Dry feet

Spare a thought for the families in the North whose homes have been host to over-enthusiastic rivers in recent weeks.  I don't think I've quite discovered all the sludge that followed the 1999 flooding in Another Place, and I just don't go down into the cellar any more.  Back then in France, the insurance company was remarkably co-operative, paying something like 95% of my claim, and maintaining the premium.  British underwriters seem to have forgotten the principle of spreading the losses, and now tend to price flood-prone areas out of sight.  (Equally, young male drivers are practically uninsurable, but that's another story...)   Admittedly, my premium in France has crept up a fair bit over the years.  I think I've paid my loyalty premium for long enough, and shall do more research as we approach renewal.  But I still remember the misery of the flooding, and the kindness of neighbours when it happened.

Yesterday's loaves rose like crazy.  The previous batch did so feebly.  Recipes and process identical.  I'm convinced that there's a degree of sorcery about yeast baking, and shall not question it for fear of supernatural retribution: but I guess atmospheric pressure may also have an influence.  Whatever, today's sandwiches drew on  the old and new batches, and we still haven't quite finished the beef.  So far it has done roast beef Christmas dinner, cottage pie, cold roast beef and stovies (using onions from the garden) last night, and numerous sandwiches.  We've nearly finished the leftovers: pasta carbonara this evening, perhaps, to use up some more of the gammon.  But I think the rillettes will have to be pitched out in a day or two.  (Next time I make rillettes, I'll freeze them in ramekin-sized portions.  But I'll certainly make 'em again!)

How to sum up 2015?  Another wonderful year in which I haven't ceased to try the patience of my long-suffering partner.  Entry into OAPdom, which benefits the Treasury almost as much as it does me.  Increasing intimations of mortality, and a growing familiarity with the local GP's shop and sundry hospitals.  But also some refreshing new techniques at art class, and a few new gardening achievements.

After the Lord Mayor's Show come the dustcarts

For the Annual Ramblings - if you feel strong enough - please follow the link above, or scroll down to  the 3 December entry.

Well, that's it over for another year, almost.  The house got a bit of a clean yesterday morning, and the kitchen got another today, so our surroundings look respectable - at least by our slovenly* standards.  We had a pleasant, gentle day with Sandra and Michael, and only slightly over-ate.  I had the idea of serving rillettes of pork as a starter, having done a kilo of the said beast for many hours in the slow cooker, and split the result into six ramekins.  We decided to road-test one of them on Christmas Eve, and instantly reviewed the situation.  Rich ain't in it.  (Nice, though!)

So, it was ham or smoked salmon/cream cheese sandwiches, sausage rolls and the like at lunch time, followed by tea and Martyn's excellent shortbread.  After what seemed like an indecently brief pause, dinner began, thanks to a moment of inspiration from Martyn, with an assiette de charcuterie (including one ramekin of rillettes which the four of us didn't finish...), then topside of the late Dexter, Tom, with the usual bits and pieces, Fortnums' Christmas pud with various lubricants, including a Delia brandy butter recipe using dark soft sugar, and finally a few cheeses.  (OK: pour moi, c'est fromage-dessert, mais il faut respecter les habitudes des autochtones, non?)  I'm ashamed to admit that I overdid the beef, and blame that Oliver person.  Still, it tasted OK despite cremation, and will do well with stovies tomorrow after a slightly more modest supper tonight.

What else to report?  While road-testing my Christmas present electric pruner yesterday, I found a primrose in flower where Forges-l'Evêque meets the street.  One Christmas present meets another.

* Must check derivation: is this originally a racist slur?

Insomnia

A familiar companion to us both, and more so on  the long dark nights.  (And particularly after a somewhat copious lunch...)  By the time I awoke at a rather familiar 03h30, Martyn had already given up and gone next door to read.  By that point, my North and Central American word gamers had played, so a dozen or so moves awaited, and kept me busy for a while.  Then a couple of numbers games on the iPad until the arthritic hands protested.

The lunch was good, though!  We went with friends Andy and Celia to a nearby hostelry, where I unguardedly opted for the braised shoulder of lamb.  My portion would have fed all four of us.  At about the half-way point, I remarked that if I had half the sense I was born with, I'd have stopped then.  My eyes being notoriously bigger than my belly, and having been brought up under a clean-plate regime, I finished it.  Not wise.  But we must have looked like the geriatric day out as we got out of the car: three of us have joint problems, so three of the four exits were of the pivot round and both feet on the deck before getting up variety. 

