Le Code Bar – Page 5 – derrickjknight

Resistance

Last night I watched a beautifully and sensitively filmed and acted DVD. This was ‘Resistance’, directed by Amit Gupta who collaborated in the scriptwriting with Owen Sheers, author of the acclaimed novel.

The theme is based on the fantasy that the Second World War D-Day Landings failed, and Britain was overrun by the Germans. Set in a bleak Welsh valley during the winter of 1944 and spring of 1945, it was a dream for the cameramen. Struggling as I was to get warm in my stone house which lacks central heating, and mindful of the snowbound forest I had just left, the freezing bucolic setting in which the film opened was most appropriate. Their snow, however, was fake.

This was a different kind of resistance than that to which we are accustomed in similarly themed films set in occupied Europe. It is not largely about fighting and espionage, but rather the developing relationships between the besieged women left at home by their menfolk and the struggles of a proud people to resist the genuine help of sensitive soldiers determined to keep the SS out of the valley.

Mainly gently paced, it was nonetheless enthralling. Andrea Riseborogh and Tom Wlaschiha were compelling in the lead roles, and it was fascinating to see the brilliant Michael Sheen in an, albeit minor, straight part in which he was not playing a famous person. I thought the film was stolen by the beautifully ageing actress Sharron Morgan whose expressive face perfectly portrayed her conflicts.

Unusually for me, I watched the whole of the credits and extras, gripped by the haunting music of Lyndon Holland.

More by luck than Judgement, I timed today’s walk to perfection. Turning right at the cemetery, I took the La Briaude loop back into Sigoules. After early rain we were treated to scintillating sparkle by the strong sun.

Swollen streams and ditches; rainwater and melted snow from overflowing fields ran down the rough roads whose pitholes were filled with the ochre liquid.

The roar of one stream which had been almost dry last summer could be heard long before I reached it. A new one flowed past a tree and down its sloping field.

As I approached the village square a car driven by a man using a mobile phone happily mounted the pavement before veering off it, reversing across the road, and vanishing into a driveway.

Rain returned as I inserted my key into the front door. Sunshine and showers was the order of the day.

Lunch at Le Code Bar consisted of two bowls of onion soup such as I have never tasted before; a most unusual ham salad; succulent pork cheeks; then a moist coffee eclair. I’m not sure what cheese the soup contained, but it was one of the type Jackie likes to cook with. The generous thin slice of ham was filled with a creamy pulse salad. The pork was served in a delicious tomato-based sauce with pasta. This was accompanied by a quarter carafe of red wine. Anyone wishing to read about my evening meal will be disappointed. I couldn’t eat one.

The television news was full of items about the problems caused by snow.

‘We Are Not Allowed To Ask’

Today I travelled to Sigoules. Jackie drove me to Southampton Airport; Flybe flew me to Bergerac; Sandrine drove me to Sigoules. All went smoothly.

Knowing I would arrive on a Sunday afternoon when everything, even Le Code Bar, would be closed, Jackie plied me with more food than I would normally eat at lunchtime, let alone 11 a.m. I did my best.

Snow began to fall again as we left, and, showing a fair amount of grit, my English chauffeuse got us out of the drive and into Running Hill, which was clear. Except for the three sorry-looking ponies walking towards us. These poor creatures, whose hair was matted with snow and mud, rendering them all a uniform dirty brown colour, brought us to a standstill. They trotted around the car so that we could continue.

It has been a feature of my air travel since my hip replacement that I always set off the security system, and consequently always have to be thoroughly searched and remove my shoes for inspection. I always inform the staff that I will trigger the alarm. it understandibly makes no difference. I could have been offering a red herring to put them off the scent. As today’s searcher said, ‘we are not allowed to ask’, if travellers have had replacement surgery, because that would offer an excuse for setting off the alert.

The bright sunshine above the clouds on my flight, glistened on a different kind of snowscape than that of the forest.

Gaps in the clouds offered glimpses of Bergerac beneath.

Once the plane descended through the clouds, the dominant monochrome changed to a dull grey.

In fact, on arrival, the little snow that had fallen around the airport had melted and the area was bathed in sunshine.

I am able to post this entry today, once again because of the generosity of the owners of Le Code Bar. I use their wifi connection, but, as mentioned earlier, they are not open on Sundays. There was, however, a group inside when I arrived. I went in to greet them. I was warmly welcomed by my friends and others who were relaxing after having given a free meal to forty needy people. So they were not just generous to me.

