Erratum, te tum te tum te dum tedium

An eagle-eyed loyal reader has noticed une grande gaffe.  Two issues ago I described Dave Snooty’s wife as Spanish and ascribed his political ambitions to an attempt to escape that voice; obviously I meant Nick ‘party? What party’ Clegg as having married a Spanish woman.  That’s the trouble with these old Etonians, they all look the same, you just can’t tell one from another.  If I had my way we’d all vote for Nigel and send them all back home – no social security for Old Etonians!

Unlike the popular press, this virtually unknown blog carries apologies and erratum with as much prominence as the original article.  I could never be as brazen as Sepp Blatter, but I do have a sneaking doubt about the timing of the high-profile arrests of his henchmen/colleagues.  How often do high-profile arrests lead to low profile withdrawals?  Some years ago a ship sailing up river to the Pool of London was boarded by SBS and police units, £1,000,000s worth of illegal psychotropic substances were allegedly seized…… and then nothing.  I did hear an (unsubstantiated) story that the general cock-up afterwards lead to insufficient acceptable evidence being collated.  At least it beats conspiracy theories.

Similarly, my afternoon orgy of televised sport was one-sided.  First, ‘Sarries’ beat Bath at rugby (the proper version, not that silly one played oop narth).  Then TOMA shed the O and thrashed Aston Villa to win the English cup.  The area close to UK base is not a pleasant area on a Saturday evening so I withdrew my honourary Athletico Bilbao membership, and they slumped to defeat; sorry Bilbo.

Sarries is a colloquial name for Saracens, whose supporters show their open-minded attitude by sporting fez hats and having a camel as a mascot.  It’s all a bit like Old Etonians, you just can’t tell them apart.

It is the last day of May and, depending on how one measures the seasons, the last day of spring.  It is also cold and wet, which reminds me of the next big adventure; what is the weather in UlaanBaatar in October/November?  Just the question raises an image of thermals in my mind, and not of the type ridden by hang glider pilots.

Wisteria hysteria

It can never be said (it can, obviously, but would be untrue) that the Crisis Chums ever let the opportunity for robust humour (in its widest possible interpretation) go by.  After our trip to South Wales and an almost obsessive photographing of flowers by our roughtiest, toughtiest member all communications are now decorated with flora (not McDonald).  One, in the throws of one-upmanship, even used a picture of wild flowers and a bee!  How competitive we have all become.

In that vein it is now time to open another chapter in the history of ribaldry and barracking.  Imagine, if you can, a highly paid, bonussed banker making  a poor old-aged pensioner subsidise his road trip.  The cruel capitalist, not satisfied with Call Me Dave and Gideon George continuing their assault upon the working classess, actually felt that, whenever it was his turn to fill the car, he should do it sooner rather than later but, when that poor old pensioner was due to chip a bit off the ever diminishing , sole remaining piece of coal it should be when the poor car was gasping and sucking fumes from the bottom of the tank.  Unlike the car, which was in danger of stopping, this one is going to run and run – I can just feel it…..

As a retired member of the guild of talking therapists (the therapies were vocal, not the therapists verbose [although that was not necessarily true]) I felt capable of self-medicating to overcome the trauma.  On the Saturday of our return dhobi-doing, fish and chips (supplied by the guilty party, perhaps to mitigate his guilt feelings) and Guinness certainly helped (me, if not him).

The Sunday, which would have been a bit of a gallop, turned into a gentle jaunt.  One of my brothers had just passed that biblical mile-stone, three score years and ten and his family had arranged a party for him.  Some years ago they did similar for another birthday of his but held it on my birthday, this year their sums were wrong.  It was interesting seeing some of the same people – how quickly others age.  There were more wrinkles than on an elephant’s buttocks.

Radio four has a music quiz to which I sometimes listen.  A couple of years ago one contestant chose to answer questions on religious music.  As a fully paid up member of the Maoist, religion is poison/opium of the masses school I surprised myself then by how many of the questions I answered correctly – and the number of biblical references I use is testament to the power of propaganda; once beaten in, never forgotten.  The depth of the unconscious is all that Freud suggested.  I once explained parapraxes (Freudian slips) to a group of (adult) students with the story of the businessman hurrying to buy tickets to America for himself and a colleague.  The young saleswoman had a highly developed figure and he asked for two pickets to Titsburgh.  Perhaps it is a good job that I have retired.

