Oh, not another...

Barbara and Isla, at former's birthday bash

Not that long since we were lamenting the loss of Barbara.  A couple of weeks ago we had an email from Isla reporting, in characteristically robust terms, a terminal prognosis.  Today we have an email from Isla's daughter Nancy, announcing that she died peacefully on Wednesday.

Isla came from Blairgowrie, not far from my native heath.  She was something of a political firebrand, and an implacable opponent of the egregious Shirley Porter Cohen when they both served on the Westminster Council.

She was also memorably outspoken.  Although she had given up smoking in recent times, she used to enjoy reporting a bus-stop conversation.  She had lit up while waiting for the bus, and some joker nearby commented 'if you gave them up, you could buy yourself a toy boy!'.  Isla's response was: 'Are you familiar with the expression: "Fuck off"?'  We'll no see her like again.

A plague on public transport

We are actually big fans of public transport, but it unfortunately means contact with the public.  To cap our bloody awful experiences last week, we have both come down with nasty colds, and have had to cancel social engagements and a day at the hobby.  To take five buses and four trains in the space of two days at this time of year is risky, I guess.  Just as well we have no plans to entertain at Christmas - we shall have a few quiet Darby & Darby days at home.

Southern: avoid

For the annual ramblings, please click here.

Over the last few days our limited patience with the Southern service on the little country line has been severely tested.  The line from our rural station has so much going for it, notably low prices and free parking, but we start to suspect that Southern's deplorable labour relations (and, sure, it takes two to tango) are wrecking it.  I was due to be in London on Monday, but cancelled because of the forecast heavy snow (which did not materialise - Michael Fish over-compensation, I suppose).  Re-arranging for Wednesday, the train I wanted was cancelled at the last minute, so Martyn had to schlepp me along to Disgustedville Central, whence it costs more, and later back.

Today we had another London date for a Historia trustees' meeting, so checked at regular intervals before we left for updates on the service.  The train up arrived smack on time, but the ticket machine at the station was u/s, and the guard did not come round.  Adding to a late arrival, we wasted still more time in the queue at the excess fares window at London Bridge.  (This gives me pause to reflect on days at the hobby devoted to fare dodging cases.)  We were thus a quarter of an hour late for our meeting.

The journey home was immeasurably worse.  Our last direct train to said rural station until after the rush hour was, in the space of three minutes, shown as 'on time', 'delayed' and 'cancelled', with conflicting announcements as to reasons.  So we'd instead to travel to Disgustedville (though the sympathetic ticket clerk, bless his wee heart, discounted our tickets by the price of those for the cancelled train).  On our arrival (whither we'd to stand all the way) there were no taxis, so we'd to take a bus to the nearest bus stop, only then realising that the path through the woods has no lighting.  We groped through by the light of my dying telephone.  Next we'd to fire up car 2 and drive to said little rural station to retrieve car 1.  As my Portuguese friends would say with a resigned shrug, paciência.

But it was useful and delightful as ever to spend some time with Kate, John and soon-to-be-ex-fellow-trustee Lindsay.  I have decided to step down as a trustee of the Historia Theatre company after about 15 years: I'll go once  the next annual update goes to the Charity Commission, probably in February.  Although I set up and maintained a rather basic web site, it is now hopelessly old-fashioned and cumbersome, and solutions are available that are far easier to use.  I was never much good at IT, and the passing of the years has left me behind.  Since that was my only significant input to the charity, it's time to hand over to someone with more up-to-date skills.

Winter already, yet

Annual Rudbeckia - a survivor

Snow.  Joy.  The forecast was dismal enough for me to cancel an appointment in London.  Though I have all confidence in the sure-footed Ateca, I couldn't say the same for Southern trains, which are unreliable in the best of circumstances.  That decision was sure, of course, to bring a change in the weather, and as I write, at the time of the cancelled appointment, the snow has given way to rain.  

Dentist tomorrow, before a day at the hobby.  I remember a day, decades ago, when I had to give the same dentist's car a push to get him into the car park before a very long session of multiple crown preparation.  Nothing so dramatic tomorrow, I hope: for one thing, he no longer has a car park, and for another, it's a mere half-hour of examination and scale and polish - I hope....

The Christmas cards are on their way, and the sitting room is already festooned with cards from our friends.  Although there is much that I loathe about this time of year, it is such a joy to receive kind greetings from friends round the world.  

The sun shone on Saturday, so we took ourselves out for lunch.  Perhaps I chose unwisely, but finished up with a burnt throat, which was then further irritated (or helped, I suppose) by the over-salted fries.  Little makes me grumpier than a disappointing meal at a usually reliable venue, which I shall not name in view of good past experiences (and the fact that we're going back next week...).   But I managed to restrain myself from savaging the waiter.

Lots of time at the hobby lately.  I think it may be that the new automated rota site makes it rather easy to cancel (or 'vacate') scheduled sittings.  Infirmity of purpose comes into it, of course: having agreed to a fourth sitting in the month, I blocked out all the other dates.  It was enough for the administration to send out an anguished vacancy notice for me volunteer again.  Oh well, think of the £7.45 daily sandwich money, eh?

Annual ramblings 2017

Compliments of the season!

Scant cause for optimism this year, certainly as regards politics.  But for the moment we're solvent and have a roof over our heads.  I'm glad to report that the knee I had knifed last year started behaving itself six months after the operation, so I'm walking almost pain-free again.  The eighteen months of impairment have taken their toll: the relative inactivity has not helped muscle tone.  Martyn is well, and keeps busy with piano practice and railway modelling.  My hobby gets me out of the house a few days a month, but I admit that I'm starting to struggle with the pace of change in the criminal justice system.

We no longer have the house in France.  Much as we love the Corbières and our friends there, we were starting to find the long drive a bit much, and the alternative flight and airport experiences pretty awful.  Civilised though the Eurostar experience is, it still leaves a long drive from Avignon on my least-loved motorway.  Add to that the knee problems and the expense of owning a little-used house in France, and it became clear that we could do better than tie up the money in medieval stone and lime.  It took the best part of eighteen months to get it shifted, and although I didn't get what I was asking, I did get what I expected - and under the capital gains tax regime for EU citizens.

Garden

The dwarf French beans and leeks failed this year, perhaps because they were smothered by the supposedly climbing yellow courgettes, which finished up draped across the soil - and the barbecue!  We've had a few bowls of soup and plates of roast veggies, to which they have contributed.  The charlottes cropped very well, and were, as usual, delicious.  The Bramley also cropped well: I shall reward it presently with a good winter pruning and a sticky band to discourage the beasties.

Cistus purpureus, rose Abraham Derby

We've had a lot of pleasure from flowering subjects too.  The cistus pulverulens was still flowering in early November, and the penstemons and hypericums have also kept going.  Roses have been a bit of a mixture this year.  Geoff Hamilton (aka Edna) and the Justice of the Peace stand sentry to either side of the steps up to the grass, and have flowered very well.  Some others have done well, notably the climber Compassion, but others will probably come out (and I don't mean into flower) next year.