They are finishing up now, so I don’t have time to ‘poof redd’ this, as Becky would say.

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.

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).

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.

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.’

The Tale of Two Machines

This morning, whilst awaiting my friends from Huis Clos, I left the front door open. The neighbourhood cats seemed to see this as an invitation. First the black one which marauds the bar, then a more exotic Persian or something. Of course, when you politely invite them to leave you have to do it in French, being careful to use ‘tu’ rather than ‘vous’. It doesn’t do to be too courteous. I learned this last year one night at 3 a.m., leaning out of my bedroom window to dissuade a large Labrador from tearing open my black bag left out for the binmen.

Kim and Saufiene, full of apologies, turned up an hour late. They knew it was no use phoning me unless I happened to be in the loo and there happened to be a signal. They had had to go to Bergerac to collect a bigger car. Not only did they carry the washing machine into the kitchen, but they also fitted it for me. There was a pair of Kim’s underpants in the drum. I suggested his grandmother must have forgotten them. ‘No, it was me.’, he replied.

I joyfully loaded up the machine with some of the wet towels and set it going. Within a few minutes the ‘finish’ light was flashing. I started it again. Same again. I stared at the dials, trying to decipher what was wrong. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t, of couse, open the door. I’d just have to do what Roger did. This meant first pulling out the dishwasher, then the washing machine. As I’d run the dishwasher earlier, I thought I’d empty it first. Practically nothing was clean. Hopefully, I should have rinsed the contents first rather than allow them to dessicate and coagulate until the machine was full. I certainly wasn’t about to investigate that problem. Most likely I will avoid it by washing up in the sink, as we do in Morden. I diverted myself by doing a week’s washing up. Then I handwashed the remaining towels and hung them in the garden. Then I’d run out of delaying tactics.

Saufiene is taller than me, but he had crawled under the kitchen surfaces to make the connections with no problem. I had thanked him profusely, saying that my back would no longer let me get under there. Now I was going to have to do it. Getting down was one thing, getting up required a little more thought. Anyway, I managed it. No-one was there to hear my yelps. Feeling rather chuffed with myself, I pulled out the electric plug so I would be able to open the door when I had applied the Munns method of draining. There wasn’t any water in the drum.

Then I tried a very small wash. Just a T-shirt and some smalls. The flashing ‘finish’ soon came into operation. Needing time to think and remain calm, I decided to handwash the towels I’d extracted. It was then I was reminded that I had turned the water off at the mains before draining the drum which hadn’t needed draining. I turned the water on and tried again. Same result. This was the moment which, those who remember the advertisements will know, calls for a Hamlet. I hadn’t got one, so I’ll just have to wait until someone more knowledgeable and practical turns up. Jackie, why aren’t you here?

Life’s not all bad. I’ve received an e-mail from my accountant saying I have been sent a tax refund of £85.

Having wasted most of the day with machines, and booked my thrice-yearly haircut, walking went out of the window. My locks shorn, I settled for an amble around the village, before going up to Le Code Bar. This evening I was well satisfied with duck in pepper sauce, chips and salad, followed by chocolate sponge which we called chocolate surprise pudding, only miles better. The pepper sauce was so tasty that I saved some of my bread to mop up the last bit. One large Stella was sufficient for my liquid requirements.

Friends Indeed

Following Judith’s principle of setting off early in such weather as this, at 10 a.m. this morning I walked out on the Monbos road, taking a right turn towards Thenac. I soon came to a signpost promising to lead back to Sigoules. Eventually reaching an unmarked T-junction I had a 50% chance of heading for Sigoules. Fortunately I recognised the road and turned right. Had I gone left I would have wound up in Cuneges. That would not have been fun, for, after yesterday, I reckoned one hour would be enough.

On the road out I chatted to a very elderly gentleman engaged in persuading, with his stick, a miniscule fallen branch from the roadway into a ditch. Our Morden neighbour, Ken, specialises in similarly flipping cans from our lawn into the road. Sometimes this takes several strokes of his club. Each man seems to take on a quite opposite sense of civic duty. Today’s putter raised his hat when greeting me. The bare-headed Ken usually raises his stick.

Maize is flourishing, and hay is being bound up and collected throughout the area. A tree standing guard over one of the bundles obviously couldn’t stand the heat.

