derrickjknight

The Stepping Stone Community

Roger dropped Judith off for an early morning walk. We turned right at the cemetery and took the left fork at La Briaude, weaving our way to Mescoules. The landscape, largely seen from above, was enticing. At one point Judith slipped into a field, presumably to avail herself of the facilities. She may, possibly, have found it more convenient in Sigoules. Then again, maybe not.

Looking down on some distant cattle, my companion told me they were Acquitaine blondes. They blended in beautifully with the golden fields. We found we both had a penchant for photographing tapestry landscapes. A farm vehicle with a trailer clattered towards us at great speed. As we took refuge on the grass verge, no way was it going to slow down.

We wondered whether a rabbit bounding across a farmyard had been an escapee from hutches we saw in a smallholding which looked entirely self sufficient. It had a lovely garden, a pony, pig-pens, and tomatoes flourishing among vines across the road. The owners possessed the second beagle we had disturbed on our rambling, both of us equally relieved that each dog was securely fenced in. A roadside sign was slightly less scary than the one I’d seen yesterday.

Judith had pointed out a sign to Mescoules on our previous walk. To me it had seemed to lie in a totally different direction. Chris and Frances would vouch for this since I’d managed to get us lost trying to lead them to the vivarium a couple of years ago. Having walked through that village today, I was quite pleased that we were able to direct a car driver to it on our way back. Since she hadn’t pronounced the final S, I speculated that she was from Northern France.

As usual, my friend was good company, and made what turned out to be a ninety minute walk seem much shorter. Naturally we finished up with a drink at Le Code Bar whilst waiting for Roger to collect her. Incidentally, the reggae night starts at 9.30 on 18th. August. With 45 degrees on the garden thermometer I’m glad we went out early.

This afternoon I finished reading ‘Death in Holy Orders’ by P.D.James. This is an excellent book which transcends the mere detective story, with its comprehensive understanding of human nature. The action is set in a religious community. Ordinands and guests are free to eat when and where they like, except for the evening meal, when all are expected to attend this ‘unifying celebration of community life’. This reminded me of the early days of my friendship with Ann, Don’s late wife.

As an Area Manager of the inner city Social Services Department of Westminster, I was continually frustrated at the lack of provision for the care of older adolescents for whom we were responsible. One of my own clients went to live in the establishment Ann was managing in Chelsea. It had been her ambition to set up a community of her model for just the group of young people we could not adequately accommodate. Through my visiting my client I realised that, in Ann, we had a gem who should be encouraged. I therefore chaired a committee, assembled by Ann, which set up The Stepping Stone Community in Finsbury Park. We rented three houses from a Housing Association; staffed it with suitable carers, and opened it to young people aged 16-plus in their last two years in care. This was additional to my employed occupation. The unique element was the ‘normal adult’, one attached to each house. The idea was that these adults, all in work, were to provide a model for the young people. Adults and adolescents alike each had a bedsit. In exchange for their accommodation the adults were contracted to attend a house meal once a week. They and the other residents took turns in producing the fare. This organisation thrived for more than twenty years in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. Unfortunately, because of the growing reluctance of Local Authorities to fund such agencies, we began to struggle financially. For our last five years our treasurer and I kept us afloat with personal bank guarantees. This was beginning to worry us. We therefore approached another child care agency, The Thomas Coram Foundation, seeking a merger. The Foundation had an infrastructure we couldn’t match, having benefitted from the legacy of a wealthy eighteenth century merchant. This included many valuable works of art. They welcomed our suggestion. I chaired the merger group, and eventually the long-established agency took over our project with a promise to honour its values. It is greatly to Ann’s credit that members of all sections of Stepping Stone, last year, travelled to Bungay to attend her funeral, paying tribute to how she had changed their lives.

Today was completed with chicken and chips in the square, with Stella from Le Bar. I was in the company of a Welsh family consisting of Emma, Phil, Ken, Ben and Kaylie, and baby Jessica. They were staying in the house belonging to Val, who I had met watching the England/France football match earlier in the year. She had told them they would find me in the bar. I most definitely claim I wasn’t there, but David directed them to me.

