Gales in London. The last flight is cancelled due to high winds at Heathrow. Nothing unusual about the anonymous airport hotel room apart from the floors which are made not of wood but of faux plastic wood. They're strangely cold and bare feet stick to them. Why would you have plastic looking wood rather than the genuine article ?
The only reading material a French comic book about the battle of Tarawa. How odd is that ?
A five thirty bus to the terminal for the first flight. On the aircraft a couple from Austin. She's wheeled on and he fusses as the airport staff help her into the seat. Broad blue hat with red piping and matching pashmina. Hands stretched out straight on her knees. There's an old fashioned Grace Kelly look to her. After takeoff she leans across the aisle and talks to me with that American openness to strangers that's alien to their British cousins. An indecorous cancer. They've been travelling the pilgrim route to Santiago for two months. Something they'd always promised they would do. Their children said it was mad. He wheeled her all the way apart from the mountainous stretch where they hired a car. They'd stop at churches and if she couldn't climb the steps, he'd run in, video the interior and then they'd sit outside and look at the pictures on his i-Pad. '' Now we're proficient in Spanish and we made it to Santiago ! ". There were traumas getting replacement tyres for her chair when the old ones wore out. '' Don't get me started on the brake linings ". The kindness of strangers helped overcome all obstacles. Now heading home for what she calls 'another journey'. He rubs her knuckles with the tip of his thumb in that way long married couples do and whispers " Shoosh ! Don't say that ".
The most amazing stories can be found in the seat across the aisle.
At the train station a passenger with a dog. Interesting psychology. In the minute, maybe 90 seconds I'm there buying a ticket a man comes and tickles the dogs head, two girls stoop down to say hello and an old lady tells the owner how fine his companion is. Urban society slows and gives way to an older rhythm.
English bakeries have very different displays to their French counterparts.
Late in the evening after talking to men in dark suits I pass this new Rolls Royce parked outside the London hotel. The colour scheme perhaps not to everyones taste.
A record of some of those 'little' things too unimportant for a diary .
Morning walk time. We're passed by three farmers in little white vans, the young 'garagiste' in his souped up Citroen, the farmer in the Toyota Land Cruiser ( with the manic Westie leaping from front seat to back window ) and this morning not one but two combine harvesters. I wave. Bob looks. Sophie is down in the donkey field hunting for badger poo so doesn't notice.
The sunflower harvest is starting. After that it's the hazelnuts and then the village slips into hibernatory mode.
With two enthusiastic Polish Lowland Sheepdogs in the house ...
.... there is absolutely zero chance that we will miss the sunrise.
Some things beat lying in bed. This mornings deep red colours an indication that a sand cloud is being brought in from the Sahara.
By seven thirty it's almost full daylight. For the PONs , who've been on the go since six, it's the start of the best day ever.
We spend Sunday morning at the open day for the Academy of Arts and Sciences in the local market town. Founded in July 1776 by a group of knowledgeable locals and still going strong. Ever since they've managed to publish a quarterly magazine without a single interruption despite revolution, wars and occupation.
An amiable older gentleman, who turns out to be the President, gives us a tour of this Aladdin's cave of mysteries. He is quite happy, indeed eager, to let us leaf through the original notebooks containing the first lectures . A wonderful display of original First World War posters is propped, haphazardly, against a wall.
On the staircase an enormous and particularly hideous 19th century painting showing the excommunicated German Emperor Henry 4th pleading for forgiveness in front of the Pope in 1077. Generations of school children will have been taught this is what happens to naughty boys and girls who stray too far from the church. The Emperor was made to wait in his bare feet in the snow and in the picture is looking decidedly chastened. He never forgot, nor forgave. One of the seminal moments in European history. None of us can determine who the stern looking woman next to the Pope might be. Not a picture I'd want to have above the mantelpiece.
Notebooks from the 1780's showing excavations made by a visitor from Paris - a savant theatrical impresario - who could see something and then draw it exactly from memory. The Roman remains he excavated and recorded are all now lost.
The academy building is an old medieval convent that belonged to the Ursulines. There were no less than 26 convents in the town at the time of the revolution. After the terror it was vacant and they bought it for a song. At some stage the building was divided and the neighbouring tenant became the El Dorado night club. Quite an exotic venue for an agricultural town. From the fallen concrete on the El Dorado's portico I assume it's long closed.
While 'The Font' chats to the 'senior' gentleman Angus talks to an enthusiastic lady who is writing a book on the subject of 'The role of women in the study of apricot and plum diseases in the late 18th century '. As a special treat Angus is shown a variety of scientific instruments and the notes made by a long series of worthy farmers wives.
How marvellous that such calmness, eccentricity and passion co-exist in equal measure.
On our way back to the car we pass a 19th century building . Down below an uninteresting front to the Prune store. Above a mass of architectural detail which could be Moorish or Gothic but seems undecided as to what it wants to be.
