EDF blues

Early last week:  'EDF here: would you like us to put in a smart meter so you can monitor your consumption in real time?  DCS: 'OK'.  EDF:  'How about next Wednesday, early or late?'  DCS: '17h00'  EDF:  'OK: we'll call on the day to confirm.'

Monday: 'EDF here, calling to confirm our appointment for tomorrow, Tuesday.'  DCS: 'I told your colleague we couldn't do Tuesday, and had booked Wednesday at 17h00'.  EDF: 'Oh, can't do that.  Can we re-book?'  DCS:  'No, we're busy the rest of the week,then leaving.  Let's call the whole thing off.'  EDF:  'OK'.

Tuesday:  'EDF here, calling to confirm your appointment on Wednesday at 17h00'.  DCS:  'Oh, your man called on Monday, saying it was for Tuesday, which we couldn't do, so I called the whole thing off.'  EDF:  'Oh.  Did he give you his name?'  DCS:  'No.'  EDF:  'Well we still have you down for Wednesday at 17h00.'  DCS:  'OK, tomorrow at 17h00, then.'

Wednesday: 17h00 has been and gone.  So has 18h00.  I thought I was getting the hang of life in these parts, but the more I experience this lovely country, the stranger it becomes.

Du feu aux Fesses

The two round hills just over from the river from us are known - even on official maps - as les Fesses de Charlemagne: said emperor's buttocks (he having founded the Abbey here).  As we digested our frugal lunch of leftovers, we became aware of a strong smell of wood smoke, and saw our friend Josef running down the street.  Shortly afterwards, the siren sounded from the fire station.  As we headed out, the air was full of smoke, and as we climbed the bridge, the valley was filled with a kind of blue mist.  The local pompiers have a hefty 4x4 truck, and it was soon scrambling up the path.  Next in line were the two Grumman Trackers based at Carcassonne.  1950s airframes designed for carrier-borne anti-submarine warfare off US Navy carriers, they have been re-engined with turboprops and equipped with fire retardant tanks.  They made a number of passes before dumping the red glop on the hillside, presumably to assess how the combination of wind and terrain would affect their approach.  Very impressive flying, considering the huge trim changes that must follow the release of so much fluid, and the need to climb sharply afterwards to avoid crashing into the hillside.  Between them, they seem to have it under control.  The Trackers, refuelled and reloaded, came back to check, but headed out again straight afterwards.  Meanwhile, another fire engine had arrived to help with the damping down.

So, we no longer have du feu aux Fesses, which is probably as well at our age.  And, having washed off the spots of fire retardant that blew our way, I'm perhaps not as retarded as I was some minutes ago.

Our grand day out

Domestic sort of a day yesterday, catching up with three machines' worth of laundry and a bit of shopping.  Fortunately also a drying sort of a day.

Boat at salins, Barbara's commission

Today was altogether more entertaining: we met old friends and new ones for lunch at Le Somail.  It had started life as a lunch with Barbara, for whom I did a modest daub a while back.  It subsequently turned into a full-blown going-in (as distinct from coming out) party for Patricia, who is having surgery on a foot on Friday.  The twelve of us had a fine and moderately-priced* time at the table, and the usual boat ride along the canal afterwards, then valedictory teas and coffees back at the restaurant.  Facebook is jumping with photographs already.

Barbara presented me with some bottles of wine, including a rosé labelled Le Vin de Merde, which prompted the comment 'so that's what you think of my painting, eh?'.  I might take a few photos of the boat next time we're down at the salins, and have a crack at it for us.  (My original sketch is...sketchy.)

Gentle drive home through the Minervois vineyards, back along the canal, then odd bits of shopping in Lézigzag: some card for Martyn's model-making, and some pencils for my art class cronies.  And the makings of a minimal supper.  Early night: I'm not sure whether it's hay fever or yet another Ryanair cold, but I've been sneezing no less than is my wont, by dose is ruddig, ad by eyes are waterig.

* One is reminded of the Edinburgh-Aberdeen cultural divide.  Edinburgh: 'Come in, come in!  You'll have had your tea?'   Aberdeen: 'Come in, come in!  The table's fair groaning with food.  And all verra reasonable.'  Coming from Dundee (half-way between the two), as, fortuitously was Heather, our neighbour at the lunch table, we boast the hospitality without the parsimony.

