Back from Aquitaine

Thursday

Brexit seems to me to be the choice, by and large, of the stupid or the political self-seeking.  I'm finding waiting for the referendum result almost more than I can bear.  At least we're doing so in pleasant and welcoming surroundings, at Annie's in the Gironde.  We motored up this morning in a record three hours and five minutes from door to door.  

The reason for the trip was to bring Annie our TV set, since the Sky satellite footprint no longer covers us with enough strength to be read in Lagrasse by our smallish dish.  (We actually find that we don't miss it since we can get French TV on the iPad if need be, as well, of course, as Radio 4.)  Annie was also a bit short of comfortable chairs, so we have re-homed a couple of Cintique chairs, bought second-hand by the parents back in the 1950s or 60s, and reupholstered in bomb-proof uncut moquette.   We still have another four more recent Cintiques, but the oldest ones are the best of the bunch since they have a bit of upholstery on the arms.  

Friday

I'm not too proud to say that I spent much of the day close to, and sometimes in, tears.  The crushing stupidity of so many 'leave' voters and of their complete inability to divorce their bigotry from real EU issues is one of the perils of democracy,  I suppose, and I have been finding it almost unbearably frustrating.  I grant you, there are 'leave' voters who have come to the decision for reasons that satisfy their logic, and I guess that's a reason to value democracy.  What I cannot forgive is the band of demagogic, opportunist politicians who are dragging us back to 1933 Germany.

An evening with lovely and hospitable friends of Annie's helped to restore the equilibrium, even if the hospitality somewhat ruled out a good night's sleep!  

Saturday

Doubtful weather forecast, but we headed out from Annie's on minor roads this morning, taking a look on the way at the much fortified Lectoure, then Fleurance and the fine market hall in Cologne [sic].  We hadn't visited the Gers much, if at all, and were impressed by the huge horizons and rich architecture, agriculture and the efforts that the Communes make to add elegant floral colour to the roadside.  Lagrasse: please note. 
We paused to buy sandwiches at a Lidl close to the spot near Toulouse airport where we sometimes pause for an alfresco lunch.  Well, the Lidl clientèle ahead of of us was seriously drugged, the sandwiches were mediocre and indigestible, and the crisps over-salted. 

That said, we made it safely home, and have since patrolled the village, gathering up a poster to stick in the window, not to mention a couple of millefeuilles for pudding.
So I suppose a degree of civilisation persists.  But I'm still glad I'm old.

Bulletin from the Auvergne

By some miracle, the grass was just dry enough to cut yesterday, even after a number of wet days, so that’ll make hacking it down again fractionally easier when we return next month. 

We were booked on a shuttle at 07:20, so were at Folkestone by 06:30, after a pleasant ride along the country lanes as far as Ashford.  Sightings included countless magpies, rabbits, two green woodpeckers and a goldfinch.  Later sightings included beer-swigging Poles (at 07:00), presumably on their way to the match in Marseille on Tuesday night.  The van in front of us on the shuttle housed four men and three women.  Friendships may be made or broken between this morning and when they finally return, I suspect.  The car behind us had four hulking blokes in it.  Another interesting vehicle on the shuttle was a 1920s open Bugatti racer.  I don't think I've ever heard a straight-eight engine before: it sounded rather busy!   (On a previous trip we shared a train with a 1920s Le Mans Bentley.)   

Queues for passport checks were longer than I've ever seen them.  It's a rare event for the French border police to do other than wave one through from behind a closed window.  This time they seemed to check thoroughly - though not to the extent of limiting their discussion of the football.  Well, we arrived 20 minutes early, and left three quarters of an hour late, so have had enough of the tunnel terminal to last us a few lifetimes.  It had not helped, of course, that the train ahead of hours had been cancelled - though the logic of our train being delayed on that account somehow escapes me.

The journey south was largely uneventful, though slightly different from our usual  With all the strikes in France, one of which had led to fuel supply disruption, we set off from the UK with a full tank, and didnt't stop as usual at Marquise to fill up.  A later complication was that the aire where we normally swap seats just before Paris was closed, as was the car park after the last péage.  As there's nowhere else to pull over without leaving the motorway (and getting lost), Martyn got stuck with the Paris shift.  There is something about the A15/A86 route that brings out the worst in Parisian driving.  Martyn's unflappable driving got us safely through to other side, and I took over when we stopped to top up the tank at Vélizy.

There was more motor sport on the A71 south of Vierzon.  A BMW M5 zoomed past us, followed by a heavily breathed-on Mégane and a BMW hairdressers' soft-top two seater.  Hot on their heels was a gendarme on a motorbike, and it was with some grim satisfaction that we saw the lot of them pulled over a few miles further down.  Much notice they took.  The gendarmes no doubt detained them for a quarter of an hour or so, but it wasn't long before they all zoomed past us again.  We'd been travelling at the speed limit, so they must have been driving a fair bit over it again.  

The A10 north of Orléans still shows signs of the after-effects of flooding.  There are pipelines and pumping engines over a stretch of a few miles, and the inside lane is coned off.  At least it has re-opened, and lightish Sunday traffic wasn't unduly hindered by the lane closure.  Friday nights may be somewhat different...

Early supper at the Buffalo Grill the other side of the motorway: adequate.  We've learned from experience not to eat at the usual flophouse.  Less far to drive tomorrow: it usually takes about four hours for the last stretch.  And so to bed.

What the devil is the world coming to?

Speechless.

The English Summer

Warm sunshine one minute, thunderstorms the next.  Still, we've been out in the fresh air a lot, so the garden's looking pretty good for once.  We're having most of our meals out on the terrace, or if, as yesterday, we need the big table, we have all the door open.  The warm days seem to encourage the cistus to flower, and both the pulverulens and purpureus are putting on superb displays.  The roses are also getting into their stride: we have lots of reds and pinks in bloom, and the yellow climber has been doing quite well too.  The ceanothus is going over after flowering really very well.  I actually want it to finish flowering so I can prune it: it has turned into something of a thug, smothering everything in its path.  Talking of thugs, we have practically filled the bin with brambles from the easily ignored bed at the side of the house, behind the conservatory, and we have't finished.  Another candidate for slash and burn is the bed behind the bench at the top of the garden.  It is host to a climbing hydrangea, but also to yet more brambles, a lot of willow seedlings and a rather exuberant pyracantha.

I posted our referendum votes on the way to the hobby on Tuesday, since we shall be in Another Place on polling day.  I'm thoroughly sick of  the media coverage and lies of the parties.  None of the campaigning was ever going to shake me from my voting intention, so it's all a waste of breath and air time so far as I'm concerned.  I know there are a lot of undecided voters, but it seems to me that the campaigning is more than likely to persuade them not to vote at all.  Well, we'll know the result today fortnight.