A Close Encounter

Apart from one slightly alarming stretch, I found an attractive and varied route today. Walking out on the Monbos road to the signpost on the road to Thenac, I followed a loop into Sigoules which turned out to be a ramblers’ footpath much more welcoming than many of those in England. Posts bearing a yellow ring, and a wide mown path clearly marked the way. In the UK you often have to mount rickety stiles, and are likely to meet cattle or crops in a field which has no clear passage through it. Naked ramblers have been known to take to these paths in protest. I was rather relieved that I wasn’t likely to come across any such unattractive specimens here.

On the way out of Sigoules a young man was trimming the hedgerows with a long-bladed powered instrument. The football pitch was being watered with a sprinkler. A racing cyclist sped past. A tractor driver dismounted to adjust his load. A cock provided a clarion brightening the rhythmic plaint of a sombre bachelor woodpigeon. An occasional bee provided the drone, and crickets clacked constant castanets. As Bergerac has just had a flamenco festival, I half expected Spanish dancers to come round the next bend.

Higher up the hill and alongside the slopes overlooking the fields and hamlets below, all was pretty well silent. On this somnolent morning the dominant sound up there was the regular rustling of my footsteps on the recently mown coarse grass. Grasshoppers leaping about reminded me of those Chris and I had collected in our childhood. We enjoyed trotting out with jamjars into which to entrap all kinds of poor creatures. We weren’t knowingly cruel, for we always included a lettuce leaf or other greenery for food, and pierced holes in the lids. In my fifth year, staying with our grandparents in Durham, it had been caterpillars that got the treatment. When we dropped the jar in one of the corridors of the house, Grandma wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the sight of a carpet of crawling grubs fleeing grasping little fingers.

The ramblers’ walk began with the welcoming shade of a wood with private hunting grounds on the left and open fields to the right. Apart from a fairly isolated hamlet and one minor road to cross, the rest was through fields of fenced-in cattle and open vineyards. On a mound at the edge of the wood perched an ancient circular tower. For collecting water?

Slowly descending, I came to a few houses, one of which seemed to be involved in market gardening, with the inevitable vines. The area was littered with farm machinery from various ages, none of which I could identify. Then I saw the notice. Since it was rather faded and I could see no boundary fences whatever, I speculated that it might be a relic of the past. I didn’t really convince myself, so I thought I’d better keep my eyes open. The sign said: ‘Beware of the dog’. Round the next bend it was my ears which alerted me to the canine presence. Following a ferocious yapping, a small terrier shot out of a yard. Simultaneously noticing a dead rat, I thought I’d better be careful. Out flew a second. Dog, not dead rat. Then another. With three terriers vociferously encircling my ankles, just no doubt to add piquancy, out ambled a young Alsation (dog, not person), soon to join in the furore. ‘Just keep going. Don’t act scared’, I told myself, desperately trying to keep my pheronomes in check. Difficult to do when fur is brushing your legs and scratching the mosquito bites which you hope are going to be the only kind you’ll receive this trip. I have to admit I did slacken my pace a little. From behind some bushes a voice called out to the dogs. Rather hopefully, I uttered ‘Bonjour.’ No reply. Eventually I discerned a very elderly, very bent, gentleman who said something to me I couldn’t decipher. As he was grinning, I waved and passed on. Phew! Given that there were four dogs, I considered that the notice had been sneakily misleading.

Eventually I could see the whole of Sigoules laid out to the right, and walked down the edge of a fallow field, emerging by the fishing lake. The church clock chimed noon as I entered rue St. Jacques.

This evening’s fare at Le Code Bar was Calzone and salad followed by chocolate mousse. A couple of glasses of rose complimented it.

A Commercial Break

Last night Don and I listened to a CD he had brought me. This is a recording made in a Suffolk pub of what probably constitutes several folk/jazz jam sessions. The Green Dragon in Bungay is also one of Suffolk’s 50 plus microbreweries, that is, they brew their own beer out the back. The proprietors played host to the musicians and now market the product. Knowing he was dying of cancer, the lead singer, Ken Millie, got together this very professional group to produce an excellent recording. Those of you who are partial to Jammy Dodgers (an English biscuit), might appreciate the wordplay in the name of the ensemble. The instrumentalists are all superb, and Ken’s voice is strong and intriguing. New and familiar numbers include Daddy Rollin Stone, Born on The Bayou, Take Me to The River, and even Get Off My Cloud. There is nothing amateur about this production, and the accoustics belie its setting. Everyone involved gave their services free, the proceeds all being dedicated to the Big C Charity. Ken, sadly, did not live to see the result. So, if you fancy a pint of real ale and a CD of brilliant music, and wish to support cancer sufferers and their families, get yourself to The Green Dragon in Bungay.

