has been somewhat haphazard.  We got half a dozen new bush roses and a couple of climbers when our local nursery had a sale, and they're starting to get their roots down.  As usual, the date for our late summer trip south sneaked up on us, leaving me with a cold frame full of rooted cuttings and the irrigation system employed elsewhere.  Well, the new bed finished up full of fuchsias, antirrhinums and penstemons, and they gave us some colour, however chaotic.  The soil the landscapers used to fill the raised bed is better than anything we've ever had in the garden: we got a good crop of delicious yellow runner beans despite late sowing and the depredations of snails, and the herbs have taken off like rockets.

Arrivals

We had the pleasure of Phil's company for a couple of days in December.  I just don't know how he can get off an aeroplane from the other side of the pond, get into an unfamiliar car and drive round the M25, then remain fresh as a daisy for the rest of the day.  A lifetime of long-haul flights may have helped.  While here, he got to meet the ladies of our local post office, who hand-stamp each new issue of Royal Mail stamps for the 'used' department of his collection.  He has since sent one of his Christmas cakes for them: it was greeted with squeals of glee when I delivered it.

On New Year's day, Annie flew in from Seville, where she and her brother had spent a few days. and stayed with us for a couple of nights.  Otherwise, we've had the pleasure of a few lunch and supper guests in one place or another. 

Departures

We have been out and about rather a lot this year: Madeira (February), mainland Portugal (October), Italy (June) and three trips to France (May, July and September).  During the July trip, we went to Barcelona for a few days to avoid the hideous rock festival that afflicts Lagrasse each year around the time of my birthday.  I bored at length on each subject at the time, so won't repeat myself - you can scroll down the blog for contemporary chunterings.

Madeira, not S Australia!

Madeira again?  Maybe.  It would be good to see the island in better weather (it was February...), and maybe take the ferry ride over to Porto Santo.  The north side of the island is less developed and very dramatic.  The more developed area around Funchal is a bit crowded, and the historic part is  full of restaurant touts, which I hate: one feels one is running the gauntlet.

Italy again?  Oh, for sure!  But Never Again with Gr3at R4il Journ3ys.  We're sure their package has appeal for some market segments, but we hated the regimentation, and the segregation from the general public in hotel restaurants.  The budget they had agreed with the main hotel led to catering of which a four-star hotel ought to have been ashamed.  We had to change rooms to get the lake (Garda) view we had paid for, only to find that the roof leaked in the second one.  The whole thing was a bit of a chapter of accidents, really.  See blog entries for June.

Pic de Bugarach, Aude

France again?  Obviously.  If only to get the bloody building maintenance finished.  I won't start again here: suffice it to say that, so far as we're aware, the missing meter and a half of rendering has still not been replaced.  We visited familiar and less familiar places while there: Martyn found a nice road up from the Fenouillède to the Corbières one day, so we got unfamiliar views of the Pic de Bugarach.

It was refreshing to enjoy some good music in the village.  First was the Wolfson Chamber Chorus's splendid concert in the church, then a four-day extravaganza centred round a grand piano in the Place de la Halle.  Three concerts a day.  I went to them all.

Gaia and Porto from Ponte Dom Luíz

Portugal again?  Oh, yes!  We took a superb flat in a working-class district of Lisbon with views over the local market and rooftops  to the estuary of the Tagus.  As always, we spent a lot of time bopping around on public transport, watching our fellow passengers and wondering at the lack of carnage as the bus hurtled down narrow streets between rows of tightly parked cars.  The train ride to Porto was interesting, if unspectacular.  We liked Porto, though the flat was more expensive, much smaller and of less quality.

Food and drink

Lunch on the Bluebell Railway

We've had a few more disappointments in France: familiar restaurants in La Franqui and Gruissan Port were less than mediocre, but fortunately the Auberge du Somail was on form.  The restaurant Molhe in Foz do Douro, near Porto, was cheap, generous and welcoming: it helped that the waiter allowed me to trot out a bit of Portuguese.  We sat watching the Atlantic waves breaking on the rocks.  Magical.  A pleasant surprise on a local day out: with friends we lunched on the Bluebell Railway one day in November - altogether not bad value. 

Wheels

We keep toying with changes to the Forges-l'Evêque mews, but so long as the cars we've got serve us well, there's little reason to change.  I've had the various dents and scrapes fixed on the VW, so will hang on to it for at least a couple more years. Our only rental this year was an elderly VW Golf in Madeira.  It had a 1.6 turbodiesel engine that was really not up to the job of navigating a mountainous island.  Worse still, the remaining tread on the front tyres was not sufficient to stop us aquaplaning out of our lane as we emerged from a tunnel  into a bend under a downpour.  The short section between tunnels was on a high viaduct.  Fortunately, there was nothing in the lane we drifted into, and we found grip just before we reached the edge. 

Arts

Quite a rich year.  We went to one Prom, and a whole lot of other concerts, quite a few of them in Lagrasse.  We had the great pleasure in November of hearing Kate and John sing in the chorus of Beethoven's 9th at Spitalfields.

The summer show at the Royal Academy failed to inspire us, but we liked a small exhibition of local landscapes near Gruissan by Marie-Claude Canet.  My own efforts have been pretty lacklustre this year: lots of half-baked pieces left unfinished.

Kate's latest play, Queen Anne, ran for four weeks in the summer, spanning the tercentenary of Anne's death.  Audiences were disappointingly small until Kate got a slot on Woman's Hour, whereafter the box office telephone didn't stop ringing.  We saw it on the last night, and liked it very much.  Shame about the stiflingly hot theatre.

And forward, though I canna see, I hope, and fear

Let's hope for the best in 2015.  I can't really see a satisfactory election result, but can rather too readily see an unsatisfactory and worrying one.  Let's hope I'm wrong, and that the main parties come to their senses.  I suppose it's a comfort that French politics seem equally bordélique.  The President's unpopularity is almost without precedent, and the previous one has just been re-elected to head his party with the slimmest of majorities.

Still, next year's cuttings are in the cold frame, and I have saved a lot of seed to start in the spring.  There's nothing quite like gardening to give you something positive to look forward to!

With every good wish for the various December things, and for health, prosperity and happiness in 2015,

Martyn & David

Food and frolics

Golden Arrow, 2014:  NB headboard and flags!

