A Philosophical Journey

By coincidence, today I finished reading two works of philosophy.  These were Nietzsche’s ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ and Voltaire’s short story ‘Micromegas’.  Each, in their own way, put me in mind of Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’.  Voltaire’s piece was in the well-tried form of a philosophical journey, the device used in the English writer’s political allegory.  These two tales can be read simply as entertaining stories without understanding their deeper meaning.  Like most of us, I read of Gulliver’s adventures as a child without having a clue about their satirical political undertones.  Having no idea, half the time, what Nietzsche is on about, was for me a link with this sublime ignorance.

Never having read the German before, I am now clear about why he was so frowned upon by the Jesuits who educated me.  This man was no lover of God, and an implacable opponent of Christianity.  He doesn’t much seem to like humans either.  My Folio Society edition has been translated by Graham Parkes.  He has no doubt assisted in the ease with which one can, if not struggling too hard for fuller comprehension, read what must be the original flowing, yet experimental, prose.  I enjoyed the language and the style, if not the cynical sentiments.

I have not read the Avesta, scraps of which are all that remains of the writings of that ancient Persian mystic, Zarathustra, but it is evident that much of what Nietzsche puts into his mouth are the author’s own thoughts.  Unless that earlier teacher was able to see into the future he could not have known about ‘The Last Supper’ which Nietzsche chose to parody.

Illustration from Thus spoke Zarathrustra

Peter Suart’s illustrations skilfully  and approprately supplement the Folio edition.

‘God is dead’ for Nietzsche, yet not for Voltaire.  The Frenchman, in his short story, presents man as delusional, but demonstrates humour and sensitivity I find lacking in the German born writer.  The little tale seems to be, both literally and metaphorically, about cutting humanity down to size.  Two giants from other planets, on a journey pre-dating twentieth century space travel, seeking other life forms, land on a minuscule Earth peopled by ‘insects’ they need a microscope to view.  Discovering that they are dealing with men, they engage in discussions on such topics as the soul and warfare.  Voltaire, in debating the indefinable spirit introduces the views of other philosophers.  Interestingly, Nietzsche’s references mostly seem to be from the Bible.

Voltaire’s precursors of the ‘Star Trek’ crew find, on Earth, a boatload of philosophers and teachers who introduce the subject of war, through allusion to the Turko-Russian wars of the 1730s.  He writes a few simple sentences which should be rquired reading for world leaders throughout the globe.  One of the travellers demonstrates how it is possible to amend one’s pre-determined views by listening to reasoned argument.

This evening Maggie and Mike will collect me and drive me to Eymet for a meal at their home.  Gourmands who are hungry for information about the repast must starve until tomorrow.

To Honour Their Dead

Mo and John departed this morning for their rented house in Bourlens which we visited yesterday.  It has been a most convivial stay and I shall miss them.  However, Judith has warned me against squatters rights in France, so they had to go.

This being All Souls Day, and therefore a holiday, there was a brief flurry of activity until Carrefour closed at midday.  After this, all was tranquil as I found a new walk this afternoon.  Birds sang; there was a short-lived distant whirring of a solitary scooter; otherwise it was just me, one cow, and a few horses.

Landscape from Le Garonnet

Path from Le GaronnetAt the bottom of the steep slope of rue St Jacques I turned left at a no through road sign pointing to Le Gironnet.  Trusting that there may be a footpath at the end, I was not disappointed. Chateau Cluzeau This took me to the lower level of a sharply inclined road leading, on the left, to Chateau Cluzeau, whose vines lined the slopes.  Le Petit CluzeauAlongside this building there was a round towered modern one styled Le Petit Cluzeau.  As I had hoped, the road led me to Le Cluzeau College at the very summit of the other steep climb of rue St Jacques.  Les CluzeauxFrom there I could look down on the Chateau which was itself in an elevated position.

Horses with eyeshadesIn a field there were horses wearing eye-masks which I presumed must be protection against the irritating flies.  One rolled on the grass, seemingly attempting to dislodge other pests.  Rather like me scratching my back in the middle of the night against the corner of the bathroom wall.

Backlit gardenThe day, which had been rather War memorialCarmen's gravedull at the outset, had brightened by the time I returned to No 6.  Passing the war memorial, I noticed fresh pots of flowers.

For the last couple of days a marquee outside the florists had been doing a roaring trade in potted crysanthemums.  Cemetery, SigoulesThese are placed Bouquetbefore the graves in the cemetery which is a truly glorious sight.  The French do honour their dead.