Coincidentally, David has asked me to publicise Le Code Bar’s reggae night on 18th. August. This is all part of his successful efforts to breathe further life into Sigoules. Further details are to follow.

I have previously mentioned that my next door neighbours, Charles (Garry) and Brigitte Farge are selling their house. This is, in fact, two properties which have been skillfully combined. There is a huge open fireplace on which logs are burned. All is tastefully renovated. A garden and garages are rare in this village. The unified gardens of Nos. 8 and 10 rue Saint Jacques are the largest of all. House and garden are both well maintained. My picture shows only No. 10. For 400,000 euros it’s yours. And you could be my next door neighbours.

Before Don’s departure we lunched at Le Code Bar. The set menu (13 euros) consisted of very tasty gaspaccio soup; large steak and masses of chips; and roublechon cheese with yet more fresh, crispy, bread from the local bakers; accompanied by Adnam’s Ghost beer. We have no idea what the dessert would have been, because neither of us had room for it. Lydie arrived to drive Don to Bergerac airport, soon after which I went into my mad Englishman routine. This involved walking out on the Cuneges road; turning left at Le Blazy; going uphill to the Thenac road; left, and left again back to Sigoules. All in scorching heat. Boy, was I relieved to fall into the cool of No. 6.

Speaking of relief, those of you who have followed the washing machine saga will experience that feeling to know that both the dish and the clothes washers are now functioning perfectly. I also appear to have washed one of Kim’s socks (see the underpants in 31st. July post).

Would You Believe It?

This morning I staked up the tomatoes. Don subsequently came up with a more practical solution, not involving an ironing board..

Apparently someone has taken a photograph of the Loch Ness monster which is claimed to be the most credible yet. Having been analysed by members of the US military it is declared definitely animate. Over the years there have been many claimed sightings, and photographs subsequently found to be spurious. Those of the Cottingley Fairies, taken by Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, two Edwardian schoolgirls, were closely studied by experts before finally all being declared fake. They demonstrated that the camera could, indeed, lie.

Christ’s resurrection and ascension after his crucifixion can only be explained as miracles.

Having never seen a ghost, I remain sceptical. However, there are two family stories which make me wonder. I related these to Don this morning. My mother is far from gullible, as was my grandmother. Grandma died shortly before her ninety ninth birthday, disappointing great-grandchildren who had been looking forward to the Queen’s telegram. Her last nine months had been spent in a care home, simply because Mum could no longer keep picking her up from the floor. During her last weeks she spoke of a little blond boy who would visit her in her room. She got quite fond of him. One morning she told Mum about her uninvited but welcome visitor’s latest appearance. On that occasion he had simply smiled, beckoned, and walked away. Grandma died that afternoon. When Mum told a carer about this, she replied: ‘Your mother is not the first to have experienced this. Underneath the floorboards outside her room lies an ancient well. Many years ago, before this building existed, a four-year old boy drowned in it.’

A visitor to Lindum House about a dozen years ago described a similarly inexplicable phenomenon. We had already been told by the very practical down-to-earth man who lived on the other side of the fence at the bottom of our garden, of a woman he had seen in our orchard. She was wearing long black Victorian clothing. We naturally doubted his perception, joked about ‘The Lindum House Ghost’, and didn’t think much more about it. Some years later, a nine-year old boy and his family were spending the night with us. In the evening, he walked from the hall into the drawing room. This lad was, at the time, thought to have Asberger’s syndrome. He certainly possessed the extraordinary drawing ability which sometimes accompanies that condition. As he entered the room, he asked: ‘Who was that lady?’. The puzzled group asked what he meant. He proceeded to sit down on the sofa with pencil and paper, and produce a drawing which, to this day, lies in the Lindum House Visitors’ Book. It depicts, in perfect detail, the double front doors from the inside of the house. One door is ajar. Slipping through the gap is a woman in a long black Victorian dress. As she is half in and half out of the house, she is pictured in profile as if vertically bisected, only her rear section in view.

Why would our dog, Paddy, sometimes come to a halt and appear to follow, with her eyes, something we couldn’t see? There you have it; a woman near death; a boy with an unusual brain; and a dog. Were they aware of beings we cannot sense?