Years ago, when visiting the relatives in Orpington, I often used to go up to the station to watch the Golden Arrow go through on its way to Folkestone.  Evoking the Golden Arrow, the increasingly enterprising Bluebell Railway has done up a few Pullman coaches, and offers lunches and dinners in them, accompanied by a puff up to East Grinstead and back, then back up to Horsted Keynes and down again as one sups one's coffee.  With our friends Celia and Andy, we've done a couple of Cathedrals Express trips behind a steam locomotive, which were fun, but uncomfortable, and with uninspiring catering.  (We've also got together for tepid fish and chips on the Spa Valley Railway, and the less said of that, the better.)

Well, Sunday's jaunt was good.  South East and Chatham shunters hardly compare with the highly polished Bulleid pacifics of the Golden Arrow's heyday, nor even the shovel-fronted electric locomotives of the last years.  But they got us there and back with suitable sound effects.  The meal was good.  One of the starters was easily identifiable in the catalogue of one of the better-known caterers, but none the worse for that.  Martyn and I each enjoyed a delicious slice of braised lamb: the others had pink roast beef, and pronounced it to be excellent.  The Pullman coaches are comfortable and stylish in their period way, but the outsides look a bit tired.  Analogies discouraged.

Continuing the gourmet week, we had lunch in Brighton on Wednesday as Barbara's guests.  She lives not far from a decent pub with a pretty reasonable menu.  I suppose I ought also to admit to going for fish and chips on Monday, and to dishing up a home-made pizza on Tuesday.  Is there any wonder our shadows aren't diminishing?  Oh, and Martyn has found a recipe for braised lamb steaks...

Yesterday, Miss was concentrating on the water colour painters, having worked last week on the red acrylic background landscapes with our end of the room.  On arrival, I found that I hadn't closed down my laptop after the previous night's meeting at the CAB, hence the flattery was bat.  In my box of tricks, however, I had a print of a subject I'd been planning to handle as a triptych, so improvised a little piece on the basis thereof.  Not sure it'll come to anything, but I'll take it along next week and fiddle a bit more.  The subject matter is the view from La Jasse des Cortalets, where we drew breath after a terrifying drive up the mule track known as the Escala de l'Ours.  I'll post the daub later if it comes to anything.  It's refreshing that I've kicked myself into painting again: after the summer break, I've found it really difficult to find inspiration.  What I need now is some basic technical skill, and the confidence to interpret the subject a bit more loosely.  I find, though, that painting straight on to acrylic paper is horrible.  Like canvas, it really needs to be primed. 

Dull November day here today, so a lot of sitting around, tapping at keyboards.  Developments related to the hobby raised my blood pressure somewhat this morning, so I've attempted to distract myself with some housework.  Probably unwise to reveal that one way to get the housework done is to piss me off.

Snarl

I hate being listed for half-days at the hobby, since it buggers up a day, and usually, if it's Friday pm, means a short sitting.  This week's rota had me down for two different places at the same time, which I took as a flattering but ill-judged vote of confidence.  Pointed out the error as soon as I spotted it.  Arrived to find I wasn't needed in either place, so turned round and headed for home, mentally drafting a moderate enquiry by email. 

Our neighbours' front garden, recently adorned by an inverted Ford, is now open-plan: they've had the remains of the hedge cut down and grubbed up.  We're wondering whether they plan to put in a new hedge, or a stretch of Armco: all will doubtless be revealed. 

Now, there was I thinking that Jokers Я Us Home Improvements had finally got their act together.  Their call centre is now staffed with sentient beings with social skills, and the chaps turned up to measure the blown double glazing units and to fit the replacements, due notice having been given in advance.  Chap 1 measured carefully; chap 2 arrived with replacement units of completely different dimensions.  Chap 2, to his credit, took out the units that are to be replaced, measured them carefully, and put them back before apologetically leaving.  [Just occurs to me that we didn't even offer him a coffee.  Must Try Harder.  But perhaps they've heard of our past-sell-by Nescafé...]   

Footnote on the Portugal trip: when you travel by train hereabouts, the local flora tends to be opportunistic beeches and willows, and as the wayside becomes more built up, rosebay willowherb (epilobium angustifolium to the pedants, fireweed to the Colonials) and buddleia.  In Portugal, the railway cuttings were carpeted with Morning Glory in the sky blue that doesn't seem to reproduce from seed in these parts, and the open land with pampas grasses.  Interesting.  (Discuss...)

Art group was fun yesterday: Miss had told us to arrive with a base painted red, upon which to paint a landscape.  To the astonishment of the others, I actually did as I was told, and, between toast and shower, slapped some cadmium red on a little canvas, and later dashed off a little landscape of the poppies I'd photographed near Thézan back in the spring.  I used too little scumble glaze in the grass tones of the field, so had to slap on more cadmium red.  All good fun, and not intended as more than a quick daub.  Oh, and for the first time in recent years I used some green pigment, rather than mix it myself from the primaries.  Cobalt green and green gold might feature more often in the palette: thanks to Mary Fernandez Morris (who had given her acrylics to Les Dutton, who in turn passed them on to me, his medium being oils).  I've been feeling rather stuck and uninspired lately, so this was a refreshing exercise.

It has rained and rained and better than rained these last few days, so the pond is at the level of the surrounding grass, the grass is totally waterlogged, and excursions to the compost heap call for wellies.  Such is November, alas.

Remembrance

We're just back from a very well attended remembrance service at the local war memorial.  The Sally Anne band played well, and the military buglers were exceptionally good, we thought.  Except that one of them was not unadjacent to my left ear...  The service is always moving, the more so for Martyn, two of whose great-uncles were thrown away in that utterly futile war.  In addition to an impressive public audience, there was not a bad turn-out of my local co-hobbyists: we processed in the B list behind the mayoral party.  There was a march-past by the local TA, cadet forces and other para-militaries like the cubs and brownies, all marching to the beat of the ATC band's drums.  Pleasant reception afterwards in the Council chamber afterwards, hosted by our worshipful next-door neighbour.  At the beginning and end of the two minutes' silence, there was a fly-past of four private light aeroplanes.  Not mentioned in  the order of service.  Curious.

