I took myself off for a drive yesterday, not wanting to spend a lovely sunny Sunday sat inside the apartment, especially when there is so much to see, and so much that I haven't seen, within a couple of hours fabulous drive from here - and fabulous it is to drive on virtually empty French roads, and with the roof down on the car the countryside seems so much closer.
I decided to visit a Cathar castle that I have been meaning to go to for quite a while. My wife and I had driven to Peyrepertuse one Sunday two years ago after a Saturday that I'd like to forget when our relationship was at it's lowest ebb - inevitably there was a tenseness in the air that day, which was completely at odds with the stunning scenery and the spectacular location of the chateau. We drove up as far as we could but didn't make the final walk up to the remains of the chateau - in a way my visit felt like unfinished business.
However, instead of just the one, I visited two, because the route I took went right past (3km detour) another Cathar castle, at Puilaurens. One of the features of Cathar castles is that they were built, as were many middle age castles, in defensive positions on top of high ground. Now in England that probably means you have to walk up a slight rise to get to the castle, whereas in the Languedoc it means you have to be an experienced mountaineer with a strong heart and no dodgy knees. These things were built on the top, and I mean the very top, of mountains. How they achieved it, a thousand years ago, with the technology they had is an absolute wonder and a miracle. So visiting one was a good workout, and visiting two in a day required determination and stamina.
At Puilaurens you can see the chateau from the village, sat on it's promontary above, and it gets closer as you drive up the windy track until it disappears from view in the trees when you get to the car park and ticket office. You might think you are there but no, there is still a 500m virtually 45 degree climb up through the trees to get to the 'defensive zig-zag stone stairs' leading to the main gate. When I reached the top my thighs were burning and I was gasping for breath - I really couldn't have spoken for a couple of minutes and everyone else who was there had clearly gone through the same experience as they looked on in sympathy from their seated positions inside the walls - and inside the walls is an apt description because you can't get to look at the best thing about climbing all that way - the view. What a let down. You can walk around this medieval wreck with it's piles of rubble and trees and wildflowers where there were once dwellings and stables but all you can see outside is a glimpse through an arrow slit, here and there. The upper walls have crumbled or been stolen and are too unsafe, even by French standards, to let the public up there.
Between Peyrepertuse and Puilaurens is the Gorge of Galamus, which frankly sounds like something out of The Lord of the Rings. I expected to see trolls and elves and whatever the really ugly baddies are called, as I drove through, but mostly there were motorbikes of all shapes and sizes, and Gandalf didn't ride a motorbike, although in a contemporary version of the film he'd probably be on a Harley. Still, it seems that riding through the Aude countryside in convoy on a Sunday is a big thing to do - and who can blame them because I was enjoying the drive as much as the scenery and places I visited.
You can see Peyrepertuse a long time before you get close to it. It sits on top of a limestone ridge and defies description or explanation. You watch the changing angle of it's perspective as you drive along the valley to the north and then briefly lose sight of it as you round the end of the ridge before dropping into the town that sits below the chateau and then starting the long winding road up the mountain. You get as far as you can go, park up, pay and start walking - disconcertingly downwards at first as you walk around the end of the ridge to the entrance high up on the opposite side. Once inside you appreciate the vast size of this chateau and that it was constructed in three parts, you now only being at the lower end of something that climbs up with the ridge for at least another two hundred metres. The top of the topmost top bit of this chateau is absolutely awe inspiring. You feel as if you are on top of the landscape - you can see everything down four valleys on every side - even if the climb hadn't done so, the view would take your breath away.
By the time I got home I had been out for six hours and after the two climbs was feeling a bit weary. The day before I had taken my bike out for it's first (overdue) outing of the year. A gentle cycle down the banks of the River Aude which turned into an hour and a half of cycle exploration as I rediscovered the joy of pedal power. I used to think that going to a gym three times a week was how to stay fit - how wrong I was - Cathar castles, pedal power, a big property renovation and a diet of duck confit, garlic and red wine is the answer, and if anyone nicks that from me I will sue them.
Tomorrow (1 May) is a bank holiday here in France. It is also a Tuesday, which means there is this odd day between the weekend and the holiday. Proprietors of businesses up and down the land have said to themselves "Is it worth opening up today?". No. The fact is that because today was a Monday half of them weren't open anyway and the other half needed very little excuse to stay in bed. There are three bank holidays in three weeks here, all falling on Tuesdays or Thursdays, which basically means three, three day weeks, which you either respect or hate but either way it's going to happen.
Despite that, there is vast excitement in Carcassonne at the moment. The rugby league team has reached the final of the French rugby league cup. It is 15 years since Carcassonne won the cup and they have lost two finals since then - but they are in the final this year, which is being played tomorrow night in Carcassonne. The whole town has been abuzz all week as only a town can be when it is involved in a cup final - it reminds me so much of an FA Cup Final town in England, especially when it is not a big city involved. They have been talking about it all week and selling club shirts and tickets in the market and the bars and at Tridome, our favourite DIY store, who sponsor the local team. It will be a party whatever but I am really hoping for a home town win - I think the knock-on effect will be enormous, but also, I will be proud to be a Carcassonnais for the day - "Allez les jaunes et noires"
28 April 2007
27 April 2007
Down but not out
It's Friday night and I am feeling a bit weary and, to be honest, a bit down. It has been a strange week in many ways and it's hard to put my finger on why I am feeling like this - it's not as if we haven't made any progress with the renovation and nobody has done anything to upset or annoy me, and yet I feel a bit tired and a bit frustrated and a bit sad for some reason.
My wife went back to London a couple of days ago and I am missing her terribly. I know that at this very moment she is on the roof of a Shoreditch penthouse apartment at a birthday party that I should be attending, and would be attending, if I wasn't living this double life in different countries. There are lots of good reasons why I am in France and not at the party and there are also many good reasons why I should be in London - my wife most importantly and my friends too.
Normally, at times like this, 'the genius' and I would go to the bar and talk the night away about sport and computers and cars and stuff that blokes talk about to each other which would help us both cope with not being with our 'ladies' - but he's suddenly gone on the wagon and all introverted and won't go out, which, frankly, is a bit bloody selfish if you ask me!
Perhaps it's the distinct feeling of Spring in the air that is getting to me. The swallows are swooping and whooshing, one chasing another, over the rooftops at dusk. The fields are full of wild flowers and, most dramatically, red poppies, whilst the hedgerows are full of wild iris and purple and white lilac - all plants that would cost a pretty penny in a London garden centre. The air is warm enough to have the windows open 24 hours a day and either the sun or the moon beams down at all times.
The downside of the open window environment is the increase in 'noise pollution' (don't you just hate that phrase) from the street. It is a by-product of living in the town, which I am used to from my many years in London, but the noises are different and unique to France and are exacerbated by the narrowness of the streets in the Bastide town where I live. French teenage boys have a love affair with mopeds far in excess of those in Britain and their ability to rev the shit out of them between the junctions 20 metres to the right of my apartment and 20 meters to the left is unparalled - it is a sound that renders any ongoing conversation futile at that precise moment. In addition, souped up car stereo systems reverberate off the narrow walls, which is very occasionally pleasantly classical or jazzy or spanish but is more often than not French techno or rap - the most hideous music style known to man.