That is not quite all. My Dad died on Christmas Day, 1987. On Christmas Eve 1988, I decided to make a pastel portrait of him for Mum. I worked well into the night, unsuccessfully trying, time and time again, to get the mouth right. I was working from a photograph in which he was smoking a cigarette. I wanted to exclude the fag and therefore had to remember the full formation of his mouth. I kept erasing my markings until I feared for the paper underneath. In the small hours of Christmas morning, Dad’s live face appeared on the page. All I had to do was trace his lips. My four siblings all describe the final expression as ‘Dad winding himself up to tell a joke.’

Outside Le Code Bar this evening, Don and I shared a bottle of Chateau Hauts-Cabroles, Bordeaux 2009. As it made sense to eat something as well, he had an Oriental pizza and I had a Calzone. Both were delicious. After a while these had subsided enough for us to be able to squeeze in cremes brulees.

Vichy France

We have been beset by rain for the last couple of days. Yesterday it was pretty steady throughout; today very heavy showers. Don is regretting having arrived in shorts with no outer clothing. Last evening he had to borrow my only sweater here. It is a bit moth-eaten and fitted him rather well in the body, provided he hitched up the sleeves. In length it covered his shorts. But it did keep him warm. Since mosquitos seem to feed at night and the discomfort isn’t really felt until the following one, the rain offered me no respite from excruciating itching. Without Jackie to absorb the attentions of the first phalanx, I have received more of their bites than usual.

Judith and Roger collected us for an evening meal at Andy and Keith’s, and Don and I stayed over, to be driven back this morning by Andy. There we met two other entertaining couples, Claire and Paul, and Jane and Roy. An hilarious evening followed. Andy’s meal was wonderful. We consumed an array of meats and salads with a delicious potato and onion dish, augmented by Roger’s barbecued charcoal sausages. There was plenty of red wine and Spanish brandy. Sweet was summer fruits and ice-cream.

After the other guests had departed, Keith and I got talking about local history. I mentioned that I knew a memorial on the Pomport road to two French people shot by the Germans during World War Two (see 8th. June post). The farmhouse and barn which Andy and Keith have spent six years skillfully renovating had been owned by a woman who remembered those times. Apparently the local people had rather accepted the invaders, who had only been interested in acquiring their cattle, to be sent to Germany for food. They had paid the indigenous farmers for them. The area was under Vichy control. I had learned that a significant number of the members of the Vichy government were actually pro-German, being convinced that they would win the war. There had, however, been a gunfight in a nearby building which is to this day remembered in an annual memorial service. A group of Resistance fighters, travelling in a lorry loaded with weapons, were chased into the village by enemy soldiers. Having fled from Perigeux, they were not local people, but this is where four of them met their end. They are honoured by the village of Saint Aubin de Cadeleche. My knowledge of Vichy France comes from a history of that time called ‘Petain’s Men’, and from an excellent film entitled ‘La Rafle’ (The Round-up), which tells how French police and military rounded up Jews in Paris to meet a quota imposed by the Germans and accepted by the occupied government. Of 13,000 people entrained and sent to the death camps, one small boy who managed to escape, was the sole survivor. It was the film which had prompted me to buy the book. Beautifully, albeit harrowingly, filmed by Rose Bosch, the stars are Jean Reno and Melanie Laurent. The actress had puzzled me throughout. Who did she look like? I knew her. Surely. But who? In the role, dressed in a gradually more and more sullied nurse’s uniform, losing weight, and becoming ill, I just couldn’t place her. My version of the production is a two-DVD set. The second disc contains a recording of a televised discussion of the work. Among the panel are the now elderly escapee, and Melanie Laurent. Out of role, looking fit, healthy, and glamorous, I instantly recognised her doppelganger. I downloaded a photograph of the actress from the internet and passed it around among a family gathering in The Firs. ‘Who is that?’, I asked. Without exception, ‘Louisa’, they replied. Louisa is my youngest daughter.

This evening I will treat Don to my chippolatas and pork steak casserole to be accompanied by a 2009 Borgogne Pinot Noir.