I'll no doubt have to do a reprise of the two minutes' silence on Tuesday at the hobby.  Always tough, since we shall never forget the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, that being when, 31 years ago, we gathered for my father's funeral.

London trip yesterday for the hobby club AGM.  Interesting venue: the old West Ham Town Hall in Stratford, a suitably pompous Victorian structure in a neighbourhood that is trying to gain some standing post-Olympics.  Quite a useful meeting, though I learned the hard way that my voice will not fill the great hall without benefit of electronics.  The approach from the station is via a hideous shopping mall, so on leaving I opted instead to take the bus from the front of the Town Hall to a station further down the line.  All the transport elements connected well, but I'm not wild about sharing carriages with picnicking families with sprogs that crawl squealing under the seats, nor about neighbours with doubtful oral hygeine.  Oh well, they'd probably rather not share space with me either.

Fine day today, so after plenty of fresh air at the remembrance service, I added a little more by cropping the last of the borlottis and yellow runners, taking down the bean frame and adding the beanstalks to the compost bin.  Our new raised bed has done pretty well this year: the sage has practically taken over!  I shall hack it back presently, and in the spring we'll top dress with some home-made compost and turn it over gently.  Elsewhere in the garden, the roses are just about ready for their autumn trim, aimed at reducing the risk of wind-rock.  I'm always reluctant to do it, since a number of them flower until Christmas and beyond.  but the price of my reluctance this year is some very leggy roses.  Earlier in the week, we Got Someone In to give the leylandii hedges their annual seeing-to, and to take out two of the three trees that were over-populating the top right-hand corner of the garden.We may thus lose a bit of shade from the top terrace, but we needn't worry about that for seven or eight months, eh?

The plot thickens

Last week, 80 tea bags: £3.50.  This week 3x80 teabags: £6.00.  Pays to read the labels.

Tin hat, anyone?

When we lack something useful to do, we tend to drop into Flightradar24 on't internet to see what's on its way over us wherever we happen to be.  When the wind's in the south west (ie most of the time) we're under the final into Gatwick.  In Lagrasse, we are close to the corridor used by most stuff from the UK to the Balearics and southern Spain, destinations much loved by the package tour operators.  One such is Jet2.com, and Flightradar24 is ever ready with data on the aircraft being used on each service.  The average age of their fleet is somewhat north of 20 years, so whichever of us spots one first, the comment tends to be 'got your tin hat handy?'.   Not that we have the slightest evidence that the airline or its fleet is less than 100% safe and reliable, of course, and we make no observation in that regard, express or implied.  Hereabouts, the veterans tend to be the few remaining British Airways 737s, some of which are creeping up to 22 years old.  The record lately was held by a McDo-Douglas MD-something or other - a late version of the old DC-9 before it became the Boeing 717.  This one was from somewhere in the Balkans, and was well into its thirties.  I used to fly on the type frequently when I was the firm's man in the Nordic region: SAS and Finnair were loyal Douglas customers back then.  Excellent aircraft: quiet and comfortable, and strongly built.  My most remarkable experience of the type was one day when I'd narrowly missed a flight out of Zürich - I forget where to.  The Swissair office in Zürich Hauptbahnhof blithely said, 'oh, we can get you there via Basel'.  Arrived at Kloten (Dutch speakers: kindly stop sniggering.) and installed in the MD-whatever, I was told that they had to change a wheel, which they proceeded to do.  I collared a stewardess to say that I had a very tight connexion at Basel, and, to cut a long story short, was to be seen sprinting across the concrete at Basel pursued by a taxi-ing 737.  The flight from ZH to BS took all of ten minutes.  The onward flight in a noisy Saab took an hour and a half.

Kent got a bit of a shaking the other day when an elderly Latvian Antonov entered UK air space without clearance.  The RAF scrambled a couple of Typhoons, which, to catch up with such a racehorse of an aircraft, had to go supersonic, laying a sonic boom path over much of the county.  I've heard the occasional rumbling turboprop sounds, and they have proved to be from aircraft of this type.  But neither Wednesday's Antonov nor its Eurofighter obligato registered with me on the day, though had they decided to shoot it down, matters might have been different.

A possibly elderly Thomas Cook 757 shed a dollop of overwing escape chute close to the Kent-Sussex border on Friday.  The crew didn't identify the problem until the plane was over Belgium, whereupon they turned back to jolly old Gatwick.  It has subsequently been found lying - no doubt peacefully at rest - in the churchyard of our parish church.  Glad to report that neither detachable Boeing bits nor shot-down Antonov fragments  landed on our sitootery.

Meanwhile, the grass is cut after a fashion, and we have planted out some winter colour.  With the help of a birthday present of a garden voucher, we've acquired some instant colour (pansies that look like Groucho Marx) for the box by the front door and some daffodil bulbs, which Martyn has planted out in borders and containers. 

Autumn routines

Well, it seems the lawnmower has been fettled.  Wonder how long that will last.  I'll go and get it when the weather's drier, by which point the pension should be in the bank, and there are said to be a couple of dry days in prospect.  We took the opportunity of a fine day yesterday to go and spend a birthday present gift voucher at the over-priced shop between the old and new Hastings roads.  Numerous kilos of daffodil bulbs: Martyn's project.  Some-winter flowering bedding and ivy plants for the basket at the front door.  The stock fuchsias and geranium are in the cold frame: let's hope for a mild winter again.

Fun and games here earlier yesterday morning: a young neighbour from up the road succeeded in parking his car upside down in neighbours Mary and Charles's front hedge.  The hedge may have spared the driver (sitting on kerb, left) worse than a bit of a fright.  The bend is quite sharp, and a drain top stands proud at a critical point.  So, with damp surfaces and a slippery cast iron drain top, added to rather brief driving experience, the result is unsurprising.  The vast majority of accidents involve young male drivers.  Don't suppose he's looking forward to his next insurance premium. I find that I enjoy driving less and less - though this may not be unconnected to the recent bill for sorting out the various dents and scrapes on the car.  But I'm comforted by the fact that modern cars, flipped on to their roofs, are strong enough for the doors still to open and close.  Couldn't have expected that of the Illman Himp or the Renault 4L, my wheels of choice when I was a new driver.