Well, if that's it, I don't have a lot to put up with or complain about, do I? So I better snap out of this malaise and just get on with it, which of course I will.
My wife went back to London a couple of days ago and I am missing her terribly. I know that at this very moment she is on the roof of a Shoreditch penthouse apartment at a birthday party that I should be attending, and would be attending, if I wasn't living this double life in different countries. There are lots of good reasons why I am in France and not at the party and there are also many good reasons why I should be in London - my wife most importantly and my friends too.
Normally, at times like this, 'the genius' and I would go to the bar and talk the night away about sport and computers and cars and stuff that blokes talk about to each other which would help us both cope with not being with our 'ladies' - but he's suddenly gone on the wagon and all introverted and won't go out, which, frankly, is a bit bloody selfish if you ask me!
Perhaps it's the distinct feeling of Spring in the air that is getting to me. The swallows are swooping and whooshing, one chasing another, over the rooftops at dusk. The fields are full of wild flowers and, most dramatically, red poppies, whilst the hedgerows are full of wild iris and purple and white lilac - all plants that would cost a pretty penny in a London garden centre. The air is warm enough to have the windows open 24 hours a day and either the sun or the moon beams down at all times.
The downside of the open window environment is the increase in 'noise pollution' (don't you just hate that phrase) from the street. It is a by-product of living in the town, which I am used to from my many years in London, but the noises are different and unique to France and are exacerbated by the narrowness of the streets in the Bastide town where I live. French teenage boys have a love affair with mopeds far in excess of those in Britain and their ability to rev the shit out of them between the junctions 20 metres to the right of my apartment and 20 meters to the left is unparalled - it is a sound that renders any ongoing conversation futile at that precise moment. In addition, souped up car stereo systems reverberate off the narrow walls, which is very occasionally pleasantly classical or jazzy or spanish but is more often than not French techno or rap - the most hideous music style known to man.
Well, if that's it, I don't have a lot to put up with or complain about, do I? So I better snap out of this malaise and just get on with it, which of course I will.
21 April 2007
More car madness
Sadly, my wife has now gone back to London. It has been great having her out here for a few days. She is the design inspiration for the renovation, so it has been very important for her to see where we have got to, see the room spaces for herself, confirm tiles and paint colours, socket placement, kitchen layout and many other decisions that needed to be made. We now have some firm thoughts on areas where there were unanswered questions and can crack on with the work. She has been known to change her mind occasionally, if you can believe such a thing, and many an email has been received starting with the words "What if..." or "How about ...". As she says "Hurry up and finish it and I won't be able to change my mind any more". Quite. We are doing our best, believe me.
As part of that decision making process, we went to the IKEA store in Toulouse to look at kitchen cabinets and door fronts and sinks. I don't really enjoy visiting IKEA stores but some of their stuff is good - it's the whole store experience I can't cope with; you either end up not finding what you want or coming out with a load of stuff you hadn't bargained on buying in the first place. Our four hour round trip on Monday, which elicited much confusion about the kitchens we need to install and the purchase of just three under shelf light fittings, was pretty much par for the course.
I am glad to say that the kitchen confusion has now been resolved - all that remains is to order it and either collect (another trip to Toulouse and not sure if it will fit in the car) or try to arrange a delivery that will actually come to my door instead of depositing the goods two blocks away.
My poor mis-used car had to cope with more hard labour yesterday when I went to collect the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom (the ones we managed to secure at a bargain price at the end of last week). 25sq metres worth of tiles is pretty heavy and despite spreading the load between the boot, back seat and vacant passenger seat, I was seriously concerned for the well-being of the rear suspension and had to drive home very carefully, praying that nothing occured that required an emergency stop - because it wouldn't have stopped very quickly, that's for sure. The guys at Tridome, the DIY and materials supplier we generally use, appear to be no longer surprised by what goes into the back (or on top!) of an Audi Cabriolet - so we will have to come up with something in the weeks to come or they will have nothing new to talk about over their lunch.
Talking of cars, I have just had the most bizarre and surreal conversation with my wife. She is in her car, trying to find somewhere in East London, and had got herself lost and couldn't work it out on the map - so she phoned me, mobile to mobile, so that I could talk her through the route from where she was to where she needed to be using a map on my computer here in France - how mad is that - absolutely stark raving bonkers. I guess it's another skill I can add to my CV - a sort of real-time GPS navigation system provider - actually, for the cost of the phone call we could probably a bought a GPS system but then they don't have a sense a humour and they know left from right, so they wouldn't be anything like as amusing!
As part of that decision making process, we went to the IKEA store in Toulouse to look at kitchen cabinets and door fronts and sinks. I don't really enjoy visiting IKEA stores but some of their stuff is good - it's the whole store experience I can't cope with; you either end up not finding what you want or coming out with a load of stuff you hadn't bargained on buying in the first place. Our four hour round trip on Monday, which elicited much confusion about the kitchens we need to install and the purchase of just three under shelf light fittings, was pretty much par for the course.
I am glad to say that the kitchen confusion has now been resolved - all that remains is to order it and either collect (another trip to Toulouse and not sure if it will fit in the car) or try to arrange a delivery that will actually come to my door instead of depositing the goods two blocks away.
My poor mis-used car had to cope with more hard labour yesterday when I went to collect the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom (the ones we managed to secure at a bargain price at the end of last week). 25sq metres worth of tiles is pretty heavy and despite spreading the load between the boot, back seat and vacant passenger seat, I was seriously concerned for the well-being of the rear suspension and had to drive home very carefully, praying that nothing occured that required an emergency stop - because it wouldn't have stopped very quickly, that's for sure. The guys at Tridome, the DIY and materials supplier we generally use, appear to be no longer surprised by what goes into the back (or on top!) of an Audi Cabriolet - so we will have to come up with something in the weeks to come or they will have nothing new to talk about over their lunch.
Talking of cars, I have just had the most bizarre and surreal conversation with my wife. She is in her car, trying to find somewhere in East London, and had got herself lost and couldn't work it out on the map - so she phoned me, mobile to mobile, so that I could talk her through the route from where she was to where she needed to be using a map on my computer here in France - how mad is that - absolutely stark raving bonkers. I guess it's another skill I can add to my CV - a sort of real-time GPS navigation system provider - actually, for the cost of the phone call we could probably a bought a GPS system but then they don't have a sense a humour and they know left from right, so they wouldn't be anything like as amusing!
Happy and sad
It feels like winter has finally been despatched for another year. It has hung on grimly here for longer than strictly necessary or welcome, for that matter. There have been moments over the past couple of months when it felt as though Spring was just around the corner; when it was warm enough to sit outside in the square for lunch or an early evening aperitif, but they proved to be just false hopes, a little tease if you like. Indeed, we had lunch outside in the square on the 2nd January and some blossom was out at the end of that month. "You've gone too early", I thought, and so it proved. The March cold and damp went on and on, week after week caused by unseasonably bad weather sat over the Iberian peninsula, apparently. A brief respite for three days over the Easter holidays and then back to more rain. All the while, it was cheerily sunny, warm and dry in London.
