“I Need To Install A Plugin…….”

This morning the Chinese cabinet was collected by Oakhaven Hospice staff.

I then spent most of the day attempting to improve access to categorised blog posts for my readers. This involved creating

Categories List

which I managed to do with the help of a Happiness Engineer.

My next step was to begin changing the categories of relevant posts from 10 years going back to 9th May 2012. I began with “Payback” from 21st May. Now, there is no point in using the Books in the list because you won’t find it there. Should you feel so inclined you will find it on the link above.

So why couldn’t I add it to the Books in the Categories list? After struggling with it again after lunch, I girded my loins and sought more Happiness in a chat with an Engineer.

A lengthy exchange, involving an amount of checking with the adviser’s team resulted in the somewhat reassuring statement that I had taken all the right steps. Less reassuring was that the hopeful bestower of Happiness didn’t know what was wrong.

The important aspect at this stage was that the frustration/panic ensuing from thinking I was at fault subsided into the necessary patience.

Ultimately the problem turned out to be in my Jetpack which had to be fixed at their end and would require more time. I was asked why I had not activated my Jetpack Backup. I replied that I didn’t know what it was. For some reason it was “greyed out”. I was asked to check whether I saw the same. I did. I am to expect an e-mail tomorrow.

Readers may be relieved to know that I didn’t ask if “I need to install a plugin on your site to activate something on your backend” would be painful.

This evening we dined on roast pork; sage and onion stuffing; Yorkshire pudding, carrots, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, and meaty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden, I drank Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon 2021, and Flo and Dillon drank fruit cordial.

An Oakhaven Hospice Donation

This morning I finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s ‘A Pale View of Hills’, and after lunch published

A Pale View Of Hills

Later, I carried out a dead-heading stint. Dillon came down to let me know he was ready to help me move the long low Chinese oak cabinet from the Safari Suite bedroom to our sitting room for collection by Oakhaven Hospice staff tomorrow.

We then discovered that, in his brief absence, Flo had moved it on her own.

All that was left for me was to empty it, find alternative places for its contents, including the ever increasing pile of items for other charity shops and our recycling bins,

and have it ready for tomorrow.

Elizabeth dropped in to give Flo and Dillon a booklet on the Hampshire Open Studios exhibition, to drink a cup of tea, and to eat a Tunnack’s tea cake.

This evening we dined on Tesco’s tasty Thai inspired Salmon and Cod fish cakes; Jackie’s flavoursome savoury rice; and peas and sweetcorn mix, with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden, I finished the Shiraz, Dillon drank Thatcher’s cider, and Flo drank Ribena.

A Pale View Of Hills

My copy of

is a 1982 first edition with jacket, of which this is an illustration, of the future Nobel Prize-winning author’s first novel, published by Faber & Faber.

I will do my best to adhere to my normal practice of revealing as little as possible of this somewhat enigmatic tale spanning time and continents after the, until now, most destructive bombing in world history.

We begin with the acknowledgedly unreliable memories of a bereaved mother who has left her Japanese home for England. Her narrative moves backwards and forwards from her 1980s to post-war dwelling. Are the Nagasaki-based mother and child of whom she speaks figures from reality or reflections of herself and her family? Is this a ghost story? Is it possible to leave all behind?

The changing lives and attitudes of the old and the new Japan and its generations is a key element of tension. Is it possible to begin again with fresh attitudes?

The literal and figurative wasteland is in itself a relevant character.

The writing is elegant and spare, although the author’s descriptive skills and somewhat longer sentences come to the fore in part two. Repetition of phrases in brief dialogue between people who don’t listen to each other and use smiling defence slows down the attentive reader and adds to the delicacy of the work.

The “pale view of hills” is seen by possibly lost pensive characters looking out from within their windows. What does this reveal to those who apparently have nothing to look forward to? Can recovery come in their lifetimes or must it wait for future generations.

A most thought-provoking short novel, albeit leaving me with considerable sadness, especially as the world appears to have learned nothing since 1945.

Keen To Chew Oak Cud

This afternoon I e-mailed a full set of yesterday’s dinner photographs to Becky. These included two more,

not posted yesterday, of herself and Flo taken by Jackie; and of her daughter with her grandparents taken by our daughter.

Later Jackie visited Ferndene Farm Shop, then took me on a short forest drive.

The preponderance of black foals outside Holmsley Campsite prompted speculation from a young woman to whom I spoke about how many had been sired by the same stallion. I mentioned that I had been told that the offspring of grey ponies never begin with their mother’s colouring although they may grow into it later.

Around the corner in Forest Road a cow, keen to chew oak cud, craned her neck to pull down a suitable branch.

Along Wilverley Road a posse of ponies played disrupt the traffic, while others grazed on greening grass. There a foal bore its mother’s colouring.

Later Jackie photographed a group of caterpillars sawing their way through the leaves of her variegated poplar in order to ask readers if anyone can identify them.