The Sunday grass-cutting ritual

Our having been away, the grass was long.  Yesterday was the first day it was anywhere near dry enough to cut, so, fortified by lunch, I sallied forth.  The front cut OK, but when I tackled the back, the transmission on the mower refused to engage when I released the clutch.  I managed to shove the mower across about a third of the surface before throwing in the towel, and getting out the old electric mower.  What ought to have been a simple thirty minute job turned into a messy hour's worth, since the electric mower, which clogs up at the slightest provocation, kept needing to be cleared out.  The back yard looks like a battlefield.

During the insomniac hours, I formed, with the aid of the iPad, preliminary views on potential replacements for the recalcitrant petrol mower, focusing on an outfit not far away in the next county that offered to accept trade-ins.  [Trades-in?  Oh, who cares?]  The good news is that it was a glorious bright autumn morning, and the drive was pleasant.  Part of the motivation for trading in was to get a mower with a self-starter, since the recoil starter on the current mower threatens to put my back hors de combat each time I have to tug the damn' rope to restart the brute.  Scraped down old mower, loaded same into the car, rattled out into the wilds.  Explained requirements to salesman, whose professional advice, somewhat sub-edited was 'Don't bother: they're shite.'  So the petrol mower is back with the charmless local fettlers for the second time this year, and we'll maybe get it back in time for a final cut or two for the season.

What I've learned from  the experience is that the cold I picked up in Portugal was an industrial strength one.  It takes little or no exertion to bring me into a sweat.  But I am sneezing less, and just hope I'm not in for another 100-day cough.  Pauvre de moi.  Is there anything so pathetic as a bloke with a cold?

Education, education, education

I've been following a facebook thread in which my cousin's daughter and her friends are sharing the agonies of applying for secondary school places for their sprogs.  How times change. Back in 1962, when I'd passed the 'qually' in Primary 7 at the wee Grove, I was called in to see the headie and told I was going to the big Grove for a six-year (ie A-stream) course. And then after that - OK, some application forms later, but nothing so vulgar as an interview - I was off to St Andrews for a grant-assisted degree course (of which I made a complete pig's tit, but nevertheless came out with an MA...). Sometimes one is thankful one is old - and getting an old-style pension.

Still, my arithmetic hasn't deserted me.  Observations in Sainsbury's today: Gin, 1.0l: £17. Gin, same brand, 0.7l: £18. Tea, 40 bags: £1.50. Tea, same brand, 80 bags: £3.50.  Pays to have one's wits about one.

All this despite the cold that our landlord in Porto so generously passed on.  I had to dip out of today's art class, and for fear that my voice would desert me at an important moment, have cancelled tomorrow's day at the other hobby. 

Portugal

Thursday 16

With Martyn's big birthday in the offing, we planned a trip to Lisbon and Porto, travelling in-country by public transport, and renting apartments.

We had the usual  poor night's sleep before travelling, alas, so had time to cut some just-in-case sandwiches.  Pretty lousy rush-hour conditions on the way to the airport, plus an unusually relaxed bus from the car park, meant that we were done out of our traditional pre-flight bacon roll.  We'd ordered in plenty of time, but despite numerous reminders, had to leave before they were brought out.  We left the money for the tea on the table, and had I had the right change, that's all they'd have had.

The flight did what it had to do, despite quite a bumpy ride at times.  The plane was pretty full, and TAP's seat pitch seemed if anything less generous than the budget carriers'.  It didn't help that the dame in front of Martyn kept reclining her seat and practically kneecapping him.  Our home-made sandwiches came in handy, given TAP's generous catering, and the under-staffing of Gatwick South Café Rouge.

Lisbon airport played a nasty trick on us: we'd put one bag in the hold, and it hadn't appeared by the time the sign said 'last bag delivered'.  A few anxious minutes later, up it popped, so we were soon on the next part of the route march from the plane to the outside world.  En route, we called at the desk that sells Lisbon cards, a useful device that covers all city public tranport, gives free or discounted access to various museums and stuff, and throws in the train services to Sintra and Cascais.

Taxis are as cheap as ever: welcome, since the alternative was to schlepp the suitcase on and off two metros and a tram, and the day was pretty humid.  The fare came to a paltry 11.15€ before tip for a 15 minute ride.  A couple of phone calls later, the landlady turned up and let us in.  The flat is pretty impressive for 80€ a night.  The bad news is that it's up three tall flights of stairs. 

Outlook from the flat in Graça to thePantheon and the Tagus

The good news just goes on and on, however.  There's a generous L-shaped sitting/dining room, with views over the roofs to the estuary.  There's a very well-equipped (if oddly laid out) kitchen, a twin bedroom and a bathroom.  Upstairs, there's a mezzanine bedroom, another shower room and a roof terrace with even better views.  We're a couple of doors away from a decent little local supermarket, and the local produce market is just across the street: we'll check it out tomorrow.  The upholstery is a bit grubby in places, and the frying pans are somewhat scratched, but these are minor points given the otherwise excellent package.

After tea, snoozes and showers, we decided to head down to the station to sort out our train tickets to Porto on Sunday.  I'd tried to do so on line, but gave up when I couldn't be sure of having two seats together.  We hopped on the legendary 28 tram just down the road from the flat, and ground our way down to the centre.  Parking in these parts is pretty indisciplined, and at times the tram driver had to stop, get out and fold in the door mirrors of badly parked cars.  Others might have been less scrupulous.  Thence by bus to Sta Apolónia station, where I seem to have bought tickets to Porto in the correct specification without recourse to English.  (If you get a plaintive post from Faro on Sunday you'll get the idea that my pride may have been premature.)

The 712 bus up from the station traces a tormented route through the back streets to the foot of our street.  But not till the driver has had his break (I make no assumptions about the adjacent bars) and finished his dose of e-nicotine.

Well, subject to indigestion later, first impressions of the frozen lasagne from the shop next door suggest that the four-star hotel we used in Italy should come here and take lessons: it reached a level of tolerable mediocrity.  The shop provided a decent lettuce and some proprietory dressing, so we're maintaining a veneer of civilisation.