This week, however, instant summer has arrived. Well, for a Northern European boy it is instant summer. It is not the uncomfortable blazing heat of July but it's plenty fabulous for me. At seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, I am sat at my kitchen table with the windows wide open. The sun is already casting it's golden rays onto the buildings across the street and there is a haze to the blue sky which hints at the heat to come later in the day. Swallows swoop low over the rooftops in courtship. It is still quiet apart from the bells and the occasional 'clip-clop' of shoes on the street as the sensible shoppers, baskets in arms, make their way down the hill to the market to get their pick of the best produce before the out-of-towners, tourists and late risers all converge on the square later in the morning. The local asparagus season is already a month old and delicious local strawberries are now in abundance. There is a heady sense of anticipation about what new treats are to be had - the first figs or melons perhaps? (having been to the market, I can confirm that it was melons - still quite small, but absolutely bursting with juice and flavour).
The only problem with this fantastic weather is that the last place I want to be is inside working on the renovation, but the timetable is unforgiving so work we must. Progress has been good this week - the last bit of demolition and rubble removal has been done, the plumbing is nearly finished and the frame for the new doorway to the bedroom has been put in place. Having pondered long and hard and changed our mind a few times, we have saved some money on the doors for the bedroom by deciding to use the spare ones that we found in one of my cellar spaces. I'm not sure where they came from originally but they match all the other sets of double doors and so are perfect. It was in fact a good week for saving money. I had, fortunately, delayed ordering the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom and finally went to do it yesterday. My wife, who is over for the weekend I am happy to say, then found almost exactly the same tiles on offer at pretty much a third of the price - what a result that was - and, what's more, they have them in stock as well, rather than having to wait six weeks for delivery from Italy.
Also in my cellar, we found two pieces of glass, cut to size for the standard panes of the large double opening windows that adorn each room. This was lucky on two counts. Firstly, the apartment has always had one pane of glass missing from one of it's windows and I had been meaning to get a piece of glass cut for it. No need for that any more - and more money saved. Secondly, we now need to replace another pane of glass, in the main apartment, after some 'petit merde' threw a bottle at the window in the early hours of Friday morning. We were awoken by a strange sound in the night but couldn't place it. A quick look round in the dark didn't reveal anything and fortunately I didn't stand on any of the broken glass in my bare feet. All became apparent in the morning - a small hole in the cracked pane, a beer bottle top and broken glass in the living room and a broken green beer bottle in the street down below.
Talking to one of my neighbours later that day, I got the distinct impression that she thought France was going to the dogs with the disaffected, mostly Arab, youth the main reason for the decline. I have no idea if there is a link, but the day before France votes for a new President, means that it is an issue on everyone's mind just now. I don't know what makes someone think it is big or clever to throw a bottle at a window, or why someone has so little respect for other people and their property, but it saddens and angers me. 'C'est la vie' as they say around here.
This week, however, instant summer has arrived. Well, for a Northern European boy it is instant summer. It is not the uncomfortable blazing heat of July but it's plenty fabulous for me. At seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, I am sat at my kitchen table with the windows wide open. The sun is already casting it's golden rays onto the buildings across the street and there is a haze to the blue sky which hints at the heat to come later in the day. Swallows swoop low over the rooftops in courtship. It is still quiet apart from the bells and the occasional 'clip-clop' of shoes on the street as the sensible shoppers, baskets in arms, make their way down the hill to the market to get their pick of the best produce before the out-of-towners, tourists and late risers all converge on the square later in the morning. The local asparagus season is already a month old and delicious local strawberries are now in abundance. There is a heady sense of anticipation about what new treats are to be had - the first figs or melons perhaps? (having been to the market, I can confirm that it was melons - still quite small, but absolutely bursting with juice and flavour).
The only problem with this fantastic weather is that the last place I want to be is inside working on the renovation, but the timetable is unforgiving so work we must. Progress has been good this week - the last bit of demolition and rubble removal has been done, the plumbing is nearly finished and the frame for the new doorway to the bedroom has been put in place. Having pondered long and hard and changed our mind a few times, we have saved some money on the doors for the bedroom by deciding to use the spare ones that we found in one of my cellar spaces. I'm not sure where they came from originally but they match all the other sets of double doors and so are perfect. It was in fact a good week for saving money. I had, fortunately, delayed ordering the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom and finally went to do it yesterday. My wife, who is over for the weekend I am happy to say, then found almost exactly the same tiles on offer at pretty much a third of the price - what a result that was - and, what's more, they have them in stock as well, rather than having to wait six weeks for delivery from Italy.
Also in my cellar, we found two pieces of glass, cut to size for the standard panes of the large double opening windows that adorn each room. This was lucky on two counts. Firstly, the apartment has always had one pane of glass missing from one of it's windows and I had been meaning to get a piece of glass cut for it. No need for that any more - and more money saved. Secondly, we now need to replace another pane of glass, in the main apartment, after some 'petit merde' threw a bottle at the window in the early hours of Friday morning. We were awoken by a strange sound in the night but couldn't place it. A quick look round in the dark didn't reveal anything and fortunately I didn't stand on any of the broken glass in my bare feet. All became apparent in the morning - a small hole in the cracked pane, a beer bottle top and broken glass in the living room and a broken green beer bottle in the street down below.
Talking to one of my neighbours later that day, I got the distinct impression that she thought France was going to the dogs with the disaffected, mostly Arab, youth the main reason for the decline. I have no idea if there is a link, but the day before France votes for a new President, means that it is an issue on everyone's mind just now. I don't know what makes someone think it is big or clever to throw a bottle at a window, or why someone has so little respect for other people and their property, but it saddens and angers me. 'C'est la vie' as they say around here.
17 April 2007
Back with a bump
Just when I get used to the pace of London and the small apartment and putting a suit on to go to work, I'm back into travel mode and on my way to France once more - following my ever so familiar route from North London to the Languedoc. Actually the familiarity and repetetiveness of the journey is quite reassuring. It makes the whole thing very stress free because everything is in it's order and it's place and happens as it has happened a hundred times before on all my previous journeys. I know what to do to make it easy and I know what to expect at every stage.
So when the cab driver arrives at home in London I know he will say what a fine/dull/wet/cold morning it is, before confirming that I am going to Tottenham Hale station and then asking if I am going to Stansted. Affirmation of this will bring forth a sales pitch for taking me all the way in the cab, which I will politely decline because I already have a Stansted Express ticket, after which silence will descend apart from the overly cheerful attempts from Capital Radio to awake it's listeners and the odd muttered expletive from the cab driver in the direction of other road users.
On the Stansted Express I will talk to two people. Somewhere between Tottenham Hale and Harlow/Bishops Stortford, the ticket inspector, always male, will say "tickets please", then scrawl on or stamp my ticket, to which I will say "Thank you". The young lady pulling the buffet trolley will ask if I would like any "drinks or snacks", to which I will say " No, thank you".
At Stansted I will go straight to the security gate, where I will be asked if I am carrying any liquids or toiletries, which I won't be because I never do. I will wait patiently, while non-regular travellers go back and forth through the metal detector because they have not removed their keys/phone/money from their pockets. I'll be one of the first on the plane and then it's a well trodden routine of "Please sit anywhere after row 3/4/5" and "This is your captain speaking" followed by "Two at the front, one left and one right" (accompanied by the appropriate hand gestures), "any drinks/snacks", "any rubbish/empties", "flight crew, ten minutes to landing", "welcome to Carcassonne ten minutes earlier than scheduled" and finally "thank you for flying ryanair, we look forward to seeing you again".
