derrickjknight

A Rant

Today was what David calls ‘the big tidy up day’, so there was no walkabout.

This morning I finished Dennis Wheatley’s ‘Vendetta in Spain’. With a good grasp of history and a fine attention to detail, Wheatley tells a rollicking good story. Set in the first decade of the twentieth century, this novel was, even when published in 1961, described as historical. This got me reflecting on what is history? For a child of the last century, born in 1942, it was initially strange to think of this book as such. When Louisa, born in 1982, once asked me who Winston Churchill was, I was quite surprised. Then I considered my own ignorance about the First World War; my lack of knowledge of the ministers and personalities involved. I was even vague about Douglas Haig. and I had been born far closer to that event than she had to the second conflagration. Then, I remember Churchill’s funeral. How we experience time changes as we age. When I write of the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s, it seems like yesterday, yet must be remote history to my grandchildren. As the days go by, I feel I have all the time in the world, yet the reality is that mine are numbered. Six months in a child’s life seems an age. To a septuagenarian it is nothing.

My house in Sigoules was built in the eighteenth century, from solid stone. Exposed beams are from barges which struggled down the Dordogne loaded with produce. Since they could not be taken back up the raging torrents, the vessels were broken up and used for building. I understand the crews then walked back to their starting points and began again with newly built craft. Now enormous refrigerated vehicles bring regular fresh produce to Carrefour and Le Code Bar. I can fly to Bergerac from Southampton in the same length of time as it took me to commute from Newark to Kings Cross.

I received a call later from James Bennet of Azzurri. Azzurri is a company to which O2 allocated my mobile phone management about three years ago now. They apparently ‘manage’ mobile phone accounts. The first I heard of this was a letter from Azzurri, sporting the O2 logo, telling me I would be hearing from one of their representatives. As long as I have been a mobile phone user I have had an O2 business account. I only ever had one previous problem. Oh, yes, the Azzurri intervention was a problem. The earlier one was my discovery from my bank statements that the cost of my mobile phone had rocketed during the last two months. On closer inspection, and after telephoning O2, it transpired that for nine months I had been paying for two mobile phones. One wasn’t mine. Because the first seven amounts had been virtually identical to mine, I had not noticed that there were two entries each month. Obviously the lucky person who hadn’t been being billed got greedy. In fairness, O2 immediately put that right and gave me a refund.

Back to James Bennet and Azzurri. As I needed to be able to send e-mails from France I actually welcomed the initial approach. I was informed that I needed a Blackberry with which I would be able to do this. I have no problem with that. I can. Now. The phone was quickly supplied and the contract signed. Mr. Bennet then seemed to be less communicative. Which was a pity, since I could not access my e-mail account. Neither could I get anything from Azzurri but voicemail messages. I inundated my personal account ‘manager’ with texts, voice- and e-mails. He almost never responded. I made several visits to O2 outlets in London, each taking upwards of an hour of time. Every single, initially confident, O2 consultant failed either to contact Azzurri or to access the account. Not one of them had heard of Azzurri. I always had to provide the contact number. Eventually we were told that Mr. Bennet had not passed the relevant information to the necessary department. At last I gained a promise from him that it would be done within two days. It wasn’t. And his voicemail message had changed. He had gone on holiday and would not be back until I was in France. I managed to reach someone else. He made, and failed to keep, the same promise. Finally, I spoke myself with technicians who were able to solve the problem over the telephone. I can’t remember whether they were in O2 or Azzurri departments. But does it matter? All the information is at home in England.

There followed extensive letters, mostly unanswered, and phone calls to O2 Customer Relations department. When I finally spoke to the manager she informed me that I was bound to Azzurri for two years. You can imagine my response to that. Eventually she agreed to release me from Azzurri. Coincidentally, I received a box of chocolates from O2. One had been sent to each ‘valued customer’ of ten years or more. When I politely suggested that didn’t really fit the bill, she proudly told me it had been her idea. I think she realised I wasn’t impressed. Furthermore, to compensate me for my trouble, I would receive a list of events at the O2 Arena. I could choose any performance for which I would be given two tickets. The list never arrived.

Maybe I had been freed from Azzurri. But if anyone told them, they ignored it. A year ago I received a phone call from a poor chap who had been given the task by Azzurri of contacting all customers to see how satisfied they were with the service. I told him. I finished by saying it wasn’t his fault. Just his bad luck. Now James Bennet calls me. As I can only get a signal on the loo seat upstairs, I did not reach the phone in time and had to listen to a voicemail message from him. ‘It is a little while since we spoke’ and there are possibitilities of a new tariff and a new handset. I calmly walked up to the village square where I can be reasonably sure of an uninterrupted signal. Of course I got his answerphone. I left a fairly firm message. Well, it was firm, and fair. He responded with an e-mail to which, as I had said, I will not reply. I had asked him not to contact me again.