Early Entertainment

Don and I spoke of cinema this morning, appropriately following ‘A Retirement Project’ of 3rd. August. I had been a regular cinemagoer during my teens in the pre-television era. What we found we both had in common was weekly visits as small children to Saturday Morning Pictures, not far away from each other in South London. I went with Chris to the Odeon, Wimbledon, and Don visited the Granada, North Cheam. An early entertainer was Tony Hancock who, in ‘Hancock’s Half Hour’, had us glued to the radio. He allegedly lived in Railway Cuttings, East Cheam. My friend, who lived in Cheam for twenty years, could find no matching location. The only reference to East Cheam he knew was a corrugated iron hut housing a religious establishment including East Cheam in its title. Hancock followed his radio series with one on television. The most famous episode is ‘The Blood Donor’, in which he bemoans having to part with ‘very nearly an armful’. As Don is a few years older than me, our trips to the cinema were not quite contemporary, but near enough.

I still remember the words of : ‘Here we are again, Happy as can be, All good pals, And jolly good company’, in which the MC led crowds of excited children at the start of the proceedings. This would be accompanied by an organ which rose from the orchestra pit. There followed a programme of cartoons, comedies, and Westerns. Cartoons would be Disney or Looney Tunes. Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, and Buster Keaton were the funny men. I remember Buster Keaton being sped along on the front of a steam train. Don’s recollection is of Harold Lloyd being suspended from the hands of Big Ben. These men performed all their own stunts without the benefit of modern technology. Big Ben must have been a model. The Westerns offered a different thrill. I particularly remember Kit Carson. We would be treated to twenty minutes of a serialised film starring the cowboy hero which would leave us all on tenterhooks until the following week. He would be left surrounded by Indians on the warpath, or tied up by villains. We had to wait seven long days to see how he would extricate himself. Other such stars were Roy Rogers and Trigger; the singing Gene Autrey; and The Lone Ranger and Tonto. Magical stuff for children who had no screen at home. They all vociferously joined in.

Later, Don and I, still unaware of each other, would visit the newsreel cinemas at the London Terminal Stations. We would watch Pathe news covering the previous week. These eventually became cartoon cinemas and those offering subtitled foreign films. My venue was Waterloo station in my early commuting years. Now we have DVDs and downloads from the internet.

We went on to compare memories of all the areas mentioned in my Morden-based ramblings. Don finds these posts so intriguing because they feature streets and venues with which he is very familiar. They represent his personal history as they do mine. His maternal grandparents and his Aunt Kass lived in Pelham Road, Wimbledon; and his Uncle Tom taught at Wimbledon School of Art.

Tonight we will be dining at Andy and Keith’s. This will be posted tomorrow.

Reaching A Concensus

Settling down for last night’s group meal had been quite an exercise. Don and I were to meet the others at Le Code Bar, when I would help them distribute leaflets advertising the weekend’s festivities in Eymet. As Mike advanced from the square, a plant in each hand, Don realised who he was. Janet, Jennifer, and Maggie were scattered around the village which they were decorating with Eymet fliers. Leaving Don to his Stella, Mike and I finished the job. Now I know why people needing to get rid of leaflets ignore signs which say ‘Stop Pub’ (No junk mail). Sorry, Sigoules neighbours.

That proved to be the easy part of the proceedings. Now six, we had a choice. We could either participate in the rustic festivities of the ‘square meal’ (see 27th. July post); or eat in the comparative ease and seclusion of Le Code Bar Restaurant. David was eager to prepare us a table, and to learn how many we would be. I kept taking soundings and checking numbers. This was rather difficult to establish as I knew Judith and Roger were possibly, though not definitely, joining us. It seemed impossible to secure a concensus from the original six. All we could agree on was that we would have a drink at the bar. First I would tell David that we might be six and we might be eight, and we would most likely, but not definitely, be eating in the restaurant, so he could prepare a table. Then I would have to inform him that we would be eating in the square. I don’t know what this was doing to his head, but it wasn’t doing mine much good. We’d just about confirmed the latter decision when I was delighted to see Judith and Roger arrive. Now we were eight. What the debating committee had failed to notice was that the square had become jam-packed.

Our friends from Razac ventured into the melee in an attempt to find eight places near enough together at the public tables. Impossible. I therefore decided to fetch my circular garden table. There were misgivings all round, but I assured everyone that I had done it before, for a deaf family who had been unable to find a place. Off I went to collect it. Staggering back up to the bar, table in hand, I met Mike. He had been delegated to inform me that we were now ten and would be eating in the restaurant. Back I tracked and returned the table to the garden. Janet was emerging with a couple of chairs. Having been likewise notified, back she tracked. David was preparing a table for ten. Sorted. Not quite. The last couple were eating in the square. Back to eight.

