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Bayko Building Sets

Driving up the A3 towards Chessington the car was buffeted; leaves, twigs, paper, and other debris were blown everywhere; potted garden plants were lying on their sides or rolling about; and some shrubs were down. The strong winds had not abated. Watching trees bending in the blast I wondered just how fierce had been the gales of a fortnight ago, when I was in France, to have felled enough trees to block roads and railway tracks in and around London. As will be evident from my post of 2nd. June entitled ‘The Great Storm’ I always, one way or another, seem to miss the big ones.

Our destination was the Chessington Garden Centre where Jackie bought some plants and equipment for Elizabeth’s garden. Having done so, she stayed behind for a coffee whilst I set off on foot along Fairoak Lane in the direction of Oxshot. As I left the building I noticed a number of people around a frail-looking elderly woman who had been helped into a wheelchair. The back of her head was covered in blood of which there was a pool on the car park tarmac. An ambulance was being awaited. The attendant directing traffic away from the scene said that the injured person had unaccountably collapsed. I found myself speculating that she had been blown over, and as I leant into the gusts along the wooded Fairoak Lane I thought that that had not been such a wild idea.

The wooded roadside was littered with broken branches and uprooted plants. In the fenced off wooded area surrounding Chessington Substation of the National Grid there were a number of fallen trees. I imagine these must have been casualties of the recent gale-force winds which had swept the area. Having passed the entrance to the electricity station I reached a made up road going through the wood uphill to the right. This freshly tarmacked path led to a much less well made road, the dust from which at times had the appearance of a sandstorm. My eyes and mouth were filled with grit, and when I stopped for a pee I made very sure I stayed downwind.

The shrieking of children told me that I was at the back of Chessington World of Adventure. I had, indeed, stumbled on what must have been an overflow car park. That oriented me to the road on which the Garden Centre was situated, and I returned there.

The vehicle in front of us as we left to go back to Links Avenue was an open-topped car whose only occupant was clinging with one hand on the end of her outstretched arm to a large pot containing a tall shrub which occupied the passenger seat. We couldn’t see her other hand but rather hoped it was on the steering wheel. As the plant teetered back and forth we kept our distance until she turned off.

En route to the A3 in the area off Grand Drive there are a number of what I call Bayko Building Set houses. These are usually bay fronted and follow the design of the Bayko houses of my childhood. I fondly imagine it is that way round rather than that the building sets replicated already extant houses. Jackie has the same memories and we both got as much pleasure from these as today’s children do from Lego. There must have been an overlap during the fifties between the two kits but Lego was clearly the winner. Maybe it was a health and safety issue. Bayko had a bakelite base drilled with holes into which thin metal rods were fitted vertically forming supports for the bricks which formed the houses. I doubt that Hamleys today could sell toys containing such parts. I seem to remember three colours; green for the base, doors and windows; red for roofs; and red and white for bricks. I think the older ones had brown bases. There were channels in the edges of the bricks into which the rods were aligned. You could make dream houses – especially those with the bay windows. This equipment was certainly around before the war and freely available post-war and throughout the 1950s. I could, I know have Googled this to check my facts, but it is important to me that my memory is exercised. Can anyone add to or correct what I have written?

We made an early evening visit to Becky in hospital, where she was looking really well, her usual lucid and amusing self. She was able to get in and out of bed, although at one point was stricken with considerable pain as she moved about. This required some liquid morphine which Becky said tasted like Bailey’s. She has no memory of her cardboard hat and will no doubt need Flo’s photograph to convince her. Everything she had been told leading up to and after surgery she was able to tell us. Apparently the surgeon described three options that were available and said he couldn’t be sure which would apply until he’d ‘gone in’. He wanted to know her preferences. She said ‘surprise me’.

Jackie’s beef casserole with a couple of glasses of Marques de Alarcon 2011 tempranillo/syrah completed the day

P.S. I am grateful to Jenny Pellet of Charactersfromthekitchen, a blog well worth visiting, for the link to this article from the Grimsby Telegraph:

DURING the 1930s plastic technology was in its infancy, writes Jeff Beedham.

Mr Charles Bird Plimpton (1893-1948) was a plastics engineer and inventor living in Liverpool.

