We had a couple of hours to fill between the tour and our next engagement, so took a look round the Science Museum. One of my childhood memories is of being taken there by Mum and Grandpa, keenly looking forward to the aeronautical section, and of weeping bitterly on finding it closed. The ensuing visit to the (to me, then) terminally boring Natural History Museum did not improve matters. Well, the whole place was open this time, and fascinating. Shame it came close on sixty years too late. Somewhat footsore and sweaty, we sat and had cups of tea in the café, then hacked on down to the Brompton Road to catch a bus along to Hyde Park Corner. The traffic was thick enough to ensure that we didn't arrive at the Caledonian Club indecently early. On the way there, we walked past a building site on Belgrave Crescent just as the workers were leaving. Blimey! I wouldn't want to bump into that lot once they'd had a bellyful of vodka.
We still had time to spare, so went to take a look at the House in Upper Belgrave Street where Martyn's great-uncle was in service well into his seventies. A bit smart, eh? Thence to the Club for an apéro offered by the keepers-warm of potential posthumous benefactors of my alma mater. A glass of white wine and sundry canapés before the star turn by Nicholas Parsons, now well into his nineties, whose recall of Edward Lear verse was remarkable! And all hosted by the charming Mr Campbell, Advocate - Ming to his friends, I imagine - the Chancellor of the university, and now the Lord Campbell of Pittenweem.Well, I don't know whether it was Carluccio's, the Albert Hall, the Science Museum, the Caledonian Club or various bus handrails that got me, but I spent the night dashing across the landing and next morning up and down the stairs. Whichever it was caused me to miss a Trustees' meeting in London next day. Snarl.
As usual, by the day before departure, I'd failed to act on dozens of garden tasks, notably planting out bedding subjects. Well, the gazanias and rudbeckias are now planted, for better or for worse, and the courgettes are in the raised bed. I'd been wondering how to provide for said courgettes, they being a climbing variety. Martyn remembered that he had some tough netting in the garage loft, so a few square metres thereof are now stapled to the fence with a view to training them.
A couple of days saw me just about on form for the journey south, though in the circumstances I was quite glad we weren't driving all the way. We'd booked a taxi to Tonbridge station, there to get the one and only train that will get you to Ashford in time to catch the Eurostar to Avignon and Marseille. On Sunday, Martyn was having a good fret in the insomniac small hours as he worked through all the what-ifs. Suppose the taxi is late? Suppose the train is late or cancelled (we are talking Monday morning on a line notorious for over-running engineering work). Well, a spot of research revealed that, taxi and train fares taken into account, we'd be as well to drive ourselves to Ashford and lay the Egg in the long-term car park, the which we duly did, having cancelled the taxi. We'll find out in a couple of weeks' time whether the Egg still starts and has wheels.
The train ride was fine. We had a block of four seats to ourselves, so could stretch out a bit, snooze, read, and work out how to hook up the tablet to the internet via the telephone. (I think that, in techno terms, I've finally just about made it into the 21st century.) I was thus able to spar with fellow word-game players and insult fellow facebookers as we hurtled along at 300kph. The ride south is pleasant, and breakfast and a hot lunch are served, both in modest portions fitting the minuscule amounts of energy expended by the travellers. There's wine for the non-drivers, plus plenty of mineral water and tea. Pretty decent way to travel, and if you can find the deals, it's not much more expensive than the long drive. Having left home at 06:00, we were in the hire car and on our way before 15:00 local, and shopped and home before 18:00. I'd be happier if there were a service to Montpellier (or better still, Narbonne), but the A9 is a bit better nor wot it was, and we were at our nearest Carrefour within about two hours of leaving Avignon.
Non-petrolheads may skip this paragraph. I'd booked a Citroën C3 or equivalent. The chap on the desk was happy to put up with my French, and asked if I wanted an automatic. I said 'Sure, if it comes at the same price'. He wasn't sure that was possible, but eventually came back with the keys to a Fiat 500X, automatic, and with more bells and whistles than I can possibly learn during the 17-day lease. I was unenthusiastic about it on the way home, finding the transmission reluctant to change up and the steering distinctly odd. These days, rental cars tend to come supplied with a mode d'emploi, so a spot of pre-breakfast swotting this morning revealed how to switch off the young-racer mode and the thingy that shakes the wheel if you drift out of your lane. This makes for an altogether nicer drive. The car is pretty lively too, packing roughly the horsepower of a 1960s 3-litre Ford Zodiac, from a turbo-charged 1.4 litre engine - and in a car the size of a 1960s Escort. The good old days weren't that good when it comes to technology, eh?
The village seems to be waking up for summer, though day-time temperatures are inducing siestas in shuttered rooms. It was 39° when we got to the car in Avignon, and still 36° in Lagrasse at 18:00. We did our shopping early this morning, and if we go down to the market tomorrow that'll be early too.
Our neighbour André's house is shuttered up, and his name plate is no longer on the letter box. I hope he is being well looked after: after we helped him up after a fall a while back, we wondered how long he'd be able to cope on his own. Enquiries continue.
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