Monday, a public holiday, was idyllic.  A friend is custodian of a Klepper collapsible canoe; they are incredibly expensive and are used by the Special Boat Squadron for waterborn skulduggery.  The person who is the link betwixt owner and custodian is one of those people who knows so much he has no need to ever ask, and definitely never to listen, should someone be stupid enough to offer advice.  On my first go I was surprised at how flexible the boat was – it seemed to bend with every ripple.  It seems that an inflatable tube on either side affects the rigidity, if only the fellow had known before.  Now, however, it is stable and thus a longish paddle and picnic – and none of the threatened showers made for a great way to pass the day.  There truly is nothing so fine as messing about on the river.

Both Tuesday and Wednesday were days of catching up with other friends and doing little jobs which interfere with those big chores that just seem to keep on the horizon and never get any closer to being started.  On Thursday a trip to Dulwich art gallery seemed to be a reasonable excuse (any one will do but this was particularly pleasant).  Dulwich having the type of resident that it does, people watching was more fun than painting watching.  Driving for White Van Man on Friday illuminated a particular coincidence; it rained.

That the British love to moan about and discuss the weather ad nauseum is an established belief.  That the British cannot cope with any weather is also a truism.  The snow is the wrong kind, autumn gales cause the wrong kind of dying leaves to fall and delay trains, and rain – heaven forbid – causes traffic jams!  Just as rain caused us to miss our train to France, rain caused an at most three hours of work to take seven hours.  Traffic reports on the van’s radio went from traffic jam to accident and back again; it was most galling.  With respect to my passenger, I chanted the Hare Krishna mantra but part of the therapy was overlooked.

Because of the outbreak of flower-power (a.k.a. wisteria hysteria) I was sorely tempted to adorn this broadcast with yet more but opted instead for a picture of the victorious TOMA from last year.  Should they fail to emulate their success it will be truly the F.A. Cup, for that is what they will have won.  Is it the Corinthian spirit or the Blatter-esque despotism, I ask – and answer, “it all depends on who wins.”

Up for the Cup

In the days before Sky TV changed the whole nature of British football the cup final was preceded by community singing, particularly Abide With Me.  The BBC always showed the match and the match day preamble included a video diary from the towns of the contesting teams, especially when one of them was an outsider.  Strangely, an appearance at Wembley had the same effect in Merthyr Tydfil or Mudflats-By-The-Sea as the European Song Contest in Slovenia.

With TOMA in the English cup final and the end of the season fast approaching a mini road trip  did have some distractions but, those notwithstanding, the Wee Mannie had suggested a quick scamper down to Malaga via the Channel Tunnel and the length of both France and Spain.  Having set off for Morocco when the camper was new to me I was aware of the magnitude of the trip but he was undaunted – and the chance to whizz about in his Porsche outweighed any better judgement I might have had.

Accordingly, on a wet and cold May Thursday afternoon I popped over to collect the Wee Mannie’s car.  As we were due to return on the Sunday morning ten days hence and I had an invitation to one of my brother’s poshish birthday do I took some poshish clothes.  As the day was so cold and wet I forget to take them out of my rucksack, so they will need a bit of a wash and brush up.  I once attended a wedding in Jalunder as the start to a three month trip around northern India, Nepal and Tibet.  My suit (made on a previous volunteering trip to Daramsala) was worn once but was my constant companion.  Is there a pattern forming?  One place I visited on that trip had an army camp where it was possible to be a paying guest in the officers’ mess if one had either a collar and tie or national dress.  Nestling in the bottom of my rucksack was the key – and I forgot; another opportunity missed, not that officers’ messes hold much appeal.

It was not only the clothing which went awry, the inclement weather meant that The Big Smoke was full of slow moving traffic which, in turn, meant that we missed our train under the channel.  Fortunately the British end of the tunnel allows for late arrival and thus we managed the first stage of our adventure, albeit arriving at our booked hotel in Amiens slightly after we intended.