Home, sort of

Sunset, Foz do Douro

We've had a delightful trip to Portugal, and are already missing the view from our superb flat of the variously sparkling, heaving and foaming Atlantic.  We saw a few sunsets, but with generally clear skies, they were less spectacular than some we've met.  Pretty damn' good, all the same.

Railway station, Pinhão

I've spent an hour or so since we got back editing the vast numbers of pictures we took on the trip.  I have a full set of the azulejos at the station in Pinhão, but will just give you a teaser of the station itself.  But be warned: I have a photo on file of each and every azulejo panel on the building!

Our landlord João came round this morning to collect the rent, and to take us to the airport, which was above and beyond, we thought.  He and his wife Ana are new to the business, and have only been letting the flat since June.  They are getting it more than right: we've rented some impressive properties in recent years, and this one was the best, and far from the most expensive. 

Back to reality today, on a crowded Ryanair flight to Carcassonne.  The views of the Pyrenees were superb, but otherwise the best that can be said of the flight was that it got us here.  Cramped, noisy and uncomfortable, 'service' expensive and lacking in charm, and what seemed to us to be an unnecessarily sportif approach to Carcassonne!

Earlyish night tonight.  It seems to be axiomatic that, the night before travelling, I sleep badly.  Oh well, we at least have the laundry and shopping to look forward to in the morning.

Fewer miles, more feet

We've been less ambitious today so far, limiting ourselves to Porto and Gaia.  Bus to the station, then a stroll up the hill to the cathedral, which is rather gloomy and much mutilated despite its fine Romanesque origins.  The cloister is interesting, though largely because of the relative absence of verticals.  The ticket to the cloister also gets one up on the roof thereof, whence there are good views, and, in some rooms off the cloisters, displays of the obscene profligacy of the church: jewel crusted mitres and the like, and more gold than you can shake a stick at, even if you felt like it.  If I were holy, I think I'd be a cathar.

From there we wandered down through the labyrinthine old town, where people leave their poultry out to scavenge in the streets.  One hen was shackled by one leg via a length of string to a cockerel.  Explanation, someone, please!

As we scrambled down to the Ribeira waterfront, we were hooted out of the way by a police motorcycle followed by a dozen or so young men on trials bikes.  It turns out that there was some sort of competition on the quayside.  The course was laid out on a couple of levels of quays, and involved huge tree trunks, tractor tyres, granite staircases, a vertiginous ramp from one quay to another, and a see-saw.  It was hard to see well because of the crowds in Ribeira, but we watched for a while from the lower roadway of the Dom Luis I bridge.

Thence to lunch at the Imar restaurant.  Acceptable, but don't make a special trip.  The interesting part was that the table next to ours was speaking a German dialect that I didn't recognise.  Ite turns out to have been Letzeburgisch, so hardly surprising.  Fascinating echo of the day we first came to Foz last October, when I got into conversation with a couple from near the Swiss border.

After lunch we took the cable car and a tram back to S Bento, and headed back down to Ribeira in search of a cruise boat.  It was very busy, and rather hot, so we eventually gave up and went looking for a bus back to Foz.  The centre of town is pretty much gridlocked today in preparation for tomorrow's half marathon, so we'd another long wait, but at least we got seats this time.  I think the local taxis had creamed off the bus queues further upstream.

So, tea, air conditioning and views of the sparkling ocean while get our strength up to go out for dinner!

A day much travelled.

Up and out sharpish for the bus to São Bento, whence we planned to travel up the valley to Pinhão.  After our lengthy wait for a 500 yesterday, we left bags of time - long enough to get quite chilled in the morning mists.  Eventually, the bus turned up: the same driver as yesterday afternoon, and conceivably the same bendy bus.

