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.