Taxi Eymetois – Page 2 – derrickjknight

From Which Direction?

27.1.13

Yesterday evening I watched ‘Mission Evasion’, being the French title of ‘Hart’s War.’ It was an enthralling film about a prisoner of war court martial masking an escape from a German stalag, starring Bruce Willis and Colin Farrell. I viewed the original English version first, followed by most of it in French. This method helped me tune into a few of the spoken words.

This morning, leaning into a biting headwind that lanced sharpened darts of rain, I walked, via Flaugeac and St. Julien d’Eymet, for lunch with Judith and Roger to their home in Le Beuil, near Razac d’Eymet. Once I had passed the right-hand turn towards Mescoules, just after Flaugeac, I was retracing steps taken with Judith last summer on a much warmer day.

The bells of the church at St. Julien; the trickling of water in the ditches, and its rushing along streams and over boulders; a tirade from a frantic dog frustrated from getting at me by a lengthy, fortunately secure, fence; and the metronomic swish of my sleeves against the body of my raincoat, were all that kept me company.

Not far out of Sigoules my eyes were drawn to an orange van perched on a distant hillside, its glow piercing the dripping veil of rain. The led to the sight of an enviable smoking chimney. I really must get some logs in.

To my untrained sensibility the churches at Flaugeac and St. Julien display the influence of Spanish architecture so prevalent in this region. Flaugeac’s belltower is fronted by the ubiquitous war memorial.

Within what I thought was a couple of kilometers from the Munns’ home, I walked straight over a crossroads. Sometime later, a bit lost, I telephoned my friends, to learn that I should have turned right at the junction. And yes, I did have a map. Never having registered the Le Beuil bit of their address, I had been heading for Razac itself. Walking through their village I turned up a track to the left of the pond. This wasn’t right. So I walked straight on, ignoring the track to the right. Well beyond Le Beuil I telephoned again. ‘I don’t know how you could have missed it,’ said Roger. ‘It’s right by a large pond’. So……. Back to the pond. And back up the same path, thinking I’d missed something. I hadn’t. But….. ‘Ah,’ I thought. ‘Maybe I should have gone up the opposite track’. As I approached the house Judith was emerging under a colourful umbrella. Fortunately she didn’t have to venture any further to gather up her errant friend.

I had never been to Judith and Roger’s marvellous hillside home, designed, incidentally, by Judith, on my own before; and then normally being driven, when I don’t usually take much notice of where I’m going. The first time, with Jackie, had been in Lydie’s taxi. Judith had e-mailed perfect, detailed, directions. Nevertheless I managed to get into an awful tangle with Lydie. Reading the directions to our chauffeuse, I confused both her and myself. She was convinced that every time I said ‘go left’ it should have been right, and vice-versa. I was equally adamant that Judith’s information would be accurate. And my French ear was even worse then than it is now. Eventually the penny dropped and I asked Lydie from which direction we had started out. It was the opposite one from where our friend’s instructions began. When we finally arrived, Lydie, of course, knew exactly where we were.

Despite my late arrival today, and Judith’s not really having fully recovered from her cold, she served up an unspoiled, perfectly cooked, roast chicken meal with a variety of vegetables. Roger was justifiably chuffed with his mouth-watering first attempt at treacle sponge and custard. A very drinkable Merlot accompanied the meal. As always, I enjoyed their company.

Without a hitch, Judith drove me home.

This evening I watched ‘Wall Street’. Given that I must be one of the few people who had not seen this frighteningly prescient 1987 film from Oliver Stone until now, it needs none of my observations.

When in France, I send my post courtesy of Le Code Bar Wifi. The bar is not open on Sunday afternoons, but I can sit outside to pick up the signal. Today the rain never stopped, so this had to be posted the following morning.

Back to Normality

After three weeks in the idyllic village atmosphere of Sigoules I returned to Morden today. Having spent the morning continuing ‘the big tidy up’, the rest of the day was spent travelling. By Lydie’s taxi to Bergerac airport; by plane to Southampton; train to Waterloo; and finally tube to Morden.

Having started it last night, my reading on the journey was almost the rest of Hammond Innes’ ‘The Land God Gave to Cain’. Whilst standing in the queue at the departure gate at Bergerac, I noticed a wallet underneath a still occupied seat in the lounge. Leaving my bag to mark my place, I walked over, picked up the wallet and asked the man sitting above it if it was his. It was. He was most grateful. He turned out to be seated across the aisle from me in the plane, and continued his thanks there. Whilst waiting for the call to board I got in conversation with a family of four. The youngest little boy had a toy rabbit called ‘ra-ra’ which was clearly his transitional object. It was dropped under the seat so often that his mother decided to put it in her bag for safe keeping. As we were queueing to present our passports at Southampton I jokingly asked if she’d got the rabbit. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure and had to rifle through her bag to satisfy herself it was still there. Oh dear. Perhaps that was an unnecessary anxiety.