As I reached rue St. Jacques, reflective light was playfully dappling the surface of the road and the stone walls of Le Code Bar and the chateau between us. This kinetic illumination was emanating from faceted baubles strung on wires between the bar and its marquee across the road. Much more pleasant than the similar static white blobs seen all over the streets of London. They are chewing gum, and don’t move at all.

Just as I began to settle down to my daily few pages of Flaubert, I heard water dripping in the kitchen. I waded through puddles to see it pouring from the washing machine. Come to think of it, the wash I had put on hours before should have been finished by now. I couldn’t turn off the machine. Trying not to panic, I turned the water off at the mains and the flow stopped. I couldn’t open the machine, which was just as well because it was full of water. As I vainly attempted to mop up the mess the plastic fitment over the mop bucket disintegrated. It had been left out in the sun and had suffered the same fate as the plastic garden chairs which had collapsed under Michael and me a couple of years ago. I raided the armoire and chucked piles of towels into the pool.

Then began the process of finding a plumber. After several phone calls involving answering machines and emergency numbers I couldn’t decipher, I phoned Roger to see if he knew a reliable plumber. He immediately offered to come down and have a look at it. Just before he arrived Kim and Saufiene, from Huis Clos came to inspect the work of the shutter installation. I was then asked to complete a form giving my assessment of the organisation and the work. For one mad period I was toing and froing between the sitting room and the kitchen; the two patient Frenchmen awaiting completion of the form; and Roger, enviably crouched down by the machine, coming to the conclusion that it was kaput. The word I used for this condition caused my two French visitors great amusement because it also means ‘I can’t be bothered with it any more’. Roger dragged out the water- and washing-filled machine on his own, found, and disconnected the electric lead, and proceeded to drain off the water so we could move it out of the way for a new one. Thanks a million, Roger. The two Frenchmen insisted on putting it in the hall for us. Kim said he was short but strong. I had been asked earlier if I was a poet. I pointed out that, in French, Kim’s statement was a poem.

Then came a wonderful surprise. Kim lives with his grandparents. They treat him like a king. His grandmother does all his laundry. His own washing machine is in their garage. He will lend it to me. No money is required. He and Saufiene will deliver it tomorrow.

Outside the bar this evening I enjoyed Le Code Bar pizza with a glass of red wine followed by creme brulee. The pizza was very tasty with a runny fried egg in the middle.

Family Pride

Last night at Le Code Bar I was the proudest man there. The television room seemed to have been commandeered by raucus English pride. I sat quietly choking throughout the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony. By the time it finished it was well into today. Consequently I didn’t wake up this morning until the unheard of hour of 11.15.

I knew that Sam had been involved in the committee adminstration for the whole five years since the bid was gained; that Holly had joined the team a year later as an environmentalist; that Adam had designed and managed a surprise at the end; and that Thea had produce some of the costumes. Naturally I had told David and Frederick all this. David enjoyed ragging me with the comment that this ceremony, and, indeed, the whole event, could not have taken place without the Knight family. In one respect, he was right. Adam Keenan, take a bow.

First we were treated to a spectacular and stunning live tableau of British social and cultural history. The Olympic stadium had been transformed into the metamorphosing UK landscapes. The choreography of the sheer numbers of characters and dancers was absolutely mind-blowing. I gave up trying to imagine which costumes Thea had designed. Knowing her, I suspect it was the most colourful. Being determined to see this through to the end, I was well rewarded. The lights were dimmed and transformed into a translucent blue. From a central tunnel, one by one, emerged many magnificent working models of doves of peace. This had Adam’s stamp all over it. I doubt that anyone in the vast live audience could have seen that each one was powered by a cyclist. Even on television this was spectacular. Flapping their wings, the white doves against the blue of the sky, as they encircled the arena were incredibly effective. One soared aloft.

We then heard speeches followed by various runners bearing the torch. A drunken Englishman took pleasure in bawling into everyone’s ears a question concerning who would be the final torchbearer. I firmly said ‘no idea’ and he left me in peace.. The answer turned out to be a team, each individual lighting points on machinery which rose to meet in the centre. Well pleased, I went off to bed.

Today, Maggie and Mike collected me for a tour of garden centres, and took me back to Eymet for chicken casserole. Sandrine drove my taxi home.