Broken stemWalking around the splendid display, I noticed just one broken stem which I picked up and placed in a convenient bowl of water.

Gaston's graveFloral tributes 1Floral tributes 2Mo has left me with enough food to see me through to Monday.  I began today with her spicy pumpkin soup followed by her delicious chicken dish and a creme caramel.

Floral tributes 3As drops spattered on the canopy above my head outside Le Code Bar, which was, like everywhere else today, closed, a passing small child watching me at my blog, informed me that it was raining.Floral tributes 4  I thanked her graciously.

Earlier, a man had asked me where, in Sigoules, he could find a shop where kouskous was made on the premises.  Not understanding his question I told him the bar would be open at 7.30.  We had to start again, and I didn’t know anyway, so I wasn’t really much help.  He didn’t fancy waiting until the morning for Carrefour’s produce, nor did he wish to avail himself of my offer of some from my fridge.  Maybe because I said it had come from Carrefour.

Leona

Farmhouse strip
Memorial corner
Washing line
Butterfly
Pumpkin holes
Windfalls

Illuminated by a strong sun in a clear blue sky, the same paths I walked yesterday looked very different.  The dripping pegs now held a line of washing.  The pumpkins had been harvested; the windfalls seemed more palatable; and butterflies flitted among the vines.

John moving in at Bourlens

Today Moreen drove us to the marvellous house, built by Paul and his father-in-law from lessons taken from the internet, in which they are to spend their next six months.  Perched on a hilltop on the outskirts of Bourlens in Lot it offers wonderful views across sloping fields and woods.  The Bastide town of Tournon stands on neighbouring heights.

Haze from N21

Views either side of the winding route from Sigoules were shrowded in haze.

After carrying in some of my friends’ belongings in preparation for their move tomorrow, we lunched in the superb Le Beffrois restaurant in Tournon.  Our meal was an excellent salad followed by well grilled chicken kebabs and beautifully presented profiteroles.  We shared a full-bodied bottle of choice Cahors.

Le Beffrois bar

The bill was presented in a delightful manner.  A small hand stretched out from the side of the waitresses left lower limb.  Shyly sheltering behind her mother was a little girl of about four years old who could count in English.  This was Leona, who was soon to enter into an arrangement with John.  She is to teach him French and he will teach her English.  John and Mo will go there again.

Landscape from Tournon

After the meal we walked around the town, and looked down over the valley below.

I did, of course, fall asleep on the return journey, to awake as Mo drew up outside an antiques shop.  There my friends bought me a mirror of admirable quality to replace the bathroom one which has collapsed.  Unlike Michael Palin in ‘The Life of Brian’, John demonstrated admirable haggling qualities. This being their last night, we visited Le Code Bar.

That Champagne Moment

Mist over Sigoules

The mist that enshrowded a recently slumbering Sigoules rousing, stretching, and rubbing its eyes this morning augured as well as yesterday’s clear sky.  We were not disappointed.  We had a gloriously sunny day when Mo, John and I later ambled around Bergerac and did some shopping.

House in mist

Pegs and web in mistAs I walked up past Les Caves, from which, on our return from Bergerac, my friends chose some wine for a December wedding, I turned left along a simple road leading to rustic lanes I had not explored before. Yard with artefacts Shed with tractorThere I saw yards and sheds full of materials Pumpkinfor various farming activities, Windfallsallotments with, among others, some fine pumpkins, and windfall apples beneath a gnarled old fruit tree. Somewhat surprisingly I emerged from these, to me, ‘untrodden ways’ opposite the cemetery.  I spent most of the rest of the morning discussing the work with Saufiene, after which I and my two friends lunched at Le Code Bar on vegetable soup; stuffed eggs and pastrami; roast chicken complete with heart and liver; and pear flan, all prepared to perfection.  We shared a half carafe of red wine.

Then came that champagne moment.  When we returned to No 6, Saufiene greeted us with a puzzling question.  On my arrival two days ago, we had all shared a bottle of Metz champage.  Saufiene had immediately extracted the bottle from the fridge and placed it on the table.  John grabbed it and proceeded to open it.  We all enjoyed a couple of glasses.  Alex, who speaks no English sat in a corner rubbing his eye (into which he had scraped some grit) in discomfort and smiling when Saufiene or I translated.  Neither he nor Saufiene questioned John’s action.  Today, as we entered the house, Saufiene asked John: ‘Did you buy the last bottle of champagne?’.  The question puzzled us both.  I had to translate for John.  I knew the words, but I couldn’t understand the question.  ‘What last bottle?’  I asked. ‘The one we drank on Monday’, was the reply.  ‘Yes’, said John. By now, I hadn’t a clue what was going on.  Saufiene burst out laughing.