I quite like looking in on FlightRadar24 for a while in the early hours.  Over our skies, the traffic is largely of ancient freighter conversions: DHL, for example, seem to have bought up a lot of old 757s as they were retired by launch customer BA, and some are the wrong side of 30 years old.  ATPs are a favourite type with one or two freight operators: it was a last ditch attempt by BAe to wring a bit more revenue out of the old Avro 748 production line.  With new engines (and lamentably small windows compared with the original's big oval ones) it sold in small numbers, while more recent clean-sheet designs wiped the board.

It was interesting to see quite a lot of small business jets in the air in the small hours.  Cruising at prodigious altitudes - up to 47'000 feet - they cover huge distances at speeds a fair bit higher than their bigger commercial brothers.  I watched flights from Los Angeles, Lagos and Calcutta going into Luton, one from Raleigh NC into Brussels and a few into Le Bourget, and wondered what the story was behind each.  The Lagos flight had perhaps to do with the oil industry.  The Raleigh-Brussels one might have been for NATO.  Such idle speculation wasn't enough to put me back to sleep, unfortunately, so I got up when the heating came on at 06h30, and proceeded to drop off in my chair after breakfast.

Still, a bit of productivity since: a couple of loaves cooling, and a batch of tiny sausage rolls in the freezer.  The decision to bring the garage freezer out of retirement meant I had to clean it first.  Alarming experience, upon which I shall refrain from expanding.  I conclude that the people who designed the plastic interior mouldings must have had an army of slaves to do their cleaning for them.

PS:  We had a call yesterday from the manufacturers of the tumble dryer, which is subject to recall following a number of fires.  They are offering us a new one of similar spec, free of charge.  Accepted with alacrity.  Just waiting for Volkswagen AG to call me with a comparable offer.

It's beginning to look ....oh, shut up!

Progress of sorts: the Christmas trees are up in the bay window and in the sitooterie, Swedish candlesticks at a couple of windows and a nice winter wreath in place of the tired hanging basket by the front door.  A couple of homespun Christmas presents are wrapped and ready to go, and we’re making progress with the  rest.  We’ve had to print a few extra cards as unexpected ones arrive, but think we’ve got most of them covered now.

We went to collect some meat, including Christmas dinner, from our friends in Sussex yesterday.  They finally got their Dexter steer Tom into a trailer and off to be transformed into freezer contents (Dick and Harry had already gone that way, and delicious they were too).  Jonathan is finding small-scale stock rearing far from profitable, so is scaling it down still further.  What he does do he does well: the pigs roam free in some woodland on his property, and the cattle are strictly grass-fed.  We couldn’t do it: on that scale, you can’t avoid getting to know the beasts as individuals, and we’d be far too soft to send them to slaughter. 

Quite a good day at the hobby on Monday.  Although it was a full traffic list of over eighty matters with an unusually high number of attenders, we left at 16:50 with a clean sheet.  This was a comfort: of my previous three scheduled days, one was cancelled, the next petered out before lunchtime and the third was finished in 35 minutes flat, so a full day and a completed list was a bonus.  One more to go (as it may well, of course) before the festive hostilities. 

As I write, France is going to the polls for the second round of the regional elections.  It looks as if the youngest (and most toxic to date) of the Le Pen dynasty will take Provence-Alpes-Côte-d’Azur, and her auntie is hoping for a few more regions.  Our new mega-region, Midi-Pyrénées-Languedoc-Roussillon may stay with the left, but I wouldn’t predict anything at this point.  If Marine Le Pen wins the presidential in 18 months’ time, I think that will mark the end of my relationship with the land of freedom, equality and brotherliness, if not, indeed, the end of those values themselves.  Or maybe they’ll just add a rider: ‘so long as you’re French, white and catholic’.  I am no less anxious for the future political face of my nation, and as for the Untied States of America, I quake in my size nines.

Ho, ho, #@&%ing ho.

