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.