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…
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