Much as we love to get greetings and news from friends and relatives at this time of year, it vexes us that the stamps for our cards cost us a week's state pension.  £0.54 (10/10d) for a stamp that once cost tuppence.  Elegant symmetry, eh?  I'm 65, and the stamp now costs 65 times what it did the first time I posted a Christmas card.  Not that we can't afford it, nor that we grudge sending greetings: rather it's the fact that this simple annual remembering of friends is outside the reach of a lot of our neighbours.  And we, as usual, have cheated by doing our own cards rather than pay for cards from which the charities benefit so little.  (Anyway, they'll get their tuppence-three-farthings when we pawn our wooden footwear.)

Perhaps my view is jaundiced by the fact that my postman's walk round the neighbours and down to the pillar box just now was not fun.  Six weeks into a physiotherapy régime has made little if any difference to my mobility most days: but I did manage the quarter-mile circuit.  How much better off I am than so many.  I can see, hear, drive, and enjoy the convivial company of friends, and I haven't been diagnosed with anything life-limiting.  Gosh: dark days; dark thoughts.  I suggest you stop reading the blog till about April!

Enjoyable lunch gathering here yesterday with Claire and Richard, who, so far as we know, have survived an ill-planned menu; soup with small pasta in it and a main course of canelloni.  Redeeming feature was M. le Chef Pâtissier's strawberry shortcake.  It was delightful to catch up with them again: last time we met (apart from the brief encounter in Fortnums' last week that prompted a call to fix a date) was the July barbecue bash, when we couldn't spend enough time with anyone.

Art class is over until mid-January, and last Thursday, Miss asked me to do my occasional demo of how to set up a greetings card in MS Word.  All good fun, though some fellow students did understandably drop off...   I was a little taken aback to be asked, as the 'senior' member of  the group, to do the presentation of Miss's Christmas gift!  I think, in fact, I'm the youngest, so the message probably is that I'm the one most used to pronouncing sentence! 

Annual ramblings

At last: refitted kitchen

Busy year: we have been knocking items off our to-do list with great gusto.  The main item was the refitting of the kitchen.  After some agonising, we decided to go with project management by our plumber, Jez, whom we like, and whose thoroughness and perfectionism commended him.  In our usual fashion, we gave him a couple of keys and left the country while he and his colleagues got on with it.  It was a disappointment to come home and find (a) the work incomplete, and (b) imperfections, notably in the rather expensive quartz work surface.  Brief hissy fits and rapid responses later, we’re very happy with the new set-up.  But a few trades people have meanwhile had master classes in the meaning of ‘assertive’.

Given my hobby, I’m inhibited from direct political comment.  I think I’m allowed, however, to say how I feel.  Glad, on the one hand, to have a decent pension income.  Uncomfortable, on the other, at the distance between us and our honest, hard-working concitoyens, and at the precipitate rate at which it grows.  Never mind the less honest ones.  As regards the Criminal Courts Charge, I think I'm allowed to say I'm pleased it is being abolished.

I’m conscious of growing older and grumpier.  Joint pain is something familiar to many of you, and I’m conscious of a tendency to grizzle when it hits me.  I’m at last getting some advice, and hope it’ll do some good.  I note, after following Nigel Lawson through the metal detector in Toulouse a while back, that joint replacements aren’t without their disadvantages.

As I write, we’re all reeling from the barbarity of the attacks in Africa, the Middle East and France.  I’d be wrong to blame religion for the hatred and violence that are our daily rations lately.  It’s all about power and territory, and religion just provides a hook on which to hang one’s Kalashnikov.  Nothing new, though – look how vested interests turned on the Cathars, whose practice of their faith came closest to that of their prophet.  It’s all about tribalism, and it’s hard to see how our species has any moral superiority over packs of dogs. 

Clan

We had a lovely day in Lavenham with Gill, Chris and their daughters Penelope and Amanda in the summer, and a good lunch gathering at Covent Garden with a bunch of Canadian cousins.  Susan Philips (Mrs Jack Schultz) offended me mortally by not looking an hour older than when I last saw her 30 years ago.

Sad to say, Martyn’s niece Nina’s second marriage seems to be coming to an end.  Such a shame: we had such hopes for her life together with Steve.

As for us, it’s more than nine years since our civil partnership ceremony, and getting on for 15 years since we met and bonded.  What lucky men we are.  Well, I certainly am: His Grace will brief you privately as required. 

