Sigoules – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Humidity Rules

My normal journey to a sweltering Sigoules this morning began rather earlier than it should, which meant poor Jackie was forced to rise from sleep before she would have liked. This was because I was unable to check in on line. Flybe’s representative had told me yesterday afternoon that Southampton airport had ‘taken over prematurely’. He, too, was unable to process me, so, like everyone else, I had to join a queue. Dana, Sandrine’s husband, was my chauffeur from Bergerac to Sigoules.

It was a good thing that Saufiene had phoned me yesterday, because the firmly shut up house had suffered from a hot and humid summer which still persists. The lack of outside air has wreaked its havoc. Necessary work is under way. Otherwise it would have been something of a shock. The insulation applied earlier in the year has held, but more is required, especially in the attic which needs insulating. The back hall on the ground floor, and the chimney breasts in the sitting room have been affected the most. The bedrooms, kitchen, and front hall are clean and dry.

Toxic fumes from black mould and fungus have been trapped in the cellar, necessitating the wearing of a protective mask for entry. A lighter trapdoor is being manufactured, and Saufiene, with the required protection, will examine it further tomorrow.

The new company’s expanded team are doing the work because Thierry has to be at the bedside, 300 km away, of his 98 year old hospitalised mother. He and Geoffrey sent their regards.

Sandra is well equipped to decorate the attic.

As the workers were about to leave, they discovered that the bath outlet was blocked. They applied a solution to deal with that, but a perished joint needs changing. Tomorrow.

The irritating beeping of a smoke detector signalled that a replacement battery was in order. I replaced it. The device still beeped. The new battery must have been exhausted. I know I was when I made a second trip to Carrefour for one that wasn’t. There I discovered an obsolete English shilling and a still current East Caribbean 25 cent piece in the change I swear I was given there earlier.

I dined on a muesli starter followed by a ham and tomato baguette, before repairing to Le Code Bar for a warm welcome and a cold Stella.

Genealogy

With my coffee this morning I began reading another of Ann’s books, ‘Dear Dodie’, being Valerie Grove’s biography of the writer Dodie Smith.

I was grateful for the cool breeze offering relief from the strong sun occupying a clear blue sky as I began the long ascent up to Pomport to walk the loop that offers a much steeper descent from the plateau surrounding the village via a winding road past fields and through woods and back into Sigoules. I passed the ornamental garden in rue de La Mayade at 10.20 a.m. and arrived at number 6 on the stroke of midday when my outside thermometer read 24 degrees.

The landscape sparkled. An intrepid cyclist laboured past me up the slope. As always I spared a prayer for two Frenchmen when I passed their roadside monument. This time I scanned the village war memorial seeking their Christian names. There they were: Robert Siron and Gabriel Lamy, who had been shot by Germans, presumably at that spot, when I was just 21 months old. I had been more fortunate in the land and time of my birth. My own father survived his time in the British Army in France. Could these two men have otherwise been alive today?

The only other pedestrian I met was a woman pushing a buggy in which, dummy firmly esconced, lay a sleeping toddler. A light aircraft chugged and droned overhead. Butterflies fluttered by. A small rodent scuttled across last autumns dried fallen leaves. Sweetly sonorous birdsong accompanied the ubiquitous golden symphony of spring flowers, not yet eclipsed either by tall grasses and sprouting nettles or by the still knotty heavily pruned vines. Far off in the woods the melody was interrupted by a discordant clamour no doubt set up by parent birds to deter an egg-collecting magpie and drown its warning clatter. Fruit trees blossomed.

The now shallower streams glittered temptingly as I began to look forward to the refreshing glass of water I would extract from the kitchen tap on my return.

Having put Chris and Gay, two ardent genealogists, in touch with each other, I am now copied into their exchanges of e-mails. Gay, in Australia, has managed to provide my brother with documentation about the Knights that he did not have, and to discover that her daughter Holly and my son Sam each have antecedents hailing from villages four miles apart in Devon. I was delighted to be able to tell Sam’s mother-in-law, seeking information about Jean Knight, nee Hunter, that my nonagenarian mother is still very much alive. She will be able to answer any questions herself.

Today’s poem was ‘Ballade Des Dames Du Temps Jadis’ by Francois Villon (1431 -1465). It presented no problems.

Lunch was last week’s sausage casserole accompanied by a final glass of Sofiene’s gift of a superb Groupe Austoni Bariolees 2010 that Bill and I hadn’t finished a couple of nights ago after we’d polished off his Cotes du Rhone. Lemon sorbet was for afters.

Sunday in Sigoules offers a day without straining to hear and speak French. The birds were today’s relaxing companions.

Sensory Exploration

Sod’s law was in force this morning. As I prepared for my return to England, Sigoules awoke to the first clear blue sky that had not had frost laden ground beneath it since my arrival. Sun kissed the rooftops visible from the attic window. Southampton, on the other hand, when I reached it by my usual methods of transport, was grey and several degrees colder. Never mind, Jackie’s smile as she met me at the airport, made up for the lack of sunshine.

