Beggar my neighbour.

From ferry to Le Trou Cachee, to market, and return to LTC to rearranging the layout – and all before lunchtime!  Just prior to my last departure I had cut all the grass (and weeds, and undergrowth) and so pitching my basha was of little hassle ( see above).  Why individuals use tents when such luxury is available beats me.  And the hawthorn tree and sweet chestnut are just the right distance apart; divine decadence.  I wonder how the planters knew.

The French, amongst their many redeeming features, have not wholeheartedly embraced technology.  On my last trip I popped into my bank to collect a new bank card, only to be told that it would not be available until the month in which it expired (August).  Why some French people pretend they don’t understand me using their language escapes me.  It happened when I dropped the bike when fully laden and it happened again in the bank – the young woman receptionist looked blankly at me and then hared off for an English speaking employee. I stood my tongue and he started searching, and searching… and searching.  Not only was it the last one at which he looked (naturally, if looking for the ace of spades and find it as the third card why look through the other 49?) but the last one in the box. Forearmed was not forewarned.

The household insurance is due; I had remembered the letter but not my French chequebook.  No matter, thought I, my new card will do.  That redeeming feature of the French – at least the woman in the insurance office didn’t look blankly.  Oh that her technology was more understanding.

In order to use the card she had to ring somewhere – but couldn’t connect.   Eventually I gave up and returned the next day.  On trying again; she got her connection – the amount was too much for my card.  I offered cash, she was not empowered to accept it.  Fortunately the English speaking cashier was in the bank (leave alone accent, my vocabulary, now building merchant efficient,  is sadly lacking for such tasks).  To avoid fraud I need to go online to obtain a once-only ‘virtual card.’  It is a redeeming feature of the French; aye, right.

For the second year running I have been able to return hospitality without revealing my lack of social graces, crockery and cutlery, or culinary skills.  With The Burlingtons as my erstwhile aides I did a barbeque (in the loosest interpretation of did) for a couple of local couples.  Ms. B. helped with buying and sorting, Mr. B. took over the cooking and the little Bs charmed the assembled.  If ever two young children did not deserve being called little Bs it is them; they are charming and lovely.  Being honorary family is great, even less responsibility than genetic grandad (and there’s not too much responsibility, even then)!

During the conversation one neighbour told the Bs of some local ruins (of a chateau, not less well received neighbours).  I had not thought to suggest it as a play spot; the Burlingtons are rough and tough to a fault.  What a cracking time we had there, with some new, striking wood carvings as well as the eternal attraction of tunnels, falling walls and overgrown moats.

On their ferry crossing the Burlingtons had won a family quiz, which resulted in a goody bag with all sorts of Brittany Ferries’ propaganda merchandise, including a pack of cards.  Having offered the big Bs a night of grown up fun whilst I babysat (and remembering last year’s sad let down when I thought to engage the next generation with board games and good old fashioned entertainment, to be cruelly abused by their insistence on me being quiet while they used various modern electronic toys) I actually managed to teach them Beggar My Neighbours, although I had originally learnt it as Beat Your Neighbours Out Of Doors. Old fool beats the odds and has a success headlines will adorn the front page of The Thunderer!  Now the slap of cards on the table drowns the tappety-tap of electronic keyboards; eyeshades will be supplied.  Ms. B the older is not so much competitive as merely needs to be the best,  Having shown me the three dimensional jigsaw which was also in the goody bag she then took a dislike as I completed it when she had not; I have, fortunately, redeemed myself.  I wonder if Newmarket is too close to gambling.  Also, she has now succeeded with the three dimensional jigsaw; phew.

On checking the welfare of the sloes I found that my favourite tree had been cruelly hacked to the ground; I presume the greedy, snidey, land-grabbing French farmers are to blame.  There will be more on my beggarly neighbours, much, much more.  May their crops fail to thrive, their tax scams be discovered and their tractors stall.

 

Ups and downs on non-tidal waterways.

Nature can be savage.  Once, some years ago, in Tanzania, I was told a story with savage humour.  There is a rule in the Serengeti National Park about not interfering with nature (Clarence, be resurrected!)  Unfortunately one guard did not understand the ramifications of the rule. Finding an abandoned lion cub he returned it to the pride: for his pains the mother savaged him.  On returning to work from his sick leave he was charged and imprisoned.

The Wee Mannie is having a new bathroom fitted and, thus, the old one ripped out.  His mum had issued an edict that the garage was to be cleared.  The coincidence of the two happenings meant a skip being delivered to his parents’ house.  The coincidence was reinforced by my neighbours painting their boat and, the success of the part papered ceiling (it was still defying gravity on my return to Le Trou Cachee); I am on a DIY roll of serendipity.  That, and a forthcoming winter adventure, meant urgently addressing some jobs!  And a trip to the skip.  And the risk of my deeply bred pikey habit meaning I returned with more than I deposited….  With only six scaffold boards (more a necessity than skip-diving) I consider myself maligned.