But today the calm stress-free routine was blown away right at the last moment when the pilot decided to dump the plane on the runway instead of the usual smooth-ish landing. He came down so vertically that he must have thought he was flying a Harrier jump jet rather than a Boeing 737. I'll be surprised if the runway isn't dented. The woman next to me exclaimed aloud "that didn't seem right". "Not right!", I said, "That was rubbish". Whilst waiting to disembark, the head stewardess apologised and laughingly said it was the first officer's first flight. I said I hadn't noticed the 'L' plates when I boarded and maybe he needs a bit more time on the flight simulator, which made her laugh all the more. She was the only one on the plane laughing.
The genius was there to meet me and asked if I didn't mind going home via our favourite DIY store, Tridome, for a few bits and pieces that he needed. A few bits and pieces he said - a good walk round the aisles with a long list in his hand - and another €100 euros gone in the blink of an eye. That was the second hard landing in the space of an hour. So much for comfortable stress-free travel.
So when the cab driver arrives at home in London I know he will say what a fine/dull/wet/cold morning it is, before confirming that I am going to Tottenham Hale station and then asking if I am going to Stansted. Affirmation of this will bring forth a sales pitch for taking me all the way in the cab, which I will politely decline because I already have a Stansted Express ticket, after which silence will descend apart from the overly cheerful attempts from Capital Radio to awake it's listeners and the odd muttered expletive from the cab driver in the direction of other road users.
On the Stansted Express I will talk to two people. Somewhere between Tottenham Hale and Harlow/Bishops Stortford, the ticket inspector, always male, will say "tickets please", then scrawl on or stamp my ticket, to which I will say "Thank you". The young lady pulling the buffet trolley will ask if I would like any "drinks or snacks", to which I will say " No, thank you".
At Stansted I will go straight to the security gate, where I will be asked if I am carrying any liquids or toiletries, which I won't be because I never do. I will wait patiently, while non-regular travellers go back and forth through the metal detector because they have not removed their keys/phone/money from their pockets. I'll be one of the first on the plane and then it's a well trodden routine of "Please sit anywhere after row 3/4/5" and "This is your captain speaking" followed by "Two at the front, one left and one right" (accompanied by the appropriate hand gestures), "any drinks/snacks", "any rubbish/empties", "flight crew, ten minutes to landing", "welcome to Carcassonne ten minutes earlier than scheduled" and finally "thank you for flying ryanair, we look forward to seeing you again".
But today the calm stress-free routine was blown away right at the last moment when the pilot decided to dump the plane on the runway instead of the usual smooth-ish landing. He came down so vertically that he must have thought he was flying a Harrier jump jet rather than a Boeing 737. I'll be surprised if the runway isn't dented. The woman next to me exclaimed aloud "that didn't seem right". "Not right!", I said, "That was rubbish". Whilst waiting to disembark, the head stewardess apologised and laughingly said it was the first officer's first flight. I said I hadn't noticed the 'L' plates when I boarded and maybe he needs a bit more time on the flight simulator, which made her laugh all the more. She was the only one on the plane laughing.
The genius was there to meet me and asked if I didn't mind going home via our favourite DIY store, Tridome, for a few bits and pieces that he needed. A few bits and pieces he said - a good walk round the aisles with a long list in his hand - and another €100 euros gone in the blink of an eye. That was the second hard landing in the space of an hour. So much for comfortable stress-free travel.
13 April 2007
Not quite there yet
Just when you think you are getting the hang of things, something goes awry to let you know you've still haven't cracked this foreign communication malarkey. A few days ago I was congratulating myself on arranging a delivery of building materials from the DIY store to the apartment, situated in the narrow streets of the bastide town.
"Je suis en centre ville", I said. "Oui", she replied.
"Pas de problem", I probed. "Non", she replied, implaccably.
"Bon", said I, unknowingly
So, naturally, when the delivery driver phoned me on Tuesday afternoon to say he was on his way, he casually mentioned that his lorry was too big, 'un grand camion", and that the best he could do was drop the stuff at the top of the hill in the car park some 200 metres from the apartment. When he arrived at the car park, where I had gone to meet him, I tried in my best French to ask why, when he knew I was in 'centre ville' he had not come in a smaller van, under the allowed weight limit for the bastide, as arranged and agreed. That one expressive shrug of his French shoulders and downturned pout of his French mouth said, without saying a word, 'This is the lorry it's on, I can't go down that road, I can put it down here or I can take it back to the depot, It's your problem and I don't really give a rat's ass either way, take it or leave it'.
So take it we did. Twelve 3m and six 4m lengths of wood and twenty-eight, yes 28, 3m x 1.2m sheets of plasterboard. If you've ever tried to lift a 3m sheet of plasterboard you will know that it is very heavy and you need two people to carry it or it will bend and break. Help was needed.
Help arrived in the form of my trusty Audi, into which, in roof down mode, we piled the wood for the short journey down the hill - two trips and it was done - relatively painless apart from the continuing damage to the leather seats. We briefly toyed with the idea of balancing the plasterboard on the back of the car and rolling down the hill at walking pace but the length of the board ruled this out. There was only one option, it had to be carried.
My other help arrived in the form of a little and large team from Ireland. Not that they are a comedy duo or a team, just that one is a big bear of a man, an artist and fellow resident of the town, and the other is a slight, gentle man from Dublin who had arrived the day before for a quiet week in his holiday apartment situated on the second floor above my own. I felt very guilty in imposing on them both and would not have been surprised if all manner of pressing engagements had suddenly occured to them, but they are both kindness personified and leapt to the task unhesitatingly with, well, not quite enthusiasm but certainly determination.
So it was, in two teams of two, that the plasterboard was ferried down the hill in relays, under a hot afternoon sun and to the amusement of many passers by who were no doubt sniggering about stupid foreigners who thought they could get material delivered in town. The verbose, constantly chattering Irish team must have used as much energy talking as they did carrying and the stoic anglo-saxon team whose only word was "ready" at the start of each trip. Fourteen journeys of 200m carrying board is 2.8km plus another 2.8km walking back up the hill meant 5.6km each in total. Now that is a good workout, and we had only got it as far as the arch so far; We still had to carry it up to the first floor. Time for a tea break.
By 6.30pm, three hours after delivery, the job was done and four bottles of cold lager were consumed in 10 seconds flat. My enormous thanks goes to my generous Irish friends - without them the genius and I would still have been out there at 9.00pm for sure.
It was a day that appeared destined for trouble from the beginning. What should have been a relatively straighforward trip to Tridome for plumbing parts for me and paint for my Irish neighbour turned into a two and a half hour tour of four DIY stores and one plumbing wholesaler. There appears to be a national shortage of 12mm copper pipe, all other sizes available but not the one we wanted. At the last location, we couldn't even find where the copper pipe was being kept because they were in the middle of a major re-organisation of both the gardening and DIY stores which resulted in hosepipes on the same shelf as paint and plumbing parts in 3 locations. It's hard enough to find what you want at the best of times but when the store staff don't know where everything is and they are not sure what you have just asked for, in less than perfect French, you don't really have a chance. This is the store we once walked round for half an hour looking for radiators and towel rails, only to be told, quite bluntly, that they were in the gardening section. How stupid could we have been. Of course they are. Eventually I found someone who understood what I wanted and knew where it was - it was in the storeroom at the back and not on display at all - I just had to ask!