Last year, when we bought our train tickets in Lisbon for the ride to Porto, we went to the station, I went to the counter and bought them.  This morning we'd to establish what flavour of train we wanted, press the appropriate tit on the machine at the door of the booking office, then wait for its number to appear on a screen, directing me to the appropriate counter.  It being early, and in view of my inability to deploy any Portuguese this trip, I began in English, to a hostile reception.  Noisy railway stations, a mumbling clerk behind a glass screen, plus the early hour are not the best combination for an incompetent speaker of Portuguese, but given the clear context and the simplicity of the requests involved, we were soon issued with our tickets, y compris my old-geezer discount: hurrah!.  Signs to the ticket office are given in Portuguese and English, and the clerk next door was handling French very capably, so I guess we were just unlucky.  Or indeed lucky in my case, to get the chance to wheel out a bit of a neglected language: we got to our destination and back again.  Fares are cheap: young Martyn's ticket for the return - well over two hours each way - came to €21.  Mine was €11.65!  The tickets may have been cheap, but the train was nasty.  Cleaning, as we waited to depart, amounted to a dame flicking a duster at each unoccupied seat.  No attempt to clean the purple glop off the window ledge or the window itself.

It takes over an hour to get to the scenic parts of the valley, though the countryside on the way was pleasant and varied - more so, I have to say, than on the line between Lisbon and Porto, though the line side vegetation of pampas grass and morning glory was familiar.  Further up the valley, eucalyptus and vines predominate, and from just before Régua, the celebrated terraced vineyards are much in evidence.  Sad to see a lot of them neglected or abandoned, but good to see quite a lot of plantations of young olives.

They say that the most interesting thing about Pinhão is its railway station.  We found some attractive little corners, but are rather inclined to agree.  The town's situation on a bend in the river beneath steep, terraced hillsides is already pretty good, and the station is indeed a fine gallery of azulejos depicting the landscape, viticulture and local costume.  I took dozens of photographs, but can't upload from here.  Watch this space.

We took an hour's boat ride further up the valley.  They say the best bits are above Pinhão, but that makes just too long a day of it from our end of Porto, so a brief sampling by boat was a good alternative.  Lunch in a snack bar: two hefty dollops of something akin to pizza (bread base, several layers of ham followed by cheese, bacon, tomato purée and black olives.  Two glasses of local red, and two port wine enhanced pastéis de nata.  Bill: €7.70.  We'll be back to Pinhão next time someone offers to helicopter us in.

The train back was initially the one we'd taken out, complete with hefty, goateed, pony tailed conductor, who helpfully told us we'd have to change in Régua.  (I'm not sure I made the confirmation question using the correct form of the infinitive, but he confirmed what I thought I'd said, and the ensuing actions proved it was right).  Better train for the rest of the trip, obviously bought second-hand from Renfe, given that a lot of the notices were still in Spanish.  I dozed a fair bit of the way back, but we both enjoyed, while awake, seeing the scenery in bright sunlight, cf. the impressive but different views through the morning mist.

Back in town, we opted for a metro ride out to Matosinhos, which is the end of our bus route, and not far from our wonderful digs.  Amusing non-verbal interaction on the metro between two giggling girlies and two young black guys, one of whom had astonishingly small feet.  Maybe that had sparked the imagination of the said ggs, and the giggling thereof.

After a somewhat sweaty day out, we opted for a scramble up the hill to the rather basic mini-market, returning with frozen calamares.  I'm instructed that we shall eat more healthily on our return to France.

Tourism

We've had a fine day today visiting old favourites and places we missed in our first brief visit.  We started with the stock exchange palace, an extraordinary granite pile near the river.  The selling point of the tour (I got in on a half-price old-geezer ticket) is the Arabian ballroom, which is dripping with fancy gilt stucco.  I was immeasurably more taken with the wood inlay floors and the intricately carved granite on the grand staircase - unsurprising that it took decades to complete.  By the way, some of the portraits of former presidents of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry are pretty good.  Others, as a colleague once said of a certain technician's sick leave record, are little short of dire.

From there we legged it sweatily up to the celebrated Lello Brothers' bookshop.  You have to queue for an entry voucher (€3), then queue again to get in.  The voucher can be redeemed against a book purchase, so I suggest you go on a wet day in February when you've decided on a book you want.  The shop is pretty spectacular, I grant you, with its logic defying crimson staircase and Art Deco stucco, but fly not hither unless you have other reasons.

Thence a search for a bus that would take us to the Majestic Café for lunch.  Before we found one, we found an astonishingly old-fashioned linen shop, the Armazéns Cunhas.  The frontage is pretty pure Art Deco, bearing the legend 'We sell more cheaply' (em Português, of course).  The window displays are of old-fashioned bedspreads, chefs' tunics and toques etc, and on entering, you meet a long counter.  It took me back close to 60 years to the times when, on entering a shop, you went to the counter and asked for what you wanted, and were served.