The Paris Marathon

Last night I watched a DVD of ‘Burn After Reading’. In this film political thrillers and computer dating get the Cohen brothers’ treatment. That is, they make farce out of them. David Edwards of the Daily Mirror described it as ‘………comedy genius’. That is what Joel and Ethan Cohen are all about. George Clooney, Frances McDormand, John Malkovich, Tilda Swinton, and Brad Pitt must have had great fun playing their parts to perfection.

This morning I walked to Monbos and branched off to Ste Innocence from where I returned to Sigoules. This was a two and a half hour trek in the heat of the day. And I do mean heat. As I marched along, carrying a bottle of Perrier, a woman getting into her car told me it was very dangerous walking in this without a hat. She didn’t quote Noel Coward at me, and I didn’t mention that I was suffering a slight hangover after my second bottle of Adnam’s last night. I had not realised it is 6.7%.

The scratting of crickets in the hedgerows and of cicadas in the trees reminded me of the latter creatures at The Gite From Hell (4th. June). I could feel the heat rising from the tarmac, the tar of which was, in places, melting. It clung to my sandals, just as it had in Stanton Road in 1947, when I returned from play covered in it. I expect my poor mother had to scrap my clothes. Even the sunflowers turned their backs on the midday sun.

I have described the church at Monbos before (8th. June), but that was when I was not illustrating my posts.

At Ste Innocence I met a Dutchman called Emil who has a house there. We swapped stories of such impulse buys.

As I staggered back into Sigoules, I thought of the Italian runner in the lead who was disqualified at the first London Olympics because, as he was wandering all over the place, someone helped him across the line. I wasn’t marching any more. The ice-cold water I had set off with was now almost ready for the cafetiere. I put what was left of it in the fridge and got out another bottle which I consumed pretty quickly. Rivulets ran down my neck for a while. My soaking T-shirt soon dried in the 40 degree sauna that was the back yard. I was in neither the shirt nor the garden at the time. I had been as relieved to enter the cool shelter of the stone-walled No. 6 rue St. Jacques as Jackie would have been. She wouldn’t have left it in the first place.

When running a marathon it is essential to drink water at regular intervals. If you wait until you are thirsty it is too late. This refreshment is taken in brief sips on the run. You become accustomed to this by carrying water in training. On one of our shared holidays with Sam and Louisa and our late wives Ann and Jessica, Don decided to help me out. Meeting me at regular intervals on a two hour run, he provided the drink stations. Driving to agreed points on the route, he brought me wonderfully cool, fresh, water. We called this service ‘Le wagon d’eau’. Don, where were you today?

That is why, in properly organised races, there are regular drink stations. In the Paris marathon, some time in the ’80s, there were refreshment stands like no others. The first was the only one at which I saw any water. From it were distributed large plastic containers of Evian. Those, like me, who managed to grasp one drank slowly and passed it on. Big mistake. Other tables contained nuts, bananas, and chocolate, none of which I could bear to think about. Only at the last oasis did I see anything resembling liquid. Huge containers of yoghurt. I grabbed one and guzzled the lot. Second big mistake.

I was quite used to congestion at the start of capital marathons. In the London one it would take me ten minutes walking to reach the start line and a futher ten to take up anything like my normal pace. Paris, however, just had to provide a blockage at the finish. Ten minutes in a situation that reminded me of The Drain (6th. July).

Marshalling during the race was equally chaotic. There are cobblestones around The Tower in one small stretch of the London event. These always need careful negotiation by the runners, who are left in peace to get on with it. Not so in Paris, which had far more cobbled areas. Any spectators wishing to do so seemed welcome to try their luck pacing alongside the contestants. Cyclists were granted similar freedom.

A French friend, Arnoux, claiming to be there to meet a famous English runner; which, I hasten to add, I am not; smoothed my final passage through the drain. As I was taking a welcome bath in our friends’ home, up came the yoghurt. It supplemented the bath water. I then had to explain why my ablutions had taken such a long time. It was with considerable relief that, on the ferry home, I learned that even the elite runners had suffered similar embarrassment. I never ran Paris again.

This evening I exchanged the back garden sauna for the one outside Le Bar for a deliciously tasty fruits de mer pizza with a plentiful side salad. This was complemented by one glass of rose and a bottle of fizzy water. After last night I thought I’d be careful. An excellent creme brulee followed.

The problem with dining alfresco is that it tends to attract the local fauna. Flies can be dismissed with a wave of the hand, or Australian salute as they tell me in Perth; ants need a well-aimed flick; the cat needed a little more persuasion to desist from climbing up my bare leg in search of my fruits de mer.