Death, taxation and immortality

No philosophical musings on the first-mentioned pro tem, but the fact that we can take the tax discs off our windscreens from tomorrow prompts me to wonder whether govt is, as usual, missing the point.  The Vehicle Excise Duty (VED) started life as the Road Tax.  A brief sojourn on our roads more than demonstrates that that has long since since ceased to have any effect on the dreadful condition of our roads. (I'll save a rant on how the dismantling of British Railways has forced people into private cars for another time.)

The VED now involves an incredibly complex system of taxing vehicles according to their emissions.  I drive maybe 3000 miles a year in the UK, and pay the same as for a similar vehicle that drives 80000.  The obvious answer is to shut down the 'road tax' collection outfit and collect the tax in extra duty on fuel.  Government can excuse its vast expense on number plate recognition cameras by collecting the odd 'no insurance' fine.  The clincher is that in France, which has adopted the approach I advocate, diesel is 30% cheaper than in the UK.  (OK: I know - this has more to do with the truckers' lobby than economics, and I'd pay more tax on French fuel to get some of the trucks off the road.)

As for the last, lacking descendants, we can just apply ourselves to the garden.  Cuttings taken from cistus, penstemon, numerous potentillas and fuchsias seem to be happy, but it's early days.

Oh, and the duck is back.

Old haunts

We spent the last two nights of our latest trip at Le Roc, first meeting Annie and her friends Ruth and Roger in Le Louis Vins, which is a few steps from the door of Moissac Abbey.  I was last in the abbey cloister almost exactly 39 years ago, when I was boating with friends on the nearby Garonne lateral canal, and remember being blown away by the skill and beauty of the carvings of the capitals in the cloister.  I was no less impressed this time, and of course the experience was enhanced by Martyn being with me.  The town has improved a whole lot in the intervening decades, with good paving, pedestrian streets, smart floral displays and, of course, an impenetrable one-way system.  Good and inexpensive lunch, excellent company and surroundings.  We paused at Nobby's (E. Leclerc) just by the motorway entrance to refuel and to get the last items on the shopping list.

On the way, we paused on the perimeter of Toulouse airport in the hope of seeing one of the new A350 prototypes.  One of  them had been doing circuits and bumps there the day before: on Friday, there was neither hide nor hair of it.  Still, as a consolation prize, we got a close view of one of the Belugas landing.  (It might have been the same aircraft that I climbed over at the Zürich Flughafenfest in 1998, watching next day from my office window as it took off.  They are getting old now, but Airbus are being forced to make them work harder and harder as A350 production accelerates.  Rumours of an A330-based replacement are building up.)

At Le Roc, it was a familiar pattern of eating rather a lot and sipping pink wine on the terrace, enjoying the views across the valley of the Lysos.  On both evenings there were spectacular storms to the south-east, so my bathroom window may have been tested. 

We did manage to do a little more than sit enjoying les plaisirs de la table, eg visiting the market in Bazas, which is less manicured than Moissac, and which boasts a fine cathedral.  Architecturally a bit of a hotch-potch, the west front, which dominates the market square, starts gothic, rises to a 16th century rose window and culminates in a neo-classical gable.  We admired it over a suitable apéritif while waiting for the others to do the rounds of the market stalls.  Bazas too has a tortuous one-way system, of course.  Rick Stein fans will remember his buying beef from

Herbs and spices, Bazas market

the butcher in Bazas during his Atlantic-Mediterranean 'Odyssey'.  The region prides itself on the quality of its beef, and I've always been impressed by it too.  I just remember the same butcher selling us twice as much meat as we could comfortably eat at one sitting, and not cheaply.

Annie is in the process of buying out the other shareholder in Le Roc, the shared ownership having proved to be problematic from the earliest days.  The co-owner recently put it on the market (or rather, got Annie to undertake all the work involved).  The only offer having been very low, Annie and the other party have agreed a price, and the bureaucracy is slowly processing the deal.  The process of clearing out the remnants of the Previous Administration has begun: let us say just that there were one or two noticeable differences in tastes, and that the purge will fill a couple of skips.  Meanwhile, I did some running repairs on a couple of bits of cheap furniture that came with the house twenty years ago and will remain.

We woke early yesterday, as is so often the case before we travel.  (Just as well, because the battery on my useless mobile phone - my only alarm clock - had gone flat about as quickly as usual.)  We drove out just before 07:00 into thick fog, which stayed with us for the first ten or twelve dark, winding kilometres to the motorway.  Not nice after a poor night's sleep.  We had more fog from Saint-Jean d'Angély until just south of the Loire, and rain from time to time, some of it quite heavy. 