The Code Bar pizza, a quarter carafe of red wine, and chocolate surprise pudding finished the day nicely.

An Unknown Masterpiece

This morning it was to Flaugeac and back that my feet took me. Once you have walked past the shops in rue de la Fon Close and up the hill past Les Caves there is not much of interest on the road to the D933, which, taking your life in your hands, you have to cross. This looks like a comparatively recent thoroughfare. Flora in the verges are not yet firmly established. I did go past the municipal dump, where, when I can obtain some wheels, I must take my defunct washing machine for its last rites. To the left, vines stretch down the slopes to sheep grazing in the valley below. To the right, their lines travel upwards until they meet the horizon.

Crossing the major road and approaching Flaugeac there are more signs of life. And one of death. By a bend in the roadside, on the edge of a field, stands a small wooden cross decorated with plastic flowers and bulbs which presumably light up at night. I imagine this is similar to memorials at the sites of fatal accidents we see in England. I think of two such in Surrey. One was a lamppost which a bereaved grandmother kept adorned with fresh bouquets. Another is a spot where schoolgirls for some years held candlelit vigils in memory of one of their classmates. On a sharp bend in the road between Newark and Southwell in Nottinghamshire, a tree in a field close to the roadside bears a notice in memoriam to two teenagers who died there when their car crashed into it. Returning past the cemetery in Sigoules, I observed an elderly woman with a walking stick and a small plastic watering can, hobbling down the steep steps from the graveyard. I did not ask her her story, but speculated that she had been tending the resting place of a loved one. I thought again of those plastic flowers.

Before reaching the outskirts of my village, I noticed a man with a metal detector in a fallow field between two vineyards. Striding across to where he was prospecting, I heard regular alarms emanating from his machine. I asked him if he’d found anything. He said not. He followed this up with something I could not understand. Bending down, he picked up what I took to be a chip of stone bearing particles of metal. He said that was not the case, and showed me it was a metallic shard covered in chalky deposits. This had come from the vines. The rest was ‘lost in translation’. As I left, he thanked me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps just someone else who was grateful for interest. Yesterday’s vintage car enthusiast was shopping in Carrefour. Unfortunately he hadn’t driven down in his Austin.

The reflection of one of the new shutters alerted me to the fact that I have a framed Mondrian painting on my sitting room wall. Geoff Wilson was a most energetic Social Worker in my Area team in Westminster. Since he would always volunteer for night duty and work a full day afterwards, I swear he never slept. One day in the 1970s he did not turn up. A few days later he died of cancer. A complete surprise to everyone, probably including himself. We had a collection. His widow said she would like a painting to remember him by. Never having met her, with great trepidation, I took on the task of choosing one. I selected a landscape I liked myself, which I thought bland enough to be inoffensive. As soon as I entered the Wilson home I knew I could not have been more wrong. The house was full of much more striking pictures, none of which were to my taste. Bland would definitely not do. As she opened my parcelled offering, Mrs. Wilson said: ‘Oh no! That’s a nothing picture’. ‘I can see that.’ I replied, ‘Don’t worry, I was prepared for this. Now I know what you like, I will buy you another and keep this for myself.’ Very soon afterwards I returned with a brightly coloured Swiss mountain scene, complete with chalet. She was absolutely delighted. Given her previous reaction I was confident her joy was unfeigned. You can imagine my relief. Piet Mondrian used my original as a basis for the work that, at the right time of day, now adorns my wall.

In fact, I do have a genuine unknown masterpiece story. Jessica’s aunt and uncle, Jattie and Ronnie, had a picture on their wall in Farnham which had an unmistakeable style I instantly recognised. For several years, each time we visited them, I was drawn to the painting. I tried to convince myself I was wrong. For one thing I had only seen the artist’s work in reproduction, and did not know the scale of his creations. This little gem was surely much too small. It has the monumental quality one sees in Blake’s tiny illustrations.Yet, the beautiful young woman reclining on a garden bench was surely one of his models. And surely her long, striped dress was of the period. And surely it was his trademark to pay great attention to the detail of clothing. Not wishing to appear stupid, I never said anything. It niggled away at me, and I was not surprised when eventually someone else told them what they had. Unfortunately this frightened them and they sold it. I never feasted my eyes on it again. The painting was by Tissot. And just think of the Brownie points I could have won.

This afternoon, I continued reading Dennis Wheatley’s ‘Vendetta in Spain’. This evening I finished off the pork and sausage casserole I had shared with Don, and followed it with lemon sorbet ‘with bits in’.