In 1933 he had invented and patented Bayko “An improved constructional toy” made from a type of Bakelite.

By 1934 Bayko building sets were on sale in Britain’s shops, produced by Plimpton Engineering Ltd, Liverpool and Bakelite Ltd, Birmingham.

The concept was simple. A brown Bakelite base with a grid of holes at 3/8th of an inch, centres that accepted 1/16″ diameter steel rods of various lengths.

Bakelite brick tiles embossed with a brick bond pattern with grooves each side were then slotted between the upright rods, creating realistic walls.

Doors and windows of various widths could also be slotted in.

The original sets were in dark green Bakelite but by 1939 more realistic colours of red and white bricks, with green doors and windows in the latest Art Deco style, topped by red tiled roofs were adapted.

After the Second World War production resumed but in 1948 Charles Plimpton died, leaving his wife Audrey to run the business.

The Bayko building sets No’s 0 to No 6 and accessory sets were aimed at both girls and boys and marketed worldwide.

In 1959 Audrey Plimpton retired, selling the business to Meccano Ltd of Liverpool who since the 1930s had regularly advertised Bayko sets in the Meccano Magazine and sold them at approved Meccano dealers throughout the world.

Meccano modified and marketed Bayko until 1967.

I remember having a No 1 Bayko building set during the 1950s, but the thin steel rods and smaller brick tiles (a health and safety nightmare today) were prone to being sucked up by the Hoover.

In the early 1980s, when Gregory’s cycle and toy shop in Hainton Avenue closed down, I purchased several Bayko accessory outfits that had languished in the stockroom since the 1960s.

In recent years there has been a renewed interest in this constructional toy with a Bayko Collectors Club being formed.

There is currently a comprehensive exhibition of Bayko models in Liverpool Museum to celebrate the 80th anniversary of this forgotten toy that gave so much pleasure to generations of boys and girls.

The header picture is from a recent Etsy advertisement. I have been unable to insert it into the text without losing the text of the Grimsby Telegraph article above.

‘A Girl!’

In the ten days I had been away the streams in Morden Hall Park had swollen and the coot family were thriving. The roses were now in full bloom and groups of schoolchildren accompanied, I guessed, by intrepid teaching assistants were on a field trip. Those plumbing the depths of the fast-moving water were able to plunge their sticks in a bit deeper than the boy I had seen a while back assuring his Dad that it was ok to do what he was doing. As I did a turn round the Park the wind was blowing up a gale just as it had done almost 42 years ago the night Rebekah was born. Twigs were flying around like a disintegrating witches broomstick and rose petals were strewn around like confetti.

This could not have been more appropriate, since our daughter had been born in a thunderstorm. Insisting that she wanted another boy Jackie went into labour that August with the backdrop of a truly Gothic sky. Becky is the third of my children, but the first of the daughters whose births I witnessed. I still retain the image of that chubby, sleepy, head, with eyes clenched shut like a dormouse having been disturbed from hibernation, crowned with thick, black, damped down hair. Even more indelibly etched on my memory is her mother’s reaction to being told she had a little girl. When Jackie expresses joy her smile illuminates the room. She gave just such a dazzling smile on that occasion, but it is her voice which will ring in my ears as long as I live. Lingering ever so slightly, lovingly, over the last letter, ‘A girl!’, she cried. She had expressed a wish for another boy because she dared not hope for a girl.

That little girl has always been a determined, caring, and courageous decision maker. Perhaps it was consideration for her Dad that caused her to wait more than thirty years to change the spelling of her name to that which both she and Jackie preferred. I had registered the birth not realising that I had not spelt the name in the way her mother had wanted.

Whilst I was walking in the park Rebekah was on the operating table in St. George’s Hospital undergoing potentially life-enhancing treatment which is not without its risks. The spelling of her name had been a decision which changed her signature. Today’s implementation of a far more courageous one may change and extend her life. That is why my thoughts were of her, not of what I began this post with.

Jackie and I collected our granddaughter from school in Mitcham in a raging tempest and drove her to visit her mother in St. George’s Hospital, Tooting. By the time we arrived at the hospital the rain had ceased for the day, but the powerful wind continued so as to put the World Cup supporters’ flags flying from Mitcham’s bedroom windows seriously at risk.