Arrivals

With the exception of a few lunches and suppers, we haven't entertained a lot here this year. But we had a delightful afternoon here with three generations of Martyn's family, plying them with pizzas and badminton, the latter a brainwave on Martyn's part, boisterously enjoyed by participants and spectators alike.  I decline to specify to which constituency I subscribed.

Departures

Sta Cruz de la Palma, with Queen Elizabeth in the background

Our big adventure over Christmas time was a cruise to Madeira and the Canaries on the Queen Elizabeth.  We'd neither of us been on a commercial cruise liner before, so were a little nervous, but surprised ourselves by enjoying it very much.  It was a tonic to be be out and about in shirt sleeves in December, which we could in Madeira, La Palma and Gran Canaria.  What we saw of Tenerife was mostly wet, miserable and depressingly vulgar.  Snow at altitude prevented us from seeing what we wanted to up in the Teide national park, though the drive up through the forest as far as the roadblock was pleasant enough.  We called in at A Coruña on the way home, and took an excursion in fog and frost to Santiago de Compostela.  By early afternoon, the sun had warmed the air a bit, so we basked for a while on the steps at the west door of the cathedral.

The late Marco, yr obed servt and Jackie Guild, née Craigie

In the summer, we took a trip to a rather chilly, wet Scotland, staying a few nights in Broughty Ferry, where I had a delightful reunion with two old schoolmates, Jackie and Marco (who, I have just learned, has since died).  We'd flown to Glasgow from London City, which was altogether more civilised than Gatwick.  After that we had a few days with Pam and Geoff in Dunoon, and did a bit of touring in Argyll, which was delightful (when the sun shone).

On arrival in the Ferry (after a very wet drive from Glasgow) we found that our otherwise pretty decent little flat lacked a teapot.  Brook Street, like most shopping streets these days, is largely furnished with building societies and charity shops, and it was in the fifth of the latter that we found a 1960s teak-handled pot for £1.99.  Intending to leave it in the flat, we snapped it up (donating all the change to the collection box...), and found that it was an excellent pourer.  It came home in Martyn's cabin bag, unchallenged at security, and has become our daily servant.

We've made five trips to Lagrasse this year, one of them unplanned.  Our former neighbour Henry died in July, having become very frail and emaciated in recent times.  Gatwick airport is not somewhere you want to be in July, and neither is Toulouse.  The queue for passport checks took a good half-hour (three flights had arrived from the UK in quick succession), and that for the car hire desk - a van in the car park - took another hour in intermittent drizzle.

Testing the springs - successfully

We did one of the journeys by train to Avignon again, renting a car there.  That was our June trip, and when we arrived in Avignon, the temperature was not far off 40°, which may have contributed to the deplorable driving on the A9.  The train ride is altogether the most civilised way of doing it, and  the passport and security experience at Lille seemed rather easier this time.

We drove in September, via Berne, where we were invited to a terrific lunch party to mark Geoff's 80th birthday.  Thence to Lagrasse for a couple of weeks of clearing out the house in preparation for sale.

Wheels

A mixed bag of rental vehicles in the past year.  Rather than sign up for excursions in Tenerife and Gran Canaria, we booked rental cars and went off to explore on our own.  The car we got in Tenerife was not bad - a Fiat Tipo.  A bit breathless on the long hills, but comfortable and nimble on the flat.  The car we got in Gran Canaria was more expensive: a filthy, battered old Clio with 103,000 kms on the clock.  It went steered and stopped, but that's the best that could be said for it.  Orlando.  Avoid.  In Avignon we rented a little Fiat 500X, and I managed to blag an automatic one for no extra cash.  It was quite good, lively and comfortable, but I never got the feeling that I could place its rather bulbous shape precisely in lane.  Still, we got it back to Avignon unscathed.  

On our flying trip to Lagrasse, we rented - eventually - another Tipo, which was satisfactory.  For our Scottish trip, I used the same consolidator, who took us, after a long wait, by minibus to a sort of fenced bomb site in Paisley.  I'd ordered an automatic Passat or similar: unfortunately the Mondeo they'd lined up for us had come in damaged, and we declined to pay a supplement for a C-class Benz.  We finished up with a vast Ssangyong Turismo, over 5 metres long and with seven full-size seats.  It was actually not bad to drive, though the American-style pedal parking brake was a nuisance, and the instrument panel was next to useless. Policy decision: use the big names in future.  

When I went south to complete the house sale, I rented a Mégane in a rather startling tone of what someone once described as come-f#@%-me red.  It went well enough, if bossily, grizzling if I got too close to the car in front, making farting noises if I deviated from my lane, and delivering a percentage figure from time to time on the quality of my driving.  Zippy and nimble, though, but difficult to lower the stiff old frame into.  As for the domestic fleet, Egg2 chunters along gruffly, doing about 1000 miles between MoTs.  The Ateca impresses us with its quiet composure, zip when required, nimble handling and frugality.

Arts

We dipped out of the Lagrasse piano festival this year.  In previous years we'd found it just too long for comfort, and the organisation left much to be desired.  Martyn treated me to an afternoon concert at the Albert Hall in the autumn : lollipops including some organ solos (which were long on decibels and short on finesse).  A good experience nonetheless.

We met Annie in London one wet day in the summer for a visit to the National Portrait Gallery to see the BP portrait competition show.  We disagreed with the judges, who gave the first prize to an almost photographic piece.  Technically stunning, but it seemed to us to lack artistic interpretation.  I have fiddled around this year with acrylics, watercolours (including a few little vignettes done at classes on the ship), watercolour pencils and even oil pastels.  Good job I don't need to earn from it.

Food and Drink

Nothing too surprising this year.  We've cooked a few nice meals in the slow cooker, and Martyn's creativity has put many delicious meals on the table, some of them including home produce.  The catering on board the Queen Elizabeth was copious and excellent.  Dinner portions were sensible, but the temptation to pig out at breakfast and lunch buffets was considerable, not to mention afternoon tea!  I was afraid that we'd return home spherical, but in fact we didn't put on weight.  I suppose that having a cabin quite just behind the bridge meant we got a bit of exercise, since all the catering is at the blunt end.  In Madeira, we were encouraged by our tour guide to try the local scabbard fish, which we duly did, enjoying our lunch at a little restaurant a bit back from the main drag, beneath a false teeth lab.  The accompaniment of a fried banana was not something I'd have gone for spontaneously, but good all the same.  And the waitress distinguished herself by making me speak Portuguese, rather than lapsing into her doubtless perfect English.  Restaurante O Arco.