At last. They had a 3m length of 12mm copper pipe - mission accomplished. And so the intrepid band made it's way home. Me and my irish neighbour in the front, a 1.2m square showerbase wedged in behind the front seats forming an impenetrable barrier to the genius, equally wedged in, on the back seat. My Irish neighbour clutched the copper pipe like a flagpole out of the top of the car. It really should have been flying a pennant with my colours fluttering in the breeze - it felt like I had won a battle, although the afternoon's events proved I had not won the war. The showerbase allowed me no direct rearward vision and the genius no forward vision and was a very effective sound insulator, which made reversing the car into the arch an act of pure blind faith and total reliance on having done it a hundred times before. Practice makes perfect and perfect it was - despite the muffled concern from the other side of the showerbase.
And so it was we all breathed a great sigh of relief and wondered what aches and pains would materialise over the days to come.
The following day, before my flight home, I was back at Tridome buying steel for ceiling frames. I needed four 5.3m rails, which were a bit long, even for our lavish open top Audi escapades. So, having bought said steels I laid them on the floor just outside the pick-up point, produced a tape measure and a pair of cutters (or snips as I think they are known in the trade) and proceeded to cut said steels into 3.5m and 1.8m pieces, under the gaze of the disbelieving but, I think, begrudgingly respectful, Tridome employees, before loading them once more into my poor maligned car. I just know they will be thinking 'what are they going to ask for next and how are they going to get it in that car'. I like to think we may have a few surprises for them yet.
"Je suis en centre ville", I said. "Oui", she replied.
"Pas de problem", I probed. "Non", she replied, implaccably.
"Bon", said I, unknowingly
So, naturally, when the delivery driver phoned me on Tuesday afternoon to say he was on his way, he casually mentioned that his lorry was too big, 'un grand camion", and that the best he could do was drop the stuff at the top of the hill in the car park some 200 metres from the apartment. When he arrived at the car park, where I had gone to meet him, I tried in my best French to ask why, when he knew I was in 'centre ville' he had not come in a smaller van, under the allowed weight limit for the bastide, as arranged and agreed. That one expressive shrug of his French shoulders and downturned pout of his French mouth said, without saying a word, 'This is the lorry it's on, I can't go down that road, I can put it down here or I can take it back to the depot, It's your problem and I don't really give a rat's ass either way, take it or leave it'.
So take it we did. Twelve 3m and six 4m lengths of wood and twenty-eight, yes 28, 3m x 1.2m sheets of plasterboard. If you've ever tried to lift a 3m sheet of plasterboard you will know that it is very heavy and you need two people to carry it or it will bend and break. Help was needed.
Help arrived in the form of my trusty Audi, into which, in roof down mode, we piled the wood for the short journey down the hill - two trips and it was done - relatively painless apart from the continuing damage to the leather seats. We briefly toyed with the idea of balancing the plasterboard on the back of the car and rolling down the hill at walking pace but the length of the board ruled this out. There was only one option, it had to be carried.
My other help arrived in the form of a little and large team from Ireland. Not that they are a comedy duo or a team, just that one is a big bear of a man, an artist and fellow resident of the town, and the other is a slight, gentle man from Dublin who had arrived the day before for a quiet week in his holiday apartment situated on the second floor above my own. I felt very guilty in imposing on them both and would not have been surprised if all manner of pressing engagements had suddenly occured to them, but they are both kindness personified and leapt to the task unhesitatingly with, well, not quite enthusiasm but certainly determination.
So it was, in two teams of two, that the plasterboard was ferried down the hill in relays, under a hot afternoon sun and to the amusement of many passers by who were no doubt sniggering about stupid foreigners who thought they could get material delivered in town. The verbose, constantly chattering Irish team must have used as much energy talking as they did carrying and the stoic anglo-saxon team whose only word was "ready" at the start of each trip. Fourteen journeys of 200m carrying board is 2.8km plus another 2.8km walking back up the hill meant 5.6km each in total. Now that is a good workout, and we had only got it as far as the arch so far; We still had to carry it up to the first floor. Time for a tea break.
By 6.30pm, three hours after delivery, the job was done and four bottles of cold lager were consumed in 10 seconds flat. My enormous thanks goes to my generous Irish friends - without them the genius and I would still have been out there at 9.00pm for sure.
It was a day that appeared destined for trouble from the beginning. What should have been a relatively straighforward trip to Tridome for plumbing parts for me and paint for my Irish neighbour turned into a two and a half hour tour of four DIY stores and one plumbing wholesaler. There appears to be a national shortage of 12mm copper pipe, all other sizes available but not the one we wanted. At the last location, we couldn't even find where the copper pipe was being kept because they were in the middle of a major re-organisation of both the gardening and DIY stores which resulted in hosepipes on the same shelf as paint and plumbing parts in 3 locations. It's hard enough to find what you want at the best of times but when the store staff don't know where everything is and they are not sure what you have just asked for, in less than perfect French, you don't really have a chance. This is the store we once walked round for half an hour looking for radiators and towel rails, only to be told, quite bluntly, that they were in the gardening section. How stupid could we have been. Of course they are. Eventually I found someone who understood what I wanted and knew where it was - it was in the storeroom at the back and not on display at all - I just had to ask!
At last. They had a 3m length of 12mm copper pipe - mission accomplished. And so the intrepid band made it's way home. Me and my irish neighbour in the front, a 1.2m square showerbase wedged in behind the front seats forming an impenetrable barrier to the genius, equally wedged in, on the back seat. My Irish neighbour clutched the copper pipe like a flagpole out of the top of the car. It really should have been flying a pennant with my colours fluttering in the breeze - it felt like I had won a battle, although the afternoon's events proved I had not won the war. The showerbase allowed me no direct rearward vision and the genius no forward vision and was a very effective sound insulator, which made reversing the car into the arch an act of pure blind faith and total reliance on having done it a hundred times before. Practice makes perfect and perfect it was - despite the muffled concern from the other side of the showerbase.
And so it was we all breathed a great sigh of relief and wondered what aches and pains would materialise over the days to come.
The following day, before my flight home, I was back at Tridome buying steel for ceiling frames. I needed four 5.3m rails, which were a bit long, even for our lavish open top Audi escapades. So, having bought said steels I laid them on the floor just outside the pick-up point, produced a tape measure and a pair of cutters (or snips as I think they are known in the trade) and proceeded to cut said steels into 3.5m and 1.8m pieces, under the gaze of the disbelieving but, I think, begrudgingly respectful, Tridome employees, before loading them once more into my poor maligned car. I just know they will be thinking 'what are they going to ask for next and how are they going to get it in that car'. I like to think we may have a few surprises for them yet.
