FROG BLOG

Been a funny old day. Muggy, with thunderstorms. Felt quite lethargic this afternoon so had a bit of a kip. Then took the dogs for a walk. Up at the house on the hill. It's a deserted ruin, rotting away in the shadows of the tall trees that stand guard over the valley. Apparently there are plans for its renovation. According to Christian it's going to become a hostel for walkers. Good idea but there's a load of work to be done. Noticed a brand new electricity box up there a few months back. So at least they've made a start.

The loggers have been busy up there. Caterpillar tracks all over the woods. Trees felled everywhere. Creates more breathing space for the ones that remain. Passed some new logpiles on the way home. And some massive old ones deep in the woods. Photographed the Veedub next to them to give a sense of scale.

Sat outside with an evening scotch. Skies started clearing as the storm rumbled north. Wandered up the field at the back to watch the sun go down. Took a few more shots of the big open sky. Comes out a lot better with this new camera's wideangle lens. But it's still not the same as being there.

Photographic assistant duly arrived at Limoges airport on Saturday whiffing slightly of an assortment of different perfumes which had been applied in duty free, transporting afforementioned new camera along with various other goodies (including bike mags, Saturday's Daily Telegraph, choccie bics and teabags) by means of her squeaky little suitcase on wheels which appears to have developed a mild case of 'supermarket trolleyitis' thereby causing it to steer slightly left instead of straight on.

After a leisurely coffee or two on the cafe terrace and a minor panic attack when I couldn't get the car out of the car park due to inadvertently ripping up the barrier ticket prior to using it for the purpose it was intended which necessitated a brief but somewhat embarrassing conversation with the car park desk man which began with the words "bonjour, je suis un idiot...", we were on our way.

My assistant and I (well, mostly my assistant) then spent much of Saturday soiree and Sunday matin engrossed in the 140 pages of the new camera's instruction manual. A nightmare experience. Although the cover of said item indicated that the contents were written in English, I couldn't understand a word. So, while my assistant busied herself with providing translations into the vernacular, I played around with a variety of miniscule knobs and buttons which eventually led to the taking of the camera's first photo: a not exactly interesting shot of a shadowy table leg and my right foot on the outside terrace of the local caff in Felletin's main square. Having finally figured out how to take a snap, we then set about discovering the complexities of deletion, at which point the cafe manager finally managed to communicate to us that he was about to shut for lunch by stacking a chair on our table. So we headed for home and continued our voyage of discovery over a ham sarnie or two with salad.

By late afternoon we felt we'd finally mastered (not exactly the right word but it'll do) the damned thing and, by way of celebration, we whizzed off for an evening swim at the little sister lake of not-so-nearby Lac de Vassiviere. By the time we arrived people were beginning to leave (a good thing) and it was still very warm (another good thing). However, we'd taken the dogs (not a good thing) which meant only one of us could swim while the other acted as dog handler. We could, of course, have left them at home or cooped up in the Veedub camper but I'm determined to successfully integrate them with society. This is proving to be a dreadfully slow exercise. Been at it for about seven years now. Roughly the same amount of time I expect it'll take moi to get the hang of this fantastic new camera.

There's a wonderful aroma of new-mown hay in the air. The boy-devil Hadrian and his cousin have at last been cutting the tall grass in Christian's field out back. So les chiens et moi are once again able to tramp along one of my fave walks. Haven't been able to do so for quite some time. Jock's wee legs are too short for long grass. Tick territory. Maybe snakes. And that morning dew gets you sopping wet after just a few strides.

Went up there this morning. Field was dotted with plastic-wrapped hay bales. And again ce soir when the lads were up there with their tractors, loading the bales onto a big trailer and carting them off for storage. Lovely evening. Warm and sunny. Had the place to ourselves when the lads had gone. Really peaceful. Suddenly realised maybe I don't get hay fever any more.

Went up there for a third time at around midnight. Still warm and aromatic. And that great big moon made it almost daylight. Dogs had shadows. Took in the view at the top of the hill. Looking south I clearly made out the distant tree-lined horizon and silvery roofs of sleepy Poussanges. And to the north west the warm glow of the long departed sun lingered on.

It's great to have that field back again.

Took Jock out yesterday for a much needed shampoo and haircut. Poodle parlour lady gave me a bollocking for obviously not washing and brushing him often enough. Then asked if I'd been attacking him with the scissors. I sheepishly pleaded guilty. But only a wee bit as he's darned hard to catch. Hence his resembling a lopsided bramble bush. Had to leave him there, chained to the operating table. Gave me a filthy look as I went out the door.

Killed a couple of hours having coffees and being dragged around Aubusson by a fascinated Sprocket. Doesn't get to see much of the outside world. Sat outside one caff where the boss lady seemed to think it a little odd when I placed my cup and saucer on a chair instead of the table. Little did she know that Sprocket might send the table flying if he saw another dog. Poor lad was in sensory overload with all the hustle and bustle of cars and people going past. Somewhat surprisingly, when a dog or two wandered by, he hardly reacted. Just a snarl and a growl. Not the expected unleashing of the guardian of Hades. A sharp pull on his short lead and a quiet "NO SPROCK" probably helped.

Hardly recognised wee Jocky when I returned to the poodle parlour. Looked completely different and smelt of roses. 'Madame' seemed quite shocked about discovering a tick on his tum. Just the one, thought I. Can't be bad. Shoved him in the car hoping Sprock would still recognise the blighter. Luckily he did. But only just. And I swear he laughed. Then stopped off for a quick walk on the way home. Jock jumped straight into the muddy stream. Then rolled in some cow poo.

Aye, that's ma boy.

