FROG BLOG

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.

Finally finished the meadow painting, er, I think. Taken a bit of time due to clouding over whenever I went up there. Also, I just couldn't get the huge amount of different weeds and grasses right. When in shade there seemed to be thousands of different colours, all constantly changing. And how far do you go with fine detail? The Pre-Raphs would go to one extreme and the Impressionists the other. And they'd both be right. Oh well, it ain't perfect but it'll do. Not the right attitude, I know. Still, what's next? Well, Didier's field of rapidly growing corn on the cobby things with beans running up beanpoles in the distance is looking good...

One of the evenings I was up there doing this 'Meadow' painting, three hawks were circling, gently riding the thermals. Reminded me of this...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-_8xivRTsY

Bikes and cars. Love 'em. Not so much the modern stuff, more the classics of yesteryear. Spend many an idle moment or hour (like now, waiting for the British GP to start) scouring cyberspace in search of mechanical eye candy. Ol' Toady would do the same if he had internet access.

Spotted this gem a couple of days ago (photo won't load up!). A '93 Yamaha GTS1000, one owner, dark green, only 2797 miles and up for grabs at 3295 quidlettes. Bargain. If I'd won the lottery I'd snap it up immediately.

The GTS was a brilliant bike. With a radical front end (no front forks) which featured a single-sided swinging arm and hub-centre steering, it dared to be different.

Also, it had five-valve heads, fuel injection, an 'Omega' frame with lowered petrol tank for lower centre of gravity (the 'petrol tank bit' houses the air intake system and a small storage cubby box) and ABS braking. Despite being Yamaha's flagship it didn't catch on. Withdrawn after just a couple of years. Maybe it was too quirky. Or, more likely, its astronomically high price (twice the price of ordinary bikes) put it way out of reach of us mere mortals. Made Yamaha a huge loss. Great shame. Never received the recognition it undoubtedly deserved. However, 'Bike' magazine have just voted it 'Coolest Modern Classic'. Maybe its time has at last arrived. Without doubt it's up there as one of my favourite bikes of all time. Had one a few years back. Second hand of course. Toured France two-up. Great fun. Bit heavy though. Swapped it for a Fireblade.

Discovered this, er, interesting snippet on YouTube...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOEU_elKTfw

To accompany perhaps the greatest bike of all time, I was thinking of perhaps the greatest guitarist of all time: Jeff Beck. But then I discovered he's taken on a new bass player. Not, as you'd expect, a hugely experienced, big name, heavy metal axe grinder plucked from the rock circuit shadows and plonked, blinking, into Jeff's dazzling limelight, but Tal Wilkenfeld, a wee Aussie lassie aged just 21...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1sE5gjyek0

Haven't blogged for a bit. Two reasons. Firstly, I get a bit bored with churning out the same old rubbish: went for a dogwalk, mowed the lawn, did a couple of hours arty painting, etc., etc., and secondly, every time something happens that's almost worthy of description, something else happens, attention gets diverted and nothing gets written, and thirdly, three reasons, I've been using the phone thing a bit more than usual (i.e. more than once a week) nattering to my tribe, and fourthly, four reasons, being a hermit recluse living in self-imposed exile in the middle of nowhere, the notion of telling the outside world of what I've been up to seems entirely at odds with my quest for privacy and seclusion, and fifthly, yes five, I'm lazy, and sixthly, yes six reasons (though there are probably far more), my sis and bro-law are just about to put their house on the market so I've been scouring the internet for suggestions of where they could move to next but, naturally, my idea of domestic bliss is completely different to what sis has in mind, so it could be seen as a wasted exercise, but au contraire, I've been having a whale of a time looking for properties that I'd go for if I had the inclination (which I haven't) and the necessary dosh (which I haven't).