11 April 2007
Seeing my past
I am back in London and feeling rather out of place. I have been in France for 5 weeks in a row and maybe it is taking longer than usual to get back into the pace of the big city. It's not the noise, or the traffic, or the sheer volume of people or the restricted size of our London apartment compared to the French one - all those are the obvious physical differences - it is something less tangible and more surreal.
Take this very moment, for instance. I am at work, yet I am not. The business that I work for is run out of an office located on the first floor of a warehouse building in Shoreditch. The joint owner of the business, and managing director, lives with her partner and children in the apartment located on the two floors above - a classic live / work scenario. The office was once an apartment so has a bedroom at the rear of the space.
I have a key to the building and the office so that I can let myself in as necessary. This morning there was no-one in the office when I arrived, which is not unusual. I got my computer out, picked up my post and paperwork from my in-tray and settled down to catching up on what had been going on. But something wasn't right. It was the gentle sound of snoring coming from the bedroom no more than 10 feet away from where I was sat. This made me feel rather uncomfortable and a little intrusive.
Now, my MD is a very good friend so I decided to go upstairs to the apartment. The door was open but nobody appeared to be home. I called her mobile but no reply. She could be asleep upstairs for all I know but I am not going to find out. It feels to me like the morning after a very big night before, the sort of big night that used to blight my life in London. It feels very odd to walk into this scene, as I said, very surreal - I feel like I have been transported in to look at my past from the outside. The strange thing is I have felt absolutely no pressure from my past either ahead of this visit or since I arrived. The most important thing on my mind was seeing my wife and continuing to try and heal our relationship - something which I feel, know, needs time and patience.
The other thing on my mind was catching up on work after being away for five weeks and now, I feel slightly irked that half a day has been wasted. Maybe I am getting there after all. I certainly hope so.
Take this very moment, for instance. I am at work, yet I am not. The business that I work for is run out of an office located on the first floor of a warehouse building in Shoreditch. The joint owner of the business, and managing director, lives with her partner and children in the apartment located on the two floors above - a classic live / work scenario. The office was once an apartment so has a bedroom at the rear of the space.
I have a key to the building and the office so that I can let myself in as necessary. This morning there was no-one in the office when I arrived, which is not unusual. I got my computer out, picked up my post and paperwork from my in-tray and settled down to catching up on what had been going on. But something wasn't right. It was the gentle sound of snoring coming from the bedroom no more than 10 feet away from where I was sat. This made me feel rather uncomfortable and a little intrusive.
Now, my MD is a very good friend so I decided to go upstairs to the apartment. The door was open but nobody appeared to be home. I called her mobile but no reply. She could be asleep upstairs for all I know but I am not going to find out. It feels to me like the morning after a very big night before, the sort of big night that used to blight my life in London. It feels very odd to walk into this scene, as I said, very surreal - I feel like I have been transported in to look at my past from the outside. The strange thing is I have felt absolutely no pressure from my past either ahead of this visit or since I arrived. The most important thing on my mind was seeing my wife and continuing to try and heal our relationship - something which I feel, know, needs time and patience.
The other thing on my mind was catching up on work after being away for five weeks and now, I feel slightly irked that half a day has been wasted. Maybe I am getting there after all. I certainly hope so.
07 April 2007
First Time
It's the Easter bank holiday weekend. It's 10.00pm on a Saturday night and I am sat here at the kitchen table, on my own, looking at my computer. The genius has gone to England for a couple of days for what is a well deserved break. Somehow, my wife and I didn't get our act together to be in the same place, either London or Carcassonne - it wouldn't have mattered which - we should just be together rather than missing each other by email, text, instant message, skype or telephone - there are so many ways to be in touch, without being able to touch.
It has been good to have a couple of days off from the renovation work. A couple of days not covered in dust or paint. A couple of days to let the aching shoulder, knee, ankle and wrist have some respite and I feel better for it.
When I realised I was going to be on my own, I made a conscious decision to do something different and that is how I ended up with a pig's trotter on my kitchen table. Yesterday was the first day that I had ever bought 'un pied de porc', either in France or England, and, in fact, it has turned out to be a few days of 'firsts' of all sorts.
On Wednesday, I successfully ordered, paid for, and arranged for a massive delivery of plasterboard and wood for the ongoing construction work of the separate apartment and also the studio, which we will tackle immediately after the apartment is finished. It is all due to arrive on Tuesday afternoon - so I hope I am not being premature in patting myself on the back - it isn't here yet, but I have every confidence that what I think I have organised will happen as it should.
On Thursday, I had my hair cut in a 'coiffeur pour hommes'. I have, previously, always managed to fit a haircut into my schedule on my flying visits to London, but two months had passed since I last had a trim and I was beginning to look a bit wild and woolly - so as I passed by on my way back from the market, and I noticed that no-one was currently in the hot seat, I popped in to make an appointment and ended up getting sheared there and then. In London I always go to a salon where a sixteen year old trainee washes my hair and gives me a scalp massage and an extremely nice but slightly mad German girl takes an hour to cut my hair and charges me £35. Here, a slightly effeminate Frenchman with a dodgy seventies hairdo and tache washes and cuts my hair in 25 minutes and charges me €17, and because it's so quick and we don't share a first language, there is a very respectable silence throughout the whole event - there is no "And where is sir going on holiday this year" type repartee to put up with. What's more - he actually gave me a decent haircut.
On Friday, I cooked. I find cooking a deeply satisfying and extremely relaxing way to spend my own time. I think it's very therapeutic and, therefore, a perfect way to pass the hours on a 'non-work' day. It also helps that I adore food, all good food, and am willing to try anything, both to eat or to make myself. As a result, a piece of salt cod sat in a pan of, regularly changed, water and the aforementioned pig's trotter appeared in my kitchen. The salt cod was for making 'brandade du morue' an unctuous mixture of fish, cream, oil and garlic. It is described in the Classic Conran cookbook as 'a deeply comforting dish that might even encourage one to have spiritual thoughts'. Quite. I agree entirely. The pig's trotter was to provide the gelatine for 'jambon persille'. It was a bit odd and even a little sad to have a trotter on my chopping board. Pig's are such lovable creatures. The trouble is they taste so damn good - end of discussion really.
On Saturday, I made jam - definitely a first, but probably not for the last time. The idea is to have jam and other home made goodies available when we start letting the apartments, so it was about time I got some practice at it. My enthusiasm was also fired by the large boxes of strawberries they were virtually giving away at the end of the market - there is such an abundance of good fruit and veg and people have always used this surplus in this way - so why not me too? There are now eight jars full of home made strawberry jam sat proudly in my kitchen, and even if I say so myself, it's very very good.
It has been good to have a couple of days off from the renovation work. A couple of days not covered in dust or paint. A couple of days to let the aching shoulder, knee, ankle and wrist have some respite and I feel better for it.
When I realised I was going to be on my own, I made a conscious decision to do something different and that is how I ended up with a pig's trotter on my kitchen table. Yesterday was the first day that I had ever bought 'un pied de porc', either in France or England, and, in fact, it has turned out to be a few days of 'firsts' of all sorts.