By the time I arrived at Waterloo I was pretty drowsy. There’s nothing like trying to cross that Underground station to wake you up. Everyone is rushing. Most people keep their eyes fixed on the direction in which they are going, often dragging their wheelie-bags behind them. Here was a reminder of what life is like for those still in work and an abrupt reintroduction to the big city after the more relaxed atmosphere of the countryside. This is not just a question of different countries. It is the contrast between less populated rural and congested city lives. It was something that struck me when we moved to Newark from Streatham in 1987. Suddenly people spoke to you in the street. They were prepared to give way when driving. They didn’t push past you in a crowd. Somehow they all had more time.

Today at Waterloo I had just come from an environment where people all said good morning to you whether they knew you or not, and had plenty of time for each other. Being fortunate enough to find a seat on the tube, I joined the rest of commuting London. Each individual was isolated behind their newspaper, book, or thoughts. Hammond Innes made sure I was just the same as everyone else. Anonymity is possible in a crowded environment, impossible in a sparsely populated area. In a day or two, no doubt, I will be a Londoner again. Just now I’m a country boy. At least I know which country.

After a while spent catching up with each other, Jackie and I had a meal at ‘Watch Me’, our favourite Morden restaurant. Our absence whilst I have been in France was noted, but it didn’t stop the waiter, knowing what we like, to suggest what we would wish to eat. We followed his accurate choices and drank Kingfisher.

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.

Friends To Bank On

On another scorching day Elizabeth drove me to Southampton airport where I boarded a plane to Bergerac to be met by Lydie, waving her arms and striding across the tarmac to embrace me. She is, incidentally, about a foot shorter than me with the grip of a bear. I had to drop my bag. Before paying I asked her to deliver me to the Credit Agricole cash machine in the market square. Still dopy from the plane, I entered the wrong pin number. I had to search in my trouser pocket for the correct one, hidden in an electronic device. So well hidden, that by the time I had retrieved it I had run out of time. Lydie patiently waiting in the taxi. Me scrabbling in my trousers, concerned that I was keeping her waiting. An Englishman just off the plane. I had to start again. The machine gobbled my card.

I had given Lydie a list of trips for my friend Don, joining me next week, and me up to 14th. August, the first being in three days time. ‘No problem’, she said, ‘Saturday will do.’ Unfortunately this bank is only open two mornings a week , and tomorrow isn’t one of them. Any visit there also has to wait until Saturday. Now, my French account is with Barclays. I originally opened this in Bergerac. Sometime last year I discovered that that branch no longer does everyday banking. Without my knowledge my account had been transferred to Paris I could walk to Bergerac, but no way am I walking to Paris. There was, therefore, nothing for it today but to telephone my personal banking manager in Paris. Despite what it says on his card he wasn’t there. There followed conversations with two different, very helpful, women interspersed with holding, biligual, messages. Thank goodness, with their English and my French, we got by. My card has been cancelled and I will be sent a new one which will cost 16 euros. So far, so good. But. They can only send it to England, not to my house in France. If I could get to Bordeaux, two and a half hours drive away, I would be able to collect my replacement card there. Patiently, oh, so patiently, I explained that Bordeaux was a very long way away, I had no car, and NO MONEY. Ah. I can, however, use my chequebook, I am assured, without the card, although some people will not accept cheques for small sums like 2 euros. Throughout this I naturally remained my usual calm, unflappable, self.

I then drew 90 euros on my NatWest account. This, of course, will cost me a transfer fee. And I’ve just transferred almost everything in my current account in England to my French one in order to pay for replacement shutters and windows, the work to start in two days time. I may even go into overdraft, incurring another fee, despite having more than enough in a special interest bearing account which earns peanuts. Now I know why NatWest have changed their Gold Account to a Black one. Somewhat stymied.

It was definitely time to visit my friend David in Le Code Bar. David readily allowed me to run up a tab for the duration of my stay and let me have cash if I needed it. Given that this is a very recent friendship I would call that a generous display of trust.

Never mind. The house is as I left it in early June. The agapanthus is blooming for the first time; the lizards are basking in 38 degrees; and I am growing my own tomatoes on a plant which has forced its way through the boards of my compost bin. There are potatoes coming up in a bed I composted last year.