I get a daily menu sheet from a French web site, and have picked up a few of their ideas.  One is for palmiers with garlicky cream cheese and smoked salmon, and I plan to inflict the same on the art group at our end of year session.

Finally - and for goodness' sake, if you've got this far you deserve a medal - we send our warmest greetings.  The year ahead brings so many challenges that are frustratingly out of our control.  So best to focus on things close to home, and on the love that we enjoy and have the privilege to give.

Best wishes from us both

Martyn and David

A one-house family

Thursday

It feels really odd to be travelling alone after all these years. But it is going to get cold over the next few days, and Martyn is no fan of cold temperatures! In any case, I’m only doing the trip to do a final clean at the house and to complete the sale formalities.

As I write, we’ve begun our descent to Toulouse after a (so far) comfortable flight. As usual, the flight is pretty full, complete with loud sprogs, but it isn’t for much longer. The Gatwick experience was pretty painless, but I’d a longish trek from the entrance to the gate, which again was across the bridge at the North terminal. It all looks less grim in the bright sunshine, of course. Although a mid afternoon departure at this time of year means driving home in the dark, at least the airport is a bit quieter.

And what a drive home. The car is a nice little Mégane, and I soon got the hang of changing gears again. Not that I did much of that in the first hour, which was mostly in first gear until I reached the motorway. I thought that by doing my shopping before heading for home I might be spared the rush hour traffic. No such luck, and a closed lane on the rocade didn’t help. Well, I got home safe and sound, but not until close to 21:00. Shop-bought pizza, and an early night.

Friday

Next morning I went looking for breakfast, only to find that the baker has gone on holiday for a week. I googled the address of the baker in the next village, only to find it closed, by all appearances, years ago. So, it was off to Lézignan, and by the time I arrived there, the grocer in Lagrasse would have opened, complete with dépôt de pain. Too bad: at least I’m now stocked up for my evening meals now.

The car, though endowed with zip and handling that would put certain sports cars to shame, has some annoying habits. It decides when you may have main beam headlights [I later learned how to disable that, for the benefit of the next renter], and every so often displays, in German, a report on the quality of your driving [and in another traffic queue I learned how to change the language too, and toyed briefly with setting it to Japanese...]. It also scared me when the parking brake failed to release, and a simple press on the release button did nothing for a while.

Cleaning the downstairs windows warmed me up a bit. Helpful, that, since I couldn’t get the gas heater to light. I finished the first window cleaning session by doing the car windscreen. I think the previous renter had sneezed rather exuberantly at it.  Ugh.  More window cleaning after lunch, then a siesta.

Saturday

I was invited to supper with Christoff, Peter and a bunch of their friends. Ten of us sat down for a delicious, if boisterous meal. These days, I find noisy gatherings rather stressful, since I can’t take a proper part in the conversation. But the meal was superb. Pissaladière with the apéritifs, a chicken casserole (legs on the bone) with spuds, haricots verts and a cream sauce. Apple clafoutis. And rather a lot of strong local red wine.

Autumn in Lagrasse

Sunday

Next morning dawned sunny at last. I did a spot of, I hope, final cleaning, and then went for a cup of tea with Sheila and her daughter Lisa. Sheila is in very good humour, considering what she’s going through, and had had a good evening the previous night with a bunch of friends at the Hostellerie. I’d already accepted an invitation - see under London buses. After lunch I took Lisa to the airport for her return flight to Dublin. Most of the leaves have gone from the vines now, but the countryside looked beautiful in the autumn sunshine.

As I got back, I spotted a neighbour, Roger, taking his dog for a walk. Knowing him to be of an adventurous nature, I collared him and asked whether he’d like the Rücksack that has been gathering dust on the landing for the past 19 years: fortunately he can make use of it, so that’s a home found for the last of the odds and ends that my buyer is unlikely to want.

Monday

No longer Château Smith

The day of the sale dawned fine and clear, and I could see the Pyrenees clearly as I left Lagrasse.  I felt I could almost reach out and touch the Montagne d'Alaric from the road to Ribaute.  The sale process went as well as things can, given Gallic bureaucracy, taking well over a hour as the notaire went practically line by line through the 113-page deed of sale, displaying it to the assembled company on a large screen perched on the marble mantelpiece of his office. And it took him about 20 minutes to make a small amendment to the contract.  After all that, the buyer sportingly treated me and the estate agent to a glass of wine in the corner café. Thence to the car park to hand over the bedding, then on to Lézigzag with the attestation de vente for my insurers. Next stop Frogtel to hand in the broadband modems, which involved the usual queue and two more sheets of A4.

A largely painless drive to the airport, though there was the usual congestion and kamikaze behaviour on the rocade. I fuelled and turned in the car (they didn’t seem to notice that I'd graunched one of the alloy wheels when trying to park in Fabrezan...). I then spent a pleasant hour or so in the 8e Ciel bar at the airport, watching the traffic.  Nothing spectacular, but I think it was the first time I'd seen the recently certified A350-1000 in motion.

By the time I got to the gate, all the lockers at the front of the cabin were full, so my bag had to go in the hold.  That worked out well, because by the time I reached the baggage carousel the bag was there.  It's a long trek from the gate (over the bridge again), so it was handy to be burdened only with the iPad and an envelope of sale papers.  Passport control was very rapid (once I'd put my passport in the machine the right way round), and Martyn was waiting for me at the arrivals door.  The Gatwick experience was vastly better than last time: we were on the road within half an hour of the plane touching the runway.  Simple supper, quiet evening, early night.

Tuesday

I feel curiously unsentimental about leaving the house.  Quirky in parts and quite elegant in others, the house was not particularly comfortable, and the absence of land gave it a slightly claustrophobic feel.  It was also difficult and expensive to heat, and I guess I took a bit of a scunner to it after the 1999 flood.  I shall miss the surrounding countryside and the friends in the village, of course, but you don't need to own a house for that!

Change afoot

This afternoon I fly to Toulouse, hoping to spend my last four nights as a home-owner in Lagrasse.  The experience has been wonderful, but all things come to their term.  The countryside around the village is lovely, and I have enjoyed many fine walks there and thereabouts.  I never tire of the views of the Pyrenees, particularly when they have snow on them.  We have made many good friends in the region, and shall miss the regular contacts.  But I'm sure we'll be back from time to time - without feeling obliged to go back, and without the millstone of responsibility for a medieval pile, the long drive and all those stairs. 

It occurred to me yesterday to measure my 'cabin' bag.  In height it is 1cm bigger than the maximum allowed, and although it was tempting to take a chance, I decided instead, partly in view of the fact that it's starting to fall apart, to get a new bag.  My word, the prices!  I eventually went for a lightweight and relatively inexpensive number since it isn't going to get a huge amount of use.  My long weekend kit fits easily, leaving space for the small amount of bed linen I have to bring home.

