Homeward and home

Homeward bound again.  A wet, busy A9 full of the usual complement of kamikazes and people who've never heard of turn signals and rear-view mirrors.  Still we made it unscathed to Avignon, where we parted company with Jeepy McJeepface.  Curious little car, terribly overstyled with very little rear or back three quarter view.  The novel thing for us was the keyless entry and starting set-up.  Provided you have the key fob in your pocket, it senses you coming, and unlocks with a tug of the door handle.  Once in and belted up, you press and let go the starter button, and the car thinks about it for a while, eventually deigning to spin the engine.  I suppose it avoids the problem of churning the engine uselessly before the glow plugs are hot.  The six manual gears were a pain, but at least the gear change was pleasant and the clutch viceless.  At 1.6 litres, the engine was pretty gutless, at least until the blower started puffing, but it was exceptionally quiet.  But one is glad to be back to a car with a proper gearbox that doesn't need to be rowed along.

The village is a terrible mess at the moment.  The water distribution network is being simplified and replaced, and the trenches temporarily filled with aggregate.  The word is that surfacing will be done before the tourist season.  The word also is that the whole bloody issue will be dug up again in a couple of years when they renew the drains.   There was an unannounced cut in the water supply one morning before we'd showered (during would have been worse, of course), and for some reason the electricity supply has been up and down like a whore's drawers.  The Internet service too has been pretty hit and miss.  We'll hope for better next time we go south.

We had our South African neighbours round for a somewhat ill-advised amount of rosé on Saturday night.  They have bought the near-derelict garage diagonally opposite us, and have gutted it and replaced the roof.  They are thinking of putting in upper floors to make a two-bed apartment, which the building is crying out for.  But as they also own a four-storey pile in the heart of the village AND the old bakery, they can't be short of projects.  Nice fellows: they spend some time in their flat in Johannesburg each year, and also own a boutique hotel in Cape Town.  Enterprising types!

We were in Avignon around 1:00 pm, so had time to take the shuttle train down to the main station.  We had lunch in a café in the administrative district, but didn't really have time to see the sights this time, particularly as we were dragging baggage around with us.  There is no left luggage facility at either station, though there is a private storage shop near where we had lunch.  The café being just over the way and not busy, we saved our 5€.  Startling sight at the TGV station: a young man with a spiky cockscomb hairdo, and otherwise shaved dome.  His face, neck and scalp were liberally tattooed.  Altogether more startling was the legend writ large on the back of his head: an uncompromising FUCK OFF.  A comfort to find that he wasn't sitting opposite us in the train.

The rest of the journey was, frankly, tedious.  The weather was dull or wet pretty much all the way.  On the way out, we zipped down from Ashford to Avignon in about five hours.  Coming home, it took over six and a half, including a stop at Lille, where we’d to get off with all our luggage and process through passport and security checks, then wait in a stiflingly hot departure room until they were ready to load us all back on.  The service on board was pleasant and generous as before.  We then had the stopping train from Ashford, and a taxi ride home.  At least the latter was less ruinous than we’d feared.  By mid-afternoon, I was starting to regret the gooey chocolate pudding I’d recklessly chosen in Avignon, and an uncomfortable night followed.  Having finally got to sleep, I was awakened in the small hours by the sound of badgers fighting in the garden.  They cleared off when I turned the light on, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find blood and fur on the terrace when I go out.  

The garden has made strides in our absence.  The cherry and ornamental ditto are in blossom, and both varieties of cistus are coming into flower.  The sweet Williams I raised over the winter are starting to flower – white so far.  The grass is a terrible mess, and the heavy rain will probably keep me off it for a while longer.  The spuds and onions are coming along nicely, and we seem finally to have some leek seedlings.  Hardly the Good Life, but it’s good to have a token crop of home produce.