On Wednesday, I successfully ordered, paid for, and arranged for a massive delivery of plasterboard and wood for the ongoing construction work of the separate apartment and also the studio, which we will tackle immediately after the apartment is finished. It is all due to arrive on Tuesday afternoon - so I hope I am not being premature in patting myself on the back - it isn't here yet, but I have every confidence that what I think I have organised will happen as it should.
On Thursday, I had my hair cut in a 'coiffeur pour hommes'. I have, previously, always managed to fit a haircut into my schedule on my flying visits to London, but two months had passed since I last had a trim and I was beginning to look a bit wild and woolly - so as I passed by on my way back from the market, and I noticed that no-one was currently in the hot seat, I popped in to make an appointment and ended up getting sheared there and then. In London I always go to a salon where a sixteen year old trainee washes my hair and gives me a scalp massage and an extremely nice but slightly mad German girl takes an hour to cut my hair and charges me £35. Here, a slightly effeminate Frenchman with a dodgy seventies hairdo and tache washes and cuts my hair in 25 minutes and charges me €17, and because it's so quick and we don't share a first language, there is a very respectable silence throughout the whole event - there is no "And where is sir going on holiday this year" type repartee to put up with. What's more - he actually gave me a decent haircut.
On Friday, I cooked. I find cooking a deeply satisfying and extremely relaxing way to spend my own time. I think it's very therapeutic and, therefore, a perfect way to pass the hours on a 'non-work' day. It also helps that I adore food, all good food, and am willing to try anything, both to eat or to make myself. As a result, a piece of salt cod sat in a pan of, regularly changed, water and the aforementioned pig's trotter appeared in my kitchen. The salt cod was for making 'brandade du morue' an unctuous mixture of fish, cream, oil and garlic. It is described in the Classic Conran cookbook as 'a deeply comforting dish that might even encourage one to have spiritual thoughts'. Quite. I agree entirely. The pig's trotter was to provide the gelatine for 'jambon persille'. It was a bit odd and even a little sad to have a trotter on my chopping board. Pig's are such lovable creatures. The trouble is they taste so damn good - end of discussion really.
On Saturday, I made jam - definitely a first, but probably not for the last time. The idea is to have jam and other home made goodies available when we start letting the apartments, so it was about time I got some practice at it. My enthusiasm was also fired by the large boxes of strawberries they were virtually giving away at the end of the market - there is such an abundance of good fruit and veg and people have always used this surplus in this way - so why not me too? There are now eight jars full of home made strawberry jam sat proudly in my kitchen, and even if I say so myself, it's very very good.
03 April 2007
Hammering Away
I'm very happy to report that we are now building, not destroying, in the separate apartment. The first steels have been fixed in the construction of the new bathroom walls and the toilet waste, which had been causing concern (the poo pipe problem, as it became known) has been fitted into place. "I'm not going to let this shit beat me" said the genius. Quite so. I've worked with him long enough now to know that no 'shit' will get the better of him.
I'm not sure that the neighbours appreciate the distinction between the sawing, bashing, thumping and smashing of the demolition phase and the sawing, thumping, hammering and drilling of the construction phase. Obviously there is a world of difference but to people with no ear for music it probably all just seems like really annoying noise. For Gods sake, it's as different as garage and house - what's wrong with them?
As soon as it commenced, we have decided to put 'Operation Barney' on hold. It was playing havoc with the town's refuse disposal. The dustmen would turn up, hop out of the lorry, wheel (drag) the bin over to the hoist at the back of the truck and press the button that was supposed to lift the bin and tip it's contents into the back. The bins were so heavy that the handles were being snapped off. Mind you, I am very surprised that there is no provision for recycling in the daily collections here in the Bastide. Anyway, all debris is now being carried downstairs to an unused space on the ground floor until we can figure out how to get it from here to the 'dechetterie' - the waste disposal depot on the outskirts of town.
The ferocity of the work has also seen the demise of a much loved and much travelled friend. My lovely twenty five year old wooden handled hammer came off second best in an argument with a skirting board of indeterminate but definitely older age - snapped it's head clean off. I've put many a crooked nail into many a wall with that hammer. I'd like to say, as tribute, that the well worn wooden handle used to fit snuggly into the palm of my hand like an extension of my arm - but that would be a lie. However, I have owned it for a long time and I'm glad I was there to witness it's demise - it went down fighting.
I have, immediately, purchased a new hammer - one needs a hammer. It has a fancy, as far as I'm concerned, metal shaft and promises to hammer home all my needs. We shall see. I bet I can still do a bent nail with it.
I'm not sure that the neighbours appreciate the distinction between the sawing, bashing, thumping and smashing of the demolition phase and the sawing, thumping, hammering and drilling of the construction phase. Obviously there is a world of difference but to people with no ear for music it probably all just seems like really annoying noise. For Gods sake, it's as different as garage and house - what's wrong with them?
As soon as it commenced, we have decided to put 'Operation Barney' on hold. It was playing havoc with the town's refuse disposal. The dustmen would turn up, hop out of the lorry, wheel (drag) the bin over to the hoist at the back of the truck and press the button that was supposed to lift the bin and tip it's contents into the back. The bins were so heavy that the handles were being snapped off. Mind you, I am very surprised that there is no provision for recycling in the daily collections here in the Bastide. Anyway, all debris is now being carried downstairs to an unused space on the ground floor until we can figure out how to get it from here to the 'dechetterie' - the waste disposal depot on the outskirts of town.
The ferocity of the work has also seen the demise of a much loved and much travelled friend. My lovely twenty five year old wooden handled hammer came off second best in an argument with a skirting board of indeterminate but definitely older age - snapped it's head clean off. I've put many a crooked nail into many a wall with that hammer. I'd like to say, as tribute, that the well worn wooden handle used to fit snuggly into the palm of my hand like an extension of my arm - but that would be a lie. However, I have owned it for a long time and I'm glad I was there to witness it's demise - it went down fighting.
I have, immediately, purchased a new hammer - one needs a hammer. It has a fancy, as far as I'm concerned, metal shaft and promises to hammer home all my needs. We shall see. I bet I can still do a bent nail with it.
01 April 2007
Operation Barney
It has been a busy week, and for one reason and another, I haven't been able to sit down and update this blog. However, the sun has just unexpectedly come out, after a week of drizzly, cold, grey and windy weather and the church bells are giving it their all, somewhat more than usual, probably because it is the Sunday before Easter which, from the depths of a long since and mostly forgotten religious education, I believe is a day of some significance - Palm Sunday, I think. Ah, you see, I'm not totally senile yet - the brain just about clunked around to the correct data cell in my head in time for me to put that in as I was typing this paragraph. That has cheered me up no end.
The church bells are a constant and mostly welcome part of my life down here. They ring the hour from seven in the morning until midnight and also each quarter hour with either one, two or three 'bing-bongs' respectively, and contrary to expectation, they are not at all intrusive or annoying. In fact, they are extremely reassuring. The deep sonorous tones of the hour bell mark the passing of time in a steady, calming and respectful manner. The warmth of the tone confirming that all is well and life goes on. I think I would miss them more if they weren't there. I certainly feel their loss when I return to London, where either bells are just not rung anymore or you can't hear them most of the time if they are.