It's a good game. I gave myself a rough budget of 150 grand (a fraction of what sis and bro will hopefully have) which I mistookedly thought would be perfectly adequate for what I had in mind (obviously I come from a bygone era): no geographical restrictions, requiring modernisation, original features, country setting, semi-isolated preferably; the usual stuff. So where to begin? Well, obviously, Scotland. Must be a few isolated crofts up there going for a pittance. Crap weather and very short days in winter and midgies in summer but what the hell, nae problem; couple of sweaters to sort out the cold and non-stop smoking to deter the bugs. Somewhat surprisingly I drew a blank. Very few crofts available and all going for silly money. Seems they've all been 'tastefully modernised' to use estate agent parlance, which to my mind means 'ruined'. Then I searched Wales, then West and East Midlands, bits of Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, East Anglia, Romney Marsh, Hastings and eventually the expensive South West. Hardly anything fitted the bill. All very disappointing. Seems there are very few places left in the UK that haven't been wrecked by clueless modernisers.

What is it with modern house doerer-upperers? How come none of them has the foggiest idea about what I call 'sympathetic renovations'? Seems to me everyone's been looking at too many of those stupid home improvement progs on telly full of ghastly laminated flooring, big print wallpaper on chimney breasts, horrid modern fireplaces with rocks and atrocious interior decor which the designers reckon is 'stylish'. Stylish my bloody arse. It's crap. And the frightening thing is that everyone seems to be doing it. Take last week on 'Homes Under the Hammer' for example. Couple of muslim looking chaps bought what was described as a 'wreck of a place' (looked fine to me) but which still retained a few original Victorian features. Three months later the camera crew returned to check progress. Sure enough, the few remaining original features had been dumped and replaced by this modern, junkish uniformity. Very 'des res' apparently. But not to me. No way. Personally I'm appalled by what these wrecking crews have been getting up to over the last few years. It really is criminal.

Ah well, as I said, it's only a game. However, it wasn't all bad news. I did manage to discover a few places that fitted the bill and were priced somewhere around my hypothetical budget figure. If I win Loto it would be nice to have a second home in the UK even though claustrophobia, white van man, neighbours and an inevitable pining for France would soon send me scurrying back here again. But which one? Hard to choose.

Near Kinlochiel, Scotland. Semi-remote. Requiring modernisation (no it doesn't!). 195k quid (whaaat?!). Under offer (damn and blast!). (Note how they've added rarely seen blue sky to the photo!)

Near Okehampton. Uninhabitable (rubbish - you should see our place!). Village setting, next to church, edge of Dartmoor (sounds parfait). 187k quid (whaaat?!).

Ludlow area. Isolated. Requires modernisation (you're joking! - looks fine to me etc. - all that's required is the installation of a water supply). One bedroom (that's all we need!). (Problem: it's surrounded by sheep - Sprocket eats sheep.) 160k quid (whaaat?!)

Lincoln. Original features. Four beds. Requires modernisation (no it doesn't!). 145k quid. (Bargain - same thing in London would cost around a million.) Why Lincoln? Well, I thought I'd look at just one 'town' property, I like Lincoln despite the lack of hills, my niece lives up that way and it overlooks a park - good for dogwalking.

Northamptonshire. Grade 2 listed. Requires renovation (yup, certainly does). South-facing garden. Quiet village backwater. 130k quid. (There ain't many places left like this. And apparently it's cheap. Oh really???)

And which would I go for? Well, given fiancial constraints and despite the close proximity of neighbours, probably the N'ptonshire one (I used to live near there). Hah! Dream on. Good game though.

'Course, the real question is what will my sis go for? Last time I nattered to her I asked if she would be looking for somewhere to do up. "No way," she said, "been there, done that. Something a bit more modern next." Aaaargh! Nohhh! Then I suggested they move to France. Nearly bit my head off. She hates the place 'cos they eat horses (sis is an equine fanatic and retired champeeeen showjumperer) and they smell. Ah well, worth a try. Be interesting to see what they end up with. All very exciting.

Talking of houses...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWOMuvTQg3U

Started new painting on Monday. Bit cloudy. Carted the gear up there again yesterday. Not cloudy. Had to change the sky and foreground. At this time of year the meadow grass is really long, about four feet high with reddish tips. In the sunlit distance it looks light pink, while in the shadows it looks sort of greeny reddish purple. All very tricky. Going to take a lot of work to get it right. Hope to go up there again later today at about fiveish when the light's just right. Any earlier or later and the shadows are all wrong.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coqIQd_ZMtk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9udxbvHiqGw

Sunday. Poussanges. Woke up to a bright sunny morning, gave the dogs a quick walk up the granite cross, nipped down to Felletin for a few provisions, made a cuppa and some fresh bread jam sarnies and settled down in front of the telly in eager anticipation of watching the 125, 250 and 500 (they're no longer 500s but I can't get out of the habit of calling 'em that) races at Mugello, the Italian round of MotoGP. With the 125 racers lining up on the grid, I heard someone at the front door. Neighbour Isabelle. She was just off to the (world's best) butcher's at Crocq. Could she get me anything while I was there? No thanks petal, I have everything I need. Then she invited me round to lunch. Er, I'm watching MotoGP. You must come round to lunch. A bientot. Damn. Bang goes my MotoGP.