A drugged and drowsy post-operative Becky largely dozed through our visit but still managed to display flashes of her trademark witty humour, such as fixing her mother with one eye when she disapproved of what had been said, or placing her small cardboard sick repository on her head as a makeshift hat. When a pharmacist with a foreign accent was trying to find out from the rest of us what, if any, medication she was on and whether she had any allergies she opened both eyes, removed her oxygen mask and pronounced something unpronounceable followed by ‘and no’, thus quite lucidly answering both questions. We stayed a couple of hours.

It was with relief and exhaustion that Jackie, Flo, and I ate at ‘The George’ on London Road, Morden. This is a Harvester pub offering perfectly good yet very cheap basic pub food offering a wide menu (largely grills, burgers and pasta) with a vast range of unlimited salad and dressings to which you help yourself, and similarly available bread rolls. Tetleys or Old Speckled Hen were the beers on offer, or you could have a variety of wines, juices, etc. Flo and I had fish and chips which neither of us could finish. My beverage was ‘the hen’. All this is served with friendliness and efficiency.

Busking On The Underground

Drinking a complimentary coffee in Le Code Bar prior to my departure for England I watched a ceremony on T.V. commemorating French soldiers killed in Afghanistan. David told me another had joined them. Why, oh, why do we not learn from history? How many more young military men and women (not to mention countless forgotten civilians) must be killed across the globe over issues that, in a short space of time, will be unresolved and unremembered except by those who have lost loved ones?

Leaving behind the first cloudless day in Sigoules, by means of Sandrine’s taxi to Bergerac; Flybe’s plane to Southampton; I don’t know who’s train to Waterloo; London Underground’s tube to Morden; and my feet to Links Avenue, I returned to a muggy Morden at least as warm as my French village.

Feeling rather travel-drowsy on crossing Waterloo Underground station I was revived by the sound of a very good guitarist playing at the bottom of the escalator. As long as I can remember there have been buskers operating in the London Underground system. For many years they were seen on their way by London Transport Police. Now, however, they can be allocated officially sponsored pitches. I don’t know how they qualify but it seems to me they have brightened up what can sometimes be a pretty drab experience and possibly improved security. I have heard pop and folk singers with voices; classical violinists, male and female; flautists; plenty of other guitarists; and a trumpeter, to name a few. Mind you, I have also heard singers without voices and fairly poor instrumentalists using electronic backing for their efforts. But they are now part of the system and in my view can only enhance it. Many of them, in mid melody are able to thank people for donations. Late one night at Leicester Square there was a deafening noise from an electronic system supporting some kind of rock group. This was not pleasant and I was pleased to get in the tube and away from it. They were also partially blocking a passage between two platforms, and certainly not on an officially recognised pitch. It was all rather aggressive and alarming. Maybe they were moved on.

Another unpleasant alternative is men (usually men) moving from carriage to carriage, having a few strums on the strings, passing round the hat, and moving on at the next stop.

The passages in the Underground, especially late at night or when there is no-one else about can be quite eerie places. It just may be that the presence of a busker could deter anyone from alarming behaviour and provide the lonely traveller with a sense that someone friendly is present or available. I well remember the very long tunnel at Finsbury Park which 20 years or so ago I used to frequent. This was quite scary, whatever the time, if no-one else was about, or even if they were. I don’t know how many official pitches there are, and suspect they are only at the most lucrative central London stations, but I wonder if there is a way of increasing them to everyone’s benefit? Probably not.

This evening Jackie and I ate at the Watch Me Sri Lankan restaurant described on 25th. May. It was good to have a curry again. You can’t generally get a decent curry in France, although I have found one in Bergerac. As has been seen in the last few posts, there are compensations.

The Tempest

13.6.12

My legs this morning took me to Cuneges and back, a feat my hip would not have allowed eighteen months ago. This was a long, hilly, walk, and although the weather was cool and overcast I soon raised a sweat. A couple of years ago I did part of this trip with Chris and Frances and Chris took a stunning landscape photograph of which I would have been proud.