Eleven hours of almost non-stop driving on Friday got us to Carcassonne, where we had booked an hotel with an amazing view of the old town.  Carcassonne is a town with a long and bloody history (connected with religion, by way of a change), which also was the target of a man who, with his wife and long dog, set sail from the UK in a narrow boat and wrote a subsequent book about the journey.  My late friend Erica, with whom I shared many a good giggle, a silly sense of humour, a love of cryptic crosswords and several years of summer schools, had a house there; it was a good place to visit.  We had decided during the embryonic stage to spend two nights there, so had a good explore. When we learnt that the town had fallen down and been rebuilt only a hundred or so years ago we were a tad disappointed – it seemed more Disney than Machu Pichu.  The best side effect was that the Wee Mannie changed his mind about Malaga and we decided to divert to Valencia as the most southerly point; this was still further south than my previous winter wandering, which only got as far as Taragona.

By another, but slightly more amenable, daft dash we arrived, found a good hotel – and an Irish bar which was showing Manchester United playing TOMA; that and a refreshing couple of pints of Guinness, grand.  As the son of Irish people, the Wee Mannie does have a mission regarding world travel and pints of Guinness.  Having given up on some of the marathon we had more time, and so had a day of sight-seeing in Valencia before heading up to Madrid. Valencia is a beautiful city with a lovely old quarter.

No wonder Dave Snooty wanted to be Prime Minister – Spanish people speak loudly and quickly.  The cabinet must be the only place he can get his own way.  As with most capital cities, Madrelinos speak more loudly, more quickly and with greater glass-shattering power than their compatriots; it is a fine old city for all that.  I feel for Call-Me-Dave if Samantha comes from Madrid.  My Latino Spanish was learnt ad hoc some 15 years ago – and has deteriorated.  It was mingled with Castilian, similarly learnt three years ago.  It made for an unhappy mix (unhappy for the locals, who could not follow what I was saying and unhappy for me, who asked for favours but got shown the door)!

Oh how the mighty are fallen.  My return from the Latino learning trip included a flightathon – to counter time zones, I worked out the actual time.  From entering Lima airport I finally walked out of Heathrow 26 hours later.  During a long wait in Bogata a large  group of (I think) Saga holidaymakers arrived for the same onward connection.  They had no courier and were also caught by Avianca, the Colombian airline, having cancelled its direct route to Heathrow, thus we had to go via Madrid.  Being on an organised trip they wanted a courier – and soon realised that I was an English speaking solo traveller.  Thus began the journey through hell.  Even when I went to the khazi I had an escort (and guards on the door).  At Madrid our onwards flight had been cancelled.  Imagine if you can, me speaking barely intelligible Spanish, with frequent interruptions from wrinklies asking what I was being told, trying to ask at information from a quick-fire speaking, heavily accented, short-tempered assistant (perhaps her temper was contagious, I was getting grumpy).  Even at Heathrow the Saga group asked which carousel their luggage would be on, despite me needing to look at the same information matrix as them!

One unfortunate aspect throughout the parts of Spain that we visited was the number of people (of all ages but often elderly) begging.  The low level of the Euro is propitious but it does make for a sad picture.  Even in the north, that wealthy area so coveted by Madrid governments, seems to be suffering.

The Basque people are proudly independent and even with the disgust which ETA attracted with some of their excesses, the flame of independence remains unquenched.  As Athletic Bilbao have reached the final of the Copa Del Rey the town resembled said Merthyr Tydfil before a (mythical) Wembley appearance; even the poshest of posh shops and hotels are sporting the colours.  Their opponents, as in their last appearance, six years ago, will be Barcelona (who won 4 – 1 then); the latter represented all that was rebellious during the Spanish Civil War – Catalunya suffered as did the Basques.  A previous visit to Geurnika had a sobering effect on me.  However, Barca blotted their collective copybooks when visiting Israel recently and, in effect, validating the apartheid/separation wall; on balance, I shall cheer Atletico.  It is also helped by the dual language effect – in Basque Bilbao is Bilbo and the wee hobbit was (is) a favourite of mine.