The old tarpaulins covering fore and aft decks have come to resemble camouflage netting rather than tarpaulins, so, off with the old (and in to the skip)!  Exploring the further reaches of the aft deck for the first time in quite some time I discovered the abandoned nest pictured above.  The more perceptive will notice a clutch of (what turned out to be very, very cold) eggs.  My neighbour told me of seeing a coot settle there but being scared off by a local cat ; nature can be savage.

An equal an opposite force is that the cat keeps the longtails at bay.  As actors will not say the name of ‘The Scottish Play,’ so fishermen from the Firth of Forth will not name the mammal which deserts sinking ships, but use the term ‘longtail’ for them.  Being of a non-superstitious persuasion I will say Macbeth and rats; touch wood nothing will happen.  A further equal and opposite force (which surely upsets the equation, making one side twice the other) is that ‘our’ resident swans have a clutch of seven cygnets, all surviving despite approaching puberty (the other picture).

It is mildly interesting (to some, at least) that different animals get different levels of press support:  Tories get good vibes from the whole Murdoch press; seals, which abuse their young horribly, get a good press; swans, which banish their young post puberty, get a good(ish) press.  Wasps, which only annoy the annoying, get a bad press.  Rats, which don’t smoke, drink alcohol or follow football, are used in laboratories to supposedly replicate human behaviour.  I wonder why researchers don’t use tigers.

Travails complete, it was Thursday, and time for Cropredy.  Cropredy, a village not far north of Banbury, was the scene of a battle during the English civil war but, far more relevant here, it is also the site of a medium sized, also civil, festival.  Originally it was a festival of folk-rock, now it is a somewhat more disparate gig; I suspect many of the original folk-rockers are now in their dotage and have forgotten the words.

I had thought to give it a miss this year – it is akin to The Archers, is so much the same each episode that the English bourgousie can rest happy that all is well with the world.  However, two mates, from different areas of my life, both go and we all seem to rub along well.  Unfortunately, the one who tents by my camper and I both thought the other was taking a tent, hence we had an amusing incident.  Halfords were selling rather nasty, single skinned, £10 tents so, with me meeting the Burlingtons in France shortly, it seemed a reasonable buy; their young kids could always use it in the garden as a play tent.

That night it poured with rain – and chum-in-tent got rather wet.  The next morning we popped out and bought a gazebo (similarly ridiculously cheap), which made for a double-skin – and it didn’t rain again, so the waterproofing worked!  JDGP has kept the gazebo.  Cap’n John was, meanwhile, ensconced in his narrow boat (and the arms of his partner).  The most interesting aside of the wet tent interlude was the cashier in Halfords asking if we had waterproofed the tent after buying it and before using it; when is a tent not a tent?  When it is criminal intent, as I saw the fraud to be.

Ever the quick change artiste, it was back from the festival, watch TOMA in a televised game, pack and off by bike to the ferry.  Ever able to plan ahead, I was there with at least five minutes to spare and then I slept the sleep of the just – just made it, that is.

Bats – or incipient dementia?

Several summers ago, whenever I spent a longish time at Le Trou Cachee, there would be pipistrelles hanging from the dark side of the shutters when I closed them.  In a Terry Pratchett sort of way it was mildly amusing to watch them blink, scratch themselves, sometimes fall off onto the flower beds, and eventually flutter out of the bright sunlight and towards the welcoming shade of my detached and overgrown plot across the way.  They, and the plethora of other wildlife more than compensates for the greedy, snidey, land-grabbing French farmers.

It was, therefore, with some sadness that I missed their furry little presence.  But, on the last trip, huzzah (and thrice huzzah) – there were sixteen of the wee creatures!  Oh,  simple  things really do give pleasure to simple minds; I was overjoyed.  It certainly made up for the overlong wait at Le Havre (brought about my own stupidity, I acknowledge)

The highs, lows and somewhere in betweens of sport have been leaping about this week.  Firstly TMA overcame a mental block and beat Chelsea – which earned a large and long overdue huzzah.  Then England had an overwhelming win against Australia at cricket, not something to which I usually give too much attention.  However, the rank jingoism which developed from the original humerous reaction to the Oz’ dephs of despair following their elation not two years ago at a reversed humiliation went from tolerably funny to old fashioned English, class-based superiority (in my, dog-in-the-manger opinion).  And then to cap it all, TMA reverted to TOMA and lost their opening game of the season.  There is no such thing as a certainty in sport.