Managed to watch the superb 125 race (well done Bradley Smith). Then nipped down to Isabelle's in the hope that she'd be back from Crocq and ready for an early lunch, which would mean missing the 250s but I'd still be in with a chance of getting back to see the main race. No sign of her. Or Hadrian. Or Christian. The place was deserted. Double damn. Returned home and watched the 250s. Then the phone rang. Isabelle. Come on round for lunch immediately. Triple damn. Bang goes the main event. No choice but to get on down there.

Had a lovely lunch (fresh asparagus in home-made sauce, risotto, cheeses, strawberry yoghurt) with Isabelle and her mum, sat outside at the big garden table, shielded from the blazing sun by a massive brolly. Hadrian and Christian were away helping Davide with his new roof. Knowing I like a tipple with my grub, Isabelle opened one of Christian's 'special' red wines. As neither of my hostesses drink at lunchtime, I had the bottle to myself. Delicious stuff. Was rather tempted to guzzle the lot, but thought better of it. Then, lunch over, the ladies prepared to visit Isabelle's dad in his local care home and I waddled off back to my telly. Fortunately managed to catch the second half of the main race, so not too disastrous.

Was then looking forward to a quiet afternoon, catching up on a few odd jobs, when peace was interrupted by another knock on the door. Hadrian. Can I borrow your mountain bike 'cos mine's cassay (busted)? Er..., dammit, s'pose so (would YOU lend anything to a youth with a reputation for breaking things?). Then spent ten minutes and oodles of energy pumping up the tyres before watching the brat whizz off into the distance with the words 'don't break it' ringing in his ears. Had a cuppa, changed the Citroen battery, moved the cars, mowed the side lawn, strimmed the front bank and out the back, had a quick wash and walked the dogs up the cemetery run.

Very interesting up there a ce moment. An abundance of wild flowers (especially some strange bluey-purpley ones), the old orchard trees are all in leaf (the one I painted a few weeks back now looks completely different) and on the denuded slope where the pines were felled back in winter, rows of newly planted pines are beginning to grow.

Heard seven bells ring in the distance so headed back home. Fed the dogs, poured a large scotch and sat outside in readiness for an evening aperitif and smoke before having a quiet night in front of the telly. But before I could get stuck in, the phone rang. Hurtled upstairs, tripping over barking dogs, leads and doormat. Typically, it rang off before I could answer. Maddening. Returned to outside table. Just about to take a first sip of the amber laughing juice when the phone rang again. Repeated previous chaotic ascent followed by a flying dive for the phone. Thought it might be Georgie. Wrong. Isabelle encore. Come round immediately, Christian wants to hit you for nicking his best bottle of wine. Aaargh! Big trubs. And bang goes a quiet evening.

Ambled round there clutching my untouched scotch, passing an impressive flowering cactus outside Didier's mum's. Peeked round Isabelle's corner expecting to be hit with a flying shoe and a torrent of abuse. Survived a jovial ear-bashing from Christian and joined the merry throng at the ouside table (Davide, Katrine and their youngest daughter were visiting).

Had a very pleasant soiree. Polished off my scotch plus a couple more, helped Christian and Davide finish the remaining half bottle of lunchtime's special vino, plus a couple of others, then shared a marvellous al fresco nosh-up, waddled off back home in moonlight, gave the dogs a late night amble up the granite cross, made a cuppa, switched on the telly, promptly fell asleep, woke up at 5.30 and went to bed. (Isabelle insisted I photograph her roses, of which she's justifiably proud, plus two of their four dogs, despite my inability to walk or focus.)

Another quiet Sunday in the back of beyond.