Champagne bottleThis lunchtime, Alex had found an identical bottle in the boot of Saufiene’s car.  He had been delegated to put it in the fridge on Monday.  Saufiene thought he had. John hadn’t realised Saufiene was supplying the champagne.  One Frenchman and one Englishman had had the same thoughts and the same taste in champagne.

Jackie and I, it seems, are soon to have our own champagne moment.  Yesterday she had told me that ‘The Old School House’ was a goner.  The owner had not replied to the agent’s e-mails and the father was insisting it be taken off the market.  She had therefore made an offer on The Old Post House.  Today the offer was accepted.  The Amity Grove House sale should be completed by Christmas.

As I wrote up this post in the bar this evening I managed to fall over backwards and do the chair ireparable damage.  Two young frienchmen hauled me to my feet.  I was unscathed.

Presents

Dawn over Sigoules

Filigreed leavesThe pastel shades of the marbled paper that was the dawn sky over Sigoules looked promising this morning.  I walked the La Briaude loop.  Filigreed leaves along the Eymet Road confronted the rising sun whose light gradually crept across the fields.

Birds sang, cocks crew, and hens cackled.  The enraged bellowing of a man seeming to occupy a house in the middle distance ceased as an anxious-looking woman drove up the winding road leading to it.

Field at dawnCabbages grown by the gardener I have often seen toiling away coolly glistened.  We exchanged greetings as I stepped into the now otherwise empty maize field to photograph his produce. Cabbages He had, as usual, nicked the edge of this land to sow his seeds.  Slugs were doing their utmost to produce filigreed greens.

Saufiene has said he likes to approach No 6 as if it were his own house.  I have told him to feel free.  The consequence is that I am receiving ‘presents’ over and above the contracted work.  Benoit is in the process of redesigning the garden to accommodate plants that can survive in the prevailing conditions with limited maintenance.  A long wooden table, chairs, and a parasol have appeared there.  CurtainHeaterAn extremely efficient and unobtrusive electric heater now stands in the fireplace of the sitting room which has new curtains.  Light in back passageTable coverMo just happened to bring a cover for the table that matches these and the bergere suite.  She has also donated a couple of attractive bowls.  A light has been fitted in the back passage.

SarlatLunch at Le Code Bar consisted of superb onion soup; avocado with a prawn dressing, coarse pate and cornichon; pork cheeks and rice; and profiteroles.  Mo, John, and I shared a half carafe of red wine.

This afternoon John drove Mo and me to Sarlat and back.  This is a most attractive town full of history and fascinating shops. Its church, although building commenced in the thirteenth century contains artefacts from its first conception in the eleventh.  It was a pleasant trip.

Getting There

Another glorious morning followed a stormy night.  We had a powercut and left early for the airport for my trip to Sigoules.  At least we would be able to get a coffee there.  This was just as well, for arnoreal obstacles made it difficult to leave Minstead.  A nuber of smaller branches littered the lanes.  As we passed Hazel Hill car park we were greeted by the sight of a van backing towards us, followed by by two cars facing forwards.Fallen tree in Seamans Lane  A large tree blocked the road ahead.  Jackie turned the car and tried the Bull Lane route.  This road is steep, narrow, and winding. Fallen tree in Bull Lane Near the bottom of the hill another tree stretched out its limbs as if to grasp us in its clutches.  There was no room for a three of even multiple point turn.  My chauffeuse had to reverse up the slope and round the bends.  Apart from anything else this was a painful process requiring her neck to be screwed backwards whilst gripping the steering wheel.  There was a fearful smell of burning coming from somewhere in or on the vehicle.  Jackie wound the windows down and sat and waited for a bit.  It cleared.

I had been unable to check in on line last night.  At the airport I was directed to the self service check in machines.  Naturally I had to ask the attendant to do it for me.  The macine could not read my passport.  I was told I had entered my name incorrectly when making the reservation.  Then I had to attend the check in desk.  The person told me there was no-one of my name booked in.  ‘Who made this reservation?’, I was asked in a disparaging tone.  ‘I did’, I replied.  Several times I pointed to my name, Derrick John Knight, on the print-out of my confirmation document.  The woman, puzzled, made several adjustments to her computer and eventually hande me my boarding pass.  She tore my print-out in half and threw it in the bin.  So far I had kept my cool.  It was when she told me that I should be more careful when making my booking on line that I became a wee bit shirty.  I insisted that she took my form out of the waste receptacle, as it contained the details of my return flight, and said I didn’t take it kindly to be told to be more careful.  She said I should have entered Knight first.  I was listed as Johnknight Derrick.  Clutching my boarding pass, I repaired to the bar where Jackie was waiting with coffee.  It was our first of the morning because we are all electric at home.