Have you been to see Paddington 2 yet?  If not, do.  Utter tosh, and rather sentimental, but carried off very successfully by a sparkling cast.  We loved it.  Oh, and take a handkerchief.  And do not leap up when the titles start turning: the postscript is a delight.

Yesterday I finished off the job of sewing in the new cushion for my old armchair.  Martyn very sportingly tells me that he can't tell the hand sewn seams from the machined ones, so I guess I haven't entirely lost my touch.  But an hour or so joining four thicknesses of heavy cloth with thick yarn and a curved needle is not something I aim to repeat, given the consequent protest from the arthritic mitts.  I dare say that the money I've spent on new springs and the cushion would have gone a long way towards a serviceable IKEA replacement, but it wouldn't be the same, would it?

We entertained at the weekend, serving our guests amuse-bouche of bruschette, little chouriço croissants and palmiers of prosciutto and (separately) gravadlax.  We'd made a sort of boeuf bourgignon in the slow cooker, using shin and skirt from Tidebrook Manor Farm.  I have a lot of time for these relatively cheap, tough cuts, since they respond well to long, slow cooking.  We raided the fridge for vegetables to heave into the pot - onions, courgettes, celery, swede, carrots and a red pepper - and added tomatoes and Fortnums' worst tempranillo.  Martyn made a suitable heap of mashed potatoes to go with it, and a pudding of raspberry pavlovas.  He'd also baked scones for afternoon tea - he has a far better touch with scones than I do - so all in all we had about a week's ration in a day.  Oh well, it isn't that often.  Just as well, really, since we find we just can't handle big eats the way we once could.

The weather has been good enough to allow a spot of gardening, and not so wet that one sinks into the grass.  Much as we love the iris sibirica when it's in flower, the flowering season is all too brief, and the end of the growing season leaves great clumps of straggly brown foliage.  It is now in the composting bin, along with phlox, sedum, montbretia and a few miles of brambles.  An early job when I get back from France will be the autumn clean of the lawnmower, though I might use it to hoover up some more leaves before that.  The wind has fortunately been brisk and westerly of late, so next door have got most of their own oak leaves for once.  Our willow, however, has carpeted the top of the garden.  I might have mentioned that we had the cherry tree hacked back a week or so ago, but not before it had started shedding, hence a mucky half hour cleaning gutters.  Why do I always decide on such tasks when I've just put on a clean pair of jeans?

Now, back to the check lists.  Yes, I've packed the door keys, the euros, the télépéage badge, the i-charger and an adaptor, the pills, the toothbrush and the razor.  And an old towel that can be jettisoned.  Check, check again.  And there'll still be something I've forgotten.

Hobbies, misc

The grass was just about dry enough to cut the other day, so has had what I hope is a final cut for the season.  I need to get the mower up on the bench ere long for its autumn clean, and I notice, each time I put the car away, that the old reserve electric mower is also overdue a scrape out.  I hesitate to reveal when it was last used...  The roses have had a bit of attention, since most have finished flowering, and I've finished the trimming of the cherry tree, our usually excellent tree fettler having evidently run out of steam before he got to the straggly bits closest to the house.

Art class was quite good yesterday.  I'd decided not to stress myself with a big blank canvas, so just took along the watercolour pencils and a couple of brushes.  Miss had brought in all sorts of autumn fruits and foliage, plus some very nice little pieces of watercolour paper, so I grabbed a leaf and  got cracking on what has now become the front of this year's Christmas card.  Striking while the iron was hot, I edited the card in the afternoon, and have today printed off what ought to be enough to go round, together with a run of address labels.  Unfortunately, the red envelopes have run out, so I await a delivery, blue this time.  Plenty time, eh?

Turning to an old hobby, those of high boredom tolerance will remember that I treated my old armchair to a new set of springs a while back.  I came by the chair in 1980, when, my uncle Charles, recently widowed, was shipping stuff out from the house in E11.  The chair was pretty tired by then, with a loose cover over the very worn upholstery.  I signed up for an upholstery evening class, and the teacher very sportingly agreed to let me work on it rather than the usual beginner's footstool or whatever.  I have to admit that my attempts at stitching the piped scroll arms seriously damaged the sensibilities of my classmates: SmithD + sewing machine = a shameful tirade of obscenities.  Well, the old cushion, a box spring wrapped in a mile and a half of cotton felt, had become distinctly lumpy, so I took to t'internet and found a supplier of replacement cushions somewhere near Sarfend-on-Sea.  They do not take orders per internet, but only by telephone, the which I duly did: very friendly service.  The cushion arrived today, and is provisonally installed in said chair, which thus has a new lease of life.  Prepare for more vile language as I make with the curved needle.

As for the other hobby, I had to go to the County Town for Wednesday's sitting, so was grateful that the day's business ran short, allowing me to drive home in daylight.  How good to have a partner who knows when comfort food is indicated: Speldhurst sausages and mash.  Aaaah.  

Intimations of mortality

34 years since faither popped off.  26 years since Lagrasse piano festival friend Jonny Brown's followed suit.  Five years since Etienne was taken from us.  And today my friend Colin who signed on to the hobby with me has committed his son's remains.  I learned, on googling the other day, that my old friend Madame Billault made it to 103!  She and I first met in 1965 when my Dundee-Orléans twinning correspondent Bernard and I were wheeled off to Bretoncelles for a week.  I objected vigorously to the idea of camping at the side of the swimming pool that Bernard's cousin Marcel maintained, and Marcel negotiated a bedroom chez Billault for the duration.  I dropped in on her from time to time over the years, and she seemed inexplicably to welcome my company.  She spent a weekend with me at Tonbridge in the 80s: 'I shall be arriving at Southampton on xx/xx: come and collect me'.  A good, kind soul, and I'm a bit ashamed of not keeping in touch.

As well not to dwell on such things, but it's good to mark them quietly.  I guess we all have difficult memories at this time of year, but none so great as those who lost loved ones in the utterly futile war of 1914-19.  I shall lay a wreath on behalf of my co-hobbyists on Sunday.

Sonst?  A total failure today at art class.  I'd planned an acrylic resist piece using some new Indian ink.  I think I'd need to heave on the acrylics with a trowel to avoid the failure - the ink soaked into the acrylics, so the scouts' paper bin is the sole beneficiary.

More positively, we've stocked up the freezer with beef from Tidebrook Manor Farm, and treated ourselves to delicious griddled sirloins for supper.  Let's hear it for decadence!

Wrong!

My international calls from the mobile seem not to be included in the monthly sub (though why not, even at an increased rate?  Answer obvious, and I suppose I should be grateful for the dividend).  Oh well, more fool me for making an unwarranted assumption.  Orange's failure to answer my calls has set us back about £24.  All part of the plot, it seems to me.

Crisp, bright autumn days hereabouts, so I was out early, photographing the neighbours' beautiful hornbeam hedge.  Glad it's theirs, I must say: John rightly opts to clip it by hand, and it's rather labour intensive.  But then, he's young.  I do a bit of token gardening most dry days, and it's as well that the composting bin was emptied today. 