We'd opted for the Bordeaux-Tours-Le Mans-Rouen route this time.  One can decide at Tours whether to do that or Orléans-Paris.  Always hard to decide which to go for: the former route, if a little longer, is much quieter, and avoids both the crushing boredom of the Sologne and the cut and thrust of Paris.  It does, however entail the grind through Rouen and the busy, somewhat inferior A28.  You pays your money, and you takes your choice.  We were at the top of the hole more than two hours before our scheduled departure time, so were invited to go away, and wait for the excess 20 minutes in the holding car park.  (The back wall of the chiottes bears witness to the fact that they hadn't thought to unlock them.)  As we waited, we saw a few dark faces walking across the enclosure and hiding in a ditch, poor souls.  We kept the car doors locked.

On returning to check in, the machine offered us the departure we had originally booked, so we had a couple of hours to wait.  The departure terminal at Coquelles is mainly about over-priced liquor sales, hence not a lovely or useful place to be.  Fortunately it has a coffee shop from one of the big chains, so, fortified with big cups of mint tea bzw. cappucino, we retired to the car and the kindles.  Once we were on the Shuttle train, it did what's it's meant to, and after a couple of chapters of respective biography and whodunit, we were once again in daylight, and jostling with lunatics on the M20.  These days we go for the slower Biddenden-Goudhurst route, which is more direct, uses less fuel per mile, and helpfully brings one in via the M&S Express shop at the Blue Boys pub as was.  So, some fourteen hours after leaving Le Roc, we arrived home equipped with supper and breakfast.  That's our third complete aller-retour by road this year, and each time we wonder afterwards whether it would be easier to fly and rent.  But each time we undergo the airport and cheap flight experience, we have to wonder whether the long drive might be the lesser of two evils. 

One makes the effort

Just mentioned to the neighbours (they of the €8 electricity) that they should feel free to help themselves to the herbs out the front whenever they like.  Response: oh, if we want herbs, we go up into the garrigue, and in any case with all the dogs around here....  Enfin, bon.

Thunder, eh?

We'd been looking forward to lunch here yesterday with four friends from the Hérault.  In view of the forecast thundery rain all day, we took the decision on Monday to cancel rather than inflict on them three hours of driving in the rain on what is a pretty rotten motorway even in good conditions.  There was a spectacular storm in the early hours of Wednesday, but far enough to our north to be inaudible.  Towards dawn, the lightning was still flashing more or less constantly, but our sky was clear and starry. 

The weather during the day was fine and warm, dammit, so we could have had the planned lunch party after all.  Instead, we had our midday apéritif under the plane trees of the Promenade, and lunched quietly at home with a pleasant breeze from the open windows.  The other four in the planned party got together for lunch and a post-prandial walk in Bouzigues.  So absent friends were toasted in both places, as was the better health of Météo France.  We had our afternoon stroll à deux, calling on Beverly for a briefing on local matters.

But  it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good (or in this instance, a chronically sick weather forecast).  Vast amounts of laundry dried on the outside line on the roof terrace, which it wouldn't have had we left it until today, which is dull and drizzly.  In any case, floor scrubbing etc were sweaty enough activities for one day, so it's as well we broke the back of the laundry yesterday.  Forecast for this morning?  Thundery rain: wrong again. It has turned midday, and the sky is brightening.  In case the Clerk of the Weather is listening, this is not a complaint, merely an observation.

Auld age disnae come its lane

Joiner Chris having decreed that the new window on the terrace required three coats of varnish, and respective diaries being as they are, I've had the job of applying two of them, starting yesterday morning.  When I tried to get up after the contortions needed for the first of my two coats, my back suddenly reminded me of its weak spot, and has been doing so at every movement since: fortunately, it let up a bit after breakfast, so I've now applied the final coat.  I'm nevertheless hirpling around like 64 year-olds used to, and am not greatly enjoying the experience.

We nevertheless hirpled up to the Café de la Promenade for lunch just now.  Proprietor Thierry has pulled off something of a coup by hiring Bertrand, late of the good but relaxed L3 T3mps d3s Courg3s.  We ate there (the Prom caff) today for the first time in almost sixteen years in the village, and were pleasantly surprised.  Two generous plates of charcuterie, one grilled duck breast and a confit, each with suitable accompaniments (OK: industrial frites with the magret).  Puddings and 750ml of house rosé.  Bill under €50.  At last, a bonne adresse, and mercifully within hirpling distance.