The passage through security was uneventful.  The Departure Lounge was packed.  Announcements were being made at regular intervals; children frolicked at high decibels; babies screamed; a disabled young man grunted incoherently; newspapers rustled; voices cried into mobile phones; young ladies applied make-up; a woman walked along rows of captive passengers proferring duty free brochures; WH Smith and food outlets profited from an unexpected increase in custom.  With all these distractions I was rather relieved that Nietzsche proved to be rather easier to read than I had anticipated.

Mitchell's big breakfastI partook of a Mitchell’s big breakfast which was rather good.  I was interrupted from enjoying this by a call from the compulsory property insurers reminding me of my obligation.  I had renewed this, with payment, on the phone last week.  On checking her computer the caller confirmed what I said and apologised.

I arrived at Bergerac an hour and a half late.  Getting there had presented certain difficulties. Saufiene accompanied John to come and collect me, and travelled back with us to show me the work done on the house. Alex, Moreen, John & Saufiene He treated us all to champagne.  There are so many surprises in No 6 that I am still noticing them late at night.  I will make a thorough report tomorrow.

John accompanied me to Le Code Bar for an aperitif and to meet David again.  We soon returned to a marvellous meal cooked by Mo.  This consisted of her succulent chicken dish with potatoes and aubergines.  We shared a bottle of Chateau de Monturon Sain-Emileon Grand cru 2011.

My friend Jessie coined today’s title many years ago.  Thanks, Jessie.

Michael Fish

I’m having a bit of fun looking back over the last eighteen months of blogging, and adding where appropriate some older photographs to the posts.  Today I went back thirty years in my archives add added three to ‘Reminiscing With Don’ of last August.

Albeit extremely blustery, it was a beautiful autumn day as we set out on a journey the Met Office had warned everyone against.  Leaves scampered across the sky like swifts riding thermals.  Indeed, as we drove to Mat and Tess’s we saw a number of birds seemingly doing just that.  When reading BBC News Jackie came across advice to ‘keep away from trees’.  She thought that given where we live that might be rather difficult.  Michael Fish was interviewed yesterday predicting that the current gales would not be as devastating as those of 1987.  Someone in charge was having a laugh. Mr. Fish, you see, is probably the best, indeed, for most people the only, known weather announcer of all time.  He famously broadcast a reassurance, in 1987, that the rumoured storm would not happen.  It did.  So if anything was likely to confirm fears of tonight’s tempest it would be putting Michael Fish on air to refute it.

Trees were already bending beside the A27, their foliage tapping on our windscreen seeking shelter within.  As the leaves rushed towards us they reminded me of the one scene in the 3D version of James Cameron’s ‘Avatar’ that made me flinch.  Boulders came flying out of the screen straight at the audience’s heads.

We were not to be deterred from our trip which was a belated birthday celebration for our daughter in law.  Jackie took a delicious apple and apricot crumble to follow Tess’s superb roast pork; roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips; Dauphinoise potatoes; leek and cabbage compote; apple sauce; and dark red wine gravy.  Red wines by Tess and me and various beers by Jackie and Matthew were consumed.  Tess liked the presents we had bought yesterday.

Tess in The Village Shop

After the meal we had coffee in The Village Shop so that we could see the new counter layout. The Village Shop Counter Every time we go the establishment seems even more inviting and attractive than the last.

The clocks were turned back an hour at two o’clock this morning, the end of British Summer Time.  This meant that it was already dark at 6 pm. when we set off back home.  Wet windscreenDark, wet, and windy.  At times the windscreen wipers could barely cope with the water that was thrown at it. Rain hammered down directly into it, splashed up on impact with the roads, and formed a fine spray spinning from the wheels of other cars.Wet windscreen 3 Wet windscreen 2 I don’t know how Jackie managed in the driving seat, but I found the wipers mesmerising as I seemed to be peering through a Jackson Pollock painting on glass.  The halo effect around traffic lights and car headlamps and taillights, coupled with the sparkling bits of twig cracking on the car gave the impression that November 5th was already upon us.

In fairness to Michael Fish, the gales, as I write have not reached the force of that October night 26 years ago.