A happy day in August too, at the wedding of Martyn’s cousin Kelly and her man Nick.  We’d met them for supper in London a while back, and were delighted to be there when they tied the knot. 

Garden

We had a crowd round in July to help us celebrate my starting to take some money back from the DWP (ignoring for a moment the fact that HMRC claws back 40% of it!).  Unfortunately, by the day of the birthday party, the roses were between flushes, and the day started damp and grey.  But by the time the guests arrived, the sun had come out, and it was dry enough for those who felt like it to sit out on the grass. 

The Justice of the Peace

It’s coming to the point where we shall soon need some help with the garden, but I ought to be able to chase the mower round the grass for a season or two yet.  We had good crops of spuds in bags and big pots, and onions from the raised bed, but the beans were a dismal failure.  I started them too early.  As for the spuds, forget Rocket, plant Maris Peer if you like them bland, but concentrate on Charlotte for texture, flavour and a rich buttery colour.  And the tall growing bags produce better results than the big pots we’ve tended to use in the past.

At the time of writing, the outdoor chives and mint are going into dormancy, so the newly re-tiled kitchen window ledge was full up with indoor varieties until the fruit flies in the compost hatched and mutiplied.  We need to clear out the raised bed before the winter sets in, and improve it with some local horse.  But I think it’s best suited to herbs, and maybe a few rows of leeks and onions. 

Arrivals

Annie was with us briefly in January after a trip away to Spain with her brother.  In the summer we had a visit from Joan and Michael, so we had a lot of fun catching up on each other’s lives since we last met, decades ago.  We took them for a ride on one of our local preserved steam railways near Tenterden, and showed them round Bodiam’s spectacular moated Norman castle.  Michael has some mobility problems, so top marks to the National Trust for spotting the fact and coming to our rescue with a golf cart. 

In Another Place, we had the great privilege of hosting a couple of the artists at this year’s En Blanc et Noir.  Yshani Perinpanayagam slummed it for B&B with us, and she and the equally talented Johnny Herford, whom she accompanied next day, joined us for supper.  I got the chance to coach him modestly on some of the German in Heidenröslein, his performance of which, even in the difficult acoustic of the church, was exquisite.  More under Arts.

Departures

As usual, we’ve made three trips to Lagrasse this year.  The summer’s travels were complicated by the problems at Calais: tunnel closures because of attempted invasions by migrants/refugees, and motorways blocked with burning tyres by protesters against the forced divestiture by Eurotunnel of a ferry operation.  At significant expense, we switched at the last minute to the long and tedious crossing between Newhaven and Dieppe.  Good news: a shorter drive to the port, and from the port south.  Bad news: four-hour crossings liberally laced with Other People and their sprogs, long waits before boarding and after docking, and gravely mediocre catering.

While at home in August, and after Kelly and Nick’s wedding, we spent a pleasant hour in Poynton with my 1974 translator colleague Susie Platt (we hadn’t met in the interim), reviewing photo albums of the Lausanne Congress.  From there, we headed over the Woodhead to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park to meet Annie, heading thence in convoy to Hull for a couple of nights.  Annie came south with us (in dreadful weather) as far as Cambridge, where we all enjoyed a fine watercolour exhibition at the Fitzwilliam. 

The view from the apartment

We took advantage of our September/October visit to try out Mr O’Leary’s Carcassonne-Porto service, which operates on Wednesdays and Sundays.  Martyn found a fabulous apartment overlooking the sea in Nevogilde (a 20-minute bus ride from central Porto), and it took a deliberate effort to get us out of it: the view of the Atlantic breakers on the rocks across the street was hypnotic.  We made a few trips into the city, enjoying an utterly zany moto-cross event on the waterfront, plus visits to the Stock Exchange Palace, the cathedral and the Lello Brothers’ remarkable Art Nouveau bookshop.