From Bilbao to Saumur, in the Loire valley, is a manageable day, allowing us a pleasant evening in the old town – set on an island between both halves of the larger town.  Saumur was a comfortable day’s drive from the coast with children in car and towing a trailer tent, thus it is a place which I have visited previously but explored a new part.

Saumur to Sangatte is also a comfortable day’s drive, thus we arrived with plenty of time to find accommodation for the night; only to be frustrated.  It was the public holiday of Pentecost, still celebrated in France, and thus the whole country was on the move.  From Le Touquet, via Boulogne, to the tunnel there was no room at any of the inns (to keep to a Christian theme), so we changed our booking and came back to the UK one night early.

There is a whole week of exciting things to do before next Saturday but that does look to be a sport on TV fest; the rugby Premiership play-off final, the F.A. Cup final (oh that TOMA do not end up with FA) and the Copa Del Rey (c’mon Atleeeeeeetico – as the locals would have it).  I may need correction for square eyes by Sunday.   Have the programme compilers conspired against me?

A wellie down Memory Lane

On my last trip to Le Trou Cache I had another example of the workings of the subliminal mind.  Whilst driving from there to the ferry port a crossword clue came to me.  The crossword in question was in the Maggie Out (i.e. marking her death in a  totally inappropriate way)  souvenir edition of Private Eye and was sitting back at Le Trou – partly because I had not finished the crossword and partly because I like the scurrilous nature of the magazine (particularly that edition).  By strange co-incidence, this time I left and, part way down the road, realised that I had forgotten the GoAm, amazing wee digital camera.  With a forthcoming walking weekend with the Crisis Chums and a mini road trip to France and Spain fast approaching it was quite a grand and significant forget.  Notwithstanding, it is strange what thoughts go through one’s head when scampering along on a motor-cycle at the speed limit (sic).

The fortunate part of the story was that I had to stop for coffee and petrol not far beyond the thought coming to me and it was only ten miles or so to return; the unfortunate part was that I looked everywhere bar the place where I had left it!  After some 30 – 40 miles back on the road, roughly where the crossword clue came to me I remembered it!  In the pocket of my motor bike jeans which I leave there, the one place I did not look.

All this huffing and puffing and I still made the ferry port with time for a moules frites before embarking – and time to grease the bike’s chain when it was nice and hot.  Another unfortunate incident was that the bike, fully laden, is quite heavy and difficult to put on the centre stand; this lead to me gently dropping it into a hedge.   Oddly, the Frenchmen smoking outside the cafe couldn’t understand my request for helping me lift the bike until an English speaking Frenchman arrived.  I explained again in French and the original people, without translation, came to help.  The bistro then closed and I had to go another, less pleasant restaurant. I do not like this other restaurant but continued regardless – and suffered for it; the night was a disturbed one.  The high winds were not only in the channel.

Finally I went to check-in – and discovered that a strike had caused the cancellation of the ferry. Recourse was either a drive to Calais (a long, cold, boring drive through the night) or to sleep on board the strikebound ferry and to drive to Cherbourg (a shorter, less boring but still chilly, drive in the morning); I chose the latter.  The lesser of the evils meant a 5.30am reveille and a long wait at the Cherbourg check-in.

Eventually back in The Big Smoke, I had to scamper about to catch up on time but did manage, and then RV’d with the two Crisis Chums, as arranged.  Perhaps because of the helter-skelter nature of the previous day (and the dodgy moules), I had a second consecutive troubled night and thus spent much of the journey to the Brecon Beacons fast asleep – an aberration for which I was teased mercilessly all weekend.

Merciless teasing apart, it was a fantastic weekend – a whole weekend in South Wales with no rain whilst walking!  On Saturday we wandered up Pen-Y-Fan, scene of the more roughty-toughty parts of the British army doing their roughty-toughtyest training, and Sunday a more gentle walk along a river valley with a waterfall under which one can walk as the return point.  At the waterfall there was a bunch of martial-arts adherents undertaking some strange ritual which culminated in them jumping into the pool. What with them, and people a-plenty canyoning, it was a bit like a trip to the council swimming pool.

To square the circle, I had a wee nap on the way back.  And then an early night in view of an early start for WVM on Monday morning.  Due to the camera hiccup the thousand word alternative is not an option until I finish the film and get it developed and printed.

