Like Ashes Rising From The Phoenix.

Alchie Annie, bless her little cotton socks, had been full of compassion for the wounded little soldier and even offered me a lift to market when she needed to go there herself, and do some shopping for me on another occasion.  But the jug containing the milk of human kindness has only a limited capacity…  The immediacy that is contained in her social problems outweighed her concerns for my well-being, as evinced by her moaning at me to clear the apples which had fallen in her garden from my contentious tree.  It was only after clearing up that i discovered her earlier cleansing operation – and a whole mass of rotting apples thrown into my garden (right by the only part in her garden where she can get to the fence):  At least, once bearded, she had the good grace to own up (after only the teensiest of prevarications).

Of a more pleasant but potentially more dangerous interest was the mushrooms.  In France the number of people killed by eating poisonous mushrooms is quite high, as is being shot by huntsmen:

I think these may be inkcaps but cannot be more accurate – and they are not all benign.  Even the exploded version left me unsure

and also gave a different perspective, in reality the cap was almost as long as the stem.

Pat and Trevor have a friend with a penchant for Russian women – he has only recently divorced one and barely escaped with house intact and has now imported another.  With my stravaiging across Siberia, twice and both times in the winter, I was invited to a lunch with all four of them – and a jolly time it was.  I almost messed things up at the off by saying good morning in Polish and Lena not recognising it but sort of dug myself out of the hole by chuntering on about her name being that of a river and dear old V.I’s nom de guerre translated as The Man From the Lena; I think that may have been a bit too close to a revised bit of history.  The day of the lunch was a foggy morn and with the tarmers having dressed their fields with something white it had a Siberian autumnal look about it.

Failing to adhere to the grand old adage of not discussing sex, religion or politics also got me a glazed over look from Charles.  SBD had joined me for the last few days and then Daff invited me, which became us, for dinner.  During the ebb and flow of the coversation Cyprus was mentioned – SBD’s father had been in the RAF and she was actually born at RAF Akrotiri – and Charles mentioned a Geography field trip there when he was at university.  I burbled on about EOKA, EOKA B and Black Mak (Archbishop Makarios) and Charles, looking nonplussed, pointed out that ihis subject had been Geography rather than Politics; each to his/her own.

It may be that I have found some evidence to support myself being the reincarnation of an alchemist – I have discovered the secret of eternal youth (God forbid, I am out of touch with the modern world now, let alone after another millenium).  With the arrival of SBD it showed that a young woman can raise the almost dead!  Before her arrival I had barely managed to hobble from the road barrier to the being renovated bridge – and there wasn’t much to see anyway:

Of much more interest was the foraging on the way back…

It may be my memory at fault or possibly that French sweet chestnuts have tougher husks but I could have done with some gloves – as I took when Trevor offered me the chance to forage more from under their trees.  Jolly Jonny Jeff is a lover of chestnuts and had begged me to take him some; he will be surprised at the sackful coming his way!

With a stroll along the New Year’s Day beach walk on one day and then a section of the Nantes-Brest Canal on the next I gave the offending limb a reasonable, albeit flat first workout without adverse reaction.  Comparing the French canal with the Grand Union I was at first lost by what the ‘gravestones’ represented

but it wasn’t a mystery for long (just 1,000 metres, as it turned out they are kilometre markers).  As we walked back on the other side a beautiful and quite large buzzard kept flying along the towpath, stopping evey hundred metres or so.  The road and footpath diverged, the bird followed the path, we took the road; the bird was wiser than us, the metalled road was rather boring.

Angles and light can change how an object is perceived, and dandering through the old quarter towards The Laughing Cutoms Officer I looked at the rocks which gave the town its name.  Never before had I seen what to me looked like a hag paying obeisance to a wizard:

SBD lives closer to Plymouth than Portsmouth so we returned via Roscoff; it made for an interesting comparison.  Brittany Ferries still insisted on treating me as in need of additional support (to my embarrassment but their credit) but for debarking it is  a free-for-all – and the Border Force seemed to be running on basic staffing levels.

Feeling that my knee was (almost) fully recovered we put it to the test by taking a stroll around Haytor on Dartmoor, which put an end to any ideas about continuing Hadrian’s Wall walk in the near future; the remaining inflamation is obviously still there for a reason.  Death is nature’s way of staying stop, pain is nature’s way of saying slow down and it said it loud enough to fight through my declining auditory powers.  Haytor is beside a former granite quarry and there is an interesting juxtaposition of old industrial waste and nature reclaiming its own, the lily pads contrasting nicely with the rusting winding gear.