Morning drives to the hobby can be rather misty at this time of year, and I don't much enjoy the drive home after dark.  Last night's drive was at least dry, but tiresomely busy.  I've volunteered for a couple more this month, atoning for my cancelling a day when I expect do be doing legal stuff in Another Place.  Still, the expenses largely keep the diesel tank topped up, and I've less than three years to go.

Art class was a hoot this morning, with much inappropriate repartee about the touching of knees and the like.  Our table was clearly the Loud Crowd, while the other one got on with some seriously artistic endeavours.  I had dug out some oil pastels, and had a little play with the photographs I'd taken earlier.  No results worth sharing, but I might have a crack at the hornbeam with acrylics and Indian ink.  If I can resuscitate the dried-up latter.

Not much longer...

I wrote to Orange in September to ask for information on steps needed to shut down my telephone and broadband subscriptions.  A month later: silence.  Dug out the English language customer service line number.  First attempt: 'Bugger off, we're busy'.  Second attempt: ditto.  Third attempt: 'Your call should be answered within two minutes'.  Euphoria short-lived: 15 minutes later the inane music on hold gave way to a ring tone, which promptly led to the call terminated tones.  At least the calls were eating up my mostly unused allowance of minutes included in the monthly mobile contract, rather than being billed exorbitantly to the BT fixed line.

Next stop, the Banque Postale, to ask what notice they'd need for the biggish cash withdrawal I'll need when I'm down south at the end of the month.  The only phone number given is a four-digit short code, inaccessible from outside France.  A friend in the village provided me with the full-fat telephone number which, of course, now diverts to an announcement: 'in order for us to serve you better, please call the four-digit number'.  Deep sigh.  Letter sent, with request for advice by email.  Suspect I may finish up ringing Jean-Luc at home in his lunch break.

I've been hoping to put off grass cutting till more leaves have fallen, but gave in yesterday when I saw how long it had got.  Much cursing later (the long, wet grass kept clogging the mower, and the tank ran dry half way through), the composting bin is full (grass cuttings and mouldy courgette plants), and the trees are still shedding leaves. 

There is still colour here and there in the garden, particularly now that the cornus have shed practically all of their leaves.  It's surprising that there are still a few flowers on the cistus pulverulens - in the garrigue, it comes and goes in three to four weeks.  The hypericums are covered in a new flush of flowers, and the good old penstemons are doing pretty well.  The bedding plants have largely been and gone, though the over-wintered fuchsias are flowering well.  The petunias are under a layer of mouldy courgettes and grass cuttings, and are about to be donated to our ever-benevolent toon cooncil.  There are still a few flowers on a few of the roses, notably Queen Elizabeth and the Justice of the Peace, and I noticed yesterday that Compassion has put up a strong new shoot from the base.  That's one of the nice things about gardening: even when the garden is slowing down for the winter, there are signs of good things to come in the spring.

Miss has been getting us to do seascapes.  I did a few hopeless water colour sketches the week before last, but took a canvas and the acrylics last Thursday, turning out a quickie of the salt pans near Gruissan.  I was rather taken with the way that the reflection of the sky diminishes as you get closer to the point of view, revealing the pinkish brown salt deposit.  I may fiddle a bit with it, but am inclined to keep it simple.  As a rule, if a piece goes over to a second visit, it is not going to work.  But then, I'm usually in favour of the 'do nothing' option anyway.

Another year older..

Martyn's birthday yesterday, but we had a pretty lazy day until early evening, whe we went out for supper followed by a showing of Victoria and Abdul at the local bug hut.  Quite a sweet little film, with the usual impeccable acting by Judi Dench.  A sort of Mrs Brown 2, I suppose, but a shade less convincing than N°1.  Ali Fazal's smiling Bollywood stare was captivating (if implausible in the context), and his delicate handling of the role was pretty good, but a lot of the surround was rather stilted and caricatured.  Well, a sort of feel-good film, which never does any harm.  I see that the Hindustani Times slams it for glossing over the wholesale massacre of Indians during the Raj.  Perhaps we shouldn't just treat these things as entertainment.

I slapped some water colours about at yesterday's class, remininding myself of my utter incompetence in the medium.  One or two decent clouds using wet-in-wet, but the few other decent results were scarce and modest.  It's a bit like skiing, I suppose.  If I could wake up one morning muscular, supple and skilful enough to tackle the black slopes, I'd like skiing.  As it is, I'll eschew the slopes - and the clever water-colour stuff

Bad news of our friend Sheila, recently widowed.  She was evidently helicoptered in to hospital in Carcassonne the other day suffering what sounds like acute kidney failure.  She was on line yesterday reporting on the state of said kidneys in somewhat anglo-saxon terms. Early days - let's hope for the best.

Modest gardening efforts today: the storms are getting pretty lively, so I've hacked down the long stems on our 'sentry' roses either side of the garden steps, and done some modest dead-heading on the old faithful penstemons.  The grass is getting rather long, but I plan to leave it [sic] until there are a few more tons of leaves on it.  There are a few more days of strong winds from the west, so with luck next door's oak leave will land in their garden, but our goat willow and cherry, and the neighbours' silver birches, will provide some exercise.

Marketingballs, bureaucracy and the like.

A glance through the shopping bag reveals some interesting uses of the language, such as 'Carefully churned' butter.  'Truly juicy' orange juice.  Are people actually paid for dreaming up such garbage?  (I think there was something about 'carefully selected garden peas' a while back.  Picture the scene.)

Well, I can finally see most of the floor of my study, having hung a few more paintings, and found nooks and crannies for many more.  There are a few more vacancies, so we'll convene the hanging committee at the weekend and decide what's going where.  Meanwhile, I'm waiting for France Telecom to respond to my letter seeking advice on how to shut down my telephone and broadband subscriptions: they provide no guidance on their web site, far less a telephone number accessible from outside France.  The insurance brokers evidently need to see the deed of sale before they can shut down the buildings and contents insurance.  Much as I love France, there are moments when the bureaucracy really gets on my tits.

No further word from the motor trade about the spotty brightwork on the car window surrounds.  I guess that means a Humpreyesque 'I shall take no action unless you instruct me further', tucked into the bottom of the red box.  They underestimate me.

Culture and things

The flu jab provoked a less violent reaction than last year's, though I've been a bit groggy, stiff and sniffly for the past week.  Still, I managed a couple of days at the hobby, which I wouldn't have been able to do at this stage last year.