Who knew the Norwegian national anthem was the same as the British ? Here's God Save the King sung in that increasingly fashionable Benjamin Britten version I never know when to stand up for . The Swedish King and Queen look bemused : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jK-0AEFPbo
Some people got this Novichok joke. Others didn't. The comments are twitter humour at its best : https://twitter.com/richardosman/status/1040261999555497985
A bright sunny start to the day. The cloying summer heat behind us. Perfect. The PONs love it. They can stay outside without their owners worrying about sunburnt noses. Every window in The Rickety Old Farmhouse is opened to let the air in. Plump happy bees buzz away on the roses while nervous lizards scurry round the courtyard and climb the walls.
It is National Patrimony Weekend. All sorts of places are open to the public that are usually closed.
We head off to visit to a 68 bedroom 13th century castle. Too big for use as a family home it was run as an ever less grand hotel until it closed in 2001. Now in a state of ever more glorious dereliction it is the haunt of Class A drug dealers from Toulouse. A fire has burnt down the stable block. The family that own it try to keep it standing but something this size needs a Jeff Bezos budget. What can be done with it ?
Onto a fortified medieval village. We park in the deserted square by a strangely shaped house with a double story entry way. What, if anything, would have been stored there ?
A little arcaded 12th century village house being renovated. No architectural purity here. The windows have been reduced in size by the insertion of three layers of floor tiles and plastic framed windows are being fitted. The external plaster has fallen off where the electricians have put in new ducting.
The village church - no bigger than a hut - has a surprise in store. A flamboyant 16th century altar screen. Baroque on acid. Quite out of proportion.
On our way out of the church we meet the Chatelaine of the local castle. She scurries across the street and invites us over. The building now a bare whisper of its pre-revolutionary size - but still enormous. The staircase is made of alabaster and as theatrical as a Cecil B. De Mille film set. It's carved with a delicacy that takes our breath away. The owner is completely batty ( in a grumpy type of way ), probably impoverished and lives in one huge room with painted ceilings and a four poster bed in the corner. There is no sign of plumbing. How I wish I'd taken some photos. She's invited us back.
Lovely shots of the Northern Lights and some Sunday Scottish fiddle playing :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMc7RFj25qw
Both PONs were bathed yesterday. Such a short sentence but one that obscures a morning of trying to catch two wiley Polish Lowland Sheepdogs. They try hiding at the far side of the garden. Sophie dons her invisibility cloak and disappears under a bed in an upstairs guest room. Bob does his '' road kill attached to the floor by super glue '' routine. Bob gets bathed first. Sophie, who displays a remarkable turn of speed when cornered, is 'caught' an hour later.
During the proceedings Angus changes his shirt and trousers not once but twice.
Afterwards he receives the PON patented '' We thought we could trust you " look.
They get a guilt assuaging rice cake which seems to cheer them up.
A new Burger King has been built in the supermarket car park. It's gone up in two weeks. The French would have you believe they don't like fast food. Nothing, but nothing, could be further from the truth.
Gourds make an appearance in the supermarket. They are very popular with the North African crowd. Angus had never thought that pumpkins were a Maghreb thing.
Why is it crisp flavours always seem more sophisticated in French ?
Real estate of the week . For sale off the coast . Click on the video : http://www.fptower.com/sale.html
A cold wet nose wakes me at 5:58 am.A reminder that the best day ever is about to start. The leaves from the plane trees now starting to fall. For the next three months Loic will be kept busy blowing them into piles. The PONs will be equally busy leaping into the leaf piles and redistributing them.
The Anglo-Saxon media is busy reporting the storm heading towards the Carolina's. Here the attention is on the French islands in the Caribbean.
The mayors secretary delivers a formal note concerning the village commemoration for the end of the 'Great' war. A rather sweet ending as a 'memory of the millions of young men of all nationalities who died at lifes dawning'.
This is what the war memorial looked like in 1922 shortly after it was unveiled.
Some of the houses in the background have gone but this is as it appears today. 'The Font' using the patience of Job has almost convinced the villagers that recreating the old wooden fence is a good idea. '' But what colour should the paint be ? " typical of the impedimenta still to be overcome. The stonework will be pressure washed next month to remove a century of dirt.
Guess what this article is saying is that life is a miracle and the parting from it a mystery. Dogs being sentient want to have someone to say farewell to : https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/vets-pet-put-down-final-moments-reality-twitter-facebook-euthanasia-a8532926.html
Angus is at the hypermarket at opening time. An hour of bliss as he talks wine with the sommelier. Some choices are abandoned '' Do you really want a 2011 when you can get a 2016 ? ". The relative merits of Pomerol and St.Julien are discussed. Pouilly-Loche is on special offer. A white easy drinking wine that is rarely seen. It was at one time ( before austerity ) served at large Buckingham Palace receptions.
On his way out Angus stops off at the shopping centre barbers. He has to go and talk to men in dark suits next week and he's developing his TinTin look again. A no longer young gentleman dressed entirely in black and with a ring through his nose cuts his hair. '' How anyone can understand you with that accent I don't know " he says with a joviality that leaves me stumped. Foreigners, in this deeply unfashionable part of France, are something of a rarity.