£20

Maple, The Old Post House garden

We went on a driveabout today.  First stop was Sway Road, Bashley, to view Pemberton House.  This is beautifully built, individually well-designed, and spacious, with high ceilings.  There is good quality parquet flooring throughout.  The decorations and the gardens were just right for us.  But it is a 1950s building and, as such doesn’t appeal to our souls.  Diane, the very pleasant woman who owns the property, taught Richard, the agent, English at school.  Her profession caused her to have a very well integrated extension built for a study.  Housing my books would not be a problem.

By the time we moved on to Margery and Paul’s home near West End, rain had set in. This was a flying visit.  I handed Paul ‘The Bridesmaid’ framed picture and we left immediately for The Old Post House at Downton, pausing en route at the Cadnam Garden Centre for a birthday present.

Whilst waiting at the till we witnessed what for us was a new scam.  A man behind us with a strong Scouse accent thrust two £5 notes and a handful of coins under the nose of the person serving us and asked for a £20 note in exchange.  He was persistent in his request, but got no change out of the younger man who simply maintained that they were not allowed to comply with his request.  When the interloper wandered away in disgruntlement, our shop assistant explained that this was merely a distracting technique to facilitate theft from the till.  As we left the store, the Liverpudlian, still clutching his handful of currency, attempted to buttonhole Jackie on the subject of the young man’s unhelpfulness.  She simply said: ‘They are not allowed to do it’.  He shambled off, muttering.

On the A35 we became part of a convoy following a small car towing a fairground roundabout.  It wasn’t moving very fast.  Nevertheless, Jackie got us to the house on time.  Just.

The Old Post House from the garden

The Old Post House is sublime.  A former post office built in the 1930s it has plenty of space, plenty of rooms, and plenty of character set in an idyllic garden. The old Post House garden Intriguingly, the tall, elegant, middle-aged estate agent and the owner’s short, round, elderly, spaniel possessed an uncommon name in common.

The Old Post House garden 1

This house is preferable to any of the others we have seen except The Old School House.  We are now torn.  The Bisterne House may or may not have been taken off the market.  If we wait for a resolution on that, we may  lose this one.  If we plump for this and Bisterne is sold we may kick ourselves.  Decisions, decisions.

We bought a further gift in Brockenhurst on our way back home.

Helen tagged Jackie and me in one of the wedding photographs from 6th October, published on Facebook.  I impressed myself by successfully transferring it to my post of that day.

Her head spinning with the pros and cons of The Old School House vis a vis The Old Post House, Jackie nevertheless managed to produce an excellent baked gammon dish accompanied by leeks in cheese sauce and mashed potato.  Ratatouille (Jackie’s dish, not the eponymous rodent chef) provided piquancy and additional colour to brighten the otherwise symphony in white accompanying the dark salmon pink gammon.  Jackie drank some Hoegaarden, whilst I finished the Kumala.

……Twixt Cup And Lip

This morning, having read yesterday’s blog post, Jackie demonstrated that she has a broader recollection of our first date than I do. I was clearly so bedazzled by her that I only remember the ‘cannibal’ moment.  She, however, recalls the first occasion on which she had to hang around waiting for me to take photographs. Burghers of Calais001Burghers of Calais003 I had, you see, taken her to see the ‘Burghers of Calais’ on that day in February 1965. She experienced a certain compensation in having seen David Kernan, of ‘That Was The Week That Was’,  fame walking in the park.  She remembers tight white trousers.  Although I had, as stated yesterday, made the prints in the 1970s, it was the smitten young man I was almost fifty years ago who took the colour slides. Burghers of Calais002 There they were, correctly labelled, in the box from a decade earlier. Here they are now reproduced.

This afternoon we had an appointment with Elliot, the agent who had shown us The Old School House at Bisterne.  By now, we were so keen on that one that we didn’t really want to see today’s choice.  However, we thought it would be sensible.

Glenacre view

Glenacre in Thorney Hill in the heart of the New Forest, is in a setting to die for.  The view from the house takes in a field at the bottom of the garden which is a section of Glenacre’s land that has been sold off, but  accommodates the residents’ own horse. The only possible drawback is that the terrain is so hilly it would put my knees in jeopardy.  That, however, has been thoughtfully taken care of.  The older style bungalow with a very large footprint and wide doorways was designed for a resident in a wheelchair.  It has high ceilings and a double-ended wood burning stove.

Glenacre

We arrived early as usual, to see a Community Response Ambulance parked in the driveway.  We were still wondering whether there had been some kind of emergency when Elliot drove up and told us that the vehicle went with the owner’s job.