We took a train ride up the valley of the Douro to Pinhão.  As some know, my Portuguese is pretty limited.  It was a comfort, then, to find the ticket office at São Bento labelled in English as well as Portuguese.  But you have to take a ticket at one of the dispensers according to the variety of travel you want, then wait your turn.  When our number came up, the fellow we were sent to spoke no English.  Well, after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, we got our tickets, and I even managed to get my old geezer discount (Eu tenho 65 anos).  The ride begins unspectacularly – and it was a misty morning, which didn’t help.  But a couple of hours in, the line winds giddily down to the banks of the Douro, which it follows up the valley between the world-famous terraces of vines.  Of Pinhão, the situation is lovely, and the azulejos on the station building are amazing.  We took a little boat ride up the river, then had a spot of lunch which was practically given away by a decent enough café-snack bar.  The train to Pinhão and back down to Régua was a bit shabby, but it got us there.  From Régua back to Porto Campanhã, the train appeared to have been refitted more recently (although I’m told the lavatory was no less rustic).  Much of the legend on the walls was in Spanish, so it looks like CP has been buying second-hand from Renfe.  Of Mr O’Leary’s flying bus, the less said, the better, but it got us there and back.

Wheels

In France in the spring we rented a car on the basis that it would be a SEAT Altea or similar.  As Martyn’s car is an Altea, we jumped at that.  Imagine my joy when the allocated car turned out to be a minimally made-over delivery van.  Lovely engine, viceless clutch and gearbox (which it was a comfort to find I can still operate).  But the steering was utterly devoid of feel, it handled with the precision of a container vessel and it rolled like an elderly 2CV.  Nissan NV200.  Avoid.

While toying with replacing the VW, I booked a test drive of a Škoda Yeti.  Competent little car, but the gearbox had the hesitancy to take up drive that we encountered in Egg1, and when I had to brake a bit sharply at one point, the response was not sharp.  So that one’s off the list.

I had been planning to turn in one or other of the cars this year, but the scandal at VW is forcing us and many others to sit on our hands and await developments.  Martyn’s car is not affected, but mine is, and I await a recall.  What the yet to be developed modification will do to performance and fuel consumption remains to be seen, but an adverse impact on resale value is inevitable.  I have signalled an interest to one of the law firms that is planning a class action.

Arts

Once again the highlight of the year was En Blanc et Noir, the summer piano music festival in Lagrasse.  Again we were regaled with fine performances by young virtuosi, many of whom we got to meet.  The performers seem to enjoy the intimate atmosphere of Lagrasse: it’s such a pleasure for the audience too to bump into them in the market or at the café, or during a walk through the vines and olives.  Janneke Brits and her husband James Kreiling gave the finale last year with a terrific performance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring for four hands.  James’s teacher taught at a school where one of his predecessors was Gustav Holst.  While clearing out a cupboard, said later teacher found a manuscript transcription, in Holst’s hand, of the Planets, and Janneke and James performed it for us in Lagrasse, again as the finale of the festival.

I took Janneke to the airport at the end of the festival, and she told me they’d found it difficult to capture the ethereal moments of the suite without benefit of strings!  The gusting wind didn’t help either: the music didn’t quite fly away, but page-turner Bobby Mitchell struggled to keep the music in front of them.  Memorable performance nonetheless.  Bobby also gave a fine performance, including some favourite Gershwin pieces.  I’m working on him to do the impromptu in two keys and the three-quarter blues  next year.

One afternoon, as I was getting in the washing, I was amazed to hear a piano transcription of the adagio from Beethoven’s 7^th symphony wafting over the rooftops.  The performance later that day was a delight.  Four hands: Ivan Ilic and the 17 year old Paul Salinier.  I had the privilege of taking young Paul and his parents to the station at the end of the series.  Lovely people.  Paul is preparing his concours next spring at the Paris Conservatoire. 

Historia’s play, Magna Carta, has toured extensively this year, to good reviews.  We saw it at St Mary-le-Bow in the summer, and again at Rochester Cathedral in November.

Gruissan boat for Barbara

As for my hobby painting, the year has been relatively barren.  At the time of writing, I’m struggling with a piece that aims to capture the colours of the waterfront at Ribeira (Porto) and the animation of the moto-cross that was going on while we were there.  Better results from a re-visit to the little boat at the Saint-Martin salt pans near Gruissan; we delivered the canvas to its new owner in the summer.  Apart from that, I’ve done a few tiny watercolour vignettes, but the arthritic mitts are starting to impede me.  Or is it the shaky hands, side-effect from palliative oenotherapy?