SBD has wild camped beside the pool and it is one of her special places; the view across the pool shows wby:

Widecombe, of Fair fame, plays on the old song and I think I have discovered an error.  The pub sign has seven men on the old grey mare and there are indeed seven men named as riding her to the fair (and all dying on the way back); but the song is written in the first person – Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare… For I want to go for to Widecombe Fair WITH and then the seven names follow, so there should be eight; damned yokels, can’t even count to eight.  Perhaps that was why I was short changed…

 

 

 

Two hobbles forward, one elbboh (hobble back)

The road to recovery is never smooth, but it is a grand opportunity to be a participant observer.  I used to amuse students with my theory that all the football hooligans had packed up and long gone, leaving psychologists, sociologists, policemen, criminologists and news reporters with skinhead haircuts and big boots battling each other to prove their credentials to be on the terraces.  Participant observations have interesting ethical considerations (for those researchers with ethical codes, at least).

Being amongst people with long-term limited mobility I felt a bit of a fraud – but did discover one thing about which I had been wrong.  Whilst waiting for the ferry on many previous occasions I have sneered at one driver putting on his/her car’s hazard lights and then the next Y number following suit.  I have now learned that the flashing processsion are those in need of additional help and it is for the marshal’s guidance..

JJJ’s crutch allowed me to circumvent the stepladder job – I used the crutch to push up the loose bit of wood to facilitate me opening a window shutter rather than clambering and wobbling on high.  It reminded me of buying one of my sons’ godmothers a remote spider trap.  The trap was like a pooper-scooper on a long handle to allow arachnaphobic people to gather errant spiders from a safe distance and dispose of them humanely; she battered the poor things to death from afar, but she was pleased with it.

As my knee slowly recovers so I have become more exasperated; the inner adolescent has come out to play.  I want it better and I want it NOW!  I am getting fed up with sleep disturbed nights followed by somnolent days, especially as the sun has popped back north for a while.  Also, for a true idler I have surprised myself at my need for action.  With the sun and the camper coinciding I could be out playing in the inflatable rather than mooching about.  It was made worse by bumping in to Cariad John when I went to do a few SLJs – he had been out rowing with some others.

There are new toys in LRB, which are electric and thus positive, but thiry dibdobs plus per thirty minutes – so I may stay green and give them a miss!  Even inflating my own toys would be greener despite needing to recharge the pump each time.

Being hors de combat does mean that I have seen more of what happens locally.  Since the marais was professionally spring cleaned the council seem to have been shamed into bigger and better attempts to clean their bits and pieces:

What were scabby, falling down ditches are now closely cropped, neat gullies.  I have previously seen the whole road submerged, it will be interesting to see if this becomes a thing of the past.

Whilst dandering along Hadrian’s Wall my previous boots gave up the ghost (ibid) and I resorted to buying a horse bandage to reinforce the blister-inducing heel.  On the advice of a friend in the know I am now using the otherwise redundant bandage to support my ailing knee.  It is only as the swelling gently subsides that I realise how swollen it was – and the tidal nature of the discomfort, better one day, less good the next .  My description of at last being able to dry both feet after a shower had one chumess tittering in to her coffee – and, in truth, me as well; discomfort should not be a disbarment to humour and having to air dry one lower leg was mildly amusing.  It was a good job that the weather was clement enough to allow sandal wearing.

Having entertained a couple of Brit. neighbours on Wednesday evening there were enough leftovers to really obviate a trip to market on Thursday – but I didn’t want to be resonsible for the sun not rising and everybody in the southern hemisphere falling of the world as it stopped turning.  Whilst contemplating the river and the quirks and eddies of life Cathy rang; she was in town.  Le Pisse-Meme is open at lunchtime on market day and so we met for another Rosy Lee – and I met her part-time flatmate, Laurence.  She is a rather striking woman who I had noticed in the queue at the fishmonger’s.  It is only a small town, I am sure that we will meet again.  One  and of my gripes with soap operas is that too much happens to each character and that real life shares adventures out a bit more evenly.  Laurence is in a relationship with Silvie’s ex-husband; Silvie is the baker who has a stall at the market and where I often collect Cathy’s bread order; life, fiction, degrees of strangeness?

I hadn’t realsed that what the road running past LTC, which I thought  of as a country lane was, instead, a great big, throbbing major arterial route

The local council are undertaking some road repairs and the road closed signs start 16 kilometres (10 miles) away in one direction!

The traffic signs suggest two months or so to complete the repairs.  JoJo told me of the imminent improvements to the Rennes – Redon road ten or more years ago…  and that still isn’t finished.

People with injuries can get fixated on them to the total boredom of others so this is the least broadcast to include details of Madame Leghurts (it’s a bad pun I have stolen from the late Spike Milligan – my dam’ leg hurts).  I am now virtually pain free, virtually immobility free and able to potter about with neither trusty trekking pole nor Long John Silver inducing crutch.  The Organisey One sometimes (often) refers to me as a white haired old spaniel and Bob(!) extended the joke last year when she came across a mug decorated with spaniel sub-species.  As I drank some Rosy Lee from it this morning the thought came to me that there is a dog in the old life yet.