Reflections on gadgetry.  When I left my job in Switzerland back in 1979, my colleagues gave me a leaving present of  a 'wrist-top computer'.  (It's quite bulky, and looks as if it ought to be attached to the left ankle.  Honorable mention, by the way, to anyone who knows why the Peckham Rolex (electronic curfew monitoring tag) is never attached to the right ankle.)  I rarely used it, though it was interesting to note, during one of guru Patrick's more strenuous walks near the Château de Termes, that we climbed 300 metres at an average rate of 5m/min.  I couldn't do that these days, I fear.  Well, eventually the battery pegged out, so I removed it and consigned the gadget to a drawer.  I rediscovered it a few weeks ago, and got our Indian friend in the Mall to replace the battery.  (At the same time, he replaced the battery in Martyn's Swiss railway watch, and all three of us were pretty nervous when he had to resort to a screw clamp to refit the back!).  Just for fun, I brought the contraption with me this time, and it measured the cabin pressure in our A319 at the equivalent of 2010m altitude.  I'll be interested to see what  it makes of the next Boeing machine I have to use: they tend to make me breathless.

Friday 17

Dawn at Graça, with Signals Regiment microwave kit

No nasty surprises at the flat: we both slept pretty well (by our dismal standards).  All the kitchen equipment we've used so far seems to do what it's meant to, and the crockery, cutlery and glassware are of good quality.  This afternoon we sat out on the roof terrace drinking tea and enjoying the extensive view across the estuary to the south-east.  The gadget reported a temperature of 22C, which is welcome in the second half of October.  We do hear the departing traffic from the airport, but not to a disruptive extent.  In any case, thanks to the excellent wifie at the flat, we can check whose they are and where they're going.  (It's slightly startling to learn that the TAP A320 up there is flying to Ghana, which makes one realise how close we are to Africa.)  

I should mention transport links.  We're a hop and a skip from the Sapadores bus and tram stops, which offer connections to more destinations than we're likely to need.  Some of the routes are distinctly tortuous, however, so you need to reckon on a good quarter of an hour to reach the centre, plus waiting time for the bus or tram.  There is, however, a taxi rank less than five minutes's walk away.

So, to turn to today's adventures, what have we been up to?  We set out earlyish for a bus ride across the bridge.  A bus took us from the flat to the Pombal rotunda, via winding back streets, one area of which was full of police.  Doubt if I'll find out why.  At Pombal, our bus connected almost instantly with another over the bridge to Almada.  First time I'd been over what started life as the Salazar bridge back in the days of the dictatorship, and it's an impressive experience.  Congestion on the way north to the bridge ruled out a return by bus.  Fortunately, the bus connects with the tram network that serves the south bank of the Tagus, offering the choice of connections either to the railway back over the lower deck of the bridge to Lisbon, or down to Cacilhas and the ferry to the Cais do Sodré.  We opted for the latter, and next had to decide whether to go to Cascáis for lunch, or to do Belém visits.  Lunch in Cascáis won, and we eventually plumped for the Flamingo Café, garlic prawns and calamares alla romana.  BIG portions - be warned, and hungry.  Quite a lot of native Portuguese spoken at the tables, which has to be a good sign.

After all that, I dozed for a fair bit of the way back to Lisbon.  Shame, because the sea was pretty lively, and the railway line follows the coast quite closely for much of the way.  We'd briefly debated doing the sights of Belém and Ajuda on the way home, but the call of tea on the terrace and and afternoon naps was altogether stronger. Modest supper of salad with baked bashed-out chicken breasts, cut into strips and dished up with a few croutons.

Saturday 18

Not without its moments, this Saturday.  We decided to do Belém stuff, the wet weather programme, since it was dull and drizzly first thing.  By the time we got to Belém, much delayed by traffic diversions, the weather had improved greatly, bringing us tourists out in hordes.  We shuffled our way round the church and the lower level of the cloister: fortunately the upper level was less lousy, so we had a good chance to take in the wonderful stonework.  Last time we were there, the restoration had only recently been completed, and the carving was unmistakably new.  Ten years or so later, it has begun to mellow nicely.  And this time the gargoyles weren't gushing.

While we were at that end of town, we took a look at a modern art collection in the Belém cultural centre.  Quite a rich collection, with household names like Hockney, Liechtenstein, Warhol, Henry Moore and Mondrian well represented.  But I struggle to find merit in a canvas painted entirely in uniform, flat black, in a frame proudly painted black by the artist, whose name I instantly forgot.

Back to the Baixa for lunch: pork steaks for Martyn, bacalhau na brás for me.  We decided then to head out to the new Oriente station, intending to visit Portugal's tallest building, the Vasco da Gama tower (we'd seen said explorer's tomb in the morning).  After a long and sweaty journey in the Metro and an unlovely shuffle through the shopping mall, we found that we were still a long walk from the tower.  We gave up and headed home for showers, tea and pasteis de nata. 

Back to the Baixa for supper.  The traffic had eased a lot so we were a bit too early to sit down to dinner, and so went for what would have been a pleasant stroll had it not been for waiters touting for business.  We eventually settled for a place with clean linen and no touts.  One of their offerings was a small steak served with chips and a fried egg.  We both ordered it, on the strict condition that my egg was done over well, as the colonials would say.  We had almost finished the wine by the time the food arrived, and of course mine came garnished with a runny egg.  Back it went, while Martyn tucked in.  Back came mine with a egg that was a shade less than raw.  Back it went, while I picked at his chips.  When the third attempt arrived, the meat was cremated, the egg was about right and the chips were underdone.  Hotel and restaurant Santa Justa, corner of rua Sta Justa and Rua dos Correeiros.  Good wine, polite and in due course apologetic waiters, nice linen.  Otherwise, forget it.

Things went from bloody awful to plain laughable on the way home.  The diversions required the bus to make a right turn into a narrow busy street, so when the light went to green, there were two lanes of cars looking to turn out of it.  Our driver eventually issued a passenger with a high-vis waistcoat and sent her to stop the traffic three cars back from the traffic light to allow the bus to turn.

Early night and positive thoughts for our journey next day to Porto.

Sunday 19

Birthday presents at breakfast: birthday cake was the last remaining pastel de nata. Sad to be leaving our very comfortable flat with its terrific views over the estuary.  Once we'd packed and tidied up, I spent a while sitting on the roof terrace enjoying a last hour or so of morning Lisbon sun. 