The more than half empty plane arrived at Bergerac twenty minutes early, and lost none of that time before touching down at Southampton. This despite more turbulence than usual. Like many other passengers, I had no-one in the seat beside me. But I did begin to feel soft and gentle pressure against the left side of my back. Surely my luck couldn’t be in? This slowly increased. There came the added sensation of being prodded rhythmically. As it became interesting I leant forward and turned to see what was happening. The podgy little hand of a very young toddler I had seen in the departure lounge was extended from behind between the seats. Her mother was apologetic. I smiled and said that was no trouble. After all, isn’t this a common method of exploration of new faces in inquisitive children of that age who don’t yet have speech? Many a time, bearded or clean-shaven, has my face been silently explored in this manner.

Jackie drove me back to Castle Malwood Lodge; after catching up with each other, I caught up with the post and made a few consequential phone calls, including chasing up a loo seat. Before I took off for France, a new seat had been put in place of a split one. The contractor who struggled through snow to get to us had installed it even though it was rather small, just to keep us going, as it were, with the promise of one the correct size to follow. It hadn’t followed. I rang the agent.

An evening meal at Passage to India in Lyndhurst, accompanied by Kingfisher (and Jackie), confirmed I was home.

The Shearing

This crisp, bright, morning following about fifteen hours of rain, I ambled around Sigoules with my camera. The photographs will form the bulk of today’s post, which will please Louisa who always checks their lengths before deciding whether to read my offerings.

No. 36 rue St Jacques is an unoccupied hairdresser’s that has been empty as long as I have known it. The tiling and lettering on the facade dates its heyday. Sigoules has more than its share of trichologists.

As a child in Raynes Park I was always given a short back and sides. Apart from being the fashion in the ’40s and ’50s, that was all my parents could afford. Because my locks are so fast-growing I needed one of these every six weeks. Mum quipped that I was costing her a fortune.

For about thirty years Michael of ‘Jeffery and Michael’ in Little Venice was my hairdresser. During the Newark years Phil cut the family hair and became a friend. As I was in London during the weekdays, I continued with Michael who, when he retired, offered to continue to serve me from his home. I was then beyond retirement age myself, and focussing on balancing my own loyalty to my clients with my desire to cease my main occupation, so I declined his offer. For the next six years I tried a number of alternatives, but constant moves of home meant I never kept one for long.

The worst disaster was a visit to a barber’s in Westbourne Grove. He began by taking low-set clippers straight up the back. Knowing I would have no option but to allow him to complete the destruction, like a resigned sheep, I tolerated the shearing and emerged a skinhead. After all, my preferred length would have looked rather ridiculous with a prepared cricket pitch running through it. Perhaps I would have been safer in the hands of Sweeney Todd. ‘See you again soon’, he said, preparing to allow me to kick free and scamper away. ‘I might be some time’, was my reply. I wonder if he ever saw me subsequently entering the establishment of Kris from Latvia across the road.

The proprietor of ‘Studio Hair’ has given me a couple of good cuts, but I am not here often enough to be a regular. I was very pleased, therefore, to find Donna-Marie in Ringwood (see post of 10th December 2012).

Judith and Roger joined me for the Code Bar feast at lunchtime when we spent an enjoyable couple of hours together. Among the topics of conversation was their 2006 cruise in pursuit of the total solar eclipse they viewed in Libya. Carefully planning their accommodation they had booked a cabin with a balcony on the correct side of the ship from which to experience the rare phenomenon. When underway they were informed that the vessel would then be approaching from the opposite direction.

Our meal, accompanied by red wine, consisted of onion soup; stuffed avocado, pate, gherkins and onions; steak and chips; and creme brulee for Roger and profiteroles for Judith and me. Frederick knew I would choose profiteroles because he had read my blog. My friends were suitably impressed with both the fare and the ambience.

Country Living

Stanley Kubrick’s beautifully filmed 1975 rendering of Thackeray’s novel ‘Barry Lyndon’ was last night’s viewing. The rise and fall of the eponymous gentleman was set in the reign of George III. Never having read the book, I am not sure whether the satire was the author’s or the director’s.

This morning, while cocks were still crowing, I walked up to Monbos, rounded its 12th Century church, and turned left towards Ste. Innocence via Le Bretonnay. From Ste. Innocence I returned to Sigoules. Once you have left Sigoules the roads are reasonably well tarmacked, but without clear edges and often with a steep camber. There are, of course no pavements in the countryside. Footpaths in rue St. Jacques itself are of stone. The street has an incredibly deep cleft, just past the church, that really is difficult to climb. No. 6, fortunately, lies near the top. A gentle rise takes you past the market square and straight on across the roundabout, levelling out by the football club. The further you get beyond this point, the more modern are the houses which peter out at Sigoules Heights. Another ascent and a left turn take you to Monbos, where I took another left for Ste. Innocence.