As I was gloating via WassUp with Arizona about my three week recovery when medics and other knowing interested parties had said six to eight weeks he replied that, “I was a machine.”  I hadn’t realised that I had passed on the irony gene; wee scunner.

 

 

 

Brittany Ferries 5 Star Service.

Rattus Rattess had decided against keeping the kiddy car seats recently made redundant by the growth of N,G amd O and given me a fairly blunt, collect them or they go to the dump option.  Hence I collected them on Sunday and, being out and about in the camper popped in to see Jolly Jonny Jeff – and came away two crutches the richer.  They have taken a lot of weight of my knee and I can feel the difference – but it is not conclusive as time may wll have been the healing factor.  God, old researchers can be so pedantic!  Of greater interest is that having a crutch and the correlation with talking in Poiratese!  Long John Silver, eat your heart out.

Esther, from WVM, had sent out a plea for extra staff on Monday so to cancel that one would have been unforgivable.  Ms. Ringing tried to send me out alone on the first of a two part route saying that the delivery went to a place where they always helped; she realised that she was on a loser on that one and gave me a very pleasant vanboy who had a deadline, so I dropped her off at the oxo and then took Waterford James for the second part.  SatNavs?  Pah and thrice pah!  Our last delivery was not quite where a map on my phone showed it to be.  A phone call to Wllm. didn’t help; the man in the park office couldn’t help.  After an hour or so hobbling round the park wherein (allegedly) lay our location I rang back and Wllm found someone who had been there before – People before Technology!

During the grand hobble Geo. rang; he seemed underimpressed that I was driving, loading and unloading a van.  For a roughty-toughty he can be a bit of a wimp at times.

Because of all the shananigans I was late meeting Liz, from Crisis volunteer to paid staff, as arranged but it was close to the head office so she didn’t waste her time.  As requested, she had checked on the book for this Midwinter Consumerfest opening; I tried the day after to no avail.  Alhumdulallah; it is Crisis.  After a mere five days the booking-in procedure had caught up with the promise; that is escape and evasion for the Midwinter Consumerfest arranged.

A young woman from Brittany Ferries had rung me as I had ticked a box for the discommoded but ambulant; I was offered a parking space close to the lift and a cabin similarly available.  The medic who suggested exercise didn’t reckon with WVM – my journey was far from comfortable; at least I used the cabin to full value, being woken by the 30 minutes to docking alarm.  JJJ’s crutches were an inspired thought of his, despite my exertions I am still managing to hobble about.  Having promised myself no undue exercise for a week or two I may have a small job that requires a step ladder, but i need only climb one or two steps and I can do that one step at a time, so keeping the damaged one straight…  Having made my bed I am content to lie on it; being an anti-social misanthrope does mean peace and tranquility but it also means a dearth of assistance even when it could be handy.

Alchie Annie took pity and offered to drive to the market on Thursday, an offer I accepted with alacrity.  Even the rather stolid, very Breton greengrocer told off a woman who accusd me of queue-jumping when I went back to his stall for an important, forgotten item.  I could get used to this coddling but think that  I will still stick with the misanthropy.  Limping be damned – I still managed to drive back later to use the WiFi station (bar) to watch TOMA’s latest escapade in Europe.  What a tangled web we weave when we practice to manipulate plebiscites.  How Europe can include Israel and former parts of the eastern Soviet Union I am not too sure.

For October the weather was unsesonably balmy but it couldn’t last and didn’t – Saturday was wet and dark and a definite why get up when you are well enough to stay in bed day.  Cathy had rang me on Friday evening, she had travelled up from Nantes to collect Lena for their week together but the latter had decided at the last moment that she preferred to stay with dad; a psychic massage was urgently required – followed by a couple of Jamesons and then some Calvados.  It wasn’t only the weather that made it a stay in bed morning.

As a farewell to the Indian summer the Breton sky showed sympathy with the auld alliance:

and presented a saltyre, (for those with a vivid imagination) not long before a Scottish politician on Question Time pointed out that Scotland had been denied a second vote on independence  just as the British were being denied an opportunity to comment on their exit from the EU (which Scotland as a nation had firmly rejected)..

Virginia Creeper may, I don’t know, get its name from the USian state but looking at the ones I have planted at LTC shows why I question the, “New England in the Farl,” mantra.  They may have the acreage but westen Europe can compete for colour – and October is the month of the chestnut locally.  Redon goes harvest happy for one of its most abundant crops, but more of that in later broadcasts, I am sure.  It was in New England a year ago that I realised that, for all my love of western Europe at this time of year, I had somehow managed to be absent since 2012 and promised myself to not go away this year.

The sun has very definitely gone south for the winter.  After it blowing a hooley and raining the proverbial on Sunday morning I watched TOMA playing at Craven Cottage and envied the players their attendant shadows; alhumdulallah, at least it was slightly brighter outside.