As we were finally settling down, Roger told me that there were two valves controlling the water supply to the washing machine (see 30th. July post). One in the machine, and one in the connection at the wall. He had omitted to mention that he had, quite sensibly, turned off the supply at the wall, thinking that this was preferable to creating another flood. He maintains it was daft of me not to realise it. Hopefully he is realising I’m not exactly practical about these things. We returned to the house, dragged out the machines, and he crouched down and released the valve. The sound of water flowing into Kim’s machine was music to my ears.

A most pleasant meal ensued. My fears about how we would manage the reckoning were unfounded. We just divided the total into eight, which produced a simple round figure. While the rest of us paid in cash (mine from that which Maggie had provided me with on 30th. July), Mike settled the account with his card. The final hiccup occured when he realised he might have made a profit. I said that was no problem because he could go home, check his sums, and, if he was in profit feel guilty about it.

Lydie drove Don and me to Eymet at midday today. We had a wander around this thirteenth century town, a pint of draft Guinness in the pub that caters for the English, and lunch in an Italian reastaurant. I had osso buco, which I had never tried before, and which was very tasty and more spicy than I’d expected; Don had putenesca which he also enjoyed. We then dozed on the bench outside the church until Lydie came to collect us. Seeing us in situ, she regretted not having her camera with her. I had forgotten mine.

As she drove across the river Dropt out of Eymet Lydie pointed out the grand chateau which was now for sale. I said it had been an old people’s home, which she confirmed. She added that the residents had all been decanted to the new homes in Sigoules. This prompted me to recount the tale of the three elderly occupants I had seen crossing that road a couple of years ago. I had been seated on a bench overlooking the river. Two women and a man came into view, slowly filing across the road. They were about halfway across when they suddenly became frozen like statues. One of the women had let out a splendid fart. In unison, still stationery, their three heads swivelled silently in my direction, horrified expressions on their faces. ‘I didn’t hear anything’, I called. For some reason they, all three, found this hilarious. The gentleman bringing up the rear was helpless with laughter, just as Lydie was now. All he could do was intermittently point at me. Lydie was doubled up. I feared the old folk would never get it together to leave the middle of the road, as I now feared for Lydie’s steering. Fortunately, then and now, sanity eventually prevailed.

A Retirement Project

Don and I spent another pleasant morning in the garden, finishing off the weeding and continuing to reminisce. I could speak of my friendship with Ann before she met and married Don. We established that the Essex Show mentioned yesterday took place soon after he had come on the scene. The stuffed hearts caused considerable amusement. All three of us had been partial to this delicacy which is, sadly no longer available in England. We think it is probably another EU ruling which has affected UK life, preventing animal hearts from being sold in the butchers. Knowing that it was one of Ann’s favourite meals, I decided to cook her some. I used Paxo sage and onion stuffing. Bravely crunching her way through her dinner, Ann eventually, tentatively, asked: ‘How much water did you put in the stuffing?’ ‘Water?’ I said.

During the ‘mad cow disease’ scare in the early years of the Blair government, which resulted in large-scale slaughter of cattle which may or may not have been infected, and the horrific pyres of burning corpses which consequently littered the countryside, one of our local Newark butchers stood firm. Against emergency regulations he continued to sell exquisite beef on the bone. He even went on television to defend his stance. He had no shortage of customers and was not prosecuted.

Don’s story of a recent visit to the theatre in Bungay where the audience consisted of eight people reminded me of Charlie Chaplin. Just after the film ‘Chaplin’ came out it reached Lincolnshire. This was a biopic, starring Robert Downey Jr., brilliantly playing the acrobatic comic. Jessica and I drove out to the small town of Sleaford to see the performance. It was showing at the Odeon. Not one that has been split into several cinemas with multiple screens. One of the huge, possibly earlier music hall, establishments, which were adapted in the brief heyday of the local cinema. There was a staff of two. A very tall gentleman, who must have been in his eighties, ushered us to the ticket desk in the vast foyer, which was serviced by an equally elderly woman we presumed to be his wife. We bought our tickets and entered the auditorium. Our usher was waiting inside where he tore our tickets in half, gravely presenting us with our respective sections, whilst retaining the others. Before the show began we established that we were an audience of twelve. There was plenty of room and it was very cold. At the interval a beam lit up the ice cream girl. As you’ve probably guessed, this was our ticket seller. The ice creams were a bit hard, and, for a while, beyond the capabilities of the wooden spoons. Perhaps the vendor had mentioned the temperature to her colleague, for he came round and asked us if we would like the heating on. Naturally we all would. He disappeared, and returned with a two-bar electric fire which he placed in the centre of one of the side aisles. It was an excellent film and and a most entertaining experience. Probably a retirement project.