Yesterday evening Jackie’s Sampan dish was too hot for her so we ordered a Pasanda instead, and brought the hotter meal home for me this evening. I enjoyed it, served with Jackie’s omelette-topped savoury rice and a paratha. That, in football parlance, was a result. The others tucked into two types of prawn preparation instead. The Culinary Queen drank more of the French white wine; I drank more of the Shiraz; Dillon, Magner’s Cider, and Flo, a fruit drink.

Dinner at Spice Cottage

This afternoon I closed “A Knight’s Tale” with https://derrickjknight.com/2022/08/19/a-knights-tale-150-poetic-justice/

Later, Jackie drove the four of us to Spice Cottage at Westbourne where we met Becky and Ian to celebrate Becky’s birthday. The food and service was as excellent as ever – superb cooking; friendly, efficient staff; and a happy atmosphere. Kingfisher and Diet Coke were imbibed. When they discovered it was our daughter’s birthday the staff danced in singing and presented her with a chocolate dessert, which we all shared. Also passed round the table was Jackie’s camera with varying results.

These three, of Dillon, Ian, and me are acceptable, but I daren’t publish any of the others without permission.

A Knight’s Tale (150: Poetic Justice)

It was an e-mail from my friend, Brigitte who lived next door to my Sigoules house which alerted me to the fact that the house had been occupied the day after I left on 11th July.

After managing to remove the squatters and their clothing, their furniture and other material were still to go. After a few days I returned home, never to visit there again.

Mark Vick, the husband of the Estate Agent who was to sell the house, was engaged to supervise the removal.

My kitchen was filled with white goods and other items presumably belonging to the infiltrators.

Before I left for England on 2nd September, I turned off the electricity supply.

Late on the afternoon of the 12th, I received confirmation from Mark, who had supervised the process on my behalf, that almost everything belonging to the people who were living in my house had been removed that day. Exceptions were the contents of the cellar and an additional freezer that was in the kitchen. This was not mine, and I was unaware that it had been connected and filled with food. It had been lined up against a wall with other white goods, and couldn’t be accessed without moving the table. It was now crawling with maggots because I had disconnected the power and thrown the huge amount of food that had filled my own large fridge freezer into the local refuse dump. There seemed to be a certain poetic justice in this. Mark had turned the power back on to freeze down the contents. All these items were to be removed the next week, as indeed they were.

It was to be more than three years before a buyer was found. Although, after numerous delays and errors that held up the process, a completion date was set for 31st March 2018. I wasn’t even confident that this would be met – which turned out to have been sensible, because it didn’t happen.

The elements intervened. France had experienced even more rain than we have. Such weather makes the house a little vulnerable to an underground stream. For that reason an electric pump was installed in the cellar. A rounding off of my Sigoules residence which had begun with a far more serious flood before I took possession.

On 12th March the estate agent and buyer discovered that the cellar was flooded up to the fourth step, and that there was no electricity in the house.

The agent’s husband undertook to pump out the water. He used his own generator. The electricity company couldn’t investigate until after Easter. They established that there was a fault on the line outside the property. Needless to say, the insurers wriggled out of my claim.

There had been more rain. The fuses kept tripping. The power points in the cellar needed drying out. This was done with a hair dryer. On the evening of 5th ApriI I received the information that all was well and that completion would take place at 7 p.m. that day. This did happen.

There followed a barrage of e-mails from the male squatter and phone calls from the decorator who had allegedly been unpaid. This lasted for some weeks. I am not sure they were not in cahoots. I cannot be bothered to go into more detail.

Anyone who has been burgled will understand why I felt that No 6 rue Saint Jacques was contaminated, and never even went back to collect my belongings. I sold them with the house for a third of what I had paid for it.

Given that, since 9th May 2012, my WordPress blog has been a daily diary and we are now settled in comfortable twilight years in Hampshire’s New Forest, this seems an appropriate time to close the pages of “A Knight’s Tale”.

No-one Told The Ponies

This morning Jackie and I transported another car load of garden refuse to the recycling centre then continued into the forest for a short drive.

The Pilley Community Shop has moved along the road to the Community Centre.

Ponies, including a young one, are still congregating outside. It seems that no-one has told the animals.

What, we wonder is the attraction of brick walls to these creatures?

The recent rain has not added any water to the lake along

Jordan’s lane.

The still dry bed is surrounded by signs of early autumn,

although ponies on the level above find some nourishment as they blend with turning leaves.

This evening we dined on a variety of pizzas and fresh salad with which Jackie drank more of the French white wine, Flo and Dillon drank Ribena, and I drank more of the Shiraz.

Freshened Up

Before lunch I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/08/17/a-knights-tale-149-farewell-to-sigoules/

Afterwards Jackie and Dillon transported many of our bags of garden refuse to the recycling centre, just avoiding the heavy shower that descended and

refreshed the garden plants which I later photographed as a weak sun attempted to pierce the cloud cover.