Glenacre 5

Our agent then gave us the news that the response of the resident at The Old Schoolhouse to being told they had a probable buyer, was to take the house off the market.  Given that it is his son who owns the property that may not be the last word, but it doesn’t augur well.  The Agency staff are all furious at this apparently inexplicable reaction, and have not given up on it yet.  Jackie and I have the experience to speculate about the cause of this stumbling block, but that should not be recorded in a blog.  We are less than optimistic, so are applying ourselves to looking elsewhere.Glenacre 3

Glenacre 2

Glenacre is something entirely different and would not push The Old Schoolhouse from the top spot, despite the height of its own position.    Glenacre 4However, we could live there.  Nevertheless, I made phone calls seeking appointments to view other properties, the first of which will be Sway Road, Bashley, tomorrow morning.

For those of my readers not familiar with the old adage from which today’s title is taken, its first phrase is: ‘There’s many a slip…..’.

Our evening meal was Jackie’s splendid chilli con carni made with our own chillies,and onion and mushroom wild rice.  I drank some Kumala Zenith 2012 which was certainly potable.

Lovelocks

Last night Jackie researched the history of Bisterne on the Internet.  Emma historian, in her blog featured this year’s Scarecrow Festival, photographing the exhibits as I did.  She had this to say about The Village Hall and The Old School House: ‘The Village Hall was built in 1840 to house the local school and is adjacent to a thatched building which was once the old schoolhouse.  Following its closure in 1946, the two buildings were given to Bisterne and Crow to be used as a Village Hall.’  In his 1958 article ‘Journeying through Bisterne’, Roy Hodges adds: ‘a picturesque cottage, once the home of the village schoolmistress when the hall was a school’ as a description of the house we viewed yesterday.

This afternoon Jackie drove me to Southampton Parkway for a London trip to visit Carol at her flat in Rochester Row.  If anything interesting happened on the journey I missed it because I slept most of the way.

Westminster Bridge

On this beautiful balmy Autumn day tourists, as usual thronged Westminster Bridge.  Some of them, perhaps, had indulged in leaving tokens of their love for each other in a less vandalising manner than is generally applied. Lovelock Locked in place on the supports for the handrails lining the steps leading up to the bridge were a row of tiny padlocks bearing the coupled lovers’ names.  I thought of them as lovelocks. Love seat Normal examples adorned a seat in Westminster Tower Gardens, alongside the Houses of Parliament. Grafitto on plant 3.04 Lovers in Barbados, as I discovered in 2004, use a less permanent platform on which to inscribe their names.  Thick succulent leaves sufficed for them.

My reason for entering the gardens as a slight diversion from my route to my friend’s flat had been once more to admire the work of Auguste Rodin.  That great French sculptor’s ‘Monument to The Burghers of Calais’ has always intrigued me, and sometime in the 1970s I had made a series of large black and white prints.  Had I been able to find the negatives this evening I would have illustrated this post with one.  So, why didn’t I use today’s photos?  You may well ask.  I didn’t take any.  Why not? Rodin poster Because the work was away on loan.  There is something elusive about Rodin for me.  When Julia Graham, one of my Area Manager colleagues in Westminster Social Services, about the time I was taking the aforementioned photographs, had asked me to bring her a poster back from the Musee Rodin in Paris, that establishment had been closed on the occasion of my visit.  I was able, on a subsequent trip, to rectify the situation, so maybe I’ll get to find my negatives.

In order to purchase the lifting of the siege of Calais by England’s Edward III, six burghers were willing to sacrifice their lives.  This is the theme of the dramatic sculptural group.  They were saved by the intervention of the English Queen, Philippa of Hainault. Richard Coeur de Lion The crowns of England and France were pretty interchangeable in those days, as exemplified by Richard, Coeur de Lion, featured two days ago.  Today, he still sits astride his horse, sword raised, about to send his motorised transport into battle from the Houses of Parliament car park.

Lambeth Palace

Lambeth Palace, which I would pass on the 507 bus back to Waterloo, stands on the opposite bank of the Thames, vying with the vast modern buildings alongside, the tallest of which blends with it rather well.

Dean's Yard

I walked through Dean’s Yard, where the ornamental trees were beginning to rival the splendour of the Parliamentary gilt in the background.

Jackie met me at Southampton after I made my usual journey back there, drove me home, and fed me with a superb sausage and bacon casserole followed by apple crumble, with which I finished the Kumala begun a few days ago.