On the approach to Lestignac I passed a bunch of bullocks which quickly lined up alongside their wire fence to watch me go by. I still have a photograph, taken in Cumbria many years ago by my friend Ali, in which I am sitting with a book in the garden, completely oblivious of the string of similarly stationed cattle reading over my shoulders.

Cuneges, a village larger than some, does, I knew, have a bar, but it was closed, so for refreshment I had to make do with the occasional light rain. It is home to a number of artisans, one of whom is a plumber whose services I was unfortunate enough to require at the very beginning of 2009. In December 2008, just a week after completion of my purchase of No. 6 rue Saint Jacques, S.W.France was hit by the greatest storm in living memory. The gales were even worse than those that buffeted the U.K. in October 1987. The consequence was that Maggie had had to telephone me to tell me that my recently acquired house had been flooded. The cellar was full of water and there were several inches of it in the ground floor. Multiple disaster had struck. The gales had thrust water under the French doors at the back, and the local underground stream had strayed into the cellar, completely filling it. Because of a three day power cut across the entire region the auxiliary generator installed for just this eventuality failed to function. The trapdoor into the cellar was swollen and had to be forced, breaking some of the tiles laid over it. To make matters worse the inferior plastic piping distributing water throughout the house had sprung a leak and burst. Now I have a copper system which cost a pretty penny. Maggie and Mike had managed to get emergency help to pump the place out, and obviously I had to come over to organise repair work. The house was freezing, damp, and full of soggy mats and plumbers. I stayed with Maggie and Mike.

Le Code Bar lunch today was kuskus with a delicious ‘three meats’ stew followed by profiteroles accompanied by a glass of red wine. After yesterday’s word play Frederick wanted to know if I was ‘satisfied this summer’.

The sun having slunk away for the day I consoled myself with Flaubert’s sublime prose and began Somerset Maugham’s ‘Catalina’. As usual the skies cleared in the evening.

I watched ‘Frost/Nixon’, an electrifying film about the series of interviews of Richard Nixon (Frank Langella) by David Frost (Michael Sheen) directed by Ron Howard and based on the stage play by Peter Morgan. Taking place in 1977 these led up to the final confrontation, perhaps the most devastating public political admission of my time. This episode finally put paid to Nixon’s hopes of a return to any sort of office, and revived the career that Frost had apparently thrown away by risking all on the project.

Jeux De Mots

12.6.12

The overnight rain having somewhat abated, I set off to do yesterday’s walk in reverse. Apart from offering variety, this provides a downhill return to the house. As the sun was making an effort the saturated stone pavement sparkled and the friendly roadsweeper was doing has best with the windblown debris. Sigoules was emerging from the storm so there were more people on the street. The rain had not quite given up, therefore raindrops glistened on the greenery and kept ‘falling on my head’, especially when the trees received a gust of wind. My M & S linen suit just about survived the trip but by the time I got back the sun had conceded defeat.

After my blog came lunch at Le Bar. I asked David who had dreamed up the title? He said he had. It had been a toss up between the one chosen and ‘The Parralel Bars’ as in gymnastics. We found we shared the pleasure of play on words. It gets better and better. I was tempted to finish this sentence with ‘innit?’ but thought better of it. Forswearing it completely was beyond me. (Couldn’t help myself, Jackie.)

Vegetable soup; then melon with delicious garlic sausage and a slice of salami which could cure my dislike of that meat where the fat is visible; a succulent melt-in-the-mouth pork casserole containing mushrooms and olives producing a delightful piquancy to follow. In serving me this Frederick said he knew I liked chips every day, but today it was rice. Would I like chips? I said I was happy with rice. What about ‘a piece of two’? I said rice was fine. I got ‘a piece of two’ delivered with a smile. One small glass of red wine sufficed. Yesterday, as I was paying the bill, David asked me if I were satisfied. To me it had sounded like ‘that summer’ and I produced my ‘English, don’t quite understand’ expression. We cleared that up today. I’d also introduced him to our cockney phrase ‘what’s the damage?’. He countered with the French version: ‘what’s the pain?’.