Zeir muzzairs are ole amstairs

After last weekend being a bit of a road trip with added minor dramas Monday was WVMing.  The minor hiccups continued – I had originally been advised that it would be a single delivery, but later told that it would be two (in far apart areas of London).  Then, when I arrived, I was asked to do a totally different route, one of many deliveries. Having arranged to RV with some friends later nothing was lost – apart from some time checking on an idea for a big adventure in the autumn.  But another driver had a wee incident with a sandwich van which snuck in behind him as he went to reverse – and the man in charge had to deal with something else before my van could be got ready; thus my 9.30 start became 12.30.  My workmate was good company, however.  The evening was also pleasant – with the added bonus of a mate of a mate, who I have not seen for quite a while, popping in.  If only the staff would accede to requests for the music to be background rather than club level it would have been grand.

This all made Tuesday a bit of a scamper day.  The bike lights needed fixing, I needed to see the chatelain, and thus I set off having totally forgotten my wetties.  The ride to the ferry was dry but chilly – a stiff rum was called for before sleep.  Wednesday morning in France was similarly dry but chilly; a wee, warming, refreshing nap lasted rather longer than I had intended.  This is not a first – some years ago, with an old chumess as pillion, we had a similar occurrence but that was wet and cold (the journey, not her).  She caused raised eyebrows at a pit stop, with supermarket bags as overshoes.

Thursday is market day – and it was raining.  My bike clothing is allegedly waterproof and I had Dubbined my boots as a precaution; so much for theory.  It is now Sunday, I have not ridden since, and my boots and gloves are still damp.  Friday and Saturday, true to the forecast, had precipitation.  There were, however, sufficient breaks for me to cut some of the grass and, more importantly, plant  the wild garlic which I had brought with me.  As it spreads naturally I am hoping to establish a home for it beside the stream by the hedge around the back garden.  Bluebells also spread naturally but my attempts to establish them in the woods opposite have met with a degree of resistance. There is one, solitary flower in the back garden; from little acorns mighty oak trees grow.  We shall see.

There is, apparently, a local ordinance prohibiting running motors on a Sunday lunch-time, so, despite the rain stopping, I was unable too continue grass cutting.  However, the forecast is good for the rest of my time here. Notwithstanding, I am still going to buy some new wetties tomorrow.  Once soaked, twice shy.

French farmers seem to wield an inordinate amount of power – burning sheep carcasses is just one recent example of their way of protesting.  Their Breton counterparts seem  to be mad land-grabbers.  Jojo, who owned the farm next door when I bought the cottage, was an amiable rascal who appreciated me letting him use the water from my well (it is not drinkable anyway).  When he drank the profits and sold the farm Michel bought it – Michel with whom I eventually fell out because of his cavalier attitude to my other plot – it is a French thing to have country cottages with a detached piece of land.

Some years ago Michel killed himself – for other reasons beyond our spat – and his widow sold off some of the farm while renting out other parts.  I am unsure of the status of the farmer who works the fields beside my detached plot, but he is another scallywag.  Following Michel’s death Marie-Pierre, his widow, had someone put a fence along our common border.  Since then the fence has disappeared and more and more of my plot is going under the plough.  I think that between now and my next visit I need to make numerous copies of the official plan, laminate them, and affix them to posts delineating  the border; Frank, the new farmer, mentioned when we first met that he had been informed that I was keen on maintaining the border.  So much for that, then.

It is, perhaps, hypercritical as a Brit with holiday home to make negative comment about the number of Brits with holiday homes but they have burgeoned in the time that I have had Le Trou Cache.  Add to that, Madame Fleurie’s cottage having been sold and the new owner being not the easiest neighbour (troublesome adult children, an alcohol problem, fragile mental ill health and [worse, much worse) supports Tottenham), the hamlet is not what it was. There was one, wee porky in the description but I defy anyone to find it.

Having had my little rant it may now be apparent (at least to those who are au fait with Monty Python and the Holy Grail) the relevance of the title.  A French incomer recently complimented me on how my accent is coming on. Unfortunately, at the time I was doing my Inspector Clouseau impression. C’est la vie.