One of the English superiority jokes fitted in quite well with my pipistrelles – what do you call an Australian who is good with a bat?  A vet.  Some of the others made me chuckle as well – there can be no denying our individual pasts.

On a happier note (I think), a chumess, knowing of my idea for an autumn adventure, recorded three programmes of Joanna Lumley travelling on the Trans-Siberian railway; at least, that was how it was advertised.  In actual fact it was, like so many similar programmes, the high-profile presenter posing in front of many idealised settings and meeting a selection of carefully chosen people.  It was instructional to see just how little of a travelogue travel such programmes have become.  It also helped me to decide to delay my start for a month; I now intend to set out in mid-October, just before the end of summer time.  That should aid booking, getting visas and not annoying the nurse at the travel clinic (as I have on previous occasions).

It may be senility; having written all the above in draft I then forgot to do anything else with it.  Having had too many adventures since to detail here (including returning to le Trou Cachee) I will close now – in time to catch the post – and write again soon.  Now who is overcome with excitement?

Kicks, at 66, are not high kicks

Time, my perfidious ally, messed me about on my return journey from Le Trou Cachee.  According to the AA route planner my journey should only take 3 hours something and be 60 odd miles further via Le Havre rather than Caen. As I tend to take 3 hours something for the shorter journey (and I needed to buy the chatelain’s loaf of bread) I left at a comparative silly o’clock – only to arrive at the port before the check-in had even opened.  Blessed are the travel toys; at least I wasn’t bored.

It was only on meeting my good French friend for a social evening a week later that I learnt that we had been on the same ferry!  As he and his family were tired following a long journey from Italy they retired to their cabin and didn’t join the hoipoloi, so we did not meet.  The crossing was a tad bumpy and one young man succumbed to the trials of the sea by throwing up in the cafe area.  The poor lad was bucket looking – a little pale – for the rest of the journey. The crew could have been more sprightly in dealing with the aftermath; I am sure that their takings were down.

Having various things to deliver to various people the camper lived up to its name; I slept in it at the end of the chatelain’s road.  He was surprised at my early arrival the following morning.  And so  Wednesday became a delivery day, as did Friday with a White Van Man day.  I had remotely arranged to spend the weekend with a son, using Jim’s van so that we could deliver son’s motor-bike to a repairer.  That was accomplished, as was slightly less than he had thought – but he was happy nonetheless.

With Monday becoming another WVM day it seemed an idea to meet some city dwelling chums for a social evening. Following that I had cunningly arranged yet another WVM on Tuesday but with an appreciably later start!

Monday’s WVM turned into another blue beret day; I had the same obscure lad as last blue beret day as one of two in the cab with me.  Tuesday was with the same sensible lad but the other was replaced by a corporate volunteer from Credit Suisse; a fine and pleasant woman who threw herself into the day with gusto.  Lucky gusto.

Once, in Snowdonia, some while ago, three of the Crisis Chums found ourselves in the Bryn Twrch.  We had two rounds complete but an hour to closing time.  The dilemma was: to start a third round but complete it the following evening, drag out that last pint for an hour, or guzzle a really piggy round; I leave it to your imagination, dear reader. It may (or possibly not) be a sign of eventual maturity – last night two of the three were again in a pub with a similar situation but we actually went for option 1!

Following my last entry, Barnie, a mate of Geo. who I now consider a good mate as well, has been in touch.  The Burlingtons – Geo’s family – have booked to visit Le Trou Cachee for a second time during my next visit.  In truth, I booked the crossing to coincide with them being there.  Geo. being a curt Celt had not quite explained in suitably simple terms what the idea was; fortunately, Barnie has explained all.  We shall be a merry crew, with Burlingtons in residence and me camping in the garden and then Barney and family also en plein air for a couple of days as well. After that I believe we may all head off to Barney et al’s house in the Pyrenean foothills.

Two visits ago my hiccuping neighbour had a friend stay nearby.  The friend asked my age, and when I replied 66 she made comment that Pyrenees- Orientales (from whence she came) was the French departement 66.  Barney and family also live in Pyrenees-Orientales, so 66 seems to be the order of the day.  With luck we will get our kicks.

In moving the non-running bike I thought that the handlebars felt comfortable, so slung my leg over it. Although my son has fallen out of pleasure with the bike I was exceedingly surprised at how comfortable it felt – especially as throwing my leg over both the current fleet, when they are loaded for touring, is becoming more and more laughable. No longer the carefree swing of a leg, now it is hold the bottom of my trousers, extend leg like an old fashioned knight with a lance and hop towards bike until able to slide into position.  Oh, the poisoned chalice of a multi-bike insurance policy, I just know what is going to happen…..  So much for nonconsumerism, so much for low green footprint.  We all have the hypocrite within, I contend.