It being rather too damp to sit in the garden, I remained inside this afternoon. A lizard came in to visit me, realised its mistake, and scarpered. By early evening the weather seemed to have cleared up a bit so I decided to take Le Carre down to the fishing lake and sit for a while. As I closed the door the heavens opened and stair rods descended. After ten minutes this ceased and the sun enlivened the streams filling the gutters. Weighing up the odds I decided to stay put. By sunset there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

I finished ‘The Honourable Schoolboy’ this evening. This long novel was hailed in the 70s as Le Carre’s finest and the best spy story of his age. It is indeed an excellent book provided you can get through the first half. Despite our being, through the medium of cinema, familiar with the work of George Smiley I found section 1, effectively an introduction to the machinations of espionage, a little difficult to follow. After the action begins in the second part I could not put it down. Le Carre’s prose is flowing, elegant, and detailed and he has a flawless grasp of his chosen milieu.

I Could Not Lose

11.6.12.

Not only was my garden recliner still soggy inside this morning (it had looked dry so I sat on it to my regret) but also a bird had left a deposit on it. I was momentarily grateful that the cows I had seen yesterday do not fly.

Today I retraced yesterday’s steps, this time taking a side road to the left after the fork to Eymet, signposted ‘La Briaude’ . I had passed a field dotted with poppies and large daisies giving the effect of a pointillist painting. The cattle were still lying down. They knew what was coming.

The route to La Briaude, which itself turned out to be a small hamlet, was flanked by trees with a stream, no doubt replenished by the recent rain, flowing down one side. After the few houses I came to a T junction and, with my not impeccable sense of direction, turned left. In the distance, through a gap in the trees I soon saw the huge vats of Les Caves. This gave me some relief and after a while I reached the cemetery not far from my house. I now have a suitable circular route which I much prefer.

Just by the cemetery there is a large pond to which last spring Jackie and I had traced the source of a deafening rhythmic croaking which went on through the night. Upon investigation we found that the water was almost completely obscured by a writhing mass of mating amphibians.

Passing Le Code Bar on my way out I had been called over by Frederick and David to be introduced to the local baker and newsagent whom I knew and a Basque man I had met a couple of evenings ago. As always in these situations I focussed on the faces, not the names which I have consequently not retained. No doubt I will get another chance. Not understanding a word the Basque said took me back to the other night. The bar had, fortunately only for 20 minutes, had a power cut and Frederick had come to my house to see if I also had one. My electricity was uninterrupted and I suggested we contact the couple in the chateau between our two establishments. As the entrance to that building is in the town square I took Frederick round there explaining that he would have to do the talking because I couldn’t understand a word my very friendly neighbour said.

Lunch at Le Code Bar today consisted of egg-noodle soup; melon and a really good coarse pate (the only kind I like); succulent thick lean slices of beef cooked to order with chips; and most flavoursome strawberries. I drank just one glass of red wine. As I told him, David had been absolutely right to advise me to come at lunchtime.

This afternoon, until persuaded indoors by torrential rain, I made a start on weeding and clearing the small patio garden. This essentially means extracting the ubiquitous ragged robin which seems to have been the major beneficiary of last year’s composting; and doing battle with ivy. I don’t suppose the lizards were overjoyed, but they do have the place to themselves for most of the year. I then sat down with Flaubert and dozed off, which is hardly surprising since I don’t normally do lunch, especially not such as that provided by Le Bar. Suddenly siesta makes sense.

This evening’s viewing was of the England-France football match at the bar. It was a 1-1 draw, so honours were even. I am not particularly interested in football and these are now my two national teams so either way I couldn’t lose. Had it been Rugby that would have been quite different. The French don’t play cricket so no conflict would arise there, although I would be pretty partisan. It was the conservative politician Norman Tebbit who had claimed that the true test of an immigrant’s loyalty was which team they supported in a sporting contest. Don’t you believe it. In my 19 years in Nottinghamshire I never lost my allegiance to Surrey County Cricket Club. When my West Indian friend Frank, Rebekah and I used to go to Test Matches at Trent Bridge together, despite having spent his working life in England, if his compatriots were playing there was no doubt whose side he was on. Nevertheless he and I both maintained a loyalty to Nottinghamshire and England if the teams lodged in our hearts were not playing. When they reached retirement age Frank, his wife Pansy, her brother Joseph and his wife Liz all returned to Jamaica, where their roots were, despite having lived in England so long. Fortunately Liz and Joseph left their adult children, all born in England, behind, because their son Errol remained to marry Louisa, my youngest daughter.