Nice treat yesterday.  Martyn treated us to tickets to the 'Grand Organ Gala' at the Albert Hall.  It was a nice programme of lollipops: the Saint-Saëns Symphony N°3, Parry's I was glad, the Hallelujah Chorus and the like.  The orchestra was a touch lacking in ensemble here and there, and a mistimed clash of cymbals was unfortunate, but it was all generally of a good standard.  The chorus was excellent, and the fanfare by six chaps from the army Logistics Corps was superb.  Of the solo organ pieces - yes, Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and Widor's Toccata from Symphony N°5 - mixed reports.  The organist, Philip Scriven, comes highly reputed, but I was sorry that he decided to play to the gallery of lollipop concert goers.  His tempi in the toccata were all over the place.  I know a toccata is a showing-off piece, but the expression 'fast and loose' came to mind early on.  Bum notes galore, and immoderate mud-and-razor-blades registrations throughout.  I thought he was going to treat the fugue with a bit of respect at first, but that too went crazy.  Oddly enough, his handling of the Widor was a little more disciplined.  Now that's a piece in which you can let rip with the reeds, and he duly did.  Shame he inflicted the same treatment on the Bach.

The two solo pieces are popular because they are good and well known.  Neither is its composer's best work, however, and it would be nice to hear a few different pieces from time to time.

The show was pretty well attended, though the audience was predominantly of a certain age.  The audience chorus in Land of Hope and Glory was somewhat less hearty than the Prommers', but respectable enough!

The travelling was not bad, though on a Sunday there are no direct trains to London from our preferred little country station, and that made for longish journeys.  Since we weren't going to be home until after 20:00, we got some microwave Ruby Murrays from M&S at Victoria, and they were actually quite good.

Today has been largely about the motor trade so far.  The Egg, over nine years old and altogether, was recalled for a warranty update to the ABS system, and has been fettled.  The one year old Ateca is in for its first oil change, and I'll collect it later.

My other date today is Mary's funeral.  It'll be interesting to see what sort of a gate she gets.  [Later]  Quite a good turn out of family, friends and six of us from the art class.  Unfortunately, the sky pilot was far too fond of the sound of her own voice, so the thing dragged on for rather a long time.  Oh well.

Thence to the Mall for a new watch battery.  It's surprising how much of the last few days I've spent looking by reflex at the pale strip on my left wrist.  On to round two with the motor trade, where I learn that the factory will not support a warranty claim to replace the spotty brightwork round some of the car's windows.  'We'll see about that!', responded yr obed servt, feigning litigiousness: the garage is hoping to get the customer care programme to pay.  Oh don't bother watching this space - it's just too trivial.

Back to the routines

Glad we got the grass cut earlier in the week: it was just dry enough to cut by mid-afternoon, and there has been a lot of rain since.  That's autumn for you, I suppose.  The outlook from the dining room is quite pleasant with the grass cut and the leaves turning on the cornus.  Said cornus was an utter thug back at Smith Towers, needing to be cut back several times a year lest it completely block the path.  Its offspring (it layers very easily) proceeded to sulk for years here at Forges-l'Evêque, but are now showing their parent's vigorous habit, rewarding us with lots of red bark in the winter.  We've had some other slow starters this year: the courgettes looked like doing nothing, but the two surviving plants are cropping like mad now.  The rudbeckias were similarly disappointing, but the few survivors are flowering like mad.  I have already saved some seed, and will try harder next year.


Less routine yesterday was an early morning trip to the dentist.  I'd chipped a piece off a molar while chomping on some French bread: this is not the first time it has happened.  My usual chap was doing emergencies only this week, so I was seen by a relative newcomer to the practice, a charming young woman from Turkey.  Well, she had me patched up and out in no time, so I was rather early for art class.  I therefore headed for Tonbridge High Street, looking to distribute among the various charity shops surplus books that had been languishing in the boot since we cleared the bookcase.  My first port of call, The Salvation Army, was happy to take them all, so that saved me a bit of shoeleather.

First art class of the autumn (for me: the others have been back for a couple of weeks).  Alas, one of our happy band, Mary, was not there: she died a week or so ago.  Very sad.  She had been in a lot of pain of late, but still soldiered on with her painting until the early summer.  She painted in water-based oils, and specialised in landscapes on small canvases.  I don't think she'd have liked yesterday's still life task any more than I did: Miss had brought in a bag of chestnuts and another of seashells.  In a rare moment of compliance, I agreed to have a crack at it, and turned out a couple of little sketches.  I retired injured about half an hour before the end of the class when the clamour of protest from my hands got too much. 

After last year's flu jab, I vowed never to have another, having started a heavy cold the following day.  Common sense tells me that a bad cold is better than yer actual influenza, with its risk of complications that can kill old geezers like me.  So I was down there for my jab before I was properly awake this morning, and we'll wait and see what happens this year.

Two contemporary facts about insurance: 1. loyalty is pointless, and  2. it pays to shop around.  The RAC saw fit to hike my car insurance renewal quote by close to 30%.  Age UK offered me cover at a good 30% over even the RAC's exorbitant quotation.  A quick visit to Direct Line brought the premium down to better than last year's RAC premium, and another to the meerkats got me a deal with LV at close to half the RAC's figure.  These jokers rely on buyer inertia, and I find it just despicable that Age UK should ask so much, particularly since their target market is likely to be more prone to loyalty and less internet-savvy and bolshy than your obed. servt.  Next target: the energy suppliers. 

and finally...

...home again to Forges-l'Evêque.  Afficionados would find no news in a report of driving behaviour on the A86 and A15.   I find it pays just to identify the lane needed in good time, and to leave as much air as possible between the front bumper and the nearest rear one.  The Sologne is boring, and so is the Beauce.  But traffic was light, so I dispatched them and the ride round Paris in my shift (with a pause at an aire) before handing over to Martyn so I could enjoy the the pretty ride through the Vexin from the passenger seat.  We'd made good time, so decided independently and around the same moment (such things happen after so many years together!) to have our sandwiches at the Baie de Somme.  We drove round the deservedly popular Saint-Valéry, and stopped on the front at Le Crotoy for our picnic lunch on the steps looking across the sand to Saint-Valéry.  We managed to discourage a seagull from nicking our sandwiches, and we'd an amusing moment when a hungry chap came and asked us where we'd got them.  'Bourges, actually!' got a wry chuckle.

From there we went along to the bird reserve at the Marquenterre, but again not wishing to leave the car and its cargo of goodies unattended, didn't linger, rather marking it up for future reference.  The route thence to the tunnel exercised Dotty a bit, but she got us efficiently to the A16 a couple of stops up from where we'd left it earlier. The tunnel experience was as lovely as ever.  No offer of an early departure, and the one we were booked on was cancelled, yet again.  We have pretty well decided against long drives in future, so, for our shorter trips, we can try to choose quieter days and times of day.

Sainsburys opposite Hauptbahnhof Disgustedville provided the makings of two other simultaneous independent decisions: sausage, egg, chips, tea and toast, but also a distressing view of the local early evening life forms.  I was accosted by two beggars, and Martyn kept the doors locked while he waited in the car.