Easy bus ride down to the station.  We're constantly reminded of the skill snd panache of the local bus drivers.  They wind their way round narrow streets and 120 degree corners, missing parked cars by a hair's breadth.  They also have great confidence in their brakes: Lisbon is very hilly, and they go hurtling down them at breakneck speed.  (They wouldn't have the faintest hope of missing an errant child, dog or cat.  Must check on the stats some time.)

The train is rather elderly, but whips along briskly on the straights, hauled by a rather younger German engine.  Alternate trains between Lisbon and Porto use tilting trains, but we prefer the slower and more spacious carriages, given that there's no more than 25 minutes to be saved.  The landscape is quite varied: the flood plain of the upper Tagus is scrubby and arid-lookng, but one slowly moves into more cultivated land, with a lot of maize, a few vines and a lot of forestry.  Closer to the cities, the railway embankments are  mass of morning glory.

The day was warm, and the air conditioning was not up to the job.  Add a 20 minute delay, and we were rather frazzled by the time we crawled into Campanhã.  Our landlord arrived at the flat a minute or two after us, and showed us round.  This is a very different kettle of fish from our Lisbon flat.  On the plus side, it is central, and it involves one fewer flight of stairs.  On the minus side, it is much, much smaller (despite costing more per night), and there is no escape from snoring: there's a big bed on the entrance floor, with four single beds up a ladder in a mezzanine beneath perilous beams and sloping roofs.  The shower and lavatory are in little cubicles: as Martyn put it, it's like going for a pee in the cupboard.

We took a stroll down to the river last night, admiring the pompous architecture of the Avenida dos Aliados, and enjoying the fantastic ajulezos in the São Bento station.  Near there we bought a bus route map, which will come in handy.  Although the centre is very compact, it's an uphill journey back to the flat, and in weather as humid as we're experiencing, transport is welcome.

We stopped for dinner at one of the pavement cafés at the foot of the Avenida.  The meal was decent if unremarkable.  Scots accents at the next table.  Turned out he was from Perth and she from Dundee.  Martyn asked what school she went to: Hawkhill Primary and, of course, Harris Academy, where she was taught French in first year by a certain Mrs Smith.

Monday 20

Poorish night, given late meal and high humidity.  Off pronto nevertheless.  Tram across one of the Eiffel bridges, cable car to Gaia waterfront.  Boat ride under the various bridges.  The Ponte Dona Maria Pia is virtually the twin of our old friend, the Viaduc de Garabit.  The commentary on the boat had nothing to say about the Ponte Arrábida, a 1960s construction in reinforced concrete, its architecture paying subtle tribute to the Eiffel jobs upstream, both in the elegant single span and in some lattice work and suggestions of steel girders in the concrete underpinnings of the road deck.  The Salazar era was almost universally contemptible, but some of the architecture it generated was worthy of debate at least.

Stupendous grilled fish lunch at the restaurant do Molhe, at the western end of Foz do Douro.  We sat watching the Atlantic breakers on the rocks, enjoying the glittering sunlight on the waves.  Nice bottle of Monte Velho from the Alentejo.  Mistake was to ask for a Bagaceira afterwards; M was persuaded to order a Maciera.  Waiter returned: 'Bagaço nāo tem', so we each had enough Maciera to stun a horse.

Ever the keen eavesdropper, I heard some German dialect from the seat alongside ours on the bus back.  It had some characteristice of Swiss German, so I leaned over and asked where they were from.  My ear can't be that far out of tune: they live close to the Swiss border, and are big Porto fans.

Back at the ranch, one of us is sleeping off lunch.  I've been dealing with the iced-up fridge.  When we got here yesterday, we found the fridge really frosted up.  This morning, the butter was running away, and the jam was warm.  The fridge wasn't closing properly, hence running constantly, the hot air from the heat exchanger rolling over the top and into the door.  I've defrosted the ice box, dumped the five bath towels required for the purpose in the laundry room, thrown out the perishables, refitted the fridge so the door closes properly, and served a snotty text message on the management.  Watch this space.

After our afternoon naps, we went along to the Casa da Música, the architecture of which is based on the shape of a rock crystal.  Odd.  Also very crowded and with little public space.  So it was in and out and back to the supermarket to find a suitable snack for supper, and resumption of the nap.

Tuesday 21

Our last day in Porto, so we mopped up a few of the many sights we hadn't seen.  First was the Bolhão market.  It was a little disappointing, really: we were expectitng something similar to the workers' market in Funchal.  Much of the market floor was cordoned off, and an awful lot of the stalls catered in tourist tat, and other rubbish like plastic orchids.

Thence to the transport and communications museum in the old customs house.  It's a grim pile on the quayside, and its conversion to a museum hasn't exactly filled it with life.  The transport section is all road transport, with a couple of exhibitions: one of presidential vehicles and one on the Macau Grand Prix.  The GP started life as a kind of treasure hunt for idle colonial types in Austin A40 flying meringues and side-valve Hillman Minxes, but developed into something more serious after a few entrants turned up in E-type Jags.  The presidential vehicles ranged from horse-drawn broughams to S-Class Mercedes, via all sorts of interesting types: a Silver Wraith Royce,  a Phantom V and a few less expected types like a Citroën CX, which struck me as far too low for a gracious presidential exit.  Perhaps they pumped up the suspension to the wheel-changing setting before inviting His Excellency to get out.  The main section had a number of funnies, like a Fiat Topolino badged as a Simca, and some utterly ordinary cars, very well restored, like a Morris 8 and a 4CV.

The communications section was too noisy for comfort, so we can't say anything more about that.  The cafeteria didn't appear to be operating, but a glimpse through the door as a member of staff went in suggested it had about as much charm as the staff restaurant at Manor Gardens in the 1970s.

So, it was a good old 500 bus back to the centre and a 901 over to Gaia for lunch.  We pointedly ignored all the restaurants that were touting for business, choosing the  Ribeira Rio.  Having avoided the main delicacy of Porto - tripe - we opted for the other one, the Francesinha, a sandwich of steak, ham and chouriço, topped with cheese and with a sort of extra salty gravy poured over it.  Tasty, but gravely (gravily?) indigestible. 

The city was jumping with Bilbao Athletic football supporters in red and white vertical striped polo and T-shirts, in town for tonight's fixture with FC Porto.  Most were pretty well-behaved save for a bit of chanting: we could hear them across the river in Porto.  They were getting pretty well stuck in to the beer at lunch time, however, so things could be different by the evening kick-off!  [Later: home win, 2:1.]