Arranging the seating in Le Bar, David diplomatically placed me next to Val, an Englishwoman who, like me has a holiday home in the village which she visits sometimes alone and sometimes with family. She had not been in the bar before and, being by herself, had entered with some trepidation because she wanted to watch the football. After the match David asked me if I wanted to eat. I said, ‘What! After that lunch!’. Val went home ‘to cook [her] tea’ and I returned to Numero 6 to settle down with John Le Carre.

Wheelies On The Tarmac

10.6.12.

It rained during the night and throughout the morning, part of which I spent blogging in Le Code Bar. By noon, the deluge having subsided, I set off along the Eymet road via the Ste. Innocence fork. Cattle were lying down and the enormous white rabbit I had seen in a field last year was no longer in evidence. The dogs from the garden next to the retirement homes were clearly sheltering. Perhaps they were not mad enough to venture ‘out in[to] the midday [gloom]’. Nothing save the caws of distant rooks and the dismal ‘uni-ted’ of a solitary bachelor woodpigeon disturbed the silence of this soggy Sunday siesta period.

Ater half an hour I retraced my steps and by the time I re-entered Sigoules a weak sun was struggling to emerge as had a man quietly tending vines; and a young boy, with whom I exchanged ‘bonjour’, was doing wheelies on the tarmac. Nothing else was happening. Was the lad as bored as I would have been at his age on a lonely Sunday? Reflecting on the rainy weekends of a pre-television childhood I realise that the older one gets the less boredom there is in life. Not that we were always bored. Chris and I once made our own Monopoly set. This wasn’t a game to play with Grandma who would ‘accidentally’ upset the board when she was losing.

In the evening I watched ‘De L’eau pour les Elephants’ (Water for the Elephants). This is a very good story, beautifully filmed, set in a circus during the Great Depression. The stars are Reese Witherspoon, Robert Pattinson, and Christoph Waltz. In order to improve my understanding of French I watch films, either in the original or French versions with French subtitles. Although I can read the language quite well I have difficulty in grasping the spoken word, particularly when delivered at the normal rate. This doesn’t really work with fast-paced thrillers like ‘Unlimited’ which I watched last night, so something more romantic like this one is more helpful. Sub-titles, of course, are never literal translations, but I am at the stage where I can recognise the difference between what is said and what is written on the screen.

I slipped up on the catering front today. Those who follow the culinary codas to my posts may be amused to learn that today’s meal was two boiled eggs. I had not realised that Le Code Bar does not provide meals on Sundays and anyway closes at lunchtime. I suppose the staff do have to rest sometime. It was a privilege to be allowed to stay and finish my blog. Nothing else is open in Sigoules on the sabbath and the eggs were all I had in the fridge.

The Dordogne Chippy

9.6.12.

This morning I was collected by my long-term friends Maggie and Michael. For coffee we visited their friends Cath and Charles, ex-pats from the West Country, all of us continuing for a drive through changing countryside to the Agenais region.

Vines gave way to hazel and plum plantations.

Arriving at our destination, the imposing castle of Bonaguil, near Fumel, Maggie and Mike laid out a folding table and chairs brought by each of the couples and we sat by a stream consuming a splendid picnic. My friends always enjoy bringing their customary thoroughness to such events. We therefore lacked for nothing. We were able to contemplate the scary climb up the hill to the imposing fortress.

The gentle hills around Sigoules were nothing to the steep incline leading up to the towering edifice which had been 500 years in the making. My now tightening calves suffered a bit. Just before the French revolution the then chatelaine, Marguerite de Fumel, had died, thus possibly saving herself from the guillotine. After this turning point in history the place had been sacked and left to its ruin. According to the assistant in the mediaeval bookshop in the village, by the middle of the nineteenth century this splendid relic was concealed by trees and undergrowth and consequently forgotten until rediscovered by Philippe Lauzin, the author of one of the books I bought there.