We soon spotted a bus that was heading for the Bolhão market, so hopped on, knowing that it wasn't far thence to the Majestic.  Tooled leather seats, bevelled windows and mirrors, impeccably dressed and courteous serving staff, and a damn' good lunch.  A good steak for Himself, and a magret in a port sauce for me.  Then pudding.

We managed somehow to waddle up to the metro, and to change for the trip across one of Mr Eiffel's bridges to Gaia.   We walked back across the same to São Bento, encountering quite a lot of black-clad students on the way, one in each group carrying a huge wooden spoon or wooden club (and in one instance, an enamel chamber pot).  The best explanation we could get was that the wooden implements were symbols of the University of Porto.  One student reminded us that J K Rowling based the Hogwarts outfits on the Portuguese university garb.  And muckle guid may the kennin' thereof dae ye.  (But the local press is reporting violent initiation ceremonies for new students, and the University refuses to tackle anything that happens off-campus).

The plan from there on northward included a trip to the tram museum.  We duly alighted at the corresponding bus stop to find the place en travaux.  Something must have happened on the 500 bus route in the meantime, because we'd over half an hour's wait for a bus which, when it finally appeared, was packed like a jar of anchovies.  Home, tea, shower and a modified Weltanschauung later, we strolled along the prom for half an hour or so, enjoying the sea air.

Quite a pretty sunset tonight: the images on the Lumix seem far better than those on the iPad, but you'll have to wait for either.

On the move again

Delightful evening on Monday as guests of Beverly in her digs at Sandra's lovely house in the Place de la Halle.  Beverly has sold her flat in Narbonne now that the kids are no longer being schooled there, and Christian, her ex-husband is doing up a house  she has bought in the village.  She is living in the top floor, which the previous owners of Sandra's house let as a gite, and which, as Sandra rightly says, has the best view in the village, across the river to the Abbey, and up the river to the mountains.  

Meanwhile, we'd done a spot of de-cluttering.  One burnt-out gas barbie, a functioning trouser press with perished rubber behind the cloth side of the press (OK, the pants would have sharp creases, but the fabric would be full of dust from decaying rubber), an old turntable and misc other odds and ends are now on their way to new lives in the landfill or conceivably via the chap at the déchetterie to people who can make money from them (not, I emphasise, that I have a scrap of evidence that his efforts aren't wholly devoted to the economy of the Republic).  A clothes rail that I used in Dübi in one of the guest rooms is now at Beverly's: she needs it while she's between homes, and will doubtless press it into service in due course when her posh frock shop relocates.  And I've gained a sitting room up on the top floor by shunting the rest of the furniture about a bit.  That has always been my favourite room in the house, with its ceiling up into the roof beams, and its views across the rooftops to the old windmill.

Today we have endured the Carcassonne airport and Ryanair experience, neither of which was edifying.  I've grizzled before, I think, about the fact that the old cafeteria overlooking the airport is no more, and the replacement on the ground floor is mediocre, to say the least.  Having bought un quart de rosé, I was presented with a plastic beaker to drink it from.  There might have been times when I'd have meekly accepted this.  These are times past, my dears.  So I triumphantly drank my mediocre wine from a glass with a stem.

Ryanair was Ryanair.  Nuff said.  I'd taken my altimeter watch, and must eat my words: Ryanair pressurises its Boeings to 2165m at cruising height, which is not much higher than our friends from Toulouse.  But the Boeings handle the turbulence rather less well.

On arrival, our atypically tall blond Portuguese host was waiting for us as planned at the airport, and drove us back to the flat via a whole lot of places we needed to know about.  He and his wife were there to welcome us to the flat, which is fabulous.  Recently redone, tastefully furnished and decorated, very well equipped, good wifie and with a fine view across the street to the rolling Atlantic breakers.  We watched a container vessel leaving the port of Matosinhos just along the coast around sunset, rolling a good 15 degrees to either side.  Rather them than us!

Ready-made supper at the flat, supplied by the supermarket up the street.  Hardly haute cuisine, but it fills a gap.  We have bought public transport rover tickets, so shall get out and explore tomorrow.