A day in the hills

There aren't many roads in the Corbières and round about that we haven't used, but we found a couple
yesterday.  The main reason for the trip out was to go up to the Col de Pailhères (Ariège), a regular venue for the Tour de France, since the road rises to 2001 metres.  Starting from Ax-les-Termes (as we did yesterday) the climb is over 1000m.  I just can't imagine how a human body is capable of such exertion - I was tired enough driving it, with power steering and an automatic gearbox, and I was noticeably short of breath in the thin air at the top!

Col or Port de Pailhères, sheep and Haflingers

 To get there, we went up from Quillan and across the Plateau de Sault, which was at its most beautiful in the

clear air and sunshine, stopping for our sandwiches at the cross-country skiing centre at the Col de Chioula (a mere 1431m).  A herd of cows and calves was grazing in  the field nearby so we were serenaded by cow bells as we and they chomped our respective lunches.  The Col is pretty popular with bikers, many of whom leave club stickers on the sign!  It's also a favourite of ours, since the views of the mountains from the top are so fine.

Ever the intrepid navigator, Martyn chose an Interesting Road through the Fenouillède and up over the hills towards Bugarach.  Unfortunately, in Cubières-sur-Cinoble we acquired a slow and dithery driver in front of us (she had insisted on her priorité à droite) so Mr Navigator found yet another Interesting Road over to Laroque de Fa.  So, wot wiv the hairpins up and down the Plateau de Sault, the spectacular Pailhères road

and the two Interesting Roads in the Corbières, one's biceps got something of a work-out.  But the route did give us a chance to look at the south side of the Pic de Bugarach, which we usually admire from the north side near Bouisse.  The highest mountain in the Corbières, at 1230m, it's also known as the upside-down mountain, since the top is older than the bottom, having been heaved over when the Pyrenees were formed.

Not content with all this geology, we passed nearby a couple of Cathar castles we hadn't seen before, at Usson and Puilaurens. I'll see how I feel about them next time I have a canvas in front of me: Usson is semi-derelict and craggy; Puilaurens looks altogether quite well maintained, though in what state of authenticity, I know not.  Some odd things have been done to historic sites over the years: Carcassonne is a fine example: those conical roofs that give it its unique appearance date only from the 19th century.

One meets some hair-raising (or in my case, scalp-tingling) driving hereabouts.  This week's cactus goes to the young man in the burgundy Clio in Trèbes.  As he waited to turn left across the traffic at one of the most dangerous road junctions in France (which is not short of the same, goodness knows...) he was nattering away on a fluorescent yellow hand-held mobile phone.  A little later, he hurtled past us, at about 90 (in a 50 limit zone), crossing a solid line in the process, and of course still talking on his mobile.  I think it's the brazenness of it that shocks, as much as the lunatic risk-taking.  As I think I've observed before, there's never a gendarme around when you need one.

Weather

Drying out

We had a fair bit of it yesterday afternoon.  Storms were forecast, but this one hung around for a good hour, giving the streets a much needed wash down.  (Don't worry, though: the local dogs have been working overtime to restore it to normal.)   We encountered an unexpected footnote today at Carcassonne: we dropped in for lunch at the airport, and as we parked, Martyn noticed a Ryanair 737 on the apron with all its doors and emergency exit hatches open. We asked our waiter what the story was, and he told us that it had landed around the time of yesterday's storm, and the rain had been so heavy that it had flooded the interior, preventing it from taking off.  A number of chaps in Ryanair hi-visibility waistcoats were ambling between the Boeing and a nearby Manx-registered Learjet, which had presumably been sent to ferry them somewhere.  As we lunched, a technician jacked the Learjet up, removed a wheel and spent half an hour or so fiddling with the hub.  The wheel was on again and  the covers were off the engines when we left, but we guess it would have been quite a while before it was ready to fly.  The chapter of accidents may have caused some gnashing of teeth behind Mr O'Leary's desk.  

Nice bit of dumb insolence when the next Ryanair flight was waiting to leave.  The pilot of a little cabin monoplane  was cleared to take off before the Boeing.  Rather than turn left on the runway where he'd have had the thick end of 1500m available, he turned right and taxied calmly to the end of the runway, executed a slow and elegant full turn and proceeded to take off in about 400m.  The Boeing, which was already 20 minutes late leaving, stood on the apron for another 5 minutes, burning Mr O'Leary's precious kerosene. 

The new bathroom window seemed at first to withstand the onslaught of yesterday's storm.  Only later did I notice the familiar damp patches spreading over the plaster.  So, many months and thousands of Euros later, we may be home but we still aren't dry.