Set in a cleft in the hillside and partially hewn through the rock; built of huge blocks of stone; with deep steps; and of gigantic proportions; I wondered how on earth men of lesser size than my 6’3″ frame managed to dash up and down wielding their weapons in defense of this impregnable fortress. And how could any invaders have scaled the cliff and protective walls? They must have been as nimble as the goats in Sigoules. Surely even Errol Flynn or Gerard Depardieu (in his younger days) would have struggled. William the Conqueror, who castellated England, must have modelled his plan on such a stronghold. We marvelled at the superb, straight as a die, round tower piercing the skies. And how did they get the stone up there? The walls of one of the rooms, now used as a conference centre, contains historic graffiti.

Returning to the present, we dropped Cath and Charles off at their home and repaired to Le Code Bar. Here, as on every Saturday night, The Dordogne Chippy had set up stall. The chippy is a travelling English fish and chip shop which featured in last year’s T.V. series ‘Little England’. Helen and Dave Mansfield have brought this slice of their culture to Aquitaine. The poisson-frites and mushy peas were excellent. The television programme had focussed on what I believe the French, perhaps not entirely in jest, call ‘The Invasion’. On our return journey we had stopped off at Monflanquin, one of the Bastide towns which are a feature of the area. Established in the 12th. and 13th. centuries, these ‘new’ towns, centred on an arcaded square, were built alternately by the French and the English, depending on who happened to be in charge. I’m not sure who built Eymet, but it has surely been ‘invaded’ by the English now. David and Frederick have certainly welcomed Helen and Dave, as they, and the rest of the village, have welcomed me.

In Monflanquin we had waited an age for lukewarm coffee, passable Earl Grey tea, and execrable ‘hot’ chocolate on which Michael had had to perform his favourite occupation, D-I-Y, from a packet of powder. We were invited to ask for more milk if necessary. When Maggie drained the little white jug revealing brown stains in rings round the bottom she wasn’t sure she wanted any. These beverages had been produced by a woman who, some time after we had placed our order, had hurried out of the house next door. I quipped that she had been summoned by telephone by the shopkeeper saying he had caught some customers. Maggie said the loos were no better. A far cry from Le Code Bar.

Le Code Bar

8.6.12.

Featuring similar countryside to that described in the last two posts, today’s walk took me to Sainte Innocence and back. To be able to climb these hills and look down on the fields and hamlets below is a blessing indeed. Especially with an artifical hip thanks to Mr. Marston, an excellent, personable surgeon at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington.

At the edge of Sigoules, close by the shops, there is now a block of retirement homes on a site which two years ago bore one farmhouse and a field of cattle. These residences are not labelled, as in England, with various versions of ‘homes for the elderly’. They bear the legend: ‘The future begins with us’. What the occupants make of the dogs in the garden next door which bark frenetically whenever anyone passes, I can only imagine.

As you enter Ste. Innocence there is a roadside shrine to Our Lady fronted by magnificent Arum lilies planted in a ditch fed by a measured trickle of water from a cistern. Their 12th. century church is locked. I had hoped to find a cafe, but although this small village runs to the said church and a town hall, there are no other public establishments. I was a bit parched when I got back.

This evening I used the Wi-Fi at Le Code Bar to send the last two days’ posts. It is, of course, mentioned in those missives. Now is the time for a fuller description. It is only a month since David and Frederick took over, renamed, and changed the face of what was La Renaissance. That establishment had been run by Joel and Nicole, an equally friendly, but more retiring couple. I believe they struggled because they are unable to keep the hours maintained by the current partnership, who are open all day and every evening seven days a week. They were perhaps less naturally gregarious than this new team. David spends much time chatting in a pleasantly unobtrusive way with the clientele. There is a lively, friendly, atmosphere and David and Frederick speak pretty good English. In Franglais we do rather well.

The name, incidentally, is a wordplay on ‘barcode’. A pool table upstairs attracts the younger element. The piped music is usually of French artistes performing English songs. Currently I am listening to a very good version of a Beatles collection. Perhaps the future begins with Le Bar Code.