Food and Drink

More of the same, really.  We had a decent meal or two at the Palm Beach at La Franqui and at the reliable Auberge du Somail.  The Majestic Café in Porto was a treat: Martyn’s steak and my magret were both excellent, and of course the ambience and service are superb. 

Back at home, we’re slowly learning the new kitchen kit, and we’ve treated ourselves to a couple of new toys: a slow cooker for succulent casseroles eg of braising steak; and a mini-madeleine tin, in which Mr Roux’s recipe works well.  We keep the bread machine busy as ever.  We generally use it just for the kneading, and the new oven does a better job on the baking than the old one.  The older equipment serves us well too: in the winter we make lots of soups, and rarely throw chicken bones or ham boiling water away until they’ve contributed to stock, thanks to my new (bought in 1997) Swiss pressure cooker.

John, Martyn and Susie

When we called on her and John in Poynton back in August, Susie regaled us with delicious drop scones.  Must have another go at them.  I’ve had mixed results with crumpets (as the Bishop said to the actress), but think I understand the failures: milk too hot when I added the yeast (total failure), too timid with the heat under the pan, and not leaving them on the heat till they shrink away from  the crumpet rings.  Given one’s girth, perhaps one should admit defeat and retire gracefully.  But when they are good, they are very very good.

Martyn is the pastry cook, and produced some spectacular gâteaux for the July party.  I saw a recipe recently for a gin & tonic drizzle cake, but have so far failed to persuade him to make one!

What next?

Though we grizzle about our aches and pains, we’re quick to acknowledge how much healthier we are than many of our friends and family members, and send hugs and good wishes to you all. 

In the political world, it’s odd to see government Ministers jockeying for position at the left wing of the governing party.  It’ll be interesting to see whether the Chancellor has any more rabbit-billions to pull out of the hat.  Like many, I’m worried about how the cuts will impact on justice.  I’ll probably continue subsidising it, though whether for my remaining four and a half years before retirement remains to be seen.

But the spring bulbs are already pushing their noses through the soil (let’s hope the winter frosts don’t cut them down) so there’s a colourful spring to look forward to.

Greetings from us both

 M&D

More Elgar

...but this time accompanied not by the crashing and banging of an MRI scanner, but by the more mellifluous rumble of  the notorious VW EA189 diesel engine.  Handy, really: Ian Rankin's interview on Radio 3 last Friday included only the opening movement: I picked up the broadcast yesterday just as it was starting into the second movement.  The soloist was Truls Mørk, whose interpretation was a shade more reticent than Jacqueline Du Pré's landmark recording under Barbirolli.  Funny, isn't it, how an interpretation that differs from the one you know sounds wrong?  Further along the way home, I listened to the early movements of Mahler's second symphony, less influenced by a familiar version, since the piece falls off the bottom of my Desert Island Discs list: it seemed a pretty respectable job.  I like the way Mahler exploits his material: I'm not sure of the sequence, but melodies from the Rückert Lieder often crop up in the symphonies.

All this was on the way home from a nicely conspiratorial lunch with two co-hobbyists at my late Ma's favourite pub near Maidstone.  Ever tried lobster in a brioche roll, with a token nod at salad and a pot of chips?  Very tasty, but I felt rather queasy as the afternoon wore on (remedied, though, by a suitable Gascon libation and a plate of pasta at supper time).

It remains mild, and the joints are being a little more co-operative today, so I have done a spot of token gardening this morning.  There is still colour here and there on the penstemons and roses, so I've done a fairly restrained slash 'n burn on them.  The rampant sedum, grown from a tiny cutting given to me by Miss some years ago, is now chopped down and ready to contribute to the municipal compost tomorrow.  The iris sibirica, so exquisite in its brief flowering season, goes brown and 'orrible after the frosts, so I've chopped most of them back.  A pleasant surprise, though, to find a couple of near-perfect blooms on the climbing rose Compassion, one of our more recent plantings, and one of the best.  Not bad for December, eh?  Facebook reminds me that, on this day a few years ago, I posted a photo of a snowy garden and foot-long icicles hanging from the gutters.  The knuckles, however, are telling me that I was perhaps a touch gung-ho with the secateur.  But a facebook funny this morning described someone in his 50s as Le vieux, so what should I expect, already?