Today's the day the Tour de France passes within spitting distance of Poussanges - providing you can spit about five or six miles. Had planned to watch it out towards the mountain finish at Super-Besse. But then I thought nah..., bound to be masses of traffic jams, blocked roads and huge crowds. So I settled instead on the nearby town of Crocq (pronounced 'Crrroh' - les Anglais tend to pronounce it 'Crock' or 'Croak' while the Yanks and some Canadians(!) pronounce it 'Craaack').

Set off at about 10.30am on my newly acquired but slightly old (1988) BMW motorbike, thereby allowing three hours to drive there (6 miles up the back roads), get stuck in a traffic jam, get diverted, find a parking space (probably about 3 miles outa town), walk to town in the boiling sun with rucksack, helmet and Barbour jacket, cool down, fight my way through the crowds, find a semi-decent viewing point without the usual problem of standing behind some six foot six giant..., all just in time to watch the bikes whizz past in a ten second blur.

As it transpired, I arrived about twenty minutes later, parked up, ambled into an almost deserted town (seems everyone was indoors waiting for the action or lunch to start), bagged a prime viewing position, opened my rucksack, grabbed the Thermos, had a coffee or two, noshed my cheese sarnie, had a few smokes and then wondered how to best kill a couple of hours.

I only know about half a dozen people in France and three of them happen to live in Crocq - the butcher, his wife and their extremely attractive daughter Laura (she who we gave some advice to before her trip to London some time ago as documented in a previous posting). So I thought I'd pop in and see how they were doing. Spotted Laura nattering to a couple of ladies outside her dad's shop.

Luckily she remembered moi and we got nattering. Turned out the two ladies are a mother and daughter from Canada who are over here sightseeing. Had a good old chinwag. The daughter, Sandi, has a blog www.travelblog.org/bloggers/sandib/ so, naturally, we talked about blog addiction and the wonders of the internet and then swapped blog addresses. Amazing how nattering passes the time.

Then the sharp end, the circus end, of Le Tour hit town. Loads of publicity lorries, cars and gimmicky floats. Freebies flung with gay abandon. Biros, bags, hats, keyrings, cuddly toys. A party atmosphere. Disco music. Megaphones. Gendarmes and photographers on flashy motorbikes. Even a firemens' lorry watering the crowds with a fine spray. All good fun. Then the road emptied and anticipation grew. A helicopter hovered overhead. All heads turned towards the end of the street.

Eventually three riders raced into view followed by a few cars. They were gone in a flash. Then we waited for the peloton. And waited. And waited. Six minutes later the empty street was suddenly full of bikes and riders racing through in a colourful blur, closely followed by a convoy of support vehicles. Then they were gone. And we all went home.

Terrific. Absolutely splendid. I've finally seen one of the world's greatest sporting events. Can't wait to watch tonight's Tour de France on ITV4 in an hour's time. Maybe they'll show Crocq. Wonder how they'll pronounce it...

P.S. - ITV4, in their infinite wisdom, chose to ignore the first 75% of today's course (including Crocq) and focussed instead on the final mountain stage. Brilliant. Absolutely spiffing. What a bunch of expletives deleteds. And to think I had a shave a couple of days ago, just in case I appeared on telly.

Most gardeners are green-fingered. I'm just green. I know nothing. However, I did manage to identify a red flowery thing that's recently started exploding under the kitchen window as a poppy. Wallowing in the warm glow of extreme chuffedness at having finally made a correct horticultural analysis, I was then informed by my good chum blogger Debs that it may well be, more specifically, an opium poppy. So I'm now seriously considering scratching the side of one of its seed pods with a sharp fork, collecting the sap, then going on a search through some dusty old boxes for a smelly old pipe that I last fired up many moons ago as a moronic student in a hopelessly failed attempt to appear vaguely intellectual.

P.S. - Have just Googled 'poppy' and it would appear that this isn't an opium variety. Nor is it any one of many others that were listed. In an increasingly frantic search to correctly name this attractive interloper, I then Googled 'poppy family' and am now delighted to announce that beneath my kitchen window I apparently have a re-emerging, little-known, early '70s, Canadian pop group.

Er, would greatly appreciate further assistance in identifying this mysterious growth...

P.P.S. - Have just spoken to Georgie and, surprisingly, The Oracle can't say exactly what it is. However, she reckons it could be a member of the opium family although 'proper' opiums are pink with a single layer of petals. Apparently she planted it by tossing a few poppy seeds in from a cheap seed packet. The mystery continues...

P.P.P.S. - Thanks to clever clogs Debs and The Gardener for their sterling detective work in identifying this blooming thing as Papaver Somniferum, otherwise known as the Scarlet Peony Poppy (an opium jobby). Thanks also to everyone else for much appreciated suggestions. Such a relief we got there in the end. 'Course, I knew it was a scarlet popover somnambulisty poppy thingy all along. Just testing.

Last Sunday. An all-day faaarming 'do' up at Poussanges Mairie. Kicked off at 11am with a mass in the church. Heard 'em singing while we laid low in the garden and kitchen. Then three historic horse-drawn contraptions turned up on the church lawn: one carriage and two straw baling thingies. When the mass was over, everyone moved up to the Mairie; most by Shanks's pony and some by carriage. A lunch had been arranged, followed by boules, drinking, nattering, more boules, more drinking, more nattering and maybe a polka or two accompanied by some moustachioed garlic-muncher squeezing hell out of an accordian. Am a little embarrassed at not having made the effort to attend this highpoint of the social calendar, but I had a very good excuse: my twin chickadees are not very good at getting up on a Sunday - especially a holiday Sunday. So there. Anyway, we were fattygayed from the previous day's exertions in weeding, lawn chopping and arranging flowery things on the house window sills. After all, can't have la maison next to the eglise looking like a cochon-sty, can nous? 'Twould bring shame to Scotland et Putne ('e' acute).