From there we knitted ourselves a couple of bus rides back to Porto, including a  scenic drive over the Arrábida bridge.  When we got back to Trindade, we were rather too early to early to collect our bags, so carried on down to the Majestic Café, a fine art nouveau institution near the Bolhão market.  On a street corner nearby in a building now occupied by the fnac, a carillon was playing the hour, but someone nearby pointed out to me that it was out of order: the various puppets that were shuffling around beneath the clock ought to have been putting on more of a show.  The café is quite something: all bevelled glass mirrors, tooled leather benches and exuberant nymphs and cherubs.  The waitresses are done up in white tunics with chrome buttons, each with her hair tied back in a plait or a pony tail.  The head waiter was in black suit and black bow tie.  The tea was excellent, but the lack of air conditioning led us to wonder whether hot tea had been the right choice.

As we sit waiting to board, I can report that the airport experience has been pretty painless.  The metro swished us from close by the flat directly to the airport in about half an hour, and check in was prompt and painless.  No nasty surprises at security, no queue at passport control.  The only hiccup was after we'd installed ourselves at the gate: we were asked to step out and then file back in to have our passports and boarding cards checked.  No big deal.  The airport is probably over-dimensioned for the traffic it carries: a good fault, though it does mean that there is a fair distance to walk to the non-Schengen pariahs' gate.

The flight was much more comfortable by virtue of our asking for emergency exit row seats.  The catering was as dismal as before.  The strong winds we'd been expecting didn't materialise: we were thrown about a little on the approach, but nothing alarming, and the landing was good.  Dry roads for the drive home, thank goodness, and by the time we were on our way, the traffic was quiet.  Just as well: I seem to have acquired a cold, and was not feeling on the top of my mediocre form.   This is the price one pays for six days' intensive use of public transport, I suppose, plus constant change from sweating to chilling.

Good experience all round, though.  What would we do differently another time?  Maybe get the faster train from Lisbon to Porto, or fly.  We were interested to see the countryside and towns on the way, but don't really feel the need to do so again.  We'd use the Graça Light apartment again without hesitation so long as we're still capable of climbing all those stairs.  We'd look elsewhere in Porto, however.  Though central and compact, our flat was cramped and basic.  I can't imagine how a group of six, still less its theoretical max capax of eight, would cope there.  We were rather taken with Foz do Douro, which is a quarter of an hour from the centre of Porto, with glorious light and fresh air from the Atlantic.  Another thing I'd do is bone up a bit on my Portuguese.  Listening comprehension, always my weak spot, really let me down this time.  I think there are still some CDs gathering dust on a shelf upstairs...

Off again...

...this time to wonderful Lisbon again for a few days reminding ourselves of the charms and history of the city.  Thence by train to Porto, which we don't know, though our research so far is promising.  Wonder if I'll get a chance to inflict my dreadful Portuguese on anyone this time.  I've been mentally rehearsing my reaction to English responses to requests in Portuguese: 'I also need the opportunity to speak Portuguese, however horribly!'.  Martyn has been reading and regaling me with TAP horror stories in the meantime.  I think I'd better make sandwiches.  Stand by for adventures.

Auld age etc, Chapter 97

The dreich weather of the last few days has reinforced the reputation of my joints as barometer/hygrometers.  Tried paracetamol yesterday, reverted to red wine today.  Still, we went to a nice little concert last night at Goudhurst: the Tongswood Chamber Choir.  They did a diverse range of stuff from Byrd, via Vivaldi to some more recent composers of  quasi-liturgical subjects, then some more jazzy stuff after the wine-reinforced interval.  All in aid of the local Citizens' Advice Bureaux, an ex officio adjunct to my other hobby.   And, as driver, I had a nice glass of local apple juice, honest.   Must say I care little for the winding bits of the A21 after dark.  Still, we got home without further scars to the car or licence.  Of the blood pressure, the less said, the better.

The flying belly has been back today.  Wish he'd clean his plate.  Well, I suppose I can bin the soggy bird seed next time the ground is dry enough.  For those of the wingless vertical tendency, comfort food tonight, since we have been good kids with soups and salads lately.  Cordon bleu chilling, vegetables awaiting attention from Management, rosé also chilling.

Ouch.

Took a trip down to the local coachworks this morning to get an estimate for the various dents and scrapes in the car.  I had planned to get the work done anyway, even before we acquired some new ones in Lagrasse last month.  It now looks like going into four figures.  Still, they've done some work for us before, and we've been pretty satisfied with it.  Provisionally booked in for while we're away in Portugal next week.  The workshop is rather full of elderly Daimler Limousine at the moment, so I hope they can get the brute started between now and then....

It felt quite autumnal when I was down there, and the rain was delivering the occasional spit.  Marked change from last Friday when we had lunch guests.  That day we had apéritifs outside on the terrace, whither we also repaired later for cups of tea, and we had all the doors open while we were having lunch.  My scalp feels as if it has been out in the sun, which, of course, it has.  Nice thing to be able to report in October.

We may get another flush of roses before the winter.  JP2 is at last showing some colour, and Chicago Peace has some promising buds.  Just in time for the forecast heavy rain.  Needless to say, the good old penstemons are flowering like mad, particularly in the bed we got dug over and fertilised  in the spring, and the fuchsias are doing equally well.  I may have mentioned that we seem to have had only one successful cutting from the rose pink penstemon I bought a few years ago, so I have taken a few cuttings in the hope of starting the next generation.  The original plant was in a border that gets waterlogged in the winter, so it's perhaps no surprise that it turned its toes up. 

A pleasant but sad errand tomorrow.  One of my co-hobbyists is hanging up his black cap, since he's approaching the age at which we all have to retire and find a new hobby.  It seems like yesterday when I was just starting, and sat at his feet absorbing the wisdom he'd accumulated over, by then, close on 30 years.  Fortunately, we both picked up extra sessions last Monday, and for the first and last time we worked together with me occupying the chair in the middle.  And with charming continuity, I was at it again on Wednesday, mentoring yet another new recruit who has hit the ground running.