The lunchtime menu offered by Joel and Nicole was excellent and took some matching. I believe it has been matched. This evening I began with classic French onion soup saved for me from midday, followed by a very good ham and egg salad. This was only the prelude to an enormous platter of chicken and chips which not even The Martin Cafe could have rivalled. Double-fried frites. Marvellous. In England the heart and liver are not included when you buy a bird to roast at home; I have often shredded and eaten the meat from the neck after boiling it up for stock; never have I had all three served up on a plate with a leg and part of the torso. Delicious. The chicken was not stuffed, but I was. I shouldn’t have finished the second basket of bread.

A Freudian Slip

6.6.12

I travelled this morning by cab to Southampton Airport for my flight to Bergerac where I was met by Sandrine who drove me to Sigoules. Sandrine, who speaks very good English, is the daughter of Lydie Semprez who is Taxi Eymetois. For three years now I have been driven to and fro by one or the other of these delightful women. I never know which of them will meet me, but they are always on time, and when it is not possible for either of them, Lydie’s husband occasionally obliges. When I pulled out my wallet to pay, Sandrine reminded me that I had paid in advance on my May trip because Lydie had had no change.

After opening up the house I walked to Pomport and back. This is a four mile round trip through hilly countryside comprising woods, fields, and vineyards. The roadside is full of wild flowers and at this time of the year is most verdant. On this overcast, yet warm and humid, afternoon the only creature I met with whom to hold a conversation was a donkey who shares his his long hillside habitation with a family of goats. Although he fell into step beside me and treated me to assinine utterances we didn’t get very far because I don’t understand his language and he didn’t understand mine.

There is a leisure centre at the bottom of the hill leading from Sigoules which has been derelict since I took possession in December 2008. There had been plans for renovation to take place the following summer, but I expect they fell foul of the credit crunch. However, there are signs of work in progress at last. Watch this space.

Further on, up the hill towards Pomport, by the roadside on the edge of a wood, is a memorial embossed: IN MEMORY OF SIRON AND LAMY SHOT BY GERMANS 23.4.1944. In front of the stone is a pot containing geraniums and sweet peas. I reflected that almost 70 years later I have a good life and their’s was cut short.

On my return journey Lydie drew up alongside me in her taxi. The first time she had driven past me had been rather different. In my mobile phone memory I have the numbers of three taxi firms; Bergerac, Sigoules, and Eymet. Early in 2009, not realising that Lydie is perfectly happy to start a journey from Sigoules, it seemed sensible to use the Sigoules firm. I duly made a booking by telephone. This was for Chris, Frances, and Elizabeth to be driven to Eymet. Setting off earlier, I was to walk and meet them all there. Just before the time due for the pick-up I received a phone call from a woman checking whether I wanted the trip from Eymet to Sigoules, or the other way round. A little puzzled, because the Sigoules company was run by a man, I said the journey was from Sigoules. Continuing on my way I soon noticed the Eymet taxi speeding in the direction of Sigoules.

I then had an alarming thought. Which company had I booked? Checking the calls in my mobile phone memory I discovered it was the Eymet firm. Panic then set in. I couldn’t phone Chris because there was no signal at the house. I imagined Lydie turning up at the empty property and my siblings walking up to the Sigoules taxi firm to ask where their transport was. To compound the problem, my family members did not speak French and Lydie had no English.

Consequently I had a very uncomfortable continuation of my walk. I needn’t have worried. They managed to communicate well enough and were soon beside me on the main road from Bergerac. We have not looked back since. Now, of course, Lydie and I know each other’s voices.

Today I began reading Dorothy L. Sayers’ ‘Whose Body?’

This evening the clouds had dissipated and I dined alfresco at Le Code Cafe, two doors away. At a table prepared for me by David, the proprietor, I enjoyed vermicelli soup, roast duck and frites, followed by a delicate pear flan, with half a carafe of red wine.

Afterwards I watched ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ on my laptop. This slow-paced under-stated film, directed by Tomas Alfredson, which nevertheless demanded, and held, undivided attention, was excellent. Gary Oldman as George Smiley, gained the plaudits, but no film featuring Kathy Burke, Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy, Ciaran Hinds, John Hurt, Roger Lloyd-Pack, and Mark Strong, could possibly go wrong.