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.