Said car has done us proud, and is tucked up in its garage, ready for unloading tomorrow (and quite possibly for several days to come).  It didn't protest in the slightest at being packed to the roof, burned creditably little diesel, and was ready with bags of performance when we wanted to burn our way clear of the various 4ssh013s we met on our way north who saw fit to accelerate while being overtaken.  (Supposedly Just Not Done in France.  Ha!)

On the road again

Pierre was along bright and early yesterday to clear the cellar, and made a superb job of it, removing two trailer loads of mud, rotten wood and all sorts of garbage, including a double sink.  I was very impressed with the results, having been reluctant even to go down there because of the mess left by flooding.  I wish I'd asked him to do it years ago.  Anyway, he asked a very modest fee, which I bumped up a little, and then the three of us chewed the fat for a while over a glass each of rosé.

We had a couple more glasses later on the Prom with Sheila and her neighbour Suzie, but didn't make a long session of it (a) because we were travelling today, and (b) because the highly amplified live music  made conversation impossible.

We both slept badly, as is our wont the night before leaving, but have made it successfully to Bourges for our overnight stay in a familiar flophouse.  I had to abandon my first shift at the wheel because of cramp in both hands.  I suppose I've been asking a lot of them over the past fortnight.  Martyn took over and drove us as far as the Viaduc de Garabit, where we had our sandwiches leaning on the car.  Motorway aires are notorious for car break-ins, and as ours is loaded to the roof, it would have been an attractive target.  (I don't suppose edge-of-town one nighter hotels are a lot safer, but there's nothing we can do about that.)  I did the last leg with only a brief return of the cramps.

The countryside was looking beautiful once we were past the early morning mist.  The trees are starting to turn now, so we had some fine views as we drove over the plain of the Hérault and again as we came down through the Auvergne.  Traffic was heavy, and the absence of a usable inside mirror made the process more tiring.  Still, we've got the hang of it now, so tomorrow should be easier.

Despite the overloading and motorway cruising speeds, the car has performed well and frugally.  Tempting fate to say so, perhaps, in that it has as far to go again tomorrow.  It has a full tank, so it's time for us to follow suit.  An apéro, I think, then supper at one of the adjacent hostelries, for which the hotel provides discount vouchers.  And with any luck, a better night's sleep.

Almost ready for the road

It looks like we can fit most of our rubbish in the car.  Sheila is coming for bedding and curtain material later this morning, and the chap from the Clos d'Orbieu came along for sundry quilts and bedding, took one look at the pile and went to get the minibus.  There'll be more to take along there when we finally go, but I can do that when I come back to do the legals in November. 
We've made a couple of trips to the déchetterie with stuff that was too big for garbage sacks.  There'll be a few more to ditch before we leave (I've tried to distribute them round numerous bin sites in the village!) but we've pretty well broken the back of it.  Ours too. 

Just discovered a few bike-related odds and ends, so thought I'd parcel them up and post them to Le Roc.  Made up what I thought was a neat little brown paper parcel.  'No, not like that: it has to go in a cardboard box', of which she was more than happy to sell me one at an extra 2€.  Total bill 6€90, probably comfortably greater than the value of the contents.

Pierre is coming tomorrow to muck out the cave, which hasn't been used since the 1999 flood: I find it just too creepy, and it's too damp for any realistic use.  Then on Saturday we start the long rattle home.  We'll stay overnight at Bourges, which is roughly half-way to Calais.  The whole process is starting to weigh on my mind a little - lots of lurid nightmares, for example.  Still, it'll soon be over, and we'll be a one-house family for the first time since we met, and in my case for over 26 years.  Rather looking forward to it, but not to finding homes for all the stuff in the car!

Much-travelled bikes

Much as I loved my bikes, the time comes when one must admit that slow-moving 67-year-old flat-terrain mountain bikers in spray-ons look just a bit silly.  I bought the rainbow Cinelli bike second-hand in the late 1980s, and used to go for a ride in the early hours along the Medway valley, returning just as the alarm clock went off.  It went out to Paris with me in 1991, and while I was living in Neuilly and working in Boulogne, I used to cycle to work, rapidly building up a modicum of fitness.  As for the purple Trek bike, I bought it in the USA for about $700, when the pound was worth $2.  It came back as my second piece of BA luggage, and eventually found its way to Paris on a biker friend's roof rack.  From there it went with me to Brussels, and I spent many a Sunday biking along the riversides.  Thence to Zürich, where I failed to work out the cycle path route to work.  I only once did the circuit of the Greifensee from the Dübendorf flat, pausing for an ill-judged beer and burger.  Well, we delivered both bikes yesterday to Le Roc, where honorary nephew Martyn and Tracy will give them a lot more use than we have lately.

The drive to Le Roc and back has just about convinced us that we are not long distance drivers any more.  Sunday's drive was not bad, since the Toulouse kamikazes were probably well stuck into their pre-prandial Sunday pastis when we hit the rocade, but it didn't help that I was fretting about the dwindling stock of AdBlue, an additive that mitigates the damage that burning diesel does to the enviroment.  On RTFM (reading the manual) I discovered that if the AdBlue tank goes dry, the car won't start.  Well, having failed to work out how to refill at the aire in Avignonnet-Lauragais, I did a quick bit of googling.  Cutting a long and rather dull story short, we rang the VW and SEAT dealer in Agen before we left Le Roc for home today and called in on them do the top-up.  Delightful reception from young Julien Clément, who turned out to have family in a village close to Lagrasse, and who was pleased to have a chance to deploy some very good English.  Pujols VW-SEAT, Avenue du Midi, 47000 Agen.  Highly recommended.  (But why are all the cars in the VW showroom grey, black or white?)

Today's drive was horrid. But at least free of AdBlue fretting, and Martyn did the last bit.  After lunch I set about the oleanders, which have been getting a bit too big for their boots.  I've also packed most of the kitchen stuff that we need to take home, run the dishwasher a couple of times with stuff we're leaving, and cleaned the shelves that they go back on. 

More of the same tomorrow.  Ô joy.

More clearing out

A week that began with some anxiety about the amount of stuff left to clear from Château Smith is gradually resolving itself.  Not wishing to count my chickens, the sale seems at last to be progressing, and the buyer is canvassing dates for the final deed of sale in late November.  One delaying factor has gone away: the town, having failed to produce its local land use plan by the deadline, has lost its right of pre-emption. 

Anyway, a moribund computer and some electronics in similar condition have gone to the déchetterie.  A couple of bags of books have gone to the local library, the bikes, some books and a heap of bed linen are in the car ready to take up to Annie's tomorrow, a disused electric hob and some loudspeakers left this morning with the estate agent, and Sheila has earmarked the keyboard, some bed linen and curtain material - and a can of yellow paint (we changed our minds).  The contents of the cellier are gradually finding their way to the bins (not too much at a time).  Next task is to wrap up the various paintings we're taking home, and then there's the small matter of cleaning out kitchen cupboards.  Thank goodness the buyer wants the furniture, crockery etc.

