FROG BLOG

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The '09 Tour de France starts tomorrow in Monaco and ends 2140 miles and 22 days later in Paris. All eyes will once again be on Lance Armstrong who's come out of a four year retirement to have one more crack at the race he's won an unprecedented seven times.

Will he win again? It's a question everybody's asking. His age (37) and the four long years since he hung up his bike clips mean it's unlikely. However, this is the man who came back from cancer so anything's possible. Personally, I think he'll do well to finish in the top ten. Extremely well. But don't bet against him. Having said that, I'm going for Contador. This of course, being the kiss of death, will immediately rule him out of the reckoning, thereby giving Armstrong a greater chance of victory.

Naturally, I'll be glued to the telly for the next three weeks watching how the race develops. Compulsive viewing. Not only for the race itself but also for the marvellous sights of the French countryside, especially by helicopter. However, watching by telly isn't anywhere near as good as being there so I've checked the route and am opting for the Limoges to Issoudun stage on Tuesday 14 July (Bastille Day). I'll be packing sarnies and Thermos in a rucksack and biking (er, motorbiking) to Benevant-l'Abbaye, a village fifteen miles west of Gueret, where I'll be cheering on Lance Armstrong and leisurely watching the whole procession pass through. Should be a grand day out.

P.S. - Forgot to mention that Contador is the young (27) Spaniard who won Le Tour a couple of years back. He's also in the same team as Armstrong and is, I think, team leader. Therefore I assume Armstrong's job is to do everything he can to make sure Contador wins. Can't see Lance's fiercely competitive streak allowing him to do that. Should be interesting.

Drove Georgie and Don to Limoges airport yesterday for their flight back to Blighty after a nine day summer holiday. Amazing how the time flies by. Seems only a couple of days ago they arrived here.

During their break the weather was good and a relaxing time was had by all. Actually, that's wrong. Weather was good so Georgie did loads of washing and gardening while Don ferreted away weeding, digging and pruning. No relaxing at all. Er, apart from the last evening (Monday) when we drove 15 miles to Lake Marie (not its real name but that's what I call it) for a cooling swim. Er, wrong again. I swam, they paddled. Said it was too cold. Wrong yet again. It was really quite warmish after the initial plunge. But would they believe me? Non. Then returned home for curried rabbit which we'd partly prepared earlier. And a superb chilled 'rosay'. And melon for pud. And that was it. Holiday over.

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High summer in Poussanges. Yellow. Hot and sunny. Harvest time. Tall meadows have been cut, hay gathered. Barns bulging, piled high with bales. Fields littered with giant hay rolls and stacks wrapped in black plastic, laid out in rows. The hum of distant tractors drifting away on the summer breeze. A fortnight's feverish activity from dawn to dusk, and sometimes beyond, has come to an end. All is quiet again, save the song of swooping swallows.

To celebrate harvest time, the local farmers hold an annual event up at Poussanges Mairie. Took place last Sunday under clear blue skies. Kicked off with a morning church service followed by demonstrations of traditional, horse drawn, hay cutting methods. Then lunch at the mairie followed by an afternoon of nattering, boules, drinking, looking at home-made craft work such as jewellery, needlework, jams, cakes and other wares, and generally lounging around in the afternoon sun. Must have been over a hundred people up there which, for this area, is quite some gathering. Georgie and I took a leisurely stroll up there late afternoon. Thought the event might be over. Luckily it wasn't. Saw the old horses and carts giving people rides around the fields and woods, plus some of the old farming equipment. Did a circuit of the stalls, had a couple of drinks which we weren't allowed to pay for (merci Didier), said hello to a few people we knew and had a quick natter to the mayor farmer who'd arranged the whole thing then ambled off back home. Drove past in the evening for a 'lightning tree' dogwalk and the place was still buzzing. Drove back at about nineish to see the mayor and a few lads finally packing up. For them it had been a long day but, thankfully, a highly successful one. By all reports, a good time was had by all.

Ah, the old ways. Blink and they're gone...
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Late I know but I thought I'd load up this piccy just to remind myself in the depths of winter of how the sunlight hits the side of the house at sunset on the longest day.

Nipped 75 miles down to 'the barn' last Wednesday with Georgie, Don and the dogs. Parked halfway up the kilometre long, single-track lane and then legged it to the top. Eventually arrived at the barn and ruined cottage hot and sweaty after struggling through a barbed wire fence and high grass meadow. Bit of a shock to discover two dogs in residence. Spotted them for a split second just as I was about to enter the cowshed. Beat a speedy retreat dragging Sprocket with me. Luckily he didn't see them or there could have been trouble. Lucky too that the dogs didn't attack, or bark, or see Sprocket. Maybe they were wild dogs or maybe they were domesticated dogs just hanging out in the cool of the barn. One thing's for sure: no way was I going in there to check. Whizzed round the back of the barn with Georgie and Don, put Jock on his lead and had a brief conflab about what we should do. Decided to retreat. Georgie and Don took Jock and Sprocket (plus rucksack and various gardening implements - we were planning on spending a few hours cutting back brambles etc.) while I grabbed the rake in case of attack. Luckily no problem. Back down in the shade of the track trees we got stuck into our picnic while J and S briefly cooled off before shouting obscenities at some cows in the woods. Thought their barking might cause the wild(?) dogs to come and investigate. But luckily, it didn't. Picnic over, we descended the track back to the car, trimming overhanging branches and brambles on our way. ('The barn' is in the distance at top of top photo.)

Daft as it sounds I still harbour dreams about that barn and ruin. But... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6XGjxjETis

Back at the car we thought about heading into Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne for a late afternoon cuppa but Georgie suggested trying to find some special garden at nearby Lostanges. Eventually found it high up some wooded hill way off the beaten track. Well worth the effort. Marvellous place. Owned and run by a gardening nut who's lived there for thirty years. Grown the woods and garden from nothing. Being a self-confessed non-gardener I'm totally unable to list all the goodies on show but I did notice some quite remarkable blue things, a splendid little bamboo clump, a magnificent monkey puzzle tree (with very sharp prongs - ouch!) and some interesting flowering cacti as well as an extremely well-fed slug about six inches long which I immediately sent into the next world with a resounding stomp of my right hoof. Nae bother. Jock and Sprock enjoyed their visit, carefully marking specially selected favourite items. Green-fingered Georgie was in her element and enthusiastically informed me of the various plant names which, typically, went in one ear and straight out the other. However, should anyone require further enlightenment, I heartily recommend a visit to the highly entertaining Lostanges garden website which I'm sure is accessible via Google.

Visit over, we once again considered a cuppa run to Beaulieu but decided against it due to time marching on. Pointed the Golf GTi 16v north-east and galloped for home. Stopped off for a quick coffee, Orangina and fag or two at a fave roadside caff in Ste. Fortunade and eventually arrived home at about nineish. Much conversing took place in the car about how such a wonderful garden could only really succeed in France. Presumably the chap who runs it gets a sizeable state grant in order to survive. And a good job too. No way would he survive on income from visitors. And it stops the idyllic place being ruined by car parks, cafes, loos, gift shops, blah, blah, etc. Altogether a cracking day out.