I’ve just missed the annual wine festival, the bunting for which will stay in the village for the rest of the summer. UK, of course, has been similarly festooned since the football world cup and the Queen’s jubilee, and now awaits the London Olympics, for which I will also be absent. I have exchanged Union flags for floral flourishes.

Once I’d settled in, I paid a visit to my friends Garry and Brigitte who live next door. Unfortunately for me their magnificent house is up for sale; sadly for them the market is depleted. We had what, for me, is essential, a pleasant conversation with people who speak the correct French I learned at school with a Parisian accent, delivered at a pace I can understand. It is good for my ears which cannot pick up the local accent. Rather like a French speaker trying to understand a Geordie.

In Carrefour I had a cheque accepted without a card.

This evening I dined alfresco at Le Bar. I sat under a lime tree sadly devoid of caterpillars (see yesterday). There were, however, a number of flies seemingly interested in my steak and chips; and the occasional wasp attracted by my Adnams Innovation. Take note of the latter, Don. Creme brulee was to follow. I was well satisfied.

A Freudian Slip

6.6.12

I travelled this morning by cab to Southampton Airport for my flight to Bergerac where I was met by Sandrine who drove me to Sigoules. Sandrine, who speaks very good English, is the daughter of Lydie Semprez who is Taxi Eymetois. For three years now I have been driven to and fro by one or the other of these delightful women. I never know which of them will meet me, but they are always on time, and when it is not possible for either of them, Lydie’s husband occasionally obliges. When I pulled out my wallet to pay, Sandrine reminded me that I had paid in advance on my May trip because Lydie had had no change.

After opening up the house I walked to Pomport and back. This is a four mile round trip through hilly countryside comprising woods, fields, and vineyards. The roadside is full of wild flowers and at this time of the year is most verdant. On this overcast, yet warm and humid, afternoon the only creature I met with whom to hold a conversation was a donkey who shares his his long hillside habitation with a family of goats. Although he fell into step beside me and treated me to assinine utterances we didn’t get very far because I don’t understand his language and he didn’t understand mine.

There is a leisure centre at the bottom of the hill leading from Sigoules which has been derelict since I took possession in December 2008. There had been plans for renovation to take place the following summer, but I expect they fell foul of the credit crunch. However, there are signs of work in progress at last. Watch this space.

Further on, up the hill towards Pomport, by the roadside on the edge of a wood, is a memorial embossed: IN MEMORY OF SIRON AND LAMY SHOT BY GERMANS 23.4.1944. In front of the stone is a pot containing geraniums and sweet peas. I reflected that almost 70 years later I have a good life and their’s was cut short.

On my return journey Lydie drew up alongside me in her taxi. The first time she had driven past me had been rather different. In my mobile phone memory I have the numbers of three taxi firms; Bergerac, Sigoules, and Eymet. Early in 2009, not realising that Lydie is perfectly happy to start a journey from Sigoules, it seemed sensible to use the Sigoules firm. I duly made a booking by telephone. This was for Chris, Frances, and Elizabeth to be driven to Eymet. Setting off earlier, I was to walk and meet them all there. Just before the time due for the pick-up I received a phone call from a woman checking whether I wanted the trip from Eymet to Sigoules, or the other way round. A little puzzled, because the Sigoules company was run by a man, I said the journey was from Sigoules. Continuing on my way I soon noticed the Eymet taxi speeding in the direction of Sigoules.

I then had an alarming thought. Which company had I booked? Checking the calls in my mobile phone memory I discovered it was the Eymet firm. Panic then set in. I couldn’t phone Chris because there was no signal at the house. I imagined Lydie turning up at the empty property and my siblings walking up to the Sigoules taxi firm to ask where their transport was. To compound the problem, my family members did not speak French and Lydie had no English.

Consequently I had a very uncomfortable continuation of my walk. I needn’t have worried. They managed to communicate well enough and were soon beside me on the main road from Bergerac. We have not looked back since. Now, of course, Lydie and I know each other’s voices.

Today I began reading Dorothy L. Sayers’ ‘Whose Body?’

This evening the clouds had dissipated and I dined alfresco at Le Code Cafe, two doors away. At a table prepared for me by David, the proprietor, I enjoyed vermicelli soup, roast duck and frites, followed by a delicate pear flan, with half a carafe of red wine.

Afterwards I watched ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ on my laptop. This slow-paced under-stated film, directed by Tomas Alfredson, which nevertheless demanded, and held, undivided attention, was excellent. Gary Oldman as George Smiley, gained the plaudits, but no film featuring Kathy Burke, Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy, Ciaran Hinds, John Hurt, Roger Lloyd-Pack, and Mark Strong, could possibly go wrong.