Fields throughout the walk were either prepared ready for maize or sunflowers, or contained vines wherever they could be placed. The exception is the downward stretch from Ste Innocence where a forested area is proclaimed a private hunting ground.

It is exhilarating looking down from the high points into the valleys below; rather daunting watching the way ahead snaking up into the horizon. Always twisting and turning, the road from Monbos to Ste Innocence is more serpentine and undulating than the others. I was quite relieved to see the Dutchman’s house marking my turning point in the distance.

Just as it had during my very few car rides as a child, when we had no motorways and used winding country lanes for days out, the sun kept switching from one side of the road to the other. This time I knew why.

As I approched the ancient-looking hamlet of Le Bretonnay a yellow post-office van passed me, made a delivery to La Maison Neuve, turned round, and came back. The postal service in the New Forest is similar, except that the small vans are red.

Le Bretonnay displays signs of current life in a bygone setting.

On the penultimate leg of my return to Sigoules, an Alsatian, normally demented at my passing by, offered a few barks for appearance sake, then wandered into his porch, sat down, and watched me continue on my way. He must be getting used to me.

Looking down the road from No. 6 you first see the heads of anyone coming up the hill. Gradually their bodies emerge. Today, as I arrived home, a cheerful one-legged man on crutches appeared in just this manner. As we exchanged greetings I once more counted my blessings.

Max’s menu today comprised superb onion soup; perfect pizza; massive succulent steak and chips with mustard mayonnaise; and cracking creme brulee. David topped up my small carafe of red wine with some left in another customer’s container. I had woken in the night to the realisation that I hadn’t paid for yesterday’s meal. My friends were unperturbed. They knew I would cough up. David’s little joke was that they had thought of calling the police but decided against it.

This afternoon the morning’s cawing of rooks and chattering of magpies were, on home ground, supplanted by the chirruping of small birds and wood-pigeon’s plaintive mating calls. I even got into the garden and began the task of clearing the winter’s debris. Last summer’s compost tomatoes were now a bit over-ripe.

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.

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 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 Square Meal

Last night Le Code Bar was very quiet. For this reason Frederick was able to offer me a complimentary glass of wine to drink with him, so I wasn’t quite as abstemious as I’d claimed. Apparently it is far too hot for people to come out. He and the staff are very concerned about the cat (see yesterday), which is disturbing for customers. If only some of the diners would stop feeding it.

After this I watched ‘Ground Control’, a gripping and heart-rending film in praise of Air Traffic controllers, in which Kiefer Sutherland was magnificent in the lead role. The supporting cast, including Henry Winkler (The Fonze in a previous incarnation) were excellent.

This morning my language skills were tested to the limit. I had new windows and shutters fitted by Huis Clos. Having been most impressed by their organisation and the fact that everyone I had spoken to so far, either in person or on the phone had pretty good English, I thought today’s communication would be a doddle. Two very friendly artisans from the deep South turned up. They spoke Spanish as well as their regional French, and had the tell-tale accent complete with lisp. Their understanding of me was better than mine of them. I knew I was getting somewhere, however, when there were no windows or shutters to the sitting room. We sat sharing coffee and talked Olympics. If they didn’t understand what I said, I found other words which did the trick. So, coffee over, I said they could leave the back of the house as it was because there was a nice breeze coming through. ‘As you wish,’ said the younger man, making as if to pick up his tools, and extending his hand ‘Goodbye Monsieur’, a broad smile on his face. That was the first and only time they sat down until they had finished. I am extremely satisfied with their work. I now have beautifully fitting shutters and secure French doors.

With 44 degrees on the garden thermometer and now no breeze, I spent the afternoon inside and finished John Le Carre’s Single & Single. This novel, still about the Intelligence game and still intriguing, seemed to me much more humorous than other works of his I’ve read. I enjoyed it.

At 4.15 I ventured out into the blistering heat and glare of sunlight. I took the circular route round the cemetery to La Briaude and along the Eymet road back into Sigoules. The French enjoy decorating their streets with flowers, and Sigoules has more than its share of artefacts from a bygone age filled with brightly coloured blooms.

Along the road to La Briaude a cock was crowing. Perhaps his clocks keep similar times to those in No. 6. Crickets were being broadcast in stereo. Various amphibians were splashing about in the now shallow roadside stream. Someone had extended their garden across the road onto the edge of a maize field. Our Morden neighbour (see 18th. May post) would be proud of them. I was relieved to benefit from the brief shade of the tree-lined road around the hamlet.

There was a bit of a wind by the time I got back. It did more to dry than to cool me.

This evening it was paella and chicken and chips from stalls in the market square and Stella Artois from Le Code Bar. As I have mentioned before, every Friday evening throughout July and August the square is covered in long tables and chairs; various food suppliers put up their stalls; Les Caves and others produce the wine; and people swarm in from miles around. There is a pop group singing a fair number of English songs. With respect to those who want to sleep, everything closes down around midnight. Given my proximity to the square I’d best join in. If I didn’t there would be no point in going to bed early. In any case these are delightful occasions, and at one we met Judith and Roger Munns.