Death, taxation and immortality

No philosophical musings on the first-mentioned pro tem, but the fact that we can take the tax discs off our windscreens from tomorrow prompts me to wonder whether govt is, as usual, missing the point.  The Vehicle Excise Duty (VED) started life as the Road Tax.  A brief sojourn on our roads more than demonstrates that that has long since since ceased to have any effect on the dreadful condition of our roads. (I'll save a rant on how the dismantling of British Railways has forced people into private cars for another time.)

The VED now involves an incredibly complex system of taxing vehicles according to their emissions.  I drive maybe 3000 miles a year in the UK, and pay the same as for a similar vehicle that drives 80000.  The obvious answer is to shut down the 'road tax' collection outfit and collect the tax in extra duty on fuel.  Government can excuse its vast expense on number plate recognition cameras by collecting the odd 'no insurance' fine.  The clincher is that in France, which has adopted the approach I advocate, diesel is 30% cheaper than in the UK.  (OK: I know - this has more to do with the truckers' lobby than economics, and I'd pay more tax on French fuel to get some of the trucks off the road.)

As for the last, lacking descendants, we can just apply ourselves to the garden.  Cuttings taken from cistus, penstemon, numerous potentillas and fuchsias seem to be happy, but it's early days.

Oh, and the duck is back.

Old haunts

We spent the last two nights of our latest trip at Le Roc, first meeting Annie and her friends Ruth and Roger in Le Louis Vins, which is a few steps from the door of Moissac Abbey.  I was last in the abbey cloister almost exactly 39 years ago, when I was boating with friends on the nearby Garonne lateral canal, and remember being blown away by the skill and beauty of the carvings of the capitals in the cloister.  I was no less impressed this time, and of course the experience was enhanced by Martyn being with me.  The town has improved a whole lot in the intervening decades, with good paving, pedestrian streets, smart floral displays and, of course, an impenetrable one-way system.  Good and inexpensive lunch, excellent company and surroundings.  We paused at Nobby's (E. Leclerc) just by the motorway entrance to refuel and to get the last items on the shopping list.

On the way, we paused on the perimeter of Toulouse airport in the hope of seeing one of the new A350 prototypes.  One of  them had been doing circuits and bumps there the day before: on Friday, there was neither hide nor hair of it.  Still, as a consolation prize, we got a close view of one of the Belugas landing.  (It might have been the same aircraft that I climbed over at the Zürich Flughafenfest in 1998, watching next day from my office window as it took off.  They are getting old now, but Airbus are being forced to make them work harder and harder as A350 production accelerates.  Rumours of an A330-based replacement are building up.)

At Le Roc, it was a familiar pattern of eating rather a lot and sipping pink wine on the terrace, enjoying the views across the valley of the Lysos.  On both evenings there were spectacular storms to the south-east, so my bathroom window may have been tested. 

We did manage to do a little more than sit enjoying les plaisirs de la table, eg visiting the market in Bazas, which is less manicured than Moissac, and which boasts a fine cathedral.  Architecturally a bit of a hotch-potch, the west front, which dominates the market square, starts gothic, rises to a 16th century rose window and culminates in a neo-classical gable.  We admired it over a suitable apéritif while waiting for the others to do the rounds of the market stalls.  Bazas too has a tortuous one-way system, of course.  Rick Stein fans will remember his buying beef from

Herbs and spices, Bazas market

the butcher in Bazas during his Atlantic-Mediterranean 'Odyssey'.  The region prides itself on the quality of its beef, and I've always been impressed by it too.  I just remember the same butcher selling us twice as much meat as we could comfortably eat at one sitting, and not cheaply.

Annie is in the process of buying out the other shareholder in Le Roc, the shared ownership having proved to be problematic from the earliest days.  The co-owner recently put it on the market (or rather, got Annie to undertake all the work involved).  The only offer having been very low, Annie and the other party have agreed a price, and the bureaucracy is slowly processing the deal.  The process of clearing out the remnants of the Previous Administration has begun: let us say just that there were one or two noticeable differences in tastes, and that the purge will fill a couple of skips.  Meanwhile, I did some running repairs on a couple of bits of cheap furniture that came with the house twenty years ago and will remain.

We woke early yesterday, as is so often the case before we travel.  (Just as well, because the battery on my useless mobile phone - my only alarm clock - had gone flat about as quickly as usual.)  We drove out just before 07:00 into thick fog, which stayed with us for the first ten or twelve dark, winding kilometres to the motorway.  Not nice after a poor night's sleep.  We had more fog from Saint-Jean d'Angély until just south of the Loire, and rain from time to time, some of it quite heavy. 

We'd opted for the Bordeaux-Tours-Le Mans-Rouen route this time.  One can decide at Tours whether to do that or Orléans-Paris.  Always hard to decide which to go for: the former route, if a little longer, is much quieter, and avoids both the crushing boredom of the Sologne and the cut and thrust of Paris.  It does, however entail the grind through Rouen and the busy, somewhat inferior A28.  You pays your money, and you takes your choice.  We were at the top of the hole more than two hours before our scheduled departure time, so were invited to go away, and wait for the excess 20 minutes in the holding car park.  (The back wall of the chiottes bears witness to the fact that they hadn't thought to unlock them.)  As we waited, we saw a few dark faces walking across the enclosure and hiding in a ditch, poor souls.  We kept the car doors locked.

On returning to check in, the machine offered us the departure we had originally booked, so we had a couple of hours to wait.  The departure terminal at Coquelles is mainly about over-priced liquor sales, hence not a lovely or useful place to be.  Fortunately it has a coffee shop from one of the big chains, so, fortified with big cups of mint tea bzw. cappucino, we retired to the car and the kindles.  Once we were on the Shuttle train, it did what's it's meant to, and after a couple of chapters of respective biography and whodunit, we were once again in daylight, and jostling with lunatics on the M20.  These days we go for the slower Biddenden-Goudhurst route, which is more direct, uses less fuel per mile, and helpfully brings one in via the M&S Express shop at the Blue Boys pub as was.  So, some fourteen hours after leaving Le Roc, we arrived home equipped with supper and breakfast.  That's our third complete aller-retour by road this year, and each time we wonder afterwards whether it would be easier to fly and rent.  But each time we undergo the airport and cheap flight experience, we have to wonder whether the long drive might be the lesser of two evils.