Public sector austerity

One thing I have noticed now and then in dealings with officialdom and utilities is a certain reserve.  We returned yesterday lunch time from a shopping trip to Lézigzag to find the street filled with folding tables, and wondered what the devil we were in for.

Such a quiet little street...

Two young people were putting out all sorts of jumble: plastic flexible tubing, bicycle inner tubes, remnants of fabric, etc.  I couldn't get them to explain what it was about, other than that it was for a company.  In due course a crowd of people arrived, fortified, I suspect, by a Good Lunch somewhere, so I pressed on with the interrogation.  Turned out it was a team building event for the staff of a subsidiary of EDF, the much-loved, majority state-owned electricity company.  They had been split into teams (named after leading fashion houses), briefed to come up with the most imaginative fancy dress on given themes, using the stuff provided.  I must admit to stepping in with the toolbox when people looked like severing arteries with blunt scissors, or lacked pliers for this or that task.  The day culminated in a sort of fashion parade in the Halle.  All very entertaining!  For us, the winner was the grey-bearded beauty queen, but we didn't hang around for the prizegiving.  The street was somewhat bordélique when we got back, but the various animators soon got it all cleared up (not without a modicum of help from wacky baccy, I noticed), and the organisers had the tables packed away in no time.  As Annie would say, you'd never know we'd 'ad a do.

bonne récolte

Today, it feels a bit like the day after a good birthday party.  Still, we've been for a gentle stroll up past the Abbey and through the vineyards and olive groves, admiring the early autumn flowers, and spotting the occasional lizard and butterfly.  A propos fauna, we heard some odd bird calls while we were hanging out the washing this morning: turned out to be two herons engaged, doubtless, in such dialogue as is herons' wont.  I'd never heard one before.

As we strolled, we found neighbour Hervé and, I think, sons harvesting olives.  Evidently the crop is particularly good this year, so Hervé was wearing a smile from ear to there.  He and Béatrice came to Lagrasse a few decades ago when the théophanes set up a community here.  The sect seems to have disappeared, but B&H have re-established the village as a hub of  olive-growing, and are good, friendly neighbours. 

Some of the vineyards have been harvested, but there's a lot still to do.  I'd hoped to have a photograph of the monks at their viticultural devotions, but that'll have to wait for another day.  Or year.

More miles

The week drove on with a pretty much relentless traffic of kitchen contents to other parts of the house; mainly the conservatory, where the stack of Fortnums' veggie trays had risen well past the window ledge, and the clutter in the upstairs rooms was building up as well.  Since the garage will be full of kitchen furniture and equipment, that wasn't a storage option, and the chaps want to use the dining room as a depot during the work.  The dining furniture is therefore in the sitting room, together with my red wing armchair.  I remember this chaos and clutter all too well from the kitchen refit at Smith Towers.  (That was worse, of course, in that there were fewer, smaller rooms, no conservatory and no garages.)

Having learnt from the experience, I am writing this from Another Place.  We left shortly before 07:00 on Monday, and some minutes later the skip, the carpenter and the plumber should have arrived.  Kitchen furniture and appliances were due for delivery next day, ready assembled.  We've had no progress reports so far, and are not soliciting them.  The dream is that we return three weeks hence to find a new kitchen that needs no more than a lick of paint.  We'll see.

Meanwhile, we were on the good old Newhaven-Dieppe ferry by 09:00, and rested (having slept as badly as usual the night before travelling) until it was time for brunch à l'anglaise.  Tepid by that stage, of course, and I'd forgotten the French cafeteria trick of providing microwaves for customer use.  Otherwise, a good, comfortable and punctual crossing, with many fewer noisy sprogs than last time.  The day was still and sunny, so we sat out on deck, reading and snoozing for a while.  Whereas when using the tunnel we hit the motorway at around 09:30, we weren't on the shorter but much slower route from Dieppe until about 14:15.  The road is quite good until just after Rouen, but from there until one joins the motorway north of Orléans, it's balls-achingly slow going.  Remembering this from last time, we opted to stay overnight near Bourges, which adds a two-hour driving shift to the second leg of the journey.