Watching ‘The General’, starring Jon Voigt, a black and white film about the Irish troubles, in a modern multiplex cinema in Nottingham, was actually a more difficult prospect. Throughout, we could hear an interfering, much more explosive soundtrack from the screen next door. I had to leave the cinema to ask for that to be turned down. Our watching was thereafter more pleasurable. I hoped the viewers next door appreciated their reduction in volume. This was another excellent film but, I didn’t think they’d be willing to rewind it for me, so I missed a few minutes.

Having been unable to connect to Le Code Bar Wi-Fi from No. 6, Don suggested that I may perhaps be able to do so from the attic. Up I trotted to investigate. Actually there was one full signal, but, of course, it was a private one and I did not have the code. Undeterred, Don, tongue in cheek, suggested I might be able to get a signal from an unidentified attachment on the back wall of the house. There are two on the wall of the chateau next door. Does anyone know what it is?

This evening a group of eight of us dined at Le Code Bar. There was too much material here for me to post this evening, and in any case I was busy eating duck fillet and chips followed by creme brulee, accompanied by red wine. Watch this space tomorrow.

Reminiscing With Don

First thing this morning Don gave me a lesson in pruning tomatoes, to give me the best chance of producing a crop from my compost bin.

We then spent several hours continuing last night’s reminiscences. Don and Ann shared the Soho, Furzedown, and Lindum House Years with Jessica and me. We shared their time in Finsbury Park, Cerrigidrudion, and Bungay. During the next week we will have thirty-odd years to talk about. Much of what we ranged over is not suitable for a blog, but there is plenty that is. Taking Michael, Matthew and Becky from the mews flat in Horse and Dolphin Yard off for a day in the country at the Essex show springs to mind. Bringing happy townies back to The Smoke after a day in the verdant sunshine brought a pleasant end to a satisfying day. Don was later to help us move from Soho to Furzedown in S.W. London.

We were frequent visitors to N. Wales after Don took early retirement and he and Ann set about renovating their house on a Welsh hillside and converting the attached cowshed into a very attractive home. Many of the trees Don planted in the ‘parc morc’ (pig field) were saplings from Lindum House. Don, an accountant from Cheam, soon became a champion dry-stone waller. Ever modest, he jibbed at my calling him this, but he cannot deny he has trophies to prove it. In fact, when my family are amused at my signing off my posts with what I had for dinner I always say it is my version of my friend’s teapots. He always left some container in his walls for birds to nest in, or to bear some memento from his life. He told me today he only ever put in one teapot. I had managed to convince myself it was always teapots. Just as a child to whom you give one good experience will magnify it into a regular event.

I remember one particular barbecue in the pouring rain in Cerrigidrudion just after they’d moved there. The subsequent conversion was still a cowshed, which was just as well because that is where we shivered under comparative shelter and ate chicken, sausages, and cuts of meat with our fingers in a smoke-filled atmosphere. Much more conducive for such an event was the weather at the French gite we shared on a later holiday. Don was master of the coals.

I have mentioned that holiday before, and will save the climax for a further post. Don did remind me, however, that it was then that Sam received his first cut. I still remember my sadness at my beautiful boy having suffered his first blemish. During Siesta time, when, of course, nothing was open, we came across a broken shop window. ‘Don’t’, said I, as our four-year old made a dive for the broken glass. Too late. He grabbed it and brought some away in the palm of his hand. Which I could not get him to open. Even if I could I would need a pair of tweezers. We found the duty chemist which was open. She had some tweezers. But how was I going to get Sam to expose his palm? She smartly provided the solution. Out came a bag of sweets. Our lad could not resist one. Poised, tweezers in hand, I knew I had, at best, one chance. Sam’s fingers spread and snaked out for the sweet. I swooped with the tweezers. The implement secured and withdrew the shard of glass. Sam ate his sweet and we bade the woman goodbye. Ann bought an ice cream and provided a cuddle, and all was well.