On high days and feast days, like today, the bellringers are given the chance to really show what they can do and the resultant cacophony of noise at the beginning and end of the service is a joy, so much so, that if the windows aren't open, I will get up and open them to listen. I live between the two cathedrals in town - St Vincent and St Michel. St Vincent is the oldest and slightly nearer and has the loudest bells. There is a third cathedral in the Cite, Basilique St Nazaire, which makes this a wonderful place to visit if you like nosing around places of worship.
When I first arrived here I was amused by the fact that the hour appeared to be rung twice. At first I thought it was the two cathedrals competing with each other in some centuries old disagreement about when the hour had been reached - each refusing to back down, each using their own sundial on the church wall, each insisting theirs was correct, each refusing to use more modern techniques - "C'est deux heures maintenant", "Non, c'est maintenant". I was quite disappointed when I read that St Vincent deliberately rings the hour twice, two minutes apart, so that if you missed the first one you get a second chance. I then noticed a third ringing of the hour, usually between the other two but sometimes overlapping - this was St Michel's bells which are not as loud, slightly further away and fainter due to the usual prevailing wind direction here. The result of all this is that, although marking the passing of time, there is an element of relaxation in the exactness of the passing of the hour, which in this hectic, time precious world of ours, I also find quite reassuring and a little quaint. The time in Carcassonne, for example, at this very moment is two-ish o'clock.
Earlier I mentioned that the bells are mostly welcome. There is one set of bells in St Vincent that they ring for about an hour on a Sunday morning during the church service. I am sure that they are playing a tune. Many a time you think you recognise something only for a discordant note to throw you off the scent - and discordant is the problem. The pitch and tone is just at a level that is really grating and annoying on the ear and together with the half-grasped tunes makes for unpleasant listening. I usually put some music on to drown them out, not always successfully. I don't know anyone that finds them pleasant. My theory is that it is some sort of penance - if you can't get your arse down to church on a Sunday morning then you will be forced, God forgive us, to listen to this instead.
I said I had been busy this week and busy it has been. The building work has gone full circle - at one end of the first floor in the main apartment the finishing touches are being put to two bathrooms and a guest room and at the other end the separate apartment has been reduced from a habitable space to a wreck of rubble, broken wood and twisted pipes. "My God, what have you done" shrieked my wife when she saw a picture of the carnage. When 'the genius' cheerfully came to tell me that a wall had fallen over when he took a door frame out, I knew it was time to tell him to "Stop what you are doing, put the sledgehammer down and step away from the wall with your hands in the air" It's a good job I have total faith in his ability to rebuild.
The demolition destruction derby has bought another problem - how to get rid of all the rubble and rubbish and unwanted sanitary ware, as, once again, my cabriolet is not proving to be the ideal transport for the problem. However, there are quite large bins on most street corners in the bastide town and we had noticed that a large number of strange things appear to be dumped either in or next to them and that the local dustmen, who remarkably come three times a day, every day, do seem to take everything away. So 'Operation Barney (Rubble)" is underway. Each time we go out a bag goes with us and is deposited in a different bin on a different street corner. Little and often is the way. We have evoked the wartime POW spirit of The Great Escape where the dirt from the tunnel was dropped down trouser legs onto the vegetable patch. "We'll soon have it all gone, chaps, if we all pull together". I'm thinking of asking visitors to take a bag each when they leave.
The bath is going to prove a bit tricky but then I haven't had a dinner party for a while ...
The church bells are a constant and mostly welcome part of my life down here. They ring the hour from seven in the morning until midnight and also each quarter hour with either one, two or three 'bing-bongs' respectively, and contrary to expectation, they are not at all intrusive or annoying. In fact, they are extremely reassuring. The deep sonorous tones of the hour bell mark the passing of time in a steady, calming and respectful manner. The warmth of the tone confirming that all is well and life goes on. I think I would miss them more if they weren't there. I certainly feel their loss when I return to London, where either bells are just not rung anymore or you can't hear them most of the time if they are.
On high days and feast days, like today, the bellringers are given the chance to really show what they can do and the resultant cacophony of noise at the beginning and end of the service is a joy, so much so, that if the windows aren't open, I will get up and open them to listen. I live between the two cathedrals in town - St Vincent and St Michel. St Vincent is the oldest and slightly nearer and has the loudest bells. There is a third cathedral in the Cite, Basilique St Nazaire, which makes this a wonderful place to visit if you like nosing around places of worship.
When I first arrived here I was amused by the fact that the hour appeared to be rung twice. At first I thought it was the two cathedrals competing with each other in some centuries old disagreement about when the hour had been reached - each refusing to back down, each using their own sundial on the church wall, each insisting theirs was correct, each refusing to use more modern techniques - "C'est deux heures maintenant", "Non, c'est maintenant". I was quite disappointed when I read that St Vincent deliberately rings the hour twice, two minutes apart, so that if you missed the first one you get a second chance. I then noticed a third ringing of the hour, usually between the other two but sometimes overlapping - this was St Michel's bells which are not as loud, slightly further away and fainter due to the usual prevailing wind direction here. The result of all this is that, although marking the passing of time, there is an element of relaxation in the exactness of the passing of the hour, which in this hectic, time precious world of ours, I also find quite reassuring and a little quaint. The time in Carcassonne, for example, at this very moment is two-ish o'clock.
Earlier I mentioned that the bells are mostly welcome. There is one set of bells in St Vincent that they ring for about an hour on a Sunday morning during the church service. I am sure that they are playing a tune. Many a time you think you recognise something only for a discordant note to throw you off the scent - and discordant is the problem. The pitch and tone is just at a level that is really grating and annoying on the ear and together with the half-grasped tunes makes for unpleasant listening. I usually put some music on to drown them out, not always successfully. I don't know anyone that finds them pleasant. My theory is that it is some sort of penance - if you can't get your arse down to church on a Sunday morning then you will be forced, God forgive us, to listen to this instead.
I said I had been busy this week and busy it has been. The building work has gone full circle - at one end of the first floor in the main apartment the finishing touches are being put to two bathrooms and a guest room and at the other end the separate apartment has been reduced from a habitable space to a wreck of rubble, broken wood and twisted pipes. "My God, what have you done" shrieked my wife when she saw a picture of the carnage. When 'the genius' cheerfully came to tell me that a wall had fallen over when he took a door frame out, I knew it was time to tell him to "Stop what you are doing, put the sledgehammer down and step away from the wall with your hands in the air" It's a good job I have total faith in his ability to rebuild.
The demolition destruction derby has bought another problem - how to get rid of all the rubble and rubbish and unwanted sanitary ware, as, once again, my cabriolet is not proving to be the ideal transport for the problem. However, there are quite large bins on most street corners in the bastide town and we had noticed that a large number of strange things appear to be dumped either in or next to them and that the local dustmen, who remarkably come three times a day, every day, do seem to take everything away. So 'Operation Barney (Rubble)" is underway. Each time we go out a bag goes with us and is deposited in a different bin on a different street corner. Little and often is the way. We have evoked the wartime POW spirit of The Great Escape where the dirt from the tunnel was dropped down trouser legs onto the vegetable patch. "We'll soon have it all gone, chaps, if we all pull together". I'm thinking of asking visitors to take a bag each when they leave.
The bath is going to prove a bit tricky but then I haven't had a dinner party for a while ...
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