Sigoules cemetery – derrickjknight

To Honour Their Dead

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

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

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

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

The day, which had been rather dull at the outset, had brightened by the time I returned to No 6. Passing the war memorial, I noticed fresh pots of flowers.

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

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

Mo has left me with enough food to see me through to Monday. I began today with her spicy pumpkin soup followed by her delicious chicken dish and a creme caramel.

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

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

The Magnificent Seven

6.4.13

This morning was spent accompanying Maggie, Mike and Bill wandering first around the industrial centre outside the town and then around Bergerac itself. The other customers in the large supermarkets on the outskirts were mostly French, whereas the Saturday market sprawling across streets both old and new, featured a fair smattering of English accents. Although larger than most it has a pretty familiar set of stalls; cheap clothing and nicknacks; CDs and DVDs; vegetables and much else. Maggie was attracted to tables containing crumpled, presumably second-hand, clothing priced at 1 or 2 euros. The men weren’t.

We first had to drive around in search of a parking space. This took some considerable time because the main carpark was occupied by a funfair.

By the time we returned, and Bill and I were dropped off at Sigoules, the acute headache I had woken with was considerably worse and I felt a bit queasy. There was nothing for it but to lie down. I divested myself of my raincoat, shed my shoes, and fell on top of my duvet. I dozed for about five hours, stirring to climb under the duvet when I felt cold. In the early evening I took three paracetamol, made scrambled eggs on toast, and returned to bed after eating them. I was now well enough to finish reading ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ by Audrey Niffenegger and begin Philippa Gregory’s ‘The Other Boleyn Girl’. Before settling down to nine hours sleep, I remembered to take off my jacket, otherwise I remained fully clothed.

Some five years ago now, I received a telephone call from Mike Kindred telling me that his friend John Turpin, whom I had met once or twice, had asked him if he knew anyone who could take the photographs for a book he had written about the seven landscaped Victorian cemeteries known as ‘The Magnificent Seven’. He sought my permission to give John my name. This I gave willingly. For the next two years, covering different seasons, John and I visited the venues for the purpose of photography. From Kensal Green and West Brompton in the west to Abney Park and Tower Hamlets in the east, I became very familiar with the Victorian way of death. Usually travelling with John, who knew all the cemeteries backwards, I sometimes returned alone to those in the west to which I could easily walk from W2 where I was living at the time. One winter’s day John rang me to tell me about magnificent sunsets he had seen at Kensal Green. Off I went and took what I think were stunning sunsets against the various extravagant monuments in that, the first of these cemeteries. It was a great disappointment when Amberley Press chose, for reasons of cost, to publish in black and white. As I am not at home I cannot illustrate this post with a picture from the book.

Sigoules cemetery will have to do.

My friend Alison knew of this publication, so when she discovered that ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ was set in and around Highgate cemetery, perhaps the most famous of the septet, she lent me the book. Once I got over one or two early similes which I thought rather fanciful, I thoroughly enjoyed the beguiling novel. It is a ghost story like none other. It is about love, grief, loss, and relationships, displaying a sound knowledge of humanity. It provides evidence of a familiarity with London, introducing me to the intriguing Postman’s Park, of which I had never heard. And it has a surprising denouement.

Postscript 10th September 2013:

Now at home, I add a few random (except for the sunset) pictures from the cemeteries.

The book’s ISBN number is 978 – 1 – 4456 – 0038 – 3. Published by Amberley, it is by John Turpin and Derrick Knight.

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.