Elizabeth visited bringing some garments for Flo. After a lengthy conversation between all five of us Jackie and my sister collected Mr. Pink’s fish and chips which we ate with pickled onions and cucumbers. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Elizabeth, Barossa Valley Shiraz, Flo and Dillon, Ribena, and I, La Virile Ferme white wine 2021.

A Knight’s Tale (149: Farewell To Sigoules)

On the morning of 29th August 2014, beginning with my bedroom, I started the task of reclaiming my rooms. I filled eleven black refuse bags with shoes and clothes from my boudoir, labelled them, and transported them to the hallway, along with the television and its various attachments.

Karen Vick, from Leggett estate Agency, came to view the property and set in motion the process for its sale. An Englishwoman, she had been recommended by Garry and Brigitte, and was a local councillor.

The two large walk-in cupboards in the attic had been filled with the occupiers’ property. Right at the back I found some of my own belongings from the sitting room, including ornaments that had belonged to my grandparents. They had been thrown higgledy piggledy into a broken cardboard box. Stuffed into a stiff paper carrier bag that was dirty inside, were my two raincoats. My books, at least, were still stacked neatly on a set of shelves as I had left them.

A broken bedside table had been dumped into one of the cupboards. Miraculously, my grandparents’ rather fragile tourist purchases from one of their trips to St Malo were undamaged. The same could not be said for a much more robust lidded pot that stood on my bedroom mantelpiece. That, a present I had given my parents many years before, had been smashed and tossed into a waste bin.

It is actually nowadays a physically painful operation for me to crawl about in a packed attic, attempting to avoid boxes, bags, and beams. I have a few scars from the heavy timbers which I sometimes nutted.

I can’t now remember where I found my underclothes and socks. Possibly with my shirts in a wardrobe in another room.

My toiletries, including electric toothbrush, razor, hairdryer, comb, etc., etc. were all missing.

The following morning, I continued the task of cleaning and tidying the house, and separating the intruders’ belongings from mine.

My friends in Le Code Bar were very supportive. Laurence, even though we had not met for a year, was most warm in hers.

The lowering evening sun cast a splendid light across the forecourt of the bar as I dined on magret of duck, chips, and salad, with sparkling Pellegrino to drink.

Before that, I had struggled to unblock the wash basin in the bathroom. This involved undoing the pipes underneath, draining off the water, and peering down the plughole which contained a perfectly fitting little round scent bottle. From beneath, I pushed it up and out with the handle of a wooden spoon.

The key to the letterbox on the wall outside had gone missing.

I think it was the next evening that I was visited by a decorator who claimed to have painted the house and not been paid for his work. There followed a very difficult exchange, not only because he spoke no English – only his own language with a strong local accent. He wanted his money. I maintained that his contract was with his employer and that wasn’t me. Not only that but I had no information about his work and he seemed unable to provide any.

The following afternoon I was visited by two local policemen, again without any English, who were asking for a woman who lived there. Eventually grasping that they sought the teenage daughter, I explained that this was my house and she didn’t live there any more. Brigitte later told me that there had been a fight in the street.

On the morning of 2nd September during my last walk around the village,

with flowers still blooming in the old cart resting in the grass around the community centre, I

discovered a wooded footpath I had not noticed before. Signed ‘rue de la Moulin Cave’, it ran along the backs of houses until it emerged on the outskirts of the village on the road to Bergerac. A stream accompanied it on the final stretch. Beyond this, stone steps led up to a private garden.

When I returned to the house, the female partner and one of the young men who had been occupying it, were waiting to collect their clothes and shoes. I helped them carry out the eleven bin bags, two travelling cases, and one briefcase. I also handed the woman a batch of letters I had managed to extract from the box on the wall outside.

Later, Brigitte drove me to Bergerac airport.

The saga was not yet quite complete.

Presenting The Albums

It is almost two months since last we saw a puddle in the gutter alongside our front drive.

After fairly steady rain for most of the morning one built up for a brief appearance (by midday it had drained away). Jackie just had to photograph

it with its raindrop rings; a lesser pool on the patio; further fountain ripples;

more precipitation on pelargoniums, petunias, begonias, hollyhocks and Hagley hybrid clematis.

I, in the meantime finished reading V. S. Naipaul’s ‘A Way in the World’ and, after lunch, posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/08/16/a-way-in-the-world/

This afternoon, dropping Flo and Dillon off in Lymington, we met Karen and Barry at the Community Centre where we handed them

their completed wedding albums. Jackie took these photographs.

Our friends gave us a thank you card bearing a fond message and a splendid picture someone else had produced of the confetti moment; with tokens for afternoon tea at Rosie Lea, which has become one of our favourite venues.

As we made our farewells Flo and Dillon rejoined us and we did some shopping in the town before returning home.

This evening we dined on a variety of flavoursome sausages; creamy mashed potatoes; firm carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli; cabbage fried with leaks, and tasty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden, I finished the Bordeaux, and Flo and Dillon drank Ribena.