A Welsh Interlude

Fearing the heat, I set off even earlier than yesterday for a walk to Pomport and back. As I began my return journey I could see rainclouds over Sigoules, and very soon the lapis lazuli canopy under which I’d begun my outing had turned into a slate roof. The sweat I’d engendered on the way up had become decidedly cool. Now I feared for the washing I’d left out in the garden. No rain came, and the sun soon re-emerged.

I met the donkey with its goat family mentioned on 8th. June. In order to be more precise in the preceeding sentence, on my return I attempted to ascertain the sex of this creature. Although I swear all I’d done was stand and stare s/he seemed to take exception and started up an horrendous honking until I moved on. Quite fearsome really.

Further up the hill, still lies the memorial described on that same day, although the floral tribute is missing.

As Charles bears witness, vines are strung out all around Pomport, which is a most attractive village. Walking through it, I was surprised to see an antique Austin car standing in a covered alley beside a house. Wandering inside, I encountered a group of four having their breakfast. They were English. Unfazed by my intrusion, one of the men proudly informed me that he had renovated the vehicle, ‘every nut and bolt’, himself. I should have asked him what model it was, but I expect some of my readers will know. He then opened a garage door and proudly displayed a vintage Vauxhall that he planned to drive back to England next week. I think he was rather pleased someone had taken an interest.

People were playing tennis in the now half-completed Leisure Centre in the valley between Sigoules and Pomport.

Last night and this afternoon I was deeply engrossed in ‘A Welsh Childhood’ by Alice Thomas Ellis. This is a very well produced Mermaid publication enhanced by Patrick Sutherland’s evocative black and white photographs. I imagine my friend Alex Schneideman, himself a first-rate professional, would find these illustrations inspiring. The writer’s descriptions of her childhood, and diversions into Welsh myth and legend, are enthralling.

Given Ann and Don’s nineteen years in N. Wales; the family in whose company I spent last evening; and the many holidays I have enjoyed, and occasionally endured, there, the book, donated by Don, is rather pertinent. It will stay on the coffee table in the sitting room of No. 6.

What I was quite unprepared for was the similarity in style of a well-known writer to that I have been cultivating in my blog. Many of her memories sparked more of mine, for which I may find future space. Today I choose to recount some with which I believe Ms. Ellis may be out of sympathy. Although she loved the thrill and freedom of playing in the hills, she doesn’t seem to have appreciated sport. In this she is not alone, but I make no apologies.

I enjoyed numerous training runs in the hills around Gaeddren, Ann and Don’s Welsh home. (If necessary, correct my spelling, my old friend). Perched on a hill above Cerrigidrudion, this house was an ideal point from which to engage in fell running. Since I used the roads, this wasn’t actually fell running, as I had done in the Lake District, but it felt like it. Watching the changing light as I ran up and down roads cut from this rocky terrain, passing streams and rugged trees sometimes indistinguishable from the granite they clung to, was a truly exhilarating experience. It was on one of these two hour marathons that I felt my only ‘runner’s high’. No pun intended. Please don’t think I could, even on the flat, run a marathon in two hours. Here, I use the word figuratively. A ‘runner’s high’ is a feeling of intoxicated elation, said to come at one’s peak. No further pun intended. Well, I never tried LSD. I did, however, find it useful pre-decimalisation. Pun intended.

When I did seek an even route I ran the complete circuit of Llyn Tegid, known to the English as Lake Bala. Having three times, once in 88 degrees fahrenheit, managed the Bolton marathon, which ends with a six-mile stretch up the aptly named ‘Plodder Lane’, with a vicious climb at the end, I thought I might attempt the North Wales marathon. Imagine my surprise to find it boringly, unrelentingly, flat. Here I will divert, as I once did in the Bolton race. My grandmother, then in her nineties, was seated on a folding chair in order to watch me come past. I left the field, nipped across, kissed her on the head, and quickly rejoined the throng. She seemed somewhat nonplussed, as did a number of other competitors. After all, why would anyone willingly supplement, even by a few feet, a distance of 26 miles 385 yards?

The other day, in Le Code Bar I had met an Eglishman with a Birmigham accent. He had bought a house in Fonroque because he had a French girlfriend. Feeling sure Judith would know him I mentioned him to her. She did. When he turned up for a meal this evening, I saw what had attracted him to France. As they were glancing in my direction I got up from my usual table and approached the couple. I told the gentleman I had a friend who knew him. He didn’t know what I was talking about. He was French. Whoops. Undeterred I told him he had a doppelganger. Since Flaubert’s use of the word is the same as the English one, confirmed by my dictionary, I thought I was on safe ground here. I wasn’t. Fortunately the beautiful woman he was with translated and told me it wasn’t a problem. I slunk back to my duck fillet and chips followed by creme brulee, and found the two glasses of red wine quite comforting.

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.