Ann and Don were frequent visitors to Lindum House. When I spoke of the neighbourhood children sliding down the wide staircase on a mattress, frequently knocking the valuable painting off the wall at the foot of the stairs, Don said: ‘I bet Louisa was behind that’. Too right he was. He knew her well. Every time that painting came off, so did a section of its ornate plaster frame. Ann and Don would, in later years, stop off en route to Don’s family in Norfolk. They’d spend the day with us, sleep in their caravan on a local site, and press on to visit Don’s daughters. The couple are both in the group photograph of Michael and Heidi’s wedding which stands on the sitting room table in Sigoules.

After several hours in the garden sunshine, Don went inside for a nap, and I started writing, before our trip to Le Code Bar. This evening’s repast was steak and chips for me; salmon pizza with a white sauce for Don; Stella and Liffe respectively; and creme brulee for each of us. Don proclaimed the creme brulee ‘the best in the world. No wonder you have it after every meal.’

AAARGH!

Last night I finished ‘Best Views from the Boundary’, a light hearted collection of Test Match Special lunchtime interviews by commentators featuring people from other walks of life who share a passion for cricket. Lily Allen was a surprise, and Daniel Radcliffe, on his eighteenth birthday, took refuge from the film world. Surprisingly, I thought Henry Blofeld, who is rather the butt of his colleagues, the best interviewer. Brian Johnston, cleverly, had the tables turned on him.

This morning I began ‘Death in Holy Orders’ by P.D. James. Having forgotten to make the revisions to my next Independent crossword puzzle, I then spent a couple of hours on them and attempted to e-mail my editor. My laptop was continually timed out. I had to tap it all out again on my Blackberry. No signal. I went up to the market square where there usually is one. No ……. signal. AAARGH! Anyone who has read the posts from 25th. July will understand. But I am a persistent fellow and eventually I managed to send it and visit Carrefour for some handwashing powder. Running out of time to prepare for Don, including doing something about the kitchen, I took a brief stroll around the village. After this I vetted Mike’s amended clues for his potential Listener crossword.

My frustrations this week pale into insignificance when compared to my move from Newark to Hyde Park Square. Using Chestertons, a national estate agent of renown, I had rented a one-bedroomed flat in this salubrious area of Central London. It was being refurbished. Despite my misgivings, during the six weeks prior to my occupation I was constantly assured that the work would be finished. It wasn’t. I arrived in the evening to be told I couldn’t take up residence because there was no gas certificate. Remaining firm I advised the agent to get one immediately because I wasn’t leaving. This meant a fitter making a hectic trip across London. One was eventually produced. My furniture was to arrive in the middle of the night. I stayed put. There were no curtains or blinds. The shower and bedroom were full of builder’s rubble. A cupboard still contained a defunct boiler which I had been assured would be removed. Only half the new power points worked. A live wire was hanging loosely from a wall. I sat on one of the loos and was horrified to find a pool of water surrounding it when I got off. Neither of the WCs had been fixed to the floor. I decided to have a bath, turned on the hot tap and walked away. On my return the bath was full of cold water. The taps had been put on the wrong way round. To drain the bath took an age. The gas cooker was subsequently declared unsafe. I could have blown myself up. There was no splashback to the kitchen sink, and the kickboard fell off when I was nowhere near it. I could go on. However, you’ve got the picture.

Most of these problems emerged during the three weeks I was there. I would visit the agent with a supplementary list almost daily. On one occasion, when I said I’d had enough, the agent said she’d see if the landlord would release me from my contract. ‘Landlord release me!’, I screamed. I went into a high-pitched rant. When I’d finally finished there wasn’t another client in this vast open plan office just off Marble Arch. I’d cleared it.

There just has to be a washing machine in this story. Except there wasn’t. There should have been. But it never arrived. When I’d accumulated several bags of washing I gave the agent a choice. She could either pay for a visit to the laundrette or I would bring her my laundry and drop it in the middle of her office. She took the payment option.

I eventually received a total refund and a very nice three-bedroomed mews house off Bayswater Road for the same price.

Don was delivered on time by Lydie. After giving him the guided tour we repaired to Le Code Bar where we both ate delicious duck pizzas and creme brulees. I drank rosee wine and Don Leffe. We had a lovely reminiscent conversation of which, as I am too far gone tonight, I will speak tomorrow.