This mornings croissant is buttery, flaky and warm, 8.5/10.
The PONs are decidedly miffed to have been excluded from the wine buying trip.
There is a patch of sunlight on the study floor. The PONs are intrigued by this and tell me about it at some length. PONs it must be said are not quiet dogs.
We play touch rugby in the upstairs hallway. Bob charges after the ball and leaps on it with studied precision. He brings it back to me with his head held high. This is repeated three times. Then his sister gets it. She clamps it between her jaws, scurries down the stairs , takes it out into the garden and disappears with it into the orchard. That is the end of our game of touch rugby. Bob expresses his displeasure - loudly.
This is worth reading : https://medium.com/futuresin/2018-is-the-end-of-social-media-as-we-know-it-1e5658f41a5
It has been scorchingly hot. The mayor is up early setting up sprinklers on the new petanque court. He tells me that to commemorate the end of WW1 on November 11th there will be a village gathering in the Salle des Fetes. Everyone will be asked to bring along any old photos of the village or its inhabitants. His contribution will be photos of two great uncles who went off to war on their cart horses. They are the first two names on the war memorial. The photos will be displayed in the church porch as a permanent memorial. Could Angus arrange for them to be framed ? Sophie has got bored and is now starting to dig up the soil on the petanque court. We make our apologies and leave.
Today Sophie's nose displays a remarkable lustre even by her high standards of lustre . If a cold wet nose is a sign of good health then our lady with titanium knees is in fine fettle.
Even the most ferocious of house guardians require a little down time before heading off to the bakers.
Sophie is soon sound asleep. Her big brother maintains a degree of watchfulness before he too nods off.
A cat giving an owl a bath. How cool is that ? Feel good factor 10/10 :
https://twitter.com/IHLaking/status/1038764105195118592
An amazing Frank Lloyd Wright house for sale in LA. I'd have to say it doesn't look to be the most comfortable of his designs : https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/2607-Glendower-AveLos-Angeles_CA_90027_M14382-51984#photo7
This is mega cool in a clever techy way. From the Moscow gallery run by Abramovitch's wife : https://www.instagram.com/p/BnZLHowHDO9/?taken-by=zhestkov
The PONs sit and stare wondering why in heavens name it takes so long for me to get the car keys. Being bombarded with early morning Extra Sensory PONception comes with the territory.
Angus has carefully read and re-read the brochure for the local supermarkets wine fare. A twice a year chance to pick up rare bottles at heavily discounted prices. The bargains exist but they require careful studying to separate the wheat from the chaff. A variety of wine guides have been consulted. On arrival at the supermarket the PONs master is horrified to be told by the young manager that the displays aren't yet ready and that he'll have to wait until the evening before buying anything. What's the betting the vintages we want will have gone ?
At the service station on the motorway Angus has a lacklustre croissant and an even more lacklustre cup of something brown and burnt that claims to be coffee. There is a long queue so he has ample time to observe the products in the display cabinets by the cash register.
The plastic Eiffel Towers with diamante effect seem to be selling. Parisian snow-globes are a new addition to the range. So are a collection of knives. The ones with the orange skulls on the handle are slightly alarming. What demographic would buy a hunting knife in a motorway service station ?
The thimbles with scenes of Paris on them seem to be moving off the shelves slowly. In fact they don't seem to be moving off the shelves at all. How long will they linger there before being replaced by something that someone might actually want to buy ? Will they ever be dusted ? Why, when we're five hundred miles from Paris, are they selling Parisian mementos ? If you had to choose something what would it be ? Such are the random thoughts that keep the neural nerve endings busy while waiting in line on a Tuesday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde. Angus also wonders how long it will be before the name Nick Ayers is universally known.
This is about making a jello knife. It may mean something to the Japanese but leaves me bewildered : https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCg3qsVzHeUt5_cPpcRtoaJQ
What a calming interview :
https://www.nationalreview.com/2018/09/thea-musgrave-composer-on-music-and-life/
This year ( for reasons unknown ) the village cat population has grown. There must be thirty or so of the things. Our stretch of lane has three that call it home. For the most part they sit on the Old Farmers balcony, fight, play, drink milk from a saucer laid out for them and watch the world go by. At first light two of the three wander across to The Rickety Old Farmhouse and sit right outside the front door making loud 'meeowing' sounds. The effect of this ( as the cats know ) on the PONs asleep inside is nothing short of electrifying. For their master it's that 'time to get up' moment.
Sophie shoots out of the front door quicker than a cork from a champagne bottle. She emits a short sharp yelp of delight as she goes. Round and round the orchard she flies. Her big brother follows on behind. He eventually understands the cats have long gone. The family boy watches his sister continue to hurtle round the garden wearing his ' what did I do to deserve this ? ' expression.
The bakers is in brown mode.
Very brown mode.
So starts a not so quiet day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
What music ! One of the seated gentleman violinists has a 'characterful' face : https://youtu.be/cRSzXrQJ374?list=PLvKgJKCiHstFnnDScMClqjNnUrKodaaeL&t=262