We again used the Ibis Styles hotel, which does B&B for two for around £80, has suitable eateries a short walk away, and provides 15% discount vouchers for them.  Our experience of the short-straw chain is mixed, but my magret was delicious, and Martyn's noix d'entrecôte, if somewhat labour intensive, was reportedly a lot better than it looked.  The hotel offers hot drinks machines in the reception area, which isn't too handy given the state of attire in which I enjoy my first cup of tea in the morning, so the trusty tea kit was deployed once again.  Better tea, better cups but unforunately we hadn't brought fresh milk.  A motorway pee and changeover stop had at least provided a chance to get half a litre of what Mother once memorably described as 'yon HIV milk'.

From Bourges southwards, the drive was initially pretty quiet, but the motorway is always busy for thirty miles or so either side of Clermont-Fd.  The traffic included the usual complement of kamikazes, none of whom, fortunately, accomplished his mission in our sight.  We stopped to refuel and change over at Issoire, and Martyn took the next shift, allowing me to enjoy the wonderful landscapes of the Auvergne.  His two-hour stint brought us to the rest stop at the Larzac, so I drove the rest of the Causses, the Pas d'Escalette and the busy race track down past Lodève.  This time, I was determined to use the departmental road from Béziers, and with Martyn navigating, we'd no trouble.  We stocked up with everything bar fresh milk at the bright, airy and well stocked new Fortnums' on the edge of Capestang, then ambled gently home through the vineyards and along the side of t he canal.  We needed only a quick dive into the Lézigzag Carrefour on the way home, for milk, but I did yield to the temptation to get a bag of frozen calamars à la Romaine as well.  The parking régime seems to have slackened off in the village, but since someone has parked in front of the door, I had to look for a space elsewhere.  The car is now right in front of the doors of the chiottes publiques along the street, and may stay there for a day or two: I don't plan to drive anywhere unless the space in front of the house comes free.

Quiet day today, after two days' travelling.  Quieter than usual, in fact: we haven't heard the church clock since we got here.  It normally rings every hour, on the hour and again two minutes later, and delivers a solitary cracked clang on the half hour.  I haven't heard the Abbey bell either, though Martyn reckons he has.  Maybe the boys and their local helpers are too busy getting their grapes in.  I shall not be volunteering: my hands, back and general lack of tone suggest that my grape harvesting days are over. 


All was in order on our arrival - we've never seen the bed so beautifully made up after Immy and Jon's flying visit a couple of weeks ago.  One exception: the gas supply to the hob.  There's gas in the bottle, but the adaptor's done for.  Fortunately, we'd bought a full bottle towards the end of our last stay, so it was soon hooked up and delivering.  Not before, while manoeuvring the hose to the gas bottle, I'd knocked the glass jug off the coffee machine and smashed it on the floor.  Having been liberated during an office move 20-some years ago, it doesn't owe me anything, and fortuitously, the filter funnel sits perfectly atop an under-used vacuum jug.  It's an ill wind, eh?

Chaos resumed

The contents of the kitchen are variously scattered round most of the other rooms in the house and the garage.  The plumber/project manager and his motley crew of tradesmen start next week: he is coming for a final briefing tomorrow.  One of the advantages of getting one's groceries from Fortnum's is that they don't spend fortunes on shop fittings, but rather rely on robust cardboard stacking trays to display the fruit, veg and bakery products.  I have brought two car loads of them home so far, and we'll need more, much to the delight of said grocer, who has so many fewer trays to ditch.  Part of the kitchen rebuild project involves replacing a space robbing radiator and pipes in the kitchen.  This means bringing new pipework through the cupboard under the stairs, so that too has had to be cleared out.  We are in consequence marginally more exercised than of late.

Kitchen contents, stored à la Fortnums'

On one of the tray-scrounging episodes, I took some scrap timber from Martyn's railway layout to the tip.  One backs up to a sidewalk, so distance between head and tailgate is (I now realise) commensurately reduced.  Once again my scalp has been attacked by a low-flying tailgate, with bloody, headshave-impeding consequences.  Nothing to do with my innate clumsiness, of course.  Paciência.

On Monday we were invited to the Rayner's annual bank holiday bash, where a fine time was had.  We took a rosemary focaccia and a lemon drizzle cake, so felt entitled to inflict some cupboard-under-the-stairs fallout as well.  I gather my utterly altruistic gift of mistakenly bought peach-tainted beer was not madly welcomed.  Still, it'll be good for the drains.