This afternoon we have taken stock of bedding and linen.  Why exactly we have seven king-size duvet covers is a mystery, and I think either the local asylum seekers' hostel or the Emmaüs in Narbonne may benefit.  Likewise, the vast supplies of single bedding are hard to account for, given that the folding single beds haven't been used in the past 15 years.  I'm inclined to carry out a similar exercise when we get home to see where we can gain some space.  

It was just warm enough for lunch on the Prom today.  Bertrand's plat du jour of pork fillet in a mustard sauce was excellent, and the rosé by the pichet was also pretty bearable.  Such things I shall miss, but not the taxe foncière, the taxe d'habitation, the water, electricity, insurance, telephone and broadband bills, not to mention the costs that attend ownership of a medieval pile.

Although the washing has dried outside on the line, temperatures are unimpressive.  Facebook reminds me that, this time last year, we were enjoying temperatures of 39.5° in Bilbao.  I suppose it's as well: clearing the house in hot temperatures would make an already tiring job nigh on impossible.

Clear-out

I've been having a go at the bookcases today, and it occurred to me to take a look at the bookmarks.  A 1991 train ticket receipt.  A ticket for the Baixo lift.  A 1990 receipt from Migros in Chly Wabere.  The credit card slip for my overnight stay in the Zürich Novotel before setting off for India in 1988 (via Amsterdam...).  Two tickets to the Levallois-Châlons basketball match on 8 January 1994.  A Stauffacher (Bern) order card.  A home delivery pizza menu from Brussels.  A Sealink boarding card.  A Bern-Basel train ticket.  A taxi receipt from St Annes.  A dry cleaning ticket from somewhere in France.  An invitation to a briefing by the UK Permanent Rep to the EU. 

OK, you creative writers: build a story round that lot. 

More travels - just for a change

Sunday: early   Twelve and a half hours on the road yesterday: getting a bit old for this game.  We started a few minutes after 06:00 with the usual cross-country ride to the end of the tunnel, with the rising sun in our eyes, and ended it as we crossed the Aare with the setting sun in our eyes.  I’ve never seen the tunnel terminal so busy, and although we were in good time for our scheduled departure, we were made to wait 25 minutes for the following departure.  The rolling stock is starting to look very tired: as usual the nearest stack of lavatories was out of order, and the fire doors between carriages are not all closing properly, which is a touch alarming.  Still, it got us there, and I whiled away the journey trying to find out from the car’s user manual how to adjust the clock without zeroing the trip counter.  I still haven’t mastered that, but the instruments tell one how many miles are left in the tank, so I don’t have to rely on the trip. 

We used some unfamiliar routes, such as the national roads from Châlons-en-Champagne (sur Marne, as was) over to Nancy.  They are a bit slower, but toll-free. and then over the col to Kaysersberg and Colmar – a very beautiful road, even in poor weather, and we could see why Kaysersberg took the France’s favourite village vote (Lagrasse came ninth). 

As usual, the weather was generally good when I was driving, and utterly dreadful when Martyn took the wheel.  We used some achingly familiar routes as well, such as the ghastly tunnels through Basel – they were practically at a standstill as usual, and Dotty helpfully routed us on to slightly quieter urban routes.  When we rejoined the motorway, it was generally fluid, but still very busy.  And extremely wet.  Anyway, we got to Berne by about 19:30, and the car is safely tucked up just opposite the foot of our stairs, thanks to kind neighbours who have allowed us to use their most convenient parking space.  There it will stay until first thing on Monday, since today is a car-free day in this corner of Berne: they are celebrating the completion of a new roundabout at the Eigerplatz.  Hmmm. 

There is much to admire about the transport network in Switzerland, with the notable exception of the roads.  It is possible to plan a journey to a scenic mountain beauty spot by tram, two trains, a Postauto and the narrow gauge mountain railway: they join up perfectly.  But the motorways are hopelessly congested, and the alternative routes very slow.  They have cunningly built the new Zürich-Berne railway line alongside the motorway, so the train swishes effortlessly past as you battle your way through the rain and kamikaze drivers.  Good psychology.  Still, I bought our 40-franc annual vignette so as to be legal on the motorways, and even using it for just two days out of the remaining months of 2017, it works out cheaper than French autoroute tolls for a similar distance - and provides a sort of one-uppish souvenir on the windscreen. 

We found Pam and today’s birthday boy on good form: they had prepared a favourite of ours: filet mignon de porc en croûte, and further regaled us with fine wines from our part of France. 

An earlyish night, then, but fitful sleep for the first half.  Unusually for me, when I finally got off to sleep, I slept off and on until gone 07:00. 

Sunday: later   We had time before Geoff’s lunch party for a quick visit to the Zentrum Paul Klee, and admired the architecture very much.  The current exhibition is ‘Paul Klee, Poet and Thinker’, and it failed to captivate us.  It included too little of his vibrant colours and architectural drawing for my taste.  We spent a little less long there than we’d budgeted, so got off the bus early to check on the bears, which are now in much more wholesome digs than the old bear pits – the two we saw were snoozing, supine, under the trees.

Lunch was fabulous.  After canapés, an amuse-bouche of green lentil soup with mustard and cress, beetroot mousse with parmesan shavings and lamb’s lettuce, a slice of fillet steak apiece, each of which would have fed us both for a week, it was unsurprising that I could do little justice to the luscious pudding.  Dialogue, as so often in Pam and Geoff’s circle of friends, was in a mixture of English, French, Bäretüütsch and ‘Gutdeutsch’, so stimulated the intellectual as well as physical appetites.  Good to catch up with friends we hadn’t seen for years, and to see Geoff surrounded by loving friends on his eightieth birthday.

Monday   After a surprisingly good night's sleep (just as well), travelling today was pretty hellish.  Dotty hauled us off the A1 at Payerne, warning of stationary traffic further on.  When it became clear that her preference was to route us round the south side of the lake, we thought we'd take our chances, and after a jolly pretty ride through the countryside, rejoined the motorway near Lausanne.  Long, LONG queues into Geneva.  Given that and our Basel experience on Saturday, we wonder why anyone in Switzerland travels long distances by road.  Dotty then took us on another jolly jaunt through farmyards and forest tracks (mild hyperbole), telling us that the A49 was closed.  Why this involved un périple bucolique before we were anywhere near the A49 remains a secret known only unto Dotty, and by the time we eventually reached it, the A49 was quite clear for its entire length.  She tried throwing a few more tantrums later on the route, so we put her gently to bed without supper, and tucked her in.  By the time we got into the Aude, I was so bushwhacked that I got the PIN wrong three times at the Cave Coop, and almost left without the wine.